Chapter III: Book EIGHT: A Mysterious Visitor (2)

As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes to stir till Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The knight walks down from his seat in the chancel between a double row of his tenants, who stand bowing to him on each side, and every now and then inquires how such an one’s wife, or mother, or son, or father do, whom he does not see at church; which is understood as a secret reprimand to the person that is absent.

The chaplain has often told me that upon a catechising day, when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that answers well, he has ordered a Bible to be given him next day for his encouragement, and sometimes accompanies it with a flitch of bacon to his mother.

Sir Roger has likewise added five pounds a year to the clerk’s place; and, that he may encourage the young fellows to make themselves perfect in the church service, has promised upon the death of the present incumbent, who is very old, to bestow it according to merit.

_From “The Sir Roger de Coverley Papers.”_

THE KING OF GLORY.

THE earth is the Lord’s, and the fulness thereof;
The world, and they that dwell therein.
For he hath founded it upon the seas,
And established it upon the floods.

Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord?
Or who shall stand in his holy place?

He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart;
Who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity,
Nor sworn deceitfully.
He shall receive the blessing from the Lord,
And righteousness from the God of his salvation.

Lift up your heads, O ye gates;
And be ye lifted up, ye everlasting doors;
And the King of Glory shall come in.

Who is this King of Glory?

The Lord strong and mighty,
The Lord mighty in battle.

Lift up your heads, O ye gates;
Even lift them up, ye everlasting doors;
And the King of Glory shall come in.

Who is this King of Glory?

The Lord of hosts, he is the King of Glory.

Lift up your heads, O ye gates;
Even lift them up, ye everlasting doors;
And the King of Glory shall come in.

THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY.

[ABRIDGED.]

EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

EDWARD EVERETT HALE was born in Boston in 1822. He was named for
his uncle, Edward Everett, the celebrated orator. When six years of
age he had begun the study of Latin, and entered Harvard College
when he was thirteen. Though young Hale was a diligent student, he
excelled in athletic sports, and his great physical strength is
shown even now in his large frame and powerful hands and arms.

The future author and preacher was graduated from Harvard with
honors when he was seventeen years old. He assisted his father in
newspaper work, and was able to write editorials, keep the books,
or set type, as the occasion required. He afterwards studied
theology.

His first pastorate was at Worcester, Mass. He remained there for
ten years. He then settled in Boston. He was with the Massachusetts
Rifle Corps when the Civil War broke out, and it was upon an
incident of that war that he founded his story of “The Man without
a Country.” This is one of the strongest stories of patriotism ever
written, and has been reprinted in several languages.

For many years Dr. Hale has been pastor of the South Congregational
Church in Boston. He has written many books; among them the best
known are “Ten Times One is Ten” and “In His Name.”

One can hardly imagine a busier life than he leads. His daily tasks
consist in aiding public and private charities, lecturing, editing,
writing, and preparing his sermons.

He was once asked how he was able to accomplish so much, and he
replied: “If you are working with Aladdin’s lamp, or with Monte
Cristo’s treasures, you are not apt to think you will fail. Far
less is your risk with the omnipotence of the Lord God behind you.”

PHILIP NOLAN was as fine a young officer as there was in the “Legion of the West,” as the Western division of our army was then called. When Aaron Burr made his first dashing expedition down to New Orleans, or somewhere above on the river, he met this gay, dashing, bright young fellow, at some dinner party, I think. Burr marked him, talked to him, walked with him, took him a day or two’s voyage in his flatboat, and, in short, fascinated him, and led him to turn traitor to his country.

Nolan was proved guilty; yet you and I would never have heard of him, reader, but that when the president of the court asked him at the close whether he wished to say anything to show that he had always been faithful to the United States, he cried out in a fit of frenzy: “Curse the United States! I wish I may never hear of the United States again!”

I suppose he did not know how the words shocked old Colonel Morgan, who was holding the court. Half the officers who sat in it had served through the Revolution, and their lives, not to say their necks, had been risked for the very idea which he so cavalierly cursed in his madness.

Morgan called the court into his private room, and returned in fifteen minutes with a face like a sheet, to say: “Prisoner, hear the sentence of the Court! The Court decides, subject to the approval of the President, that you never hear the name of the United States again.”

Nolan laughed; but nobody else laughed. Old Morgan was too solemn, and the whole room was hushed dead as night for a minute. Even Nolan lost his swagger in a moment. Then Morgan added: “Mr. Marshal, take the prisoner to Orleans in an armed boat, and deliver him to the naval commander there.” The marshal gave his orders and the prisoner was taken out of court.

“Mr. Marshal,” continued old Morgan, “see that no one mentions the United States to the prisoner. Mr. Marshal, make my respects to Lieutenant Mitchell at Orleans, and request him to order that no one shall mention the United States to the prisoner while he is on board ship.”

