Chapter X: The Young Shepherd—continued (5)

The Mayor and Governor offered to capitulate; but whilst
their Commissioners were treating with Cromwell, an officer
perfidiously opened the castle to the enemy; the adjacent wall
was immediately scaled, and after a stubborn but unavailing
resistance in the Marketplace, Wexford was abandoned to the
mercy of the assailants. The tragedy so recently acted at
Drogheda was renewed. No distinction was made between the
defenceless inhabitants and the armed soldiers; nor could the
shrieks and prayers of three hundred females, who had gathered
around the great Cross, preserve them from these ruthless
barbarians.—LINGARD’S HISTORY OF ENGLAND: New York Edition, vol.
10, p. 297.

1. They knelt around the Cross divine,
The matron and the maid—
They bowed before redemption’s sign
And fervently they prayed—
Three hundred fair and helpless ones,
Whose crime was this alone—
Their valiant husbands, sires, and sons,
Had battled for their own.

2. Had battled bravely, but in vain—
The Saxon won the fight;
And Irish corses strewed the plain
Where valor slept with Right.
And now that man of demon guilt
To fated Wexford flew—
The red blood reeking on his hilt,
Of hearts to Erin true!

3. He found them there—the young, the old—
The maiden and the wife;
Their guardians brave, in death were cold,
Who dared for _them_ the strife—
They prayed for mercy. God on high!
Before Thy cross they prayed,
And ruthless Cromwell bade them die
To glut the Saxon blade.

4. Three hundred fell—the stifled prayer
Was quenched in woman’s blood;
Nor youth nor age could move to spare
From slaughter’s crimson flood.
But nations keep a stern account
Of deeds that tyrants do;
And guiltless blood to Heaven will mount,
And heaven avenge it too.

LXXIII.—A PICTURE OF HUMAN LIFE.

JOHNSON.

Doctor Samuel Johnson, born 1709, died 1784, was distinguished as
an essayist and lexicographer.

1. Obidah, the son of Abensina, left the caravansary[526] early in the morning, and pursued his journey through the plains of Indostan. He was fresh and vigorous with rest; he was animated with hope; he was incited by desire; he walked swiftly forward over the valleys, and saw the hills gradually rising before him.

2. As he passed along, his ears were delighted with the morning song of the bird of paradise, he was fanned by the last flutter of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew by groves of spices; he sometimes contemplated the towering height of the oak, monarch of the hills; and sometimes caught the gentle fragrance of the primrose, eldest daughter of the spring: all his senses were gratified, and all care was banished from his heart.

3. Thus he went on till the sun approached his meridian,[527] and the increasing heat preyed upon his strength; he then looked round about him for some more commodious path. He saw, on his right hand, a grove that seemed to wave its shades as a sign of invitation: he entered it, and found the coolness and verdure irresistibly pleasant.

4. He did not, however, forget whither he was traveling, but found a narrow way, bordered with flowers, which appeared to have the same direction with the main road, and was pleased, that, by this happy experiment, he had found means to unite pleasure with business, and to gain the reward of diligence without suffering its fatigues. He, therefore, still continued to walk, for a time, without the least remission[528] of his ardor, except that he was sometimes tempted to stop by the music of the birds, whom the heat had assembled in the shade, and sometimes amused himself with plucking the flowers that covered the bank on either side, or the fruits that hung upon the branches.

5. At last, the green path began to decline from its first tendency, and to wind among hills and thickets, cooled with fountains, and murmuring with waterfalls. Here Obidah paused for a time, and began to consider whether it were longer safe to forsake the known and common track, but remembering that the heat was now in its greatest violence, and that the plain was dusty and uneven, he resolved to pursue the new path, which he supposed only to make a few meanders,[529] in compliance with the varieties of the ground, and to end at last in the common road.

6. Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace, though he suspected he was not gaining ground. This uneasiness of his mind inclined him to lay hold on every new object, and give way to every sensation that might soothe or divert him. He listened to every echo, he mounted every hill for a fresh prospect, he turned aside to every cascade,[530] and pleased himself with tracing the course of a gentle river, that rolled among the trees, and watered a large region, with innumerable circumlocutions.[531]

7. In these amusements the hours passed away unaccounted, his deviations[532] had perplexed his memory, and he knew not toward what point to travel. He stood pensive[533] and confused, afraid to go forward, lest he should go wrong, yet conscious that the time of loitering was now past. While he was thus tortured with uncertainty, the sky was overspread with clouds, the day vanished from before him, and a sudden tempest gathered round his head.

8. He was now roused by his danger to a quick and painful remembrance of his folly; he now saw how happiness is lost when ease is consulted; he lamented the unmanly impatience that prompted him to seek shelter in the grove, and despised the petty curiosity that led him on from trifle to trifle. While he was thus reflecting, the air grew blacker, and a clap of thunder broke his meditation.[534]

9. He now resolved to do what remained yet in his power, to tread back the ground which he had passed, and try to find some issue, where the wood might open into the plain. He prostrated himself upon the ground, and commended his life to the Lord of nature.

10. He rose with confidence and tranquillity,[535] and pressed on with his saber in his hand; for the beasts of the desert were in motion, and on every hand were heard the mingled howls of rage and fear, and ravage[536] and expiration:[537] all the horrors of darkness and solitude surrounded him:—the wind roared in the woods, and the torrents tumbled from the hills.

