IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1.0

I^|2j8 |2.5

■" Utt I'* 2

I.I

1.25

II U |l.6

^ # -^

^y.

RiotDgraphic

Sciences

Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716)872-4503

.A^

CIHM/ICMH

Microfiche

Series.

CIHfVI/ICIVIH
Collection de
microfiches.

Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques

Technical ard Bibliographic Notes/Notes tschniques et bibtiographiques

The Institute has attempted to obtain the best
original copy available for filming. Features of this
copy which may be bibliographically unique,
which may alter any of the images in the
reproduction, or which may significantly change
the usual method of filming, are checked below.

□ Coloured covers/
Couverture de couleur

I I Covers damaged/

Couverture endommagde

Covers restored and/or laminated/
Couverture restaurie et/ou pelliculAe

r~n Cover title missing/

Le titre de couverture manque

I I Coloured maps/

Cartes gdographiques en couleur

Coloured ink (i.e. other than blue or black)/
Encre de couleur (i.e. autre que bleue ou noire)

I I Coloured plates and/or illustrations/

Planches et/ou illustrations en couleur

Bound with other material/
Relid avec d'autres documents

Tight binding may cause shadows or distortion
along interior margin/

La re liure serr6e peut causer de I'ombre ou de la
distortion le long de la marge int^rieure

Blank leaves added during restoration may
appear within the text. Whenever possible, these
have been omitted from filming/
II se peut que certaines pages blanches ajout^es
lors d'une restauration apparaissent dans le texte,
mais, lorsque cela 6tait possible, ces pages n'ont
pas 6t6 film^es.

Additional comments:/
Commentaires suppl^mentaires;

L'Institut a microfilm^ le meilleur exemplaire
qu'il lui a M possible de se procurer. Les details
de cet exempEaire qui sont peut-Atre uniques du
point de vue bibliog aphique, qui peuvent modifier
une image reproduite, ou qui peuvent exiger une
modification dans la mAthode normale de filmage
sont indiquAs ci-dessous.

I I Coloured pages/

Pages de couleur

Pages damaged/
Pages endommag^es

□ Pages restored and/or laminated/
Pages restaur^es et/ou pellirulies

Pages discoloured, stained or foxed/
Pages ddcolor^es, tachetdes ou piqudes

I I Pages detached/

Pages ddtach^es

Showthroughy
Transparence

Quality of prir

Qualit^ in6gale de I'impression

Includes supplementary materii
Comprend du mat6riel suppldmentaire

Only edition available/
Seule Edition disponible

rri Showthrough/

I I Quality of print varies/

|~n Includes supplementary material/

I I Only edition available/

Pages wholly or partially obscured by errata
slips, tissues, etc., have been refilmed to
ensure the best possible image/
Les pages totalement ou partieliement
obscurcies par un feuillet d'errata, une pelure,
etc., ont it6 filmios i nouveau de facon A
obtenir la meilleure image possible.

Thee
to th(

Thai
possi
of th
filmii

Origi
begir
the h
sion,
othei
first I
sion,
or lilt

The I
shall
TINU
whic

Map:
diffei
entin
begif
right
requi
meth

This item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked belo<v/

Ce document est i''\mi au taux de reduction indiquA ci-dMSOus.

10X

14X

18X

42X

26X

30X

12X

16X

20X

24X

28X

32X

The copy filmed here has been reproduced thanks
to the generosity of:

Stminary of Quebec
Library

The images appearing here are the best quality
possible considering the condition and legibility
of the original copy and in keeping with the
filming contract specifications.

Original copies in printed paper covers are filmed
beginning with the front cover and ending on
the last page with a printed or illustrated impres-
sion, or the back cover when appropriate. All
other original copies are filmed beginning on the
first page with a printed or illustrated impres-
sion, and ending on the last page with a printed
or illustrated impression.

L'exemplaire film6 fut reproduit grAce A la
g*n4rosit4 da:

Siminaire de Quibec
Bibliothique

Les images suivantes ont AtA reproduites avec ie
plus grand soln, compte tenu de la condition at
de la nettet* de l'exemplaire filmA, et en
confori'nHA avec les conditions du contrat de
fiimage.

Les exemplaires originaux dont la couverture en
papier est imprimAe sont filmAs en commengant
par Ie premier plat et en terminant soit par la
dernlAre page qui comporte une empreinte
d'impression ou d'iliustration. soit par Ie second
plat, seion Ie cas. Tous les autres exemplaires
originaux sont filmAs en commen^ant par la
premidre page qui comporte une empreinte
d'impression ou d'iliustration et en terminant par
la derniAre page qui comporte une telle
empreinte.

The last recorded frame on each microfiche
shall contain the symbol •-^ (meaning "CON-
TINUED"), or the symbol V (meaning "END"),
whichever applies.

Un dee symboies suivants apparaitra sur la
dernlAre image de cheque microfiche, selon Ie
cas: Ie symbole — »> signifie "A SUIVRE ". Ie
symbole V signifie "FIN".

Maps, plates, charts, etc.. may be filmed at
different reduction ratios. Those too large to be
entirely included in one exposure are filmed
beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to
right and top to bottom, as many frames as
required. The following diagrams illustrate the
method:

Les cartes, planchas, tableaux, etc., peuvent Atre
fiimia A des taux de reduction diff6rents.
Lorsque Ie document est trop grand pour Atre
reproduit en un seul clich6. il est iWmi A partir
de Tangle supArieur gauche, de gauche 6 droite,
et de haut en bas. en prenant Ie nombre
d'images nAcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants
illustrent la mAthode.

CANADIAN
CATHOLIC READERS.

Christ Giving the Keys to St. Peter,

(^ana^ian Catholic 'Readers.

■jr "t: -a-

FOLTKTH EEA

apphoved by the education department for

use in the roman catholic separate

schools of ontario.

MONTREAL :
CADIEUX & DEROME.

'7 -.■■

■ ■• ■»"'

X a n.«.<i& ill the vear one thousand
Enl^red ^.onilng to Act of "»« J^^ clf "^^^^^
eight l'- ndred and ninetynine. by T« » ^«^^. ^
OnT n the Office of the Minister of Agriculture.

:»

PKEFACE.

It affords us pleasure to present to the Oatholic Schools the last
and highest of the new series of Readers. The great aim in pre-
paring the Fourth Book has been to give pupils an introduction to
a goodly array of the best modem English writers. We trust that
these selections will induce our young people to taste more deeply
of many of these " wells of English undefiled."

In the teaching, the chief points are the understanding and the
appreciation of what is read. The latter, while doubtless the more
important, is the more difficult to secure with most pupils. Abun-
dant supplementary reading of the right kind is probably the
greatest help. In addition to this, the teacher's sympathetic
interpretati4^n, through oral reading of other literature, is of great
importance. In a word, the reader and the teacher will secure the
best results if they succeed in repressing pernicious or merely
trashy literature, and in awakening and developing a love of good
reading.

Chiefly because it detracts from the interest of the story, the
longer lessons have not been divided into parts ; but each teacher
will best know how to arrange for lessons of a length suitable for
his pupils. . I

It is not expected that the order of the lessons here given will
be strictly followed. It is not possible to arrange aii order that
would be the best in all circumstances.

The expectation is that much of the poetry will be memorized
after the literature has been properly taught.

The copyright law has, unfortunately, prevented the appear-
ance of selections from several great masters of English, — notably
Tennyson.

For the Entrance Examination to High Schools an alternative
paper in Literature will be set on selections from this Fourth
Header — and a hand-book for teachers, discussing the best methods
of teaching reading and literature, and giving help in the difficult
selections, is intended to accompany this Reader.

5
1
s
c

J.
a

i
T

T
t

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

The Selections in Poetry are Printed in ItaHca.

Paqb.

The Maple Bev. If. F. Dnritelt . . 11

On a Tropical Riveh Charles Kings/eif ... 13

The Four-Leaved Shamrock .'.... Samtiel Lover . ... 16

The Journey Onwards Thomas Moort ... 16

TxACHiNa AND Charactek OK Jrhlth

Christ Chateaubriand ... 17

Lead, Kindly Light Cardinal Newman \ . 19

The Daffodils William Wordsworth . 20

Hunting thb Deer John Burroiujhs ... 21

The Barefoot Boy John G Whittier. . . 24

Flow Gently, Sweet A/ton Robert Burns .... 26

St. Elizabeth of Hungary .... Montalembert .... 27

Give Freely Pose Terry Cooke . . 29

The Deserted Village Oliver Goldsmith ... 90

An Autumn Spectacle Helen Hunt Jackson . . 34

The King James Whitcomb Piley . 37

Maggie Tulliver Visits the Gypsies ,39

My PlaymcUe John G. Whittier . . 48

Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel . . . Leigh Hunt . . . . ' 51

Benediction Cardinal Nevnnan , . 61

The Exile of Erin Thomas Campbell . .62

Excelsior Henry W. Longfellow . 64

The Battle of the Ants Henry D. Thoreau . . 55

77tc Destruction of Sennacherib . . . Lord Byron .... 69

An Idyl of the Apple Tree .60

Going A- Maying Robert Herrick ... 62

The Blind Martyr Cardinal Wiseman . . 64

Under the Viol^ Oliver Wendell Holmes. 71

CoNTKNTS.

The Pig-Merchant

In tbje Orkat Fur- Land . .

Thf ForMt Fire

Thi Dkath or Paul Dombky.
The Stream </ L\fe ....

Dickens in Camp

Thk MA88

SUpbyStep

An April Day

Battlk of Sbdokmoor . . .

Song of Vie Camp

In Memory of My Brother . .
The Escape of Qitebn Mary

LOOHLBVEN CASTLB ...

Yarrow Vvtited .,,..,
Home Thoughts from Abroad .
Free- Will and HAarr . . .

Ballad of Athlohe

The Glimbino of PkrcII Rock

The Chase

Love of Country

Richard I. in Palestinr . .

Before Agincourt

Encounter with a Panther .

Song of the Hirer

Thb Sermon on the Mount .
As I Came Down from Lebanon
The Ballad of Baby Bell . .
Corn Betfer Than Gold . .

The Heritage

Paradise and the Peri . . .
The Origin of Roast Pio . .
Ye Mariners of England. . .
Wolfb at Quebec ....

Cavalry Song

The Crowded Street ....
My Garden Acquaintance

The Water-Fowl

The Journey to Bethlehem .
St. Anthony of Padua. . .

from

Anon

Chat. O. D. RoberU
Charles Dickens . .
Arthur Hugh Clough
Bret Harte. . . .
Cardinal Newman .
/. O. Holland . .
Caroline A. B. Southey
Conan Doyle . . .
Bayard Taylor . .
Father Ryan . . .

Sir Walter ScoU . .
William Wordsworth.
Robert Browning . .
Cardinal Manning .
Aubrey de Vere . .
Gilbert Parker . .
Sir Walter ScoU . .
Sir Walter ScoU . .
John Lingard . . .
Shakespeare . . .
J. Fenimore Cooper .
Sidney Lanier . . .
St. MaUhew v, vi, vii

Thomas B. Aldrich .
Edward EvereU . .
Jam^s Russell Lowell
Thomas Moore . .
Charles Lamb . . .
ThomMS Campbell
George Bancroft . .
Edmund C. Stedman

William Cullen Bryant
Jam£s Russell Lowell

William Cullen Bryant
Cardinal Wiseman .
Reo. J. R. Teefy .

Pasi.
72

. 74

. 76

. 79

. 84

. 85

. 86

. 88

. 90

. 91

. 100

. 101

. 102
. 109
. Ill
. 112
. 114
. 115
. 120
. 124
. 124
. 129
. 131
. 136
. 138
. 143
. 144
. 148
. 150
. 152
. 156
. 161
. 162
. 167
168
169
174
175
177

Coy""'NTs.

Maearius the Monk

7%e Reaptr

VOTAOI OP COLUMBfTg

Skipper Ben

Thi Air and Water

King Robert qf Sieily

Our Nsw NEioHBonn

Solitude

To the Dandelion

The Home of My Childhood . .
Lines on My Mother's Picture , . .

The Shipwreck

Alec YecUon's Son

The Akoelus

llie Angelvs

Cortes in Mexico

Waterloo .

Rip Van Winkle ». .

A Psalm of Life

The Discovery op Lake Champlain

The Indian's Faith

Horatius

The Grbatnehs op Odr Heritage .

The Thousand Islands

Map'Day

Early Canadian Martyrs ....

Ood the Comforter

The Combat

Joan of Arc ........

The Virgin

A Doubting Heart

Our Vocation

My Psalm

The Chariot Rack

Inscription /or a Spring

To the Night

Conversion of England ....

On His Blindness

The Crusader and the Siiracen . .
A Day in June

Pasb.

John Boyle O'Beilly . .181

Wiiliam Wordsworth . 183

William Robertson . .184

Lucy Larcom .... 180

M. F. Maury. . . .101

Henry W. Longfellow . 194

Th<mas B. Aldrich . . 201

Alexander Pope ... 206

James Russell Lowell . 207

J. Q. Holland! . . . 206

William Cowper . . .210

Charles Dickens . . .212

Thomas B. Aldrich. . 218

Cardinal Wiseman . . 219

Bret Harle 222

William H. Prescott . 223
Lord Byron .... 280
Washington Irving . . 233
Henry W. Longfellow . 246
Francis Parkman . . 246
Thomas D'Arcy McGee. 261
Thomas B. Macaulay . 262
Hon. John Schultz . . 267
W. A. Croffut .... 260
Ralph Waldo Emerson . 261
W. R. Harris .... 263
Thomas Moore . . . 268
Sir Walter Scott . . .269
Thomas de Quincey . . 272
William Wordsworth. . 277
Adelaide A. Procter . . 278
Rev. F. W. Faber . .279
John Greenleaf Whittier 281
Lew Wallace .... 283
Samuel Taylor Coleridge 292
Perry Bysshe Shelley . . 292
Cardinal Newman . . 294
John Milton .... 298
Sir Walter Scott ... 298
J. R. Lowell .... 306

Contents.

The Everlasting Church

The Church of God

Venetian Life

Our Lady, in Italy

The'Skys ;.........

Odktb Autumn

WoUey'a Fall . . . .

A jell's ffifttOIWiPHY . \

irhe' Bells, qCShandon

VikvCredio^. . ..^ . -

SCRRENDIiiR OF 6B£HADA

Elegy Wr^n'^^d Country Churchyard .
The OredtHeaa-qfOod

Lord Macaulay .
Aubrey de Vere .
r/'. D. n&wells .
Henry W. Longfellow
John R'uakin , .
John Keats . . ,
Shakespeare . .
Nathaniel Hawthorne
Rev. Francis Mahony
John Dryden . .
Lord Lyiion . .
Thomas Oray . .
Psalm ciii . . .

Paob.

. 307
. 309
. 310
. 316
. 317
. 319
. 320
. 322
. 330
. 331
. 333
. 338
. 342

Paob.

. 307

. 309

. 310

. 316

. 317

, 319

320

322

330

331

333

338

342

FOURTH READER.

I.— THE MAP

All hail to the broad-leaved

With her fair and changef
A type of our youthful country

In its pride and loveliness ;
Whether in Spring or Summer,

Or in the dreary Fall,
*Mid Nature's forest children,

She's fairest of them all.

Down sunny slopes and valleys

Her graceful form is seen,
Her wide, umbrageous branches

'The sun-burnt reaper screen ;
'Mid the dark-browed firs and cedars

Her livelier colors shine,
Like the dawn of the brighter future

On the settler's hut of pine.

She crowns the pleasant hill-top,

Whispers on breezy downs,
And casts refreshing shadows

O'er the streets of our busy towns ;
She gladdens the achinj^ eye-bal.'i

Shelters the weary head,
And scatters her crimson glories

On the graves of the silent dead .
11

Fo^^nxH Reader.

Wh^^n Winter's frosts are yielding

To the sun's returning sway,
And merry groups are speeding
^-*^ 7 ^ To sugar- woods away ;
•t Then weet and wellinsr juices,

Whic^ form their welcome spoil,
) %f^ of tH|b teeming plenty,
. , VVhichi^ere waits honest toil.

'^^j^ Whe^J sweet-toned Spring, soft-breathing,
" *■ --; lireaks Nature's icy sleep,

And the forest boughs are swaying

Like the green waves of the deep ;
In her fair and budding beauty, •

A fitting emblem she
Of this our land of promise,
Of hope, of liberty.

And when her leaves, all crimson,

Droop silently and fall,
Like drops of life-blood welling

From a warrior brave and tall ;
They tell how fast and freely

Would her children's blood he shed,
Ere the soil of our faith and freedom

Should echo a foeman's tread.

Then hail to the broad-leaved Maple !

With her fair and changeful dress —
A type of our youthful country

In its pride and loveliness ;
Whether in Spring or Summer,

Or in the dreary Fall, ^

'Mid Nature's forest children.

She's fairest of them all

—Bev. //. F. Dar.wU.

On a Tropical River.

IL-ON A TROPICAL RIVER.

For three hours or more Amyas Leigh and his
companions paddled easily up the glassy and windless
reaches, between two green flower-bespangled walls of
forest, gay with innumerable birds and insects ; while
down from the branches which overhung the stream,
long trailers reached to the water's edge, and seemed
admiring in the clear mirror the images of their own
gorgeous flowers. River, trees, flowers, birds, insects, —
it was all a fairy-land ; but it was a colossal one ; and
yet the voyagers took little note of it.

It was now to them an everyday occurrence to see
trees full two hundred feet high one mass of yellow or
purple blossom to the highest twigs, and every branch
and stem one hanging garden of crimson and orange
orchids or vanillas. Common to them were all the
fantastic and enormous shapes with which Nature
bedecks her robes beneath the fierce suns and fattening
rains of the tropic forest. Common were forms and
colors of bird, and fish, and butterfly, more strange and
bright than ever opium eater dreamed.

The long processions of monkeys, who k:ept pace with
them along the tree-tops, and proclaimed their wondar
in every imaginable whistle and grunt and howl, had
ceased to move their laughter, as much as the roar of
the jaguar and the rustle of the boa had ceased to move
their fear. And ^vhen a brilliant green and rose-colored
fish, flat-bodied like a bream, flat-finned like a salmon,
ana saw-toothed like a shark, leaped clean on board of
the canoe to escape the rush of a huge alligator (whose

KoiIHTII HlOADKIl.

loaihHoiuo HiuMii, on^ lio ooiilil Miop, nodially mUlntl
ii^iUiiHt iUiy oiMioo), .liiok coolly )»irl<o<l up tlio MhIi, mikI
Haiti; "Hon four pound woi^hit IT you crlrh liHli for
UH liUo Muti, ol«) follow, juNt k(M>;) in our waUo, imd wo'll
f(ivc you tho cU>iiuin]t(N for yoiu* wmkom 1 "

Tlioy piwlillod onwHi'tl liotu' iiftor iKun', Hlit^Konn;;
iln>uim»lvoM im Im^nI {\wy rouM unilor Uio hIwuIovv of (ho
Houihoni imwk, wliilo on llioir n^lit hand (ho full huii-
^laro lay \\\Hm (ho ononnous wall of niinioHaM. W^h, and
lauivln, which foruHMJ iho nor(>h(»rn fon<M(, l>n»kon hy
iho Hlondor Hhafi.N of iMunhoo (uf(.M, and d<»ckod with a
thousand piudy ])arasi(>(«M. Hank upttn Uank of p)r^<>oUN
1)Uhmii piled upwani to (ho nky, (ill whon« itn outline cut
the l>luo, lloworH and loavos, Uh) lofty to iMMliNdn^uinhod
hy tho oyo, fornu»d a ln*okon r»iinlM)W of all Iiuoh tjuivor-
iuji; in tho luscondin^ Hd'oains of a/.un» nuNt, until (hoy
hoouumI (o molt ami niin^lo with (ho vory Iumivouh.

Ami lUM tho mu» n>Mo hi^iior and higher, a ^roat ntill-
noHH foil u|)on tho foroHt. Tho ja^uarH and (h(* nionkoys
hat! hidden thonisolvi^N in (ho darkest tl(»p(hH of (ho
whkhIw. Tho hinls' no(t»M died out one hy one; (ho vovy
buttorUiovS cxNiustHl their lli((injL!jM over tlu> tro(»-topN, and
8lep( with ouiHpremI win^s upon the K^^^'^^^y leaves,
undistin^uishahlo fixHu tho llowei\M ai'ound thoni. Now
anti then a parn)( swun^* and .seroanu»d at (Ihmu from an
overhiinjjinj; lH)Uifh : or a thirsty monk»»y slid lazily
down a swinj»;inji" vine to the surface of the stream,
dipiHHi up the water in his tiny hantl. and started
ohatterinu; Imck. aw his eyes nu>t thosi* of some l\)ul
nlliivator peering upward through the clear depths
below.

On a 'ritopK^Ai. KivKit.

\\\ Hhadml ikniUh ImwiohUi tlu^ Ih)U^I)n, riihbiU m lar^o
fiN Nhoop wont [>iMl<lliii^ Hl(M>pily roiiiid and round, tlirUHt-
in^ up ilioii* \inwi(^ldy IkmuIh atnon^ i)io hhKHnH of ilio
hUu) wator lilioH; wliilo black and ptu'plo wator-hiMm
ran U|) and down tipon {\m raflH of floating loavoH. Tlin
Mliinin^ Hnout of a frimli-wa.ti*r dol[)liin roHo Hlowly io
(lir Nurfaro; a jot of Hpray wliirrod up; a rainbow liun^
upon it for a niuniont; and tliu black nnout Hank la/.ily
a^ain.

Hero and tluM'«\ too, upon Hoino hIuiIIow pobbly nhoro,
Hcarlot llaniin^ooM Ht<»o<l droaniin^ knooHlo(*[) on otio lo^;
croNtod cranoH prancod up and down, admiring tlioir own
tinory ; and iriHoH and o^n^tH dippod tlioir billH tnid(M'
water in Noarcli of proy ; but boforo noon, ovon tlioHo
bad Hlipp(M| away, and (lioro roi^nod a HtiUnoHH wbicli
nii^bt bo board - Ik HtillnoHN in wbicb, aH Hundnildt Hayn:
"If bi^yond tlio nilonco wo liHt(»n for tbo faintoHt undiu'-
ton«5H, wo dotoci- a Htillod, continuoUH bum of inH<K>tN.

bid

I crow<

I tl

10 air cloHo

to til

IO carlli ; a con

fuHod

Hwarniin^ murmur wbicb lianj^H round ovory ImihIi, in
tbo cracko<l bark of tr<'(>M, in tbo Hoil uiidorminod by
lizardH and hvvn ; a voict^ proclaiming to uh tbat all
Natun> broatboH, tbat under a tbouHand diHori^nt forniH
lifo HwarniH in tbo ^apin^ and dtiNty (^artb, a.H miicli
aH in tbo bonom of tbo watorn, and in tbo air wliicOi
broatboH around."

Avo Maria ! blosHod }»o tho liour,

Th« timo, tho cliino, tho Rpot whom T ho oft
Ifavo f<»lt that moinotit in its fullent power

Sink o'or tho onrth, ho bountiful and Hoft !

Fourth Reader.

Ilf.-THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK.

I'll seek a four-leaved Shamrock in all the fairy dells,
And if I find the charmed leaves, oh, how I'll weave my spells !
I would not waste my magic mite on diamond, pearl, or gold,
For treasure tires the weary sense —such triumph is but cold ;
But I would play th' enchanter's part in casting Lass around —
Oh ! not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found.

To worth I would give honor ! — I'd dry the mourner's tears,

And to the pallid lip recall the smile of happier years.

And hearts that had been long estranged, and friends that had

grown cold.
Should meet again — like parted streams — and mingle as of old !
Oh! thus I'd play th' enchanter's part, thus scatter bliss around,
And not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found !

The heart that had been mourning o'er vanished dreams of love,
Should see them all returning — ke Noah's faithful dove;
And Hope should launch her blessed bark on Sorrow's darken-
ing sea.
And Misery's children have an ark and saved from sinking be.
Oh ! thus I'd play th' enchanter's part, thus scatter bliss around.
And not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found!

— Samuel Lover.

IV.— THE JOURNEY ONWARDS.

•

As slow our ship her foamy track

Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still look'd back

To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
So loth we part from all we love,

From all the links that bind us ;
So turn our hearts, as on we rove,

To those we've left behind us !

Teaching and Character of Jesus Christ. 17

Aud when, in other climes, we meet

Some isle or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flowery, wild and sweet,

And nought but love is wanting ;
We think how great had been our bliss

If Heaven had but assign'd us
To live and die in scenes like this,

With some we've left behind us !

As travellers oft look back at eve

When eastward darkly going,
To gaze upon that light they leave

Still faint behind them glowing, —
So, when the close of pleasure's day

To gloom hath near consign'd us,

We turn to catch one fading ray

Of joy that's left behind us.

— Thomas Moore.

v.— TEACHING AND CHARACTER OF JESUS

CHRIST.

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

When surveying the flowers that adorn the mead, He
exhorts His disciples to put their trust in Providence,

Fourth Reader.

I ■

who supports the feeble plants, and feeds the birds of
the air; when He beholds the fruits of the earth, He
teaches them to judge of men by their works ; an infant
is brought to Him, and He recommends innocence ; being
among shepherds, He gives Himself the appellation of
the Good Shepherd ^ and represents Himself as bringing
back the lost sheep to the fold.

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

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

In Him th»^ love of country may find a model. "O
Jerusalem, Jerusalem," He exclaimed, at the idea of the
judgments which threatened that guilty city, "how
often would I have gathered thy children together,

' a !

Lead, Kindly Light.

even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings,

and ye would not!" Casting His sorrowful eyes from

the top of a hill over this city, doomed for her crimes to

a signal destruction. He was unable to restrain His tears:

"He beheld the city" says the evangelist, '* and wept

over it." His tolerance was not less remarkable : when

His disciples begged Him to command fire to come down

from heaven on a village of Samaria, which had denied

Him hospitality, He replied with indignation, " Ye know

not what manner of spirit ye are of"

— Chateaubriand.

VL— LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT.

Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,

Lead Thou me on ;
The night is dark, and I am far from home,

Lead Thou me on ;
Keep Thou ray feet ; I do not ask to see
The distant scene ; one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou

Shouldst lead me on ;
I loved to choose and see my path ; but now

Lead Thou me on :
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will — remember not past years.

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still

Will lead me on,
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till

The night is gone,
And with the morn those angel faces smile,
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

— Cardinal Nevnnan.

20 Fourth Ukader.

VII.— THE DAFFODILS.

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host of golden daffodils,

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way.
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay :
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance .

The waves beside them danced, but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee ; —

A Poet could not but be gay

In such a jocund company !

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought ;

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Wliich is the bliss of solitude ;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daflbdils.

— Wililam Wordsworth.

i i

God often giveth in one short moment what he hath a
long time denied.

,11..

Hunting the Deer.

VIII. - HUNTING THE DEER.

After it was thoroughly dark we went down to make
a short trial-trip. Everything working to satisfac-
tion, about ten o'clock we pushed out in earnest.
The night was clear, moonless, and still. Nearing the
middle of the lake, a breeze from the west was barely
perceptible, and noiselessly we glided before it. The
guide handled his oar with great dexterity ; without
lifting it from the water or breaking the surface, he
imparted the steady, uniform motion desired. How
silent it was! The ear seemed the only sense, and to
hold dominion over lake and forest. Occasionally a
lily-pad would brush along the bottom, and stooping
low I could hear a faint murmuring of the water under
the bow: else all was still. Then, almost as by magic,
we were encompassed by a huge black ring. The sur-
face of the lake, when we had reached the centre, was
slightly luminous from the starlight ; and the dark, even
forest-line that surrounded us, doubled by reflection in
the water, presenting a broad, unbroken belt of utter
blackness. The effect was quite startling, like some
huge conjurer's trick. It seemed as if we had crossed
the boundary-line between the real and the imaginary,
and this was indeed the land of shadows and of spectres.
What magic oar was that the guide wielded that it could
transport me to such a realm ! Indeed, had I not com-
mitted some fatal mistake and left that trusty servant
behind, and had not some wizard of the night stepped
into his place? A slight splashing inshore broke the
spell and caused me to turn nervously to the oarsman :
" Musquash," said he, and kept straight on.

Fourth Header.

After ail hour's delay, and near midnight, we pushed
out again. My vigilance and susceptibility were rather
sharpened than dulled by the waiting ; and the features
of the night had also deepened and intensified. Night
was at its meridian. The sky had that soft luminous-
ness which may often be observed near midnight at this
season, and the "large few stars " beamed mildly down.
We floated out into that spectral shadow-land and
moved slowly on as before. The silence was most
impressive. Now and then the faint yeap of some
travelling bird would come from the air overhead, or the
wings of a bat whisp quickly by, or an owl hoot off in
the mountains, giving to the silence and loneliness a
tongue. At short intervals some noise inshore would
startle me, and cause me to turn inquiringly to the silent
figure in the stern.

The end of the lake was reached, and we turned back.
The novelty and the excitement began to flag ; tired
nature began to assert her claims ; the movement was
soothing, and the gunner slumbered fitfully at his post.
Presently something aroused me. "There's a deer,"
whispered the guide. The gun heard, and fairly jumped
in my hand. Listening, there came the cracking of a
limb followed by a sound as of something walking in
shallow water. It proceeded from the other end of the
lake, over against our camp. On we sped, noiselessly as
ever, but with increased velocity. Presently, with a
thrill of new intensity, I saw the boat was gradually
heading in that direction. " Light the jack," said a soft
whisper behind me. I fumbled nervously for a match,
and dropped the first one. Another attempt, and the
light took. The gentle motion fanned the blaze, and in

HrsTiNtj THK Deer.

•2n

a moment a broad glare of liglit foil u|Mm i\\o. water in
front of us, while the boat remained in utter darkness.
By this time I had got beyond the nervous point, and
had come round to perfect coolness and composure again,
but preteniaturally vigilant and keen. I was ready for
any disclosures; not a sound was heard. In a few
moments the trees along-shore were faintly visible.
Every object put on the shape of a gigantic deer. A
large rock looked just ready to bound away. The dry
limbs of a prostrate tree were surely his antlers.

But what are those two luminous spots ? Need the
reader to be told what they were? In a moment the head
of a real deer became outlined ; then his neck and fore-
shoulders ; then his whole body. There he stood, up to
his knees in the water, gazing fixedly at us, apparently
arrested in the movement of putting his head down
for a lily -pad, and evidently thinking it was some new-
fangled moon sporting about there. " Let him have it,"
said my prompter, — and the crash came. There was a
scuffle in the water, and a plunge in the woods. " He's
gone," said I. " Wait a moment," said tlie guide, " and I
will show you." Rapidly running the canoe ashore, we
sprang out, and holding the jack aloft, explored the
vicinity by its light. There, over the logs and brush, I
caught the glimmer of those luminous spots again. But,
poor thing! there was little need of the second shot,
which was the unkindest cut of all, for the deer had
already fallen to the ground, and was fast expiring.
The success was but a very indifferent orj.e, after all, as
the victinr turned out to be only an old doe, upon whom
maternal cares had evidently worn heavily during the
summer. —John Burroughs.

j! 1

Fourth Keadeu.

IX.— THE BAREFOOT BOY.

Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan !
With thy turned-up pantaloons.
And thy merry whistled tunes ;
"With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill ;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace :
From my heart I give thee joy, —
I was once a barefoot boy !

Oh, for boyhood's painless play.
Sleep that w^akes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge, never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee's morning chase.
Of the wild-flower's time and place.
Flight of fowl and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood ;
How the tortoise bears his shell ;
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well ;
How the robin feeds her young.
How the oriole's nest is hung ;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow.
Where the groundnut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ;
Of the black wasp's cunning way, —
Mason of his walls of clay, —
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans '- -

The Barefoot Boy.

For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks ;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy, —
Blessings on the barefoot boy !

Oh, for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowi of milk and bread, —
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude !
O'er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent.
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold ;
While *or music came the play
Of the pied frogs' orchestra ;
And, to light the noisy choir.
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch : pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy !

Cheerily, then, my little man.
Live and laugh, as boyhood can !
Though the flinty slopes be hard.
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew ;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat :
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod.
Like a colt's for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,

Fourth Reader.

Up and down in ceaseless moil ;
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground ;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy !

-John O. Whittier.

X.— FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dreai^i .

Thou stockdove whose echo resounds through the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, —
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills.

Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills, —

There daily I wander as noon rises high.

My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below.
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow, —
There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resid<js ;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.

St. Elizabeth of Hungary.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, swaet river, the theme of my lays ;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

— Robert Burns,

XL— ST. ELIZABETH OF HUNGARY.

The tender piety with which Elizabeth of Hunj]^ary
had been animated from her childhood, after her mar-
riage took every day new developments, which in a
short time merited for her the sweet and glorious title
under which all Christendom now venerates her — that
of Patroness of the Poor.

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 tlie suffering membei's of
Christ.

This vvas her ruling thought each hour and moment;
to the use of the poor she dedicated all that slie re-
trenched from the superfluities usually required by her
sex and rank. Yet, notwithstanding the resources that
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 herself of her clothes in
order to have the means of assisting the unfortunate.

But it was not alone by presents or with money that
the young princess testified her love for the poor of

Fourth Reader.

Christ ; it was still more by personal devotion, by those
tender and patient cares which are assuredly, in the
sight of both God and the sufferers, the most holy and
most precious alms. She applied herself to these duties
with simplicity and unfailing gayety of manner. When
the sick sought her aid, after relieving their wants, she
would inquire where they lived, in order that she might
visit them, and no distance, no roughness of road, could
keep her from them.

She knew that nothing strengthened feelings of
charity more than to penetrate into all that is positive
and material in human misery. She sought out the
huts most distant from her castle, which were often
repulsive through filth and bad air; yet she entered
these haunts of poverty in a manner at once full of
devotion and familiarity. She herself carried what she
thought would be necessary for their miserable inhabi-
tants. She consoled them, far less by her generous gifts
than by her sweet and affectionate words.

Elizabeth loved to carry secretly to the poor not only
money, but provisions and other matters which she
destined for them. She went, thus laden, by the wind-
ing and rugged paths that led from the castle to the
city, and to cabins of the neighboring valleys. One day,
when accompanied by one of her favorite maidens, as
she descended from the castle, 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

Give Freely.

you carry," and at the same time drew open the mantle
which she held closely clasped to her bosom ; but be-
neath 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. Seeing that
Elizabeth was troubled, he sought to console her by his
caresses, but he ceased suddenly, on seeing over her head
a luminous appearance in the form of a crucifix.

He then desired her to continue her route without
being disturbed by him, and he returned to Wartburg,
meditating with recollection on what God did for her,
and caiTying with him one of those wonderful roses,
which he preserved all his life. 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.

— BioiUcUembert.

XII.—GIVE FREELY.

Give ! as the morning that flows out of heaven ;
Give ! as the waves when their channel is riven ;
Give ! as the free air and sunshine are given ;

Lavishly, utterly, joyfully give :
Not the waste drops of thy cup overflowing,
Not the faint sparks of thy hearth ever glowing,
Not a pale bud from the June roses blowing ;

Give, as He gave thee, who gave thee to live.

Pour out thy love, like the rush of a river.

Wasting its waters forever and ever,

Through the burnt sands that reward not the givei*

Silent or songful, thou nearest the sea.
3

1 '!

80 Fourth Reader.

Scatter thy life as the summer showers pouring !
What if no bird through the pearl-rain is soaring 1
What if no blossom looks upward adoring ?

Look to the Life that was lavished for thee !

So the wild wind strews its perfumed caresses,
Evil and thankless the desert it blesses,
Bitter the wave that its soft pinion presses.

Never it ceaseth to whisper and sing.
What if the hard heart give thorns for thy roses ?
What if on rocks thy tired bosom reposes ?
Sweetest is music with minor-keyed closes,

Fairest the vines that on ruin will cling.

»
Almost the day of thy giving is over ;

Ere from the grass dies the bee-haunted clover,

Thou wilt have vanished from friend and from lover ;

What shall thy longing avail in the grave ?
Give, as the heart gives, whose fetters are breaking.
Life, love, and hope, all thy dreams and thy waking,
Soon heaven's river thy soul-fever slaking,

Thou shalt know God, and the gift that He gave.

— Hose Terry Cooke.

XIII.— THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid.
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed :
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease.
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loitered o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene 1

The Deserted > llage.

How often have I paused on every charm, —

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,

The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topped the neighboring hill,

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,

For talking age and whispering lovers made !

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ;
There, as I piissed with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below;
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung.
The sober hei-d that lowed to meet their young,
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool.
The playful children just let loose from school.
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; —
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled.
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear.
And passing rich with forty pounds a year ;
Remote from towns he ran his gcdly race.
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place ;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power.
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train —
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their i>ain :
The long-remembered l>eggar was his guost.

'At

is;^

Fourth Reader.

Whose beard, descending, swept his agfed breast ;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
.Sat by his fire, and talked the night away ;
Wept o'er his wounds or tales of sorrow done.
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride.
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side ;
But in his duty prompt at every call.
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all ;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies.
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid.
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace.
His looks adorned the venerable place j
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway.
And fools, who came to scoffs, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ;
E'en children followed with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile ;
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,

t J

The Dkskutki) Viixaijk.

U:\

Their welfare pleased liiin, and their earns <lis(re88e<i ;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way.
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay.
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule.
The village master taught his little sch<K)l .
A man severe he was, and stern to view ;
I knew him well, and every truant knew.
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face ;
Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ;
Full well the busy whisper, circling round.
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.
Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
The village all declared how much he knew —
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage.
And even the story ran — that he could gauge ;
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill.
For e'en though vanquish-^d, he could argue still ;
While words of learned length and thundering sound
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ;
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. The very spot
Where many a time he triumphed is forgot.

— Oliver QoldemUh.

Til

KOL'IITH IlKADKH.

XIV.— AN AUTUMN SPECTACLE.

! t

On a night, not appointed beforehand, we went to
sleep in Bethlehem, New Hampshire. Ranges of moun-
tains, solid, blue, and stately, hedged us round, yet left
open for our untiring gaze so wide a circle that at its
outer rim, even in clearest days, lingered a purple haze.

Near us were fields of brown ferns, scarlet cornels,
and gray boulders frosted with myriad lichens; and
woods, rich in all sorts of growths, soft underfoot with
unnumbered mosses, and low flowering things. All this
seemed enough, and we went to sleep content, but not
expectant of more than we had had.

With the leisurely feeling that wraps solitary people,
in the warm, autumn mountain weather, we set our-
selves to begin the day, and by chance looked out of our
window. Like children, at sight of a merry juggler's
show, we shouted with delight, then drew long, silent
breaths, with a bewilderment too like awe to find easy
shape in words. O whence ! O who ! and how had their
feet passed by so noiselessly ? Who had touched with
this enchantment every leaf of every tree which stood
within our sight?

Every maple tree blazed at top with tint of scarlet, or
cherry, or orange, or pale yellow. Every ash tree had
turned from green to dark purple, or to pale straw-color.
Every birch shimmered and e^uivered in the sun, as if
gold pieces had been strung along its branches; bass-
woods were flecked with white, beeches were brown and
yellow, poplars were marked and spotted with vermilion,
sumachs had become ladders, and bars, and fringes of

An Autitmn Spectacle.

I went to
of moun-
(1, yet left
lat at its
rple haze.

cornels,
lens; and
foot with
All this
but not

y people,
set our-
ut of our
juggler's
ig, silent
find easy
lad their
led with
ch stood

arlet, or
tree had
w-color.
in, as if
s; bass-
•wn and
rmilion,
nges of

lire ; not a single tree was left of solid dark green,
except the pines, the larches, and the firs, and they also
aeeiiied to have shared in the transformation, looking
darker and greener than ever, as a setting for those
masses of flashing color. Single trees in fields, near and
far, l(X)ked like great hewn jewels: with light behind
tliem, their tints fiickered and waved as in transparent
stones held up to the sun. When the wind shook them
it was like nothing but the tremulousness of distant seas
at sunset.

All this in one night ! To north, to south, to east, to
west, it was the same. Miles away, at the very foot of
the farthest green mountains, shone the glory ; within
our hand's reach, at the neighbors' gates, stood the
stately splendor.

With reverent eyes we went close into territory after
territory; coming nearer we found that the scarlet or
the claret, tb«^ crimson or the orange, which we had seen
from the distance, was no longer scarlet, claret, crimson
or orange, but all these and more than all of these, shad-
ing up and down and into each other by gradations
indistinguishable and fine beyond all counting; alter-
nating and interrupting each other with an infinity of
change, almost like caprice or frolic.

Every day we said, "This will be the last;" and
indeed, it was the last, bearing away with it its own tint
of glory never to return. But the next was as beautiful,
sometimes we thought more beautiful, except that the
brilliance of the long royal line before it had dulled our
sense. Bright days dazzled us and made us leap in their
sun; gray days surprised us, revealing new tints and
more gorgeous colors.

i 1

r,!l

! 'I

Foimni Header.

And there whh a Ichsoii in the Huddeii disco vering,
hour by hour, of tiny hidden leaves of unnoted things,
underfoot in fields, tucked away in he<lge8, lying low
even in edges of dusty roads, but bright and bui*nished
a« those loftiest in air. Strawberry leaves dappled with
claret spots, or winey red with rims of yellow; raspberry
and blackberry shoots as brilliant as maples ; the odd
little shovel-shaped sorrel leaves, a deep clear cherry just
pricked with orange ; patient old " hard-hack," sticking
to its heavy plumes of seed, through thick and thin of
wind, — its pretty oval leaves all tinted with delicate
browns and yellows and pinks ; " tire weed " with no two
of its sharp, slender, spike-shaped leaves of a tint, some
mottled, some scarlet, some yellow, some green; — all
these we found, and more whose colors I cannot define,
and whose names I do not know.

As I write the air is full of whirling leaves, brown,
yellow, and red. The show is over. The winds, like
noisy carpenters, are taking down the scenery. Soon
the naked wood of the trees will be all that we shaL ^je
of last week's pomp and spectacle. But the next, thing
in beauty to a tree in full leaf, is a tree bare ; its very
exquisiteness of shape revealed, its hold on the sky
seeming so unspeakably assured ; the solemn grace of
prophecy and promise w^hich every slender twig bears in
its tiny gray buds revealed.

Last night, as if in final symphony to the play, and
grand prelude of winter, the color spirits took possession
of the sky, and for three hours shook its very folds with
the noiseless cadence of their motions. There they all
were, the green, the pink, the fiery red, which we had
dared to touch and pick in leaves, now floating and

^'»

The Kisti.

:<7

(lancing 111 (lisomlMHlied «»cHtaHy over our IummIh, wrap|MMl
and twined in very light of very light as in celestial

garments.

Fro.n the zenith to the eastern, western, and northern
horizon, no H\)oi was <lark. If there IukI l)een snow on
the groun<l it w(jnld hav(; been lit to redness as by fire.
Tlie village looked on in sohMnn silence; bare-heade<l
men and women stood almost in awe at every threshold
and gate. This also was such sight as had not been
seen from their doors. The oldest man here does not
remendjer such an auroia. It is hard to Ijelieve that
Lapland itself ever saw one more weird, more beautiful.

— Helen Hunt Jackson,

i -I

XV.-THE KING.

They rode right out of the morning sun —

A glimmering, glittering cavalcade
Of knights and ladies, and every one

In princely sheen arrayed ;
And the king of them all, O he rode ahead,
With a helmet of gold, and a plume of red
That spurted about in the breeze and bled

In the bloom of the everglade.

And they rode high over the dewy lawn,
With brave, glad banners of every hue,
That rolled in ripples, as they rode on

In splendor, two and two ;
And the tinkling links of the golden reins
Of the steeds they rode rang such refrains
As the castanets in a dream of Spain's

Intensest gold and blue.

1'3

; f:

38 Fourth Reader.

And they rode and rode ; and the steeds they neighed

And pranced, and the sun on their glossy hides
Flickered and lightened and glanced and played

Like the moon on rippling tides ;
And their manes were silken, and thick and strong,
And their tails were flossy, and fetlock-long.
And jostled in time to the teeming throng,

And their knightly song besides.

Clank of scabbard, and jingle of spur.

And the fluttering sash of the queen wen. m\d
In the wind, and the proud king glanced at her

As one at a wilful child, —
And as knight and lady away they flew,
And the banners flapped, and the falcon, too,
And the lances flashed and the bugle blew,

He kissed his hand and smiled. —

And then, like a slanting sunlit shower.
The pageant glittered across the plain.
And the turf spun back, and wild-weed flower

Was only a crimson stain ;
And a dreamer's eyes they are downward cast,
As he blends these words with the wailing blast :
" It is the King of the Year rides past !
And Autumn is here again."

— James Whitcomb Riley.

Reading tht. compositions of a great man unites our
soul to his, it carries us away with him, inundates us
with celestial brightness, elevates, enlarges and en-
lightens us. This is the sort of book we ought to read.
A book may raise you up to heaven or degrade you to
the lowest depths.

*>-lU«i

Maggie Tulliver Visits the Gypsies.

neighed
es

3ng,

ley.

our

3 us

en-
ead.
1 to

XVI.-MAGGIE TULLIVER VISITS THE

GYPSIES.

The gypsies, Maggie considered, would gladly receive
her and pay her much lospect on account of her superior
knowledge. She had once mentioned her views on this
point to Tom, and suggested that he sliould stain his
face brown and they should run away together; but
Tom rejected the scheme with contempt, observing that
gypsies were thieves and hardly got anything to eat and
had nothing to drive but a donkey.

To-day, however, Maggie thought her misery had
reached a point at which gypsy dom was her only
refuge; she would run straight away till slie came to
Dunlow Common, where there would certainly be
gypsies, and cruel Tom and the rest of her relations
who found fault with her should never see her any
more.

She thought of her father as she ran along, but she
reconciled herself to the idea of parting with him by
determining that she would secretly send him a letter
by a small gypsy, who would run away without telling
where she was, and just let him know that she was well
and happy and always loved him very much.

Maggie soon got out of breath with running and
stopped to pant a little, reflecting that running away
was not a pleasant thing until one had got quite to the
common where the gypsies were. But her resolution
had not abated ; she presently passed through the gate
into the lane, not knowing where it would lead her.

^ f J

' .'^•1

FouHTH Reader.

But at last Maggie actually saw the little semi-
circular black tent, with the blue smoke rising before
it, which w^as to be her refuge.

She even saw a tall female figure by the column of
smoke, — doubtless the gypsy mother, who provided the
tea and other groeei-ies ; it was astonishing to herself
that she did not feel more delighted.

It was plain she had attracted attention, for the tall
figure, who proved to be a young woman with a baby
on her arm, walked slowly to meet her. Maggie looked
up in the new face rather tremblingly as it approached.

" My little lady, where are you going to ? " the gypsy
said, in a tone of coaxing deference.

It was delightful and just what Maggie expected ; the
gypsies saw" at once that she was a little lady, and were
prepared to treat her accordingly.

" Not any farther," said Maggie, feeling as if she were
saying what she had rehearsed in a dream. " I'm come
to stay with you, please."

" That's pretty ; come, then. Why, what a nice little
lady you are, to be sure," said the gypsy, taking her by
the hand. Maggie thought her very agreeable, but
wished she had not been so dirty.

There was quite a group round the fire when they
reached it. An old gypsy woman was seated on the
ground ; two small shock -headed children were lying
prone and resting on their elbows, and a placid donkey
was bending his head over a tall girl, who, lying on her
back, was scratching his nose and indulging him with a
bite of excellent stolen hay.

14,

■P^M

Maggie Tulliver Visits the Gypsies.

The slanting sunlight fell kindly upon them, and the
scene was very pretty and comfortable, Maggie thought,
only she hoped they would soon set out the tea-cups.
Everything would be quite charming when she had
taught the gypsies to use a washing-basin and to feel
an interest in books.

It was a little confusing, though, that the young
woman began to speak to the old one in a language
which Maggie did not understand, while the tall girl
who was feeding the donkey sat up and stared at her
without offering any salutation. At last the old woman
said : " What, my pretty lady, are you come to stay
with us? Sit ye down and tell us where you come
from." It was just like a story ; Maggie liked to be
called pretty lady and treated in this way. She sat
down and said : " I'm come from home because I'm
unhappy, and I mean to be a gypsy. I'll live with you,
if you like, and I can teach you a great many things."

" Such a clever little lady," said the woman with the
baby, sitting down by Maggie and allowing baby to
crawl ; " and such a pretty bonnet and frock," she added,
taking otf Maggie's bonnet and looking at it, while she
made an observation in the unknown language to the
old woman. The tall girl snatched the bonnet and put
it on her own head hind-foremost, with a grin ; but
Maggie was determined not to show any weakness on
this subject.

" I don't want to wear a bonnet," she said ; " I'd rather
wear a red handkerchief like yours."

" Oh, what a nice little lady ! — and rich, I'm sure," said
the old woman. " Didn't you live in a beautiful liousu
at home { "

m
W

Fourth Reader.

"Yes, my home is pretty, and I'm very fond of the
river where we go fishing ; bufe I'm often very unhappy.
I should have liked to bring my books with me, but I
came away in a hurry, you know. But I can tell you
almost everything there is in my books, I've read them
so many times, and that will amuse you. And I can tell
you something about geography, too — that's about the
world we live in — very useful and interesting. Did you
ever hear about Columbus ? "

Maggie's eyes had begun to sparkle and her cheeks to
flush — she was really beginning to instruct the gypsies
and gaining great influence over them. The gypsies
themselves were not without amazement at this talk,
though their attention was divided by the contents of
Maggie's pocket, which the friend at her right hand had
by this time emptied without attracting her notice.

" Is that where you live, my little lady ? " said the old
woman at the mention of Columbus.

" Oh, no ! " said Maggie, with some pity ; " Columbus
was a very wonderful man who found out half the
world, and they put chains on him, and treated him very
badly, you know — it's in my catechism of geography —
but perhaps it's rather too long to tell before tea. I want
my tea so."

"Here's a bit of nice victual, then," said the old
woman, handing to Maggie a lump of dry bread, which
she had taken from a bag of soaps, and a piece of cold
bacon. ''Thank you," said Maggie, looking at the food
without taking it; "but will you give me some bread
and butter and tea instead ? I don't like bacon.'*
"We've no tea nor butter," said the old woman, with

Maggie Tulliver Visits the Gypsies.

something, like a scowl, as if she were getting tired of
coaxing.

" Oh, a little bread and treacle would do," said Maggie.

"We've no treacle," said the old woman crossly;
whereupon there followed a sharp dialogue between the
two women in their unknown tongue, and one of the
small children snatched at the bread and bacon and
began to eat it.

At this moment the tall girl, who had gone a few
yards off, came back and said something which produced
a strong effect. The old woman, seemmg to forget Mag-
gie's hunger, poked the skewer into the pot with new
vigor, and the younger crept under the tent and reached
out some platters and spoons.

Maggie trembled a little and was afraid the tears
would come into her eyes. But the springing tears
were checked by a new terror when two men came up.
The elder of the two carried a bag, which he flung
down, addressing the women in a loud and scolding
tone, while a black cur ran barking up to Maggie and
threw her into a tremor.

Maggie felt that it was impossible she should ever
be queen of these people or ever communicate to them
amusing and useful knowledge.

Both the men now seemed to be inquiring about
Maggie, for they looked at her, and the tone of the con-
versation became of that kind which implies curiosity
on one side and the power of satisfying it on the other.
At last the younger woman said, in her coaxing tone :

"This nice little lady's come to live with us; aren't
you glad ? "

.MM

V ■■*[

■ 4

Fourth Reader.

I;l

111'

"Ay, very glad," said the younger, who was. looking at
Maggie's silver thimble and other small matters that had
been taken from her pocket. He returned them all,
except the thimble, to the younger woman, and she
immediately restored them to Maggie's pocket, while the
men seated themselves and began to attack the contents
of the kettle, — a stew of meat and potatoes, — which had
been taken ott' the fire and turned out into a yellow
platter.

Maggie began to think that Tom must be right about
the gypsies ; they must certainly be thieves, unless the
man meant to return her thimble by and by. She
would willingly have given it to him, for slie was not at
all attached to her thimble ; but the idea that she was
among thieves prevented her from feeling any comfort
in the revival of attention toward her. All thieves
except Robin Hood were wicked people. The woman
saw that she was frightened.

