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Lorsqua la document ast trop grand pour dtre raproduit an un saul cliche, il ast fiimi A partir da I'angla sup^riaur gaucha. da gaucha d droits, at da haut tn baa, an pranant la nombra d'imagaa nteassaira. Las diagrammes suivants illustrant la m^thoda. 1 2 3 32X 1 2 3 4 S 6 ■^ I HI !# THE METROPOLITAN FOURTH READER: COMPILED FOB THE USE OP COLLEGES, ACADEMIES, HIGHEK CLASSES OF SELEci t ? * ^y& an Moh} Br BIGHT EEV. J^. By a Member of the Order NEW YORK : D. & J. SADLIER & CO, 164 WILLIaKT BOSTON-128 FEDERAL-STREET """"" """'"'"^ '» ^'=' Of «on..e«. in the year ,««, l^' p. * J. SADLIRR A CO RENNIE.SHEA4MNDSAY fllBlOTVP.Bs AND ELIMBoTYpi,,, 81,83485 Ckntre-Strkbt, JftJW YORK. I i e n d tl tr e( ci ti-i INTEODUOTIOIT. The subject of education is certainly fT,« ^ x md it seema t bo „n the inore«e Th.' l ''™''. P™'''*'""^ our age s«„„ to bo the derj toX II tT"!." ° '"" °' its tender .ind and heart to I ^art oX fl oi rwif "'°"'.' system of common schools is hnt .n widespread which is based npon a knowlsd," If ^ "^"^'"' "' ""» <•«««"?. ophy. Thecbi,d''is ".^eirerr, rmr^rl-^^-fPMos- of the latter will be bat a development of theT "''.«''"«'«■• upon the mind and heart of the fo'S wLlo hr"'"""' ""' tible and plastic. If U.e flower be buihlTof Z 7°"^^^- m the nnrsery, it will be difflcmt to rend '1?° '?* ^ """• either healthy or straight ^° """""^ P""* eithl: SltnortTr Zr^r ' '^^''"' '= ^"""^ '» "» ment in edncaZ Tithon:t^ 7"'°"* "^ ""«'°™ ^'^ donbtful boon and it ^.r^ ^'"'' °''°°"'<"' ''■ " ^^t, bat a the lanateTnCorru;:: ;"::';'" ri!; '"■-'"'-'"^ training it np to ,ood th« n!l '°,°"'' »"'' '^^ diffloalty of edacational pCesrt '.ht''"' •' ™'''' " ^^^■""" '" «"> curb to the ifea^^g Z'Z IZl'ToZ""' V""''"' «n ap „hil,..e„ ^ «„ ,,„„, J J"; ^riXf S? IV iNTKonncrno.v. "v,.|„iio„, tl,o foot, „f I,ut„rv « „ "'""'"""" "' •'»i-y "i--v»«o„ „„., „; s, " r:,:x;2 "' ■ -"' Not tlmt ,vo would tL„„ nV • ' """'"'"""bO'"'""""'. among „,„ ovoMcnIous l,,,tJi„ , '"^ """""'"" » ""'I' *iso Biblo »„d Subb "21* ;j^^^^^^ «' ■»-'--" over. oaau«K.„„,,.batT;:TC;';r;^^ »o dea,.,, loved. It should X ft tt ' tr """'" ''"™' ".ys every pursuit „f the sclfool-r ™ oyfLZ, """" Tf '" ■ «ml cbeers the ol.jocts of nature W ,T " "'"'R'"'"' ligions influoueo .„ tbe mi u^nd TT. "'"""'"'"'"' ■•"■ would seek to di,t 1 i „Tn ' "' °'''''""'°''' ^ut wo Waven on «.; t!:: 1 ^ ft^in^r t"' 'IT ""^■' "' exWude from tbe rendin^-lesson. In ,l ?' """ '""•'■'f""^ Ple-S and even all wo Ulv an 1 f '° ''°""" °' "•"■'""» l"'"'ci- ie, or tJie gorgeous luwgory of noefrv w n n«.dly e«,„do Byron, i„ spite of liX^tZ,. "^Z:!! INTRODUCTION. y pn.vcl »„c„I.r inatruotion wo„kI r,„t on now beanty ami obtaia . «n« I, from on big,,," „„d „,„ ,,,„ „f ,,^„„^„ ^^, f^^J ol.iMlK,,,,!; for ,0 aroma of religion, diffn,.,! tbrongl, all it, de- par^non^ „„„W ,„,„, n a cl,„r,„ and givo it a zest wl.ich no earlbly condimont conld impart. Wt, m tho now 8„r,o, of Metropolitan Reader,, jnst i,,„od by the Moj Sadher of New York, particularly in the Fourth Reader o wh oh our attention ba, been more specially called. The m.t^ te of the lesson., „ varied, and though far from being exclusively rehpous, possesses, in general, a religious or moral tendency, and . oT tV" ", T" ""''™^'°"- "'^" ■' "» '«'- "'"•-' "• Iftb: It I"'""'"".™'" '"'"'° by « religious lady of the Order Of the Holy Cross, who took care to submit her work to the -uclgment of gentlemen well known for their critical acumen and li erary taste, and had it edited by another lady of New York -.ho bos merited well of American Catholic literature. Unto Buch crcurastance, it does no, surprise ns to find that the colj ..ntly popular ,a our schools, and thereby to accomplish mud inJthe!.""* f ™'": " ""'"• '"'" '"° P"^'- "- «"' oontain- ng the prmcples and practice of elocution, and the second, well selected and appropriate readings, both in poetrv and in pise Two thmg, m particular strike us as distinctive of this col lectfon »; jects and to Amencan authors over those which are foreign • and seeond the copious selections from the writings of the priLcipal Ca hohc wnters of the day, both in Europe and in IZZ the IZ Ty. T '''"='""°- '*^''« ■■'"'1''" U'« feature of If so ne If ;,?? I ,"""'• " "" -"""^'-ce that the writing, of some of these d.stmgnished authors are not very generally ins well that our children sh -'■' ' ■ should learn tliat there are good and VI INTBODUOnoir. elegant works of literatnre in the Ohn-M e«r'j »ge, will, a tasto for this kind„f i '"'"'' ^""•' '" eign Oatnollc writer, from ZLmtu, '^ ^'"'"'^ "'« <•»■- «oe the n»„es of Oardmri Wi en,a tT "" "'"'°''' "' ""■ 'eanbriand, and Digby AmlT ' """"• ''"'""^ Ol-- -ith Pleasnre the nal of t fraUf "„:; ""iTi, "° ''^'°^'™ «»S'"»hed laymen as The Writings ^f .he» a ei!- "°^°",''' '""»■ "^ ""^ others. from our Bld^-dZeriean aair^r""" '"'"^"^ -'-«»- and Paulding. ""^ *""'"»• ^'--fc P^'eott, Bancroft, Bel^Lttre";::;n!;7rrr,-"''' ^''"* -•- -^ Mademies. *^ "" °*""''"' '«'''««»»■ schools, and CONTENTS. iNTaoDDCTiON, by Bishop Spalding "•■ PART I. PRINCIPLES OP ELOCUTION. Introduction Proper position ....!!. ^ Holding tile Boole 11 Respiration 12 Kxercise .'.' 12 Articulation [[[[[ 12 Exercises in Articulation .* ] 12 Pronunciation **[ 16 Exercises in Emphasis. 19 Inflection 22 Examples in Inflection.... '■.'.*.' '**.*.* 23 ,, I' " for two voices '..'.'.'.'.','. ^^ " " for three voices... ^^ Exercises IN Ew)cuTi0N. Examples ^"^ Spirited Declamation 31 Gay, Brisk, and Humorous De'siription ^^ Ummpassioned Narrative..., 81 Dignified Sentiment ..[[[ 82 Solemn and Impressive Thoughts ^^ Awe and Solemnity ... 83 Deep Solemnity, Awe', Consternation '.'. «3 Monotone 84 Quantity '['' 36 Examples in Quantity. ....."' 38 Rate or Movement of the Voice 88 Slow Movement 40 Reverence 41 Melancholy ....!'"."* 41 Profound Solemnity 41 42 CONTENTS. Orandciir, Vastness r/oi Moderate Movoment .... 42 Lively Movement 42 BiiHk Movement. 42 K'lpid Movement 48 SKMiTONB,ORPl,MNT™M;;'s>„o.;.' ^^ Examples of Plaintive UUeranco.. i;- ^6 " " u ,< Motherwell. 46 " " «« 44 Bryant. 47 " ThoPast ffood. 48 Where are tlie Dead *.*..*. ^'^"^- ^^ u I^"" ^^^''^^ °f "'e Six Hundred r f ^ ^^ Give me Three Grains of Corn Tennyson. 50 The Leaves 61 ;; The First Crusad;;s bef;;e jVrusaie'n,' V '^- ^^ ^^''^- H lament for the Death of Owen Roe O'Nie'l n"' ?^ ' The Wexford Massacre ^'^ ^°« ^ ^'^^ • • • • j-fam. 53 '* AbouBenAdham M.J.Barry. 54 " The Reaper Leigh Hunt. 55 " Mental Beauty ' ' LongfeUow. 65 ;; The i^Iiloquy of king fti^ha^d • • ^*«".Vfe. 66 - Spring Flowers Shakspeare. 67 " The Modern Blue-sVockinff ^°^^^- ^^ Invocation . . 58 " Time Mackay. 69 " Poetasters ....*. G- D- Prenttce. 59 " Kichard's Resignation '.'.'■■'■ 'o,",'-^'^' ^^ £:«\««g;et on quitting PaVkdiseV.v;;;;*-''^!^^ «? I^ve due to the Creator.. >; "JtS"' ^^ .. ^Child's First Impression of a m^. y,::; ' ' '''• "^ «J I he Carrier-Pigeon ' »uits. 62 To the Passion-Flower V.'. ^'^'- ^^ " Advice to an Affected Speaker V'V;*" ^^ Remarks to Teachers . . ^ Bi-uyire. 66 66 ■♦*♦- PART II. POETRY. The Landing of Columbus. „ ' Mary, Queen of Marcy . ; Samuel Rogers. Language .■[ James Clarence Mangan. Indian Names ....!,...'.. ^" *^' ^°^f^- Mrs. Sigourvey. 69 75 82 86 r/au • • • • '42 . . . . 42 . . . . 42 . . . . 43 . . . . 44 ... 46 '4)ell. 46 ant. 47 CONTENTS. M Times go by Turns „ . rAon Mary 8tiiai fs Lost Prayer V.'. '"' '^"'^""^- 01 Tho Virgin Mary's Knight mi'^'^' ^'"^^''"- ^8 My Life is like the Summer" KoHe*.'. X' f , ^f"' ^^^ I ho Song of tho Union . v"'r'\. ' "'''''• ^^^ Gentle River '""'• ''• "■ (^umminga. 121 If thou coMldst be a Bird" /'''"" '^' ''^/"'nwA. 129 The CroHB In tho Wilderness ^ ^^ ^"^"'- ^^^ The Parrot ■^'■»- //«"«rf Tennyson. 219 The Sister of Chkrity ^- ^- '*''^''«»n»- 225 The Ministry of Angels ^"""^ ^"^"- 232 Melrose Abbey . . Edmund Spenser. 239 Horatius '^"' '*^"^^ ^°^^- 249 iii'J Crusaders ^- ^- ^^caulay. 269 Mary Magdalen ^"'* ^^<^f<^^^orth. 268 Martyrdom of St. Agnes Callamn. 278 Lament of Mary. Queen "of"sc*ot8 ^"p7 ^!, ' '''• ^^'^ An Hour at the Old Play-ground """' 29* Stella Matutina, ora pro nobis. ;.* ' ' * ' ' •"^"'^- ^^S " My Father's Growing Old" W' .; ^^""''"^'««- 309 To the Robin . ^/«a6e/A (?. Barber. 311 Christmas ^^"^ Cook. 312 The High-born Udye ..".*.'.* ^""^ '^'^^^ Manners. 826 Marco Bozzaris ^^'^^ Moore. 829 Cardinal Wolsey "and cVomweli ^U^-Greene Halleck. 337 Catholic Ruins Shdkspeare. 343 The Dying Child "on New Ws Eve Father Caswell. 365 The Art of Book-Keeping Tennyson. 369 Who is my Neighbor .....".' '^^'^- ^^^^- 367 There were Merry Days "in" England" ^"°"' ^^^ Love of Country . 377 Holy Wells of Ireland *.!!'. '^"' ^"^^^ ^^^'- 383 The American Flag . . .' '^°^" Eraser. 388 Abraham and the Fire-worshjnner ^"^\^- ^''"^'- ^99 The Celtic Cross ^^^snipptr Household Wards. 401 T. D. McGte. 408 w CONTENTS. Boyhood's Years p^„ j'he Indian Boat / Jiev. C. Meehan. 415 Tho Immortal Soul of Man ^«»'«- 421 Bingen on the Rhine .... Syrm. 427 The Ancient Tombs ^'^- ^rs. Norton. 433 On ?»ide '.*.'.'.'.*.'.'.'. ^'"'^ ^'•o"^- 438 Pope. 445 « PROSE. Character of Columbus.... Philanthropy and Charity Washington Irving. 67 I^ve for the Church .... ^- ^- -Brownson. 70 K«ligiou8 Mcaorials .*.'.".".*.* ^- ^- Brovmson. 73 The Convert ^ir Humphrey Davy. 77 Language of a Man of 'Education f * ^' ^"'•'^^" 79 'ilio Indians ^^ S.T.Coleridge. 80 St. Vincent, Deacon and Marty'r ;^"- -^"^^^ ^^'^y- 83 1 he beven Sleepers of Ephesus -^"meso?*. 87 Catholic MisHionn In the Northwest \ ^^^o-Arm Jameson. 89 Catholic MlHsions-continued '^* ^'^''^^ Bancroft. 92 ihe Discovery of Arnerica.. '• 96 lie Discovery of America-ciiwnued ""• ^- ^'^''- 99 Ihe Young Catholic ™* 101 "Thti Children of the Poor. . ^**^ Martinez. 105 The Blessed Sacrament Charles Lamb. 107 The Blind Martyr .... P- W. Faber. 109 The Blind Martyr-continued Cardinal Wiseman. 1 12 Peace Tribunals II5 The Spirit of the Age . Archbishop Kenrick. 120 Death of Alonzo de AguiVa'r '^"^- ^- ^^^mmings. 1 22 Death of AlonEo de Aguilarli;;n*tinu;d ^"*- ^ ^"^'^''- ^'^^ St. Peter's Lntry into Rome. ; 127 •Novel Reading Archbishop Hughes. Ul Death .of Father Marquette Anonymcm. 135 jArly Days at Emmettsburir J- G. Shea. US Portrait of a Virtuous and Accomnlishi; W " ' " '^'''- ^ ^- ^'^(<^^- 142 Execution of Mary, Queen Xls'^'^^'"*^-- Fenelon. 147 ■lue Humming-Bird . . "^^nes Strickland. 148 Description of Nature 'in the Christian P;^/!,": " ' " "^'^" "^ ^"^«*o«- 152 Queen Elizabeth of Hungary '"' ^'"»*<'W<. 153 Ages of Faith . .\ ' Mmlalembert. 159 Ages of Faith— continued -^^"^^"^ ^- ^igby- 161 Bishop BrutcJ 164 Doss and Gain Bishop Bayley. 169 God's Share ' ' " ' Rev- J. H. Newman. 170 • Donald McZeod. 176 CONTENTS. /T The Last Hours of Louis XVI '^°» Character of the Irish Peasantr"' r' " Vn " •^'"'^- 1^7 St. Frances of Komo "' * '^^"' ^«'""»/7''i"'o'\V ^^* The Choice ^i vu J.i Derty Bishop Spalding. 236 The Choice-continued ^"^^^ ^^- ^'^- 240 The Fate of Andre 243 The First Solitary of the"'rtiebai's 'A' •^^''"''^'°«- 246 The First Solitary of the Thebais-c;ntin'u'e"d ^-«^-«'^- 2o2 The Exile's Return ""nuea 255 Mount Orient Mrs. J. Sadlier 262 Duties of the American "citizen n """f t??"' ^^^ The Catacombs ^""'^^ ^«^'«-- 269 The Religious Military 'ordcrs a \^; Mamhan. 271 Dialogue with the Gout Archbishop Purcell. 276 Magnanimity of a Christia'n E"mp;;-o; ^^ ^'Tf "• ^^J European Civilization . . SchUgel. 281 St. Francis de Sales' Last" Will 'nn^ T^cf Vd "^ Balmez. 286 Arch-confraternity oftn^vLniDe:^^^^ The Confraternity "Delia Morte" ^''*° ^%'«'-e- 290 The Plague of Locusts Maguire. 293 The Plague of Locusts-conti'mie'd ^' ^*^''"^«- 296 Christian and Pagan Rome 298 Rosemary in the Sculptor's'studio n ^; ^^%««- 304 Religious Orders ''• ^^nUngtm. 307 Resignation of Ch. J"^- 353 Anecdote of King Charles 11.' of Spain ^^ ^"^'- '^^^ hpintual Advantages of Catholic Cities ^^l On Letter Writing. Diffbt/. 362 The Alhambra by Moonlight Blackwood's Magazine. 363 Best Kind of Eevenge ^^- Irving. 370 Edwin, King of NorthumbVia Chambers. 371 Cleanliness Lingard. 374 Memory and Hope. .*.".'.' .'."." Addison. 376 The Charmed Serpent Jas. K. Faulding. 379 Two Views of Nature. . * * Cliateaubriand. 384 Wants Chateaubriand. 385 "Wants— continued .Jas. K. Paulding. 390 Vesuvius and the Bay of Naples' V"^";. ^92 Ij-eland ^^ R«»- G. F. Haskim. 395 Patriotism and Christiknity Reo. G. F. Raskins. 397 Peter the Hermit Chateaubriand. 404 Can the Soldier be an Atheist Michaud. 406 Japanese Martyrs Chateaubriand. 409 Japanese Martyrs— continued * '^"'* Caddell. 411 On the Look of a Gentleman 413 social Characters HazlUt. 417 Death of Charles II. of England Chateaubriand. 419 Religion an Essential Element in Eduction ^iobertson. 422 Books as Sources of Self-Cultivation Stapf.m Man's Destiny Stapf. 493 On Good Breeding Stapf. 431 Execution of Sir Thoma^'MoVe ^"^- 436 The Influence of Devotion on the H;ppin;88 of Lif; ;^. • • • 440 Adherence to Principle commands Resnlrt '^ ^^''' ^43 Mount Lebanon and its CedZ ^ ^"* Broumson. 447 Patterson. 449 iiJi THE FOURTH READER. Part I. PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. Introduction. HE art of reading well is oup nf +»,^„« bor to cbtaia But it Tut^'j/STiir unremitting industry ' ^"^ *^® ^^ward of J;rar ;s.r tr r:: !- ^rr ■'-'r^'- '» thought, and senttoents with /u h'fotTnd T'^ *" qmcken the pulse, to flush the ch^k to 1^ ,5'f "' '° expand the soul, and to male tlTL T^ ""^ ''""•'' '» were holding comerse with thVi' Jf'^''/^^' «« though he .the thought^nd j:;:^ rsfitti """^^■^ dmary attainment ; but it !, f»r fiT T •' ' ^ *''"<'• "» or- power or beyond the reach of /rt ^""^ ''""' '''""° «■« To breathe life through lano'uaffe to »i,. . • to the thoughts is not n,.»i^ ' ^^ "^ ""'"""e: "nd force acquisition of pSe esTtake r" '«=™"'P«^'"»™t ; it is an when wisely and skilfu, tyt:?" """'' "' ''"""?'"»'" "g^-ey, thetjrrrrists^d^^:-^^^^^^^^^^^ «re u„,.ersal ; principles that are fouS in 'nXe""' '"" 1* ' * ■ 10 TUB FOUliTH READER. 'I I'll bih^'tMhl t!7^"^"^^' -evitably vary with the suscepti- na urP nf t- '' .*^ '"^^S'lnativo impulses, and with ?he nature of his appreciation of what he read/ Tn T. • Emotional expression cannot be irauffed and rprr„l„fo,i v. any elocutionary law; and, though tirf has bee^" lawgivers, their jurisdiction has never extended fiu-!! I f h^ ^'' ^^''!!/^'' ''*'* ^^^ *« *'^e law laid down bv Mr Kom a^d M '^^T^'^ ' ^'' S^^"^^« differs from Mr WaTkeT and Mr. Knowles dissents from them both. ' ' The important step, I believe, in regard to practice in pv FaSi- « --"^ Sir- liverrotf' aid ' v"'' rwatluzmg habit of dj warns . Mt an unprofitable exercise, when the obierf i7t„ Id?™; 1'""°° '° ""^ "'"P^^ enunciation of wirdsisc^ That the study and practice of Mocution should form a J suscepti- with the prescribe verned by ipathizing > positive ot be so it by any ulated by lack of nough to 3f letters fr. Kem- Walker, e in ex- rcises as le to his i of de- him to lis com- >f read- cult to ? back- et is to ds, iso- nite an 7c him ily un- brm a Y con- •f this rience 1 rules itural I rEINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. J J delivery. And vet J-L,/,- I ' ™™'""' ""'""'' """'"d of which govTr/a^LtuTh llTeifotfhr ""Z"^. ™'^» oas4 the Ineral Innr^ '?"" *''" P°P" «" '"I"''' with classes, accompJieTbTtl!! ^^ ^' '''"' P™"*'™ "' »"<='' •" daily &ar/?rl &!&";' '."tP"""*'- *° '"« will, I trust, raaterTairasI n twT T""" ^ '""^ "o*- «*m; andcorreet slrofCtaf "™''"" "' '" '"^^"^ ndes fron. LtaS^^d .1^;^ ^fr af^- e'sSirr^-^"--''^''^ — but\S Proper Positions. '^ the he:^':;"a'X T7- ')' """^ ^""^ befiKfciS^ Will thns ^X'J^,tr^,^t::LtzS^ body on the ^.ifoot adTneTi,,. T/' J"''' "^'k" <" *« and turn the toes ot hoTrZ \ "^'^ "'""" ""''''o ^hes, is termed tl/'coL^^i^^!^^"^"'- -''''''' ''"''''™ 'i«M, by throw., the ^ ^e t^J^tt^: S' Ilii 12 which TIIK FOURTH READER. Holding the Book Respiration. " The chest so exercised, improves its strength • Exercise. A m:I " '"' """*" ""^ ^'-■y- -'" "-a lung, are en- bretrasCXHe.'^' ^""^ "-'--• -«-•-« to 3. Take in a full, quick breath, and expire it in nn «„^-m prolonged sound of the letter h ^^'^^^' ^^:li:^^j^^^^-^ -- -a,e in 6. Exercaa the lungs in the manner of violent panting. Articulation. A perfect articulation is the great excellence of o-nn^ ^ .»g and speaking. There are otir vocTX:. IS^l ^nt PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. Jft c^Llfbttf'"""'^ T'^"^ '°'''""»''' «'"P'"««. "--i uXr 7v vl ^ ■"■' *" '"''"■'<"■ "> ""'»■ »« dependent 2^ T' "■"f"'" '^ *'' ^'"- The studenf hou d be e'^ the hps a3 beautifal coius, newly issued from tho IrLeX and accurately impressed, perfectly finished, neatirTtrucS ZlZv'"^"'' ''""'' '"'''• *" """ ---'ot-d o'f Defects in articulation may proceed either from over-eaKer- w 1 hl".> ''"'•■'■ VT ^'"SS'*-""^ and inattention W. .wnce, &c„ in which the a should be slights obTured but nt debased mto the e of h.r. or the u in b«t. ' ' ^"' "'" byllables and terminations in o mo anil «„ -,. i, ji ,. singular et:;!' tZIu i:^::!^'] ^^^"^/^^^*^ar, mute should be o-Ln /, '^f'^' ^ ^''^'^''"^^^^^^^^ ^n ouia be given to ihe above words, as well as to the i 14 TUB FOURTH UKADER. dwiy, &e. ' ' *"^'^'^' »"bd«ed, twber, duty, There are some miscellaneous vuWrisras in th^ rnn,i • Vowel sounds, to which we will but 1^0 ,, i "^'"'"^ ""^ omit the long, round sound of n/ . ^^ ''""*^'- ^« »^t word^, as boS, coa^ r^D ^ rX:^^^^^^^^ ^.^-) ^ ^-h sound of w in nMrsc Da n.* I * ""' " '" '"""•«e the or ooivumelrcoImr^nmL "^ *"";™''2'«''' '"' trcmc„do», «». and not diph ho„l" mT2T a""?' ""' « "'""' »" ■•» its full so„nd in such wLs T^- »"'^"' "-e diphthong „i not trill tHo r in the wrZ It n ' ■""""■ P°""' *«• »» »ot give the soun7or/?ir^;tr"rrf '"''>""'^- »' "nd the like: of «m to Tl» /"'"'' ""■^"'' ''»''»'!/■«', &c. Do not dfemiS he Wf Z f """' P*"' P^trioti™ !*« for idea; tharfc S^' t'irr^or n « "^^'^ '"' «"'' j&e for join, fetch for c«tth' Wtt|/for r F'i"'!. ^"^ ^''"'' pint for Mint f«r fn. f„- v 7 "^ '"""''' «*»* for star. L), d„rfor dirrt'rrttif''"" (»-•-% P«>nonnced again (eorreotIyprnoi„e7raLrr™f '''"^' "«* f"' pronounced w^r^, thrflr'tSo^" r^ir""^ ^imnJZ^t, t ntl^rrorStf ™ ' ^ "'^ ^^"""'^ '° -ding in i„,. s„eh J^^m :L7Zi^2Z 7T'' the mornin', seein' nobody comin' Ae JiriL f ?'''S' '" PBINOrPLES OF ELOCUTION. arc often t„k;„ C^Z't^XZ ^^rhcfe" ^'^-V'"-"- ^y b.«t for burst, f„st for Km H if? f "P™''™ "'"' also hear Ciibar for GuUl ' . ^"^ '*'"'"*■ *<=• We ■•ence, stawm instead of st^^ ' ^''"'"""' ''"'«'«' "f La"- instead of co™. The vibrar'.r? T^^ "^ ««'"'. ^^ -uffled in snch words ^!^1 T*^ "' "'" '" '•«»"" »»« •>« «hou.dthe.betSi„™n;;« "•"''^^' *»• ' - Mriving him." In these Irt^ f ^ **™'^°» »*"»»k from of its due force anTrlrbid ""'^ ""' * '^ ""» '"o™ pressed. To th; prese/vati™ ^'^t/P''"!^'^' '« »«'«'7 ™P- '^ords as wAat, wLe "Ser 1* ?'**' '"■"■" '» «"«" tion shonid be given ' *'"' *"=•■ P^^icular atten- in i doXt rwritSs^rr^ "«' '-™ ^ -- lowing: when, we„7whlthl weaTh ^ "'I;'"'''''""^ *'« fo'" weal; where, wear- wWst wisT v/ "''**' '"'*'• ''''^el, whey, way; 'which, 'wftch- TuJ ^'"'' T""' ''''»*' «* wine; whirled, worid whit !«' f-L'*"' '^" i ''"'■e wight; wheeled, wield.' ' ' "'""""■■ "*«""; white. Exercises. He is content in either place ; He IS content in neither place. I saw the prints'SnTlS "^' '^^^^*«- * I «aw the prince without emotion' That last still night • That lasts till night.' His cry moved me ; His crime moved me. He could pay nobody ; He could pain nobody 16 THE FOURTH RKADEB. He built him an ice house • He built him a nice house. My heart is awed within me ; My heart is sawed within me. A great error often exists ; A great esiTse7^.« T cate. Drachmas disdain dispersed despotically, ^arn earth's dear tears, whose dearth the heart's hearth inL. PRI.VCIPLTM OF KLOODTION. ^^ ffcr?or!,e., gnomes. Go I tho„J;„„ i"'"^.""' ^"'•>°"» «"- pIo«?A thee thmuffAl ffr„2^"'^?^°"'''r»''''«0'" '" «fe not ? la there a n" there ° ^""^ """ "'*''" '» ho the judge, ought to^arrL th ZZ T^^'V }''' sought to arrest the culprit * '^ *'" J"^K«« s«eh a too" SrSo, ^7?'' *''t*«'«k «»»« co«>pa*J ^entue^wfSd'T'arS/Xr "^»' *^- dari cages, did you say? SoT-' . ^ ''™'' "^ """« *.cte^.thouL? 'iLt:;;?!::^ -teorlcapor,. *u^s?:Lr:^T:::!^^ZrKr' --^ ''-'^•'»- ed, in misery', ^n^urs ^1^7 m^''^ ?"''''«?' »«!«- ment a miscreant malces Ifomttf^hr™ ' """" »»""'- ^emnon give. moments theip solemn realm to %Lot;fe zcs'nXz:iZ' r^r ^"'"'■•"• foresfe still till rosy dawn NayT dM T ^' r^'"'''^ ""«« «>« feormm. Never thnr^i,, >?, ^ "y-'^'"*^''"'? I said 12. ov wr. td Sf: "7 "'''i^'^f *"°'"^*' "" ' On the har. „A,.^ t,o t^'^'t^Xur^'' 'r?''"'- -ij -.a., ctaaamij. Oh, note 18 iK Fourth uvAnvM. 1 « nJ7^\ Ii/^atory ohjects then he offered Ja. iVeeed^/s ruled precr'lent Prcs'ldentH Pn.r t * 14. C>«ilp quoted Quarles'B quidditm and owirks 0...«. and co5..ts quickly their conjLts quit. aS in a^! dary were quaking there. cLench'rf' J thnn H ^? "" the oMid'nunca thpn? n .'»^"'^'r"^f "'»« the ^warrel of quiJing ^ ^'*'''''''^ ^^^'^"^"^ '^nd ^..ibbhn^ 15. iJave, i<>rotched rover n»»rinn. «.„„k ^na. ruggoa rocks ^JIS' J^Ws "l; ""l'"'^"'^- armed, and i?ussiftn h^n-o d i ' -'^^'noceroses frenzied ^Ariekfor lert 'p "°^ ''""^ ^^^ ^^''"^ «^«^P. attend thee? ^' ^"'" "°^ ''"P'°«' ''""'J««« ^^etch; '«. 61x s«m, s/eek saplings s^othfully ho sawpd Vf^iA, i «^,s^,e«.ream through fore./, strln^e s^n'^^^^^^^^ me '> Vamly thou splashWs/ and strov'rf../ T ii .1 * «^"lt thy .Arink%, shviekina llV,? tt I '^"®^°^ pmm., phantasm, and Ses Ze -lr> ti.^ < i these s/eal stiW s/pr'^ntv^oo /^k . ''""sP"^- A he sfcel mg, It /Aermometrieally thvbfQs ^' ''^^^" .killed in war, k tho":. ,e.- The.oM-""^-,?'';'' ^'"**" thousand men The rA- ^h • "' ^"""^ '" ^^ » ine .,i,a.,, ,.h, pnnoe s,n ,jied were superb. •y precedes r^oor painU 'far more 10 aphinx'a riie room'8 in a quau- ?warrel of guihhling perjured. Doceroses ill sharp, 3 t^retch, HdulOQS s thou at scuffling sms and h, smug, dden he las^ stiU. trident's 3 survey > B. The he s^eel stigma. Th&w < '■KINCNM. , „f I.;,,,<;l-,-,o.v. jg chufHWrf o'er tlio d-oi/.i.! . °- ^''° ^o"" 'hou futility's y„„r Mltima'tl ° "'"T ''«' ^wrer's mmI castom. Tho t„for'=Zi„tLi: X;;"' "'■""■"'"' "0 -*- ti4'hi.':ttCt'it::trbn^^^^^^^ '^^'• at wAist, «,Ay „ii, you JS? t^- , "^"'I' "««»» ttoe thou not l"giny_wo„Irf./jrS, '°Vr-* T''"i*' n.o-makes mo bankrupt. zZL zZ^"^^T' ovoroMm, PROXUNCIATION. tuu man. i3tit « when ?mem- 20 THE FOURTH READER. pbatic or mcKcented is always short • as "Wo co x i-,, play njr about" tt.^ J'^^'^torf, as, VVe saw a chi d 80„«d of rb„t b^J ^''"'' " ""'^'' *'"'»' "-o long «™„ ' ""'"'* " 'consonant, the sAort • a.! ''Thi school., Thlvaremnl r f P™'''^ ^"d intermediate other cases i t^L it TL ' ''°* 2/»«re," but in most Of «... «yibIes,Ch2-«oS: tTe'S "I'f ".^ f~^o t e De-t^'Tj/' r""^"^' "<=^P' '^'^ - P.ac.'ta.es tt ^tnnf o7^ ^ ^^ T^^r .."^17" "' St ;tr i^t^e^r n '"'^■"-" '-^---^'^^ ♦i,« • ' ,^ , ®' " ^a'^es the lighter sound of e • as "OK to™"" Xt^.f"?"' ?"■'•'• '•'■ "Iti^^^d ijot yours. 1 hey will not negect their dnfv" Tn +t, manner yoj,n when emphatic' aonndris thf „ J"Jt /o^ the^bless^d G1d/;no^.i: aXrie " "m ^j;"'""'- ' « componnded, ho.e.er, ^t^^, ::Z:t:!^ as a neat pronunciation of these forms nnp nf fv. ^^^^""T' beauties of speakinir " "Rnf Irl; aT\ ^ ^^^ ^'"'^^^^^ The word modulation is derived from a Latin word sign,- We saw a child takes the long hori; as, "The esc distinctions d intermediate emphatic takes 's," but in most in reading the t sound, except action with the and. In collo- allowable ; as, are like words In the word B syllable self 3ept when re- an adverb of ■' The boy was introduce a ' e ; as, " Oh, leir duty, not In the same 'd ewer does ; the sound of ctives always ^sed, winged, 3d professor ; len this word "A full-ag'd Walker has ese syllables, the greatest nmon in this , but among alls of legis- case. word signi- PEINCIPLES OP ELOCUTION. gX fying to measure ojf properly, to regulate ; and it may be applied smging and dancing as well as speaking. It is not enough that syllables and words are enunciated p^roperij, and that the marks of punctuation are duly observed. Unles the voice sympathetically adapts itself to the emotion or sentt ment, and regulates its pauses accordingly, it will but imper- fectly mterpret what it utters. ^ The study of pronunciation, in the ancient and most com- prehensive sense of that word, comprised not only the con- sidera .on of what syllables of a word ought to be accented, The l7^t T 'f " ''"''"'' °"^^* *^ b« emphasized The term Emphasis, from a Greek word signifying to point ou or show, IS now commonly used to signify the stress fo be laid upon certam words in a sentence. It is divided by some writers into empUsis of force, which we lay on almost'eve^; significant word, and emphasis of sense, which we lay on Sence""' *"" distinguish them from the rest of the The importance of emphasis to the right delivery of thoughts m speech must be obvious on the slightest reflection. Kl son the Mt ."''''.• i"'""" "' ' ^^^^ ^ ^^*^- *« ^- d««f"I Tori thnt M L '"'? "^"^' ""^ ^"^^^ ^^t'^^d with the re- port that Mrs. Brown had replied that "it was none of his business how old she was." The poor man had Lended merely to inquire into the state of her health ; but he aS dentally put a wrong emphasis on the word old norHnl nr*'".''.'^ misapprehension will illustrate the im- Rortance of emphasis. A stranger from the country obser^- mg an ordinary roller-rule on a table, took it up and on ask ing what It was used for, was ans;ered, "It\ a rule t countmg-Aor.ses." After turning it over and over up and down, and puzzling his brain for some time he It iasf in a paroxysm of baffled curiosity, exclaimed : " How in h k me wonder do you count houses with this?" Kl is fnforme Emphasis and intonation must be Ipff tn ih^ a and feelino- of ih. . a IT *^ *"® ^°*^d sense " leeung ot the reader. If von fkn^ounJ^y-' ,?«-?-—- . !!■'; m ** THE FOURTH HEADER. and feel what you have to utter, and have your attention concentrated upon it, you will emphasize better than by attempting to conform your emphasis to any rules or marks other ''''^ '^"*^''' ^""^ ^^''^''^' contradicted by an- A boy at his sports is never at a loss how to make his em- phasis expressive. If he have to say to a companion, " I want your 6a^, not your ball," or " Fm gring to skate, not to sivim," • Ti ''''* ^"^ emphasize and inflect the italicized words aright And why? Simply because he knows what he means and attends to it. Let the reader study to know what his readmg-lesson means, and he will spend his time more profita- bly than m pondering over marks and rules of disputed appli- cation It IS for the teacher, by his oral example, to instU a reahzation of this fact into the minds of the young Dr. Whately, in his Treatise on Rhetoric, pointedly con- demns the artificial system of teaching elocution by marks and rules as worse than useless. His objections have been disputed, but never answered. They are : first, that the pro- posed system must necessarily be imperfect ; secondly, that if It were perfect, it would be a circuitous path to the object in view ; and, thirdly, that even if both these objections were removed, the object would not be effectually obtained He who not only understands fully what he is reading but is earnestly occupying his mind with the matter of it' w-ill be likely to read as if he understood it, and thus to make others understand it ; and, in like manner, he who not only feels it, but IS exclusively absorbed with that feeling, will be likely to read- as if he felt it, and communicate his impres- sion to his hearers. Exercises in Emphasis. In their prosperity, my friends shall never hear of me • in their adversity, always. ' There is no possibility of speaking properly the language of any passion without feeling it. " ^ s A book that is to be read requires one sort oi" style : a man that IS to speak, must use another. ^BINCTPLES OF ELOOUTION. £3 A sentiment Which, expressed diflfuselj, w|l barely be ad- s^frited •'"'*' """^""'""^ '°''^''^^ ""''^^^ ^^^«d ^« Whatever may have been the origin of pastoral poetry, it is A stream that runs within its banks is a beautiful object • but when It rushes down with the impetuositv aiid noise of a torrent, it presently becomes a sublime one Those who complain of the shortness of life, let it slide by them without wishing to seize and make the most of its golden minutes. The more we do, the more we can do ; the more busy we are, the more leisure we have. This without those, obtains a vain employ • Those without this, but urge us to destroy! T^e generous buoyant spirit is a power Which in the virtuous mind doth all things conquer It bears the hero on to arduous deeds ; It lifts the saint to heaven. To err is human ; to forgive, divine. INFLECTION. With regard to the Inflections of the voice, upon which so much has been said and written-there are in'reahty but t^o--the rzszng and the falling. The compound, or circum- flex mflection, is merely that in which the voice bo h rises Td !f^,'^'^\'^^\^ovd-as in the utterance of th word What !" when it is intended to convey an expression 6f d£ dam, reproach, or extreme surprise. The inflections are not termed rising or falling from the high or low tone in which they are pronoLed'^rfrom «ie upward or downward slide in which they terminate whether pronounced in a high or low key. The Lnnoflec: tion was marked by Mr. Walker .ith the acute 7c entH- I' ' r. '' m i 24 THE FOURTH READER. i the falling, with the grave accent ( ^ ). The inflection mark of the acute accent must not be confounded with its use in accentuation. In the utterance of the interrogative sentence, " Does Ci^sar deserve fame' or blame^ V the word fame will have the rising or upward slide of the voice, and blame the falling or downward slide of the voice. Every pause, of whatever kind must necessarily adopt one of these two inflections, or con- tinue m a monotone. Thus it will be seen that the rising inflection is that up- ward turn of the voice which we use in asking a question answerable by a simple yes or no; and the falling inflection is that downward sliding of the voice which is commonly used at the end of a sentence. Lest an inaccurate ear should be led to suppose that the different signification of the opposing words is the reason of their sounding differently, we give below, among other exam- ples, some phrases composed of the same words, which are nevertheless pronounced with exactly the same difference of inflection as the others. Examples. T?ie Biaing followed ly the Falling. Does he talk rationally', or irrationally^? Does he pronounce correctly', or incorrectly^ ? Does he mean honestly', or dishonestly^ ? Does she dance gracefully', or ungracefully^? Tlie Falling followed ly the Riiing. He- talks rationally,^ not irrationally'. He pronounces correctly\ not incorrectly'. He means honestly\ not dishonestly'. She dances gracefully^ not ungracefully'. The mingr progression in a sentence connects what has been said with what is to be uttered, or what the speaker wishes to be miphed, or supplied by the hearer ; and thia with more PUINCII'LKS OF KLOCUTKJN. 26 or less closeness, querulousncss, and passion, in proportion to the extent and force of the rise. " l»"poriion to The falling progression disconnects what has been said om whatever may follow ; and this with more or le " corn The rising inflection is thus, invariably associated with whnf mg expressed, or to be implied , and «ith what Idoubtru interrogative, or supplicatory. fouDtlul, ciated Witt wto ,s compkte and independent in sense or in ended to be received as sucl, ; with wlfatcver is positt;e a^. mior;.' ''"" ^"^ '' "°»"^-»'^ -rtivclg^tiLt The rising inflection is thus, also, the natural intonation of all attractive sentiments ; of love, admiration, pi y&c as to th exclaraatons, "Beautifan AlasM Poo K»' m^ /aa«3 mflec .on is the tone of repulsion, anger h!tred and r«, as m the exclamations, i^Gou' /oolM Mal'e"* WLpV, !' '^ sentence, use the/a«»„ inflection "to Willi an adverb or pronoun, and i 11 M I ■ n 26 THK FOURTH RKADER. t t I i which cannot be answered bv a simple "yes" or "no " gen- erally terminate with the falling inflection. Questions commencing with a verb, and which cannot be answered by a simple "yes" or "no," generally terminate with the I'lsmg inflection. When two or more questions in succession are separated by the disjunctive particle or, the last question requires the fall- ing and the preceding ones the rising inflection. The general rule for the parenthesis is, that it must be pro- nounced m a lower tone, and more rapidly than the rest of the sentence, and concluded with the inflection that immediately precedes it. A simile being a species of parenthesis, follows the same rule. The title echo is adopted to express a repetition of a word or phrase. The echoing word is pronounced generally with the rising mflection, followed by something of a pause. Exercises in Inflection. In the following pieces,— the first by Sir Walter Scott and the second and third from Ossian,— exercises in modulation tor two or three voices, or sets of voices, are given. By sepa- rating an entire class, and allotting to each group its part for simultaneous utterance, a good effect, with a little drillino- may be produced. Pupils will readily perceive that where the sense is incomplete, and the voice is suspended, the rising in- flection is naturally used : For two voices, or sets of voices. (1st) Pibroch* of Donuil Dhu', (2d) pibroch of Donuil' (1st) Wake thy wild voice anew, (2d) summon Clan-Conuir 1st) Come away\ come away' I (2d) hark to the summons^ ! (1st) Come m your war-array', (2d) gentle s and commons\ * A pibroch (pronounced pibrok) is, among the Highlanders, a martial air played with the bagpipe. The measure of the verse in this stanza re- quires that in the third line the exclamation "Come away" should be sounded as if it were a single word, having the accent on the first svllable -thus, comeaivay So in the words hill-plaid, and steel blade, m the sev- enth arid eighth lines The license of rhyme requires that th; ai in pl«»d should be pronounced long, as in maid. ^ WUNClPLhS OF ELOCU-nON. 27 (1st) Come^^from deep g,e„', (2d) and from mountaia, ao (1st) The war pipe and pennon (2d) are at InTerlochv> • (l»t) Con.e^„ery „in-p,aid', (2d) a'nd true J^^hlt'wears (1st) Come^e^ry steel blade', (2d) and strong hand that bears (Ist) iZl ".f "^"^ "■' '■"''' (^^) "■' flock withont shelter'- (1st) Lea™ ae eorpse uninterred, (2d) the bride at 1' ^'^'^ ''Tai' r' ''"^ '"" "' ^*'"' ('^') '^-^^ -'» "-d (All) Come with ;our lighting gear' broadswords and taiges- (Jst) Come a"^ T "'■"'' """'• (''') ^l'^" f»«'t» "'0 tended' • ^xbi; i^ome as the waves comp /'9ri\ ^r\.^^ • ^cuueu , (1st) F.ter eo.e, faster cT^^ ^^^^^^^^ ^ ^ ' ''If ir" ' ^^^^^ ^^^^' -^ ^--' (^^) ienan. ea'ch nfan t^^ '^^" ^^"^ b^-des^ (All) forward (All) Pibroch of Donull Dhu', knell for the onset' I ^ ^'-'-I'^^^^ld^ -^ (meaning rmn set in la^ accent on the first. ^'® ^^''''^ ^^ t«'o syllables, having the For three voices, or sets of voices. (1st voice) As Autumn's dark storm' /o^ • v the echoino- hillsWsfw 7^u ^''''''^ P^"'« ^^o°» (1st voice) so toward aerltLr^ f'""! ''"^ '- other approached' 7^^ ~~- '^'''^ ^"^"'^ ^^'^^ roes\ PP ^^'''''^ -(3d ^oice) approached the he- (1st voice) As two dark streams' (91 . • ^ i .rxeam.