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Universal Literature 









Copyright. 1890, 





O'Bri'en, Fitz James, (Irish-Amer., 1828-1862.) 

Of Loss, ....... 2 

Elisba Kent K:ine, . . . - 4 

OEHLENscHLXGER(o'len-shla'ger), AdamOottlob, (,Dan., 

" Alacklin " : Deflication to Goethe, . 2 

On Trace of the MaKio Lamp, ... .a 

The Scandinavian Warriors and Bards, . . 6 

On Leaving Italy, . . . . . .7 

Ohnet (o-na), Geosges, C^r., 1848- .) 

The Inventor and the Banker, .... 1 

Ol'iphant, See Nairne, Lady. 

0LIPH.4XT, L.\rKKXCE, (Engl., 1829-1888.) 

Kevohitions and the Government in China, . 2 

A Visit on Mount Carmel, .... 3 

Omphant, Margaret Orme Wilson, (KikjI., 1831- .) 

Am Englisli Rector and Kectory, . . .1 

Edward living, ...... 4 

Savonarola and Lorenzo De' Medici, . .6 

Omar Kh.wyam, (Pers., 1050-1125.) 

iSelectiuns from the '• Kub&yAt,'' ... 3 

O'piE, Amelia Alderson, iEariL, 17ti9-18.>3.) 

Tlirt Orphan Boy's Tale. . . . .1 

O'Rkilly CoiI'le). John Boyle, (Irish-Arney., 1S4-J-1890.) 

Western Australia, ..... 1 

Dying in Ilarnes.s, . . 2 

My Native Land, ...... 3 

The Pilgrims of the Mayflower, . . .4 

Or'igen. (6rr., 185--254.) 

Unending Metempsychoses and Prubations, . . 2 

The Father, Sou, and lioly Ghost, . . . .3 

Origeu's Theological System, .... 4 

Or'ton, James, G4)iier., 1830-1877.) 

The Genesis of the Andes and the Amazon, . . 1 

Os'good, Frances Sarge.vt Locke, Corner., 1811-1850.) 

Lahorare est Orare. . . . .1 

Passing to the Hereafter, .... 3 

Osgood, Kate Pi-tnam. (-4m<'r., 1841- .) 

Driving Home the Cows, . . . ,1 

Out of Prison, ...... 2 

Osgood, Samuel, (Amer., 1812-1880.) 

Our Schoolmasters, . . . . , .1 

Our Doctor, ....... 2 

Our Minister, . ...... 2 

The Practical Man, ..... 3 

The of St Augustine, and Our Own, . . .4 

S-l 335 



OssTAX (osh'e-an"). See Macphersov, Jaxe"?. 
OssoLi (os'so-le), Sarah Margaret Fuller, Marchion- 
ess b". (.Amer., 1810-1850.) 

The Heroic in the Roman Cliaracter, 

Roman Manfuhiess, 

The Ilistoi-y and Literature of Rome, . 


Orplieus, ..... 
O'tis. James, CAmer., 1725-1783.) 

The British Constitutiou and the Colonies. 

The Ri-J cto Vote, .... 
Ot'-way, Thomas, iEngl., 1651-1685.) 

Pierre aiidJaffler, .... 

A Morning ia Spring, . 

Parting, ..... 

Oi;iDA(\ve-da). See De la RamS, Locisa. 
O'VEUBCRY, Sir Thomas, ^Engl., l.jtil-1613.) 

The Fair and Happy Milkmaid, 

A Franklin, ..... 
O'viD, iRom., 43 B.C.-18 a.d.) 

The Closing of the Temple of Janu^, 

The Primeval Cliaos, . 

The Advent of Man. 

The G lc:en A-e, 

Pallas and Aracline at the Loom, 

The T.'-aasf or Illation of Arachue, 

Ovid"s Pl^ce of Banishment, 
O'we.v, Sir Richard, {EwjL, 1804- .) 

The British Mammnth, .... 

OWEX, Robert Dale. iScot.-Amer , 1801-185*.) 

Antecedent Probability of Spiritual .Manifestations, 
O'wEx.soN, Sydney. See Mokgan, Lady. 
Ox'enford, John, (.Enyl., 1812-1877.) 

A Conversation with Goethe, 
Ox'enuam, Henry Nutcombe, iEngl., 1S29- 

The Law of Honor, .... 
Page, Thomas Nelson, QAmer., 1853- .) 

Marse Chan, ..... 
Pag'et, Violet, [Vernon I^e], iEngl., 1856- 

Seeking New Scenes, .... 
Paine, Robert Treat, (Amer., 1773-1811.) 

Adams and Liberty, 

Epilocue to "The Clergyman's Daughter," 
Paine, Thomas, (Anglo- Amer., 1736-1809.) 

The American Condition at the Close of 1776, 

Burke's Patricianism, .... 
Pa'ley. William, (Engl, 174.3-1805.) 

On Property, .... 

Credibility of St. Paul. .... 

The World Made with a Benevolent Design, 

Distinctions of Civil Life L' ist in Church, . 
Pal'krey, John GoRELAM,(.4mer., 1796-1881.) 

Roger WilliauLS, .... 

Three Cycles of New England History, 

The Awakening, .... 





Pal'cirave, Sir Francis. (Enr/l , irSS-lSCl.) 
The Fate of Ha old, ..... 1 

Palgravi;, Fuancts Turner, iEn;il. 1S21- .) 
Faith i.nilS:ght ill the Luiter Day:, . . .1 

ToaChilJ e 

Palo:;ave, William Gipford, (Siy^., 182G-1S88.) 
la tho Des rt at Niuht, . . . . .2 

Palm'er, Euward Henry, (Engl., 1840- .) 
Mohammed and ihe Jews, .... 1 

Music ai.d Wjn>', . . . . . .3 

Falsehood, ....... 3 

Pal.mer, John Willtamson, (Amer., 1825- .) 
Arirvad.iinthe lirahiiiiu. . . . . .1 

PAr,>:E.^, Ray, CAmcr.. 1808-1887.) 
My Faith Looks Up to Thee, .... 2 

Jesus :t:ie Very Tl.onjjlit of Thee. . . . .2 

Tlie Chcrus of a:1 Saints, . .... 3 

Palmer, 'William Pitt, iAmer., 1805-1884.) 
Thj Smack in Sehool, ... ... 1 

Lines to a Krieml, ...... 2 

Pak'doe. JiUA, liEiigL, 1806-1862.) 
The Beacon Li;;ht, . . . . . .1 

Park, Mungo, (.SVo*., 17:i-l806.) 
The Cumpassiouate African Woman, ... 2 

Par'ker, Theodoue, iAiner., 1810-1860.) 
Characteristics of Washington, . . . .2 

The Higlier Good, ...... 5 

Park'man, Francis, iAnirr., 1S23- .) 
Louis XV. and Poiiipad'iur, .... 2 

Tlie Ne-.v England Colonies, . . . . .2 

Tlie Colony of Virgiiiia, ..... 4 

The Colony of Pennsylvania, . . . ' .5 

New En;;land and New France, .... 6 

Pau'nell, Thomas, (Jrisli, 16:9-1718.) 
The Ways of Providence Justified, . . . .1 

The Better Life, ...... 3 

Parr, Harriet, [Holme Lee], iEngl., 1828- .) 
Joan\s Home, . . . . . . .1 

Par'sons, Thkophilus, (,Amer., 1797-1882.) 
The Sea, ....... 1 

Parsons, Thomas William, (Amer., 1819- .) 
On a Bust c.f Dante, . . . . . .1 

St. James's Park, ...... 2 

Dirge. For One Who Fell in Battle, . . .3 

Part'ington, Mrs. See Siiillaber, Benjamin P. 

Par'ton, James, (Amer., 1821- .) 

Henry Clay, 1 

Privations and Heroism. . . . .3 

Parton, Sara Payson Willis, CAmer., 1811-1872.) 
Fatherhood, ....... 1 

Pas'cal, Blaise, (Fi:, 1623-1662.) 
Of a Futuie Existence, . . . . .1 

pA'TER, Walter, iEugl., 1839- .) 
Journeying to Rome, ..... 1 

Denys L'Auxerrois, . . . . . .3 


Pat'mohe, Cotentrt Kearset Dighton, (Engl., 1S23- .) 

Counsel to the Newly-Married Husband, . . 1 

The Toys, ...... 

Pain. ........ 

Pavl'ding, James Kirke, (Amer., 1779-1860.) 

Jolin Hull and His Son Jonathan, 
Payn, James, iEngl., 1830- .) 

Mrs. Beckett, ...... 

A Hill-Fog 

Freedom, ....... 

Payne, John Howard, (.Amer., 1792-1852.) 

Home, Sweet Home, ..... 

Tlie Roman Father, ..... 

Pea'body, Anduew Preston, (Amer., 1811- .) 

Relf-Love and Benevolence, .... 
Peabody, Oliver William Bourne, CAmer., 17'j9-1S50.) 

To a Departed Friend, ..... 
Peabody, William Bourne Oliver, (Amer., 1799-1847.) 

Hymn of Nature, ...... 

Pea'cock, Thomas Love, (Enr/l., 1785-1866 ) 

Robin Hood and His Merry Men, 

The Men of Gotham. . . . 

The War-Song of DinasVawr, 
Pear'son, John, (Engl., 1613-1686.) 

The Resurrection, ...... 

PECi, George Washington, iAmer., 1840- .) 

A Trying Situation, ..... 
Pel'lico, Silvio, iltnl, 1789-1854.) 

The Deaf -and-Dumb Boy, ..... 

The Heroism of Maroncelli, .... 
Penn, William, (.Engl., 1644-1718.) • 

On Pride of Noble Birth, ..... 

Paternal Counsels, ..... 
Pepys (peps). Samuel. (Engl., 163.3-1703.) 

Mrs. Pepys Gets a New Petticoat, 

Mr. and Mrs. Pepys Take a Drive, . 

Mr. Pepys Does Not Like " Hudibras," 

Mr. Pepys Gets a Glimpse at Royalty. 
Per'cival, James Gates, (Amer., 1795-1856.) 

The Coral Grove, ...... 

The Pleasures of the Student, 
Perrault (pa-ro)., (Er., 1628-1703.) 

Tlie Awakening, ..... 

I'er'ry, Nora, (Amer., 1841- .) 

After the Ball, ...... 

Promise and Fulfilment, .... 

He.ster Browne, ...... 4 

Perry, Tuo.mas Sargeant. (Amer., 1845- .) 

Evolution in Literature, ..... 1 

Pe'trahch, (Itul., 1304-1374.) 

Laura's Beauty and Virtues, . . . .3 

On the Di'ath of Laura. ..... 3 

Laura in Heaven, . . . . .4 

To the Princes of Italy, . . . . . 4 

The Damsel fif the Laurel, . . . .7 



Peyton Cp&'ton), Thomas. (Engl, 1595-1625.) 

The Invocation to tlif Heavenly Muse, . . ■ -^ 

Adam and Eve in I'aradise, . . . . -3 

Tlie Temptation and the Fall, ... 4 
Mount Amara, .....•• 5 

The Terrestrial Paradise, . , . ■ ■ ^ 

The Expulsion from Paradise, . . . '> 

Pfeiffeii (fi'fer), Emily, (.Engl., -1890.) 

Oriental Color, .... • ' 

Past and Future, . . . • -2 

The Children of Light, ..... 3 

Among tlie Glaciers, . . . . • • 8 

Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart. See Ward, Elizabeth Stu- 
art Phelps. 

Pi'att. John James, CAmer., 1835- .) 

The MorninK Street, ..... 1 

The Fisherman's Light-House, . . . .2 

TheSight of Angels 3 

Piatt. Sarah Morgan Bryan, (.4mer., 1836- .) 

Over a Little Bed at Nisrht, . .1 

In Primrose Time, ...... 3 

Au Emigrant Singing from a Ship, . . .4 

The Gilt of Empty Hands, .... 5 

Forgiveness, . . . . . • ■ ^ 

I*ikr'pont, John, (.-Imer., 1785-18C6.) 

Classical and Sacred Themes for Music, . . .1 

Dedication Hymn, ...... S 

The Departed Child 3 

Warren's Address to the .Vmerican Soldiers, . . 5 

Piers Ploighman, (author, William Langlanu, Engl., 

Beginning of the Vision, . . . . .2 

Vision of Mercy and Truth, .... 2 

A Seller of Indulgences, . . . . - 2 

The Coming Reformation, .... 3 

WellBelievingand Well-Doing, . . . .3 

The Meeting with the Ploughman, . . . B 

Pike, Albert, 0-lmej-., 1809- .) 

Buena Vista, ...... 1 

PiN'DAR. (6'r., 520 B.C.-440 B.c ) 

From the First Pyihian Ode, . . . . .1 

From the Thirteenth Olympic Ode, ... 2 

Pindar, Peter. See Wo:x-ott, John. 

Pink'ney, Edward Coate, iAmer., 1803-1828.) 

A Health, 1 

A Serenade, ....... 2 

Piozzi (peot'se), Hester Lynch. See Mrs. Tbrjlls. 
Pla'to, (Gr.. 429 B.C.-343 B.C.) 

The Vision of Er, in the Other World, , . .2 

The Philosopher, ...... 9 

Plau'tus, {Rom., 254 B.C. -184 B.C.) 

An Indulgent Master, . . . . . .1 

Prologue to "The Shipwreck," .... 3 

Plin'y the Elder, (Rom., 23 A.D.-79.) 

The Earth— Its Form and Motion, . . . .8 

6 C'ONTESTii, 

Position and Size of the Earth, . 

On Man, .... 

On Trees, .... 

Of Sletals, 

Valuable Natural Products, 
Pliny tlie Younger, (Rom., 62-107.) 

The Eruption of Vesuvius, a.d 79, 

Pliny to Trajan, 

Trajan to Pliny, 
Pi.u'tarch, CGr., - .) 

On Bashfulness, 

On the I^ove of Wealth, 

On Punishments, 

On Eating Flesh, 
PoE, Edgar Allan, (,Ainer., 1811-1849 

The Coliseum, 

The Bells, 

The Raven, , 

Annabel Lee, 

The House of Usher, 
PoL'LOK, Robert, {Scot., 1799-182: 

Opening Invocation, 

True Happiness, 

Holy Love, 
Pope, Alexander, (Engl., 1088-1744.) 

Numbers in Verse, . 

Belinda at Her Toilet, 

Belinda at the Water-Party, 

The Seizure of the Lock, 

Boring Rhymesters, 

Trust in Providence, 

The Universal Chain of Being, 

'ITiG Coming Messiah. . 

The Reign of Messiah, 

The Universal Prayei-: dco. opt. 
Po.i'TER, Jane, CEngl, 1776-1850.) 

Thaddeus of Warsaw Avows His Love, 
Porter, Noati, CAmer., 1811- .) 

The Ideal Christian College, . 

The Progressive Character of Christianity, . 
Praed (prad), Rosa Murray-Prior, ^Engl., 1852- 

Affinities, ..... 

Praed, Winthrop Mackworth, CEngl., 1802-1839.) 

Charade: "Camp Bell," .... 

Charade: "Knight-Hood," . 

The Vicar, ...... 

Quince. ...... 

Pratt, Ella Farman, (Amer., 18 - .) 

Planning, ..... 

Pren'tice, George Denison, CAnier., 1802-1870.) 

The Flight of Years, .... 

Pren'tiss, Elizabeth Payson, (Amer., 1818-1878.) 

Last Words. ..... 

Pres'cott, AVilliam Hickling, (_Amer., 1796-1859.) 

E."cpulsi(.n of the .Je%vs from Spain, 



In SiRht of the Valley and City of Mexico, 

The Last of the Iiicas, .... 
pRKS'TON, Harriet Watehs, iAmer., 1843- .) 

Count Lej Tolstoi, . . • ■ 

PnESTON, Maugaret Junkix, Oimei:, 1825- .) 

Dedication to Old Songs and New, 

The Morrow, . . . . ■ 

Morning, ....•• 


Saint Cecilia, ..... 

A Grave in Hollywood Cemetery, Richmond, Va 

(lods Tatience, .... 
Primk, Samuel Iren.«us, (Amer., 1812-1885.) 

Sa:niH'l Hanson Cox, ...., William Cowpku, (.-Irner., 1825- .) 

I'isoatorial Mi^ditutions, . 

C) Ml itlier Dear, Jerusalem! . 
Pkin'glu, Thomas, (.Scot., 1789-1834.) 

Afar in the Desert, . . 

Pri'ou, M.\tthew, {Engl., 1CIJ4-17:01.) 

To a Very Young Ladv of Quality, . 

For His Own Monument, . 

Epigrams, ..... 

I'lioc'TER, Adel.'VIDE Anne, (Engl., 1825-1864.) 

A Legend of Bregenz, 

.•V Woman's Question, .... 

Life and Deatli, .... 
Procter, Bryan Waller, CEngl., 1790-1874.) 

Tho Sea, ...... 

Inscription for a Fountain, 

A retitiun to Time, .... 


To Adelaide I^rocter, .... 

Come, Let Us Go to the Land, 
Proctor, Edna Dean, CAmer., 18 - .) 

Moscow, ..... 

Tho Return of the Dead, 

Heaven, OLord, I Cannot Lose, 

Take Heart, ..... 
Proctor, Richard Anthony, (Engl., 1837-1888.) 

Betting on the Odds in Horse-Racing, . 

Prayer and Weather, .... 
Proit, Father. Sec Mahony, Francis. 
Pkudhomme (priidom), Sully, (JV , 1S39- .) 

Tiio Missal. ..... 

Pur'chas, Samuel, (Engl., 1577-1628.) 

Purchases Authorities, .... 

The Sea, ..... 
Pyle, Howard, (Amer., 1853- .) 

The Treasure Restored, 
PYTnAG'or..\s. (Gr., 5:0b.c.-504 n.c.) 

Th? " Synibo'.s " of Pythagoras, . 

The G >lden Verses, .... 
Q-.-arles, Francis, (Engl., 1502-1G44.) 

Delight ill God Only, 






QuiK'CKY, Thomas »e. See De QnNCET, Thomas. 

QuiNCy, JosiAH, (Amer., 177^-1864.) 

Tlie Lessons Tauglit by New Eaglaiiu History, 1 

QuiNTiL'iAX, (.Rom., 40-118.) 

The Perfect Orator, ..... 1 

Hints for the Earliest Training of the Orator, 2 

How Soon Education Should Begin, ... 2 

The Training in Boyhood, . . .3 

Emulation to be Encouraged, .... 4 

Examining Witnesses, . . . .4 

Arguments Derived from the Per.sonality of a Party, 5 

When a Good Man May Defend a Bad Cause, . 6 

Conclusion of the " Institutiones,'" . . .7 

Rabelais (rabe-Iil), Fkancois, (jPr., 1490-1553.) 

The Infant Garsrantun. ..... 2 

The Abbey of Thelema, . . . . .2 

Monks and Monkejs, ..... 3 




O'BRIEN, FiTZ James, an Irish-Ameri- 
can litterateur^ born at Limerick in 1828, 
died at Cumberland, Maryland, in 1862. 
He was educated at the University of 
Dublin. On leaving college lie went to 
London, and in a couple of years ran 
through an inheritance of X 8,000. He had 
in the mean time made some successful 
experiments in autiiorship; and in 1852 
came to New York, where he entered upon 
a brilliant career as a contributor to mag- 
azines, writing with facility upon a variety 
of topics, both in prose and verse. 

Toward the close of 1861, he joined a 
New Yoik regiment, and was not long 
afterward appointed upon the staff of 
General Lander. At a skirmish on Feb- 
ruary 26, 1862, he received a wound in the 
shoulder, which was not thought to be se- 
rious; but through unskilful surgical treat- 
ment, he died on April 6th. A volume made 
up from some of his Poems and Stories. 
edited by William Winter, was published 
in 1881. The following poem, which is 
among his latest, was written early in the 
autumn of 1851, when he was about to 
break off his *' Bohemian " way of life, aud 


essay a new career. Those who can read 
between the lines will pei'ceive that it is 
in a way antohiograpliical, and that the 
"Loss " deplored is not tliat of any woman, 
bat of his own better self, as it might have 
been, and might perhaps again be. 


Stretched, silver-spun the spider's nets; 

The quivering sky was wliite with fire; 
The Llackbird's scarlet epaulets 

Reddened the hemlock's topmost spire. 

Tiie mountain in his purple cloak, 

His feet with mist}' vapors wet, 
Lay dreamily, and seemed to smoke 

All day his giant calumet. 

From farm-house bells tlie noonday rung. 
The teams that plowed the furrows stopped ; 

The ox refreshed his lolling tongue, 

And brows were wiped, and spades were 
dropped ; 

And down the field the inowers stepped, 
With burning brows and figures lithe. 

As in their brawny hands they swept 
From side to side the hissing scythe ; 

Till sudden ceased the noonday task. 
The scythe 'mid blades of grass lay still, 

As girls with can and cider-flask. 
Came romping gayly down the hill. 

And over all these swept a stream 
Of subtle music — felt, not heard— 

As one conjures in a dream 
The distant singing of a bird. 

I drank the glory of the scene, 

Its autumn splendor fired my veins; 

The woods were like an Indian Queen 
Who gazed upon her old domains. 

And, ah ! mel bought I heard a sigh 
Come softly through her leafy lips; 


A mourning over da3-s gone bj-, 

That were before the white man's ships. 

And so I came to think on Loss — 
I never much could think on Gain — 

A poet oft will woo a cross 

On whom a crown is pressed in vain. 

I came to think — I know not how — 

Perchance through sense of Indian wrong — 

Of losses of my own, that now 

Broke for the first time into song. 

A fluttering strain of feeble words 

That scarcely dared to leave my breast j 

But, like a brood of fledgling birds, 
Kept hovering round their natal nest. 

*' loss ! " I sang, " early loss ! 

O blight that nipped the buds of spring ! 
O spell that turned the gold to dross! 

steel that clipped the untried wing! 

"I mourn all days, as sorrows he 

Whom once they called a merchant-prince, 
Over the ships he sent to sea. 

And never, never, heard of since. 

"To ye, O woods, the annual May 
Restores the leaves ye lost before ; 

The tide that now forsakes the bay, 

This night will wash the widowed shore. 

" But I shall never see again 

The shape that smiled upon my youth ; 
A misty sorrow veils my brain, 

And'dimly looms the light of Truth. 

« She faded, fading woods, like you! 

And fleeting shone with sweeter grace, 
And as she died the colors grew 

To softer si)lendors in her face. 

"Until one day the hectic flush 

Was veiled with death's eternal snow ; 

She swept from earth ami<l a hush, 
And I was left alone below !" 

While thus T moaned, I heard a peal 
Of laughter through the meadows flow, 


I saw the farm-boys at their meal, 
I saw the cider circling go. 

And still the" mountain calmly slept, 
His feet with valley-vapors wet ; 

And, slowly circling, upward crept 
The smoke from out his calumet. 

Mine was the sole discordant breath 
That marred this dream of peace below; 

"0 God," I cried, " give, give me death. 
Or give me grace to bear thy blow ! " 


(Died February 15, 1857.) 
Aloft upon an old basaltic crag, [Pole, 

Which, scalped by keen winds that defend the 
Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll 
Around the secret of the mystic zone, 
A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag, 
Flutters alone. 

And underneath, upon the lifeless front 
Of that drear clitf, a simple name is traced: 
Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt, 
But with a rocky purpose in his soul, 
Breasted the gathering snows. 
Clung to the drifting floes. 
By want beleaguered, and by winter chased, 
Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen 

Not many months ago we greeted him. 
Crowned with the icy honors of the North. 
Across the land his hard-won fame went forth : 
And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by 

limb ; [pi'it"> 

And his own mild Keystone State, sedate and 
Burst from its decorous quiet as he came ; 
Hot southern lips, witli eloquence aflame, 
Sounded his triumph ; Texas, wild and grim. 
Proffered its horn^' hand; the large-lunged 

From out its giant breast, 
Yelled its frank welcome. And from main to 

Jubilant to the sky. 


Thundered the mighty cry, 
" Honor to Kane !" 

Tn vain — in vain beneath his feet we flung 
The reddening roses! All in vain we poured 
The golden wine, and round the shining board 
Sent the toast circling till the rafters rung 
With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast ! 
Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased, 
Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes. 
Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies, 
Faded and faded. And the brave young heart 
That the relentless Ar<;tic winds had robbed 
Of all its vital heat, in that long quest 
For the lost Captain, now within his breast 
More and more faintly throbbed. 
His was the victory ; but, as his grasp 
Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp, 
Death launched a whistling dart ; 
And ere the thunders of a[/plause were done 
His bright eyes closed forever on the sun ! 
Too late, too late the splendid prize he won 
In the Olympic race of Science and of Art ! 

Like to some shattered being that, pale and lone, 

Drifts from the white North to a Tropic zone.' 

And, in the burning day 

Wastes, peak by peak, away, 

Till on some rosy even ' 

It dies with sunlight blessing it ; so he 

Tranquilly floated to a southern sea, 

And melted into Heaven ! 

He needs no tears, who lived a noble life. 

We will not weep for him who died so well ; 

But we will gather round the hearth, and tell 

The story of his life : — 

Such homage suits him well 

Better than funeral pomp or passing bell. 

What tale of peril and self-sacrifice ! 

Prisoned amidst the fastnesses of ice. 

With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow; 

Night lengthening into months ; the ravenous 

Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear 
Crunches his prey ; the insufficient share 


Of loathsome food ; 

The letharjTfv of famine, the despair 

Urging to hibor, nervously' pursued ; 

Toil done with skinny arras, and faces hued 

Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind 

Glimmered the fading embers of a mind ! 

That awful hour, when through the prostrate 

Delirium stalked, laying his burning hand 
Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew ; 
The whispers of rebellion — faint and few 
At first, but deepening ever till they grew 
Into black thoughts of murder : — such the 

Of horrors round the Hero. High the song 
Should be that liymns the noble part he played ! 
Sinking himself, 3'et ministering aid 
To all around him. B\' a mighty will 
Living defiant of the wants that kill, 
Because his death would seal his comrades' fate ; 
Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill 
Those Polar winters, dark and desolate, 
Equal to every trial — every fate — 
He stands, until spring, tardy with relief. 
Unlocks the icy gate, 
And the pale prisoners thread the world once 

To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shore, 
Bearing their dying chief. 

Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold 
From royal hands, who wooed the knightly 

state : 
The knell of old formalities is tolled, 
And the world's knights are now self-consecrate. 
No grander e})isode doth chivalry hold 
Til all its annals, back to Charlemagne, 
Than that long vigil of unceasing pain, 
Faithfully kept, through hunger and through 

By the good Christian Knight, Elisha Kane ! 


LOB, a Danish dramatist and poet, boni 
at Copenhagen in 1779 ; died there iu 
1850. His fatlier was steward of the royal 
palace at Fredericksburg, where the son 
passed his early life. At the age of 
twelve he began to write dramatic pieces, 
which Avere performed by himself and his 
schoolmates. In 1803 he published a vol- 
ume of poems Tiiis was followed by his 
drama of Aladdin, which gained for him a 
travelling stipend from the Government. 
He thoroughly mastered the German lan- 
guage, into which he translated those of 
his works which were originally written 
in Danish. He went to Italy, where he 
became intimate with the Danish sculptor, 
Thorwaldsen. Returning to Denmark in 
1810, he was made Professcn" of ^stlietics 
in the University of Copenhagen. His 
Works, wliich include dramas, poems, 
novels, and translations, fill forty-one vol- 
umes in German and twenty-one in Danish. 
He is best known by his dramas, twenty- 
four in all, of which nineteen are upon 
Scandinavian subjects. Many of them 
have been translated into English by 
Theodore Martin and othei^. Among the 
best of Ills works are : Aladdin, Hakon 
Jarl, Palnatoke, Axel and Vafborf/, Correg- 
gio^ Canute the Great, The Varangians in 
Constantinople, Land Found and Losf^ 
based upon the early voyages of the North- 
men in America, Dlna, and The Gods of 
the North. A complete edition of his 
Poetiske Skrifter (Poetical Writings) was 
published at Co])enhagen in thirty-two 
volumes (1857-65}. 



Born in far Nortlieru clime, 

Came to mine ears sweet tidings in raj prime 

From fairy laud ; 
Where flowers eternal blow, 
Where Power and Beaut\' go. 

Knit in a magic band. 
Oft, when a cliild, I'd pore 
In rapture on the Saga lore ; 

When on the wold 
The snow was falling white, 
I, shuddering with delight, 

Felt not the cold. 
When with his pinion ciiill 
The Winter smote the castle on the hill, 

It fanned my hair. 
I sat in m}- small room, 
And througli the lamp-lit gloom 

Saw Spring shine fair. 
And though my love in j'outh 
Was all for Northern energy and truth, 

And Northern feats, 
Yet for my fancy's feast 
The flower-apparelled East 

Unveiled its sweets. 
To manhood as I grew, [I flew]; 

From North to South, from South to North 

I was possest 
By yearnings to give voice in song 
To all that had been struggling long 

Within my breast. 
I heard bards manifold ; 
But at their minstrelsy my heart grew cold ; 

Dim, colorless, became 
My childhood's visions grand : 
Their tameness only fanned 

My wilder flame. 
Who did the young bard save ? 
Who to his eye a keener vision gave 

That he the child 
Amor beheld, astride 
The lion, far-off ride. 

Careering wild ? 


Thou, great and good ! Thy spell-liko lays 
Did the eucliaiitcd curtain raise 

From fairy-land, 
Where flowers eternal blow, 
Wliere Power and Beauty go, 

Knit in a loving band. 

Well pleased thou heardest long 

Within thy halls the stranger minstrel's song. 

Taught to aspire 
By thee, my spirit leapt 
To bolder heights, and swept 

The German lyre. 

Oft have I sung before ; 

And many a hero of our Northern shore, 

With grave, stern mien, 
By sad Melpomene 
Called from his grave, we see 

Stalk o'er the scene. 

And greeting they will send 

To friend Aladdin cheerily as a friend. 

The oak's thick gloom 
Prevails not wholh- where 
W^arbles the nightingale, and fair 

Flowers waft perfume. 

On thee, to whom I owe 

New life, what shall my gratitude bestow ? 

Nought has the bard 
Save hi? own song! And this 
Thou dost not — trivial as the tribute is — 

With scorn regard. 

Transl. o/ Theodore Martix. 


rNouREDDiN. tho enchanter, is seated by a table on which 
is a little chest filled with white sand. Upon this sand 
he half-consciously traces lines ; then speaks.] 

Nbiireddin. — A wondrous treasure ! The 
greatest in the world ? — 
Hid in a cavern ? — Where ? — In Asia ? — 
And where in Asia? — Hard by Ispahan! 
Deep in the earth ; high over-arched with rocks j 


Girt round witli lofty mountains. Holy Allali ! 
What mighty mysteiy begins to dawn 
Upon me ? Shall I reach the goal, at last, 
At midpight hour, after the silent toil 
Of fort^' weary years? I question further: — 
What is this matchless prize ? — A copper 

lamp ! 
How's this ? An old rust-eaten copper lamp ! — 
And what, then, is its virtue ? — How ! — '• Con- 
Known but to him that owns it." And shall 1 
(Scarce dares my tongue give the bold questioa 

Shall I, then, e'er the happy owner be ? 
See ! tlie fine sand, liive water interblends, 
And of the stylus leaves no trace behind. 
All's dark ! — Yet stay ! — With surging waves 

it heaves. 
This arid sea, as when the tempest sweeps 
With eddying blast through Biledulgerid. 
What mean these furrows ? — 1 am to draw 

A poem that lies eastward in the hall, 
Old, dust-begrimed ; and, wheresoe'er my eyes, 
Wlien I so open it, chance to fall, 
I am to read, and all shall then be clear. 

[He rises slowly, and takes an old folio, which he opens, 
and reads] 

" Fair Fortune's boons are scattered wide and far, 
In sinccle sparkles only fouuil and rare, 
And all her gifts in few combined are. 

" Earth's choicest flowerets bloom not everywhere: 
Where mellows ripe the vine's inspiring tide, 
AVith bane and bale doth Nature wrestle there. 

" In the lush Orient's sultry palm-groves glide 
F'ell serpents tlirougli rank herbage noiselessly, 
And there death-dealing venom doth abide. 

" Darkness and storm deface the Northern sky; 
Vet there no sudden shook o'erwhelms the land, 
And steadfast cliffs the tempest's rage defy. 

" Life's gladsome child is led by Fortune's hand; 
And what the sage doth moil to make his prize, 
When in the sky the pale stars coldly stand, 

" From his own breast leaps forth in wondrous wise. 
Met by boon Fortune midway, he prevails. 
Scarce weeting how, in whatsoe'er he tries. 


" 'Tis over thus that, Fortune freely hails 
Her favorite, ami on him her blessings showers, 
Even as to heaven tlie scented tlovver exliales. 

*' Unwooed she conies at unexpected hours; 
And little it avails to rack thy brain, 
Anil ask where liu'k her lon;^ reluctant powers, 

" Fain wouldst thou grasp Hope's portal shuts amain 
And all thy fabric vanishes in air; 
Unless foredoomed by Fate thy toils are vain, 
Thy aspirations doomed to meet despair." 

These lines were woven in a mortal's brain, 
A sorry rliymer's, little conversant 
With Nature's deep and tender mysteries: 
Kindly she tenders me the hidden prize. 
Is it that she, with woman's waywardness, 
May make a mock of me ? Not so : on fools 
She wastes not her sage accents ; the pure light 
Is not a meteor-light that leads astra\'. 
With a grave smile, her finger indicates 
Where lies the treasure she has marked for 
mine. — 

Yes! I divine the hidden import well 
Of that enigma she prepared for me ; 
In the unconscious poets' mystic song 
The needful powers are by no one possessed ; 
To lift great loads must many hands combine : 
To me 'twas given, with penetrating soul, 
To fathom Nature's inmost mysteries ; 
But I am not the outward instrument. 
" Life's gladsome child ! " — That means some 

creature gay, 
By nature dowered, instead of intellect, 
With bod}' oul}', and mere j'onthful bloom. 
A 3'oung, dull-witted boy shall be my aid; 
And, all unconscious of its priceless worth, 
Secure and place the treasure in my hands. 
Is it not so, thou mighty Solomon ? 

[Traces lines in the sand.] 

Yes, yes, it is ! A fume of incense will 
Disclose to nie the entrance to the rock. 
And a rose-cheeked, uneducated boy 
Will draw the prize for my advantage forth, 
As striplings do in Europe's lotteries. 
O holy prophet, take my fervent thanlcs ! 
My mind's exhausted with its deep research. 


The goal achieved, my overwearied frame 
Longs for repose. Now, will I sleep in peace. 
To-morrow — by the magic of my ring 
I stand in Asia. The succeeding day 
Beholds me here, and with the wondrous lamp ! 
Trcmsl. of Theodore Martin. 


Oh ! great was Denmark's land in time of old! 

Wide to the South her branch of glory 
spread ; 
Fierce to the battle rushed her heroes bold, 

Eager to join the revels of the dead ; 
While the fond maiden flew with smiles to fold 

Round her returning warrior's vesture red 
Her arm of snow, with nobler passion fired, 
When to the breast of love, exhausted, he 

Nor bore they only to the field of death 

The bossy buckler and the spear of fire ; 
The bard was there, with spirit-stirring breath, 
His bold heart quivering as he swept the 
And poured his notes, amid the ensanguined 
While panting thousands kindled at his 
Then shone the eye with greater fury fired. 
Then clashed the glittering mail, and the proud 
foe retired. 

And when the memorable A:iy was past, 

AndThor triumphant on his people smiled, 

The actions died not with the day they graced; 

The bard embalmed them in his descant 


And their hymned names, through ages un- 


The weary hours of future Danes beguiled. 

W^hen even their snowy bones had mouldered 

On the high column lived the imperishable song. 
And the impetuous harp resounded high 
With feats of hardiuient done far and 
wide ; 


While the bard soothed witli festive minstrelsy 

The chiefs reposing after battle-tide. 
Nor would stern themes alone his hand employ : 
He sang the virgin's sweetly temi)ered pride, 
And hoary eld, and woman's gentle cheer, 
And Denmark's manly hearts, to love and 
friendship dear. 

Transl. of Walker. 


Once moi-e among the old gigantic hills with 

vapors clouded o'er; 
The vales of Lombardy grow dim behind, the 

rocks ascend before. 

They beckon me, the giants, from afar; they 

wing ni}' footsteps on ; 
Their helms of ice, their plumage of the pine, 

their cuirasses of stone. 

My heart beats higli, my breath comes freer 
forth — wliy should my heart be sore ? 

I hear the eagle's and the vulture's cry, the 
nightingale's no more. 

Where is the laurel ? Where the myrtle's 
bloom ? Bleak is the path around. 

Where from the thicket comes the ringdove's 
cooing ? Hoarse is the torrent's sound. 

Yet should I grieve, when from my loaded 
bosom a weight appears to flow ? 

Methinks the muses come to call me home from 
yonder rocks of snow, 

I know not how — but in yon land of roses ray 

heart was heavy still ; 
I startled at the warbling nightingale, the 

zephyrs on the hill. 

They said the stars shone with a softer gleam- 
it seemed not so to me. 

In vain a scene of beauty beamed around: my 
thoughts were o'er the sea. 

Transl. in For. Quart. Recicw. 


OHNET, Georges, a French editor, 
dramatist and novelist, born in Paris in 
1848. He was successively editor of Le 
Paij>i and of Le CoustitutionneL and was 
remarked for his vivacity and polemical 
spirit. Among his earlier works are a 
drama, llegina Sarin (1875_), and a comedy 
Marthe (1877). Several of his novels have 
been dramatized. One of these Le 3Iaitre 
de Forges (1882), was played a whole year, 
This and otherromances — Serge Paniiie^ Le 
Co7ntesse Sarah, Lise Fleuron, La Grranded 
Marniere, Les Lames de Grolx-Mort — wers 
put fortli as a series under the tith; ig, 
Batailles de la Vie. Noir et Rose (1887) 
is a collection of stories. Volonte (1888), is 
directed against pessimism. La Conversion 
du Professeur Rameau. and Le Dernier 
Amour (1890), are his most recent works. 


"Do not fear to ask too much. I will agree 
to whatever you wish. I am so sure of 

Success ! This one word dissipated the 
shadows in which the tyrant of La ITeuville 
was losing himself. Success! The word typical 
of the inventor. He remembered the furnace 
of which he had heard so much. It was on the 
future of this invention that the marquis based 
his hopes of retrieving himself. It was by 
means of this extraordinary consumer tliat he 
proposed to again set going tiie work at tlie Great 
Murl-Pit, to pay his debts, to rebuild his fortune. 
Tlie banker began to understand the situation. 
Carvajan became himself again. 

" No doubt it is _your furnace about which 
j-ou are so anxious ? " he said, looking coldly 
at the marquis. " But I must remind you tliat 
1 am here to receive money and not to lend it — 
to terminate one transaction and not to com- 
mence another. Is that all you bad to say to 


But the inventor, with the obstinacy and 
candor of a nianiuc, began to explain his plans, 
and to enuniorate his chances of success. He 
forgot to whom he was addressing himself, and 
at what a terrible crisis he had arrived ; he 
thouglit of nothing but his invention, and how 
best to describe its merits. He drew the 
banker into the corner of the laboratory, where 
the model stood, and proposed to set it going to 
describe how it acted ; and, as he spoke, he be- 
came more and more excited, until he was 
simply overflowing with enthusiasm and con- 

Carvajaii's cold, cutting voice put a sudden 
stop to his ecstasies. " Bnt under what pre- 
text do you intend me to lend j'ou money to 
try the merits of j-our invention ? You already 
owe me nearly four hundred thousand francs, 
my dear sir, a hundred and sixty thousand of 
which are due to me this very moruing. Are 
you in a position to pay me ? " 

The marquis lowered his head. 

" No, sir," he whispered. 

" Your servant then. And in future pray 
remember not to trouble people simply to talk 
trash to them, and that when a man can't pay 
his debts, he oughtn't to give himself the airs 
of a genius. Ha, ha, the consumer, indeed ! 
By the way, it belongs to me now like everj'- 
thing else here. And if it is worth anything, 
I really don't see wh.y I shouldn't work it m}-- 
self— " 

" You ! » 

" Yes, I, marquis. I think the moment has 
come when j'ou may as well give \^p all attempt 
at diplomacy. All that there is left for you to 
do is to pack up your odds and ends and say 
good-b^'e to your country house." 

The tyrant jilanted himself in front of 
Monsieur de Clairefont, and, his face lighted up 
with malicious glee, resumed : 

" Thirty yeai-s ago you had me thrown out of 
your house. To-day it is my turn. A bailiff is 
below taking au inventory." He burst into an 


insulting Liugli, and thrusting his hands into 
his pockets with, insolent familiarity, walked up 
and (lown the room with the airs of a master. 

The marquis had listened to his harangue 
with stupefaction. The illusions he had still 
preserved fled in a second, as the clouds before 
the breath of the storm-wind. His reason re- 
turned to him, he regained his judgment, and 
blushed at having lowered himself so far as to 
make proposals to Carvajan. He no longer 
saw in him the lender, always ready for an 
advantageous investment — he recognized the 
bitter, determined enemy of his family. 

" I was mistaken," he said, contemptuously. 
" I thought I still possessed enough to tempt 
your cupidit3\" 

"Oh, insolence," returned the banker, coldly. 
" That is a luxury in which your means will 
not permit you to indulge, my dear sir. When 
a man's in people's debt he should try to pay 
them in other coin than abuse." 

" You are able to take advantage of my po- 
sition, sir," said the marquis, bitterly. "I am 
at your mercy, and I ought not to be surprised 
at anything since my own children have been 
the first to forsake me. What consideration 
can I expect from a stranger when my daughter 
closes her purse to me, and my son leaves me 
to fight the battle alone ? ]3ut let us put an 
end to this interview. There is nothing more 
to be said on either side." 

Carvajan made a gesture of surprise, then 
his face lighted up with diabolical delight. 

" Excuse me," he said. " I see you have 
fallen into an error, and that I must undeceive 
you. You are accusing your son and daughter 
wrongfi'lly. No doubt you asked Mademoiselle 
de Clairefoiit to relieve you from your em- 
barrassments and she refused, as you pretend. 
She had very good reasons for her refusal — the 
money you asked she gave long ago. So 3'ou 
complain of her ingratitude ? Well, then, let 
me tell you that she has ruined herself for you, 
aad secretly, aud imploring that you should 


not be tolfl the use she had niarle of her fortune. 
And tliat is wl)at you call closing her purse to 

The marquis did not utter a word, did not 
breathe one sigh. A wave of blood rushed to 
liis head, and he turned first crimson, then 
livid. He only looked at Carvajan as might a 
victim at his murderer. He felt as though his 
heai't were being wrung within his breast. He 
took a few steps, then, forgetting that his tor- 
mentor was still present, niechanic;illy seated 
himself in his arm-chair and leaning his head 
against the back, moved it restlessly from side 
to side. 

But tlie mayor followed him, taking an ex- 
quisite delight in the agony of his enemy, and 
overpowering and crushing him with the weight 
of his hatred. 

" As for your son," he went on, " if he is not 
with you now, you may be sure it is through 
110 want of inclination on his part. He was 
arrested 3'esterday and taken to Kouen under 
escort of two gendarmes." , . . 

His brain reeled, and he stared wildly at the 
monster who was gloating over his agonj-. "If 
Heaven is just, you will be punished through 
your son," he cried. " Yes, since you have no 
pit^'^ for mine, yours will show no regard for 
3'ou. Scoundrel ! You are the parent of an 
honest man. He it is who will chasten you ! " 

These words uttered by the marquis with the 
fire of madness, made Carvajan shudder with 
fear and rage. 

" Why do you say that to me ? " he cried. 

He saw the old man walking aimlessly to 
and fro, with haggard eyes, and wild ges- 
ticulation. " I believe he is going mad ! " he 
whispered to Tondeur. 

"Ha, ha!" laughed the marquis. "'My 
enemies themselves will avenge me. Yes, the 
son is an honorable man — he has already left 
his father's house once — he will loath what he 
will see being done around him." 

Suddenly he turned on Carvajan. 


" G-o out of here, 3^011 monster ! " lie ex- 
claimed. " Your work is done. You have 
robbed me of my fortune, you hare robbed me 
of my lioiior. There is but my model left, and 
that you sliall not liave ! " 

He rati to his table, t^re up his designs and 
trampled them underfoot. Then, seizing a 
heavy hammer, he hurried to ihe stove, and 
laughing horribly all the line, tried to break 
it. Carvajan in his exasperation stepped for- 
ward to stop him. But the old man turned 
round with hair bristling and mouth foaming. 

" Stay where you are or I'll kill you ! " be 

" Sacredie ! I'm not afraid!" returned the 
banker. And he was on the point of rushing 
forward to save the stove from the destructive 
rage of the inventor, when the door was thrown 
open and Mademoiselle de Clairefont appeared. 
She had heard from below the marquis's high, 
excited tones. 

" Father ! " she cried. 

She sprang to him, took the hammer from 
him and clasped him in her arms. — Antoinette 
{La Grande Marniere). 


OLIPHANT, Laurence, an English 
author, bom in 1829 ; died in 1888. _ His 
father was for many years Chief Jusiice of 
Ceylon, and the son, while quite young, 
made a tour in India, visiting, in company 
with Sir Jung Bahadoor, the native court 
of Nepanl, an account of which he pul)- 
lished in his Journeu to Katmandhu. He 
afterwards studied at the University of 
Edinburgh, and was admitted to the Scot- 
tish and the English bar. In 1852 he 
travelled in Southern Russia, visiting tlie 
Crimea. He succeeded in entering the 
fortified port of Sebastopol, of which he 
gave the earliest full uccount in his Russian 
Shores of the Black Sea (1855). In 1855 
lie became private secretary to Lord Elgin, 
Governor-General of Canada, travelled in 
British America and the Northwestern 
parts of the United States, and ].ublished 
Minnesota and the Fa?- West (1856). In 
1857 he accompanied Lord Elgin, who had 
been appointed British Envoy to China 
and Japan, and wrote a valuable Narrative 
of the Earl of Elgin s Mission to China and 
Japan (1860). In 1861, while acting as 
Charge d' Affaires in Japan, he was severely 
wounded by an assassin, and retire<l from 
the di[ilomatic service. From 1865 to 
1868 he was a member of Parliament for 
the Scottisli burgh of Stirling. He sub- 
sequently took j)art in efforts to establish 
Christian Socialistic Communities in the 
United States ; and was afterwards made 
Superintendentof Indian Affairs in Canada. 
During the latter years of his life he resided 
in Palestine. Among his miscelLineous writ- 
ings are : Transcaucasian Campaign of 
Omer Pasha (1856), Piccadilly, a Fragment 
of Contemporaneovs Biography (1870), The 


Land of G-ilead (1882), Travesties^ Social 
and Political (1882), Altiora Peto, a Novel 
(1883), Episodes in a Life of Adventure 
(1887), Haifa, or Life in Modern Pales- 
tine (1887), and Scientific Religion (1888). 


An}' person who has attentively observed 
the working of the anomalous and altogether 
unique system under which the vast empire of 
China is governed, will perceive that, although 
ruling under altogether different conditions, 
supported not by physical force, but by a moral 
prestige, unrivalled in power and extent, 
the emperor of China can say, with no less 
truth than Napoleon, '^ L' JEmpire c'est rnoi." 
Backed by no standing army worth the name, 
depending for the stability of his authority 
neither upon his military genius nor admin- 
istrative capacity, he exercises a rule more 
absolute than any European despot, and is 
able to thrill with his touch the remotest prov- 
inces of the Empire; deriving his ability to do 
so from that instinct of cohesion and love of 
order by which his subjects are super-emineutly 

But while it happens that the wonderful en- 
durance of a Chinaman will enable him to bear 
an amount of injustice from his Government 
which would revolutionize a Western state, it is 
no less true that the limits may be passed ; 
when a popular movement ensues, assuming 
at times an almost Constitutional character. 
When any emeute of this description takes 
place, as directed against a local official, the 
Imperial Government invariably espotises the 
popular cause, and the individual, wliose guilt 
is inferred from the existence of disturbance, 
is at once degraded. Thus a certain sj'mpathy 
or tacit understanding seems to exist between 
the Emperor and his subjects as to how far 
each may push their prerogatives ; and, so long 
as neither exceeds these limits, to use their 
own expression, " the wheels of the chariot of 


Imperial Government revolve smoothly on their 
axles." So it hupitens that disturbances of 
greater or less import are constantly occurring 
in various parts of the country. Sometimes 
they assume the most formidable dimensions, 
and spread like a running fire over the Empire ; 
but if tlie}' are not founded on a real grievance, 
they are not supported by jjopular sympathy, 
and gradually die out, the smouldering embers 
kept alive, perhaps, for some time by the exer- 
tions of the more hiwless part of the community, 
but the last spark ultimately expires, and its 
blackened trace is in a few years utterly ef- 
faced. — Narrativie of the Mission of the Earl 
of Elgin. 


M}' host, who came out to meet me, led me 
to an elevated [datform in front of the village 
mosque, an unusually imposing edifice. Here, 
under the shade of a spreading mulberry-tree, 
were collected seven brothers, who represented 
the famih', and about fift^- other members of it. 
They were in the act of pra\er when I arrived 
— indeed, they are renowned for tiieir piet}'. 
Along the front of the terrace was a row of 
water-bottles for ablutions, behind them mats 
on which the praying was going forward, and 
behind the worshippers a confused mass of 
slippers. When tliey had done praying, they 
all got into their slippers. It was a marvel to 
me how each knew his own. 

The}' led me to what I supposed was a place 
of honor, where soft coverlers had been spread 
near the door of the mosque. We formed the 
usual squatting circle, and were sipping coffee, 
when suddenly every one started to liis feet ; a 
dark, active little man seemed to dart into the 
midst of us. Everybody struggled frantically 
to kiss his hand, and he passed through us 
like a flash to tlie oilier end of the platform, 
followed by a tall negro, whose hand everybody, 
includng ssmy aristocratic liost, seemed also 
anxious to kias. I had not recovered from mj 


astonishment at this proceeding, when I re- 
ceived 51 message from the new-comer to take a 
place b}'' liis side. I now found tliat lie was on 
the seat of honor, and it became a question, 
until I knew who he was, whether I should 
admit his right to invite me to it, thus acknowl- 
edging his superiority in rank — etiquette in 
these matters being a point which has to be 
attended to in the East, however absurd it may 
seem among ourselves. I therefore for the 
moment ignored his invitation, and asked my 
host, in an off-hand way, who he was. He in- 
formed me that he was a mollah, held in the 
higliest consideration for his learning and piety 
all through the country, iipoii which he, in fact, 
levied a sort of religious tax ; that he was here 
on a visit, and that in his own home he was in 
the habit of entertaining two hundred guests a 
night, no one being refused hospitality. His 
father was a dervish, celebrated for his miracu- 
lous powers, and the mantle thereof had fallen 
upon the negro, who had been his servant, and 
who also was much venerated, because it was 
his habit to go to sleep in the mosque, and be 
spirited away, no one knew whither, in the 
night ; in fact, he could become invisible almost 
at will. 

Under these circumstances, and seeing that 
I should seriously embarrass my host if I stood 
any longer on my dignity, I determined to 
waive it, and joined the saint. He received me 
with supercilious condescension, and we ex- 
changed compliments till dinner was announced, 
when my host asked whether I wished to dine 
alone or with the world at large. As the saint 
had been too patronizing to be strictlv polite, 
I thought I would assert my right to be exclu- 
sive, and said I would dine alone, on which he, 
with a polite sneer, remarked that it would he 
better so, as he had an objection to eating with 
any one who drank wine, to which I retorted 
that I had an equal objection to dining with 
^hose who ate with their fingers. From this it 


will appear that my relations witli tlie holy man 
were getting somewhat strained. 

I was, therefore snpplied with a pyramid of 
rice and six or seven elaborately cooked dishes 
all to myself, and squatted on one mat, while 
a few yards off the saint, my host, and all his 
brothers squatted on another. When they 
had linished their repast their places were 
occupied by others, and I counted altogether 
mure than "fifty persons feeding on the mosque 
terrace at my host's expense. Dinner over, 
they all trooped in to pray, and I listened to 
the monotonous chanting of the Koran till it 
was time to go to bed. My host offered me a 
mat in the mosque, where I should have a. 
chance of seeing the miraculous disappearance 
of the negro ; but as 1 had no faith in this, and 
a great deal in the snoring, b}' which I should 
be disturbed, I slept in a room apart as excln- 
sively as I had dined. 

I was surprised next morning to observe a 
total change in the saint's demeanor. All the 
supercilious pride of the previous evening had 
vanished, and we soon became most amiable to 
each other. That he was a fanatic hater of the 
Giaour I felt no doubt, but for some reason he 
liad deemed it politic to adopt an entirely 
altered demeanor. It was another illustration 
of the somewhat painful lesson which one has 
to learn in one's intercourse with Orientals. 
They must never be allowed to outswagger 
you. — Haifa. 


OLIPHANT, Margaret Orme (Wil- 
son), a Ih'itish novelist and biogiapher, 
born at Liverpool in 1831. She was of 
Scottish parentage, married into a Scottish 
family, and most of iier earlier novels were 
Scottish in their scene and character. Her 
first novel, Passages in the Life of Mrs. 
Margaret Maitland of Surm/^side, appeared 
in 1819; this was followed for more than 
forty years by many others, among which 
are : Adam Grceme of Mossc/ray (1852), 
Lilieslea f (1S55), Chronicles of Carlingford 
(1866), n^ Ministers Wife (\%Q^), Squire 
Arden (1871), A Rose m June (1871), 
Young Musgrave (1877), He that Will not 
when he May (1880), A Little Pilgrim 
(18.82), The Ladles Lindores (1883), 
Oliver s Bride (1886), in conjunction with 
T. B. Aldrich, The Second Son (1888), 
Joyce (1888), Neighbors on the Green., and 
A Poor Gentleman (1889). Among her 
works in biograj)hy and general literature 
are: Life of Edivard Irving (1862), His- 
torical Sketches of the Reign of George II., 
originally i)ublislied in Blachvood's Maga- 
zine (1869), St. Francis of Assisi (1870), 
Memoir of Cou7it Montalemhert (1872), 
The Makers of Florence (1876), The Lit- 
erary History of England., during the 
Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuiies 
(1886), Foreign Classics for English 
Readers (1887), 17ie Makers of Venice 
(1887), and a Biography of Laurence OH- 
phant (1889). 


** Martha, Martha, thou art careful and 
troubled about many things. Let tlie child 
alone — she will never be _young again if she 
should live a hundred years." 

These words were spoken in the gardeu of 


Dinglefield Rectory on a very fine summer 
day a few years ago. The speaker was Mr. 
Damerel, tlie Rector, a middle-aged man, with 
very fine, somewhat worn features, a soft, 
benignant smile, and, as everybody said wlio 
knew liim, tlie most cliarniing manner in the 
world. He was a man of very elegant mind, as 
well as manners. He did not preach often, bnt 
when he did preach all the educated persons of 
liis congregation felt that they had very choice 
fare indeed set before them. I am afraid the 
poor people liked the curate best ; but tlien 
the curate liked them best, and it mattered 
very little to any man or woman of refinement 
what sentiment existed between the cottage 
and the curate. Mr. Damerel was perfectly 
kind and courteous to everybody, gentle and 
simple, who came in his way, but he was. not 
fond of poor people in the abstract. He dis- 
liked everything that was nnlovel}' ; and, alas ! 
there are a great many unlovely things iu 

The rectory garden at Dinglefield is a 
delightful place. The house is on the summit 
of a little liill, or rather tableland, for in the 
front, towards the green, all is level and soft, 
as becomes an English village ; but on the 
other side the descent begins toward the lower 
country, and from the drawing-room windows 
and the lawn, the view extended over a great 
plain, lighted up with links of river, and fading 
into unspeakable hazes of distance, such as 
were the despair of every artist, and the delight 
of the fortunate people who lived there, and 
were entertained day by day with the sight of 
all the sunsets, the mid-day splendors, the fly- 
ing shadows, the soft prolonged twilights. 
Mr. Damerel was fond of saying that no place 
he knew so lent itself to idleness as this. 
" Idleness! I speak as the foolish ones speak," 
he was wont to say ; " for what occu[>ation 
could be more ennobling than to watch those 
gleams and shadows — nil Nature spread out 
before you, and demanding attention, though 


so softly that oiil}' those wlio have ears hear. 
I allow, niN' gentle Nature here does not shout 
at 3'ou, and compel your reganl, like her who 
dwells among the Alps, fur instance. M}'^ dear, 
you are always so practical ; but so long as j'ou 
leave me my landscape I want little more." 

Thus the Rector would discourse. It was 
only a very little more he wanted — only to 
liave his garden and lawn in perfect order, 
swej)t and trimmed every morning, like a lady's 
boudoir, and refreshed with every variety of 
flower; to have his table not heavilv loaded 
with vulgar English joints, but daintily covered, 
and oh ! so delicately served ; the linen always 
fresh, the crystal always fine ; the ladies 
dressed as ladies shoidd be ; to have his wine 
— of which he took very little — always fine, of 
choice vintage, and with a bouquet which 
rejoiced the heart ; to liave plenty of new 
books; to have quiet, undisturbed by the noise 
of the children, or any other troublesome noise 
which broke the harmony of Nature; and 
especially undisturbed by bills and cares, such 
as, he declared, at once shorten life and take 
all pleasure out of it. This was all he required 
and surel}'^ never man had tastes more moderate, 
more innocent, more virtuous and refir.ed. 

The little scene to which I have thus ab- 
ruptly introduced the reader took place in 
the most delicious part of the garden. The 
deep stillness of noon was over the sunshiny 
world; part of the lawn was brilliant in light; 
the very insects were subdued out of the buzz 
of activity by the spell of the sunshine; but 
here, under the lime-tree, there was a grateful 
shade, where everything took breath. jMr. 
Damerel was seated in a chair vidiich had been 
made expressl}' for him, and which combined 
the comfort of soft cushions with such a rustic 
appearance as became its liabitation out of 
doors; under his feet was a soft Persian rug, 
in colors blended with all the harmoin' which 
belongs to the Eastern loom ; at liis side a 
pretty carved table, with a raised rim, with 


books upon it", and .1 thin Venice glass con- 
tiiining a rose. 

Anotlifir ruse — tlio Rose of ni}' stor}' — was 
lialf-sirtinij, lialf-rtn-lining on the grass at his 
feet — a pretty, lii^ht ligure in a soft inusliu 
dress, almost white, with bits of soft rose-col- 
ored ribbons here and there. Siie was the eldest 
child of the house. Her features I do not 
think were at all remarkable, but she had a 
bloom so soft, so delicate, so sweet, that her 
father's fond title for her, " a Rose in June," 
was everywhere acknowledged as appropriate. 
A rose of the very season of roses was this 
Rose. Her very smile, which went and came 
like breath, never away for two minutes to- 
gether, 3'et never lasting beyond the time 3'ou 
took to look at her, was flowery too — I can 
scnrcely tell why. For my own part, she always 
reminded me not so much of a garden rose in 
its glory, as of a bunch of wild roses, all bloom- 
ing and smiling from the bough — here pink, 
liere white, here with a dozen ineffable tints. 
In all her life she had never had occasion to ask 
herself was she happy. Of course she was 
l)ap[)y ! Did she not live, and was not that 
enough ? — A Hose in Jane. 


Chalmers and Irving were, with the excep- 
tion of Robert Hall, the two greatest preachers 
of their day. Irving had passed a 3'ear or two 
as Chalmers's assistant at Glasgov/- before lie 
went to London, in 1822. and where the world 
found him out, and in his obscure chapel he 
became almost the most noted of all the nota- 
bilities of town. Even now, when his story is 
well known, and his own journals and letters 
have proved the nobleness and sincerity of the 
man, it is difticnlt for the world to forget that 
it once believed him after liaving followed and 
stared at him as a prodicjy — an impostor or a 
madman. And it is well known that the too 
Jofty and unworldly strain of his great mind 


separated liim from that homely standing- 
ground of fact, upon wliich alone our mortal 
footsteps are safe ; and from the very exalta- 
tion of liis aspiring soul brought him down in- 
to humiliation, subjection to pettier minds, and 
to the domination of a sect created by his im- 
pulse, yet reigning over liim. 

Tlie eloquence of Irving was like notliing 
else known in his day. Sumetliing of the lofty 
parallelism of the Hebrew, something of tiie 
noble English of our Bible, along with that 
solemn national form of poetic phraseology, 
" such as grave lovers do in Scotland use," com- 
posed the altogether individual style in which 
he wrote and spoke. It was no assumed or 
elaborated st^yle, but the natural utterance of a 
mind cast in other moulds than those common to 
the men of the nineteenth century, and in himself 
at once a primitive prophet, a medieval leader, 
and a Scotch Borderer, who had never been 
subject to the trimming and chopping influence 
of societj'. It is said tiiat a recent publication 
of his sermons has failed to attract the public; 
and this is comprehensible enough, for large 
volumes of sermons are not popular literature. 
But the reader who takes the trouble to over- 
come the disinclination which is so apt to 
arrest us on the threshold of sucli a study, will 
find himself carried along by such a lofty sim- 
plicity, by such a large and noble manliness of 
tone, by the originality'' of a mind incapable of 
doubt taking God at His word, instinct with, 
that natural faith in all things divine which is, 
we think, in its essence one of the many inheri- 
tances of genius. — though sometimes rejected 
and disowned — that he will not grudge the 
pains. He who lield open before the orphan 
that grand refuge of the " fatherhood of God," 
whicli struck the listening statesman with 
wondering admiration; he who, in intimating 
a death, " made known to them the good intel- 
ligence that our brother has had a good voyage, 
HO far as we could follow him or hear tidings 
of him," saw everything around him with mag- 


nified and ennobled vision, and 3poke of what 
he saw witli the grandeur yet simplicity of a 
seer — telling his arguments and his reasonings 
as if they had been a narrative, and making a 
great poetic stor^' of the workings of the mind 
and its labors and consolations. 

In the most abstruse of his subjects this 
method continues to be alwavs aiiparent. 
The sermon is like a sustained and breatiiless 
tale, with an affinity to the minute narra- 
tive of Defoe or of the j)rimitive historians. 
The pauses are brief, the sentences long, bur 
the interest does not flag. Once afloat upon 
the stream, the reader — and in his da}' how 
much more the liearer ! — finds it difficult to 
release himself from the full flowing tide of 
interest in which he looks for the accus- 
tomed breaks and breathing-places in vain. 
Literary History of England. 


It was in the villa of Carregi, amid the 
olive-gardens, that Lorenzo lay, dying among 
the beautiful things he loved. As Savonarola 
took his way up the hill, with the old monk 
those duty it was to accompany him, he told 
the monk that Lorenzo was about to die. This 
was, no doubt, a very simple anticipation, but 
everytliing Savonarola said was looked upon 
b\' his adoring followers as prophecy. \Yl)eu 
the two monks reached the beautiful house 
from which so often the INIagnificent Lorenzo 
had looked out upon his glorious Florence, and 
in which liis life of luxury, learned and gay. 
had culminated, the Prior was led to the 
cliamber in which the owner of all these riches 
lav hopeless and helpless, in what ought to 
have been the prime of his days, with visions 
of sacked cities and robbed orphans distracting 
his dying mind, and no aid to be got from 
either beauty or learning. "Father," said 
Lorenzo, " there are three things which drag 
me back, and throw me into despair, and I 


know not if God will ever pardon me for tht-m." 
Tiiese were the sack of Volterra, tlie robbery 
of the Monte delle Fanoiulle, and the massacre 
of the Pazzi. To this Savonarola answereil by 
reminding his penitent of the mercy of God. 
The dramatic climax is wanting in the account 
given by Folitian ; but we quote it in full from 
the detailed and simple nai-rative of Burla- 
macchi : — 

" Lorenzo," said Savonarola, •• be not so 
despairing, for God is merciful to you. if you 
will do the three things I will tell you." Tlieri 
snid Lorenzo, " What are these thi-ee things ? " 
The Padi-e answered, '•' The first is that 3'ou 
should have a great and living faith that God 
can and will pardon you." To which Lorenzo 
answered, " This is a great thing, and I do believe 
it." The Padre added, " It is also necessary 
that everything wrongfully acqnired should be 
given back by you, in so far as you can do this, 
and still leave to your children as much as will 
maintain them as private citizens.'' These 
words drove Lorenzo nearly out of liimself ; 
but afterwards he said, "This also will I do." 
The Pailre then went on to the third thing, 
and said, "Lastly, it is necessai-y that freedom 
and her poi)ular government, according to 
republican usage, should be restored to Flor- 
ence." At this speech Lorenzo turned his 
back upon him, nor ever said another word. 
Upon which the Padre left him, and went 
away without other confession 

We do not know where to find a more re- 
markable scene. Never before, as far as we 
can ascertain, had tliese two notable beings 
looked at each other face to face, or inter- 
changed words. They met at the supreme 
moment of the life of one, to confer there upon 
the edge of eternity, and to part — but not 
in a petty quarrel, each great in his way ; the 
Prince turning his face to the wall in the bit- 
terness of his soul ; the Friar drawing liis cowl 
over his head, solemn, nnblessing, but not un- 
pitiful. They separated after their one inter- 


view. The Prince had sought the unwilling 
Preacher in vain when all went well with Lo 
renzo ; but the Preacher " grieved greatly," as he 
afterwards said, not to have been sooner when 
at last they met ; and Savonarola recognized in 
the great Medici a man worth struggling for — 
a feHov/ and peer of his own. 

Thus Lorenzo died at forty-four, in the 
height of his days, those distracting visions in 
his dying eye.-^- — the sacked city, the murdered 
innocents of the Pazzi blood, tlie poor maidens 
robbed in their orphanage. He had been vic- 
torious and splendid all his days ; but the battle 
was lost at last ; and the prophet by the side 
of his princely bed intimated to him, in that 
last demand, to which he would make no an- 
swer, the subversion of all his work, the 
downfall of his family, the escape of Florence 
from the skillful hands which had held her so 
long. The spectator, looking on at this strange 
and lofty conllict of the two most notable 
figures of the time, feels almost as much sym- 
path}^ for Lorenzo — proud and sad, refusing to 
consent to that ruin which was inevitable — as 
with the patriotic monk, lover of freedom as of 
truth, who could no more absolve a despot at his 
end than he could play a courtier's part during 
his life. 

As that cowled figure traversed the sunny 
marbles of the loggia, in the glow of the April 
morning, leaving doubt and bitterness behind, 
what thoughts must have been in both hearts I 
The one, sovereign still in Florence, reigning 
for himself and his own will and pleasure, 
proudh' and sadly turned his face to the wall, 
holding fast his sceptre, though his moments 
were numbered. T'he other, not less sadly — a 
sovereign too, to whom that sceptre was to fall, 
and who should reign for God and goodness — 
went forth into the Spring sunshine, life blos- 
soming all about him, and the fair City of 
Flowers lying before him, white campanile and 
red dome glistening in the early light, — life with 
the one, death with the other ; but Nature, 


calm and fair, and this long-lived, everlasting 
Earth, to which men, great and small, are things 
of a moment, encircling both. Lorenzo de' 
Medici died, leaving as such men do, the deluge 
after him, and a foolish and feeble heir to con- 
tend with Florence, aroused and turbulent, and 
all the troubles and stormy chances of Italian 
politics ; while the Prior of San Marco retired 
to his cell and his pulpit, from which for a few 
3'ears thereafter he was to rule over his city and 
the spirits of men — a .reign more wonderful 
than any which Florence ever saw. — The 
Makers of Florence. 


OMAR KHAYYAM, a Persian pocu, 
Dorn about 1050 ; died about 1125. He was 
born when Edward the Confessor reigned 
in England, and was approaching man- 
hood wlien William the Norman con- 
quered the island. He lived througli the 
English reigns of William the Conqneror, 
William Rnfus, Henry I., and Stephen, 
and far into that of Henry II., the fiist 
English Plantagenet. Khaijijdm means 
" the Tent-maker," and it is })r()bable that 
Omar maintained himself by that craft 
until the sun of fortune rose for him. He 
was in youth a pnpil of the most famous 
philosopher of Khorasan ; he and two of 
his fellow-students entered into a compact 
that if either of them rose to fortune he 
should share it with the others. Nizam-ul- 
Mulk, one of the three, came, in time, to be 
Vizier of the mighty Alp Arslau, and his 
successor. Malek, son and grandson of 
T(gnil Heg, the Tartar founder of the Sel- 
joulc dymisty. He was not unmindful of tlie 
3'ouihful compact, and proffered every ad- 
vancement to the others. But Omar had 
no aspirations for political greatness. He 
devoted himself to study, especially of 
astronomy-, and when the Vizier undertook 
to reform the confusc^d Mohammedan 
calendar, Omar was one of those to whom 
the work was confided. The result of 
their labors is thus described by Gibbon : 
" The reign of Malek was illustrated by 
the Gelalcemi era ; and all errors, whether 
past or futnie, were corrected by a com- 
putation of time whicli surpasses the Julian 
and approaches the accuracy of the Gre- 
gorian style." 

Omar Khayydm was a speculative philo- 
osopherand poet, as well as an astronomer. 


Of Ins Rubdydt " Stanzas," only one 
mnnnscri{)t, written at Sliiras, in 14G0, 
exists in England ; it contains 158 qnat- 
rains, the first, second, and fourtli lines 
usnally, though not invariably, rhyming 
together. About two-thirds of this man- 
uscript was transhited into English by 
Edward Eiizgerald in 1872. A superb 
edition of this translation was published iu 
1884 at Boston, in a large folio volume, 
profusely illustrated by Elihu Vedder ; the 
illustrations occupying some ten times as 
much space as the text. If we could con- 
ceive of the Greek Anacreon, and the 
Roman Lucretius combined into one being, 
we should have something like the Persian 
Omar Khayyam. Of him and his poem 
Mr. Fitzgerald says : 

" Having failed of finding any Provi- 
dence but destiny, and any world but this, 
lie set about making the most of it, pre- 
ferring rather to soothe the soul into ac- 
quiescence with things as he saw them 
than to perplex it with vain disquietude 
after what thev might be. ... I have ar- 
ranged the Ruhdijdt into a sort of Eclogue, 
with perhaps a little less than equal pro- 
portion of the * Drink and make-merry,' 
which recurs over-frequently in the original. 
Either way, the result is sad enough. 
Saddest, perhaps, when most ostentatiously 
merry ; more apt to move sorrow than 
anger towards the old Tent-maker, who, 
after vainly endeavoring to unshackle his 
steps from destiny, and to catch some 
glimpses of to-morrow, falls back upon 
to-day (which has outlasted so many to- 
morrows) as the only ground lie hfisgot to 
stand upon, however momently slipping 
from under his feet." — Mr. Vedder ai'ranges 


tlie quatrains somewhat differently from 
Mr. Fitz_2^erald, wliose order of enumera- 
tion we follow. 


Wake ! for tlie Sun ■who scattered into flight 
The stars before liini from the field of Niglit, 
Drives Night along with them fiom Heaven, 
and strikes 
The Sultan's turret with a shaft of Light, 


Before the phantom of False-Morning died, 
We thought a Voice witliin the Tavern cried, 
" When all the Temple is prepared within, 
Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?" 

And as the cock crew, those who stood before 
The Tavern shouted, " Open then, the door! 
You know how little time we have to stay, 
And, once departed, may return no more." 


Perplexed no more with Human or Divine, 
To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign, 
And lose your fingers in the kisses of 
The Cypress-slender minister of Wine. 


And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press. 
Ends — in what all begins and ends — in " Yes ! " 

Think then you are To-day what Yesterday 
Yon were — To-morrow you shall lie not less. 


So when the Angel of the darker Drink 
At last shall find 3'ou at the river-brink, 
And offering his cup invite your Soul 
Forth to your lip to quaff — you shall not shriuk. 


Wh}', if the Soul can fling the dust aside 
And naked on the air of FTfuvon ride, 


Were't not a shame — were't not a shame for 
In the clay carcase crippled to abide ? 


'Tis but a tent where takes his one-day's rest 
A Sultan to the realm of death addrest, 

The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferbash 
Strikes, and prepares it for another guest. 


And fear not lest Existence, closing your 
Account and mine, should know the like no 
The Eternal Saki from that bowl has poured 
Millions of bubbles like us — and will pour. 


When You and I behind the veil are past, 
Oh ! but the long, long while the World shall 
Which of our coming and departure heeds 
As the Seven Seas should heed a pebble cast. 


A moment's halt — a momentary taste 
Of Being from the well amid the waste — 

And lo ! the phantom caravan has reached 
The Nothing it set out from. — Oh, make haste ! 


Would you that spangle of Existence spend 
About the Secret — quick about it, friend ! 

A Hair perhaps divides the False and True, 
And upon what, prithee, does Life depend ? 


A Hair, perhaps, divides the False and True; 
Yes ; and a single letter were the clew — 

Could }'ou but find it — to the Treasure-house, 
And, peradventure, to the Master too ; 


Whose secret Presence through Creation's veins 
Running, quicksilver-like, eludes your paius. 

Taking all sha])es from Fish to ^Loon, 
They change and peri-sh all — but He remains, 



A moment guessed; then back behind the fold. 
IinniuivHl of darkness, round the Drama rolled, 

Wliicli, for the i)astinie of Eternity, 
He does Himself conclude, enact, behold. 


But if in vain do'vn on the stubborn floor 
Of Earth, and np to Heaven's unopening door 
You gaze To-day, while You are I'^oie, how 
To-morrow You, when shall be l^ou no more ? 


Waste not your hour, nor in the vain pursuit 
Of This and That endeavor and dis[)ute ; 

Better b'j J!)cund with the fruitful Grape 
Thau sadden after uone — or bitter fruit. 


You know, my friends, with what a brave 

I made n. second marriage in my house ; 

Divorced old barren lleason from my bed, 
And took the Daughter of the Vine to spouse, 


For Is and fsf^'t with rule and line, 
And iTp-and-do\cii by logic I define, 

0,{ all that one shonld care to fathom, I 
Was never deep in anything but Wine. 

Ah ! but my computations, people say. 
Reduced the Year to better reckoning. — ^Nay, 

'Twas only strilnng from the calendar 
Unborn To-morrow and dead Yesterday. 


And lately by the Tavern-door agape 

Came shining throngh the dark an Angel-shape, 

Jiearing a vessel on his shoulder; and 
He bade me taste of it : and 'twas the Grape I 


The Grape, that can with logic absolute 
The two-and-seventy jarring sects confute; 


The sovei'eign Alcliemist tliat, in a truce, 
Life's leaden metal into gold transmutes 


Oh, threats of Hell and hopes of Paradise I 
One thing at least is certain — this Life flies 5 
One thing is certain, and the rest is Lies : 
The flower that once has blown for ever dies. 


Strange, is it not, that of the mj'riads who 
Before us passed the door of Darkness through, 

Not one returns to tell us of the road, 
Which to discover we must travel too ? 


The revelations of devout and learned, 
Who rose before us and as prophets burned, 

All are but stories which, awoke from sleep, 
They told their fellows, and to sleep returned. 


I sent my Soul through the Invisible, 
Some letter of that After-life to spell ; 

And b3'-and-b3' my Soul returned to me, 
And answered, " I myself am Heaven and Hell." 


Heaven's but the Vision of fulfilled Desire, 
And Hell the Shadow of a soul on fire, 

Cast on the darkness into which ourselves, 
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire. 


We are no other than a moving row 

Of magic Shadow-shapes that come and go 

Round with this sun-illumined lantern, held 
In midnight by the Master of the Show ; 


Impotent Pieces of the game He plays. 
Upon his checker-board of Nights and Days, 
Hither and thither moves and checks and 
And one by one back in the closet lays. 



The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, 
But right or left, as strikes the Player, goes ; 

AnctHe that tossed yon down into the fi<dd, 
He knows about it all — lie knows, He knows. 


The moving Finger writes — and having writ, 
]\Ioves on ; nor all your piety and wit, 

Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, 
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it. 


And that unveiled bowl they call the skj^, 
"VVhereuuder crawling, cooped, we live and die. 

Lift not your hands to it for help— for It 
As im potently rolls as you or I. 


With the first clay they did the last man knead, 
And there of the last harvest sowed the seed ; 

And the first morning of Creation wrote 
What the last dawn of Keckoning shall read. 

What ! out of senseless N'othing to provoke 
A conscious Somethhxg to resent the yoke 

Of unpermitted Pleasure, under paiu 
Of everlasting penalties if broke ! 


Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin 
Beset the road I was to travel in, 

Tiiou wilt not with predestined evil round 
Enmesh, and then impute my fall to Sin ! 


Thou, who INFan of baser earth didst make, 
And even with Paradise devise the Snake, 

For all the sin wherewith the face of Man 
Is blackened, Man's forgiveness give — and 
take ! 


OPIE, Amelia (Aldersox), an Eng- 
lish tale-wiiter and poet, boiMi in 1769; 
died in 1853. In 1798 she niairied John 
Opie, the painter, who died in 1807. She 
was bioLight up a Unitarian, but in 1827 
became a member of the " Society of 
Friends." She did not commence her 
literary career until past thirty, when she 
put forth her Father and Daugliter (1801). 
Her tales, generally grouped into series of 
three or four volumes, appeared at inter- 
vals until 1828, and Avere greatly admired 
in their day. Among these are : Simple 
Ta'es (180G), Temper (1812), New Tales 
(1818), Tales of the Heart (1820), Made- 
line (1822), Illustratiojis of Lijing (1825), 
Detraction Displayed (1828.) She also 
published from time to time several vol- 
umes of verse not destitute of poetical 


Stay Lady, sta}', for mercy's sake, 

And hear a helpless orpluin's tale. 
Ah ! sure my looks must pit}' wake ; 

'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale. 
Yet I was once a mother's pride, 

And my brave father's hope and joy; 
But in the Nile's proud fight he died, 

And I am now an orphan boy. 

Poor foolish child ! how pleased was I 

When news of Nelson's victory came, 
Along the crowded streets to 1^y, 

And see the lighted windows flame ! 
To force me home my mother sought ; 

She could not bear to see my joy, 
For with m}- father's life 'twas bought, 

And made me a poor orphan bo^'. 

The people's shouts were long and loud ; 

My mother, sluiddering. closed her ears ; 
"Rejoice ! rejoice ! " still cried the crowd ; 

My mother answered with her tears. 


« Wli}' are you crying thus ? " said I, 

"While otliers laugh and shout with joy ?" 

She kissed me ; and, with such a sigh, 
She called me her poor orphan boy. 

" What is an orphan boy ? " I cried, 

As in her face I looked and smiled ; 
My mother, through her tears replied, 

" You'll know too soon, ill-fated child ! " 
And now they've tolled my mother's knell, 

And I'm no more a parent's joy. 
Lady, 1 have leai-ned too well 

What 'tis to be an orphan boy ! 

Oh ! were I by j'our bounty fed ! — 

Nay, gentle Lady, do not chide! — 
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread ; 

The sailor's or))han boy has pride. 
Lady, you weep ! Ha ! this to me ? 

You'll give me clothing, food, employ ? 
Look down, dear parents ; look and see 

Your happy, happy, orphan boy I 


O'REILLY, John Boyle, an Irish- 
American journalist and poet, born in 
County Meatli, Ireland, in 184J: ; died in 
1890. He took part in the revolutionary 
movement of 1863, and afterwards entered 
a cavalry regiment in the British army. In 
1866 he was tried for treason, and sentenced 
to imprisonment for life. This sentence 
was subsequently commuted to transporta- 
tion for twenty years, and he was sent to 
the penal colony of Wes.c Australia. In 
1869 he made liis escape, by the aid of the 
captain of an American whaling vessel. 
Taking up his residence at Boston he be- 
came editor of the Pilot. He has ])ub- 
lished Songs from the Southern Seas (1872), 
Songs, Legends, and Ballads, (1878), 
Moondyne ; a Storg from the Under- World 
(1879), Statues in \he Block (1881), and 
The Ethics of Boxing (1888). 


beauteous Soutliland ! land of yellow air 
That liangeth o'er thee slumbering, aud doth 

The moveless foliage of thy waters fair 
And wooded hills, like aureole of gold! 

O thou, discovered ere the fitting time, 

Ere Nature in completion turned thee forth ! 

Ere aught was finished but thy peerless clime, 
Thy virgin breath allured the amorous North. 

O land! God made thee wondrous to the eye, 
But His sweet singers thou hast never heard*, 

He left thee, meaning to come by-and-by, 
And give rich voice to every bright-winged 

He painted with fresh hues th\' myriad flowers, 
But left them scentless. Ah ! their woful 

Like sad reproach of their Creator's powers — 
To make so sweet, fair bodies, void of soul. 


He gave tliee trees of odorous, precious wood ', 
But 'mid them all bloomed not one tree of 
fruit ; 

He looked, but said not that His work was good 
AVhen leaving thee all perfumeless and mute. 

He blessed thy flowers with honey. Every bell 
Looks earthward, sunward, with a yearning 

But no bee-lover ever notes the sv.ell 

Of hearts, like lips, a-hungeringto be kissed. 

strange land, thou art virgin ! thou art more 
Than fig-tree barren ! Would that I could 

For others' eyes the glory of the shore 

Where last I saw thee ! But the senses faint. 

In soft, delicious dreaming when they drain 
Thy wine of color. Virgin fair thou art, 

All sweetly fruitful, waiting witii soft pain 
The spouse who comes to wake thy sleeping 


Only a fallen horse, stretched out there on the 

Stretched in the broken shafts, and crushed by 

the heavy load ; 
Only a fallen horse, and a circle of wondering 

Watching the 'frighted teamster goading the 

beast to rise. 

Hold ! for his toil is over — no more labor for 

See the poor neck outstretched, and the patient 

eA'es grow dim ; 
See on the friendly stones how peacefully rests 

the head — 
Thinking, if dumb beasts think, how good it is 

to be dead; 
After the weary journey, how restful it is to 

With the broken shafts and the cruel load, 

waiting only to die. 


Watchers, he died in harness — died in the 

shafts and straps — 
Fell, and the burden killed him : one of the 

day's mishaps — 
One of tlie passing wonders marking the city 

road — 
A toiler dying in harness, heedless of call or 


Passers, crowding tlie pathway, staj'ing your 

steps awhile, 
What is ths symbol? Only death — why should 

we cease to smile 
At death for a beast of burden ? On, through 

the busj' street. 
That is ever and ever echoing the tread of the 

hurrying feet. 

What was the sign ? A symbol to touch the 

tireless will ? 
Does He who taught in parables speak in 

parables still ? 
The seed on the rock is wasted — on heedless 

hearts of men, 
That gather and sow and grasp and lose — labor 

and sleep — and then — 
Then for the prize ! — A crowd in the street of 

ever-echoing tread — 
The toiler, cruslied by the heavy load, is there in 

his harness — dead ! 


It chanced me upon a time to sail 

Across the Soutliern Ocean to and fro ; 
And, landing at fair isles, by stream and vale 

Of sensuous blessing did we ofttimes go. 
And months of dreamy joj's. like jo\'s in sleep, 

Or like a clear, calm stream o'er mossy stone, 
Unnoted passed our hearts with voiceless sweep, 

And left us yearning still for lands unknown. 
And when we found one, — for 'tis soon to find 

In thousand-isled Cathay another isle. — 
For one sliort noon its treasures filled the mind. 

And then again we yearned, and ceased to 


And so it was, from isle to isle we passed, 
Like wanton bees or boj's on flowers or lips ; 

And when that all was tasted, then at last 
We thirsted still for draughts instead of sips. 

I learned from this there is no Southern land 

Can fill with love the hearts of Northern men. 

Sick minds need change; but when in health 

they stand 

'Neath foreign skies.their love flies home again. 

And thus with me it was: the yearning turned 

From laden airs of cinnamon away, 
And stretched far westward, while the full 
heart burned 
With love for Ireland, looking on Cathay ! 
My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief ! 

My land, that has no peer in all the sea, 
For verdure, vale, or river, flower or leaf, — 
If first to no man else, thou'rt first to me. 
New loves may come with duties, but the first 
Is deepest yet, — the mother's breath and 
Like that kind face and breast where I was 
Is my poor land, the Niobe of isles. 


[From Poem at the Inauguration of the Plymouth 
Monument, August 1, 1889.] 

Here, where the shore was rugged as the waves, 
Wliere frozen Nature dumb and lifeless lay, 
And no rich meadows bade the Pilgrims stay, 

Was spread the symbol of the life that saves : 
To conquer first the outer things ; to make 

Their own advantage, unallied, unbound ; 

Their blood the mortar-building from tlie 
ground ; 

Their cares the statutes, making all anew ; 

To learn to trust the many, not the few ; 

To bend the mind to discipline; to break 
The bonds of old convention, and forget 

The claims and barriers of class; to face 

A desert land, a strange and hostile race. 

And conquer both to friendship by the debt 


Tliat Nature pays to justice, love. ;tii<i tnil : — 
Here on this Kock, and on this sterile soil. 
Began the kingdom not of Kings, but Men, 
Began the making of the world agnin. 
Here centuries sank, and from the hirlier brink 
A New World reached and raised an Old 

World link, 
When England's hands, by widervision tanglu, 
Threw down the feudal bars the Xomian 

And here revived, in spite of sword and stake, 
The ancient freedom of the Wapentake. 

Here struck the seed — the Filgrim.s' 
Where equal, rights and equal bonds were set, 
Where all the People equal-franchised met, 

Wiiere doom was writ of Privilege and Crown, 
Where human breath blew all the idols dowii. 
Where crests were naught, where vulture flags 

were furled, 
And Common Men began to own the world. 


ORIGEN, a Fatlier of the Church, re- 
specting tlie exact place of whose birth and 
death there is some question. Tlie most 
probable representation is that he was 
born at Alexandria, Egypt, in 185, and 
died at Tyre in 2o4. As lie was of Greek 
descent, and wrote in Greek, he may pro- 
perly be designated as a Grecian. He was 
by birth a Christian, and, his father having 
suffered martyrdom, he, witli his mother 
and her seven chihlren, was left in poverty. 
He in time opened a school at Alexandria, 
■which became famous. He lived a life of 
the utmost austerity. After many and 
varied experiences, which need not here 
be detailed, he ojtened, in 231, what we 
may call a theological seminary at Csesarea, 
in Palestine. When the Decian persecu- 
tion broke out, in 251, Origen was im- 
prisoned and ]Hit to torture ; but was 
eventually released, and died soon after- 

Origen has been styled " the father of 
Biblical criticism and exegfesis." Jerome 
says of him : " He was a man of immortal 
genius, who understood logic, geometry, 
arithmetic, music, grammar, rhetoric, and 
all the sects of the philosophers." But 
the main subject of his labors belongs to 
the domain of theolog}^ upon which he 
was a voluminous writer, even though the 
statement that he wrote 6,000 books may 
be set down as an exagfcre ration. His ex- 
taut works (some of them beinij fraofments, 
and others existing only in an earl}' trans- 
lation into Latin) are the Hexapla (•' Six- 
fold^^^ because it contained, in parallel 
columns, the Hebrew text, written in Greek 
character, the Septuagint voi-sion, and 
those of Aquila, Symmachus, and Theodo- 


tion) ; Commentaries on the Scriptures ; 
und tlie treatises on Prbiciples, on Prayer^ 
on Martyrdom^ and Ac/ainst Celsui<. 

Oil certain speculative points Origen 
advanced views quite different from those 
which have come to be generally accepted 
throughout Cliristendom. To set these 
forth at length, and in the words of Origen, 
would reqtiire a volume. We shall tliere- 
fore present the summaiies as given by 
Cave (^Hist. Lit.') and Schaff (^Church 


Origen was accused of maintaining that the 
death of Christ was advantageous not to men 
011I3-, but to angels, devils, nay, even to the 
stars and other insensible things, which he sup- 
posed to be possessed of a rational soul, and, 
therefore, to be capable of sin ; that all rational 
natures — whether devils, human souls, or any 
other, were create<l by God from eternity, and 
were originally })ure intelligences, but after- 
wards, according to the various use of their 
free-will, were dispersed among the various or- 
ders of angels, men, or devils. That angels and 
other supernatural beings were clothed with sub- 
tile and ethereal bodies, which consisted of mat- 
ter, although in comparison with our grosser 
bodies they may be called incorporeal and spir- 
itual. That the souls of all rational beings, 
after putting off one state, pass into another, 
either superior or inferior, according to their 
respective behavior. And that thus, by a kind 
of i)erpetual transmigration, one and the same 
soul may successively — and even often — pass 
through all the orders of rational beings. And 
that hence the souls of men w-ere thrust into 
the prison of bodies for offences committed in 
some former state ; and that when loosed from 
hence, they will become either angels or devils 
as they shall have deserved. Tliat, how- 
ever, neither the punishment of men or devils, 


nor the jo^-s of the saints, sliall be eternal ; but 
that all shall return to their original state of 
pure intelligences, to begin the same round 
over and over again. — Cave, Hist. Lit. 


Origen brings the Son as near as possible to 
the essence of the Father, not only making him 
the absolute personal Wisdom, Truth, Kiglit- 
eousness, ilcason, but also expressly predicating 
eternity of him, and propounding the Church 
dogma of the Eternal Generation of the Son. 
This Generation he usually presents as pro- 
ceeding from the Will of the Father ; but he 
also conceives it as proceeding from his Essence ; 
and hence, at least in one passage, in a frag- 
ment on the epistle to the Hebrew, he applies 
the term homoousios to the Son — thus declar- 
ing him co-equal in substance with the Father. 
This idea of Eternal Generation, however, has a 
peculiar form in liim, from its close connection 
•with his doctrine of an eternal creation. He 
can no more think of the Father without the 
Son than of an almighty God without creation, 
or of light without radiance. Hence lie de- 
scribes this Generation not as a single instan- 
taneous act, but, like creation, ever going on. 
But on the other hand, he distinguishes the 
Essence of the Son from that of the Father ; 
speaks of a difference oi' Substance; and niakoh 
the Son decidedly inferior to the Father. 

Origen ascribes to the Holy Ghost eternal 
existence; exalts him, as lie does the Son, far 
above all creatures, and consitlers him as the 
source of all charisms — especially as the prin- 
ciple of all illumination and holiness of be- 
lievers under the Old Covenant and the New. 
But he places the Spirit in essence, dignity, 
and efficiency below the Son, as far as he 
places the Son below the Father. And 
though he grants, in one passage, that the 
Bible nowhere calls the Holy Ghost a creature, 
3'et, acconling to another somewhat obscure 
sentence, he himself inclines to the view — which 


however, lie does not avow — that the Holy 
Ghost had a beginning (thougli, according to 
his sj-stem, not in time but from eternity), and 
is tlie first and most excellent of all things pro- 
duced by the Logos. 