" We've got nothing nice for a lady to eat," said the
old woman, in her* coaxing tone. "And she's so hungry,
sweet little lady."

" Here, my dear, try if you can eat a bit of this," said
the younger woman, handing some of the stew on a
brown dish with an iron spoon to Maggie, who, remem-
bering that the old woman had seemed angry with her
for not liking the bread and bacon, dared not refuse the
stew, though fdar had chased away her appetite.

If her father would but come by in the gig and take
her up ! Or even f Jack the Giant-killer, or Mr. Great-
heart, or St. George, who slew the dragon on the half-
pennies, would happen to pass that way ! But Maggie

thou

Maggie Tulliver Visits the Gypsies.

thought with a sinking heart that these heroes were
never seen in the neighborhood of St. Ogg's. Nothing
very wonderful ever came there.

Her ideas about tlie gypsies had undergone a rapid
modification in tlie last five minutes. From having con-
sidered them very respectful companions, she had begun
to think that tliey meant perhaps to kill her as soon as
it was dark. It was no use trying to eat the stew, and
yet the thing she most dreaded was to offend the gypsies.

" What j you don't like the smell of it, my dear," said
tlie young woman, observing that Maggie did not even
take a spoonful of the stew. " Try a bit, come."

"No, thank you," said Maggie, trying to smile in a
friendly way. "I haven't time, I think; it seems
getting darker. I think I must go home now and come
again another day, and then I can bring you a basket
with some jam tarts and nice things."

Maggie rose from her seat; but her hope sank when
the old gypsy woman said, " Stop a bit, stop a bit, little
lady; we'll take you home, all safe, when weVe done
supper. You shall ride home like a lady."

Maggie sat^down again, with little faith in this pro-
mise, though she presently saw the tall girl putting a
bridle on the donkey and throwing a couple of bags on
his back.

'' Now, then, little missis," said the younger man, ris-
ing and leading the donkey forward, " tell us where you
live ; what's the name of the place ? '*

"Dorlcote Mill is my home," said Maggie eagerly.
"My father is Mr. Tulliver; he lives there."

" What ! a big mill a little way this side of St. Ogg's?"
4

■'M

• '.' 1

■ ■■'*< J

I'"

Fourth Reader.

" Yes," said Maggie. " Is it far off' ? I think I should
like to walk there, if you please."

"No, no, it'll be getting dark; we must make haste.
.And the donkey '11 carry you as nice as can be; you'll
sec." He lifted Maggie as he spoke and set her on the
donkey. " Here's your pretty bonnet," said the younger
woman, putting that recently despised but now welcome
article of costume on Maggie's head; "and you'll say
we've been very good to you, won't you ? and what
a nice little lady we said you were ? " " Oh, yes, thank
you," said Maggie. "I'm very much obliged to you.
But I wish you'd go with me, too." She thought any-
thing was better than going with one of the dreadful
men alone.

" Ah ! you're fondest of me, aren't you ? " said the
woman. " But I can't go ; you'll go too fast for me."

It now appeared that the man also was to be seated
on the donkey, holding Maggie before him. When the
woman had patted her on the back and said " Good-bye,"
the donkey, at a strong hint from the man's stick, set off"
at a rapid walk along the lane toward the point Maggie
had come from an hour ago. The tall girl and the
rough urchin, also furnished with sticks, obligingly
escorted them for the first hundred yards, with much
screaming and thwacking.

Much terrified was poor Maggie in this entirely Jitu-
ral ride on a short-paced donkey, with a gypsy behind
her, who considered that he was earning half a crown.

The red light of the setting sun seemed to have a por-
tentous meaning, with which the alarming bray of the

il:

Maggie Tulliver Visits the GvpsiEa

second donkey with the log on its foot must surely have
some connection.

Two low, thatched cottages — the only houses they
passed in this lane — seemed to add to its dreariness;
they had no windows to speak of, and the doors were
closed. It was probable tliat they were inhabited by
witches, and it was a relief to find that the donkey did
not stop there.

At last— oh, sight of joy ! — this lane, the longest in
the world, was coming to an end, was opening on a
broad highroad, where there was actually a coach pass-
ing ! The gypsy really meant to take her home, tlien ;
he was probably a good man, after all, and might have
been rather hurt at the thought that she didn't like
coming with him alone.

This idea became stronger as she felt more and more
certain that she knew the road quite well, and she was
considering how she might open a conversation with the
injured gypsy when, as they reached a cross-road, Maggie
caught sight of someone coming on a white-faced horse.

" Oh, stop, stop ! " she cried out. " There's my father !
O, father, father ! "

The sudden joy was almost painful, and before her
father reached her she was sobbing. Great was Mr.
Tullivti's wonder, for he had made a round from Basset
and had not yet been home.

"Why, what's the meaning of this V* he said, checking
his horse, vrhile Maggie slipped from the donkey and ran
to her father's stirrup.

"T'le littlo miss lost herself, I reckon," said the gypsy.
"She'd come to our tent at the far end of Dunlow Lan<'.

I .-i

Fourth Reader.

and I was bringing her where she said her home was. It's
a good way to come after being on the tramp all day."

" O father," sobbed Maggie, " I ran away because I
was so unhappy. Tom was so^angry with me. I couldn't
bear it." "Pooh! pooh!" said Mr. TuUiver soothingly,
" you mustn't think of running away from father. What
would father do without his little girl ? "

** Oh, no, I never will again, father — never."

Mr. Tulliver spoke his mind very strongly when he
reached home that evening. Maggie never heard one
reproach from her mother or one taunt from Tom about
her running away to the gypsies.

Maggie was rather awe-stricken by this unusual treat-
ment and sometimes thought that her conduct had been
too wicked to be alluded to.

— By ]>er)itUniini of the PuhlUhers,

William Blackwood .(,• Sons.

XVII. -MY PLAYMATE.

The pines were dark on Ramoth hill,
Their song was soft and low ;

The blossoms in the sweet May wind
Were falling like the snow.

The blossoms drifted at our feet.
The orchard birds sang clear ;

The sweetest and the saddest day
It seemed of all the year.

For, more to me than birds or flowers
My playmate left her home,

And took with her the laughing spring,
The music and the bloom.

MV Pr.AYMATE.

8he kissed the lipR of kith and kin,

She laid her hand in mine ;
Wiiat more could ask the bashful boy

Who fed her father's kine ?

She left us in the bloom of May :
The constant years told o'er

Their seasons with as sweet May morns,
But she came back no more.

I walk, with noiseless feet, the round

Of uneventful years ;
Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring
. And reap the autumn ears?.

She lives where all the golden year

Her summer roses blow ;
The dusky children of the sun

Before her come and go.

There haply with her jewelled hands
She smooths her silken gown, —

No more the homespun lap wherein
I shook the walnuts down.

i\'t

The wild grapes wait us by the brook,

The brown nuts on the hill,
And still the May-day flowers make sweet

The woods of Follymill.

The lilies blossom in the pond.

The bird builds in the tree,
The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill

The slow song of the sea.

"i'

FuUKTH HeADKK.

■

1 '

I vTonder if she thinks of them,

And how the old time seems, —
If ever the pines of Hamoth wood

Are sounding in her dreams.

I see her face, I hear her voice :

Does she remember mine 1
And what to her is now the boy

Who fed her father's kine ?

What cares she that the orioles build

For other eyes than ours, —
That other hands with nuts are filled,

And other laps with flowers 1

O playmate in the golden time !

Our mossy seat is green.
Its fringing violets blossom yet

The old trees o'er it lean.

The winds so sweet with birch and fern

A sweeter memory blow ;
And there in spring the veeries sing

The song of long ago.

And still the pines of Ramoth wood

Are moaning like the sea, —
The moaning of the sea of change

Between myself and thee !

—John O. Whittier.

Though I speak with the tongues of men and of
angels, and have not charity [love], I am become as
sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal.

bENEDlCTKJN.

XVIII.-ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE

ANGEL.

Abou Bon Adliein — may his trilwj increase! —

Awoke one niglit from a deep dream of peace,

And saw within the nioonli,^ht in his room,

Making it rich, and like a My in hloom,

An angel, writing in a l)Ook of gold.

Exceeding peace had made Ben Ad hem Ixild,

And to the Presence in the room he said,

" What writest thou ?" — The vision raised ita head.

And, with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

" And is mine one 1" said Abou, " Nay, not so,"

Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,

But cheerily still, and said, *' I pray thee, then.

Write me as one who loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote and vanished. The next night

It came again with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blest,

And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

— Leigh Hunt.

■r

XIX.— BENEDICTION.

The Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament is one of
the simplest rites of the Church. The priests enter and
kneel down ; one of them unlocks the tabernacle, takes
out the Blessed Sacrament, inserts it upright in a mon-
strance of precious metal, and sets it in a conspicuous
place above the altar, in the midst of lights, for all to
see. The people th mi begin to sing ; meanwhile the
priest twice offers incei'se to the King of Heaven, before
whom he is kneeling. Then he takes the monstrance in
his hands, and turning, to the people blesses them with

Fourth Reader.

r!i

tlie Most Holy, in the form of a crass, while the bell is
sounded by one of the attendants, to call attention to
the ceremony. It is our Lord's solemn benediction of
His people, as when He lifted up His hands over the
children, or when He blessed His chosen ones when He
ascended up from Mount Olivet. As sons might come
Ijefore a parent before going to bed at night, so, once or
twice a week, the great Catholic family comes before
the eternal Father, after the bustle or toil of the day,
and He smiles upon them, and .sheds upon them the
light of His countenance. It is a full accomplishment of
what the priest invoked upon the Israelites: "The T.ord
bless thee and keep thee ; the Lord show His face to
thee and liave merc}'^ on thee ; the Lord turn His coun-
tenance to thee and give thee peace." Can there be a
more touching rite, even in the judgment of those who
do not believe in it ? How many a man, not a Catholic,
is moved, on seeing it, to say, "Oh, that I did but believe
it !" when he sees the priest take up the Fount of Mercy,
and the people bent low in adoration !

It is one of the most beautiful, natural, and soothing
actions of the Church. —Cardinal Newman.

XX.—THE EXILE OF ERIN.

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill :
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill .
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.

The Exile of Erin.

Sad is my fate ! said the heart-broken stranger,
The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee ;

But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not to me.

Never again, in the green sunny bowers,

Where my forefathers lived, shall T spenri the sw^et hours,

Or cover lay harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh !

Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-l)eaten shore ;
But, alas ! in a far foreign hind T awaken,
. And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more !
Oh, cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me
In a mansion of peace — where no perils can chase me ?
Never again shall my brothers embrace me !
They died to defend me, or live to deplore !

, Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood 1

Sisters and sire ! did ye weep for its fall ]
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood ]

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ?
Oh ! my sad heart ! long abandon'd by pleasure,
Wliy did it doat on a fast-fading treasure ?
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

Yet all its sad recollection suppressing.
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw :

Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing !
Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh !

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,

Green be thy fields, — sweetest isle of the ocean !

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, —

Erin mavournin-^Erin go bragh !

— Thomas Campbell.

■I,.
1:1

FOUKTH KeADEK.

XXI.— EXCELSIOR.

The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner, with the strange device,

Excelsior !

His brow was sad ; his eye bexieath
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath.
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue.

Excelsior !

In happy homes lie saw the light

Of household fires gleam warm and bright:

Above, the spectral glaciers shone.

And from his lips escaped a groan.

Excelsior 1

" Try not the pass ! " the old man said,
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide ! "
And loud that clarion voice replied,

Excelsior!

" Oh stay ! " the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast ! "
A tear stood in his bright blue eye.
But still he answered, with a sigh,

Excelsior !

" Beware the pine-tree's withered branch 1
Beware the awful avalanche ! "
This was the peasant's last good-night !
A voice replied, far up the height.

Excelsior !

The Battlk of the Ants. 55

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Utteiftd the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startbd air,

Excelsior !

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device.

Excelsior !

There, in the twilight cold and grey,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay.
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,

Excelsior !
— Henry W. Longfellow.

XXII.— THE BATTLE OF THE ANTS.

One day when I went out to my wood-pile, or rather
my pile of stumps, I observed two large ants, the one
red, the other much larger, nearly half an inch long, and
black, fiercely contending with one another. Having
once got hold, they never let go, but struggled and
wrestled and rolled on the chips incessantly.

Looking farther, I was surprised to find that the chips
were covered with such combatants ; that it was not a
duel, but a war — a war between two races of ants, the
red always pitted against the black, and frequently two
red ones to one black. The legions of these Myrmidons
covered all the hills and vales in my wood-yard, and the

Fourth Reader.

;

! i

jjround was already strewn with the dead and dying,
both red and black.

It was the only battle which I have ever witnessed, the
only battle-field I ever trod while the battle was raging ;
internecine war — the red republicans on the one hand,
and the black imperialists on the other. On every side
they were engaged in deadly combat, yet without any
noise that I could hear; and human soldiers never
fought so resolutely.

I watched a couple that were fast locked in each
other's embrace, in a little sunny valley amid the chips,
now at noonday prepared to fight iill the sun went
down or life went out. The smaller red champion had
fastened himself like a vise to his adversary's front, and
through all the tumblings on that field never for an
instant ceased to gnaw at one of his feelers near the root,
having already caused the other to go by the board ;
while the stronger black one dashed him from side to
side, and, as I saw on looking nearer, had already
divested him of several of his members.

They fought with more pertinacity than bull-dogs.
Neither manifested the least disposition to retreat. It
was evident that their battle-cry was " Conquer, or die !"
In the meanwhile, there came along a single red ant on
the hill-side of this valley, evidently full of excitement,
who either had dispatched his foe, or had not yet taken
part in the battle — probably the latter, for he had lost
none of his limbs — whose mother had charged him to
return with his shield or upon it.

He saw this unequal combat from afar — for the blacks
were nearly twice the size of the reds. He drew near

r ■?

dogs.
. It

die r
it on
nent,
ikeii
lost
[1 to

The Battle of the Ants.

with rapid pace till he stood on his guard within half an
inch of the combatants ; then, watching his opportunity,
he sprang upon the black warrior, and commenced his
operations near the root of his right fore leg, leaving the
foe to select among his own members ; and so there were
three united for life, as if a new kind of attraction had
been invented which put all other locks and cements to
shame.

I should not have wondered by this time to find that
they had their respective musical bands stationed on
some eminent chip, and playing their national airs the
while, to excite the slow and cheer the dying combatants .
I was myself excited somewhat, even as if they had been
men. The more you think of it, the less the difference.
And probably there is not the fight recorded in the
history of America that will bear a moment's comparison
with this, whether for the numbera engaged in it, or for
the patriotism and heroism displayed.

I have no doubt that it was a principle they fought
for, as much as our ancestors, and not to avoid a three-
penny tax on their tea; and the results of this battle
will be as important and memorable to those whom it
concerns, as those of the battle of Bunker Hill, at least.

I took up the chip on which the three I have particu-
larly described were struggling, carried it into my house,
and placed it under a tumbler on my window-sill, in
order to see the issue. Holding a microscope to the
first-mentioned red ant, I saw that, though he was
assiduously gnawing at the near fore leg of his enemy,
having severed his remaining feeler, his own breast was
all torn away, exposing what vitals he had there to

!■

1 ';.'.

Fourth Reader.

the jaws of the black warrior, whose breastplate was
apparently too thick for him to pierce; and the dark
carbuncles of the sufferer's eyes shone with ferocity such
as war only could excite.

They struggled half an hour longer under the tumbler,
and when I looked again the black soldier had severed
the heads of his foes from their bodies, and the still
living heads were hanging on either side of him like
ghastly trophies at his saddle-bow, still apparently as
firmly fastened as ever, and he was endeavoring with
feeble struggles, being without feelers and with only the
remnant of a leg, and I know not how many other
wounds, to divest himself of them ; which at length,
after half an hour more, he accomplished. I raised the
glass, and he went off over the window-sill in that crip-
pled state. Whether he finally survived that combat,
and spent the remainder of his days in some hospital, I
do not know ; but I thought that his industry would not
be worth much thereafter. I never learned which party
was vir'torious, nor the cause of the war ; but I felt for
the rest of that day as if I had had my feelings excited
and harrowed by witnessing the struggle, the ferocity
and carnage, of a human battle before my door.

— Henry D. Thoreau.

Onward he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friends ;
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay,
"While resignation gently slopes the way ;
And all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world is past.

The Destruction of Sennacherib. 59

XXIII.— THE DESTRUCTION OF
SENNACHERIB.

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ;
And the sheen of their spears was. like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host, with their banners, at sunset were seen ;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host, on the morrow, lay withered and strewn.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed iri the face of the foe as he passed ;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,
But through them there rolled not the breath of his pride ;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf.
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale.
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, ■
The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord !

—Lord Byron,

• if

'!1

Fourth Reader.

XXIV.-AN IDYL OF THE APPLE TREE.

It makes no difference that you have seen forty or
fifty springs; each one is as new, every process is as
fresh, and the charm as fascinating as if you had never
witnessed a single one. Nature works the same things
witho/^ •'eeming repetition. There, for instance, is the
apple tree. Every year since our boyhood it has been
doing the same thing ; standing low to the ground, with
a round and homely head, without an element of gi*andeur
or poetry, except once a year. And the month of May
finds the orchard no longer a plain, sober, business ailfair,
but the gayest and most radiant frolicker of the year.
We have seen human creatures whose ordinary life was
dutiful and prosaic. But when some extraordinary
excitement of grief, or, more likely, of deep love, had
thoroughly mastered them, they broke forth into a
richness of feeling, an inspiration of sentiment, that
mounted up into the very kingdom of beauty, and for the
transient hour they glowed with the very elements of
poetry. And so to us seems an apple tree. From June
to May, it is a homely, duty-performing, sober, matter-
of-fact tree. But May seems to stir up a love heat in
its veins. The old round-topped, crook ed-trunked, and
ungainly-boughed fellow drops all world-ways, and takes
to itself a new idea of life. Those little stubbed spurs,
that, all the year, had seemed like rheumatic fingers, or
thumbs and fingers stiffened and stubbed by work, now
are transformed. Forth put they a little head of buds,
which a few rains and days of encouraging warmth
solicit to a cluster of blossoms. At first rosy and pink,
then opening purely white. And now, where is your

An Idyl of the Apple Tree.

honely old tree ? All its crookednesa is hidden by the
sheets of blossoms. The whole top is changed to a royal
dome. The literal, fruit- bearing tree is transformed,
and glows with raiment whiter and purer than any
white linen. It is a marvel and a glory! What if you
have seen it before, ten thousand times over ? An apple
tree in full blosssom is like a message, sent fresh from
heaven to earth, of purity and beauty ! We walk
around it reverently and admiringly. We are never
tired of looking at its profusion. Homely as it ordin-
arily is, yet now it speaks of the munificence of God
better than any other tree. The oak proclaims strength
and rugged simplicity. The hickory grown in open
fields speaks a language of gentility. The pine is a
solitary, stately fellow . Even in forests, each tree seems
alone, and has a sad, Castilian-like pride. The elm is a
prince. Grace and glory are upon its head. In our
Northern fields it has no peer. But none of these speak
such thoughts of abundance, such prodigal and munifi-
cent richness, such lavish, unsparing generosity, as this
same plain and homely apple tree. The very glory of
God seems resting upon it ! If men will not admire,
insects and birds will !

There, on the very topmost twig, that rises and falls
with willowy motion, sits that ridiculous but sweet-
singing bobolink, singing, as a Roman-candle fizzes,
showers of sparkling notes. If you stand at noon under
the tree, you are in a very bee-hive. The tree is
musical. The blossoms seem, for a wonder, to have a
voice ! The odor is not a rank atmosphere of sweet.
Like the cups from which it is poured, it is delicate and
modest. You feel as if there were a timidity in it, that

•iii

Fourth Reader.

¥ i

asked your sympathy and yielded to solicitation. You
do not take it whether you will or not, but, though it is
abundant, you follow it rather than find it.

Is not this gentle reserve, that yields to real admira-
tion, but hovors aloof from coarse or cold indifference, a
beautiful trait in woman or apple tree ?

But was there ever such a spring ? Did orchards ever
before praise God with such choral colors? The whole
landscape is aglow with orchard-radiance. The hill-
sides, the valleys, the fields, are full of blossoming trees.
The pear and cherry have shed their blossoms. The
ground is white a3 snow with their flakes, h.l it is
the high noon just now, on this eighteenth day of May,
with the apple trees ! Let other trees boast their supe-
riority in other months. But in the month of May, the
very flower-month of the year, the crown and glory of
all is the apple tree !

Therefore, in my calendar, hereafter, I do ordain that
the name of this month be changed. Instead of May,
let it henceforth be called in my kingdom, " The Month
of the Apple-Blossom."

XXV.-GOING A-MAYING.

Geo up, get up for shame ! the blooming Morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colors through the air ;
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
The dew-bespangled her^ and tree.
Each flower has wept and bow d tov/ard the east,
Above an hour since; yet you not drest,

You
h it is

Going A-Mayino. 63

Nay ! not so much as out of bed ?

When all the birds have matins said,

And sung their thankful hymns ; 't is sin,

Nay, profanation, to keep in, —
When as a thousand virgins, on this day.
Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen

To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green.

And sweet as Flora. Take no care

For jewels for your gown or hair ;

Fear not, the leaves will strew

Gems in abundance upon you ;
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept.
Against you come, some orient pearls imwept.

Come, and receive them while the light

Hangs on the dew-locks of the night ;

And Titan on the eastern hill

Retires himself, or else stands still
Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying;
Few beads are best, when once we go a-Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come ; and, coming, mark
How each field turns a street, each street a park

Made green, and trimm'd with trees ; see how

Devotion gives each house a bough,

Or branch ; each porch, each door, ere this.

An ark, a tabernacle is.
Made up of whitethorn neatly interwove ;
As if here were those cooler shades of love.

Can such delights be in the street.

And open fields, and we not see't ?

Come, we'll abroad ; and let's obey

The proclamation made fo" May ;
And sin no more, as we have done, »»y staying ;
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. -liohrrt Herrich.

M {Ij

m
m

Fourth Reader.

XXVI.-THE BLIND MARTYR.

Xii;

CsBcelia, already forewarned, had approached tlie
cemetery by a different but neighboring entrance. No
sooner had she descended tlmn she snuffed the strong
odor of the torches. "This is none of our incense, I
know," she said to herself ; " the eneniy is already
within." She hastened, therefore, to the place of
assembly, and delivered Sebastian's note; adding also
what she had observed. It warned them to disperoo,
and seek the shelter of the inner and lower galleries;
and begged of the Pontiff not to leave till he should send
for him, as his person was particularly sought for.

Pancratius urged the blind messenger to save herself
too. " No," she replied, " my office is to watch the door,
and guide the faithful safe."

" But the enemy may seize you."

"No matter," she answered, laughing; "my being
taken may save much worthier lives. Give me a lamp."

" Why, you cannot see by it," observed he, smiling.

" True ; but others can."

" They may be your enemies."

" Even so," she answered ; " I do not wish to b3 taken
in the dark. If my Bridegroom come to me in the nighc
of this cemetery, must he not lind me with my lamp
trimmed ? "

Off she started, reached her post, and hearing no noise
except that of quiet footsteps, she thought they were
those of friends, and held up her lamp to guide them.

Thk Blind Martyr.

When the party came forth with their only captive,
Fulvius was perfectly furious. It was more than a
total failure — it was ridiculous — a poor mouse come out
of the bowels of the earth . He stood before her, put on
his most searching and awful look, and said to her,
sternly, " Look at lue, woman, and tell me the truth."

"I must tell you the truth without looking at you,
sir," answered the poor girl, with her cheerfulest snnle,
and softest voice ; " do you not see that I am blind ? "

" Blind ! " all exclaimed at once, as they crowded to
look at her. But over the features of Fulvius there
passed the slightest possible emotion, just as much as
the wave that runs, pursued by a playful breeze, over
the ripe meadow. A knowledge had flashed into his
mind, a clue had fallen into his hands.

" It will be ridiculous," he said, " for twenty soldiers
to march through the city, guarding a blind girl.
Return to your quarters, and I will see you are well
rewarded. You, Corvinus, take my horse, and go before
to your father, and tell him all. I will follow in a
carri>';;;'^ with the captive."

When alone in a carriage with her, he assumed a
soothing tone, and addressed her. " My poor girl," he
said, "how long have you been blind?" "All my life,"
she replied. "What is your history? Whence do you
com.3 ? "

"I have no history. My parents were poor, and
brought me to Rome, when I was four years old, as they
came to pray, in discharge of a vow made for my life in
. arly sickness. They left me in charge of a pious
lame woman, while they went to their devotions. It

': I

Fourth Header.

I) '

ii '.

was on that memorable day when many Christians were
buried at the tomb, by earth and stones cast down on
them. My parents had the happiness to be among
them."

" And how have you lived since ? "

"God became my only father then, and his Catholic
Church my Mother. The one feeds the birds of the air,
the other nurses the weaklings of the flock. I have
never wanted for an j^ thing since."

After a pause, looking at her steadfastly, he said, " Do
you know whither you are going ? "

" Before the judge of earth, I suppose, who will send
me to my Spouse in heaven."

" And so calmly ? " he asked, in surprise ; for he could
see no token from the soul to the countenance but a
smile.

" So joyfully, rather," was her brief reply.

Having got all that he desired, he consigned his
prisoner to Corvinus, and left her to her fate. It had
been a cold and drizzling day, like the preceding even-
ing. And while the prefect had been compelled to sit
in-doors, where no great crowd could collect, as hours
had passed away without any arrest, trial, or tidings,
most of the curious had left, and only a few more perse-
vering remained past the hour of afternoon recreation in
the public gardens. But just before the captive arrived
a fresh knot of spectators came in, and stood near one of
the side-doors, from which they could see all.

As Corvinus had prepared his father for what he was
to expect, Tertullus, moved with some compassion, and
imagining there could be little difficulty in overcoming

The Blind Martyr.

the obstinacy of a poor, ignorant, blind beggar, requested
the spectators to remain perfectly still, that he might
try his persuasion on her, alone, as she would imagine,
witli !,im ; ar^d he threatened heavy penalties on any one
who should presume to break the silence.

" What is thy name, child ? "

" Caecelia."

" It is a noble name ; has thou it from thy family? "

" No ; I am not noble ; except because my parents,
though poor, died for Christ. As I am blind, those who
took care of me called me Caeca (blind), and then, out of
kindness, softened it into Csecelia."

" But, now, give up all this folly of the Christians, who
have kept thee only poor and blind. Honor the decrees
of the divine emperors, and offer sacrifice to the gods ;
and thou shalt have riches, and fine clothes, and good
fare ; and the best physicians shall try to restore thee
thy sight. "

" You must have better motives to propose to me than
these ; for the very things for which I most thank God
and His Divine Son, are those which you would have me
put away."

" How dost thou mean ? "

" I thank God that I am poor and meanly clad, and
fare not daintily ; because by all these things I am the
more like Jesus Christ, my only Spouse."

" Foolish girl ! " interrupted the judge, losing patience
a little; "hast thou learnt all these silly delusions
already ? At least thou canst not thank thy God that
He has made thee sightless ? "

: m

^Ji,

Fourth Reader.

" For that, more than all the reiiO; I thank Him daily
and hourly with all my heart."

" How so ? dost thou think it a blessing never to have
seen the face of a human being, or the sun, or the earth ?
What strange fancies Are these ? "

" They are not so, most noble sir. For in the midst of
what you call darkness, I see a spot of what I must call
light, it contrasts so strongly with all around. It is to
me what the sun is to you, which I know to be local
from the varying direction of its rays. And this object
looks upon me as with a countenance of intensest beauty,
and smiles upon me as ever. And I know it to be that
of Him whom I love with undivided affection. I would
not for the world have its splendor dimmed by a brighter
sun, nor its wondrous loveliness confounded with the
diversities of other features, nor my gaze on it drawn
aside by earthly visions. I love Him too much, not to
wish to see Him always alone."

"Come, come; let me hear no more of this silly prattle.
Obey the Emperor at once, or I nmst try what a little
pain will do. That will soon tame thee."

" Pain ! " she echoed, innocently.

" Yes, pain. Has thou never felt it ? hast thou never
been hurt by any one in thy life ? "

" Oh, no ; Christians never hurt one another."

The rack was standing, as usual, before him ; and he
made a sign to Catulus to place her upon it. The
executioner pushed her back on it by her arms ; and as
she made no resistance, she was easily laid extended on
its wooden couch. The loops of the ever-ready ropes
were in a moment passed round her ankles, and her

The Blind Martyr.

» '4

arms drawn over the head. The poor sightless girl saw
not who did all this ; she knew not but it might be the
same person who had been conversing with her. If
there had been silence hitherto, men now held their very
breath, while Csecelia's lips moved in earnest prayer.

" Once more, before proceeding further, I call on thee
to sacrifice to the gods, and escape cruel torments," said
the judge, with a sterner voice.

" Neither torments nor death," firmly replied the vic-
tim, tied to the altar, " shall separate me from the love
of Christ. I can offer up no sacrifice but to the one
living God, and its ready oblation is myself."

The prefect made a signal to the executioner, and he
gave one rapid whirl to the two wheels of the rack,
round the windlasses of which the ropes were wound ;
and the limbs of the maiden were stretched with a sud-
den jerk, which though not enough to wrench them from
their sockets, as a further turn would have done, suflSced
to inflict an excruciating, or more truly, a racking pain,
through all he: frame. Far more grievous was this from
the preparation and the cause of it being unseen, and
from that additional suflering which darkness inflicts.
A quivering of her features and a sudden paleness alone
gave evidence of her suffering.

"Ha! ha!" the judge exclaimed, "thou feelest that!
Come, let it suffice ; obey and thou shalt be freed."

She seemed to take no heed of his words, but gave
vent to her feelings in prayer : " I thank thee, O Lord
Jesus Christ, that thou hast made me suffer pain the
first time for thy sake. I have loved thee in peace ; I
have loved thee in comfort ; I have loved thee in joy ;

V If

Fourth Reader.

lii-

.1 ■!

and now in pain I love thee still more. How much
sweeter it is to be like thee, stretched upon thy cross
even, than resting upon the hard couch at the poor
man's table ! "

" Thou triflest with me ! " exclaimed the judge, thor-
oughly vexed, "and makest light of my lenity. We will
try something stronger. Here, Catulus, apply a lighted
torch to her sides."

A thrill. of disgust and horror ran through the assem-
bly, which could not help sympathizing with the poor
blind creature. A murmur of suppressed indignation
broke out from all sides of the hall.

Csecelia, for the first time, learnt that she was in the
midst of a crowd. A crimson glow of modesty rushed
into her brow, her face, and neck, just before white as
marble. The angry judge checked the rising gush of
feeling; and all listened in silence, as she spoke again,
with warmer earnestness than before :

" O my dear Lord and Spouse ! I have been ever true
and faithful to thee ! Let me suffer pain and torture for
thee; but spare me confusion from human eyes. Let
me come to thee at once ; not covering my face with my
hands in shame, when I stand before thee."

Another muttering of compassion was heard.

" Catulus ! " shouted the baffled judge, in fury, " do
your duty, sirrah ! What are you about, fumbling all
day with that torch ? "

" It is too late. She is dead."

" Dead ! " cried out Tertullus ; " dead with one turn of
the wheel ? Impossible ! "

Under the Violets.

Catulus gave the rack a turn backwards, and the body
remained motionless. It was true ; she had passed from
the rack to the throne, from the scowl of the judge's
countenance to her Spouse's welcoming embrace. Had
she breathed out her pure soul, as a sweet perfume, in
the incense of her prayer, or had her heart been unable
to get back its blood, from the intensity of that first
virginal blush ? —Cardinal Wiseman.

XXVII.— UNDER THE VIOLETS.

Her hands are cold ; her face is white ;
No more her pulses come and go ;

Her eyes are shut to life and light ;
Fold the white vesture, snow on snow,
And lay her where the violets blow.

But not beneath a graven stone,
To plead for tears with alien eyes ;

A slender cross of wood alone
Shall say, that here a maiden lies
In peace beneath the peaceful skies.

And gray old trees of hugest limb

Shall wheel their circling shadows round,

To make the scorching sunlight dim

That drinks the greenness from the ground,
And drop their dead leaves on her mound.

When o'er their boughs the squirrels run,
And through their leaves the robins call,

And, ripening in the autumn sun,
The acorns and the chestnuts fall,
Doubt not that she will heed them all.

I; i

Fourth Reader.

For her the morning choir shall sinf*
Its iDatins from the branches ^wh.

And every minstrel voice of Spring,
That trills beneath the April sky,
Shall greet her with its earliest cry.

At last the rootlets of the trees
Shall find the prison where she lies,

And bear the buried dust they seize
In leaves and blossoms to the skies,
So may the soul that warmed it rise !

If any, born of kindlier blood.

Should ask, What maiden lies below 1

Say only this : A tender bud,

That tried to blossom in the snow.
Lies withered where the violets blow.

— Oliver Wendell Holmes.

XXVIIL— THE FIG-MERCHANT.

"In the name of the Prophet, figs ! "

Through the drowse of the noon afar
Came droning the Arab vendor's cry

As he threaded the thronged bazaar.
With tiie courage that comes of faith.

He neither had thought nor care,
Though the lip of the scornful Greek might curl.

Or the insolent Frank might stare.

" In the name of the Prophet, figs 1 **

A traveller, loitering near,
Half screened in a niche's deep recess.

Turned languidly 'round to hear.

The Fig-Merchant. 73

But scarce had the Arab passed,

Ere a ripple, that seemed a sigh,
Blurred laintly the calm of his lip, and broke

In a haze on his dreaming eye.

" In the name of the Pi-ophet, figs ! "

He listened with downcast face.
"This Moslem," he said, " is brave to own

His creed in the market-place ;
While I, with supremest trust

And a hope that can know no shame,
Not once in the midst of this multitude
Have thought of ray Prophet's name.

" ' In the name of the Prophet, figs ! '

No vagueness about the way
He honors the slow muezzin call, .

When his hour has come to pray.
It matters Jiot where he be.

His worship his faith reveals ;
Would I have the manhood, amid thsse crowds,

To kneel as the Arab kneels ?

" *In the name of the Prophet, figs!'

It sinks to an echo sweet,
Yet floats to me back with a pungent sting

Of reproach in this foreign street.
It bids that, with faith as bold

As the Moslem's, I bravely do
All things whatever, or great or small,

In the name of my Prophet, too ! "

'A I

A clear conscience is better than untold riches.

Fourth Reader.

XXIX.-IN THE GREAT FUR-LAND.

Thero come calms upon the prairie-ocean — days when
an infinite silence broi)ds over the trackless expanse,
when the Mirage of the Desert plays strange freaks of
inverted shore-land. It is thr morr« mt following the
sunrise of si ch a day. A deepe ^t'liuess steals over the
earth, and in its solemn hush c:)l(>rii »f wondrous hue
rise and spread along the horizon. Th. earth stands
inverted in tho sky ; the capes and promontories of the
prairie-ocean are etched, in deeper lines than graver
ever drew, upon the blue above ; the poplar and aspen
islands which dot the plain, float bottom upwards,
anchored by great, golden threads in a sea of emerald,
and orange, and blue, mingled and interwoven together.

rhvellings twenty and thirty miles distant seem but a
few rods away; the gliding dog-sledges, out of sight
over the plain, are transferred to the sky, and seem
steering their sinuous courses through the clear ether;
far away, seemingly beyond and above all, one broad
flash of crimson light, the sun's first gift, reddens
upward toward the zenith.

The mirages of the plains are of wondrous beauty;
every feature of the landscape seems limned with super-
natural distinctness. We have seen, a moment after
sunrise on a winter's morn, a little hamlet, thirty miles
away, defined against the sky with a minuteness of
detail not excelled by a steel engraving. We have seen
men at nearly the same distance photographed so micro-
scopically as to enable us to describe their wearing
apparel ; and have distinguished the gamboUings of dogs
and other animals upon the snow.

In the Great Fur-Land.

The ordinary phenomena of the mirage — the simple
drawing of a distant landscape near the spectator — are
of almost daily occurrence at some seasons of the year.
Objects far beyond the range of the naked eye seem but
a few rods distant; beautiful, waveless, nameless lakes
glimmer in uncertain shore-line, and in shadow of
inverted hill-top; the aspen groves seem standing with
their trunks half buried in the water.

At times, when the atmospheric conditions are perfect,
the whole landscape within the range of vision seems
but an optical delusion ; everything about one is uncer-
tain, unreal. The mirage begins but a few yards distant
from one, and shifts and merges into new forms like the
changing colors of a kaleidoscope. At such times the
inexperienced traveller is all at sea; he pursues one
Will-o'-the-wisp but to involve himself in another, and
becomes hopelessly and irretrievably lost.

To the plain-dweller, however, all the myriad features
of the prairie are but so many guide-boards pointing out
his destination. He who runs may read. He has the
sun by day, the moon and the stars by night. The
turning of a blade of grass points him east and west;
the bark of every tree north and south ; the birds of the
air forecast the weather for him. He sees a twig
broken, and it tells the story of a passing animal ; an
upturned pebble on the beach marks the hour when the
animal drank. He will distinguish the trail of a waggon
over the prairie years after it has passed ; the grass, he
says, never grows the same.

There is not a sigh or sough of the restless wind that
is unintelligible to him. He will take a straight course

! ■■.!

\i\

^5; I'M

I M
■'•ill

i^m

Fourth Reader.

in one direction over the plain, where no landmarks can
be seen, in days when the sun is not shining, nor a
b^'eath of air stirring. Yet he cannot explain the power
he possesses, and considers it a natural faculty. The
half-breed or Indian never gets lost. If he be over-
taken by a storm upon the plain, his escape becomes

simply a (}uestioii of physical endurance.

— Anou.

XXX.-THE FOREST FIRE.

The night was grim and still with dread ;

No star shone down from lieaven's dome ;
The ancient forest closed around

The settler's lonely home.

There came a glare that lit the north ;

There came a wind that roused the night ;
But child and father slumbered on,

Nor felt the growing light.

There came a noise of flying feet,

With many a strange and dreadful cry;

And sharp flames crept and leapt along
The red verge of the sky.

There came a deep and gathering roar,
The father raised his anxious head ;

He saw the light, like a dawn of blood,
That streamed across his bed.

The Forest Fire.

It lit the old clock on the wall,
It lit the room with splendor wild,

It lit the fair and tumbled hair
Of the still sleeping child ;

And zigzag fence, and rude log ham,
And chip-strewn yard, and cabin gray,

Glowed crimson in the shuddering glare
Of that untimely day.

The boy was hurried from his sleep ;

The horse was hurried from his stall ;
Up from the pasture-clearing came

The cattle's frightened call.

The boy was snatched to the saddle-bow.

Wildly, wildly the father rode.
Behind them swooped the hordes of flame

And harried their abode.

The scorching heat was at their heels ;

The huge roar hounded them in their flight ;
Red smoke and many a flying brand

Flew o'er them through the night.

And past them fled the wildwood forms —
Far-striding moose, and leaping deer,

And bounding panther, and coursing wolf,
Terrible-eyed with fear.

And closer drew the fiery death ;

Madly, madly, the father rode ;
The horse began to heave and fail

Beneath the double load.
6

■■. .f

' '11

[•!'. !''l

78 Fourth Reader.

The father's mouth was white and stern,

But his eyes grew tender with long farewell,

He said : ** Hold fast to your seat, Sweetheart,
And ride old Jerry well.

*' I must go back. Ride on to the river.

Over the ford and the long marsh ride,
Straight on io the town, and I'll meet you, Sweetheart,

Somewhere on the other side."

He slipped from the saddle. The boy rode on,
His hand clung fast to the horse's mane ;

His hair blew over the horse's neck ;
His small throat sobbed with pain.

" Father, father," he cried aloud.

The howl of the fire-wind answered him
With the hiss of soaring flames, and crash

Of shattering limb on limb.

But still the good horse galloped on.

With sinew braced and strengtli renewed,

The boy came safe to the river ford.
And out of the deadly wood.

• • • • • • •

And now with his kinsfolk, fenced from fear.
At play in the heart of the city's hum.

He stops in his play to wonder why
His father docs not come.

— Chas. G. D. Boherta (by permission of the author).

He is happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace
in his home.

The Death of Paul Dombey. 79

XXXI.-THE DEATH OF PAUL DOMBEY.

Paul had never risen from his little bed. He lay there,
listening to the noises in the street, quite tranquilly; not
caring much how the time went, but watching it and
watching everything about him with observing eyes.

When the Hunbeams Htruck into his room through the
rustling blinds, and quivered on the opposite wall like
golden water, he knew that evening was coming on, and
that the sky was red and Ijeautiful. As the reflection
died away, and a gloom went creeping up the wall, he
watched it deepen, deepen, deepen, into night. Then he
thought how the long streets were dotted with lamps,
and how the peaceful stars were shining overhead. His
fancy had a strange tendency to wander to the river,
which he knew was flowing through the great city; and
now he thought how black it was, and how deep it would
look, reflecting the hosts of stars — and more than all,
how steadily it rolled away to meet the sea.

As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the
street became so rare that he could hear them coining,
count them as they paused, and lose them in the hollow
distance, he would lie and watch the many-colored
rings about the candle, and vait patiently for day. Ilis
only trouble was, the swift and rapid river. He felt
forced, sometimes to try to stop it — to stem it with his
childish hands — or choke its wa-*/ with sand — and when
he saw it coming on resistless he cried out ! But a word
from Florence, who was always at his side, restored him
to himself ; and leanin^r his poor head upon her breast,
he told Floy of his dream, and smiled.

i
\

lli'l

! I

Fourth Reader.

When day began to dawn again, he watched for the
sun ; and when its cheerful light began to sparkle in the
room, he pictured to himself —pictured ! he saw — the
high church towers rising up into the morning sky, the
town reviving, waking, starting into life once more, the
river glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever), and
the country bright with dew. Familiar sounds and cries
came by degrees into the street below ; the servants in
the house were roused and busy; faces looked in at the
door, and voices asked his attendants softly how he was,
Paul always answered for himself, " I am better. I am
a great deal better, thank you ! Tell Papa so ! "

By little and little, he got tired of tlie bustle of the
day, the noise of carriages and carts, and people passing
and re-passing ; and would fall asleep or be troubled with
a restless and uneasy sense again — the child could hardly
tell waether this were in his sleeping or his waking
moments — of that rushing river. "Why, will it never
step, Floy?" he would sometimes ask her. "It is bear-
ing me away, I think 1 "

But Floy could always soothe and reassure him ; and
it was his daily delight to make her lay her head down
on his pillow, and take some rest.

" You are always watching me, Floy. Let me watch
you now ! " They would nrop him up with cushions in
a corner of his bed, and there he would recline the while
she lay beside him ; bending forward oftentimes to kiss
her, and whispering to those who were near that she was
tired, and how she had sat up so many nights beside him.

Thus the flush of the day, in its heat and light, would
gradually decline ; and again the golden water would be
dancing on the wall.

The Death of Paul Domhey.

He was visited by as many as three grave doctors —
they used to assemble downstairs, and come up together
— and the room was so quiet, and Paul was so observant
of them (though he never asked of anybody what they
said), that he even knew the difference in the sound of
their watches. But his interest centred in Sir Parker
Peps, who always took his seat on the side of the bed.
For Paul had heard them say long ago, that that gentle-
man had been with his mamma when she clasped Florence
in her arms, and died. And he could not forget it, now.
He liked him for it. He was not afraid.

One night he had been thinking of his mother, and
her picture in the drawing-room downstairs, and thought
she must have loved sweet Florence better than his father
did, to have held her in her arms when she felt that she
was dying — for even he, her brother, who had such dear
love for her, could have no greater wish than that. The
train of thought suggested to him to inquire if he had
ever se^n his mother; for he could not remember whether
they had told him, yes or no, the river running very fast,
and confusing his mind.

" Floy, did I ever see Mamma ? "

" No, darling, why ? "

" Did I ever see any kind face, like Mamma's, looking
at me when I was a baby, ^^oy ? " He asked, incredu-
lously, as if he had some vision of a face before him.

" Oh yes, dear ? "

" Whose, Floy ? "

" Your old nurse's. Often."

" And where is my old nurse ? " said Paul, " Is she
dead too ? Floy, are we all dead, except you ? "

v"m

'!;l

FouKTH Header.

Paul closed his eyes wi^*i those words, and fell asleep.
When he awoke, the sun was high, and the broad day
was clear and warm. He lay a little, looking at the
windows, which were open, and the curtains rustling in
the air, and waving to and fro. He saw them now
about him. There was no gray mist before them, as
there had been sometimes in the night. He knew them
every one, and called them by their names. " And who
is this ? Is this my old nurse?" said the child, regarding
with a radiant smile, a figure coming in.

Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those
tears at sight of him, and called him her dear boy, her
pretty boy, her own poor blighted child. No other
woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken
\ip his wasted hand, and put it to her lips, as one who
had some right to fondle it. No other woman would
have so forgotten everybody there but him and Floy,
and been so full of tenderness and pity.

" Floy ! this is a kind, good face ! " said Paul ! " I am
glad to see it again. Don't go away, old nurse. Stay
here. Now lay me down," he said, "and Floy, come
close to me, and let me see you ! " Sister and brother
wound their arms around each other, and the golden
light came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked
together.

" How fast the river runs, between its green banks and
the rushes, Floy ! But 'tis very near the sea. I hear the
waves ! They always said so ! "

Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon
the stream was lulling him to rest. How green the banks
were now, how bright the flowers growing on them, and

rt^

The Death of Paul Dcjmbey.

how tall the rushes ! Now the boat was out at sea, but
gliding smoothly on. And now there was a shore before
him. Who stood on the bank ! —

He put his hands together, as he had been used to do
at his prayers. He did not remove his arms to do it ;
but they saw him fold them so, behind her neck.

" Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face !
But tell them that the print upon the stairs at school is
not divine enough. The light about the head is shining

on me as I go ! "

The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and
nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion !
The fashion that came in with our first garments, and
will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and
the wide tirmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old,
old fashion — Death !

Oh thank God, all who s^e it, for that older fashion yet,

of Immortality ! And look upon us, angels of young

children, with regards not quite estranged, when the

swift river bears us to the ocean !

— Charles Dickens,

r ^m

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan which moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Fourth Reader.

XXXII.-THE STREAM OF LIFE.

O stream descending to the sea,

Thy mossy banks between,
The floyierets blow, the grasses grow,

The leafy trees are green.

In garden plots the children play,

The fields the laborers till,
And houses stand on either hand,

And thou descendest still.

O life descending into death,

Our waking eyes behold.
Parent and friend thy lapse attend,

Companions your.^ and old.

Strong purposes our mind possess,

Our hearts aifections fill,
We toil and earn, we seek and learn,

And thou descendest still.

O end to which our currents tend,

Inevitable sea,
To which we flow, what do we know,

What shall we guess of thee 1

— Arthur Hugh dough.

When a man dies hey who wurvive him ask what
property he ha^ le''^ \y)\v\ d him. Thf angel who bends
over the dying ii»?t!i ^sh;. wh«.t good deeds he has sent
before him.

Dickens in Camp. 86

XXXIII. -DICKENS IN CAMP.

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,

The river sang below ;
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting

Their minarets of snow.

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted

The ruddy tints of health
On haggard I'ace and form that drooped and fainted

In the fierce race for wealth.

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure

A hoarded volume drew,
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure

To hear the tale anew ;

i'* nd then, while round them shadows gathered faster,

And as the firelight fell,
Hii read aloud the book wherein the Master

Had writ of "Little Nell."

Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy, — for the reader

Was youngest of them all, —
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar

A silence seemed to fall ;

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows.

Listened in every spray,
While the whole camp with " Nell " on English meadows

Wandered, and lost their way.

And so in mountain solitudes — o'ertaken

As by some spell divine —
Their cares drop from them like the needles shaken

From out the gusty pine.

! ,'.'

86 Fourth Reader.

Lost ia that camp, and wasted all its fire ;

And he who wrought that spell ? —
Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,

Ye have one tale to tell !

Lost is t^ - 1 camp ! but let its fragrant story
Blend with the breath that thrills

With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory
That fills the Kentish hills.

And on that grave where English oak and holly
And laurel wreaths entwine,

Deem it not ail a too pi^sumptuous folly, —
This spray of Western pine !

not
ins
sac
mis

—Bret H< -te.

XXXIV.— THE MASS.

To me nothing is so consoling, so piercing, so thrilling-,
so overcoming, as the Mass, said as it is among us. I
could attend Masses forever, and not be tired. It is not
a mere foii.i of words — it is a great action, tiie greatest
action that can be on earth. It is not the invtx'atlon
njci-ely, but, if I dare use the word, the evocation of the
Eternal. He becomes present in the altar in flesh and
blood, before whom angels bow and devils tremble.
This is tliat awful event which is the scope and tlie
interpretation of every part of the solenmity. Words
are necessary, but as means, not as ends. Tliey are

The Mass.

not mere addresses to the throne of grace. They are
instruments of what is far higher, of consecration, of
sacritice. They hurry on, as if impatient to fultil their
mission.

Quickly they go, the whole is quick ; for they are all
parts of one integral action. Qi:ickly they go ; for they
are awful words of sacritice — they arc a work too great
to delay upon, as when it was said in the beginning,
" What thou doest, do quickly." Quickly they pass ; for
the Lord Jesus goes with them, as He passed along the
lake in the days of His flesh, quickly calling tii-st one
and then another. Quickly they pass ; bccaus(3 as tlio
lightning which shineth from one part of the liea\ .1
unto the other, so is the coming of the Son of man.
Quickly they pass ; for they are as the words of Moses,
when the Lord came down in the cloud, calling on the
name of the Lord as he passed by : " The Lord, the Lord
God, merciful and generous, long suffering, and abundant
in goodness and truth." And as Moses on the mountain,
so we too "make haste, and bow our heads to the earth,
and adore."

So we, all around, each in his place, look out for the
great Advent, " waiting for the moving of the water,"
each in his ilace, with his own heart, with his own
wants, with his own thoughts, with his own intentions,
with his own prayers, separate but concordant, watching
what is going on, watching its progress, uniting in its

I 't

^.s

Fourth Reader.

consummation — not painfully and hopelessly, following
a hard form of prayer from beginning to end, but, like a
concert of musical instruments, each different, but con-
curring in a sweet harmony, we take our part with God's
priest, supporting him, yet guided by him.

There are little children there, and old men, and simple
laborers, and students in seminaries, priests preparing
for Mass, priests making their thanksgiving, there are
innocent maidens, and there are penitent sinners; but
out of these many minds rises one Eucharistic hymn,
and the great action is the measure and the scope of it.

— Cardinal Newman.

XXXV. -STEP BY STEP.

Heaven is not reached uy a single bound,
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,

And we mount to its summit, round by round.

I count this thing to be grandly true,
That a noble deed is a step toward God,
Lifting the soul from the common clod

To a purer air and a fairer view.

We rise by the things that are under our feet,
By what we have mastered »)f good or gain ;
By the pride deposed, or the passion slain,

AskI the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

Step by Step.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,
When the morning calls to life and light ;
But our hearts grow weary, and ere the night

Our lives are trailing the sordid dust.

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray ;

And we think that we mount the air on wings

Beyond the recall of earthly things,
While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

Wings are for angels, but feet for men !

We may borrow the wings to find the way ;

We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray.
But our feet must rise or we fall again.

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown

From the weary earth to the sapphire walls ;
But the dreams depart and the ladder falls,

And che sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound.
But we build the ladder by which we vise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies.

And we mount to its summit round by round.

—J. O. Holland.

. (I

Religion, far from asking any sacrifice that an honest
man would regret, adds a charm to his duties and gains
f jr him two inestimable advantages — peace during life,
and hope in his last moments.

Fourth Reader.

XXXVI.-AN APRIL DAY.

All day the low-hung clouds have dropped

Their garnered fulness down ;
All day that soft gray mist hath wrapped

Hill, valley, grove, and town.