11. Thus forlorn and distressed, he wandered through the wild, without knowing whither he was going, or whether he was every moment drawing nearer to safety or to destruction. At length, not fear but labor began to overcome him; his breath grew short, and his knees trembled, and he was on the point of lying down, in resignation to his fate, when he beheld, through the brambles, the glimmer of a taper. He advanced toward the light, and finding that it proceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly at the door, and obtained admission. The old man set before him such provisions as he had collected for himself, on which Obidah fed with eagerness and gratitude.

12. When the repast was over, “Tell me,” said the hermit, “by what chance thou hast been brought hither; I have been now twenty years an inhabitant of the wilderness, in which I never saw a man before.” Obidah then related the occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or palliation.[538]

13 “Son,” said the hermit, “let the errors and follies, the dangers and escapes of this day, sink deep into thy heart. Remember, my son, that human life is the journey of a day. We rise in the morning of youth, full of vigor, and full of expectation; we set forward with spirit and hope, with gayety and with diligence, and travel on awhile in the straight road of piety, toward the mansion of rest.

14. “In a short time we remit our fervor, and endeavor to find some mitigation[539] of our duty, and some more easy means of obtaining the same end. We then relax our vigor, and resolve no longer to be terrified with crimes at a distance, but rely upon our own constancy,[540] and venture to approach what we resolve never to touch.

15. “We thus enter the bowers of ease, and repose in the shades of security. Here the heart softens, and vigilance[541] subsides;[542] we are then willing to inquire whether another advance cannot be made, and whether we may not, at least, turn our eyes upon the gardens of pleasure. We approach them with scruple and hesitation; we enter them, but enter timorous and trembling, and always hope to pass through them without losing the road of virtue, which we for awhile keep in our sight, and to which we propose to return. But temptation succeeds temptation, and one compliance prepares us for another; we in time lose the happiness of innocence, and solace[543] our disquiet with sensual[544] gratifications.

16. “By degrees we let fall the remembrance of our original intention, and quit the only adequate[545] object of rational desire. We entangle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths[546] of inconstancy,[547] till the darkness of old age begins to invade us, and disease and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look back upon our lives with horror, with sorrow, with repentance; and wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the ways of virtue.

17. “Happy are they, my son, who shall learn from thy example not to despair, but shall remember, that though the day is past, and their strength is wasted, there yet remains one effort to be made; that reformation is never hopeless, nor sincere endeavors ever unassisted; that the wanderer may at length return, after all his errors; and that he who implores strength and courage from above, shall find danger and difficulty give way before him. Go now, my son, to thy repose; commit thyself to the care of Omnipotence;[548] and when the morning comes again to toil, begin anew thy journey and thy life.”

[526] CARˊ-A-VANˊ-SA-RY, a kind of inn or public house, in the East, where caravans rest at night, being a large square building, with an extensive area or yard in the middle.

[527] ME-RIDˊ-I-AN, mid-day; the point directly overhead; hence, the highest point, as of success, prosperity, or the like.

[528] RE-MISˊ-SION, the act of remitting, surrendering, or giving up; relaxation; decrease.

[529] ME-ANˊ-DERS, indirect or winding courses; turnings.

[530] CAS-CADEˊ, a small cataract or waterfall.

[531] CIRˊ-CUM-VO-LUˊ-TION, a turning or rolling round.

[532] DEˊ-VI-Aˊ-TION, a wandering from one’s course or way.

[533] PENˊ-SIVE, thoughtful, or sad.

[534] MEDˊ-I-TAˊ-TION, the revolving or turning of a subject in the mind; close or continued thought.

[535] TRAN-QUILˊ-LI-TY, peace; quiet; freedom from care or trouble.

[536] RAVˊ-AGE, violent ruin or destruction; havoc.

[537] EXˊ-PI-RAˊ-TION, a breathing out or expulsion of air from the lungs through the mouth or nose; the last act of breathing out; death.

[538] PALˊ-LI-Aˊ-TION, concealment of the worst circumstances of an offense; lessening by favorable description.

[539] MIT-I-GAˊ-TION, softening; making easier or milder.

[540] CONˊ-STAN-CY, the quality of being constant or steadfast; freedom from change; fixedness of mind.

[541] VIGˊ-I-LANCE, watchfulness.

[542] SUB-SIDESˊ, falls into a state of quiet; rests; ceases.

[543] SOLˊ-ACE, to cheer in grief; to comfort; to allay.

[544] SENSˊ-U-AL, lewd; pleasing to the senses.

[545] ADˊ-E-QUATE, equal; fully sufficient.

[546] LABˊ-Y-RINTH, a labyrinth, among the ancients, was a building made with many winding passages, so that a person could hardly avoid being lost. Hence, any difficult windings or ways; any thing that is much entangled or very perplexing.

[547] IN-CONˊ-STAN-CY, a want of fixedness or firmness of mind; unsteadiness; fickleness.

[548] OM-NIPˊ-O-TENCE, almighty power; God.

LXXIV.—THE DOUBTING HEART.

ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR.

FIRST VOICE.

1. Where are the swallows fled?
Frozen and dead,
Perchance, upon some bleak and stormy shore.

SECOND VOICE.