In the same connection he adduces three 
opinions concerning the Holy Ghost : one, re- 
garding him as not liaving an origin ; anotlier, 
ascribing to him no separate personality ; and 
a third, making him a being originated by the 
Logos. The first of these opinions he rejects, 
because the Father alone is without origin. The 
second he rejects, because in Matt. xii. 32, the 
Spirit is plainly distinguished from the Son. 
The third he takes for the true and Scriptural 
view, because everything was made b}^ the 
Logos. — ScHiVFF, Church History. 

origen's theological system. 

Following the direction which Justin Martyr, 
and especially Clement of Alexandrin, had pui*- 
sued, Origen sought to create, with the aid of 
the philosophy of his day, a science of Christian 
doctrine whose systematic structure should be 
equal to the S3'stems of the philosophers. In 
doing this, he held very positively' to the fun- 
damental doctrines of Christianity as they had 
been handed down and defined in opposition 
to the heretics, especiall}'^ the Gnostic heretics. 
But he found truths in the philosophical 
systems, and tried to show that they were 
borrowed from the Bible, predicating, however 
a general revelation of the Logos. — Schaff- 
Herzog-Micylopedia of Meliyious Knowledge. 


ORTON", James, an American physicist, 
born at ijeneca Falls, N. Y., in 1830 ; died 
on Lake Titicaca, among ihe Andes, in 
1877. He graduated at Williams College 
in 1855, and at Andover Tlieological Sem- 
iiiaiyin 1848. After travelling in Euro[)e, 
he entered the Congregational ministry; 
hut in 18t)7 lie was made Instructor in 
Natural Science at Rochester University ; 
in 18G9 Professor of Natural Philosoiiiiy 
at Vassar College. In the latter year he 
headed a scientific expedition to South 
.Vmerica, going first to Quito, thence de- 
scending the Amazon to its mouth, thus 
crossing the continent from West to East, 
nearly upon the line of the equator. In 
1873 he headed a similar expedition, cross- 
ing the continent from East to West. In 
1876 he undeitook an exploration of the 
river Beni, hv which the great Andean 
Lake Titicaca discharges its waters into 
the Amazon; but died while crossing that 
hike. — His works are : Miners' Liuide 
(1849), The Proverbialist and the Poet 
(1852), The Andes and the Amazon (1870), 
Underground Treasures (1872), Liberal 
Education of Women (1873), Comparative 
Zoolof/y (1875). 


Tliree cj'cles :igo an island rose from the 
sea where now expands the vast continent 
of South America. It was the culminating 
point of the highland of Guiana. For ages 
this granite peak was the sole representative 
of dr\' hiiui south of the Canada liills. In pro- 
cess of time a cluster of islands rose above the 
thermal waters. Tlioy were the small begin- 
ings of the future mountains of Brazil. Long- 
protracted peons elapsed without adding a page 
to the geology of South America, All the 


great mountain chains were at this time slum- 
bering beneath the ocean. The city of Xew 
York was sure of its site, but huge dinotheri 
wallowed in the mire where uow^ stand the 
palaces of Paris, London, and Vienna. 

At length the morning breaks upon the last 
Day of Creation, and the fiat goes forth that 
the proud waves of the Pacific, which have so 
long washed the tablelands of Guiana and 
Brazil, should be stayed. Far away towards 
the setting sun the white surf beats in long 
lines of foam against the low, winding archi- 
pelago — the western outline of the Western 
Continent. Fierce is the fight for the master}' 
between sea and land, between the denuding 
power of the waves and the volcanic forces 
underneath. But slowly — very slowly, yet 
sureU' — rises the long chain of islands by a 
double process. The submarine crust of the 
earth is cooling, and the rocks are folded up as 
it shrivels ; wliile the molten material from 
within, pushed out through the crevices, over- 
flows, and helps to build up the sea-defianc 
wall. A man's life would be too short to count 
even the centuries cunsumed in this operation. 
The coast of Peru has risen 80 feet since it felt 
the tread of Pizarro. Suppose the Andes to have 
risen at this rate uniformly and without inter- 
ruption, 70,000 3ears must have elapsed before 
they reached their present altitude. But when 
we consider that, in fact, it was an intermitted 
movement — alternate upheaval and subsidence 
— we must add an unknown number of mil- 

Three times the Andes sank hundreds of 
feet beneath the ocean level, and again were 
slowly brought up to their present height. 
The suns of uncounted ages have risen and set 
upon these sculptured forms, though geologi- 
cally recent, casting the same line of shadows 
century after centurv. A long succession of 
brute races roamed over the mountains and 
plains of South America, and died out ere man 
was created. In these pre-Adamite times, long 


before the Incas ruled, the mastodon and the 
niegatlieriuiii, the horse and the tapir, dwelt 
ill the liigh valley of Quito ; yet all these 
passed away before the arrival of the aborigines. 
The wild horses now feeding on the pampas of 
Buenos Ay res were imported 330 years ago. 

And now the Andes stand complete in their 
present gigantic pi"oj)ortions, one of the 
grandest and most symmetrical mountain 
chains in the world. Starting from the Land 
of Fire, it stretches northward, and mounts up- 
ward, until it enters the Isthmus of Panama, 
•where it bows gracefully to either ocean ; but 
soon resumes, under another name, its former 
majesty, and loses its magnilicence only where 
the trappers chase the fur-bearing animals over 
the Arctic plains. Nowhere else does Nature 
present such a continuous and Ioft\' chain of 
mountains, unbroken for 8,000 miles, save 
where it is rent asunder by the Magellanic 
Straits, and proudly tosses up a thousand pin- 
nacles into the region of eternal snow. . . . 

The moment the Andes rose, the great con- 
tinental valley of the Amazon was stretched 
out and moulded in its lap. The tidal waves 
of the Atlatitic were dashing against the Cor- 
dilleras, and a legion of rivulets were busily 
ploughing up the sides into deep ravines ; the 
sediment, by this incessant wear and tear, was 
carried eastward, and spread out, stratum by 
stratum, till the shallow .sea between the Andes 
and the islands of Guiana and Brazil was filled 
up with sand and clay. Huge glaciers (thinks 
Agassiz) afterwards descending, moved over the 
inclined plane, and grouTid the loose rock to 
powder. Eddies and currents, throwing up 
.«?and-banks as they do now, gradually defined 
tlK! limits of the tributary' streams, and directed 
them into one main trunk, which worked for 
itself a wide, deep bed, capable of containing 
the accumulated flood. Then and thus was 
created the Amazon. — The Andes and the 


OSGOOD, Frances Sargent (Locke), 
an American poet, born at Boston in 1811 ; 
died at Hinj^liani, Mass., in 1850. In 1835 
she married Samuel S. Osgood, a portrait- 
painter, with wlioni she shortly went to 
London, where they remained four yeai'S, 
during whicli she wrote for various maga- 
zines ; and published The Casket of Fate^ 
and A Wreath of Wild Flowers from Neio 
Eni/land. In 1840 they returned to 
America, taking up tlieir residence in New 
York. She published : Poetry of Floivers 
and Flowers of Poetry (1841), Poems 
(1846), The Floral Offering (1847), and 
an illustrated volume ot" Poems (1849). 
A complete edition of her poems was pub- 
lished in 1850. Shoi'tly after her death a 
memorial volume was pnt forth by her 
friends, with a Life hy Rufus W. Gris- 


LaborisEest — froin tlie sorrows that greet us; 

Itest from all petty vexations that meet us, 

Rest from sin-promptings tliat ever entreat us, 
Kest from the world sirens that lure us to 

Work — and pure slumbers sliall wait on tlie 
pillow ; 

Work — tliou shalt ride over Care's coming 
billow ; 

Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping- 
Work with a stout heart and resolute will. 

Labor is Health : Lo, the husbandman reaping : 
How through his veins goes the life-current 

leaping ; 
How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride 
Free as a sunbeam, the swift sickle guides. 
Labor is Wealth : In the sea the pearl growethj 


Rich tlie queen's robe from the frail cocoon 

riowetli 5 
From the tine acorn the strong forest bloweth, 
Temple and statue the marble block hides. 

Droop not though shame, sin, and anguish are 

round thee ; 
Bravely tling off the cold chain that hath bound 

Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee; 

Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod. 
Work for some good, be it ever so slowly ; 
Cherish some flower be it ever so lowly ; 
Labor! all labor is noble and holy ; 

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy 


Pause not to dream of the future before us ; 
Pause not to weep the wild cares that came 

o'er us : 
Hark how Creation's deep musical chorus 

Uninterinitting, goes up into Heaven ! 
Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing; 
Never the little seed stops in its growing; 
More and more richly the rose-heart keeps 
glowing, . . ■ . 

Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. 

" Labor is Worship ! " the robin is singing ; 
" Labor is Worship ! " the wild bee is ringing. 
Listen ! that eloquent whisper upspringing, 
Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great 
From the dark cloud flows the life-giving 

shower ; 
From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing 

flower ; 
From the small insect the rich coral bower : 
Only man in the plan shrinks from his 

Labor is Life : 'Tis the still water faileth ; 
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; 
Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust 


Flowers droop and die in the stillness of 
Labor is Glory : The flying cloud lightens ; 
Only the waving wing changes and brightens ; 
Idle hearts only the dark Future brightens ; 
Play the sweet keys wouldst thou keep 
them in tune. 

The following are the last verses written 
by Mrs. Osgood. 


You 've woven roses round my way, 

And gladdened all my being ; 
How much I thank you none can say, 
Save only the All-seeing. 

May He who gave this lovely gift — 
This love of lovely doings — 

Be with you whereso'er you go, 
In every hope's pursuings. 

I'm going through the eternal gates, 
Ere June's sweet roses blow : 

Peath's lovely angel bids me there, 
And it is sweet to go. 


OSGOOD, Kate Putnam, an Ameri- 
can author, born in Fryeburg, Me., in 
1841. She is a sister of James Ripley 
Osgood, the publisher. At an early age 
she contributed to magazines under the 
signature of Kate Putnam, and subsequent- 
ly under her full name. In 1869 she went 
to Europe, where she studied and travelled 
until her return to this country in 1874. 
She is best known by her poem Driving 
Home the Cows, which was published in 
Harper s Maj/azine in March, 1865. This 
was widely copied, and was one of the few 
poems of worth suggested by the civil 


Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass 
He turned them into the river-lane; 

One after another he let them pass, 
Then fastened the meadow-bars again. 

Under the willows, and over the hill. 
He patiently followed their sober pace ; 

The merry whistle for once was still, 

And something shadowed the sunny face. 

Only a boy ! and his father had said 
He never could let his youngest go : 

Two already were l.ying dead 

Under the feet of the trampling foe. 

But after the evening work was done, 

And the frogs were loud in the meadow- 

Over his shoulder he slung his gun 

And stealthily followed the foot-path damp. 

Across the clover, and through the wheat. 
With resolute heart and purpose grim, 

Though cold was the dew on his hurrying 
And the blind bats flitting startled him. 

Thrice since then had the lanes been white, 
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom; 


And now, wlieii tlit; cows came back at night, 
The feeble father drove tliem home. 

For news had come to the lonely farm 

Tliat three were lying where two had lain; 

And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm 
Could never lean on a son's again. 

The summer day grew cool and late 

He went for the cows when the work was 
done ; 

But down the lane, as he opened the gate, 
He saw them coming one by one : 

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 

Shaking their horns in the evening wind; 

Cropping the buttercups out of the grass — 
But who was it following close behind? 

Loosely swung in the idle air- 

The empty sleeve of army blue, 
And worn and pale from the crisping hair 

Looked out a face that the father knew. 

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, 
And yield their dead unto life again ; 

And the da.y that comes with a cloudy dawn 
In golden glory at last may wane. 

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes, 
For the heart must speak when the lips are 
dumb ; 

And under the silent evening skies 

Together they followed the cattle home. 


From crowds that scorn the mounting wings, 

The happy heights of souls serene, 
I wander wliere the blackbird sings. 
And over bubbling, shadowy spi'ings, 

The beech-leaves cluster, young and green, 

I know the forest's changeful tongue. 
That talketh all the day with me* 

I trill in every bobolink's song, 

And every brooklet bears along 
My greeting to the chainless sea! 


The loud wind lauglis, tlie low wind broods; 

There is no sorrow in the strain ! 
Of all the voices of the woods. 
That haunt these houseless solitudes^ 

Not one has any tone of pain. 

In merry round my days run free, 

With slender thought for worldly things: 

A little toil sufficeth me ; 

I live the life of bird and bee, 

Nor fret for what the morrow brings. 

Nor care, nor age, nor grief have I, 

Only a measureless content ! 
So time may creep, or time may fly; 
I reck not bow the years go by, 

With Nature's youth forever blent. 

They beckon me by day, by night, 

The bodiless elves that round me play! 

I soar and sail from height to height; 

No mortal, but a thing of light 
As free from earthly clog as they. 

But when my feet, unwilling, tread 
The crowded walks of busy men, 
Their walls that close above my head 
Beat down my buoyant wings outspread, 
And I am but a man again. 

My pulses spurn the narrow bound ! 

The cohl hard glances give me pain! 
I long for wild, unmeasured ground. 
Free winds that wake the leaves to sound, 

Low rustles of the summer rain ! 

M.y senses loathe their living death — 

The coffined garb the city wears ! 
I draw through sighs ni}^ heavy breath, 
And pine till lengths of wood and heath 
Blow over nae their. endless airs. 


OSGOOD, SamuivL, au American clergy- 
man and author born at Charlestovvn, Mass., 
in 1812 ; died at New York in 1880. He 
graduated at Harvard in 1832, and at 
the Cambridge Divinity School in 1835. 
After being minister of several Unitarian 
Churches he in 1849 succeeded Orville 
Dewey as minister of the Church of the 
Messiah, New York. In 1870 he took 
orders in the Episcopal Church, but did 
not assume any parochial charge. His 
principal works, besides iiumerous trans- 
lations from the German, are : — Studies 
in Christian Biography (1851), Milestones 
in our Life-Journey (1855), Student Life 
(1860), and American Leaves^ consisting 
of papers originall)'- publislied in period- 
icals (1867). 


Our Schoolmasters were great characters in 
our eves, and the two who held successively 
the charge of the Grammar department made 
a great figure in our wayside chat. The first 
of them was a tall, fair-haired man, with an 
almost perpetual smile, though it was not easy 
to decide whether this smile was the expression 
of his good-nature or the mask of his severit}- ; 
he wore it much the same when he flogged au 
oi^ender as when he praised a good recitation. 
He seemed to delight in making a joke of pun- 
ishment, and it was a favorite habit of his to 
fasten upon the end of his rattan the pitch and 
gum taken from the mouths of the masticating 
urchins, and then, coming upon their idleness 
unaware, he would insert the glutinous imple- 
ment in their hair, not to be withdrawn with- 
out an adroit jerk and the loss of some scalp- 
locks. Poor fellow ! his easy nature probably 
ruined him, and he left school, not long to 
follow any industrious calling. When a few 
years afterwards I met him in Boston, with 


marks of broken lieiilth ;uul fortune in liis 
fuce and dress, tlie siglit was shocking to 
old associations, as if a dignity quite sacerdotal 
had fallen into the dust. — Milestones in our 
Ijife- Journey,. 


Our Doctor was a most emphatic character ; 
a man of decided mark in the eye alike of 
friends and enemies. He was very impatient 
of questions, and very brief yet pithy in his 
advice. He lost his brevity, however, the 
moment that other subjects were broached, and 
he could tell a good story with a dramatic 
power that would have made him famous on 
tlie stage. He was renowned as a surgeon, 
and could guide the knife within a hair's 
breadth of a vital nerve or artery with his left 
liand quite as firmly as with his right. This 
ambi-dexterity extended to other faculties, and 
he was quite as keen at a negotiation as at an 
amputation. He was no paragon of conciliation, 
and many of the magnates of the professi-on 
appeared to have little liking for him, and 
sometimes called him a poor scholar, rude in 
learning and taste, but lucky in his mechanical 
tact. But he beat them out of this notion, as 
of man}' others, by giving an anniversary dis- 
course before the State Medical Association, 
which won plaudits from his severest rivals for 
its classical elegance as well as its professional 
learning and sagacity. It was said that the 
wrong-side of him was very wrong and very 
rough ; but those of us who knew him as a 
friend, tender and true, never believed that he 
had any wrong-side.— J/iYes^oweo' in our Life- 


Our Minister had the name of being the wise 
man of the town ; and I do not remember to 
have heard a word of disparagement of his 
mind or motives, even among those who 
questioned the soundness of his creed. His 


voice has always been as no other man's to many 
of us, whether heard as for the first time at a 
father's funeral, as by me when a child of five 
years old, or in the pulpit from year to j-ear. 
He came to the parish when quite young, and 
when theological controversy was at its full 
height. A polemic style of preacliing was then 
common, and undoubtedly in his later years of 
calm study and broad and spiritual philosophiz- 
ing, he would have read with some good-natured 
shakes of the head the more fiery discourses of 
his novitiate. There was alwa^^s something 
peculiarly impressive in his preaching. Each 
sermon had one or more pith^- sayings that a 
boy could not forget. It was evident that our 
Minister was a faithful student and indefatig- 
able thinker. When the best books afterwards 
came in our way, we found that the guiding 
lines of moral and spiritual wisdom had already 
been set before us, and we had been made 
familiar with the well-winnowed wheat from 
the great fields of humanity. Every thought, 
whether original or from books, bore the stamp 
of the preacher's own individuality ; and we 
may well endorse the saying, that upon topics 
of philosophic analysis and of prudent morals he 
was vvithout a superior, if not without a rival, in 
our pulpits. — Milestones in our Life- Journey. 


The truly practical man, first of all brings to 
his aid the forces of a sound judgment ; and in 
its light he notes calmly and keenly the goods 
and the ills at stake, and studies carefully the 
best way to shun the ill and choose the good. 
He is strong at once from this v.ery point of 
view : and because he is forewarned he is fore- 
armed. His judgment, observant of substantial 
good, is wisdom ; and, as studious of the best 
means to win that good, it is prudence. With 
wisdom and prudence for his counsellors, be 
judges Fortune's threats and promises by a 
scale of substantial values, and measures the 
way to their true value by a scale of reasonable 


probahilitie-s ; so lie escapes a multitude of tricks. 
Not in the g;iiiil)]er's madness nor the lounger's 
alarms, but with a firm 3^et cautious eye, he 
scans the prizes to be gained or lost, and chooses 
prudent means to wise ends. The great wil- 
derness of uncertain chances is no longer a 
wilderness to him ; for he knows to what point 
he is to travel, with wisdom for his star and 
compass, and with prudence for his path- 
finder and guide. To him, thus wise and 
prudent, there is a gradual opening of the 
truth that there is over all chances a prevailing 
Law ; and over the combination of events, as 
over the revolutions of the globe, there is a 
presiding purpose. Probabilities become to 
him clearer and clearer ; and in his own 
vocation, as well as in the great mission of life, 
a light shines upon the road that he is to tread, 
until its dim shadows vanish into day. 

He is not, indeed, infallible, for to err is 
luiman ; but he has studied chances till he has 
found the main chance ; and in his ruling policy 
the element of certainty is so combined with 
the element of risk that the risk serves to 
quicken and vitalize the whole combination, as 
the oxygen of the atmosphere — in itself so 
inebriating and consuming — gives spirit and 
life when mingled in moderate proportion with 
the more solid and nutritious nitrogen. To 
change the figure — he aims to live -and work 
in the temperate zone of sound sense and solid 
strength, and he is not in danger of running off 
into tropical fevers or polar icebergs ; for he is 
content to be warm without being burned, and 
to be cool without being frozen. — American 


Could the legend told of seven young men 
of that age, who came forth from a cave at 
Ephesus, where they had been immured by the 
pagan Emperor Decius, and whence they were 
Baid to have emerged, awakened from nearly two 
centuries of sluxiiber, to revisit the scenes of their 


youth, and to beliold with astonishment the cross 
displa\'ed triura[)liant where once the Ephesian 
Diana reigned supreme : — could this legend 
be virtually fulfilled in Augustine — dating 
the slumber from the period of his decease ; 
could the great Latin Father have been saved 
from dissolution, and have sunk into a deep 
sleep in the tomb where Possidius and his 
clerical companions laid him, with solemn hj'ms 
and eucharistic sacrifice, while Geneseric and 
his Vandal were storming the city gate ; and 
could he but come forth in our day, and look 
upon our Christendom, would he not be more 
startled than were the Seven Sleepers of 
Ephesus ? 

There indeed roll the waves of the same 
great sea; there gleam the waters of the river 
on which so many times he had gazed, musing 
upon its varied path from the Atlas Mountains 
to the Mediterranean, full of lessons of human 
life ; there stretches the landscape in its beauty, 
rich with the olive and the fig-tree, the citron 
and the jujube. 

But how changed are all else. The ancient 
Xumidia is ruled by the French, the country- 
men of Martin and Hilary ; it is the modern 
Algiers. Hippo is onh' a ruin, and near its 
site is the bustling manufacturing town of 
Bona. At Constantine, near by, still lingers a 
solitary qhurch of the age of Constantine, and 
the only building to remind Augustine of the 
churches of his own day. In other places, as 
at Bona, the mosque has been converted into 
the Christian temple, and its mingled emblems 
might tell the astonished saint how the cross 
had struggled with the crescent, and it had 
conquered. Go to whatever church he would, 
on the 28th of August, he would hoar a mass in 
commemoration of his death ; and might learn 
that similar services were offered in every 
country under the sun, and in the imperial lan- 
guage which he so loved to speak. 

Let him go westward to the sea-coast, and 
he finds the new city of Algiers ; and if he 


arrived ;it a favorable time lie might hear the 
cannon announcing tiie approach of the Mar- 
seilles steamer, see the people throng the shore 
for the last Frencli news, and thus contemplate 
at once the mighty agencies of the world — • 
powder, print, and steam. Although full of 
amazement, it would not be all admiration. 
He would find little in the motley population 
of Jews, Berbers, and French, to console him 
for the absence of the loved people of his 
charge, whose graves not a stone would appear 
to mark. 

Should he inquire into the state of theology 
through Christendom, in order to trace the in- 
fluence of his favorite doctrines of Original Sin 
and Elective Grace, he would learn that they 
had never in their decided forms been favorites 
with the Catholic Church ; that the imperial 
Mother had canonized his name and pro- 
scribed his peculiar creed; and that the prin- 
ciples that fell with the walls of the hallowed 
Port Royal had found their warmest advocates 
in Switzerland, in Scotland, and far Amer- 
ica — beyond the Roman communion. He 
would recognize his mantle on the shoulders of 
Calvin and his followers, — Knox of Scotland, 
and those mighty Puritans who, trusting in 
God and His foreseeing will, colonized our own 
Kew England. 

The Institutes of Calvin would assure him 
that the modern age jiossessed thinkers clear 
and strong as he, and the work of Edwards 
On tJie Will would probably move him to bow 
his head, as before a dialectician of a logic 
more adamantine than his own, and make him 
yearn to visit the land of a divine who united 
an intellect so mighty with a spirit so liumble 
and devoted. Should he come among us, he 
would find multitudes to accept his essential 
principles, though few, if any, in his views of 
the doom of infants or of the limited offer of 
redemption. He would think much of our or- 
thodoxy quite Pelagian, even when tested by 
the opinion of present champions of the ancient 
faith. — Studies in Christian Bioyraphy. 45 

SAi;.\:r MAT;r;ARET OSSOLI. -i 

OSSOLI. Sarah Margaret (Fuller) 
Marchioness D\an American author,born 
at Cainbridgeport, Mass., in 1810; died 
by shipwreck off the coast of Long Island, 
in 1850. Her early education was con- 
ducted by her father, and she was taught 
Latin and Greek at an early age. Her 
father dying suddenly in 1835, she under- 
took the maintenance of her younger 
brothers and sisters,which she accomplished 
by teaching in schools, and subsequently 
by taking private pupils. In 1840 The 
Dial, a transcendental magazine, was estab- 
lished, of which she was for two years the 
editor. Near the close of 1844 she became 
literary critic of the New York Tribune. 
In 1846 she accompanied a party of her 
friends to Europe, taking up her residence 
the next year at Rome. In December, 
1847, she was married to the Marquis 
Ossoli, a young Italian nobleman of a some- 
what impoverished famil3^ During the 
siege of Rome by the French she devoted 
herself to the care of the sick and wounded 
in the hospitals. The city having surren- 
dered in June, 1849, she, with her husband 
and child made their way to a village in 
the Abrnzzi, and subsequently to Florence 
and Leghorn. At Leghorn, on May 17, 
1850, tliey took passage for the United 
States on board a small sailing vessel, there 
being in all only five passengers. After a 
voyage of ten weeks they were off the 
coast of Long Island. A violent storm 
S{)i;uig uj), and the vessel was driven upon 
the low sandy shore of Fire Island. She, 
and her husband and child were drowned; 
and in the wreck was lost the manuscript 
of a work on The Roman Repuhlie. Her 
various writings, edited by her brother. 


Rev. Artluir B. Fuller (1822-1862), were 
published in 1855. They include Sum- 
mer on the Lakes (1843), Woman in the 
Nineteenth Century (1844), and Papers on 
Literature and Art (1846). Her Life has 
been written by William llenry Channing, 
with cha{)ter8 by Emerson, Clarke, and 
others (1852), by J alia Ward Howe (1883,> 
and by Thomas W. Higginson (1884). 


111 accordance with this discipline in heroic 
common-sense was the influence of those great 
Romans whose thoughts and lives were my 
daily food during those plastic years. The 
genius of Rome displayed itself in Character, 
and scarcely needed an occasional wave of the 
touch of Thouglit to show its lineaments, so 
marble-strong th&y gleamed in every light. 
Who that has lived with these men but 
admires the plain force of Fact, of Thought, 
passed into Action ? Tliey take up things with 
their nakeil hands. There is just the man,, 
and the block he casts before you — no diviinty,, 
no demon, no unfulfilled aim, but just the many 
and Rome, and what he did for Rome, Every- 
thing turns jour attention to what a man caa 
become, not by yielding himself freelj^ to im- 
pressions, not by letting nature play freely 
tlirougli him, but by a single thought, an 
earnest purpose, an indomitable will ; bv hardi- 
hood, self-command, and force of expression. 

Architecture was the art in which Rome ex- 
celled; and this coi-responds with the feeling 
these men of Rome excited. They did not 
grow ; they built themselves up, or were built 
up by the fate of Rome, as a temple for Jupiter 

The ruined Roman sits among the ruins; he 
flies to no green garden ; he does not look to 
Heaven ; if he is defeated, if he is less than he 
meant to be, he lives no more. The names 
which end in -us seem to speak with lyric 


cadence. That measured cadynce, that tramp 
aud march, which are not stilted, because they 
indicate real force, yet which seem so when 
compared with any other language, make Latin 
a study in itself of mighty influence. The lan- 
guage alone, without the literature, would give 
one the thought of Rome. Man present in 
nature, commanding nature too sternly to be 
inspired bjMt ; standing like the rock amid the 
sea, or moving like fire over the land, either 
impassive or irresistible ; knowing not the soft 
mediums or fine flights of life ; but by the force 
which he expresses, piercing to the centre. — 
Papers on Literature and Art. 


We are never better understood than when 
we speak of a '' Roman Virtue, " a " Roman 
Outline." There is somewhat indefinite, some- 
what unfulfilled in the thought of Greece, of 
Spain, of modern Italy ; but Rome ! it stands 
by itself, a clear Word. The power of Will, 
the dignity of a fixed Purpose, is what it utters. 
Every Roman, was an Emperor. It is well that 
the Infallible Church should have been founded 
on this Rock ; that the presumptuous Peter 
should hold the keys, as the conquering Jove 
did, before his thunderbolts, to be seen of all 
the world. Apollo tends flocks with Admetus ; 
Christ teaches by the lonely lake, or plucks 
wheat as he wanders through the fields some 
Sabbath morning. They never came to this 
stronghold ; they could not have breathed 
freely where all became stone as soon as spoken ; 
where divine youth found no liorizon for its all- 
promising glance ; but every Thought put on, 
before it dared to issue to the day in Action, 
its toga virilis. Suckled by this wolf-man 
gains a different complexion from that 
which is fed b_y the Greek honey. He takes a 
noble bronze in camps and battle-fields ; the 
wrinkles of councils well beseem his brow, 
and the eye cuts its way like a sword. Tlie 
iEagle should never have been used as a symbol 


hy any other nation ; it belonged to Rome. — 
I^apers on JAterature and Art. 


The History of Rome abides in the mind, 
of course, more than the literature. It was 
degeneracy for a Roman to use the pen ; his 
life was in the day. The "Vaunting" of 
Rome, nice that of the North American Indians, 
is her proper literature. A man rises ; he 
tells us who he is, and what he has done ; he 
speaks of his country and her brave men ; he 
knows that a conquering God is there, whose 
agent is his own right hand ; and he should 
end like the Indian, " I have no more to say." 
It never shocks us that the Roman is self- 
conscious. One wants no universal truths 
from him, no philosophy, no creation, but only 
his life — his Roman life — felt in every pulse, 
realized in every gesture. The universal 
heaven takes in the Roman only to make us 
feel his individuality the more. The Will, the 
Resolve of a\Ian ! — it has been expressed — fully 

I steadilv loved this ideal in my childhood ; 
and this is probably the cause wh}' I have always 
felt that man must know how to stand firm on 
the ground before he can fly. In vain for me 
are men more, if they are less, than Romans. 
Dante was far greater than any Roman ; yet I 
feel he was right to make the Mantuan his 
guide through Hell, and to Heaven. — Papers 
on Literature and Art. 


For the Power to whom we bow 
Has given its pledge that, if not now, 
They of pure and steadfast mind, 
By faith exalted, truth refined, 
Shall hear all music loud and clear, 
Whose first notes the}' ventured here. 
Then fear not thou tb wind the horn. 
Though elf and gnome thy courage scorn. 
Ask for the castle's king and queen — 


Though rabble rout may rush between, 
Beat thee senseless to tlie ground, 
In the dark beset thee round — 
Persist to ask and it will come, 
Seek not for rest in humbler home : 
So slialt thou see what few have seen, 
The palace home of King and Queen. 


Each Orpljeus must to the depths descend. 

For only thus the Poet can be wise, 
Must make tlie sad Persephone his friend, 

And buried love to second life arise ; 
Again his love must lose through too much love, 

Must lose his life by living life too true, 
For what he sought below is passed above. 

Already done is all that he would do ; 
Must tune all being with his single Ij're, 

Must melt all rocks free from their prima 
Must search all Xature with his own soul's fire. 

Must bind anew all forms in heavenly 
If he already sees what he must do. 

Well may he shade his eyes from the far- 
shining view. 


OTIS, Jamks, iui American Revolu- 
tionary patriot, born at Barnstable, Mass., in 
1725rdie(l at Andover in 1788. He grad- 
uated at Harvard in 1743, studied law, and 
in 1748 commenced practice at Plymouth. 
'I'wo years afterwaid he ]'enioved to Boston, 
and soon rose to the first rank in his profes- 
sion. His public career began about 1761, 
when lie held the lucrative office of Advo- 
cate-general for the Crown. He resigned 
this position when called upon to defend cer- 
tain ro3'al revenue officers ; and, declining 
to receive any fee, became counsel for the 
merchants of Boston who protested against 
the revenue-writs. In his plea, wliicli was 
quite as much a political speech as a legal 
argument, Otis took the broad ground that 
the American people were not bound to 
yield obedience to laws in the making ot 
which they had no share. John Adams, 
who heard this speech, afterward declared 
that on that day *' the child Independence 
was born." In 1764 Otis put forth a 
bulky pamphlet entitled The Rights of the 
Colonies Asserted and Proved, which evinces 
how moderate were the demands of the 
most advanced Colonies, ten years before 
the outbreak of the war of the Revolution, 
in which Otis himself was prevented from 
taking any prominent part. In the sum- 
mer of 1769 he made a newspaper attack 
upon some of the royal revenue officers. 
While sitting in a coffee-house, he was as- 
sailed by a gang of tliese, was savagely 
beaten, and received a sword-cut on the 
head from the effects of which he never re- 
covered. DurincT the reraalninof fourteen 
years of his life he was, with some lucid in- 
tervals, insane. He was in time taken to 
the house of his sister at Andover. On 


May 23, 1783, while standing at the door- 
way during a thunder-shower he was struck 
by liglituing and died on the spot. Otis 
possessed considerable classical knowlege, 
and in 1760 published Rudiments of Latin 
Prosody^ which was used as a text-book at 
Harvard. He also wrote a work on Greek 
Prosody, which was never published. He 
comes down in literary history wholly by 
the memory of his great speech in 1761, 
and by his Rights of the Colonies. The 
Life of James Otis has been written by 
William Tudor (1823). 


Tlie sum of my argument is : that civil 
government is of God ; that the administrators 
of it were originally the whole people ; that they 
might have devolved it on whom they pleased ; 
that this devolution is fiduciary, for the good of 
the whole ; that by the British Constitution this 
devolution is on the King, Lords, andCommons, 
the supreme, sacred, and uncontrollable legisla- 
tive power, not only in the realm, but through 
the dominions; that by the abdication of King 
James II. the original compact was broken to 
pieces ; that by the Revolution of 1688, it was 
renewed, and more firmly established, and the 
rights and liberties of the subject in all parts of 
the dominions more fully explained and con- 
firmed; that in consequence of this establish- 
ment and the Acts of Succession and Union, his 
Majesty George III. is rightful King and Sov- 
ereign, and, with his Parliament, the supreme 
legislative of Great Britain, France, and Ire- 
land, and the dominions thereunto belonging. 

That this Constitution is the most free one, 
and by far the best now existing upon earth ; 
that by this Constitution, every man in the 
dominions is a free man ; that no part of his 
Majesty's dominions can be taxed without their 
consent ; that every part has a right to be rep- 
resented in the supreme or some subordinate 


legislature ; that the refusal of this would seem 
lu be u contradiction iu {)ractice to the theory 
of the Constitution ; that the colonies are sub- 
ordinate dominions, and are now in such a state 
as to make it best for the good of the whole 
that they should not only be continued in the 
enjoj^nient of subordinate legislation, but be 
also represented in some proportion to their 
numbers and estates, in the grand legislature 
of the nation; that this would firnilj^ unite all 
parts of the British empire in the greatest peace 
and prosperity, and render it invulnerable and 
perpetual. — lilc/hts of the Jiritish Colonies 
Asserted and Proved. 


Ko good reason can, however, be given in any 
country why ever}' man of a sound mind should 
not have his vote in the election of a represent- 
ative. If a man has but little property to 
protect and defend, yet his life and liberty are 

things of some importance. Mr. J s argues 

onl}' from the vile abuses of power, to the con- 
tinuance and increase of such abuses. This, it 
must be confessed, is the common logic of 
modern politicians and vote sellers. To what 
purpose is it to ring everlasting changes to the 
colonists on the cases of Manchester, Birming- 
ham and Sheffield, which return no members ? 
If those, now so considerable, places are not rep- 
resented, they ought to be. — Considerations 
on Behalf of the Colonists. 


OTWAY, Thomas. ;ui English dram- 
atist, born in Suffolk, in 1651 ; died at 
London, 1685. He was the son of a clergy- 
man, and was sent to Oxford ; but left the 
university without taking a degree, and 
went to London. In 1672 he made an 
unsuccessful appearance upon the stage, 
and never again appeared upon the boards. 
During the next five years he produced 
several dramas which met with good suc- 
cess. In 1677 he procured a cornetship 
in a regiment of horse which was sent 
to Flanders. He was discharged in dis- 
grace, returned to London in a state of 
extreme destitution, and began again to 
write for the stage. But his way of life 
was such that lie was always in poverty. 
Besides some eight or ten dramas, he wrote 
a few poems. The only work of his which 
deserves remembrance is the tragedy of 
Venice Preserved (produced in 1682), 
which ranks high among our dramas of the 
second class, and still holds a place on the 

Pierre (m prison) and Jaffier. 
Pierre. — What whining monk art thou ? 
what holy cheat ? 
That wouldst encroach upon my credulous ears 
And cant'st thus vilely ? Hence ! I know thee 
not ! 
Jaf. — Xot know me, Pierre ! 
Pierre. — No ; know thee not ! What art 

thou ? 
tTaf. — Jaffier, thy friend ; thy once loved, 
valued friend ! 
Though now deservedly scorned and used most 
Pierre. — Thou Jaffier ! thou my once loved, 
valued friend ! 
By heavens, thou liest ! The man so called my 


Wus generous, honest, iaiilit'ul, just, and val- 
iant ; 
Noble in mind, and in his person lovely; 
Dear to my eyes, and tender to my heart; 
But thou, a wretched, base, false, worthless 

Poor in thy soul, and loathsome in thy aspect ! 
All eyes must shun thee, and all hearts detest 

Prithee, avoid ; no longer cling thus round me, 
Like sometliing baneful that my nature's 

chilled at. 
Jaf. — I have not wronged thee ; by these 

tears I have not. 
Pierre. — Hast thou not wronged me ? 

Darest thou call thyself 
Jaffier — that once loved, valued friend of 

mine ; 
And swear thou hast not wronged me ? 

Whence these chains ? 
Whence the vile death which I may meet this 

Whence this dishonor but from thee, thou false 

one ? 
Jaf. — All's true. Yet grant me one thing, 

and I've done asking. 
Pierre. — What's that ? 
Jaf. — To take thy life on such conditions 
The council have proposed. Thou and thy 

May yet live long, and to be better treated. 
Pierre. — Life ! ask my life ! confess ! record 

A villain for the privilege to breathe, 
And carry up and down this cursed city 
A discontented and repining spirit, 
Burdensome to itself, a few years longer; 
To lose it, maybe, at last, in a lewd quarrel 
Por some new friend, treacherous and false as 

thou art ! 
No ; this vile world and I have long been 

And cannot part on better terms than now, 
When only men like thee are fit to live in't. 

Jaf. — By all that's jiist- 

Pierre. — ■ Swear by some other power, 

For thou hast broke that sacred oath ah-eady. 
Jaf. — Then by that hell I merit, I'll not 
leave thee 
Till to thyself at least thou'rt reconciled, 
However thy resentments deal with me. 
Pierre. — Not leave me ! 

Jetf. — Xo ; thou shalt not force me from 
Use me reproachfully and like a slave ; 
Tread on me, buffet me, heap wrongs on wrongs 
On my poor head : I'll bear it all with patience ; 
Shall weary out thy most unfriendly' cruelty; 
Lie at thy feet, and kiss them, though they 

spurn me ; 
Till, wounded b}^ my sufferings, thou relent, 
And raise me to thy arms with dear forgiveness. 

Pierre. — Art thou not 

Ja/— What ? 
Pierre. — A traitor? 

Jaf. — Yes. 

Pierre. — A villain ? 

Jaf. — Granted. 

Pierre. — A coward, a most scandalous cow- 
ard ; 
Spiritless, void of honor ; one who has sold 
Thy everlasting fame for shameless life ? 

Jaf. — All, all, and more ; my faults are 

Pierre. — And wouldst thou have me live on 
terms like thine ? 

Base as thou'rt false 

Jaf. — No. To me that's granted ; 
The safety of thy life was all I aimed at, 
In recompense for faith and trust so broken. 
Pierre. — T scorn it more because preserved 
by tlioe ; 
And as when first my foolish heart took pity 
On thy misfortune, sought thee in thy miseries, 
Relieved thee from thy wants, and raised thee 

from the state 
Of wretchedness in which thy fate had plunged 


To milk thee in my list of noble friends, 
All I received, in surety ftrt- tliy truth. 
Were unregarded oaths, and this, this dagger, 
Given with a wortliless pledge thou since hast 

stolen ; 
So T restore it back to thee again, 
Swearing b}^ all those powers which thou hast 

Never from this cursed hour to hold commun- 
Frieiidi'.hip, or interest with thee, though our 

Were to exceed those limited the world. 
Take it — farewell — for. now I owe thee nothing. 
J<if. — Say thou wilt live, then. 
Pierre. — For my life, dispose it 

Just as thou wnlt; because 'tis what I'm tired 
Jqf.—O Pierre ! 
Pierre. — No more ! 

Jiif. — My eyes won't lose the sight of thee, 
But languish after thine, and ache with 
Pierre. — Leave me ! Nay, then, thus I 
throw thee from me ; 
And curses great as is thy falseliood catcli 
thee ! 

Venice Preserved. 

In Otway's poems are some pretty pas- 
sages of description. Here is one. 


Wished Morning's come ; and now upon the 

And distant mountains, where they feed their 

The happy shepherds leave their homely huts. 
And with their pijies proclaim the new-born 

The lusty swain comes with his well-filled scrip 
Of healthful viands which, when hunger calls, 
With much content and appetite he eats, 
To follow in the field his daily toil, 


And dress tliu grateful glebe that j'ields him 

The beasts that under the warm hedges slept, 
And weatliered out the cold bleak uight are up ; 
And, looking towards the neighboring pasture, 

Their voice, and bid their fellow brutes good- 
The cheerful birds, too, on the tops of trees, 
Assemble all in choirs; and with their notes 
Salute and welcome up the rising sun. 


Where am I ? Sure I wander 'midst En- 
And never more shall find the way to rest. 
But, Monimia! art thou indeed resolved 
To punish me with everlasting absence ? 
Why turn'st thou from me? I'm alone al- 
ready ! 
Methinks I stand upon a naked beach 
Sighing to winds, and to the seas complaining; 
Whilst afar off the vessel sails away, 
"Where all the treasure of my soul's embarked I 
Wilt thou not turn ? O could those eyes but 

speak I 
I should know all, for love is pregnant in 

them ! 
Thev swell, they press their beams upon me 

Wilt thou not speak ? If we must part for 

Give me but one kind word to think upon. 
And please myself with, while my heart is 

The Orphan, 


OVER BURY, Sill Thomas, an English 
courtier, born in 1581; died in 1G13. He 
was a friend and adviser ot" Robert Carr, 
Viscount Rochester, and afterwards Earl 
of Somerset, the favorite of James I. He 
earnestly opposed the projected marriage 
of Rochester with the infamous Countess 
of Essex, and the guilty pair procured his 
committal, on a trumped-up charge, to the 
Tower, where he was secretly poisoned. 
The whole affair forms one of tiie most 
scandalous episodes in English history. 
Overbury wrote two didactic poems. The 

Wife and The Choice of a Wife, and sev- 
eral prose pieces, the best of which are 

Characters, being " Witty Descriptions of 
the Properties of Sundry Persons." 


She is a country wench that is so far from 
making hei'self beautiful by art that one look 
of hers is able to put all face-physic out of 
sight. She knows a fair look is but a dumb 
orator to commend virtue, therefore minds it 
not. All her excellences stand in her so silent- 
ly, as if they had stolen upon her without 
her knowledge. The lining of her apparel, 
which is herself, is far better than outsides of 
tissue ; for though she be not arrayed in the 
spoils of the silk-worm, she is decked in inno- 
cence — a far better wearing. She doth not, 
with lying long in bed, spoil both her complex- 
ion and conditions. Nature hath taught her, 
too, immoderate sleep is rust to the soul ; she 
riseth, therefore, with Chanticleer, her dame's 
cock, and at night makes the Iamb her cur- 
few. In milking a cow, and straining the teats 
through her fingers, it seems that so sweet a 
milk press makes the milk whiter or sweeter ; 
for never came almond-glove or aromatic oint- 
ment on her palm to taint it. The golden ears 
of corn fall and kiss her feet when she reaps 

.silt 1'IIO.MAS 0VEKBURY.-2 

them, as if the}' wislied to be bound and led 
prisoners by the same hand tliat felled them. 
Her breath is her own, which scents, all the 
year round, of June, like a new-made ha\-cock. 
She makes her hand hard with labor, and her 
heart soft with pity ; and when winter even- 
ings fall early, sitting at her merry wheel, 
she sings defiance to the giddy wheel of For- 
tune. She doth all things with so sweet a 
grace, it seems ignorance will not suffer her to 
do ill, being her mind is to do well. She 
bestows her year's wages at the next fair, and 
in choosing her garments counts no bravery in 
the world like decency. The garden and bee- 
hive are all her physic and surgery, and she 
lives the longer for it. She dares go alone and 
unfold sheep in the night, and fears no man- 
ner of ill, because she means none ; yet, to say 
truth, she is never alone, but is still accom- 
panied with old songs, honest thoughts, and 
prayers — but short ones ; yet they have their 
efficacy, in that they are not palled with ensu- 
ing idle cogitations. Lastly, her dreams are 
so chaste that she dares tell them. Only a 
Friday's dream is all her superstition ; that she 
conceals for fear of anger. Thus lives she, 
and all her care is that she may die in the 
spring-time, to have store of flowers stuck 
upon her winding-sheet. — Characters. 


His outside is an ancient yeoman of Eng- 
land, though his inside may give arms with the 
best gentleman, and never fee the herald. 
There is no truer servant in the house than 
himself. Though he be master, he says not 
to his servants, " Go to field," but, " Let us 
go ; " and with his own eyes doth fatten his 
flock, and set forward all manner of hus- 
bandry. He is taught hy Xature to be content- 
ed with a little. His own fold yields him both 
food and raiment. He is pleased with any 
nourishment God sends, whilst curious gluttony 
ransacks, as it were, Noah's ark for food, only 


to feed tlio riot ot" one meal. He is never 
known to go to law ; understanding to be law- 
bound among men is like to be hide-bound 
among bis beasts; they thrive not under it, 
and that such men sleep as unquietly, as if 
their pillows were stuffed with lawyers' pen- 
knives. When he builds, no poor tenant's cot- 
tage hinders his prospect; the}' are indeed his 
alms-houses, though there be painted on them 
no such superscription. He never sits up late 
but when he hunts the badger, the vowed foe 
of his lambs, nor uses cruelty but when he 
hunts the hare ; nor subtlety but when he set- 
teth snares for the snipes, or pitfalls for the 
blackbirds; nor oppression but when in the 
month of July he goes to the next river and 
shears his sheep. He allows of honest pas- 
time, and thinks not the bones of the dead 
anj'thing bruised, or the worse for it, though 
the country lasses dance in the churchyard 
after even-song. Rock Monda}', and the wake 
in summei", shrovings, the wakeful catches on 
Christmas-eve, the hokej*^, or seed-cake — these 
he 3'early keeps, yet holds them no relics of 
Popery. He is not so inquisitive after the news 
derived from the privj^-closet, when the find- 
ing of an eyry of hawks in his own ground, or 
the foaling of a colt come of a good strain, are 
tidings more pleasant and profitable. He is 
lord-paramount within himself, though beholds 
by never so mean a tenure; and dies the more 
contentedl}^ (though he leave his heir young), 
in regard he leaves him not liable to a covetous 
guardian. Lastlj', to end him, he cares not 
when his end comes ; he needs not fear his audit, 
for his quietus is in heaven. — Characters. 


OVID (Publics Ovidius Naso), a 
Roinati poet, boni at Snlnio, about ninety 
jniles north of Rome, in 43 B.C., died in 
18 A.D.. at Toini (tlie modern Kostendje), 
on the Black Sea, near the mouths of the 
Danube. His father, a man of noble de- 
scent but moderate fortune, sent Ovid, with 
a brother just a year older than himself, to 
Rome, to fit them for the profession of ad- 
vocate. Ovid, though somewiiat against 
the grain, applied himself fairly well to his 
legal studies ; but the bent of his mind 
was towards poetry. He says, " What- 
ever I sought to say was still in verse." 
When he was about twenty, his brother . 
died; and the father consented that the 
remaining son, now sole heir of the estate, 
should devote himself to the cultivation of 
his poetical talents, making him a moderate 
allowance. He studied for a wddle at 
Athens, travelled for a year in Asia Minor 
and Sicily, and then returned to Rome. He 
did not, however, altogether give up the 
idea of public life, and held some minor 
official posts. On reaching his twenty- 
fourth year he became eligible to the 
qusestorship, the lowest grade in the magis- 
tracy. He declined to become a candidate, 
and entered upon his literary career. 

His early poems — most of which he sub- 
sequently destroyed — were censured for 
their immorality. He himself declares 
that though his verse was loose his life 
was pure — an assertion by no means borne 
out by what he almost incidentally reveals. 
Up to the time when he was well advanced 
in middle age lie seems to have lived the 
life of a "young man about town." He 
had been twice married. Of his first wife 
he savs thatshe was "a good-for-nothing ; " 

OVID. 2 

of the socoikI, he merely observes that lie 
had " no fault to find with lier." He was 
close upon fifty when he married for the 
third time. This wife was of good family 
and had a kind of indirect connection with 
ladies of the imperial court. He makes 
frequent mention of lieriii his later poems, 
and always in terms of the warmest affec- 
tion. He had meanwliile come to be a 
prosperous man, having a city mansion 
near the Capitol and a couutrj^-seat. 

He had just entered upon his forty- 
second year when lie was surprised by a 
rescript from the Emperor Augustus, 
directing him to leave Rome and take up 
his abode at Tomi, on the extremest verge 
of the empire. The reason assigned was 
the alleged corrupting tendency of certain 
poems of his, the Art of Love being spe- 
cially mentioned. But as the latest of these 
liad been put forth more than ten years, 
this charge was a mere pretext. It seems 
clear that he had become cognizant of a 
matter disgracefully affecting some mem- 
bers of the family of the emperor. He 
writes, " Why did I see something ? Why 
did I make my eyes guilty ? Why did I 
become, all unwittingly, acquainted with 
guilt ? Because my eyes unknowingly 
beheld a crime, I am punished. To have 
had the power of sight, this my sin." It 
has been plausibly conjectured that he 
knew of the conduct of-Julia, the profligate 
grand-daughter of Augustus ; and that his 
offense was that lie had held his tongue 
about the matter ; wlience it was inferred 
that he was an accessory to the offense. It 
is a historical fact that almost coincident 
with the exile of Ovid, Julia was banished 
from Rome. Whatever was the offense of 


Ovid, it was one that rankled in the mind 
of Augustus as long as he lived, and was 
never forgotten or condoned, though Ovid 
over and over again begged that the sen- 
tence should be remitted, or at least, that 
some less unendurable place of exile should 
be assigned to him. One altogether inex- 
plicable circumstance is that the punish- 
ment was limited to exile at Tomi. His 
property was not confiscated, the in- 
come of it being regularly transmitted to 
him ; and he was allowed unrestricted 
communication with his friends at Rome. 
Nor was he sent under guard, but went by 
the route which he chose, and at sucli rate 
as suited him. He was simply ordered to 
go to Tomi, and to Tomi he went. He 
left Rome in December, and did not arrive 
at Tomi until September. Here tlie re- 
maining eight years of his life were passed. 
During all these years he never saw his 
wife, for she neither accompanied nor fol- 
lowed him. 

Several works which Ovid mentions as 
having been written by him are lost, among 
wliich is the tragedy of Medea, of which 
Quintilian says that " it proves how much 
tile autlior could have achieved if he liad 
chosen to moderate rather than to indulge 
his cleverness." If more of his works had 
perished the world would not iiave been a 
loser. His extant works are : TJie Epistles 
of Heroines^ The Loves, The Remedies for 
Love, TJie Epistles from Pontus, The Art 
of Love, The Metamorphoses, The Fasti, and 
The Tristia. Only the four last of these 
call for special mention. 

The Art of Love may be assigned to 
Ovid's thirty-fifth year. Taken as a whole, 
it may be properly designated as an inde- 

OVID.— 4 

cent poem, althougli, as in the case of 
Byron's Don Juan, it contains by way of 
episode many passages of great beauty. 
Ovid himself gave notice tliat no decent 
person — at least no modest woman — should 
read it. A considerable part of this poem 
has been very loosely translated by Dryden 
— loosely in a double sense, for Dryden 
has put additional grossness of his own 
into the grossest passages. 
• Tlie Fasti may be designated as a sort 
of Handbook of the Roman Calendar, as a 
poetical Almanac, or as a Ritual in verse. 
Its composition undoubtedly ran through 
several years, being nearly completed at 
the time of Ovid's exile to Tomi, but re- 
vised, with perhaps some additions, there. 
It gives the seasons of every special relig- 
ious worship and the reasons therefor. As 
we have it, it consists of six books, one for 
each of the six months from January to 
June. It is said, though not upon un- 
q uestionable authority, that there were six 
more books, one for each of tlie remaining 
months. If so, it is not easy to account 
for the loss of these, for the poem was un- 
doubtedly a popular one, and must have had 
a " very wide circulation." Interspersed 
throughout the Calendar proper are nu- 
merous episodes which relieve tlie neces- 
sarily dry details. Thus, under the month 
of January, the ancient god Janus is made 
to tell why his temple was open in time of 
war, and was closed when Rome was at 
peace with all the rest of the world — an 
event which is said to have occurred only 
three times during the Commonwealth, and 
which now occurred as here recorded, about 
the time of the birth of our Saviour. 

OVID.— 5 


" In war, all bolts drawn back, my portals stand, 
Open for hosts that seek their native land ; 
In peace fast closed they bar the outward way, 
And still shall bar it under Cjesar's sway." — 
He spake. Before, behind, his double gaze • 
All that the world contained at once surveys, 
And all was peace ; for now with conquered 

The Ehine, German icus, thy triumph gave. 
Peace, and the friends of peace immortal make, 
Nor let the lord of earth liis work forsake. 

Transl. o/Alfked Church. 

The Metamorphoses, also a work of years, 
was completed before Ovid's banisliment. 
It is the longest of the poems of Ovid, and 
is upon the whole his best. The general 
scope of the poem is to tell of human forms 
changed into animals, plants, or lifeless 
shapes, as narrated in myth and legend. He 
tells how, in a fit of vexation, he undertook 
to destroy the whole poem. " As for the 
verses," he writes from Tond, " which 
told of changed forms — an unlucky work 
whicli its author's banishment interrupted 
— these in the hour of my departure I put, 
sorrowing, as I put many other of my good 
tlnngs, into the flames with my own hands ; 
but," he added, " as they did not perish 
altogether, but still exist, I suppose there 
were several copies of them." A consider- 
able portion of the Metamorphoses has been 
translated by Dryden in liis best manner. 
The poem opens with an account of the 
primeval Chaos, and its reduction to form. 


Before the seas, and this terrestrial ball, 
And heaven's higli canopj'^ which covers all, 
Once was the face of Xature — if a face — 
Rather a rude and undigested mass, 

OVID.— 6 

A lifeless luinj), nnfashionetl and unframed, 
Of jarring seeds, and justly Chaos named. 
No sun was lighted up the world to view ; 
Xo moon did yet her blunted horns renew ; 
Nor yet was earth suspended in the sky, 
Nor poised did on her own foundations lie ; 
Nor seas about the shore their arms had thrown ; 
Ikit earth, and air, and water were as one. 
Thus all was void of light, and earth unstable, 
And water's dark abyss unnavigable. 
No certain form on any was imprest ; 
All were confused, and each disturbed the rest ; 
For hot and cold were in one body fixed, 
And soft with hard, and light with heavy mixed. 

But God or Nature, while they thus contend, 
To these intestine discords put an end. 
Then earth from air and seas from earth were 

And grosser air sunk from {ethereal heaven. 
Thus disembroiled they take their proper place ; 
The next of kin contiguously embrace, 
And foes are sundered by a larger space. 
Tlie force of fire ascended first on high. 
And took its dwelling in the vaulted sky. 
Then air succeeds, in lightness next the fire, 
Whose atoms from unactive earth retire. 
Earth sinks beneath, and draws a numeroua 

Of ponderous, thick, unwieldy seeds along. 
About her coasts unruly waters war, 
And, rising in a ridge, insult the shore. 

Thus when the God — whatever God was 

Had formed the whole, and made the parts 

That no unequal portion might be found, 
He moulded earth into a spacious round ; 
Then, with a breath, he gave the winds to blow, 
And bade the congregated waters flow. 
He adds the running springs and standing lakes. 
And bounding banks for winding rivers makes. 
Some parts in earth are swallowed up ; the 


OVID. 7 

In ample oceans disenibugiieJ, are lost. 
He shades the woods, tlie valleys he restrains 
With rocky mountains and extended plains. 
Transl. of Dryden. 

After all other living creatures had been 
formed, Man — the ruler of ail — comes into 


Something yet lacked — some holier being, dow- 
With lofty soul, and capable of rule 
And governance of all besides ; and Man 
At last had birth, whether from seed divine 
Of Him, the Artificer of all things, and Cause 
Of the amended world ; or whether earth, 
Yet new, and late from tether separate, still 
Retained some lingering germs of kindred 

Which wise Prometheus, with the plastic aid 
Of water borrowed from the neigliboriiigstream, 
Formed in the likeness of the all-ordering Gods ; 
And, while all other creatures sought tlie ground, 
With downward aspect gravelling, gave to Man 
His port sublime, and bade him scan, erect, 
The heavens, and front with upward gaze the 

And thus earth's substance, rude and shapeless 

Transmuted, took the novel form of Man. 

Transl. of Alfred Church. 

Ovid goes on to picture the four ages — 
tlie Golden, the Silver, the Brass, and the 
Iron — which successively ensued. 

the golden age. 

The Golden Age was first, which, uncompeld, 
And without rule, in faith and truth exceld, 
As then there was nor punishment nor fear, 
Nor threatning laws in brass prescribed were ; 
Nor suppliant crouching prisoners shook to see 
Their angrie judge 

OVID.— 8 

in lirm content 
And harmless ease theii* liappy days were spent j 
The yet-freo earth did uf hur own accord 
(Untoni with j. loughs) all sons of fruit afford. 
Content with Nature's unenforced food, 
They gather wildings, strawbries of the wood, 
Sour cornels wliat upon tlie brambles grow, 
And acorns which Jove's spreading oaks bestow; 
'Twas always Spring; warm Zephyrus sweetly 

On smiling flowers which, without setting, grew. 
Forthwith the earth corn unmanured bears, 
And every 3'ear renews her golden ears ; 
With milk and nectar were the rivers fill'd 
And yellow honey from green elms distill'd. 
Transl. 0/ George Sandys. 

The translation of tiie Metamorphoses 
from which the foregoing passage is taken 
has a special interest as being the first book 
written in the North American colonies. It 
was printed in London in 1665, in a large 
folio dedicated to King Charles I. Captain 
John Smith's True Relation and his Descrip- 
tion of New England were indeed printed 
some years earlier ; but they are hardly 
more than pamphlets, and were probably 
written in England. George Sandys, born 
in 1561, died in 1629, was an English gen- 
tleman who had won high reputation by 
his travels in the Levant and the H(dy Land. 
In 1621 he came to Virginia as treasurer 
of tlie colony. In tlie dedication of the 
translation of the 3Ietamorphoses he says 
that the work was "limned by that imper- 
fect ligiit that was snatched from the hours 
of night and repose; and was produced 
among wars and tumults." Dryden, long 
afterward said that Sandys was " the best 
versifier of his age." 

One of tlie best-told transformations in 
the Meta) nor piloses is that of Arachne into a 

OVID.— 9 

spider. Aracluie — so runs the legend — was 
a Lycian maiden, famous for her deftness 
in spinning, weaving, and embroidery. 
Some who see her handiwork aver that 
Pallas must have been her instructor ; 
but she disdains such compliment, boasts 
that her skill is all her own, and only 
wishes that Pallas herself would enter 
into trial with her. Pallas, thus challenged, 
appears in the form of an aged woman, and 
vv^arns the maiden to be content with ex- 
celling all mortal competitors, but to 
beware of entering into a trial of skill with 
the immortal gods. Arachne scouts at the 
kindly warning, and repeats lier chal- 
lenge. Whereupon the goddess resumes 
her proper shape, and the contest begins. 


The looms were set, the webs were hung ; 

Beneath their fingers, nimbly plied, 

The subtle fabrics grew ; and warp and woof, 

Transverse, with shuttle and with slay compact, 

Were pressed in order fair. And either girt 

Her mantle close, and eager wrought ; the toil 

Itself was pleasure to the skilful hands 

That knew so well their task. With Tj'rian hue 

Of purple blushed the texture, and all shades 

Of color, blending imperceptibly 

Each into each. So, when the wondrous bow — 

What time some passing shower hath dashed 

the sun — 
Spans with its mighty arch the vault of heaven, 
A thousand colors deck it, different all, 
Yet all so subtly interfused that each 
Seems one with that which joins it, and the eye 
But by the contrast of the extremes perceives 
The intermediate change. — And, last, with 

Of gold-embroidery pictured on the web, 
Lifelike expressed, some antique fable glowed. 
Transl. of Alfked Church. 

OVID.— 10 

Piillus Imd taken for the subject of her 
tapestry -picture her own contest with 
Neptune us to which should be the name- 
giver of the fair town which was to be for- 
ever known, as Athens, from one of her 
appeUations. Arachne, in scornful mood, 
liad chosen to depict the immortal gods in 
their lowest sensual performances. Her 
work, however, was so perfect that Pallas 
herself could detect no imperfection, any 
more than in her own. Doubly enraged, 
at her own failure to surpass Arachne, and 
at the gross insult that liad been given to 
all the celestial iiierarchy, Pallas smote 
her competitor over and over again full 
in the face. Arachne, stung beyond en- 
durance by this ignominy, tried to hang 
herself. The result of all is thus told by 


The high-souled maid 
Such insult not endured, and round her neck 
Indignant twined tlie suicidal noose, 
And so had died. But, as she hung, some ruth 
Stirred in tlie breast of Pallas. The pendant 

She raised, and " Live ! " she said ; " but hang 

thou still 
Porever, wretcli ; and through all future time, 
Even to thy latest race bequeath thy doom ! " — 
And as she parted sprinkled her witli juice 
Of aconite. With venom of that drug 
Infected, dropped her tresses ; nose and ear 
Were lost ; her form, to smallest bulk com- 
A head minutest crowned ; to slenderest legs, 
Jointed on either side her fingers changed; 
Her body but a bag, whence still she draws 
Her filmy threads, and with her ancient art 
Weaves the fine meshes of her Spider's web. 
Transl. o/" Alfred Church. 

OVID.— 11 

Tlie IVistia, or "Sorrows" of Ovid are a 
series of poems composed during the early 
years of his exile, and transmitted from 
time to time to his friends at Rome. Tiiey 
touch upon all sorts of topics, but running 
througli all is a thread of supplication for 
a remission, or at least a mitigation, of his 
punishment, which he hoped would some- 
how reach the ears of the njighty Augustus. 
To us the most interesting parts of these 
poems are those in which he describes the 
wintry horrors of the region to which he 
had been exiled. These, we judge, are 
best expressed in the excellent prose trans- 
lation of H. T. Riley. Making all due 
allowances for poetical exaggeration — 
though Ovid expressly avers that he wrote 
truthfully and irOrn his own observation 
and experience — tliere can be no doubt 
that the climate of the region (now known 
as theDobrudga) has greatly changed since 
Ovid's time. The mean temperature is 
about that of Spain, though in the winter 
it is much colder, by reason of the fierce 
winds which have swept over the vast 
northein steppes. Neitiier the lower course 
of the Danube nor the Black Sea is now 
frozen over. Tlie vine flourishes, grass 
abounds in summer, and large crops of 
grain are produced ; whereas Ovid's de- 
scription would well apply to NovaZembla, 
Spitzbergen, or the shores of Hudson Bay. 

ovid's place of baxishment. 

If any one remembers the banished Nasso. and 
if without me my name survives in "the Cit}'," 
let liim know tliat T am living in the miilst of 
barbarism, exposed under stars that never set 
in the ocean. The Sauromatae — a savage race 
— the Bessi and tlie Getae surround me: names 
how unworthy of my genius to meatiou ! 


When the air is luil.l we are defended by 
the intervening Danube, while it flows; b}^ its 
waves it repels invasion. But when dire Winter 
lias put forth his rugged face, and the earth has 
become white with ice — when Boreas is at lib- 
erty, and snow has been sent upon the regions 
under the Bear — then it is true that these na- 
tions are distressed b}' a shivering climate. The 
snow lies deep, and as it lies neither sun nor 
rains melt it; Boreas hardens it, and makes it 
endure forever. Hence, when the former ice 
has not melted, fresh succeeds; and in man}' 
places it is wont to last for two years. 

So great is the strength of the Xorth wind, 
when aroused, that it levels high towers to the 
ground, and carries off roofs borne away. The 
inhabitants poorly defend tlieniselves from the 
cold by skins and sewed breeches ; and of the 
whole body the face is the only part exposed. 
Often the hair, as it is moved, rattles with the 
pendent icicle, and the white beard shines with 
the ice that has been formed upon it. Liquid 
wine becomes solid, and preserves the form of 
the vessel. They do not drink dranglits of it, 
but take bites. 

Why should I mention how the frozen rivers 
become hard, and how the brittle water is dug 
out of the streams ? The Danube itself— which 
is no narrower tlian the Nile — mingles through 
many months with the vast ocean. It freezes as 
the wind hardens its azure streams, and it rolls 
to the sea with covered waters. Where ships 
had gone, men now walk on foot ; and the hoof of 
the horse indents the waters hardened by freez- 
ing. Samaritan oxen drag the uncouth wagons 
along strange bridges as tlie waters roll beneath. 

Indeed (I shall hardly be believed, but inas- 
much as there is no profit in untruths, an eve- 
witness ought to receive full confidence) I have 
seen the vast sea frozen with ice, and a slippery 
crust covered the unmoved waters. To liave 
seen is not enough. I have trodden upon the 
hardened ocean, and the surface of the water 
was under my foot, not wetted by it. The ships 

OVID. -13 

stand hemmed in by the frost as though by 
marble, and no oar can cleave the stiffened 

When the Danube has been made solid by 
thedi-yiugiS^orthern blasts, the barbarous enemy 
is carried over on his swift steed. An enemy, 
strong in horses, and in the arrow tliat flies from 
afar, depopulates the neighboring region far and 
wide. Some take to liight; and no one being 
left to protect the fields, the unguarded prop- 
erty becomes a prey. Some of the people are 
driven along as captives, with their arms fast- 
ened behind their backs, looking back in vain 
upon their fields and their homes ; some die in 
torments, pierced by poisoned arrows. What the 
enemy cannot carry with them they destroy; 
and the flames consume the unoffending cot- 

Even when there is peace, there is alarm from 
the apprehension of war. This region either be- 
holds the enem3', or is in dread of a foe which 
it does not behold. The earth, deserted, becomes 
worthless ; left unfilled in ruinous neglect. 
Here the luscious grape does not lie hidden 
under the shade of the leaves, and the ferment- 
ing new wine does not fill the deep vats. The 
country does not bear fruit. You may behold 
naked plains without trees, without herbage : 
places, alas ! not to be visited by a fortunate 
man ! Since the great globe is so wide, why 
has this land been found out for the purpose of 
my punishment ? — Transl. o/" Riley. 


OWEN, Sill Richard, an English anat- 
omist, boni at Lancaster in 1804. He 
studied medicine at Edinburgh and Paris, 
and inl82G connnenced general practice at 
London; but having been appointed Assist- 
ant Curator of the iJuiiterian Museum, he 
devoted himself exclusively to tlie study of 
couiparative anatomy. In 1886 he suc- 
ceeded Sir Charles Bell as Professor of 
Anatomy and Physiology in the College 
of Surgeons; he resigned this position in 
1856, on being appointed Superintendent 
of the Natural History Department in the 
British Museum. He has been especially 
active in all the great sanitary movements 
of his time. Of his numerous works in his 
special department of study we name but a 
few: Ilistori/ of British Fossils (1846), 
Historic of British Fossil Reptiles (1849- 
51), Principles of Comparative Osteologt/ 
(1855), On the Anatomy of Vertebrates 
(1866), The Fossil Meptilia of South 
Africa (1876), The Fossil Mammals of 
Australia^ and the Extinct 3Iarsupials of 
Grreat Britain (18TT). Besides these 
are numerous monographs upon various 
scientific subjects. 


Most of tlie largest and best preserved tusks 
of the British mammoth have been dredged up 
from tlie submerged drift, near the coasts. In 
1827 an enormous tusk was landed at Rams- 
gate ; although the hollow implanted base was 
wanting, it still measured nine feet in length, 
and its greatest diameter was eight inches. 
The outer crust was decomposed into thin 
layers, and the interior portion had been re- 
duced to a soft substance resembling putty. 
A tusk dredged up from the Goodwin Sands, 
which measured six feet six inches in length, 
and twelve inches in greatest circumference, 
probably belonged to a female mammoth. 


Captaiu Martin, in whose possession it is, 
describes its curvature as being equal to a 
semicircle turning outwards oil its line of pro- 
jection. This tusk was sent to a cutler by 
whom it was sawn into five sections ; but the 
interior was found to be fossilized, and unfit 
for use. But the tusks of the extinct elephant 
which have thus reposed for thousands of j'ears 
in the bed of the ocean which waslies the shore 
of Britain are not always so altered by time 
and the action of surrounding influences as to 
be unfit for the purposes to which recent ivory 
is applied. . . . 

Mr. Robert Bald has described a portion of 
a mammoth tusk, thirty-nine inches long and 
thirteen inches in circumference, which was 
found imbedded in diluvial clay at Clifton Hall, 
between Edinburgli and Falkirk, fifteen or 
twenty feet from the present surface. Two 
other tusks of nearly the same size have been 
discovered at Kilmaiiis in Ayrshire, at the 
depth of seventeen and a half feet from the 
surface, in diluvial clay. The state of preser- 
vation of these tusks was nearly equal to that 
of the fossil ivory of Siberia. The tusks of the 
mammoth found in England are usually more 
decayed; but Dr. Buckhmd alludes to a tusk 
from argillaceous diluvium on the Yorkshire 
coast, which was hard enough to be used b}' 
the ivory-turners. 

Tlie tusks of the mammoth are so well pre- 
served in the frozen drift of Siberia, that they 
have long been collected in great numbers for 
the purposes of commerce. In the account of 
the mammoth's bones and teeth of Siberia, pub- 
lished more than a century ago in the 1 hilo- 
sopJiical Transactions, tusks are cited which 
weighed two hundred pounds each, and are 
used as ivory, to make combs, boxes, and such 
other things; being but a little more brittle, 
and easily turning yellow by weather or heat. 
From that time to the present there has been 
no intermission in the supply of ivory furnished 
by the extinct elephants of a former world.— 
History of British Fossils. " 


OWEN, Robert Dale, an American 
author, horn in Sct)tliiiid in 1801 ; died in 
1858. He was the son of iiobeit Owen, the 
social reformer, with whom he came to 
America in 1823, and soon afterward took 
up liis residence at New Harmony, Indiana. 
]n 18oo, he was elected to the Indiana Leg- 
ishiture, and in 1843 to Congress. In 1845 
lie introduced the Bill organizing the Smith- 
sonian Institution, of which he was made one 
of the Regents, and chairman of its build- 
ing committee. In 1853 he was appointed 
Charge d'Affaires at Naples, and 1855 was 
made Minister there. He wrote several 
books relating to edtication and social re- 
forms; and became a believer in the doc- 
trines of " Spiritualism." His principal 
works relating to this subject are : Footprints 
on the Boundaries of Another World (18G0), 
The Debatable Land betiveen this World and 
the Next (1872), Threading my Way^ an 
autobiography (1874). 


If some Leverrier of Spiritual Science had 
taken note twenty-five years ago of certain 
perturbing agencies of whicli the effects were 
visible througliout the religious world, he might 
have made a [irediction more important than 
that of the French astronomer in regard to the 
as yet undiscovered jilanet Uranus. For even 
then it could have been discovered — what, liow- 
ever, is inucli more evident to-day — that an old 
belief was about to disappear from civilized so- 
ciety : a change wliicli brings momentous results 
in its train. This change is from behef in the 
Exceptional and the Miraculous to a settled 
conviction that it does not enter into God's 
economy, as manifested in His works, to deal 
except mediately tln-ough the instrumentality 
of Natural Laws; or to suspend or change those 


laws on special occasions, or— as men do — to 
make temporary laws for a certain age of the 
world, and discontinue these through a succeed- 
ing generation. In other words, the civilized 
world is gradually settling down to the assurance 
that the Natural Law is universal, invariable, 

The advent of this change conceded — a 
thoughtful observer, endowed with a prophetic 
faculty, might have foreshadowed some of its 
consequents. If Natural Law be invariable, 
then either the wonderful works ascribed to 
Christ and his disciples were not performed, 
or else they were not miracles. If they were 
not performed, then Christ lent himself to de- 
ception. This theory disparages his person, 
and discredits his teachings. But if they were 
performed under Natural Law, and if Natural 
Laws endure from generation to generation, 
then, inasmuch as the same laws under which 
these signs and wonders occurred must exist still 
— we may expect somewhat similar phenomena 
at any time. 

But an acute observer, looking over the whole 
ground might, have detected more than this. 
He would have found two antagonistic schools 
of religious opinion : the one, basing spiritual 
truth on the JNIiraculous and the Infallible, 
chiefly represented in a Church of vast power, 
fifteen hundred years old, which has held her 
own against bold and active adversaries, and 
even increased in the relative as well as the 
actual number of her adherents for the last 
three hundred years. The other, dating back 
three hundred and fifty years only, affiliating 
more or less with the spirit of the age, and so 
j)lacing herself in the line of progress; yet with 
less imposing antecedents, with fewer adherents, 
and, alas ! weakened in influence by a large 
admixture of Indifferentism, and still more 
weakened in influence by intestine dissensions 
on questions of vital moment, even on the relig- 
ions shibboleth of the day — the question of Uni- 
form itule or Miracle ; manv of the latter Church 


still holding to tlie opinion tluit to abandon the 
doctrine of tlie iliraculous is to deny the works 
of Christ. 

Apparently a very unequal contest — the out- 
look quite discouraging. Yet if our observer 
had abiding faith in tlie ultimate prevalence 
alike of tlie doctrine of Christianity and of Nat- 
ural Law, he might, in casting about for a way 
out of the difficulty,, have come upon a practical 

History would inform him that the works of 
Christ and his disciples, mistaken by the Jews 
for miracles, effectively arrested the attention of 
a semi-barbarous age, incapable of appreciating 
the intrinsic value and the moral beauty of the 
doctrines taught. And analogy might suggest 
to hiin that if phenomena more or less resem- 
bling these could be witnessed at the present 
day, and if they were not weighted down by 
claims to be miraculous, they might produce on 
modern indifference a somewhat similar impres- 
sion. . . . 

Guided b}' such premises as these, our- sup- 
posed observer of twenty-five years since, though 
living at a time when the terms "Medium" and 
"Manifestation " (in their modern sense) had not 
3'^et come up, might have predicted the speedy 
appearance and recognition among us of Spirit- 
ual Phenomena resembling those which attended 
Christ's ministry and the Apostles' labors. . . . 

The occurrence among us of Spiritual Phe- 
nomena under Law not only tends to reconcile 
Scripture and sound philosophy ; not onh' helps 
to attest the doctrine of the universal reign of 
Law ; not only explains and confirms the general 
accuracy of the Gospel narrative — but it does 
mtich more than this. It supplies to a strug- 
gling religious minoritj', greatly in want of aid, 
the means of bringing to light even before 
unbelievers in Scripture, the great truth of Im- 
mortality ; and it furnishes to that same minor- 
ity, contending against greatly superior num- 
bers, other powerful argumentative weapons 
urgently needed in society. — TJie Debatable 


OXENFORD, JoHX, an English au. 
thor, born in Caniberweli, near London, 
England, in 1812 ; died in 1877. He was 
admitted to the bar in 1833, and devoted 
much time to dramatic criticism for the 
press. He translated poems and wrote 
songs, which have been set to music. 
Among his works for the stage are : My 
Felloiv Clerk (1835), A Day Well Spent 
(1836), Porter's Knot (1869), and £456, 
lis. 3(^. (1874). He published transla- 
tions of the Autobiography of Goethe^ the 
Conversations of Eckermann with Groethe 
(1850), the JTellas of Jacob (1855), and a' 
collection of songs from the French entitled 
The Illustrated Book of Freiich Songs, 


To-day, after dinner, Goethe read me the 
first scene of tlie second act of " Faust." The 
effect was great, and gave me a high satisfac- 
tion. We are once more transported into 
Faust's study, where Mephistopheles finds all 
just as he liad left it. He takes from tlie hook 
Faust's old study-gown, and a thousand moths 
and insects flutter out from it. By the direc- 
tions of Mephistopheles as to where these are to 
settle down, the locality is brought very clearly 
before our eyes. He puts on the gown while 
Faust lies behind the curtain, in a state of pa- 
ralysis, intending to play the doctor's part once 
more. He pulls the bell, which gives su(rh an 
awful tone among the solitary convent-halls, 
that the doors spring open and the walls trem- 
ble. The servant rushes in, and finds in 
Faust's seat Mephistopheles, whom he does not 
recognize, hut for whom he has respect. In 
answer to inquiries he gives news of Wigner, 
who has now become a celebrated man, and is 
hoping for the return of liis master. He is, we 
hear, at this moment deeply occupied in his 
laboratory, seeking to produce a Homunculus. 


The servant retires and the Bachelor enters, — • 
the same whom we knew some years before us 
a sliy young stiulent, wlien iVLt'[)histoplieles (in 
Faust's gown) made game of him. He is now 
become a man, and is so full of conceit that even 
Mephistoijheles can do nothing with him, but 
moves his chair further ana further, and at last 
addresses the pit. 

Groethe read the scene quite to the end. I 
was pleased with his youthful productive 
strength and with the closeness of the whole. 
'' As the conception," said Goethe, " is so old 
— for I have had it in my mind for fifty years 
— the materials have accumulated to such a 
degree, that the difficult operation is to sepa- 
rate and reject. The invention of the whole 
second part is really as old as I say ; but it 
may be an advantage that I have not written 
it down until now, when my knowledge of the 
world is so much clearer. I am like one who 
in his youth has a great deal of small silver and 
copper money, which in the course of his life he 
constantly changes for the better, so that at 
last the property of his youth stands before him 
pieces of pure gold." 

We spoke about the character of the Bache- 
lor. " Is he not meant,'' said I, " to represent 
a certain class of ideal philosophers ?" 

" No," said Goethe, " the arrogance which is 
peculiar to youth, and of which we had such 
striking examples after our war for freedom, is 
personified in him. Indeed, everyone believes 
in his 3-outh that the world really began with 
him, and that all merely exists for his 
sake. Thus in the East there was actually 
a man who every morning collected his people 
about him, and would not go to work until he 
commanded the sun to rise. But he was wise 
enough not to speak his command until 
the sun of its own accord wag really on the 
point of appearing." Goethe remained awhile 
absorbed in silent thought ; then he began as 
follows : — 

" When one is old one thinks of worldlv mat- 


ters otherwise than when he is j'ouug. Thus I 
cannot but think that the demons, to tease and 
make sport with men, have phiced among them 
simple hgnres wliich are so alluring that every 
one strives after them, and so great that nobody 
reaches them. Thus they set up E-affaelle, 
with whom thought and act were equally per- 
fect ; some distinguished followers liave ap- 
proached him, but none have equalled him. 
Thus, too, they set up Mozart as something un- 
attainable in music; and thus Shakespeare in 
poetry. I know what you can s;)}' against this 
thought, but I only mean natural character, the 
great innate qualities. Thus, too, Napoleon is 
unattainable. That the Russians were so mod- 
erate as not to go to Constantinople is indeed 
very great ; but we find a similar trait in Na- 
poleon, for he had the moderation not to go to 

Much was associated with this copious theme ; 
I thought to myself in silence that the demons 
liad intended something of the kind with 
Goethe, inasmuch as he is a form too alluring 
not to be striveii after, and too great to be 
reached.— 7%(3 Conversations of Eckcrmann 
with Goethe. 


OX EN 1 1 AM, Henry Nutcombe, an 
English clergynnui and author, born at 
Harrow in 1829. His hither, also a clergy- 
man, was one of the masters at Harrow 
Sciiool, where *"he boy was prepared for the 
University. He took his degree of M. A. 
at Balliol College, Oxford, in 1854, and in 
the same yearentered the Anglican priest- 
hood, wliicli he left in 1857 for that of 
Rome. He has been a professor in St. 
Edmund's College, Ware, and master in the 
Oratory School at Birmingham. Among 
his works are : PoemH (1854), Church 
Parties (1857), Catholic Doctrine of the 
Atoneriifnt (1865), enhirged and revised in 
X'S'SlUi't^collections ofOherAminergaii (1872), 
Moral and Meligious Estimate of H'ivisec- 
tion (1879), and Short Studies, Ethical 
and lieliyious (1884). He has translated 
from the German, Dr. DoUinger's First 
Afie of the Church and Lectures on Reunion 
of the Churches^ and Bishop Hefele's His- 
tory of the Councils of the Church, and has 
contributed to the Edinhwi/li Review, Con- 
temporary, Church Quarterly, Academy^ 
and other English periodicals. 


Hallam tells us in the conchulinj? chapter of 
liis State of Europe during tlie Middle Ages, 
tliat "tliere are three powerful spirits which 
have from time to time moved over tlie surface 
of the waters, and given a predominant impulse 
to tlie moral sentiments of mankind. Tiiese are 
the spirits of liherty, of religion, and of honor." 
He goes on to say that "it was the principal 
business of chivahy to animate and cherish 
the last of these tlu-ee," and that tlie results 
of the other two have at least been " equalled 
by the exquisite sense of honor which this 
institution preserved." And tlien he adds that, 
.as the institution passed away, '' the spirit of 


chivalry left behind it a more valuable successor. 
The character of knight gradually subsided 
into that of gentleman." And a scrupulous 
regard for the law of honor, it need hardlj^ be 
observed, is supposed to constitute, if not the 
whole duty, the distinctive excellence of a 
gentleman as such. 

There are, however, besides the law of honor, 
three distinct standards, always separable iu 
idea, though often not separated iu fact, by 
some one or more of which men ordinarily en- 
deavor to regulate their conduct ; that is, of 
course, men who acknowledge some rule of lite 
other than that of mere selHsh inclination. 
These are the law of the land, the law of right 
or of conscience, and the precepts of a religion 
claiming to have divine authority 

Now it is plain at a glance that the law 
of honor differs essentially in kind from all 
these three. Each of them affects to enjoin 
within its own limits a complete standard of 
duty, and, though civil legislation cannot in- 
clude all moral obligations, it must at least 
sanction nothing immoral. But the law of 
honor enjoins at best certain duties only, arbi- 
trarily selected, and belonging to a particular 
class ; it may even prescribe as duties, and 
certainly often condones as blameless, what 
religion, or conscience, or the State, or all of 
them, condemns as vices. And thus we read of 
Sir Lancelot : — 

His honor rootod in dishonor stood, 

And faith unfaithful made him falsely true. 

It constitutes, as was said before, the code of "a 
gentleman," while moral obligation holds good 
equally of a gentleman and a chimney-sweep. 
Truthfulness and courage, again, are the prin- 
cipal virtues which the law of honor requires 
of a man, chastity of a woman ; but conscience 
and religion demand truthfulness and chastity 
of both sexes alike. Or, in a wider sense, 
honor is the standard of a class, and thus there 
may be many diverse and iucougruous stand- 


ards of honor, as tliore is said to be ''lionor 
among thieves." And thus again there is a 
/ recognized standard of schoolboy honor, which 
/• varies more or less at different times, and even 
I in different schools ; according to which, e. y., 
' formerly veracity was a duty owed to a school- 
fellow, but not to a master, some kinds of 
bullying were held legitimate, and fighting 
was obligator^'' under certain cii'cumstances, as 
duelling was, till recently, held obligatory 
among men. Not indeed that a fight at school 
is at all the same thing morally as a duel, or 
open to the same condemnation on moral or 
religious grounds ; far from it. It involves, 
generally speaking, no serious danger to the 
combatants, and neither implies nor engenders 
malice; boys shake hands before standing up 
to fight, and are all the better friends after- 
wards. Still there is a certain analogy. In a 
M'ord, the law of honor is not only imperfect, 
but sectional ; and, according to the dominant 
spirit of the particular class concerned, it may 
become positively vicious, just as, not so very 
long ago, it prescribed duelling, and still pre- 
scribes it in some countries, though in this 
respect we have revised the code during the 
last half-century in England. It supplies, 
in short, what is essentially a conventional 
standard and only accidentally a moral one. — 
(Short jStudies, Ethical and Religious. 


PAGE, Thomas Nelson, an American 
author, born at Oakland, Va., in 1853. 
His early life was passed on the estate, 
which was part of the original grant of his 
maternal ancestor, Thomas Nelson. His 
education was received at Washington and 
Lee University, and he studied law, taking 
his degree from tlie University of Virginia 
in 1874. He has practised his profession 
in Richmond, Va., but he has given much 
time to writing. His stories are written iu 
the negro dialect of Virginia, and are among 
the most successful of their kind. Manse 
Chan, a tale of the civil war, published 
in the Century in 1884, attracted much 
attention. Mr. Page is now writing a 
biogi-aphy of Thomas Nelson for the series 
entitled 3Iakers of America. His writings 
have been published in book-form under 
the title, In Ole Vln/inni/ (1887). He 
has also published Befo' de War, written 
in collaboration with A. C. Gordon (1888) ; 
and Two Little Confederates, which ap- 
peared in the St. Nicholas Magazine in 


"Well, jes' den day blowed boots an' saddles, 
an' we mounted; an' de orders come to ride 
'roun' de slope, an' Marse Chan's company 
wuz de secon', an' when we got 'roun' dyah, we 
wuz riglit in it. Hit wuz de wust place ever 
dis nigger got in. An' dey said, " Charge 
'em ! '' an' my king ! ef ever you see bullets fly, 
dey (lid dat day. Hit wuz jes' lil^e hail ; an' 
we wen' down de slope (I long wid de res') 
an' up de hill right to'ds de cannons, an' de 
fire wuz so strong dyah (dey had a whole rigi- 
ment o' infintrys layin' down dyar onder de 
cannons) ; our lines sort o' broke an' stop ; de 
cun'l was kilt, an' 1 b'lieve de}' wuz jes' bout to 
bre'k all to pieces, when Marse Chan rid up an' 


cotch liol' (le fleg an' hollers, ' Foller me!' an' 
rid straiiiiii' up de liill 'mong de cannons. I seen 
'ini wlien he went, de sorrel four good lengths 
ahead o' ev'y urr hoss, jes' like he use' to be 
in a fox hunt, an' de whole regiment right 
arfcer 'iin. Yo' ain' uuver hear thunder ! 
Fust thing I knovved, de roan roll' head over 
heels, and flung me up 'g'instde bank, like 3-0' 
chuck a nubbin' over 'g'inst de foot o' de corn 
pile. An dat's what kep' me from bein' kilt. 
I 'spects Judy she say she think 'twuz Provi- 
dence, but I think 'twuz de bank. O' co'se, 
Providence put de bank dyah, hut how come 
Providence nuver saved Marse Chan ? Wiien 
I look 'roun', de roan wuz layin' dyah by me, 
stone dead, wid a cannon-ball gone mos' th'oo 
him, an' our men hed done swe[)' dem on t'urr 
side from de top o' de hill. 'Twan' 'mo'n a 
niinit, de sorrel come gallupin' back wid his 
mane flyin', an' de rein hangin' down on one 
side to his knee. ' Dyah ' says T, ' fo' Gord ! 
I 'spects dey done kilt Marse Chan, an' I promised 
to tek care on him.' I jumped up an' run over 
de bank, in dyar, wid a whole lot o' dead men, 
an' some not dead yet, under one o' de guns 
wid de fleg still in he han' an' a bullet right 
th'oo he' body, lay Marse Chan. I tu'n him 
over and call 'im, ' Marse Chan!' but t' wan' 
no use, he wuz done gone home, sho' nuff. I pick 
'im up in my arms wid de fleg still in he ban's, 
an' toted 'im back jes' like I did dat dey when 
he wuz a bah\^, an' old master giv 'im to me in 
my arms, an' sez he could trust me, an' tell me 
to tek keeron 'im long ez he lived. I kyar'd 'im 
'way oft' de battlefield, out de way o' de balls, 
and I laid 'im down onder a big tree till T could 
git somebod}' to ketch de sorrel for me. He 
wuz cotched arfter a while, an' I hed some 
money, so I got some pine plank _ an' ma<le- a 
coffin dat evenin', an' wrapt Marse Chan's body 
up in de fleg, an' put' im in de coffin ; but I 
did'n nail de top on strong, cause I knowed old 
missis 'd wan' see im ; an I got a' ambulance 
an' set out for home dat nigcht. We reached 


dj'ali de next evein' arfter travellin' all dat 
night an' all nex' day. 

"Hit 'peared like somethin' had tola ole 
missis we wuz comin' so ; for when we got 
home she wuz waitin' for us — done drest up in 
her bes' Sunday clo'es, an' stan'n' at de head o' 
de big steps, an' ole marster settin' in his big 
cheer — ez we druv up de hill to'ds de house, 
I drivin' de ambulance an' de sorrel leadin' 
'long behine wid de stirrups crost over 
de saddle. She come down to de gate to 
meet us. We took de coffin out de ambulance 
an kyar'd it right into de big parlor wid de 
pictures in it, whar dey use' to dance in old 
times when Marse Chan waz a schoolboy, 
an' Miss Anne Chahmb'lin use' to come over 
an' go wid ole missis into her chamber an' 
tek her things off. In dyar we laid de coffin 
on two o' de cheers, an' ole missis never said a 
wud ; she jes' looked so ole and white. 

" When I had tell 'em all 'bout it, I tu'ned 
right 'round' an' rid over to Cun'l Chahm- 
b'lin's cause I knowed dat was what Marse Chan 
he'd a' wanted me to do. I didn' tell nobody 
whar I wuz gvvin' 'cause yo' know none on 
'em hadn' never speak to Miss Anne, not 
sence de dull, an' de^' didn' know 'bout de 

" When I rid up in de 3'ard, dyar wuz Miss 
Anne a-stan'in on de poach vvatchin' me ez 
I rid up. I tied my lioss to de fence, an' 
walked up de parf. She knowed by de way I 
walked dyar wuz somethin' de motter, an' she 
wuz mighty pale. I drapt my cap down on de 
een o' de steps an' went up. She nuver opened 
her mouf ; jes' stan' right still an' keep her 
eyes on my face. Fust, I couldn' speak ; den 
I cotch my voice, an' I say, ' Marse Chan, he 
done got he furlough !' 

" Her face wuz mighty ashy, an' she sort of 
shook, but she didn' fall. She tu'ned round 
an' said, * Git me de ker'ige ! ' Dat wuz all. 

" When de ker'ige come roun', she had put on 
her bonnet, an wuz ready. Ez she got in she 


sezto me, "^ llev yo' brought him home ?' An* 
we Ji'ove 'long, 1 ridiii' behind. 

'' When we got liome, slie got out, an' 
walked up de big wailc — up to de jJ^ach by 
lierse'f. Ole missis had done fin' de letter iu 
Marse Chan's pocket, wid de love in it, while I 
wuz 'way, an' she wuz a waitin' on de poach. 
Day say dat wuz de fust time ole missis cry. 
when she fin' de letter, an' dat she sut'n'y 
did cry over it, pintedly . . . 

