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lU
THE BRITISH AMEKIOAN
ELOCUTIONIST,
Ai«D
RHETORICAL
CONTAINING SELEC
KNOWLES'S EL
AHO
ADDITIONAL PIECES FROM LIVING AUTHORS» ■•h'^
'^■k
WITH
GENERAL RULES INTERSPERSED AS READING LESSONS.
i"^ >* \.* -* I
r- V
BY SAMUEL PHILLIPS,
\-^
Foaiuuu.Y or tbs hioh •chool or hontbbai., avd how fkihcipai. or thb
•T. OBBAIM ■TBBST ACADEMY.
^atttrral :
PUBLISHED BY CAMPBELL BRYSON,
BT. FBAN^OIS XAVIKR STREET.
1850.
■>.
PREFACE.
The compiler of the following pages having felt
in common with others, the want of a class
book for reading and reciting, which, whilst it
should contain a selection suitable to the require-
ments of more advanced Pupils, might from its
price be within the reach of all classes of the com-
munity, has been induced for the convenience of
his own school, and he trusts for the benefit of his
fellow laborers in Canada, to edit this publicatioUi
which he now ofifers to the notice of Teachers and
Scholars generally, with the hope that it may faci-
litate the labors of the former and accelerate the
progress of the latter.
Possessing as it does two decided advantages
over works of a similar kind, cheapness in price,
and a more extensive and better collection of pieces
for Reading and Recitation, he trusts that this effort
for the benefit of the rising generation, may not
altogether be unappreciated and in vain ; but that
IV
PREFACE.
the result may be a marked improvement in the
style of reading, and an increased taste for elegant
literature, in every school into which it may be
introduced.
It was the intention of the compiler to have
given rules for Pronunciation, Emphasis and Ges-
ture as is generally done by writers on Elocution,
but being persuaded that such rules are to the
majority of Pupils a dead-^letter, and that few
teachers avail themselves of their use, he has
deemded it preferable to intersperse some chap-
ters on these subjects, as reading lessons in the
body of the work, and has thereby been enabled to
present a more copious selection to the public.
Containing, as most works on Reading and
Recitation do, the same pieces, the observant Teacher
will perceive, that Knowles^s admirable work
on Elocution has formed the basis of the present
publication, which circumstance of itself, should be
a sufficient inducement for its admission into Schools
and Colleges where such a book is required ; and
from the additional subjects from the pages of Macau-*
lay, Alison, D'Aubign6, Hemans, Dr. Thompson and
others, some of which for the first time appear in
print, and from the care taken in selecting ei^tracts
IL
PREPACK. T
of a religious or strictly moral tendency, a stronger
recommendation is given to ttie Volume.
Should this attempt of the Author to promote
the publication of Canadian Work« for Educa-
tional purposes, be received with that encourage-
ment which he hopes for, it is his intention in a
forthcoming edition to add, if it seem necefisary,
a treatise on the rules of Reading, Recitation and
Gesture, though at the same time he is fully of
opinion ^ith many of our best Writers, that to read
and recite naturally is to read and recite well.
8t. Urbain Stkeet Academy,
Montreal, May lat. 1860.
CONTENTS.
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS IN PROSE.
PAOt
Pronunciation 1
On Study Bacon 7
On the Love of Life Goldsmith, 8
On Grieving for the Dead Dr. Adam Smith, 9
On Remorse Ibid. 10
Piscontent the common Lot of all
Mankind Johnson 12
On the Sublime in Writing Blair. 15
Reflections in Westminster Ahhey.. Addison 18
Virtue, Man's Highest Interest Harris. 19
The Monk Sterne 21
On Military Glory Marmontel. 23
Liberty and Slavery Sterne. 25
Reynoand Alpin Osaian , 26
Story of the Siegeof Calais Fool of Qualittf. 27
On Living to OneVSelf. Hazlitt. 32
On the Psalms Home. 33
On the Pleasure of Painting Hazlitt. 34
Damon and Pythias Fool of Quality. 36
On the Abuse of Genius, with Re-
ference to the Works of Lord
Byron .• Knowles 38
Advantages of uniting Gentleness
of Manners, with Firmness of
Mind Chesterfield. 40
The Elder's Death-bed Wilson 42
On Lord Byron's Lines upon the
Field of Waterloo Knowles, 46
The Perfect Orator Sheridan 47
Lord Byron considered as a Moral-
ist, and a Poet Knowles 48
The Distressed Father Morningsat Bow-Street. 50
OnShakspeare Hazlitt. 52
Character of Napoleon Bonapaxte^Channing. 56
On Milton Ibid. 59
Wit injures Eloquence Maury, 63
On the Dignity of Human Nature.. CAannin^ 64
The Hill of Science Addison 66
Effects of Sympathy in the Distresses
of Others Burke,
An Exhortation to the Study of
Eloc^uence „.,,,....... .....^.Cipcro, ..,.,
70
• ••
Vlll
CONTENTS.
On the Cultivation of the Intel- paue
lectual Powers Tat/lor. 73
The Fallen Leaf. ,.. Anonymous. 74
Happiness Ibid 76
The Idiot Blackwood's Magazine.. 77
Emphasis, Pauses, andTones Blair 79
Gestures Ibid. 82
Death of Charles the Second Macaulay 84
Execution of Louis XVI Alison 92
School-days of Napoleon Ibid, 94
Battle of the Pyramids Ibid. 96
Battle of the Nile Ibid. 98
Defeat of the Old Guard at Water-
loo Ibid. 102
Effects of Steam Navigation Ibid. 104
Departure of the Reformer Zwingle
for Battle D'Aubigne. 106
Death of Zwingle Ibid 107
Execution of Mary Queen of ^oi%..Hobertson 110
Abdication of the Emperor Charlesy..../6t(i 114
PULPIT ELOQUENCE.
The Departed Spirits of the Just
are Spectators of our Conduct on
Earth Finlayson 117
Time and Manner of the Arrival of
Death Logan 118
On the Threatened Invasion in 1803.1^// 119
The Christian Mother Kirwan 122
Christ our Consolation and Belief,
under the apprehension of being
separated by Death from those
we Love Logan 123
Infatuation of Mankind, with regard
to the Things of Time Kirtvan 124
Danger of Delay in Matters of Re-
ligion Logan 125
On the Death of the Princess Char-
lotte HaU 127
Ditto Chalmers 132
Ditto Dr. Thomson 136
The Infinite Love of God Ibid. 137
Funeral Sermon on the Death of
Dr. Thompson. Chalmers. 138
Sitting in the Chair of the Scornen.Zo^an 139
The Plurality of Worlds not au ar-
gument against, the Truth of
Revelation Chalmers. 141
Christ's Agony Logan 143
The Deluding Influence of the
World Kirwan 145
^ k
CONTENTS.
.
PAGE
There is no Peace to the Wicked... £(Mjfan 147
On the Importance of an Interest in
the Divine Favour. Cappe. 149
The melancholy Effects of early
Licentiousness in a Sermon
preached for the Female Or-
phan House Kirwan 151
Beligion, the Distinguishing Quality
of our Nature ....Logan..... 153
Of the Internal Proofs of the Chris-
tian Religion. Charming. 154
On the Regulation of Temper Montgomery , 157
Character of Ruth ; Fox. 161
The Union of Friendship with Re-
ligion recommended Hutton 163
On the Education of Females Montgomery. 167
)i!xhortation to Youth to cultivate a
Devotional Spirit Taylor 171
ANCIENT AND MODI;RN ORATORY.
Hannibal to his Soldiers. :..Livy..,.. 174
Speech of Lord Chatham, in the
House of Peers, against the Ame-
rican War, and against employing
the Indians in it 176
Cicero against Yerres 179
Invective against Hastings Sheridan 182
Cicero for Milo 185
Lord Chatham's Reply to Sir H.
Walpole 190
Caius Marius to the Romans.. StUlust. 191
Demosthenes to the Athenians, ex-
citing them to prosecute the War
against Philip. 194
Curran for Hamilton Rowan 200
The Beginning of the First Philip-
pic of Demosthenes 201
The First Oration of Cicero against
Cataline 204
An Extract from Mr. Broughams
Speech on Negro Slavery 209
Peroration to Sheridan's Invective
against Warren Hastings 210
Panegyric on the Eloquence of
Sheridan Burke 211
Dr. MoCrie on promoting Education
in Greece 1825 , 212
Against the Union of Professorships
with Cure of Souls Chalmers 213
On Slavery Thomson,,... 215
On the Qualifioations of Professors
of Divinity Chalmers.. 218
CONTENTS.
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS IN VERSE.
PAGB
The Battle of Morgarten Hermans 219
The Siege of Constantinople 221
The Cross of the South Hemans 224
On the Destruction of the St. Lewis
Theatre at Quebec S. Phillips. 225
The Last Man Campbell. 228
Last Verses of L. E. L 229
The Cameronian's Dream 230
Kossuth's Soliloquy S. Phillips 232
The Flag of England C. S. Mackay. 234
The Soldier's Dream Campbell. 236
Glenara. Ibid. 237
The Death of Marmion Scott. 237
The Burial of Sir John Moore Wolfe 238
The Battle of Hohenlinden Campbell 239
On the Downfall of Poland Ibid 240
Lord Ullin's Daughter Ibid if *'*.
The Exile of Erin. Ibid 243
Lochinvar... ....*. Scott. 244
A Beth Gelert ^...Spencer, , 246
Bruce to his Army Burns. 248
The Sailor's Orphan Boy. Mrs. Opie 249
Battle of the Baltic Campbell. 250
The Ocean Byron 252
The Present Aspect of Greece Ibid. 253
The Battle of Blenheim Sout/iey 254
Song of Fitz Eustace Scott..^ 2.57
The Field of Waterloo Byron 257
Outalissi Campbell 259
Outalissi's Death Song. Ibid 261
Lord William Southey 263
The Mariners of England Campbell. 267
Thunder Storm among the Alps Byron 268
Ode to Winter Campbell. , 269
The Arab Maid's Song Moore 271
Flight of O'Connor's Child ; and
Death of her Lover Campbell. 272
Ode to Eloquence Anonymous 274
The Sister's Curse Campbell. 275
Alexander's Feast., Dryden 277
The Passions... Collins 280
Childe Harold's Song Byron , 283
Lochiel's Warning Campbell. 285
Gilderoy Ibid. 287
My Mother 288
The Dream of Eugene Aram Hood. 290
TheDea hof Murat .....T. Atkinson. 295
The Spanish Champion .....Hemans 296
Ouglou's Onslaught Motherwell 297
To the Clouds Anonymous 299
CONTENTS.
XI
The Suicide ....
The Last Tree of the Forest.
The Voice of Spring
The Invocation
Mary Queen of Scots.
FA6E
,Crabb 300
..Anonymous 301
Hemana 308
.Hemana 304
.H.G.BeU 305
SACRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE.
The Creation Drummond , 309
God is Everywhere HughHutton 310
The Destruction of Sennacherib....£j^(m 311
Who shall separate as from the love
of Christ ? Drummond 312
Wisdom sought from God Henty Moore 312
The Dying Christian to his Soul... Pope 313
Confidence in God Addison 314
Charity Drummond 315
The Cross in the Wilderness Hemana 316
David and Goliath Drummond 318
Stanzas on Death... Anonymoua 322
Belshazzar's Feast Drummond 323
The Burial of Moses Anonymous 327
BLANK VERSE.
Satan to Beelzebub Milton 328
Satan's reproof of Beelzebub.^ Ibid 329
Satan surveying the horrors of He\l...Ibid 330
Satan arousmg his Legions Ibid 330
Description of the fallen Angels,
Wandering through Hell Ibid 331
Evening in Paradise Ibid 331
Satan's Address to the Sun , Ibid . 333
Adam's account of himself with re-
gard to his Creation Ibid 335
Contest between Gabriel and Satan Ibid 336
The Good Preacher and the Clerical
Coxcomb Cowper 839
On the being of a God Young 340
Dublin Bay, Shipwreck, Deserted
Passengers Drummond 341
Address to the Sun Ibid 344
PROMISCUOUS DRAMATIC SELECTIONS.
Cardinal Wolsey's Speech to Crom-
well Shakspeare 345
Henry V to his Soldiers Ibid 346
Marcellus' Speech to the Mob Ibid 346
Henry V's Speech before the Battle
of Agincourt Ibid 347
Douglas' Account of himself. Home 348
Rolla to the Peruvians Sheridan 349
Cato's Soliloqwy on the Immortality
of the Soul Addison 350
Xll
CONTENTS.
PAGE
Brutus on the Death of Cessar Shakspeare..... 350
Hamlet's Soliloquy on Death Ibid 351
Mark Antony's Oration Ibid 352
Shylock justifying his Meditated
Revenge ; Ibid 355
COMIC PIECES.
Lodgings for Single Gentlemen.... Co/man 356
The Chameleon Merrick 357
The Three Black Crows Dr.Byrom 359
Contest between die Eyes and the
Nose Cowper 360
The Charitable Barber. Jones 361
Law; AnonyniouM , 363
The Newcastle Apothecary Colman 365
The Three Warnings 367
The Razor Seller Pindar 370
The Case Altered Anonymous 372
MISCELLANEOUS.
Song of the Greek Bard 373
The Dying Wizard B. B. Wale 376
Arnold Winkelried Montgomery 377
Caaabianoa. Hemans 378
Landing of the Pilgrims Ibid 379
The Burial of Arnold WiUis 380
The Mariner's Dream. Dimond. 382
DIALOGUES.
Cato and Decius., Addison.
Corin and Emma's Hospitality Tfumuon.
384
386
Coriolanus and Aufidius.....'. Shakspeare 387
Lady Randolph and Douglas Home 390
Alberto's Exculpation Home. 392
Alfred and Devon returned successful TAomMit 395
Th9 Quarrel of Brutus andGassius...5AaA9eare 396
Orestes delivering his Embassy to
Fyrrhus Philips 400
Glenalvon andNorval Home 402
David and Goliath H. More 405
THE
ELOCUTIONIST.
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS IN PROSE.
Pronunciation.
Before we enter upon particular rules, I would
advise all who can, to study the art of speaking
betimeSy and to practise it as often as possible, before
they have contracted any of the common imperfections
or vices of speaking j for these may easily be avoided
at first, and when they are once learnt, it is extremely
difficult to unlearn them. I advise all young persons
to be governed in speaking, as in all other things, by
reason rather than example, and therefore to have an
especial care whom they imitate therein ; and to imitate
only what is right in their manner of speaking, not
their blemishes and imperfections. The first business
of the speaker is, so to speak that he may be heard and
understood with ease. In order to this, it is a great
advantage to have a clear strong voice : — such at least,
as will fill the place where you speak, so as to be heard
by every person in it. To strengthen a weak voice,
read or speak something aloud, for at least half an
hour every morning j but take care not to strain your
voice at first ; begin low and raise it by degrees to the
height. If you are apt to falter in your speech, read
something in private daily, and pronounce every word
and syllable so distinctly, that they may all have their
full sound and proportion. If you are apt to stammer
at such and such particular expressions, take particular
care, first, to pronounce tjiem plainly. When you are
once able to do this, you may learn to pronounce them
more fluently and at your leisure. The chief faults of
i
PROMISCUOUS SELSCTI0N9
speaking are, the speaking too loud ; this ia disagreeabfe
to the hearers, as well as inconvenient to the speaker:^
For they must impute it either to ignorance or afiecta-
tion, which is never so inexcusable an in preaching.
Every man's voice should indeed fill the place where
he speaks; but if it exceeds its natural key, it will
neither be sweet, nor soft, nor agreeable, were it only
on this account, that he cannot then give every word
its proper and distinguishing sound. The speaking
too low, i^ of the two, more disagreeable than the
former. Take care, therefore, to keep between the
extremes, to preserve the key, the command of your
voice, and adapt the loudness of it to the place where
you are, or the number of persons to whom you speak.
In order to this, consider whether your voice be natu-
rally loud or low; and if it incline to either extreme,
correct this first in your ordinary conversation. If it
be too low, converse with those that are deaf; if too
loud, with those who speak softly. By speaking in
a thick, cluttering manner, some persons mumble, or
swallow some words or syllables ; and do not utter the
rest articulately or distinctly. This is sometimes owing
to a natural defect ; sometimes to a sudden flutter of
the spirits, but oftener to a bad habit. To cure this,
accustom yourself both in conversation and reading, to
pronounce every word distinctly. Observe how full a
sound some give to every word, and labour to imitate
them. If no other way avail, do as Demosthenes did,
who cured himself of this natural defect, by repeating
orations every day with pebbles in his mouth. The
speaking too fast, is a common fault ; but not a little
one, particularly when we speak of the things of God.
It may be cured by habituating yourself to attend to
the weight, sense, and propriety of every word you
speak. The speaking too slow is not a common fault ;
and when we are once warned of it, it may be easily
avoided. The speaking with an irregular, desultory,
and uneven voice, raised or deprest unnaturally or
unseasonably. To cure this, you should take care
not to begin your periods either too high or too low ;
for that would necessarily lead you to an unnatural and
improper variation of the voice ; and remember, never
1
I
IN PROSE.
either to raise or sink your voice without a particular
reason, arising either from the length of the period, or
the sense or spirit of what you speak. But the greatest
and most common fault of all is, speaking with a tone;
some have a womanish squeaking tone ; some a singing
or canting one ; some an high, swelling, theatrical tone,
laying too much emphasis on every sentence ; s<Mne
have an awful, solemn tone ; others, an odd, whimsical,
whining one, not to be expressed in words. To avoid
all kinds of unnatural tones, the only rule is this,
endeavour to speak in public, just as you do in common
conversation. Attend to your subject, and deliver it
in the same manner as if yon were talking to a friend.
This, if carefully observed, will correct both this and
almost all the other faults of a bad pronunciation ; for
a good pronunciation is nothing but a natural, easy,
and graceful variation of the voice, suitable to the
nature and importance of the sentence we deliver. If
you would be heard with pleasure, in order to make a
deeper impression on your hearers, study to render
your voice as soft and sweet as possible ; and the more,
if it be naturally harsh, hoarse, or obstreperous, which
may be cured by constant exercise. By carefully using
this every morning, you may in a short time wear off
these defects, and contract such a smooth and tuneful
delivery, as will recommend whatever you speak. Se-
condly, labour to avoid the odious custom of coughing
or spitting while you are speaking ; and if at some
time you cannot wholly avoid it, yet take care you do
not stop in the middle of a sentence, but only at such
times as will least interrupt the sense of what you are
delivering. Above all, take care to vary your voice
according to the matter on which you speak. Nothing
more grates the ear, than a voice still in the same key,
and yet nothing is more common. Although this mo-
notony is not only unpleasant to the ear, but destroys
the effect of what is spoken, the best way to learn how
to vary the voice is, to observe common discourse ; take
notice how you speak youirself in ordinary conversa-
tion, and how others speak on various occasions. After
the very same manner you are to vary your voice in
public, allowing for the largeness of the place, and the
I i
4 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
distance of the hearers. The voice may be varied
three ways, first, as to height or lowness ; secondly, as
to vehemence or softness ; thirdly, as to swiftness or
slowness : — And first, as to height, a medium between
the extremes is carefully to be observed. You must
neither strain yoi^r voice by raising it always to the
highest note it can reach, nor sink it always to the
lowest note, which would be to murmur rather than to
speak. As to vehemence, have a care how you force
your voice to the last extremity ; you cannot hold this
long without danger of its cracking, and failing you on
a sudden ; nor yet ought you to speak in too faint and
remiss a manner, which destroys all the force and
energy of what is spoken. As to swiftness, you ought
to moderate the voice so as to avoid all precipitation ;
otherwise you give the hearers no time to think, and
so are not likely either to convince or persuade them ;
yet neither should you speak slower than men gene-
rally do in common conversation. It is a fault to draw
out your words too slow, or to make needless breaks or
pauses ; nay to drawl is (of the two) worse than to
hurry ; the speech ought not to drop, but to fiow along;
but then it ought to flow like a gliding stream, not as
a rapid current. Yet let it be observed, that the me-
dium I recommend does not consist in an indivisible
point ; it admits of a considerable latitude. As to the
height or lowness of the voice, there are five or six
notes whereby it may be varied, between the highest
and the lowest : so here is abundant room for variation,
without falling into either extreme. There is also
sufficient room between the extremes of violence and
of softness, to pronounce either more vehemently or
more mildly, as different subjects may require ; and as
to swiftness or slowness, though you avoid both ex-
tremes, you may nevertheless speak faster or slower,
and that in several degrees, as best answers the subject
and passions of your discourse. But it should likewise
be observed, that the voice ought not to be varied too
hastily in any of these respects ; but the difference is
to be made by degrees, and almost insensibly ; too
sudden a change being unnatural and affected, and
consequently disagreeable to the hearers. If you speak
IN PBOSE.
of natural things, merely to make the hearers under-
stand them, there needs only a clear and distinct voice ;
but if you should display the wisdom and power of
God therein, do it with a stronger and more solemn
accent. The good and honourable actions of men should
be described with a full and lofty accent ; wicked and
infamous actions, with a strong and earnest voice, and
such a tone as expresses horror and detestation. In
congratulating the happy events of life, we speak with
a lively and cheerful accent ; in relating misfortunes,
(as in funeral orations) with a slow and mournful one.
The voice should also be varied according to the
greatness and importance of the subject; it being
absurd either to speak in a lofty manner where the
subject is of little concern, or to speak of great and
important affairs with a low, unconcerned, and familiar
voice. On all occasions, let the thing you are to speak
be deeply imprinted on your own heart ; and when you
are sensibly touched yourself, you will easily touch others,
by adjusting your voice to every passion which you
feel. Love is shewn by a soft, smooth, and melting
voice ; hate by a sharp and sullen one ; joy by a full
and flowing one ; grief by a dull, languishing tone ;
sometimes interrupted by a sigh or groan. Fear is
expressed by a trembling and hesitating voice ; bold-
ness by speaking loud and strong. Anger is shewn by
a sharp and impetuous tone, taking the breath often,
and speaking short. Compassion requires a soft and
submissive voice. After the expression of any violent
passion, you should gradually lower your voice again.
Readiness in varying it on all kinds of subjects as well
as passions, is best acquired by frequently reading or
repeating aloud, either dialogues, select plays, or such
discourses as come nearest to the dramatic style. You
should begin fy discourse low, both as it expresses
modesty, and as it is best for your voice and strength ;
and yet so as to be heard by all that are present : you
may afterwards rise as the matter shall require. The
audience likewise being calm and unmoved at first, are
best suited by a cool and dispassionate address; yet
this rule admits of some exceptions, for on some extra-
ordinary occasions, you may begin a discourse abruptly
rr
6
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
and passionately, and consequently with a warm and
J>assionate accent. Tou may speak a little louder in
aying down what you design to prove, and explaining
it to your hearers. But you need not speak with any
warmth or emotion yet ; it is enough if you speak
articulately and distinctly. When you prove your
point, and refute your adversary's objections, there is
need of more earnestness and extension of voice : and
here chiefly it is, that you are to vary your voice
according to the rules above recited. A little pause
may then precede the conclusion, in which you may
gradually rise to the utmost strength of pronunciation,
and finish all with a lively, cheerful voice, expressing
joy and satisfaction. An exclamation requires a loud
and strong voice ; and so does an oath or strong asse^
veratioHf as O, the depth of the riches both of the
wisdom and knowledge of God! I call God to record
upon my soul. In a prosopopoeia, the voice should be
varied, according to the characters of the persons
introduced ; in an apostrophe^ according to tlie circum-
stances of the person or thing to which you address
your speedi; which if directed to God, or to inanimate
things^ ought to be louder than usnal. In reciting and
answering objections, the voice should be varied, as if
two persons were speaking ; and so in dialogues, or
whenever several persons are introduced, as disputing
or talking together. In a climaXy the voice must be
gradually raised to answer every step of the figure.
In a postopesis, the voice (which was raised to intro-
duce it) must be lowered considerably. In an ante-
thesis, the points are to be distinguished, and the former
to be pronounced with a stronger tone than the latter :
but in an anadiplosis, the word repeated is pronounced
the second time louder and stronger than the first.
Take care never to make a pause in speaking in the
middle of a word or sentence ; but only where there is
such a pause in the sense, as requires, or at least allows
of it. You may make a short pause after every period,
and begin the next generally a little lower than you
concluded the last ; but on some occasions a little
higher, which the nature of the subject will easily
determine. I would likewise advise every speaker to
IN PROSE. 7
observe those who speak well, that he may not pro-
nounce any word in an improper manner ; and in case
of doubt, let him not be ashamed to ask how such a
word should be pronounced ; as also to desire others
that they would inform him whenever they hear him
pronounce any word improperly. Lastly, take care
not to sink your voice too much at the conclusion of a
period ; but pronounce the very last words loud and
■distinctly, especially if they have but a weak and dull
«ound of themselves.
On Studt^
Studies' serve^ for delighf , for ornament', and for
a,bility\ Their chief use for delight', is in privateness'
«nd retiring^; for ornament\ is ia discourse'; and for
ability, is in the judgment^ and disposition' of business^.
For expert^ men can execute', and perhaps judges of
particulars, one^ by one'; but the general' counselsx
and the plots\ and marshaling' of affairs, come^ besf
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 per-
fect^ nature', and are perfected' by experience^; for
natural^ abilities' are like natural plants\ that need
pruning, by stud/t and studies themselves^ do give
forth directions^ too much at large', except they be
bounded^ in' by experience^. Crafty' men contemn^
fitudies, 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 obser-
vation\ Read' — not to contradict and refute', not to
believe'^ and take for granted', nor to find talk^ and
discourse' — but to weigh' and consider\ 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 wholl/, and
with diligence' and attention'^. Some books also may
be read by deputy^, and extracts of them made by
others'; but that should be only in the less' important
PROMISCUOUS SKLKCTIONii
il
I :
arguments, and the meaner> sort of bookd; else dis-
tilled' books^ are like common^ 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 present'
wit^; if he confer^ little, he had need have a good^
memory'; and if he read' little, he had need have
much^ cunning' to seem^ to know' that he doth not/
Bacon.
On the Love of Life.
AoE, that lessens the enjoyment of life, increases
our desire of living. Those dangers which, in the
vigour of youth, we had learned to despise, assume
new terrors as we grow old. Our caution increasing
as our years increase, fear becomes at last the prevail-
ing passion of the mind; and the small remainder of
life is taken up in useless efforts to keep off our end,
or provide for a continued existence.
Strange contradiction in our nature, and to which
even the wise are liable! If I should judge of that
part of life which lies before me by that which I have
already seen, the prospect is hideous. Experience
tells me, that my past enjoyments have brought no
real felicity; and sensation assures me, that those I
have felt are stronger than those which are yet to come.
Yet experience and sensation in vain persuade: hope,
more powerful than either, dresses out the distant
prcsnect in fancied beauty; some happiness, in long
per:.^)ective, still beckons me to pursue; and, like a
losing gamester, every new disappointment increases
my ardour to continue the game.
Whence, then, is this increased love of life, v ai(;h
grows upon us with our years? Whence coma's it..
that we thus make greater efforts to preserve oui ox'.k-
tence, at, a period when it becomes scarce worth the
keeping? Is it that Nature, attentive to the preserva-
tion of i."iankind, increases our wishes to live, while
she le;;seri' ' t enjoyments; and, as she robs the senses
of everj piesso- 1, equi^is Imagination in the spoils?
Life would ce insupport.ible to an old man, who, loaded
IN PROSK. 9
With infirmities, feared death no more than when in
the vigour of manhood; the numberless calamities of
decaying nature, and the consciousness of surviving
every pleasure, would at once 'nduce him, with his
own hand, to terminate the scene of misery: but hap-
pily the contempt of death for ikes iiini u a time when
it could only be prejudicial; and life acquires an ima-
ginary value, in proportion as its roal value is no
more.
Our attachment to every object around us increases,
ingeri'Tal from the length of our acquaintance with it.
• . 01 •''^ not choose," says a French philosopher,
'* tu '366 ab old poet pulled up, with which I had been
Ion? (icquainted.^ A mind long habituated to a cer-
tain set of objects, insensibly becomes fond of seeing
them; visits them from habit, and parts from them
with reluctance. From hence proceeds the avarice of
the old in every kind of possession — they love the
world, and all that it produces; they love life, and ail
its advantages; not because it gives them pleasure, but
because they have known it long. Goldsmith,
On Grieving for the Dead,
We sympathize even with the dead ; and, overlook-
ing what is of real importance in their situation —
that awful futurity which awaits them — we are chiefly
affected by those circumstances which strike our senses,
but can have no influence upon their happiness. It is
mifierable, we think, to be deprived of the light of the
sun; to be shut out from life and conversation; to be
laid in the cold grave, a prey to corruption, and the
reptiles of the earth; to be no more thought of in this
world, but to be obliterated, in a little time, from the
affections, and almost from the memory, of their dearest
friends and relations. Surely, we imagine, we can
never feel too much for those who have suffered so
dreadful a calamity. The tribute of our fellow-feeling
seems doubly due to them now, when they are in danger
of being forgot by every body; and, by the vain
honours which we pay to their memory, we endeavour,
for our own misery, artificially to keep alive our me*
a2
10
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
lancholy remembrance of their misfortune. That our
sympathy can afford them no consolation, seems to be
an addition to their calamity; and to think that all we
can do is unavailing, and that, what alleviates all other
distresses — the regret, the love, and the lamentations
of friends — can yield no comfort to them, serves only
to exasperate our sense of their misery. The happi-
ness of the dead, however, most assuredly, is affected
by none of these circumstances; nor is it the thought
of these things which can ever difcturb the profound
security of their repose. The idea of that dreary and
endless melancholy, which the fancy naturally ascribes
to their condition, arises altogether from our joining,
to the change which haa been produced upon them,
our own consciousness of that change, from our put-
ting ourselves in their situation, and from our lodging —
if I may be allowed to say so — our own living souls in
their inanimated bodies, and thence conceiving what
would be our emotions in this case. It is from this
very illusion of the imagination, that the foresight of
our own dissolution is .so terrible to us, and that the
idea of these circumstances, which undoubtedly can
give us no pain when we are dead, makes us miserable
while we are alive. And from thence arises one of
the most important principles in human nature — the
dread of death; the great poison to the happiness, but
the great restraint upon the injustice of mankind;
which, while it afflicts and mortifies the individual,
guards and protects the society. Dr. Adam Smith.
On Remorse. *
As the greater and more irreparable the evil that is
done, the resentment of the sufferer runs naturally the
higher; so does likewise the sympathetic indignation
of the spectator, as well as the sense of guilt in the
agent. Death is the greatest evil which one man can
inflict upon another, and excites the highest degree of
resentment in those who are immediately connected
with the slain. Murder, therefore, is the most atro-
cious of all crimes which affect individuals only, in the
sight both of mankind, and. of the person who has
1
IN PROSE.
11
/.
committed it. To be deprived of that which we are
possessed of, is a greater evil than to be disappointed
of what we have only the expectation. Breach of
property, therefore, theft and robbery, which take from
us what we are possessed of, are greater crimes than
breach of contract, which only disappoints us of what
we expected. The most sacred laws of justice, there-
fore — those whose violation seems to call loudest for
vengeance and punishment — are the laws which guard
the life and person of our neighbour; the next are
those which guard his property and possessions; and
last of all come those which guard what are called
his personal rights, or what is due to him from the
promises of others.
The violator of the more sacred laws of justice, can
never reflect on the sentiments which mankind must
entertain with regard to him,^ without feeling all the
agonies of shame, and ho£|!0?vi^Li^t$99iternation. When
his passion is gratifle<
on his past condue
motives which in
detestable to him,
By sympathizing w
other men must en
measure the object
The situation of the
tice, now calls upon his
oily to reflect
none of the
ear now as
|ther people,
ence which
m^s in some
abhorrence,
by his inj US-
is gdeved at the
thought of it; regrets the unhappy .^^edtfi » of his own
conduct; and feels, at the same time, that they have
rendered him the proper object of the resentment and
indignation of mankind, and of what is the natural
consequence of resentment — vengeance and punish-
ment. The thought of this perpetually haunts him,
and fills him with terror and amazement. He dares
no longer look society in the face, but imagines him-
self as it were rejected, and thrown out from the
affections of all mankind. He cannot hope for the
consolation of sympathy, in this his greatest and most
dreadful distress: the remembrance of his crimes has
shut out all fellow-feeling with him from the hearts of
his fellow- creatures. The sentiments which they enter-
tain with regard to him, are the very thing which he
12
PBOMISCtrOUS SELECTIONS
is most afraid of; every thing seems hostile ; and he
would be glad to fly to some inhospitable desert, where
he might never more behold the face of a human crea-
ture, cor read in the countenance of mankind the
condemnation of his crimes. But solitude is still more
dreadful than society. His own thoughts can present
him with nothing but what is black, unfortunate and
disastrous — the melancholy forebodings of incompre-
hensible misery and ruin. The horror of solitude
drives him back to society; and he comes again into
the presence of mankind, astonished to appear before
them, loaded with shame, and distracted with fear, in
order to supplicate some little protection from the
countenance of those very judges, who he knows have
already all unanimously condemned him. Such is the
nature of that sentiment, which is properly called
remorse; of all the sentiments which can enter the
human breast, the most dreadful. It is made up — of
shame, from the .sense of the impropriety of past con-
duct; of grief, for the eifects of it; of pity, for those
who suffer by it, and, o^ the dread and terror of punish-
ment, from the coniciousness of the justly-provoked
resentment of all ratip^rM creatures.
, i Dr. Mam Smith.
'>*■'
Discontentf tht'MmmM Lot of all Mankind,
Such is the emptiness of human enjoyment, that we
are always impatient of the present. Attainment is
followed by neglect, and possession by disgust. Few
moments are more pleasing than those in which the
mind is concerting measures for a new undertaking.
From the first hint that wakens the fancy, to the hour
of actual execution, all is improvement and progress,
triumph and felicity. Every hour brings additions to
the original scheme, suggests some new expedient to
secure success, or discovers consequential advantages
not hitherto foreseen. While preparations are made
and materials accumulated, day glides after day through
Elysian prospects, and the heart dances to the song of
hope.
Such is the pleasure of projecting, that many content
)
4
IN PROSE.
18
^f
themselves with a succession of visionary schemes;
and wear out their allotted time in the calm amuse-
ment of contriving what they never attempt or hope
to execute.
Others — not able to feast their imagination with
pure ideas — advance somewhat nearer to the grossness
of action, with great diligence collect whatever is
requisite to their design, and, after a thousand re-
searches and consultations, are snatched away by death,
as they stand waiting for a proper opportunity to
begin.
If there were no other end of life, than to find some
adequate solace for every day, I know not whether any
condition could be preferred to that of the man who
involves himself in his own thoughts, and never suffers
experience to show him the vanity of speculation : for
no sooner are notions reduced to practice, than tran-
quillity and confidence forsake the breast ; every day
brings its task, and often without bringing abilities to
perform it ; difiicuUies embarrass, uncertainty per-
plexes, opposition retards, censure exasperates, or ne-
glect depresses. We proceed, because we have begun ;
we complete our design, that the labour already spent
may not be vain: but as expectation gradually dies
away, the gay smile of alacrity disappears, we are
necessitated to implore severer powers, and trust the
event to patience and constancy.
When once our labour has begun, the comfort that
enables us to endure it is the prospect of its end : for,
though in every long work there are some joyous inter-
vals of self-applause, when the attention is recreated
by unexpected facility, and the imagination soothed by
incidental excellencies not comprised in the first plan ;
yet the toil with which performance struggles after
idea, is so irksome and disgusting, and so frequent is
the necessity of resting below that perfection which
we imagined within our reach ; that seldom any man
obtains more from his endeavours, than a painful con-
viction of his defects, and a continual resuscitation of
desires which he feels himself unable to gratify.
So certainly are weariness and vexation the conco-
mitants of our undertakings, that every man, in what-
14
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
ever he is engaged, consoles himself with the hope of
change. He that has made his way by assiduity and
vigilance to public employment, talks among his friends
of nothing but the delight of retirement: he whom
the necessity of solitary application secludes from the
world, listens with a beating heart to its distant noises,
longs to mingle with living beings, and resolves, when
he can regulate his hours by his own choice, to take
his fill of merriment and diversion, or to display his
abilities on the universal theatre, and enjoy the plea-
sures of distinction and applause.
Every desire, however innocent or natural, grows
dangerous, as by long indulgence it becomes ascendant
in the mind. When we have been much accustomed
to consider any thing as capable of giving happiness,
it is not easy to restrain our ardour ; or to forbear some
precipitation in our advances, and irregularity in our
pursuits. He that has long cultivated the tree, watched
the swelling bud and opening blossom, and pleased
himself with computing how much every sun and
shower added to its growth ; scarcely stays till the
fruit has obtained its maturity, but defeats his own
cares by eagerness to reward them. When we have
diligently laboured for any purpose, we are willing to
believe that we have attained it ; and, because we have
already done much, too suddenly conclude that no more
is to be done.
All attraction is increased by the approach of the
attracting body. We never find ourselves so desirous
to finish, as in the latter part of our work ; or so im-
patient of delay, as when we know that delay cannot
be long. Part of this unseasonable importunity of
discontent may be justly imputed to languor and weari-
ness — which must always oppress us more, as our toil
has been longer continued : but the greater part usually
proceeds from frequent contemplation of that ease
which we now consider as near and certain ; and
which, when it has once flattered our hopes, we cannot
r
suffer to be longer withheld.
Joh?ii>on.
IN PROSE.
15
(^
On the iS 'hlime in Writing.
It is, generally speaking, among the most ancient au-
thors, that we are to look for the most striking in-
stances of the sublime. The early ages of the world,
and the rude unimproved state of society, are pecu-
liarly favourable to the strong emotion of sublimity.
The genius of men is then much turned to admiration
and astonishment. Meeting with many objects, to
them new and strange, their imagination is kept glow-
ing, and their passions are often raised to the utmost.
They think and express themselves boldly, and with-
out restraint. In the progress of society, the genius
and manners of men undergo a change more favourable
to accuracy, than to strength or sublimity.
Of all writings, ancient or modern, the Sacred
Scriptures afford us the highest instances of the
sublime. The descriptions of the Deity, in them, are
wonderfully noble, both from the grandeur of the
object, and the manner of representing it. What an
assemblage, for instance, of awful and sublime ideas
is presented to us, in that passage of the XVIIIth
Psalm, where an appearance of the Almighty is des-
cribed : " In my distress I called upon the Lord ; he
heard my voice out of his temple, and my cry came
before him. Then the earth shook and trembled ; the
foundations also of the hills were moved, because he
was wroth. He bowed the heavens and came down,
and darkness was under his feet : and he did ride U()on
a cherub, and did fly ; yea, he did fly upon the wings
of the wind. He made darkness his secret place; his
pavilion round about him were dark waters, and thick
clouds of the sky." We see with what propriety and
success the circum'stances of darkness and terror are
applied for heightening the sublime. So, also, the
prophet Habakkuk, in a similar passage : " He stood,
and measured the earth ; he beheld, and drove asunder
the nations. The everlasting mountains were scatter-
ed ; the perpetual hills did bow. His ways are ever-
lasting. The mountains saw thee, and they trembled;
the overflowing of the water passed by; the deep
uttered his voice, and lifted up his hands on high."
16
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
The noted iristance given by Longinus from Moses —
" God said, let there be light ; and there was light" —
is not liable to the censure, which was passed on some
of his instances, of being foreign to the subject. It
belongs to the true sublime ; and the sublimity of it
arises from the strong conception it gives of an exer-
tion of power, producing its effect with the utmost
speed and facility. A thought of the same kind is
magnificently amplified in the following passage of
Isaiah (chap. xliv. 24, 27, 28): " Thus saith the Lord,
thy Redeemer, and he that formed thee from the womb ;
I am the Lord that maketh all things, that stretcheth
forth the heavens alone, that spreadeth abroad the
earth by myself — that saith to the deep, Be dry, and I
will dry up thy rivers ; that saith of Cyrus, He is my
Shepherd, and shall perform all my pleasure ; even
saying to Jerusalem, Thou shalt be built ; and to the
temple. Thy foundations shall be laid." There is a
passage in the Psalms, which deserves to be mentioned
under this head : " God," says the Psalmist, " stilleth
the noise of the seas, the noise of their waves, and the
tumults of the people. The joining together two such
grand objects, as the raging of the waters, and the
tumults of the people, between which there is such
resemblance as to form a very natural association in
the fancy, and the representing them both as subject,
at one moment, to the command of God, produces a
noble effect.
Homer is a poet, who, in all ages, and by all critics,
has been greatly admired for sublimity ; and he owes
much of his gfandeur to that native and unaffected
simplicity, which characterizes his manner. His des-
cription of hosts engaging ; the animation, the fire, the
rapidity, which he throws into his battles, present, to
every reader of the Iliad, frequent instances of sublime
writing. His introduction of the gods, tends often to
heighten, in a striking degree, the majesty of his war-
like scenes. Hence Longinus bestows such high and
just commendations on that passage, in the XVth
Book of the Iliad, where Neptune, when preparing to
issue forth into the engagement, is described as shaking
the mountains with his steps, and driving his chariot
IN PKOtJE.
17
along the ocean. Minerva arming herself for fighf, in
the Vth Book; and Apollo, in the XVth, leading on
the Trojans, and flashing terror with his a3gis on the
face of the Greeks ; are similar instances of great sub-
limity, added to the description of battles, by the
appearance of those celestial beings. In the XXth
Book, where all the gods take part in the engagement,
according as they severally favour either the Grecians or
the Trojans, the poet's genius is signally displayed, and
the description rises into the most awful magnificence.
All nature is represented as in commotion ; Jupiter
thunders in the heavens; Neptune strikes the earth
with his trident ; the ships, the city, and the mountains
shake ; the earth trembles to its centre ; Pluto starts
from his throne in dread, lest the secrets of the infernal
regions should be laid open to the view of mortals.
The works of Ossian abound with examples of the
sublime. The subjects of which that author treats,
and the manner in which he writes, are particularly
favourable to it. He possesses all the plain and vene-
rable manner of the ancient times. He deals in no
superfluous or gaudy ornaments ; but throws forth his
images with a rapid conciseness, which enables them
to strike the mind with the greatest force. Among
poets of more polished times, we are to look for the
graces of correct writing : for just proportion of parts,
and skilfully-connected narration. In the midst of
smiling scenery and pleasurable themes, the gay and
beautiful will appear, undoubtedly, to more advantage;
but amidst the rude scenes of nature and of society, such
as Ossian describes — amidst rocks, and torrents, and
whirlwinds, and battles — dwells the sublime ; and na-
turally associates itself with the grave and solemn
spirit which distinguishes the author of Fingal. " As
autumn's dark storms pour from two echoing hills,
60 towards each ether approached the heroes. As
two dark streams from high rocks meet, and mix, and
roar on the plain ; loud, rough, and dark — in battle,
met Lochlin and Innis-fail. Chief mixed his strokes
with chief, and man with man. Steel clanging founded
on steel. Helmets are cleft on high; blood bursts, and
smokes around. As the troubled noise of the ocean.
18
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
when roll the waves on high; as the last peal of the thun-
der of heaven; sunh is the noise of battle. As roll a thou-
sand waves to the rock, so Svvaran's host came on ; as
meets a rock a thousand waves, so Innis-fail met Swaran.
Death raises all his voices around, and mix«s with the
sound of shields. The field echoes from wing towing,
as a hundred hammers that fall by turns on the red sun
of the furnace. As a hundred winds on Morven, as
the streams of a hundred hills, as clouds fly successive
over the heavens, or as the dark ocean assaults the
shore of the desert — so roaring, so vast, so terrible, the
armies mixed on Lena's echoing heath. The groan of
the people spread over the hills. It was like the thun-
der of night, when the clouds burst on Cona, and a
thousand ghosts shriek at once on the hollow wind."
Never were images of more awful sublimity employed
to heighten the terror of battle. Blair.
Reflections in Westminster Jihhey.
When I am in a serious humour, I very often walk
by myself in Westminster Abbey; where the gloominess
of the place, and the use to which it is applied, with
the solemnity of the building, and the condition of the
people who lie in it, are apt to fill the mind with a kind
of melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness, that is not
disagreeable. I yesterday passed the whole afternoon
in the church-yard, the cloisters, and the church;
amusing myself with the tomb-stones and inscriptions
that I met with in those several regions of the dead.
Most of them recorded nothing else of the buried per-
son, but that he was born upon one day, and died
upon another — the whole history of his life being com-
prehended in those two circumstances, that are common
to all mankind. I could not but look upon these regis-
ters of existence — whether brass or marble — as a kind
of satire upon the depart '1 persons; who had left no
other memorial of them, but that they were born, and
that they died.
Upon my going into the church, I entertained myself
with the digging of a grave; and saw in Qs^ry shovel-
full of it that was thrown up, the fragments of a bone
or skull — intermixed with a kind of a fresh mouldering
,i
1
IN PROSE.
19
i
earth, that some time or other had a place in the com-
position of a human body. Upon this, I began to con-
sider with myself what innumerable multitudes of
people lay confused together, under the pavement of
that ancient cathedral; — how men and women, friends
and enemies, priests and soldiers, monks and preben-
daries, were crumbled amongst one another, and blended
together in the same common mass ; — how beauty,
strength, and youth ; with old age, weakness, and
deformity, lay undistinguished in the same promiscuous
heap of matter !
I know that entertainments of this nature are apt to
raise dark and dismal thoughts in timorous minds, and
gloomy imaginations: but, for my own part, though I
am always serious, I do not know what it is to be
melancholy; and can therefore take a view of Nature
in her deep and solemn scenes, with the same pleasure
as in her most gay and delightful ones. By this means
I can improve myself with objects which others con-
sider with terror. When I look upon the tombs of the
great, every emotion of envy dies in me; when I read
the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire
goes out: When I meet with the grief of parents upon
a tomb-stone, my heart melts with compassion; when
I see the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider
the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly
follow : When I see kings lying by those who deposed
them, when I consider rival wits placed side by side,
or the holy men that divided the world with their con-
test and disputes — I reflect, with sorrow and astonish-
ment, o" the little competitions, factions, and debates
of mankind : When I read the several dates of the
tombs — of some that died yesterday, and some six
hundred years ago —I consider that great day when we
shall all of us be contemporaries, and make our appear-
ance together! Addison.
Virtue, Man's Highest Interest.
I FIND myself existing upon a little spot, surrounded
every way by an immense unknown expansion. —
Where am I? What sort of a place do I inhabit? Is
20
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
it exactly accommodated, in every instance, to my con-
venience? Is tliere no excess of cold, none of heat, to
offend me? Am I never annoyed by animals, eiUier
of my own kind, or a different? Is every thing sub-
servient to me, as though I had ordered all myself? —
No — nothing like it — the farthest from it possible.
The world appears not, then, originally made for the
private convenience of me alone? — It does not. But
is it not possible so to accommodate it, by my own par-
ticular industry? — If to accommodate man and beast,
heaven and earth — if this be beyond me — it is not
possible. What consequence then follows? or can
there be any other than this? — If I seek an interest of
my own, detached from that of others, I seek an inter-
est which is chimerical, and can never have existence.
How, then, must I determine? Have I no interest
at all? If I have not, I am a fool for staying here :
'tis a smoky house, and the sooner out of it the better.
But why no interest? Can I be contented with none,
but one separate and detached? Is a social interest,
joined with others, such an absurdity as not to be
admitted? The bee, the beaver, and the tribes of herd-
ing animals, are enough to convince me that the thing
is somewhere at least possible; how, then, am I assured
that it is not equally true of man? Admit it; and
what follows? If so, then honour and justice are my
interest; then the whole train of moral virtues are my
interest : without some portion of which, not even
thieves can maintain society. But farther still — I stop
not here — I pursue this social interest as far as I can
trace my several relations. I pass from my own stock,
my own neighbourhood, my own nation, to tlie whole
race of mankind, as dispersed throughout the earth —
Am I not related to them all, by the mutual aids of
commerce, by the general intercourse of arts and let-
ters, by that common nature of which we all partici-
pate?
Again — I must have food and clothing. Without a
proper genial warmth, I instantly perish. Am I not
related, in this view, to the very earth itself? to the
distant sun, from whose beams I derive vigour? to
that stupendous course and order of the infinite host of
'
f
IN PllOSE.
21
heaven, by which the times and seasons ever uniformly
pass on? Were this order once confounded, I could not
probably survive a moment; so absolutely do I depend
on this a)mmon general welfare. What, then, have I
to do, but to enlarge virtue into piety? Not only
honour and justice, and what I owe to man, is my
interest; but gratitude also, acquiescence, resignation,
adoration, and all I owe to this great polity, and its
greater Governor — our common Parent. Harris.
The Monk.
A POOR Monk of the order of St. Francis, came into
the room to beg something for his convent. The mo-
ment I cast my eyes upon him, I was determined not
to give him a single sous; and accordingly I put my
purse into my pocket — buttoned it up — set myself a
little more upon my centre, and advanced up gravely
to him. There was something, I fear, forbidding in
my look : I have his figure this moment before my
eyes, and think there was that in it which deserved
better.
The monk, as I judged from the break in his ton-
sure — a few scattered white hairs upon his temples
being all that remained of it — might be about seventy;
but from his eyes, and that sort of fire which was in
them — which seemed more tempered by courtesy than
years — could be no more than sixty. Truth might
lie between — He was certainly sixty-five: and the
general air of his countenance — notwithstanding some-
thing seemed to have been planting wrinkles in it
befoi e their time — agreed to the account.
It was one of those i>eads which Guido has often
painted — mild, pale — penetrating; free from all com-
mon-place ideas of fat-contented ignorance looking
downwards upon the earth — It looked forwards; but
looked — as if it looked at something beyond this world.
How one of his order came by it, Heaven above, who
let it fall upon a monk's shoulders, best knows: but it
would have suited a Bramin; and had I met it upon the
plains of Indostan, I had reverenced it.
The rest of his outline may be given in a few
23
PKOMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
strokes ; one might put it into the hands of any one to
design; for it was neither elegant nor otherwise, but
as character and expression made it so. It was a thin,
spare form, something above the common si A —if it
lost not the distinction by a bend forwards in the figure
— but it was the attitude of entreaty; and, as it now
stands present in my imagination, it gained more than
it lost by it.
When he had entered ths room three paces, he stood
still; and laying his left hand upon his breast — a slen-
der white staff with which he journeyed being in his
right — when I had got close up to him, he introduced
himself with the little story of the wants of his con-
vent, and the poverty of his order — and did it with so
simple a grace — and such an air of deprecation was
there in the whole cast of his look and figure — I was
bewitched not to have been struck with it
— A better reason was, I had predetermined not to
give him a single sous.
'Tis very true, said I — replying to a cast upwards
with his eyes, with which he had concluded his address
— *tis very true ; and heaven be their resource who
have no other than the charity of the world ; the stock
of which, I fear, is no way sufficient for the many
great claims which are hourly made upon it.
As I pronounced the words " great claims^*'' he gave
a slight glance with his eyes downward upon the sleeve
of his tunic — I felt the full force of the appeal. I
acknowledge it, said I ; a coarse habit, and that but
once in three years, with meagre diet — are no great
matters : but the true point of pity is, as they can be
earned in the world with so little industry, that your
order should wish to procure them by pressing upon a
fund which is the property of the lame, the blind, the
aged, and the infirm. The captive who lies down
counting over and over again the days of his affliction,
languishes also for his share of it ; and had you been
of the order of mercy, instead of the order of St.
Francis, poor as I am — continued I, pointing at my
portmanteau — full cheerfully should it have been open-
ed to you for the ransom of the unfortunate. The monk
made me a bow — but, resumed 1, the unfortunate of our
IN I'llOSE.
23
1
t
own country surely have the first right; and I have left
thousands in distress upon the English shore. The
monk gave a cordial wave with his hand — as much as
to sayi " No doubt there is misery enough in every
corner of the world, as well as within our convent."
But we distinguish, said I — laying my hand upon
the sleeve of his tunic, in return for his appeal — we dis-
tinguish, my good father, betwixt those who wish only
to eat the bread of their own labour ; and those who
eat the bread of other people's, and have no other plan
in life, but to get through it in sloth and ignorance,ybr
the love of God —
The poor Franciscan made no reply. A hectic of
a moment passed across his cheek, but could not tarry.
Nature seemed to have done with her resentments in
him: he showed none — but letting his staff fall within
his arms he pressed both his hands with resignation
upon his breast — and retired.
My heart smote me the moment he shut the door —
"Pshaw!" said I, with an air of carelessness, three
several times. — But it would not do! Everjr ungra-
cious syllable I had uttered crowded back into my ima-
gination. I reflected I had no right over the poor
Franciscan, but to deny him; and that the punishment
of that was enough to the disappointed, without the
addition of unkind language — I considered his gray
hairs — his courteous figure seemed to re-enter; and
gently ask me what injury he had done me, and why
I could use him thus? — I would have given twenty
livres for an advocate-^" I have behaved very ill,"
said I within myself; "but I have only just set out on
my travels, and shall learn better manners as I get
along." . Sterne.
On Military Glory.
" You will grant me, however," interposed Tiberius,
" that there are refined and sensible delights, in their
nature proper for the gratification of a monarch, which
are always sure to give rational enjoyment, without
the danger of disgusting by repetition?" — "As for
instance?" says Belisarius. — " The love of glory, for
24
PROMISCUOUS SELKCTIONS
instance," replied the young man. — "But what sort of
glory?" — " Why, of all the various classes of glory,
renown in arms must hold the foremost place." — Very
well; that is your position: and do you think the plea-
sure that springs from conquest has a sincere and last-
ing charm in it? Alas! when millions are stretched in
mangled heaps upon the field of battle, can the mind
in that situation taste of joy? I can make no allow-
ance for those who have met danger in all its shapes:
They may be permitted to congratulate themselves,
that they have escaped with their lives; but, in the
case of a king born with sensibility of heart, the day
that spills a deluge of human blood, and bids the tears
of natural affection flow in rivers round the land; that
cannot be a day of true enjoyment. I have more than
once traversed over a field of battle; I would have
been glad to have seen a Nero in my place: the tears
of humanity must have burst from him. I know there
are princes who take the pleasure of a campaign, as
they do that of hunting; and who send forth their
people to the fray, as they let slip their dogs: but the
rage of conquest is like the unrelenting temper of
avarice, which torments itself, and is to the last insa-
tiable. A province has been invaded, it has been sub-
dued, it lies contiguous to another not yet attempted.
Desire begins to kindle, invasion happens after inva-
sion, ambition irritates itself to new projects; till at
length comes a reverse of fortune, which exceeds, in
the mortification it brings, all the pride and joy of
former victories. But, to give things every flattering
appearance, let us suppose a train of uninterrupted
success: yet, even in that case, the conqueror pushes
forward, like another Alexander, to the limits of the
world, and then, like him, re-measures back his course;
fatigued with triumphs, a burden to himself and man-
kind, at a loss what to do with the immense tracts
which he has depopulated, and melancholy with the
reflection, that an acre of his conquests would suflice
to maintain him, and a little pit-hole to hide his re-
mains from the world. In my youth I saw the sepul-
chre of Cyrus; a stone bore this inscription : */ am
CyruSy he who subdued the Persian empire. Friend^
IN PROSE.
2S
whoever thou arty or wherever thy native country^ envy
me not the scanty space that covers my clay-cold ashes.*
" Alas I" said I, turning asitie from the mournful epi-
taph, " is it worth while to be a conqueror 1"
Tiberius interrupted him with astonishment: " Can
these be the sentiments of Belisarius!" — " Yes, young
man, thus thinks Belisarius: he is able to decide upon
the subject. Of all the plagues which the pride of
man has engendered, the rage of conquest is the most
destruetive." MarmonteL
Liberty and Slavery,
Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery! still thou
art a bitter draught; and though thousands in all ages,
have been made to drink of thee, thou art no les9
bitter on that account. It is thou. Liberty! thrice
sweet and gracious goddess! whom all, in public or in
private, worship; whose taste is grateful, and ever will
be so, till Nature herself shall change. No tint of
words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chemic power
turn thy sceptre into iron. With thee to smile upon
him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his
monarch; from whose court thou art exiled. Gracious
Heaven! grant me but health, thou great bestower of
it ! and give me but this fair goddess as my companion 1
and shower do\i^n thy mitres, if it seem good unto thy
divine Providence, upon those heads which are aching
for them!
Pursuing these ideas, I sat down close by my table;
and, leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure
to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a
right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my ima-
gination.
I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow-
creatures, born to no inheritance but slavery; but find-
ing, however afiecting the picture was, that I coul<|,
not bring it near me, and that the multitude of sa4
groups in it did but distract me — I took a single cap-
tive; and having first shut him up in his dungeon, I
then looked through the twilight of his grated door to
take his picture.
u
r
26
PROMISCUOUS SEf.ECTIONg
I beheld his body half wasted away with long expec-'
tation and confinement; and felt what kind of sickness
of the heart it is which arises from hope deferred.
Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish. Iw
tliirty years, the western breeze had not once fanned
his blood — he had seen no sun, no moon in all that
time — nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed
through his lattice. His children — but here my heart
began to bleed — and I was forced to go on with another
part of the portrait.
He was sitting upon the ground, upon a little straw
in the farthest corner of his dungeon, whieh was alter-
nately his chair and bed. A little kalendar of small
sticks was laid at the head, notched all over with the
dismal days and nights he had passed there. He had
one of these little sticks in his hand; and, with a rusty
nail, he was etching another day of misery, to add to'
the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he
lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door — then cast it
down— shook his head — and went on with his work of
affliction. I hetfrd his chains npon his legs* as he
turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle.
— He gave a deep sigh — I saw the iron enter into his
soul. — I burst into tears. — I could not sustain the pic-
ture of confinement which my fancy had drawn.
Sterne.
Reyno and »dlpin.
Ret/no. The wind and rain are over; calm is the
noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven; over
the green hills flies the inconstant sun; red, through
the stony vale, comes down the stream of the hill.- —
Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream ! but more sweet is
the voice I hear. — It is the voice of Alpin, the son of
song, mourning for the dead. — Bent is his head of age,
and red his tearful eye. — Alpin, thou son of song,
why alone on the silent hill? Why complainest thou as
a blast in the wood — as a wave on the lonely shore?
Alpin. My tears, O Reyno I are for the dead — my
voice for the inhabitants of the grave. Tall thou art
on the hill; fair among the sons of the plain — But
IN PROSE.
27
thou shalt fall like Morar; and the mourner shall sit
on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more, thy
bow shall lie in the hall unstrung.
Thou wert swift, O Morar I as a roe on the hill —
terrible as a meteor of fire.-^ Thy wrath was as the
storm — thy sword, in battle, as lightning in the field.
Thy voice was like a stream after rain — like
thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm —
they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But
when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was
thy brow! Thy face was like the sun after rain —
like the moon in the silence of night — calm as the
breast of the lake, when the loud wind is hushed into
repose. Narrow is thy dwelling now — dark the
place of thine abode. With three steps I compass thy
grave, O thou who wast so great before S Four stones,
with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of
thee. A tree, with scarce a leaf — long grass whistling
in the wind — mark, to the hunter's eye, the grave of
the mighty Morar! — Morar I thou art low indeed: thou
hast no mother to mourn thee; no maid with her tears
of love: dead is she that brought thee forth; fallen is
the daughter of Morglan. — Who, on his staff, is this?
who this, whose head is white with age, whose eyes
are galled with tears, who quakes at every step?
It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son, but
thee. 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 he hear 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
gloomy wood be lightened with the splendour of thy
steel. — —Thou hast left no son — but the song shall
preserve thy name. Ossian.
Story of the Siege of Calais.
Edwabd III. after the battle of Cressy, laid siege to
Calais. He had fortified hie camp in so impregnable a
manner, that all the efforts of France proved ineffectual
mm
I H
88
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
to raise the siege, or throw succours into the city.
The citizens, under Count Vienne, their gallant gover-
nor, made an admirable defence. France had. now put
the sickle into her second harvest, since Edward, wiih
his victorious army, sat down before the town. The
eyes of all Europe were intent on the issue. At length,
famine did more for Edward than arms. After suffer-
ing unheard-of calamities, they resolved to attempt
the enemy's camp. They boldly sallied forth; the
English joined battle; and, after a long and desperate
engagement. Count Vienne was taken prisoner, and
the citizens who survived the slaughter retired within
their gates. The command devolving upon Eustace
St. Pierre, a man of mean birth, but of exalted virtue,
he offered to capitulate with Edward, provided he per-
mitted them to depart with life and liberty. Edward,
to avoid the inoputation of cruelty, consented to spare
the bulk of the plebeians, provided they delivered up
to him six of their principal citizens with halters about
their necks, as victims of due atonement for that spirit
of rebellion with which they had inflamed the vulgar.
When his messenger, Sir Walter Mauny, delivered the
terms, consternation and pale dismay were impressed
on every countenance. To a long and dead silence,
deep sighs and groans succeeded, till Eustace St. Pierre,
getting up to a little eminence, thus addressed the
assembly: — " My friends, we are brought to great
straits this day. We must either yield to the terms of
our cruel and ensnaring conqueror, or give up our
tender infants, our wives, and daughters, to the bloody
and brutal lusts of the violating soldiers. Is there
any expedient left, whereby we may avoid the guilt
and infamy of delivering up those who have suffered
every misery with you, on the one hand, or the deso-
lation and horror of a sacked city, on the other? There
is one expedient left! — a gracious, an excellent, a god-
like expedient left! Is there any here to whom virtue
is dearer than life? Let him offer himself an oblation
for the safety of his people! He shall not fail of a
blessed approbation from that Power who offered up his
only Son for the salvation of mankind." — He spoke ;--tp
but a universal silence ensued. Each man looked
IN PROSE.
29
around for the example of that virtue and magnanimity
which all wished to approve in themselves, though
they wanted the resolution. At length St. Pierre
resumed: "I doubt not but there are many here as
ready, nay, more zealous of this martyrdom than I can
be; though the station to which I am raised by the
captivity of Lord Vienne, imparts a right to be the
first in giving my life for your sakes. I give it freely?
I give it cheerfully. Who comes next?" — " Your son,"
exclaimed a youth not yet come to maturity. — "Ah! my
child!" cried St. Pierre; "I am then twice sacrificed. —
But no; I have rather begotten thee a second time. Thy
years are few, but full, my son. The victim of virtue
has reached the utmost purpose and goal of mortality I
Who next, my friends? This is the hour of heroes."
— " Your kinsman," cried John de Aire. — " Your
kinsman," cried James Wissant. — "Your kinsman,"
cried Peter Wissant. — "Ah!" exclaimed Sit Walter
Mauny, bursting into tears, " why was not I a citizeii
of Calais?" The sixth victim was still wanting, but
was quickly supplied by lot, from numbers who were
cow emulous of so ennobling an example. The keys
of the city were then delivered to Sir Walter. He
took the six prisonners into his custody; then ordered
the gates to be opened, and gave charge to his attend-
ants to conduct the remaining citizens, with their fami-
lies, through the camp of the English. Before they
departed, however, they desired permission to take the
last adieu of their deliverers. What a parting! what
a scene! they crowded with their wives and children
about St. Pierre and his felloW-prisoners. They em*
braced; they clung around; they fell prostrate before
them: they groaned; they wept aloud; and the joint
clamour of their mourning passed the gates of the city,
and was heard throughout the English camp.
The English, by this time, were apprized of what
passed within Calais. They heard the voice of lamen-
tation, and their souls were touched with compassion.
Each of the soldiers prepared a portion of his own
victuals, to welcome and entertain the half- famished
inhabitants; and they loaded them with as much as
30
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
i
their present weakness was able to bear, in order to
supply them with sustenance by the way. At length,
St. Pierre and his fellow-victims appeared, under the
conduct of Sir Walter and a guard. All the tents of
the English were instantly emptied. The soldiers
poured from all parts, and arranged themselves on each
side, to behold, to contemplate, to admire, this little
band of patriots, as they passed. They bowed to
them on all sides; they murmured their applause of
that virtue which they could not but revere, even in
enemies; and they regarded those ropes, which they
had voluntarily assumed about their necks, as ensigns
of greater dignity than that of the British garter. As
soon as they had reached the presence, " Mauny,**
says the monarch, " are these the principal inhabitants
of Calais?" — " They are," says Mauny: " they are not
only the principal men of Calais, they are the principal
men of France, my Lord, if virtue has any share in
the act of ennobling." — " Were they delivered peacea-
bly?" says Edward: "Was there no resistance, no
commotion among the people?" — "Not in the least, my
Lord: the people would all have perished, rather than
have delivered the least of these to your Majesty.
They are self-delivered, . self-devoted; and come to
offer up their inestimable heads as an ample equivalent
for the ransom of thousands." I-Cdward was secretly
piqued at this reply of Sir Walter; but he knew the
privilege of a British subject, and suppressed his re-
sentment. " Experience," says he, " has ever shown,
that lenity only serves to invite people to new crimes.
Severity, at times, is indispensably necessary to compel
subjects to submission by punishment and example. —
Go," he cried to an officer, '*lead these men to execu-
tion."
At this instant, a sound of triumph was heard
throughout the camp. The Queen had just arrived
with a powerful reinforcement of gallant troops. Sir
Walter Mauny flew to risceive Her Majesty, and briefly
informed her of the particulars respecting the six vic-
tims.
As soon as she had been welcomed by Edward and
his court, she desired a private audience — " My Lord,*
IN PKOStt.
^1
»»
said she, "the question I am to enter upon, is not
•touching the lives of a few mechanics — it respects the
honour of the English nation; it respects the glory of
my Edward, my husband, my king. You think you
have sentenced six of your enemies to death. No, my
Lord, they have sentenced themselves^ ami their exe-
cution would be the CKecution of their own orders,
-not ilie orders of Edward. The stage on which they
would suffer, would be to thera a stage of lionour; but
a stage of shame to Edward — a reproach to his coii-
■quests — an indelible disgrace to his name. Let us
rather disappoint these haughty burghers, who wish to
invest themselves with glory at our expense. We
cannot wholly deprive them of the merit of a sacrifice
60 nobly intended; but we may cut them short of their
desires. In the place of that death by which their
^lory would be consummated, let us bury them under
gifts; let us put them to confusion with applauses.
We shall thereby defeat them of that popular opinion
which never fails to attend those who suffer in the
cause of virtue." — "I am conviaced: you have pre-
vailed. Be it so," replied Edward: "prevent the exe-
cution: have them instantly before us." They came:
when the Queen, with an aspect and accents diffusing
sweetness, thus bespoke them: — "Natives of France
and inhabitants of Calais, ye have put us to a vast
-expense of blood and treasure, in the recovery of our
just and natural inheritance; but you have acted up
to the best of an erroneous judgment, and we admire
and honour in you that valour and virtue, by which we
-are so long kept out of our rightful possessions. You
noble burghersi you excellent citizens! though you
were tenfold ;< he enemies of our person and our throne,
we can feel nothing, on our part, save respect and
affection for you. You have been sufficiently tested.
We loose your chains; we snatch you from the scaffold;
.and we thank you for that lesson of humiliation which
you teach us, when you show us, that excellence is
not of blood, of title, or station; that virtue gives a
4iignity superior to that of kings; and that those whom
•the Almighty informs with sentiments like yours, are
justly and eminently raised above all human distinc-
32
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
tions. You are now free to depart to your kinsfolk,
your countrymen — to all those whose lives and liber-
ties you have so nobly redeemed — provided you refuse
not the tokens of our esteem. Yet we would rather
bind you to ourselves by every endearing obligation;
and, for this purpose, we offer to you your choice of
the gifts and honours that Edward has to bestow.
Rivals for fame, but always friends to virtue, we wish
that England were entitled to call you her sons." —
" Ah, my country!" exclaimed Pierre; " it is now that
I tremble for you. Edward only wins our cities; but
Philippa conquers our hearts." Fool of Quality,
On Living to One* s- Self,
"What I mean by living to one's-self, is living in the
world, as in it, not of it: it is as if no one knew there
was such a person, and you wished no one to know it:
it is to be a silent spectator of the mighty scene of
things, not an object of attention of curiosity in it; to
take a thoughtful, anxious interest in what is passing
in the wotld, but not to feel the slightest inclination to
make or meddle with it. It is such a life as a pure
spirit might be supposed to lead, and such an interest
as it might take in the affairs of men — calm, contem-
plative, passive, distant, touched with pity for their sor-
rows, smiling at their follies without bitterness, sharing
their affections, but not troubled by their passions, not
seeking their notice, nor once dreamed of by them. He
who lives wisely to himself and to his own heart, looks
at the busy world through the loop-holes of retreat, and
does not want to mingle in the fray. " He hears the
tumult, and ij still." He is not able to mend it, nor wil-
ling to mar it. He sees enough in the universe to interest
him, without putting himself forward to try what he
can do to fix the eyes of the universe upon him. Vain
the attempt! He reads the clouds, he looks at the stars,
he watches the return of the seasons — the falling leaves
of autumn, the perfumed breath of spring — starts with
delight at the note of a thrush in a copse near him,
sits by the fire, listens to the moaning of the wind,
pored upon a book, or discourses the freezing hours
IN PaOSE.
38
sawAy, or melts down hours to minutes in pleasing
.thought. All this while, he is taken up with other
things, forgetting himself- He relishes an author^s
style, without thinking of tur.iing author. He is fond
of looking at a print from an '•' " picture in the room,
without teasing himself to copy it. He does not fret
himself to death with trying to be what he is not, or
to do what he cannot He hardly knows what he is
capable of, and is not in the least ccxicerned, whether
he shall ever make a ^g^re in the world. He feels
the truth of the lines —
" The man whose eye is ever on himself^
Doth look on one, the least of nature's works:
One who might move the wise man to that scora
Which wisdom holds unlawful ever."
He looks out of himself at the wide extended prospect
of nature, and takes an interest beyond his narrow
pretensions in general humanity. He is free as air,
and independent as the wind. Wo be to him when he
iirst begins to think what others say of him. While
a man is connected with himself and his own resources,
all is well. When he undertakes to play a part on the
€tage, and to persuade the world to think more about
him than they do about themselves; he is got into a
a track where he will find nothing but briars and thorns,
vexation and disappointment. Hazlitt.
On the Psalms.
Besides the figure, supplied by the history of Israel,
and by the law; there is another set of images often
employed in the Psalms, to describe the blessings of
redemption. These are borrowed from the natural
world, the manner of its original production, and the
operations continually carried on in it. The visible
works of God are formed to lead us, under the direc-
tion of his word, to a knowledge of those which are
invisible; they give us ideas, by analogy, of a new
creation rising gradually, like the old one, out of dark-
ness and deformity, until at length it arrives at the
perfection of glory and beauty: so that r/hile we praise
the Lord for all the wonders of his power, wisdom,
«2
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
find love, displayed in a system which is to wax old
and perish; we may therein contemplate, as in a glass,
those new heavens, and that new earth, of whose dura-
tion there shall be no end.* The sun, that fountain
of life, and heart of the world, that bright leader of
the armies of heaven, enthroned in glorious mtijesty;
the moon shining with a lustre borrowed from his
beams; the stars glittering by night in the clear firma-
tnent; the air giving breath to all things that live and
move; the intv^rchanges of hght and darkness; the
course of the year, and the sweet vicissitude of sea-
sons; the rain and the dew descending from above, and
the fruitfulness of the earth caused by them; the bow
bent by the hands of the ]\Iost High, which compas-
seth the heavens about with a glorious circle; the
awful voice of thunder, and the piercing power of
lightning; the instincts of animals, and the qualities of
vegetables and minerals; the great and wide sea, **ith
its unnumbered inhabitants — all these are ready to
instruct us in the mysteries of faith, and the duties of
morality.
" They speak their maker as they can.
But want and ask the tongue of man."
The advantages of Messiah's reign are represented
in some of the Psalms, under images of this kind. We
behold a renovation of all things; and the world, as it
were, new created, breaks forth into singing. The
earth is clothed with sudden verdure and fertility: the
field is joyful, and all that is in it ; the trees of the
wood rejoice before the Lord; the floods clap their
hands in concert, and ocean fills up the mighty chorus,
to celebrate the advent of the great king. Home,
On the Pleasure of Painting.
To give one instance more, and then I will have
done with this rambling discourse. One of my first
attempts was a picture of my father, who was then in
a green old age, with strong-marked features, and
* Bead nature; nature is a friend to truth;
Nature is Christian, preaches to mankind ;
And bids dead matter aid us in our creed.
!
IN PROtl.
32
t
\
scarred with the small-pox. I drew it with a broad
light crossing the face, looking down, with spectacles
on, reading. The book was Shaftesbury's Character*
istics, in a fine old binding, with Gribelin's etchings.
My father would as lieve it had been any other book ;
but for him to read was to be content — was " riches
fineless." The sketch promised well ; and I set to
work to finish it, determined to spare no time nor
pains. My father was willing to sit as long as I
pleased ; for there is a natural desire in the mind of
man to sit for one's picture, to be the object of con-
tinued attention, to have one's likeness multiplied: and,
besides his satisfaction in the picture, he had some
pride in the artist — though he would rather I should
have written a sermon, than painted like Rembrandt
or like Raphael. Those winter days, with the gleams
of sunshine coming through the cha()€l windows, and
cheered by the notes of the robin-redbreast in our
garden — that " ever in the haunch of winter sings" —
as my afternoon's work drew to a close, were among
the happiest of my life. When I gave the effect I in-
tended to any part of the picture for which 1 had pre-
pared my colours, wlien I imitated the roughness of
the skin by a lucky stroke of the pencil, when I hit
the clear pearly tone of a vein, when I gave the ruddy
complexion of health — the blood circulating under the
Jbroad shadows of one side of the face — I thought my
fortune made ; or rather, it was already more than
made, in my fancying that I might one day be able
to say with Corregio, *' I also am a painter !" It was
an idle thought, a boy's conceit; but it did not make
me less happy at the time. I used regularly to set my
work in the chair, to look at it through the long
evenings ; and many a time did I return to take leave
of it, before I could go to bed at night. I remember
sending it with a throbbing heart to the exhibition, and
seeing it hung up there by the side of one of the Ho-
nourable Mr. SkefRngton (now Sir George.) There
was nothing in common between them, but that they
were the portraits of two very good-natured men. I
think,. but am not sure, that I finished this portrait (or
another afterwards) on the same day that the news of
I
36
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
the battle of Aiisterlitz came. I walked out in the
afternoon, and, as I returned, saw the evening-star set
over a poor man's cottage, with other thoughts and
feelings than I shall ever have again. Oh, for the re-
volution of the great Platonic year, that those times
might come over again ! I could sleep out the three
hundred and sixty-five thousand intervening years
very contentedly! — The picture is left; the table, the
chair, the window where I learned to construe Livy,
the chapel where my father preached, remain where
they were; but he himself is gone to rest, full of years,
of faith, of hope, and charity ! Hazlitt.
Damon and Pythias.
When Damon was sentenced by Dionysius of Syra-
cuse to die on a certain day, he begged permission, in
the interim, to retire to his own country, to set the af-
fairs of his disconsolate family in order. This the
king intended peremptorily to refuse, by granting it,
as he conceived, on the impossible condition of his pro-
curing some one to remain as hostage for his return,
under equal forfeiture of life. Pythias heard the con-
ditions, and did not wait for an application on the part
of Damon. He instantly oflPered himself as security
for his friend ; which being accepted, Damon was im-
mediately set at liberty. The king and all the cour-
tiers were astonished at this action ; and, therefore,
when the day of execution drew near, his majesty had
the curiosity to visit Pythias, in his confinement.
After some conversation on the subject of friendship,
in which the king delivered it as his opinion, that self-
interest was the sole mover of human actions ; as for
virtue, friendship, benevolence, love of one's country,
and the like, he looked upon them as terms invented
by the wise, to keep in awe and impose upon the
weak. " My lord," said Pythias, with a firm voice
and noble aspect, " I would it were possible that I
might suffer a thousand deaths, rather than my friend
should fail in any article of his honour. He cannot
fail therein, my lord. I am as confident of his virtue,
as I am of my own existence. But I pray, I beseech
1
IN PROSE.
37
the gods, to preserve the life and integrity of my Da-
mon together. Oppose him, ye winds ! prevent the
eagerness and impatience of his honourable endeavours,
and suffer him not to arrive, till, by my death, I shall
have redeemed a life a thousand times of more conse-
quence, of more value, than my own ; more estimable
to his lovely wife, to his precious little innocents, to
his friends, to his country. O leave me not to die the
worst of deaths in my Damon !'* Dionysius was awed
and confounded by the dignity of these sentiments, and
by the. manner in which they were uttered: he felt his
heart struck by a slight sense of invading truth ; but
it served rather to perplex than undeceive him.
The fatal day arrived. Pythias was brought forth,
and walked amidst the guards with a serious, but satis-
fied air, to the place of execution. Dionysius was al-
ready there; he was exalted on a moving throne, that
was drawn by six white horses, and sat pensive, and
attentive to the prisoner. Pythias came; he vaulted
lightly on the scafibid, and, beholding for some time
the apparatus of death, he turned with a placid coun-
tenance, and addressed the spectators : " My prayers
are heard," he cried, " the gods are propitious ! You
know, my friends, that the winds have been contrary
till yesterday. Damon could not come ; he could not
conquer impossibilities 'le will be here to-morrow,
and the blood which is shed to day shall have ransomed
the life of my friend O could I erase from your
bosom every doubt, every mean suspicion, of the ho-
nour of the man for whom I am about to suffer, I should
go to my death, even as I would to my bridal. Be it
sufficient, in the mean time, that my friend will be
found noble ; that his truth is unimpeachable ; that he
will speedily prove it ; that he is now on his wav hur-
rying on, accusing himself, the adverse elements, and
the gods : but I hasten to prevent his speed. Execu-
tioner, do your ofiice." As he pronounced the last
words, a buzz began to rise among the remotest of the
people — a distant voice was heard — the crowd caught
the words, and, " Stop, stop the execution," was re-
peated by the whole assembly. A man came at full
speed — the throng gave way to his approach : he was
38
PROMISCUOUS 8SLECTI0NS
mounted on a steed of foam: in an instant, he was off
his horse, on the scaffold, and held Pythias straitly era*
braced. "You are safe," he cried, "you are safe.
My friend, my beloved friend, the gods be praised, you
are safe! I now have nothing but death to suffer, and
am delivered from thei anguish of those reproaches
which I gave myself, for having endangered a life so
much dearer than my own." Pale, cold, and half-
speechless, in the arms of his Damon, Pythias replied,
in broken accents — •* Fatal haste I — Cruel impatience!
What envious powers have wrought impossibilities in
your favour ? — But I will not be wholly disappointed.
— Since I cannot die to save, I will not survive you."
Dionysius heard, beheld, and considered all with as-
tonishment. His heart was touched ; he wept ; and,
leaving his throne, he ascended the scaffold. " Live,
live, ye incomparable pair I" he cried, " ye have borne
unquestionable testimony to the existence of virtue !
and that virtue equally evinces the existence of a God
to reward it. Live happy, live renowned ; and, oh !
form me by your precepts, as ye have invited me by
your example, to be worthy the participation of so sa-
cred a friendship." Fool of Quality.
On the Abuse of Genius^ with reference to (he tVorks
of Lord Byron.
I HAVE endeavoured to show, that the intrinsic value
of genius is a secondary consideration, compared with
the use to which it is applied ; that genius ought to be
estimated chiefly by the character of the subject upon
which it is employed, or of the cause which it advo-
cates — considering it, in fact, as a mere instrument, a
Wi^apon, a sword, which may be used in a good cause,
or in a bad one ; may be wielded by a patriot, or a
highwayman; may give protection to the dearest inte-
rests of society, or may threaten those interests with
the irruption of pride, and profligacy, and folly — of all
the vices which compose the curse and degradation of
oar species. I am the more disposed to dwell a little
upon this subject, because I am persuaded that it is not
sufficiently attended to— ^nay, that in ninoty-nine in-
IN PR08K.
98
I
stances out of a hundred, it is not attended to at all I
That works of imagination are perused, for the sake of
the wit which they display; which wit not only recon-
ciles us to, but endears to us, opinions, and feelings,
and habits, at war with wisdom and morality — to say
nothing of religion. In short, that we admire the
polish, the temper, and shape of the sword, and the
dexterity with which it is wielded ; though it is the
property of a lunatic, or of a bravo; though it is bran-
dished in the face of wisdom and virtue; and, at every
wheel, threatens to inflict a wound, that will disfigure
some feature, or lop some member; or, with masterly
adroitness, aims a death- thrust at the heart ! 1 would
deprive genius of the worship that is paid to it, for its
own sake. Instead of allowing it to dictate to the
\^orld, I would have the world dictate to it — dictate to
it, so far as the vital interests of society are affected.
I know it is the opinion of many, that the moral of
mere poetry is of little avail; that we are charmed by
its melody and wit, and uninjured by its levity and
profaneness; and hence, many a thing has been allowed
in poetry, which would have been scouted, deprecated,
reviled, had it appeared in prose : as if vice and folly
were less pernicioMs, for being introduced to us with an
elegant and insinuaiir>g address ; or, as if the graceful
folds and polished scales of a serpent, were an antidote
against the venom of its sting.
