Chapter X: The Young Shepherd—continued (2)

“He always came into the garden to say good night. But perhaps his illness has only just taken a favorable turn, and it’s too late for him to come out, for it’s very damp, and there’s a heavy dew. It’s much better he shouldn’t come to-night.”

8. The next day, towards night, an old woman came tottering up the garden as speedily as she could, and meeting the schoolmaster at the door, said he was to go to Dame West’s directly, and had best run on before her. He and the child were on the point of going out together for a walk, and without relinquishing her hand, the schoolmaster hurried away, leaving the messenger to follow as she might.

9. They stopped at a cottage door, and the schoolmaster knocked softly at it with his hand. It was opened without loss of time. They passed into an inner room, where his infant friend, half-dressed, lay stretched upon a bed.

10. He was a very young boy; quite a little child. His hair still hung in curls about his face, and his eyes were very bright; but their light was of heaven, not earth. The schoolmaster took a seat beside him, and stooping over the pillow, whispered his name. The boy sprang up, threw his wasted arms around his neck, crying out that he was his dear, kind friend.

11. “I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows,” said the poor schoolmaster. “Who is that?” said the boy, seeing Nell. “I am afraid to kiss her, lest I should make her ill. Ask her to shake hands with me.”

12. The sobbing child came closer up, and took the little languid hand in hers. Releasing his again after a time, the sick boy laid him gently down.

13. “You remember the garden, Harry,” whispered the schoolmaster, anxious to rouse him, for a dulness seemed gathering upon the child, “and how pleasant it used to be in the evening? You must make haste to visit it again, for I think the very flowers have missed you, and are less gay than they used to be. You will come soon, my dear, very soon now, won’t you?”

14. The boy smiled faintly—so very, very faintly—and put his hand upon his friend’s gray head. He moved his lips, too, but no voice came from them, no, not a sound. In the silence that ensued, the hum of distant voices, borne upon the evening air, came floating through the open window.

15. “What’s that?” said the sick child, opening his eyes. “The boys at play upon the green.” He took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried to wave it above his head. But the feeble arm dropped powerless down. “Shall I do it?” said the schoolmaster.

16. “Please wave it at the window,” was the faint reply. “Tie it to the lattice.[234] Some of them may see it there. Perhaps they’ll think of me, and look this way.”

17. He raised his head, and glanced from the fluttering signal to his idle bat, that lay, with slate and book, and other boyish property, upon a table in the room. And then he laid him down softly once more, and asked if the little girl were there, for he could not see her.

18. She stepped forward and pressed the passive hand that lay upon the coverlet. The two old friends and companions—for such they were, though they were man and child—held each other in a long embrace, and then the little scholar turned his face towards the wall, and fell asleep.

19. The poor schoolmaster sat in the same place, holding the small, cold hand in his, and chafing it. It was but the hand of a dead child. He felt that; and yet he chafed it still, and could not lay it down.

[231] A-CHIEVEDˊ, performed, completed, done.

[232] CLEVˊ-ER, skilful, dexterous, able.

[233] CON-TEM-PLATE, consider closely.

[234] LATˊ-TICE, a window blind or screen made by strips and bars crossing each other and forming open spaces like net work.

XXVI.—GOD, THE TRUE SOURCE OF CONSOLATION.

MOORE.

Thomas Moore was born in Dublin, Ireland, in 1779, and died
in 1852. He was the sweetest and most brilliant lyric poet of
his time. Many of his Irish melodies are unequaled for their
sparkling gems of wit and fancy, and for deep and tender
sentiment.

1. O Thou, who dry’st the mourner’s tear,
How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee!

2. The friends, who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.

3. But Thou wilt heal the broken heart
Which like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.

4. When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And e’en the hope that threw
A moment’s sparkle o’er our tears,
Is dimm’d and vanish’d too!

5. Oh! who could bear life’s stormy doom,
Did not Thy wing of love
Come brightly wafting through the gloom
Our peace-branch from above!

6. Then, sorrow, touch’d by Thee, grows bright
With more than rapture’s ray,
As darkness shows us worlds of light,
We never saw by day.

XXVII.—THE MARTYRDOM OF ST. AGNES.

DE VERE.

Aubrey De Vere is one of the most gifted and accomplished of
living poets.

ANGELS.

1. Bearing lilies in our bosom,
Holy Agnes, we have flown
Missioned from the Heaven of Heavens
Unto thee, and thee alone.
We are coming, we are flying,
To behold thy happy dying.

AGNES.

2. Bearing lilies far before you,
Whose fresh odors, backward blown,
Light those smiles upon your faces,
Mingling sweet breath with your own,
Ye are coming smoothly, slowly,
To the lowliest of the lowly.

ANGELS.

3. Unto us the boon was given;
One glad message, holy maid,
On the lips of two blest spirits,
Like an incense-grain was laid.
As it bears us on like lightning,
Cloudy skies are round us brightening.

AGNES.

4. I am here, a mortal maiden:
If our father aught hath said,
Let me hear His words and do them.
Ought I not to feel afraid,
As ye come, your shadows flinging
O’er a breast, to meet them springing?

ANGELS.

5. Agnes, there is joy in Heaven;
Gladness, like the day, is flung
O’er the spaces never measured,
And from every angel’s tongue
Swell those songs of impulse vernal,
All whose echoes are eternal.

6. Agnes, from the depth of Heaven
Joy is rising, like a spring
Borne above its grassy margin,
Borne in many a crystal ring;
Each o’er beds of wild flowers gliding,
Over each low murmurs sliding.

7. When a Christian lies expiring,
Angel choirs, with plumes outspread,
Bend above his death-bed, singing:
That, when Death’s mild sleep is fled,
There may be no harsh transition
While he greets the Heavenly Vision.

AGNES.

