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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. 


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