Chapter X: The Young Shepherd—continued (1)

1. Alibeg, after a long absence, revisited his native village. Here he gazed with fondness on those places where he had formerly danced, sung, and tuned his pipe with his fellow-swains.[78] He made presents to all his friends and relations; but advised them, as they valued their peace of mind, never to resign their rural pleasures, never to expose themselves to the anxieties and misfortunes of a court. Alibeg felt the weight of those misfortunes, soon after the death of his good master Sha-Abbas.

2. Sha-Sephi succeeded his father. Some envious, artful courtiers[79] found means to prejudice the young prince against him. “He has,” said they, “betrayed the trust reposed in him by the late king. He has hoarded up immense treasures, and embezzled[80] valuable effects.”

3. Sha-Sephi was young, and a monarch; which was more than sufficient to make him credulous[81] and inconsiderate. He had, besides, the vanity to think himself qualified to reform his fathers acts, and to judge of things better than the latter had done. To have some plea for removing Alibeg from his post, he commanded him to produce the cimeter,[82] set with diamonds of an immense value, which his royal grandsire used to wear in battle. Sha-Abbas had formerly ordered these to be taken off; and Alibeg brought witnesses to prove that they were so removed long before his promotion.

4. When Alibeg’s enemies found this scheme too weak to effect his ruin, they prevailed on Sha-Sephi to give him strict orders to produce an exact inventory[83] of all the rich furniture intrusted to his care. Alibeg opened the doors, and showed every thing committed to his charge. No one article was missing: each was in its proper place, and preserved with great care.

5. The king, surprised to see such order every where observed, began to entertain a favorable opinion of Alibeg, till he espied, at the end of a long gallery, an iron door, with three strong locks. “There it is,” whispered the envious courtiers in his ear, “that Alibeg has concealed all the valuable effects which he has purloined.”[84] The king now angrily exclaimed, “I will see what is in that room. What have you concealed there? Show it me.” Alibeg fell prostrate at his feet, beseeching him not to take from him all that he now held valuable upon earth.

6. Sha-Sephi now took it for granted that Alibeg’s ill-gotten treasure lay concealed within. He commanded the door to be opened. Alibeg, who had the keys in his pocket, unlocked the door. Nothing, however, was found there, but his crook, his pipe, and the shepherd’s dress which he wore in his youth.

7. “Behold great sir,” said he, “the remains of my former felicity,[85] which neither fortune nor your majesty have taken from me. Behold my treasure, which I reserve to make me rich, when you shall think proper to make me poor. Take back every thing besides; but leave me these dear pledges of my rural[86] station. These are my substantial riches which will never fail me.

8. “These, O king! are the precious, yet innocent possessions of those who can live contented with the necessaries of life, without tormenting themselves about superfluous[87] enjoyments. These are riches which are possessed with liberty and safety; riches which never give me one moment’s disquiet. Oh, ye dear implements of a plain, but happy life! I value none but you; with you I will live, and with you die. I here resign, great sir, the many favors which your royal bounty[88] has bestowed upon me.”

9. The king, convinced of Alibeg’s innocence, instantly banished his accusers from court. Alibeg became his prime minister, and was intrusted with the most important secrets. He visited, however, every day, his crook, his pipe, and rural habit, that he might remember them, should fickle fortune deprive him of a monarchˊs favor. He died in a good old age, without wishing to have his enemies punished, or to increase his possessions; and left his relations no more than what would maintain them in the station of shepherds, which he always thought the safest and most happy.

[78] SWAINS, peasants; shepherds.

[79] COURTˊ-IERS, those who frequent courts.

[80] EM-BEZˊ-ZLED, purloined; robbed; stolen.

[81] CREDˊ-U-LOUS, easy of belief; unsuspecting.

[82] CIMˊ-E-TER, a short Turkish sword.

[83] INˊ-VEN-TO-RY, catalogue; account.

[84] PUR-LOINˊ-ED, stolen.

[85] FE-LICˊ-I-TY, happiness.

[86] RUˊ-RAL, pertaining to the country.

[87] SU-PERˊ-FLU-OUS, more than is necessary.

[88] BOUNˊ-TY, generosity; liberality.

XI.—OLD TIMES.

GERALD GRIFFIN.

Gerald Griffin was born in Ireland in 1803. He was a
distinguished novelist and dramatist. He has also written some
short poems remarkable for their tenderness of feeling and beauty
of expression.

While still a young man he withdrew from the pursuits of
literature and joined the Brothers of the Christian Schools. He
died in 1840 at the early age of thirty-seven.

1. Old times! old times! the gay old times!
When I was young and free,
And heard the merry Easter chimes,
Under the sally tree;
My Sunday palm beside me placed,
My cross upon my hand,
A heart at rest within my breast,
And sunshine on the land!
Old times! old times!

2. It is not that my fortunes flee,
Nor that my cheek is pale,
I mourn whene’er I think of thee,
My darling native vale!
A wiser head I have, I know,
Than when I loitered there;
But in my wisdom there is woe,
And in my knowledge care,
Old times! old times!

3. I’ve lived to know my share of joy,
To feel my share of pain,
To learn that friendship’s self can cloy,
To love and love in vain—
To feel a pang and wear a smile,
To tire of other climes,
To like my own unhappy isle,
And sing the gay old times!
Old times! old times!

4. And sure the land is nothing changed,
The birds are singing still;
The flowers are springing where we ranged,
There’s sunshine on the hill;
The sally waving o’er my head,
Still sweetly shades my frame,
But ah, those happy days are fled,
And I am not the same!
Old times! old times!