There is not a more prolific source of human error,
than that railing at the world, which obtrudes itself so
frequently upon our attention, in the perusing of Lord
Byron's poems — that sickness of disgust, which begins
its indecent heavings, whensoever the idea of the spe-
cies forces itself upon him. The species is not perfect;
but it retains too much of the image of its Maker, pre-
serves too many evidences of the modelling of the hand
that fashioned it, is too near to the hovering providence
of its disregarded, but still cherishing Author, to ex-
cuse, far less to call for, or justify, desertion, or dis-
claiming, or revilings, upon the part of any one of its
members. I know not a more pitiable object, than the
man, who, standing upon the pigmy eminence of his
own «elf-iraportance, look* round upon the species, with
40
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
an eye that never throws a beam of satisfaction on the
prospect, but visits with a scowl, whatsofever it lights
upon. The world is not that reprobate world, that it
should be cut off from the visitation of charity; that 't
should be represented, as having no alternative, but to
inflict or bear. Life is not .one continued scene of
wrestling with our fellows. Mankind are not for ever
grappling one another by the throat. There is such a
thing as the grasp of friendship, as the outstretched
hand of benevolence, as an interchange of good offices,
as a mingling, a crowding, a straining together, for
the relief, or the benefit of our species. The moral he
thus inculcates, is one of the most baneful tendency.
The principle of self-love — implanted in us for the
best, but capable of being perverted to the worst of
purposes — by a fatal abuse, too 'often disposes us to in-
dulge in this sweeping depreciation of the species,
founded upon some fallacious idea of superior value
in ourselves; with which imaginary excellence we
conceive the world to be at war. A greater source of
error cannot exist. We are at once deprived of the
surest prop of virtue — distrust of our own pretensions,
and compound, as it were, with our fellows, for an in-
terchange of thwartings and jostlings ; or else, with-
drawing from ail intercourse with them, commune with
rocks, and trees, and rivers; fly from the moral region
of sublimity and beauty, to the deaf, voiceless, sight-
less, heartless department of the merely physical one.
Knowles.
Advantages of uniting Gentleness of Manners, with
Firmness of Mind.
I MENT[ONED to you, some time ago, a sentence which
I would most earnestly wish you always to retain in
your thoughts, and observe in your conduct ; it is
suaviter in modOf fortiter in re. I do not know any
one rule so unexceptionably useful and necessary in
every part of life.
The suaviter in modo, alone, would degenerate and
sink into a mean, timid complaisance, and passiveness,
if not supported and dignified by the fortiter in re ;
IN PROSE.
41
icli
in
is
ny
in
nd
ss,
which woukl also run into impetuoisily and brutality, if
not tempered and softened by the suaviter in modo:
Ji)owever, they are seldom united. The warm, choleric
man, with strong animal spirits, despises the suaviter
in modo, and thinks to carry all before him by the
fortiter in re. He may, possibly, by great accident,
now and then succeed, when he has only weak and
timid people to deal with ; but his general fate will be,
to shock, offend, be hated, and fail. On the other
hand, the cunning, crafty man, thinks to gain all his
ends by the suaviter in modo only : he becomes all
things to all men ; he seems to have no opinion of his
own, and servilely adopts the present opinion of the
present person ; he insinuates himself only into the
esteem of fools, but is soon detected, and surely de-
spised by every body else. The wise man — who dif-
fers as much from the cunning, as from the choleric
man — : rejoins i\i% suaviter in modo with \\\q fortiter
in re.
If you are in authority, and have a right to com-
mand, your commands, delivered suaviter in modo,
will be willingly, cheerfully, and — consequently — well
obeyed ; whereas, if given only fortiter, that is, bru-
tally, they will rather, as Tacitus says, be interpreted
than executed. For my own part, if I bade my foot-
man bring me a glass of wine, in a rough, insulting
manner, I should eipect, that, in obeying me, he
would contrive to Spill some of it upon me ; and, I am
sure, I should deserve it. A cool, steady resolution
should show, that, where you have a right to command,
you will be obeyed ; but, at the same time, a gentle-
ness in the manner of enforcing that obedience, should
make it a cheerful one, and soften, as much as possible,
the mortifying consciousness of inferiority. If you
are to ask a favour, or even to solicit your due, you
must do it suaviter in modo, or you will give those,
who have a mind to refuse you either, a pretence to
do it, by resenting the manner ; but, on the other
hand, you must, by a steady perseverance, and decent
tenaciousness, show the fortiter in re. In short, this
precept is the only way I know in tho world, of being
loved, without being despised ; and feared, without
rr
i
42
PItOMISCDOU3 SELECTIONS
bein^ hated. It constitutes that dignity of character
which every wise man must endeavour to establish.
If, therefore, you find, that you have a hastiness in
your temper, which unguscdedly breaks rut into indis-
creet sallieF, or rough expressions, to eiuier your su-
periors, you equals, or your inferiors ; watch it nar-
rowly, check it carefully, and call the suaviter *'?» modo
to your assistance : at the first impulse of passion, be
silent, till you can be soft. Labour even to get the
command of your countenance so well, that those
emotions may not be read in it — a most unspeakable
advantage in business ! On the other hand, let no
complaisance, no gentleness of * »mper, no weak desire
of pleasing, on your part ; no wheedling, coaxing, nor
flattery, on other people's ; make you recede one jot
from any point, that reason and prudence have bid you
pursue : but, return to the charge, persist, persevere ;
&nd you will find most things attainable, that are pos-
sible. A yielding, timid meekness, is always abused
and insulted, by the unjust and tlie unfeeling; but,
meekness, when sustained by the fortiter in re, is al-
ways respected, commonly successful. In your friend-
ships and connections, as well as in your enmities, this
rule is particularly useful — let your firmness and vigour
preserve and invite attachments to you ; but, at the
same time, let your manner prevent the enemies of
your friends and dependants from becoming yours; let
your enemies be disarmed by the gentleness of your
manner; but, let them feel, at the same time, the
steadiness of your just resentment ; for, there is a
great difierence bjetween bearing malice — which is al-
ways ungenerous — and a resolute self-defence — which
is always prudent and justifiable.
I conclude with this observation, That gen..eness of
manners, with firmness of mind, is a short, but full,
description of human p3rfection, on this side of reli-
gious and moral duties. Chesterfield.
The Elder's Death-bed.
" Jamie, thy own father has forgotten thee in thy in-
fancy, and me in my old age ; but, Jamie, forget not
IN PROSE.
43
111-
not
thou thy father, nor thy mother; for that thou knowest
and feelest, is the commandment of God."
The broken-hearted boy could give no reply. He
had gradually stolen closer and closer unto the loving
old man ; and now was lying, worn out with sorrow,
drenched and dissolved in tears, in his grandfather's
bosom. His mother had sunk down on her knees, and
hid her face with her hand. " Oh ! if my husband
knew but of this — he would never, nevtr desert his
dying father I" And I now knew, that the Slder was
praying on his death-bed for a disobedient and wicked
8on.
At this affecting time, the Minister took the Family-
Bible on his knees, and said, " Let us sing to the praise
and glory of God, part of the fifteenth psalm;" and he
read, with a tremulous and broken voice, those beauti-
ful verses,
" Within thy tabernacle, Lord,
Who shall abide with thee?
And in thy high und holy hill,
Who shall a dweller be ? —
•• The man that walketh uprightly.
And worketh righteousness.
And as he thinketh in his heart.
So doth he truth express."
Ere the psalm was yet over, the door was opened,
and a tall, fine looking man entered, but with a lower-
ing and dark countenance, seemingly in sorrow, in
misery, and remorse. Agitated, confounded, and awe-
struck by the melancholy and dirge-like music, he sat
down on a chair and looked with a ghastly face to-
wards his father's bed. When the psalm ceased, the
Elder said, with a solemn voice, ** My son — thou art
come in time to receive thy father's blessing. May
the remembrance of what will happen in this room,
before the morning again shine over the Hazel-glen,
win thee from the error of thy ways ! Thou art here
to witness the mercy of thy God and thy Saviour,
whom thou hast forgotten."
The Minister looked, if not with a stern, yet with
an upbraiding countenance, on the young man, who
had not recovered his speech, and said, " William ! for
44
PROMISCUOUS Selections
three years past your shadow has not darkened the
door of the house of God. They who fear not the
thunder, may tremble at the still small voice — Now is
the hour for repentance — that your father's spirit may
carry up to Heaven tidings of a contrite soul saved
from the company of sinners !"
The young man, with much effort, advanced to the
bed-side, and at last found voice to say, " Father — I
am not without the affections of nature — and I hurried
home the moment I heard that the minister had beeid
seen riding towards our house. I hope that you will
yet recover; and, if I have ever made you unhappy, I
ask your forgiveness — for, though I may not think as
you do on matters of religion, I have a human heart.
Father I I may have beeti unkind, but I am not cruel.
I ask your forgiveness."
" Come near to me, William ; kneel down by the
bed-side, and let my hand feel the head of my beloved
son — for blindness is coming fast upon me. Thou
wert my first-born, and thou art my only living son.
All thy brothers and sisters are lying in the church-yard,
beside her whose sweet face thine own, William, did
once so much resemble. Long wert thou the joy, the
pride of my soul, — ay, too iP'ich the pride ! for there
was not in all the parish such a man, such a son, as my
own William. If thy heart has since been changed,
God may inspire it again with right thoughts. I have
sorely wept for thee— 'ay, William, when there was
none near me — even as David wept for Absalom — for
thee, my son, my son !"
A long deep groan was the only reply; but the whole
body of the kneeling man was convulsed ; and it was
easy to see his sufferings, his contrition, his remorse,
and his despair. The Pastor said, with a sterner
voice, and auslerer countenance than were natural to
him, " Know you whose hand is now lying on your
rebellious head ? But what signifies the word father
to him who has denied God, the Father of us all ?"
" Oh ! press him not too hardly," said his weeping
wife, coming forward from a dark corner of the room,
where she. tried to conceal herself in grief, fear, and
shame. " Spare, oh ! spare my husband— He has
111 I:
IN PROSK.
iA
mole
was
lorse,
Vner
to
rouf
Uher
ill?"
ping
)om,
and
has
ever been kind to me;*' and, with that, she knelt down
beside him, with her long soft white arms mournfully,
and affectionately laid across his neck. *' Go thou,
likewise, ray sweet little Jamie," said the Elder, " go
even out of my bosom, and kneel down beside thy
father and thy mother, so that I may bless you all at
once, and with one yearning prayer." The child did
as the solemn voice commanded, and knelt down some-
what timidly by his father's side ; nor did the unhappy
man decline encircling with his arm, the child too much
neglected, but still dear to him as his own blood, in
spite of the deadening and debasing influence of infi-
delity.
'* Put the word of God into the hands of my son,
and let him read aloud to his dying father, the 25th,
26th, and 27th .verses of the eleventh chapter of the
Gospel according to St. John." The Pastor went up
to the kneelers, and, with a voice of pity, condolence,
and pardon, said, ** There was a time when none,
William, could read the Scriptures better than couldst
thou — can it be that the son of my friend hath forgot-
ten the lessons of his youth ?" He had not forgotten
them — There was no need for the repentant sinner to
lift up his eyes from the bed-side. The sacred stream
of the Gospel had worn a channel in his heart, and the
waters were again flowing. With a choked voice he
said, " Jesqs said unto her, I am the resurrection and
the life : And whosoever liveth, and believeth in me,
£fhall never di^. Believest thou this ? She said unto
him, Yea, Lord : I believe thou art the Christ, the
Son of God, which should come into the world."
*• That is not an unbeliever's voice," said the dying
man, triumphantly ; '^ nor, William, hast thou an un-
believer's heart. Say that thou believest in what thou
hast now read, and thy father \irill die happy ?" " I do
believe; and as thou forgivest me, so may I be forgiven
by my Father who is in heaven." The Elder seemed
like a man suddenly inspired with a new life. Hi»
faded eyes kindled — his pale cheeks glowed — his palsied
hand seemed to wax strong — and his voice was clear
as that of manhood in its prime. " Into thy hands, O
God I I commit my spirit ;" and, so saying, he gently
ill
I!
I r '
1 1
46
I'llOMISCUOUa SELECTIONS
sunk back on his pillow; and I thought I heard a sigh.
— There was then a long deep silence ; and the father,
the mother, and the child, rose from their knees. The
eyes of us all were turned towards the white placid
face of the figure now stretched in everlasting rest ;
and, without lamentations — save the silent lamentations
of the resigned soul — we stood around the Death- hed
OF THE Elder. Wilson.
On Lord Byron's Lines upon the Field of Waterloo.
Here is the very cunning of the poet — one train of
ideas excited to prepare you for receiving, in its full
force, the shock of their opposite. The ball-room
thrown open to you; beauty and chivalry, in all the
splendour that should grace the festive iiour, presented
to you; the voluptuous swell of music awakened for
you ; your senses, your imagination, and your affections,
environed with scenes and images of sweetness, and
grace, and loveliness, and joy — to strike you aghast
with alarm, to bring trepidation and terror before you,
in their most appalling shapes and attitudes. The
whole scene, as by the waving of an enchanter's wand,
changed in a moment! For smiles, tears; for blushes,
paleness; for meetings, partings; for the assembly, the
muster; for the dance, the march; for the music, the
cannon; for the ball-room, the battle-field! This is
one of the most favourite feats of poetry, and occurs
frequently in the works of all great masters. It is a
means by which they provoke that agitation and hurry
of spirits, which enable them to take possession of their
readers; and which consists in bringing contraries into
sudden collision. The luxuriant valley opens upon the
sterile heath; the level plain borders upon the rugged
mountain; you walk in imagined security, and find
yourself upon the brink of an abyss; you fall asleep
with the languor of the calm, and awaken with the
fury of the tempest! Campbell soothes the apprehen'
sions of Gertrude — places Albert and his interesting
family in their lighted bower, prolonging the joy of
converse — when Outalissi rushes in to tell them, that
" The mammoth comes! the foe! the monster Brandt,
With all his howHnjT— desolating band!"
1 I '
IN PKOS£.
47
Thomson avails himself of the serenity of a placid
summer's day, and the security and calm of requited,
happy, communing love — to introduce the tempest,
whose lightning strikes Amelia to the earth, a black-
ened corse! Milton works up his infernal hero to the
highest pitch of demoniac exultation, to prepare his
ear for the dismal, universal hiss, that aptly gratulates
his triumph— extends, expands him into the full
dimensions of monarchal pride, to throw him down, a
reptile, upon the iloor of Pandemonium ! Shakspeare
prepares a feast for the reception of the ghost of Ban-
quo — brings the exultation and the agony of trium-
phant guilt, into immediate contact— exhibits to us, at
the same moment, and in the same person, the tower-
ing king, and the grovelling murderer! — or, in the
tragedy of Hamlet, makes the grave-digger's carol, the
prelude to the dirge of Ophelia! Knowles.
The perfect Orator.
Imagine to yourselves a Demosthenes, addressing the
most illustrious assembly in the world, upon a point
whereon the fate of the most illustrious of nations
depended — How awful such a meeting! how vast the
subject! — Is man possessed of talents adequate to the
great occasion? — Adequate! Yes, superior. By the
power of his eloquence, the augustness of the assembly
is lost in the dignity of the orator; and the importance
of the subject, for a while, superseded by the admira-
tion of his talents. — With what strength of argument,
with what powers of the fancy, with what emotions of
the heart, does he assault and subjugate the whole
roan; and, at once, captivate his reason, his imagina-
tion and his passions!— —To effect this, must be the
utmost effort of the most improved state of human
nature. — Not a faculty that he possesses, is here unem-
ployed; not a faculty that he possesses, but is here
exerted to its highest pitch. All his internal powers
are at work; all his external, testify their energies.
Within, the memory, the fancy, the judgment, the
passions, are all busy: without, every muscle, every
nerve is exerted; not a feature, not a limb, but speaks.
48
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
The organs of the body, attuned to the exertions of
Cue mind, through the kindred organs of the hearers,
instantaneously vibrate those enei^ies from soul to
soul. Notwithstanding the diversity of minds in such
a multitude; by the lightning of eloquence, they are
melted into one mass — the whole assembly, actuated
in one and the same way, become, as it were, but one
man, and have but one voice. — The universal cry is —
Let us march against Philip, let us fight for
OUR li^srties — LET US CONQUER OR DIE ! Sher0a.n.
Lord Byron considered as a Moralist^ and a Poet.
As a moralist, Lord Byron is most exceptionable.
There is not a more prolific source of positive virtue,
than the habit of feeling benevolently towards our
fellow-creatures. This he endeavours to cut up by
the root. There is nothing of benignity, or even of
urbanity, in his writings; all his sourness and harsh-
ness, a perpetual dreariness, sterility, that puts forth
no medicinal shoot or cheering flower. So far as the
kindly movements of the heart are concerned, among
his species. Lord Byron is a rock; and among rocks
only, a man. His works are not absolutely destitute
of touches of virtuous emotion; but those that occur,
are never of the social kind, unless you allow some
few traits of merely animal affection. Lord Byron's
morality counsels you to relax the grasp of friendship,
to withhold the trust of confidence, to shut out your
fellow from your heart, and lock it .upon him. But,
putting aside the tone of misanthropy which pervade^
his writings, how chaotic an idea does he give you of
the government of his own mind, when he dedicates to
his daughter the song in which he celebrates his mis*
tress; when he can find no more fitting office for th^
hand of a parent, than that of imprinting upon thQ
mind of a daughter, the indulgent position, that i^
woman may surrender her honour, and preserve her
purity! We do not pretend to scan the real character
of Lord Byron. We know nothing of him, but what
we learn from his works; and it is they that are to
blame, if we do not profess the most exalted opinion
IN PROSB.
4»
?rona
of him. We slight him upon the warrant of his own
hand. There is something perfectly puerile in the
sketch that he so repeatedly gives us of his own cha-
racter — a man whining forth his private discontents
and dislikings, vending them, as it were, in every
village, town, and city of the empire; making them as
notorious, as if they had been committed to the oratory
of the town-sergeant. A father, professing the most
passionate tenderness for his offspring ; and making
her, in the fervour of his love, a gift of the public
record of his weakness, caprices, passions, and vices,
collected, drawn up, and authenticated by his own
paternal hand.
As a poet, Lord Byron is the most easy, the most
nervous, and — with the exception perhaps of Words-
worth — the most original of the day. His verses
possess all the flowing property of extemporaneous
eloquence. His diction seems to fall into numbers,
rather than to be put into them. He reminds us of
one who has written down his ideas just as they occurred,
and finds that he has expressed himself in rhyme.
No ekeing out of the verse; no accommodating of the
sense to the sound; nothing that indicates a looking out
for materials; every thing at hand, to be had only for
the reaching, and fitting at the first trial. It would
savour too much of pedantry, to point out errors of a
merely grammatical description; but, it is somewhat
singular, that so classical a writer should abound more
in solecisms, than all his cotemporaries put together.
This may be readily pardoned, however, if we take
into consideration the rapidity with which he is reputed
to compose. ' In all other respects, Lord Byron is
seldom incongruous, rarely redundant, never vapid;
often pathetic, frequently sublime, always eloquent. If
once he lays hold of your attention — unless, indeed, it
be by some sudden start of displeasure — the chances
are against your getting loose again, until he is satis-
fied to let you go. Knowles.
■m
50
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
The Distressed Father.
\i M i
Henrt Newberry, a lad of thirteen years, and Ed-
ward Chidley, nged seventeen, were fully committed
for trial, charged with stealing a silver tea-pot from
the hoase of a gentleman, in Grosvenor- place. There
was nothing extraordinary in the circamstances of the
robbery. The younger lad was observed to go down
into the area of the house, whilst his companion kept
watch, and they were caught endeavouring to conceal
the tea-pot under some rubbish in the Five-fields: but
the case was made peculiarly interesting by the unso-
phisticated distress of Newberry's father.
The poor old man, who it seems had been a soldier,
and was at this time a joarneyman pavier, refused at
first to believe that his son had committed the crime
imputed to him, and was very clamorous against the
witnesses; but, as their evidence proceeded, he himself
appeared to become gradually convinced. He listened
with intense anxiety to the various details; and when
they were finii^hed, he fixed his eyes in bilence, for a
second or two, upon his son ; and tnrning to the magis-
trate, with his eyes swimming in tears, he exclaimed —
" I have carried him many a score miles on my knap-
sack, your honour!"
There was something so deeply pathetic in the tone
with which this fond reminiscence was uttered by the
old soldier, that every person present, even the very
gaoler himself, was affected by it. " I have carried
him many score miles on my knapsack, your honour,"
repeated the poor fellow, whilst he brushed away the
tears from his cheek with his rough unwashed hand,
"but it's all over now! — He has done — and — so
have I!"
The magistrate asked him something of his story.
He said he had formerly driven a stage-coach, in the
north of Ireland, and had a small share in the proprie-
torship of the coach. In this time of his prosperity,
he married a young woman with a little property, but
failed in business, and, after enduring many troubles,
enlisted as a private soldier in the 18th, or Royal Irish
Regiment of Foot; and went on foreign service, taking
IN THOSE.
51
ed
)ra
jre
the
wn
ept
:eal
but
nao-
aier,
jd at
irime
it the
mself
tened
when
for a
agis-
ed—
knap-
story.
in the
)roprie-
[sperity,
Irty, hut
Irouhlea,
ral Irish
J, taking
with him his wife and four children. Henry (the
prisoner) was his second son, and his darling pride."
At the end of nine years he was discharged, in this
country, without a pension, or a friend in the world;
and coming to London, he, with some trouble, got
employed as a pavier, by *' the gentlemen who manage
the streets at Mary-la-bonne." — " Two years ago, your
honour," he continued, " my poor wife was wearied
out with the world, and she deceased from me, and I
was left alone with the children; and every night,
after I had done work, I washed their faces, md
put them to bed, and washed their little bits o' things,
and hanged them o' the line to dry, myself — for I'd no
money, your honour, and so I could not have a hous< -
keeper to do for them, you know. But, your honour,
I was as happy as I well could be, considering my wife
was deceased from me, till some bad people came to
live at the back of us, and they were always strivinpj
to get Henry amongst them; and I was terribly afraid
something bad would come of it, as it was but poorly
I could do for him; and so I'd made up my mind to
take all my children to Ireland. If he had only held
up another week, your honour, w^e should have gone,
and he would have been saved. But now ! "
Here the poor man looked at his boy again, and
wept; and when the magistrate endeavoured to console
him by observing that his son would sail for Botany
Bay, and probably do well there; he replied, somewhat
impatiently, — " Aye, it's fine talking, your •wots' 'p: I
pray to the great God he may never sail any where,
unless he sails with me to Ireland!" and then, after a
moment's thought, he asked, in the humblest tone ima-
ginable, " Doesn't your honour think a little bit of a
petition might help him?"
The magistrate replied, it possibly might; and
added, " If you attend his trial at the Old Bailey, and
plead for him as eloquently in word and action as you
have done here, I think it would help him still more."
" Aye, but then pou wont be there, I suppose, will
you?" asked the poor fellow, with that familiarity
which is in some degree sanctioned by extreme dis-
tress; and when his worship replied that he certainly
52
PKOMISCUOU8 SKLECTIONS
should not be present, he immediately rejoined, " Then
— what's the use of it? There will be nobody there
who knows me; and what stranger will listen to a
poor old broken-hearted fellow, who can't speak for
crying?"
The prisoners were now removed from the bar, to
be conducted to prison; and his son, who had wept
incessantly all the time, called wildly to him, " Father,
father!" as if he expected that his father could snatch
him out of the iron grasp of the law: but the old man
remained rivetted, as it were, to the spot on which he
stood, with his eyes fixed on the lad; and, when the
door had closed upon him, he pat on his hat, uncon-
scious where he was; and, crushing it down over his
brows, he began wandering round the room in a state
of stupor. The officers in waiting reminded him that
he should not wear his hat in the presence of the ma-
gistrate, and he instantly removed it: but he still
seemed lost to every thing around him; and, though
one or two gentlemen present put money into his hands,
he heeded it not, but slowly sauntered out of the office,
apparently reckless of every thing.
Mornings at Bow-street.
On Skakspeare.
The four greatest names in English poetry ^re almosf
the four first we come to — Chaucer, Spenser, Shak-
speare, and Milton. There are no olliers that can
really be put in competition with these. The two last
have had justice done them by the voice of common
fame. Their names are blazoned in the very firma-
ment of reputation; while the two first (though "the
fault has been more in their stars than in themselves
that they are underlings") either never emerged far
above the horizon, or were too soon involved in the
obscurity of time. The three first of these are exclu-
ded from Dr. Johnson's Lives of the Poets, (Shak-
speare, indeed, is so from the dramatic form of his
compositions); and the fourth, Milton, is admitted with
a reluctant and churlish welcome.
In comparing these four writers together, it might
f
IN PROSE.
53
be said, that Chaucer excels as the poet of manners,
or of real life; Spenser, as the poet of romance; Shak-
speare, as the poet of nature (in the largest use of the
<erm); and Milton, as the poet of morality. Chaucer
most frequently describes things as they are; Spenser,
as we wish them to be; Shakspeare, as they would be;
and Milton, as they ought to be. As poets, and as
great poets, imagination — that is, the power of feigning
things according to nature, — was common to them all:
but the principle, or moving power, to which this
facuhy was most subservient in Chaucer, was habit, or
inveterate prejudice; in Spenser, novelty, and die love
of the marvellous; in Shakspeare, it was the force of
passion, combined with every variety of possible cir-
cumstances; and in Milton, only with the highest.
The characteristic of Chaucer is intensity; of Spenser,
remoteness; of Milton, elevation; of Siiakspeare, every
thing.
It has been said by some critic, that Shakspeare
was distinguished from the other dramatic writers of
his day, only by his wit; that they had all his other
qualities but that; that one writer had as much sense,
another as much fancy, another as much knowledge of
character, an6ther the same depth of passion, and
another as great a power of language. This statement
is not true; nor is the inference from it well founded,
even if it were. This person does not seem to have
been aware, that, upon his own showing, the great dis-
tinction of Shakspeare's genius was its virtually inclu-
ding the genius of all the great men of his age, and
not its differing from them in one accidental particular.
—But to have done with such minute and literal trifling.
The striking peculiarity of Shakspeare's mind, was
its generic quality, its power of communication with
all other minds — so that it contained a universe of
thought and feeling within itself, and had no one pecu-
liar bias, or exclusive excellence more than another.
He was just like any other man, but that he was like
all other men. He was the least of an egotist that it
was possible to be. He was nothing in himself; but
he was all that others were, or that they could become.
He not only had in himself the germs of every faculty
54
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
and feeling, but he could follow thera by anticipation,
intuitively, into all their conceivable ramifications,
through every change of fortune, or conflict of passion,
or turn of thought. He had " a mind reflecting ages
past," and present: — all the people that ever lived, are
there. There was no respect of persons with him.
His genius shone equally on the evil and on the good,
on the wise and the foolish, the monarch and the beg-
gar: "All corners of the earth, kings, queens, and
states, maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave,"
are hardly hid from his searching glance. He was
like the genius of humanity, changing places with
all of us at pleasure, and playing with our purposes as
with his own. He turned the globe round for his
amusement; and surveyed the generations of men,
and the individuals as they passed, with their different
concerns, passions, follies, vices, virtues, actions, and
motives — as well those that they knew, as those which
they did not know, or acknowledge to themselves.
The dreams of childhood, the ravings of despair, were
the toys of his fancy. Airy beings waited at his call,
and came at his bidding. Harmless fairies " nodded
to him, and did him curtesies;" and the night-hag
bestrode the blast, at the command of*" his so potent
art." The world of spirits lay open to him, like the
world of real men and women: and there is the same
truth in his delineations of the one as of the other;
for, if the preternatural characters he describes could
be supposed to exist, they would speak, and feel, and
act, ha he makes them. He had only to think of any
thing, in order to become that thing, with all the cir-
cumstances belonging to it. When he conceived of a
character, whether real or imaginary, he not only
entered into all its thoughts and feelings, but seemed
instantly, and as if by toucl 'ng a secret spring, to be
surrounded with all tlie same objects, " subject to the
same skyey influences," — the same local, outward, and
unforeseen accidents, which would occur in reality.
Thus the character of Caliban not only stands before
us with a language and manners of his own, but the
scenery and situation of the enchanted island he inha-
bits, the traditions of the place, its strange noises, its
^
IN PROSE.
66
^
hidden recesses, "his frequent haunts and ancientneigh-
bourhood," are given with a miraculous truth of
nature, and with all the familiarity of an old recollec-
tion. The whole "coheres semblably together" in
time, place, and circumstance. In reading this author,
you do not merely learn what his characters say, — you
see their persons. By something expressed or under-
stood, you are at no loss to decipher their peculiar
physiognomy, the meaning of a look, the grouping, the
bye-play, as we might see it on the stage. A word,
an epithet, paints a whole scene, or throws us back
whole years in the history of the person represented.
So (as it has been ingeniously remarked) when Pros-
pero describes himself as left alone in the boat with
his daughter, the epithet which he applies to her, " Me
and thy crying self," flings the imagination instantly
back from th© grown woman to the helpless condition
of infancy, and places the first and most trying scene
of his misfortunes before us, with all that he must
have suffered in the interval. How well the silent
anguish of Macduff is conveyed to the reader, by the
friendly expostulation of Malcolm— r " "What! man,
ne'er pull your hat upon your brows!" Again, Hamlet,
in the scene with Rosencraus and Guildenstern, some-
what abruptly concludes his fine soliloquy on life, by
saying, " Man delights not me, nor woman neither,
though by your smiling you seem to say so " Which
is explained by their answer — " My lord, we had no
such stuff in our thoughts. But we smiled to think,
if you delight not in man, what lenten entertainment
the players shall receive from you, whom we met on
the way:" — as if, while Hamlet was making this
speech, his two old schoolfellows from Wittenberg had
been really standing by, and he had seen them smiling
by stealth, at the idea of the players crossing their
minds. It is not "a combination and a form" of
words, a set speech or two, a preconcerted theory of a
character, that will do this: but all the persons con-
cerned must have been present in the poet's imagina-
tion, as at a kind of rehearsal; and whatever would
have passed through their minds on the occasion, ahd
have been observed by others, passed through his, and
is made known to the reader. Hazlitt.
56
PBOMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
Character of Napoleon Bonaparte.
To bring together in a narrower compass what seem
to us the great leading features of the intellectual and
moral character of Napoleon Bonaparte, we may re-
mark, that his intellect was distinguished by rapidity
of thought. He understood by a glance what most
men, and superior men, could liixn only by study.
He darted to a conclusion rather bj^ intuition than
reasoning. In war, which was \Y ^ only subject of
which he was master, he seized in an instant on the
great points of his own, and his enemy's positions;
and combined at once the movements by which an
overpowering force might be thrown with unexpected
fury on a vulnerable part of the hostile line, and the
fate of an army be decided in a day. He understood
war as a science; but his mind was too bold, rapid,
and irrepressible to be enslaved by the technics of his
profession. He found the old armies fighting by rule;
and he discovered the true characteristic of genius,
which, without despising rules, knows when and how
to break them. He understood thoroughly the im-
mense moral power which is gained by originality and
rapidity of operation. He astonished and paralyzed
his enemies by his unforeseen and impetuous assaults,
by the suddenness with -^hich the storm of battle
burst upon them; and, whilst giving to his soldiers the
advantages of modern discipline, breathed into them,
by his quick and decisive movements, the enthusiasm
of ruder ages. This power of disheartening the foe,
and of spreading through his own ranks a confidence,
and exhilarating courage, which made war a pastime,
and seemed to make victory sure, distinguished Napo-
leon in an age of uncommon military talent, and was
one main instrument of his future power.
The wonderful effects of that rapidity of thought by
whi "' Tonaparte was marked, the signal success of his
new j'Vjde of warfare, and the almost incredible speed
with which his fame was spread through nations, had
no small agency in fixing his character, and determin-
ing, for a period, the fate of empires. These stirring
influences infused a new consciousness of his own
%
IN PROSE.
57
.'V
might They gave intensity and audacity to his
ambition ; gave form and substance to his indefinite
visions of glory, and raised his fiery hopes to empire.
The burst of admiration, which his early career called
forth, must, in particular, have had an influence in
imparting to his ambition that modification by which
it was characterized, and which contributed alike to
its success and to its fall. He began with astonishing
the world, with producing a sudden and universal
sensation, such as modern times had not witnessed.
To astonish, as well as to sway, by his energies, be-
came the great aim of his life. Henceforth to rule was
not enough for Bonaparte. He wanted to amaze, to
dazzle, to overpower men's souls, by striking, bold,
magnificent, and unanticipated results. To govern
ever so absolutely would not have satisfied him, if he
must have governed silently. He wanted to reign
through wondc* and awe, by the grandeur and terror
of his name, by displays of power which would rivet
on him every eye, and make him the theme of every
tongue. Power was his supreme object ; but a power
which should be gazed at as well as felt, which should
strike men as a prodigy, which should shake old
thrones as an earthquake, and, by the suddenness of
its new creations, should awaken something of the
submissive wonder which miraculous agency inspires.
Such seems to us to nave been the distinction or
characteristic modification of his love of fame. It was
diseased ;>:ission for a kind of admiration, which
a
from the principles of our nature, cannot be enduring,
and which demands for its support perpetual and more
stimulating novel ly. Mere esteem he would have
scorned. Calm admiration, though universal and en-
during, would have been insipid. He wanted to
electrify and overwhelm. He lived for eifect. The
world was his theatre; and he cared little what pa;'t he
played, if he might walk the sole hero on the stage,
and call forth bursts of applause which would silence
all other fame. In war, the triumphs which he coveted
were those in which he seemed to sweep away his foes
like a whirlwind ; and the immense and unparalleled
sacrifice of his own soldiers, in the rapid marches and
c2
!
58
PROMISCUOUS 8ELKC liONS
i
daring assaults to which he owed his victories, in no
degree diminished their worth to the victor. In peace,
he delighted to hurry through his dominions; to mul-
tiply himself by his rapid movements ; to gather at a
glance the capacities of improvtiTient which every
important place possessed; to sujigest plana which
would startle by their original' ity ansl vastness; vo pro-
ject, in an instant, works which a life could not ac-
complish, and to leave behind the impressioti of a
superhuman energy.
Our sketch of Bonaparte would be Imperfect indeed,
if we did net add, that he was characterized by no-
thing more strongly than by the spirit oi self -exaggera-
tion. The singular onergy of his intellect and will,
through which he h'i 1 mastered so many rivals and
foes, and overcome wl.:;i sef;-r.!h;d ins^rperable obstacles,
inspired a consciousness cf being something more than
man. His strong originai tendencies to pride and
self-exaitation, fed find p impered by strange success
and unbounded applause, swelled into an almost insane
conviction of superhuman greatness. In his own
view, he stood apf^rt from other men. He was not to
be measured by the standard of humanity. He was
not to be retarded bv difficulties, to which all others
yielde'i He was not to be subjected to laws and obli-
gations which all others were expected to obey.
Nature an" the human will were to bend to his power.
He was the child and favourite of fortune; and, if not
the lord; the chief object of destiny. His history shows
a spirit of self-exaggeration, unrivalled in enlightened
ages, aiid which reminds us of an Oriental king to
whom incense had been burnt from his birth as to a
deity. This was the chief source of his crimes. He
wanted the sentiment of a common nature with his
fellow-beings. He had no sympathies with his race.
That ffcoiing of brotherhood, which is developed in
truly great souls with peculiar energy, and through
which they give up themselves willing victims, joyful
sacrifices, to the interests of mankind, was wholly
unknown to him. His heart, tmidst all its wild beat-
ings, never had one throb of d .jinterested love. The
ties which bind man to man he broke asunder. The
%
I
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Ilf PROSE.
I
I
proper happiness of a man, which consists in the
victory of moral energy and social affection over the
selfish passions, he cast away for the lonely joy of a
despot. With powers which might have made him a
glorious representative and minister of the beneficent
Divinity, and with natural sensibilities which might
have been exalted into sublime virtues, he chose to
separate himself from his kind, — to forego their love,
esteem, and gratitude, — that he might become their
gaze, their fear, their wonder ; and for this selfish,
solitary good, parted with peace and imperishable
renown. Channing.
On Milton.
From this very imperfect view of the qualities of
Milton's poetry, we hasten to his great work. Paradise
Lost, perhaps the noblest monument of human genius.
The two first books, by universal consent, stand pre-
eminent in sublimity. Hell and Hell's King have a
terrible harmony; and dilate into new grandeur and
awfulnesa, the longer we contemplate them. From one
element — " solid and liquid fire" — the poet has framed
a world of horror and suffering, such as imagination
had never traversed. But fiercer flames, than those
which encompass Satan, burn in his own souL Re-
venge, exasperated pride, consuming wrath, ambition
though fallen, yet unconquered by the thunders of the
Omnipotent, and gtasping still at the empire of the
universe, — these form a picture more sublime and
terrible than Hell. Hell yields to the spirit which it
imprisons. The intensity of its fires reveals the
iutenser passions and more vehement will of Satan ;
and the ruined Archangel gathers into himself the
sublimit;''; of the scene which surrounds him. This
forms the tremendous inte 'est of these wonderful books.
We see mind triumphant over the most terrible powers
of nature. We see unutterable agony subdued by
energy of soul. We have not indeed in Satan those
bursts of passion, which rive the soul, as well as
siiatter the outward frame of Lear. But we have a
depth of passion which only an Archangel could manifest.
1
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PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
The all-enduring, all-cfefying pride of Satan, assuming
so majestically Hell's burning throne, and coveting
the diadem, which scorches his thunder-blasted brow,
is a creation requiring in its author almost the spiritual
energy with which he invests the fallen seraph. Some
have doubted whether the moral effect of such delinea-
tions of the storms and terrible workings of the soul,
is good ; whether the interest felt in a spirit so tran-
scendently evil as Satan, favours our sympathies with
virtue. But our interest fastens in this and like cases,
on what is not evil. We gaze on Satan with an awe
not unmixed with mysterious pleasure, as on a mira-
culous manifestation of the power of mind. What
chains us, as with a resistless spell, in such a character,
is spiritual might made visible by the ^^cking pains
which it overpowers. There is som hing "kindling
and ennobling in the consciousness, ho\*cv:r/i'ni ened,
of the energy which resides in mind* nnd miny a
virtuous man has borrowed new strength from the
force, constancy, and dauntless courage of evil agents.
Milton's description of Sf ian attests," in various
ways, the power of his genius. Critics have often
observed, that the great difficulty of his work Was to
reconcile the spiritual properties of his supernatural
beings with the human modes of existence, which he
was obliged to ascribe to them ; and the difficulty is too
great for any genius wholly to overcome; and we must
acknowledge, that our enthusiasm is, in some parts of
the poem, checked by a feeling of incongruity between
the spiritual agent, and his sphere and mode of agency.
But we are visited with no such chilling doubts and
misgivings in the description of Satan in Hell. Ima-
gination has here achieved its highest triumph, in
imparting a character of reality and truth to its most
daring creations. That world of horrors, though
material, is yet so remote from our ordinary nature,
that a spiritual being, exiled from heaven, finds there
an appropriate home. There is, too, an indefiniteness
in the description of Satan's person, which incites
without shocking the imagination, nnd aids us to com-
bine in our conception of him the massiness of a real
form, with the vagueness of spiritual existence. To
t
I
IN PROSE.
6t
I
the production of this effect, much depends on the first
impression given by the poet ; for this is apt to follow
us through the whole work; and here we think Milton
eminently successful. The first glimpse of Satan is
given us in the following lines, which, whilst too
indefinite to provoke the scrutiny of the reason, fill the
imagination of the reader with a form which can hardly
be effaced :
Thus Satan, talking to his nearest mate,
With head up-lift above the wave, and eyes
That sparkling blazed, his other parts besides
Prone on the flood, extended lung and large,
Lay floating many a rood, * * *
Par. Lost, b. i. lines 192—196.
Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool
His mighty stature; on each hand the flames.
Driven backward, slope their pointing spires, and roU'd
Iq billows, leave i' th' midst a horrid vale.
Ibid. 221—224.
We have more which we should gladly say of the
delineation of Satan; especially of the glimpses which
are now and then given of his deep anguish and des-
pair, and of the touches of better feelings vhich are
skilfully thrown into the dark picture; both suited and
designed to blend with our admiration, dread, and
abhorrence, a measure of that sympathy and interest
with which every living, thinking being, ought to be
regarded, and without which all feelings tend tc sin
and pain. But there is another topic which we cannot
leave untouched. From Hell we flee to Paradise, a
region as lovely as Hell is terrible ; and which, to
those who do not know the universality of true genius,
will appear doubly wonderful, when considered as the
creation of the same mind which had painted the
infernal world.
Paradise and its inhabitants are in sweet accordance,
and together form a scene of tranquil bliss, which
calms and soothes, whilst it delights the imagination.
Adam and Eve, just moulded by ..CiO aond, and quick-
ened by the bi'".ith of God, reflect ia their counte-
rs vices, and formb, ar v ell as minds, the intelligence,
bet* gnity, and happiness of their Author. Their new
existence has the fresiniess and pepi&iulness of the
^1
jit:
■ 1'
I'l''
iiii
nil
Ml
i^n^^w
62
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
dewy morning. Their souls, unsated and untainted,
find an innocent joy in the youthful creation, which
spreads and smiles around tbr»^- '""heir mutual love
is deep — for it is the love oi younj^^ unworn, unex-
hausted hearts, which meet in each other the only
human objects on whom to pour forth their fulness of
affection : and still it is serene — for it is the love of
happy beings, who ku"W not suffering even by name ;
whose innocence ex^'ludes not only the turauUa, but
the thought of jealousy and shame; who "imparad'sed
in one another's arms," scarce dream of futurity — so
blessed is their present being. We will not say, that
we envy our fir?; i»arents; for we feel that there may
be higher happ'ness than theirs, — a happiness won
through strugyi'e with inward and outward foes, the
happiness of power and moral victory, the happiness
of disinterested sacrifices and wide-spread love, the
happiness of ooundless ^ope, and of "thoughts which
wander through eternity." Still there are times, when
the spirit, oppressed witii pain, worn with toil, tired of
tumult, sick at the sight of guilt, wounded in its love,
baffled in its hope, and trembling in its faith, almost
longs for the *' wings of a dove, that it might fly
away," and take refuge amidst the "shady bowers,"
the "vernal airs," the "roses without thorns," the
quiet, the beauty, the loveliness of **'den. It is the
contrast of this deep peace of Paradise with the storms
of life, which gives to the fourth and fifth books of
this poem a charm so irresistible, that not a tew would
sooner relinquish the two first books, with all their
sublimity, than part with these. It has sometimes
been said, that the English language has no good
pastoral poetry. We would ask, In what b.go or
country has the pastoral reed breathed auch sweet
strains, as are borne to us on "the odorifer us wings of
gentle gales," from Milton's Paradise?
We should not fulfil our duty, were we not to say
one word on what has been justly celebrated, — the
harmony of Milton's versification. His. numbers have
the prime charm of expressiveness. They vary with,
and answer to the depth, or t -udcsrness, or sublimity
of his conceptions; and hold intimate alliance with the
IN I'UOSE.
G3
.
soul. Like Michael Angelo, in whose hands the marble
was said to be flexible, he bends our lan;:juage, which
foreigners reproach with hardness, into whatever forms
the subjects demands. All tke treasures of sweet and
solemn sound are at his command. Words, harsh and
discordant in the writings of less gifted men, flow
through his poetry in a full stream of harmony. This
power over language is not to be ascribed to Milton's
musical ear. It belongs to the soul. It is a gift or
exercise of genius, which has power to impress itself
on whatever it touches; and finds or frames in sounds,
motions, and material forms, correspondences and
harmonies with its own fervid thoughts and feelings.
Channing.
Wit injures! Eloquence.
To all those rgles which art furnishes for conducting
the plan of a discourse, we proceed to subjoin a gene-
ral rule, from which orators, and especially Christian
or tors, ought never to swerve.
,Vhen such begin their career, the zeal for the sal-
vation of souls which animates them, doth not render
them always unmindful of the glory which follows
great success. A blind desire to shine and to please,
is often at the expense of that substantial honour
which might be obtained, were they to give themselves
up to the pure emotions of piety, which so well agree
with the senf^ibility necessary to eloquence.
It is, unquestionably, to be wished, that he who de-
votes himself to the arduous labour which preaching
requires, should be wholly ambitious to render him-
self useful to the cause of religion. To such, reputa-
tion can never be a sufficient recompense. But if mo-
tives so pure have not sufficient sway in your breast,
calculate, at least, the advantages of self-love ; and
you may perceive how inseparably connected these are
with the success of your ministry.
Is it on your own account that you preach ? Is it
for you that religion assembles her votaries in a tem-
ple ? You ought never to indulge so presumptuous a
thought. However, I only consider you an an orator.
64
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
Tell me, then, what is this you call Eloquence ? Is it
the wretched trade of imitating that criminal, men-
tioned by a poet in hia satires, who "balanced his
crimes before his judges twith antithesis?" Is it the
puerile secret of forming jejune quibbles? — of round-
ing periods ? — of tormenting one's self by tedious stu-
dies, in order to reduce sacred instruction into a vain
amusement ? Is this, then, the idea which you have
conceived of that divine art, which disdains frivolous
ornaments, which sways the most numerous assemblies,
and which bestows on a single man the most personal
and majestic of all sovereignties ? Are you in quest
of glory ? — You fly from it. Wit alone is never sub-
lime ; and it is only by the vehemence of the passions,
that you can become eloquent.
Reckon up all the illustrious orators. Will you find
among them conceited, subtle, or epigrammatic writers ?
No: these immortal men confined their attempts to
affect and persuade ; and their having been always
simple, is that which will always render them great.
How is this ? You wish to proceed in their footsteps,
and you stoop to the degrading pretensions of a rheto-
rician ? and you appear in the form of a mendicant,
soliciting commendations from those very men who
ought to tremble at your feet. Recover from this ig-
nominy. Be eloquent by zeal, instead of being a mere
declaimer through vanity. And be assured, that the
most certain method of preaching well for yourself, is
to preach usefully to others. Maury,
On the Dignity of Human Nature.
I ANTICIPATE from some an objection to this position,
drawn, as they will say, from experience. I may be
told, that I have talked of the godlike capacities of
human nature, and have spoken of man as a divinity ;
and where, it will be asked, are the warrants of this
high estimate of our race? I may be told that I
dream, and that I have peopled the world with the
creatures of my lonely imagination. What ! Is it
only in dreams that beauty and loveliness have beamed
on me from the human countenance, — that I have
i
IN PltOSE.
65
heard tones of kindness, which have thrilled through
my heart, — that 1 have found sympathy in suffering,
and a sacred joy" in friendship ? Are all the great and
good men of past ages only dreams ? Are such nanie»
as Moses, Socrates, Paul, Alfred, Milton, only the
fictions of my disturbed slumbers ? Are the great
deeds of history, the discoveries of philosophy, the
creations of genius, only visions? Oh! no. I do
not dream when I speak of the divine capacities of
human nature. It was a real page in which I read of
patriots and martyrs, — of Fenelon and Howard, of
Hampden and Washington. And tell me. not, that
these were prodigies, miracles, immeasurably separated
from their race; for the very reverence, which has
treasured up and hallowed their memoi'ies, — the very
sentiments of admiration and love with which their
names are now heard, show that the principles of their
greatness are diffused through all your breasts. The
germs of sublime virtue are scattered liberally on our
earth. How often have I seen, in the obscurity of
domestic life, a strength of love, of endurance, of
pious trust, of virtuous resolution, which in a public
sphere would have attracted public homage ! I cannot
but pity the man who recognizes nothing god-like in
his own nature. I see the- marks of God in the
heavens and the earth ; but how much more in a libe-
ral intellect, in magnanimity, in unconquerable recti-
tude, in a philanthropy which forgives every wrong,
and which never despairs of the cause •f Christ and
human virtue ! I do and I must reverence human
nature. Neither the sneers of a worldly scepticism,
nor the groans of a gloomy theology, disturb my faith
in its godlike powers and tendencies. I know how it
is despised, — how it has been oppressed, — how civil
and religious establishments have for ages conspired to
crush it. I know its history. I shut my eyes on none
of its weaknesses and crimes. I understand the
proofs, by which despotism demonstrates that man is a
wild beast, in want of a master, and only safe in
chains. But injured, trampled on, and scorned as our
nature is, I still turn to it with intense sympathy, and
strong hope. The signatures of its origin and its emd,
;i!
66
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
are impressed too deeply to be ever wholly effaced. I
bless it for its kind aflections, for its strong and tender
love. I honour it for its struggles against oppres-
fiion, for its growth and progress under the weight of
80 many chains and prejudices, for its achievements in
science and art, and still more for its examples of
heroic and saintly virtue. These are marks of a
divine origin, and the pledges of a celestial 'inheritance;
and I thank God that uiy own lot is bound up with
that of the human race- Channin^,
The Hill of Science.
Iv that season of the year, when the serenity of the
feky, the various fruits which cover the ground, the
discoloured foliage of the trees, and all the sweet, but
fading graced of inspiring autumn, open the mind to
benevolence, and dispose it for contemplation, I was
wandering in a beautiful and romantic country, till
curiosity began to give way to weariness ; and I sat
me down on the fragment of a rock, overgrown with
moss, where the rustling of the falling leaves, the
dashing of waters, and the hum of the distant city,
soothed my mind into the most perfect tranquillity, and
sleep insensibly stole upon me, as I was indulging the
agreeable reveries which the objects around me natu-
rally inspired.
I immediately found myself in a vast extended
plain, in the imiddle of which arose a mountain higher
than I had before any conception of. It was covered
Vi^ith a multitude of people, chiefly youth; many of
whom pressed forwards with the liveliest expressions
of ardour in their countenance, though the way was in
many places steep and difficult. I observed, that those
who had but just begun to climb the hill, thought
themselves not far from the top; but, as they proceeded,
new hills were continually rising to their view, and
the summit of the highest they could before discern
seemed but the foot of another, till tbe mountain at
length appeared to lose itself in the clouds. As I
was gazing on these things with astonishment, my
good genius suddenly appeared: — " 'J'he mountain be-
IN PROSK.
67
fore thee," said he, " is the Hill of Science. On the
top is the temple of Truth, whose head is above the
clouds, and a veil of pure li<;ht covers her face. Ob-
serve the progress of her votaries; be silent and atten-
tiv3."
I saw that the only regular approach to the moun-
tain was by a gate, called the Gate of Languages. It
was kept by a woman of a pensive and thoughtful ap-
pearance, whose lips were continually moving, as
though she repeated something to herself. Her name
was Memory. On entering this first enclosure, I was
stunned with a confused murmur of jarring voices and
dissonant sounds ; which increased upon me to such a
degree, that I was utterly confounded, and could com-
pare the noise to nothing but the confusion of tongues
at Babel.
After contemplating these things, I turned my eyes
towards the top of the mountain, where the air was
always pure and exhilarating, the path shaded with
laurels and other evergreens, and the effulgence which
beamed from the face of the goddess seemed to shed a
glory round her votaries. " Happy," said I, " are
they who are permitted to ascend the mountain !" —
but while I was pronouncing this exclamation with un-
common ardour, I saw standing beside me a form of
diviner features and a more benign radiance. " Hap-
pier," said she, " are those whom Virtue conducts to
the mansions of Content !" — " What," said I, " does
Virtue then reside i;i the vale ?" — " I am found," said
she, " in the vale, and I illuminate the mountain : I
cheer the cottager at his toil, and inspire the sage at
his meditation. I mingle in the crowds of cities, and
bless the hermit in his cell. I have a temple in every
heart that owns my influence ; and to him that wishes
for me, I am already present. Science may raise you
to eminence ; but I alone can guide to felicity!" —
While the goddess was thus speaking, I stretched out
my arms towards her with a vehemence which broke
my plumbers. The chill dews were falling around me,
and the shales of evening stretched over the lanU-
scape. I hastened homesvard, and resigned the night
to silence and meditation. JUki/i's Miscellanies.
68
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
The Plan<?tary and Terrestrial Worlds.
To us, who dwell on its surface, the earth is by far
the most extensive orb that our eyes can any where
behold: it is also clothed wiih verdure, distinguished
by trees, and adorned with a variety of beautiful deco-
rations; whereavS, to a spectator placed on one of the
planets, it wears a uniform aspect, looks all luminous,
and no larger than a spot. To beings who dwell at
still greater distances, it entirely disappears. That
which we call alternately the morning and the evening
star — as in one part of the orbit she rides foremest in
the procession of night ; in the other, ushers in and
anticipates the cawn — is a planetary world. This
planet, and the nine others that so wonderfully vary
their mystic dance, are iu themselves dark bodies, and
shine only by reflection ; have fields, and seas, and
skies of their own; ai'e furnished with all accommoda-
tions for animal subsistence, and are supposed to be
the abodes of intellectual life: all which, together with
cur earthly habitation, are dependent on that grand
dispenser of divine munificence, the sun ; receive their
light from the distribution of his rays, and derive their
comfort from his benign agency.
The sun, wh! ^h seems to perform its daily stages
through the sky, is, in this respect, fixed and immove-
able; it is the great axle of heaven, about which the
globe we inhabit, and other more spacious orbs, wheel
their stated courses. The sun, though seemingly
smaller than the dial it illuminates, is abundantly
larger than this whole earth, on which so many lofty
mountains rise, and such vast oceans roll. A line
extending from side to side, through the centre of
that resplendent orb, would measure more than eight
hundred thousand miles: a girdle formed to go round
its circumference, would require a length of millions.
Were its solid contents to be estimated, the account
would overwhelm our understanding, and be almost
beyond the power of language to express. Are we
startled at these reports of philosophy? Are we ready
to cry out, in a transport of surprise, " How mighty is
the Being who kindled so prodigious a fire; and keeps
alive, from age to age, so enormous a mass of flame!"
..
t
IN P1106E.
69
t
let us attend our philosopLic guides, and we shall be
brought acquainted with speculations more enlarged
and more inflaming.
This sun, with all its attendant planets, is but a
very little part of the grand machine of the universe :
every star, though in anpearance no bigger than the
diamond that glitters upon a lady's ring, is really a
vast globe, like the sun in size and in glory; no less
spacious, no less luminous, than the radiant source of
day. So that every star is not barely a world, but the
centre of a magnificent system; has a retinue of worlds,
irradiated by its beams, and revolving round its
attractive influence; all which are lost to our sight, in
unmeasurable wilds of ether. That the stars appear
like so many diminutive, and scarcely distinguishable
points, is owing to their immense and inconceivable
distance. Immense and inconceivable indeed it is;
since a ball, shot from a loaded cannon, and flying
with unabated rapidity, must travel, at this impetuous
rate, almost seven hundred thousand years, before it
could reach the nearest of these twinkling luminaries.
While, beholding this vast expanse, I learn my own
extreme meanness, I .would also discover the abject
littleness of all terrestrial things. What is the earth,
with all her ostentatious scenes, compared with this
astonishingly grand furniture of the skies? What,
but a dim speck, hardly perceivable in the map of the
universe? It is observed by a very judicious riter,
that if the sun himself, which enlightens < lis part of
the creation, were extinguished, and all the host of
planetary worlds, which move about him, were anni-
hilated, they would not be missed by an xrye that can
take in the whole compass of nature, any more than a
grain of sand upon the sea-shore. The bulk of which
they consist, and the space which they occupy, are so
exceedingly little in comparison of the whole, that
their loss would scarcely leave a blank in the immen-
sity of God's works. If, then, not our globe only, but
this whole system, be so very diminutive, what is a
kingdom or a country r What are a few lordships, or
the so-much-admired patrimonies of those who are
styled wealthy? When I measure them with my own
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rilOMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
Kttle pittance, they swell into proud and bloated
dimensions : but, when I take the universe for my
standard, how scanty is their size ! how contemptible
their figure! They shrink into pompous nothings.
Addison.
Effects of Sympathy in the Distresses of Others.
To examine this point concerning the effect of tragedy
in a proper manner, we must previously consider, how
we are affected by the feelings of our fellow-creatures
in circumstances of real distress. I am convinced we
have t' degree of delight, and that no small one, in the
real mifoi unes and pains of others ; for, let the affec-
tion be what it will in appearance, if it does not make
us shun such objects. — if, on the contrary, it induces
us to approach them — if it makes us dwell upon them;
in this case, I suppose, we must have a delight or
pleasure, of some species or other, in contemplating
objects of this kind. Do we not read the authentic
histories of scenes of this nature, with as much plea-
sure as romances or poems, where the incidents ame
fictitious? The prosperity of no empire, and thie
grandeur of no king, can so c.greeably affect in th*t
reading, as the ruin of the state of Macedon, and the
distresses of its unhappy prince. Such a catastrophe
touches us in history, as much as the destruction of
Troy does in fable. Gur delight, in cases of this kind,
is very greatly heightened, it the sufferer be some
excellent person, who sinks under an unworthy for-
tune. Scipio and Cato are both virtuous characters ;
but we are more deeply affected by the violent death
of the one, and the ruin of the great cause he adhered
to, than with the deserved triumphs and uninterrupted
prosperity of the other; for terror is a passion which
always produces delight when it does not press too
close, and pity is a passion accompanied with pleasure-
because it arises from love and social affection. When-
ever we are formed by nature to any active purpose,
the passion which animates us to it is attended with
delight, or a pleasure of some kind, let the subject-
matter be whsit it will : and, as our Creator has de-
i \
t
IN ruosE.
71
signed ive should be united together by so strong n
bond as that of sympathy, he has therefore twisted
along with it a proportionable quantity of this ingre-
dient; a.id always in the greatest proportion where
our sympathy is. most wanted, in the distresses of
others. If this passion was simply painful, we should
shun, with the greatest care, all persons and places
that co'ild excite such a passion ; as some, who are so
far gone in indolence as not to endure any strong
impressions, actually do. But the case is widely
different with the greater part of mankind: there is no
spectacle we so eagerly pursue, as that of some un-
common and grievous calamity; so that, whether the
misfortune is before our eyes, or whether they are
turned back to it in history, it always touches with
delight; but it is not an unmixed delight, but blended
with no small uneasiness. The delight we have in
such things, hinders us from shunning scenes of
miiery; and the pain we feel, prompts us to relieve
ourselves in relieving those who suHer : and all this,
antecedent to any reasoning, by an instinct that worka
us to its own purposes, without our concurrence.
Burke.
An Exhortation to the Study of Eloquence.
I CANNOT conceive any thing more excellent, than to
be able, by language, to captivate the affections, to
charm the unaerstanding, and to impel or restrain the
will of whole assemblies, at pleasure. Among every
free people, especially in peaceful, settled governments
this single art has always eminently flourished, and
always exercised the greatest sway. For what can be
more surprising, than that, amidst an infinite multi-
t«4e, oi.e man should appear, who shall be the only, or
fikaK>f# the only man capable of doing what Nature has
frM m every man's power? Or, can any thing impart
§mt^ ex-juisite pleasure to the ear, and to the intellect,
as • f jj^eech in which the wisdom and dignity of the
f/^/D^Aimt^, are heightened by the utmost torce and
fejea-***/ of expression? Is there any thing so com-
M^ iHm tiif , tK) grand, as that the eloquence of one man
72
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
should direct the inclinations of the people, the con-
sciences 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 rear
the prostrate, to communicate happiness, to avert
danger, and to save a fellow-citizen from exile? Can
any thing be so necessary, as to keep those arms
always in readiness, with which you may defend your-
self, attack the profligate, and redress your own, or
your country's wrongs?
But, let us consider this accomplishment as detached
from p.uhlic business, and from its wonderful efficacy
in popular assemblies, as the bar, and in the senate ;
can any thing be more agreeable, or more endearing
in private life, then elegant language? For the great
? i. u'octeristic of our nature, and >vhat eminently dis-
ii
.^uishes
us from brutes, is the facuU-^. of social
conv(ii ion, the power of expressing our thoughts
and sentiments by words. To excel mankind, there-
fore, in the exercise of that very talent, which gives
them the preference to the brute creation, is what
every body must not, only admire, but look upon as
the just object of the most indefatigable pursuit. And
now, to mention the chief point of all, what other
power could have been of sufficient efficacy to bring
together 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, sum up this almost boundless
subject. I lay it down as a maxim, that upon the
wisdom and abilities of an accomplished orator, not
only his ov«rn dignity, but the welfare of vast numbers
of individuals, and even of the whole sta<e, must
greatly depend. Therefore, young gentlemen, go on :
ply the study in which you are engaged, for your own
honour, tho advantage of your friends, and the service
of your country. Cicero.
I
I
!
IN PROSE
73
5)
On the Cultivation of the Intellectual Powers.
A DUTY peculiarly applicable to the season of youth,
is the diligent cultivation of the intellectual powers.
Yours is the time, my young friends, for forming good
mental habits, and acquiring those liberal and rational
tastes, which will prove a source of the purest happi-
ness to the very close of existence. Now or never is
the time for giving a bent to the character. As yet,
you are not deeply involved in the perplexing cares of
life; as yet, you are not the slaves of any low and
debasing habits : your minds and all their best powers
are your own ; your curiosity is awake ; and your at-
tention capable of being easily directed and fixed to
any object— to any pursuit. Yours are the light and
cheerful spirits — the ever-active interest — the clear
and unembarrassed memory ; yours, the joyous hope
and eager expectation, which at once dispose your
minds to seek for knowledge, and qualify them for
gaining it. For you, nature unlocks her stores, and
art displays her thousand wonders; to you, are opened
the wide fields of science; to you, is unrolled the
ample page of history ; and for your instruction and
delight, is recorded all that the sage has thought, and
the poet sung. To aid your progress, and increase
your knowledge, innumerable schemes are devised,
and institutions reared, which invite you into the
paths of wisdom, and lavish on you the opportunities
of improvement. These are the prospects of your
happy period. Let them not be offered you in vain.
Let not "wisdom cry, and understanding put forth
her voice, in the top of high places, by the way in the
places of the paths;" while you turn a deaf ear to her
counsels, and go aside into the ways of folly : but
rather, in every thing goon and liberal — in every
thing connected with the progress of truth and know-
ledge and virtue and vital religion — endeavour to
prove yourselves worthy of the age in which you live,
and of the country to which you belong.
Learn, also, to be modest in your demeanour, lowly
in heart, and humble in your opinion of yourselves.
There is no quality more engaging and attractive in
youth than modesty. What says the wisest of men ?
D
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PROBflSCUOCS SELECTIONS
" Seest thoii a man w'lm in his own conceit? There is
moce hope of a fool tlum of him." An individual's
mode&t opinion of hiraseJf, is a tolerably accurate teat of
his real merit; and if this be true of men in general, it
is still more so of young people, who can have but
little knowledge) and still less experience. Rashness^
petulance, and self-conceit, will sometimes hurry even
well-meaning young [jersons into mistakes, which they
could not foresee — perhaps into chnes, which they
would have blushed and trembled to think of before-
hand. Enter, then, the paths of lile, cautiously and
circumspectly, distrustful of your8elves> and willing to
be advised and directed by those who are wiser and
more ex^pecieneed. Feel your own weakness and
liability to err,, and it will, lead you to cultivate a
devotional spirit) ; acknowledge your own ignorance
and want of experience, and, it will dispose you to lean
upon your parents; confess the feebleness of your
abilities, and the small extent of your knowledge) and
it will stimulate you to improve your minds diligently,
and may be a means of ultimately leading you to>
the highest attainments in knowledge and wisdom.
Tai/lor,
The Fallen Leaf.
" The fellen leaf !" Again and again 1 repeated this
sentence to myself, when, after traversing the avenue
for some tijue, I had inadveitently stepped into a heap^
of these mementtMJs of the departing year. This trivial
incident broke in upon a gay and buoyant train of
thought ; and, as iot a single moment I stood fixed to
the spot, the words of the prophet fell with a deep
and painful meaning upon my heart. I resumed my
walk, and would have resumed with pleasure the train>
of thought that had been broken, but in vain ; and
when I again reached the place where the fallen leaves
were collected, I made a longer pause. With how
loud a voice did they speak of the end of all things !
how forcibly remind me^ that those busy projects
which at that moment agitated my heart, would, like
then, fade, and be carried away in tho tide of life !
IN PBQSIC
w
^r
The leaves fade away, and leave the parent stem
desolate : but, in a few short months, th.07 will bud
and bloom again ; other leaves, as gay as those were,
will supply their place, ^.nd clothe the f rest with as
bright a green. And is it i.ot so with the heart? We
are separated from those wha are now most dear to us,
or they fade away into the tomb j new interests are
excited, new friendships contracted, and every former
image is effaced and forgotten.
My eye now rested on the venerable pile, cf building
before me: it seemed but as yesterday, since the master
of that stately mansion stood at the gate to welcome
my arrival; and now, where was he?— Gone — and for
ever I The acf ^nts of his voice were never again to
be heard ; u ;y eye was to behold him 'lo more. — Aa
these thoug its passed through my mind, a slight
breeze for a moment agitated the naked branches ; it
helped to ccraplete the work of desolation ; and several
of the still remaining leaves were wafted to my feet.
How indiscriminately were here mingled — the pride of
the forest, the m^estic oak, the trembling aspen, the
graceful poplar, with all the tribe of iiifeiior shrubs I
Here lay all that remained of their once-gay foiiage—
one undistinguishable mass of decay; with no mark to
point out to which they had originally belonged. And
shall not Death, the great leveller, red :<'e us to the
same state of equality? The great, th" noble, the
learned, the beautiful — when they lay down their
heads in the grave — what are they more than the
mean, the lowly, and the worthless? They leave a
name behind them for a short time, and then — how
soon are the best beloved forgotten ! Feelings such as
these must have been felt by thousands , and, whilst
they serve to temper the enjoyment of p: i. 'perity, they
contribute also to smooth the rugged path of life, and
calm the sufferings of the wounded spirit. Since,
whether one day has been bright or cloudy, spring and
summer must, ere long, give place to autumn; and vheu
comes tht winter, when we, too, must fa'^.o as the leaf.
Jlnonymous.
76
PROMI8CU008 SELECTIONS
happiness.
What is earthly happiness? — that phantom, of which
we hear so much and see so little ; whose promises av*
constantly given, and constantly broken, but as con-
stantly believed; that cheats us with the sound instead
of the substance, and with the blossom intead of the
fruit. Anticipation is her herald, but disappointment
is her companion; the first addresses itself to our ima-
gination, that would believe ; but the latter to our
experience, that must. Happiness, that grand mistress
of the ceremonies in the dance of life, impels us
through all its mazes and meanderings, but leads none
of us by the same route. Aristippus pursued her in
pleasure, Socrates in wisdom, and Epicurus in both;
she received the attentions of each, but bestowed her
endearments on none of them. Warned by their
failure, the stoic adopted another mode of preferring
his suit : he thouglit, by slandering, to obtain her ; by
shunning, to win her; and proudly presumed, that, by
fleeing her, she would turn and follow him. She is
deceitful as the ea!ro that precedes the hurricane ;
smooth as the waier a? the edge of the cataract ; and
beautiful ?\s X\u) rainbow, that smiling daughter of the
storm : but, like the Image in the desert, she tantalizes
us with a delusion, that distance creates, and that
contiguity destroys ; yet, often, when unsought she is
found, and when unexpected, often obtained : while
those who search for her the most diligently, fail the
most, because they seek her where she is not. Anthony
sought her in love; Brutus, in glory; Caesar, in domi-
nion. The first found disgrace ; the second disgust ;
the last, ingratitude; and each, deiittruction.
To some she is more kind, but not less cruel ; she
hands them her cup, and they drink even to stupefac-
tion, until they doubt whether they are men — with
Philip, or dream that they are gods — with Alexander.
On some she smiles, as on Napoleon, with an aspect
more bewitching than that of an Italian sun ; but it is
only to make her frown the more terrible, and, by one
short caress, to embitter the pangs of separation.
Ambition, avarice, love, revenge, all these seek her,
and her alone: alas! they are neither presented to her,
J a
i
4»
i
4
IN PROSE.
77
nor will she come to them. She despatches, however,
to them her envoys. To ambition, she sends power ;
to avarice, wealth ; to love, jealousy ; to revenge,
remorse: — alas I what are these, but so many other
names for vexation or disappointment! Neither is she
to be won by flatteries nor bribes : she is to be gained
by waging war against her enemies, m' b -oner than
by paying any particular court to her ''hose that
conquer her adversaries, will find th '"'ed not
go to her; for she will come unto the
None bid so high for her as kingi j more
willing, none more able, to purchase her ulliaiu e at the
fullest price. But she has no more respect for kings,
than for their subjects ; she mocks them, indeed, with
the empty show of a visit, by sending to their palaces
all her equipage, her pomp, and her train ; but she
comes not herself. What, then, detains her? She is
travelling incognito, to keep a private assignation with
contentment, and to partake of a conversation and a
dinner of herbs, with some humble, but virtuous pea-
sant, in a cottage. Anonymous.
The Idiot.
A POOR widow, in a small town in the north of Eng-
land, kept a booth or stall of apples and sweetmeats.
She had an idiot child, so utterly helpless and depen-
dent, that he did not appear to be ever alive to anger
or self-defence. He sat all day at her feet, and seemed
to be possessed of no other sentiment of the human
kind, than confidence in his mother's love, and a dread
of the schoolboys, by whom he was often annoyed.
His whole occupation, as he sat on the ground, was in
swinging backwards and forwards, singing "pal-lal"
in a low pathetic voice, only interrupted at intervals
on the appearance of any of his tormentors, when he
clung to his mother in alarm. From morning to even-
ing he suug his plaintive and aimless ditty ; at night,
when his poor mother gathered up her little wares to
return home, so deplorable did his defects appear, that,
while she carried her table on her head, her stock of
little merchandise in her lap, and her stool in one
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PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
band, she was obliged to lead kvm by the odier. Ever
and luioD, as any of the schoolboys appeared in view,
the harmless thing clung close to her, and hid his face
in her bosom for protection. A hxnnan creature so far
belovr the standard of humanity, was nowhere ever
seen : he had not evon the shallow cunning which is
often found among these unfinished beings; and his
simplicity could not even be measured by the standard
we would apply to the capacity of a hnnb. Yet it had
a feeling rarely manifested even in the affectionate
dog, and a knowledge never shown by any mere laui-
mal. He was sensible of his mother's kindness, and
bow much be owed to her <care. At mght, mkea she
Spread his humble palilet, though be ^new not prayer^
nor could comprehend the solemnities •of wor^sp, he
pirostrated hims^atlier feet; and, as he kissed tfaem,
mumbled a kind of mental orssan, as if in fond and
htdy dteivotion. In tbjb morniiiig, befWe she went abroad
to resume ^er stetion in tina mfla*ket-q[»lace, be peeped
aazioHsly out to reconnoitre the .-street ; awl, as often
as (he jBaw^ny of the schoolboys in the way, be held
her firmly back, and sung his sorrowful "pal-lal."
One day the poor woman and her idiot boy were
missed from the markeft'piacei and the charity of some
of the neaghboura induced them to visit her hovel.
They -£o.und her dead -oq her sorry coucl^ and the
boy sitting beside her, holding her han^t swinging
And singing his pitiful lay more sorrowfuUy than he
had ever done bdbne. He could not speak, but only
utter a brutish gabble; sometimes, however, be looked
as if he comprehended something of what was said.
On this occasion, when the neighbours epaiod to him,
he looked up with the tear ia his eye; and clasping the
cold hand more tenderly, sunk the strain of his
mournful " pal-lal" into a softer and sadder key. The
spectators, deeply affected, raised liim from the body;
and he surrendered bis hold of the earthly hand with-
out resistance, retiring in silence to an obscure corner
of the room. One of theoi; looking towards the others,
said to them, " Poor wretch ] wlwt shall we do with
him ?' At that moment, he resumed has chant ; and,
lifting two handfuls of dust from the fioor, sprinkled it
4*»
IN vaoBR. naym
79
on his head, and sang, with a wild and clear heart-
piercing pathos, " pal-lal — 'paUlal/'
> 3 ' -. MaekwoocCa Moffazime.
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Emphasis, Pauses, and Tones,
Bt emphasis is meant a failer and stronger sound of
voice, by which we distinguish the accented syllable
of some word, on which we intend to lay particular
stress, and to show how it affects the rest of the sen-
tence. To acquire the proper management of em-
phasis, l^e only rule is, study to acqaire a just con-
ception of the force and spirit of those sentiments
which you are to deliver. In all prepared discourses,
it would be extremely useful, if they were read 'ww
or rehearsed in ptrivate, with a view of aseertavniiig
the proper emphasis, before they were piononnoed iti
public; maiidng, at the same tine, the empbatioal
words in &rery sentence, or at least in the most im-
portant parts of the discourse, and fixing them well in
memory. A caution, however, must be given against
multiplying emphatical words too much. They become
etriking, only when used with prudent reserve, if
they recor too frequently, if a speaker attempt to ren-
der every thing he says of high importance, by a mvA-
titnde of strong emphasis, l^ey will boob fail to excite
the attention of his bearers.
Next to emphasis, pauses demand attention. They
are of two kinds: first, emphatical pauses; and secondly,
such as mark the distinction of sense. An emphatical
pause is made after something has been said oif pecu-
liar moment, on which we wish to fix the hearers*
attention. Sometimes a matter of importance is pre-
ceded by a pause of this nature. Such pauses have the
same effect with strong emphasis, and are subject to
the same rules ; especially to the caution just now
given, of not repeating them too frequently. For, as
they excite uncommon attention, and consequently
raise expectation, if this be not fully answered, they
occasion disappointment and disgust.
But the most frequent and the principal use of
pauses is, to mark the divisions of the tense, and at the
80
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
same time to permit the speaker to draw his breath ;
and the proper management of such pauses is one of
the most nice and difficult articles in delivery. A pro-
per command of the breath is peculiarly requisite. To
obtain this, every speaker should be very careful to
provide a full supply of breath for what he is to utter.
It is a great mistake to suppose that the breath must
be drawn only at the end of a period, when the voice
is allowed to fall It may easily be gathered at the
intervals of a period, when the voice suffers only a
momentary suspension. By this management, a suffi-
cient supply may be obtained for carrying on the
longest period, without improper interruptions.
Pauses in public discourse must be formed upon the
manner in which we express ourselves in sensible
conversation, and not upon the stiff*, artificial manner
which we acquire from perusing books according to
common punctuation. Punctuation, in general, is very
arbitrary; often capricious and false; dictating a uni-
formity of tone in the pauses, which is extremely un-
pleasing. For it must be observed, that to render
pauses graceful and expressive, they must not only be
made in the right places, but also be accompanied by
proper tones of voice ; by which the nature of these
pauses is intimated much more than by their length,
which can never be exactly measured. Sometimes,
only a slight an^ simple suspension of the 'ce is
proper; sometimes a degree of cadence is .isite;
and sometimes that peculiar tone and cadenoe which
mark the conclusion of a period* In these cases, a
speaker is to regulate himself by the manner in which
he speaks when engaged in earnest discourse with
others.
In reading or reciting verse, there is a peculiar diffi-
culty in making the pauses with propriety. There
are two kinds of pauses, which belong to the music of
verse ; one at the end of a line, and the other in
the middle of it. Rhyme always renders the former
sensible, and compels observance of it in pronuncia-
tion. In blank verse, it is less perceivable; and when
there is no suspension of the sense, it has been doubt-
ed whether in reading such verse, any regard . should
^
IN PR08B.
81
1^
be paid to the close of a line. On the stage, indeed,
where the appearance of speaking in verse should be
avoided, the close of such lines as make no pause in
the sense should not be rendered perceptible to the
ear. On other occasions, we ought, for the sake of
melody, to read blank verse in such manner as to make
each line sensible to the ear. In attempting this, how-
ever, every appearance of singsong and tone must be
cautiously avoided. The close of a line, where there
is no pause in the meaning, should be marked only by
so slight a suspension of sound as may distinguish the
passage from one line to another, without injuring the
sense.
The pause in the middle of the line falls after the
4th, 5 th, 6th, or 7th syllable, and no other. When this
pause coincides with the slightest division in the sense,
the line may be read with ease ; as in the first two
lines of Pope's Messiah :
Ye nymphs of Solyma, begin the song.
To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong.
But if words that have so intimate a connexion as
not to admit even a momentary separation be divided
from each other by this cesural pause, we then per-
ceive a conflict between the sense and sound, which
renders it difficult to read such lines gracefully. In
such cases, it is best to sacrifice sound to sense. For
instance, in the following lines of Milton ;
What in me is dark.
Illumine; what is low, raise and support.
The sense clearly dictates the pause after "illumine,"
which ought to be observed ; though if melody only
were to be regarded, *^ illumine" should be connected
with what follows, and no pause made before the 4th
or 6th syllable. So also in the following line of Pope's
Epistle to Arbuthnot :
I sit; with sad civility I read,
The ear points out the pause as falling after "sad,"
the fourth syllable. But to separate "sad" and
"civility" would be very bad reading. The sense
allows no other pause than after the second syllable;
d2
82
PROMISCUOUS BBLECTIONS
" sit;" which therefore, is the only one to be observed.
We proceed to treat of tones in pronunciation,
which are different both from emphasis and pauses;
consisting in the modulation of the voice, the notes or
variations of sound which are employed in public
speaking. The most material instruction which can
be given on this subject is, to form the tones of public
speaking upon the tones of animated conversation.
Every one who is engaged in speaking on a subject
which interests him nearly, has an eloquent, persuasive
tone and manner. But when a speaker d.eparts from
his natural tone of expression, he becomes frigid and
unpersuasive. Nothing is more absurd than to sup-
pose, that as soon as a speaker ascends a pulpit, or
rises in a public assembly, he is instantly to lay aside
the voice with which he expresses himself in private,
and to assume a new, studied tone, and a cadence
altogether different from his natural manner. This
has vitiated all delivery, and has given rise to cant and
tedious monotony. Let every public speaker guard
against this error. Whether he speak in private or in
a great assembly, let him remember that he still speaks.
Let him take nature for his guide, and she will teach
him to express his sentiments and feelings in such
manner, as to make the most forcible and pleasing
impression upon the minds of his hearers. Blair.
Gestures.
It now remains to treat of gesture, or what is called
action in public discourse. The best rule is, attend
to the looks and gesture in which earnestness, indig-
nation, compassion, or any other emotion, discovers
itself to most advantage in the common intercourse of
men ; and let these be your model. A public speaker
must, however, adopt that manner which is most
natural to himself. His motions and gestures ought
all to exhibit that kind of expression which nature has
dictated to him; and unless this be the case, no study
can prevent their appearing stiff and forced. But,
though nature is the basis on which every grace of
gesture must be founded, yet there is room for some
41
m pRosc.
88
^ers
of
Iker
lost
Ight
Ihas
idy
lut,
of
4i
improvements of art. The study of action consists
chiefly in guarding against awkward and disagreeable
motions, and in learning to perform such as are natural
to the speaker in the most graceful manner. Nume-
rous are the rules which writers have laid down for
the attainment of proper gesticulation. But written
instructions on this subject can be of little service. To
become useful, they must be exemplified. A few of
the simplest precepts, however, may be observed with
advantage. Every speaker should study to preserve
as nuch dignity as possible in the attitude of his body.
He should generally prefer an erect posture; his posi-
tion should be firm, that he may have the fullest and
freest command of all his motions. If any inclination
be used, it should be toward the hearers, which is a
natural expression of earnestness. The countenance
should correspoud with the nature of the discourse ;
and, when no particukr emotion is expressed, a
serious and manly look is always to be preferred. The
eyes should never be fixed entirely on any one object,
but move easily round the audience. In motion made
^ with the hands consists the principal part of gesture
in speaking. It is natural for the right hand to be
employed more frequently than the left. Warm emo-
tions require the exercise of them both together. But
whether a speaker gesticulate with one or with both
his hands, it is important that all his motions be easy
and unrestrained. Narrow and confined movements
are usually ungraceful; and, consequently, motions
made with the hands should proceed from the shoul-
der, rather than from the elbow. Perpendicular move-
ments are to be avoided. Oblique motions are most
pleasing and graceful. Sudden and rapid motions
are seldom good. Earnestness can bo fully expressed
without their assistance.
We cannot conclude 'this subject, without earnestly
admonishing every speaker to guard against affecta-
tion, which is the destruction of good delivery. Let
his manner, whatever it be, be his own ; neither imi-
tated from another, nor talcen from some imaginary
model, which is unnatural to him. Whatever is native,
though attended by several defects, is likely to please,
84
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
because it shows us the man ; and because it has the
appearance of proceeding from the heart. To attain a
delivery extremely correct and graceful is what few
can expect; since so many natural talents must concur
in its formation. But to acquire a forcible and persua-
sive manner is within the power of. most persons.
They need only to dismiss bad habits, follow nature, .
and speak in public as they do in private, when they
speak in earnest, and from the heart. Blair,
Death of Charles the Second.
The death of King Charles the Second took the nation
by surprise. His frame was naturally strong, and did
not appear to have suffered from excess. He had
always been mindful of his health even in his plea-
sures; and his habits were such as promise a long life
and a robust old age. Indolent as he was on all occa-
sions which required tension of the mind, he was
active and persevering in bodily exercise."^ He had,
when young, been renowned as a tennis player, and
was, even in the decline of life, an indefatigable,
walker. xHis ordinary pace was such that those who
were admitted to the honor of his society found it
difficult to keep up with him. He rose early, and gen-
erally passed three or four hours a day in the open air.
He might be seen, beforf; the dew was off the grass in
St. James' Park, striding among the trees, playing
with his spaniels, and flinging corn to his ducks; and
these exhibitions endeared him to the common people,
who always love to see the great unbend. -t
At length, towards the close of the year 1684, he
was prevented, by a slight attack of what was supposed
to be gout, from rambling as usual. He now spent his
mornings in his laboratory, where he amused himself
with experiments on the properties of mercury. His
temper seemed to have suffered from confinement. He
had no apparent cause for disquiet. His kingdom was
tranquil : he was not in pressing want of money : his
power was greater than it had ever been :/the party
which had long thwarted him had been beaten down :
but the cheerfulness which had supported him against
\
i
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3d
kis
* i-r.i:
IN PROSE.
