Chapter M: J. Spalding, D. D. Archbishop of Baltimore, is a native of (1)

Kentucky. He is a man of great learning and ability, and of
untiring industry. He is the author of a very valuable “History
of the Protestant Reformation,” and of several volumes of Essays
and Lectures. The following is from his brilliant Introduction to
the “History of the Church,” by Darras.

1. Take them all in all, the two hundred and fifty Popes and more, who have successively occupied the Chair of Peter, constitute the most respectable and venerable body of men whose deeds are recorded on the pages of history. Nearly all of them were highly respectable men, learned, enlightened, and pious, far beyond their age; very many of them were venerable for their personal sanctity. Seventy-nine of them—nearly a third of the entire number—were so remarkable for their holiness of character as to merit being inscribed on the Calendar of Saints; and this number includes thirty-three who willingly laid down their lives for Christ and His Church.

2. A very large proportion of the others were men of blameless life, and of indefatigable[585] zeal for the propagation[586] of the faith, while not a few of them were possessed of great learning and capacity. Such, for instance, were Innocent III., Innocent IV., Boniface VIII., and Benedict XIV.,—not to name a host of others in the earlier ages of the Church.

3. In this connection, it is a remarkable fact, and one which shows how effectually Christ has watched over His Church, in the person of His Vicars on earth; that during the last three centuries—since the so-called Reformation—not a single unworthy or immoral Pope has occupied the venerable Chair of Peter. While wickedness has abounded[587], and the very foundations of the faith have been boldly undermined by wicked men “lying in wait to deceive,” God has taken care of His own, and has spared scandals in the high places of His Church.

4. The Reformation, has, perhaps, been instrumental in involuntarily and indirectly rendering this signal service to the cause of the Church, which it so unblushingly maligned. By removing from the pale of Catholic Christendom the most turbulent[588] and unrestrained of its members, it has contributed to purify the atmosphere breathed by the great body of Christians, who remained faithful; while by its bitter opposition, it has quickened their zeal and nourished their vigilance. Thus God’s providence hath drawn good out of evil.

5. Compare the Popes with the sovereigns who have contemporaneously[589] filled the various thrones of Europe and the world; and mark the difference, or rather the contrast. While among the latter it is very difficult to discover even one just man, in a long line of incumbents;[590] in the former, it is almost as difficult to find one who is wicked. Among the latter, personal morality, self-restraint, and purity are the exception; among the former, they are the rule. Among the latter, a ruler now and then appears clad with the virtues which mark the saint, as if to show that sanctity is compatible with every condition in life; among the former so many blameless and saintly men appear, that we cease to wonder, and yield to no surprise on discovering a new Pope who is true to the traditions[591] of his order. When we find a solitary flower in the bleak and dreary desert, we are startled into unbounded admiration; when we behold whole clusters of them in a flower-garden, we look with calm pleasure on the beautiful spectacle, but take it as a matter of course, and are not at all astonished.

[585] IN-DE-FATˊ-I-GA-BLE, unwearying; not yielding to fatigue.

[586] PROPˊ-A-GAˊ-TION, diffusion; increase.

[587] A-BOUNDˊ-ED, been prevalent or plentiful.

[588] TURˊ-BU-LENT, riotous; disorderly.

[589] CON-TEMˊ-PO-RA-NEOUS, living or existing at the same time.

[590] IN-CUMˊ-BENT, one who holds an office.

[591] TRA-ˊDI-TION, the history or account handed down from one to another.

LXXXVIII.—LABOR AND GENIUS

SYDNEY SMITH.

Sydney Smith was born in 1791, and died in 1845. His
miscellaneous writings, comprising essays, reviews, and
occasional pieces, are characterized by a happy combination of
strong sense and brilliant wit.

1. The prevailing idea with young people has been, the incompatibility[592] of labor and genius; and, therefore, from the fear of being thought dull, they have thought it necessary to remain ignorant. I have seen, at school and at college, a great many young men completely destroyed by having been so unfortunate as to produce an excellent copy of verses. Their genius being now established, all that remained for them to do, was to act up to the dignity of the character; and as this dignity consisted in reading nothing new, in forgetting what they had already read, and in pretending to be acquainted with all subjects by a sort of off-hand exertion of talents, they soon collapsed[593] into the most frivolous and insignificant of men.

2. It would be an extremely profitable thing to draw up a short and well-authenticated account of the habits of study of the most celebrated writers with whose style of literary industry we happen to be most acquainted. It would go very far to destroy the absurd and pernicious[594] association of genius and idleness, by showing that the greatest poets, orators, statesmen, and historians—men of the most brilliant and imposing talents—have actually labored as hard as the makers of dictionaries and the arrangers of indexes; and that the most obvious reason why they have been superior to other men is, that they have taken more pains than other men.