5. Oh, come again, ye merry times!
Sweet, sunny, fresh, and calm;
And let me hear those Easter chimes,
And wear my Sunday palm.
If I could cry away mine eyes,
My tears would flow in vain;
If I could waste my heart in sighs,
They’ll never come again!
Old times! old times!

XII.—THE BROKEN HEART.

IRVING.

Washington Irving was born in the City of New York, in 1783 and
died in 1859. His writings are deservedly popular. His “Sketch
Book,” “Life of Goldsmith,” “Life of Columbus,” “Conquest of
Granada,” and other works, have made him as well known to
European as to American readers.

1. Every one must recollect the tragical[89] story of young Emmet, the Irish patriot; it was too touching to be soon forgotten. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. During the troubles in Ireland he was tried, condemned, and executed[90] on a charge of treason. He was so young, so intelligent, so generous, so brave, so everything that we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The noble indignation with which he repelled[91] the charge of treason against his country, the eloquent vindication of his name, and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation, all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution.

2. But there was _one_ heart whose anguish it would be impossible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, he had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disinterested fervor[92] of a woman’s first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more ardently for his sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her whose whole soul was occupied by his image! Let _those_ tell who have had the portals[93] of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth, who have sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed.

3. But then the horrors of such a grave! so frightful, so dishonored! there was nothing for memory to dwell on, that could soothe the pangs of separation, none of those tender, though melancholy circumstances, which endear the parting scene, nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent like the dews of heaven to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish.

4. To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her fathers displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities.[94] The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate[95] her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her love.

5. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the soul, which penetrate to the vital seat of happiness, and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude[96] walking about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe, that mocked at all the blandishments[97] of friendship, and “heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely”.

6. The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade[98]. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene; to find it wandering like a specter, lone and joyless, where all around is gay, to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow.

7. After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction,[99] she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra,[100] and, looking about for some time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the garish[101] scene, she began with the capriciousness[102] of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice; but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, and melted every one into tears.

8. The story of one so true and tender, could not but excite great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his address to her, and thought that one so true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation, for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance that her heart was unalterably another’s.

9. He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of her early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow but hopeless decline, and, at length, sank into the grave, the victim of a broken heart.

10. She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are around her, sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying!

11. She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking;
Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking!

12. He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwined him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.

13. O! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;
They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the West,
From her own loved island of sorrow!

[89] TRAGˊ-I-CAL, mournful, calamitous.

[90] EXˊ-E-CUTED (here means) put to death.

[91] RE-PELLEDˊ, resisted.

[92] FERˊVOR, warmth, ardor.

[93] PORTˊAL, an entrance, a gateway.

[94] SEN-SI-BIL-I-TYˊ, delicate feeling, tenderness.

[95] DISˊ-SI-PATE, to disperse, to scatter.

[96] SOLˊ-I-TUDE, loneliness, seclusion.

[97] BLANDˊ-ISH-MENTS, artful caresses, soothing words.

[98] MASˊ-QUER-ADEˊ, an assemblage of persons for amusement in which masks are worn.

[99] AB-STRACˊ-TION, absence of mind.

[100] ORˊ-CHES-TRA, a place or gallery for musicians.

[101] GARˊ-ISH, gaudy, showy.

[102] CA-PRIˊ-CIOUS-NESS, freak, whimsicalness.

XIII.—LITTLE VICTORIES.

REMARK.—In conversational pieces like the following, the manner
of each speaker should be imitated, as in a dialogue.

1. “Oh, mother, now that I have lost my limb, I can never be a soldier or a sailor; I can never go round the world!” And Hugh burst into tears, now more really afflicted than he had ever been yet. His mother sat on the bed beside him, and wiped away his tears as they flowed, while he told her, as well as his sobs would let him, how long and how much he had reckoned on going round the world, and how little he cared for anything else in future; and now this was the very thing he should never be able to do!

2. He had practiced climbing ever since he could remember, and now this was of no use; he had practiced marching, and now he should never march again. When he had finished his complaint, there was a pause, and his mother said, “Hugh, you have heard of Huber.”

“The man who found out so much about bees?” said Hugh.

“Bees and ants. When Huber had discovered[103] more than had ever been known about these, and when he was sure that he could learn still more, and was more and more anxious to peep into their tiny[104] homes, and curious ways, he became blind.”

3. Hugh sighed, and his mother went on.

“Did you ever hear of Beethoven? He was one of the greatest musical composers[105] that ever lived. His great, his sole delight, was in music. It was the passion of his life. When all his time and all his mind were given to music, he suddenly became deaf, perfectly deaf; so that he never more heard _one single note_ from the loudest orchestra[106]. While crowds were moved and delighted with his compositions[107] it was all silence to him.” Hugh said nothing.

4. “Now do you think,” asked his mother—and Hugh saw that a mild and gentle smile beamed from her countenance—“do you think that these people were without a heavenly Parent?”

“Oh no! but were they patient?” asked Hugh.

“Yes, in their different ways and degrees. Would you suppose that they were hardly treated? Or would you not rather suppose, that their Father gave them something better to do, than they had planned for themselves?”

5. “He must know best, of course; but it does seem very hard, that _that very thing_ should happen to them. Huber would not have so much minded being deaf, perhaps; or that musical man being blind.”

“No doubt their hearts often swelled within them, at their disappointments; but I fully believe that they very soon found God’s will to be wiser than their wishes. They found, if they bore their trial well, that there was work for their hearts to do, far nobler than any the head could do through the eye, or the ear. And they soon felt a new and delicious pleasure, which none but the bitterly disappointed can feel.”

“What is that?”

6. “The pleasure of rousing the soul to bear pain, and of agreeing with God silently, when nobody knows what is in the breast. There is no pleasure like that of exercising one’s soul in bearing pain, and of finding one’s heart glow with the hope that one is pleasing God.”

