Chapter X: The Young Shepherd—continued (4)

4. And Bethany’s[420] palm trees in beauty still throw
Their shadows at noon on the ruins below;
But where are the sisters who hastened to greet
The lowly Redeemer, and sit at his feet?
I tread where the Twelve in their wayfaring trod;
I stand where they stood with the Incarnate God;
Where his blessing was heard, and his lessons were taught;
Where the blind were restored, and the healing was wrought.

[413] GEN-NESˊ-A-RET, a sea or lake in Palestine, the borders of which, in the time of Christ, were covered with numerous towns and villages; called also, Sea of Galilee.

[414] BETH-U-LIˊ-A, a city which appears to have overlooked the plain of Esdraelon, and to have guarded one of the passes to Jerusalem.

[415] GAD-A-RENEˊ, an inhabitant of Gadara, a city in a mountainous region near the Sea of Galilee.

[416] TAˊ-BOR, an isolated mountain, of a conical form, a few miles southwest of the Sea of Galilee.

[417] ISˊ-SA-CHAR, a son of Jacob and Leah; also, the tribe named after him.

[418] BETHˊ-LE-HEM, the city where Our Lord was born.

[419] JUˊ-DAH, the name of one of the tribes of Israel, afterwards applied to the whole nation.

[420] BETHˊ-A-NY, a town near Jerusalem the residence of Martha and Mary.

LVI.—LOVE OF COUNTRY AND OF HOME.

MONTGOMERY.

1. There is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by heaven o’er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense[421] serener[422] light,
And milder moons imparadise[423] the night:
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth.

2. The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air;
In every clime, the magnet[424] of his soul,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole:

3. For in this land of heaven’s peculiar grace,
The heritage[425] of nature’s noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely[426] blest,
A dearer, sweeter pot than all the rest,
Where man, creation’s tyrant, casts aside
His sword and scepter, pageantry and pride,
While, in his softened looks, benignly[427] blend
The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend.

4. Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life;
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel guard of loves and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol[428] at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?
Art thou a man? a patriot?[429] look around;
Oh! thou shalt find, howe’er thy footsteps roam,
That land _thy_ country, and that spot _thy_ home.

[421] DIS-PENSEˊ, deal or divide out in portions or parts; distribute.

[422] SE-RENˊ-ER, clearer; more soothing.

[423] IM-PARˊ-A-DISE, make very happy; render like Paradise.

[424] MAGˊ-NET, the loadstone; that which attracts.

[425] HERˊ-IT-AGE, inheritance; portion; an estate devolved by succession.

[426] SU-PREMEˊ-LY, in the highest degree.

[427] BEˊ-NIGNˊ-LY, graciously; kindly.

[428] GAMˊ-BOL, dance and skip about in sport; play in frolic, like boys and lambs.

[429] PAˊ-TRI-OT, a person who loves his country, and zealously supports and defends it and its interests.

LVII.—THE HEAVENLY REST.

ANON.

1. There is an hour of peaceful rest
To mourning wanderers given,
There is a tear for souls distrest,
A balm for every wounded breast—
’Tis found above—in heaven!

2. There is a soft, a downy bed,
’Tis sweet as breath of even;
A couch for weary mortals spread,
Where they may rest the aching head,
And find repose in heaven!

3. There is a home for weary souls,
By sin and sorrow driven,
When tossed on life’s tempestuous shoals
Where storms arise, and ocean rolls,
And all is drear—but heaven!

4. There faith lifts up the tearful eye,
The heart with anguish riven;
And views the tempest passing by,
The evening shadows quickly fly,
And all serene in heaven!

5. The fragrant flowers immortal bloom.
And joys supreme are given;
There rays divine disperse the gloom:
Beyond the confines of the tomb
Appears the dawn of heaven!

LVIII.—LOVE OF COUNTRY.

SCOTT.

1. Breathes there the man, with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
“This is my own, my native land!”
Whose heart has ne’er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell.

2. High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentrated all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown;
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from which he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

3. O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child,
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood.
Land of my sires; what mortal hand
Can e’er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand!

LIX.—THE CHARMED SERPENT.

CHATEAUBRIAND.

1. One day, while we were encamped in a spacious[430] plain on the bank of the Genesee river, we saw a rattlesnake. There was a Canadian in our party who could play on the flute, and to divert us he advanced toward the serpent with his new species of weapon. On the approach of his enemy, the haughty[431] reptile curls himself into a spiral[432] line, flattens his head, inflates[433] his cheeks, contracts his lips, displays his envenomed fangs and his bloody throat. His double tongue glows like two flames of fire; his eyes are burning coals; his body, swollen with rage, rises and falls like the bellows of a forge; his dilated[434] skin assumes a dull and scaly appearance; and his tail, which sends forth an ominous sound, vibrates[435] with such rapidity as to resemble a light vapor.

2. The Canadian now begins to play on his flute. The serpent starts with surprise and draws back his head. In proportion as he is struck with the magic sound, his eyes lose their fierceness, the oscillations[436] of his tail diminish, and the noise which it emits grows weaker, and gradually dies away. The spiral folds of the charmed serpent, diverging from the perpendicular,[437] expand,[438] and one after the other sink to the ground in concentric[439] circles. The tints of azure, green, white, and gold, recover their brilliancy on his quivering skin, and, slightly turning his head, he remains motionless in the attitude of attention and pleasure.

3. At this moment the Canadian advances a few steps, producing with his flute sweet and simple notes. The reptile immediately lowers his variegated[440] neck, opens a passage with his head through the slender grass, and begins to creep after the musician, halting when he halts, and again following him when he resumes his march. In this way he was led beyond the limits of our camp, attended by a great number of spectators, both savages and Europeans, who could scarcely believe their eyes. After witnessing this wonderful effect of melody, the assembly unanimously decided that the marvelous[441] serpent should be permitted to escape.

[430] SPAˊ-CIOUS, wide; roomy; extensive.

[431] HAUGHˊ-TY, proud; disdainful.