— (2a voice) dark streams 28 THE tOL'KTH KKADKK. from high rocks'— (3d voice) meet and mix, and roar on the plain', — (1st voice) loud, rough, and dark'— (2d voice) dark in bat- tle' — (3d voice) in battle met Lochlin and In'uis- fair. (1st voice) Chief mixed his blows with chief— (2d voice) and man with man^— (3d voice) steel clanging, sounded on steel\ (Ist voice) Helmets are cleft'— (2d voice) cleft on high— (3d voice) Helmets are cleft on high' ; blood bursts and smokes around'. (1st voice) As the troubled noise of the ocean' — (2d voice) the ocean when roll the waves on high' ; as the last peal of the thunder of heaven' — (3d voice) the thunder of heaven' ; such is the noise of battle. (1st voice) The groan'— (2d voice) the groan of the people' (3d voice) the groan of the people spreads over the hills\ (1st voice) It was like— (2d voice) like the thunder'— (3d voice) like the thunder of night'— (All) It was like the thunder of night, when the cloud bursts on Cona', and a thousand ghosts' shriek at once' on the hollow wind'. (1st voice) The morning'— (2d voice) morning was gay' (3d voice) the morning was gay on Cromla', — (1st voice) when the sons— (2d voice) sons of the sea' (3d voice) when the sons of the sea ascended\ (1st voice) Calmar stood forth' — (2d voice) stood forth to meet them', — (3d voice) Calmar stood forth to meet them in the pride of his kindling soul\ (1st voice) But pale' — (2d voice) pale was the face'— (3d voice) but pale was the face of the chief, as he leaned on his father's spear\ (1st voice) Tlie lightning— (2d voice) lightning flies'— (3d voice) the lightning flies on wings of fire. (1st voice) But slowly'— (2d voice) slowly now the hero falls' —(3d voice) but slowly now the hero falls', like and mix, and dark in bat- in and In^uis- 2d voice) and ging, sounded M4INCIPLKS OF KLOCUTION. 29 hunder'— (3d I) It was like id bursts on once' on the was gay' — mla', — F the sea' — ended\ )od forth to od forth to oul\ ! face'— (3d chief, as he ? flies'— (3d le hero falls' ■) falls', like of hundred roots before the driving the tree storm, (l8t voice) No,v from the gray mists of the oeeau' the white sa cd sh,ps of Fi„gal'. appear>.-(2d voice) iS' - 3 1 voice) h,gh is the grove of their masts' a thev (1st voice) As ebbs the resounding sea through the hundred *1 ;U~''" ™™ ^o mmense',_(Ain re- turned the sons of LoehMa to meet the approaihing (Irt voice) But bendi„g',_(2d voice) weeping',_(3d voicel ad and sIow'-(All) sank Catofr then^gh y chief, in Cromla's lonely wood\ ^ ^ (lat voice) The battle'_(2d voice) battle is past>-f3d voice) " The battle is past," said the chief ' ^ ^""'til'rm 'fT^k'"''^^ -^ '^ tt «eld Of CromliM "'^ ™^"' "' «'<' »'"'» "f (All) The hunters have fallen in their strength I The sons of the brave are no moreM '"e sons (1st voice) As a hundred winds on Morven',-(2d voicel as the stream of a hundred hills' ;-:(3dvoi™a (Uf v„- f ""' '"f''''™ «y o™' "»« '■'«=« of heaven'- ^ t:ri„7'j-<'' '"'"''^ ^o terrible'.-Csrvoice) so (All) the armies mixed on Lena's echomg plaitf (1st voice The clouds of_(2d voiced niZ '„. down'- /," said tlie king'l(2d voicel Seize the winds a. they pour from Lena' I'wid (AIl)_We rushed with joy through the foam of the deep -^^'"!!!!!l!?_^Thomas Hood, addressed to his son, . Her. .h. ..,.. „,oen. b intondou „ ^;;^^^;;^;;;;:;;;:;;7;;i;i^ 30 THK FOURTH READER. a^od three years and five months, contains numerous examples of the parenthesis. Thou happy, happy elf I (But stop I— first let mo kiss awny that tear)— Thou tiny image of myself I (My love, he's pokinjj; peas into his ear) Thou mCrry hiughlng sprite I with spirits feather light Untouch'd by sorrow, and unsoil'd by sin— ' (Good heavens I the child is swallowing a pin 1) Thou little tricksy Puck With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing-bird that wings the air, (The door 1 the door I he'll tumble down the stair I) Thou darting of thy sire ! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire I) Thou imp of mirth and joy I In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents— (Drat the boy 1 There goes my ink !) Thou chcrub~but of earth I Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (The dog will bite him if he pulls its tail 1) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble— that's his precious nose 1) Thy father's pride and hope I (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope I) With pure heart newly stamp'd from nature's mint (Where did, he learn that squint I) ' Toss the light ball— bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick I) With fancies buoyant as the thistle down. Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, IMJINOIl-LKS OF ELOCUTION. With many a lamb-liko fn'Hk, (IIc'8 got the scissors, Hiiippirif? ut your gown 1) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star (I wish tliat window hud an iron bar I) ' JJold as the iuiwlv, yet gentle as the dovo— (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write unless he's sent above I) Exercises in Elocution. Spirited Declamation. " Ho woke to hear Iiis sentry's shriek— 'To arm. I They come I Tho Greek I tho Greek." "Strike— till the last arm'd foe expires • Strike— for your altars and your fires ;' Strike— for the green graves of your sires, God, and your native land." "Shout, Tyranny, shout, Itirough your dungeons and palaces, 'Freedom is o»er.»" " On, ye brave. Who rusli to glory, or the grave I Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave I And charge with all tliy chivalry I" "Now for the fight-now for the cannon peal I Forward-through blood, and toil, and doud, and fire I TI inT'o??.''" \ ^'^ ^"^ ^^'^"^ ^«^" and heel I Ihmk of the orphan child, the murdered sire. This hour to Europe's fate shall set the triumph s;al. Gaij, Brisk, and Ilimorous Description. "Last came Joy's cstatic trial, He, with viny crown advancing First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ; But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol Whose sweot, entrancing sound he loved the best " 31 88 THE FOUftTU READER. k " I come, I come I— Ye have call'd me long, I come o'er the mfountaius with lifrht and song. Ye may trace my step o'er the wakenin/? earth, By the winds which tell of the violet's birth." " Then I see Queen Mab hatli been with you. She comes, In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the forefinger of an alderman. Drawn by a team of little atomies Athwart men's noses, as they lie asleep ; Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners' legs ; The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ; The traces, of the smallest spider's web ; The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams, Her whip, of cricket's bone ; the lash, of film'; Her wagoner, a small, gray-coated gnat, Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, Time out of mind the fairies' coachmakers. And in this state she gallops, night by night. Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose. And then dreams he of smelling out a suit • And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail, Tickling a parson's nose as he lies asleep ; Then dreams he of another benefice. Sometimes she drivetli o'er a soldier's neck • And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats. Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, Of healths five fathom deep ; and then anon Drums in his ear ; at which he starts and wakes. And, being thus frighten'd, mutters a prayer or two. And sleeps again." Unimpassioncd Narrative. " There was a man in the land of Uz, whose name was Job, and that man was perfect and upright, and one that feared God and eschewed evil," I'lilNCIPLKS OF KLOCUTION. 33 Dignified Sentimenft. "Sir, in the most express f. rms, I deny the competency of pariiamcn to do this act. 1 warn you, do not dare to lay your hands on the constitution. I tell you tha- if, circum- stauced as you are, you pass this act, it will be a nullity, and IK) man in Ireland will be bound to obey it. I make the as- sertion deliberately. I repeat it, and call on any man who hears me to take down my words. You have not been elected for this purpose. You arc appointed to make laws, not legis- latures." ' * Solemn and Impressive Thoughts. "It must be so :— Plato, thou reasonest well, Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desh-e, This longing after immortality ? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror Of faUing into naught ? Why shrinks the soul ' Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us, 'Tis Heaven itself that points out m hereafter And intimates eternity to man. Eternity ! thou pleasing, dreadful thought 1 Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and' changes' must we pass I 1 he wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me • I3ut shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it."' Awe and Solemnity. "To be, or not to be, that is the question : Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune Or to take arms against a sea of troubles ' And, by opposing, end them ? To die,-to sleeo • ^ more ;-and, by a si.eep, to say we end ' The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh ,s heir to ;-'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die ;-to sleep ;- To sleep 1 perchance to dream ; av. there's fhe mb • I'*''' I'. ;, i ii!( ^^ THE FOUKTII READKR. For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, When we have shuffled oflF this mortal coil Must give us pause." ' I>eep Solemnity, Awe, Consternation. "In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep tl T"" T ""' '^" ^^"^ "P°" -^' -^ trembling whcT f^e Th7h ''. '' ''/''• ^'^° ^ ^P^"* P^-«d before my could nnt . '' '^?^ ?''^ ''''^ "P- I^ «^«^d still, but I min ev T" '' 'T '''^^^'' ^^ image was ' before 2ir / ''' ""^^ '^^'^''' ^"^ I ^«^rd a voice : 'ShaU mortal man be more just than God ?' " nrl'i-"^''^'^"*'''?^*^" '^^°^P^'^ ^' t^^y ^^e a™ged on the precedmg pages, they should be so varied as to require a sud- another By this practice, the pupil may at any time by deter- mining the depth and grade of feeling, strike Ihe appr'oprtte note with as much precision as the vocalist can, when exeTut- mg any note of the scale. ' The elements of hnpassioned utterance are many and vari- ous ; and although each one must be considered in an insulated light, yet no one of them is ever beard alone ; no one ever xists separately in connect and varied speech. They Ire always applied m combination, and several are somedm s combined m a single act of utterance. We may havrunde one syllabic impulse, a long quantity, a wide intervala W ffectl'n". r"'r'°? '' ''^ "^'^'^ '' ^*^-«' -'' simultaieousTn effecting a particular purpose of expression may S iost 2 ''"^ ^ ^''.?' '' "" i«^P«««ioned sentiment may be most deeply and vividly impressed by the combination of several vocal elements. This might be clearly 1^3^ m cases of deep and overwhelming emotions, where the molo tone will be found one of the essential cons ituents comrned With long quantity, the lowest and deepest notes, slow ml,t m PRINCIPLKS OF ELOCUTION. 85 Monotone. • The monotone may be defined as that inflexible movement of the voice which is heard when fear, vastness of thought, force, majesty, power, or the intensity of feeling, is such as partially to obstruct the powers of utterance. This movement of the voice may be accounted for by the fact that, when the excitement is so powerful, and the kind and degree of feeling are such as to agitate the whole frame, the vocal organs will be so affected, and their natural functions so controlled, that they can give utterance to the thought or sentiment only on one note, iterated on the same unvarvine- line of pitch. ^ ^ Grandeur of thought, and sublimity of feeling are always expressed by this movement. The effect produced by it is deep and impressive. When its use is known, and the rule for its application is clearly understood, the reading will be characterized by a solemnity of manner, a grandeur of refine- ment, and a beauty of execution, which all will acknowledge to be in exact accordance with the dictates of Nature, and strictly within the pale of her laws. This will clearly be ex- emplified in reading the following extracts : " Yital spark of heavenly flame, Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame I Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying — Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life. "Hark 1 they whisper ; angels say, * Sister spirit, come away.' What is this absorbs me quite, Steals my senses, shuts my sight. Drowns my spirit, draws my breath ? Tell me, my soul, can this be death ?" If the reader utter the thoughts and sentiments, in the last stanza of the above extract, with a just degree of impres- 36 THE FOUKTU EEADKK. What the poet described the Christian as hearing seeing- and foe ,ng. What eonstitnent in vocal intonation^ir wte elc^ CO i : toT7 ™w •" "," ""•"• *° Sive force and , t c,C 't! *" "«"■?!"» »"d sentiments in the passage just r„ndc;i"taX7 "" " "'' '^^"^^^ """ -"» *- '» The above extract, it will seem, is descriptive of a state of th most solemn thoughts, and the most profonnd emotions: a.nd the na ural expression of such feelings, thoughts and emo' tions, requires the monotone. ^ ' Whynot, ihen, lay it down as a principle, that passairea If any one fail to see and acknowledge the effect of the "Te l"eV:fT"°^ *": """^^ ^*''^'' '^' '>™ -^ " 41 in the key of the monotone, and then without it • and if the tZV: *" .ft "" ™* ^"'•^ P^^^P™"' '«* » be read to hira first on the key of the monotone, and then with the same stress tone, quantity, inflection, ani rate of movem n ftomPri":'' """"p™'" '" '''^'"^ "'^ following"::™::.' "Interr'd beneath the marble stone Lies sauntering Jack and idle Joan. While roUing threescore years and one Did round this globe their courses run • If human things went ill or well, ' If changing empires rose or fell,' The morning pass'd, the evening came And found this couple still the same T^ey jalk'd, and ate, good folks :_What then? Why then they walk'd and ate again. They soundly slept the night' away ; They did just nothing all the day • Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise Ihey would not lo:irn, nor could advise' vv, and felt, seeing, and ' what elc- 3 and true issage just le clear to a state of !t feelings, emotions ; and emo- passages a similar ct of the 1 it again nd if the ; be read with the loyement ; extract len? rRINCIPLES OF KLOCUTION. 37 Without love, hatred, joy, or fear, They led— a kind of— as it were • ' Nor wish'd, nor cared, nor laugh'd, nor cried • And so tney lived, and so they died." If this measure leave him in doubt, if he then do not see l7ll\7T""-r^' '"P^^^^^ "'^^ ^ff-^' f-^^^^ effort thnt ''V 1 . : ^' ™"^ ^' ^^"^^'d^^ed ^^ belonging to that k nd of-as it were" class of individuals who have not the abdity either to note faults and detect b emthes or to define beauties and enumerate graces emnliLd 7n T ^'^"- ^ "^ ^^' °^'"^*^°« "^^^ ^' ^^^^her ex- extracts : ^^^ ^'^ '''"' ^'''''''' '^ '^' ^^"^^^ "The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Kayless and pathless ; and the icy earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air » "Eternity 1 thou pleasing dreadful thought I Through what variety of untried being Through what new scenes and changes,'must we pass I The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me • iiut shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it."' "Departed spirits of the mighty dead I Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled I Friends of the world I restore your swords to man, 1^ ight m his sacrea cause, and lead the van." "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth and there was light." ' ^^^ *^''' ^^ ^^K' 88 THE FOUKTH READER. QUANTITY. Quantity consists in the extended time of utterance, with- out changing the standard pronunciation of words. It is produced by a well-raarlced radical, a full volume of sound, and a clear lessening vanish. When it is well executed, the syllable will be kept free from a vapid, lifeless drawl. The power of giving a gracefully extended quantity to syl- lables is not common. The principal source of difference be- tween a good reader and a bad one lies in their varied degrees of ability in this respect. Although writers on elocution seem, in a measure, to have overlooked quantity as an important element of expression, still it is one of the most important which a distinguished ^■pi^aker employs in giving utterance to the sentiments of sub- limity, dignity, deliberation, or doubt. When judiciously applied and skilfully executed, it seems to spread a hue of feeling over the whole sentence. It gives that masterly finish, and that fine, delicate touch to the ex- pression, which never fails to impress the deepest feeling, or CO excite the most sweet and enchanting emotions. A well-marked stress, and a gracefully extended time, form the basis of the most important properties of the voice such as gravity, depth of tone, volume, fulness of sound, smooth- ness, sweetness, and strength. If the mind were a pure intel- lect, without fancy, taste, or passion, the above-named function of the voice, which may properly enough be termed the sig?ia- ture of expression, would be uncalled for. But the case is widely different. The impassioned speaker, overpowered by his subject, and at a loss to find words to express the strength of his feelings, naturally holds on to and prolongs the tones of utterance, and thereby supplies any deficiency in the words t. "mselves. Examples in Quantity. " With woful measures, wan Despair — Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled ; PJilNCII'LES OF ELOCUTION. 39 A solemn, strange, and mingled air • . 'Twas sad by fits ; by starts 'twas mUd." " Thou art, God 1 the life and light Of all this wondrous world we see • Its glow by day, its smile by night, ' Are but reflections caught from 'thee Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, And all thmgs bright and fair are thine." " Spirit of Freedom I when on Phyle's brow Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train touldst thou forebode the dismal hour that now Dims the green beauty of thine Attic plain ?" "The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grovv dim with age, and- nature sink in years, But thou Shalt flourish in immortal youth Unhurt, amidst the war of elements The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds." quanMy diffused over the whole with evenLa and eo„t rut wUl bnng out the sentiment in the most impressive ma„rr Quantity is employed in giving utterance to feelinTof 1 Iigmty and emotions of hatred -also in M,„.V,f ■ ^ f ?' those Of affeeted mawkish sentime:« .IXheZral'd" that the clear lessening vanish shall blend with tho fn^f?^ ;ng of the succeeding word, it will give a fi ' ff of o that morbid sensitiveness which exaggerates every Llfng' ' " That lulPd them as the north wind does the sea." " f "^ ^^ 3'ou 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 ?» " The languid lady next appears in state. Who wa^ not born to carry her own weight ; 40 / THE FOURTH READER. She lolls, reels, staggers, till some foreign aid To her own stature lifts the feeble maid. Then, if ordain'd to so severe a doom, She, by just stages, journeys round the room ; But, knowing her own weakness, she despairs To scale the Alps — that is, ascend the stairs. ' My fan 1' let others say, who laugh at toil ; 'Fan!' 'Hoodl' ' Glove 1' ' Scarf 1' is her laconic style, And that is spoke with such a dying fall, That Betty rather sees than hears the call ; The motion of her lips, and meaning eye, Piece out the idea her faint words deny. Oh, listen with attention most profound I Her voice is but the shadow of a sound. And help ! oh, help I her spirits are so dead One hand scarce lifts the other to her head. If, there, a stubborn pin it triumph's o'er, She pants ! she sinks away ! she is no more I Let the robust, and the gigantic carve ; Life is not worth so much ; she'd rather starve. But chew, she must herself. Ah ! cruel fate That Rosalinda can't by proxy eat." Popb. RATE OR MOVEMENT OF THE VOICE. The term rate or movement of the voice has reference to the rapidity or slowness of utterance. In good reading, the voice must be adapted to the varying indication of the sentiments in the individual words, and the rate must accommodate itself to the prevailing sentiment which runs through the whole paragraph. Every one must perceive that the rate of the voice, in the utterance of humorous sentiments and in facetious description, is vastly different from that which is appropriate on occasions of solemn invocation. The rates of movement which are clearly distinguishable in varied sentiment, may be denoted by the terms sloiv, moderate, lively, brisk, and rapid. PKINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 41 aconic style, re. Pom. HCE. 'ence to the I, the voice ntiments in itself to the paragraph, oice, in the iescription, ti occasions uishablc in . moderate, Slow Movement. Slow movement is exemplified in the expression of the deep- est emotions ; such as awe, profound reverence, melancholy, grandeur, vastness, and all similar sentiments. In exercising the voice on the rates of movcraept, the exam- ples illustrating the extremes should be read consecutively, fur reasons which must be obvious to the teacher. As several constituents of expression are frequently blended, especially in the utterance of dignified and impressive senti- ments, it may not be amiss to take the same example, to illus- trate the separate functions of the voice. Thus the passage from the book of Job, which we have already used to exem- plify the principles in pitch and monotone, may serve to illus- trate the lowest and deepest notes, long quantity and slow movement, because all these are blended in giving force and true expression to the sentunent. jReverence. " Thy awe-imposing voice is heard— we hear it I The Almighty's fearful voice I Attend ! It breaks the silence and in solemn warning speaks." Melancholy. " With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired. And from her wild sequestered seat, lu notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the meUow hour her pensive soul." -, , "The hills, Kock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun,— the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between,— ' The venerable woods,— rivers that move In majesty,— and the complaining brooks. That make the meadows green,-and, pour'd round all Uid ocean's gray and melancholy waste,— ' Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man." 42 THE FOURTH READER. ii! Mk. :l Profound Solemnity. " Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath And stars to set— but all, ' Thou hast all seasons for thine own, Death I Grandeur— Vaatness. " Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll I Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. " Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form (classes Itself in tempests ; in all time Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm — Icmg the pole, or in the torrid clirae Dark heaving,-boundlcss, endless, as subKir.c - 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." Moderate Movement. Moderate movement is the usual rate of utterance in ordi- nary, unmipassioned narration, as in the following extract "Stranger, if thou hast learn'd a truth which needs Experience more than reason,— that the world Is full of guilt and misery,— and hast known Enough of all its crimes and cares To tire thee of it,— enter this wild wood, And view the haunts of Nature." Lively Movement. This rate of the voice is exemplified in giving utterance to ":N'ow, my co-mates and brothers in exile Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp ? Are not these woods • • • • Drm m. — one ilcss, alone." mce in ordi- extraet — leeds d fcterance to in the fol- oods PKINCr.'LES OF ELOCUTION. 43 More free from peril than the envious court ? Here fool wu l)ut the penalty of Adam,— The seasons' diiroicnco, as, the icy fang And churlish chiding of the wintry wind, Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say, ' This is no flattery.' These are counsellors' That feelingly persuade me what I am. Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running' brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in every thing : I would not change it. Brisk Movement. Tills rate of the voice is employed in giving utterance to gay, sprightly, humorous, and exhilarating emotions • as in the following examples : ' " But, oh ! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Iler bow across her shoulder flung. Her buskins gemra'd with morning dew. Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known I" "Last came Joy's estatic trial, He, with viny crown advancing First to the hvely pipe his hand address'd ; But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best." "I come, I come !— ye have call'd me long ;— I come o'er the mountain with light and song. Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,' By the green leaves opening as I pass." m ^ 44 "" THK FOURTH READER. "Joy, joy I forever, my task is done. The gates are pass'd and heaven is won." Rapid Movement. This movement of the voice is the symbol of violent anirer confusion alarm, fear, hurry, and is ^orally er^^.3 giving utterance to those incoherent expressions w£ a " Uirown out when the mind is in a state of perturba^n • as may be exemplified in parts of the following extxactsT ' " Next Anger rush'd. His eyes, on fire, In lightning owned his secret stings ; In one rude clash he struck the lyre,' And swept with hurried hands the strings." "When, doff'd his casque, he felt free air Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare • 'Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace, where? Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ! Redeem my pennon— charge again ! Cry, "Marmion, to the rescue !"— Vain I Last of my race, on battle-plain That shout shall ne'er be heard again I Yet my last thought is England's. Fly, Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie. Tunstall lies dead upon the field ; His life-blood stains the spotless 'shield • Edmund is down— my life is reft— ' The admiral alone is left. Let Stanley charge, with spur of fire, With Chester charge, and Lancashire, Full upon Scotland's central host, Or victory and England's lost. Must I bid twice ? Hence, varlets ! fly, Leave Marmion here alone— to die.' " "He woke — to hear his sentry's shriek ' To arms ! They come I The Greek 1 the Greek I' He woke— to die 'midst flame and smoke, ^t\ I'lilNCIPLES OF KLOCUTION. 45 And shout, and groan, aricl Ha})r(! stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain cloud, And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band ; 'Strike— till the last arm'd-foc expires I Strike— for your altars and your (ires I Strike— for the green graves of your sires, God, and your native land' " " Back to thy punishment, False fugitive 1 and to thy speed add wings • Lest, with a whip of scorpions, I pursue ' Thy lingcrings, or with one stroke of this dart, Strange horror seize thee, and pangs unfelt before I" " This day's the birth of sorrows I This hour's work Wni breed proscriptions. Look to your hearths, my lords. For there henceforth shall sit, for household gods Shapes hot from Tartarus !— all shames and crimes • Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn • Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup • ' Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe, Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones. Till Anarchy comes down on you like Night And Massacre seals Rome's eternal grave." ' Semitone. (Plaintiveness of Bpeech, or the semUonio movement.) In ascending the musical scale, if the tone of the voice in movmg from the seventh space to the eighth hi pZIT / . the uttei-ance of a plaintive sentiment S tSZll Every one knows a plaintive uttcranc«» nnA *h^ -i at any time discriminate a ^emito'Crd m^i^^Jl affecting a plaintive expression '■nerval by Snbjects of patlios and tenderness, nttered on any pitch 46 TIJE FOURTH READKE. I': ■ rib l!«- 11 liiffh or low, arc capable of being sounded with tlii,, marked u " r:r ti '"™''r- '"' ""= p""" ""■"« "-" "- t us subject. He must acquire the power of transfcrrin,r if. plau„ivene.,a to any in.crvai, in order togUe a , „„ri ' to expressions wliieh call for its use coloring This movement of the voice is a very frequent element in expression, and performs higli offices in speed it isTsed n expressions of grief, pity, and snpplicatior t is he naturl and unstudied language of sorrow, contrition condd"" ommiseration tenderness, companion, mercy, fo'nd ess vexa! t on chagrin impatience, fatigue, pain, with all the shades of difference which may exist between them. It is appZ a"' m the treatment of aU subjects which appeal to huma?™m! =:.ry= would give utterance to the intensity of his feelings.^^ ' Examples in Plaintive TJrrERANCE. "My mother ! when I heard that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son. Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? I heard the bell toll on thy burial day I saw the hearse that bore thee slow awav • And, turning from my nursery window, dre4 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown." " Z'^ft L^'« "'"'' *'^^ ^^'' ^'^^'•^h earth, Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it re have angels' faces, but Heaven knows your hearts - I am the most unhappy woman living." ' f!! 1 PRINCIPLES OP ELOCUTION. " Mournfully ! Oh, mournfully This mkinij,'ht wind doth sigh, Like some sweet, plaintive melody, Of ages long gone by ! It speaks a tale of other years — Of hopes that bloom'd to die — Of sunny smiles that set in tears, And loves that mouldering lie 1 " Mournfully ! Oh, mournfully This midnight wind doth moan I It stirs some chord or memory In each dull, heavy tone ; The voices of the much-loved dead Seem floating thereupon — All, all my fond heart cherish'd Ere death hath made it lone." " Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads — The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life our fiery barbs to guide Across the moonlight plains ; 'Tis life to feel the night-wind That lifts their tossing manes. A moment in the British camp A moment — and away, Back to the pathless forest, Before the peep of day. " Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs, Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band, With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring.' 4T MOTHKRWKLL. 48 if. ■1"' '!! I II I Hi I'M )i THE FOURTH READER. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton Forever from our shore." BarANi. Alas I for the rarity Of Christian cliarity Under the sun 1 Oh I it was pitiful I Near a whole city full, Home she had none. Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly. Feelings had changed : Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its emmence : Even God's providence Seeming estranged. Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light, From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood with amazement, Houseless by night. The bleak winds of March Made her tremble and shiver j But not the dark arch. Or the black flowing river : Mad from life's history. Glad to death's mystery Swift to be hurl'd — Anywhere, anywhere, Out of the world ! T. Hood. PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 49 The Past. How wild and dim this life appears 1 One lon^, deep, heavy sigh, When o'er our eyes, half closed in tears, The images of former years Are faintly glittering by 1 And still forgotten while they go 1 As on the sea-beach, wave on wave, Dissolves at once in snow, The amber clouds one moment lie, Then, like a dream, are gone I Though beautiful the moonbeams play- On the lake's bosom, bright as they, And the soul intensely loves their stay, Soon as the radiance melts away, We scarce believe it shone 1 Heaven-airs amid the harp-strings dwell, And we wish they ne'er may fade — They cease— and the soul is a silent cell. Where music never play'd I Dreams follow dreams, thro' the long night-hours. Each lovelier than the last ; But, ere the breath of mornmg-flowers, That gorgeous world flies past ; And many a sweet angelic cheek. Whose smiles of fond affection speak. Glides by us on this earth ; While in a day we cannot tell Where shone the face we loved so well In sadness, or in mirth ! Wiuos. Where are the Dead? Where are the mighty ones of ages past, Who o'er the world their inspiration cast,— Whose memories stu- our spirits like a blast ? Where are the dead ? 8 50 \ni': THE FOURTH RPIADER. Where are old empire's sinews snapp'd and gone? Where IS the Persian? Mede? Assyrian? Where are the kings of Egypt ? Babylon ? Where are the dead? Where are the mighty ones of Greece ? Where be 1 he men of Sparta and Thermopylfe ? The conquering Macedonian, where is he? Where are the dead? The Charge of the Six Hundred. Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death, Rode the six hundred. 1'^ Forward, the Light Brigade I" " Charge for the guns !" he said : Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade I" Was there a man dismay'd ? 2^ot though the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd I Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they tum'd m air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd : Plunged in the battery smoke, Right through the line they broke • Cossack and Russian ' ReePd from the sabre-stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not— Not the six hundred. t^ntboh. PRIXCIPLKS OF ELOCUTION. 51 Give me Three Grains op Corn. Give me three grains of corn, mother, Only three grains of corn, It will keep the little life I have, Till the coming of the morn. I am dying of hunger and cold, mother, Dying of hunger and cold, And half the agony of such a death My lips have never told. The Leaves. The leaves are dropping, dropping. And I wat"' ?hem as they go ;' Now whirlir suiting, stopping,' With a look of noiseless woe. Tes, I watcli them in their falling. As they tremble from the stem,' With a stillness so appalling— And my heart goes down with them I Yes, I see them floating round me 'Mid the beating of the rain. Like the hopes that still have bound me. To the fading past again. They are floating through the stillness. They are given to the storm-— And they tremble off like phantoms Of a joy that has no form. A. s. St«.hi=ks. He is gone on the mountain, he is lost to the forest Like a summer-dried fountain, when our need was the'sorest ■ Th ount, reappe^^ng, from the rain-drops shall borrow ' The hand of the reaper takes the ears that are hoary. But the voice of the weeper wails manhood in glory • 52 TUE FOURTH READER. If II f J ^' ^^blood'^^'' ^^^ *'°*^ ^^^'''*^' ^"""^ ""^'^'^ ""'^^ *®^' ^^ PaI^'UIPLE8 OF ELOCUTION. 63 Then dropp'd the squire his master's shield, the serf dash'd down his bow, And, s'.de by side with priest and peer, bent reverently and low, While sunk at once each pennon'd spear, plumed helm and flashing glaive. Like some wide waste of reeds bow'd down by Nilus' swollen wave. Lament fob the Death of Owen Roe O'Neill. Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words, " From Derry against Cromwell he march'd to measure swords • But the weapon of the Saxon, met him on his way. And he died at Lough Oughter, upon St. Leonard's day 1" Wail, wail ye for the mighty one ! wail, wail ye for the dead I Quench the hearth and hold the breath— with ashes strew the head. How tenderly we loved him I how deeply we dejjlore 1 But to think — but to think, we shall never see him more I Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall. Sure we never won a battle— 'twas Owen won them all. Had he lived—had he lived— our dear country had been free ; But he's dead— but he's dead— and 'tis slaves we'll ever be. ' Wail, wail him through the Island I Weep, weep for our pride 1 Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died ! Weep the Victor of Benburb— weep him, young man and old ; Weep for him, ye women— your Beautiful lies cold 1 We thought you would not die— we were sure you would not go. And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow- Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky— Oh 1 why did you leave ua, Owen? Why did you die? lift' , > 64 THE FOBRTU READER. Soft as woman's was your voice O'NpiU f i.r;«.i,+ „ Oh 1 why did you lea'o „s, 0:;c„? ^.^'^dfo ™ r"'"'' Irir*;'" "" "i' •'™^' ^°"''« ^' -^ with Goton high . But we re slaves, and we're orphans, Owen l_why did youdte? Thomas Davis. The Wexford Massacre. They knelt around the Cross divine The matron and the maid— ' They bow'd before redemption's sign And fervently they pray'd— Three hundred fair and helpless ones. Whose crime was this alone— Their valiant husbands, sires, and sons Had battled for their own. Had battled bravely, but in vam— The Saxon won the fight • And Irish corses strew'd the' plain Where Valor slept with Right. And now that man of demon guUt To fated Wexford flew— The red blood reeking on his hUt Of hearts to Erin true I ' He found them there-the young, the old- ine maiden and the wife • Their guardians brave, in death were cold, Who dared for /Am the strife- They pray'd for mercy. God on high I Before Thy cross they pray'd And ruthless Cromwell bade them die To glut the Saxon blade. Three hundred fell-the stifled prayer Was quench'd in woman's blood • J^or youth nor age could move to spare J^rora slaughter's crimson flood I "I PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 55 But nations keep a stern account Of deeds that tyrants do ; And guiltless blood to Heaven will mount, And Heaven avenge it, too I M. J. Babrt. Abou Ben Adhem. Abotj Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase) I Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw with the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily In bloom, An angel, writing in a booV ot' gold ; Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold ; And to the presence in the room he said, ' ' What writest thou ?" The vision raised his head. And, with a look made all of sweet accord, Answer'd, "The names of those who love the Lord." " And is mine one ?" said Abou, " Nay, not so," Replied the angel. Abou spok-^ more low. But cheerly still ; and said, " I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." The angel wrote and vanish'd. The next night It came again with great awakening light. And show'd the names whom love of God had bless'd, And lo 1 Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. Leioh Hunt. There is a reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen. He reaps the bearded grain at a breath. And the flowers that grow between. " Shall I have nought that is fair ?" saith he ; " Have nought but the bearded grain ? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again." He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kiss'd their drooping leaves ; It I'. 66 THIS FOURTH RKADER. It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. "My Lord has need of these flowerets gay " The reaper said, and smiled ; "Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child. "They all shall bloom in fields of light Transplanted by my care, ' And saints, upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear." Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath, The reaper came that day ; *T was an angel visited the earth, And took the flowers away. Longwlww. M If" Mental Beauty. The shape alone let others prize, The features of the fair, I look for spirit in her eyes, And meaning in her aii*. A damask cheek, an ivory arm, Shall ne'er my wishes win ; Give me an animated form, That speaks a mind within. A face where lawful honor shines. Where sense and sweetness move, And angel innocence refines The tenderness of love. These are the soul of Beauty's frame, Without whose vital aid, Unfinish'd all her features seem. And all her roses dead. Akinitps. i'l I PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 67 The Soliloquy of King Richard III. Give me another horse : — bind np my wounds : — Have mercy, Jesu :— soft : I did but dream ? — coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me ! The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight. What do I fear? Myself? There's none else by. Richard loves Richard ; that is, I am I. Is there a murderer here ? No : yes ; I am. Then fly. What? From myself ? Great reason ; why ? Lest I revenge. What ? Myself on myself? 1 love myself. Wherefore ? For any good That I myself have done unto myself? Oh, no ; alas 1 I rather hate myself, For hateful deeds committed by myself. I am a villain : yet I lie ; I am not. Fool, of thyself speak well : — fool, do not flatter : — My conscience hath a thousand several tongues ; And every tongue brings in a several tale ; And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the highest degree, Murder, stern murder, in tiie direst degree. Throng to the bar, crying all. Guilty ! guilty 1 I shall despair. — There is no creature loves me, And, if I die, no soul will pity me : Nay, wherefore should they ; since that I myself Find in myself no pity to myself? — Methought the souls of all that I had murdered Came to my tent, and every one did threat To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard. Shakspeabk Spring Flowers. While the trees are leafless, While the fields are bare, Buttercups and daisies opring up ucre and there. 08 THE FOURTH READER. m\ ■■"!l: :%•'■ . 'M Ere the snow-drop peepeth, Ere the crocus bold, Ere the early primrose Opes its paly gold, Somewhere on a sunny bank, Buttercups are bright : Somewhere 'mong the frozen grass Peeps the daisy white ; Little hardy flowers, Like to children poor Playing in their sturdy health By their mother's door ; Purple with the north wind, Yet alert and bold ; Fearing not and caring not. Though they be a-cold. Hownr. The Modern Blue-stocking. In all the modern languages, she was Exceedingly well versed, and had devoted To their attainment, far more time than has, By the best teachers, lately been allotted • For she had taken lessons, twice a week, For a full month in each ; and she could speak French and Italian, equally as well As Chinese, Portuguese, or German ; and. What is still more surprising, she could spell Most of our longest EuglLsh words, off hand : Was quite familiar in low Dutch and Spanish, And thought of studying modern Greek and Danish. Ik-i jx*' ill '• .:'. Invocation. Tell me, my secret soul. Oh I tell me, Hope and Faith, Is there no resting-place From sorrow, sin, and death?— rRINCirLFS OF ELOCDTION. 5a Is there no happy spot, Where mortals may bo l)lcB8*d, Where grief may tind a halm, And weariness, a rest ? Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to raortaLs given, Waved their bright wings, and whisper'd,— " Ye3, ii» Heaven 1" Maokat. Time. The year Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course, It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful, And they are not. It laid its pallid hand Upon the strong man, and the haughty form Is ) alien, and the flashing eye is dim. It trod the hall of revelry, where throng'd The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail Of stricken ones, is heard where erst the sony the low window, with the silken lash Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth Half parted with the new and strange delight Of beauty that she could not comprehend, And had not seen before. The purple folds Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky That look'd so still and delicate above, Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eve Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still Stood looking at the west with that half smile, As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. Presently, in the edge of the last tint Of sunset, where the blue was melted in To the first golden mellowness, a star Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight Burst from her lips, and, putting up her hands, Her simple thought broke forth expressively, " Father, dear father, God has made a star." Willis. P>: ) 'I The Carrier-Pic, i;oN. The bird, let loose in Eastern skies, when hastening fondly home, Ne'er stoops to earth hci- wing, nor flies where idle warblers roam ; But high she shoots thro <^rh air and light, above all low delay, Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, nor shadow dims n ! •! PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 63 So grant me, God, from every care and stain of passion free, Aloft, through Virtue's purer air, to hold my course to thee ; No sin to cloud, no lure to stay my soul, as home she springs ; — Thy sunshine on her joyful way, thy freedom 11 her wings ! MOOKE. PoLYOARP, ono of the fathers of the Christiftn Church, suffurcd martyr- dom at Smyrna, in the year of our Lord 1G7, during a general persecution of the Christiana. " Go, lictor, lead the prisoner forth, let all the assembly stay. For he must openly abjure his Christian faith to-day." The prsetor spake ; the lictor went, and Polycarp appear'd, And totter'd, leaning on his staff, to where the pile was rear J. His silver hair, his look benign, which spake his heavenly lot, Moved into tears both youth and age, but moved the prajtor not. The heathen spake : " Renounce aloud thy Christian heresy !" — "Hope all things else," the old man cried, "yet hope not this from me." — " But if thy stubborn heart refuse thy Saviour to deny, Thy age shall not avert my wrath ; thy doom shall be — to die 1"— "Think not, O judge 1 with menaces, to shake my faith in God ; If in His righteous cause I die, I gladly kiss the rod." — "Blind wretch ! doth not the funeral pile thy vaunting faith appall ?" — "'No funeral pile my heart alarms, if God and duty call." — "Then expiate thy insolence ; ay, perish in the fire I Go, lictor, drag him instantly forth to the funeral pyre I" The lictor dragg'd him instantly forth to the pyre ; with bands He bound him to the martyr's stake, he smote him with his hands. "Abjure thy God," the prajtor said, "and thou shalt yet be free." — "No," cried the hero, "rather let death be my destiny I" mii, : 64 THE FOURTH KEADER. Ik ' The pra3tor bow'd ; the lictor laid with haste the torches nigh : Forth from the fagots burst the flames, and glanced athwart the sky ; The patient champion at the stake with flames engirdled stood, Look'd up with rapture-kindling eye, and seal'd his faith iil blood. To THE Passion Flower. What though not thine the rose's brilliant glow, Or odor of the gifted violet, Or dew with which the lily's cheek is wet ; Though thine would seem the pallid streaks of woe, The drops that from the fount of sorrow flow, Thy purple tints of shame ; though strange appear The types of torture thou art doom'd to wear • Yet blooms for me no hue like thine below. For from thee breathes the odor of a name, Whose sweetness melts my soul and dims my eyes ; And in thy mystic leaves of woe and shame I read a tale to which my heart replies In voiceless throbbing and devoted sighs ; Death's darkest agony and mercy's claim. And love's last words of grief are written in thy dyes. lO hi . It ' •■' To spend too much time in studies is sloth ; to use them too much for ornament is afi'ectation ; to make judgment wholly by their rules is the humor of a scholar. Tlicy per- fect nature, and are perfected by experience; for natural abilities require study, as natural plants need pruning; and studies themselves do give forth directions too much at large, except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire them, and wise men use them; for studies teach not their own use— this wise men learn by observation. Read not to contradict and re- fute, not to believe and take for granted, but to weigh and ^^^^^^^- Bacon. 1%. t PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 65 Advice to an Affected Speaker. What do you say ? — What ? I really clo not understand yon. Be so good as to explain yourself again, — Upon my word, I do not. — Oh, now I know : you mean to tell me it is a cold day. Why did you not say at once, " It is cold to-day ?" If you wish to inform mo it rains or snows, pray say, " It rains," " It snows ;" or, if you think I look well, and you choose to compliment me, say, "I think you look well." "But," you answer, "that is so common, and so plain, and what everybody can say." Well, and what if they can ? Is it so great a misfortune to be understood when one speaks, and to speak like the rest of the world ? I will tell you what, my friend ; you and your fine-spoken brethren want one thing — you do not suspect it, and I shall astonish you — you want common sense. Nay, this is not all : you have something too much ; you possess an opinion that you have more sense than others. That is the source of all your pompous nothings, your cloudy sentences, and your big words without a meaning. Before you accost a person, or enter a room, let me pull you by your sleeve and whisper in your car, "Do not try to show oflF your sense ; have none at all — that is your part. Use plain lan- guage, if you can ; just such as you find others use, who, in your idea, have no understanding ; and then, perhaps, you will get credit for having some." La Beuyeuk. I'> i REMARKS TO TEACHERS. R is of the uhnost importanca, in order to acquire a cor- rect and elegant sti/le of reading, frequently to refer the pupil to the Principles of Elocution, given in the First Part, Tliese should he frequently revieived, and the direc- tions applied to the selections in Fart Second. I 4^k '^^ . a l^.' f 1 ft w \a '> ^l w t THE FOURTH READER. Part II. SELECT LITERARY EXERCISES IN READING. © 1. ClIARACTKR OF CoLUMBUS. IKVIN&. WASiimoTON Irving was born in Now York, April 8, 1783— died, 1860. As an Instorian and essayist, Irving had no superior and few equals amonff tlio men of liia time. His "History of New York," written under the assumed name of Deidrich Knickerbocker; his "History of Columbus " and tlie "Sketeh-Book," were amonpr tlic earlier triumphs of liis genius; but his last and greatest work is the " Life of Washington," concluded just l)eloro his death. Lr/j^OLUMBUS was a man of great and inventive ilQ L genius. The operations of his mind were energetic, but irregular; bursting forth at times with that irresistible force which characterizes intellect of such an order. His mind had grasped all kinds of knowledge connected with his pursuits ; and though his information may appear limited at the present day, and some of his errors palpable, it is because knowledge, in his peculiar department of science, was but scantily devel- oped in his tune. His own discoveries enlightened the igno- rance of that age ; guided conjecture to certainty ; and dis- pelled numerous en'ors with which he hiipself had been obliged to struggle. 2. Ilia ambition was lofty and noble. He was full of high thoughts, and anxious to distinguish himself by great achieve- ments. It has been said that a mercenary feeling mingled with his views, and that his stipulations with the Spanish court were selfish and avaricious. The charge is inconsiderate and ""just. He aimed at dignity and wealth in the same lofty spirit in which he sought renown ; but they were to arise from ^! '1 i X is l,n * S I r ' ' ' it ' *» . r ** I 1 ' 1*1" > •> i m w^ r«^.jBi 68 THE FOURTH READER. the territories he should discover, and be coraracnsuratc in im- portance. 3. He asked nothing of the sovereigns but a command of the countries he hoped to give them, and a share of tlie profits to support the dignity of his comnuimL The gains that prom- ised to arise from his discoveries, ho intended to opproijriato in the same princely and pious spirit in which they were de- manded. He contemplated works and a'liievemettts <>f benev- olence and religion, vast contributions for the relief of the poor of his ni.tive city ; the foundation of churches, whcro niiisses should be s .ki for the pouls of i ao departed ; and armies for the recovciy of the h'l* -opulchro in Palestine. 4. Columbus was a tmn of quick serisibility, liable to great excitement, to sudden and sison.i^ inipressions, and powerful impulses. He was natura'i ■ irritable and impetuous, and keenly sensible to inji:ry as <"i injustice; yet the quickness of his temper was counteracted by the benevolence and generosity of his heart. The magnaniniiiy of his nature shone forth through all the troubles of his stormy career. Though continually outraged in his dignity, and braved in the exercise of his com- maiid ; though foiled in his plans and endangered in his person by the seditions of turbulent and worthless men, and that, too, at times \\hen suffering under anxiety of mind and anguish of body sufficient to exasperate the most patient, he restrained his valiant and indignant spirit ; and, by the strong powers of his mind, brought himself to forbear, and reason, and even to sapplicate : nor should we fail to notice how free he was from all feeling of revenge, how ready to forgive and forget, on the least signs of repentance and atonement. He has been extolled for his skill in controlling others ; but far greater praise is due to him for the firmness he displayed in governing himself. 5. His magnanimous benignity made him accessible to all kinds of pleasurable sensations from external objects. In his letters and journals, instead of detailing circumstances with the technical precision of a mere navigator, he notices the beauties of nature with the enthusiasm o*" a poet or a painter. 6. Ho was dovcutlv pious ; r- ligion mingled with the ^-hol:' rse of his thoriglits and actions, and shines forth in a!i •?'s CHARACTER OF COLUMBDS. 69 most private and unstudied writings. Whenever he made any jrreat <^iscovei*y, he celebrated it by solemn thanks to God. The vuice of prayer and melody of praise rose from his ships whc' (hoy first beheld the New World, and his first action on jcndi.i;.'; was to prostrate himself upon the earth and return thanks. 7. With all the visionary fervor of his imagination, its fond- est dreams fell short of reality. He died in ignorance of the rciil grandeur of his discovery. Until his last breath he enter- tained the idea that he had merely opened a new way to the old resorts of opulent commerce, and had discovered some of the wild regions of the East. He supposed Hispaniola to be the ancient Ophir which had been visited by the ships of Sol- omon, and that Cuba and Terra Firma were but remote parts of Asia. 8. What visions of glory would have broken upon his mind could he have known that he had indeed discovered a new continent, equal to the whole of the Old World in magnitude, and separated by two vast oceans from all the earth hitherto known by civilized man 1 And how would his magnanimous spirit have been consoled, amidst the afflictions of age and the cares of penury, the neglect of a fickle public, and the injustice of an ungrateful king, could he have anticipated the splendid empires which were to spread over the beautiful world he had discovered ; and the nations, and the tongues, and languages which were to fill its lands with his renown, and to revere and bless his name to the latest posterity I 2. The Landing of Columbus. KOGEBS. Samuel Rogers was born in England, in 1765, and died in 1855. His poetry has no great claim to originality; but it possesses, in an eminent degree, the merits of good taste, refinement, and careful composition. 1. The sails were furl'd ; with many a melting close, Solemn and slow the evening anthem rose, — Rose to the Yirgiu. 'Twas the hour of day When .setting suns o'er summer seas display if m. 11 1^. '1 ','''. < '• • 1 ' - f. ^1 70 2. TllK FOURTH RKADEK. A path of glory, opening in the west To golden climes and islands of the blest ; And human voices on the silent air Went o'er the waves in songs of gladness there I Chosen of men ! 'Twas thine at noon of night First from the prow to hail the glimmering light : (Emblem of Truth divine, whose secret ray Enters the soul and makes the darkness day I) "Pedro ! Rodrigo 1 there methought it shone 1 There — in the west ! and now, alas, 'tis gone 1 — 'Twas all a dream 1 we gaze and gaze in vain ! . But mark and speak not, there it comes again 1 It moves I — what form unseen, what being there With torch-like lustre fires the murky air ? His instincts, passions, say, how like our own 1 Oh, when will day reveal a world unknown ?" 3. Long on the deep the mists of morning lay ; Then rose, revealing as they rolled away Half-circling hills, whose everlasting woods Sweep with their sable skirts the shadowy floods : And say, when all, to holy transport given, Embraced and wept as at the gates of heaven,^ When one and all of us, repentant, ran, And, on our faces, bless'd the wondrous man,— Say, was I then deceived, or from the skies Burst on my ear seraphic harmonies ? ^!. " Glory to God 1" unnumber'd voices sung, — " Glory to God !" the vales and mountains rung, Yoices that hail'd creation's primal morn, And to the shepherds sung a Saviour born. Slowly, bareheaded, through the surf we bore The sacred cross, and kneeling kiss'd the shore. 3. PlIILANTIIROPT AND ChARITY. Dn. BIJOWNSON. Dn. 0. A. Brownsov was born at Stockbrid^re, Vermont, Sept. 16, 1803. He comes of an old New-Engiand stock, and was brought up in t!u; Wisys PHILANTIIUOPY AND CIIAKITY. 71 of hirt Puritan niiccstnrB. His youth and early manhood were pnsfled in the vuin purHuit of reli>,'i()ii8 triilli, guided solely by his own powerful intellect, until, at length, by the blessing of God, he mado liis way to tlie golden portals of the true Church. Since then. Dr. BrownMon has devoted his great talents to tiio service of Catholicity, and few men have done inoro tlian lie to make the trutlis of faith numifest to the unbeliever. As u Cuth- olic reviewer, ho holds a higli place ni the world of letters ; but it ia as n Christian philosopher, logician, and metaphysician, that he is known to the learned of all nations. His fame is, indeedj universal, and his author- ity of the liighest weight as well east as west ot the Atlantic. 1. The natural sentiment of philanthropy is, at best, only human love. This answers very well, when the work to be done is simply to propose grand schemes, make brilliant and eloquent speeches, or when there are no disagreeable duties to be performed, no violent natural repugnances to be overcome ; but it fails in the hour of severe trial. Your philanthropist starts with generous impulses, with a glowing enthusiasm; and so long as there are no great discouragements, no disgusting offices in his way, and he has even a small number of admiring friends to stimulate his zeal, applaud his eloquence, flatter his pride, and soothe him for the rebuffs he meets from the world, he may keep on his course, and continue his task. 2. But let him find himself entirely alone, let him have no little public of his own, which is all the world to him, let him be thwarted on every point, let him be obliged to work in secret, unseen by all but the All-seeing Eye, encounter from men nothing but contradiction, contempt, and ingratitude, and he will soon begin to say to himself, Why suffer and endure so much for the unworthy ? He who loves man for man's sake, loves only a creature, a being of imperfect worth, of no more . worth than himself, — perhaps not so much ; and why shall he love him more than himself, and sacrifice himself for hun? Tlie highest stretch of human love is, to love our neighbor as we love ourselves ; and we do injustice to ourselves, when we love them more than we do ourselves. 3. Nay, philanthropy itself is a sort of selfishness. It is a sentiment, not a principle. Its real motive is not another's good, but its own satisfaction according to its nature. It seeks the good of others, because the good of others is the means of its own satisfaction, and is as really selfish in its principle as any other of our sentiments ; for there is a broad Ui IP m tij J,( i ' S' i ' Pi 1 i'j 72 THE FOUKTir BKADEU. > v: -i' • J- •' !) . 1 I' distinction between the sentiment of philanthropy, and the duty of doing good to others, — bctwocri seeking the p-ood (*f others from sentiment, and seAinir it in obedience tu a law whicli binds the conscience. 4. Th(! measure of the canicity of philanthropy, as a senti- ment, is the amount of satisfaction it can bring to the pos- sessor. So long as, upon tlie whole, he finds it more delight- ful to play the philanthropist than the miser, for iu.si!i ice, he will do it, but no longer. Hence, philanthropy must always decrease just in proportion to the increase of the repugnances it must encounter, and fail us just at the moment when it is most needed, and always m proportion as it is needed. It follows the law .so cbservable in all human society, and helps most when anc' where its help is least needed. Here is the condemnation of ( very scheme, however plausilile it may look, that in any degree depends on philanthropy for its success. 5. The principle the Associationists want for their success is not philanthropy, — the love of man for me a's sake, — but divine charity, not to be had and preserved out of the Catho- lic Church. Charity is, in relation to its subject, a supernat- urally infused virtue ; in relation to its object, the supreme and exclusive love of God for his own sake, and man for the eake of God, He who has it. is proof against all trials ; r his love does not depend on man, who po often proves himself totally unamiable and unworthy, but on God, vho is always and everywhere infinitely ami; ' le and deserv' a; of all love. He visits the sick, the prisoner, the poor, for it is God whom he visits ; he clasps with tenderness the leprous to his bosom, find kisses their sores, for it is Gc: he embraces a id whose d ,ir wounds he kisses. The most painful and disgusting oifices are sweet and easy, because he performs them for Cod, who is love, and whose love inflames his heart. Whenevr there is a service to be rendered to one of God's litti nncr he runs with eagerness to do it ; for it is a service to b rei red to God himself, 6. " Charity never faileth," It is proof against all natural repugnances ; it overcomes earth and liell : and brings God "n^rtM f /v if 1L-. fliio i-xrirti* V-»nA» done to and for God, whom it loves more than men, more han life, anf grace, the Mother of mercies, the channel through which all love, and mercies, and graces, and good things were to liuw to man, and return to the glory and honor of their Father. 3. Humblest of mortal maidens, lowliest on earth, under God, she was highest in heaven. So is the Church, our sweet Mother. Oh, she is no creation of the imagination ! Oh, she is no mere accident in human history, in divine providence, di- vine grace, in the conversion of souls ! She is a glorious, a living reality, living the divine, the eternal life of God. Her Maker is her Husband, and he places her, after him, over all in heaven, on the earth, and under the earth. All that he can do to adorn and exalt her, he has done. All he can give he gives ; for ho gives himself, and unites her in indissoluble union with himself. Infinite love, infinite wisdom, infinite power, can do no more. 4. All hail to thee, dear and ever-blessed Mother, thou chosen one, thou well-beloved, thou Bride adorned, thou chaste, immaculate Spouse, thou Universal Queen I All hail to thee ! We honor thee, for God honors thee ; we love thee, for God loves thee ; wc obey thcc, for thou ever commandcst -he will MART, QUEKN OF MKRCT. 75 of thy lord. The passers-by may jeer thee ; the servants of the prince of this worlU may cull thee black ; the danghtcrs of the un( rcumcised may beat thee, earth and hell rise up in wrath against thee, and seek to despoil thee of thy rich orna- ments and to sully thy fair name ; but all the more dear art thou to our hearts ; all the more deep and sincere the homage we pay thee ; and all the more earnestly do we pray thee to receive our humble oflferings, and to own us for thy children, and watch over us that we never forfeit the right to call thee our Mother. 5. Mary, Queen of Merot. MAXOAN. Jauks Clarence Manoan. — Amonj^f the poets whom Ireland has pro- duced within the hist ten or fifteen yeorH, Clarence Mangan deservedly occupies a high place. As a translator, ho was inimitable : ho translated from the Irishj the French, the German, the Spanish, the Italian, the Dan- i.sii, and the Eastern languages, with such a versatile facility as not only to transfuse into his own tongue the substance of the original, but the graces of style and ornament, and idiomatic expression, which a-e peculiar to the poetry of every country. He frequently surpassed the originals in the fluency of his language. Many of the poems called " translations," are entirely his own -Ballads of Ireland, 1. There lived a knight long years ago, Proud, carnal, vain, devotionless ; Of God above, or hell below, He took no thought, but, undismay'd, Pursued his course of wickedness. His heart was rock ; he never pray'd To be forgiven for all his treasons ; He only said, at certain seasons, " O Mary, Queen of Mercy 1" 2. Years roU'd, and found him still the same. Still draining Pleasure's poisoh bowl ; Yet felt he now and then some shame ; The torment of the Undying Worm At whiles woke in his trembling soul ; And then, though powt^rloss to reform, ■i |.; It* i i * -1'? I-'-' ?; 1 ■■*-■! 'it mi 76 THE FOURTH KKADER. Would he, in hope to appease that sternest Ayenger, cry, and more in earnest, " Mary, Queen of Mercy 1" 8. At last Youth's riotous tune was gone, And Loathing now came after Sin. With locks yet brown, he felt as one Grown gray at heart ; and oft, with tears, He tried, but all in vain, to win From the dark desert of his years One flower of hope ; yet, morn and evening, He still cried, but with deeper meaning, " O Mary, Queen of Mercy I" 4. A happier mind, a holier mood, A purer spirit ruled Lim now : No more in thrall to flesh and blood, He took a pilgrim-staff in hand, And, under a religious vow, Travail'd his way to Pommerland ; There enter'd he an humble cloister. Exclaiming, while his eyes grew moister, " O Mary, Queen of Mercy I" 6. Here, shorn and cowl'd, he laid his cares Aside, and wrought for God alone. Albeit he sang no choral prayers. Nor matin hymn nor laud could learn. He mortified his flesh to stone ; For him no penance was too stern ; And often pray'd he on his lonely Cell-couch at night, but still said only, " Mary, Queen of Mercy 1" 6. They buried him with mass and song Aneath a little knoll so green ; But, lo ! a wonder-sight I — Ere long Rose, blooming, from that verdant mound. The fairest lily ever seen ; And, on its petal-edges round RELIGrOL3 MEMOPwIALS. 77 Relieving their translucent whiteness, Did shine these words, in gold-hued brightness, " Mary, Queen of Mercy 1" 1. And, would Gud's r igels give thee power, Thou, dearest reader, mightst behold The fibres of this holy flower Upspringing from the dead man's heart, In tremulous threads of light and gold ; Then wouldst thou choose the better part. And thenceforth flee Sin's foul suggestions ; Thy sole response to mocking questions, " Mary, Queen of Mercy !" 6. Religious Memorials. SIR HUMPHREY DAVY. Sib Huuphret Davy— p,n eminent English philosopher and chemist of the present century. He wrote some very interesting oooks of travel. 1. The rosary, which you see suspended around my neck, is a memorial of sympathy and respect for an illustrious man. I was passing through France, in the reign of Mapoleon, hj the peculiar privilege granted to a savant, on my road to Italy. I had just returned from the Holy Land, and had in my possession two or three of the rosaries which are sold to pilgrims at Jerusalem, as having been suspended in the Holy Sepulchre. Pius ^11. was then in imprisonment at I'ontaine- bleau. By a special favor, on the plea of my return from the Holy Land, I obtained permission to see this venerable and illustrious pontiff. I carried with rac one of my rosaries. 2. He received me with great kindness. I tendered my services to execute any commissions, not political ones, he might think fit to intrust me with, in Italy, informing him that I was an Englisliman : he expressed his thanks, but de- clined troubling me. I told him that I was just returned from the Holy Land ; and, bowing, with great humility, offered him my rosary from the Holy Sepulchre. 3. He received it with a smile, touched it with his lips, gave te ,tt i" ■> 1 .i ,-) if i I t 4, i>.f'j 111 \w- M 78 THE FOURTH EKADEB. his benediction over it, and returned it into my hands, suppos- ing, of course, that I was a Roman Catholic. I had meant to present it to his Holiness ; but the blessing he had bestowed upon it, and the touch of his lips, made it a precious relic to me ; and I restored it to my neck, round which it Jias ever since been suspended " We shall meet again ; adieu :" and he gave me his paternal blessing. 4. It was eighteen months after this interview, that I went out, with almost the whole population of Rome, to receive and welcome the triumphal entry of this illustrious father of the Church into his capital. He was borne on the shoulders of the most distinguished artists, headed by Canova : and never shall I forget the enthusiasm with which he was received ; it is impossible to describe the shouts of triumph and of rapture sent up to heaven by every voice. And when he gave his benediction to the people, there was a universal prostration, a sobbing, and marks of emotion and joy, almost Uke the burst- ing of the heart. I heard everywhere around me cries of " The holy father I the most holy father ! His restoration is the work of God !" 5. I saw tears streaming from the eyes of almost all the women about me, many of whom were sobbing hysterically, and old men were weeping as if they were children. I pressed my rosary to my breast on this occasion, and repeatedly touched with my lips that part of it which had received the kiss of the most venerable pontiflF. I preserve it with a kind of hallowed feeling, as the memorial of a man whose sanctity, firmness, meekness, and benevolence, are an honor to his Church and to human nature : and it has not only been useful to me, by its Influence upon my own mind, but it has enabled me to give pleasure to others ; and has, I believe, been some- times beneficial in insuring my personal safety. 