85
adverse fortune had vanished in this season of prospe-
rity. V A trifle now sufficed to depress those elastic
spirits which had borne up against defeat, exile, and
penury. His irritation frequently showed itself by
looks and words, such as could hardly have been ex-
pected from a man so eminently distinguished by
good humour and good breeding. It was not sup-
posed, however, that his constitution was seriously
impaired. - . : > (j» , vt ..? >^:^Mr
His palace*had seldom presented a gayer or a more
scandalous appearance than^n the evening of Sunday,
the first of February, 1685. Some grave persons who
had gone thither, after the fashion of that age, to pay
their duty to their sovereign, and who had expected
that, on such a day, his court would wear a decent
aspect, were struck witli astonishment and horror.
The great gallery of Whitehall, an admirable relic of
the magnificence of the Tudors, was crowded with
revellers and gamblers. \
A party of twenty courtiers was seated at cards,
round a large table, on which gold was heaped in
mountains. Even then the king had complained that
'-■ he did not feel quite well. He had no appetite for his
supper ; his rest that night was broken ; but on the
following morning he rose, as usual, early.
J^ To that morning the contending factions in his
council had, during some days, looked forward with
anxiety. The struggle between Halifax and ixjchester
seemed to be approaching a decisive crisis. Halifax,**
not content with having already driven his rival from
the board of Treasury^ had undertaken to prove him
guilty of such dishonesty or neglect in the conduct or
the finances as ought to be punished by dismission
from the public service. It was even whispered that
the lord president would probably be sent to the^
Tower before night. The king had promised to in-
quire into the matter. The second of February had
been fixed for the investigation; and several officers of^
the revenue had been ordered to attend with their
books on that day. But a great turn of fortune was at
hand.J^
Sea! cely had Charles risen from his bed when his
y
86
PBOMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
attendants perceived that his utterance was indistinct*
and that his thoughts seemed to be wandering. Several
men of rank had, as usual, assembled to see their sove-
reign shaved and dressed. He made an effort tow.
converse with them in his usual gay style; but his
ghastly look surprised and alarmed them. Soon his
face grew black ; his eyes turned in his head ; he ut-
tered a cry, staggered, and fell into the arms of Tho-
mas Lord Bruce, eldest son of the Earl of Ailesbury.
A physician, who had charge of the royal retorts and
crucibles, happened to be present. He had no lancet ;
but he open^ a vein with a penknife. The blood
flowed freely; but the king was still insensible.
And now the gates of Whitehall, which ordinarily
stood open to all comers, were closed. But persons
whose faces were known were still permitted to enter.
The antechambers and galleries were soon filled to
overflowing; and even the sick room was crowded with
peers, privy councillors, and foreign ministers. All the
medical men of note in London were summoned. So
high did political animosities run that the presence of
some Whig physicians was regarded as an extraordi-
nary circumstance. One Roman Catholic, whose skill
was then widely renowned. Doctor Thomas Short, was
in attendance. Several of the prescriptions have been
preserved. One of them is signed by fourteen doctors.
T!he patient was bled lai^ely. Hot iron was applied
to his head. A loathsome volatile salt, extracted from
human skulls, was forced into bis mouth. He recovered
his senses; but he was evidently in a situation of ex-
treme danger.
The queen was for a time assiduous in her atten-
dance. The Duke of York scarcely left his brother's
bedside. The primate an 1 four other bishops were
then in London. They remained a^ Whitehall all day,
and took it by turns to sit up at night in the king*8
room. The news of his illness /^Ued the capital with
sorrow and dismay. For his easy temper and affable
manners had won the affection of a large part of the
nation; and those who most disliked him preferred his
unprincipled levity to the stern and earnest bigotry of
his brother.
J
■I
IN PR081.
IB
of
)
- On thA morning of Thursday, the fifth of February,
the London Gazette announced that his majesty was
going on well, and was thought by the physicians to
be out of danger. The bells of all the churches rang
merrily ; and preparations for bonfires were made in
the streets. But in the evening it was known that a
relapse had taken place, and that the medical atten-
dauts had given up all hope. The public mind was
greatly disturbed; but there was no disposition to tu-
mult. The Duke of York, who had already taken on
himself to give orders, ascertained that the city was
perfectly quiet, and that he might without difficulty be
proclaimed as soon as his brother should expire.
The king was in great pain, and complained that he
felt as if a fire was burning within him. Yet he bore
up against his sufferings with a fortitude which did
not seem to belong to his soft and luxurious nature.
The sight of his misery affected his wife so much that
she fainted, and was carried senseless to her chamber.
The prelates who were in waiting had from the first
exhorted him to prepare for his end. They now
thought it their duty to address him in a still more
urgent manner. William Sancroft, Archbishop of
Canterbury, an honest and pious man, used great
freedom. "It is time," he said, "to speak out;
for, sir, you are about to appear before a judge who
is no respecter of persons." Tha king answered not
a word.
Thomas Ken^ Bishop of Bath and Wells, then tried
his powers of persuasion. He was a man of parts and
learning, of quick sensibility and stainless virtue. His
elaborate works have long been forgotten ; but his
morning and evening hymns are still repeated daily in
thousands of dwellings. Though, like most of his
order, zealous for monarchy, he was no sycophant.
Before he became a bishop, he had maintained the
honour of his gown by refusing, when the court was at
Winchester, to let Eleanor Gwynn lodge in the house
which he occupied there as a prebendary. The king
had sense enough to respect so manly a spirit. Of all
the prelates he liked Ken the best. It was to no pur-
pose, however, that the good bishop now put forth all
88
PROMISCUOUS SBLKCTIONS
his eIoqu€ne«. His solemn and pathetic exhortation
awed and melted the bystanders, to such a degree that
some among them believed him to be filled with the
same spirit which, in the old time, had, by the mouths
of Nathan and Ellas, called sinful princes to repen-
tance. Charles, however, was unmoved. He made no
objection indeed when the service for the Visitation of
the Sick was read. In reply to the pressing questions
of the divines, he said that he was sorry for what he
had done amiss; and he suffered the absolution to be
pronounced over him according to the forms of the
Church . of England : but, when he was urged to
declare that he died in the communion of that Church,
he seemed not to hear what was said ; and nothing
could induce him to take the Eucharist from the hands
of the bishops. A table with bread and wine was
brought to his bedside, but in vain. Sometimes he
said that there was no hurry, and sometimes that he
was too weak.
Many attributed this apathy to contempt for divine
things, and many to the stupor which often precedes
death. But there were in the palace a few persons
who knew better. Charles had never been a sincere
member of the Established Church. His mind had
long oscillated between Hobbism and Popery. When
his health was good and his spirits high, he was a
scoffer. In his few serious moments he was a Roman
Catholic. The Duke of York was aware of this, but
was entirely occupied with the care of his own inte-*
fests. He had ordered the outports to be closed. He
had posted detachments of the guards in different parts
of the city. He had also procured the feeble signature
of the dying king to an instrument by which some
duties, granted only till the demise of the crown, were
let to farm for a term of three years. These things
occupied the attention of James to such a degree that,
though, on ordinary occasions, he was indiscreetly and
unseasonably eager to bring ov€r proselytes to his
church, he never reflected that his brother was in
danger of dying without the last sacraments. This
neglect was the more extraordinary because the
Duchess of York had, at the request of the queen,
IN PROSE.
89
suggested, on the morning on which the king was
taken ill, the propriety of procuring spiritual assist-
ance. For such assistance Charles was at last indebted
to an agency very different from that of his pious wife
and sister-in-law. A life of frivolity and vice had not
extinguished in the Duchess of Portsmouth all senti-
ments of religion, or all that kindness which is the
glory of her sex. The French ambassador, Barillon,
who had coroe to the palace to inquire after the king,
paid her a visit. He found her in an agony of sorrow.
She took him into a secret room, and poured out her
whole heart to him. " I have,*' she said, " a thing of
great moment to tell you. If it were known, my head
would be in danger. The king is really and truly a
Catholic ; but he will die without being reconciled to
the Church. His bedchamber is full of Protestant
clergymen. I cannot enter it without giving scandal.
The duke is thinking only of himself. Speak to him.
Remind him that there is a soul at sake. Ho is master
now. He can clear the room. Go this instant, or it
will be too late."
Barillon hastened to the bedchamber, took the duke
aside, and delivered the message of the mistress. The
conscience of James smote him. He started as if
roused from sleep, and declared that nothing should
prevent him from discharging the sacred duty, which
had been too long delayed. Several schemes were
discussed and rejected. At last the duke commanded
the crowd to stand aloof, went to the bed, stooped
down, and whispered something which none of the
spectators could hear, but w.hich they supposed to be
some question about affairs of state. Charles answered
in an audible voice, "Yes, yes, with all my heart."
None of the bystanders, except the French ambas-
sador, guessed that the king was declaring his wish
to be admitted into the bosom of the Church of Rome.
" Shall I bring a priest?" said the duke. " Do, bro-
ther," replied the sick man. "For God's sake do, and
lose no time. But no; you will get into trouble.'*
" If it costs me my life," said the duke, "I will fetch a
priest."
To find a priest, however, for such a purpose, at a
90
FROMISCDOUS SELECTIONS
moment's notice, was not easy. Far, as the law then
«tood, the person who admitted a proselyte into the
Koman Catholic Church was guilty of a capital ^rime.
The Count of Castel Melhor, a Portuguese nohleman,
\irho, driven by political troubles from his native land,
had been hospitably received at the English court,
undertook to procure a confessor. He had recourse to
his countrymen who belonged to the queen's house-
hold ; but he found that none of her chaplains knew
English or French enough to shrive the king. The
duke and Barillon were about to send to the Venetian
minister for a clergyman, when they heard that a
Benedictine monk, named John Huddleston, happened
to be at Whitehall. This man had, with great risk to
himself, saved the king's life after the battle of Wor-
cester, and had, on that account, been, ever since the
Restoration, a privileged person. In the sharpest pro-
clamations which were put forth against popish priests,
when false witnesses had inflamed the nation to fuiy,
Huddleston had been excepted by name. He readily
consented to put his life a second time in peril for his
prince, but there was still & difficulty. I'iie honest
monk was so illiterate that he did not know what he
ought to say on an occasion of such importance. He
however obtained some hints, through the intervention
of Castel Melhor, from a Portuguese ecclesiastic, and,
thus instructed, was brought up l^e back stairs by
ChifBnch, a confidential servant, who, if the satires of
that age are to be credited, had often introduced visi-
tors of a very different description by the same en^
trance. The duke then, in the king's name, commanded
all who were present to quit the room, except Lewis
Duras, Earl of Feversham, and John Oranville, Earl
of Bath. Both these lords professed the Protestant
religion ; but James conceived that he could count on
their fidelity. Feversham, a Frenchman of noble birth,
and nephew of the great Turenne, held high rank in
the English army, and ^^^as chamberlain to the queen.
Bath was groom of the stole.
The duke's orders were obeyed; and even the phy-
sicians withdrew. The back door was then opened,
and Father Huddleston entered. A cloak had been
IN PROSE.
91
thrown over his sacred vestments, and his shavea
crown was concealed by a flowing wig. " Sir,*' said
the duke, " this good man . once saved your life. He
now comes to save your soul." Charles faintly
answered, "He is welcome." Huddlestou went through
his part better than had been expected. He knelt by
the bed, listened to the confession, pronounced the
absolntion, and administered extreme unctioo. H«
ssked if the king wished to receive the Lord's Sapper.
" Surely," said Charles, "if I am not unworthy." The
host was brought in. Charles feebly strove to rise and
kneel before it. The priest bade him lie still, and
assured him that God would accept the humiliation of
the soul, and would not require the humiliation of the
body. The king fornd so much difficulty in swallow '
ing the bread that it was necessary to open the door
and to procure a glass of water. This rite ended, the
tnonk held up a crucifix before the penitent, charged
Mm to fix his last thoughts on the sufferings of the
Itedeemer, and withdrew. The whole ceremony had
■occupied about three quarters of an hour; and, during
that time, the'courtiers who filled the outer room had
-communicated their suspicious to each other by
whispers and significant glances. The door was at
length thrown open, and the crowd again filled the
chamber of death.
It was now late in the evening. The king seemed
much relieved by what had passed. His natural chil-
dren were brought to his bedside; the Dukes of Grafton,
Southampton, and Northumberland, sons of the
Duchess of Cleveland, the Duke of St. Alban's, son of
Eleanor Gwynn, and the Duke of Richmond, son of
the Duchess of Portsmouth. Charles blessed them all,
but spoke with peculiar tenderness to Richmond. One
face which should have beon there was wanting.
The eldest and best beloved child was an exile and a
wanderer. His name was not once mentioned by his
father.
Daring the night Charles earnestly recommended
the Duchess of Portsmouth and her boy to the care of
James ; "And do not," he good-naturedly added, " let
poor Nelly starve," The queen sent excuses for her
I i
92
PROMISCUOUS SELBCTIOMS
absence, by Halifax. She said that she was too much
disordered to resume her post by the couch, and im-
plored pardon for any offence which she might
unwittingly have given. " She ask my pardon, poor
woman !" cried Charles ; " I ask hers with all my
heart."
The morning light began to peep through the win-
dows of Whitehall; and Charles desired the attendants
to pull aside the curtains, that he might have one more
look at the day. He remarked that it was time to
wind up a clock which stood near his bed. These little
circumstances were long remembered, because they
proved beyond dispute that, when he declared himself
a Roman Catholic, he was in full possession of his
faculties. He apologized to those who had s^ood round
him all night for the trouble which he had caused. He
had been, he said, a most unconscionable time dying;
but he hoped that they would excuse it. This was the
last glimpse of that exquisite urbanity, so often found
potent to charm away the resentment of a justly
incensed nation. Soon after dawn the speech of the
dying man failed. Before ten his senses were gone.
Great numbers had repaired to the churches at the
hour of morning service. When the prayer for the
king was read, loud groans and sobs showed how
deeply his people felt for him. At noon on Friday,
the sixth of February, he passed away without a
struggle. Macaulay,
Execution of Louis X VI.
At nine o'clock Santerre presented himself in the
Temple- " You come to seek me," said the king ;
*' allow me a minute." He went into his closet, and
immediately came out with his testament in his hand.
" I pray you," said he, " to give this packet to the queen,
my wife." " That is no concern of mine," replied the
worthy representative of the municipality ; " I am here
only to conduct you to the scaffold." The king then
asked another member of the commune to take charge
of the document, and said to Santerre, ^'Let us set
off." The municipality next day published the testa-
IN PROSE.
9a
ment, ' jb a proof of the fanaticism and crimes of the
king :" without intending it, they thereby raised the
noblest monument to his memory.
In passing through the court of the Temple, Louis
cast a last look to the tower, which contained all that
was dear to him in the world; and immediately sum-
moning up his courage, seated himself calmly in the
carriage beside his confessor, with two gendarmes on
the opposite side. During the passage to the place of
execution, which occupied two hours, he never ceased
reciting the psalms which was pointed out by the vene-
rable priest. Even the soldiers were astonished at his
composure. The streets were filled with an immense
crowd, who beheld in silent dismay the mournful pro-
cession : a large body of troops surrounded the car-
riage ; a double file of soldiers and National Guards,
and a formidable array of cannon, rendered hopeless
any attempt at rescue. When the procession arrived
at the place of execution, between the gardens of the
Tuileries and the Champs Elysdes, he descended from
the carriage, and undressed himself without the aid of
the executioners, but testified a momentary look of in-
dignation when they began to bind his hands. M.
Edgeworth exclaimed, with almost inspii'ed felicity,
** Submit to that outrage as the last resemblance to the
Saviour, who is about to recompense your sufferings."
At these words he resigned himself, and walked to the
foot of the scaffold. He there received the sublime
benediction from his confessor, " Son of St. Louis,
ascend to heaven !" No sooner had he mounted,
than, advancing with a firm step to the front of the
scaffold, with one look he imposed silence on twenty
drummers, placed there to prevent his being heard, and
said, with a loud voice, " I die innocent of all the crimes
laid to my charge ; I pardon the authors of my death,
and pray God that my blood may never fall upon
France. And you, unhappy people — " At these words
Santerre ordered the drums to beat ; the executioners
seized the king, and the descending axe terminated his
existence. One of the assistants seized the head and
waved it in the air ; the blood fell on the confessor,
who was still on his knees beside the lifeless body of
his sovereign. Alison,
91
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
School-days of Napoleon,
At an early age he was sent to the military school of
Brienne. His characj:er there underwent a rapid alter-
ation. He became thoughtful, studious, contemplative,
and diligent in the extreme. His proficiency, espe-
cially in mathematics, was soon remarkable ; but the
quickness of his temper, though subdued, was not ex-
tinguished. On one occasion, having been subjected
to a degrading punishment by his master,, that of din-
ing on his knees at the gate of the refectory, the mor-
tification he experienced was so excessive that it pro-
duced a violent vomiting, and a universal tremor of
the nerves. But in the games of his companions he
was inferior to none in spirit and agility, and already
began to evince, in a decided predilection for military
pursuits, the native bias of his mind.
During the winter of 1783-4, so remarkable for its
severity even in southern latitudes, the amusements of
the boys without doors were completely stopped. Na-
poleon proposed to his companions to beguile the weary
Lours by forming intrenchments and bastions of snow;
with parapets, ravelins, and horn-works. The little
army was divided into two parties, one of which was
intrusted with the attack, the other with the defence
of the works ; and the mimic war was continued for
several weeks, during which fractures and wounds were
received on both sides. On another occasion, the wife
of the porter of the school, well known to the boys for
the fruit which she sold, having presented herself at
the door of their theatre, to be allowed to see the Death
of Ctesavt whicL was to be played by the youths, and
been refused an entrance, the sergeant at the door, in-
duced by the vehemence of her manner, reported the
matter to the young Napoleon, who was the oiRcer in
command on the occasion. " Remove that woman, who
brings here the license of camps I" said the future ruler
of the Revolution.
It was the fortune of the school at Brienne at this
time to possess among its scholars, besides Napoleon,
another boy, who rose to the highest eminence in the
Revolution, Pichegru, afterwards conqueror of Holland.
He was several years older than Napoleon, and in-
■1
US- PKoex.
95
1
ftfucted him in the elementa of mathematics and the
four first rules of arithmetic. Picli^ru early perceiv-
ed the firm eharacter of his little pupil ; and when
many years afterwards he had embraced the Roy-
alist party,, and it was proposed to him to sound
Napoleon, then in command of the army of Italy, be
replied, " Don't waste time upon him : I hare known
him from his infancy ; his character is inflexible ; he
has taken his side^ and will never swerve from it."
The fate of these two illustrious men ailterwards rose in
painful contrast to each other : Pichegru was strangled
in adnngeon when Napoleon was ascending the throne
of France.
The speculations of Napoleon at this time were
more devoted to political than military subjects. His
habits were thoughtful and solitary ; and his conver-
sation, even at that early age, was so remarkable for
its reflection and energy, that it attracted the notice of
the Abb6 Baynal, with whom he frequently lived in
vacations, and who discoursed with him on govemmentr
legislation, and the relations of commerce. He was
distinguished by his Italian complexion, his piercing
look, and the decided style of his expression : a pecu-
liarity which frequently led to a vehemence of manner,
which rendered him not generally popular with his
schoolfellows. The moment their playtime arrived, he
flew to the library of the school, where he read with
avidity the historical works of the ancients, pai'ticular-
ly Polybius, Plutarch, and Arrian. His companions
disliked him on account of his not joining their games
at these hours, and frequently rallied him on his name
and Corsican birth. He often said to Bourrienne, his
earliest friend, with much bitterness, *'I hate these
French : I will do them all the mischief in my power."
Notwithstanding this, his animosity had nothing un-
generous in it ; akid when he was intrusted, in his turn,
with the enforcing of any regulation which was infring-
ed, he preferred going to prison to informing against
the young delinquents.
Though his progress at school was respectable, it.
was not remarkable ; and the notes transmitted to
government in 1 784 exhibited many other young men
96
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
much more distinguished for their early proficiency — a
circumstance frequently observable in those who ulti-
mately rise to greatness. In the private instructions
communicated to government by the masters of the
schoo], he was characterized as of a " domineering, im-
perious^ and headstrong character."
During the vacations of school, he returned, in general,
to Corsica, where he gave vent to the ardour of
his mind in traversing the mountains and valleys of that
romantic island, and listening to the tales of feudal strife
and family revenge by which its inhabitants are so re-
markably distinguished. The celebrated Paoli, the hereof
Corsica, accompanied him in some of these excursions,
and explained to him' on the road the actions which he
had fought, and the positions which he had occupied,
during his struggle for the independence of the island.
The energy and decision of his companion at this
period made a great impression on that illustrious man.
" Oh, Napoleon I" said he, " you do not resemble the
moderns— you belong only to the heroes of Plutarch."
Alison.
Battle of the Pyramids.
The sight of the Pyramids, and the anxious nature of
the moment, inspired the French general with even
more than usual ardour ; the sun glittered on those im-
mense masses, which seemed to arise in height every
step the soldiers advanced, and the army, sharing his
enthusiasm, gazed, as they marched, on the everlasting
monuments. " Remember," said he, " that from the
summit of those Pyramids forty centuries contemplate
your actions."
With his usual sagacity, the general had taken ex-
traordinary precautions to ensure success against the
formidable cavalry of the Desert. The divisions were
all drawn up as before, in hollow squares six deep, the
artillery at the angles, the generals and baggage in the
centre. When they were in mass, the two sides ad-
vanced in column, those in front and rear moved for-
ward in their ranks, but the moment they were charg-
ed, the whole were to halt, and face outward on every
side. When they were themselves to charge, the three
IN PROSE.
«r
front ranks were to break off and form the column of
attack, those in the rear remaining behind, still in
square, but three deep only, to constitute the reserve.
Napoleon had no fears for the result, if the infantry
.were steady ; his only apprehension was that his sof*
diers, accustomed to charge, would yield to their im-
petuosity too soon, and would not be brought to the
immovable firmness which this species of warfare re-
quired.
Mourad Bey no sooner perceived the lateral move-
ment of the French army, than, with a promptitude of
decision worthy of a skilful general, he resolved to
attack the columns while in the act of completing it.
An extraordinary movement was immediately observ-
ed in the Mameluke line, and speedily seven thousand
horsemen detached themselves from the remainder of
the army, and bore down upon the French columns.
It was a terrible sight, capable of daunting the bravest
troops, when this immense body of cavalry approached
at full gallop the squares of infantry. The horsemen,
admirably mounted and magnificently dressed, rent the
air with their cries. The glitter of spears and cimi-
ters dazzled the sight, while the earth groaned under
the repeated and increasing thunder of their feet. The
soldiers, impressed, but not panic-struck, by the sight,
stood firm, and anxiously waited, with their pieces
ready, the order to fire. Desaix's division being en-
tangled in a wood of palm-trees, was not completely
formed when the swiftest of the Mamelukes came upon
them ; they were, in consequence, partially broken,
and thirty or forty of the bravest of the assailants
penetrated, and died in the midst of the square at the
feet of the officers : but before the mass arrived the
movement was completed, and a rapid fire of mus-
ketry and grape drove them from the front round the
sides of the colump. With matchless intrepidity, they
pierced through the interval between Desaix's and
Regnier's divisions, and riding round both squares,
strove to find an entrance ; but an incessant fire from
every front mowed them down as fast as they poured in
at the opening. Furious at the unexpected resistance,
they dashed their horses against the rampftrt of bay.
98
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
h
f I
onets, and threw their pistols at the heads of the
grenadiers, while many who had lost their steeds crept
along the ground and cut at the legs of the front
rank with their cimiters. In vain thousands succeed-
ed, and galloped round the flaming walls^of steel ;
multitudes perished under the rolling fire which, with-
out intermission, issued from the ranks, and at length
the survivors, in despair, fled towards the camp from
whence they had issued. Here, however, they were
charged in flank by Napoleon at the head of Dugua's
division, while those of Vial and Bon, on the extreme
left, stormed the intrenchments. The most horrible
confusion now reigned in the camp ; the horsemen,
driven in in disorder, trampled under foot the infantry,
who, panic* struck at the route of the Mamelukes, on
whom all their hopes were placed, abandoned their
ranks, and rushed in crowds towards the boats to escape
to the other side of the Nile. Numbers saved them-
selves by swimming, but a great proportion perished
in the attempt. The Mamelukes, rendered desperate,,
seeing no possibility of escape in that direction, fell
upon the columns who were approaching from the
right, with their wings extended in order of attack ;
but they, forming square again with inconceivable
rapidity, repulsed them with great slaughter, and drove
them finally off in the direction of the Pyramids. Thd
intrenched camp, with all its artillery, stores, and
baggage, fell into the hands of the victors. Several
thousands of the Mamelukes were drowned or killed ;
and of the formidable array which had appeared in
such splendour in the morning, not more than two
thousand five hundred escaped with Mourad Bey into
Upper Egypt. The victors hardly lost two hundred
men in the action ; and several days were occupied
after it was over in stripping the slain of their magnifi-
cent appointments, or fishing up the rich spoils which
encumbered the banks of the Nile. Alison.
'" K Battle of the Nile*
The British ships had a severe fire to sustain as they
successively passed along the enemy's line to take up
IN PROSE.
99
on
their appointed stations, and the great size of several
of the French squadron rendered them more than a
match for any single vessel the English could oppose
to them. The Vanguard, which bore proudly down,
bearing the admiral's flag and six colours on different
parts of the rigging, had every man at the first six guns
on the forecastle killed or wounded in a few minutes,
and they were three times swept off before the action
closed. The Bellerophon dropped her stern anchor
close under the bow of the L'Orient, and, notwith-
standing the immense disproportion of force, continued
to engage her first-rate antagonist till her own masts
had all gone overboard, and every ofllicer was either
killed or wounded, when she drifted away with the
tide, overwhelmed, but not subdued, a glorious monu-
ment of unconquerable valour. As she floated along,
she came close to the Swiftsure, which was coming into
action, and not having the lights at the mizen-peak,
which Nelson had ordered as a signal by which his
own ships might distinguish each other, she was at
first mistaken for an enemy. Fortunately, Captain
Hallowell, who commanded that vessel, had the pre-
sence of mind to order his men not to fire till he ascer-
tained whether the hulk was a friend or an enemy,
and thus a catastrophe was prevented which might
have proved fatal to both of these ships. The station
of the Bellerophon in combating the L'Orient was now
taken by the Swiftsure, which opened at once a steady
fire on the quarter of the Franklin and the bows of the
French admiral, while the Alexander anchored on his
larboard quarter, and, with the Leander, completed the
destruction of their gigantic opponent.
It was now dark, but both fleets were illuminated by
the incessant discharge of above two thousand pieces
of cannon, and the volumes of flame and smoke that
rolled away from the bay gave it the appearance as if
a terrific volcano had suddenly burst forth in the midst
of the sea. Victory, however, soon declared for the
British ; before nine, three ships of the line had struck,
and two were dismasted ; and the flames were seen
bursting forth from the L'Orient, as she still conti-
nued, with unabated energy, her heroic defence. They
100
PR0MIS0UOC8 SELECTIONS
spread with frightful rapidity ; the fire of the Swift-
sure was directed with such fatal precision to the
burning part, that all attempts to extinguish it proved
ineffectual, and the masts and rigging were soon wrap-
ped in flames, which threw a prodigious light over the
heavens, and rendered the situation of every ship in
both fleets distinctly visible. The sight redoubled the
ardour of the British seamen, by exhibiting the shat-
tered condition and lowered colours of so many of their
enemies, and loud cheers from the whole fleet announced
every successive flag that was struck. As the fire
approached the magazine of the L'Orient, many officers
and men jumped overboard, and were picked up by the
English boats; others were dragged into the port-holes
of the nearest British ships, who for that purpose sus-
pended their firing ; but the greater part of the crew,
with heroic bravery, stood to their guns to the last, and
continued to fire from the lower deck. At ten o'clock
she blew up, with an explosion so tremendous that
nothing in ancient or modem war was ever equal to it.
Every ship in the hostile fleets was shaken to its cen-
tre ; the firing, by universal consent, ceased on both
sides, and the tremendous explosion was followed by a
silence still more awful, interrupted only, after the
lapse of some minutes, by the splash of the shattered
masts and yards falling into the water from the vast
height to which they had been thrown. The British
ships in the vicinity, with admirable coolness, had
made preparations to avoid the conflagration ; all the
shrouds and sails were thoroughly wetted, and sailors
stationed with buckets of water to extinguish any
burning fragments which might fall upon their decks.
By these means, although large burning masses fell
on the Swiftsnre and Alexander, they were extinguish-
ed without doing any serious damage.
After a pause often minutes the firing recommenced
and continued without intermission till after midnight,
when it gradually grew slacker, from the shattered
condition of the French ships and the exhaustion of
the British sailors, numbers of whom fell asleep beside
their guns the instant a momentary cessation of load-
ing took place. At daybreak the magnitude of the
IN PBOSB.
101
enced
night,
ttered
ion of
eside
load-
f the
victory was apparent ; not a vestige of the L'Orient
was to be seen ; the frigate La Serieuse wns sunk, and
the whole French line, with- the exception of the
Guillauroe Tell andGenereux, had struck their colours,
These ships having been little engaged in the action,
cut their cables, and stood out to sea, followed by the two
frigates : they were gallantly pursued by the Zealous,
which was rapidly gaining on them; but as there was
no other ship of the line in a condition to support her,
she was recalled, and these ships escaped. Had the
Culloden not struck on the shoal, and the frigates
belonged to the squadron been present, not one of the
enemy's fleet would have escaped to convey the mourn-
ful tidings to France.
Early in the battle, the English admiral received a
severe wound on the head, from a piece of Langridge
shot. Captain Berry caught him in his arms as he
was falling. Nelson, and all around him, thought, from
the great effusion of blood, that he was killed. When
he was carried to the cockpit, the surgeon quitted the
seamen whose wounds he was dressing to attend to
the admiral. " No," said Nelson ; " I will take my
turn with my brave fellows." Nor would he suffer
his wound to be examined till every man who had
previously been brought down was properly attended
to. Fully believing that the wound was mortal, and
that he was about to die, as he had ever desired, in the
moment of victory, he called for the chaplain, and
desired him to deliver what he conceived to be his dy-
ing remembrance to Lady Nelson; and, seizing a pen,
contrived to write a few words, marking his devout
sense of the success which had already bei^n obtained.
When the surgeon came in due time to inspect the
wound — for no entreaties could prevail on him to let it
be examined sooner — tlie most anxious silence pre-
vailed; and the joy of the wounded men, and of the
whole crew, when they found the injury was only
superficial, gave Nelson deeper pleasure than the un-
expected assurance that his own life was in no danger.
When the cry rose that the L'Orient was on fire, he
contrived to make his way, alone and unassisted, to
the quarter-deck, where he instantly gave orders
102
PROMISCUOUS SELEOTIONS
that boats should be despatched to the relief of the
enemy.
Nor were heroic deeds confined to the British
squadron. Most of the captains of the French fleet
were killed or wounded, and they all fought with the
enthusiastic courage which is characteristic of their
nation. The captain of the Tonnant, Petit Thenars,
when both his legs were carried away by a cannon ball,
refused to quit the quarter-deck, and made his crew
swear not to strike their colours as long as they had a
man capable of standing to their guns. Admiral Biueys
died the death of the brave on his quarter-deck, ex-
horting his men to continue the combat to the last ex-
tremity. Casa Bianca, captain of the L'Orient, fell
mortally wounded, when the flames were devouring that
splendid vessel ; his son, a boy of ten years of age,
was combating beside him when he was struck, and,
embracing his father, resolutely refused to quit the
ship, though a gunboat was come alongside to bring
him off. He contrived to bind his dying parent to the
mast, which had fallen into the sea, and floated off
with the precious charge; he was seen after the explosion
by some of the British squadron, who made the utmost
efforts to save his life ; but, in the agitation of the
waves following that dreadful event, both were swal-
lowed up and seen no more. Alison,
I
Defeat, of the Old Guard at Waterloo.
The Imperial Guard was divided into two columns,
which, advancing from different parts of the field, were
to converge to the decisive point on the British right
centre, about midway between La Hayp ;,aii.»;e and
the nearest enclosures of Hougoumont. H«ji(!' . om-
manded the first column, which was su, pji'^a ^/ all
the infantry and cavalry which remained of his corps
on either flank, and advanced up the hill in a slanting
direction, beside the orchard of Hougoumont. The
R,<^cond was , headed by Ney in person, and moving
dcv/,. the chausse? of Charleroi to the bottom of the
SiAjjo, \X :nen inclined to the left, and4eaving La Haye
1 !
IN PHOSK.
103
Sainte to the right, luounted the slope, also in a slant-
ing direction, con verging towards the same point
whither the other O'lumn was directing its steps.
Napoleon went with thi^ column &s far as the place
where it left the hull )w of tin ! igh road, and spoke a
few words — the last lie ever addressed to his soldiers
— to each battalion in passing. The men luoved on
with shouts of Vive V EmpertuTy ao loud aa to be heard
along the whole British line, above the roar of artil-
lerj', and it was universally thought the emperor him-
helf was heading the attack. But, meanwhile, W el-
ligton had not been idle. Sir Frederic Adam's bri-
gade, consiiiting of the 52nd, 71st, andQoth, and General
Maitland's brigade of Guards, which had been drawn
from Hougouraont, with Chasse's Dutch troops, yet
fresh, were ordered to bring up their right shoulders,
and wheel inward, with their guns in front, towards
the edge of the ridge ; and the whole batteries in that
quarter inclined to the left, so as to expose the ai.van-
cing columns coming up to a concentric fire on either
flank : the central point, where the attack seemed like-
ly to fall, was strengthened by nine heavy guns : he
troops at that point were drawn up four deep, in the
form of an interior angle : the Guards forming one side,
the 73rd and 30th the other ; while the light cavalry
of Vivian and Vandeleur was brought up behind the
line, at the back of La Haye Sainte, and stationed
close in the rear, so as to be ready to make the most ot
any advantage which might occur.
It was a quarter past seven when the first column of
the Old Guard, under Reille, advanced to the attack ;
but the eifect of the artillery on its flank was such, that
the cavalry were quickly dispersed ; and the French
battalions uncovered, showed theirlong flank to Adam's
guns, which opened on them a fire so terrible, that the
head of the column, constantly pushed on by the mass in
rear, never advanced, but melted away as it came into
the scene of carnage. Shortly after, Ney's column
approached with an intrepid step: the veterans of
Wagram and Austerlitz were there ; no force on earth
seemed capable of resisting them : they had decided
every former battle. Drouot was beside the marshal,
104
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
who repeatedly said to him they were about to gain a
glorious victory. General Friant was killed by Ney's
side : the marshal's own horse was shot under him; but
bravely advancing on foot, with his drawn sabre in his
hand, he sought death from the enemy's volleys. The
impulse of this massy column was at first irresistible ;
the guns were forced back, and the Imperial Guard came
up to within forty paces of the English Foot Guards,
and the 73rd and 30th regiments. These men were
lying down, four deep, in a small ditch behind the
rough road which there goes along the summit of the
ridge. "Up Guards, and at them !" cried the duke,
who had repaired to the spot ; and the whole, on both
sides of the angle into which the French were advan-
cing, springing up, moved forward a few paces, and
poured in a volley so close and well directed, that near-
ly the whole first two ranks of the French fell at once.
Gradually advancing, they now pushed the immense
column, yet bravely combating, down the slope ; and
Wellington, at that decisive instant, ordered Vivian's
brigade to charge the retiring body on one fiank, while
Adam's foot advanced against it on the other. The
effect of this triple attack, at once in front and on both
flanks, was decisive : the 52nd and 71st, swiftly con-
verging iriward, threw in so terrible a volley on their
left flank, that the Imperial Guard swerved in disorder
to the right ; and at that very instant the 10th, 18th,
and 21st dragoons, under Vivian, bore down with
irresistible fury, and piercing right through the body,
threw it into irrecoverable confusion. The cry, ** Tout
est perdu — la Garde recule I" arose in the French
ranks, and the enormous mass, driven headlong down
the hill, overwhelmed everything which came in its way,
and spread disorder through the whole French centre.
i
Effects of Steam Navigation.
CoNTEMPOUARY with the great development of civilized
energy, has arisen a new power communicated to man,
calculated, in an immeasurable manner, to aid the ex-
i
IN FBOSE.
105
tension of civilization and religion through the desert
or barbarous portions of the earth. At the moment
when Napoleon's armies were approaching Moscow,
when Wellington's legions were combating on the
Tormes. Steam Navigation arose into existence, and
a new power was let into human affairs, before wh'ch
at once the forces of barbarism and the seclusion of the
desert must yield. In January, 1812, not one steam-
boat existed in the world ; now, on the rivers beyond
the Alleghany Mountains alone, there are five hundred.
Even the death-bestridden gales of the Niger will in
the end yield to the force of scientific enterprise, and
the fountains of the Nile themselves emerge from the
solemn obscurity of six thousand years. The great
rivers of the world have now become the highways of
civilization and religion. The Russian battalions will
securely commit themselves to the waves of the
Euphrates, and waft again to the plains of Shinar the
blessings of regular government and a beneficent faith:
remounting the St. Lawrence and the Missouri, the
British emigrants will carry into the solitudes of the
Far West the Bible and the wonders of European civili-
zation. Such have been the final results of the second
revolt of Lucifer, the Prince of the Morning. Was a
great and durable impression made on human afiairs
by the infidel race ? No I It was overruled by Almighty
Power ; on either side it found the brazen walls which
it could not pass. In defiance of all its efforts, the
British navy and the Russian army rose invincible
above its arms ; the champions of Christianity in the
East, and the leaders of religious freedom in the West,
came forth like giants refreshed with wine from the
termination of the fight. The infidel race, which aimed
at the dominion of the world, served only by their
efforts to augment the strength of its destined rulers ;
and from amid the ruins of its power emerged the ark
which was to carry the stream of religion to the West-
ern, and the invincible host which was to spread the
glad tidings of the Gospel through the Eastern world.
•Alison,
£2
106
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
Departure of the Reformer Zwingle for Battle.
ZwiNGLE was seen to issue from a house before which
a caparisoned horse was stamping impatiently; it was
his own. His look was firm, but dimmed by sorrow.
He parted from his wife, his children, and his numerous
friends, without deceiving himself, and with a bruised
heart. He observed the thick waterspout, which,
driven by a terrible wind, advanced whirling towards
him. Alas! he had himself called up this hurricane
by quitting the atmosphere of the Gospel of peace,
and throwing himself into the midst of political pas-
sions. He was convinced that he would be the first
victim. Fifteen days before the attack of the Wald-
stettes, he had said from the pulpit: " I know what is
the meaning of all this: — it is all about me. All this
comes to pass — in order that I may die." The council,
according to an ancient custom, had called upon him
to accompany the army as its chaplain. Zwingle did
not hesitate. He prepared himself without surprise
and without anger, — with the calmness of a Christian
who placed himself confidently in the hands of his
God. If the cause of Reform was doomed to perish,
he was ready to perish with it. Surrounded by his
weeping wife and friends — by his children who clung
to his garments to detain him, he quitted that house
where he had tasted so much happiness. At the
moment that his hand was upon his horse, just as he
was about to mount, the animal violently started back
several paces, and when he was at last in the saddle, it
refused for a time to move, rearing and prancing back-
wards, like that horse which the greatest captain of
modern times had mounted as he was about to cross
the Niemen. Many in Zurich at that time thought,
with the soldier of the Grand Army when he saw
Napoleon on the ground: " It is a bad omen ! a Roman
would go back!" Zwingle having at last mastered his
horse, gave the reins, applied the spur, started forward,
and disappeared.
At eleven o'clock the flag was struck, and all who
remained in the square-— about 500 men — began their
march along with it. The greater part were torn with
difficulty from the arms of their families, and walked
IN PROSE.
107
who
their
with
alke4
sad and silent, as if they were going to the scaffold
instead of battle. There was no order — no plan ; the
men were isolated and scattered, some running before,
some after the colours, their extreme confusion present-
ing a fearful appearance; so much so, that those who
remained behind — the women, the children, and the
old men, filled with gloomy forebodings, beat their
breasts as they saw them pass, and many years after,
the remembrance of this day of tumult and mourning
drew this groan from Oswald Myconius : " Whenever
I recall it to mind, it is as if a sword pierced my
heart." Zwingle, armed according to the usage of the,
chaplains of the Confederation, rode mournfully behind
this distracted multitude. Myconius, when he saw
him, was nigh fainting. Zwingle disappeared, and Os-
wald remained behind to weep.
He did not shed tears alone; in all quarters were
heard lamentations, and every house was changed into
a house of prayer. In the midst of this universal
sorrow, one woman remained silent; her only cry was
a bitter heart, her only language the mild and suppliant
eye of faith: — this was Anna, Zwingle's wife. She
had seen her husband depart — her son, her brother, a
great number of intimate friends and near relations,
whose approaching death she foreboded. But her
soul, strong as that of her husband, offered to God the
sacrifice of her holiest affections. Gradually the de-
fenders of Zurich precipitate their march, and the
tumult dies away in the distance. D'Aubigne*
Death of Zwingle.
The death of one individual far surpassed all others.
Zwingle was at the post of danger, the helmet on his
head, the sword hanging at his side, the battle-axe in
his hand. Scarcely had the action begun, when, stoop-
ing to consble a dying man, says J. J. Hottinger, a
stone, hurled by the vigorous arm of a Waldstette, struck
him on the head and closed his lips. Yet Zwingle
arose, when two other blows, which struck him suc-
cessively on the leg, threw him down again. Twice
more he stands up; but a fourth time he receives a thrust
108
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
I
from a lance, he staggers, and sinking beneath so many
wounds, falls on his knees. Does not the darkness
that is spreading around him announce a still thicker
darkness that is about to cover the Church? Zwingle
turns away from such sad thoughts; once more he
uplifts that head which had been so bold, and gazing
with calm eye upon the trickling blood, exclaims:
" What evil is this? They can indeed kill the body,
but they cannot kill the soul?" These were his last
words.
He had scarcely uttered them ere he fell backwards.
There under a tree (Zwingle's Pear-tree) in a meadow,
he remained lying on his back, with clasped hands and
eyes upturned to heaven.
As Zwingle lay extended under the tree, near the
road by which the mass of the people was passing ; the
shouts of the victors, the groans of the dying, those
flickering torches borne from corpse to corpse, Zurich
humbled, the cause of Reform lost, — all cried aloud to
him that God punishes his servants when they have
recourse to the arm of man. If the German Reformer
had been able to approach Zwingle at this solemn mo-
ment, and pronounce these oft-repeated words: ** Chris-
tians fight not with sword and arquebus, but with
sufferings and the cross," Zwingle would have stretched
out his dying hand, and said: "Amen!"
Two of the soldiers who were prowling over the
field of battle, having come near the reformer with-
out recognising him, " Do you wish for a priest to
confess yourself?" asked they. Zwingle, without
speaking (for he had not strength), made signs in the
negative. " If you cannot speak," replied the soldiers,
** at least think in thy heart of the Mother of God, and
call upon the saints!" Zwingle again shook his head,
and kept his eyes still fixed on heaven. Upon this the
irritated soldiers began to curse him. "No doubt," said
they, "you are one of the heretics of the city!" One of
them,being curious to know who it was,stooped down and
turned Zwingle's head in the direction of a fire that had
been lighted near the spot. The soldier immediately let
him fall to the ground. " I think," said he, surprised
and amazed, " I think it is Zwingle!" At this moment
1
IN PKOSE.
109
Captain Fockinger, of Unterwalden, a veteran and a
pensioner, drew near: he had heard the last words of
the soldier. " Zwingle!" exclaimed he; "that vile
heretic Zwingle! that rascal, that traitor!" Then rais-
ing his sword, so long sold to the stranger, he struck
the dying Christian on the throat, exclaiming in a vio-
lent passion, " Die, obstinate heretic!" Yielding under
this last blow, the reformer gave up the ghost: he was
doomed to perish by the sword of a mercenary. " Pre-
cious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints."
The soldiers ran to other victims. All did not show
the same barbarity. The night was cold; a thick hoar-
frost covered the fields and the bodies of the dying.
At length the day appeared. The Waldstettes spread
over the field of battle, running here and there, stop-
ping, contemplating, struck with surprise at the sight
of their most formidable enemies stretched lifeless on
the plain; but sometimes also shedding tears as they
gazed on corpses which reminded them of old and
sacred ties of friendship. At length they reached the
pear-tree under which Zwingle lay dead, and an im-
mense crowd collected around it. His countenance
still beamed with expression and with life. " He has
the look," said Bartholomew Stocker of Zug, who had
loved him, " he has the look of a living rather than of
a dead man. Such he was when he kindled the people
by the fire of his eloquence." All eyes were fixed
upon the corpse. John Schonbrunner, formerly canon
of Zurich, who had retired to Zug at the epoch of the
Reformation, could not restrain his tears. " Whatever
may have been thy creed," said he, " I know, Zwingle,
that thou hast been a loyal Confederate! May thy soul
rest with God!"
But the pensioners of the foreigner, on whom Zwingle
had never ceased to make war, required that the body
of the heretic should be dismembered, and a portion
sent to each of the Five Cantons. " Peace be to the
dead! and God alone be their Judge!" exclaimed the
avoyer Golder, and the landamman Thoss of Zug.
Cries of fury answered their appeal, and compelled
them to retire. Immediately the drums beat to muster;
the dead body was tried, and it was decreed that it
110
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
should be quartered for treason against the Confedera-
tion, and then burnt for heresy. The executioner of
Lucerne carried out the sentence. Flames consumed
Zwingle's disjointed members; the ashes of swine were
mingled with his: and a lawless multitude rushing
upon his remains, flung them to the four winds of
heaven.
Zwingle was dead. A great light had been extin-
guished in the Church of God. Mighty by the Word
as were the other reformers, he had been more so than
they in action; but this very power had been his weak-
ness, and he IirJ fallen under the weight of his own
strength. Zwingle was not forty-eight years old when
he died. If the might of God always accompanied
the might of man, what would he not have done for
the Reformation in Switzerland, and even in the Em-
pire! But he had wielded an arm that God had for-
bidden; the helmet had covered hit head, and he had
grasped the halberd. His more devoted friends were
themselves astonished, and exclaimed: "We know not
what to say!... a bishop in arms!" The bolt had fur-
rowed the cloud, the blow had reached the reformer,
and his body was no more than a handful of dust in
the palm of a soldier. D^^ubigni.
Execution of Mary Queen of Scots.
On Tuesday, the seventh of February, the two earls ar-
rived at Fotheringay, and demanded access to the queen,
read in her presence the warrant for execution, and
required her to prepare to die next morning.
Mary heard them to the end without emotion, and
crossing herself in the name of the Father, and of the
Son, and of the Holy Ghost, " That soul," said she,
*'is not worthy the joys of heaven, which repines
because the body must endure the stroke of the execu-
tioner; and though I did not expect that the queen of
England would set the first example of violating the
sacred person of a sovereign prince, I willingly submit
to that which Providence has decreed to be my lot;" and
laying her hand on a Bible, which happened to be near
her, she solemnly protested that she was innocent of
■«!
IN PROSE.
Ill
JCU-
the
)mit
and
■lear
I of
that conspiracy which Babington had carried on against
Elizabeth's life. She then mentioned the requests con-
tained in her letter to Elizabeth, but obtained no satis-
factory answer. She entreated with particular earnest-
ness, that now in her last moments her almoner might
be suffered to attend her, and that she might enjoy the
consolation of those pious institutions prescribed by
her . religion. Even this favour, which is usually
granted to the vilest criminal, was absolutely denied.
Her attendants, during this conversation, were bathed
in tears, and though overawed by the presence of the
two earls, with difficulty suppressed their anguish ;
but no sooner did Kent and Shrewsbury withdraw,
than they ran to their mistress, and burst out into the
most passionate expressions of tenderness and sorrow.
Mary, however, not only retained perfect composure of
mind herself, but endeavoured to moderate their exces-
sive grief ; and falling on her knees with all her domes-
tics round her, she thanked Heaven that her sufferings
were now so near an end, and prayed that she might
be enabled to endure what still remained with decency
and with fortitude. The greater part of the evening
she employed in settling her worldly affairs. She
wrote her testament with her own hand. Her money,
her jewels, and her clothes, she distributed among her
servants, according to their I'ank or merit. She wrote
a short letter to the king of France, and another to the
duke of Guise, full of tender but magnanimous senti-
ments, and recommended her soul to their prayers, and
her afflicted servants to their protection. At supper
she ate temperately, as usual, and conveised not only
with ease, but with cheerfulness ; she drank to every
one of her servants, and asked their forgiveness, if
ever she had failed in any part of her duty towards
them. At her wonted time she went to bed, and slept
calmly a few hours. Early in the morning she retired
into her closet, and employed a considerable time in
devotion. At eight o'clock the high sheriff and his
officers entered her chamber, and found her still kneel-
ing at the altar. She immediately started up, and with
majestic mien, and a countenance undismayed, and even
cheerful, advanced towards the place of execution,
112
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
leaning on two of Paulet's attendants. She was dress-
ed in a mourning habit, but with an elegance and splen-
dour which she had long laid aside except on a few
festival days. An Agnus Dei hung by a pomander
chain at her neck ; her beads at her girdle; and in her
hand she carried a crucifix of ivory. At the bottom
of the stairs the two earls, attended by several gentle-
men from the neighbouring counties, received her; and
there Sir Andrew Melvil, the master of her household,
who had been secluded for some weeks from her pre-
sence, was permitted to take his last farewell. At
the sight of a mistress whom he tenderly loved, in such
a situation, he melted into tears ; and as he was be-
wailing her condition, and complaining of his own hard
fate, in being appointed to carry the account of such a
mournful event into Scotland, Mary replied, " Weep
not, good Melvil, there is at present great cause for
rejoicing. Thou shalt this day see Mary Stewart de-
livered from all her cares, and such an end put to her
tedious sufferings, as she has long expected. Bear
witness that I die constant in my religion; firm in my
fidelity towards Scotland; and unchanged in my affec-
tion to France. Commend me to my son. Tell him
I have done nothing injurious to his kingdom, to his
honour, or to his rights; and God forgive all those who
have thirsted without cause for my blood."
With much difficulty, and after many entreaties, she
prevailed on the two earls to allow Melvil, together
with three of her men-servants and two of her maids,
to attend her to the scaffold. It was erected in the
same hall where she had been tried, raised a little
above the floor, and covered, as well as a chair, the
cushion, and block, with black cloth. Mary mounted
the steps with alacrity, beheld all this apparatus of
death witV an unaltered countenance, and signing her-
self with !ve cross, she sat down in the chair. Beale
read the warrant for execution with a loud voice, to
which she listened with a careless air, and like one
occupied in other thoughts. Then the dean of Peter •
borough began a devout discourse, suitable to her pre-
sent condition, and offered up prayers to Heaven in her
behalf; but she declared that she could not in con-
IN PROSE.
!13
science hearken to the one, nor join with the othei ;
and kneeling down, repeated a Latin prayer. When
the dean had finished his devotions, she, with an audi-
ble voice, and in the English tongue, recommended
unto God the afiiicted state of the church, and prayed
for prosperity to her son, and for long life and peaceable
reign to Elizabeth. She declared that she hoped for
mercy only through the death of Christ, at the loot of
whose image she now willingly shed her blood ; and
lifting up and kissing the crucifix, she thus addressed
it : " As thy arms, O Jesus, were extended on the
cross ; &o with the outstretched arms of thy mercy re-
ceive me, and forgive my sins."
She then prepared for the block, by taking off her
veil and upper garments ; and one of the executioners
rudely endeavouring to assist, she gently checked him,
and said with a smile, that she had not been accustom-
ed to undress before so many spectators, nor to be
served by such valets. With calm but undaunted for-
titude, she laid her neck on the block ; and while one
executioner held her hands, the other, at the second
stroke, cut off her head, which falling out of its attire,
discovered her hair already grown quite gray with
cares and sorrows. The executioner hehl it up still
streaming with blood, and the dean crying out, ** So
perish all queen Elizabeth's enemies," the earl of Kent
alone answered Amen. The rest of the spectators
continued silent, and drowned in tears; being inca-
pable, at that moment, of any other sentiment but those
of pity or admiration.
Such was the tragical death of ISiary, queen of
Scots, after a life of forty-four years and two months,
almost nineteen years of which she passed in captivity.
The political parties which were formed in the king-
dom during her reign, have subsisted under various
denominations ever since that time. The rancour
with which they were at first animated, hath descended
to succeeding ages, and their prejudices, as well as their
rage, have been perpetuated, and even augmented.
Among historians, who were under the dominion of all
these passions, and who have either ascribed to her
every virtuous and amiable quality, or have imputed to
114
PUOMISCUOUB SKLECTIONS
her all the vices of which the human heart is suscep-
tible, we search in vain for Mary's real character. She
neither merited the exaggerated praises of the one, nor
the undistinguished censure of the other.
Robertson.
Abdication of the Emperor Charles V.
CuASLics resolved to resign his kingdoms to his son,
with a solemnity suitable to the importance of the trans-
action, and to perform this last act of sovereignty with
such formal pomp as might leave a lasting impression
on the minds not only of his subjects but of his suc-
cessor, called Philip out of England, where the peevisii
temper of his queen, Avhich increased with her despair
of having issue, rendered him extremely unhappy; and
the jealousy of the English left him no hopes of obtain-
ing the direction of their affairs. Having assembled
the states of the Low Countries at Brussels, on the
twenty- fifth of October, Charles seated himself for the
last time in the chair of state, on one ?ide of which
was placed his son, and on the other his sister the
queen of Hungary, regent of the Netherlands, with a
splendid retinue of the princes of the empire and
grandees of Spain standing behind him. The presi-
dent of the council of Flanders, by his command, ex-
plained in few words his intention in calling this extraor-
dinary meeting of the states. He then read the
instrument of resignation, by which Charles surren-
dered to his son Philip all his territories, jurisdiction,
and authority in the Low Countries, absolving his
subjectg there from the oath of allegiance to him,
which he required them to transfer to Philip, his lawful
heir, and to serve him with the same loyalty and zeal
which they had manifested, during so long a course of
years, in support of his government.
Charles then rose from his seat, and leaning on the
shoulder of the prince of Orange, because he was un-
able to stand without support, he addressed himself to
the audience, and from a paper which he held in his
hand, in order to assist his memory, he recounted, with
dignity, but without ostentation, all the great things
IN PROSE.
115
r the
ith a
and
presi-
ex-
traor-
the
iirren-
iction,
ng his
him*
lawfal
id zeal
lurse of
which he had undertaken and performed since the com'
mencement of his administration. He observed, that,
from the seventeenth year of his age, he had dedicated
all his thoughs and attention to public objects, reserving
no portion of his time for the indulgence of his ease,
and very little for the enjoyment of private pleasure ;
that either in a pacific or hostile manner, he had visit-
ed Germany nine times, Spain six times, France four
times, Italy seven times, the Low Countries ten times.
England twice, Africa as often, and had made eleven
voyages by sea ; that while his health permitted him to
discharge his duty, and the vigour of his constitution
was equal, in any degree, to the arduous office of
governing such extensive dominions, he had never
shunned labour, nor repined under fatigue ; that now,
when his health was broken, and his vigour exhausted
by the rage of an incurable distemper, his growing
infirmities admonished him to retire, nor was he so
fond of reigning, as to retain the sceptre in an impo-
tent hand, which was no longer able to protect his sub>
jects, or to secure to them the happiness which he
wished they should enjoy ; that instead of a sovereign
worn out with diseases, and scarcely half alive, he gave
them one in the prime of life, accustomed already to
govern, and who added to the vigour of youth all the
attention and sagacity of maturer years; that if, during
the course of a long administration, he had committed
any material error in government, or if, under the
pressure of so many snd great affairs, and amidst the
attention which he had been obliged to give to them,
he had either neglected or injured any of his subjects,
he now implored their forgiveness; that, for his part,
he should ever retain a grateful sense of their fidelity
and attachment, and would carry the remembrance of
it along with him to the place of his retreat, as his
sweetest consolation, as well as the best reward for all
his services, and in his last prayers to Almighty God
would pour forth his most earnest petitions for their
welfare.
Then turning towards Philip, who fell on his knees
and kissed his father's hand, — "If," says he, "I had
left you by my death this rich inheritance, to which I
116
PKOMISCUOUS SELECTIONS IN PROSE.
have made such large additions, some regard would
have been justly due to my memory on that account ;
but now, when I voluntarily resign to you what I
might have still retained, i may well expect the
warmest expression of thanks on your part. With
these, however, I dispense, and shall consider your
concern for the welfare of your subjects, and your love
of them, as the best and most acceptable testimony of
your gratitude 4o me. It is in your power, by a wise
and virtuous administration, to justify the extraordi-
nary proof which I, this day, give of my paternal
affection, and to demonstrate that you are worthy of
the confidence which I repose in you. Preserve an
inviolable regard for religion ; maintain the catholic
faith in its purity; let the laws of your country be
sacred in your eyei>; encroach not on the rights and
privileges of your people; and if the time should ever
come, when you shall wish to enjoy the tranquillity of
private life, may you have a son endowed with such
qualities, that you can resign your sceptre to him with
as much satisfaction as I give up mine to you."
As soon as Charles had finished this long address to
his subjects and to their new sovereign, he sunk into
the chair, exhausted and ready to faint with the fatigue
of such an extraordinary effort. During his discourse,
the whole audience melted into tears, some from admi-
ration of his magnanimity, others softened by the ex-
pressions of tenderness towards his son, and of love to
his people; and all were affected with the deepest sor-
row at losing a sovereign, who, during his administra-
tion, had distinguished the Netherlands, his native
country, with particular marks of his regard and
attachment. Robertson.
rULPIT ELOQUENCE.
The Departed Spirits of the Just are Spectators of
our Conduct on Earth.
From what happened on the Mount of Transfigura-
tion, we may infer, not only that the separated spirits
of good men lire and act, and enjoy happiness; but that
they take some interest in the business of this world,
and even that their interest in it has a connection with
tlie pursuits and habits of their former life. The vir-
tuous cares which occupied them on earth, follow them
into their new abode. Moses and Eiias had spent the
days of their temporal pilgrimage in promoting among
their brethren, the knowledge and the worship of the
true God. They are still attentive to the same great
object; and enraptured at the prospect of its advance-
ment, they descend on this occasion to animate the
labours of Jesus, and to prepare him for his victory
over the powers of hell.
What a delightful subject of contemplation does this
reflection open to the pious and benevolent mind! what
a spring does it give to all the better energies of the
heart ! Your labours of love, your plans of beneficence,
your swellings of satisfaction in the rising reputation
of those whose virtues you have cherished, will not, we
have reason to hope, be terminated by the stroke of
death. No! — ^your spirits will still linger around the
objects of their former attachment; they will behold
with rapture, even the distant effects of those beneficent
institutions which they once delighted to rear; they
will watch with a pious satisfaction over the growing
prosperity of the country which they loved; with a
parent's fondness, and a parent's exultation, they will
share in the fame of their virtuous posterity; and — by
the permission of God — they may descend, at times, as
guardian angels, to shield them from danger, and to
conduct them to glory!
Of all the thoughts that can enter the human mind,
this is one of the most animating and consolatory. It
1. '-
v'
I.
•!
■ii,
118
PULPIT ELOQUENCE.
scatters flowers around the bed of death. It enables us
who are left behind, to support with firmness, the de-
parture of our best beloved friends, because it teaches us
that they are not lost to us for ever. They are still our
friends. Though they be now gone to another apart-
ment in our Father's house, they have carried with
them the remembrance and the feeling 'of their former
attachments. Though invisible to us — they bend from
their dwelling on high, to cheer us in our pilgrimage
of duty, to rejoice with us in our prosperity, and, in the
hour of virtuous exertion, to shed through our souls,
the blessedness of heaven. Finlayson.
Time and Manner of the Arrival of Death,
Death is called, in Sjripture, the land without any
order; and, without any order, the king of terrors
makes his approaches in the world. The commission
given from on high, was, " Go into the world: Strike!
strike! so that the dead may alarm the living." Hence
it is, that we seldom see men running the full career
of life; growing old among their children's children, and
then falling asleep in the arms of nature, as in the
embraces of a kind mother — coming to the grave like
a shock of corn fully ripe, like flowers that shut up at
the close of the day. Death walks through the world
without any order. He delights to surprise, to give a
shock to mankind. Hence, he leaves the wretched to
prolong the line of their sorrows, and cuts off the for-
tunate in the midst of their career; he suffers the aged
to survive himself, to outlive life, to stalk about the
ghost of what he was; and aims his arrow at the heart
of the young, who puts the evil day far from him. He
delights to see the feeble carrying the vigorous to the
grave^ and the father building the tomb of his children.
Often, when his approaches are least expected, he
bursts at once upon the world, like an earthquake in
the dead of night, or thunder in the serenest sky. All
ages and conditions he sweeps away without distinction,
the young man just entering into life, high in hope,
PfLPIT ElOQUBNCB. ,,„
'v.fe and children, tLZt^Z "'^^,'"'"««» of ht
signs are ripening to execmil Vl'^' "'""' ^'•'> de-
cr«.s of enjoyment ZTstT'J"'^ ."■' J?"S ^^P^^ed
others, are hurried ^„ • "PPi^oach. These, and nil
Wd, without order ^n";!""""^'^ "^ ">« ««»ge and
PJth in the worM iT^d "to the tlT''"/™^«- *>""y
Theki„g:;t;rl"^..;hem e^
and diseases-a numeroM "nd d T?".'' ^°™'= ?»'"»
nis host. Marltinff o„t Li. "^"^ «ra'n— comoose
fhey attack the s«^t of life "^P? """ '"''■• *eirTt'
■■;Si hurry hi™Tff the teCil'"' '"^' "^ "nderstS
h™ P ne by slow degrees ^w'""" ",""«'"• "'■ -"ke
or waiting till the decline ^„''""J'.S "■« "oon, of life'
picture of Solomon, "thevr^r*'.',,''^ '» "■« P^hetfc
themselves, and th^ fceeTerro? t l*™"« ™»» ""ow
make the grinders ceasefbrL ,L ^' ''?'"« *''«""'lej
low; darken the sun and hrm^ daughters of music
fears in the way: and n!»l T"' ""'"''« sters; scatter
the silver cord bTloosed^°^^^«'"-« '■'^«"" '» fa il; un«I
'-hen the dust returns rthe^w^"."''^" '"'"' >>« "rote^'
»P'r.t ascends to Go™VhVgave?, "' ""''""" ""«
Logan,
Br a se '^'^ t' ^^'•^«'^«^'' ^^t'a^o^ ,„ 1803
fiItj.a'rWtro„:"h^tm?efo'f1"'' \*^^ «"^-««of
dually extinguished. T^e 1^"'°^.' ^^^« »>««« gra-
Sw,tzerland, and the frp/f «"^J"gation of Holland
Pleted that catast o^h^^^^^^^^^^ has S
he eastern hemisphere 'A '"^ *^^ °"^7 people in
f«^«. and a free con^^^/;^" ^''^^ Po/s^^^^^^^^
e^erjr spot on the Continent ho '""1^"^' ^"^^n from
a country which she alwfv. ? '°"^^^ «° asjlum i"
;bode: but she is ptsue/fven r, ''' "T' '''^-^^^-
w th destruction). The innn^ ♦• ^'% ^""^ threatened
after covering the whole eZlT ^^ ^"^'^«« P^^er,
here; and we are most exac.^ ''*'"' *^ ^^"^^ "s
exactly, most critically placed
li
II
ii
I
I!
1
i
1 1
!
POLPIT ELOQDBNCIIt.
!,.«> it can be saccesstully re-
in the only aperture where it can ^^ ^^^ ,,
;ened-inVe Thermjyte onhe -^^^ ^^^^^ ,^.
?he interest, of f ««J°"„ "Mrests!-you, my coun-
portant by far of f "unary i j representa-
trymen, stand in the o^P""'?/ "'ijh to„ it is to deter-
SJes of the human r»°«' ^" "S the latest pos-
„i„e_under God-in «hat "ond^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^„,^^ ^
terity shall be born. A'"*'^ '^ j ^t this moment,
yj„7care; and on y««~£oa of their destiny.
Lpends the colour «»* ""^^ „„ the Continent,
If ^liberty, after ^XTl^^^ ^^ " ««' '" T,Tt
is suffered to expire "f f ■ rVT ,j^ j ^m invest it? It
in the midst of *»' «h>f "^^ejae whether that free-
remains with y°"^*^"^ *°kinedoms of Europe awoke
dom, at whose »°"=fJ^%^'"S T career of virtuous
from the sleep of ages, «°J"» , 4 the freedom
emulation in every •''«8 S'f ,„*" rs.ition. and invited
which dispelled the mis^s of sup r ^^ ^^
the nations to b«>;'>'*J^t the enthu^^'" of poetry,
kindled the rays of g«n'"*jr freedom which poured
and the flame of «l<^"™r; , ^nd embellish life with
into our lap opulence *»<' »™^ * vements, till it be-
nnumerable i°^'>f '^t^tlT s for you to decide,
came a theatre f'T^^J't survive, or be covered
whether this treedom f «"/* , ;„ eternal gloom. It
with a funeral pall, »"* X^PPfdeWrmination. In the
U not necessary »» »J*^ryour,c>«^ worthy of such
solicitude you feel to approve y .^^ ^^rf„e,
a trust, every thought of what 'S ^^__.^^. ^^
every apprehension oj danger, ^^ ^^^ ^i„i,^ed
are impatient to »'"«'; '"aers„f your country, accom-
world. Go then, ye defenders wy ^ ^Hb ala-
;:;;ied «ith -very ausp,o»us om». ^^^,j ^„ ,s the
crity into the field, w''*"^"" 1, interested in your
hosuo war. Kf g'°» '^ ~ ^T She «"> *<=<' ""^
success, not to lend you >«« While you are
this enterprise her selectest inn ^^ ^^^ ^^^^^
engaged in the held, '"""yjT'f Jhf„l of every name
miny, to the sanctuary. [^^ *»" „er with God.
:»! employ that prayer ^'^f^^^'^iPoany other wea-
The feeble hands, whi* a euneq ^^^ f^„„
pon, will grasp the sworn o
PULPli ELOQUENCE.
121
re-
r as
im-
)un-
>nta-
Bter-
pos-
ed to
nent»
stiny.
inent,
nerge
t? It
b free-
awoke
rtuous
•eedom
invited
3 torch
poetry,
poured
ife with
I it be-
decide,
covered
(om. I*
In the
^ of such
warfare,
and you
civilized
y, accom-
witb ala-
Qstevs the
id in your
shed over
e you are
e closet — •
very name
with God.
other wea-
and from
myriads of humble contrite hearts, the voice of inter-
cession, supplication, and weeping, will mingle in its
ascent to heaven, with the shouts of battle, and the
shock of arms. The extent of your resources, under
God, is equal to the justice of your cause. But should
Providence determine otherwise, should you fall in this
struggle, should the nation fall — ^you will have the
satisfaction — the purest allotted to man— of having
performed your part; your names will be enrolled with
the most illustrious dead, while posterity, to the end of
time, as often as they revolve the events of this period —
and they will incessantly revolve them — will turn to
you a reverential eye, while they mourn over the free-
dom which is entombed in your sepulchre. I cannot
but im&gine, that the virtuous heroes, legislators, and
patriots of every age and country, are bending ^rom
their elevated seats to witness this contest, as if they
were incapable, till it be brought to a favourable issue,
of enjoying their eternal repose. Enjoy that repose,
illustrious immortals! Your mantle fell when you
ascended; and thousands, inflamed with your spirit, and
impatient to tread in your steps, are ready to swear by
Him that sitteth upon the throne, and liveth for ever
and ever, that they will protect freedom in her last
asylum, and never desert that cause which you sustain-
ed by your labours, and cemented with your blood.
And thou, sole Buler of the children of men, to whom
the shields of the earth belong, gird on thy sword, thou
Most Mighty! Go forth with our hosts in the day of
battle! Impart, in addition to their hereditary valour,
that confidence of success which springs from thy pre-
sence! Pour into their hearts the spirits of departed
heroes! Inspire them with their own; and, while led
by thy hand, and fighting under thy banners, open thou
their eyes to behold in every valley, and in every plain,
what the prophet beheld by the same illumination —
chariots of fire, and horses of fire! Then shall the
strong man be as tow, and the maker of it as a spark;
and they shall both burn together, and none shall
quench them. Hall.
F
122
The Christian Mother.
If the sex, in their intercourse, are of the highest im-
portance to the moral and religious state of society,
they are still more so in their domestic relations.
What a public blessing, what an instrument of the most
exalted good^ is a virtuous Christian Mother! It
would require a far other pen than mine, to trace the
mrn^its of such a character. How many perhaps who
now hear me, feel that they owe to it all the virtue and
piety that adouns^ them^ or may recollect, at this mo-
ment, some saint in heaven, that brought them into
light) to labour for their happiness, temporal and eter-
nal ! No one can be ignc>rant of the irresistible influ-
ence which such a mother possesses^ in forming the hearts
of her children, at a season when nature takes in les-
son and example at every pore. Confined by duty and
inclination within the walls of her own house, every
hour of her life becomes an hour of insta'uction, every
feature of her conduct a transplanted virtue. Methinks
I behold her encircled by her beloved charge, like a be-
ing more than human, to whom every mind is bent, and
every eye directed — the eager simplicity of infancy in-
haling from her lips the sacred truths of religion, in
adapted phrase, and familiar story — the whole rule of
their moral and religious duties simplified for easier in-
fusion. The countenance of this fond and anxious pa-
rent, all beaming with delight and love; and her eye
raised occasionally to heaven, in fervent supplication
for a blessing on her work. Oh what a glorious part
does such a woman act on the great theatre of human-
ity; and how much is the mortal to be pitied, who is not
struck with the image of such excellence! When I
look to its consequences, direct and remote, I see the
plant she has raised and cultivated, spreading through
the community with the richest increase of fruit; I see
her diffusing happiness and virtue through a great por-
tion of the human race; lean fancy generations yet un-
born, rising to prove and to hail her worth; and I adore
that God, who can destine a single human creature
to be the stem of such extended and incalculable benefit
to the world. Kirwan.
PULPIT ELOQUENCE.
123
lU
Chrini our Consolation and Reliefs under the apprehen-
sion of being separated by Death from those we Love.
Jesus Christ gives us the victory over death, by-
yielding us consolation and relief, under the fears that
arise in the mind, upon the awful transition from this
world to the next.
Who ever left the precincts of mortality, without
casting a wishful look on what he left behind, and a
trembling eye on the scene that is before him? Being
formed by our Creator for enjoyments even in this life,
we are endowed with a sensibility to the objects around
us. We have affections, and we delight to indulge
them: we have hearts, and we want to bestow them.
Bad as the world is, we find in it objects of affection
and attachment. Even in this waste and howling wil-
derness, there are spots of verdure and beauty, of power
to charm the mind, and make us cry out, ** It is good for
us to be here." When after the observation and ex-
perience of years, we have found out the object of the
soul, and met with minds congenial to our own, what
pangs must it give to the heart, to think of paning for
ever? We even contract an attachment to inanimate ob-
jects* The tree under whose shadow we have often sat;
the fields where we have frequently strayed; the hill, the
scene of contemplation, or the haunt of friendship; be-
come objects of passion to the mind, and upon our leav-
ing them excite a temporary sorrow and regret. If these
things can affect us with uneasiness, how great must be
the affliction, when stretched upon that bed, from
which we shall rise no more > and looking about for the
last time on the sad circle of our weeping friends, —
how great must be the affliction, to dissolve at once all
the attachments of life; to bid an eternal adieu to the
friends whom we have long loved, and to part for ever
with all that is dear below the sun! But let not the
Christian be disconsolate. He parts with the objects
of his affection, to meet them again; to meet them in a
better world, where change never enters, and from
whose blissful mansions sorrow flies away. At the re-
surrection of the just — in the great assembly of the sons
of God, when all the family of heaven are gathered to-
ill
\ ■■■■
1/
I
I
i
124
PUI.P1T ELOQUENCE.
gether — not one person shall be missing, that was wor-
thy of thy affection or esteem. And if, among imper-
fect creatures, and in a troubled world, the kind, the
tender, and the generous affections,have such power to
charm the heart, that even the tears which they occa-
sion, delight us; wlint joy unspeakable and glorious
will they produce, when they exist in perfect minds,
and are improved by the purity of the heavens! Logan.
Infatuation of Mankind, with regard to the Things of
Time*
But if no danger is to be apprehended while the thun-
der of heaven rolls at a distance, believe me, when it
collects over our heads, we may be fatally convinced,
that a well spent life is the only conductor that can
avert the bolt. Let us reflect, that time waits for no
man. Sleeping or waking, our days are on the wing.
If we look to those that are past, they are but as a point.
When I compare the present aspect of this city, with
that which is exhibited within the short space of my
own residence, what does the result present, but the
most melancholy proof of human instability? New
characters in every scene; new events, new principles,
new passions; a new creation insensibly arisen from the
ashes of the old; which side soever I look, the ravage of
death has nearly renovated all. Scarcely do we look
around us in life, when our children are matured, and
remind us of the grave. The great feature of all na-
ture is rapidity of growth and declension. Ages are
renewed, but the figure of the world passeth away.
God only remains the same. The torrent that sweeps
by, runs at the base of his immutability; and he sees,
with indignation, wretched mortals, as they pass along,
insulting him by the visionary hope of sharing that at-
tribute, which belongs to Him alone.
It is to the incomprehensible oblivion of our mor-
tality, that the world owes all its fascination. Observe
for what man toils. Observe what it often costs him
to become rich and great— dismal vicissitudes of hope
and disappointment — often all that can degrade the
dignity of his nature^ and offend his God — study the
PULl'lT ELOQUENCE,
125
look
and
na-
are
way.
reeps
sees,
ong,
,t at-
mor-
erve
him
hope
the
y the
matter of the pedestal, and the instability of the statue.
Scarce is it erected, — scarce presented to the stare of
the multitude — when death, starting like a massy frag-
ment from the summit of a mountain, dashes the proud
colossus into dust! Where, then, is the promised fruit
of all his toil? Where the wretched and deluded be-
ing, who fondly promised himself that he had laid up
much goods for many years? — Gone, my brethren, to
his account a naked victim, trembling in the hands of
the living God ! Yes, my brethren, the final catastrophe
of all human passions, is rapid as it is awful. Fancy
yourselves on that bed from which you never shall rise,
and the reflection will exhibit, like a true and faithful
mirror, what shadows we are, and what shadows we
pursue. Happy they who meet that great, inevitable
transition, full of days! Unhappy they who meet it
but to tremble and despair! Then it is that man learns
wisdom, when too late; then it is that every thing will
forsake him, but his virtues or his crimes. To him the
world is past; dignities, honours, pleasure, glory! — past
like the cloud of the morning! nor could all that the
great globe inherits, afford him, at that tremendous
hour, as much consolation as the recollection of having
given but one cup of cold water to a child of wretched-
ness, in the name of Christ Jesus! Kirwan.
Danger of Delay in Matters of Religion.
By long delaying, your conversion may become alto-
gether impossible.
Habit, says the proverb, is a second nature ; and indeed
it is stronger than the first. At first, we easily take
the bend, and are moulded by the hands of the master;
but tliis nature of our own making is proof against al-
teration. The Ethiopian may as soon change his skin,
and the leopard his spots; the tormented in hell may as
soon revisit the earth ; as those who have been long ac-
customed to do evil, may learn to do well. Such is the
wise appointment of Heaven, to deter sinners from de-
laying their repentance. When the evil principle hath
corrupted tae whole capacity of the mind; when sin, by
its frequency and its duration, is woven into the very
id
' 1%
\\
ifi
12G
I'ULIMT ELOQUKNCR.
essence of the soul, and is become part of ourselves;
when the sense of moral good and evil is almost totally
extinct; when conscience is seared, as with a hot iron;
when the heart is so hard, that the arrows of the
Almighty cannot pierce it; and when, by a long course of
crimes, we have become, what the Scripture most em-
phatically calls, "vessels of wrath fitted for destruc-
tion;" — ^then we have filled up the measure of our sins;
then Almighty God swears in his wrath, that we shall
not enter into his rest; then there remaineth no more
sacrifice for sin, but a fearful looking-for of wrath and
indignation, which shall devour the adversary. Al-
mighty God, weary of bearing with the sons of men,
delivers them over to a reprobate mind; when, like Pha-
raoh, they survive only as monuments of wrath; when,
like Esau, they cannot find a place for repentance, al-
though they seek it carefully with tears; when, like the
foolish virgins, they come knocking — ^but the door of
mercy is shut for ever!
Further let me remind you, my brethren, that if you
repent not now, perhaps yon will not have another op-
portunity. You say you will repent in some future
period of time; but are you sure of arriving at that fu-
ture period of time ? Have you one hour in your hand ?
Have you one minute at your disposal ? Boast not thy-
self of to-morrow. Thou knowest not what a day may
bring forth. Before to-morrow, multitudes shall be in
another world. Art thou sure that thou art nai, of the
number? Man knoweth not his time. As the fishes
that are taken in an evil net, as the birds that are
caught in the snare; so are the sons of men snared in
an evil hour. Can you recall to mind none of your
companions— none of the partners of your follies and
your sins, cut off in an unconverted state — ^cut off per-
haps in the midst of an unfinished debauch, and hur-
ried, with all their transgressions upon their head, to
give in their account to God, the Judge of all? Could
I show you the state in which they are now; could an
angel from heaven unbar the gates of the everlasting
prison; could you discern the late companions of your
wanton hours, overwhelmed with torment and despair;
could you hear the cry of their torment, which ascend-
PULPIT ELOQUKNCE.
12:
eth up for ererand ever; could you hear them upbrliid-
ing you as the partners t^ their crimes, and accusing
you as in 8om(3 measure ihe cause of their damnation! —
Great God! how would your hair stand on end! how
would your heart die within you! how would conscience
fix all her stings, and remorse, awaking a new hell within
you, torment you before the time! Had a like untime-
ly fate snatched you away then, where had you been
now? And is this the improvement which you make
of that longer day of grace with which Heaven has
been pleased to favour you? Is this the return you
make to the Divine goodness, for prolonging your Kves,
and indulging you with a longer day of repentance?
Have you in good earnest determined within yourself,
that you will weary out the long-suflferit^ of God, tiitd
fdrce destruction from his reluctant hand?
J beseech, I implore yoo, my brethreft, in the 1)ond3
of friendship, and in the bowels of the Lord; by the
t€inder meroiee <jf the God of P^aee; by the dying love
of a crucified Redeemer; by the precious promises aftd
«wful threatenings of the Go^el; ^y alYl your hopes of
heaven, and feara of hell; by the worth of your im-
mortal souls; and by all that is deat* to men, I conjure
you to accept of the offers of merey, and fly from the
'wrath to come. — "Behold, now is the accepted time;
behold, now is the day of salvation." All the treasures
of heaven are now opening to yon ; the blood of Christ
is iiow speaking for the remission of your sins; the
Church on earth fetches otrt its arms to receive you ;
the spirits of just men made perfect are eager to enrol
you amongst the number of the blessed; the angels and
archangels are waiting to break out into new haBelujahS
of joy on your return; the whole Trittity is How em-
iployed in your behalf; God the Farther, God the
Son, and God the Holy Spirit, at this instant, call upon
you weary and heavy laden, to come unto them, that
ye may have rest unto your soyls! Logan.
On the Death of the Princess Charlotte.
That such un event should affect us iu a manner very
superior to similar calamities in private life, is agreeable
•'1
J 28
rULriT KLOQUENCE.
to the order of nature, and the will of God ; nor is
the profound sensation it has produced, to be considered
as the symbol of courtly adulation. The catastrophe
itself, it is true, apart from its peculiar circumstances,
is not a rare occurrence. Mothers often expire in the
ineffectual effort to give birth to their offspring : both
are consigned to the same tomb; and the survivor,
after witnessing the wreck of so many hopes and joyn,
is left to mourn alone, *' refusing to be comforted, be-
cause they are not."
There is no sorrow which imagination can picture,
no sign of anguish which nature, agonized and op-
pressed, can exhibit, no accent of wo — but -what is
already familiar to the ear of fallen, afflicted humanity;
and the roll which Ezekiel beheld flying through the
heavens, inscribed within and without, " with sorrow,
lamentation and wo," enters, sooner or later, into every
house, and discharges its contents into every bosom.
But, in the private departments of life, the distressing
incidents which occur, are confined to a narrow circle.
The hope of an individual is crushed ; the happiness
of a family is destroyed; but the social system is unim-
paired, and its movements experience no impediment,
and sustain no sensible injury. The arrow passes
through the air, which soon closes upon it, and all
again is tranquil. But when the great lights and orna-
ments of the world, placed aloft to conduct its inferior
movements, are extinguished — such an event resembles
the apocalyptic vial poured into that element which
changes its whole temperature, and is the presage of
fearful commotions, of thunders, and lightnings, and
tempests.
Born to inherit the most illustrious monarchy in the
world, and united at an early period to the object of
her choice, whose virtues amply justified her prefer-
ence, the Princess enjoyed the highest connubial
felicity; and had the prospect of combining all the
tranquil enjoyments of private life, with the splendour
of a royal station. Placed on the summit of society,
to her every eye was turned, in her every hope was
centered, and nothing was wanting to complete her
felicity — excepting perpetuity. To a grandeur of
II
PULl»IT ELOQUEKCK.
i29
mind suited to her illustrious birth and lofty destina-
tion, she joined an exquisite taste for the beauties of
nature, and the charms of retirement ; where, far from
the gaze of the multitude, and the frivolous agitations
of fashionable life, she employed her hours in visiting,
with her illustrious consort, the cottages of the poor,
in improving her virtues, in perfecting her reason, and
acquiring the knowledge best adapted to qualify her
for the possession of power, and the cnres of empire.