[432] SPIˊ-RAL, winding like a screw.

[433] IN-FLATESˊ, to swell or distend.

[434] DI-LAT-ED, expanded.

[435] VI-BRATE, to swing; to quiver; to move to and fro.

[436] OS-CIL-LAˊ-TION, vibration; a movement backward and forward.

[437] PER-PEN-DICˊ-U-LAR, a line is said to be perpendicular to another, on which it falls, or from which it extends at right angles.

[438] EX-PANDˊ, to dilate; to open.

[439] CON-CENˊ-TRIC, having a common center.

[440] VAˊ-RI-E-GATED, diversified in colors.

[441] MARˊ-VEL-OUS, wonderful.

LX.—MY ROSARY.

SIR HUMPHREY DAVY.

Sir Humphrey Davy was born in England, December 17, 1779,
and died at Geneva, May 29, 1829. He made several valuable
discoveries in chemistry.

1. The rosary which you see suspended around my neck, is a memorial[442] of sympathy and respect for an illustrious man. I was passing through France, in the reign of Napoleon, by the peculiar privilege granted to a _savant_,[443] on my road to Italy. I had just returned from the Holy Land, and had in my possession two or three of the rosaries which are sold to pilgrims at Jerusalem, as having been suspended in the Holy Sepulchre. Pius VII. was then in imprisonment at Fontainebleau. By a special favor, on the plea of my return from the Holy Land, I obtained permission to see this venerable and illustrious pontiff. I carried with me one of my rosaries.

2. He received me with great kindness. I tendered my services to execute any commissions, not political ones, he might think fit to intrust me with, in Italy, informing him that I was an Englishman: he expressed his thanks, but declined troubling me. I told him that I was just returned from the Holy Land; and, bowing, with great humility, offered him my rosary from the Holy Sepulchre.

3. He received it with a smile, touched it with his lips, gave his benediction over it, and returned it into my hands, supposing, of course, that I was a Roman Catholic. I had meant to present it to his Holiness; but the blessing he had bestowed upon it, and the touch of his lips, made it a precious relic to me; and I restored it to my neck, round which it has ever since been suspended.... “We shall meet again; adieu:” and he gave me his paternal blessing.

4. It was eighteen months after this interview, that I went out, with almost the whole population of Rome, to receive and welcome the triumphal entry of this illustrious father of the church into his capital. He was borne on the shoulders of the most distinguished artists, headed by Canova;[444] and never shall I forget the enthusiasm with which he was received: it is impossible to describe the shouts of triumph and of rapture sent up to heaven by every voice. And when he gave his benediction to the people, there was a universal prostration,[445] a sobbing, and marks of emotion and joy, almost like the bursting of the heart. I heard everywhere around me cries of a “The holy father! the most holy father! His restoration is the work of God!”

5. I saw tears streaming from the eyes of almost all the women about me, many of whom were sobbing hysterically,[446] and old men were weeping as if they were children. I pressed my rosary to my breast on this occasion, and repeatedly touched with my lips that part of it which had received the kiss of the most venerable pontiff. I preserve it with a kind of hallowed feeling, as the memorial of a man whose sanctity, firmness, meekness, and benevolence, are an honor to his Church and to human nature: and it has not only been useful to me, by its influence upon my own mind, but it has enabled me to give pleasure to others; and has, I believe, been sometimes beneficial in insuring my personal safety.

6. I have often gratified the peasants of Apulia and Calabria, by presenting them to kiss a rosary from the Holy Sepulchre, which had been hallowed by the touch of the lips and benediction of the Pope: and it has even been respected by, and procured me a safe passage through, a party of brigands, who once stopped me in the passes of the Apennines.

[442] ME-MOˊ-RIAL, that which preserves the memory of something.

[443] SA-VANTˊ, (sä-väng), a man of learning.

[444] CA-NOˊ-VA, a celebrated Italian sculptor, born November 1, 1757, died October 13, 1822.

[445] PROS-TRAˊ-TION, a bowing down.

[446] HYS-TERˊ-I-CAL-LY, in an extremely nervous or convulsive manner.

LXI.—THE INDIANS.

STORY.

Joseph Story died in 1845. He was one of the Associate Justices
of the Supreme Court of the United States. He is best known by
his “Commentaries on the Constitution,” which he prepared in
pursuance of his duties as Dane Professor of Law, in Harvard
University.

1. There is, in the fate of these unfortunate beings, much to awaken our sympathy, and much to disturb the sobriety of our judgment: much which may be urged to excuse their own atrocities;[447] much in their characters which betray us into an involuntary[448] admiration. What can be more eloquent than their history? By a law of nature they seemed destined[449] to a slow but sure extinction.[450] Everywhere at the approach of the white man they fade away. We hear the rustling of their footsteps, like that of the withered leaves of autumn, and they are gone forever.

2. They pass mournfully by us, and they return no more. Two centuries ago, and the smoke of their wigwams,[451] and the fires of their councils rose in every valley, from the Hudson Bay to the farthest Florida, from the ocean to the Mississippi and the lakes. The shouts of victory and the war-dance rang through the mountains and glades. The thick arrows and the deadly tomahawk whistled through the forests; and the hunter’s trace and dark encampment startled the wild beasts in their lairs. The warriors stood forth in their glory. The young listened to the song of other days. The mothers played with their infants, and gazed on the scene with warm hopes of the future. The aged sat down, but they wept not: they should soon be at rest in finer regions, where the Great Spirit dwells, in a home prepared for the brave beyond the western skies.

3. Braver men never lived; truer men never drew the bow. They had courage, and fortitude, and sagacity, and perseverance beyond most of the human race. They shrank from no dangers, and they feared no hardships. If they had the vices of savage life, they had its virtues also. They were true to their country, their friends, and their homes. If they forgave not injury, neither did they forget kindness. If their vengeance was terrible, their fidelity and generosity were unconquerable also. Their love, like their hatred, stopped not this side of the grave.

