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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, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre filmte d dee taux de rMuction diffdrents. Lrrsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reproduit en un seul cliche, il est film^ 6 partir do Tangle sup, ny of every kind, by establishing police for internal safe v n miLtary and naval forces to guard ag°,inst danger fron w thtt The toT,n '";''™"'J"» '"''" °^'^'' "'" '""'•^ "hich t"e people a e L, f "fn '" "":/''«™'»en' of themselves, and all sLila ques tions are fully considered and discussed by the science o poll ics so ihe gieat end of society is to minister to the hapDine^s of «11 tL tTwhth r"""'"^ "'."^ ^'""""^ '" ">'■" the ito aniprivtge to which hey are entitled. One of these rights is that of ^™Z fndivv, T^' r"'"? "■"=''»••''«=» the accumulation of property b^ ndividuals. Sometimes this property is in the shape oflaifd which the owner cultivates, thus providing himself with a supply of veg t able food, or cattle which he rears for animal food -or from hot udrorTh'e^ r/ tz "■^'^™^ ''' «'»"""^ -c »" rnoio^^ : , ^^^° °^^y ^^^^a^"! valuable timber, mines of Three clashes of traders spring up ; the owners o.^ laud whVpSce the raw materials, the manufacturers who prepare these nrtPr;«^! liu:;" Vach 7T''' t^'"'^ ^"^ se/thTrSur om! niodities. Each of these individuals makes a profit upon what ho s Is or exchanges, and according to the extent of his business and tluing. This science aims at the advancement of national wealth' THE SOCIAL SCIENCES. which is of coarse built up of iudividual prosperity. It its duty to show how a government can best promote the ena in view, whether by encouraging certain classes, or by leaving all alone ; it must deal with such questions as taxation direct and indirect' as levied upon the income of the individual, or upon the goods he buys; and it must not neglect the moral and intellectual conditions of the people, since upon these depends to a very great extent the prosperity of a country. It is the office of this science also, to devise means for carrying off a superabundant population, and for peopling uninhabited lands ; such are the schemes of emigration and colonization. These are some of the many objects of the science of wealth or political economy, the latter word being derived from the Greek, and meaning the law of the house or man- agement, since the term was first applied to the care exercised by a skilful and thrifty housewife over her domestic concerns. There are two other subjects which are sometimes erected into separate sciences, but which may be fairly considered as included under ethics and politics ; these are the law of nature and the law of nations. The law of nature is nothing more than the system of rights and obligations which God has granted to, and imposed upon each individual as a social, moral, intelligent being, and by which his conduct toward his fellow-men is to be shaped and judged. The law of nations deals with the relations between foreign countries in times of peace and war, and is frequently called international law. It IS between nations what the law of nature is between in- dividuals. All just legislation must be built upon the law of nature, which has its origin in Divine Wisdom. All the sciences, which in this and the four previous lessons have come under our notice, belong, with the exception of pure mathe- matics and ethics, to the class called inductive. The word mductive means hading into, and is applied to those systems of knowledge which are built up from the observation and classification of facts gradually ascending to general principles by means of these. Thus' by observing and examining all the stones I meet with, I form the conclusion that "no stones have life," which I could not have done had I not seen or felt stones and known what they were. This is induction. But pure mathematics, ethics, and some other sciences which we have yet to consider, are called deductive, or leading from • because, instead of facts being given us in order to find the general rule, the rule is given that we may find the facts from it. Thus "twice two are four" is a general principle, which is true for all objects whatever they may be, and from it we deduce the fact that I i i ' I THE LAW OF NATUBE AND NATIONS. t TJr 'k""™'" ""='=''»»'". '"0 Wies fall from a iree four will compaie, and make induction of general laws from Ti^r • one, being comnosed of ^ T T ^'™ ''^''^'^'^ '' * barbarous the science isT rr ^ ofet^v'.^'f '7 *.^- ^'^^ ^^^^^^ '' mmmm These, then, constitute social science --^Ffiiina ^^i%- economy, and statistics. 8ome\^vZl;Zfj!Z' P^*'^^^' P^^'tical more, others less, accordinHo t^e Doint of v^ "7^"' '/^^ IS a still more ir. perative obligation laid upon all m^,^ tnV 1. Ethics. 2. Politics. Social Sciences.. 3. Political Economy. 4. Statistics. THE LAW OF NATURE AND NATIONS Sr» JAMES MAOK^SH, W«toriaj,,^*Ugopher, and ParliaMenta^ ora.or 'he seieuco which teaches the riehta ana /inff^a r.f states bas. i„ modern Umes, been'tuer'^ .^fltVof Taturra^i THE LAW OP NATURE AND NATIONS. 7 nations." Under this comprehensive title are included the rules of morality as they prescribe the conduct ot private men towaids each other in all the various relations of human life ; as they regulate both the obedience of citizens to the laws and the authority of the magistrate in forming laws and administering government ; and as they modify the intercourse of Independent commonwealths in peace, and prescribe limits to their hostility in war. This important science comprehends only that part of private ethics which is capable of being reduced to fixed and general rules. It considers only those general principles of jurisprudence and politics which the wisdom of the lawgiver adapts to the peculiar situation of his own country, and which the skill of the statesman applies to the more fluctuating and infinitely varying circumstances which aff*ect its immediate welfare and safety. « For there are in nature certain founts of justice whenco all civil laws are derived, but as streams ; and like as waters do take tinctures and tastes from the soils through which they run, so do civil laws vary according to the regions and govern- ments where they are planted, though they proceed from the same fountains." * On the great questions of morality, of politics, and of municipal law, it is the object of this science to deliver only those fundamental truths of which the particular application is as extensive as the whole private and public conduct of men ;— to discover those " fountains of justice " without pursuing the " streams " through the endless variety of their course. But another part of the subject is to be treated with greater fulness and minuteness of application ; namely, that important branch of it which professes to regulate the relations and intercourse of states, and more especially (both on account of their greater perfection and their more immediate reference to use) the regulations of that intercourse as they are modified by the Uvsages of the civilized nations of Christendom. Here this science no longer rests on general principles. That province of it which we now call the " law of nations," has, in many of its parts, acquired among European ones much of the precision and certainty of positive law - and the particulars of that law are chiefly to be found in the works of those writers who have treated the science of which I now speak. It is because they have classed, in a manner which soems peculiar to modern times, the duties of individuals with those cf nations and established their obligations on similar grounds, thac u -, science has been nallpH " f hp la«r nf nufnrn ^..-i t,^i!-__ »« * Bacon's "Advancement of Learning." O CIIUISTIAN MORALITY. CHRISTIAN MORALITY. Db Isaac Babrow a distinguiahed theologian and mathematician, and Vice. Chancellor of the University of Cambridge : 1630-1G77. Anotiikr peculiar excellency of our religion is, that it prescribes an accurate rule of life, most agreeable to reason and to our nature most conducive to our welfare and content, tending to procure each mans private good, and to promote the public benefit of all, by the strict observance whereof wo bring our human nature to a re- semblance of the divine; and we shall also therebv obtain God's favour, oblige and benefit men, and procure to ourselves the con- veniences of a sober life, and the pleasure of a good conscience, i or, It we examine the precepts which respect our duty to God, what can be more just, pleasant, or beneficial to us, than are those duties of piety which our religion enjoins? What is more fit and reasonable than that we should most highly esteem and honour Hun who IS most excellent? that we should bear the siucerest attection for Him who is perfect goodness Himself, and most bene- ficial to us? that we should have the most awful dread of Him who IS infinitely powerful, holy, and just? that we should be very grateful to Him from whom we received our being, with all the comforts and conveniences of it? that we should entirely trust and hope in Him who can and will do whatever we may in reason expect froru His goodness, nor can He ever fail to perform His promises? that we should render all due obedience to Him, whose children, servants, and subjects we are? Can there be a higher privilege than to have liberty of access to Him, who will favourably hear, and is fully able to supply our wants ? Can we desire to receive benefits on easier terms than the asking for them ? Can a more gentle satisfaction for our oflfences be required than confessing ot them, repentance, and strong resolutions to amend them ? The practice of such a piety, of a service so reasonable, cannot but be ot vast advantage to us, as it secures peace of conscience, a com- tortable hope, a freedom from all terrors and scruples of mind, from all tormenting cares and anxieties. And if we consider the precepts by which our religion regulates our carnage and behaviour towards our neighbours and brethren what can be imagined so good and useful as those which the gospel affords? It enjoins sincerely and tenderly to love one another ; earnestly to desire and delight in each other's good • .. ,.!^ ,^ oyuiyaiiii-^^i with all the evils and sorrows of our bretiiren, readily aff-ording them all the help and comfort we are m^r ODE TO DUTY. 9 n, and Vice^ r jscribes an >ur natare, ocure each all, by the ! to a rcr tain God's 1 the con- jonsclence. God, what are those >re fit and id honour siucerest 3ost bcne- kd of Him d be very :h all the trust and in reason 'form His u), whose a higher ivourably desire to ? Can a lonfessing n? The t but be e, a com- ind, from regulates brethren, hich the love one 's good ; 5 of our t we are able; willingly to part with our substance, ease, and pleasure, for their beneht and relief: not confining this our charity to particular fnends and relations, but in conformity to the boundless goodness of Almighty God, extending it to all. It requires us mutually to bear with one another's infirmities, mildly to resent and freely to ^^italli^unes; retaining no grudge, nor exeouting no revenge, but requiting our enemies with good wishes and good deeds I commands as to be quiet in our stations, diligent in our callings, tiue in our words, upright in our dealings, observant of our rela- tions, obedient and respectful to our superiors, meek and gentle to our inferiors, modest and lowly, ingenuous and condescending in our conversation, candid in our censures, and innocent, inoffensive, and obliging in our behaviour towards all persons. It enjoins us to root out of our hearts ali envy and malice, all pride and haughti- ness ; to restrain our tongues from all slander, detraction, reviling, bitter and harsh language ; not to injure, hurt, or needlessly trouble oui neighbour. It engages us to prefer the public good before our own opinion, humour, advantage, or convenience. And would men observe and practise what this excellent doctrine teaches, how sociable secure and pleasant a life we might lead! what a pamdise would this world then become, in comparison to what it now 's ! "William Wordsworth, the father of Stern daughter of the voice of God! duty ! if that name thou love, Who art a light to guide, a rod lo check the erring, and reprove— Thou, who art victory and law, When empty terrors overawe ; From vain temptations dost, set free. And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! There are who ask not if thine eye Be en them ; who, in love and truth, Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth : Wad hearts ! without reproach or blot, Who do thy work, and know it not : :^""" may the kindiy impulse last * liut thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast 1 ODE TO DUTY. the Lake School of Poetry: 1770-1850. Serene will be our days and bright, And happy will our nature be. When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold Even now, who, not unwisely bold, Live m the spirit of this creed, Yet iind that other strength, accord- ing to their need. I, loving freedom, and untried, ^ o sport of every random gust, Yet, being to myself a guide, Too blindly have reposed my trust ; And oft, when in my heart was heard 1 hy timely mandate, I deferr'd The task- in arnAAfhpr -"'oil" x- stray; But thee I now would serve more (Strictly, if I may. 10 TIIE STORY OF ALBERT BANE. Through no disturbance of my aoul, Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control, But in the quietness of thought; Me this uncharter'd freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same. Stern law-giver! yet thou doat wear The Godhead's most benignant grace ; Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face ; Plowers laugh before thee on their beds, And fragrance in thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong. To hnmbler functions, awful power ! I call thee: I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour; Oh, let my weakness have an end ! Give unto mo, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice; The confidence of reason give ; And in the light of truth thy bond- man let me live ! THE STORY OF ALBERT BANE. Henry Mackenzie, a Scottish lawyer and novelist, author of the " Man of Feehng, and editor of the " Lounger."— 1745-1831. When I was last antumn at my friend Colonel Caustic's in the country, I saw there, on a visit to Miss Caustic, a young gentleman and his sister, children of a neighbour of the colonel's, with whose appearance and manner I was peculiarly pleased. " The history of their parents," said my friend, " is somewhat peculiar, and I love to tell it, as T do everything that is to the honour of our nature. Man is so poor a thing taken in the gross, that when I meet with an instance of nobleness in detail, I am fain to r^st upon it long, and to recall it often ; as, in coming hither over our barren hills, you would look with double delight on a spot of cultivation or of beauty. ^ " The father of those young folks, whose looks you were struck with, was a gentleman of considerable domains and extensive in- fluence on the northern frontier of our country. In his youth he lived, as it was then more the fashion than it is now, at the seat of his ancestors, surrounded with Gothic grandeur, and compassed with feudal followers and dependents, all of whom could trace their con- nexion, at a period more or less remote, with the family of their chief. Every domestic in his house bore the family name, and looked on himself as in a certain degree partaking its dignity and iq .m ....,„,!.,„. ,^i loecc, xjiie wtta iii a particular manner tho favourite of his master. Albert Bane (the surname, you know, is THE STORl OF ALBERT BANE. 11 bee on their 6 " Man of generally lost in a name descriptive of the individual) had been his compan.on from his infancy. Of an age so much more advanced as to enable him to be a sort of tutor to his youthful lord, Albert had early taught him the rural exercises and rural amusements, in which he himse f was eminently skilled ; he hatl attended him in the course of his education at home, of his travels abroad, and was still the constant companion of his excursions, and the associate of his sports. " On one of these latter occasions, a favourite dog of Albert'.^ whom he had trained himself, and of whose qualities he was proud' happened to mar the sport which his master had expected who irritated at this disappointment, and having his gun ready corked in his hand, fired at the animal, which, however, in the Lurry of resentment, he missed. Albert, to whom Oscar was as a child, re- monstrated against the rashness of the deed, in a mannev rather too warm for his master, ruffled as he was with the accideiit, and con- scious of his being in the wrong, to bear. In his passion he struck his faithful attendant ; who suffered the indignity in silence, and retirmg, rather in grief than in anger, left his native country that very night ; and when he reached the nearest town, enlisted with a recruiting party of a regiment then on foreign service. It was in the beginning of the war with France which broke out in 1744 rendered remarkable for the rebellion which the policy of the French court excited, in which some of the first families of the Highlands were unfortunately engaged. Among those who joined the standard ot Charles was the master of Albert. " After the battle of Culloden, so fatal to that party, this gentle- man, along with others who had escaped the slaughter of the field sheltered themselves f om the rage of the unsparing soldiery among the distant recesses of their country. To him, his native mountains offered an asylum, and thither he naturally fled for protection. Acquainted, in the pursuits of the chase, with every secret path and unworn track, he lived for a considerable time like the deer of his forest, close hid all day, and only venturing down at the fall of evening, to obtain from some of his cottagers, whose fidelity he could trust, a scanty and precarious support. I have often heard him, tor he is one of my oldost acquaintances, describe the scene of his hiding-place, at a later period, when he could recollect it in its sublimity, without its horror. 'At times,' said he, 'when I ventured to tJiA pHrro nf tii« «,^^/i „ „ ., I ""^" * />ro„c »-"i "■" ""°" "' """ "'^■''■^' atiiuug some of those inaccessible S "^ f ^''" '•^'^^«^^«''' ^ few miles from my house, I have Heard, m tne pauses of the breeze which rolled solemn through tho 12 THE STOhY OP ALBERT BANE. i pines beneath me, the distant voices of the soldiers, shoutinff in answer to one another amidst their inhuman searcii. I have heard their shouts re-eclioed from cliff to cliff, and seen reflected from the deep still lake below the gleam of those fires which consumed the cottages of my people. Sometimes shame and indignation well- nigh overcame my fear, and I have prepared to rush down the steep, unarmed as I was, and to die at once by the swords of my enemies ; but the instinctive love of life prevailed, and starting as the roe bounded by me, I have again shrunk back to the shelter I had le''t. " ' One day,' continued he, ' the noise was nearer than usual • and, from the cave in which I lay, I heard the parties immediately below, so close upon me, that I could distinguish the words they spoke. After some time of horrible suspense, the voices grew weaker and more distant, and at last I heard them die away at tlie farther end of the wood. I rose and stole to the mouth of the cave, when suddenly a dog met me, and gave that short quick bark by which they indicate their prey. Amidst the terror of the circumstance I was yet master enough of myself to discover that the dog was Oscar and I own to you I felt his appearance like the retribation of justice and of heaven. " Stand," cried a threatening voice, and a soldier pressed through the thicket, with his bayonet charged. It was Albert! Shame, confusion, and remorse, stopped my utterance and I stood motionless before him. " My master," said he, with the stifled voice of wonder and of fear, and threw himself at my feet. I had recovered my recollection. « You are revenged," said I "and I am your prisoner." " Revenged! Alas ! you have judged too hardly of me ; I have not had one happy day since that fatal one on which I left my master; but I have lived, I hope, to see him. The party to which I belong are passed, for I lingered behind them among those woods and rocks which I remembered so well in happier days. There is, however, no time to be lost. In a few hours this wood will blaze, though they do not suspect that it shelters you. Take my dress, which may help your escape, and I will endeavour to dispose of yours. On the coast to the westward, we have learned there is a small party of your friends, which, by following the river's track till dusk, and then striking over the shoulder of the hill you may join without much danger cf discovery " I felt the disgrace of owing so much to him I had injured, and remonstrated against ex- posing him to such imminent danger of its being known that he had favoured my escape, which, from the temper of his commander, I knew would be instant death. Albert, in an agony of fear and dia- JOHN LITTLEJOHN. 13 f less, besought me to think only of my own safety. « Save as both " ^aid he, " for if you die, I cannot live. Perhaps we may meet again • but whatever becomes of Albert, may the blessing of God be with Ins master.' ' /' ^Ibcrt's prayer was heard. His master, by the exercise of talents which, though he had always possessed, adversity only taught him to use, acquired abroad a station of equal honour and emolument ; and when the proscrij^tions of party had ceased, re- turned home to his own country, where he found Albert advanced to the rank of a lieutenant in the army, to which his valour and inent had raised him, married to a lady by whom he had got some ittle fortune, and the father of an only daughter, for whom nature had done much, and to whose native endowments it was the chief study and delight of her parents to add everything that art could bestow. The gratitude of the chief was only equalled by the happi- ness of his follower, whose honest pride was not long after gratified by his daughter becoming the wife of that master whom his generous fidelity had saved. That master, by the clemency of more indulgent and liberal times, was again restored to the domain of his ancestors, and had the satisfaction of seeing the grandson of Albert enjoy the hereditary birthright of his race." I accompanied Colonel Caustic on a visit to this gentleman's house and was delighted to observe his grateful attention to his father-in law, as well as the unassuming happiness of the good old man, con- scious of the perfect reward which his former fidelity had met with ^or did It escape my notice, that the sweet boy and girl who had been our guests at the colonel's, had a favourite brown and white spaniel whom they caressed much after dinner, whose name was vocara JOHN LITTLEJOHN. Charles Maokat, lyric poet and journalist ; born 1812. John Littlejchn was staunch and strong, Upright and downright, scorning wrong ; He gave good weight, and paid his way ; He thought for himself, and he said his say. Whenever a rascal strove to pass. Instead of silvpr a. nn\n f\f KvAoc. He took his hammer, and said, with a frown, "r/tc coin is spurious, nail it down.^* I : 14 : ON security; John Littlejolin was firm and true ; Vou could not cheat liim in ♦' two and two." When foolish arguers, might and main, I)arken'd and twisted the clear and plain, He saw through the mazes of their speech, The simple truth beyond their reach ; And, crushing their logic, said with a frown, Your coin is spurious, nail it down.'* John Littlojohn maintain'd the right, Through storm and slune, in the world's despite; W hen fools or quacks desired his vote, Dosed him with arguments learn'd by 'rote, Or by coaxing, threats, or promise, tried To gain his support to the wrongful side, ||i\^ay, ;m^," said John, with an angry frown, " Your coin is spurious, nail it down.'' When told that kings had a right divine. And that the people were herds of swine; That nobles alone were fit to rule; That the poor were unimproved by school; Tliat ceaseless toil was the proper fate Of all but the wealthy pnd the great; John shook his head, and said, with a frown. *' y/fc coin is spurious, nail it down." When told that events might justify A false and crooked policy ; That a decent hope of future good Might excuse departure from rectitude ; That a lie, if white, was a small offence, To be forgiven by men of sense ; ''Nay, nay," said John, with a sigh and a frown, 1/ie com IS spurious, nail it down." ON SECURITY. JEREMY BENTHAM, a distinguished j.rist. the author of several works on Law and PolJtic: ; "7 MM 832. This inestimable good is the d^.r. /.,■,« ..,.}. ^^ -:-t.-.^.;,,, ., . entirely the work of the U.S. Vi^^ law' th^ V^'nt s^um,': ON SECURITY. iS consequently no abundance, nor even certain subsistence : and the only equality which can exist in such a condition is the equali y of misery. vv^uamj^ ui In order rightly to estimate this great benefit o. the laws, it is ul Lnr''''^ ''°"^': '••' ''"^•''"" «^ ««^«««*- They struggle without ceasing against famine, which sometimes cuts off, in a ff v .ill! ,""''""'• ^^'^^"'-^ ^^'^»' '''^'^' to the means of sub- sistence produces among men the most cruel wars; and like the mos ferocious beasts, men p„ sue men, that they m y eed on en mother The dreud ' -thout me, y^u coL noJ p eseive If industry creates, it is the law which preserves • if at the first moment we owe everything to labour, at the second and every succeeding moment we owe everything to the law I In order to form a clear idea of the whole extent which ontrht to be given to the principle of security, it is necessary trconsid"f thlt ^^ IS not like the brutes, limited to the present tirdteifn ien,,, :. It or suL.nng, but that he is susceptible of pleasure and jpam by anticipation ; and that it is not enongl' to guard W^'afns sible, his possessions against future losses. The idea of his senHv ^ North America presents the most striking contr.«f. nf , ;*,te of LavS" '';"^ ^"^^^thout law, and the security 'wTich it gives Ba>age nature is there placed by the side of civilization The iute-' 16 CAUSES OF THE ESTABLISHMENT OF I rior of this immense region pr'-sents only a frightful solitude ; impenetrable forest or barren tracts, standing waters, noxious ex- halations, ravenous reptiles — such is the land left to itself. The barbarous hordes who traverse these deserts, without fixed habi- tation, always occupied in the pursuit of their prey, and always filled with implacable rivalry, only meet to attack and to destroy each other; so that the wild beasts are not so dangerous to man as man himself. But upon the borders of these solitudes what a dif- ferent prospect presents itso'f ! One could almost believe that one saw, at one view, the two empires of gond and evil. The forests have given place to cultivated fields ; the morass is dried up , the land has become solid, is covered with meadows, pastures, domestic animals, smiling and healthy habitations ; cities have risen up on regular plans; wide roads are traced between them; everything shows that men are seeking the means of drawing near to one an- other; they no longer dread or seek to murder each other. The seaports are filled with vessels receiving all the productions of the earth, and serving to exchange its riches. A countless multitude, living in peace and abundance upor tlie fruits of their labours, has succeeded to the nation of hunter:,, who were always struggling between war and famine. What has produced these wonders? What has renovated the surface of the earth? What has given to man this dominion over embellished, fruitful, and perfectionated nature? The benevolent genius is security. It is security which has wrought out this great metamorphosis. How rapid have been its operations! It is scarcely two centuries since William Penn reached these savage wilds with a colony of true conquerors ; for they were men of peace, who sullied not their establishment by force, and who made themselves respected only by acts of benevo- lence and justice. '% i of. gra .*■ a 1 .«lai wh it T hai] vat hab I CAUSES OF THE ESTABLISHMENT OF REPRESENTATIVE GOVERNMENT IN ENGLAND. FKANgOTS Pierre Guillaumk Guizot, author of tlie "History of Civiliza- tion," and other historical works ; Professor at the Universitv of Paris : born, 1787. To nations, as well as individuals, sufferings are often of use ; it may be that England owes her liberties to the Norman conquest. When between tlie fifth and seventh centuric?, the Goths invaded Spain, the Franks Gaul, and the Lombards Italy, what could be the result but anarchy and slavery? Wandering tribes, with no habit itfiil solitudo ; 3, noxious ex- itself. The it fixed habi- r, and ahvays nd to destroy ous to man as es what a dif- lieve that one The forests dried up , the iires, domestic 1 risen up on I ; everything !ar to one an- i other. The notions of the 2ss multitude, r labours, has ys struggling 'se wonders? has given to aerfectionated ecurity which )id have been V'illiam Penn iqaerors ; for blishment by ts of benevo- REPRESENTATIVE GOVERNMENT IN ENGLAND. 17 3ENTATIVE ry of Civiliza- rsity of Paris : 11 of use ; it an conquest. }tli3 invaded could be the ith no habit of social life, no laws, no restraints, falling upon a frightened de- graded people—spiritless, downcast, who had almost ceased to be a people; of course the result was, that the conquered became slaves of the conquerors. But this was not the case in England, when William conquered it, and transferred his empire there. Then It was one nation, fbarbarous, it is true, but still a nation,) with habits of social life, laws and institutions, though rude and unculti- vated, which subdued another nation, equally having laws and habits of its own, in many instances not dissimilar from those of their conquerors. Their primitive origin had been the same ; there- fore the conquest, though it brought many evils in its train, did rot produce the entire dissolution of the two people, as it had done on the continent, nor the permanent subjection of one race to the other The forced approximation of the two races produced many reason? for fraternizing. ^ Tliia circumstance, in my opinion, has not been fairly recorrnized oy English historians. Naturally, a people detests owing anything to that which, for a long time, was a source of unhappiness and mortification to it. But the oppression of the Normans has ceased tor centuries; for many centuries both Saxons and Normans have alike disappeared, yet tne remembrance of the twelfth century still exists, and can be traced at tiie present day in the opinions of the ditferent parties. Tory writers pay little attention to the Anglo- Saxon institutions; Whigs, on the contrary, attach the utmost importance to them, and refer to them the origin of all their liber- ties. They say that, on the continent, the feudal system was un- able to produce one free government; and they attribute to the .Normans what of despotism and feudality exists in their govern- ment, whilst they regard the Saxons as the authors of their rights and_ guarantees. This is not a correct view. It is true Saxon institutions were the primitive cradle of English liberties, but there are good reasons for doubting if they alone, without the help of the conquest, w^ould have been able to found a free government in Lngland. The conquest brought forth a new character; political /reedom was the result of the situation in which the two nations were p aced towards each other. Looking at Anglo-Saxon institu- tions alone, and their results towards the middle of the eleventh century, we sec nothing very different from those of other countries From the fifth to the eleventh century, ther- — hi Q--"-" " •* lf;lf r ^.^"';.f continued struggle between free, m'onarchical, and a istocratic institutions, andr t\^^ i^ ^^lOng to indicate the ap- proaching triumph of free institutions; on the contrary, evident 18 CAUSES OF THE ESTABLISHMENT OP ■•■»,« symptoms of their decline, as on the continent. Their local institu- tions differed little from those of the Franks. The com t y wa dmded into tythings, hundreds, and counties, in ea h of whlh meeungs were held and presided over by the ty thing man, the cMe of he hundred, and the earl or chief of the county, or by hi de puty or sheriff. At these courts jusf.e was adn^nstered, and al the c vU transactions of the divisions were carried on there These nee mgs, at first frequent, became by degrees more rare t 1 at las they had nearly disappeared. At the general county courts which were never oftener than twice a year, aU the freehold pro^ L^rs of the county were bound to attend, or pay the penalty (a fine) ; but the frequency and urgency of the summons proves' how much they >vere neglected. It is therefore clear, that though the principle of ^::hTm~d"^-^"'^^^ deliberation-still exist^ed, its Vuf ^s However, aristocratic institutions, or the right of man over man was a system much less dangerous to English liberty than t was 3n France; but the germ of this evil still existed, and was de iSaMil"f"'Tf '^'^""^^' ^^ ^'''^^' enc'roachmlnL ou individual liberty. There is no doubt that in England, before the conquest, a great number of freemen lived under the protect on of one great lord, whose jurisdiction over his domanswas often a most sovereign, and superseded the legal tribunals. In the re gn of Edward the Confessor royalty sufl^red much, and from he .ame causes under which it sank in France, during' the dynasty of the Carlovmgians The great vassals of the crown, Earl Godwin Siward Duke of Northumberland, Leofric Duke of MercS^ and several others, were dangerous rivals of the king, and we e on the pomt of converting their several domains, countTes, and dukedoms into independent sovereignties. Harold, usurping the crown from Edgar Atheling, the rightful heir, resembles very nearly Hugh Capet The sovereignty was evidently tending to dismemberment the national unity to dissolution. The Wittanagemot, or cS de Mars of the Anglo-Saxons, had originally confisted'of the free- men and warriors; but, by degrees, the new element, territoi'a In- wZ' """K ;,"' ''^'^' ^'"^^"'^"^ ^^^"^«^ it« ^'^^racter, tni it became merely the general assembly of thanes or landed pro] rietor Ther. were again divided into the large proprietors who Tom their strength and importance, or from being the ompaTi bl and immediate vassals of the crown, wpvr naiiH -^'-l .^J^ " p " ing, confined themselves more and more to their own domains; ,i '¥ REPRESEiVTATIVE GOVERNMENT IN ENGLAND. 3ir local institu- le country was each of which ; man, the chief or by his de- istered, and all 1 there. These rare, till at last y courts, which 1 proprietors of 7 (a fine) ; but low much they he principle of its vigour was nan over man, Y than it was and was de- "oachments on nd, before the ! protection of ns was often In the reign and from the le dynasty of Earl Godwin, Mercia, and were on the id dukedoms, 3 crown from nearly Hugh raemberment, t, or Champ 1 of the free- territorial in- -acter, till it d proprietors. i, who, from ipanions and incs, and the ibout attend- rn domains; 19 trusting in their great strength, they refused to exercise it for the benefit of the public; and, in fact, exercised all the rights of petty sovereigns. Since the middle of the tenth century, the Wit- , tanagemot, after undergoing these successive changes, almost en- ^ tnely disappeared. What is there in this different from the history of the 1 ranks? Yet, notwithstanding these points of simila-tv there were some essential differences, which led to different results' .,i here was more unity in the population of Great Britain than in I that of Gaul. The ancient inhabitants, the Britons, though perhaps I not completely destroyed, were so entirely subjected that they were I utter y unimportant. In a small compact kingdom like that ot |Great Britain, It was more diflicult to shake existing institutions; |in fact, most of the central establishments, such as county courts ^corporations, &c., though much decayed and weakened, still pre- jscrved some little life and vigour in the provinces, in the middle of the eleventh century. The feudal system, too, was not nearly as advanced or as matured as it was on the continent. Nevertheless, I do not believe that these circumstances, though they might, and Imost probably would, have retarded the growth of aristocratic and Imonarclucal principles, would have had strength entirely to check Ithem, or to prevent the anarchy which would have been the result .,fcf the struggle. But the Norman conqnest, by uniting the Anglo- Saxons more closely together, and by infusing more life into those laws and institutions, which guaranteed freedom, put a check to this downward tendency. It gave more unity, more system, to both parties. A ter the conquest, the Normans, being a small, though strong body, scamped in an enemy's country, surrounded -by people jealous of their independence, and waiting but for the opportunity to regain it, were forced, for their own safety, to clin^ elosely together; consequently, they observed strict justice towards each otliei^theyestablishedlawsto which they adheredreligiou^^^^ had no quarrels amongst themselves. All the struggles that there tvere, were between the conquerors and the conquered. This was far #om bemg the case among the Gauls. There the former inhabi- tan ^ had been so completely degraded, that thoy were almost en- ;|.rely annihilated by the invasion of the barbarian horded so that |he conquerors there might settle anywhere with impi^^^ 'Jfiom |»eir neighboni-s and might be quite independent of tho^ o \Z ^n race ; which, after a time, led to so manv ind.n.nden' al'i." ^^"'''^^\ i« England, too, tbe^onqu^rors did'n;^ SVr .''''"^^'"^ '^'''^ ^' ^hey fancied, bit they always made a pretence of justice, and seized those which had beL coiZ 20 CAUSES OF THE ESTABLISHMENT, ETC. It I I i cated by the rebellion of their owners. The great aim William and all the Normans had in view, was to establish the supremacy of the Normans over the Saxons, and that of the royal power over the Normans. Nearly six hundred vassals took the oath of allegiance to him ; and as if to guard against their future independence, par- ticularly those whom he enriched most, he scattered their domains in different counties. The territory was divided into sixty fiefs, which were given to knights who took the oath of fidelity. The Doomsday Book, the statistics of the fiefs and their owners, begun in 1081 by William's orders, and finished in 1086, is an existing monument of the orders and cohesion of the Norman aristocracy twenty years after its establishment in England. ' These same causes, these same necessities, of course produced analogous eff'ects upon the Saxons. The spirit of nationality, which was beginning to die aray before the conquest, revived under the weight of foreign oppression. It gave the whole population, a strong fierce race, one interest, one feeling, one object,— that of expelling the conquerors. For this purpose they united and held closely to° gether ; to defend themselves, the Normans united and held equally firm among themselves. They had found in Normandy their rally- ing-point round the feudal system ; the Saxons placed theirs in their ancient institutions and laws. William's government was not entirely, at least not in forms, one of force. After the Battle of Hastings, the throne was offered to him in the name of the Saxons, and before his coronation he swore to govern the two people by equal laws. Ever since this time, the Saxons have never ceased claiming as their right their ancient laws, the laws of Edward the Confessor, which at various times they have recovered from their Norman kings, when they rose strong enough to wrest anything from them. They defended and claimed their property ia virtue of titles anterior to the conquest, and their titles were recognised. They met in the difitrent courts of the county, receiving justice from their equa.s, and for the purpose of taking their common in- terests into consideration there. Thus we see that while on the continent the conquest entirely destroyed both people, (the con- querors and the conquered,) in England, on the contrary, it only united each nation more firmly within itself in order to oppose the other. On the continent, the government and all political laws had all perished together ; in England they were more cherished than ever. On the continent, all interests, aims, and objects were en- tirely individual; in England they were thoroughly national. On the continent, the feudal system rose out of the destruc- -1 S0NNET3 TO LIBERTY. 21 tioo of the central power and political unity; in England it tended to preserve them. The Roman Gauls, except in a very few cities, nad almost disappeared, or were in the lowest state of serfdotn • the Saxons always maintained their position as a people and re- claimed and vindicated their liberties in right of their ancient laws. In a word, m England, the conquest, instead of dispersing and con- founding everythiug, brought into b - two strong opposing forces, one endeavouring to gain dominion, the other resolutely defendin*^ their liberties. For each party, public deliberation and agreement was necessary— this is the principle of all free governments SONNETS TO LIBERTX". WOKDSWOBTH. r. It is not to be thought of, that the flood Of British freedom, which, to the open sea Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity Hath flow'd, " with pomp of waters unwithstood *' Road by which all might come and go that would. And bear out freights of worth to foreign lands ; That this most famous stream in bogs and sands Should perish, and to evil and to good Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung Armoury of the invincible knights of old : We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake-^the faith and morals hold Which Milton held. In everything we 're sprun-^ Of earth's first blood, have titles manifold. ° II. When I have borne in memory what has tai, ad Great nations, how ennobling thoughts depart When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my country !— am I to be blamed ? But when I think of thee, and what thou art, Verily, in the bottom of my heart, Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. But dearly must we prize thee— we who find In thee a bulwark of the cause of men ; 99 ; lb POOR RICHARD ON TAXES. And I, by my nffection, was beguiled. What wonder if a poet now and then, Among the many movements of his mind, Felt for thee as a lover or a child ? *r.- vH ^"^ '"m spe V an( Kic ' % be,' else POOR RICHARD ON TAXES. Benjamin Fbanklin, a prominent leader in the American Revolution • dis- tingu.shed for Ins scientific researches; author of Poor RiXid's Thinr L and other works: 170G -1790. "^ ■^""i •^vii.iid.iub Ainian.io Courteous Reader,— I have heard, that notning gives an author so much pleasure as to find his works respectfully quoted by others Judge, theti, how much I must have been gratified by an incident I am going to relate to you. I stopped my horse lately where a great number of people were collected at au auction of merchants' goods Ihe hour of the sale not being come, they were conversing on the badness of the times ; and one of the company called to a plain dean old man with white locks, '' Pray, father Abraham, whaJ hmk you of the times? Will not those heavy taxes quite ruin the country? How shall we be ever able to pay them? What would you advise us to ?" Father Abraham stood up, and replied, If you would have my advice, I will give it you in short; 'for a word to the wise is enough,' as Poor Richard says." They joined in desmng him to speak his mind; and, gathering round hi.n, he proceeded as follows : ' " Friends," says he, *'the taxes are, indeed, very heavy; and if those laid on by the government were the only ones we had to pav we might more easily discharge them ; but we have many others' and much more grievous to some of us. We are taxed twice as much by our idleness, three times as much by our pride, and four times as much by our folly; and from these taxes the commis- sioners cannot ease or deliver us by allowing an abatement. How- Z''\ n ^^ r'^'f"" *^ ^'°^ ^^^'""' ^"^ something may be done for I r? fJP^ ^^'^ ^^^^ ^^'P themselves,' as Poor Richard says It would be thought a hard government that should tax its people one.tenth part of their time to be employed in its service- but Idleness taxes many of us much more ; sloth, by bringin- oi flZfi If"'"'" ''"'r '''' '^''''> "^« ^-^ «-«"'-" vZ S'u ^"^""' "'^'^'■^' ""'^'"'^^ "'^ "'^^^ ^ey is always bright,' as Poor Richard says. How much more than is necessary do we POOR RICHARD ON TAXES. 23 Id, Revolution ; dis- ichiird's Alniar.uo ives an author ioted by others, y an incident I y where a great rchants' goods. 1 versing on the ed to a plain, Lbrahara, what xes quite ruin them ? What p, and replied, in short ; ' for They joined round him, he heavy ; and if ve had to pay, many others, ixed twice as •ride, and four the commis- ment. How- ly be done for iichard says, hould tax its in its service ; y bringing on ist, consumes ys bright,' as issary do we spend in sleep, forgetting that * the sleeping fox catches no poultry and that there will be sleeping enough in the grave,' as Poor Kichard says. " ' If time be of all things the most precious, wasting time must be, as Poor Richard says, ' the greatest prodigality ;' since, as he elsewhere tells us, ' Lost time is never found again ; and what we call time enough, always proves little enough.' Let us then up and be doing, and doing to the purpose, so by diligence shall we do more with less perplexity. ' Sloth makes all things difficult, but industry all easy ; and he that riseth late, must trot all day, and shall scarce overtake his business at night; -vhile laziness travels so slowly that poverty soon overtakes him. Drive thy business, let not that drive thee ; and early lo bed, and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise,' as Poor Richard says. " So what signifies wishing and hoping for better times ? We may make these times butter if we bestir ourselves. « Industry ne:J not wish; and he that lives upon hope will die fasting' • There are no gains svithout pains ; then help hands, for I have no lands ; or if I have, they are smartly taxed. ' He that hath a trade, hath an estate ; and he that hath a calling, hath an office of profit and honour,' as Poor Richard says ; but then the trade must be worked at, and the calling well followed, or neither the estate nor the office will enable us to pay our taxes. If we are industrious, we shall never starve, for 'at the working man's house hunger looks m, but dare not enter.' Nor will the bailifl" or the constable enter for 'industry pays debts, while despair increaseth them.' What though you have found no treasure, nor has any rich relation left a legacy? 'diligence is the mother of good luck, and God gives all things to industry. Then plough deep while sluggards sleep, and you shall have corn to sell and to keep.' Work while it is called to-day, for you know not how much you may be hindered to-morrow One to-day is worth two to-morrows,' as Poor Richard says; and further. Never leave that till to-morrow which you can do to-day ' If you were a servant, would you not be ashamed that a good master should catch you idle? Are you, then, your own master? Be ashamed to catch yourself idle, when there is so much to be doiie for yourself, your family, your country, and your king. Handle your tools without mittens;' remember that ' the cat in gloves catches no mice,' as Poor Richard snv« I^ i= tn- M-re is much to be done, and perhaps you are weak-handed ; 'but stTck to It steadily, and you will see great effects ; for ' constant dropping 24 POOR BICIIARD ON TAXES. I wil "l/° h"'!'','"'!"'"""''' "^''f"" '"« l"»"™ tl, diligent r,> will obtain, but the lazy man never- fn.- '» 1!b. „f i T Diorroiv.' '^ "'"' * '='"'' ^^'■y ""o "Js me good tru.t too much to others; fo" afro/Rlchard Z.-'' ""' "'' * I never saw an oft-removed tree Nor yet an oft-removed family, Ihat throve so well as those that settled be ' would have your business done, go; if not s^ud ••»/»;»!„, ^°" • He that by the plough would thrive. Wimself must either hold or drive.* "And again ' The eye of the master will do more work than hnth them your p^urLe openrSus': fooror tZ h"ers- ^J: ^Z rum of many; for, < In the affairs, nf tu;. i^ ""'t-rt, care is the r t' ^"i r ^ T "• ^ " -- °™ -'"-?- able, for, If you woidd have a faithful servant, and one thatvnn was lost ; and for want of a horse the r wrwas lo, hV "'''' TRIAL BY JUKY. e mouse ate hi 25 WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE ? SlU WiLLUM Jones, a distinguft.hed scholar, and Jud^e in the Supreme Court in Bengal : 1746-1791. oupicmo What constitutes a State ? Not high-raised battlement, or labour'd mound, Thick wall, or moated gate ; Not cities proud, with spires and turrets crown'd • Not bays and broad- armed ports, ' Where, laughing at the storm, proud nivies ride , Not starr'd and spangled Courts, Where low.brow'd Baseness wafts perfume to Pride! No ! Men, high-minded men, With powers as far above dull brutes endued In forest, brake, or den, ' As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude;— Men who their duties know, But know their rights ; and, knowing, dare maintain I TRIAL BY JURY. Sir William Blackstone, Jud^e in the Court of Common Pleas and author of "Commentaries on the Laws of England :" 1723-1787. The Trial by Jury ever has been, and I trust ever will be looked upon as the glory of the English law. It is the most trans^ nden^ privilege which any subject can enjoy or wish for,-that Se canno be affected either in his property, his liberty, o. his person! buJ by s ituZ'^Lrr'"' '' ''''''' '' ''' °^^^^^^°-« -^ equals-l'a constitution that I may venture to affirm has, under Providonr-o 'Teatt r ' ' i"'" '' '''' "'^^^^^ ''' ^ ^-^ succession of .g! Great as this eulogium may sr m, it is no more than this admh aWe constitution, when traced to its principles, wiU be found n sober reason to deserve. The impartial admini;tra on of iusdce which secures both our persons and our properties, is Uie great end of civil society But if that be entirely entrusted to the L^ strac^ a select body o men, and those generally selected by thTpdnce m- such as enjoy the highest offices in the state, their de4 ons n sni?^ l!'."L°.^," natural integrity, will have frequently an involt^': b.a. .uwurua cnose or their own rank and dignity": it is not tn"h";'. expected from human nature that t^.fe. shouUl be alwa^Tttentive v1 k lli ill It ' I 36 TKUL BV JLliy, »n -is ^ > cal plan in all its arrangements of property, had been intolerahl,. m times of peace, had it not been wiLely couii ternoised bv ^^at privilege so universally diflused through ev^ry pa of tlt^fe ti'a by he feudal peers. And in every country on the continent as he trial by the peers has been gradually disused, so the nobL have increased .n power, till the state has been to™ to pLes bv i«l facfons andoligarehy has, in elfeet, been establishe.K ,„ ,„'f „', ! the snadow o. regal government.-nnless where the miserSte "ot LAW. 27 nions have taken shelter under absolute monarchy, as the lighter evil of the two. It is, therefore, upon the whole, a duty which every man owes to hiscountry, his friends, his posterity, and himself, to maintain to the utmost of his power this valuable constitution in all its rights • to restore it to its ancient dignity if at all impaired by the different value of property, or otherwise deviated from its first institution • to amend it wherever it is defective ; and, above all, to guard with the most jealous circumspection against the introduction of new and arbitrary modes of trial, which, under a variety of plausible pre- tences, may in time imperceptibly undermine this best preservative of English liberty. LAW. Stevens. Law is law— law is law ; and as in such and so forth and hereby, and aforesaid, provided always, nevertheless, notwithstanding. Law IS like a country dance, people are led up and down in it till they are tired. Law is like a book of surgery, there are a great many desperate cases in it. It is also like physic, they that take least of It are best off. Law is like a homely gentlewoman, very well to follovv ; law is also like a scolding wife, very bad when it tollows us. Law is like a new fashion, people are bewitched to get the^ 'Vt '' '^ ^-^^ "^® ^^^ weather, most people are glad when- We shall now mention a cause, called " Bullum versus Boatum • " It was a cause that came before me. The cause was as follows — Ihere were two farmers: farmer A. and farmer B. Farmer A [Was seized or possessed of a bull: farmer B. was seized or pos- UTA-I LTr^f • ^''^' '^' *^^^"^'' '^ '^' ferry-boat, having [made his boat fast to a post on shore, with a piece of hay, twisted lope-fashion, or, as we say, vulgo vocato, a hay-band; as it was very natura for a hungry man to do, went up town to dinner: farmer A. s bull, as it was very natural for a hungry bull to do came down town to look for a dinner; and observing,'dfscovering:^;e'^ and spying out some turnips in the bottom of the ferrv-boat the bull scrambled into the ferryboat: ate up the turnip's, and o make an end of his meal, fell to work upon the hay-baid The boat being eaten from its mooriiKr,, fionf^d ,in,.,r, *%. ,L ..^ yl thih. ' 5f°'i against a rock ; beat a hole in the bottom of the boat, and tossed the bull overboard: whereupon the owne^ of 28 LAW. ■ ^r r'„:"i;l'l7;\" °/ ' -•'t ";»"«' ■' '- «c.io„ „,.aii, the b Wow the counsel for the bull be<'an with ^avln,r . « u i , you «e,,,,..,„„,. of .,. j„,, „, ;™"°co:,t T"n,U eau' "?o;"?' hnnf H '"/ lord, the bull could no more run awav with tho ling away with ,'ain8t tlie bull, rial was given, ' >fy lord, and cause for tlie at. Now, my running bulls, ■way with the way with the is not punish- liow can we , how can wo *d, as we are :)nng the bull ould be non- 1 what colour the counsel ! be of some ur could the serving, that ; besides, as Is to talk of This cause oth bull and of the river •pinion, that, y, both bull d, upon the id whether, eby, as the 'ath be ad- I's attorney out of the eir declara- lood, or the is follows : ■ immare in THE DNC0N8CI0US CO-OPEfiATION OF MEK. 29 freshibuB vel salh'Lus rivcris, lahis, pondis, canalibus, et well boatr - sue nysten, pranm, whilini, shrimpi, turbutu, solus ; that is not turbo 8 alone, but turbots and solos both together. But now lomt the nicety of the law; the law is as nice'as a new lairc,^^^^^^^^^ not to be understood by addle-headed people. Bullum and Boatura menfoned both ebb and flood, to avoid'quibbling ; b if b ,n™ proved hat they w.re carried away neither by the tid o flood" nor by the tide of ebb, but exactly upon the top of high water tl'ev were nonsuited; but such was the lenity of he court that nnon tl^cir pacing all costs, they were allowed fo begin aga n '.i^ ^L^ THE UNCONSCIOUS CO-OPERATION OF MEN. ElCHAUD Whatelt. Archbishop of Dublin, author of works on Political Ecunomy, Logic, &c. : born 1787. """cai Most useful indeed to society, and much to be honoured, are tho<'e who possess the rare moral and intellectual endowm;nt of an enhghtened public spirit; but if none did servTceT h lie "e'but"i.r"'p";r" " "^''^^^''^''^^^ t'"«' society, I fear, woJl aie but 11. Public sp.nt. either in the form of patriotism which It. H ''' ^T^ 'f " community, or in that of philantCpy wl eh so ks the good of the whole human race, implies, not merely Vr.. ->/.../../.,, stronger than, in fact, we commonly me^wkh bu posses . As It IS, many of the most important objects are accom" I p. shed by the joint agency of persons who never thnk of them .^nor have any idea of acting in conceit; and that, with a certa nty' ..comploeness, and regulai-ity, which probably the most 1 ilnj t:M r:c^- ti^^ef '""^^ '' "'^ --- --^ -^: polls, contRining above a million of inhabitants Lot Mrl i„T„ umself a l.ead-co„missary, entrusted with th „me 'o ™, ,£ 30 THE UNCONSCIOUS CO-OPERATION OF Ml:jf. ■ Of vegetable, are of the most perishable nature. As a deficient supply of these, even for a few days, would occasion great incon- venience, 80 a redundancy of them would produce a corresponding' waste. Moreover, in a district of such vast extent, as this " pro- vince " (as it has been aptly called) " covered with houses," it is essential that the supplies should be so distributed among the different quarters, as to be brought almost to the doors of the inhabitants, at least within such a distance, that they may, w'ihont an inconvenient waste of time and labour, procure theu- dailv shares. "^ _ Moreover, whereas the supply of provisions for an army or gar- rison is cooiparatively nniform in kind; here the greatest possible vanetj/ is required, suitable to the wants of various classes of con- sumers. Again, this immense population is extremely fluctuating in numbers ; and the increase or diminution depends on causes, of which, though some may, others cannot be distinctly foreseen. The difference of several weeks in the arrival, for instance, of one of the great commercial fleets, or in the assembly or dissolution of a par- liament, which cause a great variation in the population, it is often impossible to foresee. Lastly, and above all, the dally supplies of each article must be so nicely adjusted to the stock from which it is drawn— to the scanty or more or less abundant harvest— importation or other source of supply— to the interval which is to elapse before a fresh stock can be furnished, and to the probable abundance of the new supply, that as little distress as possible may bo undergone ; that on the one hand the population may not unnecessarily be put upon short allowance of any artJcle, and that on the other hand they mav be preserved from the more dreadful risk of famine, which would ensue from their continuing a free consumption when the store was insufficient to hold out. Now let any one consider this problem in all its bearings, reflect- ing on the enormous and fluctuating number of persons to be fed— the immense quantity, and the variety of the provisions to be fur- nishcd, the importance of a convenient distribution of them, and the necessity of husbanding them discreetly ; and then let him reflect on the anxious toil which such a task would impose on a board of the most experienced and Intelligent commissioners, who, after all, would be able to discharge their office bat very inadequately. Yet this object is accomplished far better thcai it could be by any eff-ori of human wisdom, through the agency of men, who think THE UNCONSCIOUS CO-OPERATION OF MEN. 31 ;he store was each of nothing beyond his own immediate interest— who, with that object in view, perform their respective parts with cheerful zeal— and combine unconsciously to employ the wisest means for effecting an object, the vastness of which it would bewilder them even to con- template. Early and long familiarity is apt to generate a c.ireless, I might almost say a stupid, indifference to many objects, which if new to us would excite a great and a just admiration : and many are inclined even to hold cheap a stranger, who expresses wonder at what seems to us very natural and simple, merely because we have been used to it; while in fact perhaps our apathy is a more just subject of contempt than his astonishment. Moyhanger, a New-Zealander who was brought to England, was struck with especial wonder in his visit to London, at the mystery, as it appeared to him, how such an immense population could be fed, as he saw neither cattle nor crops. Many of the Londoners who would perhaps have laughed at the savage's admiration, would probably have been found never to have even thought of the mechanism which is here at work. It is really wonderful to consider with what ease and regularity this important end is accomplished, day after day, and year after year, through the sagacity and vigilance of private interest operatincr on the numerous class of wholesale and more especially retail dealers. Each of these watches attentively the demands of his neighbourhood, or of the market he frequents, for such commodities as he deals in. The apprehension, on the one hand, of not realising [all the profit he might, and on the other hand, of having his goods left on his hand, either by his laying in too large a stock or by his rivals underselling him— these acting like antagonistic muscles, re- gulate the extent of his dealings, and the prices at which he buys and sells. An abundant supply causes him to lower his prices, and thus enables the public to enjoy that abundance ; while he is guided only by the apprehension of being undersold ; and on the other hand an actual or apprehended scarcity causes him to demand a highei- price, or to keep back his goods in expectation of a rise For doing this, corn-dealers in particular are often exposed to odium, as If they were the cause of the scarcity, while in reality they are performing the important service of husbanding the snpnlvr in proportion to its deficiency, and thus warding off the calamity of lauiine ; in the samp, nmnn^r a^a *h« frvmr""--'"- -" - --...■ • - — ^■- •"'■• ^.ymmciuuci ui a, garrison or a ship regulates the allowance according to the stock, and the time it IS to last. But the dealers deserve neither censure for the scarcity which they are ignorantly supposed to produce, nor credit for tho 32 THE UNCONSCIOUS CO-OPERATION OF MEN. of this object, without inv Pnm? V ^'^?^'^^ood. And in the pursuit tl'ey co-opera'te ulo JngirTn'"o^^^^^^^^^^^ "'^'°"' '' ^^^ -^S of it safely say, no human w sdL directe^^^^^^^^ ducted so well ; the system b^- whThfh- * '"^ '^"^^ ^'^^« ^on- from day to day. ^ ^ ""^"^ ^^'' enormous population is fed in?h!rala;fl:rfttTJs1oX'^^ ^^^ --^^ ^"^ tins instance, as we as n " ' fr/?"'^'''"""^ J'^^^"^^^^ selected it for illustration's sake ^'. "' .'''''''^ ^''"^ ^■''^«'' ^ trivance and design, wUh a '^l to T '':>^'''^^^ accustomed to adnfire 7when on7J r ^'"'^''"^ '"^' ^^ ^'« are study of Natural Tl eolory) in ?I o . '" '\ ^'''^^" ^^ '^'^ ^y the and in the instincts ^t^e b .t "e'l ioT" rT"'r ^'^'^^ ^^^^'' Jieart, the ramifications of vessel, in th?i "^'^^P^J^^atlons of the arteries and of the veins-tTe t le" wh S 'r^''/^'"^" '' *''« ^notion of the blood-all the.o ovMhv P?'''"' ^^' retrograde mechanical mcnns towards thopn^v^ 7"^'''^"^ oombinaUon of ing system. But TnTw i^t '"17"' f ?^^«'^"^^' *''« ^ircnlat- excite our admiratioifof t."e benS; ^T "'^ '^^" ^^'" "^''^ contemplate, not corpore Ipi^^^fcerbutT. '"^ r'/^""'"^"^^' *^ operating in systems no less man S.h ' . '' '^'"^^^' ^«- design of theirs; and though a^ted on^i, '/t''''"^" ^'''^"' ^'^ "« Puise like inert Matter, bu bvTnH ' ..^^ g'-avita(ion and im- advancing as regularly' and ns'efaXr^^^^^^ V}' "^"' ^'^^ object they never conLmplated as if fn "'^^»^P''«J^°^ent of an H'lieels of a machine. If one tav lu^'l ""'''' "^'"'^y '^' Pa^^-'ve more or less in reference to ^I.rJnTi'*. ^/^^""'P^io" speak of a ^^ay, that the branch of Nrtun, TleL '''f' ''"''''^' ' -ould concerned, presents to the reflectivP .^ Y ^'''^ '"^''^'^ ^'« ^''^ "^^v tl'an any other. The eavens 1 f VT. '''''' "^^''^ ^^^'''king God;" and the human body 3'' fearfnlf"* 7'''''' '''' ^^^^^ ^t l^«tma,;con-idered not miely as a^ U"; • "r^'.^:''""^' "^^^^^'^ rational agent, and as a member of in^w'"^ ^''"^' ^"^ «« a wonderfully contrived, and triTtl T^^' '' P''*'''P« ^^^ '^ost divine wisdom that we'hTve fnylno.lX of '"^" ^^"•'"^" ^^ MEN. Jrform. Tiiey are ^nd in the pursuit or any need of it, em which, we may :1 could have con- s population is kd n there surely is, lly produced. In rs, from which I me marks of con- end, as we are n to them by the ture of the body, )ulsatlons of the ! direction of the t the retrograde 1 combination of ed, the circulat- even still more Providence, to Vee agents, co- design, yet no itation and im- the will, yet )lishment of an ely the passive •ion speak of a isdom, I M'ould !h we are now more striking ' the glory ot rfnlly made;'^ "'"g, but as a fjaps the most ? specimen of REQUISITES OF PRODUCTION. 33 REQUISITES OF PRODUCTION. John Stuart Mill, the most distinguished living writer on ijolitical economy ; born 1806. ■ The requisites of production are two 5 labour, and appropriate natural objects. Labour is either bodily or mental ; or, to express the distinction more comprehensively, either muscular or nervous ; and it is neces- sary to include in the idea, not solely the exertion itself, but all feelings of a disagreeable kind, all bodily inconvenience or mental annoyance connected with the employment of one's thoughts or muscles, or both, in a particular occupation. Of the other requisite — appropriate natural objects — it is to be remarked that some objects exist or grow up spontaneously, of a kind suited to the supply of human wants. There are caves and hollow trees capable of affording shelter ; fruit, roots, wild honey, and other natural products on which human life can be supported ; but even here a considerable quantity of labour is generally required, not for the purpose of creating, but of finding and appropriating them. In all but these few and (except in the very commencement of human society) unimportant cases, the objects supplied by nature are only instrumental to human wants, after having undergone some degree of transformation by human exertion. Even the wild animals of the forest and of the sea, from which the hunting and fishing tribes derive their sustenance, — though the labour of which they are the subject is chiefly that re- quired for appropriating them — must yet, before they are used as food, be killed, divided into fragments, and subjected in almost all cases to some culinary process, which are operations requiring a certain degree of human labour. The amount of transformation which natural substances undergo before being brought into the shape in which they are directly applied to human use, varies from this or a still less degree of alteration in the nature and appearance of the object, to a change so total that no trace is perceptible of the original shape and structure. There is little resembfance between a piece of a mineral substance found in the earth, and a plough, an axe, or a saw. There is less resemblance between porcelain and the decomposing granite of which it is made, or between sand mixed with a-weed, and glass. The difference is greater still between the tlcccG of a sheep, or a handful of cotton seeds, and a web of muslin or broad- cloth ; and the sheep and seeds themselves are not spontaneous growths, but results of previous labour and care. la c 31 I REQUISITES OF PRODUCTIOIf. 01 forms and proper, J1Xc°3'hvh ' " ',"" "" '"'" '""J-'"'" energies by wl.ici, it Co oSes "^^ '"""''' " '■"» ''<^'"- subslitule for labour. I,° he earlv ' ' "l"^ ''"" "" »«<«) "^ a into fl„,„. by pounding it bet ,e ,^ 7Z' -,?'" '"T""^ ""'"■ »'" eontrivance which enabled tl em V', ■""' ' "'">■ "«' '»' on a Of the stones revolve up™ ZVVZZfkV'''"'''^ '° """'^ «- proved, is still the eommon prac fee 'of ,1,1^ '"'"™'*'' * ""'" ''">- f«rli„„, ho>vever, whieh it Cui "d wl ^""- ^''^ ™"^™l'"- i-g, i..som„eh that it was of e„ l.,T? '-^ """""' ^""^ ^"'"""st- who had Offended their maste s W 1 ,T V'""'"""""' '"' ^'"^^ labour and sufferings of slam wer. tt . "' """"^ "' "'"''^l' 'to gioater part of this boi ly ex "L„ t^? '' 7''"! '^<='"'on"^i..& the contriving that the nppe.- s^o.^" o™d b rl'to ""'r^-'^"'-^'' ">' lower, not by human strengri, but bv fh^r ?""™ "''»" ""= falling water. I„ thi= ca^e n f,, i ^ '^"'''^'' °^ "'o W""! or of ■ion of the water, a'^e „S t"d ! So^; ''^T' V' '""''^- done by labour. poition of the work previously are apt to suggest an erroneous noM„' „f T" """'' '"""'■•■" "gent, of labour and natural powers a"ifth",l""' ""'"P^^'ivo functions Of labour andlatural pow -s „ if Z°' "" '^"'"Parativo funcTion «itU human indust.y ,vere liiitd '^V°-»l=«™"0" of H-ose power, "-de ,0 perform wh'at woul ™m'L^ r.!?\-, -^ch they ar, " =.de to perform what would otherwise V! d™ b , f """ "">' '"o tl.o case of things made (as the nhra e i=\ k 7 '""""''f "' "' in only passive materials. This i. ™ ilia S ^' t'"' ""'"''^ '■"™i-'''ed are as actively operative in th -on" "•- !,"" P"""'''^ "f n">"o man takes a stalk of the flax or hen^n It? I" "'f- "'''"'■ ^ "ork- fibres, twines together several of heT h"^ '' 'l'"' " '""> ^^Parate by a simple i^ru.nent caH da 'Life™ ,"'"''''' '''''"^'■'' "W^" tb read, he lays many such breads if h' T"^ """^ '"""'»' a similar threads directly across them so M,^f '"'?' ""'' P'"--™^ ""'er over and under those wMch a eTt Z "f"'' ''"'^^^ alternately the process being facilitated l,vn„ * ""^''' '" "-"■is Part of bas now produced a eb o^ctoth ^•^"'7'"' '''"=" » ^"""1'^ Ke REQUISITES OF PBODUCTION. 35 remely dissimilar stoin of language cn'als; she also in inert iecipient '« ; it has active Pii be used as a 'Cited their corn 3y next hit on a lie, to malie one •ess, a little im- The muscular e and exhaust- mcnt for slaves ne at which the 30noniizirig, the ^necessary, by voive upon the the wind or of or the gravita- ork previously bour has been natural agent, ^tive functions ' tliose powers 'hich they are oui-; as if, in lUre furnished ers of nature ■]'- A work- into separate •ngers, aided »s formed a places other s alternately -this part of liuttle. Ke loth, accord- ^7 Jjand, no t Avith him. ed possible, and tiie web, when produced, held together? By the tenacity, or force of cohesion, of the fibres : which is one of the forces of nature, and which we can measure exactly against other mechanical forces, and ascertain how much of any of them it suffices to neutralise or counterbalance. If we examine any other case of what is called the action of man v.i>ou nature, we shall find in like manner that the powers of nature, or, in other words, the properties of matter, do all the work, when once objects are put into the right position. This one operation, of putting tilings into fit places for being acted upon by their own I internal forces, and by those residing in other natural objects, is all * that man does, or can do, with matter. He only moves one thing to or from anotlier. He moves a seed into the ground, and thv I natural forces of vegetation produce in succession a root, a stem, leaves, fl vers, and fruit. He moves an axe through a tree, and it falls by ilie natural force of gravitation ; he moves a saw through it, in a particular manner, and the physical properties by which a I softer substance gives way before a harder, make it separate into planks, Mhich he arranges in certain positions, with nails driven through them, or adhesive matter between them, and produces a table, or a house. He moves a spark to fuel, and it ignites, and by the force generated in combustion it cooks tlie food, melts or softens the iron, converts into beer or sugar the malt or cane-juice, which he has previously moved to the spot. He has no other means ol acting on matter than by moving it. Motion, and resistance to motion, are the only things which his muscles are constructed for. By muscular contraction he can create a pr* sure on an outward object, which, if sufficiently powerful, will set it in motion, or if it be already moving, will check or modify or altogether arrest its motion, and he can do no more. But this is enough to have given all the command which mankind have acquired over natural forces immeasurably more powerful than themselves; a command which, great as it is already, is without doubt destined to become inde- . finitely greater. He exerts this power either by availing himself of ^.natural forces in existence, or by arranging objects in those mixtures ,^wid combinations by which natural forces are generated ; as when ■mhy putting a lighted match to fuel, and water into a boiler over it, ^^ne generates the expansive force of steam, a power which has been jmade so largely available for the attainment of human purposes. ,^i: Labour, then, in the i)liysicai world, is always and solely em- ^7 ployed in putting objects in motion; the properties of matter, tho ,|laws of nature, do the rest. The skill and ingenuity of human fi 3PU ON THE DIVISION OP LABOUB. beings are chiefly exercised in discovering movements, practicable by then- powers, and capable of bringing about the efTects which they desire But, while movement is the only effect which man can immediately and directly produce by his muscles, it is no nee ssary tliat he should produce directly by them all 'the move' ments which he requires. The first and most obvious substitute s the muscular action of cattle : by degrees the powers of inanima e things already m motion, communicate a part of their mof ,.: o t\l wheels, which before that invention were made to - hv muscular force. This service is extorted from the power. w\ml and water by a set of actions, consisting, like the former, in movin. is to'rT '" ' T ''?"" P'^'^'^"^^' '■" '''''''' ''^^'y ««"«^^t„te what IS termed a machine ; but the muscular action necessary for this is not constantly renewed, but performed once for all, and there i. on the whole a great economy of labour m si ,''S ^ '•*« •8 ai C} % of § b3 M III 1 sh J W J I be •| th '% lot ON THE DIVISION OF LABOUR. Adam Smith, the father of the science of Political Economy, Professor in the University of Glas-ow, 1725-90. 'oiessor in ce.y ^m be easily understood by taking an example from a very tiiflmg manufacture-namely, the trade of a pin-maker. This busi- ness IS divided into a number of branches, of which the greater part are peculiar trades. One man draws out the wire ; another straighfens foi leceiving the head; to make the head requires two or hree distinct operations ; to put it on is a distinct business; to whiten in'o^tl"e vxZ ' ^"*^ '* '' "''"" ^ ""^^'^^^ ^'^^^ '^ I^"' ^''^"^ . Pin-making being thus divided into distinct operations, a small manufactory consisting of ten persons, and but indifferently accom- njodated with the necessnry machinery, can produce forty-eiH.t thousand pins m a day. Each person may thei-efore be considered as making four thousand eight hundred pins in a day ; but had thev wrought separately and independently, the best workman amont them could not have made twenty, and perhaps not one, pin a dav" whth^ i'k ^"'- '^ "'' ""''^^"'' "^"^" ""'' '^ i" manufactnres n ^nr««,«v,'~ i "^ '" Z ^'""^'^'"'"^ »erc originally the inventions of common workmen, who, being each of them employed in some very ■X ents, practicable he effects which ffect which man iscles, it is not » all the move- vious substitute ers of inanimate ! wind, or water, ir mot" '»: 'o t\ib to I. by powers ivlnd mer, in moving constitute what 5sary for this is and there is on ON THE DIVISION OF LABOUR. 37 ly, Professor in business of so- le from a very 3r. This busi- he greater part her straightens it at the top two or hree iss; to whiten to put them Ltions, a small srently accom- ce forty-eight be considered but had they rkman amonnr ne, pin a day. inufactures in inventions of in some very simple operation, naturally turned their thoughts towards findinreparmg that beautiful and happy invention ;_if we eSne all m iff 38 tul; song of the shirt. these things and consider what a variety of labour is employed about each of tliem, we shall be sensible that, without, the a.sis ance and co-operation of many thousands, the ver^ meano per^ fn a cmb.ed country could not be provided, even according ^to wha we very falsely imagine the easy and simple manner in which he i commonly accommodated. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. Thomas Hood, the most popular of English humorous poets : 1798-1,945. ill "With fingers weary and worn, AVith eyehils heavy and redi A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying- her needle and thread- Stitch ! stitch J stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; And stiU with a voice of dolorous pitch. She sang the " Song of the Shirt." " Work ! work ! work ! While the cock is crowing aloof ' And work— work— work, Till the stars shine through the It s oh to 1)6 a slave [roof ' Along witii the barbarous Turk, ' VVherc a Avoman has never a soul to If this is Cliristian work ! [save, " Work— work— work. Till the brain begins to swim ! Work— work— work, Till tlie eyes are heaw and dim ' beam, and gusset, and band. Band, and gusset, and seam- Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream ! " O men, with sisters dear ! O men, with mothers and wives ! It js not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives ! Stitch— stitch— stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt— bowing at once, with a double thcoad, A eiiroud as well as a shirt 1 so " But why do I talk of death— That phantom of grislv bone? I hardly fear his tcrrible'shape. It seems so like my own- It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep : God! that bread should be dear. And flesh and blood so cheap ! " Work— work— work ! My labour never flags ; And what are its wages ?— A bed of straw, A crust of bread and rags. That shattered roof— and this naked floor — A table— a broken chair — And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there ! " Work— work— Avork ! From weary chime to chime J Work— work— work— As prisoners work for crime ! Band, and gusset, and seam. Seam, and gusset, and band- Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed. As well as the weary hand. " Work— work — work. In the dull December light ! And work— work— work, When tiie weather is Warm and bright ! — THE ORIGIN OP MONEY. 30 'ur is employed ut the assistance est person in a ing to what we in which he is ets: 1798-1845. k of death— ' grisly bone ? rrible shape, my own — own, ists I keep : id should be so )od so cheap ! rk! flags; igcs ?— A bed of md rags. -and this naked 1 chair — :, my shadow 1 ling there ! k! 3 to chime J for crime ! d seam, and l)and — , and the brain ry hand. )er light ! ork, ' is Warm and While underneath the caves The brooding swallows cling. As if to show me tlioir sunny backs, And twit me with the Spring. " Oh but to breatlie the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet ! For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel. Before 1 knew the woes of want, And the walk that costs a meal ! " Oh but for one short hour — A respite however brief ! Xo blessed leisure for love or hope, 13ut only time for grief } my A little weeping woild case lieart; But in their briny bed My tears must stopj for everv drop Hinders needle and thread ! " With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in imwomanly rags, riying her needle and thread- Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch — Would that its tone could reach the rich ! — She sang this " Song of the Shirt ! " THE ORIGIN OF MONEY. Whateley's Political Economy. J DO not design to enter at present on the multifarious and imoorc- ant inquiries which pertain to the subject of money. It will suffice for our present purpose to state, that by money I mean any commo- dity in general request wliich is received in exchange for other commodities, not for the purpose of being directly used by the party receiving it, (for that is barter,) but for tlie purpose of being again parted with m exchange for something else. It is not the very commodity which the party wants, or expects hereafter to want • but It is a security or pledge that he may obtain tliat commodity whenever lie wants it from those who have it to spare. The herds- man who needed, or expected hereafter to need, a supply of corn might, ir he could not otherwise arrange an exchange, be wiUino- to part with some of his cattle for cloth of which he had no need, iu^the expectation of being able to exchange that again for corn, with some one who either needed the cloth or would accept it in the same manner as he had done. The cloth would serve the purpose of money till it should reach the hands of one who designed to keep it for his own nse. And there are some parts of Africa, it appears, where pieces of cloth, of a certain definite size and quality, consti- tnte the current coin, if I may so speak, of the conntrv Tn oth-r parts, again, of Africa, wedges of salt are said to be applied to the same purpose. ^ 40 I THE ORIGIN OF MONEV. B the herdsman wonld probably prefer receiving in this manner nst ad of any articles of food or clothing which he did not himself r.J ^ , ' f f '''' "''^"■' ""' '■^'"^'^ ^''^"'^ "•• atones; not only as Dlav i L " "^ M^ "''^'"'^ '^^ nsed-viz., for the purpose of dis- play, til he should have occasion to part with them, a.u could then be parted without any inconvenience. Accordiugi; the prevad n tendency has ahvays been to adnpt as a mediu„/of exda. ' n preference to all others, articles of an ornamental cluu- cte p° I "l for their beauty and rarity, such as the silver and gold whidi have ong been much the most extensively used for tld pu^ s -t e cowry shells, admired for making necklaces, and very genera ly u d money throughout an extensive region in Africa~?he po cela ne shells employed in like manner in some parts of the East Indie o"li r^JHindofb^'r ^^ ^'-, "-'- American In^.^ Articles of this kind, as traffic increased, would come to be col lected and stored up in much greater quantities than thei cnt n , destmat.on for purposes of ornament could have called for bu IS from ;/.«/ no doubt, that they must originally have be r^ in de rnand smce it is inconceivable that all the members of arr^ one com-' mti;' formal :" ^'^-^ "i;?'""' '^'""^^ "^ ^^« «-' instance i^e made a foimal agreement arbitrarily to attach a value to somethin-' Which had not been before at all regarded by them. It is said tt at this day among some half civilised nations the women adorn them selves with strings of gold coins. But silver plate, and gold or ^Ht ornaments are, I believe, iu use, and that to a very lar^e amom among all nations who employ those metals as moLy. sIm ye r^ ago I remember hearing an estimate of the gold annually consumed IU gilding alone, in the one town of Birmi.^ham, as amount n"' one thousand pounds weight, or about £50,000 worth f..-i V!^ ;"'" P™P^'''^ ^as secured, and when exchanges were facditated by the intervention of money, the use of thisledium would re-act on the division of labour, and extend l because then any one who could produce any commodity in general ren nest wnnl be sure of employing himself beneficially inVoduin^ the particular persons who wanted that commodity ?ou d no" sunnl h.m m return with the precise articles he had need of They woud now be able to purchase it of hJni for ^hit \^ --s^ - " ' • might procure from others what he wat'ed! ^ ^ '"' '''"''''" g in this mannor e did not himself ich as a bracelet es; not only as lould be used by i purpose of dis- , and could then Y the prevailing of exchange, in haracter, prized old, which have is purpose — the y generally used —the porcelaine he East Indies, Indians, which id used both as 3ome to be col- i their original led for ; but it ve been in de- f any one com- ; instance have e to somethin'' It is said that en adorn them- nd gold or gilt large amount, . Some years ^ ally consumed amounting to changes were this medium because then 'equest would , even though Id not supply They would for which he THE BANKING SYSTtll. THE BANKING SYSTEM. 41 J. Hamilton Fyfe, the author of many popular books illustrating social progress. The extension of our foreign trade naturally stimulated mercantile and industrial activity at home. The woollen and linen manufac- tures took a wider range. Tin and lead were raised and smelted m larger quantities. Money became more plentiful, and people were more anxious to invest their citpital at intere!:t instead of hoarding It in strong-boxes at home. The increase of wealth, and the com- plicated operations of trade, led to a new occupation. Merchants lound it more convenient to place their funds in the hands of an agent, and to give an order upon him for any sum they owed, than to cany the money about with them, and to pay for whatever they purchased in hard cash. The jewellers, who were in the habit o'f dealing in the precious metals, and who had cellars expressly intended for storing bullion, naturally adopted this new branch of business, and added banking to their other avocations of money changing and money lending. It was in this way, for instance, that George Heriot amassed the fortune which he afterwards devoted so nobly to tiie foundation of the well-known hospital which bears his name. From private bankers the next advance was to a national bank. The Bank of Venice, the first of its kind, dated from the thirteenth century ; and the Bank of St George, at Genoa, was nearly as old. It was not, however, till 1G07, that Amsterdam possessed a similar establishment ; and the Bank of England was ? founded in 1694. William Pato.son, a Scotch merchant of eminent _ talent and sagacity, who was afterwards the author of the ill-fated : Daneu scheme, drew up the plan of this institution. His sole re- r- ward was, that, being a shareholder in the concern, he was quietly elbowed out of it as soon as it began to pay. The scheme was entirely successful. The whole capital of £1,200,000 was sub- scribed m ten days, although, as Macaulay observes, it was a.s difhcn.t t.,en to raise such a sum at eight per cent., as it now would be raise £30,000,000 at four per cent. The capital was quad- rupled earo- in the last century; it was doubled again before the miuaie ot it, and it now amounts to over £11,000,000 The aver age paper currency is £20,000,000 a year; and the Bank generally possesses bullion in its cellars to the amount of about £16,500,000. in addition to other securities valued at £30,000,000. ■ 42 ■ JACQUES LAFITTE. JACQUES LAFITTE. /at;;::'::""™ ;"„;';'•: '^..^^r"" ""/;•=""'''• '*' ^ ^" "'» clm.fl, owing .0 th' C ,,s oM i Ln ■ ":;'m "■""•""""• •""' .here was , hat of a„ er^nd-bo, rZ" ffloe V rf""'""''''' Km engagement tliero, although very well known hLT-\ ' and signifieant to be omitted in this noHce ' " """'"'"« in ": 'iTe^l^^t^'tl!^' Z.'"r ';T T '■""' '^»-™"-' """ -""<' wearied a, wo , -0 by ;-av ra^/tr ""' T'""'^-'- ^^^ ™^ ascer.ai„Cere\he offiee of'fhf , ?'• "'' ""' ""''"''' -»« '» with tremiiloiis anx ety, waited thp r^^nU tk * , ' ' favniirnhin Tu« "'ineu rne rebiilt. a hat result was un- tavourable. The poor young man turned from the door inlZlt failed hi.; and now he :^::^.:ur'f;.J'^:z^Zrn^ c-paal-ueank«, like all e.pitais, to the friendlesf and the poo.l JACQUES LAFITTE. 43 g the triumpliB of ^4, 17C7. Ills ■t'pntation, but, onsititod of ten 9> lie does not I ; at all events, It what lie was •'and. That a rise to be the during such a St be regarded naiy qualities, doni and care, start in Jife in s might prove ipprenticeship ed to the me- nd the means for his family 'aris, and his 00 interestino- , and arrived 3s. He was utterly wlth- :ock-in-trade a first-class iarance, and, Ifast resolu- ness was to and then to •tunate as to letter, and, lilt was un- 3or in silent 3 his steps; e hope had nd heartless the poor — withont a homo and without a friend. As lie was passing througli the court-yard, some small object on the ground attracted his eye. It was nothing more than a common pin, which nevertheless he stooped to pick up, and stuck it in his sleeve. This seemingly in- dilTorent act was not indifferent in the view of the rich banker, who hnppcncd to observe it, as he looked accidentally from the window. He saw in the act the pledge and the germ of carefulness and thrift, and that respect for littles which lies at the basis of all true in- dustry and all enlightened finance. The consequence was, that he called him back, and gave him a trial In some very subordiualo department of his establishment. This was all that was necessary for such a person as Lafitte. FTc only required to get a footing, however humble — to be put on trial, in short — in order to his achieving for himself a position of respect and coniidence in relation to his employer. In addition to his moral and intellectual qualities, he had a fine outward appearance, and a frank, manly, and courteous manner. And this last is by no means to be despised by young men. It is not a substitute for more ster- ling qualifications, but neither is it incompatible with them, and it nndoiibtedly tends in no small degree to facilitate their recognition, and to clear, in a general way, the path of the young man towards ultimate success. Accordingly, we find that young Lafitte soon secured the confi- 1 dence of the banker, and rose rapidly in his esteem. He found thM that carefulness which was manifested by the pickin'r up of the pin was associated with sterling principle, generous instincts, and even •* great breadth and grasp of mind. He found also that he was gifted , with the faculty of close application to his duties, systematic arrange- ^•ment of his work, and, together with the power of controlling his •'own thoughts, an openness of mind to receive the suggestions of others, and a readiness to turn them to good account. Although he had only entered the establishment of M. Perregeaux as a super- V numerary clerk, at a salary of £48 per annum, he had not been ^^" there two years when he was appointed book-keeper to the whole '^1 establishment. This was in 17S9. In 1792, again, he was made J cashier; in 1800, chief clerk and manager; junior partner in 1804; M ^^^' ^" *'^^ ^C'^itii of Perregeaux in 1809, he became sole partner of the concern. Thus, in the course of twenty years, or rather less, this youth, who had arrived in Paris without a sou in his pocket, ^ and without a friend to look to, rose through all the intermediate J steps, beginning as a mere supernumerary, until he had attained to ^ the highest and most influential commercial position in France. * 1 8 • 'A ^ ^ 1 1 ij THE MENTAL SCIENCES. All systems of knowledge are the accumulations of that power to which your attention has already been directed, the human mind. If there is found any order or beauty in the arrangement of in- formation under such systems, these result from the constitution of the mind that made the arrangement. Every thought that passes through our minds is formed after a certain model, is constituted iu accordance with the laws which the mind imposes upon it. Thus, when we think " Alexander the Great was a conqueror," we form what is termed a judgment, consisting of a subject, Alexandet- the Great, a predicate or attribute, a conqueror, and a copula or connect- ing link, was. Again, when we reason thus — All stones are heavy. Flint is a stone ; Therefore, flint is heavy, we pursue a mode of argument called a syllogism, from a Greek word which means reckoning together. Finally, although this is generally placed first, we divide all the objects of thought into several classes. Now, what is one object in nature may be°a whole c'ass of objects in thought ; as, for instance, we may think of a piece of gold as a substance, as yellow, as our own, as one ounce in weight, as seen at a cevtnin timo tin(\ in a /.pvfo;^, r>i"-" — i -- Each of these is a separate object of thought, and would be classified as substance, quality, relation, quantity, &c. There are mauv THE MENTAL SCIENCES. 45 at power to umau mind, ment of in- nstitution of that passes mstituted hi a it. Thus, r," we form lexander the or coniiect- >m a Greek ugh this is lought into be a whole think of a ne ounce in — 1 „ _ - _ aiiu Bu un. De classified are mauv otfier ways m which the Dbjects of thought or conception, as they are called may be regarded. It appears, therefore, that thought consists of three elements, namely, conception, judgment, and reasoning These three elements are the objects of the Science of Logic, which deals with the laws that govern thought. The word logic 18 from the Greek, and signifies pertaining to reason, or dis- course, for it is by speech that our reasoning powers are manifested In order to think at all, it is necessary that we should have something to think about. If we examine our thoughts, we will tind that they are occupied principally with the objects that appear and the circumstances that take place in the world. These make impressions upon our senses ; and our minds, which are not enclosed in the brain, but are present in every part of our organism, perceive m become conscious of them. The impression, we call sensation, and the act of perceiving, perception. But if our knowledge of things depended upon these alone, we should not, at any one time J.ave more thoughts in our minds than were excited by present facts and phenomena. This, however, we know not to be the case, since If It were so, there could be no such thing as learning ; and the reason why it is not so is, that we possess a faculty called mentor,, Jn addition to sensation, perception, and memory, we have a faculty of conc^/w« or imagination, whereby we can call np bef()re ;|>ur minds things that we have never perceived ; and other, jerhaps, that never existed. There are many other faculties, such is comparison, analysis, composition, abstraction, and judgment: #11 these belong to what is called the understanding, and are the faculties most in use among men in general. It is asserted how- «ver by some philosophers, or lovers of luisdom, as the term mean<5 |nd denied as strenuously by others, that there is in man a highei^ |-inc.ple than that of miderstanding, namely, reason, whereby he ^^ceiyes ideas and trains of thought not suggested by the external iFoi-ld at an. These ideas and tiain of thought refbr to three great objects about which we can otherwise gain little certain informa- tion, and which are the Soul, the Universe, and God. When ph. osophers say that we can know little upon these subjects with |erta.nty, otherwise than by reason, they do not mean to set aside f nr observations upon the workings of our own minds, and the •fnotions of the soul, nor to call in question the testimony of our Jonses to all that we perceive in the external world, or of our to y.u^. ih^y infer nom it; nor yet is it their intention ^ disparage the revelation which God has made to man : but they look upon reason as the only source of demonstrative Jcnow- \ I n 1 pi s s 46 THE MENTAL SCIENCES. ledge, or, in other words, of knowledge that may be proved as conclusively as an exerci?e in arithmetic, or a problem in the higher mathematics. They distinguish, therefore, between the knowledge we have of these three great subjects by means of our senses, by calling it empirical, from a Greek word which signifies pertaining to experience, and that which is brought to us by reason, which they cull ritional, a Latin word that means pertaining to reason. _ After these explanations, you will understand the two points of view from which the following sciences are to bo regarded. We have, first, the science of the Soul, or Psychology, a Greek word meaning simply a discourse about the soul. Empirical psychology, is that division which treats of the faculties of the mind alluded to above, and all the powers and emotions which go to make up the spiritual nature of man ; everything in this half is gained by ob- servation or experience. But rational psychology sa} , What is the soul ? Is it one and simple, or does it consist of many parts V Can It be increased or diminished ? Such are a few of the questions which rational psychology puts to itself and attempts to solve, —questions, you will perceive, that no amount of observation could throw any liyht upon. The next science is that of the Universe, or Cosmology, from a Greek word signifying a discourse about the world. That part of the science which is included under the physical sciences is em- pirical cosmology, since these sciences are built up from observa- tions made by the senses. There is, however, a science of rational cosmology, which seeks to discover the origin of the world and ot the universe which contains it, to know whether these are eternal and whether their component parts can be annihilated or not. It also inquires into the nature of what we call matter and force, as distinguished from mind, and takes up all these questions concerniu<' material things >vhich cannot be solved by the exercise of any lower poAver than that of the supposed reason. The third and the greatest subject of philosophy is God, the In- finite Being, creating, preserving, and governing all things. The science, which aims at a knowledge of One whose humblest attri- butc so far transcends the most exalted conceptions of the human mmd, is called Theology ; also from the Greek, and meaning « dis- course about God. Empirical theology is that knowledge of God which we gam by means of natural theology, or the evidences of a wise, almighty, and beneficent First Cause, visible in the works of nature and of itevelation, the method by which He has deigned to make Himself known to our rebellions race. Kational theolo-y y be proved as em in the higher I the knowledge f our senses, by fies pertaining to ison, which they reason, he two points of regarded. We , a Greek word xl psychology, is niiid alluded to to make up the ' gained by ob- • sa} , What is of many parts? of the questions ;mpts to solve, )servation could imology, from a That part of sciences is em- p from observa- iuco of rational 3 world and ol 3se are eternal, ted or not. It '• and force^ as ;ons concerning xercisti of any s God, the In- l things. The nimblest attri- of the human neaning a dis- vledge of God evidences of a the works of e has deigned ional theology THE MENTAL SCIENCES. 47 i.> a science which we can suppose little or no necessity for, now that Revelation dispenses with reason's shadowy light, althonch in ithe time of the Greek and Roman philosophers, wh^o had no Wo, d of God to shine upon their path, such a science was not only le-iti- [mate, but worthy of all respect. ^ *= l.nJR.I'""'VTi'"r '^ ^''''"'' P^^ychology, Rational Cosmology, land Rational Iheology, are generally ranked under the one head o Imetaphysics a word which I shall proceed to explain. When the celebrated philosopher Aristotle, who flourished about three h. ! idred and fifty years before Christ, had completed a treatise npon physics, or ,he physical sciences as he understood them, he added hereto a small collection of writings npon the first principles of all h.ngs, such as you have found the three rational sciences to be oncerncd with These detached writings have no particular title' t^c^m l''^^^' l^''-' "'"'"'' '•'*■'" ^'""^•'•^J y'^'' l^ter Androni^ en n ,° '.''' ^'"''^^ '° ''''^^ '' ^^'^'^^^^ ^^e productions of the Jieat philosopher, he placed this small collection next in order to 4^'e physics calling them meta-ta-p/>>/sica, or after the physics .Vhence we derive that bone of contention among the learned and .fnjbear to ignorant people, the word metaphysici ' innYr'' ^'^^ P"«'-''^l t'tl« «f the mental sciences is frequently |anked one which we have considered in our last lesson, thelc en e |f ethics or morals. Since the terms social and mental by ^ fc ans exclude one another, forming what is called an illo.icll t de'ed t t "' ''''" ''''''''' '' '''' ^'^-^^-^« - -' tJ be wondeied at. It is unnecessary to say more upon a subject which las already ,-eceived a considerable share of our attention. Ihe last of the mental sciences, and the one with which our les- jpn. upon systems of knowledge conclude, is that which deals with the painful or pleasurable sensations we experience in gazi^. uno„ WO'ks of nature and art. Thus, a beautiful landscape T pSn C ^e harmonious sound of a musical performance, or i group of "t-' ^ary, excite in the well-instructed breast feelings of adnii at'on Ind Z7ZT !''f '' ^^^^•«^'°"' ^^'^i'« «ther objectsin which an rmont |i disgust -l) 1th such emotions, with that which excites thosP nf .|pIe..uraWe nature, and which we call beauty, wUhXfi Hru C ic ";t 'r'T '': ''''''' '' ^^^»^«^'^^ i^ concerned Je .. ,A,cr^„a«, aiihough It 18 now understood as apDlviuLr ox ^ ill 48 ELEMENTS OF LOGIC. The Mental Sciences. Empirical Psychology. Empirical Cosmology, Empirical Theology. 1. Logic. 2. Metaphysics. 3. Ethics. 4. -Esthetics. r Rational Psychology. •< Rational Cosmology. (Rational Theology. All the sciences are included under the one title of Philosophy, a Greek word meaning (he Lve of wisdom. If we would aspiie to any position of importance among our fellow-men, we must learn to study our own mind. The mind is the instrument with Avhich we ac(iuire all knowledge ; and it is, therefore, of the highest im- portance, that that instrument should be in good condition. The mower, who gathers in the golden Jir./vest, looks well to his scythe, that it be right and sharp, lost he throw away his strength to no purpose ; so if we would reap a plentiful crop of knowledge, our minds must be completely furnished for their task, and be kept bright, sharp, and shining by constant use. You have now before you a complete map of the great domain of science. It is, however, only an outline map. You yourselves must fill up its broad blank spaces with facts and figures, names and dates, reasons and arguments, the accumulation of past years and centuries. Who knows but tiiat in time to come your own name may shine forth upon the page of some one of lis divisions as a benefactor of the human race, and a contributor to the complete- ness of these systems of knowledge which we have so pleasantly surveyed together ? ELEMENTS OF LOGIC. Leonard Euler, a Swiss, Professor of Matlu-matics at Berlin and St Peters- burgh: 1707-1783. (From his Letters to a Qernian Princess.) The senses only represent to us objects which have an actual exist- ence outside of us, and all ideas of sensation refer to these objects ; but from these ideas of sensation the mind forms many others, which are indeed derived from these, but do not represent things actually existing. For instance, when I see the full moon, and fix my atten- tion simply upon Its shape, I form the idea of roundness ; but I dare not say that roundness exists by itself. The moon, indeed, is round, 1_J I ELEMENTS OF LOGIO. 49 il Psj'chology. il Cosmology. il Theology. of Pliiioscpliy, a would aspire to , we must learn lent with Avhich the highest ini- condition. The iU to his scythe, 1 strength to no knowledge, ou: 3k, and be kept le great domain YoH yourselves } figures, names n of past years come your own ' iis divisions as :o the coiiiplete- 'e so pleasantly rlin and St Peters- ) an actual exist- o these objects ; ny others, which things actually id fix my atten- ness ; but I dare ndecd, is round, ^Dt th« ronnd figure has no existence apart from the moon. It ia |tbe same with legard to all other figures ; and when I see a tri- ingular or square table, I can liave the idea of a triangle or of a iquare, although such a figure never exists by itself, or apart from real object shaped in such a manner. Ideas of numbers have a J'similar origin : having seen two or three persons or other objects, the mind forms the idea of two or of three, which is no longer com- bined with that of persons. Having already arrived at the idea of three, the mind can proceed further, and form for itself ideas of larger numbers, of four, five, six, ten, a hundred, a thousand, &c., without having ever seen exactly so many things together. It is in sucli a case that the mind display^^ a new faculty called abstraction, which is exercised when the ni!. .. fixes its attention Solely upon one quantity or quality of the object which it separates from it, and considers as if no longer attached to that object. For instance, when I touch a hot stone, and fix my attention simply upon the heat, I form the idea of heat, which is no longer attached to the stone. That idea of heat is formed by abstraction, since it is separated from the stone, and because the mind might have obtained the same idea by touching a piece of hot wood, or by plunging the hand into hot water. It is thus that the mind, by means of abstrac- tion, forms a thousand other ideas of the quantities and properties of objects, separating them from the objects themselves ; as when 1 see a red coat, and fix my whole attention npon the colour, I form the idea of red apart from that of the coat ; and it is easily «een that a red flower, or any other body of the same colour, could Jiot fail to lead to the same idea. Ideas thus acquired by abstraction are called notions, in order to distinguish them from ideas of sensation, which represent things actually existing. • There is still another kind of notions formed also by abstraction, «nd which furnish the mind with the most important subjects for ihe exercise of its powers ; these are the ideas of penus and species. When I see a pear-tree, a cherry-ti-ee, an apple-tree, an oak, a fir, &c., %11 these ideas are different, yet I remaik several things which are Miommon to them, such as the trunk, the branches, and the roots; p. stop short at these things, which the diflferent ideas have in jcommon, and I call that object in which these qualities are found C.a tree. The idea of tree, therefore, which I have foi'med in this _|manncr, is a » ""'e better Your highness has just seen how necessary language is 'to men not only for communicating their thoughts and fee^iu°s but fo, 2 eu tivation of their own minds, for theexteusion of he ; o n k ow ledge. If Adam had been left alone in Paradise e wnli h remained in the most profound ignorance ,"thZ 't le^'of a guage. Language would have been neces<.arv to him „1, ° J to mark by certain signs the individual tb^^tvliro, Id Z: fo med from them hy abstraction, so that the«o si.n« Ji„ 7- ?■ mind have held the place of the nations tlierseives" "' '" '"' idea f , . ,3 applicable to ^il tc^ti^uiT bje^t's'^hi^l.'r'h'o''.^ and the idea or general notion of a tree accords with a ,e iLiv! Hence, vour hicrhnnoc! tv.n,» .,..,1 x_ t , ^ -i --._,....v,.,,.. .„ auuuiHuiiiu how one hmmincfP mon^ >,« more perfect than another: a language is ^U^y.