6. I have often gratified the peasants of Apulia and Cala- bria, by presenting them to kiss a rosary from the Holy Sep- ulchre, which had been hallowed by the touch of the lips and benediction of the Pope : and it has even been respected by, and procured me a safe passage through, a party of brigands, who once stopped me in tiie passes of the Apennines. c^ THE CONVERT. 79 7. The Convert. B U U N E T T . Mk. p. II. BonNi!TT hna filled, with much honor, the highest position in the judiciary of Oregon Territory; and Inter, tlie guberiiatoriul cliair of Ciilifornia. As a writer, he is learned, clear-sijrlited, calm, and cxftct. On his conversion to the Catholic Church, he ^)ubli«lied his work entitled, "The I'ath which led a Protcbtant Lawyer into the Church," a work of considerable merit. 1. He has -embraced a higher grade of faith, has been brought iiitd closer and holier communioa with the unseen world, and lu 3 adopted a more just and charitable estimate of human veracity. He has taken a step towards the Celestial City, from the low, murky valleys of discord, where the fogs of error do love to dwell. He shakes hands with the brethren of every kind, name, and tongue. He worships with the people of every nation. He joins his prayers with those who speak the varied languages of earth. On every shore, in every land, beneath every sky, and in every city, he meets his brethren of the universal Church. He is at home everywhere, and bows down with the millions who have worshipped, and rtill worship, at the same altar, and hold the same faith. 2. But not only so. He looks back over the pages of past history, and ascends by a plain, visible, and unbroken chain to the apostolic day. He has no chasms to leap, no deserts to cross. At every step in this progress he finds the same Old Church — the same faith — the same worship still pre-eminent in the Christian world. He sees the rise and fall of empires and sects ; but the same Old Church always pre-eminent. The records of the past are with him. He has the sanction of antiquity. Time tells for him a glorious story. He meets with myriads of brethren all ;eiiuino pathos and tender- ness. ''Torpsiehoro," "Mania," and "rootry," uro among hia longest and best pieces. 1. Some words on Language may be well applied ; And take them kindly, thongh they touch your pride. Words lead to things ; a scale is more precise, — Coarse speech, bad grammar, swearing, drinking, vice. Our cold Northeaster's icy fetter clips The native freedom of the Saxon lips : See the brown peasant of the plastic South, How all liis passions play about his mouth I With us, the feature that transmits the soul, A frozen, passive, palsied breathing-hole. »>4 2. The crarapy shackles of the ploughboy's walk Tie the small muscles, when he strives to talk ; Not all the pumice of the polish'd town Can smooth this roughness of the barnyard down ; Rich, honor'd, titled, he betrays his race By this one mark — he's awkward in the face ; — Nature's rude impress, long before he knew The sunny street that holds the sifted few. 3. It can't be help'd ; though, if we're taken young, We gain some freedom of the lips and tongue : But school and college often try in vain To break tiie padlock of our boyhood's chain ; One stubborn word will prove this axiom true — No late-caugnt rustic can enunciate view.^ * The poet here humorously alludes to the difficulty which many persons^ bred in retirement, find in pronouncing this word correctly. It will be diiiicuit to espress in letters the umiiuer in which it is fre- tii m t( S( Bl THE INDIAJM0. 83 ■< much •ity uiid dioroHs luid Ilia teiider- loiigOHt de. ice. A few brief stanzas may be well employ'd To speaic of errors we can all avoid. Learning condemns beyond the reach of hope The careless chnrl that speaks of soap for soap ; Her edict exiles from her fair abode The clownish voice that utters rOad for road ; Less stern to him who calls his coat a c5at, And steers his bOot believing it a b(5at. She pardon'd one, our classic city's boast, Who said, at Cambridge, most instead of mOst ; But knit her brows, and starap'd her angry foot, To hear a teacher call a root' a root.' Once more : speak clearly, if you speak at all ; Carve every word before you let it fall ; Don't, like a lecturer or dramatic star. Try over hard to roll the British R ; Do put your accents in the proper spot ; Don't— let me beg yon— don't say " How ?" for " What ?" And when you stick v.i y.oi' ^ersation's burs. Don't strew the pathway v Ath those dreadful wrs.' 10. The Indians. many rectly. is fre- STORT. JosKPH Story. — In 1811, Joseph Story was appointed Associate Jus- tice of tlio Supreme Court of tlio United States, and held the office with much ability until hia death in 1845. His principal literary writings are contained iu a collection of his discourses, reviews, and miscellanies, 1. There is, in the fate of these unfortunate beings, much to awaken our sympathy, and much to disturb the sobriety of qtu-ntly mispronounced, but it is a sound somewhat similar to v6. The i)roper pronunciation is vi\. They, also, who give the second sound of in the words soap, road, co nrjrcd to pxtiiko (lioir own atrocities; luuch in tlicir chamctirs wliicli Ix-lniy us iiilo im involuulary ndiniration. AVliat can bo more rloqucnt tlian tlicir history? Uy a law of nature tlu-y soomed destinod to a slow but sure extinction. Every where at the approach of i he white man they fade away. We hear the rustHnj,^ of their footstepH, hice that of the withered leaves of autumn, and they are gone forever. 2. They pass mournfully by us, ami they return no mon-. Two centuries ago, and tlic smoke of their wigwams, and the ihvsof their councils rose in every valley, from the Jludson Bay to the farthest Florida, from the ocean to the MiKKiKKi))i)i and the lakes. The shouts of victory and the war-dance rung through the mountains and the glades. The thick arrows and the deadly tomahawk whistled through the forests : and the hunter's trace and dark encampment startled the wild beasts in their lairs. The warriors stood forth in tlieir glory. The young listened to the song of other days. The mothers played with their infants, and gazed on the scene with warm hopes of the future. The aged sat down, but they wept not ; tliey shouhl soon be at rest in finer regions, where the Clreat'sj)irit dwells, in a home prepared for the bravo beyond the western skies. 8. Braver men never lived : truer men never drew the bow. They had courr.ge, and fortitude, and sagacity, and perseve- rance beyond most of flic human race. They shrank from no dangers, and ilcy feared no hardships. If they had the vices of savage life, they liad its virtues also. They were true to their country, their friends, and their homes. If they forgave not injury, neither did they forget kindness. If their ven- geance was tcn-ible, their fidelity and generosity were uncon- querable also. Their love, like their hatred, Hto})ped not this side of the grave. 4. But where are they ? Where are the villagers and war- happily condemned. Such hiibit.s mav easily ha corrected by a little presence of mind, and particularly by followinK the direction Think twice before you i-neak once. ' THE INDIANS. 85 riors and youth ; the sadicmfl and the tribes ; the hunters and their fiunilies ? They have pcrish( they arc consumed. The wa.stirip; pestih-nce has not alone done the rnij^hty work. No, nor famine — nor war ; there has been a mightier power ; a moral canker, which has eaten into their heart cores — a plague, which the touch of the White man communicated — a poison whicli betrayed them to lingering ruin. The winds of tlic Atlantic fan not a single region which they may call their own. Already the last feeble remnant of their race are pre- paring for their journey beyond the Mississippi. I sec them leave their miserable homes— the aged, the helpless, the men, and the warriors — "few and faint, yet fearless still." 5. The ashes are cold upon their native hearths. The smoke no longer curls around their lowly cabins. They move on with slow unsteady steps. The white man is upon their heels for terror or dispatch, but they heed him not. They turn to take a last look of their desolate villages. They cast a last glance upon tlie graves of their fathers. They* '^hed no tears ; they utter no cry ; they heave no groans. There is something in their hearts which i)asses speech. There is something in their looks, not of vengeance or submission, but of hard necessity, which stifles both ; which chokes all utterance ; which has no ' aim or method. It is courage absorbed by despair. They linger but a moment. Their look is onward. G. Tliey have passed the fatal stream. It shall never be repassed by them, no — never. Yet there lies not between us and them nn impassable gulf. They know and feel that there is for them still one remove farther, not distant nor unseen. It i.s to tlic general burial-ground of their race. 7. Reason as we may, it is impossible not to read in such a fat;! much which we know not how to interpret ; much of provocation to cruel deeds and deep resentments ; much of apolofry for wrong and perfidy ; much of pity mingling with indignation ; much of doubt and misgiving as to the past ; much of painful recollections, much of dark forebodiugs. 1 86 THE FOURTH READER, 11. Indian Kames. 8IQ0URNRY. Mks. Lynu IT. Sioot'i!\KY is a popular American poetess. Slie haa written no poem of len^,'tl., but many of lu-r fugitive plecca evince n liffht and agroeal)lo poetic talent. 1. Ye say, thoy all have pass'd away, That noble race and brave, That their light canoes have vanish'd From off the crested wuve ; That 'mid the forests where they roam'd There rings no hunter's shout ; But their name is on your waters, You may not wash it out. 2. 'Tis whore Ontario's billow Like Ocean's surge is curl'd. Where stror:* Niagara's thunders wako The echv <>f the world ; Where red j^m ;;;r»uri bringeth Rich trihu*-s from the West, And Rappahttunock sweetly sleeps On green Virginia's breast. 8. Ye say, their cone-like cabins. That cluster'd o'er the vale. Have fled away like wither'd leaves Before the autumn gale ; But their memory liveth on your hills, Their baptism on your shore. Your everlasting rivers speak Their dialect of yore. 4. Old Massachusetts wears it Within hci lordly crown. And broad Ohio bears it. Amid her young renown ; m* BT. VINCENT, >EACON AMD MAETTflt. Connecticut ith wreathcrl it Where her (|iiiet foliage waves, And hold Kentucky hreathes it hoarse, Through all her ancient cavns. 5. "VVnohusctt hides its lingering voice W iUiin hiH rocky heart, And Alleghany graves its tone Throughout his lofty chart ; Monadn' ck on his forehead hoar Doth seal the sacred trust ; Your mountains build their monuments, Though ye destroy their dust. 12. St. V'N( t NT, Deacon a-^d Maetyb. MRS. ANNA JAMESON. Mrs. Jameson was born in Dublin, a, d. 1707. " Her father, Mr. Murpliy. nn jvrtist of merit, was pninter in onJinury to the PrincoBS Charlotte; unci from his convcrdution and cxumpio she derived her onthusiaHm for art and intimate acquaintance with its technicalitleH," Mrw, Jameson's numerous •works on art are the most attractive iti tlio Kn^fliwh language. Her splen- did scries (one of the latest etforts of her genius), " Sacred and Legendary Art," " Legends of tiic Monastic Orders," and '* Legends of the Mudonna," has established her reputation, both as un artist and an author^ beyond all competition in her own peculiar department. Mrs. Jameson is a Protest- ant, but her inspiration is of the loftiest and most Catholic. In her de- voted and lifo-long researches she has attained to the sublime heights w! ich the old masters trod, and there pays her gracefi' homage to the religion which was their inspiration. 1. This renowned saint and martyr of tVc early Christian Church has been most popular in Spain. iC scene of his his- tory, and in France, where he has been an object of particular veneration from t^e sixth century. It is generally allowed that the main circumstances of the history of Vincent, dea- con of Saragossa, of his sufferings for the cause of Christ, and his invincible courage, expressed by his name, rest on concurrent cestimony of the highest antiquity, which cannot be rejected. 2. He was born in Saragossa, in the kingdom of Aragon. Prndfintina. in hi? fiimons Wvmn. rnncratnlatfa this ritv nn A ^^. 1^ ^J^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 2.5 ■- !■■ IIIII22 U 12.0 1.8 1.25 1.4 III ''^ ^ 6" — ► % ^ / w 7 Photographic Sciences Corporation iV S V lO' \\ 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, M.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 ^9> V ^> >.- ^1 6^ '^^^^A.^^ %^ '%'■ PI? 88 Tiiio Fourth rkadek. ui ; I* I having produced more saints and martyrs than any other city in Spain. During the persecution under Diocletian, the cruel procciisul Dacian, infamous in the annals of Spanish martyr- dom, caused nil the Christians of Saragossa, men, women, and children, whom ho collected together by a promise of immunity, to be massacred. Among these were the virgin Eugraeia, and the eighteen Christian cavaliers who attended her to death. 3. At this time lived St. Vincent : he had been early in- structed in the Christian faith, and with all the ardor of youth devoted himself to the service of Christ. At the time of the persecution, being not more than twenty years of age, he was already a deacon. The dangers and the suflferings of the Christians only excited his charity and his zeal ; and after having encouraged and sustained many of his brethren in the torments inQicted upon them, he was himself called to receive the crown of martyrdom. 4. Being brought before the tribunal of Dacian, together with his bishop, Valerius, they were accused of being Chris- tians and contemners of the gods. Valerius, who was very old, and had an impediment in his speech, answered to the accusation in a voice so low that ho could scarcely be heard. On this, St. Vincent burst forth, with Christian fervor,— "How is this, my Father! canst thou not speak aloud, and defy this pagan dog? Speak, that all the world may hear; or suffer me, who am only thy servant, to speak in thv stead 1" ^ ^ 5. The bishop having given him leave to speak, St. Vincent stood forth, and proclaimed his faith aloud, defying the tor- tures with which they were threatened ; so that the Christians who were present were lifted up in heart and full of gratitude to God, and the wicked proconsul was in the same dee;roQ filled with indignation. He ordci^ed the old bishop to be banished from the city ; but Vincent, who had defied him, he reserved as an example to the rest, and was resolved to bend him to submission by the most terrible and ingenious tortures that cruelty could invent. 6. The young saint endnrcd tliem unfjinchin^-lr. When h's TIIK SliVKN PLKKPKUS OF KIM IKS US. 89 body was lacerated by iron forks, he only smiled on his tor- mentors : the pangs they inflicted were to him delights ; thorns were his roses ; the flames a refreshing bath ; death itself was but the entrance to life. 7. They laid him, torn, bleeding, and half consumed by fire, on the ground strewn with potsherds, and left him there ; but God sent down his angels to comfort him ; and when his guards looked into the dungeon, they beheld it filled with light and fragrance ; they heard the angels singing songs of triunipli, and the unconquerable martyr pouring forth his soul in hymns of thanksgiving. He even called to his jailers to enter and partake of the celestial delight and solace which had been vouchsafed to him; and they, being amazed, fell upon their knees and acknowledged the true God. 8. But Dacian, perfidious as he was cruel, began to con- sider what other means might remain to conquer his uncon- querable victim. Having tried tortures in vain, he determined to try seduction. He ordered a bed of down to be prepared, strewn with roses ; commanded the sufferer to be laid upon it, and allowed his friends and disciples to approach him. They, weeping, stanched his wounds, and dipped thei;* kerchiefs in his flowing blood, and kissed his hands and brow, and be- sought him to live. But the martyr, who had held out through such protracted torments, had no sooner been laid upon the bed, than his pure spirit, disdaining as it were these treacher- ous indulgences, fled to heaven : the angels received him on their wings, and he entered into bliss eternal and ineffable. k 13. The Seven SLEKrEES of Epiiesus. MRS. JAMESON. 1. During the persecution under the Emperor Decius, there lived in the city of Ephesus seven young men, who were Chris- tians : their names were Maximian, Malchus, Marcian, Diony- sius, John, Serapion, and Constantine ; and as they refused to offer sacrifice to the idols, they were accused before the tri- bunal. But they fled and escaped to Mount Ccolidn, where 90 TIIK FOUKIII HEADER. i'li m they hid themselves in a cave. Being discovered, the tyrant ordered that they should roll great stones to the mouth of the cavern, in order that they might die of hunger. They, em- bracing eacn other, fell asleep. 2. And it came to pass in the thirtieth year of the reign of the Emperor Theodosius, that there broke out that dangerous heresy which denied the resurrection of the dead. The pious emperor, being greatly aflBicted, retired to the interior of his palace, putting on sackcloth and covering his head with ashes: therefore, God took pity on him, and restored his faith by bringing back these just men to life— which came to pass in this manner : 3. A certain inhabitant of Ephesus, repairing to the top of Mount Ccelian to build a stable for his cattle, discovered the cavern ; and when the light penetrated therein, the sleepers awoke, believing that their slumbers had only lasted for a sin- gle night. They rose up, and Malchus, one of the number, was dispatched to the city to purchase food. He, advancing cautiously and fearfully, beheld to his astonishment the image of the cross surmounting the city gate. He went to another gate, and there he found another cross. He rubbed his eyes, believing himself still asleep, or in a dream ; and entering the city, he heard everywhere the name of Christ pronounced openly : and he was more and more confounded. 4. When he repaired to the baker's, he offered in payment an ancient coin of the time of the Emperor Decius, and they looked at him with astonishment, thinking that he had found a hidden treasure. And when they accused him, he knew not what to reply. Seeing his confusion, they bound him and dragged him through the streets with contumely; and he looked round, seeking some one whom he knew, but not a face in all the crowd was familiar to him. 5. Being brought before the bishop, the truth was disclosed, to the great amazement of all. The bishop, the governor, and the principal inhabitants of the city, followed him to the en- trance of the cavern, where the other six youths were found. Their faces had the freshness of roses, and the brightness of a holy light was around them. Theodosius himself bcino* in- r TIMES GO BY TURNS. 91 formed of this great wonder, hastened to the cavern ; and one of the sleepers said to him, " Believe us, O Emperor 1 for we have been raised before the Day of Judgment, in order that thou mightest trust in the Resurrection of the Dead I" And having said this, they bowed their heads and gave up their spirits to God. They had slept in their cavern for 196 years. 6. Gibbon, in quoting this tradition, observes that it may be traced to within half a century of the date of the miracle. About the end of the sixth century, it was translated from the Syriac into the Latin, and was spread over the whole of west- ern Christendom. Nor was it confined to the Christian world. Mahomet has introduced it, as a divine revelation, into the Koran. It has penetrated into Abyssinia. It has been found in Scandinavia ; — in fact, in the remotest regions of the Old World this singular tradition, in one form or another, appears to have been known and accepted. 1. The Seven Sleepers of Ephesus, extended in their cave side by side, occur perpetually in the miniatures, ancient sculp- ture, and stained glass of the thirteenth and fourteenth cen- turies. Thus they are icpresented in the frieze of the chapel of Edward the Confessor, at Westminster. In general, the name of each is written overhead. 14:.— Times go by Tukns. SOTITHWBLL. Robert Southwell was boriij a. d. 1560, and underwent his martyrdom, A. D. 1595. Of all the hundred and twenty-eij?ht Catholic priests put to death in Elizabeth's reign, not one was more worthy of pious commemora- tion. Descended from an ancient family in Norfolk, he was educated on the Continent, and became a Jesuit at Kome. "While on the English mis- sion, lie resided chiefly at the house of Anne, countess of Arundel, who died in the Tower of Loudon, He was thrown into prison in 1592, where he remained three years, during which time he was put on the rack ten several times. Nothing could be proved against him, except what he con- fessed:— that he was a Catholic priest, and prepared to die for his faitli. Such was the condition of the dungeon in which Southwell suffered his long captivity, that his own father petitioned that he might be released from it, although but to d.,;. On the 21st of February, 1595, he was hung, drawn, and quartered at Tyburn, being subjected, during a prolonged death, to those horrible tortures commonly undergone by the martyrs of that reign, tortures to which he replied only by repeatedly making the 92 TUK FOUIiTII ItKADKR. Bign of the cross. Besiaea Ms poems, which possess a. solid cnerpy of dic- tion us well H3 a noble apiritiial elevation, Southwell left behind liini two works in prose, which abound in beauty and pathos, Mary Magdalene't If unerall'eara, and t\iQ Triumphs over Death. > ^ y 1. The lopped tree in time may grow again, Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorriest wight may find release of pain, The driest soil suck in some moistening shower: Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. 2. The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow; She draws her favors to the lowest ebb; Her tides have equal times to come and go; Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web: No joy so great but runneth to an end. No hap so hard but may in fine amend. 3. Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring; Not endless night, yet not eternal day; The saddest birds a season find to sing; The roughest storm a calm may soon allay. Thus, with succeeding turns God tempereth all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. 4. A chance may win that by mischance was lost; That net that holds no great takes little fish; In some things all, in all things none are cross'd; Few all they need, but none have all they wish. IJnmingled joys here to no man befall; Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all. 15. Catholic Missions in the Korthwest. EXTUACIS rBOK BANCROFT'S HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES. George Bancroft has written the only work that deserves the title of History of the United States. F.-otn a Catholic point of view some obieo- tions can be made to the lirst volumes, hut on the whole it is a noblo monument ot the genius cf the author and the genius of his countrv —Dr Jirawnsorj; J' • Bancroft was born at Worcester, Massachusetts, October 3, ISOO. erpv of d le- nd him two Magdalene' $ 3r; nse. Jb: !T. ;he title of 'trie ohjec- is a noble itry.— Z>r. 30. CATHOLIC iHSSIOMS IN THE NORTHWEST. 93 1. Religious zeal not less than commercial ambition had influenced France to recover Canada; and Champlain, its governor, whose imperishable name will rival with posterity the fame of Smith and Hudson, ever disinterested and com- passionate, full of honor and probity, of ardent devotion and burning zeal, esteemed " the salvation of a soul worth more than the conquest of an empire." 2. Thus it was neither commercial enterprise nor royal am- bition which carried the power of France into the heart of our Continent ; the motive was religion. Religious enthusiasm founded Montreal, made a conquest of the wilderness of the upper lakes, and explored the Mississippi. The Roman (Catholic) Church created for Canada its altars, its hospitals, and its seminaries. . . . The first permanent efforts of French enterprise in colonizing America preceded any permanent English settlement on the Potomac. 3. Years before the pilgrims landed in Cape Cod, the Roman (Catholic) Church had been planted, by missionaries from France, in the eastern moiety of Mame ; and Le Cu.*^ \n unambitious Franciscan, had penetrated the land of the Mo- hawks, had passed to the north of the hunting-grounds of the Wyandots, and, bound by his vows to the life of a beggar, had, on foot, or paddling a bark canoe, gone onward, and still on- ward, taking alms of the savages, till he reached the rivers of Lake Huron. 4. While Quebec contained scarcely fifty inhabitants, priests of the Franciscan Order — Le Caron, Fiel, Lagard — had labored for years as missionaries in Upper Canada, or made their way to the neutral Huron tribe that dwelt on the waters of the Niagara. 6. To confirm the missions, the first measure was the estab- lishment of a college in New France, and the parents of the Marquis de Gamache, pleased with his pious importunity, assented to his entering the Order of the Jesuits, and added from their ample fortunes the means of endowing a Seminary for education at Quebec. Its foundation was laid, under happy auspices, in 1635, just before Champlain passed from among the livin"" and two rears before the emijyration of John Har- C3 7 94 THE FOCJnn READKR. vard, and one year before the General Court of Massachusetts had made provisions for a College, 6. The fires of charity were at the same time enkindled The Duchess D'AguUlon, aided by her uncle, the Cardinal Richeheu, endowed a public hospital dedicated to the Son of God, whose blood was shed in mercy for all mankind. Its doors were opened, not only to the sufferers among the emi- grants, but to the maimed, the sick, and the bUnd, of any of the numerous tribes between the Kennebec and Lako Superior- it reheyed misfortune without asking its lineage. From the hospital nuns of Dieppe, three were sdected, the youngest but twenty-two, to brave the famine and rigors of Canada in their patient mission of benevolence. T. The same religious enthusiasm, inspiring Madame de la Peltier, a young and opulent widow of Alencjon, with the aid of a nun of Dieppe and two others from Tours, established the Frsulme Consent for girls Is it wonderful that the natives were touched by a benevolence which their poverty and squalid misery could not appall? Their education was at- tempted ; and the venerable ash-ti^ee still lives beneath which Mary of the Incarnation, so famed for chastened piety, genius and good judgment, toiled, though in vain, for the education of the Huron children. 8. The life of the missionary on Lake Huron was simple and uniform. The earliest hours, from four to eight were ab- sorbed in private prayer. The day was given to schools, visits, instructions in the catechism, and a service for proselytes Somethnes, after the manner of St. Francis Xavier, Brebeuf would walk through the village and its environs ringing a little bell, and inviting the Huron braves and counsellors to a con- ference. There, under the shady forest, the most solemn mysteries of the Catholic faith were subject to discussion. 9. Yet the efforts of the Jesuits were not limited to the Huron race. Within thh-teen years, the remote wilderness was visited by forty-two missionaries, members of the Society of Jesus, besides eighteen others, who, if not initiated, were yet chosen men, ready to shed their blood for their faith Twice or thrice a year they all assembled at St. Mary's; dnrin 1 1 % ■c i' 1. In the foreground of American history there stand these three figures — a lady, a sailor, and a monk. Might they not be thought to typify Faith, Hope, and Charity? The lady is especially deserving of honor. Years after his first success, the Admiral (Columbus) wrote : "In the midst of general incredulity, the Almighty infused into the Queen, my lady, the spirit of intelligence and energy. While every one else, in his ignorance, was expatiating on the cost and inconvenience, her Highness approved of it on the contrary, and gave it all the support in her power." 2. And what were the distinguishing qualities of this foster- mother of American discovery ? Fervent piety, unfeigned hu- mility, profound reverence for the Holy See, a spotless life as a daughter, mother, wife, and queen. " She is," says a Protestant author, "one of the purest and most beautiful char- acters in the pages of history." Her holy life had won for her the title of "the Catholic." Other queens have been celebrated for beauty, for magnificence, for learning, or for good fortune ; but the foster-mother of America alone, of all the women of history, '.s called " the Catholic." 3. As to the conduct of the undertaking, we have first to remark, that on the port of Palos the original outfit depended, and Palos itself depended on the neighboring convent. In the refectory of La Rabida the agreement was made between Co- lumbus and the Pinzons. From the porch of the Church of St George, the royal orders were read to the astonished townsfolk. 4. The aids and assurances of religion were brought into requisition to encourage sailors, always a superstitious gener- ation, to embark on this mysterious voyage. On the morning of their departure, a temporary chapel was erected with spars and sails on the strand ; apd there, in sight of their vessels riding at shortened anchors, the three crews, numbering in all one hundred and twenty souls, received the blessed sacra- ment. Rismg from their knees, they departed with the benedic- tion of the Church, like the breath of heaven, filling their sails THE DI8C0VKKY OF AMKRICA. 101 19. The DrscovEEY of AmLJuicj^— continued. 1. On the night before the diHCOvery of the first land, after the Salve Regina had been chanted, according to his biog- raphers, the Admiral made an impressive address to his crew. His speech must have been one of the most Catholic orations ever delivered in the New World. It has not been recorded ; it can never be invented. We can, indeed, conceive what a lofty homily on confidence in God and His ever Blessed Mother such a man so situated would be able to deliver. 2. We can imagine we see him as he stands on the darkened deck of the Santa Maria, b .bin locks lifted by the breek:e already odorous of land, and his right hand pointing onward to the west. We almost hear him exclaim, " Yonder lies the land I Where you can see only night and vacancy, I behold India and Cathay ! The darkness of the hour will pass away, and with it the night of nations. Cities more beautiful than Seville, countries more fertile than Andalusia, are off yonder. 3. "There lies the terrestial paradise, watered with its four rivers of life : there lies the golden Ophir, from which Solo- mon, the son of David, drew the ore that adorned the temple of. the living God ; there we shall find whole nations unknown to Christ, to whom you, ye favored companions of my voyage, shall be the first to bring the glad tidings of great joy pro- claimed 'of old by angels' lips to the shepherds of Chaldea.'" But, alas 1 who shall attempt to supply the words spoken by such a man at such a moment, on that last night of expec- tation and uncertainty— the eve of the birthday of a new world ? 4. Columbus and his companions landed on the morning of the 12th of October, 1492, on the little island which they called San Salvador. Three boats conveyed them to the shore ; over each boat floated a broad banner, blazoned with *'a gieen cross." On reaching the land the Admiral threw him- self on his knees, kissed the earth, and shed tears of joy. Then, raising his voice, he uttered aloud that short but fervent prayer, which, after him, all Catholic discoverers were wont to repeat. 102 TIIK KOUltTII RKADKK. 5. It is in these words : •' O Lord God, Eternal and Omnip otont, who by thy Divine Word hast created the heavens, the earth, and the sea, blessed and glorified bo thy name, and praised thy majesty, who hast deigned, by me, thy humble servant, to have that sacred name made known and preached in this other part of the world !" 6. The nomenclature used by the great discoverer, like all his acts, is essentially Catholic. Neither his own nor his patron's name is precipitated on cape, river, or island. San Salvador, Santa Trinidada, San Domingo, San Nicolas, San Jago, Santa Maria, Santa Marta — these are the mementoes of his first success. All egotism, all selfish policy, was utterly lost in the overpowering sense of being but an instrument in the hands of Providence. 1. After cruising a couple of months among the Bahamas, and discovering many new islands, he returns to Spain. In this homeward voyage two tempests threaten to ingulf his solitary ship. In the darkest hour he supplicates our Blessed Lady, his dear patroness. He vows a pilgrimage barefoot to her nearest shrine, whatever land he makes ; a vow punctually fulfilled. Safely he reaches the Azores, the Tagus, and the port of Palos. Ilis first act is a solemn procession to the church of St. George, from which the royal orders had been first made known. 8. He next writes la this strain to the Treasurer Sanchez : ■" Let processions bo made, let festivities be held, let churches be filled with branches and flowers, for Christ rejoices on earth as in heaven, seeing the future redemption of souls." The court was, at the time, at Barcelona, and thither he repaired with th;; living evidences of his success. Seated on the royal dais, with the aborigines, the fruits, flowers, birds, and met- als spread out before them, he told to princes his wondrous tale. 9. As soon as he had ended, " the King and Queen, with all present, prostrated themselves on their knees in grateful thanksgiving, while the solemn strains of the Te Dciim were poured forth by the choir of the royal chapel as in commemo- ration of some £rrr-?<^ viofnrv !" r'ictory ^y- any sup- I, ■ ' '*wK VIUaiN MAItY 8 KNIGHT. 103 dOmnip ivcns, tho imo, and y liumblo preached ', like all nor hiH Qd. San olas, San emeutoes IS utterly ument in Bahamas, )ain. In igulf his r Blessed refoot to mctually and the n to the bad been Sanchez : churches on earth 3." The repaired the royal iind met- vondrous een, with grateful Mm were )mmemo- any sup- position of doubt tho Catholicity of this extraordinary event, one evidence is still wanting — the official participation of the sovereign Pontiff. That it had from the outset. 20. The Virgin Mary's Knight. ▲ BALLAD or THE 0BD8AOM. Tlioe. d'aUOY McGEB. [In "the tnidh" Or dost thon mourn, like other freres, tliy ladj'-lovc afar, Whose image shincth nightly through yon European star ?" 3. Then answer'd courteous Constantiae — " Good sir, in sim- ple truth, I chose a gracious lady in the hey-day of my youth ; I wear her image on my heart, and Avhen that heart is cold, The secret may be rifled thence, but never must be told. For her I love and worship well by light of morn or even, I ne'er shall see my mistress dear, until we meet in heaven ; But this believe, brave cavaliers, there never was but one Such lady as my Holy Love, beneath the blessed sun." 4. He ceased, and pass'd with solemn step on to an olive grove, And, kneeling there, he pray'd a prayer to the lady of his love. And many a cavalier whose lance had still maintained bis own Beloved to reign without a peer, all earth's unequalled one, Look'd tenderly on Constantine in camp and in the fight ; With wonder and with generous pride they mark'd the lightning light Of his fearless sword careering through the unbelievers' ranks. As angry Rhone sweeps off the vines that thicken on his banks. 