4. But where are they? Where are the villagers and warriors and youth; the sachems and the tribes; the hunters and their families? They have perished; they are consumed. The wasting pestilence[452] has not alone done the mighty work. No, nor famine—nor war; there has been a mightier power; a moral canker, which has eaten into their heart cores—a plague, which the touch of the white man communicated—a poison which betrayed them to lingering ruin. The winds of the Atlantic fan not a single region which they may call their own. Already the last feeble remnant of their race are preparing for their journey beyond the Mississippi. I see them leave their miserable homes—the aged, the helpless, the men, and the warriors—“few and faint, yet fearless still.”

5. The ashes are cold upon their native hearths. The smoke no longer curls around their lowly cabins. They move on with slow, unsteady steps. The white man is upon their heels for terror or dispatch, but they heed him not. They turn to take a last look of their desolate villages. They cast a last glance upon the graves of their fathers. They shed no tears; they utter no cry; they heave no groans. There is something in their hearts which passes speech. There is something in their looks, not of vengeance or submission, but of hard necessity, which stifles both; which chokes all utterance; which has no aim or method. It is courage, absorbed by despair. They linger but a moment. Their look is onward.

6. They have passed the fatal stream. It shall never be repassed by them, no—never. Yet there lies not between us and them an impassable gulf. They know and feel that there is for them still one remove farther, not distant nor unseen. It is to the general burial-ground of their race.

7. Reason as we may, it is impossible not to read in such a fate much which we know not how to interpret; much of provocation to cruel deeds and deep resentments; much of apology for wrong and perfidy; much of pity, mingling with indignation; much of doubt and misgiving as to the past; much of painful recollections, much of dark forebodings.

[447] A-TROCˊ-I-TY, great wickedness.

[448] IN-VOL-UNˊ-TA-RY, not having will or choice; unwilling.

[449] DESˊ-TIN-ED, ordained; devoted.

[450] EX-TINCˊ-TION, destruction.

[451] WIGˊ-WAM, an Indian cabin or hut.

[452] PESTˊ-I-LENCE, plague; contagious or infectious disease.

LXII.—INDIAN NAMES.

SIGOURNEY.

1. Ye say, they all have passed away,
That noble race and brave,
That their light canoes have vanished
From off the crested wave;
That ’mid the forests where they roamed
There rings no hunter’s shout;
But their name is on your waters,
You may not wash it out.

2. ’Tis where Ontario’s billow
Like Ocean’s surge is curled,
Where strong Niagara’s thunders wake
The echo of the world;
Where red Missouri bringeth
Rich tributes from the West,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps
On green Virginia’s breast.

3. Ye say, their cone-like cabins,
That clustered o’er the vale,
Have fled away like withered leaves
Before the autumn gale;
But their memory liveth on your hills,
Their baptism on your shore,
Your everlasting rivers speak
Their dialect of yore.

4. Old Massachusetts wears it
Within her lordly crown,
And broad Ohio bears it,
Amid her young renown;
Connecticut hath wreathed it
Where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse,
Through all her ancient caves.

5. Wachusett hides its lingering voice
Within his rocky heart,
And Alleghany graves its tone
Throughout his lofty chart:
Monadnock on his forehead hoar
Doth seal the sacred trust;
Your mountains build their monuments,
Though ye destroy their dust.

LXIII.—THE FRIARS AND THE KNIGHT.

DIGBY.

Kenelm H. Digby is the author of several very valuable and
interesting works. His “Mores Catholici,” “Broad Stone of Honor,”
“Compitum,” and “Lover’s Seat,” prove him to be a writer of high
culture and great research.

1. Two friars of Paris, traveling in the depth of winter, came, at the first hour of the night, fatigued, covered with mud, and wet with rain, to the gate of a house where they hoped to receive hospitality, not knowing that it belonged to a knight who hated all friars, and who for twenty years had never made his confession. The mother of the family replied to their petition, “I know not, good fathers, what to do. If I admit you under our roof, I fear my husband; and if I send you away cruelly in this tempestuous[453] night, I shall dread the indignation[454] of God. Enter, and hide yourselves till my husband returns from hunting, and has supped, for then I shall be able to supply you secretly with what is needful.”

2. Shortly, the husband returns, sups joyfully, but, perceiving that his wife is sad, desires to know the cause. She replies that she dares not disclose[455] it. Pressed and encouraged, she at length relates what has happened, adding, that she fears God’s judgment, seeing that His servants are afflicted with cold and hunger, while they are feasting at their ease. The knight, becoming more gentle, orders them to be led forth from their hiding-place, and to be supplied with food.

3. The poor friars came forth, and drew near the fire; and when he sees their emaciated[456] faces, humid[457] raiment,[458] and their feet stained with blood, the hand of the Lord is upon him, and from a lion he becomes a lamb. With his own hands he washes their feet, places the table, and prepares their beds, bringing in fresh straw. After the supper, with altered look and tone, he addresses the elder friar, and asks whether a shameless sinner, who hath not confessed since many years, can hope for pardon from God?

4. “Yea, in sooth,” replied the friar; “hope in the Lord, and do good, and he will deal with thee according to his mercy; for in whatever day the sinner repents, he will remember his iniquity no more.” The contrite host declares that he will not then defer any longer approaching the sacraments. “This very night,” said he, “I will unburden my conscience, lest my soul should be required of me.” The friar, however, little suspecting danger of death, advised him to wait till morning. All retired to rest; but during the night the friar became alarmed, rose, prostrated himself on the earth, and besought God to spare the sinner.

5. In the morning, however, the master of the house was found dead. The man of God, judging from what had passed, consoled the widow, declared that in his dreams he had been assured of the salvation of her husband; and the man was buried honorably, bells tolled, and Mass was sung, and the friars departed on their way.

6. It is to instances of this kind that St. Jerome alludes in his beautiful epistle to Lacta, where he says, “A holy and faithful family must needs sanctify its infidel chief. That man cannot be far from entering upon the career of faith, who is surrounded by sons and grandsons enlightened by the faith.”

