Sw>>:5-5;V>
THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
GIFT OF
FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD
Digitized by tine Internet Arcliive
in 2008 witli funding from
IVIicrosoft Corporation
http://www.archive.org/details/aldenscyclopedia16newy
ALDEN'S CYCLOPEDIA
Universal Literature
PRXSEMTINO
BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES, AND SPECIMENS
FROII THE WRITINGS OP EMINENT AUTHORS
OF AUi AG12S AKD ALL NATIONS
VOL. XVI
NEW YORK
JOHN B, ALDEN, PUBLISHER
1890
Copyright. 1890,
BV
JOHN B, ALDEN.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME XVI.
PACK.
O'Bri'en, Fitz James, (Irish-Amer., 1828-1862.)
Of Loss, ....... 2
Elisba Kent K:ine, . . . - 4
OEHLENscHLXGER(o'len-shla'ger), AdamOottlob, (,Dan.,
1770-1850.)
" 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, Caroli.ve. 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 .4.ge of St Augustine, and Our Own, . . .4
S-l 335
4 CONTENTS.
PAOS,
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, .
Encouragement,
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, ....
•)
.)
CONTENTS. 5
PAGE.
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
6 CONTENTS.
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). Chari.es, (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
CONTENTS. 7
PAGE.
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.,
1332-1400.)
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,
PAGE
2
3
4
5
6
CONTEXTS.
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, ....••
Night
Saint Cecilia, .....
A Grave in Hollywood Cemetery, Richmond, Va
(lods Tatience, ....
Primk, Samuel Iren.«us, (Amer., 1812-1885.)
Sa:niH'l Hanson Cox, ....
Pri.mk, 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, ....
Life,
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,
9
PAOS.
5
10 CONTENTS.
PAOX.
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
CYCLOPEDIA
OF
UNIVERSAL LITERATURE.
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
FIT2 JAMES O'BKIEN. -2
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.
OF LOSS.
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;
FITZ JAMES O'BRIEN. -<J
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.
*' 0 loss ! " I sang, " 0 early loss !
O blight that nipped the buds of spring !
O spell that turned the gold to dross!
0 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,
FITZ JAMES O'BRIEN.— 4
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 ! "
ELISHA KENT KANE.
(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
waste.
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
West,
From out its giant breast,
Yelled its frank welcome. And from main to
main,
Jubilant to the sky.
FITZ JAMES O'BRIEN.— 5
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
floe
Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear
Crunches his prey ; the insufficient share
riTZ JAMES O'BRIEN. -«
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
band
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
throng
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
more.
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
oold.
By the good Christian Knight, Elisha Kane !
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLAGER.-^!
OEHLENSCHLAGER, Adam Gott.
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}.
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLEXSCHLAGER.— 2
•' ALADDIN : " DEDICATIOX TO GOETHE,
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 ?
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSOHLAQER.— 3
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.
ON TRACE OF THE MAGIC LAMP.
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
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLAGER.— 4
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-
cealed,
Known but to him that owns it." And shall 1
(Scarce dares my tongue give the bold questioa
voice),
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
forth
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.
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENaCHLAGER.— 6
" '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.
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLEN"SCHLA.GER.— «
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.
THE SCANDINAVIAN WARRIORS AND BARDS.
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
I'etired.
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
wire.
And poured his notes, amid the ensanguined
heath,
While panting thousands kindled at his
lyre.
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
wild.
And their hymned names, through ages un-
effaced.
The weary hours of future Danes beguiled.
W^hen even their snowy bones had mouldered
long,
On the high column lived the imperishable song.
And the impetuous harp resounded high
With feats of hardiuient done far and
wide ;
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLEX50HLAGER.— 7
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.
ON LEAVING ITALY.
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.
GEORGES OHNET.— 1
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.
THE INVENTOR AND THE BANKER.
"Do not fear to ask too much. I will agree
to whatever you wish. I am so sure of
success."
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
me?"
UKORGES OHNET.— 2
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-
fidence.
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
GEORGES OHNET.— 3
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
GEORGES OHNET.— 4
not be tolfl the use she had niarle of her fortune.
And tliat is wl)at you call closing her purse to
you!"
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.
GEORGES 0H:N'ET.— 5
" 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
cried.
" 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).
LAURENCE OLIPHANT.— 1
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
LAtmENCE OLIPHANT.— 2
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).
REVOLUTIONS AND THE GOVERNMENT IN CHINA.
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
characterized.
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
LAURENCE OLIPHANT. -3
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.
A VISIT ON MOUNT CAKMEL.
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
LAUEENX'E OLIPHANT.— 4
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
LAURENCE OLIPHANT.-5
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.
MARGARET OllUE OLIPHANT. -1
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).
AN KNGLISH KECTOR AND RECTORY.
** 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
MARGARET ORME OLIPHANT.— 2
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
povert}-.
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
MARGARET ORME OLIPHAN'T.— 3
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
MAI^GARET OR.ME OLIPIIAXT.— 4
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.
EDWARD IRVING.
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
MARGARET ORME OLIPHANT.— 5
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-
MAKGAKET OllEM OLIPHANT. -«
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.
SAVONAROLA AND LORENZO DE' MEDICI.
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
MARGAliET ORME OLIPHAX7\~7
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-
MARGARET ORME OL1PHANT.-8
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,
MARGARET ORME OLIPHAyT.— 9
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.
OMAU KHAYYiJU.— 1
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.
OMAR KIIAYrlM.— ^
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
OMAR KHAYYAM.-3
tlie quatrains somewhat differently from
Mr. Fitz_2^erald, wliose order of enumera-
tion we follow.
SELECTIONS FROM THE " RUBATAT."
I.
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,
II.
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?"
III.
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."
XL!
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.
XLII.
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.
XLTII.
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.
XLIV.
Wh}', if the Soul can fling the dust aside
And naked on the air of FTfuvon ride,
OMAR KHAYYAM.— 4
Were't not a shame — were't not a shame for
him
In the clay carcase crippled to abide ?
XLV.
'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.
XLVI.
And fear not lest Existence, closing your
Account and mine, should know the like no
more.
The Eternal Saki from that bowl has poured
Millions of bubbles like us — and will pour.
XLVII.
When You and I behind the veil are past,
Oh ! but the long, long while the World shall
last,
Which of our coming and departure heeds
As the Seven Seas should heed a pebble cast.
XLVIII.
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 !
XLIX.
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 ?
L.
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 ;
LI.
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,
OMAR KHATYiCM.-*
Lll.
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.
LIII.
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
then
To-morrow You, when shall be l^ou no more ?
LIV.
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.
LV.
You know, my friends, with what a brave
carouse
I made n. second marriage in my house ;
Divorced old barren lleason from my bed,
And took the Daughter of the Vine to spouse,
LVI.
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.
LVII.
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.
LVII I.
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
LIX.
The Grape, that can with logic absolute
The two-and-seventy jarring sects confute;
OMAR KHA-YYA^M.— 6
The sovei'eign Alcliemist tliat, in a truce,
Life's leaden metal into gold transmutes
LXIII.