One thing was only wanting to render our satisfac-
tion complete, in the prospect of the accession of such
a Princess — it was, that she might become the living
mother of children.
The long-wished-for moment at length arrived ; but,
alas ! the event, anticipated with so much eagerness,
will form the most melancholy page in our history.
It is no reflection on this amiable Princess to suppose,
that in her early dawn, with the *• dew of her youth"
80 fre.>h upon her, she anticipated a long series of
years, and expected to be led through successive scenes
of enchantment, rising above each other in fascination
and beauty. It is natural to suppose she identified
herself with this great nation, which she was born to
govern ; and that, while she contemplated its pre-emi-
nent lustre in arts and in arms, its commerce encircling
the globe, its colonies diffused through both hemis-
pheres, and the beneficial effects of its institutions ex-
tending to the whole earth ; she considered them as so
many component parts of her own grandeur. Her
heart, we may well conceive, would often be ruffled
with emotions of trembling ecstasy, when she reflected,
that it was her province to live entirely for others ; to
compose the felicity of a great people ; to move in a
sphere which would afford scope for the exercise of
philanthropy, the most enlarged ; of wisdom, the most
enlightened ; and that, while others are doomed to pass
through the world in obscurity, she was to supply the
materials of history, and to impart that impulse to
society, which was to decide the destiny of future
generations. Fired with the ambition of equalling, or
surpassing, the most distinguished of her predecessors,
she probably did not despair of reviving the remem-
f2
X
«!
''■■ > fi
♦. I'
130
PULPIT EI.OQUKNCR.
i
bronce of the brightest parts of their story, and of once
more attaching the epoch of British glory to the nnnals
of a female reign. It is needless to add, thnt the
nation went with her, and probably outstripped her, in
these delightful anticipations. We fondly hoped, that
a life so inestimable would be protracted to a distant
period, and that, after diifusing the blessings of a just
and enlightened administration, and being surrounded
by a numerous progeny, she would gradually, in a good
old age, sink under the horizon, amidst the embraces
of her family, and the benedictions of her country.
But, alas I these delightful visions are fled ; and what
do we behold in their room, but the funeral pall and
shroud ; a palace in mourning, a nation in tears, and
the shadow of death settled over both like a cloud !
Oh the unspeakable vanity of human hopes I the in-
curable blindness of man to futurity ! — ever doomed
to grasp at shadows, to seize with avidity what turns to
dust and ashes in his hand, " to sow the wind, and
reap the whirlwind."
Without the slightest warning, without the oppor-
tunity of a moment's immediate preparation, in the
midst of the deepest tranquillity — at midnight — a
voice was heard in the palace, not of singing men and
singing women, not of revelry and mirth ; but the
cry, " Behold the bridegroom cometh !" The mother,
in the bloom of youth, spared just long enough to
hear the tidings of her infant's death, almost imme-
diately, as if summoned by his spirit, follows him into
eternity. " It is a night much to be remembered !"
Who foretold this event ? Who conjectured it ? Who
detected at a distance the faintest presage of its ap-
proach ? — which, when it arrived, mocked the efforts
of human skill, as much by their incapacity to prevent,
as their inability to foresee it ! Unmoved by the * f^ars
of conjugal affection, unawed by the presence ol ran-
deur, and the prerogatives of power, inexorable leath
hastened to execute his stern commission, leaving no-
thing to royalty itself, but to retire and weep. Who can
fail to discern, on this awful occasion, the hand of
Him who *^ bringeth princes to nothing, who maketh
the judges of the earth as vanity ; who says, they
rUl.rJT El.OtiUENCF.
131
to
no-
can
of
Jeth
Ibev
shall not be planted ; yea, they shall not be sown ; yea,
their stock shall not take root in the earth ; and he
shall blow upon them, and they shall wither, and the
whirlwind shall take them away as stubble ?'*
But ir, it now any subject of regret, think you, to
this amiable Princess so suddenly removed, " that her
sun went down while it was yet day ;" or that, pre-
maturely snatched from prospects the most brilliant
and enchanting, she was compelled to close her eyes so
soon on a world, of whose grandeur she formed so
conspicuous a part ? No ! in the full fruition of eternal
joys, for which, we humbly hope, religion prepared
her, she is so far from looking back with lingering
regret on what she has quitted, that she is surprised it
had the power of affecting her so much ; that she took
so deep an interest in the scenes of this shadowy state
of being, while so near to an •* eternal weight of
glory ;" and, so far as memory may be supposed to
contribute to her happiness, by associating the present
with the past, it is not by the recollection of her illus-
trious birth and elevated prospects — but that she visited
the abodes of the poor, and learned to weep with those
that weep; that, h lounded with the fascinations of
pleasure, she wa;» not inebriated by its charms ; that
she resisted the strongest temptations to pride, pre-
served her ears open to truth, was impatient of the
voice of flattery ; in a word, that she sought and
cherished the inspirations of piety, and walked humbly
with her God.
The nation has certainly not been wanting in the
proper expression of its poignant regret at t.ie sudden
removal of this most lamented Princess ; nor of their
sympathy with the royal family, depriv»^d, by this
visitation, of its brightest ornament. Sorrow is
painted in every countenance, the pursuits of business
and of pleasure have been suspended, and the kingdom
is covered with the signals of distress. But what
(my friends) if it were lawful to indulge such a
thought — what would be the funeral obsequies of a
lost soul ? Where shall we find the tears fit to be
wept at such a spectacle ; or, could we realize the
calamity, in all its extent, what tokens of commisera-
ii
I; 't
!5.;i
132
PULl'IT ELOQUENCK.
tion and concern would be deemed equal to the occa-
sion ? Would it suflRce for the sun to veil his light,
and the moon her brightness ? to cover the ocean with
mourning, and the heavens with sackcloth ? or, were
the whole fabric of nature to become animated and
vocal, would it be possible for it to utter a groan too
deep, or a cry too piercing, to express the magnitude
and extent of such a catastrophe ? Hall.
On the Death of Princess Charlotte,
Oh I how it tends to quiet the agitations of every
earthly interest and earthly passion, when death steps
forward, and demonstrates the littleness of them all —
when he stamps a character of such affticting insigni*
ficance on all that we are contending for — when, as if
to make known the greatness of his power in the sight
of a whole country, he stalks in ghastly triumph over
the might and the grandeur of its most august family,
and singling out that member of it in whom the dear-
est hopes and the gayest visions of the people were
suspended, he, by one fatal and resistless blow, sends
abroad the fame of his victory and his strength,
throughout the wide extent of an afflicted nation ! He
has indeed put a cruel and impressive mockery on all
the glories of mortality. A few days ago, all looked
so full of life, and promise, and security — when we
read of the bustle of the great preparation — and were
told of the skill and the talent that were pressed into
the service — and heard of the goodly attendance of the
most eminent of the nation — and how officers of state,
and the titled dignitaries of the land, were charioted
in splendour to the scene of expectation, as to the joys
of an approaching holiday — yes, and were told too,
that the bells of the surrounding villages were all in
readiness for the merry peal of gratulation, and that
the expectant metropolis of our empire, on tiptoe for
the announcement of her future monarch, had her
winged couriers of despatch to speed the welcome
message to the ears of her citizens, and that from her
an embassy of gladness was to travel over all the pro-
vinces of th« land ; and the country, forgetful of all
PULPIT ELOQUENCE.
133
if
in
hat
for
her
rae
her
•ro-
all
that she had suffered, was at length to offer the spec-
tacle of one wide and rejoicing jubilee. O death! thou
hast indeed chosen the time and the victim, for de-
monstrating the grim ascendancy of thy power over
all the hopes and fortunes of our species! — Our
blooming Princess, whom fancy had decked with the
coronet of these realms, and under whose sway all
bade so fair for the good and the peace of the nation,
has he placed upon her bier ! and, as if to fill up the
measure of his triumph, has he laid by her side, that
babe, who, but for him, might have been the monarch
of a future generation; and he has done that, which by
no single achievement he could otherwise have accom-
plished — he has sent forth over the whole of our land,
the gloom of such a bereavement as cannot be replaced
by any living descendant of royalty — he has broken
the direct succession of the monarchy of England — by
one and the same disaster, has he awakened up the
public anxieties of the country, and sent a pang as
acute as that of the most woful visitation into the heart
of each of its families.
Amongst the rich, there is apt, at times, to rankle
an injurious and unworthy impression of the poor —
and just because these poor stand at a distance from
them — jc'st because they come not into contact with
that which would draw them out in courteousness to
their persons, and in benevolent attentions to their
families. Amongst the poor, on the other hand, there
is often a disdainful suspicion of the wealthy, as if
they were actuated by a proud indifference to them
and to their concerns; and as if they were placed away
from them at so distant and lofty an elevation, as not
to require the exercise of any of those cordialities,
which are ever sure to spring in the bosom of man to
man, when they come to know each other, and to have
the actual sight of each other. But, let any accident
place an individual of the higher before the eyes of the
lower order, on the ground of their common humanity
— let the latter be made to see that the former are
akin to themselves in all the sufferings and in all the
sensibilities of our common inheritance — let, for ex-
ample, the greatest chieftain of the territory die, and
if:
I:
■ II
■ h
• 'ii
?l
1:
^i il
134
PULVIT ELOQUENCE.
fi
the report of his weeping children, or of his distracted
widow, be sent through the neighbourhood — or, let an
infant of his family be in suffering, and th& mothers of
the humble vicinity be run to for counsel and assist-
ance — or, in any other way, let the rie.i, instead of
being viewed by their inferiors through the dim and
distapt medium of that fancied interval which separates
the ranks of society, be seen as heirs of the same
frailty, and as dependent on the same sympathies with
themselves — and, at that moment, all the ilood-sgates of
honest sympathy will be opened — and the lowest ser-
vants of the establishment will join in the cry of
distress which has come upon their family — and the
neighbouring cottagers, to share in their grief, have
only to recognise them as the partakers of one nature,
and to perceive an assimilation of feelings and of cir-
cumstances between them.
Let me further apply all this to the sons and the
daughters of royalty. The truth is, that they appear
to the public eye as stalking on a platform so highly
elevated above the general level of society, that it
removes them, as it were, from all the ordinary sym-
pathies of our nature. And though we read at times
of their galas, and their birth-days^ and their drawing-
rooms, there is nothing in all this to attach us to their
interests and their feelings, as the inhabitants of a
familiar home, as the members of an affectionate family.
Surrounded as they are with the glare of a splendid
notoriety, we scarcely recognise them as men and as
women, who can rejoice and weep, and pine with
disease, and taste the sufferings of mortality, and be
oppressed with anguish, and love with tenderness, and
experience in thefr bosoms the same movements of
grief or of affection that we do ourselves. And thus
it is, that they labour under a real and heavy disad-
vantage.
Now, if, through an accidental opening, the public
should be favoured with a domestic exhibition — if, by
some overpowering visitation of Providence upon an
illustrious family, the members of it should come to be
recognised as the partakers of one common humanity
with ourselves — if, instead of beholding them in their
rULI'IT KLOQUENCE.
13o
a
gorgeousness as princes, we look to them in the natu-
ral evolution of their sensibiiitie» as men — if the stately
palace should be turned into a house of mourning — in
one word, if death should do what he has already done,
— He has met the Princess of England in the prime
and promise of her days; and, as she was moving on-
ward on her march to a hereditary throne, he has laid
her at his feet. — Ah ! my brethren, when the imagina-
tion dwells on that bed where the remains of departed
youth and departed' infancy are lying — when, instead
of crowns and canopies of grandeur, it looks to the
forlorn husband, and the weeping father, and the
human feedings which agitate their bosoms, and the
human tears which flow down their cheeks, and all
such symptoms of deep affliction as bespeak the work-
ings of suffering and dejected nature — what ought to
be, and what actually is, the feeling of the country at
so sad an exhibition? It is just the feeling of the
domestics and the labourers at Claremont. All is soft
and tender as womanhood. Nor is there a peasant in
our land, who is not touched to the very heart, when
he thinks of the unhappy stranger, who is now spend-
ing his days in grief, and his nights in sleeplessness —
as hiB mourns alone in his darkened chamber, and
refuses to be comforted — as he turns in vain for rest
to his troubled feelings, and cannot find it — as he gazes
on the memorials of an affection that blessed the
brightest, happiest, shortest year of his existence — as
he looks back on the endearments of the bygone
months, and the thought that they have for ever fleeted
away from him, turns all to agony — as he looks for'
ward on the blighted prospect of this world's pilgrim-
age, and feels that all which bound him to existence,
is now torn irretrievably away from them! There is
not a British heart that does not feel to this interest-
ing visitor, all the force and all the tenderness of a
most affecting relationship ; and, go v/here he may,
will he ever be recognised and cherished as a much-
loved member of the British family I Chalmers.
W
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i'
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" 1 ,
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PULPIT ELOQUENCE.
1
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d
e
a
▼I
Bl
60
ill
re
wi
Oh, the Death of the Princess Charlotte.
Yes, all earthly distinctions are destroyed at death.
Sometimes, indeed, they may appear to remain. One
man is honore 1 with a splendid and imposing burial;
another has a blazoned monument erected over him;
:hird may have historians to record his name, and
poets to sing his praise. And in contrast to all these,
a fourth may he laid in the base earth, and have not
even a stone to tell where he lies, and fade from the
remembrance, almost as soon as he passes from the
sight of that world, in which he did little more than
toil, and weep, and suffer. But let your eye pene-
trate through thos: showy and unsubstantial forms
which custom, or affection, or vanity, -has thrown
over the graves of departed mortals, and behold how
the mightiest and the meanest lie side by side in one
common undistinguished ruin. Striking is the fact,
and numerous are its proofs. Every day that passes
over you, and every funeral that you attend, and every
churchyard that you visit, gives you the affecting
demonstration. And sometimes God, in his judgment,
or in his mercy, sends a proof of it which knocks loudly
at the door of every heart, and seits a broad and a
lasting seal upon the humbling truth. This proof he
has lately sent us in the most solemn and pathetic form
which it could possibly assume. There was one who
had all that earthly greatness can confer ; who filled
one of the most elevated and conspicuous stations to
which mortals are ever born ; who had all of personal
dignity, and accomplishment, and honor, that this
world could afford ; and who, as her best and highest
distinction, sat enthroned in the heart of her country,
as their admiration and their hope. Such she was ;
but it pleased God, whose crt .ure and whose child
she was, to assert his own sovereignty, and to illustrate
the emptiness of all terrestrial grandeur, by taking
away her breath ; and she died, and is returning to her
dust. • And what, think you, my friends, are the dis-
tinctions in which she is now rojoicing ? Not in those
with which she was surrounded and adorned on earth ;
these have lost all their importance and all their charms.
PULl'IT ELOQUENCE.
137
eath.
One
irial;
Vim;
. and
;hese,
a not
m the
n the
5 than
pene-
forms
brown
i how
in one
e fact,
passes
I every
Fecting
gment,
loudly
and a
roof he
ic form
who
filled
ions to
rsonal
at this
highest
ountry,
was ;
;e child
lustrate
taking
to her
he dis-
n those
earth ;
harms,
le
and even that universal and afiectionate respect in
which she was held appears to her now a very little
thing. But there are distinctions which death cannot
touch, and which are now, we trust, the glory and the
joy of her departed spirit. To her, we trust, it is now
given to rejoice, that in the high places of this wilder-
ness, she was enabled, by divine grace, to confide in
the mercy of her God, and in the merits of her Redeemer;
that she paid a practical regard to the exercises
of devotion ; that she reverenced the Lord's day ; that
she performed her relative duties with fidelity and
afiection ; that she set an example of virtue and piety,
amidst strong temptation and abounding iniquity ;
and that, with the splendid prospects of an earthly
crown, she did not forget her heavenly hopes, but as-
pired after that crown of righteousness and gloiy which
fadeth not away. Dr, Thomson.
The Infinite Love of God.
There are resources in the eternal mind, which are
equally beyond our reach and our comprehension.
There is a power, and a magnitude, and a richness in
the love of God towards those upon whom it is set, to
which the love of the creature cannot even approxi-
mate, of which the imagination of the creature could
not have formed any previous idea, and which, even to
the experience of the creature, presents a subject of
inscrutable mystery — a theme of wondering gratitude
and praise. Man may love, man should love, man
must love his fellows ; but he never did, and never
can love them like God. His is a love that throws
man's into the distance and the shade. Had he only
loved as man loves, there would have been no salva-
tion — no heaven — no felicity for us — no glad tidings
to cheer our hearts — no promised land on which to
fix our anticipations — no table of commemoration and
of communion spread for us in the wilderness, to re-
fresh us amidst the toils, and the languishings, and
the sorrows of our pilgrimage thither. His violated
law must have taken its course ; the vials of his wrath
must have been poured out ; and everlasting, unmiti-
I
!f,
I
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138
■|
I'UI-PIT KLOQUENCE.
gated ruin, must have been our portion. But, behold !
Ood is love itself ; and his love, in all its workings,
and tn all it influences, and in all its effects, can stoop
to no parallel with the best and most ardent of human
affections. Guilt, which forbids and represses man's
love, awakens, and kindles, and secures God's. Death
for the guilty is too wide a gulf for man's love
to pass over. God's love to the guilty is infinitely
*' stronger than death," and spurns at all such limits,
and smiles at the agonies and the ignominies of a cross,
that it may have its perfect work. God, in the exercise
of his love towards our sinful and miserable race, is
concerned, where man would be unmoved, indifferent
and cold. God is full of pity, where man would
frown with stern and relentless aversion. God for-
gives, where man would condemn and punish. God
eaves, where man would destroy. Dr. Thomson.
Funeral Sermon on the Death of Dr. Thomson.
But the lesson is prodigiously enhanced when we pass
from his pulpit to his. household ministrations. I
perhaps do him wrong, in supposing that any large
proportion of his hearers did not know him personally —
for such was his matchless superiority to fatigue, such
the unconquerable "trength and activity of his nature,
that he may almost be said to have accomplished a
sort of personal ubiquity among his people. But ere
you can appreciate the whole effect of this, let me advert
to a principle of very extensive operation in nature.
Painters know it well. They are aware, how much it
adds to the force and beauty of any representation of
theirs, when made strikingly and properly to contrast
with the back-ground on which it is projected. And
the same 's as true of direct nature, set forth in one of
her own immediate scenes, as of reflex nature, set
forth by the imagination and pencil of the artist. This
is often exemplified in those Alpine wilds, where beauty
tnay, at times, be seen embosomed in the lap of gran-
deur — as when at the base of a lofty precipice, some
«pot of verdure, or peaceful cottage- home, seems to
smile in more intense loveliness, because of the towering
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PULPIT ELOQUENCE.
139
^ome
p to
Iring
strength and magnificence which are behind it. Apply
this to character, and think how precisely analogous
the effect is— when, from the ground-work of a charac-
ter that, mainly, in its texture and general aspect, is
masculine, there do effloresce the forth-puttings of a
softer nature, and those gentler charities of the heart,
which come out irradiated in tenfold beauty, when
they arise from a substratum of moral strength and
grandeur underneath. It is thus, when the man of
strength shows himself the man of tenderness : and
he who, sturdy and impregnable in every righteous
cause, makes his graceful descent to the ordinary com>
panionships of life, is found to mingle, with kindred
warmth, in all the cares and the sympathies of his
fellow man. Such, I am sure, is the touching recollec-
tion of very many who now hear me, and who can
tell, in their own experience, that the vigour of his
pulpit, was only equalled by the fidelity and the ten-
derness of his household ministrations ; they understand
the whole force and significance of the contrast I have
now been speaking of — when the pastor of the church
becomes the pastor of the family, and he who, in the
crowded assembly, held imperial sway over every un-
derstanding, entered some parent's lowly dwelling, and
prayed and wept along with them over their infant's
dying bed. It is on occasions like these, when the
minister carries to its highest pitch the moral ascen-
dancy which belongs to his station. It is this which
furnishes him with a key to every heartj-^-and when
the triumphs of charity are superadded to the triumphs
of argument, then it is that he sits enthroned over
the affections of a willing people. Chalmers,
Sitting in the Chair of the Scorner,
The third and last stage of impiety, is "sitting in the
chair of the scorner,'* or laughing at all religion and
virtue. This is a pitch of diabolical attainment, to
which few arrive. It requires a double portion of the
infernal spirit, and a long experience in the mystery
of iniquity, to become callous to every sense of reli-
gion, of virtue, and of honour; to throw off the autho-
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PULPIT ELOQUKNCli.
rity of nature, of conscience, and of God; to overleap
the barrier of laws divine and human; and to endeavour
to wrest the bolt from the red right-hand of the Om-
nipotent. Difficult as the achievement is, we see it
sometimes effected. We have seen persons who have
gloried in their shame, and boasted of being vicious
for the sake of vice. Such characters are monsters in
the moral world! Figure to yourselves, my brethren,
the anguish, the horror, the misery, the damnation
such a person must endure, who must consider himself
in a state of enmity with heaven and with earth; who
has no pleasant reflection from the past, no peace in
the present, and i>o hopes from the future; who must
consider himself as a solitary being in the world; who
has no friend without to pour balm into the cup.jpjf
bitterness he is doomed to drink ; who has no frieilll
above to comfort him, when there is none to help; and
who has nought within him to compensate for that
irreparable and that irredeemable loss. Such a person
is as miserable as he is wicked. He is insensible to
every emotion of friendship; he is lost to all sense of
honour; he is seared to every feeling of virtue.
In the class of those who sit in the chair of the
scorner, we may include the whole race of infidels,
who misemploy the engines of reason, or of ridicule,
to overthrow the Christian religion. Were the dispute
concerning a system of speculative opinions — which of
themselves were of no importance to the happiness of
mankind — it would be uncharitable to include them
all under this censure. But on the Christian religion,
not only the happiness, but the virtue of mankind de-
pends. It is an undoubted fact, that religion is the
strongest principle of virtue with all men ; and, with
nine-tenths of mankind, is the only principle of virtue.
Any attempt, therefore, to destroy it, must be consi-
dered as an attempt against the happiness, and against
the virtue of the human kind. If the heathen philoso-
phers did not attempt to subvert the false religion of
their country, but, on the contrary, gave it the sanc-
tion of their example; because, bad as it was, it had
considerable influence on the maLn^rs of the people,
and was better than no religion at ail ; what shame.
PUI.PIT ELOQUENCE.
141
[igion,
Id de-
ls the
with
lirtue.
ponsi-
^ainst
floso-
m of
janc-
had
lople,
lame.
what contempt, what infamy, ought they to incur, who
endeavour to overthrow a religion which contains the
noblest ideas of the Deity, and the purest system of
morals that was ever taught upon earth? He is a
traitor to his country, he is a traitor to the human
kind, he is a traitor to Heaven, who abuses the talents
that God has given him, in impious attempts to wage
war against Heaven, and to undermine that system of
religion, which, of all things, is the best adapted to
promote the happiness and the perfection of the human
kind. Blessed, then, is the man who hath not brought
himself into this sinful and miserable state — who hath
held fast his innocence and integrity, in the midst of a
degenerate world ; or if, in some unguarded hour, he
hath been betrayed into an imprudent step, or over-
t(U^ in a fault, hath made ample amends for his
foiP, by a life of penitence and of piety. Logan.
The Plurality of Worlds not an ^Argument against the
Truth of Revelation.
Keep all this in view, and you cannot fail to perceive
how the principle; so finely and so copiously illustrated
in this chapter, may be brought to meet the infidelity
we have thus long been employed in combating. It
was nature — and the experience of every bosom will
afiirm it — it was nature in the shepherd, to leave the
ninety and nine of his fiock forgotten and alone in the
wilderness, and, betaking himself to the mountains, to
give all his labour, and all his concern, to the pursuit
of one solitary wanderer. It was nature — and we are
told, in the passage before us, that it is such a portion
of nature as belongs not merely to men, but to angels —
when the woman, with her mind in a state of listlessness
as to the nine pieces of silver that were in secure cus -
tody, turned the whole force of her anxiety to the one
piece which she had lost, and for which she had to
light a candle, and to sweep the house, and to search
diligently until she found it. It was nature in her to
rejoice more over that piece, than over all the rest of
them; and to tell it abroad among friends and neigh-
bours, that they might rejoice along with her. And,
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rULriT KLOQUKNCE.
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sadly effaced as humanity is in all her original linea-*
ments, this is a part of our nature, the very move-
ments of which are experienced in heaven, "where
there is more joy over one sinner that repenteth, than
over ninety and nine just persons who need no repent-
ance." For any thing 1 know, every planet that rolls
in the immensity around me, may be a land of right-
eousness, and be a member of the household of God;
and have her secure dwelling place within that ample
limit, which embraces his great and universal family:
But I know at least of one wanderer; and how wofully
i^e has strayed from peace and from purity; and how,
in dreary alienation from him who made her, she has
bewildered herself amongst those many devious tracks,
which have carried her afar from the path of immor-
tality; and how sadly tarnished all those beauties and
felicities are, which promised, on that morning of her
existence when God looked on her, and saw that all
was very good — which promised so richly to bless and
to adorn her; and how, in the eye of the whole un-
fallen creation, she has renounced all this goodliness
and is fast departing away from, them into guilt, and
wretchedness, and shame. Oh! if there be any -truth
in this chapter, and any sweet or touching nature in the
principle which runs throughout all its parables; let us
cease to wonder, though they who surround the throne
of love should be looking so intently towards us<— or
though, in the way by which they have singled us out,
all the other orbs of space should, for one short season j
on the scale of eternity, appear to be forgotten — or
though, for every step of her recovery, and for every,
individual who is rendered back again to the fold
from which he was separated; another and another
message of triumph should be made to circulate amongst
the hosts of paradise— or though, lost as we are, and
sunk in depravity as we are, all the sympathies of
heaven should now be awake on the enterprise of him
who has travailed, in the greatness of his strength, to
seek and to save us.
And here I cannot but remark how fine a harmony
there is between the law of sympathetic nature in
heaven, and the most touching exhibitions of it on the
I'ULPIT KLCHjUENGl:;.
Wd
13— or
IS out,
ISOIl)
fen — or
face o£ our world. When one of a numerous bouse-
hold droops under the power of disease, is not that the
one to whom all the* tenderness is turned, and who, in
a manner, monopolizes the inquiries of his neighbour-
hoodf and the care of his family? When the sighing
of the midnight storni sends a dismal foreboding into
the mother's heart; to whom of all her offspring, I
would ask, are her thoughts and her anxieties then
wandering? Is it not to her sailor-boy, whom her
fancy has placed amid the rude and angry surges .of
the ocean? Does not this, the hour of his apprehended
danger, concentrate upon him the whole force of her
wakjeful meditations? and does npt he engross, for a
season, her every sensibility, and her every prayer?
We sometimes hear of shipwrecked passengers thrown
upon a barbarous shore; and seized upon by its prowl-
ing inhabitants; and hurried away through the tracks
of a dreary and unknown wilderness; and sold into
captivity; and loaded with the fetters of irrecoverable
bondage; and who, stripped of every other liberty but
the liberty of thought, feel even this to be another
ingredient of wretchedness — for what can they think
of but home? and, as all its kind and tender imagery
comes upon their remembrance, how can they think of
it but in the bitterness of despair? Oh, tell me, when
the fame of all this disaster reaches his family, who is
the member of it to whom is directed the full tide of
its griefs and of its sympathies? — who is it that, for
weeks and for months, usurps their every feeling, and
calls out their largest sacrifices^ and sets them to the
busiest expedients for getting him back again ?-^
who is it that makes them forgetful of themselves and
of all around them? — And tell me, if you can assign a
limit to the pains, and the exertions, and the surren-
ders, which afflicted parents and weepiug sisters would
make to seek and to save him?. Chalmers,
■ SI
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Pa
rmony
ire in
^n the
Christ^s Agony.
Christians! what an hour was that, which our Sa-
viour passed in the garden of Gethseraane! In the
time of his passion, his torments succeeded one another.
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144
rULriT ELOQUENCE.
;i!
He was not at the same time betrayed, mocked, scour-
ged, crowned with thorns, pierced with a spear, ex-
tended on a cross, and forsaken by his Father: but
here all these torments rose before him at once; all his
pains were united together; what he was to endure in
succession, now crowded into one moment, and his soul
was overcome. At this time, too, the powers of dark-
ness^ it should seem, were permitted to work upon his
imagination, to disturb his spirit, and make the vale
through which he was to pass, appear more dark and
gloomy.
Add to this, that our Saviour having now come to
the close of his public life, his whole mediatorial under-
taking presented itself to his view; his eye ran over
the history of that race which ho came to save, from
the beginning to the end of time. He had a feeling of
all the misery, and a sense of all the guilt of men. If
he looked back into past times, what did he behold? —
The earth a field of blood, a vale of tears, a theatre
of crimes. If he cast his eyes upon that one in which
he lived, what did he behold? — The nation, to whom
he was sent, rejecting the counsel of God against
themselves, imprecating his blood to be upon them and
their children, and bringing upon themselves such a
desolation as has not happened to any other people.
When he looked forward to succeeding ages, what did
he behold? — He saw, that the wickedness of men was
to continue and abound, to erect a Golgotha in every
age, and, by obstinate impenitence, to crucify afresh
the Son of God; — he saw, that, in his blessed name,
and under the banners of his cross, the most atrocious
crimes were to be committed, the sword of persecution
to be drawn, the best blood of the earth to be shed,
and the noblest spirits that ever graced the world to be
cut off; — he saw, that, for many of the human race,
all the efforts of saving mercy were to be defeated ;
that his death was to be of no avail, that his blood was
to be shed in vain, that his agonies were to be lost,
and that it had been happy for them if he had never
been born; — he saw, that he was to be wounded in the
house of his friends, that his name was to be blas-
phemed among his own followers^ that he was to be
.'.rtax.
PULPIT ELOVL'KNCE.
146
■b|
was
jvery
■resh
dishonoured by the wicked lives of those who colled
themselves his disciples; that one man was to prefer
the gains of iniquity, another the blandishments of
pleasure, a third the indulgence of malicious desire,
and all of you, at times, the gratification of your
favourite passion — to the tender mercies of the God
of peace, and the dying love of a crucified Redeemer.
Wh'le the hour revolved that spread forth all these
things before his eyes, we need not wonder that he
began to be in agony, and that he sweated, as it vv ere,
great drops of blood. Logan.
The Deluding Influence of the World.
My brethren, the true source of all our cT lusion, is a
false and deceitful security of life. Thousands pass to
their account around us, and we are not instructed.
Some are struck in our very arms — our parent^;, our
children, our friends — and yet we stand as if w j n id
shot into the earth an eternal root. Even the most
sudden transitions from life to dust, produce but a
momentary impression on the dust that breathes. No
examples, however awful, sink into the heart. Every
instant we see health, youth, beauty, titles, reputrtion,
and fortune, disappear like a flash. Still do we pass
gaily on, in the broad and flowery way, the same busy,
thoughtless, and irreclaimable beings; panting for every
pleasure as before, thirsting for riches and pre-emi-
nence, rushing on the melancholy ruins of one another,
intriguing for the employments of tL v^ whose ashes
are scarce cold; nay, often, I fear, kcov ng an eye on
the very expiring, with the infamous view of seizing
the earliest moment to solicit their spoils.
Great God! as if the all-devouritig tomb, instead of
solemnly pronouncing on the varity of all human pur-
suits, on the contrary, emitted sparks to rekindle all
our attachment to a perishable world! Let me suppose,
my brethren, that the number of man's days were
inscribed on his brow! Is it not clear, that an awful
certainty of that nature must necessarily beget the
most profound and operative reflection? Would it be
possible to banish, even for a moment, the fatal term
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FULPIT ELOQUENCE.
from his thoughts? The nearer he approached it,
what an increase of alarm! what an increase of light
on the folly, of every thing but immortal good! Would
all his views and aspirings be confined, as they now
are, to the little span that intervenes between his cradle
and his grave; and care, and anxiety, and miserable
agiiation, be his lot, merely to die overwhelmed with
riches, and blazing with honours?
No! wedded to this miserable scene of existence,
our hopes are afloat to the last. The understanding,
clear in every other point, casts not a ray on the nature
of our condition, however desperate. Too frequently
it happens, that every one around us at that awful
moment, conspires to uphold this state of delusion.
They shudder for us in their hearts, yet talk to us of
recovery with their lips. From a principle of mistaken,
or to give it its proper name, of barbarous lenity, the
most important of all truths is withheld, till it is of
little use to impart it. The consequence is obvious.
We ar.e surprised — fatally surprised. Our eyes are
only opened when they are ready to close for ever. Per-
haps an instant of reflection to be made the most of;
perhaps to be divided between the disposition of worldly
affairs, and the business of eternity! An instant of
reflection, just God! to bewail an entire life of disorder
— to inspire faith the most lively, hope the most firm,
love the most pure ! An instant of reflection, perhaps,
for a sinner whom vice may have infected to the very
marrow of his bones, when reason is half eclipsed, and
all the faculties palsied by the strong grasp of death!
Oh, my brethren, terrible is the fate of those, who are
only roused from a long and criminal security, by the
sword of his divine justice already gleaming in their
eyes! Remember, that if any truth in religion be
more repeatedly pressed on us than another, it is this
— that as we live, so shall we inevitably die. Few of
us, I am sure, but live in the intention of throwing an
interval of most serious reflection between the world
and the grave. But let me warn you on that point! —
It is not given to man to bestow his heart and affection
on the present scene, and recall them when he pleases.
No; every hour will draw our chains closer. Those
FULPIT ELOQUENCE.
147
obstacles to better practice, which we find insuperable
at this moment, will be more insuperable as we go on.
It is the property of years to ' give wide and immo-
vable root to all passions. The deeper the bed of the
torrent, the more impossible to change its course. The
older and more inveterate a wound, the more painful
the remedy, and more desperate the cure. Kirwan.
There is no Peace to the Wicked.
In truth, my brethren, there is not a sin, but what one
way or another is punished in this life. We often err
egregiously by not attending to the distinction between
happiness, and the means of happiness. Power, riches,
and prosperity — those means of happiness, and sources
of enjoyment — in the course of Providence, are some-
times conferred upon the worst of men. Such persons
possess the good things of life; but they do not enjoy
them. They have the means of happiness, but they
have not happiness itself. A wicked man can never
be happy. It is the firm decree of Heaven — eternal
and unchangeable as Jehovah himself — that misery
must ever attend on guilt; that, when sin enters,
happiness takes its departure. There is no such thing
in nature, my brethren, — there is no such in nature, as
a vicious or unlawful pleasure. What we generally
call such, are pleasures in themselves lawful, procured
by wrong means, or enjoyed in a wrong way; procured
by injustice, or enjoyed with intemperance; — and surely
neither injustice nor intemperance have any charm for
the mind: and unless we are framed with a very un-
common temper of mind and body, injustice will be
hurtful to the one, and intemperance fatal to the other.
Unruly desires and bad passions — the gratification of
which is sometimes called pleasure — are the source of
almost all the miseries in human life. When once in-
dulged, they rage for repeated gratification, and subject
US; at all times, to their clamours and importuity. When
they are gratified, if they give any joy — it is the joy of
fiends, the joy of the tormented — a joy which is pur-
chased at the expense of a good conscience, which
rises on the ruins of the public peace, and proceeds
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ri
from the miseries of our fellow-creatures. The for-
bidden fruit proves to be the apples of Sodom, and the
grapes of Gomorrah. One deed of shame is succeeded
by years of penitence and pain. A single indulgence
of wrath has raised a conflagration, which neither the
force of friendship, nor length of time, nor the vehe-
mence of intercession, could mitigate or appease; and
which could only be quenched by the effusion of hu-
man blood. One drop from the cup of this powerful
sorceress has turned living streams of joy into waters
of bitterness. " There is no peace, saith my God, to
the wicked."
If a wicked man could be happy, who might have
been so happy as Haman, — raised from an inferior sta-
tion to great riches and power; exalted above his rivals,
and above the princes of the empire; favourite and
prime minister to the greatest monarch in the world?
But with all these advantages on his side, and under
all these smiles of fortune, his happiness was destroyed
by the want of a bow, usual to tht)se of his station,
from one of the porters of the palace. Enraged with
this neglect, this vain great man cried out, in the pang
of disappointment, " All this availeth me nothing, so
long as I see Mordecai sitting at the king's gate."
This seeming affront sat deep on his mind. He medi-
tated revenge. A single victim could i jt satisfy his
malice. He wanted to have a glutting engeance.
He resolved, for this purpose, to involve thousands in
destruction, and to make a whole nation fall a sacrifice
to the indulgence of his mean-spirited pride. — His
wickedness proved his ruin, and he erected the gal-
lows on which he himself was doomed to be hanged!
If we consider man as an individual, we shall see a
further confirmation of the truth contained in the text,
that " Therr is no peace to the wicked."
In order to strengthen the obligations to virtue. Al-
mighty God hath rendered the practice of sin fatal to
our peace as individuals, as well as pernicious to our
interests as members of society. From the sinner God
withdraws his favour, and the light of his countenance.
How dark will that mind be, which no beam from the
Father of lights ever visits! How joyless that heart,
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PULPIT ELOQUENCE.
149
n
which the spirit of life never animates! When sin en-
tered into paradise, the angels of God forsook the place.
So from the soul that is polluted with guilt, — peace, and
joy, and hope, those good angels, vanish and depart.
What succeeds to this family of heaven? — Confusion,
shame, remorse, despair. Logan.
On the Importance of an Interest in the Divine
Favour.
Ip God be the great Ruler of the world, and governs
it without interruption or control, of what infinite im-
portance is his favour I
If an earthly ruler be our friend, we reckon that all
our civil interests are secure : but if God doth accord-
ing to his pleasure, both in heaven and in earth, in
this world and the next ; his favour must be life, and
his loving kindness must be even better than life. It
must be of all things the most desirable ; for it com-
prehends in it all things that are good. If his power
could be controlled, if his will could be eluded, if his
government could be interrupted, if any interest of
ours lay without the reach of his sceptre or his influ-
ence ; we might then occasionally hesitate concerning
the importance of his favour, and deliberate whether,
in this season, or in that circumstance, we stood in
need of it : but at all seasons, and in all circumstances,
being absolutely in his hands ; holding our lives and
comforts at his pleasure; suffering only through his
appointment, and prolonging our days in joy or in sor-
row according to his will ; capable, if he pleaseth, of
immortal happiness, and liable, if he commands it, to
everlasting destruction ; unable to resist him, and
unable to recommend ourselves to any who can main-
tain our interest against God ; what is it that should
be the first object of our anxiety— what is it that
should be the constant subject of our concern, but that
without which we must be wretched ; possessed of
which no enmity can hurt us, and no evil overwhelm
or injure us ? Would you that your friends should
love you ? — Make a friend of God. Would you that
their neglect, if they do neglect you, should be better
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PULPIT ELOQUENCE.
to you than their love? — Make a friend of God.
Would you that your enemies should be at peace with
you ? — Be ye reconcHed to Heaven. Would you that
their hatred should promote your interest ?— Take
care to have an interest in God. Would you prosper
in the world ? — You cannot do it without God's help.
Say not that your p^ sperity may be the result of the
right and vigorous application of your own powerc.
Ask yourselves from v iiom those powers are derived,
by whom those pov.ers are continued to you, and who
it is that forms the connections, and constitutes the
conjunctures, that are favourable to the right and suc-
cessful application of your abilities ? Whatever are
your views in life, you cannot attain them without
God : and though he should assist you to attain them,
yet still you cannot improve your real interests, you
cannot enjoy them in unalloyed comfort — without God.
Would you that your souls should prosper ? — It must
be through his blessing. Are you weary of affliction?
•—There is no aid but in the divine compassion. Are
you burdened with a load of guilt ? — There is no hope
for you but in the divine mercy. Is your heart sad ? —
Tour comfort must come from God. Is your soul re-
joicing ?— God must prolong your joy ; or, like the
burning thorn, it will blaze and die. Does your inex-
perienced youth need to be directed ? — God must be
your guide. Does your declining age need to be sup-
ported? — God must be your strength. The vigour of
your manly age will wither, if God does not nourish
and defend it ; and even prosperity is a curse, if God
does not give a heart to relish and enjoy it. Ail
hearts, all powers, are Gi)d's. Seek ye, then, the
Lord while he is to be found ; seek his favour with
your whole souls. It is a blessing that will well re-
ward you for all that you can sacrifice to purchase it ;
it is a blessing without which nothing else can bless
you. His patience may, perhaps, for a moment suffer
you to triumph ; but do not thence conclude, that you
enjoy his favour. If a good conscience do not tell you
so, believe no other witness ; for all the pleasures that
you boast are but like the pleasures of a bright morn-
ing, and a gaudy equipage, to the malefactor, going to
«jn«.t,;'idir.iu>.
PULPIT ELOQUENCE.
151
his execution. Every raoment you are in jeopardy ;
and every moment may put an end to your jollity, and
transform your hopes and joys into desperate and help-
less misery. It is but for God to leave you, and you
are left by everything you delight in, and abandoned
to every thing you fear. It is but for God to will it
80, and this night your reason shall forsake you, your
health shall fail you, your friends, on whom you lean
shall fall, and your comforts, on which you are rejoicing,
shall distress you. It is but for God to will it so, and
this moment shall begin a series of perplexities, and
fears, and griefs, which in this world shall never end.
It is but for God to will it so, and this night thy soul
shall be ejected from its earthly tabernacle; this night
thy last pulse shall beat, and thy last breath expire;
and thine eyes, for ever closed on all thou lovedst on
earth, shall be opened on all thou dreadest in heaveit.
No, my brethren, there is not a moment's safety, but
in pcHoe with God; there is not a moment's solid com-
fort, but in friendship with our Maker. In every
season, and in every state of life, hia favour is absolutely
necessary to us. What infatuation, then, has seized
the sons of reason and of foresight, that you seek^r*^
what you fondly wish for, whatever it is that your hearts
desire, and propose, if you propose at all, afterwards
to seek for that favour which can alone fulfil the desires
of your hearts'^ and without which their wishes can
never be gratided! * Cappe.
The melancholy Effects of early Licentiousness (in a
Sermon preached for the Female Orphan House).
Perhaps of all sour^^s of corruption in human society
there is none greater than that lamentable degradation
of the female sex which this institution, from the
extensive scale on which it % conducted, must go exten-
sively to diminish. In the consideratior of this point,
I place the misfortune of fallen woman, as far as it
involves her own fate, temporal and eternal, totally out
of the question. To this I shall speak in the sequel; I
would here only consider the effect which her depravity
is known to produce on the morals of every rank of
■fV **■
(,!
i'i
It
\M 'I
ij
I
I
■m\
i!
i!i
8!
1| )■;
152
PULl 'T ELOQUENCE.
the community; and I do say, when we deliberately
look to the variously desperate complexion of that
effect, there is no principle. Christian or social, that
must not give superior importance to the preventive
before us. How many parents, even in the higiiest
order of life, can bear woful testimony to the tot d
perversion of youth, by the seductions of the vlcioua
part of the female sex! The fondest hopes of rh'iag
excellence disappointed: fortune opprobriously dissipa-
ted; constitution radically broken down; living spec-
tres of early decreptitude 1 Every ingrafted virtue,
every sacred principle of education etf'aced; every vice
that can dishonour human nature and relif>ion spring-
ing from this one impure root. Objects to whom they
loaderly looked up for the pride and ccnisoiation of
their age. often presenting nothing to their eyes but
the prema. ' ^e coippound of the demon and the brute.
This may appear to be strong language on the subject;
but to know tl e world at all, is to know that it is
more ihnii ju.-dfied. When youth is once allured into
the mysteries of libertinism, there is no excess or
enormity that is not swallowed like water. It is the
property of this fatal evil even to mar the finest
qualities of nature. Often are talents and spirits,
fitted for the greatest purposes of society, entombed
for ever in this sepulchre of the soul; nothing that be-
longs to mind can have power to charm where mind
would appear no more. If youths who might have
pressed forward to the most honourable distinction, are
daily to be seen without a spark of virtuous emulation
— insensible even to that love of fame which, in default
of purer motives, gives birth to such diversified objects
of human ability — roaming through the capital with
stupid and licentious gaze, dead to the respect of char-
acter, and equaUy losiu to their country and the world —
impute it to no other cause than that unhappy corruption
of morals, which extinguishes the nobler aspirings of
man, to substitute the pursuits of a vile instlnc*.
Would you vindicate, my brethren, the honojr of
religion and nature? would you behold in youtli, ' e
ambition of pre-enr'nence in virtue and Udpfd'esi?
establish purity anc* severity of moral", by (.uttirig off
PULPIT ELOQUENCE.
153
the foul source of their depravation. Do this, I say;
and, instead of swarms of walking and ignominious
nuisances, you will have men — you will have citizens
— more — instead of the contempt of Christian practice,
private and public; instead of the affected and blasphe-
mous language of infidelity — for the libertine is inva-
riably profane — you will have youth glorying in sub-
mission to the sacred principles of their religion^ and
affording the* happy and edifying spectacle of its influ-
ence on their conduct. Kirwan.
•■!.]
lets
ith
ir-
|o^
e
>y
off
Religion^ the Distinguishing Quality of our Mature.
Religion is the distinguishing quality of our nature,
and is one of the strongest features that marks
the human character. As it is our distinguishing
quality, so it possesses such extensive influence, that,
however overlooked by superficial inquirers, it has
given rise to more revolutions in human society, and
to more changes in human manners, than any one
cause whatever. View mankind in every situation,
from the earliest state of barbarity, down through all
the successive periods of civilization, till they degene-
rate to barbarity again; and you will find them influ-
enced strongly by the awe of superior spirits, or the
dread of infernal fiends. In the heathen world —
where mankind had no divine revelation, but followed
the impulse of nature alone — religion was often the
basis of the civil government. Among all classes of
men, the sacrifices, the ceremonies, and the worship of
the gcus, verc held in the highest reverence. Judge
wnat a strong hold religion must have taken of the
human heart, when, instigated by horror of conscience,
the blinded wretch has submitted to torture his own
flesh before the shrine of the incensed deity; and the
fond father has been driven to offer up with his own
hatids his first-born for his transgression, — the fruit of
his Dody for the :jni of his soul. It is possible to shake
off the reverence, but not the dread of a Deity. Amid
the gay circle of his companions — in the hour of riot
and dissipation — the fool may say in his heart, that
there is no God; but bis conscience will meet him when
g5
iila
m !
II
154
PULPIT ELOQUENCE.
he is alone, and tell him that he is a liar. Heaven
will avenge its quarrel on his head. Judge then, my
l^rethren, how miserable it must be for a being made
after the image of God, thus to have his glory turned
into shame. How dismal must the situation be for a
subject of the divine government, to consider himself
as acting upon a plan to counteract the decrees of God,
to defeat the designs of eternal Providence, to deface
in himself the image and the lineaments df heaven, to
maintain a state of enmity and war with his Creator,
and to associate with the infernal spirits, whose abode
is darkness, and whose portion is despair!
Reflections upon such a state will give its full mea-
sure to the cup of trembling. Was not Belshazzar,
the impious king of Babylon, a striking instance of
what I am now saying? This monarch made a feast
to a thousand of his lords; nnd assembled his princes,
his concubines, and his v r e.s. In order to increase
the festivity, he sent for th'5 f jns- .>! ted vessels, which
his father Nebuchadnezzar h'V.i tuKo i from the temple
of Jerusalem; and, in these vesselo which were holy to
the Lord, he made libations to his vain idols, and, in
his heart, bade Jefiance to the God of Israel. But
whilst thus he defied the living God — forth came the
fingers of a man's hand, and, on the wall which had
lately resounded with joy, wrote the sentence of his
fate! In a moment, his countenance was changed, his
whole frame shook, and his knees smote one against
another; whilst the prophet, in awful accents, denounc»-"!cl
his doom: "O man, thy kingdom is departed from
thee!" Logan.
On the Internal Proofs of the Christian Religion.
The New Testament consists of histories and epistles.
The historical books, namely, the Gospels and the
Acts, are a continued narrative, embracing many years,
and professing to give the history of the rise and
progress of the religion. Now it is worthy of obser-
vation, that these writings completely answer their end;
that they completely solve the problem, how this pecu-
liar religion grew no and established itself in tht»
PULPIT ^LCK^UENCE.
155
world; that they furnish precise and adequate causes
for this stupendous revolution in human affairs. It is
also worthy of remark, that they relate a series of
facts which are not only connected with one another, but
are intimately linked with the long series which has
followed them, and agree accurately with subsequent
history, so as to account for and sustain it. Now that
a, coWection of ^ctitious narratives, coming from dif-
ferent hands, comprehending many years, and spreading
over many countries, should not only form a consistent
whole, when taken by themselves; but should also
connect and interweave themselves with real history
so naturally and intimately, as to furnish no clue
for detection, as to exclude the appearance of incon>
gruity and discordance, and as to give an adequate
explanation, and the only explanation, of acknow-
ledged events, of the most important revolution in
society; this is a supposition, from which an intel-
ligent mail at once revolts, and which, if admitted,
would shake a principal foundation of history.
I have before spoken of the unity and consistency of
Christ's character, as developed in the Gospels, and of
the agreement of the different writers, in giving us
the singular features of his mind. Now there are the
same marks of truth running through the whole of
these narratives. For example, the effects produced
by Jesus on the various classes of society; the different
feelings of admiration, attachme/ii:, and envy, which
he called forth; the various expressions of these feelings;
the prejudices, mistakes, and gradual illumination of
his disciples : these are all given to us with such
marks of truth and reality, as could not easily be
counterfeited. The whole history is precisely such as
might be expected from the actual appearance of such
a person as Jesus Christ, in such a state of society as
then existed.
The Epistles, if pobi^ble, abound in marks of truth
and reality, even more than the Gospels. They are
imbued thoroughly with the spirit of the first age of
Christiar'ty. They bear 11 the marks of having come
from r.pjif plunged in the i;onflict8 which the new
religion exciiv-r'.. alive to it^ interests, identified with
.1
■m
iir
1
156
PULPIT ELQQU£NOE.
its fortunes. They betray the very state of mind,
which must have been generated by the peculiar con-
dition of the first propagators of the religion. They
are letters written on real business, intended for imme-
diate effects, designed 'o me ^t prejudices and passions,
which such a religion mu^f at first have awakened.
They contain not u trace of the circumstances of a
later age, or cJ the feelings, impressions, and modes
of thinking, by which later times were characterized,
and from vl'.ich later writers could not easily have
escaped. The letters of Paul havi u, remrrkable
agreement with his history. They are precisely such
as might bo expected from a man of a vehement mind,
who had been brought up in the schools of Jewish liter-
ature. Y^'ia had been converted by a sudden overwhelm-
ing mi. acle, who had been entrusted with the preaching
of the new religion to the Gentiles, who had been every
where met by the prejudices and persecuting spirit of
bis own nation. They are full of obscurities growing
out of these points of Paul's history and character, and
out of the circumstances of the infant church, and which
nothing but an intimate acquaintance with that early
period can illustrate. This remarkable infusion of
the spirit of the first age into the Christian records,
cannot easily be explained, but by the fact, that they
were written in that age by the real and zealous pro-
pagators of Christianity, and that they are records of
real convictions and of actu"! events.
There is another evidence of Christianity, still more
internal than any on which I have yet dwelt, an evi-
dence to be felt rather than described, but not less real
because founded on feeling. I refer to that conviction
of the divine original of our religion, which springs up
and continually gains strength in t : ose who apply it
habitually in their tempers and lives, T.d who imbibe
its spirit and hopes. In such nen, there is a con-
sciousness of the adaptation of C^hristianity to their
noblest faculties ; a consciousncf ^ of its exalting and
consoling influences, of its power to confer the true
hanpiness of human nature, to give that peace which
the world cannot give ; which assures them that it is
not of earthly origin, but a ray from the Everlasting
it
)e
PULPIT ELO' .NCE.
157
Light, a stream from the Fountain of Heavenly Wis-
dom and Love. This is the evidence wh.jh sustains
the faith of thousands, who never read and cannot un-
derstand the learned books of Christian apologists;
who want, perhaps, words to explain the ground of
their belief, but whose faith is of adamantine firmness;
who hold the Gospel with a conviction more intimate
and unwavering than mere argument ever produced.
But I must tear myself from a subject which opens
upon me continually as I proceed. Imperfect as this
discussion is, the conclusion, I trust, is placed beyond
doubt, that Christianity is true. And, my hearers, if
true, it is the greatest of all truths, deserving and de-
manding our reverent attention and fervent gratitude.
This religion must never be confounded with our com-
mon blessings. It is a revelation of pardon, which, as
sinners, we all need. Still more, it is a revelation of "
human Immortality ; a doctrine, which, however un-
dervalued amidst the bright anticipations of inexpe-
rienced youth, is found to be our strength and conso-
lation, and the only effectual spring of persevering and
victorious virtue, when the realities of life have scat-
tered our visionary hopes; when pain, disappointment,
<Mid temptation, press upon us ; when this world's en-
joyments are found unable to quench that deep thirst
of happiness which burns in every breast; when
friends, whom we love as our own so'.'^.s, die, and our
own graves open before us. — To all who hear me, and
especially to my young hearers, I would say. Let the
truth of this religion be the strongest conviction of
your understandings; let its motives and precepts sway
with an absolute power your character and lives.
Channlng.
On the Regulation of Temper,
The general history of mankind, and the brief page of
our own observation and experience, incontestably
prove, that men are almost entirely the creatures of
education. Our knowledge, our tastes, our habits, our
maimers, our morals, nay, even our very religious
opinions, principally depend upon it. There is no
i
''J
j;
hi
|9
i
if
i
*'.i
158
PULPIT ELOQUENCE,
■'n'!"
I ''m
being in creation so little what Nature formed it, as
man. If we look to any of the inferior animals, we
find the same species almost exactly similar, on every
part of the globe : but we never see two tribes or two
nations of men alike, nor even two individuals of the
very same country and society. Manners and customs,
virtues and vices, knowledge and ignorance, principles
and habits, are, with but little variation, transmitted
from one generation to another ; and, if we look for
man in a state of nature, he is a being no where to be
found. In every country, education and circumstances
chiefly form his principles and habits; and these almost
invariably remain with him through life ; so that he is
much more permanently what he has become, than
what he was created. The wise men and the fools, the
saints and the sinners, the ornaments and the disgraces,
the benefactors and the scourges of the world, are not
the work of Nature but of man. Constitutional tem-
perament and mental powers may render some an
easier prey to temptation and circumstances, than
others ; but I do most firmly believe, that in almost
every case, the natural energies and talents, which
have carried unfortunate wretches onward to the com-
mission of enormous crimes, would, if they had been
properly directed from childhood, have exalted them
to eminence in virtue. The very same misguided in-
genuity that has brought many a miserable malefactor
to the gallows, might have raised him, under happier
circumstances and better instruction, to fortune and to
fame. Do we not find, indeed, in strict conformity
with this position, that almost all the wretched beings
who forfeit their lives to the outraged laws of society,
attribute their destruction to a neglected education, or
to evil company in their earlier days. What an awful
and important lesson is this circumstance calculated to
teach parents, and, indeed, all who have, in any way,
the oversight and guidance of the young ! A single
folly encouraged, a single evil passion suffered to
triumph, a single vicious habit permitted to take
root, — in what an awful catastrophe may it one day
terminate.
It may not be unnecessary to state here, that by the
PULPIT ELOQUENCE
159
)pier
1(1 to
pings
(iety,
I, or
Iwful
Id to
ray,
|ngle
to
Itake
day
the
word education^ which I have already used, and which
I shall have occasion frequently to use in this discourse,
I do not mean merely, nor even principally, school
learning ; but, in the widest sense, every thing which
has a tendency to influence the mind, the principles,
the temper, and the habits of the young. In this
legitimate sense of the term, we are bound to consider
the restraining of improper desires, and the encourage-
ment of virtuous sentiments, to be a much more im-
portant part of education, than having children taught
to read and write, and cast accounts. This valuable
species of moral instruction, even the most illiterate
parent is capable of bestowing, and has constant op-
portunities of bestowing : and, believe me, he or she
who omits this duty, will, one day, have bitter cause to
lament such negligence.
The temper and dispositions of a child, upon which
so much of the happiness or misery of life depends,
are the earliest objects of watchfulness and interest ;
and every person, who has at all observed children,
must be aware how exceedingly early these begin to de«
velope themselves. In fact, they appear almost with
the first smile, or the first tear ; and it is quite aston-
ishing, how soon the infant can read the expression of
the countenance, and how soon it becomes sensible of
praise or blame. Long before it can either utter or
understand a single syllable, the little physiognomist
can decipher the sentiments of the mind, in the features
of the face. So wonderful is this almost instinctive
perception of character, that, I think, I have never
seen a child spontaneously extend its arms to a person
who was decidedly cruel or ill-natured. Even then,
education may begin ; nay, I am persuaded, ought to
begin. I know that there is nothing more common
with parents, and with others who have the care of
children, than to laugh at violent bursts of bad temper,
or instances of peevishness and selfishness: and this
practice is usually palliated, upon the weak supposition,
that such feelings may be easily subdued as the child
grows older ; or, to use the vulgar phrase, " when it
gets more sense." But I firmly believe, that in nine
cases out of ten, the requisite portion of sense never
ri\
i ■ t
¥
I''
it
' ■' A
<^ «">",",
160
PULPiT BLOQU£NCE.
comes ; whilst the pernicious tendency and habit as
certainly remain. This may appear a very trifling,
perhaps undignified, or even ludicrous remark : but,
from experience and observation, I am deeply con-
vinced of its importance ; well knowing, that nothing
so materially tends to sweeten or to embitter the cup
of human life, as temper. A. well-regulated temper
is not only an abundant source of personal enjoyment
and general respect to its fortunate possessor, but also
of serious advantage to others, in all the social rela-
tions. I have seen the mother of a family, under its
hallowed influence, moving in the domestic circle with
a radiant countenance, and, like the sun in the firma-
ment, diflusing light and joy on all around her. I have
seen her children artless and happy, her domestics re-
spectful and contented, and her neighbours emulous in
ofiices of courtesy and kindness. Above all, I have
seen her husband returning, with a weary body and an
anxious mind, from the harassing avocations of the
world : but, the moment he set his foot upon his own
threshold, and witnessed the smiling cheerfulness
within; the cloud of care instantly passed away from
his brow, and his heart beat lightly in his bosom ; and
he felt how much substantial happiness a single indi-
vidual, in a comparatively h-imble station, may be
enabled to dispense. Yet, he vv many scenes of a very
different character are every day exhibited in the
world, where the evils of poverty are augmented ten-
fold, by the miserable burthen of a peevish and repin-
ing spirit ; and where the blessings of affluencn seem
only to supply their possessors with additional means
of manifesting the extent of wretchedness, personal
and social, which ill regulated tempers are able to pro-
duce ! Many a man, whose judgment is adequate to
direct the destinies of nations, whose eloquence enrap-
tures senates, and whose playful wit and vivid fancy
render him the idol of the brilliant circles of fashion,
is, nevertheless, totally unable to govern his own
temper ; and never enters his home — that spot which,
of all others upon earth, should be peculiarly conse-
crated to gentleness and affection — in any other char-
acter than of a cold, gloomy, and capricious tyrant.
PUI.PIT ELOQUENCE.
161
■0-
to
p-
>
e-
r-
■it.
Let it bo remembered, too, that the influence of temper
is co-extensive with society itself; and it will not ap-
pear a matter of trifling moment, to devise the best
means of regulating and restraining a principle, so
intimately associated with the general happiness of our
species. Montgomery.
Character of Ruth.
Ruth was a Moabitess by birth, bred among idolators,
and, if not herself an idolator when she came to
Bethlehem, her language, " Thy God shall be my God,"
at least implies the absence of those elevated views of
the supremacy of the one God, and the universality of
his dominion, which it was the object of Judaism to
inculcate. Little of morality could she have learned
from either the existing inhabitants, or the fabled
gods, of her native land. How absurd is the bigotry
which, merely on the evidence of erroneous opinions,
pronounces the condemnation of individual character !
The existence, or the absence, of moral worth, should
always be ascertained as a matter of fact ; and not
assumed as matter of inference from any tenets what-
ever, however false, however extravagant. In propor-
tion as their tendency is unfavourable, does it show the
triumph of that law of God whyjh is written on the
heart. What a stimulus should such examples give to
those who have every advantage for forming them to
goodness I What a powerful and affecting memento is
it to the young, of the multiplied privileges of their
condition ! How many of the youth of the present
day are in circumstances which afford a most felicitous
contrast to those of some, whose dispositions and con-
duct have yet done honour to humanity, and would
have done honour to an infinitely purer laith than that
in which they were educated! That you have the
Bible in your hands, and so much of it peculiarly
adapted to interest and influence your minds and
hearts; that friends, parents, and teachers, combine, by
the gentle power of affection, to draw you on in wis-
dom's ways — ways of pleasantness, and paths of peace,
as they infallibly are; that religion appears before you
i Y if'
n
162
PULPIT ELOQUENCE.
in the native loveliness of her spirit — that spirit em-
bodied in the words of the sacred volume — embodied,
as we hope, in the lives of those about you : these are
privileges, which (could you, as others more advanced
in life, see the full value of) would make you bless
your God for his bounty, in the fulness of your hearts,
and from the bottom of your hearts, every night and
morning ; would make you intensely anxious to act up
to your advantages, by the discharge of every religious
duty, and of every social obligation of respect and
goodness; and, with a promptness, a justice, and a fer-
vency, which would do yourselves good, would call
forth your applause and honourable emulation of the
good in character and conduct exhibited by others in
less propitious circumstances.
The excellence of the character before us was se-
verely tried. A whirlwind of calamity had passed
over the fugitive Israelitish family, with which she had
connected herself, and that in a land where they were
strangers, and she a denizen; she clung to the blighted
trunk which remained, when all its branches were torn
r {f and scattered ; she adhered to Naomi, when Orpah
shrunk back from the melancholy companionship ; she
came into a land whose religion was strange, whose
temper was unsocial, whose inhabitants always were
proud and jealous of their privileges, and eminently
exclusive in their spirit; she devoted herself to poverty
and labour, and to all the resignation of personal en-
joyment, and the forbearance and patience required in
ministering to one on whom a forlorn old age, with its
infirmities of body and of temper, was coming ; and
she nobly and triumphantly endured all that her lot
imposed. Goodness is majestic and venerable, even in
the poorest and yon.ngest, when it can abide such tests.
Sorrow is the refiner's fire of Providence, to try the
purity, and exhibit in splendour the purity of early
worth and virtue. The calamities of a parent, show
the merits of a child. To our young friends we would
say. Far from you may that trial be ! but should it
come, should the fluctuations of commerce, the inflic-
tions of disease, or any other storm of distress burst
over the heads of those to whom you owe so < .uch; oh
PULPIT ELOQUENCE.
163
irit em-
ttbodied,
hese are
dvanced
3U bless
[• hearts,
ght and
act up
religious
)ect and
ad a fer-
)uld call
1 of the
(thers in
I was se-
i passed
1 she had
ley were
blighted
rere torn
in Orpah
hip; she
e, whose
,ys were
ninently
poverty
onal en-
uired in
with its
ng ; and
her lot
even in
ch tests,
try the
of early
It, show
re would
hould it
e inflic-
ss burst
uch; oh
then, may your sympathies, and attention, and exer-
tion, be a shield of defience for them, as they will be a
crown of glory to yourselves !
This excellence was honourably rewarded. It was
rewarded by her coming into a land where that God
was known, whose government is the security and
blessedness of those who do his will ; by the station to
which she was ultimately raised ; by her being one in
the list of the progenitors of the promised seed of
Abraham, which was a coveted glory in Israel ; by the
memorial which has made her name, and character, and
history, known and celebrated through long ages and
over distant regions ; and by that final recompense of
heaven, which awaits the excellent of earth. And
heaven and earth conspire to reward goodness. Though
the Jewish economy, with its temporal sanctions, has
passed away; there is many a promise of the life that
now is to godliness, as well as of that which is to
come. Riches are not promised; fame is not promised;
health is not promised : but rarely will earth's best
blessing of the esteem of the estimable be withheld ;
and never an internal quiet, peace, self-approbation,
and hope, which do for present happiness much more,
while they harmoniously blend with the future happi-
ness towards which they point and conduct. Fox,
The Union of Friendship with Re'''gion recommended.
Friendship, considered as the medicine of life, — as
the source of pure and rational enjoyment in this in-
fancy of our being, possesses no uieun value 5 but how
infinitely is that value enhanced, when we regard it as
the guide to immortality I Who might be satisfied to
be a friend for time, when he might be one for eternity?
Who wouH rest contented to minister to a mere tem-
porary gratification, when he might impart a solid,
substantia!, never-fading bliss ? Look around, my
brethren, upon those who are dear to you. What is it
you wish for them? Every blessing, your hearts
reply, that a bounteous God can bestow, — bliss, pure,
and strong, and permanent. Teach them, then, by
your example and by your conversation, by the rever-
$!
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ji
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(^1
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164
PULPIT ELOQUENCE.
ence with which you speak of God's awful perfections,
by the gratitude with which you make mention of his
overflowing mercies, by the firm confidence which you
express in his glorious promises, — only teach them to
love God, with pure hearts, fervently ; and the most
ardent wishes that you can frame for their happiness,
will be realized. Truth is always beautiful and lovely;
but religious truth has a dignity and interest peculiar
to itself. Who shall estimate its possible effects, when
displayed in its native power, and urged home to the
heart by the voice of a friend, at those seasons when
the heart is warmest, and most susceptible of every
virtuous impression ? Were it not for the pernicious
influence of false shame, which has often led even the
wise and good, from a fear of being thought hypocriti-
cal or righteous overmuch, to withhold the honest ex-
pression of their best and purest feelings ; the voice of
virtuous friendship might have early reclaimed aLd
persuaded many a lost sinner, — invigorated and
warmed, with the holy glow of piety and benevolence,
many a cold and lifeless Christian. " He who turns a
sinner from the error of his way," says an A'jostle,
"shall save a soul from death, and cover its rr- Ititude
of sins." This is an affecting usjn8ideration,and should
actively influence our conduce liowever remote and
unconnected witii us by ties m love or kindred the
fellow-being who is the subject ®f it : but should this
fellow-being be a friend, how unmseakably is the inter-
est increased I Glorious oflice, tt) aave the soul of a
friend from death, — to open for » friend the gates of
paradise ! Blessed and happy prr ilege, to make the
partners of our earthly journey ou- associates for ever-
more ! This privilege every on* tnaa -;xercise arA
enjoy, in a greater or less degree who is careful to
cultivate in himself, and to carry •nth him into thf;
familiar intercourses of social life, n*<- purifying spii^.
of religion. Even where thesse is mmm vii?tue, such is
the fraiUy of our nature, that ma»*' ^v v>H stjl'l
exist, both in ourselves and those wh<fc ai '• v. m,
the removal, or even partial correctior*, of ^s / e ol
which, cannot but prove an everlasting benefit ^'^^^'^Y
deficiency in mocal excellence, in the degree •« #Mv
PULPIT ELOQUENCE.
165
irfections,
ion of his
jrhich you
1 them to
the most
lappiness,
nd lovely;
t peculiar
jcts, when
>me to the
ons when
5 of every
pernicious
i even the
hypocriti-
lonest ex-
le voice of
limed abd
ated and
[levolence,
10 turns a
I A 'jostle,
rr- Ititude
ind should
mote and
ndred the
lould this
the inter-
soul of A
le gates of
make the
) for ever-
rcise an^
careful to
1 into t*K^
nng npifk
\f>, such is
w'>)\ *tJM
■■»' ■■'. Ui,
it prevails, must render him who discovers it, not
merely unworthy, but incapable, of partaking the pure
and perfect happiness, designed for the purely and
perfectly virtuous. All those defects of temper and
disposition which the discipline of this world fails to
remove, will remain, we must suppose, still to be done
away, — to delay, therefore, or to lessen, so long as they
continue, the happiness of heaven. He, then, who re-
leases the mind of a friend from the bondage of a
single sin, advances him one degree farther, — a degree
which he can never lose, in the infinite progress to
perfection: by a milder and more delightful process, he
renders needless the purifying but painful discipline of
chastisement: he is the hastener and the heightener of
his friend's everlasting joy. How little, then, does he
understand of the true value of that influence which
friendship gives, who makes it his highest aim to
minister to the temporal wants, the short-lived gratifi-
cations, or the trifling amusements, of the beloved as-
sociate, whose immortal mind he might inform with
wisdom and with virtue, and assist to qualify for a
joyful admission into that world which flesh and Mood
cannot inherit !
Nor let us falsely imagine, that we are at liberty to
act as we please, in this respect. The mut"j?l influence
that we have over each other, by means of those strong
and delightful sympathies which God has implanted in
our breasts, is a talent, and a most valuable and im-
portant one, for the use of which we are strictly ac-
countable to Him. If we abuse this talent, or bury it
in a napkin, — if we exert not this influence to the
noblest purposes, — if we dare to squrmder these trea-
sures of the heart, which, rightly employed, might
purchase "everlasting habitations" for ourselves and
for our friends, upon the trifles of earth and time ; our
guilt and our condemnation will indeed be great.
Conscience, if we reflect for a moment on the subject,
will pronounce our sentence. Suppose a friend upon
the bed of death — suppose him even suddenly severed
from you by the fortunes of life — is it no cause of sor-
f'»w and self-accusation, that you have suftered him to
4«f»art unblessed with any abiding memorial of your
■'t^
Mi
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m
i
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166
PULPIT ELOQUENCE.
i! '#
love ? — that, when you shall appear together before the
awful judgment-seat of God, all traces of your con-
nection shall have vanished for ever with the fleeting
shadows of time? The case, had you acted other-
wise, might have been very different. " Father," he
might have had the power to say, " this was mdeed my
friend. He told me of Thy perfections, an 'ght
me to love Thee; he spake to me of the Sr «vncm
Thou didst send, and persuaded me to l w in his
footsteps; he admonished me with truth and tenderness
of my faults, and besought me, as I valued Thy favour,
and his friendship, and my own salvation, to turn from
them. If I now stand in Thy presence, a forgiven
sinner, and rejoice in the light of Thy countenance, it
is to him, under Thy favour and blessing, that I owe
it ; for * we took sweet counsel together,' and * walked
to thy house of prayer in company,' and * spake often
one to another, as 1 liose who feared the Lord.' Reli-
gion sanctified and blessed .mr earthly intercourse.
Father of mercies," might he have pleaded, " if it be
Thy will, suffer not our intercourse to be interrupted
now ; let not remaining frailty separate between us ;
but, if it be possible, give me my friend."
O foolish mortal ! to neglect to secure such a sup-
porter in thy hour of need — such an advocate against
thy day of trembling ! But, what if thou hast been
worse than negligent, — if thou hast ministered to the
follies, — if thou hast corrupted the virtues, — if thou
hast confirmed the vices, of thy friend, of him who loved
thee, and sat at thy table, and drank of thy counsel
like water ? Unhappy man! hast thou not sins enough
of thine own to answer for ? — hast thou not sorrows
enough of thine own to bear ? How shalt thou endure
to hear the groans, the lamentations, the bosom-rending
sorrows of him whos^ hope thou hast cut off, whose
bud of life thou hast blighted, whose stream of happi-
ness thou hast polluted at its source ! Then, indeed,
shalt thou exclaim, with bitter anguish, " If it was an
enemy, I could have borne it ; but it was mine own
familiar friend." O think — ye who in your misnamed
friendships despise religion — -ye who scruple not to
pollute the virtue of those whom you profess to love —
before the
your con-
e fleeting
ed other-
ther," he
ndeed my
lU: '.Jght
' wbcm
vv' in his
enderness
ly favour,
turn from
forgiven
enanee, it
aat I owe
I < walked
}ake often
d.' Reli-
tercourse.
"if it be
iterrupted
;ween us ;
ich a sup-
te against
laat been
ed to the
—if thou
vho loved
y counsel
is enough
t sorrows
»u endure
1- rending
>ff, whose
)f happi-
I, indeed,
it was an
aine own
(lisnamed
e not to
:o love —
PULPIT ELOQUENCE.
167
\ [
think what ye are doing, and have mercy upon the
objects of your cruel kindness, if ye will not upon
yourselves. JVith religion^ friendship is an everlast-
ing possession ; in oriental phrase, " beautiful as the
dawn rising on the obscurity of night, precious as the
water of immortality issuing from the land of dark-
ness." It is, indeed, a cup mingled by the hand of
God himself, and presented by him to the most favoured
of his children, bringing joy to the heart, and life to
the soul of him who quaffs it. But what is friendship
without religion ? It is at bes^., but a fleeting and
transient good — a meteor, that sheds a momentary light
upon our path, which the eager eye has no sooner
caught, than it vanishes for ever — a cup of sweets,
dashed from the lips almost before it can be tasted.
Hutton.
On the Education of Females.
Let it not be supposed, that I am an enemy to what
are generally termed, "female accomplishments." On
the contrary, I consider them, when moderately and
rationally pursued, as eminently calculated to refine
the taste, and harmonise the feelings of those who
possess them; whilst they powerfully tend to sweeten
the intercourse of the domestic and friendly circle, to
augment the enjoyments of general society, and to cast
a sunshine over the gloomy realities of life. Amidst
the ten thousand pursuits and cares of the world, the
mind and the spirit require relaxation, as well as the
body; and the tastes and circumstances of women
peculiarly fit them for the acquisition of those accom-
plishments, which interest the understanding, whilst
they soothe the heart. Many a father have I seen,
after a toilsome and anxious day, relaxing his brow of
care, and considering all his exertions as more than
repaid; whilst, with parental pride, he noted the im-
provement, or joined the innocent amusements of his
children, and cast a look of gratified affection upon the
faithful companion of his life. I know nothing in phi-
losophy, I know nothing in religion, which forbids
such feelings and such enjoyments. Yet, I am per-
I?
I i; -41
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168
PULPIT ELOQUENCE.
i'l
■i
!
suaded, that accomplishments should only be the
adjuncts of education, and not its principal business,
or Its chief end : and, in my mind, there is nothing
incompatible between elegance and solidity. On the
contrary, I am convinced, that the mind which is most
enlarged by the possession of substantial knowledge, is
the best calculated to appreciate and to enjoy those
less serious branches of education, which tend to cheer
and to ornament society. I do not despair of seeing
the time, wtitn young females shall consider them-
selves infinitely better employed in reading the real
history of nations, than in perusing volumes of unna-
tural fiction, which only fills the mind with false ideas,
and the heart with injurious feelings — when they shall
be no more ashamed of learning ancient than modern
languages, or of attending instructions in philosophy
which would enlarge their understandings, than of
frequenting the gaudy circles of fashion and amuse-
ment — when they shall think it more honourable to
possess such a knowledge of moral science, and the
principles of human action and duty, as would render
them useful mothers; than to imitate, after years of
labour, " the wing of a butterly, or the hue of a rose."
It may be inquired, however, would I educate every
woman for a governess? Yes, most assuredly. Every
mother is, or at least ought to be, a teacher of the
holiest and most interesting kind. Various avocations
may prevent her from being a regular instructor ; but
no earthly consideration should preclude her from
being the occasional, nny, the frequent teacher of her
children. In order that she may be able to act thus,
to select proper assistants in the sacred work, to judge
of their fidelity in the execution, and to preserve a
spirit of energy and zeal ; it is absolutely necessary
that she should, herself, possess the requisite qualifi-
cations. I care not what may be her station, this is
her duty. If her rank be humble, prudence, economy,
and a laudable desire to advance her family, demand
it. If her rank be exalted, many considerations render
it still more imperative. Too many, I fear, in affluent
circumstances, imagine, that because they can afford
ample remuneration to competent instructors, they are
f be the
I business,
is nothing
. On the
ch is most
)wledge, is
njoy those
id to cheer
' of seeing
der them-
g the real
5 of unna-
false ideas,
they shall
a,n modern
philosophy
3, than of
,nd amuse-
lourable to
e, and the
)uld render
ir years of
of a rose."
icate every
y. Every
her of the
avocations
uctor; but
her from
ler of her
» act thus,
c, to judge
preserve a
necessary
te qualifi-
ion, this is
economy,
, demand
ons render
in affluent
can afford
, they are
PULPIT ELdDENCB.
169
therefore exempted from all personal attention to the
education of their cliildren. No error could be more
fatal. In the ligher ranks of lif , where young persons
are perpetually -surrounded by iawning and interested
flatterers — whc^j the innate vanity and presumption
of thfc human heart are inflamed by indulgence and
conscious superiority — no authority less than parental,
is adequate to restrain the passions, to discipline the
principles, to form the habits, and *o animate exertion.
And. let it be farther considerel, that in proportion as
the station is exalted, so is the influence of the indi-
vidual occupying it extended. The happiness of thou-
sands frequently depends jpon the disposition and
cT^iructer of a single person The affluent man, of
e 'ightened piety, humane sentiments, cultivated un-
dirstanding, and enlarged views of public usefulness,
is often the means of diffusing over a wide circle the
inestimable blessings of religion and morality, of
industry and prosperity, of cheerfulness and peace.
On the other hand, the ignorant and profligate man of
wealth, without knowledge, c inclination to do good,
possessing ample means for the gratification of degrad-
ing passions and tyrannical propensities, necessarily
becomes a moral pestilence, diffusing the contagion of
vice and misery through all the channels of social life
around him. Of what peculiar i'nportance is it, there-
fore, not only for their own hono> r and happiness, but
also for the good of society, *iiat persons occupying
influential stations, should receive a solid and virtuous
education! The Christian moth\;r, who imagines that
her rank exempts her from the duties of parental vigi-
lance and intruction, wofuUy .niscalculates the nature
of her office; and she who look" upon it as a degrada-
tion, to become the instructress of her own children, is
a total stranger to that which would constitute the
highest honour of her sex and station In the splendid
circle of fashion, she may be fair tind lovely; her rank
may awaken envy, and commar I respect; her accom-
plishments may secure the admiration of others, and
swell her own heart with vanity: but, after all, such is
not the true scene of her genuine interest, and respect-
ability, and happiness. 7'' ^ ^^ \\^xc, of her substantia!,
m
HI
,f «Mk&
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Pn.riT KI.OQIK.VCK.
i )
unfading honour, lies far iiway from the crowded
haunid of nmuseroent, in a peaceful np'i (tecUided apart-
ment of her happy home. There, h. i^m midst of her
little ones, she represses the frowurdness of one, en-
cour^es the diffidence of another, and, "in familiar
phrase and adapted story," pours lessons of instruction
into the minds of all. With a mother's gentleness, she
draws forth their talents; with a mother's firmness, she
regulates their tempers; with a mother's pioidence, she
prepares them to adorn their station ujwn earth ; and
with a mother's pi«ty, she leads them in the onward
path towards heaven. The wide expanse of the globe
presents no object more interesting, more exalted, or
more useful, than sudi a Christian parent; nor is there
any spot of nature, on which the eye of Omniscience
rests with mofe coii>placency, than upon the retired and
peaceful scene of her virtuous labours. Such a mother
becomes the centre of a system of usefulness, of whose
extent, the imagination can form no athiquate concep-
tion; for there is not a single worthy principle which
she instils, that may not descend as the ornainont and
soljire of ten thousand generations. For my own part,
I huve always considered parents, who devoted their
|sti,«!ure hours to the instruction of their offspring, as
the :a^ost estimable and the most useful members of
society; and I never could read the story of the Spartan
king, who was found by the Persian ambassadors play-
ing in the midst of his children, without looking upon
that circumstance as more honourable than all his
victories. I do especially believe, that no plan could
be devised for elevating the entire frame of society,
half so efficacious a? that which would produce a suc-
cession of well-instructed, judicious, and virtuous
Christian mothers. The laws of the statesman, and
the lessons of the divine, would be but feeble instru-
ments of prevention and reformation, in comparison
with the hallowed, all-pervading agency of maternal
wisdom, energy, and affection. Let it not be supposed,
however, that I am the advocate of visionary schemes
of education. It would neither be practicable^ nor
desirable, for every woman to become deeply learned :
but I would have every female substantially educated,
m- i
PULPIT ELOl^UKNCK.
171
!J-f
in proportion to her rank, her abilities, and her oppor-
tunities. This 18 surely neither unreasonable nor
impracticable; and I am persuaded, that in t\\\n agu of
increasing light, it is a subject which will gradually
secure a larger portion of public consideration.
Montgomery.
Exhortation to Youth to ( '/» iff a Devotional Spirit.
I KARNE8TLY wish, that 1 ' ce all young per-
sons to divest religion of my and rcpul?ive
association; — to feel, that ii )t consist — as some
would fain represent it — in grav. and solemn looks,
and a sanctified demeanour, or in an affected fondness
for long sermons and long prayers : but that, pro-
perly understood, it is — and especially for the young —
a cheerful and lightsome spirit, springing up naturally
in pure and innocent hearts, whose affectionate confi-
dence in the universal Father is not yet alloyed with
fear, or weakened by distrust. Would you have within
your bosoms that peace, which the world can neither
give nor take away? Would you possess a source of
the purest and sweetest pleasures? Would you have
that richest of all blessings — a disposition to relish, in
their highest perfection, all the innocent and rational
enjoyments of life? Let me conjure you to cherish a
spirit of devotion — a simple-hearted, fervent, and affec-
tionate piety. Accustom yourselves to conceive of
God, as a merciful and gracious parent-i-continually
looking down upon you with the tenderest concern,
and inviting you to be good, only that you may become
everlastingly happy. Consider yourselves as placed
upon earth, for the express purpose of doing the will
of God; and remember, if this be your constant object,
whatever trials, disappointments, and sorrows, you
may be doomed to experience — you will be sustained
under them all by the noblest consolations. With the
view of keeping up a perpetual sense of your depen-
dence on God, never omit to seek him habitually in
prayer, and to connect the thought of Him with all
that is affecting and impressive in the events of your
lives— -with all that is stupendous, and vast, and beau-
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172
PULPIT ELOQUENCE.
tiful in the productions of his creative power and skill.