O doubting heart!
Far over purple seas,
They wait, in sunny ease,
The balmy southern breeze,
To bring them to their northern home once more.

FIRST VOICE.

2. Why must the flowers die?
Poisoned they lie
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.

SECOND VOICE.

O doubting heart!
They only sleep below
The soft, white, ermine snow,
While winter winds shall blow,
To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

FIRST VOICE.

3. The sun has hid its rays
These many days;
Will dreary hours never leave the earth?

SECOND VOICE.

O doubting heart!
The stormy clouds on high
Vail the same sunny sky,
That soon, (for Spring is nigh.)
Shall wake the Summer into golden mirth.

FIRST VOICE.

4. Fair Hope is dead, and light
Is quenched in night.
What sound can break the silence of despair?

SECOND VOICE.

O doubting heart!
The sky is overcast,
Yet stars shall rise at last,
Brighter for darkness past,
And angels’ silver voices stir the air.

LXXV.—ON THE WASTE OF TIME.

FRANKLIN.

Benjamin Franklin, distinguished as a statesman, a patriot, and a
philosopher, was born at Boston in 1706. He began his career as
a printer, and by diligence, integrity and rare sagacity, became
one of the foremost of that able and brilliant band of men who
were the leaders of the American Revolution. He died in 1790.

1. Amergus was a gentleman of good estate: he was bred to no business, and could not contrive how to waste his hours agreeably; he had no relish for any of the proper works of life, nor any taste for the improvement of the mind; he spent generally ten hours of the four-and-twenty in bed; he dozed away two or three more on his couch; and as many more were dissolved in good liquor every evening, if he met with company of his own humor. Thus he made a shift to wear off ten years of his life since the paternal[549] estate fell into his hands.

2. One evening as he was musing alone, his thoughts happened to take a most unusual turn, for they cast a glance backward, and he began to reflect on his manner of life. He bethought himself what a number of living beings had been made a sacrifice[550] to support his carcass, and how much corn and wine had been mingled with these offerings; and he set himself to compute what he had devoured since he came to the age of man.

3. “About a dozen feathered creatures, small and great, have, one week with another,” said he, “given up their lives to prolong mine, which, in ten years, amounts to at least six thousand. Fifty sheep have been sacrificed in a year, with half a hecatomb[551] of black-cattle,[552] that I might have the choicest parts offered weekly upon my table. Thus a thousand beasts, out of the flock and the herd, have been slain in ten years’ time to feed me beside what the forest has supplied me with.

4. “Many hundreds of fishes have, in all their variety, been robbed of life for my repast,[553] and of the smaller fry, some thousands. A measure of corn would hardly suffice[554] me fine flour enough for a month’s provision, and this arises to about six score bushels; and many hogsheads of wine and other liquors have passed through this body of mine—this wretched strainer of meat and drink! And what have I done all this time for God and man? What a vast profusion[555] of good things wasted upon a useless life and a worthless liver!

5. “There is not the meanest creature among all those that I have devoured, but hath answered the end of its creation better than I. It was made to support human nature, and it has done so. Every crab and oyster I have eaten, and every grain of corn I have devoured, hath filled up its place in the rank of beings with more propriety and honor than I have done. Oh, shameful waste of life and time!”

6. In short, he carried on his moral reflections[556] with so just and severe a force of reason, as constrained[557] him to change his whole course of life; to break off his follies at once, and to apply himself to gain some useful knowledge, when he was more than thirty years of age. He lived many following years, with the character of a worthy man and an excellent Christian;[558] he died with a peaceful conscience,[559] and the tears of his country were dropped upon his tomb.

7. The world, that knew the whole series of his life, were amazed at the mighty change. They beheld him as a wonder of reformation, while he himself confessed and adored the Divine power and mercy which had transformed him from a brute to a man. But this was a single instance, and we may almost venture to write _miracle_[560] upon it. Are there not numbers, in this degenerate[561] age, whose lives thus run to utter waste, without the least tendency[562] to usefulness?

[549] PA-TERˊ-NAL, belonging to or derived from one’s father.

[550] SACˊ-RI-FICE, destruction or surrender of anything, made for the sake of something else; the thing destroyed or given up.

[551] HECˊ-A-TOMB, the sacrifice of a hundred.

[552] BLACKˊ-CAT-TLE, cows, bulls, and oxen, as distinguished from sheep and goats, which are called small cattle.

[553] RE-PASTˊ, the act of taking food; that which is taken as food or a meal; victuals.

[554] SUF-FICEˊ, to be sufficient or enough; to furnish or supply.

[555] PRO-FUˊ-SION, a large quantity.

[556] RE-FLECˊ-TION, the turning of the mind to what has already occupied it; continued thinking.

[557] CON-STRAINˊ-ED, compelled; forced.

[558] CHRISTˊ-IAN, one who professes to believe in the religion of Christ; especially one whose inward and outward life is conformed to the doctrines of Christ; one who has received the Sacrament of Baptism.

[559] CONˊ-SCIENCE, the power or principle within us which decides on the lawfulness or unlawfulness of our actions or affections, and approves or condemns them.

[560] MIRˊ-A-CLE, a wonder or wonderful thing; an effect or event that differs or departs from the known laws of nature.

[561] DE-GENˊ-ER-ATE, having become worse than one’s kind; having lost in worth or goodness; degraded; mean.