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.
LXIV.
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 ?
LXV.
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.
LXVI.
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."
LXVII.
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.
LXVIII.
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 ;
LXIX.
Impotent Pieces of the game He plays.
Upon his checker-board of Nights and Days,
Hither and thither moves and checks and
mates,
And one by one back in the closet lays.
OMAR KHAYYAM— 7
LXX.
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.
LXXX.
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.
LXXXI.
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.
LXXXII.
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.
xc.
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 !
xci.
0 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 !
xcii.
0 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 !
AMELIA OPIE.— 1
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
merit.
THE OUPHAN BOy's TALE.
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.
AMELIA OPIE.— 2
« 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.
0 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
JOHN BOYLE O'EEILLY.— 1
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).
WESTERN AUSTKALIA.
0 beauteous Soutliland ! land of yellow air
That liangeth o'er thee slumbering, aud doth
hold
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
bird.
He painted with fresh hues th\' myriad flowers,
But left them scentless. Ah ! their woful
dole,
Like sad reproach of their Creator's powers —
To make so sweet, fair bodies, void of soul.
JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. -2
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
wist,
But no bee-lover ever notes the sv.ell
Of hearts, like lips, a-hungeringto be kissed.
0 strange land, thou art virgin ! thou art more
Than fig-tree barren ! Would that I could
paint
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
heart.
DYIXG IN HARNESS.
Only a fallen horse, stretched out there on the
road.
Stretched in the broken shafts, and crushed by
the heavy load ;
Only a fallen horse, and a circle of wondering
eyes
Watching the 'frighted teamster goading the
beast to rise.
Hold ! for his toil is over — no more labor for
him.
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
lie
With the broken shafts and the cruel load,
waiting only to die.
JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.— 3
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
goad.
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 !
MY NATIVE LAND.
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
smile.
JOHK BOYLE O'REIL-LT. -4
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
smiles,
Like that kind face and breast where I was
nursed
Is my poor land, the Niobe of isles.
THE PILGRIMS OF THE MAYFLOWER.
[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
JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. -5
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
brought,
And here revived, in spite of sword and stake,
The ancient freedom of the Wapentake.
Here struck the seed — the Filgrim.s' ronfle.ss
town,
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. 1
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-
ward.
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-
ORIGEN. -2
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
History).
UNENDING METEMPSYCHOSES AND PROBATIONS.
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,
0RIGEN.-3
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.
THE FATHEU, SON, AND HOLV GHOST.
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
0IIIGEN.-4
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.
JAMES ORTO:^.— 1
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).
THE GEXKSIS OF THE ANDES AND THE AMAZON.
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
JAMES ORTON.— 2
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-
lennia.
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
JAMES ORTON.— 3
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
Amazon.
FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.— 1
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-
wold.
LABORARE EST OBARE.
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
ill.
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-
willow.
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
sweeping,
Free as a sunbeam, the swift sickle guides.
Labor is Wealth : In the sea the pearl growethj
FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.— 2
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
thee,
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
God.
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
heart.
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
part.
Labor is Life : 'Tis the still water faileth ;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ;
Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust
assaileth.
FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.— 3
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of
noon.
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.
PASSING TO THE HEREAFTER.
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.
KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.— 1
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
war.
DKIVING HOME THH COWS.
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-
swamp,
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
feet,
And the blind bats flitting startled him.
Thrice since then had the lanes been white,
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom;
KATE ITTXAM OSGOOD.— 2
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.
OUT OF PRISON". ^
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!
KATE riTTXAM OSGOOD.— 3
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.
SAMUEL OSGOOD.— 1
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.
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
SAMUEL Os(;OOD.— 2
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,.
OUll DOCTOR.
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-
Journey.
OUR MINISTER.
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
SAMUEL OSGOOD.— 3
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 PRACTICAL MAN.
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
SAMUEf. OSGOOD.— 4
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
Leaves.
THE AGE OF ST. AUGU.STINE, AND OUR OWN.
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
SAMUEL OSGOOD.— 5
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
SAMUEL OSGOOD.— G
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.
SARAH MARGARET OSSOLI.— 2
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).
THE HEROIC IN THE ROMAN CHARACTER,
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
Stator.
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
SAEAH MARGARET OSSOLL— 3
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.
ROMAX MANFULXESS.
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
SARAH MAi:()AKET OSSOLT.— 4
hy any other nation ; it belonged to Rome. —
I^apers on JAterature and Art.
TllK UJSTORY AND LITERATURE OF ROME.
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
expressed.
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.
ENCOURAGEMENT.
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 —
• SARAH MARGARET OSSOLL— 5
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.
ORPHEUS.
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
pain
Must search all Xature with his own soul's fire.
Must bind anew all forms in heavenly
chain.
If he already sees what he must do.
Well may he shade his eyes from the far-
shining view.
JAMES OTIS.— 1
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
JAMES OTIS —2
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).
THE BRITISH CONSTITUTION AND THE COLONIES.
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
JAMES OTIS.— 3
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.
THE RIGHT TO VOTE.
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.
THOMAS OTWAY.— 1
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
stage.
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
hardly.
Pierre. — Thou Jaffier ! thou my once loved,
valued friend !
By heavens, thou liest ! The man so called my
friend
THOMxVS OTWAY. -2
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
coward.
Poor in thy soul, and loathsome in thy aspect !
All eyes must shun thee, and all hearts detest
thee.
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
moment?
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
friends
May yet live long, and to be better treated.
Pierre. — Life ! ask my life ! confess ! record
myself
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
jangling,
And cannot part on better terms than now,
When only men like thee are fit to live in't.
THOMAS OTWAr.— 3
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
thee.
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
numberless.
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
thee,
THOMAS OTWAV. 4
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
violated,
Never from this cursed hour to hold commun-
ion,
Frieiidi'.hip, or interest with thee, though our
years
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
with.
Jqf.—O Pierre !
Pierre. — No more !
Jiif. — My eyes won't lose the sight of thee,
But languish after thine, and ache with
gazing.
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.
A MORNING IN SPRING.
Wished Morning's come ; and now upon the
plains
And distant mountains, where they feed their
flocks,
The happy shepherds leave their homely huts.
And with their pijies proclaim the new-born
day.
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,
THOMAS OTWAY.— 5
And dress tliu grateful glebe that j'ields him
fruits.
The beasts that under the warm hedges slept,
And weatliered out the cold bleak uight are up ;
And, looking towards the neighboring pasture,
raise
Their voice, and bid their fellow brutes good-
morrow.
The cheerful birds, too, on the tops of trees,
Assemble all in choirs; and with their notes
Salute and welcome up the rising sun.
PARTING.
Where am I ? Sure I wander 'midst En-
chantment,
And never more shall find the way to rest.
But, 0 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
"still!
Wilt thou not speak ? If we must part for
ever.
Give me but one kind word to think upon.