8. Am I dreaming, blessed angels?
Late ye floated two in one;
Now, a thousand radiant spirits
Round me weave a glistening zone.
Lilies, as they wind extending,
Roses with those lilies blending.

9. See! th’ horizon’s ring they circle;
Now they gird the zenith blue;
And now, o’er every brake and billow
Float like mist and flash like dew.
All the earth, with life o’erflowing,
Into heavenly shapes is growing!

10. They are rising! they are rising!
As they rise, the veil is riven!
They are rising! I am rising—
Rising with them into Heaven!—
Rising with those shining legions
Into life’s eternal regions!

XXVIII.—THE MONK OF ST. FRANCIS.

STERNE.

1. A poor monk, of the Order of St. Francis, came into the room to beg something for his convent. The moment I cast my eyes upon him, I was determined not to give him a single sous; and accordingly I put my purse into my pocket—buttoned it up—set myself a little more upon my center, and advanced up gravely to him: there was something, I fear, forbidding[235] in my look: I have his figure[236] this moment before my eyes, and think there was that in it which deserved better.

2. The monk, as I judged from the break in his tonsure, a few scattered white hairs upon his temples being all that remained of it, might be about seventy; but from his eyes and that sort of fire which was in them, which seemed more tempered[237] by courtesy than years, he could be no more than sixty—truth might lie between—he was certainly sixty-five; and the general air of his countenance, notwithstanding something seemed to have been planting wrinkles in it before their time, agreed to the account.

3. It was one of those heads which Guido has often painted—mild, pale, penetrating; free from all commonplace ideas of fat contented ignorance, looking downwards upon the earth. It looked forwards; but looked as if it looked at something beyond this world.... It would have suited a Brahmin;[238] and had I met it upon the plains of Hindostan, I had reverenced it.

4. The rest of his outline may be given in a few strokes: one might put it into the hands of any one to design; for it was neither elegant nor otherwise, but as character and expression made it so. It was a thin, spare form, something above the common size, if it lost not the distinction by a bend forwards in the figure—but it was the attitude[239] of entreaty; and, as it now stands present to my imagination, it gained more than it lost by it.

5. When he had entered the room three paces, he stood still; and, laying his left hand upon his breast (a slender white staff with which he journeyed being in his right), when I had got close up to him, he introduced himself with the little story of the wants of his convent, and the poverty of his order—and did it with so simple a grace—and such an air of deprecation[240] was there in the whole cast of his look and figure—I was bewitched not to have been struck with it. A better reason was, I had predetermined not to give him a single sous.

6. “’Tis very true,” said I, replying to a cast upwards with his eyes, with which he had concluded his address—“’tis very true—and heaven be their resource[241] who have no other but the charity of the world; the stock of which, I fear, is no way sufficient for the many great claims which are hourly made upon it.”

7. As I pronounced the words “great claims,” he gave a slight glance with his eye downwards upon the sleeve of his tunic.[242] I felt the full force of the appeal. “I acknowledge it,” said I—“a coarse habit, and that but once in three years, with meagre diet, are no great matters: and the true point of pity is, as they can be earned in the world with so little industry, that your order should wish to procure them by pressing upon a fund which is the property of the lame, the blind, the aged, and the infirm.

8. “The captive who lies down counting over and over again the days of his afflictions, languishes also for his share of it; and had you been of the order of mercy, instead of the order of St. Francis, poor as I am,” continued I, pointing at my portmanteau,[243] “full cheerfully should it have been opened to you for the ransom of the unfortunate.” The monk made me a bow.

9. “But,” resumed I, “the unfortunate of our own country, surely, have the first right; and I have left thousands in distress upon the English shore.” The monk gave a cordial wave with his head, as much as to say, no doubt, there is misery enough in every corner of the world, as well as within our convent. “But we distinguish,” said I, laying my hand upon the sleeve of his tunic, in return for his appeal—“we distinguish, my good father, betwixt those who wish only to eat the bread of their own labor, and those who eat the bread of other people’s, and have no other plan in life, but to get through it in sloth and ignorance for the love of God.”

10. The poor Franciscan made no reply: a hectic of a moment passed across his cheek, but could not tarry. Nature seemed to have done with her resentments in him; he showed none—but, letting his staff fall within his arm, he pressed both his hands with resignation upon his breast, and retired.

11. My heart smote me the moment he shut the door. “Pshaw!” said I, with an air of carelessness, three several times; but it would not do: every ungracious syllable I had uttered, crowded back into my imagination; I reflected I had no right over the poor Franciscan, but to deny him; and that the punishment of that was enough to the disappointed, without the addition of unkind language. I considered his gray hairs—his courteous figure seemed to re-enter, and gently ask me what injury he had done me, and why I could use him thus. I would have given twenty livres[244] for an advocate. “I have behaved very ill,” said I within myself; “but I have only just set out upon my travels, and shall learn better manners as I get along.”

[235] FOR-BIDˊ-DING, repulsive.

[236] FIGˊ-URE, shape, appearance.

[237] TEMˊ-PERED, softened, moderated.

[238] BRAHˊ-MIN, a priest among the Hindoos.

[239] ATˊ-TI-TUDE, posture, position.

[240] DEP-RE-CAˊ-TION, regret for, excusing, begging pardon for.

[241] RE-SOURCEˊ, resort, means of supply.

[242] TUˊ-NIC, a garment.

[243] PORT-MANˊ-TEAU, a bag to carry clothing in.

[244] LIVˊ-RE, a French money of account equal to 18½ cents.

XXIX.—MY MOTHER’S GRAVE.

DR. BROWNSON.

Dr. Brownson is a writer of very great ability. His “Review,”
which he conducted for several years, and for which he wrote
nearly every article, was marked by unrivaled logical power and
great boldness and independence. Since the discontinuance of his
“Review,” he has published the “American Republic” a very able
and elaborate work.