Whatever excites you — whatever interests you — what-
ever in the world of nature, or the world of man,
strikes you as new and extraordinary — refer it all to
God; discover in it some token of his providence, some
proof of his goodness; convert it into some fresh occa-
sion of praising and blessing his holy and venerable
name. Do not regard the exercises of devotion as a
bare duty, which have a merit in themselves, however
they are performed ; but recur to them, as a privilege
and a happiness, which ennobles and purifies your
nature, and binds you by the holiest of ties to the
greatest and best of all things.
When you consider what God is, and what he has
done — when you cast your eyes over the broad field
of creation, which he has replenished with so many
curious and beautiful objects; or raise them to the
brilliant canopy of heaven, where other worlds and sys-
tems of worlds beam upon the wondering view — when
day and night, and summer and winter, and seed-tine
and harvest — when the things nearest to you and most
familiar to you, the very structure of your own bodily
frame, and that principle of conscious life and intelli-
gence which glows within you— all speak to you of
God, and call upon your awakened hearts to tremble
and adore: — when to a Being thus vast — thus awful —
you are permitted to approach in prayer, — when you
are encouraged to address him by the endearing appel-
lation of a Father in heaven; and, with all the confi-
dence and ingenuousness of affectionate children, to tell
him your wants and your fears, to implore his forgive-
ness, and earnestly to besech him for a continuance of
his mercies: — you cannot, my young friends, if you
have any feeling — any seriousness about you, regard
the exercises of devotion as a task; but must rejoice in
it, as an unspeakable privilege, to hold direct intercourse
with that great and good Being — that unseen, but uni-
versal Spirit, to whose presence all things in heaven
and on earth bear witness, and in whom we all live and
move and have our being. Thus excite and cherish
the spirit of devotion: whenever any thing touches
your hearts, or powerfully appeals to your moral feel-
PULPIT ELOQUENCE.
173
ings — give way to the religious impulse of the occasion*
and send up a silent prayer to the Power who heareth
in secret. And, in your daily addresses to God, do not
confine yourselves to any stated form of words which
may be repeated mechanically, without any concur-
rence either of the heart or of the head; but, after
having reviewed the mercies of your particular condi-
tion — after having collected your thoughts, and endea-
voured to ascertain the wants and weaknesses of your
character — give utterance, in the simple and unstudied
language which comes spontaneously to the lips, to all
those emotions of gratitude and holy fear, of submis-
sion and trust, which cannot fail to arise in your hearts,
when you have previously reflected what you are, and
find ycarselves alone in the presence of an Almighty
God.
Beloved friends, yours is the time to cultivate this
pure, this heavenly frame of mind. You have as yet
known God only in his countenance of love; you have
felt his presence only in the communications of his
loving-kindness and tender mercy. Tour hearts are as
yet strangers to the fear of habitual guilt; but swell,
with a holy, trembling joy, to think, that He who made
heaven and earth is your God and Father, — that He
who controls the course of nature, and rules the desti-
nies of nations, is not unmindful even of you. Seize,
then, oh seize this precious, this golden period of exis-
tence! improve it, while it is yours; for, believe rae,
it will never return again. When the heart hps once
been alienated from God — when guilt has once pol-
luted it — though repentance and reformation may at
length bind up its broken peace, it will never more ex-
perience that warmth and fulness of affectionate confi-
dence — that entire and unhesitating trust in the Father
of mercies, which belong only to pure and innocent
minds. Taylor.
I
•r?
«'-i
i'iJ
ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORV.
Hannibal to his Soldiers.
1 KNOW not, soldiers, whether you' or your priso-
ners^* be encompassed by fortune' with the stricter
bonds' and nece8sities\ Two^ seas' enclose you on the
right' and left*; — not a ship' to flee to for escaping\
Before' you is the Po\ a river' broader^ and more rapid^
than the Rhone'; behind* you are the Alps', over which',
even when your numbers were undiminished*, you were
hardly able to force a passage\ — Here*, then, soldiers,
you must either conquer* or die', the very^ first^ hour'
you meet' the enemy*. But the same fortune which
has laid you under the necessity' of fighting, has set
before your eyeg* those rewards of victory', than
which* no* men are ever wont to wish for greater' from
the immortal gods*. Should we, by our valour, reco-
ver only Sicily' and Sardinia*, which were ravished
from our fathers*, those would be no incor '''.erable'
prizes. Yet, what^ are these? The wealt!i Rorae*»
whatever riches she has heaped together in tiie spoils
of nations', all these', with the masters* of them, will
be yours. You have been long enough employed in
driving the cattle upon the vast mountains of Lusi-
tania* and Celtiberia'; you have hitherto met with no*
reward worthy^ the labours* and dangers' you have
undergone. The time is now* come to reap the full'
recompense of your toilsome marches over so many
mountains* and rivers', and through so many nations',
all' of them in arras*. This* is the place, which fortune
has appointed to be the limits' of your labours; it is
here^ that you will finish' your glorious warfare, and
receive an ample* recompense' of your completed' ser-
vice*. For I would not have you imagine, that victory
* Relative emphasis. In his contempt for the Romans, he treats
them as if they were already conquered.
ANOIBNT AND MOUKRX OBATORY.
175
will be as difficult as the name of a Roman war is great
and sounding'. It has often happened, that a despised'
enemy^ kaa given^ a hloodj^ battle', and the most re-
nowned^ kings^ and nations' have by a small' force been
overthrown^ And if you but take away the glitter of
the Roman name', what is there, wherein they may
stand in competition with you^? For' — to say nothing;
of your service in war for twenty years together, with
so much valour and success' — from the very Pillars of
Hercules\ from the 0Gean\ from the utmost bounds of
the earths through so many warlike nations of Spain and
Gaul, are you not come hither victorious'? And with
whom are you now^ to fight? With raw^ soldiers, an
undisciplined^ army, beaten^ vanquished\ besieged by
the Gauls the very last summer^ an army unknown' to
their leader, and unacquainted^ with him.
Or shall I', who wasr— born\ I might almost say —
but certainly brought up', in the tent of my fother, that
most excellent generaV ; shall I', the conqueror of Spain'
and GauV, and not only of the Alpine^ nations', but^
which is greater yet, of the Alps themselves^; shall I'
compare myself with this half'-year^ captain'? — A
captain'! before whom, should one place the two armies
without their ensigns', I am persuaded he would not
know to which of them he is eonaur! I esteem it no
small advantage, soldiers, that there is not one^ among
you', who has not often been an eye-witness of my'
exploits in war; not one', of whose valour I myselA
have not been a spectator', so as to be able to name the
times' and places^ of his noble achievements; that with
soldiers, whom I have a thousand^ times praised' and
rewarded^ and whose pupil^ I was before I became
their general', 1 shall march^ against an army^ of men',
strangers^ to one another.
On what side soever I turn my eyes', I behold all
full of courage' and strength^; a veteran' infantryM a
most gallant' cavalryM you, my allies, most faithfub
and valiant'; you, Carthaginians', whom not only your
country's' cause, but the justest anger\ impels^ to
battle. The hope', the courage' of assailants', is always
greater than of those who act upon the defensive'.
With hostile banners displayed, you are come down
[■9
176
ANCIKNT AND MODEKN ORATORY.
u:
upon Italy^; you* bring the war. Grief*, injuries^ in
dignities^ fire your minds, and spur you forward to
revenge\ — First, they demanded me^; that T, your
generaPj should be delivered up to them; next, all of
you'j who had fought at the siege of Saguntum^; and
we were to be put to death by the extremest' tortures.^
Proud' and crueb nation! Every^ thing must be
yours', and at your disposal^! You are to prescribe to
us with whom we shall make war', with whom we shall
make peaceM You are to set us bounds^; to shut us
up within hills' and rivers^; but you^ — you are not to
observe the limits which yourselves' have fixedM " Pass
not the lberus\" What next^? " Touch not the Sa-
guntinesM" Saguntum is upon^ the Iberus. " Move
not a step^ towards that city." Is it a small' matter,
then, that you have deprived us of our ancient posses-
sions, Sicily^ and Sardinia' ; you would have Spain^ too?
Well, we shall yield^ Spain; and then' — ^you will pass
into Africa^ I Will' pass, did I say? This' very' year
they ordered one^ of their consuls into Africa'; the
other', into Spain\ No\ soldiers, there is nothing''
left' for us but what we can vindicate with our swords\
Come on' then! Be' menM The Romans' may with
more^ safety' be cowards\ They have their own country
behind them% have places of refuge to flee^ to, and are
secure from danger' in the roads' thither; but for you'
there is no' middle^ fortune' between death' and victory\
Let this be but weir fixed^ in your minds', and once^
Livy.
again,
I say' — you are conquerors^'
Speech of Lord Chatham^ in the House of Peers,
against the American War^ and against employing
the Indians in it.
I CANNOT, my Lords, I will not, join in congratulation
on misfortune and disgrace. This, my Lords, is a
perilous and tremendous moment. It is not a time for
adulation: the smoothness of flattery cannot save us in
this rugged and awful crisis. It is now necessary to
instruct the throne in the language of truth. We
must, if possible, dispel the delusion and darkness
which envelope it; and display, in its full danger and
: !
ANCIKNT AND MODERN ORATORY.
177
■
genuine colours, the ruin which is brought to our doors.
Can ministers still presume to expect support in their
infatuation? Can parliament be so dead to their dig-
nity and duty, as to give their support to measures
thus obtruded and forced upon them? Measures, my
Lords, which have reduced this late flourishing empire
to scorn and contempt! " But yesterday, and Britain
might have stood against the world: now, none so poor
as to do her reverence." — The people whom we at first
despised as rebels, but whom we now acknowledge as
enemies, are abetted against us, supplied with every
military store, have their interest consulted, and their
ambassadors entertained by our inveterate enemy — and
ministers do not, and dare not, interpose with dignity
or effect. The desperate state of our army abroad is in
part known. No man more highly esteems and hon-
ours the British troops than I do; I know their virtues
and their valour; I know they can achieve anything
but impossibilities; and I know the conquest of British
America is an impossibility. You cannot, my Lords,
you cannot conquer America. What is your present
situation there? VVe do not know the worst: but we
know that in three campaigns we have done nothing,
and suffered much. You may swell every expense,
accumulate every assistance, and extend your traffic to
the shambles of every German despot : your attempts
will be for ever vain and impotent — doubly so, indeed,
from this mercenary aid on which you rely; for it irri-
tates, to an incurable resentment, the minds of your
adversaries, to over-run them with the mercenary sons
of rapine and plunder, devoting them and their pos-
sessions to the rapacity of hireling cruelty. If I were
an American — as I am an Knglisjhman, while a foreign
troop was landed in my country, 1 never would lay
down ray arms; Never! — never! — never! —
But, my Lords, who is? tlie man, that, in addition to
the disgraces and mischiefs of the war, has dared to
authorize and associate to our arms tlie tomahawk and
scalping-knife of the savage? — to call into civilized
alliance, the wild and inhuman inhabitant of the woods?
— to delegate to the merciless Jndian, the defence of
disputed rights, and to wage the horrors of his barbar-
h2
' •'■■*
..(
\%
i l'
It;
Hi
178
ANCIKNT AND MODKRN ORATORT.
OU8 war against our brethren? My Lords, these enor-
mities cry aloud for redress and punishment. But, my
Lords, this barbarous measure has been defended, not
only on the principles of policy and necessity, but also
on those of morality; ** for it is perfectly allowable,"
says Lord Suffolk, " to use all the means, which God
and nature have put into our hands." I am astonished,
I am f^hocked, to hear such principles confessed; to
hear them avowed in this House, or in thid country.
My Lords, I did not intend to encroach so much on
your attention ; but I cannot repress my indignation —
I feel myself impelled to speak. My Lords, we are
called upon as members of this House, as men, as
Christians, to protest against such horrible barbarity! —
"That God and nature have put into our hands!"
What ideas of God and nature, that noble Lord may
entertain, I know not; but 1 know, that such detesta-
ble principles are equally abhorrent to religion and
humanity. What! to attribute the sacred sanction of
God and nature, to the massacres of the Indian scalp-
ing -knife! to the cannibal savage, torturing, murder-
ing, devouring., drinking the blood of his mangled vic-
tims! Such notions shock every precept of morality,
every feeling of humanity, every sentiment of honour.
These abominable principles, and this more abominable
avowal of them, demand the most decisive indignation.
I call upon that Right Reverend, and this most
Learned Bench, to vindicate the religion of their God,
to support the justice of their country I call upon
the Bishops, to interpose the unsullied sanctity of their
lawn; upon the Judges, to interpose the purity of their
ermine, to save us from this pollution. I call upon the
honour of your Lordships to reverence the dignity of
your ancestors, and to maintain your own. I call upon
the spirit and hunumity of my country, to vindicate the
national character. I invoke the genius of the consti-
tution. To send forth the merciless cannibal, thirst-
ing for blood ! Against whom? — our brethren ! — to lay
waste their country, to desolate their dwellings, and
extirpate their race and name, by the aid and instru-
mentality of these horrible hounds of war! — Spain
(;an no longer boast pre-einineuce in barbarity. She
.
ANOIEMT AND MODERN ORATORY.
179 I
armed herself with bloodhounds, to extirpate the
wretched natives of Mexico! We, more ruthless, loose
these do^rs of war against our countrymen in America,
endeared to us by every tie that can sanctify humanity.
I solemnly call upon your Lordships, and upon every
order of men in the state, to stamp upon this infamous
procedure, the indelible stigma of public abhorrence.
More particularly, I call upon the holy prelates of our
religion, to do away this iniquity; let them perform a
lustration, to purify the country from this deep and
deadly sin. My Lords, I am old and weak, and at
present unable to say more; but my feelings and indig*
nation were too strong, to have said less. I could not
have slept this night in my bed, nor even reposed my
head upon my pillow, without giving vent to my eter-
nal abhorrence of such enormous and preposterous
principles.
Cicero against Verrcs,
The time is come. Fathers, when that which has long
been wished for, towards allaying the envy your order
has been subject to, and removing the imputations
against trials, is effectually put in our power. An opin-
ion has long prevailed, not only here at home, but like-
wise in foreign countries, both dangerous to you, and
pernicious to the state — that in prosecut:' :*.<i, men of
wealth are always safe, however clearly (onvicted.
There is now to be brought upon his trial before you —
to the confusion, I hope, of the propagators of this
slanderous imputation — one, whose life and actions
condemn him, in the opinion of all impartial persons;
but who, according to his own reckoning, and declared
dependence upon his riches, is already acquitted — I
mean Caius Verres. I demand justice of you, Fathers,
upon the robber of the public treasury, the oppressor
of Asia Minor and Pamphylia, the invader of the
rights and privileges of Romans, the scourge and curse
of Sicily! If that sentence is passed upon him which
his crimes deserve, your authority, Fathers, will be
vene able and sacred in the eyes of the public; but if
his great riches should bias >ou in his favour, I shall
!i
ly
m
I;
•if
180
ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORT.
Still gain one point — to make it apparent to all the
world, that what was wanting in this case, was — not a
criminal nor a prosecutor — but justice and adequate
punishment.
To pass over the shameful irregularities of his youth,
what does his qusBstorship, the first public employment
he held, what does it exhibit, but one continued scene
of villanies? Cneius Carbo plundered of the public
money by his own treasurer, a consul stripped and be-
trayed, an army deserted and reduced to want, a pro-
vince robbed, the civil and religious rights of a people
violated. The employment he held in Asia Minor and
Pamphylia — what did it produce but the ruin of those
countries; in which houses, cities, and temples, were
robbed by him? What was his conduct in the preetor-
ship here at home? Let the plundered temples and
public works — neglected, that he might embezzle the
money intended for carrying them on — bear witness.
How did he discharge the office of a judji;e? Let those
who suffered by his injustice answer. But his prsstor-
ship in Sicily drowns all his works of wickedness, and
finishes a lasting monument to his infamy. The mis-
chiefs done by him in that unhappy country, during
the three years of his iniquitous administration, are
such, that many years, under the wisest and best of
praetors, will not be sufficient to restore things to the
condition in which he found them: for it is notorious,
that, during the time of his tyranny, the Sicilians
neither enjoyed the protection of their own original
laws;— of the regulations itiade for their benefit by the
Roman Senate, upon their coming under the protection
of the commonwealth; — nor of the natural and unalien-
able rights of men. His nod has decided all causes in
Sicily for these three years; and his decisions have
broken all law, all precedent, all right. The sums he
has, by arbitrary taxes and unheard-of impositions,
extorted from the industrious poor, are not to be com-
puted. The most faithful allies of the commonwealth
have been treated as enemies; Roman citizens have,
like slaves, been put to denth with tortures; the most
atrocious criminals, for money, have been exempted
from the deserved punishments; and men of the most
le
a
te
1.
It
e
c
ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATOF.T.
181
unexceptionable characters, condemned and banished
unheard. The harbours, though sufficiently fortified,
and the gates of strong towns, opened to pirates and
ravngers; the soldiery and sailors, belonging to a prov-
ince under the protection of the commonwealth, starved
to death; whole fleets, to the great detriment of the
province, suffered to perish. The ancient monuments
of either Sicilian or Roman greatness, the statues of
heroes and princes, carried off; and the temples stripped
of the images. Having, by his iniquitous sentences,
filled the prisons with the most industrious and deserv«
ing of the people, he then proceeded to order numbers
of Roman citizens to be strangled in the gaols; so that
the exclamation, "I am a citizen of Rome!*' which
has often, in the most distant regions, and among the
most barbarous people, been a protection, was of no
service to them; but, on the contrary, brought a speedier
and more severe punishment upon them.
I ask now, Verres, what you have to advance against
this charge? Will you pretend to deny it? Will you
pretend, that any thing false, that even any thing aggra-
vated, is alleged against you? Had any prince, or any
state committed the same outrage against the privileges
of Roman citizens, should we not think we had sufficient
ground for declaring immediate war against them?
What punishment ought, then, to be inflicted upon a
tyrannical and wicked prastor, who dared, at no greater
distance than Sicily, within sight of the Italian coast,
to put to the infamous death of crucifixion, that
unfortunate and innocent citizen, Publius Gavins
Cosanus, only for his having asserted his privilege of
citizenship, and declared his intention of appealing to
the justice of his country against a cruel oppressor,
who had unjustly confined him in prison at Syracuse,
whence he had just made his escape? The unhappy
man arrested as he was going to embark for his native
country, is brought before the wicked praetor. With eyes
darting fury, and a countenance distorted with cruelty,
he orders the helpless victim of his rage to be stripped,
and rods to be brought; accusing him, but without the
least shadow of evidence, or even of suspicion, of
having come to Sicily as a spy. In vain the unhappy
^
■4
li
■. *t ffl
182
ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORT.
man cried out, *'I Am a Roman citizen; I have served
under Lucius Preciui<, who irt now at Panormus, and
will attest my innocence!" The blood-thirsty praetor,
deaf to all he could urge in his own defence, ordered
the infamous punishment to be inflicted. Thus,
Fathers, was an innocent Roman citizen publicly man-
gled with scourging; whilst the only words he uttered
amidst his cruel sufferings were, " I am a Roman
citizen!" With these he hoped to defend himself from
violence and from infamy. But of so little service
was this privilege to him, that, while he was thus
asserting his citizenship, the order was given for his
execution — for his execution upon the cross! — Oh
liberty! — Oh sound, once delightful to every Roman
ear! — Oh sacred privilege of Roman citizenship! once
sacred! — now trampled upon! But what then? — Is it
come to this? Shall an inferior magistrate, a governor,
who holds his whole power of the Roman people, in a
Roman province, within sight of Italy, bind, scourge,
torture with fire and red-hot plates of iron, and at last
put to the infamous death of the cross, a Roman citizen?
Shall neither the cries of innocence expiring in agony,
nor the tears of pitying spectators, nor the majesty of
the Roman commonwealth, nor the fear of the justice
of his country, restrain the licentious and wanton
cruelty of a monster, who, in confidence of his riches,
strikes at the root of all liberty, and sets mankind at
defiance?
I conclude with expressing my hopes, that your
wisdom and justice, Fathers, will not, by suffering the
atrocious and unexampled insolence of Caius Verres to
escape the due punishment, leave room to apprehend
the danger of a total subversion dof authority, and
introduction of general anarchy atid cotifusion.
Invective against Hastings.
Had a stranger, at this time, gone into the province of
Oude, ignorant of what had happened since the deatli
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 cultivatijig hand, pre-
AXCIKNT AND MODKRN OTATORT.
183
served to his country the riches which it derived from
benignant skies and a prolific soil — if this stranger,
ignorant of all that had happened in tiie 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 un-
roofed and perishing — of reservoirs broken down and
dry, — he would naturally inquire, What war has thus
laid waste the fertile fields of this once beautiful and
opulent country? — what civil dissensions have hap-
pened, thus to tear asunder and separate the happy
societies that once possiessed those villages ? — what dis-
puted succession — what religious rage, has, with un-
holy violence, demolished those temples, and disturbed
fervent but unobtruding piety, in the exercise of its
duties? — what merciless enemy has thus spread the
horrors of fire and sword ? — what severe visitation of
Providence has dried np the fountain, and taken from
the face of the earth every vestige of verdure ? — Or,
rather, what monsters have stalked over the country,
tainting and poisoninpf, 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 been lelt — no disputed nncces-
sion — no religious rage — no merciless enemy — no
affliction of Providence, which, while it scourged for
the moment, cut off the sources of resuscitation — no
voracious and poisoning monsters — no, all this has been
accomplished by the friendship, generosity, and kind-
ness of the English nation. They have embraced us
with their protecting arms, and, lo ! those are the
fruits of their alliance. What, then ! shall we be
told, that, under such circumstances, the exasperated
feelings of a whole people, thus goaded and spurred on
to clamour and resistance, were excited by the poor and
feeble influence ot the Begums ? When we hear the
description of the fever — paroxysm — delirium, into
which despair has thrown the natives, when, on the
banks of the polluted Ganges, panting for death, they
tore more widely open the lips of their gaping wounds,
"I
If]
¥
t.
ISl
ANCIRNT AND MODERN ORATORY.
to accelerate their dissolution; and, while their blood
was issuing, presented their ghastly eyes to Heaven ;
breathing their 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 Qod, 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 into the breasts of a people who felt
no grievance, and had suffered no torture? VVhat
motive, then, could have such influence in their bosom?
What motive ? That which Nature, the common
parent, plants in the bosom of man; and which, though
it may be less active in the Indian than in the English-
man, 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, when,
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 — Thaf principle which
tells him, that resistance to powe. usurped is not
merely a duty which he owes to limself and to his
neighbour, but a duty which he c wes to his God, in
asserting and maintaining the rank which he gave him,
in the creation ! — to that common God, who, where he
gives the form of man, whatever may be the com-
plexion, 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 ex-
tinguish ! — Tbnt principle, which makes it base for a
man to suffer when he ought to act — which, tending to
preserve to the species the original designations of
Providence, spurns at the arrogant distinctions of man,
and vindicates the independent quality of his race.
Sheridan,
ANCIKNT AND MODKRN OUATORY.
185
r
Cicero fo', Milo.
My Lords, — That you may be able the more easily to
determine upon that point before you, I shall beg the
favour of an attentive hearing, while, in a few words,
I lay open the whole affair. — Clodius, being determined,
when created praetor, to harass his country with every
species of oppression, and finding the comitia had been
delayed so long the year before, that he could not hold
this office many months, all on a sudden threw up bis
own year, and reserved himself to the next ; not from
any religious scruple, but that he might have, as he
said himself, a full, entire year, for exercising his
prsetorship — that is, for overturning the commonwealth.
Being sensible he must be controlled and cramped in
the exercise of his praetorian authority under Milo,
who, he plainly saw, 'vould be chosen consul by the
unanimous consent of the Roman people ; he joined
the candidates that opposed Milo — but in such a man-
ner, that he overruled them in everything, had the
sole management of the election, and, as he used often
to boast, bore all the comitia upon his own shoulders.
He assembled the tribes ; he thrust himself into their
councils, and formed a new tribe of the most abandoned
of the citizens. The more confusion and disturbance
he made, the more Milo prevailed. When this wretch,
who was bent upon all manner of wickedness, saw
that so brave a man, and his most inveterate enemy,
would certainly be consul — when he perceived this, not
only by the discourses, but by the votes of the Roman
people, he began to throw off all disguise, and to de-
clare openly that Milo must be killed. He often inti-
mated this in the Senate, and declared it expressly be-
fore the people ; insomuch, that when Favonius, that
brave man, asked him what prospect he could have of
carrying on his furious designs, while Milo was alive —
he replied, that, in three or four days at most, he should
be taken out of the way — which reply Favonius imme-
diately communicated to Cato.
In the mean time, as soon as Clodius knew — nor in-
deed was there any difficulty to come at the intelli-
gence — that Milo was obliged by the 1 8th of January
to be at Lanuvium, where he was dictator, in order to
18G
ANCIENT AND MODKRN OIIATOIJY.
nominate a priest — a duty which the laws rendered
necessary to be performed every year ; he went sud-
tienly from Rome the day before, in order, as it appears
by the event, to waylay Milo in his own grounds; and
this at a time when he was obliged to leave a tumul-
tuous assembly, which he had summoned that very
day, where his presence was necessary to carry on his
mad designs — a thing he never would have done, if he
had not been desirous to take the advantage of that
particular time and place for perpetrating his villany.
But Milo, after having stayed in the Senate that day
till the house was broke up, went home, changed his
clothes, waited a while, as usual, till his wife had got
ready to attend him, and then set forward, about the
time that Clodius, if he had proposed tu 'lome back to
Rome that day, might have returned. He meets Clo-
dius, near his own estate, a little before sun-set, and is
immediately attacked by a body of men, who throw
their darts at him from an eminence, and kill his coach-
man. Upon which, he threw off his cloak, leaped
from his chariot, and defended himself with great
bravery. In the meantime, Clodius's attendants,
drawing their swords, some of them ran back to the
chariot, in order to attack Milo in the rear ; whilst
others, thinking that he was already killed, fell upon
his servants who were behind. These being resolute
and faithful to their master, were, some of them, slain ;
whilst the rest, seeing a warm engagement near th?
chariot, being prevented from going to their master's
assistance, hearing besides from Clodius himself that
Milo was killed, and believing it to be a fact, acted
ur»on this occasion — I mention it, not with a view to
elude the accusation, but because it was the true state
of the case — without the orders, without the knowledge,
without the presence of their master, as every man
would wish his own servants should act in the like cir-
cumstances.
This, my Lords, is a faithful account of the matter
of fact : the person who lay in wait was himself over-
come, and force subdued by force, or rather audacious-
ness chastised by true valour. I say nothing of the
advantage which accrues to the state in general, to
JIENT AND MODERN OBATORIf.
187
yourselves in particular, and to all good men : I am
eontent to waive the argument I might draw from
thence in favour of mj client — whose destiny was so
peculiar, that he could not secure his own safety,
without securing yours and that of the republic at the
same time. If he could not do it lawfully, there is no
room for attempting his defence. But, if reason
teaches the learned ; necessity, the barbarian ; common
custom, all nations in general ; and even nature itself
instructs the brutes to defend their bodies, limbs, and
lives, when attacked, by all possible methods; you can-
not pr(Hiounce this action criminal, without determin-
ing, at the same time, that whoever falls into the
hands of a highwayman, must of necessity perish
either by the sword or your decisions. Had Milo
been of this opinion, he would certainly have chosen
to have fallen by the hand of Clodius — who had, more
than once before this, made an attempt upon his life—
rather than be executed by your order, because he had
not tamely yielded himself a victim to his rage. But,
if none of you are of this opinion, the proper question
is, not whether Clodius was killed ? for that we grant:
but whether justly or unjustly? If it appear that
Milo was the aggressor, we ask no favour ; but if Clo-
dius, you will then acquit him of the crime that has
been laid to his charge.
Every circumstance, my Lords, concurs to prove,
that it was for Milo's interest Clodius should live ;
that, on the contrary, Milo's death was a most desi-
rable event for answering the purposes of Clodius;
that, on the one side, there was a most implacable
hatred; on the other, not the least; that the one had
been continually employing himself in acts of violence,
the other, only in opposing them; that the life of Milo
was threatened, and his death publicly foretold by
Clodius, whereas nothing of that kind was ever heard
from Milo; that the day fixed for Milo's journey was
well known to his adversary, while Milo knew not
when Clodius was to return; that Milo's journey was
necessary, but that of Clodius rather the contrary;
that the one openly declared his intention of leaving
Rome that day, while the other concealed his intention
'II
if
I'
188
ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY.
of returning; that Milo made no alteration in his
measures, but that Glodius feigned an excuse for alter-
ing his; that» if Milo had designed to waylay Clodius,
he would have waited for him near the city till it was
dark; but that Clodius, even if he had been under no
apprehensions from Milo, ought to have been afraid of
coming to town so late at night.
Let us now consider whether the place where the
encounter happened, was most favourable to Milo or
to Clodius. But can there, my Lords, be any room
for doubt or deliberation upon that ? It was near the
estate of Clodius, where at least a thousand able-bodied
m^n were employed in his mad schemes of building.
Did Milo think he should have an advantage, by
attacking him from an eminence? and did he, for this
reason, pitch upon that spot for the engagement? or
was he not rather expected in that place by his adver-
sary, who hoped the situation would favour his assault?
The thing, my Lords, speaks for itself, which must be
allowed to be of the greatest importance in determin-
ing a question. Were the affair to be represented only
by painting, instead of being expressed by words, it
would even then clearly appear which was the traitor,
and which was free from all mischievous designs.
When the one was sitting in his chariot, muffled up in
his cloak, and his wife along with him; which of these
circumstances was not a very great incumbrance? —
the dress, the chariot, or the companion ? How could
he be worse equipped for an engagement, when he was
wrapped up in a cloak, embarrassed with a chariot,
and almost fettered bv his wife? Observe the other,
now — in the first place, sallying out on a sudden from
his seat ; for what reason ? In the evening ; what
urged him? Late; to what purpose, especially at that
season? He calls at Pompey's seat; with what view?
To see Pompey? — He knew he was at Allium. To see
his house? — He had been in it a thousand times. What,
then, could be the reason of this loitering and shifting
about? — He wanted to be upon the spot, when Milo
came up.
But if, my Lords, you are not yet convinced — though
the thing shines out with such strong and full evidence
ANCIENT AND MODICRN ORATORT.
189
— that Milo returned to Rome with an innocent mind,
unstained with guilt, undisturbed bj fear, and free
from the accusations of conscience; call to mind, I
beseech you, by the immortal gods, the expedition
with which he came back, his entrance into the forum,
while the senate-house was in flames, the greatness of
soul he discovered, the look he assumed, the speech he
made on the occasion. He delivered himself up, not
only to the people, but even to the senate; nor to the
senate alone, but even to guards appointed for the pub-
lic security ; nor merely to them, but even to the
authority of him whom the senate had entrusted with
the care of the whole republic ; to whom he would
never have delivered himself, if he had not been confi-
dent of the goodness of his cause.
What now remains, but to beseech and adjure you,
my Lords, to extend that compassion to a brave man,
which he disdains to implore; but which I, even against
his consent, implore and earnestly entreat. Though
you have not seen him shed a single tear, while all are
weeping around him — though he has preserved the
same steady countenance, the same firmness of voice
and language; do not, on this account, withhold it from
him.
On you — on you I call, ye heroes, who have lost so
much blood in the service of your country! To you, ye
centurions, ye soldiers, I appeal in this hour of danger
to the best of men, and bravest of citizens ! While you
are looking on, while you stand here with arms in your
hands, and guard this tribunal; shall virtue like this be
expelled, exterminated, cast out with dishonour? By
the immortal gods, I wish — Pardon me, oh my coun-
try! for I fear what I shall say, out of a pious regard
for Milo, may be deemed impiety against thee — that
Clodius not only lived, but were praetor, consul, dic-
tator, rather than be witness to such a scene as this.
Shall this man, then, who was born to save his coun-
try', die any where but in his country? Shall he not,
at least, die in the service of his country? Will you
retain the memorials of his gallant soul, and deny his
body a grave in Italy? Will any person give his voice
for banishing a man from this city, whom every city
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ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY.
on earth would be proud to receive within its walls ?
Happy the country that shall receive him ! ungrateful
this, if it shall banish him I wretched, if it should lose
him ! But I must conclude : my tears will not allow
me to proceed, and Milo forbids tears to be employed
in his defence. You, my Lords, I beseech and adjure,
that, in your decision, you would dare to act as you
think. Trust me, your fortitude, your justice, your
fidelity, will more ei^ecially be approved of by him)
who, in his choice of judges, has raised to the bench
the bravest, the wisest, and the best of men.
Lord ChathanCs Reply to Sir Robert fValpoU.
Sir, — The atrocious crime of being a young man,
which the honourable gentleman has, with such spirit
and decency, charged upon me, I shall neither attempt
to palliate nor deny; but content myself with wishing,
that I may be one of those whose follies may cease
with their youth, and not of that number who are
ignorant in spite of experience. Whether youth can
be imputed to any man as a reproach, I will not, Sir,
assume the province of determining ; but surely age
may become justly contemptible, if the opportunities
which it brings have passed away without improve-
ment, and vice appears to prevail, when the passions
have subsided. The wretch who, after having seen
the c-onsequences of a thousand errors, c(Mitinues still
to blunder, and whose age has only added obstinacy to
stupidity, is surely the object either of abhorrence or
contempt, and deserves not that his grey hairs should
secure him from insult. Much more. Sir, is he to bo
abhorred, who, as be has advanced in age, has receded
from virtue, and become more wicked with less temp-
tation; who prostitutes himself for money which ho
cannot enjoy, and spends the remains of his life in the
ruin of his country. But youth. Sir, is not my only
crime; I have been accused of acting a theatrical part.
A theatrical part may either imply some peculiarities
of gesture, or a dissimulation of my real sentiments,
and an adoption of the opinions and language of another
man.
ANCIK.NT AND MODERN ORATORT.
191
In the first s^se, Sir, the charge is too trifling to
be confuted; and deserves only to be mentioned, that
it may be despised. I am at liberty, like every other
man, to use my own language; and though, perhaps, I
may have some ambition to please this gentleman, I
shall not lay myself under, any restraint, nor very
solicitously copy his diction or his mien, however
matured by age, or modelled by experience. But, if
any man shall, by charging me with theatrical beha-
viour, imply, that I utter any sentiments but my own, I
shall treat him as a calumniator, and a villain; — nor
shall any protection shelter him from the treatment he
deserves. I shall, on such an occasion, without scruple,
trample npon all those forms with which wealth and
dignity intrench themselves, — nor shall any thing but
age restrain my resentment; age, which always brings
one privilege, that of being insolent and supercilious,
without punishment. But with regard. Sir, to those
whom I have offended, I am of opinion, that if I had
acted a borrowed part, I should have avoided their
censure : the heat that offended them, is the ardour of
conviction, and that zeal for the service of my country,
which neither hope nor fear shall influence me to
suppress. I will not sit unconcerned while my liberty
is invaded, nor look in silence upon public robbery. I
will exert my endeavours, at whatever hazard, to repel
the aggressor, and drag the thief to justice, whoever
may protect him in his villany, and whoever may par-
take of his plunder.
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Cains Marius to the Romans.
It is but too common, my countrymen, to observe a
material difference between the behaviour of those who
stand candidates for places of power and trust, before
and after their obtaining them. They solicit them in
one manner, and execute them in another. They set
out with a great appearance of activity, humility, and
moderation; and they quickly fall into sloth, pride, and
avarice. It is undoubtedly, no easy matter to discharge,
to the general satisfaction, the duty of a supreme com-
mander in troublesome times. To carry on, with
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effect, an expensive war, and yet be frugal of the pub-
lic money; to oblige those to serve, whom it may be
delicate to offond; to conduct, at the same time, a com-
plicated variety of operations; to concert measures at
home, answerable to the state of things abroad; and to
gain every valuable end, in spite of opposition, from
the envious, the factious, and the disaffected — to do all
this, my countrymen, is more difficult than is generally
thought.
But, besides the disadvantages which are common to
me, with all others in eminent stations, my case is, in
this respect, peculiarly hard — that, whereas a comman-
der of Patrician rank, if he is guilty of a neglect or
breach of duty, has his great connections, the antiquity
of his family, the important services of his ancestors,
and the multitudes he has by power, engaged in his
interest, to screen him from condign punishment ; my
whole safety depends upon myself; which renders it the
more indispensably necessary for me to take care, that
my conduct be clear and unexceptionable. • Besides, I
am well aware, my countrymen, that the eye of the
public is upon me; and that, though the impartial, who
prefer the real advantage of the commonwealth to all
other considerations, favour my pretensions, the Patri-
cians want nothinec so much as an occasion against me.
It is, therefore, my fixed resolution, to use my best
endeavours, that you may not be disappointed in me;
and that their indirect designs against me may be
defeated.
I have, from my youth, been familiar with toils and
with dangers. I was faithful to your interest, my
countrymen, when I served you for no reward but that
of honour. It is not my design to betray you, now
that you have conferred upon me a place of profit.
You have committed to ray conduct the war against
Jugurtha. 'J'he Patricians are offended at this. But
where would be the wisdom of giving such a command
to one of their honourable body? A person of illus-
trious birth, of ancient family, of innumerable statues,
but of no experience! What service would his long
line of dead ancestors, or his multitude of motionless
statues, do his country in the day of battle? What
ANGIKNT AND MOULUN OUATOUY.
193
me;
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I and
could such a general do, but, in his trepidation and
inexperience, have recourse to some inferior commander
for direction in difficulties, to which he was not himself
equal? Thus, your Patrician general would, in fact,
have a general over him; so that the acting commander
would still be a Plebeian. So true is this, my country-
men, that I have myself known those who have been
chosen consuls, begin then to rend the history of their
own country, of which, till that time, they were totally
ignorant — that is, they first obtained the employment,
and then bethought themselves of the qualifications
necessary for the proper discharge of it.
I submit to your judgment, Romans, on which side
the advantage lies, when a comparison is made between
Patrician haughtiness, and Plebeian experience. The
very actions which they have only read, I have partly
seen, and partly myself achieved. What they know
by reading, I know by action. They are pleased to
slight my mean birth: I despise their mean characters.
Want of birth and fortune is the objection against me;
want of personal worth, against them. But are not all
men of the same species? What can make a difference
between one man and another, but the endowments of
the mind? For my part, I shall always look upon the
bravest man as the noblest man. Suppose it were in-
quired of the fathers of such Patricians as Albinua
and Bestia, whether, if they had their choice, they
would desire sons of their character or of mine; what
would they answer, but that they would wish the
worthiest to be their sons? If the Patricians have
reason to despise me, let them likewise despise their
ancestors, whose nobility was the fruit of their virtue.
Do they envy the honours bestowed upon me? — let
them envy likewise my labours, my abstinence, and the
dangers I have undergone for my country, by which I
have acquired them. But those worthless men lead
such a life of inactivity, as if they despised any hon*
ours you can bestow; whilst they aspire to honours, aa
if they had deserved them by the most industrious vir-
tue. They lay claim to the rewards of activity, for
their having enjoyed the pleasures of luxury. Yet
none can be more lavish than they are, in praise of
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their ancestors. And they imagine they honour them-
selves, by celebrating their forefathers; whereas, they
do the very contrary: for, as much as their ancestors
were distinguished for their virtues, so much are they
disgraced by their vices. The glory of ancestors casts
a light, indeed, upon their posterity; but it only serves
to show what the descendants are. It alike exhibits
to public view their degeneracy and their worth. I
own, I cannot boast of the deeds of my forefathers;
but I hope I may answer the cavil's of the Patricians,
by standing up in defence of what I have myself done.
Observe now, my countrymen, the injustice of the
Patricians. They arrogate to themselves honours, <ra
account of the exploits done by their forefathers; whibt
they will not allow me the due praise for performing
the very same sort of actions in my own person. " He
has no statues," they cry, "of his family. He can
trace no venerable line of ancestors.'* — What, then?
Is it matter of more praise to disgrace one^s illustrious
ancestors, than to become illustrious by one's own good
behaviour? What if I can show no statues of my
family! I can show the standards, the armour, and
the trappings, which I have myself taken from the
vanquished. I can show the scars cf those wounds
which I have received by facing the enemies of my
country. These are my statues. These are the hon-
ours I boast of — not left me by inheritance, as theirs ;
but earned by toil, by abstinence, by valour; amidst
clouds of dust, and seas of blood; — scenes of action
where these effeminate Patricians, who endeavour, by
indirect means, to depreciate me in your esteem, have
never dared to show their faces. Sallust,
Demosthenes to the Athenians^ exciting them to prosecute
the War against Philip.
When I compare, Athenians, the speeches of some
amongst us with their actions, I am at a loss to recon-
cile what I see with what I hear. Their protestations
are full of zeal against the public enemy; but their
measures are so inconsistent, that all their professions
become suspected. By confounding you with a va-
ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATOUT.
195
riety of projects, they perplex your resolutions ; and
lead you from executing what is in your power, by
engaging you in schemes not reducible to practice.
'Tis true, there was a time when we were powerful
enough, not only to defend our own borders, and pro-
tect our allies, but even to invade Philip in his own
dominions. Yes, Athenians; there was such a junc-
ture; I remember it well. But, by neglect of proper
opportunities, we are no longer in a situation to be in-
vaders. It will be well for us, if we can provide for
our own defence, and our allies. Never did any con-
juncture require so much prudence as this. However,
I should not despair of seasonable remedies, had I the
art to prevail with you to be unanimous in right mea-
sures. The opportunities which have so often escaped
us, have not been lost through ignorance, or want of
judgment, but through negligence or treachery. — If I
assume, at this time, more than ordinary liberty of
speech, I conjure you to suffer patiently those truths
which have no other end but your own good. You
have too many reasons to be sensible how much you
have suffered by hearkening to sycophants. 1 shall,
therefore, be plain in laying before you the grounds of
past miscarriages, in order to correct you in your future
conduct.
You may remember, it is not above three or four
years since we had the news of Philip's laying siege to the
fortress of Juno in Thrace. It was, as I think, in
October, we received this intelligence. We voted an
immediate supply of threescore talents; forty men-of-
war were ordered to sea; and so zealous we were, that,
preferring the necessities of state to our very laws, our
citizens above the age of five and forty years were
commanded to serve. What followed? — A whole year
was spent idly without anything done; and it was but
in the third month of the following year, a little after
the celebration of the feast of Ceres, that Charademus
set sail, furnished with no more than five talents, and
ten galleys not half manned.
A rumour was spread, that Philip was sick. That
rumour was followed by another, that Philip was dead;
and, then, as if all danger died with him, you dropped
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your pveparntiona. Whereas, then — then was your
time to push and be active; then was your time to
secure yourselves, and confound him at once. Had
your resolutions, taken with so much heat, been as
warmly seconded by action, you had been then as ter-
rible to Philip, as Philip, recovered, is now to you. —
"To what purpose, at this time, these reflections?
What id done, cannot be undone." — But, by your leave,
Athenians, though past moments are not to be recalled,
past errors may be retrieved. Have we not, now, a
fresh provocation to war? Let the memory of over-
sights, by which you have suffered so much, instruct
you to be more vigilant in the present danger. If the
Olynthians are not instantly succoured, and with your
utmost efforts, you become assistants to Philip, and
serve him more effectually than he can help himself.
It is not, surely, necessary to warn you, that votes
alone can be of no consequence. Had your resolutions,
of themselves, the virtue to compass what you intend,
we should not see them multiply every day, as they do,
and upon every occasion, with so little effect; nor would
Philip be in a condition to brave and affront us in this
manner. Proceed, then, Athenians, to support your
deliberations with vigour. You have heads capable
of advising what is best; you have judgment and expe-
rience to discern what is right; and you have power
and opportunity to execute what you determine. What
time so proper for action? what occasion so happy?
and when can you hope for such another, if this be
neglected? Has not Philip, contrary to all treaties,
insulted you in Thrace? Does he not, at this
instant, straiten and invade your confederates, vhom
you have solemnly sworn to protect? I \:t .\. ■ uri
implacable enemy — a faithless ally — the usurper of pro-
vinces to which he has no title nor pretence — a stranger,
a barbarian, a tyrant? And indeed, what is he not?
Observe, I beseech you, men of Athens, how different
yo'iv <. . nduct appears from the practices of your ances-
tors i — -th?r were iriends to truth and plain dealing,
8Uu deles ted flatte y and servile compliance. By una-
nirious consent, they continued arbiters of all Greece, for
the space of forty-five years, without interruption. A
ANCIENT AND MODERN OKATOUY.
197
public fund, of no less than ten thoii.'Siund talents, was
ready for any em« ^ency. i'lf^y exercised over tlie
kings of Macedon, that authority wMch is due to bar-
barians; obtained, both by ."••a and land, in (heir own
persons, frequent and signal victories; and, by their
noble exploits, transmitted to posterity an immortal
memory of their virtue, superior to the reach of milice
.'nd detraction. It is to them we o^e that great num-
Wer of public edifices, by which the city of Athens
exceeds all the rest of the world in beauty and mag-
nificence. It is to them we owe so many stately tem-
ples, 80 richly embellished, but, above all, adorned with
the spoils of vanquished enemies. — But visit their own
private habitations; visit the houses of Aristides, Mil-
tiades, or any other of those patriots of antiquit} —you
will find nothing, not the least mark or ornament, to
distinguish them from their neighbours. They took
part in the government, not to enrich themselves, but
the public ; they had no scheme or ambition, but
for the public; nor knew any interest, but the public.
It was by a close and steady application to the general
good of their country, by an exemplary piety towards
the immortal gods, by a strict faith and religious hon-
esty betwixt man and man, and a moderation always
uniform and of a piece, they established that reputation,
which remains to this day, and will last to utmost pos-
terity.
Such, O men of Athens! were your ancestors — so
glorious in the eyes of the world; so bountiful and
munific-ont to their country; so sparing, so modest, so
self-denying to themselves. What resemblance of these
great men can we find in the present generation? At
a time when your ancient competitors have left you a
clear stage — when the Lacedasmonians are disabled;
the Thebans employed in troubles of their own — when
no other state whatever is in a condition to rival or
molest you ; — in short, when you are at full liberty —
when you have the opportunity and the power to be-
cora^e once more the sole arbiters of Greece; — you per-
mit, patiently, whole provinces to be wrested from you;
you lavish the public money in scandalous and obscure
uses; you suffer your allies to perish in time of peace,
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ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY.
whom you preserved in time of war; and, to sum up
all, you yourselves — by your mercenary court, and ser-
vile resignation to the will and pleasure of designing,
insidious leaders — abet, encourage, and strengthen the
most dangerous and formidable of your enemies. Yes,
Athenians, I repeat it, you yourselves are the contrivers
of your own ruin. Lives there a man who has confi-
dence enough to dany it? Let him arise, and assign,
if he can, any other cause of the success and prosperity
of Philip. — '* But," you reply, "what Athens may
have lost in reputation abroad, she has gained in
splendour at home. Was there ever a greater ap-
pearance of prosperity; a greater face of plenty? Is
not the city enlarged? Are not the streets better
paved, houses repaired and beautified?" — Away with
such trifles! Shall I be paid with counters? An old
square new- vamped up! a fountain! an aqueduct! are
these acquisitions to brag of? Cast your eye on the
magistrate under whose ministry you boast these pre-
cious improvements. Behold the despicable creature,
raised, all at once, from dirt to opulence; from the
lowest obscurity to the highest honours. Have not
some of these upstarts built private houses and seats,
vying with the most sumptuous of our public palaces?
And how have their fortunes and their power increased,
but as the commonwealth has been ruined and impov-
erished?
To what are we to impute these disorders, and to
what cause assign the decay of a state so powerful and
flourishing in past times? — The reason is plain. The
servant is now become the master. The magistrate
was then subvervient to the people; punishments and
rewards were properties of the people; all honours,
dignities, and preferments, were disposed of by the voice
and favour of the people: but the magistrate, now, has
usurped the right of the people, and excerqises an
arbitrary authority over his ancient and natural lord.
You, miserable people! — the meanwhile, without money,
without friends, — from being the ruler, are become the
servant; from being the master, the dependant: happy
that these governors, into whose hands you have thus
resigned your own power, are so good and so gracious
as to continue your poor allowance to see plays.
ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORV.
199
Believe me, Athenians, if, recovering from this
lethargy, you would assume the ancient freedom and
spirit of your fathers — if you would be your own sol-
diers and your own commanders, confiding no longer
your affairs in foreign or mercenary hands— if you
would charge yourselves with your own defence; em-
ploying abroad, for the public, what you wa?te in un-
profitable pleasures at home — the world might once
more behold you making a figure worthy of Athenians.
— "You would have us, then," you say, "do service in our
armies in our own persons; and, for so doing, you would
have the pension, we receive in time of peace, accepted as
pay in time of war. Is it thus we are to understand
you?" — Yes, Athenians, 'tis my plain meaning. 1
would make it a standing rule, that no person, great or
little, should be the better for the public money, who
should grudge to employ it for the public service. Are
wo in peace? the public is charged with your subsis-
tence. Are we in war, or under a necessity, at this
time, to enter into war? let your gratitude oblige you
to accept, as pay in defence of your benefactor, what
you receive, in peace, as mere bounty. Thus, without
any innovation — without altering or abolishing any
thing, but pernicious novelties, introducedfor the encour-
agement of sloth and idleness; by converting only, for
the future, the same funds, for the use of the servicea-
ble, which are spent, at present, upon the unprofitable;
you may be well served in your armies, your troops
reguarly paid, justice duly administered, the public
revenues reformed and increased, and every member of
the commonwealth rendered useful to his country,
according to his age and ability, without any further
burden to the state.
This, O men of Athens! is what my duty prompted
me to represent to you upon this occasion. — May the
gods inspire you to determine upon such measures as
may be most expedient for the particular and general
good of our countrv!
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Curran for Hamilton Rowan.
This paper, gentlemen, insists upon the necessity of
emancipating the Catholics of Irehind ; and that is
charged as part of the libel. If they had waited ano-
ther year — if they had kept this prosecution impending
for another year — how much would remain for a jury
to decide upon, T should be at a loss to discover. It
seems as if the progress ot public information was
eating away the ground of the prosecution. Since the
commencement of the prosecution, this part of the libel
has unluckily received the s:inciion of the Lcgifluture.
Jn that interval, our Catholic brethren have ubtiiined
that admission, which it seems it was a libel to propose.
In what way to account for this, I am really at a loss.
Have any alarms been occasioned by the emancipation
of our Catholic brethren? Has the bigoted malignity
of any individuals been crushed? or has the stability of
the government, or that of the country, been weak-
ened? or is one million of subjects stronger than four
millions? Do you think that the benefit they received,
should be poisoned by the sting of vengeance? If you
think so, you must say to them, " You have demanded
emancipation, and you have got it : but we abhor your
persons; we are outraged at your success; and we will
stigmatize, by a criminal prosecution, the adviser of
that relief which you have obtained from the voice of
your country." I ask you, do you think, as honest
men, anxious for the public tranquillity, conscious that
there are wounds not yet completely cicatrized, that
you ought to speak this language, at this time, to men
who are too much disposed to think, that in this very
emancipation they have been saved from their own
Parliament, by the humanity of their sovereign? Or
do you wish to prepare them for the revocation of these
improvident concessions? Do you think it wise or
humane, at this moment, to insult them, by sticking
up in a pillory the man who dared to stand forth as
their advocate? I put it to your oaths : do you think,
that a blessing of that kind — that a victory obtained
by justice over bigotry and oppression — should have a
fitigina cast upon it, by an ignominious sentence upon
ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY.
201
men bold and honest enough to propose that measure?
— to propose the redeeming of religion from the abuses
of the church, the reclaiming of three millions of men
from bondage, and giving liberty to all who had a
right to demand it ; giving, I say, in the so-much
censured words of this paper, " Universal Emancipa-
tion!" I speak in the spirit of the British law, which
makes liberty commensurate with, and inseparable
from, British soil; which proclaims even to the stranger
and sojourner, the moment he sets his foot on British
earth, that the ground on which he treads is holy, and
consecrated by the genius of Universal Emancipation.
No matter in what language his doom may have been
pronounced;— no matter what complexion incompatible
with freedom, an Indian or an African sun may have
burned upon him; — no matter in what disastrous battle
his liberty may have been cloven down; — no matter
with what solemnities he may have been devoted upon
the altar of slavery : the first moment he touches the
sacred soil of Britain, the altar and the god sink
together in the dust; his soul walks abroad in her own
majesty? his body swells beyond the measure of his
chains, that burst from around him ; and he stands
redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled, by the irre-
sistible genius of Universal Emancipation.
The Beginning of the First Philippic of Demosthenes.
Had we been convened, Athenians, on some new sub-
ject of debate, I had waited till most of your usual
counsellors had declared their opinions. If I had
approved of what was proposed by them, I should
have continued silent ; if not, I should then have at-
tempted to speak my sentiments. But, since those
very points on which those speakers have oftentimes
been heard already, are at this time to be considered;
though I have arisen first, I presume I may expect
your pardon : for, if they on former occasions had
advised the proper measures, you would not have found
it needful to consult at present.
First then, Athenians, however wretched the situa-
tion of our affairs at present seems, it must not by any
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▲NCIRNT AND MODKRN ORATORY.
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means be thought desperate. What I am now going to
advance, may possibly appear a paradox ; yet it is a
certain truth, that our past misfortunes afford a cir-
cumstance most favourable to our future hopes. And
what is that? — even that our present difficulties are
owing entirely to our total indolence, and utter disre-
gard of our own interest. For were we thus situated,
in spite of every effort which our duty demanded, then
indeed we might regard our fortunes as absolutely
desperate. But now, Philip hath only conquered your
supineness and inactivity : the state he hath not con-
quered. You cannot be said to be defeated: your force
hath never been exerted.
If there is a man in this assembly who thinks, that
we must find a formidable enemy in Philip; while he
views, on one hand, the numerous armies which sur-
round him; and, on the other, the weakness of our
state, despoiled of so much of its dominions; I cannot
deny that he thinks justly. Yet, let him reflect on
this; there was a time, Athenians, when we possessed
Pydna, Potidsea, and Mathone, and all that country
round; when many of the states now subjected to him,
were free and independent, and more inclined to our
alliance than to his. If Philip, at that time weak in him-
self, and without allies, had desponded of success against
you, he would never have engaged in those enterprises
which are now crowned with success, nor could have
raised himself to that pitch of grandeur at which you
now behold him. But he knew well,, that the strongest
places are only prizes laid between the combatants, and
ready for the conqueror. He knew that the dominions
of the absent devolve naturally to those who are in
the field; the possessions of the supine, to the active
and intrepid. Animated by these sentiments, he over-
turns whole nations. He either rules universally, as
a conqueror, or governs as a protector. For mankind
naturally seek confederacy with such as they see
resolved, and preparing not to be wanting to them-
selves.
If you, my countrymen, will now at length be per-
suaded to entertain the like sentiments; if each of you
be disposed to approve himself ai) useful citizen, to the
ANCIENT AND MODERN OBATORT.
203
.1
Utmost that his station and abilities enable him; if the
rich will be ready to contribute, and the young to take
the field; in one word, if you will be yourselves, and
banish those hopes which every single person enter-
tains, that the active part of public business may lie
upon otherS; and he remain at his ease: you may
then, by the assistance of the gods, recall those oppor-
tunities which your supineness hath neglected, regain
your dominions) and chastise the insolence of this man.
But when, O my countrymen ! will you begin to
exert your vigour ? Do you wait till roused by some
dire event? — till forced by some necessity? What,
then, are we to think of our present condition? To
free men, the disgrace attending on misconduct is, in
my opinion, the most urgent necessity. Or, say, is it
your sole ambition to wander through the public
places, each inquiring of the other, " What new ad-
vices?" Can any thing be more new, than that a man
of Macedon should conquer the Athenians, and give
law to Greece? *• Is Philip dead?" " No — but he is
sick." Pray, what is it to you, whether Philip is sick
or not? Supposing he should die, you would raise up
another Philip, if you continue thus regardless of your
interest.
Many, I know, delight in nothing more than in
circulating all the rumours they hear, as articles of
intelligence. Some cry, Philip hath joined with the
Lacedaemonians, and they are concerting the destruc-
tion of Thebes. Others assure us, he hath sent an
embassy to the king of Persia; others that he is forti-
fying places in Illyria. Thus we all go about, framing
our several tales. I do believe, indeed, Athenians, that
he is intoxicated with his greatness, and does entertain
his imagination with many such visionary projects, as
he sees no power rising to oppose him. But I cannot
be persuaded, that he hath so taken his measures, that '
the weakest among us — for the weakest they are who
spread such rumours — know what he is next to do.
Let us disregard their tales. Let us only be persuaded
of this, that he is our enemy; that we have bug been
subject to his insolence; that whatever we expected to
have been done for us by others, hath turned against
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204
ANCIKNT AND MODERN ORATORY.
US ; that all the resource left us is in ourselves ; and
that, if we are not inclined to carry our arms abroad,
we shall be forced to engage him at home. Let us
be persuaded of these things; and then we shall come
to a proper determination, and be no longer guided by
rumours. We need not be solicitous to know what
particular events are to happen. We may be well
assured, that nothing good can happen, unless we
give due attention to our affairs, and act as becomes
Athenians.
The First Oration of Cicero against Cataline.
Cataline! how far art thou to abuse our forbearance?
How long are we to be deluded by the mockery of thy
madness ? Where art thou to stop, in this career of
unbridled licentiousness ? Has the nightly guard at
the Palatium nothing in it to alarm you ; the patrolea
throughout the city, nothing ; the confusion of the
people, nothing ; the assemblage of all true lovers of
their country, nothing ; the guarded majesty of this
assembly, nothing ; and all the eyes that, at this in>
stant, are riveted upon yours — have they nothing to
denounce, nor you to apprehend ? Does not your con-
science inform you, that the sun shines upon your
secrets ? and do you not discover a full knowledge of
your conspiracy, revealed on the countenance of every
man around you? Your employment on the last night
— your occupations on the preceding night — the place
where you met — the persons who met — and the plot
fabricated at the meeting : — of these things, I ask not,
who knows ; I ask, who, among you all, is ignorant?
But, alas! for the times thus corrupted; or, rather,
for mankind, who thus corrupt the times I The senate
knows all this! The consul sees all this! and yet the
man who sits there — lives. Lives! ay — comes down
to your sennate-house ; takes his seat, as counsellor
for the commonwealth ; and, with a deliberate destiny
in his eye, marks out our members, and selects them
for slaughter ; while, for us, and for our country, it
seems glory sufficient, to escape from his fury — to find
an asylum from his sword.
J
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ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY.
205
Long, very long, before this late hour, ought I, the
consul, to have doomed this ringleader of sedition to
an ignominious death; — ought I to have overwhelmed
you, Cataline, in the ruins of your own machinations.
What! did not that great man, the high priest, Publius
Seipio — although at the time, in private station — sacri-
fice Tiberius Gracchus for daring even to modify our
constitution ? and shall we, clothed as we are with the
plenitude of consular power, endure this nuisance of
our nation, and our name ? Shall we suffer him to
put the Roman empire to the sword, and lay waste
the world, because such is his horrid fancy? With
the sanction of so late a precedent, need I obtrude the
fate of the innovator, Spurius Melius, immolated at
the altar of the constitution, by the hand of Servilius
Ahala? There has — yes, there has been, and lately
been, a vindicatory virtue, an avenging spirit in this
republic, that never failed to inflict speedier and
heavier vengeance on a noxious citizen, than on a
national foe. Against you, Cataline, and for your im-
mediate condemnation, what, therefore, is wanting?
Not the grave sanction of the senate — not the voice of
the country — not ancient precedents — not living law.
But we are wanting — I say it more loudly — we, the
consuls themselves.
When the senate committed the republic into the
hands of the consul, L. Opiraius, did presumptive
sedition palliate the punishment of Caius Gracchus?
or could his luminous line of ancestry yield even a
momentary protection to his person ? Was the ven-
geance of the executive power on the consular Fulvius
and his children, arrested for a single night ? When
similar power was delegated to the consuls, C. Marius
and L. Valerius, were the lives which the prtetor Ser-
vilius, and the tribune Saturninus, had forfeited to
their country, prolonged for a single day? But, now,
twenty days and nights have blunted the edge of our
axes, and our authorities. Our sharp-pointed decree
sleeps, sheathed in the record — that very decree, which,
a moment after its promulgation, was not to find you a
living man. You do live; and live, not in the humilia-
ting depression of guilt, but in the exultation and
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ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY.
triumph of insolence. Mercj, Conscript Fathers, is
my dearest delight, as the vindication of the constitu-
tion is my best ambition; but I now stand self-con-
demned of guilt in mercy, and I own it as a treachery
against the state.
Conscript Fathers, a camp is pitched against the
Roman republic, within Italy, on the very borders of
Etruria. Every day adds to the number of the enemy.
The leader of those enemies, the commander of that
encampment, walks within the walls of Rome ; takes
his seat in this senate, the heart of Rome; and, with
venomous mischief, rankles in the inmost vitals of the
commonwealth. Cataline, should I, on the instant,
order my lictors to seize and drag you to the stake ;
some men might, even then, blame me for having pro-
crastinated punishment: but no man could criminate me
for a faithful execution of the laws. They shall be
executed. But I will neither act, nor will I suffer,
without full and sufficient reason. Trust me, they
shall be executed, and then, even then, when there
shall not be found a man so flagitious, so much a Ca-
taline, as to say, you were not ripe for execution. You
shall live, as long as there is one who has the forehead
to say you ought to live ; and you shall live, as you
live now, under our broad and wakeful eye, and the
sword of justice shall keep waving round your head.
Without the possibility of hearing, or of seeing, you
shall be seen, and heard, and understood.
What is it now you are to expect, if night cannot
hide you, nor your lurking associates; if the very
walls of your own houses resound with the secret, and
proclaim it to the world ; if the sun shines, and the
winds blow upon it ? Take my advice : adopt some
other plan, wait a more favourable opportunity for set-
ting the city ir ilames, and putting its inhabitants to
the sword, x it, to convince you, that you are beset
on every side, I shall enter, for a little, into the detail
of your desperations, and my discoveries.
Do you not remember, or is it possible you can for-
get my declaration on the 21st October last, in the
senate, that Caius Manlius, your life-guards-man, and
confidential bravo, would, on a certain day, take up
ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY.
2o.
arms, and this day would be before the 25th ? Was I
mistaken in the very day selected for a deed so atro-
cious — so apparently incredible ? Did not I, the same
man, declare, in this house, that you had conspired
the massacre of the principal men in the state, upon
the 28th; at which time they withdrew, for the sake of
repressing your design, rather than on account of
safety to themselves? Are you daring enough to deny
your being, on that very day, so manacled by my
power — so entangled by my vigilance, that you durst
not raise your finger against the stability of the state;
although, indeed, you were tongue-valiant enough to
say, that you must even be content with the heads
which the runaways had left you ? What ! with all
your full-blown confidence of surprising Preneste, in
the night, on the 1st of November, did you not find
me in arms, at the gate ? did you not feel me in watch
on the walls? — Your head cannot contrive, your heart
cannot conceive, a wickedness of which I shall not
have notice; I measure the length and breadth of
your treasons, and I sound the gloomiest depth of your
soul.
Was not the night before the last, suflicient to con-
vince you, that there is a good genius protecting that
republic, which a ferocious demoniac is labouring to
destroy? I aver, that, on that same night, you and
your complotters assembled in the house of M. Lecca.
Can even your own tongue deny it? Yet secret! speak
out, man ; for, if you do not, there are some I see
around me, who shall have an agonizing proof that I
am true in my assertion.
Good and great gods! where are we? What city do
we inhabit? Under what government do we live?
Here, here, Conscript Fathers, mixed and mingled
with us all — in the centre of this most grave and
venerable assembly — are men sitting, quietly incuba-
ting a plot against my life, against all your lives ; the
life of every virtuous senator, and citizen : while I,
with the whole nest of traitors brooding beneath my
eyes, am parading in the petty formalities of debate;
and the very men appear scarcely vulnerable by my
voice, who ought, long since, to have been cut down
^itl* the moxd.
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ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORT.
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In the hous6> of Lecca, you were, on that night.
Then and there did you divide Italy into military sta-
tions; did you appoint commanders of those stations;
did you specify those whom you were to take along
with you, and those whom you were to leave behind ;
did you mark out the limit of the intended conflagra-
tion ; did you repeat your resolution of shortly leaving
Rome, only putting it off for a little, as you said, until
you could have the head of the consul. Two knights —
Roman knights — promised to deliver that head to you
before sunrise the next morning ; but scarcely was
this Stygian council dissolved, when the consul was
acquainted with the result of the whole. I doubled
the guards of my house ; and, after announcing to a
circle of the first men in the state — who were with me
at the time — the very minute when these assassins
would come to pay me their respects, that same minute
they arrived, asked for entrance, and were denied it.
Proceed, Cataline, in your honourable career. Go
where your destiny and your desire are oc'ving you.
Evacuate the city for a season. The gates stand
open. Begone! What a shame that the Manlian
army should look out so long for their general! Take
all your loving friends along with you ; or, if that be a
vain hope, take, at least, as many as you can, and
cleanse the city for some short time. Let the walls of
Rome be the mediators between thee and me ; for, at
present, you are much too near me. I will not suffer
you. I will not longer undergo you.
Lucius Cataline, away ! Begin, as soon as you are
able, this shameful and unnatural war. Begin it, on
your part, under the shade of every dreadful omen; on
mine, with the sure and certain hope of safety to my
country, and glory to myself: and, when this you have
done, then do Thou, whose altar was first founded by
the founder of our state — Thou, the establisher of this
city, pour out thy vengeance upon this man, and all
his adherents. Save us from his fury ; our public
altars, our sacred temples, our houses, and household
gods; our liberties — our lives. Pursue, tutelar god,
pursue them — these foes to the gods and goodness —
these plunderers of Italy — these assassins of Rome.
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ANCIENT AND MODERN OIUTOHY.
100
Erase them out of this life; and, in the next, let thy
vengeance pursue them, insatiable, implacable, ininjor-
tal!
An Extract from Mr. Brovrfhani's Speech on J^egro
Slavery.
I TRUST that at length the time is come, when Parlia-
ment will no longer bear to be told, that slave-owners
are the best lawgivers on slav«;ry; no longer suffer our
voice to roll across the Atlantic, in empty warnings
and fruitless orders. Tell me not of rights — talk not
of the property of the planter in his slaves. I deny
his right — I acknowledge not the property. The prin-
ciples, the feelings of our common nature, rise in re-
bellion against it. Be the appeal made to the under-
standing or to the heart, the sentence is the same that
rejects it. In vain you tell me of laws that sanction
such a claim! There is a law above all the enactments
of human codes — the same throughout the world — the
same in all times ; such as it was before the daring
genius of Columbus pierced the night of ages, and
opened to one world the sources of power, wealth, and
knowledge, to another all unutterable woes — such is it
at this day: it is the law written by the finger of God
on the heart of man; and, by that law, unchangeable
and eternal — while men despise fraud, and loathe
rapine, and hate blood — ihey shall reject with indigna-
tion the wild and guilty fantasy, that man can hold
property in man! In vain you appeal to treaties — to
covenants between nations. The covenants of the
Almighty, whether the old covenant or the new,
denounce such unholy pretensions. To these laws did
they of old refer, who maintained the African trade.
Such treaties did they cite — and not untruly; for, by
one shameful compact, you bartered the glories of
Blenheim for the traffic in blood. Yet, in despite of
law andof treaty, that infernal traffic is now destroyed,
and its votaries put to death like other pirates. How
came this change to pass? Not, assuredly, by Parlia-
ment leading the way : but the country at length
awoke; the indignation of the people v/as kindled ; it
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ANCIENT AND MODKllN ORA TOUY.
descended in thunder, and smote the traffic, and scat-
tered its guilty profits to ilie winds. Now, then, let
the planters beware — let their assemblies beware — let
the government at home beware — let the Parliament be-
ware! The same country is once more awake — awake
to the condition of Negro slavery; the same indigna-
tion kindles in Ihe bosom of the same people; the same
cloud is gathering that annihilated the slave-trade ;
and if it shall descend again, they on whom its crash
may fall, will not be destroyed before I have warned
them: but I pray that their destruction may turn away
from us the more terrible judgments of God.
Peroration to Sheridan*s Invective against Warren
Hastings.
Before I come to the last magnificent paragraph, let
me call the attention of those who, possibly, think
themselves capable of judging of the dignity and
character of justice in this country; — let me call the
attention of those who, arrogantly perhaps, presume
that they understand what the features, what the
duties of justice are here and in India; — let them learn
a lesson from this great statesman, this enlarged, this
liberal philosopher: — " I hope I shall not depart from
the simplicity of official language, in saying, that the
Majesty of Justice ought to be approached with so-
licitation, not descend to provoke or invite it, much
less to debase itself by the suggestion of wrongs, and
the promise of redress, with the denunciation of pun-
ishment before trial, and even before accusation."
This is the exhortation which Mr. Hastings makes to
his Counsel. This is the character which he gives of
British justice.
But I will ask your Lordships, do you approve this
representation? Do you feel, that this is the true
image of Justice ? Is this the character of British
Justice ? Are these her features? Is this her coun-
tenance? Is this her gait or her mien? No; I think
even now I hear you calling upon me to turn from this
vile libel, this base caricature, this Indian pagod,
formed by the hand of guilty and knavish tyranny, to
ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY.
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dupe the henrt of ignorance, — to turn from this de-
formed idol, to the true Majesty of Justice here.
Here, indeed, I see a different form, enthroned by the
sovereign hand of Freedom, — awful without severity —
commanding, without pride — vigilant and active, with-
out restlessness or suspicion — searching and inquisi-
tive, without meanness or debasement — not arrogantly
scorning to stoop to the voice of afflicted innocence,
and in its loveliest attitude when bending to uplift the
suppliant at its feet.
It is by the majesty, by the form of that Justice,
that I do conjure and implore your Lordships, to give
your minds to this great business; that I exhort you
to look, not so much to words which may be denied
or quibbled away, but to the plain facts, — to weigh
and consider the testimony in your own minds ; we
know the result must be inevitable. Let the truth
appear, and our cause is gained. It is this — I conjure
your Lordships, for your own honour, for the honour
of the nation, for the honour of human nature, now
entrusted to your care, — it is this duty that the Com-
mons of England, speaking through us, claim at your
hands.
They exhort you to it by every thing that calls sub-
limely upon the heart of man — by the Majesty of that
Justice which this bold man has libelled — by the wide
fame of your own tribunal — by the sacred pledge by
which you swear in the solemn hour of decision ;
knowing that that decision will then bring you the
highest reward that ever blessed the heart of man —
the consciousness of having done the greatest act of
mercy for the world, that the earth has ever yet re-
ceived from any hand but Heaven. — My Lords, I have
done.
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Panegyric on the Eloquence of Sheridan.
He has this day surprised the thousands who hung
with rapture on his accents, by such an array of tal-
ents, such an exhibition of capacity, such a display of
powers, as is unparallelled in the annals of oratory; a
display that reflected the highest honour on himself —
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ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY.
lustre upon letters — renown upon Parliament — glory
upon the country. Of all species of rhetoric, of every
kind of eloquence that has been witnessed or recorded,
either in ancient or modern times ; whatever the
acuteness of the bar, the dignity of the senate, the
solidity of the judgment-seat, and tlie sacred morality
of the pulpit, have hitherto furnished ; nothing has
equalled what we have this day heard. No holy seer
of religion, no statesman, no orator, no man of any
literary description whatever, has come up, in the one
instance, to the pure sentiments of morality; or, in the
other, to that variety of knowledge, force of imagina-
tion, propriety and vivacity of allusion, beauty and
elegance of diction, strength and copiousness of style,
pathos and sublimity of conception, to which we, this
day, listened with ardour and admiration. From
poetry up to eloquence, there is not a species of com-
position, of which a complete and perfect specimen
might not, from that single speech, be culled and col-
lected. Burke,
Dr. McCrie on promotrntf Education in Greece^ 1825.
I REGARD the society, which we are met to form, as a
scion sprung from the interest which the public has
taken in that cause, and which is now to be grafted
on the native stock of British female benevolence.
That interest is no burst of transient enthusiasm.
It is deeply seated in the public mind. It is to this
feeling, more than to the balancing of political interests,
or to the jealousy with which nations may view the
attempts of a rival already become too powerful, that
I trust for the averting of the danger (dreaded by some
more politically wise than I pretend to be) to the
nascent liberties of modern Greece, from the ambitious
projects of a certain Northern power. True it is,
Sir, that that power dismembered the ancient Kingdom
ot Poland, and, retaining the body to itself, threw the
mangled limbs to the Prussian eagle and Austrain vul-
ture. It delivered Norway into the hands of a repub-
lican renegade, and more lately it stood grinning' delight
over the murdered liberties of Naples and of Spain.
ANCIENT AND MOUfcKN OUATOUY.
213
These tilings it did, and the friends of fredom were
silent. But let it venture to plant its foul paw on the
sacred breast d' Greece, and Liberty, who watches
over that country for which she has now suffered the
pangs of travail a second time, will utter a shriek more
piercing than that which she gave when Kosciusko
fell, whi(!h, reverberated from the breasts of every free
man, and of every free woman, will drive him appalled
into his native fens. Despair not the cause of Greece.
Despondency as to the issue of the present struggle
would paralyze every exertion for promoting her inter-
nal improvement. To what purpose, it would be said,
establish schools which must be swept away on the
successful return of the barbarous invader, or which
would be an object of deadly jealousy to a despotical
usurper, whose dread of knowledge is in proportion to
his hatred of liberty? But I have no fear on this head.
I would not have any friend of this sacred cause to
cherish the least doubt on that subject, or to talk of it
in a doubtful strain. Let our language be, " Greece
must be free." And, Sir, she is free. The contest is
already decided— the battle is o'er — the confused noise
of the warrior is hushed — the daughters of Greece are
gone forth to wash the bloodstained garments of their
sons and brothers in the vale of Tempe, and at the
springs of H("licon. And they will welcome their sis-
ters of Britain, who come to testify their sympathy
with them, and to assist them in preparing the old
wastes — the desolation of many generations.
Against the union ofProfessorships with Cure of S mis.
It is far the sorest thing in this exception of the theo-
logical chairs, that you virtually give up thereby all
that strength and massiveness which wont in other
days to characterise the lore of theology, and that, too,
by the very measure which will give a firmer staple
than before to all the other sciences. It is not thus
that theology was dealt with in the purer and better
age of our old English literature, when the mightiest
intellects of the world did their profoundest obeisance to
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214
ANClKiNT AND MODKKN ORATORY.
the theme, and felt it to be at once the noblest and the
most arduous that the intellect of man could grapple
with. And this sense of its importance was not confin-
ed K) professional men — to those great masters in Israel,
who framed the Polyglots, and the Harmonies, and the
huge Prolegomina, and the mighty Thesauruses, both
of devotional and practical divinity, which the stout
and the sturdy authorship of that period, when learn-
ing was indeed a labour, has bequeathed to succeeding
generations. In Lord Bacon's treatise on the advance-
ment of human learning, theology is treated as the
Queen of the sciences, and all the others are but as the
attendants and the tributaries at her feet. But the
greatest practical homage of this sort ever rendered to
theology, was by Sir Isaac Newton, who did not simul-
taneously partition his mighty intellect between the
intense studies of nature and of the Bible, but who suc-
cessively turned it i'rom the study of the works of
God to the study of his Word. It is true that he felt
a kiudredness between his old and his new contempla-
tions, but he found them both to be alike arduous. It
was a transference that he made from the one to the
other, when, after having seen further than all who
went before him, into the God-like harmonies of the
world, he was tempted to search, and at length did
behold, the traces of a wisdom no less marvellous in the
God-like harmonies of the Word; when, after having
looked, and with steadfastness, for years on the mazy
face of heaven, and evolved therefrom the magnificent
cycles of astronomy, he then turned him to Scripture,
and found in the midst of now unravelled obscurities,
that its cycles of prophecy were equally magnificent ;
and, whether he cast his regard on the Book of Reve-
lation, or on the Book of Daniel, who, placed on the
eminence of a sublime antiquity, looked through the
vista of many descending ages, and eyed from afar the
structure and society of modern Europe: he whose
capacious mind had so long been conversant with the
orbits and the periods of the natural economy, could not
but acknowledge the footsteps of the same presiding divi-
nity in the still higher orbits of that spiritual economy,
which is unfolded in the Bible. And while we cannot
ASCIKNT AND MODEHN OKATOKY.
215
the
the
the
liose
the
not
ivi-
but lament the deadly mischief which the second-rate
philosophy of infidels has done to the inferior spirits
of our world, we feel it almost a proud thing for Chris-
tianity that all the giants and the men of might of
other days — the Newtons, and the Boyles, and the
Lockes, and the Bacons of high England — worshipped
so profoundly at its shrine ; but chief of these is our
great Sir Isaac, who, throned although be be by uni-
versal suffrage as the prince of philosophers, is still the
most attractive specimen of humanity which the world
ever saw, and just because the meekness of his Chris-
tian worth so softens, while it irradiates the majesty of
his genius. Never was there realized in the character
of man so rare and beauteous a harmony, that he who
stands forth to a wondering species of loftiest achieve-
ment in science, should, nevertheless, move so gently
and so gracefully among his fellow-men — not more
honoured for the glories he won on the field of discovery,
than loved by all for the milder glories of his name —
his being the modest, the unpretending graces of a
child-like nature — his being the pious simplicity of a
cottage patriarch. Chalmers.
Oti Slavery.
I DO not deny. Sir, notwithstanding what I have now
said, that the evils of practical slavery may be lessened.
By parliament^iry enactments, by appeals to the judg-
mentand feelings of planters, and by various other means,
a certain degree of melioration may be secured. But, I
say in the first place, that, with all that you can accom-
plish, or reasonably expect, of mitigation, you cannot alter
the nature of slavery itself. With every improvement
you have superinduced upon it, you have not made it less
debasing, less cruel, less destructive in its essential
character. The black man is still the property of the
white man. And that one circumstance, not only
implies in it the transgression of inalienable right and
everlasting justice, but is the fruitful and necessary
source of numberless mischiefs, the thought of which
harrows up the soul, and the infliction of which no
superintendence of any government can either prevent
216
ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATOKY.
I I
I I
or control. Mitigate and keep down the evil as
much as you can, still it is there in all its native viru-
lence, and still it will do its malignant work in spite of
you. The improvements you have made are merely
superficial. You have not reached the seat and vital
spring of- the mischief. You have only concealed in
some measure, and for a time, its inherent enormity.
Its essence remains unchanged and untouched, and is
ready to unfold itself whenever a convenient season
arrives, notwithstanding all your precaution, and all
your vigilance, in those manifold acts of injustice and
inhumanity, which are its genuine and its invariable
fruits. You may wb te-wash the sepulchre, — ^you may
put upon it every adornment that fancy can suggest, —
you may cover it over with all the flowers and ever-
greens that the garden or the fields can furnish, so that
it will appear beautiful outwardly unto men. But it is
a sepulchre still, — full of dead men's bones and all
uncleanness. Disguise slavery as you will, — put into
the cup all the pleasing and palatable ingredients which
you can discover in the wide range of nature and of
art, — still it is a bitter — bitter — bitter draught, from
which the understanding and the heart of every man,
in whom nature works unsophisticated and unbiassed,
recoils with unutterable aversion and abhorrence.
Why, Sir, slavery is the very Upas tree of the moral
world, beneath whose pestiterous shade all intellect
languishes, and all virtue dies. And if you would get
quit of the evil, you must go more thoroughly and
effectually to work than you can ever do by any or by
all of those palliatives which are included under the
term " mitigation." The foul sepulchre must be taken
away. The cup of oppression must be dashed to pieces
on the ground. The pestiferous tree must be cut
down and eradicated; it must be, root and branch of it,
cast into the consuming fire, and its ashes scattered to
the four winds of heaven. It is thus that you must
deal with slavery. You must annihilate it ! — annihilate
it now! — and annihilate it for ever!
It does appear to me that we have the amplest secu-
rity for that measure, (immediate emancipation,) how
soon soever it may be carried, being as bloodless and
kNClENT AND MODERN ORATORY.
217
in
peaceable as our hearts could desire. I have no fear, —
no, not the shadow of it, that any of the dreaded mis-
chiefs will ensue from the course of proceeding that we
are pressing on the Legislature. In my conscience, I
deem them all chimerical, and got up chiefly for the
purpose of deterring us from insisting on that act of
simple but imperative justice, which we call upon the
British Parliament to perform.
But if you push me, and still urge the argument of
insurrection and bloodshed, for which you are far more
indebted to fancy than to fact, as I have shown you,
then I say, be it so. I repeat that maxim, taken from
a heathen book, but pervading the whole book of God,
Fiat justicia mat ccehim. Righteousness, Sir, is the
pillar of the universe. Break down that pillar, and
the universe falls into ruin and desolation. But pre-
serve it, and though the fair fabric may sustain partial
dilapidations, it may be rebuilt and repaired — it will be
rebuilt and repaired, and restored to all its pristine
strength and magnificence and beauty. If thore must
be violence, let it even come, for it will soon pass away
— let it come and rage its little hour, since it is to be
succeeded by lasting freedom, and prosperity, and hap-
piness. Give me the hurricane, rather than the pesti-
lence. Give me the hurricane, with its thunder and
its lightning, and its tempest; — give me the hurricane,
with its partial and temporary devastations, awful
though they be; — give me the hurricane, with its puri-
fying, healthful, salutary effects; — give me that hurri-
cane, infinitely rather than the noisome pestilence,
whose path is never crossed, whose silence is never
disturbed, whose progress is never arrested by one
sweeping blast from the heavens; which walks peace-
fully and sullenly through the len;j;th and breadth of
the land, breathing poison into every heart, and carry-
ing havoc into every home, enervating all that is strong,
defacing all that is beautiful, and casting its blight over
the fairest and happiest scenes of human life — and
which, from day to day, and from year to year, with
intolerant and interminable malignity, sends its thou-
sands and its tens of thousands of hapless victims into
the ever-yawning and never-satisfied grave.