And please myself with, while my heart is
breaking.-
The Orphan,
Sm THOMAS OVEUHITRY.— 1
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."
THE FAIR AND HAPPY MILKMAID.
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.
A FKAXKLIN.
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
SIR TII()>rAS OVERBURY.— 3
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.
GVID.—l
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
OYTr>._3
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
THE CLOSING OF THE TEMPLE OP JANUS.
" 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
wave
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.
THE PRIMEVAL CHAOS.
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
driven,
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
throng
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
he—
Had formed the whole, and made the parts
agree.
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
most
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
being.
THE ADVENT OF MAN.
Something yet lacked — some holier being, dow-
ered
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
heaven.
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
stars.
And thus earth's substance, rude and shapeless
erst,
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
blew
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.
PALLAS AND ARACHNE AT THE LOOM.
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
thread
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
Ovid:—
THE TRANSFORMATION OF ARACHNE.
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
form
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-
pressed,
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 !
0VTD.-!'2
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
water.
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-
tages.
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.
SIR RICHARD OWEN.— 1
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.
THE BRITISH MAMMOTH.
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.
SIR mCHAKD OWEN.— 2
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. "
ROBERT DALE OWEN".— 1
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).
ANTECEDENT PROBABILITY OF SPIRITUAL
MAXIFESTATIOXS.
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
ROBERT DAI.E OWEN.— 2
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,
persistent.
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
RODEllT DALE OWEN.— 3
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
solution.
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
Land.
JOHN OXENFORD. -1
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,
(1855).
A CONVERSATION WITH GOETHE.
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.
JOHN OXENFOKU.— 2
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-
JOHN OXENFORD.— 3
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
Rome."
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.
HENRY NIJTCOMBE OXENHAM.— 1
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.
THE LAW OF HOXOR.
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
HENKY NUTCOMBE OXENHAM.— 2
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-
A HET^RY NUTCOMBE OXEXHAM.— 3
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.
THOMAS NELSOK PAGE.— 1
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
1889.
MARSE CHAN,
"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'
THOMAS NELSON PAGE.— 2
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
THOMAS T^ELSON PAGE.— 3
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
letter.
" 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
THOMAS NELSOX PAGE. -4
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
peaceful.
" 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 ? "
VIOLET PAGET.— 1
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).
SEEKIXG NEW SCENES.
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-
VIOLET PAGET. -2
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
VIOLET PAGET. -3
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
VIOLET PAGET.— 4
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
VIOLET PAGET.— 5
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
Hamlin.
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.
KOBEllT TltKAT PAIXE. 1
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.
ADAMS AND LIBERTY.
Ye Sons of Columbia, who bravely have
fought
For those rights which unstained from your
sires had descended,
May you long taste the blessings your valor
has bought,
ROBERT TREAT PAINE. 2
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
commotion,
The trident of Commerce should never bo
hurled,
To increase the legitimate powers of tht.
Ocean.
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
stand,
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 ;
ROBERT TREAT PAINE.— 3
Her pride are her statesmen ; tlieir laws are
lier choice,
And shall flourish till Liberty slumber for-
ever.
Then unite heart and hand,
Like Leoiiidas's band
And swear to tlie God of the ocean and
land,
That ne'er sluill the sons of Columbia be
slaves,
While the earth bears a plant or the sea
rolls its waves.
EPILOGUE TO " THE CLERGYMAN'S DAUGHTER."
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
alone.
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.
THOMAS PAINE.— 1
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
THOMAS PAINE.— 2
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.
THOMAS PAINE.— 3
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
Sense.^''
THE AMERICAN CONDITION' AT THE CLOSE
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
THOMAS PAINE.— 4
upon earth. Even the expression is impious ;
for so unlimited a power can belong only to
God.
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-
THOMAS PAIXE.— 5
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
THOMAS PAIXE.-6
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
Man.
WILLIAM PALEY.~i
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).
ON PROPKRTY.
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-
WILLIAM PA LEY. 2
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.
CREDIBILITY OF ST. PAUL.
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
WILLIAM >A.LEY.-3
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
WILLIAM PALEY.— 4
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.
THU WOULD MADE WITH A BENKVOLENT DESIGN.
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-
WILLIAM PALET.— 5
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.
WILLIAM PALEY.-«
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.
DISTINCTIONS OF CIVIL LIFE LOST IN CHURCH.
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.
JOHX GORHAM PALFREY.— 1
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.
KOGEB WILLIAMS.
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
JOHN GORHAM PALFREY —2
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
movements.
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
JOHN GORHAM PALFKEY.— 3
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,
THREE CYCLES OF NEW ENGLAND 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
JOHN GORHAM PALFREY.— 4
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.
THE AWAKENING.
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
JOHN GOIIHAM rALFKEY.-5
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-^
SIR FRANCIS PALGRAVE.— 1
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
death.
THE FATE OF HAROLD.
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-
SIR FRANCIS PALGRAVE.— 2
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-
sill FUANCIS PALGRA\^E.--3
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
SIR FRANCIS PALGRAVE.-4
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*
FRA"N"CIS TURNER PALGRAVE.— 1
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.
FAITH AND SIGHT i:S THE LATTEli DAYS.
Thou sayest, "Take up thy cross,
0 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 ?
FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE— ^
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.
TO A CHILD.
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.
WELLIAM GIFFORD PALGRA.VE.— 1
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.
WILLIAM GIFFOPvD PALGRAVE.— 2
IN THE DESERT AT NIGHT.
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
WILLIAM GIFFORD PxVLGRAVK— 3
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.
\MLL1AM GiFFOKD FALGKAVE.— 4
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.
EDWARD HENRY PALMER. -1
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).
MOHAMMED AND THE JEWS.
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
EDWARD HENRY PALMER.— 2
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
EDWARD HENRY PALMER.— 3
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.
MUSIC AND WINE.
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,
FALSEHOOD.
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,
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER,— 1
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.
ASIRVADAM THE BRAHMIN.
Simplicity, convenience, decorum, and pic-
turesqueness distinguish the costume of Asir-
J0HI5 WILLIAMSON PALMER.— 2
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
.TOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.— 3
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,
30US WILLIAMSON PALMER.— 4
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^
JOHK WILLI AMSOK PALMER.— 5
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.
RAY PALMER.— 1
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, 0 Zionf
Thy Mourning is Ended (1834), And is
There, Lord, a Rest? (1843), and Lord,
Tliou on Earth Did'st Love Thine Own
(1864).
RAY PALMER.— 2
MY FAITH I^OOKS UP TO THEB.
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 THBE.
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,
0 Joy of all the meek !
To those who fall how kind thou art,
How good to those who seel^ I
RAY PALMER. ~3
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.
THE CIIOKU.S OF ALL SAINTS.
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
die,
And stood by the sepulchre weeping.
WILLIAM PITT PALMER.— 1
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.
THE SMACK IN SCHOOL.
'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^.
WILLIAM PITT PALMER.— 2
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 ! "
LINES TO A FRIEND.
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.