1. I lingered several weeks around the grave of my mother, and in the neighborhood where she had lived. It was the place where I had passed my own childhood and youth. It was the scene of those early associations which become the dearer to us as we leave them the farther behind. I stood where I had sported in the freedom of early childhood; but I stood alone, for no one was there with whom I could speak of its frolics.[245] One feels singularly desolate[246] when he sees only strange faces, and hears only strange voices in what was the home of his early life.

2. I returned to the village where I resided when I first introduced myself to my readers. But what was that spot to me now? Nature had done much for it, but nature herself is very much what we make her. There must be beauty in our souls, or we shall see no loveliness in her face; and beauty had died out of my soul. She who might have recalled it to life and thrown its hues over all the world was—but of that I will not speak.

3. It was now that I really needed the hope of immortality.[247] The world was to me one vast desert, and life was without end or aim. The hope of immortality! We want it when earth has lost its gloss of novelty; when our hopes have been blasted, our affections withered, and the shortness of life and the vanity of all human pursuits have come home to us and made us exclaim,[248] “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity:” we want then the hope of immortality to give to life an end, an aim.

4. We all of us at times feel this want. The infidel feels it in early life. He learns all too soon, what to him is a withering fact, that man does not complete his destiny on earth. Man never completes any thing here. What then shall he do if there be no hereafter? With what courage can I betake myself to my task? I may begin; but the grave lies between me and the completion.[249] Death will come to interrupt my work, and compel me to leave it unfinished.

5. This is more terrible to me than the thought of ceasing. I could almost (at least I think I could) consent to be no more after I had finished my work, achieved[250] my destiny; but to die before my work is completed, while that destiny is but begun,—this is the death which comes to me indeed as a “King of Terrors.”

6. The hope of another life to be the complement[251] of this, steps in to save us from this death to give us the courage and the hope to begin. The rough sketch shall hereafter become the finished picture: the artist shall give it the last touch at his easel, the science we had just begun shall be completed, and the incipient[252] destiny shall be achieved. Fear not then to begin; thou hast eternity before thee in which to end.

[245] FROLˊ-ICS, wild pranks; scenes of mirth.

[246] DESˊ-O-LATE, lonely; comfortless.

[247] IMˊ-MOR-TAL-I-TY, endless existence hereafter.

[248] EX-CLAIMˊ, cry out.

[249] COM-PLEˊ-TION, fulfillment.

[250] A-CHIEVEDˊ, accomplished.

[251] COMˊ-PLE-MENT, that which completes.

[252] IN-CIPˊ-I-ENT, commencing; beginning.

XXX.—GOOD COUNSEL.

1. Never speak anything for a truth, which you know or believe to be false. Lying is a great sin against God, who gave us a tongue to speak the truth, and not falsehood. It is a great offense against humanity[253] itself; for, where there is no regard to truth, there can be no safe society between man and man.

2. And it is an injury to the speaker; for, beside the disgrace which it brings upon him, it occasions so much baseness of mind, that he can scarcely tell the truth, or avoid lying, even when he has no color of necessity for it; and, in time, he comes to such a pass, that as other people can not believe he speaks the truth, so he himself scarcely knows when he tells a falsehood.

3. You must not equivocate[254] nor speak anything positively for which you have no authority, but report, or conjecture, or opinion.

4. Let your words be few, especially, when your superiors or strangers are present, lest you betray your own weakness, and rob yourselves of the opportunity which you might, otherwise, have had to gain knowledge, wisdom, and experience by hearing those whom you silence by your impertinent talking.

5. Be not too earnest, loud, or violent in your conversation. Silence your opponent with reason, not with noise.

6. Be careful not to interrupt another when he is speaking; hear him out, and you will understand him the better and be able to give him the better answer.

7. Consider before you speak, especially, when the business is of moment; weigh the sense of what you mean to utter, and the expressions you intend to use, that they may be significant, pertinent, and inoffensive. Inconsiderate persons do not think till they speak; or they speak, and then think.

8. Some people excel in husbandry, some in gardening, some in mathematics. In conversation, learn, as near as you can, where the skill or excellence of any person lies; put him upon talking on that subject, observe what he says, keep it in your memory, or commit it to writing. By this means, you will glean the worth and knowledge of every body you converse with; and, at an easy rate, acquire what may be of use to you on many occasions.

9. When you are in company with light, vain, impertinent persons, let the observing of their failings make you the more cautious, both in conversation with them and in your general behavior, that you may avoid their errors.

10. If any one whom you do not know to be a person of truth, sobriety, and weight, relates strange stories, be not too ready to believe or report them; and yet unless he is one of your familiar acquaintances, be not too forward to contradict him.

11. If the occasion requires you to declare your opinion, do it modestly and gently, not bluntly nor coarsely; by this means, you will avoid giving offense, or being abused for too much credulity.

[253] HU-MANˊ-I-TY, mankind.

[254] E-QUIVˊ-O-CATE, speak purposely so as to convey a false impression.

XXXI.—THE SISTER OF CHARITY.

GERALD GRIFFIN.

1. She once was a lady of honor and wealth,
Bright glowed on her features the roses of health;
Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold,
And her motion shook perfume from every fold:
Joy revelled around her—love shone at her side,
And gay was her smile, as the glance of a bride;
And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall,
When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul.

2. She felt, in her spirit, the summons[255] of grace,
That called her to live for the suffering race;
And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home,
Rose quickly like Mary, and answered, “I come.”
She put from her person the trappings[256] of pride,
And passed from her home, with the joy of a bride,
Nor wept at the threshold, as onwards she moved—
For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved.

3. Lost ever to fashion—to vanity lost,
That beauty that once was the song and the toast—
No more in the ball-room that figure we meet,
But gliding at dusk to the wretch’s retreat,
Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name,
For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame;
Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth,
For she barters for heaven the glory of earth.

