Chapter IV: Introduction (2)

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RESTS IN VERSE.

“There is another point, which properly comes under the head of _time_, in rhythmical reading, and the due observance of which is essential to the melody of verse: that is the rests or pauses peculiar to verse, viz.:

THE CÆSURAL REST, to divide the line; and THE REST AT THE CLOSE of each line.

“The duration of each of these pauses or rests is equal to that of the _short rhetorical pause_; subject, of course, to be increased by the pause of sense.

“‘The cæsural pause may fall,’ says Blair, ‘in heroic verse, after the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, or the seventh syllable.’

“The placing it is the poet’s business: it is the Elocutionist’s to mark it in delivery. But if its introduction would be absolutely repugnant to sense and just elocution, the poet must bear the fault, and his line lose some portion of its melody by the omission; for sense cannot be sacrificed to sound.

“The rest at the end of the line suggests itself, and must not be omitted: the sense will most frequently enforce it; when it does not, a rest must nevertheless be made by a suspension of voice at the end of each line, equal to the short pause in Elocution.

EXAMPLE.

Achilles’ wrath, | to Greece the direful spring |
Of woes unnumbered, | heav’nly goddess sing!

EXERCISES.

“The following verses in heroic measure—that is, consisting of ten syllables to each line, the syllables being (with occasional variations, which are allowed) alternately light and heavy—I have marked with the cæsural pause and rest at the end of the line. Let the student read them _aloud_, marking these pauses, and duly observing _time_, _rhythm_, and _poetical intonation_.

THE TEMPLE OF FAME.—_Pope._

MELODY and CADENCE require that in reading poetry the inflections be more smooth, or less angular, than in prose. To make the inflections as sharp as they often are in ordinary composition, would interfere with that easy and graceful flow which is the chief charm of poetical composition. But while cadence adds much to the beauty of poetical expression, it must not be carried so far as to supersede the just inflection and emphasis which the sense demands. To do so, would be to give to the reading a _sing-song_ tone and sameness, both unmeaning and disagreeable. Melody may be said to relate to the whole verse in poetry; cadence applies only to the closing line or phrase.

[3] Pronouns used as _antecedents_, and also _relatives_, when _their antecedents are not expressed_, should obviously be pronounced with a certain degree of emphatic force; as, “_He_ that runs may read.” “_Who_ seeks for glory often finds a grave.” “_What_ man has done, man can do.”

[4] The following is Mr. J. Sheridan Knowles’s account of emphasis:—“EMPHASIS is of two kinds, absolute and relative. Relative emphasis has always an antithesis expressed or implied: absolute emphasis takes place when the peculiar eminence of the thought is solely, singly considered.

’Twas base and poor, unworthy of a _peasant_,
To forge a scroll so villainous and loose,
And mark it with a noble lady’s name.

Here we have an example of relative emphasis; for, if the thought were expressed at full, it would stand thus:—Unworthy not only of a _gentleman_, but of a _peasant_.

’Twas base and poor, unworthy of a _man_,
To forge a scroll so villainous and loose,
And mark it with a noble lady’s name.

Here we have an example of absolute emphasis; for, if the thought were expressed at full, it would stand thus:—Unworthy a being composed of such perfections as constitute a man.” Mr. Knowles adds: “I apprehend that, notwithstanding all that has been written on the subject, the true definition of emphasis remains still to be discovered.”

[5] _Single_ emphasis, is when there is _one_ pair of words opposed to each other in a sentence; _Double_ emphasis, when there are _two_ pairs; and _Treble_, when there are _three_.

PART SECOND.

I.—TEACHING AND CHARACTER OF JESUS CHRIST.

CHATEAUBRIAND.

Among the French writers of the nineteenth century, Chateaubriand
has been one of the most distinguished. His “Genius of
Christianity” is a remarkably brilliant and eloquent work.

1. JESUS CHRIST appears among men full of grace and truth; the authority and the mildness of His precepts[6] are irresistible. He comes to heal the most unhappy of mortals, and all His wonders are for the wretched. In order to inculcate[7] His doctrine, He chooses the apologue,[8] or parable, which is easily impressed[9] on the minds of the people. While walking in the fields, He gives His divine lessons.