[562] TENDˊ-EN-CY, direction or course toward any place, effect, or result; desire.

LXXVI.—THE REAPER, DEATH.

LONGFELLOW.

1. There is a reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

2. “Shall I have nought that is fair?” saith he;
“Have nought but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again.”

3. He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves;
It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.

4. “My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,”
The reaper said, and smiled;
“Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where he was once a child.

5. “They all shall bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,
And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear.”

6. Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The reaper came that day;
’Twas an angel visited the earth,
And took the flowers away.

LXXVII.—DIALOGUE WITH THE GOUT.

FRANKLIN.

1. _Franklin._ Eh! Oh! Eh! What have I done to merit these cruel sufferings?

_Gout._ Many things: you have ate and drank too freely, and too much indulged those legs of yours in their indolence.[563]

_Franklin._ Who is it that accuses me?

_Gout._ It is I, even I, the Gout.

_Franklin._ What! my enemy in person?

_Gout._ No; not your enemy.

_Franklin._ I repeat it, my enemy; for you would not only torment[564] my body to death, but ruin my good name. You reproach me as a glutton and a tippler;[565] now all the world that knows me will allow that I am neither the one nor the other.

2. _Gout._ The world may think as it pleases. It is always very complaisant[566] to itself, and sometimes to its friends; but I very well know that the quantity of meat and drink proper for a man who takes a reasonable degree of exercise would be too much for another who never takes any.

_Franklin._ I take—Eh! Oh!—as much exercise—Eh!—as I can, Madam Gout. You know my sedentary[567] state; and on that account, it would seem, Madam Gout, as if you might spare me a little, seeing it is not altogether my own fault.

3. _Gout._ Not a jot; your rhetoric and your politeness are thrown away; your apology avails nothing. If your situation in life is a sedentary one, your amusements, your recreations, at least, should be active. You ought to walk or ride; or if the weather prevents that, play at something.

But let us examine your course of life. While the mornings are long, and you have leisure to go abroad, what do you do? Why, instead of gaining an appetite for breakfast, by salutary exercise, you amuse yourself with books, pamphlets, or newspapers, which commonly are not worth the reading. Yet you eat an inordinate breakfast: four dishes of tea, with cream, one or two buttered toasts, with slices of hung beef; which I fancy are not things the most easily digested.

4. Immediately afterward, you sit down to write at your desk, or converse with persons who apply to you on business. Thus the time passes till one, without any kind of bodily exercise. But all this I could pardon, in regard, as you say, to your sedentary condition; but what is your practice after dinner? Walking in the beautiful gardens of those friends with whom you have dined would be the choice of men of sense; yours is to be fixed down to chess, where you are found engaged for two or three hours.

5. This is your perpetual recreation; the least eligible[568] of any for a sedentary man, because, instead of accelerating[569] the motion of the fluids, the rigid[570] attention it requires helps to retard the circulation and obstruct internal secretions.[571] Wrapt in the speculations of this wretched game, you destroy your constitution. What can be expected from such a course of living but a body replete with stagnant humors, ready to fall a prey to all kinds of dangerous maladies,[572] if I, the Gout, did not occasionally bring you relief by agitating those humors, and so purifying or dissipating them? Fie, then, Mr. Franklin! But, amidst my instructions, I had almost forgotten to administer my wholesome corrections; so take that twinge, and that.

6. _Franklin._ Oh! Eh! Oh! Oh! As much instruction as you please, Madam Gout, and as many reproaches; but pray, Madam, a truce with your corrections!

_Gout._ No, sir, no; I will not abate a particle of what is so much for your good, therefore—

_Franklin._ Oh! Eh! It is not fair to say I take no exercise, when I do, very often, go out to dine, and return in my carriage.

7. _Gout._ That, of all imaginable exercises, is the most slight and insignificant, if you allude to the motion of a carriage suspended on springs. By observing the degree of heat obtained from different kinds of motion, we may form an estimate of the quantity of exercise given by each. Thus, for example, if you turn out to walk in winter with cold feet, in an hour’s time you will be in a glow all over; ride on horseback, the same effect will scarcely be perceived by four hours’ round trotting; but if you loll in a carriage, such as you have mentioned, you may travel all day, and gladly enter the last inn to warm your feet by a fire.

8. Flatter yourself, then, no longer, that half an hour’s airing in your carriage deserves the name of exercise. Providence has appointed few to roll in carriages, while he has given to all a pair of legs, which are machines infinitely more commodious and serviceable. Be grateful, then, and make a proper use of yours.

[563] INˊ-DO-LENCE, sloth, idleness.

[564] TOR-MENTˊ, to put to extreme pain.

[565] TIPˊ-PLER, a frequent and habitual drinker of strong liquors.

[566] COMˊ-PLAI-SANTˊ, polite, courteous.

[567] SEDˊ-EN-TA-RY, accustomed to sit much.

[568] ELˊ-I-GI-BLE, desirable.

[569] AC-CELˊ-ER-ATE, to hasten the motion of; to quicken.

[570] RIGˊ-ID, severe, strict, exact.

[571] SE-CREˊ-TION, separation of juices.

[572] MALˊ-A-DIES, bodily ailments; diseases.

LXXVIII.—THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

1. The melancholy days[573] are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing[574] winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying[575] gust, and to the rabbit’s tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay,
And from the wood-top caws[576] the crow, through all the gloomy day.

2. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and
stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly bed, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

3. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague
on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade,[577]
and glen.[578]

4. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home,
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are
still,
And twinkle in the smoky light, the waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flowers, whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

5. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side;
In the cold, moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

[573] MELˊ-AN-CHOL-Y, low-spirited; unhappy; sad.

[574] WAILˊ-ING, moaning; grieving over; weeping loudly.

[575] EDˊ-DY-ING, moving circularly.

[576] This reading—_caws_, instead of _calls_—is sanctioned by the gifted author.

[577] GLADE, an open or cleared place in a forest or wood.

[578] GLEN, a retired and narrow valley; a narrow space between hills.

LXXIX.—EDWARD THE CONFESSOR.

LINGARD.

John Lingard, D. D., was born in England in 1771; died in 1851.
With the completion of the “History of England,” which has been
republished in New York in thirteen volumes, the literary fame
of Dr. Lingard became established throughout Europe. Cardinal
Wiseman speaks of this history, and its learned author, in the
following terms: “It is a Providence that in history we have had
given to the nation a writer like Lingard, whose gigantic merit
will be better appreciated in each successive generation, as it
sees his work standing calm and erect amidst the shoals of petty
pretenders to usurp his station. When Hume shall have fairly
taken his place among the classical writers of our tongue, and
Macaulay shall have been transferred to the shelves of romances
and poets, and each thus have received his due meed of praise,
then Lingard will be still more conspicuous as the only impartial
historian of our country.”

1. If we estimate the character of a sovereign by the test of popular affection, we must rank Edward among the best princes of his time. The goodness of his heart was adored by his subjects, who lamented his death with tears of undissembled grief, and bequeathed his memory as an object of veneration to their posterity. The blessings of his reign are the constant theme of our ancient writers: not, indeed, that he displayed any of those brilliant qualities which attract admiration, while they inflict misery.

2. He could not boast of the victories which he had achieved; but he exhibited the interesting spectacle of a king, negligent of his private interests, and wholly devoted to the welfare of his people; and, by his labors to restore the dominion of the laws, his vigilance to ward off foreign aggression, his constant, and ultimately successful, solicitude to appease the feuds of his nobles,—if he did not prevent the interruption, he secured, at least, a longer duration of public tranquillity, than had been enjoyed in England for half a century.

3. He was pious, kind, and compassionate; the father of the poor, and the protector of the weak; more willing to give than to receive, the better pleased to pardon than to punish. Under the preceding kings, force generally supplied the place of justice, and the people were impoverished by the rapacity of the sovereign. But Edward enforced the laws of his Saxon predecessors, and disdained the riches that were wrung from the labors of his subjects.

4. Temperate in his diet, unostentatious in his person, pursuing no pleasures but those which his hawks and hounds afforded, he was content with the patrimonial domains of the crown; and was able to assert, even after the abolition of that fruitful source of revenue, the Danegelt, that he possessed a greater portion of wealth than any of his predecessors enjoyed. To him, the principle that the king can do no wrong, was literally applied by the gratitude of his people, who, if they occasionally complained of the measures of the government, attributed the blame not to the monarch himself, of whose benevolence they entertained no doubt, but to the ministers, who had abused his confidence, or deceived his credulity.

5. It was, however, a fortunate circumstance for the memory of Edward, that he occupied the interval between the Danish and Norman conquests. Writers were induced to view his character with more partiality, from the hatred with which they looked upon his successors and predecessors. They were foreigners; he was a native: they held the crown by conquest; he by descent: they ground to the dust the slaves whom they had made; he became known to his countrymen only by his benefits. Hence he appeared to shine with purer light amid the gloom with which he was surrounded; and whenever the people under the despotism of the Norman kings, had any opportunity of expressing their real wishes, they constantly called for “the laws and customs of the good King Edward”.

LXXX.—THE COMING OF WINTER.

T. B. READ.

1. Autumn’s sighing,
Moaning, dying,
Clouds are flying
On like steeds;
While their shadows
O’er the meadows,
Walk like widows
Decked in weeds.

2. Red leaves trailing,
Fall unfailing,
Dropping, sailing,
From the wood,
That, unpliant,
Stands defiant,
Like a giant,
Dropping blood.

3. Winds are swelling
Round our dwelling,
All day telling
Us their woe;
And, at vesper,
Frosts grow crisper,
As they whisper
Of the snow.

4. From the unseen land,
Frozen inland,
Down from Greenland,
Winter glides.
Shedding lightness
Like the brightness
When moon-whiteness
Fills the tide.

5. Now bright Pleasure’s
Sparkling measures
With rare treasures
Overflow!
With this gladness
Comes what sadness
Oh, what sadness,
Oh, what woe!

6. Even merit
May inherit
Some bare garret,
Or the ground;
Or, a worse ill,
Beg a morsel
At some door-sill,
Like a hound.

7. Storms are trailing,
Winds are wailing,
Howling, railing,
At each door.
’Midst this trailing,
Howling, railing,
List the wailing
Of the poor!

LXXXI.—THE SISTER OF CHARITY.

WILLIAMS.

Richard Dalton Williams was born in Ireland. He had been for
several years previous to his death, Professor of Belles
Letters in the Catholic College, Mobile. His poems all bear the
unmistakable stamp of poetic genius.