JULIA PARDOE.— 1
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).
THE BEACON LIGHT.
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:
JULIA PAKDOE.— 2
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.
MUNGO PARK.— 1
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
MUKGO PARK.— 2
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.
THK COMPASSIONATE AFRICAN WOMAN".
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.
MUNOJO PARK.— 3
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.
THEODORE PARKER. -1
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
THEODORE PARKER.— 2
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.
CHARACTERISTICS OF WASHINGTON.
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
THEODORE PARKER. -3
'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
THEODORE PARKER.- 4
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-
THEODORE PARKER,— 5
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-
cans.
THE HIGHKR GOOD.
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
light;
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.
FRANCIS PARKMAN— 1
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).
FRANCIS PARKMAN— 2
LOUIS XV. AXI> POMPADOUR.
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
Wolfe.
THE NEW ENGLAND COLONIES.
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
PRAXriS PARKMAN.— 3
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
FRANCIS PARKMAN" —4
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.
THK COLONY OF VIRGINIA.
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
FRANCIS PARKMAN.— 5
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
plantation.
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.
THE COLONY OF PENNSYLVANIA.
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
FRANCIS PARKMAN.— 6
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 ENGLAND AND NEW FRANCE.
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
despair.
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.
THOMAS PARNELL.— 1
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-
ceedings.
THE WAYS OF PROVTDEXCE JUSTIFIED.
" 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
surprise
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.
THOMAS PARNELL.— 2
" 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
wine.
Has with the cup the graceless custom lost ;
And still bo welcomes, but with less of cost.
The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted
door
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
God;
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
steal.
And what a fund of charity would fail. —
Thus Pleaveu instructs thy mind. This trial
o'er.
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.
THOMAS PAKNELL.— 3
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
THK BETTER LIFE.
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,
THOMAS PARNKLL.— 4
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
HARRIET PARR.— 2
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
HARRIET PARR.— 3
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
motlier.
" 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
twice."
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.
THEOPHILUS PARSONS.— 1
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^.
THE SEA.
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,
THEOPHILUS PARS0NS.-2
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.
THEOPHILUS PARSONS.— 3
The very doop did rot ; 0 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.
THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.— 1
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).
ON A BUST OF DANTE.
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.
THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.— 2
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.
0 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.
■ST. .TAMKS'S PARK.
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.
THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.— 3
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.
DIRGE.
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
birches.
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.
JAMES TARTOX.— 1
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.
HENRY CLAY.
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
JAMES PAET0N.-2
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
com[)roniise.
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.
PRIVATIONS AND HEROISM.
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.
SARA PAYSON PARTON,— 1
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.
FATHERHOOD.
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
SARA PATSOX PARTON.— 2
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 "
SARA PAYSON PARTON.-^
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.
BLAISE PASCAL.—!
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.
OF A FUTUBK EXISTENCE.
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
BLAISE PASCAL.— 2
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
BLAISE PASCAL.— 3
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.
WALTER PATER.— 1
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).
JOURXEYIXG TO ROME.
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.
WALTER PATER. -2
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
WALTER PATER.— 3
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.
DEXYS l'aUXERROIS.
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
WALTER PATER.-4
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.
COVENTRY PATMORE,— 1
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
(1878).
COUNSEL TO THE NEWLY-MAKKIED HUSBAND.
"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.
CO V ENTK Y P ATMOKE. —2
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.
THE TOYS.
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
sleep,
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,
COVENTRY PATMOKE.— 3
PAIN.
0 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
brain,
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, 0 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
sweep
Into a little harbor deep
Of rest ;
When thou, O Pain,
Having devour'd the nerves that thee sustain.
COVENTRY PATM0IIE.-4
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.
JAMES KIHKE PAULDWG.— 1
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 AND HIS SON JONATHAN.
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
JAMES KIRKE PAULDIJ^O.— 2
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
JAMES KIRKE PAULDING.— 3
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-
sitions.
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
JAMES KIRKE PAULDING.— 4
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
Jonathan.
JAMES PAYN.— 1
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).
MRS. BECKETT.
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
JAMES PAYN.--2
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
JAMES PAYN.-S
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
JAMES PATN.— 4
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.
A HILL-FOG.
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."
JAMES PAYN.— 5
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
JAMES PAYN.— 6
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.
FKKEDOM.
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,
JOHN HOWARD PAYXE.— 1
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.
HOME SWEET HOME.
'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
there,
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.
JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.— 2
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.
THE ROM AX FATHER.
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
villains,
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,
ANDREW PRESTON PEABODY.— 1
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).
SELF-LOVE AND BENEVOLENCE.
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-
ANDREW PRESTON I'EABODY.— 2
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
ANDREW PRE.STON PEABODY.— 3
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
ANDREW PRESTOX ]'EABODY.— 4
ent. 'L'lierc never was suc.li 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.
OLIVER WILLIAM BOURNE PEABODY.— 1
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.
TO A DEPARTED FKIEND.
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 ?
OLIVER WILLIAM P.OUH>fE PEABODr.— 2
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.
WILLIAM BOURNE OLIVER PEABODY.— 1
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).
HYMX OF NATURE.
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.
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.— 1
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.
ROBIN HOOD AND HIS MERRY MEN.
"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
Forest."
"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$
THOMAS LOVE TEACOCK.— 2
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.
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.— 3
'•'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.
THE MEN OF GOTHAM.
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 WAR-SONG OP^ DINAS VAWB.
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.
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.— 4
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,
JOHN PEARSON.— 1
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.
THE RESURRECTION.
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
Creed,
GEORGE WASHINGTON" PECK.— 1
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.
A TRYING SITUATION.
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,
GEOIKiE WASmXGTOX PECK— 2
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
criMturi'.
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
vitals.
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.
SILVIO PELLICO.— 1
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
Maroncelli.
THE DEAF-AND-DUMB BOY.
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
SILVIO PELIJCO.— 2
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,
SILVIO PELLK'O.— 3
THE HEKOISM OF MAROXCELLI.
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 ? "
SILVIO PELLICO.— 4
'' 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
on.
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.
WILLIAM PENN.— 1
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
death.
ox I'liTDE OF NOBLE BIKTII.
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
WIIJJAM PENN. -2
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.
PATERXAL COUNSELS.
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
WILLIAM PENX.— 8
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,
SAMUEL PEPYS.— 1
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.
MRS. PEPYS GKTS A NEW PETTICOAT.
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
SAMUEL PEPYS.— 2
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.
MR. AND MRS. PEPYS TAKE A DRIVE.
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
SAMUEL PErVS.— a
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.
MR. PEPYS DOES NOT LIKE " HUDIBRAS."
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.
SAMUEL PEPYS.— 4
MR, PEPYS GETS A GLIMPSE AT KOYALTY.
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,
JAMES GATES PERCIVAL.—l
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
(1866).
THE CORAL GROVE.
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
flow.
The water is calm and still below,
JAMES GATES PERCIVAL. -2
'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
sea;
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
hours
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
JAMES GATES PEIiCIVAL.— 3
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.