“Shall I feel that pleasure?”

“Often and often, I have no doubt; every time you can willingly give up your wish to be a soldier, or a sailor, or any thing else you have set your mind upon, you will feel that pleasure. But I do not expect it of you yet. I dare say, it was long a bitter thing to Beethoven to see hundreds of people in raptures[108] with his music when he could not hear a note of it.”

7. “But did he ever smile again?” asked Hugh.

“If he did, he was happier than all the fine music in the world could have made him,” replied his mother.

“I wonder, oh, I wonder if I shall ever feel so!”

“We will pray to God that you may. Shall we ask him now?”

Hugh clasped his hand. His mother kneeled beside the bed, and, in a very few words, prayed that Hugh might be able to bear his misfortune[109] well, and that his friends might give him such help and comfort as God should approve.

[103] DIS-COVˊ-ERED, found out.

[104] TINˊ-Y, very small.

[105] COM-POSˊER, an author.

[106] ORˊ-CHES-TRA, a body of musicians.

[107] COM-PO-SIˊ-TIONS, musical pieces.

[108] RAPTˊ-URES, extreme delight.

[109] MIS-FORˊ-TUNE, calamity.

XIV.—LITTLE VICTORIES.—CONTINUED.

8. Hugh found himself subject to very painful feelings sometimes, such as no one quite understood, and such as he feared no one was able to pity as they deserved. On one occasion, when he had been quite merry for a while, and his mother and sister Agnes were chatting[110] they thought they heard a sob from the sofa. They spoke to Hugh, and found that he was indeed crying bitterly.

“What is it, my dear,” said his mother. “Agnes, have we said anything that could hurt his feelings?”

“No, no,” sobbed Hugh. “I will tell you presently.”

9. And presently he told them, that he was so busy listening to what they said, that he forgot every thing else, when he felt as if something got between two of his toes; unconsciously he put down his hand, as if his foot was there! Nothing could be plainer than the feeling in his toes; and, then, when he put out his hand, and found nothing, it was so terrible! it startled him so! It was a comfort to find that his mother knew about this. She came, and kneeled by his sofa, and told him that many persons who had lost a limb, considered this the most painful thing they had to bear, for some time; but that, though the feeling would return occasionally through life, it would cease to be painful.

10. Hugh was very much dejected[111], and when he thought of the months and years, to the end of his life, and that he should never run and play, and never be like other people, he almost wished that he was dead.

Agnes thought that he must be miserable indeed, if he could venture to say this to his mother. She glanced at her mother’s face, but there was no displeasure there. On the contrary, she said this feeling was very natural. She had felt it herself, under smaller misfortunes than Hugh’s; but she had found, though the prospect appears all strewn[112] with troubles, that they come singly, and are not so hard to bear, after all.

11. She told Hugh, that when she was a little girl, she was very lazy, fond of her bed, and not at all fond of dressing or washing.

“Why, mother! you?” exclaimed Hugh.

“Yes; that was the sort of little girl I was. Well, I was in despair, one day, at the thought that I should have to wash and clean my teeth, and brush my hair, and put on every article of dress, every morning as long as I lived.”

“Did you tell any body?” asked Hugh.

12. “No; I was ashamed to do that; but I remember I cried. You see how it turns out. When we have become accustomed to any thing, we do it without ever thinking of the trouble, and, as the old fable tells us, the clock, that has to tick so many millions of times, has exactly the same number of seconds to do it in. So will you find, that you can move about on each separate occasion, as you wish, and practise will enable you to do it without any trouble or thought.”

“But this is not all, nor half what I mean,” said Hugh.

13. “No, my dear, nor half what you will have to bear. You resolved to bear it all patiently, I remember. But what is it you dread the most?”

“Oh! all manner of things. I can never do like other people.”

“Some things,” replied his mother. “You can never play cricket, as every Crofton boy would like to do. You can never dance at your sister’s Christmas parties.”

14. “Oh! mamma!” cried Agnes, with tears in her eyes, and with the thought in her mind, that it was cruel to talk so.

“Go on! go on!” cried Hugh, brightening. “You know what I feel, mother; and you don’t keep telling me, as others do, and even sister Agnes, sometimes, that it will not signify much, and that I shall not care, and all that; making out that it is no misfortune, hardly, when I know what it is, and they don’t. Now then, go on, mother! What else?”

15. “There will be little checks and mortifications continually, when you see little boys leaping over this, and climbing that, and playing at the other, while you must stand out, and can only look on. And some people will pity you, in a way you will not like; and some may even laugh at you.”

“Oh mamma!” exclaimed Agnes.

“Well, and what else?” said Hugh.

16. “Sooner or later, you will have to follow some way of life determined by this accident, instead of one that you would have liked better.”

“Well, what else?”

“I must ask you, now. I can think of nothing more; and I hope there is not much else; for, indeed, I think here is quite enough for a boy, or any one else, to bear.”

“I will bear it, though; you will see.”

17. “You will find great helps. These misfortunes, of themselves strengthen one’s mind. They have some advantages, too. You will be a better scholar for your lameness, I have no doubt. You will read more books, and have a mind richer in thoughts. You will be more beloved by us all, and you yourself will love God more for having given you something to bear for His sake. God Himself will help you to bear your trials. You will conquer your trials one by one, and by a succession of LITTLE VICTORIES, will, at last, completely triumph over all.”

[110] CHATˊ-TING, talking familiarly.

[111] DE-JECTˊ-ED, discouraged, low-spirited.

[112] STREWN, scattered.

XV.—OUR TITLES.