" Well, we buried Marse Chan dyar in de ole 
grabeyard, wid de fleg wrapped roun' 'im, an' 
he face lookin' like it did dat mawnin' down in 
de lo groun's, wid de new sun shinin' on it so 

" Miss Anne sbe nuver went home to 
stay arfter dat ; she stay wid ole marster an' 
ole missis ez long ez dey lived. Dat warn' so 
mighty long, cause ole marster he died dat 
fall, when dey wuz foUerin' fur wheat — I had 
jes married Judy den — an' ole missis she 
warn' long behine him. We buried her by him 
nex' summer. Miss Anne sbe went in de 
hospitals toreckly arfter ole missis died ; an' 
jes' 'fo' Richmond fell sbe come home sick wid 
de fever. Yo' nuver would 'a' knowed her fur 
de same Miss Anne — sbe wuz light ez a piece 
o' peth, an' so white, 'cep' her eyes an' her 
sorrel hyar, an she kep' on gittin' whiter an' 
weaker. Judy sbe sut'n'y did nuss her faithful. 
But she nuver got no betterment! De fever 
an' Marse Chan's bein' kilt bed done strain 
her, an' she died jes' fo' de folks wuz sot free. 

" So we buried Miss Anne right by' jNIarse 
Chan in a place wliar ole missis bed tole us to 
leave, an' dey's bofe on 'em sleep side by side 
over in de ole grabeyard at home. 

" An' will yo' please tell me, Marster ? Dey 
tells me dat de Bible say dyar won' be marry- 
in' nor givin' in marriage in heaven, but I don' 
b'lieve it signifies dat — does you ? " 


PAGET, Violet (Vernon Lee 
pseud.}, an English author, born in 1856. 
Since 1871 she has lived in Italy, where 
she has studied art and literature. Slie is 
a frequent contributor to magazines and 
reviews, and has written several stories 
and novels under the pen name of "Ver- 
non Lee." Her /Studies of the Uu/hteenth 
Century in Itahj (1880), was reviewed by 
the Atlienceum, which said : '' These 
studies show a wide range of knowledge 
of the subject, precise investigation, abun- 
dant power of illustration, and healthy en- 
thusiasm." Her other books are Belcaro, 
Essays on yEsthetical Questions (1882), 
The Prmce of a Hundred Soups (1883), 
Ottilie : an Eighteenth Century Idyl (1883), 
Euphorion, essays (1881), The Countess of 
Albany (1884), 3Iiss Brown (1884), Bald- 
ivin (1886), Juvenilia (1887), and Haunt- 
inys (1890). 


Tlie next evening, among the lamentation? 
of Mrs. Simson's establishment, Anne Brown 
set off for Cologne. This first short scrap of 
journey moved lier verj' much: wlien the train 
puffed out of tlie station and the familiar faces 
were liidden by out-houses and locomotives, 
tlie sense of embarking on unknown waters 
rushed upon Anne; and when, that evening, 
her mnid bade her good-niglit at the liotel at 
Cologne, offering to brush her hair and help 
her to U!i(h'ess, she was seized with intolerable 
home-sickness for the school — the little room 
she had just left — and she would have implored 
any one to take her back. But the next few 
days she felt quite different: the excitement of 
novelty kept her up, and almost made it seem 
as if all these new things were quite habitual ; 
for there is nothing stranger than the way 
in which excitement settles one in novel posi- 


tions, and familiarizes one with the unfamiliar. 
Seeinj^ a lot of sights on the way, and knowing 
tliat a lot more remained to be seen, it was as 
if there was nothing beyond these three or four 
days — as if the journey would have no end; 
that an end there must be, and what the end 
meant seemed a thing impossible to realize. 
She scarcely began to realize it when the ship 
began slowly to move from the wharf at Ant- 
werp ; when she walked up and down the de- 
serted and darkened deck, watching the widen- 
ing river under the clear blue spring night, lit 
only by a ripple of moonlight, widening mj's- 
teriously out of sight, bounded only by the 
shore-lights, with here and there the white or 
blue or red light of some ship, and its long 
curl of smoke, making her suddenly conscious 
that close by was another huge moving thing, 
more human creatures in this solitude, till at 
last all was mere moonlight-permeated mist of 
sky and sea. And only as the next day — as 
the boat cut slowly through the hazy, calm sea 
— was drawing to its close, did Anne begin to 
feel at all excited. At first as she sat on the 
deck, the water, the smoke, the thrill of the boat, 
the people walking up and down, the children 
"wandering about among the piles of rope, and 
leaning over the ship's sides — all these things 
seemed the only reality. But later, as they 
got higher up in the Thames, and the un- 
wonted English sunshine became dimmer, a 
strange excitement arose in Anne — an excite- 
ment more physical than mental, which, with 
every movement of the boat made her heart 
beat faster and faster, till it seemed as if it 
must burst, and a lot of smaller hearts to start 
up and throb all over her body, tighter and 
tighter, till she had to press her hand to her 
chest, and sit down gasping on a bench. 

The afternoon was drawing to a close, and 
the river had narrowed ; all around were rows 
of wharves and groups of ships ; the men began 
to tug at the ropes. They were in the great 
city. The light grew fainter, and the starlight 


mingled with tlie dull smoke-gray of London ; 
and all about were the sad gray outlines of the 
old houses on the wharves, the water gray and 
the sky also, with only a faint storm-red 
where the sun had set. The rigging, inter- 
woven against the sky, was gray also; the 
brownish sail of some nearer boat, the dull red 
sides of some sroamer hard by, the onlj^ color. 
The ship began to slacken speed and to turn, 
great puffs and pants of the engine running 
througii its fibres; the sailors began to halloo, 
the people around to collect their luggage ; 
they were getting alongside of the wharf. 
Anne felt the maid throw a shawl round her; 
heard. her voice as if from a great distance, say- 
ing " There's Mr. Hamlin, Miss; '' felt herself 
walking along as if in a dx-eam, and as if in a 
dream a figure come up and take her hand, and 
slip her arm through his, and she knew herself 
to be standing on the wharf in the twilight, the 
breeze blowing in her face, all the people jost- 
ling and shouting around her. Then a voice 
said, "I fear you must be very tired, Miss 
Brown." It was at once so familiar and so 
strange that it made her start: the dream 
seemed dispelled. She was in realit}', and 
Hamlin was really by her side. . . . 

It is sad to think how little even the most 
fervently loving among us are able to reproduce, 
to keep" within recollection, the reality of the 
absent beloved ; certain as we seem to be, 
livino- as appears the phantom which we have 
cherished, \ve yet always find, on the day of 
meetins;, that the loved person is different 
from tlie simulacrum which we have carried ni 
our hearts. As Anne Brown sat in the car- 
riage which was carrying her to her new home, 
the'^feeling which was strongest in her was not 
joy to see Hamlin again, nor fear at enter- 
ing on this new pliase of existence, but a 
recurring shock of surprise at the voice which 
was speaking to her, the voice which she now 
recognized as that of the real Hamlin, but 
which was so indefimiblv different from the 


voice wliieli hud liuuiited Iilt throughout tliose 
months of absence. Humliii was seated by her 
side, tlie maid opposite. The carriage drove 
(juickly througli a network of dark streets, and 
then on, on, along miles of embankment. It 
was a beautiful spring night, and the mists and 
fogs \vl)ich liung over river and town were 
soaked with moonlight, turned into a pale-blue 
luminous haze, starred with the yellow specks 
of gas, broken into, here and there, by the 
yellow sheen from some open hall door or lit 
windows of a part3'-giving house ; out of the 
faint blueness emerged the unsubstantial out- 
lines of things — bushes and overhanging tree- 
branches and distant spectral towers and 
belfries. . . . 

" I hope," said Hamlin, when they had done 
discussing Vandyke and Rubens and Memling 
— "I hope you will like the house and the way 
I have had it arranged," and he added,"' I hope 
3''ou will like my aunt. She is rather misan- 
thropic, but it is only on the surface." 

His aunt! Anne had forgotten all about 
her; and her heart sunk within her as the car- 
riage at last drew up in front of some garden 
railings. The house door was thrown open, 
and a stream of 3'ellow light flooded the strip 
of garden and the railings. Hamlin gave Anne 
his arm ; the maid followed. A woman servant 
was holding the door open, and raising a lamp 
above her. Anne bent her head, feeling that 
she was being scrutinized. She walked speech- 
less, leaning on Hamlin's arm, and those steps 
seemed to her endless. It was all very strange 
and wonderful. Her step was muffled in thick 
dark carpets ; all about, the walls of the nar- 
row j)assage were covered with tapestries, and 
here and there came a gleam of brass or a sheen 
of dim mirror under the subdued light of some 
sort of Eastern lamp, which hung, with yellow 
sheen of metal disks and tassels, from the 
ceiling. Thus up the narrow carpeted and tapes- 
tried stairs, and into a large dim room, with 
strange looking things all about. Some red 


embers sent a crimson flicker over tlie carpet ; 
by the tall fire-place was a table with a shaded 
lamp, and at it was seated a tall, slender woman, 
with the figure of a young girl, but whose face, 
when Anne saw it, was parched and hollowed 
out, and surrounded by gray hair. 

'' This is Miss Brown, Aunt Claudia," said 

The old lady rose, advanced, and kissed 
Anne frigidly on both cheeks. 

" I am glad to see you, my dear," she said, 
in a tone which was neither cold nor insincere, 
but simply and utterly indifferent. 

Anne sat down. There was a moment's 
silence, and she felt the old lady's eyes upon 
her, and felt that Hamlin was looking at his 
aunt, as much as to say, "Well, what do you 
think of her ? " and she shrunk into herself. 

" You have had a bad passage, doubtless," 
said Mrs. Macgregor after a moment, vaguely 
and dreamily. 

"Oh, no," answered Anne, faintly, "not at 
all bad, thank you." 

" So much the better," went on the old lady, 
absently. " E,ing for some tea, Walter." — 
Miss Broion. 


PAINE, Robert Treat, an Anieiican 
poet, born at Taunton, JNlass., in 177o ; 
died at Boston in 1811. lie was the son 
of Robert Treat Paine, one of the signers 
of the Dechiration of Independence. His 
name was originally Thomas, but after he 
had reached man's estate it was legally 
changed, at ins own petition, to that of 
his father, on the gi-ound that " Thomas 
Paine," the name of the author of The Age of 
Reason^ " was not a Christian name." He 
graduated at Harvard in 1792, having 
already acquired reputation by his facility 
in verse-making. He was placed in the 
counting-room of a merchant, where he 
remained only a short time, having become 
enamored with the stage, and fallen in 
love with an actress, whom he married at 
the age of twenty-one. He afterwards 
studied law, and in 1802 was admitted to 
the bar in Boston ; bat the irregular 
habits, which he had for some time aban- 
doned, soon returned upon him, and were 
never again sliakeu off. He had already 
written several poems which were very 
popular in their day. That by which he is 
best known, the ode entitled Adams and 
Liberty, was written for the anniversary 
of the Massachusetts Charitable Fire So- 
ciety in 1799. It consists of nine stanzas, 
of which we give the first two and the last 
two. The immediate sale of this poem 
brought the author some $750 — being more 
than nine dollars a line. 


Ye Sons of Columbia, who bravely have 

For those rights which unstained from your 

sires had descended, 
May you long taste the blessings your valor 

has bought, 


And your sons reap the soil wliicli yci,ur 
fatljers defended. 

'Mid the reign of solid Peace, 
May your nation increase, 
With the glory of Rome, and the wisdom 
of Greece : 
And ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves 
While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls 
its waves. 

In a clime whose rich vales feed the marts of 
the world, 
Whose shores are unshaken by Europe's 
The trident of Commerce should never bo 
To increase the legitimate powers of tht. 

But should pirates invade, 
Though in thunder arraj-ed, 
Let your cannon declare the free chartei 
of trade : 
For ne'er will the sons of Columbia be slaves, 
While the earth bears a plaut or the sea rolls 
its waves. 

Should the tempest of war overshadow our land, 
Its bolts could ne'er rend Freedom's temple 
asunder ; 
For unmoved at its portal would Washington 
And repulse with his breast the assaults of 
the thunder. 

His sword from the sleep 
Of its scabbard would leap. 
And conduct, with the point, every flash 
to the deep : 
For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, 
While the earth bears a plaut or the sea rolls 
its waves. 

Let Fame to the world sound America's voice ; 
No intrigues can her sons from their Govern- 
ment sever ; 


Her pride are her statesmen ; tlieir laws are 
lier choice, 
And shall flourish till Liberty slumber for- 
Then unite heart and hand, 
Like Leoiiidas's band 
And swear to tlie God of the ocean and 

That ne'er sluill the sons of Columbia be 

While the earth bears a plant or the sea 
rolls its waves. 


Who delves to be a wit must own a mine. 

In wealth must glitter ere in taste he sliine ; 
Gold buys him genius, and no churl will mil, 
When feasts are brilliant, that a pun is stale. 
Tip wit with gold; — each shaft with shouts is 

flown ; — 
He drinks Campaign, and must not laugh 

The grape has point, although the joke be flat! 
Pop ! goes the cork ! — there's epigram in that! 
The spouting bottle is the brisk ^'e^ cVeau, 
Which shows how high its fountain head can 

throw ! 
See ! while the foaming mist ascends the room, 
Sir Fopling rises in the vif perfume. 

But, ah ! the classic knight at length perceives 
His laurels drop with fortune's falling leaves. 
He vapors cracks and clinches as before, 
But other tables have not learned to roar. 
At last, in fashion bankrupt as in pence, 
He first discovers undiscovered sense — 
And finds — without one jest in all his bags,— 
A wit in ruffles is a fool in ra<4s. 


PAINE, Thomas, an Anglo-American 
autlior, born in Norfolkshire, England, in 
1736; died at New York in 1809. His 
father, a member of the Society of Friends, 
was a stay-maker by trade, and the son 
was brought up to that occupation, which 
he followed at various places, until his 
twenty-fifth year, after wliich he was suc- 
cessively a school-teacher, an exciseman, 
and a tobacconist. In 1774 he went to 
London, where he became acquainted with 
Benjamin Franklin, then the Agent foi- 
the American Colonies, by Avhose advice he 
went to America, reaching Philadelphia 
early in 1775. He found employment 
with a printer and bookseller who was 
about to start a periodical, which Paine 
was to edit at a salary of X25 a year. In 
his introductory article he says: "This 
first number of the Pennsylvania Magazine 
entreats a favorable reception ; of which 
we shall only say that like the early snow- 
drop, it comes forth in a barren season, 
and contents itself with foretelling the 
reader that choice flowers are preparing 
to appear." The Magazine was continued 
from January, 1775, to June, 1776. At 
the suggestion of Benjamin Rush, Paine 
wrote the pamphlet Common Sense, to meet 
the objections raised against a separation 
from the Mother Country. This pamphlet, 
whicli appeared in February, 1776, pro- 
duced a marked sensation, and Paine 
always claimed that it was mainly owing 
to it that the independence of the Colonies 
was declared. For it the Pennsylvania 
Legislature voted him a grant of £500, 
and the University conferred upon him 
the honorary degree of Master of Arts. 

In 1776 he served as a volunteer in the 


army, and was with it during the retreat 
from New York to the Delaware. On De- 
cember 19, 177G, appeared tlie first of his 
series of brocliures, entitled The Crisitf, of 
which there were eighteen, the last a[)pear- 
iiig April 19, 178o, after peace had been 
linally attained. Paine's services as a 
writer were duly appieciated. In April, 
1777, Congress appointed him Secretary to 
the Committee on Foreign Affairs ; in 
1781 he accompanied J^aurens in his suc- 
cessful mission to France to procure a loan 
from the Government. In 1785 Congress, 
at the suoofestion of Washino-ton, made him 
a grant of -fiS.OOO, Pennsylvania gave him 
i^oOO, and New Y(nk presented him with 
a valuable confiscated estate of 300 acres 
at New llochelle, not far from the city of 
New Yoik. In 1787 he went to England, 
carrying with liim the model of an iron 
bridge, whicli attracted much attention. In 
1790 Burke put forth his Jlfjlections on 
the French Revolution^ to wiiich Paine 
replied in his Rijhts of Man — the ablest 
of all his writings. In 1792 the French 
Department of Calais elected him a mem- 
ber of the National Convention, in the pro- 
ceedings of which he took an active part. 
He voted feu* tlie condenuiation of Louis 
X\^I., but urged that he sliould not be put 
to death. " Let the United States," said 
he " be the safeguard and asylum of Louis 
Capet." In December, 1793, he was ar- 
rested at the instigation of Robespierre, 
and condemned to the guillotine, from 
wiiich lie escaped by mere accident. His 
imprisonment lasted eleven months, when, 
after the downfall of Robespierre, lie was 
set at liberty, througli the intervention of 
Mr. Monroe, our Minister to France. 


Paine's Affe of Reason^ tlie First Part of 
which was published in 1794, the Second 
Part in 1796, was at least in part written 
during this imprisonment. The work may 
properly be styled as " Deistic," in cnntra- 
distinction to " Theistic " on one iiand, and 
" Atheistic" on the other. He did not 
return to the United States until 1802. 
His Af/e of Heason had brought him into 
great disfavor, and he had fallen into hab- 
its (if gross irregularity. He was, moreover, 
soured by what he esteemed the neglect of 
the Government and the people to appre- 
ciate his great services. He iiad desired 
to be buried in the Quaker cemetery, but 
this being refused, his body was interred 
upon his farm at New Kochelle. The in- 
scription on his gravestone i-ead : " Here 
lies Thomas Paine, Author of Common 

OF 1776. 

These are the times that try men's souls. 
Tlie summer soldier and tlie sunshine patriot 
will, in this crisis, shrink from tlie service of 
his country ; but he that stands it noio, deserves 
the love and tlianks of man and woman. Tyr- 
anny, like hell, is not easily conquered ; yet we 
have this consolation with us, that the harder 
the conflict the more glorious the triumph. 
Wiiat we obtain too cheaply, we esteem too 
lightly; 'tis dearness only that gives every- 
thing its value. Heaven knows how to set 
a proper price upon its goods ; and it would 
be strange, indeed, if so celestial an article as 
Freedom should not be highly rated. Britain, 
with an army to enforce her tyranny, has 
declared that she has a right not only to tax, 
but to ^^ bind us in all cases 'whatsoever;^* 
and if being hound in that manner is not slav- 
ery, then there is not such a thing as slavery 


upon earth. Even the expression is impious ; 
for so unlimited a power can belong only to 

Whether the Independence of this Continent 
was declared too soon or delayed too long, I will 
not now enter into as an argument. M3' own 
simple opinion is, that had it been eight months 
earlier it would have been much better. We 
did not nuike a proper use of last winter ; 
neither could we, while we were in a dependent 
state. However, the fault — if it were one — 
was all our own ; we have none to blame but 
ourselves. But no great good is lost yet. All 
tliat Howe has been doing this month past is 
rather a ravage than a conquest, which the 
spirit of the Jei'seys a year ago would have 
quickly repulsed, and which time and a little 
resolution will soon recover. I have as little 
superstition in me as any man living ; but my 
secret o|)inion has ever been, and still is, that 
God Almightj^ will not give up a people to per- 
ish, who have so earnestly and so repeatedly 
sought to avoid the calamities of war, by everj'' 
decent method which wisdom could invent. 
Neither have I so much of the infidel in me 
as to suppose that He has relinquished the gov- 
ernment of the woild and given us up to the 
care of devils ; and as I do not, I cannot see on 
what groun<ls the King of Britain can look up 
to lieaven for help against us. A common mur- 
derer, a liighwayman, or a house-breaker, has 
as good a pretence as lie, 

I shall not now attempt to give all the partic- 
ulars of our retreat to the Delaware. Suffice it 
for the present to say that both officers and 
men, though greatly liarassed and fatigued — 
frequently without rest, covei-ing, or provisions 
— bore it with a manly and a martial spirit. All 
their wishes were one — which was that the 
country would iurn out and help them to drive 
tlie enemy back. Voltaire has remarked that 
King William never appeared to full advan- 
tage but in difficulties and in action. The 
same remark may be made on General Wash- 


ington ; for tlie cliaructer fits liini. There is a 
natunil tiriuiieas in suiiie minds wliicli cannot 
be unlucked by trifles, but wliidi, wlien un- 
locked, discovers a cabinet of fortitude ; and I 
reckon it among those kind of public blessings, 
which we do not immediately see, that God. 
hath blessed him with uninterrupted health, 
and given him a mind that can even flourish 
upon cares. . . . 

I thank God that I fear not. I can see no 
real cause for fear. I know our situation well, 
and can see our way out of it. While our army 
was collected, Howe dai'ed not risk a battle; 
and it is no credit to him that he decamped 
from the White Plains, and waited a mean op- 
portunity to ravage the defenceless Jerseys ; 
but it is a great credit to us that, with a hand- 
ful of men, we sustained an orderly retreat for 
near an hundred miles, brought all our field- 
pieces, the greatest part of our stores, and had 
four rivers to pass. None can say that our re- 
treat was precipitate, for we were three 
weeks in performing it, that the country might 
have time to come in. Twice, we marched 
back to meet the enemy and remained out till 
dark. The sign of fear was not seen in our 
camf>, and had not some of the cowardly and 
disaffected inhabitants spread false alarms 
through the country, the Jerseys never iiad 
been ravaged. Once more we are again col- 
lected and collecting; our new arm\' at both 
ends of the continent is recruiting fa^t, and we 
shall be able to open the campaign with sixty 
thousand men, well armed and clothed. This 
is our situation ; and who will may know it. 
By perseverance and fortitude we have the 
prospect of a glorious issue; by cowardice and 
submission, the choice of a large varietj'' of 
evils : a ravaged country — a depopulated city 
— habitations without safety, and slavery with- 
out hope — our homes turned into barracks 
and bawdy-hnupps for Hessians, and a future 
race to provide for, for whose fathers we shall 
doubt of. Look on this picture, and weep over 


it! — and if there yet remains one thoughtless 
wretcli who believes it not, let him s utter it ua- 
luuientetl. — The Crisis, No. I. 

burke's patkicianism. 

Not one glunce of compassion, not one com- 
miserating retiection that I can find throughout 
his book, hus he be^^toued on those who lingered 
out the most wretched of lives — a life with- 
out hope, in the most miserable of prisons. It 
is painful to behold a man employing his tal- 
ents to corrupt himself. Nature has been 
kinder to Mr. Burke than he is to her. He is 
not afflicted by the reality of distress touching 
his heart, but by the showy resemblance of it 
striking his imagination. He pities the plu- 
mage but forgets the d3'ingbird. Accustomed 
to kiss the aristocratical hand that hath pur- 
loined him from himself, he degenerates into a 
com[)osition of Art, and the genuine soul of 
Nature forsakes him. His hero, or his heroine, 
must be a tragedy victim, expiring in show ; and 
not the real prisoner of niiserj' sliding into death 
in the silence of a duugeou. — The Hights of 


PALEY, William, an English divine 
and author, boi 11 at Peteiborougli in 1743; 
died in 1805. He gradual ed lu 1763 as 
senior wrangler at Ciirist's College, Oxford, 
of which he became a Fellow, and lectured 
on Moral Philosophy and Divinity. In 
1775 he became rector of Miisgrave, and in 
1782 was made Archdeacon of CarHsle. It 
is said that he would have received . a 
bishopric had not King George III. taken 
offence at a paragraph on Property, wliich 
is hereinafter quoted, in one of his writ- 
ings. The principal works of Paley are : 
The Principles of 3Ioral and Political Phi- 
lomphy (1785), Horm Pavlince (1790), 
A View of the Evidences of Christianity 
(1794), Natural Theology (1802). 


If you should see a flock of pigeons in a 
field of corn; and if — instead of eacli picking 
where and wliat it liked, taking just wliat it 
wanted, and no more — you sliould see ninety- 
nine of them gathering all tliey got into a 
heap, reserving nothing for themselves but the 
chaff and the refuse, keeping tliis heaj) for one, 
and thattlie weakest, perliaps tiie worst pigeon 
of the flock ; sitting round and looking on, all 
tlie winter, whilst this one was devouring, 
throwing about and wasting it ; and if a pigeon, 
more hardy or hungry than the rest, touched a 
grain of the hoard, all the others instantl3' fly- 
ing upon it, and tearing it to pieces: if you 
should see this, you would see nothing more 
than what is every day practiced and estab- 
lished among men. Among men 3-ou see the 
ninet\'-and-nine toiling and scraping together a 
heap of superfluities for one, and this too, often- 
times, the feeblest and worst of the whole set — a 
child, a woman, a madman, or a fool ; getting 
for themselves all the while hut a little of the 
coarsest of the provision which their own in- 


dustry produces; looking quietly on while tliey 
see the fruits of their labor spoiled ; ;iiid if one 
of their number take or touch a particle of the 
hoard, the others joining against hiui, and hang- 
ing hiui for the theft. 

There uuist be some very important advan- 
tage to account for an institution which, in the 
view given, is so paradoxical and unnatural. 
The principal of these advantages are the fol- 
lowing: — 1. It increases the produce of the 
earth. — 2. It preserves the products of the earth 
to maturity. — 8. It prevents contests. — 4. It 
improves the convenieiicy of living. 

Upon these several accounts we may venture, 
with a few exceptions, to pronounce that even the 
poorest and worst provided, in countries where 
propert}', and the consequences of pro[)erty, 
pu'evail, are in a better situation with respect 
to food, raiment, houses, and what are called 
the necessaries of life, than the}'' are in places 
where most things remain in common. The 
balance, therefore, upon the whole, must pre- 
])onderate in favor of property with a great 
a!:d manifest excess. Inequality of property, 
in the degree in which it exists in most coun- 
tries of Europe, abstractly considered, is an 
evil ; but it is an evil which flows from those 
rules concerning the acquisition and disposal of 
property, by which men are incited to industrj', 
and by which the object of their industry is 
rendered secure and valuable, — Moral and 
Political JPhilosophy. 


Here we have a man of liberal attainments, 
and, in other points, of sound judgment, who 
had addicted his life to the service of the 
gospel. We see him in the prosecution of this 
purpose travelling from country to country, 
enduring every species of hardship, encounter- 
ing every extremity of danger; assaulted by 
the populace, punished by the magistrates, 
scourged, beat, otoned, left for dead ; expect- 
ing, wherever he came, a renewal of the same 


treatment, and tlie same Vnigers; yet, wlien 
driven from one city, prp«i;liiiig in tlie next ; 
spending his whole time in tlie emplo\-nient ; 
sacrificing to it liis pleasures, iiis ease, liis 
safety; persisting in this course to old age, 
unaltered by the experience of perverseness, in 
gratitude, prejudice, desertion; unsubdued by 
anxiety, want, labor, persecutions ; unwearied 
by long confinement, undismayed by the pros- 
pect of death. 

We have his letters in our hands; we have 
also a history purporting to be written by one 
of his fellow-travellers, and- appearing, by a 
comparison with these letters, certainly to have 
been written by some person well ac;qnainted 
with the transactions of his life. From the 
letters, as well as from the history, we gather 
not only the account which we have stated of 
him, but that he was one out of many who 
acted and suffered in the same manner; and of 
those wiio did so, several had been the com- 
panions of Christ's ministr}' ; the ocular wit- 
nesses — or pretending to be such — of his mir- 
acles and of his resurrection. We moreover 
find the same person referring, in his letters, 
to his su[iernatural conversion, the particulars 
and accompanying circumstances of which are 
related in the history ; and which accompanying 
circumstances — if all or an}' of them be true — 
render it impossible to have been a delusion. 
We also find him positively, and in appropriate 
terms, asserting that he himself worked mir- 
acles — strictly and properl}' so called; the his- 
tory, meanwhile, recording various passages of 
his niinistrx' which come up to the extent of 
this assertion. 

The question is, wliether falsehood was ever 
attested by evidence like this. Falsehoods, we 
know, have found their way into reports, into 
tradition, into books. But is an example to be 
met with of a man voluntarily undertaking a 
life of want and pain, of incessant fatigue, of 
continual peril ; sulmiitting to the loss of his 
home and country, to stripes and stoning, to 


tedious imprisonments, and the constant ex- 
pectation of a violent death, for the sake of 
carrying about a stor}' of wliat, if false, he 
must have known to be so? — Jlorce Paulince. 


It is a hap[)y world, after all. The air, the 
earth, the water teem with delighted existence. 
In a spring noon or a summer evening, which- 
ever side I turn my eyes, myriads of liappy 
beings crowd upon ui}' view. The insect youth 
are on the wing ; swarms of new-born flics are 
trying their pinions in tiie air. Their sportive 
motions, tlieir wanton mazes, their gratuitous 
activity, their continual change of place with- 
out use or purpose, testify the joy and exulta- 
tion wliich they feel in their lately discovered 
faculties. A bee amongst the flowers in spring 
is one of the most cheerful objects that can be 
looked upon ; its life appears to be all enjoy- 
ment. The whole insect tribe, it is probable, 
are equally intent upon their proper employ- 
ments, and under eveiy variety of constitution 
gratified — and perhaps equally' gratified — by 
the offices which the Author of their nature 
has assigned to them. But the atmosphere is 
not the onlj' scene of enjoyment for the insect 
race. Plants are covered with aphides greedily 
sucking their juices, and constantl}', as it 
should seem, in the act of sucking. It cannot 
be doubted that this is a state of gratification : 
what else should fix them so close to the opera- 
tion, and so long ? Other species are running 
about with an alacrity in tlieir motions which 
carries with it every mark of pleasure. 

If we look to what the waters jiroduce, 
shoals of the frj' of lish frequent the margins 
of rivers, of lakes, and of the sea itself. Tliese 
are so happy that they know not what to do 
with themselves. Their attitudes, their vivacity, 
their leaps out of the water, their frolics in it, 
all conduce to show their excess of spirits, and 
are simply the effects of that excess. Suppose 
each individual to be in a state of positive en- 


joyment, what a sum, collectively, of gratifica- 
tion and pleasure we have before our view. 

The young of all animals appear to me to 
receive pleasure simply from the exercise of 
their limbs and bodily faculties, without refer- 
ence to any end to be attained, or any use to be 
answered by the exertion. A child, without 
knowing anything of the uses of language, is 
in a high degree delighted with being able to 
speak. Its incessant repetition of a few artic- 
ulate sounds, or perhaps of the single word 
which it has learned to pronounce, proves this 
point clearly. Nor is it less pleased with its 
first successful endeavors to walk — or rather to 
run, which precedes walking — although entirely 
ignorant of the importance of the attainment 
to its futuie life, and even without applying it 
to any present purpose, A child is delighted 
with speaking, without having anything to say ; 
and with walking, without knowing where to 
go. A'.id, prior to both these, I am disposed 
to believe that the waking hours of infancy 
are agreeably taken up with tlie exercise of 
vision — or, perhaps, more properly speaking, 
with learning to see. 

But it is not for youth alone that the great 
Parent of creation hath provided. Happiness 
is found with the purring cat no less tlian with 
the playful kitten ; in the arm-chair of dozing 
age, as well as in either the sprightliness of the 
dance or the animation of the chase. To 
novelt}', to acuteness of sensation, to hope, to 
ardor of pursuit, succeeds what is, in no in- 
considerable degree, an equivalent for them ail 
— perception of ease. Herein is the exact dif- 
ference between the young and the old. The 
3'oung are not happy but when enjoying 
pleasure; the old arc happy when free from 
pain. And this constitution suits with the 
degree of animal power which they respect- 
ively possess. The vigor of youth was to be 
stimulated to action by the impatience of rest; 
whilst to the imbecility of age, quietness and 
repose become positive gratifications. 


In one important respect the advantage is 
with the ohi. A stute of ease is, generally 
speaking, more attainable than a state of 
pleasure. A constitution, therefore, which can 
enjoy ease is preferable to that wliich can taste 
only pleasure. This same perception of ease 
oftentimes renders old age a condition of great 
comfort. How far the same cause extends to 
other animal natures cannot be judged of with 
certainty. In the species witli which we are 
best acquainted — namely, our own — I am far 
even as an observer of human life, from think- 
ing that youth is its happiest season ; much less 
the only happy one. — Natural Theology. 


The distinctions of civil life are almost al- 
ways insisted upon too much and urged too far. 
Whatever, therefore, conduces to restore the 
level, by qualifying the dispositions which 
grow out of great elevation or depression of 
rank, improves the character on both sides. 
Now things are made to appear little by being 
placed beside what is great. In which man- 
ner, superiorities that occupy the whole field of 
the imagination, will vanish or slirink to their 
proper diminutiveness, when compared with 
the distance by which even tlie highest of men 
are removed from the Supreme Being, and this 
comparison is naturally introduced by all acts 
of joint worship. If ever the poor man holds 
up his head, it is at church : if ever the rich 
man views him with respect it is there : and 
both will be the better, and the public profited, 
the oftener they meet in a situation in wliich 
the consciousness of dignity in the one is 
tempered and mitigated, and the spirit of the 
other erected and confirmed. — Moral and 
Political Fhilonophy. 


PALFREY, John Gouham, an Ameri- 
can publicist ami historian, born at Bt)stiin 
in 1796 ; died-ac Cambridge in 1881. He 
graduated at Harvard in 1815, and 1818 
he became pastor of the Congregational 
Church in Brattle Square, Boston, as suc- 
cessor to Edwartl Everett. From 1831 to 
1839 he was Professor of Sacred Literature 
ai Harvard, and from 1835 to 1842 editor 
of the North American Revieu\ He after- 
wards took a prominent part in politics, 
acting with the opponents of slavery, and 
from 1861 to 1866 was postmaster at 
Boston. Besides sermons, niaofazine and 
newspaper essa\s he j)ublished : Evidences 
of Christianity, originally delivered as a 
couise of Lowell Lectures (1843). Lectures 
on the Jewish Scriptures and Antiquities 
(1838-52), The Relation hetiveen Judaism 
and Christianitt/ (1854). and a Histonj of 
Neiv Enqland (the first three volumes 
1858-1864, the fourth 1875). The fifth 
volume, edited by his son, Gen. Francis 
"Winthrop Palfrey, appeared in 1890. In 
Ins preface to this volume, Gen. Palfrej' 
states that it is almost wholly printed from 
the author's manuscript as he left it, sub- 
ject to careful revision. It brings the 
history down to the appointment of 
Washington as Commander-in-Chief of the 
Colonial army in 1775. 


Tliere was do question upon dogmas between 
Williams and those who dismissed liim. The 
sound and generous principle of a perfect free- 
doom of conscience in religious concerns can 
therefore scarcely be shown to have been in- 
volved in this dispute. At a later period he 
was prone to capricious changes of religious 
opinion ; but as yet there was no development 


or this Ixiiul. As long as lie was in Massa- 
cliusetta he was no heretic, tried hy the stand- 
ard of the time and the jthice. He was not 
chiirged with lieresy. 'i'hc questions wliich lie 
raised — and by raising which he provoked op- 
position — were questions relating to political 
rights and to the adniinistratioii of government. 
He made an issue with his rulers and his 
neighl)ors upon fundamental points of their 
power and their pro[)erty, including their 
power of self-protection against the tyranny 
from which they had lately escaped. Uninten- 
tionally, hue eifectually, he had set liimself to 
play into the hands of the king and the arch- 
hisho[) ; and ic was not to be tliought of by the 
sagacious patriots of Massachusetts that in the 
great work which they had in liand they should 
suffer themselves to be defeated by such random 

For his busy disaffection, therefore, Williams 
was punished ; or, rather, he was disabled for 
the mischief it threatened, b^' banishment from 
the jurisdiction. He was punished much less 
severely than the dissenters from the popular 
will were punished throughout the Korth 
American Colonies at the time of the final 
rupture with the mother-country. Virtuall\', 
the freemen said to him, " It is not best that 
you and we should live together, and we cannot 
agree to it. We liave just put ourselves to 
great loss and trouble for the sake of pursuing 
our own objects uninterrupted ; and we must 
be allowed to do so. Your liberty, as a'ou 
understand it, and are bent on using it, is not 
compatible with the security of ours. Since 
you cannot accommodate j'ourself to us, go 
away. The world is wide, and it is as open to 
you as it was just now to us. We do not wish 
to harm you ; but there is no place for you 
among us.'' 

Banishment is a word of ill sound; but the 
banishment from one part of New England to 
another, to which, in the early j)art tif their 
residence, the settlers condemned Williams, was 


a thing widely different from that banishment 
from luxurious Old England to desert New 
England to which they had condemned them- 
selves. There was little hardship in leaving 
unattractive Salem for a residence on the 
beautiful shore of Narragansett Bay, except that 
the former had a very short start in the date of 
its first cultivation. Williams, involuntarily 
separated from jNIassachusetts, went with liis 
company to Providence the same 3'ear that 
HooUer and Stone and their company, self- 
exiled, went from Massachusetts to Con- 
necticut. If to the former the movement was 
not optional, it was the same that the latter 
chose when it was optional ; and it proved ad- 
vantageous for all parties concerned. — History 
of New England. 

In 1872 and 1873 Mr. Palfrey put forth 
two supplementary volumes less elaborate 
in details, entitled A Co7npendious History 
of JVew Enyland. bringing the narrative 
down to the meetiiior of the first Conofress 
of the American Colonies in 1765. Jn the 
Preface to the concluding volume of tiie 
larger History he sums up what he had 
done, and intimates what he hoped rather 
than expected still to do, and which was 
in a measure accomplished in the Com- 
pendious History, 


The cycle of New England is eighty-six 
years. In the Spring of 1603 the family of 
Stuart ascended the throne of England. At 
the end of eighty-six years Massachusetts, 
liaving been betrayed to her enemies by Joseph 
Dudley, her most eminent and trusted citizen, 
the people on the 19th of April, 1689, com- 
mitted their prisoner, the deputy of the Stuart 
king, to the fort in Boston, which he had built 
to overawe them. Another eight3'-six 3'ears 
passed, and Massachusetts had been betra3'ed 
to her enemies by her most eminent and 


trnstcd citizen, Thomas Ilutcliinson, when, at 
Lc'xiniiton and Concord, on tlie 19tli of April, 
1775, her farmers struck the first blow in the 
war of American Independence. Another 
eiglity-six years ensued, and a domination of 
slave holders, more odious than that of Stuarts 
or of Guelphs, had been fastened upon her, 
when, on the 19lh of April, 1861, the streets 
of Baltimore were stained by the blood of her 
soldiers on their way to uphold liberty and law 
by the rescue of the National Capital. 

In the work now finished, which is accord- 
ingly a work in itself, I have traversed the first 
of these three equal periods relating to the 
liistory of New Eiighind, down to the time of 
her first revolution. If my years were fewer, 
I should hope to follow this treatise with 
another, on the history of New England under 
the Whig dynasties of Great Britain. But I 
am not so sanguine as 1 was when, six years 
ago, I proposed " to relate, in several volumes, the 
history of the people of New England." Nor 
can 1 even promise to myself that 1 shall have 
the resolution to attempt anything further of 
this kind. Some successor will execute the 
inviting task more worthily, but not with more 
devotion, than I have brought to this essay, nor 
I think, with greater painstaking. 

As I part from my work, many interesting 
and grateful memories are awakened. 1 dis- 
miss it with little apprehension, and with some 
substantial satisfaction of mind; for mere 
literary reputation, if it were accessible to me, 
would not now be liighly attractive. My 
ambition has rather been to contribute some- 
thing to the welfare of rnv countrv, by reviving 
the image of the ancient virtue of New England ; 
and I am likely to persist in the hope that 
in an lionest undertaking 1 shall not appear 
altogether to have failed. 


A portion of the people of New England de- 
plored the departure of what was, in their esti- 
mation, a sort of golden ti^o. Thoughtful and 


rclipfious men looked back to the time when 
sublime efEorts of adventure and sacrifice had 
attested the religious earnestness of their 
fathers, and, comparing it with their own day 
of alisorption in secular interests, of relaxa- 
tion in ecclesiastical discipline, and of im- 
])uted laxness of manners, they mourned that 
tlie ancient glory had been dimmed. The 
contrast made a stamiing topic of tlie election 
sermons preached before the government from 
year to year, from the time of John Norton 
down. When military movements miscarried, 
when liarvests fail, when epidemic sickness 
brought alarm and sorrow, when an earthquake 
sj)reaii consternation, they interpreted the 
calamity or the portent as a sign of God's dis- 
pleasure against their backsliding, and ap- 
pointed fasts to deprecate his wiath, or resorted 
to the more solemn expedient of convoking 
synods to ascertain the conditions of reconcilia- 
tion to the offended Majesty of Heaven. — A 
Compendious History of New England. 

His dauo:liter, Sara Hammond Palfeey 
(born in 1823), has written several works, 
in prose and verse, usually under the nom de 
'plume of ''E. Foxton." They are entitled : 
Premices, poems (1855), Herman (1806), 
Agnes Wintltroj) (1869), The Chcqjel (1880), 
The Blossoming Rod (1887). His son, 
Francis Wintheop Pai-frey (born in 
1831) graduated at Harvard in 1851, and 
at the Cambridge Law School in 1853. He 
served in the civil war, rose to the rank of 
colonel, and, havinof been severely wounded, 
was bre vetted as brigndier-oeneral, and in 
1872 was made register in bankruptcy. 
Besides contributi<»ns to the "Military 
Papers of the [listorical Society of INLis- 
sachusetts," and to periodicals, lie wrote a 
Memoir of William F. Bai-tleU (1879), 
Autietam and Fredericksburg (1882), and 
edited Vol. V. of '"- father's History of 
New England-^ 


PALGRAVE, Sir Francis, an Eng- 
lish autlior, burn in 1788 ; died in 1861. 
His family name was Cohen, which at his 
marriage, he exchanged for that of iiis 
wife's mother. He was carefully educated 
ai home, but liis father's fortunes failing, 
he was in 18011 articled as clerk to a tiiin 
ol solicitors, with whicli he remained uniil 
1822, when he was employed under the 
liecord Commission. In 1827 he was ad- 
mitted to the bar. He h;id then contrib- 
uted articles to the JiJdinbun/h and Quar- 
terly Reviews^ and had, in 1818, edited a 
collection of Anylo-Norman Chan-yOns. In 
1831 he published a Hlatorif of Enyland^ 
and in 1832, The Rise and Progress of the 
Emjll^h Commonivealth and Observations 
on JPrinclples of New Municipal Corpora- 
tions. In the latter year he was knighted. 
In 1837 he published Merchant and Friar. 
During the last tw'ent3--three years of his 
life he held the office of Deputy-keeper of 
her Majesty's Records. In this capacity 
he edited : Curia Regis Records., Calen- 
dars and Inventories of the Exchequpr, 
Parliamentary Writs., and Documents Illus- 
trative of the History of Scotland. His 
greatest work is a History of Normandy and 
of England., of which the first volume ap- 
peared in 1851, the second in 1857, and 
the third and fourth after the author's 


The victor is now installed ; but what has 
become of tlie mortal spoils of his competitor ? 
If we ask the monk of Malmesbury, we are 
told that AVilliam siu-rei'.derpd tiie body to 
Harold's mother, Githa, by whose directions 
the corpse of the last surviving of her cliildren 
was buried in the Abbey of the Holy Cross. 
Those who lived nearer the time, however, re- 


late in explicit terms tliat William refused the 
rites of sepulture to his excoinmunicated enem\-. 
Guillielnius Pictarensis, the cha[)laiu of the 
Conqueror, a most trustworthy and competent 
witness, informs us that a body of which the 
features were undistinguishable, but supposed 
from certain tokens, to be that of Harold, was 
found between tlie corpses of his brothers, 
Gurth and Leofwine, and that William caused 
this corpse to be interred in the sands of the 
sea-shore, " Let him guard the coast," said 
William, "which he so madly occu])ied ; " and 
though Githa had offered to purchase the body 
by its weight in gold, yet William was not'to 
be tempted by the gift of the sorrowing 
mother, or touched by her tears. 

In the Abbej- of Waltham, they knew noth- 
ing of Githa. According to the annals of the 
Convent, the two Brethren who had accom- 
panied Harold, hovered as nearly as possible to 
the scene of war, watching the event of the 
battle : and afterwards, when the strife was 
quiet in death, they humbly ajiproached 
Williani, and solicited his permission to seek 
the corpse. 

The Conqueror refused a purse, containing 
ten marks of gold, which they offered as the 
tribute of their gratitude; and j)ermitted them 
to proceed to the field, and to bear away not 
only the remains of Harold, but of all who, 
when living, had chosen the Abbey of Wal- 
tham as their place of sepulture. 

Amongst the loathsome heaps of the un- 
bnried, they sought for Harold, but sought in 
vain, — Harold could not possibh' be discovered 
— no trace of Harold was to be found; and as 
the last hope of identifying his remains, they 
suggested that possibly his beloved Editha 
might be able to recognize the features so 
familiar to her affections. Algitha, the wife 
of Harold, was not to be asked to perform this 
sorrowful dut\'. Osgood went back to Waltham, 
and returned with Editha and the two canons, 
and the weeping women resumed their miser- 


able task in the cliariiel field. A ghastl}', de« 
C(>mj)osiiig, and mutilated corpse was selected by 
Editlia, and conveyed to Waltliam as the body 
of Harold ; and there entombed at the east end 
of the (dioir, with great honor and solemnity, 
many Norman nobles assisting in the requiem. 

Years afterwards, when the Norman yoke 
pressed heavily upon the English, and the 
battle of Hastings had become a tale of sorrow, 
which old men narrated by the light of the 
embers, until -warned to silence by the sullen 
tolling of the curfew, there was a decrepit an- 
chorite, who inhabited a cell near the Abbey of 
St. John at Chester, where Edgar celebrated 
his triumph. This recluse, deeply scarred, and 
blinded in his left eye, lived in strict penitence 
and seclusion. Henry I. once visited the aged 
Hermit, and had a long private discourse with 
him ; and, on his deatlibed, he declared to the 
attendant monks, that the recluse was Harold. 
As the story is transmitted to us, he had been 
secretly convej'ed from the field to a castle, 
probably of Dover, where he continued concealed 
until he had the means of reaching the sanctu- 
ary where he expired. 

The monks of Waltham loudly exclaimed 
against this rumor. They maintained most 
resolutely, that Harold was buried in their 
Abbey: they pointed to the tomb, sustaining 
his effigies, and inscribed with the simple and 
pathetic epitaph : Hie jacet Harold infelix ; 
and the}'^ appealed to the mouldering skeleton, 
whose bones, as they declared, showed, when 
disinterred, the impress of the wounds which 
he had received. But ma}' it not still be 
doubted whether Osgood and Ailric, who fol- 
lowed their benefactor to the fatal field, did 
not aid his escape? — They may have dis- 
covered him at the last gasp; restored him 
to aniniation by their care; and the artifice 
of declaring to William, that they had not been 
able to recover the object of their search, would 
readily suggest itself as the means of rescuing 
Harold from the [)ower of the conqueror. Tlie 
aemand of Editha's testimony would confirm 


their assertion, uiid enable them to gain time to 
arrange for Harolds security ; and wiiiUt the 
litrer, wliicii bore the corpse, was slowly ad- 
vancing to tlie Abbey of \Valtliani, the living 
Harold, under the tender care of Editha, luiglic 
be safely proceeding to the distant fane, his 
haven of refnge. 

If we compare the different narratives con- 
cerning the inhumation of Harold, we shall find 
the most remarkable discrepancies. It is evident 
that the circumstances were not accurately 
known ; and since those ancient writers who 
wi-re best informed cannot be reconciled to each 
other, the escape of Harold, if admitted, would 
solve the difficulty. I am not prepared to 
maintain that the authenticity of this story 
cannot he impugned ; but it may be remarked 
that the tale, though romantic, is not incredi- 
ble, and that tlie circumstances may be easily 
reconciled to probability. There were no walls 
to be scaled, no fosse was to be crossed, no 
warder to be eluded; and the examples of those 
who have survived after encountering much 
greater perils, are so very numerous and famil- 
iar, that the . incidents which I have narrated, 
would hardly give rise to a doubt, if they 
referred to any other personage than a King. 

In this case we cannot find an^^ reason for 
supposing that the belief in Harold's escape 
was connected with any political artifice or 
feeling. No hopes were fixed upon the usurp- 
ing son of Godwin. No recollection dwelt 
upon his name, as the hero who would sally 
forth from his seclusion, the restorer of the An- 
glo-Saxon power. That power had wholly fallen 
— and if the humbled Englishman, as he paced 
the aisles of Waltham, looked around, and, hav- 
ing assured himself that no Norman was near, 
whispered to his son, that the tomb which they 
saw before them was raised only in mocker\', 
and that Harold still breathed the vital air — 
he 3*et knew too well that the spot where 
Harold's standard had been cast down was the 
grave of the pride and glory of England. — 
Mistory of Normandij and of England* 


PALGRAVE,FiiANCis Turner, an Eng- 
lish [)()et, the elilest sou ot" Sir Fnuiuis 
Palgrave, born at London in 1824. He was 
educated at LialUol College, Oxford ; was 
for five years Vice-[)riucipal ot" the Train- 
iiiiT Collefi'e for Schoohnasters, and was sub- 

O O ... 

sequently ai)[)ointed to a position in the 
educational de[)artnient of the Privy Coun- 
cil. In 1886 he was elected Professor of 
Poetry at Oxford. His principal poetical 
works are : Idylls and Som/s (1854), 
Hijmns (1868), Lijrical Poems (1871). 
He also compiled The Golden Treasury of 
EiujUsh Songs (1861), and has written 
largely on subjects (connected witli Art. 


Thou sayest, "Take up thy cross, 

corao, and follow me ! " 
The night is bluclv', the feet are slack, 

Yet we would follow thee. 

But oh, dear Lord, we crv, 

Tliat we th}' face could see! 
Thy blessed face one moment's space, 

Then might we follow thee. 

Dim tracts of time divide 

Those golden days from me ; 
Thy voice comes strange o'er years of change ; 

How can I follow thee ? 

Comes faint and far thy voice 

From vales of Galilee ; 
Thy vision fades in ancient shades; 

How should we follow thee ? 

Unchanging law binds all, 

And Nature all we see; 
Thou art a star, far off, too far, 

Too far to follow thee ! 

Ah, sense-bound heart and blind! 

Is naught but what we see ? 
Can time undo wliat once was true ? 

Can we not follow thee ? 


Is what we trace of law 

The whole of God's decree ? 
Does our brief sfian grasp Nature's plaii| 

And bid not follow thee ? 

Oh, heavj' cross — of faith 

In what we cannot see ! 
As once of yore thyself restore, 

And help to follow thee ! 

If not as once thou cam'st, 

In true humanity, 
Corae yet as guest within the breasi 

That burns to follow thee. 

Within our heart of hearts 

In nearest nearness be ; 
Set up thy throne within thine own:-» 

Go, Lord, we follow thee. 


If by any device or knowledge 

The rose-bud its beauty could kno^, 

It would stay a rose-bud forever, 
Nor into its fulness grow. 

And if thou could'st Icnow thy own sweatnegs^ 

O little one, perfect and sweet, 
Thou would'st be a child forever. 

Completer while incomplete. 


PALGRAVE, William Gifford, an 
Eni^lisli autlioi', Wiis bora at Westminster 
in 1826 ; died at Montevideo, Uruguay, in 
1888. He was a son of Sir Francis Pid- 
grave. After graduation at Trinity Col- 
lege, Oxford, in 1846, lie was a|)[)ointed a 
lieutenant in the 8tli B()nd)ay Native In- 
fantry. He subsequently became connected 
with the Order of the Jesuits, and entered 
the priesthood. He was sent to Syria and 
Palestine, where he acquired mastery over 
the Arabic language, hi 1860 Napoleon 
IH. summoned him to France to give an 
account of the Syrian disturbances and 
massacre, and in 1861 he returned to Pales- 
tine chai'ged with the task of ex[)loring' 
Arabia in the service of the Emperor. He 
acquired such intimate acquaintance with 
the Arabs that on several occasions he was 
received into their mosques. Returning 
to England, he was sent out by the govern- 
ment in 1861 on special service to release 
Consul Cameron and other prisoners in 
Abyssinia. From 1866 to 1876 he served 
as British Consul to several places and as 
Consul-general to Bulgaria (1878), and to 
Siam (1880). He was a Feilow of several 
scientiiic and literary associations, includ- 
ing the R )yal Geogra[»hical and Roval 
Asiatic Societies. His works are : Nar- 
rative of a Year's Journey thronf/h Central 
anl Eastern Arabia in 1862-3 (2 vols., 
1865), Usmt/s on Eastern Questions (1872), 
Hermann Agha : an Eastern Narrative^ a 
novel (2 vols., 1872), and Dutch Guiana 
(1876). A posthumous work, Ulj/sses : 
or Scenes and Studies in Many Lands^ ap- 
peared in 1890. 



Wlien Moharib had ended his prayer, he took 
up his chiak, shook it, threw it over his shoul- 
ders, and then turned towards us witli liis 
ordinary look and manner, in wiiich no trace 
of past emotion could be discerned. We all 
left tile garden together; there was plenty of 
occu[)ati(>u for every one in getting himself, 
his liorse, his weapons, and his travelling gear 
ready for the night and the morrow. Our 
gathering-place was behind a dense palm-grove 
that cut us off from the view and observation 
of the village ; there our comrades arrived, one 
after another, all fully equi[)ped, till the whole 
band of twelve had re-assembled. The cry of 
the night-prayers proclaimed from the mosque 
roof had long died away into silence ; the last 
doubtful streak of sunset faded from the west, 
accompanied by the thin white crescent of the 
j'oung moon ; night, still cloudless and studded 
with innumerable stars, depth over depth, 
reigned alone. Without a word we set forth 
into what seemed the trackless expanse of 
desert, our faces between West and South ; the 
direction across which tlie Eineer Daghfel and 
his caravan were expected to pass. More than 
ever did tlie caution now manifested by my 
companions, who were better versed than my- 
self in adventures of the kind, impress me with 
a sense, not precisely of the danger, but of the 
seriousness of the undertaking. Two of the 
Benoo-Riah, Harith and Modarrib, whom the 
tacit consent of the rest designated for that 
duty, took the advance as scouts, riding far out 
ahead into the darkness, sometimes on tlie 
right, sometimes on the left ; in order that 
timely notice might be given to the rest of us, 
should any chance meeting or suspicious ob- 
stacle occur in the way. A third, Ja'ad-es- 
Sabasib himself, acted, as beseemed his name, 
for guide ; he rode immediately in front of our 
main body. The rest of us held close togetlier, 
at a brisk walking pace, from which we seldom 


allowed our beasts to vary; indeed, tlie liorsea 
themselves, trained to the work, seemed to com- 
prehend the necessity of cautiousness, and 
stei>|)ed on warily and noiselessly. Every man 
in the band was dressed alike ; though I re- 
tained, I had carefully concealed, my pistols ; 
the litliam disguised my foreign features, and 
to any su[)erticial observer, es{)ecially at night, 
I was merely a iJedouiu of the tribe, with my 
sword at my side and my lance couched, Benoo- 
Eiah fashion, alongside of my horse's right 
ear. Not a single word was uttered by any 
one of the band, as, following Ja'ad's guidance, 
who knew ever}' inch of the ground, to my 
eyes utterly unmeaning and undistinguishable, 
we glided over the dr}' plain. At another 
time 1 might, perhaps, have been inclined to 
ask questions, but now the nearness of expec- 
tation left no room for speech. Besides 1 had 
been long enough among the men of the desert 
to have learnt from them their habit of invari- 
able silence when journeying by night. Talk- 
ative at other times, they then become abso- 
huely mute. Nor is this silence of theirs 
merelv a precan.tinn due to the insecurity of 
the road, v.liicb renders it unadvisable for the 
wayfarer to give an\' superfluous token of his 
presence; it is quite as much the result of a 
powerful, though it may well be most often an 
unconscious, sympathy with the silence of 
nature around. Silent overhead, the bright 
stars, moving on, moving upwards from the 
east, constellation after constellation, the Twins, 
the Pleiads, Aldebaran and Orion, the Spread 
and the Perching Eagle, the Balance, the once- 
worshipped Dog-Star and beautiful Canopus. 
I look at them till they waver before m^' fixed 
gaze, and looking, cnU-ulate by their position 
how many hours of our long night-march have 
already gone by, and how many yet remain 
before daybreak ; till the spaces between them 
show preternaturallv dark ; and on the horizon 
below a false eye-begotten shimmer gives a 
delusive semblance of dawn : then vanishes. 


Silent; — not the silence of voices alone, but 
the silence of meaning change, dead midnight; 
the Wolf's Tail has not yet shot up its first 
slant harbinger of day in the east ; the quiet 
progress of tlie black spangled heavens is mo- 
notonous as mechanism ; no life is there. Si- 
lence ; above, around, no sound, no speech ; 
the very cry of a jackal, the howl of a wolf, 
would come friendly to the ear, but none is 
heard; as though all life had disappeared for- 
ever from the face of the land. Silent every- 
where. A dark line stretches thwart before 
us; you might take it for a ledge, a trench, a 
precipice, what j'ou will ; it is none of these ; 
it is only a broad streak of brown withered 
herb, drawn across the faintly gleaming flat. 
Far off on the dim right rises something like 
a black giant wall. It is not that; it is a 
thick-planted grove of palms ; silent they also, 
and motionless in the night. On the left 
glimmers a range of white ghost-like shapes; 
they are the rapid slopes of sand-hills shelving 
off into the \)\ii\n ; no life is there. 

Some men are silenced by entering a place 
of worship, a graveyard, a large and lonely 
hall, a deep forest; and in each and all of these 
there is what brings silence, though from dif- 
ferent motives, varying in the influence they 
exert in the mind. But that man must be 
strangely destitute of the sympathies which 
link the microcosm of our individual existence 
with the n)acrocosm around us, who can find 
heart for a word more than needful, were it 
only a passing word, in the desert at night.— 
Hermann Agha. 


PALMER, Edward IIp:nry, an Eng- 
lish orientalist, born at Cambridge, in 
1840. He graduated at the University of 
Cambridge in 1867, accompanied the 
Sinai Survey expedition in 18G8-9, and 
explored the land of Moab and other 
regions of the East in 1869-70. In 1871 
he was appointed professor of Arabic at 
Cambridge. He has translated Moore's 
Paradise and the Peri into Persian, the 
Persian History of Donna Juliana into 
French, and various Persian poems into 
English. Among his prose writings are : 
The Negah, or South Conntry hy Scripture, 
and the Desert of Et-Tlh (1871), The 
Desert of the Exodus, Journeys on Foot 
in the Wilderness of the Forty Years' Wan- 
derings (1871), History of the Jewish 
Nation (1875), and The Song of the Reed 
and Other Poems (1877). 


Scarcely had the world settled down into 
comparative peace after tlie successive revolu- 
tions caused hy the inroads of the Goths and 
Vandals, than another revolution burst forth 
and spread with lightning-like rapidity over 
the whole of the eastern world. jMohammed 
had raised a protest against the prevailing 
idolatry and corruption of his people, and the 
cr}', " There is no god, but God " rung through 
the valleys of the Hejjaz. Hitlierto the Arab 
tribes had been divided into small communities, 
distracted by petty jealousies, and wasting 
their rude strength and warlike energies on 
border raids audcatcle-lifting excursions. The 
eloquent enthusiast with liis striking doctrine, 
struck a new chord in their hearts, and a small 
number rallied round his standard, to fight, not 
for temporary possession of coveted ground, nor 
revenge, but for an idea, for a conviction. 

Small success begot confidence and increased 


conviction ; and the little band fouglit more 
fiercely, more enthusiastically than before. 
And then began to dawn upon them a great 
truth, — they wore a nation ; the\' began to feel 
tlicir own gigantic strength, and they recog- 
nized the fact 'hat disunion and anarchy had 
alone prevented that strength from displaying 
itself before. Mohammed was just such a 
rallying-point as tliey needed. He himself 
was an Arab of the Arabs, and knew how to 
make his new doctrine agreeable to them, by 
clothing it in a purely Arab dress, and by 
stating it to be a simple res'ersion to the pri- 
mary order of things. 

His religion he declared to be that of Abra- 
ham, the father of the ISemitic race, and he accord- 
ingly looked for support and credence from that 
kindred branch of Abraham's stock, the Jews. 
Of these, large numbers had settled in Arabia, 
and had acquired considerable influence and 
power. Longing for a restoration of their 
former glory, it is not strange that the Jews 
were :it first dazzled by Mohammed's proposals ; 
for at the opening of his mission a good under- 
standing existed between the propliet and the 
Jews, several of their learned men assisting 
him in the literary part of his undertaking. 
But both parties were deceived. IMohammed 
fought, perhaps unconscioush', not for the 
advancement of the Semitic race, or the 
faith of Abraham, but for the unity and 
aggrandizement of the Arabs. With this tlie 
Jews could never sj'inpfithize ; as well might 
Isaac and Ishmael go hand in hand. Finding 
that his offers and pretensions were refused, 
Mohammed turned upon the Jews and per- 
secuted them with great rancor. 

The Jewish tribe of Kainoka at Medina 
were the first summoned to profess the new 
faith, or submit to death. Though unaccus- 
tomed to the use of arms, they made a bravo 
resistance for fifteen days, but were at last 
beaten, plundered, and driven to seek an asy- 
lum in Syria. Other tribes presently shared 


the same fate, and Judaism ceased to exist 
ill Arabia Pi-oper, altliuugii traces of a Jewish 
origin may still be noted in certain of the 
Bedawi tribes , particularly in the neighbor- 
lioixl of Kiieibar, the last stronghold of which 
!M(iliamnied dispossessed them. — History of 
the Jeicisk Nation. 


But yestere'en upon mine ear 

There fell a pleasing, gentle strain, 

Witli nitiody so sofi and clear 

That straightway sprung the glistening tear, 
To tell my rapturous inward pain. 

For such a deep, harmonious flood 

Came gushing as he swept each string, 
It melted all my harsher mood. 
Nor could my glance, as rapt I stood, 
Fall pitiless on anything. 

To make my growing weakness weak, 
The Saki crossed my dazzled sight, 
Upon whose bright and glowing cheek, 
And perfumed tresses, dark and sleek, 
Was blended strangely day with night. 

"Fair maid!" I murmured as she passed, 
" The goblet which thy bounty fills 

Such magic spell hath on rae cast, 

Methinks my soul is free at last 
From human life and human ills." 

Songs from Hafiz, i n The Song of the Reed, 


Who looks on beautj'^'s treacherous hue, 

Allured by winsome smiles, 
And deems it true as well as fair. 

His simple faith ere long must rue. 

But ah ! what fowler's net beguiles 
A bird when nought but chaff is there ? 

Songs from Hafiz, in The Song of the Heed, 


PALMER, John Williamson, aa 
American physician and author, born at 
Baltimore, Md., in 1825. His father was 
Dr. James C. Pahner, fleet-surgeon on 
board tlie Union flag-ship " Hartford " in 
the battle of Mobile Bay. Alter gradua- 
tion at the University of iMaiyland, he 
studied medicine. In 1849 he went to 
California, and was the first city physician 
in San Fi'ancisco. Two years later he 
went to India, where he was appointed 
surgeon of the East India Company's ship 
'' Phlegethon," in the Burmese war, 
(1851-2). His experience in California 
and India resulted in papers contributed 
to Putnam s Montldy Magazine^ and the 
Atlantic Montldij, and in two books, The 
Golden Dagon : or Up and Down tlie Irra- 
waddi (1853), and The Neio and the Old, 
or California and India in Romantic As- 
pects (f 859). In 1863 Dr. Palmer became 
Confederate war-corres{)ondent to the New 
York Tribune. In 1872 lie lemoved to 
New York, and he is now (1890) on the 
editorial staff of the Century Dictionary. 
Besides the works already mentioned, he 
has i)ublislied several collections of poetry. 
The Beauties and the Curiosities of EngraV' 
ing (1879), A Portfolio of Autograph Etch- 
ings (1882), and a novel, A.fter his Kind 
(188G), under the pen-name of "John Cov- 
entry." He translated Michelet's works, 
L^ Amour and La Femme into English, 
accomplisliing the translation of the latter 
in seventy-two hours. Of his poems the 
best known are For Charlie's Sake and 
Stonewall Jackson'' s Way. 


Simplicity, convenience, decorum, and pic- 
turesqueness distinguish the costume of Asir- 


vadam the Bralimiti. Three yards of yard- 
wide tine cottou eiiveh)[» his loins in sucli a 
manner tliat, while one end hangs in graceful 
folds in front, the other falls in a fine distrac- 
tion behind. Over this a robe of muslin, or 
j)ifia-cloth — the latter in peculiar favor by reason 
of its superior purit}^ for high-caste wear — 
covers his neck, breast, and arms, and descends 
nearly to bis ankles. Asirvadain borrowed 
this garment from the INhissulnian ; but he 
fastens it on the left side, whicdi the follower 
of the Prophet never does, and surmounts it 
with an amjde and elegant waistband, beside 
the broad Romanesque mantle that he tosses 
over his shoulder with such a senatorial air. 
Ilis turban, also, is an innovation — not proper 
to the Brahmin, — pure and simple, but, like 
the robe, adopted from the Moorish wardrobe 
for a more imposing appearance in Sahib society. 
It is formed of a very narrow stri[>, fifteen or 
twenty j'ards long, of fine stuff, moulded to the 
orthodox sha[)e and size by wrapping it, while 
wet, on a wooden tlock ; having been hardened 
in the sun, it is worn like a hat. As for his 
feet, Asirvadam, uncom{)romising in externals, 
disdains to pollute them with the touch of 
leather. Shameless fellows. Brahmins, though 
they be of the sect of Vishnu, go about without 
a blush in thonged sandals, made of abomin- 
able skins ; but Asirvadam, strict as a Gooroo, 
when the ej'es of his caste are on him, is im- 
maculate in wooden clogs. 

In ornaments, his taste, though somewhat 
grotesque, is by no means lavish. A sort of 
stud or button, composed of a solitary ruby, in 
the upper rim of the cartilage of either ear, a 
chain of gold, curiously wrouglit, and inter- 
twined with a string of small pearls, around 
his neck, a massive bangle of plain gold on his 
arm, a richly jeweled ring on his thumb, and 
others, broad and shield-like, on his toes, com- 
plete his outfit in these vanities. 

As often as Asirvadam honors us with his 
moraiug visit of business or ceremony, a slight 


yellow line, drawn horizontally between hia 
eyebrows, with a paste compound of jri-ound 
sandal-wood, denotes tliat he has purified him- 
self externally and internall}' b}'^ bathing and 
prayers. To omit this, even by the most un- 
avoidable chance, to appear in public without 
it, were to incur a grave public scandal ; only 
excepting the season of mourning, when, by an 
expressive Oriental figure, the absence of the 
caste mark is accepted for the token of a pro- 
found and absorbing sorrow, which takes no 
thought even for the customary forms oi 
decency. . . . When Asirvadam was but seven 
years old he was invested with the triple cord 
by a grotesque, and in most respects absurd, 
extravagant, and expensive ceremony called 
the Upanayana, or Introduction to the 
Sciences, because none but Brahmins are freely 
admitted to their mysteries. This triple cord 
consists of three thick strands of cotton, each 
composed of several finer threads. These three 
strands, representing Brahma, Vishnu, and 
Siva, are not twisted togetlier, but hang sepa- 
rately from the left shoulder to the right hip. 
The preparation of so sacred a badge is in- 
trusted to none but the purest hands, and the 
pro(!ess is attended with many imposing cere- 
monies. Only Brahmins may gather the fresh 
cotton ; only Brahmins may card, spin, and 
twist it; and its investiture is a matter of so 
great cost, that the poorer brothers must have 
recourse to contributions from the pious of their 
caste to defray the exorbitant charges of priests 
and masters of ceremonies. It is a notitreable 
fact in the natural history of the always inso- 
lent Asirvadain, that, unlike Shatrva, the 
warrior, Vaishya, the cultivator, or Shoodra, 
the laborer, he is not born into the full enjoy- 
ment of his honors, but, on the contrary, is 
scarcely of more consideration than a Pariah, 
until, by the C^)f«icr_?/f/-«a, he has been admitted 
to his birthright. Yet, once decorated with 
the ennobling badge of his order, our friend 
became from that moment something superior, 


soniethiiit? exclusive, somelliing supercilious, 
urrogant, exacting, — Asirvadain, the high Brah- 
min, — a creature of wide strides without awk- 
wardness, towering airs without bonihast, San- 
scrit quotations witliout pedantry, florid phrase- 
ology without h^'perbole, allegorical illustra- 
tions and |)r()verbial points without senten- 
tiousness, fanciful flights without affectation, 
and formal sti'ainsof compliment without offen- 
sive adulation. 

Asirvadam has choice of a hundred callings, 
as various in dignity and profit as they are 
numerous. Under native rule he makes a 
good cooly, because the officers of the revenue 
are forbidden to search a Brahmin's baggage, 
or anything he carries. He is au expeditious 
messenger for no man may stop him; and he 
can travel cheaply for whom there is free 
entertainment on every road. In financial 
straits he may teach dancing to nautch-girls ; 
or he may jday the mountebank or the con- 
jurer, and, with a stock of mantras and charms, 
proceed to the curing of murrain in cattle, 
pips in chickens, and short-windedness in old 
women, at the same time telling fortunes, cal- 
culating nativities, finding lost treasures, ad- 
vising as to journeys and speculations, and 
crossing out crosses in love for any pretty dear 
who will cross the poor Brahmin's palm with a 
rupee. He may engage in commercial pur- 
suits; and, in that case, his bulling and bear- 
ing at the opium sales will put Wall Street 
to the blush. He may turn his attention to 
the healing art ; and allopathically, homeo- 
path ically, hydropathically, elect ropathically, 
or by any other path run a muck through 
many heathen hospitals. The field of politics 
is full of charm for him, the church in- 
vites his taste and talents, and the army 
tempts him with opportunities for intrigue, — 
but, whether in the shape of Machiavelisms, 
miracles, or mutinies, he is forever making mis 
chief; whether as messenger, dancing-master, 
conjurer, fortune-teller, speculator, mountebank^ 


politician, priest, or Sepoy, he is ever the same 
Asirvadam, the Brahmin, — sleekest of lackeys, 
most servile of sycophants, expertest of trick- 
sters, smoothest of hypocrites, coolest of liars, 
most insolent of beggars, most versatile of 
adventurers, most inventive of charlatans, most 
restless of schemers, most insidious of Jesuits, 
most treacherous of confidants, falsest of 
friends, hardest of masters, most arrogant 
of patrons, cruelest of tyrants, most patient of 
haters, most insatiable of avengers, most glut- 
tonous of ravishers, most infernal of devils, — 
pleasantest of fellows. 

Superlatively dainty as to his fopperies of 
orthodoxy, Asirvadam is continually dying of 
Pariah roses in aromatics, pains of caste. If, 
in his goings and comings, one of the "lilies 
of Nelufar " should chance to stumble upon a 
bit of bone or rag, a fragment of a dish, or a 
leaf from which some one lias eaten ; should 
his sacred raiment be polluted bj' the touch 
of a dog or a Pariah, — he is read}' to faint, and 
only a bath can revive him. He may not touch 
his sandals with his hand, nor repose in a 
strange seat, but is prcvided with a mat, a 
carpet, or an antelope's skin, to serve him as a 
cushion in the houses of his friends. With a 
kid glove j-ou may put his respectabilitj' in 
peril, and with j'our patent leather pumps 
affright his soul within him. 


PALMER, Rav, iiii American hym- 
noloL'ist, born in Little Conipton, R. L, in 
180>s"; died in Newark, N. J., in 1887. 
After graduation at Yal^ in 1830, he tauglit 
in New York and in New Haven. He was 
licensed to preach by the New Haven West 
Association of Congregational ministers in 
1882, ordained in ly'S5^ and s^^ttled in 
Batli, Me. In 1850 he removed to Albany 
N. Y., where he preaclied for sixteen years. 
Li 1866 he became secretary of tlie Con- 
gi-egational Union, hokling this post until 
1878. The degree of D.D. was given to 
him by Union ('ollege in 1852. He contrib- 
uted to religous periodicals and journals, 
and published several books, including ; 
Spiritaal Improvement^ or Aid to Growth 
in Grace (1839), republished as Closet 
Hours (1851), Remember Me- (1855), 
Hints on the Formation of Religious Opin- 
ions ri860), Hi/mns and Sacred Pieces 
(1865), Hymns of My Holy Hours (1866), 
Home., or the tlnlost Paradise (1868), 
Earnest Words on True Success in Life 
(1873), Complete Poetical Works (1876), 
and Voices of Hope and Ghuhiess (1880). 
Dr. Palmer ranks among the best of Ameri- 
can hymn-writers. His first hymn. My 
Faith Looks up to Thee., written in 1831, but 
not published until later years, lias been 
translated into tAventy languages. Among 
his other Iwmns are : Fount of Everlast- 
ing Love (1832). Tliou who RolVst the 
Year J.rMm(f(1832), Awai/ from Earth 
my Spirit Turris (1833), Wake Thee, Zionf 
Thy Mourning is Ended (1834), And is 
There, Lord, a Rest? (1843), and Lord, 
Tliou on Earth Did'st Love Thine Own 


My faith looks up to thee, 
Thou Lamb of Calvary, 

Saviour diviue ! 
Now hear me while 1 pray, 
Take all my guilt away, 
Oh, let me, from thi: day, 

Be wholly thiiie. 
May thy rich gi ,ce impart 
Strength to my tainting heart. 

My zeal insj^ire! 
As thou hast^ died for me. 
Oh, may my love ti> the-^ 
Pure, warm and changeless be, 

A living fire. 

While life's dark maze I tread, 
And griefs around me spread. 

Be thou m}' guide ! 
Bid darkness turn to day, 
Wipe sorrow's tears away. 
Nor let me ever stray 

From thee aside. 
When ends life's transient dream, . 
When death's old, sullen stream 

Sh;'ll o'er me roll, 
Blest Saviour ! then, in love, 
Fear and distrust remove ! 
Oh, bear me safe above, 

A ransomed soul. 


Jesus ! the very thought of tliee 

With sweetness fills my breast; 
But sweeter far thy face to see, 

And in thy presence rest. 
Nor voice can sing, nor heart can frame, 

Nor can the memory find, 
A sweeter sound than thy blest name, 

A Saviour of mankind. 
O Hope of every contrite heart, 

Joy of all the meek ! 
To those who fall how kind thou art, 
How good to those who seel^ I 


But what to those that find ? All ! this 
Nor tongue nor pen can show ; 

The love of Jesus— what it is 

None but his loved ones know. 

Suggested while bouriut; Haydn's Imperial Masa. 
The choral song of a mighty throng 

Conies sounding down the ages ; 
'Tis a pealing antlieni borne along, 

Like the roar of the sea that rages ; 
Like the shout of winds when the storm awakes, 

Or the echoing distant thunder, 
Sublime on the listening ear it breaks, 

And euchains the soul in wonder. 

And in that song as it onward rolls 

There are countless voices blended,— 
Voices of m3'riads of holy souls 

Since Abel from earth ascended ; 
Of patriarchs old in the world's dim morn. 

Of seers from the centuries hoary, 
Of angels who chimed when the Lord was 
born, — 

" To God in the highest, glory ! " 

Of the wise that, led bj^ the mj^stic star, 

Found the babe in Bethlehem's manger, 
And gifts, from the Orient lands afar, 

l^estowed on the new-born stranger; 
Of Mary, the blessed of God Most High ; 

Of the Marys that watch were keeping 
At the cross where He hung for the world to 

And stood by the sepulchre weeping. 


PALMER, William Pitt, an Ameri- 
can poet, born at Stockbridge, Mass., in 
1805 ; died at Brooklyn, N. Y., in 1884. 
After graduation at Williams, in 1828, he 
taught in New York city, studied medi- 
cine, and became a journalist. He was 
president of the Manhattan Insurance Com- 
pany, and on its failure, owing to the 
Boston and Chicago fires, he was made 
vice-president of the Irving Insurance 
Company. He was the author of several 
poems, including" the Ode to Lights Or- 
pheus in Hades, The Smack in School, and 
Hymn to the Clouds. These were published 
with others in 1880, under the title, -E'c/iogs 
of Half a Century. 


'Mid Berkshire lulls, not far away, 

A district school one winter's day, 

Was humming with the wonted noise 

Of three score iningled girls and boys; 

Some few upon their tasks intent, 

But more on furtive mischief bent, 

The while the masters downward look 

Was fastened on a copy-book ; 

When suddenly, behind his back. 

Rose, sharp and clear, a rousing smack. 

As 'twere a battery of bliss 

Let off in one tremendous kiss! 

" What's that ? " the startled master cries, 

"That, thur," a little imp replies, 

" Wath William Willith, if you pleathe— 

I thaw him kith Thuthanneh Peathe !" 

With frown to make a statue thrill. 
The magnate beckoned: "Hither, Willi" 
Like wretch o'ertaken in his track, 
With stolen chattels on his back, 
Will hung his head in fear and shame, 
And to the awful presence came — 
A great, green, bashful simpleton, 
The butt of all good-natured fui^. 


With smile suppressed, and birch upraised, 
The threatener faltered : *' I'm amazed 
That you, uiy biggest pujiil, should 
Be guilty of an act so rude — 
Before the whole set school to boot — 
What evil genius put 3'ou to't ? " 
"'Twas she herself, sir," sobbed the lad ; 
*' I didn't mean to be so bad ; 
But when Susannah shook her curls, 
And whispered 1 was 'fraid of girls, 
And dursn't kiss a baby's doll, 
I couldn't stand it, sir, at all. 
But up and kissed her on the spot ! 
I know — boo-hoo — I ought to not; 
But, somehow, from her looks — boo-hoo— 
thought she kind o'wished me to ! " 


With sofne Chinese Chrysanthemums. 

The sunlight falls on hill and dale 
With slanter beam and fainter glow, 

And wilder on the ruthless gale 

The wood-nymphs pour their sjdvan woe. 

Yet these fair forms of Orient race 

Still graced m\' garden's blighted bowers, 

And lent to Autumn's mournful face 
The charm of Summer's rosy hours. 

When shivering seized tlie dying year. 
They shrunk not from the icy blast; 

But stayed, like funeral friends, to cheer 
The void from which the loved had passed. 


PARDOE, Julia, an English author, 
born in 1806, died in 1862. She put forth 
a volume of poeins at the age of fourteen, 
and a novel two years later. She wrote 
voluminously in many departments of lit- 
erature. In 1859 she received from the 
Crown a pension of <£100. Among her 
works of travel are : The City of the Sul- 
tan (1836), The River and the Desert 
(1838), The Beauties of the Bosphorus 
(1839), The City of the Magyar (1840). 
Among her novels are : The Mardyns and 
the Daventrys (1835), The Hungarian 
Castle (1842), Confessions of a Pretty 
Woman (1846). Among her historical 
works are: Louis XIV., and the Court of 
France (1847), The Court of Francis 1. 
(1849), The Life of Mary de 3fedicis 
(1852), Pilgrimages in Paris (1858), Fpi- 
sodes of French History during the Consu- 
late and the Empire (1859). 


Darkness was deepening o'er the seas, 

And still the hulk drove on ; 
No sail to answer to the breeze, 

Her masts and cordage gone. 
Gloomy and drear her course of fear, 

Eacli looked but for the grave, 
When, full in sight, the beacon-light 

Came streaming o'er the wave. 

Then wildly rose the gladdening shout 

Of all that hardy crew ; 
Boldly tliey put the helm about, 

And through the surf they flew. 
Storm was forgot, toil heeded not, 

And loud the cheer they gave, 
As, full in sight, the beacondight 

Came streaming o'er the wave. 

And gayly of the tale they told, 
When they were safe on shore: 


How lieai'ts lijul sunk, and hopes grown cold; 

Aini>l tlu' l)illo\vs' roar, 
When not :i star had shone from far, 

By its pale light to save; 
Then, full in sight, the beacon-light 

Came streaming o'er the wave. 

Thus, in the night of Nature's gloom. 

When sorrow bovvs the heart, 
When cheering hopes no more illume, 

And comforts all depart; 
Then from afar shines Bethlehem's Star, 

AVith cheering liglit to save ; 
And, full in sight, its beacon-light 

Comes streaming o'er the grafe. 


PARK, MuNGO, a Scottish explorer in 
Africa, bom near Selkirk, in 1771 ; died in 
Equatorial Africa, in 1806. He studied 
medicine at the Universit}- of Edinburgh 
and made a voyage to Sumatra as as, 
sistant-surgeon on an East Indiaman. 
Upon his return he offered his services 
to the African Association for an explo- 
ration of the river Niger, sailing from Ports- 
mouth in May, 1795. After undergoing 
numerous hardships, he reached, late in 
July, 1796, the banks of the Quorra or 
Joliba, one of the main streams which 
make u[) the Niger. Here occurred the 
touching incident of the hospitality ex- 
tended to him by an African woman. He 
was obliged to desist fiom any further ad- 
vance into a country occupied by hostile 
Mohammedan tribes. At length he suc- 
ceeded in making his way to the coast, and 
reached England in December, 1797. Soon 
afterwards he married, iind commenced the 
practice of medicine at Peebles, in Scotland. 
In 1805 he undertook a second joniney to 
the Niger under the auspices of the British 
Governnjent. The ''xpedition, of which 
Park was commander, consisted in all of 
44 men, of whom 34 were soldiers of the 
British garrison at Goree. Before reaching 
the Niger 31 of the partj^ had died from 
the pestilential climate. About the middle 
of November the remnant of the party, now 
reduced to six men, again set out. Noth- 
ing further was lieard of him until 1810, 
when some partictilars of his fate were as- 
certained. At a narrow pass in the river 
they were attacked by the natives, and all 
the party v/ere either shot down in the 
canoe, or were drowned while attempting 
to 8wim ashore. Park's expeditions really 


accomplishetl next to nothing in ascertain- 
ing tiie leal course of tiie Niger, which he 
supposed to be identical with the Congo. 
A monument in honor of Park was erected 
<it Selkirk in 1859. 


I wiiited more tlian two liours without having 
(in opportunity of crossing tlie river [tlie Joli- 
6a], during which time the people who had 
crossed carried information to Manzongo, the 
king, that a white man was waiting for a pas- 
sage, and was coming to see liim. He imme- 
({iately sent one of his chief men, wlio informed 
me that the king could not possibly see me 
until he knew what had brought me into his 
country, and that I must not presume to cross 
the river without the king's permission. He 
therefore advised me to lodge at a distant vil- 
lage, to which he pointed, for the night, and 
said that in the morning he would give me fur- 
ther instructions how to conduct myself. 

This was very discouraging. However, as 
there was no remedy, I set oiJ for the village, 
wliere I found, to m}' great mortification, that 
no person would admit me into his house. I 
was regarded with astonishment and fear, and 
was obliged to sit all day, without victuals, in 
the shade of a tree. Tlie night threatened to 
be very uncomfortable, for tlie wind rose, and 
there was a great appearance of a heavy rain ; 
and the wild beasts are so very numerous in 
the neigliborhood that I should be under the 
necessity of climbing up the tree, and resting 
amongst the branches. About sunset, however, 
as I was preparing to pass the night in this 
manner, and liad turned my horse loose, that he 
might graze at liberty, a woman, returning from 
the labors of the field, stopped to observe me, 
and perceiving that I was weary and dejected, 
inquired into my situation, which I briefly ex- 
jilanied to her; wliereupon, with looks of great 
compassion, she took up my saddle and bridle, 
and told me to follow her. 


Having conducted me into her hut, she 
liglited ui» a lamp, spi-ead a mat upon the floor, 
and told me tliat I might remain there for the 
night. Finding that I was very hungry, she 
said that she would procure me something to 
eat. She according!}'' went out, and returned 
in a short time with a very fine fish, which, 
having caused to be half-broiled upon some 
embers, she gave me for supper. The rites of 
hospitality being thus performed towards a 
stranger in distress, my worthy benefactress — 
pointing to the mat, and telling me I might 
sleep there without apprehension — called to 
the female part of her family, who had stood 
gazing upon me all the while in fixed astonish- 
ment, to resume their task of sjiinning cotton, 
in which they continued to employ themselves 
great part of the night. They lightened their 
labor by songs — one of which was composed 
extempore, for I was myself the subject of it. 
It was sung by one of the young women, the 
rest joining in a sort of chorus. The air 
was sweet and plaintive, and the words, liter- 
ally translated, were these : — 

"The winds roared, and the rains fell. The poor 
white man, faint and weai-y, came and sat under our 
tree. He lias no mother to bring him milk — no wife 
to grind his corn. (Chorus.) Let us pity the white 
man — no mother has he to bring him milk — no wife 
to grind his corn." 

Trifling as this recital may appear to the 
reader, to a person in my situation the circum- 
stance v/as affecting in the highest degree. I 
was oppressed b}' such unexpected kindness, 
and sleej) fled from my eyes. In the morning 
I presented in}' compassionate landlady with 
two of the four brass buttons which remained 
on my waistcoat — the only recompense I could 
make her. — I^ar/c's Travda. 


PARKER, Theodore, an Aiiieiicaii 
clersi^v'niaii, born at Lexington, Mass., in 
1810"; died at Florence, Italy, in 1860. He 
worked on his father's small farm until the 
age of seventeen, when he began to teacii 
during the winter in a district school. In 
1880 he entered Harvard College, but stud- 
ied at home, only being present at the col- 
lege for examinations. In 1831 he opened a 
flourishing private school at Watertown, 
Mass. In 183-1 he entered the Divinity 
School at Cambridge. He had already mas- 
tered Latin, Greek, Hebrew, German, 
French, and Spanisli ; he now added Arabic, 
Syriac, Danish, and Swedish to the list. In 
1837 he became pastor of the Unitarian 
Cliurch at West Roxbury, Mass. But tiie 
views wliich he had formed in regard to 
the inspiration of the Bible and some other 
subjects were not in accord with those 
held by the denomination, and led to a 
sharp controversy which in 1845 resulted 
in the formation of a new religious society 
at Boston that took the name of the 
"Twenty-eighth Congregational Society." 
His labors as minister to this Society were 
brought to a close in January, 1859, by a 
sudden attack, while in the pulpit, of bleed- 
ing at the lungs. He went to the island 
(if Santa Cruz in February; thence sailed 
for Europe, passing the winter at Rome ; 
whence, in April, 1860, lie proceeded to 
Florence, where he died on May 10. and 
was buried in the Protestant cemeteiy 
outside the walls. 

Mr. Parker publislied several transla- 
tic)ns from the German, the most important 
of whicli is that, with additions, of De 
Wette's Introduction to the Old Testament 
(1843). He contributed to The Dial, and 


other magazines ; und from IS-iT to 1850 
was editor of The Massachusetts Quarterly. 
A collected edition of his Works^ edited 
by Frances Power Cobbe, in twelve vol- 
umes, was put forth at London in 1865 ; 
and another in ten volumes, edited by 
H. B. Fuller, in 1870. The volume Historio 
Americans^ first published in 1870, was 
first delivered as a series of popular lec- 
tures. His Life Jind Correspondence., edited 
by John Weiss, was published in 1864, and 
his Life by O B. Frothingham, in 1874. 


In his person Washington was six feet high 
and rather slender. His limbs were long; his 
7ands were uncommonly large; his chest broad 
and full ; his head was exactly round, and the 
hair, brown in manhood, but gray at fifty; his 
forehead rather low and retreating; the nose 
large and massy ; the mouth wide and firm ; the 
chin square and heav}' ; the cheeks full and ruddy 
in early life. His eyes were blue and handsome, 
but not quick or nervous ; he required spectacles 
to read with at fifty. He was one of the best 
riders in the United States ; but, like some other 
good riders, awkward and shambling in his walk. 

He was stately in Ins bearing, reserved, dis- 
tant, and apparently haughty. Shy among 
women, he was not a great talker in any com- 
pany, but a careful observer and listener. He 
read the natural temper of men, but not alwaj's 
aright. He seldom smiled. He did not laugh 
with his face, but in his body ; and while all 
was calm above, below the diaphragm his laugh- 
ter was copious and earnest. Like many grave 
persons he was fond of jokes, and loved humor- 
ous stories. He had negro story-tellers to re- 
gale him with fun and anecdotes at Mount 
Vernon. He had a hearty love of farming and 
of j»rivate life. 

He was one of the most industrious of men. 
Not an elegant or ;tccurate writer, he yet took 


'jfivat pains with i?tyle ; and after the Revolu- 
tion, carefull}' corrected the letters he had writ- 
ten in the French War, more than thirty years 
befoi'c. He was no orator, like Jeft'erson, Frank- 
lin, Madison, and others, who had great intluence 
in American affairs. He never made a speech. 
The public papers were drafted for him, and he 
read them when the occasion came. 

Washington was no democrat. Like the 
Federal party he belonged to, he had little cotifi- 
dence in the people. He thought more of the 
Judicial and Executive departments than of the 
Legislative body. He loved a strong central 
power, not local self-government. In his ad- 
ministration as President he attempted to unite 
the two parties — the Federal party -with its 
tendency to monarch}', and perhaps desire for 
it, and the Democratic part}-, which thought 
the Government was already too strong. There 
was a quarrel between Hamilton and Jefferson, 
who unavoidably' hated each other. The Dem- 
ocrats would not serve in Washington's Cabinet. 
The violent, arbitrary', and invasive will of 
Hamilton acquired an undue influence over the 
mind of Washington, who was beginning at the 
age of sixty-four to feel tlie effects of age; and 
he inclined more to severe laws and consoli- 
dated power; while, on the other part, the nation 
became more and more democratic. Wasliing- 
ton went on his own way, and yet filled the 
Cabinet with men less tolerant of Republican- 
ism than himself. 

Of all the great men whom Virginia has 
produced, Washington was least like the State 
that bore him. He is not Southern in many 
particulars. In character he is as much a New 
Englander as either Adams. Yet, wondei-ful to 
tell, he never understood New England. The 
slaveholdei*, bred in Virginia, could not compre- 
hend a state of society where the captain or the 
colonel came from the same class as the com- 
mon soldier, and that off duty they should be 
equals. He thought common soldiers should 
only be providied with food and clothes, an4 have 


no pay; their families sliould not be provided 
for hy the state. He wanted the officers to be 
"gentlemen," and, as much as possible, sepa- 
rated from the soldier. He never understood 
Kevv England, never loved it, and never did it 
full justice. 

It has been said that Washington was not a 
great soldier. But certainly he created an 
army out of the roughest materials ; out-gener- 
alled all that Britain could send against him; 
and in the midst of poverty and distress organ- 
ized victory. He was not brilliant and rapid. 
He was slow, defensive, and victorious. He 
made "an empty bag stand upright '' — which 
Franklin says is "hard." 