3. Gibbon was in his study every morning, winter and summer, at six o’clock: Burke was the most laborious and indefatigable[595] of human beings: Leibnitz[596] was never out of his library: Pascal killed himself by study: Cicero narrowly escaped death from the same cause: Milton was at his books with as much regularity as a merchant or an attorney; he had mastered all the knowledge of his time: so had Homer. Raphael lived but thirty-seven years; and in that short space carried the art of painting so far beyond what it had before reached, that he appears to stand alone as a model to his successors.

4. There are instances to the contrary; but, generally speaking, the life of all truly great men has been a life of intense and incessant[597] labor. They have commonly passed the first half of life in the gross darkness of indigent humility—overlooked, mistaken, contemned by weaker men,—thinking while others slept, reading while others rioted, feeling something within them that told them they should not always be kept down among the dregs of the world; and then, when their time has come, and some little accident has given them their first occasion, they have burst out into the light and glory of public life, rich with the spoils of time, and mighty in all the labors and struggles of the mind.

5. Then do the multitude cry out, “A miracle of genius!” Yes, he is a miracle of genius, because he is a miracle of labor; because, instead of trusting to the resources of his own single mind, he has ransacked a thousand minds; because he makes use of the accumulation of ages, and takes, as his point of departure, the very last line and boundary to which science has advanced; because it has ever been the object of his life to assist every intellectual gift of nature, however munificent,[598] and however splendid, with every resource that art could suggest, and every attention diligence could bestow.

6. But, while I am descanting[599] upon the conduct of the understanding, and the best mode of acquiring knowledge, some men may be disposed to ask, “Why conduct my understanding with such endless care? and what is the use of so much knowledge?” What is the use of so much knowledge? What is the use of so much life? What are we to do with the seventy years of existence allotted to us? and how are we to live them out to the last?

7. I solemnly declare that, but for the love of knowledge, I should consider the life of the meanest hedger and ditcher as preferable to that of the greatest and richest man in existence; for the fire of our minds is like the fire which the Persians burn on the mountains: it flames night and day, and is immortal, and not to be quenched! Upon something it must act and feed—upon the pure spirit of knowledge, or upon the foul dregs of polluting passions.

8. Therefore, when I say, in conducting your understanding, love knowledge with a great love, with a vehement love, with a love coeval[600] with life, what do I say but love innocence, love virtue, love purity of conduct, love that which, if you are rich and great, will vindicate the blind fortune which has made you so, and make men call it justice; love that which, if you are poor, will render your poverty respectable, and make the proudest feel it unjust to laugh at the meanness of your fortunes; love that which will comfort you, adorn you and never quit you,—which will open to you the kingdom of thought, and all the boundless regions of conceptions, as an asylum against the cruelty, the injustice, and the pain that may be your lot in the outer world,—that which will make your motives habitually great and honorable, and light up in an instant a thousand noble disdains at the very thought of meanness and of fraud.

9. Therefore, if any young man have embarked his life in pursuit of knowledge, let him go on without doubting or fearing the event; let him not be intimidated by the cheerless beginnings of knowledge, by the darkness from which she springs, by the difficulties which hover around her, by the wretched habitations in which she dwells, by the want and sorrow which sometimes journey in her train; but let him ever follow her as the Angel that guards him, and as the Genius of his life. She will bring him out at last into the light of day, and exhibit him to the world comprehensive in acquirements, fertile in resources, rich in imagination, strong in reasoning, prudent and powerful above his fellows in all the relations and in all the offices of his life.

[592] IN-COM-PAT-I-BILˊ-I-TY, state or quality of a thing which prevents it from harmonizing with something else; inconsistency; disagreement.

[593] COL-LAPSˊ-ED, fell together, as the sides of a hollow vessel; shrunk up; dwindled.

[594] PER-NIˊ-CIOUS, mischievous, hurtful, or evil, in a high degree.

[595] IN-DE-FATˊ-I-GA-BLE, incapable of being exhausted or wearied; persevering.

[596] _Pronounced_ Libˊnitz.

[597] IN-CESˊ-SANT, unceasing; continual.

[598] MU-NIFˊ-I-CENT, bountiful; liberal; generous.

[599] DES-CANTˊ-ING, discoursing; making remarks; commenting.

[600] CO-Eˊ-VAL, of the same age; contemporary.

LXXXIX.—THE DYING GIRL.

WILLIAMS.

1. From a Munster vale they brought her,
From the pure and balmy air,
An Ormond peasants daughter,
With blue eyes and golden hair.
They brought her to the city,
And she faded slowly there;
Consumption has no pity
For blue eyes and golden hair.

2. When I saw her first reclining,
Her lips were moved in prayer,
And the setting sun was shining
On her loosened golden hair.
When our kindly glances met her,
Deadly brilliant was her eye;
And she said that she was better
While we knew that she must die.

3. She speaks of Munster valleys,
The patron,[601] dance, and fair.
And her thin hand feebly dallies
With her scattered golden hair.
When silently we listened
To her breath, with quiet care,
Her eyes with wonder glistened,
And she asked us what was there.