[453] TEM-PESTˊ-U-OUS, very stormy.

[454] IN-DIG-NAˊ-TION, anger.

[455] DISˊ-CLOSE, to make known.

[456] E-MAˊ-CIA-TED, reduced to leanness, thin, wasted.

[457] HUˊ-MID, damp, moist.

[458] RAIˊ-MENT, clothing.

LXIV.—WHERE THERE’S A WILL THERE’S A WAY.

ELIZA COOK.

1. We have faith in old proverbs[459] full surely,
For wisdom has traced[460] what they tell,
And truth may be drawn up as purely
From them, as it may from a “well.”
Let us question the thinkers and doers,
And hear what they honestly say,
And you’ll find they believe, like bold wooers,[461]
In “_Where there’s a WILL there’s a WAY_.”

2. The hills have been high for man’s mounting,
The woods have been dense[462] for his ax,
The stars have been thick for his counting,
The sands have been wide for his tracks.
The sea has been deep for his diving,
The poles have been broad for his sway,
But bravely he’s proved by his striving,[463]
That “_Where there’s a WILL there’s a WAY_.”

3. Have ye vices that ask a destroyer,
Or passions that need your control?[464]
Let Reason become your employer,
And your body be ruled by your soul.
Fight on, though ye bleed at the trial,
Resist with all strength that ye may,
Ye may conquer Sin’s host by denial,
For, “_Where there’s a WILL there’s a WAY_.”

4. Have ye poverty’s pinching to cope[465] with?
Does suffering weigh down your might?
Only call up a spirit to hope with,
And dawn may come out of the night.
Oh! much may be done by defying[466]
The ghost[467] of Despair and Dismay,
And much may be gained by relying[468]
On “_Where there’s a WILL there’s a WAY_.”

5. Should you see afar off that worth winning,[469]
Set out on a journey with trust,
And ne’er heed though your path at beginning
Should be among brambles[470] and dust.
Though it is by footsteps ye do it,
And hardships may hinder and stay,
Keep a heart and be sure ye go through it,
For, “_Where there’s a WILL there’s a WAY_.”

[459] PROVˊ-ERBS, sayings; maxims.

[460] TRACˊ-ED, shown; marked out.

[461] WOOˊ-ERS, suitors; lovers.

[462] DENSE, close; thick.

[463] STRIVˊ-ING, making efforts.

[464] CON-TROLˊ, restraint; government.

[465] COPE, strive; contend.

[466] DE-FYˊ-ING, daring; outbraving.

[467] GHOST, specter; apparition.

[468] RE-LYˊ-ING, trusting; depending.

[469] WINˊ-NING, getting; gaining.

[470] BRAMˊ-BLES, prickly shrubs.

LXV.—NOW, TO-DAY.

ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR.

1. Arise! for the day is passing,
And you lie dreaming on;
Your brothers are cased in armor,[471]
And forth to the fight are gone!
A place in the ranks awaits you;
Each man has some part to play;
The Past and the Future are nothing
In the face of stern TO-DAY.

2. Arise from your dreams of the Future—
Of gaining some hard-fought field,
Of storming[472] some airy[473] fortress,[474]
Or bidding some giant yield;
Your future has deeds of glory,
Of honor, (God grant it may!)
But your arm will never be stronger,
Or needed as _now_—TO-DAY.

3. Arise! if the Past detain[475] you,
Her sunshines and storms forget;
No chains so unworthy to hold you
As those of a vain regret;
Sad or bright, she is lifeless ever;
Cast her phantom[476] arms away,
Nor look back, save to learn the lesson
Of a nobler strife TO-DAY.

4. ARISE! for the day is passing!
The sound that you scarcely hear,
Is the enemy marching to battle!
_Rise!_ RISE! for the foe is near!
Stay not to sharpen your weapons,
Or the hour will strike at last,
When, from dreams of a coming battle,
You may wake to find it past!

[471] ARMˊ-OR, defensive arms.

[472] STORMˊ-ING, taking by assault.

[473] AIRˊ-Y, fanciful; visionary.

[474] FORˊ-TRESS, fort; strong hold.

[475] DE-TAINˊ, hinder; keep back.

[476] PHANˊ-TOM, specter; ghost-like.

LXVI.—PATRIOTISM AND CHRISTIANITY.

CHATEAUBRIAND.

1. But it is the Christian religion that has invested[477] patriotism[478] with its true character. This sentiment led to the commission of crime among the ancients, because it was carried to excess; Christianity has made it one of the principal affections in man, but not an exclusive[479] one. It commands us above all things to be just; it requires us to cherish the whole family of Adam, since we ourselves belong to it, though our countrymen have the first claim to our attachment.

2. This morality was unknown before the coming of the Christian law-giver, who had been unjustly accused of attempting to extirpate[480] the passions: God destroys not his own work. The Gospel is not the destroyer of the heart, but its regulator. It is to our feelings what taste is to the fine arts; it retrenches all that is exaggerated, false, common, and trivial.[481] It leaves all that is fair, and good, and true. The Christian religion, rightly understood, is only primitive[482] nature washed from original[483] pollution.[484]

3. It is when at a distance from our country that we feel the full force of the instinct by which we are attached to it. For want of the reality, we try to feed upon dreams; for the heart is expert in deception, and there is no one who has been suckled at the breast of a woman but has drunk of the cup of illusion.[485] Sometimes it is a cottage which is situated like the paternal habitation; sometimes it is a wood, a valley, a hill, on which we bestow some of the sweet appellations[486] of our native land. Andromache gives the name of Simois to a brook. And what an affecting object is this little rill, which recalls the idea of a mighty river to her native country! Remote from the soil which gave us birth, nature appears to us diminished, and but the shadow of that which we have lost.