Nolan had the freedom of the ship he was on, so long as he heard nothing of his country. No mess liked to have him permanently, because his presence cut off all talk of home or of the prospect of return, of politics or letters, of peace or of war--cut off more than half the talk men liked to have at sea.

Sometimes, when the marines or sailors had any special jollification, they were permitted to invite “Plain-Buttons,” as they called him. Then Nolan was sent with some officer, and the men were forbidden to speak of home while he was there. I believe the theory was that the sight of his punishment did them good. They called him “Plain-Buttons,” because, while he always chose to wear a regulation army uniform, he was not permitted to wear the army button, for the reason that it bore either the initials or the insignia of the country he had disowned.

As he was almost never permitted to go on shore, even though the vessel lay in port for months, his time at the best hung heavy; and everybody was permitted to lend him books, if they were not published in America and made no allusion to it. He had almost all the foreign papers that came into the ship, sooner or later; only somebody must go over them first, and cut out any advertisement or stray paragraph that alluded to America.

Among these books was the “Lay of the Last Minstrel,” which they had all of them heard of, but which most of them had never seen. I think it could not have been published long. Well, nobody thought there could be any risk of anything national in that, so Nolan was permitted to join the circle one afternoon when a lot of them sat on deck smoking and reading aloud. Well, so it happened that in his turn Nolan took the book and read to the others; and he read very well, as I know. Nobody in the circle knew a line of the poem, only it was all magic and Border chivalry, and was ten thousand years ago. Poor Nolan read steadily through the fifth canto, stopped a minute and then began, without a thought of what was coming:--

“Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said.”

It seems impossible to us that anybody ever heard this for the first time, but all these fellows did then, and poor Nolan himself went on, still unconsciously or mechanically:--

“‘This is my own, my native land!’”

Then they all saw something was to pay; but he expected to get through, I suppose, turned a little pale, but plunged on:--

“Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go, mark him well.”

By this time the men were all beside themselves, wishing there was any way to make him turn over two pages; but he had not quite presence of mind for that; he colored crimson and staggered on:--

“For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self,”--

And here the poor fellow choked, could not go on, but started up, swung the book into the sea, vanished into his stateroom, and we did not see him for two months again. He never read aloud again unless it was the Bible or Shakespeare, or something else he was sure of. But it was not that merely. He never entered in with the other young men exactly as a companion again.

* * * * *

In one of the great frigate duels with the English, it happened that a round-shot from the enemy entered one of our ports square, and took right down the officer of the gun himself, and almost every man of the gun’s crew. Now you may say what you choose about courage, but that is not a nice thing to see. But, as the men who were not killed picked themselves up, and as they and the surgeon’s people were carrying off the bodies, there appeared Nolan, in his shirt sleeves, with the rammer in his hand, and, just as if he had been the officer, told them off with authority--who should go to the cockpit with the wounded men, who should stay with him--perfectly cheery, and with that way which makes men feel sure all is right and is going to be right. And he finished loading the gun with his own hands, aimed it, and bade the men fire. And there he stayed, captain of that gun, keeping those fellows in spirits, till the enemy struck,--sitting on the carriage while the gun was cooling, though he was exposed all the time,--showing them easier ways to handle heavy shot, making the raw hands laugh at their own blunders, and when the gun cooled again, getting it loaded and fired twice as often as any other gun on the ship. The captain walked forward by way of encouraging the men, and Nolan touched his hat and said: “I am showing them how we do this in the artillery, sir.”

The commodore said: “I see you are, and I thank you, sir; and I shall never forget this day, sir, and you never shall, sir.”

And after the whole thing was over, and he had the Englishman’s sword, in the midst of the state and ceremony of the quarter-deck, he said: “Where is Mr. Nolan? Ask Mr. Nolan to come here.”

And when Nolan came he said: “Mr. Nolan, we are all very grateful to you to-day; you are one of us to-day; you will be named in the dispatches.”

And then the old man took off his own sword of ceremony and gave it to Nolan, and made him put it on. The man told me this who saw it. Nolan cried like a baby, and well he might. He had not worn a sword since that day at Fort Adams. But always afterwards, on occasions of ceremony, he wore that quaint old French sword of the commodore’s.

* * * * *

I first came to understand anything about “the man without a country” one day when we overhauled a dirty little schooner which had slaves on board. An officer was sent to take charge of her, and after a few minutes he sent back his boat to ask that some one might be sent him who could speak Portuguese. Nolan stepped out and said he should be glad to interpret if the captain wished, as he understood the language.

“Tell them they are free,” said Vaughan.

Then there was a yell of delight, clinching of fists, leaping and dancing, kissing of Nolan’s feet.

“Tell them,” said Vaughan, well pleased, “that I will take them all to Cape Palmas.”