1. Are we not Nobles? we who trace
Our Pedigree[113] so high,
That God for us and for our race
Created Earth and Sky,
And Light, and Air, and Time, and Space,
To serve us, and then die.

2. Are we not Princes? we who stand
As heirs beside the Throne;
We who can call the promised land
Our Heritage,[114] our own;
And answer to no less command
Than God’s, and His alone.

3. Are we not Kings? both night and day,
From early until late,
About our bed, about our way,
A guard of Angels wait;
And so we watch, and work, and pray
In more than royal state.

4. Are we not holy? do not start;
It is God’s sacred will
To call us Temples set apart
His Holy Ghost may fill;
Our very food.... Oh hush, my heart,
Adore _It_ and be still!

5. Are we not more? Our life shall be
Immortal[115] and divine;
The nature Mary gave to Thee,
Dear Jesus, still is Thine;
Adoring in Thy Heart I see
Such blood as beats in mine.

6. O God! that we can dare to fail,
And dare to say we must!
O God, that we can ever trail
Such banners in the dust,
Can let such starry honors pale,
And such a Blazon[116] rust!

7. Shall we upon such Titles bring
The taint of sin and shame?
Shall we, the children of the King
Who hold so grand a claim,
Tarnish, by any meaner thing,
The glory of our name?

[113] PEDˊ-I-GREE, lineage, line of descent from a progenitor.

[114] HERˊ-IT-AGE, an estate that passes from an ancestor to an heir.

[115] IM-MORˊ-TAL, exempt from death.

[116] BLAˊ-ZON, a coat of arms.

XVI.—THE WIDOW OF THE PINE COTTAGE.

1. It was Saturday night, and the widow of the Pine Cottage sat by her blazing fagots,[117] with her five tattered children at her side, endeavoring, by listening to the artlessness, of their prattle,[118] to dissipate[119] the heavy gloom that pressed upon her mind. For a year, her own feeble hand had provided for her helpless family, for she had no supporter: she thought of no friend in all the wide, unfriendly world around.

2. But that mysterious Providence, the wisdom of whose ways is above human comprehension, had visited her with wasting sickness, and her little means had become exhausted. It was now, too, mid-winter, and the snow lay heavy and deep through all the surrounding forests, while storms still seemed gathering in the heavens, and the driving wind roared among the neighboring pines, and rocked her puny[120] mansion.

3. The last herring smoked upon the coals before her; it was the only article of food she possessed, and no wonder her forlorn, desolate state brought up in her lone bosom all the anxieties of a mother, when she looked upon her children; and no wonder, forlorn as she was, if she suffered the heart-swellings of despair to rise, even though she knew that He, whose promise is to the widow and to the orphan, can not forget his word.

4. Providence had, many years before, taken from her her eldest son, who went from his forest home to try his fortune on the high seas, since which she had heard no tidings of him; and, later still, the hand of death deprived her of the companion and staff of her earthly pilgrimage,[121] in the person of her husband. Yet to this hour she had upborne; she had not only been able to provide for her little flock, but had never lost an opportunity of ministering to the wants of the miserable and destitute.

5. The indolent may well bear with poverty, while the ability to gain sustenance remains. The individual who has but his own wants to supply, may suffer with fortitude the winter of want; his affections are not wounded, his heart not wrung. The most desolate in populous cities may hope, for charity has not quite closed her hand and heart, and shut her eyes on misery.

6. But the industrious mother of helpless and depending children, far from the reach of human charity, has none of these to console her. And such a one was the widow of the Pine Cottage; but as she bent over the fire, and took up the last scanty remnant of food, to spread before her children, her spirits seemed to brighten up, as by some sudden and mysterious impulse, and Cowper’s beautiful lines came uncalled across her mind:

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning Providence
He hides a smiling face.

7. The smoked herring was scarcely laid upon the table, when a gentle rap at the door, and loud barking of a dog, attracted the attention of the family. The children flew to open it, and a weary traveler, in tattered garments, and apparently indifferent health, entered and begged a lodging, and a mouthful of food. Said he, “It is now twenty-four hours since I tasted bread.” The widow’s heart bled anew as under a fresh complication[122] of distresses; for her sympathies[123] lingered not around her fireside. She hesitated not even now; rest and a share of all she had she proffered to the stranger. “We shall not be forsaken,” said she, “or suffer deeper for an act of charity.”

8. The traveler drew near the board, but when he saw the scanty fare, he raised his eyes toward heaven with astonishment: “And is this _all_ your store?” said he, “and a share of this do you offer to one you know not? then never saw I _charity_ before! but, madam,” said he, continuing, “do you not wrong your _children_ by giving a part of your last mouthful to a stranger?”

9. “Ah,” said the poor widow, and the tear-drops gushed[124] into her eyes as she said it, “I have a _boy_, a darling _son_, somewhere on the face of the wide world, unless heaven has taken him away, and I only act toward you, as I would that others should act toward him. God, who sent manna[125] from heaven, can provide for us as He did for Israel; and how should I this night offend Him, if my son should be a wanderer, destitute as you, and He should have provided for him a home, even poor as this, were I to turn you unrelieved away.”

10. The widow ended, and the stranger, springing from his seat, clasped her in his arms: “God, indeed, has provided your son a home, and has given him wealth to reward the goodness of his benefactress: my mother! oh, my mother!” It was her long-lost son, returned to her bosom from the Indies. He had chosen that disguise that he might the more completely surprise his family; and never was surprise more perfect, or followed by a sweeter cup of joy.

11. That humble residence in the forest was exchanged for one comfortable, and indeed beautiful, in the valley; and the widow lived long with her dutiful son, in the enjoyment of worldly plenty, and in the delightful employments of virtue; and, at this day, the passer-by is pointed to the willow that spreads its branches above her grave.