4. Another artifice of the love of country is to attach a great value to an object of little intrinsic worth, but which comes from our native land, and which we have brought with us into exile. The soul seems to dwell even upon the inanimate things which have shared our destiny: we remain attached to the down on which our prosperity has slumbered, and still more to the straw on which we counted the days of our adversity. The vulgar have an energetic expression, to describe the languor which oppresses the soul when away from our country. “That man,” they say, “is home-sick.”

5. A sickness it really is, and the only cure for it is to return. If, however, we have been absent for a few years, what do we find in the place of our nativity? How few of those whom we left behind in the vigor of health are still alive! Here are tombs where once stood palaces; there rise palaces where once stood tombs. The paternal field is overgrown with briers, or cultivated by the plow of a stranger; and the tree beneath which we frolicked in our boyish days has disappeared.

6. Were we asked, what are those powerful ties which bind us to the place of nativity, we should find some difficulty in answering the question. It is, perhaps, the smile of a mother, of a father, of a sister; it is, perhaps, the recollection of an old preceptor[487] who instructed us, and of the young companions of our childhood; it is, perhaps, the care bestowed upon us by a tender nurse or by some aged domestic, so essential a part of the household; finally, it is something most simple, and, if you please, trivial,—a dog that barked at night in the fields, a nightingale that returned every year to the orchard, the nest of the swallow over the window, the village clock that appeared above the trees, the churchyard yew, or the Gothic tomb. Yet these simple things demonstrate the more clearly the reality of a Providence, as they could not possibly be the source of patriotism, or of the great virtues which it begets, unless by the appointment of the Almighty himself.

[477] IN-VESTˊ-ED, clothed.

[478] PAˊ-TRI-OT-ISM, love of one’s country.

[479] EX-CLUˊ-SIVE, tending to exclude, or shut out.

[480] EXˊ-TIR-PATE, to root out, to destroy.

[481] TRIVˊ-I-AL, trifling, worthless.

[482] PRIM-I-TIVE, first, original.

[483] O-RIGˊ-I-NAL, primary, first.

[484] POL-LUˊ-TION, defilement corruption.

[485] IL-LUˊ-SION, error; false show, unreality.

[486] AP-PEL-LAˊ-TION, a name by which a thing is called.

[487] PRE-CEPTˊ-OR, a teacher.

LXVII.—BEST KIND OF REVENGE.

CHAMBERS.

1. Some years ago, a warehouseman in Manchester, England, published a scurrilous[488] pamphlet, in which he endeavored to hold up the house of Grant Brothers to ridicule. William Grant remarked upon the occurrence that the man would live to repent what he had done; and this was conveyed by some tale-bearer to the libeller, who said, “Oh, I suppose he thinks I shall some time or other be in his debt; but I will take good care of that.” It happens, however, that a man in business cannot always choose who shall be his creditors. The pamphleteer became a bankrupt, and the brothers held an acceptance[489] of his which had been indorsed[490] to them by the drawer, who had also become a bankrupt[491].

2. The wantonly libelled men had thus become creditors of the libeller! They had it in their power to make him repent of his audacity.[492] He could not obtain his certificate without their signature, and without it he could not enter into business again. He had obtained the number of signatures required by the bankrupt law, except one. It seemed folly to hope that the firm of “the brothers” would supply the deficiency.[493] What! they, who had cruelly been made the laughing stock of the public, forget the wrong and favor the wrong doer? He despaired. But the claims of a wife and children forced him at last to make the application. Humbled by misery, he presented himself at the counting house of the wronged.

3. Mr. William Grant was there alone, and his first words to the delinquent[494] were, “Shut the door, sir!” sternly uttered. The door was shut, and the libeller stood trembling before the libelled. He told his tale, and produced his certificate, which was instantly clutched by the injured merchant. “You wrote a pamphlet against us once!” exclaimed Mr. Grant. The supplicant expected to see his parchment thrown into the fire. But this was not its destination. Mr. Grant took a pen, and writing something upon the document, handed it back to the bankrupt. He, poor wretch, expected to see “rogue, scoundrel, libeller,” inscribed, but there was, in fair round characters, the signature of the firm.

4. “We make it a rule,” said Mr. Grant, “never to refuse signing the certificate of an honest tradesman, and we have never heard that you were anything else.” The tears started into the poor man’s eyes. “Ah,” said Mr. Grant, “my saying was true. I said you would live to repent writing that pamphlet. I did not mean it as a threat. I only meant that some day you would know us better, and be sorry you had tried to injure us. I see you repent of it now.” “I do, I do!” said the grateful man. “I bitterly repent it.” “Well, well, my dear fellow, you know us now. How do you get on? What are you going to do?” The poor man stated that he had friends who could assist him when his certificate was obtained. “But how are you off in the meantime?”

5. And the answer was, that, having given up every farthing to his creditors, he had been compelled to stint his family of even common necessaries, that he might be enabled to pay the cost of his certificate. “My dear fellow, this will not do; your family must not suffer. Be kind enough to take this ten-pound note to your wife from me. There, there, my dear fellow! Nay, don’t cry; it will be all well with you yet. Keep up your spirits, set to work like a man, and you will raise your head among us yet.” The overpowered man endeavored in vain to express his thanks: the swelling in his throat forbade words. He put his handkerchief to his face, and went out of the door crying like a child.

[488] SCURˊ-RIL-OUS, grossly abusive.

[489] AC-CEPTˊ-ANCE, a bill or draft accepted by the party on whom it is drawn, who thus becomes liable for its payment at the time stated in the draft.

[490] IN-DORSEDˊ, a bill or note is indorsed by the party, to whom it is made payable, or who may be the holder of it, writing his name across the back of it.

[491] BANKˊ-RUPT, a person who is unable to pay his debts.

[492] AU-DACˊ-I-TY, boldness; impudent presumption.

[493] DE-FIˊ-CIEN-CY, want.

[494] DE-LINˊ-QUENT, one who fails in his duty.

LXVIII—QUEEN ELIZABETH OF HUNGARY.

MONTALEMBERT.