^^Z^ZfleTtZ^n ELEMENTS OP LOGIC, 51 pple-trees would t a cherry-tree, 3ts in my mind : n an infinity of I general notion, s notion is not m every similar ctnally existing and the general a genus. These iHis is the most 1 of a tree may ns not only of ecies, but also 'f cherry-trees, iduals actually compjished by id displays its all our know- le little better ?e is to men, ?s, but for the iir own know- 3 would have e help of lan- not so much I would have ! would have might in his ions, each of instance, the liich are hot, II the indivi- cherry -trees, uage may be perfect when It is able to express a greater number of general notions formed by Abstraction. It is with reference to these notions that we must judge of the perfection of a language. Formerly, the Russian Ian- ^uage had no word to indicate what we call justice. This was undoubtedly a great defect, because the idea of justice is very important in a great number of judgments and reasonings, and lecause one would hardly be able to think the same itiing without : word attached to it. This defect has therefore been supplied by introducing a Jiussian word which now signifies justice. But these general notions, formed by abstraction, furnish us with ,11 our judgments and reasonings. K judgment is nothing more than he afHrmation or negation that a notion agrees or does "not agree; ■nd a judgment enunciated or expressed in words is what is called proposition. For instance, we make a proposition when we say, II men are mortal. Here there are two notions— the first, of man n general, and the other that of mortality— which include all that is mortal. The judgment consists in pronouncing and affirming hat the m lion of mortality agrees with all men. It is a judgment, md, in so far as it is enunciated in words, ;t is a proposition" and' nice It aflirms, it is an affirmative proposition. If it denied, it #'ould be a negative proposition, as this • No man is just. These wo propositions, which suffice for examples, are also universal, be- vause the first aflirms of all men that the- are mortal, and the other lenies of all men that they are just. f There are also particular propositions, both affirmative and nega- :|ive, as: Some men are learned; and. Some men are not tvise . Jlere what is aflirmed and denied does not refer to all men, but only ,|o some. Hence we find four kinds of propositions. The first is '4hat of affirmative and universal propositions, of which the form in •general is — f All A is B. The second kind contains negative and universal propositions the form of which in general is — No A is B. • The third kind is that of affirmative but particular propositions, contained in this form — ' 2 Some A is B. .I^nd the fourth is that of propositions negative and particular, of Jlvhich the form is— i , v. Some A is not B. m '111 iif' All th esc propositions include epscntially two notions, A and B niich are called the terms of the propositions. Tiie fl IV .lotion, of ' i B^ MODERN LOaiC. which somethhig is affirmed or denied, is called the subject; and the other notion, wljich is gaid to agree or not to agree with the first, is called the predicate. Thus, in the proposition, All men are mortal, the word men is the subject, and the word mortal the predi- cate. These words are much used in logic, which teaches us the rules of correct reasoning. i i I ii MODERN LOGIC. Anon. An Eton stripling, training for the law, A dunce at syntax, but a dab at taw, One hai)py Christmas, laid upon the shelf His cap, his gown, and store of learned pelf, With all the deathless bards of Greece and Komc, To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home. Arrived, and pass'd the usual " How d'ye do's," Inquiries of old friends, and college news, Well, Tom — the road what saw you worth discei (( And how goes study, boy — what is 't niito- Oh, logic, si) — but not the worn-out rules Of liocke and Bacon — aniiquai^J. fools ! 'Tis wit and wranglers' logic — thus d' ye see, I '11 prove to you, as clear as A, B, C, That an eel-pie's a pigeon : — to deny it, Were to swear black 's white you're learning ? )i An eel -pie is a pie of fish." " Well, Indeed u greed. Let 's try it. A fish-pie may be a Jack-pie." — " Yes, proceed " A Jack-pie must be John-pie — thus 'tis done, For every John -pic is a pi-geon ! " ■ Bravo !" Sir Peter cries, " logic for ever ! That beats my grandmother, and she was clever ! But hold, my boy, it surely would be hard That wit and learning should have no reward I To-morrow for a stroll the park we'll cross, And then I '11 give you"—" What ?"— " My chestnut-horse n A hor.^e!" cries Tom, "blood, ^ _ ^--, „ Oh. what a dash I '11 cut at Epsom Races !" and paces- PSYCHOLOGY — THE DESIRE OF KNOWLEDSE. 53 3 subject; and agree with the 1^ All men are vtal the predi- teaches us the erniiig- ; ling?" He went to bed, and wept for downright sorrow, To think the night niii«t pass before the morrow ; Dream'd of his boots, his cap, liis spurs, and leatlier-brotchcs, Of leaping five-barr'd gates and crossing ditches : Left his warm bed an hour before the larlt, Dragg'd his old uncle fisting tlirough the park :— Each craggy hill and dale in vain they cross, To find out something like a chestnut-horse ; But no such animal the meadows cropp'd : At length, beneath a tree. Sir Peter stopp'd ; lie took a bough — shook it — and down fell A fine horse-chestnut in its prickly shell. " There, Tom,— take that." " Well, sir, and what beside ?" " Why, since you 're booted— saddle it, and ride !" " Ride what ?— a chestnut ! " " Ay— come, get across— I tell you, Pom, that chestnut is a horse, And all the horse you '11 get — for I can show, As clear as sunshine, that 'tis really so — Not by the musty, fusty, worn-out rules Of Locke and Bacon — addle-headed fools ! All maxims but the wranglers' I disown. And stick to one sound argument, — i/our own. Since you have proved to me, I don't deny That a pie-John is the same as a John-pie ! What follows, then, but as a thing of cou'-se, That a horse-chestnut is a chestnut-horse?" !i! iCt 's try it. nut-horse." es — PSYCHOLOGY— THE DESIRE OP KNOWLEDGE. g|DGALD Stewart, Trofessor of M. ;al Philosophy in the University of Edin- iSophy :7753 182a ''"°^*''* o™iraeuts of the Scottish School of [' Jhe principle of curiosity appears in children at a very early period '- *nnd is commonly proportioned to the degree of intellectual capacity hey possess. Tlie direction, too, which it takes is regulated by laturc according to the order of our wants and necessities ; be- "g confined, in the first instance, exclusively to those properties • material ol jects, and those laws of the material world, an ac- iiamtance with which is essential to the preservation of onr animal Kistence. Hence the instinctive eagerness with which children iancle and examine everything which is presented to them; au 54 PSYCHOLOGY — THE DESIRE OF KNOWLEDGE. . I ! Il i [f employment which wo are commonly apt to consider as a mere exercise of their animal powers, but which, if wo reflect on the limited province of siglit prior to experience, and on the early period of life at which we are able to judge by the eye of the distances and of the tangible qualities of bodies, will appear plainly to be the most useful occupation in which they could be engaged, if it were in the power of a philosopher to have the regulation of their attention from the hour of their birth. In more advanced years, curiosity displays itself in one Avay or another in every individual, and gives rise to an infinite diversity in their pursuits, engrossing the atten- tion of one man about physical causes, of another about mathematical truths, of a third about historical facts, of a fourth about the objects of natural history, of a fifth about the transactlo. - jf private families, or about the politics and news of the day. Whether this diversity be owing to natural predisposition, or to early education, it is of little consequence to determine, as, upon either supposition, a preparation is made for it in the original con- stitution of the mind, combined with the circumstances of our ex- ternal situation. Its fnial cause is also sufficiently obvious, as it is this which gives rise in the case of individuals to a limitation of attention and study, and lays the foundation of all the advantac^es which society derives from the division and subdivision of inteUee tual labour. These advantages are so great, that some philosophers have at- tempted to resolve the desire of knowledge into self-love. But to this theory the same objection may be stated which was already made to the attempts of some philosophers to account, in a similar way, for the origin of our appetites ; that all of these are active principles, manifestly directed by nature to particular specific objects, as their ultimate ends ; that, as the object of hunger is not happiness but food, so the object of cuiiosity is not happiness but knowledge. To this analogy Cicero has very beautifully alluded, when he calls knowledge the natural food of the understanding. We can, indeed, conceive a being prompted merely by the cool desire of happiness to accumulate information ; but in a creature like man, endowed with a variety of other active principles, the stock of his knowledge would probably have beea scanty, unless self-love had been ait'ed in this particular by the principle of curiosity. Although, however, the desire of knowledge is not resolvable into self-love, it is not in itsolf an object of n^m-al approbation A persoD may indeed employ his intellectual powers with a view to 3E. er as a mere reflect on tho 16 early period distances and nly to be the ^ if it were in heir attention jars, curiosity lal, and gives ing the attcn- mathematical >ut the objects ivate families, osition, or to ine, as, iipoo original con- es of our ex- vious, as it is limitation of le advantages )n of intc'lleo hers have at- love. But to was already in a similar se arc active !ular specific hunger is not appiness but ully alluded, nderstanding. by the cool n a creature rinciples, the canty, unless principle of t resolvable 'obation. A th a view to PSYCHOLOGY — THE D»:SIBE OF KNOWLEDGE. 55 ihis own moral improvement, or to the happiness of society, and so far he acts from a laudable principle. »ut to prosecute study merely from the desire of knowledge is neither virtuous nor vicious. "When not suffered to interfere with our duties it is morally innocent. jThe virtue or vice d n's not lie in the desire, but in tho proper or [improper regulation of it. The ancient astronomer who, when ccused of iudillercuce with respect to public transactions, answered liat his country was in the heavens, acted criminally, inasmuch as lie sutl'ered his desire of knowledge to interfere with the duties which ■■e owed to mankind. At the same time, it must be admitted that the desire of know- edge (and the same observation is applicable to our other desires) s of a more dignified nature than those appetites which are common us with the brutes. A thirst for science has always been con- idered as a mark of a liberal and elevated mind ; and it generally ;o-operates witli the moral faculty in forming us to ihose habits of |Belf-goverument which enable us to keep our animal appetites in due /■eubjoction. ■ There is another circumstance which renders this desire peculiarly .^fstimable, that it is always accompanied with a strong desire to |communicate our knowledge to others ; insomucii, that it has been •Moubted if the principle of curiosity would be sufficiently powerful ^^0 animate the intelkctual exertions of any man in a long course of -persevering study, if he had no prospect of being ever able to impart kis acquisitions to his friends and to the public. ^^ A strong curiosity properly directed may be justly considered as ?One of the most important elements in philosophical genius ; and Sccordmgly here is no circumstance of greater consequence in educa- 4ion than to keep the curiosity always awake, and to turn it to useful |ursuits. I cannot help, therefore, disapproving greatly of a very lommon practice in this conn, y, that of communicating to childien general and superficial views of science and history by means of |opiiIar introductions. In this way we rob their future studies of ,11 that interest which can render study agreeable, and reduce the nnid, m the pursuits of science, to the same state of listlessness and nguor as when we toil through the pages of a tedious novel, after lenig maiJe acquainted with the final catastrophe. • 1' 56 COSMOLOOY— NOTIimO IN THE UNIVERSE ANNIHILATED. ■ COSMOLOGY— NOTHING IN THE UNIVERSE ANNIHILATED. Dr TuoMAa Dick, a Scoltisli miniHter, author of many scientific and tlieologiciil booka : 1774-15)57. In so far as om- knowledge of the universe extends, there docs not appear a single instance of annihilation throughout the niatcriar system. There Is no reason to believe, that, throughout all the worlds winch are dispersed through the immensity of space, a single atom has ever yet been or ever will be annihilated. From a variety of observations, it appears highly probable that the work of creation 18 still going forward in the distant regions of the universe, and that the Crojitor is replenishing the voids of space with new worlds and new orders of intelligent beings ; and it is reasonable to believe, from the incessant agency of Divine Omnipotence, that new systems will be cominually emerging into existence while eternal ages are rolling. But no instance has yet occurred of any system or portion or matter, either in heaven or earth, having been reduced to annl- miation. Changes are indeed incessantly taking place, in countless variety, throughout every department of nature. The spots of the bun, the belts of Jupiter, the surface of the Moon, the rings of Saturn and several portions of the starry heavens, are frequently changing or varying the.r aspects. On the earth, mountains are crumbling down, the caverns of the ocean are tilling up, islands are emerging from the bottom of the sea, and again sinking into the abyss; the ocean is fnquently shifting its boundaries, and trees, plants, and waving grain, now adorn many tracts which were once overwhelmed with the foaming billows. Earthquakes have produced frequent devastations, volcanoes have overwhelmed fruitCul fields with ton-ents of burning ava, and even the solid strata within the bowels of the earth have been bent and disrupted by the operation of some tre- mendous power. The invisible atmosphere is likewise the scene of perpetual changes and revolutions by the mixture and decomposition of gases the respiration of animals, the process of evaporation, the action of w^inds, and the agencies of light, heat, and the electric and magnetic fluids. The vegetable kingdom is either progressively advancing to maturity, or falling into decay. Between the plants and the seeds ot vegetables there is not the most distant similarity Asmallseecl, only one-tenth of an inch in diameter, after rotting for^ a while in the earth, shoots forth a stem ten thousand times greater 10 s,^e than t e germ from .-hich it sprung, the branchesXl icl afford an ample shelter for the fowls of heaven. The tribe- -^f ' V mated nature aio likewise in a state of progressive changl dtter niLATKD. COSMOLOGY — NOTHlNa IN THE UNIVERSE ANNmiLATED. o7 :XIHILATED. cicutific and tliero (Iocs not the niatcriar glioiit nil the ipacp, a single roin a variety ik of creation erse, and that w worlds and le to believe, new systems nal ages are 2m or portion uced to anni- , in countless spots of the igs of Saturn, itly changing re crumbling are emerging e abyss ; the plants, and jverwhelraed ced frequent tt ith torrents owels of the of some tre- the scene of ^composition joration, the electiic and progressively I the plants t similarity, r rotting for mes greater es of which •ihes of ani- ange, either from Infancy to maturity and old a<^(i, or from one state of existence to another. The caterpillar is first an egg, next a crawlini; worm, then a nympLa or chrysalis, and afterwards a butterfly adorned with the most gaudy colours. The May-bug beetle burrows in the earth, where it drops its egg, from which its young creeps out in the shape of a maggot, which casts its skin every year, and, in the fourth year, it bursts fi-om the earth, unfolds its wings, and sails in rapture "through the soft air." The animal and vegetable tribes are blended by a variety of wonderful and incessant changes. Ani- mal productions afford food and nourishment to the vegetable tribes, and the vai ions parts of animals are compounded of matter derived from the vegetable kingdom. The wool of the sheep, the horns of the cow, the teeth of the lion, the feathers of the peacock, and the skin of the deer ; nay, even our hands and feet, our eyes and ears, with which we handle and walk, see and hear, and the crimson fluid I that circulates in our veins, are derived from plants and herbs which j once grew in the fields, which demonstrates the literal truth of the I ancient saying, "All flesh is grass." Still, however, amidst these various and unceasing changes and transformations, no example of annihilation has yet occurred to the eye of the most penetrating observer. When a piece of coal under- goes the process of combustion, its previous form disappears, and jits component parts are dissolved, but the elementary particles of hvhich it was composed still remain in existence. Part of it is Ichanged into caloric, part into gas, and part into tar, smoke, and lashes, which are soon formed into other combinations. When vege- Jtables die, or are decomposed by heat or cold, they are resolved ■vinto their priniiiive elements, caloric, light, hydrogen, oxygen, and ^^larbon, wh'ch immediately enter into new combinations, and assist In carrying forward the designs of Providence ia other departments %f nature. But such incessant changes, so far from militating Jgainst the idea of the future existence of man, are, in reality, pre- sumptive proofs of his immortal destination ; for if, amidst the per- "T)etnal transformations, changes, and revolutions that are going for- •Avard throughout universal nature in all its departments, no particle r|Df matter is ever lost or reduced to nothing, it is in the highest decree -;^^mprobable that the thinking principle in man will be destroyed by°thc |Bhange which takes place at the moment of his dissolution. That >angp, however great and interesting to the individual, mav be not ^nre wonderful nor more mysterious than the changes which take l)lace in the different states of existence to which a caterpillar is des- Imcd. This animal, as already stated, is first an rgr/, and how different i! mi Ill 58 NATUKAL THEOLOGY— THE ARGUMENT CUMULATIVE. does Its form appear when it comes forth a cravvh-ng worm ? After living some time in the caterpillar state, it begins to languish and apparently dies ; it is encased in a tomb, and appears devoid of life and enjoyment. After a certain period it acquires new life and vigour, bursts its confinement, appears in a more glorious form mounts upward on expanded wings, and traverses the regions of ^leau-. Ai:d is it not reasonable, from analogy, to believe that man in his present state is only the rudrmeni of what he shall be hereafter in a more expansive sphere of existence ; and that, when the body IS dissolved in death, the soul takes its ethereal flight into a celestial region, puts on immortality, and becomes " all eve all car, all ethereal and divine feeling ?" NATURAL TPIEOLOGY-THE ARGUMENT CUMULATIVE William. Paley Archdeacon of Carlisle, author of "Natural Theoloc^y » -fcivideucesof Christianity, "&c.: 1743-1805 ^"^^^^oy, Were there no example in the world of contrivance except that of tho eye, it would be alone sufficient to support tlve conclus on which we draw from it, as to the necessity of an intelligent Creato I conld never be got rid of, because it could not be'accounte for by any other supposition, which did not contradict all the principles we possess of knowledge: the principles according to which thiC do as often as they ..n be brought to the test of experi n e fi out to be true or false. Its coats and humours, consErucLd ^s tli enses of a telescope are constructed, for the refraction of rays of lightto a point, which forms the proper oflice of the organ tl^e provision in Its muscles for turning its pupil to the object^ simi a to that which IS given to the telescope by screws, and upon which power of direction m the eye, the exercise of its office as an opt ca instrument depends : the further provision for its defence fir it constant lubricity and moisture, which we see in its socSan 1 lids; m Its gland for the secretion of the matter of tel-s s out or communication with the nose for car-ying off the liquid aftei t^e e3'e IS washed with it; the provisions compose altog Xi ^f ^ppa ratus, a system of parts, a preparation of means, so manifest lUl eir design,_so exquisite in their contrivance, so successful in thei issue so precious, and so infinitely beneficial in their use, as, iu my onin on to bear down all doubt that can be raised on he suSt ^ AnJ what I wish, under the title of the prosent .hnnter to observe L that if other pans of nature were inaccessible to oir inquiries, oeV;; If other parts of nature presented nothing to our examinaion br ATIVE. rorm ? After languish and devoid of life new life and :lorious form, le regions of believe that t he shall be d that, when eal flight into " all eje, all [JLATIVE. al Theology," fcept that of lusion which Creator. It unted for by le principles rvhlch things irience, turn ucted as the I of raj's of organ : the jcct, similar upon which s an optical ince, for its cket and its s, its outlet lid after the jr an appa- fest in their their issue, nj opinion, ject. And observe, is, ies, or even nation but A HYMN FOR THE HARVEST. 59 disorder and confusion, the validity of this example would remain the same. If there were but one watch in the world, it would not be less certain that it had a maker. If we had never in our lives seen any but one single kind of hydraulic machine, yet, if of that one kind we understood the mechanism p^id use, we should be as perfectly assured that it proceeded from the hand, and thought, and skill of a workman, as if we visited a museum of the arts, and saw collected tliere twenty different kinds of machines for drawing water, or a thousand different kinds for other purposes. Of this point, each machine is a proof independently of all the rest. So it is with the evidences of a divine agency. The proof is not a conclusion which lies at the end of a chain of reasoning, of which chain each instance of contrivance is only a link, and of which, if one link fail, the whole falls ; but it is an argument separately supplied by every separate example. An error in stating an example affects only that example. The argument is cumulative in the fullest sense of that term. The eye proves it without the ear, the ear without the eye. The proof in each example is complete; for when the design of the l)art, and the conduciveness of its structure to that design is shown, the mind may set itself at rest ; no future consideration can detract anything fiom the force of the example. A HYMN FOR THE HARVEST. {Illustrated Father, who loves for ever I Of g-ood the constant Giver ! Almighty and all-wise ! * Tliy power all things sustaining", ^' Thy providence still reigning O'er human destinies, Sh Tiiy parent arm is o'er us, Thy bounty is before us, Thy goodness still supplies, Thy mercy never dies, Adorable of Nature, ?|jAnd every human creature, Since time and earth began; '^Truth's v'jynosure unmoving, ' '-. Life's centre heart of loving, A universal one ; Thou savest, and Thou guidcst, I'reparest and providest, For every living thing Beneath Thy shielding wing. ,-iJkf London News.) The little seedling knoweth, Thy vital warmth, and groweth In darkness all intense ; And not a blossom springeth, And not aii insect wringeth In ecstacy of sense ; And not a creature calleth, And not a sparrow falleth, Nor spirit goeth hence, But in Thy providence. Though men forget Thee daily, Pursue their pleasures gaily, And turn their hearts away; Tliy glory coldly liidden, The grace and truth forbidden To shed a cheering ray; Yet mercy never faileth But still on earth prevaileth Above our broken day, To save us wlien we pray. I .III ■i»* ' ^' I (P i!ll 60 SYSTEMS OF PHILOSOPHY. ! ! ml I i When manj' evils bound U3, And I'aminc was around us, And l)o;itli was standing by; Wo turned to 'IMiee to hear ua, ' Wo looked to Thee to cheer us Amid our misery ; To Thee our prayers were given From iiearts woL-wrun:,^ and riven By tlie stern acj-ony Of penitential sigh. The spring arose all cheering, The kindly rains appcariuLr," The earth awoke in glee ; The bud was kindly showing, The blossom richly blowinir, On plant, and shrub, and' tree ; The harvest's glory brighten'd, Our doubts and fears were lighten'd. And faithful hearts could see Fre^h mercy still in Thee. On every side surrounding, On every side abounding,'^ Lo ! cornfields bright as gold ; The sheaves clasp one another, Fach, as a living brother, Embracing to uphold ; The reaper's song is singin"*. The harvest cheer is ringin"-] Amid the copses old, And echoes round the wold. A «r-f-, •sj bending, below ; r bearing 1 wearing 1 glow, 3W. I the clover, '> over ky; X. swallow, (1 hollow, fly ! ickefc, jricket, nt cry ;h. ition ! ilvation ! ■si ma, ghtens aze ! ! Thee, Thee, ^oubl raise I praise. r," &c. are unqnes- nind is sure iivestigatioii r and above oubtedly be example, in 'hat is con- ly from tiie numborlcss itions. So iilosophy is perfectly legitimate and correct, and has given rise from time to time to splendid results. Many philosophers, however, absorbed in the multitude, the variety, and the grandeur of the fruits of physical science, liave lost sight of everything else— have made the senses the sole fountains of human knowledge, and built up a whole metaphysical system upon the bads of external nature. Such, in fact, was the philosophy of the French Encyclopedists, and such' in tendency, was the philosophy of Locke. ' A precisely contrary direction, on the other hand, has arisen from a too close and partial analysis of self. In this analysis our voli- tions, or desires, and the subjective laws of our reason and intelli- gence, were very propeily and plainly separated from the whole region of sensation ; but after a time, when attention became entirely concentrated upon the inherent powers of the individual mind the external world itself was made to depend upon its subjective laws, and there resulted a whole philosophical system based upon the one notion of self, with its native and exhaustless energies. Such is idealism,— true and beautiful in its results, so long as it investicrates what are, properly speaking, the innate faculties of the human mind, but false and delusive when it would go a step too far, and draw from within what a more accurate philosophy shows to arise from an objective world around iis. Such, in its fullest extent, was the philosophy of Berkeley in England, and of Fichte in Germany ; such, m Its tendency, was Kantism ^ and such, in its first and better -novement, was the system with which Dr Reid honoured and en- ightened his country. That the philosophic spirit, however, should remain content with he struggles of U\o opposite schools, both giving opposite conclu- iions, and both running into extravagant results, was a thing in its tiature impossible. The contradictions thus thrown up to view naturally gave rise to a critical philosophy, the object of which is to examine the grounds and pretensions of every other system, to check ^he progress and arraign the conclusions of dogmatism, and to get fearer the True by denying and overturning the False. The pMl- ;|>sopliy which thus aims at detecting falsehood without attemptii.c^ ;|o build up any system of truth, we term Scepticism: not that co.^ '^aempt.ble species of scepticism which, as practised by some, is l:othing more than a secret abhorrence of human reason and a dis- j£u.sed misanthropy, but that which honestly aims after truth bv paeans of exposing error wherever It may lurk. As in the case of liensationa lism and idealism, therefore, so also in scepticism there is ^ good side and a bad ; the one seeking to establish truth by m ! II i •'III i I ■> * ' i 63 SYSTEMS OF PHILOSOPHY. separating from it all nntinth, the other seeking to lay truth as well as error alike prostrate at the foot of an obstinate and irrational unbelief. Such, then, is the natural result of the struggle between an extreme sensationalism on the one hand, and an extreme idealism on the other. That scepticism, however, should be the culminating point of the philosophic spirit, and that the human mind should rest satisfied with the ultimate conclusion, that the highest wisdom is to doubt, were altogether inconceivable. Sceptical philosophv may be invalu- able tis m instrument, which helps us on the road to truth bv di.«sipatnig fond delusions; but the mind can only repose at last in positive, or, as we may term them, dogmatical results. What, then is the next step to which the human mind advanced after sensa' tioiialism, idealism, and scepticism had exhausted their resources a.d left It in doubt^? The resource, we answer, in which the mind last of all takes refuge, is Mysticism. Keason and reflection have apparently put forth all their power, and ended in uncertainty. The mystic thereupon rises to view, and says to the rest of the philo- sophers around him,— Ye have all alike mistaken the road, ye have sought for truth from a totally incorrect source, and entirely over- looked the one divine element within you, from which alone it can be derived. Reason is imperfect, it halts and stumbles at every step when It would penetrate into the deeper recesses of pure and abso- ^LIL T ^''^''''}'r r"' •'« ^'^^'-^ "^^ ^ spiritual nature theie, that allies you with the spiritual world? is there not an en husiasni which arises in all its energy, when reason grows calm an silent ?^ is there not a light that envelops all the faculties, if you will only give yourself up to your better feelings, and listen to the voice of the God that speaks and stirs within? To this source then the mystic looks for a knowledge that far transcends the feeble results of our reflective faculty, and in which he would lav the basis of the highest and truest philosophy. In mysticism, however, as well as in the other systems I have adduced, there is undoubtedlv a mixture of truth and error It is quite possible amidst the cold abstractions of reason, to lose sight of that inward impulse which shows itself in the flashes of genius 111 the spontaneous efl^orts of the imagination, and in the ardeni aspirations of man s religious faculty. Every part of our intellectual life, we must remcniber, develops itself in its free and spontaneous, as well as it does in its conscious and reflective movommits . and often u.e efforts of our spontaneous being have in them greater jj^ igour than those of our calmer and more reflective. U SYSTEMS OP PHILOSOPHY. 63 y truth as well and irrational uggle between treme idealism itin<^ point of 1 rest satisfied tn is to doubt, nay be invalu- I to truth by lose at last in Wliat, then, d after seusa- lieir resources hich the mind eflection have rtainty. The of the philo- road, ye have entirely over- 1 alone it can at every step, ire and abso- iritual nature there not an 1 grows calm iulties, if you listen to the this source, ids the feeble lay the basis terns I have error. It is to lose sight !S of genius, I the ardent r intellectual spontaneous, 'mciits ' and hem greater •0 reflective. The benefit, then, which we owe to mysticism is, that It recalls ^ur attention again and again to the spontaneous working of our ighest faculties ; that it points out to us the lofty emotions to which his workmg often gives rise; that it withdraws us from absorbing )ur whole attention in logical forms and processes, and points out us the real and veritable existence of a spiritual world with vhich we are all closely connected, to whose laws we are all sub- ected, and without which our higher reason, our instinctive faith ^nd our fondest aspirations, would be mockery and delusion. ' On the other hand, mysticism is perhaps the readiest of all philo- lophies to fall into abuse, and to run into endless extravagances Jnce let the enthusiastic element absorb the reflective, or an implicit •aith be reposed *b our inner sensibility, and no bounds are sufficient mark out the (.elusions to which we become subject, and the wild ■xtravagances to which the mind will resign itself. Once establish -he principle, that implicit credence must be given to feelino in its ^ariea impulses, and every strong inward suggestion may become the wlnspenng of some celestial spirit, every vivid idea the appear- ance of some vision from another world, and the natural impulses m an energetic soul become soon transformed into the ravings of felig.ons fanaticism. Such is mysticism in its nature and origin Jnd such also both in its healthy and its deleterious results. m In reviewing the progress of these four philosophical tendencies m cannot fail to make the observation, that they all owe their ;.figin to some correct idea, and all succeed in eliciting some fratr- f ents of truth that would otherwise, in all probability, have been £ther neglected or concealed. This consideration lies at the foun- Jt.on of another school of philosophy, which may follow one or fhcr of these four directions, as the case may be, to a certain ex- mt', but which, seeing ia them all only the different movements of m human reason as it progresses towards the unfolding of truth, MTVu \T' ^ 'f ""'''''^^ "'"^ ^PP'^'" extravagant or incorrect m budds up the .esiduum of truth, from whatever source derived ^0 a new and more complete system. Such is briefly the birth ^d the ann of Eclecticism, a school of philosophy which, though ^dest 111 its pretensions, and tolerant in its tone, is singulailv #ensive in its researches, and safe in its results. ii '■'I Ci OLAUKON AND SOCBATES. f :! : il I if GLAUKON AND SOCRATES. Plato, the greatest of Greek philosophers, and disciple of Socrates : B.C. 430-347. (Translated by William "Whewell, author of the " Tliilosophy and History of the Induclive Sciences." &c.. 1795-18G5. ) "When Glaukon, the son of Ariston, not yet twenty years old, was obstinately bent on making a speech to tho people of Athens, and could not be stopped by his other friends and relation?, even though he was dragged from tlie speaker's bench by main force, and well laughed at, Socrates did what they could not do ; and by talking ■with him, checked this ambitious attempt. " So, Glaukon," said he, *' it appears that you intend to take a leading part in the affairs of the State." — "1 do, Socrates,"' he replied. — "And certainly," said Socrates, "if there be any brilliant position among men, that is one. For if you attain this object, you may do what you like — serve your friend's, raise your family, t-x Ut your country's power, become famous in Athens, in Greece, and perhaps even among the barbarians, so that when they see you, they will look at you as a ■wonder, as was the case with Themistocles." Tills kind of talk took Glaukon's fancy, and he stayed to listen. Socrates then went on : " Of course, in order that the city may thus honour you, you must promote the benefit of the city." — " 01 course," Glaukon said. — "And now," says Socrates, " do not be a niggard of your confidence, but tell me, of all love, what is the first point in which you will promote the city's benelit." And Avhen Glaukon hesitated at this, as having to consider in what point he should begin his performances, Socrates said: "Of course, if you were to have to benefit the family of a friend, the first thing you would think of would be to make him richer; and, in like manner, perhaps, you would try to make the city richer." — " Just so," said he. — " Then, of course, you would increase the revenues of the city." — "I'robably," said he. — "Good. Tell me, now, what are the revenues of the city, and what they arise from. Of course, you have considered these points with a view of making the resources which are scanty become copious, and of finding some substitute for those which fail." — "In fact," said Glaukon, "those are points which I have not considered." — "Well, if that be the case," said Socrates, tell me at least what are the expenses of the city ; for, of course, your plan is to retrench anything that is superfluous in these." — "But, indeed," said he, "I have not given my attentioi: GLAUKON AND SOCRATES. 65 Socrates: B.C. )liy and History 'ears old, was f Athens, and ', even though orce, and well tid by talking jlaukon," said ; in the affairs ud certainly," ong men, that at you like — jutry's power, cu among the k at you as a lyed to listen, the city may city."—" 01 " do not be a lat is the first And when rt'hat point he jourse, if you '?t thing 30U 1 like manner, Just so," said s of the city." ■hat are the i" course, you the resources ne substitute )se are points e case," sail! city ; for, of nperfluous in my attentioi; to this matter."—" Well, then," said Socrates, " we will put off for the present this undertaking of making the city richer ; for how can a person undertake such a matter without knowing the income and the outgoings?" Glaukon, of course, must by this time have had some misgivings, at having his fitness as a prime minister tested by such questionin<^ as this. However, he does not yield at once. " But, Socrates " he says, " there is a way of making the city richer by takin'f' wealth from our enemies."—" Doubtless there is," said Socrates" " if you are stronger than they ; but if that is not so, you may by attackmg them lose even the wealth you have."—" Of course that is so," says Glaukon.— " Well, then," says Socrates, "in order to avoid this mistake, you must know the strength of the city and of Its rivals. Tell us first the amount of our infantry, and of our naval force, and then that of our opponents."—" Oh, I cannot tell you that off-hand and without reference."—" Well, but if you have I made memoranda on these subjects, fetch them. I should like to ■ hear."—" No ; in fact," he said, " I have no written memoranda I on this subject."— "So; then we must at any rate not begin with war : and, indeed, it is not unlikely that you have deferred this as too weighty a matter for the very beginning of your statesman- '^ship. Tell us, then, about our frontier fortresses, and our garrisons there, that we may introduce improvement and economy by sup- [pressing the superfluous ones." Here Glaukon has an opinion pro- ibably the popular one of the day " I would," he says, " suppress Ithem all. I know that they keep guard so ill there, that the pro- duce of the country is stolen." Socrates suggests that the abolition 01 guards altogether would not remedy this, and asks Glaukon \vhether he knows by personal examination that they keep guard £ No he says, " but I guess it." Socrates then suggests that ^ will be best to defer this point also, and to act when we do not |«e.'5 but know. Glaukon assents that this may be the better way. Socrates then proceeds to propound to Glaukon, in the same "^i^l^'T?'' '® '■^^*'""® "^^^^^ ^^^'^°« derived from the silver mine. "^feind the causes of its decrease ; the supply of corn, of which thei^ was a large import into Attica; and Glaukon is obliged to allow that these are affairs of formidable magnitude. But )ot, Socrates n>-es. No one can manage even one household without knowin- «=Ht attending to such matters. Now, as it must be more dillicurt to provide tor ten thousand houses thnn fn,- nn- " ha -p \- - . It might be best for him to begin with one ; " and suggests " as ^# proper case, to make the experiment upon the household of ': ill s t L Vl C6 THE YOUTH AND THE PIIILOSOPHEK. Glaukon's uncle, Charmides, fcr he really needs help." — " Yes," says Glaukon, " and I would manage my uncle's household, but he will not let me." And then Socrates comes in with an overwhelm- ing retort : " And so," he says, " though you cannot persuade your uncle to allow you io manage for him, you still think you can per- suade the whole body of the Athenians, your uncle among the rest, to allow you to manage for Mem." And he then adds the moral of the conversation : What a dangerous thing it is to meddle, either in word or in act, with what one does not know. THE YOUTH AND THE PHILOSOPHER. William Whitehead, a distinguished Cambridge scholar and poet- laureate: 1715-1785. A Grecian youth of talents rare, - Whom Plato's philosophic care, Had form'd for virtue's nobler view, By precept and example too, Would often boast his matchless skill. To curb the steed and guide the wheel, And as he pass'd the gazing throng With graceful ease, and smack'd the thong, The idiot wonder they express'd Was praise and transport to his breast. At length, quite vain, he needs would shoAv His master what his art could do ; And bade his slaves the chariot lead To Academus' sacred shade. The trembling grove confess'd its fright, The wood-nymphs startled at the sight, The muses drop the learned lyre. And to their inmost shades retire ! Fo'^e'er, the youth with forward air Bows to the sage, and mounts the car. The lash resounds, the coursers spring, The chariot marks the rolling ring, And gathering crowds with eager eyes And shouts pursue him as he flies. Triumphant to the goal return'd, With nobler thirst his bosom burn'd ; And now, along the indented plain, The self-sarae track he marks again ; lepe idea; then ture discc coloi cove: were objec befor to th( way, u mi; refra( ^L TUK SENSES SUITED TO MAN's CONDITION. Pursues wJih care the nice design, Nor ever deviates from the line. Amazement seized the circling crowd, The youths with emulation glow'd, Even bearded sages hail'd the boy, And all, but Plato, gazed with joy ; For he, deep-judging sage, beheld With pain the triumphs of the field. And when the charioteer drew nigh, And, flush'd with hope, had caught his eye : " Alas ! unhappy youth," he cried, " Expect no piaise from me, (and sigh'd) With indignation I survey Such skill and judgment thrown away. The time profusely squauder'd there On vulgar arts beneath thy care. If well employ'd, at less expense Had taught thee honour, virtue, sense. And raised thee from a coachman's fate, To govern men and guide the state." C7 THE SENSES SUITED TO MAN'S CONDITION. John Locke the celebrated author of the Essay on "The Hnrnpn TTr,.!... I standmg," and founder of niodern sensationaFphSosophy : SlZof ^ lAD we senses acute enough to discern the minute particles of ^denPn^il ?i iV . f^'f^'''^'' °^ ^^1^^ their sensible qualities fdeTfnus «nH.r/"5l^'' '^'^ ^'"^^ P'-^^-^^^ quite different deas m us ; and tlia which is now the yellow coloui of gold would u ofZ';r'^ '"' T-''^- '' '' ^° «^^^"'d ''' ^" admfrable tex- ture of parts of a certain size and figure. This microscopes plainly discover to us ; for what to our naked eyes produces a cer a n .colour ,3, by thus augmenting the acuteness of our senses dl! covered to be quite a different thing, and the thus altering, ' as t jvcre the proportion of the bulk of the minute parts of a coloured ,^bject to our usual sight, produces different ideas from what itdid #e ore. Thus, sand or pounded glass, which is opaql and thite taflost1.,T' '' ^'"'7' " ^ "'^^-^^^^P^ ' -^ a'hair, seen in t ^^ay, loses its former colour, and is in a prpa^ m^oan^.^Hi--^^' — -s TSon of "d"' '"f '' ^J"'""^ coiours7s;;h;s;p;,e;;rom^e ^enaction of diamonds and other pellucid bodies. Blood, to the fiBHI ^^H . I ! 68 TUE SENSES SUITED TO MAN's CONDITION. I naked eye, appears all red ; but by a good microscope, wherein its lesser parts appear, shows only seme few globules of red, swim- ming in a pellucid liquor ; and how these red globules would appear, if glasses could bo found that could yet ma,^n'fy them a thousand or ten thousand times more, is uncertain. The infinitely-wise Contriver of ua, and sill things about us, hath fitted our senses, faculties, and organs^ to the conveniences of life, and the business we have to do here. We are able, by our senses, to know and distinguish things, and to examine them so far as to apply them to our uses and several ways to accommodate the •exi- gencies of this life. We have insight enough into their admirable contrivances and wonderful etfects, to admire and i.iagnify the wis- dom, power, and goodness of their Author. Such a knowledge as this, which is suited to our present condition, we want not faculties to attain. But it appears not that God intended wesliould have a perfect, clear, and adequate knowledge of them : that, perhaps, is not in the comprehension of any finite being. We are furnished with faculties (dull and weak as they are) to discover enough in the crea- tures to lead us to the knowledge of the Creator and the knowledge of our duty, and we are fitted well enough with abilities to provide for the conveniences of living : these are our business in this world. But were our senses altered, and made quicker and acuter, the ap- pearance and outward scheme of things would have quite an- other face to us, and, I am apt to think, would be inconsistent with our being, or at least wellbeing, in this part of the universe which we inhabit. He that considers how little our constitution is able to bear a remove into parts of this air, not much higher than that we commonly breathe in, will have reason to be satisfied that in this globe of earth allotted for our mansion, the all-wise Archittn t has suited our organs, and the bodies that are to affect them, one to another. If our sense of hearing were but one thousand times quicker than it is, how would a perpetual noise distract us I And we should, in the quietest retirement, be less able to sleep or medi- tate than in the middle of a sea-fight. Nay, if that most instructive of our senses, seeing, were in any man a thousand or a hi. idred thousand times more acute than it is by the best microscope, things several millions of times less than the smallest object of his sight now would then be visible to his naked eyes, and so would he cophj nearer to the discovery of the texture and motion of the minute parts of corporeal things, and in many of them, probably, get ideas of their inturnal constitutions. But then he would be in a quite different world from other people ; nothing would appear the same ACCOMPLISHMENTS OF HUDIBRAS. CO to him and to others ; the visible ideas of everything '.voiild bo dif- ferent. So that I doubt whether ho and the rest of men could dis- course concerning the objects of sight, or have any communication about colours, their appearances being so wholly different. And, perhaps, such a quickness and tenderness of sight could not ondme bright sunshine, or so much as op n daylight, nor take in but a very small part of anv object at once, and that, too, only at a very near distance. And if, by the help of such microscopical eyes, (if I may so all them,) a man could penetrate farther than ordinary into the secret composition and radical texture of bodies, ho would not make any great advantage by the change, if soch an acute sight would not serve to conduct him to the market and exchange — if he could not see thji'gs he was to avoid at a convenient distance, nor distinguipV' things he had to do with by those sensible qualities others do. He that was sharp-siglited enough to see the configuration of Jie minute particles of the spring of a clock, and observe upon what peculiar structure and impulse its elastic motion depends, would no doubt discover something very admirable ; but if eyes so framed could not view at once the hand and tin" characters of the hour-plate, and thereby at a distance see what o'cl )ck it was, their owner could not be mnrh benefited by that acuteness, which, while it discovered the secret contrivance of the parts of the machine, made him lose its use. ACCOMPLISHMENTS OF HUI ^11 AS. Samufx Butler, the author of " Hudibras," a mock-heroic poem : 1612-1G80. He was in logic a gr^at critic, Profoundly skill'd in analytic; He could distinguish and divide A hair 'twixt south and south-west side, On either which he would dispute. Confute, change hands, and ' II confute; He 'd undertake to prove by torce Of argnment a man's no horse ; He 'd prove a buzzard is no fowl, And that a lord may be an owl — A calf, au alderman — a goose, a justice — And rooks, committ.ep-men and tructces. He'd run in debt by disputation, And pay with ratiocination : 1 'liji 11*^^ 70 : i 1 REVOLUTIONS IN SCIENCE AND PHILOSOPHY. All this, by syllogism, true In mood and figure, he would do. For rhetoric, he could not ope His mouth but out there flew a trope ; And when he happen'd to break off I' th' middle of his speech, or cough. He had hard words, ready to show why, And tell what rules he did it by : Else, when with greatest art he spoke, You 'd think he talk'd like other fulk ; For all a rhetorician's rules Teach nothing but to name his tools. But, when he pleased to show 't, his speech In loftiness of sound was rich — A Babylonish dialect. Which learn'd pedants much affect : It was a party-colour'd dress Of patch'd and piebald languages ; 'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, Like fustian heretofore on satin, It had an odd promiscuous tone, As if he talk'd three parts in one, Which made some think, when he did gabble, Th' had heard three labourers of Babel. f i i ' ; 1 i 1 I 1 . i 1 ■ i ; 1 j 1 ' antk, REVOLUTION IN SCIENCE AND PHILOSOPHY. IMMANUEL Kant, the founder of modern German philosophy : 1724-1804. In the earliest times of which history affords us any record, mat/ie- matics had already entered on the sure course of science among tliat wonderful nation, the Greeks. Still, it is not to be supposed that It was as easy for this science to strike into, or rather to construct for Itself, that royal road, as it was for logic, in which reason has only to deal with itself. On the contrary, I believe that it must have remained long— chiefly among the Egyptians— in the stage of blnul groping after its true aims and destination, and that it was revolutionized by the happy idea of one man, who struck out and determined for all time the path which this science must follow, and which admits of an indefinite advancement. The history of this intellectual revolution— much more important in its results than BEV0LUTI0N8 IN SCIENCE AND I'lIlLOSOPHT. n lY. 724-1804. I'd, mathe- mong that )Osed that construct •eason has t it must e stage of at it was out and 3t follow, listory of suits than the di.scovcry of the passage round the celebrated Cape of Good Hope— and of its author, has not been preserved. But Diogenes Laertius, in naming the supposed discoverer of some of the simplest elomcnts of geometrical demonstration — elements which, according to the ordinary oiiinlon, do not even require to be proved — makes it apparent that the change introduced by the first indication of this nev; path must have seemed of the utmost importance to the mathe- maticians of that ago, and it has since been secured against the chance of oblivion. A new light must have flashed on the mind of the first man {Thahs, or whatever may have been his name) who demonstrated tlie properties of the isosceles triangle ; for he found that it was not sufflcient to meditate on the figure as it lay before his eyes, or the conception of it as it existed in his mind, and thus endeavour to get at the knowledge of its properties, but that it was necessary to produce these properties, as it were, by a positive a priori construction ; and that, in order to arrive with certainty at a priori cognition, he must not attribute to the object any other properties than those which necessarily followed from that which he had himself, in accordance with his conception, pi; ced in the object. ^ A much longer period elapsed before Physics entered on the highway of science; for it is only about a century and a half since the wise Bacon gave a new direction to physical studies, or rather —as others were already on the right track— imparted fresh vigour to the pursuit of this new direction. Here, too, as in the case ot mathematics, we find evidence of a rapid intellectual revolution. In the remarks which follow, I shall confine myself to the empirical Mq of natural science. When Galileo experimented with balls of a definite weight on the Inclined plane; when TorricelU caused the air to sustain a weight .Which he had calculated beforehand to be equal to that of a definite Column of water; or when Stahl, at a later period, converted tictals into lime, and re-converted lime into metal, by the addition l^nd subtraction of certain elements, a light broke upon all natural t)hilosophers. They learned that reason only perceives that which it produces after its own design— that it must not be content Jo follow, as it were, in the leading-strings of nature, but must proceed in advance with principles of judgment according to un- varying laws, and compel nature to reply to its questions ; for accidental observation, made according to no preconceived plan, cannot be united under a necessary law. But it is this that reason BeoKs for and requires. It is only the principles of reason which can give to concordant phenomena the validity of laws; and it is ■ }'■' i Yi !' ! mm 72 REVOLUTIONS IX SCIENCE AND PHILOSOPIIY. I If if only when experiment is directed by these rational principle^ that It can have any real utility. Reason must approach nature with the WQv, , indeed, of receiving information from it— not, however in the character of a pupil who listens to all that his master chooses to tell him, but in that of .a judge, who compels the witnesses to reply to those questions which he himself thinks fit to propose. To this single iuea must the revolution be ascribed, by which, after groping in the dark for so many centuries, natural science was at length conducted into the path of certain progress. We come now to metaphysics, a purely speculative science, which occupies a completely isolated position, and is entirely independent of the teachings of experience. It deals with mere conceptions— not, like mathematics, with conceptions applied to intuition— and in It reason is the pupil of itself alone. It is the oldest of the sciences and would still survive, even if all the rest were swallowed in the abyss of an all-dcrtroying barbarism. But it has not yet had the good fortune to attain to the sure scientific method. This will be apparent If we apply the tests which we proposed at the outset. We fini that reason perpetually comes to a stand when it attempts to gain a prion the perception even of those laws which the most common experience confirms. We find it compelled to retrace its steps in enumerable instances, and to abandon the path on which it had entered, because this does not lead to the desired result. We find too, that those who are engaged in metaphysical pursuits are fai- trom being able to agree among themselves, but that, on the con- trary, this science appears to furnish an arena specially adapted for the display of skill, or the exercise of strength in mock-contests- a field in which no combatant ever yet succeeded in gaining an inch of ground, Ai which, at least, no victory was ever yet crowned with permanent possession. This leads us tx) inquire why it is that, in metaphysics, the sure path of science has not hitherto been found. Shall we suppose tha 1 IS impossible to discover it ? Why, then, should nature have visited our reason with restless aspirations after it, as if it were one of onr weightiest concerna ? Nay, more, how little cause should we have to place confidence in our reason, if it abandons us in a matter about which, most of ail, we desire to know the truth, and not only so but even allures us to the pursuit of vain phantoms, only to betray us m the end? Or, if the path has only hith rto C missed, what indications do we possess to guide us in a renewe investigation and to enable us to hope for greater success than ha fallen to the lot of our predece.?sors ? L.. A FUTURE STATE. 73 It appears to me that the examples of mathematics and natural philosophy, which, as we have seen, were brought into their present condition by a sudden revolution, are sufficiently remarkable to fix our attention on the essential circumstances of the change which has proved so advantageous 1 - them, and to induce us to make the ex- periment of imitating thiL;^, iso far as the anology which, as rational sciences, they bring to metaphysics may permit. A FUTURE STATE. DUGALD StEWAHT. It may perhaps be asked why the evidences of a future state were not made more striking and indubitable ; why human reason was left so much in the dark on a subject so interesting to our happiness ; and why even that revelation which has brought life and immor- tality to light, has not afforded us a clearer view of the occupations and enjoyments of futurity. To these questions it would be pre- sumptuous to attempt a direct reply. But surely we may be per- mitted to observe, that the evidence of a future state may be easily conceived to have been so irresistibly strong, and the prospect of our future destination so clearly presented to our view, that the world would no longer have answered the purpose of a state of pro- bation ; nor would the business of life have afforded any object of ; sufficient magnitude to interest our passions, and call forth our 1 actions. " A sense of higher life would only damp The school-boy's task, and spoil his playful hoiirs: Nor could the child of reason, feeble man. With vigour through this infant being drudge, Did brighter worlds their unimagined bliss Disclosing, dazzle and dissolve the mind." --Thomson. This idea is illustrated, with his usual taste and judgment, and [with somewhat more than his usual originality of thought, by Dr jBlair,^ in his discourse on our imperfect knowledge of a future st'ate ; land it has been placed in a singularly happy point of view by Bernardinde St Pierre, in his ingenious and eloquent woiic, entitled, ^ " Studies of Nature." "I recollect," says M. de St Pierre, "that on my return to [France, in a vessel which had been on voyage to India, as soon as the sailors had perfectly distinguished the land of their native coua- ill' J itii I : ' I I m 74 nOPE BEYOND THE GRATE. try tlicy became in a gr.at measure incapable of attendinff to tl,„ bu3n,ess of tlje ship. Some looked at it wistfully w'hout he Zr^t Clot efa^f >TVT^' ■' "'''" 1--i '■— es' uarK , some talked to themselves, and others wem A« wo „„ proac ed, the disorder of their miid increased Ts they had bet v^d e"o7S^ lT'J:r^ '\r '» "^^'^ "ImiraUo; ol «S skirted ,1^ :i,°' ^"''"^^ of the trees, and even of the rocks 1 le cnu cii spues of the villages where they were born, which thev distinguished at a distance up the countrv and whiTrt? \ one after another, tilled them'with t^s o'^^ts of dd gl t f„t"Z, the vessel entered the port, and when tley saw ontte oua ! ttjl Silt',;/;',"""' '''" """■^"' «■-• ---. a.^ eS :„d e by .1 i^ name 'It'wir "J "'™' "'"'• ''^''^ "f J^y^ and calling th m " What tlien would be the case were we indulged with a senxil.k discovery of those regions inhabited by those whf »« dea to s, and who alone are worthy of our most sublime airecUons? All «d ™':'';.>"f ™'" ,-'-''""- "fa present life w^LTn e to a end. The exit from tins world to the other being in everv ma,^^ bio,!;;, '•?'"";r''"'^ qmcklyshot, b«t nat«rl L n^hed , ^assag™ •''' "" •"" ^"""^'' <"""" ™^ aPP'-ehension to gual^ the HOPE BETOND THE GRAVE .... B..., -^o..,,r^-^^^.^^.:ae^ ana authored At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness p.ove', When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill 'T.;^" .r"^l'' ^l^ *^' nightingale's song in the grove • Twas then, by the cave of a mountain reclined A hermit his nightly complaint thus began • ThoHgh mournful his numbers, his heart was resign'd ; ^^ He thought as a sage, but he felt as a man :— " wl ^V' ^^^^ abandon'd to darkness and woe ^yhy thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strnji. ? ^ -» tid author of HOPE BEYOND THE GRAVE. For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet, if pity inspire thee, ah, cease not thy lay ! Mourn, sweetest complainer ! man calls thee to mourn : Oh, soothe him, whose pleasures, like thine, pass away ; Full quickly they pass — but they never return. " Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky, The moon, half extinguish 'd her crescent displays ; But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high, She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. KoU on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue The pf.th that conducts thee to splendour again ! But man's faded glory, no change shall renew ; Ah, fool ! to exult in glory so vain ! '' 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more ; I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I muurn not for you. For morn is approaching your charms to restore. Perfumed with fresh fragrance and glittering with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn, Kind nature the embryo blossom will save ; But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn ? Oh I when shall day dawn on the night of the grave ? " 'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betray 'd, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind, My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. Oh ! pity, great Father of light, then I cried. Thy creature who fain would not wander from Thee ! Lo ! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride. From doubt and from darkness Thou only canst free. "And darkness and doubt are now flying away, No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn ; So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn : Sec truth, Jove, and mercy in triumph descending. And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses arc blending, And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb." 75 i m 7G i i; i 1 t . ; ( i i ' ■ ■ ' 1 1 1 ^ 1 t f |l i |l 1 WOKDS NOT THE SOLE CAUSE OF ERROR. WORDS NOT THE SOLE CAUSE OF ERROR. Victor Cousin, the head of the French Eclectic School of Philosophy • born 1791. ^ ^ ' I CONCLUDE by designating to you another proposition, or rather another pretension of Locke, ^^ hich it is important to confine within just limits. Everywhere Locke attributes to words the greatest part of our errors ; and if you expound the master by the pupils, you will find in all the writers of the school of Locke that all dis- putes are disputes of words ; that science is nothing but a langua^re and consequently that a well-constructed science is a well-constnicred language. I declare my opprsition to the exaggerations of these assertions No doubt words have a great influence, no doubt they have much to do with our errors, and we should strive to make the best language possible. Who questions it? But the question 18 to know whether every error is derived from language, and whether science is merely a well-constructed language. No • the causes of our errors are very different ; they are both more extended and more profound. Levity, presumption, indolence, precipitation, pnde, a multitude of moral causes influence our indgmenf^ The vices of language may be added to natural causes and aggravnt^ them, but they do not constitute them. If you look more closelv' you will see that the greater part of disputes, which seem at fii-J disputes of words, are at bottom disputes of things. Humanity is too serious to become excited, and often sheds its best blood for the sake of words. Wars do not turn upon verbal disputes : I say as much of other quarrels, of theological quarrels, and of scientific quarrels, the profundity and importance of which are misconceived when they are resolved into pure wars of words. Assuredly every science should seek a well-constructed language; but to snpposo that there are well-constructed sciences because there are well-con- structed languages, is to take the effect for the cause. The contrary IS true: sciences have well-constructed languages when they are themselves well constructed. The mathematics have a well-con- TfT^f Tf"^^'' . ^^^L^^ ^''^""'^ ^" mathematics the ideas are of id. 7 h f ' ^^.^^P^^-^'^^' the rigour, and the precision of Ideas have produced rigour, precision, and simplicity of signs 1 lec.se Ideas cannot be expressed in confused language; and if in the infancy of a language it were so for a while, soon the precision, the rigour and the fixedness of the ideas would dissipate the va^^ue- ness and the ooscurity of the language. The excellence of p'.vsicnl and chemical sciences evidentiv comps fmm «7«ii.«,n.ip p^,.„,..-,:„,,.. iESTHETICS THE NATURE OF TASTE, ETC. 77 ROR. Pliilosophy : ion, or rather confine within the greatest )y the pupils, 3 that all dis- it a language, Il-constrncted ions of these 10 doubt they ;rive to make ; the question jngiiage, and ?e. No; the lOre extended precipitation, ments. The id aggravate more closely, =eem at fii-t Humanity i.s blood for the cs : I say as of scientific nisconceivcd uredly every to suppose re well-con- riie contrary en they are a well-con- lie ideas are lie precision ty of signs. ! ; and if in le precision, i the vagiie- of p'ljsical xperiraents. Facts having been observed and described with fidelity, reason has been able to apply itself to these facts with certainty, and to deduce from them legitimate consequences and applications. Hence ha3 .sprung, and should have sprung, a good system of signs. Make the contrary supposition ; suppose badly-made experiments : the more strict the reasoning, founded upon these false data, shall be, the more errors m/jH it draw from them, the greater reach and exteiit will it communicate to the errors. Suppose that the theories which result from these imperfect and vicious experiments were represented by the most simple, the most analogous, the best determined signs ; of what importance will the goodness of the signs be, if that which '^ concealed under this excellent langu »ge is a chimera or an error ? Take medicine. The complaint is made that this science has ad- vanced so little. What do you think must be done to bring it up from the regions of hypothesis, and to elevate it to the rank of a science ? Do you think that at first you could, by a well-constructed language, reform physiology and medicine ? Or do you not think ^that the true method is experiment, and with txperiment the severe employment of reasoning ? A good system of signs would of itselt follow ; it would not come before, or it would uselessly come. It is the same in philosophy. It has been unceasingly repeated that the jstructure of the human mind is entire in that of language, and that Iphilosophy would be finished the day in which a philosophical lan- guage should be achieved ; and starting thence an endeavour has been made to arrange a .jertain philosophical language more or less iclear, easy, elegant, and it has been believed that philosophy was achieved. It was not ; it was far from being achieved. This pre- judice has even retarded it by separating experiment from it. Phil- osophical science, like every science of observation and reasoning, lives by well-made observation and strict reasonings. There aiul not elsewhere, is the whole future of philosophy. * ' ^STHETICS-THE NATURE OF TASTE, OR A SENSE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. • FUANCIS JOPREY, Lord-Advocate Of Scotlaml, for so)U3 fAvu^ editor of the Edinburgh Review : 1773-1 850. There are few parts of our nature which have ^iven more trouble to philosophers, or appeared more simple to the nnrcflectincr. than ^the perceptions we have of beauty, and the circumstances under ..^(.h.ch these are presented to as. If wc ask one of the latter (and I r ijij 78 I i ! .ESTHETICS — THE NATURE OF TASTE, ETC. larger) class, what beauty is, we shall most probably be answered tha* It 13 what makes things pleasant to look at; and if we remind him' that many other things are called and perceived to be beautiful, besides objects of sight, and ask how, or by what faculty he supposes that we distinguish such objects, we must generally be satisfied with hearing that it has pleased God to make us capable of such a per- ception. The science of mind may not appear to be much advanced by these responses; and >et, if it could be made out, as some have alleged, that our perception of beauty was a simple sensation like our p^erception of colour, and that the faculty of taste was an original and distinct sense, like that of seeing or heaving; this would be truly the only account that could be given, either of the sense or of Its object ; and all that we could do, in investigating the nature of the latter, would be to ascertain and enuraerato the circumstances under which it was found to indicate Itself to its appropriate organ All that we can say of colour, if wc consider it very strictly, is, that It IS that property in objects by which they make themselves known to the faculty of sight ; and the faculty of Mght can scarcely be de- tined in any other way than as that by whlt^h we are enabled to dis- cover the existence of colour. When we attempt to proceed further and, on being asked to define what green or red is, say that green is the colour of grass, and red of roses or of blood, it is plain that we do not m any respect explain the nature of those colours, bat only give instances of their occurrence ; and that one who had never seen the objects referred to could learn nothing whatever from these pretended definitions , Complex ideas, on the other hand, and compound emo- tions, may always be defined, and explained to a certain extent by enumerating the parts of which they are made up, or resolvin<^ them into the elements of which they are composed: and we may thus acquire, not only a substantial, though limited, knowledge of their nature, but a practical power in their regulation or production It becomes of importance, therefore, in the very outset of this inquiry, to consider whether our sense of beauty be really a simple sensation, like some of those we have enumerated, or a compound or derivative feeling, the sources or elements of which may be in- ^estigated and ascertained. If it be the former, we have then only to refer it to the peculiar sense or faculty of which it is the object- and to determine by repeated observations, under what circum- itances that sense is called into action ; but if it be the latter we shall have to proceed, by a joint process of observation and re- flection, to ascertain what are the primary feelings to which it may be referred, and by what peculiar modification of them it is pro- uucca and distinguished. We are not quite prepared, as yet to M ments ( •:I«iSatK^SSSn"S!SK.-«» ESTHETICS — THE NATURE OP TASTE, ETC. 79 exhaust the whole of this important discussion, to which we shall be obliged to return in tho sequel of our inquiry ; but it is necessary, in order to explain ana to set forth, in their natural order, the difficulties with which the subject is surrounded, to state here, in a very few words, one or two of the most obvious, and, as we think, decisive objections against the notion of beauty being a simple' sensation, or the object of a separate and peculiar faculty. The first, and perhaps the most considerable, is the want of agreement as to the presence and existence of beauty in particular objects, among men whose organisation is perfect, and who are plainly possessed of the faculty, whatever it may be, by which beauty is discerned. Now, no such thing happens, wo imagine, or can be conceived to happen, in the case of any other simple sensa- tion, or the exercise of any other distinct faculty. Where one man sees light, all men who have eyes see light also. All men allow grass to be green, and sugar to be sweet, and ice to be cold ; and the unavoidable inference from any apparent disagreement in such raatt^x necessarily m, that the party is insane, or entirely destitute of the sense or organ concerned in the perception. With regard to beauty, however, it is obvious, at first sight, that the case is entirely different. One man sees it perpetually, where to another it is quite invisible, or even where its reverse seems to be con- spicuous. Nor is this owing to the insensibility of either of the parties; for the same contrariety exists where both are keenly alive to the influences of the beauty they respectively discern. A Chinese or African lover would probably see nothing at all attractive in a belle of London or Paris ; and, undoubtedly, an ekf/ans formamm spectator from either of those cities would discover nothing but deformity in the Venus of the Hottentots. A little distance in time often produces the same effects as distance in place; the gardens, the furniture, the dress, which appeared beautiful in the eyes of our grandfathers, are odious and ridiculous in ours. Nay, the difference in rank, education, or employment, gives rise to the same diversity of sensation. The little shopkeeper sees a beauty in [Iiis road-side box, and in the staring tile-roof, wooden lions, and Ichopped box- wood, which strike horror into the soul of the student |of the picturesque ; while he is transported in surveying the frao-- |ments of ancient sculpture, which are nothing but ugly masses of smouldering stone, in the judgment of the admirer of neatness. It is needless, however, to multiply instances, since the fact admits of no contradiction. But how can we believe that beauty is the [object of a oeculiar sp,nsf> c>v fappif^r u-hon vv^..^-.-" r-.-i-x... possessed of the faculty, and even in an eminent degree, can dis- tm I \ 80 f i JESTHETICS — THE NATURE OF TARTE, ETC. cover nothing of it in objects where it is distiQCtly felt and perceived by others with the same use of the faculty ? All tastes, then, are equally just and true, in so far as concerns the individual whose taste is in question ; and what a man feels distinctly to bo beautiful, is beautiful to him, whatever other people may think of it. For a man himself, there is no taste that is either bad or false; and the only difference worthy of being attended to, is that between a great deal and a very little. Some who have cold affections, sluggish imaginations, and no habits of observation, can with difficulty discern beauty in anything ; while others, who are full of kindness and sensibility, and who have been accustomed to attend to all the objects around them, feel it almost \a everything. It is no matter what other people may think of the objects of their admiration ; nor ought it to be any concern of theirs ii'.Ht the public would be astonished or offended, if they were (ailed upon to join in that admiration. So long as no such call is made, this anticipated discrepancy of feeling need give the7n no uneasiness ; and the suspicion of it should produce no contempt in any other persons. It is a strange aberration indeed of vanity that makes us despise persons for being happy, for having sources of enjoyment in which we cannot share ! and yet, this is the true source of the ridicule which is so generally poured upon individuals who seek only to enjoy their peculiar tastes unmolested ; for, if there be any truth in the theory we have been expounding, no taste is bad for any other reason than because it is peculiar, as the objects in which it delights must actually serve to suggest to the individual those common emotions and universal affections upon which the sense of beauty is everywhere founded. The misfortune is, however, that we are apt to consider all persons who make known their peculiar relishes, and especially all who create any objects for their gratification, as in some measure dictating to tlie public, and setting up an idol for general adoration ; and hence this intolerant interference with almost all peculiar perception of beauty, and the unsparing derision that pursues all deviations from acknowledged standards. This intolerance, we admit, is often pro- voked by something of a spirit of pioselytism and arrogance, in those who mistake their own casual associations for natural or universal relations; and the consequence is, that mortified vanity ultimately dries up, even for them, the fountain of their peculiar enjoyment, and disenchants, by a new association of general con- tempt or ridicule, the scenes that had been consecrated by some innocent but accidental emotion. IMAGINATION. 61 f nd perceived ■ as concerns a man feels other people asto that is ly of being ittle. Some no habits of ;hing ; while 10 have been el it almost think of the 2,en\ of theirs f they were such call is ive t/ietn no contempt in id of vanity iving sources 3 is the true n individuals isted ; for, if pounding, no > peculiar, as ;o suggest to fections upon lie misfortune IS who make ) create any stating to the ; and hence perception of viatious from is often pro- arrogance, in •r natural or rtitied vanity heir peculiar genera! con- ited by some IMAGINATION. John Ruskin, author of "Modem Painters," "Seven Lamps of Architec- ture," &c. : born 1819. If we were to be asked abruptly, and required to answer briefly, what qualities chiefly distinguish great artists from feeble artists, we should answer, I suppose, first tlieir sensibility and tenderness ; secondly, their imagination ; and thirdly, their industry. Some of us might, perhaps, doubt the justice of' attaching so much import- ance to this last character, because we have all known clever men who were indolent, and duU men who were industrious. But though you may have known clever men who were Indolent, you never knew a great man who was so ; and during such investiga- tion as I have been able to give to the lives of the artists whose works are in all points noblest, no fact ever looms so large upon me— no law remains so steadfast in the universality of its applica- tion — as tlie fact and law that they are all great workers ; nothing concerning them is matter of more astonishment, than the quantity they have accomplished in the given length of their life ^ and when I hear a young man spoken of, as giving promise of high genius, the first question I ask about him is always — Does he work? But though this quality of industry is essential to an artist, it does not in anywise make an artist ; many people are busy, whose doings are little worth. Neither does sensibility make an artist ; since, as I hope, many can feel both strongly and nobly, who yet care nothing about art. But the gifts which distinctively mark the artist — without which he must be feeble in lifcj forgotten in death, with which he may become one of the shakers of the earth, and one of the signal- lights in heaven— are those of sympathy and imagina- tion ! I will not occupy your time, nor incur the risk of your dis- sent, by endeavouring to give any close definition of this last word. T7e all have a general and sufficient idea of imagination, and of its work with our hands and in our hearts ; we understand it, I sup- pose, as the imagining or picturing of new things in our thoughts ; and we always show an Involuntary respect for this power, when- ever we can recognise it, acknowledging it to be a greater power than manipulation, or calculation, or observation, or any other human faculty. If we see an old woman spinning at the fireside, and distributing her thread dexterously from the distaff, we respect her for her manipulation ; if we ask her how much she expects to make in a year, and she answers quickly, we respect her for her calculation ; if she is watching at the same time that none of hef .iJl S2 PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION. i ^i grandchildren fall iiUo the fire, we respect her for her observation —■yet for all this she may still be a conutionplace old won-an enough. But if she is all the time telling her grandchildren a fairv tale out ot her head, we praise her for her imagination, and say she must be a rather remarkable old woman. Precisely, in like manner, if an architect doc^ his working-draw- ing well we praise him for his manipulation; if he keeps closely within his contract, we praise him for his honest arithmetic: if he looks wel to the laying of his beams, so that nobody shall drop through the floor, we praise him for his observation. But he must somehow, tell us a fairy tale out of his head besides all this else we cannot praise him for his imagination, nor speak of him as we did of the old woman, as being in any wise out of the common way a rather remarkable architect. PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION. Mark Akenside, author of "Pleasures of the Imagination : " 1721^1770. BLEST of heaven ! whom not the languid songs Of luxury, the siren ! not the bribes Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils Of pageant honour, can seduce to leave Those ever-blooming sweets, which from the store Of nature fair imagination culls To charm the enliven'd soul ! What though not all Of mortal offspring can attain the heights Of envied life ; though only few possess Patiician treasures or imperial state ; Yet nature's care, to all her children just. With richer treasures and an ampler state, Endows at large whatever happy man Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp, The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns The princely dome, the column and the arch, The breathing marbles and the sculptured gold, Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the spring Distils her dews, and from the silken gem Its lucid leaves unfolds ; for him the hand Of autumn tinges every fertile branch With blooming gold and blushes like the morn, Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings ; PLEASUKES OF IMAaiNATI">r. And stil! new beauties meet ! is lonely walk, And loves unfelt attract hiu, Not a breezo Flies o'er the meadow not a cloud imbibes Tbe setting sun^s effuly nee, not a strain Fi >m all the tenants of iie warbling shade Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake Fresh pleasure ur oproved. Nor thence paiiax..5 Fresh pleasure onl / ; for the attentive mind, By this harmonious action on her powers, Becomes herself harmonious : woni oft In outward things to meditate the charm Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home To find a kindred order, to exert Within herself this elegance of love, This fair inspired delight ; her temper'd power? Kefine at length, and every passion wears A chaster, milder, more attractive mien; But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze On nature's form, where, negligent of all These lesser jrraces, she assumes the port Of that eterLal majesty that weigh'd The world's foundations ; if to these the mind Exalts her daring eye ; then lightier far Will be the change, and nob. or. Would the forms Of servile custom cramp her generous power ; Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear? Lo! she appeals to nature, to the winds And rolling waves, the sun's unweaiied course. The elements and seasons : all declare For what the eternal Maker has ordain'd The powers of man ; we feel within ourselves His energy divine : He tells the heart, He meant. He made us to bei old and love What He beholds and loves, the general orb Of life and being ; to be great like Him, Beneficent and active. Thus the men Whom nature's works can charm, with God himself Hold convejse ; grow familiar, day by day, With His conceptions, act upon His plan, And form to His, the relish of their souls. HJ ill ^.. %- ^.r,>^ ^>. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) /. *<° ^x ^/ '/^^^ fe A 1.0 'fri^ IIIM !.l 11.25 1^ 141. 2.2 2.0 18 i^ 11 1.6 V] <^ /^ / e>^. vj ^^ /^ PnotogBpliic Sciences Corporation ■i>^ ;^v W \\ ^ ^% x Is ^? O^ >> ^l immigration, crossing the ridges of the Alleghanies, poured down upon the Mississippi and the Ohio, and the dense forests and boundless prairies of the west were gradually opened and explored, another and very Interesting class of antiquities began to be disin- terred from the oblivion of centuries. It was slowly, indeed, as the forest fell beneath the axe of the backwoodsman, that they came to light; they were for a long time but partially uncovered, or so im- perfectly explored, that, even until a very recent period, they were regarded by many as being only peculiarities of geological forma- tion, which credulous imagination had converted into fortresses, and temples, and sepulch'-es. The recent researches of Squler and Davis, accompanied as they are by elaborate surveys and drawings, have left no further room for scepticism, and have established, beyond dispute, the interesting fact, that the interior of the North Americau continent, as well as the southern, was once inhabited by an im- mense and settled population, who have left behind them almost innumerable memorials of their occupation. These remains extend almost continuously over the whole interior, from the great lakes on the north to the Gull of Mexico on the south, and from the sources of the Alleghany in western New York, for above a thousand miles up the Missouri, and into Michigan, Wisconsin, and Iowa. They are found in far greater numbers in the western than in the eastern portion of this immense district. They may be traced, too, along the seaboard from Texas to Flo- rida, but are not met with any further along the north-eastern coast. They are generally planted in the rich valleys of the western rivers, or elevated above them on commanding natural terraces. In the neighbourhood of the upper lakes they assume the singular form of gigantic relievos of earthen walls, often covering several acres, tracing out upon the soil outlines of the figures of men, birds, beasts, and reptiles. Southward of these appear, on the banks of the Ohio and its tributaries, mounds and truncated terraces of im- mense extent, sustaining earthen enclosures and embankments ex- tending for entire miles. Of these extraordinary earthworks, many were eviccutly fortifications., exhibiting no small constructive skill, defended by numerous bastions, having covered ways, horn- works, concentric walls, and lofty mounds intended as observato- ries, and numerous gateways giving access to the immense line of fortified enclosure, with graded roadways to ascend from tf rrace to tending from the head of the Alleghany diagonally across Central Ohio to the Eiver Wabash. ANCIENT AMERICAN ARCHI ltre. 99 m i' poured down forests and md explored, 1 to be disin- ndeed, as the they came to d, or so im- id, they were >glcal forma- )rtresses, and }r and Davis, awinga, have shed, beyond th American d by an im- them almost hole interior, ;xico on the a New York, to Michigan, numbers in ense district. !xaf» to Flo- lorth -eastern F the western ral terraces, the singular (ring several f men, birds, he banks of races of Im- ikments ex- earthworks, constructive ways, horn- 3 observato- ense line of n terrace to ? chain, ex- ross Central Not all, however, of these earthworks wc tended as fortresses ; many were evidently designed for religious rposes. One of the most extraordinary of these is called the G-oat Serpent, on a pro- jecting tongue of high land in Adams county, Ohio. The head of the reptile points towards the extremity, his form is traced out with all its convolutions, and its jaws are opened as if it were to swallow a large egg-shaped enclosure occupying the extreme point of the promontory. Its entire length, if stretched out, would be a thousand feet. The serpent and globe was a symbol in Egypt, Greece, Assyria, and Mexico; and those familiar with English antiquities will no doubt remember a similar and still more gigantic instance of a serpent, sacred enclosure, and mound on the downs of Avebury in Wiltshire. Of the earthworks some are square, some perfectly circular, others of intricate and curious outline, while many appear to have something symbolical in their arrangements. It is necessary also to correct a popular mistake with regard to their materials, which, it has been affirmed, consist exclusively of earth, whereas both stone and unbaked brick have occasionally been made use of. The mounds scattered over the western valleys and prairies are almost innumerable, and of infinitely various dimen- sions, one of the largest covering six acres of ground. These also appear to have been appropriated to different purposes, some to sustain sacrificial altars or temples, others intended for sepulchres, containing skeletons, with pottery and charcoal for consuming the bodies. A remarkable instance of the latter class is the great mound at Grave Creek, which was penetrated by a perpendicular shaft opening into two sepulchral chambers, containing several skeletons with pottery and other articles. Within these enclosures and mounds have been discovered numerous stone sculptures of the heads of men, or of human figures in crouching attitudes ; of the beaver, the wild cat, and the toad ; of the swallow and other birds ; of the heron striking a fish, the last very beautifully exe- cuted ; and ci the sea cow, an animal peculiar to the tropical regions. Ornamented tablets have also been dug up, and in some places sculptures of men, eagles, and elks can be traced on the face of the rocks, with rude attempts to represent hunting scenes. There have also been found instruments of silver and copper, axes drills, and spear heads, stone discs, and instruments for games' with beads, shells, ornaments, and pipes, as well as decorated Respecting the Avhole of these monuments it may be remarked, that they are evidently far ruder than those in Mexico and Central ■m f 100 THE aOVERNMENT BUILDINGS AT OTTAWA. America, to which as they approach in locality they appear to ap- proximate in character and arrangements ; and it is thus an inter- esting question whether we are to regard them as the original and more ancient works of a race who afterwards reached a higher de- gree of civilization further to the south, or whether, on the contrary, they present to us traces of a migration from the south towards the north. " It is not impossible," observes Squier, " that the agricul- ture and civilization of Mexico, Central America, and Peru, may have originated on the banks of the Mississippi." Whatever may be the result of further researches, one thing is abundantly evident, that ihe great valley of that river and ot its tributaries was once occupied by a population who had advanced from the migratory state of hunting to the fixed condition of cultivators of the soil ; that the population who raised these great defensive and sacred structures must have been dense and widely spread, in order to execute works for which prolonged and combined efforts were so obviously necessary, and that their customs, laws, and religion must have assumed a fixed and definite shape. ifi i a Jii If, ii THE GOVERNMENT BUILDINGS AT OTTAWA. In a country which has so recently been brought under the in- fluences of civilization as that comprising the provinces of British North America, artistic excellence is hardly to be looked for. The attractions of our new land are to be found in its natural features, the great lakes, broad rivers, and primeval forests, which diversify its surface, and present scenes of beauty on a scale gigantic and magnificent. So numerous, so varied, and so pressing have been the wants of an ever-increasing population, that the luxuries of life have long been unable to overtake its bare necessaries ; the stately mansion has been compelled to wait upon the rough log shantj', and the pleasure garden to give place to the newly- cleared corn patch. Of late years, however, the growth of the Provinces, m material as well as intellectual prosperity, has been such, that our rulers have felt themselves warnmted in minlsterlug to the cultiva- tion of a refined taste, and in promoting the development of art in at least one of its branches, that of architecture. University Col- lorrA Tni'Aiifn nnrl tho C\ttan:a rUmrovnm.int T-Inilflintva or" »vinoflir monuments of this progressive spirit, rivalling as they do the most classic structures of the old world. THE GOVERNMENT BUILDINGS AT OTTAWA. lOi apear to ap- lus an inter- original and a higher de- the contrary, towards the ; the agricnU i Pera, may hatever may ntly evident, ies was once le migratory of the soil; I and sacred in order to byts were so religion must .WA. mder the in- es of British 2d for. The iral features, ich diversify gigantic and g have been Luries of life the stately I log shant)', •cleared corn Provinces, m ach, that our I the cultiva- eut of art iu liversity Col- do the most The Canadian Parliament having referred to her Majesty, Queen Victoria, the selection of the capital of Canada, that gracious lady was pleased to make choice of the city of Ottawa, strongly and most romantically situated upon the river of the same name. The sum of £75,000 was then voted for the erection of suitable parliament buildings, a sum which, on account of the necessary and unforeseen excavations to be made in the rock upon which they are built was largely exceeded. The design of the buildings was that of Messrs Fuller and Jones, the style of architecture being that known as the Italian Gothic, a style pleasing in itself, and rendered almost neces- sary by the peculiarities of a Canadian climate. The buildings form the three sides of a quadrangle, the head of which Is occupied by the Parliament Building alone, 475 feet in length ; the remaining two sides comprise the Departmental Buildings, which are much inferior in point of architectural beauty. In the centre of the Parliament Building is the main tower, 180 feet in height, very massive below, but gradually tapering above to the lightness and dimensions almost of a spire. This is relieved by various smaller towers at the angles of the structure, and between these and the centre tower. The body of the building is about 40 feet high, the roof being slanting and capped with light and graceful iron work. The exterior of the edifice is built of a valuable stone which abounds in the rich quarries of the Ottawa ; this stone is of two tints which relieve one another as light and shade, and being undressed presents a dazzling aspect to the sun. The internal arrangements of the building are equally elegant and complete, and the plan of the grounds in front of it is in strict keeping with the general artistic character of the place. Much, however, as Art has done for the embellishment of the new capital, she has but completed the work begun by Nature. The Government Buildings stand upon the most elevated spot in the city, from whence a view of river and island, waterfall and rapid lull and forest, greets the beholder, a view unsurpassed by any on the continent. Behind the buildings, an almost perpendicular rock descends to the Ottawa, giving to the whole structure a bold and striking appearance. ^ The corner-stone of the Ottawa Government Buildings was laid m September 1860, by His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales. Ihe ^ceremony was a most imposing on. and will long be remem- oereu by the loyal subjects of his queeiii^ mother in these her Pro- vinces of British North America. ri :'s'I !■ 102 CELEBRATED SCULPTURES. I CELEBRATED SCULPTURES. (From " The Wonders of all Nations.") The art of sculpture has been practised from the earliest ages. Probably its practice was anterior to that of drawing, and its early history is almost a part of the history of the religions of the ancients. In its large sense sculpture may be taken to signify the representa- tion of form in any material; wod, metal, stone, clay, plaster, have all been used. Some of the ancient metal figures were cast, so as to give colour to the figures. Thus silver has been used to represent the pallid hue of death, and a mixture of bronze and iron to indicate the glow of ihe skin. There was a statue of Augustus formed of amber, and the figures used in funereal ceremonies were sometimes composed of odoriferous gums and spices. We shall, however, only thus indicate these conceits of art, and confine our- selves to describing a few of those statues which may be taken as examples of the highest perfection which has yet been attained- The finest example of manly grace which sculptors have be- queathed to us, is to be found in the wonderfully beautiful and graceful statue of the Apollo Belvidere. This splendid specimen of ancient art was found towards the end of the fifteenth century in the ruins of the ancient Antium, at the Capo d'Anzo, about fifteen leagues from Rome. It was purchased by Pope Julius II., and by him placed in the Belvidere in the Vatican. The figure is about seven feet high, and with the excep- tion of a loose cloak perfectly naked. "When found the left hand and right arm had been broken oflF, and those parts were restored by Giovanni Angelo da Montorsoli, a pupil of Michael Angelo. In its present state it represents the god after he has just discharged an arrow at the serpent Python, waiting to watch the efiect of his shaft. For some time the Apollo was supposed to be a Grecian produc- tion, and specifically attributed to Phidias. There is, however, no proof of this, and the evidence seems to lean to its being created in the time of Nero. It is not the least wonderful fact in the history of art that that monster who spared none — whose lusts, passions, and appetites were his sole guide — was an enthusiastic admirer of the beauties of art. The following passage of Homer's Hymn is siinnnspd to be that which suerfifestcd the idea to the sculptor : — — rir — •-" • "Apollo's bow unerring sped the dart, And the fierce monster groan'd beneutli the smart ; CELEBRATED SCULPTURES. 103 Tortured with pain, hard breathing on the ground, The serpent writhed beneath the fatal wound. Now here, now there, he winds amidst the wood, And vomits forth his life in streams of blood. * Rot where thou liest,' the exalting archer said, ' No more shall man thy veanj^eful fury dread ; But every hand that tills eai-th's spacious field, Her grateful offerings to my slirine shall yield, Not Typha's strength, nor fell Chimaera's breath, Can now protect thee frorti the grasp of death, There on the damp black earth, in foul decay, Rot, rot to dust, beneath the sun's bright ray.'" Parallel with the Apollo, as the perfect representation of female elegance, is the Venus de Medici, which is undoubtetlly a relic of ancient Greek art. It is variously stated to have been found at the villa of Hadrian, near Tivoli, and the forum of Octavia at Rome; and on the plinth was the name of the artist, " Cleomenes, the son of Apollodorus of Athens," who is known to have lived about two hundred years before the Christian era. At the time of its dis- covery it was deficient of the right, and the lower part of the left arm, which has been restored ; and the plinth was so damaged that it was replaced by a copy. In the sixteenth century it stood in the Medici Gardens at Rome; about 1680 it was carried to Florence. When the victorious French plundered Italy of the best of her works of art it was taken to Paris, but was restored to the Imperial Gallery in Florence (called the Tribune) after the success of the allied arms. The figure is of Parian marble, four feet nine inches in height, and exquisitely proportioned. Its rounded limbs show the greatest beauty of the female form, and have furnished models for the sculptors of after ages. The face, however, although beautiful, is deficient in charm of expression ; and an attempt at lightness and elegance has reduced the head to a size so small as to be only compatible with idiocy. Still there is a graceful repose, and a iif»^ like aspect about the whole to which the chiselled mar- ble very seldom reaches, justifying the opinion that this is one of the finest statues of all time. Sculptiire is more adapted to the representation of quiescent, or gently moving forms, than those in energetic action, but the groups of the Lao(;oon shows it realizing the struggles of despair. This groun was found on the old Esquiline Hill, at Rome, behind the baths of Titus. Pliny, who speaks of it as the finest of all works of art. asserts that it was the joint effbrt of three sculptors of Rhodes — Ajesander, Polydorus, and Athenodorus — who were em- ploj-ed by the Emperor Titus. The subject is the destruction of I 104 CELEBRATED SCULPTURES. I m Laocoon, the priest of Neptune, and his two sons, by two immenso 8ea-8erpcnt8, for disobeying Minerva. Virgil tlius describes the incident : — '* Laocoon, Neptune's priest, by lot that year, With Bolenin pomp then sacrificed a steer ; When, dreadful to behold, from sea we spied Two serpents, rank'd abreast, the seas divide, And smoothly sweep along the swelling tide. Their flaming crests above the waves they show, Their bellies seem to bum the seas below ; Their speckled tails advance to steer their course. And on the sounding shore the flying billows force. And now the strand, and now the plain they held, Their ardent eyes with bloody streaks were fill'd. Their nimble tongues they brandish'd as they came, And lick'd their hissing jaws that sputter'd flame. We fled amazed ; their destined way they take. And to Laocoon and his children make ; And first around the tender boys they wind. Then with their sharpea'd fangs, their limbs and bodies grind. The wretched father coming to their aid With pious haste, but vain, they next invade ; T\vice round his waist their winding volumes roll'd, And twice about his gasping throat they fold, The priest, thus double choked, their crests divide. And towei-ing o'er hia head in triumph ride." The group differs in some respects from the text of Virgil. In the centre is the father, whose form, as he struggles despairingly, is the embodiment of manly beauty and strength. The serpent, grasped by the neclc, is just fastening on his side. The son on his right, encircled by the folds, has already felt the fangs of the other snake, and as his tender frame yields to the pressure, and the swift poison courses through his v( ins, casts up a look of helpless agony to his father. The other boy, on the left, has not yet felt the sting, but raising his hand and head amid the serpent folds, appears to utter an affrighted cry for help. The expression of the entire group is at once terrific and admirable. The spectators see at once that the struggles are those of hopeless despair, and the faces tell a tale of almost more than mortal terror. Two undoubted remains of Grecian genius, which formerly adorned the magnificent Parthenon at Athens, are the Theseus and the Tlissus, now in the Elgin Marble room of the British Museum. The figure of Theseus, the Athenian hero, is that of a colossal giant reposing on a rock covered by a lion skin. It is extraordinary for the breadth and power which it exhibits; and though mutilated by the loss of both leet and hands, and part of the nose, conveys the character of the demi-god of old. There is the compact head, the CELRBRATED 8CULPTURE& 105 vo immenso iscribes the odies grind. Virgil. In pairingly, is 'lie serpent, 3 son on his )f the other nd the swift pless agony '\t the sting, I, appears to entire group t once that la tell a tale jh formerly 'heseus and ih Museum. )lossal giant ordinary for mtilated by lonveys the ;t head, the fierce grin, the massive brow, and the decided features ascribed to the old athletffi ; and the vast trunk, ponderous limbs, and swelling muscles, are life-like in their apparent power. There are all the marks of that courage and vigour which made men great, when the broadest laws were written on the edge of the sword. The Ilissus, supposed to represent a river-god, is a figure of an- other mould. It is still more mutilated than the Theseus, having lost its head in addition to its hands and feet. Its prevailing char- acteristic is elegance rather than strength. As it stretches its length along, the contour of its limbs, and the folds of the drapery which fall from it as the body is raised upon one hand, seem to imitate the flow of waves, so softly and gently does one line blend into another. In modern art, perhaps, the Hercules and Lichas of Canova are the only statues which can compare, for vitality and beauty, with these fragments of the achievements of ancient Greece. The Dying Gladiator is a memorial of that time when savage barbarism mingled with luxurious civilization. In Rome, the mis- tress of the known world — Rome, with her vast works of art, her invincible legions, and her patriotic people — rose that immense temple of Moloch, the Amphitheatre. There grave men, whose words are yet appealed to as the standards of wisdom ; orators and poets, whose bursts of eloquence still are quoted to admiring senates ; and tender women, the best mothers and daughters of the city, came to a banquet of blood, as to a spectacle. There, on the blood- stained arena, they saw wild beasts tear each other in furious com- bat ; and there they looked on, with unpitying face and unwavering eye, while slaves made in war were forced to fight to the death, for the amusement of their unrelenting conquerors. There has been such a scene, and this statue tells the tale. The fight is over, and while the conqueror is cheered^ there lies the victim, thrown down upon his shield, his weakening hand scarce keeps his head from falling prone on the earth. The tide of life is ebbing from that ghastly wound upon the breast ; and on the face, blending with the pain, the faintness, the shame of defeat, we can trace the memories of the past, crowding themselves into the last moments of existence. But nothing we can say will so well realize the conception, as the beautiful lines of one of the greatest poets : — '* r see before me the gladiator lie ; He leans upon liis hand ; his manly brow Consents to floftth; hut oonnners asfony ' And throvjgh his side, the last dfops,' ebbing aloW| From the red: gash fall heavy, one by one, JUke the first of Sk thunder-shower ; and now I'll* P" I »'l'll ^ il I r I lOG THE BELVIDERE APOLLO. The arena swims around him, — he is gone Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won. " He heard it, hut he heeded not, — his eyes Were with his heiu-t, and that wae far away ; He reck'd not of the life he lost, nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay. There were his young barbarians at play, There was their Dacian mother,— he their sire Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday, — All this rush'd with his blood, — shall he expire, And unavenged? Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire ! " Verily that old Rome, great and generous as she was, fell under a just retribution when the barbarians she so oppressed arose, and, breaking the chain with which she bound the world, scattered her power to the winds, leaving to other ages her greatness as an ex- ample, and her fate as a warning. THE BELVIDERE APOLLO. Hbnrt Hart Milman, Dean of St Paul's, Church historian and poet : born 179L Heard ye the arrow hustle in the sky ? Heard ye the dragon monstei-'s deathfnl cry ; In settled majesty of fierce disdain, Proud of his might, yet scornful of the slain, The heavenly Archer stands — no human birth, No perishable denizen of earth ; Youth blooms immortal in his beardless face, A God in strength, with more than godlike grace ; All, all divine — no struggling muscle glows, Through heaving vein no mantling life-blocd flows, But, animate with Deity alone, In deathless glory lives the breathing stone. Bright kindling with a conqueror's stern delight, His keen eye tracks the arrow's fatal flight ; Burns his indignant cheek with vengeful fire, And his lip quivers with insulting ire : Firm nx'd his tread, yet light, as when ou high He walks th' impalpable and pathless sky : SU Wi Ami exc moi tani thai too, Zeu ver; anc nat low app the rivt due ack SUPERIORITY OF ANCIENT OVER MODERN SCULPTURE. 