4. The poor thing smiled to ask it,
And her pretty mouth laid bare,
Like gems within a casket
A string of pearlets rare.
We said that we were trying
By the gushing of her blood,
And the time she took in sighing,
To know if she were good.

5. Well, she smiled and chatted gayly,
Though we saw, in mute despair,
The hectic brighter daily,
And the death-dew on her hair.
And oft her wasted fingers,
Beating time upon the bed,
O’er some old tune she lingers,
And she bows her golden head.

6. At length the harp is broken,
And the spirit in its strings,
As the last decree is spoken,
To its source, exulting, springs.
Descending swiftly from the skies,
Her guardian angel came,
He struck God’s lightning from her eyes,
And bore Him back the flame.

7. Before the sun had risen
Through the lark-loved morning air,
Her young soul left its prison,
Undefiled by sin or care.
I stood beside the couch in tears,
Where, pale and calm, she slept,
And though I’ve gazed on death for years,
I blush not that I wept.
I checked with effort pity’s sighs,
And left the matron there,
To close the curtain of her eyes,
And bind her golden hair.

[601] PA-TRONˊ, (pronounced pattern,) assemblage of persons on the anniversary of the local patron saint of a parish or town in Ireland.

XC.—THE ANGELUS BELL.

CAMPION.

1. The large moon of autumn,
The guardian of night,
Had closed her pale lamp
In the firmaments height;
From the Black Abbey’s towers
The wild doves careered,
As the bright dawn of morn
Awaking appeared;
And the old marble city,
From campanile gray,
Proclaimed to the burghers
All Noreward—“’twas day!”
Then the long, mellow knell
Of the Angelus Bell,
Seemed psalming and singing
O’er blessed crypt and cell,
Where the Black Monks were wont
In the old times to dwell.

2. ’Twas noon, at the market-cross,
In the quaint town,
And the burgher so comely,
The tall peasant brown,
And the gaunt man-at-arms,
And mild maiden meek,
With the peach-blush of beauty
And peace on her cheek,
Were crowding together
In hundreds around,
While the tall cross stood stately
’Mid tumult and sound.
Then the long, mellow knell
Of the Angelus Bell
Upon the dense crowd
In the market-place fell;
And the burgher knelt down,
And the peasant as well,
And the gaunt soldier rude,
At the peal of the bell,
While the pure maiden voice
Joined the long, mellow knell.

3. ’Twas night o’er the abbey,
The moon rose again
O’er the grand domes of pleasure
And poor haunts of pain;
And the wild dove was nestled
Again in the cleft
Of the old belfry tower
That early he left;
And the pale monks were sitting
Alone and alone,
With lamps still unlighted,
And penitent moan;
When the Angelus Bell,
With its long, mellow knell,
Broke up their lone reveries
Like a blest spell;
And down on the cold earth
The holy men fell,
The grand prayer to chant
And their long beads to tell;
While sang with its psalm-voice
The Angelus Bell.

XCI.—A CURTAIN LECTURE OF MRS. CAUDLE.

JERROLD.

Douglas William Jerrold was born in London in 1803, and died in
1857. He was first a midshipman in the navy, then a printer, and
lastly, a man of letters by profession. His “Caudle Lectures”
were published in the London Punch, and extensively read in
England and America.

1. Bah! that’s the third umbrella gone since Christmas. What were you to do? Why, let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I’m very certain there was nothing about him that could spoil. Take cold, indeed! He doesn’t look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he’d have better taken cold than taken our umbrella. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear the rain? And, as I’m alive, if it isn’t St. Swithin’s day![602] Do you hear it against the window?

2. Nonsense: you don’t impose upon me; you can’t be asleep with such a shower as that! Do you hear it, I say? O, you _do_ hear it! Well, that’s a pretty flood, I think, to last for six weeks; and no stirring all the time out of the house. Pooh! don’t think me a fool, Mr. Caudle; don’t insult me! _he_ return the umbrella! Any body would think you were born yesterday. As if any body ever did return an umbrella!

3. There: do you hear it? Worse and worse. Cats and dogs, and for six weeks: always six weeks; and no umbrella! I should like to know how the children are to go to school to-morrow. They shan’t go through such weather, I am determined. No; they shall stop at home, and never learn any thing, the blessed creatures! sooner than go and get wet! And when they grow up, I wonder who they’ll have to thank for knowing nothing; who, indeed, but their father! People who can’t feel for their own children ought never to be fathers.

4. But I know why you lent the umbrella: O, yes, I know very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother’s to-morrow: you knew that, and you did it on purpose. Don’t tell me; you hate to have me go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. But don’t you think it, Mr. Caudle; no, sir: if it comes down in buckets’ full, I’ll go all the more.