This did not answer so well. Cape Palmas was practically as far from the homes of most of them as New Orleans or Rio Janeiro was; that is, they would be eternally separated from home there. And their interpreters, as we could understand, instantly said: “_Ah, non Palmas_.” The drops stood on poor Nolan’s white forehead as he hushed the men down and said: “He says, ‘Not Palmas.’ He says, ‘Take us home, take us to our own country, take us to our own house, take us to our own pickaninnies and our own women.’ He says he has an old father and mother who will die if they do not see him. And this one says he left his people all sick, and paddled down to Fernando to beg the white doctor to come and help them, and that these caught him in the bay just in sight of home, and that he has never seen anybody from home since then. And this one says,” choked out Nolan, “that he has not heard a word from his home in six months, while he has been locked up in a barracoon.”

As quick as Vaughan could get words, he said: “Tell them yes, yes, yes; tell them they shall go to the mountains of the Moon, if they will. If I sail the schooner through the Great White Desert, they shall go home.”

And after some fashion Nolan said so. And then they all fell to kissing him again, and wanted to rub his nose with theirs.

But he could not stand it long; and getting Vaughan to say he might go back, he beckoned me down into our boat. As we lay back in the stern sheets and the men gave way, he said to me: “Youngster, let that show you what it is to be without a family, without a home, and without a country. And if you are ever tempted to say a word or to do a thing that shall put a bar between you and your family, your home and your country, pray God in his mercy to take you that instant home to his own heaven. Stick by your family, boy; forget you have a self, while you do everything for them. Think of your home, boy; write and send, and talk about it. Let it be nearer and nearer to your thought, the farther you have to travel from it; and rush back to it when you are free, as that poor black slave is doing now. And for your country, boy,” and the words rattled in his throat, “and for that flag,” and he pointed to the ship, “never dream a dream but of serving her as she bids you, though the service carry you through a thousand hells. No matter what happens to you, no matter who flatters you or who abuses you, never look at another flag, never let a night pass but you pray God to bless that flag. Remember, boy, that behind all these men you have to do with, behind officers and government, and people even, there is the Country Herself, your Country, and that you belong to Her as you belong to your own mother. Stand by Her, boy, as you would stand by your mother.”

I was frightened to death by his calm, hard passion; but I blundered out that I would by all that was holy, and that I had never thought of doing anything else. He hardly seemed to hear me; but he did, almost in a whisper, say: “Oh, if anybody had said so to me when I was of your age!”

* * * * *

Extract from a letter written in 1863:--

“LEVANT, 2° 2´ S. @ 131° W.

“DEAR FRED:

“I try to find heart and life to tell you that it is all over with
dear old Nolan. The doctor has been watching him very carefully,
and yesterday morning came to me and told me that Nolan was not so
well, and he said he should like to see me. Well, I went in, and
there, to be sure, the poor fellow lay in his berth, smiling
pleasantly as he gave me his hand, but looking very frail. I could
not help a glance round, which showed me what a little shrine he
had made of the box he was lying in. The stars and stripes were
triced up above and around a picture of Washington, and he had
painted a majestic eagle, with lightnings blazing from his beak,
and his foot just clasping the whole globe, which his wings
overshadowed. The dear old boy saw my glance and said with a sad
smile: ‘Here, you see, I have a country!’

* * * * *

“An hour after I had left him, when the doctor went in gently, he
found Nolan had breathed his life away with a smile.

“We looked in his Bible, and there was a slip of paper at the place
where he had marked the text: ‘They desire a country, even a
heavenly: wherefore God is not ashamed to be called their God: for
He hath prepared for them a city.’

“On this slip of paper he had written: ‘Bury me in the sea; it has
been my home, and I love it. But will not some one set up a stone
for my memory at Fort Adams, or at Orleans, that my disgrace may
not be more than I ought to bear? Say on it:

_In Memory of_

PHILIP NOLAN,

_Lieutenant in the Army of the United States._

He loved his country as no other man has
loved her; but no man deserved
less at her hands.’”

LOVE OF COUNTRY.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
“This is my own, my native land!”
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well.
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

_From “The Lay of the Last Minstrel.”_

THE HEROINE OF NANCY.

IN the year 1476, Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, laid siege to the town of Nancy, capital of the duchy of Lorraine. In the absence of the young duke, René II., who had gone to raise troops among the enemies of Charles, the town and its little garrison were left in charge of a brave and patriotic governor, who had an only daughter, named Télésile. It is with the noble conduct of this heroic young girl that our story has chiefly to do.

Charles the Bold--who ought rather to have been called the Rash, or the Furious, from his headlong and violent disposition--had sought to erect a kingdom within the dominions of his great rival, Louis XI. of France. To extend his power, he had overrun provinces, which, as soon as his strong hand was withdrawn, took the first opportunity to revolt against him. Lorraine was one of these; and he now appeared before the walls of Nancy, resolved to punish its inhabitants, whom he regarded as rebels.