6. " He fears not death, come when it will ; he longeth for his love. And fain would find some sudden path to where she dwells above. How should he fear for dying, when his mistress dear is dead?" Thus often of Sir Constantino his watchful comrades said ; Until it chanced from Zion wall the fatal arrow flew, That pierced the outworn aTinor of his faithful bosom through ; And never was such mourning made for knight in Palestine, As thy loyal comrades made for thee, beloved Constantine. ; THE YOUNG CATHOLIC. 106 6. Beneath the royal tent the bier was guarded night and day, Where with a halo round his head the Christian champion Tliat talisman upon his breast — what may that marvel be Which kept his ardent soul through life from every error free? Approach I behold ! nay, worship there the image of his love, The heavenly Queen who reigneth all the sacred hosts above, Nor wonder that around his bier there linger? such a light. For the spotless one that sleepeth was the Blessed Virginia Knight ! 21. The Young Catholic. ABBE MARTINEZ. ABui Martinez— a native of France. His writings bear the stamp of the French national genius. His works are worthy of being ranked next to those of Moehler and Balmez, His " lieiigion in Society," ns a popular manual against the discordant but numerous errors of the day, is unrivalled. 1. What commands his attention most in the temple, is the mysterious person of the priest, .the spiritual father of the whole parish, and with whom he is about to form the most intimate relations, — at catechism, where, during many years, he is to receive, with children of his own age, the milk of the divine word ; or in the confessional, where he will reveal the most secret movements of his heart. 2. It is to the priest he is indebted—and he is reminded of it by the sight of the sacred font— for the sublime title of the child of God and of the Church ; it is from his sacred hand that he awaits the mysterious sacrament which is to unite him intimately to his Creator. Great is the influence of his pastor over his spbitual children. Napoleon, on his death-bed, con- fessed to his companions in exile, that the presence of the priest had always spoken to his heart. Here let every one recall the impression of his early days. 3. But to the eye of the young Catholic, the religious hori- zon extends, and gradually reveals itself with age. Around his parish other parishes are gathered. The common father pri j)eoplc — the priest emphatically 106 TIIK KOUHTII UKADKK. — the bishop, nppcai'R in tho midst of joyful chants. His sacred hand touches tho young brow, and tiio tuiion, before so close, of our youth with tiic mystical body of tho Church be- comes still Closer. 4. Beyond and above bishops, nniversal veneration points out to him the Itishop of bishops, tho universal pontiff, seated upon the immovable chair of St. Peter, and forming of tho one hundred and sixty millions of Catholics, scattered through- out the world, one only body, animated with tho same spirit, nourished with the same doctrine, moving towards the same end. 6. lie sees in the clear light of history this vast society, which no visible hand has formed or supports ; and for tho destruction of which, all tho known forces of the physical and moral world have conspired, — surviving all human societies, resisting tho most frightful tempests, and constantly bringing the inmienso majority of Christians into subjection to its laws so unyielding to the passions of men. 6. Who are the enemies, in every age, rising up against tho H 'se of (he living Ood ? Ho sees odious tyrants, the ene- mies of all restraint ; proud dreamers, who pretend to substi- tute their thought of a day for universal faith ; sectarians without a past, without a future, with no tie to bind them to each other but their common hatred to Catholic society ; — and all confessing, by the name they bear, their descent from one man, and their religious illegitimacy. t. What a powerfid guarantee against the assaults of doubt is presented to the young Catholic by this fact, which is as clear as the sun, and the evidence of which is more convincing every step we advance in tho knowledge of the present and the past. He cannot refuse to believe in the Church, without saying : " In matters of religion I see more plainly, I alone, than a hundred and sixty millions of my cotemporaries and the eight or ten thousand millions of Catholics who preceded me, all as interested as I am in knowing the truth, and most of them with better advantages of becoming acquainted with it." THE CIIII.DUI.N OF TUK I'OOIC. 107 22. TlIK ClIILDllKN OF TIIK PoOR. I, A M It. CiiAni,r.B LAun, a mitivo of KiiKlarul, 9, lie wnn both ft proMo mid poitical \vrilj()(.'t ill th<' pniHoiit iii«taii<;o huiiig, " 1 Ionic i« liome, l)0 it ever no lionicly." 1. TiiK iiiiioceiit prattle of IiIh children takes out the Hting of a man's poverty. IJut tlie cliildren of the very poor do not prattle. It is none of the least frif^htful features in that con- dition, that there is no childishness in its dwellings. " Poor people," said a sensible old nurse to us once, " do not bring up their children; they drag them up." The little careless darling cf the wealthier nursery, in their hovel, is transfomcd Victimes into a premature, relleeting person. No one has time to dandle it, no one thinks it worth while to coax it, to soothe it, to toss it u]) and down, to humor it. There is none to kiss away its tears. If it cri(!S, it can only be beaten. 2. It has been prettily said that "a babe is fed with milk and [)raise." But the aliment of this poor babe was thin, un- nourishing; the return to its little baby tricks, and efforts to engage attention, bitter, ceaseless objurgation. It never hfid a toy, or knew what a coral meant. It grew up without the lullaby of nurses; it was a stranger to the patient fondle, the hushing caress, the attracting novelty, the costlier plaything or the cheaper off-hand contrivance to divert the child, the prat- tled nonsense (best sense to it), the wise impertinences, the wholesome fictions, the apt story interposed, that puts a stop to present sufferings, and awakens the passions of young wonder. 3. It was never sung to; no one ever told it a tale of the nursery. It was dragged up, to live or to die as it happened. It had no young dreams. It broke at once into the iron realities of life. A child exists not for the very poor as an object of dalliance; it is only another mouth to be fed, a pair of little hands to be betimes inured to labor. It is the rival, till it can be the co-open sequer.tl.v removed to GeoiVia ; and, altlion.ii:li cnijaured in law and {mliticnl lite, dovotod a sntfleient portion of his time to iiterutnre to mnlca I evident that ho had the talents to assume a proud pDsition in its ranku. Bo died, in l!j47, a most edifying deatii, in the bosom of tiio Catiiolic Churcli, 1. My life is like the Summer rose, That opens to the morning sky, But ere the shades of evening close. Is scattered on the ground to die! Yet on the humble rose's bed, The sweetest dews of night are shed ; As if she wept the waste to see; — But none shall weep a tear for mel 2. My life is like the Autumn leaf That trembles In the moon's pale ray; TIIK BLK8SED SACKAMENT. Its hold is frail, its date is brief, Restless, and soon to pass away 1 Yet ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree, — But none shall breathe a sigh for mel 3. My life is like the prints, which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand, Soon as the rising tide shall beat, All trace will vanish from the sand ! Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea,- But none, alas, shall mourn for mel 109 24. The Blessed Saceament. • FABER. Fbkdbrick William Faber, one of tlie Oxford divines, is a man of ^reat literary uttuinments. His works, " Growth in Holiness," " Blessed Sacra- ment,'* " Mnr^ at the Foot of the Cross," and the " Conferences," show that he is eminently an ascetic writer. He is also a poet of hifjh order: — "The Cheswell \Vater-Lily," "Sir Luvuioelot," ''Kosary," "Styrian Lake," and many other poems, rank nmonp the noblest and purest of the Enjjlish bards; ho awakens anew the lyre of the martyr Southwell and the pious Canon Crashuw. — Metropolitan. 1. Let us suppose it to be the Feast of Corpus €hristi. We have risen with one glad thought uppermost in our minds. It gives a color to every thing around about us. It is health to us even if we are not well, and sunshine though the skies be dull. At first there is something of disappointment to us, when we see our dear country wearing the same toilsome look of commonplace labor and of ordinary traffic. We feel there is something wrong, something out of harmony in this. 2. Poor London! if it knew God, and could keep holydays for God, how it might rejoice on such a day, letting the chains of work fall from off its countless slaves of Mammon, and giving 0Q6 whole sun to the deet) childlike i<>v in a mvsterv which !s -V7 J' J 110 / TIIK rOURTII READKK. the triumph of fuith over sight, of spirit over matter, of grace over nature, and of the Church over the world. But somehow our very disappointment causes us to feel more touchingly the gift of faith, and the sense of our own unworthiness, which makes it such a wonder that God should have elected us to so great a gift. 3. Oh, sweet Sacrament of Lovel we belong to thee, for thou art our Living Love himself. Thou art our well of life, for in thee is the Divine Life himself — immeasurable, compas- sionate, eternal. To-day is thy day, and on it there shall not be a single thought, a single hope, a single wish, which shall not be all for thee! 4. Now the first thing we have to do is to get the spirit of the Feast into us. When this is once accomplished, we shall be better able to sound some of the depths of this salutary mystery. Nay, the whole theology of the grand dogma of the Eucharist is nothing less than angelic music made audible to mortal ears; and when our souls are attuned to it we shall the better under- stand the sweet secrets which it reveals to our delighted minds. 6. But we must go far away in order to catch the spirit of the Feast. We must put before ourselves, as on a map, the aspect which the whole Church is presenting to the eye of God to-day. Our great city is deafened with her own noise; she cannot hear. She is blinded with her own dazzle; she cannot see. We must not mind her; we must put the thoughts of her away, with sadness if it were any other day than this, but to-day, because it is to-day, with complete indiflFerence. 6. Oh, the joy of the immense glory the Church is sending up to God this hour, verily, as if the world was all unfallen still 1 We think, and as we think, the thoughts are like so many successive tide-waves, filling our whole souls with the fulness of delight, of all the thousands of masses which are being said or sung the whole world over, and all rising with one note of blissful acclamation from grateful creatures to the Majesty of our merciful Creator. 7. How many glorious processions, with the sun npon their banners, are now winding their way round the squares of mighty cities, tarough the flower-strewn streetg of Christian TIIK BLKSdKD SACKAMENT. Ill rlllagefl, through the antique cloisters of the glorious cathe- dral, or through the grounds of the devout seminary, where the various colors of the faces, and the different languages of the people, arc only so many fresh tokens of the unity of that faith which they are all exultingly professing in the single voice of the magnificent ritual of Home I 8. Upon how many altars of various architecture, amid Mweet flowers and starry lights, amid clouds of humble incense, and the tumult of thrilling song, before thousands of prostrate worshipiKTs, is the blessed sacrament raised for exposition, or taken down for benediction 1 And how many blessed acts of faith and love, of triumph and of reparation, do- not each of these things surely represent I 9. The world over, the summer air is filled with tha voice of song. The gardens are shorn of their fairest blossoms, to be flung beneath the feet of the Sacramental God. The steeples are reeling with the clang of bells ; the cannon are booming in the gorges of the Andes and the Apennines ; the ships of the harbors are painting the bays of the sea with their show of gaudy flags ; the pomp of royal or republican armies salutes the King of kings. 10. The Pope on his throne, and the school-girl in her vil- lage, cloistered nuns and sequestered hermits, bishops and dignitaries and preachers, emperors and kings and princes, are all engrossed to-day with the Blessed Sacrament. Cities are illuminated ; the dwellings of men are alive with exultation. 11. Joy so abounds, that men rejoice they know not why ; and their joy overflows on sad hearts, and on the poor and the imprisoned and the wandering and the orphaned and the homesick exiles. All the millions of souls that belong to the royal family and spiritual lineage of St. Peter, are to-day en- gaged, more or less, with the Blessed Sacrament, so that the whole Church militant is thrilling with glad emotion, like the tremulous rocking of the mighty sea. Sin seems forgotten ; tears even are of rapture rather than of penance. It is like the soul's first day in heaven, or as if earth itself were passing into heaven, as it well might do, for sheer joy of the Blessed Sacrament. IKy" 112 'JlUc foimm RKAOICR. 2j. TriE "nr.ixn l\rAnTYii. A It U I N A 11 W I H K M A N . UU fmiiiom'('r*iii,ixAi. WiiKMAN, ii.a IliHt Arolth'iHliop of WoMmiimtor wnj* l)..iKi lit Si-villc, ill Spain, ot' Irir-li |mrciils, Aii>1- Icpi III ICiiiiic, llo wuH fU'VHti'ii to Iho f|.iMo..i>iilii in Imid, i„.ii,if ,„a,i„ c,,. niijiitdi- I.) Dr. WiiIhI), Vi.iir AiMiMtolio nf llic Midlmi.t District. In 1s.|h Im wiiM nimlii I'n.-Vioar Ap.mtollo „r llio London DiMtrict, on tlio .Icurli ni' l)r, l.nlUt is; anil Hiil».Mo.|iirntl.v, Viciir Apohlolii-. On llio iiUlJi (.rSi-ptiin- Jicr. ls;>o, iiiH IlolinoMR I'oju. I'iii.s IX. n« (•(sfahlisliod tin ("utii. lie Micrnrohv 111 hiiKliiiul, wlioii Dr. Wim-inmi wan niiulo Aroliliinliop of ilio now S.iu .'.f \\ I'Nlniiimti'r; aiiil on tiio loliowiiiK diiy lio was nuMcil to tho dignity of u ('iirdinal IVicut of tlio Holy Koinan (;iiiircli. " I'Vw of the jfrcut. niuiiof our day will, in llio ]>n>?o« of Clmroli irmtory, oonipy a iiioro c-oimpioiioim placo tlmii Cardinal Wi^onian, ax a learned mid III II laiit^eoiitrovrrNialii^l, or as a writer nluMuitlinff in cni(liti<.n, a kn()wl(>di?o ol Ihu Oriontal laiiu-iiagoM, inannorH, and oiisloinrt, tlu- lifo of tlii) priiuitivo ClirLstmns, and all tlieir reiiiuins, mh well as in a tlioroiijrii knowle'lir,, aliko ot tliw.lo^y, and of tlio tiiiiOM in wliich ho lived. HIh L.-eHiros on Uevealed Kelijrion iiru aekiiowledufi il to l.u tlio l.e.si and inoHt eoniplelo uimwor in tho iaiiiiiin^re to tlie intldel doetrineM of the i\nv."—Afffro/i»/if,ni. lliono lorni l>iit a hiiiall |>orti(.nof his learned labors. Wo trivo below an cxtriu't Iroiii Ins luuMiiialied lalo of " Fal.ioiu," Mio wceno of which is laid in Jionio dtiruiff tho reign ol tho tyrant Dioelolian. rJ.ClT.'''.''*'»" l""T- ''""'I yVl'"R Pl''- ''^■'•'•"•' "'«' ChrlstinnN w'm hnd nMoml.lwl In tha I?lr« lV|-«"t^f llon^^ ^^^' *"'""" '"' "'" *•**'• ^'"" "'">' *'"^'« '"'"" '"•'"y^'J 1. Cecelia, already forewarned, had approached the ceme- tery by a different but neighboring entrance. No sooner had she descended than she snulVed tho strong odor of the torches. "This is none of our incense, I know," she said to herself; " the enemy is already within," She hastened, therefore, to t'le place of assembly, and delivered Sebastian's note ; adding also what she had observed. It warned them to disperse, and seek the shelter of the inner and lower galleries ; aiul l^'g^rod of the Pontiff not to leave till he should send fo- hio., aAis person was particularly sought for. 2. Pancratius urged the blind messenger to save herself too. " No," she replied, " my office is to watch the door, and guiC die faithfid safe." "^ii b . onumv may seize you." ".Tu' ^ti!", ■ she answered, laughing; "my being taken may fstvc m n worth' r lives. Give me a lamp, Pancra- tius.'- TIIK BI.IM» MAIiTVIl. 113 8. " Why, yoti cannot Hr-c liy it," olinorved ho, smiling. "Trui ; l»ut others cun." " They may ho your ciioinios." " Even Ro," shi! answered ; " I do not wish to bo taken in tho dark. If my Hridt-f^room oomo to mc in tlu; nij^ht of this cemetery, must ho not find mo with my lump tri.nmed ?" Off KJio Hturted, renched lier post, nnd houring no nolso ex- eept 1.1 lilt of quiet footsteps, she thouj^ht they wore thoso of friends, and held up her lamp to guide them. 4. When the party came forth, with their only eaptive, Ful- vlus was perfectly furious. It was more than a total failure — it was ridieidouR — a poor mouse eome out of the bowels of the earth. He rullicd Corvinus till the wretch winced and foamed ; then suifdonly ho asked, " And where is '"or- quatus ?" He heard the account of his sudden disapi)euntnce, told in as many ways as the Dacian guards' adventures ; nut it annoyed him greatly. Jle had no doubt, whatever, in ^Ji8 own mind, that he had been dujjod by his supposed victim, who had escaped into the unsearchable mazes of the cemetery. If so, this captive would know, and he determined to questioi her. IIo stood before her, therefore, put on his most search- ing and awful look, and said to her, sternly, " Look at me, woman, and tell me the truth." 5. " I must tell you the truth without looking at you, sir," answered the poor girl, with her cheorfulcst smile, and softest voice ; " do you not see that I am blind ?" " Blind !" all exclaimed at once, as they crowded to look at her. But over the features of Fulvius there passed tho slightest possible emotion, just as much as the wave that runs, pursued by a playful breeze, over the ripe meadow. A knowledge had flashed into his mind, a clue had fallen into his hands. / 6. " It will be ridiculous," he said, "for twenty soldiers to march through t'lo city, guarding a blind girl. Return to your quarters, and I will see you are well rewarded. You, Corvinus, take my horse, and go before to your father, and tell him all. J will follow in a carriage with the captive." "No treachcrv, Fulvius " he said, vexed and mortified. 114 THE FOUUTH UKADER. ■ t II sv If 1 ■ 1. " Mind you bring her. The day must not pass without a sacrifice." " Do not fear," was the reply. Fulvius, indeed, was pondering whether, having lost one spy, he should not try to make another. But the calm gentle- ness of the poor beggar perplexed him more than the boister- ous zeal of the gamester, and her sightless orbs defied him more than the restless roll of the toper's ; still, the first thought that had struck him he could still pursue. When alone in a carriage with her, he assumed a soothing tone, and addressed her. lie knew she had not overheard the last dialogue. "My poor girl," he said, "how long have you been bhnd?" 8. "All my life," she replied. " What is your history ? Whence do fou come ?" " I have no history. My parents were poor, and brought me to Rome, when I was four years old, as they came to pray, in discharge of a vow made for my life in early sickness, to the blessed martyrs Chrysanthus and Daria. They left me in charge of a pious lame woman, at the door of the title of Fas- ciola, while they went to their devotions. It was on that memorable day when many Christians were buried at the tomb, by earth and stones cast down on them. My parents had the happiness to be among them." 9. "And how have you lived since ?" "God became my only Father then, and his Catholic Church my Mother. The one feeds the birds of the air, the other nurses the weaklings of the flock. I have never wanted for any thing since." " But you can walk about the streets freely and without fear, as well as if you saw." " How do you know that ?" 10. "I have seen you. Do yoi^remember very early one morning in the autumn, leading a poor lame man alono- the Vieus Patrieus ?" ° She blushed and remained silent. Could he have seen her put into the poor old man's purse her own share of the alms ? "You have owned yourself a Christian?" he asked, negli- gently. without a ? lost one ilm gentle- lie boister- lefied bim st thought alone in a addressed gue. !n blind?" i brought B to pray, )ss, to the ;ft me in le of Fas- I on that d at the y parents Catholic 5 air, the T wanted I without early one -long the seen her he alms ? id, negli- THB BLIND MARTYR. 115 11. " Oh, yes ; how could I deny it ?" " Then that meeting was a Christian meeting ?" " Certainly ; what else could it be ?" He wanted no more ; his suspicions were verified, Agnes, about whom Torquatus had been able or willing to tell him nothing, was certainly a Christian. Ills game was made. She must yield, or he would be uvcuged. 12. After a pause, looking at her steadfastly, he said, " Do you know whither you are going ?" " Before the judge of earth, I suppose, who will send me to my Spouse in heaven." " And so calmly ?" he asked, in surprise ; for he could see no token from the soul to the countenance but a smile. " So joyfully, rather," was her brief reply. 13. Havmg got all that he desired, he consigned his prisoner to Corvinus at the gates of the Jilmilian basilica, and left her to her fate. It had been a cold and drizzling day, like the pre- ceding evening. The weather, and the incidents of the night, had kept down all enthusiasm ; and while the prefect had been compelled to sit in-doors, where no ,^reat crowd could collect, as hours had passed away without any arrest, trial, or tidings, most of the curious had left, and only a few more persevering remained past the hour of afternoon recreation in the public gardens. But just before the captive arrived a fresh knot of spectators came in, and stood near one of the side-doors, from which they could see all. 26. The Blind Martyr — continued. 1. As Corvinus had prepared his father for what he was to expect, TertuUus, moved with some compassion, and imagining there could be little difficulty in overcoming the obstinacy of a poor, ignorant, blind beggar, requested the spectators to re- main perfectly still, that he might try his persuasion on her, alone, as she would imagine, with him ; and he threatened heavy penalties on any one who should presume to break the silence. 116 THE FOURTH RHADKR. 2. " What is thy name, child ?" " Ceecelia." " Tt is a noble name ; hast thou it from thy family?" " No ; I am not noble ; except because my parents, though poor, died for Christ. As I am blind, those who took care of me called me Cseca* and then, out of kindness, softened it into CiBcelia." 3. " But, now, give up all this folly of the Christians, who have kept thee only poor and blind. Honor the decrees of the divine emperors, and offer sacrifice to the gods ; and thou Shalt have riches, and fine clothes, and good fare ; and the best physicians shall try to restore thee thy sight." " You must have better motives to propose to me than these ; for the very things for which I most thank God and his Divine Son, are those which you would have me put away." 4. " How dost thou mean ?" " I thank God that I am poor and meanly clad, and fare not daintily ; because by all these things I am the more hke Jesus Christ, my only Spouse." " Foolish girl 1" interrupted the judge, losing patience a little ; "hast thou learnt all these silly delusions already ? At least thou canst not thank thy God that he has made thee sightless ?" " For that, more than all the rest, I thank him daily and hourly with all my heart." "How so? dost thou think it a blessing never to have seen the face of a human being, or the sun, or the earth ? What strange fancies are these ?" 5. " They are not so, most noble sir. For in the midst of what you call darkness, I see a spot of what I must call light, it contrasts so strongly with all around. It is to me what the sun is to you, which I know to be local from the varying direction of its rays. And this object looks upon me as with a countenance of iutensest beauty, and smiles upon me as ever. And I know it to be that of Hin, whom I love with undivided * Blind. lily?" mts, though ;ook care of softened it Istians, who I decrees of ; and thou e ; and the t me than ik God and ve me put 3, and fare more like patience a •eady? At made thee I daily and have seen 1? What e midst of call light, 3 what the le varying tie as with le as ever, undivided THE BLIND MARTYR. 117 affection. I would not for the world have its splendor dimmed by a brighter sun, nor its wondrous loveliness confounded with the diversities of other features, nor my gaze on it drawn aside by earthly visions. I love him too much, not to wish to see him always alone." 6. " Come, come ; let me hear no more of this silly prattle. Obey the emperor at once, or I must try what a little pain will dp. That will soon tame thee." " Pain I" she echoed, innocently. "Yes, pain. Hast thou never felt it? hast thou never been hurt by any one in thy life ?" " Oh, no ; Christians never hurt one another." t. The rack was standing, as usual, before him ; and he made a sign to Catulus to place her upon it. The executioner pushed her back on it by her arms ; and as she made no re- sistance, she was easily laid extended on its wooden couch. The loops of the ever-ready ropes were in a moment passed round her ancles, and her arras drawn over the head. The poor sightless girl saw not who did all this ; she knew not but it might be the same person who had been conversing with her. If there had been silence hitherto, men now held their very breath, while Caecelia's lips moved in earnest prayer. 8. " Once more, before proceeding further, I call on thee to sacrifice to the gods, and escape cruel torments," said the judge, with a sterner voice. " Neither torments nor death," firmly replied the victim, tied to the altar, " shall separate me from the love of Christ. I can offer up no sacrifice but to the one living God, and its ready oblation is myself." 9. The prefect made a signal to the executioner, and he gave one rapid whirl to the two wheels of the rack, round the 'windlasses of which the ropes were wound ; and the limbs of the maiden were stretched with a sudden jerk, which, though not enough to wrench them from their sockets, as a further turn would have done, sufficed to inflict an excruciating, or more truly, a racking pain, through all her frame. Far more grievous was this from the preparation and the cause of it being unseen, and from that additional suffering which dark- 118 TIIIC rrollUTII UlCADKlt. W- f Hi i.ji I wmn \i\\\U^U. A qnlvoHnj^ of licr fciilurcM uiul a Hiidtlon irnlu- nt'HM uloiin jj;iivr rvidcMU'o (if Uvv HiilVcriiiK. 10. "Hal ha I" Mio JihIko (^vclai I, " Mioii IVdlrHi that I ih\\u\ \vi. it Miililco ; ohcy, niid thou nhalt hit IVml." Hho NtMMiHMl to tak(t iii» ho(>on\ How nnirh HWi^oter it iH to l)o iiko thco, Ntivtchod upon thy mm (^vcn, than roHting upon tho hard t'iUH'h at llio poor nuiu's tahlu I" 11. "Tliou (HHost witli inol" oxdalnuul tho Jud^n, thor- oughly voxod, "and nuikoNt lin:ht of my lenity. Wo will try Nomethlnp: Htn)nKer. Her(^ CaluluH, apply a "lighted torch to hor sides." A thrill of disgust and horror ran through tho asHnnihly, which oouhi not help sympathizing with tho poor blind croa- turo. A murmur of suppressed indignation broke out from all sides of the hall. 12. Ojuoelia, for tho first time, hnirnt that sho was in tho midst of a crowd. A crin»son glow of modesty rushod into her brow, hor face, and neck, just before white as marbh?. Tho angry judge (shocked tho rising gush of feeling ; and all listencil in silence, as sho spoke again, with warmer earnest- noss than bcfV)re : " O my dear Lord and Spouse I I have been ever true and faithful to thoo I I^et mo suffer i)ain and torture for thee ; but spare mo confusion from human eyes. Let me come to theo at once ; not covering my face with my hands in shame, when I stand before theo." la. Another muttering of compassion was hoard. "Catulual" shouted the baffled judge, in fury, "do your duty, sirrah ! What are you about, fumbling all day with that toivh ?" " It is too lato. She is dead." " Dead I" cried out Tertnllus ; " dead, with one turn of the wheel ? Impossible !" rriK nr.fND MAitivrt. 119 14, diluliiH jj^avf! tlio nu'k a iiirn hiickwanlM, ami tJio body rcitinirii'd molionlt^MM. It waH truo ; hIk! luul paHWul from the rack to I lie l,lin)fH', rrom ilin kcow) of ihn ju«1^;(j'h (;oiint«!nunco to her Sjkmihc'h wclc.oinirif^ crnln'ac*!. Had hUo hnitttluid out licr ))tir(! Hoid, HH a Hwcct jH'rfiiiin^, in tho Uica'aihui of hor prayer '( or had lier heart been iiiiahlr! to j((!t Imck its blood, froiri the iriteiiMity of that llrHt virj™ cry ,o„d„ for'a^ea n at^Jo' ' C ee" nr"r "' T seeretly he understands it to be Ztn ^ ""' ' pretToTookltTpXilr "™ "'''"""" ^"''"""••' ""' - what he means TlfnT ? '^''? '"""'^'"S^y. and diseover tion„r/at the worrLbertv''?''''',"''''" ''" °P^"« ^'^ *«- »Ue Of itaratttiJdXnrrra: cr *■ a senons face, and suspect that, wore hTtostate hn h'"".'"^ he means, it would sound very much f;/°/'*'f.'>»"««tly what men. Liberty means leave foZmTt. t *""" "<*'»■"'=- yon-„ot to" complaiu . " '""' ^°'"' I'™''''' ""d ^ov I 12i THE FOURTH KKADEH. 5. He turns over a leaf of his book, and tells us of the phil- osophy of his enlightened sehool. We translate his definition of philosopliy, and it avers that philosophy is the art of prov- ing that two and two, not unfrequcntly, make five ; that black in many cases looks exceedingly like white, and that persons who wish to preserve their countenances from being burnt by the sun ought to wear a thick veil, especially at twelve o'clock at night. Does the Genius speak of the upwardness oi modern progress ? Then, to our understanding, he means that prog- ress is a faithful imitation of the motion of a crab going down hill. He descants upon the comforts of prvnality. 6. Understood as he means it, no matter what he may say, equality consists in the very pleasant process of cutting off the heads of the tall men, and in pulling out the small men, as one might do a spy-glass, so that both become of a size. And when he searches his dictionary to give us the true meaning of his favorite word, Fraternity, his warm description of the peace which it produces puts us in mind of the famous Kil- kenny cats, who fought until they had eaten each other up, all except the tips of their respective tails, y,\l± they still wagged in token of defiance. t. Guided by this key to the true meaning of the learned Genius of the Age, we look to him for an answer to the ques- tions proposed higher up, and we have no doubt that his true view of the case would embody itself in solutions equivalent to the following: "Religion and society," he would say, "arc two orders, one opposed to the other. Religion was made, of course, by the Almighty ; it begins at the altar, ends at the holy-water font at the door, and is bounded by the four walls of the church. The period of its duration is from Sun- day morning until Sunday evening. Society was invented by the Devil, and it rules the week from Monday morning until Saturday night. Business, politics, and amusements, are things that lie beyond the verge of morality, and the control of re- ligion. He who pretends to be religious anywhere but inside of the church is a bigot, a hypocrite, a man of the Dark Ages ; and he who outside of the church suits his convenience by cunningly cheating, smoothly lying— playing, in short, the DRATII OF ALONZO DK AOUILAR. I05 oi.t-l,c may be ono of . 7 . °. ''■"■'■' ""' "> ■"= '""""■d and country/. "'" ""'''' """'•kaWo mon of bis age 30. DiDATi. 01.- Alonzo m Aouilah. PKE800TT. ^^.^ '^!^^^^U^^ '-torian, born in 1796 'icnlinnnd un'd I«al)ellf ''Tml « un''° '"''"t^.o^ J'is two pront works bo regretted tliut reliKiousVre ,dW« . *^°"3"c«t of Mexico," it is mud, to >nt<. grievous error, an well^ns^ in 5 LZ'/n" 'T'^ '"'''^""««« betrnS im Iroeiy, us it is almost tiio only Bta n ^n '"^'"'t'S'e- " We say it tf.e moV^ «pot, or rather a c-ollection o/«no s on H „°'^""'";?/'"'l^'««« book-adark were flna,,; X« cd b^;e';la„Tfh:' r^bt'^'' ''"^^ Granada was surrerdorJ J/if ! " '^''"'°'"=' '" "'«'=» .t;/Sd^f2?/-'^=-^^^^^^^^^^ Anl,^ aTorccrat lb "? """'P^' ^^^ ^^ ' "^^ "^ the soutb of Snrlrt fb f" '"'' "* ""= <^"y "f Konda, in Moors. Sevml d'i "h„ , ? '",?""='' "8"'°^' th^ "'^urgent aecordi„gf;::::i^r;Keri7rror "!.'^^^^^ a.s follow., : ' i.^tonan's narrative then proceeds of 'tbe'lM strait' "" ""^f^ '" '''""' '■"" *>■« h-rt '■ooksrisin'to tie ealoVr f""''/™'" ""' ""'"^ »f "' of in,,urroc:ii:r''or 's , nTr b' Tfo/'Ll-ni"^' '''"''' camped before Monnr.i, „»,',:■ ""^ '""" a™y en- the Lors w e u, derto'od to r '^'''' °' " """"'=""■ '*™ force, Tb..y 1 ad not ™, I ■"' T^^^^'' '" considerable . enemy were e, n ;'° '" "'°"' """'"'•^ '^cfo-'o the - »J- MR ,u-n bovenng along the slopes of the mountain 120 THK FOUKTH RKADKR. I from which the Christian canip was divided by a narrow river — the Rio Verde, probably, which has gained so much ce- lebrity in tlic Spanish son^'. 4. Aguilar's' troops, who occupied the van, were so ;\Tuch roused at the sight of the enemy, that a small party, seizing a banner, rushed across the stream, without orders, in pursuit of them. The odds, however, were so great, that they would have been severely handled, had not Agullar, while he bitterly condemned their temerity, advanced promptly to their support with the remainder of his corps. The Count of Urcfia' fol- lowed with the central division, leaving the Count of Ci- fuentes,' with the troops of Seville, to protect the camp. 5. The Moors fell back as the Christians advanced, and re- tiring nimbly from point to point, led them up the rugged steep far into the recesses of the mountains. At length they reached an open level, encompassed on all sides by a natural rampart of rocks, where they had deposited their valuable effects, together with their wives and children. The latter, at sight of the invaders, uttered dismal cries, and fled into the remoter depths of the sierra. 6. The Christians were too much attracted by the rich spoils before them to think of following, and dispersed in every quarter in quest of plunder, with all the heedlessness and insubordination of raw, inexperienced levies. It was in "vain that Alonzo de Agullar reminded them that their wily enemy was still unconquored, or that he endeavored to force them into the ranks again and restore order. No one heeded his call, or thought of any thing beyond the present mo- ment, and of securing as much booty to himself as he could carry. 7. The Moors, in the mean while, finding themselves no longer pursued, were aware of the occupations of the Chris- tians, whom they, not improbably, had purposely decoyed into the snare. They resolved to return to the scene of action and surprise their incautious enemy. Stealthily advancing, there- fore, under the shadows of night now falling thick around, Pronounced A-glie-lar. ' U-vaue'-yu. ' Thee-fueu'-tes. DEATH OP ALONZO DE AQUILAB. 