2. When surveying the flowers that adorn the mead, He exhorts His disciples to put their trust in Providence, who supports the feeble plants, and feeds the birds of the air; when He beholds the fruits of the earth, He teaches them to judge of men by their works; an infant is brought to Him, and He recommends innocence; being among shepherds, He gives Himself the appellation of the _Good Shepherd_, and represents Himself as bringing back the lost sheep to the fold.

3. In Spring He takes His seat upon the mountain, and draws from the surrounding objects instruction for the multitude sitting at His feet. From the very sight of this multitude, composed of the poor and the unfortunate, He deduces His beatitudes. _Blessed are those that weep—blessed are they that hunger and thirst._ Such as observe His precepts, and those that slight them, are compared to two men who build houses, the one upon a rock, and the other upon the sand. When He asks the woman of Samaria for drink, He expounds unto her His heavenly doctrine, under the beautiful image of a well of living water.

4. His character was amiable, open, and tender, and His charity unbounded. The evangelist gives us a complete and admirable idea of it in these few words: _He went about doing good._ His resignation to the will of God is conspicuous[10] in every moment of His life; He loved and felt the sentiment of friendship: the man whom He raised from the tomb, Lazarus, was His friend; it was for the sake of the noblest sentiment of life that He performed the greatest of His miracles.

5. In Him the love of country may find a model. “O, Jerusalem, Jerusalem,” He exclaimed, at the idea of the judgments which threatened that guilty city, “how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!” Casting His sorrowful eyes from the top of a hill over this city, doomed for her crimes to a signal destruction, He was unable to restrain His tears: “_He beheld the city_,” says the evangelist, “_and wept over it_.” His tolerance[11] was not less remarkable: when His disciples begged him to command fire to come down from heaven on a village of Samaria, which had denied Him hospitality, He replied with indignation, “_Ye know not what manner of spirit ye are of_.”

[6] PREˊ-CEPTS, commands, rules or directions for moral guidance.

[7] IN-CULˊ-CATE, to urge, or enforce.

[8] APˊ-O-LOGUE (log), a parable, a moral fable.

[9] IM-PRESSˊ, to fix deep, to imprint.

[10] CON-SPICˊ-UOUS, plain, manifest, evident.

[11] TOLˊ-ER-ANCE, patient endurance, indulgence.

II.—LITTLE AT FIRST, BUT GREAT AT LAST

1. A traveler through a dusty road,
Strewed[12] acorns on the lea,[13]
And one took root, and sprouted up,
And grew into a tree.
Love sought its shade at evening time,
To breathe its early vows,
And Age was pleased, in heat of noon,
To bask[14] beneath its boughs.
The dormouse loved its dangling twigs;
The birds sweet music bore;
It stood a glory in its place—
A blessing evermore.

2. A little spring had lost its way
Amid the grass and fern:
A passing stranger scooped a well,
Where weary men might turn;
He walled it in, and hung with care
A ladle at the brink;
He thought not of the deed he did,
But judged that Toil might drink.
He passed again—and lo! the well,
By summers never dried,
Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues,
And saved a life beside.

3. A dreamer dropped a random[15] thought;
’Twas old, and yet ’twas new—
A simple fancy of the brain,
But strong in being true:
It shone upon a genial[16] mind,
And lo! its light became
A lamp of life, a beacon[17] ray,
A monitory[18] flame.
The thought was small—its issue[19] great;
A watch-fire on the hill,
It sheds its radiance[20] far adown,
And cheers the valley still!

4. A nameless man, amid a crowd
That thronged the daily mart,[21]
Let fall a word of hope and love,
Unstudied, from the heart;
A whisper on the tumult thrown—
A transitory[22] breath—
It raised a brother from the dust;
It saved a soul from death.
Oh germ! oh fount! oh word of love!
Oh thought at random cast!
Ye were but little at the first,
But _mighty at the last_!

[12] STREWED, sowed, scattered.

[13] LEA, open land, meadow land.

[14] BASK, repose, recline.

[15] RANˊ-DOM, at hazard; without aim or purpose.

[16] GEˊ-NI-AL, sympathetic; adapted to receive it.

[17] BEAˊ-CON, guiding, warning against danger.

[18] MONˊ-I-TO-RY, admonishing, warning.

[19] ISˊ-SUE (ish’-shu), result, consequence.

[20] RAˊ-DI-ANCE, light, brightness.