But, thanks to the governor and his heroic daughter, the city held out bravely, both against the assaults of his soldiers, and the threats and promises with which he tried to induce a surrender. While the governor directed and encouraged the defenders, Télésile inspired their wives and daughters.

“Let us do,” she cried, “as did the women of Beauvais when this same cruel Charles laid siege to their town. Mothers armed themselves, young girls seized whatever weapons they could find,--hatchets, broken lances, which they bound together with their hair; and they joined their sons and brothers in the fight. They drove the invader from their walls; and so will we defeat and drive him back!”

“Put no trust in the tyrant!” said the intrepid governor, addressing the people. “He is as faithless as he is cruel. He has promised to spare our lives and our property if we will accept him as our ruler; but be not deceived. Once within our walls, he will give up to massacre and pillage the city that has cost him so dear.

“But if not for our own sakes,” he went on, “then for the love of our rightful lord, Duke René, let us continue the glorious struggle. Already at the head of a brave Swiss army, he is hastening to our relief. He will soon be at our gates. Let us hold out till then; or, sooner than betray our trust, let us fall with our defenses and be buried in the ruins of our beloved city!”

Thus defended, Nancy held out until Charles, maddened to fury by so unexpected and so prolonged a resistance, made a final, desperate attempt to carry the town. By stratagem, quite as much as by force, he succeeded in gaining an entrance within the walls; and Nancy was at his mercy.

In the flush of vengeance and success, he was for putting at once all the inhabitants--men, women, and children--to the sword. A young maiden was brought before him.

“Barbarian!” she cried, “if we are all to perish, over whom will you reign?”

“Who are you, bold girl! that dare to speak to me thus?” said the astonished Charles.

“Your prisoner, and one who would prevent you from adding to the list of your cruelties!”

Her beauty, her courage, and the prophetic tones in which she spoke, arrested Charles’s fury.

“Give up to me your governor, whom I have sworn to punish,” he said, “and a portion of the inhabitants shall be spared.”

But the governor was her own father,--for the young girl was no other than Télésile. Listening to the entreaties of his friends, he had assumed the dress of a private citizen; and all loved the good old man too well to point him out to the tyrant.

When Télésile sorrowfully reported to her father the duke’s words, he smiled. “Be of good cheer, my daughter!” he said. “I will see the Duke Charles, and try what I can do to persuade him.”

When brought before the conqueror, he said, “There is but one man who can bring the governor to you. Swear on your sword to spare all the inhabitants of the town, and he shall be given up.”

“That will I not!” cried the angry duke. “They have braved my power too long; they have scorned my offers; they have laughed at my threats; now woe to the people of Nancy!”

Then, turning to his officers, he commanded that every tenth person in the town should be slain, and they at once gave orders for the decimation. The inhabitants, young and old, women and infants, were assembled in a line which extended through the principal street of the city; while soldiers ransacked the houses, in order to drive forth or kill any that might remain concealed.

It was a terrible day for the doomed city. Families clung together, friends embraced friends; some weeping and lamenting, some trying to comfort and sustain those who were weaker than they, others calmly awaiting their fate.

Then, at a word from the conqueror, a herald went forth, and, waving his hand before the gathered multitude, began to count. Each on whom fell the fatal number _ten_ was to be given at once to the sword. But at the outset a difficulty arose.

Near the head of the line Télésile and the governor were placed; and the devoted girl, watching the movements of the herald, and hearing him count aloud, saw by a rapid glance that the dreaded number was about to fall upon her father. Quick as thought, she slipped behind him and placed herself at his other side. Before the old man was aware of her object, the doom which should have been his had fallen upon his daughter. He stood for a moment stupefied with astonishment and grief, then called out to the herald, “Justice! justice!”

“What is the matter, old man?” demanded the herald, before passing on.

“The count is wrong! there is a mistake! Not her!” exclaimed the father, as the executioners were laying hands upon Télésile; “take me, for I was the tenth!”

“Not so,” said Télésile calmly. “You all saw that the number came to me.”

“She put herself in my way,--she took my place,--on me! let the blow fall on me!” pleaded the old man; while she as earnestly insisted that she was the rightly chosen victim.

Amazed to see two persons striving for the privilege of death at their hands, the butchers dragged them before Charles the Bold, that he might decide the question between them.

Charles was no less surprised at beholding once more the maiden and the old man who had already appeared before him, and at learning the cause of their strange dispute; for he knew not yet that they were parent and child. Notwithstanding his violent disposition, the conqueror had a heart which pity could sometimes touch, and he was powerfully moved by the sight that met his eyes.

“I pray you hear me!” cried Télésile, throwing herself at his feet. “I am a simple maiden; my life is of no account; then let me die, my lord duke! But spare, oh, spare him, the best, the noblest of men, whose life is useful to all our unhappy people!”