There has not been a sound to-day

To break tho calm of nature ;
Nor motion, I might almost say,

Of life, or living creature :

Of waving bough, or warbling bird,

Or cattle faintly lowing ; —
I could have half believed I heard

The leaves and blossoms growing.

I stood to hear — I love it well —

The rain's continuous sound,
Small drops, but thick and fast they fell,

Down straight into the ground ;

For leafy thickness is not yet
Earth's naked breast to screen,

Though every dripping branch is set
With shoots of tender green.

Sure, since I looked at early morn,

Those honeysuckle buds
Have swelled to double growth ; that thorn

Hath put forth larger studs ;

That lilac's cleaving cones have burst,
The milk-white flowers revealing ;

E'en tiow, upon my senses first
Me thinks their sweets are steeling.

re
tr
in
ai

tl
le
a
c

Bati'le of Sedgemoor.

The very eartli, the steamy air,

Are all with fragrance rife ;
And grace and beauty everywhere

Are tlusliing into lifei

Down, down they come — thoae fruitful stores !

Those earth-rejoicing drops !
A momentary deluge pours,

Then thins, decreases, stops ;

And ere the dimples on the stream

Have circled out of sight,
Lo I from the west a parting gleam

Breaks forth of amber light.

But yet behold —abrupt and loud

Comes down the glittering rain :
The farewell of a passing cloud,

The fringes of her train.

— Caroline A. B. Southey.

XXXVII.-BATTLE OF SEDGEMOOR.

The clock was on the stroke of eleven as Monmouth
rode out from the inn where he was quartered, and
trotted with his staff down the High Street. All cheer-
ing had been forbidden, bvit waving caps and brandished
arms spoke the ardor of his devoted followers.

A dense haze lay over the moor, gathering thickly in
the hollows, and veiling both the town which we had
left and the villages which we were approaching. Now
and again it would lift for a few moments, and then I
could sec in the moonlight the long black writhing line

^%^ ^ o%i

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-S)

&
^

1.0

1^ 1 2.8

2.5

I.I

£ us

tut

11^

i25

III ''"^

1.6

^/.

wV^f

Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4S03

Fourth Re\dek.

of the army, with the shimmer of steel playing over it,
and the rude white standards flapping in the night
breeze.

Very slowly and silently we crept on through the
dense fog, our feet splashing and slipping in the sodden
soiL With all the care which we could take, the
advance of so great a number of men could not be
conducted without a deep sonorous sound from the
thousands of marching feet. Ahead of us were splotches
of ruddy light twinkling through the fog which marked
the Royal watch-fires. Immediately in front in a dense
column our own horse moved forwards. Of a sudden
out of the darkness there came a sharp challenge and a
shout, with the discharge of a carbine and the sound of
galloping hoofs. Away down the line we heard a ripple
of shots. The first line of outposts had been reached.
At the alarm our horse charged forward with a huzza,
and we followed them as fast as our men could run.
We had crossed two or three hundred yards of moor,
and could hear the blowing of the Royal bugles quite
close to us, when our horse came to a sudden halt, and
our whole advance was at a standstill.

" It is no use," cried a corner; of horse, wringing his
hands ; "we are undone and betrayed. There is a broad
ditch without a ford in front of us, full twenty feet
across ! "

All down the rebel line a fierce low roar of disappoint-
ment and rage showed that the whole army had met the
same obstacle which hindered our attack. On the other
side of thfc ditch the di'ums beat, the bugles screamed,
and the shouts of the officers could be heard as they

' \

Battle of Sedgemoor.

marshalled their men. Glancing lights in hamlets to left
and right, showed how fast the alarm was extending.

" For whom are ye ?" shouted a hoarse voice out of the
haze.

" For the King!" roared the peasants in answer.

" For which King ?" cried the voice.

"For King Monmouth!"

" Let them have it, lads ! " and instantly a storm of
musket bullets whistled and sung about our ears. As
the sheet of flame sprang out of the darkness the
maddened, half-broken horaes dashed wildly away across
the plain, resisting the efforts of the riders to pull them
up. There are some, indeed, who say that those efforts
were not very strong, and that our troopers, disheart-
ened at the check at the ditch, were not sorry to show
their heels to the enemy. Away they went, however,
thundering through the ranks of the foot and out over
the moor, leaving their companions to bear the whole
brunt of the battle.

" On to your faces, men ! " shouted Saxon, in .-i voice
which rose high above the crash of the musketry and
the cries of the wounded. The pikemen and scythesmen
threw themselves down at his command, while the
musketeers knelt in front of them, loading and firing,
with nothing to aim at save the burning matches of the
enemy's pieces, which couM be seen twinkling through
the darkness. All along, both to the right and the left,
a rolling fire had broken out, coming in short, quick
volleys from the soldiers, and in a continuous confused
rattle from the peasants. On the farther wing our four

) M

V ■■':

,S.i

■■I
H

i
1

Fourth Reader.

guns had been brought into play, and we could hear
their dull growling in the distance.

Our musketeers had been brought to the very edge of
the Bussex Rhine, and the Royal troops had also ad-
vanced as far as they were able, so that there were not
five pike-lengths between the lines. Yet that short
distance was so impassable that, save for the mere
deadly fire, a quarter of a mile might have divided us.
So near were we that the burning wads from the
enemy's muskets flew in flakes of fire over our heads
and we felt upon our faces the hot, i\mck flush of their
discharges. Yet, though the air was alive with bullets,
the aim of the soldiers was too high for our kneeling
ranks, and very few of the men were struck. For our
part, we did what we could to keep the barrels of our
muskets from inclining upwards.

The gray light of morning was stealing over the moor,
and still the fight was undecided. The fog hung about
us in feathery streaks, and the smoke from our guns
drifted across in a dun-colored cloud, through which the
long lines of red coats upon the other side of the rhine
loomed up like a battalion of giants. My eyes ached
and my lips pringled with the smack of the powder.
On every side of me men were falling fast, for the
increased light had improved tlie aim of the soldiers.
Everywhere the dead lay thick amid the living.

Ever and anon as the light waxed I could note through
the rifts in the smoke and the fog how the flght was
progressing in other parts of the field. Along the
borders of the Bussex Rhine a deep fringe of their
musketeers were exchanging murderous volleys, almost

Battle of Sedgemoor.

♦•,"*i

muzzle tx) muzzle with the left wing of the same regi-
ment with which we were engaged. On either bank of
the black trench a thick line of dead, brown on the one
side, and scarlet on the other, served as a screen to their
companions, who sheltered themselves behind them and
rested their musket-barrels upon their prostrate bodies.
To the left amongst the withies lay five hundred miners,
singing lustily, but so ill-armed that they had scarce one
gun among ten wherewith to reply to the fire which was
poured into them. They could not advance, and they
would not retreat, so they sheltered themselves as best
they might, and waited patiently until their leaders
might decide what was to be done. Farther down for
half a mile or more the long rolling cloud of smoke, with
petulant flashes of flame spurting out through it, showed
that everyone of our raw regiments was bearing its part
manfully. The cannon on the left had ceased firing.
The Dutch gunners had left the Islanders to settle their
own quarrels, and were scampering back to Bridgewater,
leaving their silent pieces to the Royal Horse.

Out of the haze which still lay thick upon our right
there twinkled here and there a bright gleam of silvery
light, while a dull thundering noise broke upon our ears
like that of the surf upon a rocky shore. More and
more frequent came the fitful flashes of steel, louder and
yet louder grew the hoarse gathering tumult, until of a
sudden the fog was rent, and the long lir^ps of the Royal
cavalry broke out from it, wave after wave, rich in
scarlet and blue and gold, as grand a sight as ever the
eye rested upon. There was something in the smooth
steady sweep of so great a body of horsemen whicli gave
the feeling of irresistible power. Rank after rank, and

■m

Fourth Reader.

§ '!

line after line, with waving standards, tossing manes,
and gleaming steel, they poured onwards, an army in
themselves, with either flank still shrouded in the mist.
As they thundered along, knee to knee and bridle to
bridle, there came from them such a gust of deep-chested
oaths with the jangle of harness, the clash of steel, and
the measured beat of multitudinous hoofs, that no man
who hath not stood up against such a whirlwind, with
nothing but a seven-foot pike in his hand, can know how
hard it is to face it with a steady lip and a firm grip.

What hope is there to describe such a scene as that —
the crashing of wood, the sharp gasping cries, the snort-
ing of horses, the jar when the push of pike met with
the sweep of sword! Who can hope to make another
see that of which he himself carries away so vague and
dim an impression ? One who has acted in such a scene
gathers no general sense of the whole combat, such as
might be gained by a mere onlooker, but he has stamped
for ever upon his mind just the few incidents which
may chance to occur before his own eyes. Thus my
memories are confined to a swirl of smoke with steel
caps and fierce eager faces breaking through it, with the
red gaping nostrils of horses and their pawing fore-feet
as they recoiled from the hedge of steel. I see, too, a
young beardless lad an officer of dragoons, crawling on
hands and knees under the scythes, and I hear his groan
as one of the, peasants pinned him to the ground. I see
a bearded broad-faced trooper riding a grey horse just
outside the fringe of the scythes, seeking for some
entrance, and screaming the while with rage. Small
things imprint themselves upon a man's notice at such a
time. I even marked the man's strong white teeth and

roa

Ba'ITLK ok SElKiEM(X)R.

pink gums. At the same time I see a white-faced, thin-
lipped man leaning far forward over his horse*s neck
and driving at me with his sword point. All these
images start up as I think of that tierce rally, during
which I hacked «and cut and thrust at man and horse
without a thought of pairy or of guard All round
rose a fierce babel of shouts and cries, godly ejaculations
from the peasants and oaths from the horsemen, with
Saxon's voice above all imploring his pikemen to stand
firm. Then the cloud of horsemen recoiled, circling all
over the plain, and the shout of triumph from my com-
rades proclaimed that we had seen the back of as stout
squadrons as ever followed a kettledrum.

But if we could claim it as a victory the army in
general could scarce say as much. None but the very
pick of the troops could stand against the flood of heavy
horses and steel-clad men.

It needed no great amount of soldierly experience to
see that the battle was lost, and that Monmouth's cause
was doomed. It was broad daylight now though the
sun had not yet risen. Our cavalry was gone, our
ordnance was silent, our line was pierced in many places,
and more than one of our regiments had been destroyed.
In front a steady fire was being poured into us, to which
our reply was feeble and uncertain, for the powder carts
had gone astray in the dark, and many were calling
hoarsely for ammunition, while others were loading with
pebbles instead of ball. Add to this that the regiments
which still held their ground had all been badly shaken
by the charge, and had lost a third of their number.
Yet the brave clowns sent up cheer after cheer, and
shouted words of encouragement and homely jests to

:|'

n ii

1 J ' f.

■^ If

, i M

FOUKTH KkA13£R.

eaxjh otiier, as though a battle were but some rough
game which must as a matter of course be played out
while there was a player left to join in it.

" Stand to your pikes, men ! " roared Saxon in a voice
of thunder, and we had scarce time to form our square
and throw ourselves inside of it, before the whirlwind of
horse was upon us once more. Where the Taunton men
had joined us a weak spot had been left in our ranks,
and through this in an instant the Blue Guards smashed
their way, pouring through the opening, and cutting
fiercely to right and left. The Burghers on the one side,
and our own men on the other replied by savage stabs
from their pikes and scythes, which emptied many a
saddle, but while the struggle was at its hottest the
King's cannon opened for the first time with a deafening
roar upor 3 other side of the rhine, and a storm of
balls ploup.xed their way through our dense ranks, leav-
ing furrows of dead and wounded behind them. At the
same moment a great cry of " Powder ! For Christ's
sake, powder ! " arose from the musketeers whose last
charge had been fired. Again the cannon roared, and
again our men were mowed down as though death him-
self with his scythe were amongst us. At last our ranks
were breaking. In the very centre of the pikemen steel
caps were gleaming, and broadswords rising and falling.
The whole body was swept back two hundred paces or
more, struggling furiously the while, and was there
mixed with other like bodies which had been dashed out
of all semblance of military order, and yet refused to
fly. Men trodden down by horse, slashed by dragoons,
dropping by scores under the rain of bullets, still fought
on with a dogged, desperate courage, for a ruined cause

Battle of Sedg£mcx)R.

and a man who had deserted them. Everywhere as I
glanced around me were set faces, clenched teeth, yells
of rage and defiance, but never a sound of fear or of sub-
mission. Some clambered up upon the cruppers of the
riders and dragged them backwards from their saddles.
Others lay upon their faces and hamstrung the chargers
with their scythe- blades, stabbing the horsemen before
they could disengage themselves. Again and again the
guards crashed through them from side to side, and yet
the shattered ranks closed up behind them and continued
the long-drawn struggle. So hopeless was it, and so piti-
able that I could have found it in my heart to wish that
they would break and fly, were it not that on the broad
moor there was no refuge which they could make for.
And all this time, while they struggled and fought,
blackened with powder and parched with thirst, spilling
their blood as though it were water, the man who called
himself their King was spurring over the countryside
with a loose rein and a quaking heart, his thoughts
centred upon saving his own neck, come what might to
his gallant followers.

Large numbers of the foot fought to the death, neither
giving nor receiving quarter, but at last, scattered,
broken, and without ammunition, the main body of
the peasants dispersed and fled across the moor, closely
followed by the horse.

And now it was every man for himself. In no part
of the field did the insurgents continue to resist. The
first rays of the sun shining slantwise across the great
dreary plain lit up the long line of the scarlet battalions,
and glittered upon the cruel swords which rose and fell
among the struggling drove of resistless fugitives.

— From '* Micah Clarke," Conan Doyle (by perinitsion of the Publishers).

''I

"'tl

i
lip

''•II

!fi

100

Fourth Reamer.

XXXVIII.-SONG OF THE CAMP.

" Give us a song," the soldiers cried,

The outer trenches guarding.
When the heated guns of the camps allied

Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff.
Lay, grim and threatening, under ;

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said,
** We storm the forts to-morrow ;

Sing while we may, another day
Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side,

Below the smoking cannon ;
Brave hearts from. Severn and from Clyde,

And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame ;

Forgot was Britain's glory ;
Each heart recalled a different name»

But all sang '' Annie Laurie."

Voice after voice caught up the song.

Until its tender passion
Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, —

Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak.

But, as the song grew louder.
Something upon the soldier's cheek

Washed off the stains of powder.

In Memory of My BiunHER.

101

Beyond the darkening ocean burned

The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learned

How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell
Rained on the Russian quarters,

With scream of shot — and burst of shell,
And bellowing of the mortars.

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim
For a singer, dumb and gory ;

And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of " Annie Laurie."

Sleep, soldiers still in honoi'ed rest
Your truth and valor wearing ;

The bravest are the tenderest, —
The loving are the daring.

— Bayard Taylor.

! ti

XXXIX.— IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER.

Young as the youngest who donned the grey,

True as the truest that wore it,
Brave as the bravest he marched away
(Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay),
Triumphant waved our flag one day —

He fell in the front before it.

Firm as the firmest, where duty led,

H'e hurried without a falter ;
Bold as the boldest he fought and bled,
And the day was won— but the field was red —
And the blood of his fresh young heart was shed

On his country's hallowed altar.

,11

102

■! I

Fourth Readeh.

On the trampled breast of the battle plain
Where the foreroost ranks had wreutled,

On his pale, pure face not a mark of pain

(His mother dreams they will meet again),

The fairest form amid all the slain,
Like a child asleep he nestled.

In the solemn shades of the wood that swept

The field where his comrades found him,
They buried him there — and the big tears crept
Into strong men's eyes that had seldom wept
(His mother — God pity her— smiled and slept,
Dreaming her arms were around him).

A grave in the woods with the grass o'ergrown,

A grave in the heart of his mother —
His clay in the one lies lifeless and lone ;
There is not a name, there is not a stone,
And only the voice of the winds maketh moan
O'er the grave where never a flower is strewn, —
But his memory lives in the other.

— Father Ryan.

;'i:

XL—THE ESCAPE OF QUEEN MARY FROM
LOCHLEVEN CASTLE.

" Look from that window, Roland," said the Queen ;
"see you amongst the several lights which begin to
kindle, and to glimmer palely through the gray of the
evening, from the village of Kinross — secst thou, I say,
one solitary spark apart from the others, and nearer, it
seems, to the verge of the water? It is no brighter, at
this distance, than the torch of the poor glow-worm, and

'I' HE Escape of

^■^N Mary.

108

yet, my good youth, that liglit is more dear to Mary
Stuart than every star that twinkles in the blue vault of
heaven.

" By that signal I know that more than one true
heart is plotting my deliverance; and, without that
consciousness, and the hope of freedom it gives me, I
had long p^nce stooped to my fate, and died of a broken
heart. Pian after plan has been formed and abandoned,
but still the light .glimmers ; and while it glimmers, ray
hope lives. Oh, how many evenings have I sat musing
in despair over our ruined schemes, and scarce hoping
that I should again see that blessed signal, when it has
suddenly kindled, brought hope and consolation, where
there was only dejection and despair!" "If I mistake
not," answered Roland, " the candle shines from the
house of Blinkhoolie, the gardener."

"Thou hast a good eye," said the Queen; "it is there
where my trusty lieges — God and the saints pour bless-
ings on them! — hold consultation for my deliverance.
The voice of a wretched captive w^ould die on these blue
waters, long ere it could mingle in their council; and yet
I can hold communication — I will confide the whole to
thee — I am about to ask those faithful friends if the
moment for the great attempt is nigh. Place the lamp
in the window Fleming." She obeyed, and immediately
withdrew it. No sooner had she done so than the light
in the cottage of the gardener disappeared. "Now
count," said Queen Mary, " for my heart beats so thick
that I cannot count myself." The Lady Fleming began
deliberately to count one, two, three, and, when she had
arrived at ten, the light on the shore again showed its
pale twinkle.

t| (i!i

104

Fourth REAnEii.

I ■■■

" Now our lady be praised ! " said the Queen. The
hour of deliverance approaches. May God bless those
who labor in it with such truth to jne ! — alas ! with such
hazard to themselves — and bless you, too, my children !"

They separated till again called together by the tolling
of the curfew.

The kej's had, with the wonted ceremonial, been pre-
sented to the Tja.dy Lochleven. She stood with her back
to the casement, which, like that of the queen's apartment,
commanded a view of Kinross, with the chui^.h, wMch
stands at some distance from the town, and nearer co the
lake, then connected with the town by straggling cot-
tages. With her bafjk to the casement, then, and her
face to the table, on which the keys lay for an instant,
while she tasted the various dishes which were placed
there, stood the Lady of Lochleven, more provokingly
intent than usual — so, at least, it seemed to her prisoners
— upon the huge and heavy bunch of iron, the imple-
ments of their restraint.

Just when, having finished her ceremony as taster of
the Queen's table, she was about to take up the keys,
the page, who stood beside her, and had handed her the
dioiii' : *n succession, looked sideways to the churchyard,
and i.xt;laim3d he saw corpse-candle» in tLe vault. The
Lcttiv LocLieven was not without a touch, though a
clight one, of the superstitions of the time ; tht fate of
her sons made her alive to omens, and a corpse-light a,s
it was called, in the family burial-place, boded death.

She turned her head towards the casement — saw a
distant glimmering — forgot her charge for one s^^cond,
and in that second were lost the whole fruits of her

The Escape of Queen Mary.

105

former vigilauce. The pfcge held the I'orged keys under
his cloak, and with great dexterity exchanged them for
the real ones. Hiy utmoso address could not prevent a
slight clash as he took up the latter bunch. "Who
touches the keys?" said the lady; and wliiie the page
answered that the sleeve of his cloak had touciicd them,
she looked around, possessed herself of tjje bunch which
now occupied the place of the genuine keys, and again
turned to gaze at the supposed corpse-candles.

"I wish your Grace and your company a good evening.
Randal, attend us." And Randal, who waited in the
ante-chamber after having surrendered his bunch of
keys, gave his escort to his mistress as usual, while,
leaving the Queen's apartments, she retired to her own.

At the dead hour of midnight, when all was silent in
the castle, the page put the key into the lock of the
wicket which opened into the garden, and which was
at the bottom of a staircase that descended from the
Queen's apartment. " Now turn smooth and softly, thou
good bolt," said he, " if ever oil softened rust ! " and his
precautions had been so effectual, that the bolt revolved
with little or no sound of resistance. He ventured not
to cross the threshold, but exchanging a word with the
flisguised Abbot, asked if the boat were ready.

"This half-hour," said the sentinel. " She V'es beneath
the wall, too close under the islet to be seen by the
warder ; but I fear she will hardly escape his notice in
putting off again."

"The darkness," said the page, "and our profound
silence, may take her off unobserved, as she came in.
Hildebrand has the watcli on the tower — a lieavy-headed

I'M,

l\'<

106

lojRTH Reader.

knave, who holds a can of ale to be the best headpiece
upon a night-watch. He sleeps for a wager."

On tiptoe, with noiseless step and suppressed breath,
trembling at every rustle of their own apparel, one after
another the fair prisoners glided down the winding stair,
under the guidance of Roland, who seemed instantly to
take upon himself the whole direction of the enterprise.

The door of the garden which communicated with the
shore of the islet yielded to one of the keys of which
Roland had possessed himself, although not until he had
tried several — a moment of anxious terror and expecta-
tion. The ladies were then partly led, partly carried, to
the side of the lake, where a boat with six rowers
attended them, the men couched along the bottom to
secure them from observation.

Henry Seyton placed the Queen in the stern; the
Abbot offered to assist Catherine, but she was seated by
the Queen's side before he could utter his proffer of help;
and Roland Graeme was just lifting Lady Fleming over
the boat-side, when a thought suddenly occurred to him,
and exclaiming, " Forgotten, forgotten ! wait for me but
one-half minute," he replaced on the shore the helpless
lady of the bedchamber and sped back through the
gardor with the noiseless speed of a bird on the wing.

"Put off — put off!" cried Henry Seyton; "leave all
behind, so the Queen is safe." " Will you permit this,
madam ? " said Catherine, imploringly ; " you leave your
deliverer to death." "I will not," said the Queen.
"Seyton, I command you to stay at every risk." "Par-
don me, madam, if I disobey," said the intractable young
man; and with one hand lifting in Lady Fleming, he
began himself to push off the boat.

The Escape of Queen Mary.

107

She was two fathoms' length from the shore, and
the rowers were getting her head round, when Roland
Graeme, arriving, bounded from the beach and attained
the boat, overturning Seyton, on whom he lighted. The
youth, stopping Graeme as he stepped toward the stern,
said : " Your place is not with high-born dames — keep to
the head and trim the vessel. Now give way — give
way. Row, for God and the Queen ! '*

The rowers obeyed, and began to pull vigorously,
" Why did you not muffle the oars ? " said Roland
Graeme; this dash must awaken the sentinel. Row,
lads, and ge.^ out of reach of shot ; for had not old
Hildebrand, the warder, supped upon poppy-porridge,
this whispering must have waked him."

"It was all thine own delay," said Seyton ; "thou shalt
reckon with me hereafter for that and other matters."

But Roland's apprehension was verified too instantly
to permit him to reply. The sentinel, whose slumbering
had withstood the whispering, was alarmed by the dash
of the oars. His challenge was instantly heard. "A
boat! — a boat! — bring to, or I shoot!" And as they
continued to ply their oars, he called aloud, *' Treason !
treason ! " rang the bell of the castle, and discharged his
arquebuss at the boat.

The ladies crowded on each other, like startled wild-
fowl, at the flash and report of the piece, while the men
urged the rowers to the utmost speed. They heard more
than one ball whiz along the surface of the lake, at no
great distance from their little bark; and from the
lights, which glanced like meteors from window to
window, it was evident the whole castle was alarmed,
and their escape discovered.

!;;f

■r;i
■I

108

Fourth Reader.

I ■■':

i! ;

" Pull ! " again oxclaiined Seyton. " Stretch to your
oars, or I will spur you to tlie task with my dagger —
they will launch a boat immediately." "That is cared
for," said Roland ; " I locked the gate and wicket on
them when I went back, and no Ixmt will stir from the
island this night, if doors of good oak and bolts of iron
can keep men within stone walls. And now I resign my
office of porter of Lochleven, and give the keys to the
Kelpie's keeping."

As the heavy keys plunged into the lake, the Abbot,
who till then hud been repeating his prayers, exclaimed,
" Now bless thee, my son ! thy ready piudence puts
shame on us all. " " I knew," said Mary, drawing her
breath more freely, as they were now out of reach of
the musketry — " 1 knew my squire's truth, promptitude,
and sagacity."

The dialogue was here interrupted by a shot or two
from one of those small pieces of artillery called fal-
conets, then used in defending castles. The shot was
too vague to have any effect, but the broader flash, the
deeper sound, the louder return which was made by the
midnight echoes, terrified and imposed silence on the
liberated prisoners.

The boat was run alongside of a rude quaj^ or landing-
place, running out from a garden of considerable extent,
ere any of them again attempted to speak. They landed,
and while the Abbot returned thanks aloud to Heaven,
which had thus far favored their enterprise, Douglas
enjoyed the best reward of his desperate undertaking,
in conducting the Queen to the house of the gardener.

—Sir Walter Scott.

Yarrow Visited. 109

XLI.— YARROW VISITED.

And is this— Yarrow 1 — This the Stream

Of which my fancy cherished,

So faithfully, a waking dream 1

An image that hath perishe<l !

O that some Minstrel's harp were near,

To utter notes of gladness,

And chase this silence from the air,

That fills my heart with sadness ! •

Yet why \— a silvery current flows

With uncontrolled meanderings ;

Nor have these eyes by greener hills

Been soothed, in all my wanderings.

And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake

Is visibly delighted ;

For not a feature of those hills

Is in the mirror slighted.

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale.

Save where that pearly whiteness

Is round the rising sun diffused,

A tender hazy brightness ;

Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes

All profitless dejection ;

Though not unwilling here to admit

A pensive recollection.

But thou, that didst appear so fair

To fond imagination,

Dost rival in the light of day

Her delicate creation :

9 -- _

:ih!

it ^1

•I

110 Fourth Reader.

Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
A softness still and holy ;
The grace of forest charms decayed,
And pastoral melancholy.

That region left, the vale unfolds

Rich groves of lofty stature,

With Yarrow winding through the pomp

Of cultivated nature ;

And, rising from those lofty groves.

Behold a Ruin hoary !

The shattered front of Newark's Towers,

Renowned in Border story.

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,

For sportive youth to stray in ;

For manhood to enjoy his strength ;

And age to wear away i !

Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,

A covert for protection

Of tender thoughts, that nestle there —

The brood of chaste affection.

How sweet, on this autumnal day.

The wild-wood fruits to gather,

And on my True-love's forehead plant

A crest of blooming heather !

And what if I enwreathed my own !

'Twere no ojBfence to reason ;

The sober Hills thus deck their brows

To meet the wintry season.

I see —but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee :
A ray of fancy still survives —
Her sunshine plays upon thee !

Home Thoughts From Abroad.

Thy ever-youthful waters keep

A course of lively pleasure ;

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,

Accordant to the measure.

The vapors linger round the Heights,
They melt, and soon m ast vanish ;
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine —
Sad thought, which I would banish,
But that I know, where'er I go,
Thy genuine image, Yarrow !
Will dwell with me — to heighten joy,
And cheer my mind in sorrow.

Ill

William Wordmvorfh.

XLII.-HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD.

Oh, to be in England, now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, un-
aware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf.
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough*
In England — now !
And after April, when May follows
And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows !
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge —
That's the wise thrush : he sings each song twice over
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture !
And, tho' the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
— Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower !

—Rohert Brovming.

■■ii[

112 Fourth Reader.

XLIIL— FREE-WILL AND HABIT.

It is our will that determines our whole destiny. You
all know well the difference between the features of your
face and of your countenance. God made your features,
but you made your countenance. Your features were
His work, and He ^ives to every man his own natural
face — all different from each other, and yet all of one
type. But the countenances of men are far more diverse
even than their features. Some men have a lofty coun-
tenance, some have a lowering countenance, or a worldly,
or ostentatious, vain-glorious countenance, or a scornful
countenance, or a cunning and dissembling countenance.
We know men by their look. We read men by looking
at their faces — not at their features, their eyes or lips,
because God mn de these ; but at a certain cast or motion,
and shape and expression, which their feiatures have
acquired. It is this that we call the countenance. And
what makes this countenance ? The inward and mental
habits ; the constant pressure of the mind, the perpetual
repetition of its acts.

As it is with the countenance, so it is with the
character. God gave us our intellect, our heart, and our
will ; but our character is something different from the
will, the heart, and the intellect. The character is that
intellectual and moral texture into which all our life
long we have been weaving up the inward life that is in
us. It is the result of the habitual or prevailing use we
have been making of our intellect, heart, and will. We
are always at work like the weaver at a loom; the
shuttle is always going, and the woof is always growing.
So we are always forming a character for ourselves.

Free-VV^ill and Hauit,

1K3

It IS plain mat tor-of- fact truth that everybody grows
up in a certain cliaractor ; some are good, some bad,
some excellent, and some unendurable. Every character
is formed by habits. If a man is habitually proud, or
vain, or false, and the like, he forms for himself a
character like in kind. It is the permanent bias formed
by continually actinjr in a particular way ; and this
acting in a particular way comes from the continual
indulgence of thoughts and wishes of a particular
tendency. The loom is invisible within, and the shuttle
is ever going in the heart ; but it is the will that throws
it to and fro. The character shows itself outwardly, but
it is wrought within. Every habit is a chain of acts,
and every one of those acts was a free act of the will.
There was a time when the man had never committed
the sin which first became habitual, and then formed his
abiding character. For instance, some people are habitu-
ally false. We sometimes meet with men whose word
we can never take, and for this reason. They have lost
the perception of truth and falseho(xl. The distinction
is effaced from their minds. They do not know when
they are speaking truly and when they are speaking
falsely. The habit of paltering, and distinguishing, and
putting forward the edge of a truth instead of showing
boldly the full face of it, at last leads men into an insin-
cerity so habitual, that they really do not know when
they speak the truth or not. They bring this state
upon themselves. But there was a time when those
same men had never told a lie. The first they told was
perhaps with only half an act of the will ; but gradually
they grew to do it deliberately, then they added lie to
lie with a full deliberation, then with a frequency which

Ft)UKTii Ueauer.

i jiii

formed a habit ; and when it became habitual to them,
then it became unconscious.

Or take another example; men who, perhaps, had
never tasted anything in their lives that could turn their
brain, have at last acquired a habit of habitual drunken-
ness. There was a time when, with a certain fear, a
shrinking, a consciousness of doing a wrong or doubtful
act ; they begin to taste, and then to drink, at first spar-
ingly, then freely, until gradually growing confident and
bold, and the temptation acquiring a great fascination,
and the taste being vitiated, a craving has been excited,
and the delusion of a fancied need has come upon them.
They have gone on little by little, so insensibly that
they have not become aware, until a bondage has been
created which, unless God by an almost miraculous
grace shall set them free, they will never break.

—Cardinal Manning.

XLIV.-BALLAD OF ATHLONE.

Does any man dream that a Gael can fear 1
Of a thousand deeds let him learn but one !

The Shannon swept onward, broad and clear,
Between the leaguers and worn Athlone.

" Break down the bridge ! " Six warriors rushed
Thro' the storm of shot and the storm of shell ;

With late, but certain, victory flushed,

The grim Dutch gunners eyed them well. .

They wrenched at the planks 'mid a hail of fire :
They fell in death, their work half done ;

The bridge stood fast ; and nigh and nigher
The foe swarmed darkly, densely on.

The CLiMiiiNcj of Peuci^: Rock. 115

" Oh, wlio for Erin will strike a stroke ?

Who hurl yon planks where the waters roar?"
Six warriors forth from their comrades bi*oke,

And flung them upon that bridge once more.

Again at the rocking planks they dashed ;

And four dropped dead, and two remained ;
The huge l)eams groaned, and the arch down-crashed —

Two stalwart swimmers the margin gained.

St. Ruth in his stirrups stood up and cried,
** I have seen no deed like that in France ! "

With a toss of his head Sarsfield replied,

" They had luck, the dogs ! 'twas a merry chance ! "

Oh ! many a year, upon Shannon's side,

They sang upon moor, and they sang upon heath,

Of the twain that breasted that raging tide,

And the ten that shook bloody hands with death.

— Aubrey De Vere.

■||'

ll'l

• K
I.

nil

XLV.-THE CLIMBING OF PERC6 ROCK.

The Rock of Percd was a wall three hundred feet
high, and the wall was an island that had once been a
long promontory like a battlement, jutting out hundreds
of yards into the gulf. At one point it was pierced by
an archway. It was almost sheer ; its top was flat and
level. Upon the sides there was no verdure ; upon the
top centuries had made a green field. The wild geese as
they flew northward, myriad flocks of gulls, gannets,
cormorants, and all manner of fowl of the sea, had
builded upon the summit until it was rich with grass

116

Fourth Reader.

III! 1

and shnibs. The nations of the air sent their legions
here to bivouac, and the discord of a hundred hmguuges
might be heard far out to sea, far in upon the land.
Millions of the races of the air swarmed there ; at times
the air above was darkened by clouds of them. No fog-
bell on a rock-bound coast might warn mariners more
ominously than these battalions of adventurers on Ihe
Perc^ Rock.

No human being had ever mounted to this eyrie.
Generations of fishermen had looked upon the yellowish-
red limestone of the Perc^ Rock with a valorous eye, but
it would seem that not even the tiny clinging hoof of a
chamois or wild goat might find a foothold upon the
straight sides of it.

• ••••• I

The tide was well out, the moon sliining brightly.
Ranulph reached the point where, if the rock was to be
scaled at all, the ascent must be made. For a distance
there was shelving where foothold might be had by a
fearless man with a steady head and sure balance.
After that came about a hundred feet where he would
have to draw himself up by juttings and crevices hand
over Iiand, where was no natural pathway. Woe be to
him if head grew dizzy, foot slipped, or strength gave
out; he would be broken to pieces on the hard sand
below. That second stage once passed, the ascent thence
to the top would be easier ; for though nearly as steep,
it had more ledges, and cifered fair vantage to a man
with a foot like a mountain goat. Ranulph had been
aloft all weathers in his time, and his toes were as
strong as another man's foot, and surer.

The Climhino ok Perci^: U(x;k.

!I7

He Rtiirted. Tlie toes caught in crevices, lield on to
ledges, glued themselves on to smooth surfjices; tin?
knees clung like a rough-rider's to a saddle ; the big
hands, when once they got a purchase, fastened like an
air-cup.

Slowly, slowly up, foot by foot, yard by yard, until
one-third of the distance was climl)ed. The suspiMise
and strain were immeasurable. But he struggled on
and on, and at last reached a sort of flying pinnacle of
rock, like a hook for the shields of the gods.

Here he ventured to look below, expecting to see
Carterette, but there was only the white sand, and no
sound save the long wash of the gulf. He drew a honi
of arrack from his pocket and drank. He had two
hundred feet more to climb, and the next himdred would
be the great ordeal.

He started again. This was travail indeed. His
rough fingers, his toes, hard as horn almost, began bleed-
ing. Once or twice he swung quite clear of the wall,
hanging by liis fingei's to catch a surer foothold to right
or left, and just getting it sometimes by an inch or less.
The tension was terrible. His head seemed to swell and
fill with blood : on the top it throbbed till it was ready
to burst. His neck was aching horribly with looking
up, the skin of his knees was gone, his ankles brui.sed.
But he must keep on till he got to the top, or until he
fell.

He was fighting on now in a kind of dream, quite
apart from all usual feelings of this world. The earth
itself seemed far away, and he was toiling among vast-
nesses, himself a giant with colossal frame and huge,

I'll

118

FouKTii Keauek.

I i.

sprawling limbs. It was like a gruesome vision of the
night, when the body is an elusive, stupendous mass that
falls into space after a confused struggle with immensi-
ties. It was all mechanical, vague, almost numb, this
effort to overcome a mountain. Yet it was precise and
hugely expert too ; for though there was a strange mist
on the brain, the body felt its way with a singular
certainty, as might some molluscan dweller of the sea,
sensitive like a plant, intuitive like an animal. Yet at
times it seemed that this vast body overcoming the
mountain must let go its hold and slide away into the
darkness of the depths.

Now there was a strange convulsive shiver in every
nerve — God have mercy, the time was come ! . . . .
No, not yet. At the very instant when it seemed the
panting flesh and blood would be shaken off* by the
granite force repelling it, the fingers, like long antennae,
touched horns of rock jutting out from ledges on the
third escarpment of the wall. Here was the last point
of the worst stage of the journey. Slowly, heavily, the
body drew up to the shelf of limestone, and crouched in
an inert bundle. There it lay for a long time.

While the long minutes went by, a voice kept calling
up from below; calling, calling, at first eagerly, then
anxiously, then with terror. By and by the bundle of
life stirred, took shape, raised itself, and was changed
into a man again, a thinking, conscious being, who now
understood the meaning of this sound coming up from
the earth below — or was it the sea ? A human voice
had at last pierced the awful exhaustion of the deadly
labor, the peril and strife, which h?A numbed the brain

The Climbing of Peuce Rock.

iiy

of the
asa that
nmensi-
nb, this
3ise and
ge mist
iiigular
he sea,
Yet at
ng tlie
nto the

I every

ed the
t)y the
itennae,
on the
point
ly, the
hed in

sailing
then

die of

anged

► now
from

voice

eadly

brain

while the body, in its instinct for existence, still clung
to the rocky ledges. It had called the man ba-ck to
earth — he was no longer a great animal, and the rock a
monster with skin and scales of stone.

" Ranulph ! Maitre Ranulph ! Ah, Ranulph ! " called
the voice.

Now he knew, and he answered down :

" All right ! all right, Carterette ! "

" Are you at the top ? "

" No, but the rest is easy."

" Hurry, hurry, Ranulph ! If they should come before
you reach the top ! " '

" I'll soon be +here."

" Are you hurt, Ranulph ? "

" No, but my fingers are in rags. I am going now."

" Ranulph ! "

" 'Sh, 'sh, do no£ speak. I am starting."

There was silence for what seemed hours to the girl
below. Foot by foot the man climbed on, no less cau-
tious because the ascent was easier, foi- he was now
weaker. But he was on the monster's neck now, and
soon he should set his heel on it: he was not to be
shaken off.

At last the victorious m'^ment came. Over a jutting
ledge he drew himself up by sheer strength and the
rubber-like grip of his lacerated fingers, and now he lay
flat and breathless upon the ground.

How soft and cool it was ! This was long sweet grass
touching his face, making a couch like down for the

'U.n

& »

\: it

' ^^ffi

liii

ii-!|

111

i4'

120

Fourth Header,

battereu, wearied body. * Surely such travail had been
more than mortal. And what was this vast fluttering
over his head, this million-voiced discord round him, like
the buffetings and cries of spirits welcoming another to
their torment ? He raised his head and laughed in
triumph. These were the cormorants, gulls and gannets
on the Perc^ Rock.

—Gilbert Parker, '*The Battle of the Strong"

(specially adapted by the author for use in schools).

W ■■

XLVL— THE CHASE.

The stag at eve had drunk his fill,

Where danced the moon on Monan's rill,

And deep his midnight lair had made

In lone Gienartney's hazel shade ;

But, when the sun his beacon red

Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head,

The deep-mouthed bloodhound's heavy bay

Resounded up the rocky way,

And faint, from farther distance borne,

Were heard the clanging hoof and horn.

As Chief, who hears his warder call,
"To arms ! the foemen storm the wall,"
The antlered monarch of the wfsste
Sprung from his heathery couch in haste.
But, ere his fleet career he took,
The dew-drops from his flanks he shook ;
Like crested leader proud and high,
Tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky ;
A moment gazed adown the dale,

The Chase.

121

A moment snuffed the tainted gale,

A moment listened to the cry,

That thickened as the chase drew nigh ;

Then, as the headmost foes appeared.

With one brave bound the copse he cleared,

And, stretching forward free and far,

Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.

Yelled on the view the opening pack ;
Rock, glen, and cavern paid them back :
To many a mingled sound at once
The awakened mountain gave response,
A hundred dogs bayed deep and strong.
Clattered a hundred steeds along,
Their peal the merry horns rang out,
A hundred voices joined the shout ;
With hark and whoop and wild halloo,
No rest Ben voir! ich's echoes knew.
Far from the tumult fled the roe,
Close in her covert cowered the doe.
The falcon, from her cairn on high,
(Jast on the rout a wondering eye,
Till far beyond her piercing ken
The hurricane had swept the glen.
Faint, and more faint, its failing din
Returned from cavern, cliff, and linn,
And silence settled, wide and still.
On the lone wood and mighty hill.

The noble stag was pausing now.
Upon the mountain's southern brow.
Where broad extended, far beneath,
The varied realms of fair Menteith.
With anxious eye he wandered o'er

'JSi

122

Fourth Reader.

Mountain and meadow, moss and moor
And pondered refuge from his toil.
By far Lochard or Aberfoyle.
But nearer was the copsewood gray,
That waved and wept on Loch Achray,
And mingled with the pine-trees blue
On the bold cliffs of Benvenue.
Fresh vigor with the hope returned,
With flying foot the heath he spurned,
Held westward with unwearied race,
And left behind the panting chase.

Alone, but with unbated zeal,

That horseman plied the scourge and steel ;

For jaded now, and spent with toil.

Embossed with foam, and dark with soil.

While every gasp with sobs he drew.

The laboring stag strained full in view.

Two dogs of block Saint Hubert's breed,

Unmatched for courage, breath, and speed,

Fast on his flying traces came,

And all but won that desperate game ;

For, scarce a spear's length from his haunch,

Vindictive toiled the bloodhounds stanch ;

Nor nearer might the dogs attain,

Nor farther might the quarry strain.

Thus up the margin of the lake,

Between the precipice and brake,

O'er stock and rock their race they take.

The Hunter marked that mountain high,
The lone lake's western boundary,
And deemed the stag must turn to bay,
Where that huge rampart barred the way ;

The Chase.

123

Already glorying in the prize,
Measured his antlers with his eyes ;
For the death-wound and death-halloo,
Mustered his breath, his whinyard drew ;
But, thundering as he came prepared,
With ready arm and weapon bared.
The wily quarry shuhned the shock.
And turned him from the opposing rock ;
Then, dashing down a darksome glen.
Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken,
In the deep Trosachs' wildest nook
His solitary refuge took.
There, while close couched, the thicket shed
Cold dews and wild flowers on his head,
He heard the baffled dogs in vain
Rave through the hollow pass amain,
Chiding the rocks that yelled again.

Close on the hounds the Hunter came,
To cheer them on the vanished game ;
But, stumbling in the rugged dell,
The gallant horse exhausted fell.
The impatient rider strove in vain
To rouse him with the spur and rein,
For the good steed, his labors o'er,
Stretched his stiff limbs, to rise no more.

—Sir Walter Scott.

Hit

Wisdom does not show itself so much in precept as in
life, — in a firmness of mind and a mastery of appetite.
It teaches us to do, as well as to talk; to make our
words and our actions all of a color.

124

Fourth Reader.

XLVIL— LOVE OF COUNTRY.

Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land !
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd

From wand'ring on a foreign strand i
If such there breathe, go, mark him well ;
For him no minstrel raptures swell ;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ;—
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self.
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.

-Sir Walter Scott.

XLVIIL-RICHARD I. IN PALESTINE.

Richard reached the camp of the Crusaders at Acre,
and was received by them with enthusiastic expressions
of joy. Though he was soon 'reduced to an extieme
degree of weakness by an intermittent fever, his impa-
tience led him to direct the operations of his army ; and,
in the intervals between the fits, he was carried on a silk
pallet to the trenches, and often discharged with his
own hand the ballista which had been pointed against
the enemy. As he recovered, the siege was conducted
with additional energy. The garrison began to foresee
the fate which awaited them.

Richard I. in Palestine.

125

At kmgth it was agreed that Acre shoukl be surren-
dered to the Christians, and that the Turks, as a ransom
for their lives, sliould restore the holy cross, and set at
liberty one thousand five hundred captives. For the
performance of these conditions a term of forty days
was assigned, and some thousands of hostages were
detained in the fortress. The Crusaders immediately
took possession of the place, and Saladin removed his
camp to a distance.

The conquest was fondly received by the nations of
Christendom as a prelude to the delivery of Jerusalem ;
but the public joy was soon damped by the news that
the King of France intended to withdraw from the
army. It was in vain that Richard, his own officers,
and all the confederate chiefs urged him to change his
resolution. He was equally unmoved by their entreaties
or their reproofs; and having sworn not to invade
the territories of the King of England, he departed
from Acre amidst tlie groans and imprecations of the
spectators.

Richard conducted his army, reduced to thirty
thousand men, from Acre to Jaffa. It marched in five
divisions, with the Knights Templars in front, and the
Hospitallers in the rear. The stores and provisions, for
greater security, were placed next the sea ; next to them
the cavalry, and without the cavalry, the archers on foot,
destined to keep by their arrows the enemy at a distance.
In this manner they proceeded slowly along the shore, in
defiance of every attempt to impede their progress.

Saladin encamped near them every night. In the
morning he attacked them in front, flank, and rear, and
9

Irh

126

FouuTH Reader.

daily continued the conflict till sunset. He had sum-
moned reinforcements from every part of his empire,
and as soon as these arrived, made a desperate attempt
to crush at once the whole host of his enemies. At nine
in the morning the kettle-drum was beaten : the Saracens
rushed with their whole weight on the small mass of the
Christians, and it requii'ed all the authority and exer-
tions of Richard to prevent the rout of his army. The
Master of the Hospitallers, unable to bear the pressure,
repeatedly solicited the order to cliarge, but the king,
who looked to a decisive victory, deferred it till the last
moment.

At length the signal was given; the infantry opened
for the passage of cavalry ; the men at arms charged in
different directions ; and the enemy, unable to witlistand
their weight and impetuosity, after an obstinate resist-
ance, fled to the mountains. Richard boasted that in the
course of forty campaigns, Saladin had never experi-
enced so signal a defeat. The Christians proceeded to
Jaffa, rebuilt its walls, and fortified the castles in its
neighborhood.

To recover from the infidels the sacred spot in which
the body of Christ had been buried was the professed
object of the Crusaders: and, to keep it fresli in their
memory, these words, " The Holy Sepulchre I " were
proclaimed thrice every evening by the voice of a herald
throughout the camp. Richard concealed his sentiments
from his associates ; but he had now learned to doubt of
the success of the enterprise, and in his letters to Europe
most efirnestly solicited supplies of both men and money.
Still, with these impressions on his mind, he did not
hesitate to lead the army towards the cit3\ He even

Richard I. in Palestine.

127

went within a short distance of Jerusalem ; but the
weather became rainy and tempestuous, a dearth of pro-
visions was felt, sickness spread itself through the ranks,
and many in despair abandoned the expedition. It was
evident that he must either return to Jnffa, or instantly
make the hopeless attempt of carry in <^ by storm a place
strongly fortified, and defended by an army more
numerous than his own. The king, for once, listened
to the suggestions of prudence, and bent his march back
to the coast.

The retreat of the Christians did not escape the vigil-
ance of Saladin. Descending from Jerusalem, he burst
into the town of Jati'a, and drove the inhabitants into
the citadel, who gave hostages for the suri-ender of the
place, if it were not relieved by a certain hour. At the
first intelligence of the event, Richard (who was then at
Acre) ordered the army to march by land, while he, with
seven galleys, should hasten by sea to the aid of the
Christians. He found the beach lined with enemies to
oppose his landing. His friends advised him to defer
the attempt till the arrival of the army ; but, at the
moment, a priest swam to the royal galley, and to the
question which was put to him, replied that many of the
inhabitants had been massacred, but that many still
defended their lives from one of the towers. "Then,"
exclaimed the king, "cursed be the man who refuses to
follow me!" He plunged into the water; his com-
panions imitated his example : the Saracens, awed by
his intrepidity, retired at his approach, and the city
was cleared of the enem3^

But Richard disdained to be confined within the walls,
and by his order a small army of the Christians, eonsist-

li
1 1

'A ili

Ml C

III!

I •

128

Fourth Reader.

ing of fifty-five knights, of whom ten only were mounted,
and two thousand infantry, encamped boldly without
one of the gates. Early in the morning the king was
informed of the approach of tlie enemy. He ordered his
lancers to rest on one knee, while each man with a
buckler on his left arm should cover his body, and with
his right should direct the point of his lance, the oth<^r
extremity of which was firmly fixed in the ground.
Among them he distributed the ballistse, with two
archers to each, of whom one bent the bow, the other
discharged the arrows.

The Saracen cavalry, in seven divisions, made as many
attempts to break through the line. Each charge was
unsuccessful, and attended with considerable loss. Rich-
ard, observing their confusion, rushed with his knights
into the midst of their squadrons, where he performed
prodigies of valor. He was seen by the Tbrother of the
Soldan, who had lately solicited from him the honor of
knighthood for his son, and who now sent him, during
the action, a present of two Arabian horses. On one of
these the king continued the conflict till night.

It was thought that on this day he had surpassed his
former renown. He vanquished every champion that
dared to approach him ; he extricated himself from a
host of Saracens who had surrounded him, and im-
pressed the enemy with so much terror or admiration,
that wherever he charged tLey retired from his ap-
proach. The siege was raised ; but the king's exertions
had brought on a fever which undermined his strength,
and he concluded an armistice for three years. The
Soldan insisted on the destruction of Ascalon, and, in

Befoke AdiNcoriiT.

129

ounted,
without
ng was
jred his
with a
id with
e other
ground.
h two
e other

s many

ge was

Rich-

inights

'formed
of the

onor of
during
one of

ised his
>n that
from a
tid im-
iration,
liis ap-
ertions
rength,
J. The
md, in

return, graiitcMl to the pilgrims free access to the Holy
Sepulchre.

Thus terminated the Crusade. If Jerusalem could
have been won by personal strength and bravery, it
might have been won by Richard. His exploits, so
superior to those of his fellows, threw a splendor around
liim which endeared him to the Christians, and extorted
the admiration of the infidels. As he sailed from Acre,
he turned to take a last view of the shore, and with out-
stretched arms exclaimed : " Most holy land, I commend
thee to the care of the Almighty. May He grant me life
to return and rescue thee from the yoke of the intidels."

— John Linfjard.

XLIX.— BEFORE AGINCOURT.

West.

O that we now had here

But one ten thousand of those men in England
That do no work to-day !

K. Hen. What's he that wishes so ?

My cousin Westmoreland ? No, ray fair cousin :
If we are raark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss ; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honor.
God's will ! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold.
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost ;
It yearns*me not if men my garments wear ;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires ;
But if it be a sin to covet honor,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England ;
God's peace ! I would not lose so great an honor

li;

i I

1 1

! I;

IIIO Km in II 1{i:ai>ki{.

Ah one man nu»rn, nietliink^^, would share from me,

For the best hope I have. O, <lo not wish on«' moie !

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, througli my host,

That he which hath no stomaeii to this fight,

Let him depart ; his passport shall be made,

And crowns for convoy put into his purse :

Wo would not die in that man's company

That feurs his fellowship to di(^ with us.

This day is call'd the feast of Crispian :

He that outlives this (hiy, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named.

And rouse him at tlu; name of Crispi/m.

He that .shall live this day, and see old age.

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,

And say, "To-morrow is Saint Crispian":

Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars,

And say, "These wounds I had on Crispin's day."

Old men forget ; yet all shall be forgot

But he'll remember with advantages

What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,

Familiar in his mouth as household words,

Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.

This story shall the good man teach his son ;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remembered, —

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers ;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother ; be he ne'er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition :

And gentlemen in England noW a-bed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here.

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

— Shakespeare.

Encointeu with a Panthkk. 181

L.— ENCOUNTER WITH A PANTHER.

The day was becoming warm, and the girls plunged
more deeply into tlie forest. Every tall pine and every
shrub or flower called forth some simple expression of
admiration.

In this manniT thoy proceeded along the margin of
the precipice, catching occasional glimpses of the placid
Otsego, when Elizabeth suddenly started and exclaimed :

" Listen ! there are the cries of a child on this moun-
tain ! Is there a clearing near us, or can some little one
have strayed from its parents ? "

" Such things frequently happen," returned Louisa.
" Let us follow the sounds ; it may be a wander«}r
starving on the hill."