4. Those feet, that to music could gracefully move,
Now bear her alone on the mission of love;
Those hands that once dangled the perfume and gem,
Are tending[257] the helpless, or lifted for them;
That voice that once echoed the song of the vain.
Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain;
And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl,
Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl.

5. Her down bed—a pallet; her trinkets—a bead;
Her lustre—one taper that serves her to read;
Her sculpture—the crucifix nailed by her bed;
Her paintings—one print of the thorn-crowned head;
Her cushion—the pavement that wearies her knees;
Her music—the psalm, or sigh of disease;
The delicate lady lives mortified[258] there,
And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer.

6. Yet not to the service of heart and of mind,
Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined.
Like him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief
She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief.
She strengthens the weary—she comforts the weak,
And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick;
Where want and affliction on mortals attend,
The Sister of Charity _there_ is a friend.

7. Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath,
Like an angel she moves, ’mid the vapor of death;
Where rings the loud musket, and flashes the sword,
Unfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord.
How sweetly she bends over each plague-tainted face,
With looks that are lighted with holiest grace;
How kindly she dresses each suffering limb,
For she sees in the wounded the image of Him.

8. Behold her, ye worldly! behold her, ye vain!
Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain;
Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days,
Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise.
Ye lazy philosophers—self-seeking men,—
Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen,
How stands in the balance your eloquence weighed
With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid?

[255] SUMˊ-MONS, a call.

[256] TRAPˊ-PINGS, ornaments.

[257] TENDˊ-ING, attending; keeping.

[258] MORˊ-TI-FIED, subdued; humbled.

XXXII.—REPROOF TO AN AFFECTED[259] SPEAKER.

LA BRUYERE.

1. What do you say? _What?_ I _really_ do not understand you. Be so good as to explain yourself again. Upon my word, I do not. O, _now_ I know! you mean to tell me it is a cold day. Why did you not say at once: “It is cold to-day.” If you wish to inform me it rains or snows, pray say: “It rains,” “it snows;” or, if you think I look well, and you choose to compliment[260] me, say, “I think you look well.”

2. “But,” you answer, “that is so common, and so plain, and what every body can say.” Well, and what if they can? Is it so great a misfortune to be understood when one speaks, and to speak like the rest of the world? I will tell you what, my friend; you and your fine-spoken brethren want _one_ thing—you do not suspect[261] it, and I shall astonish[262] you—you want _common sense_.

3. Nay, this is not all; you have something _too_ much; you possess an opinion that you have _more_ sense than others. That is the source of all your pompous[263] nothings, your cloudy sentences, and your big words without a meaning. Before you accost[264] a person, or enter a room, let me pull you by your sleeve, and whisper in your ear: “Do not try to show off your sense; have none at all; that is your part. Use plain language, if you can; just such as you find others use, who, in your idea, have no understanding; and then, perhaps, you will get credit for having some.”

[259] AF-FECTˊ-ED, not natural.

[260] COMˊ-PLI-MENT, praise, flatter.

[261] SUS-PECTˊ, mistrust.

[262] AS-TONˊ-ISH, to amaze.

[263] POMPˊ-OUS, ostentatious.

[264] AC-COSTˊ, speak to; address.

XXXIII.—MY BIRTHDAY.

THOMAS MOORE.

1. “My birthday!”—what a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears!
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white the mark appears!
When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as youth counts the shining links
That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks
How hard that chain will press, at last.

2. Vain was the man, and false as vain,
Who said: “Were he ordained[265] to run
His long career[266] of life again,
He _would do_ all that he _had done_.”
Ah! ’tis not thus the voice that dwells
In sober birthdays, speaks to me;
Far otherwise—of time it tells
Lavished[267] unwisely, carelessly,
Of counsel mocked—of talents made,
Haply,[268] for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel’s incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines,
Of nursing many a wrong desire,
Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire
That crossed my path-way, for his star!

3. All this it tells, and I could trace[269]
The imperfect picture o’er again,
With power to add, retouch,[270] efface[271]
The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away,
_All_—but that freedom of the mind,
Which hath been more than wealth to me;
Those friendships in my boyhood twined,[272]
And kept till now unchangingly.[273]
And that dear home, that saving ark,
Where love’s true light at last, I’ve found,
Cheering within when all grows dark,
And comfortless, and storm around.

[265] OR-DAINˊ-ED, appointed.

[266] CA-REERˊ, race, course.

[267] LAVˊ-ISHED, wasted.

[268] HAPˊ-LY, perhaps, perchance.

[269] TRACE, delineate, draw.

[270] RE-TOUCHˊ, improve by new touches.

[271] EF-FACEˊ, erase, blot out.

[272] TWINˊ-ED, closely united.

[273] UN-CHANGˊ-ING-LY, unvaryingly.

XXXIV.—LABOR.

FRANCES OSGOOD.

1. Pause not to dream of the future before us;
Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o’er us;
Hark! how creation’s deep musical chorus,[274]
Unintermitting,[275] goes up into Heaven!
Never the ocean-wave falters[276] in flowing,
Never the little seed stops in its growing,
More and more richly the rose-hart keeps glowing,
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.[277]

2. “Labor is worship!”—the robin is singing;
“Labor is worship!”—the wild bee is ringing;
Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing,
Speaks to thy soul from out nature’s heart.
From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower;
From the rough sod comes the soft-breathing flower;
From the small insect, the rich coral bower;
Only man, in the plan, ever shrinks from his part.

3. Labor is life!—’Tis the still water faileth;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth[278],
Keep the watch wound; for the dark dust assaileth[279]
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.
Labor is glory!—the flying cloud lightens;
Only the waving wing changes and brightens;
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens;
Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune.