Some men command the world, or hold its 
admiration, by their Ideas or by their Intellect. 
Washington had neither original ideas nor a 
deeply-cultured mind. He commands us by 
his Integrity, by his Justice. He loved power 
by instinct, and strong government by reflec- 
tive choice. Twice he was made Dictator, 
with absolute power, and never abused the aw- 
ful and despotic trust. The monarchic soldiers 
and civilians would have made him a Kino-. 
He trampled on their offer, and went back to 
his fields of corn and tobacco at Mount Vernon. 
The grandest act of his public life was to give 
up his power; the most magnanimous act of his 
private life was to liberate his slaves. 

Washington was the first man of his type ; 
when will there be another ? As yet the 
American rhetoricians do not dare tell half his 
excellence. Cromwell is the greatest Anglo- 
Saxon who was ever a ruler on a large scale. 
In intellect he was immenselj^ superior to 
Washington ; in integrity immeasurably below 
him. P\)r one thousand years no king in 
Christendom has shown such greatness as 
Washington, or given us so high a type of 
manly virtue. He never dissembled. He 
sought nothing for himself. In him there was 
no unsound spot ; nothing little or mean in his 
character. The whole was clean and present- 


able. We tliiiik better of mankind because he 
lived, adorning tlie earth with a life so noble. 

God tie tlianked for such a man. Shall we 
make an idol of him, and worship it with 
huzzas on the Fourth of July, and with stupid 
rhetoric on other days ? Shall we build him a 
great monument, founding it upon aslave-jjeu ? 
His glory already covers the continent. More 
than two hundred places bear his name. He 
is revered as " The Father of his Country." 
The people are his memorial. — Historic Ameri- 


Father, I will not ask for wealth or fame, 
Though once they would have joyed ray car- 
nal sense ; 
I shudder not to bear a hated name, 

Wanting all wealth — myself my sole defence. 
But give me, Lord, e^^es to behold the truth, 

A seeing sense that knows eternal right, 
A lieart with pity filled, and gentle ruth, 

A manly faith that makes all darkness 
Give me the power to labor for mankind ; 
jVIake me the mouth of those that cannot 
speak ; 
Eves let me be to groping men and blind ; 

A conscience to the base ; and to the weak 
Let me be hands and feet ; and to the foolish, 
mind ; 
And lead still further on such as Thy king- 
dom seek. 


PARKMAN, Francis, an American 
historian, born at Boston in 1823. He 
graduated at Harvard in 1844; studied 
law for about two years, then travelled 
for a year in Europe. Early in 1844, and 
again in 1846, he set out to explore the 
Rocky Mountain region. During the last 
expedition he lived for several months 
among the Dakota Indians and other tribes 
still more remote, suffering hardsliips and 
privations whicli permanently impaired his 
health, and before long resulted in partial 
blindness. He gave an account of his ex- 
plorations in the Knickerhocker Magazine. 
These papers were subsequently ptiblished 
in a vohime entitled: The California mid 
Orefjon Trail (1849). Notwithstanding 
liis enfeebled health aud impaired vision 
he resolved to devote himself to liistorical 
labors involving laborious research, the sub- 
ject chosen being the doings of the Rise 
and Fall of the French Dominion in Nortli 
AniL^ica, with special reference to the 
efforts of tlie eai'ly Catholic missionaries, 
llie volumes are in a series of monographs, 
and they were produced without special 
reference to the chronological order of 
events. At various times (in 1858, 1868, 
1872, 1880, and 1884) he went to France 
in order to examine the French archives 
bearing upon his historical labors. The 
volumes of the "• New France " series 
appeared in the following ordei' : The Con- 
spiracy of Pontiac (1851), Pioneers of 
France in the Neiv World (1865), Jesuits 
in North America (1867), Discovery of the 
Great West (1869), The Old RSyime in 
Canada (1874). Count Frontenac and, New 
France under Louis XIV. (1877), Mont' 
calm and Wolfe (1884), and The Oregon 
Trail (1890). 



The manifold ills of France were summed 
up in King Louis XV. He did not want uu- 
(lerstanding, still less the graces of person. In 
his youth the people called him " The Well- 
beloved," but by the middle of the century 
they so detested him that he dared not pass 
through Paris lest the mob should execrate 
him. He had not the vigor of the true tyrant; 
but his languor, his hatred of all effort, his pro- 
found selfishness, his listless disregard of pub- 
lic duty, and his effeminate libertinism, mixed 
with superstitious devotion, made him no less 
a national curse. Louis Xlll. was equally 
unfit to govern, but he gave the reins to the 
Great Cardinal Kichelieu. Louis XV. aban- 
doned them to a frivolous mistress, contented 
that she should rule on condition of amusing him. 
It was a hard task ; yet Madame de Pompa- 
dour accomplished it by methods infamous to 
hira and to her. She gained and long kept the 
power that she coveted ; filled the Bastile with 
her enemies ; made and unmade ministers ; 
appointed and removed generals. Great ques- 
tions of policy were at the mercy of her ca- 
prices. Through her frivolous vanity, her per- 
sonal likes and dislikes, all the great depart- 
ments of government changed from hand to 
hand incessantly; and this at a time of crisis, 
when the kingdom needed the steadiest and 
the surest guidance. The King stinted her in 
nothing. Pirst and last, she cost him thirty 
millions of francs — answering now to more 
than as many million dollars. — Montcalm and 


The four northern colonies were known 
collectively as New England : Massachusetts 
may serve as a type of all. It was a mosaic of 
little village republics, firmly cemented to- 
gether, and formed into a single body politic 
through representatives sent to the " General 
Court" at Boston. Its government, originally 


theocratic, now tended towards democracy, 
ballasted as yet by strong traditions of respect 
for established worth and ability, as well 
as by the influence of certain families promi- 
nent in aft'airs for generations. .Yet there were 
no distinct class-lines, and popular power, like 
popular education, was widely diffused. 

Practically Massachusetts was almost inde- 
pendent of the Mother Country. Its people 
were purely English, of good yeoman stock, 
with an abundant leaven drawn from the best 
of the Puritan gentry ; but their original char- 
acter had been somewhat modified by changed 
conditions of life. A harsh and exacting creed, 
with its stiff formalism, and its prohibition of 
wholesome recreation ; excess in the pursuit of 
gain — the only resource left to energies robbed 
of their natural play; the struggle for exist- 
ence on a hard and barit-n soil; and the isola- 
tion of a narrow village life — joined to produce 
in the meaner sorts qualities wdiich were un- 
pleasant, and sometimes repulsive. 

Puritanism was not an unmixed blessing. Its 
view of human nature was dark, and its attitude 
was one of repression. It strove to crush out 
not only what is evil, but much that is innocent 
and salutary. Human nature so treated will 
take its revenge, and for every vice that it loses 
find another instead. Nevertheless, while New 
England Puritanism bore its peculiar crop of 
faults, it also produced many sound and good 
fruits. An uncommon vigor, joined to the 
hardy virtues of a masculine race, marked the 
New England type. The sinews, it is true, 
were hardened at the expense of blood and 
flesh — and this literally as well as figuratively; 
but the staple of character was a sturdj- con- 
scientiousness, an understanding coui-age, patri- 
otism, public sagacity and a strong good sense. 

The New England Colonies abounded in 
high examples of public and private virtue, 
though not always under prepossessing forms. 
There were few New En glanders, however per- 
sonally modest, who could divest themselves 


of the notion that they belunged to a people in 
un especial manner the object of divine ap- 
proval ; and thus self-rigliteousness — along with 
certain other traits — failed to coniniend the 
Puritan colonies to the favor of their fellows. 
Then, as now, New England was best known 
to her neighbors by her worst side. — Montcalm 
and Wolfe. 


The great colony of Virginia stood in strong 
contrast to New England. In both the popula- 
tion was English ; but the one was Puritan, 
with "Koundhead" traditions; and the other, 
so far as concerned its governing class,, was 
Anglican, with '• Cavalier " traditions. In the 
one, every man, woman, and child could read 
and write. In the other, 8ir William Berkeley 
once thanked God that there were no free 
schools, and no prospect of an_y for a century. 
The hope had found fi'uition. The lower classes 
of Virginia were as untaught as the warmest 
friend of popular ignorance could wish. New 
England had a native literature more than 
respectable under the circumstances, while 
Virginia had none ; numerous industries, while 
Virginia was all agriculture, with a single 
crop. New England had a homogeneous 
society and a democratic spirit, while her rival 
was an aristocracy". 

Virginian society was distinctly stratified. 
On the lowest level were the negro slaves, 
near]_y as iiumerous as all the rest together. 
Next, the indented servants and the "poor 
whites," of low origin ; good-humored, but 
boisterous, and sometimes vicious. Next, the 
small and despised class of tradesmen and 
mechanics. Next, the farmers and lesser 
planters, who were mainly of good English 
stock, who merged insensibly into the ruling 
class of the great land-owners. 

It was these last who represented the colony 
and made the laws. They may be described as 
the English country S(^uires transported to a 


warm climate, and turned slave-masters. They 
sustained their position by entails, and con- 
stantly undermined it by tlie reckless pro- 
fusion which ruined them at last. Many of them 
were well-born, with immense pride of descent, 
increased by the habit of domination. Indolent 
and energetic by turns ; rich in natural gifts, 
and often poor in book-learning; high-spirited, 
generous to a fault; keeping open house in their 
capacious mansions, among vast tobacco-lields 
and toiling negroes; and living in a rude pomp 
where the fashions of Ht. James were some- 
what oddly grafted on the roughness of the 

What they wanted in schooling was supplied 
b}'^ an education which books alone would 
have been impotent to give — the education 
which came with the possession and exercise 
of political power ; and the sense of a position 
to maintain, joined to a bold S2)irit of independ- 
ence and a patriotic attachment to the -' Old 
Dominion.'"' They were few in number; they 
raced, gambled, drank, and swore ; they did 
everything that in Puritan eyes was most re- 
prehensible, and in the day of need they gave 
to the United Colonies a body of statesmen and 
orators which had no equal on the continent. 
Montcalm a7id Wolfe. 


Pennsylvania differed widely from both New 
England and Virginia. She was a conglomer- 
ate of creeds and races, English, Irish, Gei-- 
mans, Dutch, and Swedes ; Quakers, Lutherans, 
Presb\'terians, Romanists, Moravians, and a 
variety of nondescript sects. The Quakers pre- 
vailed in the eastern districts : quiet, industri- 
ous, virtuous, and serenely obstinate. The 
Germans were strongest towards the centre of 
the colony, and were chiefly peasants ; successful 
farmers, but dull, ignorant, and superstitious. 
Towards the west were the Irish, of wliom some 
were Celts, always quarrelling with their Ger- 
man neighbors, who detested them ; but the 


gi-eater part were Protestants of Scotch descent, 
from Ulster ; u vigorous border population. 

Virginia and New England had a strong, dis- 
tinctive character; Pennsylvania, with her 
heterogeneous population, had none but that 
which she owed to the sober, neutral tints of 
Quaker existence. A more thriving colony 
there was not on the continent. Life, if 
monotonous, was smooth and contented ; trade 
and the arts grew. Philadelpliia, next to 
Boston, was the largest town in British 
America ; and intellectual centre of the mid- 
dle and southern colonies. Unfortunately for 
her credit in the approaching French and 
English war, the Quaker influence made 
Pennsylvania non-combatant. Politically, too, 
she was an anomaly ; for though utterly un- 
feudal in disposition and character, she was 
under feudal superiors in the persons of the 
representatives of William Penn, the original 
grantee. — 3Io)itcahn and Wolfe. 


New France was all head. Under king, no- 
ble, and Jesuit, the lank, lean bod}'^ would not 
thrive. Even commerce wore the sword, decked 
itself with badges of nobility, aspired to forest 
seigniories and hordes of savage retainers. 

Along the borders of the sea an adverse 
power was strengthening and widening, with 
slow but steadfast growth, full of blood and 
muscle ; — a body without a head. Each had 
its strength, each its weakness, each its own 
modes of vigorous life; but the one was fruit- 
ful, the other barren ; the one instinct with 
hope, the other darkening with shadows of 

By name, local position, and character, one 
of these communities of freemen stands forth 
as the most conspicuous representative of this 
antagonism : — Liberty and Absolutism, New 
England and New France. — Pioneer^ of 
J^rance iyi the New World. 


PARNELL, Thomas, a British poet, 
born at Dublin in 1769; died at Chester, 
Enghxnd, in 1717. He was educated at 
the College of Dublin, took Orders, and 
was made Archdeacon of Cloghei- in 1705 ; 
but the greater part of his mature life was 
jiassed in England, where he became inti- 
mate with Swift, Arbuthnot and Pope, 
whom he assisted in the translation of tlie 
Iliad. A selection from his Poems^ edited 
by Pope, appeared in 1722. His best 
j)ieces are two odes, A Night-jnece on 
Deaths The Humn to Contentment^ and The 
Hermit^ which has been pronounced to 
form "the apex and chef d/ceuvre of 
Augustan poetry of England." In The 
Hermit, a venerable recluse leaves his cell, 
and sets out to survey the busy world. On 
his journey he falls in with a youth who 
perpetrates various acts which excite the 
indignation of the Hermit ; but the youth 
suddenly assumes his proper form of an 
Angelic Messenger; and, addressing the 
Hei-mit, he explains his mysterious pro- 


" The Maker justly claims that world He 

made ; 
In this tlie right of Providence is laid ; 
Its sacred majesty through all depends 
On using second means to work llis ends. 
'Tis thus, witlidrawii in state from human eye, 
The power exerts His attributes on high, 
Your actions uses, nor controls your will, 
And bids tlie doubting sons of men be still. 
What strange events can strike with more 

Than those whicli lately caught my wondering 

eyes ? [just, 

Yet taught by these, confess the Almighty 
And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust. 


" The great, vain man, who fared on costly food, 
Whose life was too luxurious to be good, 
Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, 
And forced his guests to morning draughts of 

Has with the cup the graceless custom lost ; 
And still bo welcomes, but with less of cost. 
The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted 

Ne'er moved in duty to the wandering poor : 
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 
That heaven can bless if mortals will be kind. 
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, 
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. 
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead 
With heaping coals of fire upon its head ; 
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, 
And loose from dross, the silver runs below. 

"Long had our pious friend in virtue trod ; 
But now the child half-weaned his heart from 

Child of his age, for him he lived in pain, 
And measured back his steps to earth again. 
To what excesses had his dotage run. 
But God, to save the father, took the son. 
To all but thee in fits he seemed to go. 
And 'twas my ministry that struck the blow. 
The poor, fond parent, humbled in the dust, 
Now owns in tears the punishment was just. — • 
But how had all his fortune felt a wrack. 
Had that false servant sped in safety back ! 
This night his treasured heaps he meant to 

And what a fund of charity would fail. — 
Thus Pleaveu instructs thy mind. This trial 

Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more." 
On sounding pinions here the youth with- 
drew ; 
The sage stood wondering as the seraj^h flew. 
Thus looked Elisha when to mount on high 
His master took the chariot of the sky ; 
The fiery pomp, ascending, left the view ; 
The prophet gazed, and wished to follow too. 


The bending hermit here a prayer begun: 

''■ Lord ! as in heaven, on earth Thy will be 

done ! " 
Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place, 
And passed a life of piety and peace. 

From The UermiL 


The silent heart, which grief assails. 
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales, 
Sees daisies open, rivers run, 
And seeks — as I have vai'nly done — 
Amusing thought ; but learns to know 
That solitude's the nurse of woe. 

No real happiness is found 
In trailing purple o'er the ground: 
Or in a soul exalted high. 
To range the circuit of the sky, 
Converse with, stars above, and know 
All nature in its forms below; 
The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, 
And doubts at last for knowledge rise. ' 
Lovely, lasting Peace, appear ! 
Tliis world itself, if thou art here, 
Is once again with Eden blest, 
And man contains it in his breast. 

'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, 
I sang my wishes to the wood; 
And, lost in thought, no more perceived 
The branches whisper as the}' waved. 
It seemed, as all the quiet place 
Confessed the presence of the Grace ; 
When thus she spake : '■' Go, rule thy will. 
Bid thy wild passions all be still ; 
Know God, and bring thy heart to know 
The joys which from religion flow ; 
Then every Grace shall prove its guest, 
And I'll be there to crown the rest." 

Oh ! by yonder mossy seat. 
In my hours of sweet retreat. 
Might I thus my soul employ, ^ 
With sense of gratitude and joy. 
liaised, as ancient prophets were, 


In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer; 
Pleasing ulJ men, liurting none, 
Pleased and blessed with God alone. 
Then while the j^rardens take my sight, 
With all the colors of delight, 
Wliile silver waters glide along 
To please my ear and tune my song, 
I'll lift my voice, and tune my sti-iiig, 
A.u(l Thee, great source of nature, sing. 

The sun that walks his airy way. 
To light the world and give the day; 
The moon that shines with borrowed light; 
The stars that gild the gloomy night ; 
The seas that roll unnumbered waves ; 
The wood that spreads its shad}' leaves ; 
The fields whose ears conceal the grain, 
The yellow treasure of the plain : 
All of these, and all I see. 
Should be sung, and sung by me. 
They speak their Maker as they can. 
But want and ask the tongue of man. 
Go, search among j'our idle dreams. 
Your busy or your vain extremes, 
And find a life of equal bliss. 
Or own the next begun in this. 

From Hymn to Contentment, 

HAi;!;lET PARR.— 1 

PARR, Harriet (Holme Lee, josewcZ.), 
an English author, born in York, England, 
in 1828. She has written many stories and 
novels, under the pen-name of " Holme 
Lee," which have been popular. Among 
them are : Maud Talbot (1854), Gilbert 
Massenger (1854), Thoryiey Hall (1855), 
Kathie Brande (1856), S't/lva^i UoWs JJavgli- 
ter (1858), Againi<t Wind and Tide (1859), 
JIawksview (1859), The Wortlibank Diary 
(18()0), The Wonderfid Adventures of Tvf- 
longbo and his Elfn L'om2:)any in their 
Journey with Little Content tlircugh the 
Enchanted Foxest (1861), WV/rjw c/^^f? Woof ; 
or^ The Reminiscences of Doris Fletcher 
(1861), Annis Warleigh's Fortunes (1863), 
In the iSilver Age : Essays (1864), The 
Life and Death of Jeanne D' Are^ called the 
Maid (1866), Mr. Wyiacard's Ward (1867), 
Basil Godfrey s Caprice (1868). Contrast; 
or the iSchoolfellous (1868), M. and E. de 
Guerin (1870), For Richer^ for Poorer 
(1870), Her Title of Honor (1871). The 
Beautiful Miss Harrington {1^11'), Country 
Stories^ Old and N^ew ; in prose o7id verse 
(1872), Echoes of a Famous Year : the 
story of the Franco- German War (1872), 
Katherine's Trial (1873), The Vicissitudes 
of Bessie Fairfax (1874), This Work-a-day 
World (1875), Ben Miller's Wooing (IS^I 6), 
Straightforivard (1 878), Mrs. Denys of 
Cote ' (1880), A Poor Squire (1882), and 
Loving and Serving (1883). 

Joan's home. 

Joan's time was her own for two hours of 
an fiftenioon, and .she always spent them up- 
stairs with her books alone. Her room told 
something of her life. The bart^ floor, the old 
clothes-chest, the pallet bed, with a thin, hard 
inattress, ^nd shell-pattefued coverlet, white ag 


driven snow, her last winter's night handiwork, 
knitted as slie read, were tlie outward signs of 
her peasant condition. Her tastes, modest 
and intellectual, appeared in the garland of 
sinall-lcaved ivy twisted round the frame of 
her misty, oval looking-glass, in the woodcuts 
of good pictures fastened on the walls, and in 
the books ranged on the mantle-shelf, on the 
windowsills, and a few, the most precious, on 
two hanging-shelves edged with scarlet cloth, 
another gift from her cousin Niclnjlas. . . . 

This afternoon when her book was laid by, 
the shadow of her self-reproach soon passed. 
She had a great gift of being happy : of en- 
joying those good things of eartli which nobody 
envies and nobody covets because they are com- 
mon to all. Her childhood was a bright, a 
blessed background to look forward from into 
life. She stood at her open lattice, gazing over 
the wide meadows by the Lea, where red herds 
of cattle were feeding. She saw the blue sky 
far away, the sweep of distant hills, the dark- 
ness of thick woods, and the}' were pleasure 
to her. She had a mind free to receive all new 
impressions of beauty : but her heart was stead- 
fast and strong in keeping its best affection 
for old t3'pes. . . 

At sixteen we all look for a happy life. Joan 
fell into a dream of one as she stood, and was 
quite raj)t away. The minutes passed swiftly, 
unconsciously. She did not hear her mother 
call from the stair's-foot, " Joan, father's got 
home from Whorlstone." She did not even 
liear her chamber door open ; and her mother 
entered, and observed her air and attitude of 
total abstraction without disturbing her. 

"Joan, has thou fallen asleep standing, like 
the doctor's horse at a gate ? " said she, and 
laid a hand on her shoulder. Then Joan came 
back to herself, and started into laughing life. 

"I don't know what I've been dreaming 
about, mother — it's a drowsy day, I think ; " 
and drawing a long breath, she stretched her 


arms above her bead, tbeii flung them wide to 
shake oft" her lethargy. 

"And thou's not dressed, my love. Fatber'll 
like to see thee dressed. Make haste, or 
they'll be herefrom Aslileigh afore thou's read\'." 

'' Stay and help me then, mother," pleaded 
Joan, who dearly liked to be helped by her 

" What o' the cakes in the oven ? They'll 
burn if they're not watched. I'll step down 
an' look at em', an' come back — only don't lose 
any more time, joy, Father's asked for thee 

Joan's was not a coquettish toilette. To be 
clean as a primrose was its first principle. Her 
hair, coax it as she would, had a rufflesome look 
at the best, being curl}' and not uniform in tint, 
but brown in meshes and golden in threads, like 
hair that maturity darkens. The fashion of it, 
braided above the ear, and knotted in a large 
coil at the back of her head, was according 
to Mrs. Paget's instructions, and was never 
varied. The st3'le and material of her dresses 
were also according to her godmother's orders 
— washing prints, rather short in the skirt, for 
stepping clear over the ground, high to the 
throat an<l loose in the sleeve — lilac, as most 
serviceable, for every da}' wear, and pink or 
blue spotted for summer Sundays. She put on 
now a new pink spot that had quite a look of 
Ma}'. Her mother fastened it at the neck, and 
retiring a pace or two to view the effect, pro- 
nounced it very neat, only a trifle too short. 

'•' Shoi-t skirts an' cardinal capes won't keep 
you a bairn much longer, Joan ; you'll be a 
woman soon in spite o' godmother," said she, 
and kissed her tenderly. 

" That must have been what I was dreaming 
of," replied Joan, and as she spoke, again the 
far-away, abstracted gaze came into her eyes. 

But her mother would not let her relapse 
into musing. She heard voices and feet at the 
gate ; and there were the cousins from Ash- 
leigh, — Basil Godfrey's Caprice. 


PARSONS, Thkophilus, aii American 

author, boiu at Ne\vburyj)ort, Mass., in 
1797 ; died at C'anibiidge, Mass., iu 1882. 
He was the son of Theu})lnlus Parsons, a 
noted jurist of Massaciiusetts, was grad- 
uated at Ilarvartl in 1815, studied law, 
and practised in Taunton and Boston. For 
several years lie engaged in literary' pursuits 
and founded and edited the United States 
Free Preas. From 1847 till 1882, he was 
Dane professor of law in Harvard, which 
gave him the degree of LL.D in 1849. He 
published a memoir of his father (^1859), 
and seveial works on Swedenborgianism, 
including three volumes of Assays (1845), 
Deus Homo (1867), The Infinite and the 
Finite (1872), and Outlines of the Religion 
and Philosophy of Swedenborg (1875). His 
law-books include : The Laiv of Conscience 
(1853; 5th ed. 1864), Elements of Mercan- 
tile Laio (1856), Laws of Business for Busi- 
ness Men (1857). Maritime Law (1859), 
Notes and Bills of Exchange (1862), Ship- 
ping and Admiralty (1869), and The Po- 
litical, Personal, and Property Rights of a 
Citizen of the United States (1875^. 


I have spoken of the perpetual swell and 
heaving of the sea ; there is also its tide. 
SIiakesi>eare tells us that there is a tide in the 
affairs of men. Certairily there is a tide in the 
minds of men. He must be very unobservant 
of himself who does not know that the mind 
rises and falls, that it swells into fulness and 
strength, and then fades into emptiness and 
weakness, we know not how, we know not 
why. Formerly the tides of the sea were also 
a great mystery. Slowly did observation dis- 
close that they were under the influence of the 
moon, and, still later, of the sun. Science, 


accepting this fact as the basis of its in- 
quir}', has, for years, been engaged in the in- 
vestigation of the tides, and cannot yet answer 
all the questions presented by their flow and 
ebb. So with the tides of the mind. The 
philosophy of mind lias been occupied with 
them from the beginning of thought, and has 
made little or no progress. We, however, are 
taught now, that the ever-flowing and ebbing 
tides of the mind are caused and governed by 
our faith and b}' our love ; first and most, or 
most directly, by our faith, which has most to 
do with intellectual tilings, and which tlie 
moon, that gives light only, represents ; and 
also by our k)ve, which the sun, that is the 
soyrce of heat, represents. Let tlie science of 
mind accept this truth as the law of its in- 
quiry, and it may wisely and successfully em- 
ploy itself in the investigation of the tides of 
the mind. We liave seen that the perpetual 
motion of the sea tends to preserve it in a 
healthful condition. ' Once I was becalmed in 
mid-ocean for a few days only, and during all 
of them the great swell of the ocean rose and 
fell. But in this short time the smooth sur- 
face of tlie sea seemed to put on an oily aspect ; 
unwholesome patches became visible here and 
there, and in spots it looked thick and turbid. 
A great poet, with all tlie truth of poetry, 
which is sometimes truer than science, has 
thus described a long, unbroken calm and its 
effect. Coleridge represents his ancient mar- 
iner as reaching a tropical sea, and there — 

" Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 
'Twas sad as sad could be, 
And we did speak only to break 
The silence of that sea. 

All in a hot and copper sky, 

The bloody sun at noon 
Right up above the mast did stand, 

No bigger than the moon. 

Day after day, day after day, 
W'e stuck, nor breath nor motion: 

As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 


The very doop did rot ; Christ! 
That iner this should Iks! 
Yea, slimy thiujis did crawl with legs 
Upon that slimy s(^al " 

As I read tliis word-painting, it presents to 
me a picture of a mind wliich tlie sweet influ- 
ences of iieaven, tlie sun, tlie moon, and wind of 
tlie spirit, are wholly unable to move or stir 
into any activity-. And in that poetry I see how 
such a mind must stagnate, an<l [)urn'fy, until 
" slimy things do crawl upon that slimy sea." 

But not this motion only tends to preserve the 
waters of the sea in their liealthy condition, 
so that they may nourish the immeasuralde 
amount of life which they contain, and con- 
tinue fie to bear men safely across their sur- 
face. For it is the salt ia the sea which is its 
great preservative. 

We all know, that to keep food eatable for a 
great length of time, we salt it down. But 
salt is just as necessary and \iseful for food we 
daily consume. The reason of this, or the 
effect of salt upon the digestion and health, is 
not yet fully understood. . . . 

Nor let us forget, that it has already been 
discovered by tliese physical investigations, that 
in the depths of the sea, and at their very 
bottom, there also is life. For it may teach 
us, that far down in the depths of the human 
mind, far beyond our reach or our conscious- 
ness, there may be forms and modes of life, 
whicli may be the beginning of the intellectual 
life, and the earliest links of that series which 
comes up afterwards before our consciousness, 
and gradually constitutes the wide world of 
our kuovvledge. — £ssays. 


PARSONS, Thomas William, Amer- 
ican poet, born at Boston in 1819. He was 
educated at the Boston Latin Suhnol; and 
in 1836 visited Italy, where he made Dante 
a special study. In 1853 lie took ihe de- 
<;ree of M.D. at Haiwaid : and for several 
years practised dentistry at Boston. In 
1843 he i)ublished a translation of the first 
ten cantos of Dante's Inferno, and the re- 
maining cantos in 1867. His original 
works are : Ghetto di Roma, a volume of 
poems (1854), The Magnolia (1867), The 
Old House at Sudbury (1870), Tlte i^hadow 
of the Obelisk (1872). 


See, from this counterfeit of liira 

Whom Ariio sliall remember long, 
How stern of lineament, liow grim, 

Tile fatlier was of Tuscan song. 

Tiiere but the burning sense of wrong, 
Perpetual care and scorn abide ; 

Small friendsliip for the lordly throng; 
Distrust of all tlie world beside. 

Faitliful if this wan image be, 

No dream liis life was — but a fight ; 
Could any Beatrice see 

A lover in that Ancliorite ? 

To that cold Ghiltelline's gloomy sight. 
Who could have guessed that visions came 

Of Beauty, veiled with heavenly light. 
In circles of eternal flame ? 

The lips as Cnmre's cavern close, 

The cheeks, with fast and sorrow thin, 

The rigid front, almost morose. 
But for the patient hope within, 
Declare a life whose course hath been 

Unsullied still, though still severe; 

Which, through the wavering days of siQy 

Kept itself icy-chaste and clear. 


Not wholly such liis haggard look 

When wandering once forlorn he strayed, 
With no companion save his book, 

To Corvo's hushed monastic shade ; 

Wliere, as the Benedictine laid 
His palm upon the pilgrim guest, 

The single boon for which he prayed 
The convent's charity was Rest. 

Peace dwells not liere : this rugged face 

Betrays no spirit of repose, 
The sullen warrior sole we trace, 

The marble nnin of many woes. 

Such was his mien when first arose 
The thought of that strange tale divine, 

When Hell he peopled with his foes, 
The scourge of many a guilty line. 

War to the last he waged with all 

Tlie tyrant canker-worms of earth : 
Baron and Duke, in hold and hall, 

Cursed the dark huur that gave him birth. 

Reused Rome's Harlot for his mirth; 
Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime ; 

But valiant souls of knightly worth 
Transmitted to the rolls of Time. 

Time ! whose judgments mock our own^ 
The only righteous Judge art thou : 

That poor old exile, sad and lone. 
Is Latium's other Virgil now : 
Before his name the nations bow ; 

His words are parcels of mankind, 

Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow, 

The marks have sunk of Dante's mind. 


1 watched the swans in that proud Park 
Which Englaiui's Queen looks out upon^ 

I sat there till the dewy dark : — 
And every otlier soul was gone; 
And sitting, silent, all alone, 

I seemed to hear a spirit say: 

Be calm — the night is ; never moan 

For friendships that have passed away. 


The swans that vanished from thy sight 

Will come to-morrow, at their hour; 
But when thy joys have taken flight, 

To bring them back no praj'er hath power. 

'Tis the world's law: and why deplore 
A doom that from thy birth was fate ? 

True 'tis a bitter word — "No more!" 
But look beyond this mortal state. 

Believ'st thou in eternal things? 

Thou feel est in thy inmost heart 
Thou art not clay — thy soul hath wings; 

And what thou seest is but part. 

Make this thy medicine for the smart 
Of every day's distress ; be dumb. 

In each new loss, thou truly art 
Tasting the power of things to come. 


For one who fell in battle. 

Room for a Soldier ! lay him in the clover; 

He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover; 

Make his mound with hers who called him once 
her lover: 

Wiierethe rain may rain upon it, 
Wiiere the sun may shine upon it, 
Where the lamb hath lain upon it, 
And the bee will dine upon it. 

Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches 
Take him to the fragrant fields by the silver 

Where the whip-poor-will shall mourn, where 
the oriole perches : 

Make his mound with sunshine on it, 
Where the bee will dine upon it, 
Where the lamb hath lain upon it, 
And the raiu will raiu upon it. 


PARTON, James, an American author, 
boni in England in 1824. At the age of 
Ave he was brought to America; was 
cdiicated at the public schools, in and near 
New York ; and after teaching for a wliile, 
lie entered upon journalism. His first pub- 
lished book was the Life vf Horace Greeley. 
He subsequently devoted himself mainly 
to biographical works. Up to 1875 he 
resided at New York, and subsequently at 
Newburyport, Mass. His principal works 
are : Life of Horace Greeleij (1855), Life 
and Times of Aaron Burr (1857), Life of 
Andrew Jackson (1860), General Butler at 
New Orleans (1863), Life and Times of 
Benjamin Franklin (1864), Famous Ameri- 
cans of Recent Times (1867), Life of 
Thomas Jefferson (1874), Caricature and 
Comic Art (1877), Life of Voltaire (1881), 
Captains of Industri/ (1884). He has 
also written ninnerous brief biographical 
sketches, originally published in periodi- 
cals, and afterwards in separate volumes. 


It must be confessed that Het)ry Clay, who 
was for twenty-eight years a candidate for the 
Presidency, cultivated his popularity. With- 
out ever being a liypocrite, lie was habitually 
an actor ; but the part wliicli he enacted was 
Henry Clay exaggerated. He was naturally 
a courteous man ; but the consciousness of 
his position made liim more elaborately and 
universally courteous than any man ever was 
from mere good-nature. A man on the stage 
must overdo his part, in order not to seem to 
underdo it. 

There was a time when almost every visitor to 
the city of Washington desired above all things 
to be presented to three men there — Clay, 
Webster and Calhoun — whom to have seen was 


a distinction. When tlie country member 
bi-OLiglit forward his agitated constituent on 
the floor of the Senate chamber, and introduced 
him, Daniel Webster, the Expounder, was like- 
ly enough to thrust a hand at him witliout so 
much as turning his head or discontinuing his 
occupation, and the stranger shranic away, pain- 
fully conscious of his insignificance. Calhoun, 
on the contrary, besides receiving him with 
civility, would converse with him, if opportunity 
favored, and treat him to a disquisition on the 
nature of government, and the '-beauty'' of 
nullification, striving to make a lasting impres- 
sion upon his intellect. 

Clay would rise, extend his hand with that 
winning grace of his, and instantly captivate 
him by his all-conquering courtesy. ' He would 
call him by name, inquire respecting his herdth, 
the town whence he came, how long he had 
been in Washington, and send him away 
pleased with himself and enchanted with Henry 
Clay. And what was his delight to receivea 
few weeks after, in his distant village, a copv 
of the Kentuckian's last speech, bearing on its 
cover the fraidv of " H. Clay ! " And, what was 
still more intoxicating, Mr. Clay — who had a 
surprising memory — would be lilfelj', on meet- 
ing this same individual two years after the 
introduction, to address him by name. 

There was a gamey flavor in those days about 
Southern men, which was very pleasing to the 
people of the jSTorth. Reason teaches us that the 
barnyard fowl is a more meritorious bird than 
the gamecock; but the imagination does not 
assent to the proposition. Clay was at 
once gamecock and domestic fowl. His ges- 
tures called to mind the magnificentlv branch- 
ing trees of his Kentucky forests, and his hand- 
writing had the neatnessand delicacy of a female 
copyist. There was a careless, graceful, ease in 
his movements and attitudes like those of an 
Indian Chief; but he was an exact man of busi- 
ness, who docketed his letters, and who could 
send from Washington to Ashland for a docu- 

JAMES PAirrON.— 3 

merit, telling in what [)igeoii-liole it could be 
found. Xuturally iMi[)etuous, lie iicquired earl}'' 
in lifn an habitual inutleration ofstatement, an 
luibitual consideration for other men's self- 
love, which made him the paciticator of his 
time. The great Compromiser was himself a 

The idea of education is to tame men with- 
out lessening their vivacity ; to unite in thein 
the freedom, the dignity, the prowess of a 
Tecumseh, with the serviceable qualities of the 
civilized man. This happy union is said to be 
sometimes produced in the pupils of the great 
public schools of England, who are savages on 
the play-ground and gentlemen in the school- 
room. In no man of our knowledge has there 
been combined so much of the best of the forest 
chief with so much of the good of the trained 
man of business as in Henry Clay. This was 
one secret of his power over classes so diverse 
as the hunters of Kentucky and the manufac- 
turers of New England. — Famous Americans. 


When the Maj'-Flower left for England, not 
one of these hemic men and women desired to 
leave the land of their adoption. They had 
now a government; they had a church cov- 
enant ; i\\iiy had a constitution under which 
their rights were secured, and each one, ac- 
cording to his individual merit, could be re- 
spected and honored. So dear to them were 
these privileges that all the privations the_v 
had suffered, the sickness and death which had 
been in their midst, the gloomj' prospect be- 
fore them, could not induce them to swerve 
from their determination to found a State, 
where these blessings should be the birth- 
right of their children. — Concise History of 
the American I^eqple. 


PARTON, Sara Payson (Willis), an 
American author, born at Portland, Maine, 
in 1811 ; died at Brooklyn, N. Y., in 1872. 
Ill 1837 she married Mr. Charles Ehhidge 
of Boston, who died in 1846, leaving her 
with two children, and in straitened cir- 
cumstances. In 1851 she began to write 
for periodicals, under the 7iom de plume of 
" Fanny Fern," which she retained ever 
after. Her skeiches became popular, and 
in 1854 she CDUtracted with the editor of 
the New York Ledger to furnish a paper 
every week, which she continued to do for 
fourteen years without a single intermission. 
In 1856 she married Mr. James Parton., 
then connected with the New York Home 
Journal^ of which her brother, N. P. Willis, 
was editor. With the exception of two 
novels, Ruth UalU partly based on incidents 
of her own life (1854), and Rose Clark 
(1857), her writings consist of essays and 
short tales which originally appeared in 
periodicals. Several volumes made up of 
these have been publislied, among which 
are : Fern Leaves from Fanny'' s Portfolio 
(1853), Fresh Leaves (1855), Folly as it 
Flies (1868), Ginger Snaps (1870), Caper 
Sauce (1872). Shortly after her death, 
her husband put forth Fanny Fern: a 
Memorial Fb^wme, containing a Memoir Andi 
selections from her writings. 


To my eye, a man never looks so grand as 
when lie bends liis ear patiently and lovingly, to 
the lisping of a little child. I admire that man 
whom I see with a baby in his arms. I delight 
on Sunday, when the nurses are set free, to see 
the fathers leading out their little ones in their 
best attire, and setting them right end up, 
about fifty times a minute. It is as good a 


means of grace a? I am acquainted with. Now 
tliat a man should feel ashamed to be seen doing 
this, or think it necessary to apologize, even 
jocularly, when be meets a male friend, is to 
me one of the unaccountable tilings. It seems 
to me every way such a lovely, and good, and 
j)roper action in a father, that I can't help 
thinkinfr that be who would feel otherwise, 
is of so coarse and ignoble a nature as to be 
quite unworthy of res|)ect. . How man}' times 
have I turned to look at the clumsy smoothing 
of a child's dress, or settling of its hat, or 
bonnet, by the unpractised fingers of a proud 
father. And the clumsier he was about it, 
the better I have loved him for the pains lie 
took. It is very beautiful to me, this self- 
abnegation, which creeps so gradually over a 
young father. He is himself so unconscious 
that he, who had for many years thought first 
and only of his own selfish ease and wants, is 
forgetting himself entirely whenever that little 
creature, with his eyes and its mother'' s lips, 
reaches out coaxing hands to go here or there, 
or to look at this or that pretty object. Ah, 
what but this heavenly love could bridge over 
the anxious days and nights of care and sick- 
ness, that these twain of one flesh are called 
to bear ? My boy ! My girl ! There it is ! 
Mine! Something to live for- — something to 
work for — something to come home to ; and 
that last is the summing up of the whole matter. 
" Now let us have a good love," said a little 
three-year-older, as she clasped her chubby 
arms about her father's neck when he came in 
at night. " Now let us have a good love." 
Do you suppose that man walked with slow and 
laggard steps from his store toward that bright 
face that had been peeping for an hour from 
the nurser}' window to watch his coming ? Do 
you suppose when he got on all-fours to " play 
elephant" with the child, that it even crossed 
his mind that he had worked very hard all that 
day, or that lie was not at that minute '' looking 
dignified ? " Did he wish he had a '' club " 


where he could get away from home evenings, 
or was that " good love " of the little creature on 
his back, with the laugliing eyes and the pearly 
teeth, and the warm clasp about his neck, which 
she was squeezing to sulfucatioii, sweeter and 
better than anything that this world could 
give ? 

Something to go home to ! That is what 
saves a man. Somebody there to grieve if he 
is not true to himself. Somebody there to be 
sorry if he is troubled or sick. Somebody tiiere, 
with lingers like sunbeams, gilding and bright- 
ening whatever they touch ; and all for him. 
I look at the busiest men of New York at 
nightfall, coming swarming "up town" from 
their stores and counting-rooms; and when I 
see them, as I often do, stop and buy one of 
those tiny bouquets as the3' go, I smile to my- 
self; for although it is a little attention towards 
a wife, I know how happj' that rose with its 
two geranium leaves, and its sprig of mignonette 
will make her. He thought of her coming 
home! Foolish, do you call it? Such folly 
makes all the difference between stepping off, 
scarcely conscious of the cares a wom:in carries, 
or staggering wearily along till she faints dis- 
heartened under their burthen. /Something to 
go home to! That man felt it and by ever so 
slight a token wished to recognize it. God 
bless him, I say, and all like him, wlio do not 
take home-comforts as stereotyped matters of 
course, and God bless the family estate ; I can't 
see that anything better has been devised by 
the wiseacres who have experimented on the 
Almighty's plans. " There comes wy father ! " 
exclaims Johnny, bounding from out a group 
of '•' fellows " with whom he was playing ball ; 
and sliding his little soiled fist in his, they go 
up the steps and into the house together; and 
again, God bless them ! I say there's one man 
who is all right at least. That boy has got him, 
safer than Fort Lafayette.— i^o% as it Flies. 


PASCAL, Blaise, a French philosopher, 
born at Clermont in 1623 ; died ai Paris 
in 1662. He early nianifesled genius of a 
liio"h order, especially in nnitheniatics and 
the natural sciences, and wrote several 
treatises in these departments. The so- 
called *' Port-ltoyalists " were the up- 
holders of the teachings of Jaiisenius in 
opposition to those of tlie Jesuits. In 
16.35 Antoine Ainauld was expelled from 
the Sorboime on account of a letter which 
he had written in defence of Jansenism. 
Pascal soon after came out in a series of 
eio-hteen letters, commonlv desio-nated as 
The Provincial Letters. These and liis 
Thoughts upon Jleligion (1670) are the 
Works by which Pascal is best known. 


Tlie immortality of the soul is a thing which 
so deeply concerns, so infinitely concerns us, 
that we must utterly have lost our feeling to be 
altogether cold and remiss in our inquiries 
about it. It recpiires no great elevation of 
soul to observe that nothing in this world is 
productive of true contentment ; that our 
pleasures are vain and fugitive, our troubles 
innumerable and perpetual, and that, after all, 
death, which threatens us everj- moment, must, 
in the compass of a few years — perhaps of a few- 
days — put us into the eternal condition of hap- 
piness or misery, or nothing. Between us and 
these three great periods, or states, no barrier 
is interposed but life — the most brittle thing in 
all nature. And the happiness of heaven being 
certainly not designed for those who doubt 
whether we have an immortal part to enjoy it, 
such persons have nothing left but the miser- 
able chancre of annihilation or of hell. 

There is not an}' reflection which can have 
more reality than this, as there is none which 
can have greater terror. Let us set the bravest 


face on our condition, and play the heroes as 
arct'ully as we can, 3'et we see liere the issue 
wiiicli attends the goodliest life upon earth. It 
is in vain for men to tui-n asiiie their tliou.:^hts 
from this eternity wliich awaits them, as if they 
were abl-j to destroy it by denying it a place in 
their imagination. It subsists in spite of 
them ; it advanceth unobserved ; and death, 
wliiuh is to draw the curtain from if, will in 
a sliort time infallibly reduce them to the 
dreadt'ul necessity of being forever nothing or 
forever miserable. 

We have here a doubt of the most affright- 
ing consequence, and which, therefore, to en- 
tertain may well be esteemed the most griev- 
ous of misfortunes ; but, at the same time, it is 
our indispensable duty not to lie under it with- 
out struggling for deliverance. To sit di)wn 
with Some sort of Mcquiescence under so fatal 
an ignorance is a thing unaccountable beyond 
all expression, and the\'^ who live with such 
a disposition ought to be made sensible of its 
absurdity and stupidity, by having their in- 
ward reflections laid open to them, that they 
grow wise by the prospect of their own folly. 
For behold how men are wont to reason while 
tiiey obstinately remain tluis ignorant of what 
they are, and refuse all methods of instruction 
and illumination : — 

" Who has sent me," they say " into the 
world I know not, nor what I am myself. lam 
under an astonishing and mortifying ignorance 
of all tilings. I know not what my body is, 
nor what my senses, or my soul : this very part 
of me which thinks what I speak ; which 
reflects upon everything else, and even upon 
itself ; yet is a mere stranger to its own 
nature as the dullest thing I carry about 
me. I behold these frightful spaces of 
the universe with which I am encompassed, 
and I feel myself enchained to one corner of 
the vast extent, witliont understanding whj' I 
am placed in this se;it rather tlianiuany other; 
or why this moment of time giveu me to live 


was assigned rather at such a point than any 
other of tlie whole eternity which was before 
me, or of all that is to come after uie. 1 see 
nothing but inliiiities on all sides, which devour 
and swallow me u[) like an atom, or like a 
shadow which endures but a single instant, and 
is never to return. The sum of uiy knowledge 
is that I must shortly die ; but tliat which 1 
am most ignorant of is this very death which I 
feel unable to decline. As I know not whence 
I came, so I know not whither I go ; only this 
I know, that at my departure out of the world 
1 must either fall forever into nothing, or into 
the hands of an incensed God, without being 
capable of deciding which of these two con- 
ditions shall eternally be my portion. Such 
is my state, full of weakness, obscuritj-, and 
wretchedness. It is possible I might find 
some one to clear up my doubts ; but I shall 
not take a minute's pains, nor stir one foot in 
search of it. On the contrary, I am resolved 
to run without fear or foresight upon the trial 
of the great event, permitting m^'self to be led 
softl}' on to death, utterly uncertain as to the 
eternal issue of my future condition." 

But the main scope of the Christian faith is 
to establish these two principles : The corruption 
by nature and the redemption by Jesus Christ. 
And these opposers — if they are of no use to- 
wards demonstrating the truth of the redemp- 
tion by the sanctity of their lives— yet are at 
least admirably useful in showing the corruption 
of nature by so unnatural sentiments and 
suggestions. — Thoughts upon Religion. 


PATER, Walter, an English autlior, 
bom in 1839. He was educated at Oxford, 
and in 18G2 was made a Fellow of Brasenose 
College in that University. His first con- 
tribution to periodical literature was pul> 
lislied in 1866, in the Westminster Review. 
His books include: The Renaissance (1873), 
Marias^ the Epicurean, a story of ancient 
Rome (1885), Imaginary Portraits (1887), 
and Appreciations (1890). 


The opening stage of his journey, through 
the firm golden weather, for which he had 
lingered three days beyond the appointed time 
of starting — days brown with the first rains of 
autumn — brouglit him, by the by-ways among 
the lower slopes of the Apennines of Luna, to 
the town of Luca, a station on the Cassian 
Way ; travelling so far, mainly on foot, the 
baggage following under the care of his attend- 
ants. He wore a broad felt hat, in fashion 
not very uidike a modern pilgrim's, the neat 
head projecting from the collar of his grey 
paenula, or travelling mantle, sewed closely 
together over the breast, but with the two sides 
folded back over the shoulders, to leave the 
arms free in walking; and was altogether so 
trim and fresh, that, as he climbed the hill from 
Pisa, by the long steep lane through the olive- 
yards, and turned to gaze where he could just 
discern the cypresses of the old school garden, 
like two black lines upon the yellow walls, a 
little child took possession of his hand, and, 
looking up at him with entire confidence, paced 
on bravely at his side, for the mei-e jileasure of 
his company, to the spot where the road sank 
again into the valie}'^ beyond. From this point, 
leaving his servants at a distance, he surren- 
dered himself, a willing subject as lie walked, 
to tho impressions of the road, and was almost 
surprised, both at the suddenness with which 
evening came on, and the distance from his old 
home at which it found him. 


And at the little town of Luca lie felt tliat 
indescriljabie sense of a welcoming in the 
mere outward ajii)earaiice of things, which 
seems to mark out certain places for the special 
purpose of evening rest, and gives them always 
a peculiar amiability in retrospect. Under the 
deepening twilight, the rough-tiled roofs seem 
to huddle together side by side, like one con- 
tinuous shelter over the whole township, spreail 
low and broad over the snug sleeping-rooms 
within ; and the place one sees for the first 
time, and must tarry in but for a night, 
breatiies the very spirit of home. The cot- 
tagers lingered at their doors for a few minutes 
as the shadows grew larger, and went to rest 
earl}' ; though there was still a glow along the 
road through the shorn cornfields, and the liirds 
were still awake about the crumbling givy 
heights of an old temple: and yet so (piiet and 
air-swept was the ])lace, you could hardly till 
where the country left off in it, and the field- 
paths became its streets. Next morning he 
must needs change the manner of his journey. 
The light baggage-wagon returned, and he ])ro- 
ceeded now more quickly, travelling a stage or 
two bv post, along the Cassian Way, where the 
figures and incidents of the great liigh-road 
seemed already to tell of the capital, the one 
centre to which all were hastening, or had lately 
bidden adieu. That Wm/ lay through the 
heart of the old, mysterious and visionary 
country of Etruria; and what he knew of its 
strange religion of the dead, reinforced by the 
actual sight of its funeral houses scattered so 
plentifully among the dwellings of the living. 
revived in him for a while, in all its strength. 
his old instinctive yearning towards those in- 
habitants of the shadowy land he had known in 
life. It seemed to liim that he could half 
divine how time passed in those painted lumses 
on the hillsides, among the gold and silver 
ornaments, the wrought armor and vestments, 
the drows}' and dead attendants : and the close 
consciousness of that vast population gave him 


no fear, but rather a sens<3 of companionsliip, 
as he climbed tlie hills on fo(jt behind the 
liorses, through the gei;ial afternoon. 

The road, next da\', passed below a town as 
primitive it might seem as the rocks it perched 
on — white rocks, which had been long glisten- 
ing before him in the distance. Down the 
dewy paths the people were descending from it, 
to keej) a holiday, liigh and low alike in rough, 
white linen smocks. A lioinely old play was 
just begun in an open-air theatre, the grass- 
grown seats of which had been hollowed out in 
the turf ; and Marias caught the terrified 
expression of a child in its mother's arms, as 
it turned from the j'awning mouth of a great 
mask, for refuge in iier bosom. The way 
mounted, and descended again, down the steep 
street of another place — all resounding with 
the noise of metal under the lianimer, for every 
liouse had its brazier's workshop, the bright 
objects of brass and copper gleaming like lights 
in a cave, out of their dark roofs and corners. 
— Marius, the Epicurean. 


To beguile one such afternoon when the rain 
set in early, and walking was impossible, I 
found my way to tlie shoj) of an old dealer in 
bric-a-brac. It was not a monotonous display 
after the manner of the Parisian dealer of a 
stock-in-trade the like of which one has seen 
many times over, but a discriminate collection 
of re;d curiosities. One seemed to recognize a 
provincial taste in various relics of the house- 
keeping of the last century, with many a gem 
of earlier times from tlie churches and religious 
liouses of the neighborhood. Among them was 
a large and brilliant fragment of stained glass 
which might have come from tlie cathedral itself. 
Of tlic v<'ry finest quality in color and design, 
II pies'Miteil a figure not exactly conformable 
to anv r(H',<ignized ecclesiastical type; and it 
Was clearly parc of a series. On m}' eager in- 
quiry for the reniaintler, the old man replied 


that no more of it was known, but added that 
tlie priest of a neigliboring viihige w;is the pos- 
sessor of an entire set of tupestnes, api):uently 
intended for sus[)ension in churc'.i, und designed 
to [jortra}' the wiioie subject of which tlieligure 
in tlie stained glass w;is a portion. Next after- 
noon, accordingly 1 repaired to the priest's house, 
in reality a little Gothic building, part, perhaps, 
of an ancient manor house, close to the village 
church. In the front garden, flower-garden 
and potager in one, the bees were busy among 
the autumn growths — many-coloreil asters, 
begonias, scarlet-beans, and tlie old fashioned 
parsonage flowers. The courteous owner showed 
me his tapestries, some of which hung on 
the walls of his p:irlur and staircase by way of 
a background for the display of other curiosities 
of which he was a collector. Certainly, those 
tapestries and the stained glass dealt with the 
same theme. In both were the same musical 
instruments — fifes, cymbals, long reed-like 
trumpets. The story, indeed, included the build- 
ing of an organ, just such an instrument, only 
on a larger scale, as was standing in the old 
priest's library, though almost soundless now; 
whereas in certain r)f the woven pictures the 
heavens appear as if transported, some of them 
shouting rapturously to the organ music. A 
sort of mad vehemence prevails, indeed, through- 
out the delicate bewilderments of the whole 
series — giddy dances, wild animals leaping, 
above all, perpetual wreathings of the vine, 
connecting, like some mazy arabesque, the 
various presentations of the oft-repeated figure, 
translated here out of the' clear-colored glass 
into the sadder, somewhat opaque and earthen 
hues of the silken threads. The figure was 
that of the organ-builder himself, a flaxen and 
flowery creature, sometimes well-nigh naked 
among the vine-leaves, sometimes muffled in 
skins against the cold, sometimes in the dress of 
a monk, but always with a strong impress of 
real character and incident from the veritable 
streets of Auxerre. 


PATMORE, Coventry KearsEy 
DiGHTox, an English poet, born in 1823. 
From 1846 tol868 lie was an Assistant Libra- 
rian in the British Museum. In 184-1 he pub- 
lisheil a small volume of poems, wiiich was 
republished in 1853, with huge additions, 
under the title of Tamerton Church Toiver^ 
and other Poems. His priMci[)al work, 
Th'' Aii(/el in the Himse, ap[)eared in four 
parts: The Betrothal (1854), The Espousal 
(1856), Faithful Forever (1860), The 
Victories of Love (1862). He has since 
publisiied The Unknown Eros (1877), a 
memoir of Barry Cornwall, and Amelia 


"Now, while slie's changing," said tlie Dean, 
" Her bridal for her travelling-dress, 
I'll preach allegiance to your Queen ! 

Preaching's the trade which I profess; 
And one more ininute's mine ! A''ou know 
I've paid ni_y girl a father's debt, 
And this last charge is all I owe. 

She's yours; but I love her more than yet 
You can : such fondness only wakes 
When time has raised the heart above 
The prejudice of youth which makes 

Beauty conditional to love. 
Prepare to meet the weak alarms of novel near- 
ness ; recollect 
The eye which magnifies her charms 

Is microscopic for defect. 
"Fear comes at first; but soon, rejoiced, 

You'll find your strong and tender loves 
Like holy rocks by Druids poised; 

The least force shakes, but none removea 
Her strength is your esteem. Ueware 

Of finding fault. Her will's unnerved 
By blame ; from you 'twould he des])air; 
But praise that is not quite deserved 

Will all her nobler nature move 
To make your utmost wishes true. 


Yet tliink, while inendiiig thus your love, 
Of uiiitfliing lier ideul too. 

Tlie deutli of iiu[)ti;il joy is sloth: 
To keep your mistress lu your wife. 

Keep to tlie very lieiglit 3'our oath, 
And honor her with arduous life." 

The Espousal. 


M\- little son, who looked from thouglitful eyes, 

And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, 

Having ni}' law the seventh time disobeyed, 

I struck him, and dismissed, 

With hard words and unkissed, 

(His mother, who was patient, being dead.) 

Tiien, fearing lest excess of grief should hinder 

I visited his bed ; 
But found him slumbering deep. 
With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet 
From his late subbing wet ; 
And I, with moan, 

Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; 
For on a table drawn beside his head 
He had put, within his reach, 
A box of counters and a red-veined stone, 
A piece of glass abraded by the beach. 
And six or seveii shells, 
A bottle with bluebells, 

And two French coins, ranged there with care- 
ful art. 
To comfort his sad heart. 
So when that night I prayed 
To God, T wept, and said: 
Ah ! when at last we lie with tranced breath, 
Kot vexing Thee in death, 
And Thou rememberest of what toya 
We made our joys — 
How weakly understood 
Thj'^ great commanded good — 
Then, fatherly, not less 

Than I, whom Thou hast moulded from the clay 
Thou'lt leave thy wrath, and say, 
*' I will be sorryfor tlieir childishness." 

The. Victories of Lov9, 



Pain, Love's mystery, 
Close next of kin 
To Jo_y and heart's delight, 
Low Pleasure's opposite, 
Clioice food of sanctity 
A.iid medicine of sin, 
Angel, wliom even they that will pursue 
Pleasure with hell's wliole gust 
Find that they must 
Perversely woo, 

My lips, thy live coal touching, speak thee true. 
Thou sear'st my flesh, O Pain, 
But brand'st for arduous peace my languid 

And brigiit'nest m\^ dull view. 
Till I, for blessing, blessing give again, 
And my roused s[)irit is 
Another fire of bliss, 
Wherein I learn 

Peelingly how the pangful, purging fire 
Shall furiously burn 
With joy, not only of assured desire, 
But also present joy 

Of seeing the life's corruption, stain by stain, 
Vanish in the clear heat of Love irate, 
And, fume by fume, the sick alloy 
Of luxury, sloth and hate 
Evaporate ; 

Leaving the man, so darlc erewhile, 
The mirror merely of God's smile. 
Herein, Pain, abides the praise 
For which my song I raise; 
But even the bastard good of intermittent ease 
How greatly doth it please ! 
Witli what repose 

The being from its briglit exertion glows, 
When from thy strenuous storm the senses 

Into a little harbor deep 
Of rest ; 

When thou, O Pain, 
Having devour'd the nerves that thee sustain. 


Sleep'st till tliy tender food be somewlaat 

grown aguin ; 
And liuw tlie lull 
With teur-biiiid love is full ! 
What mockei-y of a man am I express'd 
That I should wait for thee 
To woo ! 

Nor even dare to love, till thou lov'st me. 
How shameful, too, 
Is tliis : 

Tiiat, wlien thou lov'st, I am at first afraid 
Of thy fierce kiss, 
Like a 3'oung maid ; 
And only trust thy charms 
And get my courage in thv tlu'obbing armp. 
And when thou partest, what a fickle mind 
Thou leav'st behind, 

That, being a little absent from mine eye, 
It straighc forgets thee what thou art, 
And ofttimes my adulterate heart 
Dallies with Pleasure, thy pale enemy. 
0, for the learned spirit without attaint 
That does not faint, 

But knows both how to have thee and to lack, 
And ventures many a spell, 
Unlawful but for them that love so well, 
To call thee back. 

The Unknown Eroi. 


PAULDING, James Kirke, an Amer- 
ican statesman and author, born at Nine- 
Partners, Dutchess county, N. Y., m 1779 ; 
died at Hyde Park in the same county, in 
1860. At the age of nineteen he went to 
New York, and in 1807 he, with Washing- 
ton Irving, began the issue of Salmagundi, 
a semi-weekly journal designed to satirize 
in prose and verse the follies of the town. 
This was discontinued in less than a 
year, but was revived, with indifferent 
success, by Paulding in 1819. In 1825 he 
was appointed Navy Agent at the port of 
New York, and resigned the position in 
1837 to become Secretary of tlie Navy in 
the administration of President Van Buren. 
In 1841 he retired from public life to a 
beautiful home which lie had purchased on 
the banks of the Hudson. Paulding's 
works were numerous, and of very unequal 
merit. Among them are : The Divertiiig 
History of John Bull and Brother Jonathan 
(1812), Koningsmarke (1823), The Three 
Wise Men of Gotham (1826), The Neiv Mir- 
ror for Travellers (1828), Chronicles of the 
City of Gotham (1830), The Dutchman's 
Fireside, his best novel (1831), Westtvard 
Ho ! (1832), Life of George Washington 
(1835), The Book of St. Nicholas (1837), A 
Gift from Fairy Land (1838), The Old 
Conti7ie7ital (1846), Tlie Puritan and his 
Daughter (1849). A collection of his 
Select Works, edited by his son, in four 
volumes,was published in 1868. 


John Bull was a clioleric old fellow, who 
held a good manor in the middle of a great 
millpond, and which, by reason of its being 
quite surrounded V)y water, was generality called 
"Bullock Island." Bull was an iugenious 


mail — ail exceedingly good blacksmith, a dex- 
terous cutler, and a notable weaver and pot- 
baker besides. He also brewed cajjital porter, 
ale, and sniall-beer, and was, in fact, a sort of 
Jack-of-all-trades, and good at t-acli. In addi- 
tion to these, lie was a liearty fellow, an excel- 
lent bottle-companion, and j)assably honest, as 
times go. But what tarnished all these qual- 
ities was a very quarrelsome, overbearing dis- 
position, which was always getting him into 
some scrape or other. The truth is, he never 
heard of a quarrel going on among his neigh- 
bors but his tingi'i's itched to be in the thickest 
of it, so that he was hardly seen without a 
broken head, a black e^'e, or a bloody nose. 
Such was Squire Bull, as he was commonly 
called by the country-people his neighbors — one 
of those grumbling, boasting old codgers that 
get credit for what they are, because they are 
always pretending to be what the}' are not. 

The Squire was as tight a hand to deal with 
in doors as out ; sometimes treating his family 
as if they were not the same flesh and blood, 
when they happened to differ with him on cer- 
tain matters. 

One da}' he got into a dispute with his 
3'oungest son Jonathan — who was familiarly 
called " Brother Jonathan " — about whether 
churches were an abomination. The Squire, 
either having the worst of the argument, or 
being naturally impatient of contradiction (I 
can't tell which) — fell into a great passion, and 
swore he would jdiysic such notions out of the 
bo3''s noddle, so lie went to some of his doctors 
and got them to draw up a prescription made 
up of thirt3--nine articles — many of them bitter 
enough to some palates. Tins lie tried to make 
Jonatlnin swallow ; and finding that he made 
wry faces, and would not do it, he fell upon 
him. and beat him like fury. After this he 
made the house so disagreeable to him, that 
Jonathan — though hard as a pine-knot, and as 
tough as leather — could bear it no longer. 
Taking his gun and his axe, he. put himself in 


a boat, and padJleJ over tlie mill-pond to some 
new lands to wliich tiie Squire pretended some 
sort of claim, intending to settle them, and 
Luild a meeting-liouse without a steeple as 
soon as lie grew rich enougli. 

Wlien he got over, Jonathan found that the 
land was quite in a state of nature, covered with 
woods, and inhabited by nobody but wild beasts. 
But, being a lad of mettle, he took his axe on 
one shoulder and his gun on the other, marched 
into the tliickest of the woods, and, clearing a 
jiliice, built a log-liut. Pursuing his labors, 
and handling his axe like a notable woodman, 
lie in a few j-ears cleared the land, which he 
laid out into thirteen good farms, and building 
himself a fine frame-house, about half-lin- 
nislied, began to be quite snug and comfortable. 

But Squire Bull, who was getting old and 
stingy, and besides was in great warit of money, 
on account of his having lately been made to 
pay swing-eing damage for assaulting his neigh- 
bors and breaking their heads — the Squire, I 
s'dj, finding Jonathan was getting well-to-do in 
the world, began to be ver\' much troubled 
about his welfare ; so he demanded that Jona- 
than should pay him a good rent for the land 
which he had cleared and m.ade good for some- 
thing. He trumped up I know not what claim 
against him, and, under different pretences, 
managed to pocket all Jonathan's honest gains. 
In fact, the poor lad had not a shilling for 
holiday occasions ; and had it not been for the 
filial respect he felt for the old man, he would 
certainly have refused to submit to such impo- 

But for all this, in a little time Jonathan 
grew up to be very large for his age, and be- 
came a tall, stout, double-jointed, broad-should- 
ered cub of a fellow; awkward in his gait and 
simple in his appearance ; but showing a livel}-, 
shrewd look, and having the promise of great 
strength when he should get his full growth. 
He was rather an odd-looking chap in truth, 
and had many queer ways; but everybody lliat 


had seen John Bull, saw a great likeness 
between them, and swore that he was John's 
own boy, and a true chip uf tlie old block. 
Like the old Squire, he was apt to be bluster- 
ing and saucy ; but in the main was a peace- 
able sort of careless fellow, that would quarrel 
with nobody if you only let him alone. 

While Jonathan was outgrowing his strength. 
Bull kept on picking his pockets of every 
penny he could scrape together ; till at last one 
day when the Squire was even more than 
usuall}'^ pressing in his demands, which he ac- 
companied with threats, Jonathan started up in 
a furious passion, and threw the tea-kettle at 
the old man's head. The choleric Bull was 
hereupon exceedingly enraged; and after call- 
ing tlie poor lad an undutiful, ungrateful, rebel- 
lious rascal, seized him by the collar, and forth- 
with a furious scufHe ensued. This lasted a 
long time ; for the Squire, though in years, was 
a capital boxer, and of most excellent bottom. 
At last, however, Jonathan got him under, and 
before he would let him u[) made him sign a 
paper giving up all claim to the farms, and 
acknowledging the fee-simple to be in Jonathan 
forever. — History of John Bull and Brother 


PAYN, James, an English author, born 
in 1830. He was educated at Eton, and 
Woolwicli, and was graduated at Trinity 
College, Cambridge, in 1854. At an early 
age he contributed to the Westminster 
Jieiuew and Household Words, and in 1858 
he became editor of Chambers's Journal, in 
which he published his first novels. He 
contributed essay's to the Nineteenth Cen- 
tury and the Times. In 1882 he succeeded 
Leslie Stephen as editor of the Cornhill 
Magazine. Among liis works are Stories 
from Boccaccio, 'poems (1854), Poems (1855), 
A Family Scapegrace, Lost Sir Massingberd, 
By Proxy, High Spirits. A Perfect Treasure, 
Bentinck's Tutor, A Country Family, Cecils 
Tryst, The Foster Brothers, Halves. Car- 
lyon's Year, One of the Family, What he Cost 
Her, Gwendoline' s Harvest. Like Father Like 
Son, Mirk Abbey, Less Black than We're 
Painted, Murp)hy's 3Iaster, Under One 
Roof, The Luck of the DarrelVs. Some Lit- 
erary liecollections (1886), Thicker than 
Water, Gloiv-worm Tales (1888), and The 
Burnt Million, (1889). 


Of all the mansions in Park Lane, albeit there 
are some, though not many, larger, Beckett 
House gives the strongest impression to the 
passer-by not only of wealth, but, what is a 
very different thing (and much better), the 
possession of an abundance of ready money. 
Just as on ihumination nights we see the lines 
of some public edifice piclced out with fire, so 
all the sunnner long the balconies of Beckett 
House show, tier on tier, their glowing lines of 
flowers. Under the large portico there is a 
miniature jungle of tropical foliage, and when 
at night the opened door gives a glimpse of the 
interior to the passing Peri, it seems to her an 
Eden indeed. Nor even in winter does this 


shrine of Flora lack its gifts, for in the centra 
and on either wing are great conservatories, to 
which " the time of roses," is but a poetic fig- 
ment, and May (for once) is happy in Decem- 
ber's arms. 

Mrs. Beckett, the owner of this palace, has a 
passion for flowers, which her wealth enables 
her to indulge to the full ; nor is this the only 
proof of her good taste. She had once a liandle 
to her name, but laid it aside by an act of vol- 
antai-y abnegation. Emperors and others have 
done the like before her, but a woman — never. 
Her first husband was Sir Kobert Orr, a city 
kniglit, who left her an immense jointure and 
'' her ladyship.'" He had never been remark- 
able for personal beauty, and uidess in the 
sense of years — he was three times her age — 
could hardl}'^ have been called accomplished. 
It was a marriage of convenience; but the old 
man had been kind to her in life and death, 
and she respected his memory. Wlien she 
married her second husband, John Beckett, 
the railway engineer, she dropped "'her lady- 
ship." Sir Robert had been intensely pi'ond of 
the title, and she felt that it belonged to him. 
The law, of course, would have decided as 
much, but she might have retained it by cour- 
res\'. She was not a woman to parade her 
sentiments, and, liaving some sense of humor, 
was wont to account for this act of self-sacrifice 
tipon moral grounds; she did not think it 
respectable, she said, to figure with her hus- 
band in the '• Morning Post," as Mr. Beckett 
and Lady Orr ; she left that suspicious anomaly 
for the wives of bishops. 

John Beckett had been a rich man, though 
he could not have measured purses with Sir 
Robert, and he had ten times his wit. He had 
wasted them much on building bridges or hol- 
lowing tunnels out of the " too solid earth ; " 
he left such enduring monuments to scientific 
theorists and applied the great powers of his 
mind — he called them witliout the faintest; 
consciousness of self-satire its "grasp" — to 


contracts ; mostly in connection with coal. He 
took tlie same practical view of matrimony, 
whicli poor Lady Orr liad never guessed, and 
for Iier part had wedded lier second liusband 
for love. It was unintelligible to her that a 
man of so much wealth should pant for more; 
but he did so to his last breath. If he could 
liave carried all his money (and hers) away 
with him — " to melt " or *' to begin the next 
world with '' — he would have done it and left 
her penniless. As it was, he died suddenly — 
killed by a fall from liis horse below lier very 
windows — and intestate. Even when his scarce 
breathing body was lying in an upstairs cham- 
ber, and she attending it with all wifely soli- 
citude, she could not stifle a sense of com- 
ing enfranchisement after twenty' -five years of 
slavery, or the consciousness that her Sir 
Kobert had been the better man of the two. 

A woman of experience at least, if not of 
wisdom, was the present mistress of Beckett 
House ; with strong passions, but with a not un- 
generous heart ; outspoken from the knowledge 
of her " great possessions," perhaps, as much 
as from natural frankness ; a warm friend and 
not a very bitter enemj' ; and at the bottom 
of it .all with a certain simplicity of character, 
of which her love for flowers was an example. 
She had loved them as Kitty Conway, the 
country doctor's daughter, when violets instead 
of camellias had been "her only wear,'' sweet- 
peas and wallflowers the choicest ornaments of 
her little garden, and Park Lane to her unso- 
phisticated mind like other lanes. "Fat, fair, 
and forty," she was wont to call herself at the 
date this story oj)ens, and it was the truth ; but 
not the whole truth. Fat she was and fair sho 
was, but she was within a few years of fifty. 
Of course she was admirablj'- preserved. As the 
kings of old took infinite pains that their 
bodies after death should not decay, so women 
do their best for themselves in that waj' while 
still in the flesh ; and Mrs. Beckett was as 
youthful as cai-e and art could make her. In 


shadow and witli the light beliind her, persona 
of the otl)er sex might liave set her down as 
even loss mature than she described herself to 
be. There would have been at least ten years 
difference between their "quotations '' — as poor 
Sir Kobert would have called them — and that 
of her tiring maid. 

Five years she had had of gilded ease and 
freedom, since drunken, greedy, hard Joliu 
Becicett had occupied his marble hall in Kensal 
Green — Sir Kobert had a similar edifice of his 
own in Highgate cemetery, for she had too much 
good taste to mix their dust — and on the whole 
she had enjo\-ed them. Far too well favored 
by fortune, however, not to have her detract- 
ors, she was whispered by some to be b}- no 
means averse to a third experiment in matri- 
mony. " There swam no goose so graj'," they 
were wont to quote, and "There was luck in 
odd numbers." Gossips will say anything, and 
men delight in jokes against the fair sex. — - 
Thicker than Water. 


Long before Grace reached the proposed 
turning-point of her journey the sunshine hiid 
given place to a gray gloom, which ^-et was not 
the garb of evening. The weather looked lit- 
erally "dirty,'' though she was too little of a 
sailor, and too much of a gentlewoman, to call 
it so. Instead of running on ahead of his 
mistress and investigating the rocks for what 
Mr. Roscoe (who was cockney to the backbone, 
and prided himself on it) \oould call sweet- 
meats (meaning sweetmasts), Rip kept close to 
her ekirts ... It was ridiculous to sup- 
pose that a town-bred dog should scent at- 
mospheric dangers upon the mountains of Cum- 
berland ; but his spirits had certainly quitted 
him with inexi)lic:il)le precipitancy, and every 
now and then he would give a short, impatient 
bark, which said as plainly as dog could speak, 
" Hurry up, unless you want to be up here all 
night, and perhaps longer." 


This strange conduct of her little companion 
did not escape Grace's attention, and, though 
slie did not understand it, it caused her insen- 
sibly to quicken her stejjs. She liad rounded 
Halso P^'ell, and was just about to leave it for 
lower ground, when slie suddenly found herself 
in darkness. The fell had not onl}' put ils cap 
on, it was drawn down over its white face as 
that other wliite cap, still more terrible to look 
upon, covers the features of the poor wretch 
about to be '' turned off," on the gallows. The 
suddenness of the thing (for there is nothing so 
sudden as a liill-fog, except a sea-fog) gave it, 
for the moment, quite tlie air of a catastrophe. 
To be in cotton-wool is a phrase significant of 
superfluous comfort; and yet, curiously enough, 
it seemed to express better than any other the 
situation in which Grace now found herself, 
in which there was no comfort at all. She 
seemed to be w'rapped around in that garment 
which ladies call '" a cloud "" — onl}' of a coarse 
texture and very wet. It was over her ej'es 
and nose and mouth, and rendered everything 
invisible and deadened every sound. 

It might clear away in five minutes, and it 
might last all night. To move would be fatal. 
Should she take one unconscious turn to left or 
right, she was well aware that she would lose 
all her bearings ; and yet, from a few feet lower 
than where she stood now, could she but have 
seen a hundred \'aids in front of lier, she knew 
there would be comparative safet}'. She could 
no more see a hundred 3ards, or ten or five, 
however, than she could see a Imndred miles. 
Things might have been worse, of course. 
She might have been at the top of the fell in« 
stead of half-way down it. She had been in 
fogs lierself, but not like this, nor so far from 
home. But matters were serious enough as 
tliey were. 

Though there was no wind, of course the air 
had become very damp and chill. To keep her 
head clear, to liiishand lier strength, should a 
chance of exerting it be given her, and to 


remain us wann as possible, were the best, and 
indeed the only, things to be done. Keeping 
lier eyes straight before her slie sat down, and 
took Rip on lier lap. But for its peril, the 
position was absurd enough ; but it was really 
perilous. Lightly clad as she was, for the con- 
venience of walking, she could hardly' survive 
the consequences of such a night on the open 
fell. . . . An incident she had once read of a 
clerk in a Fleet Street bank being sent sud- 
denly on pressing business into Wales, and all 
but perishing the very next night, througii a 
sprained ankle, on a spur of Snowdon, came into 
her mind. How frightful the desolation of his 
position had seemed to him — its unaccustomed 
loneliness and weird surroundings, and the 
ever-present consciousness of being cut off 
from his fellows, in a world utterly unknown 
to him ! She was now enduring the self-same 
pangs ! — The Burnt Million. 


Between the deathbed and the charnel a 
battle often arises concerning the departed, like 
the buzzing of flies over garbage. His virtues 
are magnitied, his vices are exaggerated ; he is 
•• made more of " in every way than when he 
was in life. In the case of a man of loose life, 
and who has omitted to make himself popular, 
we can believe nothing of what is said, though 
fi'om the v^'vy extravagance of it some truth 
may be gathered. Mr. Herbert Perry's mem- 
ory suffered like the rest, and a little more, 
as a young gentleman who combines vice with 
economy, in my opinion, deserves to suffer. — 
The Canon^s Ward, 


PAYNE, John Howap.d, an American 
di'amatist and actor, born at New York in 
1792; died at Tunis, Africa, in 1852. He 
early manifested a strong predilection for 
the stage, where he was hailed as "the 
young lioscius." In his sixteenth year he 
appeared at the Park Theatre as " Young 
Norval," and subsequently acted in other 
cities. In 1813 he went to London, where 
he met with a decided theatrical success. 
He remained in Euio[)e until 1832, and 
wrote several diamas, some of which were 
popular at the time, but none of tliem are 
now remembered excepting the opera of 
Claris or the Maid of Milan, and that only 
for the song '• Home Sweet Home." He 
experienced various ups and downs, but 
was alwa3^s in pecuniary straits, although 
from time to time lie earned large sums of 
money. About 1841 he received the ap- 
pointment of Consul at Tunis, where lie 
died. Thirty yeais after Iiis death, Mr. 
Corcoran, an American banker, caused the 
remains of Payne to be exhumed and 
brought to Washington where they were 
re-interred and a fine monument was 
erected above them. 


'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like liome ! 
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us 

Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met 
with elsewhere. 

Home, liome, 
Sweet home ! 
There's no place like home— 
There's uo place like home. 


A.T1 exilt' from liome, pleasure dazzles in vain ? 
All ! give me uiy lowly thatched cottage again ! 
The birds singing sweetly that came to my 

call ; 
Give me them, and that peace of mind, dearer 
than all. 

Home, home, 
Sweet home ! 
There's no place like home — 
There's no place like home. 


Urutus. — Romans, the blood which hath been 

shed this day 
Hath been shed wisely. Traitors who conspire 
Against mature societies, may urge 
Tlieir acts as bold and daring; and though 

Yet they are manly villains; but to stab 
The cradled innocent, as these have done. 
To strike their country in tlie mother-pangs 
Of struggling child-birth, and direct the dagger 
To freedmn's infant throat, is a deed so black 
That njy foiled tongue refuses it a name. 

[yl pause.'\ 
Tliere is one criminal still left for judgment ; 
Let hiin approach. 

Titus is brought in by the Lictors. 

Prisoner — 
Romans ! forgive this agony of grief ; 
My heart is bursting, nature must have way, — 
I will perform all that a Roman should, 
I cannot feel less than a father ought. 

[ Gives a sif/nal to the Lictois to fall back, 
and advoncea from the judgment seat. ] 

Well, Titus, speak, how is it with thee now ? 
Tell me, my son, art thou prepared to die ? 
£rutus ; or the Fall of Tarquin, 


PEABODY, Andrew Preston, an 

American pieacher, professor and author, 
born at Beverl3% Mass., in 1811. He grad- 
uated at Harvard College in 1826, and after- 
ward from tlie Divinity School. After one 
year of tutorship in mathematics, he was 
pastor at Portsmouth, N. H., twenty-seven 
years: In 1860 lie became preacher to 
Harvard University and professor of Chris- 
tian morals. In 1881, he resigned these 
offices, and, twice officiating as acting presi- 
dent, still resides in Cambiidge. From 1852, 
for eleven years, he edited the North Ameri- 
can Revieu\ to which, and to other reviews 
he has contributed a gi-eat number of 
articles. Among the books written by him 
are: Sermons on Consolation (1847), Chris- 
tianity the Religion of Nature (1864), Rem^ 
iniscences of European Travel (1868), 
Manual of Moral Philosophy^ Christianity 
and Science (1874), Christian Belief and 
Life (1^1^^ ^Harvard Reminiscences (1888), 
and Harvard Graduates whom I have 
Known (1890). 


There is at first view un irreconcilable antag- 
onism between self-love and beneficence. Self- 
love is inevitable; beneficence is a manifest 
duty. But if we love ourselves, how can we 
rob ourselves of time, reputation, ease, or money 
for the good of others ? If we are beneficent, 
how can we be otherwise than false to that law 
of our very natures which urges upon us a 
primary reference to our own happiness? I can- 
nut find this problem solved by any moralist 
before Christ. Beneficence was indeed in- 
culcated before Christ, but as a form of self- 
renunciation, not as returning a revenue to the 
kind heart and the generous hand. Yet here 
Christ plays a bold stroke. His precepts are 
full of philanthropy. They prescribe the ut- 


most measure of toil ;unl siicritice for humanity. 
They constrain tlie disciple to call nothing his 
own which others really need, — to hold all that 
he has subject to perpetual drafts from those 
who can claim his sympathy. Yet Christ is so 
far from dishonoring and denouncing self-love, 
that he cherislies it without imposing or suggest- 
ing a limit to it, nay, makes the cherishing of 
it a duty and a measure of the seemingly antag- 
onistic dut}'^, implying that the more we love 
ourselves the greater will be the amount of the 
good we do toothers. His fundamental law for 
the social life stretches the uniting wire be- 
tween these opposite poles, and transmits from 
each to the other the current of personal and 
social obligation, making duty interest, and in- 
terest duty. The precept, " Thou slialt love thy 
neighbor as thyself,"' is simply absurd, if the 
imagined antagonism is real. But if these two 
principles, in form mutually hostile, are in fact 
kindred and mutualW convertible, so that each 
does the other's work, it must be by means of 
springs and wheels which underlie them both 
and the whole fabric of societ\', and which are 
kept in perpetual tension and motion by an omni- 
present Providence. Either this coincidence of 
self-love and beneficence IS a law of nature, or it 
is a contradiction in terms and an impossibility 
in action. Let us consider how far it is a law 
of nature. 

Look, first, at international relations. Un- 
enlightened self-love dictates war on the most 
trivial pretexts, quick resentment, prompt 
revenge, bold aggression, the preying of the 
strong upon the feeble. But, if history has 
taught an}' lesson, it has taught the inexpe- 
diency and folly of needless war, even when 
most successful, and the expediency of peace at 
all sacrifice, and of mutual good offices among 
nations. . . . A similar change has taken 
place in the commercial relations of the civilized 
world. In the ignorant infancy of modern com- 
merce the reigning doctrine was, that the sur- 
plus of the specie imported, over that exported 


determined the balance of trade in favor of 
a nation, so that by any specific commercial 
arrangement one party must be tlie gainer, the 
other the loser. Thus the sole effort of diplo-. 
matists was to outwit one another, and to 
throw dust into one another's eyes ; and as to 
mercantile matters, nations occupied a position 
of mutual antagonism, eacli looking for gain 

at tl)e expense of the other Tiius, 

though commerce seems an intensely selfish 
transaction, it is now girdling the earth with the 
zone of common interest, mutual good-will, and 
reciprocal helpfulness. 

Among members of the same coramunit}^ I 
know of notliing tliat illustrates the concur- 
rent tendenc}^ and harmonious working of self- 
love and mutual benevolence so strongly and 
beautifully as the system of insurance. At 
first thought the appeal to the self-love of the 
uninjured as a resource against calamit\f might 
seem the height of absurdity, and the inscrip- 
tion, " Bear ye one another's burdens," placed 
over the office of a joint-stock company might 
look like bitter irony. Yet what but such an 
appeal is the advertisement of an insurance 
company ? . . . . This kindly agency, by 
which disasters that would overwhelm and ruin 
tlie individual are drawn off and scattered over 
a whole community with a pressure which none 
can seriously feel, might remind one of what 
takes place in a thunderstorm, when every 
twig of every tree, and every angle of every 
moistened roof helps to lead harmlessly to the 
ground the electric force which, discharged at 
any one point, would deal desolation and death. 

We may trace this same harmony between 
self-love and benevolence in the relations and 
intercourse of ordinary life. We have heard a 
great deal at times — I think that the phrase- 
ology has grown obsolete now, but it was rife 
when the Ciir]y\ese patois used to bespoken in 
cultivated circles — about whole men, and the 
necessity of every man's being a wliole man, in 
himself complete, self-sufficing, and independr 


ent. 'L'lierc never was a man, and never 
will be; and were there such a man, he would 
be as fair a specimen of humanity as one would 
be as to his physical nature who lacked hands, 
or feet, or even head. We are by nature the 
complements of one another. We cannot help 
leaning and depending on one another. We 
are like trees in a forest, each sheltered and 
fostered b}' its neighbor-trees, and liable to 
speedy blighting when transplanted to a soli- 
tary exposure. Our social natures are as truly 
a part of ourselves as our physical natures ; our 
affections, as our appetites ; our domestic and 
civil relations, as our subjection to the laws of 
matter and of mind. The man whom we term 
selfish consults the needs of only an insignifi- 
cant fraction of himself. The self-seeker (so 
called) leads a life of perpetual self-sacrifice 
and self-denial. He alone who benefits his 
neighbor does well for himself. He alone who 
does good gets good. He alone who makes the 
world the happier and the better by his living 
in it becomes happier and better by living in 
it. — Christianity, the Religion of Nature. 


PEABODY, Ollveu William 
Bourne, twin brother of the succeeding, 
an American Lawyer, clergyman, and poet, 
born at Exeter, N. H., in" 1799; died at 
Burlington, Vt., in 1850. He graduated 
at Harvard in 1817, studied law, and 
entered upon legal practice in his native 
town. In 1820 he removed to Boston, 
and assisted his brotliei-in-law, Alexander 
H. Everett, in editing the No7'th America7i 
Revieiv. He wrote the Life of Israel Put- 
nam and Life of Jo/in iSullivan, in Spavks's 
" American Biography," and contributed in 
prose and verse to various periodicals. 
From 1836 to 1842 he was Register of Pro- 
bate for vSuffolk county, Mass. Feeble 
health comj)elled him to resign this office, 
and for a year or two he was professor of 
English Literature in Jefferson College, 
Louisiana. Returning to Massachusetts, 
he studied theology, was licensed as a 
preacher by tlie Boston LTnitarian Asso- 
ciation, and in 1845 became minister of 
the Unitarian Church at Burlington, Vt. 


Too lovely, and too earl}' lost! 

My memory clings to thee; 
For thou wast once my guiding star 

Amid the treacherous sea. 
But doubly cold and cheerless now 

The wave, too dark before, 
Since every beacon-light is qiUMiched 

Along the midnight shore. 

I saw thee first when Hope arose 

On youth's triumphant wing, 
And thou wast lovelier than the light 

Of early dawning Spring. 
Who then could dream that health and joy 

Would e'er desert the brow, 
So bright with varying lustre once, 

^o chill aiul changeless now ? 


One evening when tlie autumn dew 

Upon the hills was shed, 
A.nd Hesperus far down the west 

His starry host had led, 
Thou said'st how sadly and how oft 

To that prophetic eye, 
Visions of darkness, and decline, 

And early death were nigh. 

It was a voice from other worlds. 

Which none beside could hear ; 
Like the night-breeze's plaintive lyre, 

Breathed faintly on the ear. 
It was the warning, kindly given, 

When blessed spirits come 
f'rom their bright paradise above, 

To call a sister home. 

How sadly on ray spirit then 

That fatal warning fell ! 
But oh ! the dark reality 

Another voice may tell : — 
The quick decline, the parting sigh, 

The slowly moving bier, 
The lifted sod, the sculptured stone, 

The unavailing tear. 

The amaranth flowers that bloom in heaven 

■Entwine thy temples now; 
The crown that shines immortally 

Is beaming on thy brow ; 
The seraphs round the burning throne 

Have borne thee to thy rest, 
To dwell among the saints on high, 

Companion of the blest. 

The sun hath set in golden clouds; 

Its twilight rays are gone ; 
And, gathered in the shades of night. 

The storm is rolling on. 
Alas! how ill that bursting storm 

The fainting spirit braves. 
When they — the lovely and the lost — •= 

Are gone to early graves. 


PEABODY, William Bourne Oliver, 

twin brother of the preceding, an American 
clergyman and author, born at Exeter, 
N. H.,in 1799; died at Springfield, Mass., in 
1847. He graduated at Harvard in 1817, 
studied at the Cambridge Divinity Scliool, 
and in 1820 became pastor of tiie Unitarian 
Church at Springfield, holding that j)Osition 
until his death. Besides his pastoral duties 
he wrote the life of Alexander Wilson and 
life of Cotton Mather, in Sparks's '' Ameri- 
can Biography," and contributed largely to 
the Worth American Review and to the 
Christian Examiner. He wrote many 
hymns and other poems, which have been 
published in his Bemains, edited bv Everett 
Peabody (1850). 


God of the eartli's oxt(Mided plains ! 

The dark green fields contented lie ; 
The mountains rise like lioly towers, 

Wliere man might commune with the sky; 
The tall cliff challenges the storm 

That lowers upon the vale below, 
Where shaded fountains send tlieir streams, 

With joj'ous music in their flow. 

God of the dark and heavy deep ! 

The waves lie sleeping on the sands, 
Till the fierce trumpet of the storm 

Hath summoned up their thundering bands; 
Then the white sails are dashed like foam, 

Or hurry trembling o'er the seas, 
Till, calmed by Tliee, the sinking gale 

Serenely breathes, " Depart in peace." 

God of the forests' solemn shade ! 

The grandeur of the lonely tree. 
That wrestles singly with the gale. 

Lifts up admiring eyes to Tliee ; 
But more majestic far they stand 

When side by side their ranks they form, 
To wave on high their plumes of green. 

And fight their battles with the storrn. 

WILLIAM noi'iixL or.ivKi; pp:abody.— 2 

Gud oi tlie light and vi'jwless air! 

Where sii miner breezes sweetly flow, 
Or, gathering in their angry might. 

The fierce and wintry tempests blow ; 
All — from the evening's plaintive sigh, 

That hardly lifts the drooping flower, 
To the wild wliirlwind's midnight cry — 

Breathe forth the language of Thy power. 

God of the fair and open sky ! 

How gloriously above us springs 
The tented dome of heavenly blue 

Suspended on the rainbow's rings ! 
Each brilliant star that sparkles through, 

Each gilded cloud that wanders free 
In evening's purple radiance, gives 

The beauty of its praise to Thee. 

God of the rolling orbs above ! 

Thy name is written clearly bright 
In the warm day's unvarying blaze, 

Or evening's golden shower of light. 
For every fire that fronts the sun, 

And every spark that walks alone 
Around the utmost verge of heaven, 

Were kindled at thy burning throne. 

God of the world ! the hour must come, 

And nature's self to dust return ; 
Her crumbling altars must deca}', 

Her incense-fires shall cease to burn ; 
But still her grand and lovely scenes 

Have made man's warmest praises flow, 
For hearts grow holier as they trace 

The beauty of the world below. 


PEACOCK, Thomas Love, an English 
novelist and poet, born at Weymoutli in 
1785 ; died at London in 1866. He entered 
the service of tlie East India Company in 
1818, and retired on a pension in 1856. 
He was one of the executors of Shelley, of 
whose life he has given some account. 
Among his novels the best are Headlong 
Hall C1816), Nightmare Abheg (1818), 
Maid Marian (1822), Misjm'tunes of Elphin 
(1829), in which occur seveial clever bits 
of verse, as also in the earlier Nightmare 
Abheg. His latest novel was Grgll Grange 
(1861). A complete edition of his Works., 
with a preface by Lord Houghton, was 
published in 1875. 


"Now, Lord Fitzwater," said the chief for- 
ester, "recognize 3'our son-in-law tliat was to 
have been, in the outlaw Robin Hood." 

"Ay, ay," said the Baron, "I have recog- 
nized you long ago." 

"And recognize 3'our young friend Gam- 
well," said the second, " in the outlaw Scarlet." 

" And Little John the page," said the 
third, "in Little John the outlaw.'' 

" And Father Michael of Rubygill Abbey," 
said the Friar, "in Friar Tuck of Sherwood 

"I am in fine company," said the Baron. 