Urged by this consideration, the girls pursued with
quick and impatient steps the low, mournful sounds that
proceeded from the forest. More than once Elizabeth
was on the point of announcing that she saw the sufferer,
when Louisa caught her by the arm, and, pointing
behind them, cried : " Look at the dog ! "

Brave had been their companion from the time the
voice of his young mistress lured him from his kennel
to the present moment : his advanced age had long
before deprived him of his activity.

Aroused by the cry from Louisa, Miss Temple turned
and saw the dog with his eyes keenly set on some distant
object, his head bent near the ground, and his hair actu-
ally rising on his body through fright or anger. He
was growling in a low key and occasionally showing

1.,

■I'.'l'-

I
t

:|
1

132

Fourth Reader.

his teeth in a manner that would have terrifiecl his
mistress had she not so well known his good qualities.

" Brave ! " she said, " be quiet, Brave ! What do you
see, fellow ? " At the sounds of her voice, the rage of the
mastiff, instead of being at all diminished, was very
sensibly increased. He stalked in front of the ladies
and seated himself at the feci of his mistress, growling
louder than before, and occasionally giving vent to his
ire by a short, surly barking.

" What Joes he see ? " said Elizabeth ; " there must be
some animal in sight." Hearing no answer from her
rr-npanion. Miss Temple turned her head and beheld
I^oaisa, standing with her face whitened to the color
Ci* death, and her finger pointing upward with a sort of
flickering, convulsed motion. The quick eye of Elizabeth
glanced in the direction indicated by her friend, where
she saw the fierce front and glaring eyes of a panther
fixed on them in horrid malignity and threatening to
leap.

" Let us fly ! " exclaimed Elizabeth, grasping the arm
of Louisa, whose form yielded like melting snow.

There was not a single feeling in the temperament of
Elizabeth Temple that could prompt her to desert a com-
panion in such an extremity. She fell on her knees Yy
the side of the inanimate Louisa, tearing from the person
of her friend, with instinctive readiness, such parts of
her dress as might obstruct her respiration, and, at the
same time, encouraging by the sounds of her voice, their
only safeguard, the dog.

" Courage, Brave ! " she cried, her own tones beginning
to tremble, " courage, courage, good Brave ! "

Encounter with a Panther.

183

fied his
ities.

do you
of the
s very
! ladies
owling
to his

lust be
m her
beheld
color
3ort of
sabeth
where
mther
ag to

9 arm

>ntof
com-
3S by
3rson
ts of
' the
iheir

aing

A quarter-grown cub, that ha'l liitherto been unseen,
now appeared, dropping from the branches of a sapling
that grew under the sliade of a beech. This vicious
creature approached the dog, imitating the actions and
sounds of its parent, but exhibiting a strange mixture of
the playfulness of a bitten with tlie ferocity of its race.

Standing on its liind legs, it would rend the bark of
a tree with its fore paws and play the antics of a cat ;
and then, by laaliing itself with its tail, growling and
scratching the earth, it would attempt the manifestations
of anger that rendered its parent so terrific.

All this time Brave stood firm and undaunted, his
sliort tail erect, his body drawn backward on its
liaunches, and his eyes following the movements of
both the female panther and the cub. At every gambol
played by the latter it approached niglxor to the dog, the
growling of the three becoming more horrid at each
moment, until the younger beast, overleaping its in-
tended bound, fell directly before the mastiff.

There was a moment of fearful cries and struggles,
but they ended almost as soon as commenced, by the cub
appearing in the air, hurled from the jaws of Brave with
a violence that sent it against a tree so forcibly as to
render it completely senseless. Elizabeth w^itnessed the
short struggle, and her blood w^as warming with the
triumph of the "^og, when slie saw the form of the old
panther in the air, springing twenty feet from the branch
of the beech to the back of the mastiff. No words can
describe the fury of the conflict that followed. It was
a confused struggle on the dry leaves, accompanied by
loud and terrific cries. Miss Temple continued on her

t:ii

184

Fourth Header.

■ ''!

|;iS

knees, bending over the form of Louisa, her eyes fixed
on the animals with an interest so intense that she
almost forgot her own stake in the result. So rapid
and vigorous were the bounds of the panther that her
active frame seemed constantly in the air, while the
dog nobly faced his foe at each successive leap.

When the panther lighted on the shoulders of the
mastiff, which was her constant aim, old Brave, though
torn with her claws and stained with his own blood, that
already flowed from a dozen wounds, would shake off his
furious foe like a feather and, rearing on his hind legs,
rush to the fray again with jaws distended and a
dauntless eye. But age and his pampered life greatly
disqualified the noble mastiff for such a struggle. In
everything but courage he was only the vestige of what
he once had been.

A higher bound than ever raised the wary and furious
beast far beyond the reach of the dog, who was making
a desperate but fruitless effort to dash at her, and then
she alighted in a favorable position on the back of her
aged foe. For a single moment only could the panther
remain there, the great strength of the dog returning
with a convulsive effort. But Elizabeth saw, as Brave
fastened his teeth in the side of his enemy, that the
collar of brass around his neck, which had been glitter-
ing throughout the fray, was of the color of blood, and,
directly, that his frame was sinking to the earth, where
it soon lay prostrate and helpless.

Several mighty efforts of the wildcat to extricate
herself from the jaws of the dog followed, but they
were fruitless until the mastiff turned on his back, his
lips collapsed, and his teeth loosened, when the short

i\ i

KiN(M>uN'i"KK wuh a Pantheh.

i:i5

es fixed
that she
>a rapid
hat her
lile the
D.
of the
though
od, that
J off his
id legs,
and a
greatly
le. In
f what

furious

flaking

d then

of her

anther

irning

Brave

it the

litter-

, and,

vhere

ficate

they

:, his

short

convulsions and stillness that succeeded announced the
death of poor Brave.

Elizabeth now lay wholly at the mercy of the beast.
There i^ said to be something in the front of the image
of the Maker that daunts tlie hearts of the inferior
beings of His creation; and it would seem that some
such power, in the present instance, suspended the
threatened blow. The eyes of the monster and of the
kneeling maiden met for an instant, when the former
stooped to examine her fallen foe, next to scent her
luckless cub. From the latter examination she turned,
however, with her eyes apparently emitting flashes of
lire, her tail lasliing her sides furiously, and her claws
projecting inches from her broad feet.

Miss Temple did not or could not move. Her hands
were clasped in the attitude of prayer, but her eyes
were still drawn to her terrible enemy ; her cheeks were
blanched to the whiteness of marble, and her lips were
slightly separated with horror.

The moment seemed now to have arrived for the fatal
termination, and the beautiful figure of Elizabeth was
bowing meekly to the stroke, when a rustling of l^javes
behind seemed rather to mock the organs than to meet
her ears. " Hist ! hist ! " said a low voice, " stoop lower,
girl ; your bonnet hides the creature's head."

It was rather the yielding of nature than a compliance
with this unexpected order that caused the head of our
heroine to sink on her bosom, when she heard the report
of the rifle, the whizzing of the bullet, and the enraged
cries of the beast which was rolling over on the earth,
biting her own flesh and tearing the twigs and branches
within her reach. At the next instant, Leather-stocking

f5|

.'lU
•j jl

136

■i ■

Fourth Reader.

rushed by lier, and called aloud : "Come in, Hector, come
in ; 't is a hard-lived animal, and may jump again."

The brave hunter fearlessly maintained his position in
front of the girls, notwithstanding the violent, bounds
and threatening aspect of the wounded panther, which
gave indications of returning strength and ferocity, until
his rifle was again loaded, when he stepped up to the
enraged animal, and, placing the muzzle close to her
head, extinguished every spark of life by the discharge.

— J, Fejiimore Cooper.

LI.— SONG OF THE RIVER.

Out of the hills of Habersham,

Down in the valleys of Hall,
I hurry amain to reach the plain,
Run the rapid and leap the fall,
Split at the rock and together again,
Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,
And flee from folly on every side,
With a lover's pain to attain the plain

Far from the hills of Habersham,

Far from the valleys of Hall.

All down the hills of Habersham,

All through the valleys of Hall,
The rushes cried, Abide, abide,
The wilful waterweeds held me thrall.
The laving laurel turned my tide,

The ferns and the fondling grass said Stay,
The dewberry dipped for to work delay.
And the little reeds sighed A bide, abide,

Here in the hills of Habersham,

Here in the valleys of Hall,

Song of the Rivek.

137

, come

ion in
ounds
which
, until
o the
her
liarge.
yper.

High over the hills of Hal)ersham,

Veiling the valleys of Hall,
The hickory told me manifold
Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall
Wrought rae her shadowy self to hold,
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,
Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold

Deep shades of the hills of Habersham,

These glades in the valleys of Hall.

And oft in the hills of Haheishara,

And oft in the valleys of Hall,
The white quartz shone, and the smootli brook-stone
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl,
And many a luminous jewel lone —
Crystals clear or a cloud with mist,
Ruby, garnet and amethyst —
Made lures with the lights of streaming stone

In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,

In the beds of the valleys of Hall.

But oh, not the hills of Habersham,

And oh, not the valleys of Hall
Avail : I am fain for to water the plain.
Downward the voices of Duty call —
Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main,
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn.
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn.
And the lordly main from beyond the plain

Calls o'er the hills of Habersham,

Calls through the valleys of Hall.

— Sidney Lanier.

t •'

':,u\

■ 'it*-

III

< I

< i

¥ !'■

Get wisdom, for it is better than gold.

138

Fourth Reader.

£f

LII.-THE SERMON ON THE MOUNT.

And Jesus seeing the multitudes, went up into a moun-
tain, and when he was set down, his disciples came unto
him. And opening his mouth ho taught them, sayii^g :

Blessed are the poor in spirit : for theirs is the king-
dom of heaven. Blessed are the meek : for they shall
possess the land. Blessed are they that mourn : for they
shall be comforted. Blessed are they that hunger and
thirst after justice : for they shall have their fill.
Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the clean of heart: for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers : for they shall be called the
children of God. Blessed are they that sufter persecu-
tion for justice sake: for theirs is the kingdom of
heaven. Blessed are ye when they shall revile you, and
persecute you, and speak all that is evil against you,
untruly, for my sake : be glad and rejoice, for your
reward is very great in heaven. For so they persecuted
the prophets that were before you.

You are the salt of the earth. But ir the salt lose its
savor, wherewith shall it be salted ? It is good for
nothing any more but to be cast out, and to be trodden
on by men. You are the light of the world. A city
seated on a mountain can not be hid. Neither do men
light a candle and put it under a bushel, but upon a
candlestick, that it may shine to all that are in the
house. So let your light shine before men, that they
may see your ^ood works, and glorify your Father
who is in heaven.

Do not think that I am come to destroy the law, or
the propliets. I am not coi.ie to destroy, but to fulfil.

The Sermon on the Mount.

139

For amon I say nnto you, till ho.'ivcn and earth pass, one
jot, or one tittle shall not pass of the law, till all be
fultilled. He therefore that shall break one of these least
commandments, and shall so teach men, shall be called
the least in the kingdom of heaven. But he that shall
do and teach, he shall be called great in the kingdom of
heaven. For I tell you, that unless your justice abound
more than that of the Scribes and Pharisees, you shall
not enter into the kingdom of heaven.

You have heard that it was said to them of old :
Thou shalt not kill. And whosoever shall kill, shall be in
danger of the judgment. But I say to you : that whoso-
ever is angry with his brother, shall be in danger of the

judgment. If therefore thou offer thy gift at the

altar, and there thou remember that thy brother hath
anything against thee; leave there thy offering before
the altar, and go first to be reconciled t(^ thy brother ;
and then coming thou shalt offer thy gift.

Again you have heard that it was said to them of old :
Thou shalt not forswear thyself : but thou shalt perform
thy oaths to the Lord. But I say to you not to swear
at all, neither by heaven, for it is the throne of God :
nor by the earth, for it is his foot-stool : nor by Jerusa-
lem, for it is the city of the great king : neither shalt
thou swear by thy head, because thou canst not make
one hair white or black. But let your speech be yea,
yea : no, no : and that which is over and above these, is
of evil.

You have heard that it hath been said : An eye for an
eye, and a tooth for a tooth. But I say to j^ou not to
resist evil : bat if one strike thee on thy right cheek,
turn to him also the other : and if a man will contend

i>ia

140

Fourth Reader.

'i^K

1
1

J^B

f >,

with thee in judgment, and take away thy coat, let go
tliy cloak also unto him. And whosoever will force tliee
one mile, go with him other two. Give to him that
asketh of thee : and from him that would borrow of
thee, turn not away.

You have heard that it hatli been said : Thou shalt
love thy neighbor, and hate thy enemy. But I say to
you : Love your enemies, do good to them that hate you:
and pray for them that persecute and calumniate you:
that you may be the children of your Father who is in
heaven, wlio maketh his sun to rise upon the good and
the bad, and raineth upon the just and the unjust. For
if you love them that love you, what reward shall you
have ? Do not even tlie publicans this ? And if you
salute your brethren only, what do you more ? Do not
also the heathens this ? Be you therefore perfect, as
also your heavenly Father is perfect.

Take heed that you do not your justice before men, to
be seen by them : otherwise you shall not have a reward
of your Father who is in heaven. Therefore when thou
dost an alms-deed, sound not a trumpet before thee, as
the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets,
that they md,y be honored by men : Amen I say to you,
they have received their reward. But when thou dost
alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand
doth : that thy alms may be in secret, and thy F < >.er,
who seeth in secret, will repay thee.

And when ye pray, you shall not be as the hypocrites,
that love to stand and pray in the synagogues and
corners of the streets, that they may be seen by men :
Amen I say to you, they have received their reward.

The Sermon on the Mount.

141

), let go
rce thee
[ill that
rrow of

)U shalt
say to
ite you:
bte you:
ho is in
ood and
3t. For
[lall you
I if you
Do not
[•feet, as

men, to

I reward

en thou

thee, as

streets,

to you,

ou dost

it hand

Fi >.er,

30crites,
les and
y men :
reward.

But thou when thou slialt pray, enter into thy chamber,
and having shut the door, pray to thy Father in secret :
and thy Father who reeth in secret will repay thee.
And when you are praying, speak not much, as the
heathens. For they think that in their much-speaking
they may be heard. Be not you therefore like to them :
for your Father knoweth what is needful for you, before
you ask him.

Thus therefore shall you pray : Our Father who art in
heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us
this day our super-substantial bread. And forgive us
our debts, as we also forgive our debtors. And lead us
not into temptation. But deliver us from evil. Amen.
For if you will forgive men their offences, your heavenly
Father will forgive you also your offences. But if you
will not forgive men, neither will youi' Father forgive
you your offences.

And when you fast, be not as the hypocrites, sad. For
they disfigure their faces, that they may appear unto
men to fast. Amen I say to you, they have received
their reward. But thou when thou fastest, anoint thy
head, and wash thy face, that thou appear not to men to
fast, but to thy Father who is in secret : and thy Father
who seeth in secret, will repay thee.

Lay not up to yourselves treasures on earth : w^here
the rust and moth consume, and where thieves break
through and steal. But lay up to yourselves treasures
in heaven : where neither the rust nor moth doth con-
sume, and where thieves do not break through, nor steal.
For where thy treasure is, there is thy heart also. The
10

■'(

■'•'

142

Fourth Reader.

]'■

',■'

(

light of thy body is thy eye. If thy eye be single thy
whole body shall be lightsome. But if thy eye be evil
thy whole body shall be darksome. If then the light
that is in thee, be darkness : the darkness itself how
great shall it be ? No man can serve two masters. For
either he will hate the one, t^nd love the other : or he
will sustain the one, and despise the other. You cannot
serve God and mammon.

Ask and it shall be given you : seek, and you shall
find : knock, and it shall be opened to you. For every
one that asketh, receiveth : and he that seeketh, findeth :
and to him that knocketh, it shall be opened. Or what
man is there among you, of whom if his son shall ask
bread, will he reach him a stone ? Or if he shall ask
him a fish, will he reach him a serpent ? If you then
being pvil, know how to give good gifts to your children:
how much more' will your Father who is in heaven, give
good things to them that ask him ?

Not every one, that saith to me, Lord, Lord, shall enter
into the kingdom of heaven : but he that doth the will
of my Father who is in heaven, he shall enter into the
kingdom of heaven. Many v/ill say to me in that day :
Lord, Lord, have not we prophesied in thy name, and
cast out devils in thy name, and done many miracles in
thy name ? And then will I profess unto them : I never
knew you : depart from me, you that work iniquity.

Every one therefore that heareth these my words, and
doth them, shall be likened to a wise man, that built his
house upon a rock. And the rain fell, and the floods came,
and the winds blew and they beat upon that house, and
it fell not, for it was founded on a rock. And every one

As I Came Down From Lebanon.

143

that heareth these my words, and doth them not, shall
be like a foolish man, that built his house upon the sand.
And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds
blew, and they beat upon that house, and it fell, and

£:reat was the fall thereof.

— St. Matthew, v, vi, vU.

, ■^1

. never

LIII.-AS I CAME DOWN FROM LEBANON.

As I came down from Lebanon,

Came winding, wandering slowly down
Through mountain passes bleak and brown,

The cloudless day was well-nigh done.

The city, like an opal set

In emerald, showed each minaret

Afire with radiant beams of sun,
And glistened orange, fig and lime,
Where song-birds made melodious chime,

As I came down from Lebanon.

As I came down from Lebanon,

Like lava in the djring glow,

Through olive orchards far below
I saw the murmuring river run ;
And 'neath the wall upon the sand
Swart sheiks from distant Samarcand,
With precious spices they had won,

Lay long and languidly in wait

Till they might pass the guarded gate,
As I came down from Lebanon

144

Fourth Reader.

As I came down from Lebanon,
I saw strange men from lands afar
In mosque and square and gay bazaar,
The Mazi that the Moslem shun,
And grave Effendi from Stamboul
Who sherbet sipped in corners cool ;
And, from the balconies o'errun

With roses, gleamed the eyes of those
Who dwell in still seraglios.
As I came down from Lebanon.

As I came down from Lebanon,

The flaming flower of day-time died,
And night, arrayed as is a bride

Of some great king in garments spun

Of purple and the finest gold.

Out-bloomed in glories manifold ;

Until the moon above the dun

And darkening desert, void of shade,
Shone like a keen Damascus blade,

As I came down from Lebanon.

LIV.-THE BALLAD OF BABY BELL.

Have you not heard the poets tell
How came the dainty Baby Bell
Into this world of ours ?

The gates of heaven were left ajar ; ^

With folded hands and dreamy eyes,
Wandering out of Paradise,
She saw this planet, like a star,

Hung in the glistening depths of even, — ■

Thk Ballad of Babv Bell.

145

Its bridges, running to and fro,

O'er which the white-winged angels go,

Bearing the holy dead to heaven.
She touched a bridge of flowers, — those feet,
So light they did not bend the bells
Of the celestial aitphodels !
They fell like dew upon the flowers,
Then all the air grew strangely sweet !
And thus came dainty Baby Bell

Into this world of ours.

She came and brought delicious May.

The swallows built beneath the eaves ;

Like sunlight in and out the leaves.
The robins went the livelong day ;
The lily swung its noiseless bell,

And o'er the porch the tren?^>Ung vine

Seemed bursting with its veins of wine.
How sweetly, softly, twilight fell !
Oh, earth was full of singing-birds,
And opening spring-tide flowers.
When the dainty Baby Bell

Came to this world of ours !

O Baby, dainty Baby Bell,

How fair she grew from day to day !

What woman-nature filled her eyes,

What poetry within them lay !

Those deep and tender twilight eyes.

So full of meaning, pure and bright,
As if she yet stood in the light

Of those -ped gates of Paradise.

And so we loved her more and more ;

Ah, never in our hearts before
Was love so lovely born :

. If

: ii

•I'M

■•'■is

^"v- tt

14(j

•i

}

Fourth Header.

We felt we had a link between
This real world and that unseen —

The land beyond the mom.
And for the love of those dear eyes,
For love of her whom God led forth,
(The mother's being ceased on earth
When Baby came from Paradise), —
For love of Him who simc^^ our lives,

And woke the chords oi joy and pain.
We said. Dear Christ ! — our hearts bent down

Like violets after riun.

And now the orchards, which were white

And red with blossoms when she came,

Were rich in autumn's mellow prime.

The clustered apples burnt like flame.

The soft-cheeked peaches blushed and fell,

The ivory chestnut burst its shell.

The grapes hung purpling in the grange ;

And time wrought just as rich a change
In little Baby Bell.

Her lissome form more perfect grew.
And in her features we could trace
In softened curves, her mother's face !

Her angel-nature ripened too.

We thought her lovely when she came.

But she was holy, saintly now : —

Around her pale angelic brow

We saw a slender ring of flame !

God's hand had taken away the seal

That held the portals of her speech ;

And oft she said a few strano^e words

Whose meaning lay beyond our reach.

The Ballad of Baby Bell. 147

She never was a child to lis,
We never held her being's key,
We could not teach her holy things ;
She was Christ's self in purity.

It came upon us by degrees :
We saw its shadow ere it fell,
The knowledge that our God had sent
His messenger for Baby Bell.
We shuddered with unlanguaged pain,
And all our hopes were changed to fears,
And all our thoughts ran into tears
Like sunshine into rain.
We cried aloud in our belief,
" Oh, smite us. gently, gently,. God !
Teach us to bend and kiss the rod,
And perfect grow through grief."
Ah, how we loved her, God can tell ;
Her heart was folded deep in ours.
Our hearts are broken. Baby Bell !

At last he came, the messenger,

The messenger from unseen lands :

And what did dainty Baby Bell 1

She only crossed her little hands.

She only looked more meek and fair !

We parted back her silken hair.

We wove the roses round her brow, —

White buds, the summer's drifted snow, —

Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers !

And then went dainty Baby Bell

Out of this world of ours !

— Thomas B. Aldrivh.

Religion is the homage which man owes to God.

{ il
ll'i't

I!
I

i:
fi

apt

iff
• If

148 Fourth Reader.

LV.-CORN BETTER THAN GOLD.

The grains of the California gold are dead, inorganic
masses. How they got into the gravel; between what
mountain mill-stones the auriferous ledges were ground
to powder; by what Titanic hands the coveted grains
were sown broadcast in the placers, human science can
but faintly crnjecture. We only know that those grains
have within them no principle of growth or reproduc-
tion, and that when that crop was put in, Chaos must
have broken up the soil.

How different the grains of our Atlantic gold, sown
by the prudent hand of man, in the kindly alternation
of seed-time and harvest; each curiously, mysteriously
organized; hard, homy, seemingly lifeless on the outside,
but wrapping up in the interior a wonderful germ, a
living principle! Drop a grain of California gold into
the ground, and there it will lie unchanged to the and of
time, — the clods on which it falls not more cold and
lifeless. Drop a grain of our gold, of our blessed gold,
into the ground, and lo ! a mystery. In a few days it
softens, it swells, it shoots upwards, it is a living thing.

It is yellow itself, but it sends up a delicate spire,
which comes peeping, emerald green, through the soil ; it
expands to a vigorous stalk ; revels in the air and sun-
shine; arrays itself, more glorious than Solomon, in its
broad, fluttering, leafy robes, whose sound, a. the west
wind whispers through them, falls as pleasantly on the
husbandman's ear as the rustle of his sweetheart's gar-
ment ; still towers aloft, spins its verdant skeins of
vegetable floss, displays its dancing tassels, surcharged
with fertilizing dust, and at last ripens into two or three

Corn Better Than Gold.

149

magnificent ears of corn, each of which is studded with
hundreds of grains of gold.

But it will be urged, perhaps, in behalf of the Cali-
fornia gold, that, though one crop oiily of gold can be
gathered from the same spot, yet, once gathered, it lasts
to the end of time ; while our vegetable gold is produced
only to be consumed, and, when consumed, is gone
forever.

It is true the California gold will last forever un-
changed if its owner chooses; but, while it s.o lasts, it
is of no use; no, not as much as its value in pig-iron,
which makes the best of ballast ; whereas gold, wliile it
is gold, is good for little or nothing. You can neither
eat it, nor drink it, nor smoke it. You can neither wear
it, nor burn it as fuel, nor build a house with it: it is
really useless till you exchange it for consumable, perish-
able goods ; and the more plentiful it is, the less its
exchangeable value.

Far different the case with our Atlantic gold ; it does
not perish when consumed, but by a noble alchemy, is
transmuted in consumption to a higher life. " Perish in
consumption," did the old miser say ? " Thou fool, that
which thou sowest is not quickened except it die." To-
day a senseless plant, to-morroW it is human bone and
muscle, vein and artery, sinew and nerve ; beating pulse,
heaving lungs, toiling, ah, sometimes, overtoiling brain.

Last June, it sucked from the cold breast of the earth
the watery nourishment of its distending sap- vessels;
and now it clothes the manly form with warm, cordial
flesh ; quivers and thrills with the five-fold mystery of
sense ; purveys and ministers to the higher mystery
of thought.

■„!■ .

' if

t-i-i

i] litb

,iH

150

Fourth Readek.

1
f

Heaped up in your granariea this week, the next it
will strike in the stalwart arm, and glow in the blush-
ing cheek, and flash in the beaming eye ; till we learn at
last to realize that the slender stalk, which we have seen
shaken by the summer breeze, bending in the corn-field
under the yellow burden of harvest, is indeed the " stafi*
of life," which, since the world began, has supported the
toiling and struggling myriads of humanity on the

mighty pilgrimage of being.

— Edward Everett.

LVI.— THE HERITAGE.

The rich man's son inherits lands,

And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,

And he inherits soft white hands,
And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old ;

A heritage, it seems to me.

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

J 1^1

nil

The rich man's son inherits cares ;

The bank may break, the factory burn,

A breath may burst his bubble shares,
And soft white hands could hardly earn
A living that would serve his turn ;

A heritage, it seems to me.

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants.

His stomach craves for dainty fare ;
With sated heart, he hears the pants

f \

fl^

The Hekitage.

Of toiling hyids with brown arms bare,
And wearies in his easy-chair ;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit 1
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit ;
King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art ;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit ?
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,

A rank adjudged by toil- won merit.
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labor sings ;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit 1
A patience learned of being poor,

Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow-feeling that is sure
To make the outcast bless his door ;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son ! there is a toil
That with all others level stands ;

Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten, soft, white hands, —
This is the best crop from thy lands ;

A heritage, it seems to me

Worth being rich to hold in fee.

161

i.;f

rill

■ 'hi

162

Fourth Reader.

poor man's son ! scorn not thy state ;
There is worse weariness t£an thine,

In merely being rich and great ;
Toil only gives the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign ;

A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,

Are equal in the earth at last ;
Both, children of the same dear God,

Prove title to your heirship vast

By record of a well -filled past ;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.

— James Russell Lowell,

LVII.— PARADISE AND THE PERI.

One morn a Peri at the gate
Of Eden stood, disconsolate ;
And as she listened to the Springs

Of Life within, like music flowing.
And caught the light upon her wings

Through the half-open portal glowing.
She wept to think her recreant race
Should e'er have lost that glorious place !
" How happy," exclaimed this child of air,
" Are the holy spirits who wander there

'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall ;
Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea
And the stars themselves have flowers for me.
One blossom of Heaven out-blooms them all."

Paradise and the Peri.

153

The glorious Angel who was keeping
The Gates of L:ght, beheld her weeping ;
And, as he nearer drew and listened
To her sad song, a teardrop glistened
Within his eyelids, like the spray

From Eden's fountain when it lies
On the blue flower, which — Brahmins say,-

Blooms nowhere but in Paradise.

:«

" Nymph of a fair but erring line,"
Gently he said, " one hope is thine :
'Tis written in the Book of Fate,

The Peri yet may he forgiven
Who brings to this Eternal Gate

The gift that is most dear to Heaven !
Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin :
'Tis sweet to let the pardoned in."

Downward the Peri turns her gaze,
And, through the war-field's bloody haze.
Beholds a youthful warrior stand

Alone, beside his native river.
The red blade broken in his hand.

And the last arrow in his quiver.
'* Live," said the conqueror, " live to share
The trophies and the crowns I bear ! "
Silent that youthful warrior stood —
Silent he pointed to the flood
All crimson with his country's blood,
Then sent his last remaining dart,
For answer, to the invader's heart.

False flew the shaft, though pointed well ;
The tyrant lived, the hero fell I —
Yet marked the Peri where he lay,

I H

: 'I!

: ii

> M

154

ill

Fourth Reader.

And, when the rush of war was past,
Swiftly descending on a ray

Of morning light, she caught the last,
Last glorious drop his heart had shed,
Before his free-born spirit fled !

" Be this," she cried, as she winged her Hight,
"My welcome gift at the Gates of Light."
" Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave

The gift into his radiant hand,
" Sweet is our welcome of the brave

Who die thus for their native land.
But see — alas ! — the crystal bar
Of Eden moves not— holier far
Than e'en this drop the boon must be
That opes the gates of Heaven for thee ! "

But nought can charm the luckless Peri :
Her soul is sad, her wings are weary.

When, o'er the vale of Baalbec winging
Slowly, she sees a child at play.
Among the rosy wild-flowers singing,

As rosy and as wild as they,
ChaLing, with eager hands and eyes,
The beautiful blue damsel-flies,
That fluttered round the jasmine stems.
Like wingfed flowers or flying gems :
And, near the boy, who, tired with play,
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay.
She saw a wearied man dismount

From his hot steed, and on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount

Impatient fling him down to drink.
Then swift his haggard brow he turned

To the fair child, who fearless sat,

jht,

Paradise and the Peri.

165

Though never yet hath day-beam burned

Upon a brow more fierce than ihat.

But hark ! the vesper-call to prayer,

As slow the orb of daylight sets,

Is rising sweetly on the air

From Syria's thousand minarets.

The boy has started from the bed

Of flowers, where he had laid his head,

And down upon the fragrant sod

Kneels with his forehead to the south.

Lisping th' eternal name of God

From purity's own cherub mouth.

And how felt he, the wretched man

Reclining there — while memory ran

}

O'er many a year of guilt and strife,

Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,

Nor found one sunny resting-place,

Nor brought him back one branch of grace ?

" There was a time," he said, in mild,

Heart-humbled tones, " thou blessed child !

" When, young and haply pure as thou,

I looked and prayed like thee — but now " —

He hung his head — each nobler aim,

And hope, and feeling, which had slept
From boyhood's hour, that instant came

Fresh o'er him, and he wept — he wept !

And now, behold him kneeling there

By the child's side, in humble prayer.

While the same sunbeam shinies upon

The guilty and the guiltless one,

And hymns of joy proclaim through Heaven

The triumph of a soul forgiven !

ii;

: !

■ !

, i

hi!

■ 'I

^ 1

I.;!

i'l

\ r

1 1 ,

156

Fourth Reader.

'Twas when the golden orb had set,
While on their knees they lingered yet,
There fell a liglit, more lovely far
Than ever came from sun or star,
Upon the tear that, warm and meek.
Dewed that repentant sinner's cheek.
To mortal eye this light might seem
A northern flash or meteor beam, —
But well th* enraptured Peri knew
'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw
From Heav ii's gate, to hail that tear —
Her harbinger of glory near !
•* Joy, joy forever ! m}'^ task is done :
The gates are passed, and Heaven is won."

— Thomas Moore.

LVIIL— THE ORIGIN OF ROAST PIG.

Mankind, says a Chinese manuscript, which my friend
was obliging enough to read and explain to me, for the
first seventy thousand ages ate their meat raw, clawing
or biting it from the living animal, just as they do in
Abyssinia to this day. The manuscript goes on to say,
that the art of roasting, or rather broiling (which I take
to be the elder brother), was accidenta,lly discovered in
the manner following : —

The swineherd Ho-ti, having gone out into the woods
one raorning, as his manner was, to collect mast for his
hogs, left his cottage in the care of his eldest son, Eo-bo,
a great lubberly boy, who being fond of playing with
tire, as youngsters of his age commonly are, let some
sparks escape intp a bundle of straw,, which, kindling

The Origin ov Roast Pia.

157

Moore,

[G.

^ friend
for the
5lawing
r do in
to say,
I take
sred in

woods
for his
Bo-bo,
: with
some
idling

;|uickly, spread tlie conflagration over e\ ery part of their
poor mansion, till it was reduced to ashes. Toj^ether
witli the cottage (a sorry antedeluvian niake-shift of a
building, you may think it), what was of much more
importance, a fine litter of new-farrowed pigs, no less
than nine in innnber, perished. China pigs have been
esteemed a luxury all over the East, from the remotest
periods that we read of. Bo-bo was in the utmost con-
sternation, as you may think, not so much for the sake
of the tenement, which his father and he could easily
build up again with a few dry branches, and the labor
of an hour or two, at any time, as for the loss of the
pigs. While he was thinking what he should say to
his father, and wringing his hands over the smoking
remnants of one of those untimely sufferers, an odor
assailed his nostrils, unlike any scent which he had
before experienced. What could it proceed from ? — not
from the burnt cottage, — he had smelt that smell before,
— indeed, this was by no means the first accident of the
kind which had occurred through the negligence of this
unlucky young firebrand. Much less did it resemble
that of any known herb, weed, or flower. A premonitory
moistening at the same time overflowed his nether lip,
He knew not what to think.

He next stooped down to feel the pig, if there were
any signs of life in it. He burnt his fingers, and to cool
them he applied them in his booby fashion to his mouth.
Some of the crumbs of the scorched skin had come away
with his fingers, and for the first time in his life (in the
world's life, indeed, for before him no man had known
it) he tasted — crackling ! Again he felt and fumbled at

the pig. It did not burn him so much now, still he
11

'.'\''

' r*

,!j;

158

Fourth Reader.

licked his fingers from a sort of habit. The truth at
length broke into his slow understanding that it was the
pig that smelt so, and the pig that tasted so delicious ;
and surrendering himself up to the new-born pleasure,
he fell to tearing up whole handfuls of the scorched skin
with the flesh next it, and was cramming it down his
throat in his beastly fashion, when his sire entered amid
the smoking rafters, armed with retributory cudgel, and
finding how affairs stood, began to rain blows upon the
young rogue's shoulders, as thick as hail -stones, v hich
Bo-bo heeded not any more than if they had been flies.
The tickling pleasure, which he experienced in his lower
regions, had rendered him quite callous to any incon-
veniences he might feel in those remote quarters. His
father might lay on, but he could not beat him from his
pig, till he had fairly made an end of it, when, becoming
a little more sensible of his situation, something like the
following dialogue ensued :—

" You graceless whelp, what have you got there
devouring ? Is it not enough that you have burnt me
down three houses with your dog's tricks, and be hanged
to you ! but you must be eating fire, and I know not
what. What have you got there, I say ? "

" O father, the pig, the pig ! do come and taste how
nice the burnt pig eats."

The ears of Ho-ti tingled with horror. He cursed his
son, and he cursed himself that ever he should beget a
son that should eat burnt pig. Bo-bo, whose scent was
wonderfully sharpened since morning, soon raked out
another pig, and fairly rending it asunder, thrust the
lesser half by main force into the fists of Ho-ti, still

The Origin of Roast Pig.

159

shouting out, " E^t, eat, eat the burnt pig, father, only
taste!" — with such like barbarous ejaculations, cram niing
all the while as if he would choke.

Ho-ti trembled in every joint while he grasped the
abominable thing, wavering whether he should not put
his son to death for an unnatural monster, when the
crackling scorching his fingers, as it had done his son's,
and applying the same remedy to them, he in his turn
tasted some of its flavor, which, make what sour mouths
he would for pretence, proved not altogether displeasing
to him. In conclusion (for the manuscript here is a little
tedious), both father and son fairly sat down to the
mess, and never left off till they had despatched all that
remained of the litter.

Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the secret escape,
for the neighbors would certainly have stoned them for
a couple of abominable wretches, who could think of
improving upon the good meat which Go<l had sent
them. Nevertheless, strange stories got about. It was
observed that Ho-ti's cottage was burnt down more
frequently than ever. Nothing but fires from this time
forward. Some would break out in broad day, others in
the night-time. As often as the sow farrowed, so sure
wa« the house of Ho-ti to be in a blaze ; and Ho-ti him-
seif, which was more remarkable, instead of chastising
his son, seemed to grow more indulgent to him than
aver.

At length they were watched, the terrible myst«ry
discovered, and father anc* son summoned to take their
trial at Pekin, then an inconsiderable assize town.
Evidence was given, the obnoxious f(x>d itself produced

'!:(:

■ ,(

160

Fourth Reader.

It- •

in court, and verdict about to be pronounced, when the
foreman of the jury begged that some of the burnt pig,
of which the culprits stood accused, might be handed
into the box. He handled it, and they all handled it ;
and burning their fingers, as Bo-bo and his father had
done before i/hem, and nature pi*ompting to eacli of them
the same remedy, against the face of all the facts, and
the clearest charge which judge had ever given, — to
the surprise of the whole court, townsfolk, strangers,
reporters, and all present, — without leaving the box, or
any manner of consultation whatever, they brought in a
simultaneous verdict of Not Guilty.

The judge, who was a shrewd fellow, winked at the
manifest iniquity of the decision ; and wherf" the court
was dismissed, went privately and bought up all the
pigs that could be liad for love or money. In a few
days his Lordship's town house was observed to be on
fire. The thing took wing, and now there was nothing
.to be seen but fires in every direction. Fuel and pigs
grew enormously dear all over the district. The
insurance oflftces one and all shut up shop. People built
slighter and slighter every day, until it was feared that
the very science of architecture would in no long time
be lost to the world. Thus this custom of firing houses
continued, till in process of time, »ays my manuscript, a
sage arose who made the discovery that the flesh of
swine, or indeed of any other animal, might be cooked
{burnt, as they called it) without the necessity of con-
suming a whole house to dress it. Then first began the
rude form of a gridiron. Roasting by the string or
spit came in a century or two later, I forget in whose
dynasty. By such slow degrees, concludes the manu-

Ye Mariners of ExciLAND.

161

script, do the most useful and soemingly tlie most
obvious arts make their way among mankind.

Without placing too implicit faith in the account
abov^ given, it must be agreed, that if a worthy pretext
for so dangerous an experiment as setting houses on fire
(especially in these days) could be assigned in favor of
any culinary object, that pretext and excuse might be

found in roast pig. —Charles Lamb.

LIX.— YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

Ye mariners of England

That guard our native seas,

Whose flag has braved, a thousaiul years,

The battle and the breeze !

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe,

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow ;

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave !

For the deck it was their field of fame,

And Ocean was their grave ;

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,

Your manly hearts shall glow,

As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow ;

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

^:|

162

FouuTH Reader.

Britannia needs no buN rk,

No towers along the steep ;

Her march iu o'er the mountain waves,

Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak,

She quells the floods below,

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy winds do blow ;

When the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn ;

Till danger's troubled night depart.

And the star of peace return.

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors !

Our song and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow ;

When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow !

— Thomas Campbell.

LX.— WOLFE AT QUEBEC.

Wolfe applied himself intently to reconnoitring the
north shore above Quebec. Nature had given him good
eyes, as well as a warmth of temper to follow first impres-
sions. He himself discovered the cove which now bears
his name, where the bending promontories almost form a
basin, with a very narrow margin, over which the hill
rises precipitously. He saw the path that wound up
the steep, though so narrow that two men could hardly

Wolfe at Quebec.

163

march in it abreast; and he knew, by the number of
tents which he counted on the summit, that the Cana-
dian post which guarded it could not exceed a hundred.
Here he resolved to land his army by surprise. To mis-
lead the enemy, his troops were kept far above the
town ; while Saunders, as if an attack was intended at
Beauport, set Cook, the great mariner, with others, to
sound the water and plant buoys along that shore.

The day and night of the twelfth were employed in
preparations. The autumn, evening was bright ; and the
General, under the clear starlight, visited his stations, to
make his final inspection and utter his last words of
encouragement. As he passed from ship to ship, he
spoke to those in the boat with him of the poet Gray
and the " Elegy in a Country Churchyard." " I," said
he, " would prefer being the author of that poem to the
glory of beating the French to-morrow : " and while the
oars struck the river as it rippled in the silence of the
night air, under the flowing tide, he repeated : —

" The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour —

The paths of glory lead but to the grave."

Every officer knew his appointed duty, when, at one
o'clock in the morning of the 13th of September, Wolfe,
Monckton, and Murray, and about half the forces, set off
in boats, and, using neither sail nor oars, glided down
with the tide. In three-quarters of an hour the ships
followed ; and, though the night had become dark, aided
by the rapid current they reached the cove just in time
to cover the landing. Wolfe and the troops with him

III

I In

164

FOITRTH ReADKR.

^■Sfi

'^^1

i i

V :

leaped on the shore; the light infantry, who found
themselves borne by the current a little below the
intrenched path, clambered up the steep hill, staying
themselves by the roots and boughs of the maple and
spruce and ash trees that covered the precipitous decli-
vity, and after a little iiring, dispersed the picket which
guarded the height; the rest ascended safely by the
pathway. A battery of four guns on the left was aban-
doned to Colonel Howe. When Townshend's division
disembarked, the English had already gained one of the
roads to Quebec; and, advancing in front of the forest,
Wolfe stood at daybreak with his invincible battalions
on the Plains of Abraham, the battle-field of empire.

"It can be but a small party come to burn a few
houses and retire," said Montcalm, in amazement, as thfe
news reached him in his intrenchments on the other side;
of the St. Charles ; but, obtaining better information, —
"Then," he cried, "they have at last got to the weak
side of this miserable garrison ; we must give battle and
crush them before mid-day." And, before ten, the two
armies, equal in numbers, each being composed of less
than five thousand men, were ranged in presence of one
another for battle. The British, not easily accessible
from intervening shallow ravines and rail-fences, were
all regulars, perfect in discipline, terrible in their fearless
enthusiasm, thrilling with pride at their morning's suc-
cess, commanded by a man whom they obeyed with^
confidence and love. The doomed and devoted Mont-
calm had what Wolfe had called but " five weak French '
battalions," of less than two thousand men, "mingled
with disorderly peasantry," formed on commanding
ground. The French had three little pieces of artillery ;

WoF.FE AT Quebec.

165

• found
ow the
staying
ole and
8 decJi-
i which
by the
s aban-
li vision
of the
forest,
talions
[•e.

a few
as the>
er side?
ion, —
weak
e and
e two
>f less
)f one
isaible
were
arless
suc-
with^
lont-
•ench '
igled
ding-
ery ;

the English one or two. The two armies cannon-
aded each other for nearly an hour; when Montcahn,
liaving sunnnoned De Bougainville to his aid, and
despatched messenger after messenger for De Vaudreuil,
who had fifteen hundred men at tlie camp, to come up
before he should be driven from the grcjund, endeavored
to flank the British and crowd them down tlie high bank
of the river. Wolfe counteracted the movement by
detaching Townshend with Amherst's regnnent, and
afterwards a part of the Royal Americans, who formed
on the left with a double front.

Waiting no longer for more troops, Montcahn led the
French army impetuously to the attack. The ill-dis-
ciplined companies broke by their precipitation and the
unevenness of the ground ; and fired by platoons, with-
out unity. Their adversaries, especially the forty-third
and the forty-seventh, where Monckton stood, of which
three men out of four were Americans, received the
shock with calmness ; and after having, at Wolfe's com-
mand, reserved their fire till their enemy was within
forty yards, their line began a regular, rapid, and exact
discharge of musketry. Montcalm was present every-
where, braving danger, wounded, but cheering by his
example. The second in command was killed. The
brav3 but untried Canadians, flinching from a liot fire in
the open field, began to waver ; and as soon as Wolfe,
placing himself at the head of the twenty-eighth and
the Louisburg Grenadiers, charged with bayonets, they
everywhere gave way. Wolfe, as he led the charge,
was wounded in the wrist ; but still pressing forward, ho
received a second ball ; and, having decided the day, was
struck a third time, and mortally, in the breast. " Sup-

\\i

,MI|

"iii

166

FOUKTH KkADEK.

port me," he cried to an officer near bim ; " let not my
brave fellows see me drop." He was carried to the rear,
and they brought him water to quench his thirst.

" They run ! they r;n ! " spoke the officer on whom he
loaned. " Who run ? " asked Wolfe, as his life was fast
ebbing, "The French," replied the officer, "give way
everywhere." "What!" cried the expiring hero, "do they
run already ? Go, one of you, to Colonel Burton ; bid
him march Webb's regiment with all speed to Charles
River to cut off the fugitives." Four days before, he
had looked forward to early death with dismay. "Now,
God be praised, I die happy." These were his words as
his spirit escaped in the blaze of his glory. Night,
silence, the rushing tide, veteran discipline, the sure
inspiration of genius, had been his allies ; his battlefield,
high over the ocean river, was the grandest theatre for
illustrious deeds ; his victory, one of the most momentous
in the annals of mankind, gave to the English tongue
and the institutions of the Saxoi^ race the unexplored
and seemingly infinite West and North. He crowded
into a few hours, actions that would have given lustre
to length of life ; and, filling his day with greatness,
completed it before its noon.

Montcalir , too, the hope of New France, was gone.
Struck by a musket ball, he continued in the engage-
ment till, in attempting to rally a body of fugitive
Canadians, he was mortally wounded.

On hearing from the surgeon that death was certain,
" I am glad of it," he cried ; " how long shall I survive ? "

" Ten or twelve hours, perhaps less."

"So much the better; I shall not live to see the

surrender of Quebec." —George Bancroft.

Cavalky 8un(j.

107

LXI.-CAVALRY SONG.

Our good steeda snuff the evening air,
Our pulses with ch ir purpose tingle ;

Tlie foeman's fires are twinkling there ;
He leaps to hear our sabres jingle !

HALT !

Each carbine sends its whizzing ball ;
Now, cling ! clang ! forward all,
Into the fight !

Dash on beneath the smoking dome :
Through level lightnings, gallop nearer.

One look to heaven ! No thoughts of home :
The guidons that we bear are dearer.

CIIaKGE !

Cling ! clang ! forward all !
Heaven help those whose horses fall :
Cut left and right !

They flee before our fierce attack !

They fall ! they spread in broken surges.
Now, comrades, bear our wounded back.

And leave the foeman to his dirges.

WHEEL !

The bugles sound the swift recall :
Cling ! clang ! backward all !

Home, and good night !

— Edmund Clarence Stedman.

Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging ; and whoso-
ever is deceived thereby is not wise.

1(58

ForiiTii Reader.

■Il

bhII t

It'

LXIL— THE CROWDED STREET.

TiCt me move slowly through the street,
Filled with nn ever-shifting train,

Amid the sound of steps that heat

The murmuring walks- like a itutnii rain.

How fast the flitting fig u - .u-v; t !

The mild, the fierce, the 'ay tn-e, —
Some bright with thoughtless smiles, ind some

Where secret tears have left their trace.

They pass to toil, to strife, to rest,
To halls in which the feast is spread.

To chambers where the funeral guest
In silence sits beside the dead.

And some to happy homes repair,

Where children, pressing cheek to cheek,

With mute caresses shall declare
The tenderness they cannot speak.

And some, who walk in calmness here,
Shall shudder as they reach the door

Where one who made their dwelling dear.
Its flower, its light, is seen no more.

Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame.
And dreams of greatness in thine eye,

Go'st thou to build an early name,
Or, early in the task, to die 1

Keen son of trade, with eager brow,
Who is now fluttering in thy snare ?

Thy golden fortunes, tower they now.
Or melt the glittering spires in air ?

^*Mi«q^

My (Garden Acc^uaixtance.

Who of this crowd to-niglit shall tread
The dance, till daylight gleam again]

AVho, sorrow o'er the untimely dead ?
Who, writhe in throes of mortal pain ?

Some, famine-struck, shall think how loinjf
The cold dark hours, how slow the light ;

And some, who flaunt amid the throng.
Shall hide in dens of shame to-night.

Each where his tasks or pleasures call.
They pass, and heed each other not ;

There is Who heeds, Who holds them all
In His large love and boundless thought.

These struggling tides of life, that seem
In wayward, aimless course to tend,

Are eddies of the mighty stream
That rolls to its appointed end.

— WUliam Cnllen Bryant.

IGJ)

LXIII.-MY GARDEN ACQUAINTANCE.

Dr. Watts's statement that " birds in their little nests
agree," like too many others intended to form the infant
mind, is very far from being true. On the contrary, the
most peaceful relation of the different species to each
other is that of armed neutrality. They are very jealous
of neighbors. A few years ago, I was much interested
in the house-building of a pair of sunnner yellow-birds.
They had chosen a very pretty site near the top of a tall
white lilac, within easy eyeshot of a chamber window.

A very pleasant thing it was to see their little home
growing with mutual help, to watch their industrious

ill

> Of I

V ; ,i;

170

Fourth Reader.

Mi,.

j*;.; . I

skill interrupted only by little flirts and snatches of
endearment, frugally cut short by the common sense of
the tiny house-wife. They had brought their work
nearly to an end, and ha({ already begun to line it with
fern-down, the gathering of which demanded more dis-
tant journeys and longer absences. But, alas ! the
syringa, immemorial manor of the catbirds, was not
more than twenty feet away, and these " giddy neigh-
bors" had, as it appeared, been all along jealously
watchful, though silent, witnesses of what they deemed
an intrusion of squatters. No sooner were the pretty
mates fairly gone for a new load of lining than

" To their unguarded nests tfleae weasel Scots
Came stealing."

Silently they flew back and forth, each giving a vengeful
dab at the nest in passing. They did not fall-to and
deliberately destroy it, for they might have been caught
at their mischief. As it was, whenever the yellow-birds
came back, their enemies were hidden in their own sight-
nroof bush. Several times their unconscious victims
repaired damages, but at length, after counsel taken
together, they gave it up. Perhaps, like other unlettered
folk, they came to the conclusion that the Devil was in
it, and yielded to the invisible persecutions of witchcraft.

The robins, oy constant attacks and annoyances, have
succeeded in driving off" the blue-jays who used to build
in our pines, their gay colors and quaint noisy ways
making them welcome and amusing neighbors. I once
had the chance of doing a kindness to a household of
them, which they received with very friendly conde-
scension. I had had my eye for some time upon a nest,

My Garden Acquaintance.

171

atches of
1 sense of
eir work
le it with
more dis-
las ! the
was not
Y neigh -
jealously
' deemed
e pretty

vengeful
-to and

caught
w-birds
ti sight-
victims
taken
lettered

was in
jhcraft.
s, have

build
^ ways

1 once
lold of
conde-
a nest,

and was puzzled by a constant fluttering of what seemed
full-grown wings in it whenever I drew nigh. At last I
climbed the tree, in spite of angry protests from the old
birds against my intrusion.

The mystery had a very simple solution. In building
the nest, a long piece of packthread had been somewhat
loosely woven in. Three of the young had contrived to
entangle themselves in it, and had become full-grown
without being able to launch themselves upon the air.
One was unharmed ; another had so tightly twisted the
cord about its shank that one foot was curled up and
seemed paralyzed; the third, in its struggles to escape,
had sawn through the flesh of the thigh and so much
harmed itself that I thought it humane to put an end
to its misery. When I took out my knife to cut their
hempen bonds, the heads of the family seemed to divine
my friendly intent. Suddenly ceasing their cries and
threats, they perched quietly within reach of my hand,
and watched me in my work of manumission.

This, owing to the fluttering terror of the pnsoners,
was an aflair of some delicacy ; but ere long I was
rewarded by seeing one of them fly away to a neigh-
boring tree, while the cripple, making a parachute of
his wings, came lightly to the ground, and hopped ofl*
as well as he could with one leg, obsequiously waited on
by his elders. A week later I had the satisfaction of
meeting him in the pine-walk, in good spirits, and
already so far recovered as to be able to balance himself
with the lame foot. I have no doubt that in his old age
he accounted for his lameness by some handsome story
of a wound received at the famous Battle of the Pines,

l! ^ 1

■ >i
I I <

. I

172

Fourth Reader.

when our tribe, overcome by numbers, was driven from
its ancient camping-ground.