127 they pourod through the rocky d.'files of the inclosuro on the astoiiKshorl Spaniard.s. 8. An unlucky explosion, o^ this crisis, of a cask of pow- der nito which a spark had ac, idcntally fallen, threw a broad g are over he scene, and revealed for a moment the situation ot the hostde partics-the Spaniards in the utmost disorder, many of them without arms, and staggering under the weighi of their fatal booty ; while their enemy were seen gliding like so many demons of darkness, through every crevice and avenue victims"" '"'^'^'"'''' ^" ^^'' ""'^ ^^ '^I"-^"^^'"^- on their devoted 9. This appalling spectacle, vanishing almost as soon as seen, and followed by the hideous yells and war-cries of the assailants, struck a panic into the hearts of the soldiers, who lied, scarcely offering any resistance. 10. The darkness of the night was as favorable to the Moors, famdiar with all the intricacies of the ground as it was fatal to the Christians, who, bewildered in the mazes of the sierra and losing their footing at every step, fell under the swords of their pursuers, or went down the dark gulfs and precipices which yawned all around. 31. Death of Alonzo de AamLAn— continued. 1. Amidst this dreadful confusion, the Count of Urena succeeded in gaining a lower level of the sierra, where he halted, and endeavored to rally his panic-struck followers His noble comrade, Alonzo de Aguilar, still maintained his position on the heigJits above, refusing all entreaties of his followers to attempt a retreat. "When," said he, proudly was an Aguilar ever known to fly from the field 5" His eldest son, the heir of his house and honors, Don Pedro do Cordova, a youth of great promise, fought at his side He had received a severe wound on tlie head from a stone, and a r tt' n'V"' ?f' '^'''''^^' ^^'^ ^-^- "^^^ «"« knee r ting 0^1 the ground, however, he made a brave defence with I 128 THE FOURTH READER. 2. The sight was too much for his father, and he implored him to suffer himself to be removed from the field. "Let not the hopes of our house be crushed at a single blow," said he. " Go, my sou ; live as becomes a Christian knight : live, and cherish your desolate mother 1" All his endeavors were fruit- less, however ; and the gallant boy refused to leave his father's side till he was forcibly borne away by the attendants, who fortunately succeeded in bringing him in safety to the station occupied by the Count TJreiia. 3. Meantime, the brave little band of cavaliers who re- mained true to Aguilar had fallen one after another ; and the chief, left almost alone, retreated to a huge rock in the middle of the plain, and, placing his back against it, still made fight, though weakened by a loss of blood, like a lion at bay, against his enemies. In this situation, he was pressed so hard by a Moor of uncommon size and strength, that he was compelled to turn and close with him in a single combat. 4. The strife was long and desperate ; till Don Alonzo, whose corselet had become unlaced in the previous struggle, having received a severe wound in the breast, followed by an- other on the head, grappled closely with his adversary, and they came rolling on the ground together. The Moor re- mained uppermost ; but the spirit of the Spanish cavalier had not sunk with his strength, and ho proudly exclaimed, as if to intimidate his enemy, "I am Don Alonzo de Aguilar I" to which the other rejoined, "And I am the Feri de Ben Estc- par 1" — a well-known name of terror to the Christians. 6. The sound of his detested name roused all the vengeance of the dying hero ; and, grasping his foe in mortal agony, he rallied his strength for a final blow. But it was too late ; his hand failed, and he was soon dispatched by the dagger of his more vigorous rival. Thus fell Alonzo Hernandez de Cor- dova, or Alonzo de Aguilar, as he is commonly called, from the land where his family estates lay. 6. "He was of the greatest authority among the grandees of his time," says Father Abarea, "for his lineage, personal character, large domains, and the high posts which he filled both in peace and war. More than forty years of his life he (iKS'lLK KIVEK. his father's 120 sormi against the infidel ; under the banner of his house in boyhood, and as leader of that fiame banner in later life as viceroy of Andalusia and commander of the royal armies ' J'/' w' ^'i^' ^^^^' ^''''^ '^^ '"'« ™^^^ ^""^ pious house who had fallen %htinp: for their country and rdigion against lie accirrscd sect of Mahomet. And there is good reason to believe,' contmues the same orthodox authority, "that his soul has received the reward of a Christian soldier, since he was armed on that very morning with the blessed sacraments ot confession and communion," 32. GlCNTLK RiVEK. 'Zc ant E tl n ^f'l'i-' ^""" "^ " traM.lation by' tile Kev. Thomas Percy 1. Gentle river,'" gentle river, Lo, thy streams are stain'd with gore; Many a brave and noble captain Floats along thy willow'd shore. 2. All beside thy limpid waters, All beside thy sands so bright, Moorish chiefs and Christian warriors Join'd in fierce and mortal fight. 3. Lords, and dukes, and noble princes On thy fatal banks were slain; Ihe original .8 Rio Verde, tlnit l«. Hiver Verde. But verde in bpanish also means <;,,•.«,; an.l tin, tmnhlatcr, not being aware that it was a proper name, Bubstitutod ffeutU;-nn ei-ithct not well suited to a mountain streain. 0* iili i 11 ■ a 130 "* THE FOUKTII KEADEU. Fatal banks, that gave to slaughter All the pride and flower of Spain 4. There the hero, brave Alonzo, Full of wounds and glory, died ; There the fearless Urdiales Fell a victim by his side. 6. Lo, where yonder Don Saavedra* Through their squadrons slow retires j Proud Seville, his native city, Proud Seville his worth admires. 6. Close behind, a renegado Loudly shouts, with taunting cry, " Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra I Dost thou from the battle fly ? t. " Well I know thee, haughty Christianj Long I lived beneath thy roof ; Oft I've in the lists of glory Seen thee win the prize of proof. 8. " Well I know thy aged parents. Well thy blooming bride I know; Seven years I was thy captive, Seven years of pain and woe. 9. " May our prophet grant my wishes. Haughty chief, thou shalt be mine; Thou shalt drink that cup of sorrow Which I drank when I was thine." 10. Like a lion turns the warrior, Back he sends an angry glare ; Whizzing came tlie Moorish javelin, Vainly whizzing, through the air. o Don Saavedra is an imaginary personage, no nobleman of that name having really been eiigagad in the battle. ST. PETIOKS ENTliT INTO K(;ME. 11. Back the hero, full of fury, Sent a deep and mortal wound ; Instant sank the renegado, Mute and lifeless, on the ground. 12. With a thousand Moors surrounded, Brave Saavedra stands at bay; Wearied out, but never daunted, Cold at length the warrior lay. 13. Near him figliting, great Alonzo Stout resists the payniin bands, From his slaughter'd steed dismounted, Firm intrench'd behind him stands. 14. Furious press the hostile squadron, Furious he repels their rage; Loss of blood at length enfeebles; Who can war with thousands wage ? 15. Where yon rock the plain o'ershadows, Close beneath its foot retired. Fainting sank the bleeding hero, And without a groan expired. 131 lan of that 33. St. Peter's Entry into Rome. ARonBisnop nuGUEs. Mo.t Keverencl Joirx IItohes, D. D., first Archbisliop of New York •w U "rov U 'r;.' {^.'"^T'-^'' pnhhe by a controversy and oral discussion with Kev Mr. Breckinndf^e, a Presbyterian minister, wliicli cstablislied J s-reputat,on as one of the ablest controversialists of the day Indeed his life smee then has been almost a continual controversy, owin.^ to the perpetual attacks made upon the Church throui^ii him. S6on af e";- he be- oan.e Bishop ot New York, he was called on to maintain, in a Ion-pro- c Hon ' "f?''l the freedom of education. His " Debate's on the Sclmol n nt^ : "^ f ^^"•r'-'' ^« K.r«-an." and his "Letters to Brooks," on the i "ce w ^ ''""''■;'•' m'y^ "••'^ vK,o\\,nt specimens of close reason- V >Hm, T- ' T 1'"''^'"-'^, s^rc-'i-^m. Iimumerable lectures and letters on ^aiious subjects connected %vith Catholic interests have keot the Arch bishop in the front rank of the champions of the ChurSu ^ 1. It must have been during the latter portion of the reign of !;h HI ' ;Mtl 132 THE FOURTU READER. Tiberius JN'ero Drusus, or in the beginning of the reign of IS^oro, that a traveller, dressed in Eastern costume, was seen approach- ing one of the entrances of the imperial city of Rome. He was weary and wayworn. The dust of travel had incrustcd itself on the perspiration of his brow. He bore in his hand a staff, but not a crosier. Ilis countenance was pale, but strik- ing and energetic in its expression. Partially bald, what re- mained of his hair was gray, crisp, and curly. 2. Who was he ? No one cared to inquire, for he was only one of those approaching the gates of Rome, within the walls of which, we are told, the population numbered from three to four millions of souls. But who was this pilgrim ? He was a man who carried a message from God and his Christ, and who had been impelled to deliver that message in the very heart and centre of Roman corruption and of Roman civiliza- tion, such as it was. 3. His name at that time was Peter. His original name had been Simon, but the Son of God having called him and his elder brother, Andrew, from the fisherman's bank on the Sea of Galilee, to be His apostles, changed the name of Simon and called him in the Syriac language, Cephas, which in Latin and English is translated Peter. In Syriac the word signifies a rock, and our Saviour, by changing his name, declared the mission for which he was especially selected. 4. He said to him : "Thou art Cephas, and upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it." He was an Apostle, like his brother and the other ten. But he was more — he was the Rock on which the Church was to be built — he was the prince of the Apostolic College. And this was the man who was approaching the gates of the city of Rome. Where he slept that night, whether on or under the porch of some princely palace, his- tory has not informed us. But he soon began to proclaim the message which he had from God. To human view the attempt would appear to be desperate, Rome, at that pe- riod, was divided into two principal classes — masters and slaves — both of the same color, and, in many mstances, both of the same country. IF THOU COHLDST BK A BIRD. I33 5 The higher class of those who were not slaves were, at that time, gorged to repletion with the wealth and the plunder which the triumphant armies of Rome had brought to the Lnporial capital from the conquered tribes and nations of the lien known world. These conquered nations, after havino- been plundered, as we might say, once for all, were still re° tamed as perpetual tributaries to the exchequer of the Caesars -a of t^eir satellites. The superstitions'and idolatr^s of hose nations were all inaugurated in the pagan temples of he Imperial city. Their corruption of morat was aL in- troduced, spreading from freemen to slaves, although such was the state of local morals that no imported corrup^on could add much to the universal depravity. ^ 6. Such was Rome when this eastern stranger entered its melosures. He preached the Word of Christ, °and his p^act ing even in that polluted atmosphere, brought forth many souls to acknowledge and adore the Crucified! He wasTb^ sequently joined by St. Paul, and both labored with a com- mou zeal to propagate the doctrine of salvation. Thev had already made such an impression that the tyrant Nero had them arrested and condemned to death Y Peter was crucified, it is generally supposed, on the very pot on which St Peter's church now stands. The cross wis «ie instrument of punishment for the man of Hebrew origi^ But Paul of Tarsus, having been born a Roman citizen was entitled o a less ignominious death ; and accordingly hc^ va beheaded at a place called the Three Fountains,^some dfs ance from Rome. Nero made the distinction, which is now popular, between what is called temporal and spiritual 1 body was temporal; and Nero did not pretend to go farther than its destruction. u lu j,o 34. If thou couldst be a Bird. FABBR. 1. If thou couldst be a bird, what bird wouldst thou be? A frolicsome gnll on the billowy sea, il \'. .11 l.Tt TiiK KoruTii iiKAi)i;i:. Scrcimiinc; iind wailiiifj; when stormy winds rave, Or uiiohorM, wliiti; thing 1 on tlio merry green wave? 2. Or an raglo aloft in the Mtic etlicr dwcllinfr, Free of tla^ caves of flie hoary Ifelvellyn, AVho is nj) in tlie sinishinc; wlien we are in shower, And could reach our loved ocean in less than an hour? 3. Or a lieron Ihat Inmnts the Wallachian cd,i!;n Of rude waters throu, famous old stream in the bright land of Greece. A swcet-manner'd household(>r ! waiving his state. Now and then, in some kind little toil for his mate? 5. Or a nuirnun-ing dove at Stamboid, buried deep In tho l(Mig cypress woods where the infidels sleep. AVhosc leaf-nuitTled voice is the soul of the seas. That hath pass'd from tho Bosi)horus into the trees 1 6. Or a heath-bird, that lies on the Cheviot moor, Where the wet, shiiiing earth is as bare as the floor ; Who mutters glad sounds, though his joys are but few — Yellow moon, windy sunshine, and skies cold and blue ? 7. Or if thy man's heart worketh in thee at all. Perchance tliou wouldst dwell by some bold baron's hall, A black, glossy rook, working early and late, . Like a laboring man on the baron's estate ? 8. Or a linnet who builds in the close hawthorn bough. Where her small, frighten'd eyes may be seen lookhig through ; Who heeds not, fond mother ! the ox-lips that shine On the hedge-bauks beneath, or the glazed celandine ? ■HH NOVEL RBADINO. 185 9. Or a swallow that flicth the fiunny world over Go,,,, „.,.,.^r ,„„„,:„„ r„. ,L u,,u S,.,t« ho Mako ho ,.„,,, u, f„rs„t tluvt .,1,0 walir, „„ lilo c ™ M o«t thou fool at thysMe, a, tho„si, wi,,^" .-o to if lu-o,„ «„,„c place whoro they he foHo,, ,„f j; ui; C^^ H. Then love the green things h, thy first simple youth it r ■ r^'' ""'' •"'■*"■'• ''■"' '"•""•' -^ i" truth Ami fancy shall pay thee thy love back i„ skill Il."..sl.altbe„llthebir,]„„ftheairatthywlll 35. NovKi, Ri.:AmNa. ANON. 1. It in argued in favor of novel readhig, that works of Rotl.n "uthors, so finished in s vU „ i ■ ! . °*^"'™ reticular Ko„,I conno it on, hat I^ev "u '" ""' ""'""^ '«'"""''' <>f h,i„,.v ,, „„, ii ' , ^°^ """^ ""^ P""^'"l ■>»' only without I'lji"), but actually, under some asnocts ,viti, „„„•.• , " ta=;e. As clever delineations of Xal ,' ' t " """"• to afford so dec,, an i-sin-u |„, ' .""""^'"' *»». "'"y are said able a knowledge I" ^iXml^^'l^'Z tTbe" T"'" .■cyets a useful study for the inexptiS " '" """ Si ci:7minrorT„r' "M^'^^ '" P™""'^ "><> been .upers ded ," fie' itiL , •' """ *"' ""=^ ^''""M h"" (. -ura 11, ncitiou. wofKi ot a more refining tendency, 1 !• fi! : ii! f Kt i ii i! 1 ii t •1 ! •r i; |: i, t < 1 ill 11 111 ii jii 136 THE FOURTH READEE. and a more enlightened character, cannot but be deemed an advantage. Yet, according to all the merit they can possibly claim, and viewing them under theh* very best and most favor- able aspect, they arc in many ways, to say the least, extremely dangerous. 3. Novels are in general pictures, and usually very highly wrought pictures, of human passions ; and it has been re- marked, that although the conclusion of the tale frequently awards signal punishment and degradation to some very gross offender, yet that in a far greater number of instances passion is represented as working out its ends successfully, and attain- ing its object even by the sacrifice of duty— an evil lesson for the heart yet unacquainted with vice, and uncontaminated by the world. It may indeei be safely questioned whether the knowledge of human nature thus acquired is of a profitable kind, and whether experience of life might not, for all practical purposes, be derived from other and purer sources than the teachings of romances. 4. Again, novels, as a class, present false views of life ; and as it is the error of the young to mistake those for realities, they become the dupes of their own ardent and enthusiastic imaginations, which, instead of trying to control and regulate, they actually strengthen and nourish with the poisonous food of phantoms and chimeras. When the thirst for novel reading has become insatiable, as with indulgence it is sure to do, they come at last to live in an unreal fairy-land, amid heroes and heroines of their own creation. The taste for serious reading and profitable occupation is destroyed— all relish for prayer is lost. In addition to their other disadvantages, many of these books unfortunately teem with maxims subversive of simple faith, and in cordial irreverence for the truths of re- ligion ; and so it but frequently happens, as the climax of evil, that faith suffers to a greater or lesser extent from their habitual, indiscriminate perusal. 5. As a recreation, light works may, of course, be occasion- ally resorted to ; but so many and so great are their attendant dangers, that extreme care should be taken to neutralize their poison by infallible antidotes. The selection of such works NOVEL rp:ading. 137 should always be left to a religious parent, or a pious and in- tellig-ent friend. They should never be made an occupation, hut merely serve as a pastime, and that occasionally. Thoy should never be perused in the early part of the day, but only in the evening hour, specially hud aside for relaxation. They should never be continued beyond the moderate length of time to which, under prudent and pious direction, you have limited yourself— never resumed after night prayers, and never read on Sundays. 6. They should not be allowed to engross the mind to the exclusion of all other thoughts ; but more especially during their perusal should the sweet, refreshing, invigorating thought of God's presence be often recalled, and our aspirations ascend to His Throne, that He who is the Author of all the happi- ness we enjoy may bless and sanctify even our amusements. 7. The observance of these conditions no doubt requires some self-control ; but if you cannot exercise that control neither can you expect to peruse works of fiction without ma- terial, perhaps fatal, injury to your precious soul. If you cannot exercise that control, you should never read novels. If there be one more than another of these conditions to which your are recommended strict fidelity, it is to the first. By referring, for directions in your reading, to a pious, experienced guide, you will be secured against making selections among that class of fictitious works impregnated with the venom o°f anti-catholic maxims. 8. And, as the spirit of impiety and infidelity so prevalent m the literary world, seeks a medium for its venom no less in works of science than in works of fiction, you will find the ad- vantage of applying the foregoing rule in the one case as in the other, never reading a suspected author without having ascertained how far your doubts are well founded. 1 i., \i ^h 'I'i!^* ' • m p 'i!|l|i 138 TIIK FOURTH READER. 36. Death of Father Marquette. J. a. SHE A. 1. Calmly and cheerfully he saw the approach of death, for which he prepared by assidious prayer ; his office he regularly recited to the last day of his life ; a meditation on death, whijuh he had long since prepared for this hour, he now made the subject of his thoughts ; and as his kind but simple companions seemed overwhelmed at the prospect of their approaching loss, he blessed some water with the usual ceremonies, gave his companions directions how to act in his last moments, how to arrange his body when dead, and to commit it to the earth with the ceremonies he prescribed. 2. He now seemed but to seek a grave; — at last perceiving the mouth of a river which still bears his name, he pointed to an eminence as the place of his burial His companions then erected a little bark cabin, and stretched the dying mis- sionary beneath it as comfortably as their wants permitted them. Still a priest, ratlier than a man, he thought of his ministry, and, for the last time, heard the confessions of his companions and encouraged them to rely with confidence on the protection of God — then sent them to take the repose they so much needed. 3. When he felt his agony approaching, he called them, and taking his crucifix from around his neck he placed it in their hands, thanking the Almighty for the favor of permitting him to die a Jesuit, a missionary, and alone. Then he relapsud into silence, interrupted only by his pious aspirations, till at last, with the names of Jesus and Mary on his lips, with his eyes raised as if hi an ecstasy above his crucifix, with his face radiant with joy, he passed from the scene of his labor to God who was to be his rewaid. o TIIR CROSS IX THI-: WILDKKXESS. 189 4. 01)0(lk'nt to Ills directions, his companions, when the first outbursts of ft-rief were ovor, hiid ont the body for burial, and to tlio sound of liis little cliapol bell, bore it slowly to the spot which he had poii-ted out. Here they committed his body to tiie earth, and, raising a cross above it, returned to their now desolate cabin. Such was the edifying and holy death of the illustrious explorer of the Mississippi, on Saturday. 18th of May, 1675. I labor to God 37. Thk Ckoss in the ^Wilderness. Mies. HE MANS. lu^JV"" ^' ^}^^^^f ^■"'^ ^""i in England in 1794; died in li.3o .ootry liiiHun olovutc'd tone, ^"'►i'" « — •-- •.-..- ..'.,." '" ^'-'i"- iinU expresfics tho doincstic Her 1 attuctiona with tenderness and truth. 1. 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. ' 2. 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 r— Now all was hush'd ; and eve's last splendor shone, With a rich sadness, on the attesting stone. 3. There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild. And he, too, paused in reverence by that grave, Asking tho tale of its memorial, piled Between the forest and the lake's bright wave- Till, as a wind might stir a wither'd oak, ' On the deep dream of age his accents broke. i. And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said— • " I liston'd for the words which, years ago. 140 THE FOUUTII RKADER. -■!■: ! Mi i' PassM o'er these waters ; though the voice is fled, Which miuln thorn as a singing fountain's flow, Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track, Sometimes the forest's murmur gives tlicm back. 5, "Ask'st tliou of liim whose house is lone beneath ? I was an eagle in my youthful pride. When o'er the seas lie came with summer's breath, To dwell amidst us on the lake's green side. Many the times of flowers have been since then; Many, but bringing naught like him again. 6. " Not with 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 stacks, low; But to spread tidings of all holy things. Gladdening our souls as with th6 morning's wings. 1. "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 lands who broke, And our hearts burn'd within us as he spoke 1 8. " He told of far and sunny lands, which lie Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell: Bright nuist they be! for there are none that die. And none that weep, and none that say ' Farewell 1' He came to guide us thither; — but away The happy call'd him, and he might notstay. 9. " We saw liiin slowly fade— athirst, perchance. For the fresh waters of that lovely cHme; Yet was there still u 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 tomes and flnds not him. tl! '■ ■^■- ic beneath ? THE CROSS IN THE Wrr.DKRNESS. 10. "Wo gathor'd round him in the dewy hour Of one still morn, beneath his cliosen tree: From his clear voice at first the words of power Came low, like uioanings of a distant sea; Hut swell'd, and shook the wilderness ere long, As if the Hi)irit of the breeze grew strong. 11. "And then once more they trembled on his tongue And his white eyelids flutter'd, and his head ' FeH back, and mists upon his forehead hung— Know'st thou not how we pass to join the dead? It Ks enough! he sank upon my breast,— Our friend that loved us, he was gone 'to rest I 12. "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 I Now hath he surely reach'd, o'er mount and v- That flowery land whose green turf hides no g.ayel 13. "But I am sad— I mourn tl, clear light taken Back from my peopie, o'er whose place it shone. Ihe pathway to the better shore forsaken. And the true words forgotten, save by 'one Who hears them faintly sounding from the past Mingled with .leath-songs, in each fltful blast." ' 14. Then spoke the wanderer forth, with kindling , ye: " 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 see.i Imth been There shall the fruitage, glowing, yet be seen." 141 I iH 142 THE FOURTH READEE. " "m 'Mf: It I ;i i!ii:'LF ,mv'' 38. Early Days at Emmettsbueg. Mil 8. SETON. Mks. E. a. Skton, foundress of tlie Sisters of Charitv in the United States, was a convert to the Catholic faitli. Tlio followinpr letters were written to two of her friends, shortly after she had coninienced the estab- lishment of St. Joseph's, Ennnettsbiirnf— the Mother House of the Sisters of Charity. Her life has been bcaiitifiiily written by Kev. Dr. White. 1. "If you have received no other letters than those you mention, you do not perhaps know of the happy conversion and subsequent death of our Harriet Seton. Cecilia's death Mr, Zocchi must have mentioned particularly. Harriet's was also every way consoling. I have them both lying close by our dwelling, and there say my Te Deum every evening. Antonio, could you and Filippo know half the blessing you have procured us all 1 2. " My Anna now treads in their steps, and is an example of youth, beauty, and grace, internally and externally, which must be and is admired as a most striking blessing not only to her mother, but to many. My two little girls are very good, and know no other language or thoughts but of serving and loving our dear Lord^I do not mean in a religious life, which cannot be judged at their age, but of being his wherever they may be. 3. "The distant hope your letter gives that there is a pos- sibility of your coming to this country, is a hght to my gloomy prospects for my poor children ; not for their temporal good : our Lord knows I would never grieve to see them even beg- gars, if they preserve and practise their faith ; but their pros- pect, in case of my death, is as desolate as it can be, unless they are given up to their old friends, which would be almost their certain ruin of principle. 4. " I give all up, you may be sure, to Him who feeds the birds of heaven, as you say ; but in the weak and decaying state of my health, which is almost broken down, can I look at the five without the fears and forebodings of a mother, whose only thought or desire is for their eternity ? Our bless- ed Cheverus seemed to have many hopes of them when he came to see us last winter, and encouraged me to believe ho EARLY DAYS AT EMMETrSBCRG. 143 would do all he could for their protection. To him and your Filicchi hearts I commit them in this world. 5. " Our success in having obtained the confidence of so many respectable parents, who have committed the whole charge of their children to us, to the number of about fifty besides poor children who have not means of education, has enal)led us to get on very well without debt or embarrassment and I hope our Adored has already done a great deal through our establishment. 6. " The Rev. Superior of St. Mary's in Baltimore, who was our first director, has zealously endeavored to do a great deal more ; but he did not find mc as ready as converts generally arc, as I had to include the consideration of my poor children lu my religious character, which has greatly pleased and satis- fied our blessed Chevcrus and Archbishop Carroll, who is now more my protector than ever,— more truly attached to us, and finally takes the superior charge of our house, which at first he bad bestowed on another : so that every thing I do or act even in points less material, is and will be solely directed by tlicm O Filicchi ! how is the blessing you most love in- creased and mcreasing in our wooden land, as you used to call itl Blessed, a thousand times blessed, be His holy name forever ! T. " You direct your letter to Baltimore, but we are fifty miles from it, iu the midst of woods and mountains. If we had but the dear Christian children and their father and mother It would be an earthly paradise to mc. No wars or rumors of wars here but fields ripe with harvest ; the mountain cliurch, St. Mary's, the village church, St. Joseph's, and our spacious log-house, containing a private chapel {our Adored aum/s there), is all our riches; and old Bony would not covet j.oni; though one of the most eloquent and elegant orators at the bar of Isew York wrote our poor Harriet, among other reasons why she should not listen ' to the siren voice of her sister that m a few years every Catholic building should be razed to the ground, and our house shortly be pulled about '"«''fw-n^^''^ ^'^"^d ^^ odd enough in the land of liberty. »■ Will you tell your most houored brother that my ■ 114 TIIK rOUKTII RKADER. prnycrs sliiill not now go boyond tho grave for him, but will be ('(iiuiily coiKsliint ? All llu^ cliildrcn go to communion once a monlii, except lillle Ucbccca (Ainiina. once n week), and belii>ve me I heir inolher's example and inllnence is not wauling to oxcite every devotion of gralitnde and lively alTeelion for their true and dearest friends and best of fathers, tiirongh wliouj they have received a real life, and been bronglit to tho light of everlasting life. Our whole family, sisters and nil, nndvc our cause their own, and many, many communions have been and will be ofl'ered for yoii both, by souls who have no hoi)o of knowing you but in heaven, 1). "Klernity, eternity, my brother! Will I pass it with you ? So much has been given, which not only I never de- served, but have done every thing to jn-ovoke the adorable hand to withholil from me, that T even dare hojw for ihat, that which 1 forever ask as the dearest, most desired favor. If I never write you again from this world, i)ray for me con- tinually. If I am heard in the next, O Antonio, what would I not obtain for you, your FiIii)po, and all yours 1 . . . . May tho blessings you bestow on us be rewarded to you a thousand times ! Ever yours," 10. The blessings, however, enjoyed by the inmates of St, Joseph's, and the usefulness of the institution, would not have been pernuineut, without increased and strenuous exertions on the part of Mother Seton, The maintenance of the house found a provision in the income from the board and tuition of the pupils ; but the debts contracted by the improvement of their property were yet to be liquidated, and threatened to place it in a very embarrassing position. 11. To avert the destruction of the institution. Mother Se- ton privately appealed to the liberality of friends, among whom General Robert G. Harper was conspicuous, both for the in- terest ho manifested in the welfare of St. Joseph's house, and for the eminence of his position in society.' The following > General Hftrpcr, son-in-law of Charles Carroll of Carrollton, was one of the most gifted orators of the American Bar, Some of his Bpecchos havt' hcen jMiblishrd in 3 vols , 8vo. r. EARLY DAYS AT EMMETT8BUR0. 146 letter, addressed to him by Mother Seton, will servo to show tli(! diniculties she had to contend with, and the eloquence of her pen in pleading the cause of religion and humanity : 12, " Will you permit the great distance between us to be forgotten, for a moment, and suffer the force of those senti- ments which your liberality and kindness to us have created, to act without reserve in speaking to you on a subject I be^ lievo you think interesting ? The promising and amiable per- spective of establishing a house of plain and useful education, retired from the extravagance of the world, connected also with the view of providing nurses for the sick and poor an abode of iimoccnce and refuge of affliction, is, I fear, now dis- appearing under the i^ressure of debts contracted at its very fulindation. la " Having received the pensions of our boarders in ad- vai; ; , v*d with them obliged not only to maintain ourselves, but uifeo to discharge ihc endless demands of carpenters and workmen, we are reduced now to our credit, which is poor in- deed. The credit of twenty poor women, who are capable only of earning their daily bread, is but a small stock, partic- ularly when their flour-merchant, grocer, and butcher, we more already m advance than they are willing to afford. U. " What is our resource ? If we sell our bouse to pay our debts, we must severally return to our separate homes Must It be so, or will a friendly hand assist us, become our guardian protector, plead our cause with the rich and powerful serve the cause of humanity, and be a father to the poor? Would Mrs. Harper bo interested for us, or is this an extrav- agant dream of female fancy? Oh, no ; Mrs. Harper has a heart of pity,— she has proved it, unsolicited. If we were re- hcved but from a momentary embaiTassment, her name would be blessed by future generations; for, so simple and unpretend- ing IS our object, we cannot fall of success if not crushed in our beginning. The Rev. Mr. Dubourg has exerted himself ^outmually for us, and bestowed all he could personally give i^rom hmi we are to expect no more. 15. " What shall we do ? How dare I ask you, dear sir, le question ? But, if addressing it to you gives you a mo- the qu I \%'i I!:! I* , *i \ I 1 ■I t '■i ■ 1; . i! . !! ll' 146 TilK FOURTH READER. ment's displeasure, forgive ; and, considering it as any other occmTcnce of life which is differently judged of according to thf light in which it is viewed, then blot it out, and be assured, whatever may be your impression of it, it arose from a heart filled with the sentiment of your generosity, and overflowing with gratitude and respect. Dear Mrs. Harper, tell your sweet nieces to look at the price of a shawl or veil, and think of the poor family of St. Joseph's. December 28th, 1811." 16, Happily for religion and society, the institution was rescued from its impending danger l)y the timely aid of its friends ; and though it had to struggle on amidst difficulties and trials, it gradually became more and more consolidated, and an instrument of great and extensive good in the hands of Divine Providence. 1 1 39. The Parrot. CAMPBELL. Thomas Campbell, a native of Scotland, died in 1844. Ills principal poems are the " Pleasures of Hope," and " Gertrude of Wyoming;" but Lis genius is seen to greater advantage in his sliorter poems, such as " The Exile of Erin," "O'Connor's Child," "Lochiel's Warning," "Hohenliu- den," " The Battle of the Baltic," &c. These are matchless poems, contain- iiig a magic of expression that fastens the words forever upon the memory. No poet of our times has contributed so much, in proportion to tlie ex- tent of' his writings, to that stock of cstablislied quotations which pass from lip to lip and from pen to pen, without thought as to their origin. 