5. No; and I won’t have a cab![603] Where do you think the money’s to come from? A cab indeed!—Cost me sixteen-pence, at least: sixteen-pence! two-and-eight-pence; for there’s back again. Cabs, indeed! I should like to know who’s to pay for ’em; for I’m sure you can’t, if you go on as you do, throwing away your property, and beggaring your children, buying umbrellas.

6. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear it? But I don’t care; I’ll go to mother’s to-morrow—I will; and what’s more, I’ll walk every step of the way; and you know that will give me my death. Don’t call me a foolish woman; it’s you that’s the foolish man. You know I can’t wear clogs[604]; and with no umbrella, the wet’s sure to give me a cold—it always does. But what do you care for that? Nothing at all. I may be laid up for all you care, as I dare say I shall; and a pretty doctor’s bill there’ll be. I hope there will. It will teach you to lend your umbrellas again. I shouldn’t wonder if I caught my death. Yes, and that’s what you lent the umbrella for. Of course.

7. Nice clothes I get, too, traipsing[605] through weather like this! My gown and bonnet will be spoiled quite. I needn’t wear ’em then. Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I _shall_ wear ’em. No, sir; I am not going out a dowdy to please you or any body else. Gracious knows! it isn’t often that I step over the threshold; indeed, I might as well be a slave at once: better, I should say; but when I do go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose to go as a lady. O, that rain! if it isn’t enough to break in the windows.

8. Ugh! I look forward with dread to to-morrow! How I am to go to mother’s, I am sure I can’t tell, but if I die, I’ll do it.—No, sir, I won’t borrow an umbrella: no; and you shan’t _buy_ one. (_With great emphasis_.) Mr. Caudle, if you bring home another umbrella, I’ll throw it into the street.

9. Ha! and it was only last week I had a new nozzle put to that umbrella. I’m sure if I’d have known as much as I do now, it might have gone without one. Paying for new nozzles for other people to laugh at you! O, it’s all very well for you; you can go to sleep. You’ve no thought of your poor patient wife, and your own dear children: you think of nothing but lending umbrellas!

10. Men, indeed! Call themselves lords of creation! pretty lords, when they can’t even take care of an umbrella!

11. I know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me, but that’s what you want: then you may go to your club, and do as you like; and then nicely my poor dear children will be used; but then, sir, then you’ll be happy. O, don’t tell me! I know you will! else you’d never have lent the umbrella!

12. The children, dear things! they’ll be sopping wet; for they shan’t stay at home; they shan’t lose their learning; it’s ill their father will leave them, I’m sure.—But they _shall_ go to school. Don’t tell me they needn’t: you are so aggravating[606], Caudle, you’d spoil the temper of an angel; they _shall_ go to school! mark that: and if they get their deaths of cold, it’s not my fault; I didn’t lend the umbrella.

13. “Here,” says Caudle, in his manuscript, “I fell asleep, and dreamed that the sky was turned into green calico, with whalebone ribs: that, in fact, the whole world revolved under a tremendous umbrella!”

[602] There is an old superstition in England that if it rains on St. Swithin’s day (15th July), not one of the next forty days will be wholly without rain.

[603] CAB, a kind of carriage, with two or four wheels, drawn by one horse.

[604] CLOGS, a kind of overshoes worn to keep the feet dry.

[605] TRAIPSˊ-ING, a colloquial or low word, _meaning_, running about idly or carelessly.

[606] AGˊ-GRA-VAT-ING, making worse; _also colloquially_, provoking; irritating.

XCII.—THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

HOOD.

Thomas Hood was born in London in 1798, and died in 1845. His
life was one of severe toil and much suffering, always sustained,
however, with manly resolution and a cheerful spirit. He wrote
much, both in prose and verse. He was a man of peculiar and
original genius, which manifested itself with equal power and
ease in humor and pathos.

The following remarkable piece of poetry appeared in the London
Punch only a short time before the death of the lamented author.
It was written at a time when the attention of benevolent
persons in London had been awakened to the inadequate wages
paid to poor needlewomen, and their consequent distress; and
from the seasonableness of its appearance, as well as its high
literary merit, it produced a great effect. It is valuable,
as an expression of that deep and impassioned sympathy with
suffering, which was a leading trait in Hood’s nature, and forms
an attractive element in his writings.

1. With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread—
Stitch—stitch—stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still, with a voice of dolorous[607] pitch,
She sang the “Song of the Shirt!”

2. Work—work—work!
While the cock is crowing aloof![608]
And work—work—work!
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It’s O, to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If THIS is Christian work.

3. “Work—work—work!
Till the brain begins to swim;
Work—work—work!
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in my dream.

4. “O men with sisters dear!
O men with mothers and wives!
It is not linen you’re wearing out,
But human creatures’ lives!
Stitch—stitch—stitch!
In poverty, hunger and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A SHROUD as well as a shirt!