Of late years the jays have visited us only at inter-
vals ; and in winter their bright plumage, set off by the
snow, and their cheerful cry, are especially welcome.
They would have furnished iEsop with a fable, for the
feathered crest in which they seem to take so much
satisfaction is often their fatal snare. Country boys
make a hole with their finger in tlie snow-crust just
large enough to admit the jay's head, and, hollowing it
out somewhat beneath, bait it with a few kernels of
corn. The crest slips easily into the trap, but refuses
to be pulled out again, and he who came to feast
remains a prey.

Twice have the crow black-birds attempted a settle-
ment in my j ines, and twice have the robins, who claim
a right of pre-emption, so successfully played the part of
border-ruffians as to drive them away, — to my great
regret, for they are the best substitute we have for
rooks. At Shady Hill they build by hundreds, and
nothing can be more cheery than their creaking clatter
(like a convention of old-fashioned tavern-signs) as they
gather at evening to debate in mass meeting their windy
politics, or to gossip at their tent-doors over the events
of the day. Their port is grave, and their stalk across
the turf as martial as that of a second-rate ghost in
Hamlet They never meddled with my corn, so far as I
could discover.

For a few years I had crows, but their nests are an
irresistible bait for boys, and their settlement was broken
up. They grew so w^onted as to throw oif a great part

Mv Garden Aci^UAiNTi nce.

173

en from

it inter-
f by the
velcome.
, for the
lo much
vy boys
ust just
)wing it
rnels of
refuses
bo feast

I settle-
lo claim

part of
y great
ave for
ds, and

clatter
as they
' windy
5 events
c across
host in
far as I

are an
broken
sat part

of their sliynt'SH, jind to tolerate my near approacii. One
very hot day T stood for some time within twenty feet
of a mother and t)iree children, wlio sat on an r^lm bough
over my head, gasping in the sultry air, and holding
their wings half spread for coolness.

V(it there nie few things to my ear more melodious
than liis caw of a dear winter morning as it drops to
yon tiUen'(l through five hundred fathoms of crisp blue
air. Th<i hostilitv of all snuiller birrls makes the moral
character of the ciow, for all his deaconlike demeanor
and garb, somewhat (juestionnble. He could never sally
forth without insult. Tlie golden robins, especially,
would chase him as far as I could follow with my eye,
making him duck clumsily to avoi<l their importunate
bills. I do not believe, however, that he robbed any
nests hereabouts, foi* the refuse of the gas-works,
which, in our free-and-easy comnuinity, is allowed to
poison the river, supplied him with dead ale-wives in
abundance. I used to watch him making his periodical
visits to the salt-marshes and coming back with a fish
in his beak to his young savages, who, no doubt, like
it in that condition which makes it savory to the
Kanakas and other corvine races of men.

- —James Ruaaell Lowell.

Blessed are they who die for God,

And earn tlie martyr's crown of light ;

Yet he who lives for God may be
A greater conqueror in His sight,
12

ii':

lit

iliitl

, I

liii

174

Fourth Reader.

; ■

1 I

1 ,

;

\ ■

LXIV.-THE WATER-FOWL.

Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way ?

Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky.

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink

On the chafed ocean side ?

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, —
The desert and illimitable air, —

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere ;
Yet stoop not, wea ^ , to the welcome land,

Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end ;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest
And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend

Soon o'er thy sheltered nest,

The Journey to Bethlehem. 175

Thou'rt gone ; the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.

He, who from zone to zone
Guides through tlie boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone.

Will lead my step^s aright.

— William Citllen Bryant.

It'

'i ,

LXV.-THE JOURNEY TO BETHLEHEM.

A little group is seen to advance slowly, from the
mean aiid obscure village of Nazareth, on its way to
Bethlehem, the regal city. None of the pride and
circumstance of oriental travelling distinguishes its
progress ; no swelling retinue of menials and depondants
surrounds it, to anticipate the wants and administer to
the gratification of their masters; no well-appointed
train of camels follow, to convey the provisions and
conveniences almost indispensable in such a journey.

A poor artisaii, with affectionate solicitude, alone
t^uides the steps of the humble beast, whereon rides a
tender female, apparently 'infit, by her situation, to
undertake so long and fatiguing a pilgrimage. When
tbey arrive for the night's repose, no greeting hails
them, no curiosity gazes on them ; when they depart to
renew their toil, no good wishes are heard to cheer and
encourage them on their way.

Humble, meek, and unpretending, they are passed
unsaluted at every step by the crowds, who, boasting

176

Fourth Reader.

the same descent, scoin to acknowledge them as mem-
bers of the regal stock, and hasten forward to secure
every accommodation, till they leave this tender maid,
and her coming offspring, no roof but a stable, and no
cradle but a manger.

And yet, not even the ark of the covenant, when it
marched forth to victory over the enemies of God,
escorted by the array of Levites, and greeted by. the
plaudits of the assembled 'nation ; not even it moved
with half that interest to heaven, or half that promise to
earth, with which this humble virgin advances, bearing
within her bosom, in silence and neglect, the richest
work which the Almighty had yet made, and the most
miraculous benefit which His wisdom has yet devised.

Upon this little group the angels attended, with care
more tender than they have for the ordinary just, lest
they should dash their foot against a stone ; for on its
safety depend the fulfilment of prophecy, the consum-
mation of the law, the manifestation of God's truth, and
the redemption of the world.

In it are centred all th.e counsels of heaven, since the
creation of man ; for it the whole land lias been put into
movement ; and the Roman emperor issued liis mandate
from the throne of the world, solely that this maid
might be brought to Bethlehem of Judea, in order that
from it might come forth, in fulfilment of prophecy, the
Ruler who should govern the people of God.

'- Cardinal Wiseman.

Count that day lost whose low descending sun
Views from tliv hand no worthy action done.

St. Anthony of Padua.

177

as mem-
Ito secure
|der maid,
and no

', when it
of God,
id by. the
it moved
>romise to
i, bearing
le richest
the most
evised.

with care
just, lest

for on its
consum-

ruth, and

since the
I put into
mandate
his maid
rder that
liecy, the

Vise

man.

LXVI.— ST. ANTHONY OF PADUA.

Amongst the most renowned children of St. Francis
of Assisi was the great Wonder-worker of Padua, St.
Anthony. He received his surname from the fact that
the Italian city was the scene of many of his labors
and miracles, as well as because it still possesses the
treasure of his relics. Our Saint was born at Lisbon, in
Portugal, August 15th, 1195, and was baptized by the
name of Ferdinand. Both his parents were distin-
ixuished for their nobility an<l virtue.

His education was begun at an early age in the com-
miuiity of the canons of the Cathedral of Lisbon, where
he soon displayed remarkable talent and devotion. At
fifteen years of age he joined the Augustinians at
Lisbon, but being very much intfrrupted by the fre-
quent visits of his friends he was at his own request
sent to the convent of the Holy Cross of the same Order
at Coimbra. Here his sound judgment, and his fervent
assiduity to prayer and study won the admiration of all
his brethren. But the saint was called by God to serve
him in another held, and to be the ornament and glory
of another illustrious rising religious Order.

About eight years ;ifter Ferdinand had come to
Coimbra there were brought from Morocco relics of some
Franciscan monks who had been lately crowned with
maityrdon). Ferdinand prayed earnestly that he might
be associated with these martyrs in their sufferings, and
conceived an ardent desire to be enrolled amongst the
sons of St. Francis. Having after a short time obtained
the consent of his prior, he received the brown habit of

178

Fourth Reader.

the Franciscaiis, and took the name of Anthony, the
patriarch of all monks, and to whom the convent where
he made his vows was dedicated. Burning with a
continued desire of martyrdom, Anthony was sent to
Morocco. But God did not will it so, and was satisfied
with the sacrifice of his heart. No sooner had the
young man landed than he was seized with a violent
fever which prostrated him, and forced him to return
home for the re-establishment of his health. But the
vessel was driven by contrary winds to Sicily, and
touched at Messina. Here the Saint was informed that
St. Francis was holding a general meeting of the Order
at Assisi. Sick and weak as he was he hurried thither,
only to pass through another trial. He was not known,
and his delicate appearance offered no encouragement to
his reception by any house. At last a guardian took him
and sent him to a small convent near Bologna. God's
time had now come, and the light that Ij.'/I so far been
hidden was to be brought out and placed &o m to light
up the whole house. One day in an iissembiy oi i^'ran-
ciscan and Dominican monks Anthony, in obedience to
his superior, made an exhortation to the company. He
spoke with such eloquence, learning and fervor that all
were astonished.

For some years Saint Anthony taught theology in
different houses of his Order. He at length forsook the
schools to apply himself entirely to preaching, for which
nature and griici^ combiied to fit him so admirably.
His learning, pioty vo^'ce and entire bearing added force
and power to hfi di'iOom.i'H. Pride fell before his
humility, and \ ce tinned away before his virtue. The
most hardened siir er > .V( :e converted by the sanctity of

h
ti

h
t

St. Anthony ok Padua.

175)

ny, the
t where
with a
sent to
iatisfied
ad tlie
violent
return
ut the
y, and
ed that
Order
;hither,
fnown,
lent to
3k him
God's
r been
light
Fran-
nce to
. He
iat all

gy in
)k the
ivhich
rably.
force
} his
The
ty of

his life and the burning .fervor of his language. He
travelled through cities and towns with unwearied zeal.
France, Spain and Italy were the scenes of his labors
and triumphs. Miracles marked his progress wherever
he went. Upon the suffering he bestowed the gifts of
his power, as upon those in spiritual distress he bestowed
the consolations and strength of divine mercy and par-
don. ' riie most admirable effects," says the chronicler,

' were thene . enmities were appeased, and contending
families publicly reconciled ; usurers and thieves made
restitution of their ill-gotten goods ; great sinners struck

heir breasts in humble repentance, and fled from their
L aunts of vice. Tlie confessionals were besieged, vice
♦Usappeared, and virtue revived."

Padua was for some time his permanent abode. This
city the Saint not only c. nverted, but delivered from a
cruel tyrant who ruled over that portion of Italy and
who had put many of the citizens to death. Anthony
entered the very presence of the tyrant, told him that
his sins cried to heaven for vengeance. The man was
converted and changed his conduct.

In the year 1231 St. Anthony, after preaching the
whole of Lent at Padua, retired to a solitude not far
distant. His health and strength rapidly declined. Ht
knew his earthly pilgrimage was nearly at an end ; ai d
wishing to die in his convent at Padua, he asked to be
carried there. The crowds of people pressed so closely
about him that he was taken into a convent of the Poor
Clares, situated in the suburbs. Here with all the rites
of the Church, and amidst the tears of his brethren and
the sorrow of the city, Anthony gave up his soiil in death

ii h-

Pi 1

180

Fourth Reader.

fi:

on the 13th of June, 1231, being only thirty-six years
of age.

The miracles which our Saint performed are innumer-
able. During his life and since his death, even to the
present day, few heavenly patrons have so many earthly
clients as the Wonder-worker of Padua. He is generally
represented with an infant in his arms, from a special
favor of our Lord to His chosen servant, who appeared
to him and placed Himself in Anthony's arms. Saint
Anthony is especially invoked for the recovery of things
lost. During his life-time the Saint had missed a Bible
in which he had written a number of notes. It had
been stolen. The servant of God prayed, and the Dook
was miraculously restored to him. And this privileged
son of St. Francis continues his apostolate, even a^ter his
death, in regard to things lost From his tomb he still
bears testimony to the trutli and continues to preach to
the nations. The sorrowful and aiflicted are never wearv
of imploring his aid, and the Saint never wearies in

granting them their petitions.

-Rev. J. R. re<'V

It'll

%i M i I

As dc'vn in the sunless retreats of I lie ocean

Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see,
So, deep in my soul, the still prayer of devotion

Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee.
As still to the star of its worship, though clouded,

The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea,
So dark when I roam, in this wintry world shrouded,

The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee,
My God, tremlling to Thee,
' Piire, warm, trembling to Thee I

Macahius the Monk.

I«l

LXVli.-MACARIUS THE MONK.

In days of old, while yet tbe Cliurch was young,

And men believed that praise of God was sung

In curbing self as well as singing psalms,

There lived a monjt, Macarius by name,

A holy man, to whom the faithful came

With hungry hearts to hear the wondrous Word,

In sight of gushing springs and sheltering palms,

He lived upon the desert : from the marsh

He drank the brackish water, and his food

Was dates and roots, — and all his rule was hai'sh,

For pampered flesh in those days warred witli goud.

From those who came in scores, a few there were

Who feared the devil more than fast and prayer,

And these remained and took the hermit's vow.

A dozen saints there grew to be ; and now

Macarius, happy, lived in larger care.

He taught his brethren all the lore he knew,

And as they learned, his pious rigors grew.

His whole intent was on the spirit's goal :

He taught them silence — words disturb the soul ;

He warned of joys, and bade them pray for sort-ow,

And be prepared to-day for death to-morrow.

To know that human life alone was given
To test the souls of those who merit heaven,
He bade the twelve in all things be as brothers,
And die to self, to live and work for others.
'* For so," he said, "we savf» onv love and labors,
And each one gives his own and takes his neighbor's."
Thus long he taught, and while they silent hoard,
He pra3/ed for fruitful soil to hold tlu' word.

182 Fourth Keaj>er.

One day, beside the marsh they labored long —
For worldly work makes sweeter sacred song —
And when the cruel sun made hot the sand,
And Afric's gnats the sweltering face and hand
Tormenting stung, a passing traveller stood
And watched the workers by the reeking flood.

Macarius, ^igh, with heat and toil was faint ;
The traveller saw, and to the suffering saint
A bunch of luscious grapes in pity threw.
Most sweet and fresh and fair they were to view,
A generous cluster, bursting-rich with wine.
Macarius longed to taste. " The fruit is mine,"
He said, and sighed ; " but 1, who daily teach,
Fiioi now the bond to practise as I preach."
He gave the cluster to the nearest one.
And with his heavy toil went patient on.

And he who took, unknown to any other.

The sweet refreshm uit handed to a brother.

And so, from each to each, till round was made

The circuit wholly ; when the grapes, at last.

Untouched and tempting, to Macarius passed.

" Now God be thanked ! " he cried, and ceased to toil :

"The seed was good, but better was the soil.

My brothers, join with me to bless the day."

But, ere they knelt, be threw the grapes away.

— John Boyle O'Reilly.

The way of the wicked is an abomination to the
Lord ; he that followeth justice is beloved by Him.
Better a little with the fear of the Lord, than great
treasures without content.

The Ueaper.

188

LXVIII.-THE REAPER.

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass !
Reaping and singing by herself ;
Stop liere, or gently pass !
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain ;
O listen ! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands :
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird.
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings ?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off" things,
And battles long ago :
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day 1
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain.
That has been, and may be again !

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending ; —
I listen'd, motionless and still ;
And, as I mounted up the hill.
The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more.

— William Wordstoorth.

, H'i'

184

FouKTJi Keadek.

I I

i. .

i, '

. t

\i-

9>':

If i i '

LXIX.— VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS.

On Friday, the 3rd day of August, in the year 1492,
Columbus set sail, a little before sunrise, in presence of a
vast crowd of spectators, who sent up their supplications
to heav^en for the prosperous issue of the voyage, which
they wished rather than expected. Columbus steered
directly for the Canary Islands, and arrived there
without any occurrence that would have deserved
notice on any other occasion. But in a voyage of
such expectation and importance, every circumstance
was the object of attention.

As they proceeded, the indications of approaching land
seemed to be more certain, and excited hope in propor-
tion. The birds began to appear in flocks, making
toward the south-west. Columbus, in imitation of the
Portuguese navigators, who had been guided in several
of their discoveries by the motion of birds, altered his
course from due west toward that quarter whither they
pointed their flight. But, after holding on for several
days in this new direction, without any better success
than formerly, having seen no object during thirty days
but the sea and the sky, the hopes of his companions
subsided faster than they had risen ; their fears revived
with additional force ; impatience, rage, and despair
appeared in every countenance.

All sense of subordination was lobt. The officers, who
had hitherto concurred with Columbus in opinion, and
supported his authority, now took part with the private
men ; they assembled tumultuously on the deck, expos-
tulated with their commander, mingled threats with

VoYAOK OF Columbus.

185

land

their expostulations, and required him instantly to tack
about and return to Europe. Columbus perceived that
it would be of no avail to have recourse to any of his
former arts, which, haviug been tried so often, had lost
their effect ; and that it was impossible to rekindle any
zeal for the success of the expedition amont; men in
whose breasts fear liad extinguished every generous
sentiment.

He promised solemnly to his men that he would com-
ply with their request, provided they would accompany
him and obey his connnand for three days longer, and if,
during that time, land were not discovered, he would
then abandon the enterprise, and direct his course
toward Spain.

Enraged as the sailors were, and impatient to turn
their faces again towards their native country, this pro-
position did not appear to them unreasonable ; nor did
Columbus hazard much in confining himself to a term so
short. The presages of discovering land were now so
numerous and promising that he deemed them infallible.
For some days the sounding-line reached the bottom,
and the soil which it brought up indicated land to be at
no great distance. The flocks of birds increased, and
were composed not only of .sea-fowl, but of such land-
birds as could not be :;upposed to fly far from tlu; shore.

The crew of the Pinta observed a cane floating, which
seemed to have been newly cut, and likewise a piece of
timber, artificially carved. The sailors took up the
branch of a tree with red berries, perfectly fresh. The
clouds around the setting sun assumed a new appear-
ance; the air was more mild and warm, and during

■11

'111

mil

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1.0 !f

I.I

1.25

": 140

12.5
2.2

12.0

1 1.8

U III 1.6

Photographic

Sciences
Corporation

o«U

^<b

<1>\ #

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

k^ w.

186

Fourth Reader.

night the wind became unequal and variable. From all
these symptoms, Columbus was so confident of being
near land, that, on the evening of the 11th of October,
after public prayers for success, he ordered the sails to
be furled, and the ships to lie to, keeping strict watch
lest they should be driven ashore in the night.

During this interval of suspense and expectation, no
man shut his eyes, all kept upon deck, gazing intently
toward that quarter where they expected to discover the
land, which had so long been the object of thoir wishes.
About two hours before midnight, Columbus, standing
on the forecastle, observed at a distance a light in motion,
as if it were carried from place to place.

A little after midnight, the joyful sound of Land!
Land! was heard from the Pinta which kept always
ahead rf the other ships. But, having been so often
deceived by fallacious appearances, every man was now
become slow of belief, and waited in all the anguish of
uncertainty and impatience for the return of day. As
soon as morning dawned, all doubts and fears were dis-
pelled. From every ship an island was seen about two
leagues to the norths whose flat and verdant fields, well
stored with wood, and watered with many rivulets,
presented the aspect of a delightful country.

The crew of the Pinta instantly began the Te Deum,
as a hymn of thanksgiving to God, and were joined by
those of the other ships, with tears of joy and transports
of congratulation. This office of gratitude to heaven was
followed by an act of justice to their commander. They
threw themselves at the feet of Columbus, with feelings
of self-condemnation, mingled with reverence.

Voyage of Columbus.

187

As soon as the sun arose, all their boats were manned
and armed. They rowed towards the island with their
colors displayed, with warlike music, and other martial
pomp. As they approached the coast, they saw it
covered with a multitude of people, whom the novelty
of the spectacle had drawn together, whose attitudes
and gestures expressed wonder and astonishment at the
strange objects which presented themselves to their
view. Columbus was the first European who set foot
on the new world which he had discovered.

He landed in a rich dress, and with a naked sword in
his hand. His men followed, and, kneeling down, they
all kissed the ground which they had so long desired
to see. They next erected a crucifix, and prostrating
themselves before it, returned thanks to God for con-
ducting their voyage to such a happy issue. Tliey then
took solemn possession of the country for the crown of
Spain.

The Spaniards, while thus employed, were surrounded
by many of the natives, who gazed in silent admiration
upon actions which they could not comprehend, and of
which they did not foresee the consequences. The dress
of the Spaniards, the whiteness of their skins, their
beards, their arms, appeared strange and surprising.
The vast machines in which they had traversed the
ocean, that seemed to move upon the waters with wings,
and uttered a dreadful sound resembling thunder, accom-
panied with lightning and smoke, struck them with such
terror that they began to respect their new guests as a
superior urder of beings, and concluded that they were
children of the sun, who had descended to visit the earth,

M- if

ify

Hi;

•i f

188

Fourth Readek.

The Europeans were hardly less amazed at tl»e scene
now before them. Every herb and shrub and tree was
different from those which flourished in Europe. The
soil seemed to be rich, but bore few marks of cultivation.
The climate, even to the Spaniards, felt warm, though
extremely delightful. Tlie inhabitants appeared in the
simple innocence of nature, entirely naked. Their black
hair, long and uncurled, floated upon their shoulders, or
was bound in tresses on their heads. They had no
beards, and every part of their bodies was perfectly
smooth.

Towards evening, Columbus returned to his ship,
accompanied by many of the islanders in their boats,
which they called canoes, and though rudely formed out
of the trunk of a single tree, they rowed them with
surprising dexterity. Thus, in the first interview
between the inhabitants of the old and new worlds,
everything was conducted amicably and to their mutual
satisfaction. The former, enlightened and ambitious,
formed already vast ideas with respect to the advan-
tages which they might derive from the regions that
began to open to their view. The latter, simple and
undiscerning had no foresight of the calamities and
desolation which were approaching their country !

— William Robertson.

For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord, I plead, lead me aright,
Though strength should falter, and though heart should bleed,

through peace to light.
Joy is like restless day ; but peace divine like quiet night :
Lead me, O Lord, till perfect day shall shine, through peace

to hglit.

Skipper Ben. 189

LXX.-SKIPPER BEN.

Sailing away !
Losing the breath of the shores in May,
Dropping down from the beautiful bay,
Over the sea slope vast and gray !
And the skipper's eyes with a mist are blind ;
For a vision comes on the rising wind
Of a gentle face that he leaves behind,
And a heart that throbs through the fog bank dim,

Thinking of him.

Far into night
He watches the gleam of the lessening light,
Fixed on the dangerous island height
That bars the harbor he loves from sight ;
And he wishes at dawn he could tell the tale
Of how they had weathered the southwest gale,
To brighten the cheek that had grown so pale
With a wakeful night among spectres grim, —

Terrors for him.

Yo — heave — yo !
Here's the Bank where the fishermen go.
Over the schooner's sides they throw
Tackle and bait to the deeps below.
And Skipper Ben in the water sees,
When its ripples curl to the light land l)reeze,
Something that stirs like his apple trees,
And two soft eyes that beneath them swim,

Lifted to him.

Hear the wind roar,
And the rain through the slit sails tear and pour t
"Steady ! we'll scud by the Cape Ann shore, —
Then hark to the Beverly bells once more ! "

i< M

■dl

i 'l:j

190 Fourth Reader.

And each man worked with the will of ten ;
While up in the rigging, now and then,
The lightning glared in the face of Ben
Turned to the black horizon's rim,
Scowling on him.

Into his brain
Burned with the iron of hopeless pain,
Into thoughts that grapple and eyes that strain,
Pierces the memory, cruel and vain !
Never again shall he walk at ease
Under his blossoming apple trees,
That whisper and sway to the sunset breeze.
While the soft eyes float where the sea gulls skim,

Gazing with him.

How they went down
Never was known in the still old town :
Nobody guessed how the fisherman brown,
With the look of despair that was half a frown.
Faced his fate in the furious night, —
Faced the mad billows with hunger white.
Just within hail of the beacon light,
That shone on a woman sweet and trim,

Waiting for him.

Beverly bells,
Ring to the tide as it ebbs and swells !
His was the anguish a moment tells, —
The passionate sorrow death quickly knells ;
But the wearing wash of a lifelong woe
Is left for the desolate heart to kaow,
Whose tides with the dull years come and go.
Till hope drifts dead to its stagnant brim,

, Thinking of him. —Lucy Larcom.

The Air and Water.

191

LXXI.-THE AIR AND WATER.

?,: f

A philosopher of the East describes the atmosphere as
a spherical shell which surrounds the earth to a depth
unknown to us, by reason of its growing tenuity, as it is
released from the pressure of its own superincumbent
mass. Its upper surface cannot be nearer to us than
fifty, a,nd can scarcely be more remote than five hundred
miles. It surrounds us on all sides, yet we see it not ;
it presses on us with a load of fifteen pounds on every
square inch of surface of our bodies, or from seventy to
one hundred tons on us in all, yet we do not so much as
feel its weight. Softer than the finest down, more
impalpable than the finest gossamer, it leaves the cob-
web undisturbed, and scarcely stirs the lightest flower
that feeds on the dew it supplies ; yet it bears the fleets
of nations on its wings around the world, and crushes
the most refractory substances with its weight.

When in motion, its force is sufficient to level with
the earth the most stately forests and stable buildings,
to raise the waters of the ocean into ridges like moun-
tains, and dash the strongest ships to pieces like toys.
It warms and cools by turns the earth and the living
creatures that inhabit it. It draws up vapors from the
sea and land, retains them dissolved in itself or sus-
pended in cisterns of clouds, and throws them down
again as rain or dew, when they are required. It bends
the rays of the sun from their path to give us the
aurora of the morning and twilight of evening ; it dis-
perses and refracts their various tints to beautify the
approach and the retreat of the orb of day. But for the
atmosphere, sunshine would burst on us in a moment

y i

i': i

I
1

' ;:

■ > n

it :

192

Fourth Reader.

and fail us in the twinkling of an eye, removing us
in an instant from midnight darkness to the blaze of
noon. We should have no twilight to rioften and
beautify the landscape, no clouds to shade us from the
scorching heat ; but the bald earth, as it revolved on
its axis, would turn its tanned and weakened front to
the full unmitigated rays of the lord of day.

The atmosphere affords the gas which vivifies and
warms our frames ; it receives into itself that which has
been polluted by use, and is thrown off as noxious. It
feeds the flame of life exactly as it does that of the fire.
It is in both cases consumed, in both cases it affords
the food of consumption, and in both cases it becomes
combined with charcoal, which requires it for combus-
tion, and which removes it when combustion is over. It
is the girdling, encircling air that makes the whole world
kin. The carbonic acid with which body our breathing
fills the air, to-morrow seeks its way round the world.

The date trees that grow round the falls of the Nile
will drink it in by their leaves ; the cedars of Lebanon
will take of it to add to their stature ; the cocoa-nuts of
Tahiti will grow rapidly upon it ; and the palms and
bananas of Japan will change it into flowers. The
oxygen we are breathing was distilled for us some short
time ago by the magnolias of the Susquehanna, and the
great trees that skirt the Orinoco and the Amazon ; the
giant rhododendrons of the Himalayas contributed to it,
and the roses and myrtles of Cashmere, the cinnamon
tree of Ceylon, and the forest, older than the flood, that
lies buried deep in the heart of Africa, far behind the
Mountains of the Moon, gave it out. The rain we see

i i

I !tl

The Air and Water.

193

descending was thawed for us out of the icebergs wliich
have watched the Polar Star for ages, or it came from
snows which rested on the summits of the Alps, but
which the lotus lilies have soaked up from the Nile, and
exhaled as vapor again into the ever-present air.

There are processes no less interesting going on in
other parts of this magnificent field of research. Water
is Nature's carrier: with its currents it conveys heat
away from the torrid zone and ice from the frigid ; or,
bottling the caloric away in the vesicles of its vapor,
it first makes it impalpable, and then conveys it, by
unknown paths, to the most distant parts of the earth.
The materials of which the coral builds the island and
the sea-conch its shell are gathered by this restless
leveller from mountains, rocks, and valleys in all lati-
tudes. Some it washes down from the Mountains of the
Moon, or out of the gold-fields of Australia, or from
the mines of Potosi, others from the battlefields of
Europe, or from the marble quarries of ancient Greece
and Rome. These materials, thus collected and carried
over falls or down rapids, are transported from river
to sea, and delivered by the obedient waters to each
insect and to every plant in the ocean at the right time
and temperature, in proper form and in due quantity.

Treating the rocks less gently, it grinds them into
dust, or pounds them into sand, or rolls and rubs them
until they are fashioned into pebbles, rubble, or bould-
ers ; the sand and shingle on the sea-shore are monu-
ments of the abrading, triturating power of water. B}^
water the soil has been brought down from the hills,
and spread out into valleys, plains, and fields for man's

^iiti

■m

L94

FouitTH Reader.

use. Saving the rocks on which the everlasting hills
are established, everything on the surface of our planet
seems to have been removed from its original foundation
and lodged in its present place by water. Protean in
shape, benignant in office, water, whether fresh or salt,
solid, fluid, or gaseous, is marvellous in its powers.

It is one of the chief agents in the manifold work-
shops in which and by which the earth has been made
a habitation fit for man. —M. F. Matiry.

LXXII.-KING ROBERT OF SICILY.

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane

And Valraond, Emperor of Allemaine,

Apparelled in magnificent attire,

With retinue of many a knight and squire,

On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat

And heard the priests chant the Magnificat.

And as he listened, o'er and o'er again

Repeated, like a burden or refrain,

He caught the words, " Beposuit potentea

])e sedcj et exultavit humiles ; "

And slowly lifting up his kingly head.

He to a learned clerk beside him said,

"What mean these words?" The clerk made answer meet,

"He has put down the mighty from their seat,

And has exalted them of low degree."

Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, ^

" 'Tis well that such seditious words are sung

Only by priests and in the Latin tongue :

For unto priests and people be it known,

King Robert of Sicily.

195

There is no power can push me from my throne ! "
And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep,
Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep.

When he awoke, it was already night ;

The church was empty, and there was no light,

Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint.

Lighted a little space before some saint.

He started from his seat and gazed around,

But saw no living thing and heard no sound.

He groped towards the door, but it was locked ;

He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked,

And uttered awful threatenings and complaints.

And imprecations upon men and saints.

The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls

As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls !

At length the sexton, hearing from without
The tumult of the knocking and the shout,
And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer,
Came with his lantern, asking, " Who is there ? "
Half choked with rage. King Robert fiercely said,
"Open : 'tis I, the King ! Art thou afraid ] "
The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse,
"This is some drunken vagabond, or worse ! "
Turned the great key and flung the portal wide ;
A man rushed by him at a single stride.
Haggard, half-naked, without hat or cloak,
Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke.
But leaped into the blackness of the night,
And vanished like a spectre from his sight.

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane,
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Despoiled of his magnificent attire,

I ■

l>nr.

•li

196

Fourth Header.

Bare-headed, breathless, and beflprent with mire,
With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,
Strode on and thundered at the palace gate ;
Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rage
To right and left each seneschal and page.
And hurried up the broad and sounding stair,
His white face ghastly in the torches' glare.
From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed ;
Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed.
Until at last he reached the banquet-room.
Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume.
There on the dais sat another king,
Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring,
King Robert's self in features, form, and height,
But all transfigured with angelic light !
It was an Angel ; and his presence there
With a divine effulgence filled the air.
An exaltation, piercing the disguise.
Though none the hidden Angel recognize.

A moment speechless, motionless, amazed.

The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed.

Who met his looks of anger and surprise

With the divine compassion of his eyes ;

Then said, " Who art thou ? and why com'st thou herel "

To which King Robert answered with a sneer,

"I am the King, and come to claim my own

From an impostor, who usurps my throne ! "

And suddenly, at these audacious words.

Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords ;

The Angel answered, with unruffled brow,

"Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester, thou

Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape,

And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape ;

re?"

K(. Robert ok Sicilv.

Thou shalt obey my servantH when they call,
And wait upon my henchmen in the hall ! "

Deaf to King Robert's threatH and cries and prayers,

They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs :

A group of tittering pages ran before,

And as they opened wide the folding-d(K>r,

His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms,

The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms,

And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring

With the mock plaudits of " Long live the King ! "

Next morning, waking with the day's first beam,
He said within himself, '* It was a dream ! "
But the straw rustleil as he turned his head,
There were the cap and bells beside his bed,
Around him rose the bare, discolored walls,
Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls,
And in the corner, a revolting shape,
Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape.
It was no dream : the world he loved so much
Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch !

Days came and went ; and now returned again

To Sicily the old Saturnian reign ;

Under the Angel's governance l)enign

The happy island danced with corn and wine,

And deep within the mountain's burning breast

Enceladus, the giant, was at rest.

Meanwhile King Roljert yielded to his fate,
Sullen and silent and disconsolate.
Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear,
With looks bewildered and a vacant stare,
Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn,

107

J I

J '■ ;!

t ■ i
tl' I

ill

•! ; I

1 1

I '

198

Fourth Reader.

•«f

By courtiers mocked, by pages ?aughed to scorn,

His only triend the ape., his only food

What others left, — he still was unsubdued.

And when the Angel met him on his way,

And halt in earnest, halt in jest, would say,

Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel

Tho velvet scabbard held a sword of steel,

"Art thou the King 1 " the passion of his woe

IHurst from him in resistless overflow,

iV.nd, lifting high his forehead, he would fling

The haughty ansveer back, " I am, I am the King ! "

Almost three years were ended ; when there came

Ambassadors of great repute and name

From y almond, Emperor of Allemaine,

Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane

By letter summoned them forthwith to come

On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome.

The Angel with great joy received his guests.

And gave them presents of embroidered vests.

And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined,

And rings and jewels of the rarest kind.

Then he departed with them o'er the sea

Into the lovely land of Italy,

Whose loveliness was more rej.plendent made

By the mere passing of that cavalcade.

With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir

Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur.

And lo ! among the menials, in mock state,
Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait,
His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind,
The solemn ape demurely perched behind.
King Robert rode, making huge merriment

Kino Robkrt of Sicily.

199

ill

In all the country towns through which they went.

The Pope received the!:; with jjreat pomp, and blare

Of baLmered tr impets, on Saini Peter's Square,

Giving his benediction and embrav?e,

Fervent, and full of apostolic grace.

While with congratulations and with prayers

He entertained the Angel unawares,

Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd,

Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud,

"I am the King ! Look, and behold in me

Robert, your brother. King of Sicily !

This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes.

Is an impostor in a King's disguise.

Do you not know me ? does no voice within

Answer my cry, and say we are akin 1 "

The Pope in- silence, but with troubled mien.

Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene ;

The Emperor, laughing, said, " It is strange sport

To keep a madman for thy Fool at court ! "

And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace

Was hustled back among the populace.

'■I

In solemn state the Holy week went by.

And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky ;

The presence of the Angel, with its light.

Before the sun rose, made the city bright,

And with new fervor filled the hearts of men.

Who felt that Christ indeed had rijen again.

Even the Jester, on his bed of straw,

With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw,

He felt within a power unfelt before,

And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor,

He heard the rushing garments of the Lord

Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward.

'■<

ill

200

FouuTii Reader.

And now the visit ending, and once more

Valmond returning to the Danube's shore,

Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again

The land was made resplendent with his train,

Flashing along the towns of Italy

Unto Salerno, and from there by sea.

And when once more within Palermo's wall,

And, seated on the throne in his great hall.

He heard the Angelus from convent towers,

As if the better world conversed with ours.

He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher,

And with a gesture bade the rest retire ;

And when they were alone, the Angel said,

"Art thou the King ?" Then, bowing down his head.

King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast,

And meekly answered him : " Thou knowest best !

My sins as scarlet are ; let me go hence,

And in some cloister's school of penitence.

Across those stones that pave the way to heaven,

Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul is shriven ! "

The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face

A holy light illumined all the place.

And through the open window, loud and clear,

They heard the monks chant in the chapel near,

Above the stir and tumult of the street :

"He has put down the mighty from their seat,

And has exalted them of low degree ! "

And through the chant a second melody

Rose like the throbbing of a single string :

"I am an Angel, and thou art the King ! "

King Robert, who was standing near the throne,
Lifted his eyes, and lo ! he was alone !

s
1

Our New Neighbors.

201

But all apparelled as in days of old,
With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold ;
And when his courtiers came, they found him there
Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer.

— Henry W. Lon<ife'lou\

LXXIII.-OUR NEW NEIGHBORS.

When I saw the little house building, an oiglith of a
mile beyond my own, on the Old Bay Road, I wondered
who were to be the tenants. The modest structure was
sot well back from the ro^d, among the trees, as if the
inmates were to care nothing whatever for a view of the
stylish equipages which sweep by during the summer
season. For my part, I like to see the passing, in town
or countj'y; but each has his own unaccountable taste.
The proprietor, who seemed to be also architect of the
new house, superintended the various details of the
work with an assiduity that gave me a high opinion
of his intelligence and executive ability, and J congra-
tulated myself on the prospect of having some very
agreeable neighbors.

It was quite early in the spring, if I remember, when
they moved into the cottage — a nowly-marrit'd couple,
evidently: the wife very young, prettj^ and witl; the air
of a lady; the husband somewhat older, but still in the
first flush of manhood. It was understood in the villafre
that they came from Baltimore ; but no one knew them
personally, and they brought no letters of introduction.
(For obvious reasons I refrain from mentioning names.)

I m

!K'

- m

% m

!■

•v'J

Mn,

■%

iii

202

Fourth Reader.

If-

'i \

It was clear that, for the present at least, their own com-
pany was entirely sufficient for them. They made no
advances toward the acquaintance of any of the families
in the neighborhood, and consequently were left to them-
selves. That, apparently, was what they desired, and
why they came to Ponkapog.

I saw a great deal of our neighbors, nevertheless.
Their cottage lay between us and the post-office — where
he was never to be met with by any chance — and I
caught frequent glimpses of the two working in the
garden. Floriculture did not appear so much an object
as exercise. Possibly it was neither ; may be they were
engaged in digging for specimens of those arrowheads
and flint hatchets which are continually coming to the
surface hereabouts. There is scarcely an acre in which
the ploughshare has not turned up some primitive stone
weapon or domestic utensil, disdainfully left to ys by the
red men who once held this domain.

Whether they were developing a kitchen-garden, or
emulating the excavator of ancient Troy, the new-comers
were evidently persons of refined musical taste : the lady
had a contralto voice of remarkable sweetness, although
of no great compass, and I used often to linger of a
morning by the high gate and listen to her executing an
arietta, conjecturalfy at some window upstairs, for the
house was not visible from the turnpike. The husband,
somewhere about the grounds, would occasionally respond
with two or three bars. It was all quite an ideal. Arca-
dian business. They seemed very happy together, these
two persons, who asked no odds whatever of the com-
munity in which they had settled themselves.

Our New Neighbors.

203

There was a queerness, a sort of mystery, about this
couple which I admit piqued my curiosity, though as a
rule I have no morbid interest in the affairs of my
neighbors. They behaved like a pair of lovers who
had run off and got married clandestinely. I willingly
acquitted them, however, of having done <inything un-
lawful ; for, to change a word in the lines of the poet —

* ' It is a joy to think the best
We may of human kind. ''

Admitting the hypothesis of elopement, there was no
mystery in their neither sending nor receiving letters.
But where did they get their groceries ? I do not mean
the money to pay for them — that is an enigma apart —
but the groceries themselves. No express waggon, no
butcher's cart, no vehicle of any description, was ever
observed to stop at their domicile. Yet they did not
order family stores at the sole establishment in the
village — an inexhaustible little bottle of a shop which, I
advertise it gratia, can turn out anything in the way of
groceries, from a handsaw to a pocket-handkerchief. I
confess that I allowed this unimportant detail of their
household to occupy more of my speculation than was
creditable to me.

In several respects our neighbors reminded me of
those inexplicable persons we sometimes come across in
great cities, though seldom or never in suburban places,
where the field may be supposed too restricted for their
operations — persons who have no perceptible means of
subsistence, and yet manage to live royally on nothing a
year. They hold no government bonds, they possess no
real estate (our neighbors did own their house), they toil

i\m

Hi !"
t ' *'

■'J

(: t

! )

204

Fourth Reader.

1;
li

ill

not, neither do they spin ; yet they reap all the numerous
soft advantages that usually result from honest toil and
skilful spinning. How do they do it ? But this is a
digression, and I am quite of the opinion of the old
lady in " David Copperfield," who says, " Let us have no
meandering!"

Though my wife had declined to risk a ceremonious
call on our neighbors as a family, I saw no reason why I
should not speak to the husband as an individual, when
I happened to encounter him by the wayside. I made
several approaches to do so, when it occurred to my
penetration that my neighbor had the air of trying to
avoid me. I resolved to put the suspicion to the test,
and one forenoon, when he was sauntering along on the
opposite side of the road, in the vicinity of Fisher's saw-
mill, I deliberately crossed over to address him. The
brusque manner in Vv rich he hurried away was not to be
misunderstood. Of course I was not going to force
myself upon him.

It was at this time that I began to formulate unchar-
itable suppositions touching our neighbors, and would
have been as well pleased if some of my choicest fruit
trees had not overhung their wall. I determined to
keep my eyes open later in the season, when the fruit
should be ripe to pluck. In some folks, a sense of the
delicate shades of difference between mine and thine
does not seen^ to be very strongly developed in the Moon
of Cherries, to use the old Indian phrase.

I was sufficiently magnanimous not to impart any of
tliese sinister impressions to the families with whom we
were on visiting terms ; for I despise a gossip. I would
say nothing against the persons up the road until I had

merous
ioil and
lis is a
the old
uive no
's

nonious

why I

1, when

I made

to my

nng to

le test,

on the

r s saw-

The

►t to be

) force

mehar-
would
t fruit
Qed to
e fruit
of the
thine
■ Moon

any of

3m we

would

I had

Our New Neighbors.

205

something definite to say. My interest in them was —
well, not exactly extinguished, but burning low. I met
the gentleman at intervals, and passed him without
recognition ; at rarer intervals I saw the lady.

After a while I not only missed my occasional glimpses
of her pretty, slim figure, always draped in some soft
black stuflfwith a b't of something bright at the throat,
but I inferred that she did not go about the house sing-
ing in her light-hearted manner, as formerly. What had
liappened ? Had the honeymoon suflfered eclipse already?
Was she ill ? I fancied she was ill, and that I detected a
certain anxiety in the husband, who spent the mornings
digging solitarily in the garden, and seemed to have
relinquished those long jaunts to the brow of Blue Hill,
where there is a superb view of all Norfolk County, com-
bined with sundry venerable rattlesnakes with twelve
rattles.

As the days went by it became certain that the lady
was confined to the house, perhaps seriously ill, possibly
a confirmed invalid. Whether she was attended by a
physician, I was unable to say ; but neither the gig with
the large allopathic sorrel horse, nor the gig with the
homoeopathic white mare, was ever seen hitched at the
gate during the day. If a physician had charge of the
case, he visited his patient only at night. All this moved
my sympathy, and I reproached myself with having had
hard thoughts of our neighbors. Trouble had come to
them early. I would have liked to oflfer them such small,
friendly services as lay in my power, but the memory of
the repulse I had sustained still rankled in me. So I
hesitated.
14

'ill

!il

206

Fourth Reader.

One morning my two boys burst into the library with
their eyes sparkling.

" You know the old elm down the road ? " cried one

« Yes."

"The elm with the hang-bird's nest?" shrieked the
other.

" Yes, yes — the Baltimore oriole."

"Well, we both just climbed up, and there's three
young ones in it ! "

Then I smiled to think that our new neighbors had
got such a promising little family.

— Thomas B. Aldrich.

LXXI v.- SOLITUDE.

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire ;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night ; study and ease ♦

Together mixt, sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please

With meditation.

To THE Dandelion.

207

Thus let me live unseen, unknown ;
Thus unlamented let me die ;
Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

— Alexander Pope.

'rl

lirj
li !

LXXV.— TO THE DANDELION.

Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way.
Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,

First pledge of blithesome May,
Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold,

High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they
An Eldorado in the grass have found,

"Which not the rich earth's ample round
May match in wealth— thou art more dear to me
Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.

Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas,

Nor wrinkled the lean brow
Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ;

'Tis the spring's largess, which she scatters now
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand.

Though most hearts never understand
To take it at God's value, but pass by
The offered wealth with unrewarded eye.

My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee ;
The sight of thee calls back the robin's song,

Who, from the dark old tree
Beside the door, sang clearly all day long,

And I, secure in childish piety,

'11

Si!

ill

iiii

208

Fourth Reader.

Listened as if I heaid an angel sing

With news from heaven, which he could bring
Fresh every day to my untainted ears,
When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.

Then think T of deep shadows on the grass —
Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze,

Where, as the breezes pass,
The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways —

Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass.
Or whiten in the wind — of waters blue

That from the distance sparkle through
Some woodland gap — and of a sky above,
Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.

How like a prodigal doth Nature seem.
When thou, for all thy gold, so common art !

Thou teachest me to deem
More sacredly of every human heart,

Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam
Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show,
Did we but pay the love we owe,
And with a child's undoubting wisdom look
On all these living pages of God's book.

— James Bussell Lowell,

LXXVI.-THE HOME OF MY CHILDHOOD.

I recall a home, long since left behind in the journey
of life ; and its memory floats back to me with a shower
of emotions and thoughts, towards whose precious fall
my heart opens itself greedily, like a thirsty flower. It
is a home among the mountains — humble and lowly — but
priceless in its wealth of associations,

Thk Home of My Childhood.

200

ing

jrs.

I move.

Lowell.

flOOD.

journey
shower
>U8 fall
^er. It
y— but

The waterfall sings again in my ears, as it used to
sing through the dreamy, mysterious nights. The rose
at the gate, the patch of tansy under the window, the
neighboring orchard, the old elm, the grand machinery
of storms and showers, the little smithy under the hill
that flamed with a strange light through the dull winter
evenings, the wood-pile at the door, the ghostly white
birches on the hill, and the dim blue haze upon the
retiring mountains — all these come back to me with an
appeal which touches my heart and moistens my eyes.

I sit again in the doorway at summer nightfall, eating
my bread and milk, looking off upon the darkening
landscape, and listening to the shouts of boys upon the
hillside, calling or driving home the reluctant herds. I
watch again the devious way of the dusty night-hawk
along the twilight sky, and listen to his measured note,
and the breezy boom that accompanies his headlong
plunge toward the earth.

Even the old barn, crazy in every timber and gaping
at every joint, has charms for me. I try again the
breathless leap from the great beams into the hay. I sit
again on the threshold of the widely open doors — open
to the soft south wind of spring — and watch the cattle,
whose faces look half human to me, as thev sun them-
selves and peacefully ruminate.

The first little lambs of the season toddle by the side
of their dams, and utter their feeble bleatings, while the
flock nibble at the hayrick, or a pair of rival wethers try
the strength of their skulls in an encounter, half in
earnest and half in play. The proud old rooster crows
upon his homely throne, and some delighted member of

' 'l i

.ill

■ill

I Hi

j .iii .

r :' H

; \

210

Fourth Heauek.

\\\h silly family leaves her neat and tells to her mates
that there is another egg in the world.

The old horse whinnies in his stall, and calls to me for
food. I look up to the roof and think of last year's
swallows — soon to return again — and catch a glimpse
of angular sky through the diamond-shaped opening
through which they went and came. How, I know not,
and can not tell, but that old barn is a part of myself —
it has entered into my life and given me growth and
wealth.

The pleasant converse of the fireside, the simple songs
of home, the words of encouragement as I bend over my
school tasks, the kiss as I lie down to rest, the patient
bearing with the freaks of my restless nature, the
gentle counsel mingled with reproofs and approvals, the
sympathy that meets and assuages every sorrow and
sweetens every little success — all these return to me
amid the responsibilities which press upon me now, and
I feel as if I had once lived in heaven, and straying, had
lost my way. —j. o. Holland.

LXXVII.-LINES ON MY MOTHER'S

PICTURE.

O that those lips had language ! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine —thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me ;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" . .

My mother ! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed 1

Links on My Mother's Picture.

Hovered tliy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretcli even then, life'8 journey just begun 1
Perhaps thou guvest ine, though unfelt, a kiss ;

Perliaps a tear, if souls can weep in hliss

Ah, that uuitertuil sniile ! it answers— Yes.

I heard the bell tolled on thy burial-day,

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away.

And, turning from my nursery window, dre>y

A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !

But was it such ?— It was. — Where thou art gone,

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown :

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,

The parting word shall pass my lips no morel

Thy maiilens, grieved themselves at my concern,

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.

What ardently I wished, I long believed.

And, disappointed still, was still deceived ;

By expectation every day beguiled,

Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,

Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,

I learned at last submission to ray lot.

But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. . . .

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made.

That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid ;

Thy morning bounties ere I left my home.

The biscuit or confectionery-plum ;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed :

All this, and, more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall ; '

All this, still legible in memory's page,

And still to be so to my latest age,

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay

211

iti

'f
if

212 Fourth Reader.

Such honors to thee as ray numbers may ;

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.

By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,

I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ;

To have renewed the joys that once were mine,

Without the sin of violating thine ;

And, while the wings of fancy still are free,

And I can view this mimic show of thee.

Time has but half succeeded in his theft —

Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

— William Cowper.

LXXVIII.~THE SHIPWRECK.

I put up at an old inn at Yarmouth and went down
to look at the sea, staggering along the street, which was
strewn with sand and seaweed and with flying blotches
of sea foam, afraid of falling slates and tiles, and holding
by people I met at angry corners.

Coming near the beach, I saw, not only the boatmen,
but half the people of the town lurking behind build-
ings ; some now and then braving the fury of the storm
to look away to sea, and blown sheer out of their course
in trying to get zigzag back.

Joining these groups, I found bewailing women whose
husbands were away in herring or oyster boats, which
there was too much reason to think might have foundered
before they could run in anywhere for safety.

Grizzled old sailors were among the people, shaking
their heads as they looked from water to sky and mut-
tering to one another. Even stout mariners, disturbed

The Shipwreck.

213

and anxious, levelled their glasses at the sea from behind
places of shelter, as if they were surveying an enemy.

The tremendous f?ea itself, when I could find sufficient
pause to look at it, in the agitation of the blinding
wind, the flying stones and sand, and the awful noise,
confounded me. As the high, watery walls came rolling
in, and, at their highest, tumbled into surf, thty looked
as if the least would ingulf the town.

As the receding wave swept back with a hoarse roar,
it seemed to scoop out a deep cave in the beach, as if its
purpose were to undermine the earth. When some
white-headed billows thundered on and dashed them-
selves to pieces before they reached the land, every
fra^j^ment of the late whole seemed possessed by the full
might of its wrath, rushing to be gathered to the
composition of another monster.

Undulating hills were changed to valleys, undulating
valleys (with a solitary storm-bird sometimes skimming
through them) were lifted up to hills ; masses of water
shivered and shook the beach with a booming sound.

Every shape tumultuously rolled on, as soon as made,
to change its shape and place, and beat another shape
and place away ; the ideal shore on the horizon, with its
towers and buildings, rose and fell ; the clouds flew fast
and quick ; I seemed to see a rending and upheaving of
all nature.

Not finding Ham among the people, I made my way
to his house. It was shut up, and as no one answered
to my knocking, I went, by back ways and by-lanes, to
the yard v/here he worked. I learned there that he had
gone to Lowestoft to meet some sudden exigency of

'III

If !

, .

..i

214

Fourth Reader.

ship-repairing in which his skill was required, but that
he would be back to-morrow morning in good time.

When I awoke next morning it was broad day — eight
or nine o'clock ; the storm was raging, and some one was
knocking and calling at my door.

" What is the matter ? ** I cried.

" A wreck ! Close by ! "

I sprang out of bed, and asked, " What wreck ? "

" A schooner, from Spain or Portugal, laden with fruit
and wine. ^Make haste, sir, if you want to see her ! It's
thought, down on the beach, she'll go to pieces every
moment."

The excited voice went clamoring along the staircase ;
and I wrapped myself in my clothes as quickly as I
could, and ran into the street.

Numbers of people were there before me, all running
in one direction to the beach. I ran the same way, out-
stripping a good many, and soon came facing the wild
sea. Having upon it the additional agitation of the
whole night, it was infinitely more terrific than when I
had seen it last.

In the difficulty of hearing anything but the wind and
waves, and in the crowd and the unspeakable confusion
and my first breathless efforts to stand against the
weather, I was so confused that I looked out to sea for
the wreck and saw nothing but the foaming lieads of the
great waves.

A half-dressed boatman standing next to me pointed
with his bare arm (a tattooed arrow on it, pointing in
the same direction) to the left. Then I saw it close in
upon us.

I !

^1^

Ihe Shipwreck.

215

3ut tliat
le.