1. The deep affections of the breast, That Heaven to living things imparts, Are not exclusively possess'd By human hearts. 2. A parrot, from the Spanish Main, Full young, and early caged, came o'er, With bright wings, to the bleak domam Of Mulla's shore. 3. To spicy groves where he had won His plumage of resplendent hue, His native fruits, and skies, and sun, He bade adieu. PORTRAIT OF A VIRTUOUS WOMAN. 4. For these he changed the smoke of turf, A heathery land and misty sky, And turn'd on rocks and raging surf His golden eye, 5. But, petted, in our climate cold He lived and chatter'd many a day • Until with age, from green and gold, ' His wings grew gray. 6. At last, when, seeming blind and dumb He scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more A Spanish stranger chanced to come ' To MuUa's shore. T. He haiPd the bird in Spanish speech ; The bird in Spanish speech replied ' Flapp'd round his cage with joyous screech Dropp'd down, and died.' 147 -♦ _ 40. Portrait of a Virtuous and Accomplished Woman. fbnelon. of the Churcli, in any age ff icftbehind ^ L«i?'^™''' ^^^^- ^"^ P'-t'J"t« It was truly said of hhnf thSe vas o o of thf m oL"f '' i"^"" ^•^"^'«"- of men. Hi.s works are numerous rmH •,? i • u "^^''^^''^ "^^ mo.st auiiablo on spiritual ^uhie^t.^Zfo^S SUn M.eTSsl^r'^V^^ ^^''1^ hL^rr '" "^^!?'.^™P^^' ^^^ ^^««' ^^^ J^ands despise not aboi, she foresees thmgs at a distance; she provides against all coiUingencies; she knows when it is proper to be s° In s^ acts regularly and without hurry; sh^ is^onlu llf em! intproplra:^^^^^^ ^^ --^''^^ Tile iiU) ve poem records an incident wliich actually took place. '% m 148 THE FOUKTU KKADKB. 2. The good order of her father's house is her glory, it adds greater histre to her than beauty. Though the care of all lies upon her, and she is charged with the burden of reproving, refusing, retrenching (things which make almost all women hated), yet she has acquired the love of all the household; and this, because they do not find in her cither passion, or conceit- cducss, or levity, or humors as in other women. By a single glance of her eye, they know her meaning, and arc afraid to displease her. 3. The orders she gives are precise; she commands nothing but what can be performed; she reproves with kindness, and in reproving encourages. Her father's heart reposes upon her as a traveller, fainting beneath the sun's sultry ray, reposes himself upon the tender grass under a shady tree. 4. Antiope is a treasure worth seeking in the most remote corners of the earth. Neither her porson nor her mind is set off with vain ornaments; and her imagination, though lively, is restrained by her discretion. She never speaks but through necessity; and when she opens her mouth, soft persuasion and simple graces flow from her lips. When she speaks, every one is silent; and she is heard with such attention, that she blushes, and is almost inclined to suppress what she intended to say; so that she is rarely ever heard to speak at any length. 41. Execution of Mary, Queen of Soots. MISS AONKS 8TUI0KLAND. AoNKS STRiCKr.AND iR tho iiutlior of "Lives of the Queens of Englniul and Scotland." As a bioffrapher, she is noted for her careful and erudito roscurclics, and is (renorally considered impartial. In her "Life of Marv Stuart," she forcibly vindicates the persecuted, traduced, and beanlifiil queen from tho dark inij^utations from which oven Mary's friends havo not always sufficiently defended her memory. Miss Strickland is a nativo of England. 1. Before Mary proceeded further in her preparations for the block, she took a last farewell of her weeping maidens, kissing, embracing, and blessing them, by signing them with the cross, which benediction they received on their knees. 2. Her upper garments being removed, slie remained in her ii IS .^1— >.^M..,'JI1W EXECUTION OF MAUV, QUKKN OP SCOTS. 149 petticoat of crimson velvet and camisole, which laced be- hind, and covered her arms with a pair of crimson-velvet sleeves. Jane Kennedy now drew from her pocket the gold- bordered handkerchief Mary had given her to bind her eyes. With this she placed a Corpus Christi cloth— probably tho same in which the consecrated wafer sent to her by the Pope had been enveloped. Jane folded it corner-wise, kissed it, and with trembling hands prepared to execute this labi office • but she and her companion burst into a fresh paroxysm of hysterical sobbing and crying. 3. Mary placed her finger on her lips reprovingly. " Hush I" said she ; *' I have promised for you. Weep not, but pray for me." When they had pinned the handkerchief over the face of their beloved mistress, they were compelled to withdraw from the scaffold: ar^ "she was left alone to close up the tragedy of life by herself, which she did with her wonted courage and devotion." Kneeling on the cushion, she re- peated, in her usual clear, firm voice, In te Domine speravi— "In thee, Lord, have I hoped; let me never be put to con- fusion." 4. Being then guided by the executioners to find the block, she bowed her head upon it intrepidly, exclaiming, as she did so, In manus tuas— "Into thy hands, Lord, I commend my spirit." The Earl of Shrewsbury raised his baton, in per- formance of his duty as Earl Marshal, to give the signal for the coiip-de-grAce ; but he averted his head at the same time, and covered his face with his hand, to conceal his agitation and streaming tears. 5. A momentary pause ensued ; for the assistant-execu- tioner perceived that the queen, grasping the block firmly with both hands, was restmg her chin upon them, and that they must have been mangled or cut off if he had not re- moved them, which he did by drawing them down and holding them tightly in his own, while his companion struck her with the axe a cruel, but ineffectual blow. Agitated alike by the courage of the royal victim, and the sobs and groans of the sympathizing spectators, he missed his aim and inflicted a deep wound on the side of tlic skull. ;•';' ' 111 ; ' 1 i' ' ' ^. ; r i ( ; ,1 ,, ; 160 THK FOURTH KKADKK. 0. She iioitluT Horoimii'd iiui- slirrod, but her Ktiflt-riiigH wero too Kiully t(vs(ilio(l by th(i cuiivulsion of her ical.iiros, when, after the third hhm, the bulcherwork wuN.nceomplished, aiul the S(«ver('(l liead, streiimiii};- with blood, was hchl up to the gaze of the people. "(Jod sav.i (^ueeu Kliz.d)eth I" cried the executioner. "So h-t all her enemies jx-rish I" e.xclaimed the Deau of Peterborough. One solitary voiee alouo reKponded "Amen!"— it was that of tlie Earl of Kent. The silence, the tears, and groans of the witnesses of the tragedy, yea,' even of the very assistants in it, proclaimed the feelings' with which it had been regarded. 1. Mary's wcei)ing ladies now approached, and besought the executioners "not to strip the cori)sc of their beloved mistress, but to permit her faithful servants to fulfil her last request, by covering it as modesty required, and removing it to her bedchamber, where themselves and her other ladies would perform the last duties." But they were rudely re- pulsed, hurried out of the hall, and locked into a chamber, while the executioners, intent only ou securing what they con- sidered their perquisites, began, with ruffian hands, to despoU the still warm and pali)itating remains. 8. One faithful attendant, however, lingered, and refused to be thrust away. Mary's little Skye terrier had followed her to the scaffold uimoticed, had crept closer to her when she laid her head on the block, and was found crouching under her garments, saturated with her blood. It was only by violence he could be removed, and then he went and lay between her head and body, moaning piteonsly. 9. Some barbarous fanatic, desiring to force a verification of Knox's favorite comparison between this unfortunate prin- cess and Jezebel, tried to tempt the dog to lap the blood of his royal mistress ; but, with intelligence beyond that of his species, the sagacious creature refused ; nor could he be in- duced to partake of food again, but pined himself to death. ^ 10. The head was exposed ou a black velvet cushion to the view of the populace in the court-yard for an hour, from the large window in the hall. No feeling but that of sympathy for her and indignation against her murderers was elicited by THE CONSTANCY OP NATURE. ini this wofiil fipGctaclo. Tlio remains of this injured princess were eonteinpluously covered with the old cloth that liad been torn from the biliiurd-tiildc, and canic^d into a lurj^n ii|tl)er chnniher, wh(!ro the process of eiuhahninj^ was per- formed th(; followin;^' day by surgeons from Stamford and I*cterborou":li. 42. The Constancy of Nature. DANA. K. IF, Dana, horn nt Cainbridgo, Miihh., 1787, ranks higli as a poet, nnd is siirjuiHseii by none of our proao writcr» iu tlie cleuriicss, purity niid classic grufo ol" his styiu uiid diction. 1. How lilio eternity doth nature seem To life of man — that sliort and fitful dream ! I look aronnd me : nowhere can I trace Lines of decay that mark our human race. 1'hcsc are the murmurin<>; waters, tiicse tlic flowers I mused o'er in my earlier, better hours. Like sounds and scents of yesterday they come. Lonp^ years have past since this was last my home 1 And 1 am weak, and toil-worn is my frame; But all this vale shuts in is still the same: 'Tis I alone am changed; they know mo not: I feel a stranger- -or as one forgot. The breeze that cool'd my warm and youthful brow, Breathes the same freshness on its wrinkles now. The leaves that flung around mo sun and shade, While gazing idly on them, as they play'd. Are holding yet tlieir frolic in the air; The motion, joy, and beauty still are there, But not for me; — I look upon the ground: Myriads of happy faces throng me round. Familiar to my eye; yet heart and mind In vain would now the okl communion find. Ye were as living, conscious beings then, With whom T talk'd— But I have talk'd with men ! I.l. '» 162 THE FOURTH READER. With unchcer'd sorrow, with cold hearts I've met; Seen honest minds by harden'd craft beset. Seen hope cast down, ttirn deathly pale its glow; Seen virtue rare, buf more of virtue's show. .V I 43. The IIlmmino-Bird. AUDUBON, JonN J. Audubon wna born i it Loulsittiin, in 1780, His " Birds of Amer- ica, in Bcven iniponni ootnvo volumes, was pronounced by tiio irrcat Ciivior tho most splendid monumout wliioh art baa eroded to ornitboWy. Ho died ui 1851. "•' 1. Where is the person, who on observing this glittering fragment of the rainbow, would not pause, admire, and instantly turn his mind with reverence towards the Almighty Creator, the wonders of whose hand we at every step discover, and of whose sublime conceptions we everywhere observe the mani- festations in his admirable system of creation ? There breathes not such a person; so kindly have we all been blessed with that intuitive and noble feeling— admiration. 2. No sooner has the returning sun again introduced the vernal season, and caused millions of plants to expand their leaves and blossoms to his genial beams, than the little hum- ming-bird is seen advancing on fairy wings, carefully visiting every opening flower-cup, and, like a curious florist, removing from each the injurious insect that otherwise would ere long cause their beauteous petals to droop and decay. 3. Poised in the air, it is observed peeping cautiously, and with sparkling eye, into their innermost recesses, while the ethereal motions of its pinions, so rapid and so light, appear to fan and cool the flower, without injuring its fragile texture, and produce a delightful murmuring sound, well adapted for lulling the insects to repose The prairies, the fields, the orchards, the gardens, nay the deepest shades of the forest, are all visited in their turn, and everywhere the little bird meets with pleasure and with food. 4. Its gorgeous throat in brilliancy and beauty baffles all competition. Now it glows with a fiery hue, and again it is m-JScnirrioN of nature. 153 chniigod to tho deepest velvety black. The upper parts of its .Hirato body ure of resplendent clmnj^ing preen ; und it throws itselt through tho air with a swiftness and vivacity hardly conceivable. It moves from one flower to another like a gleam hght, upward, downward, to the right, and to the left la this manner it searches the extreme northern portions of our country, following, with great precaution, the advances of tho season, and retreats, with equal care, at the approach of Autumn. 44. Descuiption of Kature in tiik Christian Fathers. HUMBOLDT. ns; for that which fatiey has shown us from afar is now made nuinifest to me. A hi^li mountain, clothed with thick woods, is watered to the north by fresh and overflowing streams; at its foot lies an extended plain rendered fruitful In- the vapors with which it is moistened; the surroundirv^ forest, crowded with trees of dif- ferent kind: , incloses ro j us in r. strong fortress. 1). " This wilderness is I)Ound..;^.by two deep ravines: on the one side the river rush; i,';; in fca- 1 down the mountain, forms ail almos impassable bar : i- »vhile on the other, all access is impeded by a broad mountain ridge. Nv hut is so situated on the summit of the mountain, that I can overlook the whole plain, and follow throughout its course, the Iris, which is more beautiful, and has a more abundant body of water, than the Btrymon near Amphipolis, 10. " The river of my wilderness, which is more impetuous than any other that I know of, breaks against the jutting rock, and throws itself foaming into the abyss below; an object of admiration to the mountain wanderer, and a source of profit to the natives, from the numerous fishes that are found in its waters. Shall I describe to thee the fructifying vapors that rise from the moist earth, or the cool breezes wafted over the rippled face of the waters ? U. " Shall I speak of the sweet song of tlie birds, or of the rich luxuriance of tlie flowering plants ? What charms me beyond all else, is the calmness of this spot. It is only visited occasionally by hunt'^mon ; for my wilderness nourishes herds of deer and wild goats, but not bears and -wolves. What otiior spot could I exchange for this ? Alemacon, when he had found the Echinadcs, would not wander farther." 12. Ill this simple description of scenery and of forest life, feehngs are expressed which are more intimately in unison with those of modern times, than any thing that has been transmitt- : I il 156 THE FOTJETH READER. A, ii^ ' ■ "^ 'ffl ed to us from Greek or Roman antiquity. From tlic lonely Alpine hut, to which St. Basil withdrew, the eye wanders over the humid and leafy roof of the forest below. The place of rest, which he and his friend Gregory of Nazianzeu had long desired, is at length found. Tlie poetic and mythical allusion at the close of the letter falls on the Christian ear like an echo from another and earlier world. 13. Basil's Homilies on the llexaemeron also give evidence of his love of nature. He describes the mildness of the con- stantly clear nights uf Asia Minor, where, according to his expression, the stars, " those everlasting blossoms of heaven," elevate the soul from the visible to the invisible. 14. When in the myth of the Creation, he would praise the beauty of the sea, he describes the aspect of the boundless ocean-plain, in all its varied and ever-changing conditions, " gently moved by the breath of heaven, altering its hue as it reflects the beams of light in their whiter blue, or roseate hues, and caressing the shores in peaceful sport." We meet with the same sentimental and plaintive expressions regarding nature in the writings of Gregory of Nyssa, the brother of Basil the Great. 15. " When," he exclaims, " I see every ledge of rock, every valley and plain, covered with new-born verdure ; the varied beauty of the trees, and the lilies at my feet decked by nature with the double charms of perfume and of color ; when in the distance I see the ocean, toward which the clouds are onward borne, my spirit is overpowered by a sadness not wholly devoid of enjoyment. 16. " When in autumn, the fruits have passed away, the leaves have fallen, and the branches of the trees, dried and shrivelled, are robijed of their leafy adornments, we are in- stinctively led, amid the everlasting and regular change of nature, to feel the harmony of the Avondrous powers pervading all thf gs. He who contemplates them with the eye of the soul, feels the littleness of man amid the greatness of the Unive''se." 17. While the Greek Christians were led by their adoration of the Deity through the contemplation of his works, to a THE VIRGIN MARTYR. 157 poetic delineation of nature, they were at the same time, during the earlier ages of their new belief, and owing to the peculiar bent of their minds, full of contempt for all works of human art. Thus Chrysostom abounds in passages like the following : 18. " If the aspect of the colonnades of sumptuous buildings would lead thy spirit astray, look upward to the vault of heaven, and around theo on the open fields, in which herds graze by the water's side. Who does not despise all the crea- tions of art, when, in the stillness of his .jpirit, he watches with admiration the rising of the sun, as it pours its golden light over the face of the earth ; when, resting on the thick grass beside the murmuring spring, or beneath the sombre shade of a thick and leafy tree, the eye rests on the far-receding and haz^ distance ?" 19, Antioch was at that time surrounded by hermitages, in one of whioh lived Chrysostom. It seemed as if Eloquence had recovered her element— freedom— from the fount of nature in the mountain regions of Syria and Asia Minor, which were then covered with forests. 46. The Virgin Mabttr. MA88INOBR. Philip Massinoeb wa» born at Salisburv, a. d. 1584. The " Virdn Martyr," the first prhited of Maaxinj^er'H works, appeared in 1622 • but there can be little doubt that ho had written mnch before that period Ills hteniry career was a conntunt «trii>?gle, for fortune never smiled upon liun. Ills writings brcatlie a spirit iiicomparablv nobler and niaiilior than that of lis conteinporarieH (generally : they are wholly free from tlie servile political maxims, and, m a larjre measure, from the 'grave offences against religion and inorals with wliich the wtagc in his time abounded. Their nient consists less in the vigor witli wliieh they delineate passion than in tlioir dignity and refinement of »tyle, and tlie variety of tiieir versification, io wit they have no pretcnsionM, The place of execution. Antonlus, Theoplsiius, Dorothea, Ac. -^^^^ Sec, she conies ; — How sweet her innocence appears ! more like To Heaven itself than any sacrifice That can be offer'd to it. By my hopes Of joys hereafter, the sight makes me doubtful 158 ■I 'i : ' 'l {' ? ^ : I ■i! ■< i THE FOUIMII KEADER. In my belief ; nor can I think our gods Arc good, or to be served, that take delight In offerings of this kind ; that, to maintain Their power, deface this masterpiece of nature, Which they themselves come short of. She ascends, And every step raises her nearer heaven ! * * * ^ * She smiles, Unmoved, by Mars ! as if she were assured Death, looking on her constancy, would forget The use of his inevitable hand. Theo. Derided too I Dispatch, I say I ^^''' Thou fool I Ihou gloriest in having power to ravish A trifle from me I am weary of. What is this life to me ? Not worth a thought. Or, if it be esteem'd, 'tis that I lose it To win a better ; even thy malice serves To me but as a ladder to mount up To such a height of happiness, where I shall Look down with scorn on thee and on the world ; Where, circled with true pleasures, placed above' The reach of death or time, 'twill be my glory To think at what an easy price I bought it. There's a perpetual spring, perpetual youth ; No joint-benumbing cold, or scorching heat. Famine nor age, have any being there. Forget for shame your Tempe ; bury in Oblivion your foign'd Hesperian orchards :— The golden fruit, kept by the watchful dragon, Which did require a Hercules to get it, Compared with what grows in all plenty there, Deserves not to be named. The Power I serve Laughs at your happy Araby, or the Elysian shades ; for He hatli made his bowers Better, indeed, than you can fancy yours. * * * * « i QUEEN ELIZABETH OF HUNGARY. 159 Enter Angelo, in the AngeVs habit. Dor. Thou glorious minister of the Power I serve (For thou art more than mortal), is't for me, Poor sinner, thou art pleased awhile to leave Thy heavenly habitation, and vouchsafest. Though glorified, to take my servant's habit? For, put off thy divinity, so look'd My lovely Angelo. Angelo. Know, I am the same : And still the servant to your piety. Tour zealous prayers and pious deeds first won me (But 'twas by His command to whom you sent them) To guide your steps. I tried your charity, When, in a beggar's shape, you took me up, And clothed my naked limbs, and after fed. As you believed, my famished mouth. Learn all, By your example,- to look on the poor With gentle eyes ; for m such habitp "'^n Angels desire an alms. I never left )G)», Nor will I now ; for I am sent to carry Your pure and innocent soul to joys eternal, Your martyrdom once suffer'd. 46. Queen Elizabeth of Hungary. MONTALEMBERT. Count MoNTALEMBEnT is one of the most distinguished statesmen .and noblemen of France. He V\ cherished by every Catholic heart for his defence of Catholic principles, his opposition to godless education, and steady devotion to the interests of the Church. 1. Generosity to the poor, particularly that exercised by princes, was one of the most remarkable features of the age in which she lived ; but we perceive that in her, charity did not proceed from rank, still less from the desire of acquiring praises or purely human gratitude, but from an interior and heavenly inspiration. From her cradle, she could not bear the sight of a poor person without feeling her heart pierced with grief, and 11' n '! V'l iiS^^'i II.. k ■■■»''! I ' l^i:p? m 160 THE FOURTH READER. now that her husband had granted her full liberty in all that concerned the honor of God and the good of her neighbor, she unreservedly abandoned herself to her natural inclination to solace the suffering members of Christ. 2. This was her ruling thought each hour and moment : to the use of the poor she dedicated all that she retrenched from the superfluities usually required by her sex and rank. Yet, notwithstanding the resources which the charity of her husband placed at her disposal, she gave away so quickly all that she possessed, that it often happened that she would despoil her- self of her clothes in order to have the means of assisting the unfortunate. 3. Elizabeth loved to caiTy secretly to the poor, not alone money, but provisions and other matters which she destined for them. She went thus laden, by the winding and rugged paths that led from the castle to the city, and to cabins of the no''<5hboring valleys. 4. One day, when accompanied by one of her favorite maid- ens, as she descended by a rude little path (still pointed out), and carried under her mantle bread, meat, eggs, and other food to distribute to the poor, she suddenly encountered her husband, who was returning from hunting. Astonished to see her thus toiling on under the weight of her burden, he said to her, '* Let us see what you carry," and at the same time drew open the mantle which she held closely clasped to her bosom ; but beneath it were only red and white roses, the most beautiful he had ever seen — and this astonished him, as it was no longer the season of flowers, 5. Seeing that Elizabeth was troubled, he sought to console her by his caresses; but he ceased suddenly, on seeing over her head a luminous appearance in the form of a crucifix. He then desired her to continue her route without being disturbed by him, and he returned to Wartbourg, meditating with recollec- tion on what God did for her, and carrying with him one of these wonderful roses, which he preserved all his life, 6. At the spot where this meeting took place, he erected a pillar, surmounted by a cros3, to consecrate forever the remem- brance of that which he had seen hovering over the head of AGES OF FAITH. 161 his wife. Among the unfortanate who particularly attracted her compassion, those who occupied the greatest part in her heart were the lepers; the mysterious and special character of their malady rendered them, throughout the middle ages, objects of a solicitude and affection mingled with fear. 47. Ages of Faith. BY KENELM 11. DIGBT. Kenelm H. Digbt, in his " Compitum, or Meeting of the "Ways," and his " Mores Catholici, or Ages of Faith," devotes all the resources of his profound erudition to the middle ages. The latter work is one of the most remarkable literary productions of our times, for its varied learning, its deep, reverential tone, its sincere and fervent piety, and its noble ap- preciation of Catholic honor and Catholic lieroism. K. H. Digby is a na- tive of England. 1. In the third stage of this mortal course, if midway be the sixth, and on the joyful day which hears of the great crowd that no man could number, I found me in the cloister of an abbey, whither I had come to seek the grace of that high festival. The hour was day's decline ; and already had " Placebo Domino " been sung in solemn tones, to usher in the hours of special charity for those who are of the suffering Church. A harsh sound from the simultaneous closing of as many books, cased in oak and iron, as there were voices in that full choir, like a sudden thunder-erash, announced the end of that ghostly vesper. 2. The saintly men, one by one, slowly walked forth, each proceeding to his special exercise. Door then shutting after door gave long echoes, till all was mute stillness, and I was left alone, under cloistered arches, to meditate on the felicity of blessed spirits, and on the desire which presses both the living and the u mates of that region in which the soul is purged from sinful stain, to join their happy company. Still, methought I heard them sing of the bright and puissant angel ascending from the rising of the sun— and of the twelve times twelve thousand that were signed ; and of the redeemed from every nation and people and language ; and of the angels who stood around the throne of Heaven. :!! CJ IH. I •■' i -11,1 i ■■>" if i' ! *i. m I i 102 THE FOURTH READER. 3. It secmod now as if I heard a voice like that wliich said to Dante, "What thou heardst was sung that irefcly thou mightst open thy heart to the waters of pence, tiat fio^v dif- fused from their eternal fountain." What man is there so brutish and senseless to thini^s divine, as not to imre .- otne- . times experienced an interval like tluit which is described by him who sung of Paradise, to whom tho world appeared as if stretched far below hi:; feet, and who saw this globe— " So pitil'ul of Bcmblance, that perforce It moved his smiles ; and lii;a in truth dia hold For wisest, who t,.teeiiis it kunt— who'.e thoughts Elsf where are fix'd, him worthieta caU'd and best?" > ^. i3ut sooi! the strained sense will sink back to it— for the huma:; ::pir.t muKt [icrforce accomplish, in the first place, its exeroifcc it! tJiut school which is to prepare it for the home it anticipate, above. Yet I felt not discons.:>late nor forgetful of tlie bright vision. My thoughts were crtrvied backwards to ages which the muse of history had taught, me long to love ; for it was in obscure and lowly middle-time of saintly annals that multitudes of these bright spirits took thtir flight from a dark world to the Heavens. 6. The middle ages, then, I said, were ages of highest grace to men— ages of faith— ages when all Europe was Catholic ; when vast temples were seen to rise in every place of human concourse, to give glory to God, and to exalt men's souls to sanctity ; when houses of holy peace and order were found amidst woods and desolate mountains — on the banks of placid lakes, as well as on the sohtary rocks in the ocean • ages of sanctity which witnessed a Bede, an Alcuin, a Ber- nard, a Francis, and crowds who followed them as they did Christ ; ages of vast and beneficent intelligence, in which it pleased the Holy Spirit to display the power of the seven gifts in the lives of an Anselm, a Thomas of Aquinum, and the saintly flocks whose steps a cloister guarded : ages of the highest civil virtue, which gave birth to the :avvs and institu- tions of an Edward, a Lewis, a Suger ; agts of the noblest ' Gary's Dante. AG lis OF FAITH. 168 art, which beheld a Giotto, a Michael Angelo, a Raffaelo, a Dominichino ; ages of poetry, wldch heard an Avitus, a Caed- inon, a Dautc, a Shakspeare, a Caklerou ; ages of more than mortal heroism, which produced a Tancred and a Godfrey ; ages of majesty, which knew a Charlemagne, an Alfred, and tiie sainted youth who bore the lily ; ages, too, of England's glory, when she appears, not even excluding a comparison with the Eastern empire, as the most truly civilized country on the globe ; when the sovereign of the greater portion of the western world apphed to her schools for instructors— when she sends forth her saints to evangelize the nations of the north, and to diffuse spiritual treasure over the whole world— when heroes flock to her court to behold the models of reproachless chivalry, and emperors leave their thrones to adore God at the tombs of her martyrs ! as Dante says, " No tongue So vast a theme could equal, speech and thought Both impotent alike." 6. In a little work which embodied the reflections, the hopes, and even the joys of youthful prime, I once attempted to survey the middle ages in relation to chivalry ; and though m this we had occasion to visit the cloister, and to hear as a stranger who tarries but a night, the counsels of the wise and holy, we were never able to regard the house of peace as our home ; we were soon called away from it to return to the world and to the courts of its princes. Now I propose to commence a course more peaceful and unpretending, for it only supposes that one has left the world, and withdrawn from these vain phantoms of honor and glory, which distract so often the morning of man's day. Thus we read that in youth many have left the cloister, dazzled by the pomp and circumstance of a wild, delusive chivalry, who, after a little while, have hastened back to it, moved by a sense of earthlv vanity ; there ^ " To finisli the short pilgrimage of life, Still speeding to its close on restless wing.» ' Dante, Purg. 20. m '! .11 ijii!:*^ 164 THE FOURTH READER. 1. Yes, all is vanity but to love and serve God 1 Men have found by long experience that nothing but divine love can satisfy that restless craving which ever holds the soul, " finding no food on earth ;" that every beauty, every treas- ure, every joy, must, by the law which rules contingency, van- ish like a dream : and that there will remain for every man, sooner or later, the gloom of dark and chaotic night, if he is not provided with a lamp of faith. Those men who, reason- ing, went to depth profouudest, came to the same conclusion ; they found that the labors of the learned, and the visions of the poet, were not of their own nature different in this respect from the pleasures of sense : •' 'Tis darkness all : or shadow of the flesh, Or else its poison." 48. Ages op Faith — continued, 1. This was their experience. That labor of the mind, or that fond ideal ecstasy, did not necessarily secure the one thing needful— the love of Jesus. In a vast number of instances it led to no substantial good : its object was soon forgotten, or the mind recurred to the performance with a senr,c of its im- perfections. 2, Still the heart cried. Something more! What, said they, can be given to it? What will content it? Fresh labor? fresh objects ? Ah! they had already begun to sus- pect how little all this would avail; for, in hearkening to "the saintly soul, that shows the world's deceitfulness to all who hear hun," they had learned to know that it might in- deed be given to their weakness to feel the cruel discord, but not to set it right— to know that it was but a vain, delusive motive which would excite them to exertion from a desire of pleasing men ; for men pass rapidly with the changing scene of life, and the poor youth, who,, mistaking the true end of human labor, had fondly reckoned upon long interchange of true end of AGES OF FAITH. IQ$ respect and friendship, at the moment when his hopes are brightest and his aflFections warmed into ecstasy, waliens sud- denly from his sweet protracted dream, and finds himself with- out honor, without love, without even a remembrance, and virtually in as great solitude as if he were already in his grave I 3. Well might they shudder at the thought of this eternal chilliness, this spiritual isolation, this bitter and unholy state 1 Truly it was fearful, and something too much for tears 1 Sweet Jesus, how different would have been then- state, if they had sought only to love and serve thee ! for thy love alone can give rest and comfort to the heart— a sure and last- ing joy:— Other good There is, where man finds not his happiness ; It is not true fruition ; not that blest Essence of every good, the branch and root. 4. Changed, then, be the way and object of our research, and let the converse to that which formerly took place hold respecting our employment here ; and if we shall again meet with knights and the world's chivalry, let it be only in the way of accident, and, as it were, from the visit of those who pass near our spot of shelter ; and let our place of rest hence- forth be in the forest and the cell. 5. Times there are, when even the least wise can seize a constant truth — that the heart must be devoted either all to the world, or all to God. When they, too, will pray, and make supplications urged with weeping, that the latter may be their condition in the mortal hour, that they may secure the rest of the saints for eternity. 6. Returning to that cloisteral meditation, how many, thought I, throughout the whole world, have heard this day the grounds and consummation of the saints' felicity 1 how many have been summoned onward, and told the steps were near, and that now the ascent might be without difficulty gained ? and yet, "A scanty few are they, who, when they hear Such tidings, hasten. Oh, ye race of men I • ■. Ui ilf [i; hii! m m liF HI cj 166 THE FOURTH READER. Thouifh born to soar, why euflFcr ve a wind So Hlight to baffle yof t. But for o; <■ wli- seemed to f^el how sweet was that solemn accetit, eig-ht Litjues s»;ng, which tauj^ht them who were blessed, would it not be well, when left alone, and without distraction, if they were to take up histories, and survey the course which has been trod by saintly feet, and mark, as if from the soul-purifying mount, tho ways and works of men on earth, keeping their eyes \^ Lxi nxea observance i)ent upon the symbol there convoyed, so as to mark how far the form and act? of that life, in ages past, of which there are still so many monuments around them, agreed, not with this or that modern standard of political and social happiness and gran- deur, but with what, by Heaven's sufferance, gives title to divine and everlasting beatitude ? 