[117] FAGˊ-OTS; bundles of sticks used for fuel.

[118] PRATˊ-TLE; trifling talk.

[119] DISˊ-SI-PATE; to scatter, to disperse.

[120] PUˊ-NY; small and weak.

[121] PILˊ-GRIM-AGE; the journey of human life.

[122] COM-PLI-CAˊ-TION; the act of mingling together several things.

[123] SYMˊ-PA-THIES; compassion.

[124] GUSHED; flowed copiously.

[125] MANˊ-NA; food miraculously provided by God for the Israelites.

XVII.—A PSALM OF LIFE.

LONGFELLOW.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born at Portland, Maine, in 1807.
He is one of the most popular of living poets.

1. Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

2. Life is _real_! Life is _earnest_!
And the grave is _not_ its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the _soul_.

3. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined[126] end or way,
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

4. Art is long, and time is fleeting;
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled[127] drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

5. In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac[128] of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

6. Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant,
Let the dead past bury its dead!
Act—act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead.

7. Lives of great men all remind us,
We can make our lives sublime;[129]
And, departing, leave behind us
Foot-prints[130] on the sands of time;—

8. Foot-prints, that, perhaps, another,
Sailing over life’s solemn[131] main,[132]
A forlorn[133] and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

9. Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving,[134] still pursuing,[135]
Learn to labor, and to wait.

[126] DES’-TIN-ED, fated; appointed.

[127] MUF’-FLED, covered; wrapped up.

[128] BIV’-OUAC (biv’-wak), encampment without tents; a watching.

[129] SUB-LIME’, lofty; grand.

[130] FOOT-PRINTS, impression of the foot.

[131] SOL’-EMN, grave; serious.

[132] MAIN, open sea; ocean.

[133] FOR’-LORN, forsaken; helpless.

[134] A-CHIEV’-ING, performing; doing.

[135] PUR-SU’-ING, following up.

XVIII.—LET VIRTUE BE YOUR AIM.

1. Whatever be thy lot on earth,
Thy mission[136] here below,
Though Fame may wreathe[137] her laurels[138] fair,
Around your youthful brow,—
If you would rise from earthly things,
And win a deathless name,
Let all your ways be just and right—
_Let virtue be your aim_.[139]

2. Though cherished[140] friends may traitors[141] prove.
Their kindness all depart,
And leave a mournful spell around
Thy sad and bleeding heart;
Though you may oft be scorned[142] by men,
Or those who bear the name,
Let all your ways be just and right—
_Let virtue be your aim_.

3. Oh! ye who dwell in stately[143] halls,
Where wealth and fame[144] are known,
Remember you may yet be poor,
Neglected and alone!
But, oh! remember this broad truth,
Ere others’ faults you scan,[145]
Your wealth may make a thousand fools—
BUT VIRTUE MAKES THE MAN.

[136] MIS’-SION, errand; business.

[137] WREATHE, entwine.

[138] LAU’-RELS, flowers for garlands.

[139] AIM, purpose; intention.

[140] CHER’-ISH-ED, dear; loved.

[141] TRAI’-TORS, betrayers.

[142] SCORN’-ED despised; disdained

[143] STATE’-LY, magnificent; grand

[144] FAME, renown; glory.

[145] SCAN, examine critically.

XIX. -THE BOBOLINK.

W. IRVING.

1. The happiest bird of our spring, and one that rivals[146] the European lark, in my estimation,[147] is the Bobolink. He arrives at that choice portion of the year, which, in this latitude, answers to the description[148] of the month of May, so often given by the poets. With us, it begins about the middle of May, and lasts until nearly the middle of June.

2. Earlier than this, winter is apt to return on its traces, and to blight[149] the opening beauties of the year; and later than this, begin the parching, and panting, and dissolving[150] heats of summer. But, in this genial[151] interval,[152] Nature is in all her freshness and fragrance; “the rain is over and gone, the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle[153] is heard in our land.”

3. The trees are now in their fullest foliage[154] and the brightest verdure; the woods are gay with the clustered[155] flowers of the laurel; the air is perfumed by the sweet-brier and the wild rose; the meadows are enameled[156] with clover-blossoms; while the young apple, the peach, and the plum, begin to swell, and the cherry to glow among the green leaves.

4. This is the chosen season of revelry[157] of the Bobolink. He comes amidst the pomp and fragrance of the season; his life seems all sensibility[158] and enjoyment, all song and sunshine. He is to be found in the soft bosoms of the freshet and sweetest meadows; and is most in song when the clover is in blossom.

5. He perches[159] on the topmost twig of a tree, or on some flaunting weed, and, as he rises and sinks with the breeze, pours forth a succession[160] of rich, tinkling notes, crowding one upon another, like the outpouring melody of the sky-lark, and possessing the same rapturous[161] character.

6. Sometimes he pitches from the summit of a tree, begins his song as soon as he gets upon the wing, and flutters tremulously[162] down to the earth, as if overcome with ecstasy[163] at his own music. Sometimes he is in pursuit of his paramour;[164] always in full song, as if he would win her by his melody; and always with the same appearance of intoxication[165] and delight.

7. Of all the birds of our groves and meadows, the Bobolink was the envy of my boyhood. He crossed my path in the sweetest weather, and the sweetest season of the year, when all Nature called to the fields, and the rural[166] feeling throbbed in every bosom; but, when I, luckless urchin, was doomed to be mewed[167] up, during the livelong day, in a school-room, it seemed as if the little varlet[168] mocked at me, as he flew by in full song, and sought to taunt me with his happier lot. O, how I envied him! No lessons, no tasks, no schools; nothing but holiday, frolic, green fields, and fine weather.

[146] RI’-VALS, strives to excel.