— eight
one was

th fruit
r ! It's
3 every

lircase ;
y as I

'unning
ly, out-
lie wild
of the
when I

nd and
ifusion
st the
sea for
of the

ointed
ing in
lose in

One mast was broken sliort off six or eight feet from
the deck and lay over the side, entangled in a maze of
sail and rigging; and all that ruin, as the ship rolled and
beat, — which she did without a moment's pause and with
a violence quite inconceivable, — beat the side iis if it
would stave it in.

Some eftbrts were even then beins: made to cut this
portion of the wreck away ; for as the ship, which w^as
broadside on, turned toward us in her rolling, I plainly
descried her people at work with axes.

But a great cry, which was audible even above the
wind and water, rose from the shore at this moment ;
the sea, sweeping over the rolling wreck, made a clean
breach, and carried men, spars, casks, planks, "bulwarks,
heaps of such toys into the boiling surge.

The second mast was yet standing, with the rags of a
rent sail and a wild confusion of broken cordage flapping
to and fro. The ship had struck once, the same boatman
hoarsely said in my ear, and then lifted in and struck
again. I understood him to add that she w^as parting
amidships, and I could readily suppose so, for the rolling
and beating were too tremendous for any human work to
suffer long.

There was a bell on board, and as the ship rolled and
dashed, like a desperate creature driven mad, now show-
ing us the whole sweep of her deck as she turned on her
beam-ends towards the shore, now nothing but her keel
as she sprang wildly over and turned toward the sea, the
bell rang and its sound was borne toward us on the wind.

Again we lost her, and again she rose. The lifeboat
had been bravely manned an hour ago and could do

,1 I

216

Fourth Reader.

i ' \

nothing; and as no man would be so desperate as to
attempt to wade off with a rope and establish a com-
munication with the shore, there was nothing left to try.

All at once I noticed that some new sensation moved
the people on the beach and saw them part, and Ham
come breaking through them to the front. I ran to
him, held him back with both arms, and implored the
men not to let him stir from off that sand ! I might as
hopefully entreated the wind.

I was swept, away, but not unkindly, to some distance,
where the people around me made me stay, urging, as
I confusedly perceived, that he was bent on going,
with help or without, and that I should endanger the
precautions for his safety by troubling those with whom
they rested.

I don't know what I answered or what they rejoined ;
but I saw them hurrying on the beach and men running
with ropes from a capstan that was there, and penetrat-
ing into a circle of figures that hid him from me.

Then I saw him standing alone in a seaman's frock
and trousers, a rope in his hand or slung to his wrist,
another round his body, and several of the best nien
holding at a little distance to the latter, which he laid
out himself, slack upon the shore at his feet.

1 The wreck was breaking up. I saw that she was
parting in the middle and that the life of the solitary man
upon the mast hung by a thread. Still he clung to it.

Ham watched the sea, standing alone, with the silence
of suspended breath behind him and the storm before,
until there was a great retiring wave, when, with a back-
ward glance at those who held the rope which was made

The Shipwreck.

217

fast round his body, he dashed in after it, and in a
moment was buffeting with the water, rising with the
hills, falling with the valleys, lost beneath the foam,
then drawn again to land. They hauled in hastily.

He was hurt, but he took no thought of that. He
seemed hurriedly to give them some directions for leav-
ing him more free — or so I judged from the motion of
his arm — and was gone as before.

And now he made for the wreck, rising with the hills,
falling with the valleys, lost beneath the rugged foam,
borne in toward the shore, borne on toward the ship,
striving hard and valiantly. The distance was nothing,
but the power of the sea and wind made the strife deadly.

At length he neared the wreck. He was so near that
with one more of his vigorous strokes he would be
clinging to it, when a high, green, vast hillside of water
moved on shoreward from beyond the ship. He seemed
to leap up into it with a mighty bound, and the ship
was gone.

Some eddying fragments I saw in the sea, as if a mere
cask had been broken, in running to the spot where
they were hauling in. Consternation was in every face.
They drew him to my very feet — insensible, dead !

He was carried to the nearest house ; and, no one pre-
venting me now, I remained near him, busy while every
means of restoration was tried ; but he had been beaten
to death by the great wave, and his generous heart was
stilled forever. —Charles Dickens.

'Ill

The ways of God are ways of mercy still ;
Full many a blessing springs from seeming ill.

li;

1 '

218 Fourth Reader.

LXXIX.-ALEC YEATON'S SON.

The wind it wailed, the wind it moaned,
And the white caps flecked the sea ;

"An' I would to God," the skipper groaned,
" I had not my boy with me ! "

Snug in the stern-sheets, little John
Laughed as the scud swept by ;

But the skipper's sunburnt cheek grew wan
As he watched the wicked sky.

" Would he were at his mother's side ! "
And the skipper's eyes were dim.

" Good Lord in heaven, if ill betide,
What would become of him !

" For me — my muscles are as steel.

For me let hap what may :
I might make shift upon the keel

Until the break o' day.

" But he, he is so weak and small.
So young, scarce learned to stand —

O pitying Father of us all,
I trust him in Thy hand !

" For Thou, who markest from on high
A sparrow's fall — each one ! —

Surely, O Lord, thou'lt have an eye
On Alec Yeaton's son ! "

Then, steady, helm ! Right straight he sailed

Towards the headland light :
The wind it moaned, the wind it wailed.

And black, black fell the night.

The Angelus. 219

Then burst a storm to make one quail
Though housed from winds and waves —

They who could tell about that gale
Must rise from watery graves !

Sudden it came, as sudden went ;

Ere half the night was sped,
The winds were hushed, the waves were spent.

And the stars shone overhead.

Now, as the morning mist grew thin,

The folk on Gloucester shore
Saw a little figure floating in

Secure, on a broken oar !

Up rose the cry, " A wreck ! a wreck !

Pull, mates, and waste no breath ! " —
They knew it, though 'twas but a speck

Upon the edge of death !

Long did they marvel in the town

At God His strange decree,

That let the stalwart skipper drown

And the little child go free !

— Thomas B. Aldrich.

\W:

LXXX.-THE ANGELUS.

The bell, at the appointed hour, gives the signal ; and
upon it every occupation, be it of study or recreation, is
suspended. The solitary student in his cell puts down
his pen, and turns to his little domestic memorials of
piety, picture, or crucifix, and joins his absent brethren
in prayer.

220

Fourth Reader.

The professor pauses in his lecture, and, kneeling at
the head of his class, leads the way to their responses.
The Uttle knot engaged in cheerful talk or learned dis-
putation drop their mirth or their cunning instruments
of fence, and contend more pleasantly in the verses of
that angelic prayer. Nay, even the sport and play of
youth and childhood are interrupted, to give a few
moments to more serious thoughts.

Well might the Angelus bell have inscribed upon it,
"At evening, morn, and noon I will call out, and giv3
the angelic annunciation." For this is truly the order of
the ecclesiastical day ; and in southern countries of more
Catholic atmosphere, of the civil. With first vespers
comes in the festival; and the Ave Maria, with its
clattering peal, rings in the new day. We own we like
it. We love not the old day to slip away from us, and
the new one to steal in, " like a thief in the night," upon
our unconscious being, at the hour when ghosts walk,
and when nature, abroad and within us, most awfully
personates death.

We like the day to die even as a good Christian would
wish, with a heaven of mild splendor above, enriched in
hues as its close approaches; with golden visions and
loved shapes, however fantastically, floating in clouds
around; with whispered prayer, and a cheering passing
bell, and the comfort that, when gloom has overspread
all, a new, though unseen, day has risen to the spirit;
that the vigil only has expired, that so the festival day
may break. Then, when we awake once more to sense
and consciousness, let the joyful peal arouse us, with the
first dawn of day and reason, to commemorate that
mystery which alone has made the day worth living;

The Anqelus.

221

r :

and greet, with the natural, the spiritual Sun, the day-
spring from on high, that rose on benighted man and
chased away the darkness and the shadow of death
wherein he sat.

Who does not see and feel the clear analogy ? And
who will neglect, if it be brought thus to his memory, to
shield himself behind the ample measure of this grace,
against " the arrow flying in the day," in its sharp and
well-aimed temptations ? At these eventful periods will
the Angelus bell call out to us aloud, and make the
joyful Annunciation, speaking in angel's words and
angel's tones, to the gladsome, to the anxious, and to the
weary heart —gladsome at mo^n, anxious at noon, weary
at eve.

Truly, it was a heavenly thought that suggested the

appointment of both time and thing. For what can

chime so well with the first of those feelings and its

season as the glorious news that " the Lord's angel " hath

brought to earth such tidings as his ? What can suit

the second better than to speak resignation in Mary's

words : " Behold thy servant, or handmaid ; " *' Be it

done unto me according to thy word " ? What can

refresh the third, and cast forward bright rays into the

gloom of approaching night, more than the thought that

God's own Eternal Word dwelleth ever amongst us, our

comforter ahd help ?

—Cardinal Wiseman.

'III

1^;

Truth crushed to earth shall rise again :
The eternal years of God are hers ;

But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.

222 Fourth Reader.

LXXXI.-THE ANGELUS.

Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten music
Still fills the wide expanse,

Tingeing the sober twilight of tho Present
With color of romance :

I hee.r your call, and see the sun descending
On rock and wave and sand,

As down the coast the Mission voicts blending
Girdle the heathen land.

Within the circle of your incantation
No blight nor mildew falls ;

Nor fierce unrest, nor last, nor low ambition
Passes those airy walls.

Borne on the swell of your long waves receding,
I touch the farther Past,~-

I see the dying glow of Spanish glory,
The sunset dream and last !

Before me rise the dome-shaped Mission towers.

The white Presidio ;
The swart commander in his leathern jerkin,

The priest in stole of snow.

Once more T see Portala's cross uplifting

Above the setting sun ;
And past the headland, northward, slowly driftin

The freighted galleon.

O solemn bells ! whose consecrated masses

Recall the faith of old,
O tinkling bells ! that lulled with twilight music

The spiritual fold !

Cortes in Mexico.

223

Your voice: break and falter in the darkness, —

Break, falter, and are still ;

And veiled and mystic, like the Host descend in j

The sun sinks from the hill !

— Bret Ilartf.

■ n \

ng,

TS,

ifting

isic

LXXXIL— CORTES IN MEXICO.

The troops, refreshed by a night's rest, succeeded,
early on the following day, in gaining the crest of the
sierra of Ahualco, which stretches like a curtain between
the two great mountains on the north and south. Their
progress was now comparatively easy, and they marched
forward with a buoyant step, as they felt they were
treading the soil of Montezuma.

They had not advanced far, when, turning an angle of
the sierra, they suddenly came on a view which more
than compensated the toils of the preceding day. It
was that of the valley of Mexico, which, with its
picturesque assemblage of water, woodland, and culti-
vated plains, its shining cities and shadowy hills, was
spi'ead out like some gay and gorgeous panorama before
them.

In the highly rarefied atmosphere of these upper
regions, even remote objects have a brilliancy of coloring
and a distinctness of outline which seem to annihilate
distance. Stretching far away at their feet were seen
noble forests of oak, sycamore and cedar ; and be-
yond, yellow fields of maize and the towering rnfiguey,
intermingled with orchards and blooming gardens ; for
flowers, in such demand for their religious festivals, were

I ill

'lii:

;iii

224

Fourth Reader.

even more abundant in this populous valley than in
other parts.

In the centre of the great basin were beheld the lakes,
occupying then a much larger portion of its surface than
at present, their borders thickly studded with towns and
hamlets; and, in the midst, like some Indian empress
with her coronal of pearls, the fair City of Mexico, with
her white towers and pyramidal temples, reposing, as it
were, on the bosom of the waters — the far-famed " Venice
of the Aztecs."

High over all arose the royal hill of Chapultepec (the
residence of the Mexican monarchs), crowned with the
same grove of gigantic cypresses which at this day fling
their broad shadows over the land. In the distance, be-
yond the blue waters of the lake, and nearly screened by
the intervening foliage, was seen (a shining speck) the
rival capital, Tezcuco ; and still farther on, the dark belt
of porphyry, girdling the valley around, like a rich
setting which Nature had devised for the fairest of
her jewels.

Such was the beautiful vision which broke on the eyes
of the conquerors. And even now, when so sad a change
has come over the scene — when the stately forests have
been laid low, and the soil, unsheltered from the fierce
radiance of a tropical sun, is in many places abandoned
to sterility — when the waters have retired, leaving a
broad and ghastly margin, white with the incrustation
of salts, while the cities and hamlets on their borders
have mouldered into ruins — even now that desolation
broods over the landscape, so indestructible are the
lines of beauty which Nature has traced on its features,

('oHTKH IN Mux no.

•i-if)

than in

lie lakes,
ace than
)wns and
eniprcvsH
CO, with
ing, as it
" Venice

epec (the
with the
day fling
ance, be-
eened by
)eck) tlie
iark belt
e a rich
lirest of

the eyes
a change
sts have
fie fierce
andoned
aving a
ustation
borders
isolation
are the
"eatures,

that no traveller, however cold, can gaze on them with
any other emotions than those of astonishment and
rapture.

What, then, must have been the emotions of the
Spaniards, when, after working their toilsome way into
the upper air, the cloudy talxjrnacle parted before their
eyes, and they >)eheld these fair sceni^s in all their pris-
tine magnificence and beauty ! It was like the spectacle
which greeted the eyes of Moses from the summit of
Pisgah ; and, in the warm glow of their feelings, they
cried out, " It is the promised land ! "

It was the eighth of Novemlwr, 1519, a day conspicu-
ous in history as that on which the Europeans first set
foot in the capital of the Western World.

Cortes with his little body of hoi'^^e formed a sort of
advanced guard to the army. Then came the Spanish
infantry, who in a summer's campaign had acquired the
discipline and the weather-beaten aspect of veterans.
The baggage occupied the centre ; and the rear was
closed by the dark files of the native warriors. The
whole number must have fallen short of seven thousand :
of whom fewer than four hundred were Spaniards.

Everywhere the concjuerors beheld the evidence of a
crowded and thriving population, exceeding all they had
yet seen. The temples and principal buildings of the
cities were covered with a hard white stucco, which
glistened like enamel in the level beams of the morning.
The margin of the lake was thickly gemmed with towns
and hamlets. The water was darkened by swarms of
canoes filled with Indians, who clambered up the sides
of the causeway and gazed with curious astonishment on

•1:

i;;;

'Hi

']-.

fii

% i I'

226

B'ouRTH Reader.

lilt

i t

the strangers. And here, also, they beheld those fairy
islands of flowers, overshadowed occasionally by trees of
considerable size, rising and falling with the gentle
undulation of the billows.

Soon they beheld the glittering retiiiue of the emperor
emerging from the great street which led then, as it still
does, through the heart of the city. Amidst a crowd of
Indian nobles, preceded by three officers of state bearing
golden wands, they saw the royal palanquin blazing with
burnished gold. It was borne on «.iie shoulders of nobles,
and over it a canopy of gaudy feather work, powdered
with jewels and fringed with silver, was supported by
four attendants of the same rank. Tliey were bare-
footed, and walked with a slow, measured pace, and
with eyes bent on the ground

As the monarch advanced under the canopy, the
obsequious attendants strewed the ground with cotton
tapestry, that his imperial feet might not be contami-
,nated by the rude soil. His subjects of high and low
degree, who lined the sides of the causeway, bent for-
ward with their eyes fastened on the ground as he
passed, and some of the humbler class prostrated them-
selves before him.

Montezuma wore the girdle and amp) a square cloak
of his nation. It was made of the fijiest cotton, with
the embroidered ends gathered in a knot round his
neck. His feet were defended by sandals having soles
of gold, and the leathern thongs which bound them to
his ankles were embossed with the same metal. Both
the cloak and sandals were sprinkled with pearls and
precious stones, among which the emerald, and another

Cortes i:v Mexi<;(i

227

green stone of high estimation among the Aztecs, were
conspicuous. On his head he wore no other ornament
than a bunch of plumes of the royal green, which floated
down his back, — the badge of military, rather than of
regal, rank.

Cortes, dismounting, threw his reins to a page, and
supported by a few of the principal cavaliers, advanced
to meet him. The interview must have been one of
uncommon interest to both. In Montezuma, Cortes
beheld the lord of the broad realms he had traversed,
whose magnificence and power had been the burden of
every tongue. In the Spaniard, on the other liand, the
Aztec prince saw the strange being whose history seemed
to be so mysteriously connected with his own ; the pre-
dicted one of his oracles, whose achievements proclaimed
him something more than human.

But whatever may have been the monarch's feelings,
he so far suppressed them as to receive his guest with
princely courtesy, and to express his satisfaction at per-
sonally seeing him in his capital. Cortes responded by
the most profound expressions of respect, while he made
ample acknowledgments for the substantial proofs which
the emperor had given the Spaniards of his munificence.
He then hung round Montezuma's neck a sparkling chain
of colored crystal, accompanying this with a movement
as if to embrace him, when he was restrained by the two
Aztec lords, shocked at the menaced profanation of the
sacred person of their master. After the interchange of
these civilities, Montezuma appointed his brother to
conduct the Spaniards to their residence in the capital,
and, again entering his litter, was borne ofi" amidst pros-

■ I : !

ill

228

Fourth Reader.

393

Mi ^

i \ ■■ I

11 ni

11 'ii

trate crowds in the same state in ^^•hicll he had como.
The Spaniards quickly followed, and, with colors flying
and music playing, soon made their entrance into the
southern quarter of the capital.

Here, again, they found fresh cause for admiration in
tha grandeur of the city and the superior style of its
architecture. The dwellings of the poorer classes were,
indeed, chiefly of reeds and mud. But the great avenue
through which they were now marching was lined with
the houses of the nobles, who were encouraged by the
emperor to make the capital their residence. They were
built of a red porous stone drawn from quarries in the
neighborhood, and, though they rarely rose to a second
storey, often covered a large space of ground.

The flat roofs were protected by stone parapets, so
that every house was a fortress. Sometimes these roofs
resembled parterres of flowers, so thickly were they
covered with them, but more frequently these were cul-
tivated in broad terraced gardens, laid out between the
edifices. Occasionally a great square or market place
intervened, surrounded by its porticoes of stone and
stucco ; or a pyramidal temple reared its colossal bulk,
crowned with its tapering sanctuaries, and altars blazing
with inextinguishable fires. The great street facing the
southern causeway, unlike most others in the place, was
wide, and extended some miles in nearly a straight line,
as before noticed, through the centre of the city. A
spectator standing at one end of it, as his eye ranged
along the deep vista of temples, terraces and gardens,
might clearly discern the other, with the blue mountains
in the distance, which, in the transparent atmosphere

o
b

Cortes in Mexico.

229

of the table-land, seemed almost in contact with the
buildings.

But what must have been the sensations of the Aztecs
themselves, as they looked on the portentous pageant !
as they heard, now for the first time, the well-cemented
pavement ring under the iron tramp of the horses, — the
strange animals which fear had clothed in such super-
natural terrors: as they gazed on the children of the
East, revealing their celestial origin in their fair com-
plexions ; saw the bright falchions and bonnets of steel,
a metal to them unknown, glancing like meteors in the
sun, while sounds of unearthly music — at least, such as
their rude instruments had never wakened — floated in
the air !

As they passed down the spacious street, the troops
repeatedly traversed bridges suspended above canals,
along which they saw the Indian barks gliding swiftly
with their little cargoes of fruits and vegetables for
the markets. At length they halted before a broad
area near the centre of the city, where rose the huge
pyramidal pile dedicated to the patron war god of the
Aztecs, second only to the temple cf Cholula, and
covering the same ground now in part occupied by the
great cathedral of Mexico. Here were the buildings
appropriated to the Spaniards.

— WilUam H, Prescott.

't(i

Iffi

Some will hate thee, some will love thee,
Some will flatter, some will slight ;

Turn from man, and look above thee,
Trust in God and do the right.

Ill

230 Fourth Reader.

LXXXIII.-WATERLOO.

Stop ! — for thy tread is on an Empire's dust !
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below !
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust ?
Nor column trophied for triumphal show ?
None : but the moral's truth tells simpler so.
As the ground was before, thus let it be : —
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow !
And is this all the world has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields ! king-making Victory 1

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ;
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again.
And all went merry as a marriage bell ;
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !

Did ye not hear it 1 — No ; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street.
On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined !
No sleep till morn when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the f/lowing hours with flying feet —
But hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before !
Arm ! Arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar !

Waterloo.

231

knell !

re,

Within a windowed niche of that "high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear ;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell :
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to ind fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated : who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise !

And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed.
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb.
Or whispering, with white lips, " The foe ! They come !
They come ! "

And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering " rose !
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : —
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,

illl

s?' V

■

■• '

ill

I' i>

282 Fourth Ukahek.

Sftvage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring which instils
The stirring memoiy of a thousand years ;
And Evan's, Donald's fame, rings in each clansman's ears !

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass.
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave, — alas !
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valor, rolling on the foe.
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life.
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife.
The morn, the marshalling in arms, — the day.
Battle's magnificently stern array !
Thj thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent,
The earth is covered thick with other clay.
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent.
Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent !

— Lord Byron.

i i

H i

As tlie soul is the life of the body, so God is the
life o^ the soul. The body dies when the soul departs
from it. The soul dies when it separates itself from
God.

Rip Van Winkle.

238

fills

I's ears !

Ives.

nd low.

t,
lent !

yron.

s the
>parts
from

LXXXIV.-RIP VAN WINKLE.

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must
remember the Kaatskill Mountains. They are a dis-
membered branch of the great Appalachian family, and
are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to
a noble height, and lording it ov^er the suiTOunding
country.

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager
may have descried the light smoke curling up from
a village, whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees,
just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into
the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little
village of great antiquity, and there were some of the
houses of the original settlers standing within a few
years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland,
having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted
with weathercocks.

In that same village, and in one of these very houses,
there lived many years since, while the country was yet
a province of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured
fellow, of the name of Rip V^an Winkle.

Certain it is that he was a great favorite among all
the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the
amiable sex, took his part in all family scjuabbles ; and
never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in
their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame
Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would
shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at
their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly
kites and shoot marbles, and told them lon/^ stories of

(fi

' 51

-iiil

'III

284

Fourth Reader.

li:;ii

1-i

ill

ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodg-
ing about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of
them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back,
and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity ;
and not a dog would bark at him throughout the
neighborhood.

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuper-
able aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could
not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance ; for
he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and
heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a
murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a
single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his
shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and
swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few
squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to
assist a neighbor, even in the roughest toil, and was a
foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian
corn, or building stone fences. The women of the village,
too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to do
such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would
not do for them. In a word. Rip was ready to attend
to anybody's business but his own ; but as to doing
family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found
it impossible.

He, however, was one of those happy mortals, of
foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take \ 5 world easy,
eat white bread or brown, whichever ct^.i be got with
least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on
a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself,
he would have whistled life away in perfect content-
ment; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears

Rip Vax Winkle.

235

t dodg-
I'oop of
s back,
junity ;
ut the

nsuper-
fc could
ce; for
ng and
ihout a
id by a
on iiis
)ds and
a few
:use to
was a
Indian
nllao^e,
1 to do
would
attend
doing
found

Is, of

easy,

with
ve on
mself,
itent-
i ears

about liis idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was
bringing on his family.

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who
was as much henpecked as his master ; for Darne Van
Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and
even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause
of his master's going so ofte^i astray.

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as
years of matrimony rolled on ; a tart temper never mel-
lows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged
tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long
while he used to console himself, when driven from
home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the
sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the
village ; which held its sessions on a bench before a
small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of His
Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in
the shade through a long lazy summer's day, talhing
listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy
stories about nothing. But it would have been worth
any statesman's money to have heard the profound dis-
cussions which sometimes took place, when by chance an
old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing
traveller. How solemnly they would listen to the con-
tents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the
school-master, a dapper, learned little man, who was
not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the
dictionary ; and how sagely they wonld deliberate upon
public events some months aft(ir they had taken place.

From even this stronghold the unlucky- Rip was at
length routed by his termagant wife, who would sud-
denly br'iak in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage

I 1

III

236

Fourth Reader.

i ? » I n i

and call the members all to naught. Poor Rip was at
last reduced almost to despair ; and his only alternative,
to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his
wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the
woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the
foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with
Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in
persecution.

In a long ramble of the kind, on a tine autumnal
day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the
highest parts of the Kaatskill Mountains. He was
after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the
still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports
of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself,
late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with
mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice.
For some time Rip lay musing upon the Hudson far
beneath him, and a shaggy mountain glen upon the
other side of him.

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a
distance, hallooing, " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle!"
He looked round, but could see nothing but a crow
winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He
thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned
again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring
through the still evening air : " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip
Van Winkle ! " — at the same time Wolf bristled up his
back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master's
side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt
a vague apprehension stealing over him ; he looked
anxiously in the same direction, anc?. perceived a strange

Rip Van Winkle.

237

was at
'native,
• of his
nto the

at the
et with
Perer in

tumnal
of the
[e was
nd the
reports
lirnself,
d with
ecipice.
ion far
>on the

from a
inkle!"
a crow
n. He
turned
y ring
e! Rip
up his
1 aster's
Dw felt
looked
itrange

figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under
the weight of something he carried on his back. He
was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and
unfrequented place ; but supposing it to be some one of
the neighborliood in need of liis assistance, he hastened
down to yield it.

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the
singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a
short, square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and
a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch
fashion : a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist, several
pairs of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated
with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the
knees. He bore on his shoulders a stout keg, that seemed
full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and
assist him with the load. Though rather shy and dis-
trustful of this new acquaintance. Rip complied with his
usual alacrity ; and mutually relieving one another, they
clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of
a mountain torrent.

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder
presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was
a company of odd-looking personages playing at nine-
pins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion ;
some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long
knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous
breeches of similar style with that of the guide's. There
was one who seemed to be the commander. He wxs a
stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance ;
he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-
crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled
shoes, with roses in them,

238

Fourth Reader.

What Beemed particularly odd to Rip was, that thoujj;h
these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet
they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious
silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of
pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted
the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls,
which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the
mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He
even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste
the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of
excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul,
and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste
provoked another; and he reiterated his visits to the
flagon so often that at length his senses were ovei'-
powered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually
declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll
whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He
rubbed his eyea — it was a bright, sunny morning. The
birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes,
and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure
mountain breeze. "Surely," thought Rip, "I have not
slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences before
he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor —
the mountain ravine — the wild retreat among the rocks
— the woe- begone party at nine-pins — the flagon — " Oh !
that flagon ! that wicked flagon ! " thought Rip — " what
excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle ? "

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean,
well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying

Rip Van Winkle.

289

by him, the barrol iiicrusterl with rust, the lock falling
off*, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that
the grave roysterers of the mountain had put a trick upon
liim, and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed hin»
of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might
have strayed away after a scjuirrel or jmrtridge. He
whistled after him, and shouted his name, but all in
vain ; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no
dog was to be seen.

He grieved to give up his dog and gnn ; he dreaded to
meet his wife ; but it would not do to starve among the
mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty
firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety,
turned his steps homeward.

As he approached the village he met a number of
people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat sur-
prised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with
every one in the country round. Their dress, too, waa
of a different fashion from that to which he was accus-
tomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of
surprise ; and whenever they cast their eyes upon him
they invariably stroked their chins. The constant
recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily,
to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he found
his beard had grown a foot long!

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop
of strange children ran at his heels, hooting aftei- him,
and pointing at his grey beard. The dogs, too, not one
of whit 1 he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked
at him as he passed. The very village was altered ; it
w^as larger and more populous. There were rows of

•!l|

240

Fourth Reader.

i-i

f *

houses which he had never seen before, and those which
had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange
names were over the doors — strange faces at the win-
dows, — everything was strange. His mind now misgave
him ; he began to doubt whether both he and the world
around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his
native village, which he had left but a day before.
There stood the Kaatjkill Mountains — there ran the
silver Hudson at a distance — there was every hill and
dale precisely as ii had always been — Rip was sorely
perplexed — "That fiagon last night," thought he, "has
addled my poor head sadly ! "

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to
his own house, which he approached with silent awe,
expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame
Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay — the
roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off
the hinges. A half-starved dog that looked like Wolf
was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the
cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was
an unkind cut indeed — " My very dog," sighed poor Rip,
" has forgotten me ! "

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth. Dame

Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was

empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This deso-

lateness overcame all his connubial fears — he called

loudly for his wife and children — the lonely chambers

rang for a moment with his voice, and then again all
was silence.

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort,
the village inn — but it, too, was gone. A large, rickety

Rip Vax Winkle.

241

>se which
Strange

the win-
misgave

ihe world
was his

y before,
ran the
hill and

as sorely

he, "has

le way to
lent awe,
! of Dame
3cay — the
5 doors off
like Wolf
e, but the
This was
poor Rip,

th. Dame
It was
his deso-
le called
chambers
again all

Id resort,
s, rickety

wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping
windows, some of them broken and mended with old
hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, " Th3
Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittlp." Instead of the
great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn
of yore, there now was reared p. tall naked pole, with
something on the top that looked like a red night-cap,
and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a
singular assemblage of stars and stripes - all this was
strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the
sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under
which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but even
this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was
changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in
the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated
with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large
characters, General Washington.

The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard,
his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army
of women and children at his heels, soon attracted
the attention of the tavern-politicians. They crowded
round him, eying him from head to foot with great
curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and demanded
in an austere tone, " what brought him to the election
with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and
whether he meant to breed a riot in the village ? " —
"Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I
am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal
subject of the king, God bless him ! "

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — "A
tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with

i;j

■i\

\r.

Ill)

242

Fourth Reader.

him ! " The poor man humbly assured them that he
meant no harm, but came there in search of some of
his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern.

Rip's heart died away at hearing of the sad changes
in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone
in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treat-
ing of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters
which he could not understand. He had no courage
to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair,
" Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle ? "

" Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or tl rea ; " Oh,
to be sure ! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning
against the tree."

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of him-
self, as he went up the mountain: apparently as lazy,
and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now
completely confounded. He doubted his own identity,
and whether he was himself or another man. In the
midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat
demanded who he was, and what was his name ?

" God knows," exclaimed he at his wit's end ; " I'm not
myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no —
that's somebody else got into my shoes^I was myself
last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've
changed my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm
changed, and I can't tell what'r my name, or who I am !"

The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod,
significantly, and tap their fingers against their fore-
heads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the
gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief.
At this critical moment a fresh, comely woman pressed

Kip Van Winkle.

248

'> TV

that he
some of
'^ern.

changes
s alone
y treat-
matters
courage
despair,

3 ; " Oh,

leaning

of him-
as lazy,
as now
identity,
In the
ked hat

I'm not
V — no —

myself
they've
md I'm

I am !"

er, nod,
ir forc-
ing the
lischief.
pressed

through the throng to get a peep at the grey-bearded
man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which,
frightened at his looks, began to cry. " Hush, Rip,"
cried she; "hush, you little fool; the old man won't
hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the molher,
the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollec-
tions in his mind. *' What is your name, my good
woman ? " asked he.

"Judith Gardenier."

" And your father's name ? "

"Ah, poor man. Rip Van Winkle was his name, but
it's twenty years since he went away from home with
his gun, and never has been heard of since, — his dog
came home v/ithout him ; but whether he shot himself,
or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I
was then but a little girl."

Rip had but one question more to ask ; and he put it
with a faltering voice : —

" Where's your mother ? **

" Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; she
broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New
England peddler."

There was a drop of comfort at least in this intelli-
gence. The honest man could contain himself no longer.
He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. " I
am your father ! " cried he — " Young Rip Van Winkle
once — old Rip Van Winkle now ! Does nobody know
poor Rip Van Winkle ? "

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out
from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and

I , ;

Htl

244

Fourth Reader.

peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed,
" Sure enough it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself !
Welcome home again old neighbor — Why, where have
you been these twenty long years ? "

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years
had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared
when they heard it ; some were seen to wink at each
other, and put their tongues in their cheeks. It was
determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter
Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the
road. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the
village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and
traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at
once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory
manner. He assured the company that it was a fact,
handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the
Kaatskill Mountains had always been haunted by
strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great
Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and
country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years,
with his crew of the Half-moon; being permitted in
this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep
a guardian eye upon the river and the great city called
by his name. That his father had once seen them in
their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in the hollow
of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one
summer afternoon, the sound of their balls like distant
peals of thunder.

To make a long story short, the company broke up,
and returned to the more important concerns of the
election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with

A Psalm of Lifi!.

245

Inimed,
imself !
e have

r years

stared
it each
It was
I Peter
up the

of the
its and

Rip at
factory
a fact,
lat the
ied by
) great
er and

years,
;ted in
id keep
^ called
iiem in
hollow
:d, one
distant

»ke up,
of the
e with

her ; she had a snug well -furnished house, and a stout,

cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for

one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back.

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon

found many of his former cronies, though all rather the

worse for the wear and tear of time ; and preferred

making friends among the rising generation, with whom

he soon grew into great favor.

— Washington Irving.

LXXXV.-A PSALM OF LIFE.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
" Life is but an empty dream ! "

For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real ! Life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal ;
" Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way ;
But to act, that each to-raorrow

Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle, —

Be a hero in the strife !

■.it

246

iiJJs

Fourth Header.

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !

Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Act, — act in the living Present !

Heart within, and God o'erhead !

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime.
And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of Time ;

Footprints, that perhaps another.

Sailing o'er Life's solemn main,
A forlorn and ship-wrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing.

With a heart for any fate ;
Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait.

— Henry W. Longfellow.

LXXXVL— THE DISCOVERY OF LAKE

CHAMPLAIN.

It was past the middle of May, 1609, and the expected
warriors from the upper country had not come : a delay
which seems to have given 'Champlain little concern, for,
without waiting longer, he set forth with no better allies
than a band of Montagnais. But, as he moved up the
St. Lawrence, he saw, thickly clustering in the bordering
forest, the lodges of an Indian camp, and, landing, found
his Huron and Algonquin allies. Few of them had
ever seen a white man. They surrounded the steel-clad
strangers in speechless wonderment. Champlain asked

The Discover y of Lake Champlain.

247

Ofellow.

K£

xpected
a delay
jrn, for,
ir allies
up the
rdering
, found
m had
jel-clad
asked

for their chief, and the staring throng moved with him
towards a lodge where sat, not one chief, but two, for
each tribe had its own. There were feasting, smoking,
speeches ; and, the needful ceremony over, all descended
together to Quebec; for the strangers were bent on
seeing those wonders of architecture whose fame had
pierced the recesses of their forests.

On their arrival, they feasted their eyes and glutted
their appetites ; yelped consternation at the sharp
explosion of the arquebuse and the roar of the cannon,
pitched their camps, and bedecked themselves for their
war dance. In the still night, their fire glared against
the dark and jagged cliff, and the fierce red light fell on
tawny limbs convulsed with frenzied gestures and fero-
cious stampings; on contorted visages, hideous with paint ;
on brandished weapons, stone war clubs, stone hatchets,
and stone-pointed lances; while the drum kept up its
hollow boom, and the air was split with mingled yells,
till the horned owl on Point Levis, startled at the sound,
gave back a whoop no less discordant.

Stand with Champlain and view the war dance; sit
with him at the war feast, — a close-packed company,
ring within ring of ravenous f casters; then embark
with him on his hare-brained venture of discovery. It
was in a small shallop, carrying, besides himseli, eleven
Frenchmen. They were armed with the arquebuse, a
matchlock or firelock somewhat like the modern carbine,
and from its shortness not ill-fitted for use in the forest.
On the twenty-eighth of May, they spread their sails
and held their course against the current, while around
them the river was alive with canoes, and hundreds of
naked arms plied the oars with a steady, measured sweep.

If*

248

Fourth Keadkr.

They crossed the Lake of St. Peter, threaded the devious
channels among its many islands, and reached at last tho
mouth of the Richelieu.

When he reached the shallop, he found the whole
savage crew gathered on the spot. He mildly rebuked
their bad faith, but added that, though they had
deceived him, he, as far as might be, would fulfil his
pledge. To this end he directed Marais, with the boat
and the greater part of the men, to return to Quebec,
while he with two who offered to follow him, should
proceed in their Indian canoes.

The warriors lifted their canoes from the water, and,
in long procession through the forest, under the flicker-
ing sun and shade, bore them on their shoulders around
the rapids to the smooth stream above. Here the chiefs
made a muster of their forces, counting twenty-four
canoes and sixty warriors. All embarked again and
advanced, the river widening as they went. Great
islands appeared, leagues in extent. Channels where
ships might float, and broad reaches of expanding water
stretched between them, and Champlain entered the lake
which preserves his name to posterity. Edged with
woods, the tranquil flood spread southward beyond the
sight. Far on the left, the forest ridges of the Green
Mountains were heaved against the sun, patches of snow
still glistening on their tops ; and on the right rose the
Adirondacks, haunts in these later years of amateur
sportsmen from counting-room or college halls, — nay
of adventurous beauty, with sketch-book and pencil.
Then the Iroquois made them their hunting-ground;
and beyond, in the valleys, stretched the long line of
their five cantons and palisaded towns.

The Discovery of Lake Champlain.

249

The progress of the party was becoming dangerous.
They changed their mode of advance, and moved only
in the night. All day they lay close in the depth of the
forest. At twilight they embarked close again, paddling
their cautious way till the eastern sky began to redden.

It was ten o'clock in the evening of the 29th of July,
when they descried dark objects in motion on the lake
before them. These were a flotilla of Iroquois canoes,
heavier and slower than theirs, for they were made of
oak bark. Each party saw the other, and the mingled
war-cries pealed over the darkened water. The Iroquois,
who were near the shore, having no stomach for an
aquatic battle, landed, and, making night hideous with
their clamors, began to barricade themselves. Champlain
could see them in the woods, laboring like beavers, hack-
ing down trees with iron axes taken from the Canadian
tribes in war, and with stone hatchets of their own
making. The allies remained on the lake, a bowshot
from the hostile barricade, their canoes made fast
together by poles lashed across. All night they danced
with as much vigor as the frailty of their vessels would
permit, their throats making amends for the enforced
restraint of their limbs. It was agreed on both sides
that the fight should be deferred till daybreak ; but
meanwhile a commerce of abuse, sarcasm, menace, and
boasting gave unceasing exercise to the lungs and fancy
of the combatants,— " Much," says Champlain, " like the
besiegers and besieged in a beleaguered town,"

As day approached, he and his two followers put on
the light armor of the time. Champlain wore the
doublet and long hose then in vogue. Over the doublet
he buckled on a breastplate, and probably a back-piece,

'ii

1.1

.■"Si!'

250

Fourth Reader.

i i

A 1

: «

) ■

15 ,

IH:

nil

ill

111 ^■

while his thighs were protected by cuifises of steel, and
his head by a plumed casque. Across his shoulder hung
the strap of his bandoleer, or ammunition box ; at his
side was his sword, and in his hand his arquebuse, which
he had loaued with four ball^. Such was the equipment
of this ancient Indian- fighter, whose exploits date eWen
years before the landing of the Puritans at Plymouth.

Eacii of the three Frenchmen was in o separate ciinoe,
and, as it grew light, they kept themselves hidden, either
by lying ti,t the bottom or by covering themselves with
an Indian robo. The canoes approached the shore, and
all landf^d without opposition at some distance from the
Iroquois, whom they presently could see filing out of
1;heir barricade, tall, strong men, some two hundr<3d in
nun^ber, of the boldest and fiercest warriors of North
America. They advanced through the forest with a
steadiness which excited the admiration of Cham plain.
Among them, could be seen several chiefs, made con-
spicuous by their tall plumes. Some bore shields of
wood and hide, and some were covered with a kind of
armor made of tough twigs interlaced with a vegetable
fibre> supposed by Champlain to be cotton.

The allies, growing anxious, called with loud cries for
their champion, and opened their ranks that he might
pass to the front. He did so, and, advancing before his
red comr>anions-in-arms, stood revealed to the astonished
Iroquois, who, beholding the warlike apparition in their
path, stared in mute amazement. But his arquebuse
was levelled ; the report startled the woods, a chief fell
dead, and another b^?- his side rolled among the bushes.
Then there rose from the allies a yell, which, says
Champlain, would have drowned a thunderclap, and the

The Indian's Faith.

251

el, and
' hung
at his
which
ipment
eleven
uth.

canoe,
, either
s with
'e, and
3m the
out of
rod in
North
vrith a
nplain.
e con-
Ids of
ind of
:etable

es for
might
re his
lished

their
ebuse
)f fell
ushes.

says
dthe

forest was full of whizzing arrows. For a moment, the
Iroquois stood firm and sent back their arrows lustily ;
but when another and another gimshot came from the
thickets on their flank, they broke and fled in uncon-
trollable terror. Swifter than hounds the allies tore
through the bushes in pursuit. Some of the Iroquois
were killed; more were taken. Camps, canoes, pro-
visions, all were abandoned, and many weapons flung
down in the panic-flight. The arquebuse had done its
work. The victory was complete.

Thus did New France rush into collision with the
redoubted warriors of the Five Nations. Here was the
beginning, in some measure doubtless the cause, of a
long suite of murderous conflicts, bearing havoc and
flame to generations yet unborn. Champlain had in-
vaded the tiger's den ; and now, in smothered fury, the
patient savage would lie biding his day of blood.

— Franc'm Parkman.

:|^

LXXXVII.-THE INDIAN'S FAITH.

We worship the Spirit that walks unseen
Through our land of ice and snow ; •

We know not his face, we know not his place,
But his presence and power we know.

Does the buffalo need the Pale-face word

To find his pathway far ?
What guide has he to the hidden ford,

Or where the green pastures are ]

!fl

252 Fourth Reader. •

Who teachefch the moose that the hunter's gun

Is peering out of the shade ?
Who teacheth the doe and the fawn to run

In the track the moose has made 1

Him do we follow, him do we fear,

The Spirit of earth and sky ;
Who hears with the wapiti's eager ear

His poor red children's cry ;
Whose whisper we note in every breeze

That stirs the birch canoe ;
Who hangs the reindeer-moss on the trees

For the food of the caribou.

That Spirit we worship who walks unseen

Through our land of ice and snow ;
We know not his face, we know not his place.

But his presence and power we know.

— Thomas D'Arcy McOee.

LXXXVIIL- HORATIUS.

The consul's brow was sad, and the consul's speech was low.
And darkly looked he at the wall, and darkly at the foe :
'• Their van will be upon us before the brid^;e goes down ;
And if they once may win the bridge, what hope to save the
town 1 "

M '

Then out spake brave Horatius, the captain of the gate :
** To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better than facing fearful odda
For the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his gods ?

U ii,

HoUATIUS.

263

\fcGee.

low,
)e :

ave the

ate.

!s?

"Hew clown the bridge, Sir Consul, with all the Hpeed ye may:
I, with two more to help me, will keep the foe at hay.
In yon straight path a thousand may well l)e stopped by three ;
Now who will stand on either hand, and keep the bridge with
me I"

Then out npakc^ Spurius Lartius— a liainnian proud was he:
'' Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, and keep the bridge with

tliee."
And out spake strong Herminius — of Titian blood was lie :
" I will abide on thy left side, and keep the bridge with thee."

" HoratiuH," quoth the consul, "as thou sayest, so let it be."
And straight against that great array forth went the dauntless

three.
For Romans in Rome's quarrel spared neither land nor gold,
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor lite, in the brave days of old.

Meanwhile the Tuscan army, right glorious to behold,

Came flashing back the noonday light, rank behind rank, like

surges bright
Of a broad sea of gold.
Four hundred trumpets st)unded a peal of warlike glee.
As that great host, with measured tread, and spears advanced,

and ensigns spread,
Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head, where stood the

dauntless three.

The three stood calm and silent, and looked upon the foes.
And a great shout of laughter from all the vanguard rose.
And forth three chiefs came spurring from out that great

array ;
To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, and lifted high

their shiekls, and Hew

To win the narrow way.
17

1 1 1

liii

254

Fourth Reader.

1 I

4 , .

Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus into the stream beneath ;
Herroinius struck at Seius, and clove him to the teeth ,
At Picus brave Horatius darted one fiery thrust,
And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms clashed in the bloody
dust.

Bat now no sign of laughter was heard among the foes ;
A v/ild and wrathful clamor from all the vanguard rose.
Six spears* length from the entrance halted thL>/ deep array,
And for a space no man came forth to win the narrow way.

But, hark ! the cry is Astur : and lo ! the ranks divide ;
And the gieat lord of Luna comes with his stately stride.
Upon his ample shoulders clangs loud the fourfold shield,
And in his hand he shakes the brand which none but he can
wield.

Then, whirling up his broadsword with both hands to the

height.
He rushed against Horatius, and smote with all his might.
With shield and blade Horatius right deftly turned the blow.
The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh, it missed his

helm, but gashed his thigh —
The Tuscans raised a joyful cry to see the red blood flow.

He reeled, and oi\ Herminius he leaned one breathing space —
Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, sprang right at Astur's

face.
Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, so fierce a thrust he

sped,
The good sword stood a hand-breadth out behind the Tuscan's

head.

But meanwhile axe and lever have manfully been plied ;
And now the bridge hangs tottering above the boiling tide.

' \

HORATIUS.

255

"Come back, comeback,HoratiusI" loud cried the fathers all, —
"Back, Lartius ; back, Herminius ! Back, ere the ruin fall ! "

Back darted Spurius Lartius, — Herminius darted back ;
And, as they passed, beneath their feet they felt the timbers

crack.
But when they turned their faces, and on the farther ',hore
Saw brave Horatius stand alone, they would have crossed once

more ;
But with a crash like thunder fell every loosened beam.
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck lay right athwart the

stream ;
And a long shout of triumph rose from the walls of Rome,
As to the highest turret-tops was splashed the yellow foam.

Alone stood brave Horatius, but constant still in mind, —
Thrice thirty thousand foes before, and the broad flood behind.
" Down with him ! " cried false Sextus, with a smile on his

pale face ;
" Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, " now yield thee to

our grace ! "

Round turned he, as not deigning those craven ranks to see ;
Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, to Sextus naught spake he ;
But he saw on Palatinus the white porch of Lis home ;
And he spake to the noble river that rolls by the towers of
Rome :

" Tiber ! Father Tiber ! to whom the Romans pray,

A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge this

day ! "
So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed the good sword by his

side.
And, with his harness on his back, plunged headlong in the

tide!

256

Fourth Reader.

9i !

HI'

■ ■ i

ill

No sound of joy or sorr .v was heard from either bank,
But friends and foes in dumb surprise, with parted lips am-j
straining eyes,
Stood gcizing where he sank ;
And when above the surges they saw his crest appear,
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, and even the ranks of
Tuscany
Could scarce forbear to cheer.

But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain ;
And fast liis blood was flowing, and he was sore in pain,
And heavy with his armor, and spent with changing blows ;
And oft they thought him sinking, but still again he rose.

Never, I ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case,
Struggle through such a raging flood safe to the landing-place ;
But his limbs were borne up bravely by the brave heart within,
And our good Father Tiber bare bravely up his chin.

And now he feels the bottom ; now on dry earth he stands ;
Now round him throng the fathers to press his gory hands ;
And now, with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud,
He enters through the river-gate, borne by the joyous crowd.

— Thomas Babington Macaulay,

I worship thee, sweet Will of God ! and all thy ways adore,
And every day I live I seem to love thee more and more.
When obstacles and trials seem like prison-walls to be,
I do the little I can do, and leave the rest io thee.
I have no cares, O blessed Will ! for all my cares are thine ;
I live in triumph. Lord ! for thou hast made thy triumphs
mine.

The Gfeatness of Our Heritage.

257

lips aii.-j

ranks of

of rain ;
ain,
blows ;
rose.

ing-place ;
rt within,

stands ;
hands ;
ping loud,
is crowd.

facaulay.

3 adore,

iiore.

3e,

i thine ;
triumphs

LXXXIX.-THE GREATNESS OF OUR

HERITAGE.

A single glance at an ordinary school geography shows
Canada to be one of the most favored portions of the
globe ; and as if Providence had kept in reserve its best
gifts for this latest born of nations, we have, wafted into
our spacious western harbors and along our picturesque
Pacific coast, the balmy winds of the Western Ocean,
and with them that ocean stream which makes flowers
bloom and trees bud near the Arctic circle, as early as on
the Mississippi or the St. Lawrence, just as the great
stream poured out by the Mexican Gulf foils the Ice
King's blockade*, of the magnificent harbors of our
Eastern coasts, and nourishes those deep-sea pastures of
which Canada possesses the richest in the w^orld. As a
means of access to the interior of this favored land,
Nature has cleft our rugged Eastern coast with mighty
rivers and orreat lakes which bear the home hunter to
the verge of our great Cereal Table-land.

This great countv;) , bounded by three oceans, has the
greatest extent of coast line ; the greatest number of
miles of river and lake navigation ; the greatest extent
of coniferous forest ; the greatest coal measures ; the
most varied distribution of precious and economic
minerals ; the most extensive salt and fresh water
fisheries ; and the greatest extent of arable and pastoral
land of any country in the world.

This great northern heritage so vast in area and
resources, and which we call our own country, is pos-
sessed by a northern race and ruled by a northern

'It

258

Fourth Reader.

Queen. Its national characteristics are northern, it is
the Norland of this continent ; to the northern races
of the old world whence we sprang we look for our
national characteristics.

We have in this Dominion more Celts than had Brian
when he placed his heel upon the neck of Odin, more
Saxons than had Alfred when he founded his kingdom,
more Normans than had William when he drew from
them the armed host with which he invaded England,
more of Norse blood than there were Norsemen, when
their kings ruled Britain and their galleys swept the sea.
We are the descendants of all the northern kingdom-
founders of Western Europe. We have the laws of
Edward, the Magna Charta and the Roman Code; we
have copied the constitution which English statesmen,
legislators, patriots and martyrs lived, or died, to secure
and save. We have resources by sea and land, civil and
religious liberty ; we are heirs, equally with those who
live in the British Isles, to the glory and traditions of
the British Empire. Canadians have fought side by side
with the Englishman, Irishman and Scot on the burning
sands of India and Africa, and on the bleak battlefields
of the Crimean Peninsula; and they have died as bravely,
too, as any of them.

But while, with just pride, we remember the deeds of
our ancestors for the past thousand years, and know
that when necessary the blood of the s^a-kings, the
sturdy Saxon, tlie gallant Norman and the fiery Celt,
which is in our veins, will assert itself again, yet thanks
be to Almighty God, our national life began and has
continued in peace; and as we chose for our national
emblems the Canadian beaver and the maple leaf, so

The Thousand Islands.

259

Tn, it is
jrn races
for our

ad Brian
I, more
kingdom,

w from
England,
en, when
b the sea.
Lingdom-

laws of
Me; we
iatesmen,
to secure
civil and
lose who
iitions of
e by side
1 burning
.ttlefields
I bravely,

deeds of
id know
ngs, the
^ry Celt,
t thanks
and has
national

leaf, so

have we sought to build up, harmonize and beautify our
splendid heritage by the arts of peace and not by the
arts of war. During the short period, less than a
quarter of a century, of our national life, we have girded
the continent with bands of steel, piercing mountains,
spanning torrents ; and crossing the snow-capped giants
of the Rocky and Selkirk chains, we have linked our
young Canadian empire to Japan and China, the oldest
empires of the Orient. We have justified our traditions
on the sea, in making Canada third in rank of the mari-
time nations of the world. Better still than even this
material progress is the fact that our nationality is
founded upon tlie mutual respect and confidence of the
people, surrounded by the sanctity of Religion, and
crowned with its only appropriate capital. Lawful Con-
stitutional Authority.

— Hon. John Schultz.

XC-THE THOUSAND ISLANDS.

My wandering soul is satisfied :
I rest where blooming islands ride
At anchor on the tranquil tide.

And where the summer shines serene.
And sapphire rivers lapse between
The thousand bosky shields of green.

And so I drift in silence where
Young Echo, from her granite chair,
Flings music on the mellow air,

2G0

Fourth Re a per.

O'er rock and rush, o'er wave and brake,
Until her phantom carols wake
The voices of the Isitind Lake.

Beneath my skiff the long grass slides ;

The muskallonge in covert h'des,

And pickerel flash their gleaming sides ;

And purple vines the Naiads wore,
A-tiptoe on the liquid floor.
Nod welcome to my pulsing oar.