K
' '■:!
'<: •! t
■,; I
218
ANCIENT AND MODERN ORATORY.
On the Qualifications of Professors of Divinity.
TiiE circumstances attending the publication of my
pamphlet were shortly as follows: — As far back as
twenty years ago, I was ambitious enough to aspire to
be successor of Professor Playfair, in the mathematical
chair, in the University of Edinburgh. During the
discussion which took place relative to the person who
might be appointed his successor, there appeared a let-
ter from Professor Piayfair to the IMagistrates of Edin-
burgh on the subject, in which he stated it as his con-
viction, that no person could be found competent to
discharge the duties of the mathematical chair among
the Clergymen of the Church of Scotland. I was at
that time. Sir, more devoted to Kiathematics than to
the literature of my profession ; and feeling grieved
and indignant at what I conceived an undue reflection
on the abilities and education of our clergy, I came
forward with that pamphlet to rescue them from what
I deemed an unmerited reproach, by maintaining that
a devoted and exclusive attention to the study of ma-
thematics was not dissonant to the proper habit of a
clergyman. Alas! Sir, so I thought in ray ignorance
and pride. I have now no reserve in saying that the
sentiment was wrong, and that, in the utterance of it,
I penned what was most outrageously wrong. Strange-
ly blinded that I was I What, Sir, is the object ot
mathematical science ? Magnitude and the proportions
of magnitude. But, thent Sir, I had forgotten two
magnitudes — I thought not of the littleness of time —
I recklessly thought not of the greatness of eternity I
Chalmers.
it '
I
( !
1 !
a.
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS IN VERSE.
1.1
lime —
(ity!
timers.
The Battle of Morgarten.
The wine- month shone in its golden prime,
And the red grapes clustering hung ;
But a deeper sound, through the Switzer's clime,
Than the vintage-music, rung.
A sound through vaulted cave,
A sound through echoing glen.
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave,
'Twas the tread of steel-girt men.
And a trumpet, pealing wild and far,
'Midst the ancient rocks was blown,
'Till the Alps replied to that voice of war.
With a thousand of their own.
And through the forest-glooms
Flash'd helmets to the day,
And the winds were tossing knightly plumes.
Like the larch-boughs in their play.
In Haslin wilds there was gleaming steel,
As the host of the Austrians pcss'd;
And the Schreckhorn's rocks, with a savage peal,
Made mirth of his clarion's blast.
Up 'midst the Righi snows
The stormy march was heard,
"With the charger's tramp, whence fire-sparks rose,
And the leader's gathering word.
But a band, the noblest band of all,
Through the rude Morgarten strait,
With blazon'd streamers and lances tall,
Moved onwards in princely state.
They came with heavy chains,
For th-3 race despised so long —
But amidst his Alp-domains,
The herdsman's arm is strong.
t •,
f^ %
'
220
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
The sun was reddening the clouds of morn,
When they enter'd the rock-defile,
And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn
Their bugles rung the while.
But on the misty height,
Where the mountain-people stood,
There was stillness, as of night.
When storms at distance brood.
There was stillness, as of deep dead night,
And a pause — but not of fear,
While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might
Of the hostile shield and spear.
On wound those columns bright.
Between the lake and wood, *
But they look'd not to the misty height,
Where the mountain-people stood.
The pass was fiU'd with their serried power.
All helm'd and raail-arrayed,
And their steps had sounds like a thunder shower,
In the rustling forest-shade.
There were prince and crested knight,
Hemm'd in by cliff and flood.
When a shout arose from the misty height
Where the mountain-people stood.
And the mighty rocks came bounding down,
Their startled foes among.
With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown —
Oh ! the herdsman's arm is strong I
They came like lanwine hurl'd
From Alp to Alp in play.
When the echoes shout through the snowy world,
And the pines are borne away.
The fir-woods crash'd on the mountain side.
And the Switzers rush'd from high,
With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride
Of the Austrian chivalry.
Like hunters of the deer.
They storm'd the narrow dell.
And first in the shock, with Uri's spear.
Was the arm of William Tell.
IN VERSE.
221
There was tumult ir the crowded strait,
And a cry of wild ■" .^may,
And many a warrior met his fate
From a peasant's hand that day!
And the empire's banner then ^
From its place of waving free,
Went down before the shepherd-men,
The men of the Forest Sea.
With their pikes and massy clubs they broke
The cuirass and the shield,
And the war-horse dash'd to the reddening lake
From the reapers of the field!
The field — but not of sheaves —
Proud crests and pennons lay.
Strewn o'er it thick as the birch-wood leaves,
In the autumn tempest's way.
Oh ! the sun in heaven fierce havoc viewed.
When the Austrian turn'd to fly,
And the brave, in the trampling multitude.
Had a fearful death to die!
And the leader of the war
At eve unhelm'd was seen,
With a hurrying step on the wilds afar,
And a pale and troubled mien.
But the sons of the land which the freeman tills, ,
Went back from the battle toil.
To their cabin homes 'midst the deep green hills,
All burden'd with royal spoil.
There were songs and festal fires
On the soaring Alps that night.
When children sprung to greet their sires,
From the wild Morgarten fight. Hemans.
The Siege of Constantinople.
The streets grow still and lonely — and the star,
The last bright lingerer in the path of morn.
Gleans faint; and in the very lap of war,
As if young Hope with twilight's ray were born.
Awhile the city sleeps: her throngs, o'erworn
r
h.
222
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
With fears and watchings, to their homes retire;
Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn
With battle-sounds; the winds in sighs expire,
And quiet broods in mists that veil the sunbeams fire.
The city sleeps! — ay! on the combat's eve,
And by the scaflfold's brink, and 'midst the swell
Of angry seas, hath Nature won reprieve
Thus from her cares. The brave have slumbered well,
And e'en the fearful, in their dungeon cell,
Chain'd between life and death! Such rest be thine,
For conflicts wait thee still! Yet who can tell
In that brief hour, how much of heaven may shine
Full on thy spirit's dream ! tSleep, weary Constantine,
Doth the blast rise? the clouded ea^'t is red,
As if a storm were gathering; and 1 hear
What seems like heavy rain-drops, or the tread,
The soft and sraother'd step of those that fear
Surprise from ambush'd foes. Hark ! yet more near
It comes, a many toned and mingled sound:
A rushing, as of winds, where boughs are sear,
A rolling, as of wheels that shake the ground,
From far; a heavy rush, like seas that burst their bound.
Wake, wake ! They come from sea and shore, ascending
In hosts your ramparts ! Arm ye for the day !
Who now may sleep amidst the thunders rending,
Through tower and wall, a path for their array?
Hark! how the trumpet cheers them to the prey.
With its wild voice, to which the seas reply.
And the earth rocks beneath their engines' sway.
And the far hills repeat their battle cry.
Till that fierce tumult seems to shake the vaulted sky.
They fail not novV, the generous band, that long
Have ranged their swords around a falling throne;
Still in those fearless men the walls are strong.
Hearts, such as rescue empires, are their own !
Shall those high energies be vainly shown?
No ! from their towers th' invading tide is driven
Back, like the red sea waves, when God had blown
With his strong winds! the dark-brow'd ranks are riven —
Shout, warriors of the cross ! for victory is of heaven,
IN VKR8E.
223
id sky.
)ne;
)vvn
L-iven —
leaven.
Stand firm ! Again the crescent host is rnshinfr,
And the waves foam, ns on the galh'y?' swoep,
With all their fires and dnrts, though blood is gushing
Fast o'er their sides, as rivers to the d- ep.
Stand firm ! there yet is hope, th' ascent is steep,
In the red moat, the dying and the slain,
And from on high no shaft descends in vain;
But those that fall swell up the mangled heap,
And o'er that fearful bridge th' assailants mount again.
Oh! the dread mingling, in that awful hour,
Of all t(irrific sounds ! the savage tone
Of the wild horn, the cannon's peal, the shower
Of hissing darts, the crash of walls o'erthrown,
The deep dull tambour's beat, — man's voice alone
Is there unheard! Ye may not catch the cry
Of trampled thousands — prayer, and shriek, and moan,
All drown'd, as that fierce hurricane sweeps by,
Bu:^ swell the unheeded sum earth pays for victory.
War clouds have wrapt the city ! through their dun,
O'erloaded canopy, at times a blaze,
As of an angry storm-presaging sun,
From the Greek fire shoots up; and lightning rays
Flash, from the shock of sabres through the blaze,
And glancing arrows cleave the dusky air ;
Ay ! this is in the compass of our gaze,
But fearful things, unknown, untold, are there,
Workings of wrath and death, and anguish, and des-
pair !
Woe, shame and v/oe ! A chief, a warrior flies,
A red cross champion, bleeding, wild, and pale ;
O God ! that nature's passing agonies,
Thus, o'er the spark which dies not, should prevail !
Yes ! rend the arrow from thy shatter'd mail,
And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa's fallen son;
Fly swifter yet ! the javelins pour as hail ;
But there are tortures which thou canst not shun,
The spirit is their prey — thy pangs are but begun.
Oh, happy in their homes, the noble dead !
The seal is set on their majestic fame;
Earth has drunk deep the generous blood they shed,
K'l
' ',
•> ;J
224
ruOMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
•' I
Fate has no power to dim their stainless name^
They may not, in one bitter moment, shame
Long glorious years; from many a lofty stem
Fall graceful flowers, and eagle-hearts grow tame.
And stars drop, fading, from the diadem;
But the bright past is theirs — there is no change for
them !
The Cross of the South.
In the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread,
Where savannahs, in boundless magnilicence, spread^
And bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on high,
The far Cordilleras unite with the sky.
The fir-tree waves o'er me, the fire- fly's red light.
With its quick glancing splendour illumines the night;
And I read in each tint of the skies and the earth,
How distant my steps from the land of my birth.
But to thee, as thy lode-stars resplendently burn
In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I turn, —
Bright Cross of the South! and beholding thee shine.
Scarce regret the loved land of the olive and vine.
Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main
My fathers unfolded the ensign of Spain,
And planted their faith in the regions that see
Its unperishing symbol erablazon'd in thee.
How oft in their course o'er the oceans unknown.
Where all was mysterious, and awful, and lone.
Hath their spirit been cheer'd by thy light, when tlit?
deep
Reflected its brilliance in tremulous sleep!
As the vision that rose to the Lord of the n-orld.
When first his bright banner of faith waf ufurl'd;
Even such, to the heroes of Spain, when < »eir prow
Made the billows the path of their glory, wert thou
And to me, as I traversed the world of the west.
Through deserts of beauty in stillness that rest;
Thy hues have a language, thy course is a guide-
By forests and rivers untamed in their pride.
i I
for
[n lilt'
IN VCRSK.
22^
Shine on — my own land is a far distant spot,
And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it not ;
And the eyes that 1 love, though e'en now they may
bo
O'er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on thee!
But thou to my thoughts art a pure blazing shrine,
A fount of bright hopes, and of visions divine;
And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free,
Soars high o'er the Andes to mingle with thee.
Himans.
On the Destruction of the St. Lewis Theatre at Quebec.
Till} castle of St. Lewis, of flamu the former site.
Is now again the scene of woe, of death and timo-less
night;
The widowed wife and husband, the lonely orphan's
wail,
In tones of deepest anguish, are wafted on the gale;
Thy broad waves, proud St. Lawrence ! reflect the
light on high;
St. Joseph's shorrs receive the cries as they mournfully
pass by;
St. Ann's belmJds the burning flames ascending high
and higher.
But knows not that of human frames it is the funeral
pyro;
And Stadacona, sorrowing, beholds her children's fate;
She rushed to save her loved ones, but came, alas! too
late.
In piteous strains lamenting, in loud continuous wail,
Her plaintive lyre accompanying, she sings the mourn-
ful tale: —
The sun had tinged the silvery spires,
Of church and chapel in proud Quebec,
On roof and dome had cast its fires,
Had sunk behind thy hills, Lorette!
And evening's hour, with daylight's close,
Had brought the hour of sweet repose,
From labours, cares, and daily toil,
To ease the mind from life's recoil,
k2
II
m
.V
■M
a
226
PUOMISCUOUS SELECTIONQ
And, seated in St. Lewis' Hall,
The old, and young, and great, and small.
Husband and wife, intended bride,
And bridegroom gay, to be allied.
In wedlock's happy bands, were there,
Martial, and brave, and lovely fair,
To mix their souls, and lives, and breath I
Alas! their ashes to mix in death I .
The wife, fond partner of man's joy^
Sweet soother of life's cold alloy,
With pledges of love's mutual bliss*
The parents' pride and happiness.
Of joy, and hope, the life, the breath,
Alas! their ashes to mix in death !
The father and his daughter fair,
With roseate cheek and lustrous eyes,
And flowing locks of beautiful hair —
Around such forms love ever flies,
Where heaving bosoms gently swell,
Where peace and innocence calmly dwell,
Where every look spoke fond delight, —
Alas! to part in endless night!
Each tier and row filled far and wide,
Parent and child, bridegroom and bride,
And brother and sister, and all allied
By nature's kindred, were side by side;
And brilliant lights lit up the scene
Of holy records that had been,
Of story from the sacred page.
To improve the winds of tender age,
To show the woes of life's thorny road,
To lead the soul to its Father, God,
Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin!
Mene, Mene! the lamps, like stars in
The heavens clear, cast a wondrous light;
The awful scene prophetic seemed
Of the wail and woe of that sad night.
The picture with past and future teemed.
Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin!
The assembly rises, part are gone;
J
IN VERSE. 227
The lamps burn bright like brilliant stars in
The vault of heaven, when, lo, anon
A sudden flash, a noise, a flame,
Burst from the scene; wild shrieks of fear
Arise within, without the same.
Heart-rending cries strike on the ear.
A deadly rush — the alarm is given —
A rush for life; all now hasten.
And steeds and engines, wildly driven,
Haste to the flames before they fasten
On dearest friends, with lurid breath.
And snap the chords of life by death.
The cry within is re-echoed without;
Oh! haste; no, stay; there's time for flight;
With wild dismay the answering shout
Came back of. Haste ! With horrible fright,
Each hasted and crushed; the crowd makes way,
But, stumbling, fell, and there they lay;
Legs, and arms, and bodies entwined;
With frantic victims the passage was lined.
From each arose a shriek of despair.
And e.'»ch scorched eye gave an anguished stare.
All there !ay the maiden so fair.
Of eighteen summers — her bosom was bare —
Her hair was dishevelled — her looks were wild —
Her arms round her lover's, the father, his child;
Husband and wife, child and mother,
Youth and maiden, sister and brother,
All there lay. Hope there was none.
Alas! for the soldier, his bride is gone.
On to the rescue! save me, oh! brother.
Save me from death, father, oh! save —
Save me, oh! save me, save me, my mother!
Save me from death, and an early grave!
Leave me, my brother! save my dear daughter I
My limbs are now parting — spare me the pain!
Yet let me kiss thee — one cup of water:
Farewell! dear brother, we shall meet again.
Oh God ! my wife and children dear,
To thee I leave, though not without a tear;
But I'm resigned, nor would rebel;
I die, brother — ftrewell! farewell!
228
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
The flames had gained that narrow way,
Where corpse and dying victims lay;
A calm submission paled each face,
The priest had said absolving grace;
They bowed their heads in that fiery place,
And all submissive to their lot,
Had sunk upon that scorching spot.
The flames, ascending, hovered nigh.
And drove back friends that stood close by;
Their heat and suffocating breath
Closed round with flaming shrouds of death;
The fires ascended high and higher.
An awful, solemn, funeral pyre!
Phillips,
The Last Man.
All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom —
The sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
Its immortality!
I saw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of time.
I saw the last of human mould
That shall Creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!
The sun's eye had a sickly glare.
The earth with age was wan ;
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man !
Some had expired in fight — the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands —
In plague and famine some :
Earth's cities had no sound or tread.
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb.
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high.
That shook the sere leaves from the wood,
As if a storm passed by;
Saying, We are twins in death, proud sun,
<
IN VERSK.
229
I
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
'Tis mercy bids thee go.
For thou, ten thousand, thousand years,
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.
*
This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, sun, it shall be dim,
"When thou thyself art dark.
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recalled to breath.
Who captive led captivity,
"Who robbed the grave of victory.
And took the sting from death.
Campbell.
Last Verses of L. E, L,
A star has left the kindling sky—
A lovely northern light;
How many planets are on high —
But that has left the night.
I miss its bright familiar face.
It was a friend to me;
Associate with my native place.
And those beyond the sea.
It rose upon our English sky,
Shone o'er our English land.
And brought back many a loving eye.
And many a gentle hand.
It seemed to answer to my thought,
It called the past to mind.
And with its welcome presence brought
All I had left behind.
- The voyage it lights no longer, ends
Soon on a foreign shore;
How can I but recall the friends
That I may see no more?
230
TROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
Fresh from the pain it was to part,
* How could I bear the pnin?
Yet strong the omen in my heart
That says — We meet again.
Meet with a deeper, dearer love;
For absence shows the worth
Of all from which we then remove,
Friends, home, and native earth.
Thou lovely polar star, mine eyes
Still turned th 3 first on thee.
Till I have felt a sad surprise,
That none looked up with me.
But thou hast sunk upon the wave.
Thy radiant place unknown ;
I seem to stand beside a grave.
And stand by it alone.
Farewell! ah, would to me were given
A power upon thy light !
"What words upon our English heaven
Thy loving rays should write i
Kind messages of love and hope
Upon thy rays should be;
Thy shining orbit should have scope
Scarcely enough for me.
Oh ! fancy vain, as it is fond.
And little needed too;
My friends ! I need not look beyond
My heart to look for you.
The Cameronian's Dream.
In a dream of the night I was wafted away, >
To the muirland of mist where the martyrs lay;
Where Cameron's £.word and Bible are seen.
Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green.
'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood,
When the minister's home was the mountain and wood.
When in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion,
All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying.
IN VERSE.
231
een.
I,
rood,
iion,
'Twas morning; and summer's young sun from the east,
Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast;
On Wardlaw and Cairntabb the clear shining dew;
Gh'stened there 'niong the heath bells and mountain
flowers blue.
And far up in heaven, near the white sunny cloud,
The song of the lark was melodious and loud,
And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened and deep.
Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep;
And Wellwood's sweet valleys breathed music and
gladness,
The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness;
Its daughters were happy to hail the returning,
And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.
But, Oh! there were hearts cherished far other feelings.
Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings.
Who drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow,
For tho.y knew that their blood would bedew it tomor-
row.
Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were
lying.
Concealed 'mong the mist where the heath -fowl was
crying.
For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were
hovering.
And their bridle reins rung through the thin misty
covering.
Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed,
But the vengeance that darkened their brow was un-
breathed ;
With eyes turned to heaven in calm resignation.
They sung their last song to the God of salvation.
The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing,
The curlew and plover in concert were singing;
But the melody died 'mid derision and laughter,
As the host of ungodly rushed on to the slaughter.
Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were
shrouded.
Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded,
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PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
'!
Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, firm and unbend-
ing,
They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending.
The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleam-
ing.
The hemlets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming,
The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling,
When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were
falling.
When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was
ended,
A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended;
Its drivers were angels, on horses of whiteness,
And its burning wheels turned on axles of brightness.
A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining.
All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining;
And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation,
Have mounted the chariots and steeds of salvation.
On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding.
Though the path of the thunder the horseraem are
riding;
Glide swiftly, brigxit spirits! the prize is before ye,
A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!
Kossuth*s Soliloquy,
Renounce my faith? than which no greater loss —
Embrace the crescent? Spurn the holy cross?
Exchange my creed for Moslem's heathenish rite?
Reject my Saviour? Hail Mahomet's flight.
The dawn of day upon benighted man?
Pronounce the Bible false, but true the Alcoran?
Call Christians dogs, and to avoid the wrath
Of tyrants, take the name of Amurath?
What! shall I perjure faith, deny the truth,
And brand with infamy ray name, Kossuth?
And shall I cower beneath a Despot's rod,
Reject my Saviour, and deny my God?
No! By that wretched land which gave me birth.
My bleeding country! while I tread this earth,
are
IN VERSE.
i33
Land of my sires! be witness to my vow,
That Kossuth to the crescent ne'er will bow;
His soul unconquered shall remain as free
As if it breathed the air of liberty.
Sooner may Haynau with blood-thirsty hand^
Rush on me with his sanguinary band,
And sacrifice me on the felon's tree,
A martyr to my cause, and liberty.
Sooner may Russian despot gain my tracks
And hurry me with Tartar and Cossack,
To barren wastes, Siberia's lonely spot,
With neither wife's nor children's soothing love
To cheer my pilgrimage to worlds above.
But though my country's wrongs are not redressed^
Though by misrule and tyranny opprest,
Though Austria's Flag waves over seas of blood,
From Magyar soldiers, staining field and flood —
"What though our homes are plundered by the foe.
From wives and daughters tears of misery flow;
Our sons enslaved a tyrant prince to serve,
(Soon shall they from the forced allegiance swerve;)
What though the Magyar Chiefs, Bern, Dembinski,
Who oft our legions led to victory,
Shall recreants prove, and with apostate breath,
Deny their faith, to shun a lingering death—
Kossuth shall ne'er reject the Christian creed,
In which he lives, for which he'll fight and bleed.
Oh, Hungary! my country, beautiful wert thou,
When morning's sunlight tipt thy mountain's brow.
Upon thy fertile valleys cast its beams.
Lit up thy lakes and spangled all thy streams.
Brave are thy sons, thy daughters passing fair,
Thy chiefs like lions in the desert lair.
Strong were thy warriors in armour bright
And swift the Magyar bands to meet in fight;
Powerless the Austrians in the battle fray.
Unaided by the Russian's close array
Of countless myriads, who their sabres wield
In bloody onslaught, 'mid the battle field.
E'en then unconquered, Magyars would prevail
'Gainst Cossack hordes and Croatian coats of mail.
The recusant Jellachich with his might
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Could not prevail upon the field of fight.
Rut blush, Hungarians! Tblush, the treachery
Ot* thy own sons lias lost the victory.
For Austrian honours and the Russian gold,
The traitor Georgey has his country sold.
Proud Georgey ! once the Idol of tlie State,
To thee is left the Magyar's scorn and hate;
In mournful strain thy country weeps for thee,
And tears of blood shall stain thy memory.
God of my country! God of battles, strong!
To thee, my countrymen, tlieir prayers prolong.
Defend our wives and daughters from the power
Of cruel despots — shield them in the hour
Of blood and torture. Though our sins be great
In mercy save them from the oppressor's hate.
Oh! once again, my native land set free.
Land of my sires! my own loved Hungary! Phillips.
The Flag of England.
Raise high the flag of England !
The banner of the brave !
But not to desolate the world,
To conquer or enslave;
And not for civil warfare,
As in the days of yore,
When British steel beneath its folds
"Was bathed in British gore.
Each flaunting rag.
A nation's flag.
May boast of deeds like these;
But we men,
The free men,
Claim nobler victories.
Raise high the flag of England !
If, 'mid the battle crush,
Its only triumphs had been won,
An Englishman might blush.
If, by aggressive armies,
Its brightest ftime was bought,
We'd groan to think our fathers wrong,
And deem its glories nought ;
!■!
IN VERSE.
235
We'd weep to own
Our power misgrown.
And to the world proclaim,
That we men,
The free men,
Would earn a better fame.
Raise high the flag of England !
The meteor of the fight !
That never flashed on battle-field.
Except to lead the right;
That never graced the triumphs
Of CaBsars or their hosts,
Or carried rapine and revenge
To unoffending coasts.
Unfurl it high.
In purity,
The flag without a stain !
That we men,
The free men.
May swear by it again.
Wherever it has floated.
Upon the sea or land,
There world-adorning Trade has stretch'd
Her civilizing hand;
There enterprise has ventured
Her argosies, high piled;
There science strewed the earth with flowers,
And kindly Knowledge smiled.
O'er deeds like these,
In storm and breeze,
Our flag has been unfurl'd
And we men,
The free men.
Can show them to the world.
It led our sons undaunted,
With earnest souls sublime,
To track the bounds of earthly space
In every zone and clime ; —
Through savage lands, death-haunted.
Where southern oceans roll;
Through swamps and deserts of the Line,
Or ice-fields of the Pole.
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PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
Wherever Trade
Or Science bade,
Discovery turjied her prow,
That we men,
The free men,
Miglit glory in it now.
C. 5. Mackay.
The Soldier's Dream,
Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die —
When, reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain.
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dream'd it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track:
'Twas autumn — and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed be back.
1 flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so soft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft.
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart —
"Stay, stay with us — rest, thou art. weary and worn!"
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay: —
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn.
And the voice in my dreaming ear — melted away!
Campbell.
Glenara.
Oh! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale.
Where a band coraeth slowly with weeping and wail? —
'Tis the Chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire and her people are callM to her bier.
IN VERSE.
237
lari;
k—
'fell.
?—
Glenaracnme first with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they foUow'd, but raourn'd not aloud;
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They march'd all in silence — they looked to the ground.
In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor,
To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar;
" Now here let us place the grey-stone of her cairn—
" Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.
" And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse,
Why fold ye your mantles? why cloud ye your brows?"
So spake the rude cliieftain: no answer is made,
But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd.
" I dream'd of my lady, I dream'd of her shroud,"
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud;
" And empty that shroud, and that coffin, did seem;
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"
Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,
When the shroud was unclosed, and no body was seen;
Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn—
'Twas the youth that had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn —
" I dream'd of my lady, I dream'd of her grief,
I dream'd that her lord was a barbarous chief;
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem:
Glenara! Glenara! now read me iny dream!"
In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne:
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn !
Campbell*
The Death of Marmion.
With fruitless labor, Clara bound,
And strove to stanch, the gushing wound;
The monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers.
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear;
And that the priest he could not hear,
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PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
For that she ever sung,
*' In the lost battle, borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying I"
So the notes rung; —
" Avoid thee, Fiend ! — with cruel hand.
Shake not the dying sinner's sand! —
Oh look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine!
Oh, think on faith and bliss! —
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this." —
The war, that for a space did fail.
Now trebly thundering swell'd the gale,
And — Stanley! was the cry; —
A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye:
With dying hand, above his head
He shook the fragment of his blade.
And shouted " Victory !
Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on I"
Were the last words of Marmion.
Scott.
The Burial of Sir John Moore.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse- to the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier dischai-ged his farewell shot.
O'er the grave where our Hero we buried.
We buried him darkly, — at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning ;
By the struggling moon beams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast.
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay — like a warrior taking his rest —
With his martial cloak around him!
IN VEK8K.
239
I"
Few and short were tho prayers we suid,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought — as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow —
How the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow !
" Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him."
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock toU'd the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
9 §|From the field of his fame fresh and gory!
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
But we left him — alone with his glory! Wolfe*
It.
The Battle of Hohenlinden.
On Linden, when the sun was low.
All bloodless lay the untrodden siicvt*,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight.
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding firea of death to light
The darkness of her scenery!
By torch and trumpet fast array'd
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd.
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven!
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven !
And, louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery !
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240 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly!
*Tis morn — but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy !
The combat deepens — On, ye brave.
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry! —
Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet;
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre! Campbell.
On the Downfall of Poland,
O SACRED Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile.
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile,
When leagued Oppression pour'd to Northern wars
Her whisker'd pandours and her fierce hussars,
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet-horn;
Tumultuous Horror brooded o'er her van.
Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man!
Warsaw's last champion, from her height, survey'd
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid:
"O Heaven!" he cried, "my bleeding country save! —
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains.
Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high!
And swear, for her to live! — with her to die!
He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd
His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd;
Firm* paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm!
I
IN YEltSE.
241
fd
Low, murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
Revenge, or death! — the watchword and reply;
Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin toU'd their last alarm! —
In vain — alas! in vain, ye gallant few! —
From rank to rank jour voUied thunder flew:
Oh I bloodiest picture in the book of Time,
Sarmatia fell unwept, without a crime I
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her wo I
Dropp'd from her neverless grasp the shatterM spear,
Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career;
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shriekM — as Kosciusko fell!
The sun went down, uor ceased the carnage there^
Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air —
On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow.
His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below.
The storm prevails! the rampart yields away —
Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay!
Hark! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall,
A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call!
Earth shook! — red meteors flash'd along the sky!
And conscious Nature shudder'd at the cry !
O righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave.
Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save?
Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod.
That smote the foes of Zion and of God?
That crush'd proud Ammon, when his iron car
Was yoked in wrath, and thunder'd from afar?
Where was the storm that slumber'd, till the host
Of blood-stain'd Pharaoh left their trembling coast;
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow.
And heaved an ocean on their march below?
Departed spirits of the mighty dead ! —
Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled!
Friends of the world! restore your swords to man,
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van !
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone.
And make her arm puissant as you own!
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242
PKOMISCCOCS SELECTIONS
Oh! oace again to Freedom's cause return
The patriot Tell — the Bruce of Bannockbckn!
Campbell,
t;
Lord UllirCs Daughter,
A cfiiBFTAiN to the Highlands bound,
Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry,
And 111 give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferryl"
•* Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle^
This dark and stormy water?"
« Oh I Fm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this, Lord UUin's daughter:—*
** And fast before her father's men,
Three days we've fled together ;
For, should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather—
'^ His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover.
Then who would cheer my bonny bride^
When they have slain her lover?'* —
Out spoke the hardy Highland n^ght,
" III go, my chief — I'm ready: —
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady I
** And, by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So— 'though the waves are raging white — »
I'll row you o'er the ferryl"
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking.
And, in the scowl of heaven, each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men! —
Their trampling sounded nearer!
** Oh! haste thee, haste!" the lady criesf
** Though tempests round us gather,
IN VEBSS. 24S
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father." —
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her, —
When — oh! too strong for human hand!
The tempest gather'd o'er her—
And still they row'd, amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing :
Lord UUin reach'd that fatal shore.
His wrath was changed to wailing —
For sore dismayM, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover!
One lovely arm was stretch'd for aid,
And one was round her lover.
" Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,
" Across this stormy water;
And I'll forgive your Highland chief, —
My daughter! — oh! my daughter!"
'Twas vain! — ^the loud waves lash'd the shore,
Return or aid preventing: —
The wat^s wild wQUt o'er his child-~
And he was left lamenting. Campbell*
The Exile of Erin.
There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sigh'd when, at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill:
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion;
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean.
Where once, in the fervour of youth's warm emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of Ebin go bragh!
" Sad is my fate!" — said the heart-broken stranger —
" The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee;
But I have no refuge from famine and danger:
A home and a country remain not to me!
Never again, in the green sunny bowers.
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet
hours;
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PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
Si
P
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i
HI:
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike the bold numbers of Erin go braqh!
"Erin ! my country! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore!
But, alas! in a far — foreign land I awaken.
And sigh .)r the friends that can meet me no more!
Oh ! cruel ft'te, wilt thou never replace me
In a mansiun or peace, where no perils can chase me?
Never agaia shall my brothers embrace me! —
They died to defend me! — or live to deplore!
" Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood?
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?
Ah! my sad soul, long abandon'd by pleasure!
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall without measure;
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall!
*' Yet — all its fond recollections suppressing —
One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw: —
Erin! — an exile bequeathes thee — his blessing!
Land of ray forefathers! — Erin go bragh!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean !
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,
Erin mayourneen! Erin go bragh!" Campbell.
Lochinvar,
Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west!
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And, save his good broad-sword, he weapon had none:
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone!
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!
He stayed not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Esk river where ford there was none —
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war.
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar!
IN VERSE.
245
So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,
Among bridemen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all!
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword—
For the poor craven bridegroom said never ajword —
" Oh come ye in peace here, or come ye in war?
Or to dance at our bridal? young Lord Lochinvarl"
" I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied:
Love swells like the Sol way, but ebbs like its tide !
And now am I come, with this lost !ove of mine.
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine!
There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far.
That would g'adly be bride to the young Lochinvarl"
The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaflfd off the wine, and he threw down the cup!
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, —
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, —
" Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face.
That never a hall such a galliard did grace!
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume.
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and
plume.
And the bride-maidens whisper'd, ** 'Twere better by
far
To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!"
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear.
When they re^ch'd the hall-door, and the charger stood
near;
So light to the croup the fair lady he s^ung.
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
" She is won! we arc gone, over bank, bush and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth you:ig
Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong GraBraes of the Netherby
clan;
Fosters, Fen wicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they
ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea,
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rnoMiscuous selections
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see !
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war.
Have ye e'er aeard of gallant like yours*; Lochinvta ?
Scoii.
A Beth Gelert,
The spearman heard tiie bugle sound,
And cheerlv smiled the morn;
And many a brach, and manf a hound,
Attend Llewellyn's hatn.
And still he blew a louder bList,
And gave a louder cheer :
** CVrxie, Gtlertl why art thou the last
Liey/eliyn's horn to hear?
** Oh, wLeie does faithful Gelert roam?
The flower of all his race!
So true, so brave; a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase!"
'Twas only at Llewellyn's board
The faithful Gelert fed;
He watched, he served, he cheer*d his lord.
And sentinel'd his bed.
In sooth, he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John;
But now no Gelert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.
And now, as over rocl?:s and dells
The gallant chidings rise,
All Srowdon's craggy chaos yells
With many mingled cries.
That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart or hace:
And scant and small the booty proved:
For Gelert was not there.
Unp? .; sed, Llewellyn homew 9; i \ ied>
yy.;.
hen, near the pcrial-seat»
His truant Gelert he espied.
Bounding his lord to greet.
IN VERSE.
247
But when he gain'd the castle-door.
Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound was smear'd with gouts of gore
His lips and fangs ran blood!
Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,
Unused such looks to meet:
His favourite check'd his joyful guise,
And croueh'd and lick'd his feet.
Onward in haste Llewellyn pass'd —
And on went Gelert too —
And still, where'er his eyes were cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his view!
O'erturn'd his infant's bed, he fouod
The blood-stain'd covert rent;
And all around, the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.
He call'd his child — no voice replied;
He search'd — with terror wild;
Blood! Blood! he found on every side,
But no where found the child!
" Hell-hound ! by thee my child's devoup'dl"
The frantic father cried;
And, to the hilt, his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side! —
His suppliant, as to earth he fell.
No pity could impart;
But still his Gelert's dying yell
Pass'd heavy o'er his heart.
Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer waken'd nigh:
vVhat words the parent's joy can tell,
To hear his infant cry!
Conceal'd beneath a mangled heap.
His hurried search had miss'd.
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
H'-S cherub boy he kissM!
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248 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread —
But, the same couch beneath,
Lay, a great wolf, all torn and dead —
Tremendous still in death!
Ah ! what was then Llewellyn's pain I
For now the truth was clear:
The gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewellyn's heir.
Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woj
" Best of thy kind, adieu !
The frantic deed which laid thee low.
This heart shall ever rue I"
And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly 'c lipture deck'd;
And marbles, f o "ijd v/ith his praise,
Poor Gelert'a I C!ifjs protect.
Here never could vhe -pearman pass,
Or forester, unmoved;
Here )ft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewellyn's sorrow proved.
And here he hung his horn and spear;
And, oft as evening fell,
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell! Spencer,
Bruce to his Army.
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory!
Now's the day, and now's the hour,
See the front of battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's power,
Chains and slavery!
Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha ca'i fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!
IN' VERSU.
249
Wha, for Scotland's king and law,
Freedom's sword would strongly draw,
Freeman stand or freeman fa',
Let him follow rael
By oppression's woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurper low !
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow! ,
Let us do, or die! Burns.
The Sailor's Orphan Boy.
Stay, lady — stay, for mercy's sake.
And hear a helpless orphan's tale:
Ah! sure my looks must pity wake —
'Tis want that makes my cheek so pal"!
Yet I was once a m lier's pride,
And my brave fatLer's hope and joy :
But in the Nile's proud fight he died —
And I am now an orphan boy!
Poor, foolish child! how ploased was I,
When news of Nelson's victory came.
Along the crowded streets to fly,
To see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought —
She could not bear to see my joy!
For with my father's life 'twas bought —
And made me a poor orphan boy!
The people's shouts were long and loud;
My mother, shuddering, closed her ears:
" Rejoice! rejoice !" still cried the crowd —
My moth .* answered with her tears!
" Oh! why do rcnrs steal down your cheeks,"
Cried I, "while others shout for joy?"
3he kiss'd me, and, in accents weak,
She call'd ma — her poor orphan boy!
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PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
" What is an orphan boy?" I said;
When suddenly she gasp'd for breath,
And her u u> cl . sed; I shriek'd for aid: —
But, nh! her &yes were closed in death!
Mt* hardships since — I will not tell:
i>ut now, no more a parent's joy,
Ah! lady I have leaxn'd too well
What 'tis to be an orphan boy!
" Oh! were I by your bounty fed: —
Nay, gentle lady, do not cuide;
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread—
The sailor's orphan boy has pride!
"Lady, you weep: — what is't you say?
You'll give me clothing, food, employ !
Look down, dear parents! look and see
Your happy, happy orphan boy!"
Mrs. Opie.
Battle of the Baltic,
Of Nelson and the North,
Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's crown.
And her arms along the deep proudly shone:
By each gun tue lighted brand
In a bold determined hand,
And the prince of all the land
Led them on.
Like leviathans afioat,
Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of batilc <!r>vyr
On the lofty Britifh line:
tt was ten of Apr 1 morn by the chime:
As they drifted oi cheir path
There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest — held his breath
''^or a time!
But the might of England flush'd
To anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rushM
IN VERSE.
251
O^er the deadly space between.
" Hearts of oak !" our captains cried, when eacb gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the diipt.
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sunt
Again! again I again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back; —
Their shots along the deep slowly boom:— -
Then ceased — and all is wail,
As they strike the shatterM sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom !
Out spoke the victor then,
As he hail'd them o'er the wave,
"Ye are brothers ! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save! —
So peace, instead of death, let us bring:
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet.
With the crews, at England's feet, -
And make submission meet
To our king."
Then Denmark bless*d our chief.
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose;
As Death withdrew his shades from the day;
While the sun look'd smiling-bright
O'er a wide and woful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away!
Now joy, old England, raise
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,
While the wine-cup shines in light!—
And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep.
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!
252 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
Brave hearts! to Britian's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant — good Riou I
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!
Campbell.
The Ocean.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods;
There is a rapture on the lonely shore;
There is society when more intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
I love not Man the less, but Nature more.
From these our interviews; in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal.
Roll 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 thy 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,
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown!
His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields
Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise,
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy "playful spray.
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay.
IN VERSfc:.
253
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals —
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
'I'heir 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, or spoils of Trafalgar.
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee—
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, 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 —
Calm or convulsed, in breeze or gale or storm,
Icif g 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 !
Byron,
I
I
n!
ds
The Present Aspect of Greece.
He who hath bent him o'er the dead,
Ere the first day of death is fled —
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress —
Before Decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers.
And mark'd the mild angelic air,
The rapture of repose that's there —
The fix'd, yet tender traits, that streak
The languor of the placid cheek —
254
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
And — but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not — wins not — weeps not — now —
And but for that chill changeless brow.
Whose touch thrills with mortality;
And curdles to the gazer's heart,
As if to him it could impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon —
Yes — but for these — and these alone —
Some moments — ay— one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power.
So fair — ^o calm — so softly seal'd
The first — last look — by death reveal*d !
Such is the aspect of this shore.
*Tis Greece — but living Greece no more I ^
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start — for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death.
That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb —
Expression's last receding ray,
A gilded halo hovering round decay.
The farewell beam of Feeling past away !
Spark of that flame — perchance of heavenly birth —
Which gleams — but warms no more its cherish'd earth !
Byron.
The Battle of Blenheim.
It was a summer's evening.
Old Kaspar's work was done;
And he, before his cottage door,
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet.
In playing there, had found.
He came to ask what he had found;
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
IW VERSE.
255
Old Kaspar took it from the boj
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,
" 'Tis some poor fellow's scull," said he
" "Who fell in the great victory !
"I find them in the garden,
For there's many here about;
And often, when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out :
For many thousand men,*' said he,
*' Were slain in that great victory !"
"Now, tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up.
With wonder- waiting eyes;
** Now, tell us all about the war.
And what they kilPd each other for."
*' It was the English," Kaspar cried,
" Who put the French to rout:
But what they kill'd each other for,
I could not well make out.
But every body said," quoth he,
That 'twas a famous victory !
((
" My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by ;
They burn'd his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly:
So with his wife and child he fled.
Nor had he where to rest his head !
" With fire and sword, the country round
Was wasted far and wide;
And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby died ! —
But things like that, you know, mutt be
At every famous victory.
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256 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
" They say, it was a shocking sight
After the field was won:
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun! —
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
" Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won,
And our good prince Eugene."
" Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"
Said little Wilhelmine.
*' Nay — Nay — my little girl," quoth he,
" It was a famous victory !
** And every body praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win."
" But what good came of it at last?"
Quoth little Peterkin.
" Why, that I cannot tell," said he,
" But 'twas a famous victory !" Squthey.
Song of Fitz Eustace.
Where shall the lover rest
Whom the Fates sever
From his true maiden's breast —
Parted for e er? —
Where through groves deep and high
Sounds the sad billow,
Where early violets die
Under the willow —
Soft shall be his pillow !
There through the summer days
Cool streams are laving,
There while the tempest plays,
Scarce are boughs waving;
There thy rest shalt thou take.
Parted for ever !
Never again to wake.
Never ! — oh, never I
IN VERSE.
257
Where shall the traitor rest —
He ! — the deceiver,
Who would win woman's breast.
Ruin and leave her? —
In the lost battle
Borne down by the flying.
Where mingles war's rattle
With groans of the dying.
There shall he be lying. —
Her wings shall the eagle flap
O'er the false-hearted !
His warm blood the wolf shall lap,
Ere life be parted I
Shame and dishonour sit
By his grave ever !
Blessings shall hallow it —
Never ! — oh, never ! *
Scott.
The Field of Waterloo.
Stop ! — for thy tread is on an Empire^s dust !
An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below !
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust?
Nor column trophied f^i- triumphal show?
None; but the moral's .uth tells simpler so.
As the ground was before^ lus let it be. —
How that red rain — hath made the harvest grow I
And is this all th^ world has gain'd by thee.
Thou first and last Oi' fields f king-making Victory?
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair wome". and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell; —
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell.
Did ye not hear it? — No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
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PROMISCUOUS fiELKCTIONS
I? I'-
ll Si"
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined!
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet —
But, hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! Arm! it is! — it is! — the cannon's opening roar!
Within a window'd niche of that high hall
Sat:. BiP' swick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear:
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretch'd hv father on a bloody bier.
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:
He rush'd into the field, and foremost fighting, fell !
Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, wluch but an hour ago
Blush'd at the praise of fiheir own lovelinesj;
And there were sudden partings, such as ^:res8
The life from out young wi&rts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repsated; who could guess
If ever more should me«»t lijose mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet svteb awful morn could rise.
And there was mounting in hot haste: *he steed.
The mustering squadron, anr! the clattering cp.r,
Went pouring forward witL impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the r-goke of war;
And the deep thunder peal «ms pmk aifar;
And near, the beat of the aiaaiMig drum
Roused up the soldier ere theTB»rni»g star,
While throng'd the citizens wtts terror dumb^
Or whispering, with white lips — ^"The t'oal they c«»«,
they come !"
And wild and high tlie '* CamercEsf s gtf^||p|^^ r<$S(!f
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyi^Mw
Have heard — and heard, too, hare her ^hg/pm
How in the noon of night that pibroch t'k0^0^$^
Savage and shrill ! But with the bre«th wbi^
IN VERS£.
259
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
"With their fierce native daring, which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years;
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's
ears
f
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
De '■y with nature's tear-drcps, as they pass.
Grieving — if aught inanimate e'er grieves —
Over the unreturning brave, — alas I
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure; when this fiery mass
Of living valour, rolling on the foe
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and
low!
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay;
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day
Battle's magnificently-stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover — heap'd and pent,
Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent!
Byron.
Outalissi.
Night came, — and in their bower, full late.
The joy of converse had endur'd — when, hark!
Abrupt and loud a summons shook their gate;
And, heedless of the dog's obstreperous bark,
A form had rush'd amidst them from the dark.
And spread his armsj — and fallen upon the floor:
Of aged strength his limbs retain'd the mark;
But desolate he look'd and famish'd poor,
As ever shipwreck'd wretch lono left on desert shore.
Uprisen, each wondering brow is knit and arch'd:
A spirit from the dead they deem him first!
To speak he tries; but quivering, pale, and parch'd,
From lips, as by some powerless <lream accursed,
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PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
Emotions unintelligible burst ;
And long his filmed eye is red and dim;
At length, the pity-proffer'd cup his thirst
Had half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limb,
When Albert's hand he grasp'd— but Alber ' '^ not
him.
" And hast thou then forgot," — he crieu norn.
And eyed the group with half indignant air, —
*' Oh ! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the morn
When I with thee the cup of peace did share?
Then stately was this head, iind dark this hair.
That now is white as Appalachia's snow;
But, if the weight of fifteen years' despair,
And age hath bow'd me, and the tor?aring foe,
Bring me my boy — and he will his deliverer know !
It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame.
Ere Henry to his loved Oneyda flew :
" Bless thee, my guide!" — but, backward, as he came.
The chief, his old bewilder'd head withdrew,
And grasp'd his arm, and look'd and look'd him
through.
'Twas strange — nor could the group a smile con-
trol—
The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view: —
At last, delight o'er all his features stole,
"It is — my own!" he cried, and clasp'd him to his
soul. —
" Yes! thou recall'st my pride of years, for then
The bow-string of ray spirit was not slack,
When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambush'd
men,
I bore thee like the quiver on my back.
Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack;
Nor foeman then, nor cougar's couch I fear'd.
For I was strong as mountain-cataract!
And dost thou not remember how we cheer'd,
Upon the last hill-top, when white men's huts ap-
pear'd?
" Then welcome be my death-song, and my death !
Since I have seen thee, and again embraced !"
igp
IN VEKSE.
261
And longer had he spent his toil-worn breath,
But, with affectionate and eager haste,
Was every arm outstretch'd around their guest,
To welcome and to bless his aged head.
Soon was the hospitable bancjuet placed;
And Gertrude's lovely hands a balsam shed
On wounds, with fever'd joy, that more profusely bled.
*< But this is not a time," — he started up,
And smote his breast with wo-denouncing hand —
" This is no time to fill the joyous cup !
The Mammoth . comes! — the foe! — the monster
Brandt!—
With all his howling, desolating band ! —
These eyes have seen their blade and burning pine
Awake, at once, and silence — half your land !
Red is the cup they drink; — but not with wine !
Awake, and watch to-night, or see no morning shine !
" Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe,
'Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth:
Acpursed Brandt ! he left of all my tribe
Nor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth;
No ! — not the dog, that watch'd my household hearth
Escaped, that night of blood, upon our plains I
All perish'd ! — I alone am left on earth.
To whom nor relative nor blood remains —
No ! — not a kindred drop that runs in human veins !
" But go and rouse your warriors ! — for — if right
These old bewilder'd eyes could guess, by signs
Of striped and starred banners — on yon height
Of eastern cedars, o'er the creek of pines.
Some fort embattled by your country shines:
Deep roars the innavigable gulf below
Its squared rock, and palisaded lines.
Go, seek the light its warlike beacons show !
Whilst I in ambush wait, for vengeance, and the foe !'*
Campbell.
OutalissVs Death • Song .
** And I could weep;" — the Oneyda chief
His descant wildly thus begun;
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262
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
" But that I may not stain with grief
The death-song of my father's son !
Or bow his head in wo;
For, by my wrongs and by my wrath!
To-morrow Areouski's breath,
That fires yon heaven with storms of death,
Shall light us to the foe:
And we shall share, my Christian boy,
The fo.x. tan's blood, the avenger's joy!
" But thee, my flower, whose breath was given
By milder genii o'er the deep,
The spirits of the white man's heaven
Forbid not thee to weep; —
Nor will the Christian host,
Nor will thy father's spirit grl. e,
To see thee, on the battle's eve.
Lamenting, take a mournful leave
Of her who loved thee most :
She was the rainbow to thy sight!
Thy sun — thy heaven — of lost delight!
"To-morrow let us do or die! —
But when the bolt of death is hurl'd.
Ah ! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world? —
Seek we thy once-loved home? —
The hand is gone that cropp'd its flowers!
Unheard their clock repeats its hours!
Cold is the hearth within their bowers!
And should we thither roam.
Its echoes, and its empty tread.
Would sound like voices from the dead!
" Or shall we cross yon mountains blue.
Whose streams my kindred nation quaff 'd,
And by my side, in battle true,
A thousand warriors drew the shaft? —
Ah! there, in desolation, cold,
The desert-serpent dwells alone.
Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone,
And stones themselves to ruin grown.
Like me, are death-iike old !
Then seek we not their camp — for there—
The silence dwells of my despair I
t
15 VERSE.
268
" But hark, the trump i — to-morrow thou
In glory's fir^s shall dry thy tears !
Even from th-j land of shadows now
My father's -wful ghost appears
Amidst the clouds that round us roll I
He bids my soul for battle thirst —
He bids me dry — the last ! — the first !
The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul !
Because I may not stain with grief
The death-sor.g of an Indian chief."
Campbell.
Lord William.
No eye beheld when William plunged
Yound Edmund in the stream;
No human ear, but William's heard
Toung Edmund's drowning scream.
Submissive all the vassals own'd
The murderer for their lord;
And he, as rightful heir, possess'd
The hoiiae of Erlingford,
The ancient house of Erlingford
Stood in a fair domain,
And Sever'i's ample waters near
Eoll'd +hiough the fertile plain.
And often the wajrfaring man
Would love to linger there,
Forgetful of his onward road.
To gaz'^ on scenes so fair.
But never could Lord William dare
To gaze on Severn's stream;
In every wind that swept its waves
He heard young Edmund scream.
In vain, at midnight's silent hour,
Sleep closed the murderer's eyes;
In every dream, the murderer saw
Young Edmund's form arise !
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264 PROMISCUOUS SULEOTIONS
In vain, by restless conscience driven,
Lord William left his home,
Far from the scenes that fav his guilt,
In pilgrimage to roam.
To other climes the pilgrim fled —
But could not fly despair;
He sought his home again — but peace
Was still a stranger there.
Slow were the passing hours, yet swift
The months appeared to roll;
And now the day return'd, that shook
With terror William's soul —
A day that William never felt
Return without dismay;
For well had conscience kalendar'd
Young Edmund's dying day.
A fearful day was that ! the rains
Fell fast with tempest roar.
And the swoln tide of Severn spread
Far on the level shore.
In vain Lord William sought the feast.
In vain he quaff 'd the bowl,
And strove with noisy mirth to drown
The anguish of his soul —
The tempest, as its sudden swell
In gusty bowlings came,
With cold and deathlike feelings seem'd
To thrill his shuddering frame.
Reluctant now, as night came on,
His lonely couch he press'd;
And wearied out, he sunk to sleep, —
To sleep — but not to rest.
Beside that couch his brother's form,
Lord Edmund, seem'd to stand;
Such and so pale, as when in death
He grasp'd his brother's hand.
i
IN VERSB.
265
Such and so pale his face, as when,
With faint and faltering tongue.
To William's care, a dying charge,
He left his orphan son.
" I bade thee with a father's love
My orphan Edmund guard —
Well, William, hast thou kept thy charge !
Now vy ■; :'iy due reward I"
h limb convulsed
ar:
itorra of night, —
He start
With
He only L
'Twas music tu his ear.
When, lo! the voice of loud alarm
His inmost soul appals;
" What, ho I Lord Willian, rise in haste !
The water saps thy walls!"
He rose in haste, beneath the walls
He saw the flood appear;
It hemm'd him round, 'twas midnight now,
No human aid was near !
He heard the shout of joy, for now
A boat approach'd the wall;
And, eager to the welcome aid,
They crowd for safety all.
** My boat- is small," the boatman cried,
" 'Twill bear but one away;
Come in. Lord William ! and do ye
In God's protection stay."
Strange feeling fill'd them at his voice,
Even at that hour of wo,
That, save their lord, there was not one
Who wished with him to go.
But William leaped into the boat,
His terror was so sore;
" Thou shalt have half my gold!" cried he,
" Haste! — haste to yonder shore!"
The boatman plied the oar, the boat
Went light along the stream —
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33 WEST MAIN STREET
WEBSTER, NY. 14580
(716) 873-4503
f86
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
Sudden Lord William heard a cry, * ^h^^)'k
Like Edmund's drowning screaiii. ,, v''
The boatman paused: " Methougtii t heard
A child's distressful cry !'*
** 'Twas but the howling wind of nighii"
Lord William made reply;
" Ha^te!— haste!— ply swift and gtrohg tb6 oar!
Haste! — haste across the stream!'* —
Again Lord William heard a cry
Like Edmund's drowning Scream.
" I heard a child's distressful rOice,"
The boatman cried agaih.
"Nay, hasten on! — the night is dArk —
And we should search in vain I"
"Arid, oh! Lord Williaih, doSt tMii ktibW
How dreadful 'tis to die?
And can'st thou^ without pitying, hear
A child's expiring cry? '
" How horrible it is to siiik
Beneath the chilly stream.
To stretch the powerless arms in vain,
In vain for help to scream!"
The shriek agaiti Was heard: It ckidd
More deep, more piercing loiJd:
That instant, o'er the flood, the moon
Shone through a broken cloud: ;
And near them they beheld a chMd,
Upon a crag he stood,
A little crag, and all aroutid
Was spread the rising flood.
The boatman plied the oar, the bbat ,
Approach'd its resting-pliace;
The moon-beam shone upon the child,
And show'd how pale his face. .
"Nolir r^ach thine hand!" the boatmah 6rie4
"Lord William, reach and save!"—
The child stretched forth hi^ little hartd8>
To grasp the hand he gave —
IN VBB8E.
267
Then William shriek'd; the hand he touch'd
Was cold, and damp, and dead !
He felt young Edmund in his arms!
A heavier weight than lead!
The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk
Beneath the avenging stream;
He rose, he shriekM — no human ear
Heard William's drowning scream! Southey.
The Manners of England,
Ye Mariners of England!
That guard our native seas!
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!
Tour glorious standard launch again,
To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow!
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave !^
For the deck- it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow.
As ye sweep through the deef,,
While the stormy tempest'^i blow!
While the battle rages loud and long.
And the stormy tempests blow!
Britannia needs no bulwark,
Ko towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves!
Her home is on the deep!
With thunders from her native oak.
She quells the floods below —
As they roar on the shore.
When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long.
And the stormy tempests blow !
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PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS f
The meteor-flag of England f . /
Shall yet terrific burn; /:
Till danger^s troubled night depart, - •
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! .
Our song and feast shall flow , ,
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow:
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow. Campbell*
Thunder Storm among the Alps. .
It is the hush of night; and all between
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen —
Save darkened Jura, whose capp'd heights appear
Precipitously steep; and drawing near.
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar;
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more;
He is an evening reveller, who makes
His life an infancy, and sings his fill!
At intervals, some bird, fror !: the brakes,
Strrts into voice a moment- .a is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill —
But that is fancy, for the star-light dews
All silently their tears of love instil.
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.
The sky is changed! — and such a change! night.
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong!
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,
Leaps the live thunder! — not from one lono cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue;
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud.
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud !
IN VKRSE.
269
Jht,
And this is in the night: — Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent ^r slumber! let me bo
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,—
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines! — a prosphoric sea!
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth !
And now again 'tis back, — and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,
As if they did rejoice o*er a young earthquake's birth.
Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between
Heights — which appear as lovers who have parted
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene.
That they can meet no moTe, though broken-hearted!
Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,
Love was the very root of the fond rage
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then — depart-
ed!—
Itself expired, but leaving them an age
Of years — all winters! — war within themselves to
wage!—
Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand!
For here, not one, but many, make their play.
And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand,
Flashing and cast around ! of all the band.
The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd
His lightnings, — as if he did understand,
That in such gaps as desolation work'd,
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd.
Byron,
Ode to Winter.
When first the fiery-mantled sun
His heavenly race began to run.
Round the earth and ocean blue,
His children four, the Seasons, flew.
First in green apparel dancing.
The young Spring smiled with angel-grace:
Rosy Summer, next advancing,
Rush'd into her sire's embrace —
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PROMISCDODS SELECTIONS
Her bright* imir'd sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smiles, i '^'^ f 1
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep.
On India's citron -co ver'd isles:
More remote and buxom-brown,
The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;
A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,
A ripe sheaf bound her zone! ■
But howling Winter fled afar,
To hills that prop the polar star,
And loves on deer-borne car to ride.
With barren darkness by his side,
Bound the shore where loud Lofoden
Whirls to death the roaring whale! .^
Bound the hall where Runic Oden
Howls his war-song to the gale! —
Save when adown the ravaged globe
He travels on his native storm.
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe,
And trampling on her faded form:
1^11 light's returning lord assume
The shaft that drives him to his polar field,
Of power to pierce his raven plume,
And crystal-cover'd shield!
O sire of storms! — whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear.
When Frenzy, with her blood-shot eye.
Implores thy dreadful deity —
Archangel! power of desolation!
Fast descending as thou art.
Say, hath mortal invocation
Spells to touch thy stony heart?
Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer.
And gently rule the ruin'd year;
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare.
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear;—
To shuddering Want's unmantled bed
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend;
And gently on the orphan head
' Of Innocence descend!—
IN VERSB.
|-i/-.V\-
271
But chiefly spare, O king of clouds! . ?
The sailor on his airy shrouds;
When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,
And spectres walk along the deep !
Milder yet thy snowy breezes
Pour on yonder tented shores,
Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
Or the dark-brown Danube roars.
O winds of Winter ! list ye there
To many a deep and dying groan;
Or start, ye demons of the midnight lir,
At shrieks and thunders louder than your own!
Alas ! even your unhallow*d breath
May spare the victim, fallen low — '
But man will ask no truce to death,-—
No bounce to human wo. Can^bell.
The Arah Maid^s Song.
Fly to the desert I fly with me!
Our Arab tents are rude for thee ;
But oh! the choice what heart can doubt
Of tents with loy^ or thrones withont?
Our rocks are rough— but, smiling there.
The acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet; nor loved the less
For lowering in a wilderness.
Our sands are bare— but down their slope
The silvery-footed antelope
As gracefully ^nd gaily springs,
As o'er the marble courts of kings!
Then come! — thy Arab maid will be
The loved and lone acacia-tree;
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their li^t sound thy loneliness.
Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart, —
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought I-
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As if the very lips and eyes
Predestined to have nil eur sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke befbre us then!
So came thy every glance and tone,
When first on me they breathed and shone ;
New — as if brought from other spheres.
Yet welcome — as if loved for years I
Then Hy with me! — if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn-
Come! — if the love thou hast for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,-^ [
•^^' Fresh as the fountain under ground,
When first 'tis by the lapwing found! — •
But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipped image from its base.
To give to me the ruin*d place;
Then,, fare thee well — Fd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake,
When thawing suns begin to shine.
Than trust to love so false as thine.
T,;>
Moore.
Flight of (yConnor^s Childj and Death of her Lover..
At bleating of the wild watch-fold
Thus sang my love — " Oh, come with me !
Our bark is on the lake — behold
Our steeds are fasten'd to the tree.
Come far from Castle-Connor's clans t^ —
Come with thy belted forestere.
And I, beside the lake of swans.
Shall hunt for thee the fallow deer;
And build thy hut; and bring thee home
The wild fowl and the honey- comb;
And berries from the wood provide,
And play my clarshech by thy side —
Then come, my love!" — How could I stay?
IN VER8B.
278
Our nhnble stag-hounds trackM the way, v
And I pursued by moonless skies,
The light of Connocht Moran's eyes !
And fast and far, before the star
Of day-spring, rush'd we through the glade,
And saw at dawn the lofty bawn
Of Castle-Connor fade.
Sweet was to us the hermitage
Of this unplough'd, untrodden shore;
Like birds all joyous from the cage.
For man's neglect we loved it more!
And well he knew, my huntsman dear,
To search the game with hawk and spear ;
While I, his evening food to dress.
Would sing to him in happiness!
But oh, that midnight of despair.
When I was doom'd to rend my hair!
The night, to me of shrieking sorrow!
The night to him — that had no morrow !
When all was hush'd at even-tide,
I heard the baying of their beagle:
"Be hush'd!" my Connocht Moran cried,
*' *Tis but the screaming of the eagle" —
Alas! 'twas not the eyrie's sound,
Their bloody bands had track'd us out ;
Up-listening starts our couch ant hound —
And, hark! again that nearer i Ho'it
Brings faster on the murderers.
Spare — spare him — Brazil — Desmond fierce!
In vain — no voice the adder charms;
Their weapons cross'd my sheltering arms;
Another's sword has laid him low —
Another's and another's ;
And every hand that dealt the blow —
Ah me! it was a brother's!
Yes, when his meanings died away,
Their iron hands had dug the clay,
And o'er his burial turf they trod,
And I beheld— God! O God!—
His life-blood oozing from the sod! Campbell,
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PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
Ode to Eloquence,
Hbabd ye those loud-eontending waves^
That shook Cecropia*s pillar'd state? *
Saw ye the mighty from their graves
Look up, and tremble at her fate?
Who shall calm the angry storm? •
Who the mighty task perform,
And bid the raging tumult cease?
See the son of Hermes rise,
With siren tongue, and speaking eyes.
Hush the noise, and soothe to peace!
See the olive branches waving
0*er Ilissus* winding stream, . :
Their lovely limbs the Naiads laving, i
The Muses smiling by supreme I,
See the nymphs and swains advancing.
To harmonious measures dancing:
Grateful lo Paeans rise
To thee, O Power I who can inspire
Soothing words — or words of fire,
And shook thy plumes in Attic skies!
Lo! from the regions of the north,
The reddening storm of battle pours,
Bolls along the trembling earth,
Fastens on the Olynthian towers.
" Where rests the sword? where sleep the brave?
Awake! Cecropia's ally save
From the fury of the blast:
Burst the storm on Fhocis' walls!
Bise! or Greece for ever falls;
Up! >r Freedom breathes her last."
The jarring states, obsequious now.
View the patriot's hand on high;
Thunder gathering on his brow.
Lightning flashing from his eye.
Borne by the tide of words alcmg,
One voice, one mind, inspire the throng:
"To arms! to arms! to arms!" they cry;
(il»r-.
IN VBRSB.
^trt,':
275
*< Grasp the shield, and dra^T the sword;
Lead us to Fhilippi's lord;
Let us conquer him, or die!"
Ah, Eloquence I thou wast undone;
Waat from thy native country driven,
When Tyranny eclipsed the sun.
And blotted out the stars of heaven!
When Liberty from Greece withdrew*
And o*er the Adriatic flew
To where the Tiber pours his urn-
She struck the rude Tarpeian rock.
Sparks were kindled by the stroke-
Again thy fires began to burn I
Now shining forth, thou madest compliant
The conscript fathers to thy charms,
Roused the world-bestriding giant.
Sinking fast in Slavery's arms.
I see thee stand by Freedom's fane,
Pouring the persuasive strain,
Giving vast c(»iceptions birth:
Hark! I hear thy thunder's sound.
Shake the Forum round and round,
Shake the pillars of th^ earth I
First-born of Liberty divine!
Put on Religion's bright array:
Speak! and the starless grave shall shine
The portal of eternal day!
Rise, kindling with the orient beam.
Let Ca1'!'ary's hill inspire the theme,
Unfold the garments roU'd in blood !
Oh, touch the soul — touch all her chords
With all the omnipotence of words.
And point the way to heaven — to God!
Anonifmous,
The Sister*s Curse,
" And go!" I cried, " the combat seek,
Ye hearts that unappalled bore
The anguish of a sister's shriek,
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276
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
I
Go!— and return no more!
For sooner guilt the ordeal brand
Shall grasp unhurt, than ye shall hold
The banner with victorious hand,
Beneath a sister's curse unrollM."
stranger! by my country's loss!
And by my love! and by the cross!
1 swear I never could have spoke
The curse that severM nature's yoke;
But that a spirit o'er me stood,
And fired me with the wrathful mood;
And frenzy to my heart was given,
To speak the malison of heaven.
They would have cross'd themselves all mute;
They would have pray'd to burst the spell;
But, at the stamping of my foot,
Each hand down powerless fell!
" And go to Athunree !" I cried,
" High lift the banner of your pride I
But know that where its sheet unrolls.
The weight of blood is on your souls! -
Go where the havoc of your kerne
Shall float as high as mountain fern!
Men shall no more your mansion know;
The nettles on your hearth shall grow!
Dead as the green oblivious flood.
That mantles by your walls, shall be
The glory of O'Connor's blood !
Away! Away to Athunree!
Where downward when the sun shall fall.
The raven's wing shall be your pall;
And not a vassal shall unlace
The vizor from your dying face!"
A bolt that overhung our dome.
Suspended till my curse was given,
Soon as it pass'd these lips of foam,
Peal'd in the blood-red heaven!
Dire was the look that o'er their backs
The angry parting brothers threw:
But now, behold ! like cataracts.
Come down the hills in view,
IN VRR8E.
''v.'/;<'
277
0*Connor*a plumed partisans,
Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans
Were marching to their doom:
A sudden storm their plumage toss'd,
A flash of lightning o'er them cros8*d,
And all again was gloom !
Campbell.
Alexander's Feast,
'TwAS at the royal feast, for Persia won
By Philip's warlike son,
Aloft in awful state,
The god-like hero sate
On his imperial throne.
His valiant peers were placed around,
Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound:
So should desert in arms be crownM.
The lovely Thais, by his side,
Sat like a blooming eastern bride.
In flower of youth, and beauty's pride.—
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave, deserves the fair.
Timotheus, placed on high
Amid the tuneful choir.
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seat above —
Such is the power of mighty love! —
A dragon's fiery form belied the god:
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode.
When he to fair Olympia press'd.
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the
world. ?
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound:
" A present deity!" they shout around; —
" A present deity!" the vaulted roofs rebound-—
With ravish'd ears
278
PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
! I
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,
Affects to nodi
And seems to shake the spheres.
The praise of Bacchus, then the sweet musician sung,
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young I—
The jolly god in triumph comes!
Sound the trumpets! beat the drums!
Flush'd with a purple grace.
He shows his honest face.
Now give the hautboys breath! — he comes! he comes!
Bacchus, ever fair and young.
Drinking joys did first ordain:
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure;
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:
Rich the treasure;
Sweet the pleasure; ' '
Sweet is pleasure after pain!
Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;
Fought all his battles o'er again:
And thrice he routed all his foes^ and thrice he slew
the slain!
The master saw the madness rise;
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And while he heaven and earth defied — •
Changed his hand, and check'd his pride.
He chose a mournful muse.
Soft pity to infuse:
He sung Darius great and good !
By too severe a fate.
Fallen! fallen! faUen! fallen!
Fallen from his high estate,
And weltering in his blood !
Deserted at his utmost need
By those his former bounty fed.
On the bare earth exposed he lies.
With not a friend to close his eyes!
With downcast look the joyless victor sate,
Revolving, in his altered soul.
The various turns of fate below;
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow!
IN VERSE.
279
The mighty master smiled, to see
That love was in the next degree:
'Twas but a kindred sound to move;
For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly svreet, in Lydian measures^
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.
War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honour, but an empty bubble;
Never ending, still beginning.
Fighting still, and still destroying.
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, oh think it worth enjoying !
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee.
The many rend the skies with loud applause:
So love was crown'd; but music won the cause. —
The prince, unable to conceal his pain.
Gazed on the fair
Who caused his care.
And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and lookM, and sigh'd again:
At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd,
The vanquish'd victor — sunk upon her breast!
Now strike the golden lyre again !
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain !
Break his bands of sleep asunder,
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder !
Hark ! hark ! — the horrid sound
Has raised up his head,
As awaked from the dead ;
And, amazed, he stares around !
Revenge ! Revenge ! Tiraotheus cries —
See the furies arise !
See the snakes that they rear.
How they hiss in their hair.
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
Behold a ghastly band.
Each a torch in his hand !
These are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain,
And, unburied, remain
Inglorious on the plain !
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PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
I t
Give the vengeance due
To the valiant crew !
Behold ! how they toss their torches on high,
How they point to the Persian abodes,
And glittering temples of their hostile gods ! —
The princes applaud, with a furious joy;
And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy;
Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey !
And, like another Helen, fired — another Troy.
Thus, long ago.
Ere heaving bellows learned to blow.
While organs yet were mute;
Timotheus, to his breathing flute
And sounding lyre.
Could swell the soul to rage — or kindle soft desire.
At last, divine Cecilia camv.
Inventress of the vocal frame.
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store.
Enlarged the former narrow bounds.
And added length to solemn sounds.
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown:
He raised a mortal to the skies;
She drew an angel down! - Drydert,
The Passions,
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.
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting.
By 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.
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
IN VERSE.
281
r*
re.
iden.
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each — for Madness ruled the hour —
Would prove his own expressive power*
First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid;
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire.
In lightnings ownM his secret stings :
Id one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept, with hurried hands, the strings.
With woful measures, wan Despair —
Low sullen sounds! — his grief beguiled;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'Twas sad, by fits — by starts, 'twas wild.
But thou, O 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 touci* the strain prolong;
And, from the rocks, the woods, the vale.
She 'JilFd 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 withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast, so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo;
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-subduing voice applied,
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Yet still he kept his wild unalterM mien;
While each strain'd ball of sight — seem'd bursting
from his head. • .
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd;
Sad proof of thy distressful state!
Of differing themes the veering song was miz'd:
And, now, it courted Love; now, raving, call'd on
Hate.
With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retir'd;
And, from her wild sequester'd seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Pour*d through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
And, dashing>soft, from rocks around,
Bubling runnels joined the sound.
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure
stole;
Or o'er some haunted streams, with foAd delay —
Round a holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace and lonely musing —
In hollow murmurs died away.
But, oh! how alter'd was its splightlier tone!
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 dale and thicket rung;
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known.
The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-eyed
queen.
Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen.
Peeping from forth their alleys green;
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;
And Sport leap'd up, and s^zed his beechen spear.
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial.
He, with viny crown advancing.
First to the lively pipe his hand address'd;
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol.
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain.
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids.
IN YKRSR.
383
Amid the festal-sounding shades.
To some unwearied minstrel dancing;
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round —
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ;
And he, amid his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
Collins.
Childe Harold* s Song.
Adieu, adieu!— my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea,
We follow in his flight:
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native land — Good night! ^
A few short hours, and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies —
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall—
My dog bowls at the gate.
Come hither, hither, my little page,
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage.
Or tremble at the gale?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;
Our ship is swift and strong;
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
More merrily along.
" Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind;
Yet marvel not. Sir Childe, that I
Am sorrowful in mind:
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*• For I have from my father gone,
A mother whom I love,-
And have no friend save these alone,
But thee — and One above.
" My father bless'd me fervently,
Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother 8igh>
Till I come back again." —
Enough, enough, my little lad.
Such tears become thine eye—
If I thy guiltless bosom had.
Mine own would not be dry!
Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,
Why dost thou look so pale ?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman.
Or shiver at the gale?
" Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
Hut thinking on an absent wife
Will blanch a faithful cheek,
** My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering lake;
And when they on their father call.
What answer shall she make?"
Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay;
But I, that am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.
For who would trust the seeming sighs
Of friend or paramour?
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes,
We late saw streaming o'er.
For pleasures past I do not grieve.
Nor perils gathering near:
My greatest grief is — that I leave
Nothing that claims a tear.
And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea:
TSTi
IN V£RSE.
285
But why should I for others groan, f\
When none will sigh for me? |'|
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger -hands; ^
But long e'er I come back again,
He'd tear me where he stands.
With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, .i;|1
So not again to mine!
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!
And when you fail my sight.
Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves!
My native land, — Good night! Byron.
LochieVs Warning.
Wizard. Lochiel! Lochiel! beware of the day
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array !
For a field of the dead rushes red on the sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight:
They rally I — they bleed! — for their kingdom and crown;
Wo, wo to the riders that trample them down !
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
But hark! through the fast flashing lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
^Tis thine, O GlenuUin! whose bride shall await.
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate.
A steed comes at morning: no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led !
Oh weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead:
For a merciless sword o'er Culloden shall wave,
Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave.
Lochiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-tell-
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, [ing seer!
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight!
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.
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PUOMISCUOUii SELECTIONS
Wizard. Hal laugh'st thou, Lochiel my visioD to scorn?
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!
Say, rushM the bold eagle exultingly forth.
From his home, in the dark-rolling clouds of the north?
Lo! the death-shot of foeman outspeeding, he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad;
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!
Ah! home let us speed-^for the spoiler is nigh,
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast
Those 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;
Returh 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:
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one!
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 bis proud foam like a wave on the rock!
But wo to his kindred, and wo to his cause.
When Albin 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!
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.
And coming events cast their shadows before.
I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring
With the blood-hounds that bark for thy fugitive king.
Lo! anointed by Heaven with vials of wrath,
B^old, where be fiies on his desolate path!
Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my
sight:
IS VEUSE.
287
Rise! rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight!
'Tis finishM. Their thunders are hushM on the moors;
CuUoden is lost, and my country deplores:
But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where?
For the red eye of battle is shut in despair.
Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish'd, forlorn.
Like a limb from his country, cast bleeding and torn?
Ah, no! for a darker departure is near;
The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier;
His death-bell is tolling; oh! mercy, dispel
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell!
Life flutters, convulsed, in his quivering limbs,
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims.
Accursed be the faggots that blaze at his feet.
Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat,
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale
Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the
tale:
For never shall Albin a destiny meet,
So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat.
Though my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their
gore.
Like ocean-weeds heap*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 back to the field, and his feet to the foe!
And, leaving in battle no blot on his name,
Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame.
Campbell,
Gilderoy,
Tbb last, the fatal hour is come,
That bears my love from me:
I hear the dead-note of the drum,
I mark the galtows-tree!
The bell has toUM; it shakes my heart;
The trumpet i^eaks thy name;
And must my Gilderoy depart
To bear a death of shame?
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rnoMiscuous selkctions
No bosom trembles for thy doom;
No mourner wipes a tear:
The gallows' foot is all thy tomb,
The sledge is all thy bier!
Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then
So soon, so sad, to part,
When first in Roslin's lovely glen
You triumphed o'er my heart!
Your locks they glittered to the sheen,
Your hunter garb was trim;
And graceful was the ribbon green
That bound your manly limb!
Ah! little thought I to deplore
Those limbs in fetters bound;
Or hear upon the scaffold-floor,
The midnight hammer sound.
Ye cruel, cruel, that combined
The guiltless to pursue!
My Gilderoy was ever kind,
He could not injure you!
A long adieu! — but where shall fly
Thy widow all forlorn.
When every mean and cruel eye
Regards my wo with scorn?
Yes! they will mock thy widow's tears,
And hate thy orphan boy!
Alas! his infant beauty wears
The form of Gilderoy.
Then will I seek the dreary mound
That wraps thy mouldering clay.
And weep and linger on the ground.
And sigh my heart away!
Campbell.
My Mother,
At last, O my Mother! thou sleepest;
At last, thy poor heart is still;
No longer, dear Mother ! thou keepest
IN VERSE.
289
A watch in a world of ill.
Though I feel of all love forsaken,
When thine is no longer near;
Yet I thank my God, who hath taken
Thee hence, and I shed no tear.
mpbelL
I smile with a sorrowful gladness,
While I think, thou never more
Shalt drink from the black cup of sadness,
Which, through thy whole life, ran o*er.
When a hard lot pressed severest.
Oh ! little had been my care.
Had I known tluit thou, best and dearest!
Didst a lighter portion share.
But as there ne'er was another
On earth more gentle and kind,
So none, my own dove-hearted Mother !
Did a heavier burthen find.
Tet it woke no voice of complaining.
Nor changed thy passionless air.
At a time, when to image thy paining.
Was more than I well could bear.
There needed no whisper of duty
To summon me to thy side;
To dwell near thy soul-stilling beauty.
Was a rapture and a pride.
Often now, when his peace is riven
With visions of shame and fear.
The thought that thou'rt happy in heaven.
Doth thy son's dark bosom chfeer.
A thousand would call the spot dreary
Where thou takest a long repose;
But a rude couch is sweet to the weary.
And the frame that sufiering knows.
I never rejoiced more sincerely
Than at thy funeral hour;
Assured, that the one I loved dearly,
Was beyond affliction's power.
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PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
rU Dream of Eugene Aram.
'TWAS in the prime of summer time,
An evening calm and cool,
And four and twenty happy boys
^ Came bounding ou fj^^fl^^, ,^,, leapt
There were some that ran, an
Like troutlets in a pool.
Away they sped with gamesome minds,
^\Jd souls untouched by sm ;
To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in:
pjl^ shone the setung.s^
Over the town of Lynn.
Like sportive deer they coursed about,
A melancholy man!
Leaf after leaf, he turn'd It o'er,
Nor ever f "^^^^^^^^^ read that book
For the peace of his som u
In the golden eventide
Much study had ma., mr. very
And pale, and leflt^n-v-^'
At last he shut the ponderous tome,
Wirti a fast and fervent grasp
He s rain'd the dusky covers close.
And fix'd the brazen hasp:
. Oh Go^! could ISO close my mind.
And clasp it with a claspl
Then, leaping on his feet nprigbt,
Some moody turns he took,
IN VERSE.
291
Now up the riicatl, then down the mead,
And |ju t a shady uook, —
And, lo! he saw a little boy
Thai pored upon a book !
" My gentle lud, what \a *t you f«ad —
Romance, or fairy fable?
Or is it some historic page,
Of kings and crowns unstable?"
The young boy gave an upward glance, —
« It is • The Death of Abel.' "
The Usher took six hasty strides,
As smit with sudden pain, —
Six hasty strides beyond the place.
Then slowly back again;
And down he sat beside the lad,
And talk'd with him of Cain ;
And, long since then, of bloody men,
Whose deeds tradition saves;
Of lonely folk cut off unseen.
And hid in sudden graves;
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn.
And murders done in caves;
And how the sprites of injured men
Shriek upward from the sod, —
Aye, how the ghostly hand will point
To show the burial clod;
And unknown facts of guilty acts
Are seen in dreams from God !
He told how murderers walk t^e earth
Beneath the curse of Cain, —
With crimson clouds before their eyes,
And flames about their brain:
For blood has left upon their souls
Its everlasting stain !
** And well," quoth he, " I know, for truth,
Their pangs must be extreme, —
Wo, wo, unutterable wo—
Who spill life's sacred stream !
For why? Methought, last night, I wrought
A murder in a dream.
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" One that had never done me wrong —
A feeble man, and old:
I led him to a lonely field,
The moon shone clear and cold:
* Now here,' said I, * this man shall die,
And I will have his gold!'
** Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,
And one with a heavy stone.
One hurried gash with a hasty knife,---
And then the deed was done:
There was nothing lying at my foot,
But lifeless flesh and bone !
" Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,
That could not do me ill ;
And yet I fear*d him all the more,
For lying there so still:
There was a manhood in his look.
That murder could not kill !
" And, lo ! the universal air
Seem'd lit with ghastly flame, —
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes
Were looking down in blame:
I took the dead man by the hand,
And caird upon his name !
" Oh God ! it made me quake to see
Such sense within the slain !
But when I touch'd the lifeless clay,
The blood gush'd out amain !
For every cloiif a burning spot
Was scorching in my brain!
" My head was like an ardent coal.
My heart as solid ice;
My wretched, wretched soul, I knew.
Was at the devil's price;
A dozen times I groan'd; the dead
Had never groan'd but twice !
" And now, from forth the frowning sky,
From the heaven's topmost height,
I heard a voice — the awful voice
IN VERSE.
293
y»
Of the blood-avenging Sprite:—
* Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead,
And hide it from my sight!'
" I took the dreary body up,
And cast it in a stream, —
A sluggish water, black as ink,
The depth was so extreme. —
My gentle boy, remember this
Is nothing but a dream.
" Down went the corse with a hollow plunge)
And vanished in the pool;
Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,
And wash'd my forehead cool,
And sat among the urchins young
That evening in the school!
" Oh Heaven! to think of their white souls,
And mine so black and grim!
I could not share in childish prayer,
Nor join in evening hymn;
Like "a devil of the pit, I seem'd,
*Mid holy cherubim !
" And Peace went with them, one and all,
And each calm pillow spread;
But Guilt was my grim chamberlain
That lighted me to bed;
And drew my midnight curtains round,
With fingers bloody red !
" All night I lay in agony.
In anguish dark and deep;
My fever'd eyes I dared not close,
But stared aghast at Sleep:
For Sin had render'd unto her
The keys of hell to keep I
*' All night I lay in agony,
From weary chime to chime,
With one besetting horrid hint.
That rack'd me all the time, —
A mighty yearning, like the first
Fierce impulse unto crime!
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*^ One stern, tyrannic thought, that made
All other thoughts its slave;
Stronger and stronger every pulse
Did that temptation crave, —
Still urging me to go and see
The dead man in his grave !
" Heavily I rose up, as soon
As light was in the sky,
And sought the black accursed pool
With a wild misgiving eye;
And I saw the dead in the river-bed,
For the faithlesss streajw was dry!