CHARLES PERRA.ULT.-1
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
drawings.
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
CHARLES PERRAULT.— 2
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-
mortality."
THK AWAKENING.
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-
CHARLES PERRAULT. 3
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
passed.
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
CHARLES PERRAULT.-4
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.
NOEA PERET— 1
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^o.sa^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).
AFTER THE BALL.
They sat and combed their beautiful hair,
Their long briglit tresses, one by one,
As they laughed and talked in tlie chamber
there,
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.
NORA PERRY.— 2
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.
NORA PERRY.— 3
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 !
PROMISE AND FULFILMENT.
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 ! "
HESTER BROWNE.
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.
THOMAS SAUGEANT PERRY.— 1
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).
EVOLUTION IN LITERATURE.
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,
THOMAS SARGEANT PERRY.— 2
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
THOMAS SARGEANT PERRY.— 3
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
world.
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
THOMAS SAKGEANT PEKRY.— 4
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.
PE'rRARCII. -1
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.— 2
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
PETKAKCH.— 3
give sufficient to afford a fair view of the
entire series.
Laura's beauty and virtues.
The Stars, the Elements, and the Heavens have
made,
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
grace
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
wings.
Transl. of Wollastoj?.
PETRARCH.-
LAURA IX HKAVEX.
0 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
divining.
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.
TO THE PRIXCES OF ITALY.
0 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.
PETEARCH.— 5
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
veins.
But now — nor know I what ill stars preside —
Heaven holds thio land in hate !
PETRARCH. —6
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
naught.
0 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;
PETRA.RCH.--7
Kor long shall doubtful hang the unequal fight,
For no — tlie ancient flame
Is not extinguislied yet, that raised the Italian
name.
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.
THE DAMSEL OF THE LAUREL.
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
shore.
PETRARCH.— rf
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
snow
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
ashore,
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
hair,
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.
THOMAS PEYTON— I
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
THOMAS PEYTON.— 2
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
THOMAS PEYTON.— 3
was boiiovved, perhaps quite unconsciotisly,
after so long an iuteivai, from The Grlasse
of Time.
THE INVOCATION TO THE HEAVENLY MUSE.
Urania, soveraigne of the muses nine
Inspire my tlioughts vvitli sacred works divine,
Come down from heaven, within my Temples
rest.
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 :
0 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.
ADAM AND EVE IN PARADISE.
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,
THOMAS PEYTON.— 4
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.
THE TEMPTATION AND THE FALL.
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.
THOMAS PEYTON.— 5
MOUNT AMARA.
What may we think of tliat renowned hiTl,
Whose matchless fame full all the world doth
fill:
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. . . .
0 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
barres.
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 TERRESTELVL PARADISE.
The goodly region in the Sirian land.
Is thought the place wherein the same did
stand
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
found.
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.
THOMAS PEYTON.— 6
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.
THE EXPULSION FROM PAKADISE.
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,
thither.
From whence they went, themselves they knew
not whither.
EMILY PFEIFFER. -1
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
(1888).
ORIENTAL COLOR.
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
EMILY PFEIFFER.— 2
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.
PA.ST AND FUTURE,
Fair garden where the man and woman dwelt,
And loved and worked, and where, in work's
reprieve,
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
breeze.
Which breathed in spices from the laden
trees.
And sent a silvery shout from each lone star.
Sweet dream of Paradise ! and though a
dream,
EillLT PFEIFFER.— 3
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.
THE CHILDBKN OF LIGHT.
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
move,
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.
AMOXG THE GLACIERS.
Land of the beacon-hills that flame up white.
And spread as from on high a word sub-
lime,
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
side,
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
breath,
That shames all forms of worship and of
praise,
Save the still service of laborious days ?
JOHN JAMES PIATT.— 1
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).
THE MORNING STREET.
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
JOHN JAMES PIATT.— a
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.
JOHN JAMES PIATT.— 8
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 SIGHT OF AXGKLS.
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
light,
And thus it was a dream.
I*oems of House and Home,
SARAH MORGAN PIATT. 1
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).
OVKR A LITTLE BED AT KIGHT.
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 bu.ls near have faded to flowers,
Three faces may wake here as fair —
But older than yours are, by hours 1
SABAS MORGAN PlATT.— 2
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.
IN PRIMROSE TIME.
(EAELY SPRING IN IRELAND.)
Here's the lodge-woman in her great cloak com-
ing.
And her white cap. What joy
Has touched the ash-man ? On my word, he's
humming
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
not.
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
baby
In the fair quest of flowers.
And her grandmother ! — -hear her laugh and
chatter.
Under her hair frost-white !
SARAH MOiiGAN PIATT.— a
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
brother,
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-
sion
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.
SARAH M0K(;AN PIATT.— 4
AN EMIGRANT SIN<;ING FROM A SHIP.
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.
SARAH MOKGAX PIATT.— 5
THE GIFT OF EMPTY HANDS.
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."
FORGIVENESS.
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.
JOHN PIEHl'ONT. I
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.
CLASSICAL AND SACRED THEMES FOR MUSIC.
Where lies our path ? Though many a vista
call,
We may admire but cannot tread them all.
Where lies our path ? — A poet^ and inquire
JOHN PIERPONT.— 2
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
flowers
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
birth.
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
shell-
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
flow,
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.
DEDICATIOX HYMN.
[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
JOHK PIERP0NT.-3
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, 0 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.
THE DEPARTED CHILD.
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;
JOHN PIERPONT.— 4
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
there.
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.
JOHN PIEKPONT.— 5.
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
SOLDIERS.
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.— 1
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.
PIERS PLOtlOHMAN-.— 2
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.
VISION OF MEKCY AND TRUTH.
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.
A SELLER OF INDULGENCES.
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
f lERS PLOUGHMAN".— 3
But the Vision foreshadows a speedy
end to these ecclesiastical abuses.
THE COMING REFORMATION.
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
bring,
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
broad.
Ac there shall come a King and confess you,
Religious,
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.
WELL-BELIEVING AND WELL-DOING.
Xow hath the Pope power pardon to grant the
people,
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-
eth
PIERS PLOUGHMAN.-4
Is nought so siclier for tlie soul, certes, as Do-
well.
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
kept'st,
And how thou diddest day by day the doom
will rehearse ;
A poke full of pardons there, ne provinciales
letters,
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
mercy.
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
PIERS PLOUGHMAN.— 5
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 :
THE MEETING WITH THE PLOUGHMAN.
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
bongen.
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
side,
All beslomered in fen, as he the plough fol-
lowed
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
weathers,
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."
ALBERT PIKK. 1
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).
BUEN-A VISTA.
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.
ALBERT PIKE.— 2
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 !
ALBERT PIKE. -3
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.— 1
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.
FROM THE FIRST PYTHIAN ODE.
Strophe.
Golden lyre that Phcsbus shares with the Muses
violet-crowned,
Thee, when opes the joyous revel, our frolic feet
obey.