1. Generosity to the poor, particularly that exercised by princes, was one of the most remarkable features of the age in which she lived; but we perceive that, in her, charity did not proceed from rank, still less from the desire of acquiring praises or purely human gratitude, but from an interior and heavenly inspiration. From her cradle, she could not bear the sight of a poor person without feeling her heart pierced with grief, and now that her husband had granted her full liberty in all that concerned the honor of God and the good of her neighbor, she unreservedly abandoned herself to her natural inclination to solace[495] the suffering members of Christ.

2. This was her ruling thought each hour and moment: to the use of the poor she dedicated[496] all that she retrenched from the superfluities[497] usually required by her sex and rank. Yet, notwithstanding the resources which the charity of her husband placed at her disposal, she gave away so quickly all that she possessed, that it often happened that she would despoil[498] herself of her clothes in order to have the means of assisting the unfortunate.

3. Elizabeth loved to carry secretly to the poor, not alone money, but provisions and other matters which she destined for them. She went thus laden, by the winding and rugged paths that led from the castle to the city, and to cabins of the neighboring valleys.

4. One day, when accompanied by one of her favorite maidens, as she descended by a rude little path (still pointed out) and carried under her mantle, bread, meat, eggs, and other food to distribute to the poor, she suddenly encountered her husband, who was returning from hunting. Astonished to see her thus toiling on under the weight of her burden, he said to her, “Let us see what you carry,” and at the same time drew open the mantle which she held closely clasped to her bosom; but beneath it were only red and white roses, the most beautiful he had ever seen—and this astonished him, as it was no longer the season of flowers.

5. Seeing that Elizabeth was troubled, he sought to console her by his caresses; but he ceased suddenly, on seeing over her head a luminous[499] appearance in the form of a crucifix. He then desired her to continue her route without being disturbed by him, and he returned to Wartbourg, meditating with recollection on what God did for her, and carrying with him one of these wonderful roses, which he preserved all his life.

6. At the spot where this meeting took place, he erected a pillar, surmounted by a cross, to consecrate forever the remembrance of that which he had seen hovering over the head of his wife. Among the unfortunate who particularly attracted her compassion, those who occupied the greatest part in her heart were the lepers;[500] the mysterious and special character of their malady rendered them, throughout the middle ages, objects of a solicitude and affection mingled with fear.

[495] SOLˊ-ACE, to give comfort to.

[496] DEDˊ-I-CATE, to devote.

[497] SU-PER-FLUˊ-I-TIES, things not needed.

[498] DE-SPOILˊ. to stop, to rob.

[499] LUˊ-MI-NOUS, bright, shining.

[500] LEPˊ-ERS, persons infested with leprosy.

LXIX.—WILLIAM TELL.

KNOWLES.

Switzerland was at one time subject to Austria. Gesler
(pronounced Gesˊler), at the time of these events, in 1307,
was the Austrian governor of Switzerland. He was a most cruel
tyrant, and even pushed his tyranny so far as to require the
Swiss to uncover their heads and bow down to his hat placed upon
a pole. William Tell, a brave Swiss, refused to perform this act
of servility. He was seized for punishment. Tell’s son, Albert,
without his father’s knowledge, had been taken prisoner on the
preceding day by Gesler. The truth of the narrative of the
exploits of William Tell has been recently called in question.

SCENE—A Chamber in the Castle. Enter GESLER, OFFICERS, and SARNEM,
with TELL in chains and guarded.

SARNEM. Down, slave! Behold the governor.
Down! down! and beg for mercy.

GESLER. [Seated.] Does he hear?

SAR. He does, but braves thy power.

OFFICER. Why don’t you smite him for that look?

GES. Can I believe
My eyes?—He smiles! nay, grasps
His chains as he would make a weapon of them
To lay the smiter dead. [_To TELL._]
Why speakest thou not?

TELL. For wonder.

GES. Wonder!

TELL. Yes, that thou shouldst seem a man.

GES. What should I seem?

TELL. A monster!

GES. Ha! Beware—think on thy chains.

TELL. Though they were doubled, and did weigh me down
Prostrate to earth, methinks I could rise up—
Erect, with nothing but the honest pride
Of telling thee, usurper,[501] to the teeth,
Thou art a monster! Think upon my chains!
How came they on me?

GES. Darest thou question me?

TELL. Darest thou answer.

GES. Do I hear?

TELL. Thou dost.

GES. Beware my vengeance.

TELL. Can it more than kill?

GES. Enough—it can do that.

TELL. No, not enough:
It cannot take away the grace of life—
Its comeliness[502] of look that virtue gives—
Its port erect with consciousness[503] of truth—
Its rich attire of honorable deeds—
Its fair report that’s rife on good men’s tongues:
It cannot lay its hands on these, no more
Than it can pluck the brightness from the sun,
Or with polluted finger tarnish it.

GES. But it can make thee writhe.

TELL. It may.

GES. And groan.

TELL. It may; and I may cry,
Go on, though it should make me groan again.

GES. Whence comest thou?

TELL. From the mountains. Wouldst thou learn
What news from them?

GES. Canst tell me any?

TELL. Ay; they[504] watch no more the avalanche.[505]

GES. Why so?

TELL. Because they look for thee. The hurricane
Comes unawares upon them; from its bed
The torrent breaks, and finds them in its track—

GES. What do they then?

TELL. Thank Heaven it is not thou!
Thou hast perverted nature in them.
There’s not a blessing Heaven vouchsafes[506] them but
The thought of thee doth wither to a curse.

GES. That’s right! I’d have them like their hills,
That never smile, though wanton summer tempt
Them e’er so much.

TELL. But they do sometimes smile.

GES. Ay?—when is that?

TELL. When they do talk of vengeance.[507]

GES. Vengeance! Dare they talk of that?

TELL. Ay, and expect it too.

GES. From whence?

TELL. From Heaven!

GES. From Heaven?

TELL. And their true hands
Are lifted up to it on every hill
For justice on thee.

GES. Where’s thy abode?

TELL. I told thee—on the mountains.

GES. Art married?