" Merrily rose the lark, and shook
The dew-drop from its wing;
But I never mark'd its morning flight,
I never heard it sing:
For I was stooping once again
Under the horrid thing.
" With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,
I took him up and ran, —
There was no time to dig a grave
Before the day began:
In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves
I hid the murder'd man !
" And all that day I read in school.
But my thought was other where;
As soon as the mid-day task was done.
In secret I was there:
And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,
And still the corse was bare !
** Then down I cast me on my face.
And first began to weep;
For I knew my secret then was one
That earth refused to keep;
Or land, or sea, though he should be
Ten thousand fathoms deep !
" So wills the fierce avenging Sprite,
Till blood for blood atones !
Ay, though he's buried in a cave,
And trodden down with stones,
IN VERSE.
And years have rotted off his flesh —
The world shall see his bones !
*'0h God! that horrid, horrid dream
Besets me now awake !
Again — again, with a dizzy brain,
The human life I take;
And n:y red right hand grows raging hot,
Like Cranmer's at the stake.
" And still no peace for the restless clay
Will wave or mould allow;
The horrid thing pursues my soul, —
It stands before me now !"
The fearful boy look'd up, and saw
Huge drops upon his brow !
That very night, while gentle sleep
The urchin eyelids kiss'd,
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walk'd between,
With gyves upon his wrist.
295
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Hood.
The Death of Murat.
♦• My hour is come! — Forget me not! — My blessing is with you.
With you my last, my fondest thought; with you my heart's adieu.
Farewell — farewell, my Caroline! my children's doting mother;
I made thee wife, and fate a queen — an hour, and thou art neither:
Farewell, my fair Letitia, my love is with thee still:
Louise and Lucien, adieu, iind thou, my own Achille!"
"With quivering lip, but with no tear, or tear that gazers saw.
These words, to all his heart held dear, thus wrote the brave
Murat.
Then of the locks which, dark and large, o'er his broad shoul-
ders hung,
That stream'd war-pennons in the charge, yet like caressings
clung
In peace around his forehead high, which, more than diadem,
Beseem'd the curls that lovingly replaced the cold hard gem;
He cut him one for wife — for child — 'twas all he had to will;
But, with the regal wreath and state, he lost its heartless chill!
The iciness of alien power, what gushing love may thaw?
— The agony of such an hour as this — thy last — Murat!
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PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
" Comrade — though foe 1 — a soldier asksfrom thee a soldier's aid —
They're not a warrior's only tasks that need his blood and blade —
That upon which I latest gaze — that which I fondest clasp,
When death my eye-balls wraps in haze, and stiffens my hand's
grasp!
With these love- locks around it twined, say, wilt thou see them
sent —
Need I say where? — Enough! — 'tis kind! — to death, then — I'm
content!
Oh, to have found it in the field, not as a chain'd outlaw!
No more! — to Destiny I yield — with mightier than Murat!
They led him forth — 'twas but a stride between his prison-room
And where, with yet a monarch's pride, he met a felon's doom.
" Soldiers I — your muzzles to my breast will leave brief space for
pain,
Strike to the heart!" — His last behest was ulter'd not in vain.
He turn'd him to the levell'd tubes that held the wish'd-for boon;
He gazed upon some love-clasp'd pledge,"then volleyed the platoon ;
And when their hold (he hands gave up, the pitying gazers saw,
In the dear image of a wife, thy heart's best trait, Murat!
T, Atkinson,
I III
i t
The Spanish Champion.
The warrior bow'd his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire»
And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprison'd sire :
" I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train;
I pledge my faith, my liege, my lord, oh! break my father's
chain."
"Rise! rise! even now thy father comes, aransom'dman this day;
Mount thy good steed, and thou and I will meet him on his way:"
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed;
And urged, as if with lance in hand, his charger's foaming speed.
And lo! from far, as on they press'd, they met a glittering band.
With one that 'mid them stately rode, like a leader in the land;
Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he.
The father, — whom thy gratetul heart hath yearned so long to see.
His proud breast heaved, his dark eye flash'd, his cheeks' hue
came and went;
Hereach'd that grey-hair'd chieftain's side, and there dismounting
bent;
A lowly kneo to earth he bent, his father's hand he took;
What was there in its touch, that all his fiery spirit shook?
That hand was cold, a frozen thing, it dropp'd from his like lead;
He look'd up to the face above, the face was of the dead ;
A plume waved o'er the noble brow, the brow was fix'd and white ;
He met at length his father's eyes, but in them was no sight!
IN VBBSE.
297
aid —
ide —
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vain,
jrboon;
platoon;
ers saw,
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rt of fire,
sire :
train;
father's
this day;
Vis way :"
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Ing speed.
Ing band,
|he land;
he,
hng to see.
leeks' hue
limcunting
k;
)ok?
like lead;
Vnd white ;
(sight t
Up from the ground he sprung, and gazed; but who can paint
that g^ze?
They hush'd their very hearts who saw its horror and amaze:
They might have chain'd him, as before that noble form he stood;
For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his cheek
the blood.
** Father I" at length he murmur'd low, and wept like children
then —
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men —
He thought on all his glorious hopes, on all his high renown ;
Then flung the falchion f^om his side, and in the dust sat down ;
And, covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly-mournful
brow,
" No more, there is no more," he said, •' to lift the sword for now;
My king is false, my hope betray'd, my father, oh ! the worth.
The glory, and the lovelinees, are past away to earth!"
Up from the ground he sprung once more, and seized the monarch's
rein.
Amid the pale and wilderd looks of all the courtier train;
And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led,
And sternly set them face to face, the king before the dead.
" Came I not here, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss?
Be still! and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this?
The look, the voice, the heart I sought — give answer. Where are
they?
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, put life in this cold clay.
"Into those glassy eyes put light; be still, keep down thine ire;
Bid those cold lips a blessing speak, — this earth is not my sire;
Give me back him fur whom I fought, for whom my blood was shed;
Thou canst not, and, O king! his blood be mountains on thy head!"
He loosed the rein, his slack hand fell upon the silent face;
He cast one long, deep, mournful glance, and fled from that sad
place :
His after-fate no more was heard, Hiuid the martial train;
His banner led the spears no more among the hills of Spain!
Mrs, Hemam,
I-'
Ouglou^s Onslaught.
A Turkish Battle.Song.
TcHASSAN OuGLOU is on! Tchassan Ouglou is on!
And with him to battle the Faithful are gone.
Alia, il allah! The tambour is rung,
And in his war-saddle each Spahi hath swung.
Now the blast of the desert sweeps over the land,
And the pale fires of heaven gleam in each Damask brand.
Alia, il allah I
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mk
II !
Tchassan Ouglau is on ! Tchassan Oughou is on!
Abroad on the winds all his horse-tails are thrown.
*Tis the rush of the eagle, down cleaving through air—
'Tis the bound of the lion, when roused from his lair.
Ha! fiercer, and wilder, and madder by far —
On thunders the might of the Mosleroite war.
Alla,ilallah!
Forth lash their wild horses with loose-flowing rein.
The steel grides their flank, their hoof scarce dints
the plain.
Like the mad stars of heaven, now the Delis rush out,
O'er the thunder of cannon swells proudly their shout —
And sheeted with foam, like the surge of the sea.
Over wreck, death, and wo, rolls each fierce Osmanli.
Alia, ilallah!
Fast forward, still forward, man follows on man
While the horse-tails are dashing afar in the van —
See where yon pale crescent and green turban shine.
There, smite for the prophet, and Othman's great line.
Alia, il allah! The fierce war-cry is given —
For the flesh of the Giaour shriek the vultures of heaven.
Alia, il allah!
Alia, il allah! How thick, on the plain.
The Infidels cluster, like ripe, heavy grain!
The reaper is coming, the crook'd sickle's bare:
And the shout of the Faithful is rending the air.
Bismillah! Bismillah! Each far-flashing brand
Hath piled its red harvest of death on the land !
Alia, il allah!
Mark, mark yon green turban that heaves through the
fight!
Like a tempest-toss'd bark 'mid the thunders of night.
See, parting before it on right and on left.
How the dark billows tumble — each saucy crest cleft!
Aye, horseman and footman reel back in dismay.
When the sword of stern Ouglou is lifted to slay.
Alia, il allah!
Alia, il allah ! Tchassan Ouglou is on !
O'er the Infidel breast hath his fiery barb gone —
The bullets rain on him, they fall thick as hail;
The lances crash round him, like reeds in the gale —
IN VERSE.
299
r—
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icaven.
ugh the
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It cleft!
ay-
But onward, still onward, for God and his law,
Through the dark strife of death bursts the gallant
Pacha.
Alia, il allah !
In the wake of his might, — in the path of the wind,
Pour the sons of the Faithful, careering behind;
And, bending to battle, o'er each high saddle-bow.
With the sword of Azrael they sweep down the foe.
Alia, il allah ! 'Tis Ouglou that cries —
In the breath of his nostril the Infidel dies !
Alia, il allah ! Motherwell,
To the Clouds.
Ye glorious pageants! hung in air
To greet our raptured view;
What in creation can compare
For loveliness with you?
This earth is beautiful indeed,
And in itself appeals
To eyes that have been taught to read
The beauties it reveals.
Its giant-mountains, which ascend
To your exhalted sphere,
And seem, at times, with you to blend
In majesty austere;
Its lovely valleys — forests vast;
Its rivers, lakes, and seas;
With every glance upon them cast,
The sight, the sense must please.
When, through the eastern gates of heaven
The sun's first glories shine;
Or when his gentlest beams are given
To gild the day's decline;
All glorious as that orb appears,
His radiance still would lose
Each gentle charm, that most endears.
Without your softening hues.
When these with his refulgent rays
Harmoniously unite,
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Who on your splendid pomp can gaae,
Nor feel a hush'd delight?
*Tis then, if to the raptured eye
Her aid the fancy brings,
In you our fancy can descry
Unutterable things !
Not merely mountains, cliffs, and caves,
Domes, battlements, and towers,
Torrents of light, that fling their waves
O'er coral rocks and bowers;
Not only what to man is known
In nature or in art;
But objects which on earth can own
No seeming counterpart.
As once the Seer in Patmos saw
Heaven's opening door reveal'd.
And scenes inspiring love and awe
To his rapt sight reveal'd;
So, in a faint and low degree
Through your unfoldings bright,
Phantoms of glory yet to be
Dawn on the wondering sight.
^nont/mous.
The Suicide.
She left her infant on the Sunday morn —
A creature doom'd to sin — in sorrow born,
She came not home to share our humble meal.
Her father thinking what his child might feel
From his hard sentence. Still she came not home.
The night grew dark, and yet she was not come;
The east wind roar'd, the sea return'd the sound;
And the rain fell, as if the world were drown'd:
There were no lights without; and my good-man.
To kindness frighten'd — with a groan began
To talk of Ruth, and pray — and then he took
The Bible down, and read the holy book:
For he had learning; and when that was done,
He sat in silence. — *' Whither could we run?"
He said — and then rush'd frighten'd from the door,
For we could bear our own conceits no more.
I;V VERSE.
301
door,
We call'd on neighbours — there she had not been ;
We met some wanderers — our's they ha' "lot seen;
We hurried o'er the beach, both north an, south,
Then join'd and hurried to our haven's mouth,
Where rush'd the falling waters wildly out;
I scarcely heard the good-man's fearful shout,
Who saw a something on the billow's side:
And " Heaven have mercy on our sins !" he cried,
" It is my child !" — and, to the present hour,
So he believes that spirits have the power.
And she was gone — the waters wide and deep
Roll'd o'er her body as she lay asleep.
She heard no more the angry waves and wind,
She heard no more the threatenings of mankind;
Wrapt in dark weeds, the refuge of the storm.
To the hard rock was borne her comely form.
But oh ! what storm was in that mind, what strife.
That could compel her to lay down her life !
For she was seen within the sea to wade
By one at distance, when she first had pray'd;
Then to a rock within the hither shoal.
Softly, and with a fearful step, she stole;
Then, when she gaiu'd it, on the top she stood
A moment still — and dropp'd into the flood ! Crabbe,
The Last Tree of the Forest.
Whisper, thou tree, thou lonely tree,
One, where a thousand stood !
Well might proud tales be told by thee.
Last of the solemn wood.
Dwells there no voice amidst thy boughs,
With leaves yet darkly green?
Stillness is round, and noontide glows —
Tell us what thou hast seen.
" I have seen the forest shadows lie
Where now men reap the corn;
I have seen the kingly chase rush by,
Through the deep glades at morn.
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** With the glance of many a gallant spear,
And the wave of many a plume.
And the bounding of a hundred deer,
It hath lit the woodland's gloom.
" I have Reen the knight and his train ride past
With his banner borne on high;
O'er all my leaves there was brightness cast
From his gleamy panoply.
" The pilgrim at my feet hath laid
His palm-branch 'midst the flowers,
And told his beads, and meekly prayed,
Kneeling at vesper hours.
** And the merry men of wild and glen,
In the green array they wore,
Have feasted here with red wine's cheer,
And the hunter-songs of yore.
" And the minstrel, resting in my shade,
Hath made the forest ring
With the lordly tales of the high crusade,
Once loved by chief and king.
" But now the noble forms are gone
That walk'd the eartli cf old;
The soft wind hath a mournful tone,
The sunny light looks cold.
** There is no glory left us now.
Like the glory with the dead:
I would that where they slumber now
My latest leaves were shed !"
O thou dark tree, thou lonely tree !
That mournest for the past,
A peasant's home in thy shade I see,
Embower'd from every blast.
A lovely and a mirthful sound
Of laughter meets mine ear;
For the poor man's children sport around
On the turf, with nought to fear.
And roses lend that cabin-wall
A happy summer-glow;
[A.
IN YKRSB.
.03
And the open door stands free to aii,
For it reeks not of a foe.
And the village-bells are on the breeze
That stirs thy leaf, dark tree !
How can I mourn, *raidst things like these,
For the gloomy past with thee? Anonymous,
The Voice of Spring.
I COME, I come ! ye have call'd me long,
I come o'er the mountains with light and song;
Ye may trace my steps o'er the wakening earth.
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth.
By the primrose stars in shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.
I have breathed on the South, and the chesnut^flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers;
And the ancient graves, and the falling fanes,
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains.
— But it is not for rae, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin, or the tomb!
I have pass'd o'er the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the stormy sea.
And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
And the moss looks bright where my step has been.
I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep-blue sky;
From the night-bird's lay, through the starry time, .
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime.
To the swan's wild note, by the Iceland lakes,
Where the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.
From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain —
They are rolling on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain-brows,
They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs.
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves.
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.
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Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come !
"Where the violets lie may now be your home;
Ye of the rose-cheek, and dew-bright eye.
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly;
Witli the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine; I may not stay !
Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in wood and glen;
Away from the chamber and dusky hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth;
Their light stems thrill to the wild wood strains,
And Youth is abroad in my green domains.
Mrs, Hemam,
I '
The Invocation,
Answer me, burning stars of night,
Where is the spirit gone,
That pass'd the reach of human sight.
Even as a breeze hath flown? —
And the stars answer'd me — " We roll
In light and power on high;
But of the never-dying soul
Ask things that cannot die !"
O many- toned and chainless wind.
Thou art a wanderer free !
Tell me, if thou its place can find
Far over mount and sea? —
And the wind murmured in reply —
*' The blue deep have I crosa'd,
And met its bark and billows high.
But not what thou hast lost!"
Ye clouds, that gorgeously repose
Around the setting sun.
Answer ! be ye a home for those
Whose earthly race has run? —
The bright clouds answered — " We depart.
We vanish from the sky:
Ask what is deathless in thy heart,
For that which cannot die !"
IN VKRSK.
SOS
Id laj,
tb;
ling,
. Hemam,
irt,
Speak, then, thou voice of God witliin,
Thou of the deep low tone !
Answer me through life's restless din,
Where is the spirit flown? —
And the voice answer'd — '* Be thou still,
Enough to know is given;
Clouds, winds, and stars, their task fulfil,
Thine is to trust in Heaven !"
Mrs. Hemans.
Mary^ Queen of Scots,
I look'd far back into other years, and lol in bright array,
I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages pass'd away.
It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls,
And gardens, with their broad green walks, where soft the foot-
step falls;
And o'er the antique dial-stones the creeping shadow pass'd,
And all around the noon-day sun a drowsy radiance cast.
No sound of busy life was heard, save, from the cloister dim,
The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn.
And there five noble maidens sat, beneath the orchard trees,
In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects
please;
And little reck'd they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper prayers.
That Scotland knew no prouder names — held none more dear
than theirs; —
And little even the loveliest thought, before the Virgin's shrine.
Of royal blood, and high descent from the ancient Stuart line;
Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight,
And, as they flew, they left behind a long-continuing light.
The scene was changed. It was the court — the gay court of
Bourbon, —
And 'neath a thousand silver lamps, a thousand courtiers throng;
And proudly kindles Henry's eye — well pleased, I ween, to see
The land assemble all its wealth of grace and chivalry: —
Grey Montmorency, o'er whose head has pass'd a storm of years.
Strong in himself and children stands, the first among his peers;
And next the Guises, who so well fame's steepest heights assail'd.
And walk'd ambition's diamond ridge, where bravest hearts have
fail'd,—
And higher yet their path shall be, stronger shall wax their
might,
For before them Montmorency's star shall pale its waning light.
Here Louis, Prince of Conde, wears his all-unconquer'd sword.
With great Coligni by his side — each name a household word!
And there walks she of Medicis — that proud Italian line,
The mother of a race of kings — the haughty Catharine!
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PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS
The forms that follow in her train, a glorious sunshine make —
A milky way of stars that grace a comet's glittering wake ;
But fairer far than all the rest, who bask on fortune's tide.
Effulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new-made bride!
The homage of a thousand hearts — the fond, deep love of one —
The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun, —
They lighten up her chesnut eye, they mantle o'er her cheek.
They sparkle on hor open brow, and high-soul'd joy bespeak.
Ah I who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its brilliant
hours,
She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine, and its
flowers?
The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way.
And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay;
And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes
Upon the fast-receding hills, that dim and distant rise.
No marvel that the lady wept, there was no land on earth
She loved like 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 amends, —
The land where her dead husband slept — the land where she had
known
The tranquil convent's hush'd repose, and the splendours of a
throne :
No marvel that the lady wept, — it was the land of France —
The chosen home of chivalry — the garden of Romance!
The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her bark;
The future, like the gathering night, was ominous and dark!
One gaze again — one long, last gaze — " Adieu, fair France, to
thee!"
The breeze comes forth — she is alone on the unconscious sea.
The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly moodi
And in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood
Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with the winds.
That seem'd 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 press'd too heavy on her brow;
And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field;
The Stuart sceptre well she sway'd, but the sword she could not
wield.
She thought of all her blighted hopes-^the dreams of youth's
brief day,
And summon'd Kizzio 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 Chatelar:
They half beguiled her of her cares, they soothed her into smiles,
They won her thoughts from bigot zeal, and fierce domestic broils.
But hark! the tramp of armed men! the Douglas' battle-cry!
They come — they come — and lo! the scowl of Kuthven's hollow
eye!
IN VERSE.
307
: youth's
rel play
avnrre,
Ltelar:
o smiles,
lie broils,
•cry !
's hollow
And swords arc drawn, and daggers gleam, and tears and words
are vain.
The ruffian steel is in his heart — the faithful Rizzio's slam !
Then Mary Stuart brush'd aside the tears that trickling fell:
"Now for my father's arm!" she 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 lords, my lords!" the captive said, " were I 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 bum'd upon her cheek — stream'd her rich tresses
down.
She wrote the words — she stood erect — a queen without a crown 1
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 stayed her steed upon a hill — she saw them marching by —
She heard their 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?
Scatter'd and strewn, and flying far, defenceless and undone,^
God! to see what she has lost, and think what guilt has won!
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 broad 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 chain'd the lips, and touch'd the hearts of
all;
Rich were the sable robes she wore — her white veil round her
fell—
And from her neck there hung the cross — the cross she loved so
well!
1 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 eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly
shone, —
I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrill'd with every
tone, —
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I knew the ringlets, almost grej, once threads of living gold,—
I knew that bounding grace of step — that symmetry of mould !
Even now I see her far away, in that calm convent aisle,
I hear her chant her vesper-hymn, I mark her holy smile, —
Even now I see her bursting forth, upon her bridal morn,
A new star in the firmaucnt, to light and glory born!
Alas! the change! she placed her foot upon a triple. throne.
And on the scaffold now she stands — beside the block, alone!
The little dog that licks her hand, the last of all the crowd
Who bunn'd themselves beneath her glance, and round her foot-
steps bow'dl
Her neck is bared — the blow is struck — the soul is pass'd away;
The bright — the beautiful — is now a bleeding piece 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 weigh against a grain of sand, the glories of a throne!
H. G. BelK
SACRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE.
The Creation.
Ere Time began his circling race,
Or light adorn'd the waste of space,
Dwelt the first, great, Eternal One,
In unimparled bliss alone.
Wrapt in himself, he viewed serene
Each aspect of the future scene;
Then bade at length that scene rnfold, —
And Nature's volume stood unroll'd.
He said, " Be Light!" — and light upsprung :
" Be Worlds!" — and worlds on nothing hung:
More swift than thought the mandate runs,
And forms ten thousand kindling suns.
When all the wondrous scene was plann'd,
Inimitably fair and grand;
In emanations unconfined,
Forth flow'd the life-diffusing mind.
From the rapt seraph, down to man, —
To beasts — to worms — the spirit ran;
And all in heaven, and all on earth,
'Midst shouts of joy, received their birth.
The tribes that walk, or swim, or fly,
In various movements, spake their joy ;
While man, in hymns, his raptures told.
And cherubs struck their harps of gold.
The morning stars together sung.
The heavens with acclamations rung;
And earth, and air, and sea, and skies,
Heard the loud choral anthem rise:
" All glory to the Eternal give,
From whom we spring, in whom we live;
Be his Almighty power adored,
The sovereign, universal Lord!" Drummond,
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SACRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE.
God is Every Where.
Oh! show me where is He,
The high and holy One,
To whom thou bend'st the knee.
And pray'st, " Thy will be done!"
I hear thy voice of praise,
And lo! no form is near;
Thine eyes J see thee raise,
But where doth God appear?
Oh ! teach me who is God, and where his glories shine,
That I may 1 neel and pray, and call thy Father mine.
Gaze on that arch above —
The glittering vault admire!
Who taught those orbs to move?
Who lit their ceaseless fire?
Who guides the moon, to run
In silence through the skies?
Who bids that dawning sun
In strength and beauty rise?
There view immensity! — behold, my God is there —
The sun, the moon, the stars, his majesty declare!
See, where the mountains rise;
Where thundering torrents foam ;
Where, veil'd in lowering skies.
The eagle makes his home!
Where savage nature dwells,
My God is present too —
Through all her wildest dells
His footsteps I pursue:
He rear*d those giant cliffs — supplies that dashing
stream —
Provides the daily food, which stills the wild bird's
scream.
Look on that world of waves.
Where finny nations glide;
Within whose deep, dark caves,
The ocean-monsters hide!
His power is sovereign there,
To raise — to quell the storm;
The depths his bounty share.
Where sport the scaly swarm:
SACRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE.
311
Tempests and calms obey the same Almighty voice,
Which rules the earth and skies, and bids the world
rejoice.
Nor eye nor thought can soar
Where moves not he in might; —
He swells the thunder's roar,
He spreads the wings of night.
Oh! praise the works divine!
Bow down thy soul in prayer;
Nor ask for other sign.
That God is every where —
The viewless Spirit he — immortal, holy, bless'd —
Oh! worship him in faith, and find eternal rest!
Hugh Hutton.
The Destruction of Sennacherib.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea.
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host, on the morrow, lay wither'd and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast.
And breathed on the face of the foe, as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxM deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew
still.
And there lay the steed, with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roU'd not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf.
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
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312
SACRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail ;
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted, like snow, in the glance of the Lord.
Byron.
What shall separate us from the love of Christ?
Who is the foe, my spirit tell, '
Or what the power of earth or hell,
That shall my steadfast bosom move
To quit my dear Redeemer's love ?
Shall tribulation's gloomy train,
Or sad distress, or grinding pain,
Or persecution breathing blood.
Or peril by the land or flood.
Or famine howling at my board.
Or tyrant arm'd with fire and sword? —
Not these, nor worse, my soul appal;
Through Christ, I triumph o'er them all.
And in my secret soul I feel,
Not danger, want, nor fire, nor steel;
Not all the torments death arrays.
Not all the glories life displays;
Not empires, diadems, and thrones;
Nor angel's joys, nor hell's deep groans;
Not all the present hour reveals,
Not all futurity conceals ;
Nor height sublime, nor depth profound.
Nor aught in all creation's round,
Shall e'er my steadfast bosom move
To quit my dear Redeemer's love.
Drummond.
Wisdom sought from God.
Supreme and universal Light!
Fountain of reason! Judge of right!
Parent of good! whose blessings flow
On all above, and all below;
,! i
SACRED BXTRACTS IN VERSE.
313
Without whose kind, directing ray,
In everlasting night we stray,
From passion still to passion tossed.
And in a maze of error lost;
Assist me, Lord, to act, to be,
What nature and thy laws decree!
Worthy that intellectual flame
Which from thy breathing spirit came.
My mental freedom to maintain.
Bid passion serve, and reason reign,
Self-poised> and independent still
Of this world's varying good or ill.
No slave to profit, shame, or fear.
Oh may my steadfast bosom bear
The stamp of heaven, an honest heart.
Above the mean disguise of art!
May my expanded soul disclaim
The narrow view, the selfish aim;
But, with a Christian zeal^ embrace
Whate'er is friendly to my race.
O Father ! grace and virtue grant;
No more I wish, no more I want:
To know, to serve thee, and to love.
Is peace below, is bliss above.
Henry Moore,
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The Dying Christian to his SouL
Vital spark of heavenly flame!
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!
Hark! they whisper — angels say,
" Sister spirit, come away!"
What is this absorbs me quite?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
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814 BAORED EXTRACTS IN VBRSE.
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? —
Tell me, my soul, can this be— death?
Tbe world recedes! it disappears!
Heaven opens to my eyes! — my ears
With sounds seraphic ring !
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fiy!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?
Pope.
Conjidenee in God*
How are thy servants bless*d, O Lord f
How sure is their defence! .
Eternal wis^m is their guide,
Their help — omnipotence.
In foreign realms, and lands remote.
Supported by thy care.
Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt,
And breathed in tainted air.
Thy mercy sweeten'd every soil,
Made every region please;
The hoary Alpine hills it warm'd,
And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas.
Think, O my soul! devoutly think,
How with affrighted eyes
Thou saw*st the wide-extended deep
In all its horrors rise!
Confusion dwelt in every face.
And fear in every heart.
When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs,
Overcame the pilot's art!
Yet then, from all my griefs, O Lord!
Thy mercy set me free;
While, in the confidence of prayer,
My soul took hold on thee.
For though in dreadful whirls we hung
High on the broken wave.
'i|M
SAOIiED EXTRACTS IN VKRSE.
I knew thou wert not slow to hear,
Nor iirrK)tent to save.
The storm was laid, the winds retired,
Obedient to thy will;
The sea, that roar'd at thy command,
At thy command was still.
In midst of dangers, fears, and deaths,
Thy goodness I'll adore;
And praise thee for thy mercies past)
And humbly hope for more.
di$
My life — ^if thou preserve my life
Thy sacrifice shall be;
And death — if death must be my doom —
Shall join my soul to thee.
Addison.
Charity,
Come, let us sound her praise abroad.
Sweet Charity, the child of God!
Her*s, on whose kind maternal breast
The sheltered babes of misery rest;
Who, when she sees the sufferer bleed, —
Reckless of name, or sect, or creed, —
Comes with pirompt hand, and look benign,
To bathe his wounds in oil and wine;
Who in her robe the sinner hides.
And soothes and pities, while she chides;
Who lends an ear to every cry,
And asks no plea — but misery.
Her tender mercies freely fall,
Like Heaven's refreshing dews on allj
Encircling In their wide embrace
Her friends, — her foes,-"the human race.
Nor bounded to £he earth alone,
Her love expands to worlds unknown;
Wherever Faith's rapt thought has soar'd,
Or Hope her upward flight explored*
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316 8ACRBD EXTRACTS IN VERSE.
Ere these received their name or birth,
She dwelt in heaven, she smiled on earth:
Of all celestial graces bless'd.
The first — the last — the greatest — best!
When Faith and Hope, from earth set free,
Are lost in boundless ecstasy,
Eternal daughter of the skies.
She mounts to heaven — and never dies!
Drummond.
The Cross in the Wilderness,
Silent and mournful sat an Indian chief,
In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb;
His eyes, that might not, weep, were dark with grief.
And his arms folded in majestic gloom,
And his bow lay unstrung beneath the mound.
Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around.
For a pale Cross above its greensward rose.
Telling the cedars and the pines, that there
Man's heart and hope had struggled with his woes,
And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer.
Now all was hushM; and eve's last splendour shone,
With a rich sadness, on the attesting stone.
There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild.
And he, too, paused in reverence by that grave.
Asking the tale of its memorial, piled
Between the forest and the lake's bright wave;
Till, as a wind might stir a withered oak,
On the deep dream of age, his accents broke:
And the grey chieftain, slowly rising, said —
" I listen'd for the words, which years ago
Pass'd o'er these waters: though the voice is fled,
Which made them as a singing fountain's flow,
Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track.
Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back.
" Ask'st thou of him, whose house is lone beneath?
I was an eagle in my youthful pride.
When o'er the seas he came with summer's breath.
To dwell amidst us on the lake's green side.
8VCRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE.
317
immond.
th grief,
a,
e
woes,
ir shone,
rrave,
wave;
:e:
go
is fled,
's flow,
back,
beneath?
's breath,
side.
Many the times of flowers have been since then; —
Many, but bringing nought like him again.
" Not with the hunter's bow and spear he came,
O^er the blue hills to chase the flying roe ;
Not the dark glory of the woods to tame,
Laying their cedars, like the corn-stalks, low;
But to spread tidings of all holy things,
Gladdening our souls as with the morning's wings.
" Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met,
I and my brethren that from earth are gone.
Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet
Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone?
He told of One, the grave's dark bands who broke,
And our hearts burn'd within us as he spoke!
" He told of far and sunny lands, which lie
Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell:
Bright must they be! for there are none that die,
And none that weep, and none that say * Farewell!'
He came to guide us thither; — but away
The happy call'd him, and he might not stay.
" We saw him slowly fade-^athirst, perchance,
For the fresh waters of that lovely clime;
Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance, ^
And on his gleaming hair no touch of time:
Therefore we hoped — but now the lake looks dim,
For the green summer comes, and finds not him.
" We gather'd round him in the dewy hour
Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree:
From his clear voice at first the words of power
Came low, like moanings of a distant sea;
But swell'd, and shook the wilderness ere long,
As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong.
" And then once more they trembled on his tongue.
And his white eyelids flutter'd, and his head
Fell back, and mists upon his forehead hung —
Know'st thou not how we pass to join the dead?
It is enough! he sank upon my breast, —
Our friend that loved us, he was gone to rest!
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8ACRED EXTRACTS IN VKRSB.
" We buried him where he was wont to pray,
By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide;
We rear'd this Cross in token where he lay,
For on the Cross, he said, his Lord had died!
Now hath he surely reach 'd, o'er mount and wave,
That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave!
*' But I am sad — I mourn the clear light taken
Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone,
The pathway to the better shore forsaken,
And the true words forgotten, save by one.
Who hears them faintly sounding from the past,
Mingled with death'songs in each fitful blast."
Then spoke the wanderer forth, with kindling eye:
" Son of the wilderness! despair thou not,
Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by,
And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot:
Heaven darkly works,— yet where the seed hath betn.
There shall the fruitage, glowing, yet be seen.
** Hope on, hope ever! — by the sudden springing
Of green leaves, which the winter hid so long;
And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing,
After cold, silent months, the woods among;
And by the rending of the frozen chains.
Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains.
" Deem not the words of light, that here were spoken,
But as a lively song, to leave no trace!
Yet shall the gloom, which wraps thy hills, be broken,
And the full day-spring rise upon thy race!
And fading mists the better paths disclose.
And the wide desert blossom as the rose."
Mrs, Hemans.
David and Goliath,
When Israel's host in Elah's alley lay,
O'erwhelm'd with shame, an^ trembling with dismay.
They saw how fierce Goliath proudly trod
Before their ranks, and braved the living God.
On Israel's ranks he cast a withering look.
And Elah's valley trembled as he spoke.
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SACRKD EXTRACTS IN VERSE.
319
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" Ye slaves of Saul, why thus in proud parade
Of martial threatening, stand your ranks arrayed?
Though high your vaunts, and unsubdued your pride,
A single arm the contest may decide.
Send forth the best and bravest of your hosts,
To prove in me what might Philistia boasts ;
And if your champion fall beneath my hand.
Let Israel own Pliilistia's high command:
But if his better arm the triumph gain,
Her yielding sons shall wear the victor's chain.
You, and your God who rules the cloudy sky.
Armies of Israel, I this day defy!"
Through Israelis curdling veins cold horror ran,
And each sunk warrior felt no longer man:
One heart alone its wonted fire retains.
One heart alone the giant's threats disdains:
David, the last of Jesse's numerous race,
Deep in his bosom feels the dire disgrace,
That e'er a godless Philistine, so proud.
His single prowess thus should vaunt aloud.
Before his prince, magnanimous he stands,
And lifts the imploring eye and suppliant hands,
With modest grace, to let him prove the fight.
And '^ ' or conquer in his country's right.
The king and nobles with attention hung
To hear the aspirings of a mind so young.
But deem his darings, in the unequal strife,
Were but a fond and useless waste of life.
Then David thus: " As erst my flocks I kept,
Pale shone the moon-beam, and the hamlet slept;
In that still hour a shaggy bear I spied
SnuflPthe night-gale, and range the valley-side;
He seized a lamb, — and by this hand he died.
And when a lion, made by hunger bold.
From Jordan's swelling streams, o'erleap'd the fold;
The brindled savage in my hands I tore.
Caught by the beard, and crush'd him in his gore.
The God that saved me from the infuriate bear
And famish'd lion, still has power to spare;
And something whispers, if the strife I meet,
Soon shall the boaster fall beneath ray feet."
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SACRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE.
Moved by his words, the king and chieftains yield;
His spirit laud, and arm him for the field:
In royal mail his youthful limbs they dress'd,
The greaves, the corslet, shield, and threatening crest.
But ill those youthful limbs with arms accord,
And ill that hand can wield the imperial sword;
Whence wisdom cautions —these to lay aside.
And choose the arms whose power be oft had tried.
Straight in his hand the well-proved sling be took, .
And in his scrip -five pebbles from the brook;
These all his earthly arms: — but o'er his head.
Had Faith divine her sheltering ffigis spread.
His bosom beats with generous ardour high.
And new-born glories kindle in his eye;
Swift o*er the field he bounds with vigour light.
Marks the gigantic foe, and claims the fight.
Now, men of Israel, pour your ardent prayer:
*' God of our fathers, to thy sovereign care
We trust our champion; for to thee belong
Strength for the weak, and weakness for the strong:
Arm him with might to vindicate thy name.
To smite the proud, and blot out Israel's shame;
Let angels round him spread the guardian shield.
And oh ! restore in triumph from the field !"
Fhilistia's chief now mark'd with high disdain,
The light-armM stripling rushing to the plain;
Saw, with a scornful smile, his airy tread,
And downy cheek suffused with rosy red;
His pliant limbs not cased in shining mail.
No shield to ward, no sabre to assail;
But clad like shepherd -swain, — when swains advance
To hand the fair, and frolic in the dance.
Fierce from his breast the growling thunder broke,
And Elah's valley tremblsd as he spoke.
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O powerful Dagon! wherefore was I born?
Am I a dog? — the theme of children's scorn?
Cursed be thy God! cursed thou, presumptuous boy!
But come — draw nigh — and glut my furious joy.
Thy feeble body, crush'd beneath my power,
The birds shall mangle, and the dogs devour."
SACBED EXTBACTS IN TER8B.
821
, advance
broke,
trn?
lous boy!
IS joy.
ir,
iv.
♦»
Then Jesse's son: — "Accoutred for the field,
Proudly thou marchest with thy spear and shield:
But I, unarm'd, yet, reckless of thy boasts,
Approach, protected by the God of Hosts;
That righteous power, whom thy infuriate pride.
With tongue blaspheming, has Uiis day defied.
Me, of our race the humblest, has He sped.
From thy broad trunk to lop thy impious head.
And though thy armies wasting vengeance spread; —
That all may know, through earth's wide realms abroad,
To trust the righteous cause to Israel's God.
He saves not by the shield, by spears, or swords: —
No more. — Advance — the battle is the Lord's."
With giant stride the lowering foe draws nigh.
Strength in his arm, and fury in his eye;
In thought, already gives the ruthless wound,
And the scorn'd youth transfixes to the ground.
While David, rapid as the fleetest wing,
Whirls round his head the quick revolving sling;
Aims with experienced eye, the avenging blow
At the broad visage of the advancing foe. — .
How booms the thong, impatient to be free,
Wing'd with resistless speed, and arm'd with destinyi —
"£h gone — loud-whizzing flies the ponderous stone! —
That dirge of death — hark! heard ye Dagon groan?
It strikes — it crashes through the fractured bone!
Struck in his full career, the giant feels
The bolt of death; — his mountain-body reels —
And nerveless, headlong, thunders to the ground. —
Loud bursts of jo/ along the vale resound:
Shout! men of Israel, shout — till earth and sky.
With replication loud, re-echo victory I
See, see him now, as, flush'd with honest pride.
He draws the sabre from the giant's side:
Now on the groaning trunk behold him tread,
And from the shoulders lop the ghastly head!
Shout! men of Israel, shout your hero's praise!
Send it immortal down to future days!
Let farthest Dan his triumph loud proclaim
And Sheba's springs resound his glorious name;
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SACRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE.
In Jesse's son, O Bethlehem! rejoice;
And Salem, thou exalt thy grateful voice ;
Thy victor hail triumphant in the Lord;
Girt with the grisly spoils, he wave? the reeking sword.
Daughters of Israel, loud his praises sing!
With harp and timbrel hail your future king.
By mighty Saul a thousand bite the plain,
Bat mightier David has ten thousand slain!
Drummond.
Stanzas on Death.
How sweet to sleep where all is peace,
Where sorrow cannot reach the breast.
Where all life's idle throbbings cease, »
And pain is luU'd to rest; —
Escaped o'er fortune's troubled wave.
To anchor in the silent grave !
That quiet land, where, peril past,
, The weary win a long repose;
The bruised spirit finds, at last,
A balm for all its woes;
And lowly grief, and lordly pride.
Lie down, like brothers, side by side.
The breath of slander cannot come
To break the calm that lingers there;
There is no dreaming in the tomb,
Nor waking to despair;
Unkindness cannot wound us more,
And all earth's bitterness is o'er.
There the maiden waits till her lover comes,—
They never more shall part;
And the wounded deer has reach'd her home,
With the arrow in her heart;
And passion's pulse lies hushed and still.
Beyond the reach of the tempter's skill.
The mother — she has gone to sleep.
With the babe upon her breast;
She has no weary watch to keep.
Around her infant's rest:
rd.
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SACRED EXTRACTS IN YBRSB. 323
His slumbers on her bosom fair
Shall never more be broken —there.
How bles8*d — how bless'd that home to gain,
And slumber in that soothing sleep,
From which we never rise to pain.
Nor ever wake to weep I
To win our way from the tempest's roar,
And reach with joy that heavenly shore.
Anonymous.
Belshazzar's Feast.
To
the feast ! To the feast ! 'tis the monarch com-
mands. —
Secure in her strength, the proud Babylon stands.
As reckless of all the high vaunts of the foe,
As of the weak zephyrs around her that blow;
With her walls and her bulwarks, all power she defies;
Like the cliffs of the mountain, her turrets arise ;
And swift through her ramparts, so deep and so wide,
Euphrates now rolls his unfordable tide.
Then on to the feast; — 'tis the monarch commands;
Secure in her strength, the proud Babylon stands I
With silver and gold are her treasuries stored,
And she smiles with disdain at the arrow and sword;
With the choicest of wheat all her granaries teem.
Her oil and her wine in broad rivulets stream;
For twenty long winters no famine she dreads,
For twenty long summers her banquet she spreads:
Then on to the feast; — 'tis the monarch commands
Secure in her strength, the proud Babylon stands!
A thousand bright cressets the palace illUme;
A thousand rich censers are wafting perfume;
The festival halls heap'd with luxury shine,
High piled are the cates, deep flows the red wine.
The fruits of a province the tables unfold,
The wealth of a kingdom there blazes in gold:
And hark! the loud flourish of trumpet and drum
Announces aloud, that the monarch is come.
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81.0BBI> EXTRIOTS IN VSR8E.
Surrounded with all the proud pomp of his court;
How kingly his tread! how majestic his port I
The rose, and the myrtle, and laurel, combined
In a fillet of gold, round his temples are twined;
In robes starred with j( rels resplendently bright,
He moves like a god, in a circle of light;
And now he has taken his seat at the board.
As God he is honour'd, as God is adored;
While crowding in thousands, the satraps so gay.
With their ladies all glittering in costly array,
Exulting like eaglets approaching the sun.
By their stations are rank'd, and the feast is begun.
Now let tht loud chorus of music ascend ;
All voices, all hearts, and all instruments blend ;
The flute^s mellow tone, with the cornet's shrill note,
The harp and the drum and the trump's brazen throat.
And Captains and Nobles and Ladies so bright.
To swell the loud anthem of triumph unite.
Come — make deep libations to honour the king,
Now let our high cheering re-echoing ring,
Yet louder and louder I the monarch commands;
Secure in her strength, the proud Babylon stands!
High praise to our gods of brass, iron, and stone;
But most to great Belus, the guard of the throne:
All gorgeous they stand in our temples displayed,
With gold and with elephant richly inlaid;
Our strength and our glory in city and field.
In peace our advisers, in battle our shield.
To them, mighty rulers of earth and of heaven.
All honour, and power, and dominion be given;
By them shall proud Babylon, towering sublime.
Stand fast in her strength till the dotage of time!
Now giving full wing, a the festival hour.
To the thoughts of his heart, and the pride of his
power.
The monarch desires the rich vessels of gold,
The pride of high Salem, before she was sold,
To be brought to the banquet — And now hands pro-
fane,
And idolatrous lipa. their bright purity stain.
SACBBD SZTSACTS IN YOBSI.
325
m
of his
ids pro-
All dim, in the service of idols abhorr'd,
Grows the chalice that once shone so bright to the
Lord.
But lo! in the hand of the monarch it foams.
As his eye, round the walls, half-inebriate roams ;
And hark! he exclaims — " This fair chalice, so proud.
Was once that Jehovah's whose throne is a cloud;
But, by Babylon torn from his temple and shrine.
Is consecrate now to her glory and mine!
Ye satraps."—
Amazement! — 'tis dash'd from his hand,
As if struck by some potent invisible wand.-—
His soul what dire horror has suddenly wrung,
That palsies his nerves, and relaxes his tongue?-—
His visage grows pale with the hues of despair.
And his eye-balls congeal with an ominous glare;
For seel^-on the wall — what strange characters rise!
Some sentence transcribed from the book of the skies,
By fingers immortal! — How suddenly still
Grows the noise of the banquet! — all fear-strnck and
chill
Sit the revellers now — bound up is their breath,
As though they had felt the cold vapour of death.
All dimm'd is the glory that beamM round the throne.
And the god sits the victim of terrors unknown.
At length, words find utterance — " Oh haste, hither
call
The Augurs, Chaldeans, Astrologers, all! —
Whoever that sentence shall read and expound,
A chain of bright gold on his neck shall be bound;
The third of my realm to his power I bestow.
And the purple of kings on his shoulders shall glow."
The Astrologers come — but their science is vain,
Those characters dark may no mortal explain,
Save one who to idols ne'er humbled his heart.
Some seer to whom God shall his spirit impart;-—
And that one exists — of the captives a sage.
Now grey with the honours and wisdom of age,
A Hebrew, a Prophet — to him it is given
To read and resolve the dark counsels of heaven.
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•ACRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE.
jml:! :'I1L
** O haste! let that sage this strange secret unfold.
And his be my power with the purple and gold."
While the king and his nobles, distracted in thought,
Their doubts are revolving — the captive is brought;
But not in that visage, and not in that eye,
A captive's dejection and gloom they descry;
For he breathes, as he moves, all the ardour of youth,
The high soul of freedom, the courage of truth. —
See! — o'er his warm features, and round his fair head,
A glory divine seems its radiance to shed;
And that eye's corruscation, so rapid and bright.
Shoots deep to the soul, like an arrow of light;
Not even the monarch its frenzy can brook.
But he bows to the Prophet, averting his look:
For the spirit of God on that Prophet is shed,
The page of the future before him is spread;
In his high-panting heart what rapt fervour he feels,
While the truths that inspire him his language reveals!
" Thy gifts. King ! I reck not: — now, now is the
hour,
Wlien the spoiler shall come — when the sword must
devour!
Oh! why have cursed idols of wood and of stone
Gain'd thy homage; — the right of Jehovah alone?
Why yet glows thy heart with idolatrous fire.
Untaught by the judgments that humbled thy sire,
When driven to herd with the beasts of the wild.
Till his pride was subdued, and his spirit grew mild?
Now call on thy idols, thy arms to prepare —
They see not thy peril, they hear not thy prayer.
Where now is thy Belus, when Babylon calls.
To scathe the proud foes that beleaguer thy walls?
Consumed by that breath which all might can confound.
His shrines and his temples now smoke on the ground:
While thy haughty blasphemings against the Most
High
Invoke an avenger — and lo! he is nigh. —
This night — nay, this hour — the last sand in thy glass
Away with thy life and thy kingdom shall pass.
In that writing behold the eternal decree.
The sentence of God on thy empire and thee;
SACRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE.
327
Thou art weigh'd in the balance of Justice supreme,
And light art thou found as the dust on the beam: —
The wind of destruction to empty thy land,
And the fanners, to fan her with fire, are at hand.
Afar from thy ramparts, Euphrates aside,
In the lake of the Queen, is now rolling his tide.
And through his dried channels the keen Persian lance.
With the red torch of ruin, and Cyrus advance.
E'en now shouts of triumph are rending the air,
The revels of joy turn to shrieks of despair.
Hark! the din at the gates of the hostile arrray!
The fierce axe of battle is hewing its way ;
Thy captains and nobles are falling in gore;
And thy reign, and thy life, hapless monarch, are o'er!"
Drummond,
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glass
The Burial of Moses.
Not a form was seen, not a requiem sung,
Not a grave does a follower prepare him,
But a melody pours from no mortal tongue —
*Tis a legion of spirits who bear him.
At the glow of eve their task was done.
As his dust in the vale they were laying,
They needed no light of the lingering sun,
When a lustre from heaven was playing.
No marble was there o'er his corse to fling,
No warriors in armour attend him,
But the Cherubim's wing was his covering.
And the Seraphim's sword did defend him.
Softly he rests in his earthy home,
With no mouldering stone to reward him,
With the heavens alone his sepulchral dome.
And the pen of the Lord to record him.
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BLANK VERSE.
Satan to Beehebub,
If thou beest he — ^but oh, how fallen! how changed
From him, who, in the happy realms of light,
Clothed with transcendent brightness, did outshine
Myriads though bright! — if he, whom mutual league,
United thoughts and counsels, equal hope
And hazard in the glorious enterprise,
JoinM with me once, now misery hath join'd
In equal ruin: into what pit thou seest.
From what height fallen ; so much the stronger proved
He with his thunder: and till then, who knew
The force of those dire arms? Yet not for those,
Nor what the potent Victor in his rage
Can else inflict, do I repent or change —
Though changed in outward lustre — that fix'd mind
And high disdain from sense of ii^ured merit.
That with the Mightiest raised me to contend;
And to the fierce contention brought along
Innumerable force of spirits arm'd.
That durst dislike his reign, and, me preferring,
His utmost power with adverse power opposed,
In dubious battle oh the plains of heaven.
And shook his throne! What though the field be lost?
All is not lost! the unconquerable will,
And study of revenge; immortal hate.
And courage never to submit or yield;
And what is else not to be overcome? —
That glory never shall his wrath or might
Extort from me! To bow and sue for grace
With suppliant knee, and deify his power.
Who from the terror of this arm so late
Doubted his empire! that were low indeed!
That were an ignominy, and shame beneath
This downfall ! since, by fate, the strength of gods
And this empyreal substance cannot fail;
Since, through experience of this great event.
3d
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In arms not worse, in foresight much advanced,
We may with more successful hope resolve
To wage, by force or guile, eternal war,
Irreconcileable to our grand foe,
Who now triumphs, and, in the excess of joy,
Sole reigning, holds the tyranny of heaven !
329
Milton,
Satan's Reproof of Beelzebub,
Fallen cherub \ to be weak is miserable.
Doing or suffering; but of this be sure.
To do aught good never will be our task.
But ever to do ill our sole delight,
As being the contrary to his high will
Whom we resist. If then his providence
Out of our evil seek to bring forth good,
Our labour must be to pervert that end.
And out of good still to find means of evil;
Which oft-times may succeed, so as perhaps
Shall grieve him, if I fail not, and disturb
His inmost counsels from their destined aim.
But see ! the angry Victor hath recall'd
His ministers of vengeance and pursuit
Back to the gates of heaven: the sulphurous hail.
Shot after us in storm, o'erblown, hath laid
The fiery surge, that from the precipice
Of heaven received us falling; and the thunder,
Wing'd with red lightning and impetuous rage,
Perhaps hath spent his shafts, and ceases now
To bellow through the vast and boundless deep.
Let us not slip the occasion, whether scorn.
Or satiate fury, yield it from our foe.
Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild.
The seat of desolation, void of light,
Save what the glimmering of these livid fiaroes
Casts pale and dreadful? Thither let us tend
From off the tossing of these fiery waves:
There rest, if any rest can harbour there ;
And, re-assembling our aflSicted powers,
Consult how we may henceforth most offend
Our enemy; our own loss how repair;
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How overcome this dire calamity;
What reinforcement we may gain from hope;
If not, what resolution from despair.
Milton,
Satan Surveying the Horrors of Hell,
** Is this the region, this the soil, the clime."
Said then the lost archangel, " this the seat
That we must change for heaven; this mournful gloom
For that celestial light? Be it so! since he.
Who now is Sovereign, can dispose and bid
What shall be right: farthest from him is best.
Whom reason hath equallM, force hath made supreme,
Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields,
Where joy for ever dwells I Hail, horrors, hail.
Infernal world ! and thou, profoundest hell !
Receive thy new possessor — one, who brings
A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.
What matter where, if I be still the same.
And what I should be — all but l6ss than he
Whom thunder had made greater? Here at least
We shall be free; the Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, — will not drive us hence:
Here we may reign secure; and, in my choice.
To reign is worth ambition, though in hell:
Better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven !
But wherefore let we then our faithful friends.
The associates and co-partners of our loss,
Lie thus astonish'd on the oblivious pool,
And call them not to share with us their part
In this unhappy mansion; or once more
With rallied arms, to try what may be yet
Begain*d in heaven, or what more lost in hell?"
Milton,
Satan arousing his Legions,
Princes! Potentates!
Warriors! the flower of heaven! once yours,
lost—
now
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If guch astonishment as this can seize
Eternal spirits — Or have je chosen this place
After the toil of battle to repose
Your wearied virtie, for the ease you find
To slumber here, as in the vales of heaven?
Or in this abject posture have ye sworn
To adore the Conqueror, who now beholds
Cherub and seraph rolling in the flood,
With scatter'd arms and ensigns, till anon
His swift pursuers from heaven-gates discern
The advantage, and, descending, tread us down
Thus drooping; or with linked thunderbolts
Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf?
Awake ! arise ! or be for ever fallen !
331
Milton*
Description of the Fallen Angels Wandering through
Hell.
Thds, roving on
In confused march forlorn, the adventurous bands.
With shuddering horror pale, and eyes aghast,
View'd first their lamentable lot, and found
No rest. Through many a dark and dreary vale
They pass'd, and many a region dolorous;
O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp,
Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of
death! —
A universe of death; which God by curse
Created evil; for evil only good;
Where all life dies, death lives, and nature breeds
Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things;
Abominable, unutterable, and worse
Than fables yet have feign'd, or fear conceived,
Goigons, and Hydras, and Chimeras dire !
Milton,
JEvetiing in Paradise.
Now came still evening on, and twilight grey
Had in her sober livery all things clad;
Silence accompanied; for beast and bird —
They to their grassy couch, these to their nesta
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»! I
Were slunk — all but the wakeful nightingale;
She all night long her amorous descant sung:
Silence was pleased. Now glow'd the firmament
With living sapphires: Hesperus, that led
The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon
Rising in clouded majesty, at length,
Apparent queen, unveil'd her peerless light,
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.
When Adam thus to Eve: — "Fair consort! the hour
Of night, and all things now retired to rest.
Mind us of like repose; since God hath set
Labour and rest, as day and night, to men
Successive; and the timely dew of sleeps
Now falling with soft slumberous weight, inclines
Our eyelids: other creatures all day long
Rove idle, unemploy'd, and lets need rest ;
Man hath his daily work of body or mind
Appointed, which declares his dignity.
And the regard of Heaven on all his ways;
While other animals inactive range.
And of their doings God takes no account.
To-morrow, ere fresh m(M'ning streak the east
With first approach of light, we must be risen.
And at our pleasant labour, to reform
Yon flowery arbours, yonder alleys green.
Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown.
That mock our scant manuring, and require
More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth;
Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums.
That lie bestrown, unsightly and unsmooth.
Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease;
Meanwhile, as nature wills, night bids us rest.'*
To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adornM: —
<' My author and disposer, what thou bidd'st,
Unargued I obey; so God ordains. —
God is thy law; thou, mine; to know no more.
Is woman's happiest knowledge, and her praise!
With thee conversing, I forget all time;
All seasons, and their change — all please alike.
Sweet is the breath of morn — her rising sweet,
With charms of earliest birds; pleasant the sun.
When first on this delightful land he spreads
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333
n'd:—
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, ' '
Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of pjrateful evening mild; then silent night,
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train: —
But neither breath of morn, when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds; nor rising sun '
On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flower,
Glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers;
Nor grateful evening mild ; nor silent night,
With this her solemn bird; iior walk by moon
Or glittering star-light, without thee, is sweet!" Milton.
Satan's Address to the Sun,
O THOU, that, with surpassing glory crownVJ,
Look*8t from thy sole dominion like '' «^ god
Of this new world! — at whose sight lii the stars
Hide their diminish'd heads! — to thee I call.
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,
Sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams.
That bring to my remembrance from what state
1 fell, how glorious once above thy sphere;
Till pride and worse ambition threw me down.
Warring in heaven against heaven's matchless King.
Ah! wherefore? he deserved no such return
From me, whom he created what I was.
In that bright eminence; and with his good
Upraided none; nor was iut service hard.
What could he less than ic uffbrd him praise
The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks. . '
How due ! yet all his !7;ood proved ill in me,
And wrought but mniice; lifted up so high,
I disdain'd subjection, and thought one step higher
Would set me highest, and in a moment quit
The debt immense of endless gratitude —
So burdensome still paying, still to owe!
Forgetful what from him I still received;
And understood not that a grateful mind
By owing owes not, but still pays at once
Indebted and discharged; what burden then?
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Oh! had his powerful destiny ordain'd
Me some inferior angel, I had stood
Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised
Ambition! Yet why not? some other Power
As great, might have aspired; and me, thorgh mean,
Drawn to his part: but other Powers as gif^X
Fell not, but stand unshaken; from within
Or from without, to all temptations arm'd.
Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand?
Thou hadst: whom hast thou, then, or what to accuse.
But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all?
Be, then, his love accursed I since, love or hate,
To me {dike, it deals eternal woe!
Nay, cursed be thou! since, against his thy will
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is hell! myself am hell!
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep.
Still threatening to devour me, (^ens wide.
To which the hell I sufier eeems a heaven!
Oh, then, at last relent! is there no place
Left for repentance? none for pardon left?
None left bat by submission: and that word
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of ahame
Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced
With other promises and other vaunts
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue—-
The Omnipotent! Ah me! they little know
How dearly I abide that boast so vain;
Under what torments inwardly I ^oan,
While they adore me on the throne of hdL
With diadem and sceptre high advanced.
The lower still I fall; only supreme
In misery. — Such joy ambition finds!
But say I could repent, and could obtain.
By act of grace, my former state — how soon
Would height recall high thoughts; how soon unsay
What feign*d submission swore! Ease would i^econt
Vows made in pain, as violent and void;
For never can true reconcilement grow
Where wounds of dea^ hate have pierced so deep— >
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335
I unsay
I secant
deep—
Whioli would but lead me to a worse relapse
And heavier fall; so should I purchase dear
Short intermission bought with double smart!
This knows my pnnisher; therefore as far
From granting, he—as 1, from begging peace!
All hope excluded thus, behold, instead
Of us outcast! exiled! his new delight,
Mankind created, and for him this world.
So, farewell hope! and with hope, farewell fear!
Farewell remorse! all good tc me is lost.
Evil, be thou my good! by thee, at least
Divided empire with heaven's King I hold;
By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;
As man ere long, and this new world, shall know!
Milton.
JldanCs JtceourU tf Himself with regard to his Crea-
tion,
Fob man to tell how human life began.
Is hard; for who himself beginning knew?
Desire with thee still longer to converse
Induced me. As new-waked from soundest sleeps
Soft on the flowery herb I found me laid.
In balmy sweat; which with his beams the sun
Soon dried, and on the reeking moistare fed.
Straight towards heaven my wondenng eyes I tom'd.
And gazed awhile the ample sky; till, raised
By quick instinctive motion, up I sprung,
As thitherward endeavouring, and upright
Stood on my feet. About me round I saw
Hill, dale, and shady woods, and sunny plains.
And liquid lapse of murmuring streams; by these.
Creatures that lived and moved, and walk'd or flew;
Birds on the branches warbling; all things smiled;
With fragrance and with joy my heart o erflow'd !
Myself I then perused, and limb by limb
Surveyed and sometimes went, and sometimes ran
With supple joints, as lively vigour led:
But who I was, or where, or from what cause.
Knew not To speak I tried, and forthwith spake;
My tongue obeyM and readily could name
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Whate'er I saw. " Thou sun," said I, " fair light 1
And thou, enlighten*d earth! so fresh and gay;
Ye hills and dales; ye rivers, woods, and plains;
And ye that live and move, fair creatures! tell.
Tell, if ye saw, how came I thus? — ^how here?"
nid.
Contest between Satan and Gabriel,
« "Wht hast thou, Satan, broke the bounds prescribed
To thy transgressions, and disturb'd the charge
Of others, who approve not to transgress
By thy example, but have power and right
To question thy bold entrance on this place—
Employ'd, it seems, to violate sleep, and those
Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss?"
To whom thus Satan, with contemptuous brow:
** Gabriel, thou hadst in heaven the esteem of wise,
And such I held thee: but this question ask'd
Puts me in doubt. Lives there who loves his pain?
Who would not, finding way, break loose from hell,
Though thither doom'd? Thou would'st thyself, no
doubt,
And boldly venture to whatever place
Farthest from pain, where thou might'st hope to change
Torment with ease, and soonest recompense
Dole with delight; which in this place I sought; i
To thee no reason, who know'st only good.
But evil hast not tried: and wilt object
His will who bound us? Let him surer bar
His iron gates, if he intends our stay
In that dark durance. Thus much what was ask'd.
The rest is true; they found me where they say;
But that implies not violence or harm."
Thus he in scorn. The warlike angel moved,
Disdainfully half-smiling, thus replied:
"Oh! loss of one in heaven to judge of wise,
Since Satan fell, whom folly overthrew!
And now returns him from his prison 'scaped.
Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise
Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither,
Unlicensed from his bounds in hell prescribed;
So wise he judges it to fly from pain,
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337
lange
r m
t
Id,
itber,
However, and to 'scape his punishment.
So judge thou still, presumptuous! till the wrath,
Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight
Sevenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to hell
Which taught thee yet no better — that no pain
Can equal anger infinite provoked!
But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee
Oam« not all hell broke loose? Is pain to them
Less pain, less to be fled? or thou than they
Less hardy to endure? Courageous chief!
The first in flight from pain! hadst thou alleged
To thy deserted host this cause of flight,
Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive."
To which the fiend thus answerM, frowning stern:
" Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain,
Insulting angel! well thou know'st I stood
Thy fiercest, when in battle to thy aid
The blasting voUied thunder made all speed,
And seconded thy else not-dreaded spear.
But still thy words at random, as before.
Argue thy inexperience what behoves,
From hard essays and ill successes past,
A faithful leader; not to hazard all
Through ways of danger by himself untried;
I, therefore— I alone! — first undertook
To wing the desolate abyss, and spy
This new created world, whereof in hell
Fame is not silent, here in hope to find
Better abode, and my afflicted Powers
To settle here on earth, or in mid air —
Though for possession put to try once more
What thou and thy gay legions dare against:
Whose easier business were to serve their Lord
High up in heaven, with songs to hymn his throne.
And practised distances to cringe — not fight!*'
To whom the warrior-angel soon replied:
" To say, and straight unsay — pretending first
Wise to fly pain, professing next the spy —
Argues no leader, but a liar traced,
Satan! And couldst thou faithful add! name!
O sacred name of faithfulness profaned!
Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew?
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Army of fiends! fit body to fit head!
"Was this your discipline and faith engaged,
Your military obedience, to dissolve
AUegif^nce to the acknowledged Power supreme?
And iiiou, sly hypocrite! who now wouldst seem
Patr »n of liberty, who more than thou
Onc^' fuwn*d, and cringed, and servilely adored
Heaven's awful Monarch? — wherefore, but in hope
To dispossess Him, and thyself to reign?
But mark what I arread thee now — Avaunt!
Fly thither whence thou fledd*st. If from this hour
"Within these hallowed limits thou appear,
Back to the infernal pit I drag thee chain*d
And seal thee so, as henceforth not to scorn
The facile gates of hell, loo slightly barr'd,"
So threatened he; but Satan to no threats
Gave heed J but, waxing more in rage, replied:
" Then when I am thy captive, talk of chains,
Proud limitary cherub ! but, ere then,
Far heavier load thyself expect to feel
From my prevailing arm, though heaven's King
Ride on thy wings, and thou, with thy compeers —
Used to the yoke! — draw'st his triumphant wheels
In progress through the road of heaven star-paved."
While thus he spake, the angelic squadron bright
Turn'd fiery red, sharpening in mooned horns
Their phalanx, and began to hem him round
With ported spears, as thick as when a field
Of Ceres, ripe for harvest, wavin<>: bends
Her bearded grove of ears, which way the wind
Sways them; the careful ploughman doubting stands.
Lest on the thrashing-floor his hopeful sheaves
Prove chaff. On the other side, Satan, alarm'd,
Collecting all his might, dilated stood,
Like Teneriffe or Atlas, unremoved:
His stature reach'd the eky, and on his crest
Sat horror plumed; nor wanted in Lis grasp
What seem'd both spear and shield. Now dreadful deeds
Might have ensued: Not only Paradise,
In this commotion, but the starry cope
Of heaven perhaps, or all the elements
At least, had gone to wreck, disturbed and torn
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339
hour
n9)
:ing
eers—
wheels
paved."
I brigbt
us
?ind
|g stands,
res
fm*d,
adful deeds
With violence of this conflict, had not soon
The Eternal, to prevent such horrid fray.
Hung forth in heaven his golden scales, yet seen
Betwixt Astrea and the Scorpion sign,
"Wherein all things created first he weigh'd —
The pendulous round earth with balanced air
In counterpoise; now ponders all events,
Battles and realms — In these he put two weights, I
The sequel each of parting ard of fight:
The latter quick up flew, and kick'd the beam;
Which Gabriel spying, thus bespake the fiend:
" Satan, I know thy strength, and thou know'st mine;
Neither our own, but given: what folly then *»
To boast what arms can do? since thine, no more
Than Heaven permits, nor mine, though doubled now
To trample thee as mire: for proof lo«k up.
And read thy lot in yon celestial sign;
Where thou art weigh'd, and shown how light, how
weak.
If thou resist." The fiend look*d up, and knew
His mounted scale aloft; nor more; but fled
Murmuring; and with him fled the shades of night.
Milton.
torn
The Good Preacher and the Clerical Coxcomb
Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul,
Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own,
Paul should himself direct me: I would trace
His m.^ster-strokes, and draw froiu his design.
I woulr! express him simple, grave, sincere;
In doctrine uncorrupt; in language, plain;
And plain in manner. Decent, solemn, chaste,
And natural in gesture. Much impress'd
Himself, as conscious of his i wful charge,
\nd anxious, mainly, that the flock he feeds
May feel it too. Affectionate in look.
And tender in address, as well becomes
A messenger of grace to guilty men.
Behold the picture! — Is it like? — like whom?
The things that mount the rostrum with a skip,
And then — skip down again? pronounce a text,
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Cry, hem ! and, reading what they never wrote
Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their workj
And, with a well-bred whisper, clo^e the gftene?
In maii or woman — but far most in TJiira,
And most of all in man that mini&teri;,
And serves the altar — in my soul 1 Icatho
All affectation: 'tis my perfect scorn;
Object of my implacable disgust.
What ! will & man pla; tricks — will he indulge
A silly, fond conceit of his fair form
And just proportion, faihioiiable. mien
And pretty face, in presence of his God?
Or will he seek to dazde me with tropes,
As with the diamond on his lily band;
At.d play iiis brilliant parts before my eyes.
When I am hungry for the bread of life?
He mov!kii his Maker; prostitutes and shames
His noble office; and, instead of truth.
Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock.
Therefore, avaunt ! all attitude and stare,
And start theatric, practised at the glass !
I seek divine simplicity in him
Who handles things divine; and all beside.
Though learn'd with labour, and though much admired
By curious eyes, and judgments ili-formM,
To me is odious. Couper,
On the Being of a God,
Betire; — the world shut out; — thy thoughts call home!
Imagination's airy wing repress;
Lock up thy senses; — let no passion stir; —
Wake all to Reason; — let her reign alone: —
Then in thy soul's deep silence, and f^he depth
Of Nature's silence, midnight, thus inquire.
As I have done; and shall inquire no more.
In Nature's channel, thus the q'lestions run.
What am I? and from whenr^- I nothing know,
Put that I am; and sine $ T an, conclude
Something eternal. Ha I thtie e'er been nought,
Nought still had been: etr'rnal there must be.
But what eternal? — W!iy aot human race;
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341
ladmired
Couper,
\\\ home
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And Adam's ancestors without an end? —
That's hard to he conceived; since every link
Of that long-chainM succession is so frail:
Can every part depend, and not the whole?
Yet, grant it true, new difficulties rise:
I'm still quite out at sea, nor see the shore.
Whence earth, and these bright orbs ? — eternal too?—
Grant matter was eternal; still these orbs
Would want some other father. Much design
Is seen in all their motions, all their makes.
Design implies intelligence and art:
That can't be from themselves — or man; that art
Man scarce can comprehend, could man bestow?
And nothing greater, yet allow'd, than man.— •
Who, motion, foreign to the smallest grain.
Shot through vast masses of enormous weight?
Who bade brute matter's restive lump assume
Such various forms, and gave it wings to fly?
Has matter innate motion? then, each atom,
Asserting its indisputable right
To dance, would form a universe of dustu
Has matter none? then, whence these glorious forms,
And boundless flights, from shapeless, and reposed?
Has matter more than motion? Has it thought,
Judgment, and genius? Is it deeply learn'd
In mathematics? Has it framed such laws.
Which but to guess, a Newton made immortal? —
If so, how each sage atom laughs at me,
Who think a clod inferior to a man !
If art, to form; and counsel, to conduct —
And that with greater far than human skill.
Reside not in each block; — a Godhead reigns. —
And, if a God there is, that God how great !
Young.
vVl
Dublin Bay — Shipwreck — Deserted Passengers,
How beautifully still is all around !
Calm as the couch where slumber seals the eye
Of infant innocence, in deep repose
These sandy ridges? and the waters sleep,
Wrapp*d in the golden effluence of day.
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Far different the scene, when wintry winds
Rush from their frozen caves, and Eurus rides
On the dark clouds, when by her powerful spell
The attractive moon has call'd around her throne
The congregated floods. Then roars the might
Of ocean, sheeted all in raging foam;
The labouring vessels fly; the thundering surge
Bolls o'er the piers; and mariners thank Heaven,
That they are not at sea.
Yet Memory weeps
That night's sad horrors, when a luckless bnrk
Was hurl'd upon these sands. Elate with hope,
Some hundred warriors, who in many a field
Had gathered laurels, in this bark resought
Their native Erin. Nearer as they drew,
Each spell .yf .ountry, with magnetic power.
Wrought 7.1 iiifir aculs, and all the joys of home
Bush'd on tbs r it^no/. Some, in thought, embraced
Their happy jare^d'y, and the lover clasp'd
His fair one to his breast. Another morn,
And all these joys are real! Onward speed.
Thou fleet- wing'd bark! More fleet than sea-bird skims
The floods, she sped. Soon Erin's shores arose:—
Howth glimmer'd in the west, and Wicklow's hiUs
Were blue in the horizon. Then they hail'd
Their own green island, and they chanted loud
Their patriot gratulations, till the sun
Gave them his last farewell. He s.nk in clouds
Of red portentous glare; when dreary night
Condensed around them, and a mountain swell
Announced the coming tempest. Wrapp'd in sl^et.
And arrowy fire, it came. The cutting blast
Smote sore; — ^yawn'd the precipitous abyss; —
Boar'd the torn surges. — From his slippery stand.
In vain the pilot cast a wistful look,
Some friendly light to spy; — but all was dark;
Nor moon, nor star, nor beacon light, was seen ;
While in the yeasty foam, half-buried, toil'd
The reeling ship. At length, that dreadful sound
Which mariners most dread — tb "" fierce, wild din
Of 'ireakers, — raging on the lecwr,!'^ bore,
Appall'd the bravest. On the sands hie struck,
-: \.m n
BLANK VERSE.
343
leet.
nd
In
Shivering, as in the cold and deadly grasp
Of dissolution. Agonizing screams
Were heard within, which told that hope was fled.
Then might some counsel sage, perchance have wrought
A great deliverance. But what shipwreck'd crew
E'er list to counsel? Where 'tis needed most,
'Tis most despised. In such a fearful hour,
Each better feeling dies, and cruel self
Sears all of human in the heart of man.
None counsell'd safety — but a fell design
Rose in the captain's breast, above the throng
To close the hatches, while himself and crew
Flee to the boat, and hope or chance to 'scape,
Leave to the captives none. The recreant slaves
Their ship deserting, in the faithful skiff,
For once too faithful, sweep the foaming gulf,
And reach the strand. But ah ! the gallant throng,
Lock'd in the dungeon-hold, around them hear
The roaring cataracts; — their shrieks and groans.
With threats and prayers, and mingled curses, speak
Their soul's last agonies. What boots their prayers.
Their groans, or rag< to madness by their rrongs
Exasperated high? Will storms grow calm.
Or warring surges hear the suppliant's voice.
When man has steelM his heart? Oh! now to die
Amid the strife of p.rms were ecstacy !
Ay — e'en to perish in the cjnflict rude
With seas and storms, beneath the cope of* heaven,
Where their last breath might mingle with the winds!
But thus to die inglorious ! thus immured.
As in some den of hell I They chafe in vain: —
So chafes the lion in the hunters trap;
So in his coffin turns, with dire dismay.
The wretch unwittingly entomb'd alive.
Now torn and wreck'd — deep-cradled in the sands.
The vessel lies. Through all her yawning sides
She drinks the flood. Loud o'er her roars the surge
But all within — is still.
Drummond,
f'\
M\
m
p^-^d^^^^^--'-^^
344
BLANK VERSB.
Address to the Sun.
Thou peerless Sun!
Oh I let me hail thee, as in gorgeous robes
Blot'iilnj^ thou leavest the chambers of the East,
Crown'd mth a gemm'd tiara, thick emboss'd
With studs of living light. The stars grow dim
And vanish in thy brightness: but on earth
Ten thousand glories, sparkling into life.
Their absence well renay. The mists, dispersed,
Flit o'er the monnt^ln-tops. Cliflfs, glens, and woodSy
And lakes, and ocean?, now are burnished o*er
With scintillating gold. Where'er the eye
Erratic turns, it greets thee: for thy form.
Nature, delighted, multiplies, and makes
Each sand, each dew-drop, the small floret's crown.
The tiny orbit of the insect's eye.
And the rayed texture of the sparry rock,
A mirror for thy glory. Life awakes
From dewy slumber. — Hark! the jocund lark
Awakes her carols; now their morning hymn
The birds are chanting, and the voir-, of joy
Has fill'd the ethereal vault. Reflection fair
Of thy Creator? strange had heathen worlds
Not paid thee rites divine t Shouldst thou refuse
Thy wonted smile, or stay thy chariot-wheels.
Soon Nature's mighty pulse would cease to beat.
And, aV her powers collapsing, might she dread
Sad dissolution. But the Eternal's breath
Has kindled thee with fires that never know
Extinction nor exhaustion. His command
Proud to fulfil, thou measurest days and weeks.
Months, years, and cycles, to the sons of men.
And seest their generations rise and bloom.
Wax old and die; -ihyself unchanged by Time.
Ne'er has h s hand thy golden tresses shorn.
Nor on thy 'azzling forehead has he left
Trace of h^ wrinkling breath, nor aught thy speed
And juverile strength abated. Matchless orb!
Roll ever glorious, ever round thee pour
The streams of life and j oy, thy Maker's praise
Exalting high, his noblest image thou !
rrumluowi.
PROMISCUOUS DRAMATIC SELECTIONS.
le.
speed
use
Cardinal Wolsey*s Speech to Cromwell.
Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear.
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. —
Let's dry our eyes, and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And when I am forgotten, as I shall be.
And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention
Of me must more be heard; say then, I taught thee —
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways to glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;
A sure, and safe one — though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruin'd me:
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition !
By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee:
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still, in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not.
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,
Thy God's, and truth's; then, if thou fall'st, O Crom-
well,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve, the king;
And, pr'ythee, lead me in
There take an inventory of all I have;
To the last penny, 'tis the king's. My robe.
And my integrity to Heaven, are all
I dare now call my own. O Cromwell! Cromwell!
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not, in mine age.
Have left me naked to mine enemies.
Shakspeare.
¥2
i
•■a. '.
I
846 PROMISCUOUS DRAMATIC tJULtOlAONS.
Henry V. to his Soldiers,
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead!
In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man,
As modest stillness and humility:
But v/hen the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then, imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then, lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let it pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon! let the brow overwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rook
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swiird with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now, set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide;
Hold hard the breath; and bend up every spirit
To his full height. Now, on, you noblest English I
Whose blood is fetch'd from fathers of war proof;
Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders,
Have, in these parts, from morn till even fought,
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument!
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. — The game's afoot! —
Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge.
Cry, God for Harry, England, and St. George!
Shakspeare.
Marcellus*s Speech to the Mob.
Wherefore rejoice? that Caesar comes in triumph!
What conquest brings he home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome,
To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels?
You blocks ! you stones ! you worse than senseless
things !
Oh you hard hearts ! you cruel men of Rome !
Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops —
Your infants in your arms — and there have sat
PROMISCUOUS DRAMATIC lELBCnOVS.
847
more;
m it
de;
(irit
English I
proof ;
ight
mi
entl
!_^
rpe!
^hakspeare.
triumpbl
ha?
m senseless
me!
doft
snts,
tops —
re sat
The live-long day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome?
And, when you saw liis chariot but appear,
Have you not made a universal shout.
That Tiber trembled underneath his banks,
To hear the replication of your sounds,
Made in her concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood ?
Begone!
Run to your houses! fall upon your knees!
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague,
That needs must light on this ingratitude! Shakespeare,
iA
Henry Vh Speech before the Battle of ^.^gincourt.
What's he that wishes for more men from England?
My cousin Westmoreland! — No, my fair cousin;
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and, if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
No, no, my lord; wish not a man from England!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, throughout my hos^
That he who hath no stomach to this flght.
May straight depart: his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company !
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the Feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named.
And rouse him nt the name of Crispian!
He that shall live this day and see old age.
Will, yearly on the vigil, feast his friends:
And say — To-morrow is Saint Crispian!
Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars.
And say these wounds I had on Crispian's day
Old men forget, yet shall not all forget.
But they'll remember, with advantages.
What feats they did that day. Then shall our names,
.1' 1
t
848
PROMISCUOUS DRAMATIC SELECTIONS.
Familiar in their mouths as household-words,-— '
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
"Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'ster, —
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the goodman teach his son;
And Crispian's day shall ne*er go by,
From this time to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers I
For he, to-day, that sheds his blood with me.
Shall be my brother — be he e*er so vile.
This day shall gentle his condition;
And, gentlemen in England, now a-bed,
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here;
And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispian's day.
Shahesptare,
Douglases Account of Himself.
My name is Norval. On the Grampian hills
My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain,
Whose constant cares were to increase his store,
And keep his only son, myself, at home:
For I had heard of battles, and I long*d
To follow to the field some warlike lord;
And Heaven soon granted what my sire denied.
This moon, which rose last night, round as my shield,
Had not yet filled her horns, when, by her light,
A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills,
Bush'd, like a torrent, down upon the vale.
Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled
For safety and for succour. I alone,
With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows,
Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd
The road he took; then hasted to my friends;
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men,
I met advancing. The pursuit I led.
Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe.
We fought — and conquer'd! Ere a sword was drawn,
An arrow from my bow bad pierced their chief,
Who wore, that day, the arms which now I wear.
PROMISCUOUS DRAMATIC SELECTIONS.
349
ed
iwn,
Beturning home in triumph, I disdain'd
The shepherd's slothful life ; and, having heard
That our good king had summon'd his bold peers
To lead their warriors to the Carron side,
I left my father's house, and took with me
A chosen servant to conduct my steps —
Yon trembling coward, who forsook his master.
Journeying with this intent, I pass'd these towers;
And, heaven-directed, came this day, to do
The happy deed, that gilds my humble name. Home,
Rolla to the Peruvians.
My brave associates! — partners of my toil, my feel-
ings, and my fame ! Can Rolla's words add vigour to
the virtuous energies which inspire your hearts?—-
No; — you have judged, as I have, the foulness of the
crafty plea by which these bold invaders would delude
you. — Your generous spirit has compared, as mine
has, the motives which, in a war like this, can animate
their minds and ours. — They, by a strange frenzy
driven, fight for power, for plunder, and extended rule;
— we, for our country, our altars, and our homes. —
They follow an adventurer whom they fear, and obey
a power which they hate; — we serve a monarch whom
we love, — a God whom we adore. — Whene'er they
move in anger, desolation tracks their progress ! —
Where'er they pause in amity, affliction mourns their
friendship. — They boast, they <;ome but to improve
our state, enlarge our thoughts), and free us from the
yoke of error! — Yes — they — they will give enlightened
freedom to our minds, M'ho are themselves the slaves of
passion, avarice, and pride! — They offer us their
protection — ^yes, such protection as vultures give to
Iambs — covering and devouring them! — They call on
us to barter all of good we have inherited and proved,
for the desperate chance of something better which
they promise. — Be our plain answer this: The throne
we honour, is the people's choice — the laws wc rever-
ence, are our brave fathers* legacy — the faith we follow,
teaches us to live in bonds of charity with all mankind,
and die with hope of bliss beyond the grave. — Tell your
t
;ji
350
PROMISUOUS DRAMATIC SELECTIONS.
m'Mi
invaders this, and tell them too, we seek no change;
and least of all, such change as they would bring us,
SheridarCs Pizarro.
Cato^s Soliloquy on the Immortality of the Soul,
It must V;e so — Plato, thou reason'st well ! —
Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?
Or, whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction? —
'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us;
'Tis Heaven itself that points out — an Hereafter,
And intimates — Eternity to man.
Eternity! — thou pleasing — drtadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!
The wide, the unbounded prospect, lies before me,
But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's 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 delights in, must be happy.
But when? or where? This world— was made for Caesar.
I'm weary of conjectures — this must end them.
\_Laying his hand on his sword
Thus am I dov My 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 — informs 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 crush of worlds!
•Addiso^.
Brutus on the Death of Caesar.
Romans, Countrymen, and Loven ' — hear me for
my cause; and be silent, that you may hear. Believe
PROMISCUOUS DRAMATIC SELECTIONS.
351
i≱
T U8.
isarro.
•e,
I
ter,
vre pass,
e me,
ii it.
us —
virtue ;
•py.
for Caesar.
era.
his sword
Irs;
l-lds!
MdisoA.
lear me for
\r. Believe
me for mine honour; and have respect to mine honour,
that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom ; and
awake your senses, that you may the better judge, —
If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of
Caesar's, to him I say, that Brutiis's love to Caesar was no
less than his. If, then, that friend demand why Brutus
rose against Caesar, this is my answer: not that I loved
Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather
Caesar were living, and die all slaves; than that Caesar
were dead, to live all freemen? — As Caesar loved
me, I weep for him ; as he was fort.mate, I rejoice at
it; as he was valiant, I honour him; but as he was am-
bitious, I slew him! There are tears for his love, joy
for his fortune, honour for his valour, and death for his
ambition! — Who's here so base, that would be a bond-
man? if any' speak ! for him have I offended. Who's
here so rude, that would not be a Roman? if any, speak!
for him have I offended. Who's here so vile, that will
not love his country? if any, speak! for him have I
offended. — I pause for a reply. —
None? then none have I offended! I have done no
more to Caesar, than you should do to Brutus. The
question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol; his
glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his
offences enforced, for which 1 uffered death.