4. Labor is rest—from the sorrows that greet us;
Rest from all petty vexations[280] that meet us;
Rest from sin-promptings[281] that ever entreat us;
Rest from world Sirens[282] that lead us to ill.
Work—and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;
Work—thou shalt ride o’er care’s coming billow;
Lie not down wearied ’neath woe’s weeping willow:
Work with a stout heart and resolute[283] will.

5. Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish[284] are round thee;
Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee;
Look on yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee;
Rest not content in thy darkness,—a clod.[285]
Work for some good,—be it ever so slowly;
Cherish some flower,—be it ever so lowly;
Labor!—all labor is noble and holy;
Let thy great deeds be a prayer to thy God.

[274] CHOˊ-RUS, a singing together.

[275] UN-IN-TER-MITˊ-TING, unceasing.

[276] FALˊ-TERS, hesitates; fails.

[277] RIVˊEN, rent; torn off.

[278] BE-WAILˊ-ETH, bemoans; laments.

[279] AS-SAILˊ-ETH, invades; attacks.

[280] VEX-Aˊ-TIONS, troubles.

[281] SIN-PROMPTˊ-INGS, temptations to sin.

[282] WORLD-SIRENS, attractions of the world.

[283] RESˊ-O-LUTE, firm; unbending.

[284] ANˊ-GUISH, extreme pain.

[285] CLOD, dull, stupid fellow; dolt.

XXXV.—OUR MISERIES OFTEN OUR FAULT.

BLAIR.

1. We find man placed in a world, where he has, by no means, the disposal of the events that happen. Calamities[286] sometimes befall the worthiest and the best, which it is not in their power to prevent, and where nothing is left them, but to acknowledge and to submit to the high hand of Heaven. For such visitations of trial, many good and wise reasons can be assigned[287], which the present subject leads me not to discuss.[288]

2. But, though those unavoidable[289] calamities make a part, yet they make not the chief part, of the vexations and sorrows that distress human life. A multitude of evils beset[290] us, for the source of which we must look to another quarter. No sooner has any thing in the health or in the circumstances of men, gone cross[291] to their wish, than they begin to talk of the unequal distribution[292] of the good things of this life; they envy the condition of others; they repine[293] at their own lot, and fret against the Ruler of the world.

3. Full of these sentiments, one man pines under a broken constitution.[294] But let us ask him, whether he can fairly and honestly assign no cause for this but the unknown decree of Heaven? Has he duly valued the blessing of health, and always observed the rules of virtue and sobriety?[295] Has he been moderate in his life, and temperate in all his pleasures? If now he is only paying the price of his former, perhaps, his forgotten indulgences, has he any right to complain, as if he were suffering unjustly?

4. Were we to survey the chambers of sickness and distress, we should often find them peopled with the victims of intemperance and sensuality, and with the vicious children of indolence and sloth. Among the thousands who languish there, we should find the proportion of innocent sufferers to be small. We should see faded youth premature[296] old age, and the prospect of an untimely grave, to be the portion of multitudes who, in one way or other, have brought those evils on themselves; while yet these martyrs of vice and folly have the assurance to arraign[297] the hard fate of man, and to “fret against the Lord.”

5. But you, perhaps, complain of hardships of another kind; of the injustice of the world; of the poverty which you suffer, and the discouragements under which you labor; of the crosses and disappointments of which your life has been doomed to be full. Before you give too much scope to your discontent, let me desire you to reflect impartially upon your past train of life. Have not sloth, or pride, or ill-temper, or sinful passions, misled you often from the path of sound and wise conduct? Have you not been wanting to yourselves in improving those opportunities which Providence offered you, for bettering and advancing your state?

6. If you have chosen to indulge your humor or your taste, in the gratifications[298] of indolence and pleasure, can you complain because others, in preference to you, have obtained those advantages which naturally belong to useful labors and honorable pursuits. Have not the consequences of some false steps, into which your passions, or your pleasures, have betrayed you, pursued you through much of your life; tainted[299], perhaps, your character, involved[300] you in embarrassments[301], or sunk you into neglect?

7. It is an old saying, that every man is the artificer[302] of his own fortune in the world. It is certain, that the world seldom turns wholly against a man, unless through his own fault. “Religion is,” in general, “profitable unto all things.” Virtue, diligence, and industry, joined with good temper and prudence, have ever been found the surest road to prosperity; and, where men fail of attaining it, their want of success is far oftener owing to their having deviated from that road, than to their having encountered insuperable barriers in it.

8. Some by being too artful, forfeit the reputation of probity. Some, by being too open, are accounted to fail in prudence. Others, by being fickle and changeable, are distrusted by all. The case commonly is, that men seek to ascribe their disappointments to any cause, rather than to their own misconduct; and, when they can devise no other cause, they lay them to the charge of Providence. Their folly leads them into vices; their vices into misfortunes; and, in their misfortunes, they “murmur against Providence.”

9. They are doubly unjust toward their Creator. In their prosperity, they are apt to ascribe their success to their own diligence, rather than to His blessing; and, in their adversity, they impute their distresses to His providence, not to their own misbehavior. Whereas, the truth is the very reverse of this. Every good gift and every perfect gift cometh from above; and of evil and misery, man is the author to himself.

[286] CA-LAMˊ-I-TIES, misfortunes.

[287] AS-SIGNˊ-ED, given; specified.

[288] DIS-CUSSˊ, debate, reason on.

[289] UN-A-VOIDˊ-A-BLE, inevitable.

[290] BE-SETˊ, surround; besiege.

[291] CROSS, adverse; contrary.

[292] DIS-TRI-BUˊ-TION, dispensation.

[293] RE-PINEˊ, murmur.

[294] CON-STI-TUˊ-TION, corporeal frame.