[21] MART, a place of sale or traffic.

[22] TRANSˊ-I-TO-RY, fleeting, quickly passing away.

III.—THE DEVOTED SON AND THE GENEROUS STRANGER.

BROTHER PHILIPPE.

Brother Philippe is the present (1871) Superior General of the
Brothers of the Christian Schools. He is the author of several
very meritorious works. He resides in France, where during the
late war he was remarkable, though a very old man, for his
energy, courage and holy zeal in providing for the wants of the
wounded and dying upon the battle fields.

1. A young man, named Robert, was waiting on the coast at Marseilles for some one to hire his boat. A stranger entered, and was on the point of stepping out again, notwithstanding the presence of Robert, whom he did not suppose to be the owner. “As the boat-man is not coming,” said he, “I shall pass into another boat.” “Sir,” said Robert, “this is my own boat, do you wish to get out of port?” “No; I merely thought of enjoying a row on the river before night closed in, but you don’t look like a sailor.” “True, Sir, I am not a sailor; but the want of money forces me to seek employment during my leisure hours.”

2. “What! avaricious[23] at your age? This is a shame which mars your youth, and lessens the interest inspired by your pleasing appearance.” “Ah! Sir, if you knew why I wish to make money, you would not, indeed, add to my sorrow by believing me guilty of such a low vice.” “I may have wronged you; but you have not explained yourself. Let us have a row; meantime you can tell me all your troubles, for your looks have disposed me in your favor.”

3. “I have but one trouble,” said the young man; “it is that of having a dear father bound in chains; and this may last I know not how long! My father was a broker in this city, and had obtained, by means of his own and my mother’s earnings, an interest in a merchant vessel bound to Smyrna. He took charge of the buying and the selling of the stock. The vessel was seized by a pirate ship, and taken to Tetuan, where my father remains prisoner, with the greater part of the ship’s crew. They demand ten thousand francs for his ransom;[24] but, as he had made large outlays so as to increase the business, we are far from possessing that sum. However, my mother and my sisters work day and night, and I contrive to do my part as a clerk in a jeweler’s shop, and I seek besides, as you perceive, to fill up my leisure hours. We have retrenched our mode of living in every possible way, and one room forms our lodging. At first I thought of going to take my father’s place, and thus release him from his cruel chains. I was about putting this idea into execution, when my mother assured me that such an undertaking was as rash as it was impracticable;[25] and she forbade all the captains of the Levant to take me on board.”

4. “Do you ever hear from your father? Do you know the name of his master in Tetuan, and in what manner is he treated?” “His master is the intendant of the king’s gardens; they treat him with humanity, and the labor to which he is subjected is not above his strength. But he is our father; he is so good, and we are not there to comfort him; he is far from us, from his dear wife and his three children, whom he loves tenderly.”

5. “What name does he bear in Tetuan?” “It is not changed; they call him Robert.” “Robert? in Tetuan? with the intendant[26] of the gardens?” “Yes, Sir.”

6. “I am touched at your sorrow, my good friend; and, in consequence of your noble sentiments, I predict[27] for you the accomplishment of your wishes, which, indeed, you richly merit. Meanwhile, let me now enjoy a few moments’ solitude in this spot.”

7. When it was night, Robert had orders to put him ashore. Then the stranger, slipping a purse into the young man’s hands, disappeared without allowing him time to express his thanks. The purse contained four hundred francs, mostly in gold coins. Such generosity gave Robert the highest opinion of the stranger, who had listened with so much interest to his sad tale. In vain did Robert seek him, to assure him of his lasting gratitude.

8. Six weeks elapsed since this extraordinary occurrence, and those good people worked on indefatigably,[28] to complete the sum mentioned. One day they were partaking of a frugal meal of bread and dried almonds, in the narrow room which was their home, when a man entered, and surprised them in the midst of their trouble and their misery. He was cleanly clad. Heavens! ... it is Robert, their father. What astonishment! What exclamations of joy! What tears were shed, in their happiness. Robert embraced his wife and his children, and told them how thankful he felt for the twelve thousand francs which he received at the moment he embarked on the vessel, where his passage had been already paid; clothes also were furnished him, and he knew not, he said, how to acknowledge so much solicitude[29] and attention.