107 I who won. , fell nnder arose, and, ittered her as an ex- The rich Inxuriance of his hair, confined In graceful ringlets, wantons on the wind. That lifts In sport his mantle's drooping fold, Proud to display that form of faultless mould. Mighty Ephcsian with an eagle's flight Thy proud soul mounted through the fields of light, View'd the bright conclave of Heaven's blest abode, And the cold marble leapt to life a God ; Contagious awe through breathless myriads ran, And nations bowed before the work of man. For mild he seem'd, as in Elysian bowers, Wasting in careless ease the joyous hours ; Haughty as bards have sung, with princely sway Curbing the fierce flame- breathing steeds of day ; Beauteous as vision seen in dreamy sleep. By holy maid on Delphi's haunted steep, 'Mid the dim twilight of the laurel grove, Too fair to worship, too divine to love. und poet : SUPERIORITY OF ANCIENT OVER MODERN SCULPTURE. William Collen, M.D., Professor of Medicine in Edinburgh and Glasgow, a contributor to the Mirror and Lounger : 1710-1790. Amidst the various branches or" the fine arts in which ancient Greece excelled, there seems to be Lone in which her pre-emineuce stands more undisputed than that of sculpture. In music she was far dis- tant from any perfection ; and indeed it is in modern times only that this art has received its highest improvements. In painting, too, whatever we may be told of the high admiration in which a Zeuxis and Apelles were held by their countrymen, yet there is a very good reason to believe that the moderns have far exceeded the ancients. In poetry, though we shall not presume to say that other nations have gone beyond the Greeks ; yet surely it must be al- lowed that the Roman poets, as well as those of modern times, approach so near the Grecian models as to suffer very little from the comparison. But in sculpture the Greeks stand confessedly un- rivalled as having attained the summit of perfection. AH the pro- ductions not only of modern, but even of Komad sculpture, are acknowledged to be inferior to those perfect and finished models 11 108 SUPERIORITY OP ANCIENT OVER MODKRN SCULPTURa m\ which Greoce produced. In short, however much the partizans of modern times may be inclined to dispute the palm with the aucientd in others of the fine arts, yet in that of ecnlpture all seem to concur in confessing the superiority of the Grecian artists. And I think their arriving at such excellence in this art may be accounted for from very obvious and satisfactory causes. Sculpture or statuary is one of the imitative arts which mankind would very early practise ; and accordingly there are few, even of the most uncultivated nations, among whom we do not tiud some rude attempts to form images in wood or in stone, if not in metal. To represent with any correctness and accuracy a solid figure upon a plain surface would not so readily occur, as the idea of forming the resemblance of a man, or any other animal in stone or marble. Painting, therefore, is of later invention than statuary ; and being an art of much greater difficulty, would consequently be much Blower of coming to any considerable degree of perfection. To ac- quire the art of properly distributing light and shade, so as to make the several figures stand out from the canvas ; to possess the power of animating those figures with the most natural and glowing colours ; to throw them into groups of a pleasing form ; to preserve that per- fect proportion of size and distance which perspective demands are those excellences of painting which it has required the efforts and the experience of many successive ages to attain. To form a finished statue Is neither so complete nor so difficult an art. To be able, by means of the chisel, to brin» the rude block of marble to present the exact resemblance of the most graceful human form, is no doubt a surprising and beautiful effort of industry and genius ; and it would require a considerable time before such an art could attain perfection ; but that perfection being obviously much more easily attainable than any excellence in painting, so it would necessarily be much sooner required. As more readily to be acquired, it would naturally be more generally practised; and this circumstance again would, in its turn, accelerate the progress of the art. The athletic exercises of the Greeks, joined to the natural beinty of the human form, for which their country and climate weie liis- tinguished, furnished ready models for sculptors. To painting they afforded much less assistance. The mere muscular exertions of the body are favourite objects of imitation for the statuary, and from the successful copy he acquires the very highest degree of renown. Painting draw^ h: ^ pst subjects from other sources; from the com* binatiou of l1: >U:-? iro»i- the features of emotion, from the eye of passion. GrOv pa in sculpture (if we except works in rsU'ef, which MICHAEL ANOELO AND THE CARDINAL. lOD are much less distinct and striking than pictares) are perhaps too near nature to be pleasing. It is certainly true, as a most ingenious and excellent philosopher has observed, that we arc not pleased with imitation when she presses too eloso upon reality ; a coloured statue is ofionsive. Sculpture, therefore, thus confined to single figures, seems little less inferior to painting, than was the ode re- cited by one person at the feast of Bacchus, to the perfect drama of Sophocles and Euripides. When statuary reached its highest excellence in Greece, the art of painting Lad made but slender progress. The admiration of the worlis which their painters produced seems to have proceeded more from a source of the great difficulty of the art, and from surprise at the etfects it produced, than from the pictures truly meriting the Igh praises we find bestowed upon them. To the eye of taste, the Avork of the statuary was the more complete and finished produc- tion ; the art was accordingly more generally cultivated ; and by the authors of antiquity the statues of Greece are more frequently mentioned than their paintings are spoken of; and dwelt upon in such terms as sufficiently show them to have been considered as the superior and more admirable exertions of the taste and genius of that elegant people. If we admit these circumstances to account for the very high degree of perfection which Grecian sculpture attained, it will not be very difficult to explain why they have never been surpassed, and why the art itself has ever since declined. When any art has re- ceived a very high, or perhaps its utmost degree of perfection, this circumstance of itself necessarily destroys that noble emulation which alone can stimulate to excellence. Conscious of being unable to surpass the great models which he sees, the artist is discouraged from making attempts. The posts of honour are already occupied ; superior praise and glory are not to be reached ; and the ardour of the artist is chocked by perceiving that he cannot exceed, and that, after all his eftbrts, he will not be able perhaps to equal, the pro- ductions of those masters who have already the advantage of an established reputation. 14 MICHAEL ANGELO AND THE CARDINAL. (Frot)i " Memorials of Early Genius," edited by Lady Jervis.) It was after his return from Venice to Florence that Michael Angelo learned that the Cardinal of St Gregorio spoke in contemptuous no MICHAEL ANGELO AND THE CARDINAL. Ml terms of his works, placing the most inferior antique statue far above his greatest chefs-u'oeuvres. It occurred to him to mystify this learned personage, who, like too many others, brought into society only those ideas which were already received, and i}e\er took the trouble to form any of his own. Italy is the land of buried statues. One day some men, whose only occupation was seeking such treasures, found a statue of Cupid ; one arm was missing. This statue was of the greatest beauty : they took it to the cardinal, who was in such raptures when he examined it that h'> gave a most extravagant price, and placed it in the most conspicuous place of his gallery. He then sent for Michael Angelo, either to mortify him, or perhaps to hear his real opinion of the statue. " I see nothing wonderful in it," said Michael Angelo, coldly. " Could you do as much ? " asked the cardinal. " Well, I think it would not be difficult," replied Angelo, with a smile of strange meaning. " Signor Michael Angelo, you have not examined the statue ; look at the high finish of the Torso, (the trunk or body,) the ex- pression of the head, fhe limbs, the arms." "His Excellency means to say the arm ! " " Few modern artists could make its fellow, I suspect, Signor Michael Angelo." " If his Excellency will only permit me to go as far as my own studio, perhaps I could prove the contrary." " I shall wait your return," said the cardinal, thinking Michael Angelo would bring him a statue that would be far inferior to his disinterred Cupid. Michael Angelo soon returned, but unaccompanied by any attend- ant carrying a burden ; he was all alone, only he held, wrapped up in a fold of his cioak, something of small dimensions. It was an arm. He went up to the Cupid, and placed the arm on the side where it was wanting. It fitted the body perfectly. " A miracle 1 " cried the cardinal. " Ko, Excellency ; only malice ! " replied Michael Angolo. " I was resolved to prove to your eminence that the moderns could equal the ancients. It was I who made this Cupid, broke an arm off, and had the rest buried where I knew it would be found. This is the whole secret." The greater nnmbcr of the best works of Michael Anc^elO} both In painting and sculpture, are at Florence. At the age of ninety, finding death drawing near, he sent for LIFE OF FLAXMAN. Ill his relative, Leonard Buonarotti, and dictated his last will thus : — " I leave my soul to God, my body to the earth, and iny fortune to my nearest relations.'' He died on the 17th of February 1564. His body was first laid in the church of the Holy Apostle, but was afterwards interred at Florence with great honours. The Grand Duke gave to Leonard Buonarotti all the marble necessary for the execution of the mauso- leum of Michael Angelo, designed by Vasari, one of his pupils, of which the statues were sculptured by three Florentines ; the archi- tectural part was confided to John Dell'opera, the painting to Bap- tiste Lorenzl, and the sculpture to Valerio Ciceli. The palace of the Buonarottis at Florence, still inhabited by the descendants of this great man, possesses a superb gallery, orna- mented with a series of pictures, done by the first Florentine masters, representing the most remarkable events in the life of Michael Angelo. LIFE OF FLAXMAN. Samd:':!' Smiles, an English railway secretary, and author of "Self-Heln*" born 1816. ^ * John Flaxman was a true genius — one of the gi-eatest artists Eng. land has yet produced. He was, besides, a person of beautiful character, his life furnishing many salutary lessons for men of all ranks. Flaxman was the son of a humble seller of plaster-casts in New Street, Covent Garden, and when a child, he was so constant an mvalid, that it was his custom to sit behind the shop-counter propped by pillows, amusing himself with drawing and reading. A benevolent clergyman named Matthews one day calling at the°shop found the boy trying to read a book, and on inquiring what it was' said that was not the proper book for him to read, but that he would bring him a right one on the morrow ; and the kind man was as good as his word. The Rev. Mr Matthews used afterwards to say, that from that casual interview with the cripple little invalid behind the plaster-cast seller's shop-counter, began an acquaintance which ripened into one of the best friendships of his life. He brought several books to flip hnv amnnrfct- ..'{-'-h -s-fti— TT _ , 7? Quixote, m both of which Flaxman, then and ever after, took immense delight. His mind was soon full of the heroism which i. ■M ... jj- ill ; . ft ^ I, 112 LIFE OP FLAXUAN. breathed through the pages of the former work ; his black chalk was at once in his hand, and the enthusiastic boy laboured to body forth, in sensible shapes, the actions of the Greeks and Trojans. Like all youthful efforts, his first designs were crude. The proud father one day showed them to a sculptor, who turned from them with a contemptuous " Pshaw I " But the boy had the right stuff in him — he had indus.try and patience ; and he continued to labour incessantly at his books and drawings. He then tried his young powers in modelling figures in plaster-of-Paris, wax, and clay. Some of these early works are still preserved — not because of their merit, but because they are curious as the first healthy efforts of patient genius. The boy was long before he could walk, and he only learned to do so by hobbling along upon crutches. When afterwards reminded of these early pursuits, he remarked, "We are never too young to learn what is useful, nor too old to grow wise and good." Hij physical health improving, the little Flaxman threw away his crutches. The kind Mr Matthews invited him to his house, where his wife explained Homer and Milton to him. They helped him also in his self-culture, giving him lessons in Greek and Latin. When under Mrs Matthews, he also attempted, with his bit of charcoal, to embody in outline on paper such passages as struck his fancy. His drawings could not, however, have been very ex- traordinary, for when she showed a drawing of an eye which he had made, to Mortimer the artist, that gentleman, with affected sur- prise, exclaimed, "Is it an oyster?" The sensitive boy was much hurt, and for a time took care to avoid showing his drawings to artists. At length, by dint of perseverance and study, his draw- ings improved so much that Mrs Matthews obtained a commission for him from a lady to draw six original drawings in black chalk of subjects in Homer. His first commission ! The boy duly exe- cuted tlie order, and was both well praised and well paid for his work. At fifteen, Flaxman entered a student at the Royal Academy. Notwithstanding his retiring disposition, he soon became known among the students, and great things were expected of him. Nor Avere their expectations disappointed. In his fifteenth year he gained the silver prize, and next year he became a candidate for the gold one. Everybody prophesied that he would carry oft* the medt^l, for t'lcrc was none who surpassed hi ability risd industry. The youth did his best, and in his after life honestly affirmed that ho deserved the prize, but he lost it, and the gold medal was ad- . 1- LIFE OP FLAXMAN. 113 jadged to a lad who was not afterwards heard of. This failure on It fnn °^ '•'y ^^^\^a« really of service to him, for defeats do ot long cast down the resolute-hearted, but only serve io call forth their real powers. " Give me time," said he to his father, " and I will yet^ produce works that the Academy will be proud to re- ZTZa 1. ?' "'^°"^\^^ ^'« ^^ff^rts, spared no pains, designed and modelled mcessantly, and consequent! • made steady, if not Zlhni^T' f "'* «»e«n^hi'e, poverty threatened his father's household; the plaster- cast trade yielded a very bare living ; and young Flaxraan, with resolute self denial, curtailed his hours ot study and devoted himself to helping his father in the humble de- ails of busmess. He laid aside his Homer to take up the plaster- rowel. He was willing to work in the humblest department of the trade, so that his father's family might be supported, and the wolf kept from the door. To this drudgery of his art he served a long apprenticeship ; but it did him good, it familiarized him with steady work, and cultivated in him the spirit of patience. The discipline may have -been rough, but it was wholesome. Happily young Flaxman's skill in design had reached the know- ledge of Mr Wedgwood, who sought him out for the purpose of employing him in designing improved patterns of china and earth- enware to be produced at his manufactory. Before Wedgwood's ime, the designs which figured upon our china and stoneware were hideous, both in design and execution, and he determined to im- prove both. Finding out Flaxman, he said to him, «' Well, my lad have heard that you are a good draughtsman and clever designer' I m a manufacturer of pots, named Wedgwood. Now, I want vou to design some models for me, nothing fantastic, but simple, taste- ful, and correct in drawing. I '11 pay you well. You don't think tiie work beneath you ?" " By no means, sir," replied Flaxman ; " indeed, the work is rethr/crd:." ^^" "^ ^ ^^^^ '^''-^ ^^" ^'^'^> ^^^ ^- -^'^ " That 's right-work away ! Mind, I am in want of them now. They are for pots of all kinds, teapots, jugs, teacups and saucers : but especially I want designs for a table service. Begin with that 1 mean to supply one for the royal table. Now, think of that, young man. A\ hat you design is meant for the eyes of royalty ' " bur,lj'it'^'.7- ^4^_^ ^'\' ''T y^"-." A^d the kind gentleman uu.,i.,.a vUi or tire shop as he nad come In oi'ronT- ^'1 ^''t 5''*- ^y ^^'^ *^™' ^^'''^ ^' Wedgwood next caiitUon him, he had a nmerous series of models prepared for 114 LIFE or FLAXMAN. I M i h ' I various pieces of earthenware. They consisted chiefly of small groups in very low relief, the subjects taken from ancient verse and history. Many of them are still in existence, and some are equal in beauty ai.d simplicity to his after designs for marble. Engaged in such labours as these, for several years Flaxman executed but few works of art, and these at rare intervals. He lived a quiet, secluded, and simple life, working during the day, and sketching and reading in thte evenings. He was so poor, that he had as yet been only able to find plaster- of-Paris for his works. Marble was too dear a material for him. He had hitherto executed only one statue in the latter material, and that was a commission. At length, in the year 1782, when twenty-seven years of age, he quitted his father s roof, and rented a small house and studio in Wardour Street, Soho ; and, what was more, he married. Ann Denham was the name of his wife, and a cheery, bright-souled, noble woman she was. He believed that in niarryixig her, he should be able to work with an intense spirit, foi, like him, she had a taste for poetry and art, and, besides, was an enthusiastic admirer of her husband's genius. Yet, when Sir Joshua Reynolds, himself a bachelor, met Flaxman shortly after his marriage, he said to him, " So, Flaxman, I am told you are married ; if so, sir, I tell ycu, you are ruined for an artist ! " Flaxman went straight home, sat down beside his wife, took her hand in his, and said, " Ann, I am ruined for an artist." " How so, John ? How has it happened? And who has done it?" " It happened," he replied, " in the church, and Ann Denham has done it." He then told her of Sir Joshua's remark, whose opinion was well known, and had been often expressed, that if students would excel, they must bring the whole powers of their mind to bear upon their art, from the moment they rise until they go to bed ; and also, that no man could be a grea^ artist unless 1.3 studied the grand works of Raffaelle, Micliael Angelo, and others, at Rome and Florence. " And I," said Flaxman, drawing up his little figure to its full height, " I would be a great artist." " And a great artist you shall be," said his wife, *' and visit Rome, too, if that be really necessary to make you great." " But how?" asked Flaxman. " Woi'h and economize,'' rejoined the brave wife ; " I will never have it said that Ann Denham ruined John Flaxman for an artist." And so it was determined by the pair that the journey to Rome was to be made when their means would admit. LIFE OF FLAXMAN. 115 " I will go to Rome," said Flaxman, " and show the pi esident that wedlock is for a man's good rather than his harm; and you Ann, shall accompany me !" ' Patiently and happily this affectionate couple plodded on during five years in that humble little home in Wardoiu- Street, always with the long journey to Rome before them. It was never lost sight of for a moment, and not a penny was uselessly spent that could be saved t. ards the necessary expenses. At length Flaxman and his wife, having thriftily accumulated a sufficient store of savings, set out for Rome. Arrived there, he applied himself diligently to study, maintaining himself, like other poor artists, by making copies. He prepared to return to England, his taste improved and cultivated by careful study. His fame had preceded him, and he soon found abundcint lucra- tive employment. While at Rome, he had been commissioned to execute his famous monument in memory of Lord Mansfield, and it was erected in the north transept of Westminster Abbey shortly after his return. It stands there in majestic grandeur, a monument to the genius of Flaxman himself— calm, simple, and severe. No wonder that Banks, the sculptor, then in the heyday of his fiime, exclaimed, when he saw it : " This little man cuts us all out ! " He was soon after elected a member of the Royal Academy. His progress was now rapid, and he was constantly employed. Per- severance and study, which had matured his genius, had made him great, and he went on from triumph to triumph. But he appeared in yet a new character. The little boy, who had begun his studies behind the poor plaster-cast seller's shop- counter in New Street, Covent Garden, was now a man of high intellect and recoc^nised supremacy in art, and was elected to instruct aspiring students in the character of Professor of Sculpture to the Royal Academy ' And no man better deserved to fill that distinguished office, for none is so able to instruct other? as he who for himself, and by his own almost unaided efforts, has learned to grapple with and over- come difficulties. Fiaxman's monuments are known nearly all over England. What- ever work of this kind he executed, he threw a soul and meaning into it. " Flaxman died after a long, peaceful, and happy life, having sur- viveu ms wife Ann several years. J?i I I N I i j i mujjah i ij ., WnmsBMiK H MlBf i IIG ON CHANTREY 8 SLEEPING CHILDREJT. ON CHANTREY'S SLEEPING CHILDREN. William Lisle Bowles, Canon of Salisbury, author of " Sonnets," " Sorrows of Switzerland," &c : 1762-1850. Look at those sleeping children — softly tread, Lest thou do mar their dream, and come not ulgh, Till their fond mother, with a kiss, shall cry, "'Tis morn, awake 1 awake 1" Ah, they are deadl Yet folded in each other's arms they lie So still— oh look I — so still and smilingly. So breathing and so beautiful, they seem As if to die in youth were but to dream Of spring and flowers I Of flowers ? Yet nearer stand . There is a lily in one little hand, Broken, but not faded yet, As if its cup with tears was wet. So sleeps that child, not faded, though in death, And seeming still to hear her sister's breath, As when she first did lay her head to rest Gently )n that sister's breast, And kiss'd her ere she fell asleep ! The archangel's trump alone shall wake that slumber deep. Take up those flowers that fell From the dead hand, and sigh a long farewell ! Your spirits rest in bliss ! Yet ere with parting prayers we say " Farewell for ever " to the insensate clay. Poor maid, those pale lips we will kiss ! Ah I 'tis cold marble ! Artist who hast wrought This work of nature, feeling, and of thought, Thine, Chantrey, be the fame That joins to immortality thy name. For these sweet children, that so sculptured rest, A sister's head upon a sister's breast. Age after age shall pass away, Nor shall their beauty fade, their fame decay. For here is no corruption, the cold worm Can never prey upon that beauteous form ; This smile of death that fades not shall engage The deep affections of each distant age. GREEK PAINTERS. Mothers, till rnin the round world hath rent, Shall gaze with tears upon the monnment ; And fathers sigh, with half- suspended breath, " How sweetly sleep the innocent in death 1 " 117 GREEK PAINTERS. t)T W. Smith : see for notice Architecture. The art of painting was developed later than that of sculpture, of which it seems to have been the offspring, and in its earlier period to have partaken very closely of the statuesque character. The ancient Greek paintings were either in water colours or in wax ; oil colours appear to have been unknown. The first Grecian painter of any great renown was Polygnotus, who was contemporary with Phidias, though probably somewhat older. He was a native of Thasos, whence he was, in all probability, brought by his friend and patron Cimon, when he subjugated that island in b.c. 423. At that period lie must at least have been old enough to have earned the celebrity which entitled him to Cimon's patronage. He subse- quently became naturalized at Athens, where he probably died about the year 426 b.c. His chief works in Athens were executed in adorn- ing those buildings which were erected in the time of Cimon ; as the temple of Theseus, and the Poecile Stoa, or Painted Colonnade. His paintings were essentially statuesque, — the representation, by means of colours on a flat surface, of figures similar to those of the sculptor. But the improvements which he introduced on the works of his predecessors were very marked and striking, and form an epoch in the art. He first depicted the open mouth, so as to show the teeth, and varied the expression of the countenance from its ancient stiffness. He excelled in representing female beauty and complexion, and introduced graceful flowing draperies, in place of the hard stiff" lines by which they had been previously depicted. He excelled in accuracy of drawing, and in the nobleness, grace, and beauty of his figures, which were not mere transcripts from nature, but had an ideal and elevated character. His master-pieces were executed in the Lesche (enclosed court or hall for conversation) of the Cnidians at Delphi, the subjects of which were taken from the cycle of epic poetr3\ In these there seems to have been no attempt at per- spective, and names were affixed to the difterent figures. Painting reached a further stage of excellence in the hands of 4 ^1 I Ri '1 iffi ';r^ 118 GREEK PAINTEliS. ApoUodorus, Zenxis, and Parrhasiu?, the only other artists whom we need notice during this period. ApoUodorus was a native of Athens, and first directed attention to the effect of light and shade in painting, thus creating another epoch in the art. His immediate successors, or rather contemporaries, Zeuxis and Parrhasius, brought the art to a still greater degree of perfection. Neither the place nor date of the birth of Zeuxis can be accurately ascertained, thougli he was probably born about 456 b.c, since thirty years after that date we find him practising his art with great success at Athens. He was patronized by Archclaus, king of Macedonia, and spent some time at his court. He must also have visited Italy, as he painted his celebrated picture of Helen for the city of Croton. He acquired great wealth by his pencil, and was very ostentatious in displaying it. He appeared at Olympia in a magnificent robe, having his name embroidered in letters of gold ; and the same vanity is also displayed in the anecdote that after he had reached the summit of his fame^ he no longer sold, b^t gave away his pictures, as being above all price. With regard to his style of art, single figures were his favourite subjects. He could depict gods or heroes with sufficient majesty, but he particularly excelled in painting the softer graces of female beauty. In one important respect he appears to have degenerated from the style of Polygnotus, his idealism being rather that 0^ form than of character and expression^ Thus his style is analogous to that of Euripides in tragedy. He was a great master of colour, and his paintings were sometimes so accurate and life-like as to amount to illusion. This is exemplified in the story told of him and Parrhasius. As a trial of skill these artists painted two pictures. That of Zeuxis represented a bunch of grapes, and was so naturally executed that the birds came and pecked at it. After this proof, Zeuxis, confident of success, called upon his rival to draw aside the curtain which concealed his picture. But the painting of Parrhasius was the curtain itself, and Zeuxis was now obliged to acknowledge himself vanquished ; for, though he had deceived the birds, Parrhasius had deceived the author of the deception. What- ever may be the historical value of this tale, it at least shows the high reputation which both artists had acquired for the natural representation of objects. But many of the pictures of Zeuxis also displayed great dramatic power. He worked very slowly and care- fully, and he is said to have replied to somebody who blamed him for his slowness, " It is true I take a long time to paint, but then I paint works to last a long time." His master-piece was the picture of Helen, already mentioned. PARRHASIUS. 119 Parrliasius M'as a native of Ephesus, but his art was chiefly exercised at Athens, where he was presented with the right ot citizenship. His date cannot be accurately ascertained, but he was probably rather younger than his contemporary, Zeuxis, and it is certain that he enjoyed a high reputation before the death of Socrates. The style and degree of excellence attained by Parrhasius appear to have been mi-:h the same as those of Zeuxis. He was particularly celebrated for the accuracy of his drawing, and the excellent proportions of his figures. For these he established a canon, as Phidias had done in sculpture for gods, and Polycletus for the human figure, whence Quintilian calls him the legislator of his art. His vanity seems to have been as remarkable as that of Zeuxis. Among the most celebrated of his works was a portrait of the personified Athenian Demos, which is said to have miracu- lously expressed even the most contradictory qualities of that many- headed personage. The excellence attained during this period by the great masters in the higher walks of sculpture and painting was, as may be well supposed, not without its influence on the lower grades of art. This is particularly visible in the ancient painted vases, which have been preserved to us in such numbers, the paintings on which, though of course the productions of an inferior class of artists, show a marked improvement, both in design and execution, after the time of Polyguotus. PARRHASIUS. Nathaniel Parker Willis, zn American poet and traveller : 1817-1867. nf^ivrffit'"''?^' ^ ^^h*^"" of Athena among those Olynthian captives PEilip of Macedon brought home to sell, bought one very old man ; and wheu h? hHtl "V v,^'' ^^"'«^',P'i* li™ to death with extreme torture and torment, the bettei by his ex inple to express the pains and passions of his Prometheus whom he was then about to v^ini --Barton^s Anatomy of Melanchdy Theuk stood an unsold captive in the mart, A gray-hair'd and majestical old man, Chaiu'd to a pillar. It was almost night. And the last seller from his place had gone, And n^t *> snnnrl nraa 1>nn..rJ 1>,,t „^ „ j__ Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone, Or the dull echo, from the pavement rung, I i 120 PARRHA8IU8. IN As the faint captive changed his weary feet. He had stood there since morning and had borne I'rom every eye in Athens the cold gaze Of carious scorn. The Jew had taunted him I'or an Olynthian slave. The buyer came iLnd roughly struclc his palm upon his breast, ilnd touch'd his unheal'd wounds, and with a sneer ]'ass'd on ; and when with weariness o'erspent, lie bow'd his head in a forgetful sleep, Th' inhuman soldier smote him, and, with threats Of torture to his children, summon'd back The ebbing blood into his pallid face. 'Twas evening, and the half-descended sun Tipp'd with a golden fire the many domes Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street Through which the captive gazed. He had borne up With a stout heart that long and weary day, Haughtily patient of his many wrongs. But now he was alone, and from his nerves The needless strength departed, and he lean'd Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts Throng on him as they would. Unmark'd of him, Parrhasius at the nearest pillar stood. Gazing upon his grief. Th' Athenian's cheek Flush'd as he measured, with a painter's C) e, The moving picture. The abandon'd limbs, Stain'd with the oozing blood, were laced with veins Swollen to purple fulness ; the gray hair, Thin and disordei-'d, hvng about his eyes ; And as a thought of wilder bitterness Eose in his memory, his lips grew white. And the fast workings of his bloodL^ss face Told what a tooth of fire was at his heart. 4< it: * « :|e 41 The golden light into the painter's room Streamed richly, and the hidden colours stole From the dark pictures radiantly forth. And in the soft and dewy atmosphere Like forms and landscapes magical they lay. The walls were hung with armour, and about, TARRIIASIUS. In the dim corners, stood the sculptured forms Of Cytheris and Dian, and stern Jovo, And from the casement soberly away Fell the grotesque, long shadows, full and true, And, like a veil of filmy mellowness, The lint-specks floated in the twilight air. Parrhasius stood, guzlng forgetfully Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay, Chain'd to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus— The vulture at his vitals, and the links Of the lame Lemuian festering in his flesh ; And as the painter's mind felt through the 'dim, Rapt mystery, and plnck'd the shadows forth With Its far-reaching fancy, and with form And colour clad them, his fine, earnest eye Flash'd with a passionate fire, and the quick curl Of his thin nostril and his quivering lip Were like the winged god's, breathing from his flight. .^ " Bring me the captive now ! My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift From my waked spirit airily and swift, And I could paint the bow Upon the bended heavens— around me play Colours of such divinity to-day. "Ha! bind him on his back I Look I as Prometheus in my picture here 1 Quick, or he faints !— stand with the cordial near ! Now— bend him to the rack ! Press down the poison'd links into his flesh I And tear agape that healing wound afresh ! " So — let him writhe ! How long Will he live thus ? Quick, my good pencil, now ! What a fine agony works upon his brow ! Ha ! gray-hair'd, and so strong ! How fearfully he stifles that short moan ! Gods ! if I could but paint a dying groan ! ''Pity thee? Soldo! I pity the dumb victim at the altar— But does the robed priest for his pity falter ? I 'd rack thee though I knew 121 I m 1 41 i J i 1} i 122 t'v ^ " El; .# <.. PARBnASIUS. A thousand lives were perishing in thine : What were ten thousand to a fame like mine' '* Hereafter 1 Ay — hereafter ! A whip to keep a coward to his track ! What gave Death ever from his kingdom back To check the sceptic's laughter '? Come from the grave to-morrow with that story, And I may take some softer path to glory. " No, no, old man ! we die Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away Our life upon the chance wind even as they I Strain well thy fainting eye, For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er, The light of heaven will never reach thee more. " Yet, there 's a deathless name I A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn. And like a steadfast planet mount and burn. And though its crown of flame Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone, By all the fiery stars I 'd bind it on I " Ay, though it bid me rifle My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst, Though every life-strung nerve be raadden'd first ; Though it should bid me stifle The yearning in my throat for my sweet child. And taunt its mother till my brain went wild. " All— I would do it ail- Sooner than die, like a dull worm to rot, Thrust foully into earth to be forgot. Oh, heavens !— but I appal Your heart, old man 1 forgive — ha ! on your lives Let him not faint! — rack him till he revives 1 " Vain, vain, give o'er ! his eye Glares apace. He does not feel you now. Stand back I I '11 paint the death-dew on his brow ! Gods ! if he do not die But for one moment — oue — till I eclipse Conception with the scorn of those calm lips I 8CU00LS OF PAIKTINO j OR, THE LOUVliE IN 1«U 123 "Shivering! Hark 1 lie mutters Brokenly now, — that was a difficult brealli. Another I Wilt thou never come, Death ? Look! how his temple flutters I Is his heart still? Aha ! lift up his head 1 He shudders— gasps— Jove, lielp him !— so— he's diad. ♦ ♦ * » ♦ How like a mounting devil in the heart Kules the unrein'd ambition ! Let it once But play the monarch, and its haughty brow Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought And unthrones peace for ever. u SCHOOLS OF PAINTING; OR, THE LOUVRE IN 1814. SiH Abchibald Alison, the well-known author of the " History of Euroi.e from the French Revolution : " born 1792. ' For gaining an idea of the general character, by which the different schools of painting are distinguished, the Louvre presents singular advantages, from the unparalleled collection of paintings of every school and description, which are there to be met with, and the facility with which you can there trace the progress of art from its first beginning to the period of its greatest perfection. And it is in this view that the collection of these works into one museum, however much to be deplored as the work of unprincipled ambition' and however much it may have diminished the impression which particular objects, from the influence of association produced in their native place, is yet calculated to produce the greatest of all improvements in the progress of the art ; by divesting particular schools and particular works of the unbounded influence which the efllects of early association or the prejudices of national feeling have given them in their original situation, and placing them where their real nature is to be judged of by a more extended circle, and sub- jected to the examination of more impartial sentiments. The first hall of the Louvre, in the picture gallery, is filled with paintings of the French school. The principal artists, whose works are here exhibited, are Le Brun, Caspar and Nicholas Ponsoin, Claude Lorrain. Vernefc : and tho. m^'fi'^vn r^ouit^'-q rin,.o..;j ^.,,i David. The general character of the school of French historical painting is the expression of passion and violent emotion, Tho * * t 1 I 124 SCHOOLS or painting ; or, the louvke in 1814. colouring is for the most part brilliant, the canvas crowded with figures, and the incident selected that in which the painter might have the best opportunity of displaying his knowledge of the hnman frame, or the varied expression of the human countenance. In the pictures of the modern school of French painting this peculiarity is pushed to an extravagant length, and, fortunately for the art, dis- plays the false principles on which the system of their composition is founded. The moment seized is uniformly that of the strongest and most violent passion ; the principal ac'.ors in the piece are re- presented in a state of frenzied exertion, and the whole anatomi- cal knowledge of the artist is displayed in the endless contortions into which the human frame is thrown. In David's celebrated picture of the Three Horatii, this peculiarity appears in the most striking light. The works of this artist may excite admiration, but it is the limited and artificial admiration of the schools ; of those who have forgot the end of the art in the acquisition of the techni- cal knowledge with which it is accompanied, or the display of the technical powers which its execution involves. The paintings of Vernet in this collection are perhaps the finest specimens of that beautiful master, and they entitle him to a higher place in the estimation of mankind than he seems yet to have ob- tained from the generality of observers. There is a delicacy of colouring, a unity of design, and a harmony of expression in his works which accord well with the simplicity of the subjects which his tp :o has selected, and the general effect which it was his ob- ject to produce. In the representation of the sun dispelling the mists of a cloudy morning; of his setting rays gilding the waves of a western sea; or of that undefined beauty which moonlight throws over the objects of nature, the works of this artist are perhaps unrivalled. The paintings of Claude are by no means equal to what might have been expected from the celebrity which his name has acquired, or the matchless beauty which the engravings from him possess. They are but eleven in number, and cannot be, in any degree, com- pared with those which are to be found in Mr Angersteln's collec- tion. The Dutch and Flemish school to which you next advance pos- sesses merit, and is distinguished by a character of a very differ- ent description. It was the well-known object of this school to present an exact and faithul imitation of nature; to exaggerate none of its faults, and enhance none of its excellences, but exhibit it as it really appears to the eye of an ordinary spectator. Its SCHOOLS OF PAINTING j OR, THE LOUVBE IN 1814. 125 artists selected, in general, some scene of humour or amusement, in the discovery of which the most ignorant spectators might dis- cover other sources of pleasure from those which the merit of the art itself afforded. They did not pretend to aim at the exhibition of passion Or powerful emotion— their paintings, therefore, are free from that painful display of theatrical effect which characterizes the French school ; their object was not to represent those deep scenes of sorrow or suffering which accord with the profound feelings which it was the object of the Italian school to awaken— they want, there- fore, the dignity and grandeur which the works of the greater Italian painters possess. Their merit consists in the faithful de- lineation of those ordinary scenes and common occurrences which are familiar to the eye of the most careless observer. The power of the painter, therefore, could be displayed only in the minuteness of the finishing, or the biilliancy of the effect : and he endeavoured by the powerful contrast of light and shade, to give a higher character to his works than the nature of their subjects could otherwise ad- mit. The pictures of Teniers, Ostade, and Gerard Dow possess these merits, and are distinguished by this character in the highest de- gree ; but their qualities are so well known as to render any obser- vations on them superfluous. There is a very great collection here preserved of the works of Rembrandt, and their design and effect bear, in general, a higher character than belongs to most of the works of this celebrated master. In one respect, the collection in the Louvre is altogether un- rivalled, in the number and beauty of the Wouvermans which are there to bo met with ; nor is it possible, without having seen it, to appreciate, with any degree of justice, the variety of design, the accuracy of drawing, or delicacy of finishing, which distinguish his works from those of any other painter of a similar description. His works for the most part are crowded with figures ; his subjects are, in general, battle-pieces, or spectacles of military pomp, or the ani- mated scenes which the chase presents ; and he seems to have ex- hausted all the efforts of his genius in the variety of incident and richness of execution which these subjects are fitted to afford. The pictures of Vandyke and Rubens belong to a much highe school than that which rose out of the wealth and the limited taste of the Dutch people. There are sixty pictures of the latter of these masters in the Louvre, and combined with the celebrated gallery in the Luxembourg palace, they form the finest assemblage of them which is to bo met with in the world. The character of his works dilFcrs essentially from that both of the French and the iki :; H 126 SCHOOLS OF PAINTING ; OB, TUB LOUVllE IN 1814. If' Dutch schools : he was employed not ia painting cabinet pictures for wealthy nierchands, but in designing great altar pieces for splendid churches, or commemorating the glory of sovereigns in imperial galleries. The greatness of his genius rendered him fit to attempt the representation of the most complicated and diffi- cult objects; but in the confidence of this genius, he seems to have lost sight of the genuine object of composition in his art. Ho attempts what it is impossible for painting to accomplish. He aims at telling a whole story by the expression of a single picture; and seems to pour forth the profusion of his fancy by crowding his canvas with a multiplicity of figures which serve no other pur- l)ose than that of showing the endless power of creation which the author possessed. It is in the Italian school, however, that the collection in the Louvre is most unrivalled, and it is from its character ttiat the general tendency of tho modern school of historical painting is principally to be determined. The general object of the Italian school appears to be the ex- pression of passion. The peculiar subjects which its painters were called on to represent, the suff'erings and death of our Saviour, the varied misfortunes to which His disciples were exposed, or the multiplied persecutions which the early fathers of the Church had to sustain, inevitably prescribed the object to which their genius was to be directed, and the peculiar character which their works were to assume. They have all, accordingly, aimed at the expression of passion, and endeavoured to excite the pity or awaken the synipathy of the spectator ; though the particular species of passion which they have severally selected has varied with the turn of mind which the artist possessed. The works of Domenichino and of the Caraccis, of which there are a very great number, incline, in general, to the representation of what is dark or gloomy in character, or what is terrific and appal- ling in suffbring. The subjects which the first of these masters has in general selected are the cells of monks, the energy of martyis, the death of saints, or the sufterings of the crucifixion; and the dark blue coldness of his colouring, combined with the depth, of- his shadows, accord well with the gloomy character which his com- positions possess. The Caraccis, amidst the variety of objects which their genius has embraced, have dwelt in general upon the expres- sion of sorrow, of that deep and profound sorrow which the sub- jects of sacred history were so fitted to afford, and which was so well adapted to that religious emotion which it was their object to excite. et pictures pieces for 'ereigns in ed liira fit and diffi- seems to in bis art. plish. He le picture ; ' crowding otlier pur- wliich the ion in the r ttiat the )aiiitiDg is be the ex- nters were iviour, the sd, or the rch had to jenius was i'orks were expression vaken the of passion rn of mind there are ntation ot md appal- lasters has f martyrs, ; and the !pth,ofhis his com- Gcts whicli le expres- i the sub- 'as so well to excite. SCHOOLS OF PAINTINO; OR, THE LOUVRE IN 1814. 127 Guido Reni, Carlo Maratti, and MuriUo, are distinguished by a gentler character ; by the expression of tenderness and sweetness of disposition ; and the subjects which they have chosen are, for the most part, those which were fitted for the display of this predomin- ant expression ; the Holy Family, the Flight into Egypt, the Youth of St John, the Penitence of the Magdalene. Their colouring is seldom brilliant, there is a subdued tone pervading the greater part of their pictures ; and they have limited themselves, in general to the delineation of a single figure or a small group in which a single character of mind is prevalent. There are only six paintings by Salvator Rosa in this collection, but they bear that mild and original character which is proverbially Known to belong to the works of this great artist. One of his pieces IS particularly striking, a skirmish of horse, accompanied by all the scenery in which he so particularly delighted. In the fore- ground is the ruins of an old temple, with its lofty pillars finely displayed in shadow above the summits of the horizon ; in the middle distance the battle is dimly discerned through the drlvin^r ram, which obscures the view; while the background is closed by a vast ridge of gloomy rocks, rising into a dark and tempestuous sky. The character of the whole is that of sullen magnificence; and it atrords a striking instance of the power of great genius to mould the most varied objects in nature into the expression of one uni- form poetical feeling. Vcij different is the expression which belongs to the softer pictures of Correggio— of that great master whose name is associated m every ones mind with all that is gentle or delicate in the imi- tation of nature. Perhaps it was from the force of this impression that his works seld )m completely come up to the expectations which are formed of them. Their general character is that of tenderness and delicacy: there is a softness in his shading of the human form which is quite unrivalled, and a harmony in the general tone of his colouring, which is in perfect unison with the characteristic expres- sion which it was his object to produce. There is but one picture by Carlo Dolci in the Louvre; but it alone is sufficient to mark the exquisite genius which its author possessed. It is of small dimensions, and represents the Holv family, with the Saviour asleep. The finest character of design IS here combined with the utmost delicacy of execution -. thp snL ness of the shadows exceeds that of Correggio himself; and the dark blue colouring which prevails over the whole is in perfect unison m ! f 128 LEONARDO DA VINCI. f mi III I Im JiJi with the expression of that rest aud quiet which tiie subject re- quires. Without the softness of shading or the harmony of colour which Correggio possessed, tlio worlcs of Uaphael possess a liigher character, and aim at the expression of a sublimer feeling tlian tliose of any other artist whom modern Europe has produced. Like ull his brethren, he lias often been misled from the real object of his art, and iried, in the energy of passion, or the confused expression of various figures to multiply the effect which his composition might produce. It is in his smaller pieces that the geimine character oi liaphael's paintings is to be seen — in the figure of St Michael subduing the demon ; in the beautiful tenderness of the Virgin and Child ; in the unbroken harmony of the Holy Family ; in the wildness and piety of the infant St John ; — scenes in which all the objects of the picture combine for the preservation of one uniform character, and where the nati^ ; fineness of his mind appears undisturbed by the display of temporary passion, or the painful distraction of varied suffering. There are no pictures of the English school in the Louvre, for the arms of France never prevailed in our island. From the splendid character, however, which it early assumed under the distinguished guidance of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and from the high and philosophical principles which ho at first laid down for the government of the art, there is every reason to believe that it ultimately will rival the celebrity of foreign genius. And it is in this view hat the con- tinuance of the gallery of the Louvre, in its present situation, i.< principally to be wished by the English nation — that the English artists may possess so near their own country so great a school for composition and design ; that the imperfections of foreign schools may enlighten the views of English genius; and that the conquests of the French arms, by transferring the remains of ancient taste to these northern shores, may throw over its rising art that splendour which has hitherto been confined to the regions of the sue. LEONARDO DA VINCL Dr TWEEDIE. Leonardo da Vinci was born at the castle of Vinci, in the Val d'Arno, not far from the Tuscan capital, iu the year 1452, aud iiis praise has seriously taxed the language of encomium to utter it all. There was in him " a grace beyond expression, which was rendered LEONARDO DA VINCI. 129 manifest, without thonglit or effort, in every act and deed." " To whatever subject ho turned his attention, liowever diflicult, ho was able, by his rare ability, to nialce himself absolute master of it." '• Extraordinary power was, in his case, conjoined with remarkable facility." "Truly admirable, indeed, and divinely endowed, was Leonardo da Vinci." 8uch are some of the expressions used to set forth his gifts and his acquirements. Even when Leonardo was a child, wo read, he displayed a strong inclination and talent for i)ainting. It appeared in several little drawings and sketches, which gave promise in the child of what the man did not belie. Captivated by these juvenile efforts and their success, Leonardo's father showed them to a painter, Andrea del Verocchio. Ho also was astonished, and i. due time the boy be- came the pupil of that painter, in whose studio the productions of the juvenile artist formed the wonder of all. Not merely aptitude for art, but versatility in regard to other departments, rendered the boy remarkable ; and in several of these pursuits, as well as in his profession, he found a guide and counsellor in his master, Verocchio, who, it appears, loved and prized his pupil as one so gifted and ascendant deserved to be. An Incident is recorded regarding the early years of this boy, which may bricily illustrate his powers. His master was employed upon a painting of Christ when baptized in the Jordan by John, and the pupil was appointed to paint in one of the figures, which was that of an angel. But so exquisite was hi? part of the work- manship, and so far did it excel that of his master, that from that period the latter aband iied painting, and confined himself to sculp- ture and other departments of art, — "so much was he displeased to find that a mere child could do more than himself." The wonder produced by such early eminence is increased when we are told that after all Da Vinci at times made painting his amusement rather than his profession. A large portion of his time M'as taken np with poetry, music, astronomy, mathematics, sculp- ture, architecture, engineering, mechanics, botany, and anatomy. Can it be literally true, as has been recorded, that he was " not only a student of those arts and sciences, — he was a master in them all"? As this gifted man was careful in youth to lay a good foundation for the future, the structure which he reared on it was really one of the most wonderful ever constructed by mortal skill. Ardent in study, and eager in the pursuit of knowledge, his acquirements were not of that superficial kind which serve fcAV purposes but those IS V 'fi! fH i u 130 LEONARDO DA VINCI. I of Vanity and show. On the contrary, he did thoroughly what he did at all : and in arithmetic, for example, while only a boy, so rapid was his progress, and so searching his study, that he often confounded his master alike by the doubts which he raised and the questions which he asked. Even in early youth ho thus gave pre- monition of what was coming, and modelled figures " which might be supposed to have proceeded from the hands of a master." In architecture, also, he prepared designs for various buildings ; and, when only a lad, suggested what was '■ - -r^lmhed two centuries after his time, namely, the formation oi al from Florence to Pisa, by utilizing the water of the An... In truth, this extra- ordinary genius actually made various discoveries in science, and produced inventions in physics, some of which have been re- discovered and re-invented since his day. And lest it should be supposed that so happy a genius accom- plished so much, or became so remarkable without effort, it should be noticed that he took elaborate pains in finishing what he painted — pains as elabora^^e as if the persistent drudgery of a mere plodder, or a servile copyist, were all he could accomplish. The minutest parts were exquisitely finished. When representing woven cloth, for example, the very threads were individually visible; when painting the countenance each hair on the eyebrows was also finely individualized. In landscapes every leaf and bud was carefully traced ; in some cases the very dew-drop is visible on the floAver. And so in other examples : thus minute or microscopic was his search for perfection — his determination to be thorough. In his early youth Leonardo painted some objects so grotesquely, and in combinations so hideous, that even his father was scared, and fled from the sight; but it is no part of ou object to describe these products of his pencil, powerful though they were. Let us rather accompany him along the path by which he advanced to his exalted place ; and in doing so we find him following any person of unusual appearance, studying, mentally copying, treasuring up whatever was expressive, or grand, or peculiar, and then hastening to reproduce it in some work. A face full of character, a head of unusual or dignified aspect, a strange attitude, fun, frolic, grief, rage, violence — all were seized by the skilful student, all treasured up, and all employed as occasion arose. One of Leonardo's biographers tells us that he attended a supper to which the painter had invited a laugh immoderately, as v.ell as display extravagant contortions ; all with a view to embody their exhibition in sketches, and this he did r all r baeth£lemi esteban mueillo. 131 with such effect that the whole was irresistibly comic. In addition to all this, Da Vinci would follow criminals on the way to execu- tion that he might study their expressions, and eventually transfer them to canvas. In a word, if this man be on the way to pre- eminence, even his amazing poAvers did not enable him to reach it by a bound ; nay, he mounted step by step, just as he must have climbed an Alp, or advanced in a long day's journey. Indeed, his course of study, planned and long followed out, was both so exten- sive and 80 minute that only a buoyant genius, resolved to be daunted by no difficulty, could have successfully carried it out. By these, then, and similar measures, did this mere stripling lay the foundation for excellence. And in sentences already quoted we have seen what excellence he achieved. It is no part of our design to criticize his productions, or to show how, in some respects, he rivalled Raphael himself. Even the wondrous painting of the Last Supper, regarding which perhaps more has been written than about any other painting, we do not attempt to describe. Enough that in his chosen profession Leonardo da Vinci takes his place among the very foremost, while in many respects he had no rival, no second, in his own time or since. BARTHfiLEMI ESTEBAN MURILLO. {Sharpens London Magazine.) As Barthelemi returned home, grave and serious in the thoughts of the future now Ij-ing before him, and followed by Meneses, who was carrying part of the working apparatus of the young painter. Donna Theresina came out to meet him into the middle of the street. *' Good news ! " said she, " you had hardly gone out this morn- ing when Senor Ozorio arrived, bringing me the ten ducats which you yesterday demanded for your picture ; you must take it to him after dinner." " At what hour was Ozorio here ? " inquired Barthelemi. " At ten o'clock. I have locked up your ten ducats with the rest of your little store." " How unfortunate ! " said Barthelemi, " I have just been pro- mised twenty for it." "By whom?" inquired his mother. " By a stranger, Don Rodriguez de Sylva, who has also offered me a letter of recommendation for Velasquez at Madrid." ■• i; fi' i 132 BARTH^LEMI ESTEBAN MUfilLLO. " Ah I if I bad but known that I " said the poor mother, Borrow- fully, on seeing the evident disappointment of her son. " And I was so well pleased with Senor Oxovio's coming up to yonr price." " Well, what need you care ? " said Meneses to Barthdiemi. " Give my father back his ten ducats, and tell him you had sold your picture when he came to pay you, and that you will do another for him; because the stranger may leave this to-morrow, per- haps." "Hold your tongue, Meneses, you are my evil angel," said Murillo, impatiently. " What is done cannot be undone. Let ns go to dinner, and afterwards I will go and excuse myself to Don Rodriguez. But what shall I do if he will not give me the letter? he may be angry with me?" The dinner passed in gloomy silence, no one said a word, for every member of this little family sympathized with the disappoint- ment of the boy. As soon as it was over, Murillo went out, and, repairing to the Hotel de Castillo, inquired for Don Kodrignez. He was shown into an apartment, where the Senor was alone, and en- gagt'l in writing. *' Oh, here is my picture ! " said Don Rodriguez, on seeing Bar- thdlenii enter. " Senor," said Barthdlemi, with a full heart, •' my mother had sold it before we returned home." " For a higher price ? " inquired Don Rodriguez. "No, much lower; but that makes no difference," said vonnjr Murillo. ^ ^ " Pardon me, but it does a great deal," said the stranger, evi- dently vexed ; " for, if I give a higher price, you have only to do to the other purchaser what you are now doing to me — go and pat him off." " I certainly might do so, and I should have done so without hesitation, if our bargain had been closed before my mother had agreed with the merchant Ozorio ; but it is not so : the bargain begun by me last night was closed by my mother this morning, and ours, you know, Senor, was not concluded till this evening." " Wiiat is your name ? " said the stranger, abruptly. " Barthelemi Esteban Murillo," replied the boy. " Are your parents alive ? " " Both, Senor." " Well, I must see and speak to them both," said Don Rodriguez, rising and gazing upon the young Murillo so intently that he felt quite abashed. " Come, show me the way." r, sorrow* "Aud I r price." tirttidlemi. i bad sold lo another row, per- ?el," said . Let ns ilf to Don le letter? word, for sappoint- out, and, nez. He I, and en- ing Bar- )tber bad d young ger, evi- lly to do aud pat without ther bad bargain norning, ling." drifl'UGz, t be felt BARTHELEMI ESTEBAN MURILLO. " To my .ather's ? " inquired the astonished Barthelemi. "Yes, to your father's," answered Don Kodriguez. 133 It was dark night when Don Rodriguez, conducted by Barthd- cmi. arrived at the dwelling of E.^teban. Theresina was again at her lace-work, and Esteban was reading. They both stopped, and rose on seeing a stranger with their son. " I pray you to excuse my intrusion," said Don Rodriguez, cour- teously saluting, first Theresina, and lucn Esteban : " my visit is not so much to the parents of the young artist, as to the parents who have mculcated such good principles of honesty and integrity m the mind of so young a boy. I frankly acknowledge had I re- ceived the picture, I should have left Seville without comiixr here Murillo has produced a good picture, and thus proved that he is an artist ; yet there are many artists. But Mui illo is more than an artist ; he has done more than produce a fine picture, he has given proof of his integrity ; and I could not leave Seville without seeing those who brought up such a boy. Murillo," added he, turning to . u i ^!'^ ^"^ ^'^^' *°^ *^^^ to serve you; say, what do you wish for ? ' •'J ^|The letter for Velasquez," said Murillo, with some hesitation. I can do more," said the stranger, evidently affected: "I can show him to you this very moment." " Is he at Seville ? " "He is before you," said Don Rodriguez, opening his arms to the boy who hesitated for an instant, but then the next had thrown himself into them. " You, Don Rodriguez ? " said Barthdlemi. "Don Rodriguez de Sylva y Velasquez." The first transports of joy and emqtion over, Velasquez said to JiiSteban, — ■ "I am going to Italy to rejoin Rubens, who is waiting for me at Venice ; I cannot therefore receive him myself at Madrid, but I will give orders accordingly. Do not fail to send him there, I beg of you. Your son is no ordinary child; he will one day be a great painter." '' ^ Velasquez then took leave of the family and departed. The next day he left Seville. But Murillo could not go to Madrid. Esteban was taken ill, and «iea, „»« .„u uijy uuuiu lioc leave im mother, of whom he was the sole support. But when he had attained the age of sixteen, and tound his mother was able to earn a livelihood by her work, Murillo •.ii. -4i^H iiWH ■MBtSUB M I' 134 BOYHOOD OF SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. decided on going to Madrid, and, if possible, to Italy. Not havin'^ sufficient money, ho had recourse to his first plan; he bought canvas, and cutting it into little squares, made a number of sm"all pictures, which were r .chased and sent to America as what is called a sailor's venture, and, dividing what he thus obtained with his mother, he set out for Madrid. When he arrived, ho learned that Velasquez had returned from Italy, He found him out, and Velasquez, at once recognising his young proteff^, soon procured him full employment in the Escurial, and other palaces of Madrid Murillo remained three years in this city, after which he returned to Seville, where he painted for the little cloister of San Francipco the Death of St Clara, and a St John Distributing Alms. He acquired such fame by these two productions, that all the convents of Seville wished to have pictures by Murillo, who was esteemed the greatest of Spanish painters. The Museum of Paris contains four of his pictures— The Infant Jesus Seated on the Virgin's Lap Jesus on the Mount of Olives, St Peter Imploring His Pardon, and a Young Mendicant. Murillo died at Seville the 3d of April 1682. His principal pupils were Antolinez, Menaze Ozorio, Tobar, Velacissmio, and bebastian Gomez commonly called the Mulatto of Murillo. BOYHOOD OP SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. John Times, F.S. A., joiimP.list and author of mnny popular books in literature and science t born 1801. This illustrious "founder of the British School of Painting" was born at Plympton, an ancient town of Devonshire, about five miles from Plymouth, on the 16th of July 1723. He was the seventh of either ten or eleven children. His father, grandfather, and two nncles were all in holy orders. His father is described in the Plympton baptismal register, as "clerk and schoolmaster,' and was mastei of the grammar school of the town. Although possessed of a high character for learning, he appears to have been ill fitted for the office of schoolmaster ; and before his death, it is said, that the number of his scholars was literally reduced to one. The room ip which Joshua Reynolds was born had until recently on the wall a portrait drawn with a finger dipped in ink. showinc^ nn «.r nf ♦!,«. painter s later works. The young Joshua entered early the grammar school at Plympton. BOYHOOD OF SIR JOSHUA KEYNOLDS. 135 i*! ifl 3t having e bought of small I what is ned with 5 learned out, and procured Madrid, returned 'Vanclpco ns. He convents Bsteenied contains in's Lap, ion, and principal lio, and ks in i^as born es from enth of nd two in the ind was ?ssed of ■ted for hat the oom ip I Avail a of the mpton. Beneath the school-room is an open arcade or cloister, forming a I)lay-ground for the scholars in wet weather. This cloister was the subject of one of Reynolds's juvenile performances with the pencil, which excited the astonishment of his father. Northcote relates that young Reynolds had accidentally read the "Jesuits' Perspective" when he was not more than oight years old, a proof of his capacity and active curiosity. lie, moreover, attempted to apply the rules of that treatise in a drawing which he made of his father's school, a building well suited to his purpose, as it stood upon pillars. On showing it to his father, who was merely a man of letters, he ex- claimed, " How this exemplifies what the author of the * Perspec- tive ' asserts in his preface, that by observing the rules laid down in his book, a man may do wonders, for this is wonderful." The drawing is carefully preserved, with three nicely-executed pen-and- ink sketches ; one a perspective drawing on the back of a Latin exercise, "De labore," on which his father, the schoolmaster, has written, " Thh is drawn by Joshua in school out of pure idleness ;''' yet, to what perfection did that idleness lead ? Another of these drawings is the interior of a book-room or library, apparently copied from a small engraving, with all the minuteness and delicacy of Callot. The third is the drawing of a fish, also done with a pen, and inscribed, apparently by Joshua's father, *' Copied from nature." Sir Joshua related to Malone that the " Perspective " happened to lie in the parlour window in the house of his father. He made him- self, at eight years old, so completely master of this book, that he never boa occasion to study any other work on the subject, and the knowledge of perspective then acquired served him ever after. Reynolds also told Malone that his first lessons in drawing were copying some light drawings made by two of his sisters, who had a turn for art ; he afterwards eagerly copied such prints as he met with among his father's books, particularly those which were given in the translation of " Plutarch's Lives," published by Dryden. But his principal fund of initiation was Jacob Catt's " Book of Emblems," which his great-grandmother by his father's side, a Dutchwoman, had brought with her from Holland. The father seems to have strangely neglected the education of his son. It is true that the boy, like Hogarth before him, was inspired by Richardson's "Treatise on Painting" to make private drawings rather than public exercises in school; and his u-Iof^raDher, North- cote, reluctantly admits Reynolds's deficiency in classical attain- ments ; adding, that " the mass of general knowledge by which he % [i* 13G " WITH BRAINS, Sin." was di8tiiigulaIiod was tlio result of much studioug application in his riper years." From his friends, Biirke and Johnson, Reynolds un- doubtedly learnt much to supply the deficicncios of his tarly educa- tion. Mrs Jameson says of the early influence which Richardson's " Treatise" exercised upon the mind of Reynolds: " It apears to me that the boy, who at eight years old was ever found with a pencil in his hand copying prints out of books, and who, at the same time, had mastered the 'Jesuits' Persppctive,' would have been a painter in any case ; but the perusal of Richardson's book, at the age of fifteen or sixteen, elevated and directed his boyish enthusiasm j it made him the painter which he afterwards became. He closed it, he says, with the conviction that Raphael was the greatest man who had ever existed. But this was nothing compared with the aspirations of a still higher kind produced by the same striking book. It is im- possible, I think, to look back upon the whole tenor of Sir Joshua's life, without a perception of the excellent moral Influence its perusal left upon his mind and character. The lofty claims which Richardson set forth in behalf of painting as an art ; the union ot knowledge and virtue with creative genius, of high qualities with great attainments, which he requires in the artist, seem to have made an ineffaceable impression on the thoughtful, dreaming boy, and to have produced, or at least developed, that singular union of self- respect and pride in his art, with modesty and humility, which dis- tinguished him throughout life." "WITH BRAINS, SIR." Dr John Brown, a pleasing Edinburgh essayist and contributor to periodical literature : born 1810. •'Pray, Mr Opie, may I ask what you mix your colours with?" said a brisk dilettante student to the great painter. " With brains, sir," was the gruff reply— and the right one. It did not give much of what we call information, but it was enough to awaken the in- quirer. Many other artists, when asked such a question, would have set about detailing the mechanical composition of such and such colours, in such and such proportions, rubbed so and so ; or perhaps they would have shown him how they laid them on ; but even this IVOuld IfiftVfl him at fhn nfMinn\ r^r^X^t- r\^i~ £ J -• "" — - v.. ...v.ti pvriiii. v/jjic i;!-oicrruu gUing to lUe quick and the heart of the matter: " With brains, sir." Sir Jc was anx careful c and tone his fingei was won Again. Academy expound* everythir A studen — " Supi — " Supj again." and they the " hov the one c secure; i Seeing is voluntary So, yoi thing wit man to u scope to I everythin, Eauly on road betw by the dili on the roa( by watch i length sto on a ladde employed Sun." " Here,' knows as '_-y^-''--:=r:t.--.-i^-:.-T'---:j^^7i^rtr-^~-:- TOO MUCH BLUE. 137 Sir Joshua Reynolds was taken by a friend to see a picture. He was anxious to admire it, and ho looked it over with a keen and careful eye. "Capital composition; correct drawing; the colour and tone excellent ; but— but — it wants — it wants That/" snapping his fingers ; and, wanting " ihat," though it had everything else, it was worth nothing. Again, Etty was appointed teacher of the students of the Royal Academy, having been preceded by a clever, talkative, scientific expounder of a^dthetics, who delighted to tell the young men how everything was done; how to copy this, and how to express that. A student came up to the new master, " How should do I this, sir?" — " Suppose you try." Another, "• What does this mean, Mr Etty ? " ■— " Suppose you look,"—" But I have looked."—" Suppose you look again." And they did try, and they did look, and looked again ; and they saw and achieved what they never could have done had the "how" or the " what" been told them, or done for them. In the one case, sight and action were immediate, exact, intense, and secure ; in the other, mediate, feeble, and lost as soon as gained. Seeing is the passive state, and at best only registers ; looking is a voluntary act : it is the man within coming to the window. So, young friends, bring Brains to your work, and mix every- thing with them, and them with everything. Let "Tools, and a man to use them;' be your motto. Stir up, direct, and give free scope to Sir Joshua's " That," and try again and again, and look at everything for yourselves. TOO MUCH BLUE. (From Household Words. ) Eauly on a fine summer morning an old man was walking on the road between Brussels and Namur. He expected a friend to arrive by the diligence, and he set out some time before it was due to meet it on the road. Having a good deal of time to spare he amused himself by watching any object of interest that caught his eye; and at length stopped to inspect the operations of a painter, who, mounted on a ladder placed against the front of a wayside inn, was busily employed in depicting a sign suitable to its name, "The Risinir Sun." ^ " Here," said the old man to himself, " is an honest dauber, who knows as much of perspective as a cart-horse, and who, I '11 war- Ill iH 138 TOO MUCH BLUE. rant, fancies himself a Rubens. How he brushes in that ultra- marine sky !" The critic then commenced walking backwards and forwards be- fore the inn, thinking that he might as well loiter there for the diligence as walk on farther. The painter meantime continued to lay on fresh coats of the bright blue, which appeared to aggravate the old gentleman very much. At length, when the sign-painter took another brushful of blue paint to plaster on, the spectator could endure it no longer, and exclaimed severely — " Too much blue ! " The honest painter looked down from his perch, and said, in that tone of forced calmness which an angry man sometimes assumes — " Monsieur does not perceive that I am painting a sky ? " " Oh yes, I see very well you are trying to paint a sky, but I tell you again there is too much blue ! " " Did you ever see skies painted without blue. Master Amateur?" " I am not an amateur. I merely tell you in passing — I make the casual remark — that there is too much bine ; but do as you like. Put more blue, if yon don't think you have trowelled on enough already." " But I tell you that I want to represent a clear blue sky at sun- rise." " And I tell you that no man in his senses would make a sky at sunrise blue." *' By St Gudula, this is too much 1 " exclaimed the painter, com- ing down from his ladder, at no pains this time to conceal his anger ; " I should like to see how you would paint skies without blue." " I don't pretend to much skill in sky-painting ; but, if I were to make a trial, I wouldn't put in too much blue." '* And what would it look like if you didn't ? " " Like nature, I hope, and not like yours, which might be taken for a bed gentianella, or a sample of English cloth, or anything you please — except a sky. I beg to assure you, for the tenth time, there is too much blue!" " I tell you what, old gentleman," cried the insulted artist, cross- ing his maul-stick over his shoulder, and looking very fierce, " I daresay you are a very worthy fellow when you are at home ; but you should not be let out — alone." "Why not?" " Why not ? Because you must be crazy to play the critic after this fashion ; too much blue, indeed I What, I, the pupil of Rnys- TOO MUCH BLUE. 139 (lael, the third cousin of Gerard Douw's great grandson, not know- how to colour a sky ? Know that my reputation has been long established. I have a Red Horse at Malines, a Green Bear at Namur, and a Charlemagne at Aix-la-Chapelle, before which every traveller stops fixed in admiration." "Nonsense!" exclaimed the critic, as he snatched the palette from the painter's hand. " You deserve to have your own portrait painted to serve for the sign of the Flemish Ass!" In his indigna- tion he mounted the ladder with the activity of a boy, and began with the palm of his hand to efface the chef d'csuvre of Gerard Douw's great grandson's third cousin. "Stop, you old charlatan !" shouted the latter; "you are ruining my sign ! "Why, it 's worth thirty-five francs. And then my repu* tation — lost! gone for ever ! " He shook the ladder violently to make his persecutor descend. But the latter, undisturbed either by that, or by the presence of a crowd of villagers, attracted by the dispute, continued mercilessly to blot out the glowing landscape. Then, using merely the point ot his finger and the handle of a brush, he sketched, in masterly out- line, three Flemish boors, with beer glasses in their hands, drinking to the rising sun ; which appeared above the horizon, dispersing the gloom of a grayish morning sky. One of the faces presented a strong and laughable caricature of the supplanted sign-painter. The spectators, at first, were greatly disposed to take part with their countryman against the intrusive stranger. What right had he to interfere? There was no end to the impudence of these foreigners. As, however, they watched and grumbled, the grumbling gradu- ally ceased, and was turned into a murmur of approbation when the design became apparent. The owner of the inn was the first to cry "Bravo!" and even Gerard Douw's cousin, nine times removed, felt his fury calming down into admiration : — "Oh!" he exclaimed, "you belong to the craft, honest man, and there 's no use in denying it. Yes, yes," he continued, laugh- ing, as he turned towai-ds his neighbours, " this is a French sign- painter, who wishes to have a jest with me. Well, I must frankly say he knows what he is about." The old man was about to descend from the ladder, when a gen- tleman, riding a beautiful English horse, made his way through the crowd. " That painting is mine ! " he exclaimed in French, but with a foreign accent. " I will give a hundred guineas for it ! " If ! i 11 UQ TOO MUCH BLUE. " Another madman ! " exclaimed the native genius. " Hang me but all these foreigners are mad ! " "What do you mean, Monsieur?" said the innkeeper, nncora- monly interested. ^ "What I say— I will give one hundred guineas for that paint- ing, answered the young Englishman, getting off his horse ^ " That picture is not to be sold," said the sign painter, with an air of as much pride as if it had been his own work. ''No," quoth mine host, "for it is already sold, and even partly paid for m advance. However, if Monsieur wishes to come to an arrangement about it, it is with me that he must treat." "Not at all, not at all," rejoined the Flemish painter of signs It belongs to me. My fellow artist here gave me a little help out of friendship; but the picture is my lawful property, and I am at liberty to sell it to any one I please." ^ "What roguery!" exclaimed the innkeeper. "My Risin«r Sun 13 my property, fastened on the wall of my house. How can it belong to anybody else ? Isn't it painted on my boards ? No one but myself has the smallest right to it." "I'll summon you before the magistrate," cried he who had not painted the sign. " I '11 prosecute you for breach of covenant," retorted the inn- keeper, who had paid half for it. ^ " One moment ! " interposed another energetic voice, that of the interloper;^ "it seems to me that 1 ought to have some little vote in this business. "Quite right, brother," answered the painter. "Instead of disputing on the public road, let us go into Master Martzen's house and arrange the matter amicably over a bottle or two of beer " ' To this all parties agreed, but I am sorry to say they agreed in nothing else; for within doors the dispute was carried on with deafening confusion and energy. The Flemings contended for the possession of the painting, and the Englishman repeated his offer to cover it with gold. "But suppose that 1 don't choose to have it sold?" said its real author. "Oh, my dear Monsieur!" said the innkeeper, "I am certain you would not wish to deprive an honest, poor man. who can scarcely make both ends meet, of his windfall. Why, it would just enable me to lay in a good stock of wine and beer." "Don't believe him, brother," cried the painter, "he is an old miser. I am the father of a family; and being a painter, you ought ' Hang me, er, nncorn- ;hat paiot- •se. r, with an ven partly ame to an • of signs, le help out I I am at Rising Sun 'ow can it * No one 10 had not the Inn- n stead of n's house, eer." agreed in on with 3 for the his offer TOO MUCH BLUE. 141 to help a brother artist, and give me the preference. Besides I am ready to share the money with you." ' " He ! » said Master Martzen. " Why, he 's an old spendthrift, who has no money left to give his daujhter as a marriage portion because he spends all he gets on himself." ' " No such things : my Susette is betrothed to an honest youn- French cabinetmaker; who, poor as sho is, will marry her next beptember. " A daughter to portion !" exclaimed the stranger artist That quite alters the case. I am content that the picture should be sold or a marriage portion. I leave it to our English friend's generosity to fix the sum." '^ ''I have already offered," replied the best bidder, "one hun- dred guineas for the slcetcii just as it is. I will gladly give two hundred for it, if the painter consent to sign it in the corner with two words." " What words ?" exclaimed all the disputants at once The Englishman replied, — " Pjeuke Davjd." The whole party were quiet enough now ; for they were struck dumb with astonishment. The sign-painter held his breath, glared with his eyes, frantically clasped his hands together, and fell down on his knees before the great French painter. "Forgive me!" he exclaimed, "forgive me for my audacious Ignorance.' "^ David laughed heartily ; and taking his hand, shook it with fra- ternal cordiality. By this time the news of the discovery had spread; the tavern was crowded with persons anxious to drink the he^ilth of their celebrated visitor; and the good old man, standing in the middle of the room, plodged them heartily. In the mid^t of tiic merry- making, the sign-painter's daughter, the pretty Susette, threw her arms round her benefactor's neck, and her intended husl)and raised a cloud of saw-dust out of his jacket, from the violence with which he shook the French master's hand. At that moment, the friends whom he was expecting arrived They were Mr LesseCj a theatrical manager, and the great Talma. ' il 1 iliii h U2 THE ART OF ENGRAVING. THE ART OF ENGRAVING Hinckley. The art of engraving is of extreme antiquity. If it cannot witli any certamty be traced to antediluvian times, in the case of Tubal- Cam, the son of Lamech, who is spoken of as " an artificer in brass and iron, yet there are distinct traces of it in the patriarchal a<^e for carved images were found in M family of Abraham, and these' It we may judge by analogy with the most ancient remains of carv- ing extant, were merely rude outlines on a flat surface, and there- fore bore a strong resemblance to engraving. During the sojourn of the Israelites in Egypt, they probably exercised this art after the H-gyptian manner, which consisted of hieroglyphical figures cut in outline on metal and stone. But, during their wanderings in the desert, two men, liezaleel and Aholiab, were specially set apart to devise curious wo.ks in gold, silver, and brass, and in the cutting of stones to set theiv, and in carving the wood," for the service of the tabernacle ; and of them it is declared that God " filled them with wisdom of heart, to work all manner of work of the engraver " (Exod. XXXV. 35.) ^ ' The rude methods of Egypt are supposed to have been adopted by tiie Phffinicians, and thus to have been conveyed to Greece, where in Homer's time, the art of engraving had considerably advanced' One of Its earliest uses in that civilized nation, was in the delinea- tion of maps on metal plates. Specimens of the art as practised m l.truria are thought to be of a very remote antiquity, and are quite capable of being printed from, as has been proved by actual experiment. But the idea of filling in these rude outlines with mk, and taking impressions from them, was reserved to later times Thus the ancients just missed a discovery which now forms the principal element of our progress. This is the more remarkable when we remember that they knew how to take impressions of seals and stamps, hi wax, clay, and other soft bodies, and that they seem to have had stamps with separate letters engraved upon The art of engmving comprises thiee great divisions, for which appropriate technical terms have been found by referring to the Greek language. Copperplate engraving is named Chalcography, from the^Greek words signifying copper &nd I inscribe ; wood-engravina 2i urography, ft'om wood and linscribe ; eugi-aving on stone Litho- ijraphij^ from a stone and / inscribe. 1 1 THE ART OF ENGRAVING. 143 The first of these, or the art of engraving on cooner anrl f«t;„« unpj-essions from the engraved plate!^ is fsc'r/ ^ uat e "' Florence, naraed Finignerra, who flourished in the fifteenth centnrv He was a skilful workman in a species of hand craft then a gef; aSTtS mit tt "'"^r ^' ^'"^^ ornaments and £ s Iv aU lead T^^^^ engraved parts with a black composition of SHvei and lead This was called working in mello, and had a eood effect, as may be seen by remaining specimens. ^ n,e fed'sSuf 0I lu!!!'''''^ '"""^ ^" °°^ '"'^'''^ ^-«t «ome linl nn ., K , engraving to try its eflfect previously to put- t ng on the black composition, observed, on removing the sulnhnr Imt some dust and charcoal which had gatheredTn he hoi ows '^ an miprcssion of wh' ',e had engraven.^ On this he tried the effect lmplo^ements in this art were numerous in Italy, and the skill nV Marc An on.o Raimondi, and the students of his school raised ,?f fame of tho Italian engravers to a high pitch ' *''' Meanwhile Germany was making rapid progress in the same ar^ first practised n that country by Martin Schongauer and cWd n emmence by Albert Durer and his followers. The aJ4ts of th! Flemish and Dutch schools, together with the sk fule—^^^^ France, also contributed to spread throughout Eiirnno fivl ♦ • 5 of this interesting branch of knowledge ^ ' '""'"P^' The art of engraving was early known in England PrinHnxr wo» discovered during the first half of the fifteenth Srv and en^Iv Z^^^'^r '' P"^^' ^yCaxton'r-GSde'nVeS" puntea m 1483, and ornamented with numerous rnf« r^^ "" '",' p« charge, watch, and favayle, hath set „™ these flr^r.^ M •...■ „„u wOTKinansmi), jf admonished." The first 'mam «t Enshsh eonntics were engraved by Christopher Saxton il 15 f "* I« .he re,gn of Charles I. an engraver- ri, a., (Voerst, a nalive of 144 ODE FOE MUSIC ON ST CECILIA'S DAY. Holland,) was appointed, and the art received much encouragement from the king and the Earl of Arundel. The celebrated Vandyke assisted its progress by his vigorous and expressive etchings. Various improvements were made, Prince Rupert discovered mezzo tintOf and for a brief period engraving flourished greatly ; but the bad taste and dissolute manners of the succeeding reign checked its progress, and had the worst effect on the art. Its subsequent re- vival and brilliant success in the hands of Hogarth and his contem- poraries, and its high eminence at the present day, present too extensive a field to be traversed herei ODE FOR MUSIC ON ST CECILIA'S DAY. Alexandek Pope, the greatest poet of the Augustan age «f Euglish literature : 1688-1744. Descend, ye Nine ! descend and sing : The breathing instruments inspire { Wake into voice each silent stringy And sweep ihe sounding lyre ! In a sadly pleasing strain Let the warbling lute complain; Let the loud trumpet sound Till the roofs all around The shrill echoes rebound : While, in more lengthen'd notes and slow. The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow. Hark ! the numbers, soft and clear, Gently steal upon the ear ; Now louder, and yet louder rise, _ And fill with spreading sounds the skiee ; Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes. In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats ; Till by degrees, remote and small, The strains decay, And melt away In a dying, dying fall. By music, minds an equal temper know. Nor swell too high, nor smite too low. If in the breast tumultuous joys arise, Music her soft, assuasivc voice applies; Or, when the soul is press'd with cares. Exalts in her enlivening airs. Warriors she fires with animated sounds ; Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds j Melancholy lifts her head, Morpheus rouses from his bed, ODE FOR MUSIC ON ST CECILIA'S DAY. 145 Sloth unfolds her arms and wakea, List'ning Envy drops her snakes ; Intestine war no more our passions wage, And giddy factions bear away their rage. But when our country's cause provokes to arms, How martial music every bosom warms ; So when the first bold vessel dared the seas. High on the stern the Thracian raised his strain, While Argo saw her kindred trees Descend from Pelion to the main. Transported demi-gods siood round, And men grew heroes at the sound, Inflamed with glory's charms : Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd, And half unsheathed the shining blade ; And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound, To arms, to arms, to arms ! And when through all the infernal bounds. Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds, Love, strong as death, the poet led To the pale nations of the dead ; What sounds were heard, What scenes appear'd O'er all the dreary coasts ! Dreadful gleams, Dismal screams, Fires that glow, Shrieks of woe, Sullen moans. Hollow groans. And cries of tortured ghosts ! But hark ! he strikes the golden lyre ; And see ! the tortured ghosts respire. See, shady forms advance 1 Thy stone, Sisyphus, stands still, Ixion rests upon his wheel, And the pale spectres dance ; The furies sink upon their iron beds, And snakes uncurl'd hang listening round their heads. By the streams that ever flow. By the fragrant winds that blow O'er th' Elysian flow'rs ; By those happy souls who dwell In yellow meads of asphodel, Or amaranthine bow'rs ; By the hero's armed shades, Glitt'ring through the gloomy glades ; By the youths that died for love, ,, ,,...,._s i,,_ ill unu itijinc yiuVe.^"" Restore, restore Eurydice to life : Oh take the husband, or return the wife I U6 ODK FOR MUSIC ON ST CECILIA's DAY. He sung, and hcU consented To hear the poet's prayer : Stern Proserpine relented, \ And gave him back the fair. Thus song could prevail O'er death and o'er hell, — A conquest how hard and how glorious ! Though fate had fast bound her With Styx nine times round her, Yet music and love were victorious. But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes : Again she falls, again she dies, she dies ! How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move ? No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love. Now under hanging mountains, Beside the falls of fountains, Or where Hebrus wanders, Kclling in meanders, All alone. Unheard, unknown, He makes his moan ; ' And calls her ghost, For ever, ever, ever lost ! Now with furies surrounded, Despairing confounded. He trembles, he glows. Amidst Rhodope's snows ; See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he flies ; Hark ! Haemus resounds with the Bacchanal's cries- Ah see, he dies I Yet ev'n in death Eurydice he sung ; Eurydice still trembled on his tongue : Eurydice the woods, Eurydice the floods, Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains ring. Music the fiercest grief can charm. And Fate's severest rage disarm ; Music can soften pain to ease, And make despair and madness please : 4|ur joys below it can improve. And antedate the bliss above. This the divine Cecilia found, And to her Maker's praise confined the sound. When the full organ joins the tuneful choir, Th' immortal powers incline their ear : Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire. While solemn airs improve the sacred fire j And angeis lean from heaven to hear. Of^Ox'phcus n^w no more let poets tell ; To bi'ighl Cecilia greater power is given : His numbers raised a shade from hell, Her's lift the soul to heaven. MU8I0 AS A BEANCH OP EDUCATION. U7 MUSIC AS A BRANCH OF EDUCATION. (Advanced Reader of the Scottish School-book Association.) * Most persons say, tliat the only purpose of music is to amuse; but this is a profane, an unholy language. To look on music as mere amusement cannot bo justified. Music which lias no other aim must bo considered neither of value, nor worthy of reverence." Thus spoke Plato; and his opinion is shared by those who are striving to spread music among the people in the present day. The physical organs and aptitudes of ear and voice required for vocal music are still very generally regarded as peculiar endow- ments, rare gifts, possessed only by a few ; whereas, in truth, they are the very same as those used for speaking and hearing, the com- nion inheritance of mankind. Every child, not born deaf or dumb, is born with those organs, which may be taught to sing as well as to speak. It is by the teaching of example that the child attains the power of speech ; but the same opportunities are seldom given to develop the faculty of song. When this teaching has been ne- glected till advanced age, the vocal organs become less flexible and less obedient to the will, and the art of singing increasingly diffi- cult to commence. But even in these cases, patience, effort of mind, and a good method, will awaken to creditable use the ne- glected faculty. There is, doubtless, a great difference in the phy- sical constitution of individuals, which gives to some a much greater nervous susceptibility, and consequent delicacy of ear and voice, than others; but all mankind are endowed by the Creator with that glorious faculty of song, which He has made it our duty to improve for His praise. There is therefore no deficiency of natural voice or ear to account for the common neglect of musL : nor is ther 1 among the people any general ul willingness to learn music, which is beautiful and attractive to all ; nor can any difficulty in the nature of music itself be pleaded, for, cousidered as an art, it is certainly more easy than reading, writing, or drawing; and as a science, it is simple in its elements, however rich and varied in its combinations. The music for which we contend is linked with poetry, and em- ployed to carry to the heart some cheerful sentiment, some lofty thought, or some ennobling emotion. The importance to education -' '5fi^»^-i«rio..-u, caiiiiufc wuii ue over-raiea. it occupies ground in some degree peculiar to itself— ground wh.ch it is very important to occupy rightly in these times. Some advantages it I El! ''II m ;i -Ml mt;sic as a branch of education. brings to physical, and many, when rightly stndieil, to Intellectual education ; but it displays its chief power on the field of aisthetlcs, morals, and religion. In cBsthetic education^ it unites with the art of drawing and the study of the finest models of literature, to develop the love of what- soever is orderly, suitable, harmonious, beautiful, and sublime. This is a branch of education which the defenders of truth cannot, in these days, well affbrd to neglect. In moral education it joins with poetry to win the attentiou of youth, by the innocent boguilement of their imitated charms, to truths ai-d duties too often not otherwise attractive. By the same means it delays the attention on these truths, and, moreover, secures for them the 'nosistible power which belongs to constant reiteration. It possesses also that mighty sympathetic influence, which the simple expression of feelings carries with it to the heart of a child, whoso interest has been gained. We begnile him to utter, in the voice of a pleasant song, the language of some good emotion, of sorne noble sentiment ; and, almost insensibly, he is won to join in the feelings he finds it so pleasant to express. This is a power which is felt by us all, and which is greater than many arguments. That which the teacher's moral lesson has explained and enforced, the moral song shall impress on the memory and endear to the heart. In a similar manner do music and poetry contribute their aid in directly religious education. They impress more deeply truths already taught; they give a language to the faith, and hore, and love, and joy of youthful piety ; they elevate the mind, and help to raise the heart to God. None bat the heart- less or the unwise can doubt the power for good education, or fail to see the importance of earnest study and watchful care, that this power may be n eil applied. In physical education^ singing, as well as the useful practice of reading aloud, promotes a healthy action of the lungs, and of the muscles of the chest, — most important in a country where consump- tion lurks for its prey. Music is well known to possess a direct, though unexplained, influence on the human nerves. It soothes the weary or the excited frame. It promotes the health by re- creating the nsind. And not the least of its educating advantages is, that it oftentimes pre- occupies and redeems hours of leisure, which might otherwise have become hours of idleness or sin. How good for body and mind is the song round the cottage hearth, when vci ; IjrOu ua,z Iliauo Oiti CuvidL-wCu jHIh- lliU Iiuurs Oi iuuuui ai-o uvci ; sure to be our best and purest. THE POWER OP MUSIC. Ud In intellectual education, music bears no unworthy part. It cultivates tlie habit of attention, and the powers of perception and imitation, and it will teach, by example, how to observe in mnsical phenomena, and how to reason upon them. Every subject should be so taught as to improve the pupil's thinking powers, and music gives better scope than is usually supposed for such an exercise. The habit of committing poetry to memory, which muyt always accompany the extended and varied use of vocal music, has a direct tendency to promote a correct knowledge, and a fit applica- tlon of words,— most important helps to intellectual education. One who was both a poet and a philosopher defined poetry to be, " the best thoughts in the fittest words." It may be easily n ticed that nearly all children speak well, who have been in the constant habit of repeating poetry with any degree of propriety. The same practitD, when properly directed, helps to refine the imagination, and to train it to useful purposes. That noble power has its humbler offices in common life, which are of the utmost value. When rightly cultivated, it teaches us to associate good thoughts and kindly feelings with the ordinary incidents of every- day life. It makes " the best of everything." It has been said to " oil the wheels of life's chariot on this jolty road." It gladdens by asso- ciations of contentment and love, even the poor man's board with truest festive joy. It adorns his cottage home with hues of peace and happiness ; makes " the dear familiar face " grow more beauti- ful with age ; and throws on all things the glow of a cheerful, affectionate mind. fh al practice of THE POWER OF MUSIC Is. AC Disraeli, father of the politician and novelist, Benjannn Disraeli, and author of the Curiosities of Literature :" 1766-1848. The effect of music in raising the energies of the mind, or what we commonly call animal spirits, was obvious to early observation. Its l)0wer of attracting strong attention may ii. some cases have ap- peared to affect even those who laboured under a considerable de- gree of mental disorder. Homer, whose heroes exhibit high pas- sions but not refined manners, represents the Grecian army as employing music to stay the raging of the plague. The Jewish nation, in fho timp of li" Ml If lin^'M ""Tx •■- ^- !- . , further advanced in civilization ; accordingly, we find David em- ployed in his youth to remove the mental derangement of Saul by 150 THE POWER OF MUSIC. his harp. The method of cure was suggested as a common one in those days, by Saul's servants ; and the success is not mentioned as a miracle. Pindar, with poetic license, speaks of ^sculapius healing acute disorders with soothing songs; but ^Esculapius, whether man or deity, or between both, is a physician of the days of barbarism and fable. Pliny scouts the idea that music should affect real bodily injury, but quotes Homer on the subject; mentions Theophrastus as suggesting a time for the cure of the hip gout, and Plato as entertaining a fancy that it had a good effect when limbs were out of joint, and likewise that Varro thought it good for the gout. The ancients, indeed, record miracles in the tales they relate of the medicinal powers of music. A fever is removed by a song, and deafness is cured by a trumpet, and the pestilence is chased away by the sweetness of an harmonious lyre. That deaf people can hear best in a great noise, is a fact alleged by some moderns, in favonr of the ancient story of curing deafness by a trumpet. "Dr Wills tells us," says Dr Burney, "of a lady who could hear only while a drum was beating, inasmuch that her husband, the account says, hired a drummer as her servant, In order to enjoy the pleasure of her conversation." Jackson of Exeter, in reply to the question of Dryden, " What passion cannot music raise or quell?" sarcastically returns, "What passion can music raise or quell ?" Would not a savage who had never listened to a musical instrument, feel certain emotions at listening to one for the first time ? But civilized man is, no doubt, particularly affected by association of ideas, as all pieces of national music evidently prove. The Ranz des Vaches, mentioned by Rousseau in his " Dictionary of Music," though without anything striking in the composition, has such a powerful influence over the Swiss, and impresses them with so violent a desire to return to their own country, that it is for- bidden to be played in the Swiss regiments in the French service, on pain of death. There is also a Scotch tune, which has the same effect on some of our North Britons. In one of our battles in Calabria, a bagpiper of the 78th Highland Regiment, when the light infantry charged the French, posted himself on the right, and remained in his solitary situation during the whole of the battle, encouraging the men with a famous Highland charging tune; and upon the retreat and complete rout of the French changed it to another, equally celebrated in Scotland, upon the retreat of, and victory over, an enemy. His next-hand neighbour guarded him so well that he escaped unhurt. This was the spirit FARINELIJ. 151 kJ of the " Last Minstrel," who infused conrage among his country- men, by possessing it in so animated a degree, and in so venerable a character. FARINELLI. >es of national (By-paths of Biography. ) The real name of Farinelli was Carlo Broschi, and he was born at Andria, in the kingdom of Naples, in 1706. He learned the first rudiments of music of his father, according to his own account, and singing of Porpora, the celebrated master of the art, who generally accompanied him wherever ho went. At the age of seventeen he made his first d^but at Rome, where, during the run of an opera, there was a struggle every night between him and a famous player on the trumpet, in a song accompanied by that instrument. Farinelli showed himself triumphantly superior to one who had hitherto been regarded as a prodigy, and from that time his reputation was established. In the early part of his life he was distinguished throughout Italy by the name of " The Boy." He became the universal favourite, and was everywhere admired and extolled as superior to all his contemporaries. In 1724, be first went to Vienna, and thence to Venice and the various great towns of Europe. In 1728, he visited the Austrian capital a second time, and afterwards spent two years in Venice. This extraordinary singer has been described by Dr Burney, as uniting in the qualities of his organ strength, sweetness, and compass, whilst his style was graceful, tender, and surprisingly rapid. He adds, that he was superior to all other singers, and had every excellence of every good singer united. In the famous air, " Son qual Nave," which was composed by his brother, the first note he sang was taken with such delicacy, swelled by minute degrees to such an amazing volume, and afterwards diminished in the same manner, that it was applauded for full five minutes. He afterwards set off with such brilliancy and rapidity of execution, that it was difficult for the violins of those days to keep pace with him. While many other great singers gratified the eye by their grace- ful and dignified action and deportment, Farinelli enchanted or astonished his hearers, without the assistance of significant gestures or graceful attitudes. During the time of his singinfj he was mo- tionless as a statue, but his voice was so active that' no intervals were too close, too wide, or too rapid for his execution. I • ifit 152 PAEINELLI. I IB A very interesting fact was related by Farinelli himself, with reference to his style of singing. He said that, when at Vienna, where he was three different times, and where he received great honours from the emperor Charles VJ., an admonition from that prince was of more service to him than all the precepts of his masters, or the examples of his competitors for fame. His imperial majesty condescended to tell him one day, with great mildness and affability, that in his singing he neither moved nor stood still like any other mortal ; all was supernatural. " Those gigantic strides," said he, " those never-ending notes and passages, only surprise, and it is now time for you to please ; you are too lavish of the gifts with which nature has endowed you; if you wish to reach the heart, you must take a more plain and simple road." These few words brought about an entire change in his manner of singing. From this time he mixed the pathetic with the spirited, the simple with the sublime, and by these means delighted as well as aston- ished every heai^r. The surprising effects he produced on the feel- ings of his audience were perfectly unparalleled, and, as will be seen in the sequel, remind one of the marvels related of the musicians of antiquity. We no longer doubt that Terpander and Timotheus were able, by their dulcet melody, to appease the tumults of the sedi- tious Lesbians, or soothe the proud swellings of the victorious Alexander's heart. With these unrivalled talents, Farinelli went into Spain, in the year 1787, fully designing to return to England, having entered into articles with the nobility, who had then the management of the opera, to perform the ensuing season ; but the first day he appeared before the king and queen of Spain, it was determined that he should be taken into the service of that court, to which he was ever after wholly appropriated, not being once suffered to sing again in public. A pension of nearly £3000 a year was settled on him for life. He said, that for the first ten years of his residence at the court of Spain, during the life of Philip V., he sang every night to that monarch the same four airs, two of which were composed by Hasse,— "Pallido, il Sole," and "Per questo dolce Amplesso ; " and "Ah! non lasciami, no, bel idol mio," by Vinci; the other was a minuet, which he used to vary at pleasure. It has been often related, and generally believed, that Philip V., King of Spain, being seized with a total dejection of spirits, which rendered him incapable of attending council, or transacting afiiiirs of state, the queen, who had in vain tried every common expedient likely to contribute to his recovery, determined that an experiment FARTNELLI. 