1. Sister of Charity, gentle and dutiful,
Loving as seraphim, tender and mild,
In humbleness strong, and in purity beautiful,
In spirit heroic, in manners a child,
Ever thy love like an angel reposes,—
With hovering wings o’er the sufferer here,
Till the arrows of death are half-hidden in roses,
And hope-speaking prophecy smiles on the bier.

2. When life, like a vapor, is slowly retiring,
As clouds in the dawning to heaven uprolled,
Thy prayer, like a herald, precedes him expiring,
And the Cross on thy bosom his last looks behold;
And O! as the Spouse to thy words of love listens,
What hundredfold blessings descend on thee then—
Thus the flower-absorbed dew in the bright iris glistens,
And returns to the lilies more richly again.

3. Sister of Charity, child of the holiest,
O, for thy living soul, ardent as pure—
Mother of orphans and friend of the lowliest—
Stay of the wretched, the guilty, the poor;
The embrace of the Godhead so plainly enfolds thee
Sanctity’s halo so shrines thee around,
Daring the eye that unshrinking beholds thee,
Nor droops in thy presence abashed to the ground.

4. Dim is the fire of the sunniest blushes,
Burning the breast of the maidenly rose
To the exquisite bloom that thy pale beauty flushes,
When the incense ascends and the sanctuary glows,
And the music, that seems heaven’s language, is pealing—
Adoration has bowed him in silence and sighs,
And man, intermingled with angels, is feeling
The passionless rapture that comes from the skies.

5. O, that this heart, whose unspeakable treasure
Of love hath been wasted so vainly on clay,
Like thine, unallured by the phantom of pleasure,
Could rend every earthly affection away.
And yet, in thy presence, the billows subsiding
Obey the strong effort of reason and will,
And my soul, in her pristine tranquillity gliding,
Is calm as when God bade the ocean be still.

6. Thy soothing, how gentle! thy pity, how tender!
Choir-music thy voice is—thy step angel grace,
And thy union with deity shrines in a splendor
Subdued, but unearthly, thy spiritual face.
When the frail chains are broken, a captive that bound thee,
Afar from thy home is the prison of clay,
Bride of the Lamb, and earth’s shadows around thee
Disperse in the blaze of eternity’s day.

7. Still mindful, as now, of the sufferer’s story,
Arresting the thunders of wrath ere they roll,
Intervene as a cloud between us and His glory,
And shield from His lightnings the shuddering soul.
As mild as the moonbeam in autumn descending
That lightning, extinguished by mercy, shall fall,
While he hears, with the wail of a penitent blending,
Thy prayer, Holy Daughter of Vincent de Paul.

LXXXII.—WASHINGTON AND BONAPARTE COMPARED.

CHATEAUBRIAND.

1. If Washington and Bonaparte are compared, man with man, the genius of the first will seem to take a less lofty flight than that of the second. Washington belongs not, like Bonaparte, to the race of Alexanders and Cæsars, who surpassed the ordinary stature of the human race; he creates no sentiment of astonishment; he is not seen contending, on a vast theatre, for glory, with the greatest captains and most powerful monarchs of the earth, he traverses[579] no seas; he hurries not from Memphis to Vienna, from Cadiz to Moscow; his work is a simple one of defending himself, with a handful of citizens, within the narrow limits of domestic hearths, in a land without a past and without celebrity.

2. He gains none of those battles which renew the bloody triumphs of Arbela[580] and Pharsalia;[581] he puts not his foot upon the necks of kings; he does not say to them, waiting on the vestibule of his palace, _how often you come!_ and how you weary Attila![582] A certain spirit of silence envelops the actions of Washington: slow caution marks them all. One would say that he had ever the sentiment of his great mission with him, and that he feared to compromise it by rashness.

3. His own personal destiny seems not to have entered into the calculations of this hero of a new species; the destinies of his country alone occupied him, and he did not permit himself to risk or gamble with what did not belong to him. But from this profound obscurity what light breaks forth! Seek through the unknown forests where the sword of Washington glittered, and what will you find there? Tombs? No! A world. Washington has left the United States as a trophy of his field of battle.

4. Bonaparte possessed no single trait of this great American. His wars were all waged on an ancient continent, environed[583] by splendor and stunning with noise. His object was personal glory: his individual destiny filled all his thoughts. He seems to have known that his mission would be short: that the torrent that fell from such a height would quickly expend its force. He hurried forward to enjoy and to abuse his glory, as if aware that it was a fugitive dream of youth. Like the gods of Homer, four steps must suffice him to reach the end of the world.

5. Each of these men has been recompensed according to his works. Washington, after having raised a nation to independence, slept peacefully, as a retired magistrate, under his paternal roof, amid the regrets of his countrymen, and the veneration of all people, Bonaparte, having robbed a nation of its independence was hurled, a dethroned emperor, into exile, and the terrified earth hardly thought him secure enough under the custody of the ocean.

6. Even while exhausted and chained to a rock, he was struggling with death: Europe dared not lay down her arms, for fear of him. He died; and this event, published at the gate of the palace before which the conqueror had proclaimed so many funerals, hardly arrested the passer-by. What, indeed, had citizens to weep for!