9. The surprise of the mother and the children increased at every word spoken; they could not comprehend this mysterious language, and they looked at each other in their bewilderment. At length, the mother broke silence: she supposed that her son had done all this without consulting her; she told her husband how zealously he had labored since the beginning of his captivity; how he had endeavored to go and replace him, and how she had prevented him from so doing. “Ten thousand francs,” added she, “were necessary for the ransom; we had but a little more than the half, most part of which was acquired[30] by his attention to business; for the rest, friends must have aided him.”

11. All at once the disheartened father grew thoughtful and gloomy, and thus addressed his son: “Unhappy boy, can I owe you my liberty without regret? How could it have remained a secret to your mother, and not be bought at the price of virtue? At your age, unhappy son of a slave, one cannot easily obtain so much money. I shudder to think that filial piety may have made you culpable.[31] Confide in me, be sincere, do not conceal the truth; have you been guilty of dishonesty?”

12. “Banish your fears, dear father,” cried the virtuous son, as he embraced him tenderly; “your child is not unworthy of this title, nor lucky enough to have effected your freedom, which, in truth, you do not owe to me; I know your benefactor—oh, yes, I know him. Do you remember, dear mother, the stranger who gave me his purse—how he questioned me thus: ‘Where is your father? What is his name? Who is his master?’ Were I to spend my whole life, I shall find him again, and he shall admire the fruits of his generosity.”

Then his dutiful son related the incident which had taken place, restoring, meanwhile, the peace and the happiness which had, for a moment, given place to fear.

13. Restored to his family, the honest Robert found friends and means. Success surpassed his hopes. After ten years, he had acquired a little fortune; and his children, who were all settled in life, shared the happiness of their father and mother.

[23] AVˊ-A-RIˊ-CIOUS, greedy of wealth.

[24] RANˊ-SOM, the price paid to redeem a person or goods from an enemy.

[25] IM-PRACˊTI-CA-BLE, incapable of being done.

[26] IN-TENDˊ-ANT, an overseer.

[27] PRE-DICTˊ, to foretell.

[28] INˊ-DE-FATˊ-I-GA-BLE, untiring, not yielding to fatigue.

[29] SO-LICˊ-I-TUDE, anxiety, care, concern.

[30] ACˊ-QUIRE, to gain, to obtain.

[31] CULˊ-PA-BLE, blameable.

IV.—THE CHRISTIAN MOTHER.

MARY I. HOFFMAN.

Miss Hoffman is an American authoress of very marked ability. Her
“Agnes Hilton,” “Alice Murray,” and “Felix Kent” are works of
fiction of great and deserved popularity.

1. It was a poor, dilapidated[32] house in a narrow lane; no curtains shaded the small windows through which the glaring sun came mockingly in. A table stood in the middle of the room, with—we cannot say the remains of the last meal, for the meal had been too scant to have any remains—but with the soiled cups and plates still unremoved; the cold stove looked as if it had never known what it was to have a good fire blazing and burning within it; back by the wall was an old scuttle, in which were a few coals, evidently placed there away from the stove, lest too close proximity[33] might tempt to using them before the time to heat the teakettle for the next meal came round.

2. On a little bench sat a pale, thin-faced child of seven or eight years. An old, threadbare coat, very much too large, was wrapped around him, completely covering, or rather burying him in its ample folds. After one or two ineffectual attempts he succeeded in disengaging[34] his little hands, and then smoothed back the golden locks from his broad, handsome brow.

3. On the floor were two little girls, one five, the other three. They were playing with bits of cloth and shreds of ribbons, ever and anon pausing to look up in the face of a middle-aged woman sitting by the window, sewing on a jacket as fast as her hand could fly. She had on a faded dress of mourning, and her countenance looked sorrow-stricken and worn.

4. On a bed in one corner was lying a boy of fifteen or sixteen years. He was very pale, and with the sunken eyes closed, the chin slightly fallen, the ashen lips parted, displaying the large even teeth, a looker-on might have congratulated himself that the vital[35] spark had fled—that the spirit had found a happier home. But his languid eyes opened, and a groan escaped his lips.

5. His mother started and exclaimed:

“Oh, Alfred, that pain has again awakened you!”

“No, mother, no, I was not asleep,” he sorrowfully replied.

“Not asleep, Alfred! I thought you were, you lay so quiet.”