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.
Antistrophe.
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
leaves,
And gladdens awhile his soul with rest.
For the shafts of the Muses and Leto's son can
melt an immortal's breast.
Epotlf.
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 —
P1KDAR.-2
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.
FROM THE THIRTEENTH OLYMPIC ODE.
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.
EDWARD COATE PINKNEY.— 1
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.
A HEALTH.
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
endears.
When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be
life's, but hers.
EDWARD CO ATE riNKNEY.-2
I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness
iiloiie ;
A woman of her gentle sex the seeming para-
gon.
Her health ! and would on earth there stood
some more of such a frame,
That life might be all poetry, and weariness a
name.
A SERENADE.
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."
THE VISION OF Kli, IN THK OTHEU WOULD.
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
PLATO— 6
every ainiual uud ol' inaii iu every coudi-
tion.
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
choice.
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
JOWKTT.
THE PHILOSOPHER.
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
JRepublic.
PLAUTtTS.-l
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-
goers.
AN^ IXDULGENTT MASTER.
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
hides,
PLAUTUS.— 2
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
them.
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
backs
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
memorandum.
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? 0
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
PLAUTUS.— 3
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.
PKOLOGUK TO •• THK SHIPWRECK,"
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.
PLINT THE ELDER.— 1
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,
PLINY THE ELDER.— 2
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.
THE EARTH ITS FORM AXD MOTION,
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.
POSITION AND SIZE OF THE EARTH.
It is evident from undoubted argumeiit.s that
vhe earth is in the middle of the universe j but
PLINY THE ELDER.— 3
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.
ON MAN.
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
PLINY THE KLDER.-^
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.
OiSr TREES.
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
PLINY THE ELDER,— 5
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.
OF METALS.
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
gold.
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-
PLINY THE ELt)ER.-6
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-
merates.
VALUABLK NATURAL PRODUCTS.
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
PLINY THE ELDER..— 7
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
twentieth.
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-
clusion.
PL[XY THE YOUXGER.— 1
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.
THE ERUPTION- OF VESUVIUS, A. D. 79.
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-
PLIXV THE YOUNGER. -2
ber. I Wiis in the act of rising, with the same
intention of awaking her, should slie liave been
asleep.
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
PLIXY THE YOlTN'GER.— 3
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
PLlNr THE YOUNGER.— 4
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
1>LINT rilE YOUNGEII.~5
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-
tions.
PLINY TO TRAJAN.
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
PLINY THE YOUNGER. -6
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
PLIXY THK VOUXGER.— 7
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.
TRAJAN TO PLINY.
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.
PLUTAECH.— 1
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
Deity.
ON" BASHFULNESS.
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
PLUTARCH. -2
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
therein.
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
PLUTARCH.— 3
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.
ON THE LOVE OF WEALTH.
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'
PLUTARCH.— t
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.
ON PUNISHMENTS.
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-
fLUTARCH.— 5
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.
ON EATING FLESH.
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
PLITTARCH.-6
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.
EDGAR ALLAX POE.— 1
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,
EDGAR ALLAN POE.— 2
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.
THE COLISEUM.
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 —
0 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
hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the weed and
thistle !
Here, where on golden throne the monarch
lolled,
Crlides, spectre-like, into his marble hom^^
EDGAR ALLAN POE.— 3
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.
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.
EDGAR ALLAN POE. 4
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
existence.
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.
EDGAR ALLAN POE.-d
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.
THE BELLS.
I.
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.
II.
Hear the mellow wedding-bells-—
Golden bells !
EDOAR ALLAN POE.— 6
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 !
III.
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
EDGAi; ALLAN POE.— 7
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!
IV.
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,
Rolls
A paean from the bells !
And his merry bosom swells
With the pa3an of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
EDCiAK ALLAN rOE.-8
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.
THE KAVKX.
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
December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its
ghost upon the tloor.
EDGAR ALL AX POE.— 9
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.
EDGAR ALLAN POE.~10
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."
lEDGAR ALLAX POE.— 11
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
expressing
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 !
EDGAR ALLAN POE.— 12
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."
EDGAR ALLAN TOE. — 18
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 !
ANNABEL LEE.
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
thought
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.
EDGAR ALLAN POE.— 14
But our love it was stronger by far than the
love
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
eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the
side
Of my darling — my darling — my life and my
bride.
In the sefiulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
THK HOUSK UK USHKR.
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
EDGAR ALLAN POE.— 15
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
EDGAR ALLAN POE.— 16
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.
ROBERT POLLOK —1
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.
OPENING INVOCATION.
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
shake,
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
ROBERT POLLOK.— 2
The essential truth : Time gone, the righteous
saved,
The wicked damned, and Providence approved
TKUE HAPPINESS.
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.
HOLY LOVE.
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 !
ALEXANDER POPE.— 1
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-
sion.
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
ALEXANDER POPE.— 2
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
ALEXANDER POPE.— 3
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).
NUMBERS IN VERSE.
The most by numbers judge a poet's song.
And smooth or rough, with them, is right or
wrong.
In the bright Muse, though thousand charms
conspire,
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-
pair,
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
creep,"
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.
ALEXANDER POPE.— 4
Where Denliarn's strength and Waller's sweet-
ness join.
True ease in writing comes from art, not
chance,
As those move easiest who have learned to
dance.
'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
roar.
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to
throw,
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
descr}'',
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
ALEXANDER POPE.— 5
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.
BELINDA AT HER TOILET.
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
spoil.
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
white.
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,.
BELINDA AT THK "WATER-PARTY.
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,
ALEXANDER POPE.- G
Launched on the bosom of the silver Tharaes,
Fair nymphs and well-drest youths around her
shone,
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
behind
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 SEIZURE OF THE LOCK.
The peer now spreads the glittering forfex
wide.
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
twain
ALEXANDER POPE.— 7
(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
skies.
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
twine,"
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
give,
So long my honor, name, and praise shall live I "
Hape of the Zock, Canto IV.
BOKING RHYMESTERS.
Shut, shut the door, good John I fatigued, I
said,
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
land.
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.
ALEXANDER POPE.— 8
Then from the ^lint walks forth the man of
r])yine,
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
cause.
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-
long,
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
dead.
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
years."
" Nine years!" cries he, who high in Drury
Lane,
Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken
pane,
Rh\'mes ere he wakes, and prints before Term
ends,
Obliged by hunger and "request of frieinls : '
" The piece, you think is incorrect ? whv, take
it.
ALEXANDER POPE.— 9
Fm all submission — what you'll have it, mate
it."
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
better.
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-
known
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
wife,
To help me through this long disease — my
life.
To second, Arbuthnot, thy art and care,
And teach the being you preserved to bear. . , .
0 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
Heaven.
Epistle to Arbuthnot.
ALEXANDER POPE.— 10
TRUST IN PUOVIDENCE.
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.
0 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.
THE UNIVERSAL CHAIN OF BEING.
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
extent.
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.
ALEXANDS^R POPE.-n
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.
thee.