The shadow of the waves I see.
Whose silver meshes seem to be
The love- web of Penelope :

It shimmers on the yellow sands ;
And, while beneath the weaver's hands
It creeps abroad in throbbing strands.

The braided sunbeams softly shift,
And unseen fingers, flashing swift.
Unravel all the golden weft.

So, day by day, I drift and dream

Among the Thousand Isles, that seem ■

The crown and glory of the stream.

~W. A. Croffut.

Praise the Lord, O my soul ; in my life I will praise
the Lord, I will sing to my God as long as I shall be.

May-Day.

261

XCI.~MAY-DAY.

■roffut.

praise
be.

When late I walked, in earlier days,
All wr.:-i stiff and stark ;
Knee-v'eep snows choked all the ways,
In the sky no spark ;
Firra-braced I sought my ancient woods.
Struggling through the drifted roads ;
The whited desert knew me not.
Snow-ridges masked each darling spot ;
The summer dells, by genius haunted,
One arctic moon had disenchanted.
All the sweet secrets therein hid
By Fancy, ghastly spells undid.
Eldest mason, Frost, had piled
Swift cathedrals in the wild ;
The piny hosts were sheeted ghosts
In the star-lit minster aisled.
I found no joy : the icy wind
Might rule the forest to his mind.
Who would freeze on frozen lakes ?
Back to bookcj and sheltered home,
And wood-fire flickering on the walls,
To hear, when, 'mid our talk and games.
Without the baffled north-wind calls.
But soft ! a sultry morning breaks ;
The ground-pines wash their rusty green,
The maple-tops their crimson tint,
On the soft path each track is seen,
The girl's foot leaves its neater print.
The pebble loosened from the frost
Asks of the urchin to be tost.
In flint and marble beats a heart.
The kind Earth takes her children's part.

ill

III

262

FouuTH Headeu.

The green lane is the school -boy's friend,
Low leaves his quarrel apprehend,
The fresh ground loves his top and ball,
The air rings jocund to his call,
The brimming brook invites a leap,
He dives the hollov, . climbs the steep. .

S f '■■

Ah! Wf'il I ynl'-'d the calendar,
Faithful tin .yi a thousand years,
Of the painted race ^i lowers,
Exact to days, exact to hours.
I know the trusty almanac
Of the punctual coming-back.
On their due days, of the birds.
I marked them yestermorn,
A flock of finches darting ^
Beneath the crystal arch,
Piping, as they flew, a march, —
Belike the one they used in parting
Last year from yon oak or larch ;
Dusky sparrows in a crowd.
Diving, darting northward free,
Suddenly betook them all,
Every one to his hole in the wall,
Or to his niche in the apple-tree.
I greet with joy the choral trains
Fresh from palms and Cuba's canes.
Best gems of Nature's cabinet,
With dews of tropic morning wet.
Beloved of children, bards and Spring,
O birds, your perfect virtues bring.
Your song, your forms, your rhythmic flight.
Your manners for the heart's delight ;
Nestle in hedge, or barn, or roof.

Early Canadian Martyrs.

208

Here weave your chamber weather-proof.
Forgive our harms, and condescend
To man, as to a lubber friend,
And, generous, teach his awkward race
Courage and probity and grace !

— Ralph Waldo Emerson.

•ft.

XCII.~EARLY CANADIAN MARTYRS.

Jean de Brebeuf, the descendant of a nobk it lily,
was selected for the Huron Mission. He { .ast the
autumn and winter with a roving band of ^..'01 *:agnais
Indians, enduring for five months the hardsliipL of their
wandering life, and all the penalties of filth «^vxnin and
smoke — the inevitable abominations of a savage camp.

In company with a band of Indians, who had come
down from the Georgian Bay to the French settlements,
and were now returning, after bartering to advantage
their furs and peltries, the two priests bade good-bye to
their friends and embarked with their swarthy com-
panions, whose canoes were headed for the Huron hunt-
ing-grounds in northern forests. Brebeuf was a man of
broad frame and commanding mien, endowed with a
giant strength and tireless endurance.

His stay among the Montagnais taught him that
physical superiority invited the respect of the savage
when Christian virtues often provoked his ridicule.
Stroke for stroke with the strongest of the Hurons he
dipped his paddle from morning till night, and, to the
amazement of his savage companions, show 3d no sign of
fatigue. Now and then the comparatively feeble Daillon,

264

Fourth Reader.

lir

.4,1 .

•1!:

1:1 ii'

i»

! ! ' ! ! !

i, ' '' 1

; J,

1 m. :

worn with the hardships of tlie journey, weakened under
his load. In spite of his indomitable will his strength
would fail him, and his manly but feeble attempts to hold
the pace of his red companions — whose every fibre and
muscle were hardened by years of hunting and canoeing
— but provoked their laughter and ridicule. The heroic
Brebeuf, flying to his assistance, would tlien relieve him
of his burden, aiid, to the astonishment of the band,
continue for hours bearing his double load. The Hurons
themselves were often spent with fatigue, and marvelled
at an endurance that distance could not tire or fatigue
conquer.

When they arrived at the Mission ol* St. Joseph they
found Father Viel's bark chapel still standing. Here
they remained for three years, devoting themselves to
their labors with the patience of saints and the heroism
of martyrs.

Owing to the opposition of the Algonquins of the
Ottawa river, who refused passage through their country
to the French, the Fathers who had returned to Quebec
in 1633 were unable to go to their northern missions.
At length all obstacles having been overcome. Fathers
Daniel, Davost and Brebeuf embarked with a party of
Hurons, and after four weeks of incredible hardship
finaMy reached the Huron country. Father Brebeuf was
received with rapturous welcome. "Echon is come
again/' the children cried ; " Echon is come again."
" Echon " was the Indian name given to Father Brebeuf
when he had dwelt among them six years before. The
Fathers, scarcely giving themselves time to recover from
the fatigue of their long and trying journey, began at

Early Canadian Martyrs.

265

under
ength
D hold
•e and

once the erection of a log building, which Hcrved them
for liouse and chapel.

Day after da}'', in tlie frosts of winter and the burning
heat of summer, these men of God went from village to
village, from hut to hut, censuring vice, correcting
abuses, and patiently taming, by the influence of their
teaching and example, the savage natures aivumd them.
Nothing was more apostolic than the life which they led.

"All their moments," writes Charlevoix, "were marked
by some heroic action, by conversions or by sufferings,
which they considered as a real indemnity when their
labors had not produced all the fruit which they had
hoped for. From the hour of four in the morning, when
they rose, till eight they generally kept within ; this
was the time for prayer, and the only part of the day
which they had for their private exercises of devotion.
At eight each went whitliersoever his duty called him ;
some visited the sick, others walked into the fields to
see those who were engaged in cultivating the earth,
others repaired to the neighboring villages which were
destitute of pastors.

"These excursions answered many good purposes, for in
the first place no children, or at least very few, died with-
out baptism ; even adults, who had refused to receive
instruction while in health, applied for it when they
were sick. They were not proof against the ingenious
and indefatigable charity of their physicians."

The missionaries lived with their spiritual children,
adopted their mode of life, in so far as it was possible,
shared their privations, accompanied them in their fish-
ing and hunting expeditions, and became all to all that

266

Fourth Reader.

they might gain tlieir souls for Christ. The constancy
and courage of the human heart were perhaps never put
to a severer trial than that which they experienced
when the smallpox broke out among tlie tribes. The
filthy habits of the Indians, the offal and garbage of the
camp tliat lay reeking around every wigwam invited
disease ; and, as a result, their bodies offered a rich
pasturage for the epidemics that periodically fed upon
them. Whole villages, while the plague lasted, were
more like charnel-houses than homes of living men ;
and day after day, for many a dreary month, men,
women and children, from whose bones the flesh had
rotted, sank under the accumulation of their sufferings.

The heroism of the Fathers in these trying ordeals
provoked the astonishment of the Hurons, whose stub-
born natures yielded but to miracles of self-denial and
contempt of danger. With all the patience and tender-
ness of Sisters of Charity, they went from wigwam to
wigwam, instructing some, consoling others, baptizing
those who would receive the sacrament, a-nd to all bring-
ing consolation and relief. The suffering they endured
and the hardships they encountered may be learned
from the letters filed among the archives of their Order.

Even the indomitable Brebeuf, whose chivalric nature
rose superior to complaint, wrote to his Superior in
France : " Let those who come here, come well provided
with patience and charity, for they will become rich in
troubles; but where will the laboring ox go when he
does not draw the plough ; and if he does not draw the
plough how can there be a harvest ? " The sorcerers of
the tribe, or medicine men, charged the Fathers with

!lj

Early Canadian Martyrs.

267

being the cause of all their affliction. The chanting of
their sacred litanies and the ceremonies of the Mans were
incantations casting a malign spell upon the crops and
people, paralyzing the arm of the brave in war, and
destroying the swiftness of the hunter in the chase.

The dangers of infection from the plague were trivial
compared to the peril of the tomahawk. Brebeuf and
his companions, in solemn council of the Sachems, were
doomed to death, and were only saved, as they piously
believed, through the intercession of the Blessed Virgin
and St. Joseph. Amid all the discomforts and privations
of savage life the Fathers were sustained by a holy
enthusiasm that conquered all natural fears. When
Brebeuf heard that the sentence of death was passed
upon them, he strode fearlessly into the council-house
and, to the amazement of the chiefs, demanded to be
heard. He was master of their language; and, being
naturally eloquent, harangued the assembly in words so
forcible and persuasive as to obtain a reversal of the
sentence passed upon the Fathers. The plague spent
itself in a short time, and with it died out the bitterness
against the missionaries.

— W. B, Harris (by permission of the Author).

The hand that rounded Peter's dome,
And groined the aisles of Christian Rome,
Wrougl'it in a sad sincerity ;
Himself from God he could not free ;
He builded better than he knew —
The conscious stone to beauty grew.

mm-

pi: -*■

It it' V

2G3 Fourth Reader.

XCIII.— GOD THE COMFORTER.

O thou who driest the mourner's tear !

How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here.

We could not fly to thee !
The friends who in our sunshine live.

When winter comes are flown ;
And he who has but tears to give,

Must weep those tears alone.
But thou wilt heal that broken heart

Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,

Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes, or cheers,

And even the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,

Is dimmed and vanished too, —
Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom.

Did not thy wing of love
Come, brightly wafting through the gloom

Our peace-branch from above 1
Then sorrow, touched by thee, grows bright

With more than rapture's ray ;

As ^ »*kness shows us worlds of light

We never saw by day !

— Thomas Moore.

Let US not stop to examine the evil which otliers do,
but think only of the good which wc ourselves should do.

The Combat.

269

XCIV.-THE COMBAT.

Moore,

ers do,
uld do.

The Chief in silence strode before

And reached that torrent's sounding shore,

And here his course the Chieftain stayed,

Threw down his target and his plaid,

And to the Lowland warrior said :

" Bold Saxon ! to his promise just,

Vich- Alpine has discharged his trust.

This murderous Chief, this ruthless man.

This head of a rebellious clan,

Hath led thee safe, through watch and ward,

Far past Clan- Alpine's outmost guard.

Now, man to man, and steel to steel,

A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel.

See, here all vantageless I stand,

Armed like thy .self with single brand ;

For this is Coilantogle ford.

And thou must keep thee with thy sword."

The Saxon paused : " I ne'er delayed,

When foeman bade me draw my blade ;

Nay more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death ;

Yet sure thy fair and generous faith.

And my deep debt for life preserved,

A. better meed have well deserved :

To James at Stirling let us go.

When, \i thou wilt be still his foe,

Or if thtj King shall not agree

To grant thee grace and favor free,

I plight mine honor, oath, and word

Tliat, to thy native strengths restored.

With each advantage shalt thou stand

That aids thee now to guard thy land."

';;3

270

Fourth Reader.

mil'

Da"k lightiiing flashed from Roderick's eye :

" Soars thy presumption, then, so high,

Because a wretched kern ye slew,

Homage to name to Roderick Dhu 1

He yields not, he, to man nor Fate I

Thou add'st but fuel to my hate ; —

My clansman's blood demands revenge.

Not yet prepared ? — By heaven, I change

My thought, and hold thy valor light

As that of some vain carpet knight,

Who ill deserved my courteous care.

And whose best boast is but to wear

A braid of his fair lady's hair. '

" I thank thee, Roderick, for the word !

It nerves my heart, it steels my sword ;

For I have sworn this braid to stain

In the best blood that warms thy vein.

Now, truce, farewell ! and, ruth, begone ! —

Yet think not that by thee alone.

Proud Chief ! can courtesy be shown ;

Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn,

Start at my whistle clansmen stern,

Of this small horn one feeble blast

Would fearful odds against thee cast.

But fear not — doubt not — which thou wUt—

We try this quarrel hilt to hilt."

Then each at once his falchion drew,

Each on the ground his scabbard threw,

Each looked to sun and stream and plain

As what they ne'er might see again ;

Then foot and point and eye opposed,

In dubious strife they darkly closed.

Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu,

That on the field his targe he threw,

The Combat.

271

Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide

Had death so often dashed aside ;

For, trained abroad his arms to wield,

Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield.

He practised every pass and ward,

To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard ;

While less expert, though stronger far,

The Gael maintained unequal war.

Three times in closing strife they stood.

And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood.

Fierce Roderick felt the fatal dniin,

And showered his blows like wintry rain ;

And, as firm rock or castle-roof

Against the winter shower is proof.

The foe, invulnerable still.

Foiled his wild rage by steady skill ;

Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand

Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand,

And backward borne upon the lea,

Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.

" Now yield thee, or by Him who made

The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade ! "

" Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy !

Let recreant yield, who fears to die."

Like adder darting from his coil.

Like wolf that dashes through the toil.

Like mountain-cat who guards her young,

Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung ;

Received, but recked not of a wound.

And locked his arms his foeinan round. —

Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own !

No maiden's hand is round thee thrown !

That desperate grasp thy frame might feel

Through bars of brass and triple steel !

272 Fourth Reader.

They tug, they strain ! down, down they go,
The Gael above, Fitz-James below.
The Chieftain's gripe his throat compressed,
His knee was planted on his breast ;
His clotted locks he backward threw.
Across his brow his hand he drew,
From blood and mist to clear his sight.
Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright !
But all too late the advantage came.
To turn the odds of deadly game :
For, while the dagger gleamed on high,
Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye.
Down came the blow ! but in the heath
The erring blade found bloodless sheath.
Unwounded from the dreadful close,
But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.

—Sir l/alter Sa-'t.

XCV.-JOAN OF Af:

Joan of Arc was born in 1412 at Domr^my, a village
on the marches of Lorraine, near the frontiers of Frounce.
The education of this poor girl was mean according to
the present standard : was ineffably grand according to
a purer philosophical standard : and only not good for
our age, because for us it would be unattainable. She
ircud nothing, for she could not read ; but she had heard
others road parts of the Roman Martyrology. She wept
in sympathy with the sad Misereres of the Catholic
Chijieii; he r-^se to heaven with the glad triumphant
T( U&ur,i.-^ of Home; she drew her comfort and her vital
stre/irtl fro.n the rites of tlie same Church,

Joan of Akc.

273

>lc(-t.

village
Frounce,
iin^ to
ding to
)od for
i. She
1 heard
e wept
iatholic
nphant
)r vital

But, next after these spiritual advantages, she owed
most to the advantages of her situation. The fountain
of Domr^my was on the brink of a boundless forest.
Abbeys there were with their sweet bells that pierced
the forests for many a league at matins or vespers, and
each had its own dreamy legend. Few enough, and
scattered enough, were these abbeys, so as in no degree
to disturb the deep solitude of the region; yet i.iany
enough to spread a network or awning of ChriHiiar
sanctity over what else might have seemed a heathen
wilderness.

Two great roads, one of which was the great high-
road between Fi-tnce and Germany, intersected at
Domr<^my ; and as great trunk arteries between two
mighty realms, were haunted forever by wars or
rumors of wars. The eye that watched for the gleam
of lance or helmet from the hostile frontier ; the ear
that listened for the groaning of wheels, made the high-
road itself, with its relations to centres so remote, into a
manual of patriotic duty.

But, if the place were grand, the time, the bn^den of
the time, was far more so. The air was dark ^' i sullen
fermenting storms that had been gathering * . a hun-
dred and thirty years. The battle of Ag- court, in
Joan's childhood, had re-opened the wounds of France.
The madness of the poor King falling in at such a crisis
trebled the awfulness of the time. The famines, the
extraordinary diseases, the insurrections of the peasantry
up and down Europe, the termination of the Crusades —
these were full of a deep significance.

Joan, therefore, in her quiet occupation of shep-
herdess, was led continually to brood over the political

•i ',1 J

i «

I I

jit-

r I

n
1

ill ^

,t»jm

■ ■[

274

Fourth Keauer.

condition of the country. It is not wonderful, that
in such deep solitude, with such a prayerful heart,
she should see angelic visions, and hear angelic voices.
These voices forever whispered to her the duty, 'self-
imposed, of delivering France. Five years she listened
to these monitory voices with internal struggles. At
length she could resist no longer. Doubt gave way ;
and she left her home forever in order to present herself
at the Dauphin's Court.

Here came her first trial. By way of testing her
supernatural pretensions, she was to find out the royal
personage amongst tliree hundred lords and knights.
Failing in this, she would not simply disappoint many a
beating heart in the glittering crowd that on different
motives vearned for her success; but she would ruin
herself — and, as the oracle within hi ' told her, would,
by ruining herself, ruin France.

France had become a province of England, and for
the ruin of both, if such a yoke could bo maintained.
Though dreadful pecuniary exhaustion had caused the
English energy to dix)op, yet when »loan appeared, the
Dauphin had been on the point of giving up the struggle
with the English, and of flying to the south of France.
She taught him to blush for such abject counsels. She
liberated Orleans, that great city, so decisive by its fate
for the issue of the war, and then lH?leaguered the
English with an elaborate application of engineering
skill unprecedented in Europe. Later she carried the
Dauphin into Rheims, where she crowned him ; and
there she rested from her labor of triumph. All that
was to be done, she had now accomplished; what
remained was — to suffer.

i
1

Joan ob' Arc.

275

that
heart,

■voices.
, • self-

stened

s. At
way;

lerself

ig her
3 royal
nights,
aany a
fferent
i ruin
would,

nd for
tained.
ed the
?d, the
Tuggle
France.
. She
ts fate
id the
eering
3d the
i; and
11 that
what

During the progress of her movement, and in the
centre of ferocious- struggles, she had manifested the
temper of her feelings by the pity she had everywhere
expressed for the suffering enemy. She forwarded to
the English leaders a touching invitation to unite with
the French, as brothers, in a common crusade against
infidels, thus opening the road for a soldierly retreat.
She interposed to protect the captive or the wounded —
she mourned over the excesses of her countrymen — she
threw herself off her horse to kneel by the dying English
soldier, and to comfort him with such ministrations,
physical or spiritual, as his situation allowed. She wept
as she beheld, stretched on the field of battle, so many
brave enemies that had died without confession.

Having placed the King on the thrcnt. it was her
fortune thenceforward to be thwarted. More than one
military plan was entered upon that she did nob approve.
Too well she felt that the end was nigh at hand. Severe
wounds had not taught her caution. At length in a
sortie she was made prisoner by the Burgundians, and
finally surrendered to the English. The chief object
now was to vitiate the coronation of Charles VII. as the
work of a witch, and to this end Joan was tried for
sorcery.

Never from the foundations of the earth was there
such a trial as this, if it were laid open in all its beauty
of defence, and all its malignity of attack. O child of
France ! shepherdess, peasant girl : trcidden under foot
by all around thee, how I honor thy flashing intellect,
quick as God's lightning and as true to its mark, that
ran before France and laggard Europe by many a
century, confounding the malice of the ensnarer, and

276

Fourth Reader.

making dumb the oracles of falsehood ! " Would you
examine me as a witness against myself ? " was the
question by which she many times defied their arts.

Woman, sister — there are some things which you do
not execute as well as your brother, man ; no, nor ever
will. Yet, sister woman, cheerfully I acknowledge that
yon "an do one thing as well as the best of us men —
you can die grandly ! On the Wednesday after Trinity
Sunday in 1431, being then about nineteen, the Maid of
Orleans underwent her martyrdom. She was conducted
before mid-day, guarded by eight hundred spearmen, to
a platform of prodigious height, constructed of wooden
billets, traversed by iiollow spaces in every direction for
the creation of air-currents.

What else but her meek, saintly demeanor won from
the enemies, that till now had believed her a witch, tears
of rapturous admiration ? What else was it but her
constancy, Limited with her angelic gentleness, that drove
the fanatic English soldier — who had sworn to throw a
faggot on her scaffold, as his tribute of abhorrence, that
did so, that fulfilled his vow — suddenly to turn away a
penitent for life, saying everywhere that he had seen a
dove rising upon wings to heaven from the ashes where
she had stood ? What else drove the executioner to
kneel at every shrine for pardon for his share in the
tragedy ?

The executioner had been directed to apply his torch
from below. He did so. The fiery smoke rose upwards
in billowing volumes. A Dominican monk was standing
at her side. Wrapped up in his sublime office, he saw
not the danger, but still persisted in his prayers. Even

The Virgin.

277

then, when the last enemy was racing up the fiery stairs
to seize her, even at that moment did this noblest of
girls think only for him, the one friend that would not
forsake her, bidding him with hor last breath to care for
his own preservation and leave her to God.

" Go down," she said, " lift up the cross lie fore me,
that I may see it in dying," Then protesting her inno-
cence and recommending her soul to Heaven, she con-
tinued to pray : her last audible word was the name of
Jesus. — Thomas de Quincey.

• I

XCVI.-THE VIRGIN.

Mother ! whose virgin bosom was uncross'd
With the least shade of thought to sin allied ;
Woman ! above all women glorified.

Our tainted nature's solitary boast ;

Purer than foam on central ocean tost,

Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak strewn
With fancied roses, than the unblemish'd moon

Before her wane begins on Heaven's blue coast, —

Thy image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween.
Not unforgiven, the suppliant knee might bend,
As to a visible Power, in which did blend
All that was mix'd and reconciled in Thee
Of mother's love with maiden purity.

Of high with low, celestial with terrene.

— William Wordsworth.

Character is not cut in marble ; it is not something
solid and unalterable. It is something living and
changing, and may become diseased ah our bodies do.

!>
If

!:1

278 Fourth Reader.

XCVIL-A DOUBTING HEART.

Where are the swallows fled 1

Frozen and dead,
Perchance, upon some bleak and stormy shore.
O doubting heart !
Far over purple seas
They wait, in sunny ease,
The balmy southern breeze,
To bring them to their northern homes once more.

Why must the flowers die ?

Prisoned they lie
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.
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.

The sun has hid his rays
These many days ;
Will dreary hours never leave the ear fih 1
O doubting heart !
The stormy clouds on high
Veil the same sunny sky,
That soon, for spring is nigh,
Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.

Fair hope is dead, and light
Is quenched in night ;
What sound can break the silence of despair?
O doubting heart !
The sky is overcast, ^^

Yet stars shall rise at last.
Brighter for darkness past,
And angels' silver voices stir the air.

— Adelaide A. Procter (by permisaion of the Publishers).

I i

Quit Vot'ATlON.

279

XCVIII.-OUR VOCATION.

There are some thoughts which, however old, are
always new; either because tliey are so broad that we
never learn tliem thoroughly, or bocause they are so
intensely practical that their interest is always fresh.
Such thoughts are, for the most part, very common
thoughts. They are so large and so tall, that they are
obvious to all capacities, like the huge mountains which
are visible from the plain. They require no peculiar
keenness of vision, for no one can fail to perceive them.

Now, among such thoughts, we may reckon that
thought which all children know — that God loves every
one of us with a special love. God does not look at us
merely in the mass and multitude. As we shall stand
single and alone before his judgment-seat, so do we
stand, so have we always stood, single and alone before
the eye of his boundless love.

This is what each man has to believe of himself.
From all eternity God determined to create me, not
merely a fresh man, not simply the child of my parents,
a new inhabitant of my native country, an additional
soul to do the work of the nineteenth century. But he
resolved to create me such a? I am, the me by which I
am myself, the me by which other people know me, a
different me from any that have ever been created
hitherto and from any that will be created hereafter.
Must I not infer then, that in the sight of God I
stand in some peculiar relation to the whole of his
great world ? I clearly belong to a plan, and have a
place to fill, and a work to do, all which are special;

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1.0

I.I

IIIIIM

1.8

1.25 1.4

6" -

►

'cf^l

'C'l

% ■

Photographic

Sciences
Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 145S0

(716) 872-4503

I/a

Iff

It'

280

Fourth Reader.

and only my specialty, my particular me, can fill this
place or do this work.

But if I am to be in a special place in God's plan, and
to do a special work for him, and no other place is my
place, and no other work is my work, then I have a
responsibility which is the definition of my life. It
is the inseparable characteristic of my position as a
creature.

No matter what our position in life may be, no matter
how ordinary our duties may seem, no matter how
commonplace the aspect of our circumstances, we, each
of us, have this grand secret vocation. We are, in a
certain inaccurate and loving sense, necessary to God.
He wants us in order to carry out his plans, and nobody
else will quite do instead of us. Here is our dignity;
here also is our duty. Nowhere do we find God so
infallibly, as in the special vocation which he gives us.

We are continually receiving what we ordinarily call
inspirations. God is whispering to us well-nigh inces-
santly. These inspirations are to our vocation what the
sun and rain are to the seed or the growing plant. They
further God's special design upon us and enable it to
develop itself. Holiness is distinguished by the quick-
ness and fineness of its ear in detecting these inspirations,
and by its promptitude and docility in following them.

The surest method of arriving at a knowledge of God's
eternal purposes about us is to be found in the right use
of the present moment. We must esteem our present
grace, and rest in it, and with tranquil assiduity corres-
pond to it. The hours are like slaves which follow each
other, bringing fuel to the furnace. Each hour comes

My Psalm.

281

I, and
is my

with some little fagot of God's will fastened upon its
back. If we thus esteem our present grace, we shall
begin to understand God's purposes. It seems an easy
thing to do ; and yet it cannot really be easy, because so
few do it. One man is always pulling the past to pieces,
while another is marching with his head erect into the
uncertain future, disdainful of the present.

For safety and for swiftness, for clear light and
successful labor, there is nothing like the present.
Practically speaking, the moment that is flying holds
more eternity than all our past, and the future holds
none at all, and only becomes capable of holding any as
it is manufactured piece-meal into the present.

—Rev. F. W. Faber.

XCIX.— MY PSALM.

I mourn no more my vanished years :

Beneath a tender rain,
An April rain of smiles and tears,

My heart is young again.

The west-winds blow, and, singing low,
I hear the glad streams run ;

The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.

No longer forward nor behind

I look in hope or fear ;
But, grateful, take the good I find,

The best of now and here.

J , i

282

Fourth Reader.

I plough no more a desert land,

To harvest weed and tare ;
The manna dropping from God's hand

Rebukes my painful care.

I break my pilgrim staff, — I lay

Aside the toiling oar ;
The angel sought so far away .

I welcome at my door.

The airs of spring, may never play

Among the ripening corn,
1 Nor freshness of tho flowers of May

Blow through the autumn morn ;

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look
Through fringfed lids to heaven.

And the pale aster in the brook
Shall see its image given ; —

The woods shall wear their robes of praise.

The south-wind softly sigh,
And sweet, calm days in golden haze

Melt down the amber sky

Enough that blessings undeserved
Have marked my erring track ; —

That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved,
His chastening turned me back ; —

That more and more a Providence

Of love is understood,
Making the springs of time and sense

Sweet with eternal good ; —

' \

The Chariot Race. 283

That death seems but a covored way

"Which opens into light,
Wherein no blinded child can stray

Beyond the Father's sight ; —

That care and trial seem at last,

Through memory's sunset air,
Like mountain-ranges overpast,

In purple distance fair ; —

That all the jarring notes of life

Seem blending in a psalm,
And all the angles of its strife

Slow rounding into calm.

And so the shadows fall apart,

And so the west-winds play;

And all the windows of my heart

I open to the day.

— John Greenlea/ Whittier.

C.-THE CHARIOT RACE.

The race was on ; the souls of the racers were in it ;
over them bent the myriads. When the dash for posi-
tion began, Ben Hur was on the extreme left of the six.
For a moment, like the others, he was half blinded by
the light in the arena; yet he managed to catch sight of
his antagonists and divine their purpose. At Messala,
who was more than an antagonist to him, he gave one
searching look. The air of passionless hauteur charac-
teristic of the fine patrician face was there as of old,
and so was the Italian beauty, which the helmet rather

284

Fourth Reader.

increased; but more— it may have been a jealous fancy,
or the effect of the brassy shadow in which the features
were at the moment cast, still the Israelite thought he
saw the soul of the man as through a glass, darkly:
cruel, cunning, desperate ; not so excited as determined —
a soul in a tension of watchfulness and fierce resolve.

In a time not longer than was required to turn to his
four again, Ben Hur felt his own resolution harden to
a like temper. At whatever costs, at all hazards, he
would humble this enemy! Prize, friends, wagers, honor
— everything that can be thought of as a possible interest
in the race was lost in the one deliberate purpose. He
had his plan, and confiding in himself, he settled to the
task, never more observant, never more capable.

When not half way across the arena, he saw that
Messala's rush would, if there was no collision, and the
rope fell, give him the wall ; that the rope would fall he
ceased as soon to doubt ; and further, it came to him, a
sudden flash-like insight, that Messala knew it was to be
let drop at the last moment (prearrangement with the
editor could safely reach that point in the contest) ; and
it suggested, what more Roman-like than for the official
to lend himself to a countryman who, besides being so
popular, had also so much at stake ? There could be no
other accounting for the confidence with which Messala
pushed his four forward the instant his competitors were
prudentially checking their fours in front of the obstruc-
tion- — no other except madness.

It is one thing to see a necessity, and another to act
upon it. Ben Hur yielded the wall for the time.

The Chariot Race.

.285

The rope fell, and all the fours but his sprang into the
course under urgency of voice and lash. He drew head
to the right, and with all the speed of his Arabs darted
across the trails of his opponents, the angle of move-
ment being such as to lose the least time and gain the
greatest possible advance. So Ben Hur swept around
and took the course neck and neck with Messala, though
on the outside. The marvellous skill shown in making
the change thus from the extreme left across to the right
without appreciable loss, did not fail the sharp eyes upon
the benches ; the circus seemed to rock and rock again
with prolonged applause.

And now, racing together side by side, a narrow inter-
val between them, the two neared the second goal.

The pedestal of the three pillars there, viewed from
the west, was a stone wall in the form of a half-circle,
around which the course and opposite balcony were bent
in exact parallelism. Making the turn was considered
in all respects the most telling test of a charioteer. As
an involuntary admission of interest on the part of the
spectators, a hush fell over all the circus, so that for the
first time in the race the rattle and clang of the cars
plunging after the tugging steeds were distinctly heard.
Then, it would seem, Messala observed Ben Hur, and
recognized him ; and at once the audacity of the man
flamed out in an astonishing manner.

" Down Eros, up Mars ! " he shouted, whirling his lash

with practised hand. " Down Eros, up Mars 1 " he

repeated, and caught the well-doing Arabs of Ben Hur

a cut the like of which they had never known. The

blow was seen in every quarter, and the amazement was
19

286

Fourth Reader.

universal. The silence deepened ; up on the benches
behind the consul the boldest held his breath, waiting
for the outcome. Only a moment thus ; then, involun-
tarily, down from the balcony, as thunder falls, burst the
indignant cry of the people.

The four sprang forward affrighted. No hand had
ever been laid upon them except in love ; they had been
nurtured ever so tenderly; and as they grew, their
confidence in man became a lesson to men beautiful to
see. What should such dainty natures do under such
indignity but leap as from death ?

Forward they sprang as with one impulse, and forward
leaped the car. Past question, every experience is ser-
viceable to us. Where got Ben Hur the large hand and
mighty grip which helped him now so well ? Where
but from the oar with which so long he fought the sea !
And what was this spring of the floor under his feet to
the dizzy, eccentric lurch with which in the old time the
trembling ship yielded to the beat of staggering billows,
drunk with their power? So he kept his place, and
gave the four free rein, and called to them in soothing
voice, trying merely to guide them round the dangerous
turn ; and before the fever of the people began to abate,
he had back the mastery. Nor that only ; on approach-
ing the first goal lie was again side by side with Messala,
bearing with him the sympathy and admiration of every
one not a Roman. So clearly was the feeling shown, so
vigorous its manifestation, that Messala, with all his
boldness, felt it unsafe to trifle further.

Three rounds concluded ; still Messala held the inside
position, still Ben Hur moved with him side by side,

» ,

The Chariot Race.

287

still the other competitors followed as before. Mean-
time the ushers succeeded in returning the multitude
to their seats, though the clamor continued to run the
rounds, keeping, as it were, even pace with the rivals in
the course below.

The sixth round was entered upon without change
of relative position. Gradually the speed had been
quickened ; gradually the blood of the competitors
warmed with the work. Men and beasts seemed to
know alike that the final crisis was near, bringing the
time for the winner to assert himself.

The interest, which from the beginning had centred
chiefly in the struggle between the Roman and the Jew,
with an intense and general sympathy for the latter, was
fast changing to anxiety on his account. On all the
benches the spectators bent forward motionless, except
as their faces turned iollowing the contestants.

" A hundred sestertii on the Jew ! " cried Sanballat to
the Romans under the consul's awning. There was no
reply. "A talent — or five talents — or ten; choose ye!"
He shook his tablets at them defiantly. " I will take
thy sestertii," answered a Roman youth, preparing to
write. " Do not so," interposed a friend. " Why ? "
" Messala hath reached his utmost speed. See him lean
over his chariot-rim, the reins lying loose as flying
ribbons. Look then at the Jew." The first one looked.

"By Hercules!" he replied, his countenance falling.
" The dog throws all his weight on the bits. I see ! I
see ! If the gods help not our friend, he will be run
away with by the Israelite. No, not yet. Look ! Jove

fc.

288

Fourth Reader.

with us! Jove with us!" The cry, swelled by every
Latin tongue, shook the awnings over the consul's head.

If it \/ere true that Messala had attained his utmost
speed, the effort v/as with effect ; slowly but certainly he
was beginning to forge ahead. His horses were running
with their heads low down; from the balcony their
bodies appeared actually to skim the earth ! their nos-
trils showed blood-red in expansion ; their eyes seemed
straining in their sockets. Certainly the good steeds
were doing their best ! How long could they keep the
pace? It was but the commencement of the sixth
round. On they dashed. As they neared the second
goal, Ben Hur turned in behind the Roman's car. The
joy of the Messala faction reached its bound; they
screamed and howled and tossed their colors, and
Sanballat filled his tablets with wagers of their
tendering.

Along the home-stretch — sixth round — Messala lead-
ing, next him Ben Hur. Thus to the first goal and
round it. Messala, fearful of losing his place, hugged
the stony wall with perilous clasp ; a foot to the left, and
he had been dashed to pieces; yet when the turn was
finished, no man, looking at the wheel-tracks of the two
cars, could have said here went Messala, there the Jew.
They left but one trace behind them.

One ball and one dolphin remained on the entabla-
tures ; and all the people drv3w a long breath, for the
beginning of the end was at hand.

" Ben Hur ! Ben Hur !" they shouted, and the blent
voices of the many rolled overwhelmingly against the
consular stand. From the benches above him, as he

ruE CHARurr Race.

289

passed, the favor descended in fierce injunction. " Speed
thee, Jew!" "Take the wall nowl" "Onl loose the
Arabs ! Give them rein and scourge I " " Let him not
have the turn on thee again. Now or never 1 "

Over the balustrade they stooped low, stretching their
hands imploringly to him. Either he did not hear or
could not do better, for half-way round the course and
he was still following ; at the second goal even, still no
change !

And now, to make the turn, Messala began to draw in
his left-hand steeds, an act which necessarily slackened
their speed. His spirit was high; more than one altar
was richer of his vows; the Roman genius was still
president. On the three pillars only six hundred feet
away were fame, increase of fortune, promotions, and a
triumph ineffably sweetened by hate, — all in store for
him ! That moment those in the gallery saw Ben Hur
lean forward over his Arabs and give them the reins.
Out flew the many -folded lash in his hand; over the
backs of the startled steeds it writhed and hissed, and
hissed and writhed again and again, and, though it fell
not, there were both sting and menace in its quick report.
And, as the man passed thus from quiet to resistless
action, his face suffused, his eyes gleaming, along the
reins he seemed to flash his will ; and instantly not one,
but the four as one, answered with a leap that landed
them alongside the Roman's car. Messala, on the peril-
ous edge of the goal, heard, but dared not look to see
what the awakening portended. From the people he
received no sign. Above the noises of the race there
was but one voice, and that was Ben Hur'a In the

290

Kol'UTH HkaDER.

old Aramaic, as the aheik himself, he called to the
Arabs:

" On, Atair ! On, Rigel ! What, Antares ! dost thou
linger now ? Good horse — oho, Aklebaran ! I hear
them singing in the tents. I hear the children singing,
and the women — singing of the stars, of Atair, Antares,
Rigel, Aldebaran, victory ! — and the song will never end.
Well done ! Home to-morrow, under the black tent-
home ! On, Antares ! The tribe is waiting for us, and
the master is waiting ! 'Tis done ! 'tis done ! Ha, ha !
We have overthrown the proud. The hand that smote
us is in the dust. Ours the glory ! Ha, ha ! steady
The work is done — soho ! Rest ! "

There had never been anything of the kind more
simple; seldom anything so instantaneous. At the
moment chosen for the dash, Messala was moving in a
circle round the goal. To pass him Ben Hur had to
cross the track, and good strategy required the move-
ment to be in a forward direction — that is, on a like
circle limited to the least possible increase. The thou-
sands on the benches understood it all ; they saw the
signal given — the magnificent response — the four close
outside Messala's outer wheel — Ben Hur's inner wheel
behind the other's car; all this they saw. Then they
heard a crash, loud enough to send a thrill through the
circus, and, quicker than thought, out over the course a
spray of shining white and yellow flinders flew. Down
on its right side toppled the bed of the Roman's chariot.
There was a rebound as of the axle hitting the hard
earth ; another, and another ; then the car went to
pieces, and Messala, entangled in the reins, pitched
forward headlong.

»?•

Chakiot Race.

291

to the

t thou
hear
inging,
n tares,
er end.
tent-
is, and
la, ha !
i smote
iteady

1 more
U the
ig in a
had to

move-

a like
J thon-
aw the
r close

wheel
n they
igh the
)urse a

Down
ihariot.
e hard
ent to
)itched

To increase the horror of tlie sight by making death
certain, the charioteer who had the wall next behind,
could not stop or turn out Into the wreck full speed
he drove ; then over the Roman, and into the latter's
four, all mad with fear. Presently, out of the turmoil,
the fighting of horses, the resound of blows, the murky
cloud of dust and sand, he crawled, in time to see the
others go on down the course after Ben H ar, who had
not been an instant delayed.

The people arose, and leaped upon the benches, and
shouted and screamed. Those who looked that way
caught glimpses of Messala, now under the trampling of
the fours, now under the abandoned cars. He was still ;
they thought him dead; but far the greater number
followed Ben Hur in his career. They had not seen the
cunning touch of the reins by which, turning a little to
the left, he caught Messala's wheel with the iron-shod
point of his axle, and crushed it ; but they had seen the
transformation of the man, and themselves felt the heat
and glow of his spirit, the heroic resolution, the madden-
ing energy of action with which, by look, word, and
gesture, he so suddenly inspired his Arabs. And such
running ! It was rather the long leaping of lions in
harness; but for the lumbering chariot, it seemed the
four were flying. When the remai;;ing charioteers were
half way down the course, Ben Hur turned the first
goal.

And the race was won !

— Leio Wallace.

Through life's long day and death's dark night,
gentle Jesus, be our. light.

292 Fourth Reader.

CI.-i[NSCRIPTIOM FOR A SPRING.

This sycamore, oft musical with bees —

Such tents the patriarchs loved ! — oh, long unharmed

May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy

The small round basin, which this jutting stone

Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may this spring,

Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath,

Send up cold waters to the traveller,

With soft a.Tid even pulse ! Nor ever ceaye

Yon tiny cone of sand its sountHe^d dance,

Which at the bottom, like a fairy's page —

As merry and no taller — dances still,

Ncr vvrinkles the smooth surface of the fount.

Here twilight is and coolness ; here is moss,

A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade ;

Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree.

Drink, pilgrim, here ; here rest ; and if thy heart

Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh

Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,

Or passing gale, or hum of murmuring bees.

— Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

m-i

CII.— TO THE NIGHT.

Swiftly walk over the western wave,

Spirit of Night i
Out of the misty eastern cave
Where, all the long and lone daylight.
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
Which make thee terrible and dear, —

Swift be thy flight !

To THK Night.

293

larmed

is spring,

eart

oleridge.

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray

St*ir-inwrought ;
Blind with thine hair vhe eyes of Day,
Kisp. her until she be wearied out :
Then wander o'er city and sea and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand —

Come, long-sought !

When I arose and saw the dawn,

I sigh'd for thee ;
When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
And the weary day turn'd to his rest
Lingering like an unloved guest,

I sigh'd for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and cried

Wouldst thou me 1
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmur'd like a noon- tide bee
Shall I nestle near thy side ?
Wouldst thou me 1 — And 1 replied

No, not thee !

Death will come when thou art dead.

Soon, too soon —
Sleep will come when thou art fled ;
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, beloved Night —
Swift be thine approaching flight,

Come soon, soon !

— Percy Bi/sthe SJielley.

Too low they build who build beneath the stars.

294

Fourth Reader.

CIII.~CONVERSION OF ENGLAND.

ll'.

Time was when the forefathers of our race were a
savage tribe, inhabiting a wild district beyond the limits
of this quarter of the earth. Whatever brought them <
thitlier, they had no local attachments there or political
settlement ; they were a restless people, and whether
urged forward by enemies or by desire of plunder, they
left their place, and passing through the defiles of the
mountains on the frontiers of Asia, they invaded Europe,
setting out on a journey towards the farther .West.
Generation after generation passed away, and still this
fierce and haughty race moved forward. On, on they
went ; but travel availed them not ; the change of place
could bring them no truth, or peace, or hope, or stability
of heart; they could not flee from themselves. They
carried with them their superstitions and their sins,
their gods of iron and of clay, their savage sacrifices,
their lawless witchcrafts, their hatred of their kind, and
their ignorance of their destiny. At length they buried
themselves in the deep forests of Germany, and gave
themselves up to indolent repose ; but they had not
found their rest ; they were still heathens, making the
fair trees, the primeval work of God, and the innocent
beasts of the chase, the objects and the instruments; of
their idolatrous worship. And, last of all, they crossed
over the strait and made themselves masters of this
island, and gave their very name to it ; so that, where-
as it had hitherto been called Britain, the southern
part, which was their main seat, obtained the name of
England. And now they had proceeded forward nearly
as far as they could go, unless they were prepared to

Conversion of England.

295

jre a

look across the great ocean, and anticipate the discovery
of the world which lies beyond it.

What, then, was to happen to this restless race, which
had sought for happiness and peace across the globe, and
had not found it ? Was it to grow old in its place, and
dwindle away, and consume in the fever of its own
heart, which admitted no remedy? Or was it to become
great by being overcome, and to enjoy the only real life
of man, and rise to his only true dignity, by being sub-
jected to a Master's yoke ? Did its Maker and Lord see
any good thing in it, of which, under His divine nurture,
pro.Ht might come to His elect and glory to His name ?
He looked upon it, and He saw nothing there to claim
any visitation of His grace, or to merit any relaxation
of the awful penalty which its lawlessness and impiety
had incurred. It was a proud race, which feared neither
God nor mar — a race ambitious, self-willed, obstinate,
and hard of belief, which would dare everything, even
the eternal pit, if it was challenged to do so. I say,
there was nothing there of a nature to reverse the
destiny which His righteous decrees have assigned to
those who sin wilfully and despise Him. But the
Almighty Lover of souls looked once again; and He
Baw in that poor, forlorn, £.nd ruined nature, which He
had in the beginning filled with grace and light. He
saw in it, not what merited His favor, not what would
adequately respond to His influences, not what was a
necessary instrument of His purposes, but what would
illustrate and preach abroad His grace, if He took pity
on it. He saw in it a natural nobleness, a simplicity, a
frankness of character, a love of truth, a zeal for justice,
an indignation at wrong, an admiration of purity, a

296

Fourth Reader.

reverence for law, a keen appreciation of the beautiful-
ness and majesty of order, nay, further, a tenderness
and an affectionateness of heart, which he knew would
become the glorious instruments of His high will, when
illuminated and vivified by His supernatural gifts. And
so He who, did it so please Him, could raise up chil-
dren to Abraham out of the very stones of the earth,
nevertheless determined in tliis instance in His free
mercy to unite what was beautiful in nature with what
was radiant in grace ; and, if those poor Anglo-Saxons
had been too fair to be heathen, therefore did He rescue
them from the devil's service and the devil's doom,
and bring them into the house of His holiness and the
mountain of His rest.

It is an old story and a familiar, and I need not go
through it. I need not tell you how suddenly the word
of truth came to our ancestors in this island and sub-
dued them to its gentle rule ; how the grace of God fell
on them, and, without compulsion, as the historian tells
us, the multitude became Christian ; how, when all was
tempestuous, and hopeless, and dark, Christ like a vision
of glory came walking to them on the waves of the sea.
Then suddenly there was a great calm ; a change came
over the pagan people in that quarter of the country
where the gospel was first preached to them ; and from
thence the blessed influence went forth ; it was poured
out over the whole land, till, one and all, the Anglo-
Saxon people were converted by it. In a hundred years
the work was done ; the idols, the sacrifices, the mum-
meries of paganism flitted away and were not, and the
pure doctrine and heavenly worship of the Cross were
found in their stead. The fair form of Christianity rose

Conversion of England.

297

up and grew and expanded like a beautiful pageant from
north to south ; it was majestic, it was solemn, it was
bright, it was beautiful and pleasant, it was soothing to
the griefs, it was indulgent to the hopes of man ; it was
at once a teaching and a worship ; it had a dogma, a
mystery, a ritual of its own ; it had an hierarchical form.
A brotherhood of holy pastors, with mitre and crosier
and uplifted hand, walked forth and blessed and ruled a
joyful people. The crucifix headed the procession, and
simple monks were there with hearts in prayer, and
sweet chants resounded, and the holy Latin tongue was
heard, and boys came forth in white, swinging censers,
and the fragrant cloud arose, and Mass was sung, and
the saints were invoked ; and day after day, and in the
still night, and over the woody hills and in the quiet
plains, as constantly as sun and moon and stars go forth
in heaven, so regular and solemn was the stately march
or blessed services on earth, high festival, and gorgeous
procession, and soothing dirge, and passing bell, and the
familiar evening call to prayer ; till he who recollected
the old pagan time, would think it all unreal that lie
beheld and heard, and would conclude he did but see
a vision, so marvellously was heaven let down upon
earth, so triumphantly were chased away the fiends of
darkness to their prison below. —Cardinal Newman.

■■ V. -m

My God and Father, while I stray
Far from my home, on life's rough way,
Oh, teach me from my heart to say,
Thy will be done !

298

Fourth Reader.

CIV.— ON HIS BLINDNESS.

When I consider how my light is spent

Ere half ray days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is dea'i to hide, «

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide ;
" Doth God exact day-labor, light denied 1"
I fondly ask : but Patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, " God doth not need
Either man's work, or his own gifts ; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best ; his state

Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o er land and ocean without rest.
They also serve vho only stand and wait."

— John Milton.

CV.-THE CRUSADER AND THE SARACEN.

The burning sun of Syria had not yet attained its
highest point in the horizon, when a Knight of the
Red Cross who had left his distant northern home and
joined the host of the crusaders in Palestine, was pacing
slowly along the sandy deserts which lie in the vicinity
of the Dead Sea, where the waves of the Jordan pour
themselves into an inland sea, from which there is no
discharge of waters. ^

The dress of the rider and the accoutrements of his
horse were peculiarly unfit for the traveller in such a
country. A coat of linked mail, with long sleeves,
plated gauntlets, and a steel breastplate had not been

The Crusader and the Saracen.

299

»ent

ate

Milton.

^CEN.

aed its
of the
ne and
pacing
icinity
n pour
! is no

of his
5uch a

leeves,
b been

esteemed a sufficient weight of armor ; there was, also,
his triangular shield suspended round his neck, and his
barred helmet of steel, over which he had a hood and
collar of mail drawn around the warrior's shoulders and
throat, and which filled up the vacancy between the
hauberk and the headpiece.

His lower limbs were sheathed, like his body, in
inflexible mail, securing the legs and thighs, while the
feet rested in plated shoes, which corresponded with the
gauntlets.

A long, broad, straight-shaped, double-edged falchion,
with a handle formed like a cross, corresponded with a
stout poniard on the other side. The knight also bore,
secured to his saddle, with one end resting on his stir-
rup, the long steel-headed lance, his own proper weapon,
which, as he rode, projected backwards, and displayed
its little pennoncel, to dally with the faint breeze, or
drop in the dead calm. To this cumbrous equipment
must be added a surcoat of embroidered cloth, much
frayed and worn, which was thus far useful, that
it excluded the burning rays of the sun from the armor,
which otherwise would have been rendered intolerable
to the wearer.

The surcoat bore, in several places, the arms of the
owner, although much defaced. These seemed to be a
couchant leopard, with the motto, "/ steep — wake me
not" An outline of the same device might be traced on
his shield, though many a blow had almost effaced the
painting. The flat top of his cumbrous cylindrical
helmet was unadorned with any crest. In retaining
their own unwieldy defensive armor, the northern

' J

300

Fourth Reader.

crusaders seemed to set at defiance the nature of the
climate and country to which they were come to war.

The accoutrements of the horse were scarcely less
massive and unwieldy than those of the rider. The
animal had a heavy saddle plated with steel, uniting in
front with a species of breastplate, and behind with
defensive armor to cover the loins.

Then there was a steel axe, or hammer, called a mace
of arms, and which hung to the saddle bow ; the reins
were secured by chain work, and the front-stall of the
bridle was a steel plate, with apertures for the eyes and
nostrils, having in the midst a short, sharp pike, project-
ing from the forehead of the horse like the horn of the
fabulous unicorn.

But habit had made the endurance of this load of
panoply a second nature, both to the knight and his
gallant charger. Numbers, indeed, of the western war-
riors who hurried to Palestine died ere they became
inured to the burning climate ; but there were others to
whom that climate became innocent and even friendly,
and among this fortunate number was the solitary horse-
man who now traversed the border of the Dead Sea.
Nature, which cast his limbs in a mould of uncommon
strength, fitted to wear his linked hauberk with as much
ease as if the meshes had been formed of cobwebs, had
endowed him with a constitution as strong as his limbs,
and which bade defiance to almost all changes of climate,
as well as to fatigue and privations of every kind.

Nature had, however, her demands for refreshment
and repose even on the iron frame and patient disposi-
tion of the Knight of the Sleeping Leopard; and at

The Crusader and the Saracen.

301

noon, when the Dead Sea lay at some distance on his
right, he joyfully hailed the siglit of two or three palm
trees, which arose beside the well which was assigned
for his midday station. His good horse, too, which
had plodded forward with the steady endurance of his
master, now lifted his head, expanded his nostrils, and
quickened his pace, as if he snuffed afar off the living
waters, which marked the placcs of repose and refresh-
ment. But labor and danger were doomed to intervene
ere the horse or horseman reached the desired spot.

. As the Knight of the Couchant Leopard continued to
fix his eyes attentively on the yet distant cluster of palm
trees, it seemed to him as if some object was moving
among them. The distant form separated itself from
the trees, which partly hid its motions, and advanced
towards the knight with a speed which soon showed
a mounted horseman, whom his turban, long spear,
and green caftan, on his nearer approach, showed to
be a Saracen cavalier.