“I know it, but I only had my eyes closed, thinking of the time we lived in Stanton, and it all came back so plain, that I thought this poor, cold room was only a dream, but I opened my eyes, and oh, mother, it wasn’t, it wasn’t!” Clasping his hands, he cried: “What a change since father died, what a change!” and sobs choked the further utterance of the poor, sick boy.

6. “Oh, Alfred, dear Alfred,” said his mother, while unbidden tears came into her eyes; “your father was too good to be left here to suffer. He was called home to heaven—to heaven,” she slowly repeated, dropping her needle and pressing her hand upon her heart to keep down its tumultuous[36] throbbings. Then, after a moment’s pause, she added:

“But, Alfred, be patient; God will not forget us.”

“Forget us!” he exclaimed, starting up and looking wildly around, “why, mother, it seems we are already forgotten.”

“No, Alfred, don’t say that; God is so good and merciful, He sends us these trials to disengage our minds from the world, and prepare us for heaven; His beautiful heaven, child. You remember when, in Stanton, we used to read of it, and think we could even suffer martyrdom to show our love and gratitude to our dear Lord, who came on earth and died that we might enjoy it. And now, when pain and suffering come upon us, shall we murmur and repine?”

7. “Oh, mother, I don’t want to murmur,[37] but—oh, it is so much easier to talk of pain than it is to suffer it.”

“But, Alfred, dear, any pain or trial sent by God, if we only bear it with patience and resignation, will be showing the same love as if we died for Him.”

“Why, mother!” he exclaimed, forgetting, in his surprise, the great weakness that a moment before had gathered around his heart; “your words seem so strange, I will not say irreverent—but, mother, to compare our trials to martyrdom seems—seems so presumptuous.”[38]

8. Pausing an instant in her sewing, she fixed a steadfast gaze upon him; perceiving the conversation was not wearying him, she said:

“Alfred, I have often wished in this sickness to tell you my thoughts on this subject, for it seems they were suggested by my good angel, to strengthen and comfort me. You have been so weak, that I have not dared to dwell on any subject, or use more words than were absolutely necessary. But now I see you are able to hear me, and I will speak.”

9. “Yes, do, mother, do tell me something that will comfort me too; for, oh, how sad, how stricken I feel!” His large eyes looked haggard and wild. The little boy on the bench moved nearer, and, bending over with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his tiny palms, fixed his blue eyes wonderingly upon her, listening intently to what she was about to say. Newly threading her needle, she commenced;

“Alfred, a martyr suffers death through love of God, and rather than consent to an act displeasing to Him; in other words, rather than do any thing that would offend Him.”

“Yes, mother, but—”

“Wait, my child, wait. If now, through the same love of God, and through fear of offending Him, we suffer our trials and afflictions with patience and resignation, is it not the same spirit which leads one to martyrdom? is it not, my child, the same?”

10. He paused a moment before replying, and then slowly said: “In the way in which you present it to my view, it really does seem so, mother; but—” placing his hand upon his heart, “I wish I could make it seem so here.” He raised himself on his elbow and gazed round the desolate room; a wintry smile lit up his wan countenance.

“Oh, mother,” he bitterly exclaimed, “to talk of glorious martyrdom and joyous heaven in this wretched, wretched home of poverty!”

11. “Why not, my child?” she asked, in her kindest and most soothing tones. “Is it not the very place to talk of them? Has Alfred forgotten the cold little stable of Bethlehem, and the poor, comfortless home of Egypt? No, no, Alfred, poverty itself can never exclude[39] us from heaven. One single sin may forever close its gates, but, let us be ever so poor and wretched, we still have just as great a claim to heaven as the richest; perhaps even greater; remember Lazarus.”

11. Clasping her thin hands, while a smile played over her worn features, she continued:

“It may come upon us—poverty may—with such crushing force that we will have to lie down and die; but then it will be _our_ path to heaven, _our_ road home. Home! Oh, Alfred, what comfort in that word! There we will meet father, mother, sisters, brothers, and all will be joy and happiness. Every tear will be wiped away, and all the sorrow and wretchedness of the way-side forgotten. Yes, Alfred, from this very room, so poor and cold, we may go to a home all beautiful and bright.” With a hurried hand she resumed her sewing. Alfred was silent, but the cloud had passed from his brow.