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.
TUK COMING MliSSI.Vn.
Rapt into future times the bard begun : —
A vir<rin shall conceive — a virgin bear a son I
ALEXANDEK POPE. -12
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-
scend.
Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn !
Oh, spring to light! Auspicious Babe be born.
Messiah.
THE REIGN OF MESSIAH.
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
kings.
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
shine
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 !
Messiah.
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.
ALEXANDER POPE. -14
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.
JANE PORTER.— I
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.
THADi>EUS OF WAKSAW AVOWS HIS LOVi;.
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 : —
JANE PORTER.— 2
"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.
JANE PORTER.— 3
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
JANE PORTEK— 4
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.
NOAH PORTEK. -1
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).
THE IDEAL CHRISTIAN COLLEGE.
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
NOAH POUTER.— 2
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
NOAH PORTER.— 3
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
College.
PROGRESSIVE CHARACTER OF CHRISTIANITY.
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.
ROSA MURRAY-PRIOR PRAED.-l
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.
AFFIXITIES.
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
ROSA MURRAY-PRIOR PR A ED. —2
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
me."
" 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
ROSA MtJRRAY-PRIOR PRAED.— 3
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
indulgence."
" 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
KOSA MURRAY-PEIOR PRAED.-4
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,"
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.— 1
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
drum
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.
WIKTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.2—
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.
CHARADE : " KNIGHT-HOOD."
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 :
THK VICAR.
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.
WINTHROP MACKWORTII PRAED.— 3
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
tie;
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.
WINTHROP MACKWOKTH PRAED— 4
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,
QUINCE.
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.'' . , .
ELLA PIJATT.— 1
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).
PLANNING.
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."
ELLA PRATT.— 3
These I also disclosed. She made no com
merit upon them, but reverted gravely to the
animals.
"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.
GEORGE DENISON PRKNTICE.— 1
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.
THE FLIGHT OF YEARS.
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
arch
That hath hung o'er us, will hang o'er us yet ;
The same pure stars that we have loved tc
watch
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
spring
From the lone tomh nf old Affections; Hope
And Joy and great Ambition will rise up
GEORGE BEXI80X PRENTICE.— 2
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
shout
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
hope
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
arch
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
heavens.
ELIZABETH PRE>^ri.SS.— 1
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).
LAST WORDS.
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
strength.
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
ELIZABETH PRENTtSS.— 2
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
ELIZABETH PREN'TISS.- :i
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.
WILLIAM HICIvLIXG PRESCOTT.— 1
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
WILLIAM HK KLIXG PRESCOTT— 2
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
(18(34).
EXPULSION OF THE JEWS FROM SPAIN".
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
soul.
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
WILLIAM HICKLINft PRESCOTT.— 3
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.
WILLIAM HICKLIXG PRESCOTT.— 4
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
estiin.ae 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.
IN SIGHT OK THE VALLEY AXD CITY OF MEXICO.
The Spaniards, refreshed by a night's rest,
succeeded in gaining the crest of the sierra of
Ahualco, which stretches like a curtain between
WILLIAM 1IICKLIN(; I'UlvSf'OTT.— 6
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
WILLIAM HirKLlXG PRESCOTT.— 7
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-
WILLIAM inCKLI]S"a PRESCOTT.— 8
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.
THE LAST OF THE INCAS.
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 ? "
WILLIAM mCKLIXG PKESCOTT.— 9
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
vassal.
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^
WILLIAM lIlCKLlXa PRESCOTT.— 10
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
committed."
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-
WILLIAM HICKLIXG PRESCOTT.— 11
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
terrors.
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-
rections.
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
WILLIAM HTCKLIVQ PRF-SCOTT.— 12
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
Monthly.
COUNT LEO TOLSTOI.
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-
HAEKIET WATEKS PRESTON.— 2
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
HARRIET WATERS PRESTON.— 3
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,
Novdists,
MAU(JAI!KT riJKSTON. 1
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).
DEDICATION TO OLD SOXfJS AND NEW.
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
indeed
Flowers — though, perhaps, I knew not flower
from weed.
What shall I do with them ? They find no
place
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.
MAUGAKET TRESTON. -2
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.
THE MORKOW.
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
through.
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 ! "
MORNIKG.
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
shine
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 ? "
MARGARET PRESTON — 3
NIGHT.
I press my clieek against the window-pane,
Aud gaze abroad into the blauk, blank space,
Where earth and sky no more have any
phice,
Wiped from existence by the expujiging rain ;
And as 1 liear the worried winds complain,
A darkness, darker than the murk whose
trace
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
bright
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 ? "
SAINT CECILIA.
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.
MARGARET PREST0N,-~4
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 !
A GKAVE IN HOLLYWOOD CEMETERY, RICH
MOND, VA.
[./. 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,
MARGARET PRESTON.— 6
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
height,
Than His exhaustless patience. Let us praise
With wondering hearts this strangest, teuderest
grace,
Remembering, awe-struck, that the aveng-
ing rod
Of Justice must have fallen, and Mercy's plan
Been frustrate, had not Patience stood
between,
Divinely meek. And let us learn that man.
Toiling, enduring, pleading — calm, serene,
For those who scorn and slight, is likest God.
SAMUEL IliEN^US PKIME.— 1
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.
SAMUEL HANSOX COX.
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
SAMUEL IREN/EUS PUIME. -2
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
spoken.
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.
WILLIAM COWPER PIlBIE.— I
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).
PISCATORIAL MEDITATIONS.
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
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME.— 2
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
point.
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 wh.at 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
country.
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-
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME.— 3
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.
O MOTHER DEAR, JERUSALEM !
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.
THOMAS PRIXGLE.— 1
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.
AFAK IN THE DESERT.
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
fled
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 ;
THOMAS PKINGLE. —2
All the passions and scenes of that rai^turoua
time
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-
done,
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
graze,
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
wood.
And the river-horse gambols unscared in the
flood,
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
nest.
THOMAS PPJNGLE.— 3
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
sigh.
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 * "
MATTHEW PRIOR.— 1
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.
TO A VERY YOUNG LADY OF QUALITY.
Lords, Knights, and 'Squires, the numerous
band
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;
MATTHEW PRIOR.- 2
She may receive and own my flame,
For, though the strictest prudes should know
it,
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,
FOR HIS OWN MONUMENT.
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
lie.
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
care.
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
trust;
MATTHEW PRIOR. -3
And whirled in the round as the wheel turned
about,
He found riches had wings, and knew man
was but dust.
TLis verse, little polished, though mighty sin-
cere.
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
fame.
EPIGRAMS.
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 ?
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.— 1
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.
A LKGEXD OF BREGEXZ.
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
below.
Midnicrht is there: and Silence, enthroned in
Heaven, looks down
Upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleeping
town.
For Brecjenz, that quaint city upon the Tyrol
shore.
Has stood above Lake Constance a thousand
years and more.
ADELAIDE ANNE PKOCTEii. -2
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
know,
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
fast,
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
Jay-
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
alone.