[147] ES-TI-MA’-TION, opinion; esteem.

[148] DE-SCRIP’-TION, account.

[149] BLIGHT, blast; destroy.

[150] DIS-SOLV’-ING, melting.

[151] GE’-NI-AL, fruitful; productive.

[152] IN’-TER-VAL, space between.

[153] TUR’-TLE, species of dove.

[154] FO’-LI-AGE, leaves collectively.

[155] CLUS’-TER-ED. growing in bunches.

[156] EN-AM’-EL-ED, inlaid; variegated.

[157] REV’-EL-RY, festive mirth; jollity.

[158] SENS-I-BIL’-TY, delicate feeling.

[159] PERCH’-ES, alights.

[160] SUC-CES’-SION, series.

[161] RAP’-TUR-OUS, joyful; thrilling.

[162] TREM’-U-LOUS-LY, tremblingly.

[163] EC’-STA-SY, excessive joy.

[164] PAR’-A-MOUR, lover.

[165] IN-TOX-I-CA’-TION, high excitement.

[166] RU’-RAL, pertaining to the country.

[167] MEW’-ED, shut up; confined.

[168] VAR’-LET, scamp; rascal.

XX.—THE BOBOLINK.—CONTINUED.

1. Farther observation and experience have given me a different idea of this little feathered voluptuary,[169] which I will venture to impart, for the benefit of my school-boy readers, who may regard him with the same unqualified envy and admiration which I once indulged.

2. I have shown him only as I saw him at first, in what I may call the poetical part of his career, when he, in a manner, devoted himself to elegant pursuits and enjoyments, and was a bird of music, and song, and taste, and sensibility, and refinement. While this lasted, he was sacred from injury; the very school-boy would not fling a stone at him, and the merest rustic[170] would pause to listen to his strain.

3. But mark the difference. As the year advances, as the clover-blossoms disappear, and the spring fades into summer, his notes cease to vibrate[171] on the ear. He gradually gives up his elegant tastes and habits, doffs his poetical and professional suit of black, assumes a russet,[172] or rather a dusky garb, and enters into the gross enjoyments of common, vulgar birds.

4. He becomes a _bon vivant_, a mere gormand;[173] thinking of nothing but good cheer, and gormandizing on the seeds of the long grasses, on which he lately swung and chanted so musically. He begins to think there is nothing like “the joys of the table,” if I may be allowed to apply that convivial[174] phrase to his indulgences. He now grows discontented with plain, every-day fare, and sets out on a gastronomical[175] tour, in search of foreign luxuries.[176]

5. He is to be found in myriads[177] among the reeds of the Delaware, banquetting[178] on their seeds; grows corpulent[179] with good feeding, and soon acquires the unlucky renown of the Ortolan.[180] Wherever he goes, _pop! pop! pop!_ the rusty firelocks of the country are cracking on every side; he sees his companions falling by thousands around him; he is the _reed-bird_, the much-sought for tit-bit of the Pennsylvanian epicure.[181]

6. Does he take warning and reform? Not he! He wings his flight still farther south in search of other luxuries. We hear of him gorging[182] himself in the rice swamps; filling himself with rice almost to bursting; he can hardly fly for corpulency. Last stage of his career, we hear of him spitted by dozens, and served up on the table of the gormand, the most vaunted[183] of southern dainties, the _rice-bird_ of the Carolinas.

7. Such is the story of the once musical and admired, but finally sensual[184] and persecuted[185] Bobolink. It contains a _moral_, worthy the attention of all little birds and little boys, warning them to keep to those refined and intellectual[186] pursuits, which raised him to such a pitch of popularity, during the early part of his career; but to eschew[187] all tendency to that gross and dissipated[188] indulgence, which brought this mistaken little bird to an untimely end.

[169] VO-LUPˊ-TU-A-RY, one given to pleasure.

[170] RUSˊ-TIC, dweller in the country.

[171] VIˊ-BRATE, quiver.

[172] RUSˊ-SET, reddish brown.

[173] GORˊ-MAND, glutton.

[174] CON-VIVˊ-I-AL, festal; social.

[175] GAS-TRO-NOMˊ-IC-AL, pertaining to good eating.

[176] LUXˊ-U-RIES, dainties.

[177] MYRˊ-I-ADS, tens of thousands.

[178] BANˊ-QUET-TING, feasting.

[179] CORˊ-PU-LENT, fleshy; fat.

[180] ORˊ-TO-LAN, delicate, small bird.

[181] EPˊ-I-CURE, one given to luxury.

[182] GORGˊ-ING, swallowing greedily.

[183] VAUNTˊ-ED, boasted.

[184] SENSˊ-U-AL, luxurious.

[185] PERˊ-SE-CU-TED, harassed; vexed.

[186] IN-TEL-LECTˊ-U-AL, mental.

[187] ES-CHEWˊ, avoid; shun.

[188] DISˊ-SI-PA-TED, loose; abandoned.

XXI.—WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR?

1. Thy neighbor? It is he whom thou
Hast power to aid[189] and bless,
Whose aching heart, or burning brow
Thy soothing[190] hand may press.

2. Thy neighbor? ’Tis the fainting poor,
Whose eye with want is dim,
Whom hunger sends from door to door—
Go thou, and succor[191] him.

3. Thy neighbor? ’Tis that weary[192] man,
Whose years are at their brim,
Bent low with sickness, cares and pain—
Go thou, and comfort him.

4. Thy neighbor? ’Tis the heart bereft[193]
Of every earthly gem:
Widow[194] and orphan helpless left—
Go thou, and shelter them.

5. Whene’er thou meet’st a human form
Less favored[195] than thine own,
Remember ’tis thy neighbor worm,
Thy brother or thy son.