[32] DI-LAPˊ-I-DATED, gone to ruin, decayed.

[33] PROX-IMˊ-ITY, nearness.

[34] DIS-EN-GAGE, to free, to release.

[35] VIˊ-TAL, necessary to life.

[36] TU-MULTˊ-UOUS, with wild commotion.

[37] MURˊ-MUR, to grumble, to complain.

[38] PRE-SUMPTˊ-U-OUS, rashly bold, over confident.

[39] EX-CLUDEˊ, to shut out, to debar.

V.—WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

MORRIS.

George P. Morris, an American writer, was born October 10, 1802,
and died July 6, 1864. He was the author of many popular songs.

1. Woodman, spare that tree;
Touch not a single bough;
In youth it sheltered me,
And I’ll protect it now.
’Twas my forefather’s[40] hand
That placed it near his cot;
Then, woodman, let it stand;
Thy axe shall harm it not.

2. That old, familiar[41] tree,
Whose glory and renown[42]
Are spread o’er land and sea,
And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke:
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
O, spare that aged oak,
Now towering[43] to the skies.

3. When but an idle boy,
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing[44] joy.
Here, too, my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand:
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand.

4. My heartstrings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree, the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I’ve a hand to save,
Thy axe shall harm it not.

[40] FOREˊFA-THER, an ancestor, as a grandfather, or great-grandfather.

[41] FA-MILˊIAR, well-known.

[42] RE-NOWNˊ, fame, high honor.

[43] TOWˊER-ING, rising aloft.

[44] GUSHˊ-ING, flowing, exuberant, impulsive.

VI.—THE TWO ROADS.

1. It was New Year’s night. An aged man was standing at a window. He raised his mournful eyes towards the deep blue sky, where the stars were floating, like white lilies, on the surface of a clear, calm lake. Then he cast them on the earth, where few more hopeless beings than himself now moved towards their certain goal[45]—the tomb.

2. Already he had passed sixty of the stages[46] which lead to it, and he had brought from his journey nothing but errors and remorse. His health was destroyed, his mind vacant, his heart sorrowful, and his old age devoid of comfort.

3. The days of his youth rose up in a vision[47] before him, and he recalled the solemn moment when his father had placed him at the entrance of two roads—_one_ leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fertile harvest, and resounding with soft, sweet songs; the _other_ leading the wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no issue[48], where poison flowed instead of water, and where serpents hissed and crawled.

4. He looked towards the sky, and cried out in his agony, “O youth, return! O my father, place me once more at the entrance to life, that I may choose the better way!” But his father and the days of his youth had both passed away.

5. He saw wondering lights floating away over dark marshes, and then disappear. _These_ were the days of his wasted life. He saw a star fall from heaven, and vanish in darkness. This was an emblem[49] of himself, and the sharp arrows of unavailing remorse[50] struck home to his heart. Then he remembered his early companions, who entered on life with him, but who, having trod the paths of virtue and of labor, were now honored and happy on this New Year’s night.

6. The clock, in the high church tower, struck, and the sound, falling on his ear, recalled his parents’ early love for him, their erring son; the lessons they had taught him; the prayers they had offered up in his behalf. Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared no longer look towards that heaven where his father dwelt; his darkened eyes dropped tears, and with one despairing effort, he cried aloud, “Come back, my early days! come back!”

7. And his youth _did_ return; for all this was but a dream which visited his slumbers on New Year’s night. He was still young; his faults alone were real. He thanked God fervently that time was still his own; that he had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread the road leading to the peaceful land where sunny harvests wave.

8. Ye who still linger on the threshold[51] of life, doubting which path to choose, remember that, when years are passed, and your feet stumble on the dark mountain, you will cry bitterly[52], but cry in vain, “O youth, return! O, give me back my early days!”

[45] GOAL, a post or mark set to bound a race, end.

[46] STAGˊES, steps or degrees of advance or progress.

[47] VIˊSION, an imaginary appearance, as seen in a dream or in sleep.

[48] ISˊSUE (Ishˊshu), egress, passage out.

[49] EMˊBLEM, a picture or object representing one thing to the eye and another to the understanding.

[50] RE-MORSEˊ, reproach of conscience.

[51] THRESHˊOLD, a door-sill; beginning; entrance.