“Do not listen to her!” exclaimed the old man, almost too much affected to speak; “or if you do, let her own words confute her argument. You behold her courage, her piety, her self-sacrifice; and I see you are touched! You will not, you cannot, destroy so precious a life! It is I who am now worthless to my people. My days are almost spent. Even if you spare me, I have but a little while to live.”

Then Télésile, perceiving the eyes of Charles bent upon her with a look of mingled admiration and pity, said: “Do not think there is anything wonderful in my conduct; I do but my simple duty; I plead for my father’s life!”

“Yes, I am her father,” said the old man, moved by a sudden determination. “And I am something more. My lord duke, behold the man on whom you have sworn to have revenge. I am he who defended the city so long against you. Now let me die!”

At this a multitude of people broke from the line in which they had been ranged, and, surrounding the governor and his daughter, made a rampart of their bodies about them, exclaiming, “Let us die for him! We will die for our good governor!”

All the better part of the rude Charles’s nature was roused. Tears were in his own eyes, his voice was shaken by emotion. “Neither shall die!” he cried. “Old man! fair maiden! I spare your lives and, for your sake, the lives of all these people. Nay, do not thank me; for I have gained in this interview a knowledge which I could never have acquired through years of conquest--that human love is greater than kingly power, and that mercy is sweeter than vengeance!”

Well would it have been for the rash Charles could he have gained that knowledge earlier, or have shaped his future life by it even then. Still fired by ambition and love of power, he went forth to fight Duke René, who now appeared with an army to relieve his fair city of Nancy. A battle ensued, in which Charles was defeated and slain; and in the midst of joy and thanksgiving, the rightful duke entered and once more took possession of the town.

Warmly as he was welcomed, there were two who shared with him the honors of that happy day--the old man who had defended Nancy so long and well, and the young girl whose heroic conduct had saved from massacre one-tenth of all its inhabitants.

HUMANITY.

WILLIAM COWPER.

I WOULD not enter on my list of friends
(Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
Yet wanting sensibility) the man
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
An inadvertent step may crush the snail
That crawls at evening in the public path;
But he that has humanity, forewarned,
Will tread aside, and let the reptile live.

AN ICEBERG.

RICHARD H. DANA, Jr.

RICHARD HENRY DANA, JR., was born in Cambridge, Mass., in 1815, and
died in 1882.

He was educated at Harvard College. During his course there his
eyesight became affected, and he was obliged to leave college for a
time.

Being advised to take a sea voyage, he shipped for California and
spent two years as a common sailor. On his return he published an
account of his adventures, entitled “Two Years before the Mast.”
This book became popular both in England and America. It is still
widely read.

Mr. Dana was admitted to the bar when he was twenty-five years old,
and always held a prominent position as a lawyer and writer.

THIS day the sun rose fair, but it ran too low in the heavens to give any heat, or thaw out our sails and rigging; yet the sight of it was pleasant, and we had a steady “reef-topsail breeze” from the westward. The atmosphere, which had previously been clear and cold, for the last few hours grew damp and had a disagreeable, wet chilliness in it; and the man who came from the wheel said he heard the captain tell “the passenger” that the thermometer had fallen several degrees since morning, which he could not account for in any other way than by supposing that there must be ice near us, though such a thing was rarely heard of in this latitude at this season of the year.

At twelve o’clock we went below, and had just got through dinner when the cook put his head down the scuttle and told us to come on deck and see the finest sight that we had ever seen. “Where away, doctor?” asked the first man who was up. “On the larboard bow.” And there lay, floating in the ocean, several miles off, an immense, irregular mass, its top and points covered with snow, and its center of a deep indigo color. This was an iceberg, and of the largest size, as one of our men said who had been in the Northern Ocean. As far as the eye could reach, the sea in every direction was of a deep blue color, the waves running high and fresh, and sparkling in the light; and in the midst lay this immense mountain-island, its cavities and valleys thrown into deep shade, and its points and pinnacles glittering in the sun.

All hands were soon on deck looking at it, and admiring, in various ways, its beauty and grandeur. But no description can give any idea of the strangeness, splendor, and really the sublimity of the sight. Its great size,--for it must have been from two to three miles in circumference, and several hundred feet in height,--its slow motion, as its base rose and sank in the water and its high points nodded against the clouds; the dashing of the waves upon it, which, breaking high with foam, lined its base with a white crust; and the thundering sound of the cracking of the mass, and the breaking and tumbling down of huge pieces, together with its nearness and approach, which added to a slight element of fear, all combined to give to it the character of true sublimity.

The main body of the mass was, as I have said, of an indigo color, its base crusted with foam, and, as it grew thin and transparent towards the edges and top, its color shaded off from a deep blue to the whiteness of snow. It seemed to be drifting slowly towards the north, so that we kept away and avoided it. It was in sight all the afternoon, and when we got to leeward of it the wind died away, so that we lay to quite near it for a greater part of the night.