"In the very best of company," said the 
Friar; "in the high court of Nature, and in 
the midst of her own nobility. Is it not so ? 
This goodly grove is our palace; the oak and 
the beach are its colonnade and its canopy ; 
the sun and the moon and the stars are its 
everlasting lamps ; the grass and the daisy and 
the primrose and the violet are its many-colored 
floor of green, white, yellow, and blue ; the may- 
flower and the woodbine and the eglantine and 
the ivy are its decorations, its curtains, and its 
tapestry ; the lark and the thrush and th$ 


linnet and the nightingale are its unhired 
minstrels and musicians. 

•'Robin Hood is the King of the Forest, 
both by the dignity of his birth, and by his 
standing army, to say nothing of the free clioice 
of his people. He holds dominion over the 
forest, and its horned multitude of citizen deer, 
and its swinish multitude, or peasantry, of 
wild-boars, by right of conquest or foice of 
arms. He levies contributions among them, 
by the free consent of his archers, their virtual 
representatives. What right had William of 
Normandy to England that Eohin of Lochsley 
has not to merry Sherwood ? William fought 
for his claim; so docs Eobin. With whom 
both ? With any tliat would dispute it. Wil- 
liam raised contributions ; so does Kobin. 
From whom both ? From all tliat they could 
or can nndxe pay them. \^ hy did any pay 
them to William ? Why do any pay them to 
Eobin ? For the same reason to both — be- 
cause they could not, or cannot, help it. Thej'^ 
differ, indeed, in tliis, that William took from 
the poor and gave to the rich ; and Kobin takes 
from the rich and gives to the poor ; and there- 
in is Robin illegitimate, though in all else he 
is true prince. 

•' Scarlet and John, are they not Peers of 
the Forest — Lords Temporal of Sherwood ? 
And am I not Lord Spiritual ? Ami not 
Archbishop ? Am I not Pope ? Do I not 
consecrate their banner and absolve their sins ? 
Are they not State, and am not I Church ? 
Are they not State monarchical, and am not I 
Church militant ? Do I not excommunicate 
our enemies from venison and brawn ; and, 
by'r Lady, when need calls, beat them down 
under ray feet? The State levies tax, and the 
Church levies tithe. Even so do we. Mass ! 
We take all at once. W^hat then ? It is tax 
by redemption, and tithe by commutation. 
Your William and Richard can cut and come 
again ; but our Robin deals with slipper}- sub- 
jects that come not twice to his exchequer. 


'•'What need we. then, to constitute a Court, 
except a Fool and a Laureate ? For the Fool, 
his only use is to make false knaves merry by 
art; and we are merry men who are true by 
nature. For the Laureate, his only office is to 
find virtues in those who have none, and to 
drink sack for his pains. We have quite virtue 
enough to need him not, and can drink oui 
sack for ourselves." — Maid Marian. 


Seamen three ! What men be ye ? 

" Gotham's three Wise Men we be." 
Whither in your bowl so free? 

" To rake the moon from out the sea. 
The bowl goes trim ; the moo-.i doth shine. 
And our ballast is old wine ; 
And our ballast is old wine." 

Who art thou, so fast adrift ? 

"■ I am he tliey call Old Care." 
Here on board we will thee lift. 

" No ; I may not enter there." 
Wherefore so ? " 'Tis Jove's decree 
In a bowl Care may not be ; 
In a bowl Care ma}- not be." 

Fear ye not the waves that roll? 

"No: in charmed bowl we swim." 
AVhat the charm that floats the bowl ? 

" Water may not pass the brim. 
The bowl goes trim ; the moon doth shine. 
And our ballast is old wine; 
And our ballast is old wine." 

Nightmare Ahhey. 


The mountain sheep are sweeter, 

But the valley sheep are fatter; 
We therefore deemed it meeter 

To cari-y off the latter. 
We made an expedition ; 

We met a host and quelled it; 
We forced a strong position, 

And killed the men who held it. 


On Dyfed'.s richest valley, 

Where henls of kiiie were browsing, 
We made a mighty sail}', 

To iuriiish uur carousing. 
Fierce warriors rushed to meet us ; 

AVe met them and o'erthrew them. 
They struggletl hard to beat us, 

But we conquered them, and slew them. 

As we drove our prize at leisure, 

The King marched fortli to catcli us; 
His rage surpasse<l all measure, 

But his people could not match us. 
He fled to his hall-pillars, 

And, ere our force we led off, 
Some sacked his house and cellars, 

While others cut his head off. 

We there, in strife bewildering, 

Spilt blood enough to swim in; 
We orphaned many children, 

And widowed many women. 
The eagles and the ravens 

Were glutted with our foemen : 
The heroes and the cravens, 

The spearmen and the bowmen. 

We brought away from battle- - 

And much their land bemoaned them — 
Two thousand head of cattle, 

And the head of him who owned them : 
Ednyfed, King of Dyfed, 

His head was borne before us; 
And his wine and beasts supplied our feasts, 

And his overthrow our chorus. 

Misfortioies of Elphin, 


PEARSON, John, an English bishop, 
born in Snoring, Norfolk, Enghiud, in IGlo ; 
died in Chester, England, in 1686. He 
was educated at Kings College, Cambridge, 
of which he was made P'ellow^ in 1635. 
In 1639 he took orders, became prebendary 
of Ely, and Master of Jesus College in 
Cambridge in 1660; Professor of Divinity 
at Lady Margaret College in 1661 ; Master 
of Trinity in 1662 ; and was consecrated 
Bishop of Chester in 1672. He was the 
author of several works, the most important 
of whicii was the Exposition of the Creed 
(1659), which was frequently republished, 
abridged, and was translated into Latin by 
Arnold in 1691. 


Beside the principles of which we consist, 
and the actions which flow from us, the con- 
sideration of tlie things without us, and the 
natural course of variations in the creature, 
will render the resurrection j'et more highly 
probable. Every space of twenty-four hours 
teacheth thus much, in which there is always 
a revolution amounting to a resurrection. The 
day dies into a night, and is buried in silence 
and in darkness ; in tlie next morning it ap- 
peareth again and revivetli, opening the grave 
of darkness, rising from the dead of night; 
this is a diurnal resurrection. As the day dies 
into night, so doth the summer into winter; 
the sap is said to descend into the root, and 
there it lies buried in the ground ; the earth 
is covered with snow or crusted with frost, and 
becomes a general sepulchre ; when the spring 
appeareth, all begin to rise ; the plants and 
flowers peep out of their graves, revive, and 
grow, and flourish ; this is the annual resur- 
rection. The corn by which we live, and for 
want of which we perish with famine, is not- 
withstanding cast upon the earth, and buried 
in the ground, with a design that it may cor- 

JOHN' I'I:AKS()X.-2 

rn])t, and, being cornipted, may revive and 
inulti|)ly ; our bodies are fed by this constant 
experiment, and we continue this present life 
by succession of resurrections. Thus all things 
are repaired by corrupting, and preserved by 
])erishing, and revived by dying; and can we 
think that man, the lord of all these things, 
wliich thus die and revive for him, should be 
detained in death as never to live again? Is 
it imaginable that God should thus restore all 
things to man, and not restore man to him- 
self? If there were no other consideration, 
but of the principles of human nature, of the 
liberty and remunerability of human actions, 
and of the natural revolutions and resurrec- 
tions of other creatures, it were abundantly 
sufficient to render the resurrection of our 
bodies highly probable. 

We must not rest in this school of nature, 
nor settle our persuasions upon likelihoods ; 
but as we passed from an apparent possibility 
into a higli presumption and probability, so 
must we pass from thence into a full assurance 
of an infallil)le certaiiit}'. And of this, indeed, 
we cannot be assured but by the revelation of 
the will of God; upon His power we must con- 
clude that we ma\r, from His will that we shall, 
rise from the dead. Now, the power of God 
is known unto all men, and therefore all men 
may infer from thence a possibility; but the 
will of God is not revealed unto all men, and 
therefore all have not an infallible certainty of 
the resurrection. For the grounding of which 
assurance I shall show that God hath revealed 
the determination of His will to raise the dead, 
and that He hath not only delivered that inten- 
tion in His Word, but liath also several wa3's 
confirmed the same. — An Exposition on the 


PECK, George Washington, an 
American luimorist, born at Henderson. 
N. Y., in 1840. For several ye;i,rs he has 
been proprielor oi Peek's iSun, Milwaukee, 
of vviiich cily he was elected mayor in 
April, 1890. His books are : Peck's Com- 
pendium of Fun (1883), Peek's Suyishine 
(1884), Peek's Bad Boy (1885), Hoio 
George W. Peek put down the Rebellion 
(188t), and Peek's Boss Book (1888), all 
of which have been successful. 


It was along in the winter, and the promi- 
nent church members were having a business 
meeting in tlie basement of the cliurcli to devise 
ways and means to pay for the pulpit furniture. 
The question of an oyster sociable had been 
decided, and they got to talking about oysters, 
and one old deaconess asked a deacon if he 
didn't think raw oysters would go further at a 
sociable than stewed oysters. 

He said he thought raw oysters would go 
further, but they wouldn't be as satisfying. 
And then he went on to tell how far a raw 
oyster went once with him. He said he was at 
a swell dinner party with a lady on each side 
of him, and he was trying to talk to both of 
them, or carry on two conversations, on two 
different subjects at the same time. 

They had some shell oysters, and he took up 
one on a fork — a large, fat one — and was about 
to put it in his mouth, when the lady on his left 
called his attention, and when the cold fork 
struck his teeth, and no 03'ster on it, he felt as 
though it had escaped, but he made no sign. 
He went on talking with the lady as though 
nothing had happened. He glanced down at 
his shirt bosom, and was at once on the trail of 
the oyster, though the insect had got about 
two minutes start of him. It had gone down 
his vest, under the waistband of his clothing, 
and h« was powerless to arrest ita progrees, 


lie said he never felt how powerless he was 
until he tried to grab that oyster by placing 
his hand on his person outside his clothes ; then, 
as the ovster slipped around from one place to 
another, he felt that man was only a poor weak 

The oyster, he observed, had very cold feet, 
and the more he tried to be calm and collected, 
the more the oyster seemed to walk round his 

He says he does not know whether the ladies 
noticed the oyster when it started on its travels 
or not, but he thought, as he leaned back and 
tried to loosen up his clothing so it would hurry 
down towards his shoes, that they winked at 
each other, though they might have been wink- 
ing at something else. 

The oyster seemed to be real spry until it 
got out of reach, and then it got to going slow 
as the slippery covering wore off, and by the 
time it had worked into his trousers'leg, if was 
going very slow, though it remained cold to the 
last, and he hailed the arrival of that oyster 
into the heel of his stocking with more delight 
than he did the raising of the American Hag 
over Vicksburg, after the long siege. — Pecli's 
Gonvpendium of Fioi. 


PELL 1 CO, Silvio, an Italian poet, born 
at tSalazzo iu 1789; died near Turin in 
1854. While quite young he achieved a 
high reputation, especially by his dramatic 
poems, Lasdamia and Francesca da Rimini. 
He took part in the Carbonari movement, 
the object of which was to put down the 
Austrian domination in Italy. In 1820 he 
was arrested, brought to trial, and con- 
demned to death ; but the sentence was 
commuted to fifteen years' close confine- 
ment in a prison of state. His first [ilace 
of incarceration was at Milan, from which 
he was removed to an island near Venice, 
and finally to Spielberg, in Moravia. His 
health broke down under the hardships to 
which he was subjected, and in 1830, when 
apparently near the point of death, he was 
Unrated by Imperial order, and took up 
his residence at Turin. The year after 
his liberation he put forth Mij PriaouH. 
containing an account of his ten years' in- 
carceration. This was immediately trans- 
lated into sevei-al langniiges — into English 
by Thomas Roscoe. Pellico subsequently 
published several works in verse and prose ; 
one of the latest being a treatise on The 
Duties of Man. — Among his fellow-pri.>- 
oners at Spielberg was his friend Pietro 


At tlie commencement of my captivity I was 
fortunate enougli to meet witli a friend. It 
was neitliertlie governor nor any of the Under- 
sailors, nor aii.y of the lords of tlie Process 
Chamber; but a poor deaf-and-dumb boy, five or 
six years old, the offspring of tliieves who had 
paid the penalty of the law. This wretched 
little orphan was supported by the police, with 


several otlier boys in the same condition of life. 
They all dwelt in a room opposite my own, 
and were only permitted to go out at certain 
hours to breathe a little air in the yard. Little 
Deaf-and-Diimb used to come under my window, 
smiled, and made his obeisance to me. I threw 
him a piece of bread ; he looked, and gave a 
leap of joy ; then ran to his companions, 
divided it, and returned to eat his own share 
under a window. The others gave me a wist- 
ful look from a distance, but ventured no neai-er, 
while the deaf-and-dumb boy expressed signs of 
sympathy for me ; not, T found, affected, out of 
mere selfishness. Sometimes he was at a loss 
what to do with the bread I gave him, and 
made signs that he had eaten enough, as also 
had his companions. When he saw one of the 
undfci--jailers going into my room, he would 
give him what he had got from me, in order to 
restore it to me. Yet he continued to haunt 
my window, and seemed to rejoice whenevel* I 
deigned to notice him. 

One day the jailer permitted him to enter 
my prison, when he instantly ran to embrace 
my knees, actually uttering a cry of joy. I 
took him up in my arms, and lie threw his little 
hands about my neck, and lavished on me the 
tenderest caresses, llow much affection in his 
smile and manner ! How eagerly I longed to 
liave him to educate, to raise him from his ab- 
ject condition, and snatch him, perhaps, from 
utter ruin. I never learned his name; he did 
not know himself tliat he had one. He seemed 
always liappv, and I never saw him weep except 
once, and that was on his being beaten, I know 
not why, by the jailer. Strange that he should 
be thus happy in a receptacle of so much pain 
and sorrow ; yet he was as light-hearted as the 
son of a grandee. From him I learned at least 
that the mind need not depend on situations, 
but may be rendered independent of external 
things. Govern the imagination, and we shall 
be well wherever we happen to be placed. 

3fy Prisons, 



Maroncelli wus far more unfortunate than 
myself. Altliougli iny sympathy for him caused 
me real pain and suffering, I was glad to be 
near him, to attend to all his wants, and to 
perform all the duties of a brother and a friend. 
It soon became evident that his ulcered leg 
would never heal. He considered his death 
as near at hand, and 3'et he lost nothing of his 
admirable calmness or his courage. The sight 
of all his suffering was at last almost more 
than I could bear. 

Still, in this deplorable condition, he con- 
tinued to compose verses; he sang, he con- 
versed — and all this he did to encourage me by 
disguising a jjart of what he suffered. He lost 
his jjower of digestion, he could not sleep, 
was reduced to a skeleton, and very frequently 
swooned away. Yet the moment he was restored 
he rallied his spirits, and, smiling, told me not 
to be afraid. It is indescribable what he suf- 
fered during many months. At length a con- 
sultation was held. The head-physician was 
called in ; he approved of all his colleagues 
had done, and took his leave without express- 
ing any decided opinion. A few minutes after, 
the superintendent entered, and said to Ma- 
roncelli : — 

" The head-phj'sician did not venture to ex- 
press his real opinion in your presence; he 
feared you would not have fortitude to bear so 
terrible an announcement. I have assured him, 
however, that 3-ou are possessed of courage." 

" I hope,'- replied Maroncelli, *•' that I have 
given some proof of it in bearing this terrible 
torture without howling. Is there anything 
he would propose ? " 

" Yes, sir — the amputation of the limb. Only, 
perceiving how much 30ur constitution is broken 
down, he hesitates to advise you. Weak as 
you are, could you support the operation ? Will 
you run the risk — " 

" Of dying? And shall I not equally die if 
I go on, besides enduring this diabolical tor- 
ture ? " 


'' We will send off an account, then, direct 
to Vienna, soliciting ])ern]ission ; and the mo- 
ment it conies, you sliall have your leg cut off." 

" What ! Does it require a permit for 
this ?" 

" Assuredly, sir," was the rejjly. 

In about a week a courier arrived from 
Vienna, with the permission for the amputa- 
tion. My sick friend was carried from his 
dungeon into a larger room. He begged me to 
follow him. "I may die under the knife," said 
he, "and I should wish, in that case, to expire 
in your arms." I promised, and was permitted 
to accompany him. 

The iSacrament was first administei'ed to the 
prisoner ; and we then quietly awaited the 
arrival of the surgeon. Maroncelli filled up 
the interval by singing a hj'mn. At length 
they came. One was an able surgeon, sent 
from Vienna to superintend the operation ; but 
it was the privilege of our ordinary prison 
apothecary, and he would not yield it to the 
man of science, who must be contented to look 

The patient was placed on the side of a 
couch, with his leg down, while I supported him 
in my arms. It was to be cut off above the 
knee. First an incision was made to the depth 
of an inch — then through the muscles ; and 
the blood flowed in torrents. The arteries were 
next taken up, one bj' one, and secnired by 
ligaments. Next came the saw. Tliis lasted 
some time; but Maroncelli never uttered a cr}'. 
When he saw them carrying his leg away he 
cast on it one melancholy look ; then, turning 
towards the surgeon, he said, " You have freed 
me from an enemy, and I have no monej' to 
give you." He saw a rose placed in a glass in 
a window, and said. '' Ma}' I beg you to bring 
hither that flower ?" I brought it to him, and 
he then offered it to the surgeon, with an in- 
describable air of good-nature: "See, I have 
nothing else to give you in token of \\\y grati- 
tude." The surgeon took it as it was meant, 
and even wiped away a tear. — My Prisons. 


PENN, William, founder of the Colon) 
of reiinsylvania, bom at London in 1644 ; 
died in 1718. Of his public career we 
shall not speak further than to say that, 
although from about his twentieth year he 
was an earnest and consistent Quaker, he 
was one of the most accomplisiied gentle- 
men of his time, and was in liigh favor at 
Court during the latter part of the reign 
of Charles II., and the whole of that 
of James II. Macaulay, alone among 
historians, speaks in dis[)araging terms of 
his personal character ; but there is good 
reason to believe that the acts of turpitude 
with which Macaulay charges him were 
committed by a '^ i\lr. Penne," an altogether 
different'person. The Life of William Penn 
has been exhaustively written by Hejtworth 
Dixon (1872), with a special view to lelut- 
ing the aspersions of Macaulay. Penn was 
a voluminous writer. His jSelect Works 
occupy 5 vols, in the edition of 1782, and 
three stout volumes in the nioie compact 
edition of 1825. Most of them relate 
directly to the history and doctrines of 
the Quakers. Besides these are his iVb 
Cross, JVo Crown {1669), written during an 
eight months' imprisonment for the offence 
of preaching in public, and Fruits of a 
Father''s Lov<i, being wise counsels to his 
children, published eight years after his 


That i^eople are generally proud of tlieir 
persons is too visible and troublesome, especially 
if they have any pretence eitlier to blood or 
beauty. ]>ut as to the first : What a pother 
lias this noble blood made in the world : antiquity 
of name or family' ; whose father or mother, 
great-grandfather or great-grandmother was 
best descended or allied ? What stock or of 


wJKit flan tlicy cainc nf '.' What coat-of-arms 
tlicy liavi' ? Which had of right the [)recedeiu;e ? 
lUit, niethiiiks, notliiiig of man's folly lias less 
show of reason to palliate it. What matter 
is it of whom any one descended who is not of 
ill-fame; since 'tis his own virtue that must 
raise or vice depress him ? An ancestor's 
character is no excuse to a man's ill actions, but 
an aggravation of his degeneracy' ; and since 
virtue comes not by generation, I am neither tlie 
better nor the worse for my forefathers : no, to 
be sure not, in God's account ; nor should it be in 
man's. Nobody would endure injuries easier, 
or reject favors the more, for coming from the 
4iands of a man well or ill descended. 

I confess it were greater honor to have liad 
no blots, and with an hereditary estate to have 
had a lineal descent of worth. B«t that was 
never found ; not in the most blessed of families 
upon earth ; I mean pious Abraham's. To be 
descended of wealth and titles fills no man's 
head with brains, or heart with truth. Those 
qualities come from a higher cause. 'Tis vanity, 
then, and most condemnable pride, for a man of 
bulk and character to des])ise another of less 
size in the world and of meaner alliance, for 
want of them ; because the latter may have the 
merit, where the former has only tlie effects of 
it in an ancestor; and, though the one be great 
by means of a forefather, the other is so too, but 
'tis by his own ; then, pray, which is the bravest 
man of the two? — JVo Cross, JVo Crovm. 


Betake yourselves to some honest, industrious 
course of life : and that not of sordid covetous- 
ness, but for example, and to avoid idleness. 
And if you change j'onr condition and marry, 
choose with the consent of your mother, if 
living, or of guardians, or those who have the 
charge of yon. Mind neither beauty nor riches, 
but the fear of the Lord, and a sweet and 
amiable disposition, such as 3'ou can love above 
•fhis w-orldj and that may tnake your habit<vtwtl8 


plea.-jant and desirable to you. And, being 
married, be tender, affectionate, patient, and 
nioek. Live in the fear of the Lord, and He 
will bless you and your offspring. 

Be sure to live within compass ; borrow not, 
neither be beholden to any. Knin not your- 
selves by kindness to others ; f..i- that exceeds 
the due bounds of friendship, neither will a true 
frieiid expect it. Let your industry and your 
parsimony go no further than for a sufficiency 
f<jr life, and to make a provision for your children 
if the Lord gives you any, and tliat in moder- 
ation. I charge j'ou help the poor and needy. 
Let the Lord have a voluntarj- share of your in- 
come for the good of the poor, both in our 
society and others: f..r we are all his creatures ; 
remembering that he that giveth to the poor 
lendeth to the Lord. . . . 

Be humble and gentle iu your conversation ; 
of few words, I charge you, but always pertinent 
when you speak ; hearing out before you 
attempt to answer, and theu speak as if you 
would persuade^ not impose. Affront none, 
neither avenge tlie affronts that are done tn 
you ; but forgive, and you shall i)e forgiven of 
your Pleavenly Father. Tn making frieiul.- 
consider well first ; and when you are fixed, be 
true, not wavering by reports, nor deserting in 
afidiction ; for that becometh not the good and 
virtuous. Read my JVo Cross, JVo Crown. 
There is instruction. 

And as for you who are likely to be concerned 
in the government of Pennsylvania and my 
parts of East Jersey — especially the first — I do 
charge you before the Lord God and His lioly 
angels that you be lowly, diligent, and tender, 
fearing God, loving the people, and hating covet- 
ousness. Let justice have its impartial course, 
and the law free passage. Though to your loss, 
protect no man against it ; for yoi: are not 
above the law, but the law above you. Keep 
upou the square, for God sees you ; therefore 
do your duty, and be sure 3^0 vv see with your 
■ own eyes, and- hear with ypi;{f pwnear*". — JF'ruUi 
qfa Father' % Lotie, 


PEPYS, Samuel, an English writer, 
born in 1633, died in 1703. Though he 
was of an ancient family, his early years 
were passed in humble circumstances. 
When about twenty-seven he obtained a 
small post in the exchequer ; and he grad- 
ually passed from one position to a better 
one during the reigns of Charles II. and 
James II., becoming in the end Secretary 
to the Admiralty. He was also President 
of the Royal Society from 1684 to 1686. 
The accession of William III., in 1688, oc- 
casioned his I'etirement from public life. He 
left to Magdalen College, Oxford, his rare 
collection of prints, books, and manuscripts, 
Avhich is known as the *' Pepysian Library." 
He is known almost wholly by his Diary ^ 
kept ill short-hand from 1660 to 1669, 
when the failure of his eyesiglit compelled 
him to abandon it. This Diary was first 
partly deciphered about 1820, and portions 
of it were printed in 1825, edited by Lord 
Braybrooke. This, however, was greatly 
abridged, and even mutilated. Several 
editions, each more full than the preceding 
one, have subsequently been published. 
The Diary is simply a mass of pure gossip, 
but so naively told, as to be exceedingly 
readable. Indeed without it we should 
hardly be able to obtain a picture of life 
in England during the early years of the 
reign of Charles IL Among the earliest 
entries in the Diary is tlie following, made 
in 1660, when Pepys was just beginning 
to get his head fairl}' above water. 


August 18, 1660. Towards Whitefriars by 
water. I landed my wife at Whitefriars, with 
£5 to buy her a petticoat, and my father per- 
suaded lier to buv a most fine cloth of 2Gs. a 


yard, and a rich lace, that the petticoat will 
come to £5; but she doing it very innocentl}-^ 
I could not be angry. ... 19, Lord's Bay. 
This morning Sir W. Batten, Pen, and mysell 
went to church. We heard j\Ir. Mills, a very 
good preacher. Home to dinner, where my 
wife had on the new petticoat that she bouglit 
yesterday, which indeed is a very fine cloth and 
a fine lace ; but it being of a light color, and 
the lace all silver, it makes no great show. 

Among the later entries is the following, 
dated May 1, 1069, which shows that Pepys 
was getting along in tlie world, and had 
indeed set up a coach. 


Up betimes. Called by my tailor, and there 
put on a sunnuer suit the first time this year: 
but it was not my fine one of flowered tabby vest, 
and colored camelott tunique, because it was 
too fine with the gold lace at the bands, and I 
was afraid to be seen in it; but put on the 
stuff suit I made last year, which is now re- 
paired, and so did go to the office in it, and sat 
all the morning, the day looking as if it would 
be foul. At noon got home to dinner, and there 
find my wife extraordinary fine, with her flow- 
ered tabby gown that she made two 3'ears ago, 
now laced extremely pretty ; and, indeed, was 
fine all over, and mighty earnest to go, though 
the daj' was extremely lowering ; and she would 
have me put on my fine suit, which I did. And 
so anon we went alone through the town, with 
our iiew liveries of serge, and the horses' manes 
and tails tied with red ribbons, and the stand- 
ards gilt with varnish, and all clean, and green 
reins, that the people did mightilj' look upon 
us. And the truth is, I did not see any coach 
more prett^', though more ga}', than ours all 
that da}'. 

lint we set out, out of humor — I because Bet- 
ty, whom I expected, was not come to go with 
us ; and my wife that I would sit on the same 
seat with her, which she likes not, being so 


fine. And she tlicn expected to meet Slieres, 
wliicli we did sec in the i'ell Mell ; and, against 
my will, I was forced to take him into the coach ; 
but was sullen all day almost, and little com- 
j^laisant ; the day being unpleasing, though the 
Park full o/ coaches, but dusty, and windy, and 
cold, and now and then a little dribbling of 
rain. And what made it worse, there were so 
many hackney-coaches as spoiled the sight of 
the gentlemeirs; and so we had little pleasure. 
But here was Mr. VV. Batelier and his sister in 
a borrowed coach by themselves, and I took 
them and we to the Lodge ; and at the door 
did give them a syllabub, and other things ; 
cost me 12s., and pretty merry. 


December 26, 1G62. To the wardrobe. 
Hither come Mr. Battersby ; and we falling 
into discourse of a new book of drollery in 
use, called lludihras, I would needs go find it 
out, and met with it at the Temple: cost me 
2s. 6cl. But when I come to read it, it is so 
silly an abuse of the Presbyter Knight going to 
the wars, that I am ashamed of it ; and, by-and- 
by meeting at Mr. Townsend's at dinner, I sold 
it to him for 18(/. Fthraarii 6. To Lincoln's 
Inn Fields ; and it being too soon to go to dinner, 
I walked up and down, and looked upon the 
outside at the new theatre building in Covent 
Gardens, which will be very fine. And so to a 
bookseller's in the Strand, and there bought 
Hudlbras again ; it being certainly some ill- 
humor to be so against that which all the world 
cries up to be the example of wit ; for which 
I am resolved once more to read him, and see 
whether I can find it or no. N'ooernber 28. 
To St. Paul's Churcli-yard. and there looked up- 
on the Second Part of Iludibras, which I buy 
not, but borrow to read, to see if it be as good 
as the first, which the w^orld cried so mightily 
up; though it hath not a good liking in me, 
though I had tried by twice or three times 
reading to bring myself to think it witty. 



Hearing that the King and Queen are rode 
abroad with the Ladies of Honor to tlie Park; 
and seeing a great crowd of galhmts sta3'ing 
there to see their return, I also staid, walking 
up and down. Bj-and-by the King and Queen, 
who looked in tliis dress — a white laced waist- 
coat, and a crimson short petticoat, and her 
hair dressed fWc« negligence — mighty pretty; 
and the King rode hand-iu-hand with her. 
Here was also my Lad}^ Castlemaine, who rode 
among the rest of the ladies ; but the King took, 
methought, no notice of her; nor when she 
'light did anybody press — as she seemed to ex- 
pect, and staid for it — to take her down. She 
looked mighty out of humor, and had a yellow 
plume in her hat, which all took notice of, and 
yet is very handsome, but ver>^ melancholy ; 
nor did anybody speak to her, or she so much 
as smile or speak to anybody. 

I followed them up into Whitehall, and into 
the Queen's presence, where all the ladies walk- 
ed, talking and fiddling with their hats and 
feathers, and changing and trying one another's 
by one another's heads, and laughing. But it 
was the finest sight to me, considering their 
great beauties and dress, that I ever did see in 
all my life. But, above all, Mrs. Stewart in 
this dress, with her hat cocked and a red plume, 
and her sweet eyQ, little Roman nose, and ex-r 
cellent taille, is now the greatest beauty I ever 
saw, I think, in my life ; and, if ever woman 
can, do exceed my Lady Castlemaine — at least in 
this dress. Nor do I wonder if the King 
changes, which I verily believe is the reason 0% 
his coldness to my Lady Castlemaiue, 


PERCIX'AL, Jainiks Gates, an Ameri- 
can scholar and poet, born at Berlin, C^onn., 
in 179.3, tiled at Hazel Green, Wis., in 1856. 
lie graduated at Yale in 1815 ; was for 
a time engaged in teaching, then studied 
medicine at Philadelphia. In 1824 he was 
appointed Assistant Surgeon in the U. S. 
army, and was detailed as Professor of 
Chemistry in the Military Academy at 
West Point. In 1827 he took up his resi- 
dence at New Haven, and engaged in va- 
rious kinds of literaiy work. In 1835 hewas 
ap})ointed to make a geological and mineral 
survey of the State of Connecticut, but his 
Report did not appear until 1842. Be- 
tween 1841 and 1844 he contributed to dif- 
ferent journals metrical versions of Ger^ 
man and Slavic lyrics. In 1854 he was 
appointed Geologist of the State of Wis- 
consin. His first Report was published 
in 1855, and he was engaged in the prep- 
aration of his second Report at the time 
of his death. At various intervals be- 
tween 1821 and 1843 he put forth small 
volumes of poems. A complete edition of 
liis Poems was published in 1859 ; and his 
Life has been written by Rev. J. H. Ward 


Deep in tlie wave is a coral grove, 
Where the piu'ple mullet and gold-fish rove; 
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, 
That never are wet with the falling dew, 
But in bright and cliangeful beaut}' shine, 
Far down in tlie green and glassy brine. 
The floor is of sand like the mountain drift, 

And the pearl-sliells spangle tlie flinty snow; 
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift 

Their boughs, where the tides and billows 

The water is calm and still below, 


'Fov tlie winds and waves are absent tliere, 

xVnd tlie sands are bright as the stars that glow 
In the motionless depths of the upper air. 

There, with its waving blade of green, 

The sea-flag streams throiigli the silent water, 

And th3 crimson leaf of tlie dulse is seen 
To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter. 

There, with a light and easy motion, 

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep 

And the j-ellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 

Are bending like corn on the upland lea. 

And life, in rare and beautiful forms. 

Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, 
And is safe when the wrathful spirit of storms 

Has made the top of tlie wave his own. 
And when the ship from his fury flies, 

Wliere the myriad voices of ocean roar. 
When the wind-god frowns in the mui-ky skies, 

And demons are waiting tlie wreck on shore; 
Then far below in the peaceful sea 

The purple mullet and gold-fish rove, 
Where the waters murmur tranquilly, 

Through the bending twigs of the coral grove 

THE pleasurp:,s of the studext. 

And wherefore does the student trim his lamp 
And watch his lonely taper, when the stars 
Are holding their high festival in heaven. 
And worshipping around the midnight throne ? 
And wherefore does he spend so patiently, 
In deep and voiceless thought, the blooming 

Of 3-outli and joyance, while the blood is warm. 
And the heart full of buoyancy and fire ? 

He has his pleasures; he has his reward: 
For there is in the company of books — 
The living- souls of the departed sage, 
And bard and hero ; there is in the roll 
Of eloquence and history, which speak 
The deeds of early and of better days : 
In these an4 in the visions that arise 


Sublime in luidniglit musings, aud array 
Ot)nceptions of the wise and good — 
There is an elevating influence 
Tliat snatciies us awhile from earth, and lifts 
The spirit in its strong aspirings, where 
Sui)erii)r beings till the court of heaven. 
And thus his fancy wanders, and has talk 
With bigli imaginings, and jjictures out 
Communion with the worthies of old times. . . . 

With eye upturned, watching the many stars, 
And ear in deep attention fixed, he sits, 
Communing with himself, and with the world, 
The universe around him, and with all 
The beings of his memory and his hopes, 
Till past becomes reality, and jo^'s 
That beckon in the future nearer draw, 
And ask fruition. Oh, there is a pure, 
A hallowed feeling in these midnight dreams. 

And there is pleasure in the utterance 
Of pleasant images in })leasant words, 
Melting like melody into the ear, 
And stealing on in one continual flow, 
Unruffled aud unbroken. It is joy 
Ineffable to dwell upon the lines 
That register our feelings, and portray. 
In colors always fresh and ever new, 
Emotions that were sanctified, and loved. 
As something far too tender, and too pure 
For forms so frail aud fading. 


PERRAULT, Charles, a French au- 
thor, born in Paris in 1628 ; died in 1703. 
When nine years of age he was sent to the 
College de Beauvais, his father assisting 
him in his studies. He liked exercises in 
verse and disputes with his teacher of phi- 
losophy better than regular study, and at 
length, accompanied by an admiring fellow- 
student named Beaurin. left the college 
halls for the gardens of the Luxembourg, 
where they laid out their own course of 
study, which they followed for three or 
four years. 

A burlesque translation of the Sixth 
Book of the jEyieid was the first fruit of 
this self-appointed curiiculum, the young 
translator's brother Claude, architect of 
the Louvre, illustrating it with Lidia-ink 

In 1651 Perrault was admitted to the 
bar; but, finding the law wearisome, he 
accepted a clerkship under his brother, 
the Receiver-General of Paris, This posi- 
tion he held for ten years, employing his 
abundant leisure in readinof and makingr 
verses, which were handed about among 
his friends and gained him considerable 
reputation. He also planned a house for 
his brother, and thus attracted the notice 
of Colbert, who, in 1663, procured his ap- 
pointment to the superintendence of the 
ro3-al buildings, which he exercised for 
twent}' years. On his retirement he de- 
voted himself to authorship, and to the 
education of his children. \\\ 1686 he pub- 
lished : Saint Paulin Evesque de Nole with 
an Ode aux Nouveaux Convertis. The next 
year he offended Boileau and others by com- 
paiing the ancient poets unfavorably with 
those of his own time, in a poem, Le Steele 


de Louis XTV., read before the Academj', 
to which he had been adiuitted in 1671. 
Tlie "battle of ihe books"' raged furi- 
ously, and Perrault defended his position 
in Le Parallele des Anclens et des Mo- 
dei'nes (1688). His last work, Eloges des 
ITo)n>Hes Illustres du Siecle de Louis XIV., 
finely illustrated with })ortniits, was pul)- 
lished in two volumes (1696-1701). His 
fame rests u[)on none of these works. 
In 1604 he brought out a small volume of 
tales in verse, contributed, in the intervals 
of literary warfare, to a society paper of 
Paris and to a magazine published at the 
Hague. It was followed in 1697 bj' a vol- 
ume of prose tales entitled, Histoires et 
Contes du Temp Passe^ bearing on its title- 
page the name of Perrault's young son, 
P. Darmancour, and containing tiiose im- 
mortal favorites of childhood, TJce Sleep- 
ing Beauty in the Wood^ Little Red Riding' 
hood. Blue Beard., Puss in Boots., Cinder- 
ella. Riquet with the Tuft, and Hop o' Mg 
Tliumh. These tales, gathered from the 
lips of nurses and peasants, and told in a 
charming style for the amusement of child- 
hood, will keep Perrault's fame alive as long 
as there are ciiildren. As Andrew Lang 
has said : " By a curious revenge, Per- 
rault, who had blamed Homer for telling, 
in the Odyssey, old wives' fables, has 
found, in old wives' fables, his own im- 


At the end of a hundred years the son of the 
reigning king, wlio belonged to another family 
than that of tlie sleeping princess, being out 
hunting in these parts, asked what tower it 
was that he saw rising out of a wide, dense 
wood not far away. Everybody answered ac- 


cording to what lie had heard — some that it 
was a haunted castle, otiiers tliat it was a 
meeting place for witches, others that it was 
the residence of an ogre, to which he carried all 
tlie children that he caught, in order that he 
might devour them at leisure, and without fear 
of being followed, since no one else could find a 
way through the forest. While the prince stood 
in doubt what to believe, an aged peasant spoke : 
" My prince,*' said he, " more than fif t}- years ago 
I heard my father say that the loveliest princess 
in the world lay asleep in that castle, and that 
when she had slept a hundred years she should 
be awakened by a king's son who was destined 
to be her husband." At these words the prince 
was on fire to see the end of the adventure. 
He instantly resolved to penetrate the forest 
whatever he might find there. Scarcely had 
he taken a step forward when the great trees, 
the thickets, and the thorns, parted to let him 
pass. He went towards the castle which stood 
at the end of a long avenue, and felt somewhat 
surprised when he saw that not one of his train 
had been able to follow him, the branches hav- 
ing sprung together again as soon as he had 

When he entered the courtyard he was for a 
moment chilled with horror. A frightful silence 
reigned; the image of death was everywhere ; 
what seemed the corpses of men and animals 
lay stretched upon the ground. The prince 
knew, however, by the pimpled noses and red 
faces of the porters, that they were only asleep, 
and he saw by the few drops of wine which 
still remained in their glasses, that they had 
fallen asleep while drinking. He passed 
through a large court paved with marble, as- 
cendecl the stairs, entered a saloon where the 
guards, with their muskets on their shoulders, 
stood in a row, snoring their loudest, traversed 
several rooms filled with ladies and gentlemen, 
some bolt upright, some seated, but all sound 
asleep, came to a chamber gilded everywhere, 
and saw upon a bed with parted curtains the 


most beautiful sight lie had ever beheld — a 
sleeping princess not more than fifteen or six- 
teen years old, and of dazzling, almost divine, 
loveliness. He approached her and fell upon 
his knees beside her. Then, the enchantment 
being ended, the princess awoke, and fixing her 
eyes tenderly upon him said: "Is it you, my 
Prince ? You have been awaited a long time." 
The prince, charmed by her words, and still 
more by the tone in which they were spoken, 
knew not how to manifest his joy and grat- 
itude : he assured her that he loved her better 
than himself. Their speech was broken ; the}' 
wept, there was little eloquence, a great deal of 
love. He was more embnrrassed than she, be- 
cause he was taken by surprise, while she had 
had time to think of what she should say to him ; 
for it seems (though we are not told how) that 
the good Fairy had filled her long sleep with 
pleasant dreams. They talked for four hours 
without saying half of what they had to say. 

In the meantime the whole palace had 
awakened with the princess. Everybody re- 
sumed his work, but, as the others were not 
lovers, they were all dying with hunger. The 
first maid of honor became impatient, and 
called loudly to the princess that dinner was 
ready. The prince aided the princess to rise. 
She was magnificently dressed, but he kept it 
to himself that she was dressed like his grand- 
mother. Nevertheless she was not the less 
beautiful. The}' entered an apartment lined 
with mirrors and there supped. The officers of 
the princess's household served them, and the 
violins and hautboys played excellent old pieces, 
although it was a hundred years since they had 
played anything. — The Sleeping Beauty in 
the Wood. 


PERRY, NoEA, an American poet, born 
in Massachusetts in 1841. In eaiiy rears 
she removed to Providence, R. I., where 
her father was a merchant. Her educa- 
tion was received at home and in private 
schools. Ac the age of eigliteen slie beo-an 
to write, and her first serial story, i^^mt:? 
Neivcomh, appeared in Harper's 3Iagazine 
in 1859-60. For several years she was 
the Boston correspomleut for the Chicao-o 
Tribune and tlie Providence Journal. She 
is a frequent contributor to the St. Nicholas 
and otlier magazines, and is the author of 
After the Bull, and other Poems (1874, new 
ed. 1879), The Tragedy of the Unexpected, 
ayid Other Stories (1880), Book of Love 
Stories (1881), For a Woman (1885), Xeiv 
Sonr/s and Ballads (1886), and A Flock of 
Girls (1887). 


They sat and combed their beautiful hair, 

Their long briglit tresses, one by one, 
As they laughed and talked in tlie chamber 

After tlie revel was done. 
I'lly tliey talked of waltz and quadrille; 

Idly they laughed, like other girls, 
Who, over the fire, when all is still, 

Comb out their braids and curls. 
Robes of satin and Brussels lace, 

Knots of flowers and ribbons too, 
Scattered about in every place. 

For the revel is tlu'ough. 
And Maud and Madge in robes of white, 

The prettiest nightgowns under the sun, 
Stock ingless, slipperless, sit in the night, 

For the revel is done. 
Sit and comb their beautiful hair, 

Those wonderful waves of brown and gold, 
Till the fire is out in the chamber there. 

And the little bare feet are cold. 


Then out of the gathering winter chill, 
All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather, 

While the fire is out and the house is still, 
Maud and Madge together, — 

Maud and Madge in robes of wiiite, 

The prettiest nightgowns under the sun, 

Curtained awaj'- from the chilly night. 
After the revel is done, — 

Float along in a splendid dream, 
To a golden gittern's tinkling tune, 

While a thousand lustres shimmering stream, 
In a palace's grand saloon. 

Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces, 
Tropical odors sweeter than musk, 

Men and women with beautiful faces. 
And eyes of tropical dusk; 

Aud one face shining out like a star. 
One face haunting the dreams of each, 

And one voice sweeter than others are. 
Breaking into silvery speech, — 

Telling, through lips of bearded bloom. 

An old, old stor^' over again, 
As down the royal bannered room, 

To the golden gittern's strain, 

Two and two, they dreamily walk, 
W^hile an unseen spirit walks beside. 

And, all unheard in the lover's talk. 
He claimeth one for a bride. 

0, Maud and Madge, dream on together. 
With never a pang of jealous fear! 

I'or, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather 
Shall whiten another year, 

Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb, 
Braided brown hair aiul golden tress, 

There'll be only one of 3-ou left for the bloom 
Of the bearded lips to press, — 

Only one for the bridal pearls. 

The robe of satin and Brussels lace, 

Onl}' one to blush through her curls 
At the sight of a lover's face. 


O, beautiful Madge, in your bridal wbite, 

For you the revel has just begun ; 
But for lier who sleeps in your arms to-nigbt, 

The revel of life is done ! 
But, robed and crowned with your saintly bliss, 

Queen of heaven and bride of tlie sua, 
O, beautiful Maud, you'll never miss 

The kisses another hath won ! 


When the February sun 
Shines in long slant rays, and the dun 
Gray skies turn red and gold, 
And the winter's cold 
Is touched here and there 
With the subtle air 
That seems to come 
From the far-off home 
Of the orange and palm, 
With their breath of balm, 
And the bluebirds' throat 
Swells with a note 
Of rejoicing gay, 
Then we turn and saj', 
" Wh^', Spring is near ! " 

When the first fine grass comes up 

In pale green blades, and tlie cup 

Of the crocus pushes its head 

Out of its cliilly bed. 

And purple and gold 

Begin to unfold 

In the morning sun, 

While rivulets run 

Where the frost had set 

Its icy seal, and the sills are wet 

With the drip, drip, drip. 

From the wooden lip 

Of the burdened eaves 

Where the pigeon grieves, 

And coos and woos, 

And softly sues. 

Early and late. 

Its willing mate. 

NORA PER 11 Y.— 4 

Then, witli rejoicing gay, 
We turn to say, 

"Why Sprii.g is here!" 

When all the brown eartli lies, 
Beneath the blue, briglit skies, 
Clothed with a mantle of green, 
A shining, varying sheen, 
And the scent and sight of the rose, 
And the purple lilac-blows, 
Here, there, and everywhere. 
Meet one and greet one. till 
One's senses tingle and thrill 
With the heaven and earth-born sweetness, 
The sign of the earth's completeness. 
Then lifting our voices, we say, 
" Oil, stay, thou wonderful day 1 
Thou promise of Paradise, 
That to heart and soul doth suffice. 
Stay, stay ! nor hasten to fly 
When the moou of thy month goes by. 
For the crown of the seasons is here,— 
June, June, the queen of the year ! " 


O, you are charming, Hester Browne, 
So do not, every time you pass 
The little looking-glass. 

Find some disorder in your gown 1 

In every ringlet of your hair, 

In ever}' dini[)le of your cheek. 
Whene'er j'ou smile or smiling speak, 

There lurks a cruel, charming snare. . . . 

What use to preach of "better things," 
And tell her she is false as gay ? 
Be still, and let her have her day, 

And count her lovers on her rings. 

And let her break a hundred hearts, 

And mend them with a glance again; 
Be sure the pleasure heals the pain 

Of little Hester's cruel arts. 


PERRY, Thomas Sargeant, an Amer- 
ican author, born at Newport, K. I., in 
1845. He is a grandson oi Oliver Hazard 
Perry, the famous naval hero, and through 
his mother a descendant of Benjamin 
Franklin. After graduation at Harvard 
in 1866, he studied at the Sorbonne and 
College of France, and at the Universit}'' 
of Berlin. From 1868 till 1872 he taught 
German in Harvard, and was instructor of 
English there from 1877 till 1881. lu 
1872-4 he was editor of the North Ameri- 
{can RevieiD. His works include : Life and 
Letters of Francis Lieher (1882), English 
Literature in the Eighteenth Century 
(1883), From Opitz to Lessing (1885), 
The Evolution of the Snob (1887), and 
History of Grreek Literature (1888). 


There is a vague notion that the mysterious 
thing caHed genius is capable of evoking some- 
thing out of nothing by direct exercise of crea- 
tive power. While this idea has vanished from 
science, it still survives in those departments 
of human activity which have not yet come 
fully under scientific treatment, and poets and 
painters enjoy in the popular estimation a priv- 
ilege which has been denied to nature. For 
one thing, the fact that the Greek and Roman 
classics came down to us only in fragments — 
and tiu'se the best — confirmed those who studied 
oidy those two litei-atures in the belief that the 
great works of the Greeks were the result of a 
sort of lucky chance, and that the Romans, 
when they wanted a tragedy, or comedy, or 
epic, set a safe fashion by sitting down and 
co[)yiiig their predecessors. They had no better 
opportunity to observe the growth of literature 
than has the hasty traveller who studies the 
histor}- of painting in the Tribune of the Uffizi, 
in which the masterpieces are crowded together, 


and the splendor of liuinaii ucliievenient strikes 
the diized and delighted spectator without the 
intrusion of any reminder of tlie toil by which 
it was attained, or of the forgotten failures that 
make it clear that not for us alone is success 
rare and difficult. In Greek literature, espe- 
cially, we have only the mountain-peaks, and 
not the expanse of plain, so that we cannot 
draw the map with all the fulness that is pos- 
sible when we have to do with modern countries. 
And, too, just as Darwin would never have hit 
upon his theory of evolution if the fauna he had 
seen had consisted of nothing but horses, cows, 
elephants, and dogs, so it would have been with 
the students of the classics. It was the blend- 
ing lines of the pigeons that first led him to 
observe the interchangeability of species ; and 
with all the evidence at our command in mod- 
ern literature, we detect the wonderful connec- 
tion between the writings of different coun- 
tries. The growth of the bourgeoisie in Eng- 
land was the inspiring cause of the family 
novel and the domestic drama. This advance 
in civilization spread to other countries, and 
with tlie same results. The English and Ger- 
man inntations of the "Spectator " carried the 
new feeling, which was furthered by the study 
of nature ; and to the eye of science there is nO 
material difference between a kin-g and a peas- 
ant — or at least since all discoveries are gradual 
— between a king and a respectable citizen. 
Love of the peasant was still a sentimental 
weakness, and, we may say, 3'et awaits the time 
when the peasant shall discover his own im- 
portance. The exaggerated insistence on 
purely national traits was not a fault of Les- 
sing's, who was too truly a man of the eighteenth 
centur}' not to perceive that civilization was a 
single task in which all European nations were 
allies. They all spoke one language, though in 
different dialects. Later, the feeling of na- 
tional differences was intensified by abhorrence 
of the superficiality of cosmopolitanism, and, 
distinctly, by the struggle for life against the 


French ; but now we are learning once more 
the great lesson tliat we are all one family. 
Wi)en science has made this clear, we shall 
see that the leaven has again been working in 
literature, and meanwhile even a hasty exami- 
nation will show that there is free trade — in 
thought at least — throughout the civilized 

The change from a drama that represented 
only kings and heroes of princely birth to one 
that concerned itself with human beings, was 
as inevitable a thing as is the change in gov- 
ernment from desi)otism to democracy, with 
the growth of the importance of the individual. 
There is a certain monotony in civilization 
which may be exemplified in a thousand wa\'s. 
The large gas-pipes, for instance, that are laid 
in every street, and have the smaller branches 
running into every house, which again feed the 
ramifying tubes that supply the single lights, 
may remind one of the advance from the gen- 
eral to the particular which characterizes every 
form of human tliought. The classical trag- 
edies presented a few acknowledged truths 
vividly and strongly. Their simplicity and 
universality were of great service in inculcat- 
ing a few general principles, and no one can 
easily overestimate the educational value of a 
code that repetition made familiar to every 
student. Tlie mere mention of Caesar's name 
brought with it a picture of ambition. Scipio 
stood for self-control ; Medea for the stricken 
mother. Lucretia became the incarnation of 
matronly honor ; Virginia, that of maidenly 
purit3\ Europe was civilized by the experi- 
ence of other races, and the study of the classics 
was a labor-saving device which deserves all the 
credit that is not a mere echo of what people 
imagine that they ought to say to show their 
cultivation. But in the last century' the time 
began to appear when authority' ceased to serve 
its long-lived purjiose as an educational means. 
What the classics — and especially the Latin 
classics — could teacth had been thoroughly 


learned. We know that now it would be diffi- 
cult to oppose a tyrant by culling liini Tarquin, 
and we have as dim a feeling tor the Roman 
pro[>er names as we have after a bountiful din- 
ner on the twent3'-second of December fur the 
sufferings of the Pilgrim fathers. What Rome 
could do for the world had been assimilated, — 
to eradicate it would have been barbarous ; — 
but to go on repeating it as if it contained the 
whole truth that man could attain to would 
have been intellectual bondage. Consequently 
men simply left it on one side and took another 
path. There were several inviting them. The 
populace had already found pleasure in the con- 
templation of itself and of very unclassical 
heroes, and the habit spread. Moreover, with 
democracy in the air, what were kings but con- 
venient formulas? !N^ot in vain, as Boswell's 
father told Dr. Johnson, did Cromwell "gar 
kings ken that they had a lith in their necks;" 
and when kings could he robbed of their influ- 
ence, to sa}' notliing of their lives, by their 
people, it became evident that those who held 
the power were also objects of interest. The 
lessons they had to learn were not the vague 
truths that Rome could teach, but the applica- 
tion of these truths to modera couditious.— 
From. Oj[>itz io J^essing. 


PETRARCH (Francesco Petrarca), 

an Italian ecclesiastic, diplomatist, scliolar, 
and poet, boin at Arezzo in 1304 ; died at 
Arqua, near Padua, in 1374 After begin- 
ning the study of law, he entered the eccle- 
siastical profession, and in time was made 
Arclideacon of Mihm. Of tiie public career 
of Petrarch only a few words need here be 
said. During almost the entire years of 
liis manhood he was the associate of Doges, 
Princes, Kings, Emperois, and Popes, by 
whom he was repeatedly appointed to dis- 
charge important diplomatic functions in 
Italy, France, and Germany. 

In his twenty-third year he first saw the 
laily whom he has immortalized as '' Laura," 
and conceived for her a love which not 
only lasted through the one-nnd-twenty 
years in Avhich she lived, but endured 
through the almost thirty remaining years 
of his life. It has been held by some that 
Laura was an altogether imaginarj' person- 
age ; but it is now pretty well ascertained 
that she was the daughter of a Provencal 
nobleman, was married not unliappily, and 
at the time of lier death was the mother of 
a lai'ge family. Beyond these facts we 
know little of her except what we gather 
from the Sonnets of Petrarch, in which it 
is quite probable that her beauty and her 
virtues are over-painted. There is not the 
sliglitest reason to suppose that she at all 
reciprocated tb.e intense passion with which 
she inspired him. But neither this passion 
nor his ecclesiastical profession prevented 
Petrarch from forming a permanent con- 
nection with another woman, who bore him 
several children (the eldest born when he 
was three-and thirty) for whom he cared 
as sedulously as if they had been born in 
lawful wedlock. 


Petrarch was one of the foremost scholars 
of liis age. He wrote and spoke Latin 
with perfect ease, and had a fair mastery 
of Greek. He may be said to have been 
one of the four creatois of the Itahan 
hmo-naofe — doino- for it much wliat Luther 
did for the German. Among his numer- 
ous Latin works'* aie several elhical essnys 
which Cicero miocht not liave been ashamed 
to have written, and Africa, an epic poem 
upon which he was occupied at intervals 
for many years, and wliicli he considered 
to be the work by wliich he would be 
remembered in after ages. 

Of his Italian poems the longest is 1 
Trionfi,'" The Triumphs " of Love, Chastity, 
Death, Fame, Time, and Eternity. The 
general purport of the poem is that Love 
triumphs over Man ; Chastity over Love ; 
Time over Chastity ; Fame over Time ; and 
Eternity over Fame. The otiier Italian 
poems are collected together under the title, 
Rima di Francesca Petrarca. They consist 
of some three liundred Sonnets^ most of 
which relate directlv to Laura, and some 
Uiy Odes. 

The bibliography of Petrarch is very ex- 
tensive. As early as 1820 Marsano had 
collected a library of nine hundred vol- 
umes relating to Petrarch, and tlie number 
has since been much increased. The most 
pretentious of the English Lives of Petrarch 
is that of Thomas Campbell (2 vols., 1841), 
A very convenient edition of the Italian 
poems, consisting of translations by fully a 
score of persons, is to be found in "Bohn's 
Poetical Library " (1860), to which are 
prefixed, the most important portions of 
Campbell's Biography. Of the more than 
two hundred Sonnets relating to Laura we 


give sufficient to afford a fair view of the 
entire series. 

Laura's beauty and virtues. 

The Stars, the Elements, and the Heavens have 

With blended powers, a work beyond com- 
pare ; 

All their consenting influence, all their care, 
To frame one perfect creature lent their aid, 
Whence Nature views her loveliness displayed 

W^ith sun-like radiance divinely fair; 

Nor mortal eyes can that pure splendor bear: 
Love, sweetness, in unmeasured grace arrayed 

The very air, illumed by her sweet beams, 
Breathes purest excellence ; and such delight. 

That all expression far beneath it gleams. 
No base desire lives in that heavenly light, 

Honor alone and virtue ! Fancy's dreams 
Never saw passion rise refined by rays so bright. 
Transl. o/'Capel Lopft. 

ON THE death of LAURA. 

Alas ! that touching glance, that beautiful face! 

Alas ! that dignity with sweetness fraught I 

Alas ! that speech which tamed the wildest 
thought ! 
That roused the coward glory to embrace ! 
Alas! that smile which in me did encase 

That fatal dart, whence here I hope for 
nought ! 

Oh ! hadst thou earlier our regions sought, 
The world had then confessed thy sovereign 


In thee I breathed ; life's flame was nursed 
by thee, 
For it was thine ; and since of thee bereaved, 
Each other woe hath last its venomed sting; 
My soul's best joy ! when last thy voice on me 
In music fell, my heart sweet hope conceived ; 
Alas ! thy words have sped on Zephyr's 

Transl. of Wollastoj?. 



my sad e\'es ! our sun is overcast — 

Nay, borne to lieaven, and there is shining, 

Waiting our coining, and perchance repining 
At our (U'lay ; there shall we meet at last, 
And there, mine ears, lier angel words float past, 

Those who best understand their sweet 

Howe'er, my feet, unto tlie search inclining, 
Ye cannot reach her in those regions vast, 

Why do ye then torment me thus ? for oh ! 
It is no fault of mine that ye no more 

Behold and joyful welcome her below ; 
Blame Death — or rather praise Him, and adore 

Who binds and frees, restrains and letteth go. 
And to the weeping one can joy restore. 

Transl. of Wrottkslky. 

A noble poem is the magnificent Can- 
zone, or Ode addressed to the Princes of 
Italy, exhorting them to la.y aside their 
jealous and petty quarrels and make can- 
mon cause against the German "• Barhai-i- 
ans," whose hands were even then laid 
heavily npon Italy. 


my dear Italy ! though words are vain 

The mortal wounds to close, 
Unnumbered, that thy beauteous bosom stain, 

Yet it may soothe my pain 

To sigli forth Tiber's woes 
And Arno's wrongs, as on Po's saddened shore 
Sorrowing I wander and my numbers i)our. 
Ruler of Heaven ! b\- the all-pitying love 

That coulil thy Godhead move 
To dwell a lonely sojourner on earth. 
Turn, Lord, on this th}' chosen land thine eye. 

See, God of charity, 
From what light cause this cruel war hath birth, 
And the hard hearts by savage discord steeled. 

Then, Father, from on high 
Touch by my humble voice, that stubborn wrath 
may yield. 


Ye, to whose sovereign hand the Fates confide 

Of this fair land the reins — 
This land for which no pity wrings your breast — 
Wh}' does the stranger's sword her plains in- 
fest ? 

That her green fields be dyed, 
Hope ye, with blood from the Barbarians' veins, 

Beguiled by error weak ? 
Ye see not, though to pierce so deep ye boast, 
Who love or faith in venal bosoms seek : 

When thronged your standards most, 
Ye are encompassed most b\' hostile bands, 
Of hideous deluge, gathered in strange lauds. 

That rushes down amain, 
O'ersvhelms our every native lovely plain ! 

Alas I if our own hands 
Have thus our weal betrayed, what shall our 
cause sustain ? 

Well did kind Nature — guardian of our State — ■ 

Rear her rude Alpine heights, 
A lofty rampart against German hate ; 
But blind Ambition, seeking his own ill, 

With ever restless will, 
To the pure gates contagion foul invites. 

Within the same strait fold 
The gentle flocks and wolves relentless throng, 
Where still meek innocence must suffer wrong: 

And these — oh, shame avowed I 
Are of the lawless hordes no tie can hold. 

Fame tells how Marius's sword 

Erewhile their bosom gored ; 
Nor has Time's hand anght blurred their record 

proud ! 
When they who, thirsting. stooj)ed to quaff 

the flood, 
With the cool waters nursed, drank of a com- 
rade's blood. 

Great Caesar's name I pass, who o'er our plains 
I'fMired forth the ensanguined tide 

Drawn by our own good swords from out tlieir 

But now — nor know I what ill stars preside — 
Heaven holds thio land in hate ! 


Tor yoTi the thanks wliose hands control the 
helm ! 

You, whose rash feuds despoil 
Of all the beauteous earth the fairest realm ! 
Are you im[)elle(l by Judgment, Crime, or Fate, 

To oppress tlie desohite ? 
From broken fortunes, and from humble toil, 

The hard-earned dole to wring, 

AVhile from afar ye bring 
Dealers in blood, bartering their souls for 
hire ?— 

In truth's great cause I sing. 
Nor hatred nor disdain my earnest lays inspire. 

jS^or mark ye yet — confirmed by proof on proofs- 
Barbarian's perfidy. 

Who strikes in moekery, keeping Death aloof? 

Shame worse than aught of- loss in honor's eye ! 

While ye, with honest rage, devoted pour 
Your inmost bosom's gore ! — 
Yet give one hour to thought. 

And you shall learn how little he can hold 

Another's glory dear, who sets his own at 
Latin blood of old! 

Arise, and wrest from obloquy thy fame, 
Nor bow before a name 

Of hollow sound, whose power no laws enforce ! 
For, if Barbarians rude 
Have higher minds subdued. 
Ours, ours the crime ! Not such. 

Ah ! is not this the soil my foot first pressed ? 

And here in cradled rest 
Was I not softly hushed ; here fondly reared ? 
Ah ! is not this ray country, so endeared 

By every filial tie ; 
In whose lap shrouded both my parents lie! 

Oh ! b}' this tentier thought — 
Your torpid bosoms to compassion wrought — 

Look on this people's grief ! 
Who, after God, of yon expect relief. 

And if ye but relent, 
Virtue shall rouse her in embattled might, 

Against blind fury bent; 


Kor long shall doubtful hang the unequal fight, 

For no — tlie ancient flame 
Is not extinguislied yet, that raised the Italian 

Marie, Sovereign Lords ! how Time, with pin« 
ion strong. 

Swift hurries life along ! 
Even now behold ! Death presses on the rear : 
We sojourn but a day — the next are gone ! 

The soul disrobed, alone, [fear. 

Must shuddering seek the doubtful pass we 

Oh, at the dreaded bourne 
Abase the lofty brow of wrath and scorn 
(Storms adverse to the eternal calm on high!) 

And ye, whose cruelt}^ 
Has sought another's harm, by fairer deed 
Of heart, or hand, or intellect aspire 

To win the honest meed 
Of just renown — the noble mind's desire — 

Thus sweet on earth the stay ! [way. 

Thus to the spirit pure unbarred is Heaven's 

My song! with courtesv, and number's sooth, 

Thy daring reasons grace ; 
For tiiou the miglity, in their pride of place, 

Must woo to gentle ruth, 
Whose haughty will long evil customs nurse, 
Ever to truth averse ! 
Thee better fortunes wait, 
Among the virtuous few, the truly great ! 
Tell them — but who shall bid my lessons 

cease ? 
Peace ! Peace ! on thee I call ! Return, O 
heaven-born l^eace ! 

Transl. of Lady Dacre. 


Young was the damsel under the green laurel, 
Whom I beheld moi-e white and cold than snow 
By sun unsniitten, many, many years. 
I found her speech and l()vel3' face and hair 
So pleasing that I still before my eyes 
Have and shall have them, both on wave and 


My thoughts will only then liave come to shore 
When one green leaf shall not be found on 

laurel ; 
!Nor still can be my heart, nor dried my eyes, 
Till freezing fire appear and burning snow. 
So many single hairs make not my hair 
As for one day like this I would wait years. 

But seeing how Time flits, and fly the years. 
And suddenly Death bringeth us ashore, 
Perhaps with brown, perhaps with hoary hair, 
I will pursue the shade of that sweet laurel 
Through the sun's fiercest heat and o'er the 

Until the latest day shall close my eyes. 

There never have been seen such glorious eyes, 
Either in our age or in eldest years ; 
And the^'^ consume me as the sun does snow: 
Wherefore Love leads my tears, like streams 

Unto the foot of that obdurate laurel, 
Which boughs of adamant hath and golden hair. 

Sooner will change, I dread, ray face and hair 
Than truly will turn on me pitying e^'es 
Mine Idol, v/hich is carved in living laurel: 
For now, if I miscount not, full seven years 
A-sighing have I gone from shore to shore. 
By night and day, through drought and through 
the snow. 

All fire within and all outside pale snow, 
Alone with these my thoughts, with alter'd 

I shall go weeping over every shore, — 
Belike to draw compassion to men's eves, 
Not to be born for the next thousand years, 
If so long can abide well-nurtured laurel. 

But gold and sunlit topazes on snow 
Are pass'd b}' her pale hair, above those eyea 
By which my years are brought so fast ashore. 
Transl. of Chakles Bagox Caylky. 


PEYTON, Thomas, an English poet, 
born in 1595 ; died, probably, about 1625. 
He was the t^on and heir of Thomas Peyton 
of Royston, Cambridgeshire ; studied at 
Camljridge, and at eighteen was entered 
as a stutlent of law at Lincoln's Inn, Lon- 
don ; but his father dying not long after, 
lie came into possession of the ample pa- 
ternal estates. Li 1620 lie put fui-th the 
First Pan of The G-lasne of Time, which was 
foUowed by a Second Part in 1623. At the 
close a continuation was promised; and as 
none ever appeared, it is inferred that the 
author died not long after the publication. 
The fate of tiie poem was somewliat sin- 
guhir. Its very existence was forgotten for 
well-nigh two centuries, until 1816, when 
the library of Mr. Brindley was sold. Li 
it was a copy of the Glasse of Time, which 
was purchased b}^ Lord Bolland for£21 17s. 
This copy is now in the British jVIuseum. 
It was read by a few persons, and in 1860 
the North American Review contained an 
article embodying many extracts, and say- 
ing in conclusion : — " This book should be 
reprinted. Its usefulness would be mani- 
fold While it impressed more 

deeply the thoughtful mind with the ma- 
jestic superiority of Milton, it would give 
to this obscure poet his rightful honor — 
that of having been the first to tell in 
epic verse the story of Paradise Lost.'' 
About 1870, Mr. John Lewis Peyton, of 
Virginia, then residing in London, caused 
a perfectly accurate copy to be made of the 
Glasse of Time, and this was finally pub- 
lished at New York in 1886. The [>oem 
in the original edition consists of two hand- 
some volumes, quite correctly printed, 
though somewhat defective in the matter 


of punctuation, and not perfectly uniform 
in spelliuf^. The full title is, The Glasse of 
Time, in the First and Second Ages. Divinely 
handled. By Thomas Pej/ton, of Lhieolnes 
Inne., Gent. Seene and Allowed. London : 
Printed hij Bernard Alsop, for Laivrence 
Chapman., and are to he sold at his Shop over 
against Staple Line. To the poem, which 
conuiiiis about 5,500 lines, are prefixed four 
long dedicatory " Inscriptions " — the first 
to King James I., the second to Prince 
Charles, soon to be King Charles I., the 
third to Francis Lord Verulam, Lord Chan- 
cellor of England, the fourth to Tlie Reader. 
From this last we take a few lines : — 

•' Unto the Wise, Religious, Leanietl, Grave, 
JuLlicious lieatler, out this work I send, 
The lender sighted tliat small knowledge have, 
Can little lose, but much their weaknesse mend : 
And generous spirits which from Heaven are sent, 
May solace here, and find all true content. . . , 

" Peruse it well for in the same may lurke 
More (obscure) matter in a deeper sence. 
To set the best and learned wits on worke 
Than hath as yet in many ages since, 
AVitliin so small a volumne beene 
Or on the sudden can be found and seene." . . . 

We question whether during the first 
half of the seventeenth century (or, say, be- 
tween 1615 and 1GG5), there was produced 
in the English language an}' other poem of 
merit equal to thQGlasse of Time. Its in- 
terest to us, liowever, lies mainly in the 
fact that it contains the seminal idea of 
Paradise L^ost. Let it be borne in mind 
that when TJie Glasse of Time was a new 
book, and easily to be had, young Milton 
was an eager buyer of books ; that Peyton's 
poem antedates that of Milton by more 
than forty years, and it will appear beyond 
question that much of the thought, and not 
a little of the expression of Paradise Lost 


was boiiovved, perhaps quite unconsciotisly, 
after so long an iuteivai, from The Grlasse 
of Time. 


Urania, soveraigne of the muses nine 
Inspire my tlioughts vvitli sacred works divine, 
Come down from heaven, within my Temples 

Inflame my heart and lodge within my breast, 
Grant me the story of this world to sing, 
The Glasse of Time upon the stage to bring, 
Be Aye within me by th^^ powerful might, 
Governe my Pen, direct my speech aright. 
Even in the birth and infancy of Time, 
To the last age, season ni}' holy rime : 
lead me on, into my soul infuse 
Divinest work, and still be thou my muse, 
That all the world may wonder and behold 
To see times passe in ages manifold, 
And that their wonder may produce this end, 
To live in love their future lives to mend. 


Now art thou compleut (Adam) all beside 
Ma}' not compare to this thy lovely bride, 
Whose radiant tress in silver rays do wave, 
Before thy face so sweet a choice to have, 
Of so divine and admirable mould 
More daintier farre than is the purest gold, 
And all the jewels on the earth are borne, 
With those rich treasures which the world 
adorn e. . . . 

As the two lights within the Firmament, 
So hath thy God his glory to thee lent, 
Compos'd tliy body exquisite and rare. 
That all his works cannot to thee compare. 
Like his owne Image drawne thy shape divine, 
With curious pencil shadowed forth thy line: 
Within thy nosti-ihls blown his holy breath, 
Iinpal'd thy head with that inspiring wreath, 
Which binds thy front, and elevates thine eyes 
To mount his throne above the lofty skyes, 


Sumtnons his angels in tlieir winged order, 
About tliy browes to be a sacred bordei-: 
Gives them in charge to lionour tliis liis frame, 
All to admire and wonder at the same. 


But Lucifer that soard above tlie skye, 
A'ld thought himself to e(|ual God on high, 
Envies th.y fortunes and tiiy glorious birth, 
In being fram'd but of the basest earth, 
Himself com[)acted of pestiferous fire, 
Assumes a Snake to execute liis ire, 
Winds him within that winding crawling beast, 
And enters first whereat thy strength was 

least. . . . 
Adam what made thee wilfully at first, 
To leave thy olfspring, to this day accurst; 
So wicked foul, and overgrowne with sinne; 
And in thy j)erson all of it beginne? 
That hadst thou stood in innocence frani'd. 
Death, Sin, and Hell, the world and all thou 

hadst tamed. 
Then hadst thou been a Monarch from thy 

birth ; 
God's oid\' darling both in Heaven and Earth: 
The world and all at thy command to bend, 
And all Heaven's creatures on thee t'attend. 
Tlie sweetest life that ever man could live; 
What couldst thou ask but God to thee did give? 
Protected kept thee like a faithful warden. 
As thy companion in that ])leasant garden ; 
No canker'd malice once th\' heart did move ; 
Free-will thou liadst ondude from him above: 
What couldst tliou wish, all worlds content and 

more ? 
Milton says that none of the fabled para- 
dises could compare with Eden ; not even — 

" Mount Amara, tliough this by some supposed 
True Paradise, inider tlie Etliiop line 
By Nilus licail, enclose,;! with shining rock, 
A whole day's journey high." 

Peyton has more than a hundred lines 
about ]\Iount Amara, not a lew of which 
are worthy even of Milton. 



What may we think of tliat renowned hiTl, 
Whose matchless fame full all the world doth 

Within the midst of Ethiopia fram'd, 
In Africa and Amara siiW nam'd, [dine, 

Wiiere all the Gods may sit them dovvji and 
Just in the east, and underneath the line, 
Pomona, Ceres, Venus, Juno cJiast, 
And all the rest their eyes have ever cast 
Upon this place so beautiful and neat, 
Of all the Earth to make it still their seat : 
A cristal river down to JVilus purl'd, 
Wonder of nature, glory of this world. . . . 
Aniara which thus hast been beloved, 
Still to this day thy foot was never moved : 
But in the heat of most tempestuous warres, 
God hem'd thee in with strong, unconquered 


But Peyton, foredating Milton, places 
Eden elsewhere than on Mount Amara. 
He is rather inclined to give it a more 
definite location than Milton has ventured. 
But the description of this possible Eden in 
The Glasse of Time will not suffer greatly by 
a comparison with the one in Paradise Lost. 


The goodly region in the Sirian land. 

Is thought the place wherein the same did 

Where rich Damascus at this day is built, 
And Ilabels blood by Caine was spilt : 
The wondrous beauty of whose fruitful ground, 
The groat content which some therein have 

The sweet increase of that delightful soil. 
The damask roses and the fragrant flowei-s, 
The lovely fields and pleasant arbord bowers, 
And every thing that in al»undance breed, 
Have made some think this was the place in- 
deed e 
Where God at first did on the Earth abide. 
With holy Adam and his lovely bride. 


The expulsion from Paradise is told 
quite differently in The Grlasse of Time 
and in Paradise Lost. In the former it 
is marred by not a few trivial or uncouth 
illustrations. But omitting these — as we 
have done — the scene is certainly a strik- 
ing one. 


Adiini and Eve about the glistening walls 
Of P.iradise, witli mournful cries and calls, 
llepeiitiiig sore, lamenting much their sin, 
Longing but once to come againe within. 
In vaine long time about the walls did grope, 
Not in despair as those are out of hope, 
But all about in every place did feele, 
To find the Door with all their care and paine, 
To come within their former state againe. . . . 

Even so is Adam in that urcked place, 
The flaming sword still blazing in his face, 
On every side the glistering walls do shine, 
Tlu' sun himselfe just underneath the line. 
The radiant s|)lendor of those Cherubims 
Dazles, amates, his tender ej'e sight dims. . . . 
When man}' daj's are past away and spent, 
Finding at last they mist of their intent : 
And that their toil and travell to their paine 
Was frustrate quite, their labour still in vaine : 
Much discontented for their sad mishap. 
Yet once againe upon the walls they rap. 
Then weepe and howle, lament, yearne, cry 

and call, 
But still no helpe nor answer had at all. 
Porplext in mind, and dazled with the light, 
With grief and care distempered in their sight- 
Amazed both just as the wind them blew, 
To Paradise they had their last adieu : 
Like those are moapt, with wandering hither, 

From whence they went, themselves they knew 

not whither. 


PFEIFFER, Emily, a British author, 
born in Wales; died in England in 1890. 
She married Mr. Pl'eiffer, a German, and 
settled in London. Her first volume 
published was Kaliinera^ a Midsummer 
Nlghis Dream. G-erarcVs Monument, and 
other PoeyuH appeared in 1873. It was 
followed by Poems (1876), Glan-Arlach : 
his Silence and Song (1877), Quarter- 
man's Grace, and other Poems (1879), 
Under the Aspens (1882), The Rhyme 
of the Lady of the Bock (1884), Sonnets 
(1887), Floivers of the Night (1889). 
Mrs. Pfeiffer also published a record of 
her travels, entitled Flying Leaves from 
Last and West (1885), and Women's Work 


But not arrayed in tliis lutninous pallor 
[inooiiliglit] does the scenery of this Eastern 
village most linger in the mind. I hope I may 
some day again feel satisfied with the color of 
the world as it is my every-day lot to see it; 
at i)resent 1 am driven to injurious comparison. 
The " decoration," all tliat is scenic in life and 

its surroundings, is in so richly and so 

variously tinted that after it the harmonies of 
an English spring appear monotonous. The 
mountains, near or far, take upon tliemselves 
so soft a depth of azure; that sea, still bhie, 
but ligliter and warmer in tone than tlie Medi- 
terranean, is like a turquoise melting iu the 
.sun; the lingering leaves of the planes and 
ma[)]es hang upon the distance in rich grada- 
tions of red and 3-ellow gold ; the oranges, amid 
their dark leaves, burn like colored lamps ; the 
darker obelisks of the cypresses rise solemnly 
in their places and soar into the thin blue air; 
the ruddy limbs of the pines glow as if with 
inward fire, while their m3'riad organ-pipes are 
thrilled aloft by the passing breeze ; the soft 


flat tints of the feathery olive are a tender go- 
between, and harmonize all. This at midday; 
but there comes a sunset, and, later, a twilight 
hour, when the light which you thought had 
never been on land or sea or slcy, seems mys- 
teriously to overspread all. This would more 
often occur as we sat at close of day in the 
saloon opening upon the balcony. The sun, 
as he prepared himself for his plunge into the 
bay, would pass from glory to glory; upon a 
sky transparent as chrysolite, clouds would 
flash into sudden view, disappear, and re-form 
like molten jewels. Not the horizon alone, but 
the entire heaven to the zenith and beyond it, 
was alive and in motion with his parting mes- 
sage. It was as if. the work of the dav being 
done, be had taken this hour for his own delight. 
Then the words would die upon our lips as we 
watched, the glory would deepen, the clouds 
melt into the amber light, the tall spires of 
the cypresses grow solemnly dark, the outlines 
of the mountains become firm, their color mys- 
teriously blue. At this moment that window 
over the divan was as the background of a Holy 
Family by Lorenzo di Credi, and among the 
shadows which deepened around us the kneel- 
ing angels who took part in their evening wor- 
ship would not have seemed wholly out of 
place. — Flying Leaves from East and West. 


Fair garden where the man and woman dwelt, 
And loved and worked, and where, in work's 

The sabbath of each day, the restful eve, 
They sat in silence with locked hands, and felt 
The voice which compassed them, a-near, a-far, 
Which murmured in the fountains and the 

Which breathed in spices from the laden 
And sent a silvery shout from each lone star. 
Sweet dream of Paradise ! and though a 


One that has helped us when our faith was 
weak ; 
We wake and still it holds us, but would seem 

Before us, not behind, — the good we seek, — 
The good from lowest root which waxes ever, 
The golden age of science and endeavor. 


All ye child-hearted ones, born out of time, 
Born to an age that sickens and grows old, 
Born in a tragic moment, dark and cold, 
Fair blossoms opening in an alien clime, 
Young liearts and warm, spring forward to 
your prime, 
But lose not that child-spirit glad and bold 
Which claims its heii'shipto that tenderfold 
Of parent arms, and, witli a trust sublime. 
Smiles in Death's face if only Love be near; 
Oh, worshipful young hearts that love can 
And loveless loneliness contract with fear. 

Hold fast the sacred instincts which approve 
A fatherhood divine, that clear child eyes 
May light the groping progress of the wise. 


Land of the beacon-hills that flame up white. 
And spread as from on high a word sub- 
How is it that upon the roll of time 
Thy sons have rarely writ their names in light ? 
Land where the voices of loud waters throng, 
Where avalanches sweep the mountain's 

Here men have wived and fought, have 
worked and died. 
But all in silence listened to thy song. 
Is it the vastness of the temple frowning 

On changing symbols of the artist's faith 
Is it the volume of the music drowning 

The utterance of his frail and fleeting 
That shames all forms of worship and of 

Save the still service of laborious days ? 


PIATT, John James, an American 
poet, born at Milton, Iiul., 1835. After 
serving an apprenticeship in a printing 
office he became connected with the Louis- 
ville Journal. In 1861 he received an ap- 
pointment in the Treasury De[)artment at 
Washington ; after six years he resigned 
this position, and became a journalist at 
Cincinnati. In 1871 he was made Librarian 
to the House of Representatives at Wash- 
ington, and in 1882 was appointed U. S. 
Consul at Cork, Ireland. In 1860 ap- 
peared a volume of Poems by Two Friends 
(J. J. Piatt and W. D. Howells). Among 
his other volumes are: The Nests at Wash- 
itu/ton (1861), Poems of Sunshine and 
Firelight (ISm), Western Windoivs (1869), 
Landmarks (1871), Poems of House and 
Home (1875), The Children out of Doors 
(1884), At the Holy Well (1887), Idylls 
and Lyrics of the Ohio Valley (1888). 


Alone I walk the morning street, 
'Filled with the silence vague and sweet; 
All seems as strange, as still, as dead, 
As if unnumbered years had fled, 
Letting the nois\' Babel lie 
Breathless and dumb against the sky. 
The ligiit wind walks with nie alone, 
Where the hot day flame-like was blown, 
Where the wheels roared, the dust was beat; 
The dew is on the morning street. 

Wliere are the restless throngs that pour 
Along this mighty corridor 
While the noon shines ? — the hurrying crowd, 
Whose footsteps make tlie cit}' loud — 
The mj-riad faces — hearts that beat 
No more in the deserted street ? 
Those footsteps in their dreaming maze- 
Cross thresholds of forgotten days j 


Those faces brighten from the years 
In rising suns long set in tears ; 
Those hearts — far in the Past they beal^ 
Unheard within the morning street. 

A city of the world's gray prime, 
Lost in some desert far from Time, 
Where noiseless ages, gliding through, 
Have only sifted sand and dew ; 
Yet a mysterious hand of man 
Lying on the haunted plan. 
The passions of the human heart. 
Quickening the marble breast of Art, 
Were not more strange to one who first 
Upon its ghostly silence burst 
Than this vast quiet, where the tide 
Of life, upheaved on either side, 
Hangs trembling, ready soon to beat 
With human waves the morning street. 

Ay, soon the glowing morning flood 

Breaks through the charmed solitude. 

This silent stone, to music won, 

Shall murmur to the rising sun; 

This busy place, in dust and heat, 

Shall rush with wheels and swarm with feet, 

The Arachne-threads of Purpose stream 

Unseen within the morning gleam ; 

The Life shall move, the Death be plain ; 

The bridal throng, the funeral train 

Together, face to face, shall meet, 

And pass within the morning street. 

THE fisherman's LIGHT-HOUSE. 

A picture in my mind I keep. 

While all without is shiver of rain; 

Warm firelit shapes forgotten creep 
Away, and shadows fill my brain. 

I see a chill and desolate bay 

That glimmers into a lonely woodj 

Till, darkling more and more away, 
It grows a sightless solitude. 


No cheerful sound afar to hear, 
No cheerful siglit afar to see ; — 

The stars are shut in heavens drear, 
The darkness liolds the world and mO. 

Yt't, hark ! — I hear a quickening oar, 

Tlie burden of a happy song, 
That echo keeps along tlie shore 

In faint repeating cliorus long. 

And whither moves he tlirougli the night, 
The rower of my twilight dream? 

A com[)ass in his heart is bright, 
And all his pathway is a gleam ! 

No light-house leaning from the rock 

To tell the sea-tossed mariner 
Where breakers, fiercely gathering, shock— 

A liery-speaking messenger! 

But see, o'er water lighted far, 

One steadfast line of splendor Cornel- 
ls it in heaven the evening-star? 
The fisher knows his light at home ! 

And which is brighter — that which glows 
His evening star of faith and rest. 

Or that which, sudden-kindled, goes 
To meet it from his eager breast ? 


The angels come, the angels go, 

Through open doors of purer air ; 

Their moving presence oftentimes we know, 
Jt tlirills us everywhere 

Sometimes we see them ; lo, at night, 

Our eyes were shut, but oj)en seem ; 
The darkness breathes a breath of wondrous 
And thus it was a dream. 

I*oems of House and Home, 


PIATT, Sarah Morgan (Bryan), an 
Ameiicau poet, born at Lexington, Ky., in 
1836. She is the grand-daughter of Mor- 
gan Bryan, an early settler in Kentucky. 
Slie was graduated at Henry Female Col- 
lege, Newcastle, Ky., in 1854, and married 
rhe poet, John James Piatt, in 1861. Her 
t-arly poems were printed in the Louisville 
Journal and in the Neiv York Ledger. Her 
writings include : A Woman s Poems 
(1871), A Voyage to the Fortunate IsleSy 
and Other Poems (1874), That New World, 
and Other Poems (1876), Poeins in Com- 
pany with Children (1877), Dramatic Per- 
sons and Moods (1879), An Irish Garland 
(1884), Selected Poems (1885), hi Prim- 
rose Time (1886), ChiUVs-World Ballads 
(1887), The Witch in the Glass (1889), 
and two books with Mr. Piatt, The Nests 
at Washington, and Other Poems (1864;, 
and The Children Out-of-Doors : a Book of 
Verses by Two in One House (1884). 


Good-bye, pretty sleepers of mine — 

I Dever shall see 3'ou again ; 
Ah, never in shadow nor shine; 

Ah, never in dew nor in rain ! 
In your small dreaming-dresses of white, 

With the wild bloom you gathered to-day 
In your quiet shut hands, from the light 

And the <lark you will wander away. 
Though no graves in the bee-haunted grass, 

And no love in the boautiful sky, 
Shall take you as yet, you will pass, 

With this kiss, through these tear-drops. 
Good-bye ! 
With less gold and more gloom in their hair, 

When the near have faded to flowers, 
Three faces may wake here as fair — 

But older than yours are, by hours 1 


Good-night, then, lost darlings of mine — 

I never shall see you again; 
Ah, never in shadow nor shine ; 

Ah, never in dew nor in rain. 

A Wonian^s Poema. 



Here's the lodge-woman in her great cloak com- 
And her white cap. What joy 
Has touched the ash-man ? On my word, he's 
A boy's song, like a boy ! 
He quite forgets his cart. His donkey grazes 

Just where it likes, the grass. 
The red-coat soldier, with his medal, raises 

His hat to all who pass ; 
And the blue-jacket sailor, — hear him whistle, 

Forgetting Ireland's ills ! 
Oh, pleasant land — (who thinks of thorn or 
thistle ?) 
Upon your happy hills 
The world is out ! And, faith, if I mistake 
The world is in its prime 
(Beating for once, I think, with hearts that 
ache notj 

In Primrose time. 

Against the sea-wall leans the Irish beauty 

With face and hands in bloom, 
Thinking of anything but household duty 

In her thatclied cabin's gloom : — 
Watching the ships as leisurely as may be, 

Her blue eyes dream for hours. 
Hush ! There's her mother — coming with the 

In the fair quest of flowers. 
And her grandmother ! — -hear her laugh and 

Under her hair frost-white ! 


Believe nie, life can be a merry matter, 

And common folli polite, 
And all the birds of heaven one of a feather, 

And all their voices rhyme, — 
They singtheir merry songs, like one, together, 
In Primrose time. 

The magpies fly in pairs (an evil omen 

It were to see but one) ; 
The snakes — but here, though, since St Pat- 
rick, no man 
Has seen them in the sun ; 
The white lamb thinks the black lamb is his 
And half as good as he ; 
The rival carmen all love one another. 

And jest, right cheerily ; 
The compliments among the milkmen savor 

Of pale gold blossoming ; 
And everybody wears the lovely favor 

Of our sweet Lady Spring. 
And through the ribbons in a bright proces- 
Go toward the chapel's chime, — 
Good priest, there be but few sins for confession 
In Primrose time. 

How all the tliildren in this isle of fancy 

Whisper and laugh and peep I 
(Hush, pretty babblers ! Little feet be wary, 

You'll scare them in their sleep, — 
The wee, weird people of the dew, who wither 

Out of the sun, and lie 
Curled in the wet leaves, till the moon comes 
hither) — 

The new made butterfly 
Forgets he was a worm. The ghostly castle. 

On its lone rock and gray. 
Cares not a whit for either lord or vassal 

Gone on their dusty way. 
But listens to the bee, on errands sunny.—- 

A thousand years of crime 
May all be melted in a drop of honey 
la Primrose time. 



Sing oil ; but there be lieavy seas between 

The shores you leave and those 
Toward which you sail. Lonic back, and see 
how green, 
How green the shamrock grows; 
How fond your rocks and ruins toward you 
lean ; 
How bright the thistle blows, 
How red the Irish rose ! 

He waves his cap, and with a sorry jest, 

Flees, singing like a bird 
That is right glad to leave its island nest. 

I wondier if he heard. 
That time he kissed his hand back to the rest, 

The cr}', till then deferred, 

The mother's low last word. 

Boy-exile, youth is light of heart, I ween; 

And fairy-tales come true, 
Sometimes, perhaps, in lands we have not seen. 

Sing on; the sky is blue. 
Sing on (I wonder what your wild words mean) ; 

May blossoms strange and new 

Drift out to welcome you ! 

Sing on, the world is wide, the world is fair, 

Life may be sweet and long. 
Sing toward the Happy West — yet have a care 

Lest Ariel join j-our song! 
(You loved the chapel-bell, you know a prayer ?) 

If winds should will you wrong, 

God's house is builded strong. 

Sing on, and see how golden grain can grow, 

How golden tree and vine. 
In our great woods ; how apple-buds can blow, 

And robins chirp and shine 
And — in my country mav you never knoW; 

Ah, me ! for yours to pine. 

As I, in yours, for mine. 

In Primrose Time. 



There were two princes doomed to death 5 
Each loved his beauty and liis breath : 
" Leave us our life, and we will bring 
Fair gifts unto our lord, the king." 

They went together. In tlie dew, 
A charmed Bird before them flew. 
Through sun and storm one followed it: 
Upon the other's arm it lit. 

A Rose whose faintest blush was worth 
All buds that ever blew on earth, 
One climbed the rocks to reach : ah, well, 
Into the other's arms it fell. 

Weird jewels, such as fairies wear, 
When moons go out, to light their hair. 
One tried to touch on ghostly ground : 
Gems of quick fire the other found. 

One with the Dragon fought, to gain 
The enchanted fruit, and fought in vain : 
The other breathed the garden's air. 
And gathered precious Apples there. 

Backward to the imperial gate 

One took his Fortune, one his Fate : 

One showed sweet gifts from sweetest lands^ 

The other torn and empty hands. 

At Bird, and Rose, and Gem, and Fruit, 
The King was sad, the King was mutej 
At last he slowly said, " My son, 
True pleasure is not lightly won. 

"Your brother's hands, wherein youseo 
Only these scars, show more to me 
Than if a Kingdom's price I found 
In place of each forgotten wound." 


Go show the bee that stung your hand 
The sweetest flower in all the land ; 

Then, from its bosom she will bring 
The honey that will cure the sting. 


PIERPONT. John, an American clergy- 
man and poet, born at Litchfield, Conn., 
ill 1785; died at Medford, Mass., in 1866. 
He graduated at Yale in 1801 : then went 
to South Carolina, where for four years he 
was tutor in a private faniil3\ • Returning 
to New England in 1809, he studied law 
and entered upon practice at Newbury- 
port, Mass. Subsequently he engaged in 
mercantile business at Baltimore in part- 
nersiiip with John Neal, who, in 1866, 
wrote a biographical sketch of him. This 
enterprise proving unsuccessful, he studied 
theology at Cambridge and in 1819 was 
ordained pastor of the Hollis Street (Uni- 
taiian) Church in Boston. He retired from 
this cliarge in 1845, and was subsequently 
minister of cliurchesat Troy, N. Y., and at 
Medford Mass., resigning the latter charge 
in 1856. At the outbreak of the civil 
war, although he had reached the age of 
seventy-six, he became chaplain of a Massa- 
chusetts regiment ; but he soon afterwards 
received an appointment in the Treasury 
Department at Washington, which lie held 
until his death. In 1816 he published the 
Airs of Palestine, the main purpose of 
which was to exhibit the power of music, 
combined with local scenery and national 
character in various countries of the world, 
more especially in Palestine. Most of his 
subsequent poems were composed for 
special occasions. He also prepared a 
series of Reading-Books for schools. 