[52] BITˊTER-LY, sorrowfully.

VII.—THE LABORERS.

1. You can not pay with money
The million sons of toil—
The sailor on the ocean,
The peasant on the soil,
The laborer in the quarry,
The hewer of the coal;
Your money pays the _hand_,
But it can not pay the _soul_.

2. You gaze on the cathedral[53]
Whose turrets[54] meet the sky:
Remember the foundations
That in earth and darkness lie:
For, were not those foundations
So darkly resting there,
Yon towers up could never soar
So proudly in the air.

3. The workshop must be crowded,
That the palace may be bright;
If the plowman did not plow,
Then the poet could not write.
Then let every toil be hallowed[55]
That man performs for man,
And have its share of honor
As part of one great plan.

4. See, light darts down from heaven,
And enters where it may;
The eyes of all earth’s people
Are cheered with one bright day.
And let the _mind’s_ true sunshine
Be spread o’er earth _as_ free,
And fill the souls of men,
As the waters fill the sea.

5. The man who turns the soil
Need not have an earthly mind;
The digger ’mid the coal
Need not be in spirit blind:
The mind can shed a light
On each worthy labor done,
As lowliest things are bright
In the radiance[56] of the sun.

6. What cheers the musing[57] student?
The poet, the divine?
The thought that, for his followers,
A brighter day will shine.
Let every human laborer
Enjoy the vision bright—
Let the thought that comes from heaven.
Be spread like heaven’s own light!

7. Ye men who hold the pen,
Rise like a band inspired;[58]
And, poets, let your lyrics[59]
With hope for man be fired;[60]
Till the earth becomes a temple,
And every human heart
Shall join in one great service,
Each happy in his part.

[53] CA-THEˊ-DRAL, a church edifice.

[54] TURˊ-RETS, spires, or little towers.

[55] HALˊ-LOW-ED, treated as sacred.

[56] RAˊ-DI-ANCE, vivid brightness.

[57] MUSˊ-ING, meditating.

[58] IN-SPIRˊED, divinely influenced.

[59] LYRˊ-ICS, songs; hymns.

[60] FIRˊED, animated.

VIII.—THE BOY.

WILLIS.

1. There’s something in a noble boy,
A brave, free-hearted, careless one,
With his unchecked, unbidden joy,
His dread of books and love of fun,
And in his clear and ready smile,
Unshaded by a thought of guile,
And unrepressed[61] by sadness,—
Which brings me to my childhood back,
As if I trod its very track,
And felt its very gladness.

2. And yet, it is not in his play,
When every trace of thought is lost,
And not when you would call him gay,
That his bright presence thrills me most:
His shout may ring upon the hill,
His voice be echoed in the hall,
His merry laugh like music trill,
And I in sadness hear it all,—
For, like the wrinkles on my brow,
I scarcely notice such things now,—

3. But when, amid the earnest game,
He stops, as if he music heard,
And, heedless of his shouted name
As of the carol[62] of a bird,
Stands gazing on the empty air,
As if some dream were passing there;—
’Tis then that on his face I look—
His beautiful but thoughtful face—
And like a long-forgotten book,
Its sweet familiar meanings trace,—

4. Remembering a thousand things
Which passed me on those golden wings,
Which time has fettered now;
Things that came o’er me with a thrill,
And left me silent, sad, and still,
And threw upon my brow
A holier and a gentler cast,
That was too innocent to last.

5. ’Tis strange how thoughts upon a child
Will, like a presence, sometimes press,
And when his pulse is beating wild,
And life itself is in excess[63]—
When foot and hand, and ear and eye,
Are all with ardor[64] straining high—
How in his heart will spring
A feeling whose mysterious[65] thrall[66]
Is stronger, sweeter far than all!
And on its silent wing,
How, with the clouds, he’ll float away,
As wandering and as lost as they!

[61] UN-RE-PRESSED, not subdued or mastered.

[62] CARˊ-OL, a song of great joy.

[63] EX-CESSˊ, that which exceeds or surpasses what is usual or necessary.

[64] ARˊ-DOR, warmth or heat of passion or affection; eagerness.

[65] MYS-TEˊ-RI-OUS, secret; not easily understood.

[66] THRALL, bondage; slavery.

IX.—THE YOUNG SHEPHERD.

FENELON.