5. “But why do I talk of death,
That phantom of grisly bone?
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own—
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fast I keep:
O God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

6. “Work—work—work!
My labor never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread—and rags:
A shattered roof—and this naked floor—
A table—a broken chair—
And a wall so blank my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

7. “Work—work—work!
From weary chime to chime;
Work—work—work!
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed,[609]
As well as the weary hand!

8. “Work—work—work!
In the dull December light;
And work—work—work!
When the weather is warm and bright;
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show me their sunny backs,
And twit me with the spring.

9. “O, but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet!
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want,
And the walk that costs a meal!

10. “O, but for one short hour!
A respite,[610] however brief!
No blessed leisure for love or hope,
But only time for grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart—
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!”

11. With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread—
Stitch—stitch—stitch—
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch,—
Would that its tone could reach the rich!—
She sang this “Song of the Shirt!”

[607] DOLˊ-O-ROUS, sorrowful; painful.

[608] A-LOOFˊ, at a distance; apart.

[609] BE-NUMBEDˊ, made torpid.

[610] RESˊ-PITE, delay; pause; interval.

XCIII.—BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.

MRS. HEMANS.

The celebrated Spanish champion, Bernardo del Carpio, having
made many ineffectual efforts to procure the release of his
father, the Count Saldana, who had been imprisoned by King
Alfonso of Asturias, at last took up arms in despair. The war
which he maintained proved so destructive that the men of the
land gathered round the king, and united in demanding Saldana’s
liberty. Alfonso, accordingly, offered Bernardo immediate
possession of his father’s person in exchange for his castle of
Carpio. Bernardo, without hesitation, gave up his stronghold,
with all his captives, and being assured that his father was
then on his way from prison, rode forth with the king to meet
him. “And when he saw his father approaching, he exclaimed,”
says the ancient chronicle, “O God! is the Count of Saldana
indeed coming?” “Look where he is,” replied the cruel king;
“and now go and greet him whom you have so long desired to see.”
The remainder of the story will be found related in the ballad.
The chronicles and romances leave us nearly in the dark as to
Bernardo’s history after this event.

1. The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire.
And sued the haughty king to free his long imprisoned sire:
“I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train;
I pledge my faith, my liege:[611] my lord, O, break my father’s chain!”

2. “Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed[612] man this day;
Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way.”
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed,
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger’s[613] foamy speed.

3. And, lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band,
With one that ’midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land.
“Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he,
The father, whom thy faithful heart hath yearned[614] so long to see.”

4. His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheeks’ hue came
and went;
He reached that gray-haired chieftain’s side, and, there dismounting,
bent;
A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father’s hand he took—
What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook?

5. That hand was cold! a frozen thing!—it dropped from his like lead:
He looked up to the face above—the face was of the dead!
A plume waved o’er the noble brow—the brow was fixed and white!
He met, at length, his father’s eyes—but in them was no sight!

6. Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed; but who could paint that
gaze!
They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze:
They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood;
For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.

7. “Father!” at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then—
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!—
He thought on all his glorious hopes, on all his young renown:
Then flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down;

8. And covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow,
“No more, there is no more,” he said, “to lift the sword for now:
My king is false! my hope betrayed! my father—O, the worth,
The glory, and the loveliness are passed away from earth!”

9. Then from the ground he sprang once more, and seized the monarchs
rein,
Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train;
And with a fierce, o’ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led,
And sternly set them face to face—the king before the dead!

10. “Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father’s hand to kiss?
Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me, what is this?
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought—give answer, where are they?
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured[615] soul, send life through this
cold clay!

11. “Into these glassy eyes put light—be still! keep down thine ire;
Bid these white lips a blessing speak—this earth is not my sire!
Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed—
Thou canst not?—and a king!—his dust be mountains on thy head!”

12. He loosed the steed—his slack hand fell;—upon the silent face
He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place;
His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in martial strain;
His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain!

[611] LIEGE, sovereign.

[612] RANˊ-SOMED, redeemed from captivity or imprisonment by the payment of a ransom or price.

[613] CHARGˊ-ER, a war horse.

[614] YEARNED, desired earnestly; longed.

[615] PERˊ-JURED, guilty of taking a false oath.

XCIV.—GOD GAVE TO HIS CHURCH CHARITY.

LACORDAIRE.

Father Lacordaire was born in France in 1802, and died in 1861.
Of all the great modern French preachers, he was the ablest and
most brilliant. His “Conferences” at Notre Dame, Paris, attracted
immense crowds of the most distinguished people of the city. They
have been translated into English, and published in New York in
three octave volumes.

1. Society is impossible if it be not founded upon respect for authority by the people, and for the people by authority. Well, then, the Catholic Church carries the respect of the people for authority to its highest degree; she changes the master into a father, so that if the father errs, the children, like those of the patriarch, cover his faults with the mantle of their respect. At the same time she instills into the hearts of sovereigns that respect so delicate, so precious, in the eyes of their people. In their palaces, and in the midst of their pomp, she causes them to practice that saying of the Gospel, “He who would be greatest among you let him be your servant.”