Unfortunately there was no moon; but it was a clear night, and we could plainly mark the long, regular heaving of the stupendous mass, as its edges moved slowly against the stars, now revealing them and now shutting them in. Several times in our watch loud cracks were heard, which sounded as though they must have run through the whole length of the iceberg, and several pieces fell down with a thundering crash, plunging heavily into the sea. Towards morning a strong breeze sprang up, and we filled away, and left it astern, and at daylight it was out of sight.

_From “Two Years before the Mast.”_

JOHN MILTON.

JOHN MILTON was born in 1608, in a house called “The Spread Eagle,” in the very heart of old London.

His father, also John Milton, was a scrivener or lawyer, and was well known as a musical composer. He had received a good education and took great pains with his son, employing private tutors for him, and afterwards sending him to St. Paul’s school, where he was for some time a day scholar.

The boy was as desirous of an education as his father could wish, and became so interested in his books that he would read and study until after midnight.

His compositions and verses attracted attention during his early boyhood. Before he was sixteen years old he had written two of the Psalms in verse.

While at St. Paul’s he formed a close friendship with Charles Diodati, the son of an exiled Italian physician. This friendship aroused Milton’s interest in Italian literature.

Milton entered Christ’s College, Cambridge, when he was seventeen years old, remaining there seven years. The handsome, graceful young man, with his scorn of all that lacked refinement, was not popular during the first years of his college course, and the students called him “The Lady.” They soon learned to honor his high character and brilliant scholarship. He was regarded as the best student of the university.

He had at first intended to become a clergyman, but gave up this plan and was uncertain as to what he should do. His father had taken a house at Horton, about twenty miles from London, and, after leaving Cambridge, Milton spent five years at home, studying Greek and Latin, taking solitary walks, and writing wonderful verses. He also continued the study of music under his father’s teaching, and took great delight in it. Some of his most famous poems were written during those years at Horton.

Milton had long desired to travel, and after the death of his mother he found his home so lonely that he persuaded his father to allow him to visit France, Italy, and Switzerland. This journey occupied nearly sixteen months, and was a season of delight to the young poet, who, by reading, had become familiar with these old cities and the famous men who had walked their streets. He also became acquainted with many learned men and persons of rank, and was received everywhere with courteous attention. During his stay at Florence he met the astronomer, Galileo, then old and blind, and recently released from prison, where he had been confined on account of his theories and discoveries.

The house at Horton was occupied but a short time after Milton’s return. His father went to live with his son Christopher, and the poet went to London. He hired a pretty “garden-house,” large enough for himself and his books, and lived there with his two nephews, of whose education he took charge. He was fond of teaching, and gradually several other boys joined the class, and his house became a small private school.

In the spring of his thirty-fifth year Milton went to Oxford and returned a month later, bringing home a bride and a party of her relatives. After several days spent in feasting, the young wife of seventeen summers was left alone with her husband, who became once more absorbed in his books. Mrs. Milton cared nothing for literature, and before the summer was over she went to visit her father, promising to return during September. She refused to go home at the appointed time and remained away for two years.

During the meantime Milton’s father had come to live with him, and the number of his pupils had so increased that he had taken a larger house. After the death of his father, Milton decided to devote more time to writing, so he dismissed his pupils and removed to a smaller house. He became deeply interested in politics, writing some bold and daring essays on the questions of the day. When he was forty years old he was appointed Secretary of Foreign Tongues, with a large salary and a residence in Whitehall Palace in Scotland Yard. His eyesight had begun to fail, and three years after accepting this office he became blind. He continued, however, to attend to his duties with the aid of two assistants. Shortly after he lost his sight his wife died, leaving three little daughters. Four years later he married a second time, but this wife lived but a short time.

In 1660, when Milton was fifty-two years old, there came another change in the government, and Milton’s life was in danger. He was obliged to hide for several months. Life seemed very gloomy to the blind man. His friends were dead or in exile, he had lost a large share of his property, and his work during the last twenty years seemed thrown away.

Many years before, Milton had planned to write his great poem of “Paradise Lost.” He now devoted himself to this work, dictating it to Dorothy, his youngest and favorite child, who bore some resemblance to her father, and who was most in sympathy with him.

Milton married for the third time during his fifty-fifth year. This wife proved a blessing to him. She was a lover of music, and sang to him while he accompanied her upon the organ or bass viol. They walked together and talked about his favorite books and men of learning. His poem “Paradise Lost” was finished during the next two years. He loaned a copy to a friend, who suggested his writing “Paradise Regained,” which was published about four years later.

These poems rank as the grandest works of one of the greatest minds that the world has ever known. The poet’s humble home became an attraction for many visitors, who wished to look upon and talk with the man whose genius was so great.