Where lies our path ? Though many a vista 

We may admire but cannot tread them all. 
Where lies our path ? — A poet^ and inquire 


What liills, what vales wliat streams, become 

the lyre ? 
See, there Parnassus lifts his head of snow, 
See at his foot the cool Cephissus flow ; 
There Ossa rises, there Olj^mpus towers ; 
Between them Tempe breathes in beds of 

Forever verdant; and there Peneus glides 
Through laurels, whispering on his shady sides. 
Your theme is music. Yonder rolls the wave 
Where dolphins snatched Arion from his grave, 
Enchanted by his lyre. Cithseron's shade 
Is yonder seen, where first Amphion played 
Those potent airs that from the yielding earth 
Cliarmed stones around him, and gave cities 

And fast by Haemus Thraciaii Hebrus creeps 
O'er golden sands, and still for Orplieus weeps. 
Whose gor}^ head, borne by the streams along, 
Was still melodious, and expired in song. 
There Nereids sing, and Triton winds his 

There be thy path, for there the Muses dwell. 
No, no. A lonelier, lovelier path be mine : 
Greece and her charms I leave for Palestine. 
There purer streams through happier valleys 

And sweeter flowers on holier mountains blow 
I love to breathe where Gilead sheds hex 

balm ; 
I love to walk on Jordan's banks of palm ; 
I love to wet my feet in Hermon's dews; 
I love the promptings of Isaiah's muse; 
In Carmel's holy grots I'll court repose. 
And deck m}^ mossy couch with Sharon's 

4eathless rose. 

Airs of Palestine. 


[Writton for the dodifation of a now church in Plymouth, 
built upon the Rntuad occupied by the earliest Congre- 
gational Church in America.] 

The winds and waves were roaring ; 
The Pilgrims met for prayer j 


And here, their God adoring^ 

They stood in open air. 
When breaking day they greeted, 

And when its close was cahn, 
Tlie leafless woods rej)eated 

The music of their psaloi. 

Not thus, O God, to praise thee, 

Do we, tliy children throng ; 
The temple's arch we raise Thee 

Gives back our choral song. 
Yet on the winds that bore Thee 

Their worship and their prayers. 
May ours come up before Thee 

From hearts as true as tlieirs. 

What have we, Lord, to bind us 

To this the Pilgrim's shore ?— 
Their hill of graves beliind us, 

Their watery way before ; 
The wintry surge that dashes 

Against the rocks they trod; 
Their memory and their ashes :^ 

Be thou their guard, God ! 

We would not. Holy Father, 

Forsake this hallowed spot, 
Till on that shore we gather 

Where graves and griefs are not } 
The shore where true devotion 

Shall rear no pillared shrine. 
And see no other ocean 

Than that of love divine. 


I cannot make him dead ! 

His fair sunshiny head 
Is ever bounding round my study-chairj 

Yet when my eyes, nOw dim 

With tears, I turn to him, 
The vision vanishes ; he is not there. 

I walk my parlor floor, 
And tlirough the open door 
I hear a footfall on tlie chamber stair; 


I'm stepping toward the hall 
To give the boy a call ; 
And then bethink me that he is not there. 

I thread the crowded street; 

A satchelled lad I meet, 
With the same beaming eyes and colored hairi 

And, as he's running by. 

Follow him with my eye, 
Scarcely believing that he is not there. 

I know his face is hid 

Under the coffin lid ; 
Closed are his eyes, cold is his forehead fair; 

My hand that marble felt. 

O'er it in prayer I knelt ; 
Yet my heart whispers that he is not there. 

1 cannot make him dead ! 

When passing by the bed, 
So long watched over with parental care, 

My spirit and my eye 

Seek it inquiringly, 
Before the thought comes that he is not there 

When, at the cool gray break 
Of day, from sleep I wake, 

With m}' first breathing of tlie morning air, 
My soul goes up with joy 
To Him who gave my boy ; 

Then comes the sad thought, that he is not 

When at the day's calm close, 

Before we seek repose, 
I'm, with his mothei-, offering up our prayer, 

Whate'er I may be saying, 

I am in spirit praying 
For our boy's spirit,, thougli he is not there. 

Not there ! — Where, then, is he ? 

The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that he used to wear; 

The grave that now doth press 

Upon that cast-off dress 
Is but his wardrobe locked. He is not there. 


He livt's ! — 111 all the past 

Pie lives ; nor, to the last, 
Of seeing him again will I despair; 

In dreams I see him now, 

And on his angel brow 
I see it written, ''Thou shalt see me there P' 

Yes, we all live to God! 

Father, Tliy chastening rod 
So help us, Thine aiilicted ones, to bear. 

That, in the spirit-land, 

Meeting at Thy right hand, 
'Twill be our heaven to find that lie is there ! 

warren's address to the AMERICAN 

Stand ! the ground's your own, my braves 
Will ye give it up to slaves ? 
Will ye look for greener graves ? 

Hope ye mercy still ? 
What's the mercy despots feel ? 
Hear it in that battle-peal ! 
Head it on yon bristling steel I 

Ask it, — ye who will. 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? 
Will 3'e to your homes retire ? 
Look behind you ! they're a-fire 1 

And, before you, see 
Who have done it ! — From the vale 
On they come ! — And will ye quail ?— 
Leaden rain and iron hail 

Let their welcome be I 

In the God of battles trust ! 
Die we may, — and die \ve must ; 
But, 0, where can dust to dust 

Be consigned so well 
As wliere Heaven its dews shall shed 
On the martyred patriot's bed, 
And the rocks shall raise their head. 

Of his deeds to tell ! 
Airs of Palestine, and Other Poems, 


PIERS PLOUGHMAN, the name given 
to a representative personage who appears 
in a poem of some 8,000 lines, the full title 
of wliich is The Vision of William concerning 
Piers Ploughman. The author was Wil- 
liam Langland, born in Shropshire about 
1332 ; died about 1400. He was therefore a 
contemporary of Chaucer, being born four 
years later, but preceding him as a poet b}-- 
many years. Althougli the Vision was highly 
popular, vory little is known of the author. 
He seems to hive at least entered upon his 
novitiate as a monk, but he incidentally 
speaks of being married, so that he could 
not take Orders, although he wore the 
clerical tonsure. He appears for a while 
to have gained a precarious livelihood by 
sin^ino- the Penitential Psalms for the good 
of the souls of good people. The Vision 
was composed about 1362, and twice much 
enlarged some ten years later. It was the 
first considerable poem written 'in what 
may be strictly styled the English lan- 
guage. The distinguishing features of the 
versification are that it. is based upon the 
number of accented syllables ; that it is 
destitute of rhyme, but abounds in alliter- 
ation. We have called attention to this 
last feature by italicizing the alliterations, 
in the first three of the follo\Aing speci- 
mens, in which the original spelling is 
strictly retained. Piers Ploughman repre- 
sents himself as having fallen asleep among 
the Malvern Hills, where was presented to 
him a series of visions of the corruptions of 
society, especially among the religious 
orders. The poem was pj'intedfour times 
during the sixteenth century. It has been 
edited and printed three times during the 
present century, the last editor* being 
Professor Skeat. 

Bkginxino of the vision. 

In a somer 6'e.soii when ^oft was the 5oinie, 
I 6'Aope me in sAroudes as 1 a sAepe [lierd] were, 
In Aabit as a Aeremite iin/toly of werkes, 
TFent toyde in tliis ioor\d woudres to here. 
As on a Miiy movnyuge, on J/iiluerne hulles, 
Me b3^/el a/'erly of /airy, me thouhte; 
I was ?/;ery for^oandered, and loeut me to reste, 
Vnder a irode 6ank by a ioi-nes side ; 
And as I lay, and /ened, and /oked in the wateres, 
I sAjniber«Ml in a s^epyng, it swej-ed so mury. 
Then gan I meten a ;>/iarveloii.s sweven 
That I tviis in a ?oilderness, loist I never Wiere. 

The personified Vices and Virtues come 
one after another, singly or in pairs, troop- 
ing before the sleeping Ploughman. 


Out of the i^est, as it toere, a i^ench as, me- 
thouhte, [looked; 

Came icalking in the way to helle-?«ard she 
Jierc}'^ hight that maid, a mild thing withal, 
A full benign bind, and iuxom of speech. 
Her sister, as it .seemed, came softly walking 
^ven out of the east, and westward she looked, 
A full comely creature, Truth she hight, 
I^ov the virtue that her /bllowed ajfeard was 

she never. 
When these »«aidens metten, il/ercy and Truth 
Either axed of other of this great wonder, 
Of the dxw and of the c/arkness. 


There preached a pardoner, as he a joriest 

were ; 
And said that himself might assoilen heiu all 
Of/alse hede of /listing, of avowes y-broken. 
Xewed men /eked it well, and /iked his words; 
Comen up Znieeling to A'issen his bulls. 
He touched hem with his Jrevet, and Cleared 

their eyen, [brooches, 

And raught with his ragman, nnges, and 


But the Vision foreshadows a speedy 
end to these ecclesiastical abuses. 


Ac now is Religion a rider a roamer about, 

A leader of lovadays, and a loud-buyer, 

A pricker on a palfrey from manor to manor; 

An lieap of hounds as he a lord were. 

And but if his knave kneel that shall his cope 

He lowred on him, and asketh him who taught 

him courtesy ? 
Little had lords to done to give him lond from 

her heirs 
To Religious, that have no ruth though it rain 

on her altars. 
In many places they be Parsons by hemself at 

ease ; 
Of the poor have they no pity ; and that is her 

charity ! 
And they letten hem as lords, her londs lie so 

Ac there shall come a King and confess you, 

And beat you, as the Bible telleth, for breaking 

of your rule, 
And amend monials, monka, and canons, 
And put hem to her penance. 

The Ploughman is a good Catholic. He 
admits the efhcacy of prayer, penances, 
masses, and papal pardons; but insists that, 
after all, well-doing is the one thing essen- 
tial to salvation. 


Xow hath the Pope power pardon to grant the 

Withouten any penance, to passen into heaven? 
This is our belief, as lettered men us teacheth 
And so I leave it verily (Lord forbid else !) 
That pardon and penance and prayers don save 
Souls that have sinned seven sins deadly. 
But to trust to these triennales, truly me think- 



Is nought so siclier for tlie soul, certes, as Do- 
Forthwith I rede you, reukes, thut rich ben on 

this earth, 
Upon trust of your treasure triennales to have, 
Be ye never the balder to break the ten be- 
hests ; 
And namely the masters, mayors, and judges 
Tluit have the wealth of this world, and for 

wise men ben holden. 
To purchase you pardon and the Pope's bulls, 
At the dreadful doom when dead shallen rise. 
And comen ail before Christ accounts to yield, 
How thou k'ddest thy life here and his laws 

And how thou diddest day by day the doom 

will rehearse ; 
A poke full of pardons there, ne provinciales 

Though they "be found in the fraternity of all 

the four orders, 
And have indulgences double-fold ; but if Do- 
well 3'ou help 
I set your patents and your pardons atone pese 

hull !— 
Forthwith I counsel all Christians to cry God 

And Mary his mother be our mene between. 
That God give us grace here ere we go hence, 
Such works to work while we ben here, 
That after our death-da}', Do-well rehearse 
At the day of doom, we did as he hight. 

Thus closes Langland's poem. Not many- 
years later a writer, whose name is un- 
known, put forth a clever continuation — 
or, rather, an imitation — of the Vision, en- 
titled Piers the Ploughman^ s Creed. The 
Ploughman of Langland becomes a poor 
peasant, from whom the narrator receives 
that instruction in divine things which he 
had vainly sought from the clergy. The 
poem opens with an account of the first 


meeting of the narrator and the Plqngh- 
maii. The spelling is heie modernized, 
and in a few cases obsolete words have 
been replaced by their current equivalents : 


Then turned I me forth, and talked to myself 
Of the false heds of this folk, how faithless 

they weren. 
And as I went by the way, weeping for sorrow, 
I see a simple man me by upon the plough 


His coat was of cloth that cary was y-called ; 

His hood was full of holes, and his hair out ; 

With his knopped shoon, clouted full thick. 

His toes peeped out, as he the lond treaded ; 

His hosen overhaugen his hock shins, on every 

All beslomered in fen, as he the plough fol- 

His wife walked him with, with a long goad, 

In a cutted coat, cutted full high, 

Wrapped in a winnow-sheet, to waren her for 

Barefoot on the bare ice, that the blood followed. 
And at the fiell's end lieth a little crumb-bowl. 
And thereon lay a little child lapped in clouts, 
And tweyn of twey years old upon another side, 
And they all soiigen ae song, that sorrow was 

to hearen ; 
They cried all ae crj-, a care-full note, 
The simple man sighed sore, and said, ''Children, 

be still ! '• 
This man looked upon me, and let the plough 

stonden ; 
And said, "Simple man, why sighest thou 80 

hard ? 
If thee lack lifehood, lend thee I will 
Such good as God hath sent: 
Go we, dear brother." 


PIKE, Alhkiit, an Aineiicaii journalist, 
lawyer, and poet, born at Boston in 18U9. 
He studied at Harvard, but did not com- 
plete the course ; and after teaching lor 
a while at Newburyport, set out in 1831 
for the far West. At St. Louis he joined 
a caravan going to the Mexican territories, 
and visited the head-waters of the Red and 
Brazos rivers. He, with four others, sepa- 
rated from the i)arty, and travelled 500 
miles on foot to Fort Smith, in Arkansas. 
In 1831 he became proprietor and editor 
of the Arkansas Gazette, published at 
Little Rock. After two years he was ad- 
mitted to the bar, gave up journalism, and 
devoted himself mainly to his profession. 
He served as a volunteer in the war with 
Mexico; and after the outbreak of our 
civil war, he organized a body of Cherokee 
Indians, at whose head he was engaged at 
the battle of Pea Ridge. He rose to a higli 
grade in the Order of Freemasons. Be- 
sides several professional works, he has 
published : Hi/mm to the Gods (1831, re- 
printed in BlackwoGcVs Magazine in 1889), 
Prose Sketches and Poems (1834), NugcB, 
a collection of poems, and two similar 
collections (1873-1882). 


From the Rio Grande's waters to the icy lakes 
of Maine [again. 

Let all exult ! For we have met the enemy 

Beneath tlieir stern old mountains we liave 
met them in tlieir pride, 

And rolled from Buena Vista back the battle's 
bloody tide, 

Where the enemy came surging, like Missis- 
sippi's flood. 

And the reaper. Death, was busy with his sickle 
red with blood. 


Santa Anna boasted loiidlj^ that, before two 

hours were past, 
His lancers through Saltillo should pursue us 

thick and fast. 
On came his solid regiments, line marching 

after line ; 
Lo ! their great standards in the sun like sheets 

of silver shine ! 
With thousands upon thousands — yea with 

more than four to one — 
A forest of bright bayonets gleams fiercely in 

the sun ! 

Upon them with your squadrons. May ! — Out 
leaps the flaming steel ; 

Before his serried column how the frightened 
lancers reel ! — 

They flee amain. Now to the left, to stay 
their triumph there, [despair ; 

Or else the day is surely lost in horror and 

For their hosts are pouring swiftly on, like a 
river in the Spring ; 

Our flank is turned, and on our left their can- 
non tliundering. 

Now, brave artillery ! bold dragoons ! Steady, 
my men,. and calm ! 

Through rain, cold, hail, and thunder; now 
nerve each gallant arm ! 

What thougli their shot falls round us here, 
still thicker than the hail. 

We'll stand against them, as the rock stands 
firm against the gale ! 

Lo ! their battery is silenced now ; our iron 
hail still showers. 

They falter, halt, retreat ! Hurrah ! the glo- 
rious day is ours ! 

Now charge again, Santa Anna ! or the day is 

surely lost ; 
For back, like broken waves, along our left your 

hordes are tossed. 
Still louder roar two batteries; his strong 

reserve moves on. 
More work is there before you, men, ere the 

good fight is won ! 


Now for your wives and cliildron stand ! 

Steady, my braves, once more ! 
Now for your lives, your honor, tiglit, as you 

never fought before ! 

IIo ! Hardin breasts it biavely ! McKce and 

IJisseil there 
Stand iirni before the storm of balls that, tills 

the astonished air. 
Tlie lancers are upon them too ! The foe swarms 

ten to one ; 
JIardin is slain ; McKee and Clay the last time 

see the sun ; 
And many another gallant heart, in that last 

desperate fray. 
Grew cold — its last thoughts turning to its 

loved ones far away. 

Still sullenly the cannon roared, but died away 

at last ; 
And o'er the dead and dying came the evening 

shadows fast ; 
And then above the mountains rose the cold 

moon's silver shield, 
And ])atiently and pityingly looked down upon 

tlie field ; 
And careless of his wounded, and neglectful of 

liis dead, 
Despairingly and sullen, in the night, Santa 

Anna fled. 


PINDAR (Gr. PiNDAROs), a Greek 
iyric poet, born at Thebes, in Bceotia, about 
520, B. c. ; died about 440, b. c. The 
extant poems of Pindar consist of triumphal 
odes, hymns to the gods, odes for public 
processions, convivial songs, dancing songs, 
dirges and panegyrics upon rulers. The 
only poems which have come down to us 
entire are the triumphal odes which were 
written in honor of victories won in the 
great national public games. 


Golden lyre that Phcsbus shares with the Muses 

Thee, when opes the joyous revel, our frolic feet 

While thy chords ring out tlieir preludes, and 

guide the dancers' way. 
Thou quenchest tlie bolted lighting's heat, 
And the eagle of Zeus on the sceptre sleeps, and 

closes his pinion fleet. 


King of birds ! His hooked beak hath a dark- 
ling cloud o'ercast, 

Sealing soft his eyes. In slumber his rippling 
back he heaves. 

By thy sweet music fettered fast, 

Ruthless Ares's self the rustle of bristling^ lances 

And gladdens awhile his soul with rest. 

For the shafts of the Muses and Leto's son can 
melt an immortal's breast. 

But, whom Zeus loves not, back in fear all sense- 
less cower, as in their ear 

The sweet Pierian voices sound, in earth or 
monstrous oceans round. 

So he, heaven's foe, that in Tartarus lies, 

The hundred-headed Typho, erst 

In famed Cilician cavern nurst — 


Now, beyond CuniiP, pent below 
Sea-cliffs of kSjcily, o'er his rough breast rise 
Etna's pillars, skyward soaring, nurse of year- 
long snow ! 

Transl. of F. D. Maurice. 


The powers of Heaven can lightly deign boons 

that Hope's self despairs to gain: 
And bold Bellerophon with speed won to his 

will the winged steed, 
Binding that soothing spell his jaws around. 
Mounting all mailed, his courser's pace the dance 

of war he taught to trace, 
And, borne of him, the Amazons he slew. 
Nor feared the bows their woman-armies drew, 
Chimtera breathing fire, and Solymi — 
Swooping from frozen depths of lifeless sky. 
Untold I leave his final fall ! — 
His charger passed to Zeus's Olympian stall ! . . , 
Well, ere now, my song hath told 
Of their Olympic victories ; 
And what shall be, must coming days unfold. 
Yet hope have I — the future lies 
With Fate — yet bless but Heaven still their line 
Ares and Zeus shall all fulfil ! For by Parnas- 

sus's frowning hill, 
Argus, and Thebes, their fame how fair ! And, 

oh, what witness soon shall bear, 
In Arcady, Lj^coeus's royal shrine ! 
Pellene, Sicyon, of them tell — Megara, and the 

hallowed dell 
Of iEacids ; Eleusis ; Marathon bright ; 
And wealthy towns that bask near JEtna's 

height ; 
Eubcea's island. Nay, all Greece explore — 
Than eye can see you'll find their glories more ! 
Through life, great Zeus, sustain their feet ; 
And bless with piety, and with triumphs sweet I 
Transl of F. D. Maurice. 


PINKNEY, Edward Coate, Amer- 
ican lawyer ajid poet, born in London in 
1802, liis father, William Pinkney, being 
then minister to Great Britain ; died at Bal- 
timore in 1828. At the age of fourteen he 
became a midshipman in the U. S. navy, 
but resigned his commission in 1824, and 
entered upon the practice of law. In 1825 
he published Modolph and other Poems. 


I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness 
alone ; 

A woman of her gentle sex the seeming para- 
gon ; 

To whom tlie better elements and kindly stars 
have giveU' 

A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of 
earth than heaven. 

Her every tone is music's own, like those of 

morning birds, 
And something more than melody dwells ever 

in her words ; 
The coinage of her heart are they, and from her 

lips each flows 
As one may see the burdened bee forth issue 

from the rose. 

Affections are as thoughts to her, the measures 

of her liours ; 
Her feelings have the fragraucy, the freshness 

of young flowers ; 
And lovely passions changing oft, so ^/ill her, 

she appears 
The image of themselves by turns — the idol 

of past years. 

Of her bright face one glance will trace a 

picture on the brain ; 
And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound 

must long remain. 
But memory such as mine of her so very much 

When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be 

life's, but hers. 


I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness 
iiloiie ; 

A woman of her gentle sex the seeming para- 

Her health ! and would on earth there stood 
some more of such a frame, 

That life might be all poetry, and weariness a 


Look out upon the stars, my love. 

And shame them with thine eyes, 
On which than on the stars above 

There hang more destinies. 
Night's beauty is the harmony 

Of blending shades and light ; 
Then, lady, up — look out, and be 

A sister to the night ! 

Sleep not ! thine image wakes for aye 

Within my watching breast. 
Sleep not! from her soft sleep should fly 

Who robs all hearts of rest. 
Naj', lady, from tin' slumbers break, 

And make this darkness gay 
With looks whose brightness well might make 

Of darker nights a day. 

PLATO.— 1 

PLATO {Gr. Platon), a Greek phi- 
losopher, born probably at Athens about 
429 ; died about 343 b. c. His original 
name was Aristocles ; but this in time was 
changed to Platon (" Broad "), possibly 
on account of the unusual breadth of his 
shoulders. While a young man he wrote 
epic, lyric, and dramatic poems, all of 
which he destroyed, only a few fragments, 
and these of doubtful authenticity, remain- 
ing. He was a pupil of Socrates during 
the last eight or nine years of that philoso- 
pher's life, and became thoroughly conver- 
sant with the Socra tic system of dialectics. 
After the death of Socrates, in 399 B. c. 
Plato traveled for some years in the 
Grecian states, also visiting Egypt. 
Legend, for which there seems no valid 
foundation, says that he even visited 
Syria, Babylonia, Persia, and India. Re- 
turning to Athens, he established a kind 
of open-air school in a grove which had 
belonged to a man named Academos, and 
was hence styled the Aeademeia. Here he 
orally expounded his philosophy, and com- 
posed the numerous works which have 
come down to us. Tiiese are mainly in 
the form of dialogues, Socrates being- 
made one of the interlocutors, usually as 
the exponent of Plato's own views. The 
works of Plato have found many transla- 
tors into all languages. Altogether the 
best translation into English is that of 
Jowett (1871), which is accompanied by 
elaborate analyses and introductions. 
Valuable also is Grote's Plato and the 
other Companions of Socrates (1865). The 
eschatology of Plato is best set forth in The 
Vision of Er, which forms the conclusion of 
The Republic, the longest but one, and, in. 

PLATO.— 2 

tlie view of Piof. Jowett, " the best of 
Plato's Dialogues." 


Well — siiid Socrates — I will tell you a tale; 
not one of those tales which Odysseus tells to 
the hero Alciiious; yet this, too, is a tale of a 
brave man, Er, the sou of Arinenius, a Pam- 
phylian by birth. He was slain in battle, and 
ten days afterwards, when the bodies of the 
dead were taken up, already in a state of cor- 
ruption, his body was unaffected by decay, and 
carried home to be. buried. And on the 
twelftli day, as he was lying on the funeral 
pile, he returned to life, and told them what 
he had seen in the other world. 

He said that when he left tho body his soul 
went on a journey with a great company, and 
that they came to a mysterious place at which 
there were two chasms in the earth ; they were 
near together, and over against them were two 
other cliasms in the heaven above. In the in- 
termediate space there were judges seated, who 
bade the just, after they had judged them, 
ascend b}' the heavenly way on the right hand, 
having the signs of the judgment bound on 
their foreheads. And in like manner the un- 
just were commanded by them to descend by 
the lower way on the left liand ; these also had 
the symbols of their deeds fastened on their 
backs. He drew near, and they told him that he 
was to be the messenger who would carry the 
report of the other world to men ; and they 
bade him hear and see all that was to be heard 
and seen in that place. 

Then he l)eheld and saw on one side the souls 
departing ^t either chasm of heaven and earth 
when sentence had been given them ; and at the 
two other openings other souls, some ascending 
out of the eurth dusty and worn with travel, some 
descending out of heaven clean and bright. And 
always on their arrival they seemed as if they 
had come from a long journey 5 and they went 

PLATO.— 3 

out into the meadow with joy, and encamped 
as at a festival ; and those wlio knew one 
another embraced and conversed, the souls 
which came from the earth curiously inquiring 
about the things above, and the souls which 
came from heaven about the things beneath. 
And they told one another of what had hap- 
pened by the way —those from below weeping 
and sorrowing at the remembrance of the 
things whicli they had endured and seen in 
their journey (now the journey had lasted a 
thousand years), while those from above were 
describing heavenly delights and visions of in- 
conceivable beaut\-. 

There is not time to tell all, but the sum is 
this : — 

He said that for every wrong which they 
had done to any one the}- suffered tenfold ; that 
is to say, once in every hundred years — the 
thousand years answering to the hundred 3'ears 
which are reckoned as the life of man. If, for 
example, there were any vidio had been the 
cause of man\' deaths, or had betraj^ed or en- 
slaved cities or armies, or been guilty of any 
other evil behavior, for each and all of these 
they received punishment ten times over; and 
the rewards of beneficence and justice and 
holiness were in the same proportion. I need 
liardly repeat what he said concerning young 
children dying almost as soon as the}' were 
born. Of piety and impiety to gods and pa- 
rents, and of murders, there were retributions 
other and greater far, which he described. 

He mentioned that he was present when one 
of the spirits asked another, " Where is Aridoeus 
the Great ? " (Now this Aridaeus lived a thou- 
sand years before the time of Er. He had been 
the tyrant of some citj' of Pampliylia, and had 
murdered his aged father and his elder brother, 
and was said to have committed many other 
abominable crimes.) The answer was, " He 
comes not hither, and never will come. For 
this was one of the miserable sights witnessed 
by us : We were approaching the mouth of the 

PLATO. -4 

cave, aud, having seen all, were about to re- 
ascend, when of a sudden Arid;ens -uiipeared, 
and several others, most of whom were tyrants ; 
and there were also, besides the tyrants, private 
individuals who had been great criminals. They 
were just at the mouth, being, as they fancied, 
about to return into the upper world; but the 
opening, instead of receiving them, gave forth 
a sound when any of these incurable or un- 
punished sinners tried to ascend; and then wild 
men of fiery aspect, who were standing by, and 
knew what that meant, seized and carried off 
several of them ; and Aridseus and others they 
bound head and hand, and threw them down, 
and flayed them with scourges, and dragged 
them along the road at the side, carding them 
on thorns like wool, and declaring to the passers- 
by what were their crimes, and that they were 
being taken away to be cast into hell." And 
of the many terrors which they had endured, 
he said that there was none like the terror 
which each of them felt at that moment lest 
they should hear the Voice ; and when there 
was silence, one by one they ascended with joy. 
" These," said Er, " were the penalties and 
retributions, and there were rewards as great." 
Now when the spirits which were in the 
meadow had tarried seven days, on the eighth 
day they were obliged to proceed on their 
journey ; and on the fourth day after, he said 
that the}' came to a place where they could see 
a line of light, like a column let down from 
above, extending right through the whole 
heaven and through the earth, in coloring re- 
sembling a rainbow, only brighter and purer. 
Another day's journey brought them to the 
place ; and there, in the midst of the light 
they saw reaching from heaven to the ends by 
which it is fastened. For this light is the 
belt of heaven, and holds together the circle 
of the universe, like the undergirders of a 
trireme. From these ends is extended the 
spindle of Necessity, on which all the revolu- 
tions turn .... 

PLATO.— 5 

The spindle turns on the knees of Necessity ; 
and on the upper surface of tlie eight circlea 
[which are described as the orbits of the fixed 
stars and the phmets] is a Siren who goes round 
witli them, hymning a single sound and note. 
The eight together form one harmony. And 
round about at equal intervals, there is another 
band, three in number^ each sitting upon her 
throne. These are the Fates, daughters of 
Necessity, who are clothed in white raiment, 
and have crowns of wool upon their heads — 
Lachesis and Clotho and Atropos — who ac- 
company with their voices the harmonies of the 
sirens ; Lachesis singing of the Past, Clotlio uf 
the Present, and Atropos of the Future ; Clotho 
now and then assisting with a touch of her right 
hand the motion of the outer circle or whole of 
the spindle, and Atropos with her left hand 
touching the inner ones, and Lachesis laying 
hold of either in turn, first with one hand and 
then with the other. 

When Er and the spirits arrived, their duty 
was to go at once to Lachesis. But first of all 
there came a Prophet who arranged them in 
order. Then he took from the • knees of 
Lachesis lots and samples of life, and going up 
to a higli place, spake as follows : " Hear the 
words of Lachesis, the daughter of Necessity. 
Mortal souls, behold a new cycle of mortal life. 
Your Genius will not choose you, but you will 
choose your Genius ; and let him who draws the 
first lot first choose a life, which shall be his 
destiny. Virtue is free ; and as a man honors or 
dishonors her, he will have more or less of her ; 
tlie cliooser is answerable — God is justified." 

When the Interpreter had thus spoken, he 
scattered lots among them, and each one took 
up the lot which fell near him — all but Er 
liimself (he was not allowed) — and each as he 
took his lot, perceived the number which he 
had obtained. Then the Interpreter placed on 
the ground before them the samples of lives ; 
and there were many more lives than the souls 
present; and there were all sorts of lives — of 


every ainiual uud ol' inaii iu every coudi- 

And tliere were tynimiies tunoiig them, some 
ooiitiiming vvliile the tyrant lived, others whicli 
broke off in the middk^, and came to an end 
in poverty and exile and beggary. And there 
were lives of famous men ; some who were 
famous for their form and beauty as well as for 
their strength and success in games ; or, again, 
for their birth and the qualities of their ances- 
tors ; and some who were the reverse of famous 
for the opposite qualities; and of women like- 
wise. There was not, however, any definite 
character in them, because the soul must of 
necessity be changed according to the life 
chosen. But there was every other quality ; 
and they all mingled with one another, and 
also with elements of wealth and poverty-, and 
disease and health. And there were meau 
estates also. 

And here — said Socrates — is the supreme 
peril of our human state; and therefore the 
utmost care should be taken. Let each one of 
us leave every other kind of knowledge, and 
seek and follow one thing only, if peradventure 
he may find some one who will make him able 
to learn and discern between good and evil, and 
so to choose always and everywhere the better 
life as he has opportunity. . . . For we have 
seen and know that this is the best choice both 
in life and after death. A man must take with 
him into the world below an adamantine faith 
in Truth and Right, that there, too, he may be 
undazzled by the desire of wealth or the other 
allurements of evil, lest, coming upon tyrannies 
and similar villainies, he do irremediable wrongs 
to others and suffer j'et worse himself. But 
let him know how to choose the mean, and 
avoid the extremes on either side, as far as pos- 
sible, not only in thi§ Hie, but in all that is to 
come. Fortius is the way to happiness. 

And, according to the report of the messenger, 
this is exactly what the Prophet said at the 
time : " Even for the last comer, if he choosy 

PLATO.— 7 

wisely, and will live diligenth', there is ap- 
pointed a happy and not undesirable existence. 
Let not him who chooses first be careless, and 
let not the last despair." 

And while the Interpreter was speaking, he 
who had the first choice came forward, and in 
a moment chose the greatest tyranny. His 
mind having been darkened by folly and sen- 
suality, he had not thought out the whole matter, 
and did not see at first that he was fated, 
among other evils, to devour his own children. 
But when he had time to reflect, and saw what 
was in the lot, he began to beat his breast and 
lament over his choice, not abiding by the proc- 
lamation of the Prophet; for instead of throw- 
ing the blame of his misfortune upon himself, 
he accused Chance and the Gods^ and every- 
thing rather than himself. 

Most curious, said the messenger, was the 
spectacle of the election — sad and laughable 
and strange; the souls generally choosing with 
a reference to their experience of a previous life. 
There he saw the soul which had been Orpheus 
choosing the life of a swan, out of enmity to 
the race of women, hating to be born of a woman, 
because they had been his murderers ; he saw 
also the soul of Thamyras choosing the life of a 
nightingale ; birds, on the other hand, like the 
swan and other musicians, choosing to be men. 

The soul which obtained the twentieth lot 
chose the life of a lion ; and this was Ajax the 
son of Telamon, who would not be a man — 
remembering the injustice which was done him 
in the judgment of the arms. The next was 
Agamemnon, who chose the life of an eagle, 
because, like Ajax, he hated human nature on 
account of his sufferings. About the middle was 
the lotof Atalanta; she, seeing the great fame of 
an athlete, was unable to resist the temptation. 
After her came the soul pf Epeus, the son of 
Panopeus, passing into the nature of a woman 
cunning in the arts. And, far away among the 
last who chose, the soul of the jester Thersites 
was putting on the form of a monkey. 

PLATO. -8 

There came also the soul of Odysseus having 
yet to make a choice, and his lot happened to 
be the last of them all. Now the recollection 
of his former toils had disenchanted liim of 
ambition, and he went about for considerable 
time in search of a private man who had no 
cares. He had some difficulty in finding this, 
which was lying about and had been neglected 
by everybody else; and when he saw it, he said 
he would have done the same had he been first 
instead of last, and that he was delighted at his 

And not only did men pass into animals, but 
I must also mention that there were animals, 
tame and wild, who changed into one another, 
and into corresponding human njitures — the 
good into gentle, and the evil into savage, in all 
sorts of combinations. 

All the souls had now chosen their lives, and 
the}' went in the order of their choice to 
Lachesis, wdio sent with them the Genius whom 
they had severally chosen to be the guardian of 
their lives and the fulfiller of the choice. This 
Genius led the soul first to Clotho, who drew them 
within the I'evolution of the spindle impelled 
b}' her hand, thus ratifj'ing the choice ; and 
then, when they were fastened to this, carried 
them away to Atropos, who sjiun the threads 
and made them irreversible. Then, without 
turning round, they passed beneath the throne 
of Necessity. And when they had all passed, 
they marched on in a scorching heat to the 
plain of Forgetfulness, which was a barren 
waste destitute of trees and verdure; and then 
towards evening they encamped by the river of 
Unmindfulness, the water of which no vessel 
can hold. Of this they were all obliged to 
drink a certain quantity, and those who were 
not saved by wisdom drank more than was 
necessary ; and each one, as he drank, forgot all 
things. Now after they had gone to rest, 
about the middle of the night, there was a 
thunderstorm and earthquake ; and then in an 
instant they were driven all manner of ways, 

PLATO.— 9 

like stars shooting upwards to their birth. Er 
himself was liindered from drinking tiie water. 
But in what manner or by what means he re- 
returned to the bod" he could not saj ; only in 
the morning, awaking suddenly, he saw himself 
on the pyre. 

And thus — says Socrates in conclusion — the 
tale has been saved, and has not perished, and 
will save us, if we are obedient to the word 
spoken ; and we shall pas$ safely ever the river 
of Forgetfulnes!?, and our soul will not be defiled. 
Wherefore, my counsel is, that we hold fast to 
the heavenly way, and follow after Justice and 
Virtue always, considering that the soul is 
immortal, and able to endure every sort of good 
and every sort of evil. Thus shall we live dear 
to one another and to the gods, both while re- 
maining here and when, like conquerors in the 
games who go round to gather gifts, we receive 
our reward. And it shall be well with us both 
in this life and in the pilgrimage of a thousand 
years which sva- have been reciting. — Transl. of 



Those who belong to this small class have 
tasted how sweet and blessed a possession 
philosophy is, and have also seen and been 
satisfied of the madness of the multitude, and 
known that there is no one who ever acts 
honestly in the administration of states, nor 
any helper who will save any one who main- 
tains the cause of the just. Such a Saviour 
would be like a man who has fallen among wild 
beasts, unable to join in the wickedness of his 
friends, and would have to throw away his life 
before he had done any good to himself or 
others. And he reflects upon all this, and 
holds his peace, and does his own business. He 
is like one who retires under the shelter of a 
wall in the storm of dust and sleet which the 
driving wind hurries along ; and when he sees 
the rest of mankind full of wickedness, he is 
content if only he can live his own life, and be 
pure from evil or unrighteousness, and depart 
in peace and goodwill, with bright hopes. — The 


PLAUTUS (Titus Maccius), a Roman 
comic dramatist, born in the Umbrian 
district, about 254 b. c, died, probably 
at Rome, about 184 B. c. ; The name 
'' Plautus," by which he is known, was a 
mere nickname, meaning " flat foot." He 
was of humble origin, some say a slave by 
birth. He went to Rome at an early age, 
made a, little fortune which he soon lost 
in trade, after which he is said to have 
supported himself for a while by turning 
a hand-mill. While thus engaged he pro- 
duced three comedies which proved suc- 
cessful, and for the forty remaining years 
of liis life he was a popular playwright.. 
Varro, who lived a century and a half after 
Plautus, saj's that in his time there were 
extant one hundred and thirty pla3'S at- 
tributed to Plaiitus, though there were only 
twenty-one whicli he considered to be 
unquestionably authentic. The existing 
comedies of Plautus (all more or less 
corrupt) number about a score. Of the plays 
— if we may credit the assertion of Cicero 
— Pseudolus (^The Trickster') was the 
favorite of the author. In the following 
scene Balbus, a slave-dealer, enters, accom- 
parued b}' four flogging slaves, and followed 
by a gang to wiiom the master addresses 
himself, punctuating his objurgations b}'' a 
liberal use of the scourge — which we may 
be sure was great fun to the Roman play- 


JSalbus. — Come out here ! move! stirabout, 

ye idle rascals ! 
The very worst bargain that man ever made. 
Not worth your keep ! There's ne'er a one of ye 
That has tliought of doing honest work. 
I shall never get money's worth out of your 



Unless it be in this sort I Such tough hides too i 
Tlieir ribs have no more feeling than an ass's — 
You'll hurt yourself long before you'll hurt 

And tliis is all their plan — these whipping-posts; 
The moment they've a chance, it's pilfer, plunder, 
Rob, cheat, eat, drink, and run away's tlie word. 
That's all they'll do. You"d better leave a wolf 
To keep the sheep than trust a house to them. 
Yet, now, to look at 'em, they're not amiss ; 
They're all so cursedly deceitful. — Xow — look 

here ; 
Mind what I say, the lot of j-e ; unless 
You all get rid of these curst sleepy ways. 
Dawdling and maundering there, I'll mark your 

III a very peculiar and curious pattern — 
With as many stripes as a Campanian quilt. 
And as many colors as an Egyptian carpet. 
I warned you yesterday, you"d each your 

work ; 
But you're such a cursed, idle, mischievous crew 
That I'm obliged to let you have tids as a 

Oh ! that'?, your game, then, is it ? So you think 
Your ribs are hard as this whip is ? Now, just 

look ! 
They're minding something else ! Attend to 

this ; 
Mind t?ds now, will you? Listen while I 

speak ! 
You generation that were born for flogging; 
D'ye think your backs are tougher than this 

cow-hide ? 
Why, what's the matter? Does ithurt? 

dear ! 
That'?, what slaves get when they won't mind 
their masters ! 

Transl of Vs. Lucas Collins. 

Sometimes Cas in the Prologue to The 
S'hijyivreek) Plautus rises into poetry. 
Some critics will have it that in this the 
Roman playwright i^ translating from some 


body — possibly from some Greek play. 
The Prologue is spoken in the character 
of Arcturus — a constellation whose rising 
and setting were supposed to have much 
to do with storms and tempests. 


Of his high realm wlio rules tlie eartli and sea, 
And all niaukind, a citizen ain I. 
Lo, as 3'ou see, a bright and shining star, 
Revolving ever in unfailing course 
Here and in heaven : Arcturus am I hight. 
liy night I shine in heaven, amidst the gods; 
I walk unseen by men on earth b}' day. 
So, too, do other stars step from their spheres, 
Down to this lower world : so willeth Jove, 
Ruler of gods and men. He sends us forth 
Each on our several paths throughout all lands, 
To note the ways of men and all the}' do : 
If they be just and pious ; if their wealth 
Be well employed or squandered harmfully ; 
Who in a false suit use false witnesses; 
Who, by a perjured oath forswear their debts ; — 
Their names do we record and bear to Jove. 
So learns He, day by day, what ill is wrought 
By men below ; who seek to gain their cause 
By perjury; who wrest the law to wrong; 
Jove's court of high appeal rehears the plaint. 
And mulcts them tenfold for the unjust decree. 
In separate tablets doth he note the good. 
And though the wicked in their hearts have said 
He can be soothed with gifts and sacrifice, 
They lose their pains and cost, for that the god 
Accepts no offering from a perjured hand. 

Transl. of W. Lucas Collins. 


PLTNY (Caius Plinius Secundus), 
usually styled '^ Pliny the Elder," aRoinun 
author, born in 23 A. d., died in 79. Both 
Verona and Novum Comum, the modern 
Como, have been mentioned as his birth- 
place, but the general belief inclines to 
the latter town, as the family estates were 
there, and his nephew and adopted son, 
the younger Pliny, was born there. At the 
age of twenty-three he entered the arm}-, 
and served in Germany under L. Pompo- 
nius Secundus until the year 52, when he 
returned to Rome and became a pleader 
in the law-courts. Not succeeding in this 
capacity, he returned to his native town, 
and applied himself to authorship. In the 
intervals of military duty as commander 
of a troop of cavalry, he had composed a 
treatise on throwing the javelin on horse- 
back and part of a history of the Germanic 
wars. Several works were the fruit of his 
retirement, among them a grammatical 
treatise in eight books, entitled Diibius 
Sermo. Toward the close of Nero's reign 
he was a procurator in Spain. He returned 
to Rome in 7-3, and, being in favor witii 
Vespasian, divided his life between his 
duties to the emjDeror and his studies, 
which he prosecuted often in hours stolen 
from sleep. During the eruption of Ve- 
suvius in 79 he set out from Misenum with 
a fleet of galleys to relieve the sufferers 
from the eruption. His desire to study 
the phenomena of that mighty outburst led 
him to land at Stabise, where he was 
suffocated by the poisonous vapors from 
the volcano. 

Two years before his death he pubh'shed 
the work by which he is best known, the 
Mistoria JSfaturalis, in thirty -seven books, 


embracing many 8iil)jects now not included 
as a part of natural liistoiy, — as astronomy, 
mineralogy, hotany, and the fine arts. 
Though a conipihition rather than the 
result of original investigation, the work 
is of great value as a storehouse of facts 
and speculations of which we have no 
other record. 

So industrious was Pliny that lie left at 
his death a collection of notes filling one 
hundred and sixty volumes. 


That the earth is a perfect globe we learn from 
the name which has been uniformly given to 
it, as well as numerous natural arguments. 
For not only does a figure of tliis kind return 
everywhere into itself, requiring no adjust- 
ments, not sensible of either end or beginning 
in any of its parts, and is best fitted for that 
motion with which, as will appear hereafter, it 
is continually travelling round ; but still more 
because we perceive it, by the evidence of 
sight, to be in every part convex and central, 
which could not be the case were it of any 
other figure. 

The rising and the setting of the sun clearly 
prove that this globe is carried round in the 
space of twenty-four hours in an eternal and 
never-ending circuit, and with incredible swift- 
ness. I am not able to say v/hether tlie sound 
caused by the whirling about of so great a mass 
be excessive, and therefore far beyond what our 
ears can perceive ; nor, indeed, whether the 
resounding of so many stars, all carried on at 
the same time, and revolving in their orbits 
may not produce a delightful harmony of in- 
credible sweetness. To us, who are in tlie in- 
terior, the world appears to glide silently along 
both by day and b}- night. 


It is evident from undoubted argumeiit.s that 
vhe earth is in the middle of the universe j but 


it is most clearl^f proved by the equalitj'' of the 
days and tlie nights at tlie equinox. It is de- 
monstrated by the quadrant, which affords the 
most decisive confirmation of the fact, that 
unless the earth was in the middle, the days and 
the nights could not be equal ; for, at the time 
of the equinox, the rising and the setting of 
the sun are seen on the same line ; and at the 
winter solstice, its rising is on the same line 
with its setting at the summer solstice ; but this 
could not happen if the earth was not situated 
in the centre. . . . 

Some geometricians have estimated that the 
earth is 252,000 stadia in circumference. That 
harmonical proportion which compels Nature 
to be alvvaj's consistent with itself, obliges us 
to add to the above measure 12,000 stadia, and 
thus makes the earth one ninety-sixth part 
of the whole universe. — Natural History, 
Book II. 


Our first attention is justly due to Man, for 
whose sake all other things appear to have 
been produced by Nature ; though, on the 
other hand, with so great and so severe pen- 
alties for the enjoyment of her bounteous gifts 
that it is far from easy to determine whether 
she has proved to him a kind parent or a 
merciless stepmother. 

In the first place, she obliges him, alone of 
all animated creatures, to clothe himself with 
the spoils of the others ; while to all the rest 
she has given various kinds of coverings — such 
as shells, crusts, spines, hides, furs, bristles, 
hair, down, feathers, scales, and fleeces. Man, 
alone, at the very moment of his birth cast 
naked upon the naked earth, does she abandon 
to cries, to lamentations, and— a thing that 
is the case with no other animal — to tears ; 
this, too, from the very moment that he enters 
upon existence. But as for laughter, why, by 
Hercules ! to laugh, if but for an instant only, 
has never been granted to any man before the 


fortieth day from liis birth, and then it is looked 
upon as a miracle of precocity. 

Introduced thus to the light, man has fetters 
and swathings instantly placed upon all liis 
limbs — a thing that falls to the lot of none of 
the brutes even that are born among us. Born 
to such singular good-fortune, there lies the 
animal which is bound to command all the 
others : lies fast bound hand and foot, and 
weeping aloud : such being the penalty which 
he must pay on beginning life, and that for the 
sole fault of having been born. 

The earliest presage of future strength, the 
earliest bounty of time, confers upon him 
naught but the resemblance to a quadruped. 
How soon does he gain the faculty of speech ? 
How soon is his mouth fitted for mastication ? 
How long are the pulsations of the crown of 
his head to proclaim him the weakest of all 
animated beings ? And then the diseases to 
which he is subject, the numerous remedies 
which he is obliged to devise against his mal- 
adies — and those thwarted every now and then 
by new forms and features of disease. 

While other animals have an instinctive 
knowledge of their natural powers : some of 
their swiftness of pace, some of their rapidity 
of flight, and some of their power of swimming 
— man is the only one that knows nothing, that 
can learn nothing, without being taught. He 
can neither speak, nor walk, nor eat ; and, in 
short, he can do nothing, at the prompting 
of Nature onl}-, but to weep. For this it is 
that many have been of opinion that it were 
better not to have been born, or, if born, to have 
been annihilated at the earliest possible moment. 
— Natural History, Book VIII. 


The trees formed the first temples of the 
gods, and even at the present day, the country 
people, preserving in all their simplicity their 
ancient rites, consecrate the finest of tlioir trees 
to some divinity. Indeed, we feel ourselves 


inspired to adoration uot less by the sacred 
groves, and their very stiHness, than by the 
statues of the gods, resplendent as they are 
with gold and ivory. Each kind of tree re- 
mains immutably consecrated to some divinity : 
the beech to Jupiter, the laurel to Apollo, the 
olive to Minerva, the myrtle to Venus, and the 
poplar to Hercules ; besides which, it is our 
belief that the Sylvans, the Fauns, and the 
various kinds of goddess Nymphs have the 
tutelage of the woods, and we look upon those 
deities as especially appointed to preside over 
them by the will of heaven. In more recent 
times it was the trees that by their juices, more 
soothing even than corn, first mollified the 
natural asperity of man ; and it is from these 
that we now derive the oil of the olive that 
renders the limbs so supple, and the draught 
of wine that so effectually recruits the strength ; 
and the numerous delicacies which spring up 
spontaneously at the various seasons of the 
year, and load our tables with their viands. — 
Natural History, Book XII. 


We are now to speak of metals — of actual 
wealth, the standard of comparative value — ob- 
jects for which we diligently search within 
the earth in various ways. In one place, for 
instance, we undermine it for the purpose of 
obtaining riches to supply the exigencies of life 
-^searching for either gold or silver, electron 
or copper. In another place, to satisfy the 
requirements of luxury, our researches extend 
to gems and pigments with which to adorn 
our fingers and the walls of our houses. While 
in a third place we gratify our rash pn^peiisities 
by a search for iron which, amid wars and 
carnage, is deemed more desirable even than 

We trace out all the veins of the earth ; and 
yet, living upon it, undermined as it is beneath 
our feet, are astonished that it should occasion- 
3,lly cleave asunder or tremble ; as though, for- 


sooth, these signs could be luiy other than ex- 
pressions of the indignation of our sacred par- 
ent. We penetrate into her entrails, and seek 
for treasures even the abodes of the Shades, as 
though each spot we tread upon were not suf- 
ficiently bounteous and fertile for us. 

And yet, amid all this, we are far from seek- 
ing curatives, the object of our researches ; and 
how few, in thus delving into the earth, have 
in view the promotion of medicinal knowledge ! 
For it is upon her surface, in fact, that she has 
presented us with these substances, equally 
with the cereals ; bounteous and ever ready as 
she is in supplying us with all things for our 
benefit. It is what is concealed from our view, 
what is sunk far beneath the surface — objects, 
indeed; of no rapid formation — that send us to 
the very depths of Hades. 

As the mind ranges in vague specvdation, let 
us only consider, proceeding through all ages, 
as these operations are, what will be the end of 
thus exhausting the earth ; and to what point 
will avarice finally penetrate ! How innocent, 
how happy, how truly delightful even, would 
life be. if we were to desire nothing but what 
is to be found upon the surface of the eartli ; in 
a word, nothing but what is provided ready to 
our hands.— iVii<. Ilht., Book XXXIII. 

After having traversed the whole field 
of Physical Science, as it was known in his 
Cic\y. Pliny concludes by giving a summary 
of the most important valuable products of 
the earth. It must be premised that in 
a few cases it is by no means certain what 
really are the substances which he enu- 


As to productions themselves, the greatest 
value of all among the products of the sea is 
attached to pearls. Of objects that be upon 
the surface of the earth it is crystals that are 
most highly esteemed. And of those derived 


from the interior, adamas, smaragdus, precious 
stones, and murrhine are the things upon which 
the higliest value is placed. 

The most costly things that are matured by 
the earth are the kermes-berry and laser ; that 
are gathered from trees, nard and the seric tis- 
sues ; that are derived from the trunks ot 
trees, logs of citrus-wood ; that are produced by 
shrubs, cinnamon, cassia, and amomum ; that 
are yielded by tlie juices of trees or shrubs, 
amber, opobalsamum, mvrrh, and frankincense •, 
that are found in the roots of trees, the per- 
fumes derived from the costus. 

The most valuable products furnished hy 
living animals on land are the teeth of the 
elephants ; bj' animals of the sea, tortoise- 
shell ; by the coverings of animals, the skins 
which the Seres dye, and the substance gathered 
from tile hair of the she-goats of Arabia, wliich 
we have spoken of under the name of ladannum; 
by creatures that are common to both land and 
sea, the purple of the murex. 

With reference to birds, beyond the plumes 
for warriors' helmets, and the grease that is 
derived from the geese of Comagene, I find no 
remarkable product mentioned. We must not 
omit to observe that gold, for which there is 
such a mania with all mankind, hardly holds 
the tenth rank as an object of value ; and 
silver, with which we purchase gold, hardly the 

Hail to thee, Nature, thou parent of all 
things! And do thou deign to show thy favor 
unto me, who alone of all the citizens of Rome 
have in thj' every department thus made 
known thy praises. — Natural History , Con- 


PLINY (Caius Plinius C.ecilius 
Secundus), a Uomaii author, styled 
" Pliny the Younger," to distinguish him 
froin his maternal uncle and adopted father, 
" Pliny the Polder." He was born at Como 
in 62 ; died about 107 a. d. He was caie- 
fully educuled under the best teachers, 
among wlujm was Quintilian. At the age 
of fourteen he composed a tragedy in 
Greek ; at nineteen he began to practice 
in the Roman courts ; passed through high 
civic offices, and was made Consul at thirty- 
eight. In 103 he was sent by Trajan as 
Proprietor to the important province of 
Pontus and Bythinia. He held this posi- 
tion for two years, after which he returned 
to Italy. His principal work consists of a 
series of epistles, written at various times 
to various persons. Some of these letters 
give a grajjhic account of the daily life (;f 
a Roman gentleman of good estate and de- 
voted to literary pursuits. In one of the 
epistles, addressed to Tacitus, the historian, 
he describes the great eruption of Vesu- 
vius, of wliicli he was an eye-witness from 
Misenum. He does not, however, de- 
scribe the destruction of Herculaneum and 
Pompeii, of which he could only know 
from hearsay. 


When m\'^ uncle liad started from Stabiop, I 
spent sucli time as was left in my studies. It 
was on this account, indeed, that I liad stop[)ed 
behind. There had been noticed for many 
days before a trembling of the earth which had, 
however, caused but little fear, because it is 
not unusual in Campanico. But that nTght it 
was so violent that one thought that everything 
was being not merely moved, but absolutely 
overturned. My mother rushed into my cham- 


ber. I Wiis in the act of rising, with the same 
intention of awaking her, should slie liave been 

We sat down in the open court of the house, 
wliich occupied a small space between the 
buildings and the sea. And now— I do not 
know whether to call it courage or folly, for 1 
was only in my eighteenth year — I called for 
a volume of Livy, read it as if I were perfectly 
at leisure, and even contrived to make some 
extracts which I had begun. Just then arrived 
a friend of ui}' uncle, and when he saw that we 
were sitting down, and that I was even reading, 
he rebuked m}' mother for her patience, and me 
for my blindness to the danger. 

It was now seven o'clock in the morning, but 
the daylight was still faint and doubtful. The 
surrounding buildings were now so shattered 
that in the place where we were, which, though 
open, was small, the danger that they miglit 
fall on us was imminent and unmistakable. So 
we at last determined to quit the town. A 
panic-stricken crowd followed us, .and they 
pressed on us and drove us on as we departed, 
by their dense array. When we had got away 
from the buildings, we stopped. 

There we had to endure the sight of many 
marvellous, man}' dreadful things. The car- 
riages which we had directed to be brought 
out moved about in opposite directions, though 
the ground was perfectly level ; even when 
scotched with stones, they did not remain steady 
in the same place. Besides this we saw the sea 
retire into itself, seeming, as it were, to be 
driven back by the trembling movement of the 
earth. The shore had distinctly advanced, and 
many marine animals were left high-and-dry 
upon the .sands. Behind us was a dark and 
dreadful cloud, which, as it was broken with 
rapid zig-zag flashes, revealed behind it vari- 
ousl3'-shai»ed masses of flame. These last were 
like sheet-lightning, though on a larger scale. 

It was not long before the cloud that we saw 
b^gj^ii to d.esceud upon the earth md Qover the 


eea. It li:ul ahead}- surrounded and concealed 
the island ui Cai)r'etie, and had made invisible 
the promontory of Misenuni. My mother be- 
sought, urged, even commanded me to fly as 
best I could. I might do so, she said, for ] was 
3-oung; she, from age and corpulence, could 
move but slowly, but would be content to die 
if she did not bring death upon me. I replied 
that I would not seek safety except in her com- 
pany. I clasped her hand, and compelled her 
to go with me. She reluctantly obeyed, but 
continually reproached herself for delaying 
me. Ashes now began to fall, still however, 
in small quantities. I looked behind me ; a 
dense, dark mist seemed to be following us, 
spreading itself over the country like a cloud. 
"Let us turn out of the v.-?,y/' I said, "whilst 
we can still see, for fear that should we fall in 
the road we should be trodden underfoot in the 
darkness by the throngs that accompany us." 

We had' scarcely sat down when night was 
upon us; not such as we have when there is no 
moon, or when the sky is cloudy, but such as 
there is in some closed room when the lights 
are extinguished. You might hear the shrieks 
of women, the monotonous wailing of children, 
the shouts of men. Many were raising their 
voices, and seeking to recognize, by the voices 
that replied, children, husbands, or wives. 
Some were loudly lamenting their own fate, 
others the fate of those dear to them. Some 
even prayed for death, in their fear of what 
they prayed for. JNEany lifted their hands in 
I)ra3-er to the gods; more were now convinc(>d 
that there were now no gods at all, and that 
the final endless night of which we have heard, 
liad come upon the world. There were not 
wanting persons who exaggerated our real perils 
with terrors imaginary or wilfully invented. I 
remember some who declared that one part of 
the promontory of Misenum had fallen ; that 
another was on fire. It was false, but they 
found people to believe them. 

It now grew somewhat li^rht again. Wc 


felt that this was not the liglit of day, but a 
proof that fire was approaching us. Fire there 
was, but it stopped at a considerable distance 
from us. Then came darkness again, and a 
thick, heavy fall of ashes. Again and again 
we stood up and shook them of; otherwise we 
should have been covered by them, and even 
crushed by their weight. I might boast that 
not a sigh, not a word wanting in courage, 
escaped me, even in the midst of peril so great, 
had I not been convinced that I was perishing 
in company with the universe, and the universe 
with me — a miserable and yet a mighty solace 
in death. At last the black mist I have spoken 
of seemed to shade off into smoke or cloud, 
and to roll away. Then came genuine da}*- 
light, and the sun shone out witli a lurid 
light, such as it is wont to bear in an eclipse. 
Our eyes, which had not yet recovered from the 
effects of fear, saw everything changed, every- 
thing covered with ashes, as if with snow. 

We returned to Misenum, and, after refresh- 
ing ourselves as best we could, spent a night 
of anxiety, of mingled hope and fear. Fear, 
however, was still the stronger feeling ; for the 
trembling of the earth continued, while many 
terrified persons, with terrific jiredictions, gave 
an exaggeration, that was even ludicrous, to 
tlie calamities of themselves and of their friends. 
Even then, in spite of all the perils which we 
liad experienced, and which we still expected, 
we had not a thought of going away until we 
could hear news of my uncle. 

News was received before long. The 
Elder Pliny had gnne to Stabi;e, whicli 
wjis nearor Vesuvius. Me tarried there 
too long, and in tr3nng to make his escape, 
being old and fat, he was unable to go far; 
fell down, and died, suffocated, as his 
nephew supposed, by the sidphurous fumes 
from the v(dcano. 

When Pliny, in his forty-first year, was 
sent as Proprietor tu Ptmius. he found the 


Christians vei-\' numerous in the province. 
'J'liey persistenily refused to sacrifice to the 
Jvtjnian gods and to burn incense before 
the statue of the emperor. This refusal, 
according to Roman views, was equivalent 
to treason, und must be punished. He 
writes to Trajan, setting forth the action 
he had taken, and asking for instruc- 


It is my invariable rule to refer to j'ou in all 
matters about which I feel doubtful : who can 
better remove my doubts or inform my igno- 
rance ? I have never been present at any trials 
of Christians, so that I do not know what is the 
nature of tlie cliarges against them, or what is 
the usual punishment ; whether any difference 
or distinction is made between the young and 
persons of mature years; whether repentance 
of tlieir fault entitles them to pardon ; whetlier 
the very pi-ofession of Christianity, unaccom- 
panied by any criminal act, or whetlier oidy the 
crime itself involved in the profession is a 
matter of punishment. On ail these points I 
am in great doubt. 

Meanwhile, ns to those persons who have 
been charged before me with being Christians, 
I have observed the following methods : I 
asked them whether they were Christians; if 
they admitted it, I repeated the question twice, 
and tin-entened them with puinshment; if they 
persisted. I ordered them at once to be pun- 
ished. I could not doubt that, whatever might 
be the nature of their opinions, such inflexi- 
ble obstinacy deserved punishment. Some 
were brought before me, possessed with the 
same infatuation, who were Roman citizens. 
These I took care should be sent to Rome. 

As often happens, the accusation spread from 
being followed, and various phases of it came 
under my notice. An anonymous information 
was laid before me, containing a great number 
of names. Some said they neither were and 


never had been C'lii'i.>ti;iM> ; the}- repeated after 
me an invocation of the gods and offered wine 
and incense before your statue (which I 
ordered to be brought for that purpose together 
with those of tlie gods), and even reviled the 
name of Christ; whereas there is, it is said, no 
forcing tliose who are really Christians into 
any of these acts. Those I thought ought to 
be discharged. Some among them, who were 
accused by witness in person, at first confessed 
themselves Christians ; but immediately' after 
denied it ; the rest owjied that they had once 
been Christians, but had now (some above 
three years, others more, and a few above 
twenty years ago) renounced the profession. 
They all worshipped your statue and those of 
the gods, and uttered imprecations against the 
name of Christ. They declared that their of- 
fense or crime was summed up in this : that 
they met on a stated day before da^-break and 
addressed a form of prayer to Christ, as to a 
divinity, binding themselves by a solemn oath, 
not for any wicked purpose ; but never to com- 
mit fraud, theft, or adultery, never to break 
their word or to deny a trust when called 
upon to deliver it up. After which it was 
their castom to separate, and tlien to re-assem- 
ble, and to eat together a harmless repast. 
From this custom, however, they desisted, after 
the proclamation of m\' edict by which, accord- 
ing to your commands, I forbade the meeting 
of any assemblies. 

In consequence of their declaration. I judged 
it necessary to try to get at the real truth by 
putting to the torture two female slaves, who 
were said to officiate in their assemblies ; but 
all I could discover was evidence of an absurd 
and extravagant superstition. And so I ad- 
journed all further proceedings in order to con- 
sult you. 

It seems to me a matter deserving your con- 
sideration, more especially as great numbers 
must be involved in the danger of these prose- 
cutions, which have already extended, and are 


still likely to extend, to persons of all ranks, 
ages, and of both sexes. The contagion of the 
sui)erstition is not confined to the cities; it has 
spread into the villages and the country. Still 
1 think it may be checked. At any rate, the 
teni[)les, which were ahuost abandoned, again 
begin to be frequented; and the sacred rites, 
so long neglected, are revived ; and there is 
also a general demand fur victims for sacrilice, 
which till lately found few purchasers. From 
all this it is eas}' to conjecture what numbers 
might be reclaimed, if a general pardon were 
granted to those who repent of their error. 

The reply of Trajan to this letter has 
also come down to us. Tlie two docu- 
ments are of high historical value. They 
are almost the only definite information 
which we have from any pagan source of 
the Christian community during the first 
century of its existence. 


You have adopted the right course in invest- 
igating the charges made against the Christians 
who were brought before you. It is not pos- 
sible to lay down any general rule for all such 
cases. Do not go out of your way to look for 
them. If they are brought before you, and 
the offence is proved, you must punish them; 
but, with this restriction, that when the person 
denies that he is a Christian, and shall make it 
evident that he is not, by invoking the gods, 
he is to be pardoned, notwithstanding any 
former suspicion against him. Anonymous in- 
formations ought not to be received in any sort 
of prosecution. It is introducing a very danger- 
ous precedent, and is quite foreign to the spirit 
of our age. 


PLUTARCH, a Greek author, the great- 
est biographer of ancient times, and unsur- 
passed in all ages, was born at Cljseronea, 
Boeotia, some time in the first century of 
the Christian Era. The precise dates of 
his birth and death are unknown. We 
learn from himself that in 66 he was a 
student of philosoph}^ at Delphi. He was 
living at Chaeronea in 106. 

He is best known by his Parallel Lives, 
a series of biographical sketches of 46 
Greeks and Romans, arranged in groups of 
two, a Greek and a Roman, the biographies 
of each pair being followed by a compar- 
ison between the two characters. Among 
the men thus linked together are : Theseus 
and Momulus, Alcihiades and Coriolanus, 
Pijrrhus and Marius, Alexander and Ccesar^ 
Demosthenes and Cicero. These biogra- 
phies have been equally and deservedl}'- 
popular in all times. 

Plutarch's other works, embraced under 
the general title. Morals, consist of more 
than sixty essays, full of good sense and 
benevolence, and, apart from their merit 
in these respects, valuable on account of 
numerous quotations from other Greek 
authors, else lost to posterity. Among 
these essays are : On Bashfulness, On the 
Education of Children, On the Right Way 
of Hearing, On Having Many Friends, On 
Superstition, On Exile, On the Genius of 
Socrates, On the Late Vengeance of the 


Some plants there are, in their own nature 
wihl and harren, and imrtful to seed and garden- 
sets, which yet among able husbandmen pass 
for infallible signs of a rich and promising 
soil. lu like manner some passious of the 


mind, not good in themselves, yet serve as first 
shoots and promises of u disposition whicli is 
natnrally good, and also ca})able of improve- 
ment. Among tliese I rank Jiashfulness — the 
subject of our present discourse: — no ill sign ; 
but is the cause and occasion of a great deal of 
liarm. For the bashful oftentimes run into the 
same enormities as the most hardened and im- 
pudent ; with this difference only, that the 
former feel a regret for such miscarriages, but 
the latter take a pleasure and satisfaction 

The shameless person is without sense of grief 
for his baseness, and the bashful is in distress 
at the very appearance of it. For bashfulness 
is only modesty in the excess, and is aptly 
enough named Dysopla — "the being put out 
of countenance " — since the face is in some 
sense confused and dejected with the mind. 
For as that grief which casts down the eyes is 
termed Dejection, so that kind of modesty that 
cannot look another in the face is called Bash- 
fulness. The orator, speaking of a shameless 
fellow, said: he " carried harlots, not virgins, in 
his eyes." On the other hand, the sheepishly 
bashful betrays no less the effemiacy and soft- 
ness of liis mind in his looks, palliating his 
weakness, which exposes him to the mercy of 
impudence, with the specious name of Modesty. 

Cato, indeed, was wont to say of young 
persons that he had a greater opinion of such 
HS were subject to colm* than of those that 
turned pale; teaching us thereby to look with 
greater a[>prehension on the heinousness of an 
action than on the reprimand that might follow, 
and to be more afraid of the suspicion of doing 
an ill thing than of the danger of it. How- 
ever, too nnich anxiety and timidit}- lest we 
may do wrong is also to be avoided ; because 
many men have become cowards, and been 
deteri'e(l from generous undertakings, no less 
from fear of calumny and detraction than by 
the danger or diflHcult}- of such attempts. 

While, therefore, we must not suffer the 


weakness in the one case to pass unnoticed, 
iieitli'jr must we abet or countenance invinci- 
ble impudence in the other. A convenient 
mean between both is rather to be endeavored 
after by repressing the over-impudeut, and ani- 
mating the too meek-tempered. But as this 
kind of cure is difficult, so is the restraining 
such excesses not without dangers. Nurses 
who too often wipe the dirt from their infants 
are apt to tear their flesh and put tliem to pain ; 
and in like manner we must not so far extir- 
pate all bashful ness from youth as to leave 
them careless or impudent. — Morals. 


From what other evils can riches free us, if they 
deliver us not even from an inordinate desire 
of them ? It is true indeed that by drinking 
men satisfy their thirst for drink, and by eat- 
ing they satisfy their longings for food; and 
he that said, "Bestow a coat on me, the poor 
cold Hipponax," if more coats had been heaped 
on him than he needed, would have thrown 
them off, as being ill at ease. But tlie love of 
money is not abated by having silver and gold ; 
neither do covetous desires cease by possessing 
still more. But one may say to wealth, as to 
an insolent quack, " Th}' physic's nought and 
makes my illness worse." 

When this distemper seizes a man that needs 
only bread and a house to put his head in, ordi- 
nary raiment and such victuals as come first 
to hand, it fills him with eager desires after 
gold and silver, ivory and emeralds, hounds 
and horses ; thus seizing upon the appetite 
and carrying it from things that are necessary 
after things that are troublesome and unusual, 
hard to come by arid unprofitable when attained. 
For no man is poor in respect of what nature 
requires, and what suffices it, No man borrows 
money on usury to buy meal or cheese, bread 
or olives. But you may see one man run into 
debt for the purchase of a sumptuous house ; 
another for an adjoining olive-orchard ; auotbei' 


for corn-fields or vineyards ; another for Ga- 
liitiiin luules ; and anotlier, by a vuin expense 
for line lioi'ses, has been plunged over head and 
ears into contracts and use-money, pawning 
and nioi'tgages. Moreover, as tliey that are 
wont to drink after tliey have quenched their 
tliirst, and to eat after their hunger is satisfied, 
vomit up even what they took when they were 
athirst or hungry, so they that covet things 
useless and superfluous, enjoy Jiot even those 
that are necessary. This is the character of 
these men. — Morals. 


Is there uofc one and the same reason to com- 
pany the Providence of God and the Immor- 
tality of the tSoul 'i* Neither is it possible to 
admit the one if you denj' the other, Now 
then, the soul surviving after the decease of 
the body, the inference, is the stronger that it 
partakes of punishment and reward. For dur- 
ing this mortal life the soul is in a continual 
conflict like a wrestler ; but after all these con- 
flicts are at an end, she then receives according 
to her merits. But what the punishments and 
what the rewards of past transgressions, or just 
and laudable actions, ai'e to be while the soul 
is yet alone by itself is nothing at all to us who 
are alive ; for either they are altogether con- 
cealed from our knowledge, or else we give but 
little credit to them. 

But those punishments that reach succeed- 
ing posterity, being conspicuous to all that are 
living at the same time, restrain and curb the 
inclinations of many wicked persons. Now I 
have a story which I might relate to show that 
there is no punishment more grievous, or that 
touches more to the quick, than for a man to 
behold his children, born of his body, suffer for 
his crimes; and that if a soul of a wicked and 
lawless criminal were to look back to earth and 
behold — not his statues overturned and his 
dignities reversed — but his own children, his 
friends, or his nearest kindred ruined and over- 


whelmed witli calamity — such a person, were 
he to return to life again, would rather choose 
the refusal of all Jupiter's honors than abandon 
himself a second time to his wonted, injustice 
and extravagant desires. — Morals. 


You ask me for what reason it was that 
Pythagoras abstained from the eating of flesh. 
1, for my part, do much wonder in what humor, 
with what soul or reason, the first man with his 
mouth touched slaughter, and reached to his 
lips the flesh of a dead animal ; and having set 
before people courses of ghastly corpses and 
ghosts, could give those parts the names of 
meat and victuals, that but a little before 
lowed, cried, moved, and saw ; how his sight 
could endure the blood of the slaughtered, 
flayed, and mangled bodies ; how his smell 
could bear their scent ; and how the very nasti- 
ness liappened not to offend the taste. 

And truly, as for those people who first ven- 
tured upon the eating of flesh, it is very prob- 
able that the whols reason of their doing so 
was scarcity and want of other food ; for it is 
not likely that their living together in lawless 
and extravagant lusts, or their growing wan- 
tonness and capriciousness through the excessive 
varietj' of provisions then among them, brought 
them to such unsociable pleasures as these 
against Nature. Yea, had they at this instant 
but their sense and voice restored to them, I 
am persuaded they would express themselves 
to this purpose : — 

Oh, happy you, and highly favored of the 
gods ! Into what an age of the world j'ou have 
fallen, who share and enjoy among you a 
plentiful portion of good things ! What abun- 
dance of things spring up for your use I What 
fruitful vineyards you enjo}' ! AVhat wealth 
you gather from the fields ! What delicacies 
from tree and plants, which you may gather ! 
As for us, we fell upon the most dismal and 
affrightening part of time, in which we were 


exposed, at our first production, to mani- 
fold and inextricable wants and necessities. 
There was then no production of tame fruits, 
nor any instruments of art or invention of wit. 
And hunger gave no time, nor did seed-time 
then stay for the yearly season. What wonder 
is it if we made use of the beasts, contrary to 
Nature, when mud was eaten and the bark of 
wood ; and when it was thought a happy thing 
to find either a sprouting grass or the root of 
any plant. But whence is it that you, in these 
happy days, pollute yourselves with blood 
since you have such an abundance of things 
necessary for your subsistence ? You are indeed 
wont to call serpents, leopards, and lions sav- 
age creatures ; but yet you yourselves are 
defiled with blood, and come- nothing behind 
them in cruelty. What they kill is their ordi- 
nary nourishment ; but what you kill is your 
better fare." 

For we eat not lions and wolves by way of 
revenge; but we let these go, and catch the 
liarmless and tame sort, and such as have neither 
stings nor teeth to bite with, and slay them 
which, may Jove help us, Nature seems to have 
produced for their beauty and comeliness only. 
But we are nothing put out of countenance by 
the beauteous gayety of the colors, or by the 
charmingness of their voices, or by the rare 
sagacity of the intellects, or by the cleanliness 
and neatness of diet, or by the discretion and 
prudence of those poor unfortunate animals ; but 
for the sake of some little mouthful of flesh, we 
deprive a soul of the sun and light, and of that 
proportion of life and time it had been born into 
the world to enjoy. And then we fancy the 
voices it utters and screams forth to us are not 
inarticulate sounds and noises, but the sevei-al 
deprecations, entreaties, and pleadings of each of 
them, as it were, saying, "I deprecate not thy 
necessity — if sucli there be — but thy wanton- 
ness. Kill me for thy feeding, but do not take 
me off for thy better feeding," — Morals. 


POE, Edgar Allan, an American 
author, born at Baltimore in 1811 ; died 
there in 1849. His father and mother 
were both members of the theatrical pro- 
fession, and appeared upon the stage in 
the [)rincipal towns of the United States. 
They died at Richmond, Va., at nearly the 
same time, leaving three orphans altogether 
unprovided for. Edgar, the younger son, 
was adopted by Mr. Jolin Allan, a wealthy 
and childless merchant i)i Richmond. His 
adoptive father took the boy to England 
in his fifth year, and placed him at a school 
near London, where he remained about 
five years. Some time after his return to 
Richmond lie was entered as a student at 
the University of Virginia, where he gained 
notice for his mai-ked ability, and notwith- 
standing his' slight figure, for his physical 
power and endurance. But he had formed 
irregular habits, and he was dismissed 
from the university. He went home for 
a while to Mr. Allan ; then there was a 
quarrel, and Poe disappeared. It is said 
that he went to Europe with the design of 
taking part with the Greeks in their 
struggle against the Ottoman power. The 
story goes on to say that Poe, while on his 
way to Greece, found himself in great 
straits, at St. Petersburg, where he was 
relieved by the American Minister, who 
furnished liiui with means of getting home 
again. One of liis biographers tells us that 
Poe went abroad, and passed a year in 
Europe, the history of which would be a 
singular curibsit}'- if it could be recovered. 
Whatever may be the truth in regard to 
this part of his life, one date, and one fact 
may be set down as well authenticated. 
Poe still liad liis liome with Mr. Allan, 


who sLiccecdtid iu obtaining for him an 
appointment as cadet in the Miiitaiy 
Academy at West Point. A year had not 
passed before he was expelled from the 
Academy. Mr. Allan, now a widower 
past middle age, married again. Poe 
deported himself in a manner that led 
to a complete rui)ture between him and his 
adoptive Fatiier. Here occurs an alniost 
total l)lank of tlu-eo years in our knowlege 
of the life of Poe. The one certain thing 
is that in 1829 he put forth at Baltimore 
a little volume entitled El Aaraaf, Tamer- 
lane^ and Minor Poems. In 1833 we find 
him living at Baltimore. The proprietor 
of a newspaper had offered a prize of a 
hundred dollars for the best prose tale, and 
another prize for the best poem. Both 
prizes were awarded to Poe. The tale was 
the MS. found in a Bottle. The poem was 
the following on The Coliseum, which cer- 
tainly bears very slight resemblance to 
any other production of the author. 


Vastness ! and Age ! and memories of Eld I 
Silence ! and Desolation I and dim night ! 
I feel ye now — 1 feel ye iu your strength — 
spells more sure than e'er Judean king 
Taugiit in tlie garden of Gethsemane ! 
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee 
Ever drew dow)i from out the quiet stars. 

Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! 
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, 
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat ! 
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded 

Waved to the wind, now wave the weed and 

thistle ! 
Here, where on golden throne the monarch 

Crlides, spectre-like, into his marble hom^^ 


Lit by the warm light of the horned moon, 
The swift and silent lizard of the stones ! 

But stay ! these walls, — these ivy-clad 

arcades — 
These mouldering plinths — these sad and 

blackened shafts — 
These vague entablatures of this crumbly 

frieze — 
These shattered coruices — this wreck — this 

ruin — 
These stones — alas ! these gray stones — are they 

All of the famed and the colossal left 
By tlie common Hours to fate and me ? 

"Not all ! " the Echoes answer me; ''not 

all ! " 
Prophetic sounds and loud arise forever. 
From us and from all Ruin, unto the wise 
As melody from Memnon to the Sun. 
We rule the hearts of mightiest men ; we rule 
With a despotic sway all giant minds. 
We are not impotent, we pallid stones. 
Not all our power is gone — not all our fame — 
Not all the magic of our high renown — 
Not all the wonder that encircles us — 
Not all the mysteries that hang upon, 
And cling around about us as a garment, 
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory ! " 

Regular literary occupation was soon 
thrown in Poe's way. He was employed 
in an editorial capacity for a couple of years 
upon the Southern Literary Messenger at 
Richmond; then upon two Philadelphia 
mag-azines. All of these positions he lost. 
There is a visual defect known as •' color- 
blindness" in which the eye is incapable 
of distinguishing between tlie most dis- 
similar colors. Poe seems to have been 
Right-and-Wrong-blind. It was not merely 
that he did wrong things, but he never 
seemed to have dreamed that there was 
any such thing as the Right or the Wrong. 


How fartliis moral deficiency was the cause 
or the effect of his habits of intoxication may 
fairly be questioned. We are told, on the 
one hand, tliat intoxication was almost his 
normal condition ; and, on the other hand, 
that the periods were rare and occurring at 
long intervals. But in either case the 
result was in one respect the same. While 
in this condition he lost all regard noc only 
for the amenities but even for the common 
decencies of conduct. The Donatello of 
Hawthorne's Marble Faun might be re- 
garded as a mental and moral study of Poe. 
Like Donatello, Poe had lovable qualities. 
We are glad to believe that his conduct to- 
wards his young invalid wife and her 
mother, who was to him all that a mother 
could have been, was altogether irreproach- 
able. Some worthy men liked him. More 
than one woman, as highly gifted, as pure 
and noble as any in the land, more than 
liked him. 

In 1844, Poe took up his residence in 
New York, where he engaged in some 
journalistic labor. He published several 
works, by which he came into much note, 
and endeavored at one time or another to 
set up a magazine or journal of which he 
should have the entire control. Only one 
of tiiese, the Broadway Journal^ came into 
actual being, and this had but a brief 

Late in the summer of 1849, Poe set out 
upon a lecturing tour in Maryland and 
Virginia. He took the tem})erauce pledge, 
and at Richmond renewed his acquaintance 
with a lady of considerable fortune. An 
engagement for a speedy marriage was 
entered upon, and Poe set out for New 
York to make the requisite preparations. 


He reached Baltimoieon the 2d of October. 
It would be a couple of hours before the 
railroad train was to start for Philadelphia. 
He stepped into a restaurant, where it is said 
that he fell in with some former acquaint- 
ances. On the second morning afterward 
he was found in the streets in a lialf-coii- 
scious condition. He was taken to a public 
hospital, where he died on Sunday, October 
7, at the age of thirty-eight. Tlie spot of 
his burial was unmarked for more than a 
quarter of a century, when a monument 
was erected over his remains. Poe's criti- 
cal papers and biograi^hical sketches are in 
the main utterly wortliless. They are 
usually ill-tempered and unjust. Some of 
his tales show marked genius. Among the 
best are : The Fall of the House of Usher^ 
Jjigeia, and The Gold Bug. His reputation 
rests upon a few poems, none of which much 
exceed a hundred lines. 


Hear the sledges with the bells — 
Silver bells — 

What a world of merriment their melody fore- 
tells ! 
How they tinkle, tiidcle, tinkle, 
In tile icy jiir of jiight ! 
While the stars that overspriiikle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
With a crj'stalline delight; 
Keeping time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme 

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells,— 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 


Hear the mellow wedding-bells-— 
Golden bells ! 


What a world of liai>[)iiiess their harmony fore- 
tells ! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight! 
From the molten-golden notes, 
And all in tune, 
What a liquid ditty floats 

To the turtle-dove that listens while she gloats 
On the moon ! 

Oh, from out the sounding cells, 
Wiiat a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 
How it swells ! 
How it dwells 

On the Future ! How it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 
Of the bells, bells, bells 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells— 
To the rhj-ming and the chiming of the bells ! 


Hear the loud alarum-bells — 

Brazen bells ! 

Wliat a tale of terror, now, their turbulency 

tells ! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright! 
Too much horrified to speak, 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune, 

In a clamorous appeal to the mercy of the fire, 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and 

frantic fire. 
Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire^ 
And a resolute endeavor 
Now — -now to sit, or never, 
Bv the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of Despair ! 

How they clang, and crash, and roar ! 
What a horror they outpour 


Oq the bosom of the palpitating air ! 

Yet the ear, it fully knows, 

By the twanging 

And the clanging, 

How the danger ebbs and flows ; 

Yet the ear distinctly tells, 

In the jangling, 

And the wrangling, 

How the danger sinks and swells. 

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of 

the bells — 
Of the bells 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells — - 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! 


Hear the tolling of the bells — 

Iron bells ! 

What a world of solemn thought their monody 

compels ! 
In the silence of the night, 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their tone : 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 
Is a groan. 

And the people — ah, the people, 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 
All alone. 

And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, 
In that muffled monotone, 
Feel a glory, in so rolling 
Oti the human heart a stone : 
They are neither man nor woman— 
They are neither brute nor human— 
They are Ghouls ; 
And their king it is who tolls; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 

A paean from the bells ! 
And his merry bosom swells 
With the pa3an of the bells! 
And he dances, and he yells; 


Keeping time, time, time, 

111 a sort of Runic rliyme, 

To tlie pioaiis of the bells ; 

Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the til robbing of the bells— 

Of the bells, bells, bells — 

To the sobbing of the bells; 

Keeping time, time, time. 

As lie knells, knells, knells. 

In a happy Runic rhyme, 

To the rolling of the bells — 

Of the bells, bells, bells ; 

To the tolling of the bells — 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells— 

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 

The poem upon which Poe's reputation 
most distinctively rests is Tlie Raven^ which 
was originally published in February, 1845, 
in the American Kevieu\ a short-lived peri- 
odical issued at New York. We do not 
think that tliere is in our language any 
other poem of barely a liandred lines which 
has won for its author a fame so great. 


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, 
weak and weary. 

Over many a quaint and curious volume of for- 
gotten lore ; 

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there 
came a tapping, 

As of some one genth' rapping, rapping at my 
chamber door. 

"'Tis some visitor." I muttered, '' tapping at 
my chamber door — 

Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak 

And each separate dying ember wrought its 

ghost upon the tloor. 


Eagci-Iy I vvislied the morrow ; vainly I liail 

fiouglit to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for 

tlie lost Lenore — 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom tho 

angels name Lenore — 

Nameless here forever more. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each 

purple curtain 
Thrilled me with fantastic terrors never felt 

before ; 
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I 

stood repeating, 
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my 

chamber door ; 
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my 

chamber door ; 

This it is, and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating 
then no longer, 

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgive- 
ness I implore ; 

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently 
came your rapping, 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at 
m}' chamber door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you " — here I 
opened wide the door : — 

Darkness there, and nothing more ! 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood 
there, wondering, fearing. 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever 
dared to dream before ; 

But the silence was unbroken, and the still- 
ness gave no token, 

And the only word there spoken was the whis- 
pered word, " Lenore !" 

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back 
the word " Lenore ! 

Merely this," and nothing more. 


Back into my chamber tiuniug, all my soul 
within me burning, 

8oon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder 
than before. 

"Surely," said 1, '' surely that is something at 
my window lattice; 

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this 
mystery explore — 

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mys- 
tery explore ; — 

'Tis the wind, and nothing more! " 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many 

a flirt and flutter. 
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly 

days of yore ; 
Not the least obeisance made he ; not an instant 

stopped or stayed he ; 
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above 

ray chamber door — 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above ray 

chamber door — 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling ray sad fancy 
into smiling, 

By the grave and stern decorum of the counte- 
nance it wore, 

" Thougli thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," 
I said, '• art sure no craven. 

Ghastly, grim and ancient Haven, wandering 
from the Nightly shore — 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's 
Plutonian shore ! '* 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

Much I marvelled this ungainlj' fowl to hear 
discourse so plainly, 

Though its answer little meaning — little rele- 
vancy bore; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living 
human being 

Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his 
chamber door — 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above 
his chamber door. 

With such name as "Nevermore." 


But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid 

bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word 

he did outpour. 
Nothing further then he uttered— not a feather 

then he fluttered — 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, ''Other 

friends have flown before — 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes 
have flown before." 

Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so 

aptly spoken, 
" Doubtless," said I, '' what it utters is its only 

stock and store, 
Caught from some unhappy master whom un- 
merciful Disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs 

one burden bore — 
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy 
burden bore 

Of ' Never — nevermore.' " 
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul 

into smiling, 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of 

bird, and bust, and door ; 
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself 

to linking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous 

bird of yore — 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and 
ominous bird of yore 

Meant in croaking ''Nevermore." 
Thus 1 sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable 

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into 

my bosom's core ; 
This, and more, I sat divining, with my head 

at ease reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp- 
light gloated o'er. 
But whose violet velvet lining with the lamp- 
light gloating o'er, 

SJie shall press, ah, never more ! 


Tlien, niethouglit, tlie air grew denser, pcr- 
fiiiiied from an nii.seeii censer 

Swung by seru[)liini whose footfalls tinkled on 
the tufted floor. 

•• Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee— 
by those angels he hath sent thee 

Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy mem- 
ories of Lenore ! 

Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget 
this lost Lenore ! " 

Quotii the Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Prophet! " said I, "thing of evil! — prophet 

still, if bird or devil ! — 
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest 

tossed thee here ashore, 
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land 

enchanted — 
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me 

truly, I implore — ■ 
Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — • 

tell me, I implore !" 

Qnoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil — prophet 

still, if bird or devil ! 
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that 

God we both adore — 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the 

distant Aidenn, 
It shall clasp asainted maiden whom the angels 

name Lenore — 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the 

angels name Lenore." 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or 

fiend! " I shrieked upstarting — 
"Get thee back into the tempest, and the 

Night's Plutonian shore ! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy 

soul hath spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken ! quit the bust 

above my door ! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take 

thy form from off my door! " 

Quoth the Haven, " Nevermore." 


And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, 

still is sitting 
On the pullid bust of Pallas just above my 

chamber door ; 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's 

that is dreaming. 
And the hunplight o'er him streaming throws 

his shadow on the floor ; 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies 

floating on the floor 

Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 


It was many and many a year ago, 

In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden there lived whom you may know 

By the name of Annabel Lee; 
And this maiden she lived with no other 

Than to love and be loved by me. 

I was a child and she was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea : 
But we loved with a love that was more than 
love — 

I and mj' Annabel Lee; 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
So that her high-born kinsmen came 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre 

In this kingdom b\' the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 

Went envying her and me — 
Yes I — that was the reason (as all men know. 

In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night| 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 


But our love it was stronger by far than the 

Of those who were older than we — 

Of many far wiser than we — 
And neither the angels in heaven above, 

Nor the demons down under the sea. 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 

For the moon never beams without bringing 
me dreams 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the 

Of my darling — my darling — my life and my 
In the sefiulchre there by the sea, 
In her tomb by the sounding sea. 


During the whole of a <lall. dark, and sound- 
less da}' in the autumn of the year, when the 
clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I 
had been passing alone, on horseback, through 
a singularly dreary tract of country ; and at 
length found myself, as the shades of the even- 
ing drew on. within view of the melancholj' 
House of Lusher. I know not how it was — but 
with the first glimpse of the building, a sense 
of insufferable gloom pervaded un* spirit. I 
say insufferable; for the feeling was uiu'elieved 
by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, 
sentiment, with which the mind usualh' receives 
even the sternest natural images of the desolate 
or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me 
— upon the mere house, and the simple land- 
scape features of the domain — upon the bleak 
walls — upon the vacant e3"e-like windows — 
upon a few rank sedges — and upon a few white 
trunks of decayed trees — with an utter depres- 
v;ion of soul which I can comnare to no earthly 


sensation more properly than to the after-dream 
of the reveller u[)ou opium — the bitter lapse 
into every-day life — the hideous drop[)ing-off 
of the veil. There was an ioiness, a sinking, a 
sickening of the heart — an unredeemed dreari- 
ness of thought which no goading of the im- 
agination could torture into aught of the sub- 
lime. What was it — I paused to think — what 
was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation 
of the House of Usher ? It was a mystery 
all unsohible; nor could I grapple with the 
shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I 
pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the 
unsatisfactory conclusion that while, beyond 
doubt, there are combinations of very simple 
natural objects which have the power of thus 
affecting us, still the analysis of this power lies 
among considerations beyond our depth. It 
was possible, I reflected, that a mere different 
arrangement of the particulars of the scene, of 
the details of the picture, would be sufficient to 
modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for 
sorrowful impression ; and, acting upon this 
idea, I reined my horse to the precipitous 
brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay in un- 
rufified luster by the dwelling, and gazed down 
— but with a shudder even more thrilling than 
before — upon the remodeled and inverted 
images of the gray sedge, and the ghastly tree- 
stems, and the vacant and eye-like windows. . . . 
I have said that the sole effect of my some- 
what childish experiment — that of looking 
<lown within the tarn — had been to deepen the 
first singular impression. There can be no 
doubt that the consciousness of the rapid in- 
crease of my superstition — for why sliould I 
not so term it ? — served mainly to accelerate 
the increase itself. Such, I have long known, 
is the paradoxical law of all sentiments having 
terror as a basis. And it might have been for 
this reason only that, when 1 again uplifted 
my eyes to the house itelf, from its image in 
the pool, there grew in my mind a strange 
fancy — a fancy so ridiculous, indeed, that I 


but mention it to sliow the vivid force of the 
sensations wliich oppres^sed me. I had so 
worked upon my imaginatiou as really to 
believe that about the whole mansion and 
domain there hung an atmosphere peculiar to 
themselves and their immediate vicinity — an 
atmosphere which had no affinity with the air 
of heaven, but which had reeked u[) from the 
decayed trees, and the gray wall, and the silent 
tarn— a pestilent and mystic vapor, dull, slug- 
gish, faintly discernible and leaden-hued. 

Shaking off from my spirit what nmst have 
been a dream, I scanned more narrowly the 
real aspect of the building. Its principal 
feature seemed to be that of an excessive 
antiquity. The discoloration of ages had been 
great. Minute fungi overspread the whole 
exterior, hanging in a fine tangled web-work 
from the eaves. Yet all this was apart fi'ora 
any extraordinary dilajiidation. No portion 
of the masonry had fallen ; and there appeared 
to be a wild inconsistency between its still 
perfect adaptation of parts, and the crumbling 
condition of the individual stones. In this 
there was much that reminded me of the 
specious totality of old wood-work which has 
rotted for years in some neglected vault, with 
no disturbance from the breath of the exter- 
nal air. Beyond this indication of extensive 
deca}', however, the fabric gave little token of 
instability. Perhaps the eye of a scrutinizing 
observer might have discovered a barely per- 
ceptible fissure, which, extending from the roof 
of the building in front, made its way down 
the wall in a zigzag direction, until it became 
lost in the sullen waters of the tarn. 