2. The persuasive force which resulted from these rational advantages was immense. Whether men examined opinions, history, morality, or society, the Church was without parallel.

3. They were able to deprive her of everything, her patrimony, the help of the civil authority, the liberty common to all; they could cast her ministers into prisons, torture them on scaffolds; but men do not imprison reason, they do not burn accomplished facts, they do not dishonor virtue, they do not assassinate logic.

4. We are strong then, gentlemen, first by the spirit of God which speaks in us, but also in the human mind which, when it comes coolly to examine our history, our dogmas, our morality, is obliged to agree that nothing is more firmly established.

5. Nevertheless, this was not enough. History only addresses itself to those who have studied it; ideas enlighten only those who can compare them, civilization is only appreciable to civilized men.

6. The Church needed a yet more human, that is to say, a more general source of persuasion. God gave to his Church charity. There was no heart into which the Church could not penetrate by charity; for misfortune is the monarch of this lower world, and sooner or later every heart is touched by his scepter. Men may resist grace and reason, but who shall resist charity? Why hate those who do good? why kill those who give their life? Henceforth the Church might advance with confidence to subdue the universe, for there are tears everywhere in the world, and they are so natural to us that, even if there were no cause for them, they would flow without cause, the simple charm of that indefinable sadness of which our soul is the deep and mysterious well.

7. Metaphysics[616] and history are the pillars of truth; but these pillars are hidden in the foundations of the temple, they are only sought for by the light of flambeaux[617] and by distinguished men.

8. A humble priest, a curé of a country village, never enters with the sciences into the cottage of the poor. He goes there with charity. He finds there a heart suffering, and consequently open: and the poor man seeing the priest coming to him full of respect for his misery, and of feeling for his trouble, easily recognizes truth in the garb of love.

[616] MET-A-PHYSˊ-ICS, a science which embraces all those inquiries which relate to other than physical objects.

[617] FLAMˊ-BEAUX, (flam-bo), lighted torches.

XCV.—UNION AND LIBERTY.

O. W. HOLMES.

1. Flag of the heroes who left us their glory,
Borne through our battle-field’s thunder and flame,
Blazoned in song and illumined in story,
Wave o’er us all who inherit their fame!
Up with our banner bright,
Sprinkled with starry light,
Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore;
While through the sounding sky,
Loud rings the nation’s cry,—
Union and Liberty!—one evermore!

2. Light of our firmament, guide of our nation,
Pride of her children, and honored afar,
Let the wide beams of thy full constellation
Scatter each cloud that would darken a star!

3. Empire unsceptered! what foe shall assail thee,
Bearing the standard of Liberty’s van?
Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee,
Striving with men for the birthright of man!

4. Yet, if by madness and treachery blighted,
Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must draw,
Then, with the arms of thy millions united,
Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law!

5. Lord of the universe! shield us and guide us,
Trusting Thee always, through shadow and sun!
Thou hast united us, who shall divide us?
Keep us, oh keep us, the Many in One!
Up with our banner bright,
Sprinkled with starry light,
Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore;
While through the sounding sky,
Loud rings the nation’s cry,—
Union and Liberty!—one evermore!

XCVI.—GEORGE WASHINGTON.

DWIGHT.

1. To Americans the name of Washington will be ever dear; a savor of sweet incense, descending to every succeeding generation. The things which he has done are too great, too interesting, ever to be forgotten. Every object which we see, every employment in which we are engaged, every comfort which we enjoy, reminds us daily of his character. The general peace, liberty, religion, safety, and prosperity, strongly impress, in every place, what he has done, suffered, and achieved.

2. When a legislature assembles to enact laws; when courts meet to distribute justice; when congregations gather to worship God; they naturally and almost necessarily say, “To Washington it is owing, under God, that we are here.” The farmer pursuing his plow in peace, the mechanic following the business of his shop in safety, ascribes the privilege to Washington. The house which, uninvaded, shelters from the storm, the cheerful fireside surrounded by our little ones, the table spread in quiet with the bounties of Providence, the bed on which we repose in undisturbed security, utters, in silent but expressive language, the memory, and the praise, of Washington.

3. Every ship bears the fruits of his labors on its wings, and exultingly spreads its streamers to his honor. The student meets him in the still and peaceful walk; the traveler sees him in all the prosperous and smiling scenes of his journey; and our whole country, in her thrift, order, safety and morals, bears, inscribed in sunbeams, throughout her hills and her plains, the name and the glory of Washington.

4. From a subject so singular, and so edifying, it is not easy to fail of gaining useful practical instruction. Particularly, the inestimable benefits which we have derived from the efforts of this great man, cannot but prompt every ingenuous mind to remember, with unceasing gratitude, the goodness of God, in bestowing upon us such a blessing; God, who formed and furnished him for labors so useful, and for a life so glorious.