153 slioald be made of the effects of music upon the king, her husband, who was extremely sensible to its charms. Upon the arrival of Farinelli — of whose extraordinary performance an account had been transmitted to Madrid from several parts of Europe — her majesty contrived that t! jre should be a concert in a room adjoining the king's apartment, in which this singer performed one of his most captivating songs. Philip appeared at first surprised, then moved, and at the end of the second air made the musician enter his apart- ment, loading him with compliments, asking him how he could re- ward adequately such great talents, and assuring him he could refuse him nothing. From that time the king's disorder yielded to medicine, and the singer had the credit of the cure. By his con- stant access to the king, he became so much a favourite that he possessed all the influence of a minister of state, and was frequently made the channel through which the royal ben ts were conferred ; but he never abused his power, and conducted himself with so much judgment and propriety, that he avoided the shoals usually so fatal to court favourites, and was honoured with the esteem and confi- dence of the nobles. Many anecdotes are related concerning the wonderful effects produced by his talents, and not a few that do honour to his heart and natural disposition. A nobleman of the court had solicited for some time an employment which the king had been indisposed to grant him. Farinelli knew that he was possessed of talents which eminently qualified him for the post he was desirous to obtain ; at the same time, he was not ignorant that the applicant had, on several occasions, shown a disposition un- favourable to himself. His generosity prompted him to disregard this personal consideration, and he so urgently pleaded with the monarch, that he succeeded in obtaining for his enemy the place he coveted. " But do you not know," said the king, " that this man is no friend of yours — that, on the contrary, he speaks ill of you?" " I am aware of it, sire, and this is the revenge I am anxious to take," replied Farinelli. On another occasion, going one day to the king's chamber, he heard an officer on guard curse him, and say to another that was in waiting, "Honours can be heaped on such scoundrels as these, while a poor soldier like myself, after thirty years' service, is neglected I " Wiihout appearing to have overheard these words, Farinelli mentioned the name of the complainant to the king, and procured a regiment for liim. On quitting the royal presence, he gave the commission to the officer, telling him that he had heard his complaint, and adding, " You did wrong to accuse the king of neglecting to reward your services." ■il i . i : ■ 1 .1 * 154 MUSIC BY MOONLIGHT. ii f I After tii6 leath of Plulip V., Farinelli continued in favour under his successor, Ferdinand VI., by whom he was dignified with the Order of Calatrava, in 1750. His duties now became less constant and monotonous, as he persuaded this prince to have operas, which were a relief to him. In 3 768 he lost his great patroness, who most highly valued his worth and talents, the Queen of Spain ; and in the following year her consort, Ferdinand VI. He was suc- ceeded by Charles III., his brother, who hated music, and would not suffer the sound of a voice or an instrument to be heard in his palace. By his command, Farinelli quitted Madrid and returned to Italy, though not to his own country, Naples, whither it was his wish to retire ; but from some caprice, never clearly explained, though his pension was continued, ho was ordered to spend the re- mainder of his days at Bologna. The life of Farinelli was prolonged to an unusual span. He died in 1782, at the age of seventy-eight, leaving one nephew, to whom he bequeathed his fortune. MUSIC BY MOONLIGHT. "William Shakespeabe, the prince of English dramatists, and greatest of all poets: 1564-1616. (From the " Merchant of Venice.") How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank. Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears ; soft stillness, and the night, Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica : Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ; There's not the smallest orb, which thou behold'st, But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim : Such harm©ny is in immortal souls ; But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it, Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn ; With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear. And draw her home with music. You are never merry, when you hear sweet music, The reason is, your spirits are attentive : For do but note a wild and wanton herd, MOKART, Or race of youthful and nnhandled colts, Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud, Which is the hot condition of their blood ; If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, Or any air of music touch their ears, You shall perceive them make a mutual stand. Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze, By the sweet power of music : Therefore, the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods ; Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage. But music for the time doth change his nature; The man that hath no music in himself. Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus : Let no such man be trusted. — Mark the music. 155 d greatest of all MOZART. (From "Friendly Hands and Kindly Words.") Just as the feast sent by their unknown benefactor was being ended, and while the hearts of the family danced within them with a livelier joy than they had felt for many a day, the clock of a neighbouring convent struck two, and little Wolfgang, as if recalled to himself by the sound, left his seat and approached the piano. " The stranger," said he, as if speaking to himself, " looked as- tonished when Fredrika told him that I could compose ; but were he in this house now, I should let him hear such a sonata." As he spoke the child ran his tiny little fingers along the touches, which he could hardly reach, with an ease and precision which it was as- tonishing to look upon ; then, as if the sound recalled some bright, glorious vision beyond mortal ken, his little eyes closed, his face became lighted with a most seraphic expression, and abandoning himself to the instrument, he produced sounds so soft, so perfect, so decided, and so harmonious, that even his father and mother sat mute with astonishment. Tlie rich and capricious fancy of the in- fantile composer seemed it have taken the wings of an angel, and to have attuned that instrument with the melodious thrilling harp- ings of heaven. His little bosom heaved as his feeble tiny fingers swept over the ivory and ebon touches with the ease and rapidity JHi ■ ■■ ft * *^ m i 156 MOZART. I II i of the most accomplished master, and his face was suffused with a soft rapturous smile, as the harmony that filled his soul lent itji magic influences to that passive piano. The poet musician — for in music there is a glorious lofty element of poetry — forgot everything in the fulness of his devotion to his art. The sounds of the far-off land, where hosts of cherubims, seated on rainbow rims, struck their lyric strings, till the hills of heaven sent back the strains again, seemed to waken his young genius from the latent slumbers of its youth. He, so lately from that pure fresh heaven above, where all is bliss, and glory, and brightness, that we forget when we come down upon the earth, seemed to have retained in all its fulness of power the music-language of the hosts above. He could still speak to them and hear them through the sense of exquisite genius " Ob, embrace me, my boy 1 " cried the enraptured father with enthusiasm, as he held the feeble child to his bosom, and looked upon him with all the pride of a father and an artist. " With God's help," he cried, ;*' thou shalt one day be a great mans" Then sud- denly desponding, as he reflected for a moment upon his true posi tlon, he exclaimed in a sad tone, " But who in all the world knows of thee but thy father, ray poor boy ? Who shall lead thee from the obscurity of this little dwelling, and the humble condition of a chapel -master's son? Who shall raise thee from the depths of misery and poverty, and become thy protector ? " " I will," cried a voice from behind ; and turning round towards the spot whence the response proceeded, Wolfgang with pleasure recognised the messenger, and Leopold Mozart with awe and won- der inclined his head as he recognised Francis I. of Austria, who had come to spend some time in the quiet seclusion of Kosoheez, and whom he had frequently seen at the chapel. A few days after this adventure, Wolfgang and his father set out for Vienna in order to appear at the court of the Empress Maria Theresa, at the command of her husband, the emperor. " Beginning a life of labour at six years of age. Alas ! " said his mother, weeping, " how hard is the lot of the poor ! " " I shall work for you, my mother, and a life of labour shall then be a life of pleasure," cried the child, as he threw his arms around her neck, and kissed her. * Wolfgang Mozart, dressed in a gay court costume, was led to the imnerial nalace of Vienna, and conducted bv the master of the cere- monies into the concert hall. It was tenantless when the little musician entered, but the first thing that attracted his eyes was » splendid piano, before which he quickly and almost instinctively MOZART. 157 \las ! " said seated himself, while his father passed out upon a balcony which commanded a noble view of the splendid royal gardens. Alone in the great saloon, with his instrument before him, the boy began to play, timidly at first, for the full, rich tones of the grand instru- ment seemed to fill the whole spacious apartment with a tremulous sense of life ; then, as his ear became familiar with the tones, he burst into one of his most beautiful strains of improvisation, and gave himself wholly up to his instrument. The boy, lost in the fancies which gave life and the power of a noble accentuation to his finger, and the chords which they touched, did not observe the rustling of silken robes, the waving of perfumed plumes, the glitter of gems and gold, and the sparkling of pearls, nor the soft footfalls of little feet, as the gay courtly train entered the saloon. It was only when he had finished, and the last vibration of the instrument had died away, that he looked around, and found himself gazed on by bright eyes, and regarded with lovely smiling countenances. "How beautiful you play !" cried a little girl as she ran to the side of the little musician, and took his hand. " Will you teach me to play as well?" "Ah, it is a wearisome, toilsome thing to learn to play," said the boy innocently. " You must sit long and grow tired, and then begin again. I will not teach you until you are bigger, and then you will not feel it so sore upon you." "And who taught you?" said the child, as she parted his curls and looked into his eyes. " My father," said the boy, archly. " Then you and he may teach me," cried the little princess, Marie Antoinette, clapping her hands at the thought. " Great princesses," said the boy, " do not need to play for bread." Wolfgang Mozart, at the age of eight years, appeared before the court of Versailles, and ravished his auditory with the precocity of his genius. He played the organ in the chapel- royal, before the king and his courtiers, in a style that had never been surpassed by the most accomplished masters. At that early period of his life he composed two sonatas, which are still extant to attest the richness of his fancy and the fulness of his power of development. One of these he dedicated to Victoire, daughter of the King of France, and the other to the Countess of Tesse, In 1768 he returned to Vienna, where he composed, at fourteen years of age, his opera of "Mithri- Twenty years later, the visioned glories that had danced before the mental eyes of the fanciful boy had known something like reality, and that, too, at an early age. He had won the flattery 1 ' fill I li 158 MOZART. and applause of courts and kings; he had sat before assembled thousands of the proudest and the gayest of the world's great peers, and he had created for them sources of exquisite enjoyment, which their senses had never known before, and which their imaginings had never conceived. At last he sat in his own sweet home in Vienna, revelling in melodious harmonic dreams, and, swan-like, singing his soul away, while his mortal frame dissolved in the fer- vour of his spirit. One day Mozart sat at his piano, with' his head inclined upon the touches, and his eyes half-closed. He was weary and feeble, for his body had yielded to his active spirit, the tribute which the physical frame ever pays to genius. Wolfgang's cheek was pale, and his brow was heavy, for he had expended the rosy tints of the one and the glories of the other in his devotion to his art ; and now he leaned quietly forward upon the instrument which slept in his sleep. Before him also lay paper in confused piles, scraps of unfinished sonatas and oratorios — fragmentary symbols of the re- vealings of hiu f mcy, which by the magic of their power would yet create worlds of thought and wild joys in sympathetic souls un- born. Instruments lay scattered all around the room, like a hun- dred voiceless tongues, of which this weary, feeble man was the soul — the only relevant and awakener. " Awake, Wolfgang ! " said a voice in the ear of the sleeping composer, and Mozart, raising his head from its recumbent position, looked calmly, and without apparent wonder in the face of his visitor. That face, however, could not be distinctly scanned, for it was covered with long black hair, and shaded by a dark cloak and a broad hat. "What do you require of me?" demanded the composer at last, when he had passed his hand across his brow, and recovered suffi- cient energy to speak. "I address myself to Wolfgang Mozart?" said the stranger, in a deep low voice, and in a tone of interrogatory. "And to whom have I the honour to speak?" replied the musician. " To one who would have you compose a requiem before this daj month, and who would pay you amply for it." "A requiem!" said Mozart, musing, and smoothing his high polished brow with his palm. "Oome to me, then, and it shall be done." With all the eiitliusiasm of which his ardent mature was capable, lie devoted himself to this work. When his v/iie would hang over him, and beseech him to forego such close application to study, ho AN EXHORTATION TO THE STUDY OF ELOQUE^X'E. 159 would smile and exclaim, " I labour for my own death." Indeed, the fire of that composition was supplied by the vital warmth of his life-blood. Death be felt was in his cup, as he bent his noble head over the page, which received upon its white bosom the trans- fusions of his life, and the records of his immortality ; but still, with an ardour that knew no abatement, and a devotion which partook of all that religious unction of which his soul was so full, he laboured to leave his sublime thoughts to posterity, and, as the swan upon its crystal river sings as its lovely form floats downward to its death, so he, singing as man never sung, finished his " Agnus Dei " with his expiring breath and strength, then laid him down in sleep. They placed the body of the young man — for he was only thirty- six years of age — upon a splendid bier, and they covered him with a richly broidered pall, aui the deep-toned organ pealed through the aisles and lofty arches of the cathedral, and five hundred voices chanted the soft, solemn, soul-subduing requiem over him who had once been a little ragged, hungry child, fain to wander by the banks of the Moldau, and in the woods of Kosoheez, in order to forget that he had no dinner; but who now had won fame even before death, and whom his own generation, as well as posterity, delighted and delight to honour as the most eminent musical genius of any age. AN EXHORTATION TO THE STUDY OF ELOQUENCE. M. Tdllius Cicero, a distinguished Eoman statesman, orator, and philoso- pher, the most elegant of Latin prose writers : B. c. 107-43. I CANNOT conceive anything more excellent, than to be able, by language, to captivate the affections, to charm the understanding, and to impel or restrain the will of whole assemblies at pleasure. Among every free people — ^especially in peaceful, settled govern- ments — this single art has always eminently flourished, and always exercised the greatest sway. For what can be more surprising, than that amidst an infinite multitude, one man should appear, who shall be the only, or almost the only man capable of doing what Nature has put in every man's power? Or can anything impart such exquisite pleasure to the ear, and to the intellect, as a speech in which the wisdom and dignity of the sentiments are heightened by the utmost force and beauty of expression ? Is there anything so commanding, so grand, as that the eloquence of one man should direct the inclinations of the people, the consciences of judges, and the majesty of senates? Nay, farther, can aught be esteemed so great, so generous, so public-spirited, as to assist the suppliant, to 160 ON DELIVERY. rear the prostrate, to communicate happiness, to avert danger, and to save a fellow- citizen from exile? Can anything be so necessary as to keep those arms always in readiness, with which you may defend yourself, attack the profligate, and redress your own or your country's wrongs ? But let us consider this accomplishment as detached from public business, and from its wonderful efficacy in popular assemblies, at the bar, and in the senate : can anything bo more agreeable or more endearing in private life than elegant language? For ^he great characteristic of our nature, and what eminently distinguishes us from brutes, is the faculty of social conversation, the power of ex- pressing our thoughts and sentiments by words. To excel man- kind, therefore, in the exercise of that very talent which gives them the preference to the brute creation, is what everybody must not only admire, but look upon as the just object of the most in- defatigable pursuit. And now to mention the chief point of all, what other power could have been of sufficient efficacy to bring to- gether the vagrant individuals of the human race; "to tame their savage manners ; to reconcile them to social life ; and, after cities were founded, to mark out laws, forms, and constitutions for their government? Let me, in a few words, sura up this almost bound- less subject. I lay it down as a maxim, that upon the wisdom and abilities of an accomplished orator, not only his own dignity, but the welfare of vast numbers of individuals, and even of the whole state, must greatly depend. Therefore, young gentlemen, go on : ply the study in which you are engaged for your own honour, the advantage of your friends, and the service of your country. ! i '! i ffln ON DELIVERY. Hugh Blair, a Scottish clergyman, author of some of the most polished pulpit discourses in the language, and of a treatise on rhetoric : 1718- 1800. How much stress was laid upc^ pronunciation, or delivery, by the most eloquent of all orators, Demosthenes, appears from a noted saying of his, related both by Cicero and Quintilian ; when being asked, What was the first point in oratory? he answered, Delivery; and being asked, What was the second? and afterwards. What was the third ? he still answered. Delivery. There is no wonder that he should have rated this so high, and that for improving himself in it, he should have employed those assiduous and painful labours-, which all the ancients take so much notice of; for,"^ beyond doubt, rert danger, and be so necessary which you may )ur own or your led from public r assemblies, at freeable or more For 'he great listinguishes us e power of ex- To excel man- nt which gives jverybody must f the most in* ef point of all, cy to bring to- to tame their ind, after cities itions for their almost bound' on the wisdom s own dignity, id even of the : gentlemen, go ir own honour, ir country. SPEECH OP DEMOSTHENES TO THE ATHEXIANS. 161 nothing is of more importance. To superficial thinkers, tho ogemeut of the voice and gesture man- le most polished . rhetoric : 1718- elivery, by the from a noted I ; when being ared, Delivery ; rds, What was wonder tliat roving himself ainful labourSs beyond doubf, .„ , . , o ^ in public spealcincr, mav annoar to relate to decoration only, and to be one of the inferio^ a^o catchnig an audience. But this is far from being the case t intirnately eounc-cted with what i., or onght to be, the end of al? irisr;'"''' 'r""""'* ^^^ ^^'^^-^^^^ ^^-™ the study Xat if^^lo'ear"^ ^^'"'"^' '' "^"^'^ «^ ^' ^'^^^^ ^^'^^^ For, let it be considered, whenever we address ourselves to others by words, our intention certainly is to make some impre sio on l.ose to whom we speak; it is to convey to them our^wn iicas and emotions. Now the tone of our voice, our looks and gestu es nterpret our ideas and emotions no less than words do ; nay the nvThru 7 '"''' ? "'"" ^^ ^'-^^"^"^'^ ^-^'^ stro ge "than any that words can make. We often see that an expressive look or a pass.onate cry, unaccompanied by words, conve'" o o 1 Js more forcible ideas, and rouses within them stringer passionsr an tion of'oTs"";''' ?^ ^'r^^* ^'^'^"^"' ^•-^--- The signifi- cation of our sentiments made by tones and gestures has thk nri ItTr m:^r,'"f '' '^^^'^^' ^^«' ^^ ^« S'laTgL'^^o; ttut to al aLrwhl '"*^'f «^'"^,«»r ™i«d which nature has dictated nrhf/.^ .'' ""^'<^'«t"^'l by all; whereas, words are onlv arbitrary conventional symbols of our ideas ; aud by cons^uei ce must make a more feeble impression. So true is this Th .f m render words fully significant, they must, alLst o ev^elt \ - eive some aid from the manner of pi'onunciation and'de v;r;. foicii L ti''h" '''''""' '''"^' '"^P^^^ ^^'-^ "^••^^' without 7n: f^ n fnH r ^- ^'T' ^^°^« «°d «^c«»ts, would leave us with a faint and indistinct impression, often with a doubtful and ambL- CIS conception of what he had delivered. Nay, so close is thTcon nexion between certain sentiments and the p/oper manner of To- nouncmg them, that he who does not pronounce them after 1 1 i rrthrsei:;:^^^^-^"^^^"^^^^^^^ ^^^^-- - ^-^^ thrsen;-! SPEECH OF DEMOSTHENES TO THE ATHENIANS EXCITING TIIEM TO PUOSECUTE THE WAR AGAINST rillLIP WITH VIGOUR DKMOSTHEjg^ «.e ^ tej c^menian orators ; most of his speeches were' uvuvcieu •igam.'ji Macedomau airpifission • b c 381 3'V' ATDEsiAN8l_Ha,l Il.i8 assembly been called togotheron an ni- "soal occasion, I sboald have waited to hear .he opinions of othl 1 1 162 SPEECH OF DEMOSTrtENES TO THE ATHENIANS. before I had offered my own ; and if what they had proposed had seemed to me judicious, I should have been silent; if otherwise, I shou'd have given my reasons for differing from those who had spoken before me. Pnt as the subject of our present deliberations has been often Ucntcii by others, I hope I shall be excused, though I rise rp first !o . (Tor ,,.j opinion. Had the schemes formerly pro- posed been sucoessful, there had been no occasion for the present consultation. First, then, my conntrymen, let me entreat you not to look upon the state of our affairs as desperate, though it be unpromising; for as, on one hand, to compare the n^tJothi wnii times past, matters have, indeed, a very gloomy aspect ; so, on the other, if we extend our ■views to future times, I have good hopes that the distresses we arc now under will prove of greater advantage to us than if we had never fallen into them. If it be asked. What probability there is ot ihij ? I answer, I hope it will appear that it is our egregious mis- behaviour alone that has brought us into these disadvantageous cir- cumstances ; from which follows the necessity of altering our con- duct, and the prospect of bettering our circumstances by doing so. If we had nothing to accuse ourselves of, and yet found our affairs In their present disorderly condition, we should not ha\o room left even for the hope of recovering ourselvc' But, my countrymen, it is known to you, partly by your own remembrance, and partly by information from others, how gloriously the Lacede- monian war was sustained, in which we engaged in defence of our own rights against an enemy powerful and formidable ; in the whole conduct of which v/ar nothing happened unworthy the dignity of the Athenian state; and this within these few years past. My inten- tion, in recalling to your memory this part of our history, is to show you that you have no reason to fear any enemy, if your operations be wisely planned, and vigorously executed. The enemy has, indeed, gained considerable advantages, by treaty fls well as by conquest ; for it is to be expected that princes and states will court the alliance of those who seem powerful enough to protect both themselves and their confederates. But, my country- men, though you have of late been lOO supinely negligent of what con- cerned you so nearly, if you will, even now, resolve to exert your- selves unanimously, each according to his respective abilities and circumstances, the rich by contribut: ig liberally towards the ex- pense of th.3 war, and the rest by presenting themselves to be en- rolled, to niiiko up the deficiencies of the army and navy ; if, in short, you will at last resume your own character, and act like SPEECH OF DEMOSTHExVES TO THE ATUENIAXS. 1G3 yourselves, it is not yet too late, with the help of Heaven, to recover what you have lost, and to Inflict the just vengeance on your in- Solent enemy. But when will yon, my conntrymcn, when will you arouse from your indolence, and bethink yourselves of what is to be done? When you are forced to it by some fatal disaster? when in-esistible uecessit, drives you? What think ye of the disgraces which ore already come upon you ? Is not the past sufficient to stimulate your activity, or do ye wait for somewhat yet to come, more forcible and urgent? How long will you amuse yourselves with inquiring of one another after news, as you ramble idly about the streets ? What news so strange ever came to Athens, as that a Macedonian should subdue this stiite, and lord it over Greece ? Again, you ask one another, '' What ! is Philip dead ? " " No," it is answered : " but he IS very ill." How foolish this curiosity ! What is it to you whether Philip is sick or well? Suppose he were dead, your inac- tivity would soon raise up against yourselves another Philip in his stead ; for it is not his strength that has made him what he is, but your indolence, which has of late been such, that you seem neither in a condition to take any advantage of the euemy, nor to keep it if It were gained bv others for you. ^ Wisdom directs, that the conductors of a war always anticipate t. e operations of the enemy, instead of waiting to sec what steps he shall take; whereas you Athenians, though you bo masters of all that is necessary for ^ar— as shipping, cavalry, infantry, and funds— have not tie spirit to make the proper use of your advan- tages, but sutler tht enemy to dictate to you every motion you are to make. If you hear that Philip is in the Chersonesus, you order troops to be sent thither; if at Pyla;, forces an to be detached to secure that post. Wherever he makes an att; k, (here you stand upon your defence, you attend him in all his n otious, as soldiers do their general ; but you never think of striking out for yourselves any bold and effectual scheme for bringing him to icason, by bein.i VERRE8 DENOUNCED. Im])rove the opportunities and advantages which our indolence and timidity present him ? Will he give over hia designs against us, without being obliged to it? And who will oblige him — who will restrain his fnryV Shall wo wait for assistance from some un- known country? In the name of all that is sacred, and all that is dear to us, let us make an attempt with what forces we can raise ; if we should not be able to raise as many as we would wish, let us do somewhat to curb this insolent tyrant of his pm^uits. Let uh not trifle away the time in hearing the ineffectual wranglings of orators, while the enemy is strengthening himself and we are de- clining, and our allies growing more and more cold to our interest, and more apprehensive of the consequences of continuing on our side. VERRES DENOUNCED. Cicero. An opinion has long prevailed, fathers, that in public prosecutions men of wealth, however clearly convicted, are always safe. This opinion, so injurious to your order, so detrimental to the stale, it is now in your power to refute. A man is on trial before yon who is rich, and who hopes his riches will compass his acquittal ; but whose life and actions are his sufficient condemnation in the eyes of all candid men. I speak of Calus Verres, who, if he now receive not the sentence his crimes deserve, it shall not be through the lack of a criminal, or of a prosecutor; but through the failure of the min- isters of justice to do their duty. Passing over the shameful irregu- larities of his youth, what, does the qufestorship of Verres exhibit but one continued scene of villanies ? The public treasure squan- dered, a consul stripped and betrayed, an army deserted and re- duced to want, a province robbed, the civil and religious rights of a people trampled on 1 But his quaestorship in Sicily has crowned his career of wickedness, and completed the lasting monument of his infamy. His decisions have violated all law, all precedent, all right. His extortions from the Industrious poor have been beyond computation. Our most faithful allies have been treated as ene- mies. Roman citizens have, like slaves, been put to death with tortures. Men the most worthy have been condemned and banished ■wnf linnt'. ft Viourinrf • Tphil'* ♦h" rnoqf otrrKfiinMo /i»>'«Mr>"!° h^..^ n>:»k money, purchased exemption from the punishment due to their guilt. indolence and [)3 against us, lim — who will otn some un* lud all that is ive can raise ; d wish, let us :iiita. Let us wranglings of id we are do- our interest, inuiog on our ; prosecutions s safe. This the sta^e, it Is re yon who is al ; but whose le eyes of all w receive not gh the lack of i of the min- ameful irrego- /"erres exhibit easure squan- lerted and re- ions rights of r has crowned monument of precedent, all J been beyond eated as ene- ;o death with and banished lli3 iict TC^ TTltJl due to their THE DIGNITY AND LOWLINESS OF HUMAN NATUKE. 1G5 I ask now, Vcrres, what have you to advance against these charges? Art thou not the tyrant prietor who, at no greater dis- tance than Sicily, within si^ht of the Italian coast, dared to put to jin infamous death, on the cross, that ill-fated and innocent citizen, Publins Gavins Cosaniis? And what was his offence? He had declared his intention of appealing to the justice of his country against yonr brutal persecutions I For this, when about to embark for homo, he was seized, brought before you, charged with being a spy, scourged and tortured. In vain did he exclaim : " I am a Roman citizen ! I have served under Lucius Pretius, who is now at Tanormus, and who will attest my innocence ! " Deaf to ail re- monstrance, remorseless, thirsting for innocent blood, you ordered the savage punishment to be inflicted I While the sacred words *' I am a Roman citizen " were on his lips — words which, in the remotest region, are a passport to protection — you ordered him to death, to a death upon the cross I liberty I sound once delightful to every Roman ear I sadcd privilege of Roman citizenship 1 once sacred — now trampled on 1 Is it come to tl is? Shall an inferior magistrate, a governor, who holds his whole power of the Roman people, in a Roman pro- vince, within sight of Italy, bind, scourge, torture, and put to an infamous death a Roman citizen ? Shall neither the cries of inno- cence expiring in agony, the tears of pitying spectators, the majesty of the Roman commonwealth, nor the fear of the justice of his country, restrain the merciless monster, who, in the confidence of his riches, strikes at the very root of liberty, and sets mankind at defiance ? And shall this man escape ? Fatliers, it must not be ! It must not be, unless you would undermine the very foundations of social safety, strangle justice, and call down anarchy, massacre, and ruin on the commonwealth 1 THE DIGNITY AND LOWLINESS OF HUMAN NATURE. Basil the Great, Archbishop of Csesarea, one of the most eloquent of the Fathers of the Christian Church : 329-379. Anii you puffed up on account of your wealth, and proud of your ancestors ? Do you boast of your country, your handsome person, and your distinguished honours? Ri^member that you are mortal --.a^ yon are eart=!, and shall return to earth. Look to those who were possessed of like splendid endowments before you. Where are those who were invested with political power— where the fear- IGC TUE DIGNITY AND LOWLINESS OF HUMAN NATURE. less orators? Where are those who insli:,a!;c ^ the public festivals — the renowned horsemen, generals, satraps, and kings ? Are they not all dust ? all a myth ? Are not their memorial relics comprised in a few bones? Look into the sepulchres, and see if yon can *ell which is the master, which the slave ; which the poor, which the rich. Distin- guish, if you can, the captive from the king, the strong from the weak, the beautiful from the deformed. Remember what you are, and you will never be uplifted ; and you will not forget what you are if you consider yourself. Again, are you sprung of humble origin and unknown to fame, the poor son of poor parents, homeless, a wanderer from city to city, feeble, destitute of what is needed for the supply of your daily wants, in dread of men in power, in dread of all on account of the lowliness of your estate — for the poor, it is said, cannot abide a threat ? Do not, for that reason, lose self-respect, or abai.don all hope because there is nothing desirable for you in the meantime. But elevate your thoughts to the good which is given you even now, and to what is in reversion in the promise of God. First, you are a man, — the only creature here below that is the immediate oftspring of God. Will not any one, who thinks as a wise man, regard it enough to be made by the very hands of God, the Creator and Preserver of the universe, to love the Highest — to be able, in consequence of being created in the image of God, to rise to angel'c dignity ? You have received a reasonable soul, by which you are capable of knowing God, studying the nature of the objects around you, and plucking the sweetest fruits of wisdom. All the beasts of the fiela, wild and tame — all the denizens of the Maters — all the winged tribes that fly in the air, are your servants and subjects. Have you not discovered arts and founded cities, manufactured what supplies the necessities and ministers to the luxuries of life ? Has not your intelligence made a path over the ocean? Do not earth and sea minister to your subsistence ? Do not the atmosphere, and the heavens, and the starry choir exhibit their movements for you ? Why, then, are you downcast in soul ? Is it because you have not a horse with a silver bit? What of that, when you have the sun careering on in his swift course, exhibiting for you his torch, and the moon pouring her light around your path, and the myriad gleam of stars besides ? You are not mounted on a gilded chariot, but you have your feet, a conveyance of your own, born with you. Why, then, do you envy the possessor ot a large purse, who needs JRE. FUNERAL ORATION ON QUEEN HENRIETTA. 1G7 lie festivals Are they s comprised hich is the h. Distin- \g from the It you are, t what you n to fame, om city to ' your daily ount of the not abide a ibai.don all meantime. 1 even now, that is the hinks as a ds of God, lighest — to Sod, to rise mufactured es of life? ? Do not tmosphere, ements for icause you I you have 1 his torch, he myriad ed chariot, with yon. who needs other feet to carry him ? You do not sleep in a bed of ivory, but yoii have the earth, more valuable than many beds of ivory, and enjoy sweet rest on it, and speedy sleep that banishes care. You do not dwell under gilded roofs, but you have the sky gleaming with the ineffable beauty of the stars. These things belong to this life. There are other things greater. For you God became incar- 51 ate — for you the gift of the Spirit was bestowed — for you the hope of resurrection, which will bring life to perfection ; and the way to God has been paved by the commandments He has given us, and crowns of righteousness prepared for him who has not shunned the endurance of toil in the pursuit of holiness. BOSSUErS FUNERAL ORATION ON QUEEN HENRIETTA OF ENGLAND. Jacques Benigne Bossuet, Bishop of Meaux, in France, the greatest pul]iit orator of his age : 1627-1704. Translated by Alison. The most eloquent and original of Bossuet's writings is his funeral oration on Henrietta, Queen of England, wife of the unfortunate Charles I. It was natural that such an occasion should call forth all his powers, pronounced as it was on a princess of the blood- royal of France, who had undergone unparalleled calamities with heroic resignation, the fruit of the great religious revolution of the age, against which the French prelate had exerted all the force of his talents. " Christians !" says he, in the exordium of his discourse ; *' it is not surprising that the memory of a great Queen, the daughter, the wife, the mother of monarchs, should attract you from all quarters to this melancholy ceremony ; it will bring forcibly before your eyes one of those awful examples which demonstrate to the world the vanity of which it is composed. You will see in her single life the extremes of human things ; felicity without bounds, miseries without parallel ; a long and peaceable enjoyment of one of the most noble crowns in the universe, all that birth and gran- deur could confer that was glorious, all that adversity and suffering could accumulate that was disastrous ; the good cause, attended at first vvith some success, then involved in the most dreadful dis- asters. Revolutions unheard of, rebellion long restrained, at length reigned triumphant ; no curb there to license, no laws in force. MHjesty itself violated by bloody hands, usurpation, and tyranny, I ti I I I'll ,,i m if: 168 FU2JERAL OKATION ON QUEEN HENRIETTA. under the name of liberty — a fugitive Queen, who can find no retreat in her three kingdoms, and was forced to seeic in her native country a melancholy exile. Nine sea-voyages undertaken against her will by a Queen, in spite of wintry tempests— a throne un- worthily overturned, and miraculonsly re-established. Behold the lesson which God has given to kings 1 thus does he manifest to the world the nothingness of its pomps and its grandeur 1 If our words fail, if language sinks beneath the grandeur of such a sub- ject, the simple narrative is more touching than aught that words can convey. The heart of a great Queen, formerly elevated by so long a course of prosperity, then steeped In all the bitterness of affliction, will speak in sufficiently touching language ; and if it is not given to a private individual to teach the proper lessons from 80 mournful a catastrophe, the King of Israel has supplied the words — ' Hear ! ye great of the earth 1 take lessons, ye rulers of the world I ' "But the wise and devout Princess, whose obsequies we cele- brate, has not merely been a spectacle exhibited to the world in order that men might learn the counsels of Divine Providence, and the fatal revolutions of monarchies. She took counsel herself from the calamities in Avhich she was involved, while God was instruct- ing kings by her example. It is by giving and withdrawing i)ower that God communicates his lessons to kings. The Queen we mourn has equally listened to the voice of these opposite monitors. She has made use, like a Christian, alike of prosperous and adverse fortune. In the first she was beneficent, in the last invincible: as long as she was fortunate, she let her power be felt only by her unbounded deeds of goodness ; when wrapt in misery, she enriched herself more than ever by the heroic virtues befitting misfortune. For her own good she has lost that sovereign power which she formerly exercised only for the blessings of her subjects; and if her friends — if the universal church have profited by her pros- perities, she herself has profited more from her calamities than from all her previous grandeur. That is the great lesson to be drawn from the ever-memorable life of Henrietta Maria of France, Queen of Great Britain. "I need not dwell on the illustrious birth of that Princess; no rank on earth equals it in lustre. Her virtues have been not less remarkable than her descent. She was endowed with a eener- osity truly royal ; of a truth, it might be said, that she deemed everything lost which was not given away. Nor were her other virtues less admirable. The faithful depositary of many important PARLIAMENTARY OEATORY. 1G9 an find no I lier native ken against throne un- Behold the manifest to uv 1 It' our such a sub- that words ated by so litterness of and if it is essons from d the words ulers of the ea we cele- he world in ,'idence, and herself from as instruct- iwing i)o\ver in we mourn liters. She and adverse invincible ; only by hei' she enriched misfortune. r which she ccts; and if y her pros 3S than from to be dra^vll :unce, Qneeu it Princess; ve been not r'iih a eener- she deemed re her other iiy important complaints and secrets — it was her favourite maxim that princes should observe the same silence as confessors, and exercise the same discretion. In the utmost fury of the Civil VYars, never was her word doubted, or her clemency called in question. Who has so nobly exercised that winning art which humbles without lower- ing itself, and confers so graciously liberty, while it commands respect? At once mild yet firm — condescending yet dignified, — she knew at the same time how to convince and persuade, and to support by reason, rather than enforce by authority. With what prudence did she conduct herself in circumstances the most arduous ; if a skilful hand could have saved the State, her's was the one to have done it. Her magnanimity can never be sufficiently extolled. Fortune had no power over her; neither the evils which she foresaw, nor those by which she was surprised, could lower her courage. What shall I say to her immovable fidelity to the re- ligion of her ancestors? She kncAV well that that attachment constituted the glory of her house, as well as of the whole ot France, sole nation in the world which, during the twelve centuries of its existence, has never seen on the throne but the faithful chil- dren of the church. Uniformly she declared that nothing should detach her from the faith of St Louis. The king, her husband, has pronounced upon her the noblest of all eulogiums, that their hearts were in union in all but the matter of religion ; and confirming by his testimony the piety of the Queen, that enlightened Prince has made known to all the world at once his tenderness, his con- jugal attachment, and the sacred, inviolable dignity of his incom- parable spouse." PARLIAMENTARY ORATORY. Thomas Ebskine May, C.B., author of the " Constitutional History of Euglaud : " born 1815. One of the proud results of our free constitution has been the development of Parliamentary oratory, — an honour and ornament to our history, — a source of puolic enlightenment, — and an effective instrument of popular government. Its excellence has varied, like our literature, with the genius of the men, and the events of the periods, which have called it forth ; but ftvm the accession of George III. may be dated the Augustan era of Parliamentary eloquence^ The great struggles of the Parliament with Charles I. had stirre'^1^1 ^"S^^^^ parliam(?ntary orator : 1749-180a This speech was delivered m 1783 on the atfaus of the East ludia Company? Freedom, according^ to my conception of it, consists in the safe and sacrea possession of a mau's propcrfy, govt-nied by laws defined iiill m ill ■ ^ II H. I— ■ 176 AGAINST HASTINGS. J ■'> ; and certain ; with many personal privileges— natural, civil, and rf»- ligious — which he cannot surrender without ruin to himeelf. aud of which to be deprived by any other power is despotiera. '1 . is bill, instead of subverting, is destined to establisli these principles; in- stead of narrowing the basis of freedom, it tends to enlarge it; in- stead of suppressing, its object is to infuse and disseminate tl. spirit of liberty. What is the most odious species of tyrann} ? Precisely that which this bill is meant to annihilate. That a handtul of meu, free themselves, should exercise the most base and abominable despot- ism over millions of their follow- creatures ; that in'ocence should be the victim of oppression ; that industry should toil lor rapine ; that the harmless labourer should sweat, not for his own benefit, but for the luxury and rapacity of tyrnnnic depredation — in a word, that thirty millions of men, gifted by Prov. lence with the ordinary endowments of humanity, should groan under a system of despotism, unmatched in all the histories of the world. What is the end of all government? Certainly, the happiness of the governed. Others may hold different opinions; but this is mine, and I proclaim it. What, then, are we to think of a govern- ment whose good fortune is supposed to sp ing from the calamities of its subjects — whose aggrandisement grows oi t of the miseries of mankind? This is the kind of government exercised -^nder ihe East India Company upon the natives of Hindostan ; and the subversion of that infamous government is the main object of the bill in question. AGAINST HASTINGS. Richard BrINSIK? Shkkidan, dramatist, Btatesman, and finished orator: 17ol-1816. Had a stranger at this time gone into the province of Oude, ignorant of what had happened since the death of Sujah Dowla — that man who, with a savage heart, had still great lines of character ; and who, with all his ferocity in war, had still, with a cultivating hand, preserved to his country the riches which it derived from benignant fikies and a prolific soil, — if this stranger, ignorant of all that had liappened in the short interval, and observing the wide and general devastation, and all the horrors of the scene — of plains unclothed and brown — of vegetables burned up and extinguished — of villages depopulated and in ruins — of temples unrooted and perishing — of AGA ;ST HASTINGS. 177 !, and re- if, au<] of T.I is bill, plea; in- ;e it; in- th( spirit isely that mcii, free e despot- ce should r rapine ; n benefit, n a word, ordinary iespotism, ppiness of ut this is a govern- calamities niseries of r the East iubversion I question. >d oraior : !, ignorant -that man cter ; and ting hand, benignant that had id general unclothed of villages ishing — of resorvoirs broken down and dry,— he would naturally Inquire, What war h thus laid waste the fertile fields of this once beautiful and ilont country ?— what civil dissensions have happened, thus to II. acunder and separate i. ( happv societies that once possessed those villages? — what disputed succession ?— what religions ra„'e ha.s, witii unholy violenco demolished those temples, and disturbed fervent but unobtrudin , in th'^ exercise of its duties . —what merciless enemy has thus spread the horrors of fire and swo d ? what severe visitation uf Providence has dried up the fountain, and taken from th ice of the earth every vestigu of verdure? Or, rather, what mobsters have stalked over the country, tainting and poisoning, with pestiferous breath, what the voracious appetite could not devour? To such questions, what must be the answer? No wars have ravaged these lands, and depopulated these villages ---no civil discords have bc'i felt — no disputed succession — no re- ligious rage, no merciless c —no afliiction of Providence, which, while it scourged for the moment, cut olF the -nnrces of resuscitation —no voracious and poisoning monsters — no, .. this has been ac- complished by the friendship, gemrosity, nd kindness of the Eng- lish nation. They have embraced us with their protecting arms ; and, lo ! these are the fruits of their alliance. What, then ! shall we bo told that, under s ich circumstances, the exasperated feelings of a who!.; people, thus goaded and spurred on to clamour and resistanr , were excited by the poor and feeble influence of the Begums y When we hear the description of the fever— paroxysm — delirium, into which despair had thrown the natives, when, on the banks of the polluted Ganges, panting for breath, they tore more widely open the lips of their reaping wounds, to accelerate their dis- solution; and, while their bio. was issuing, presented their ghastly eyes to Heaven, breathing thei. last and fervent prayer that the dry earth might not be suffered to drink their blood, but that it might rise up to the throne of God, and rouse the eternal Providence to avenge the wrongs of their country ;— will it be said that this was brought about by the incantations of these Begums in their secluded Zenana? or that they could inspire this enthusiasm and this despair nito the Leasts of a people who felt no grievance, and had suffered no torture? What motive, then, could have such influence in their bosom? What motive? That which Nature, the common parent, plants in the bosom of man ; and Avhich, though it may be less active in the Indian than in the Englishman, is still congenial with, and makes part of, his being ;— that feeling which tells him that man was never made to be the property of man, but that v/hcn, M i , ^= i ^ i : ' .1 Ui ^ # aJ ,^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) /> ^t ^' LV' rA t/ &% ^ 1.0 I.I L25 M 1.4 25 1.6 ^^> ^/T Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY. 14580 (716) 872-4503 # iV ^9> V :■%, %^' \^ ;\ ^i^ '<^\^% %^ aa.vV C:o L^- l/u 178 PARLIAMENTARY ORATORY. I! 1 !i ' ii through pride and insolence of power, one human creature dares to tyrannize over another, it is a power usurped, and resistance is a duty ;— that feeling which tells him that all power is delegated for the good, not for the injury, of the people ; and that, when it is con- verted from the original purpose, the compact is broken, and the right is to be resumed ; — that principle which tells him that resist- ance to power usurped is not merely a duty which he owes to him- self and to his neighbour, but a duty which he owes to his God, in asserting and maintaining the rank which He gave him in the crea- tion ! to that common God, who, where He gives fhe form of man, whatever may be the complexion, gives also the feelings and the rights of man ; — that principle, which neither the rudeness of igno- rance can stifle, nor the enervation of refinement extinguish ! — that principle which makes it base for a man to suffer when he ought to act ; which, tending to preserve to the species the original designa- tions of Providence, spurns at the arrogant distinctions of man, and vindicates the independent quality of his race. PARLIAMENTARY ORA.TORY— continued. May. The succession of orators has still been maintained. Some of Mr Pitt's contemporaries continued to flourish many years after he had passed from the scene of his glory ; and others were but commencing their career, when his own was drawing to a close. He lived to hear the eloquence of Mr Grattan, which had long been the pride of his own country. It was rich in imagination, in vehemence, in metaphor and pointed epigram. Though a stranger to the British parliament, his genius and patriotism at once commanded a position scarcely less distinguished than that Avhich he had won in the parliament of Ireland. Englishmeii, familiar with the eloquence of their own countrymen, hailed his accession to their ranks, as one of the most auspicious results of the Union. Mr Canning's brilliant talents, which had been matured under Mr Pitt, shone forth in full splendour, after the death of that statesman. In wit and sarcasm, in elegant scholarship, in lively fancy, and in the graces of a finished composition, he was uu rivalled. His imagery— if less original than that of Chatham, Burke, and Erskine— -was wrought up with consummate skill, PARLIAMENTARY ORATORY. 179 and expressed in language of extraordinary beauty. For more than twenty years, he was the most successful and accomplished debater m the House of Commons, delighting his friends with his dazzhng wit, acd confounding his opponents with inexhaustible repartee. Earl Grey had also risen to distinction in the days of Mr Pitt • but the memorable achievements of his riper age associate hira with a later generation. In dignity and high purpose, in earnest gravity of argument and exposition, he was the very model of a statesman. His oratory bespoke his inflexible virtues and consistency. While his proud bea ••ng would have pronounced him the leader of an aristocracy, and the mouthpiece of his order he devoted a long life to the service of the people. ' Lord Eldon exercised so important an inHuenco npon political aftairs that he cannot be omitted from this group of orators, though his claims to oratory alone would not have entitled him to a place amongst them. From the time when he had been Mr Pitts solicitor-general, until he left the wooi^uck,— a period of nearly forty years,— his high offices gave authority to his parlia- mentary efforts. For twenty years he led captive the judgment ot the House of Lords; but, assured!), neither by eloquence nor argument in debate. Tears and appeals to his conscience were his only eloquence,— a dread of innovation his only nr^nment Even upon legal questions, the legislature obtained . I'o light from his discourses. The main service which posterity can derive trom his speeches, is to note how recently prejudice and errors were maintained in high places, and how trival the reasons urged in their defence. ^ Lord Plunket, like his gre-.t countryman, Mr Grattan, had gained a high reputation for eloquence in the parliament of Ireland which he not only sustained, but advanced in the British Hou'^e of Commons. He had risen to eminence at the bar of Ireland, where his style of sper^ldng is said to have resembled that of Erskine ' In debate,— if displaying less originality and genius than Mr Grattan, and less brilliancy than Mr Canning,— he was as powerful m sustained argument, as felicitous in illustration, and as forcible and pointed in language, as any orator of his time. Sir Robert Peel was a striking counterpart of Mr Pitt. At first his extraordinary abilities in debate had been outshone by the dazzing lustre of Mr Canning, and subdued by the fiery vehemence of Mr Brougham; but his great powers, always improvin- ««d expaodmg, could not fail to be acknowledged. His oratory like mt ■■i M, S;^ i 180 PARLIAMEN'^A.IIY ORATORY. ii Mil ii I I that of Mr Pitt, was the perfection of debate. He rarely aspired to eloquence ; but in effective declamation, in close argument, in rapid ai»preciation of the points to be assailed or defended, in dexterity, in tact, and in oflScial and parliamentary knowledge, he excelled every debater of his time. Even when his talents were exercised in maintaining the political errors of his age and party, it is im- possible not to admire the consummate skill with which he de- fended his untenable positions, against assailants who had truth on their side. Arguments which provoke a smile, when we read them in the words of Lord Eldon, surprise us with their force and semblance of truth, when urged by Sir Robert Peel. The oratory of a man so great as the Duke of Wellington, was the least of all his claims to renown. First in war, in diplomacy, and in the councils of his sovereign, his speeches in parliament were but the natural expression of his experience, opinions, and purposes. His mind being clear, his views practical and sagacious, and his objects singularly direct, his speaking was plain, and to the point. Without fluency or art, and without skill in argument, he spoke out what his strong sense and judgment prompted. He addressed an audience, whom there was no need to convince. They hung upon his words, and waited upon his opinions ; and followed as he led. The reasons of such a man were often weighty ; but they were reasons which had determined his own course, and might justify it to others, rather than arguments to prove it right, or to combat opponents. The House of Commons was not the field for the best examples of Mr O'Connell's oratory. He stood there at a disadvantage, with a cause to uphold which all but a small band of folWwers condemned as false and unpatriotic, and with strong feelings against him which his own conduct had provoked ; yet, even there, the massive powers of the man were not unfrequently displayed. A perfect master of every form of argument ; potent '.n ridicule, sarcasm, and invective ; rich in imagination and humour ; bold and impassioned, or gentle, persuasive, and pathetic ; he combined all the powers of a consum- mate orator. His language was simple and forcible, as became his thoughts ; his voice extraordinary for compass and flexibility. But his great powers were disfigured by coarseness, by violence, by cunning and audacious licence. At the bar, and on the platform, he exhibited the greatest but the most opposite endowments. When he had thrown open the doors of the legislature to himself and his Roman Catholic brethren, the great work of his life was done ; yet ho wanted nothing but the moral influence of a good cause, and PARLIAMENTARY ORATORY. 181 honest patriotism, to have takeu one of the highest places in the senate. His countryman, Mr Shell, displayed powers singularly unlike those of his great master. He was an orator of extraordinary bril- liancy, imaginative, witty, and epigrammatic. Many parts of his speeches were exquisite cc ipositions, clothing his ftincy in the artistic language of the poet. Fnch passages may be compared with many similar examples in the speeches of Mr Canning. He was equally happy in antithesis and epigram. He excelled, indeed, in the art and graces of oratorical composition. But his thoughts were wanting in depth and reality ; his manner was ex- travagant in its vehemence; his action melodramatic; and his voice, always shrill, was raised in his impassioned efforts to a harsh and discordant shriek. This second group of contemporary orators would be incomplete, without some other striking characters who played their part amongst them. We ^vould point to the classical elegance of Lord Wellesley, the readiness and dexterity of Perceval, the high bearing and courage of Lord Castlereagh, the practical vigOt ' of Tierney, the severe virtues and high intellect of Komilly, the learned philosophy of Francis Hc'-^er, the didactic fulness of Mackintosh, the fruitful science of Huskisson, the lucid argument of Follet, and the brilliant declamation of Macauluy. All these have passed away ; but there are orators still living, who have contended in the same debates, and have won an equal fame. Their portraiture will adorn future histories ; but who is there wlio will not at once fill up this picture of the past, with the transparent clearness and masterly force of Lord Lyndhurst, and the matchless powers and accomplishments of Lord Brougham ? Progressive excellence in so divine an art as oratory, is no more to be achieved than in poetry or painting, in sculpture or architecture. Genius is of all ages. But if orators of our own time have been un- able to excel their great models, a candid criticism will scarcely assign them an inferior place. Their style has changed, as the conditions under which they speak are altered. They address themselves more to the reason, and less to the imagination, the feelings and the pas- sions of their audience, than the orators of a former age. They con- front, not only the members of their own body, but the whole people, who are rather to be convinced by argument, than persuaded by tlte fascination of the orator. In their language, there is less of study and artistic finish, than in the oratory of an earlier period. Their perorations are not composed after frequent recitals ot ■M •Tf^ 19! Ml 182 EXTRACT FROM SPEECH IN DEFENCE OF QUEEN CAROLINE. Ill I* "1 I J, li % 1! Demosthenes, but give direct and forcible expression to their own opinions and sentiments. Their speaking is suited to the subjects of debate, to the stir and pressure of public affairs, and to the taste and temper of their audience. The first principles of government are no longer in dispute ; the liberties of the people are safe ; the oppression of the law is unknown. Accordingly the councils of state encourage elevated reason, rather than impassioned oratory. Every age has its own type of excellence ; and if the Nestors of our own time insist upon the degeneracy of living orators, perhaps a more cultivated taste may now condemn as rant some passages from the speeches of Burke and Chatham, which their contempora- ries accepted as eloouence. EXTRACT FROM SPEECH IN DEFENCE OF QUEEN CAROLINE. Henry, Lord Brougham, a man of letters, veteran statesman, and orator : born 1778. Such, my lords, is the case now before you. Such is the evidence in support of this measure — evidence inadequate to prove a debt — impotent to deprive of a civil right — ridiculous to convict of tlie lowest offence — scandalous if brought forward to support a charge of the highest nature which the law knows — monstrous to ruin the honour, to blast the name of an English queen ! What shall I say then if this is the proof by which an act of judicial legislation, a parliamentary sentence, an ex post facto law, is sought to be passed against this defenceless woman ? My lords, I pray you to pause ' do earnestly beseech you to take heed. You are standing upon tu , brink of a precipice — then beware ! Your Judgment will go forth to the world. If sentence shall go against the queen, it may be the last and only judgment you will ever pronounce, which, instead of reaching its object, will return and bound back upon those who give it. Save the country, my lords, from the horrors of a civil war — save yourselves from this peril — rescue that country of which you are the ornaments, but in which you can flourish no longer when severed from the people than the blossom when cut off from the roots and the stem of the tree. Save that country that yoa may continue to adorn it — save the crown which is in jeopardy — the aristocracy which is shaken — save the altar which must stagger with the blow that rends its kindred throne ! You have said, my ON THE CIVIL GOVERNMENT OF CANADA, 1828. lords, you have willed — the Church and the king have willed — that the queen should be deprived of its solemn service. She has, in- stead of that solemnity, the heartfelt prayers of the people. She wants no prayers of mine ; but I do here pour forth my hnmble supplications at the Throne of Mercy, that that mercy may be poured down upon the people, in a larger measure than the merits of their rulers may deserve, and that your hearts may be turned to justice, and not go therefrom I t'lri md oratoi- : FROM A SPEECH ON THE CIVIL GOVERNMENT OF CANADA, 1828. Sir James Mackintosh. After having presented a petition, signed by eighty- seven thousand of the inhabitants of Lower Canada — comprehending in that num- ber nine-tenths of the heads of families in the province, and more than two-thirds of its landed proprietors ; and after having shown that the petitioners had the greatest causes of complaint against the administration of the government in that colony, it would be an act of inconsistency on my part to attempt to throw any obstacle in the way of that special inquiry which the right honourable gentleman proposes. It might seem, indeed, a more natural course on my part if I had seconded such a proposition. Perhaps I might have been contented to give a silent acquiescence in the appointment of a committee, and to reserve any observr.tions I may have to offer until some specific measure is proposed, or until the House is in possession of the information which may be procured through the labours of the committee, — perhaps, I say, I might have been dis- posed to adopt this course if I had not been intrusted with the pre- sentation of that petition. But I feel bound by a sense of the trust reposed in me to allow no opportunity to pass over of calling the attention of the House to the grievances of the petitioners, and to their claims for redress, and for the maintenance of their legitimate rights. This duty I hold myself bound to execute, according to the best of my ability, without sacrificing my judgment, or rendering it subordinate to any sense of duty ; but feeling only that the con- fidence of the petitioners binds me to act on their behalf, and, as their advocate, in precisely the same manner, and to the same ex- tent, as if I had been invested with another character, and author- ized to state their complaints in a different situation. Hi.' ) < nil mi ' M 184 CN THE CIVIL GOVERNMENT OF CANADA, 1828. To begin, then, with the speech of the right honourable gentle- man, I may take leave to observe, that in all that was contained in the latter part of it ho has my fullest and most cordial assent. In 1822, when the Canadians were last before the House, I stated the principles which ought to be maintained with respect to what the right honourable gentleman has very properly av.d very eloquently called the " Great British Confederacy." I hold now, as I did then, that all the different portions of that confederacy are integral parts of the British empire, and as such entitled to the fullest pro- tection. I hold that they arc all bound together, as one great class, by an alliance prior in importance to every other,— more binding upon us than any treaty ever entered into with any state,— the ful- filment of which we can never desert without the sacrifice of a great moral duty. I hold that it can be a matter of no moment, in this bond of alliance, whether the parties be divided by oceans, or be neighbours :— I hold that the moral bond of duty and protection is the same. My maxims of colonial policy are few and simpler- full and efficient protection from all foreign influence ; full permis- sion to conduct the whole of their internal affairs ; compelling them to pay all the reasonable expenses of their own government, and giving them, at the same time, a perfect control over the expendi- ture of the money ; and imposing no restrictions of any kind upon the industry or trafl3c of the people. These are the only means by which the hitherto almost incurable evil of distant government can be either mitigated or removed. And it may be a matter of doubt, whether, in such circumstances, the colonists would not be under a more gentle control, and in a happier state, than if they were to be admitted to a full participation in the rule, and brought under the immediate and full protection of the parent government. I agree most fully with the honourable gentleman who spoke last, when he expressed a wish that we should leave the regulation of ihe internal affliirs of the colonies to the colonists, except in cases of the most urgent and manifest necessity. The most urgent and mani- fest necessity, I say ; and few and rare ought to be the exceptions to the rule even upon the strength of those necessities. Under these circumstances of right, I contend it is prudent to re- gard all our colonies, and peculiarly the population of these two great provinces,— provinces placed in one of those rare and happy states of society in which the progress of population must be re- garded as a blessing to mankind,— exempt from the curse of foster- ing slavery,— exempt from the evils produced by the contentions of jarring systems of religion,— enjoying the blessings of universal FROM A SPEECH ON PARLIAMENTARY REFORM. 185 toleration --and presenting a state of society the most unlike that can possibly be imagined to the fastidious distinctions of Europe Exempt at once from the slavery of the West, and the castes of the i^ast,— exempt, too, from the embarrassments of that other creat contment, which we have chosen as a penal settlement, and la which the prejudices of society have been fostered, I regrei to fin^ m a most unreasonable degree.-exempt from all the artificial dis' tinctions of the Old World, and many of the evils of the New we In. .f t. ' ?^.'"'^ ^ population ought to be cast aside ; and none of their complaints can receive any but the most serious cou- FEOM A SPEECH ON PARLIAMENTARY REFORM. Eight Hon. W. E. Gladstone, Leader of the Liberal party in the British House of Commons. Sir, the hour has arrived when this protracted debate must come to an end— (cheers.) I cannot resent the warmth with which hat last expression of mine has been re-echoed. My apologies to the House are smcere. I feel deeply indebted, not to gentlemen hDnouiable gentlemen opposite, for the patience with which they have heard me. But a very few words more, and I have done May I speak briefly to honourable gentlemen on the other side, as mTnf . TT '"^^ f P'""'^^ ^^^'^'^^^^ ^^^i^« to gentlemen on this side of the House ? I would ask them, will you not consider before you embark in this new crusade, whether the results o those other political crusades, in which you have heretofore en gaged, have been so satisfactory to you as to encourage you to a new venture m the same direction? Great battles you have ought, and fought them manfully. The battle of maintainln' civil disabilities on account of religious belief ; the battle of resist! ance to the first Reform Act; the obstinat; and long- con nuea battle of Protection ; all these great battles have been fought by he great party that I now look m the face ; and, as to some hmitcd portion of those conflicts, I admit my own share of tl responsibility But I ask again, have their results, have their esults towards yourselves, been such as that you should be disposed to renew struggles similar to these ? Certainly those, who compose 18G FROM A SPEECH ON PARLIAMENTARY REFORM. Ill Hit the Liberal party in British politics, have, at least, in that capacity, no reason or titlo to find fault. The eff"ct of your course has been to give over to your adversaries for five out of every six, or for six out of every seven years, since ihe epoch of the Kcform Act, the conduct and management of public afi'airs. The effect has been to lower, to reduce, and contract your just influence in the country, and to abridge your legitimate shave in the administration of the Government. It is good for the public interest that you also should be strong. But if you are to be strong, you can only be so by showing, in addition to the kindness and the personal generosity which I am sure you feel towards the people, a public, a political trust and confidence in the people. What I now say ca t hardly be said with an evil motive. I am conscious of no such sentiment towards any man or any party. But, sir, we are assailed, and with us the bill, of which we think more seriously than of our- selves. This bill is in a state of crisis and of peril, and the Govern- ment along with it. We stand or fall with it, as has been declared by my noble friend Lord Russell. We stand with it now ; we may fall with it a short time hence. If we do so fall, we, or others in our places, shall rise with it hereafter. I shall not attempt to measure with precision the forces that are to be arrayed against us in the coming issue. Perhaps the great division of to-night is not to be the last, but only the first of a series of divisions. At some point of the contest you may possibly succeed. You may drive us fi OHL our seats. You may slay, you may bury, the measure that we have introduced. But we will write upon its gravestone for an epitaph this line, with certain confidence in its fulfilment: " Exorierc aliquis nostris ex ossibus ultor." You cannot fight against the future. Time is on our side. The great social forces which move onwards in their might and majesty, and which the tumult of these debates does not for a moment impede or disturb, those great social forces are against you ; they work with us ; they are marshalled in our support. And the banner which we now carry in the fight, though perhaps at some moment of the struggle it may droop over our sinking heads, yet will float again in the eye of heaven, and will be borne by the firm hands of the united people of the three kingdoms, perhaps not to an easy, but to a certain and to a not distant victory. I [. ON SLAVERY IN THE UNITED STATES. 187 at capacity, se has been c, or for six m Act, the has been to he country, ition of the t you also I only be so 1 generosity a political C3 i hardly h sentiment isailed, and lan of our- the Govern- en declared V ; wo may )r others in attempt to against us light is not , At some ay drive us jasure that tone for an t: The great ajosty, and t impede or irk with us ; ilch we now he struggle in the eye lited people certain and ON SLAVERY IN THE UNITED STATES. Daniel Webstek, the greatest of American statesmen : 1782-1852. The United States are not wholly free from the contamination of a traffic at which every feeling of humanity must for ever revolt— I mean, the African slave trade. Neither public sentiment nor the hw has hitherto been able entirely to put an end to this odious and abominable trade. At the moment when God in His mercy has blessed the Christian world with a universal peace, there is reason to fear, that, to the disgrace of the Christian name and character, new efforts are making for the extension of this trade, by subjects and citizens of Christian states, whose hearts no sentiment of humanity or justice inhabits, and over whom neither the fear of God nor the fear of man exercises a control. In the sight of our law, the African slave-trader is a pirate and a felon ; and, in sight of Heaven, an offender far beyond the ordinary depth of human guilt. There is no brighter part of our history than that Avhich re- cords the measures which have been adopted by the government, at an early day, and at different times since, for the suppression of this traffic ; and I would call on all the true sons of New England to co-operate with the laws of man and the justice of Heaven. If there be, within the extent of our knowledge or influence, any par- ticipation in this traffic, let us pledge ourselves here to extirpate and destroy it. It is not fit that the land of the Pilgrims should bear the shame longer. I hear the sound of the hammer, I see the smoke of the furnaces where manacles and fetters are still forged for human limbs. I see the visages of those who, by stealth, and at midnight, labour in this work of hell, foul and dark, as may be- come the artificers of such instruments of misery and torture. Let the spot be purified, or let it cease to be of New England. Let it be purified, or let it be set aside from the Christian world ; let it be put out of the circle of human sympathies and human regards, and let civilized man henceforth have no communion with it. I would invoke those who iill the seats of Justice, and all who minister at her altar, that they execute the wholesome and necessary severity of the law. I invoke the ministers of Religion, that they proclaim its denunciation of those crimes, and add its solemn sanc- tions to the authority of human laws. If the pulpit be silent, when- ever or wherever there be a sinner bloody with this guilt within the hearing of its voice, the pulpit is false to its trust. I call on the fair merchant, who has reaped his harvest upon the seas, that he assist in scourging from those seas the worst pirates that ever in- f ii. i ■J ii IX 188 ADDRESS TO THE GERMAN NATION. fested them. That ocean, which seems to wave with a gentle mag nificenco to waft the burdens of an honest conuncrcc, and to roll along its treasures with a conscious prido ; that ocean, which hardy industry regards, oven when the winds have rulllod its surface, as a field of grateful toil; what is it to the victim of this oppression, when he is brought to its shores, and looks forth upon it for the first time, from beneath chains, and bleeding with stripes ? — what is it to him, but a wide-spread prospect of suffering, anguish, and death ? Nor do the sliies smile longer, nor is the air longer fra- grant to him. The sun is cast down from heaven. An inhuman and accursed traffic has cut him oft', in his manhood or in his youth, from every enjoyment belonging to his being, and every blessing which his Creator intended for him. ii ADDRESS TO THE GERMAN NATION. JOHANN Gottlieb Ficiite, a German philosoplier : 17G2-1814. This address was delivered at the tiiiio of tlie French invasion of Germany. Trans- lated by Gostick, in his " German Literature." Geumans I the voices of your ancestors are sounding from the old- est times — the men who destroyed Rome's despotism, the heroes who gave their lives to preserve inviolate these mountains, plains, and river.'*, which ijou allow a foreign despot to claim — these men, your foretathers, call to you : " If you reverence your origin, pre- serve sacred your rights by maintaining our patriotic devotion." .... And with this admonition from antiquity there are mingled the voices of patriots of a later age. The men who contended for religious freedom exhort you to carry out their conflict to its ulti- mate results And posterity, still unborn, has claims on you. Your descendants must be involved in disgrace if you fail in your duty. Will you make yourselves bad links in the national chain, which ought to unite your remotest posterity to that noble ancestry of which you profess to be proud ? Shall your descendants be tempted to use falsehood to hide their disgrace ? Must they S{iy, " No ! we are not descended from the Germans who were conquered in 1808?" .... And many men in other lands conjure you now to maintain your freedom. For among all peoples there are souls who will not believe that the glorious promise of the dominion of justice, reason, and truth, among men, is all a vain dream. No! they still trust in that promise, and pray you to fulfil your great part in its realization Yea, all the wise and good, in all the past generations of mankind, join in my exhortation. They INCIAN ELOi^UENCE. 180 entle mag- ud to roll iiich hardy irfaco, as a )pprcssion, it for tlio !S ? — what guish, and onger fra- 1 inhuman his youth, y blessing rhis address ny. Traua- ra the old- the heroes ins, plains, these men, rigin, pre- devotion." re mingled itended for to its ulti- claims on you fail in e national that noble escendants ; they S{iy, conquered mjure you 3 there are ! dominion lam. No ! f^our great ood, in all )n. They seem to lift up imploring hands in your presence, and beseech yon to fulfil their ardent desires and aspirations. May i not say even that the divine plan of Providence is waiting for your co-operation ? Shall all who have believed in the progress of society and the possi- bility of just government among men, be scouted as silly dreamers? Shall all the dull souls who only awake from a sleepy life, like that of plants and animals, to direct Uicir scorn against every noble purpose, be triumphant in their mockery ? You must answer these (juestions by your practical career The old Roman world, with all its grandeur and glory, fell under the burthen of its own unworthiness, and the power of our fore- fathers. And if my reasoning has been correct, you, the descend- ants of those heroes who triumphed over corrupted Home, are now the people to whose care the great interests of humanity are con- fided. The hopes of humanity for deliverance out of the depths of evil ..epend upon you ! If you fall, humanity falls with you ! Do not flatter yourselves with a vain con^jlation, imagining that future events, if not better, will not be worse than the events of past ages. If the modern civilized world sinks, like old Rome, into corruption, you may suppose that some half-barbarian, but energetic race, like the ancient Germans, may arise and establish a new order of society on the ruins of the old. But where will yo:i find such a people now ? The surface of the earth has been explored. Every nation is known. Is there any half- barbarous race now existing and prepared to do the work of restoration as our ancestors did it ? Every one must answer, '* No I " Then my conclusion is established. If you, who constitute the centre of modern civilized society, fall into slavery and moral corruption, then humanity must fall with you — and with- out any hope of a restoration. INDIAN ELOQUENCE : AGAINST AMERICAN AGGRESSION. Tecumseh, a chief of the Shawanee Indians, who fell, fighting for Canada at the battle of the Thames : 1769-1813. Brothers, — We all belong to one family ; we are all children of the Great Spirit ; we walk in the same path ; slake our thirst at the same spring ; and now affairs of the greatest concern lead us to smoke the pipe around the same council fire. Brothers, — We are friends ; we must assist each other to bear our burdens. The blood of many of our fathers and brothers has run like wator on the around, to satisfy the avarice of the ' i: i; !.i:iS^ 130 INDIAN ELOQUENCE. liiVl •j ill white men. We, oursolves, are threatened with a great evil ; no- thing will pacify them but the destruction of all the red men. Brothers, — When the white men first set foot on our grounds, they were hungry ; they had no place on which to spread their blankets, or to kindle their fires. They were feeble ; they could do nothing for themselves. Our fathers commiserated their distress, and shared freely with them whatever the Great Spirit had given his red children. They gave them food when hungry, medicine when sick, spread skins for them to sleep on, and gave them grounds, that they might hunt and raise corn. Brothers, — The white people are like poisonous serpents : when cliillcd, they, are feeble and harmless ; but iuvigorate them with warmth, and they sting their benefactors to death. The white people came among us feeble ; and now that we have made them strong, they wish to kill us, or drive us back, as they would woh'cs and panthers. Brothers, — The white men are not friends to the Indians. At first, they only ask^d for laud sufficient for a wigwam ; now, no- thing will satisfy them but the whole of our hunting grounds^ from the rising to the setting sun. Brothers, — The white men want more than our hunting grounds ; they wish to kill our old men, women, and little ones. Brothers, — Many winters ago there was no land; the sun did not rise and set ; all was darkness. The Great Spirit made all things. He gave the white people a home beyond the great waters. He supplied these grounds v;ith game, and gave them to his red children ; and he gave them strength and courage to defend them. Brothers, — My people wish for peace ; the red men all wish for peace ; but where the white people are, there is no peace for them, except it be on the bosom of our mother. Brothers, — The white men despise lud cheat the Indians ; they abuse and insult them ; they do not think the red men sufficiently good to live. The red men have borne many and g-eat injuries; they ought to suff'er them no longer. My people will not; they are deter- mined on venjjeance; they have taken up the tomahawk; they will make it fat with blood ; they Mill drink the blood of the white people. Brothers, — My people are brave and numerous ; but the white people arc too strong for them alone. I wish you to take up the tomahawk with them. If we all unite, wo will cause the rivers to stain the great waters with their blood. 'i : yo. PROCLAMATION AT COMMENCFMENT OF WAR OF 1812. 191 evil; no- nen. r grounds, >read theii y could do r distress, had given , medicine n grounds, nts : wlien them with t we have zk, as they Jians. At now, no- undSj from f grounds ; he sun did ; made all 3at waters, to his red ;nd them, ill wish for J for them, ians ; they sufficiently they ought are deter- wk ; they ' the white the white ke up the 3 rivers to Brothers,— If you do not unite with us, they will first destroy us, and then you will fall an easy prey to them. They have destroyed many nations of red men, because they were not "united — because they were not friends to each other. • Brothers, — The white men send runners amongst us ; they wish to make us enemies, that they may sweep over and desolate our hunting grounds, l-.ke devastating winds, or rushing waters. Brothers, — Oui Great Father, over the great waters, is angry with the white people, our enemies. He will send his brave war- riors against them ; he will send us rifles, and whatever else we want ; he is our friend, and we are his children. Brothers, — "Who are the white people that we should fear them ? They cannot run fast, and are good marks to shoot at. They are only men; our fathers have killed many of them; we are not squaws, and we will stain the earth red with their blood. Brothers, — The Great Spirit is angry with our enemies ; he speaks in thunder, and the earth swallows up villages, and drinks up the Mississippi. The great waters will cover their lowlands ; their corn cannot grow ; and the Great Spirit will sweep those who escape to the hills from the earth with his terrible breath. Brothers, — ^Ye must be united ; we must smoke the same pipe ; we must fight each other's battles ; and, more than all, we must love the Great Spirit ; he is for us ; he will destroy our enemies, and make all his red children happy. PROCLAMATION AT THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE WAR OF 1812. S:r Isaac Brock, Governor of Upper Canada, the hero of Detroit and Queenston : 1770-1812. The unprovoked declaration of war by the United States of America against the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and its dependencies, has been followed by the actual invasion of this Pro- vince, in a remote frontier of the western district, by a detachment of the armed force of the United States. The officer commanding that detachment has thought proper to invite his majesty's subjects, not merely to a quiet and unresisting submission, but insults them with a call to seek voluntarily the pro- tection of his government. Without condescending to repeat the illiberal epithets bestowed i i TTrqHHMMH 192 PROCLAMATION AT COMMENCEMENT OF WAR OF 181Z. in this appeal of the American commander to the people of Upper Canada, on the administration of his majesty, every inhabitant of the province is desired to seels the confutation of such indecent slander in the review of his own particular circumstances. Where is the Canadian subject who can truly affirm to himself that he has been injured by the government in his person, his property, or his liberty ? Where is to be found, in any part of the world, a growth so rapid in prosperity and wealth as this colony exhibits ? Settled, not thirty years, by a band of veterans, exiled from their former possessions on account of their loyalty, not a descendant of these brave people is to be found, who, under the fostering liberality of their sovereign, has not acquired a property and means of enjoy- ment superior to what were possessed by their ancestors. This unequalled prosperity would not have been attained by the utmost liberality of the government, or the persevering industry of the people, had not the maritime power of the mother country secured to its colonists a safe access to every market where the pro- duce of their labour was in request. The unavoidable and immediate consequences of a spparation from Great Britain must be the loss of this inestimable advantage ; and what is offered you iu exchange ? To become a territory of the United States, and share with them that exclusion from the ocean which the policy of their government enforces ; you are not even flattered with a participation of their boasted independence ; and it is but too obvious that, once estranged from the powerful protection of the United Kingdom, you must be re-annexed to the dominion of France, from which the provinces of Canada were wrested by the arms of Great Britain, at a vast expense of blood and treasure, from no other motive than to relieve her ungrateful children from the oppression of a cruel neighbour. Tliis restitution of Canada to the empire of France, was the stipulated reward for the aid afforded to the revolted colonies, now the United States ; the debt is still due, and there can be no doubt but the pledge has been renewed as a con- sideration for commercial advantages, or rather for an expected relaxation in the tyranny of France over the commercial world. Are you prepared, inhabitants of Canada, to become willing subjects, or rather slaves, to the despot who rules the nations of continental Europe with a rod of iron? If not, arise in a body, exert your energies, co-operate cordially with the king's regular forces to repel the invader, and do not give cause to your children, when groan- ing under the oppression of a foreign master, to reproach you with having so easily parted with the richest inheritance of this .2. L>f upper ibitant of indecent Where it he has ty, or his a growth Settled, sir former ; of these lerality of of enjoy- ed by the idnstry of r country 3 the pro- ition from age ; and )vy of the the ocean ! not even le ; and it protection )rainion of ;ed by the sure, from from the ada to the ifforded to \ still due, as a con- expected ;ial world. J subjects, ontinental xert your }s to repel icn groan- •oach you ce of this PROCL.VMATION AT COMMENCEMENT OP WA P I8I2. 193 earth — a participation ia the name, character, 1 freedom of Britons 1 The same spiritof justice, which will make every reasonable allow- ance for the unsuccessful efforts of zeal and loyalty, will not fail to punish the defalcation of principle. Every Canadian freeholder is, by deliberate choice, bound by the most solemn oaths to defend the mon- archy, as well as his own property ; to shrink from that engagement is a treason not to be forgiven. Let no man suppose, that if, in this unexpected struggle, his majesty's arms should be compelled to yield to an overwhelming force, the province will be eventually abandoned ; the endeared relations of its first settlers, the intrinsic value of its commerce, and the pretensions of its powerful rival to re- possess the Canadas, are pledges that no peace will be established between the United States and Great Britain and Ireland, of which the restoration of these provinces does not make the most prominent condiiion. Be not dismayed at the unjustifiable threat of the commander of the enemy's forces to refuse quarter, should an Indian appear in the ranks. The brave bands of aborigines which inhabit this colony were, like his majesty's other subjects, punished for their zeal and fidelity, by the loss of their possessions in the late colonies, and rewarded by his majesty with lands of superior value in this pro- vince. The faith of the British government has never yet been vio- lated ; the Indians feel that the soil they inherit is to them and their posterity protected from the base arts so frequently devised to over-reach their simplicity. By what new principle are they to be prohibited from defending their property ? If their warftire, from being dififerent to that of the white people, be moiv ^on-ific to the enemy, let him retrace his stops— they seek him not — ana cannot expect to find women and children in an invading army. But they are men, and have equal rights with all other men to defend them- selves and their property when invaded, more especially when they find in the enemy's camp a ferocious and mortal foe, using the same warfare which the Ameil.an commander affects to reprobate. This inconsistent and unjustifiable threat of refusing quarter for such a cause as being found in arms with a brother sufferer, in de- fence of invaded rights, must be exercised with the certain assur- ance of retaliation, not only in the limited operations of war in this part of the king's dominions, but in every quarter of the globe; for the national character of Britain is not less distinguished for humanity than strict retributive justico, v/hich will consider the execution of this inhuman threat as deliberate murder, for which every subject of the offending power must make expiation. N P^r ! I Hi'ij * I 194 ADDRESS TO THE YOUNG MEN OF ITALY. Hili H I f 5 i: . ,1 li i.i ; f $• . ■ f ADDRESS TO THE YOUNG MEN OF ITALY. Joseph Mazzini, tke Italian patriot and revolutionary statesman and orator : born 1809. When I was commissioned by you, young men, to proflfer in this temple a few words consecrated to the memory of the brothers Bandiera, and their fellow-martyra at Cosenza, I thought that some one of those who heard me might perhaps exclaim, with noble in- dignation, "Why thus lament over the dead? The martyrs of liberty are only worthily honoured by winning the battle they have begun. Cosenza, the land where they fell, is enslaved; Venice, the city of their birth, is begirt with strangers. Let us emancipate them ; and, until that moment, let no words pass our lips, save those of war." But another thought arose, and suggested to me. Why have we not conquered'? Why is it that, whilst our countrymen are fighting for independence in the north of Italy, liberty is perishing in tne south? Why is it that a war whici; should have sprung to the Alps with the bound of a lion, has dragged itself along for four months with the slow, uncertain motion of the scorpion surround ;d by the circle of fire? How hag the rapid and powerful intuition of a people newly risen to life, been converted into the weary, helpless effort of the sick man, turn- ing from side to side. Ah ! had we all risen in the sanctify of the idea for which our martyrs died ; had the holy standard of their faith preceded our youth to battle ; had we made of our every thought an action, and of our every action a thought; had we learned from them that liberty and independence are one, — we should not now have war, but victory. Cosenza would not be compelled to venerate the memory of her martyrs in secret, nor Venice be restrained from honouring them with a monument ; and we, here gathered together, might gladly invoke those sacred names, without uncertainty as to our future destiny, or a cloud of sadness on our brows, and might say to those precursor souls, " Rejoice, for your spirit is incarnate in your brethren, and they are Avortby of you," Could Attilio and Emilio Bandiera, and their fellow- martyrs, now arise from the grave and speak to you, they would, believe me, address you, though with a power very different from that given to me, in coun- sel not unlike that which I now utter. Love ! Love is the flight of the soul towards God ; towards the great, the sublime, and the beautiful, which are the shadow of God ADDRESS TO THE YOUNG MEN OF ITALY. 195 Upon earth. Love your family, the partner of your life, those around you, ready to share your joys and sorrows ; the dead, who were dear to you, and to whom you were dear. Love your country. It is your name, your glory, your sign among the peoples. Give to it your thought, your counsel, your blood. You are twenty-four millions of men, endowed with active, splendid faculties ; with a tradition of glory, the envy of the nations of Europe ; an immense future is before ycu, — your eyes are raised to the loveliest heaven, and around you smiles the loveliest land in Europe ; you are en- circled by the Alps and the sea, boundaricH marked oat by the finger of God for a people of giants. And you must be such, or nothing. Let not a man of that twenty-four millions remain ex- cluded from the fraternal bond which shall join you together ; let not ti look be raised to that heaven which is not that of a freeman. Love humanity. You can only ascertain your own mission from the aim placed by God before humanity at large. Beyond the Alps, beyond the sea, are other peoples, now fighting, or preparing to fight, the holy fight of independence, of nationality, of liberty, — other people, striving by different routes to reach the same goal. Unite with them — they will unite with you. And love, young men, love and reverence the ideal ; it is the country of the spirit, the city of the soul, in which all are brethren who believe in the inviolability of thought, and in the dignity of our immortal natures. From that high sphere i^pring the principles which alone can redeem the peoples. Love enthusiasm— the pure dreams of the virgin soul, and the lofty visions of early youth ; for they are the perfume of Paradise, which the soal preserves in issu- ing from the hands of its Creator. Respect, above all things, your conscience ; have upon your lips the truth that God has placed in your hearts ; and, while working together in harmony, in all that tends to the emancipation of our soil, even with those who differ from you, yet ever bear erect your own banner, and boldly promul- gate your faith. Such words, young men, would the martyrs of Cosenza have spoken, had they been living amongst you. And here, — where, perhaps, invoked by our love, their holy spirits hover near us, — I call upon you to gather them up in your hearts, and to make of them a treasure amid the storms that yet threaten you ; but which, with the name of our martyrs on your lips, y-.^ their faith in your hearts^ vou will overcome. :H WSi^Bw»^<^9 iiii/c. 196 APPEAL TO THE HUNGARIANS, 1849. jii; 31 li ' 1 ■''} 1 ' 1: ; - i:l , i i i i APPEAL TO TflE HUNGARIANS, 1849. ^ "" ^n'rSni'^Z'nrj^ «^°e:ajy, occupied i,. his exile in lecturing ana writing upon llie misenes of his native hmd : born 1802 Our ratherland is in danger ! Citizens, to arms ! to arms ! Unless the whole nation rise up, as one man, to defend itself, all the noble b ood already shed is in vain ; and, on the ground wiere the ash s of our ancestors repose, the Russian knout'vvill rule over an en- pe 01 has let loose upon us the barbarous hordes of Russia; and that a Russian army of forty-six thousand men has broken into our country from Galicia, and is on the march; that anotier has entei-ed Transylvania ; and that, finally, we can expect no fLTn assistance, as the people that sympathize with us are kept dol by their rulers, and gaze only in dumb silence on our strucrgle We have nothing to rest our hopes upon, but a righteous Godf and our ?oTs.k/uf """ '' ''' '''' ^'^'^ *^^^ '''''"^^'^^ God'will also Hungary's struggle is no longer our struggle alone. It is the struggle of popular freedom against tyrannjf Our v^to y Ts the VIC ory of freedom, our fall is the fall of freedom. God has do en us free the nations from bodily servitude. In the wake o our Victory will follow liberty to the Italians, Germans, Poles Walla- chians, Sclavonians, Servians, and Croatians. Wi h our kll "oes down the star of freedom over all. People of Hungary ^n you die under he exteiininating sword of these savage RiLians ? I not, defend yourselves 1 Will you behold your tillages in flame and your harvests destroyed ? Will you die of hunger on theTand which yotir sweat has made fertile ? If not, defend yourselves ^ We call upon the people, in the name of God and the country to rise up m arms In virtue of our powers and duty, we order a general crusade of the people against the enemy, to be declared from every pulpit and from every townhouse of the country, and mad^ known bv the continual ringing of bells. One great efFo'rt, and the country is for ever saved ! We have, indeed, an army which num- bers some two hundred thousand determined men ; but the struggle is no longer one between two hostile camps ; it is the struggle of tCZ/^''?' iff"™' ^^ ^^'^''''"^ ^^^'"«^ ^^^ free nation.. Therefore must aU the people seize arms and support the army, 1 hat, thus united, the victory of freedom for Europe may be won fnd'tho "'■ ?'^'^ ^''^ f^' ^™^-' -- -™- ^^«''>' c^^'^en of the laud,' and the victory is isure ! ' — " ■;.-<'/- '•.:*; THE KOMAKCE LANGUAGES. ^' ^the W??f ^^'''''''''»' ^ ^'^^'?' •'^""^^^ <^f "^ ^'^^ -^f the Literature of The languages vsbich are spoken by the inhabitants of the south of Europe ft-om the extremity of Portugal to that of Calabria or Sicily, and which usually receive the designation of the Romance languages a e all derived from the mixture of the Latin with the Teutonic nltnn ^'?. , ''^*' ?'''^ accounted Romans, with the barbarous nations which overthrew the Empire of Rome. The diversities rw/""' iT't^'^^^' Portuguese, the Spanish, the Provencal, the Irencl , and the Italian arise rather from accidental circumstances ihan fi-om any distinction between these different races of men Each of these tongues is founded upon the Latin, but the form is en barbarous. A great number of the words were introduced luto the language by the conquerors, but by far the greater fZoff ''"5 !' '''' vanquished people. The gramma' was iZi T^ r'" ^?^^''''^ons. More complicated than that of the puiely Teutonic na;:ions, and more simple than that of the Greeks sm^PdT"'' '' r'' '"^ '"^ ^^ *'•' ^'"S"^"^« ^f the south, pre- seived the cases in the nouns; but making a selection amongst the ^lying terminations of the Latin, it has created a new word fmm ihe nominntiye for the Italian, and from the accusative for" the Spanish, while for the French it has contracted the word, and ■ t i . 1 '1 : ij • If I^Bf ■ 1 i It 1 ■ t t i 11 {HI ^111 nfl ! \l Ml .; I m 198 THE ROMANCE LANGUAGES. 1^ 1< > I J r varied it from both of these terminations. This original diversity gives a peculiar character to each language ; but it does not pre- vent us from recognising the common source of all. On the borders of the Danube, the Wallachians and the Bulgarians speak also a language which may be known as a descendant of the Latin, and which its great resemblance to the Italian renders easy to be comprehended. Of the two elements of which it is composed, it has one in common with the Italian — the Latin ; the other is en- tirely different — the Sclavonic instead of the German. The Teutonic languages themselves are not absolutely exempt from this primitive mixture. Thus the English, which is for the most part a corrupt German dialect, has been mingled partly with the Breton or Gaelic, and partly with the French, which has given it some analogy to the Romance languages. Its character bears a greater impress of harshness than the German ; its grammar is more simple, and it might be said more barbarous, if the cultivation which tills language has subsequently received had not educed new beauties, even from that very circumstance. The German has not remained what it was, when it was spoken by the people who over- threw the Roman empire. It appears to have borrowed for a period, and afterwards to have lost, a portion of the Latin syntax. When the study of letters began to extend itself over the north, with Christianity, the Germans attempted to give each case of their nouns a different termination, as in the Latin. This rendered their language more sonorous, and admitted more vowels in the construc- tion of their words ; but these modifications, which were, no doubt, contrary to the genius of the people, were in the end abandoned, and this distinction between the German and the Latin was again restored. Thus, from one end of Europe to the other, the encoimter of two mighty nations, and the mixtm'c of two mother tongues, confounded all the dialects, and gave rise to new ones in their place. A long period of time now elapsed, during which it might almost be sup- posed that the nations of Europe were without a language. From the fifth to the tenth century, various races, always* new, were mingled, without being confounded. Each village, each hamlet, contained some Teutonic conqueror, with his barbarian soldiers, and a number of vassals, the remains of the vanquished people. The terms upon which they lived, were those of contempt on the one side, and hatred on the other. There was no confidence or trust between them. Equally ignorant of every principle of gene- ral grammar, they never thought of studying the language of their THE ROMANCE LANGUAGES. 199 HV enemies, but accustomed themselves merely to the mutual jargon In which they sought to carry on an intercourse. Thus, wo still seo individnals transported into a foreign country, forming with those with whom it is necessary to communicate, a sort of conventional dialect, which is neither tlieir own language nor that of the natives, yet which is comprehended by both, and prevents each from be- coming acquainted with the language of the other. Amongst the slaves of Africa and Constantinople, there are Christians, from every part of Europe, mingled with the Moors, who liave neither taught the latter their language, nor have themselves ac- quired tlie Moorish. They communicate with them in a rude lan- guage, called the Lingua Franca, which is composed of the most useful European words, despoiled of the terminations which mark the tenses and the cases, and thrown together without any syntax. Thus, also, in the colonies of America, the planters make them- selves intelligible to the negroes by using the Creole language, which is nothing more than the French, adapted to the capacity of a barbarous people, by depriving it of everything which gives it precision, force, and pliancy. The want of ideas, the conse- quence of universal ignorance, left no temptation to augment the number of words of which this jargon was composed, and the absence of communication between village and village deprived it of all uni- formity. The continual revolutions which led new nations of bar- barians to usurp the place of the former intruders, and which substituted the new dialects of Germany for those with which the people of the south had begun to be familiar, did not suffer the language to acquire any degree of stability. In short, this unformed dialect, which varied with each province and each colony, which changed from year to year, and in which the only rules were imposed by chance or by the caprice of a barbarian people, was never used as a written language, even by the small number of those who were acquainted with the art of writing. It was disdained, as the lan- guage of ignorance and barbarism, by all who had the power of polishing it ; and the gift of speech, which was granted to man for the purpose of extending and enlightening his ideas by communica- tion, multiplied the barriers which before existed between them, and was only a source of confusion. I M ilii i II soo HER LANGUAGES OP EUROPE. l- OTHER LANGUAGES OV EUROPE. TiiK two great literary languages of antiquity wore tlio Greek and the Latin. },\ hile the former is still preserved in a slightly modified state in the peninsula of Greece and the adjacent inlands, the latter, as you have been informed in the preceding lesson, is no longer a living tongue, but has united .vith the German on the one hand, and the Sclavonic on the other, to give birth to the romance lan- guages. In lauds to which the Latin tongue did not extend, the natives retained their own form of speech tree from admixture of foreign ele- Irlil'' .f r """' ^'aM'*"'? '''^'' "'"">' ^*' ^''" '^'^'"'o"'C and Sclavonic tribes of Europe. Ihe languages of the former, composing the great Germanic family of languages, are those known as the Gennan. the Dutch, and the Scandinavian or those spoken by the inhabitants of Sweden, Isorway, and Denmark. Between these languages great similarity of grammar and vocabulary exists. The Endish language is essentially Germanic, although the influence of the Norman Lrench Conquest upon it has given to it almost the char- acter of a Romance tongue. The Sclavonic languages are those of Russia, Poland, and the eastern parts of the Austrian empire. Prussia was at one time a Sclavonic nation, but after its subjugation by the knights of the Teutonic order in the beginning of the fourteenth century, adopted the language of its German conquerors. Of fur greater antiquity than the preceding, and even, it is said, tlian the ancient Greek and Latin, is the Celtic family of languages! This family IS represented by the Gaelic of Scotland, the Erse of Leiand, and the Manx of the Isle of Man, forming the Gaelic branch, and by the Welsh, Cornish, and Armenian, a language of Brittany m France, forming the Cymric branch of the family All of the languages we have named, together with the Sanscrit or ancient language of ludia, the Zend of ancient Persia, and the old Armenian, with the modern dialects dei-ived from them, present considerable resemblances of structure, both as to grammar and vocabulary; they are, therefore, considered as one great familv or group, and are designated the Indo-European family of languages. The Arabic, which was introdnced into Europe at the time of the Saracenic supremacy, belongs, with the Hebrew, Syrian, and other cognate tongues, to the Semitic family, totally di..tinr>. in rV.o,.oof«. lue Turkish, also, is an intrusion from Northern Asia, and is classed TRIUMPHS OF THE ENGLISH LANaUAOB. 