POLLOK, Robert, a Scottish clergyman 
and poet, born in Renfrewsliiie in 1799; 
died at Southampton, Enghmd, in 1827. 
He graduated at the University of Glas- 
gow, where he also studied theology, and 
in 1827 became a licentiate of the United 
Secession Church. A puhnonary affection 
had ah-eady begun, and he set out for 
Italy, hoping for benefit from a niiUler 
climate, but died just before he was to have 
sailed. While a student he published 
anonymously three tales which were iiil833 
republished under the title : Tales of the 
Covenanters. His literarj' reputation rests 
wholly upon The Course of Time (1827), a 
poem in blank verse, which at the time 
was widely popular, being placed by some 
quite as high as Paradise Lost., to which it 
bears a general resemblance ; the best pas- 
sages being imitations of Milton. 


Eternal Spirit ! God of truth ! to whom 
All things seem as they are ; Thou who of old 
The prophet's eye unsealed, that nightly .saw. 
While heavy sleep fell down on other men, 
In holy vision tranced, the future pass 
Before him, and to Judah's harp attuned 
Burdens which made the pagan mountains 

And Zion's cedars bow : inspire my song; 
My e\'e unscale ; me what is substance teach, 
And shadow what; while I of things to come, 
As past rehearsing, sing the Course of Time, 
The Second Birth, and final Doom of Man. 

The Muse that soft and sickly wooes the ear 
Of love, or chanting loud in windy rhyme 
Of fabled hero, raves through gaudy tale 
Not overfraught with sense, I ask not; sue 
A strain befits not argument so hi<j^h. 
Me thought and phrase, severely sifting out 
The whole idea, grant; uttering as 'tis 


The essential truth : Time gone, the righteous 

The wicked damned, and Providence approved 


True Happiness had no localities, 

No tones provincial, no peculiar garb. 

Wiiere Duty went, she went; with Justice 

went ; 
Add went with Meekness, Charity, and Love. 
Where'er a tear was dried, a wounded heart 
Bound up, a bruised spirit with the dew 
Of sympathy anointed, or a pang 
Of honest suffering soothed; or injury 
Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven ; 
Where'er an evil passion was subdued, 
Or virtue's feeble embers fanned ; where'er 
A sin was heartilv abjured and left ; 
Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed 
A pious prayer, or wished a pious wish : — 
Tliere was a liigh and holy place, a spot 
Of sacred light, a most religious fane, 
Where Happiness, descending, sat and smiled. 


Hail, holy love ! thou word that sums all bliss ; 
Gives and receives all bliss, fullest when most 
Thou givest ! Spring-head of all felicity, 
Deepest when most is drawn ! Emblem of God ! 
O'erflowing most when greatest numbers drink ! 
Essence that binds the uncreated Three ! 
Chain that unites creation to its Lord ! 
Centre to which all being gravitates! 
Eternal, ever-growing, happy love! 
Enduring all, hoping, forgiving all; 
Instead of law, fulfilling ever}' law; 
Entirely blessed, because it seeks no more; 
Hopes not, nor fears; but on the present lives, 
And holds perfection smiling in its arms ! 
Mysterious, infinite, exhaustless love ! 
On earth m3'3terious, and mysterious still 
In heaven ! Sweet chord, tliat harmonizes all 
The harps of Paradise ! The spring, the well. 
That fills the bowl, and banquet of the sky ! 


POPE, Alexander, an English poet, 
born at Loudon in 1688; dieil at Twick- 
enliam, then a rural suburb of the metrop- 
olis in 1744. His father, the son ut aii. 
Anglican clergyman, enibracedthe Catiiolic 
faith, in which the son was reared, and 
which he never aljandoned. The father, 
having acquired a moderate competence 
as a linen-draper, left business, and letired 
to Binfield in Windsor forest, where the 
childhood of the poet was passed. He was 
of delicate constitution, and liis figure was 
slight and considerably deformed. He 
early manifested unusual capacity, espe- 
cially in versifying. As he said of himself, 
"he lisped in numbers, for the numbers 
came." His Ode on Solitude^ written be- 
fore he had reached the age of twelve, is 
of much higher merit than any other poem 
of which we know, composed by one so 
young. He destroyed most of his earlier 
pieces, among which were a comedy^ a 
tiaged}', and an unfinished e[)ic. Before he 
had reached the age of sixteen he had come 
to be known among the literati as a poet of 
rare genius. His first considerable work, 
the Pastorals, was published when he was 
twenty-one ; but was written some five years 
earlier. His Messiah, a Sacred Eclogue, first 
appeared in 1712 in Addison's Spectator. 
He had a decided taste for art ; in 1713 
went to London, and for a year and a half 
studied painting under Jervas, a pupil of 
Reynolds ; but his defective eyesight dis- 
abled him from going on in the profes- 

Li 1714 he issued proposals for publish- 
ing a translation of the Iliad in six volumes 
at a guinea a volume. The first volume 
appeared in 1715, tlie last in 1720. For 


this he received from the publisher £5,320 
besides hirge presents from individuals, 
the King giving .£200 and the Prince of 
Wales £100. In all he must have received 
for this translation not less than X6,000 ; 
and as the purchasing value of money was 
then about three times greater than at pres- 
ent, his receipts maybe estimated at about 
90,000 dollars. With a part of tiie money 
thus earned he purchased the lease of a 
villa, with about five acres of ground, at 
Twickenham, Avhich continued to be his 
residence during the remainder of his life, 
though he spent much of his time in Lon- 
don. His later days were mainly devoted, 
in conjunction with Warburton, to the 
preparation of a complete edition of his 
works, of which, however, he lived only to 
supervise the Essay on Criticism, the Essay 
on 3Ian, and tlie Dimciad, to the last of 
which he made considerable additions. 
He was buried at Twickenham. 

The following is a list of Pope's prin- 
cipal works, with the approximate date of 
their composition ; but the dates are not 
always strictly accurate, as he not unfre- 
quently kept pieces for years before pub- 
lishing them : Pastorals (1709), Essay 
on Criticism (1711), The Messiah (1712). 
Rape of the Lock (1714), Translation of 
tlie Iliad (1715-18), Epistle of Eloise to 
Ahelard (1717), Edition of Shakespeare 
(1725), Translation of the Odyssey (11 26)^ 
The Dunciad (1728 ; but considerably 
modified, and much enlarged, in 1742), 
Epistle to the Earl of Burlington (1731). 
On the Abuse of Riches (1732), Essay on 
Man (1732), Imitations of Horace (1733- 
37), Epistle to Lord Cohham (1733), 
Epistle to Arbuthnot (1735). What was 


meant to be a complete edition of his 
Works was put together by his literary 
executor, Bishop Warburtou (9 vols. 1751). 
But very considerable additions — especially 
of his voluminous Correspondence, have 
since been made. Perhaps the most com- 
plete of the recent editions is that com' 
menced by J. W, Croker, and completed 
by the Rev. W. Elwin (1861-1873). 


The most by numbers judge a poet's song. 
And smooth or rough, with them, is right or 

In the bright Muse, though thousand charms 

Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire, 
Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, 
]Not mend their minds; as some to church re- 
Not for tlie doctrine, but the music there. 
These equal sj'llables alone require, 
Though of the ear the open vowels tire ; 
While expletives their feeble aid do join, 
And ten low words oft creej) in one dull line; 
While the_y ring round the same unvaried 

rh3'mes : 
Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze," 
In the next line it "whispers through the 

trees ; " 
If crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs 

The reader's threatened (not in vain) with 

" sleep," 
Then, at the last and only couplet fraught 
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, 
A needlc'-'s Alexandrine ends the song, 
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow 

length along. 
Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, 

and know 
What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow, 
And praise the easv vigor of a line. 


Where Denliarn's strength and Waller's sweet- 
ness join. 
True ease in writing comes from art, not 

As those move easiest who have learned to 

'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, 
The sound must seem an echo to the sense. 
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gentl}' blows, 
And the smootli stream in smoother numbers 

flows ; 
But when loud surges lash tlie sounding shore, 
The lioarse, rough verse should like the torrent 

When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to 

The line too labors, and the words move slow ; 
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, 
Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along 

the plain. . . . 
Avoid extremes, and shun the fault of such 
Who still are pleased too little or too much. 
At every trifle scorn to take offence. 
That always shows great pride or little sense. 
Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best 
Which nauseate all, and notliing can digest. 
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move ; 
For fools admire, but men of sense approve. 
As things seem large which we through mists 

Dullness is ever apt to magnify. 

Essay on Criticism. 

The Rape of the Lock is styled " aHeroi- 
Coniical Poein." The noble lover of Be- 
linda surreputiously cut from her liead one 
of the long locks of hair which were tlie 
pride of her heart. Thereupon ensued a 
quarrel which became the talk of the town. 
tJpon the slight canvas of this incident 
tlie poet has embroidered the gaj-est fan- 
cies. Belinda, unknown to herself, is at- 
tended by a troop of sylphs and sprites 


eager to do her service. They attend at 
her toiler, and see to it that she gets a 
good hand at "ombre," aud perform nu- 
merous kindred offices. 


And now unveiled the toilet stands displayed, 
Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 
First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores, 
With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers : 
A heHven]3- hnage in the glass appears — 
To that she bends, to that her eya^ she rears, 

The inferior priestess, at her altar's side, 
Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride; 
Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here 
The various offerings of the world appear; 
From each she nicely culls with curious toil. 
And decks the goddess with the glittering 

This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, 
And all Arabia breathes fn-m ^'onder box. 
The tortoise here and elephant unite, 
Transformed to combs — the speckled and the 

Here files of pins extend -their shining rows ; 
Puffs, [)Owders, ])atclies, bibles, billet-doux. 
Now awful beauty puts on all her arms j 
The fair each moment rises in her charms, 
Rejtairs her smiles, awakens every grace, 
And calls forth all the wonders of her facr j 
See, by degrees, a purer blush arise, 
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
The busy sylphs surround their darling care. 
These set the head, and these divide the hair; 
Some fold the sleeve, while others plait w** 

gown ; 
And Betty's praised for labors not her own. 
Jiape of the Lock, Canto I,. 


Not with more glories in the ethereal plain 
The sun first rises o'er the purjde main. 
Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beatiia, 


Launched on the bosom of the silver Tharaes, 
Fair nymphs and well-drest youths around her 

But ever3'- eye is fixed on her alone. 
On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, 
Wliich Jews might Idss, and infidels adore. 
Her lively looks a spriglitly mind disclose, 
Quii'k as her eyes, and as unfixed as those; 
Favors to none, to all she smiles extends ; 
Oft she rejects, yet never once offends. 
Briglit as the sun, her eyes on gazers strike, 
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. 
ypt graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, 
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to 

hide ; 
If to her share some female errors fall. 
Look on her face, and you'll forget them all. 

This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, 
Nourislied two locks which graceful hung 

In equal cnrls, and well conspired to deck 
With sliining ringlets the smooth ivory neck. 
Love in these labyrinths his slave detains. 
And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. 
With hair}- springes we the birds betraj', 
Slight lines of liair surprise the finny prey. 
Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare 
And beauty draws us with a single hair. 
The adventurous Baron the bright locks ad- 
mired ; 
He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. 
Resolved to win, he meditates the way, 
By force to ravish, or by fraud betray ; 
For when success a lover's toil attends. 
Few ask if fraud or force attained his ends. 
Rape of the Lock, Canto II. 


The peer now spreads the glittering forfex 

To inclose the lock : now joins it, to divide. 
Even then, before the fatal engine closed, 
A wretched sylph too fondly intei'posed. 
Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in 



(But airy substance soon unites again), 
The joining joints the sacred hair dissever 
From the fair liead, forever, and forever! 
Then flashed the livid lightning from her eyes, 
And screams of horror rend the affrighted 

Not louder shrieks to pitying heavens are cast 
When husbands or when lap-dogs breathe their 

last ; 
Or when rich china vessels, fallen from high. 
In glittering dust and painted fragments lie. 
" Let wreaths of triumph now m}' temples 

The victor cried, "the glorious prize is mine! 
While fish in streams, or birds delight in air, 
Or in a coach-and-six the Britisli fair; 
As long as Atalantis shall be read, 
Or a small pillow grace a lady's bed; 
While visits shall be paid on solemn days, 
When numerous waxlights in bright order 

blaze ; 
While nymphs take treats or assignations 

So long my honor, name, and praise shall live I " 
Hape of the Zock, Canto IV. 


Shut, shut the door, good John I fatigued, I 

Tie up the knocker ; say I'm sick, I'm dead. 
The dog-star rages I nay 'tis past a doubt, 
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out. 
Fire in each eye, and papers in each haiid, 
They rave, recite, and madden through the 

What walks can guard me, or what shades can 

hide ? 
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they 

glide ; 
By land, by water, they renew the charge. 
They stop the chariot, and they board the 

barge ; 
No place is sacred, not the church is free, 
Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me. 


Then from the ^lint walks forth the man of 

Happy ! to catch im% just at dimier-time. 

Is there a parson much be-mused in beer, 
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, 
A clerk foredoomed liis father's soul to cross, 
Who pens a stanza, when he should engross ? 
Is there who, locked from ink and paper, 
scrawls [walls ".' 

With desperate charcoal round his darkeniMl 
All fly to Tvvit'nam, and in humble strain 
Appl}' to me to keep them mad or vain. 
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, 
Imputes to me and my damned works the 

Poor Corn us sees his frantic wife elope. 
And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope, 

Friend to my life (which did j'ou not pro- 
The world had wanted many an idle song) ; 
What drop or nostrum can this plague re- 
move ? 
Or which must end me — a fool's wrath or love ? 
A dire dilemma ! either way I'm sped, 
If foes, they write ; if friends, they read me 

Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I, 
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie ! 
To laugh were want of goodness and of grace, 
And to be grave exceeds all power of face. 
I sit with sad civility. I read 
W^ith honest anguish and an aching head ; 
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears. 
This saving counsel, " Keep your piece nine 
" Nine years!" cries he, who high in Drury 
Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken 

Rh\'mes ere he wakes, and prints before Term 

Obliged by hunger and "request of frieinls : ' 
" The piece, you think is incorrect ? whv, take 


Fm all submission — what you'll have it, mate 
Three tilings anotlier's modest wishes bound: 
My friendsliij), and a prologue, and ten pound. 
Pitholeon sends to me : " Y(Hi know his Grace ; 
I want a patron ; ask liim for a place.'*' 
Fitholeou libelled me — "But here's a letter, 
Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew' no 

Dare you refuse him ? Curll invites to dine; 
He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine." . . . 
Why did I write ? What sin to me un- 
Dipt me in ink — my parents', or my own ? 
As j-et a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 
I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. 
I left no calling for this idle trade. 
No dut}' broke, no father disobeyed ; 
The Muse but served to ease some friend, noi 

To help me through this long disease — my 

To second, Arbuthnot, thy art and care, 
And teach the being you preserved to bear. . , . 
Friend ! ma}' each domestic bliss be thine ; 
Be no unpleasant melancholy mine. 
Me let the tender office long engage, 
To rock the cradle of reposing age 5 
With lenient arts extend a mother's breath, 
Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of 

death ■; 
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, 
And keep awhile one parent from the sky. 
On cares like these, if length of days attend. 
May heaven to bless these days preserve my 

friend : 
Preserve hira social, cheerful, and serene. 
And just as rich as when he served a Queen. 
Whether that blessing be denied or given, 
Thus far was right ; the rest belongs to 

Epistle to Arbuthnot. 



Heaven from all creaturos liides tlie book of fate, 
All but the page prescribed — tlieir present 

state ; 
From brutes what men, from men what spirits, 

know ; 
Or wlio could suffer, being here below ? 
Till' Iamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, 
Had he thy reastm, would he skip and play? 
Pleased to the hist, he crops the llowery food, 
And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. 
blindness to the future ! kindly given, 
That each may lill the circle marked by 

Heaven ; 
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall ; 
Atoms or systems into ruin hurled, 
And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 
Hofte humbly then ; with trembling pin- 
ions soar ; 
Wait the great teacher, Death, and God adore. 
What future bliss, he gives thee not to know. 
But gives that hope to be tin' blessitig now. 
Hope springs eternal in the human breast; 
Man never is but always to he blest. 
The soul (uneasy, and confined) from home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 

Essay on 3Ian. 


All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
Whose bod}' Nature is, and God the soul; 
That changed through all, and yet in all the 

same ; — 
Great in the earth as in the ethereal frame; 
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze. 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees ; 
Lives through all life, extends through all 

Spreads undivided, operates unspent; 
Breatiies in our soul, informs our mortal part; 
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns. 
As the I'apt seraph that adores and burns. 


To lii'm DO high, no low, no great, no small ; 
He fills, he t>ouiids, connects, and equals all. 
Cease then, nor cvrder imperfection name j 
Our proper bliss depends on what we hlamev 
Know thy own point : This kind, this diae degree 
Of blindness, weakness, Heaven be&tiows on. 

Submit. — In this or any other sphere, 
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear; 
Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, 
Or in the natal or the mortal hour. 
All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee ;: 
All Chance, direction, which thou canst siotse'e } 
All Discord, harmony not understood ; 
All partial evil, universal Good ; 
And spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite, 
One truth is clear, Whatever it;, is right. 

Essay on Man. 

The Essa>i on Man appears in the form of 
epistles to Bolingbroke. Lord Bathurst, 
who was apparently in a position to know', 
is said to have said that the work was really 
writen by Bolingbroke ; that is, it was 
written by Bolingbroke in prose, which 
Pope merely put into verse. However 
tliis ra-iiy be, there is no question as to the 
manner in which the Mennah was put 
together by Pope, in his twenty-fourth year. 
Virgil, in his " Fourth Eclogue," addressed 
to Pollio, hails the expected birth of a 
babe for whom the poet predicts a magnifi- 
cent future — a prediction which does not 
appear to have had any fulfillment. Pope 
takes this Eclogue, applies the thought of 
it to Christ, engiafting upon it images 
borrowed from Isaiah. The best two 
passages in the Messiah are one near the 
commencement and the magnificent close. 


Rapt into future times the bard begun : — 

A vir<rin shall conceive — a virgin bear a son I 


P'runi Jesse's root behold a Branch arise 
Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the 

skies ! 
The ethereal Spirit o'er its leaves shall move, 
And on its top descends the mystic Dove. 
Ye heavens! from high the dewy nectar pour, 
And ill self-silence shed the kindly shower! 
The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid — 
From storm a shelter, and from heat a shade. 
All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds shall 

fail ; 
Returning Justice lift aloft her scale. 
Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, 
And white-robed Innocence from heaven de- 
Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn ! 
Oh, spring to light! Auspicious Babe be born. 



Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem rise! 
Exalt thj' towery head, and lift thine eyes! 
See a long race thy spacious courts adorn ; 
See future sons and daughters yet unborn, 
In crowding ranks on ever}' side arise, 
Demanding life, impatient for the skies! 
See barbarous nations at thy gates attend, 
Walk in thy light, and in th\' temple bend; 
See thy bright altars thronged with prostrate 

And heaped with products of Sabean springs ! 
For thee Idume's spicy forests blow. 
And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. 
See heaven its sparkling jiortals wide display, 
And break upon thee in a flood of day ! 
No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, 
Kor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; 
But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays, 
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze, 
O'erflow thy courts. The Light Himself shall 

Revealed, and God's eternal day be thine ! 
The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, 
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away; 

A LEX A N'DEi; POPE. -13 

But fixed His word, His saving power remains ; 
Thy realm forever lasts, thy own Messiah 
reigns ! 

THK UNIVERSAL PRAYER : deo. Opt. max. 

Father of all! in every age, 

In every clime adored, — 
By saint, b}- savage, or by sage — 

Jehovali, Jove, or Lord ! 

Thou first great Cause, least understood, 
Wlio all my sense confined 

To know but this : that Tiiou art good, 
And that myself am blind ; 

Yet gave me in this dark estate, 

To see the good from ill ; 
And binding Nature fast in Fate, 

Left free the human Will. 

Wliat conscience dictates to be done, 

Or warns me not to do, 
This teach me more than hell to shun, 

That more than heaven pursue. 

What blessings thy free bounty gives 

Let me not cast away : 
For God is paid when man receives; 

To enjoj^ is to obey. 

Yet not to earth's contracted spaa 
Thy goodness let me bound, 

Or Thee the Lord alone of man. 

When thousand worlds are round. 

Let not this weak, unknowing hand 
Presume Thy bolts to throw. 

And deal damnation round the land 
On each I judge Thy foe. 

If I am right, Thy grace impart 

Still in the right to stay ; 
If I am wrong, oh teach my hear!; 

To find that better way. 


Save me alilce from foolish pride 

Or impious discontent, 
At aught Thy wisdom has denied. 

Or aught Tiiy goodness lent. 

Teach me to feel another's woe, 

To hide the fault 1 see; 
That mercy I to others show, 

That mercy show to me. 

Mean though I am, not wholl}' so, 
Since quickened by Thy breath; 

Oh, lead me, wlioresoe'er I go. 

Through tliis day's life or death. 

This day be bread and peace my lot : 

All else beneath the sun 
Thou k no west it best, bestowed or not. 

And let Thy will be done ! 

To Thee, whose temple is all space, 
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies, 

One chorus let all being raise ; 
All Na^ture's inceuse risd. 


PORTER, Jane, a British novelist, born 
in Ireland in 1776 ; died at Bristol in 1850. 
Her fatlier, an officer in the army, died 
when his children were all young, and they 
were taken by their mother to Edinburgh, 
where the family resided several years, but 
subsequently made their hc^me iii London. 
Jane Porter, the eklest child, wrote several 
novels, two of whicli, Thaddeus of Warsaw 
(1803), and The Scottish Chiefs (1810), 
had a high reputation in their day, and 
are still read. They may properly be con- 
sidered as the beginning of the English 
*• historical novels." The chief character 
in The Scottish Chiefs is the idealized 
William Wallace ; Thaddeus Sobieski, in 
Thaddeus of Warsaw is the ideal Polish 
exile. " We have, alas ! " says Mrs. Oli- 
phant, " no such heroes now-a-days. The 
riice has died out ; and we fear that a pala- 
din so magnanimous might call forth the 
scoffs rather than the applause of a public 
accustomed to interest themselves in shabby 
personages of real life." 

Anna Maria Porter (1780-1832) 
was a much more prolific writer than lier 
elder sister. She published some fifty 
volumes of tales and verses ; of her novels 
The Hungarian Brothers (1807) and Don 
Sebastian^ or the House of Braganza (1810), 
are the best. Their brother,' Sir Robert 
Ker Porter (about 1775-1842), was a 
clever artist and author of works of travel. 


Thaddeus saw all this, and with a Hittins: 
hope, instead of surrendering the liand he had 
retained, he made it a yet closer prisoner by 
clasping it in b(jth his. Pressing it earnestly 
to his breast, lie said, in a Inu-ried voice, whilst 
liis earnest e3-es poured all their beams upon 
her averted cheek : — 


"Surely, Miss Beaufort will not deny me thei 
aearest JKipplness 1 possess — tlic ])rivilege of 
being grateful to her." 

He paused ; his soul vyas too full for utter- 
ance ; and raising Mary's hand from his heart 
to liis lips, he kissed it fervently. Alntosfc 
fainting, Miss Beaufort leaned her liead .against 
a tree of the thicket wliere they were standing.- 
>She thought of the confession whicli Pembroke 
had extorted from her, and dreading that its 
fullness might have been imparted to him, and 
that all this was rattier the tribute of gratitude 
than of love, she waved her other hand in sign 
for hi 111 to leave her, 

Such extraordinary confusion in her mannef 
palsied the warm and blissful emotions of the' 
Count. Pie, too, began to blame the sanguine 
representations of his friend; and fearing that 
he had offended lier — that she' might suppose 
he had presunied on her Isindne?!? — he stood 
for a Woment in silent astonishment j then 
dropping on his knee (hardly conscious of i'^'^' 
action), declared in an agitated voice his sense 
of having given this offense; at the same time 
he ventured to repeat, with equally modest; 
energy, the soul-devoted passion he had so long 
endeavored to seal u{) in his lonely breast. 

''But forgive me,'' added he, with increased 
earnestness, '''forgive me injustice to 3'our own 
virtues. In what has just passed, I feel that 
I ought to have expressed thanks to 3'our good- 
ness to an unfortunate exile; but if my words 
or manner have obeyed the more fervid im- 
pulse of my soul, and declared aloud what is 
its glory in secret, blame my nature, most rC' 
spected Miss Beaufort, not my presumption. I 
have not dared to look steadily on anj' aim. 
higher than your esteem." 

Mary knew not how to receive this address.. 
The position in which he uttered it, his counte- 
nance when she turned to answer him, were 
both demonstrative of something less equivocal 
than his speech. He was still grasping the 
drapery of her cloak, and his eyes, from which. 


the wind blew back liis fine hair, were beaming 
upon her full of that piercing tenderness which 
at once dissolves and assures the soul. She 
passed her hand over her eyes. Her soul was 
in a tumult. She too fondiy wished to believe 
that he loved her, to trust the evidence of what 
she saw. His words were ambiguous ; and 
that was suffi'iient to fill her with uncertainty. 
-Jealous of that delicacy which is the parent of 
love, and its best preserver, she checked the 
overflowing of her heart; and whilst her con- 
cealed face streamed with tears conjured him to 
rise. Instinctively she held out her hand to 
assist him. He obe\'ed ; and, hardly conscious 
of what she said, she continued : 

"You have done nothing, Count Sobieski, to 
offend me. I was fearful of my ow-n conduct- 
that you might have supposed — 'I mean, unfor- 
tunate appearances might have led you to sup- 
pose that I was influenced — was so far forget- 
ful of myself " 

''Cease, Madam! Cease, for pity's sake!" 
cried Thaddeus, starting back, and dropping 
her hand; everj- emotion which failed on her 
tongue liad met an answering pang in Ins 
breast. Fearing that he had set his heart on 
the possession of a treasure totally out of his 
reach, he knew not how high had been his hope 
until he felt the depth of his despair. Taking 
up his hat, which lay on the grass, with a 
countenance from which every gleam of joy 
was banished, he bowed respectfully, and in a 
lower tone continued: 

"' The dependent situation in which 1 ap- 
peared at Lady Dundas's being ever before my 
ej-es, I was not so absurd as to suppose that 
any lady could then notice me from any other 
sentiment than humanity. That I excited this 
humanity where alone I was proud to awaken 
it, was in these hours of dejection my sole com- 
fort. It consoled me for the friends I had lost ; 
it repaid me for the honors that were no more. 
But that is past. Seeing no further cause for 
compassion, you deem the delusiou no longer 


necessary. Since 3^011 will not allow nie an 
individual. distinction in having attracted 3'our 
benevolence — though I am to ascribe it all to 
a charitv as ditfiised as effective, yet I must 
ever acknowledge with the deepest gratitude 
that I owe my present home and ha|)piness to 
Miss Beaufort. Further tlian tiiis I shall not 
— I dare not — presume." 

These words shifted all the Count's anguish 
to Mary's breast. She perceived the offended 
delicacy which actuated each syllable as it fell ; 
and, fearing to have lost everything bv her 
cold, and what might appear haught\', reply, 
she opened her lips to say what might better 
express iier meaning ; but her heart failing her, 
she closed them again, and continued to walk 
in silence by his side. Having allowed her 
opportunity to escape, she believed tliat all 
ho[)es of exculpation were at an end. Xot dar- 
ing to look up, slie cast a despairing glance at 
Sobieski's graceful figure as he walked, equallv 
silent, near her; his hat pulled over his fore- 
head, and his long dark eyelashes, shading his 
downward eyes, imparted a dejection to his 
whole air which wrapped her weeping heart 
round and round with regretful pangs. '•' (3h," 
thought she, "though the offspring of but one 
moment, they will pi'ey on my peace forever." 

At the foot of a little wooded knoll, the mute 
and pensive pair heard the sound of some one 
on the other side approaching them through 
the dry leaves. In a minute after, Sir Richard 
Somerset appeared. — Thaddeus of Warsaw. 


PORTER, Noah, an American scholar 
born at Fuiniington, Conn., in 1811. He 
graduated at Yale in 1831 ; taught a 
grammar school at New Haven until 1833, 
when he became tutor at Yale, at the same 
time studying tlieology. He was pastor of 
Congregational churches at Milford, Conn., 
and Springfiekl, Mass., from 1836 to 1816, 
when he became Professor of Moral Phi- 
losophy at Yale. In 1871 he succeeded 
Tiieodore D. Woolsey as President of Yale 
College, still retaining his Professorship. 
His principal works are : The Educational 
Systems of the Puritans and the Jesuits 
(1851), The Human Intellect (1868), Books 
and Reading (181 0~), American Colleges and 
the American People (1871), The /Science 
of NatvA'e versus the /Science of Man 
(1871), Science and Sentiments (1882), 
Elements of the Moral Sciences (1883), 
Kant's Ethics (1886), Fifteen Years in 
the Pulpit of Yale College (1888). 


It may be argued that in the present divided 
state of Cliristendo.Ti a college which is pos- 
itively Christian must in fact be controlled by 
some religious denomination, and this must, 
necessarily narrow and belittle its intellectual 
and emotional life. We reply — A College need 
not be administered in the interests of Any 
religious sect, even if it be controlled by it. We 
have contended, at length, tlint science and 
culture tend to liberalize sectarian narrowness. 
VV"e know that Christian history, philosophy, 
and literature are eminently catholic and liberal. 
No class of men so profoundly regret the divi- 
sions of Christendom as do Christian scholars : 
and, we add, their liberality' is often in propor- 
tion to their fervor. While a college may be, 
and sometimes is, a nurser}' of petty prejudices 
and a hiding-place for sectarian bigotry, it is 


untrue to all the lessons of Christian thought- 
fulness if it fails to honor its own nobler charity, 
and will sooner or later outgrow its narrowness. 
It may be still further urged that a Christian 
College must limit itself in the selection of its 
instructors to men of positive Christian belief, 
and may thus deprive itself of the ablest in- 
struction. We reply — Xo positive inferences 
of this sort can be drawn from the nature or 
duties of a Christian College. The details of 
administration are always controlled by wise 
discretion. A seeker after God, if he has not 
found rest in faith, may be even more de- 
vout and believing in his influence than a fie r 3' 
dogmatist or an uncompromising polemic. 
And yet it may be true that a teacher who is 
careless of misleading confiding youth, and 
who is fertile in suggestions of unbelief, may, 
for this reason, and this onl}-, be disqualified 
from being a safe and useful instructor in any; 
that a Christian college to be worth}- of the 
name, must be the home of enlarged knowledge 
and varied culture. It must abound in all the 
appliances of research and instruction ; its 
librar}' and collections must be rich to affluence; 
its corps of instructors must be well trained and 
enthusiastic in the work of teaching. For all 
this, money is needed ; and it should be 
gathered into great centres — not wasted in 
scanty fountains, nor subdivided into insignif- 
icant rills. Into such a temple of science the 
Christian spirit should enter as the shekinah 
of old, ])urifying and consecrating all to itself. 
In such a college the piety should inspire the 
science, and the culture should elevate and re- 
fine the piet}', and the two should lift each the 
other upward toward God, and speed each 
other outward and onward in errands of bless- 
ing to man. . . . 

We conclude — That no institution of the 
higher education can attain the highest ideal 
excellence, in which the. Christian faith is Jiot 
exalted as supreme; in which its truth is not 
asserted with a constant fidelity, defended with 


unremitting ardor, and enforced with a fervent 
and devoted zeal, in which Christ is not honored 
as the inspirer of man's best affections, the 
model of man's highest excellence, and the 
master of all human duties. Let two instruc- 
tions be placed side by side, with equal advan- 
tages in other particulars ; let the one be pos- 
itively Christian, and the other be consistently 
secular — and the Christian will assuredly sur- 
pass the secular in the contributions which it 
will make to science and culture, and in the 
men which it will train for the service of their 
kind. — Fifteen Years in the Chapel of Yale 


Christianity, both as a law and force, has the 
capacity and promise of a progressive renewal 
in the future. It has the capacity for constant 
development and progress. It can never be 
outgrown, because its principles are capable of 
being applied to every exigency of human 
speculation and action. It can never oe dis- 
pensed with, because man can never be in- 
dependent of God, the living G-od ; and in the 
fierce trials which are yet before him, he may 
find greater need than ever of God as revealed 
in Christ. That such trials are to come, we do 
not doubt. We cannot predict what new 
strains are to be brought upon our individual 
or social life. There are signs that the bonds 
of faith and reverence, of order and decency, of 
kindliness and affection, which have so long 
held men together, are to be weakened, per- 
haps withered, by the dry-rot of confident and 
conceited speculation, or consumed by the fire 
of human passion. — Fifteen Years in the 
Chapel of Yale College. 


PRAED, Rosa Murray-Prior, an 

English author, born at Bromelton Station, 
Queenshind, xVusLiaUa, in 1852. She is 
descended from CoL Mnrraj'-Prior who 
served in tlie 18th Hussars at Waterloo, 
and her father was an Australian squatter, 
who took active part in political life in 
Queensland. Mrs. Praed spent lier early 
life in Australia, and was married in 1872 
to Campbell Mackworth Praed, a nephew 
of the poet Praed. In 1876 she went to 
London, where she now resides. Her first 
book was An Australian Heroine (^1880). 
It w^as followed by Policy and Passion, 
Nadine, Moloch, Zero, Affinities, The Head 
Station, Australian Life, Black and White, 
Miss Jacohsons Chance, and The Bo7id of 
Wedlock, also dramatized by the author 
and produced on the stage in 1888. Mrs. 
Praed hasalso written, in collaboration with 
Justin ]McCarthy, The Right Honorable, The 
Rebel Rose (now published as The Rival 
Princess), The Ladies" Gallery, and an 
edition de luxe of sketches of the Thames, 
entitled The Grey River. 


INIrs. Borlase was joined in her temporary 
studio by Esnie C'olqiihoun. She had asked 
liiiii to come. Her attitude was one of expect- 
ancy. She stood by tlie fireplace, her face 
turned sideways to him as he entered, liolding 
a screen of featliers between lier cheeks ami tlie 
blaze. Her rohe of pale-green plush, confined 
at the waist with an old enameled girdle, and 
with soft lace falling away from the neck and 
arms, suited the almost girlish lines of her 
figure, while its color harmonized with her 
golden hair and dead-white skin. There was a 
luxuriousness in her dress, in the subdued light, 
the rich draperies of the chiinney-piece. the 
iaintly scented atmosphere, which was more 


than pleasing, in contrast with the bleak wintry 
landscape from which a little while before they 
had entered. 

Upon a little table near her there stood in a 
blue china bowl the crushed bouquet of hot-house 
blossoms, still fragrant, which she had carried 
upon the previous niglit. Esme Colquhoun 
took up the bouquet, which was cuniposed 
almost entirely of yellow roses, and drew forth 
one of the flowers with a preoccupied air. 

" I have hurtj'ou," he repeated with remorse 
in his voice. And tlien he rose and looked 
down yearningly upon her. "Christine are you 
still so proud ? Will you always face the woi-Id 
with your frank cynicism — your high-spirited 
independence — artist and woman of the world 
in one, giving just so much and giving no more ? 
Christine, will you accept no sacrifice ? Will 
you make none — not even now ? " 

Christine returned his gaze unshrinkingly; 
but a tear rose and lay on her lower lashes, held 
there glittering. 

" Xo, Esme — not even now. There can never 
be any question of sacrifice between you and 

" There should be none. You are right. 
Love should be a free sacrament, and its own 
justification." . . . 

She lauglied a little joyous laugh. " How 
much more so if you were confined in a prison ! 
Applause and adulation are the breath of exist- 
ence to you. The love and loyalty of one 
woman would never satisfy your nature, except 
under conditions which would enable you to 
take impressions from numerous other sources. 
You will secure for yourself these conditions. 
I want you to love your wife. I want you to 
have the world's incense as well, I want you 
to touch every point possible in existence. You 
are the true creature of your own philosophy. 
You require a tliousand sensations in quick 
succession, and you must anah'^ze each before 
you can decide whether it is worth experiencing. 
You profe.^s to worship the ideal ; but in reality 


yon are an utter materialist. You liave all the 
weakness, all the iiicotisistency, all the greatness 
of a poetic nature. The greatness and the firo 
kindle in my intellect a spark of the incense 
you crave. The weakness and the inconsistency 
toucli my woman's heart and make me love you. 
Being what we both are, sorrow and evil can 
only come from indulging in our love. This; I 
pointed out to you before you went away; and 
now I am going to place it beyond our power of 

" That is impossible. You can not crush 
down your love for me, nor can I, married or 
free, prevent myself from loving you. I would 
not try to do so. You are my inspiration. You 
are to me the ideal woman," 

She was silent for several moments, and her 
head dropped upon her breast. • Presently she 
looked up with a strange smile upon her lips 
and a bright light in her eyes. 

•' I will remain so. An ideal love is a great 
and glorious possession. An ideal love is divine 
ai>d actual, and it exists, it must exist, apart 
from material life. Are not love, faith, will, 
force more potent than brute strength ? Ah, my 
Esme ! you, a poet and an artist, know as I do 
that the realities of existence are not the things 
we se(* and touch. Human passion is but the 
stream in which pure, divine passion is reflected. 
The more muddy the stream the more distorted 
the image. Draj^ down the star and it dis- 
appears. Oh. teach the world this truth in 
your books I Let me try to show it dimly forth 
in my pictures. It is the force of our inner 
lives. It is the pearl of great price, which has 
been given to us artists. Let us cherish the 
Ideal." . . . 

Her voice vibrated with a passionate tremor. 
She rose and moved away from him, all the 
time her gaze never forsaking his face. An 
exceeding softness and beauty crept over her 
features, and she went on in a more gentle tone. 
" I will be your ideal, Esme. When you need 
sympathy in your work, ask it from me. When 


you have beautiful dreams, tell them to me. 
When tlie fire burns within you, come to me and 
I will fun it into flame. Give your love to 
Judith Fountain, She has attracted you 
already. In time, she will captivate you com- 
pletely ; for she has a subtle charm that must 
appeal to your artistic perceptions. She can 
reinstate you in popular favor. She is rich, and 
can supply the sensuous atmosphere — of dim 
rooms, Oriental perfumes, soothing music, with- 
out which you have often said to me your muse 
is dumb. But give /?^e your soul." 

Colquhoun seemed infected by her enthu- 
siasm. His dramatic instinct seized theconcep- 
tion of a sublime role. The poet is a paradox. 
In a moment, he may ascend from the depths 
of earth to the heights of heaven. His mind 
seems the tenement of some fantastic Protean 
spirit with a passion for impersonation, to which 
truth and falsehood are of equal value. His 
potentialities appear capable of manifesting 
themselves in either good or evil as the wind 
blows or the sun shines. 

" You are a noble woman," he said slowly. 
" You are very strong. If we could have been 
married we might have conquered the world to 
gether. What is it that you are going to do ? " 

" I am going away in a day or two. I shall 
leave you here with Judith Fountain." 

" And I— what am I to do ? " 

"What \'our impulses prompt," she answered 
with the least touch of bitterness. " It is not 
for me to guide them." 

" I think," he said, after a minute's pause, 
" that perhaps your enthusiasm gilds merely 
trite facts and commonplace sentiment. That 
is the way with us — we artists. Is your star 
an3-thing higher than the respect of the world ?" 

" Oil ! " she cried. "You can't see. You don't 
comprehend. It is my own self-respect. It is 
your love. If 3'ou were a god, Esme — instead 
of being a poet; and I an angel, and not a 
battered, hardened woman of the world, we 
would fly aloft and seek our star," 


PR A ED, WiNTHROP Mackworth, an 

English poet, born at Loudon in 1802; 
died in 1839. He was educated at Eton 
and at Trinity College, Canibiidge, where 
lie won many prizes lor Greek odes and 
epigrams, and for clever verses in English. 
He was called to the bar in 1829, and in 
1830 was returned to Parliament for St. 
Germain, in Cornwall, and subsequently 
for several other constituencies. His poet- 
ical works were written rather for amuse- 
ment than as serious efforts ; but they man- 
ifest keen wit and a great mastery in vers- 
ification. A complete edition of them was 
issued in 1864, edited by his sister. Lady 
Young, with a Memoir by Derwent Cole- 
ridge. Praed wrote many charades which 
are among the cleverest in our language. 

charade: "camp-bell." 

Come from my First, ay, come ; 

The battle dawn is nigh, 
And the screaming trump and the thundering 

Are calling thee to die. 
Fight, as thy father fought ; 

Fall, as thy father fell. 
Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought j 

So forward, and farewell. 

Toll ye my Second, toll ; 

Fling higli the flambeiui's light; 
And sing the hymn for a parted soul 

Beneath the silent night; 
The helm upon his head, 

The cross upon his breast; 
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be ehed: 

Now take him to his rest. 

Call ye my Whole: go call 

The lord of lute and lay, 
And let him greet tlie sable pall 

With a noble song to-day. 


Ay, call him by his name; 

No litter hand may crave 
To light the flame of a soldier's fame 

On the turf of a soldiers grave. 


Alas for that unhappy day 

When chivalry was nourished, 
When none but friars learned to pray. 

And beef and beauty flourished ! 
And fraud in kings was held accurst, 

And falsehood sin was reckoned, 
And mighty chargers bore ni}^ Firsts 

And fat monks wore my Second. 

Oh, then I carried sword and shield, 

And casque with flaunting feather, 
And earned my spurs on battle-field. 

In winter and rough weather ; 
And polished many a sonnet up 

To ladies' eyes and tresses, 
And learned to drain my father's cup. 

And loose my falcon's jesses. 

But dim is now my grandeur's gleam; 

The mongrel mob grows prouder; 
And everj'thing is done by steam, 

And men are killed by powder; 
And now I feel my swift decay. 

And give unheeded orders. 
And rot in paltry state away, 

With Sheriffs and Eecorders. 

The following is a good example of 
Praed's more serious productions : 


Some years ago, ere Time and Taste 

Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, 
When Darnel Park v.'as Darnel Waste, 

And roads as little known as scurvy, 
The man who lost his way between 

Saint Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, 
Was always shown across the green, 

And guided to the Parson's wicket. 


Back flew the bolt of lissom lat^li ; 

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, 
Led the lorn traveler up the path, 

Through clean-clipped rows of box and myv 
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, 

Upon the parlor-steps collected, 
Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say, 

'' Our master knows you — you're exjiected." 

Uprose the Reverend Doctor Urown, 

Uprose the Doctor's winsome marrow; 
The lad}' laid her knitting down, 

Her husband clasped liis ponderous Barrow. 
Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed — 

Pundist or Papist, Saint or Sinner — 
He found a stable for his steed. 

And welcome for himself, and dinner. 

If, when he reached his journey's end, 

And warmed himself in Court or College, 
He had not gained an honest friend. 

And twenty curious scrajis of knowledge; — 
If he departed as he came, 

With no new light on love or liquor, 
Good sooth, the traveller was to blame. 

And not the Vicarage, nor the Vicar. 

His talk was like a stream, which rua 

With rapid change from rocks to roses j 
It slipped from politics to puns; 

It passed from Mahomet to Moses ; 
Beginning with the laws which keep 

The planets in their radiant courses, 
And ending with some precept deep 

For dressing eels or shoeing horses. 

He was a shrewd and sound Divine, 

Of loud Dissent the mortal terror; 
And when, by dint of page and line, 

He 'stablisiied Truth, or startled Error, 
The Baptist found him far too deep, 

The Deist sighed with saving sorrow, 
And the lean Levite went to sleep. 

And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow. 


His sermon never s;iid or sliowed 

That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious 
Without refreshment on the road 

From Jerome or from Athanasius. 
And sure a righteous zeal inspired 

The heart and hand that planned them; 
For all who understood admired, 

And some who did not understand them. 

He wrote too, in a quiet way, 

Small treatises and smaller verses, 
And sage remarks on chalk and clay, 

And "hints to noble lords and nurses; 
True histories of last year's ghost, 

Lines to a ringlet or a turban, 
And trifles for the " Morning Post." 

And nothings for " Sylvanus Urban." 

He did not think all mischief fair. 

Although he had a knack for joking; 
He did not make himself a bear, 

Although he had a knack for smoking. 
And when religious sects ran mad, 

He held, in spite of all his learning, 
That, if a man's belief is bad, 

It will not be improved by burning. 

And he was kind, and loved to sit 

In the low hut or garnished cottage, 
And praise the farmer's homely wit, 

And share the widows' homelier pottage. 
At his approach complaint grew mild; 

And when his hand unbarred the shutter 
The clammy lips of fever smiled 

The welcome which they could not ntter. 

He always had a tale for me 

Of Julius Cassar or of Venus ; 
From him I learned the Eule of Three, 

Cat's-cradle, Leap-frog, and Qum genu9, 
I used to singe his powdered wig, 

To steal the staff he put such trust in, 
And make the pupi)y dance a jig 

When he began to quote Augustine, 

wiNriniop 3iAcKW()Hrii imakd.-o 

Alack tin; cliaii!2,c 1 In vain I look 

For haunts in which my boyliood trifled — 
The level lawn, the trickling brook, 

The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled. 
The church is larger than before ; 

You reach it by a carriage-entry ; 
It holds three hundred people more. 

And pews are fitted for the gentry. 

Sit in the Vicar's seat : you'll hear 

The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, 
Whose hand is wliite, whose tone is clear. 

Whose phrase is very Ciceronian — 
Where is the old man laid ? — Look down, 

And construe on the slab before you, 
'■'■ Hie jacet Gvlielmvs Brown, 

Vir 11011 donandas lauru, 


T found him at threescore and ten 

A single man, but bent quite double; 
Sickness was coming on him then 

To take him from a world of trouble. 
He prosed of sliding down the hill. 

Discovered he grew older daily ; 
One frosty day he made his will. 

The next he sent for Dr. Baillie. 

And so he lived, and so lie died ; 

When last I sat beside his pillow, 
He shook my hand : " Ah me! " he cried, 

" Penelope must wear the willow ! 
Tell her I hugged her rosy chain 

While life was flickering in the socket, 
And sayth at when I call again 

I'll bring a license in my pocket. 

"I've left my house and grounds to Fag — 

I hope his master's shoes will suit him I — 
And I've bequeathed to you my nag. 

To feed him for my sake, or shoot him. 
The vicar's wife will take old Fox ; 

She'll find him an uncommon mouser ; 
And let her husband have my box, 

My Bible, and my Assmanshauscr.'' . , . 


PRATT, Ella (FAiiMAN),an American 
author, born in the State of New York in 
18 . She has been tiie editor of the 
juvenile magazine, The Wide Awake, from 
its establishment. Among her books are : 
A Little Woman (1873), Arma Maylie 
(1873), A airVs Money (1874), A White 
Hand (1875), The Cooking Club of Tu- 
whit Holloiv, and Mrs. Hard's Niece (1876), 
G-ood-for-nothing Polly (1877), and How 
Two airls Tried Farminy (1879). 


Louise did not wait for my mysterious three 
days to expire. The afternoon of the second 
she came down to the scliool-house. It was 
just after I had "dismissed." 

" Now, Miss Dolly Shepherd ! " demanded she. 

Well, I had gone through the new plan in 
detail, had thought and thought, read and read, 
had found there was no sex in brains ; for out 
of the mass of agricultural reading I saw that 
even I, should I have the strength, could, in one 
way or another, reduce whatever was pertinent 
to practice. I resolutely had cast money- 
making out of the plan, but I believed we could 
raise enough for our own needs ; and I had 
thought, "Oh, Lou Burney, if we should be 
able to establish the fact that women can buy 
land and make themselves a home, just as 
men do, what a ministry of hope even our 
humble lives may become ! " 

In my earnestness I had tried various ab- 
surd little experiments. In my out-of-door 
strolls T think I had managed to come upon 
every farming implement on the place. Out 
of observation, I had lifted, dragged, turned, 
flourished, and pounded. I had pronounced 
most of them as manageable by feminine muscles 
as the heavy kettles, washing-machines, mat- 
tresses, and carpets that belong to a woman's 
indoor work. 1 had hoed a few stray weeds 
back of the tool-house, a nnillcin and a burdock 

ELLA 1 R ATT.— 2 

(wliich throve finely tiiereaftei), and found it 
ud eusy us sweeping, and far daintier to do than 
dinner-dish-wasliiug — and none of it was to be 
done " over the stove ! " To be sure tliere was 
the hot sun, but tliere was also tlie fresh air. 
1 felt prepared to talk. 

*• ^Vell, Lou," I said, "we will try the out- 
of-doors plan, and very much as we at first 
talked. \Ve will even have some berries. Only 
we will, from the very first, make our daily 
bread and butter the chief matter, and just do 
whatever else we can ; meanwhile, I don't see, 
any more than you, how these women who 
have done so well with fruit-raising managed 
whilst. But this is the way J have planned 
for us for whom there shall be no dreary whilst, 
as we will begin at once : 

" We will take our monej-s " — I liad three 
liundred of my own — " and go up into the 
great Northwest and make the best bargain 
we can for a little farm, which, however, shall 
be as big as possible, for, from the very begin- 
ing, we must keep a horse, and a cow, and a 
pig, and some hens. Don't open your eyes so 
wide, dear — I got it all from you. It is your 
own idea — I liave only put it into jtractical 
working order. Keeping a cow, you know, 
will enable us to easily keep the pig; so keep- 
ing a cow means smoked ham and sausage for 
our table, our lard, our milk, our cream, and 
our butter. As j'ou said, we must either have 
such things, or else have something to sell right 
awaj'. There will also be, as I have planned it, 
butter, eggs, and poultr}' with which to pro- 
cure groceries, grains, and sundries. There 
will also be, in the winter, a surplus of pork to 
sell. We shall also raise some vegetables. 
We can also the first year grow corn to keep 
our animals, and for brown bread for ourselves. 
We will, among the first things we do, set out 
an orchard and a grape arbor, make an aspara- 
gus bed, and have a row of bee-hives. ]\[ean- 
while, having thus secured the means of daily 
life, I have other and greater plans for a com- 
fortable old asre." 


These I also disclosed. She made no com 
merit upon them, but reverted gravely to the 

"I should think we might do it all. Dolly, 
only the horse ; do we need a horse ? Be sure, 
now, Dolly, for a horse would be a great under- 
taking. You know we would have to keep a 
nice one, if we kept any, not such a one as 
women in comic pictures always drive. Be 
very sure, now, Dolly." 

" I am. For we must cultivate our own corn 
and potatoes. I can see that, in small farming, 
hiring labor would cost all the things would 
come to, just as business women have told us 
it is in other work, you know. Besides, how 
could we ever get to mill, or church, or store. 
Only by catching rides ; our neighbors would 
soon hate us." 

" And who would drive ? " asked Lou. 

I paused. " You would have to, I suppose," 
I said at last. I felt she could; and I also 
felt that I couldn't. Lou nodded, 

" Yes, because you will have to be the one to 
go to the neiglibors to borrow things," she said, 
as if balancing our accounts. 

" We shall live within ourselves," said I. 
"What we don't have we will go without." 

Lou said there would be some comfort in 
that kind of being poor, and grew jolly and 
care-free presently, and said " we would go at 
once." — How Two Girls Tried Farming. 


PRENTICE, Georgk Dexisox, an 
American jouinalist, born at Preston, 
Conn., in 1802 ; died at Louisville, Ky., 
1870. He graduated at Brown University 
in 1823, and in 1828 established the New 
England Weekly Reviea\ at Hartford, 
Conn., which he conducted for two years, 
wiien he went West, and soon became 
editor of the Louisville Journal. He wrote 
many poems whicli appeared in his own 
journal and other periodicals, but no com- 
plete collection of them has been made. 
A volume entitled Prenticeiana ; or Wit 
and Humor in Paragraphs, was published 
in 18G0 ; and an enlarged edition, with a 
Memoir, in 1870. 


Gone ! gone forever ! — like a rushing wave 
Another year has burst upon the shore 
Of earthly being; and its last low tones, 
Wandering in broken accents on the air, 
Are dying to an echo. . . . 

Yet, wliy muse 
Upon the Past with sorrow ? thougli the year 
Has gone to blend with tlie mysterious tide 
Of old Eternity, and borne along 
Upon its heaving breast a thousand wrecks 
Of glor}' and of beauty — .yet. why mourn 
That such is destiii}- ? Another year 
Succeedeth to the past; in their bright round 
The seasons come and go, and the same blue 

That hath hung o'er us, will hang o'er us yet ; 
The same pure stars that we have loved tc 

Will blossom still at twilight's gentle hour. 
Like lilies on the tomb of Day : and still 
Man will remain to dream as he hatli dreamed. 
And mark the earth with passion. Love will 

From the lone tomh nf old Affections; Hope 
And Joy and great Ambition will rise up 


As they have risen, and their deeds will be 

Brighter than those engraven on the scroll 

Of parted centuries. Even now the sea 

Of coming years, beneath wliose miglity waves 

Lifes great events are heaving into birth, 

Is tossing to and fro, as if tlie winds 

Of heaven were prisoned in its soundless depths, 

And struggling to be free. 

Weep not that Time 
Is passing on ; it will ere long reveal 
A brighter era to the nations. Hark ! 
Along the vales and mountains of the earth 
There is a deep, portentous murmuring. 
Like the swift rush of subterranean streams, 
Or like the mingled sounds of earth and air, 
Wlien the fierce Tempest, with sonorous wing. 
Heaves his deep folds upon the rushing winds, 
And hurries onward with his might of clouds 
Against the eternal mountains. 'Tis the voice 
Of infant Freedom ; and her stirring call 
Is heard and answered in a thousand tones 
From every hill-top of her Western home : 
And, lo ! it breaks across old Ocean's flood, 
And " Freedom ! Freedom ! " is the answering 

Of nations starting from the spell of years. 
The Day-spring ! — see, 'tis brightening in the 

heavens ! 
The watchmen of the night have caught the 

sign : 
From tower to tower the signal-fires flash free ; 
And the deep watch-word, like the rush of seas, 
Is sounding o'er the earth. Bright years of 

And life are on the wing! Yon glorious bow 
Of freedom, bended by the hand of God, 
Is spanning Time's dark surges. Its high 

A t^'pe of Love and Mercy on the cloud 
Tells that the many storms of human life 
Will pass in silence, and the sinking waves, 
Gathering the forms of glory and of peace, 
Reflect the undimmed brightness of the 



PRENTISS, Elizabeth (Payson), an 

Ameiicaii autlior, born at Portland, Me., 
in 1818 ; died at Dorset, Vt., in 1878. She 
was a daugliter of the Rev. Edward Payson, 
pastor of the Congregational Church in 
Portland from 1807 until 1827. After re- 
ceiving her education in Portland and 
Ipswich, she taught for several years, and 
in 1845 was married to George Lewis Pren- 
tiss, pastor of the Church of the Covenant 
in New York city from 1862 till 1873, 
and afterwards Professor of Theology and 
Church Polity in Union Theological Sem- 
inary. After the death of her two children, 
Mrs. Prentiss devoted herself to writing. 
Her chief book, Stepping Heavenivard^ 
which was published first in the Chicago 
Advance in 1869, has been translated into 
various languages. Her other works are : 
the Little S'usg Series (1853-6), The Flower 
of the Family (1854), Only a Dandelion^ 
and Other Stories (1854), Fred, Maria, and 
Me (1868), The Percys (1870), The Home 
at G-reylock (1876), Pemaquid ; a Story 
of Old Times in New England (1877), and 
Avis Benson, tvith Other Sketches (1879). 


Everybody wonders to see me once more in- 
terested in my long-closed Journal, and becom- 
ing able to see the dear friends from whom I 
have been in a measure cut off. We cannot ask 
the meaning of this remarkable increase of 

I have no wish to choose. But I have come 
to the last page of my Journal, and living or 
dying, shall wrire in this volume no more. It 
closes upon a life of much childishness and 
great sinfulness, whose record makes me blusli 
with shame, but I no longer need to relieve my 
heart with seeking sympathy in its unconscious 


pages, nor do I believe it well to go on analyzing 
it as I have done. I have had large experience 
of both joy and sorrow; I have seen the naked- 
ness and the emptiness, and I have seen the 
beauty and sweetness of life. What I have to 
say now, let me say to Jesus. What time and 
strength I used to spend in writing here, let 
me spend in praying for all men, for all suf- 
ferers, for all who are out of the way, for all 
whom I love, and their name is Legion, for I 
love everybod3^ Yes, I love everybody ! That 
crowning joy has come to me at last. Christ 
is in m}"^ soul ; He is mine ; I am as conscious 
of it as that my husband and children are 
mine ; and His spirit flows forth from mine in 
the calm peace of a river, whose banks are 
green with grass and glad with flowers. If I 
die, it will be to leave a wearied and worn body 
and a sinful soul, to go joyfully to be with 
Christ, to be weary, and to sin no more. If I 
live, I shall find much blessed work to do for 
Him. So, living or dying, I shall be the Lord's. 
But I wish, oh, how earnestly, that whether 
I go or sta}^, T could inspire some lives with 
the joy that is now mine. For many years I 
have been rich in faith ; rich in an unfaltering 
confidence that I was beloved of my God and 
Saviour. But something was wanting ; I was 
ever groping for a mysterious grace, the want 
of which made me often sorrowful in the very 
midst of my most sacred joy, imperfect when I 
most longed for perfection. It was that per- 
sonal love to Christ of which my precious 
mother so often spoke to me, which she had 
often urged me to seek upon my knees. If 
I had known then, as I know now, what this 
priceless treasure could be to a sinful human 
soul, I would have sold all that I had to buy 
the field wherein it laj'^ hidden. But not till I 
was shut up to prayer and to the study of God's 
word by the loss of earthl}' joj's — sickness 
destroying the flavor of them all — did I begin 
to ])enetrate the mystery that is learned under 
the cross. And, wondrous as it is, how simpl<j 


is this mystery ! To love Christ, and to know 
tliat I love Him — this is all. 

And when I entered upon the sacied 3'et oft- 
times homely duties of married life, if this love 
had been mine, how would that life have been 
transfigured ! The petty faults of my husband 
under which I chafed would not have moved 
me ; I should have welcomed Martha and her 
father to m\' home and made them happy there ; 
I should have had no conilicts with my servants, 
shown no petulance to my children. For it 
would not have been I who spoke and acted, 
liut Christ who lived in me. 

Alas ! I have had less than seven years hi 
which to atone for a sinful, wasted past, and to 
live a new and Christ-like life. If I am 
to have yet more, thanks be to Him who has 
given me the victory that life will be Love. 
Not the love that rests in the contemplation 
and adoration of its object ; but the love that 
gladdens, sweetens, solaces other lives. — /Ste2)- 
ping Heavenward. 


PRESCOTT, William Hicklixg, an 

American historian, born at Salem, Mass., 
in 1796 ; died at Boston in 1859. He 
graduated at Harvard in 1814 ; but in tlie 
last year of his college life a fellow-student 
playfully threw a crust of bread at him, 
striking one of his eyes, which was ren- 
dered almost sightless. Inflammation set 
in in the other eye, resulting in almost 
total loss of vision. He visited Europe, 
mainly with the hope of receiving benefit 
from eminent oculists. But practically for 
nearly all the remainder of his life his eyes 
were of little use in reading or writing. 
Returning to Boston in 1819, he resolved 
to devote the next ten years to the study 
/ of ancient and modern literature, and the 
ensuing ten years to the composition of a 
history. His studies in literature led to 
the publication of several essays in the 
North American Review^ which were in 
1815 collected into a couple of volumes 
entitled 3IisceUa7iies. 

As early as 1825 he had fixed upon the 
reign of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain 
as the subject of his first historical work. 
The history of the Reign of Ferdinand 
and Isabella, after fully ten j^eai-s of con- 
tinuous labor, was published in 1837. The 
next six years were devoted to the History 
of (he Conquest of Mexico (1843), and the 
four subsequent ^'ears to the History of 
the Conquest of Peru (1847). After a 
visit to Europe, he set himself to writing 
the history of the Reign of Philip II. of 
Spain, for which he had already nnule an 
extensive collection of documents. Of this 
work Volumes I. and II. ap[)eared in 1855, 
and Volume III. in 1858. The work was 
to have consisted of six volumes, but the 


remaining tliree were never written. In 
Fehrnary, 1858, he experienced a slight 
sli"ck of paralj'sis. Eleven months after- 
wards, while at work in his library with 
his secretary, he was struck speechless by 
a second shock, and died within an hour. 
— A revised edition of Prescott's Works, 
edited by John Foster Kirke, who had been 
his secretary for more than ten years, was 
published in 1875. The Life of Prescott 
has been written by George Ticknor Curtis 


The edict for the expulsion of the Jews was 
signed hy the Spunish sovereigns at Granada, 
March 30, 1492. The preamble alleges, in vin~ 
dication of the measure, the danger of allowing 
further intercourse between the Jews and their 
Christian subjects, inconsequence of the incor- 
rigible obstinacy with which the former persisted 
in their attempts to make converts of the latter 
to their own faith, and to instruct them in their 
heretical rites, in open defiance of every legal 
prohibition and penalt}-. When a college or 
corporation of any kind — the instrument goes 
on to state — is convicted of any great or detest- 
able crime, it is right that it should be dis- 
franchised ; the less suffering with the greater, 
the innocent with the guilty. If this be the 
case in temporal concerns, it is much more so 
in those which affect the eternal welfare of the 

It finally decrees that all uid>aptized Jews, 
of whatever age, sex or condition, should depart 
from the realm by the end of July next ensu- 
ing ; prohibiting them from returning to it 
on any pretext whatever, under penalty of 
death and confiscation of property'. It was 
moreover interdicted to every subject to harbor, 
succor, or minister to the necessities of any 
Jew after the expiration of the term fixed for 
his departure. The persons and property of 


the Jews, in the meantime, were taken under 
tlie roj'al protection. Tliey were allowed to 
dispose of their effects of every kind on their 
own account, and to carry the proceeds along 
with them, in bills of exchange, or merchan- 
dise not prohibited, but neither in gold nor 
silver. . . . 

While the gloomy aspect of their fortunes 
pressed heavily on the hearts of the Israelites, 
the Spanish clergy were indefatigable in the 
work of conversion. They lectured in the 
synagogues and public squares, expounding 
the doctrines of Christianity, and thundering 
forth both argument and invective against the 
Hebrew heresy. But their laudable endeavors 
were in a great measure counteracted by the 
more authoritative rhetoric of the Jewish Rab- 
bins, who compared the persecutions of their 
brethren to tliose which their ancestors had 
suffered under Pharaoh. They encouraged 
them to persevere, representing that the pres- 
ent afflictions were intended as a trial of their 
faith by the Almighty, who designed in this 
way to guide them to the promised land, by 
opening a path through the waters, as he had 
done to their fatliers of old. 

The more wealthy Israelites enforced the ex- 
hortations by liberal contributions for the relief 
of their indigent brethren. Thus strength- 
ened, there were found but very few, when 
the day of their departure arrived, who were 
not prepared to abandon their country 
rather than their religion. This extraordinary 
act of a whole people for conscience's sake may 
be thought, in the nineteenth century, to merit 
other epithets than those of '' perfidy, in- 
credulity, and stiff-necked obstinacy," with 
which the worthy curate of Los Palacios, in 
the charitable feeling of that day, has seen fit 
to stigmatize it. 

When the period of departure arrived, all 
the principal routes through the country might 
be seen swarming witii emigrants — old and 
young, the sick, men, women, ^nd. chiidrea. 


mingled promiscuously together — some mount- 
ed on horses or mules, but far the greater 
part undertaking their painful pilgrimage on 
foot. The sight of so much misery touched 
even the Spaniards witii pity, though uone 
might succor them ; for the Jjand-inquisitor, 
Tor(juemada. enforced the onli nance to that 
effect, by denouncing heavy ecclesiastical cen- 
sures on all who should presume to violate it. 

The fugitives were distributed along various 
routes, being determined by accidental circum- 
stances much more than any knowledge of the 
respective countries to which they were bound. 
Much the largest division — amounting, accord- 
ing to some estimates to 80,000 souls, passed 
into ]*ortugal, whose wise monarch, John the 
Second, dispensed with his scruples so far as 
to give them a free passage through his domin- 
ions, on their way to Africa, in consideration 
of a tax of a cruzado a head. He is even said 
to have silenced his scruples so far as to allow 
certain ingeriious artisans to establish them- 
selves permanently in the kingdom. . . . 

The whole number of flews expelled from 
Spain by Ferdinand and Isabella is variously 
computed from IGO.OOO to 800,000 souls ; a 
discrepanc}' indicating the paucity of authentic 
data. Most modern writers, with the usual 
predilection for startling results, have assumed 
the latter estimate ; and Dorente has made it 
the basis of some important estimates in his 
History of the Inquisition. A view of all the 
circumstances will lead us without much hesita- 
tion to adopt the more moderate computation. 
There is little reason for supposing that the 
actual amount would suffer diminution in the 
hands of either Jewish or Castilian authority ; 
since the one might naturalh' be led to exag- 
gerate in order to heighten sympathy with the 
calamities of his people ; and the other to 
magnif}', as far as possible, the glorious triumph 
of the Cross. 

The detriment incurred by the state, how- 
ever, is not founded so much on any numerical 

■^i^Tr.LIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT.— 5 as on the subtraction of the mechan- 
ical skill, intelligence, and general resources of 
an orderlj^, industrious population. In this 
view, the mischief was incalculably greater 
than that inferred by the mere number of the 
exiled. And although even this might have 
been gradually repaired in a country allowed 
the free and healthful development of its 
energies, yet in Spain this was so effectually 
counteracted by the Inquisition, and other 
causes in the following century, that the loss 
may be deemed irretrievable. . . . 

It cannot be denied that Spain at this period 
surpassed most of the nations of Europe in 
religious enthusiasm or, to speak more correctly, 
in bigotry. This is doubtless imputable to the 
long war with the Moslems, and its recent 
glorious issue, which swelled every lieart with 
exaltation, disposing it to consummate the tri- 
umplisof the Cross by purging the land from a 
heresy which, strange as it may seem, was 
scarcely less detested than that of Mohammed. 
Both the sovereigns partook largely of these 
feelings. With regard to Isabella, moreover, 
it must be borne constantly in mind that she 
had been used constantly to surrender her own 
judgment, in matters of conscience, to those 
spiritual guardians, who were supposed in that 
age to be its rightful depositaries, and the only 
casuists who could safely determine the doubt- 
ful line of duty. Isabella's pious disposition, 
and her trembling solicitude to discharge her 
duty, at whatever cost of personal indignation, 
greatly enforced the i)recepts of education. In 
this way her very virtues became the source of 
lier errors. Unfortunately she lived in an a^i-e 
and station which attached to these errors the 
most momentous consequences. — Ferdinand 
and Isabella. 


The Spaniards, refreshed by a night's rest, 
succeeded in gaining the crest of the sierra of 
Ahualco, which stretches like a curtain between 


tlie two great inountaiiis on tlic north aii<l soutli. 
Their progress was now comparatively easy, and 
they marclied forward with a buoyant step, as 
they felt they were treading the soil of Mon- 
tezuma. They had not advanced far when, 
turning an angle of the sierra, they suddenly 
came on a view wliicli more than compensated 
the toils of the preceding day. It was that of 
the valley of Mexico — or Tenochitlan, as more 
commonly called by tlie natives — which, with 
its picturesque assemblage of water, >'oodland, 
and cultivated plains, its sliining cities, and 
shadowy hills, was spread out like some gay and 
gorgeous ])anoratna before them. 

In the highly rarefied atmosphere of these 
upper regions, even remote objects have a 
brilliancy of coloring and a distinctness of 
outline which seeins to annihilate distance. 
Stretching far away at their feet were seen 
uoble forests of oak, sycamore and cedar; and, 
beyond, yellow fields of maize and the towering 
mague}^, intermingled with orchards and bloom- 
ing gardens; for flowers — in such demand for 
their religious festivals — were even more abun- 
dant in this populous valley than in other parts 
of Anahuac. In the center of the great basin 
were beheld tlie lakes, occupying then a much 
larger portion of the surface than at present ; 
their borders thickly studded with towns and 
hamlets, and in the midst — like some Indian 
empress with her coronal of pearls — the fair 
city of Mexico, with her white towers and 
pyramidal temples, reposiiig, as it were, on the 
bosom of the waters — the far-famed " Venice 
of the Aztecs." 

High over all rose the royal hill of Chapol- 
tepec, the residence of the Mexican monarchs, 
crowned with the same grove of gigantic cy- 
presses which at this day fling their broad 
shadows over the land. In the distance, beyond 
the blue waters of the lake, and nearly screened 
by intervening foliage, was seen a shining speck 
— the rival capital of Tezcuco ; and, still further 
on, the dark belt of porphyry girdling the valley 


around, like a ricli setting which Nature has 
devised for the fairest of her jewels. 

Such was the beautiful vision which broke 
on the eyes of the Conquistadors. And even 
now, when so sad a cliange has come over the 
scene; when the stately forests have been laid 
low ; and the soil, unsheltered from tlie fierce 
radiance of a tropical sun, is in many places 
abandoned to sterility, when the waters liave 
retired, leaving a broad and ghastly margin 
white with the incrustation of salts, while the 
cities and hamlets on their borders have mould- 
ered into ruins ; even now that desolation broods 
over the landscape, so indestructible are the 
lines of beauty which Nature has traced on its 
features, that no traveller, however cold, can 
gaze on them with any other emotions than those 
of astonishment and rapture. What then must 
have been the emotions of the Spaniards when, 
after working their toilsome way into the upper 
air, the cloudy tabernacle parted before their 
eyes, and they beheld all these fair scenes in 
their pristine magnificence and beauty ! It was 
like the spectacle which greeted the eyes of 
Moses from the summit of Pisgah ; and, in the 
warm glow of theirfeelings, they cried out, "It 
is tlie Promised Land ! " 

But these feelings of admii'ation were very 
soon followed by others of a very different com- 
plexion, as they saw in all this the evidences 
of a civilization and power far superior to any- 
thing they had yet encountered. The more 
timid, disheartened by the prospect, shrunk from 
a contest so unequal, and demanded — as they 
had done on some former occasions — to be led 
back again to Vera Cruz. Such was not the effect 
produced on the sanguine spirit of tlie General. 
His avarice was sharpened by the display of the 
dazzling spoil at his feet; and if he felt a 
natural anxiety at the formidable odds, his con- 
fidence was renewed as he gazed on the lines 
of his veterans, whose weather-beaten visages 
and battere<l armor told of battles won and 
difficulties surmounted; while his bold barba- 


riaiis, with appetites whetted by the view of 
their enemies' country, seemed like eagles on 
the mountains, ready to pounce upon their prey. 
By argument, entreaty, and menace, Cortes 
endeavored to restore the faltering courage of 
the soldiers, urging them not to think of retreat, 
now that they had reached the goal for which 
they had panted, and the golden gates were 
o[)ened to receive them. In these efforts he 
was well seconded by the brave cavaliers, who 
lield honor as dear to them as fortune ; until the 
dullest spirits caught somewlnit of the enthu- 
siasm i)f their leaders, and the (xenenil had the 
satisfa(;tion to see his hesitating columns, with 
their usual buoyant step once more on their 
march down the slopes of the sierra. — Con- 
(J nest of Mexico. 


Elevated high above his vassals came the 
Inca Atahuallpa, borne on a sedan, or open 
litter, on which was a sort of throne made of 
massive gold of inestimable value. The pal- 
anquin was lined with the richly-colored plumes 
of tropical birds, and studded with shining 
plates of gold and silver. Hound the monarch's 
neck was suspended a collar of emeralds of un- 
common size and brillianc}'. His sliort hair 
was decorated with golden ornaments, and the 
imperial borla encircled his temples. The 
bearing of the Inca was sedate and dignified ; 
and from his lofty station he looked down on 
the multitudes below with an air of composure, 
like one accustomed to command. As the leading 
lines of the procession entered the great square, 
the}' opened to the right and left for the royal 
retinue to pass. Everything was conducted 
with admirable order. The monarch was per- 
mitted to traverse the plaza in silence, and not 
a Spaniard was visible. When some five or 
six thousand of his people had entered the 
plaza, Atahuallpa halted, and, turning round 
with an inquiring look, demanded, '" Where ar© 
the strangers ? " 


At this moment Fray Vincente de Valverde, 
a Dominican friai*, Pizarro's chaplain, and 
afterwards Bishop of Cuzco, came forward with 
his Breviary (or, as other accounts say, a Bible), 
in one hand and a crucifix in the other, and ap- 
proaching tlie Inca told him that he came by 
order of his commander to expound to him the 
doctrines of the true faith, for which purpose 
the Spaniards had come from a great distance 
to his country. The Friar then explained, as 
clearly as he could, the m\'sterious doctrine of 
the Trinity ; and, ascending higli in his ac- 
count, began with the creation of man, thence 
passed to his Fall, to his subsequent Redemp- 
tion, to the Crucifixion, and the Ascension 
when the Saviour left the Apostle Peter as his 
vicegerent upon earth. 

This power had been transmitted to the suc- 
cessors of the apostle — good and wise men who, 
under the title of Popes, held authority over 
all Powers and Potentates on earth. (3ne of 
the last of these Popes had commissioned the 
Spanish Emperor — the most mighty monarch 
in the world — to conquer and convert the 
natives in this western hemisphere ; and his 
general, Francisco Pizarro, had now come to 
execute this important mission. The Friar 
concluded with beseeching the Peruvian mon- 
arch to I'eceive him kindly, to abjure the errors 
of his own faith, and embrace that of the Chris- 
tians now proffered to him — the only one by 
which he could lioi)e for salvation ; and, fur- 
thermore to acknowledge himself a tributary 
of the Emperor Charles the Fifth who, in that 
event, would r-id and protect him as his loj'al 

The eyes of the Indian monarch flashed fire, 
and his daik brow grew darker, as he replied, 
"I will be no man's tril^utary! I am greater 
than any prince upon earth. Your Emperor 
may be a great prince ; I do not doubt it, when 
I see that he has sent his subjects so far across 
the waters; and I am willing to hold him as a 
brother. As for the Pope of whom you speak^ 


he iiiusr l)t' crazy lo talk of giving u\va_y coun- 
tries wliirli do not belong to him. Fur my 
faith,'" he continued, " I will not change it. 
Your own God, as you say, was put to deatli by 
the very men whom he created. But mine," 
lie concluded, pointing to his deity — then alas! 
sinking in glory behind the mountains — " my 
God still lives in the heavens, and looks down 
on his children." 

He then demanded of Valverde by what au- 
thority he had said these things. The Friar 
pointed as authority to the book which he held. 
Atahuallpa, taking it, turned over the pages a 
moment ; then, as the insult which he had 
received probably flaslied across his mind, he 
threw it down with vehemence and exclaimed, 
" Tell your comrades that they shall give me 
an account of their doings in my land. I will 
not go from here till they have made me 
full satisfaction for all the wrongs they have 

The Friar, greatly scandalized by the indig- 
nity offered to the sacred volume, staved only 
to pick it up, and hastening to Pizarro in- 
formed him of what had been done, e.xclaiming 
at the same time, " Do you not see that while 
we stand here wasting our breath in talking 
with this dog, full of pride as he is, the fields 
are filling with Indians ? Set on at cice ! I 
absolve yon." 

Pizarro saw that the hour had come. He 
waved a white scarf in the air — the appointed 
signal. The fatal gun was fired from the for- 
tress. Then, springing into the square, the 
Spanish captain and Ins followers sliouted the 
old war-cry of " St. Jago and at tliem ! " It was 
answered by the battle-cry of every Spaniard 
in the city, as rushing from the avenues of 
the halls in which they were concealed, they 
poured into the plaza, horse and foot, each in 
his own dark c()lumn, and threw themselves 
into the midst of the Indian crowd. The latter, 
taken by surprise, stunned by the r(>port of 
artillery and muskets, the echoes of which re- 


verberated like chunder from tlie sui-rounding 
buildings, and blinded by the smoke whicli 
rolled in sulphurous volumes along the square, 
were seized with a panic. They knew not 
whither to fly for refuge from the coming ruin. 
Nobles and commoners all were trampled down 
under the fierce charge of the cavahy, who 
dealt their blows right and left without sparing ; 
while their swords, flashing fire throngh the 
thick gloom, carried dismay into the hearts of 
the wretched natives, wlio now for the first 
time saw the horse and his rider in all their 

They made no resistance, as indeed they had 
no weapons with which to make it. Every 
avenue to escape was closed, for the entrance 
to the square was choked up with the dead 
bodies of men who had perished in vain efforts 
to fly ; and such was the agony of the surviv- 
ors under the terrible pressure of their assail- 
ants, that a large body of Indians, by their 
convulsive struggles, burst through the wall of 
stone and dried clay which formed the bound- 
ary of the plaza. It fell, leaving an opening 
of more than a hundred paces, through which 
multitudes now found their way into the 
country, still hotly pursued by the cavalry who, 
leaping the fallen rubbish, hung on the rear of 
the fugitives, striking them down in all di- 

Meanw-liile the fight — or rather massacre — 
continued hot around the Inca, whose person was 
the great object of the assault. His faithful 
nobles, rallj'^ing about him, threw themselves in 
the way of the assailants, and strove, by tearing 
them from their saddles, or at least by offering 
their own bosoms as a mark for their vengeance, 
to shield their beloved master. It is said by 
some authorities that they carried weapons 
concealed under their clothes. If so, it availed 
them little, as it is not pretended that they 
used them. But the most timid aninial will 
defend itself when at bay; that the}' did not so 
in the present instance is proof that they had 


no weapons to use. fit they still continued to 
lorce back the cavaliers, clinging to their horses 
with dying grasp, and as one was cut down 
another taking the place of a fallen comrade 
with a loyalty truly affecting. 

The Indian monarch, stunned and bewil- 
dered, saw his faithful subjects falling round 
him witliout hardly comprehending his situa- 
tion. The litter on which he rode heaved to 
ui)d fro as the mighty press swayed backwards 
liud forwards ; and he gazed on the overwhelm- 
ing ruin like some forlorn mariner who, tossed 
about in his bark by the furious elements, sees 
the lightning's flash and hears the thunder 
bursting around him, with the consciousness 
that he can do nothing to avert his fate. At 
length, weary of the work of destruction, the 
Spaniards, as the shades of evening grew 
deeper, felt afraid that the royal prize might, 
after all, elude them ; and some of the cavaliers 
made a desperate effort to end the fray at once by 
taking AtahauUpa's life. But Pizarro, who was 
nearest his person, called out with stentorian 
voice, ''Let no one who values his life strike at 
the Inca," and stretching out his arm to shield 
him, received a wound on his own hand from 
one of his own men — the only wound received 
by a Spaniard in tlie action. 

The strugrgle now became fiercer than ever 
around the royal litter. It reeled more and 
more, and at length, several of the nobles who 
supported it having been slain, it was over- 
turned, and the Indian prince would have come 
with violence to the ground, had not his f.all 
been broken by the efforts of Pizarro and some 
of his cavaliers who caught him in their arms. 
The imperial borl((, was instantly snatched 
from his temples b}' a soldier named Estete, 
and the unhappy monarch, strongly secured, 
was removed to a neighboring building, where 
he was carefully guarded. — Conquest vf F&ra. 

Harriet waters prestox.— i 

PRESTON, HAiiiuET Waters, an 
American author, born at Duuvers, Mass., 
in 1843. She had made many translations 
from the French, esi)ecially from St. Beuve 
and De Musset ; among her own works are : 
-Aspendale (1870), Love in the Nineteenth 
Century (1874;, Troubadoum and, Trouveres 
(1876;, Is That All? (1878), A Year in 
JEden (1886), A Question of Identity (1887), 
The Gruardians (1888). For several years 
she has resided in England, and has fur- 
nished critical essays to American period- 
icals, notable among which is an article 
upon " Russian Novelists," in the Atlantic 


The re-reading and readjustment of Chris- 
tianity proposed by Count Leo Tolstoi in his 
Ma Rellfjioii has its fantastic features. It re- 
calls the earliest presentation of that doctrine, 
at least in this, that it can hardly fail to prove 
a ''stumbling-block" to one half of the well- 
instructed world, and an epitome of foolishness 
to the otlier. It consists merely in a perfectly 
literal interpretation of the fundamental prin- 
ciples, Resist not evil ; Be not angry; Commit 
no adultery ; Swear not ; Judge not. Even the 
qualification which our Lord himself is supposed 
to have admitted in the passage, " Whosoever 
is angry with his brother vnthotit a cause,'" 
and in tlie one excepted case to the interdict 
against divorce, our amateur theologian rejects 
as tlie glosses of uncandid commentators, or 
the concefision.s of an interested priesthood. 

He then proceeds to show that the logical 
results of his own rigid interpretations, if they 
were reduced to practice, would he something 
more than revolutionary. They would involve 
the abolition of all personal and class distinc- 
tions ; the effacement of the bounds of empire ; 
the end alike of all the farce of formally ad- 


ministered justice, ;iirI of tlie violent nioiistrns- 
ity of war; tlio annihilation of so much even 
of the sense of individuality as is implied in 
the expectation of personal rewards and punish- 
ments, here or hereafter. For all this he pro- 
fesses himself ready. The man of great posses- 
sions and transcendent mental endowments, the 
practiced magistrate, the trained soldier, the 
consummate artist, the whilom statesman, hav- 
ing found peace in the theoretic acceptance of 
unadulterated Christian doctrine, as he con- 
ceives it, offers himself as an evidence of its 
perfect ])racticabilit3'. 

3Ia lielhjion was given to the world as the 
literary testament of the author of Guerre et 
Paix and Anna Karenine. From the hour 
of the date that was inscribed upon its final 
page — Moscow, February 22, 1884 — he disap- 
peared from the field of his immense achieve- 
ments and the company of his intellectual and 
social peers. He went away to his estates in 
Central Russia, to test in his own person his 
theories of lowly-mindedness, passivitv, and 
universal equality. He undertook to live hence- 
forth with and like the poorest of his own peas- 
ants, by the exercise of a humble handicraft. 
Those who knew him best say that he will in- 
evitably return some day ; that this phase will 
pass, as so many others have passed with Tol- 
stoi ; and that we need by no means bemoan 
ourselves over the notion that he has said his 
last word at fifty-seven. Indeed, he seems to 
have foreshadowed such a return in his treat- 
ment of the characters of Bezouchof and Le- 
nine, with both of whom we instinctively 
understand the author himself to be closely 
identified. We are bound, I think, to hope 
that Tourgueneff's last prayer may be granted 
— those of us at least who are still worldly- 
minded enough to lament the rarity of great 
talents in this hist quarter of our century. 

And yet, there is a secret demurrer; there 
are counter-currents of sympathy. A suspi- 
cion will now and then arise of sometliing 


divinely irrational; something — with all rev- 
ereuce be it said — remotely Messianic in the 
sacrifice of tliis extraordinary man. The Seig- 
neur would become a slave, the towering intel- 
ligence a folly, if by any means the sufferer 
may be consoled, the needy assisted. Here, at 
any rate, is the consistency of the apostolic age. 
And is it not time, when all is said, when we 
have uttered our impatient protest against the 
unconditional surrender of the point of honor, 
and had our laugh out, it may be, at the fla- 
grant absurdity of any doctrine of non-resist- 
ance, a quiet inner voice will sometimes make 
itself heard with inquiries like these : " Is there 
anything, after all, on which you yourself look 
back with less satisfaction than your own self- 
permitted resentments, your attempted repri- 
sals for distinctly unmerited personal wrong? 
What is the feeling with which you are wont 
to find yourself regarding all public military 
pageants and spectacles of warlike preparation ? 
Is it not one of sickening disgust at the ghastly 
folly, the impudent anachronism, of the whole 
thing?'' — In Europe, at all events, the strain 
of the counter-preparations for martial destruc- 
tion, the heaping of armaments on one side or 
the other, has been carried to so preposterous 
and oppressive a pitch that even plain, practical 
statesmen like Signor Bonghi at Rome are be- 
ginning seriously to discuss the alternative of 
general disarmament, the elimination altogether 
of the appeal to arms from the future interna- 
tional policy of the historic states. — Russian, 


PRESTON, Makgauet (Juxkix), an 
American poet, born at Philadelpliia iu 
1825. Her father, Rev. George Juukiu 
(1790-18H8), was the founder of Lafayette 
College, Easton, Peiin., and became [)resi- 
dent of Wasliington Ct)llege, Lexington, 
Va., being succeeded by Gen. R. E. Lee. 
The daughter married Prof. John T. L. 
Preston, of the Military Institute at Lexing- 
ton, and her sister became the wife of 
"Stonewall" Jackson, then a Professor in 
the Listitute. hi 1856 Mrs. Preston pub- 
lished Silverivood ; a Book of Memories; 
subsequently she has written mainly in 
verse, contributing frequently to periodi- 
cals Nortii and Soutli. Her collected 
poems are : Beeehejihrook (1865), Old 
Songs and New (1870). Cartoons (1876), 
For Love's Sake : Poems of Faith and Com- 
fort (1886), Colonial Ballads, Sonnets, and 
Other Verses (1887). 


Day-duty done — I've idled forth to get 

An hour's light pastime in the shady lanes, 
And liere and there have plucked with care- 
less pains 
These wayside waifs — sweet-brier and violet 
And such-like simple things that seemed 

Flowers — though, perhaps, I knew not flower 
from weed. 

What shall I do with them ? They find no 
In stately vases where magnolias give 
Out sweets iu which their faintness could uot 
live ; 
Yet, tied with grasses, posy-wise, for grace, 
I have no heart to cast them quite away, 
Though their brief bloom should not outlive 
the day. 


Upon the open pages of your book 
I lay them down. And if witliin your eye 
A little tender mist I niaj- descry, 

Or a sweet sunshine flicker in j^our look, 
Right happy shall I be, tho\igli all declare 
No eye but love's could find- a violet there. 


Of all the tender guards that Jesus drew 
About our frail humanity to stay 
The pressure and the jostle that alway 

Are ready to disturb whate'er we do, 

And mar the work our hands would carry 
None more than this environs us each day 

With kindly wardenship : — " Therefore I say, 

Take no thought for the morrow." — Yet we pay 
The wisdom scanty heed, and, impotent 

To bear the burden of the imperious Now, 
Assume the Future's exigence unsent. 

God grants no overplus of power ; 'tis shed 
Like morning manna. Yet we dare to bow 

And ask — " Give us to-day our Morrow's 
bread ! " 


It is enough. I feel this golden morn, 

As if a royal appanage were mine, 

Through Nature's queenlj' warrant of divine 
Investiture. What princess, palace-born, 
Hath right of rapture more, when skies adorn 

Themselves so grandly ; when the mountains 

Transfigured ; when the air exalts like wine; 
When pearly purples steep the yellowing corn ? 

So, satisfied with all the goodliness 
Of God's good world — ni}- being to its brim 

Surcharged with utter thankfulness no less 
Than bliss of beauty, passionately glad 

Through rush of tears that leaves the land- 
scape dim — 

^'Who dares," I cry, "in such a world be 
sad ? " 


I press my clieek against the window-pane, 
Aud gaze abroad into the blauk, blank space, 
Where earth and sky no more have any 
Wiped from existence by the expujiging rain ; 
And as 1 liear the worried winds complain, 
A darkness, darker than the murk whose 

Invades the curtained room, is on my face, 
Beneath which life and life's best ends seem 
vain ; 
My swelling aspirations viewless sink 
As yon cloud-blotted hills ; hopes that shone 

As planets yester-eve, like them to-night 

Are gulfed the impenetrable mists before. 
'' O weary world," I crj', "how dare I think 
Thou hast for me one gleam of gladness 
more ? " 


Haven't you seen her ? and don't you know 

Why I dote on the darling so ? 

Let me picture her as she stands 

There with the music-book in her hands, 

Looking as ravishing, rapt, and bright 

As a baby Saint Cecilia might. 

Lisping her bird-notes — that's Belle White. 

Watch as she raises her e3'es to 3'ou — 
Half-crushed violets dij)ped in dew. 
Brimming with timorous, coy surprise 
(Doves have just such glistening eyes); 
But, let a dozen of years have flight. 
Will there be then such harmless light 
Warming these luminous eyes — Belle White ? 

Look at the pretty, feminine grace. 

Even now, on the small young face; 

Such a consciousness ns she speaks, 

Flushing the ivory of her cheeks ; 
Such a maidenly, arch delight 
That she carries me captive quite. 
Snared with her daisy chain — Belle White. 


Mafiy ail aiubuslied smile lies hid 
Under that iiinoceiit, downcast lid; 
Arrows will Hy, with silver}' tips, 
Out from the bow of those ai'ching lips, 
Parting so guilelessly, as she stands 
There with the music-book in her hands, 
Chanting her bird-notes, soft and light. 
Even as Saint Cecilia might, 
Dove with folded wings — Belle White ! 


[./. R. T.—Died 1872.] 
I read the marble-lettered name, 

And half in bitterness I said, 
*'As Dante from Ravenna came 

Our poet came, in exile — dead J" 
And yet, had it been asked of him 

Where he would rather la}^ his head, 
This spot he would have chosen. — Dim 

The city's hxim drifts o'er his grave. 

And green above the hollies wave 
Their jagged leaves, as when, a boy. 

On blissful summer afternoons 

He came to sing the birds his runes. 
And tell the river of his joy. 

What dreams that in his wanderings wide, 
By stern misfortunes tossed and driven 
His soul's electric strands were riven 

From home and country? — Let betide 

What might, what would, his boast, his pride. 
Was in his stricken Mother-Land, 

That could but bless, and bid him go, 
Because no crust was in her hand 

To stay her children's need. We know 
The mystic cable sank too deep 

For surface-storm or stress to strain, 

Or from his answering heart to keep 

The spark from flashing back again. 

Think of the thousand mellow rhymes 

The pure idyllic passion-flowers, 
Wherewith in far-gone happier times, 


He garlanded tliis South of ours. 
Proveii9al-like he wandered long 

And sang at man}' a stranger's board ; 

Yet 'twas Virginia's name that poured 
The tenderest pathos through his song. 

We owe the I'oet praise and tears 
Whose ringing ballad sends the brave 

Bold Stuart riding down the years : — 
What have we given him ? — Just a grave. 

god's patikxck. 

Of all the attributes whose starry raj's 

Converge and centre in one focal light 
Of luminous glory, such as angels' sight 
Can only look on with a blench'd amaze, 
None crowns the brow of God witli purer blaze. 
Nor lifts His grandeur to more intinite 
Than His exhaustless patience. Let us praise 
With wondering hearts this strangest, teuderest 
Remembering, awe-struck, that the aveng- 
ing rod 
Of Justice must have fallen, and Mercy's plan 
Been frustrate, had not Patience stood 
Divinely meek. And let us learn that man. 

Toiling, enduring, pleading — calm, serene, 
For those who scorn and slight, is likest God. 