TELL. Yes.

GES. And hast a family?

TELL. A son.

GES. A son! Sarnem!

SAR. My lord, the boy.

[_GESLER signs to SARNEM to keep silence, and, whispering, sends
him off._]

TELL. The boy! What boy?
Is’t mine?—and have they netted my young fledgling[508]?
Now Heaven support me, if they have! He’ll own me,
And share his father’s ruin! But a look
Would put him on his guard—yet how to give it!
Now, heart, thy nerve; forget thou art flesh; be rock.
They come—they come!
That step—that step—that little step, so light
Upon the ground, how heavy does it fall
Upon my heart! I feel my child!—

_Enter SARNEM with ALBERT, whose eyes are rivetted on TELL’S bow, which
SARNEM carries._

’Tis he!—We can but perish.

SAR. See!

ALBERT. What?

SAR. Look there?

ALB. I do. What would you have me see?

SAR. Thy father.

ALB. Who? That—that my father?

TELL. [_Aside_] My boy—my boy!—my own brave boy,
He’s safe!

SAR. [_Aside to GESLER_] They’re like each other.

GES. Yet I see no sign
Of recognition[509] to betray the link
Unites a father and his child.

SAR. My lord,
I am sure it is his father. Look at them.
It may be
A preconcerted[510] thing ’gainst such a chance,
That they survey each other coldly thus.

GES. We shall try. Lead forth the caitiff.[511]

SAR. To a dungeon?

GES. No; into the court.

SAR. The court, my lord?

GES. And send
To tell the headsman[512] to make ready. Quick!
The slave shall die!—You marked the boy?

SAR. I did. He started—’tis his father.

GES. We shall see. Away with him!

TELL. Stop!—Stay!

GES. What would you?

TELL. Time!—a little time to call my thoughts together.

GES. Thou shalt not have a minute.

TELL. Some one, then, to speak with.

GES. Hence with him!

TELL. A moment!—Stop!
Let me speak to the boy.

GES. Is he thy son?

TELL. And if
He were, art thou so lost to nature as
To send me forth to die before his face?

GES. Well, speak with him.
Now, Sarnem, mark them well.

TELL. Thou dost not know me, boy—and well for thee
Thou dost not. I’m the father of a son
About thy age. Thou,
I see, wast born like him, upon the hills;
If thou shouldst ’scape thy present thraldom, he
May chance to cross thee; if he should, I pray thee
Relate to him what has been passing here,
And say I laid my hand upon thy head,
And said to thee,—if he were here, as thou art,
Thus would I bless him. May’st thou live my boy,
To see thy country free, or die for her,
As I do! [_ALBERT weeps._

SAR. Mark! he weeps.

TELL. Were he my son,
He would not shed a tear. He would remember
The cliff where he was bred, and learned to scan
A thousand fathoms’ depth of nether[513] air;
Where he was trained to hear the thunder talk,
And meet the lightning, eye to eye, where last
We spoke together, when I told him death
Bestowed the brightest gem that graces life,
Embraced for virtue’s sake. He shed a tear!
No; were he by, I’d talk to him, and his cheek
Should never blanch, nor moisture dim his eye,—
I’d talk to him—

SAR. He falters!

TELL. ’Tis too much!
And yet it must be done! I’d talk to him—

GES. Of what?

TELL. The mother, tyrant, thou dost make
A widow of. I’d talk to him of her.
I’d bid him tell her, next to liberty,
Her name was the last my lips pronounced.
And I would charge him never to forget
To love and cherish her, as he would have
His father’s dying blessing rest upon him.

SAR. You see, as he doth prompt, the other acts.

TELL. [_Aside._] So well he bears it, he doth vanquish me.
My boy! my boy! O, for the hills, the hills—
To see him bound along their tops again,
With liberty.

SAR. Was there not all the father in that look?

GES. Yet, ’tis ’gainst nature.

SAR. Not if he believes
To own the son would be to make him share
The father’s death.

GES. I did not think of that! [_To TELL._] ’Tis well
The boy is not thy son. I’ve destined him
To die along with thee.

TELL. To die? For what?

GES. For having braved my power, as thou hast.
Lead them forth.

TELL. He’s but a child.

GES. Away with them!

TELL. Perhaps an only child.

GES. No matter.

TELL. He may have a mother.

GES. So the viper hath;
And yet, who spares it for the mother’s sake?

TELL. I talk to stone. I talk to it as though
’Twere flesh; and know ’tis none. I’ll talk to it
No more. Come my boy!
I taught thee how to live—I’ll show thee how to die.

[501] U-SURPˊ-ER, one who seizes that to which he has no right.

[502] COMEˊ-LI-NESS, grace; beauty.

[503] CONˊ-SCIOUS-NESS, the perception of one’s own thoughts and feelings.

[504] The mountaineers.

[505] AVˊ-A-LANCHE, a vast body of snow, ice, or earth sliding down the side of a mountain.

[506] VOUCH-SAFEˊ, condescend to grant or permit.

[507] VENGEˊ-ANCE, punishment in retaliation for an injury.

[508] FLEDGˊ-LING, a young bird.

[509] REC-OG-NIˊ-TION, act of knowing again; acknowledgment.

[510] PRE-CON-CERTˊ-ED, arranged beforehand.

[511] CAIˊ-TIFF, a villain; a knave.

[512] HEADSˊ-MAN, one who beheads.

[513] NETHˊ-ER, lower.

LXX.—THE PRESUMPTION OF YOUTH.

ROLLIN.

Charles Rollin was born at Paris, January 30, 1661, and died
September 14, 1741. His father, who was a cutler, intended him to
follow his own trade; but through the kindness of a Benedictine
monk, he was educated at the college of Plesseis. He afterward
became Rector of the University of Paris. His “Ancient History,”
a work of considerable merit, continues still to be republished
and extensively read.