201 h'eck and ' modified ho latter, I longer a no linnd, nnco lan- e nntivcH I'cign ole- Sclavoiiic >sing the German, inbltants mgiiages ! English 3 of tho be char- and tho e time a 3 of the adopted ' is said, iguages. Erse of 3 Gaelic uagc of r. lanscrit, and the present »ar and mily or iiages. B of the d other classed with the majority of Aaiatic languages, and those spoken by the Lapps and Finns in the north of Europe, as belonging to the Turanian family, tho word Turanian being of Sanscrit origin, and meaning " a nomad or wanderer." The languages spoken by tho aborigines of o-tr own continent form a soparato |[roup of their own, called the American. TRIUMPHS OF THE ENGIJSII LANGUAGE. J. O. Lyons. Now gather all our Saxon bards, let harps and hearts be strung, To celebrate tho triumphs of our own good Saxon tongue ; For stronger far than hosts that march with battie-fhigs unfurl'd, It goes with Fkbedom, Thought, and Truth, to rouse and rule' tho world. Stout Albion learns Its household lays on every surf-worn shore, And Scotland hears its echoing far as Orkney's breakers roar From Jura's crags and Mona's hills it flouts on every gale, And warms with eloquence and song the homes of Inuisfa'il. On many a wido and swarming deck it scales the rough wave's crest, Seeking its peerless heritage — the fresh and fruitful West : It climbs New England's rocky steeps, as victor mounts a throne ; Niagara knows and greets the voice, still mightier than its own. It spreads where winter piles deep snows on bleak Canadian plains, And where, on Essequibo's bunks, eternal summer reigns : It glads Acadia's misty coasts, Jamaica's glowing isle, And bides where gay with early flowers, green Texan prairies smile : It tracks the loud, swift Oregon, through sunset valleys rolfd, And soars where Californian brooks wash down their sands of gold. It sounds in Borneo's camphor groves, on seas of fierce Malay, In fields that curb old Ganges' flood, and towers of proud Bombay ; It wakes up Aden's flashing eyes, dusk brows, and swarthy limbs ; The dark Liberiau soothes her child with English cradle hymns. Tasmania's maids are wooed and won in gentle Saxon speech ; Australian boys read Crusoe's life by Sydney's sheltered beach : it,....,.., „„^.,^ ii..,UKi uiritititii-jcu ?j«jjvo sijcci ui;c«us uruiiu ilUU UiUCa And Nieuveld's rugged mountains gird the wide and waste Karroo. • m 1 Ills w* 302 m 1,1 1 A OIUGIN OF THE MATERIALS OF WRITING. t' r It kindles realms so far aparf, that, while Its praise you a'mg, I/iese may bo clad with autaraa's fralts, and tho»e with flowers of spring : It quickens lands whose meteor lights flame in an arctic sky, And lands for which the Southern Cross hangs its orb6d flres on high. w-fr'.wu'' ""'* "'"' P'"^^"^" *°'''' ^"*^ righteous kings desired,- With all that great apostles taught, and glorious Greeks admired ; With Shakespeare's deep and wondrous verse, and Milton's loftier With Alfred's laws, and Newtoi.'s lore,— to cheer and bless mankind. Mai-k, as it spi-eads, how deserts bloom, and error flies away. As vanishes the mist of night befoi-e the star of da}- 1 But grand as are the victories whose monuments wo sec, Ihese are but as the dawn, which speaks of noontide yet to be. Take heed then, heii-s of Saxon fame, take heed, nor onco disgrace With deadly pen or spoiling swoi-d, our noble tongue and race, (^0 forth prepared in every clime to love and help each other And judge that they who counsel strife would bid you smite— a brother. wllTrl •".• *'°''!'^^ 'P''^ *^' *''""' ^y S°°^ '"^^ P'-ayed for long. When Chnstian states, grown just and wise, will scorn reven ere and wrong ; •= When earth's oppressed and savage tribes shall cease to pine or roam. All taught to pnze these English words-FAiiH, Freedom, Heaven aud HoMB. ' ' ORIGIN OF THE MATERIALS OF WRITING. Isaac Disraeli: see "Music." discover''^"^ ^° ^^^^"^""^ '^® "^^""^"^ substitutes for paper before Jt^ Ere the invention of recording events by writing, trees were planted, rude altars were erected, or heaps of stone! to serve as rS V /''* '''°,*'- ^'^''"^'^ ^''^^^^y ««"»d not write when Re fixed his famous pillars, ^aIJIT' fji""' "''" " -' """^^S ^^« ^'^ *'-^^. '^^» and oysters t-, ,..^,j,, „„ ^.^f^^s Qi ^^35 .^ jjj^ ieav€8 Of trees, &c. i ORIGIN OF THE MATERIALS OP WRITING. 203 Engraving memorable events on hard substances was giving, as it were, speech to rocks anil metals. In the book of Job mention is made of writing on etone, on rocks, and ou sheets of Uad. On tables of stone Moses received the law vritten by the finger of God. Hesiod's works were written on Uaden tables : lead was used for writing, and rolled up like a cylinder, as Pliny states. Montfaucoa notices a very ancient book of eight leaden leaves, which on the back had rings fastened by a small leaden rod, to keep them together They afterwards engraved on bronze : the laws of the Cretans Aveie ou bronze tables ; the Romans etched their public records on brass. The speech of Claudius, engraved on plates ot bvciize, is yet preserved in the town-hall of Lyons in France. Several bronze tables with Etruscan characters, have been dug up in Tuscany. The treaties between the Romans, Spartans, and the Jews, were written on brass ; and estates, for better se- curity, were made over on this enduring metal. In many cabinets may be found the discharges of soldiers, written on copper-plates. This custom has been discovered in ludia ; a bill of feoffment on copper has been dug up near Bengal, dated a century before the birth of Christ. Among these early inventions, many were singularly rude and miserable substitutes for a better material. In the shepherd state they wrote their songs with thorns and awls on straps of leather, which they wound round their crooks. The Icelanders appear to have scratched their runes, a kind of hieroglyphics, on walls ; and Olof, according to one of the sages, built a largo house, on the bnlks and spars of which he had engraved the history of his own and more ancient times; while another northern hero appears to have had nothing better than his own chair and bed to perpetuate his own heroic acts on. At the town-hall, in Hanover, are kept twelve wooden boards, overlaid with bees'-wax, on which are written the names of owners of houses, but not the names of streets. These wooden manuscripts must have existed before 1423, when Hanover was f. ;*i3t divided into streets. Such manuscripts may be found in public collections. These are an evidence of a rude state of society. The same event occurred among the ancient Arabs, who, accordingr to the history of Mahomet, seemed to have carved on the shoulder-bones of sheep remarkable events with a knife, and tying them with a string, hung up these sheep-bone chronicles. The laws of the twelve tables, which the Romans chiefly copied ;:lci iiifj iiau uccu aj/piuvc« uj itsc (,\ Hi i ■i ■ i ' ■ 1 '1 , : \ I . : j . i ^:m i. 3j people, engraven on brass. They were melted by lightning, which 204 ORIGIN OF THE MATERIALS OF WRITING. 1 ' ' Struck the capitol,— a loss highly regretted by Augiistua. This man- ner of writing we still retain, for inscriptions, epitaphs, and other memorials designed to reach posterity. These early inventions led to the discovery of tables of wood and as cedar has an antiseptic quality from its bitterness, they chose this wood for cases or chests to preserve their most impor- tant writings. This well-known expression of the ancients, when they meant to give the highest eulogium of an excellent work that Jt was wortny to be written on cedar, alludes to the oil of cedar, with which valuable mSS. of parchment were anointed to preserve them from corruption and moths. Persius illustrates this : — (t Who would not leave posterity such rhymes As cedar oil might keep to latest times ! " They stained materials for writing upon with purple, and rubbed fhem with exudations from the cedar. The laws of the emperors were published on wooden tables, painted with ceruse, to which custom Horace alludes. Such tables, the term now softened into tablets, are still used, but in general are made of other materials than wood. The same reason for which they preferred the cedar to other wood induced to write on wax, as being incorruptible Men generally used it to write their testaments on, the better to preserve them. This thin paste of wax was also used on tablets of wood that It might more easily admit of erasure, for daily use. ' They wrote with an iron bodkin, as they did on the other sub- stances we have noticed. The stylus was made sharp at one end to write with, and blunt and broad at the other, to efface and correct easdy : hence the iphvase vertere stj/lum, to turn the stylus, was used to express blotting out. But the liomans forbade the use of this shai-p instrument, from the circumstance of many persons having used them as daggers. A schoolmaster was killed by the Pu-nllares or table-books, and the styles of his own scholars. They sub<'ti- tuted a stylus made of the bone of a bird, or other animal ; so that their writings resembled engravings. When they wrote on softer materials, they employed reeds and canes split like our pens at the points, which the orientalists still use to lay their colour or ink ' neater on the paper. The pumice stone was a writing material of the ancients • thev thet- reeds '"'''''^^ "'' '-ough-ness of the parchment, or to sharpe'n In the progress of time the art of writing consisted in painting ORIGIN OP THE MATERIALS OF WRITING. 205 This man- 1, and other ;s of wood, rness, they lost inipor- ients, when llent work, the oil of ! anointed, illustrates md rubbed ! emperors to which tened into materials the cedar ble. Men preserve of wood, )ther sub- •ne end to id correct was used se of this 13 having Puffillares ?y substi- ; so that on softer IS at the ir or ink its ; they ) aharpen painting with different kinds of ink. This novel mode of writing occasioned them to invent other materials proper to receive their writing ; the thin bark of certain trees and plants, or linen; and at length, when this was found apt to become mouldy, they prepared the skins of animals; on the dried skins of serpents were once written the Iliad and Odyssey. The first place where they began to dress these skins was Peryamus, in Asia ; whence the Latin name is derived of Per- gamenm, or parchment. These skins are, however, better known amongst the authors of the purest Latin under the name of mem- brana; so called from the membranes of various animals of which they were composed. The ancients had parchments of three differ- ent colours, white, yellow, and purple. At Rome white parchment was disliked, because it was more subject to be soiled than the others, and dazzled the eye. They generally wrote in letters of gold and silver on purple or violet parchment. This custom con- tinued in the early ages of the Church ; and copies of the evangelists of this kind are preserved in the British Museum. When the Egyptians employed for writing the bark of a plant or reed, called papyrus, or paper-rush, it superseded all former modes for Its convenience. Formerly, it grew in great quantities on the sides of tht Nile. This plant has given its name to our paper although the latter is now composed of linen rags, and formerly had been of cotton-wool, which was brittle and yellow ; and improved by using cotton rags, which they glazed. After the eighth century the papyrus was superseded by parch- ment. The Chinese make their paper with si/k. The use of paper IS of great antiquity. It is what the ancient Latinists call chaita or c/iart(B. Before the use of parchment and paper passed to the Romans, they used the thin peel found between the wood and the bark of trees. This skinny substance they called liber ; from whence the Latin word liber, a book, and libranj and librarian in the Eu- ropean languages, and the French livre for book ; but we of north- ern origin derive our book from the Danish, bog, the beech-tree, because that being the most plentiful in Denmark was used to en- grave on. Anciently, instead of folding this bark, this parchment, or paper, as we fold ours, they rolled it according as they wrote on It ; and the Latin name which they gave these rolls has passed into our language as well as the others. We say a volume, or volumes, although our books are composed of leaves bound together. The books of the anGicnts on the shelves of their libraries were rolled up on a pm and placed erect, titled on the outside in red letters, or rubrics, and appeared like a number of small pillars on the shelves. ;i (' wmm I 206 ORIGIN OP THE MATERIALS OF WRITING. The ancients were as curious as ourselves in having their books richly conditioned. Propertius describes tablets with gold borders, and Ovid notices their red titles ; but, in later times, beoides the tint of purple with which they tinged their vellum, and the liquid gold which they employed for their ink, they iulaid their covers with precious stones ; and T ^lave seen, in the library at Triers or Treves, a manuscript, the donation of some princess to a monastery, fitndded with beads wrought in tine cameos. In the early ages of the church, they painted on the on* side commonly a dying Christ. In the curious library of Mr Donee is a Psalter, supposed ome to have appertained to Charlemagne ; the vellum is purple, and the letters gold. The Eastern nations likewise tinged their MSS. with different colours and decorations. Astle possessed Arabian MSS., of which some leaves were of a deep yellow, and others of a lilac colour. Sir William Jones describes an oriental MS. in which the name of Mohammed was fancifully adorned with a garland of tulips and carnations, painted in the brightest colours. The favourite works of the Persians are written on fine silky paper, the ground of which is often powdered with gold or silver dust ; the leaves are frequently illuminated, and the whole book is sometimes perfumed with essence of roses, or sandal wood. The Romans had several sorts of paper for which they had as many different names, one was the Charta Augusta, in comi)Iiment to the Emperor ; another Liviana, named after the Empress. There was a Chnrla blanca, which obtained its title from its beautiful whiteness, and which we appear to have retained by applying to a blank sheet of paper which is only signed, C/iarte Blanche. They had also a Charta nigra, painted black, and the letters were in white or other colours. Our present paper surpasses all other materials for ease and con- venience of writing. The first paper-mill in England was erected at Dartfold, by a German, in 1588, who was knighted by Eliza- betli ; but it was not before 1713 that one Thomas Watkiuson, a stationer, brought the art of paper-making to any perfection, and to the industry of this individual we owe the origin of our numerous paper-mills. France had hitherto supplied England and Holland. The manufacture of paper was not much encouraged at home, even so late as in 1CG2 ; and the following observations by Fuller are curious, respecting the paper of his time : — " Paper participates in some sort of the characters of the country which makes it ; the Venetian being neat, subtile, and court-like ; the French, light, slight, and slender ; and the Dutch, thick, corpulent, and gross, sucking up the ink with the sponginess thereof." He complains . ..J ^. i.rrj 1/1 liiu v\/U2i«3ii3. iA\ji icaci gciiuruUis luuu en- lightened, Al-Mamoun, when he pardoned one of his relations who THE LITERATURE OF THE ARABIANS. 217 -838) ho and men 3 learned alono in that the le muses, , all the i ho le- ery kind, en la, and ered, and demand, ion, were ) literary le foot of Bagdad, >se which jtrnction, sally in- lentators, to be a I'like em- he Greek lemanded '. peculiar iding the accused eculative the most his em- lad been /, which, )f human )andoned ) himself he had [Resign of naticians Alfragan vere the haa cn- ons who had revolted apainst him, and attempted to usurp the throne, exclaimed, *' If it were known what pleasure I experience in grant- ing pardon, all who have otFended against me would come and con- fess their crimes." The progress of the nation in science was proportioned to the zeal of the sovereign. In all parts, in every town, schools, acade- mics, and colleges were established, from ail which many learned men proceeded. B.igdad was the capital of letters, as well as of the caliphs; but Bussora and Cufa almost equalled that city in reputation, and in the number of valuable treatises and celebrated poems which they produced. Balkh, Ispahan, and Saraarcand, were equally the homes of science. The same enthusiasm had been carried by the Arabians beyond the frontiers of Asia. Benjamin Tudela, the Jew, relates in his Itinerary, that he found in Alexan- dria more than twenty schools for the propagation of philosophy, Cairo also contained a great number of colleges, and that of Betz- uaila, in the suburbs of that capital, was so substantially built, that, during a rebellion, it served as a citadel for the army. In the towns of Fez and Morocco, likewise, the most magnificent build- ings were appropriated to the purposes of instruction, and these establishments were governed by the wisest and most beneficent regulations. The rich libraries of Fez and Larace preserved to Europe a number of precious volumes, which had been lost in other places. But Spain was, more especially, the seat of Arabian learn- ing?. It was there that it shone with superior brightness, and made its most rapid progress. Cordova, Grenada, Seville, and all the cities of the Peninsula, rivalled one another in the magnificence of their schools, their colleges, their academies, and their libraries. The academy of Grenada was, under the direction of Schamseddin of Murcia, celebi'ated amongst the Arabians. Metuahel-al- Allah, who reigned in Grenada in the twelfth century, possessed a magnificent library; and there are still preserved, in the Es- curial, a great number of the manuscripts which were translated for his use. Al-haken, founder of the academy of Cordova, pre- sented six hundred volumes to the library of that town. In various cities of Spain, seventy libraries were opened for the in- struction of the public, at the period when all the rest of Europe, without books, without learning, and without cultivation, was plunged in the most disgraceful ignorance. The number of Arabic authors which Spain produced was so prodigious, that many Arabian bibliographers wrote learned treatises on the authors born in particular towus, as Seville, Valencia, or Cordova, or on 9|? »"i?! lilji wmmmmr I 218 CHARACTER OP GODFREY DE BOUILLON. . ■rl those, amongst the Spaniards, who devoted themselves to a single branch of study, as philosophy, medicine, mathematics, and> more especially, poetry. Thus, throughout the vast extent of the Arabian empire in the three quarters of the globe, the progress of letters had followed that of arms, and literature, for five or six cen- turies, from the ninth to the fourteenth or fifteenth, preserved all its brilliancy. CHARACTER OF GODFREY DE BOUILLON. William of Malmesbury, a monk and librarian of the monastery from which he derived his name, -wrote a Latin history of England, to the year 1142. He lived in the twelfth century. King Godfrey takes the lead ia my commendation ; he was the son of Eustace, Count of Boulogne, of whom I have spoken in the time of King Edward, but was still more ennobled on the mother's side, as by that line he was descended from Charlemagne. For his mother, named Ida, daughter of the ancient Godfrey, Duke of Lorraine, had a brother called Godfrey, after his father, surnamed Boyard. This was at the time when Robert Frlso, of whom I have made mention above, on the death of Florence, married his widow Gertrude ; ' vanclng Theodoric, his son-in-law, to the succession of the duchy. Boyard could not endure this ; but expelling Frlso, sub- jected the country to his own will. Friso, unable to revenge him- self by war, did it by stratagem, eifecting the death of his enemy, through the agency of his Flemings. The son-in-law thus suc- ceeded to the duchy by means of his father-in-law. The wife of this Godfrey was the Marchioness Matilda, who, on her husband's death, bravjly retained the duchy in opposition to the emperor; more especially in Italy, for of Lorraine and the hither countries, he got possession. Ida then, as I began to relate, animated her son God- frey with great hopes of attaining to the earldom of Lorraine ; for the paternal inheritance had devolved on her eldest son Eustace ; the youngest, Baldwin, being still a boy. Godfrey, on arriving at a sufficient age to bear arms, dedicated his services to the Emperor Henry, and acquiring the friendship of that prince by strenuous exertions, he received from the emperor's singular liberality the whole of Lorraine as a recompense. Hence it came, that when the quarrel arose between the Pope and Henry, he went with the latter to the siege of Rome ; was the first to break through that part of :o a single and> more It of the •regress of r six cen- ved all its stery from ind, to the as the son I the time iier's side, For his Duke of surnamed m I have lis widow cession of riso, sub- nge him- is enemy, thus suc- ife of this [t's death, or; more ;s, he got son God- aine ; for Eustace ; ving at a Emperor strenuous ■ality the «vhen the the latter t part of CHARACTER OF GODFREY DE BOUILLON, the wall which had been assigned to him to attack, thereby facilitat- ing the entrance of the besiegers. Being in extreme perspiration, and panting with heat, he entered a subterraneous vault which he found in his way, and having there appeased the violence of his thirst by a too abundant draught of wine, it brought on a quartan fever. Others say that he fell a victim to poisoned wine, as the Romans, and men of that country, are wont to poison whole casks. Others report, that a portion of the walls fell to his lot, where the river Tiber exhales destructive vapours in the morning ; that by this fatal post all his soldiers, with the exception of ten, perished ; and that himself, losing his nails and his hair, never entirely recovered. But be it which it might of these things, it appears that he was never after free from a slow fever, until, on hearing the report of the expedition to Jerusalem, he made a vow to go thither, if God would deign to restore his health. The moment this vow was made, the strength of the duke revived ; so that, recovering apace, he shook off disease from his limbs, and rising with expanded breast, as it were, from years of decrepitude, shone forth with renovated youth. Grateful for the mercies of God thus showered down upon him, he went to Jerusalem the very first, or among the first, lead- ing a numerous army to the war. And though he commanded a hardy and experienced band, yet none \,as esteemed readier to attack, or more efficient in the combat than himself. Indeed, it is known that, at the siege of Antioch, with a Lorraine sword, he cut asunder a Turk, who had demanded single combat, and that one half of the man lay panting on the ground, while the horse, at full speed, carried away the other ; so firmly did the miscreant sit. Another, who attacked him, he clave asunder from the neck to the groin, by taking aim at his head with a sword ; nor did the dreadful stroke stop here, but cut entirely through the saddle, and the backbone of the horse. I have heard a truthful man declare, that he had wit- nessed what I here subjoin, during the siege. A soldier of the duke's had gone out to forage, and, being attacked by a lion, avoided destruc- tion for some time by the interposition of his shield. Godfrey, grieved at this sight, transfixed the savage animal with a hunting spear. Wounded and grown fiercer from the pain, it turned against the prince with such violence as to hurt his leg with the iron which pro- jected from the wound ; and had he not hastened with his sword to rip it up, this pattern of valour must have fallen a victim to the fury of a wild beast. Renowned from such successes, he was exalted to be king of Jerusalem, more especially because he was conspicu- ous in rank and courage without being arrogant. His dominions 220 THE BATTLE OP CRESSY. lir: Wi were small and confined, containing, save the few surrounding towns, scarce any cities. For tlie king's illness, which attacked him immediately after the Babylonish war, caused a cessation of warlike enterprise, so that he made no acquisitions ; yet by able management, he so aa ell restrained the rapacity of the barbarians for the whole of that year, that no portion of his territory was lost. It is also reported that the king, from being unused to a state of in- dolence, fell again into his original fever ; but I conjecture that God, in His own good time, chose early to translate to a better kingdom a soul rendered acceptable to Him, and tried by so many labours, lest wickedness should change his heart, or deceit beguile his understanding. Revolving time thus completing a reign of one year, he died placidly, and was buried on Mount Golgotha ; a king as invincible in death as he had formerly been in battle ; often kindly repressing the tears of the sorrowing bystanders. Being asked who was to succeed him, he mentioned no person by name, but said merely, "Whoever was most worthy." He neva* would wear the ensign of royalty, saying, " It was too great arrogance for him to be crowned for glory, in that city in which God had been crowned in mockery." He died on the fifteenth before the kalends of August. THE BATTLE OF CRESSY. Sm John Fiwissart, called the " Livy " of France ; the most celebrated his- toriau of the age of chivalry ; for some time secretary to Queeu Philippa of England : 1337-1400. This extract is from his " Chronicles." The Englishmen, who were in three battles, lying on the ground to rest them, as soon as they saw the Frenchmen approach, they rose upon their feet, fair and easily, without any haste, and arranged their battles ; the first, which was the prince's battle ; the archers there stood in manner of a harrow, and the men-of-arms in the bot- tom of the battle. The Earl of Northampton and the Earl of Arun- del, Avith the second battle, were on a wing in good order, ready to comfort the prince's battle, if need were. The lords and knights ot France came not to the assembly together in good order ; for some came before, and some came after, in s'.ich haste and evil order that one of them did trouble another. When the French king saw the Englishmen, his blood changed ; and he said to his marshals, " Make the Genoese go on before, and begin the battle in the name of God and St Denis ! " There were of the Genoese crossbows THE BATTLE OF CRESSY. 221 i'l'ounding attacked jsation of t by able arians for was lost, tate of in- ture that a better so many it beguile gn of one I ; a king le ; often ;. Being by name, er would igance for had been e kalends brated his- u Philippa 3." e ground ich, they arranged e archers I the bot- of Aruu- ready to :uights ot for some rder that ; saw the narshals, the name rossbows about fifteen thousand ; but they were so weary of going a-foot that day a six league, armed with their crossbows, that they said to theii constables, *' We be not well ordered to fight this day, for we be not in the case to do any great deed of arms, as we have more need of rest." These words came to the Duke of Alen9on, who said, " A man is well at ease to be charged with such a sort of rascals, to be faint and fail now at most need." Also at the same season there fell a great rain and eclipse, with a terrible thunder ; and before the rain there came flying over both battles a great number of crows, for fear of the tempest coming. Then, anon, the air began to wax clear, and the sun to shine fair and bright, the which was right in the Frenchmen's eyes and on the Englishmen's backs. When the Genoese were assembled together, and began to approach, they made a great leap and cry to abash the Englishmen, but they stood still, and stiiTed not for all that. Then the Genoese again, the second time, made another leap and a fell cry, and stept forward a little, and the Englishmen removed not one foot ; thirdly, again they leaped and cried, and went forth till they came within shot, then they shot fiercely with their crossbows. Then the English archers stept forth one pace, and let their arrows fly so wholly and so thick, that it seemed snow. When the Genoese felt the arrows pressing through heads, arms, and breasts, many of them cast down their crossbows, and did cut their strings, and returned discomforted. When the French king saw them flee away, he said, " Slay these rascals ; for they shall hinder and trouble us without reason." Then ye should have seen the meu-of-arms dash in among them, and kill a great number of them ; and ever still the Englishmen shot wher- ever they saw thickest press ; the sharp arrows ran into the men- of-arras, and into their horses, and many fell, horse, and men, among the Genoese ; and when they were down, they could not re- line again, the press was so thick that one overthrew another. And also among the Englishmen there were certain rascals that went on foot, with great knives, and they went in among the men-of-arms, and slew and murdered many as they lay on the ground, both earls, barons, knights, and squires, whereof the king of England was after displeased, for he had rather they had been taken prisoners. The valiant king of Bohemia, called Charles of Luxembourg, son to the noble emperor Henry of Luxembourg, for all that he was nigh blind, who understood the order of tho battle, he said to tliem about him, " Where is the Lord Charles, my son V " His men said, " Sir, we cannot tell, we think he be fighting." Then he said, " Sirs, ye are my men, my companions and friends in this journey, I require you li-l ii ;i I I 222 THE FATAL TREASURE. to bring me so forward that I may strike one stroke with my sword." They said they would do his commandment ; and to the intent that they might not lose him in the press, they tied all the reins of their bridles each to other, and set the king before to accom- plish his desire, and so they went on their enemies. Tlie Lord Charles of Bohemia,, his son, who wrote himself king of Bohemia, and bare the arms, he came in good order to the battle ; but when he saw that the matter went awry on their party, he departed, I cannot tell you which way. The king, his father, was so far for- ward, that he struck a stroke with his sword, yea, and more than four, and fought valiantly, and so did his company, and they ad- •ventured themselves so forward, that they were all slain ; and the next day they were found in the place, about the king, and all their horses tied to each other. THE FATAL TREASURE. From the "Cento Novelle Anticlie," or " Hundred Ancient Tales," a collec- tion of the earliest prose fictions in the Italian language, written in the 14th century • this tale is interesting, as having furnished Chaucer with his "Pardoner's Tale." Translated by EoscoE. A GENTLE hermit one day proceeding on his way through a vast forest chanced to discover a large cave, nearly hidden under^, round. Being greatly fatigued, he entered to repose himself awhile, and observing something shine brightly in the distance, he approached, and found it was a heap of gold. At the sight of the glittering bait, he turned away, and hastening through the forest again, as fast as possible, he had the further misfortune to fall into the hands of three fierce robbers, always on the watch to despoil the unwary travellers who might pass that way. But, though inmates of the forest, they had never yet discovered the treasu'-e from which the hermit now fled. The thieves on first perceiving him thus strangely flying, without any one in pursuit, were seized with a sort of unaccountable dread, though, at the same time, they ven- tured forward to ascertain the cause. On approaching to inquire, the hermit, without relaxing his pace, answered, "I flee from death who is urging me sorely behind." The robbers, unable to perceive any one, cried out, " Show us where he is, or take us to the place instantly." The hermit therefore replied, in a hurried voice "Fol- low me then," and proceeded towards the grotto. He there pointed out to them the fatal place, beseeching them, at the same time to abstain f done, an strange t the way ; and show \vhich w{ upon the They i way, ami absurd c possessio One of t fortune u moment, replied ai one of us at the cit of ; " anc Now tl occasions deal with " As sooi the city, I please, with the will settU of the tre part of til He car part, whil him on h tween th< comes, ar money be who had bought, V huces, an least upo their appc fell dead each othe; wealth; t THE FATAL TREASURE, 223 with my nd to the ed all the to accom- Tlie Lord Bohemia, but when jparted, I 3 far for- lore than they ad- and the [ all their " a collec- ten in the lucer with h a vast srg round, hile, and iroached, jlittering again, as into the spoil the inmates m which im thus with a ley ven- inquire, n death, perceive le place ^, "Fol^ pointed time, to abstain from even looking at it, as they had far better do as he had done, and avoid it. But the thieves, resolving to know what strange thing it was which had alarmed him, only bade him lead the way ; which, being in terror of his life, the hermit quickly did; and showing them the heap of gold, " Here," he said, " is the death uhich was in pursuit of me;" and the thieveS; suddenly seizing upon the treasure, began to rejoice exceedingly. They afterwards permitted the good man to proceed upon his way, amusing themselves when he v/as gone with ridiculing his absurd conduct. The three robbers guarding the gold in their possession, began to consider in what way they should employ it. One of them observed, "Since Heaven has bestowed such good fortune u' on us, we ought by no means to leave the place for a moment, without bearing the whole of it along with us." " No," replied another, " it appears to me we had better not do so ; but let one of us take a small portion, and set out to buy wine and viands at the city, besides many other things he may think we are in want of ; " and to this the other two consented. Now the great demon, who is very ingenious and busy on these occasions, to effect as much mischief as possible, directly began to deal with the one fixed upon to furnish provisions from the city. " As soon," whitpcved the devil to him, " as I shall have reached the city, I will eat and drink of the best of everything, as much as I please, and then purchase what I want. Afterwards I will mix with the food I intend for my companions something which I trust will settle their account ; thus bocoming sole master of the whole of the treasure, which will make me one of the richest men in this part of the world." And as he purposed to do, so he did. He carried the poisoned food to his companions, who, on their part, while he had been away, had come to the conclusion of killing him on his return, in order that they might divide the booty be- tween themselves, saying, " Let us fall upon him the moment he comes, and afterwards eat what he has brought, sind divide the money between us in much larger shares than before." The robber who had been at the city now returned with the articles he had bought, when the other two instantly pierced his body with their huces, and despatched him with their knives. They then began to least upon the provisions prepared for them, and upon satiating their appetites, both soon after were seized with violent pangs, and fell dead upon the ground. In this manner all three fell victims to each other's avarice and cruelty, without obtaining their ill-gotten wealth ; a striking proof of the judgment of Heaven upon traitors ; I I 11 224 SANCHO PANZA IN HIS ISLAND. for, attempting to compass tho death of others, they justly incnrred their own. The poor hermit thas wisely fled from the gold, which remained without a single claimant. SANCHO PANZA IN HIS ISLAND, Miguel db Cervantes Saavedra, a Spanish adve) •: the immortal author of " Don Quixote : > ramatic poet, and . 1616. Sanciio, with all his attendants, came to a town that had about a thousand inhabitants, and was one of the best where the duke had any power. They gave him to understand that the name of the place was the island of Barataria, either because the town was called Barataria, or because the government cost him so cheap. As soon as he came to the gates (for it was walled) the chief oflBcers and inhabitants, in their formalities, came out to receive him, the bells rung, and all the people gave general demonstrations of their joy. The new governor was then carried in mighty pomp to the great church, to give Heaven thanks : and, after some ridiculous ceremonies, they delivered him the keys of the gates, and received him as perpetual governor of the island of Barataria. In the mean- time, the garb, the port, the huge beard, and the short and thick shape of the new governor, made every one who knew nothing of the jest wonder, and^even those who were privy to the plot, who were many, were not a little surprised. In short, from the church they carried him to the court of justice; where, when they had placed him in ' s seat, "My Lord Governor," said the duke's steward lo him, "it is an ancient custom here, that he who takes possession of this famous island must answer to some difficult and intricate question that is pro- pounded to him; and, by the return he makes, the people feel the pulse of his understanding, and, by an estimate of his abilities, judge whether they ought to rejoice or to be sorry for his com- ing." All the while the steward was speaking, Sancho was staring on an inscription in large characters on the wail over against his seat ; and, as he could not read, he asked what was the meaning of that which he saw painted there upon the wall ? " Sir," said they, " it is an account of the day when your lordship took possession of this island, and the inscription runs thus : ' This day, being sucli a day of this month, in such a year, the Lord Don Sancho Panza ik y incurred )ld, which ic poet, and id about a duke had ,me of the town was heap. As ief oflBcers e him, the IS of their )mp to the ridiculous d received the mean- and thick nothing of plot, who I court of ' My Lord .n ancient 3us island at is pro- teople feel 3 abilities, his com- is staring gainst his } meaning said they, possession leing sucli ;ho Panza SANCHO PANZA IN JUS ISLAND. 225 took possession of this island, which may he long enjoy.'" "And who is he?" asked Sancho. "Your lordship," answered the steward, " for we know of no other Panza in this island but your- self, who now sits in this chair."— " Well, friend," said Sancho, "pray take notice that Don does not belong to me, nor was it borne by any of my family before me. Plain Sancho Panza is my name ; my father was called Sancho, my grandfather Sanclio, and all of us have been Panzas, without any Don or Donna added to our name. Noav do I already gue?s your Dons are as thick as stones in this island. But it is enough that Heaven knows my meaning; if my government happens to last but four days to an end, it shall go hard, but I will clear the island of these swarms of Dons that must needs be as troublesome as so many flesh- flies. Come, now for your question, good Mr Steward, and I will answer it as well as I can, whether the town be sorry or pleased." At the same instant, two men came into the court, the one dressed like a country fellow, the other looking like a tailor, with a pair of shears in his hand. " If it please you, my lord," said the tailor, "I and this farmer here are come before your worship. This honest man came to my shop yesterday, for, saving your presence, I am a tailor, and. Heaven be praised, free of my company ; so, my lord, he showed me a piece of cloth. 'Sir,' quoth he, 'is there enough of this to make a cap?' Whereupon I measured the stuff, and answered him, * Yes,' if it like, your worship. Now, as I imagined, do you see, he could not but imagine (and perhaps he imagined right enough) that I had a mind to cabbage some of his cloth, judging hard of us honest tailors. *Pr'ythee,' quoth he, ' look there be not enough for two caps ! ' Now I smelt him out, and told him there was. Whereupon the old knave, (if it like your worship,) going on to the same tune, bid me look again, and see whether it would not make three. And at last, if it would not make five. I was resolved to humour my customer, and said it might; so we struck a bargain. Just now the man is come for his caps, which I gave him, but when I asked him for my money, he will have me give him his cloth again, or pay him for it." " Is this true, honest man ? " said Sancho to the farmer. " Yes, if it please you," answered the fellow ; " but pray let him show the .s.r. v.tpo UL iidu iiiaue me. — null au my iiuarr, crieu cne tauor ; and with that, pulling his hand from under his cloak, he held up five little tiny caps, hanging upon his four fingers and thumb, as ■ ! i -.tii ± 4 226 BANCIIO PANZA. IN HIS ISLAND. : i?pon so many pins. "There," qnotli lie, "you see the five caps tills pood gaffer asks for; and may I never whip a stitch more if I have wronged him of the least snip of his cloth, and let any workman be judge." The sight of tlie caps, and the odd- ness of the canse, set the whole court a-laughing. Only Sancho sat gravely considering awhile, and then, "Metiiinks," said he, "this suit here needs not be long depending, but may be de- cided without any more ado, with a groat deal of equity; and, therefore, the judgment of the court is, that the tailor shall lose his making, and the countryman his cloth, and that the caps be given to the poor prisoners, and so let there be an end of the business." If this sentence provoked the laughter of the whole court, the next no less raised their admiration. For, after the governor's order was executed, two old meu appeared before him. one of them with a large cans in his hand, which he used as a staff. " My lord," said the other who had none, " some time ago I lent this man ten gold crowns to do him a kindness, which money he was to repay me on demand. I did not ask him for it again in a good while, lest it should prove a greater inconvenience to him to repay me than he laboured under when he borrowed it. However, perceiving that he took no care to pay me, T have asked him for my due ; nay, I have been forced to diui him hard for it. But still he did not only re- fuse to pay me again, but denied he owed me anything, and said, that if I h'ut him so much money, he certainly returned it. Now, because I have no witnesses of the loan, nor he of the pretended pay- ment, I beseech your lordship to put him to his oaih, and if he will swear he has paid me, 1 will freely forgive him before God and the world." " What say you to this, old gentleman with the staff? " asked Sancho. " Sir," answered the old man, "I owai he lent me the gold ; and since he requires my oath, I beg you will be pleased to hold down your rod of justice, that I may swear upon it, howl have honestly and truly returned him his money." Thereupon the governor held down his rod, and in the meantime the deft>ndant gave his cane to the plaintiff to hold, as if it hin- dered him, while he was to make across and swear over the judge's rod ; this done, he declared that it was true the other had lent him ten crowns, but that he had really returned' him the same sum into his own hands ; and that, because he supposed the plain- tiff had forgotten it, he was continually asking him for it. The great governor, hearing this, asked the creditor what he had to 8a: oho panza in his island. 227 reply. lie made answer, that since his adversary had sworn it, he was satisfied ; for he believed him to be a better Christian than offer to forswear himself, and that perhaps he had forgotten he had been repaid. Then the defendant took his cane again, and, having made alow obeisance to the judge, was immediately leaving the conrt; which, when Sancho perceived, reflecting on the passage of the cane, and admiring the creditor's patience, after he had stiulied awhile, with his head leaning over his stomach, and his forefinger on his nose ; on a sudden he ordered the old man -with the staff to be called back. When he was returned, " Honest man/' said Sancho, "let me see that cane a little, I have a use for it." — " With all my heart," answered the other; '^sir, here it is,'' and with that ho gave it him, Sancho took it, and giving it to the other old man, " There," said he, "go your ways, and Heaven be with you, for now you are paid." — " How so, my lord? " cried the old n>an ; '•' do you judge this cane to be worth ten gold crowns 1 " '^ Certainly," said the governor, "or else I am the greatest dunce in the world. And now you shall see whether I have not a headpiece fit to govern a whole kingdom upon a shift." This said, he ordered the cane to be broken in open court, which was no sooner done than out dropped the ten crowns. All the spectators were amazed, and began to look on their governor as a second Solomon. They asked him how he could con- jecture that the ten crowns were in the cane? He fold them that having observed how the defendant gave it to the plaintiff to hold while he took his oath, and then swore that he had truly returned him the money into his own hands, after which he took his cane agaia from the plaintiff — this considered, it came into his head that the money was lodged within the reed ; from whence may be learned, that though sometimes those that govern are destitute' of sense, yet it often pleases God to direct them in their judgment. Besides, he had heard the curate of his parish tell of such another business, and he had so special a memory, that were it not that he was so unlucky as to forget all he had a mind to remember, there could not have been a better in the whole island. At last the two old men went away, the one to his satisfaction, the other with eternal shame and disgrace: and the beholders were astonished ; insomuch, that the person who was commissioned to register Sancho's words and actions, and observe liis behaviour, was not able to determine whether he should not give him the character of a wise man, in« stead of that of a fool, which he had been thought to deserve. !H 11 .'ii< jll 228 OP STUDIES. OP STUDIES. FnANCrs Bacon, Lord Chancellor i. England, the father of "Inductive Phi- losophy," author of the " Instauratiou of the Sciences," and other philo- sophical works : 15G1-1G26. Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief use for delight la in privateness and retiring ; for ornament in discourse; and for ability in the judgment and disposition of busi- ness. For expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of particu- lars, one by one ; but the geujeral councils, and the plots and mar- shalling of affairs, come best from those that are learned. To spend too much time in studies is sloth ; to use them too much for orna- ment is affectation ; to make judgment wholly by their rules is the humour of a scholar. They perfect nature, and are perfected by experience. Crafty men contemn studies ; simple men admire them ; and wise men use them ; for they teach not their own use ; but that is a wisdom without them and above them, won by observa- tion. Read not to contradict and confute ; nor to believe and take for granted ; nor to find talk and discourse ; but to weigh and con- sider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested ; that is, some books are to be read only in parts ; others to be read, but not curiously ; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. Some books also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others ; but that would be only in the less important arguments, and in the meaner sort of books ; else distilled books are like com- mon distilled waters, flashy things. Reading maketh a full man ; conference a ready man ; and writing an exact man ; and, there- fore, if a man write little, he had need have a great memory ; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit ; and if he rea'^'. little, he had need of much cunning to seem to know that he doth not. Histories make men wise ; poets, witty ; the Uiathematics, subtle ; natural philosophy, deep ; moral, grave ; logic and rhetoric, able to contend. Studies exercise influence upon the morals ; nay, there is no stond or impediment in the wit, but may be wrought out by fit studies ; like as diseases of the body may have appropriate exer- cises. Bowling is good for the stone and reins ; shooting rbr the lurgs and breast ; gentle walking for the stomach ; riding for the head ; and the like. So if a man's wit be wandering, let him study the mathematics ; for in demonstrations, if his wit be called away never so little, he must begin again ; if his wit be not apt to distin- THE DUTCH AND SPANISH CHARACTEUS COMPARED. 229 gnish or find difference, let him study the schoolmen, for they are hair-eplitters ; if he be not apt to beat over matters, and to call up one thing to prove and illustrate another, let him study the lawyers' cases. So every defect of the mind may have a special receipt. man; THE DUTCH AND SPANISH CHARACTERS COMPARED. Hugo de Groot, (Grotius,) a celebrated Dutch philologer, theologian, jurist, and statesman, the first writer on " International Law," historian of the Netherlands, &c. : 1583-1U45. Thi people of the Netherlands found no difficulty in maintaining a good understanding with neighbouring nations, since these belonged to the same stock as themselves, and had grown up in a similar manner. But Spaniards and Hollanders differed widely in many respects, and whenever they came into contact mutually repelled each other. Both nations had for several centuries past distin- guished themselves in warfare ; but while the latter people had laid aside their arms in luxurious repose, the former kept theirs from rusting by constant use in the Italian and African campaigns. A love of gain fvtJtn. commercial pursuits inclined the Hollanders to peace, but did not make them less sensitive to injury. While no nation in the world is freer from lust of conquest, there is none that will better defend what it already possesses. Hence arose the in- numerable fortified towns which are closely packea together upon a narrow strip of land on the sea-board, and along the great rivers,, and densely populated by foreigners as well as natives. Hence, also, it was that eight hundred years after the great northern migra- tion of nations, foreign arms had been unable to prevail in these regions. Spain, on the other hand, changed masters very frequently ; and when, at length, it fell into the hands of the Visigoths, the char- acter and customs of its people had suffered more or less from the presence of every new conqueror. As a consequence of all this admixture of various elements, the Spanish people may be described as most patient in labour ; intrepid in danger ; alike greedy of riches and honour ; proud, even to contempt of others ; devoted, and mindful of a stranger's benefits ; yet so revengeful withal, and so intoxicated with success, as to esteem honour and contcience no- thtug so far as an enemy is concciTicd. All these are foreign to the people of the Netherlands, who are shrewd, but not maliciously so; who, situated midway between Franco i i: 230 f I! STORY OF CLEOMENES. and Germany, nnite, in a golden mean, tho failings and the vlitnos of both nationalities. They aro not easily deceived, and pei«nit none to injure them with impunity. Nor" have they been a whit behind the Spaniaids in matters of religion. From that Christianity which they professed, the arms of the plundering and heathen Norse- men could not cause them to apostatize ; no opinion which the Church condemns had as yet defiled tho purify of their faith. So far did their pious munificence go, that the avarice and ostentation of their priests had to bo restrained by force of law. Both peoples are characterized by devotion to their sovereign ; with this dilFerence only that the Hollanders make the law supeviur to the kingly prerogative. Of all Spaniards the Castilians arc tho most impatient of restraint; but tho privileges of which they boast so highly, they are quite unwilling to accord to others. Hence arose that most difficult of tasks for their common ruler,— so to divide hia care and attention that preference for the Castilians might not offend tho Hollanders, and that the equal standing of the latter might not injure Casti- lian pride. STORY OF CLEOMENES. FRANfOTS m Satjgnao dk Lamotte Fenelon, Archbishop of Cambrav. a distnigiushed French theologian, and author of "The Adventures of leleniuchus, soh of Ulysses," from which this extract is taken: 1651- Hardly had their conversation ceased, when Telemachus advanced eagerly towards the Phfcacians, whose vessel lay at anchor near the sho.^j. Ho addressed himself to an old man among them, asking whence they came, where they were going, and whethef thoy had seen Ulysses. The old man answered: '-We come from our island Corcyra, and are going to Epirus for a cargo of mer- chandise. Ulysses, as you must already know, visited our country, but has since departed." "Who," added Telemachus immediately, "is yonder sorrowful- looking man, that seems to seek the most desolate places to walk in while waiting for your vessel to leave?" " He is a stranger, and unknown to us," replied the old man ; "but they say that his name is Cleomenes; that he was born in Fhrygla; that an oracle had predicted to his mother before his birth that he would become a king, provided he did not remain iu 8T0KY OF CLE0MKNK3. 231 ill- hls own country ; and that, if he did remain there, the gods would visit their aupcr upon the Phr3g!iins in a cruel pestiltnce. As soon as lie was born, his parents handed him over to sailors, who carried him to the inland of Lesbos. Ho was secretly brought up there at the expense of his native country, which was so greatly interested in keeping him exiled. Soon he grew up, strong and hand:>ome, of an agreeable disposition, and well skilled in manly exercises; he also applied himself, with great genius, industry, and taste, to the sciences and the fine arts; but no country will suffer his presence. The prediction of the oracle became gene- rally known : wherever ho went, ho was at once recognised : in every region kings feared him as the usurper of their crown. Thus has ho been a wanderer from his youth, and can find no corner of the world where he is free to remain. Often has he gone among people the most remote from his own ; but hardly does he arrive in a city, before his birth and the oracle concerning him are dis- covered. In vain does he conceal himself, and choose the more lonely and obscure walks of life ; his talents for war, for letters, and for the most important aflfiiirs of state burst forth in spite of himself; some unforeseen occasion for their exercise is ever arising and bringing him into public notice. His merit is his misfortune; for this he is feared, and excluded from every country in which ho would make his abode. It is his destiny to be universally esteemed, loved, and admired, but rejected by every part of tl>e known world. He is now no longer a young man, and yet has he been unable to find a single shore either of Asia or of Greece where he might be allowed to live in peace. He appears unambitious, and does not run after fortune : too happy would he be had the oracle never promised him royalty. He has no hope of ever again visiting hia native land ; for he knows that his arrival would but bring grief and tears into every household. The royalty even for which he suffers docs not appear desirable in his eyes. In spite of himself, he runs after it, driven by a sad fatality from kingdom to kingdom ; and it seems ever to fly before him, mocking him even to old age, a fatal present from the gods sent to trouble his early years and to bo the cause of care at a time when man most needs repose. He is going, he says, to find in Thrace some savage and lawless p* ople whom he may bring together and govern for a few years ; after which, the oracle being fulfdied, the most flourishing kingdoms will no longer fear him. He then proposes to retire to a little Carian village and devote himself to agriculture, his favourite occupation. He is a wise and temperate man, fearing the gods, l>" ■ m bkI^H hH ^HH L ^ .1 232 GIL BLA8 AND THE ARCHBISHOP. knowing mnn well, and knowing also how to be at peace even with those whom he does not respect. This is all I have been told concerning the strauger in whom you are interested. GIL BLAS AND THE ARCHBISHOP; OR, THE DANGER OF GIVING ADVICE. Alain R£n£ le Sage, a French play writer and translator from the Spr nish, best known as the author of "Gil Bias : " 1CC8-1747. Archbishop. — What is your business with me, my friend? Gil Bias. — I am the young man who was recommended to you by your nephew, Don Fernando. Arch. — Oh ! you are the person of whom he spoke so handsomely. I retain you in my service ; I regard you as an acquisition. Your education, it would seem, has not been neglected ; you know enough of Greek and Latin for my purpose, and your handwriting suits me. I am obliged to my nephew for sending me so clever a young fellow. So good a copyist must also be a grammarian. Tell me, did you find nothing in the sermon you transcribed for me which shocked your taste ? no little negligence of style, or impropriety of diction ? Gil B. — sir! I am not qualified to play the critic; and if I were, I am persuaded that your grace's compositions would defy censure. Arch.— Aheml well, I do flatter myself that not many flaws could be picked in them. But, my young friend, tell me what passages struck you most forcibly. Gil B. — If, where ail was excellent, any passages, more particu- larly moved me, they were those personifying hope, and describ- ing the good man's death. Arch. — You show an accurate taste and delicate appreciation. I see your judgment may be relied upon. Give yourself no in- quietude, Gil Bias, in regard to your advancement in life. I will take care of that. I have an affection for you, and, to prove it, I will now make you my confidant. Yes, my young friend, I will make you the depositary of my most secret thoughts. Listen to what I have to say. I am fond of preaching, and my sermons are vri Triiiivrui; tUcCE d^Qu. ill J" iicwi CI s. J. uu convcrsious 01 which I am the humble instrument ought to content me. But— shall I con- fess my weakness ?— my reputation as a finished orator is what GIL BLAS AND THE ARCHBISHOP. 233 gratifies me most. My productions arc celebrated as at once vigor- ous and elegant. But I would of all things avoid the mistake of those authors who do not know when to stop— I would produce nothmg beneath my reputation ; I would retire seasonablv, ere that IS impaired. And so, my dear Gil Bias, one thing I exact of your zeal, which is, that when you shall find that my pen begins to flag and to give signs of old age in the owner, you shall not hesitate to apprise me of the fact. Do not be afraid that I shall take it un- kindly. I cannot trust my own judgment on this point ; self-love may mislead me. A disinterested understanding is what I require for my guidance. I make choice of yours, and mean to abide by your decision. Gil 5.— Thank Heaven, sir, the period is likely to be far distant when any such hint shall be needed. Besides, a genius like yours will wear better than that of an inferior man ; or, to speak more justly, your faculties are above the encroachments of age. Instead of being weakened, they promise to be invigorated by time. ^ Arch. — No flattery, my friend. I am well aware that I am liable to give way at any time, all at once. At my age, certain infirmities of the flesh are unavoidable, and they must needs affect the mental powers. I repeat it, Gil Bias, so soon as you shall per- ceive the slightest sympton of deterioration in my writings, give me fair warning. Do not shrink from being perfectly candid and sin- cere, for I shall receive such a monition as a token of your regard for me. Gil B. — In good faith, sir, I shall endeavour to merit your con- fidence. ^rcA.— Nay, your interests are bound up with your obedience in this respect ; for if, unfortunately for you, I should hear in the city a whisper of a falling off in my discourses— an intimation that I ought to stop preaching— I should hold you responsible, and con- sider myself exempted from all care for your fortunes. Such will be the result of your false discretion. Gil B. — Indeed, sir, I shall be vigilant to observe your wishes, and to detect any blemish in your writings. Arch. — And now tell me, Gil Bias, what does the world say of my last discourse ? Think you it gave general satisfaction ? Gil B. — Since you exact it of me in so pressing a manner to be frank Arch. — Frank? Oh, certainly, by all means; speak out, my young friend. Gil. ^.— Your grace's sermons never fail to be admired ; but s ' ; ! . t 'III 234 THE ACADEMY OF LAGADO. Arch. — But — well ? Do not be afraid to let me know all. Gil B. — If 1 may venture the observation, it seemed to roe that j'oiii' last discourse did not liavo that effect upon your audi- ence which your former efforts have had. Perhaps your grace's recent illness Arch. — What, what ! Has it encountered, then, some Arlstar- chus? Gil B. — No, sir, no. Such productions as yours are beyond criticism. Everybody was charmed with it, but since you liave demanded it of me to be frank and sincere — I take the liberty to remark that your last discourse did not seem to me altogether equal to your preceding. It lacked the strength — the — do you not agree with mO; sir ? Arch. — Mr Gil Bias, that discourse, then, -s not to your taste? Gil B. — I did not say that, sir. I found it excellent — only a little inferior to your others. Arch. — So ! now I understand. I seem to you to be on the wane — eh ? Out with it ! you think it about time that I should retire? Gil B. — I should not have presumed, sir, to speak so freely, but for your express commands. I have simply rendered you obedience ; and I humbly trust that you will not be oifeuded at my hardihood. ^rc/f.—Oflfended! Oh! not at al?, JTr Gil Bias, I utter no re- proaches. I don't take it at all ill that you should sppak your sentiments ; it is your sentiment only that I find ill. I have been duped in supposing you to be a person of intelligence — that is all. Gil /?.- -But, sir, if, in my zeal to serve you, 1 have erred in Arch. — Say no more, — say no more! You are yet too raw to discriminate. Know that I never composed a better sermon than that which has had the misfortune to lack your approbation. My faculties, thank Heaven, have lost nothing oj their vigour. Here- after I will make a better choice of an adviser. Go, tell my treasurer to count yon out a hundred ducats, and may Heaven con- duct you with that sum. Adieu, Mr Gil Bias. I wish you all manner of prosperity — with a little more taste. THE ACADEMY OF LAGADO. Jonathan Swift, Dean of Sfc Patrick's. Dublin, the most iinwevful of ^ En-jlish inosc siitiiists : 1GU7-1745. From "Gullivei's Tmvels." In the school of political projectors I was but ill entertained, the professor which is unhappy to choos( virtue ; ( ing meri princes t( dation w sons qua chimeras, ceive, an so extra' maintain But, h as to ack was a ni( the who! person hi fectual r several k infirm itici those wl] reasoners between more evic the diseas therefore sicians sh the close after whi nature of on the for thecaries, eat, ad mil corrosives apophlegn cording a them at t This pr might, in business i legislative THE ACADEMY OP LAGADO. 235 'ii II. I to rue nr audi- grace's professors appearing, in my judgment, wholly out of their senses ; which is a scene that never fails to make me melancholy. These unhappy people were proposing schemes for persuading monarchs to choose favourites «poii the score of their wisdom, capacit}', and virtue ; of teaching ministers to consult the public good ; of reward- ing merit, great abilities, and eminent services; of instructing princes to know their true interest, by placing it on the same foun- dation with that of their people ; of choosing for employments per- sons qualified to exercise them ; with many other wild impossible chimeras, that never entered before into the heart of man to con- ceive, and confirmed in me the old observation that there is nothing 80 extravagant and irrational which some philosophers have not maintained for truth. But, however, I shall so far do justice to this part of the academy, as to acknowledge that all of them were not so visionary. There was a most ingenious doctor, who seemed to be perfectly versed iu the Avhoic nature and system of government. This illustrious person had very usefully employed his studies in finding out ef- fectual remedies for all diseases and corruptions to which the several kinds of public administration are subject, by the vices or infirmities of those who govern, as well as by the licentiousness of those who ai-e to obey. For instance, whereas all writers and reasoners have agreed that there is a strict universal resemblance between the natural and political body, can there be anything more evident than that the health of both must be preserved, and the diseases cured, by the same prescriptions ? . , . . Tliis doctor therefore proposed that upon the meeting of a senate, certain phy- sicians should attend at the three first days of their sitting, and at the close of each day's debate, feel the pulses of every senator ; after which, having maturely considered and consulted upon the nature of the several maladies, and the methods of cure, they should on the fourth day return to the senate house, attended by their apo- thecaries, stored with proper medicines.; and, before the members eat, administer to each of them, lenitives, aperitives, abstersives, corrosives, restringents, palliatives, laxatives, cephalalgics, icterics, apophlegmatics, acoustics, as their several cases required ; and, ac- cording as these medicines should operate, repeat, altcj-, or omit them at the next meeting. ^ This project could not be of any great expense to the pnblic, and uiigbr, in my poor oj)inion, be of much use for the despatch of business in those countries where senates have any share in the legislative power; beget unanimity^ shorten debates, open a few lili ^1 !:S5i*r« 236 EDUCATION. ; 'H ll^'l i!lf|) mouths which are now closed, and close many more which are now open ; curb the petulancy of the young, and correct the positiveness of the old ; rouse the stupid, and damp the pert. Again, because it is a general complaint that the favourites of princes are troubled with short and weak memories, the same doctor proposed, that whoever attended a first minister, after hav- ing told his business with the utmost brevity, and in the plainest words, should, at his departure, give the said minister a tweak by the nose, or a kick in the belly, or tread on his corns, or lug hira thrice by both ears, or run a pin into his body, or pinch his arras black and blue, to prevent forgetfulness ; and at every levee day repeat the same operation, until the business were done or abso- lutely refused. He likewise directed that every senator in the great council of a nation, after he had delivered his opinion, and argued in the de- fence of it, should be obliged to give his vote directly contrary ; because if that were done, the result would infallibly terminate in the good of the public. EDUCATION. Joseph Addison, Btatesman, poet, and the most elegant of the essayists of the Augustan ago of English literature : 1672-1719. I coNSiDi R a human soul, without education, like marble in the quarry ; which shows none of its inherent beauties, until the skill of the polisher fetches out the colours, makes the surface shine, and discovers every ornamental cloud, spot, and vein, that runs through the body of it. Education, after the same manner, when it works upon a noble mind, draws out to view every latent virtue and perfection, which, without such helps, are never able to make their appearance. If my reader will give me leave to change the allusion so soon upon him, I shall make use of the same instance to illustrate the force of educaiicn, which Aristotle has brought to explain his doctrine of substantial forms, when he tells us, that a statue lies hid in a block of marble ; and that the art of the statuary only clears away the superfluous matter, and removes the rubbish. The figure is in the stone, and the sculptor only finds it. What cuipiuic IB lu a uiucii. Ul mai uiv:, uUliLaljL'^ii la iv a uliuictti ov"i> The philosopher, the saint, or the hero ; the wise, the good, or the great man, very often lies hid and concealed in a plebeian, which a ALEXANDER SELKIRK. 237 \ are now sitiveness sorites of the same ifter hav- e plainest tweak by lug him his arras ievee day or abso- uncil of a n the de- contrary ; miaate in jssayists of lie in the I the skill ice shine, that runs (ler, when ent virtue i to make n so soon strate the plain his itatue lies uary only rubbish, t. What man son!. Dd, or the , which a proner education might have disinterred, and have brought to light. I am therefore much delighted with reading the accounts of savage nations, and with contemplating those virtues which are wild and uncultivated ; to see courage exerting itself in fierceness, resolution in obstinacy, wisdom in cunning, patience in suUenness and despair. • It is an unspeakable blessing to be born in those parts of the world where wisdom and knowledge flourish ; though it must be confessed there are, even in these parts, many poor uninstructed persons, who are but little above the inhabitants of those nations of which I have been here speaking ; as those who have had the advantages of a more liberal 'Education, rise above one another by several different degrees of ^.vrfection. For, to return to our statue in the block of marble, we see it sometimes only begun to be chipped; sometimes rough hewn, and but just sketched into a human figure ; sometimes we see the man appearing distinctly in all his limbs and features ; sometimes we find the figure wrought up to great elegancy ; but seldom meet with any^ to which the hand of a Phidias or a Praxiteles could not give several nice touches and finishings. ALEXANDER SELKIRK. Sir Richard Steele, one of the most delightful of English essayists, and friend of Addison, -whom he assisted in the publication of the Spectator and Guardian : 1675-1729. Under the title of this paper, I do not think it foreign to my design to speak of a man born in Her Majesty's dominions, and relate an adventure in his life so uncommon, that it is doubtful whether the like has happened to any other of the human race. The person I speak of is Alexander Selkirk, whose name is familiar to men of curiosity, from the fame of his having lived four years and four months alone in the island of Juan Fernandez. I had the plea- sure, frequently, to converse with the man soon after his arrival in England, in the year 1711. It was matter of great curiosity to hear him, as he is a man of good sense, give an account of the different revolutions in his own mind in that long solitude. When we consider how painful absence from company, for the space of but one evening, is to the generality of mankind, Ave may have a «v.iicc uurr pailimi liilo iietjcssaiy uuu ;;v;u5iuiii Suiiiuui; wua lu 3t man bred a sailor, and ever accustomed to enjoy, and suffer, eat, driuk, and sleep, and perform all offices of lite in fellowship and : }ii 238 ALEXANDER SELKIRK. I company. He was put ashore from a leaky vessel, with tlie captain of which he had an irreconcilable difference ; and he chose rather to take his fate in this place, than in a crazy vessel, under a dis- agreeable commander. His portion was a sea-chest, his wearing- clothes and bedding, a firelock, a pound of gunpowder, a lar^rc quantity of bullets, a flint and steel, a few pounds %( tobacco,°a hatchet, a knife, a kettle, a Bible, and other books of devotion; together with pieces that concerned navigation, and his mathematical instruments. Resentment against his officer, who had ill-used him, made him look forward on this change of life as the more eligible one, till the instant in which he saw the vessel i)ut off; at which moment his heart yearned within him, and melted at the parting with his comrades and all human society at once. He had in provisions for the su.-tenance of life, but the quantity of two meals. The island abounding only with wild goats, cats, and rats, he judged it most probable that he should find more immediate and easy relief by finding shell-fish on the shore, than seeking game with his gun He accordingly found great quantities of turtle, whose flesh is extremely delicious, and of which he frequently ate very plenti- fully on his first arrival, till it grew disagreeable to his stomach, except in jellies. The necessities of hunger and thirst were his greatest diversions from the reflections on his lonely condition When those appetites were satisfied, the desire of society was as strong a call upon him, and he appeared to himself least i.ecessitous when he wanted everything; for the supports of his body were easily attained, but the eager longings for seeing again the face of man, during the interval of craving bodily appetites, were hardly supportable. He grew dejected, languid, and melancholy, scarcely able to refrain from doing himself violence, till by decrees by the force of reason, and frequent reading the Scriptures, and turning his thouglits uiwn the study of navigation, after the space of eighteen months, he grew thoroughly reconciled to his condition. When hd had made this conquest, the vigour of his health, dis- engagement from the world, a constant cheerful serene sky, and a temperate air, made his life one continual feast, and his being much more joyful than it had before been irksome. He now taking delight in everything, made the hut in which he lay by ornaments which he cut down from a spacious wood on the eide of which it was sitnatod, the tnoof /ieiin:«,,o i i?,„.,^j . ..,. '? '•"-' — ' -irJiviOUo i^unci, ia«llCU Willi continual breezes and gentle aspirations of wind, that made hifl repose after the chase equal to the most sensual pleasures. ALEXANDER SELKIRK. 239 he cnptain oso rather der a dis- wearing- , a large obacco, a devotion ; bematical narle him e, till the )ment his with his lovlsions lis. Tiie judged it isy relief his gun. flesh is '7 plenti- stomach, were his ondition. ' was as cessitons dy were e face of e hardly scarcely 5, by the turning space of audition, ilth, dis- y, and a is being le, now lay, by the side iCu wim lade bis I forgot to observe, that during the time of his dissatisfaction, monsters of the deep, which frequently lay on the shore, added to the terrors of his solitude; the dreadful bowlings and voices seemed too terrible to be made for human ears : but upon the recovery of his temper, he could with pleasure not only hear their voices, but approach the monsters themselves with great intrepidity. He speaks of sea-lions, whose jaws and tails were capable of seizing or break- ing the limbs of a man, if he approached them. But at that time his spirits and life were so high, that he could act so regularly and unconcerned, that merely from being unruffled in him?eit, he killed them with the greatest ease imaginable ; for observing that though their jaws and tails were so terrible, yet the animals being mighty slow in working themselves round, he had nothing to do but placo himself exactly opposite to their middle, and as close to them as possible, and he despatched them with his hatchet at will. The precaution which he took against want, in case of sickness, was to lame kids when very young so as that they might recover their health, but never be capable of speed. These he had in great numbers about his hut; and as he Avas himself iii full vigour, he could take at full speed the swiftest goat running up a prouioutojy, and never failed of catching them but on a descent. His habitation was f \tremely pestered with rats, whi' awed his clothes and feet when t«leeping. To defend himself agaik.oC them, he fed and tamed numbers of young kittens, Avho lay about his bed, and preserved him from the enemy.. When his clothes were quite worn out, he dried and tacked together the skins of goats, with which he clothed himself, and was inured to pass through woods, bushes, and brambles, with as much carelessness and precipitance as any other animal. It happened once to him that, running on the summit of a hill, he made a stretch to seize a goat, with which, under him, he fell down a precipice, and lay senseless for the space of three days, the length of which he measured by the moon's growth since his last observation. This manner of life grew so exquisitely pleasant, that he never had a moment heavy on his hatid ; his nights were untroubled, and his days joyous, from the practice of temperance and exercise. It was his manner to use stated hours and placcj for exercises of devotion, which he performed aloud, in order to keep up the faculties of speech, and to utter him- self w th crreater energy. When 1 first saw him, I thought if I had not been let into his character and story, I cculd have disc ,cd that he had been much ! i- 'H H .J,! I 240 THE SWIPTNE,SS OP TIME. separated from company, from his aspect and gestnrea ; there was a strong but cheerful seriousness in his looks, and a certain disre- gard to the ordinary things about him, as if he had been sunk in thought. Wlien the ship, wliich brought him off the island, came in, he received them with the greatest iudifference with relation to the prospect of going off with them, but with great satisfaction in an opportunity to help and refresh them. The man frequently bewailed his return to the world, which could not, he said, with all its enjoy- ments, restore him to the tranquillity of his solitude. Though I had frequently conversed with him, after a few months' absence he met me in the street, and though he spoke to me, I could not re- collect that I had seen him ; familiar discourse in this town had taken off the loneliness of his aspect, and quite altered the air of his face. This plain man's story is a memorable example that he is hap- piest who confines his want to natural necessities ; and he that goes further in his desires, increases his wants in proportion to his ac- quisitions ; or, to upe his own expression, " I am now worth eight hundred pounds, but shall never be so happy as when I was not worth a farthing." THE SWIFTNESS OF TIME. Dr Samuel Johnson, the most successful of the high-sounding Latin-English writers of tlie eigii.. ^nth century, celebrated as a lexicographer, as the editor of the Rambler and Idler, and as the author of " Kasselas," and " Lives of the Poets :" 1709-1784. The natural advantages which arise from the position of the earth which we inhabit, with respect to the other planets, afford much employment to mathematical speculation, by which it has been dis- covered that no other conformation of the system could have given such commodious distributions of light and heat, or imparted fer- tility and pleasure to so great a part of a revolving sphere. It may be perhaps observed by the moralist, with equal reason, that our globe seems particularly fitted for the residence of a being, placed here only for a short time, whose task is to advance himself to a higher and happier state of existence, by unremitted vigilance of caution, and activity of virtue. The duties required of man are such as human nature does not willingly perform, and such as those are inclined to delay who yet intend sometime to fulfil them. It was, therefore, necessary that this universal reluctance should be counteracted, and the drowsiness ! II THE SWIFTNESS OP TIME. 241 there was tain dlsre- m sunk in i, came in, ;ion to the tion in an Y bewailed its enjoy- Though I ibsence he ild not re- town had air of his he is hap- that goes to his ac- orth eight I was not tin-English her, as the selaSj" and the earth ford much been dis- ave given larted fer- al reason, »f a being, ;e himself ; vigilance does not r who yet sary that Irowsiness of hesitation wakened into resolve ; that the danger of procrastina- tion should be always in view, and the fallacies of security bo hourly detected. To this end all the appearances of nature uniformly conspire. Whatever we see on every side reminds us of the lapse of time and the flux of life. The day and night succeed each other; the rotation of seasons diversifies the year ; the sun rises, attains the meridian, declines and sets ; and the moon every night changes its form. The day has been considered as an image of the year, and a year as the representation of life. The morning answers to the spring, and the spring to childhood and youth ; the noon corresponds to the summer, and the summer to the strength of manhood. The evening is an emblem of autumn, and autumn of declining life. The night, with its silence and darkness, shows the winter, in which all the powers of vegetation are benumbed ; and the winter points out the time when life shall cease, with its hopes and pleasures. He that is carried forward, however swiftly, by a motion equable and easy, perceives not the change of place but by the variation of objects. If the wheel of life, which rolls thus silently along, passes on through undistinguishable uniformity, we should never mark its aj)proaches to the end of the course. If one hour M'ere like another; if the passage of the sun did not show that the day is wasting ; if the change of seasons did not impress upon us the flight of the year, quantities of duration equal to days and years would glide unob- served. If the parts of time were not variously coloured, we should never discern their departure or succession, but should live thought- less of the past, and careless of the future, without will, and, per- haps, power to compute the periods of lire, or to compare the time which is already lost with that which may probably remain. But the c urse of time is so visibly marked, that it is even ob- served by the savage, and by nations who have raised their minds very little above animal instinct. There are human beings whose language does not supply them with words by which they can num- ber fi'-e, but I have read of none that have not names for day and night, for summer and winter. Yet it is certain that these admonitions of nature, however forcible, however importunate, are too often vain ; and that many, who mark with such accuracy the course of time, appear to have littlfl sflnsihilitr nf flio fiaf>]ina of lifn Vtt^,,,, »v,„., i.«^ -^-y-o. ^l .- I.J „. , ^,...,^i,iio iji iiiv.. XLiTciy iiiaii lias a\Jiiiv lament it ! lamenta- ure. door, with k up from 1 shook his again as if on the bit ements he a, and La THE DEAD A88. 243 Fleur among the rest, while the horses were getting ready • as I continued sitting in the post-chaise, I could see and hear over their heads. He said he had come last from Spain, where ho had been from the farthest borders of Franconia ; and had got so far on his re- turn home, when the ass died. Every one seemed desirous to know what business could have taken so old and poor a man so far a journey from his own home. It had pleased Heaven, he said, to bless him with three sons the finest lads in all Germany; but, having in one week lost two of them by the small- pox, and the youngest falling ill of the same distemper, he was afraid of being bereft of them all, and made a vow, If Heaven would not take him from him also, he would so in gratitude to St lago in Spain. When the mourner got thus far in his story, he stopped, to pay nature her tribute, and wept bitterly. ^ He said Heaven had accepted the conditions, and that he had set out from his cottage with this poor creature, who had been a patient partner of hfs journey; that it had eaten the same bread witii him all the way, and was unto him as a friend. Ej-erybody who stood about heard the poor fellow with concern • La Fleur offered him money. The mourner said he did not wane It— It was not the value of the ass, but the loss of him The ass he said he was assured, loved him ; and, upon this, told them a long story of a mischance upon their passage over the Pyrenean mountains, which had separated them from eacli other three days during which time the ass had sought /am as much as he had sought the ass, and that neither had scarce eaten or drank till thev met. ^ ''Thou ha-t one comfort, friend," said I, <'at least, in the loss of thy poor beast ; I am sure thou hast been a merciful master to him. —"Alas!" said the mourner, "L thought so when he was alive, but now he is dead I think otherwise. I fear the weight of mt/self and my afflictions together, have been too much for him • they have shortened the poor creature's days, and I H-.tr I have them to answer for." Shame on the world ! (said I to myself.) Did we but love each other as this poor soul loved his ass, 'twould be something. i t ■!1 lis i ) ! ! ii I ! ; I i i I » .' • 244 A VISIT TO WESTMINSTER HALT* A VISIT TO WESTMINSTER HALL. OLIven Goldsmith, tho unfortunate man of letters, the elefffint poel, author of tho "Vicar of Wakefield" and numerous essays an.. ivi iffv <'*J its'. >\.i «o to citC; and those opinions which look another way are cited by poet, author rical works : 10 World." , the place !; npoa the aring to go } of justice, a law-suit, (ending for 3 the world >f justice in thing more some diffi- ' possess ! " to law but e presented y declaring do but to the eve of e travelled acli. How- ist in such 11 this very attend you cess. But, 3 have you Du so many Salkeld and than fifteen !S who have Ventris are on on cases •J ■" "J V-* "- re cited by A VISIT TO WESTMINSTER HALL. £45 JlliJrr''^ '^^^Ti ^y "»y antagonist. As I observed. I have Salkeld and Ventris for me, he has Coke and Halls for him and .« tha has most opinions is most likely to carry his cause '"' ' But where is the necessity," cried I, " of prolonging a suit bv cumg the op.nions and reports of others, since tlfe lauTJod sense which determined lawyers in former ;ge8 may serve to S only Horn the light of reason, your judges have the same Ihrht at present to direct them, let me even add a greater, as inlrin^r 'es re were many prejudices from which the present is happ^y Z f arguing ftom authorities be exploded from every other branch of learning why should it be particularly adhered to in this? I plainly foresee how such a method of investigation must embarrass evey suit, and even perplex the student! ceremonies win be multip led formalities must increase, and more time wi 1 tlus be sp^ent m learning the arts of litigation, than in the discovery of " I see," cries my friend, " that you are for a speedy adminstra- tint is {T'' '"' "" '''' ""'''' ""^ ^'--^^ «-' t'- -oTt m that IS taken up ,n considering any subject, the better it will bo understood. Besides, it is the boast of an Englishman ha his property ,s secure, and all the world will grant That a d lib rL ve admmistiation of justice is the best way 'to secure his roTe tl Vhy have we so many lawyers but to secure our propei ty v^ why .0 many formalities but to secure our property? Not less than one undred thousand families live in opilence, 'elegance ad eas merely by securing our property. ' ' b ^^. ^"u case, f. '/o^" ejiibairass justice," returned I, "by a multiplicity of laws or to hazard it by a confidence in our judges, are, I grant, fhe onnositi rocks on which legislative wisdom has ev;r split.' In one case tie client resembles that emperor who is said to have been suff-oc'a d With the bed-clothes which were only designed to keep him warn in he other to that town which let the enemy take possession of its wals in order to show the world how little they depended unon aught but courage for safety.-But bless me, what numbers do I TuVrp^ment r"'~'"^ '' ' '''''''' ''''' '''' ''^ ^"^^'^-^^ "Nothing so easily conceived," returned my companion, ''they live by watching each other. For instance, the catchpole batches , , ■ ^; ' .i.i-.uncj natciiccs luu ciiicupole, ihe counsellor watches the attorney, the solicitor the counsellor, and all find '^iii^. cicut employment." ® ■' 2i(} THE SIEGE OF TORQUILSTONE. un I " I conceive you," interrupted I ; " they watch each other, bat it is the client that pays them all for watching. It puts me in mmd of a Chinese fable, which is entitled 'Five Animals at a Meal':— * A grasshopper, filled with dew, was merrily singing under a shade. A whangam that eats grasshoppers had marked it for its prey, and was just stretching forth to devour it ; a serpent that had for a long time fed only on whangams, was coiled up to fasten on the Avhangam ; a yellow bird was just upon the wing to dart upon the serpent; a hawk had just stooped from above to seize the yellow bird; all were intent on their prey and unmindful of their danger. So the whangam ate the grasshopper, the serpent ate the whangam, the yellow bird the serpent, and the hawk the yellow bird ; when sousing from on high, a vulture gobbled up the hawk, grasshopper, whangam, and all, in a moment.' " I had scarce finished ray fable, when the lawyer came to in- form my friend that his cause was put olF till another term, that money was wanting to retain, and that all the world was of opinion that the very next hearing would bring him off victorious. "If so, then," cries my friend, "I believe it will be my wisest way to continue the cause for another term ; and, in the meantime, my friend here and I will go and see Bedlam. Adieu I THE SIEGE OP TORQUILSTONE. Sir Walter Scott, the greatest historical novelist of any age, celebrated also as a poet nud a historian : 1771-1832. The following extract is from "Ivanhoe." With patient courage, Rebecca took post at the lattice, sheltering herself, however, so f s not to be visible from beneath. " What dost thou see, Rebecca ? " again demanded the wounded knight. " Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle my eyes, and to hide the bowmen who shoot them." " That cannot endure," said Ivanhoe, " if they press not right on to carry the castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail but little against stone-walls and bulwarks. Look for the Knight of the Fetterlock, fair Rebecca, and see how he bears himself, for as the leader is, so will his followers be." )tlier, bat Its me in nals at a Y singing d marked Dur it ; a ams, was just upon t stooped on their n ate the bird the n on high, md all, in me to in- ;her term, florid was 5 him off ve it will 3rm ; and, e Bedlam. ebrated also [■act is from sheltering e wounded s to dazzle ; not right may avail Lhe Knight iself, for as THE SIEGE OP TORQUILSTOl^fE. 247 " I see him not," said Rebecca. " Foul craven I " exclaimed Ivanhoe, " does he blonrh fmm fj.« helm, when the ^ind blows highest ? » ^'^'^ *^° "He blenches not! he blenches not!" said Rebecca " T .p^ i;e"^bSc : ''t: 't/ "^". ^'^^^ ""^^^- ^^-'teTMrnl^^^^^^ T ,7''f"- . ^^'"^y P»l^ '^own the piles and palisades : thev hew rt rthrrT-r"' ""'• ^^'^ '"^"^^ ^^^^^ P'-- floatsabroad ovc the thiong, hke a raven over the field of the slain.' Thev havo made a breach in the barriers-they rush in-they a e thiMist back- iiie piess. They flirong again to the breacli, and the nass is .1 spnted hand to hand, and n,an to man. 'it U th me ins of Jwo_ fierce t.des-thc conflict of two oceans moved byadvS a s?ght';„Te"bI''"' '™'" "" ''"'"' "^ '^ ""-"^'^ '»"«- "> »<"- of her redril"; 'ft; f'!^'""'" =''M.I>'«"''<><'. "'staking the cause or nei etmng, the archery must in some degree have ceased since they arc „o,v fighting hand to hand. Look again Ze is now less danger. "fe'^n'i mere is Rebecca looked again, and almost immediately exclaimed " Holv pro,>hets of the law ! Front-de-B(Buf and the ^Black Knight Itu hand to hand on the breach, amid the roar of their foUower who watch the progress of the strife. Heaven strike with rca^isl of he oppressed and of the captive I " She then uttered a oud shriek and exclamied, - He is down ! he is down !" ' " Who is down," cried Ivanhoe ; " for our dear Lady's sake toll me which has fallen ? " ^ ^^*^' *^" '; The Black Knight," answered Rebecca faintly, then instantlv agam shouted with joyful eagerness, '^ But no-bift'no -Ith na^i of he Lord of hosts be blessed !-he is on foot again, and fights^s If here were twenty men's strength in his single arm. H.s sword IS broken-he snatches an axe from a yeoman-he p esse F ont de-Boouf with blow on blow. The giani stoops and ? te s IH e a n oak under the steel of the woodman— he falls-he falls ' " Ivanw! ''''"'"'' ^'^^^^'''' "" ^'"''^'^'' ^^'^^ they"not?" said ♦T, '7'^"^ have-they have I " exclaimed Rebecca, « and they press the besieged hard upon the outer wall ; some nlant ZZl I'^l swarm hke bees, and endeavour to ascend upon the "shoulders Tf ach other-down go stones, beams, and trunks of trees up n he?r I'eads, and as fast as they bear the wounded to the rear, fi^esh m^ \ti •A' H- 1 ) •f I 248 ADVANTAGES OF STUDYING I TIN AND GREER. supply their places m assault. Great God I hast thou given men thine own image, that it should be thus cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren ! " " Think not of that," said Ivanhoe, " this is no time for such thoughts. Who yield ? Who push their way ? " " The ladders are thrown down," replied Rebecca, shuddering, " the soldiers lie grovelling under them like crushed reptiles. The besieged have the better." '' Do the false yeomen give way ? " exclaimed the knight. "No!" exclaimed Rebecca, "they bear themselves right yeo- manly — the Black Knight approaches the postern with his huge .axe — the thundering blows which he deals, you may hear them above all the din and shouts of the battle, stones and bedms are hailed down on the bold champion — he regards them no more than if they were thistle-down or feathers ! " " By St John of Acre," said Ivanhoe, raising himself joyfully on liis couch, " methought there was but one man in England that might do such a deed ! " " The postern-gate shakes," continued Rebecca, " it crashes — it is s;)lintered by his blows — they rush in — the outwork is won — they hurl the defenders from the battlements — they throw them into the moat. men, if ye be indeed men, spare them that can resist no longer ! " " The bridge, the bridge which communicates with the castle — have they won that pass ? " exclaimed Ivanhoe. " No," replied Rebecca, " the Templar has destroyed the plank on which they crossed — few of the defenders escaped with him into the castle — the shrieks and cries which you hear tell the fate of the others. Alas ! I see it is still more difficult to look upon victory than upon battle." I ADVANTAGES OF STUDYING LATIN AND GREEK. Sydney Sjiith, canon of St Paul's, first editor of the Edinhimjh Jicviciv, and a vigorous essayist : 1771-1845. Latin and Greek are useful, as they inure children to intellectual difficulties, and make the life of a vonnfr student, wliafr \t on^-b*^ *^ h" a life of considerable labour. We do not, of course, mean to confine this praise exclusively to the study of Latin and Greek, or suppose through ADVANTAGES OF STUDYING LATIN AND GREliK. 249 1. jiven men id by the e for such luddering, lies. The lit •ight yeo- his huge lear them bGiims are ore than if oyfuUy on (land that i-ashes — it ^on — they 1 into the I resist no ! castle — the plank I him into ■ate of the )n victory ilEK. Icviac, and itellectual !ght to be^ to coufinc •r suppose that other difficulties might not be found which it would be useful to overcome ; but though Latin and Greek have this merit in common with many arts and sciences, still they have it ; and, if they do nothing else, they at least secure a solid and vigorous application, at a period of life which materially infinences all other periods. To go through the grammar of one language thoroughly is a great use for the mastery of every other grammar; because there obtains, through all languages, a certain analogy to each other in their gram- matical construction. Latin and Greek have now mixed themselves etymologicaliy with all the languages of modern Europe, and with none more than our own ; so that it is necessary to read these two tongues for other objects than themselves. The ancient languages are, as mere inventions— as pieces of mechanism — incomparably more beautiful than any of the modern languages of Europe ; their mode of signifying time and case by terminations, instead of auxiliary verbs and particles, would of it- self stamp their superiority. Add to this the copiousness of the Greek language, with the fancy, harmony, and majesty of its com- pounds, and there are quite sufficient reasons why the classics should be studied for the beauties of language. Compared to them merely as vehicle- of thought and passion, all modern languages are dull, ill-contrived, and barbarous. That a great part of the Scriptures have come down to us in the Greek language 's of itself a reason, if all others were wanting, why education should be planned so as to produce a supply of Greek scholars. The cultivation of style is very justly made a part of education. Everything which is written is meant either to please or to instruct. The second object it is difficult to effect without attending to the first ; and the cultivation of style is the acquisition of those rules and literary habits which s^'^acity anticipates, or experience shows to be the most effectual means of pleasing. Those works are the best which have longest stood the test of time, and pleased the great- est number of exercised minds. Whatever, therefore, our conjec- tures may be, we cannot be so sure that the best modern writers can afford as good models as the ancients ; we cannot be certain that they will live through the revolutions of the world, and con- tinue to please in every climate, uncar every species of government, through every stage of civilization. The moderns have been well taught by their masters ; but the time is hardly yet come when the necessity for such instruction no longer exists. We may still bor- row descriptive power from Tacitus ; dignified perspicuity from •ill :!l 1 <- H V :J I A I! 250 LORENZO DE MEDICI. Livy ; simplicity from Cassar ; and from Homer, some portion of that light and heat which, dispersed into ten thousand channels, has filled the world with bright images and illustrious thoughts. Let the cultivator of modern literature addict himself to the purest models of taste which France, Italy, and England could supply, he might still learn from Virgil to be majestic, and from TibuUus to be tender ; he might not yet look upon the face of nature as Theocritus saw it, nor might he reach those springs of pathos with which Euri- pides softened the hearts of his audience. lu short, it appears to us that there are so many excellent reasons why a certain number of scholars should be kept up in this, and in cycry civilized country, that we should consider every system of education from which class- ical education was excluded, as radically erroneous, and completelv absurd. LORENZO DE MEDICL Henry Hallam, " +.he most judicial of our great modern historians," author of the View of Europe during the Middle Ages ;" "Constitutional History ot England ; and ' Introduction to the Literature of Europe :" 1778-1859. The influence of Lorenzo de Medici extended over literature from 1470 to his death in 1492. Nor was mere philology the sole or the leading pursuit to which so truly noble a mind accorded its encouragement. He sought in ancient learning something more elevated than the narrow though necessary researches of criticism. In a villa overhanging the towers of Florence, on the steep slope of that lofty hill, crowned by the mother city, the ancient Fiesole, in gardens which Tully might have envied, with Ficino, Landino, and Politian at his side, he delighted his hours of leisure with the beautiful visions of Platonic philosophy, for which the summer still- ness of an Italian sky appears the most congenial accompaniment. Never could the sympathies of the soul with outward nature bo more finely touched, never could more striking suggestions be pre- sented to the philosopher and the statesman. Florence lav beneath them, not with all the magnificence that the latter Medici had given her, but, thanks to the piety of former times, presenting almost as varied an outline to the sky. One man, the wonder of Cosmo's age, Brunelleschi, had crowned the beautiful city with the vast dome of its cathedral, a structure unthought of in Italy before, and rarelv 5?nrnnsspf1 sinro. T«- cpomo/1 or»,,viof r.i.,„i„..!„_ x n ^ „ . . .- -...1 — .. ..v:. .,!.,,, ttiiiiuoE v-iuoLi;iing luwcrs or inferior churches, an emblem of the Catholic hierarchy under its supreme head— like Rome itself, imposing, unbroken, unchangeable, LORENZO DE MEDICI. 251 HI' portion of lannels, has iglits. Let the purest supply, he JuUus to be I Theocritus tvhichEuri- appears to lin number ed countr}', vliich class- completely s," author of oual History " 1778-1859. rature from he sole or ccorded its thing more f criticism, lep slope of nt Fiesole, , Landino, re with the mmer still- npaniment. nature be )ns be pre- ay beneath had given ' almost as )f Cosmo's 1 the vast )efore, and towers of r' under its hangeablc, radiating with equal expansion to every part of the earth and directing its convergent curves to heaven. Round this were num- bered at unequal heights, the Baptistery, with its gate.^ as Michael Angelo called thenj, worthy of paradise ; the full and richly-deco- i-atcd belfry of Giotto ; the Church of the Carmine, with the frescoes of Mazaccio ; those of Santa Maria Novella, in the language of the same great man, beautiful as a bride ; of Santa Croce, second only m magnificence to the Cathedral of St Mark ; and of San Spirito another grand monument of the geniusof Brunelleschi; with the nume- rous convents that rose within the walls of Florence, or were scat- tered immediately about them. From these the eye might turn to the trophies of a republican government that was rapidly giving way before the citizen-prince who now surveyed them. The prospect, from an elevation, of a great city in "its silence, is one of the most impressive, as well as beautiful, we ever behold But far more must it have brought home thoughts of seriousness to the mind of one who, by the force of events, and the general con- dition of his family— and his own was involved in the dangerous necessity of governing without the right, and, as far as might be, without the semblance of power— one who knew the vindictive and unscrupulous hostility which, at home and abroad, he had to encounter. If thoughts like these could bring a cloud over the brow of Lorenzo, unfit for the object he sought in that retreat, he might restore its serenity by other scenes which his garden com- manded. Mountains, bright with various hues, and clothed with wood, bounded the horizon ; and on most sides, at no great dis- tance, but embosomed in these, were other villas and domains of his own ; while the level country bore witness to the agricultural miprovements, the classic diversion of a statesman's cares The same curious spirit that led him to fill his garden at Carregi with exotic flowers of the East, the first instance of a botanical collection in Europe, had introduced a new animal from the same regions. Herds of buff^iloes, since naturalized in Italy, whose dingy°hide* bent neck, curved horns, and lowering aspect, contrasted with the grayish hue and full mild eye of the Tuscan oxen, pastured in the valley down which the yellow Arno steals silently through its long reaches to the sea. ]j r r r : t K i i 25i VISION OF SUDDEN DEATH. ri! PI; panted, and blowed. The heavens were darkened with a tempest of missives. Bang! went the guns — whack! struck the broad- swords — tliiimp ! fell the cudgels — crash ! went the mnsket-stocks — blows — kicks — cuffs — scratches — black eyes and bloody noses swelling tlie liorrors of the scene ! Thick-thwack, cut and hack, helter-skelter, higgledy-piggledy, hurly-burly, head over heels, rough and tumble ! — Dunder and blexham ! swore the Dutchman — Splitter and splutter ! cried the Swedes — Storm the works ! shouted Hard- kopig Peter — Fire the mine ! roared stout Risingh — Tantararara ! twanged the trumpet of Anthony Van Corlaer — until all voice and sound became unintelligible — grunts of pain, yells of fury, and shouts of triumph, commingled in one hideous clamour. The earth shook, as if struck with a paralytic stroke — trees shrunk aghast, and withered at the sight — rocks burrowed in the ground like rab- bits, — and even Christina Creek turned from its course, and ran up a mountain in breathless terror ! VISION OF SUDDEN DEATH. Thomas de Quincey, one of the best of modern English essayists, and author of the " Confessions or an English Opium Eater :" 1786-1859. [The writer represents himself as riding on the outside of an English mail- coach in the' uncertain light of early morning. The driver has fallen asleep, and the horses are flying over the road at a furious rate.] Before us lay an avenue, straight as an arrow, six hundred yards, perhaps, in length ; and the umbrageous trees, which rose in a regular line from cither side, meeting high overhead, gave to it the character of a cathedral aisle. These trees lent a deeper solemnity to the early light ; but there was still light enough to perceive, at the further end of this gothic aisle, a light, reedy gig, in which were seated a young man, and by his side a youi ^, lady. The little car- riage is creeping on at one mile an hour ; and the parties Avithin it are naturally bending down their heads. Between them and eter- nity, to all human calculation, there is but a minute and a half. I shouted — and the young man heard me not. A second time I shouted — and now he heard me, for now he raised his head. Here, then, all had been done that, by me, could be done ; more on mt/ part was not possible. Mine had been the first step : the second was for the young man : the third was for God. Sudden had been the call upon him, and sudden was his answer to the call. He saw, he heard, he comprehended, the ruin that was coming down ; al he was im thing doe; of life cai giddy ere; as he cho( to him ai mourn for Yet, ev the dangei retire for i sel from Z stranger si and value more he si For five h( under som the better Then su upon the slewed hin little equip far his con taken towa nothing wj centre of o it may not exhausted ; Hurry, i hurry, hun horses — t/u the hoofs c suffice; fai tlie horse voice and t as if in the feet upon tl of the litt!