[295] SO-BRIˊ-E-TY, temperance.

[296] PREˊ-MA-TURE, too early.

[297] AR-RAIGNˊ, call in question.

[298] GRAT-I-FI-CAˊ-TIONS, indulgences.

[299] TAINTˊ-ED, stained; corrupted.

[300] IN-VOLVˊ-ED, entangled.

[301] EM-BARˊ-RASS-MENT, perplexity.

[302] ART-IFˊ-I-CER, inventor.

XXXVI.—TRUE PATRIOTISM.[303]

SIR WILLIAM JONES.

1. What constitutes[304] a State?
Not high raised battlements[305] or labored mound,[306]
Thick wall or moated[307] gate;
Nor cities proud, with spires and turrets[308] crowned;
Not bays and broad-armed ports,
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies[309] ride;
Not starred and spangled courts,
Where low-browed baseness[310] wafts perfume to pride.

2. No; men, high-minded[311] men,
With powers as far above dull brutes endued[312],
In forest brake, or den,
As beasts excel[313] cold rocks and brambles[314] rude;
_Men_ who their duties know,
But know their rights, and knowing, dare maintain;[315]
Prevent the long aimed blow,
And crush the tyrant while they rend[316] the chain;
_These_ constitute a State;
And Sovereign[317] Law, that State’s collected[318] will,
O’er thrones and globes elate,[319]
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing[320] ill.

[303] PAˊ-TRI-OT-ISM, love of country.

[304] CONˊ-STI-TUTES, makes; forms.

[305] BATˊ-TLE-MENTS, breastworks.

[306] MOUND, rampart; bank of earth.

[307] MOATˊ-ED, surrounded by a ditch.

[308] TURˊ-RETS, little towers.

[309] NAˊ-VIES, fleets of ships.

[310] BASEˊ-NESS, meanness.

[311] HIGHˊ-MIND-ED, magnanimous.

[312] EN-DUˊ-ED, furnished; endowed.

[313] EX-CELˊ, exceed; surpass.

[314] BRAMˊ-BLES, prickly shrubs.

[315] MAIN-TAINˊ, defend; support.

[316] REND, part asunder.

[317] SOVˊ-ER-EIGN, supreme.

[318] COL-LECTˊ-ED, congregated.

[319] E-LATEˊ, raised; lofty.

[320] RE-PRESSˊ-ING, quelling.

XXXVII.—INFLUENCE OF RELIGION ON THE TYROLESE.

ALISON.

Sir Archibald Alison, although not himself a Catholic, eloquently
sets forth, in the following lesson, the refining and civilizing
influences of the Catholic Church.

1. What is it, then, which has wrought so surprising a change in the manners and habits of Europe, of the inhabitants of the great mountain-girdle of the earth? What is it which has spread cultivation through wastes deemed, in ancient times, inaccessible[321] to improvement, and humanized[322] the manners of a people, remarkable only, under the Roman sway, for the ferocity and barbarism of their customs?

2. What but the influence of religion; of that faith which has calmed the savage passions of the human mind, and spread its beneficial influence amongst the remotest[323] habitations of men, and which prompted its disciples to leave the luxuries and comforts of southern civilization to diffuse[324] knowledge and humanity through inhospitable realms, and spread, even amidst the regions of desolation, the light of knowledge, and the blessings of Christianity.

3. Impressed with these ideas, the traveler, in crossing the St. Bernard, and comparing the perfect safety with which he now can explore the most solitary parts of these mountains, with the perils[325] of the passage, attested by votive[326] offerings, even in the days of Adrian, and the Antonines, will think with thankfulness of the religion by which this wonderful change has been effected, and with veneration of the saint whose name has, for a thousand years, been affixed to the pass where his influence first reclaimed the people from their barbarous life; and in crossing the defile of Mount Brenner, where the Abbey of Wilten first offered an asylum to the pilgrim, he will feel, with a late amiable and eloquent writer, “how fortunate it is that religion has penetrated these fastnesses, impervious[327] to human power, and, where precautions are impossible and resistance useless, spread her invisible ægis[328] over the traveler, and conducts him, secure under her protection, through all the dangers of his way!”

4. When in such situations he reflects upon his security, and recollects that these mountains, so savage, and so well adapted to the progress of murderers and banditti[329], have not in the memory of man been stained with human blood, he ought to do justice to the cause, and gratefully to acknowledge the influence of religion.

5. Impressed with these ideas, he will behold with interest the crosses which frequently mark the brow of a precipice, and the little chapels hollowed out of the rock, where the road is narrowed; he will consider them as so many pledges of security, and rest assured, that so long as the pious mountaineer continues to adore the “Good Shepherd,” and to implore the power of the “Afflicted Mother,” he will never cease to befriend the traveler, nor to discharge the duties of hospitality.

[321] IN-AC-CESSˊ-I-BLE, beyond reach of.

[322] HUˊ-MAN-IZE, to render human.

[323] RE-MOTˊ-EST, most distant.

[324] DIF-FUSEˊ, to spread, to extend in all directions.

[325] PERˊ-ILS, dangers.

[326] VOˊ-TIVE, given by vow, devoted.

[327] IM-PERˊ-VI-OUS, not to be penetrated or passed through.

[328] ÆGIS, shield, protection.

[329] BAN-DITˊ-TI, outlaws, highwaymen, robbers.

XXXVIII.—HYMN OF THE MOUNTAINEERS.

MRS. HEMANS.

Mrs. Felicia Dorothea Hemans was born in England in 1794, and
died in 1835. Her poetry is not only remarkable for purity and
delicacy of feeling, but is often marked by ardent and vigorous
expression.

1. For the strength of the hills we bless thee, our God, our fathers’
God!
Thou hast made Thy children mighty, by the touch of the mountain sod.
Thou hast fixed our ark of refuge[330] where the spoiler’s foot ne’er
trod;
For the strength of the hills we bless Thee, our God, our fathers’ God!