6. Oh! pass not, pass not heedless by;
Perhaps, thou canst redeem
The breaking heart from misery—
Go, share thy lot with him.

[189] AID, help; assist.

[190] SOOTHˊ-ING, solacing.

[191] SUCˊ-COR, help; relieve.

[192] WEAˊ-RY, tired; fatigued.

[193] BE-REFTˊ, deprived.

[194] WIDˊ-OW, a woman whose husband is dead.

[195] FAˊ-VOR-ED, benefitted.

XXII.—PORTRAIT OF A VIRTUOUS AND ACCOMPLISHED WOMAN.

FENELON.

1. Antiope is mild, simple, and wise; her hands despise not labor; she foresees things at a distance; she provides against contingencies[196] she knows when it is proper to be silent; she acts regularly and without hurry; she is continually employed, but never embarrassed,[197] because she does every thing in its proper season.

2. The good order of her father’s house is her glory, it adds greater luster[198] to her than beauty. Though the care of all lies upon her, and she is charged with the burden of reproving,[199] refusing, retrenching[200] (things which make almost all women hated), yet she has acquired the love of all the household; and this, because they do not find in her either passion, or conceitedness,[201] or levity, or humors as in other women. By a single glance of her eye, they know her meaning, and are afraid to displease her.

3. The orders she gives are precise; she commands nothing but what can be performed; she reproves with kindness, and in reproving encourages. Her father’s heart reposes upon her as a traveler, fainting beneath the sun’s sultry rays, reposes himself upon the tender grass under a shady tree.

4. Antiope is a treasure worth seeking in the most remote corners of the earth. Neither her person nor her mind is set off with vain ornaments; and her imagination, though lively, is restrained by her discretion. She never speaks but through necessity; and when she opens her mouth, soft persuasion and simple graces flow from her lips. When she speaks, every one is silent; and she is heard with such attention, that she blushes, and is almost inclined to suppress[202] what she intended to say; so that she is rarely ever heard to speak at any length.

[196] CON-TINˊ-GEN-CIES, chances, casual events, possibilities.

[197] EM-BARˊ-RASSED, perplexed, confused.

[198] LUSˊ-TER, brightness, splendor, brilliancy.

[199] RE-PROVEˊ, to censure to one’s face, to reprimand.

[200] RE-TRENCHˊ, to lessen, to curtail.

[201] CON-CEITˊ-ED-NESS, pride, vanity.

[202] SUP-PRESSˊ, to restrain, to conceal.

XXIII.—THE WORK OF TO-DAY.

CHARLES MACKAY.

1. If Fortune with a smiling face,
Strew roses on our way,
When shall we stoop to pick them up?
_To-day_, my friend, _to-day_.
But should she frown with face of care.
And talk of coming sorrow,
When shall we grieve if grieve[203] we must?
_To-morrow_, friend, _to-morrow_.

2. If those who’ve wronged us, own their fault,
And kindly pity pray,
When shall we listen, and forgive?
_To-day_, my friend, _to-day_.
But, if stern[204] Justice urge[205] rebuke,[206]
And warmth from Memory borrow,
When shall we chide,[207] if chide we dare?
_To-morrow_, friend, _to-morrow_.

3. If those to whom we owe a debt,
Are harmed unless we pay,
When shall we struggle to be just?
_To-day_, my friend, _to-day_.
But, if our debtor[208] fail our hope,
And plead his ruin thorough,[209]
When shall we weigh his breach[210] of faith?
_To-morrow_, friend, _to-morrow_.

4. For virtuous[211] acts, and harmless joys,
The minutes will not stay;
We’ve always time to welcome them,
_To-day_, my friend, _to-day_.
But care, resentment,[212] angry words,
And unavailing sorrow,
Come far too soon, if they appear
_To-morrow_, friend, _to-morrow_.

[203] GRIEVE, mourn, sorrow.

[204] STERN, severe, rigid.

[205] URGE, press, impel.

[206] RE-BUKEˊ, reproof, reprehension.

[207] CHIDE, blame, reproach.

[208] DEBTˊ-OR, one that owes.

[209] THORˊ-OUGH, complete, perfect.

[210] BREACH, non-fulfillment, violation.

[211] VIRˊ-TUOUS, morally good.

[212] RE-SENTˊ-MENT, retaliation.

XXIV.—THE AVARICIOUS MILLER.

GOLDSMITH.

Oliver Goldsmith was born in 1731, at Pallasmore, County of
Longford, Ireland, and died in 1774. The works of Goldsmith are
more popular to-day than those of any English author of the
Eighteenth Century. He was equally successful as a novelist and
a poet. His “Vicar of Wakefield”, “Traveller,” and “Deserted
Village” are each models of excellence in their way. His essays,
also, have rare merit.

1. Whang, the miller, was naturally avaricious;[213] nobody loved money better than he, or more respected those that had it. When people would talk of a rich man in company, Whang would say, “_I_ know him very well; _he_ and _I_ have been very long acquainted; _he_ and _I_ are intimate.”[214]

2. But, if a poor man was mentioned, he had not the least knowledge of the man; he might be very well, for aught _he_ knew; but he was not fond of making many acquaintances, and loved to choose his company.

3. Whang, however, with all his eagerness[215] for riches, was poor. He had nothing but the profits of his mill to support him; but, though these were small, they were certain: while it stood and went, he was sure of eating; and his frugality[216] was such, that he, every day, laid some money by; which he would, at intervals, count and contemplate with much satisfaction.