5. By him are our rulers, at the present and at every future period, taught how to rule. The same conduct will ever produce substantially the same effects, the same public well-being, the same glory, the same veneration. To be wise and good; to forget or restrain the dictates of passion, and obey those of duty; to seek singly the public welfare, and lose in it personal gratification; to resist calmly and firmly the passions, and pursue only the interests, of a nation, is the greatest secret of ruling well.

6. When these things are exhibited in the strong light of example, and crowned with success and honor, they are taught in a manner beyond measure more impressive than can be found in rules and arguments. Here they are already tried, and proved. Here they are seen surrounded by all their delightful attendants, and followed by all their happy consequences. The conviction produced is complete, the impression supreme. From this great example all rulers may learn wisdom, and our rulers more than others.

7. The youths, also, of our country, who wish to become great, useful and honorable, will here find the best directions, and the most powerful incitements. To be great, useful, and honorable, they must resemble him. The very actions which he performed, they may indeed not be called to perform; the sufferings which he underwent, they may not be obliged to undergo; but the attributes which he possessed and displayed, must, in a good degree, be possessed and displayed by them also.

8. Let them particularly remember, that greatness is not the result of mere chance or genius; that it is not the fact of brilliancy, nor the desperate sally of ambition; that it is, on the contrary, the combined result of strong mental endowments, vigorous cultivation, honorable design, and wise direction. It is not the glare of the meteor; glittering, dazzling, consuming, and vanishing; but the steady and exalted splendor of the sun; a splendor which, while it shines with prëeminent brightness, warms also, enlivens, adorns, improves, and perfects the objects on which it shines: glorious indeed by its lustre, but still more glorious in the useful effects produced by its power.

9. Of this great truth the transcendent example before us is a most dignified exhibition. Let them imitate, therefore, the incessant attention, the exact observation, the unwearied industry, the scrupulous regard to advice, the slowness of decision, the cautious prudence, the nice punctuality, the strict propriety, the independence of thought and feeling, the unwavering firmness, the unbiassed impartiality, the steady moderation, the exact justice, the unveering[618] truth, the universal humanity, and the high veneration for religion and for God, always manifested by this great man. Thus will future Washingtons arise to bless our happy country.

[618] UN-VEERˊ-ING, unchanging, fixed.

XCVII.—CONDUCT OF LA FAYETTE IN THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.

J. Q. ADAMS.

1. The war of American Independence is closed. The people of the North American confederation are in union, sovereign and independent. La Fayette, at twenty-five years of age, had lived the life of a patriarch, and illustrated the career of a hero. Had his days upon earth been then numbered, and had he then slept with his fathers, illustrious as for centuries their names had been, his name, to the end of time, would have transcended them all.

2. Fortunate youth! fortunate beyond even the measure of his companions in arms with whom he had achieved the glorious consummation of American Independence. His fame was all his own; not cheaply earned; not ignobly won. His fellow-soldiers had been the champions and defenders of their country. They reaped for themselves, for their wives, their children, their posterity to the latest time, the rewards of their dangers and their toils. La Fayette had watched, and labored, and fought, and bled, not for himself, not for his family, not, in the first instance, even for his country.

3. In the legendary tales of chivalry we read of tournaments at which a foreign and unknown knight suddenly presents himself, armed in complete steel, and, with the visor down, enters the ring to contend with the assembled flowers of knighthood for the prize of honor, to be awarded by the hand of beauty; bears it in triumph away, and disappears from the astonished multitude of competitors and spectators of the feats of arms.

4. But where in the rolls of history, where in the fictions of romance, where, but in the life of La Fayette, has been seen the noble stranger, flying, with the tribute of his name, his rank, his affluence, his ease, his domestic bliss, his treasure, his blood, to the relief of a suffering and distant land, in the hour of her deepest calamity—baring his bosom to her foes; and not at the transient[619] pageantry[620] of a tournament,[621] but for a succession of five years sharing all the vicissitudes[622] of her fortunes; always eager to appear at the post of danger—tempering the glow of youthful ardor with the cold caution of a veteran commander; bold and daring in action; prompt in execution; rapid in pursuit; fertile in expedients; unattainable in retreat; often exposed, but never surprised, never disconcerted; eluding his enemy, when within his fancied grasp; bearing upon him with irresistible sway when of force to cope with him in the conflict of arms? And what is this but the diary of La Fayette, from the day of his rallying the scattered fugitives of the Brandywine, insensible of the blood flowing from his wound, to the storming of the redoubt[623] at Yorktown.

[619] TRANˊ-SIENT, passing, not permanent.

[620] PAGˊ-EANT-RY, pomp, show.

[621] TOURˊ-NA-MENT, a mock fight.

[622] VI-CISˊ-SI-TUDE, alteration, change.

[623] RE-DOUBTˊ, an outwork within another outwork in a fortified place.

XCVIII.—PAUL REVERE’S RIDE.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

1. Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five:
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

2. He said to his friend: “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North-Church tower, as a signal-light,—
One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm?”