2. We are watchers of a beacon[331] whose light must never die;
We are guardians of an altar midst the silence of the sky,
The rocks yield founts of courage, struck forth as by Thy rod;
For the strength of the hills we bless Thee, our God, our father’s God.

3. For the dark-resounding caverns,[332] where Thy still, small voice is
heard;
For the strong pines of the forests, that by Thy breath is stirred;
For the storms on whose free pinions[333] Thy spirit walks abroad;
For the strength of the hills we bless Thee, our God, our fathers’ God!

4. The royal eagle darteth on his quarry[334] from the heights,
And the stag, that knows no master, seeks there his wild delights;
But we, for _Thy_ communion, have sought the mountain sod;
For the strength of the hills we bless Thee, our God, our fathers’ God!

5. The banner of the chieftain far, far below us waves;
The war-horse of the spearman cannot reach our lofty caves;
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold of Freedom’s last abode;
For the strength of the hills we bless Thee, our God, our fathers’ God!

6. For the shadow of Thy presence, round our camp of rock outspread;
For the stern defiles of battle, bearing record of our dead;
For the snows and for the torrents, for the free heart’s burial sod;
For the strength of the hills, we bless Thee, our God, our fathers’ God!

[330] REFˊ-UGE, shelter, or protection from danger.

[331] BEAˊ-CON, a signal, or mark to give warning of danger.

[332] CAVˊ-ERN, a deep hollow place in the earth.

[333] PINˊ-IONS, wings.

[334] QUARˊ-RY, the game which a hawk or an eagle is pursuing, or has killed.

XXXIX.—EXHORTATION TO PRAYER.

1. Not on a prayerless bed, not on a prayerless bed
Compose thy weary limbs to rest;
For they alone are blessed
With balmy sleep,
Whom angels keep;
Nor, though by care oppressed,
Or anxious sorrow,
Or thought in many a coil perplexed
For coming morrow,
Lay not thy head
On prayerless bed.

2. For who can tell, when sleep thine eyes shall close,
That earthly cares and woes
To thee may e’er return?
Arouse, my soul,
Slumber control,
And let thy lamp burn brightly;
So shall thine eyes discern
Things pure and sightly;
Taught by the Spirit, learn
Never on thoughtless bed
To lay thine unblessed head.

3. Hast thou no pining want, or wish, or care,
That calls for holy prayer?
Has thy day been so bright
That in its flight
There is no trace of sorrow?
And art thou sure to-morrow
Will be like this, and more
Abundant? Dost thou yet lay up thy store,
And still make plans for more?
Thou fool! this very night
Thy soul may wing its flight.

4. Hast thou no being than thyself more dear,
That plows the ocean deep?
And when storms sweep the wintry, lowering skies,
For whom thou wakest and weepest?
O, when thy pangs are deepest,
Seek then the covenant ark of prayer,
For He that slumbereth not, is there,
His ear is open to thy cry;
O, then, on prayerless bed
Lay not thy thoughtless head.

5. Arouse thee, weary soul, nor yield to slumber,
Till in communion blessed
With the elect thou rest,
Those souls in countless number;
And with them raise
The note of praise,
Reaching from earth to heaven;
Chosen, redeemed, forgiven;
So lay thy happy head,
Prayer-crowned, on blessed bed.

XL.—BEHIND TIME.

FREEMAN HUNT.

1. A railroad train was rushing along at almost lightning speed. A curve was just ahead, beyond which was a station at which the cars usually passed each other. The conductor was late, so late that the period during which the down train was to wait had nearly elapsed; but he hoped yet to pass the curve safely. Suddenly a locomotive dashed into sight right ahead. In an instant there was a collision. A shriek, a shock, and fifty souls were in eternity; and all because an engineer had been _behind time_.

2. A great battle was going on. Column[335] after column had been precipitated for eight mortal hours on the enemy posted along the ridge of a hill. The summer sun was sinking to the west; rëenforcements[336] for the obstinate defenders were already in sight; it was necessary to carry the position with one final charge, or every thing would be lost.

3. A powerful corps had been summoned from across the country, and if it came up in season all would yet be well. The great conqueror, confident in its arrival, formed his reserve[337] into an attacking column, and ordered them to charge the enemy. The whole world knows the result. Grouchy[338] failed to appear; the imperial guard was beaten back; Waterloo was lost. Napoleon died a prisoner at St. Helena because one of his marshals was _behind time_.

4. A leading firm in commercial circles had long struggled against bankruptcy. As it had enormous assets[339] in California, it expected remittances by a certain day, and if the sums promised arrived, its credit, honor, and its future prosperity would be preserved. But week after week elapsed without bringing the gold. At last came the fatal day on which the firm had bills maturing[340] to enormous amounts. The steamer was telegraphed at daybreak; but it was found, on inquiry, that she brought no funds, and the house failed. The next arrival brought nearly half a million to the insolvents[341], but it was too late; they were ruined because their agent, in remitting, had been _behind time_.

5. A condemned man was led out for execution. He had taken human life, but under circumstances of the greatest provocation, and public sympathy was active in his behalf. Thousands had signed petitions for a reprieve[342], a favorable answer had been expected the night before, and though it had not come, even the sheriff felt confident that it would yet arrive in season. Thus the morning passed without the appearance of the messenger. The last moment was up. The prisoner took his place on the drop, the cap was drawn over his eyes, the bolt was drawn, and a lifeless body swung revolving in the wind. Just at that moment a horseman came into sight, galloping down hill, his steed covered with foam. He carried a packet in his right hand, which he waved rapidly to the crowd. He was the express rider with a reprieve. But he had come too late. A comparatively innocent man had died an ignominious death, because a watch had been five minutes too slow, making its bearer arrive _behind time_.