1. The young people of Athens, amazed at the glory of Themistocles,[514] of Cimon[515] of Pericles,[516] and full of a foolish ambition, after having received some lessons from the sophists,[517] who promised to render them very great politicians, believed themselves capable of every thing, and aspired to fill the highest places. One of them, named Glaucon, took it so strongly in his head that he had a _peculiar genius_ for public affairs, although he was not yet twenty years of age, that no person in his family, nor among his friends, had the power to divert him from a notion so little befitting his age and capacity.

2. Socrates, who liked him on account of Plato,[518] his brother, was the only one who succeeded in making him change his resolution. Meeting him one day, he accosted[519] him with so dexterous a discourse that he induced[520] him to listen. He had already gained much influence over him. “You have a desire to govern the republic?” said Socrates. “True,” replied Glaucon. “You can not have a finer design,” said the philosopher,[521] “since, if you succeed in it, you will be in a state to serve your friends, to enlarge your house, and to extend the limits of your native country.”

3. “You will become known not only in Athens but through all Greece, and it may be that your renown, like that of Themistocles, will reach even to the barbarous[522] nations. At last, you will gain the respect and admiration of everybody.” A beginning so flattering pleased the young man exceedingly, and he very willingly continued the conversation. “Since you desire to make yourself esteemed and respected, it is clear that you think to render yourself useful to the public.” “Assuredly.” “Tell me, then, I beseech you, what is the first service that you intend to render the state?”

4. As Glaucon appeared to be perplexed, and considered what he ought to answer,—“Probably,” replied Socrates, “it will be to enrich the republic, that is to say, to increase its revenues.” “Exactly so.” “And, undoubtedly, you know in what the revenues of the state consist, and the extent to which they may be increased. You will not have failed to make it a private study, to the end that if one source should suddenly fail, you may be able to supply its place immediately with another.” “I assure you,” answered Glaucon, “that this is what I have never thought of.”

5. “Tell me, at least, then, the necessary expenses of maintaining the republic. You can not fail to know of what importance it is to retrench[523] those which are superfluous[524].” “I confess to you that I am not more instructed with regard to this article than the other.” “Then it is necessary to defer till another time the design that you have of enriching the republic; for it is impossible for you to benefit the state while you are ignorant of its revenues and expenses.”

6. “But,” said Glaucon, “there is still another means that you pass over in silence; one can enrich a state by the ruin of its enemies.” “You are right,” replied Socrates; “but in order to do that, you must be the more powerful; otherwise you run the risk of losing that which you possess. So, he who speaks of undertaking a war, ought to know the power of both parties, to the end that if he finds his party the stronger, he may boldly risk the adventure; but, if he find it the weaker, he should dissuade the people from undertaking it.”

7. “But, do you know what are the forces of our republic, by sea and by land, and what are those of our enemies? Have you a statement of them in writing? You will do me the pleasure to allow me a perusal of it.” “I have none yet,” replied Glaucon. “I see, then,” said Socrates, “that we shall not make war so soon, if they intrust _you_ with the government; for there remain many things for you to know, and many cares to take.”

8. The sage mentioned many other articles, not less important, in which he found Glaucon equally inexperienced, and he pointed out how ridiculous they render themselves, who have the rashness to intermeddle with government, without bringing any other preparation to the task than _a great degree of self-esteem and excessive ambition_. “Fear, my dear Glaucon,” said Socrates, “fear, lest a too ardent desire for honors should blind you; and cause you to take a part that would cover you with shame, in bringing to light your incapacity,[525] and want of talent.”

9. The youth was wise enough to profit by the good advice of his instructor, and took some time to gain private information, before he ventured to appear in public. This lesson is for all ages.

[514] THE-MISˊ-TO-CLES, a celebrated Athenian statesman and military leader, was born about 514 before Christ.

[515] CIˊ-MON, an illustrious Athenian general and statesman, born about the year 510 before Christ. He belonged to the aristocratic party of his time, and contributed to the banishment of Themistocles, the leader of the opposite party. He was also the political opponent of Pericles.

[516] PERˊ-I-CLES, an Athenian statesman, born about 495 before Christ.

He labored to make Athens the capital of all Greece, and the seat of art and refinement.

[517] SOPHˊ-ISTS, professed teachers of wisdom.

[518] PLAˊ-TO, a celebrated Greek philosopher, born in Athens about the year 495 before Christ. He was a pupil of Socrates.

[519] AC-COSTˊ-ED, addressed.

[520] IN-DUCˊ-ED, prevailed upon.

[521] PHI-LOSˊ-O-PHER, lover of wisdom.

[522] BARˊ-BA-ROUS, uncivilized.

[523] RE-TRENCHˊ, lessen; curtail.

[524] SU-PERˊ-FLU-OUS, extravagant; needless.

[525] IN-CA-PACˊ-I-TY, inability.

LXXI.—MARY MAGDALEN.

CALLANAN.

J. J. Callanan was born in Cork, Ireland, in 1795. He was an
associate of Dr. Maginn, and, through him, became a contributor
to “Blackwood’s Magazine.” He died in Lisbon in 1829.

1. To the hall of that feast came the sinful and fair;
She heard in the city that Jesus was there;
She marked not the splendor that blazed on their board,
But silently knelt at the feet of her Lord.

2. The hair from her forehead, so sad and so meek,
Hung dark o’er the blushes that burn’d on her cheek;
And so still and so lowly she bent in her shame,
It seemed as her spirit had flown from its frame.

3. The frown and the murmur went round through them all,
That one so unhallowed should tread in that hall;
And some said the poor would be objects more meet,
For the wealth of the perfumes she showered at his feet.

4. She marked but her Saviour, she spoke but in sighs,
She dared not look up to the heaven of his eyes;
And the hot tears gushed forth at each heave of her breast,
As her lips to his sandals she throbbingly pressed.

5. On the cloud after tempests, as shineth the bow,
In the glance of the sunbeam, as melteth the snow,
He looked on that lost one—her sins were forgiven;
And Mary went forth in the beauty of heaven.

LXXII.—THE WEXFORD MASSACRE.