ADELAIDE AXNE PROCTER.— 3
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
stalk,
"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 !
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.— 4
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.
61
ADELAIDE ANNE rilOCTER.--5
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
land.
And if to deeds heroic should endless fame be
paid,
Bregenz does well to honor the noble Tyrol
maid.
Three hundred years are vanished ; and yet
upon the hill
An old stone gate-way rises, to do her honor
still.
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.
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.— 6
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
mine,
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.
ADELAIDE AJS'NE PliOOTEll.— 7
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
thou
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.
LIFE AND DEATH.
" 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."
BRYAX WALLER PROCTEE.— 1
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-
son.*'
THE SEA.
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 ;
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER.— 2
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
INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN.
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—
B1{YAX WALLER PROCTER.-j8
Erotas — bade tlie XaiaJ fall,
And thank the great god Pan f or alL
A PETITION TO TIME.
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 !
LIFE.
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.
0 Life ! is all thy song
" Endure and — die?*
BRYAN WALTEli PKOCTER— 4
TO ADELAIDE I'ROCTER.
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
showers
Are past, or passing! Hose which hath no
thorn,
No spot, no blemish — pure and unforlorn !
Untouched, untainted ! O my Flower of
flowers !
More welcome than to bees are summer
bowers,
To stranded seamen life-assuring raorn !
Welcome — a thousand welcomes! Care, who
clings
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.
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
EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.— 1
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).
MOSCOW
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.
THE RETURN OF THE DEAD.
Low hung the moon, the wind was still,
And slow I climbed the midnight hill,
4.nd passed the ruined garden o'er,
EDN'A DEA.N PROCTOR.— 2
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 !
0 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
EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.— 3
'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.
HEAVEN, O LORD, I CANNOT LOSE.
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.
0 flowery morns, 0 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, 0 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, 0 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.
EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.— 4
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 !
TAKK HKAUT.
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.
0 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
EICHARD ANTHONY PROCTOE.— 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
topics.
BETTING ox THK ODDS IX HORSE-RACIXG.
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-
KICHARD ANTHONY PROCTOR.— 2
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
them."
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
RICHARD ANTHONY PROCTOR.— 3
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.
TUCIIAltD ANTHONY PUCCTOR.— 4
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
RICHARD ANTHONY PROCTOR.— 5
described as a " misfortune to backers." — •
Light Science for Leisure Hours.
PRAYER AND WEATHER.
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-
mCHAKD ANTHONY PROCTOR.— 6
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.
SULLY PRUDHOMME.— 1
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
(1888).
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.
THE MISSAL.
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;
SULLY PRUDIIOMME.— 2
The page still wrinkles where tin- ih-w onco
dried.
AVhen tlmt liust mora was sad with other weep-
ing;
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-
ing,
As when with Memory wakes long-buried feel-
ing ;
That scent from the closed casket slow ascend-
ing
Tells of long years o'er that strange herbal
sped.
Our bygone things have still some perfume
blending,
And our lost loves are paths, where Koses'
bloom.
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
plain.
But ne'er returned to woo your love again;
Or you, young page, whose heart rose up on
high
To Mar\^ and thy dame in mingled pra^'or !
This flower which died beneath some unknowii
eye
Three hundred years ago — you placed it there,
And there it still shall lie."
Les Epreuver^. Transl. of E. and K. E.
Prothebo.
SAMUEL PURCHAS. -1
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.
PURCHAS'S AUTHORITIES.
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.
THE SEA.
"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
SAMUEL PURCHAS.— 2
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 —
navigation.
HOWARD PYLE. — 1
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).
THE TKEASUKE KESTOKED.
• 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
HOWARD PYLE.— li
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
he.
"' 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."
HOWARD PYLE.— 3
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
airs
?"
" I stay here," said I, bitterly, " because I
have nowhere else to go."
" And what do vou want ? " said he.
HOWARD PYLE.— 4
"What, you know," said I, "as well as I
myself."
"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
this."
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,
HOWARD PYLE.-5
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. -1
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.
PYTHAGORAS.— 2
THE " SYMBOLS ' ' OF PYTHAGOKAS.
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-
mal'ity."
Symbol 19. — Breed nothing that hath
crooked talons.
Symbol 24. — Look fiot in a glass by candle-
light.
' Symbol 25. — Concerning the gods, disbelieve
nothing wonderful; nor concerning divine
doctrines.
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."
PYTHAGORAS. — ^
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
oidoion."'
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
PYTHAGORAS.— 4
Creed of Pytliagoreaiiisni, in its puiely
ethical aspect.
THE GOL,l>EN VERSES.
First, ill their ranks, the luiniortal Gods adore —
Thy oath keep; next great Heroes; then im-
plore
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
fright.
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.
PYTHAGORAS.— 5
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
last,
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
learn
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
know,
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
guide;
Then, stripped of flesh up to free ;ether soar,
A deathless god — divine — mortal no more.
Transl. o/" Thomas Stanley.
FRANCIS QUAKLES.— 1
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
father.
DELIGHT IX GOn OXLV.
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
flesli,
And with their polyphonian notes delight me:
But what's tlie air, or all the sweets that
she
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;
FRANCIS QUAKLES.-2
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
Thee,
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
Thee.
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.
JOSIAH QUlNCY.-l
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.
THE LESSON.S TAUGHT BY NEW ENGLANP
HISTORY.
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-
.TOSIAII QUIXr'V.-2
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-
miliar.
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
anotber.
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-
tennial.
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.— 1
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.
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-
QUINTTLIAX.— 2
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.
HIXTS FOR THE EARLIEST TRAINING OF THE
ORATOR.
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.
HOW SOON EDUCATION SHOULD BEGIN.
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
QUINTILIAX— 3
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.
THE TRAINING IN BOYHOOD.
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-
QUINTILIAN.-4
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.
EMULATION TO BE ENCOURAGED.
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.
EXAMINING WITNESSES.
A principal constituent of the interrogation
is to have a knowledge of the nature of the
QUINTILIAN.-5
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 DERIVED FROM THE PERSONALITY
OF A PARTY.
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
QUINTILIAN.— 6
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.
WHEN A GOOD MAX MAY DKFEN'D A BAD CAUSE.
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
QUINJ'UJA.V.— 7
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
us.
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.— 1
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
RABELAIS. -2
through every page of Gulliver. Bacon
lias fitly styled Rabelais " the great jester
of France " ; others, less appositely, style
him •' the prose Homer."
THE IXFANT GARGANTUA.
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
RABELAIS.— 3
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,
le.ss 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.
MONKS AND MOXKEY.S.
"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-
goosier.
" 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
RABELAIS. -4
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.
This book is DUE on the last
date stamped below
NOV 2 91952
JAN 6 RECO
-jy^\
->.>
3m-6, '50 (550)470
K
rii
UC SOUTHERN RKiKJNAL I IBHAF1Y I Af li ity
AA 000 416 204
PN
6013
A3?
V.16
t
m