Milton died in 1674.

DEATH OF SAMSON.

JOHN MILTON.

_Scene_--In Gaza.

OCCASIONS drew me early to this city;
And, as the gates I entered with sunrise,
The morning trumpets festival proclaimed
Through each high street: little I had dispatched,
When all abroad was rumored that this day
Samson should be brought forth, to show the people
Proof of his mighty strength in feats and games;
I sorrowed at his captive state, but minded
Not to be absent at that spectacle.

The building was a spacious theater
Half-round, on two main pillars vaulted high,
With seats, where all the lords, and each degree
Of sort, might sit in order to behold;
The other side was open, where the throng
On banks and scaffolds under sky might stand;
I among these, aloof, obscurely stood.

The feast and noon grew high, and sacrifice
Had filled their hearts with mirth, high cheer, and wine,
When to their sports they turned. Immediately
Was Samson as a public servant brought,
In their state livery clad; before him pipes
And timbrels, on each side went armëd guards,
Both horse and foot; before him and behind
Archers and slingers, cataphracts and spears.
At sight of him the people with a shout
Rifted the air, clamoring their god with praise,
Who had made their dreadful enemy their thrall.

He, patient, but undaunted, where they led him,
Came to the place; and what was set before him,
Which without help of eye might be essayed,
To heave, pull, draw, or break, he still performed,
All with, incredible, stupendous force,
None daring to appear antagonist.

At length, for intermission sake, they led him
Between the pillars; he his guide requested,
As over-tired, to let him lean awhile
With both his arms on those two massy pillars,
That to the archëd roof gave main support.

He, unsuspicious, led him; which when Samson
Felt in his arms, with head awhile inclined,
And eyes fast fixed he stood, as one who prayed,
Or some great matter in his mind revolved;
At last, with head erect, thus cried aloud:
“Hitherto, lords, what your commands imposed
I have performed, as reason was, obeying,
Not without wonder or delight beheld:
Now, of my own accord, such other trial
I mean to show you of my strength, yet greater,
As with amaze shall strike all who behold.”

This uttered, straining all his nerves, he bowed;
As with the force of winds and waters pent,
When mountains tremble, those two massy pillars
With horrible convulsion to and fro
He tugged, he shook, till down they came, and drew
The whole roof after them, with burst of thunder,
Upon the heads of all who sat beneath,--
Lords, ladies, captains, counselors, or priests,
Their choice nobility and flower, not only
Of this, but each Philistian city round,
Met from all parts to solemnize this feast.
Samson, with these immixed, inevitably
Pulled down the same destruction on himself;
The vulgar only ’scaped who stood without.

_From “Samson Agonistes.”_

MAY MORNING.

JOHN MILTON.

NOW the bright morning star, Day’s harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire!
Woods and groves are of thy dressing;
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

ON HIS BLINDNESS.

JOHN MILTON.

WHEN I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide;
“Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?”
I fondly ask; but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.”

* * * * *

How charming is divine philosophy!
Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose,
But musical as is Apollo’s lute,
And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets,
Where no crude surfeit reigns.

A CHEERFUL SPIRIT.

SIR JOHN LUBBOCK.

SIR JOHN LUBBOCK was born in England in 1834. He is a banker and
has introduced great improvements into banking and custom-house
business.

He has written a number of books on literary and scientific
subjects.

CHEERFULNESS is a great moral tonic. As sunshine brings out the flowers and ripens the fruit, so does cheerfulness--the feeling of freedom and life--develop in us all the seeds of good--all that is best in us.

Cheerfulness is a duty we owe to others. There is an old tradition that a cup of gold is to be found wherever a rainbow touches the earth, and there are some people whose smile, the sound of whose voice, whose very presence seems like a ray of sunshine, to turn everything they touch into gold.

Men never break down as long as they can keep cheerful. “A merry heart is a continual feast” to others besides itself. The shadow of Florence Nightingale cured more than her medicines; and if we share the burdens of others, we lighten our own.

All wish, but few know how, to enjoy themselves. They do not realize the dignity and delight of life.

Do not magnify small troubles into great trials. We often fancy we are mortally wounded when we are but scratched. A surgeon, says Fuller, “sent for to cure a slight wound, sent off in a great hurry for a plaster. ‘Why,’ said the gentleman, ‘is the hurt then so dangerous?’ ‘No,’ said the surgeon, ‘but if the messenger returns not in post-haste, it will cure itself.’” Time cures sorrow as well as wounds.

“A cultivated mind, I do not mean that of a philosopher, but any mind to which the fountains of knowledge have been opened, and which has been taught in any tolerable degree to exercise its faculties, will find sources of inexhaustible interest in all that surrounds it; in the objects of Nature, the achievements of Art, the imagination of Poetry, the incidents of History, the ways of Mankind, past and present, and their prospects in the future.”