( iftat was ev But it m upon the wj The rear pa more VISION OF SUDDEN DEATH. 255 jlown; already its gloomy shadow darkened above him; and already he was K-easuring his strength to deal with it. What a sublime thing does courage seem, when some fearful crisis on the great deeps ot life carries a man, as if running before a hurricane, up to the giddy crest of some mountainous wave, from which, accordingly, as he chooses his course, he descries two courses, and a voice says to him audibly, "This way lies hope; take the other way, and inourn for ever ! ' Yet, even then, amidst the raving of the seas and the frenzy of tlie danger, the man is able to confront his situation -is able to retire for a moment into solitude with God, and to seek all his coun- sel tiom Him. For seven seconds, it might be, of his seventy, the stranger settled his countenance steadfastly upon us, as if to search and value every element in the conflict before him. For five seconds more he sat immovably, like one that mused on some great purpose, l^or five he sat with eyes upraised, like one that prayed in sorrow, under some extremity of doubt, for wisdom to guide him toward the better choice. Then suddenly he rose, stood upright, and, by a sudden strain upon the reins, raising his horse's forefeet from the ground he slewed him round on the pivot of his hind-legs so as to plant the iittle equipage in a position nearly at right angles to ours. Thus far his condition was not improved ; except as a first step had been taken toward the possibility of a second. If no more were done, nothing was done ; for the little carriage still occupied the very centre of our path, though in an altered direction. Yet even now it may not be too late ; fifteen of the twenty seconds may still be un- exliausted ; and one bound forward may avail to clear the ground. Hurry, then, hurry, for the flying moments— thei/ hurry ! Oh uirry, hurry, my brave young man ! for the cruel hoofs of our hovscs—t/ie7j also hurry! Fast are the flying moments, faster are the hoofs of our horses. Fear not for him, if human energy can sulhce ; faithful was he that drove to his terrific duty ; faithful was tlie horse to his command. One blow, one impulse, given with voice and hand by the stranger, one rush from the horse, one bound as If in the act of rising to a fence, landed the docile creature's fore- leet upon the crown or arching centre of the road. The lar^rer half of the little equipage had then cleared our overtowering shadow: t/iai was evident even to my own agitated sight. But it mattered little that one wreck should float ofi' in safetv. if upon the wreck that perished were embarked the human freightage, ihe rear part of the carriage— was that certainly beyond the line of f f lit ' I f i !? 25G VISION OP SUDDEN DEATH. If II; absolute ruin t What power could answer the qnestion 1 Glance of eye, thought of man, wing of angel, which of these had speed enough to »weep between tbo '^jiiostion and the answer, and divide the one from the other? Ligiit does not tread upon the steps of light more indivisibly than did our all-conquering arrival upon the escaping effjrts of the f\g. That must the young man have felt too plainly. His back wan now turned to us; not by sight could he any longer communicat' with the peril; but by the dreadful rattle of onr harness too tru! had his ear been instructed — that all was finished as regarded any further effort of his. Already in resignation he had rested from hi.s struggle; and perhaps in his heart he was whispering, "Father, which art above, do Thou finish in heaven what I on earth have attempted." We ran past them faster than ever mill-race in oui inexorable flight. Oh, raving of hurricanes that must have sounded in their young ears at the moment of our transit! With the swingle-bar we hud struck the off- wheel of the little gig, which stood rather obliquely, and not q-Ue so far advanced as to be accurately parallel with the near-whet'l. The blow, from the fury of our passage, resounded terrifically. From my elevated station I looked down, and looked back upon the scene, which in a moment told ita tale, and wrote all its records on my heart for ever. The horse was planted immovably with his forefeet upon the paved crest of the central road. He of the whole party was alone untouched by the passion of death. The little caney carriage — partly, perhaps, from the dreadful tor- sion of the wheels in its recent movement, partly from the thunder- ing blow we had given to it — as if it sympathized with human horror, was all alive with tremblings and shiverings. The young man sat like a rock. He stirred not at all. But his was the steadiness of agitation frozen into rest by horror. As yet he dared not to look around ; for he knew that, if anything remained to do, by him it could no longer be done. But the lady ! Oh ! will that spectacle ever depart from my dreams, as she rose and sank upon her seat, sank and rose, threw up her arms wildly to heaven, clutched at some visionary object in the ail', fainting, praying, raving, despairing ! Figure to yourself the elements of the case ; suffer me to recall before your minds the cir- cumistances of the unparalleled situation. From the silence and deep peace of this saintly summer night — from the pathetic blend- ing of this sweet moonlight, dawniight, dreamiight — suddenly as fcom the chambers of the air opening in revelation — suddenly as NELSOK. 257 ? Glance had speed and divide le steps of I upon tlie } back wai> mmuuicat- 8 too trill ;arded any id from hi.s , '^Father, earth have race in oni licir young )ar we had obliquely, el with the resounded md looLod d wrote all immovably id. He of leath. •eadful tor- le thunder- ith human The young is was the it he dared ined to do, ; from ni} 'ose, threw y object in onrself the ds the cir- lilence and etic blend- uuuenly as uddenly as from the ground yawning at her feet, leaped npon her, with the flashing of cataracts, Death, the crowned phantom, with all the equi- page of his terrors, and the tiger roar of his voice. The moments were numbered. In the twink'ing of an eye our flying horses had carried us to the termination of the umbrageous aisle ; at right ai. ;les we wheeled into our former direction ; the turn of the road- carried the scene out of ray eyes in an instant, and swept it into my dreams for ever. NELSON. Alphonse de LAMAnTiNE, a French poet, traveller, and historian of considerable celebrity : born 1790, Among the illustrious men who have filled the foremost ranks in national contests, we have always felt most interested and dazzled by heroes of the sea. The immensity, the power, the motion, the temble attributes of the element on which they combat, seem to elevate them abu\e the standard of humanity. This is not a vain, imaginative delusion, but a just estimate of their glory. The variety and extent of natural and acquired faculties which must of necessity be united in the same individual, to constitute a great naval leader, astonish the mind, and raise the perfect sailor beyond all compari- son above ordinary warriors. The latter require only the single firmness which faces fire nnnoved— the former must be endowed with the double valour s\ hich equally braves death and the fury of the elements. But the self-possession which suffices on shore will hardly be found efficient on the ocean. All the resources nf intelli- gence niiist be combined with courage in the chief who di -ects the manceuvre, or the broadside, from the quarter-deck of an imiral's vessel, or any other man-of-war. He must be endowed with science to steer her course by the heavenly bodies ; unwearied vigilauce to preserve his ship from stov ns and quicksands; skill in handling the sails which regulate the in leiise machine like a master key ; prompt daring to rush into fire through npests, to sc k one death through another ; self-possession which dictates when to strike, or how to parry the decisive blow; devotedness which rises under the cer- tainty of destruction, and sacrifices a ship to save a fl-et; the as- cendency of a master-mind whicli forces all to look for safety in a f ingle voice ; decision which acts with the infallibility of inspiration: opedience which yields up strong conviction to superior authority; discipline which bowi? to the equality of establislod laws ; a calm r^li If 1 1 258 THE SEASONS IN CANADA. aspect With a beating heart to Inspire confidence in inferiors; manly grace and dignity in demeanour, to preserve, in tlie close intercourse ot a crowded ship, i\xQ prestige which generals on shore maintain by seclusion and reserve, and which naval commander , must keep np in hearty and close communion; a prudent boldness, assuming the risk of responsibility in sudden emergencies, when a moment or a manccuvre may decide the fate of an empire. Disasters which can- not be foreseen or calculated, dark nights which scatter the squadron storms which swallow up the vessels, fires which consume them, currents which run them aground, calms which neutralize them rocks which dash them in piecos-to foresee, provide for, and en- dure all those contingencies with the stoicism of a mind that fights hand to hand with destiny; a narrow deck, with few witnesses, for the field of battle ; a thankless glory, always ready to disappear, which IS lost m a moment, and frequently never reaches the ears of your country ; a death far distant from all you love ; a coffin shrouded in the depths of the ocean, or cast overboard as a frag- ment of shipwreck. This is an epitome of the sailor— a hundred dangers for a single ray of glory— ten heroes concentrated in a single man. Suc^h were the great naval warriors of France, of bpam, of England— such was Nelson, the first and last of those Titans of the sea. THE SEASONS IN CANADA. Sir Fuancis Bond Head, formerly Governor of Upper Canada, and author of several books of travel : born 1793. However deeply prejudiced an Englishman may be in favour of his own country, I think it is impossible for him to cross the Atlantic without admitting that in both the northern and southern hemi- spheres of the new world, nature has not only outlined her works on a larger scale, but has painted the whole picture with brighter and more costly colours than she has used in deliueatin** and in beautifying the old world. " The heavens of America appear infinitely higher, the sky is bluer, the clouds are whiter, the air is fresher, the cold is intenser the moon looks larger, the stars are brighter, the thunder is louder, the lightning is vivider, the wiud is stronger, the rain is heavier, the mountains are higher, the forests bigger, and the plains broader. In the eontnient of North America, the climate, comparatively speaking, regardless of latitude, is both hot and cold 5 and thus, for THE SEASONS OP CANADA. 259 rs; manly itercoarse liritain by t keep np ming the ncnt or a 'hich can- squadron, no them, ize them, , and en- iiat fights esses, for isappear, ic ears of a coffin s a frag- hundred ted iu a ranee, of of those author of ar of his Atlantic n hemi- sr works brighter and in sky is ntenser, louder, n"er, the ider. ratively hus, for Instance in Canada, while the summer is as roasting as that of the Mediterranean, and occasionally as broiling as that of the West Indies, the winter is that of the capitals of Norway and Sweden ; indeed the cold of the Canada winter must be felt to be imagined,' and when felt can no more bo described by words than colours to a blind man, or music to a deaf one. The four seasons of the year in Canada exhibit pictures strikin'^ly contrasted with each other. "^ In the summer the excessive heat, the violent paroxysms of thunder, the parching drought, tiie occasional deluges of rain, the sight of bright red, bright blue, and other gaudily-plumaged birds, of the brilliant humming-bird, and of innumerable fireflies, that at night appear like the reflection upon earth of the stars shining above them in the heavens, would almost persuade the emigrant that he is living in the tropics. As autumn approaches, the various trees of the forests assume hues of every shade, of red, yellow, and brown, of the most vivid dc- ription. The air gradually becomes a healthful mixture of sun- shine and frost, and the golden sunsets are so many glorious assem- blages of clouds— some like mountains of white wool, others of the darkest hues— and of broad rays of yellow, of crimson, and of golden light, which, Avithout intermixing, radiate upwards to a great height from the point of the horizon, at which the deep red luminary is about to disappear. As the winter approaches the cold daily strengthens, and before the branches of the trees and the surface of the country becomes white, every living being seems to become sen- sible of the temperature that is about to arrive. The gaudy birds, humming-birds, and fireflies depart first, then follow the pigeons, the wild fowl fly away to the lakes, until scarcely a bird remains to be seen in the forest. Several of the animals seek refuge in warmer regions, and even the shaggy bear, whose coat seems warm enough to resist any degree of cold in- stinctively looks out in time for a hollow tree, into which he may leisurely climb, to hang in it during the winter as inanimate as a flitch of bacon from the ceiling of an English farm-house ; and even many fishes make their deep-water arrangements for not coming to the surface of the rivers and harbours during the period they°are covered with ice. Notwithstanding the cheerful brightness of the winter's sun, I always felt that there was something indescribably annaUiii'^ in all these precautions of beasts, birds, a'lid fishes; and yet it Is with pride that one observes that, while the birds of the air and the ! ? » I 260 THE PROVINCE OF GENIUS. » beasts of tlie field, one after another, are seen retreating before the approaching winter, like women and children before an advancing army, the Anglo-Saxon race stand firm; and indeed they are quite right to do so, inasmuch as when the winter does arrive, it turns out to be a season of hilarity and healthful enjoyment. Not only is the whole surface of the ground, including roads and paths of every description, beantifully macadamized with a covering of snow, oyer which every man's horse, with tinkling bells, can draw him and his family in a sleigh, but every harbour becomes a national play-ground to ride on, and every river an arterial road to travel on. In all directions running water congeals. The mill-wheel be- comes covered with a frozen torrent in which it remains as in a glass case ; and T have even seen small waterfalls begin to freeze on both sides until the cataract, arrested in its fall by the power of Heaven, is converted for the season into a solid mirror. Although the temperature of the water in the great lakes is very far below freezing, yet the restless air, and the rise and fall of the waves prevent their congelation. As a trifling instance, however, of their disposition to do so, I may mention that during the two winters I was at Toronto, I made it a rule, from which I never departed, to walk every morning to the end of a long wooden pier that ran out into the unfrozen waters of the lake. In windy weather, and during extreme cold, the water, in dashing against this work' rose in the air ; but before it could reach me, it often froze, and thus, without wetting my cloak, the drops of ice used to fall harm- less at my feet. But although the great lake, for want of a moment's tranquillity, cannot congeal, yet for hundreds of miles along its shores, the waves as they break on th3 ground instantly freeze ; and this operation continuing by night as well as by day, the quiet shingled beach is converted throrghout its length into high, sharp, jagged rocks of ice, over which it is occasionally diflScult to climb. THE PROVINCE OF GENIUS. Thomas Carltle, an eccentric but vigorous writer of the German school the historian of the French E«volution, and biographer of Frederic the Great • bom 17B5. Taste, if it mean anything but a paltry connoisseurship, must mean a general susceptibility to trnth and nobleness ; a sense to discern, THE PROVINCE OP GENIUS. 261 )efore the idvancing are quite , it turns •oads and covering can draAv I national to travel ^heel be- s as in a to freeze power of IS is very II of the however, the two ti I never 9den pier weather, lis work, roze, and -11 harm- nquillity, lie waves operation beach is rocks of chool, the lie Great : ist mean discern, and a heart to love and reverence all beauty, order, goodness, where- soever, or in whatsoever forms and accompaniments they are to bo seen. This surely implies, :is its chief condition, not any given ext? nal rank or situation, but a finely-gifted mind, purified into nariaony with itself, into keenness and justness of vision ; above all, kiuaied into love and generous admiration. Is culture of this sort found exclusively among the higher ranks ? We believe it proceeds less from without than within, in every rank. The charms of nature, the majesty of man, the infinite loveliness of truth and virtue, are not hidden from the eye of the poor, but from the eye of the vain, the corrupted and self-seeking, be he poor or rich. In all ages, the humble minstrel, a mendicant, and lord of nothing but his harp and his own free soul, had intimations of those glories, while to the proud baroa in hia barbaric hoils they were unknown. Such is our hypothesis of the case. But how stands it with the facts ? Are the fineness and truth of sense manifested by the artist found, in most instances, to be proportionate to his wealth and ele- vation of acquaintance ? Are they found to have any perceptible relation either with the one or the other? We imagine not. Whose taste in painting, for instance, is truer or finer than Claude Lorraine's? And was not he a poor- colour-grinder ; outwardly, the meanest of menials ? Where, again, we might ask, lay Shakespeare's rent-roll; and what generous peer took him by the hand, and unfolded to him the " open secret " of the universe ; teaching him that this was beauti- ful, and that not so ? Was he not a peasant by birth, and by fortune little better ; and was it not thought much, even in the height of his reputation, that Southampton allowed him equal patronage with the zanies, jugglers, and bearwards of the time ? Yet compare his taste even as it regards the negative side of things ; for, in regard to the positive and far higher side, it admits no comparison with any other mortal's. Compare it, for instance, with the taste of Beaumont and Fletcher, his contemporaries, men of rank and education, and of fine genius like himself. Tried even by the nice, fastidious, and in great part, false and artificial delicacy of modern times, how stands it with the two parties ; with the gay, triumphant men of fashion, and the poor, vagrant link-boy ? Does the latter sin against, we shall not say taste, but etiquette, as the former do ? For one line, for one word, which some flhfiKffirfif^ld m'urht wich hinftorl fi-nm tho fivaf are there not, in the others, whole pages and scenes which with palpitating heart he would hurry into deepest night ? This, too. mt 262 THE RUINED LODGE. observe, respects not their genius but their culture ; not their ap- propriation of beauties, but their rejection of deformities — by sup- position, the grand and peculiar result of high breeding ! Surely, in such instances, even that humble supposition is ill borne out. The truth of the matter seems to be, that, with the culture of a genuine poet, thinker, or other aspirant to fame, the inlluence of rank has no exclusive, or even special, concern. For men of ac- tion, for senators, public speakers, political writers, the case may be different; but of such we speak not at present. Neither do we speak of imitators and the crowd of medicare men to whom fashion- able life sometimes gives an external inofFensiveness, often compen- sated by a frigid malignity of character. We speak of men who, from amid the perplexed and conflicting elements of their everyday existence, are to form themselves into harmony and wisdom, and show forth the same wisdom to others that exist along with them. To such a man, high life, as it is called, will be a province of human life certainly, but nothing more. He will study to deal with it as he deals with all forms of mortal being; to do it justice, and to draw instruction from it. But the light will come from a loftier region, or he wanders for ever in darkness. Is he poor? So also were Homer and Socrates; so was Samuel Johnson ; so was John Milton. Shall we reproach him with his poverty, and infer that because he is poor he must likewise be worthless V God forbid that the time should ever come when he, too, shall esteem riches the synonym of good ! The spirit of Mam- mon has a wide empire, but it cannot and must not be worshipped in the Holy of holies. Nay, does not the heart of every genuine disciple of literature, however mean his sphere, instinctively deny this principle, as applic- able either to himself or another'? Is it not rather true, as D'Alem- bert has said, that for every man of letters who deserves that name the motto and the watchword will be — Fjreedom, Truth, and even this same Poverty V and that, if he fear the last, the two first can never be made sure to him ? I! THE RUINED LODGE. Thomas Chandler Haliburton, a Nova Scotian judge, the author of many humorous works of fiction, under the uanio of " Sam Slick : " 1800-18G5. After leaving Halifax, the road to Windsor winds for ten miles THE RX'INFD LODGE. 263 their ap- — by sup- Surely, 3 out. ture of a [luence of en of ac- ic may be sr do we ri fashion- compen- !onflicting ;lve8 into to others as it is ing more, of mortal it. But L' ever in 3 Samuel with his :ewise be when he, of Mam- srshipped iterature, IS applic- 1 D'Alem- [lat name ind even first can I' of many I0-18G5. en miles round the margin of Bedford Basin, which is connected with the harbour by a narrow passage at the dockyard. It is an extensive and magnificent sheet of water, the shores of which are deeply in- dented with numerous coves, and well-sheltered inlets of great beauty. At the distance of seven miles from the town is a runied lodge, built by his royal highness the late Duke of Kent, when com- mander-in-chief of the forces in this colony, once his favourite summer residence, and the scene of his munificent hospitalities. It is impossible to visit this spot without the most melancholy feelings. The tottering fence, the prostrate gates, the ruined grottoes, the long and winding avenues, cut out of the forest, overgrown by rank grass and occasional shrubs, and the silence and desolation that pervaded everything around, all bespeak a rapid and premature de- cay, recall to mind the untimely fate of its noble and lamented owner, and tell of fleeting pleasures, aad the transitory nature of all earthly things. I stopped at a small inn in the neighbourhood, for the purpose of strolling over it for the last time ere I left the country, and for the indulgence of those moralizing musings which at times harmonize with our nerves, and awaken what may be called the pleasurable sensations of melancholy. A modern wooden ruin is of itself the least interesting, and at the same time the most depressing, object imaginable. The massive structures of antiquity that are everywhere to be met with in Europe exhibit the remains of great strength, and, though injured and defaced by the slow and almost imperceptible agency of time, promise to continue thus mutilated for ages to come. They awaken the images of departed generations, and are sanctified by legend and by tale. But a wooden ruin shows rank and rapid decay, con- centrates its interest on one family or one man, and resembles a mangled corpse, rather than the monument that covers it. It has no historical importance, no ancestral record. It awakens not the imagination. The poet finds no inspiration in it, and the antiquary no interest. It speaks only of death and decay, of recent calamity, and vegetable decomposition. The very air about it is close, dank, and unwholesome. It has no grace, no strength, no beauty, but looks deformed, gross, and epulsive. Even the faded colour of a painted wooden house, the tarnished gilding of its decorations, the corroded iron of its fastenings, and its crumbling materials, all indi- cate recent use and temporary habitation. It is but a short time gjp.nn this mansion was tenanted by its royal master, and m that brief space how great has been the devastation of the elements I A 2C4 THE RUINED LODGE. few years more, and all trace of it will have disappeared for ever Jta very site will soon become a matter of doubt. The forest is fast reclamimg its own, and the lawns and ornamented gardens, annuallv sown with seeds, scattered by the winds from the surrounding woods, are relapsing into a state of nature, and exhibiting in de- tached patches a young growth of such trees as are common to the coiin crv. As I approached the house, I noticed that the windows were broken out, or shut up with rough boards, to exclude the rain and snow; the doors supported by wooden props instead of hinges, which hung loosely on the panels ; and that long luxuriant clovei- grewm the e.ves, which had been originally designed - conduct the wa er from the roof, but, becoming choked with dust and de- cayed leaves, had afforded sufficient food for the nourishment of coarse grasses The portico, like the house, had been formed of vood, and the flat surface of its top, imbibing and retaining moist- ure, presented a mass of vegetable matter, from which had sprung up a young and vigorous birch-tree, whose strength and freshness seemed to mock the helpless weakness that nourished it. I had no desire to enter the apartments ; and, indeed, the aged ranger vhose occupation was to watch over its decay, and to prevent its prema- ture destruction by the plunder of its fixtures and more durable materials, informed me that the floors were unsafe Altogether the scene was one of a most depressing kind. ' A small brook, which had by a skilful hand been led over several precipitous descents, performed its feats alone and unobserved, and seemed to murmur out its complaints, as it hurried over its ;ocky channel to mingle with the «ea ; while the wind, sighing through the unjbrageous wood, appeared to assume a louder and more melancholy wail, as it swept through the long vacant passages and deserted saloons, and escaped in plaintive tones from the broken casements. The offices, as- well as the ornamental buildings, had shared the same fate as the house. The roofs of all had fallen in. and mouldered into dust ; the doors, sashes, and floors had dis ' appeared ; and the walls only, which were in part built of stone similar effects of neglect, in a climate where the living wood grows rhn?,r ^'-".l '^'J'""^ ^''''' '' «''^"' '' '» Nova Scotia.^ An arboui, which had been constructed of lattice-work, for the support of a flowering vine, had fallen, and was covered with vegetation: while its roof alone remained, supported aloft by limbs of trees that growing up near it, had become entangled in its net-work. A THE RUINED LODGE. 26.7 for ever. jst is fast aunnaily rounding tg in (Ic- on to the ws were rain and f hingep, nt clover conduct and de- iraent of )rmed of g moist- i sprung Teshness [ Lad no r. -yhose prema- durable ther, the ' several 'ed, and ts rocky through id more ges and broken igs, had illen in, ad dis- f stone, ^hibited I grows a. All support tation ; ?3 that, rk. A Chinese temple, once a favourite retreat of its owner, as if in con- scions pride of its preference, had offered a m.ore successful resist- ance to the weather, and appeared in tolerable preservation ; while one small surviving bell, of the numerous ones that once ornamented it, gave out its solitary and melancholy tinkling as it waved in the wind. Hew sad was its mimic knell over pleasures that were fled for ever ! The contemplation of this deserted house is not without its bene- ficial effect on the mind ; for it inculcates humility to the rich, and resignation to the poor. However elevated man may be, there is much in his condition that reminds him of the infirmities of his nature, and recoi ciles him to the decrees of Providence. " May it please your majesty," said Euclid to his lOyal pupil, " there is no regal road to science. You must travel in the same path with others, if you would attain the same end." These forsaken grounds teach us in similar terms this consolatory truth, that there is no exclusive way to happiness reserved even for those of the most rxalted rank. The smiles of fortune are capricious, and sunshine and shade are unequally distributed ; but though the surface of life is thus diversified, the end is uniform to all, and invariably ter- minates in the grave. Ruins, like death, of which they are at once the emblem and the evidence, are apt to lose their effect from their frequency. The mind becomes accustomed to them, and the moral is lost. The pic- turesque alone remains predominant, and criticis n supplies the place of reflection. But this is the only ruin of any extent in Nova Scotia, and the only spot either associated with royalty, or set apart and consecrated to solitude and decay. The stranger pauses at a sight so unusual, and inquires the cause j he learns with surprise that this place was devoted exclusively to pleasure ; that care and sor- row never entered here ; and that the voice of mirth and music was alone heard within its gates. It was the temporary abode of a prince, — of one, too, had he lived, that would have inherited the first and fairest empire in the world. All that maa can give or rank enjoy awaited him ; but an overruling and inscrutable Provi- dence decreed, at Lhe verv ♦'me when his succession seemed most certain, that the sceptre ' .an J pass into the hands of another. This intelligence interests and ey. ivCS his feelings. He enters, and hears at every step the voice of nature proclaiming the doom that awaits alike the prince and the peasant. The desolation he sees appals him. The swallow nestles in the empty chamber, and the sheep f^nd a noon-day shelter in the banqueting-room, while the ill' H i!8, 1 i i P!l i • I hi 2QQ A SPANISH BULL-FIGHT. omened bat rejoices in the dampness of the mouldering ruins. Everything recalls a recollection of the dead ; every spot has its record of the past ; every path its footstep ; every tree its legend ; and even the universal silence that reigns here has an awful elo- quence that overpowers the heart. Death is written everywhere. Sad and dejected, he turns and seeks some little relic, some small memorial of his deceased prince, and a solitary, neglected garden- flower, struggling for existence among th^^ rank grasses, presents a fitting type of the brief existincc and transitory nature of all around him. As he gathers it, he pays the silent but touching tribute of a votive tear to the memory of him who has departed, and leaves the place with a mind softened and subdued, but improved and purified, by what he has seen. A SPANISH BULL-FIGHT. Benjamin Disraeli, a distinguished politician and novelist: bom 1805. From " Contarini Fleming." A SrANiSH bull-fight taught me fully to comprehend the rapturous exclamation of "Panem et Circenses 1 '" The amusement apart, there is something magnificent in the assembled thousands of an amphi- theatre. It is the trait in modern manners which most effectually recalls the nobility of antique pastimes. The poetry of a bull-fight is very much destroyed by the ap- pearance of the cavaliers. Instead of gay, gallant knights bound- mg on caracoling steeds, three or four shapeless, unwieldy beings cased in armour of stuffed leather, and looking more like Dutch burgomasters than Spanish chivalry, enter the list on limping rips. The bull is, in fact, the executioner for the dogs ; and an approaching bull-tight is a respite for any doomed steed throughout all Seville. The tauridors, in their varying, fanciful, costly, and splendid dresses, compensate in a great measure for your disappointment. It is difficult to conceive a more brilliant band. These are ten or a dozen footmen, who engage the bull unarmed, distract him as he rushes at one of the cavaliers by unfolding, and dashing before iiis eyes, a glittering scavf, and saving themselves from an occasional chase by practised agility, which elicits great applause. The per- formance of these tauridors is, without doubt, the most graceful the most exciting, and the most surprising portion of the entertain - ment. .hi A SPANISH BULL-FIGHT. 267 The ample theatre is nearly full. Be careful to sit on the shady side. There is the suspense experienced at all public entertain- ments, only here upon a great scale. Men are gliding about, selling fans and refreshments ; the governor and his suite enter their box ; a trumpet sounds ! — all is silent. The knights advance, poising their spears, and for a moment try- ing to look graceful. The tauridors walk behind them, two by two. They proceed around and across the lists ; they bow to the vice- regal party, and commend themselves to the Virgin, whose portrait is suspended above. Another trumpet 1 A second and a third blast ! The governor throws the signal ; the den opens, and the bull bounds in. That first spring is very fine. The animal stands for a moment still, staring, stupefied. Gradually his hoof moves ; he paws the ground ; he dashes about the sand. The knights face him, with their ex- tended lances, at due distance. The tauridors are still. One flies across him, and waves his scarf. The enraged bull makes at the nearest horseman ; he is frustrated in his attack. Again he plants himself, lashes his tail, and rolls his eye. He makes another charge, and this time the glance of the spear does not drive him back. He gores the horse : rips up its body : the steed staggers and falls. The bull rushes at the rider, and his armour will not now preserve him ; but just as his awful horn is about to avenge his future fate, a skilful tauridor skims before him, and flaps his nostrils with his scarf. He flies after his new assailant, and imme- diately finds another. Now you are delighted by all the evolutions of this consummate band ; occasionally they can save theT.selves only by leaping the barriers. The knight, in the meantime, rises, escapes, and mounts another steed. The bull now makes a rush at another horseman ; the horse dexterously veers aside. The bull rushes on, but the knight wounds him severely in the flank with his lance. The tauridors now appear, armed with darts. They rush, with extraordinary swiftness and dexterity, at the infuriated animal, plant their gall- ing weapons in different parts of his body, and scud away. To some of their darts are affixed fire-works, which ignite by the pressure of the stab. The animal is then as bewildered as infuriate; the amphitheatre echoes to his roaring, and witnesses the greatest efforts of his rage. He flies at all, staggering and streaming with blood; at length, breathless and exhausted, h^ stands at bay, his black, swollen tongue hanging out., and his mouth covered with foam. m If 11 liii 268 DEATH OF GEORGE THE THIRD. 'Tis horrible 1 Throughout, a stranger's feelings are for the bull, although this even the fairest Spaniard cannot comprehend. As it is now evident that the noble victim can only amuse tbeiu by his deatii, there Is a universal cry for the matador ; and the matador, gaily dressed, appears amid a loud cheer. The matador is a great artist. Strong nerves must combine with great quickness and great ex- perience to form an accomplished matador. It is a rare character, highly prized ; their fame exists after their death, and different cities pride themselves on producing or possessing the most eminent. The matador plants himself before the bull, and shakes a red cloak suspended over a drawn sword. This last insult excites the lingering energy of the dying hero. He makes a violent charge : the mantle falls over his face, the sword enters his spine, and he falls amid thundering shouts. The death is instantaneous, without a struggle, and without a groan. A car, decorated with flowers and ribbons, and drawn by oxen, now appears, and bears off the body in triumph. I have seen eighteen horses killed in a bull-fight, and eight bulls ; but the sport is not always in proportion to the slaughter. Some- times the bull is a craven, and then, if, after recourse has been had to every mode of excitement, he will not charge, he is kicked out of the arena, amid the jeers and hisses of the audience. Every act of skill on the part of the tauridors elicits applause ; nor do the spectators hesitate, if necessary, to mark their temper by a con- trary method. On the whole, it is a magnificent but barbarous spectacle ; and, however disgusting the principal object, the acces- sories of the entertainment are so brilliant and interesting that, whatever may be their abstract disapprobation, those who have witnessed a Spanish bull-fight will not be surprised at the pass'onate attachment of the Spanish people to their national pastime. queen, DEATH OF GEORGE THE THIRD. William Makepeace Thackeray, as a novelist, disputes the palm witli Dickeus. His prmcipfii novels are, " Vanity Fair," "Pendennis," "The This extract is from his lectures on the " Four Newcomes : " lSll-1865. Georges." All the world knows the story of his malady : all history presents m sadder figure than that of the old man. blind and dfinrfv^d nf reason, wandering through the rooms of his palace, addressing for the bull, id. As it h y his deatli, tador, gaily Treat artist. I great ex- 3 character, id differeut the most akes a red excites the 3iit charge : ine, and he us, without ith flowers lars off the nght bulls ; sr. Some- s been had kicked out Every act nor do the by a con- barbarous the acces- sting that, who have id at the r national DEATH OP GEORGE THE THIRD. 269 palm with nis," "The the "Four y presents enrlyed of addressing imaginary parliaments, reviewing fancied troops, holding ghostly court*. I have seen his picture as it was taken at this time, hang- ing in the apartment of his daughter the Landgravine of Hesse- Ilomburg — amidst books and Windsor furniture, and a hundred reminiscences of her English home. The poor old father is represented in a purple gown, his snowy beard falling over his breast, — the star of his famous Order still idly shining on it. He was not only sightless, he became utterly deaf. All light, all sound of hnman voices, all the pleasures of this world of God, were taken from him. Some slight lucid moments he had, in one of which the queen, desiring to see him, entered the room, and found him sing- ing a hymn and accompanying himself at the harpsichord. When he had finished, he knelt down and prayed aloud for her, and then for liis family, and then for the nation, concluding with a prayer for himself, that it might please God to avert his heavy calamity from liim, but if not, to give him resignation to submit. He then burst into tears, and his reason again fled. What preacher need moralize on this story : what words save the simplest are requisite to tell it? It is too terrible for tears. The thought of such a misery smites me down in submission before the Ruler of kings and men, the Monarch supreme over empires and republics, the inscrutable Dispenser of life, death, happiness, victory. " brothers," I said to those who heard me first in America — " brothers, speaking the same dear mother tongue— comrades I enemies no more, let us take a mournful hand together, as we stand by this royal corpse, and call a truce to battle I Low he lies to whom the proudest used to kneel once, and who was cast lower than the poorest ; dead, whom millions prayed for in vain. Driven off his throne ; buffeted by rude hands ; with his children in revolt ; the darling of his old age killed before him untimely ; our Lear hangs over her breathless lips, and cries, " Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little ! " " Vex not his ghost ! — oh ! let him pass — he hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer ! " Hush, strife and quarrel, over the solemn grave ! Sound, trumpets, a mournful march. Fall, dark curtain, upon his pageant, his pride, his grief, his awful tragedy ! " m 1 1 < If i 1 i,4i THE DEATH OF THE LITTLE SCHOLAR. IMi M TFIE DEATH OF THE LITTLE SCHOLAR. Charles Dickfns, the most popular of living novelists, and graphic de- lineator of London lifo : born 1812. The accompanying extract is from tho " Old Curiosity Shop." Without further preface he cuiiductcd them into his little school- room, which was parlour and kitchen likewise, and tolt! them they were welcome to remain under his roof till mominfr. The child looked round the room as she took her seat. The chief ornaments of tiie walls were certain moral sentences, fairly copied i' good round text, and well-worked sums in simple addition and raultipli- catioPx, evidently achieved by the same hand, which were plentifully pasted round the room ; for the double purpuse, as it seemed, of bearing testimony to the excellence of the school, and kindling? a worthy emulation in the bosoms of the scholars. '> Fes," said the schoolmaster, observing that her attention was caught by these specimens, "that's beautiful writing, my dear." ''Very, sir," replied the child modjstly ; " is it yours?" " Mine!" he returned, taking out his spectacles, and putting them on, to have a better view of the triumphs so dear to his heart ; " I couldn't write like tJiat now-a-days. No : they are all done by one hand ; a little hand it is ; not so old as yours, but a very clever one." As the old schoolmaster said this, he saw that a small blot of ink had been thrown upon one of the copies ; so he took a penknife from his pocket, and, going up to the wall, carefully scratched it out. When he had finished, he walked slowly backward from the writing, admiring it as one might contemplate a beautiful picture, but with something of sadness in his voice and manner, which quite touched the child, though she was unacquainted with its cause. " A little hand, indeed," said the poor schoolmaster. " Far be- yond all his companions in his learning and his sports too. How did he ever come to be so fond of me ? That I should love him is no wonder, but that he should love me " And there the school- master stopped, and took off his spectacles to wipe them, as though they had grown dim. " I hope there is nothing the matter, sir," said Nelly, anxiously. "Not much, my dear," returned the schoolmaster : " I hoped to have seen him on the green to-night. He was always foremost among them. But he 'II be there to- morrow." "Has he been ill?" asked the child, with a child's quick sym- pathy. u Not verv. They said he was wandering in his head yesterday, }g§ THE DEATU OP TUk LITTLE SCHOLAR. 271 graphic de- ract is from ;tle school- them they The child ornaments d i' good d raultipll- plentifuUy seemed, of kindliPEj a ," said the ; by these ''ery, sir," 2 returned, )etter view like tliat le hand it lall blot of a penknife hed it out. le writing, but with te touched " Far be- 30. How >ve him is he school- as though tter, sir," hoped to foremost ick sym- 'esterdav, dear hoy, and fio they said the lay before. But that 's a part of that kind of Visordor ; it 's not a bad si^n — not at all a bad sign." The child , as silent. He walked i the door, and looked wist- fully out. T! f^ shadows of night were gathering, and all was still. " If he could lean on somebody' arm. he would come to me, I know," said, returning into ( -m. 'He always came into the garus a to say good-night. But perhaps his illness has only just taken a favourable turn, and it s too lato tor him to come out, for it 's very damp, and thi s a heavy dew. It 's much better he shouldn't come to-night." • ••••** The next day, towards night, an old woman ^ame tottering up the garden as speedily as she could, and, meeting the schoolmaster at the door, said he was to go to ' me West's dirtctly, and had best run on before her. He and hild were on the point of going out together i'or a walk, and, without relinquishing her hand, the schoolmaster hurried away, leaving the mess' uger tbllow as she might. Ttiey stopped at a cottage door, and the schooln«aster knocked sof Jy at it with his hand. It was opened hout loss of time. They passed into an inner room, where his infant friend, half dressed, lay stretched upon a bed. He was a verj young boy ; quite a little child. His hair still hung in curls about his face, and his eyes were very bright; but their light was of heaven, not earth. The schoolmaster took a seat beside him, and stooping over the pillow, whispered his name. The boy sprang up, threw his wasted j'vms around his neck, crying out that he was his dear, kind friend. " I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows," said the poor schoolmaster. "Who is that?" said the boy, seeing Nell. "lam afraid to kiss her, lest I should make her ill. Ask her to shake hands with me." The sobbing clnld came closer up, and took the little languid hand in hers. Releasing his again after a time, the sick boy laid him gently down. " You remember the garden, Harry," whispered the schoolmaster, anxious to rouse him, for a dulness seemed gathering upon the child, " and how pleasant it used to be in the evening? You must make haste to visit it again, for I think the very flowers have missed you, and are less gay than they used to be. You will come soon, my dear, very soon now, Avon't yon? " El \ '■ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) // <;>''. W L^r". w. I/a 1.0 I.I 1.25 ffr Ik J23 2.0 1= M. IIIIII.6 V] <^ m a '^ <\ '% .\ 6'^ ri.^\ ^^. 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 87!2-4503 ^Ko ///// ^^^ W, 272 THE DEATH OP THE LITTLE SCHOLAB. The boy smiled faintly, so very, very faintly, and put his band upon his friend's gray head. He moved his lips, too, but no voice came from them ; no, not a sound. In the silence that ensued, the .hum of distant voices, borne upon the evening air, came floating through the open window. " What 's that? " said the sick child, opening his eyes, " The boys at play upon the green." He toolc a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried tc wave it above his head. But the feeble arm dropped powerless down " Shall I do it? " said the schoolmaster. " Please wave it at the window," was the faint reply. *' Tie it to the lattice. Some of them may see it there. Perhaps they '11 think of me, and look this way." He raised his head, and glanced from the fluttering signal to his idle bat, that lay, with slate and book, and other boyish property, upon a table in the room. And then he laid him down softly once more, and asked if the little girl were there, for he could not see her. She stepped forward, and pressed the passive hand that lay upon the coverlet. The two old friends and companions— for such they were, though they were man and child— held each other in a long embrace, and then the little scholar turned his face towards the wall, and fell asleep. The poor schoolmaster sat in the same place, holding the small, cold hand in his, and chafing it. It was but the hand of a dead child. He felt that ; and yet he chafed it still, and could not lay it down. his band ' no voice )rne upon wave it •wn. **Tie it s they'll >al to his property, •ftly once 1 not see lay upon uch they n a long ards the he small, r a dead not lay SOME NOTES ON POETRY AND CRITICISM. From Collier's " English Literature." When we turn from Milton's " Paradise Lost " to Macanlay's " His- tory of England," we perceive at once a difference in the language of the two. The one we call poetry ; the other, prose. And when we recollect that we do not talk — at least, most of us do not talk — to our friends in the same style as ^hat in which Milton describes the Council of Infernal Peers, or Macaulay the Relief of London- derry, we perceive that language assumes a third — its lowest form — in the conversation that prevails arou ' our dinner-tables, or upon our pleasant country walks. Of the three shapes that language takes — poetry, literary prose, colloquial prose — poetry is, un- doubtedly, the chief. Take English poetry, in the common sense ot the word, as a pecu- liar form of language. We find that it differs from prose mainly in having a regular succession of accented syllables. In short, it possesses metre as its chief characteristic feature. Every Ime is divided into so many/ec^, composed of short and long syllables^ arranged according to certain laws of prosody. With a regular footfall the voice steps or marches along the line, keeping time like the soldier on drill or the musician among his bars. In many lan- guages syllables have a quantity^ which makes them intrinsically long or short ; but in English poetry that syllable alone is long on which an accent falls. Poets, therefore, in the use of that license which they have or take, sometimes shift an accent to suit their measure. The inversion of the order of rcords, within certain i'5 ' £1 I 4 l|!'l-1 274 SOME NOTES ON POETRY AND CiUTlCISM. I i V H •: !, il limits, is a necessary consequence of throwing language into a metrical form. Poetry, then, differs from prose, in the first place, m havmg metre; and, as a consequence of this, in adopting, an unusual arrangement of words and phrases. The object of invert^ ing the order, however, is often not so much to suit the metro as to give additional emphasis or rhetorical effect. But we find more than this in poetry, else poetry and verse are one and the same thing. That they are not, we know to our cost when we are compelled to wade through some of those productions which throng our booksellers' windows at tlraes-without, all mauve and gleaming gold— within, all barrenness and froth We must have, in addition to the metrical form, the use of un- common words and turns of expression, to lift the language above the level of written prose. Shakespeare, instead of sayiiTg, as he woiild, no doubt, have done in telling a ghost story to his wife, The c ock then striking one,'^ puts into the mouth of the sentinel Bernardo, ^\The bell then beating oneP When Thomson describes the spnng-ploug.ing, the ox becomes a steer, the plough is the shmmg share, and the upturned earth appears in his verse as the glebe. The use of p^riphrase (the round-about mode of expression) here comes largely to the poet's aid. Birds are children of the sh songsters of the grove, tuneful choirs, &c. ; ice is a crystal floor, or a sheet of polished steel These are almost all figurative foms, and it IS partly by the abundant use of figures that the higher level of speech is gamed. ^ Yet there is something beyond all this. Smoothly the metre may flow on, without a hitch or hindrance ; brilliantly the tropes may cluster m each shining line; lofty as a page oi ih^ Rambler may be the tone of the faultless speech ; yet, for all, the composition may fall short of true poetry. There is a something— an essence— which most of U3 can feel when present, or at once detect the lack of, which IS yet entirely undefinable. We are as little able to de- fine the essence of poetry as to describe the fragrance of a rose or the nature of that mysterious fluid which shows itself in a flash of lightning, and draws the needle towards the north. Let us be con- tent to enjoy the sweet effect of that most subtle cause, which has baffled the acutest thinkers in their attempts to give it "a local habitation and a name." Lying, as it does, in the thought, we can no moi-e express it in words than we can assign a shape or colour to the human soul. It is the electric fluid of the soul, streaming always through the world of thought and speech and writing flash- ing out occasionally into grand thunder-bursts of song and the light- ge into a the first 1 adopting of invert- letro as to verse are our cost, •oductions all mauve se of un- gc above tig, as he his wife, ! sentinel describes ?h is the le as the pression) f the skf/, oor, or a IS, and it level of le metre e tropes Rambler iposition ssence — the lack le to de- rose, or flash of be con- licb has 'a local we can r colour reaming ^, flash- te light- BOME NOTES ON POETRY AND CRITICISM. IIP' 27o nlng play of true , .„. r genius. Some minds are highly charr^od with thP bnlhant ,,s,nc.--posiuve minds, an electrician would^c'irZm tZri ""'"'T '' '^' '''' ^'^'''- Some minds, as good con^ dQCtors, can easily receive and give out the flow of thou-Wif ve?v many have no conducting power at all, being incapable alike of en^ Zlr mfJdr"''' "' '''''''' " '^ -— -^-g those pleasures All poetry, as far as its form goes, may be classed, for purposes B rTfi ""'';/ •' '^''' heads -Epic, Dramatii, and Lydc Blair defines the epic poem to be " a recital of some illustdons enterprise m a poetic form." To this it may be added that Z epic poem IS generally composed in the highest form of verse that the prosody of the language possesses-in a word, in the L 4 measure of the tongue. Milton's - Paradise Lost » is undoubtedly he great^epic of the English tongue, founded upon one of the ofuest themes that could employ any pen, and written in that s ately blank verse, that ncble iambic pentameter, which holds the place m our tongue that is held in Greek and Latin by the hexa! meter of the " Iliad " and the " ^,, :xd." Dramatic poetry assumes the form that we commonly call a plav breaK:-^. into the two branches,-tragedy and comedy. We can easily single out a great example here among our English authors or one name-that of Shakespeare-stands far above the crow d of his brother dramatists. Without being at all strictly true, there is a good deal of sense in a familiar mode of distinguishing tragedy ny.'nZ^~^""'"^^'u^' ^ tragedy completes its plot^ith^hi death of the principal characters, while a comedy is sure to end in their marriage. The tragedy, like the epic poem, generally adopts he leading measure of the tongue; the language of prose betLr suits the lower level of comedy, which depicts the scenes of every- day life, rather than the great sufferings or great crimes that form the proper material for a tragic poem. A tragedy, in its usual form, contains five acts, each act consisting of a variable number of scenes The third, or central act, is the natural place for the crisis of the whole. Thus, m -Hamlet," the play-scene and the fencing-scene are so arranged that we have a central point as well as a final LT h'/r m''*; ^IV"" " -^"""^ ^^^^'■'" '^' '^^'•^'' ^t the Capitol and the battle of Phil.ppi are placed upon the same artistic prin- ciple. By writers of the artificial school much attention is paid to preserving the three unities of action, place, and time. The need of making all the incidents tend to one great centre of the plot, and thus preserving the unity of action, is very mauifest ; for 1 1 li r!^e^>«»g*=-- 27G SOME NOTES ON POETRY AND CRITICISM. II ! nothing is more confusing than the attempt to carry on several plots within the same play. But the need of sticking always to one place, and of confining the time supposed to pass in the dramatic story to the few hours actually spent in the representation of the play, does not so manifestly appear, when we find our greatest dramatist con- tinnally violating both of these unities, without in the least marring the effect of his magnificent creations. Of lyric poetry, which is cliiefiy composed of songs and short poems, such as might be set to music, the works of Robert Burns afford our finest example. Thomas Moore, too, in his " Irish Melodies," has given us some splendid lyrics ; but there is in these considerably more of the artificial than we find in the sweet fresh verses of the Ayrshire peasant. We have used the word " school " in speaking of poetry. It is applied, as well in literature as in art, to a set of men whose works are founded on a certain known principle, which appears in all as a distinctive feature. Thus we have that metaphysical or unnatural school, of which the poet Doune was head-boy ; we have the arti- ficial or French school, represented by Dryden and Pope; the transition school, of which Thomson, Gray, and Collins are good specimens ; the Lake school, deriving its name from the fact that its founders, TVordsworth, Southey, and Coleridge, lived for the most part among the lakes of northern England ; and the German school, of which Tennyson and Longfellow are the modern exemplars! These are the " schools" to which most frequent reference is made by critics. We close this rambling chapter with another note. Two meta- physical words, objective and subjective, have been much used of late in reference to the poetic treatment of a if eme. The former expresses chiefly the picturing of outward life, 3 perceived by the senses of the observer, or realized by his fancy : of this style, Scott is one of the greatest masters. The latter denotes that kind of poetry which gives, instead of the outward scene, the various thoughts and feelings excited by it in the poet's mind. For ex- ample, let a deserted house be the subject. The objective poet paints the moss-grown steps— the damp-stained walls— the gar- den tangling with a wilderness of weeds — the rusty hinges of the door— the broken or dirt-incrusted panes of the closed windows; while the subjective poet broods over the probable history of its scattered tenants, or, attracted by a solemn remembrance, conjures up the image of a human body— this house of clay we all inhabit —deserted by its immortal inmate— its eyes, *' those windows of the soul," closed and sealed up in the long sleep of death. )veral plots one place, tic story to play, does natist con- ,st marring and short bert Burns lis '* Irish is In these weet fresh ;ry. It is lose works in all as a unnatural the arti- *ope ; the are good at that its the most an school, ixemplars. ;e is made 'wo meta- h used of he former ed by the yle, Scott t kind of e various For ex- itive poet -the gar- es of the windows ; Dry of its conjures 11 inhabit ndows of EPIC POETRY AND THE ILIAD. 277 EPIC POETRY AND THE ILIAD. The Epic is the exclusive property of the Indo-European race. Other families of mankind have their songs and legends, but no other has eve.' achieved the feat of composing in verse a continuous narrative, a tale or epos. The Eastern branch of this race contri- butes the epics of India and Persia. Ancient Europe presents us with the Iliad of Greece and the uEneid of Rome. The Middle Ages were illumined in the regions of Spain and Germany by the pro- duction of the Cid and the lay of the Niebelungen. And Modern History furnishes us, from four widely different sources, with the great epics of Portugal, Italy, England, and France. All of these wo shall take up in turn. The first, however, to demand our atten- tion is that which has served as a model to at least five of its brethren, the renowned Iliad of the poet Horacjr. Homer is generally supposed to have lived between eight and nine hundred years before the Christian era. Seven Greek cities have claimed the honour of his birth-place. It appears, at any rate, that he was an Asiatic Greek, and many incline to the belief that Smyrna was his native place. Nothing definite is known of his history, and it has even been denied that the Iliad and Odyssey were the work of one man so called. Dr Schmitz says, — " The Trojan war is the noblest and most cele- brated of all the enterprises of the heroic age, and this renown it owes to the immortal poem of the Iliad, the work of Homer. Tlie story is briefly this: — Aphrodite, the goddess of Love, had promised to Paris, the son of Priam, kuig of Troy, the most beautiful wife, because he had adjudged to her the prize of beauty. This wife was no other than Helen, the daughter of Zeus and Leda, who was then married to Menelaus, king of Sparta, and brother of Agamemnon, king of Mycensc. Paris, when on a visit to Menelaus, violated the laws of hospitality by carrying off Helen with many treasures ; and the Trojans, when called upon to surrender her, refused to comply with the request. Such conduct called for revenge : all the chiefs of Greece, looking upon the outrage as committed against them, united, under the supreme command of Agamemiwn, for a common expedition against Troy. Although Agamemnon was the king of kings, swift-footed Achilles, the S( n of the goddess Thetis, surpassed him and all others in heroic courage and valour. In nearly twelve hundred ships, the heroes and their followers sailed across to the coast 0.' Asia, and besieged the city for a period of ten years. The 978 EPIC POETRY AND THE ILIAD. Trojans, among whom Hector, a son of Priam, was the chief cham- pion defended themselves manfully, and sometimes threatened the Greeks with destruction. This happened during the time when Achilles took no part in the contest, because he thought himself wronged by Agamemnon. The Trojans were assisted by anxillaries from various parts of Asia Miior, and even from the far distant east. The great gods also took part in the war, some favouring the w'^T ^''^'^^'\' *^« '^•'oja^s. But in the tenth year of the con- test, Troy fell through the well-known stratagem of the wooden horse, according to the common belief, in the year b.c. 1184 " Gaym Douglas the Eari of Surrey, Chapman, Pope, and Cowper, have translated the Il.ad into the English language ; the latest and most correct translation, however, is that of tha present Eari of Derby, from which the following extract, describing the meeting of Hector and Andromache is taken: — So spoke the ancient dame ; and Hector straight Ihrough the wide streets his rapid steps retraced. J3ut when at last the mighty city's length Was traversed, and the Scsean gates were reach'd. Whence was the outlet to the plain, in haste Kunning to meet him came his priceless wife, l^etion s daughter, fair Andromache ; Eetion, who from Thebes Cilicia sway'd, Thebes, at the foot of Placos* woody heights His child to Hector of the brazen helm Was given in marriage : she it was who now Met him, and by her side, the nurse who bore, Uasp d to her breast, his all unconscious child Hector's loved infant, fair as morning star ; Whom Hector called Scamandrius, but the rest Astyanax, in honour of his sire, The matchless chief, the only prop of Troy. Silent he smiled as on his boy he gazed : But at his side Andromache, in tears, Hung on his arm, and thus the chief address'd : • Dear lord, thy dauntless spirit will work thy doom • ^or hast thou pity on this thy helpless child, -On me foriorn, to be thy widow soon : Tor thee will all the Greeks with force combined Await and slay : for me 'twere better far, Of thee bereft, to lie beneath the sod ; Nor comfort shall be mine, if thou be lost, But endless grief ; to me nor sire is left, Nor honour'd mother ; fell Achilles' hand My sire Eetion rlew, what time his arms The populoijs city of Cilicia razed— The lofty-gated Thebes ; he slew indeed. But Btripp'd him not ; he reverenced the dead ; ief cliam- tened the me when t himself nxiliaries T distant uring the the con- I wooden '■ Cowper, atest and it Earl of eeting of THE ^NEID. And o'er his body, with his armour burnt, A mound erected ; and the mountain nymphs, The progeny of aegis-bearing Jove, Planted around his tomb a grove ot; elms. There were seven brethren in my father's house ; All in one day they fell, amid their herds And fleecy flocks, by fierce Achilles' hand. My mother, Quten of Placoa' wooded height, Brought with the captives here, he soon released For costly ransom ; but by Dian's shafts She, in her father's house, was stricken down. But, Hector, thou to me art all in one. Sire, mother, brethren ! thou my wedded love I Then, pitying us, within the tower remain, Nor make thy child an orphan, and thy wife A hapless widow ; by the fig-tree here Array thy troops ; for here the city wall, Easiest of access, most invites assault. Thrice have their boldest chiefs this point assail'd, The two Ajaces, brave Idomeneus, Th' Atridse both, and Tydeus' warlike son. Or by the prompting of some heaven-taught seer, Or by their own advent'rous courage led." To whom great Hector of the glancing helm : " Think not, dear wife, that by such thoughts as these My heart has ne'er been wrung ; but J should blush To face the men and long-robed dames of Troy, If, like a coward, I should shun the fight. Nor could my soul the lessons of my youth So far forget, whose boast it still has been In the fore-front of battle to be found, Charged with my father's glory and mine own. Yet in my inmost soul too well I know, The day must come, when this our sacred Troy, And Priam's race, and Priam's royal self, Shall in one common ruin be o'erthrown." 279 ■Ml ( ' THE ^NEID. In the great period of Roman literature, the Angnstan age, as it was called, after the first emperor of Rome, the poet Virgil emulated the verse of Homer, and supplied, from the materials afforded by popular legends and oral tradition concerning the early history of his race, an epic poem, which has survived the decay of his nation and language, and given to his name a just immortality. This great epic takes up the Homeric narrative from the siege of Troy, and proceeds to i elate the adventures of iEneas, the pious sou 280 THE iCNBID. ml of Venns and Anchiscs, and son-in-law of Priam, king of Troy, after the fall of that city. Bringing the Trojan exile, in the course of lii^ wanderings, to Italy, Virgil makes of him the father of the Latin race and the founder of the mighty empire, which, in the poet's day, was at its greatest height of prosperity. The following passage from Dryden'a translation of the second book contains. JSneas's account to Dido, queen of Carthage, of Hec- tor's apparition to himself after the Greeks had possessed themselves of Troy : — 'Twas in the den.d of night, whm sleep repairs Our bodies worn with toils, our minds with cares, Wlien Hector's ghost before my eight appears. A bloody shroud he seem'd, and bathed in tears ; Such as he was, when, by Peiides slain, Thessalian coursers dragg'd him o'er the plain, Swoln were his feet, as when the thongs were thrust Through the bored holes, his body black with dust ; Unlike that Hector, who re<-urn'd from toils Of war triumphant in iEacian spoils, Or him who made the fainting Greeks retire, And launch'd against their navy Phrygian fire. His hair and beard stood stiffcn'd with his gore And all the wounds he for his country bore Now stream'd afresh, and with new purple ran. I wept to see the visionary man. And, whi'e my trance continued, thus began :— " light of Trojans, and support of Troy, Thy father's champion, and thy country's joy f Oh, long expected by thy friends ! from whence Art thou so late i-eturn'd for our defence ? Do we behold thee wearied as we are With length of labours and with toils of war ? After so many funerals of thy own. Art thou restored to thy declining town ? But say, what wounds are these ? What new disgrace Deforms the manly features of thy face ? " To this the spectre no reply did frame. But answer'd to the cause for which he came. And, groaning from the bottom, of his breast, This- warning, in these mournful words, express'd : — " goddess born ! escape, by timely flight, The flames and horrors of this fatal night. The foes already have possess'd the wall ; Troy nods from high, and totters to her falL Enough is paid to Priams royal name- More than enough to duty and to fame. If by a mortal hand my father's throne Could be defended, 'twas by mine alone. Ill THE RAMAYANA. Now Troy to thee commends her future state. And gives her gods companions of thy fa*e : From their assistance happier walls expect, Which, wandering long, at last thou shalt erect." He said, and brought me from their blest abodes, The venerable statues of the gods, With ancient Vesta from the sacred choir, The wreaths and reliques of the immortal fire. 281 THE RAMAYANA. " The two great epics of India are the * Mahabharata,' or tale of the great rndian (Bharatan) race, and the ' Ramayana,' or history of the demigod Rama. These two poems, which comprise all the history, and half the mythology of India before the time of Alexander, are known to us only in forms which give no chie whatsoever to their date. They are, doubtless, late recensions of the earlier epics, and the language in which they have come down to us is that of a few centuries only before our own era. Yet there can be little doubt of their higher antiquity." Of these epics, the Ramayana is by far the grandest and most popular in India. It relates that Dasharatha, an ancient king of Oude, by the favour of the gods, was presented with two sons, Rama and Bharata. The mother of Bharata, jealous of Kanshalya, the favourite wife of the king, and mother of Rama, procures the banish- ment of the latter by urging upon Dasharatha an old promise which he had made her. " Refusal is impossible. Rama leaves the royal city of Oude, and the blow brings the old king's gray hairs with sorrow to the grave." The remainder of this long poem is occupied with the adventures, love, and heroic achievements of the hero Rama, and it ends with his conquering all his enemies and return- ing in triumph to his kingdom. " The most touching episode is the story which King Dasharatha relates to his favourite wife on hi& deathbed, to account by fatality for the misfortunes which have brought him low." It is thus translated in Griffith's " Ancient Indian Poetry " : — On the childless king smote sadly the rash deed his hfltid had dcnej Sorrowing spake he to kanshalya, sighing, weeping for her son, — "Surely each one reaps tlie harvest of his actions here below, Virtuous deed shall bear him blessing, sin shall ever bring forth woe ; For a deed of boyish rashness falls on me this evil day, As a young child tasting poison eats his death in heedless play. 'Twas the time of early summer, swelling my young soul with love, When the sun, the earth-dews gatl]fering, shone yet mildly from abovo ; P^ 282 THE RAiiAYANA. Balmy cool the air was breathing, welcome clouds wore floating by. * ro§8 and bees m merry gladneHs swell'd the joyous peacock's cry ; 1 heir wing-feathers wot with bathing, birds slow flying to the trees Kestecl in the topmost branches, fann'd by the soft summer breeze ; Like the great deep, niany twinkling, golci shot with gay peacock's sheen, Gleaming with the fallen rain-drops, sea-bright all the hilla were seen. With my bow, m that glad season, to Surayu forth I drove To assay my archer prowess in a dark and stately grove • There I lay in ambush, hoping that a deer might come to drink, Lordly elephant or tiger, hidden nigh the river's brink. Hark ! a sound of gurgling water fell at eve upon my ear, In the darkness, sight-defying, truly 'twas a sound of fear ! Eager to lay low the monster, forth a glittcri.ig shaft I drew ; Poison'd as fell serpent's venom, to the mark the arrow flew ; Then I heard a bitter wailing, and a voice, " Ah me ! ah me! " Of one wounded, falling, dying— calling out in agony, . A u*. ? on *•»« '>ttnk in anguish, with a plaintive voice cried he, Ah ! wherefore has this anow smitten a poor, harmless devotee? Hero at evo to fdl my pitcher, to a common stream came I ; In whose sight have I done evil ? by whose arrow do I die? Tis not my own death that pains me— from my aged parents torn. r,??g "^?,""/*'^y ^^^ ^^^y succour— 'tis for their sad fate I mourn. Who will feiB.l niy aged parents ? Heedless youth, whoe'er thou art. Thou hast muider'd father, mother, offspring, all with one fell dart ' When I heard that cry of anguish, struck with horror at the sound *rom my hand my dows and arrows quickly cast I on the ground • Kushing forward, mind-distracted, by the river's bank I spied Lying low, a young ascetic, with my shaft deep in his side, ' With his matted hair dishevell'd, and his pitcher fast away From his side the life-blood ebbing, smear'd with dast and gore he lay." • The dying man beseeches the king to inform his parents of his sad fate. Dasharatha does so, and in the following lines gives the father's expression of anguish, and denunciation of the cause of his misery : — '' Guiltless son by sinner murder'd, join thine own allotted band In the heaven of slaughter'd spirits, slain on earth by other's hand • Hasten to thy blissful mansion, welcomed shalt thou be by those ' Who fell nobly here in battle, with their bold front to their foes Thou Shalt dwell among those bless'd up in Indra's paradise. Who have risen by holy study, or by penance to the skies. No one of thy race and lineage shall for aye unhappy be But the wretch whose rash hand slew thee,— he shall sink to misery.' Duly were the sad rites ended, by the parents' loving care And once more the sage address'd me, as I stood a suppliant there — By thy hand am I bereaved of my only child, O king! Let the same hand slay the father, death no longer has a sting But-for thou hast slain my darling— cruel king! thy breast shall know bomethmg of the pangs I suffer, a bereaved father's woe ; Thus I lay my curse upon thee, for this thing that thou hast done As I mourn for my beloved, thou shalt sorrow for a son.' Thus the childless hermit cursed me, and straightway the aged pair by, ry; ree« eze; :'h sheen, 9 seen. THE "shah IfAMEIl.* ?« I*''? I»?«"»^ Pjlo ascended, and breathed out their spirit* th«r« And at midnight the old king died. 283 e? m, I. art, Jart, ' md, •^ » he lay." nts of his gives the ise of his nd; 3ery.' re,— 11 know le, )air THE " SHAH NAMEH." Adapted from "Chambers's Repository." began to declme, and many of the finest provinces of the Moslem Emp.re were erected into independent states, the arts of tCnc^ revived in Persia, the language was restored, and there wa hard y a prince or governor of a city who had not poets and literati in his ^a.n. One of the most distinguished of these patrons of letters was Mahmood sultan of Ghizna. To this favoured seat of the Mu es repaired the pea ^nt Ferdusi, conscious of high poetic talent? and burning for an opportunity of distinguishing himself. His numer- ous rivals were obliged to stand aside ; and to him the sultan cori- mitted the execution of a long cherished prqject-the composit^oi 1 11 the Moslem conquest. A mass of materials, consisting of oral trad tions collected by a previous poet, and, it is said, of some written records which had escaped the mandate of Omar were tfui '* T^' fT'^' ^"^^^' '^^"'"^ ^^^ *° ^' ^ ^*'"«'' foi' every "St^t \f^ r."?''^ *^'''^ ^'^''' *^^ ^°'J^' entitled the taHtv of ^H lucuded 60,000 distichs, and secured the immor- tahty of Ferdusi as the Homer of Persia. The following line?, in which Sam, one of the heroes of the epic, relates the particulars of a conflict with human foes, are con- t:tatonhrGr;:kU'd^r^ "^''''''"^^ power nttle inferior mighty king, when first the foe we view'd We saw a people vigoroug and rude ; ' JNot hong, who in lonely forests stray, Not prowling tigers, are so fierce as they • And nothing can their power of flight exceed— .Not even of Araby the generous steed, Of our approach, when first the rumour spread, 1 heir state was seized with universal dread • in evei-y house and tower dismay appear'd. And only lamentable groans were heard, At length their bands in martial order pass, I heir helmets shining with resplendent brass. IIIJ 284 THE " SHAH NAMEH, Part in a vale, part on a mount were seen, And part were stretcli'd along th' extensive green, With dreadful spears ! The dust that o'er them came Obscured the glories of the solar beam f So seem black ants, when studiously they fill With stores of gather'd corn the sandy hill ; Or as a multitude of gnats appear With restless buzzing, grating to the ear — So burst they forward ! Cercius led them on. Grandson of Salmus, he the foremost shone; Upon the mountain height, the cypress-tree, Or lofty pine, not taller was than he ! My Persians trembled as he canu apace ; A sudden paleness spread o'er every face. This I observed, and, brandishing my lance, Heading my men, commanded their advance. My horbc flew forward, senseless of the reins, Like a wild elephant on Ethiop's plains. 'Twas then returning ardour fired each so«l; *Twas then my troops rush'd on to glory's goal. As seems the rising and the falling Nile, Which makes the parsimonious farmer smile, Whene'er the ground of fat manure receives^ As the flood rolls in undulating wares — So seem'd the cover'd far-extending plain ; That moving army seem'd a floating main. The noise in motion of our clattering arms, The wary ears of Cercius soon- alarms. With CiUmour great he took a circling course. Seeming at me alone to turn his horae.' He hoped to load me with a captive chain, Or in my gore his flaming sabre stain. Fruitless attempt ! My bow I, aiming, beat. And many a life-destroying arrow sent. Like fire I saw my missile weapons fly. Or like the lambent lightning in the sky. Approaching, he of our delay complains, Menacing death, or more ignoble chains ; But like a boisterous whirlwind when we dosed, Shield was to shield, and helm to helm opposed. Just as he vose to aim a deadly blow, I nimbly chp -ged on the gigantic foe, With skill superior gave a powerful wound. Where studs of pearls his glittering sword-belt bound ; Aad then, exerting my collected force, I tore the chieftain from his foaming horse ! Prostrate he falls — his ponderous arms resound, While he, with madness raging, bites the ground; Then in his snowv breasti mv sword transfis'd— ■ The flowing crimson with the herbage mix'd ; I saw the last expiring gasp he made, Gliding unb .ppy to the sombre shade. TUE NIEBELUNGEN LIED. 285 Their generaj alain, the foe without delay- Took flight— nor rocjts nor hills impede their way, Joy for our conquest througli all Persia runs, While sad Hyrcania mourns her slaughter'd sons. best of kings ! v/hf^ie power is firmly laid. Who touch'st the stars with thy exalted head, Thus shall they fall who dare to disobey Thy sovereign mandate and imperial sway ! THE NIEBELUNGEN LIED. Adapted from Gostick's " German Literature." The Niebeluiigen Lied, or song, is the national epic of the Germans, first rescued from oblivion in the twelfth century. The following- is a sketch of the plot :— A young prince of Burgundy, named Siegfried, having overcome the race of the Niebelungen in battle, and possessed himself of their vast treasures in gold and gems, married Kriemhilde, a beautiful princess, the sister of Gunther, king of Burgundy. The wife of King Gunther, having some secret cause of enmity against Siegfried, treacherously procures his death at the hands of Hagen, her husband's most noted warrior. Thirteen years afterwards, the widowed Ea-iemhilde retires from Burgundy, and marries Etzel, or Attila, king of the Huns, in order to avenge her murdered Siegfried. To carry out her project of revenge, she invites the Burgundian king and his court to visit Attila's dominions beyond the Danube. After many misfortunes nnd prophetic warnings, the party arrives, and is richly entertained, but, in the midst of the festivities, the queen persuades her knights to attack the Burgundians. A dreadful and sanguinary contest follows, in which the two brothers of the king, and the whole of the Burgundian party, except himself and Hagen, who had buried Siegfried's treasure in the Rhine, perished. Dietrich of Berne, the chief of Etzel's warriors, now summons the Burgundian king and his hero to surrender ; but they answer with scorn, although exhausted and almost fainting. Dietrich challenges each of them to single combat, overcomes them, and binds them fast, wishing to spare their lives. When he leads his prisoners to the queen, he earnestly entreats her to let them live. The following is the con- elusion of the poem : — The queen went first to Hagen, and look'd on him with hate ; " Receive ray terms at once," said she, " before it is too late. i^i! Si If' V ■ » Jl .. ■■ms^m^ i: m i I 111! J i 28G " THE cm." My Niebelungon treasure to me at k.st restore, Then Gunther and yourself may see fair Burgundy once more." Then spoke the fearless Hagen, " Your talking is in vain ; For I have sworn that buried deep your treasure shall remain, "While one of Gunther's family still lives to claim the throne ; So cease to ask— do what you will — my secret is my own." Then turning to a follower Queen Kriemhilde bade him go To the cell where Ganther lay and strike the fatal blow ; And Hagen cried with sorrow when he saw the servant bring The head of Kriemhilde's brother, the brave Burgundian king. He look'd on it a moment, then with bitterness he said, ** Gunther, Gemot, and Giselher, thy brothers all, are dead ; But never shalt thou know, destroyer of tby race, What I alone can tell, thy treasure's hiding-place." " Then be it so," said Kriemhilde ; " you have at last restored To me one costly treasure, my Siegfried's noble sword." She drew it from its scabbard, struck off the hero's head, And Etzel cried aloud to see the mighty Hagen dead. " Without revenge he shall not die," said ancient Hildebraixd " I will not see a hero fall beneath a woman's hand." He drew his sword against the ()ueen, and smote her in the side. So Kriemhilde fell beneath the blow, and, 'mid her kinsmen, died. Thus vainly was the life-blood of many heroes shed ; Dietrich and Etzel, left alone, lamented o'er the dead ; And in dismal wailings ended the banquet of the king : Thus love doth evermore its dole and sorroi;^ bring. I cannot tell you more — how, when the news was spread. Fair ladies, knights and squires, were weeping for the dead : What afterwards befell, 'tis not my task to say, For here my story ends— the Niebelungeu lay. "THE CID." TiiL second of tlio, mediscval epics is the poem of "The Cid," it hav- ing been composed about the middle of the twelfth century. The subject of this poem is Kuy or Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, the great Christian champion of Spain against the Moors, in the eleventh century. He gained his surname of " The Old " from the Moorish title " Es Sayd," (the lord,) applied to him by five generals whom narrations of great interest, concerning the early periods of Spanisli iiistory, and the life of the hero whom it celebrates. lore. rne ; mg king. i; ored iikd le side, len, died. id: id," it hav- IT- I Bivar, the he eleventh he Moorish nals whom of Spanish IE cm." 287 The accompanyiug pas. from Southey's " Chronicle of th*. Cid, describes the challei offered hv Pp,.^ ^^^onme ot the relation of Rodrigo, to the iafantet or cLntrof^cIlT^LI^ ^an^Sth? 7' 't' ""''r ^'-^ ^'^^ parties in di^puS"'' ' If [ Khn?,?l ^""^"^^^^ ^Plv, if thou wouldst do them ri^ht • Pe/.r S. "■''" '"^ 'P'^^' ^'^'^^ *^''^"«t n«t hope to figS -'^ ' Peter Bermuez rose, somewhat he had to sav, ^ Ihe jvords were strangled in his throat, they could not iind their " Cifr-iw5n '^"'' u ?"'?' ^^*^°"* ^ «top or stay : Old, . 1 tell you >v^at, this always is your way i You ve always served me thus ; wjienever we 1 ave come To mee here an the Cortes, you call me Peter he Dumb I cannot help my nature ; I never talk nor rail But when a thing is to be done, you know I never fail Fernando you have lied, you ha^^ lied Teve^-y woi5 You have been honour'd by the Cid, and favouf'd ami nreferr'd Iknow of all your tricks, and can tell them to your face I gave you up his arms and all that was my due. ^ ' Lp to tl s very hour I never said a word ^hou ongue without a hand, how can you dare to speak ? There -s the story of the lion, should never be forgot Now, let us hear, Fernando, what answer you 1 avf got ? 'Ihe Cid was sleep ng in his chair wifh nlli.; . iT • v? ' Till the good Cid awoke ; he rose without alarm • ' He went to meet the lion, with his mantle on his arm • a he lion was abash'd the noble Cid to meet, ' tLcTA .1^°''^ f ^"^*^ ^^'^ ^^^-t^' 1"^ "i"z^le at his feet. The Cid by the neck and mane drew hira to his den He thrust him m the hutch and came out to the hril a^^ain • He asTd for'i'f •''' ^'^ ''''f'' ^"d ''' '-' ^^Jiant men ; ' 1 A^e.r . / — — v« --'v..o-in-iau-, and neither one was there 1 defy you for a coward, and a traitor as you are : J or the daughters of the Cid, you have done theni great unright, • mn I ^ ^^i i I li^. I 288 " THE LU8IAD." i ' >. In the wrong that they have suflfer'd, you stand dishonour'd quite. Although they are but women, and each of you a knight, I hold them worthier far, and here my word I plight, Before the king, Alfonso, upon this plea to fight ; If it be Ood his will, before the battle part Thou shalt avow it with thy mouth, like a traitor as thou art." THE LUSIAD. T i! Tnia epic is die production of Camocns, a Portngnese nobleman, and distinguished mariner. It was written in the latter half of the sixteenth century. " It appears to have been the object of the author to produce a work altogether national. It was the exploits of his fellow-coun- trymen that he undertook to celebrate. But though the great object of the poem is the recital of the Portuguese conquests in the Indies, the author has very happily succeeded in embracing all the Illustri- ous actions performed by his compatriots in other quarters of the world, together with whatever of splendid and heroic achievement, historical narration, or popular fables could supply." In the fullowing lines, the translator, Mickle, elegantly renders Camoens's description of the appalling vision that met the eyes of Vasco de Gama on rounding the Cape of Good Hope : — I spoke, when rising through the darken'd air, Appall'd we saw a hideous phantom glare ; High and enormous o'er the flood he tower'd, And thwart our way with sullen aspect lower'd ; An earthly paleness o'er his cheeks was spread, Erect up rose his hairs of wither'd red ; Writhing to speak, his sable lips disclose, Sharp and disjoin'd, his gnashing teeth's blue rows ; His haggard beard flow'd quivering on the wind, Eevenge and horror in his mien combined ; His clouded front, by withering lightnings scared, The inward anguish of his soul declared. His red eyes glowing from their dtisky caves Shot livid fires. Far echoing o'er the waves His voice resounded, as the cavern'd shore With hollow groan repeats the tempest's roar. Cold gliding horrors thrill'd the hero's breast ; Our bristling hair and tottering knees confess'd Wild dread ; the while with visage ghastly wan, His black lips trembling, thus the fiend began : " you, the boldest of the nations, fired By daring pride, by lust of fame inspired, d quite. art.' nobleman, half of the produce a ;llow-coun- jreat object the Indies, the Illustri- rters of the jhievement, itly renders the eyes of a; THE " JERUSALEM DELIVERED." Who, scornful of the bowers of sweet repose, Through these, my waves, advance your fearless prows. Regardless of the lengthening watery way, And ail the storms that own my sovereign sway, Who, 'mid surrounding rocks and shelves, explore Where never hero braved my rage before ; Ye sons of Lusus, who, with eyes profane, Have view'd the secrets of my awful reign. Have pass'd the bounds which jealous Nature drew To veil her secret shrine from mortal view. Hear from my lips what direful woes attend. And bursting soon, shall o'er your race descend. " With every bounding keel that dares my rage. Eternal war my rocks and storms shall wage ; The next proud fleet that through my drear domain. With daring search shall hoist the streaming vajie, That gallant navy, by my whirlwinds toss'd. And raging seas, shall perish on my coast : Then he who first my secret reign descried, A naked corse wide floating o'er tlie tide Shall drive. Unless my heart's full raptures fail, O Lusus ! oft shalt thou thy children wail ; Each year thy shipwreck'd sons shalt thou denloro. Each year thy sheeted masts shall strew my shore," ' * • • ■ • , He spoke, and deep a lengthen'd sigh he drew, A doleful sound, and vanish'd from the view ; The frighten'd billows gave a rolling swell. And distant far prolong'd the dismal yell ; Faint and more faint the howling echoes die, And the black cloud dispersing leaves the sky. High to the angel host whose guardian care Had ever round us watch'd, my hands I rear, And heaven's dread King implore. As o'er our head The fiend dissolved, an empty shadow, fled ; So may his curses by the winds of heaven Far o'er the deep, their idle sport, be driven ! 289 I ■ THE 'JERUSALEM DELIVERED." SiSMONDi's " Literature of the South of Europe.' While men of the first reputation in Italy failed in the gigantic enterprise of producing a,- .. -Ig poem, a young man of twenty-one voar.s of afp. sf.nrrplv known hv a vr>mQnf{f> nnntr> fr,\]r>,i ii T>:,.n\,\f " commenced writing at the court of Forrara, whither he had been lately invited, that "Jerusalem Delivered," which has placed its author T ,,.«v^«m4mpm 290 THE " JERUSALEM DELIVERED." 5 'I i: il li P! by the side of Homer and V-rgil, and has elevated him, perhaps above all modern poets. Torquato Tasso, whose misfortunes equalled his glory, devoted sixteen years to the composition of this poem of which seven editions appeared in the same year, (1580.) almost all without the concurrence of the author. ^ TLo merit of Tasso consists in his having chosen the most engag- mg subject that could have inspired a modern poet. History pre- sents us with the ren.arkable fact of a mighty contest between the people who were destined to exalt the human race to its highest pitch of civilisation, and those who would have reduced it to the most degrading barbarism. This was the struggle between the Christians and Saracens during the wars of the Crusades. The twelfth canto is considered to be the most beautiful in the whole work, the central figures being Clarinda, the heroine of the fcaracenic army, and Tanered, a renowned Christian warrior. The combat between the two lovers, who do not recognise each other under the shades of night, is the masterpiece of Tasso. The combat itself is painted with matchless force of colouring. But when Cla- rinda is mortally wounded by her lover, the pathetic attains its greatest height, and poetry has nothing to offer more affecting. But lo ! the fated moment now was come, The moment, charter'd with Clarinda's doom : Great Tancred's sword her beauteous bosom tore • Deep lodged the greedy blade, and drank her virgin gore : Her robe, of golden tissue, that represt Th' ambitious heavings of her snowy breast ' With the warm stream was fill'd ; cold death assail'd Her bloodless frame ; her languid footsteps fail'd : Tanered with threats the falling fair pursues. His conquest urges, and his blows renews. She raises, as she fulls, her voice of woe. And from her lips life's latest accents flow, Th' infusion of the Spirit from on high- Spirit of Faith, of Hope, of Charity ! New virtue, by th' Alminhty Father given ; For, if in life she spurn'd the laws of heaven. He wiU'd, at leasts that in her dying hour , Her contrite soul should own her Saviour's power, "Friend, I am conquer'd ; thou hast pardon free, And pardon I demand in death from ihee ; Not on this frame, which no base fear can know, Bat on my parting spirit mercy show : Tis for my sinful soul I bid thee pray ; Let ntes baptismal wash my guilt away,'' From her pale lips these languid words that fell- Such sweetness breathed, divine, ineffable. V ii im, perhaps, ines equalled his poem, of 80,) almost most engag- Hlstory pre- between the its highest id it to the )etween the 3. itiful ia the oine of the irrior. The each other The combat when Cla- attains its ecling. THE " PAEADISE LOST." As to the hero's heart resistless crept ; His enmity was hush'd, his anger slept, And straight, compeird by some mysterious force, Unbidden tears gush'd copious from their source. Emerging from the hill, a scanty brook, Not far remote, its murmuring progress took : Thither the soul-struck warrior ran, to fill His hollow helmet at the limpid rill, Then hasten'd to perform the sad demand ; Some conscious instinct shook his trembling hand, As from her face, till now unknown, he drew The helm that cover'^d it ; he saw, he knew :— All power of speech— of motion— then was gone ; Ah ! cruel sight ! ah ! knowledge, but unknown ! Nor yet he died ; in that momentous hour. Collecting all the remnant of his power, Deep in his soul his sorrows he supprest, And for the solemn office arm'd his breast, That she whom late his murderous steel had slain, By water's saving power might live again. As from his tongue Salvation's accents came, New jcy transform 'd the virgin's dying frame, A smile of gladness o'er her features pass'd. And, sweetly tranquil as she breathed her last, She seem"d to say, " Earth's vain delusions cease ; Heaven opens o» my eyes ; I part in peace." an gore THE "PARADISE LOST.'* This immortal poem, the greatest of all epics, ancient or modern, whether we regard the grandeur and sublimity of its subject, or the beauty and completeness of its execution, is one of the highest contributions which the English language has made to the Kepublic of Letters. Its composition occupied some of the later years of Its blind and infirm author, the now world- renowned but then much neglected John Milton. It was published in 1665, a few years after the restoration of the unworthy Charles II. The subject of the poem is thus stated by the poet himself, in his invocation to the Muse ; Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste Brought death unto the world, and all our woe, With loss of Eden, till one greater Man Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, Sing heavenly Muse. The following lines from the opening of the sixth book contain part of Raphael's account to Adam of the arrival of the unfallon 292 THE " PARADISE LOST." i Ki! ,;:! :i seraph, Abdiel, at the highest Heaven or Mount of God, after the defection of Satan and his angels. All night the dreadless angel, unpursued, Through Heaven's wide champaign held hia way; till morn, Waked by the circling hours, with rosy hand Unbarr'd the gates of light. There is a cave Within the mount of God, fast by His throne, Where light and darkness in perpetual round Lodge and dislodge by turns, which makes through heaven Grateful vicissitudes like day and night ; Light issues forth, and at the other door Obsequious darkness enters, till her hour To veil the heaven, though darkness there might well Seem twilight here; and now went forth the morn. Such as in highest heaven, array 'd in gold Empyreal ; from before her vanish'd night, Shot through with orient bPams ; when all the plain, Cover'd with thick embattled squadrons bright^ Chariots and flaming arms, and fiery steeds, Beflecling blaze on blaze, first met his view : War he perceived, war in procinct, and found Already known what he for news had thought To have reported : gladly then he mix'd Among those friendly powers, who him received With joy and acclamations loud, that one. That of so many myriads fallen, yet one Return'd not lost. On to the sacred hill They led him high applauded, and present Before the seat supreme ; from whence a voice. From midst a golden cloud thus mild was heard : " Servant of God, well done ! well hast thou fought The beticr fight, Avho single hast maintained Against revolted multitudes the cause Of truth, in word mightier than they in arms; And for the testimony of truth hast borne Universal reproach far more to bear Than violence ; for this Mas all thy care. To stand approved in sight of God, though worlds Judged thee perverse : the easier conquest now Remains thee, aided by this host of friends. Back on thy foes more glorious to return Than scorn'd thou didst depart ; and to subdue By force, who reason for their law refuse ; Right reason for their law, and for their King Messiah, who by right of merit reigns. Go, Michael, of celestial armies prince, And thou in military prowess next, Gabriel. lead forth to battle these mv sons Invincible, lead forth my armed saints" By thousands and by millions ranged for fi<»ht The! Henr or Tj the L the ic brate. and I feeble not h of th( follo^^ of th( son, J THE HENRIADE. Equal in number to that godless crew Rebellious; then with fire and hostile arms Fearless assault, and to the brow of Heaven Pursuing, drive them out from God and bliss Into their place of punishment, the gulf Of Tartarus, which ready opens wide, His fiery chaos to receive their fall." 293 THE HENRIADE. The latest, and, by far, the weakest of modern national epics is the Henrlade of Voltaire. It derives its name— as the Iliad from Ilium or Troy, the .Eneid from the h-^ro ^neas, and the Lusiad from the Lusiados or Portuguese peopIe--from the good King Henri IV the idol of the French monarchy, whose deeds it professes to cele- brate. Although, like the great epics of Rome and Portugal, Italy and England, it is framed after the model of the Iliad, it is but a feeble and artificial imitation of Homer's immortal poem, and would not have survived to posterity had it not been the only composition of the kind which French literature has to boast. The extract that follows is from the eighth canto, and paints the horrors of the War of the League, as displayed in the combat between D'Ailly and his son, at the battle of Ivry. Terror and death on all sides D'Ailly bore, D'Ailly, renown'd in thirty years of war, Who, 'mid the horrors of this civil strife. Despite his age, new valour brings to life. One warrior only to his threatening blows, A youthful hero, dares his strength oppose, Who, on this memorable, bloody day, The dread career of arms did first essay. ' • • • Tiirough flaming whirlwinds, clouds of dust and smoke Where D'Ailly raged, his warlike fury broke, ' . O'er wounded, dead and dying, now they speed, Each warrior urging on his foaming steed ; Far from the ranks, they dart across the plain. Where clotted gore has left its deadly stain ; Bloody, and clad in steel., with lance in rest, In direful shock, each strikes his foeman's breast • Earth trembles while the spears in splinters fly ■ ' As two dark clouds that, in a sultry sky, ' Bearing within thunder and death combined, Clash in the heavens and flv upon the wind, ii'^ i 1 ft 294 THE DRAMA. :l! i$ :■ I f; Prom whose dread union vivid lightnings break. The thunderbolt is form'd, and mortals qualce — Quick leaping from their steeds, scarce taking breath. These hapless warriors seek another death. Now gleams in either hand the trenchant blade — There Discord ran — nor War's fierce demon stayed. Death, pale and bloody — in the strife they close — Infatuates, suspend your headstrong blows !— . But fatal courage arms them for the fray ; To other's heart each seeks the nearest way, That foeman's heart which neither warrior knows. Their glittering armour shines with frequent blows. On either breastplate mimic lightnings tlash, And blood spouts forth from many a fearful gash : Helmet and buckler, with defensive power Meeting the steel, delay the fatal hour ; Amazed at such resistance, each admires His rival's heart that glows with valorous firea At length, the veteran D'Ailly, by a blow, Lays at his feet his young and generous foe. His eyes are closed for ever to the day ; Prone in the dust, his helmet rolls away ; D'Ailly beholds his face — wretch, undone f He folds him in his arms — alas ! his only son. THE DRAMA. The drama is not the exclusive possession, or even the invention, of any one race. The natural love of imitation has given birth to it in lands widely separated from each other. The ancient Indians and Chinese, the Peruvians even, originated the drama as well as the Greeks, although the latter people first brought it to any degree of perfection. The origin of the Grecian drama may be traced back to a period far beyond that at which authentic history begins. It arose out of the annual festivals in honour of Bacchny, celebrated in the Doric states of Greece. At first the rustic singers at these fes- tivals sang their own rude and extemporaneous verses. Subse- quently poets were employed to prepare parts and choruses which were committed to memory by the worsliippers, or revellers, as they might more appropriately be termed. To the primitive chorus and dance succeeded the recitative and dialogue, ascribed to Thespis, a native of Attica, who lived in the sixth ceniury before the Christian era; then followed the use of a separate edifice for dramatic repre- sentations, and the employment of costumes and scenery. In this gradual manner did the dramatic art rise from small beginnings to SCENE FROM " PROMETHEUS CIIAMED." 29J ih. the pitch of perfection which we behold la the tragedies of JEschylua, Sophocles, and Euripides, and the comedies of Aristophanes and Menander. . The Iloman drama was a mere copy of that of Greece, and never attained among that ruder anJ more practical people the same de- gree of popularity as their gladiatorial shows. Plautus, Terence, and Seneca, are the most notable of Latin dramatic authors. Modern dramatic poetry had its origin in the Mysteries and Mo- ralities first introduced into Europe by pilgrims from the Holy Land. The Mysteries were exhibitions of Scripture scenes and events, the parts being frequently performed by ecclesiastics, and often abound- ing in the greatest bla8j)hemie3 and absurdities. The Moralities were allegorical dramas, in wliich virtues and vices were personified and brought upcai the stage, for the amusement of a barbarous and easily satisfied audience. Mysteries and Moralities were acted in England as late as the sixteenth century, under the tifles of Miracle Plays and Moral PJays ; in France, and especially in Germany, they held sway till a much later period. From such feeble beginnings has arisen the dramatic literature of modern Europe, boasting such names as Shakespeare and Calderon, Moli6re, Schiller, and Alfieri, names with which those of antiquity will hardly beai' comparison. I'm invention, of n birth to it lent Indians la as well as ) any degree traced back begins. It celebrated In at these fes- ics. Subse- )ruses which lers, as they chorus and Thespis, a he Christian matic renrc- ry. In this cginnings to SCENE FROM "PROMETHEUS CHAINED." ^SOHTLUS ; the greatest of Greek dramatists, a native Athenian, and one of the heroes of Marathon : B.C. 525-456. In this dnama, in many respects the grandest production of ^schylus, the subject is Prometheus, punished for liaving been the benefactor of men in stealing for them fire from the skies. Chorus. Speak now, and let us know the whole offence Jove charges thee withal ; for which he seized, And with dishonour and dire insult loads thee. Unfold the tale ; unless, perhaps, such .sorrow Irks thee to tell. PromeAheus. To tell or not to tell Irks me the same ; which way I turn is pain. When first the i;ods their fatal strife began. And insurrection raged in heaven— some striving To cast old Kronos from his hoary throne, That Jove might reign, and others to crush i' the bud His swelling mastery — I wise counsel gave 10 tmc »- itanSj sons Ot priinai iiGaven anu c^rtui But gave in vain. Their dauntless, stubborn souls Spurn'd gentle ways, and patient- working wills, I., v^n r 1 1 1 ■: r . I li 20G SUENE FROM ** PROMETHEUS CHAINED." Wecnini,' awift triumph with a blow. But mc, My mother, ThemiH, not once, but oft, and earth (One sliape of various names) prophetic tohl That violence and rude strength in such a strife Were vain— craft haply might prevail. This lesson I taught the haughty Titans, but they deign'd, Scarce with contempt, to hear my prudent words. Thus bafHed in my plans, I .ieemed it best, As things then were, leagued with my mother, Tliomi:^, To accept Jove's profrer'd friendship. By my counsels From his primeval throne was Kronoa hurl'd Into the pit Tartarean, dark, profound. With all his troop of friends. Such was the kindness From mo received by him who now doth hold The maatcrdom of heaven ; these the rewards Of my great zeal : for so it hath been ever, Suspicion 's a disease that cleaves to tyrants, And they who love most are the first suspected. ' As for your question, for what present fault I bear the wrong that now afflicts me, hear. Soon as he sat on his ancestral throne lie called the gods together, and assign'd To each his fair allotment, and his sphere Of sway supreme; but, ah ! for wretched man ! To him nor part nor portion fell : Jove vow'd To blot his memory from the earth, and mould The race anew, I only of the gods Thwarted his will ; and but for my strong aid. Hades had whelra'd, and hopeless'^ruin swamp'd All men that brc-ithe. Such were my crimes; these pains Grievous to suffer, pitiful to behold. Were purchased tlius ; and mercy's now denied To him whose crime was mercy "to mankind : And here 1 lie, in cunning torment stretch'd, A spectacle inglorious to Jove, Chor. An iron heart were his, and flinty hard. Who on thy woes could look without a tear, Prometheus ; I had liefer not so seen thee^ And seeing thee, fain would call my eyesight liar. Pro. Certes no sight am I for friends to look on. Cho7\ Was this thy sole oflience ? xr"^'!^'* r. ,, I taught ivea! mortals I^ot to foresee harm, and forestall the faL.;i. Chor. A sore disease to anticipate mischance : How didst thou cure it ? _ ^f<^- Blind hopes of good I In their dark breasts, _ (^^^^^^- That was a boon, indeed. To ephemeral man, ^' ^- , Nay, more, I gave them fire, ^.lor. Ann flame-faced fire is now enjoy a by mortals Pro. Enjoy'd, and of all acts the destined m'other. planted FROM " THE BRAGGART CAPTAIN." 297 CJior. AniV8; I come to bury Caesar, not to prcme him. The evil that men do, lives after them ; The goo.' is oft interr'd with their bones ; So let it be with Cajsar. The noble Brutus Hath told you, Cassar was ambitious ;. If it were so, it was a grievous fault ;. And grievously 1. xth Csesur answer'd it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, (For Brutus is an honourable manj So are they all, all honourable men ;)■ Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me : But Brutus says, he was ambitious : And Brutus is an honourable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : Did this in Caesar seem ambitious ? When that the poor have cried, Csesar hath wept : Ambition should be made of sterner stuff! Yet Brutus says, he wSl; ambitious : And Brutus is an honourable man. You all did see, that on ihe Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition ? Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious ; And, surCj he is an honourable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once — not without cause ; What cause withholds you then to mourn for him i O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason !— Bear with me ; My heart is in the coffin there with Ceesar, And I must pause till it come back to me. 1st Cit. Methinks there is much reason in his sayings. 2d Cit. Poor soul ! his eyes are red as fire with weeping. Zd Cit. There 's not a nobler man in Rome than Antony. ith Cit. Now mark him, he begins again to speak. Ant. But yesterday, the word of Coesar might Have stood against the world : now lies he there, And none so poor as do him reverence. mastcs ! if I were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honourable men : 1 "'ill nou cio them wrong ; j. rat-ner ciiooso To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you, Than I will wrong such honourable men, [Exit, FROM "JULIUS CiESAR." 301 But here's a parchment, with the seal of Casar, 1 found it in his closet ; 'tis his will : Let but the commons hear this testament, (Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read ) And they would go and kiss dead Ctesar's wounds. And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ; Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And, dying, mention it within (heir wills, Bequeathing it as a rich legacy Unto their issue. ithCit We '11 hear the will. Read it, Mark Antony. _^nt. You will compel me then to read the will? Then make a ring about the corpse of Csesar, And let mc show you him that made the will, bhall I descend ? And will you give me leave « Cit. Stand back ! room ! bear back ! Ant. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. i ou all do know this mantle : I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on ; 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent, That day he overcame the Nervii ;— Look ! in this place ran Cassius's dagger through • bee ! what a rent the envious Casca made : Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd ; And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away Mark how the blood of Cajsar followed it. As rushing out of doors, to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no ; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's' angel : Judge, O ye gods, how dearly Ca)sar loved him • This was the most unkindest cut of all : For, when the noble Csesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, Quite vanquish'd him : then burst his mighty heart- And, in his mantle muflaing up his face, ' Even at the base of Pompey's statue. Which all the while ran blood, great Csesar fell. Oh, what a fall was thero, my countrymen ! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, While bloody treason flourish'd over us. Oh ! now you weep ; and, I perceive, you feel The dint of pity : these are gracious drops. Kind souls, what, weep you, when you but behold Our Csesar's vesture wounded ? Look you here, Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, by 'traitors.' Ist Cit. Oh piteous spectacle ! 2d Cit We will be revenged: revenge; about-seek-burn- hre— kill— slay .'—let not a traitor live. Ant Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir vou up To suen a Hudden flood of mntin", They that have done this deed are honourable • What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, ' fin; J ; 302 PBOM " THE MERCHANT OP VENICE." That made them do it ; they are wise and honourable, And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts; I am no orator, as Brutus is : But, as you know me all, a plain, blunt man, That loved my friend, and that they know full well That gave me public leav^e to speak of him. For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood : I only speak right on ; I tell you that which you yourselves do know ; Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for mc : But were I Brutufii, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony- Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Cscsar, that should move The stones of Eome to rise and mutiny. TRIAL SCENE FROM THE "MERCHANT OF VENICE." Shaicespeare. Duke. Give me your hand. Came you from old Bellario ? Portia. I did, my lord. Duke. You are M'elcome : take your place. Are you acquainted with the difference That holds this present question in the court? Por. I am informed thoroughly of the cause. Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew ? Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. Por. Is thy name Shylock ? Shylock. Shylock is my name. Por. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow ; Yet in such rule, that the Venetian law Can not impugn you as you do proceed. You stand within his danger, do you not. Antonio. Ay, bo he says. Por. Do you confess the bond ? Ant. I do. Por. Then must the Jew be merciful. Shy. On what compuhion must I ? tell me that. Por. The quality of mercy is not strainM ; It droppcth .1.8 the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath ; it is twice bless'd ; It blesscth him that gives, and him that takes. 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest. It becomes The throned monarch better than his crown : His sceptre shows the force of temporal power. The iittriliute to awo and mnjosty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings. But mercy is above this sceptred sway ; !.«?. FROM " THE MEKCHANT 02" VENICE." It is enthroned in the hearts of kings; It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God's When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this— That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ; jAnd that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy, I have spoke thus much To mitigate the justice of thy plea, Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. Shy. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law. The penalty and forfeit of my bond. Por. Is he not able to discharge the money ? Bassanio. Yes, here I tender it for him iu the court ; Yea, twice the sum. If that will not suffice, I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart. If this will not suffice, it must appear That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you, Wrest once the law to your authority : To do a great right, or a little wrong, And curb this cruel devil of his will. Por. It must not be ; there 's no power in Venice Cdn alter a decree establish'd ; 'Twill be recorded for a precedent. And many an error, by the same example, Will rush into the state : it cannot be. Shy. A Daniel come to judgment ! Yea, a Daniel I wise young judge, how do I honour thee ! Por. I pray you, let me look upon the bond. Shy. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor ; here it is. Per. Shylock, there 's thrice thy money offer'd thee. Shy. An oath— an oath ; I have an oath in heaven. Shall I lay perjury upon my soul ? No, not for Venice, Por. Why, this bond is forfeit ; And lawfully by this the Jew may claim A pound of flesli to be by him cut off Nearest the mercaant's heart. . Be merciful; Take thrice thy money ; bid me tear the bond. Shy. When it is paid according to the tenor. It doth appear, you are a worthy judge. You know the law ; your exposition Has been most sound. I charge thee by the law, Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, Proceed to judgment : by my soul 1 swear. There is no power in the tongue of man To alter me, I stay here on my bond. Ant. Most heartily do I beseech the court To give the judgment. 303 ii If ■ f iL 304 FROM " THE MERCHANT OF VENICE." Por. Why, then, thus it is : You must prepare your bosom for his knife. Shy. most noble judge ! excellent young man ! Por. Por the intent and purpose of the law Dath full relatio to the penalty. Which here appeareth due upon the bond. Shy. 'Tis very true : O wise and upright judge I How much more elder art thou than thy looks ! Pot. Therefore lay bare thy bosom. Shy. Ay, his breast; So says the bond— doth it not, noble judge? — Nearest his heart ; those are the very words. Por. It is so. Are there balance here to weigh The ilesh ? Shy. I have them ready. Por. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, To stop hie wounds, lest he should bleed to death. Shy. Is it so nominated in the bond ? Por. It is not so expressed ; but what of that ? 'Twere good you do so much for charity. Shy. I cannot find it; 'tis not in the bond. Por. Come, merchant, have you anything to say ? Ant. But little ; I am arm'd, and well prepared. Give me vour hand, Bassanio ! fare you well ! Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you ; For herein fortune shows herself more kind Than is her custom : it is still her use To let the wretched man outlive his wealth ; To view, with hollow ejre and wrinkled brow, An age of poverty ; from which lingering penance Of such misery doth she cut me oflT. Commend me to your honourable wife : Tell her the process of Antonio's end ; Say how I loved you ; speak me fair in death ; And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge. Whether Bassanio had not once a love. Repent not you that you shall lose a friend ; And he repents not that he pays your debt ; For, if the Jew do cut but deep enough, I '11 pay it instantly with all my heart. Por. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine ; The court awards it, and the law doth give it. Shy. Most rightful judge ! Por. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast; The law allows it, and the court awards it. Shy. Most learned judge ! A sentence ! come, prepare. Por. Tarry a little — there is something else— This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood ; The words expressly are, a pound of flesh,. But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods Are, by the laws of "Venice, confiscate I ' PROM " THE MERCHANT OF VENICE." 305 Unto the state of Venice. Oratiano. upright judge ! Mark, Jew 1-0 learned judee ! Shij. Is that the law ? For. Thyself shall see the act : For as thou urgest justice, be assured Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest. Gra. learned judge ! Mark, Jew !— a learned judge ! Shy. I take this offer, then ; pay the bond thrice, And let the Christian go. Bos. Here is the money. For. Soft; The Jew shall have all justice— soft !— no haste- He shall have nothing but the penalty. Ora. O Jew ! an upright judge ! a learned judge f For. Therefore prepare thee to cut off tiie flesh. Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less, nor more. But a just pound of flesh. If thou takest more, Or less than just a pound— be it but so much As makes it light or heavy in the substance, Or the division of the twentieth part Of one poor scruple— nay, if the scale do turn But in the estimation of a hair — Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. ^ Gra. A second Daniel — a Daniel, Jew ! Now, infid.jl, I have thee on the hip. For. Why doth the Jew pause ? take thy forfeiture. Shy. Give me my principal, and let me go. Bas. I have it ready for thee, here it is. For. He hath refused it in the open court ; He shall have merely justice, and Lis bond. Gra. A Daniel, still say I ! a second Daniel ! I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. Shy. Shall I not have barely my principal ? For. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. Shy. Why, then the devil give him good of it ? I '11 stay no longer question. For. Tarry, Jew ; The law hath yet another hold on you. It is enacted in the laws of Venice, If it be proved against an alien, That, by direct or indirect attempts, He seek the life of any citizen, The party, 'gainst the which he doth contrive, Shall seize one half his goods ; the other half Comes to the privy coffer of the state ; And the offender's life lies in the mercy Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. In which predicament, I say, thou standest ; For it appears, by manifest proceeding. That indirectly, and directly too, Thou hast contrived against the very life u ^:3 II 306 TWO GENTLEMEN OP VERONA. Of the defendant ; and thou hast incurr'd The danger formerly by me rehearsed. Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke. Gra. Beg, that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself; And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state, Thou hast not left the value of a cord ; Therefore, thou must l)e hang'd at the state's charge. Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit, I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it. For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's ; The other half couics to the general state. TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. Shakespeare. Scene V. Act II. Speed. Lanncc ! by mine honesty, welcome to Milan. Launce. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth ; for I am not welcome. I reckon this always — that a man is never undone till he be hanged; nor never welcome to a place till some certain shot be paid, and the hostess say, " Welcome." Speed. Come on, you madcap ; I '11 to the ale-house with you presently ; when, for one shot of fivepence, thou shalt have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy master part with Madam Julia ? Launce. Marry, after they closed in earnest, they parted very fairly in jest. Speed. But shall she marry him ? Launce. No. Speed. How then ? shall he marry her ? Launce. No, neither. Speed. What ! are they broken ? Launce. No ; they are both as whole as a fish. Speed. Why, then, how stands the matter with ihem ? Lav.nce. Marry, thus : when it stands well with him, it stands well with her. Speed, What an ass art thou ! I understood thee not. Launce. What a block art thou, that thou canst not ? My staff under- stands me. Speed. What thou say est? Launce. Ay, and what I do, too ; look thee, I'll but lean, and my staff understands me. Speed. It stands under thee, indeed. Launce. Whj^ stand under and understand is all one. Speed. But, tell me true ; will 't be a match ? Launce. Ask ray dog. If he say ay, it will ; if he say no, it will ; if he shake his (ail> it will : if he say nothing, it will. Speed. The conclusion is, then, that it will. Launce. Thou shalt never get such a secret from me, but by a parable. >lf; FROM " EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR." 307 Sp^ed. 'Tis well that I get it so. But, Launce, how saycs>t thou-that my master haa become a notable lover ? -j'v. t uiou luai Launce. I never knew him otherwise. Speed. Than how ? Launce. A. notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be. l^pe.ed. Why, thou ass, thou mistakest me. Launce. Why fool, I meant not thee, I meant thy master. bpeed. I tell thee my m-:ter has become a hot lover Z«Mwc« Why, I tell thee I care not though he burn himself in love. If thou wilt go with me to the ale-house, so ; if not, thou art an Hebrew a Jew, and not worth the name of a Christian iieorcw, Speed. Why? Launce. Because thou hast not so much charity in thee, as to go to the ale-house with a Christian. Wilt thou go ? , = «-u ^u lo me Speed. At thy service. welcome. I langed; nor I the hostess )u presently ; id welcomes. 'ery fairly in ids well with staff under- and my staff it will ; if he y a parable. SCENE FROM "EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR." Ben Jonson, the contemporary of Shakespe.ire, one of the most classical of English dramatists, and poet-iaureate : 1573-1637. Captain Bohadil, a braggart soldier of fortune. B KnoiveU, friend of Downright, who has threatened to cudtrel Mitthpw Matthew and Stephen, silly admirers of Bobadil. ^ Matthew. .rpi!?L^J'"^^J- ^t"' ^\^^ *^^ ""''^y "^ P"^^<^« ^°^^ "«der seal, I am a Si«tv r^r.l. T ^7' f '''''' ""'^ J" "^y"'^^' ^"* ^^^^« I known to her majesty and the lords, observe me, I would undertake, upon this poor head and hfe for the public benefit of the state, not only'to spare the^e- tire lives of her subjects in general, but to save the one half-nav three parts of her yearly charge in holding war, and against what enemy soever And how would I do it, think you ? . "^ R Know. Nay, I know not, nor can I conceive. Bob Why thus sir. I would select nineteen more to myself throu-h- out the land J gentlemen they should be, of good spirit, stLg and able constitution I wo. d choose them by an instinct, a character that I have • and I would teach these nineteen the special rules, as your punto vour rrj'.n y^"':,^^^ «^<^«' y^^"'- i^broccato, your passado, your montanto, till the- could all play very near, or altogether, as well as myself. This done tbifi uT"^^ r'f ^"'*l *^T''"'\ '^''^^S' ^'« twenty would come into the field the tenth of March or thereabouts, and we would challenge twenty of the enemy ; they could not m their honour refuse us. Well, we would kill them; challenge twenty more, kill them; twenty more, kill them- a day, that s twenty score ; twenty score, that 's two hundred ; two hun- dred a day, five days a thousand, forty thousand; forty times five five imes forty, two hundred days kills them all up by computation. And this will I venture my poor gentlemanlike carcase to perform, provided there „:, Ml {,'lv." '■""- 'i'-" "■'> "J ^'"^ 'i" then. £o6. Tall man, I never thought on it till now. Body of me! I had a warrant of the peace served on me even now, as I came along, by a water- bearer. This gentleman saw it. Master Matthew. Down. 'Sdeath ! You will not draw, then ? R A vt yA\ X. ^A^ A^^T-'^'T ""'^ *^"^* '""*• Matthew runs away. Bob. Hold! hold! under thy favour, forbear ' Down. Prate again, as you like this! You'll control the point, you' Your consort is gone ; had he stayed, he had shared with you, sir. {Exil oS'da S^'^t^^^^en, bear witness. I was bound to the peace, by this E. Know. No, iaith it 's an ill day, captain-never reckon it other. But say you were bound to the peace, the law allows you to defend yourself- that will prove but a poor excuse. j-^^iocii, «n«f r-n \ T'^vt ^f' '^ ' ^ ^o''""^ ?"'''* construction in fair sort. I never sustamed the like disgrace. Sure 1 was struck with a planet thence, for 1 had no power to touch my weapon. ^ , xu* x E. Know. Ay, like enough ; I have heard of many that have been beaten under a planet: go, get you to a surgeon. 'Slid ! L these be you^ trfcks your passados, and your montantos, I '11 none of them. )U. an you meet this welkin I his mind; but ies the stage. ihese bragging matter, for I one so; but I PROM THE "IITPLEXIBLE PRINCE.'' 309 draw to your me! I had a ?, by a water- runs away, s point, you! , sir. [Exit. peace, by this t other. But, Jnd yourself; ort. I never thence, for 1 > been beaten 5 your tricks, FROM THE *' INFLEXIBLE PRINCE " DON P.»o C.u.Kno^„.^.. "C'.illf.Xtcl^^""''- "-"■'«■" = ^'^ Moore "''''' ^'^°"''''" °^ '^^ ^""^^ ^'""^ °^ Tortugal, captive among the Henry, his younger brother charged to obtain his release by the sur- render of Ceuta to the King of Fez. The King of Fez. Fer. Henry, forbear ! Such words may well abase . JSot only lum who boasts himself a true Soldier of Christ, and prince of Portugal, But even the lowest of barbarians, void Of Christian faith. My brother, well I deem, Inserted this condition in his will, Not that it should be acted to the letter, But to express how much his noble heart Desired a brother's freedom. That must be Obtain'd by other means ; by peace or war. However may a Christian prince restore A city to the Moors, bought with the price Of his own blood ? for he it was who first, Arm'd with a slender buckler and his sword, Planted our country's banner on its walls. But even if we o'erlook this valiant deed, Shall we forsake a city that hath rear'd Within its walls new temples to our God f Our faith, religion. Christian pietv, Our country's honour, all forbid the deed. What ! shall the dwelling of the living God Bow to the Moorish crescent? Shall its walls Re-echo to the insulting coursers' hoof, Lodged in the sacred courts, or to the creed Of unbelievers ? Where our God hath fix'd Ris mansion, shall Ave drive his people forth? The faithful, who inhabit our new town, May, tempted by mischance, haply abjure Their faith. The Moors may train the Christian youth To their own barbarous rites; and is it meet So many perish to redeem one man From slavery ? And what am I but a man ? A man now reft of his nobility ; No more a prince or soldier; a mere slave ! 'And shall a slave, at such a golden price, Redeem his life ? Look down upon me, king, Behold thy slave, who asks not to be free; Such ransom I abjure. Henrv, return ; And tell our countrymen that thou hast left Thy brother buried on the Afric shore, For life is here indeed a living death ! Christians, henceforth believe Fernando dead; f 310 DON JUAN AND HIS CREDITOR. Moors, Bcizo your slave. My captive countrymen ! Another comrade joins your luckless band ; And king, kind brother, Moors and Christians, all, liear witnesti to a prince's constancy. Whoso love of God, his country, and hia faith, O'erlived the frowns of fortune. King qf Fez. Proud and ungrateful prince, and is it thus Thou spurn'st my favour, thus repay'st my kindness? Deniest my sole request ? Thou haply here Thinkest thyself sole ruler, and would'st sway My kingdom ? But, henceforth, thou shalt be By that vile name thou hast thyself assumed — A slave 1 thou shalt be treated as a slave. Thy brother and thy countrymen shall see Thee lick the dust, and kiss my royal feet. P I ' DON JUAN AND HIS CREDITOR. Jean BAPTlSTiS Poquelin, who surnamed himself Molifcre, the greatest of French oomedians : 1622-1673. Don Juan; M. Dimanche, the creditor; Sganarelle, the valet of Don Juan. D. Juan. Ah, M. Dimanche, enter; how delighted I »->. to see you, and how displeased with my servants that they did not admit you at once I I had given orders that I would be at home to nobody ; but that order does not apply to you, and you have a right never to find my door shut against you. " ° M. Dim. I am very much obliged to you, sir. D. Juan. (Speaking to hia lacqueys.) You rascals, I will teach you to leave M. Dimanche in an ante-room. You shall learn who people are M. Dim. It is nothing, sir. D. Juan. What ? to tell you that I am not at home, you, M. Dimanche my best friend ? ' M. Dim. Your servant, sir. I have come D. Juan. Come, quick ! a chair for M. Dimanche. M. Dim. I am very well, sir, as it is. D. Juan. No, no : I desire to see you seated like myself. M. Dim. It is unnecessary. D. Juan. Bring an arm-chair. M, Dim. You are joking, sir, and D. Juan. No, no : 1 know what is owing to you, and desire that there Bhould be no difference between us. M.Dim. Sir! D. Juan. Come, now, sit down. M. Di7n. There is no need for it, sir, and I have only one word to tell jOU. J. ilavc D. Juan. Settle yourself there, I beg of you. M. Dim. No, sir, I am well enough ; I came to DON JUAN AND HIS CHEDITOR. 811 J? ;reato8t of alet of 26 you, and t once I I order does dut against ach you to pie are. Dimanche, that there ord to tell D. Juan. No, I will not liaton to you until you are scat )d. M. Dim. Then, air, I comply with your request. 1 D. Juan. You are looking well, M. Dimancho. M. Dim. Yes, sir, at your service. I have come D. Juan. You have an astonishing fund of health, fresh lips, a blooming complexion, and bright eyes. M. Dim. i wish to D. Juan, llow is your good lady, Madame Dimanche ? M. Dim. Very well, sir, thank God. 1). Juan. She is a fine woman. M. Dim. She is your servant, sir. I came D. Juan. And your little daughter, Claudine, how is she? M. Dim. She could not bo bettor. D. Juan. What a pretty little girl she is I I love her with all my heart. M. Dim. You do her too much honour, sir. I D. Juan. And little Colin, does he still continue to make as much noise with his drum ? M. Dim. The same as ever, sir. I D. Juan. And your little dog, Snap, docs he growl as much as formerly, and bite the lege of people who call upon you ? M. Dim. More than ever, sir. D. Juan. Do not wonder at my seeking for all news concerning your family, for I take a great interest in it. AI. Dim. We are infinitely obliged to you. I ■ D. Juan. (OiTering him his hand.) Shake hands, M. Dimanche. Are. you a friend of mine ? M. Dim. Sir, I am your humble servant. D. Juan. 1 am yours with all my heart. M. Dim. You do me too much honour. I D. Juan. There is nothing I would not do for you. M. Dim. Sir, you show me too much kindness. D. Juan. And quite disinterestedly, I pray you to understand. M. Dim. I have not deserved this favonr, certainly. But, sir D. Juan. Don't mention it ! M. Dimanche, without oeremony, now, will you sup with me ? M. Dim. No, sir, I must return immediately. I D. Juan. (Rising.) Come ! quick, a torch for M. Dimanche; let four or five of my men take their muskets and escort him. M. Dim. (Rising also.) It is quite unnecessary, sir. I can go very well alone. But [Sganarelle quicUy removes the chairs. D. Juan. Nonsense ! I wish you to have an escort, for I am so much interested in your person ; I am your servant, and, Mhat is more, your debtor. M. Dim. Ah ! sir D. Juan. It is a fact which I do not conceal, but tell to everybody. M. Dim. If D. Juan. Sliall I escort you home ? M. Dim. Ah, sir, you are joking. If, sir D. Juan. Embrace me, then, if you please. Again I pray you to be convinced that I am entirely yours, and that there is nothing in the world i would not do to serve you. [Exeunt. ^m^^^^^^^0^P^'' ;il5j I'Ui'M '• AlilAl.lU,' 1:1 KliOM " ATIIAMK." .IKVN lUciNK. m«siUo(iunH.ill.. (ulthouHh ill H..IU.. roN|.ontH auiittrl.. to liim) Hio Hitrntont. iif l''iwii'.h thttiiiiitUtii : KiilU Kl'.IU. Athtttiith, m».|hoi- of Almwuli. iho lu».« kil»^' of .lu.luli. Joa^h, Hoa of Alwaiah. buvoil l.> .UilumUoUk fioiu Uio uluiiuhlcr of fhc rov.'U lauiily. AA(Kv/k/.a. Hi«lo»- of .Vl.a.iuli, »i>,l wifo of (he l.igl, ,„U.Ht Joliolmlu- ..■?6/*«!<-, ohuil otlUuMof Alluiliuli. fi.voiimhlo Jo .loabli. \i'V 11.. Si.WMB VU. 77(,) 7Vm/*/,= lU Jti'umlem. Ath. Wy wlitti Mkimo aio you ouU'U ? *!':''''\, , . I'iliuoiii. •'"••-^■^ , I. fr^'m MvtU. Miu muM, Imvo lioen An oija»rtn, on (lod'H u\t>ir,v oiiHt, who io<'oi- U;ivo kiiowu » liviui;' |.(iiouf'a ttuuloi' fiiiv. AtS, You liuvo no (uniuittt; '';"/*A- Thoy ftl)uii.lonM me. ^UA. llow, uiul eiuco w!»t»nK '''**'''^- Siiioo my untivUv. Ath. KnowH no one whcnuo yon oiinio 1 vour tiutive nlioro ? Joash. This tonvj.k* Ih n\y lioujo ; I know no nioi-o, Ath. W hovo wi-io ym\ u\ot with, tliv your K'nftv.liiinrt May t Mtuh. "Mia ornol wolvos that son«::ht nio for thoir invy. Jw, \N ho loft, yon in ihi«i tenn>lo i *'****'^'^- An nnknuwi* Ami nanu'loss woiuni*. netu t>ut thou alono. Ath. Whoso hHmt8 huvo oaroil fov all vowr infant yoai'ut J^sk. Uoon (Uul o'or tlisroi^unl hia ohiiaion'u toaia? 'I'ho littlo l>iiv!a from Ilim roooifo thoir t'ootl, Ana Natuiv'a wiilo Uonuvin prooittinii Him Uod. Piuly I 8npi>lio!Uo Him, ami am fovl With gifts upon His holy altar laid. Jth. \\\\M proaii^y is this*- that hisyiumi,' filoo Tlvvts tumbloa mo I so awoot .*i voio«>, hucU gnu!t>, Would turn my soul, on Imto and voni«'0!vnoo bent Almost to What if I shouUl now Volont ! Ahner. Maaauj. behold, at lonjjtb. tliia droaaod foot Tho tal^^hootl of your dreams you now must know • UjiIoss that pity, which hia wonla jiwako, ' ^Iny be the fatal blow that made von tpiake. Ath. [To J KHo^iHKM.v] Vou leave us/' *^ 1 ;,. M K- * M . , ^'"^^ '"« *'^*" »« a* *n <^n<'. I toard his further preaoniv mi<,'hl oftVnd Atk Not so, return. [ To .1 oas.j. [ flow do yoi. .sptMul vour daya ? Jixu^h Ihey toaoh me God's i;rcat law; Hia name 1 pniiao- 1 learu to mul the messiige of the liord ; * And h;i%"e boo»|ii in ivrit.\ »li.» «..,.n.»/j \v'„...! Ath. W hat says this law ? *^*^*^*J; ^, t^txi must 1)0 loved— II is name iSone may blaspheme without eternal blame: OATO ON Till'! IMMOKTAI.n'V OV TKM Hdlll.. 3ia I litt or|.liau Ha imiimiM, mttlutH Ui« jtioud, Anil vi)iig«iiiiHui (jii Milt iiHiKliiriir Uu» vuwtiil, At/i. I iiiii|iir«(,iiiii|. Hut Miomi wlio Uuoiil' Uii« i»liii!« W lull ill) thtty du » ' •^Jw"^';. /, . . . ^^•"•'« "'i'"" Uii.y malHit /uiil Idim .yu. Ihnm (joil iloHint m.iiUuuul (>iujhi) uikI pniyej/ ./im«//. No woil.lly Joy uiiiy in IJJM Uiiuj)!.! n\mrti. Atn. Wlm(- luu your plimKiircw/ I III) Half, unil liii!iitiHo lor Uni ollljriiiM ; Till) MolDiiifi ri(,i!H of (io.I'M liouwo I Ik'i'joM, Anil liiwir liJM vvomlrouM ul.(,iil»u(,iH lixloll'ii. At/i. VVIml, ! Iiavn you no iiiom) nlnMniul pattUiiH) hero? I'oor rliiid, I pily y„u u lol, «o dnmr I r'oiiii) (,o my roiirl, ; juy /^lory Uioro you'll wee. JiitiHh. And loMo (lod'H .^oodn«!HM Iroiii niy mcniory ? At/i. No, if yon wonld roniinildr Him, yon may Jiaa/t. Yon do not i.iay (,o Him. '!"''•, ,, ,, Htill, you may pray. Jo'i^'t- '"" "'"•y ''^^'Vtt y"u«* own : I licy urii two mighty g.jdH, '^'^"^f'; Itiiannotho; I*or uiluo JM (lod ttloiio; yourn in hut vanity. OATO ON THE IMMORTAFJ'IT OF THI-] .SOf/L. Am)ino>f. Beo for notice, " I.'ro»<) Litcratuio." Tt muHt 1)1) HO I- riato, thou rcaKon'nt well : KIhh, whonco tiiiH pIcaHinff hope, thih fond dewire, lIuH longing? after immortality '< Or, wluuico tluK Hiicrct dread, and inward horror, Of fullinjf into nought? Why whrinlcM the houI IJack on licrHcIf, aiul MtartlcH at dcHtniction '! TiH tho divinity that HtirH within uh; 'TiH heaven itudf tliat ])oinlH ont—un hereafter, And intimaten — eternity to man. Eternity I -thou iileaning -dreadful thought! 'I'hroiigh whdt variety of untried hcing, Through what now Beenen and ehangeH muKt we pass I The wide, tho unhounded prospect, lies before me; But HhadowH, cloudH, and UarkneHH, rewt upon it. Hero will I hold. If there 'h a power above us— And that there is, all nature cries aloud Through all her works— he must delight in virtue, And that which he deiights in, must be happy. But when ? or where ? This world— was made for Ctesar. 1 m weary of conjectures— this must end them. [Laying hia hand on his «word. ms^ 314 ^ !■ 1 1 «f GLENALVON AND NORVAL. Thus am I doubly arm'd. My death and life, My bane and antidote, are both before me. This— in a moment, brings me to an end ; But this^in forms me, I shall never die ! The soul, secured in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.— The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years : But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth. Unhurt, amid the war of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds 1 GLENALVON AND NORVAL. *^?^i^i S,Ao ^' f^^^^^'ottish clergyman, aud well-known dramatic author : 17^2-1808. The extract here given ia from his tragedy of " Douglas." Glenalvon. His port I love : he 's in the proper mood To chide the thunder, if at him it roared. Has Nerval seen the troops ? Norval. The setting sun With yellow radiance lighten'd all the vale, And, as the warriors moved, each polish'd helm, Corslet, or spear, glanced back his gilded beams. The hill they climb'd, and, halting at the top. Of more than mortal size, towering they seem'd A host angelic, clad in burning arms. Glen. Thou talk'st it well ; no leader of our host In sounds more lofty talks of glorious war. Norv. If 1 should e'er acquire a leader's name, My speech Avill be less ardent. Novelty Now prompts my tongue, and youthful admiration Vents itself freely ; since no part is mine Of praise pertaining to the great in arms. Glen. You wrong yourself, brave sir; your martial deeds Have rank'd you with the great. But mark me, Norval ; Lord Randolph's favour now exalts your youth Above his veterans of famous service. Let me, who knows these soldiers, counsel you. Give them all honour ; seem not to command, Else they will hardly brook your late-sprung power, Which nor alliance props, nor birth adorns. Norv. Sir, I have been accustom'd all my days To hear and speak the plain and simple truth ; " And though 1 have been told that there are men Who borrow friendship's tongue to speak their scorn, Yet in such language I am little skill'd : Iherefore ± thauK Glenalvou for his counsel. Although it sounded harshly. Why remind Me of my birth obscure ? Why slur my power With such contemptuous terms ? [Aside. 315 GLENALVON AND NOEVAL. Ghn. I did not mean To gall your pride, which now I see is ffreat. JVorv. My pride ! Glen. Suppress it as you wish to prosper Your pride 's excessive. Yet, for Randolph's sake, i will not leave you to its rash direction. w-M V^ ^;°" swell, and frown at high-born men, VViil high-born men endure a shepherd's scorn ? Norv. A shepherd's scorn ! Glen. Yes ; if you presume To bend on soldiers these disdainful eves As if you took the measure of their mmds And said in secret, you 're no match for me- What will become of you ? Norv. Hast thou no fears for thy presumptuous self? Glen. Ha ! dost thou threaten me ? Norv. Didst thou not hear ? Glen. Unwillingly I did ; a nobler foe Had not been question'd thus; but such as thee Norv. Whom dost thou think me ? Glen. Norval. Norv. So I am. — And who is Korval in Glenalvon's eyes ? Glen. A peasant's son, a wandering beggar boy • At best no more, even if he speaks the truth. * Norv. False as thou art, dost thou suspect mv truth i Glen. Thy truth! thou 'art all a lie ; and wholly false Is the vain-glorious tale thou told'st to Randolph Norv. If I were chain'd, unarm'd, or bedrid old, rerhaps I should revile ; but as I am, I have no tongue to rail. The humble Norval Is of a race who strive not but with deeds. Did I but fear to freeze thy shallow valour, And make thee sink too soon beneath my sword I'd tell thee— what thou art. I kno'- thee well ' Glen. Dost thou not know Glenalvon, born to command Ten thousand slaves like thee ? Norv. Villain, no more ! Draw and defend thy life. I did design To have defied thee in another cause ; ° But heaven accelerates its vegeanee on thee. Now for my own and Lady Randolph's wrongs. Lord-Rmdolpli. [Enters.] Hold! I command you both! the man xh^ti stirs, Makes mejhis foe. Norv. -f nother voice than thine, That threat had vainly sounded, noble Randolph. Glen. Hear him, my lord : he 's wondrous nnndpa^pn^i..a7i. Why, faith, it is but an ungracious thing for the most part to • Sir F. With most authors it is just so, indeed ; they are in general strangely tenacious; but for my part I am never so well pleased as when a judicious critic points out any defect to me ; for what is the purpose of showing a work to a friend if you don't mean to profit by his opinion ? Sneer. Very true. Why, then, though I seriously admire the piece, upon the whole, yet there 's one small objection, which, if you '11 give me leave, I '11 mention. Sir F. Sir, you can't oblig re. Sneer. I think it wants incii' Sir F. You surprise me ! Wants incident ! Sneer. Yes ; I own I think the incidents are too few. Sir F. Believe me, Mr Sneer, there is no person for whoso judgment T have a more implicit deference ; but I protest to you, Mr Sneer, I am only apprehensive that the incidents are too crowded. My dear Dangle, how does it strike you ? Dan. Really, I can't agree with my friend Sneer. I think the plot quite sufficient, and the first four acts by many degrees the best I ever read or saw in my life. If I might venture to suggest anything, it is that the interest rather falls oflfin the fifth. S^r F. Rises, I believe you mean, sir Dan. No ; I don't, upon my word. Sir F. Yes, yes, you do, upon my soul ; it certainly don't fall off, I as- sure you ; no, no, it don't fall off. Dan. Well, Sir Fretful, I wish you may be able to get rid as easily of the newspaper criticisms aa you do of ours. Sir F. The newspapers! Sir, they are the most villanous, licentious, abominable, infernal Not that I ever read them; no, I make it a rule never to look into a newspaper. Dan. You are quite right, for it certainly must hurt an author of deli- cate feelings to see the liberties they take. Sir F. No ; quite the contrary. Their abuse ia, in fact, the best pane- gyric ; I like it of all things, -.ii author's reputation is only in danger from their support. Sneer. Why, that's true; and that attack, now, on you the other day SirF. What? WHiere ? Dan. Ay ! you mean in a paper of Thursday. It was completely ill- natured, to be sure. Sir F. Oh ! so much the better. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I would not have it otherwise. Dan. Certainly it is only to be laughed at, for Sir F. You don't happen to recollect what the fellow said, do you? Sneer. Pray, Dangle, Sir Fretful seems a little anxious Sir F. Oh no ! Anxious ! not I ; not the least. I But one may as well hear, you know. Dan.. Sneer, do yoti recollect? [Aside to Sneer.] Make out some- thing. Sneer. [Aside to Dangle.] I will. [Ahud.] Yes, yes, I remember perfectly. the most part are in general ell pleased as or what is the to profit by his nire the piece, y-ou'll give me so judgment T neer, I am only ir Dangle, how- think the plot he best I ever ;hing, it is that t fall off, I as- rid as easily of ous, licentious, 0, I make it a ai;thor of deli- the best pane- only in danger you the other completely ill- dd not have ifc 1, do you ? But one may ake out some- 3, I remember SCENE PROM "gOETZ VON BEELICHINGEN." 319 pefireman^say?"'''^ ^''^' "^""""^^ **""* '^ signifies-what might the Sneer. Why he roundly asserts that you have not the slightest inven. ToZraftlt!Zl7''^^^^^^ ''" "^ "" greatest traducer of Sir P. Ha ! ha ! ha I Very good ! Sneer. That, as to comedy, you have not one idea of your own he be- heves even in your commonplace book, where stray jokes and pilfered StoleToffice' '^ '" "^""'^ "^"'^'^ ^' '^'' ^'^°e' '^ the Lost and SirF. Ha! ha! ha! Very pleasant. Sneer.JJay that yon are so unlucky as not to have the skill even to steal with taste but that you glean from the refuse of obscure volumes where more judicious plagiarists have been before you; so that the S of your work is a composition of dregs and sediments, like a bad tavern's worst win6. SirF. Hal ha! less'TnTnl/r^hl' -f /r'f/''tr '^^'*'' ^' ^^^'' y^""" bombast would be less intolerable it the thoughts were ever suited to the expressions • but of H« W if'' the sentiment stares through the fantastic incumbmnce o. fipe language like a clown in one of the new uniforms Sir F. Ha ! ha 1 Sneer. That your occasional tropes and flowers suit the general coarse- ness of your style as tambour sprigs would a ground of ifnsev-woolsev • while your imitations of Shakespeare resemble the mimicry of Falstaff 'a page, and are about as near the standard of the orisjinai Sir F. Ha ! • Sneer In short, that even the finest passages you steal are of no service Ir. iri !r r P°''^'; ^ °^ ^'f '"' *"'''" language prevents their assimilating so that they he on the surface like lumps of marl on a barren moor "n- cumbenng what it is not in their power to fertilize, at tWs^' ^^"^^^^ ^^^"'^ agitation.-] Now, another person would be vexed Sneer. Oh, but I wouldn't have told you, only to divert you tion i' Ha . hn"; 'L , ^ ''''' ^^^'1'^' ^^* ' }"" • ^^ ' "'^' t'^^' l^ast inven- won ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! — very good, very good ! Sneer. Yes ; no genius ! ' Ha ! ha ! ha ! Dan A severe rogue; ha! ha! ha! But you are quite right, Sir Fretful, never to read such nonsense. ^ ' Sir F To be sure ; for if there is anything to one's praise, it is a foolish vanity to be gratified at i ; and i^f it is abuse, why, one is always sure to hear of it from some good-natured friend or other ! j ^ tu SCENE FROM "GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN." JOHANN Wolfgang Goethe, one of the greatest of German poets, dramatists, and novelists : 1749-1832. Translated by Sir W. Scott. The Council-House atHeilbronn. Imperial Commissioners seated at a table. I fie Captain and the Magistrates of the city attending. Mag. In pursuance of your order we have collected the stoutest and m^^ titaim. 320 SCENE FROM " GOETZ VON BEULICIIINOEN." !■( ; 'I I "Hi; !! F ' :' \i [Points to a stool. stool smells so of most determined of our citizens. They are at Land, in order, at a nod from you, to seize Borlichingen. Com. We shall have much pleasure in communicating to his imperial majesty the zeal with which you have obeyed his illustrious commands. Are they artizans ? Mag. Smiths, coopers, and carpenters, men with hands hardened by labour ; and resolute here. [Points to his breast. Com. 'Tis well ! Filter Sergeant. Serg. Goetz von Berlichingen waits without. Com. Admit him. Enter Goetz. Goetz. God save you, sirs ! What would you with me ? Com. First, that you consider where you are ; and iu whose presenoe. Goetz. By my faith, I know you right well, sirs. Com. You acknowledge allegiance ? Goetz. With all my heart. Com. Be seated. Goetz. What, down there ? I 'd rather stand. That poor sinners, as indeed does the whole apartment. Com. Stand, then. Goets. To business, if you please. Com. We shall proceed in due order. Goetz. I am glad to hear it. Would you had always done so ! Com. You know how you fell into our hands, and are a prisoner at discretion. Goetz. What will you give me to forget it ? Com. Could I give you modesty, I should better your affairs. Goetz. Better my affairs ! could you but do that ? To repair is more difficult than to destroy. Sec. Shall I put all this on record ? Com. Only what is to the purpose. Goetz. As far as I am concerned you may print every word of it. Com. You fell into the power of the emperor, whose paternal goodness got the better of his justice, and, instead of throwing you into a dungeon, ordered you to repair to his beloved city of Heilbroun. You gave your knightly parole to appear and await the termination in all humility. Goetz. Well ; I am here, and await it. Com. And we are here to intimate to you his imperial majesty's mercy and clemency. He is pleased to forgive your rebellion, to release you from the bar, and all well-merited punishment ; provided you do, with becoming humility, receive his bounty, and subscribe to the articles which shall ba read unto you. Goeiz. I am his majesty's faithful servant, as ever. One word, ere you proceed. My people — where are they ? What will be done with them ? Com. We are not bound to account to you. Goetz. Ah ! I forgot that you are not even pledged to perform what you have promised, much less — Com. Our business is to lay the articles before you. Submit yourself to SCENE FKOM " QOETZ VON BEKLICHINGEN." 321 a nod from ia imperial commanda. irdened by hia breast. presenoe. s to a stool. mells so of prisoner at ur IS more fit. d goodness a dungeon, gave your ility. jty's mercy je you from h becoming ch shall ba rd, ere you th them ? Q what you yourself to the emperor, and you may find a way to petition for the life and freedom of your comrades. Ooetz, Your paper. Com. Secretary, read it. ^tc. (reads.) " I, Goetz von Berlichingen, make public acknowledg- ment, by these presents, that I, having lately risen in rebellion aRainst the emperor and empire — " Ooetz. 'Tis false ! I am no rebel, I have committed no offence against the emperor, and with the empire I have no concern. Com. Be silent, and hear further. Goctz. I will hear no further. Let any om arise and bear witness. Have I ever taken one step against the emperor, or against the house of Austria? Has not the whole tenor of my conduct proved that 1 feel better than any one else what all Germany owes to its head ; and especially what the free knights and feudatories owe to their liege lord, the emperor ? I should be a villain, could I be induced to subscribe that paper. Com. Yet we have strict orders to try and persuade you by fair means or, m case of your refusal, to throw you into prison. ' Goetz. Into prison ! Me ! Com. Where you may expect your fate from the hands of justice, since you will not take it from those of mercy. Ooetz. To prison ! You abuse the imperial power ! To prison ! That was not the emperor's command. What, ye traitors, to dig a pit for me and hang out your oath, your knightly honour, as the baits. To promise me permission to ward myself on parole, and then again to break your treaty ! •' Com. We owe no faith to robbers. Goetz. Wert thou not the representative of my sovereign, whom I re- spect even in the vilest counterfeit, thou shouldst swallow that word or choke upon it. I was engaged in an honourable feud. Thou might'st thank God, and magnify thyself before the world, hadst thou ever done as gallant a deed as that with which I now stand charged. {The Commissioner makes a sign to the Magistrate of Ileilbronn, who rings a bell.) Not for the sake of paltry gain, not to wrest followers or lands from zhe weak and the defenceless, have I sallied forth. To rescue my page and defend my own person— see ye any rebellion in that ? The emperor and his magnates, reposing on their pillows, would never have felt our need. I have, God be praised, one hand left, and I have done well to use it. Enter a party of Artizans armed with halberds and swords. Goetz. What means this ? Com. You will not listen. Seize him ! Goetz. Let none come near me who is not a very Hungarian ox. One salutation from my iron fist shall cure him of headache, toothache, and every other ache under the wide heaven ! {They rush upon him. He strikes one down, and snatches a sivord from another. They stand aloof.) Come on ! come on ! I should like to become acquainted with the bravest anionc vfiii. Com. Surrender ! Ooetz. With a sword in my hand 1 Know ye not that it depends but Tipon myself to make way through all these hares, aad gain the open field ? A^i^ 322 SCENE FROM " GOETZ VON BERLICIIINGEN." I i' !( But I will teach you how a man ehould keep his woi-dl. Pronnae me but free ward, and I will give up my swonl and be again your prisoner. Com. How ? Would you treat with the emperor sword in hand '/ Goctz. Or ' forbid ! only with you and yotir worthy fraternity ! You may go ho. ..e, good people ; you are only losing your time, and here there is nothing to be got but bruiaes. Com. Seize him ! What ! does not your love for the emperor supply you with courage ? Goetz. No more than the emperor supplies them with plaister for the wounds their courage would earn them. Enter Sergeant, hastily. Officer. The warder has just discovered, from the castle-tower, a troop of more than two hundred horsemen hastening towards the town. Uii- perceived by us, they have pressed forward from behind the hill, and threaten our walls. Com. Alas ! alas ! What can this mean ? A Soldier enters. Soldier-. Francia of Sickingen waits at the drawbridge, and informs you that he has heard how perfidiously you have broken your word to his brother-in-law, and how the council of Heilbronn have aided and abetted in the treason. He is now come to insist upon justice, and, if refused it, threatens, within an hour, to fire the four quarters of your town, and abandon it to be plundered by his vassals. Goetz. My gallant brother ! Com. Withdr.i.w, Goetz. [EAt Goetz.] What is to be done ? Mag. Have comp^assion upon us and our town ! Sickingen is inexoi-able in his wrath ; he will keep his word. Com. Shall we forget what is due to ourselves and the emperor ? Capt. If we had but men to enforce it ; but, situated as we are, a show of resistance would only make matters worse. It is better for us to yield. Marf. Let us apply to Goeta to put in a good word for us. I feel as though I saw the town already in flames. Com. Let Goetz approach. Enter Goetz. Goetz. What now I Com. Thou wilt do well to dissuade thy ' rother-in-law from his rebelli- ous interference. Instead of rescuing thee he will only plunge thee deeper in destruction, and become the companion of thy fall ! Goetz. [sees his wife, Elizabeth, at the door, and speaks to her aside.] Go, tell him instantly to break in and force his way hither, but to spar'^ the town. As for these rascals, if they offer any resistance, let him use force. I care not if I lose my life, provided they are all knocked on the head at the same time. ~h FROM " WALLENSTEIN. 328 niise me but isoner. hand ? rnity ! You id here there poror supply aister for the :)w©r, a troop town. Uii- the hill, and informs you word to his and abetted f refused it, r town, and le? is inexoi-able Qror ? ! are, a show it for us to B. I feel oji \ his rebelli- i thee deeper 9 her addc] but to spar-'' , let him use )cked on the FEOM "WALLENSTEIN.'* FrI ZURICH SoniLLKn the most pot.ular of German poets, dramatic and lyrical : 1759-1805. Translated by Coleridge. VoH Questaiberf/,lmverm\ ILivoy. (Jet. Pkcolomini, Lieut-General Max. Piccolomini, (his Hon) Colonel of Cuirassiers. Qwctf^, hear your father, noble youth I hear km Who is at once the hero and the man. Oct. My son, the nursling of the camp spoke in thee I A war of Ufteen yeai-s Hath boon thy education and thy school. Peace hast thou never witness'd ! There exists A higher than the warrior's excellence. In war itself war is no ultimate jjurpose. The vast and sudden deeds of violence, Adventures wild, and wonders of the moment,— These are not they, my son, that generate The calm, the blissfid, and the endurinp mighty 1 Lo, there! the soldier, rapid architect! Builds his light town of canvas, and at once The whole scene moves and bustles momently, With arras and neighing steeds, and mirth and quarrel The motley market fills ; the roads, the streams, Are crowded with new freights, trade stirs and hurries f But on some morrow morn, all suddenly, The tent drops down, the horde renews its march. Dreary, and solitary f s a church-yard The meadow and down-trodden seed plot lie, And the year's harvest is gone ittterly. Max. Oh, let the emperor njake peace, my father I Most gladly would I give the blood-stain'd-laurel For the first violet of the leafiess spring, riucked in those quiet fields where I have journey 'd ! Oct. What ails thee ? what so moves thee all at once ? Max. Peace have I ne'er beheld ? I have beheld it. From thence am I come hither. Oh, that sight, It glimmers still before me, like some landscape ' Left in the distance,— some delicious landscape ! My road conducted me thi-ough countries where The war has not yet reach'd. Life, life, my father— My venerable father, life has charms Which we have ne'er experienced. We have been But voyaging along its barren coasts. Like some poor ever-roaming horde of pirates. That, crowded in the rank and narrow ship. House on the wild sea with wild usages. Nor know ought of the mainland but *^he bays Where safeli«Kt th»"' »ni"' "P'lfMv- a fh:--..^-' i-- j;.. -. Whate er m the inland dales the land conceals, Of fair and exquisite. Oh, nothing, nothing, Do we behold of that in our rude voyage. i' 1 ill m 324 SCENE FROM '* ION." & I 1 Oct. [Attentive, with an appearance of uneatinefs.] And 80 your journey has reveal'd this to you ? Max. 'Twas the lirHt leisure of my life, Ob, tell me, What is the need and purpose of the toil, The painful toil, which robb'd me of my youth, Left me a heart unsoul'd and solitary, A spirit uninform'd, unornamented ! For the camp's stir and crowd and ceaseless larura, The neighing warhorae, the air-shattering trumpet, The invaried, still returning hour of duty, Word of command, and exercise of arms — There 's nothing hero, there 's nothing in all this To satisfy the heart, the gasping heart I Mere bustling nothingness, where the soul is not — This cannot be the sole felicity, These cannot be man's best and only pleasures. Oct. Much hast thou learnt, my son, in this short journey. Max. Oh, day thrice lovely ! when at length the soldier Returns home into life : when ho becomes A fellow-man among his fellow-men. The colours are unfurl'd, the cavalcade Marshals, and now the buzz is hush'd, and hark ! Now the soft peace march beats, Home, brothers, home ! The caps and helmets are all garlanded With green boughs, the last plundering of the fields. The city gates fly open of themselves. They need no longer the petard to tear them. The ramparts are all fill'd with men and women. With peaceful men and women, that send onwards Kisses arid welcominga upon the air. Which they make breezy with affectionate gestures. From all the towers rings out the merry peal, The joyous vespers of a bloody day. happy man, O fortunate ! for whom The well-known door, the faithful arms are open. The faithful tender arms with mute embracing. Quest. {Apparently much affected.) Oh, that you should speak Of such a distant, distant time, and not Of the to-morrow, not of this to-day ! SCENE FROM "ION." Sir Thomas Noon Talfourd, an English Judge, an accomplished scholar, and the most classical of modern dramatists : 1795-1854. Ion, a captive. Adrastus, King of Argos. />^** T* +K/>»» V»OClf i-kir/k** l/\^^y>H Ad. Beware ! beware ! Ion. Thou hast ! I see thou hast! Thou art not marble, 'ill SCENE PROM " ION." And thou shall hear mo ! Think upon the time When the clear depths of thy yet lucid soul Were ruffled with the troublings of strange joy, As if some unseen visitant from heaven Touch'd the calm lake and wreath'd its images In sparkling waves ;— recall the dallying hope That on the margin of assurance trembled, As loth to lose in certainty too blesa'd Its happy being ;— taste in thought again Of the stolen sweetness of those evening walks When pansied turf was air to winged feet, * And circling forests, by ethereal touch Enchanted, wore the livery of the sky, As if about to melt in golden light, Shapes of one heavenly vision ; and thy heart, Enlarged by its new sympathy with one, Grew bountiful to all ! „,;4(^- That tone ! that tone ! Whence came it ? from thy lips ? It cannot be The long-hush'd music of the only voice That ever spake unbought affection to me, And waked my soul to blessing. sweet hours Of golden joy, ye come !— your glories break Through my pavilion'd spirit's sable folds. lloU on ! roll on ! Stranger, thou dost enforce me To speak of things unbreathed by lip of mine To human ear : wilt listen? Ion. As a child. Ad. Again .'—that voice again ! Thou hast seen me moved As never morf U saw me, by a tone Which some light breeze, enamour'd of the sound. Hath wafted through the woods, till thy young voice Caught it to rive and melt me. At my birth This city, which, expectant of its prince, Lay hush'd, broke out in clamorous ecstasies ; Yet, in that moment, while the uplifted cups Foam'd with the choicest product of the sun, And welcome thunder'd from a thousand throats. My doom was seal'd. From the hearth's vacant space, In the dark chamber where my mother lay. Faint with the sense of pain-bought happiness, Came forth, in heart-appalling tone, these words Of me, the nursling—" Woe unto the babe ! Against the life which now begins shall life, Lighted from thence, be arm'd, and, both soon quench'd, End this great line in sorrow !" Ere I grew Of years to know myself a thing accursed, A second son was born to steal the love Which fate had else scarce rifled ; he became My parents' hope, the darling of the crew Who lived upon their smiles, and thought it flattery To trace in every foible of my youth - d2ff 326 SCENE FROM " ION." ifii iiii 'J ! f i ! I. A prince's youth— the workings of the curse- My very mother— Jove ! I cannot bear To speak it now— look'd freezingly upon me 1 Ion. But thy brother ! — -.^^ „ , Died. Thou hast heard the lie, Ihe common lie that every peasant tells Of me, his master— that 1 slew the boy. 'Tis false. One summer's eve, below a crag Which, in his wilful mood, he strove to climk He lay a mangled corpse ; the very slaves, Whose cruelty had shut him from my heart, Now coin'd their own injustice into proofs To biand me as his murderer. . ^o«- ,, Did they dare Accuse thee ? Ad. Not in open speech :— they felt . I should have seized the miscreant by the throat, And crush'd the lie half-spoken with the life Of the base speaker : but the tale look'd out From the stolen gaze of coward eyes which shrank When mine have met them ; murmur'd through the crowd 1 hat at the sacrifice, or feast, or game. Stood distant from me ; burnt into my soul, When I beheld it in my father's shudder ! Ion. Did'st not declare thy innocence ? m^"^* . 1. ,j , , To whom? lo parents who could doubt me ? To the ring Of grave impostors, or their shallow sons, Who should have studied to prevent my wish Before it grew to language ; hail'd my choice To service as a prize to wrestle for ; And whose reluctant courtesy I bore, Pale, with proud anger, till from lips compress'd The blood has started ? To the common herd. The vassals of our ancient house, tiie mass Of bones and muscles framed to till the soil A few brief years, then rot unnamed beneath it ; Or, d6ck'd for slaughter at their master's call, To smite and to be smitten, and lie crush'd In heaps to swell his glory or his shame ? Answer to them ? No ! though my heart had burst, As it was nigh to bursting ! To the mountains I fled, and on their pinnacles of snow Breasted the icy wind, in hope to cool My spirit's fever— struggled with the oak In search of weariness, and learn'd to rive Its stubborn boughs, till limbs once lightly strung Might mate in cordage with its infant stems; Oj on the sea-beat rock tore ofF the vest Which burnt upon my bosom, and to air Headlong committed, clove the water's depth Which plummet never sounded ;— but in vain. le lie^ OW(i SCENE PROM " ION." Ion. Yet succour came to thee ? aru-^ ,, ^ , A blessed one I Which the strange magic of thy voice revives, And thus unlocks my soul. My rapid steps Were in a wood-encircled valley stay'd By the bright vision of a maid, whose face Most lovely, more than loveliness reveal'd In touch of patient grief, which dearer seem'd Than happiness to spirit sear'd like mine. With feeble hands she strove to lay in earth The body of her aged sire, whose death Left her alone. I aided her sad work ; And soon, two lonely ones by holy rites Became one happy being. Days, weeks, months. In streamlike unity flow'd silent by us In our delightful nest. My father's spies- Slaves, whom my nod should have consign'd to stripes Or the swift falchion— track'd our sylvan home Just as my bosom knew its second joy, ' And, spite of fortune, I embraced a son. Ion. Urged by thy trembling parents to avert That dreadful prophecy. ^^ Fools ! did they deem Its worst accomplishment could match the ill Which they wrought on me ? It had left unharm'd A thousand ecstacies of passion'd years, Which, tasted once, live ever, and disdain Fate's iron grapple ! Could I now behold That son with knife uplifted at my heart, A moment ere my life-blood follow'd it, I would embrace him with my dying eyes, And pardon destiny ! While jocund smiles Wreath'd on the infant's face, as if sweet spirits Suggested pleasant fancies to its soul, The ruffians broke upon us— seized the child— Dash'd through the thicket to the beetling rock 'Neath which the deep sea eddies ; I stood still, As stricken into stone ; 1 heard him cry, Press'd by the rudeness of the murderer's gripe, Severer ill unfearing — then the splash Of waters that shall cover him for ever • And could not stir to save him ! {o«. And the mother ? - Ad. She spake no word ^ but clasp'd me in her arms, And lay her down to die ! A lingering gaze Of love she fix'd on m«— none other loved — And so pass'd from hence. By Jupiter, her look— Her dying patience glimmers in thy face ! She lives again ! She looks upon me now! There's magic in't. Bear with me— I am childish. 327 I 328 TELL TO HIS NATIVE MOUNTAINS, TELL TO HIS NATIVE MOUNTAINS. James Shekidan Knowles, the moat diligent and successful of modern dramatic authors. " Virgiuius" and " William Tell " are his best pro- ductions : 1784-1859. Ye crags and peaks, I 'm with you once again ! I hold to you the hands you first beheld, To show they still are free. Methinks I hear A spirit in your echoes answer me, And bid your tenant welcome to bis home Again ! — Oh sacred forms, how proud you look ! How high you lift your heads into the sky ! How huge you are, how mighty, and how free ! Ye are the things that tower, that shine; whoso smile Makes glad— whose frown is terrible ; whose forms, Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear Of awe divine. Y guards of liberty, I 'm with you once again ! — I call to you With all my voice !— I hold my hands to you, To show they still are free. I rush to you As though I could embrace you ! Scaling yonder peak, I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow, O'er the abyss. His broad expanded wings Lay calm and motionless upon the air, As if he floated there without their aid. By the sole act of his unlorded will, That buoy'd him proudly up. Instinctively I bent my bow ; yet kept he rounding still His airy circle, as in the delight Of measuring the ample range beneath And round about ; absorb'd, he heeded not The death that threaten'd him. I could not shoot— 'Twas Liberty ! I turn'd my bow aside. And let him soar away ! Heavens ! with what pride I used To walk these hills, and look up to my God, And think the land was free. Yes, it was free — From end to end, from cliff to lake, 'twas free- Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks. And plough our valleys without asking leave ; Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow In very presence of the regal sun. How happy was I then ! I loved Its very storms. Yes, I have often sat In my boat at night, when midway o'er the lake — The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge The wind came roaring, I have sat and eyed The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head, And think I had no master save his own. PHIL] Henky artevelde's defence of his rebellion. 329 ' modern best pro- — On the wild jutting cliff, o'ertaken oft By the mountain blast, I 've laid me flat aiong ; And while gust follow'd gust more furiously, As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink, Then I have thought of other lands, whose storms Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just Have wish'd me there ;— the thought that mine was free Has cheek'd that wish ; and I have raised my head, And cried in thraldom to that furious wind. Blow on ! This is the land of liberty ! [ used PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE'S DEFENCE OF HIS REBELLION. Henry Taylor, essayist and author of the dramas " Philip Van Artevelde" and "Edwin the Fair : " born 1802. YOTT speak of insurrections : bear in mind Against what rule my father and myself Have been insurgent ; whom did we supplant ? — There was a time, so ancient records tell, There were communities, scarce known by name In these degenerated days, but once far-famed, Where liberty and justice, hand in hand, Order'd the common weal ; where great men grew Up to their natural eminence, and none, Saving the wise, just, eloquent, were great. Whom may we nov) call free ? whom great ? whom wise ? Whom innocent ? — the free are only they Whom power makes free to execute all ilia Their hearts imagine ; they are only great Whose passions nurse them from their cradles up In luxury and lewdness, — whom to see Is to despise, whose aspects put to scorn Their station's eminence ; the wise, they only Who wait obscurely till the bolts of heaven Shall break upon the land, and give them light Whereby to walk ; the innocent, alas ! Poor iunocency lies where four roads meet, A stone upon her head, a stake driven through her,— For who is innocent that cares to live ? The hand of power doth press the very life Of innocency out. What, then, remains. But in the cause of nature to stand forth. And turn this frame of things the right side up ? For this the hour is come, the sword is drawn, And tell your mastei-s vainly they resist. Nature, that slept beneath their poisonoua drugs, Is up and stirring, and from north and south, From east and west, from England and from France^ n U\ t' 330 artevelde's defence of his rebellion. h '1 tli From Germany, and Flanders, and Navarre, Shall stand against them like a beast at bay. The blood that they have shed will hide no longer In the blood-sloken soil, but cries to heaven. Their cruelties and wrongs against the poor Shall quicken into swarms of venomous snakes, And hiss through all the earth, till o'er the earth, That ceases then from hissings and from groans, Rises the song — how are mighty fallen ! And by the peas; t's hand ! Low lie the proud ! And smitten with the weapons of the poor — The blacksmith's hammer, and the woodman's axe 1 Their tale is told ; and for that they were rich. And robb'd the poor; and for that they were strong, And scourged the weak ; and for that they made lawa Which turn'd the sweat of labour's brow to blood, For these their sins the nations cast them out ! These things come to pass Trom small beginnings, because God is just. LYRIC, SA1 ME AL] Anacreo is ve him. "La From the nnofa t and c MISCELLANEOUS POETKY : LYRIC, ELEGIAC, DIDACTIC, DESCRIPTIVE, PASTORAL, SATIRIC, AND HUMOROUS POETRY. BALLADS, AND METRICAL FABLES AND ROMANCES, CHRONOLOGIC- ALLY ARRANGED. ODE TO SPRING. Anacreon, one of the most graceful of Greek lyric poets: B.C. 540-480. It is very doubtful whether he -was the author of the odes attributed to him. Translated by Thomas Moore, the distinguished author of " Lalla Rookh,*' and the " Irish Melodies : " 1779-1852. See the young, the rosy Spring, Gives to the breeze her spangled wing ; While virgin Graces, warm with May, Fling roses o*er her dewy way ! The murmuring billows of the deep Have languish's into silent sleep ; And mark ! the flitting sea-birds lave Their plumes in the reflecting wave; While cranes from hoary winter fly To flutter in a kinder sky. Now the genial star of day Dissolves the murky clouds away ; And cultured field, and winding stream. Are sweetly tissued by his beam. Now the earth prolific swells With leafy buds and flowery bells; Gemming shoots the olive twine. Clusters ripe festoon the vine ; All along the branches crseping, Through the velvet foliage peeping, Little infant fruits we see Nursing into luxury ! HARMODIUS AND ARISTOGEITON. From the Greek Anthology, a collection of epigrams by the ancient Greek poets and philosophers, Tliia pxtrn<'t is attributed to CALLl.STiRATUf?, and celebrates the assassination of the tyrant Hipparchus : B.c. 514. 1 *LL wreath my sword in myrtle bough, The sword that laid the tvrant low. 333 it. CHORUSES IN " HECUBA " AND " ALCESTIS. When patriots, burning to be free. To Athens gave equality. Harmodius, hail I though 'reft of breath, Thou ne'er shalt feel the stroke of death : The heroes' happy isles shall be The bright abode allotted thee, I '11 wreath my sword in myrtle bough, The sword that laid Hipparchus low. When at Athene's adverse fane He knelt, and never rose again. While Freedom's name is understood, You shall delight the wise and good ; You dared to set your country free. And gave her laws equality. CHORUSES IN THE " HECUBA " AND THE " ALCESTIS." Euripides, the third of the great Greek dramatists, with ^schylus and So- phocles, adorned the age of Pericles : B.C. 480-406. Traii >lated by Anstice. Hecuba, the ivlfe of Priam, king of Troy, relates the story of its capture hy the Greeks. The fatal hour was midnight's calm. When the feast was done, and sleep like balm Was shed on every eye. Hush'd was the choral symphony, The sacrifice was o'er. My lord to rest his limbs had flung ; His idle spear in its place was hung ; He dreamed of foes no more. And I, while I lost my lifeless gaze, ^ In the depth of the golden mirror's blaze, That my last light task was aiding. Was wreathing with fillets my tresses' maze, And with playful fiugers braiding. Then came a shout ; Through the noiseless city the cry rang out, " Your homes are won if ye scale the tow'r, Sons of the Greeks ! is it not the hour ? " Alcestis, the wife ofAdmetus, king of Phcrce, freely gave her life to save that of her husband, which the Fates had promised to spare, provided that father, mother, or wife, would consent to die in his stead. Be patient, for thy tears are vain — They may not wake the dead again : E'en heroes of immortal sire. And mortal mothers born, ezpire. Oh, she was dear While she linger'd here ! Thomas B and c< 1800-] The I nti the comi exclusive metres, I The best Odyssey. The plan was takei master-p free tran The Latii Portico a proposed and Lysii But th which h£ perished, as the gr with met there :3 EARLY BALLAD POETRY. She is dear now she rests below ; And thou may'st boast That the bride thou bast lost Was the noblest earth can show. We will not look on her burial sod As the cell of sepulchral sleep ; It shall be as the shrine of a radiant god, And the pilgrim shall visit that blest abode To worship, and not to weep ; And as he turns his steps aside, Thus shall he breathe his vow : " Here sleeps a self-devoted bride Of old, to save her lord she died ; She is a spirit now. Hail, bright and blest one ! grant to tne The smiles of glad prosperity." Thus shall he own her name divine, Thus bend him at Alcestis' shrine. 333 EARLY BALLAD POETRY. Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay, the most popular of modem historians, and celebrated in the poetic world for his "Lays of Ancient Rome :'' 1800-1859. From the preface to " Lays of Ancient Rome." The I '.tin literature which has come dor ' us is of later date than the commencement of the second Puni^ ..ar, and consists almost exclusively of works fashioned on Greek models. The Latin metres, heroic, elegiac, lyric, and dramatic, are of Greek origin. The best Latin epic poetry is the feeble echo of the Iliad and Odyssey. The best Latin eclogues are imitations of Theocritus. The plan of the most finished didactic poem in the Latin tongue was taken from Heslod. The Latin tragedies are bad copies of the master-pieces of Sophocles and Euripides. The Latin comedies are free translations from Demophilus, Menander, and Apollodorus. The Latin philosophy was borrowed, without alteration, from the Portico and the Academy ; and the great Latin orators constantly proposed to themselves, as patterns, the speeches of Demosthenes and Lysias. But there was an earlier Latin literature, a literature truly Latin, which has wholly perished — which had, indeed, almost wholly perished, long before those whom we are in the habit of regarding %^tj fnu gi rtftCDt' j-jckilll niilLxo nvriij Uviii. .2.110.11 ilLt:i ciliii^' ixuuUiiuuli with metrical romances, such as are found in every country where there :3 much curie ' / and intelligence, but little reading and 11 r^ 334 EARLY BALLAD POETRY. I ■ writing. All humau beings, not utterly savage, long for som« in- formation about past times, and are delighted by narratives which present pictures to the eye of the mind. But it is only in very en- lightened communities that books are readily accessible. Metrical composition, therefore, which in a highly civilized nation is a mere luxury, is, in nations imperfectly civilized, almost a necessary ot life, and is valued less on account of the pleasure M'hlch it gives to the ear, than on account of the help which it gives to the memory. A man who can invent or embellish an interesting story, and put it into a form which others may easily retain in their recollection, will always be highly esteemed by a people eager for amusement and information, but destitute of libraries. Such is the origin of ballad- poetry, a species of composition which scarcely ever fails to spring up and flourish in every society, at a certain point in the progress towards refinement. Tacitus informs us that songs were the only memorials of the past which the ancient Germans possessed. We learn from Lucan and from Ammianius Marcellinus, that the brave actions of the ancient Gauls were commemorated in the verses of bards. During many ages, and through many revolutions, minstrelsy retained its influence over both the Teutonic and the Celtic race. The vengeance exacted by the spouse of Attila for the murder of Siegfried was celebrated in rhymes, of which Germany is still justly proud. The exploits of Athelstane were commemorated by the Anglo-Saxon?, and those of Canute by the Danes, in rude poems, of liich a few fragments have come down to us. The chants of the Welsh harpers preserved, through ages of darkness, a faint and doubtful memory of Arthur. In the Highlands of Scotland may be still gleaned some reliques of the old songs about CuthuUin and Fingal. The long struggle of the Servians against the Ottoman power was recorded in lays full of martial spirit. We learn from Herrera that, when a Peruvian inca died, men of skill were ap- pointed to celebrate him in verses which all the people learned by heart, and sang in public on days of festival. The feats of Kuroglou, the great freebooter of Turkistan, recounted in ballads composed by himself, are known in every village of northern Persia. Captain Beechey heard the bards of the Sandwich Islands recite the heroic achievements of Tamehamcha, the most illustrious of their kings. Mungo Park found in the heart of Africa a class of singing men, the only annalists of their rude tribes, and heard them tell the story of the great victory which Darnel, the negro prfnce of the Jalofi'd, won over Abdulkader, the Mussulman tyrant of Foota Torra. This species of poetry attained a high degree of excellence EARliY BAIiLAD POEl'BY. 335 r som« in- ives which in very en- Metrical is a mere icessary of it gives to e memory, and put it Bction, will ement and of ballad- to spring e progress •e the only 3sed. We the brave I verses of minstrelsy !eltic race, murder of still justly jd by the ide poems, ants of the faint and id may be inllin and I Ottoman earn from were ap- 3arned by feats of in ballads northern !h Islands illustrious a class of 2ard them prfnce of of Foota Jxcelleuce ! among the Castllians, before they began to copy Tuscan patterns It attained a still higher degree of excellence among the English and tbe lowland Scotch, during the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries. But it reached its full perfection in ancient Greece ; for there can be no doubt that the great Homeric poems are gcnericallv ballads, though widely indeed distinguished from all other ballads and, indeed, from almost all other human compositions bv tran- scendent merit. As it is agreeable to general experience that, at a certain stage HI the progress of society, ballad-poetry should flourish, so it is also agreeable to general experience that, at a subsequent stage in the progress of society, ballad-poetry should be under-valued and neglected. Knowledge advances ; manners change ; great foreign models of composition are studied and imitated. The phraseology of the old minstrels becomes obsolete. Their versification, which, having received its laws only from the ear, abounds in irregularities, seems licentious and uncouth. Their simplicity appears beggarly when compared with the quaint forms and gaudy colouring of such artists as Cowley and Gongora. The ancient lays, unjustly despised by the learned and polite, linger for a time m the memory of the vulgar, and are at length too often irretrievably lost. We cannot wonder that the ballads of Rome should have altogether disappeared, when we rememoer how very narrowly, in spite of the invention of printing those of our own country and those of Spain, escaped the same fate. There is, indeed, little doubt that oblivion covers many English songs equal to any that were published by Bishop Percy, and many Spanish songs as good as the best of those which have been so happily translated by Mr Lockhart, Eighty years ago England possessed only one tattered copy of Childe Waters and Sir Cauline, and Spain only one tattered copy of the noble poem of the Cid. The snuff of a candle, or a mischievous dog, might in a moment have deprived the world for ever of any of those fine compositions. Sir Walter Scott, who united to the fire of a great poet the minute curiosity and patient diligence of a great antiquary, was but just in time to save the precious reliques of the Minstrelsy of the Border. In Germany, the lay of the Niebelungs had been long utterly forgotten, when, in the eighteenth century, "it was, for the fir?t time, printed from a manuscript in the old library of a noble family. In truth, the only people who, through their whole passage from simplicity to the hlghe.'^ civiiization, never for a moment ceased to love and admire their old ballads, were the Greeks. ['r 1 I I iJ^ !.| -II 336 ODE TO CONTENTMENT. That the early Romans should havo had ballad-poetry, and that this poetry should have perished, is, therefore, not strange. It would, on the contrary, havo been strange if it had not come to pass; and we should be justified in pronouncing them highly probable, even if wo had no direct evidence on the subject. But we have direct evidence of unquestionable authority. Ennius, who flourished in the time of the Second Punic War, was regarded in the Augustan age as the father of Latin poetry. He was, in truth, the father of the second school of Latin poetrj', of the only school of which the works have descended to us. But from Ennius himself we learn that there were poets who stood to him in the same relation in which the author of the romance of Count Alarcos stood to Garcilaso, or the author of the "Lytell Geste of Robin Hode " to Lord Surrey. Ennius speaks of verses which the Fauns and the Bards were wont to chant in the old time, when none had yet studied the graces of speech, when none had yet climbed the peaks sacred to the goddesses of Grecian song. "Where," Cicero mournfully asks, "are those old verses now?" ODE TO CONTENTMENT. Qdintus HORATlus Flaccus, the greatest writer of Latin lyric poetry, and second only to Virgil among Roman poets : B.C. 65-B.c. 8. Trans- fc 1 Xi lol);^"^ Cowpor, the Christian poet, author of " The Task," o£c. : 17*<1~1800. Ease is the weary merchant's prayer, Who ploughs beneath th' -^gean flood, When neither moon nor stars appear, Or faintly glimmer through the cloud. For eas- .ixe Mede with quiver graced. For ease the Thracian hero sighs ; Delightful ease all pant to taste, A blessing which no treasure buys. For neither gold can lull to rest. Nor all a consul's guard beat oflf ^^ The tumults of a troubled breast, The cares that haunt a gilded roof. Happy the man, whose table shows A few clean ounces of old plate, No fear intrudes on his repose, No sordid wishes to be great. Poor short-lived things, what plans we lay ! Ah, why forsake our native home ! To distant climates speed away ; For self sticks close where'er we roam. of lat IM I) THE BUFFOON AND THE COUNTliY-PELLOW. 337 and that range. It >t come to 3m highly ject. But 'unic War, in poetry, poetrj', — • us. But stood to omance of D "Lytell ; of verses J old time, none had cian 8ong. aow?" ric poetry, 8. Trims- The Task," Care follows hard ; and soon o'ertakea The well rigg'd ship, the warlike steed, Her destined quarry ne'er fursakes, Not the wind flics with half her speed. ^rom auxious feiiiM 6f future ill Guard well the cheerful, h&ppy now ; Gild e'en your sorrows with a smile, No blessing is unmix'd below. Thy neighing steeds and lowing herds. Thy num'rous flocks around thee graze, And the best purple Tyre affords Thy robe magnificent displays. On me indulgent Heaven bestow'd A rural mansion, neat and small ; This Lyre ; — and as for yonder crowd, The happiness to hate them all. THE BUFFOON AND THE COUNTRY-FELLOW. PFiBDRUs, a frcodman of Augustus, the first Roman emperor, and the earliest of Koman fabul'sts, flourished in the first half of the first century. Trans- lated by Smart. In every age, in each profession. Men err the most by prepossession But when the thing is clearly shown. Is fairly urged, and fully known. We soon applaud what we deride, And penitence succeeds to pride. A certain noble, on a day. Having a mind to show away, Invited by reward the mimes And play'rs and tumblers of the times, And built a large commodious stage For the choice spirits of the age ; But, above all, amongst the rest There came a genius who profese'd To have a curious trick in store That never was perform'd before. Through all the town this soon got air. And the whole house was like a fair ; But soon his entry as he made. Without a prompter or parade ; 'Twas all expectance and suspense, And silence gagg'd the audience. He, stooping down and looking big, So wondrous well took off a pig, All swore 'twas serious and no joke. For that, or underneath his cloak I ,L 338 FBOJf THE 18th satire OF JUVENAL. Ill a He had conceal'd some grunting elf, Or was a real hog hiinaolf, A Boarch w.w made — no pig was found With thund'ring claps the seats resound, And pit, and box, and gali'ries roar With—" O rare I bravo ! " and " encore." Old Roger Grouse, a country clown, Who yot knew something of the town. Beheld the mimic of hia whim, And on the morrow challenged him ; Declaring to each beau and belle That he this grunter would excel. The morrow came— the crowd was greater But prejudice and rank ill-nature Usurp'd the minds of men and wenches. Who came to hiss, and break the bencheb. The mimic took his usual station. And squeak'd with general approbation ; Again " encore ! encore ! " they cry " 'Tis quite the thing, 'tis very high." Old Grouse conceal'd, amidat this racket, A real pig beneath his jacket — Then forth he came, and with hia nail He pinch'd the urchin by the tail. The tortured pig, from out his throat, Produced the genuine native note. All bellow'd out 'twas very sad ! Sure never stuff was half so bad. " That like a pig ! " each cried in scoff; " Pshaw ! nonsense ! blockhead ! off! off! off! " The mimic was extoll'd, and Grouse Was hissed, and catcall'd from the house. " Soft ye, a word before I go," Quoth honest Hodge ; and stooping low, Produced the pig, and thus aloud Bespoke the stupid partial crowd : " Behold, and learn from this poor creature. How much you critics know of nature ! " FROM THE 13th SATIRE OF JUVENAL. DEcrus Junius JcvENALls, a celebrated Roman Satirist: a.d. 40-120 rrunskted by William Gifford, an en.inent English critic, and first editor of the Quarterly Revietv : 1755-182G. A Spartan once the Oracle besought To solve a scruple which perplex'd his thought. And plainly tell him if he might forswear A purse, of old confined to his care. Incensed, the priestess answer'd, " Waverer, No ! FROM THE 13th SATIRE OP JUVENAL. 3311 Nor Bhalt thou for the doubt, unpunishM go." ,With that he haaten'd to restore the trust ; But fear aloii , not virtue, made him just : Hence, he soon proved the Oracle divine, And all the answer worthy of the shrine ; For plagues pursued his race without delay, And swept them from the earth, like dust, away. By such dire sufferings did the wretch atone The crime of meditated fraud alone I For, IN THE EYE OF Heaven a wicked deed Devised, is done; what, then, if we proceed ? Perpetual fears the offender's peace destroy. And roi» the social hour of all its joy : Feverish and parch'd he chews, with many a pause, The tasteless food, that swells beneath his jaws : Spits out the produce of the Albanian hill, Mellow'd by age;— you bring hira mellower still, And, lo ! such wrinkles on his brow appear. As if you brought Falernian vinegar! At night, should sleep his harass'd limbs compose, And steal him one short moment from his woes, Then dreams invade ; sudden, before hig eyes The violated fane and altar rise ; And (what disturbs him most) your injured shade. In more than mortal majesty array'd. Frowns on the wretch, alarms his treacherous rest, And wrings the dreadful secret from his breast. These, these are they, who tremble and turn pale At the first mutterings of the hollow gale ! Who sink with terror at the transient glare Of meteors, glancing through the turbid air ! Oh, 'tis not chance, they cry ; this hideous crash Is not the war of winds ; nor this dread flash The encounter of dark clouds ; but blasting fire. Charged with the wrath of heaven's insulted sire ! That dreaded peal, innoxious, dies away ; Shuddering, they wait the next with more dismay. As if the short reprieve were only sent To add new horrors to their punishment. Yet more ; when the first symptoms of disease, When feverish heats their restless members seize. They think the plague by wrath Divine bestow'd, And feel, in every pang, the avenging God. Rack'd at the thought, in hopeless grief they lie, And dare not tempt the mercy of the sky ; For what can such expect ! what victim slay. That is not worthier far to live than they 1 ill 340 DEATU SONG. DEATH SONG OF REGNAK r>ODBROG. Kegnar LoDBUoa, King of Denmark, fiunous also uh a Scald, or Jlunic poet • was taken prisoner by p]lla, tho Saxon king of Northunibc'rland, wliilo ravaging his territory, and died in an English dangoon, abont the close «)f the eighth century. Translated by G, Herbert, London, 1801. We snjote with sworda ; I hold that all By destiny or live or fall : Each his certain hour awaits; Pew can 'scape the ruling Fates. When I scatter'd slaughter wide, And launch'd my vessels to tho tide, I deeiuM, not I, that Ella's blade Was doom'd at last to bow my head ; But hew'd in every Scottish bay Fresh banquets for the beast of prey. We smote with swords ; my parting breath Kejoices in tho pang of death. Where dwells fair Balder's father dread, The board is deck'd, the seats are Spread ! In Fiolner's court, with costly cheer, Soon shall I quaff" the foaming beer, Prom hollow skulls of warriors slaiu ! Heroes ne'er in death conlplain ; To Vider's hall I will not bear The dastard words of weak despair. We smote with swords ; their falchions bright (If well they kenii'd their father's plight, ' How venom-filled, a viperous bro6d Have gnaw'd his flesh and lapp'd hi& blood,) Thy sons would grasp, AsLtnga dear, And vengeful wake the battle here. A mothor to my eons I gave Of sterling worth, to make them brave. We smote With Swords; cold death is near, My rights are passing to my heir. Grim stings the adders forked dart; The vipers nestle in my heart. But soon, I wot, shall Vider's wand Pix'd in Ella's bosom stand. My youthful Sons with rage will swell, Listening how their father fell : These gallant b6ys in peace unbroken Will never rest, till I be wroken. We smote with sv, ords ; where javelins fly, Where lances meet, and warriors die, Fifty times and one I stood Foremost on the field of blood. Full young, I 'gan distain my sword, Nor f ear'd I force of adverse lord ; ALPIN's lament for MORAn. Nor deoiij'd I then that any arm % miglit or giiil.) could work uio harm Mo to thoir foast tho godH niUHt oall ; Iho brave man wails not o'er his fall. Coaso, my Htrain I I hoar a voioo From realms where martial hoiiIh rnioioo ■ I hear tho maids of slaughter call, Who bid mo honoo to Odin's hall'- High seatod in thoir blnss'd abodes I soon shall quair tho drink of gods. lht< hours of h'fi, havo glided by ; 1 fail, but smilipg ahall I die. 341 AI.PIN'S LAMKXT FOR MORAR '''''"mpiij,;x^lr:;^;;-,l,:?;t^';:ss:K;x';;S found in the oral ,..,o.ns and tnulil sof he ?. ' ? •''"'"''•' '" *" '"' J!i/no. Tho wind and the rain arc past ; calm is the noon of d.,v ti clouds arc divided in heaven. Over the Ween hills fl^nl^ii ••■ /''" sun. Jied through the stony vale comes'Sn J a n of'thrhin' Sweet are thy murmurs, stream I b,it more sweet iKtl o vm-L i It js the voiee of Alpin the son of .on,, inourLg for S' K ?=riSS*=afii ■=::■=-" tea Alpin. My tears, O liyno, are for tho dead; my voice for those M.„f Thou were swift, O Morar. as a roe'irtL de ert iSl ""«''■''»?• ..aim as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is ai "''"" "^ "'°'" = Narrow m thy dwelling now ! Dark the place of thine abode » With three steps I compass thy .erave, thou whi wcrt so groat before I Fo , r v..!i H aree a ioat , ion^ graws, whicn wiiislios in the wind mark in fh« ThorLt^no'^" f^'^•^ nughty Morar. Morar! tJm, artbw ndoS hou hast no mother to mourn thee ; no maid with her tears of ov^^' I)oad ,8 Bhe that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter oMori'" II II: 342 PRISON SONG. 1 H Wo on his staff is this ? Who is this whose head is white with age ; whose eyes are red with tears ; who quakes at every step ? It is thy father, Morar ! the father of no son but thee. He heard of thy fame in war ; he heard of foes dispersed. He heard of Morar's renown ; why did he not hear of his wound ? Weep, thou father of Morar, weep ! but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead ; low their pillow of dust. No more shall be heard thy voice ; no more awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake ? Farewell, thou bravest of men, thou conqueror in the field ! But the field shall see thee no more; nor the dark wood be brightened with the splendour of thy steel. Thou hast left no son. The song shall preserve thy name. Future times shall hear of thee ; they shall hear of the fallen Morar. PRISON SONG. Written by Richard Ccecr de Lion, King of England, and a famons troub.vdour, during his imprisonment by the Emperor Henry VI„ of Germany in 1192. Translated from the old French in Bumey's History of Music. No wretched captive of his prison speaks, Unless with pain and bitterness of soul, Yet consolation from the Muse he seeks, Whose voice alone misfortune can control. Where now is each ally, each baron, friend, Whose face I ne'er beheld without a smile ? Will none, his sovereign to redeem, expend The smallest portion of his treasures vile ? Though none may blush that, nigh two tedious years, Without relief, my bondage has endured. Yet know, my English, Norman, Gascon peers, Not one of you should thus remain immured : The meanest subject of my wide domains, Had I been free, a ransom should have found ; I mean not to reproach you with my chains, Yet still I wear them on a foreign ground ! Too true it is — so selfish human race ! Nor dead nor captive, friend or kindred find ; Since here I pine in bondage and disgrace, For lack of gold my fetters to unbind; Much for myself I feel, yet ah I still more That no compassion from my subjects flows : What can from infamy their names restore. If, while a prisoner, death my eyes should close ? But small is my surprise, though great my grief, To find, in spite of all his solemn vows, My lands are ravaged by the Gallic chief, While none my cause has courage to espouse. Transia bio wr: pos Ai At Tl Ai W Tk De In Ea W( Fo Hi np, Th Lo Bu Fo witlj age ; hy father, 16 in war ; iid he not t thy son w of dust. 1. When Farewell, I shall see endour of thy name, forar. a famous iry VI, of 's History THE LAMENTATION FOE CELIN. Though lofty towers obscure the cheerful day, Yet through the dungeon's melancholy gloom, Kind Hope, in gentle whispers, seems to say, " Perpetual thraldom is not yet thy doom." Ye dear companions of ray happy days, Of Chail and Penravin, aloud declare Throughout the earth, in everlasting lays. My foes against me wage inglorious war. Oh, tell them too, that ne'er among my crimes, Did breach of faith, deceit, or fraud appear ; That infamy will brand to latest times The insults I receive, while captive here. Know, all ye men of Anjou and Touraine, And every bach'lor knight, robust and brave. That duty, war, and love, alike are vain, From bonds your sovereign and your friend to save : Remote from consolation here I lie, The wretched captive of a powerful foe, Who all your zeal and ardour can defy, Nor leaves you aught but pity to bestow. 343 iKi II THE LAMENTATION FOR CELIN. Translated from the Spanish by John Gibson Lockhatii, son-in-law and biographer ox Sir W. Scott. In addition to his Si^aniah Ballads, he has written some excellent novels and reviews : 1794-1854. This ballad is sup- posed to have been composed in the fourteenth century. At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are barred, At twilight, at the Vega gate, there is a trampling heard ; There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow. And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe. What tower is fallen, what star is set, what chief come these bewailing ? " A tower is fallen, a star is set !— Alas ! alas for Celin !" Thre' times they knock, three times they cry, and wide the doors they throw, Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they gc ; In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the hollow poich, Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flaming torch'; Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing, For all have heard the misery—" Alas ! alas for Celin !" Him yesterday, a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje's blood,— 'Twas at the soiemn jousting,— around the nobles stood : The nobles of the land were by, and ladies bright and fair Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share; But now the nobles all lament,— the ladies are bewailing,— For he was Granada's darling knight.—" Alas 1 alas for Celin !" ^'. 344 FROM " CONSTANCE, THE MAN OF LAW's TALE.'* Before him ride his vassals, in order two and two, With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view ; Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable veil, Between the tambour's dismal strokes, take up their doleful tale: VV hen stops th( muffled drum, ye hear their brotherless bewailing And all the people, far and near, cry,—" Alas ! alas for Celin !" Oh ! lovely lies he on the bier, above the purple pall, The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of them all ; Jlis dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is pale, The crust of blood lies black and dim, upon his burnished mail • And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in upon their wailing — Its sound IS like no earthly sound,—" Alas ! alas for Celin !" The Moorish maid at the lattice stands,-the Moor stands at his door • One maid IS wringing of her hands, and one is weeping sore: Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black th.y strew Upon their broidered garments, of crimson, green, and blue : Before each gate the bier stands still,-then bursts the loud bewailin- krom door and lattice, high and low,—" Alas ! alas for Celin !" An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people crv - Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye • Twas she that nursed him at her breast,~that nursed him long ago • bhe knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall know ' With one deep shriek, she through doth break, when her ears receive their wading : — " Let me kiss my Celin ere I die !— Alas ! alas for Celin !" INV] Edmun FROM "CONSTANCE, THE MAN OF LAW'S TALE." Gkoffkey Chaucer the oldesfc of English poets, the author of the " Canter- bury Tales," 1328-1400. This extract is slightly modernized. Then weep, both young and old, in all that place, When that the king this cursed letter sent. And Constance, with a pale and deathlike face. On the fourth day toward the ship she went ; Bnfc ne'ertheless she takes in good intent The will of Christ, and, kneeling on the strand, She said. Lord, all is welcome from thy hand. Her little child lay weeping on her arm, And, kneeling piteously to him, she said, " Peace, little son, I will do thee no harm ; " With that her 'kerchief from her head she braid. And er his little eyes it softly laid. And in her arms she lulleth it full fast, And into heaven up her eyes sho cast. ' " little child, alas ! what is thy guilt, That never wroughtest sin as yet, pardie ? Itale: railing, lin!" nail ; ling,— »» his door; y strew bewailin!:^ n!" ! cry,- long ago : I know ! rs receive FROM "THE FAERIE QUEENE." Why wiirthy cruel father have thee spilt » Oh mercy show, dear constable," quoth she, As let my little child dwell here with thee ; And if thou darest not him save from blame ' To kiss him only in his father's name." Therewith she looketh backward to the land And said " Farewell, my husband, pitiless ; '" And up she rose, and walketh down the strand Toward the ship, her followed all the press; And aye she prays the child to hold his peace Aud takes her leave, and, holy of intont, bhe blessed herself, and in the ship she went 345 I .E.» " Cantcr- 1. FKOM "THE FAEEIE QUEENE." INVITATION OF DESPAIR TO THE RED CROSS KNIGHT. CANTO IX EDMUND Spenser, the immortal author of the'' Faerie Queene," the first part ot the Elizabethan age : 1653-1598. '' Wno travels by the weary wandering way To come unto his wished-for home in haste And meets a flood that doth his passage stay • Is t not great -grace to help him overpast, Or free his feet that in the mire stick fast ? Most envious man, that grieves at neighbour's good • And fond, that joyest in the woe thou hast ; Why vvilt not let him pass that long hath stood Upon the bank, yet wilt thyself not pass the flood ? " " He there does now enjov eternal rest And happy ease, which thou dost want and crave And further from it daily wanderest ; ' What if some little pain the passage have That makes frail flesh to fear the bitter wave • Is not short pain well borne that brings long ease And lays the soul to sleep in quiet grave ? Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas, Ease after war, death after life, does greatly please." The knight much wondered at his sudden wit And said ; " The term of life is limited, Nor may a man prolong, or shorten it : The soldier may not move from watchful stead, Is or leave his stand until his captain bid." " Who life did limit by almighty doom," Quoth he,^" knows best the terms established ; Ana x^e, that points the sentinel iiis room, Doth license him depart at sound of morning drum." 1 11.--^ ill fm^mi 346 THOUGHTS ON TIME. I !>' SONNET TO ITALY. ITiis sonnet, next to some of Petmrcli's (1304-1374) the finest in the Italian language, is the production of Filica ja, a patriotic Italian poet and sena- tor: 1642-1707. The translation is that of Roscoe, in "Sismondi's Literature." Italia ! thou to whom, in evil hour, The fatal boon of beauty Nature gave, Vet on thy front the sentence did engrave, That ceaseless woe should be thy only dower ! Ah ! were that beauty less, or more thy power ! That he who now compels thee to his arms, Might gaze with cold indifference on thy charms, Or tremble at thine eye's indignant lower, Thou should'st not then behold in glittering line, From the high Alps emoattled throngs descend. And Gallic hordes pollute thy Po's clear wave ; Nor whilst encompassed close by spears, not thine, Should'st thou by foreign hands thy rights defend, Conquering or conquered, evermore a slave. James T othi ; f THOUGHTS ON TIME. Edward Young, chaplain to George II., a philosophical and reflective poet, author of the " Night Thoughts : " 1681-1765. O TIME ! than gold more sacred ; more a load Than lead to fools, and fools reputed wise. What moment granted man without account ? What years are squander'd, wisdom's debt unpaid ! Our wealth in days all due to that discharge. Haste, haste, he lies in wait, he's at the door ; Insidious Death ; should his strong arm arrest, No composition sets the prisoner free. Eternity's inexorable chain Fast binds, and vengeance claims the full arrear. Youth is not rich in time ; it may be poor, Part with it as with money, sparing ; pay No moment, but in purchase of its worth ; And what it'd worth, ask death-beds ; they can tell. Part with it as with life, reluctant ; big With holy hope of nobler time to come ; Time higher aim'd, still nearer the graAt mark Of inen and angels, virtue more divine. On all important time, through fverv ago Though much, and warm, the ,vI-,o have urged, the man Is yet unborn who duly weighs an hour. •' I've lost a day " — the prince wL'o nobly cried, A SUMMER DAWN. 347 tie Italian and sena- ?i8mon(li'8 Had been an emperor without his crown. Of Rome ? say, rather, lord of human race : He spoke as if deputed by mankind. So should all speak ; so reason speaks in all : From the soft whispers of that God in man, Why fly to folly, why to frenzy fly, For rescue from the blessings we possess ? Time, the supreme !— Time is eternity ; Pregnant with all that makes archangels smile. Who murders Time, he crushes in the birth A power ethereal, only not adored. tive poet, in A SUMMER DAWN, FROM "THE SEASONS." James Thomson, author of "The Seasons," the "Castle of Indolence," and other classical poems : 1700-1748. His poems are chiefly pastoral. And soon, observant of approaching day, The meek-eyed morn appears, mother of dews, At first faint-gleaming in the dappled east, Till far o'er ether spreads the widening glow And, from before the lustre of her face. White break the clouds away. With quicken'd step Brown Night retires. Young Day pours in apace, And opens all the lawny prospect wide. The dripping rocks, the mountain's misty top, Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn. Blue, through the dusk, the smoky currents shine. And from the bladed field the fearful hare Limps awkward ; while along the forest glade The wild deer trip, and often turning gaze At early passenger. Music awakes. The native voice of undissembled joy ; And thick around the woodland hymns arise. Roused by the cock, the soon -clad shepherd leaves His mossy cottage, where with peace he dwells, And from the crowded fold in order drives His flock, to taste the verdure of the morn. Falsely luxurious, will not man awake, And, springing from the bed of sloth, enjoy The cool, the fragrant, and the silent hour, To meditation due and sacred song ? • • • • • But yonder comes the ])owerful King of Day, Rejoicing in the oast. The lessening cloud, The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow Illumed with fluid gold, his near approach Betoken glad, Lo ! now apparent all. Aslant the dew-bright earth and colour'd air, 348 THE BARD. He Irioks in bo\inclless majesty abroad ; And sheds the shining day, that burnish'd playa On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wandering streams, High -gleaming from afar. Prime cheerer, Light ! Of all material beings first and best ! Eflilux divine ! Nature's resplendent robe ! Without whose vesting beauty all were wrapt In unessential gloom ; and thou, O Sun ! Soul of surrounding worlds, in whom best setii Shines out thy Maker ! May I sing of thee ! 'I THE BARD. Thomas Gray, professor of Modern History at Cambridge, one of the most elegant and classical of minor English poets : 1716-1771. " Ruin seize thee, ruthless King ! ' Confusion on thy banners wait ! Though, fann'd by conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state ! Helm nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor even thy virtues, tyrant ! shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears ! " Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Gloucester stood aghast in speechless trance — " To arms ! " cried Mortimer, and coiich'd his quivering lance. On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe. With haggard eyes, the poet stood ; (Loose his beard and hoary hair, Stream'd like „ meteor to the troubled air;) And, with a master's hand and prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre, — " Dear lost companions of my tuneful art. Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm'd my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries ! " No more I weep. They do not sleep ; On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit ! They linger yet, Avengers of their native land ; With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hand the tissue of thy line. William ( THE PASSIONS. 349 xms. one of tlie 771. ' Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding-shoet of Edward's race, Give ample room and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night, When Severn shall reecho with aflFright The shrieka of death through Berkeley's roof that ring — Shrieks of an agonizing king ! " ' Mighty victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies ! No pitying heart, ho eye afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled ? Thy son is gorie— he rests among the dead. The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born Gone to salute the rising morn. ' Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows. While, proudly riding o'er the azure realm, In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes, Youth on the proW, and pleasure at the helm '; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, ' That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.' Fond, impious man ! think'bt thbu yon Sanguine cloud. Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb 6f day ? To-moi-i'Ow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray. ;^nough for me ; with joy I see The different doom our fates assign. Be thine despair, and sceptred care. To triumph and to die are mine." He spoke ; and, headlong from the mountain's height Deep m the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.' THE I^ASSIONS. William Collins, the writer of some of the finest odes in the En^^lish Ian. guage: 1721-1759. " . When Music, heaVenly maid, was young. While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Throng'd around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Pcssess'd beyond the Muse's painting. Ey turns, they felt the glowing mind Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined : Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired, ^m HI 3:o THE PASSIONS. I From the supporting myrtles round They snatch'd her instruments of sound ; And, as they oft had heard apart flv.-ti(-; \i. ions of her forceful art, Each-- for madness ruled the hour — Wciuld prove his own expressive power. First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewilder'd lay ; And back recoil'd he knew not why, Even at the sound himself had made. Next, Anger ru,Ji; «1, hiy oyes on fire, In lightnings own'd his secret stings In one rude clash he struck the lyre. And swept, with hurried hands> the strings. "With woful measures, wan Dejpair — Low sullen sounds ! — his grief beguiled ; A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 'Twas sad by tits — by starts 't^ /as wild. ! But thou, Hope ! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure ! Still it whisper'd promised pleasure. And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail. Still would her touch the strain prolong ; And, from the rocks, the woods, the vale, she call'd on Echo still through all her song. And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair. And longer had she sung — but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose. He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down ; And, with a wi hering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast, so loud and dread, - Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ; And, ever and anon, he beat The doubling drum, with furious heat. And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between. Dejected Pity, at his side, Her soul-si^iduing voice applied. Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien ; While each strain'd b ill of sight seemed bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jeal< isy, to nought were fix'd ; Sad proof of thy distressful state ! Of diflPering themes the veering song was mix'd : And, r.-^w, it courted Love ; now, raving, called on Kcvte. With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired ; P T At They Lo Lot JOJAN^ KING CHRISTIAN. And from hor wild sequeater'd Beat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul • And, dashing soft, from rocks around, Bubbling runrels joinM the sound. Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole: Or o er some haunted streams, with fond delay— Round a holy calm diffusing, Love of peace and lonely musing la hollow murmurs died away. But, oh, how alter'd was its sprighf Her tone I When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue. Her bow across her shoulders flung, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dalo and tlucket rune— Tlie hunter s call, to Faun and Dryad known. The oakcrown'd sisters, and I heir chaste-eyed queen, toatyrs, and silvan boys, were seen. Peeping from forth their alleys green ; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear ; And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beeclien spear. Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial. He, with viny crown advancing,', First to the lively pipe his hand uddress'd ; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol. Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. 1 hey would have thought, who heard the strain Ihey saw, in Tempo's vale, her native maids, Amid the festal-sounding shades, To some vmwearied minstrel dancing ; WL le, as his flying fingers kiss d the strings Love Iramed with Mirth a gay fantastic round- Loose were her tregses seen, her zone unbound • And he, amid bis frolic play, ' As if he would the charming air -epay, Shook thousand odours from his dt y wings. 351 ni KING CHirSTIAN. A Nation/l Song ..f Denmark. Jo JANNE8 EVALD, the most popular of Danish lyric pools Translated by Longft ilow. King Christian stood by tlie lofty mast Jn mist and smoke ; His sword was hammeriiuj; so fast, Through Gothic helm and brain it passed ; Then sank each hostile hull and mast, In mist av.'d smoke. 1743 1781. I 352 ODE TO THE ALMIGHTY. " Fly !" Bhouted they, " fly, he who can I Who bravtiH of Denmark's Christian The stroke!" Nils Juel gave heed to the teiiii>e8t roar : Now id the hour ! He hoisted his blood-red flag once more, And smote upon the foe full sore, And shouted loud, through tho tempest's roar, *' Now is the hour ! " " Fly! " shouted they, " for shelter fly 1 Of Denmark's Juel who can defy The power ?" North Sea ! a glimpse of Wessel rent Thy murky sky ! Then champions to thine arms were sent ; From the waves was heard a wail that rent Thy murky sky ! From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol, Let each to Heaven commend his soul. And fly! Path of the Dane to fame and might t Dark rolling wave, Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight, Goes to meet danger with despite, Froildiy as thou the tempest's might, Dark-rolling wave ! And amid pleasures and alarms, And war and victory, be thine arms, My grave ! ODE TO THE ALMIGHTY. Gabriel Eomanovitch Derzhavin, the greatest of Ruseian lyric poets : 1743-1816. G THOU Eternal One ! whose presence bright All space doth occupy — all motion guide, Unchanged through Time's all-devaistating 6ight, Thou only God ! There is no god beside. Being above all beings ! Mighty One ! Whom notie can comprehend and none exploi'e, Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone, Embracing all — supporting — ruling o'er — Being whom we call God, and know no more. In its sublime research, philosophy May measure out the ocean deep — may count The sands or the sun's rays ; but God ! for Thee Up to Thy mysteries. Reason's brightest spark, Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try ODE TO THE ALMIGHTY. 353 To trace Thy councila, infinite and dark ; And thought is loat ere thought can mount so high, E'en Jiko past momenta in eternity. Thou from primeval nothingness didst call P'irst chaos, then existence. Lord t on Thee Eternity had its foundation ; all Spring forth from Thee ; of liojht, joy, harmony, Sole origin— all life, all beauty Thine. Thy word created all, and doth create; Thy splendour fills all space with rays divine ; Thou art and wert, and alialt be glorious ! great Life-giving, life-sustaining potentate. Thy chains the unmoasur'd universe surround Uplield by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath I Thou the beginning with the end hast bound. And beautifully mingled life and death ! As sparks mount upwards from the fiery blazo, So suns are born, so worlds spring fortt from Thee I And as the spangles, in the sunny rays, Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise. A million torches, lighted by Thy hand, Wander unwearied through the blue abyss ; They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command. All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. What shall we call them ? Piles of crystal light? A glorious company of golden streams? Lamps of celestial ether burning bright ? Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams ? But Thau to those art as the noon to night ! Yes ! as a drop of water in the sea, All this magnificence in Thee is lost ; — What are a thousand worlds compared to Thee f And what am I, when heaven's uunumber'd host^ Though multiplied by myriads, and array'd In all the glory of sublimest thought, Is but an atom in the balance weigh'd Against Thy greatness— is a cypher brought Against infinity ? What am 1 then ?— Nought. Thou art ; directing, guiding all, Thou art ! Direct my understanding then to Thee ; Control my spirit— guide my wandering heart; Though but an atom 'midst immensity, Still I am something fashion'd by Thy hand. I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth, On the last verge of mortal being stand, Close to the realm where angels have their birth. Just on tho boundary of the spirit land ! The chain of being is complete in me ; In mo is matter's last gradation lost, 354 MAN WAS MAr>E TO MOUKX. And the next step is Spirit — Deity ! I can command the lightning, and am dust ! A monarch and a slave ; a worm, a god : Whence came I here, and how ? bo marvellously Constructed and conceived .'—unknown '/ This clod Lives surely through some higher energy ; P>om out itself alone it could not be. Creator ? yes ; Thy wisuom and Tliy word Created me. Thou source of life and good ! Thou Spirit of my spirit, and my Lord ! ' Thy light. Thy love, in their bright plenitude, Fill'd me with an immortal soul, to spring Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear The garments of eternal day, and wing Its heavenly flight beyond the little sphere, Even to its source, to Thee, its author. Thee, thought ineffable ! vision hkat ! (Though worthless our conception all of Thee) Yet shall Thy shadow'd image fill our breast. And waft its homage to Tliy Deity. God ! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar; Thus seek Thy presence. IJeing wise and good ! 'Midst Thy vast works, admire, obey, adore, And when the tongue is eloquent no more, The soul shall speak in tears its gratitude. h MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN". KOBKRT Burns, the lyric poet of Scotland : 1759-1796. On, MAN ! while in thy early years, How prodigal of timo ! Misspending all thy precious hours, Thy glorious youthful prime ! Alternate follies take the sway ; Licentious passions burn ; Which tenfold force give nature's law, That man was made to mourn. Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood's active might ; Man then is useful to hia kind, Supported is his right :' But see him on the edge of life. With cs,res and sorrows worn, Then age and want, oh, ill-niatch'd pair I SIiow man was made to mourn. A few seem favourites of fate, In pleasure's lap caress'd ; THE NEWOASTLK APOTHKCARY. Yet, think not all tlie rich and great Are lilcowiso truly bl^at; But, oh I wliat crowdH in every land Are wretchoU and forlorn, Through weary life tiiiw leason learn, That man wa.s niado to mourn. Many and sharp the nuuieroua ilJH Inwoven with our franui ! More pointed utill wo uiuko ourselved Itogret, remorse, and HJiarne ! And man, wIioho heavon-orocted face The srniloH of love adorn, Man's inliutuanity to man Makes eountlcHa thousands mourn. Yet let not this too much, my son, Disturb thy youthful breast ; This partial view of human kind Is surely not the best. The poor, oppressM, honest man Had never siwe been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn 1 S5S THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY. GEOnGE COLMAN, the youngor, a well-known nodcrn comedian : 17G2-183G. A MAN, in many a country town, avc know, I'rofcssiiig oi)enly with death to wrestle, Ent'rintr tlie field against the foe, Arm'd witli a mortar and a pestle. Yot some aflirm no enemies they are, But meet, just like pri/e-ligliters in a fair, Who first shake haiuls befoio they box, Then give each other plaguy knocks, Witii all the lovc and kindness of a brother; .So (many a .suflcring {jatient saith) Thougli the apothecary fights with death. Still they 're tsworn friends to one anotlier. A member of tlio vEsculapiau lino, Lived at Newcastle-upou-Tync ; No man could better gild a jiill. Or make a bill, Or mix a draught, or bleed, or bliater, Or chatter scandal by your bed. Or draw a tooth out of your head. And with "a twister." ill.-; iiiinu iuii ai.\ iiiiit;3 luUud (,nc cuuntry ran— » In bhort. in reputation, he was " Bolus ] :4i^«C^|Hi 3Bf aW Wr .s«i 356 THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY. All the old women call'd him "a fine man."— His name was Bolus. Benjamin Bolus, though in trade (Which often will the genius fetter) Kead orks of fancy, it is said. And cultivated the Belles Lettres. Aiid why should this be thought so odd ? Can t men have taste to cure a phthisic ! Of poetry, though patron-god, Apollo patronizes physic. Bolus loved verse, and took so much delight in X Ihat his prescriptions he resolved to write iu 't JNo opportunity he e'er let pass Of writing the directions on his labels. In dapper couplets-like Gay's fables. Or rather like the lines iu Iludibras Apothecary's verse !-and wliere 's the treason ? lis simply honest dealing-not a crin>o • When patients swallow physic without reason, It IS but fair to give a little rhyme. He had a patient lying at death's door, Some three miles from the town-it might be fot.r- To whom, one evening Bolus sent an article In pharmacy, that's call'd cathartical- And, on the label of the stuff, ,„. . , He wrote a verse, Which one would think was clear enough. And terse : — ° ■V X . . " ^yhen, taken, to be well ahnhcu " Next morning early. Bolus rose, *^"- And to the patient's house he goes -„. Upon his pad, W ho a vile trick of stumbling had. It was, indeed, a very sorry hack ; But that 's of course, For what 's expected from a horse. With an apothecarv on his back ' Bolus arrived, and gave a loudisli rap. Between a single and a double rap- Knocks of this kind ^ R ^'^A% •'^^ gentlemen who teach to dance, «y hddlers, and bv opera sin^-ers • One loud and then a little one behind. As if the knocker fell by chance Out of their fingers. The servant lets him in with dismal face Long as a courtier's out of place, ' Portending some disaster; John's countenance as rueful look'd and grim SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. 357 As if the apothecary had physick'd him, And not his master. " Well, how's the patient ? " Bolus said ; — John shook his head. " Indeed ! — hum ! — ha ! — that 's very odd : lie took the draught ? " — John gave a nod. '• Well, — how? — what then ?— speak out, you dunce." " Why, then," says John, " we shook him once." " Shook him ! — how? " — Bolus stammer'd out — "We jolted him about." " What? shake a patient, man — a shake won't do." " No, sir, — and so we gave him two." " Two shakes — oh ! lucklesa verse ! 'Twould make a patient worse ! " " It did so, sir, — and so a third Ave tried." " Well ! and what then ? "— " Then, sir, my master died." shaken. " SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. JoHANN Gaudenz VON Salis, a German lyric poet : 1762-1834. Translated by Longfellow. Into the Silent Land ! Ah ! who shall lead us thither ? Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, And shatter'd wrecks lie thicker on the strand. Who leads us with a gentle hand Thither, oh thither. Into the Silent Land ? Into the Silent Land ! To you, ye boundless regions Of all perfection ! Tender morning visions Of beauteous souls ! The Future's pledge and band ! Who in Life's battle firm doth stand, Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms Into the Silent Land ! land ! land ! For all the broken-hearted The mildest herald by our fate allotted. Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand To lead us Avith a gentle hand Into the land of the great departed, Into the Silent Land ! 1 !J 1^^^ f^%^ 358 GINEVHA. GINEVKX Samukl K<>«^««. -S-gdon b k ^^^j^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^^^ Italy, and other poems : 1763-1855. '^"iwrj. If thou shouldst ever come to Modena Stop at a palace near the Eeggio Gate' Dwelt lu of old by one of the Orsini Its nolle gardens, terrace above terrace And rich m fountains, statues, cypresses W. 1 long detain thee / but, belore^E go. Enter the housc-prj'thee, forget it not- And look awhile upon a picture there. 'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth • bhe sits inclining forward as' to speak. Her hps half-open, and her finger up As though she said, " Beware ] "-her vest of irold Broidered with flowers, and clasped from headTo foot Au emerald stone in every golden cla-ip • ^^~~ And on her brow, fairer than alabaster A coronet of pearls. But then her facr bo lovely yet so arch, so full of mirth. ' The overflowings of an innocent heart- It haunts me still, though many a vear has fled Like some wild melodyl-Alone it TanS Over a moulaering heirloom, its companion An oaken chest, half eateu by the worm She was an only child ; from infancy i;he joy the pride, of an indulgent sire. Her mother, dying of the gift she gave, That previous gift, what else remained to him? The young Ginevra was his allin life bt' as she grew, for ever in his sight. She was all gentleness, all gaiety Her pranks the favourite theme of everv tonm,^ But now the day was come, the day, Shou^"^' And in the lustre of her youth she gave ' Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. Great was the joy ; but at the bridd feast When all sat down the bride was wanting there- Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried A ^r}u\^? ^'^^^ ^ ^'-'^^ of 0"'' love ! '■-!!' And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook And soon from guest to guest the panic spread 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco Laughing and looking back, and flying still Her ivory tooth imprinted on his fin '"■ f|^ . )■; .1" '-!• V rl / s. ■ m ■iiv TARTING OF DOUGLAS AND MARMION. But Dou,^Ias round him drew his cloak }cM ''^™^' ^"'^ *'>"s he spoke •— ' My manors, halls, and towers shall etill iJe open at my sovereign's will, Jo each one whom he lists, howe'cr Unmeet to be the owner's peer My castles are my king's alone" Irom turret to foundation-stone— Ihe hand of Douglas is his own • And never shall in friendly grasp Ihe hand of such as Marniion clasp." Burn'd Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire. And shook his very frame with ire And—'-- This to me ! " he said! An 'twere not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmio.rs had not spared -lo cleave the Douglas' head I And first, I tell thee, haughty peer. He who does England's messagehere. Although the meanest in her state, May w-eli, proud Angus, be thy mate: And, Douglas, more I tell thee here Jfiven in thy pitch of pride, ' Hero in thy hold, thy vassals near, IJNay, never look upon your lord And lay your hands upon your s'word.) I tell thee, thou'rt defied ; ' And If thou said'st, I am not peer To any lord of Scotland here Lowland or Highland, far or near. Lord Angus, thou hast lied I » On the earl's cheek the flush of rajre O 5rcame the ashen hue of age • Pierce he broke forth :-" And darest thou then To beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall ? And hopest thou hence unseath'd to go ? No, by Saint Bryde of Bothwell, no ' ' Up drawbridge, grooms-what, warder, ho ' Let the portcullis fall." ' ' Lord Marmion turn'd,-well was his need And dash'd the rowels in his steed ' Like arrow through the archway sprung The ponderous gate behind him rung To pass there was such scanty room ' Ihe bars descending grazed his plume. The steed along the drawbridge flies Just as it trembled on the rise : ' Not lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake's level brim • And when Lord Mnrmmp ,.^o„um i-V , , HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE. 361 lie halts, and turns with clench'd hand, And shout of loud defiance poura. And shook his gauntlet at the towers. " Horse ! horse ! " the Douglas cried, " and chase ! " But soon he rein'd his fury's pace : " A royal messenger he came, Though most unworthy of the name — A letter forged ! Saint Jude to speed ! Did ever knight so foul a deed ! At first in heart it liked me ill, When the king praised his clerkly skill. Thanks to Saint Botham, son of mine, Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line : So swore I, and 1 swear it still. Let my boy-bishop fret his fill. Saint Mary mend my fiery mood ! Old age ne'er cools the Douglas' blood, I thou'jht to slay him where he stood, 'Tis pity of him, too," he cried ; "Bold can he speak, and fairly ride ; I warrant him a warrior tried." With this his mandate he recalls, And slowly seeks his castle halls. ^ ;J HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. Samuel Taylor Coleridge, philosopher, and poet of the Lake School, one of the most original and indolcut of modern geniuses : 1772-1834. Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause On thy bald, awful head, sovran Blanc! The Arve and Arveiron Ht thy base Have ceaselessly; but l',.cu. most awful Form ! Eiscst from forth thy silent sea of pines, IIow silently ! Around thee and above, Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass; methinks thou piercest it. As with a wedge ! But when 1 look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity! dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense. Didst vanish from my thought ; entranced in prayer, 1 worshipp'd the Invisible alone. Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, Ave know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, Avast blending Avith my thought. Yea. with my life and life's own secret joy, Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused ha I 362 THE CLOWN AND THE COUNSELLOR. Into the mighty vision pasaini?— there, As lu her natural form swell'd vast to heaven I Awake, my soul ! not only r ..gaivc praise 1 hou owest ! not ulone thcac swelling tears. Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy I Awake Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake I Green vales and ley clilFa, all join my hymn ! Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale ' Oh struggling with the darkness ail the night And visited all night by troops of stars, ' Or when they climb the sky or when they sink • Companion of the morning star at dawn, Iliyseif earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Codierald : wake, oil wake, and utter praise! wi ^v^^ *^'^ sunless pillars deep in earth ? wi ^ ^^ countenance with rosy light ? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ' Who called you forth from night and utter dea'h irom dark and icy caverns called you forth IJown those precipitous, black, jagged rocks! t or ever shattei'd, and the same for ever ? VV ho gave you your invulnerable life 1 our strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder and eternal foam « And who commanded, (and the silence came ) Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain— Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plun-re ' JVloticnlcss torrents ! silent cataracts ' " Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows ? Who with living flowers Of loveliest hue spread garlands at your feet v God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God I ' God ! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice ' Ye pine-groves with your soft and soul-like sounds ! ' And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow. And m their perilous fall shall thunder, God • THE CLOWN AND THE COUNSELLOR. James and Hobace Smith, authors of the "Rejected Addresses :" 1775-183a A COUNSEL in tlie Common Tleas, Who was esteem'd " miguty witj TUOMA sti W lochiel's warning. 363 Upon the strength of a chance hit Amid a thousand flippanccs, And his occasional bad jokes In bullying, bantering, browbeating, llidiculing, and maltreating Women or other timid folks. In a late cause, resolved to hoax A clownish Yorkshire farmer— one Who, by his uncouth look and gait, Appcar'd expressly meant by fate. For being quizz'd and play'd upon. So having tipp'd the wink to those In the back rows, Who kept their laughter bottled down Until our wag should draw the cork, Ho smiled jocosely on the clown. And went to work. " Well, farmer Numsknll, how go calv'i's at York ?" " Why — not, sir, aa they do wi' you, But on four legs instead of two." "Officer," cried the legal elf, Piqued at the laugh against himself, *' Do, pray, keep silence down below there. Now look at me, clown, and attend. Have I not seen you somewhere, friend ? " " Yees — very like — I often go there." " Our rustic's waggish— quite laconic," The counsel cried with grin sardonic. " I wish I 'd known this prodigy, This genius of the clods, when I, On circuit, was at York residing. Now, farmer, do for once speak true. Mind, you're on oath, so tell me, you Who doubtless think yourself so clever, Are there as many fools as ever In the West Eiding ? " " Why, no, sir, no ; we've got our share, But not eo many as when you were there.** 1 LOCHIEL'S WARNING. A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT, Thomas Campbell, author of the "Pleasures of Hope," and of the most stirrmg national odes in the language : 1777-1844. Wizard. Lochiel ! Lochiel ! beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! r or a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 3G4 LOCHIEL'S WARNING. m 8« S And the rlans of Cnlloden are scatter'd in fight ! They rahi' !— they bleed .'—for their kingdom and c own! VV oe, woe, to the riders that trample them down ! Proud Ciimberland prancea, insulting the slain, And their hoofl>jaten bnsomn are trod to the plain IJut hark ! through the fast flashing lightning of war. What steed to tho doaert flies frantic and far ? 'Tis thine, O Glenullin I wlio^o bride shall await. Like a love-lighted watch-fire all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; 13ut its bridle is red with the nign of despair.' Weep, Albyn ! to death and fiptivity led ! Oh weep ! but thy tears cannot number the (.jad; For a merciless sword o'er Culloden shall wave— Culloden ! that reeks with the blood of the brave. Lochiel. Uo preach to the row.nrd, thou death-telling seer I Or, if gory Culloden so dreadfid ainear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavei uig sight, This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright I Wizard. Ha ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn J ^roud by-d of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! bay, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth From his home, in the dark-rolling clouds ■ f the north ? Lo ! the death-shot of foemen out.speeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destructiou abroad ; But down let him stoop from his havoc -u high ! Ah ! home let him speed,— for the spoiler is nich. Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to the blast •jjjose embers, like stars from the firmament cast? Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyry, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel : the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlement's height, Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn • Return to thy dwelling, all lonely !— return ! ' For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood.' Lochiel. False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshall'd my clan Ihen- swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one 1 They are true to the last of their blood and their breath And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. ' Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock I But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albyn her claymore indignantly draws; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud ; All plaided and plumed in their tartan array— Wizard. Lochiel ! Lochiel ! beware of the day I For, dark and despairing my sight I may seal. But man cannot cover what God would reveal : *Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, PlEBF o1 d KiTJWSWttiWi&dSt^; Lo I anointed by Behold, where he Now, in (larknoss Rise I 1 i.se ' 'Tis finishii THE OLD CORPouaL. And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Oullodeu'rf dread echoes shall ring With the blood-liounde that bark for thy fugitive king. T _ I :_x-j 1 ! leaven with viala of wrath, lies on his desolato path 1 \m\ billows, he sweeps from my sight : iiiiests, and cover his flight ' ^n *,hu lers are hush'd on the Ui ora ; Culloden is lost, and my country deplores : But when' is the iron bound prisoner? Whore? For the red eye of uattlo is shut in d ^pair. Sa mounts he the oceau-wave, banish d, forlorn, Like a limb from his cuuntry cast bleeding and torn ? Ah, no ! for a darker departure is near ; The war-drum is muffled, an(- black is the bier; His death-bell is tolling ; oh! mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it frei!/es my spirit to tell ! Life flutters, c ilsed, in his quivering limbs. And his blood aing nostril in agony swims, Accursed be the fagots that blaze nt hin feet. Where his heart shall be thrown, ei ceases to beat. With the smoke of its asLes U iioison he gale — Lochiel. Down, sodihless insb Iter ! I trust not the tale : For never shall Albyn a destiny ineet. So black with dishonour foul with retreat. Though my lurishing ranka should be strew'd in their gore Like ocean-weeds heaj/d on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains. While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low. With his bade to the field, and his feet to the foe f And, leaving in battle no blot on his name. Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame. 86ff THE OLD CORPORAL. Pierre Jean Beranger, the national poet of France, and the most popular of French song-writers: 1780-1857. Translated by John Oxenford, dramatic author and translator : born 1812. Come, gallant comrades, move apace, With shoulder'd muskets march away ; I've got my pipe and your embrace: So quickly give me my congS. Too old I in the service grew, But rather useful I could be As father of the drill to you. March merrily, And do not weep. Or sadly creep ; But, comrades, march on merrily ^^4 «.'. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1.25 145 150 ■its IIIM 112 ■63 It m 14 il.6 mill Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 &p Q- i^^ & w x •,» 366 THE OLD CORPORAL. An officer— an upstart swell- Insulted me,— I broke his head,— Tm sentenced,— he is getting well : Your corporal will die instead. My wrath and brandv fired me so, I cared for nought, and then, d'ye see, I served the great man long ago. March merrily, And do not weep Or sadly creep ; But, comrades, march on merrily. Young conscripts— you, I'm sure will not Lose legs or arms, a cross to get ; The cross you see mo wear, I got hi. wars where kings were overset, You willingly would stand the drink, Uld battle tales to hear from me ; Still glory's something, T should think. March merrily, And do not weep, Or sadly creep ; But, comrades, march on merrily. You, Eobert, -who were born and bred In mine own village— mind your sheep ; boon April will its beauties shed. The garden trees cast shadows deep. At dawn of day, I've sought the wood, And oh, what pleasures fell to me ; My mother lives,— well, Heaven is good ! March merrily, And do not weep. Or sadly creen ; But, comrades, march on merrily. Who is it that stands blubb'ring there ? Is that the drummer's widow, pra" ? In Russia, through the frosty air,^ Her son I carried night and day ; Else, like the father in the snows, They both had died,— her child and she • She's praying for me, I suppose. March merrily, And do not weep. Or sadly creep ; But, comrades, march on merrily. Ah, then, my pipe has just gone out ; JJo, no, I'm merry,— so ne'er mind. Ihis IS our journey's end, no doubt : My eyes, an' please you, do not bind. Be careful, friends,- don't fire too low— I grieve so troublesome to be ; John Wils A SHIP SINKING. Good-bye,— to Heaven I hope you'll go. March merrily. And do not weep, Or sadly creep ; But, comrades, march on merrily. 367 I A SHIP SINKING. John Wilson, Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edin^ 3'r^-. ^P.r^^ii?'*^ P°?*^°^^ compositions are the "Isle of Palms," - ChriSSh^r v^JT^S*^'- ^ ^'' ^T^ ^'^'■^ ^""^" ""'l^^ the name or Christopher Nortli," are deservedly popular : 1785-1854. Heu giant form. O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm. Majestically calm would go, 'Mid the deep darkness, wliite as snow .' But gently now the small Avaves glide. Like playful lambs o'er a mountain side. So stately her bearing, so proud her arrav, The main she will traverse for ever and aye. Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast !— Hush ! hush ! thou vain dreamer ! this hour is her last. live hundred souls in one instant of dread Are hurried over the deck ; And fast the miserable ship Becomes a lifeless wreck. Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock. Her planks are torn asii'-ler. And down came her ma ith a reeling shock, And a hideous crash like thunder. Her s.-iils are draggled in the brine That gladden'd late the skies, And her pennant that kiss'd the fair moonshine, Down many a fathom lies. Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues Gleam'd softly from below, And flung a warm and sunny flash O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow, To the coral rocks are hurrying down To sleep amid colours as bright as their own. Oh ! many a dream was in the ship An hour before her death ; And sights of homo with sighs disturb'd- The sleepers' long-drawn breath. Instead of the murmur of the sea, The sailor heard the humming-tree Alive through all its leaves, The hum of the spreading sycamore, That grows before his cottage door, And the swallow's song in the eaves. 3C8 THE PASSAGE. Hia arms enclosed a blooming boy, Who listen'd, with tears of sorrow and joy, To the dangers his father had pass'd; And his wife — by turns she wept and smiled, As she look'd on the father of her child Return'd to her heart at last. — He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll, And the rush of waters is in his soul. Now is the oceai " bosom bare, Unbroken as the floating air ; The ship hath melted quite away, Like a struggling di-eam at break of day. No image meets my Avandering eye But the new risen sun and the sunny sky. Though the night-shades are gone, yet a vapour dull Bedims the wave so beautiful : While a low and melancholy moan Mourns for the glory that hath flown. THE PASSAGE. LUDWIG UhTjAND, the most national of modem German poetB : bom 1787. Translated by Misa Austen. Many a year is in its grave Since I cross'd this restless wave, And the evening, fair as ever. Shines on ruin, rock, and river. Then, ia this same boat, beside. Sat two comrades, old and tried; One with all a father's truth, One with all the fire of youth. One on earth in science wrought, And his grave in silence sought; But the younger, brighter form, Pass'd in battle and in storm. , So, whene'er I tnrn mine eye Back upon the dcys gone by. Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me, Friends who closed their course before me. Yet what binds us, friend to friend, But that soul with soul can blend ? Soul-like were those hours of yore- Let us walk in soul once more ! * ' Take, boatman, twice thy fee !— Take, — I give it willingly — For, invisibly to thee. Spirits twain have cross'd with me. MAZhPPA's DEATH-BIDB. 369 MAZEPPA*S DEATH-RIDE. GEOBaE Gordon, Lord Byron, the author of " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," and many other poems, fuil of passages of great beauty, but betra,ying°too often the immoral character of the poet: 1788-1824. " Bring forth the horse ! " The horse was brought : In truth he was a noble steed, A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, Who look'd as though the speed of thought Were in his limbs ; but he was wild, Wild as the wild deer, and nntaught. With spur and bridle undefiled — 'Twas but a day he had been caught •; And snorting with erected mane, And struggling fiercely btit in vain; In the full foam of wrath and dread To me the desert-born was led ; They bound me on, that menial thron;::, Upon his back with many a thong ; Then loosed him with a sudden lash — Away ! — away ! —and on we dash ! Torrents less rapid and less rash. Away ! — away ! — my : >. eath was gone, I saw not where he hurried on : 'Twas scarcely yet the break of day, And on ho foam'd — away ! — away 1 The last of human sounds that rose, As 1 was darted from my foes, Was the wild shout of savage laughter, Which on the wind ca.iie roaring after A moment .^rom that rabble rout. With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head, And snapp'd the cord, which to the aiane Had bound my neck in lieu of rein ; And, writhing lialf my foi-m about, Hurl'd back my curse; but 'midst the tread. The thunder of my courser's speed Perchance they did not hear or heed j It vexes me — for I would fain Have paid their insult back again. Away, away, my steed and I, Upon the pinions of the wind, All human dwellings left behind. We speed like meteors through the sky, Town — village — none were on our track. But a wild plain of far extent, And bounded by a forest black. The sky was dull, and dim, and gray. And a low breeze crept moaning by- - I could liave auswer'd, with a sigh — 2 A ^ti^:^'^<*!^" ^.v^ifs 370 mazeppa's death-iudb. But fast we fled away, away — And I could neither sigh nor pray ; And-my cold sweatdropg fell like raiu Upon the courser's bristling mane ; But snorting still with rage and fear, He flew upon his far career. At times I almost thought, indeed, He must have slacken'd in his speed ; But no, my bound and slender framo Was nothing to his angry might, And merely like a spur became ; Each motion which I made to free My swoll'n limbs from agony, Increased his fury and affright ; I tried my voice — 'twas faint and low, But yet it swerved as from a blow ; And, starting to each accent, sprang As from a sudden trumpet's clang. Meantime my cords were wet with gore, Which, oozing through my limbs, taw o'er j And in my tongue the thirst became A something fiercer far than flame. We near the wild wood — 'twas so wi le, I saw no bounds on either side ; 'Tvvas "jtadded with old sturdy trees. That bent not to the roughest breeze ; But tliese were few, and far between, Set thick with shrubs more young and green ; 'Twas a wild w-aste of underwood, And here and there a chestnut stood, The strong oak and the hardy pine ; • But far apart and well it were. Or else a different lot were mine — The boughs gave way, and did not tear My limbs ; and I found strength to bear My wounds already searr'd wi' % cold — My bonds forbore to loose ib hold. We rustled through the leaves like wind, Left shrubs, and trees,. and wolves behind ; By night I heard them on the track. Their troop came hard upon our back, With their long gallop which can tire The hound's deep hate and hunter's fire : Where'er we flew they follow'd on, Nor left us with the morning sun ; Behind I saw them, scarce a rood. At day-break winding through the wood, And through the night had heard their feet Their steaUng, rustling step repeat. Oh ! how I wish'd for spear or sword, At least to die amidst the horde, ADDRESS TO TUE OCEAN. And perish— if it must be so At bay, destroying many a foe. When first my courser's race begun, I wish'd the goal already won ; But now I doubted strength and speed- Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed Had nerved him like the mountain roe : No faster falls the blinding snow Which whelms the peasant near the door, Whose threshold he shall cross no more Bewilder'd by the dazzling blast, ' Than through the forest j)ath8 he pass'd. The wood was past; 'twas more than noon, But chill the air, although in June ; Or it might be my veins ran cold — Prolong'd endurance tames the bold ; What marvel if this worn-out trunk Beneath its woes a moment sunk ? The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round, I soem'd to sink upon the ground : But err'd, for I was fastly bound. Jily heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore, And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more ; The skies spun Uke a mighty wheel ; I saw the trees like dnmkards reel. And a slight flash sprung o'er my eyes, Which saw no farther ; he who dies Can die no more than then I died, O'erfcortured by that ghastly ride. 371 ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. Byuon. KoLL on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean— roll ! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin— his control Stops with the shore; upon' the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan— A\ ithout a grave, unknell'd, uncoftin'd, and unknown. His steps are not unon thy paths— thy fields Are not a spoil for nim —thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields lor earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 372 BERNARDINE DU BORN. Spurning him from thy bosom to the ekies. And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling to his gods, where imply lies His petty hope iti some near port or bay, And dasliest him again to earth: — there let him lay. The armaments, which thunder-strike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake And monarchs tremble in their capitals; The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; These are thy toys, and as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, and spoils of Trafalgar. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee. Assyria, Greece, liome, Carthag3 — what are they? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts; — not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — Such as Creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, (]!alm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm — Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime, Dark-heaving, boundless, endless, and sublime— The image of Eternity — the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward ; from a boy I wanton'd with thy breakers— they to me Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror —'twas a pleasing fear : For I was, as it were, a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. BERNARDINE DU BORN. Ltdia. Huntlt Sigooenet, the " Hemans " of America, author of " Pocahon^ tas : " born 1791. KiNi Henry sat upon his throne. And full of wrath and scorn. His eye a recreant knight survey'd— Sir Bernardint) du Born. BERNARDINE DU BORN. 373 And he that haughty glance rotuiu'd, Like lion in LIh lair, While loftily his unclianged brow Gleam'd through hia criaped hair. " Thou art a traitor to the realm, Lord of a lawless band ; The bold in speech, the fierce in broil, T':e trouble r of our land. Thy castles and thy rebel-towera Are forfeit to the crown, And thou beneath the Norman axe Shalt end thy base renown. "Deign'st thou no word to bar thy doom,. Thou with atr-.nge madness fired ? Hath reason quite forsook thy breast?" Plantagenet inquired. Sir Bernard turn'd him toward the king, He blench'd not in hia pride ; " My reason fail'd, my gracious liege, The year Prince Henry died." Quick at that name a cloud of woe Pass'd o'er the monarch's brow ; Touch'd was that bleeding chord of hjve, To which the mightiest bow. Again swept back the tide of yearo, Again his firstborn moved, — The fair, the graceful, the sublime, The erring, yet beloved. And ever cherish'd by his side, One chosen friend was near, To share in boyhood's ardent sport. Or youth'a untamed career. With him the merry chase he sough fj Beneath the dewy morn ; With him in knightly tourney rode, This Bernardiue du Born. Then in the mourning father's eoul, Each trace of ire grew dim ; And what his buiied idol loved Seem'd cleansed of guilt to him. And faintly through his tears he spake^ " God send his grace to thee, Acd, for the dear sake of the dead, Qo forth— unscathed and free." Hi 374 A CHEAP DINNKll. I GIVE MV SOLDIER BOY A RLADE. WlLLUM Maoinn, ftutlior of aomo of the ohoicost articles in fifarkicooU's and J! raacr 8 Magazinea, and of Homeric ballads : 1794-1842. I GIVE my soldier boy a blade, In fair Damascus fashion'd well ; Who first the glitt'ring falchion sway'd, Who first beneath its fury fell, I know not, but I hope to know That for no mean or hireling trade, To guard no feeling, base or low, I give my soldier boy a blade. Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood In which its temj. Ting work was dono, As calm, as clear, as cool of mood, He thou whene'er it sees the sun ; For country's claim, at honour's call, For outraged friend, insulted maid, At mercy's voice to bid it fall, I give my soldier boy a blade. The eye which mark'd its peerless edge, The hand that weigh'd its balanced poise. Anvil and pinchers, forge and wedge. Are gone, with all their flame and noise— And still the gleaming sword remains ; So, when in dust I low am laid, Remember, by those heartfelt strains, I gave my soldier boy a blade. A CHEAP DINNER. jAirra RoblnsoN Planch^, the author of numerous dramatic, antiquarian and other works : born in London, 1796. Two " messieurs " lately from old France come over, Half-starved, but toujours gai, (No weasels yet were thinner) Trudged up to town from Dover, Their slender store exhausted in the way. Extremely puzzled how to get " von dinner," From morn till noon, from noon till dewy eve, Our Frenchmen wander'd on their expedition ; Great was their need, and sorely did they grieve — Stomach and pocket in the same condition 1 At length, by mutual consent, they parted. And different ways on the same errand started. This happen'd on a day most dear to epicures, When general use Sanctions the roasting of a savoury goose ! A CHEAP DINNER. 375 Towanla night, one Frenchman, at a tavern noar, Stopp'd, and beheld the glorious cheer! While greedily he snuff 'd the luscioua gale in That from the kitchen-windows wasi exhaling. Ho instant set to work his busy brain, And snuff 'd and long'd, and long'd and snuff 'd again. Necessity 'a the mother of invention, (A proverb I 've heard many mention ;) So now one moment saw his plan completed, And our sly Frenchman at a table seated. The ready waiter at his elbow stand* — " Sir, will you favour me with your commands? We 'vo roast and boil'd, sir ; choose yon tiiose or these ?" " Sare I you are very good, sare 1 Vat you please / " Quick at tlie word, Upon the table smoked the wiah'd-for bird I No time in talking did he waste. But pounced pell-mell upon it ; Drumstick and merrythought he pick'd in haste, Exulting in the mernj-thoiight that won it ! Pie follows goose, and after goose comes cheese :— " Stilton or Cheshire, sir ? "— " Ah, vat you please I " And now, our Frenchman having ta'en his fill Prepares to go, when- " Sir, your little bill." " Ah, vat, you 're Bill/ veil, Mr Bill, good day I Bon jour, good William."- " No, sir, stay I My name is Tom, sir— you 've this bill to pay." " Pay, pay, mafoi ! I call for noting, save,— par donnez-moif You bring me vat you call your goose, your sheese ; You ask a me to eat — I tell you, vat you please /" Down came the landlord ; each explain'd the case. The one with anger, t' other with grimace ; But Boniface, who dearly loved a jest, Although sometimes he dearly paid for it, And finding nothing could be done, (You know that when a man haa got no money. To make him pay some would be rather funny,) Of a bad bargain made the best. Acknowledged much was to be said for it ; Took pity on the Frenchman's meagre face, Then, Briton-like, forgave a fallen foe, Laugh'd heartily, and let him go. Our Frenchman's hunger thus subdued, Away he trotted in a merry mood ; When, turning round the corner of a street, Who but his countryman he chanced to meet ? To him with many a shrug and many a grin. He told how he had taken Jean Bull in ! Fired with the tale, the other licks his chops, Makes his cotige, and seeks this shop of shops. h I 376 ODE TO A NiailTINGALE. Entering, he scats tiitnfloTf just at his oaso. '* What will you take, sir'/ ''— " Vat you please ! " The waiter loolt'd as pale as Paris plaster, And, upstairs running, thus address'tl ins master : " These vilo Mounseers come over sure in pairs; Sir, there 's another ' vat you please, ' down-stairs ! " This made the landlord rather crusty ; " Too much of one thing," — the proverb 's somcwiiat musty Once to be dunt his anger didn't touch ; But when a stcnnd time they tried the treason- It made him crusty, sir, and with good reason; You would be cruaty were you done 80 mucb^ There is j>, kind of instrument Which greatly helps a serious argument, And which, when properly applied, occasions Some most unpleasant tickling sensations; 'Twould make more clumsy folks than Fk'enchmen skip, 'Twould strike you presently— a stout horsewhip. This instrument our Maitre d'Hote Most carefully conccal'd beneath his coat ; And, seeking instantly the Frenchman's station, Address'd him with the usuiil salutation. Our Frenchman, bowing to his threadbare knees, Determined while the iron's hot, lo strike it. Quick with his lesson answers—" Vat you please 1 " But scarcely had he let the sentence slip, When round his shoulders twines the pliant whip.. " Sare, sare ! ah, 7nisericordi ! parbleu ! Oh dear ! Monsieur ! vat make you use me so ? Vat you call dis ?" — " Ah, don't you know. That *6 what I please," said Bony, " how d'ye like it I Your friend, though I paid dearly for his funning. Deserved the goose ho gaiu'd, sir, for his cunning ; But you. Monsieur, or else my time 1' m wasting, Are goose enough — and only wanted basting.'" ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. JoHX KEAT8, the consumptive, a young poet of no mean order, author of "Endymion;" "Eve of St Agnes," &c. : 1796-1821. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains, One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness, — That thou, light-wing'd Dryad of the trees. In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. ODE TO A NIGIITINOALE. 377 < h for a dra«p:ht of vintnffe. that hath been Cool'd a long ago in the dccpdelvcd earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance and Provennal Bong, ar^d Hunbumt mirth I Oh for a beaker full of the warm Pouth, P'ull of tlie true, the blushful Ihppocrcne, With beaded bubbicB winking at the brim, And purple-Btainfed mouth ; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim. Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forgt^t What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret, Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few sad last gray hairs. Where youth grows pale and spectre-thin, and dies ; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leadon-eyctl despair*; Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new love pine at them beyond to-mr ow. Away, away I for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards. But on the viewless wings of I'oeay, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards; Already Avith thee ! tender is the night, And haply the queen moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around' by all her starry fays; But here there is no light. Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown, Though verdurous glooms and winding mossy waya. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet. Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs ; But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; And mid-May's eldest child. The coming musk-rose, full of dewy Avine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer evea Darkling I listen ; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a musod rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath ; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain. While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad, In such an ecstasy I Still would'st thou sing, and T have cars in vain — To thy high requiem become a sod. Stfr-j 378 SONG OP THE DANISH SEA-KING. Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird ! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor a;-d clown ; Perhaps the self-same song -that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for honie, She stood in tears amid the alien <;orn ; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn. Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self J Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, IFp the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades ; Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? Fled is that music :— do I wake or sleep ? Hurr And Bigg As pi "WjLLTAl SONG OF THE DANISH SEA-KING. William Motherwell, journalist, and author of Minstrelsy ; 1797-1835. a work on Scottish Our bark is ..n the wators deep, our bright blades in our hand, Our birthright is the ocean vast— we seorn the girdled land ; And the hollow wind is our music brave, and none can bolder be Than the hoarse-tongued tempest raving o'er a proud and swelling sea ! Our bark is dancing on the waves, its tall masts quivering bend Before the gale, which hails us now with the h-lloa of a friend ; And its prow is sheering merrily the upcurl'd bjiows' foam. While our hearts with throbbing gladness, cheer old Ocean as our home ! Our eagle-wings of might we stretch before the gallant wind, Ard we leave the tame and sluggish earth a dim mean speck behind ; We shoot into the untrack'd deep, as earth-freed spirits soar, Like stars of fire through boundless space— through realms without a shore ! Lords of this wide-spread wilderness of waters, we bound free, The haugty elements alone dispute our sovereignty ; No landmark doth oUr freedom let, for no law of man can mete The sky which arches o'er our head— the waves which kiss our feet ! The warrior of the land may back the wild horse in his pride ; But a uciocr steed we dauntless breast, the untamed ocean tide ; And a nobler tilt our bark careers, as it queils the saucy wave, While tht herald stc m peala o'er the deep the glories of the brave. SONG OP THE STARS. 379 Hurrah ! hurrah 1 the wind is up-it bloweth fresh and free And every cord, instinct with life, pipes loud its fearless iee- A Vr^udlv th'rZ^hl"^]^ "^'^ ^^^''"^ ^^^^ madly kLThe'si-.-.v, AS proudly, through the foaming surge, the Sea-King bears away T ottish sea ! ome ! d; Jut a SONG OF THE STARS. William Cullen Bryant, second only to Longfellow among the poets cf America : born 1797. i "«;i3 n When the radiant mom of creation broke, And the world in the smile of God awoke And the empty realms of darkness and death • Were moved through their depths by His miglity breath. And orbs of beauty, and spheres of flame. From the void abyss by myriads came. In the joy of youth, as they darted away Through the widening wastes of space to play, I heir silver voices in chorus rung. And this was the eong the bright ones sung : Away, away, through the wide, wide sky, Ihe tair blue fields that before us lie : Each sun with the worlds that round us roll, il-ach planet poised on her turning pole ; With her isles of green, and her clouds of white. And her waters that lie like fluid light. For the source of Glory uncovers his face. And the brightness overflows unbounded space • And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides, In our ruddy air and our blooming sides ; Lo, yonder the living splendours play ! Away on your joyous path, away ! Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar. In the infinite azure, star after star. How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass ' How the verdure rune o'er each rolling mas?", And the path of the gentle winds is seen, When the small waves dance, and the young woods leaii. And see where the brighter day beams pour, How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower ' And the morn and the eve, with their pomp of hres. bhift o er the bright planets and shed their dews ' And twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground, With her shadowy cone, the night goes round. Away, away !— in our blossominc bowers, In the soft air wrapping these spheres of ours. In the seas and fountains that shine with morn, bee, love is brooding, and life ia born, 380 THE BATTLE OP LAKE REGILLUS. And breathing myriads are breaking from night, To rejoice, like us, in motion and light. Glide on in j'our beauty, ye youthful spheres! To weave the danco that measures the years. Glide on in the glory and gladness sent To the farthest wall of the firmament, The boundless visible smile of Him, To the veil of whose brow our lamps are dim. TOE BATTLE OF LAKE REGILLUS. Maoaulay. See for notice, " Ee streets to-day. To-day tlie doors and windows are hung with garlands all. From Castor in the Forum to Mars without the walk Each knight is robed in purple, with olive each is crown'd ; A gallant warhorse under each paws haughtily the ground. While flows the Yellow River, while stands the Sacred Hill, The proud Ides of Quintilis shall have such honour stiU. Gay are the Martian Kalends; December's None; are gay ; But the proud Ides, when the squadron rides, shall be liome'e whitest day. II. Unto the Great Twin Brethren we keep this solemn feast. From where with flutes and dances their ancient mansion rings, In lordly Lacedamion, the city of two kings, To where, by Lake Regillus, under the Poician height, All in the lands of Tusculum, was fought the glorious fight. in. Now on the place of slaughter are cots and sheep-folds seen. And rows of vines, and fields of wheat, and apple-orchards green. The swine crush the big acorns that fall from- Corne's oaks ; Upon the turf, by the fair fount, the reaper's pottage smokes. The fisher baits his angle ; the hunter twangs his bow": Little they think on those strong limbs that moulder deep below : Littlethey think how sternly that day the trumpet peal'd ; How in the slippery swamp of blood wairior and war-horse reel'd. How wolves cime with fieice gallop, and crows on eager wings, To tear the flesh of captains, and peck the jyes of kings : How thick the dead lay scatter'd under +he Porcian height; How tlirough the gates of Tusctilum raved the wild stream of aigat ; And how the Lake Regillus bubbled with crimson foam, What time the thirty cities came forth to war M-ith Rome. TH A.TTLE OP LAKE REGILLUS. 381 whitest it IV. But, Roman, when am standest upon that holy ground Look thou wi'h heed on the dark rock that girda the dark lake round bo Shalt thou see a hoof-rnaik stamp'd deep into the flint- It was no hoof of mortal steed that made so strange a dint, Ihere to the Great Twin Brethren vow thou tl.y vows, and pray -hat they, in tempest and in flight, will keep thy head alway. V. Since last the Great Twin Brethren of mortal eyes were seen. Have years gone by an hundred and fourscore and thirteen : Ihat summer a Virginius was consul first in place- The second was stout Aulus, of the Posthumian race. llie herald of the Latines from Gabii came in state; The herald of the Latines pass'd through Rome's ea,stern gate ; J he herald of the Latines did in our Forum stand ; And there he did his office, a sceptre in his hand. ' vr. ^Hear, senators and people of the good town of Rome, The thjrty cities charge you to bring the Tarquins home ; And if ye stdl be stubborn to work the Tarquins wrong The thirty cities warn you, look that your walls be strong." VIT. Then spake the consul Aulus, he spake a bitter jest. '' Once the jays sent a message into the eagle's nest :— 'Now yield thee up thine eyrie unto the carrion-kite", Or come forth valiantly, and face the jays in deadly fight •' I 'rth look'd in wrath the eagle; and carrion-kite and jay,' boon as they saw his beak and claw, fled screaming far away " • • • ' • X. Up rose the glorious morning over the Porcian height, Tlie proud Ides of Quintilis mark'd evermore with"wh'ite. Not without secret trouble our bravest saw the foes ; For girt by threescore thousand spears, the thirty standards rose From every warlike city that boasts the Latian name, Foredooni'd to dogs and vultures, that gallant army came ; From Setia's purple vineyards, from Norba's ancient wall. From the white streets of Tusculum, the proudest town of all • From where the witch's fortress o'erhangs the dark blue seas ; ' From the still glassy lake that sleeps beneath Aricia's trees.— Those trees in whose dim shadow the ghastly priest doth rei"-n. The priest who slew the slayer, and shall himself be slain ;— ° From the drear bank of Ufens, where flights of marsh-fowl play, And buffaloes lie wallowing, through the hot summer's day ; From tLe gigantic watch-towerf«, no work of earthly men, "Whence Cora's acntincls o'crlook the never-ending fen. From the Laurentian jungle, the wild hog's reedy home ; From the green steeps whence Anio leaps, in floods of snow-white foam I ? 11 382 MARSTON MOOR. XXXVII. Seinpronius Atratinus sat in the eastern gate, Beoide him were three Fathers, each in his chair of state ; Fabius wliose nine stout grandson.! that day were in the field, And Maulius, eldest of the twelve who keep the golden shield ; And Sergias, the high pontiff, for wisdom far renown'd ; In all Etruria's colleges was no such pontiff found ; And all around the portal, and high above the wall. Stood a great throng of people, but sad and silent all ; Young lads and stooping elders that might not bear the mail, Matrons with lips that quiver'd, and maids with faces pale. Since the first gleam of daylight, Semproniua had not ceased To listen for the rushing of horse-hoofs from the east. The mist of eve was rising, the sun was hastening down, When he was aware of a princely pair fast pricking towards the town. So like they were, men never saw twins so like before ; lied with gore their armour was, their steeds were red with gore. XXXVIII. *' Hail to the great asylum ! Hail to the hill-tops seven ! Hail to the fire that burns for aye, and the shield that fell from heaven, This day by Lake Kegillus, under the Porcian height, All in the lands of Tusculum, was fought a glorious fight. To-morrow your dictator shall bring in triumph home The spoils of thirty cities, to deck the shrines of Rome ! " XXXIX. Then burst from that great concourse a shout that shook the tower.*, And some ran north, and some ran south, crying, " The day is ours." But on rode these strange horsemen, with slow and lordly pace ; And none who saw their bearing durst ask their name or race. On rode they to the Forum, while laurel-boughs and fiowers, From house-tops and from windows, fell on their crests in showers. When they drew nigh to Vesta, they vaulted down amain, And washed their horses in the well that springs by Vesta's fane. And straight again they mounted, and rode to Vesta's door ; Then like a blast, away they pass'd, and no man saw them more. MARSTON MOOR. ■\\'1NTHR0P Mackworth Pkaed, author of the " Red Fisherman," and othei poems : 1802-1839. To horse ! to horse ! Sir Nicholas, the clarion's note is high ! To horse ! to horse ! Sir Nicholas, the big drum makes reply ! lire this hath Lucas marched, with his gallant cavaliers, And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter in our cars. 'J'o horse ! to horse ! Sir Nicholas! White Guy is at the door. And the raven whets his beak o'er the field of'Marston Moor. Vp rose the I^dy Alice, from her brief and broken prayer, And she brought a silken banner down the narrow turret-stair; MAKSTON MOOR. 383 ?» Ik""?^ "^f ""^t."'^ ^""^^^ ^^^^ those radiant eves had shed As she^ traced the bright word "Glory" in the g^y and glancing "a« iT^"-?^l!^y -^ *^'® ^'^^'^ ^'^^^^ o'er those lovely features ran As she said, " It is your lady's gift ; unfurl it in the van - » ' m YrTi) ^".**?' "°^'^^ ^■^'ich, where tlie best and boldest rido 'Midst the s eel-clad files of Skipton, the black drag .ns of Pride • The recreant heart of Fairfax shall feel a sicklier qualm ' And the rebel hps of Oliver give out a louder psalm, ' Ar, f Lo { ''? ""^i ^^*^?> g^^^-gaw flaunt proudly en their win- And hear her loyal soldiers shout, ' For God and for the Kk "f' " Tis soon The ranks are broken, along the roval line ^S /' i ^raggarte of the court ! the bullies of the Rhine ' Stout Langdale's cheer is heard no more, and Astley's helmis down Ind Sf ir' '^'"'m^' ^'' rapier, with a curse and with aTown' -Th^at ^^^^f «"e "^^tter., a« he follows in their flight, ' The German boar had better far have supp'd in York to-night " hI%."J^^ i ■^^^ ^^""""t' '"' '^^'^^■^^P ^''^ft i« twain, vif ff.?f ,^"tFjerkin cnmson'd o'er with manv a gory stain • '^Fnr rh^' r^'l y? ^^"."'^'•' ^"^ «"^«' amid the rout ' lor Church and King, fair gentlemen ! spur on, and fio-ht it o„f f" And now he wards a Roundhead's pike, and^o«- he hums a stave And now he quotes a stage-play, and now he fells a kna^e ' God aid thee now, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no thou-ht of fear • Th. i '1' "'r;: ^^r ^'i«holas! for fearful odds are here ' The rebels hem thee in, and at every cut and thrust, " f would "rC)^''^- ''^\'J7\^ ^'"^^' ^^'''^ ^^-'th liim to the dust'" 1 would, quoth gnm old Oliver, " that Belial's trusty sword This day were doing battle for the Saints and for the Lord -" The Lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower The gray-hair d warder watches from the castle's topmost tower • M hat news? what news, o d Hubert ?" " The battlp'« lr.«+ o^i' The royal troops are melting, like mists before the sSn- «'' '^^ ^''"•" And a wounded man approaches-I 'm blind, and cannot see Yet sure I am that sturdy step my master's step mSbeM' ' " I 'v-e brought thee back thy banner, wench, from as rude and red a As e'er was proof of soldier's thew, or theme for minstrel's lav» ?,^r' Ji^bert bring the silver bowl, and liquor gZnuZs.^ ' ThoSri^rL li ^'^ i'''" '^ ^'^' ''' ^ P^^t with boots and buff- Though Guy, through many a gaping wound, is breathing forth his And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife ' " "Sweet ! we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship for France For i?r/w''' rr/u^''' ^f *^^^ P^'^^ ^^^^'I mischance; ' S«n r? '^?'"^ ^"^^K"^^' ^'^y' better axe and rope. crop-ear'd hoor Who sent me, with my standard, on foot from Marston Moor »» ■M-i^i 384 WHAT IS NOBLE? AFTER THE BATTLE. Mahfr Victor, Vicomtk Hugo, a distini,'uishe(l French exilo, occupying a high position as a poet and u novelist : boru 1802. Translated in 0(M}ve tall betoie the Norman axe, as corn before the hail " And vainly' cried the pious monks, "bv Mary'.. «hrin- we kneel- Tl7^7ol\^:n7T' f'''7- -^^«''^o-inst, the Norman steel.^'^ ' As dp r/hTiSr ' , ? '^■'^^^l'"?'^ ^^-ept, while near and nearer drew As death-birds round their scented feast, the raven flags of Ron 2 R 386 THE BALLAD OF ROU. Then said King Charles, " "Where thousands fail, what king can stand alone ? The strength of kings is in the men that gather round the throne. When war dismays my barons bold, 'tis time for war to cease ; When Heaven forsakes my pious monks, the will of Heaven is peace, Go forth, my monks, with mass and rood, the Norman camp unto, And to the fold, with shepherd crook, entice this grisly llou. " I '11 give him all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Euro, And Gille, my child, shall be his bride, to bind him fast and sure ; Let him but kiss the Christian cross, and sheathe the heathen swo'rd, And hold the lands I cannot keep, a fief from Charles his lord." Forth went the pastors of the church, the shepherd's work to do, And wrap the golden fleece around the tiger loins of Rou. Psalm-chanting came the shaven monks, within the camp of dread ; Amidst his warriors, Norman Rou stood taller by the head, Out^ spoke the Frank archbishop then, a priest devout and sage,— " When peace and plenty wait thy word, what need of war and rage ? Why waste a land as fair as aught beneath the arch of blue, Which might be thhie to sow and reap ?— Thus saith the king to Rou ; " ' I '11 give thee all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Euro, And GiiUe, my fairest child, as bride, to binct thee fast and sure ; If thou but kneel to Christ our God, and sheatlie thy paynim sword, And hold thy land, the Church's son, a fief from Cliarles thy lord.' "' The Norman on his warriors look'd — to counsel they withdrew ; The saints took pity on the Franks, and moved the soul of Rou. So hack he strode, and thus he spoke to that archbishop meek : " I take the land thy king bestows, from Eure to Michael-peak ; I take the maid, or foul or fair, a bargain with the coast ; And for thy creed, a sea-king's gods are those that give the most. So hie thee back, and tell thy chief to make his proffer true. And he shar find a docile son, and ye a saint, in Rou." So o'er the border stream of Epte came Rou the Norman, where. Begirt with barons, sat the king, enthroned at green St Clair ; He placed his hand in Charles's hand,— loud shouted all the throng ; But tears were in King Charles's eyes— the grip of Rou was strong. ' " Now kiss the foot," the bishop said, " that homage still is due ; " Then dark the frown and stern the smile of that grim convert, Rou. He takes the foot, as if to slavish lips to bring : The Normans scowl ; he tilts the throne, and backward falls the king ! Loud laugh the joyous Norman men— pale stare tLe Franks aghast; And Rou lifts up his head as from the wind springs up the maat : " I said I would adore a God, but not a mortal too ; The foot that fled before a foe let cowards kiss ! " said Rou. A PSALM OF LIFE. 38? A PSALM OF LIFE. IlENBY "WaDSWOBTH LonGFELLOW. See for notice, " Architecture." Tell me not, in mournful numbers, " Life is but an empty dream ! " For tlie 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 returncst," Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way ; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us further than to-day. Art is long, and time is fleeting ; And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muflled 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 I Be a hero in the strife. Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ' Let the dead Fast 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 shipwreck'd 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 labour and to waiL 388 BINOEN ON THE RHINE. BINGEN ON THE RHINE. The Ilonoumble Caromne Elizabeth SHERroxN Norton, grand-daughter of Sheridan, the celebrated dramatist and etatesman, the author of several novels and poetical works : bom 1808. A Soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There waa lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears ' But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebb'd away And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. ' The dying soldier falter'd, as he took that comrade's hand. And he said, " I never more shall see my own, my native land ; Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine. For I was born at Bingen— at Bingen on the Rhine. '' Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, ' That we fought the battle bravely; and when the day was done Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun. ' And midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars ; But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline ; And one had come from Bingen— fair Bingen on the Rhine. " Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage; For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child, My heart leap'd forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild • And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, ' I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword • And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine On the cottage-wall at Bingen— calm Bingen on the Rhine ! ' " Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head. When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread' But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die. And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame ; And to hang the old sword in its place, (my father's sword and mine ) For the honour of old Bingen— dear Bingen on the Rhine ! ' " There 's another— not a sister ; in the happy days gone by, You 'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye ; Too innocent for coquetry— too fond for idle scorning, friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning- Tell her the last night of my life, (for ere this moon be risen °' My body will be out of pain— my soul be out of prison,) 1 dream 'd I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen— fair Bingen on the Rhine ! " I saw the blue Rhine gvvccp along : I heard, or seem'd to hear, The German songs we used to sing in chtrus sweet and clear ; THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 389 And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, That echoing chorus sounded, through tho evening calm and still ; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we pass'd with friendly talk Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remember'd walk ; And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine ; But we '11 meet no more at Bingen — loved Bingen on the Rhino I " His voice grew faint and hoarse ; his grasp was childish weak ; His eyes put on a dying look ; he sigh'd, and ceased to speak. His comrade bent to lift him, but tho spark of life had fled, The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land — was dead ! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she look'd down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown ; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seem'd to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine ! THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. Alfred Tennyson. See for notice, the commencement of this volume. Poll knee-deep lies the winter snow. And the winter winds are wearily sighing; Toll ye the church bells sad and slow, And tread softly, and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die : You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily Old year, you shall not die. He lieth still, he doth not move : He will not see the dawn of '"ay, He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend and a true, true love, And the new year will take 'em away. Old year, you must not go : So long as you have been with us, Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go. He froth'd his bumpers to the brim ; A jollier year we shall not see : But though his eyes are waxing dim, And though his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. Old year, you shall not die : We did not laugh and cry with you, I 've half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die. He was full of joke and jest But all his merry quips are o'er ; 300 THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haeto, IJut he '11 be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend ; And the new year blythe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own. How hard he breathes ! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock ; The shadows flicker to and fro ; The cricket chirps ; the light burns low ; 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shako hands before you die : Old year, we '11 dearly rue for you, What is it we can do for you ? Speak out before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin, Alack ! our friend is gone : Close up his eyes; tie up his chin ; Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door. There 's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, And a new face at the door. THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, wife of the poet Robert Browning, one of the sweetest and most elegant of female poets : died 1861. Do ye hear the children we oping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow cornea with years ? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers— And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the nviadows; The young birds are chirping in the uui The young fawns are playing with tlu! sb m y n; The young flowers are blowing towajcf« the wtst; But the young, young children, my brothers. They are weeping bitterly ! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free. They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are sad to see. For the man's grief abhorrent draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy — MY OWN P' ACE. " Your old earkli," they Bay, " Ib very dreary ; " " Our young feefc,'' they say, "are very weak," Few paces have we taken, yet are weary — Our grave-rest ia very far to seek. 301 " For oh," say the children, And we cannot run or leap — " wo arc weary," If we cared for any meadows, it wore merely To drop down in thoni and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping— We fall upon our faces trying to go ; And underneath our heavy eye-lids drooping. The reddest flower would look as pale as auow. For all day, we drag our burden tiring, Through the coal-dark underground— Or all day we drive the wheels of iron, In the factories round and round. For all day the wheels are drawing, turning — Iheir wind conies in our faces — Till our hearts turn — our heads, with prises burning. And the walls turn in their j)laces — Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling - Turns the long light that droppeth down the wall- Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling. All are turning, all the day, and we with all, And all day the iron wheels are droning ; And sometimes we could pray, " ye wheels," (breaking out in a mad moaniug.) " Stop ! be silent for to-day ! " MY OWN PLACE. LlABTlN FaRQUHAR Tupper, author of " Proveihial Philosophy," and immmer- able smaller poems : born 1810. Whoever I am, wherever my lot, Whatever I happen to be, Contentment and Duty shall hallow the spot That Providence orders for me : Ko covetous straining and striving to gain One feverish step in advance, — 1 know my own place, and you tempt me in vain To hazard a change and a chance. I care for no riches that are not my right, ^0 honour that is not my due ; But stand in my station, by day and by night, He lent me my lot, be it humble or high, And set me my business here, 392 MY OWN PLACE. And whether I live in His Bervice, or die, My lieart shall be found in my sphere. If wealthy, I stand as the steward of my Xing', If poor, as the fiiend of my Lord, If feeble, my prayers and my praises I bring. If stalwart, my pen or my sword; If wisdom be mine, I will cherish His gift, If simpleness, bask in His love. If sorrow. His hope shall my spirit uplift, If joy, I will throne it above i The good that it pleases my God to bestow, I gratefully gather and prize ; The evil,— it can be no evil, I know. But only a good in disguise; And whether my station be lowly or great, No duty can ever be mean, The factory-cripple is fix'd in his fate As well as a king or a queen I For Duty's bright livery glorifies all With brotherhood, equal and free, Obeying, as children, the heavenly call, That places us where we should be ; A servant,— the badge of my servitude shines As a jewel invested by Heaven ; A monarch, remember that justice assigns Much service, where so much is given. Away, then, with "helpings" that humble and harm Though "bettering" trips from your tongue; Away ! for your folly would scatter the charm That round my proud poverty hung ; I felt that I stood like a man at my post, Though peril and hardship were there, — And all that your wisdom would counsel me most Is— "Leave it; do better elseuhere." If "better" were better indeed, and not "worse," I might go ahead with the rest, But many a gain and a joy is a curse, And many a grief for the best r No .'—duties are all the " advantage " I use; I pine not for praise nor for pelf, And as to ambition, I care not to choose My better or worse for myself ! I will not, I dare not, I cannot !— I stand Where God has ordain'd me to be. An honest mechanic,— or lord in the land, — He fitted my calling for me : Whatever my state, be it weak, be it strong, Witli honour, or sweat, on my face, This, this is my glory, my strength, and my song, I stand, like a star, in int/ place. THE RAVEN. 393 THE RAVEN. Edgar Allan Poe, an ill-starred genius, the most musical and fantastic of American poets : 1811-1849. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder'd, weak and weary, Uver many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore- While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tappin<». As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door ; ° Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, "tapping at my chamber-door— Only this, and nothing more." Ah ! distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Kagerly I wish'd the morrow ; vainly I had sought to borrow *rom my books surcease of sorrow -sorrow for the lost Lenore— Hot the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here for evermore. fri"^-n?f ^*^^®° ^^^ uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Ihrill d me— fill'd me with fantastic terrors never felt before • bo that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating : lis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door. This it is, and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, Sir, said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact IS I was napping, and so gently you came tapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door Ihat I scarce was sure I heard you"— here I open'd wide the door. Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearin^' Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before • °' But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word " Lenore ' "— This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word "Lenore !'"'— Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burninn- Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before. °' " Surely," said I,—" surely that is something at my window lattice • " Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— ' Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore. *Tis the wind, and nothing more." Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter V *^^''®f*'^PP'^ * stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not t,.e l<-a,?t obeisance made ho ; not a minute stopp'd or stay'd he ; But, with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber-dooi — 1 erch d upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door— Perch'd and sat, and nothing moro. 394 THE RAVEN. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure no craven. Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering froia Ihe nightly shore — Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plu'-onian shore ! " Quoth the Haven, " Nevermore." Much 7 narvell'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Thougli its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore ; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was bless'd with seeing bird above his chamber-door — Bird or beast u;)on the sculptured bust above his chamber-door, With such a name as " Nevermore." But the Raven sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour, Notliing further then he utter'd ; not a feather then he flutter'd — Till I scarcely more than mutter'd ; " Other friends have flown before' — On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said : " Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, " Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster P^ollow'd fast and foUow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore — Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, Of " Never — never more." But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd seat in front of bird and bust and door ; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore." Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing. To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burn'd into my bosom's core ; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion'd velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er But whoso velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er She shall press, ah, never more ! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. " Wretch ! " 1 cried, " thy God hath lent thee-— by these angels He hath sent thee Respite— respite and nepenthe from the memories of Lenore ! QuafF, oh, quaff', this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore ! Quoth the Raven ; " Nevermore ! " " Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil !— prophet still, if bird or devil ! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted, — On this home by horror haunted — tell me truly,. I implore — Is there, — is there balm iu Gilead ? — tell me — tell me, I implore ! " Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." ^ l-i •avcii, ler hath THE ISLAND OP THE SCOTS. 395 'o> Prophet ! said I "thing of evil-prophet Btill, if bird or devil > By that heaven that bend, above us-by that God we both aS ' It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Leno% ^ >' yuoth the Haven, " Nevermore." " Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I shriek'd unstartin., ' Get thee back into the : mpest, and the night's Pluton an shoT ^ Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath snokeT " TaklT/b^"!:^;"''' "" ""^T '-^"^^ '^' bnst^bove my ZrT ' Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door ' » Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore " J- ^ • And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, the palhd bust of Pallas just above my chamber-door f And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreamin- And the lamp-hght o'er him streaming, throws his shadowZthe floor- Aud my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor ' tSball be lifted — never more ! ' THE ISLAND- OF THE SCOTS. AVILLIA5I Edmonstoune Attoun, late Professor of Eheforin in F.i;„^ i ^^ University, author of " Lays of the Scottish SvS/'le. : ISmsS'^"'' " In 1697, the Marquis de Sell was encamped on the Rhine with the Frpn,>l. army,_to watch the movements of General Stirk and he Gen n„s wh^ occupied the opposite bank. The Germans had taken posse on ^f an Ls and m the river ron. which the French were anxious^ to drive tb n but no boats could be found to carry troops across the =;trpnm a+ .i •' ci-isis a corps formed of Scottish ofiic^ers, who hXo4ht mX Vh^^^^^^^ Dundee, and who had followed the exiled James to Fran^, voluSS to wade the river and dispossess the Germans. Being joined by tvootW Scottish companies, they accomplished the task in^glTS "tUX ?^ " The stream," he said, "is broad and dco]\ And stubborn is the foe ; Yon island- strengtii is guarded well- Say, brothers, will ye go ? From home and kin for many a year Our steps have wandered wide, And never may our bones be laid Our fathers' graves beside. No sisters have we to lament, No wivea to wail our fail ; The traitor's and tlie spoiler's hand Has reft our hearths of all. But we have hearts, and we have arms. As strong to will and dare, 396 THE ISLAND OF TUE SCOTS. As when our ancient banners flow Within the northern air. Come, brothers! let me name a spell Shall rouse your souls again, And send the old blood bounding^ free Through pulse, and heart, and vein I Call back, the days of bygone years — Be young and strong once more ; Think yonder stream, so stark and red, Is one we've crossed before. Rise, hill and glen ! rise, crag and wood ! llise up on either hand ! — Again upon the Garry's banks, On Scottish soil Ave stand ! Again 1 see the tartans wave, Again the trumpets ring ; Again I hear our leader's call — ' Upon them, for the King I' Stay'd we behind, that glorious day, For roaring Hood or linn 1 The soul of Gnome is with us still — Now, brothers! will ye in?" .» I Thick blew the smoke across the stream, And faster ilasli'd the flame ; The water plash'd in hissing jets, As ball and bullet came. Y(;t onward push'd the Cavaliers All stern and undismay'd, With thousand arm6d foes before, And none behind to aid. Once, as they ncar'd the middle stream. So strong the torrent swept. That scarce that long and living wall Their dangerous footing kept. Then rose a warning cry behind, A joyous shout Irjfore : " The current 's strong — the way is long- They '11 never reach the shore ! Sec 1 see ! they stagger in the midst, They waver in their line ! Fire on the madmen ! break their ranks, And whelm them in the Rhine !" Have you seen the tall trees swaying. When the blast is piping shrill", And the whirlwind reels in fury Down the gorges of the hill ? How they toss their mighty branches, Struggling with the tempesL's sliock ; How they keep their place of vantage, Cleaving firmly to the rock ? i THE ISLAND OP THE SCOTS. Even 80 the Scottish warriors Hold their own njiainst the rivor ; Though the water flaBh'd around theiu, Not an eye was seen to quiver ; Though the shot flew sharp and deadly, Not a man relax'd his liold : For their hearts were big and thrilling With the mighty thounhts of oUi, Ono word was spoke among tlHim, And through the ranks it spread — " Remember our dead ('laverliouso !" Was all the eaptain said. Then, sternly bonding forward, They struggled on a wlnle, Until they cicar'd the heavy stream, Then rush'd towards the isle. 397 The German heart is stout and true, The Ocrman arm is strong ; The German foot goes seldom back Where armtkl foemen throng : But never had they faced in field So stern a charge before. And never had tliey felt the swoop Of Scotland's broad claymore. Not iicrcer pours the avalanche Adown the Htoep incline, Tliat rises o'er the parent-springs Of rough and rapid lihine — Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heavLij, Than came tiie Scottish band liight up against the guarded trench, And o'er it sword in hand. In vain their leaders forward press— They meet the deadly brand ! O lonely island of the lihine, Where seed was never sown, Wiuit harvest lay upon thy sands, By those strong reapers thrown ? What saw the winter moon tiiat niglit, Ati, struggling tinough the niin, Siie pour'd a wan and iitful liij^ht On marsh, and stream, and plain ? A dreary spot with corpses strewn. And bayonets gliistening round ; A broken bridge, a strantlcd l)oat, A bare and batter'd mound ; And one huge wutoh liru'a kiiuilcd pile, That sent its quivering glare To toll the leaders of the host The conquering Scots were there I 398 DAME FliEDEGONDE. And did they twine the laurel-wreath For those who fought so well ? And did they honour those who lived, And weep for those who fell ? What meed of thanks was given to them Let aged annals tell. Why should they bring the laurel-wreath- Why crown the cup with wine? It was not Frenchmen's blood that flow'd So freely on the llhine — A Si ranger band of bcggar'd men Had done the venturous deed : The glory was to France alone, The danger was their meed. What matter'd it that men should vaunt, And loud and fondly swear That higher feat of chivalry Was never wrought elsewhere ? They bore within their breasts the grief That fame can never heal — The deep, unutterable woe, Which none save exiles feel. Their hearts were yearning for the land They ne'er might see again— For Scotland's high and heather'd hills, For mountain, loch, and glen — For those who haply lay at rest Beyond the distant sea, Beneath the green and daisied turf, Where they would gladly be ! DAME FREDEGONDE. \\ HEN folks, with headstrong passion blind. To play the fool make up their mind, They're sure to come with phrases nice, And modest air, for your advice. But, as a truth unfailing make it, They ask, but never mean to take it. 'TIS not advice they want, in fact, But confirmation in their act. Now mark what did, in such a case, A worthy priest, who knew the race. A dame more buxom, blithe and free. Ihan Fredegonde you scarce would see. I'oduc- trans- DAME rjlEDEOONDE. So f9raarfc her dress, bo trim her shape, JNe'er hostess offer'd juice of gnipc, Could for her trade wish better sign • Her looks gave flavour to her wine ' And each guest feels it as he sips, ' Smack of the rnhy of her lips, A smile for all, a welcome glad,— A jovial, coaxing way she had/ And,— what was more her fate than blame — A nine months widow was our dame ' IJut toil was hard, for trade was good. And gallants sometimes would be rude. 'And what can a lone woman do ? . * The nights are long, and eerie too. Now, Guillot there 's a likely man, None better draws or taps a can ; He's just th man, I think, to suit, it 1 could bring my courage to't." With thoughts like these her mind is cross'd : Ihc dame, they say, who doubts is lost. 'But then the risk ? I '11 beg a slice Ui lather Ilaulin's good advice." Prankt in her best, with looks demure She seeks the priest ; and, to be sure ' Asks if ho thinks she ought to wed : ' ''With such a business on my head," I m worried off my legs with care, And need some help to keep things square 1 ve thought of Guillot, truth to tell ! He's steady, knows his business well What do you think ? » When thus he met her ^^ Uh, take him, dear, you can't do better ! " JJut then the danger, my good pastor. It of the man I make the master, TJiere is no trusting to these men." ''Well, well, my dear, don't have him then i » I3ut help I must have, there 's the curse. I may go farther and fare woi-se." *' Why, take him, then ! " " But if he should 1 urn out a thankless ne'er-do-good, In drink and riot waste my all, And rout me out of house and hall ?" "Don't have him, then ! But I 've a plan To clear your doubts, if any' can. The bells a peal are ringing —hark ! Go straight, and what they tell you mark If they say ' Yes ! ' wed, and be' blest— If • No ! ' why, do as you think best." The bells rung out a triple bob ; Oh, how our widow's heart did throb, 399 400 THE THKEE FISHERS. Ab thus she heard their burden go : " Marry, mar — marry, mar— Guillot ! " Bells were not then left to hang idle : A week,— and they rang for her bridal. But, woe the while, they might as well Have rung the poor dame's parting kncU. The rosy dimples left her cheek, She lost her beauties plump and sleek ; For Guillot oft'nor kick'd than kiss'd, And back'd his orders with his fist, Proving by deeds as well as words. That servants make the worst of lords. She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak, And speaks as angry women speak, With tiger-look, and bosom swelling, Cursing the hour she took his telling. To all, his calm reply was this, — " I fear you 've read the bells amiss. If they have led you wrong in aught, Your wish, not they, inspired the thought. Just go, and mark well what they say." Off trudged the dame upon her way, And sure enough their chime went so, — " Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot ! " " Too true," she cried, " there's not a doubt : What could my ears have been about ? " She had forgot, that, as fools think, The bell is ever sure to clink. I THE THREE FISHERS. Charles Kingsley, professor of Modern History in the University of C bridge, a poet and novelist of some note : born 1819. Three fishers went sailing out into the west, Away to the west, as the sun went down ; Each thought of the woman who loved him the best, And the children stood watching them out of the town : For men must work, and women must weep, For there 's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbour-bar be moaning. Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down ; And they look'd at the squall, and they look'd at the shower, While the night-rack came rolling up, ragged and browu; But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbour-bar be moaning. Three corpses lie out on the shining sands, 111 the morning gleam as the tide went down, liMX' MARY, 9UEEN OF SCOTS. FarihnJ^T'' r ''^'P^"^ *"^ wringing their hands, a or those who will never come home to the town Jiut men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner it "s over, the sooner to sleep. And good-bye to the bar and its moaning 401 MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. Henky GLASbFOBD Bell biographer of Queen Mary, and writer of periodical literature in prose and verse. I LOOK'd far back into other years, and lo ! in bright array 1 saw, as in a dream, the forma of ages pass'd away. It Avas a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls. • aS Sw Jr ""'? *^'r ^"^'^ ereen walks, where soft the footstep falls- An I .11 flT^ dial-stones the creeping shadow passed, ^ ' And all around the noon-day sun a drowsy radiance cast. ' T»?«T tr fl ^'^M '^''' ''^^'^' «^^« f'-""^ the cloister dim I he tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn. And there five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees, And itf f/ Im'IV"^' '^T^' ""^ y^"'*^' '''^^'' a" it« prospects please ; That Wl.n'l t^ *^'^' "^^'^ *^'y ^"°S' "'• ^»«1^ ^t vesper prayers! An?ntHt ^f '''?"P';°"'^'', "^°^'^-^«ld"°"««^«redear L^^ And little even the lovehest thought, before the holy shrine, cflXh^T^ and high descent from the ancient Stuart lin^: Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight. And as they flew they left behind a long-continuing light. me scene was changed. It was the couri;, the gay court of Bourbon in^ """^'l a thousand silver lamps a thons'and clfrtiers thr.ng • ^^°"' And proudly kindles Henry's eye-well pleased, I ween, to see^" The land assemble all its wealth of grace and chivnlry •- but fairer far than all the rest who bask on fortune's tide Tt\^Z ')" ^f '^ ^rf^' '' '^'' *^« '^^—de bride ! The homage of a thousand hearts-the fond deep love of one- Th!v r^r. ''^ ^k""" r^""'' * ^'^^ ^^■h"^^ ^^^'-^^ are but begun _ T^ ^^ i? "P J"' '^''*"''*^ "y«' ^^'^y "^^»"« «'«r her cheek, ' Ah^XSll n '^f ^'"'^' f"^ J^'gh-'^"«1'^ J'T bespeak :' She tWht If tW n' T"''' '*^/^* ^^^f' '^'■""S^ ^^^ its brilliant hour., blie thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine and its flowers ' The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its waT " And o'er the lee the coast of France in the light of^evenino- ky^' Upon the fast-receding hills, that dim and distant rise. She loved hke that dear land, although she owed it not her birth • It was her mother's land, the land of childhood and of friends -' It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amend C The land where her dead bushan^^ «lpnf— fh- hrl vhr-- ' i ' - The tranquil convent's hush'd "repos^f and tii s^ endou^s^of" aThrone" 1^0 marvel that the jady wept,-it was the land of Frani- ' The chosen home of chivalry-the garden of romance ' 2c 402 MARY, QUEEN OP SCOTS. The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her bark ; The future, like the gathering night, was ominous and dark ! One guze again— one long, last gaze — " Adieu, fair France, to thee ! " The breeze comes forth — she is alone on the unconscious sea I The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and aurly mood, And in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with the winds That seemed to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds. The touch of care had blanch'd her cheek— her smile was sadder now. The weight of royalty had prcBP''^ too heavy on her brow ; And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field ; The Stuart sceptre well she 8way*d, but the sword she could not wield. She thought of all her blighted hopes— the dreams, of ^ outh's brief day, And summoned Rizzio with his lute, and bade the minstrel play The songs she loved in early years -the songs of gay Navarre, The songs perchance that erst were sung by gallant Uhatelar ; They half beguiled her of her CareSj they soothed her into smiles. They won her thoughts from bigot zieal and fierce domestic broils :— But hark ! the tramp of armed men ! the Douglas' battle-cry 1 They come— they come !— and lo ! the scowl of Ruthven's hollow eye ! And swords are drawn,and daggers gleam, and tears and words are vain — The ruffian steel is in his heart— the faithful Rizzio 's slain ! Then Mary Stuart dash'd aside the tears that trickling fell : '* Now for my father's arm ! " sho said ! " my woman's heart farewell !" The scene was changed. It was a lake, with one small lonely isle, And there, within the prison walls of its baronial pile, Stern men stood menacing their queen, till she should stoop to sign The traitorous scroll that snatch'd the crown from her ancestral line :— " My lordfi, my lords ! " the captive said, " were 1 but once more free. With ten good knights on yonder shore to aid my CaUse and me, That parchment would I scatter wide to every breeze that blows, And once more reign a Stuart-queen o'er my remorseless foes ! " A red spot burned upon her cheek— stream'd her rich tresses down, She wrote the words— she stood erect—a queen without a crown ! The scene was changed. A royal host a royal banner bore, And the faithful of the land stood round their smiling queen once more : She stay'd her steed upon a hill— she saw them marching by- She heard th' ir shouts— she read success in every flashing eye. The tumult of the strife begins— it roars— it dies away ; And Mary's troops and banners now, and courtiers— where are they 7 Scattcr'd and strewn, and flying far, defenceless and undone ;— Alas ! to think what she has lost, and all that guilt has won 1 Away ! away ! thy gallant steed must act no laggard's part ; Yet vain his speed — for thou dost bear the arrow in thy heart ! The scene was changed. Beside the block a sullen headsman stood. And gleam'd the brdad axe in his hand, that soon must drip with blood. With slow and steady step there came a lady through the hall, And breathless silence chaiu'd the lips and touch'd the hearts of all. I knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its bloom, I saw that grief had deck'd it out— an offering for the tomb ! I knew the^ye, though faint its light, that once so brightly shone ; 1 knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrill'd with every tone ; how's my boy] 403 B ! t" low, ield. eye! 'ain — ffell !" sle, ae : — free, more : - ey ? ;oocl, blood. ,11. I knew the ringlets, almoat gray, once threads of living gold I I knew that bounding grace of step— that symmetry of mould I E'en now I see her far away, in that calm convent aisle, I hear her chant her vesper hymn, I mark her holy smile ; E'en now I see her bursting forth upon the bridal morn, A new star in the firmament, to light and glory born ! Alas I the change !— she placed her foot upon a triple throne. And on the scaffold now she stands— beside the block— a/one / The little dog that licks her hand — the last of all the crowd Who snnn'd themselves beneath her glance, and round her footsteps bowVl I Her neck is bared— the blow is struck— the soul is pass'd away ! The bright— the beautiful — is now a bleeding pieco of clay ! The dog is moaning piteously ; and, as it gurgles o'er, Laps the warm blood that trickling runs unheeded to the floor! The blood of beauty, wealth, and power— the heart-blood of a queen,— The noblest of the Stuart race — the fairest earth has seen, — Lapp'd by a dog ! Go, think of it, in silence and alone ; Then w.'^h against a grain of sand the glories of a throne ! HOWS MY BOY? Sydney Dobell, author of the "Roman Balder," and other poems ; born 1824. " ITo, sailor of the sea ! How 's my boy — my boy ? " " What 's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good ship sail'd he ? " •' My boy John- He that went to eea — What care I for the ship, sailor ? My boy 's my boy to me. You come back from sea, And not know my John ? I might as well have ask'd some landsman Yonder down in the town. There 's not an ass in all the parish But he knows my John. " How 's my boy — my boy ? And unless you let me know I 'II swear you are no sailor, Blue jacket or no, Brass buttons or no, sailor, Anchor and crown or no ! Sure his ship \yas the Jollij Briton I " " Speak low, woman, speak low ! " " And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy John ? Tf T T%*'/\llH I 'd sing him o'er the town ! Why should I speak low, sailor " That good ship went down." r 404 TUB HIGH TIDE. *. " How 's my boy — my boy t What care I for the ship, sailor, I was never aboard her. Be she afloat or be she aground, Sinking or ewimming, I '11 be bound, Her owners can afford her I I soy, h&w 'g my John ? " " Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her.'' " How 's my boy — my boy ? "What care I for the men, sailor ? I 'm not their mother. How 's my boy — my boy ? Tell me of him and no other I How 's my boy — my boy ? " THE HIGH TIDE. (on the coast of LINCOLNSHIRE, 1571.) Jean Ingelow, author of " Popular Tales and Poems :" born 183a The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers ran by two, by three ; " Pull, if ye never pulled before ; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he " Play uppe, play uppe, Boston bells ! Play all your changes, all your swells. Play uppe ' The Brides of Enderby. ' '• Men say it was a stolen tyde — The Lord that sent it, He knows all ; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall : And there was nought of strange, beside The flights of mews and peewits pied By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. I sat and spun within the doore. My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes ; The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies ; And dark against day's golden deatl She moved where Lindis wandereth, My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. " Cusha ! Cusha I Cusha ! " calling. Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song. Cusha ! Cusha ! all along ; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Til ■ 1 rt t t UWCLU, From the meads where melick groweth Faintly came her milking song— I THE HlOn TIDE. 405 •• CuHha ! Ci-sha ! Cusba I " calling, " For the dewB will soone be falling ; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow ; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow ; Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. From the clovers lift your head ; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Come uppe Jetty rise and follow. Jetty, to the milking shed." If it be long, ay, long ago, When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow. Swift as an arrow, sharpe and strong ; And all the aire, it seemeth mee, Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee). That ring the tune of Enderby. AUe fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save whe^p full fyve good miles away The steeple tower'd from out the greene ; And lo ! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide. The swanherds where their sedges are Moved on in sunset's golden breath. The shepherde lads I heard afarre. And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; Till floating o'er the grassy sea Came downe that kyndly message free, The " Brides of Mavis Enderby." Then some look'd uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie. And where the lordly steeple shows. They sayde, « And why should this thing be ? What danger lowers by land or sea ? They ring the tune of Enderby ! " For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys warping down ; For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne : But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring ' The Uiides of Enderby ? ' " I look'd without, and lo ! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main : 40G THE HIGH TIDE. He raised a shout as he drew on, Till all the welkio rang again, " Elizabeth ! Elizabeth ! " (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. ) " The olde sea wall (he cried) is downes, The rising tide comes on apace. And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing unpe the market-place." He shook as one that looks on death : "God save you, mother ! " straight he saXik; " Where is my wife, Elizabeth ? " ** Good Sonne, where Lindis winds away. With her two bairns I mark'd her long j And ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song." He look'd across the grassy lea. To right, to left, " Ho Enderby ! '^ They rang " Tlie Brides of Enderby t '* "With that he cried and beat his breast ; For, lo ! along the river's bed A mighty eygre rear'd his crest. And uppe the Lindia raging sped, It swept with thunderous noises loud ; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud. And rearing Lindis backward press'd, Shook all her trembling bankes amaine ; Then madly at the eygre's breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again, Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout — Then beaten foam flew round about — Then all the mighty floods were out. So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The lieart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow seething wave Sobb'd in the grasses at our feet j The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee. And all the world was in the sea. Upon the roofe we sate that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by ; I mark'd the lofty beacon light Stream from the church-tower, red and high— A lurid mark and dread to see ; And awsome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang " Enderby." They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless row'd; THE STUDENT, 407 And I — my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glow'd ; And yet he moan'd beneath his breath, " come in life, or come in death, O lost ! my love, Elizabeth." And didst thou visit him no more ? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter de&re ; The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear*. Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. That flow strew'd wrecks about '^he grassy That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ] To manye more than myne and mee : But each will mourn his own (she saith.) And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. THE STUDENT. biiblin University Magazine. ** Why burns thy lamp so late, my friend, Into the kindling day ? " " It is burning so late, to show the gate That leads to wisdom's way ; As a star doth it shine on this soul of mine> To guide me with its ray. Dear is the hour when slumber's power Weighs down the lids of men ; Proud and alone I mount my throne, Eor I am a monarch then ! The great and the sage of each bygone age Assemble at my call ; Oh ! happy am I in my poverty. For these are my brother's all ! Their voices 1 hear, so strong and cleat. Like a solemn organ's strain. Their words I drink, and their thoughts I think, They are living in me again ! For their sealed stoi-e of immortal lore To me they must unclose : Labour is blisa with a thought like this } Toil is my best repose ! '' *• Why ate thy cheeks so pale, mjr friend. Like a suow-cloud wau and gray ?" I 403 THE STUDENT. " They were bleached thus white in the mind's clear light, Which is deepening day by day ; Though the hue they have be the hue of the grave, I wish it not away t Strength may depart, and youth of heart May sink into the tomb ; Little reck I that the flower must die Before the fruit can bloom. I have striven hard for my high reward, Through many a lonely year, But the goal I reach, — it is mine to teach, — ■ Stand still, O man, and hear ! I may wreath my name with the brightness of fame. To shine on history's pages, It shall be a gem on the diadem Of the past, for future ages ! Oh, life is a bliss with a hope like this— I clasp it as a bride ! " Pale grew his cheeks while the student speaks~- He laid him down and died ! JAUSM kiAMtHKLL AUD SON, PiUNT£K8, TOKONXa gl»t,