The illustrious Fenelon, archbishop of Cambray, in France, was
born in 1651 and died, at Cambray, in 1715. He was as remarkable
for sanctity as for genius. His purity, meekness and amiability,
won the hearts of all—even of his enemies, if it can be said that
he had any.

1. Sha-Abbas, king of Persia, being on his travels, withdrew from his retinue,[67] in order to visit the country, and there, without being known, to behold mankind in all their native freedom. He took with him only one of his officers, as an attendant.

2. “I am weary,” said he, “of living among sycophants,[68] who take all occasions to over-reach, while they flatter me. I am determined to visit husbandmen and shepherds, who know nothing of me.”

3. He traveled, with his confidant, through several villages where the peasants were dancing, and was overjoyed to see that his subjects, though at such a distance from court, had their diversions, and those so innocent and unexpensive.

4. After refreshing himself in a cottage, he crossed a meadow, enameled[69] with flowers, which decked the borders of a limpid[70] stream. Here he spied a young shepherd, playing on his pipe beneath a shady elm, while his flocks were grazing around him.

5. The king accosts him, surveys him closely, finds his aspect agreeable, and his air, though easy and natural, yet graceful and majestic. The simple habit[71] in which the shepherd was clad, did not in the least diminish the agreeableness of his person. The king supposed him at first to be a youth of illustrious birth, who had disguised himself; but he learned from the shepherd that his parents dwelt in an adjacent[72] village, and that his name was Alibeg.

6. The more questions the king put to him, the more he admired the strength and solidity of his genius. His eyes were lively, and beaming[73] with intelligence; his voice was sweet and melodious; his features were not rude, neither were they soft and effeminate.[74] The shepherd, though sixteen years of age, did not seem conscious of those perfections which were conspicuous to others. He imagined that his thoughts, his conversation, and his person, were not unlike those of his neighbors.

7. The king frequently smiled at the innocent freedom of the youth, who gave him much information about the state of the people. He gave the officer who accompanied him a private signal not to discover that he was the king, for fear that Alibeg, if he once knew with whom he conversed, would lose in an instant, his wonted[75] freedom, and all his native graces.

8. “I am now convinced,” said the prince to his attendant, “that nature is as beautiful in the lowest state as in the highest. No monarch’s son was ever born with nobler faculties than this young shepherd. I should think myself infinitely happy, had I a son equally handsome, intelligent, and ingenuous.[76] I will have him educated at my own court.”

9. The king accordingly took Alibeg away with him; and the youthful shepherd was much surprised to find that a prince should be so pleased with his conversation. Taken to court, he was instructed by proper tutors in all the graces which add to manly beauty, and in all the arts and sciences which adorn the mind.

10. The grandeur of the court, and a sudden change of fortune, in some measure influenced the temper of Alibeg. His crook, his pipe, and shepherd’s dress, were now forsaken; and, instead of them, he appeared in a purple robe embroidered with gold, and a turban enriched with jewels. Alibeg was handsomer than any other man at court. He was qualified to transact the most important affairs, and his master, placing the utmost confidence in his integrity,[77] soon conferred on him the post of jewel-keeper and treasurer of his household.

11. During the whole reign of the great Sha-Abbas, Alibeg’s reputation daily increased. But, as he advanced in years, he frequently recalled to mind his former state of life, and always with regret. “Oh, happy days!” would he whisper to himself; “oh, innocent days! days, wherein I tasted true joys without danger; days, since which I never saw one so pleasant, shall I not see you any more? He who has deprived me of you, by making me thus great, has utterly undone me.”

[67] RETˊ-I-NUE, a train of attendants.

[68] SYCˊ-O-PHANTS, mean flatterers.

[69] EN-AMˊ-ELED, covered; filled.

[70] LIMˊ-PID, clear; pure.

[71] HABˊ-IT, dress; garb.

[72] AD-JAˊ-CENT, near by; adjoining.

[73] BEAMˊ-ING, glowing; shining.

[74] EF-FEMˊ-I-NATE, feminine; delicate.

[75] WONTˊ-ED, accustomed; usual.

[76] IN-GENˊ-U-OUS, open; frank; candid.

[77] IN-TEGˊ-RI-TY, honesty; uprightness.

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The fourth progressive readerChapter IV: Introduction (2)

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