_From “The Pleasures of Life.”_

THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.

FOR eighty days the fort of Lucknow had held out against fifty thousand rebel Sepoys. Disease, famine, and the fire of the enemy had thinned the ranks of the little garrison until but twenty remained. Day after day the garrison had hoped for relief, but now hope itself had died away. The Sepoys, grown desperate by repulse, had decided to overwhelm the fort with their whole force. The engineers had said that within a few hours all would be over, and not a soul within Lucknow but was prepared for the worst.

A poor Scotch girl, Jessie Brown, had been in a state of excitement all through the siege, and had fallen away visibly within the last few days. A constant fever consumed her, and her mind wandered, especially on that day, when, as she said, she was “lukin far awa, far awa upon the craigs of Duncleuch as in the days of auld lang syne.” At last, overcome with fatigue, she sank on the ground too tired to wait.

As the Sepoys moved on to the attack, the women, remembering the horrible scenes of Cawnpore, besought the men to save them from a fate worse than death, by killing them with a volley from their guns. The soldiers for the last time looked down the road whence the long-looked-for relief must come; but they saw no signs of Havelock and his troops. In despair they loaded their guns and aimed them at the waiting group; but suddenly all are startled by a wild, unearthly shriek from the sleeping Scotch girl. Starting upright, her arms raised, and her head bent forward in the attitude of listening, with a look of intense delight breaking over her countenance, she exclaimed: “Dinna ye hear it? Dinna ye hear it? Ay, I’m no dreamin’; it’s the slogan o’ the Highlanders! We’re saved, we’re saved!” Then, flinging herself upon her knees, she thanked God with passionate fervor.

The soldiers were utterly bewildered; their English ears heard only the roar of artillery, and they thought poor Jessie still raving. But she darted to the batteries, crying incessantly to the men: “Courage! Hark to the slogan--to the Macgregor, the grandest of them a’! Here’s help at last!” For a moment every soul listened in intense anxiety. Gradually, however, there was a murmur of bitter disappointment, and the wailing of the women began anew as the colonel shook his head. Their dull Lowland ears heard nothing but the rattle of the musketry.

A few moments more of this deathlike suspense, of this agonizing hope, and Jessie, who had again sunk to the ground, sprang to her feet, and cried in a voice so clear and piercing that it was heard along the whole line: “Will ye no believe it noo? The slogan has ceased, indeed, but the Campbells are comin’. D’ ye hear? D’ ye hear?”

At that moment they seem to hear the voice of God in the distance, as the bagpipes of the Highlanders brought tidings of deliverance; for now there was no longer any doubt of their coming. That shrill, penetrating, ceaseless sound which rose above all other sounds could come neither from the advance of the enemy nor from the work of the sappers.

Yes! It was indeed the blast of the Scottish bagpipes, now shrill and harsh as the threatening vengeance of the foe, then in softer tones seeming to promise succor to their friends in need. Never, surely, was there such a scene as that which followed. Not a heart in the residency of Lucknow but bowed itself before God. All by one simultaneous impulse fell upon their knees, and nothing was heard save bursting sobs and the murmured voice of prayer.

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.

THEODORE O’HARA.

THE muffled drum’s sad roll has beat
The soldier’s last tattoo;
No more on life’s parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame’s eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And glory guards with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe’s advance
Now swells upon the wind;
No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow’s strife
The warrior’s dream alarms;
No braying horn or screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle’s stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are past.
Nor war’s wild note, nor glory’s peal,
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Comes down the serried foe.
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o’er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day
Was “Victory or Death!”

Sons of the dark and bloody ground,
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air!
Your own proud land’s heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave:
She claims from war its richest spoil,--
The ashes of her brave.

Thus, ’neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,
Borne to a Spartan mother’s breast
On many a bloody shield.
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes’ sepulcher.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave,
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel’s voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanished year hath flown,
The story how ye fell.
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter’s blight,
Nor Time’s remorseless doom,
Can dim one ray of holy light
That gilds your glorious tomb.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

THOMAS GRAY.

THOMAS GRAY was born in London in 1716. His father neglected his
family, and the boy was dependent upon his mother, who worked hard
to provide her son with an education.

Through the influence of an uncle, who was an assistant at Eton,
the future poet was educated at that famous school, and at
Cambridge. He spent his vacations at his uncle’s house. He cared
nothing for the sports of the times, but loved nature. He would sit
for hours in a quiet nook, surrounded by hills and cliffs, reading,
dreaming, and watching the gambols of the hares and squirrels.

Gray was twenty-two years old when he left Cambridge. He spent the
following six months at home, and then accepted the invitation of
one of his college friends to accompany him, free of expense, on a
tour through France and Italy. His notes and letters written during
this trip show remarkable taste and learning.