7. Washington and Bonaparte both arose out of the bosom of a republic. Both were born of liberty; the first was faithful to it, the second betrayed it. Their lot will be according to the different part they chose: very different with future generations. The name of Washington will spread with liberty from age to age, and mark the commencement of a new era for the human race: the name of Bonaparte will be pronounced also by distant generations, but no benedictions will be attached to it; it will serve on the contrary, as an authority to oppressors, great and petty of all times.

8. Washington represented completely the wants, the ideas, the state of enlightenment and opinions of his epoch. He seconded, instead of thwarting, the advancing movement: he willed that which he ought to have willed; the fulfilment of the mission to which he was called. Hence the coherence[584] and perpetuity of his work.

9. This man, who strikes the imagination so slightly, because he was natural, and kept within his just proportions, has confounded his history with that of his country: his glory is the common patrimony of increased civilization: his renown rises like one of those sanctuaries whence a stream, pure and inexhaustible, flows forth for ever, for the solace of the people.

10. Bonaparte might also have enriched the public domain. His action was on the nation the most civilized, the most intelligent, the most brave, the most brilliant of the earth. What a rank would he have occupied at present in the universe, if he had joined magnanimity to his other heroic qualities! if—Washington and Bonaparte at the same time—he had nominated liberty the inheritor of his glory!

11. But the disproportioned giant did not completely identify his destiny with that of his country. His genius belonged to modern, his ambition to ancient times. He did not perceive that the miracles of his life by far surpassed the value of a diadem, and that this gothic ornament but ill became him. Sometimes one might see him take a step with the age; at others he would retrograde toward the past. But whether he reascended the stream of time or followed its course, the prodigious force of his genius seemed to command a flow or a flux at his will.

12. Men were, in his eyes, only a means of power: there was no sympathy between their welfare and his own. He promised to liberate, and he enchained them: he separated himself from them, and they shrunk back from him. The kings of Egypt built their funeral pyramids, not amid fertile plains, but sterile sands. On a like site has Bonaparte constructed the monument of his renown.

[579] TRAVˊ-ERSES, crosses over.

[580] AR-BEˊ-LA, it was near Arbela that Alexander gained his great victory over the Persians.

[581] PHAR-SAˊ-LIA, it was here Julius Cæsar defeated Pompey.

[582] AT-TIˊ-LA, a celebrated king of the Huns. He invaded Europe with an immense army, in 451. He crossed the Rhine and penetrated to the heart of Gaul, sacking and burning all the towns in his way. He was defeated by Ætius at Chalons.

[583] EN-VIˊ-RON, to surround.

[584] CO-HERˊ-ENCE, consistency.

LXXXIII.—CHARACTER OF FRANKLIN.

BROUGHAM.

1. One of the most remarkable men certainly of our times as a politician, or of any age as a philosopher, was Franklin; who also stands alone in combining together these two characters, the greatest that man can sustain, and in this, that, having borne the first part in enlarging science by one of the greatest discoveries ever made, he bore the second part in founding one of the greatest empires in the world.

2. In this truly great man every thing seems to concur that goes toward the constitution of exalted merit. First, he was the architect of his own fortune. Born in the humblest station, he raised himself by his talents and industry, first to the place in society which may be attained with the help only of ordinary abilities, great application, and good luck; but next, to the loftier heights which a daring and happy genius alone can scale; and the printers’ boy who at one period of his life had no covering to shelter his head from the dews of night, rent in twain the proud dominion of England, and lived to be the ambassador of a commonwealth which he had formed, at the court of the haughty monarchs of France, who had been his allies.

3. Then he had been tried by prosperity as well as by adverse fortune, and had passed unhurt through the perils of both. No ordinary apprentice, no commonplace journeyman, ever laid the foundation of his independence in habits of industry and temperance more deep than he did, whose genius was afterwards to rank him with the Galileos and Newtons of the old world. No patrician born to shine in courts, or assist at the councils of monarchs, ever bore his honors in a lofty station more easily, or was less spoiled by the enjoyment of them, than this common workman did when negotiating with royal representatives, or caressed by all the beauty and fashion of the most brilliant court in Europe.

4. Again, he was self-taught in all he knew. His hours of study were stolen from those of sleep and of meals, or gained by some ingenious contrivance for reading while the work of his daily calling went on. Assisted by none of the helps which affluence tenders to the studies of the rich, he had to supply the place of tutors by redoubled diligence, and of commentaries by repeated perusal. Nay, the possession of books was to be obtained by copying what the art which he himself exercised furnished easily to others.

5. Next, the circumstances under which others succumb he made to yield, and bent to his own purposes—a successful leader of a revolt that ended in complete triumph after appearing desperate for years: a great discoverer in philosophy without the ordinary helps to knowledge; a writer famed for his chaste style without a classical education; a skillful negotiator, though never bred to politics; ending as a favorite, nay, a pattern of fashion when the guest of frivolous courts, the life which he had begun in garrets and in workshops.

6. Lastly, combinations of faculties, in others deemed impossible, appeared easy and natural in him. The philosopher, delighting in speculation, was also eminently a man of action. Ingenious reasoning, refined and subtle consultation, were in him combined with prompt resolution and inflexible firmness of purpose. To a lively fancy he joined a learned and deep reflection; his original and inventive genius stooped to the convenient alliance of the most ordinary prudence in every day affairs; the mind that soared above the clouds, and was conversant with the loftiest human contemplations, disdained not to make proverbs and feign parables for the guidance of apprenticed youths and maidens at service; and the hands that sketched a free constitution for a whole continent, or drew down the lightning from heaven, easily and cheerfully lent themselves to simplify the apparatus by which truths were to be illustrated or discoveries pursued.