6. It is continually so in life. The best laid plans, the most important affairs, the fortunes of individuals, the weal of nations, honor, happiness, life itself, are daily sacrificed because somebody is “behind time.” There are men who always fail in whatever they undertake, simply because they are “behind time.” There are others who put off reformation year by year, till death seizes them, and they perish unrepentant, because forever “behind time.” Five minutes in a crisis is worth years. It is but a little period, yet it has often saved a fortune or redeemed a people. If there is one virtue that should be cultivated more than another by him who would succeed in life, it is punctuality; if there is one error that should be avoided it is being _behind time_.

[335] COLˊ-UMN, a body of troops in deep files, with narrow front.

[336] RE-EN-FORCEˊ-MENTS, supplies of additional troops.

[337] RE-SERVEˊ, a select body of troops kept in the rear of an army in action, to give support when required.

[338] Napoleon Bonaparte, emperor of France, was defeated by the Allies under the Duke of Wellington, at Waterloo, June 18, 1815. Marshal Grouchy was expected to aid the emperor with a body of troops, but failed to appear.

[339] ASˊ-SETS, property or effects.

[340] MA-TURˊ-ING, ripening, coming to a perfected state. Bills or notes mature when they become due.

[341] IN-SOLˊ-VENT, one who cannot pay his debts.

[342] RE-PRIEVEˊ, a suspension of a entence of death.

XLI.—EVIL INFLUENCE OF SKEPTICISM.

CAMPBELL.

Thomas Campbell was born in Scotland in 1777, and died in 1844.
Some of his shorter poems are remarkable for pathos and beauty,
such as “O’Connor’s Child,” “The Exile of Erin,” etc.

1. O, lives there, Heaven! beneath thy dread expanse,
One hopeless, dark idolater of Chance,
Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined,
The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind;
Who, mouldering earthward, reft[343] of every trust,
In joyless union wedded to the dust,
Could all his parting energy dismiss,
And call this barren world sufficient bliss?

2. There live, alas! of heaven-directed mien,
Of cultured soul, and sapient[344] eye serene,
Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of a day,
Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay!
Frail as the leaf in Autumn’s yellow bower,
Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower!
A friendless slave, a child without a sire,
Whose mortal life, and momentary fire,
Lights to the grave his chance-created form,
As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm;
And, when the gun’s tremendous flash is o’er,
To night and silence sink for evermore!

3. Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim,
Lights of the world, and demigods[345] of Fame?
Is this your triumph, this your proud applause,
Children of Truth, and champions of her cause?
For this hath Science searched, on weary wing,
By shore and sea, each mute and living thing?
Launched with Iberia’s[346] pilot from the steep,
To world’s unknown, and isles beyond the deep?
Or round the cope[347] her living chariot driven,
And wheeled in triumph through the signs of heaven?
O, star-eyed Science, hast thou wandered there,
To waft us home the message of despair?
Then bind the palm, thy sage’s brow to suit,
Of blasted leaf, and death distilling fruit!

4. Ah me! the laureled wreath that Murder rears,
Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow’s tears,
Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread,
As waves the night-shade[348] round the sceptic head.
What is the bigot’s torch, the tyrant’s chain?
I smile on death, if heavenward Hope remain!
But, if the warring winds of Nature’s strife
Be all the faithless charter of my life,
If chance awaked, inexorable power!
This frail and feverish being of an hour,
Doomed o’er the world’s precarious scene to sweep,
Swift as the tempest travels on the deep,
To know Delight but by her parting smile,
And toil, and wish, and weep, a little while;
Then melt, ye elements, that formed in vain
This troubled pulse, and visionary[349] brain!
Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom!
And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb!

5. Truth, ever lovely, since the world began,
The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man,
How can thy words from balmy slumber start
Reposing Virtue, pillowed on the heart!
Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder rolled,
And that were true which Nature never told,
Let Wisdom smile not on her conquered field
No rapture dawns, no treasure is revealed!
O, let her read, nor loudly, nor elate,
The doom that bars us from a better fate!
But, sad as angels for the good mans sin,
Weep to record, and blush to give it in!

[343] REFT, bereft; deprived.

[344] SAˊ-PI-ENT, wise.

[345] DEMˊ-I-GOD, a deified hero.

[346] I-BEˊ-RI-A’S PIˊ-LOT, Columbus. Iberia is an ancient name of Spain.

[347] COPE, the concave of the sky, an arch or vault over head.

[348] NIGHTˊ-SHADE, a noxious plant.

[349] VIˊ-SION-A-RY, prone to see or capable of seeing visions; imaginative.

XLII.—DAVID’S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM.

WILLIS.

1. Alas, my noble boy! that thou shouldst die!
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom!

2. Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee.
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,
Like a rich harpstring, yearning[350] to caress thee,
And hear thy sweet “_My father!_” from these dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!

3. But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling[351] blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;—
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come
To meet me, Absalom!

4. And, O, when I am stricken, and my heart,
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!
It were so sweet, amid death’s gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!

5. And now, farewell! ’Tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee:—
And thy dark sin!—O, I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My lost boy, Absalom!

[350] YEARNˊING, strongly desiring.

[351] MANˊTLING, suffusing the face.

XLIII.—A STORM AT SEA.

ARCHBISHOP HUGHES.

Archbishop Hughes, was born in the north of Ireland in 1798. He
came to the United States in 1817, with his father, and died
January 3, 1864. He was educated at Mount St. Mary’s, Emmetsburg,
Maryland, ordained priest in 1825, became bishop in 1842, and
archbishop of New York in 1850. He devoted his great energies in
an especial manner to the encouragement and spread of Catholic
education. His controversies with Breckenridge, and the debate
on the Public School question, proved him to be a man of great
controversial ability.