PRIME, Samuel Iren^us, an Ameri- 
can journalist and author, born at Balls- 
ton, N. Y., in 1812 ; died at Bennington, 
Vt., in 1885. He graduated at Williams 
College in 1829, studied at the Princeton 
Theological Seminary, and entered the 
Presbyterian ministry. His voice having 
partially failed, he retired from pastoral 
labor in 1840, and became connected with 
tiie NetvYork Observer^ a religious journal, 
of which he subsequently became editor 
and proprietor. For several years he also 
conducted the department known as the 
" Editor's Drawer " in Harper s Mayazine. 
He made several foreign tours, and pub- 
lished Travels in Europe and the East 
(1855), Letters from Switzerland (1860), 
The Alhamhra and the Kremlin (1873). 
He wrote many woilis of a devotional 
character, and several series of his news- 
pai)er contributions have been collected and 
published separately under the title of 
The Irenceiis Letters. 


His faculty of using large words was remark- 
able. It was attributed tea slight impediment 
in liis speech, which led him to take a word 
that he could utter without difficulty in prefer- 
ence to a smaller one on which he was inclined 
to stumble; but that was not tlie reason. In 
writing he had the same habit : and, if possible, 
he made use of larger words than he did in 
public speech. He was as natural as he was 
brilliant; and he was the most brilliant clergy- 
man of his generation. As flashes of light- 
ning vanish in an instant, so the coruscations 
of his splendid genius were transient; beauti- 
ful, magnificent for the moment, but gone as 
suddenl}^ as they came. There is melancholj'' 
in the thought that the best and brightest 
things he ever said are not on record, and, with 


his contemporaries will pass from the memory 
of man. They jjassed even from his own mem- 
ory, most of them, as soon as they were 

He was always ready — or, as he would sa)', 
semper pa rat us, and was never taken at a dis- 
advantage. The best illustration of his readiness 
js hi;; famous address before the Bible Society 
in London, which I will not repeat, it is so 
familiar. But it is haruiy jjrobable that a more 
splendid example of extemjjore rhetoric can be 
found in the whole range of English literature. 

lu the later years of his life, when his 
powers were not at their best and brightest, 
he went into St. Paul's Methodist Church in 
New York, to worship there as a stranger. He- 
was recognized by a gentleman, who went to the 
pulj^it and informed the preacher that Dr. Cox 
was in the congregation. He was invited to 
preiich ; and taking a text, which he gave 
in two or thn-c languages, he preached two 
hours with such a variety of learning, copi- 
ousness of illustiation, and felicity of diction, 
as to entertain, delight, instruct, and move the 
assembly. This habit of long preaching grew 
upon him, and he bet;ame tedious in his old 
age ; man}' others do likewise. It is the last 
infirmitv of great preachers. 

Especially is this true of those who, like Dr. 
Cox, are fond of preaching expository sermons. 
There is no convenient stopping-place for a 
man who takes a chapter, and attempts a ser- 
mon on each clause and word. Dr. Cox rarely 
approved of the translation of the Bible before 
him. His Greek Testament was alwa3's at 
hand, and after a severe, and sometimes a fierce 
denunciation of the text in thelvcceived Version. 
he would give his own rendering, and enforce 
that with the ardor of geiiius and the power of 
Christian eloquence. — The Irenceus Z,etters. 


PRIME, William Cowper, an Ameri- 
can lawyer and author, brother of Samuel l. 
Prime, born at Cambridge, N. Y., in 1825. 
He graduated at Princeton in 3843 ; stud- 
ied law, and after having been admitted 
to the bar in 184G, practiced in New York 
until 1861, wl)en he became one of the 
editors of the New York Journal of Com- 
merce. In 1855 lie visited Egypt and the 
Holy Land, and in 1857 published Boat Life 
in Eyypt and Nuhla^ and Tent Life hi the 
Holy Land. He has put forth several 
volumes, partly made up from his articles 
in periodicals. Among these are : The Owl- 
Creek Letters (1848), The Old House hy 
the River (1858), / Go a-Fishing (1873). 
He has devoted much attention to archse- 
ology, numismatics, and ceramics, and has 
published, Coins, Medals., and Seals (1861), 
Pottery and Porcelain of all Times and 
Nations (1878), and an annotated edition 
of the hymn '' O Mother dear, Jerusalem." 
He was the literary executor of Gen. 
George B. McClellan, editing 3IcClellan''s 
Own Story., to which he prefixed a bio- 
graphical sketch (188G). 


While I listened to the wind in the pine-trees, 
the gloom had increased, and a ripple came steal- 
ing over the waters. There was a flapping of 
one of the lil^'-pads as the first wave struck 
them ; and then, as the breeze passed over us, 
I threw two flies on the black ripple. There 
was a swift rush, a sharp dash and plunge in the 
water. Both were struck at the instant, and 
then I had work before me that forbade me 
listening to the voice of the pines. It took five 
miiuites to kill my fish, tvvo splendid specimens, 
weighing each a little less than two pounds. 
Meantime the rip had increased, and tlie breeze 
came fresh and steady. It was too dark now 


to see the opposite shore, and the fish rose at 
every cast ; and when I liad half a dozen of tlie 
same sort, and one that lacked only an ounce of 
being full four pounds, we pulled up the killeck 
and paddled homeward round the wooded 

The moon rose, and the scene on the lake 
became magically beautiful. The mocking 
laugh of the loon was the only cause of complaint 
in that evening of splendor. Who can sit iu 
the forest in such a nigiit, when earth and air 
are full of glory — when the soul of the veriest 
blockiiead must be elevated, and when a man 
begins to feel as if there were some doubt 
whether he is even a little lower than the angels 
— who, I say, can sit in such a scene and hear 
that fiendish laugh of the loon, and fail to 
remember Eden and the Tempter ? Did you 
ever hear that laugh ? If so, you know what 
I mean. That mocking laugh rang in my ears 
as 1 reeled in my line, and Ij'ing back in the 
bottom of the canoe, looked at the still and 
glorious sky. 

" Oh, that I could live just here forever," I 
said, " in this still forest home by the calm lake, 
in this undisturbed companionship of earth and 
sky ! Oh, that I could leave the life of labor 
among men, and rest serenelj' here, as mj' sun 
goes down in the sky ! '' 

" Ho ! ho ! ha ! ha ! " laughed the loon across 
the lake, under the great rock of the old 
Indian. Well, the loon was right ; and I was, 
like a great many other men, mistaken in 
fanc,ying a hermit's life, or I rather desired 
— a life in the country, with a few friends — a> 
preferable to life among crowds of men. There 
is a certain amount of truth, however, in the 
idea that man made cities and God made the 

Doubtless we human creatures were intended 
to live upon the products of the soil, and the 
animal food which our strength or sagacity 
would enable us to procure. It was intended 
that each man should, for himself and those de- 


pendent upon him, receive from the soil of the 
earth such sustenance and clotliing as he could 
compel it to yield. But we have invented a 
sj-stem of covering miles square of ground with 
large flat stones, or piles of brick and mortar, 
so as to forbid the product of any article of 
nourishment, forbidding grass or grain or flowers 
to spring up, since we need the space for our 
intercommunication with each other in all the 
ways of traffic and accumulating wealth, while 
we buy for monej-, in what we call markets, the 
food and clothing we should have procured for 
ourselves from the common mother earth. 
Doubtless all this is a perversion of the original 
designs of Providence. The perversion is one 
that sprang from the accumulation of wealth by 
a few, to the excluding of tlie many, which in 
time resulted in the purchasing of tlie land by 
the few, and the supply of food in return for an 
tides of luxury manufactured by artisans who 
were not cultivators of the soil. But who would 
listen now to an argument in favor of returning 
to the nomadic mode of life ? — 1 Go a-Fishing. 


This old hymn needs no words of praise to 
commend it. It is a grand poem, and one or 
another portion of it will reach eve rj' heart with 
its power and beauty. It has been a comfort 
and a joy to very many people, both in this form 
and in the numerous variations, abbreviations, 
and alterations in which it has from time to time 
appeared among the sacred poems of the Chris- 
tian world It was sung by the 

martyrs of Scotland in the words we have here. 
It has been sung in triumphant tones through 
the arches of mighty cathedrals ; it has been 
chanted by the lips of kings, and queens, and 
nobles; it has ascended in the still air above 
the cottage roofs of the poor; it has given utter- 
ance to the hopes and expectations of the Chris- 
tian in every continent, by ever}^ seashore, in 
hall and hovel, until it has become in one or 
another of its forms the possession of the whole 
C!hristiaa world. 


PRTNGLE, Thomas, a Scottish author, 
born in Teviotdiile in 1789 ; tlied in 1834. 
He graduated at the University of Edin- 
burgh, and was appointed to a small ])Osi- 
tion under tlie government. In 1817 he 
commenced the publication of the Edin- 
hur(jh MontJily 3faf/azine, out of which 
subsequently grew Blackwood's Magazine. 
This and other literary enterprises which 
he had undertaken proving unsuccessful, he, 
with his father and several brothers, emi- 
grated to South Africa in 1820, and estab- 
lished a little settlement among the Kafirs. 
He soon went to Cape Town, the capital 
of tlie Cape Colony, where he set up a 
private school, and became the editor of 
the South African Journal. This paper 
was discontinued in consequence of the 
censorship of the Colonial Governor. 
Pringle returned to Great Britain in 1826, 
and became secretary to the African So- 
ciety. His Narrative of a Residence in 
South Africa was published in 1835, soon 
after his death ; and a collection of his 
Poems., edited by Leitch Ritchie, appeared 
in 1838. 


Afar in the desert I love to ride, 
With the silent Bush-bo}'^ alone by my side : 
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, 
And, sick of the Present, I turn to the Past ; 
When the e\'e is suffused with regretful tears, 
Prom the fond recollections of former years ; 
And the shadows of things that long since have 

Flit over the brain like the gliosts of the dead ; 
And ni}' native land, whose magical nauip 
Thrills to the heart like electric flame ; 
The home of my childhood — the haunts of my 

ijrime ; 


All the passions and scenes of that rai^turoua 

When tlie feelings were young, and the world 

was new, 
Like tlie fresh flowers of Eden unfolding to 

view : — 
All, all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone, 
And I, a lone exile, remembered of none ; 
My high aims abandoned, my good acts un- 
A-weary of all that is under the sun ; 
With that sadness of heart which no stranger 

may scan, 
I fly to the desert, afar from man ! . . . 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side ; 
Away, away from the dwellings of men, 
By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's 

glen ; 
By valleys remote where the oribi plays, 
Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest 

And the koodoo and eland unhunted recline 
By the skirts of gray forests o'erhung with 

wild vine ; 
Where the elephant browses at peace in the 

And the river-horse gambols unscared in the 

And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will 
In the fen where the wild-ass is drinkine his 

fill. ^ 

Afar in the desert I love to ride. 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side ; 
O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating cry 
Of the springbock's fawn sounds plaintively ; 
And tlie timorous quagga's whistling neigh 
Is lieard 1)3'' the fountain at twilight gray; 
Where the zebra wantonlj-- tosses his mane, 
With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain ; 
And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste 
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, 
Hieing away to the home of her rest. 
Where she and her mate have scooped their 



Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view, 
In the pathless depths of the parched karroo. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 
AVith the silent Bush-boy alone hy my side ; 
Awa}', away in the wilderness vast, 
Where the white man's foot hath never passed, 
And the quivered Coranna and Bechuan 
Hath rarel}' crossed with his roving clan ; 
A region of emptiness, howling and drear, 
Which man hath abandoned from famine and 

fear ; 
Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, 
AVith the twilight bat from the yawning stone; 
AVliere grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, 
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot ; 
And the bitter melon, for food and drink 
Is the pilgrim's fare hy the salt lake's brink : 
A region of drought, where no river glides, 
Xor rippling brook with osiered sides ; 
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, 
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, 
Appears to refresh the aching eye ; 
But the barren earth, and the burning sky, 
And the blank horizon, round and round, 
Spread — void of living sight or sound. 

And here, while the night-winds round me 
And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky. 
As I sit apart by the desert stone, 
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone, 
A still small voice comes through the wild 
(Like a father consoling his fretful child), 
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, 
Sayiug, " Maa is distaut, but God is near * " 


PRIOR, Matthew, an English politician 
and poet, bom in 1G64 ; died in 1721. In 
1686 he graduated at Cambridge, where he 
formed an intimacy with Charles Montague, 
afterwards Earl of Halifax. He held va- 
rious civil and diplomatic positions ; was 
returned to Parliament in LTOl. In 1711 
he was made Ambassador at Paris ; but 
when the Whigs came into power, in 1711, 
he was recalled, and imprisoned on a charge 
of treason. After his release he publisiied 
by subscription a folio volume of his Poems, 
from which he realized 4,000 guineas — 
equivalent to some 60,000 dollars at the 
present time. Lord Harley added an equal 
sum for the purchase of an estate. He 
was buried in Westminster Abbey, where 
a monument was erected to his memory, 
for which he left .£500 in his will. Prior's 
attempts at serious verse are of little value ; 
but some of his lighter poems are graceful, 
and there are a few clever epigrams. 


Lords, Knights, and 'Squires, the numerous 

That wear the fair Miss Mar3''s fetters, 
Were suramoned by lier high command 

To show their passion by their letters. 

Mj' pen among the rest I took, 

Lest those briglit eyes that cannot read 

Should dart their kindling fires, and look 
Tlie power they ])ave to be obeyed. 

Nor quality nor reputation 

Forbid me yet my flame to tell ; 
Dear five-year-old befriends my passion, 

And I ma\' write till she can spell. 

For, while she makes her silk-worms' beds 
With all the tender things I swear; 

Whilst all the house my passion reads 
In papers round her baby's hair; 


She may receive and own my flame, 

For, though the strictest prudes should know 
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, 

And I for an unhappy poet. 

Then too, alas! when she sliall tear 
The lines some younger rival sends, 

She'll give me leave to write, I fear. 
And we shall still continue friends. 

For, as our different ages move, 

'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!) 
That I shall b'^ past making love, 

When she begins to comprehend it, 


As doctoi's give physic by way of prevention. 
Matt, alive and in health, of his tombstone 
took care ; 

For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention 
May haply be never fulfilled by bis heir. 

Then, take Matt's word for it — tbe sculptor is 
paid ; 
That the figure is fine, pray believe your own 
eye ; 
Yet credit but lightly what more may be said, 
For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to 

Yet, counting as far as to fifty his years. 

His virtues and vices were as other nien's are ; 
High hopes he conceived, and he smothered 
great fears. 
In a life parti-colored — half pleasure — half 

Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, 
He strove to make int'rest and freedom 
agree ; 
In public employments, industrious and grave. 
And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry 
was he. 

Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot, 
Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would 


And whirled in the round as the wheel turned 
He found riches had wings, and knew man 
was but dust. 

TLis verse, little polished, though mighty sin- 
Sets neither his titles nor merit to view ; 
It says that his relics collected lie here ; 

And no mortal yet knows if this may be 
true. . . . 

If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air, 
To fate we u.ust yield, and the thing is the 
same ; 
And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear, 
He cares not: — yet prithee, be kind to his 


To John I owed great obligation ; 

But John unhappily thought fit 
To publish it to all the nation : — 

Sure, John and I are quit. 

Yes, every poet is a fool ; 

By demonstration Ned can show it: 
Happy, could Ned's inverted rule 

Prove every fool to ha a poet. 

Nobles and heralds, by your leave. 

Here lies what once was Matthew Prior, 

The son of Adam and of Eve : 

Can Stuart or Nassau claim higher ? 


PROCTER, Adelaide Anne, an Eng- 
S^nh poet, daughter of " Barry Cornwall," 
born at London in 1825 ; died there in 
1864. Early in 1853, Household Words 
^•eceived a poem, bearing the signature 
*' Mary Berwick," which Charles Dickens, 
the editor, thought "very different from 
the slioal of verses perpetually setting 
Shrough the office of such a periodical, 
and possessing much more merit." The 
author was requested to send more ; and 
ishe soon became a frequent contributor. 
It was not until nearly two years after 
that Dickens learned that '' Mary Ber- 
wick " was Adelaide Procter, whom he 
had known from childhood, and who was 
the daughter of one of his oldest literary 
friends. With the exception of a few 
early verses, a little volume, entitled, A 
Chaplet of Ferses, published in 1862 for the 
benefit of a charitable association, all of 
her poems originally appeared in period- 
icals edited by Dickens, who prefixed a 
biographical introduction to a complete 
edition issued shortly after her death. 


Girt round with ru<ro;ed mountains the fair 

Lake Constance lips ; 
In her blue heart reflected shine back the 

starry skies ; 
And, watching each white cloudlet float silently 

RTid slow, 
You think a piece of Heaven lies on our earth 

Midnicrht is there: and Silence, enthroned in 

Heaven, looks down 
Upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleeping 

For Brecjenz, that quaint city upon the Tyrol 

Has stood above Lake Constance a thousand 

years and more. 


Her battlements and towers, from off their 

rocky steep 
Have cast tlieir trembling shadows for ages o' r 

the deep. 
Mountain, and lake, and valley, a sacred legend 

Of how the town was saved, one night, three 

hundred 3' ears ago. 

Far from her home and kindred a Tyrol maid 

had fled, 
To serve in the Swiss valleys, and toil for daily 

bread ; 
And every year that fleeted so silently and 

Seemed to bear further from her the memory 

of the Past. 

She served kind, gentle masters, nor asked for 

rest or change ; 
Her friends seemed no more new ones, their 

speech seemed no more strange ; 
And when she led her cattle to pasture every 


She ceased to look and wonder on which side 
Bregenz lay. 

She spoke no more of Bregenz with longing 

and with tears ; 
Her Tyrol home seemed faded in a deep mist 

of years ; 
She heeded not the rumors of Austrian war 

and strife ; 
Each day she rose contented, to the calm toils 

of life. 

Yet when her master's children would cluster- 
ing round her stand, 

She sang them ancient ballads of her own 
native land ; 

And when at morn and evening she knelt be« 
fore God's tlirone, 

The accents of her childhood rose to her lips 


And so she dwelt : — the valley more peaceful 

year by year, 
When suddenly strange portents of some great 

deed seemed near. 
The golden corn was bending upon its fragile 

"While farmers, heedless of their fields, paced 

up and down in talk. 

The men seemed strange and altered, with 

looks cast on the ground; 
With anxious faces, one by one, the women 

gathered round. [away; 

All talk of flax, or spinning, or work, was put 
The very children seemed afraid to go alone to 

One day, out in the meadow, with strangea's 

from the town. 
Some secret plan discussing, the men walked 

up and down ; 
Yet now and theii seemed watching a strange, 

uncertain gleam, 
That looked like lances "mid the trees that 

stood below the stream. 

At eve they all assembled; theu care and doubt 
were fled ; 

With jovial laugh they feasted; the board was 
nobly spread. [hand, 

The Elder of the village rose up, his glass in. 

And cried, "We drink the downfall of an ac- 
cursed land ! 

"The night is growing darker; ere one more 

day is flown, 
Bcegenz, our foemen's stronghold, Bregenz 

shall be our own ! "' — 
The women shrank in terror (3^et Pride too had 

her part ;) 
But one poor Tj-rol maiden felt death within 

her heart. ., 

Before her stood fair Bregenz; once more her 

towers arose : 
What were the friends around her ? — only her 

country's foes ! 


The faces of her kinsfolk, the days of child- 
hood flown, 

The echoes of her mountains, reclaimed her as 
their own. 

Nothing she heard around her — though shouts 

rang t'ortli again ; 
Gone were tlie green Swiss valleys, the pasture, 

and the plain. 
Before her eyes one vision ; and in her heart 

one cry, 
That said, " Go forth, save Bregenz, and then, 

if need be, die ! " 

With trembling haste and breathless, with 
noiseless step, she sped. [shed ; 

Horses and weary cattle were standing in the 

She loosed the strong white charger that fed 
from out her hand ; 

She mounted, and she turned his head towards 
her native land. 

Out — out into the darkness ; faster, and still 
more fast ; 

The smooth grass flies behind her, the chestnut- 
wood is past. 

She looks up; clouds are heav_Y : Why is her 
steed so slow ? — 

(Scarcely the wind beside them could pass them 
as they go.) 

" Faster ! '' she cries, " Oh faster ! " — Eleven 

the church-bells chime : 
"O God," she cries, "help Bregenz, and bring 

me there in time!" [kine. 

But louder than bells' ringing, or lowing of the 
Grows nearer in the midnight the rushing of 

the Rhine. 

Shall not the roaring waters their headlong 

gallop check ? — 
The steed draws back in terror; she leans upon 

his neck 
To watch the flowing darkness. The bank is 

high and steep ; 
One pause — he staggers forward, and plunges 

in the deep. 


She strives to pierce the blackness, and looser 

throws tlie rein ; 
Her steed must breast the waters that dash 

above his mane. 
How galliintl3',liow nobly, he struggles through 

the foam ; 
And see : in the far distance shine out the 

lights of home ! 

Up tlie steep banks he bears her; and now they 

rusli again 
Towards tlie heights of Bregenz, that tower 

above the plain. 
They reach the gates of Bregenz, just as the 

midnight rings ; 
And out come serf and soldier to meet the 

news she brings. 

Bregenz is saved ! Ere dajdight her battle- 
ments are manned : 

Defiance greets the army that marches on the 

And if to deeds heroic should endless fame be 

Bregenz does well to honor the noble Tyrol 

Three hundred years are vanished ; and yet 

upon the hill 
An old stone gate-way rises, to do her honor 

And there, when Bregenz women sit spinning 

in the shade, 
They see in quaint old carving the charger and 

the maid. 

And when, to guard old Bregenz, by gate- 

wa\', street, and tower. 
The warder paces all night long, and calls each 

passing hour ; 
" Nine ! " '- Ten ! '' " Eleven ! " he cries aloud, 

and then — Oh crown of fame ! — 
When midnight pauses in the skies, he calls 

the Maiden's name. 


A woman's questiox. 

Before I trust my fate to thee, or place my 

hand in thine. 
Before I let thy Future give color and form to 
Before I peril all ior thee, 
Question thy soul to-night for me. 

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel a shadow of 

regret : 
Is there one link within the Past that holds 
tliy spirit yet ? 
Or is thy faith as clear and free 
As that which 1 can pledge to thee ? 

Does tliere within thy dimmest dreams a pos- 
sible Future shine, 
Wherein thy life should henceforth breathe, 
untouched, unshared by mine ? 
If so, at any pain or cost, 
Oh, tell me, before all is lost. 

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel within 

thy inmost soul 
That thou hast kept a portion back, while I 
have staked tlie whole ; 
Let no false pity spare the blow, 
But in true merc_y tell me so. 

Is there within thy heart a need that mine can- 
not fulfill ? 
One chord that any other hand could better 
wake or still ? 
Speak now — lest at some future day 
My whole life wither and decay. 

Lives there within thy nature hid the demon- 
spirit Change, 
Shedding a passing glory still on all things 
new and strange ? — 
It may not be thy fault alone ; 
But shield my heart against thy own. 


Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day. and 

answer to my claim 
That Fate, and that to-day's mistake — not thou 
— had been to blame ? — 
Some soothe their conscience thus ; but 

Wilt surely warn and save me now. 

Nay, answer not — I dare not hear — the words 

would come too late. 
Yet I would spare thee all remorse; so com- 
fort thee, my Fate — 
Whatever on my heart may fall — 
Remember, T would risk it all. 


" What is Life, father I " 

"A battle, my child. 
Where the strongest lance may fail, 

Where tlie wariest eyes may be beguiled, 

And the stoutest heart may quail, 
Where the foes are gathered on every hand, 

And rest not day or night, 
And the feeble little ones must stand 

In the thickest of the tiecht." 

« What is Death, father ? " 

" The rest, my child. 
When the strife and toil are o'er; 

The angel of God, who, calm and mild, 

Says we need fight no more ; 
Who, driving away the demon band, 

Bids the din of the battle cease ; 
Takes banner and spear from our failing hand. 

And proclaims an eternal peace." 


PROCTER, Bryan Waller, an Eng- 
lish lawyer and poet, born in London iu 
1790; died there in 1874. He is best 
known by his worn de ■plume "Barry Corn- 
wall," an anagram of his real name. He 
was educated at Harrow, was for a while 
employed in the office of a solicitor in the 
country, from which he went to London, 
entered Gray's Lin, and was called to the 
bar in 1881. From 1832 to 1861 he was 
a commissioner of lunacy. Mr. John 
Kenyon died in 1857, and left legacies, 
amounting in all to X140,000 to his per- 
sonal and liturary friends. Elizabeth Bar- 
rett Browning received .£4,000, Robert 
Browning- and Procter <£6,o00 each. 
'' Barry Cornwall " commenced liis literary 
career in 1819 by the publication of Dra- 
matic /Scenes, and Other Poems. This was 
followed by several other volumes, lyrical 
and dramatic. He also wrote Life of 
Edmund Kean (1835), and Life of Charles 
Lamb (1866). Li 1851 he put forth a 
collection of Essays and Tales in Verse. 
He is, however, best known by his numer- 
ous lyrics, of which Mr. Gorse says : " They 
do not possess passion or real pathos, or any 
very deep m:igic of melody; but he has 
written more songs tiiat deserve tlie com- 
parative praise of good than any other 
modern writer except Shelley and Tenny- 


The Sea ! the Sea ! the open Sea 1 

The blue, the fresli, tlie ever free ! 

Without a mark, witliout a bound, 

It runneth the earth's wide regions round; 

It I>hi3's with clouds, it mocks the skies, 

Or like a cradled creature lies. 

I'm on the Sea ! I'm on the Sea I 
I am where I would ever be ; 


With the blue above, and the blue below, 
And silence wheresoe'er I go; 
If a storm should come and awake the deep, 
What matter ? / shall ride and sleep. 

I love (oh, how I love) to ride 
On the tierce, foaming, bursting tide, 
When every mad wave drowns the moon, 
Or whistles aloft his teraiiest tune, 
And tells how goeth the world below, 
And why the southwest blasts do below. 

I never was on the dull, tame shore, 
But I loved the great Sea more and more, 
And backwards flew to her billowy breast, 
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest : 
And a mother she was and is to me. 
For I was born on the open Sea. 

The waves were white, and red the morn. 

In the noisy hour when I was born ; 

And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, 

And the dolphins bared their backs of gold ; 

And never was heard such outcry wild 

As welcomed to life the Ocean-child. 

I've lived since then, in calm and strife. 
Full tift^' summers a sailor's life, 
With wealth to spend and power to range 
But never have sought or sighed for change; 
And Death, whenever he comes to me, 
Shall come on the wide, unbounded Sea I 


Kest ! This little Fountain runs 

Thus for nye ! It never stays 
For the look of summer suns 

Nor the cold of winter days. 
Whosoe'er shall wander near 

When the Syrian heat is worst, 
Let him hither corae, nor fear 

Lest he may not slake his thirst. 
He will find this little river 
Running still, as bright as ever. 
Let him drink and onward hie 
Bearing but in thought that I— 


Erotas — bade tlie XaiaJ fall, 

And thank the great god Pan f or alL 


Touch us gently, Time ! 

Let us glide adown thy stream 
Gentlj- — as we sometimes glide 

Tlirough a (juiet dream ! 
Humble voyagers are we, 
Husband, wife, and children three ; 
(One is lost — an angel, fled 
To the azure overhead.) 

Touch us gently, Time ! 

We've not proud or soaring wings } 
Our ambition, our content, 

Lies in simple things. 
Humble voyagers are we, 
O'er Life's dini, unsounded sea, 
Seeking only some calm clime. 
Touch us gently, gentle Time ! 


We are born ; we laugh ; we weep, 
We love, we droop, we die ! 

Ah, wherefore do we laugh or weep ? 
Why do we live or die ? 

Who knows that secret deep ? — 
Alas, not I ! 

Why doth the violet spring 

Unseen by human eve ? 
Why do the radiant seasons bring 

Sweet thoughts that quickly fly ? 
Why do our fond hearts cling 

To things that die ? 

We toil through pain and wrong; 

We fight and fly ; 
We love ; we lose ; and then, ere long, 

Stone-dead we lie. 
Life ! is all thy song 

" Endure and — die?* 



Child of my heart ! iny sweet beloved First- 
born ! 
Thou dove, who tidings bringst of calmer 

hours ! 
Thou rainbow, who dost shine when all the 
Are past, or passing! Hose which hath no 

No spot, no blemish — pure and unforlorn ! 
Untouched, untainted ! O my Flower of 

flowers ! 
More welcome than to bees are summer 
To stranded seamen life-assuring raorn ! 

Welcome — a thousand welcomes! Care, who 
Round all, seems loosening now its serpent fold; 
New liope springs upward, and the bright 

world seems 
Cast back into a youth of endless Springs ! 
Sweet mother, is it so ? or grow I old. 
Bewildered in divine Elysian dreams? 


Come ; — let us go to the land 
Where the violets grow ! 

Let's go thither hand in hand, 

Over the waters and over the snow, 
To the land where the sweet, sweet violets 
grow ! 

There, in the beautiful south, 
Where the sweet flowers lie. 

Thou shalt sing, with thy sweeter mouth, 
Under the light of the evening sky, 
That love ncvor fades, though violets die I 


PROCTOR, Edna Deax, an American 
poet ; born at Henniker, N. H.. in 18 — . 
Sl)e received her earl}- education at Con- 
cord, N. H., subsequently taking up her resi- 
dence at Brooklyn, N, Y. In 1858 she put 
forth a volume of Life Thoughts^ consist- 
ing mainl}^ of passages from the discourses 
of Henry Ward Beecher. She became a 
frequent contributor to periodicals, and in 
1867 published a volume of Poems, Na- 
tional and MisceUa7ieous. Sliortly after- 
wards she accompanied a party of friends 
on an extensive foreig-n tour, visiting 
Egypt and the Holy Land, traversing 
every country in Europe except Portugal. 
In Russia she travelled b}' routes not usually 
taken by tourists ; of this portion of her 
tour she gave a poetical account in her 
Russian Journey (1873). 


Across the Steppes we journeyed, 

The brown, fir-darkened plain, 
That rolls to east and rolls to west 

Moved as the billowy tnaiu ; 
When, lo. a sudden splendor 

Came shining through the air, 
As if the clouds should melt, and leave 

The height of heaven bare. — 
A maze of rainbow domes and spires 

Fall glorious on the sky, 
With wafted chimes from many a tower, 

As the south-wind went by; 
And a thousand crosses, lightly hung, 

That shone like morning-stars : — 
'Twas the Kremlin's wall ! 'twas Moscow, 

The jewel of the Czars ! 

A Russian Journey. 


Low hung the moon, the wind was still, 
And slow I climbed the midnight hill, 
4.nd passed the ruined garden o'er, 


And gained the barred and silent door 
Sad welcomed by the lingering rose, 
That, startled, shed its waning snows. 

The bolt flew bade with sudden clang, 

I entered — wall and rafter rang, 

Down dropped the moon, and clear and high 

Se[)teml>er*s wind went wailing by ; 

*•■ Alas ! '' I sighed, "the love and glow 

That lit this mansion long ago !" 

And groping up the threshold stair. 

And past the chambers cold and bare, 

I sought the room where, glad of yore, 

AVe sat the blazing fire before, 

And heard the tales a father told, 

Till glow was gone and evening cold. . . • 

My hand was on the latch, wlien, lo ! 
'"Twas lifted from within ! I know 
I was not wild, and could I dream ? 
AYithin, I saw the wood-fire gleam, 
And, smiling, waiting, beckoning there, 
My father in his ancient chair ! 

the long rapture, perfect rest, 

As close he clasped me to his breast ! 
Put back the braids the wind had blown, 
Said I had like my mother grown. 
And bade me tell him, frank as she. 
All the long years had brought to me. 

Then, by his side his, hand in mine, 

1 tasted joy, serene, divine, 

And saw my griefs unfolding fair 
As flowers, in June's enchanted air, 
So warm his words, so soft his sighs, 
Such tender lovelight in his eyes ! " . . , 

And still we talked. O'er cloudy bars 
Orion bore his pomp of stars ; 
Within, the wood-fire faintly glowed, 
Weird on the wall the shadows showed. 
Till in the east a pallor born, 
Told midnight melting into morn. ... 

'Tis true, his rest this many a year 
Has made the village churchyard dear J 


'Tis true, his stone is graA-en fair, 
"Here lies, remote from mortal care." 
I cannot tell how this may be, 
But well I know he talked with me. 


Now summer finds her perfect prime ; 

Sweet blows the wind from western calms ; 
On every bovver red roses climb ; 

The meadows sleep in mingled balms. 
Xor stream nor bank the wayside by 

But lilies float and daisies tlirong, 
Xor space of blue and sunny sky 

That is not cleft with soaring song. 

flowery morns, tuneful eves. 
Fly swift ! my soul ye cannot fill! 

Bring the ripe fruit, the garnered sheaves, 

Tlie drifting snows on [)lain and hill. 
Alike to me fall frosts and dews ; 
But Heaven, Lord, I cannot lose ! 

Warm hands to-day are clasped in mine ; 

Fond hearts ray mirth or mourning share j 
And over Hope's horizon line, 

The future dawns serenely fair. 
Yet still, though fervent vow denies, 

I know the rapture will not stay ; 
Some wind of grief or doubt will rise, 

And turn my rosy sk}' to gray. 

1 shall awake, in rainy morn, 

To find my hearth left lone and drear. 
Thus half in sadness, half in scorn, 

I let my life burn on as clear, 
Though friends grow cold or fond love wooes ; 
But Heaven, Lord, I cannot lose ! 

In golden hours the angel Peace 

Comes down and broods me with her wings J 
I gain from sorrow sweet release, 

I mate me with divinest things. 
When shapes of guilt and gloom arise, 

And far the radiant angel flees, 
My song is lost in mournful sighs, 

My wine of triumph left bu>t lees. 


In vain for me her pinions shine, 
And pure, celestial daj's begin ; 

Earth's passion-flowers 1 still must twine, 
Nor braid one beauteous lily in, 

Ah ! is it good or ill I choose ? 

But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose ! 


All day the stormy wind has blown 
From oft' the dark and rainy sea; 
No bird has past the window flown. 
The only song has been the moan 
The wind made in the willow-tree. 

This is the summer's burial-time ; 

She died when dropped the earliest leaves; 
And cold upon her rosN' prime 
Fell down the Autumn's frosty rime ; 

Yet I am not as one that grieves. 

For well I know o'er sunny .<ea.« 

The bluebird waits for April skies ; 
And at the roots of forest trees 
The May-flowers sleep in fragrant ease, 
And violets hide their azure eyes. 

thou, by winds of grief o'erblown 

Beside some golden summer's bier, 
Take heart ! Thy birds are only flown, 
Thy blossoms sleeping, tearful sown, 
To greet thee in the immortal year 1 


PROCTOR, Richard Anthony, an 
English astronomer, born at Chelsea in 
1837; died at New York in 1888. He 
graduated at St. John's College, Cambridge, 
in 1860, and devoted himself especially to 
the study of astronomy, and to elucidating 
its leading facts and principles, frequently 
in popular lectures. He visited America 
for this purpose several times, and in 1885 
became a citizen of the United States. He 
had passed the summer of 1888 in Florida; 
where the yellow fever broke out with 
great violence. He had not been in any 
disti'ict supposed to be infected, andset out 
for New York with the purpose of sailing 
to England ; but he had only reached New 
York, when the disease manifested itself, 
and he died on the day on which he had 
expected to embark. Amonghis most im- 
portant astronomical works are : Saturn 
and its Sy^^tem (1865), Handbook of the 
Stars (1866), Half-hours with the Telescope 
(1868), Other Worlds than Ours (1870), 
M//ths and Marvels of Astronomy (1877), 
Old ayid New Astronomy (1888). He also 
put forth several works of a semi-scientific 
character, among which are: Light Science 
for Leisure Hours^ three series (1871, 1873, 
1878), The Great Pyramid; Observatory^ 
Tomb, Temple (1883), How to Play Whist 
(1885), Chance and Luck (1887), and 
numerous Essays upon miscellaneous 


Suppose there are two horses (among others) 
engaged in a race, and that the odds are 2 to 1 
against one, and 4 to lap^ainstthe other — wliat 
are the odds that one of tlie two horses will win 
the race ? This case will doubtless remind the 
reader of au amusing sketch by Leech, en- 


titled, " Signs of the Commission." Three or 
four uiider-gniduates are at a " wine," discussing 
matters equine. One propounds to liis neighbor 
tlie following question : " I say. Charley, if the 
odds are 2 to 1 against liataplan, and 4 to 1 
against Quick JIarc/i, what's the betting about 
the pair?" " Don't know, I'm sure," replies 
Charley; "but I'll give you G to 1 against 

The absurdity of the reply is, of course, very 
obvious ; we see at once that the odds cannot 
be heavier against a pair of horses than against 
either singly. Still there are many who would 
not find it easy to give a correct reply to the 
question. What has already been said, how- 
ever, will enable us at once to determine the 
just odds in this or any similar case. Thus, the 
odds against one horse being 2 to 1, his chance 
of winning is equal to that of drawing one white 
ball out of a bag of three, one only of which 
is white. In like manner, the chance of the 
second horse is equal to that of drawing one 
white ball out of a bag of ^five, one oidy of 
which is white. Now we have to find a number 
which is a multiple of both the numbers three 
and five. Fifteen is such a number. The 
chance of the first horse, modified after the 
principle already explained, is equal to that of 
drawing a white ball out of a bag of fifteen of 
which Jioe are white. In like manner the 
chance of the second is equal to that of drawing 
a white ball out of a bag of fifteen, of which 
three are white. Therefore the chance that 
one of the two will win is equal to that of 
drawing a white ball out of a bag of fifteen balls 
of which eight (five added to three) are white. 
There remain seven black balls, and there- 
fore the odds are 8 to 7 on the pair. 

To impress the method of treating such cases, 
on the mind of the reader, we take the betting 
about three horses — say 3 to 1, 7 to 2, and 9 to 1 
against the three horses respectivel}'. Then 
their respective chances are equal to the chance of 
drawing (1) one white ball out oifour, one only 


of which is white; (2) u white ball out of nine 
of which two only are white ; and (3) one white 
ball out of ten, one only of which is white. The 
least number which contains four, nine, and ten, 
is 180 ; and the above chances, modified accord- 
ing to the principle already explained, become 
equal to the chance of drawing a white ball out 
of a bag containing 180 balls, when 45, 40, and 
18 (respectively) are white. Therefore, the 
chance that one of the three will win is equal to 
that of dr.nving a white ball out of a bag con- 
taining 180 balls, of which 103 (the sum of 
45, 40, and 18) are white. Therefore the odds 
are 103 to 77 on the three. 

One does not hear in j^ractice of such odds as 
103 to 77. But betting men (whether or not 
they apply just principles of computation to 
such questions is unknown to us) manage to 
run vevy near the truth. For instance, in such 
a case as the above, the odds on the three would 
probably be given as 4 to 3; that is, instead of 
103 to 77 — or, which is the same thing, 412 to 
308— the published odds would be 412 to 309. 

It is often said that a man maj' so lay his 
wagers about a race as to make sure of gaining 
money whichever horse wins the race. This is 
not strictly the case. It is of course possible 
to make sure of winning if the bettor can only 
get persons to lay or take the odds he requires 
to the amount he requires. But this is precisely 
the problem which would remain insoluble if all 
bettors were equally experienced. Suppose, for 
instance, that there are three horses engaged in 
a race with equal chances of success. It is readily 
shown that the odds are 2 to 1 against each. 
But if a bettor can get a person to take even 
betting against the first (A), a second person 
to do the same about the second horse (B), and 
a third to do the like about the third horse (C), 
and if all the bets are made to the same amount 
— -say £1,000 — then, inasmuch as only one horse 
can win, the bettor loses £1,000 on tliat horse 
(say A), and gains the same amount on each of 
the two horses C and B. Thus, on the whole. 


he gains £1,000 — the sum Uiid out on each 
horse. If the layer of the odds had laid the 
true odds to the same amount on each liorse, he 
would neither have gained nor lost. Suppose, 
f r iu«tan-::e, that he had laid £1,000 to £500 
against each horse, and A won ; then he would 
have to pay £1,000 to the backer of A, and to 
receive £500 from each of tlie backers of B and 
C. In li'.e manner a person who had ha(tked 
each horse to the same extent would neither 
losen or gain by the event. Nor would a backer 
or layer who had wagered different sums neces- 
sarily gain or lose according to the event. This 
will at once be seen on trial. 

Let us take the cise of horses with uiicqual 
})rospects of success; for instance, take the case 
of four horses against which the cdds were re- 
spectively 3 to 2, 2 to 1, 4 to 1, and 14 to 1. 
Here suppose the same sum laid against eiich, 
and for convenience let tliis sum be £84 (be- 
cause 84 contains the numbers 3, 2. 4, and 14). 
The layer of the odds wagers £84 to £56 
against tlie leading favorite, £84 to £42 against 
the second liorse, £84 to £21 against the third, 
and £84 to £0 against the fourth. Whichever 
horse wins, the layer has to pay £84, but if the 
favorite wins, he receives only £42 (»n one horse, 
£21 on another, and £6 — that is £09 on all ; so 
that he loses £15. If the second horse wins, 
he has to receive £56, £21 and £0 — or £83 in 
all ; so that he loses £1. If the third horse 
wins, he receives R,h^, £42, and £6 — or £104 
in all ; and thus gains £20. And lastly if the 
fourth horse win , he has to receive £56, £42, 
and £21 — or £119 in all ; so that he gains 
£35. He cleai'ly risks much less than he lias 
a chance (however small) of gaining. Itisalso 
clear that in all such cases the worst event for 
the layer of the odds is that the favorite should 
win. Accordingly, as professional book-makers 
are nearly always the layers of odds, one often 
finds the success of a favorite spoken of in the 
papers as "a great blow for the book-makers," 
while the success of a rauk outsider will be 


described as a " misfortune to backers." — • 
Light Science for Leisure Hours. 


Some say, " The weather maj' be change*! in 
response to prayer, not by controlment of tlie 
Laws of Nature, but by means of them." Let 
tliem try to tliink wliat they really mean by 
this, and they will see what it amounts to. 
What sort of law do they understand by a Law 
of Nature ? Do they suppose that somewhere 
or other in the chain of causation, on which 
weather and weather-changes depend, there is 
a place where the Laws of Nature do not operate 
in a definite way, but might act in one or other 
of several diffei'ent ways ? This would corre- 
spond to the belief of the savage, that an eclipse 
of the sun is not caused by the operation of 
definite natural laws. In point of fact — speak- 
ing from the scientific point of view — praj'er 
that coming weather may be such and such, is 
akin to prayer that an unopened letter may 
contain good news. So regarded, it is proper 
enough. But prayer proceeding on the as- 
sumption that, in the natural order of things, 
bail weather would continue, and that in re- 
sponse to prayer it will be changed, is im- 
proper and wrong for all who consider and 
understand what it implies. What real differ- 
ence is there between praying that weather 
may change, and pra^'ing that a planet or comet 
may take a specified course, except that we 
have not yet mastered the laws according to 
which the weather varies, while we have mas- 
tered those which govern the movements of the 
heavenly bodies ? 

The savage who sees the sun apparently en- 
croached upon, or, as he thinks, devoured, prays 
lustily that the destruction of the great lumi- 
narj' may be prevented. He would doubtless 
regard an astronomer who should tell him that 
the sun would disappear in a very little while — 
let hira pray his hardest — as a ver\' wicked 
person. One who was not quite so well in- 


formed as tlie astronomer, but not quite .<o 
ignorant as the savage, might not know how 
near tlie eclipse would be to totality, yet he 
would see tlie absurdity of praying for what 
he knew to be a natural phenonieTion. He 
would reason that, if the eclipse was not going 
to be total, prayer that it might not be so must 
be useless, unless a miracle was to be performed 
in response to it. The meteorologist of to-day 
is in somewhat the position of our supposed 
middle-man : he knows the progress of a bad 
season is a natural phenomenon, and that to 
pray for any change, however desirable the 
change ma}' be, is to pray for what is either 
bound to happen, or bound not to happen, un- 
less a miracle is prayed for. . . . 

The possible influence of praj-er in modify- 
ing the progress of events is a purely scientifn* 
question. On the other hand, the propriety of 
the prayerful attitude— which really expresses 
only desire, coupled with submission is a relig- 
ious question on which I have not touched at 
all. As a scientific question the matter has 
been debated over and over again, with no par- 
ticular result, because the student of science 
can have only one opinion on the subject. 
Good old Benjamin Franklin was asked whether 
he did not think it sinful to devise methods for 
changing the predestined course of God's light- 
ning. — MisQdlancoaa £ssays. 


PRUDIIOMME, Sully, a French poe<, 
born at Paris in 1839. He was educated at 
the Lyc^e Bonaparte, and was a brilliant 
student. Having taken his degrees of 
Bachelor of Science and of Literature, he 
entered the manufactory at Creuzot. Com- 
pelled by ophthalmia to abandon engi- 
neering, he studied law ; law proving dis- 
tasteful to him, he chose literature as his 
profession. His first volume, Stances et 
Foemes (1865), was highly praised by 
Sainte-Beuve. Among his later volumes 
of poetry are : Les Epreuvea (1866), Les 
Solitudes (1869), Les Destins (1872), La 
France (1874), Les Vaines Tendresses 
(1875), La Justice (1878), La Bonheur 

Prudhomme has been called the French 
Matthew Arnold. Graceful translations 
of several of his poems have been given 
by K. and R. E. Prothero in the English 
illustrated Magazine of June, 1890. 


A Missal of the first King Francis' reign, 
Rusted by years, with many a yellow stain, 
And l)lazons worn, by pious fingers pressed — 
VVitliiii wliose leaves, enshrined in silver rare, 
Hy some old goldsmith's art in glory di'essed, 
Speaking his boldness and his loving care, 
This faded tlower found rest. 

Mow very old it is! You plainly mark 
IJlMin the page its sap in tracery dark. 
'• I'fM-haps threo hundred years ? " What need 

be said ? 
It has but lost one shade of crimson dye; 
Before its death, it might have seen that flown ; 
Needs naught save wing of wand'ring butterfly 
To toucli the bloom — 'tis gone. 

It has not lost one fibre from its heart. 
Nor seen one jewel from its crown depart; 


The page still wrinkles where tin- ih-w onco 

AVhen tlmt liust mora was sad with other weep- 

Deatli wouUl not kill — ouly to kiss it tried, 

In loving guise above its brightness (u-eeping, 
Xor blighted as it died. 

A sweet, but mournful, scent is o'er me steal- 

As when with Memory wakes long-buried feel- 
ing ; 

That scent from the closed casket slow ascend- 

Tells of long years o'er that strange herbal 

Our bygone things have still some perfume 

And our lost loves are paths, where Koses' 

Sweet e'en in death, is shed. 

At eve, when faint and sombre grows the air. 
Perchance a lambent heart may flicker there, 
Seeking an entrance to the book to iind. 
And, when the An gel us strikes on the sky, ' 
Praying sonie hand may that one page unbind, 
Where all his love and homage lie — 
The flower that told his mind. 

Take comfort, knight, who rode to Pavia's 

But ne'er returned to woo your love again; 
Or you, young page, whose heart rose up on 

To Mar\^ and thy dame in mingled pra^'or ! 
This flower which died beneath some unknowii 

Three hundred years ago — you placed it there, 

And there it still shall lie." 
Les Epreuver^. Transl. of E. and K. E. 


PURCHAS, Samuel, an English cleigy- 
man and author, born in 1577 ; died in 
1628. He was educated at Cambridge, 
and in 1G04 became Vicar of Eastwood ; 
subsequent!}^ went to London, where he 
was made Rector of St. Martin's and chaij- 
lain to the xVrchbishop of Canterbury. He 
busied liiinself in the compilation of a vast 
series of vo3'ages and travels, mau}^ of which 
would otlierwise hav-ebeen lost. His prin- 
cipal works are : Purchas, his Pilgrimage ; 
or Relations of the Worlds and tlie Religions 
Observed in all Ages and Places Discovered 
unto this Present (1613), Hakluytus Post- 
humus ', or, Purchas, his Pilgrims, contain- 
ing a Hist org of the World in Sea Voyages 
and Land Travels, hg Englishmen and 
Others (5 vols. loL, 1625), Microcosmus, or 
the History of Man ; a Series of Meditations 
on Man in all Ages and Stations (1627). In 
the Preface to his first Collection he gives 
an account of the materials of which he had 
made use. 


This, my first Voyage of Discovery, besides 
mine own poor stock laid thereon, hatli made 
me indebted to above twelve hundred authors, 
of one or otlier kind, in I know not how many 
lumdreds of tlieir treatises, epistles, relations, 
and histories, of divers subjects and languages, 
borrowed by mj'self ; besides what (for want of 
authors themselves) I have taken upon trust of 
other men's goods in their hands. 

The following, from the Pilgrims, is a 
good example of Purchas's own style. 


"Sow for the services of the sea, they are in- 
numerable. It is the great purveyor of the 
world's commodities to our use ; conveyer of 
the excess of rivers ; uniter, by traffic, of all 


nations. It presents the eye with diversified 
colors and motions ; and is, as it were with 
ricli brooches, adorned with various islands. 
It is an open field for nierchaTidise in peace ; 
a rich field for the most dreadful fights of war. 
It yields diversity of fish and fowls for diet; 
materials for wealth, medicine for health, 
simples for medicines, pearls and other jewel.^ 
for ornament, amber and ambergris for delight; 
"the wonders of the Lord in the deep " for in- 
struction, variety of creatures for use, multi- 
j)licity of natures for contemplation, diversity 
of accidents for admiration ; compendiousness 
to the way, to full bodies healthful evacuution, 
to the thirsty earth healthful moisture, to dis- 
tant friends pleasant meeting, to weary persons 
delightful refreshing; to studious and religious 
minds a map of knowledge, mystery of temper- 
ance, exercise of continence ; school of prayer, 
meditation, devotion, and sobriety ; refuge to 
the distressed, portage to the merchant, passage 
to the traveller, customs to the prince ; s])rings, 
lakes, rivers to the earth. It hath on it tem- 
pests and calms to chastise the sins, to exercise 
the faith of seamen ; manifold affections in 
itself to affect and stupef}^ the subtlest philos- 
opher ; sustaineth movable fortresses for the 
soldiers; maintaineth (as in our island) a wall 
of defence and watery garrison to guard the 
state ; entertains the sun with vapors, the 
moon with obsequiousness, the stars also with 
a natural looking-glass, the sk}- with clouds, 
the air with temperateness, the soil with sup- 
pleness, the rivers with tides, the hills with 
moisture, the valle\'s with fertility ; containeth 
most diversified matter for meteors, most mul- 
tiform shapes, most various, numerous kinds; 
most immense difformed, deformed, unformed 
monsters. At once (for why should I detain 
you ?) the sea yields action to the body, medi- 
tation to the mind ; the world to the world, all 
parts thereof to each part, by this art of arts — 


PYLE, Howard, an American author, 
and artist, born at Wilmington, Del., in 
1853. He received a good education, 
studied art in Philadelphia, and removed 
to New York in 1876, where he wrote and 
illustrated for magazines. Tn 1879 he 
returned to Wilmington, where he now 
(1890) resides. He is one of the best 
authors in juvenile fiction, and has adopted 
a quaint style for the designs of his illus- 
trations. He is the author of the text and 
drawings of The Merry Adventures of 
Rohln Hood (1883), Pepper and Salt (1885), 
Within the Capes (1885), The Wonder 
Clock (1887), The Rose of Paradise (1887), 
and Otto of the Silver Hand (1889). 


• I canuot tell the bitter disappointment that 
took possession of me when my search proved 
to be of so little avail ; for I had felt so sure of 
finding the jewel or some traces of it, and had 
felt so sure of being able to secure it again, 
that I could not bear to give up my search, 
but continued it after every hope had expired. 
When I was at last compelled to acknowledge 
to myself that I had failed, I fell into a most 
unreasonable rage at the poor, helpless, fever- 
stricken wretch, though I had but just now 
been doing all that lay in my power to aid him 
and to help him in his trouble and sickness. 
" Why should I not leave him to rot where he 
is?" I cried in my anger; '"why should I 
continue to succor one who has done so much 
to injure me and to rob me of all usefulness 
and honor in this world ? " I ran out of the 
cabin, and up and down, as one distracted, 
hardly knowing whither I went. But by-and- 
by it was shown me what was right with more 
clearness, and that I should not desert the 
poor ajid helpless wretch in his hour of need : 
wherefore I went back to the hut and fell to 
work making a broth for him against he should 


awake, for I saw that the fovor was broken, 
and tliat he was like to get well. 

J (lid not give over my search for tlio stone 
in one day, nor two, nor three, but continued 
it wlienever the opportunity offered and the 
pirate was asleep, but witli as little success 
as at first, thougli I hunted ever3^where. As 
for Captain England himself, he began to mend 
from the very day upon which I came, for he 
awoke from his first sleep with his fever nigh 
gone, and all the madness cleared away from 
his head; but he never once, for a long while, 
spoke of the strangeness of my caring for him 
in his sickness, nor how I came to be there, 
nor of my I'easons for coming. Nevertheless, 
from where he la}^ he followed me with his eyes 
in all my motions whenever I was moving 
about the hut. One daj', however, after I had 
been there a little over a week, against which 
time he was able to lie in a rude hammock, 
which I had slung up in front of the door, he 
asked me of a sudden if any of his cronies had 
lent a hand at nursing him when he was sick, 
and 1 told him no. 

'• And how came you to undertake it ? " says 

"' Why," said I, " I was here on business, and 
found you lying nigh dead in this place." 

He looked at me for a little while, in a 
mightily strange way, and then suddenly burst 
into a great loud laugh. After that he lay 
still for a while, watching me, but present!}' he 
spoke again. '' And did yon find it ? " sa^'s he. 

••Find what?" I asked, after a bit, for 1 
was struck all aback by the question, and could 
not at first find one word to saj'. But he only 
burst out laughing again. 

" Why," sa3's he, '• you psalm-singing, Bible- 
reading, straitlaced Puritan skippers are as 
keen as a sail-needle ; you'll come prying about 
in a man's house looking for what you would 
like to find, and all under pretence of doing 
an act of humanity, but after all you find an 
honest devil of a pirate is a match for you." 


I made no answer to this but my heart sank 
witliin me; for I perceived, what I might have 
known before, that he had observed the object 
of my coming thither. 

He soon became strong enough to move about 
the place a little, and from that time I noticed 
a great change in him, and that he seemed to 
regard me in a very evil way. One evening 
when I came into the hut, after an absence in 
the town, I saw that he had taken down one of 
his pistols from the wall, and was loading it 
and picking the flint. He kept that pistol by 
him for a couple of days, and was forever 
fingering it, cocking it, and then lowering the 
hammer again. 

I do not know why he did not shoot me 
through the brains at this time ; for I verily 
believe that he had it upon his mind to do so, 
and that more than once. And now, in looking 
back upon the business, it appears to me to be 
little less than a miracle that I came forth from 
this adventure with my life. Yet, had I cer- 
tainly known that death was waiting upon me, 
I doubt that I should have left the place ; for 
in truth, now that I had escaped from the 
Lavinia, as above narrated, T had nowhere else 
to go, nor could I ever show my face in England 
or amongst my own people again. 

Thus matters stood, until one morning the 
whole business came to an end so suddenly and 
so unexpectedly that for a long while I felt as 
though all might be a dream from which I 
should soon awake. We were sitting together 
silently, he in a very moody and bitter humor. 
Me had his pistol lying across his knees, as he 
used to do at that time. 

.Suddenly he turned to me as though in a fit 
of rage. '"' Why do you stay about this accursed 
fever-hole ? " cried he ; " what do you want 
here, with your saintly face and your godly 



" I stay here," said I, bitterly, " because I 
have nowhere else to go." 

" And what do vou want ? " said he. 


"What, you know," said I, "as well as I 

"And do you thiuk," said he, "that I ^fill 
give it to you ?" 

" No," said I, " that I do not." 

" Look'ee, Jack Mackra, " said he, very 
slowly, "you are the only man hereabouts who 
knows anything of that red pebble " (here he 
raised his pistol, and aimed it directly at mj- 
bosom) ; " why shouldn't I shoot j'ou down 
like a dog, and be done with you forever ? I've 
shot many a better man than you for less than 

I felt every nerve thrill as I beheld the pistol 
set against my breast, and his cruel, wicked 
eyes behind the barrel ; but 1 steeled myself 
to stand steadily, and to face it. 

" You may shoot if you choose, Edward Eng- 
land," said I, "for I have nothing more to live 
fur. I have lost my honor and all except my 
life, through you, and you might as well take 
that as the rest." 

He withdrew the pistol, and sat regarding 
me for a while with a most baleful look, and 
for a time I do believe that my life hung in a 
balance with the weight of a feather to move it 
either way. Suddenlv he thrust his hand into 
his bosom, and drew forth the ball of ^^arn 
which I had observed, amongst other things, 
in his pocket. He flung it at me witli all his 
might, with a great cry as though of rage and 
anguish. "Take it,' he roared, "and may the 
devil go with you ! And now, away from here, 
and he quick about it, or I will put a bullet 
through 3'our head even yet." 

I knew as quick as lightning what it was 
that was wrapped in the ball of yarn, and leap- 
ing forward I snatched it up and I'an as fast as 
I was able awa}'^ from that place. I heard 
another roar, and at the same time the shot of 
a pistol and the whiz of a bullet, and nn' hat 
went spinning off before me as though twitched 
from off my head. I did not tarry to pick it 
up, but ran ou without stoppng; but even yet, 


to this day, I cannot tell whether Edward Eii'- 
land missed me through purpose or through 
the trembling of weakness ; for he was a dead- 
shot, and I myself once saw him snap the stem 
of a wine-glass with a pistol bullet at an ordi- 
nary in Jamaica. 

As for me, the whole thing bad happened 
so quickly and so unexpectedly that I had no 
time either for joy or exultation, but continued 
to run on, bareheaded, as though bereft of my 
wits; for I knew I held in my hand not only 
the great ruby, but also my honor, and all that 
was dear to me in my life. 

But although England had .>^o freely given 
me the stone, I knew that I n)ust remain in that 
place no longer. I still had between five and 
six guineas left of the money which I had 
brought ashore with me when I left the Lavinia. 
With this I hired a French fisherman to trans- 
port me to Madagascar, where I hoped to be 
able to work my passage either to Europe or 
back to the East Indies. 

As fortune would have it, we fell in with an 
English bark, the Kensitu/ton, bound for Cal- 
cutta, off the north coast of that land, and 1 
secured a berth aboard of her, shipping as an 
ordinary seaman ; for I liad no mind to tell my 
name, and so be forced to disclose the secret of 
the great treasure which I had with me. — The 
Hose of Paradise. 


PYTHAGORAS, a Grecian philosopher, 
the founder of the Italic School of Philos- 
ophy (so called because he promulgated it 
at the Greek cit}^ of Crotona in Southern 
Italy), born, probably on the island of Sa- 
mos, about 570 b. c. ; died about 504 b. c. 
Beyond these bare facts we know almost 
notliing of his life, except that he travelled 
widely, going at least as far as P^gypt. It 
is altogether uncertain whetlier the doc- 
trine of metempsychosis and some others 
propounded by the later Pythagoreans, 
were taught by him. What we really 
know of his teachings is their ethical phase. 
They are embodied in the thirty-nine Sym- 
bols (" Ensigns " or "■' Watch-words ") of 
Pythagoras ; and, although there is no good 
reason for supposing that he ever com- 
mitted his teachings to writing, it may be 
fairly assumed that the Symhoh are tlie 
words of . Pj^thagoras, handed down from 
generation to generation of his followers. 
In some of these Symbols the meaning in- 
tended to be conveyed is clearly shown 
by the words themselves, though leaving 
much room for amplification and comment. 
In others, while tlie words are perfectly 
intelligible, and convey a meaning, this is 
wholly different from the real esoteric 
meaning, which could be known only by 
an interpretation. Our Saviour was wont 
to employ both these modes of presenta- 
tion ; the parable of " The Wheat and the 
Tares " is an example of the latter mode. 
We present sufficient of these Symhols to 
show their genei'al character ; when neces- 
sary appending the interpretations given by 
several ancient writers to certain enigmat- 
ical passages. The whole of this is taken 
— with large condensations — from Thomas 
Stanle3'*s History of Philosophy. 



Symbol 1. — When you go to the Temple, 
worship ; neither do nor say anything con- 
cerning your life. 

Symbol 4. — Decline the highioays, and take 
the footpaths. 

Symbol 6. — Above all things, govern your 
tongue when you worship the gods. 

Symbol 7. — When the winds blov\ worship 
the noise. — " This," says lamblichus, '' implietli 
that we ought to love the similitude of divine 
nature and powers ; and when they make a 
reason suitable to their efficiency, it ought to 
be exceedingly honored and reverenced." 

Symbol 8. — Cut not f re vnth a sword. 

Symbol 10. — Help a man to take up a bur- 
then, but not to put it down. 

Symbol 16. — Wijje not a seat with a torch. — 
This is interpreted to mean : "We ought not 
to mix things proper to Wisdom with those 
which are proper to Animality. A torch, in 
respect of its brightness, is compared to Philos- 
ophy ; a seat, in respect of its lowness, to Ani- 

Symbol 19. — Breed nothing that hath 
crooked talons. 

Symbol 24. — Look fiot in a glass by candle- 

' Symbol 25. — Concerning the gods, disbelieve 
nothing wonderful; nor concerning divine 

Symbol 34. — Deface the print of a pot in 
the ashes. — This is variously interpreted. Ac- 
cording to lamblichus, "It signifies that he 
who applies his mind to Philosophy must for- 
get the demonstrations of Corporeals and Sen- 
sibles, and wholly make use of demonstrations 
of Intelligibles ; by ashes are meant the dust 
or sand in mathematical tables, where the 
demonstrations and figures are drawn." But 
Plutarch gives a much more simple interpreta- 
tion. He says, '' It adviseth that upon the 
reconcilement of enmities, we utterly abolish, 
and leave not the least priat or remembrauce 
of them." 


Symbol 37. — Abstain from beans. — This 
Symbol has received almost innumerable ex- 
planations. According to lanibliclius, "It ad- 
viseth to beware of everything that may corrupt 
our discourse with the gods and [)roscience." — • 
Aristotle gives wide room for choice of inter- 
pretation. He says: "Pythagoras forbade 
beans, for that they resemble the gates of 
Hades ; or, for that they breed worms ; or. for 
that they are oligarchic, being used in suffrages.'' 
This last is the explanation accepted by Plu- 
tarch, who tells us that "The meaning is Ab- 
stain from suffrages, which of old were given 
b}' beans." Clemens Alexandrinus agrees with 
Plutarch. — But far more exhaustive is the ex- 
planation of Porphyrus, the Syrian, who lived 
well nigh a thousand years after Pythagoras, 
■who says : " He interdicted beans, because the 
first begiuning and generation being confused, 
and many things being commixed and con- 
crescent together and compulsified in the earth 
by little and little, the generation and discre- 
tion broke forth together, and living creatures 
being produced together with plants, then out 
of the same pulsification arose both men and 
beans; whereof he alleged manifest arguments. 
For if any one should chew a bean, and having 
mixed it small with his teeth, lay it abroad in 
the warm sun, and so leave it for a little time, 
returning to it, he shall pei-ceive the scent of 
human blood. Moreover, if at any time when 
beans sprout forth the flower, one shall take a 
little of the flower, which then is black, and put 
it into an earthen vessel, and cover it close, and 
bury it in the ground ninety days, and at the 
end take it up and take off the cover, he shall 
find either the head of an infant or gunaikos 

Symbol 39. — Abstain from, flesh. 

The Golden Verses of Pythagoras, or 
rather of the Pythagoreans, are of ver)'' 
ancient, though of altogether uncertain, 
date. One might style them the Nicene 


Creed of Pytliagoreaiiisni, in its puiely 
ethical aspect. 


First, ill their ranks, the luiniortal Gods adore — 
Thy oath keep; next great Heroes; then im- 
Terrestrial Daemons, with due sacrifice. 
Thy parents reverence, and near allies. 
Him that is first in virtue make thy friend, 
And with observance his kind speech attend ; 
Nor, to thy power, for light faults cast him 

^y- . . 

Thy power is neighbor to Necessity. 

These know, and with attentive care pursue ; 
But anger, sloth, and luxury subdue : 

In sight of others, or thyself, forbear 
What's ill; but of tin-self stand most in fear. 
Let Justice all thy words and actions sway ; 
Nor from the even course of Wisdom stray ; 
For know that all men are to die ordained. 

Crosses that happen by divine deci-ee 
(If such thy lot) bear not impatiently; 
Yet seek to remedy with all thy care. 
And think the Just have not the greatest share. 
'Mongst men discourses good and bad are 

spread ; 
Despise not those, nor be by these misled. 
If any some notorious falsehood say. 
Thou the report with equal judgment weigh. 
Let not men's smoother promises invite, 
Nor rougher threats from just resolves thee 

If aught thou should'st attempt, first ponder 

it — 
Fools only inconsiderate acts commit ; 
Nor do what afterwards thou may'st. repent : 
First know the thing on which thou'rt bent. 
Thus thou a life shalt lead with joy replete. 

Nor must thou care of outward health forget. 
Such temperance use in exercise and diet. 
As may preserve thee in a settled quiet. 
Meats unprohibited, not curious, chuse; 
Decline what any other may accuse. 


The rash expense of vanity detest, 
And sordiduess: a lueiin in all is best. 

Hurt not thyself. Before thou act, advise ; 
Xor suffer sleep at night to close thy eyes 
Till thrice thy acts tluit day thou hast o'errun : 
How slipped '' what duty left undone ? — 
Thus, thy account suninied up from first to 

Grieve for the ill, joy for what good hath past. 

These study, pi'actice these, and these affect ; 
To Sacred Virtue these thy steps direct: — 
Eternal Nature's fountain 1 attest, 
Who the Tetractis on our souls imprest. 
Before thy mind thou to this study bend. 
Invoke the gods to grant it a good end. 
These, if thy labor vanquish, thou shalt then 
Know the connexure both of gods and men ; 
How everything proceeds, or by what stayed ; 
And know (as far as fit to be surveyed) 
Nature alike throughout; that thou may'st 

Not to hope hopeless things, but all discern : 
And know those wretches whose perverser Avills 
Draw down upon their hearts spontaneous ills. 
Unto the good that's near them deaf and blind ; 
Some few the cure of these misfortunes find. 
Tliis only is the Fate that harms, and rolls 
Thr<High miseries successive human souls. 
Within is a continual hidden sight, 
Which we to shun must study, not excite. 

Great Jove ! how little trouble should we 
If thou to all men wouldst their Genius sliow ! — • 
Hut fear not thou — man come of heavenly race. 
Taught by diviner Nature what to embrace. 
Which, if pursued, thou all I named shall g;iiii. 
And keep thy soul clean from thy body's stain. 
In time of prayer and cleansing, ineats denie<l 
Abstain from ; thy mind's reins let Reason 

Then, stripped of flesh up to free ;ether soar, 
A deathless god — divine — mortal no more. 

Transl. o/" Thomas Stanley. 


QUARLES, Francis, an English poet 
born in 1592 ; died in 1644. He was for 
a while cup-bearer to Elizabeth, daughter of 
James I., and wife of the Elector of the 
Palatinate, who was subsequently for a 
few months the nominal King of Bohemia. 
Through her the English crown devolved 
upon tlie House of Planover, after the de2)o- 
sition of the Stuarts. Quarles afterwards 
went to Ireland as secretary to Arch- 
bishop Usher. Still later he became chro- 
nologer to the city of London. When the 
troubles broke out between the Parliament 
and King Charles I., Quarles embraced the 
ro3\alist cause, and suffered severely in 
consequence. He was a favorite poet in 
his day. His principal works are the Biv'nte 
Emblems (1635), and the Enchiridion 
(1641). His son, John Quarles (1624- 
1665), was the author of several works 
somewhat in the quaint manner of his 


I love (and have some cause to love) the earth : 
She is my Maker's creature — therefore good : 
She is my motlier, for slie gave me birth ; 
She is mj' tender nurse — she gives me food : 

But wliat's a creature, Lord, compared 
with Thee, 

Or what's ni}' mother or my nurse to me ? 

I h>V(! tlie air : lier dainty sweets refresh 

]Mv drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me : 

Tier fnll-niouthed quire sustain me with their 

And with their polyphonian notes delight me: 
But what's tlie air, or all the sweets that 

Can bless my soul withal compared to Thee? 

I love the sea : she is my fellow-creature ; 
My careful ])urvi-yor ; she provides me store; 


She walls me round ; she makes mj diet 

greater ; 
She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore : 
But, Lord of oceans, when com2>ared with 

What is the ocean or her wealth to me ':' 

To heaven's high city I direct my journey. 
Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye ; 
Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney, 
Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky : 
But what is heaven, great God, compared 

to Thee '! 
Without Tiiy presence heaven's no heaven 
to me. 

Without Thv presence, earth gives no reflection, 

Without Thy presence, sea affords no treasure; 

Witliout Thy presence, air's a rank infection ; 

Without Thy presence heaven itself no pleasure: 
If not possessed, if not enjoj'ed in Thee, 
What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me? 

The brightest honoi's that the world can boast 
Are subjects far too low for my desire ; 
The brightest beams of glory are at most 
But dying sjiarkles of Thy living fire : 

The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be 
But nightlv glow-worms, if compared to 

Without Thy presence, wealth is bag.'s of cares ; 
Wisdom, but folly; joy, disquiet sadness : 
Friendshi[) is treason, and (h.'lights are snares; 
Pleasures but pains, and mirth l)nt iileasing 
madness : j^they be 

Without Thee, Lord, things be not what 
Nor have they being when compared with 
1 nee. 

In having all things, and not Thee, what have T ? 
Not having Thee, what have my labors got? 
Let me enjoy but Thee, what further crave I ? 

And having Thee alone, what have I not? 
I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be 
Possessed of heaven — heaver, unpossessed 
of Thee. 


QUINCY, JosiAH, an American states- 
man and scliolar, born at Boston in 1772 : 
died at Quincy, Mass., in 1864. He grad- 
uated at Harvard in 1790, and soon after- 
ward entered npon tlie practice of law in 
Boston. In 1804 he was elected to Con- 
o-ress, holding tliat position till 1813, wlien 
he declined a re-election ; and was thei'e- 
ii[)on chosen to the State Senate, of which 
he was a member until 1820. He was 
Mayor of Boston for six years, ending in 
1828, when he declined a re-election. In 
1829 he was called to the Presidency of 
Harvard University, a position wliich he 
resigned in 1845. On September 17, 1830, 
that being tlie close of the second century 
from the iirst-settlement of Boston, Mr. 
Quincy delivered in that city a Bi-Qenten- 
tiial Address. 


What lessons has New Eiiglaud, in every 
period of her history, given to the world • 
What .lessons do her condition and example 
still give ! She has .proved that all the variety 
of Christian sects may live together in harmony 
under a government which allows equal privi- 
leges to all, exclusive pre-eminence to none. 
She has proved that ignorance among the ninh 
titude is not necessary to order; but that the 
surest basis of order is the information of tlie 
jx'ople. She has proved the old maxim to be 
fiilse that "no goverinuent except a despotism, 
with ;i standing arm\', can subsist where the 
I)eo[)le have arms.'' . . . 

Such are the true glories of the institutions 
of our fathers. Such the natural fruits of that 
patience in toil, that frugality of disposition, 
that temperance of habit, that general diffusion 
of knowledge, and that sense of religious re- 
ponsibility, inculcated b}' the precepts and ex- 


liibited in tlie exiunple nf every geiicr.iHon of 
our ancestors. . . . 

What then, in conclusion, are the elements 
of the libert}', prosperity, and safety which the 
inhaltitants of New England at this day enjoy ".' 
In what language, and concerning what com- 
prehensive trutlis, does the wisdom of former 
times address the inexperience of the future ? 
These elements are simple, obvious, and fa- 

Every civil and religious blessing of New 
England — all that here gives happiness to 
human life, or security to human virtue — is 
alone to be perpetuated in the form and under 
the auspice.s of a free Commonwealth. — The 
(Jommonwealth itself has no other strength or 
hope than the intelligence and virtue of the 
individuals that com{>ose it. — For the intelli- 
gence and virtue of individuals there is n(» 
other human assurance than laws providing 
for the education of the whole people. — These 
laws themselves have no strength or efficient 
sanction except in the moral and accountable 
nature of man disclosed in the records of the 
Christian faith; the right to read, to construe, 
and to judge concerning which belongs to no 
class or caste of men ; but exclusively to the 
individual, who must stand or fall by his own 
acts and his own faith, and not by those of 

Tlie great comprehensive truths, written in 
letters of living light on every page of our 
histor}' — the language addi'essed by every past 
age of New England to all future ages, is this : 
Human happiness has no perfect security but 
freedom ; freedom none but virtue ; virtue none 
but knowledge ; and neither freedom nor virtue 
nor knowledge has any vigor or immortal hope, 
except in the principles of the Christian faith, 
and in the sanction of the Christian religion. 

Men of Massachusetts I Citizens of Boston ! 
descendants of the early emigrants ! consider 
your blessings ; consider your duties. You 
have an inheritance acquired by the labors and 

.TOSIAH QUixr;Y.— n 

sufferings of six successive generations of an- 
cestors. Thej founded the fabric of your pros- 
perity^ in a severe and masculine morality, 
having intelligence for its cement, and religion 
for its groundwork. Continue to build on the 
same foundation, and by the same principles ; 
let the extending temple of your country's 
freedom rise in the spirit of ancient times, in 
proportions of intellectual and moral ai'chitec- 
ture — just, simple, and sublime. As from the 
first to this day, let New England continue to 
be an example to the world of the blessings of 
a free government, and of the means and 
capacity of man to maintain it. And in all 
times to come, as in all times past, may 
Boston be among the foremost and the boldest 
to exemplify and uphold whatever constitutes 
the prosperity, the happiness, and the glorj' of 
New England. — From the Boston lii- Cen- 

Besides his Speeches in Congress and the 
Legislature, and Orations delivered on 
various occasions, Mr. Quincy published 
several books, among which are : Life of 
Josiah Quincy^ Jr.., his father (1825), His- 
tory of Harvard University (1840), History 
of the Boston Athenceum (1851), Life of 
John Quincy Adams (1858), Essays on the 
Soiling of Cattle (1859). 


QUINTILIAN (Marcus Fabius 
QuiNTiLiANUS), a Roman rhetorician, born 
in Spain about 40 A. D., died about 118. 
He was educated at Rome, where he 
became an advocate and teacher of oratory, 
and opened a school which flourished for 
more tlian twenty years under his charge. 
Among his pupils were the younger Pliny 
and two grand-nei>hews of Domitian, who 
invested him with the consular dignity. 
He also had a large allowance from the 
imperial treasury, granted by Vespasian, 
the father of Domitian. He has come 
down to after ages b}^ his Institutiones 
Oratorice. This work, which is divided 
into twelve books, comprises a complete 
system for the training of a j'oung orator 
from the time when he is phiced in the 
care of a nurse, through school, and 
his strictly professional studies, until he is 
fairly launched into practice. It contains 
instructions as to the method of examining 
witnesses, sifting testimon}^ and preparing 
the plea. The cardinal idea running 
thi'ough the whole is that the true orator 
must be a good man. This principle is 
enunciated at the very outset, is continu- 
ally repeated, and is emphatically set forth 
in the closing paragraphs. Our quota- 
tions are in the translation of Patsall. 


The perfect orator must be a man of integ- 
rity — a good mail — otherwise he cannot pre- 
tend to that cliaracter ; and we therefore not 
only require in him a consummate talent for 
speaking, hut all the virtuous endowments of 
the mind. An honest and upriglit life cannot, 
in my opinion, be restricted to Philosophers 
alone, for the man who acts in a I'eal civil 
capacit}' — who has talents for the admiuistra- 


tion of public and private concerns, who can 
govern cities by his counsels, maintain them 
by bis laws, and meliorate them by his judg- 
ments — cannot be anything but the Orator. 

Though' 1 shall use some things contained 
in books of philosophy, I assert that they 
l>elong by right to our work, and in a peculiar 
manner to the art of Oratory. And if often I 
must discuss some (juestions of moral philoso- 
phy — sucli as Justice, Fortitude, Temperance, 
and the like — scarce a cause being found in 
which there may not be some debate or other 
upon these subjects — and all requiring to be 
set in a proper light by invention and elocution 
— shall it be doubted that wherever the force 
of genius and a copious dissertation are re- 
quired, there in a particular degree is pointed 
out the business of the Orator ? — Institutiones, 
Book T. 


Nurses should not have an ill accent. Their 
morals are first to be inspected ; next the prop- 
er px'onunciation of their words ought to be at- 
tended to. These are the first the child hears, 
and it is their words his imitation strives to 
form. We are naturally tenacious of the 
things we imbibe in our younger years. New 
vessels retain the savor of things first put into 
them ; and the dye by which the wool loses its 
primitive whiteness cannot be effaced. The 
worse things are, the more stubbornly they 
adhere. Good is easily changed into bad ; but 
when was bad ever converted into good? Let 
not the child, even while an infant, accustom 
himself to a manner of speech which he must; 
unlearn. — TnstittUiones, Book T. 


Some were of opinion that children under 
seven years of age ought not to be made to 
learn, because that early age can neither con- 
ceive the meaning of methods, nor endure the 


restraints of study. But I agree with those 
— as Cluwsippus — wlio think tliat no time 
ought to be exempted from its proper care ; for 
tliough lie assigns tliree 3'ears to the nurse, he 
judges tliat even then instruction ma\'^ be of 
singular benefit. And wh}- may not years, 
which can be mended by manners, be improved 
also by learning. I am not ignorant that one 
year will afterwards effect as much as all the 
time I speak of will scarce be able to compass. 
What better can they do, when once they can 
speak ? They must necessarily do something. 
Or why must we despise this gain, how little 
soever, till seven years have expired ? For, 
though the advantage of the first years be in- 
considerable, a boy will, notwithstanding, learn 
a greater matter that very year in which he has 
learned a less. Such yearly' advances will a^ 
length make up something considerable ; and 
the time well spent and saved in infancy will 
be an acquisition to youth. The following 
yeai's may be directed by the same precepts, 
that whatever is to be learned may not be 
learned too late. Let us not, therefore, lose 
this first time ; and the rather because the ele- 
ments of learning depend upon meniorj', which 
most commonly is not only very ripe but also 
very retentive in children. — lnstUuti07ies. 
Book I. 


As the boy grows up, he must insensibly be 
weaned from all infantile toj-s and indulgences, 
and begin to learn in earnest. Let the future 
orator, who must appear in the most solemn 
assemblies, and have the eyes of a whole repub- 
lic fixed upon him, earlj' accustom himself not 
to be abashed at facing a numerous audience; 
the reverse of which is a natural consequence 
of a recluse and sedentary life. His mind 
must be excited, and kept in a state of constant 
elevation ; otherwise I'etreat and solitude will 
force it to droop in languor. It will contract 
rust, as it were, in the shade ; or, on the con- 


trary, become puffed up viith the vanity of self- 
love ; for one that compares himself with none, 
cannot help attributing too much to himself. 
Afterwards, when obliged to make a show of 
his studies, he is struck mute; he is blind m 
daylight ; everything is new to him ; and the 
reason is because he has breathed only the air 
of his cabinet, and learned in private what he 
was to transact before the world. — Institu- 
tiones, Book I. 


1 remember a custom observed b\' mj' masters, 
not without success. They distributed the 
pupils into classes, and everj'' one declaimed in 
his place, which was more advanced, according 
as he had excelled others, and made a greater 
progress. Judgment being to be passed on 
the performances, the contention was great for 
the respective degrees of excellence ; but to be 
the first of the class was esteemed something 
very grand. This was not a division to con- 
tinue always. Every thirtieth day renewed the 
CMiitest, and made the vanquisjied more eager 
for again entering the lists. He who had the 
superiority slackened not his care; and he who 
was worsted was full (>i hopes to wipe off his 
disgrace. 1 am persuaded that this gave us a 
more ardent desire and a greater passion for 
learning than all the advice of masters, care of 
tutors, and wishes of parents. — Taatitationei^, 
Kook I. 

Much the greater portion of the Institu- 
flones is devoted to instructions and sug- 
gestions to the orator, for the performance 
of his duties after he had entered upon his 
cai-eer of an advocate, which it is assunied 
was the one for which he had heen prepar- 
ing himself. 


A principal constituent of the interrogation 
is to have a knowledge of the nature of the 


witness. If lie is timid, terrify liiin ; silly, 
lead him into deception ; ambitious, ])uff up ; 
tedious, make liiin more disgustful by liis pro- 
lixity. But if the witness should be found 
[)rudent and consistent with himself, he is 
either to be set aside instantly as an obstinate 
enemy ; or is to be refuted, not In' (questioning 
liim inform, but by holding some short dialogue 
with him. Or, if possible, his ardor i.s to be 
cooled by some pleasantry ; and if some handle 
can be made of his vicious conduct in life, he 
may on that account be charged home, and 
branded with infamy. Honest and modest wit- 
nesses should meet with mild treatment; for, 
often proof against rude behavior, they relent 
bv affability and complaisance. — Institutiones, 
](ook IV. 


Arguments are often to be drawn from the 
person — all questions being reducible to thin<f.^ 
(Did persons. I shall touch only upon such as 
affoi'd places for argument. These places 
are : — 

Birth '. For children are generally believed 
to be like their parents and ancestors; and 
hence are derived the causes of their honest or 
scandalous lives. — Nation : For all nations 
have their peculiar manners; and the same is 
not probable in a Barbariaii, lloman, or Greek. 
— Country: Because there is some difference 
in the constitution of government, laws, and 
usages of every state. — Sex: As robbery is 
more probable in man, poisoning in woman, — 
A(/e : Because all degrees of age are cliaracter- 
ized by what are suitable to them. — Education 
and jDiscipline : As it is of some consequence 
by whom and how every one is brought up. — 
JTahit of Body : Because comeliness or beauty 
of person is frequently suspected of a propen- 
sity to lust, as is strength of rude carriage. 
The opposite qualities are differently thought 
of. — Fortune : The same is not credible in u 


rich and a poor man ; in one that has many 
friends and dependants, and another destitute 
of all these blessings. — Conditioyt, : For it 
much signifies whether one is of an <Miiiiient 
or mean occupation ; a magistrate or a private 
man ; a father or a son ; a denizen or alien ; a 
free man or a slave ; a married man or a bache- 
lor ; a father of children or childless. — Pan- 
sions and Inclinations : For avarice, angei-, 
severit}', and the like, determine often to the 
belief or disbelief of many occurrences. — The 
Way of Linincj : Whether it be luxurious, 
frugal, or sordid. — Professions or Occupa- 
fions : The peasant, citizen, merchant, soldier, 
seaman, physician, think and act differently. — 
Institutiones, Book V. 


It cannot be doubted, if the wicked can be 
reclaimed and brought to abetter course of life 
— as it is granted they sometimes may — that 
it would be more to the advantage of the com- 
mon wealth to have them saved than punished. 
If, therefore, the orator is convinced that the 
delinquent will approve himself for the future 
a man of integrity, will he not use his best 
endeavors to save him from the rigor of the 
law ; and still come within our definition that 
"an Orator is an honest man, skilled in the art 
of speaking? ''.... 

It is not less necessary to teach and to be 
informed how things difficult to be proved 
ought to be treated; as frequently the best 
causes resemble bad ones ; and a man may be 
accused unjustly', though all aj^pearances are 
against him. In a case of this sort, the defense 
is to be conducted as if there was no real guilt. 
There are also many things common to good 
and bad causes — as witnesse.s, letters, suspicions, 
prejudices; and probabilities are corroborated 
and refuted in much the sann; wa\- as truth. 
Therefore, everything may be made to tend in 
the pleading to the good of the cause, and so 
far as it will be able to bear; yet alwaA's with 


a I'eserve to tlu- purity of iiiteiitiuii. — Justitfi- 
tlonen, liouk XII. 

( ()N( Ll^JSlU-N 1>K THK ■• 1 .NSTI Tl TI< INKS." 

1 1 is difficult to perfect so gri;iii :i work as 
becoming the Orator, and none yet liave brought 
it to perfection. Yet one shouhl tliink it a 
fully sufficient inviteinent to tiie study of 
sciences that there is no negation in nature 
against the practicability of a thing wliich has 
not hitherto been done; since all the greatest 
and most admirable works have had some time 
or other in which they were lirst brought to a 
degree of [lerfection. For by how much Poetry 
is indebted for its lustre to Homer and Virgil, 
by so much Eloquence is to Demosthenes and 
Cicero. And, indeed, what is now excellent 
was not so at first. Jsow, though one should de- 
spair of reaching to the height of perfection — a 
groundless despair in a person of genius, health, 
talents, and who has masters to assist him — 
yet it is noble, as Cicero saN's, to have a place 
in the second or tliii-d rank. 

Let us, therefore, with all the affections of 
our heart, endeavor to attain the very majesty 
of Eloquence, than which the immortal gods 
have not imparted anything better to mankind ; 
and without which all would be mute in nature, 
and destitute of the splendor of a present glory 
and future remembrance. Let us likewise 
always make a continued progress towards per- 
fection ; and by so doing we shall either reach 
the height, or at least shall see many beneath 

This is all, as far as in me lies, T could con- 
tribute to the perfection of the art of eloquence ; 
the knowledge of which, if it does not prove of 
any great advantage to studious youtli, will at 
least — what 1 more ardently wish for — give 
them a more ardent desire for doing well.^ 
Institutionts, Book XII. 


RABELAIS, Francois, a Frencli eccle- 
siastic and humorist, born at Chinon about 
1490 ; died at Paris in 1553. He was 
educated at monastic schools, and was 
ordained as priest in 1511. In 1524 
he received papal permission to enter a 
Benedictine monastery ; six years after- 
wards lie abandoned the monastic life, 
studied medicine, and entered upon prac- 
tice at Lyons. In 1536 his former school- 
fellow", Jean du Bellay, Bishop of Paris, 
and afterwards a Cardinal, was made 
French Ambassador at Rome. He en^ 
gaged Rabelais as his physician, and ob- 
tained for him from the Pope a remission 
of the ecclesiastical penalties which he had 
incurred by abandoning his orders. Sub* 
sequently he became a member of the 
Abbey of St. Maur des Fosses at Paris, 
where lie remained until 1542, when he 
received the comfortable living of Meudon. 
He faithfully performed his ecclesiastical 
duties ; but devoted all his leisure to the 
enlargement of his most notable work, 
Les Fails et Diets du Geant Gargantua 
et de son Fils Pcmtagruel^ some portions of 
which had appeared as early as 1533. This 
work, like Swift's Gulliver^ is partly a 
political and social satire, though author- 
ities are not fully agreed as to many of the 
characters depicted. It is, however, pretty 
well settled that Gargantua is meant for 
King Francis I ; Pantagruel is his son 
Henry II. ; Panurge is the Cardinal de 
Lorraine ; Friar John des Entommeures is 
the Cardinal du Bellay. Rabelais and 
Swift are often classed together; but the 
distinguishing characteristic of Gargantua 
is its exuberant fun and jollity, and the 
total lack of that cvnicism which runs 


through every page of Gulliver. Bacon 
lias fitly styled Rabelais " the great jester 
of France " ; others, less appositely, style 
him •' the prose Homer." 


It (lid one good to see him, for he was a fine 
hoy witli about eight or ten chins, and cried 
very little. If it happened that he was put 
out. angry, vexed, or cross — if he fretted, if he 
wept, if he cried — if drink was brought to him, 
he wouhl be restored to temper, and suddenly 
become (juiet and joyous. One of his gover- 
nesses toUi me that at the ver}'^ sound of pints 
and flagons he would fall into an ecstasy, as if 
he were tasting the joys of paradise ; and upon 
consideration of this, his divine complexion, 
tliey would every morning, to cheer him, play 
with a knife upon the glasses, or the bottles 
with their stoppers, and on the pint-})ots with 
their lids; at the sound whereof he became 
gay, would leap for joy, and would rock him- 
self in the cradle, lolling with his head and 
monochordizing with his Ungers. — Transl. of 
AValter Besant. 

the abbey ok thelema. 

All their life was spent not by statutes, law, 
or rules, but according to their free will and 
pleasure. They rose when they thought good; 
they ate, drank, worked, slept when the desire 
came to them. No one woke them up ; no one 
forced them to eat, drink, nor to do any other 
thing whatever. So had Gargantua established 
it. In their Rule there was but this one clause : 
"Fat/ ce que voiddras — Do what you will.'' 
Ry this liberty they entered into a laudable 
emulation to do all of them what they saw 
pleased anybody else. If one of them — either 
a monk or a sister — said, " Let us play," the}' 
all pla3'ed ; if one said, '' Let us go and take 
our pleasure in the fields," they all went. . . . 

So nobly were they taught that there was 


not one amoug them but could read, write, sing, 
play upon musical instruments, speak five or 
six languages, and compose in them, either in 
verse or measured prose. Never were seen 
knights more valiant, more gallant, more dex- 
terous on horse or toot, more vigorous, more 
active, more skilled in the use of arms than 
these. Xever were seen ladies so handsome, whimsical, more ready with hand, with 
needle, or with every honest and free womanly 
action than these. For this reason when the 
time came that any mafi of said xYbbey had u 
mind to go out of it, he carried along with him 
one of the ladies, and they were married tt;- 
gether. And if they had formerly lived in 
Thelema in good devotion and amity, they 
continued therein, and increased it to a greater 
height in their state of matrimony ; so that they 
entertained that mutual love till the end of 
their days, just as on the day of their mar- 
riage. — Trunsl. of Walter Besant. 


"If,'" said Friar John, "you understand why 
a monke}' in a famil}' is always mocked and 
worried, j'ou will understand why monks are 
abliorred of all, both old and young. The 
monkej- does not watch the house like a dog ; 
he does not drag the cart like the ox ; he 
gives no wool like the sheep ; he does not carry 
burdens like the horse. 80 with the monk. 
He does not cultivate the soil like the peasant; 
he does not guard the land like the soldier; 
he does not heal the sick like the physician ; 
he does not teach like the evangelical doctor or 
the schoolmaster; he does not import goods 
and necessary things like the merchant." 

" But the monks pra}- for all," objects Grand- 

" Nothing less,'' says Uargantua. '"' They 
only annoy the neighborhood with ringing 
their bells." 

" Trul}'," sa^'s Friar John, '-a mass, a matin, 
and a vesper with many are half said. They 


mumble great store of legends and psalms of 
whicli they understand nothing. They count 
plenty of Paternosters and Ave IVEarias, with- 
out tiiinking and without understanding; and 
that I call mocking God, and not making 
prayers. But God help them if they pray for 
us and not for fear of losing their fat soups. — 
Transl. Waltkr Bksant. 

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