7. His whole course, both in acting and in speculation, was simple and plain, ever preferring the easiest and shortest road, nor ever having recourse to any but the simplest means to compass his ends. His policy rejected all refinements, and aimed at accomplishing its purposes by the most rational and obvious expedients. His language was unadorned, and used as the medium of communicating his thoughts, not of raising admiration; but it was pure, expressive, racy. His manner of reasoning was manly and cogent, the address of a rational being to others of the same order; and so concise, that preferring decision to discussion, he never exceeded a quarter of an hour in any public address. His correspondence on business, whether private or on state affairs, is a model of clearness and compendious shortness; nor can any state papers surpass in dignity and impressiveness those of which he is believed to have been the author in the earlier part of the American revolutionary war.

8. His mode of philosophizing was the purest application of the inductive principle, so eminently adapted to his nature, and so clearly dictated by common sense, that we can have little doubt that it would have been suggested by Franklin, if it had not been unfolded by Bacon, though it is clear that in this case it would have been expounded in far more simple terms. But of all this great man’s scientific excellencies, the most remarkable is the smallness, the simplicity, the apparent inadequacy of the means which he employed in his experimental researches. His discoveries were made with hardly any apparatus at all; and if, at any time, he had been led to employ instruments of a less ordinary description, he never rested satisfied until he had, as it were, afterward translated the process, by resolving the problem with such simple machinery, that you might say he had done it wholly unaided by apparatus. The experiments by which the identity of lightning and electricity was demonstrated were made with a sheet of brown paper, a bit of twine, a silk thread, and an iron key. Upon the integrity of this great man, whether in public or in private life, there rests no stain. Strictly honest, and even scrupulously punctual in all his dealings, he preserved in the highest fortune that regularity which he had practiced, as well as inculcated, in the lowest.

9. In domestic life he was faultless, and in the intercourse of society, delightful. There was a constant good humor and a playful wit, easy and of high relish, without any ambition to shine, the natural fruit of his lively fancy, his solid, natural good-sense, and his cheerful temper, that gave his conversation an unspeakable charm, and alike suited every circle, from the humblest to the most elevated.

LXXXIV.—THE LAST MINSTREL.

SCOTT.

Sir Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh, August 15, 1771, died
September 21, 1832. He was distinguished as a poet, and unrivaled
as a novelist.

1. The way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His withered cheek, and tresses gray,
Seemed to have known a better day:
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy;
The last of all the Bards was he,
Who sung of Border chivalry.

2. For well a day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
And he neglected and oppressed,
Wished to be with them and at rest.
No more on prancing palfrey borne,
He caroled, light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caressed,
High-placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He poured to lord and lady gay
The unpremeditated lay.

3. Old times were changed, old manners gone,
A stranger filled the Stuart throne,
The bigots of the Iron time
Had called the harmless art a crime.
A wandering Harper, scorned and poor,
He begged his bread from door to door,
And tuned, to please a peasants ear,
The harp a king had loved to hear.

4. He passed where Newark’s stately tower
Looks out from Yarrow’s birchen bower;
The Minstrel gazed with wistful eye,
No humbler resting-place was nigh;
With hesitating step, at last,
The embattled portal arch he passed,
Whose pond’rous grate and massy bar
Had oft rolled back the tide of war,
But never closed the iron door
Against the desolate and poor.

5. The Duchess marked his weary pace,
His timid mien, and reverend face,
And bade her page the menials tell,
That they should tend the old man well:
For she had known adversity,
Though born in such a high degree;
In pride of power and beauty’s bloom,
Had wept o’er Monmouth’s bloody tomb!

LXXXV.—THE MINSTREL BOY.

THOMAS MOORE.

1. The minstrel boy to the war is gone;
In the ranks of Death you’ll find him,
His father’s sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.
“Land of song,” said the warrior-bard,
“Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee.”

2. The minstrel fell: but the foeman’s chain
Could not bring his proud soul under.
The harp he loved ne’er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder,
And said, “No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery;
Thy songs were made for the pure and free;
They never shall sound in slav’ry.”

LXXXVI.—ARMY HYMN.

O. W. HOLMES.

1. O Lord of Hosts! Almighty King!
Behold the sacrifice we bring!
To every arm thy strength impart,
Thy Spirit shed through every heart.

2. Wake in our breasts the living fires,
The holy faith, that warmed our sires;
Thy hand hath made our nation free;
To die for her is serving Thee.

3. Be thou a pillared flame to show
The midnight snare, the silent foe;
And when the battle thunders loud,
Still guide us in its moving cloud.

4. God of all Nations! Sov’reign Lord!
In thy dread name we draw the sword;
We lift the starry flag on high,
That fills with light our stormy sky.

5. From treason’s rent, from murder’s stain,
Guard thou its folds till Peace shall reign;
Till fort and field, till shore and sea,
Join our loud anthem,—Praise to Thee!

LXXXVII.—THE ROMAN PONTIFFS.

ARCHBISHOP SPALDING.