4. Yet still his acquisitions[217] were not equal to his desires; he only found himself above want, whereas he desired to be possessed of affluence.[218] One day, as he was indulging these wishes, he was informed that a neighbor of his had found a pan of money under ground, having dreamed of it three nights in succession.[219]

5. These tidings were daggers to the heart of poor Whang. “Here am I,” said he, “toiling and moiling[220] from morning till night for a few paltry farthings, while neighbor Thanks only goes quietly to bed, and dreams himself into thousands before morning. Oh, that I could dream like him! With what pleasure would I dig round the pan! How slyly would I carry it home! Not even my wife should see me! And then, oh the pleasure of thrusting one’s hands into a heap of gold up to the elbows!”

6. Such reflections only served to make the miller unhappy. He discontinued[221] his former assiduity;[222] he was quite disgusted[223] with small gains, and his customers began to forsake him. Every day he repeated the wish, and every night laid himself down in order to dream. Fortune, that was for a long time unkind, at last, however, seemed to smile upon his distress, and indulged[224] him with the wished-for vision.

7. He dreamed that under a certain part of the foundation of his mill, there was concealed a monstrous[225] pan of gold and diamonds, buried deep in the ground, and covered with a large flat stone. He concealed his good luck from every person, as is usual in money-dreams, in order to have the vision repeated the two succeeding[226] nights, by which he should be certain of its truth. His wishes in this, also, were answered; he still dreamed of the same pan of money, in the very same place.

8. Now, therefore, it was past a doubt; so, getting up early the third morning, he repaired, alone, with a mattock[227] in his hand, to the mill, and began to undermine[228] that part of the wall to which the vision directed. The first omen[229] of success that he met with was a broken ring; digging still deeper, he turned up a house-tile, quite new and entire.

9. At last, after much digging, he came to a broad, flat stone; but, then, it was so large, that it was beyond his strength to remove it. “_There_,” cried he in raptures to himself, “_there it is!_ under this stone, there is room for a very large pan of diamonds, indeed. I must even go home to my wife, and tell her the whole affair, and get her to assist me in turning it up.” Away, therefore, he goes, and acquaints his wife with every circumstance of their good fortune.

10. Her raptures, on this occasion, may easily be imagined;[230] she flew round his neck, and embraced him in an agony of joy. But these transports, however, did not allay their eagerness to know the exact sum; returning together to the place where Whang had been digging, there they found—not, indeed, the expected treasure—but the mill, their only support, undermined and fallen!

[213] AV-A-RIˊ-CIOUS, greedy after gain.

[214] INˊ-TI-MATE, close in friendship.

[215] EAˊ-GER-NESS, ardent desire.

[216] FRU-GALˊ-I-TY, wise economy.

[217] AC-QUI-SIˊ-TIONS, gains.

[218] AFˊ-FLU-ENCE, great wealth.

[219] SUC-CESˊ-SION, regular order.

[220] MOILˊ-ING, drudging; laboring.

[221] DIS-CON-TINˊ-U-ED, ceased.

[222] AS-SI-DUˊ-I-TY, untiring diligence.

[223] DIS-GUSTˊ-ED, greatly dissatisfied.

[224] IN-DULGˊ-ED, gratified.

[225] MONˊ-STROUS, very large.

[226] SUC-CEEDˊ-ING, following.

[227] MATˊ-TOCK, pick-ax.

[228] UN-DER-MINEˊ, dig under.

[229] Oˊ-MEN, sign; token.

[230] IM-AGˊ-IN-ED. conceived.

XXV.—THE DEATH OF THE LITTLE SCHOLAR.

DICKENS.

Charles Dickens died in 1870. He was the most popular English
novelist of our day.

1. Without further preface, he conducted them into his little school-room, which was parlor and kitchen likewise, and told them they were welcome to remain under his roof till morning. The child looked round the room as she took her seat. The chief ornaments of the walls were certain moral sentences, fairly copied in good round text, and well-worked sums in simple addition and multiplication, evidently achieved[231] by the same hand, which were plentifully pasted around the room; for the double purpose, as it seemed, of bearing testimony to the excellence of the school, and kindling a worthy emulation in the bosoms of the scholars.

2. “Yes,” said the schoolmaster, observing that her attention was caught by these specimens, “that’s beautiful writing, my dear.” “Very sir,” replied the child, modestly; “is it yours?” “Mine!” he returned, taking out his spectacles, and putting them on, to have a better view of the triumphs so dear to his heart; “I couldn’t write like that nowadays. No: they are all done by one hand; a little hand it is; not so old as yours, but a very clever[232] one.”

3. As the schoolmaster said this, he saw that a small blot of ink had been thrown upon one of the copies; so he took a penknife from his pocket, and going up to the wall carefully scratched it out. When he had finished, he walked slowly backward from the writing, admiring it as one might contemplate[233] a beautiful picture, but with something of sadness in his voice and manner, which quite touched the child, though she was unacquainted with its cause.

4. “A little hand, indeed,” said the poor schoolmaster. “Far beyond all his companions, in his learning and his sports too. How did he ever come to be so fond of me! That I should love him is no wonder, but that he should love me—” And there the schoolmaster stopped, and took off his spectacles to wipe them, as though they had grown dim. “I hope there is nothing the matter, sir,” said Nell, anxiously.

5. “Not much, my dear,” returned the schoolmaster; “I hoped to have seen him on the green to-night. He was always foremost among them. But he’ll be there to-morrow.” “Has he been ill?” asked the child with a child’s quick sympathy.

6. “Not very. They said he was wandering in his head yesterday, dear boy, and so they said the day before. But that’s a part of that kind of disorder; it’s not a bad sign—not at all a bad sign.” The child was silent. He walked to the door, and looked wistfully out. The shadows of night were gathering, and all was still.

7. “If he could lean on somebody’s arm, he would come to me, I know,” he said, returning into the room.