3. Then he said good-night, and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where, swinging wide at her moorings, lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war:
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge, black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

4. Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till, in the silence around him, he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

5. Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the somber rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen, and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

6. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy substance far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

7. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened the saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and somber and still.

8. And lo! as he looks on the belfry’s height,
A glimmer, and then a gleam, of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

9. A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

10. It was twelve by the village clock,
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmers dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

11. It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

12. It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.

13. You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

XCIX.—SIR THOMAS MOORE.

HENRY GILES.

Henry Giles, a distinguished author and lecturer, was born in
Ireland.

1. A just man is always simple. He is a man of direct aims and purposes; there is no complexity in his motives, and, thence, there is no jarring or discordancy in his character. He wishes to do right, and in most cases he does it; he may err, but in most cases it is by mistake of judgment, and not by perversity of intention. The moment his judgment is enlighted, his action is corrected. Setting before himself always a clear and worthy end, he will never pursue it by any concealed or unworthy means.

2. We may carry our remarks, for illustration, both into private and into public life. Observe such a man in his home, there is a charm about him, which no artificial grace has ever had the power to bestow; there is a sweetness, I had almost said, a music, in his manners, which no sentimental refinement has ever given. His speech, ever fresh from purity and rectitude of thought, controls all that are within its hearing, with an unfelt, yet a resistless sway. Faithful to every domestic trust, as to his religion and his God, he would no more prove recreant to any loyalty of home, than he would blaspheme the Maker in whom he believes, or than he would forswear the heaven in which he hopes.

3. Fidelity and truth to those bound by love and nature to his heart, are to him most sacred principles; they throb in the last recesses of his moral being, they are embedded in the life of his life; and to violate them, or even think of violating them, would seem to him as a spiritual extermination, the suicide of his soul. Nor is such a man unrewarded, for the goodness he so largely gives is largely paid back to him again; and though the current of his life is transparent, it is not shallow; on the contrary, it is deep and strong. The river that fills its channel glides smoothly along in the power of its course; it is the stream which scarcely covers the ruggedness of its bed, that is turbulent and noisy.

4. With all this gentleness, there is exceeding force; with all this meekness, there is imperative command; but the force is the force of wisdom, and the command is the command of love. And, yet, the authority which rules so effectually, never gathers an angry or an irritable cloud over the brow of the ruler; and this sway, which admits of no resistance, does not oppress one honest impulse of nature, one movement of the soul’s high freedom, one bound of joy from the heart’s unbidden gladness, in the spirit of the governed.

5. Take this character into public life. Place him before the people as the candidate for their legislative suffrages; he is there for no selfish ambition, and, willing to be most loyal to his country, he will be no traitor to his conscience. Place him in the legislative assembly to which these willing suffrages send him, he maintains inviolate the trust given to him; with a brave eloquence he maintains the rights of the citizens: with a grave dignity he maintains the privileges of the senator. Place him in the council of the executive magistrate, and no favor can win him, and no danger appall; indifferent to office and fearless of power, he will assert the highest right, and he will stand by it, whatever be the cost.

6. Place him on the bench of justice, no prejudice can approach him, no passion can move him. Nothing can ruffle the august placidity of his soul, except it be the stirrings of a gracious pity. Unmoved he sits, while all around him heaves; he listens not to popular clamor, he cares not for the scowl of power; and, while he is guardian, no corruption shall sully the fountain of justice, and no obstruction shall impede its stream. Place him in the presence of a tyrant; call upon him for his opinion, let life or death hang on the result, he will not speak rashly, but he will not speak falsely.

7. Let the tyrant cajole and fondle, it avails not; let the tyrant rail and threaten, it is still as vain; let wife entreat, let children hang upon his neck, let friends beseech, let multitudes implore, he meets affection with affection; he weeps while others weep; but, fixed as the rock in the ocean, the tempest may crash about his head, and the waves strike against his breast, his foundation based unchangeably on the centre of eternal right, his head majestically erect, gloriously lifted up to heaven, bends not before the shock, and his breast receives the tempest only to shiver it.

8. Place him in the dungeon: shut him in from the fair earth and the open sky; wrench him from the delights of home; let him be loaded with years; let him be enfeebled by sickness; let him be wearied with confinement; let life hang by the finest thread that ever held a spirit from its God,—the unwavering faith of a true man upholds him, and his hope remains undimmed, and his peace remains unbroken.

9. Call him from the dungeon to his doom, he goes rejoicing to the scaffold; he looks cheerfully on the ax; he faces death almost with gayety; he forgives his enemies; he pities his destroyers; he wishes good to all men; he gives a moment to silent prayer; he meekly lays his head upon the block;—then, there is the echo of a blow that sends a soul to heaven. This character is not imaginary; it is real, it is practicable. The original is Sir Thomas Moore, of England.

C.—THE BATTLE FIELD.

BRYANT.