" In the desert," saith an Eastern proverb, " no man
meets a friend." The crusader was totally indifferent
whether the infidel, who now approached on his gallant
barb as if borne on the wings of an eagle, came as friend
or foe — perhaps, as a vowed champion of the cross, he
might rather have preferred the latter. He disengaged
his lance from his saddle, seized it with the right hand,
placed it in rest with the point half elevated, gathered
up the reins in the left, waked his horse's mettle with
the spur, and prepared to encounter the stranger with
the calm self-confidence belonging to the victor in many
contests.
20

302

Fourth Reader.

The Saracen came on at the speedy gallop of an Arab
horseman, managing his steed more by his limbs and the
inflection of his body than by any use of the reins
which hung loose in his left hand ; so that he was
enabled to wield the light round buckler of the skin of
the rhinoceros, ornamented with silver loops, which he
wore on his arm, swinging it as if he meant to oppose
its slender circle to the formidable thrust of the western
lance. His own long spear was not couched or levelled
like that of his antagonist, but grasped by the middle
with his right hand, and brandished at arm's length
above his head. As the cavalier approached his enemy
at full career, he seemed to expect that the Knight
of the Leopard would put his horse to the gallop to
encounter him.

But the Christian knight, well acquainted with the
customs of Eastern warriors, did not mean to exhaust
his good horse by any unnecessary exertion ; and, on the
contrary, made a dead halt, confident that if the enemy
advanced to the actual shock, his own weight, and that
of his powerful charger, would give him sufficient ad-
vantage, without the additional momentum of rapid
motion. Equally sensible and apprehensive of such a
probable result, the Saracen cavalier, when he had ap-
proached towards the Christian within twice the length
of his lance, wheeled his steed to the left with inimi-
table dexterity, and rode twice around his antagonist,
who, turning without quitting his ground, and present-
ing his front constantly to his enemy, frustrated his
attempts to attack him on an unguarded point ; so that
the Saracen, wheeling his horse, was fain to retreat to
the distance of a hundred yards.

The Crusader and the Saracen.

303

A second time, like a hawk attacking a heron, the
heathen renewed the charge, and a second time was fain
to retreat without coming to a close struggle. A third
time he approached in the same manner, when the Chris-
tian knight, desirous to terminate this illusory warfare,
in which he might at length have been worn out by tho
activity of his foeman, suddenly seized the mace which
hung at his saddle bow, and, with a strong hand and
unerring aim, hurled it against the head of the emir ;
for such, and not less, his enemy appeared.

The Saracen was just aware of the formidable missile
in time to interpose his light buckler betwixt the mace
and his head ; but the violence of the blow forced the
buckler down on his turban, and though that defence
also contributed to deaden its violence, the Saracen wa.s
beaten from his horse. Ere the Christian could avail
himself of this mishap, his nimble foeman sprang from
the ground, and, calling on his steed, which instantly
returned to his side, he leaped into his seat without
touching the stirrup, and regained all the advantage of
which the Knight of the Leopard had hoped to deprive
him.

But the latter had in the meanwhile recovered his
mace, and the Eastern cavalier, who remembered the
strength and dexterity with which his antagonist had
aimed it, seemed to keep cautiously out of reach of that
weapon, of which he had so lately felt the force ; while
he showed his purpose of waging a distant warfare with
missile weapons of his own. Planting his long spear in
the sand at a distance from the scene of combat, he
strung with great address a short bow, which he carried
at his back, and, putting his horse to the gallop, once

804

Fourth Reader.

ij.t

more described two or three circles of a wider extent
than formerly, in the course of which he discharged six
arrows at the Christian with such unerring skill that
the goodness of his harness alone saved him from being
wounded in as many places. The seventh shaft appar-
ently found a less perfect part of the armor, and the
Christian dropped heavily from his horse.

But what was the surprise of the Saracen, when, dis-
mounting to examine the condition of his prostrate
enemy, ho found himself suddenly within the grasp of
tlie European, who had had recourse to this artifice to
bring his enemy within his reach ! Even in this deadly
grapple, the Saracen was saved by his agility and
presence of mind. He unloosed the sword-belt, in
which the Knight of tLe Leopard had fixed his hold,
and thus eluding his fatal grasp, mounted his horse,
which seemed to watch his motions with the intelligence
of a human being, and again rode off. But in the last
encounter the Saracen had lost his sword and his quiver
of arrows, both of which were attached to the girdle,
which he was obliged to abandon. He had also lost his
turban in the struggle. These disadvantages seemed to
incline the Moslem to a truce : he approached the Chris-
tian with his right hand extended, but no longer in a
menacing attitude.

" There is truce betwixt our nations," he said, in the
lingua franca commonly used for the purpose of commu-
nication with the crusaders ; " wherefore should there
be war betwixt thee and me ? Let there be peace be-
twixt us." " I am well contented," answered he of the
Couchant Leopard; " but what security dost thou oflev
that thou wilt observe the truce ? "

A Day ]S June.

M05

extent
'ged six
ill that
n being

appar-
and the

len, dis-
►rostrate
yrasp of
tifice to
8 deadly
ity and
■belt, in
lis hold,
is horse,
elligence

the last
Is quiver
e girdle,

lost his
eemed to
tie Chris-
iger in a

i, in the
' commu-
ild there
peace be-
le of the
hou ofler

"The word of a follower of the Prophet was never
broken," answered the emir. "It is thou, brave Naza-
rene, from whom I should demand security, did I not
know that treason seldom dwells with courage."

The crusader felt that the confidence of the Moslem
made him ashamed of his own doubts.

" By the cross of my sword," he said, laying his hand
on the weapon as he spoke, " I will be true companion
to thee, Saracen, while our fortune wills that we remain
in company together."

" By Mohammed, Prophet of God, and by Allah, God
of the Prophet," replied his late foeman, " there is not
treachery in my heart towards thee. And now wend we
to yonder fountain, for the hour of rest is at hand, and
the stream had hardly touched my lip when I was
called to battle by thy approach."

The Knight of the Couchant Leopard yielded a ready

and courteous assent; and the late foes, without an

angry look or gesture of doubt, rode side by side to the

little cluster of palm trees.

—Sir Walter Scott.

CVI.— A DAY IN JUNE.

And what is so rare as a day in June 1

Then, if ever, come perfect days ;
Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,

And over it softly her warm ear lays ;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur or see it glisten.
Every clod feels a stir of might.

An instinct within it that reaches and towers,

(•;

806 Fourth Readeh.

And, groping blindly alx)ve it for light,

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers.
The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys ;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean

To be some happy creature's palace.
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives ;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings.
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings ;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, —
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best ?

Now is the high-tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay :
Now the heart is so full that a drop o'erfills it,
We are happy now because God wills it ;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green.
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell ;

We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing.
The breeze comes whispering in our ear
That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is blu**r than the sky.
That the robin is plastering his house hard by.

if i

The Everlasting Church.

307

mgs;
t1

And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For other couriers we should not lack ;

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, —
And hark ! ho .7 clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,

Tells all in his lusty crowing !

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how :
Everything is happy now,

Everything is upwards striving ;
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, —

'Tis the natural way of living.
Who knows whither the clouds have fled ?
In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake ;
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed.

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache ;
The soul partakes the season's youth.

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,

Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.

— J. B. Lotoetl,

rowing

ving,

CVIL— THE EVERLASTING CHURCH.

There is not, and there never was on this earth, a
work of human policy so well deserving of examination
as the -Roman Catholic Church. The history of that
Church joins together the two great ages of human
civilization. No other institution is left standing which
carries the mind back to the times when the smoke of
sacrifice rose from the Pantheon, and when camelopards
and tigers bounded in the Flavian amphitheatre.

a?i

30»

Fourth Reader.

The proudest royal houses are but of yesterday, when
compared with the line of the Supreme Pontiffs. That
. line we trace back in an unbroken series, from the Pope
who crowned Napoleon in the nineteenth century to the
Pope who crowned Pepin in the eighth; and far be-
yond the time of Pepin the august dynasty extends, till
it is lost in the twilight of fable. The republic of Venice
came next in antiquity. But the republic of Venice was
modern when compared with the Papacy; and the
republic of Venice is gone, and the Papacy remains.
The Papacy remains, not in decay, not a mere antique,
but full of life and youthful vigor.

The Catholic Church is still sending forth to the
farthest ends of the world missionaries as zealous as
those who landed in Kent with Augustin, and still
confronting hostile kings with the same spirit with
which she confronted Attila. The number of her
children is greater than in any former age. Her
acquisitions in the New World have more than com-
pensated for what she has lost in the Old. Her spiritual
ascendancy extends over the vast countries which lie
between the plains of the Missouri and Cape Horn,
countries which, a century hence, may not improbably
contain a population as large as that which now in-
habits Europe. The members of her communion are
certainly not fewer than a hundred and fifty millions ;
and it will be difficult to show that all other Christian
sects united amount to a hundred and twenty millions.
Nor do we see any sign which indicates that the term
, of her long dominion is approaching. She saw the
commencement of all the governments and of all the
ecclesiastical establishments that now exist in the world;

The Church of God.

309

when
That
B Pope
to the
ar be-
ds, till
Venice
ce was
id the
mains,
ntique,

to the
ous as
id still
t with
of her
Her
n com-
piritual
lich lie

Horn,
•obably
ow in-
on are
illions ;
ristian
[illions.
e term
,w the
all the
world;

and we feel no assurance that she is not destined to see
the end of them all. She was great and respected before
the Saxon had set foot on Britain, before the Frank had
passed the Rhine, when Grecian eloquence still flourished
at Antioch, when idols were still worshipped in the temple
of Mecca. And she may still exist in undiminished vigor
when some traveller from New Zealand shall, in the
midst of a vast solitude, take his stand on a broken arch
of London Bridge to sketch the ruins of St. Paul's.

— Lord Macaulay,

CVIII.-THE CHURCH OF GOD.

Who is she that stands triumphant,

Rock in strength upon the Rock,
Like some city crowned with turrets

Braving storm and earthquake shock ?
Who is she, her arms extending

Blessing thus a world restored,
All the anthems of creation

Lifting to creation's Lord 1
Hers the kingdom, hers the sceptre !

Fall, ye nations, at her feet !
Hers that truth whose fruit is freedom ;

Light her yoke, her burden sweet !

As the moon its splendor borrows

From a sun unseen all night,
So from Christ, the Sun of Justice,

Draws His Church her* sacred light ;
Touched by His, her hands have healing,

Bread of life, absolving key :
Christ incarnate is her Bridegroom •

The Spirit hers, His temple she.

310

Fourth Reader.

£mpires rise and sink like billows,

Vanish and are seen no more ;
Glorious as the star of morning

She o'e rlooks their wild uproar ;
Hers the household all-embracing,

Hers the vine that shadows earth ;
Blest thy children, mighty Mother !

Safe the stranger at thy hearth.

Like her Bridegroom, heavenly, human.

Crowned and militant in one.
Chanting nature's great assumption

And the abasement of the Son,
Her Magnificats, her dirges,

Harmonize the jarring years ;
Hands that fiing to heaven the censer

Wipe away the orphan's tears.
Hers the kingdom, hers the sceptre !

Fall, ye nations, at her feet !
Hers that truth whose fruit is freedom' ;

Light her yoke, her burden sweet !

— Aubrey de Vere.

CIX.— VENETIAN LIFE.

Theie can be nothing else in the world so full of
glittering and exquisite surprise as that first glimpse of
Venice which the traveller catches as he issues from the
railway station by night, and looks upon her peerless
strangeness. There is something in the blessed breath
of Italy (how quickly, coming south, you know it, and
how bland it is, after the harsh, transalpine air !) which
prepares you for your nocturnal advent into the place;

Venetian Life.

311

and you ! whoever you are, that journey toward this
enchanted city for the first time, let me tell you how
happy I count you ! There lies before you for your
pleasure, the spectacle of such singular beauty as no
picture can ever show you nor book tell you, — beauty
which you shall feel perfectly but once, and regret for
ever.

For my own part, as the gondola slipped away from
the blaze and bustle of the station down the gloom and
silence of the broad canal, I forgot that I had been freez-
ing two days and nights; that I was at that moment
very cold and a little homesick. I could at first feel
nothing but that beautiful silence, broken only by the
star-silvered dip of the oars. Then on either hand I saw
stately palaces rise grey and lofty from the dark waters,
holding here and there a lamp against tlieir faces, which
brought balconies, and columns, and carven arches into
momentary relief, and threw long streams of crimson
into the canal. I could see by that uncertain glimmer
how fair was all, but not how sad and old ; and so,
unhaunted by any pang for the decay that afterward
saddened me amid the forlorn beauty of Venice, I glided
on.

Dark, funereal barges like my own had flitted by, and
the gondoliers had warned each other at every turning
with hoarse, lugubrious cries; the lines of balconied
palaces had never ended ; — here and there at tlieir doors
larger craft were moored, with dim figures of men
moving uncertainly about on them. At last we had
passed abruptly out of the Grand Canal into one of the
smaller channels, and from comparative light into a
darkness only remotely affected by some far-streaming

312

Fourth Reader.

corner lamp. But always the pallid, stately palaces;
always the dark heaven with its trembling stars above,
and the dark water with its trembling stars below ; but
now innumerable bridges, and an utter lonesomeness,
and ceaseless sudden turns and windings. One could
not resist a vague feeling of anxiety, in these straight
and solitary passages, which was part of the strange
enjoyment of the time, and which was referable to
the novelty, the hush, the darkness, and the 4)iratical
appearance and unaccountable pauses of tlie gondoliers.

So, I had arrived in Venice, and I had felt the influ-
ence of that complex spell which she lays upon the
stranger. I had caught the most alluring glimpses of
the beauty which cannot wholly perish while any frag-
ment of her sculptured walls nods to its shadow in the
canal ; I had been penetrated by a deep sense of the
mystery of the place, and I had been touched already by
the anomaly of modern life amid . scenes where its pres-
ence offers, — according to the humor in which it is
studied, — constant occasion for annoyance or delight,
enthusiasm or sadness.

I fancy that the ignorant impressions of the earlier
days after my arrival need scarcely be set down even in
this perishable record ; but I would not wholly forget
how, though isolated from all acquaintance and alien to
the place, I yet felt curiously at home in Venice from
the first. I believe it was because I had, after my own
fashion, loved the beautiful, that I here found the beauti-
ful (where it is supreme) full of society and friendship,
speaking a language which, even in its unfamiliar forms,
I could partly understand, and at once making me citizen
of that Venice from which I shall never be exiled. It

Venetian Life.

313

was not in the presence of the great and famous monu-
ments of art alone that I felt at home — indeed, I could
as yet understand their excellence and grandeur only
very imperfectly — but wherever I wandered through the
quaint and marvellous city, I found the good company of

The fair, the old ;

and to tell the truth, I think it is the best society in
Venice, and I learned to turn to it later from other
companionship with a kind of relief.

My first rambles, moreover, had a peculiar charm
which knowledge of locality has since taken away.
They began commonly with some purpose or destination,
and ended by losing me in the intricacies of the narrowest,
crookedest, and most inconsequent little streets in the
world, or left me cast-away upon the unfamiliar waters
of some canal as far as possible from the point aimed at.
Dark and secret little courts lay in wait for my blunder-
ing steps, and I was incessantly surprised and brought
to surrender by paths that beguiled me up to dead walls,
or the sudden brinks of canals. The wide and open
squares before the innumerable churches of the city were
equally victorious, and continually took me prisoner.

But all places had something rare and worthy to be
seen: if not loveliness of sculpture or architecture, at
least interesting squalor and picturesque wretchedness;
and I believe I had less delight in proper objects of
interest than in the dirty neighborhoods that reeked
with unwholesome winter damps below, and peered
curiously out with frowzy heads and beautiful eyes
from the high, heavy-shuttered casements above. Every

314

Fourth Reader.

i '

court had its carven well to show me, in tho noisy keep-
ing of the water-carriers and the slatternly, statuesque
gossips of the place. The remote and noisome canals
were pathetic with empty old palaces peopled by herds
of poor, that decorated the sculptured balconies with the
tatters of ancient linen, and patched the lofty windows
with obsolete hats.

I found the night as full of beauty as the day, when
caprice led me from the brilliancy of St. Mark's and the
glittering streets of shops that branch away from the
Piazza, and lost me in the quaint recesses of the courts,
or the tangles of the distant alleys, where the dull little
oil-lamps vied with the tapers burning before the street-
corner shrines of the Virgin, in making the way obscure,
and deepening the shadows about the doorways and
under the frequent arches. I remember distinctly
among the beautiful nights of thtit time, the soft night
of late winter which first showed me the scene you may
behold from the Public Gardens. Lounging there upon
the southern parapet I turned from the dim bell-towers
of the evanescent islands in the east (a solitary gondola
gliding across the calm of the water, and striking its
moonlight silver into multitudinous ripples), and glanced
athwart the vague shipping in the basin of St. Mark,
and saw all the lights making a crescent of flame in the
air, and casting deep into the water under them a
crimson glory that sank also down and down in my
own heart, and illumined all its memories of beauty and
delight.

Behind these lamps rose the shadowy masses of
church and palace; the moon stood bright and full

Venetian Life.

315

y keep-
uesque
canals
' herds
^ith the
indows

Ty when
and the
om the
courts,
Ml little
street-
obscure,
ys and
stinctly
ft night
ou may
re upon
l-towers
Dfondola
:ing its
glanced
. Mark,
3 in the
bhem a
in my
ity and

9ses of
ad full

in the heavens, the gondola drifted away to the north-
ward ; the islands of the lagoons seemed to rise and sink
with the light palpitations of the waves, like pictures on
the undulating fields of banners. The stark rigging of a
ship showed black against the sky ; the land sank from
sight upon the east, as if the shore had composed itself to
sleep by the side of its beloved sea to the music of the
surge that gently beat its sands. The yet leafless boughs
of the trees above me stirred themselves together, and
out of one of those trembling towers in the lagoons, one
rich, full sob burst from the heart of a bell, too deeply
stricken with the glory of the scene, and suffused the
languid night with the murmur of luxurious, ineffable
sadness.

I grew early into sympathy and friendsliip with
Venice, and being newly from a land where everything,
morally and materially, was in good repair, I rioted
sentimentally on the picturesque ruin, the pleasant dis-
comfort and hopelessness of everything about me here.
It was not yet the season to behold all the delight of
the lazy, out-door life of the place; but nevertheless I
could not help seeing that a great part of the people, both
rich and poor, seemed to have nothing to do, and that
nobody seemed to be driven by any inward or outward
impulse.

— W. D. Howella.

My fate is in Thy hands,
Why should I doubt or fear 1
My Father's Heart will never caus«
His child a needless tear.

316

Fourth Readeu.

CX.-OUR LADY IN ITALY.

I i

■t'

.»! ^

This is indeed the blessed Mary's land,

Virgin and Mother of our dear Redeemer !

All hearts are touched and softened at her name ;

Alike the bandit with the bloody hand,

The priest, the prince, the scholar, and whe peasant,

The man of deeds, the visionary dreamer.

Pay homage to her as one ever present !

And even as children, who have much offended

A too-indulgent father, in great shame

Penitent, and yet not daring unattended

To go into his presence, at the gate

Speak with their sister, and confiding wait,

Till she goes in before and intercedes ;

So men, repenting of their evil deeds,

And yeb not venturing rashly to draw near

With their requests an angry father's ear,

Offer to her their prayers and their confession.

And she for them in heaven makes intercession.

And if our faith had given us nothing more

Than this example of all womanhood.

So mild, so merciful, so strong, so good.

So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure,

This were enough to prove it higher and truer

Than all the creeds the world had known before.

— Henry W. Longfellow.
\

Great works are performed, not by strength, but by
perseverance.

The Sky.

817

CXI.— THE SKY.

It is a strange thing how little in general people know
about the sky. It is the part of creation in which nature
has done more for the sake of pleasing man, more for
the sole and evident purpose of talking to him and
teaching him, than in any otlier of her works, and it is
just the part in which we least attend to her.

There are not many of her other works in which some
more material or essential purpose than the mere pleas-
ing of man is not answered by every part of their
organization ; but every essential purpose of the sky
might, so far as we know, be answered, if once in three
days, or thereabouts, a great ugly black rain cloud were
brought up over the blue, and everything well watered,
and so all left blue again till next time, with perhaps a
film of morning and evening mist for dew.

And instead of this, there is not a moment of any day of
our lives, when nature is not producing scene after scene,
picture after picture, glory after glory, and working still
upon such exquisite and constant principles of the most
perfect beauty, that it is quite certain it is all done for
us, and intended for our perpetual pleasure. And every
man, wherever placed, however far from other sources of
interest or of beauty, has this doing for him constantly.

The noblest scenes of the earth can be seen and known
but by few ; it is not intended that man should live
always in the midst of them, he injures them by his
presence, he ceases to feel them if he be always with
them ; but the sky is for all ; bright as it is, it is not
" too bright, nor good, for human nature's daily food " ;
21

318

Fourth Reader.

it is fitted in all its function for the perpetual comfort
and exalting of the heart, for the soothing it and puri-
fying it from its dross and dust. Sometimes gentle,
sometimes capricious, sometimes awful, never the same
for two moments together; almost human in its passions,
almost spiritual in its tenderness, almost divine in its
infinity, its appeal to what is immortal in us, is as
distinct, as its ministry of chastisement or of blessing
to what is mortal is essential.

And yet we nevor attend to it, we never make it a
subject of thought, but as it has to do with our animal
sensations ; we look upon all by which it speaks to us
more clearly than to brutes, upon all which bears witness
to the intention cf the Supreme, that we are to receive
more from the covering vault than the light and the
dew which we share with the weed and the worm, only
as a succession of meaningless and monotonous accident,
too common and too vain to be worthy of a moment of
watchfulness, or a glance of admiration. If in our
moments of utter idleness and insipidity, .> e turn to the
sky as a last resource, which of its phenomena do we
speak of ?

One says it has been wet, and another it has been
windy, and another it has been warm. Who, among the
whole chattering crowd, can tell me of the forms and the
precipices of the chain of tall white mountains that
girded the horizon at noon yesterday ? Who saw the
narrow sunbeam that came out of the south, and smote
upon their summits until they melted and mouldered
away in a dust of blue rain? Who saw the dance of the
dead clouds when the sunlight left them last night, and
the w6st wind blew them before it like withered leaves ?

Odk to Autumn.

819

All has passed, unregretted as unseen ; or if the
apathy be ever shaken off, even for an instant, it is
only by what is gross, or wliat is extraordinary; and
yet it is not in the broad and fierce manifestations of
the elemental energies, not in the clash of the hail,
nor the drift of the whirlwind, that the highest char-
acters of the sublime are developed. God is not in the
earthquake, nor in the fire, but in the still, small voice.

.— * ' Modern Painters, " John Jiuskin

(hy arrangement with Oeorye Allen).

CXIL— ODE TO AUTUMN.

Season of mists and mellovr fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run ;

To bend with apples the mossed cottage-treea.
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel ; to sel budding more.
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store 1
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor.

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind •

Or on a half -reaped furrow sound asleep,

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy h<jok
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers :

320

Fourth Reader.

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook ;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring ] Ay, where are they ?
- Think not of them, thou hast thy music too —
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ;
Then in a wailful choir the smaii gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn :
Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden croft ;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

— John KecUa.

CXIIL-WOLSEY'S FALL.

Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness !
This is the state of man : To-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick uron him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost.
And — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening — nips his root.
And then he falls — as I do. I have ventured.
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, v
This many summers in a sea of glory ;
But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride
At length broke Under me ; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy

Wolsey's Fall.

321

LOurs.
re they ?

turn:
oft

des.
John KecUa.

rely

me.

Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye !
I feel my heart new opened. Oh, how wretched
la that poor man that hangs on princes' favors I
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to.
That s' r3ec aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have ;
And, when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear

In ali my miseries ; but thou hast forced me,

Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.

Let's dry our eyes ; and thus far hear me, Cromwell :

And — when I am forgotten, as I shall be.

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention

Of me more must be heard of — say, I taught thee ;

Say, Wolsey — that once trt J the ways of glory.

And sounded all the depths and shoals of hono- —

Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;

A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.

Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me.

Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ;

By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then.

The image of his Maker, hope to win by't 1

Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that hate thee

Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not ;

Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,

Thy God's, and truth's ; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr ! Serve the king,

And — pr'ythee, lead me in :

There, take an inventory of all I have.

1 t

322 Fourth Reader.

To the last penny : 'tis the king's : my robe,

And my integrity to Heaven, is all

I dare now call mine own. Cromwell, Cromwell,

Had I but served my God with half tlie zeal

I served my king, He would not in mine age

Have left me naked to mine enemies !

— Shaketpeare.

CXIV.—A BELLAS BIOGRAPHY.

Hearken to our neighbor with the iron tongue.
While I sit musing over my sheet of foolscap, he
emphatically tells the hour, in tones loud enough for all
the town to hear, though doubtless intended only as a
gentle hint to myself, that I may begin his biography
before the evening shall be further wasted. Unquestion-
ably, a personage in such an elevated position, and
making so great a noise in the world, has a fair claim
to the services of a biographer. He is the representative
and most illustrious member of that innumerable class,
whose characteristic feature is the tongue, and whose
sole business, to clamor for the public good. If any of
his noisy brethren, in our tongue-governed democracy,
be envious of the superiority which I have assigned him,
they have my free consent to hang themselves as high as
he. And, for his history, let not the reader apprehend
an empty repetition of ding-dong-bell. He has been the
passive hero of wonderful vicissitudes, with which 1
have chanced to become acquainted, possibly from his
own mouth ; while the careless multitude supposed him
to be talking merely of the time of day. or. calling them
to dinner or to church, or bidding drowsy people go bed-

A Bell's Biography.

S23

rell,

ketpeare.

tongue.
Iscap, he
i^h for all
)nly as a
dography
Iquestion-
bion, and
:air claim
isentative
.ble class,
id whose
[f any of
jmocracy,
pied him,
s high as
pprehend
been the
which 1
from his
osed him
ing them
e go bed-

ward, or the dead to their graves. Many a revolution
has it been his fate to go through, and invariably with
a prodigious uproar. And whether or no he have told
me his reminiscences, this at least is true, that the more
I study his deep-toned language, the more sense, and
sentiment, and soul, do I discover in it.

This bell — for we may as well drop our quaint personi-
fication — is of antique French manufacture and the
symbol of the cross betokens that it was meant to be
suspended in the belfry of a Catholic placo of worship.
The old people hereabout have a tradition, that a consid-
erable part of the metal was supplied by a brass cannon,
captured in one of the victories of Louis the Fourteenth
over the Spaniards, and that a Bourbon princess threw
her golden crucifix into the molten mass. It is said,
likewise, that a bishop baptized and blessed the bell, and
prayed that a heavenly influence might mingle with its
tones. When all due ceremonies had been performed,
the Grand Monarque bestowed the gift — than which
none could resound his beneficence more loudly — on the
Jesuits, who were then converting the American Indians
to the spiritual dominion of the Pope. So the bell, — our
self-same bell, whose familiar voice we may hear at all
hours, in the streets, — this very bell sent forth its first-
bom accents from the tower of a log-builu chapel,
westward of Lake Champlain, and near the mighty
stream of the St. Lawrence. It was called our Lady's
Chapel of the Forest. The peal went forth as if to
redeem and consecrate the heathen wilderness. The
wolf growled at the sound as he prowled stealthily
through the underbrush > the grim bear turned his back,
and stalked sullenly away ; the startled doe leaped up,

324

Fourth Reader.

and led her fawn into a deeper solitude. The red men
wondered what awful voice was speaking amid the wind
that roared through the tree-tops ; and, following rever-
entially its summons, the dark-robed Fathers blessed
them, as they drew near the cross-crowned chapel. In
a little time, there was a crucifix on every dusky bosom.
The Indians knelt beneath the lowly roof, worshipping in
the same forms that were observed under the vast dome
of St. Peter's, when the Pope celebrated High Mass in
the presence of kneeling princes. All the religious festi-
vals, that awoke the chiming bells of lofty cathedrals,
called forth a peal from Our Lady's Chapel of the Forest.
Loudly rang the bell of the wilderness while the streets
of Paris echoed with rejoicing for the birthday of the
Bourbon, or whenever France had triumphed on some
European battle-field. And the solemn woods were sad-
dened with a melancholy knell, as often as the thick-
strewn leaves were swept away from the virgin soil, for
the burial of an Indian chief.

Meantime, the bells of a hostile people and a hostile
faith were ringing on Sabbaths and lecture-days, at
Boston and other Puritan towns. Their echoes died
away hundreds of miles southeastward of Our Lady's
Chapel. But scouts had threaded the pathless desert;
that lay between, and, from behind the huge tree-
trunks, perceived the Indians assembling at the sum-
mons of the bell. On the eve of an especial Church
feast, while the bell tolled dismally, and the priests were
chanting a doleful stave, a band of New England rangers
rushed from the surrounding woods. Fierce shouts,
and the report of musketry, pealed suddenly within
tlie chapel. The ministering priests threw themselves

(.9

Ir. a

A HKLI/s BKHiUAPHY.

,^25

ed men

le wind

f rever-

blessed

>el. In

bosom.

ping in

\t dome

lass in

s festi-

ledrals,

Forest.

streets

of the

u some

jre aad-

tliick-

3oil, for

hostile

ays, at

js died

Lady's

desert,
3 tree-
e sum-
Church
:s were
rangers
shouts,
within
nselves

before the altar, and were slain even on its steps. If,
'as antique traditions tell us, no grass will grow where
the blood of martyrs has been shed, there should be
a barren spot, to this very day, on the site of that
desecrated altar.

While the blood was still plashing from step to step,
the leader of the rangers seized a torch, and applied
it to the drapery of the shrine. The flame and smoko
arose, as from a burnt-sacrifice, at once illuminating and
obscuring the whole interior of the chapol, — nov/ hiding
the dead priests in a sable shroud, now revealing them
and their slayers in one terrific glare.- Some already
wished that the altar-smoke could cover the deed from
the sight of Heaven. But one of the rangers — a man of
grave aspect, though his hands were bloody — approached
the captain.

" Sir," said he, " our village meeting-house lacks a bell,
and hitherto we have been fain to summon the good
people to worship by beat of drum. Give me, I pray
you, the bell of this chapel, for the sake of the pious
Mr. Rogers, who doubtless hath remembered us in the
prayers of the congregation, ever since we began our
march."

"Nay, then," answered the captain, "if good Mr. Rogers
hath helped our enterprise, it is right that he should
share the spoil. Take the bell and welcome. Deacon
Lawson, if you will be at the trouble of carrying it
home."

So Deacon Lawson and half a score of his townsmen
took down the bell, suspended it on a pole, and bore it
away on their sturdy shoulders, meaning to carry it to

326

Fourth Reader.

the shore of Lake Champlain, and thence homewaixi by
water. Far through the woods gleamed the flames of
Our Lady's Chapel, flinging fantastic shadows from the
clustered foliage, and giancing on brooks that had never
caught the sunlight. As the rangers traversed the mid-
night forest, staggering under their heavy burden, the
tongue of the t^ell gave many a tremendous stroke, —
clang, clang, clang ! — a most doleful sound, as if it were
tolling for the slaughter of the priests and the ruin of
the chapel. Little dreamed Deacon Lawson and his
townsmen that it was their own funeral knell. A war-
party of Indians, had heard the report of musketry, and
seen the blaze of the chapel, and now were on the track
of the rangers, summoned to vengeance by the bell's
dismal murmurs. In the midst of a deep swamp, they
made a sudden onset on the retreating foe. Good Deacon
Lawson battled stoutly, but had his skull cloven by a
tyomahawk, and sank into the depths of the morass, with
the ponderous bell above him. And, for many a year
thereaftt our hero's voice was heard no more on earth,
neither at the hour of worship, nor at festivals nor
funerals.

And is he still buried in that unknown grave?
Scarcely so, dear reader. Hark ! How plainly we hear
him at this moment, the spokesman of Time, proclaim-
infr that it is nine o'clock at night ! We may therefore
safely conclude that some happy chance has restored
him to upper air.

Bi:t there lay the bell for many silent years ; and the
wonder is, that he did not lie silent there a century, or
perhaps a dozen centuries, till the world should have
forgotten not only his voice, but the voices of the whole

A Bell's Biography.

327

wd by
nes of
om the
. never
e mid-
en, the
oke, —
t were
ruin of
nd his
A. war-
ry, and
e track
3 bell's
p, they
Deacon
n by a
}s, with
a year
1 earth,
ala nor

grave?
ve hear
oclaim-
erefore
estored

md the
iury, or
d have
> whole

brotherhood of bells. How would the first accent of his
iron tongue have startled his resurrectionists! But he
was not fated to be a subject of discussion among the
antiquaries of far posterity. Near the close of the Old
French War, a party of New England axe-men, who
preceded the march of Colonel Bradstreet toward Lake
Ontario, were building a bridge of logs through a
swamp. Plunging down a stake, one of these pioneers
felt it graze against some hard, smooth substance. He
called his comrades, and, by their united efforts, the top
of the bell was raised to the surface, a rope made fast to
it, and thence passed over the horizontal limb of a tree.
Heave-ho! up they hoisted their prize, dripping with
moisture, and festooned with verdant water-moss. As
the base of the bell emerged from the swamp, the
pioneers perceived that a skeleton was clinging with its
bony fingers to the clapper, but immediately relaxing
its nerveless grasp, sank back into the stagnant water.
The bell then gave forth a sullen clang. No wonder
that he was in haste to speak, after holding his tongue
for such a length of time ! The pioneers shoved the bell
to and fro, thus ringing a loud and heavy peal, which
echoed widely through the forest, and reached the ears
of Colonel Bradstreet, and his three thousand men. The
soldiers paused on Iheir march ; a feeling of religiv^n,
mingled with home-tenderness, overpowered their rude
hearts; each seemed to hear the clangor of the old
church-bell, which had been familiar to him from
infancy, and had tolled at the funerals of all his fore-
fathers. By what magic had that holy sound strayed
over the wide-murmuring ocean, and become audible
amid the clash of arms, the loud crashing of the artillery

328

FouuTH Keadek.

over the roup^h wildemess-patli, and the melancholy roar
of the wind among the boughs ?

The New-Englanders hid their prize in a shadowy
nook, betwixt a large gray stone and the earthy roots of
an overthrown tree ; and when the campaign was ended,
they convej^ed our friend to Boston, and put him up at
auction on the sidewalk of King Street. He was sus-
pended, for the nonce, by a block and tackle, and being
swung backward and forward, gave such loud and clear
testimony to his own merits, that the auctioneer had no
need to say a word. The highest bidder was a rich old
representative from our town, who piously bestowed the
bell on the meeting-house where he had been a woi*ship-
per for half a century. The good man had his reward.
By a strange coincidence, the very first duty of the sex-
ton, after the bell had been hoisted into the belfry, was
to toll the funeral knell of the donor. Soon, however,
those doleful echoes were drowned by a triumphant peal
for the surrender of Quebec.

Ever since that period, our hero has occupied the same
elevated station, and has put in his word on all matters
of public importance, civil, military, or religious. Mean-
time, vast changes have been going on below. His voice,
which once floated over a little provincial seaport, is now
reverberated between brick edifices, and strikes the ear
amid the buzz and tumult of a city. G the Sabbaths
of olden time, the summons of the bell "\ xs obeyed by a
picturesque and varied throng; stately gentlemen in
purple velvet coats, embroidered waistcoats, white wigs,
and gold-laced hats, stepping with grave courtesy beside
ladies in flowered satin gowns, and hoop-petticoats of
majestic circumference ; while behind followed a liveried

A Bell's Biography.

329

y roar

dowy

)ots of

ended,

up at

us siis-

being

clear

lad no

ich old

ed the

jrship-

eward.

le sex-

y, was

►wever,

nt peal

e same
natters
Mean-
i voice,
is now
bhe ear
bbaths
id by a
[len in
e wigs,
beside
)ats of
iveried

slave or bondsman, bearing the psalm-book, and a stove
for his mistress's feet. The commonalty, clad in honujly
garb, gave precedence to their betters at the door of the
meeting-house, as if admitting that there were distinc-
tions between them, even in the sight ol' God. Yet, as
their coflfins were borne oii'j after another through the
street, the bell has tolled a requiem for all alike. What
mattered it, whether or no there were a silver escutcheon
on the coffin-lid ? " Oj)en thy bosom. Mother Eartli ! "
Thus spake the bell. " Another of thy children is coming
to his long rest. Take him to thy bosom, and let him
slumber in peace." Thus spake i\w bell, and Mother
Earth received her child. With the self-same tones will
the present generation be ushered to the embraces of
their mother; and Mother Earth will still receive her
children. Is not thy tongue a-weary, mournful talker
of two centuries ? O funeral bell I wilt thou never be
shattered with thine own melancholy strokes? Yea,
and a trumpet-call shall arouse the sleepers, whom thy
heavy clang could awake no more !

Again — again thy voice, reminding me that I am
wasting the "midnight oil." In my lonely fantasy, I
can scarce believe that other mortals have caught the
sound, or that it vibrates elsewhere than in my secret
soul. But to many hast thou spoken. Anxious men
have heard thee on their sleepless pillows, and bethought
themselves anew of to-morrow's co^e. In a brief inter-
val of wakefulness, the sons ot toil have heard thee, and
say, "Is so much of our quiet slumber opent ?— is the
morning so near at hand ? " Crime has heard thee, and
mutter8^ "Now is the very hour!" Despair answers
thee, "Thus much of this weary life is gone!" Thine

330

Fourth Reader.

accents have fallen faintly on the ear of the dyingr man,
and warned him that, ere thou speakest again, his spirit
shall have passed whither no voice of time can ever
reach. Alas for the departing traveller, if tliy voice —
the voice of fleeting time — have taught him no lessons
for Eternity I —Xathanld Hawthorne.

CXV.— THE BELLS OF SHANDON.

With deep aflfection and recollection

I often think of those Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would, in the days of cliildhood,

Fling round my cradle their magic spells.

On this I ponder where'er I wander,

And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee ;

With thy bells of Shandon that sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in.

Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine ;
While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate ; —

But all their music spoke naught like thine.

For memory, dwelling on each proud swelling
Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free,

Made the bells of Shandon sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

I've heard bells tolling old Adrian's Mole in,
Their thunder rolling from the Vp>tican ;

And cymbals glorious swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame.

Veni Creator.

831

ifr man,
is spirit
in ever
voice —
lessons
'Hhorue.

Ihood,

But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter
Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly ;

Oh, the bells of Shandon sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

There's a bell in Moscow ; while on tower and kiosk O I

In Saint Sophia the Turkman gets.
And loud in air calls men to prayer

From the tapering summits of tall minarets.

Such empty phantom I freely grant them ;

But there's an anthem more dear to me :
'Tis the bells of Sliacdon that sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

— jBcv. Francis Mahony (Father Provi).

CXVI.-VENI CREATOR.

Creator Spirit ! by whose aid
The world's foundations first were laid,
Come visit every pious mind ;
Come pour thy joys on human kind ;
From sin and sorrow set us free,
And make Thy temples worthy thee.

O source of uncreated light,
The Father's promised Paraclete !
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire,
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire ;
Come, and Thy sacred unction bring,
To sanctify us while we sing.

832

Fourth Reader.

Plenteous of grace descend from high,

Rich in thy sevenfold energy !

Thou strength of His almighty hand,

Whose power does heaven and earth command

Proceeding Spirit, our defence.

Who dost the gift of tongues dispense,

And crown'st thy gift with eloquence,

Refine and purge our earthly parts ;
But, oh ! inflame and fire our hearts ;
Our frailties help, our vice control.
Submit the senses to the soul ;
And when rebellious they are grown.
Then lay Thy hand, and hold them down.

Chase from bur minds the infernal foe.
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow ;
And lest our feet should stjep astray,
Protect and guide us in the way.

Make us eternal truths receive.
And practise all that we believe :
Give us Thyself, that we may see
The Father, and the Son, by Thee.

Immortal honor, endless fame.

Attend the Almighty Father's name : '

The Saviour Son be glorified,

Who for lost man's redemption died :

And equal adoration be.

Eternal Paraclete, to Thee ! »

—John Dryden.

The wrongs of man to man but make the love of GcmI
more plain.

^i''^ :

SURULNDKK OF (JUENADA.

^33

CXVII.-SURRENDER OF GRENADA.

Day dawned upon Grenada, and the beams of the
winter sun, smiling away the clouds of the past night,
played cheerily upon the murmuring waves of the Xenil
and the DaiTO. Alone, upon a balcony commanding a
view of the beautiful landscape, stood Boalxlil, the last
of the Moorish kings. He had sought to bring to his
aid all the lessons of the philosophy he had so ardently
cultivated.

"What are we," said the musing prince, " that we
should fill the earth with ourselves, — we kings ! Earth
resounds with the crash of my falling throne ; on the
ear of races unborn the echo will live prolonged. But
what have I lost ? Nothing that was necessary to my
happiness, my repose ; nothing save Lie source of all my
wretchedness, the Marah of my life ! Shall I less enjoy
heaven and earth, or thought and action, or man's more
material luxuries of food and sleep, — the common and
cheap desires of all ? At the worst, I sink but to a level
wii'i chiefs and princes j I am but levelled with those
whom the multitude admire and envy. . . . But it is
time to depart." So saying, he descended to the court,
flung himselt on his barb, and with a small and saddened
train passed ihrough the gate which we yet survey, by a
blackened and crumbling tower, overgrown with vines
and ivy ; thence amid gardens, now appertaining to the
convent of the victor faith, he took his mournful and
unnotic id way.

When h^ came to the middle of the hill that rises

above those gardens, the steel of the Spanish armor
22

334

Fourth Reader.

gleamed upon him, as the detachment sent to occupy the
palace marched over the summit in steady order and
profound silence. At the head of the vanguard rode,
upon Pj snow-white palfrey, the Bishop of Avila, fol-
lowed by a long train of barefooted monks. They
halted as Boabdil approached, and the grave bishop
saluted him with the air of one who addresses an infidel
and an inferior. "Go, Christian," answered he, mildly;
" the gates of the Alhambra are open, and Allah has
bestowed the palac^j and the city upon your king. May
his. virtues atone the faults of Boabdil ! " So saying,
and waiting no answer, he rode on, .v^ithout looking to
the right or the left. The Spaniards also pursued their
way.

The sun had fairly risen above the mountains, when
Boabdil and his train beheld, from the eminence on
which they were, the whole armament of Spain ; and at
the same moment, louder than the tramp of horse or the
clash of arms, was heard distinctly the solenm chant of
Te DeuTii, which preceded the blaze of the unfurled and
lofty standards. Boabdil, himself st'll silent, heard the
groans and acclamations of his train : he turned to cheer
or chide them, and then saw, from his own watch-tower,
with the sun shining full upon its pure and dazzling
surface, the silver cross of Spain. His Alhambra was
already in the hands of the foe ; while beside that badge
of the holy war waved the gay and flaunting flag of
St. James. At that sight the king's voice died within
him ; he gave the rein to his barb, impatient to close the
fatal ceremonial, and slackened not his speed till almost
within a bow-shot of the first rank of the army.

SUHRENDEU OF GRENADA.

335

Never had Christian war assumed a more splendid and
imposing aspect. Far as the eye could reach extended
the glittering and gorgeous lines of that goodly power,
bristling with sun-lighted spear.^ and blazoned banners ;
while beside murmured and glowed and danced the
silver and laughing Xenil, careless what lord should
possess, for his little day, the banks that bloomed by its
everlasting course. By a small mosque halted the flower
of the army. Surrounded by the high priests of that
mighty hierarchy was seen the kingly form of Ferdinand
himself, with Isabel at his right hand, and the high-born
dames of Spain, relieving, with their gay colors and
sparkling gems, the sterner splendor of the crested
helmet and polished mail. Within sight of the royal
group, Boabdil halted, composed his aspect so as best to
conceal his soul, and a little in advance of his scanty
train, but never in mien and majesty more a king, the
son of Abdallah met his haughty conqueror.

At the sight of his princely countenance Mid golden
hair, his cornel}^ and commanding beauty, made more
touching by youth, a thrill of compassionate admira-
tion ran through that assembly of the brave and fair.
Ferdinand and Isabel slowly advanced to meet their late
rival, — their new subject ; and as Boabdil would have
dismounted, the Spanish king placed his hand upon his
shoulder. "Brother and prince," said he, '^forget thy
sorrows ; and may our friendship hereafter console thee
for reverses against which thou hast contended as a hero
and a king ; resisting man, but resigned at length to
God."

Boabdil did not affect to return this bitter and unin-
tentional mockery of conipliiiient. He bowed his head,

II :
li < i

336

Fourth Reader.

I' !
I /

and remained a moment silent; then motioning io his
train, four of his officers approached, and, kneeling
beside Ferdinand, proffered to him, upon a silver buck-
ler, the keys of the city. " O king 1 " then said Boabdil,
" accept the keys of the last hold which has resisted the
arms of Spain. The empire of the Moslem is no more.
Thine are the city and the people of Grenada ; yielding
to thy prowess, they yet confide in thy mercy." " They
do well,** said the king; "our promises shall not be
broken. But since we know the gallantry of Moorish
cavaliers, not to us, but to gentler hands, sha! the keys
of Grenada be surrendered."

Thus saying, Ferdinand gave the keys to Isabel, who
would have addressed some soothing flatteries to Boabdil,
but the emotion and excitement were too much for her
compassionate heart, heroine and queen though she was ;
and when she lifted her eyes upcn the calm and pale
features of the fallen monarch, the tears gushed from
them irresistibly, and her voice died in murmurs. A
faint flush overspread the features of Boabdil, and there
was a momentary pause of embarrassment, which the
Moor was the first to break.

"Fair queen," said he, with mournful and pathetic
dignity, " thou canst read the heart that thy generous
sympathy touches and subdues : this is my last, but not
least glorious conquest. But I detain ye ; let not my
aspect cloud your triumph. Suffer me to say farewell*'
"Farewell, my brother," replied Ferdinand, "and may
fair fortune go with you ! Forget the past ! " Boabdil
smiled bitterly, saluted the royal pair with profound
respect and silent reverence, and rode slowly on, leaving

Surrender of Grenada.

337

the army below, as he ascended the path that led to his
new principality. As the trees snatched the Moorish
cavalcade from the view of the king, Ferdinand ordered
the army to recommence its march; and trumpet and
cymbal presently sent their music to the ear of the
Moslem.

Boa-bdil spurred on at full speed, till his panting
charger halted at the little village where his mother, his
slaves, and his faithful wife awaited him. Joining these,
he proceeded without delay upon his melancholy path.
They ascended that eminence which is the pass into the
mountains. From its height, the vale, the rivers, the
spires, and the towers of Grenada broke gloriously upon
the view of the little baud. They halted mechanically
and abruptly ; every eye was turned to the beloved
scene. The proud shame of baffled warriors, the tender
memories of home, of childhood, of fatherland, swelled
every heart, and gushed from every eye.

Suddenly the distant boom of artillery broke from the
citadel, and rolled along the sun-lighted valley and
crystal river. A universal wail burst from the exiles ;
it smote, it overpowered the heart of the ill-starred king,
in vain seeking to wrap himself in Eastern pride or
stoical philosophy. The tears gushed from his eyes, and
he covered his face with his hands. The band wound
slowly on through the solitary defiles ; and that place,
where the king wept at the last view of his lost empire,
is still called The Last Sigh op the Moor.

— Lord Lytton.

But, oh, for the touch of a vanished hand
And the sound of a voice that is still.

338

Fourth Reader.

CXVIII.-ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY

CHURCHYARD.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight.

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds :

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower.
The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade.
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid.
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn.

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed.

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn.
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ;

No children run to lisp their sire's return.
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield.

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ;

How jocund did they drive their team a-field 1

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke !

Elegy Writpen in a Country Churchyard. 839

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their, homely joys, and destiny obscure ;
Not Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,

The short and simple annals of the Poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power.
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,

Await alike the inevitable hour —

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Kor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise.

Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath 1

Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust.

Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death ?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ;

Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ;

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene.

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear :

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

ili
if'

340 Fourth Reader.

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; .

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest.
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of listening senates to command.
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.

And read their history in a nation's eyes.

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ;

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne.
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ;

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide.
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame.

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ;

Along the cool sequestered vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked.
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply ;
And many a holy text around she strews.

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. 341

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
• Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind 1

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ;

E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate.

If chance, by lonely Contemplation led.

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, —

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

" Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn,

finishing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

" There at the foot of yonder nodding beech.
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

His listless length at noontide would he stretch.
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn.
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove j

Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

" One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill.
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree ;

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he :

■t\;

i. "'Hi

11' =

342 Fourth Reader.

" The next, with dirges due, in sad array.

Slow through the church- way path we saw him borne; —
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn " •

I/ere rests his head upon the lap of Eat ih^
A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown ;

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth.
And Melancholy marked him for her own.

La/rge was his bounty, and his soul si:icere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send ;

He gave to Misery all he had — a tear,

He gained from, Heaven ('twas all he tvished)-^ a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,

{There they alike in trembling hope repose) ;

The bosom of his Father and his God.

— Tf'ymas Oray.

CXIX.~THE GREATNESS OF GOD.

Bless the Lord, O my soul ;
O Lord my God, Thou art exceeding great. •

Thou hast put on praise and beauty ;
And art clothed wi^ light as with a garment.

Who stretchest out the heaven like a tent ;
Who coverest the higher places thereof with water ;

Who makest the clouds Thy chariot :
Who walkest upon the wings of the winds.

Who makest Thine angels spirits ;
And Thy ministers a burning fire.

Who didst found the earth upon its own bases :

■ii

The Greatness of God.

843

It shall not be moved for ever and ever.

The deep, like a garment, is its clothing :
Above the mountains shall the waters stand.

At thy rebuke they shall flee :
At the voice of thy thunder they shall be afraid.

The mountains rise up, and the plains go down
Into the place thou hast laid for them.

Thou hast set a bound which they will not pass over ;
Neither shall they return to cover the earth.

Thou sendest forth springs in the valleys :
The waters shall flow in the midst of the hills.

All the beasts of the field shall drink :
The wild asses shall look for it in their thirst.

Over them the birds of the air shall dwell :
They shall give forth their voices from the midst of the rocks.

Thou waterest the hills from the heights above :
The earth shall be filled with the fruit of Thy works,

Bringing forth grass for cattle :

And herb for the service of men.

That Thou mayest bring bread out of the earth :
And that wine may cheer the heart of man.

To make the face cheerful with oil :
And that bread may strengthen man's heart.

The trees of the field shall be filled,

And the cedars of Libanus which He hath planted :
There the sparrows shall make their nests.

The highest of them is the home of the heron.
The high hills are a refuge for the harts, and the rock for the
conies.

He hath made the moon for seasons :
The sun knoweth his going down.

Thou hast appointed darkness, and it is night :
Wherein all the beasts of the woods shall come forth.

The young lions roaring after their prey,

344

Fourth Reader.

Hi!

And seeking their meat from God.

The sun ariseth, and they are gathered together ;
And they shall lie down in their dens.

Man shall go forth to his work :
Ar.d to his labor until the evening.

How great are Thy works, O Lord ;
Thou hast made all things in wisdom ;
The earoh is filled with Thy riches,

So is this great sea,

"Which stretcheth wide its arms :
Therein are cioo.jing things without number ;

Livin,? things both small and great :

There also ship*; shall go.
This sea-dragon which Thou hast formed to play therein ;
All wait upon Thee to give theu? food in season.

What Thou givest to them they shall gather up :
When Thou openest Thy hand, they shall all be filled with good,
But if Thou turnest away Thy face, they shall be troubled :

Thou shalt take away their breath.

And they shall fail, and shall return to their dust.
Thou shalt send forth Thy spirit,

And they shall be created :
And Thou shalt renew the face of the earth.

May the glory of the Lord endure for ever :
The Lord shall rejoice in His works.

He looketh upon the earth, ond maketh it tremble ;
He toucheth the mountains and they smoke.

I will sing unto the Lord as long as I live ;
I will sing Pi'aise unto my God while I have my being.

May my speech be pleasing unto Him : v

But I will take delight in the Lord.
Let sinners be consUi -ed out of the earth.

And the unjust, so that they be no more :

Bless the Lord, O my so^il. —Paalm cUL

■•V'Ji-"

em;

Hh good,
ibled :

ilm ciii.