Here comes his body, mou^aed by Mark Antony;
who, though he had no hand in h... death, shall receive
the benefit of his dying, a place in tlie commonwealth;
as, which of you shall not? — With this I depart —
that as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I
have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please
my country to need my death. Shakspeare.
Hawlets Solilnqui/ on Dtath.
To be—- or not to be? — tluit is the question. —
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The -/tings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them? — To die — to sleep —
No more! — and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart -ache, and the thousand natural shocks
4 {
1
■fti
A ''
Si
I;
i
352
PROMISCUOUS DRAMATIC SELECTIONS.
That flesh is heir to — 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die — to sleep —
To sleep? — perchance to dream! — ay, there's the rub!
For, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give ua pause. — There's the respect,
That makes calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pr^igs of despised love, the law's delay,
T^-e inpoloii.c; of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes —
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear.
To groan and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread o' something after death —
That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne
No traveller returns! — puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus, conscience does mak« cowards of us all:
And thus, the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pak cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pT.t and moment,
With this regard, their cjirr^*ts turn awry.
And lose the name of actioni
Shakspeare,
Mark. Antony's Oration.
Friends, Romans, Countrymer lend me your ears,
I come to bury Caesar, not to iwuise him.
The evil that men do, lives aiW tbooQ
The good is oft interred with tiwtcr Inm^s:
So let it be with Cceaar! — The maftle Brutus
Hath told you, Caesar was ambitMH-^
If it was so, it was a grievous fauH*:
And grievously hath Cassao' answ+r" i i!
Here, under leave of Brutus, ana lie rest—
For Brutus is an honourable man \
So are they all ! all honourable men-
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
PROMISCUOUS DRAMATIC SELECTIONS.
353
J rub!
)me,
line,
[uely,
k»>
le
l\:
\hakspeare.
)ur ears,
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, Cojsar hath wept.
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff! —
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable roan!
You all did sec, that, on the Lupercal,
I thrice presented him a kingly crown.
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?-—
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And sure 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 irithholds you, then, to mourn for him?
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason! — Bear w^ith me:
My heart is in the coffin there with Cssar;
And I must pause till it come back to roe !
But yesterday, the word of Casar might
Have stood against the world — now lies he there.
And none so poor as do him reverence!
masters ! 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 ! —
I will not do them wrong: I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you.
Than I will wrong such honourable mew ! —
But here's a parchment with the seal of Csesar —
I found it in his closet — 'tis his will !
Let but the commons hear his testament —
Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read, —
And they will go and kiss dead Cresar's wounds.
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory;
And, dying, mention it within their wills.
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy.
i^lH
354
PROMISCUOUS DRAMATIC SELECTIONS.
M.J
■Lit
\f<r
h!—
ibM!
Unto their issue! —
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You 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' dagger 'h
^See what a rent the envious Casca madt. ' —
Through this — the well-beloved Brutu
And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cassar follow'd it ! —
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no;
For Brutus, as you know, was Cajsar's angel ! —
Judge, O ye gods, how dearly Caesar loved him !
This, this was the most unkindest cut of all; .
For when the noble Caesar saw hius stab! —
Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms,
Quite vanquish'd him. Then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle mufEing up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey's statue —
Which all the while ran blood ! — great Caesar fell !
Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen I
Then I, and you, and all of us, fell down;
Whilst 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 Caesar's vesture wounded? — look you here I
Here is himself — marr'd, as you see, by traitors !
Good friends ! sweet friends ! let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny !
They that have done this deed, are honourable ! —
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,
That made then~ do it: they are wise and honourable,
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come no^, friends, to steal away your hearts.
I am no orator, as Brutus is;
But, as you know me all, a plain, blunt man,
That love my friend — and that they know full well,
That gave me public leave to speak of him —
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
PROMISCUOUS DRAMATIC SELECTIONS.
355
w.
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 me. But, were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Caesar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny!
Shakspears,
ell-
him'.
U; •
as,
i«rhty heart;
isar fell !
1
)ut behold
here I
Iraitors \ '
)t stir you up
irable !—
^ow not,
honourable,
jyou.
iarts.
Shylock justifying his Meditated Revenge,
Ip it will feed nothing else, it vv^ill feed my revenge.
He hath disgraced me, and hindered me of half a
million! laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains,
scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my
friends, heated mine enemies ! And what's his reason?
I am a Jew ! Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew
hands? organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?
Is he not fed with the same food, hurt with the same
weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the
same means, warmed and cooled by the same summer
and winter, as a Christian is? If you stab us, do we
not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If
you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us,
shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest,
we will resemble you in that ! If a Jew wrong a
Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a
Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be
by Christian example? Why, Revenge! The villany
you teach me I will execute; and it shall go hard, but
I will better the instruction. Shakspeare.
I A
t if
if
Ii:
\an
full well,
lim —
rortb.
%».. t^:
COMIC PIECES.
I'! I
Lodgings for Single Gentlemen,
"Who has e'er been in London, that overgrown place,
Has seen "Lodgings to Let" stare him full in the face:
Some -Q good, and let dearly; while some, 'tis well
known,
Are so dear, and so Lad, they are best let alone.
Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely,
Hired lodgings that took Single Gentlemen only;
But Will was so tat, he appear'd like a tun, —
Or like two Single Gentlemen roll'd into One.
He enter'd his rooms, and to bed he retreated;
But, all the night long, he felt feverM and heated;
And, though heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep.
He was not, by any means, heavy to sleep.
Next night 'twas the same ! — and the next ! — and the
next !
He perspired like an ox ; he was nervous, and vex'd.
Week pass'd after week, till, by weekly succession,
His weakly condition was past all expression.
In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt
him;
For his skin, * like a lady's loose gown,' hung about
him!
So he sent for a doctor, and cried like a ninny,
** I have lost many pounds — make me well — there's a
guinea."
The doctor look'd wise: — " A slow fever," he said ;
Prescribed sudorifics — and going to bed. —
*' Sudorifics in bed," exclaim'd Will, " are humbugs!
I've enough of them there, without paying for drugs!"
Will kick'd out the doctor; — but, when ill indeed,
E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed;
So, calling his host, he said — '< Sir do you know,
I'm the fat Single Gentleman, six months ago?
<JiM
COMIC PIECES.
367
n.
rrown p^ftc®»
tt in the face:
,oine, 't\3 well
X alone.
IS and lonely,
Ben only J
tun, —
to One.
treated;
and heated;
:eof fatslieep>
ileep.
next '.-and the
^ou3, and yex'd.
[y succefision,
jression.
n much to doubt
[wn,' li««S ^^^''^
e a ninny,
ae well-there's a
lever," be said ;
Ibed.— , „ t
\ ii are humbugsl
paying for drugs',
tien ill indeed,
yays Bucceed;
io you know,
nonths ago?
«
" Look ye, landlord,, I Miink," argued Will with a grin,
" That with honest iritentions you iirst took me in:
But from the first night — and to say it I*m bold —
I've been so very hot:, that I'm sure I've caught cold!"
Quoth the landlord, — "Till now, I ne'er had a dispute;
Pve let ior 'rings ten years, — I'm a baker to boot;
In airing yjur sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven;
And your bed is immediately — over my oven."
"The oven!!!" says Will— Says the host, "Why this
passion?
In that excellent bed divid tdree people of fashion !
Why so crusty, good sir?" — "Zounds!" cried Will in
a taking,
" Who would not be r, 'usty, with half a year's baking?"
vVill paid for his rooms. Cried the host, with a sneer,
" Well, I see you have been going away half a year." —
" Friend, we can't well agree; — ^yet no quarrel " — Will
said; —
But I'd rather not perish, while you make your
bread."
Colman,
The Chameleon.
Oft has it been my lot to mark
A proud, conceited, t Jking spark —
With eyes that hardly served at most
To guard their mastc • 'gainst a post;
Yet round the world the blade had been
To see whatever could be seen —
Returning from his finish'd tour,
Grown ten times perter than before:
Whatever word you chance to drop,
The travell'd fool youi aiouth will stop—
" Sir, if my judgment you'll allow,
I've seen, and sure I ought to know," —
So begs you'd pay a due :^ubmiss.'ion,
And acquiesce in 'his deoldion.
Two travellers, of such a cast —
As o'er Arabia's wilds they pass'd,
111:
i;
I!! I
858 COMIC PIECES.
And on their way, in friendly chat,
Now talk'd of this, and then of that —
Discoursed awhile, 'mongst -^ir. r matter
Of the Chameleon's form aua nature
" A stranger animal," cries one,
** Sure never lived beneath the sun!
A lizard's body, lean and long
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue,
Its foot with triple claw disjoin'd;
And what a length of tail behind !
How slow its pace! and then its hue —
Who ever saw so fine a blue !"
" Hold there !" the other quick replies,
" Tis green — I saw it with these eyes,
As late with open mouth it lay,
And warmM it in the sunny ray;
Stretch'd at its ease, the beast I view'd,
And saw it eat the air for food."
** I've seen it sir, as well as you.
And must again affirm it blue ;
At leisure I the beast surveyed,
Extended in the cooling shade."
" 'Tis green 'tis gre*}n sir, I assure ye."
"Green!" cries the other in a fury;
"Why, sir — d'ye think I've lost my eyes?"
" 'Twere no great loss,' the friend replies.
" For, if they always serve you thus,
You'll find 'em but of little use !"
So high at last the contest rose,
From words they almost came to blows;
When luckily came by a third:
To him the question they referr'd;
And begged he'd tell 'em if he knew
Whether the thing was green or blue.
" Sirs," cries the umpire, " cease your pother;
The creature's neither one nor t'other.
I caught the animal last night,
And view'd it o'er by candle-light;
I mark'd it well — 'twas black as jet —
You stare — but, sirs, I've got it yet.
And can produce it." — " Pray, sir, do:
I'll lay my life the thing is blue."
1 1
CO.MIC PIECES.
»»
.?»»
^'•o 'epdH wn™;"*''' '^'■«» y»"Ve seen
Replies the „„ ''Vii^"^''f. ''"'"'t,"
And when hefi.„l "™ 1'™ out:
If you do„.tlnd\i""[rr }> ^et hiu,
He Mid, then ?ul ^^^ 'f*' ? « ^at him."
P'-odncedtheb.^ tn'^";»ight
'0 — twas white.
Two hone,, , J'^' ^''''■" '''"'^* <^'«'--
.?- «r^ theX'Sn""? '■".">« Stra
• Hark ye," said he « v •'^ •'' ""^ hand;
About the crows!*i.. r'l"" J^d stcy ,hi,
B^I-ed his friend i^l^r^' ^hat it ,-,,»
J^nere I come from it lA' ^ ™ surprised at th»».
But yon shall hear a'n odd aff-""?"/" «''«"i
And that it happcn'd ft! ""' '"<'eed !
^ot to detain y^ffo^Z,"' "" "^^^ed:
A gentleman, who C n'.'^^ 7 ""«"««.
This week, i„ ,hort L 'h ,/ a*^""' ^'>»nge,
Taking a vomit, threw ut^ Th' "^'l'^ •""»-».
''Impossible;''-!!" 'J? ^'1''^'' Blact Crowaf
I had it from gooJITndf!'^'.'"" '*" """y troe-
"Prom whose I pray?'^".'^ 1° »»? you'T--!!!'
Straight to inq„ire.i-s curifus .'""^.'"'"ed «!■« "an
Sir, did yon teIl?"__S?f ""fade ran. '"
Tes. sir, I did; a„d if .^""'S "he affair.
Twas Mr.»_such ale- Jr'\^°"'- ^^e.
K« ^ "!? ^^'' '"'as r" .«^^^° 'old it me;
" ^here may I find hw"^ ""^ *^^ ^^se. "_
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(716) 872-4503
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360
COMIC PIECES.
Then to his last informant he referr'd, ' T S- *
And beggM to know, if true what he had heard:
** Did you sir, throw up a black crow?" — " Not I!** —
** Bless me ! — how people propagate a lie!
Black crows have been thrown up, Three, Ttro,and One;
And here, I find, all comes at last to None I
Did you say nothing of a crow at all?'*— — "''H
** Crow — crow— perhaps I might; now I recall
The matter over." — " And pray, sir, what was't?"
** Why, I was horrid sick, and at the last
I did throw up, and told my neighbour so,
Some thing that was as black, sir, as a crow."
» Dr.Byrom,
ConteBt between the Eyes and the J^ose, ,'
Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose:
The spectacles set them unhappily wrong:
The point to dispute was, as all the world knows.
To which the said spectacles ought to belong.
So the Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause
With a great deal of skill, and a wig-full of learning;
While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws.
So fkmed for his talent in nicely discerning.
^* In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear,
And your lordship," he said, *'will undoubtedly find.
That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear;,
Which amounts to possession time out of mind.
Then, holding the spectacles up to the court,
" Your lordship observes they are made with a
straddle.
As wide as the ridge of the Nose is ; in short,
Design'd to sit close to it, just like a saddle.
Again, would your lordship a moment suppose —
'Tis a case that has happen'd and may be again —
That the visage or countenance had not a Nose,
Pray who would, or who could wear spectacles thee?
On the whole, it appears, and my argument shows, 'f
With a reasoning the court will never condemn,
That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them."
!»*-
COMIC PIECES.
861
I One;
r
7?'
Byr&mn
ose:
g-
le cause
earning;
8» .
3dly find,
l^ear,
lind.
with a
kgain— :
ties then?
lows,
lemn,
Nose, ,
them."
Then shifting his side, as a lawyer knows how.
He pleaded af^ain in hehalf of the Eyes;
But what were his arguments few people know.
For the court did not think they were equally wise.
So his lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone,
Decisive and clear, without one if or but^
That whenever the Nose put his Spectacles on —
By day«light or candle-light — Eyes should be shut.
Cotoper,
The Charitable Barber,
A sCHOiiAR of that race, whom oft we meet.
Hungry and friendless, wandering through the street,
Though bless*d with gifts, life's noblest scenes to grace,
Was fbrced, through want, to seek a tutor's place,
At length, when pining in extreme distress.
The starving wretch was led to hope success,
And got a sudden summons to repair
Before the guardians of a titled heir:
In Phoebus' livery dress'd from top to toe.
Our wit in this dire plight was loathe to go;
His hat, an hostler for a sieve might use,
His wig was bald, his toes peepM through his shoes;
His hose through many a rent display'd his skin,
And a beard three weeks old adorn*d his chin:
With such a Hebrew phiz, he felt 'twas clear,
No Christian tutor ought to face a peer.
Much he desired to shave it: but, alas !
Our wit was minus razor, soap, and glass;
And what the barbed sage esteem'd still worse,
Had nought to fee the barber in his purse.
In this dilemma, cursing purse and beard,
At many a barber's shop he anxious leer'd;
Hoping some shaver's countenance to find,
That spoke a feeling heart and liberal mind.
At length he spied an artisan, whose face
Bespoke compassion for man's suffering race. ^
Bleeding with wounded pride at every pore.
Our shamefaced scholar, trembling, opes the door:*-'
The barber greets him with a smirking air.
Bows to the ground, and then presents a chair.
1 1
^-
»•',-
862
COMIO PIECES.
" Sir, you want shaving, I presume," he cnes;
Then graceful on his nnil a razor tries.
"Pray, sir, be seated — Jack, bring Packwood's strap,
A damask towel, and a cotton cap —
A basin, George — some shaving -powder, Luke—
And Tom — you friz the gentleman's peruke."
Such pompous orders much the wit distress'd,
Who to the barber thus his speech address*d:
** Unused to beg, how wretched is the task,
Alms from a stranger abject thus to ask I
To act the suppliant, galls me to the core;
Yet your compassion I must now implore.
Cash, I, alas! have none; and therefore crave, .
That you, for charity, my beard will shave."
At this request, the barbier stood aghast,
And thus to bis surprise gave vent at last: —
" Shave you, for charity! confound your chopsi
Do men, to shave for nothing, rent such shops?
Barbers might soon retire from trade, I trow.
If all their customers resembled you:
I like your modesty; but good my spark.
The number of this house in future mark;
For, not to mince the matter and be nice,
I never gratis shav;^ a beggar twice." —
No towel, soap) nor night-cap, now appear'd,
The churl with cold pump-water dabs his beard.
Selects an old notch'd razor from his case.
And without mercy flays the scholi'r's face: , ,.,
Though at each rasp his chin was drench'd with gore.
His lot, the stoic, uncomplaining, bore;
For to poor wits the privilege belongs,
"With resignation to support their wrongs
" Just then the barber's cat, in theft surprised.
Was by the shopman wofuUy chastised ; ,
Puss, who less patience than the bard possess'd,
In piercing cries, her agony express'd: —
The barber, sulky and displeased before,
Now at his shopman like a trooper swore, . .,
And with a Stentor's voice the cook-maid calls, .,. .
To know from whence proceed those hideous squalls:—
" 'Tis doubtless," cried the wit, with great hilarity,
" Some poor cat, by your shopman, shaved /or Charityf"
Jonei.
cone PIECES.
^868
Law,
strapf
pst
pa?
>eara,
f
■* ' ' ' 1
fprised,
sesa'd,
calls, -;.
Lua aquaus:—
[t hilarity,
for Charity r
JoneS'
Law is law — ^law is law; and as in such and so forth
and hereby, and aforesaid, provided always, neverthe-
less, 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 gen-
tlewonjan, very well to follow. Law is also like a
scolding wife, very bad when it follows us. Law is
like a new fashion, people are bewitched to get into it:
it is also like bad weather, most people are glad when
they get out of it.
We shall now mention a cause, called " Bullum ver-
sua Boatum:" it was a cause that came before me.
The cause was as follows.
There were two farmers: farmer A. and farmer B.
Farmer A. was seized or possessed of a bull: farmer B.
was seized or possessed of a ferry-boat. Now, the
Owner of the ferry-boat, having made his boat fast to a
post on shore, with a piece of hay, twisted rope-fashion,
or, as we say, vulgo vocato, a hay-band. After he
bad made his boat fast to a post on shore; as it was
very natural for a hungry man to do, he 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 din-
ner; and, observing, discovering, seeing, and spying
out some tum\p3 in the bottom of the ferry-boat, the
bull scrambled into the ferry-boat; he ate up the tur-
nips, and, to make an end of his meal, fell to work
upon the hay-band: the boat, being eaten from its
ittoorings, floated down the river, with the bull in it:
it struck against a rock; beat a hole in the bottom of
the boat, and tossed the bull overboard: whereupon
the owner of the bull brought his action against the
boat, for running away with the bull: the owner of the
boat brought his action against the bull, for running
away with the boat: And thus notice of trial was
^ given, Bullum versus Boatum, Boatum versus Bullum.
Now the counsel for the bull began with saying: *' My
lord, and you gentlemen of the jury, we are counsel
864
OOMIC PIECES.
in this cause for the bull. We are indicted for running
away with the boat. Now, my lord, we have heard
of running horses, but never of running bulls, before.
Now, my lord, the bull could no more run away with
the boat, than a man in a coach may be said to run
away with the horses; therefore, my lord, how can we
punish what is not punishable? How can we eat what
is not eatable? Or how can we drink what is not
drinkable? Or, as the law says, how can we think on
what is not thinkable? Therefore, my lord, as we are
counsel in this cause for the bull; if the jury should
bring the bull in guilty, the jury would be guilty of a
bull."
The counsel for the boat observed, that the bull
should be nonsuited; because, in his declaration, he
had not specified what colour he was of; for thus wisely,
and thus learnedly, spoke the counsel! — " My lord, if
the bull was of no colour, he must be of some colour;
and, if he was not of any colour, what colour could the
bull be of ?" I overruled this motion myself, by ob-
serving, the bull was a white bull, and that white is no
colour: besides, as I told my brethren, they should not
trouble their heads to talk of colour in the law, for the law
can colour any thing. This cause being afterwards left to
a reference, upon the award, both bull and boat were
acquitted; it being proved, that the tide of the river
carried them both away: upon which, I gave it as my
opinion, that, as the tide of the river carried both bull
and boat away, both bull and boat had a good action
against the water-bailiff.
My opinion being taken, an action was issued; and,
upon the traverse, this point of law arose: How,
wherefore, and whether, why, when, and what, what-
soever, whereas, and whereby, ns the boat was not a com-
posmentis evidence, how could an oath be administered?
That point was soon settled, by Boatum's attorney
declaring, \hat, for his client, he would swear any
thing.
The water-bailiff's charter was then read, taken
out of the original record, in true law Latin; which
set forth, in their declaration, that they were carried
away either by the tide of flood, or the tide of ebb.
COMIC PIXCEI.
865
inning
heard
before,
y with
to run
can we
at what
is not
bink on
, we are
f should
ilty of a
the bull
ition* he
IS wisely,
y lord, if
e colour;
could the
slf, by ob-
rhite 18 no
should not
brthelaw
irds left to
)oat were
the river
it as my
both bull
action
[sued; and,
Ise: How,
lat, what-
I not a eoni'
linistered?
attorney
iwear any
lead, taken
Itin; which
ive carried
ide of ebb.
The charter of the water-bniliff was as follows: ^gua
baififfi est magistratus in choisi super omnibus
JUhibns qui habuerunt finnos et scalos^ elates^ shells, et
taloSf qui swimmare in freshibus^ vel saltibus riveris,
lakis, pondhy canaKbuSf et well boats \ sive oysteri,
prawni, tokitini, shrimpi, turbutus solus; that is, not
turbots alone, but turbots and soles both together.
But now comes the nicety of the law; the law is as
nice as a new-laid egg. and noi to be understood by
addle-headed people. Bullum and Boatum mentioned
both ebb and flood, to avoid quibbling; but it being
proved, that they were carried away neither by the
tide of flood, nor by the tide of ebb, but exactly
upon the top of high water, they were nonsuited; but
such was the lenity of the court, upon their paying
all costs, they were allowed to begin again de novo.
The Newcastle Apothecary,
A MAif in many a country town we know
Professing openly with Death to wrestle;
Entering the field against the grimly foe,
Arin*d with a mortar and a pestle.
Yet some aflirm, no enemies they are;
But meet just like prize-fighters in a fair: .
Who first shake hands before they box.
Then give each other plaguy knocks,
With all the love and kindness of a brother.
So, — many a suffering patient saitb, —
Though the apothecary fights with Death,
Still they are sworn friends to one another.
A member of this JSsculapian line,
Lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne:
No roan could better gild a pill;
Or make a bill;
Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;
Or draw a tooth out of your head ;
Or chatter scandal by your bed;
Or spread a plaster.
Of occupations, these were quantum stiff:
Tet still he thought the list not long enough;
COHIO PIECES.
And therefore midwifery he chose to pin to't^
This balanced things; for, if he hurl'd
A few score mortals from the world,
He made amends by bringing others into't
His fame, full six miles round the country rao,
In short, in reputation he was solus!
All the old women call'd him *' a fine manl"
His name was Bolus, 'i^ i^ m^' - ?. i ^
Benjamin Bolus, though in trade,-
— Which oftentimes will genius fetter, —
Bead works of fancy, it is said,
And cultivated the Belles Lettres.
And why should this be thought so odd?
Can't men have, taste that cure a phthisic?; -
Of poetry though patron god,
Apollo patronises physic.
Bolus loved verse ;^-and took so much delight in't,
That his prescriptions he resolved to write, in't:
No opportunity he e'er let pass
Of writing thjg directions on his labels,
In dapper couplets— like Gay's Failles,
Or rather like the lines in Hudibras.
Apothecary's verse! — and where'a the treafioj^i
'Tis simple honest dealing; — not a crime:
When patients swallow physic without rea9p%
It it 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 four;
To whom one evening Bolus sent an artiolo*—
In pharmacy, that's called catharticaj;
And oA the label of the stuff,
He wrote this verse;
Which one should think was clear enough,
And terse:
<• When taken, . ^**
To be well shaken.^* ^
Next morning early, Bolus rose;
And to the patient's house he goes
Upon his pad, ^ .
COinO PIECES.
867
1 '
't.
>r
!_>«
ght in't,
S9|
be four;
tide—
Who a vile trick of stumbling had:
It was indeed a very sorry hackj "
But that's of course; "''• , '^^
For what's expected from a horse, '
With an apothecary on his back?
Bolus arrived, and gave a double tap,
Between a single and a double rap. —
Knocks of this kind
Are given by gentlemen who teach to dance;
By fiddlers, and by opern-singers: • "'1
One loud, and then a little one behind,
As if the knocker fell, by chance
*Out of their fingers. —
The servant let 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.
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.
He took the draught?" — John gave a nodi
"Well — how? — What then? — Speak out you dunce P
" Why then," says John, " we shook him once."
" Shook him! — how?" Bolus stammer'd out.
« We jolted him about." ' * '* '
« Zounds! shake a patient, man — a shake won't do."
" No, sir — and so we gave him two."
"Two shakes! — odds curse!
" 'Twould make the patient worse."
** It did so, sir — and so a third we tried."
"Well, and what then?" — "Then, sir, my master
died!" ^ Caiman,
"V
••1
The Three Warnings,
The tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground;
'Twas therefore said by ancient sages, *
That love of life increased with years
i
868
OOMIO PIE0B8.
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pnins jo^row sharp, and sickness rages»
The greatest love of life appears.
This strong affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive.
If old assertions can't prevail.
Be pleased to hear a modern tale.
When sports went round, and all were gay
On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day,
Death call'd aside the jocund groom
With him into another room.
And looking grave, ** You must," says he,
" Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.'^
" With you!" and quit my Susan's sidel
** With you!" the hapless husband cried:
" Young as I am! 'tis monstrous hard:
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared;
]My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding-night, you know."
What more he urged, I have not heard;
His reasons could not well be stronger;
So Death the poor delinquent spared,
And left to live a little longer.
Yet, calling up a serious look.
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke:
"Neighbour," he said, "farewell: no more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour;
And farther, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station.
Three several warnings you shall have»
Before you're summon'd u the grave:
Willing for once, I'll quit my prey.
And grant a kind reprieve;
In hopes you'll have no more to say;
But when I call ngain this way.
Well pleased the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,.
And parted perfectly contented..
OOMIC PIBCS8.
369
»
lore
What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wisely well;
How roundly he pursued his course',
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse
The willing rouse shall tell:
He chaffer'd then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,
Nor thought of Death as near;
His friends not false, his wife no shrew;
Many his gains, his children few, ^ * ^
He pass'd his smiling hours in peace; '
And still he view'd his wealth increase.
While thus, along life's dusty road, *
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares.
Brought on his eightieth year —
When, lo! one night in musing mood, "
As all alone he sat.
The unwelcome messenger of fate
Once more before him stood.
Half kill'd with anger and surprise,
*' So soon return'd?'* old Dobson cries.
" So soon, do you call it?" Death replies:
" Surely, my friend, you're but in jest;
Since I was here before,
'Tis six and thirty years at least.
And you are now fourscore.'*
" So much the worse," the clown rejoin'd;
" To spare the aged would be kind:
Besides, you promised mz Three warnings
Which I have look'd for, nights and morningi '
And for that loss of time and ease,
I can recover damages."
" I know," says Death, " that, at the best,
I seldom am a welcome guest;
But don't be captious, friend, at least;
I little thought you'd still be able ^
To stump about your farm and stable;
Your years have run to a great length,
I wish you joy though of your strength." *-"^
q2
';
1
870 \' coiao piEOis.
•* Hold,'* says the farmer, " not so fastf *
I have been lame these four years past."
" And no great wonder ," Death replies:
" However you still keep your eyes; .
And sure, to see one's loves and friends.
For legs and arms may make amends."
*' Perhaps, says Dobson, " so it mighty
But latterly I've lost my sight."
** This is a shocking tule, in truth; '
But there's some comfort still," says Death:
** Each strives your sadness to amuse;
I warrant, you hear all the news."
•* There's none," he cries; "and if there were,
I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear."
" Nny, then," the spectre stern rejoin'd,
These are unjustifiable yearnings;
If yofi are lame, and deaf, and blind
You have your three sufficient warnings;
So come along, no more we'll part:"
He said and touch'd him with his dart;
And now old Dobson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate. — So ends my tale
The Razor- Seller,
A FELLOW, in a market- town,
lilost musical cried razors up and down.
And offer'd twelve for eighteen-pence;
TVhich certainly seem'd wondrous cheap,
And, for the money, quite a heap.
As every man would buy, with cash and sense.
A country bumpkin the great offer heard:!
Poor Hodge! who suffer'd by a thick, black beard,
That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose,
With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid,
And proudly to himself, in whispers, said,
**This rascal stole the razors, I suppose!
" No matter if the fellow be a knave,
Provided that the razors shave;
It sartbdy will be a monstreut priie."
COMIC PIBCBI.
871
b:
were,
W
»g8>
beard,
his nose,
ud,
80, home the clown, with his good fortune, went,
Smiling in heart and soul content,
And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes.
■ ♦. >
Being well lather'd from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to gruby
Just like a hedger cutting furze:
'Twos a vile razor! — then the rest he tried —
All were impostors — " Ah I" Hodge sigh'd,
"I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse I**
In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces.
He cut, and dug, and winced, and 8tamp*d, and swore;
Brought blood and danced, blasphemed and made wry
And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'erl [faces
His muzzle form'd of opposition stuff.
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff; ^ \-^
So kept it — laughing at the steel and suds:
Hodge, in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws.
Vowing the direst vengeance, with clinch'd claws,
On the vile cheat that sold the goods.
"Razors! a damn'd confounded dog!
Not fit to scrape a hog!'*
Hodge sought the fellowT-found him, and began —
" Perhaps Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,
That people flay themselves out of their lives:
You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing.
Giving my scoundrel vrhiskers here a scrubbing.
With razors just like oyster-knives.
Sirrah ! I tell you, you're a knave.
To cry up razors that can't shave."
<< Friend," quoth the razor-man, " I am no knave:
As for the razors you have bought,
Upon my soul, I never thought
That they would shave."
"Not think they'd shave?" quoth Hodge, with wondering
And voice not much unlike an Indian yell: [eyes
"What were they made for then, you dog!" he cries.
** Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile, — "to nil,**
Pindar,
873
COMIC pisoas.
The Case Altered,
Hodge held a farm, and smiled content,
While one year paid another's rent}
But if he ran the least behind,
Vexation stung his anxious mind;
For not an hour would landlord stajr,
But seize the very quarter dayi
How cheap soe'er or scant the grain,
Though urged with truth, was urged in vaiii.
The same to him, if false or true;
For rent must eome when rent was due.
Yet that same landlord's cows and steeds
Broke Hodge's fence, and cropp'd his meads.
In hunting that same landlord's hounds —
See! how they spread his new-sown grounds !
Dog, horse, and man, alike o'eijoyed,
While half the rising crop's destroy'd;
Yet tamely was the loss sustain'd.
'Tis said the sufferer once complain'd:
The Squire laughed loudly while he spokei
And paid the bumpkin— with a joke.
But luckless, still poor Hodge's fate:
His worship's bull had forced a gate,-
And gored his cow, the last and best;
By sickness he had lost the rest.
. Hodge felt at heart resentment strong
The heart will feel that suffers long.
A thought that instant took his head,
And thus within himself he said:
" If Hodge for once, don't sting the Squire^
May people post him for a liar I"
He said — across his shoulder throws
His fork, and to his landlord goes. \
" I come, an't please you to unfold
What soon or late, you must be told.
My bull — a creature tame till now — "
My bull has gored your worship's cow.
'Tis known what shifts I make to live:
Perhaps your honour may forgive."
ft^Forgivel" the Squire replied, and swore;
<*Pray cant to me, forgive, no mor«;
n.
La.
Is!
MISCELLANEOUS. 873
The law riy damage shall decide; . - '
And know that I'll be satisfied."
" Think, sir, I'm poor — poor as a rat.'*
" Think I'm a justice, think of that !"
Hodge bow'd again, and scratch'd his head;
And, recollecting, archly said,
*' Sir, I'm so struck when here before ye,
I fear I've blunder'd in the story,
'Fore George ! but I'll not blunder now:
Tours was the bull, sir; mine, the cow !"
His worship found his rage subside,
And with calm accent thtis replied:
" I'll think upon your case to-night;
But I perceive 'tis alter'd quite I"
Hodge shrugged, and made another bow:
" An please ye, where's the justice now?"
AnonyriMUs*
MISCELLANEOUS.
ce.
Song of The Greek Bard.
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung.
Where grew the arts of war and peace, —
Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet.
But all, except their sun, is set.
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute.
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest"
The mountains look on Marathon —
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And, musing there an hour alone,
I dreamed that Greece might still be free;
For, standing on the Persian's grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.
li
374 MISCELLANEOUS.
A king sat on the rocky brow *"
Which looks o'er sen-born Salnmis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below.
And men in nations — nil were his! .^
He counted them at break of day —
And when the sun set — where were they!
And where are they ! and where art thou,
My country! — On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now—
The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine!
'Tis something in the dearth of fame,
Though linked among a fettered race»
To feel at least a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here!
For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear.
Must we but weep o'er days more blest !
Must we but blush ! — Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead;
Of the Three Hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae!
What silent still ! and silent all!
Ah ! no — the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, "Let one living head,
But one arise — we come, we come!"
'Tis but the living who are dumb.
In vnin — in vain: strike other chords:
Fill high the cup with Samian wine !
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes.
And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call —
How answers each bold bacchanal!
Tou have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone!
Of two such lessons, why forget
Tb« Qoblar and tb« maaliar on« !
i;(IS01LLLAN£OU8.
875
i.
Tou have the letters Cadmns gave —
Think ye he meant them for a slave! ^
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! > >'
We will not think of themes like thece; •-. [
It made Anacreon's song divine:
He served — but served Polycrates — ,
A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least, our countrymen.
The tyrant of the Chersonese •*
Was freedom's best and bravest friend;
That tyrant was MiltiadesI
O! that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind!
Such chains as his were sure to bind.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! ■ . '
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
Exists the remnant of a line
Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown.
The Heracleidan blood might own.
Trust not for freedom to the Franks —
They have a king who buys and sells:
In native swords, and native ranks.
The only hope of courage dwells;
But Turkish force, and Latin fraud,
Would break your shield, however broad.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !
Our virgins dance beneath the shade—
I see their glorious black eyes shine;
But, gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves.
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, —
Where nothing, save the waves and ly
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die;
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine—-
Dagh down yon oup of Samian wins! Bjfnm,
/^^
m
376
MISCSLLANE0U8.
The Dying Wizard,
It was an ancient castle, of melancholy mood, ' * '
Hid far in the recesses of a deep and winding wood,
Within a spacious chamber, which never saw the day,
Upon a lonely pillow the dying wizard lay.
Mysterious characters were carved deep in the oaken floor.
And round him lay the mystic scrolls of necromantic lore;
In his unhallowed dwelling no mortal footsteps trod,
Alone in dying agony he lay, the doomed of God.
His dark eye flash'd unholy Are as he beat his fever'd brow.
For he felt the conquering hand of death lay heavy on him now;
He seem'd to hold strange communings with things unseen, un-
known.
And his lips breathed curses loud and deep against the Almighty
One.
*'0h God!" he cried, and vainly strove to leave his restless bed,
'* Oh God, what unseen power is this which fills my soul with
dread ?
It steals upon my faculties with sure and steady pace.
And the links or life seem breaking as its icy fingers press.
It comes not from those viewless forms that hover round my
couch,
I know them well, dark fiends of hell, no 'tis a subtler touch,
A power I never dreamt of yet, around me seems to float,
It hovers on my glazing eye and yet I see it not;
My spirit waxes powerless within its chilling clasp.
Its hand is heavy on my brow and yet eludes my grasp;
My limbs grow cold beneath it, it grapples with my breath.
It cannot be, indeed, that mighty conqueror, Deam.
God! I did not think to die like the common herd of men.
Like them to live a few short years then sink to earth again;
1 thought while yet on earth to pierce the eternal secret through,
And view with this my mortal eye what none but angels view;
To scale heaven's crystal battlements, to scan the eternal throne.
And view the mystic workings of the Everlasting One;
To cope with powers — but what is this, the death-dew on my
brow ?
A mightier power than hell commands is wrestling with me now.
I've revell'd in the tornado, rode in the tempest's track.
Have sported with the thunder, and hurl'd the lightning back;
The spirits of the mighty deep confess my secret skill,
And tne denizens of earth and air are subject to my will.
This hand has sway'd the sceptre o'er earth, and air, and sea.
These eyes have gazed on mystic things which none but mine
might see;
This tongue has utter'd curses which filled monarchs with alarm.
And 'neath this all-controlling voice, the storm has grown a calm ;
Thin heart's the home of feelings which never sought to rest,
This breast has throbb'd with passions which ne'er rack'da mortal's
breast;
These feet have trod forbiddem ground, and travers'd 'mid the
MISCELLANEOUS.
87T
)or,
ire;
»row,
him now;
laeen, un-
Almighty
tless bed,
soul with
press,
round my
p touch,
loat,
PJ ^
reath,
men,
again;
et through,
els view;
rnal throne,
«;
dew on my
th me now.
ngback;
will,
and sea,
Le but mine
with alarm,
wnacalm;
to rest,
'damortaVs
I'd *mid the
And must I yield this power now and die as mortals die?
Was it for this I sold myself to work the works of hell?
To shatter fleets and armies with my talismanic spell.
Was it fur this I sought to sway an empire wide and vast?
To die at length as others die, and sink to earth at last!
Death, death — thou sly intruder, thou shnpeles, viewless thing.
Might I but meet thee face to face, this arm should crush thj
sting;
I would measure lances with thee, nor tremble at the fight,
Might I as plainly see thy form, as now J/eel thy might;
In vain have men or angels sought my power to overthrow,
. I've laugh'd them all to scorn, and must this arm be vanquish'd now?
The frown of the Eternal One ne'er made this brow gn>w pale;
I have detied the monarch, shall his vassal make me quail?
No, give me back my sceptre! — but what's this dims my eye?
Here take my bold defiance. Death! — but God of heaven, I die!
Give me my talismanic wand; what is this stays my breath?
I never yielded 3'et, and must, — my curse be on ye. Death!
Prepare to do my bidding, fiends who round my pillow float;
Conquer I must — but hold, — I feel death's rattles in my throat!"
Then starting from his couch he rush'd along with frantic stride.
And shouting with a mighty voice — "I will not die!" he died!
B, B, Wale,
ii
Arnold Winkelried,
" Make way for liberty!" he cried,—
Made way for liberty, and died.
It must not be; this day, this hour,
Annihilate*d the oppressor's power!
AW Switzerland is in the field,
She will not fly, she cannot yield —
She must not fall; her better fate
Here gives her an immortal date.
Few were the numbers she could boast;
But every freeman was a host,
And felt as though himself were he,
On whose sole arm hung victory.
It did depend on one indeed;
Behold him — Arnold Winkdriedl
There sounds not to the.trump of fame
The echo of a nobler name.
Unmarked he stood, amid the throngs
In rumination deep and long,
Till you might see, with sudden grace,
The very thought come o'er his face;
And by the motion of his form,
N
n
378
MISCELLANEOUS.
Anticipate the bursting storm;
And, by the uplifting of his brow,
Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. , ^
But 'twas no sooner thought than done!
The field was in a moment won; —
" Make way for liberty!" he cried.
Then ran with arms extended wide.
As if his dearest friend to clasp; —
Ten spears he swept within his grasp;
** Make way for liberty!" he cried,
Their keen points met from side to side;
He bowed among them like a tree.
And thus made way for liberty.
Swift to the breach his comrades fly,
" Make way for liberty!" they cry.
And through the Austrian phalanx dart.
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart;
While instantaneous as his fall,
Sout, ruin, panic, scattered all,
An earthquake could not overthrow
A city with a surer blow.
Thus Switzerland again was free ;
Thus death made way for liberty !
Montgomery,
Casabianca,
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o*er the dead; '
Yet beautiful and bright he stood.
As born to rule the storm; —
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though child-like form.
The flames rolled on — he would not go
Without his father's word; —
That father, faint in death, below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called afoud, " Say, father, say
If yet my task is done!" —
• *
I
[i^art;
mtgomery.
MISOBLLANBOUS. 379
It
He knew not that the chieftain lay ,
Unconscious of his son. '. '^^
'" Speak, father!" once again he cried, ^ • '
" If I may yet be gone !'*-*- * -
And but the booming shots replied, '
And fast the flames rolled on. .
Upon his brow he felt their breath.
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death.
In still, yet brave despair.
And shouted but once more aloud,
" My father ! must I stay?"
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroudy
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendor wild;
They caught the flag on high.
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound; —
The boy— oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds, that far around
With fragments strewed the sea, —
With mnst and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing that perished thero.
Was that young faithful heart.
Mrs, Htmans,
Landing of the Pilgrims,
The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches tossed;
And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o'er.
When a band of exiles moored their barl^.
On the wild New England shore.
< i'l
880
MISCELLANEOUS.
it.r
Not as the conqueror comeSi
They, the true-hearted, come-
Not with the roll of the stirring drums, "^
And the trumpet that sings of fame;
Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear —
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amid the storm they sang,
And the stars heard, and the sea;
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free!
The ocean eagle soared
From his nest by the white wave's foam.
And the rocking pines of the forest roared;
This was their welcome home!
There were men with hoary hair
Amid that pilgrim band —
"Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?
They sought a faith's pure shrine!
Ay, call it holy ground.
The soil where first they trod;
They have left unstained what there they found —
Freedom to worship God!
Mrs, Hemans,
w
The Burial of Arnold,
Ye've gathered to your place of prayer,
With slow and measured tread:
Your ranks are full, your mates all there —
But the soul of one has fled.
ang
found —
s. Bemans,
Br,
ire —
MISOfcLLAMEOUS.
He was the proudest in his strength, «
The manliest of ye all; '
Why lies he at that tearful length,
And ye around his pall?
Te reckon it in day?, since he
Strode up that foot-worn aisle.
With his dark eye flashing gloriously.
And his lip wreathed with a smile.
Oh! had it been but told you then,
To mark whose lamp was dim.
From out yon rank of fresh-lipped menj
Would ye have singled himf
Whose was the sinewy arm, which flung
Defiance to the ring?
Whose laugh of victory loudest rung.
Yet not tor glorying?
Whose heart in generous deed and thought,
No rivalry might brook.
And yet distinction claiming not?
881
There lies he-
-go and look!
On now — his requiem is done;
The last deep prayer is said; —
On to his burial, comrades — on,
With the noblest of the dead !
Slow — for it presses heavily; —
It is a man ye bear !
Slow — for our thoughts dwell wearily
On the coble sleeper there.
Tread lightly, comrades! — ^ye have laid
His dark locks on his brow —
Like life — save deeper light and shade:-
We*ll not disturb them now.
• Tread lightly — for 'tis beautiful,
1 hat blue veined eyelid's sleep.
Hiding the eye death left so dull, —
Its slumber we will keep.
Rest now! — his journeying is done,— -
Your feet are on his sod; —
Death's chain is on your champion-
He waiteth here his God!
I' '
882
MISCELLANEOUS.
A7, — turn and weep, — 'tis manliness
To be heart'broken here, —
For the grave of earth's best nobleness
Is watered hy the tear.
milis.
The Mariner's Dream,
In slumbers of midnight the Snilor boy lay,
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind;
But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind,
He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers.
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn;
While Memory stood side-ways, half-covered with
flowers.
And restored every rose, but secreted the thorn.
Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstacy rise;
Now, far, far behind him the green waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.
The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch.
And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall;
All trembling with transport he raises the latch,
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.
A father bends o'er him with looks of delight,
His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear;
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite
With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear
The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,
Joy quickens his pulse — all his hardships seem o'er;
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest—
** O God! thou hast blest me, I ask for no more."
Ah I whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye?
Ah! what is that sound that now larums his ear?
'Tis the lightning's red glare painting hell on the sky!
'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere I
MISCELLANEOUS.
883
milii-
he wind;
jvay,
lind,
bowers,
morn;
ered with
tborn.
ise;
;Ude,
eyes.
.latch,
in the wall;
ktch,
IS call.
ght,
rarm tear;
iboldsdear^
oreast,
^s seem o er ;
his rest —
ao more.'
Is on his eye?
; his ear?
on the sky!
kf the sphere I
He springs from his hammock — he flies to the deck;
Amazement confronts him with images dire; —
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck,
The mnsts fly in splinters — the shrouds are on fire!
Like mountains the billows tumultuously swell,
In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save;-—
Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,
And the Death-Angel flaps his broad wings o'er the
wave.
Oh, Sailor boy ^ woe to thy dream of delight!
In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss; —
Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright,
Thy parent's fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss?
Oh! Sailor boy! Sailor boy! never again
Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay;
Unblessed and unhonoured, down deep in the main
Full many a score fathom thy frame shall decay.
No tomb shall e*er plead to remembrance for thee,
Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge;
But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be,
And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge.
On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid,
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made.
And every part suit to thy mansion below.
Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away.
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll;
Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye —
Oh, Sailor boy! Sailor boy! peace to thy soul!
Dimond.
•■ !.i
384 in8CELLANB0T^«.
DIALOGUES.
Cato and Decius,
Dee. Caesar sends health to Cato—
3
Cato. Could he send it
To Cato^s slaughtered frfends, it would be welcome.
Are not your orders to address the senate?
Dec. My business is with Cato: Caesar sees
The straits to which youVe driven: and, as he knows
Cato*s high worth, is anxious for your life.
Cato. My life is grafted on the fate of Rome.
Would he save Cato, bid him spare his country.
Tell your dictator this; and tell him, Cato
Disdains a life which he has power to offer.
Dec. Rome and her senators submit to Caesar;
Her generals and her consuls are no more,
Who checked his conquests, and denied his triumphs;
Why will not Cato be this Caesar's friend.
Cato. Those very reasons thou hast urged, forbid it.
Why will not Cato be this Caesn^-'. friend?
Dec. Cato, I've orders to expostulate
And reason with you, as from friend to friend:
Think on the storm that gathers o'er your head,
And threatens every hour to burst upon it.
Still may you stand high in your country's honors;
Do but comply, and make your peace with Caesar,—
Re le will rejoice, and cast its eyes on Cato,
As on the second of mankind.
Cato, No more;
I roust not think of life on such conditions.
Dec, Caesar is well acquainted with your virt%.!iij
And therefore sets this value on your life.
Let him but know the price of Cato's friendship,
Anr! name your terms.
Cato. H>d him disband his legions.
Restore \'^' . omTnonwenHh to liberty.
Submit: Lis tifjtions to the public censure,
And itB.\\6. fhff judgmert of a Roman senate.—
Bid hiiL. do this, and Cato is his friend.
Dec, Cato, the world talks loudly of your wisdom —
DIALOG I'ES.
381
some*
B knows
ne.
:ry.
r;
triumphs »
1, forbid it.
ind:
lead,
I honors;
Icesar, —
virt'aSSi
idsbip*
te.—
ir wisdom-
CaU>, Nay, more — thou<^li Cato's \i was ne'er em-
To clear the guilty, and to vai nish crimes, [ployed
Myself will mount the rostrum in hi^ favor,
And strive to gain his pardon from tlio people.
Dec. A style like this becomes a conqueror.
Cato. Decius, a style like this becomes a Roman.
Dec. "^Vhat is a Roman that is Cesar's foe?
Vato, Oreater than CaJsar: he's a friend to virtue.
Dec, C insider, Cato, you're in Utica,
Arr( at the head of you're own little senate;
You don't now thunder in the capitol,
With all the mouths of Rome to second yon.
Cato. Let him consider that, who drives us hither;
'Tia CiBsar's sword has made Rome's senate little,
And thinned its ranks. Alas ! thy dazzled eye
Beholds this man in a false, glaring light,
Which conquest and success have thrown upon him:
Didst thou but view him right, thou'dst see him black
With murder, treason, sacrilege, and crimes
That strike my soul with horror but to name them.
I know thou look'st on me, as on a wretch
Beset with ills, and covered with misfortunes;
But, by the gods I swear, millions of worlds
Should never buy me to be like that Csesar.
Dec, Does Cato send this answer back to CsDsar
For all his generous cares aud proffered friendship?
Cato. His cares for me are insolent and vain:
Presumptuous man! the gods take care of Cato.
Would Caesar show the greatness of his soul,
Bid him employ his care for these ray friends.
And make good usp of his ill-gotten power.
By sheltering men much better than himself.
Dec. Your high unconquered he^rt makes you forget
You are a man; you rush on your destruction.
But I have done. When I relate hereafter
The tale of this unhappy embassy,
All Rome will be in tears. Jlddison.
r
i
Covin aud Emmons Hospitality.
Emma, Shepherd, 'tis he. Beneath yon aged oak,
All on the flowery turf he lays him down.
K
■ I'-
386
DIALOGUES
Corin. Soft: let us not disturb him. Gentle Emmay
My pity waits with reverence on his fortune.
Modest of carriage, and of speecli most graciou9^
As if some saint or angel in disgu-ise,
Had graced our lowly cottage with his presence,
He steals, I know not how, into the heart.
And makes it pant to serve him. Trust me, EmmOy,
He is no common man,
Em. Some lord, perhaps,
Or valiant chief, that from our deadly foe,
The haughty, cruel, unbelieving Dane,
Seeks shelter here.
Cor. And shelter he shall find.
Who loves his country is my friend and brother.
Behold him well. Fair virtue in his aspect.
Even through the homely russet that conceals him,.
Shines forth and proves him noble. Seest thou, Emma^
Yon western clouds? The sun they strive to hide
Yet darts his beams around.
Em. Your thought is mine;
He is not what his present fortunes speak him»
But, ah! the raging foe is all around us:
We dare not keep him here.
Cor. Content thee, wife:
This island is of strength. Nature's own hancJ
Hath planted round a deep defence of woods,
The sounding ash, the mighty oak; each tree
A sheltering grove; and choked up all between
With wild encumbrance of perplexing thorns.
And horrid brakes. Beyond this woody verge
Two rivers broad and rapid hem us in.
Along their channel spreads the guify pool.
And trembling quagmire, whose deceitful greem
Betrays the foot it tempts. One path alone
Winds to this plain, so roughly difficult,
This single arm, poor shepherd as I am.
Could well dispute it with twice twenty Danes^
Em. Yet think, my Corin, on the stern decree
Of that proud foe: " Who harbours or relieves
"An English captain, dies the death of traitorsi
** But who his haunt discovers, shall be safe,
** And high rewarded."
IM
DIALOGUES.
387
m
je
ieBj
jcree
lea
Cor. Now, just heaven forbid, ' •. '
A British man should ever count for gain ' r
What villany must earn. No: are we poor?
Be honesty our riches. Are we mean,
And humbly born? The true heart makes us noble:
These hands can toil, can sow the ground, and reap
For thee and thy sweet babes. Our daily labour
Is daily wealth; it finds us bread and raiment:
Could Danish gold give more? And for the death
These tyrants threaten, let me rather meet it,
Than e'er betray my guest.
Em. Alas the while,
That loyal faith is fled from hall and bower
To dwell with village swains!
Cor. Ah look! behold
Where, like some goodly tree by wintry winds
Torn from the roots and withering, our sad guest
Lies on the ground diffused.
Em. I weep to see it.
Cor. Thou hast a heart sweet pity loves to dwell in.
Dry up those tears, and lean on this just hope:
If yet to do away his country's shame.
To serve her bravely on some blest occasion,
If for these ends this stranger sought our cottage.
The heavenly hosts are hovering here unseen,
To watch and to protect him. Bnt, oh! when —
My heart burns for it — shall I see the hour
Of vengeance on these Danish infidels,
That war with Heaven and us?
lE'/w. Alas my love !
These passions are not for the poor man's state;
To Heaven, and to the rulers of the land,
Leave such ambitious thoughts. Be warned, my
Corin,
And think our little all depends on thee. Thomson.
Coriolanus and Aujldius.
Cor. I PLAINLY, TuUus, by your looks perceive
You disapprove my conduct.
Auf. I mean not to assail thee with the clamour
Of loud reproaches and the war of words;
388
DIALOGU£S.
But, pride apart, and all that can pervert
The light of steady reason, here to make
A candid, fair proposal.
Cor, Speak, I hear thee.
Auf, I need not tell thee, that I have performed
My utmost promise. Thou hast been protected;
Hast had thy amplest, most ambitious wish.
Thy wounded pride is healed, thy dear revenge
Completely sated; and to crown thy fortune,
At the same time, thy peace with Rome restored.
Thou art no more a Yolscian, but a Roman:
Return, return; thy duty calls upon thee
Still to protect the city thou hast saved;
It still may be in danger from our arms:
Retire: I will take care thou may*st with safety.
Cot, With safety? — Heavens ! — and thinkest thou
Coriolanus
Will stoop to thee for safety? — No: my safeguard
Is in myself, a bosom void of fear.
O, 'tis an act of cowardice and baseness.
To seize the very time my hands are fettered
By the strong chain of former obligation.
The safe, sure moment to insult me. — Gods!
Were I now free, as on that day I was
When at Corioli I tamed thy pride,
This had not been.
Auf. Thou speakest the truth: it had not.
O, for that time again! Propitious gods.
If you will bless me, grant it! Enow, for that,
For that dear purpose, I have now proposed
Thou should'st return: I pray thee, Marcius, do it;
.And we shall meet again on nobler terms.
Cor, Till I have cleared my honour in your
council.
And proved before them all, to thy confusion.
The falsehood of thy charge; as soon in battle
I would before thee fly, and howl for mercy,
As quit the station they've assigned me here.
JLi^. Thou can'st not hope acquittal from the
Volscians.
Cot, I do:— Nay, more expect their approbation,
Their thanks, I will obtain them such a peace
DIALOGUES.
m
med
d;
red.
jty.
est thou
Tuard
lat, ^
I, do it;
in your
)n,
Lttle
^i
Ire.
from the
)robation,
)eace
As thou durst never ask; a perfect union
Of their whole nation with imperial Rome,
In all her privileges, all her rights;
By the just gods, I will. — What would'st thou more?
»^uf. What would I more, proud Roman? This
I would —
Fire the cursed forest, where these Roman wolves
Haunt and infest their nobler neighbours round them;
Extirpate from the bosom of this land
A false, perfidious people, who, beneath
The mask of freedom, are a combination
Against the liberty of human kind;
The genuine seed of outlaws and of robbers.
Cor, The seed of gods. — 'Tis not for thee, vain
boaster, —
'Tis not for such as thou, — so often spared
By her victorious sword, to speak of Rome,
But with respect, and awful veneration. —
Whatever her blots, whate*er her giddy factions,
There is more virtue in one single year
Of Roman story, than your Yolscian annals
Can boast through all their creeping, dark duration.
,^uf. I thank thy rage: — This full displays the
traitor.
Cor. Traitor! — How now?
Jluf, Ay, traitor, Marcius.
Cor, Marcius !
Avf, Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius: Dost thou think
ril grace thee with that robbery, thy stolen name,
Coriolanus, in Corioli?
You lords, and heads of the state, perfidiously
He has betrayed your business, and given up,
For certain drops of salt, your city Rome, —
I say, your city,— to his wife and mother;
Breaking his oath and resolution like
A twist of rotten silk; never admitting
Counsel of the war: but at his nurse's tears
He whined and roared away your victory;
That pages blushed at him, and men of heart
Looked wondering at each other.
Cor, Hearest thou. Mars?
Auf, Name not the god, thou boy of tears.
t
390
DIALOGUES.
Cor. Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart
Too great for what contains it. — Boy ! —
Cut me to pieces, Volscians; men and lads,
Stain all your edges on nie. — Boy! —
If you have writ your annals true 'tis there,
That, like an eagle in a dovecot, I
Fluttered your Volscians in Corioli;
Alone I did it: — Boy! — But let us part;
Lest my rash hand should do a hasty deed
My cooler thought forbids.
Auf. I court
The worst thy sword can do; while thou from me
Hast nothing to expect but sore destruction;
Quit then this hostile camp: once more I tell thee.
Thou art not here one single hour in safety.
Cor. O, that I had thee in the field,
With six Aufidiuses, or more, thy tribe.
To use my lawful sword! Shakespeare,
Lady Randolph and Fouglas.
L, Ran. My son ! I heard a voice —
Doug. The voice was mine.
L. Ran. Didst thou complain aloud to Nature's ear,
That thus, in dusky shades, at midnight hours.
By stealth the mother and the son should meet?
Doug. No: on this happy day, this better birth>day.
My thoughts and words are all of hope and joy.
L, Ran. Sad fear and melancholy still divide
The empire of my breast with hope and joy
Now hear what I advise.
Doug. First let me tell
What may the tenor of your counsel change.
L. Ran. My heart forebodes some evil!
Doug, 'Tis not good —
At eve, unseen by Randolph and Glenalvon,
The good old Norval, in the grove, o'erheard
Their conversation: oft they mentioned me
With dreadful threatenings; you they sooletimes
named.
*Twas strange, they said, a wonderful discovery;
And ever and anon they vowed revenge.
DIALOGUES.
391
iTt
me
thee,
speare*
^jAetimes
reryi
L. Ran. Defend us, gracious God! we are betrayed!
They have found out the secret of thy birth;
It must be so. That is the great discovery.
Sir Malcolm's heir is come to claim his own;
And he will be revenged. Perhaps even now,
Armed and prepared for murder, they but wait
A darker and more silent hour to break
Into the chamber where they think thou sleepest.
This moment, this, Heaven hath ordained to save
thee !
Fly to the camp, my son!
Doug. And leave you here?
No: to the castle let us go together,
Call up the ancient servants of your house.
Who in their youth did eat your father's bread ;
Then tell them loudly that I am your son. .
If in the breasts of men one spark remains
Of sacred love, fidelity, or pity, —
Some in your cause will arm: I ask but few
To drive those spoilers from my father's house.
L. Ran. O Nature, Nature! what can check thy
force]
Thou genuine offspring of the daring Douglas!
But rush not on destruction: save thyself,
And I am safe. To me they mean no harm ;
Thy stay but risks thy precious life in vain.
That winding path conducts thee to the river;
Cross where thou seest a broad and beaten way,
Which, running eastward, leads thee to the camp.
Instant demand admittance to Lord Douglas;
Show him these jewels which his brother wore.
Thy look, thy voice, will make hira feel the truth.
Which I, by certain proof, will soon confirm.
Doug. I yield me and obey: but yet my heart
Bleeds at this parting. Something bids me stay,
And guard a mother's life. Oft have I read
Of wondrous deeds by one bold hand achieved
Our foes are two; no more: let me go forth,
And see if any shield can guard Glenalvou.
L. Ran. If thou regardest thy mother, or reverest
Thy father's memory, think of this no more.
One thing I have to say before we part:
^<
392
DIALOGUES.
Long wert thou lost; and thou art found, my child,
In a most fearful season. War and battle
I have great cause to dread. Too well I see
Which way the current of thy ^temper sets;
To-day Fve found thee. Oh! my long-lost hope!
If thou to giddy valour givest the rein,
To-morrow I may lose ray son for ever.
The love of thee, before thou sawest the light,
Sustained my life, when thy brave father fell.
If thou shall fall, I have nor love nor hope
In this waste world! My son, remember me!
Doug. What shall I say? how can I give you
comfort?
The God of battles of my life dispose.
As may be best for you ! for whose dear sake
I will jiot bear myself as I resolved.
But yet consider, as no vulgar name
That which I boast, it sounds 'mongst martial men;
How will inglorious caution suit my claim?
The post of fate, unshrinking, I maintain.
My country's foes must witness who I am;
On the invaders' heads I'll prove my birth.
Till friends and foes confess the genuine strain.
If in this strife I fall, blame not your son.
Who, if he lives not honoured, must not live.
L. Ran. I will not utter what my bosom feels
Too well I love that valour which I warn.
Farewell, my son! my counsels are but vain;
And as high Heaven hath willed it, all must be.
Home.
Alberto*s Exculpation.
King. Art thou the chief of that unruly band
Who broke the treaty and assailed the Moors?
Youth. No chief, no leader of a band am I.
The leader of a band insulted me,
And those he led basely assailed my life;
With bad success indeed. If self-defence
Be criminal, king! I have offended.
King.' With what a noble confidence he speaks!
See what a spirit through his blushes breaks I
Observe him, Hamet.
DIALOGUES.
mZ%iTl'""^ upon h™.
, And Zu /»ch tvot^Vu?;? " "''"'• of Moor,
Recall .hy soatteredThoughr N„?h-"' "«;
Which proof may overth^oT '^""^ '"^™»«=
N„^7'*,— What I have Taid
J^o proof can orerthrow. Whp™ • ...
Who, speaking from himself „„7? '""^ """'•
And rumours idle, willTS T^l""^ "ports
I was not einffle whTn I ,, ''"'"' ""'^ ^ay,
That I came hilw toLcteS ""'"\'' ^ -"^-^
And to demand thxr r.. • i *"^^' ^o^th
^Jt*uthtTt;ti,,,,„„,^^^^^^^^
^~t'rir.i^^^«"»'form,
«r^'"^- Thy stoiy tell, '
The famous combrt WW '"""' *" ^^«
With tauntingTvords 3 V""™'^"' «""■'«.
Mocking my Jou. fadTiltr^ "^ ^^P"^"'
Back to my father'a C ," *° "'e'lrn
To dance wi h bovs i^': T^ '" ""= ""S
That I should s^e^n?"*^ ^"'''' "o added too
Of Spain du" t 4: r'f = ^.''»' "0 ^-k^t
To a green hfll T ^f^' """^ ^ <'<=fl'=d him
Alone we sped -alone J^f ^™™ '"'^ P°«'-
TheMooris^h^a;irfS,.^^Sa::j:Ztn
393
/
i
11
li
394
DIALOGUES^
Flew to revenge his death. Secure they came
Each with his utmost speed. Those who came firsts
Single, I met and slew. More wary grown,
The ref:t together joined, and all at once
Assailed me. Then I had no hopes of life.
But suddenly a troop of Spaniards came
And charged my foes, who did not long sustain
The shock, but fled, and carried to their camp
That false report which thou, O king! hast heard.
King. Now by my sceptre and my sword I swear
Thou art a noble youth. An angel's voice
Could not command a more implicit faith
Than thou from me hast gained. What thinkest
thou, Hamet,
Is he not greatly wronged?
Hamet. By Allah! yea.
The voice of truth and innocence is bold.
And never yet could guilt that tone assume.
I take my leave, impatient to return,
And satisfy my friends that this brave youth
Was not the aggressor. —
King. I expect no less from generous Hamet.
Tell me, wondrous youth! [£a?«V, Hamet.
For much I long to know, what is thy name?
Who are thy parents? Since the Moor prevailed,.
The cottage and the cave have oft concealed
From hostile hate the noblest blood of Spain ;
Thy spirit speaks for thee. Thou art a shoot
Of some illustrious stock, some noble house,
Whose fortunes with their falling country fell.
Vouth. Alberto is my name. I draw my birth
From Cataloni?i; in the mountains there
My father dwells, and for his own domains
Pays tribute to the Moor. He was a soldier;
Oft I have heard him of your battles speak,
Of Cavadonga's and Olalle's field.
But ever since 1 can remember aught,
His chief employ"v ^nt and delight have been
To train me to the use and love of arms:
In martial <JZ3rcise we passed the day;
Morning and evening, still the theme was war.
He bred me to endure the summer's heat
• '
DIALOGUES.
895
And brave the winter's cold; to swim across
The headlong torrent when the shoals of ice
Drove down the stream; to rule the fiercest steeds
That on our mountains run. No savage beast
The forest yields that I have not encountered.
Meanwhile my bosom beat for nobler game;
I longed in arms to meet the foes of Spain.
Oft I implored my father to permit me,
Before the truce was made, to join the host.
He said it must not be, I was too young
For the rude service of these trying times.
King. Thou art a prodigy, and fillest the mind
With thoughts profound and expectation high.
When in a nation, humbled by the will
Of Providence, beneath a haughty foe,
A person rises up, by nature reared,
Sublime, above the level of mankind;
Like that bright bow the hand of the Most High
Bends in the watery cloud: He is the sign
Of prosperous change and interposing Heaven.
Home»
Alfred and Devon Returned SuccessfuL
Alf. My friend returned!
O welcome, welcome! but what happy tidings
Smile in thy cheerful countenance? —
Dev. My li*)ge.
Your troops have been successful. — But to Heaven
Ascend the praise! For sure the event exceeds
The hand of man.
Mf. How was it, noble Devon?
Dev. You know my castle is not hence far distant.
Thither I sped; and, in a. Danish habit,
The trenches passing, by a secret way
Known to myself alone, emerged at once
Amid my joyful soldiers. There I found
A generous few, the veteran, hardy gleanings
Of many a hapless fight. They with a fierce
Heroic fire inspirited each other;
Resolved on death, disdaining to survive
Their dearest country.-!-" If we fall," I cried.
1 1
396
•
DIALOGUES.
"Let U8 not tamely fall like cowards!
"No: let us live — or let us die, like men I
"Come on, my friends: to Alfred we will cut
" Our glorious way; or, as we nobly perish,
" Will oflTer to the genius of our country
" Whole hecatombs of Danes." — As if one soul
Had moved them all, around their heads they flashed
Their flaming falchions — " Lead us to those Danes!
" Our country! — vengeance!'' — was the general cry.
Straight on the careless drowsy camp he rushed
And rapid, as the flame devours the stubble.
Bore down the heartless Danes. With this success
Our enterprise increased. Not now contented
To hew a passage through the flying herd.
We unremitting, urged a total rout.
The valiant Hubba bites the bloody field.
With twice six hundred Danes around him strewed.
Alf. My glorious friend! this action has restored
Our sinking country. —
But where, my noble cousin, are the rest
Of our brave troops?
Dev. On t'other side the stream.
That half encloses this retreat, I left them.
Roused from the fear, with which it was congealec
As in a frost, the country pours amain.
The spirit of our ancestors is up.
The spirit of the free! and with a voice
That breathes success, they all demand their king.
Alf» Quick let us join them, and improve their
ardour.
We cannot be too hasty to secure
The glances of occasion. Thomson.
The Quarrel of Brutus and Cassius,
Cas. That you have wronged me, doth appear in
this;
You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella,
For taking bribes here of the Sardians ;
Wherein my letters, praying on his side.
Because I knew the man, were slighted of.
Bru. You wronged yourself, to write in suoh a
cai9<
DIAI.OQUES.
397
shed
Lnes!
cry.
I
icess
ewed.
iored
jalec
their
\mson.
jar in
ich a
Cas. In such a time as this it is not meet
That every nice offence should bear its comment.
Bru, Yet let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself
Are much condemned to have an itching palm;
To sell and mart your offices for gold
To undeservers.
Cas. I, an itching palm?
You know that you are Brutus that speak this,
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.
Bru. The name of .Cassius honours this corruption,
Acd chastisement doth therefore hide its head.
Cas. Chastisement!
Bru. Remember March, the Ides of March re-
member!
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake?
What villian touched his body, that did stab,
And not for justice? What, shall one of us.
That struck the foremost man in all this world.
But for supporting robbers; shall we now
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes?
And sell the mighty space of our large honours,
For as much trash as may be grasped thus?
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman,
Cas. Brutus, bay not me,
I'll not endure it: you forget yourself,
To hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I,
Older in practice, abler than yourself
To make conditions.
Bru. Go to; you're not, Cassius.
Cas. I am.
Bru. I say, you are not.
Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself ;
Have n ind upon your health, tempt me no farther.
Bru. Away, slight man!
Cas. Is't possible?
Bru. Hear me, for I will speak.
Must I give way and room to your rash choler?
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?
Cas ye gods! ye gods! must I endure all this?
Bru. All this? ay, more: Fret till your proud heart
break;
898
DIALOQUKS.
I
I
Go, show your slaves how choleric you are,
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge?
Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch
Under your testy humour? By the gods,
You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
Though it do split you ; for, from this day forth,
I'll use you for my mirth, yea for my laughter,
When you are waspish.
Cas. Is it come to this?
Bru. You say you are a better soldier:
Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,
And it shall please me well: For mine own part,
I shall be glad to learn of noble men.
Cas.YoM wrong me every way, you wrong me,
Brutus;
I said, an elder soldier, not a better:
Did I say better?
Bru. If you did, I care not.
Cas. When Csesar lived, he durst not thus have
moved me.
Bru, Peace, peace; you durst not 80 have tempted
him<
Cas. I durst not!
Bru. No.
Cas. What? durst not tempt him?
Bru. For your life you durst not.
Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love:
I may do that I shall be sorry for.
Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;
For I am armed so strong in honesty,
That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not. I did send to you
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me; —
For I can raise no money by vile means: '
By Heaven, I had rather coin my heart,
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
By any indirection. I did send
To you for gold to pay my legions.
Which you denied me: was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so?
DIALOGUES.
399
le;—
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
To lock such ra cal counters from his friends,
Be ready, f;ods, with all your thunderbolts.
Dash him to pieces!
Cos. I denied you not.
Brtt, You did.
Cos. I did not: — he was but a fool
That brought my answer back. — Brutus hath rived
my heart;
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities.
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.
Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me.
Cas. You love me not.
Bru. I do not like your faults.
Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults.
Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do
appear
As huge as high Olympus.
Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come.
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,
For Cassius is aweary of the world:
Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;
Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed,
Set in a note-book, learned and conned by rote,
To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep
My spirit from mine eyes! — There is my dagger.
And here my naked breast; within, a heart.
Dearer than Plutus* mine, richer than gold:
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth;
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart:
Strike as thou did'st at Cffisar; for I know.
When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him
better
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.
Bru, Sheathe your dagger:
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;
Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour.
O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb,
That carries anger, as the flint bears Are;
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.
Cas. Hath Cassius lived
400
DIALOGUKS.
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
When grief, or blood ill-tempered, vexeth him?
Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too.
Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.
Bru. And my heart too.
Cas, O Brutus! —
Bru. What's the matter?
Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me,
When that rash humour, which my mother gave me,
Makes me forgetful?
Bru. Yes, Cassius; and from henceforth.
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.
Shakespeare,
Orestes Delivering His Embassy to Pyvrhus.
Orest. Before I speak the message of the Greeks,
Permit me, sir, to glory in the title
Of their ambassador; since I behold
Troy's vanquisher, and great Achilles' son.
Nor does the son rise short of such a father:
If Hector fell by him, Troy fell by you.
But what your lather never would have done.
You do. You cherish the remains of 'JVoy;
And, by an ill-timed pity, keep alive
The dying embers of a ten-years' war.
Have you so soon forgot the mighty Hector?
The Greeks remember his high-brandished sword.
That filled their states with widows and with
orphans ;
For which they call for vengeance on his son.
Who knows what he may ore day prove? Who knows
But he may brave us in our ports; and filled
With Hector's fury, set our fleets on blaze
You may yourself live to repent your mercy.
Comply, then, with the Grecians' just demand:
Satiate their vengeance, and preserve yourself.
Pyr, The Greeks are for my safety more
cerned
Than I desire: I thought your kings were met
On more important counsel. When I heard
con-
\
DIALOGUES.
401
7
I too.
hand.
th me,
ve me,
u so.
ispeure.
us.
Greeks,
jword,
id with
In.
lo knows
Ind:
)re con-
The name of their ambassador, I hoped
Some glorious enterprise was taking birth.
Is Agamemnon's son despatched for this?
And do the Grecian chiefs, renowned in war,
A race of heroes, join in close debate
To plot an infant*s death? What right has Greece
To ask his life? Must I, must I alone,
Of all her sceptred warriors, be denied
To treat my captive as I please? Know, prince,
When Troy lay smoking on the ground, and each
Proud victor shared the harvest of the war,
Andromache, and this her son, were mine;
Were mine by lot; and who shall wrest them from me?
Ulysses bore away old Priam's queen;
Cassandra was your own great father's prize:
Did I concern myself in what they won?
Did 1 send embassies to claim their captives?
Orest, But, sir, we fear for you and for ourselves.
Troy may again revive, and a new Hector
Rise in Astyanax. Then think betimes —
Pi/r, Let dastard souls be timorously wise;
But tell them, Pyrrhus knows not how to form
Far-fancied ill, and dangers out of sight.
Orest. Sir, call to mind the unrivalled strength of
Troy;
Her walls, her bulwarks, and her gates of brass,
Her kings, her heroes, and embattled armies!
Pyr. I call them all to mind ; and see them all
Confused in dust; all mixed in one wide ruin;
All but a child, and he in bondage held.
What vengeance can we fear from such a Troy?
If they have sworn to extinguish Hector's race,
AVhy was their vow for twelve long months deferred?
Why was he not in Priam's bosom slain?
He should have fallen among the slaughtered heaps
Whelmed under Troy. His death had then been
just.
When age and infancy alike in vain
Pleaded their weakness; when the heat of conquest.
And horrors of the fight, roused all our rage.
And blindly hurried us through scenes of death.
My fury then was without bounds: but now,
402
DIALOGUES.
My wrath appeased, must I be cruel still,
And, deaf to all the tender calls of pity,
Like a cool murderer, bathe my hands in blood —
An infant's blood? — No, prince — Go, bid the Greeks
Mark out some other victim; my revenge
Has had its fill. What has escaped from Troy
Shall not be saved to perish in Epirus.
Orest. I need not tell you, sir, Astyanax
Was doomed to death in Troy; nor mention how
The crafty mother saved her darling son:
The Greeks do now but urge their former sentence:
Nor is't the boy, but Hector they pursue;
The father draws their vengeance on the son:
The father, who so oft in Grecian blood
Has drenched his sword: the father whom the Greeks
May seek even here. — Prevent them, sir, in time.
/^r. No! let them come; since I was born to wage
Eternal wars. Let them now turn their arms
On him who conquered for them; 1st them come)
And in Epirus seek another Troy.
*Twa8 thus they recompensed my godlike sire;
Thus was Achilles thanked. • But, prince, remember,
Their black ingratitude then cost them dear.
Philips,
Glenalvon and J^Torval.
Glen, His port I love: he's in a proper mood
To chide the thunder, if at him it roared. [^Aside,
Has Norval seen the troops?
J^Torv. The setting sun
With yellow radiance lightened all the vale,
And as the warriors moved, each polished helm.
Corslet, or spear, glanced back his gilded beams.
The hill they climbed, and, halting at its top,
Of more than mortal size, towering they seemed
A host angelic, clad in burning arms.
Glen, Thou talkest it well; no leader of our host
In sounds more lofty talks of glorious war.
J\rorv. If I should e'er acquire a leader's name.
My speech will be less ardent. Novelty
Now prompts my tongue, and youthful admiration
DIALOGUES.
403
reeks
tence:
Greeks
ime.
to wage
.3
[e;
Qcmber,
Philips.
ood
[^Aside.
elm*
sams.
jmed
)ur host
1 name,
ii ration
Vents itself freely; since no part is mine
Of praise pertaining to the great in arras.
Glen. You wrong yourself, brave sir; your martial
deeds
Have ranked 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 know 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.
Nbrv. Sir, T have been accustomed 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 skilled:
Therefore I thank Glenalvon for his counsel,
Although it sounded harshly. Why remind
Me of my birth obscure? Why slur my power
With such contemptuous terms?
Glen. I did not mean
To gall your pride, which now I see is great.
Norv. 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.
If thus you swell, and frown at high-born men,
Will high-born men endure a shepherd's scorn?
Nbrv. A shepherd's scorn!
Glen. Yes; if you presume
To bend on soldiers these disdainful eyes,
As if you took the measure of their minds,
And said in secret. You're no match for me.
What will become of you?
Jforv. Hast thou no fears for thy presumptuous
self ?
Glen, Ha! dost thou threaten me?
Jforv. Didst thou not hear?
Glen, Unwillingly I did; a nobler foe
Had not been questioned thus; but such as thee
Jforv. Whom dost thou think me?
404
DIALOGUKS.
Glen. Nerval.
Jforv. So I am
And who is Norval in Glenalvon*s eyes?
Glen. A peasant's son, a wandering beggar boy,
At best no more, even if he speaks the truth.
JSTorv. False as thou art, dost thou suspect my
truth?
Glen. Thy truth! thou'rt all a lie; and false as
hell
Is the vainglorious tale thou toldest to Randolph.
JVorv. If I were chained, unarmed, or bedrid old.
Perhaps 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 not fear to freeze thy shallow valour.
And make thee sink too soon beneath my sword,
I'd tell thee — what thou art. I know thee well.
Glen. Dost thou not know Glenalvon, born to
command.
Ten thousand slaves like thee?
JSTorv. Villain, no more!
Draw and defend thy life. I did design
To have defied thee in another cause;
But Heaven accelerates its vengeance on thee.
Now for my own and Lady Randolph's wrongs.
Lord Ban, [^Enters.'} Hold! I command you both I
the man that stirs
Makes me his foe.
JN'orv. Another voice than thine,
That threat had vainly sounded, noble Randolph.
Glen. Hear him, my lord; he's wondrous con-
descending!
Mark the humility of Shepherd Norval!
Morv. Now you may scoff in safety. \_Sheathes
Lord Ran, Speak not thus, [his sword.
Taunting each other, but unfold to me
The cause of quarrel; then I judge betwixt you.
J^orv. Nay, iny good lord, though I revere you
much.
My cause I plead not, nor demand your judgment.
I blush to speak: I will not, cannot speak
The opprobrious words that I from him have borne
DIALOGUES.
405
my
e as
ti.
I old,
5ll.
jrn to
both!
l)lph.
IS con-
\heathes
sword,
row-
iTQ you
[ment.
Taorne
To the liege lord of my dear native land
I owe n subject's homage; but even him
And his high arbitration I'd reject.
Within my bosom reigns another lord;
Honour, sole judge and umpire of itself.
If my free speech offend you, noble Randolph,
Revoke your favours, and let Norval go
Hence as he came, but not dishonoured!
Lord Ran. Thus far I'll mediate with impartial
voice;
The ancient foe of Caledonia's land
Now waves his banner o'er her frighted fields;
Suspend your purpose till your country's arms
Repel the bold invader; then decide
The private quarrel.
Glen. I agree to this.
JSTorv. And I. ^Exit Randolph.
Glen. Norval,
Let not our variance mar the social hour,
Nor wrong the hospitality of Randolph.
Nor frowning anger, nor yet wrinkled hate.
Shall stain my countenance. Smoothe thou thy browf
Nor let our strife disturb the gentle dame.
Jforv, Think not so lightly, sir, of my resentment;
When we contend again, our strife is mortal. Home.
David and Goliath.
Goliath. Where is the mighty man of war, who
dares
Accept the challenge of Philistia's chief ?
What victor-king, what general drenched in blood.
Claims this high privilege? What are his rights?
What proud credentials does the boaster bring
To prove his claim? What cities laid in ashes.
What ruined provinces, what slaughtered realms.
What heads of heroes, or what hearts of kings,
In battle killed, or at his altars slain,
Has he to boast? Is his bright armory
Thick set with spears, and swords, and coats of mail,
Of vanquished nations, by his single arm
Subdued? Where is the mortal man so bold,
406
OIALOGCES.
So much a wretch, so out of love with life,
To dare the weight of this uplifted spear?
Come, advance!
Philistia's gods to Israel's. Sound, ray herald,
Sound for the battle straight!
David. Behold thy foe!
Gol. I see him not.
Dav. Behold him here!
Gol. Say where?
Direct my sight. I do not war with boys.
Dav. I stand prepared; thy single arm to mine.
Gol. Why this is mockery, minion ! it may chance
To cost thee dear. Sport not with things above thee:
But tell me who, of all this numerous host.
Expects his death from me? Which is the man.
Whom Israel sends to meet my bold defiance? i
Dau. The election of my sovereign falls on me.
Gol. On thee! on thee! by Dagon, 'tis too much !
Thou curled minion! thou a nation's champion!
*Twould move my mirth at any other time;
But trifling's out of tune. Begone, light boy!
And tempt me not too far.
Dav. I do defy thee,
Thou foul idolater! Hast thou not scorned
The armies of the living God I serve?
By me he will avenge upon thy head
Thy nation's sins and thine. Armed with his name.
Unshrinking, I dare meet the stoutest foe
That ever bathed his hostile spear in blood. ■*
Gol. Indeed ! 'tis wondrous well ! Now, by my gods ! '
The stripling plays the orator! Vain boy!
Keep close to that same bloodless war of words,
And thou shalt still be safe. Tongue^ valiant warrior!
Where is thy sylvan crook, with garlands l^ung.
Of idle field-flowers? Where thy wanton harp.
Thou dainty-fingered hero?
Now will I meet thee,
Thou insect warrior! since thou dar'st me thus!
Already I behold thy mangled limbs,
Dissevered each from each, ere long to feed
The fierce, blood-snuffing vulture. Mark me well!
Around my spear I'll twist thy shining locks,
,
DIALOGUES.
4o;
ice
hee:
h!
mme,
And toss in air thy head all p;ashed with wounds.
Dav, Ha ! say'st thon so? Come on, then! Mark us
well.
Thou com^st to me with sword, and spear, and shield!
In the dread name of Israel's God, I come;
The living Lord of llosts, whom thou defi'st!
Yet though no shield I bring; no arms, except
These five smooth stones I gathered from the brook.
With such a simple sling as shepherds use;
Yet all exposed, defenceless as 1 am.
The God I serve shall give thee up a prey
To my victorious arm. This day I mean
To make the uncircumcised tribes confess
There is a God in Israel. I will give thee.
Spite of thy vaunted strength and giant bulk.
To glut the carrion kites. Nor thee alone;
The mangled carcases of your thick hosts
Shall spread the plains of Elah; till Philistia,
Through all her trembling tents and flying bands.
Shall own that Judah's God is God indeed!
I dare thee to the trial !
Gol. Follow me.
In this good spear I trust.
Dav. I trust in Heaven !
The God of battles stimulates my arm,
And fires my soul with ardor not its own.
//. More.
gods!
farrior
t
THE END.
relU