8. Such a view would present a varied and immense hori- zon, comprising the manners, institutions, and spirit of many generations of men long sincu> gone by. We should see in what manner the whole type and form of life wer' ^^'ii^-istian, although its detail may have often been broken and disordered • for insta: 30, how the pursuits of the learned, the eonsolatiop<' of the poor, the riches of the Church, the exercises and dis- positions of the youug, and the common hope and consolation of all men, ha rmoaized with the character ui those that sought to be poor in spirit. 9. How, ap-ain, tho principl of obedience, the Constitution of the Churc. ^he u.nsion . ministi ^tion, and the rule of government, the manners and institutions of society, agreed with meekness and inherited its recomppr-se. Further, how the sufferings ot just men, and the provisions for a peniteii'ial spirit were in accordance with the state of those that were o mourn and weep there. 10. How the character T mev m sacred orders, thu zeal . . the laity, and the lives of XL i ks, denoted t le hunger r. i thirst after justice. Again, how the institutio , the founda- tions, and the recognized principle of perfection, proclaimed ' Dante, Purad. 12. Carey's translation. THE SHEPilEEij's BONO. 167 et was that a who were nd without survey the mark, us if I of meu on it upon the 16 form and ire still so ;his or that and gran- es title to aense hori- it of many »uld see in Ciidstian, lisordered ; ^nsolatior IS and dis- ionsolation liat sought :>nstitution he rule of ity, agreed rther, how penitential at were o the zeal lx unger n^d lie luunda- )roclaimed men merciful Moreover, how the philosophy which prevailed, mid the spiritual monuments which were raised by piety and genius, evinced the clean of heart. 11. Still further, how the union of nations, and the bond of peace which existed even amid savage discord, wars, and confusion ; as also, how the holy retreats for innocence, which then everywhere abounded, marked the multitude of pacific men. And, finally, how the advantage taken of dire events, and the acts of saintly and heroic fame, revealed the spirit wliich shunned not suflering for sake of justice. 49. TriE •oiiEriiEED's Song. TA880. ToKQUATo Tab8o— an Italian poet of the Bixtcenth century. He wrote much, but his '_' Jerusalem Delivered " gained him the greatest renown ; dnrins: his life it excited universal favor, and has ever since been iustly rc;,'arded as one of the great poems of the world. " Jerusalem Delivered " is a history of the crusades, related with poetic license. Cleniei'" Vlll. invited Tasso to Komo, that lie might receive the laurel cro" I— !i I honor which had not been conferred upon any one since the days :' i -trarch. But scarcely was the day of coronation about to dawn when tlik poet felt his dissolution approaching. lie requested liberty ' ' retire to the moiut-tery of St. Ouotrio. On hearing that his Inst hour vaa nenr, he joyfully returned thanks to God for having brought him to so socnrn ' avcn A few days before his death, one of the monks sought to raise -'irlt by sneaking to him of the triumphal honors preparing for him ai 'apitol. x -so replied—" Glory, glory, nothing but glory. Two idols have reii d in my heart and decicled my life — love and thiit vapor yon call glorv. The one has always betrayed me; the other, after ll.eing nie for forty .years, is ready to-day to crown— what ?— a corpse. Laurels for Tasso ! 1 1 is a winding sheet he requires ! I feel too well to-day that on tJirth nil isyanity, all but to love and serve God. But," he added, as his head si.uk "II Ills breast, "all the rest ■ not worth a quarter of an h^'ir's trouble." On receiving a plenary iim^.^-once from the Pope, he si -"Tlr.H was till! eliariot on which he hopeil t ^ go crowiu'd, not witli laurel as v into t!u! (.'iijiitol, but with glory, saint, to Heaven." Feeling :. > uiortal agony ut hand, he closely em > ccd the crucifix, • nd murmuriog, "Into tiiy Ijands, O Lord!" pt. •■■efuli^ resiirned his spirit. 1. Safe stands our simple hed, despised our little store ; Despised by otiier«, i it so dear to mt Thai gems and crowns I hold in h9< esteem ; From pride, from varice, is my s^ rit free, And mad ambiti n'p visi nary d im. My thirst I no 'i in the nellucui stream, 108 TIIK KOUKTH HKADRR. i'lli T^ m Xor ft'ttr lost poiKon the puro wave pollutes ; With flockH my lloltls, my IIcIiIh with herbage teem ; My pirtlon-plot HiipplicH mitritioiiH rootH ; And my brown orcharil bends wi(h Autumn's wealthiest IVultH. 2. Few lire our wisheN, few our wantH ; man needs But little to preserve the vital spark : Those are my sons ; they kfrp the flock that feeds, An«l rise in the ^ray morning with the lark. Thus in my hermitage I live ; now mark The goats disport amid the budding brooms ; Now the slim stags bound through the forest dark ; The lish glide by, the bees hum round the blooms ; And the birds spread to heaven tho splendor of their plumes 8. Time was (these gray hairs then were golden locks), When other wishes wanton'd in my veins ; I scornM tho simple charge cf tending flocks, Ami Hed disgusted from my native plains. Awhile in Memphis I abode, where reigns ^ Tho mighty Caliph ; ho admired my port, And made mo keeper of his flower-domains ; And though to town I rarely made resort, Much have I seen and known of the intrigues of court. 4. Long by prcsumptuoua hopes was I beguiled, And many, many a disappointment bore ; But when with youth false hope no longer smiled, And the scene pall'd that charm'd so much before, — I sigh'd for my lost peace, and brooded o'er Tho abandoned quiet of this humble shed ; Then farewell State's proud palaces 1 once more To these delightful solitudes I fled ; And in their peaceful shades harmonious days have led. BISHOP nRixfe. 169 >ugo toom ; nn's wcalthiiMt eoda ,t fceda, rk. Test (lark 5 looms ; [)f their plnraeii n locks), ts; 3s of court. miled, !h before, — 'er e more ^s have led. BO. Eiairop Brut£. n A. Y L K Y . N. w York, on il,., li I -T" S. ,Ht isi ' i.f '"^1 "'^ ^e^mrk wnn l,orn in S.J., at Unnw, April y.), 1ki" , ' 4 ' '.fZ ^'''1 ^'r:; '^V'^'^ KMn..i„l„, i" N"w York. It, ,„„y Im M, ;' ,i f' ° '"«l«''y '•' tlio Cutholic Church '" ^'- -'"»t.7 o a ;o;.vorVtoX; lil.ul'/J'iol'hnroll:" """"" «' ^''-"'y <^!^^^^A'!i: ^111:^11^ «-vcrc„a 8..on W«. 1. IlK t„n,c,I from it (tl.o me.li.al profosHJon), only because I- hud luKhor and more important objects t Zv }Z .oven t ousand classmates in medicine, lold him tha it was .•asy to hnd physicians for the body, but the Revolution iTad -ule It more d.fiicult to find physicians for the sou of m 'o lor ten years the houses of religious education and s m" ^ nos had been shut up. The guillotine, and prisons aid pnvat.ons of exile, had spared but a comparardy'sril number of the former clergy, and of these man^y we c occried 111 foreign missions. ' ""-cupaa I'lcty, mid the almost outire privation of all spiritual succor 111 to thou: religion, and a nciv supply of Lcvitcs to fin fh„ place, of those who bad perished 7as call" fo'rl" , ° .lie. One of the Drst matters to which the new bishoZ turned heir attention, was the rc^estal.lishmcnt of Cce"!^ Seiniiianes, m order to provide for these pressing want totr T ■""■" *.''' '^'■■'='™«*"™'"' which induced Mr Brutd to seeli admission into thi sunctuarv Rneh „ ^.. • .• could surprise no one who to w Z'' Hituoktr '"" tl^ world, had already been a 7rop.f^Zt ' Tt'l dfent time, it would probably have been hiffi si cWce and havmo- oho,<3Pn if no"' hp ~«— . ^ - ^f ^ -, '"»'' i-noice, "' "'''•' "^ Bavc uimself wholly to the work. 170 THE FOURTH READER. Ill:';ii .,.,1 : , I: I Hill He always studied with his pen in his hand, and his manu- scripts again mark the exactness and extent of his new studies. Theology was a science for which his mind was admirably fitted. lie loved his religion, and it evidently became his delight thoroughly to explore the very foundations of it. 4. In note books, made at this time, each subject is devel- oped and illustrated, as if his place had been that of a teach- er, instead of a scholar. Bishop Brute was never a surface student, but now he became, emphatically, a foundation one. The workp of the fathers of the Church, the acts and canons of her councils, as marking her tradition, were carefully studied by him. From this time until the end of his life, every thing that he read or studied was with this view. 5. His voluminous memoranda show how carefully he recorded every thing which might serve to defend or illustrate the truth, or to expose and confute error. He made the principles of the various sects his careful study, after he came to this country, and could have written a philosophical history of them, if he had seen fit. No one ever made a more faithful and exact use of every moment of his time. He never was idle, and as a consequence of this, his tenacious memory enabled him to bring forth from the treasure-house of his mind, things new and old. 61. Loss AND GaIiST. DR. NEWMAN. John Henry Newman, D.D., superior of the Oratory in England, born 21st February, 1801. In 1845 lie became n convert to the Catholic faith, and was ordained priest in Koine, May 26, 1847. He was appointed lirst rector of the Catholic University of Ireland, which office he filled for sev- eral years. Dr. Newman is undoubtedly one of the leading minds of tho present century. Ills English style is unrivalled in any a« fo^ that Tost hfa s to have tact it requires very delicate tact. There are so e dorn^r ^ ™V*" '^^ *'"'"' I"nrsclf other le great gift rourself, and •cason, your md usage of L'h a matter, the circum- '. declare, to knees, and ig is so con- ,s the Mass, forever, and it is a great 1. It is not 1, the evoca- i\V- r in flesh LOSS AND GAIN. 1Y3 and blood, before whom angels bow and devils tremble This IS that awful event which is the end, and is the interpretation ot every part of the solemnity. ' 9. " Words are necessary but as means, not as ends • they arc not mere addresses to the throne of grace, they are in- strumcnts of what is far higher-of consecration, ot sacrifice rhcy hurry on as if impatient to fulfil their mission. Quickly they go, the whole is quick; for they are all parts of one in- tegral action. Quickly they go; for they are awful words of sacrifice, they arc a work too grear, to delay upon; as when It was said in the beginning, ' What thou doest, do quickly ' Quickly they pass; for the Lord Jesus goes with them, as He passed along the lake in the days of His flesh, quickly calling first one and then another. 10. "Quickly they pass; because as the lightning which shineth from one part of the heaven unto the other, so is the coming of the Son of Man. Quickly they pass ; for they are as the words of Moses, when the Lord came down in a cloud calling on the Name of the Lord as He passed by, 'The Lord the Lord God, merciful and gracious, long sufl-ering, and abun- dant in goodness and truth.' And as Lueses on the mountain so we too, 'make haste and bow our heads to the earth and adore. So we, all around, each in his place, look out for the groat Advent, ' waiting for the moving of the water.' 11. "Each in his place, with his own heart, with his own wants, with his own thoughts, with his own intentions, with I'ls own prayers, separate but concordant, watching what is going on watching its progress, uniting in its consummation ; not i)ainfully and hopelessly following a hard form of prayed froni beginning to end, but like a concert of musical instru- ments, each diff-erent, but concurring in a sweet harmony, w« take our part with God's priest, supporting him, yet guided by 12. "There are little children there, and old men, and simple laborers, and students in seminaries, priests preparing for mass, priests making their thanksgiving ; there are innocen" maidens and there are penitents ; but out of those many minds rises ^ne Gucianstic hymn, and the great Action is the measure and m m'd h«i 174 THE FOURTH READER. the scope of it. And oh, my dear Bateman," he added, turn- ing to him, "you ask me whether this is not a formal, un- reasonable service ? It is wonderful 1" he cried, rising up, " quite wonderful. When will ^hese dear good people be en- lightened ? O Wisdom, strongly and sweetly disposing all things ! O Adonai ! Key of David, and Expectation of nations — come and save us, O Lord our God 1" 13. Now, at least, there was no mistaking Willis. Bateman started, and was ahnost frightened at a burst of enthusiasm which he had been far from expecting. " Why, Willis," he said, " it is not true, then, after all, what we heard, that you were somewhat dubious, shaky, in your adherence to Roman- ism ? I'm sure I beg your pardon ; I would not for the world have annoyed you, had I known the truth." Willis's face still glowed, ar d he looked as youthful and radiant as he had been two years before. 14. There was nothing ungentle in his impetuosity ; a smile, almost a laugh, was on his face, as if he was half ashamed of his own warmth ; but this took nothing from its evident sincerity. He seized Bateman's two hands, before the latter knew where he was, lifted him up out of his seat, and raising his own mouth close to his ear, said in a low YOh'A., " I would to God, that not only thou, but also all who hear me this day, were both in little and in much such as J am, except these chains." Then, reminding hun it had grown late, and bidding him good-night, he left the room with Charles. 15. Bateman remained awhile with his back to the fire after the door had closed ; presently he began to give expression to his thoughts. " Well," he said, " he's a brick, a regular brick ; he has almost affected me myself. What a way those fellows have with them I I declare his touch has made my heaii beat ; how catching enthusiasm is 1 Any one but I might really have been unsettled. He is a real good fellow ; what a pity vve have not got him ! he's just the sort of man we want. He''^ make a splendid Anglican ; he'd convert half the dissenters in the country. Well, we shall have them in time ; we must not bo impatient. But the idea of his talkinsr 1^^ I i i ': fl ADVICE TO A YOUNG CEI'nC. 175 of converting me! 'in little and in much/ as he worded it ! By the by, what did he mean by ' except these chains V " 16. He sat ruminating on the difficulty; at first he was inclinod to think that, after all, he might have some misgiv- ings about his position; then he thought that perhaps he had a hair shirt or a catenella on him; and lastly, he came to the conclusion that he had just meant nothing at all, and did but finish the quotation he had begun. After passing some little time in this state, he looked towards the tea-tray; poured himself out another cup of tea; ate a bit of toast; took the coals off the fire; blew out one of the candles, and taking up the other, left the parlor, and wound like an omnibus up the steep twisting staircase to his bedroom. 52. Advice to a Young Ceitic. POPE. Alexander Popk will aUvaj's be popular while the English laiiffua^e remains as it is One of his merits was to niouM the Xixnaxxma of poetry into pliancy and softness :— before his time there was much ni.rrredness iiui the diction even of the most celebrated poets. Some of his pieces are re- pulsive to tlie sentiments of religion and morals. lie died in 1744. 1. 'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning join; In all you speak, let truth and candor shine ; That not alone what to your sense is due All may allow, but seek your friendship too. Be silent always, when you doubt your sense. And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence. 2. Some positive, persisting fops we know, Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so : But you, with pleasure, own your errors past, And make cfich day a critic on the last. 'Tis not ''noudi your counsel to be true : Blunt truths more mischief than slight errors do Men must bo taught, as if you taught them not, And things unknown proposed, as things forgot'. 176 THE FOURTH READER. ■i; II r tt , 3. Without good breeding truth is disapproved j That only makes superior sense beloved. Be niggard of advice on no pretence ; For the worst avarice is that of sense. With mean complacence ne'er betray your trust, Nor be so civil as to prove unjust. Fear not the anger of the wise to raise • Those best can bear reproof, who merit praise. 4. But Where's the man who counsel can bestow, Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know • Unbiass'd, or by favor, or by spite ; . ' Not dully prepossess'd, nor blindly right ; Though learn'd, well-bred; and, though well-bred, sincere • Modestly bold, and humanly severe ; * Who to a friend his faults can freely show. And gladly praise the merit of a foe ? 5. Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfined • A knowledge both of books and human kind ; Generous converse, a soul exempt from pride,' And love to praise with reason on his side ; ' Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame ; ' Still pleased to praise, yet not afraid to blame • Averse alike to flatter or offend ; ' Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend ? 53. God's Share. Mcleod. 1. At the distance of some leagues from Fribourg » the ancient county of Gruyere, lived, in the good old ti«e, the excellent Count Peter III.; and when his race was ruL he '•'S &' THE LAST HOURS OF LOUIS XVI. 177 departed this life in a good Cliristian manner, leaving his memory and his property to his widow Wilhelmette. 2. The lady Wilhelmette had, in her province, a certain mountam, fruitful in snows and torrents, very grand to look at, but very unproductive. To this she joined some acres of good pasture-land, and gave it all to the Carthusians, asking them to pray for her, for her young son, and for good Count Peter the departed. To it she gave the name of Theil-Qottes or Pars-Dieu—thQ share of God ; and got Bochard, monk of Val Saint, appointed the first Prior. 3. The monks went stoutly to work ; they cleared the forest, they terraced parts of the mountain-side, they brought soil thither with much labor, and sowed abundantly, and planted. And soon the voice of prayer made sweet the soli- tudes, and alms were ready for the wandering poor ; and the cross upon the tower and the mellow bell told the poor moun- taineer that God was beside him. 4. Little by little, the people gathered round and built their humble houses there ; and the wilderness smiled, and there was another tu->e of torrents won from rough Nature for a house of prayer. ^Jhis was in a. d. 1308. In the year 1800, the ancient convent was burned down; but the monks con- trived to build it up again, witlua:; diminishing their alms. And so it stood until that m^,ian r, ^'1 178 THE FOURTH READEE. 1. His last interview with his family presented the most heart-rending scene. At half-past eight, the door of his apartment opened, and the Queen appeared, leading by the hand the Princess Royal, and the Princess Elizabeth; they all rushed into the arms of the King. A profound silence ensued for some minutes, broken only by the sobs of the afflicted family. 2. The King took a seat, the Queen on his left, the Prin- cess Royal on his right, Madame Elizabeth in front, and the young Dauphin between his knees. This terrible scene lasted nearly two hours, the tears and lamentations of the royal family, frequently interrupting the words of the King, suffi- ciently evinced that he himself, was communicating the intelli- gence of his condemnation. At length, at a quarter-past ten, Louis arose; the Royal parents gave, each of them, their blessing to the Dauphin, while the Princess still held the King embraced around the waist. As he approached the door, they uttered the most piercing shrieks. " I assure you," said he, "I will see you again in the morning at eight o'clock." " Why not at seven ?" they all exclaimed. " Well, then, at seven," answered the King. "Adieu, adieu I" 3. These words were pronounced with so mournful an accent, that the lamentations of the family were redoubled, and the Princess Royal fell fainting at his feet. At length, wishing to put an end to so trying a scene, the King embraced them all in the tenderest manner, and tore himself from their arm,>. 4, The remainder of the evening he spent with his confes- sor, the Abbe Edgeworth, who, with heroic devotion, dis- charged the perilous duty of assisting his monarch in his last moments. At twelve he went to bed, and slept peacefully till five. He then gave his last instruction to Clery, and put into his hands, the little property that still remained in his hands, a ring, a seal, and a lock of hair. " Give this ring," said he, " to the Queen, and tell her with how much regret I leave her; give her also the locket containing the hair of my chil- dren; give this seal to the Dauphin, and tell them all what I suffer at dyinff without receiving their last embrace but I TUE DEATH OF LOUIS XVI. 179 sentcd the most he door of his , leading by the izabeth ; they all nd silence ensued of the afflicted is left, the Prin- n front, and the ible scene lasted IS of the royal the King, suffi- ating the intelli- ^uarter-past ten, of them, their 8 still held the approached the " I assure you," )rning at eight aimed. "Well, , adieu!" o mournful an vere redoubled, }t. At length. King embraced nself from their with his confes- ! devotion, dis- larch in his last )t peacefully till ry, and put into id in his hands, i ring," said he, regret I leave lair of my chil- ;hem all what I JTYihrn.pp hnt, T E ■ wish to spare them the pain of so cruel a separation." Ho then received the Holy Sacrament, from the hands of his confes- sor, from a small i. ^. v erected in his chamber, and heard the last service of the dying, at the time when the rolling of the drums, and the agitation in the streets, announced the prepa- ration for his execution. 5. At nine o'clock, Santerre presented himself in the Tem- ple. " You come to seek me," said the King. " Allow me a minute." He went into his closet, and immediately return- ed with his Testament in his hand. " I pray you," said he, "give this packet to the Queen, my wife." "That is no concern of mine," replied the representative of the municipali- ty. " I am here only to conduct you to the scaffold." The King then asked another to take charge of the document, and said to Santerre, "Let us be off*." In passing through the court of the Temple, Louis cast a last look at the tower which contained all that was most dear to him on earth, and immediately summoning all his courage, seated himself calmly in the carriage beside his oonfossor, with two gendarmes ou the opposite side. During the passage to the place of execu- tion, which occupied two hours, he never failed reciting the psalms which were pointed out to him by the good priest. Even the soldiers were astonished at his composure. 6. The streets were filled with an immense crowd, who be- held in silent dismay the mournful procession. A large body of troops surrounded the carriage. A double file of National Guards, and a formidable array of cannon, rendered hopeless any attempts at rescue. When the procession arrived at the place of execution, between the gardens of the Tuileries and tlie Champs Elysees, he descended from the carriage, and un- dressed himself without the aid of the executioners, but testi- fied a momentary look of indignation, when they began to bind his hands. M. Edgeworth exclaimed with almost in- spired felicity, " Submit to this outiage as the last resem- blance to the Saviour, wlio is about to recompense your suf- ferings." 1. At these words, he resigned himself, and walked to the foot of the ^caflFold. Here ho received that sublime ben; die- mil M',* (+.' j mm \\ \ iBm ■ •' IXli 1 180 THE FOURTH EEADEK. tion of his confessor, " Son of St. Louis, ascend to heav- enl" He no sooner mounted, than advaiu ug -.vith a firm stop to the front of the scaffold, with one lOok > imposed silence on twenty drummers, placed there to prevent him from being heard, and said with a loud voice: "I die innocent of all crimes laid to my charge. 1 pardon tho authors of my death, and pray God that my blood may not fall upon France. And you, my people—" At these words, Santtrre ordered the drums to beat; the executioners seized the K ng, and the descending axe terminated his existence. One of . he assist- ants seized the head, and waved it in the air; the blood fell on the heroic confessor, who was on his kuees by the lifeless body of his sovereign. 65. Old TiiiEs. GRIFFIN, Qkrkiz CrBirFiN, a distinguished nov( list and dramatist of the present century, wii>< bora near Limerick, in 180S. At an early age, when his tulenta vere vfwm-ng him fame and popularity in London, whither he had repaired' iS lie j: .f.ai-stutly expresses It in one of his letters, " with the modest desire of ntiquarum research. Ills tragedy of" Gysvp- pus "holds one ot the first places in the modern drama. As a poet tiri'thn waa also eminently successful. ' 1 . Old times I old times I the gay old times I When I was young and free, And heard the merry Easter chimes, Under the sally tree ; My Sunday palm beside me placed, My cross upon my hand, A heart at rest within my breast, And sunshine on the land ! Old times ! old times ! \ end to heav- with a firm k ^ imposed ent him Irom ie iiinoceni of ithors of my upon France, terre ordered ung, and the )f the assist- le blood fell •V the lifeless of the present ■hen his tulenta e had repaired, lodcHt desire of suddenly with- 3r of the Chris- it the early ao:o igians," " Siiil les," are equal novel of 'The dyofGysyp. a poet, GriHin iSl I .J OLD TIMES. 2. It is not tuat my fortunes flee, Nor that iny cheek is pale, I mourn whene'er I think of thee, My '^arling native vale ! A wiser head I hnve, I know. Than when I ioiter'd thcr' ; But in my wisdom there is woe. And in my knowledge care, Old times! ol '" 3. T've lived to know my shi ^jy, To feel my share of paiu To learn that friendship's can cloy, To love, and love in vain — To feel a pang and wear a smile, To tire of other climes, To like my own unhappy isle, And sing the . ly old times I Old times 1 old t'lit-s ! 4. And sure the land is nothing changed, The birds are singing still ; The flowers are springing where we ranged, There's sunshine on the hill ; The sally waving o'er my head, Still sweetly shades my frame, But ah, those happy dnvs are fled, And I am not the p ,ie I Old time , 1 old times I 6 Oh, come again, merry times ! Sweet, sunny, fresh, and calm ; And let me hear those Easter chimes. And wear my Sunday palm. If I could cry away mine eyes. My tears would flow in vain ; If I could waste my heart in sighs. They'll never come again I Old times I old times I 181 i m IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1.25 tarn ISO "^ 12.5 2.2 IZO IIM IIIIIM Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 \ V •S5^ v\ ^ ''i^ !>' 183 THE FOUETH READER. 66. Chaeacjter of the Irish Peasantry. BARRINGTON. » Sir Jonah Barhington was born 5n Qucen'H county, Ireland in 17(57 • died, 1834. He was a Judge of the Court of Admiralty, and a member of the Irish Parliament. He has left behind a valuable work on a most inter- esting period of Irish history, entitled " Kiao and Fall of the Irish Nation '•' Uia / ersonai Sketches of the men of his times are inimitable in their way. 1. The Irish people have been as little known, as they have been grossly defamed, to the rest of Europe. The lengths to which English nrriters have proceeded in pursuit of this object would surpass all belief, were not the facts proved by histories written under the immediate eye and sanction of Irish govern- ments ; histories replete with falsehood, which, combined with the still more mischievous misrepresentations of modern writers, form all together a mass of the most cruel calumnies that ever weighed down the character of a meritorious people. 2. This system, however, was not without its meaning. From the reign of Elizabeth, the policy of England has been to keep Ireland in a state of internal division : perfect unanim- ity among her inhabitants has been considered as likely to give her a population and a power incompatible with subjection ; and there are not wanting natives of Ireland, who, impressed with that erroneous idea, zealously plunge into the same doc- trine, as if they would best prove their loyalty to the king by vilifying their country. 3. The Irish peasantry, who necessarily compose the great body of the population, combine in their character many of those lingular and repugnant qualities which peculiarly desig- nate the people of diflferent nations ; and this remarkable con- trariety of characteristic traits pervades almost the whole current of their natural dispositions. Laborious, domestic, accustomed to want in the midst of plenty, they submit to hardships without repining, and bear the severest privations with stoic fortitude. The sharpest wit, and the shrewdest subtiiity, which abound in the character of the Irish peasant, generally lie concealed under the semblance of dulness, or the appearance of simplicity ; and his language, replete with the cHAEAcrraK of the irish peasantby. 183 keenest humor, possesses an idiom of equiyocation, which never fails successfully to evade a direct answer to an unwelcome question. 4. Inquisitive, artful, and penetrating, the Irish peasant learns mankind without extensive intercourse, and has an in- stinctive knowledge of the world, ifithout mingling in its societies ; and never, in any other instance, did there exist a people who could display so much address and so much talent in the ordinary transactions of life as the Irish peasantry. 5. The Irish peasant has, at all periods, been peculiarly distinguished for unbounded but indiscriminate hospitality, which, though naturally devoted to the necessities of a friend, is never denied by him even to the distresses of an enemy.* To be in want or misery, is the best recommendation to his disinterested protection ; his food, his bed, his raiment, are equally the stranger's and his own ; and the deeper the distress, the more welcome is the sufferer to the peasant's cottage. 6. His attachment to his kindred are of the strongest na- ture. Tiie social duties are intimately blended with the natural disposition of an Irish peasant : though covered with rags, oppressed with poverty, and perhaps with hunger, the finest specimens of generosity and heroism are to be found in his unequalled character. 7. An enthusiastic attachment to the place of their nativity is another striking trait of the Irish character, which neither time nor absence, prosperity nor adversity, can obliterate or diminish. Wherever an Irish peasant was born, there he wishes to die ; and, however successful in acquiring wealth or rank in distant places, he returns with fond affection to renew his intercourse with the friends and companions of his youth and his obscurity. « It has been icmarked that the English and Irish people form their judgment of strangers very differently:— an Englishman suspects a stranger to b3 a rogue, till he finds that he is an honest man ; the Irishman conceives every person to be an honest man till he finds him out to be a rogue ; and this accounts for the very sUriky^ difference /jf^^,'' in their conduct and hosDit-alitv to stranffers. _jfv / A.^^j-.^^^/-fZ^i^ lospit-ft! y/'^-tr ■-^r. 184 THE FOURTH READER. 8. An innate spirit of insubordination to the laws has been strongly charged upon the Irish peasantry: but a people to whom the punishment of crimes appears rather as a sacrifice to revenge than a measure of prevention, can never have the same deference to the law as those who are instructed in the principles of justice, and taught to recognize its equality. It has, however, been uniformly admitted by every unpartial writer on the affairs of Ireland, that a spirit of strict justice has ever characterized the Irish peasant.* 9. Convince him by plain and impartial reasoning, that he is wrong ; and he withdraws from the judgment-seat, if not with cheerfulness, at least with submission : but, to make him respect the laws, he must be satisfied that they are impartial ; and, with that conviction on his mind, the Irish peasant is as perfectly tractable as the native of any other country in the world. 10. An attachment to, and a respect for females, is another characteristic of the Irish peasant. The wife partakes of all her husband's vicissitudes ; she shares his labor and his mis- eries, with constancy and with affection. At all the sports and meetings of the Irish peasantry, the women are always of the company : they have a great influence ; and, in his smoky cottage, the Irish peasant, surrounded by his family, seems to forget all his privations. The natural cheerfulness of his dis- position banishes reflection; and he experiences a simple happiness, which even the highest ranks of society might justly envy. o Sir John Davis, attorney-general of Ireland, who, In the reign of James the First, was employed by the king to establish the English laws throughout Ireland, and who made himself perfectly acquainted with the character of the inhabitants, admits that " there were no people under heaven, who loved equal and impartial justice better than the Irish." ST. FBAMCES OF SOME. 185 67. St. Frances of Rome. LADY FULLERTON. Lady 6. Fullkrton— Bom in England, :n 1812. Sho is a convert to the Catholic faith, nnd a writer of considerublo merit, ller "Ellen Middlo- ton " and " Grantlv Manor" were written previous to her conversion. Her "Lady Bird," ana her beautiful "Life of St. Frances of Kome," are the works of a later period, and bear the unmistakable stamp of faith-inspired genius. 1. There have been saints whose histories strike us as par- ticularly beaatifal, not only as possessing the beauty which always belongs to sanctity, whether exhibited in an aged servant of God, who for threescore years and more has borne the heat and burden of the day, or in the youth who has of- fered up the morning of his life to his Maker, and yielded it into His hands before twenty summers have passed over his head ; whether in a warrior king like St. Louis, or a beggar like Benedict LaLi'6, or a r07.1l lady like St. Elizabeth, of Hungary ; but also as uniting in the circumstances of their lives, in the places they inhabited, and the epochs when they appeared in the world, much that is in itself poetical and in- teresting, and calculated to attract the attention of the his- torian and the man of letters, as well as of the theologian and the devout. 2. In this class of saints may well be included Francesca Romana, the foundress of the religious order of the Oblates of Tor di Specchi. She was the model of young girls, the example of a devout matron, and finally a widow, according to the very pattern drawn by St. Paul. She was beautiful, courageous, and full of wisdom, nobly born, and delicately brought up. Rome was the place of her birth, and the scene of her labors ; her home was in the centre of the great city, in the heart of the Trastevere ; her life was full of trials and hair-breadth 'scapes, and strange reverses. 3. Her hidden life was marvellous in the extreme. Visions of terror and of beauty followed her all her days ; favors such as were never granted to any other saint were vouchsafed to her ; the world of spirits was continually thrown open to her sight ; and yec, in her daily conduct, her character, and her 186 THE FOURTH READER. J- I ' ;■', • iNi!! 1 iu , i\ ways, minute details of which have reached us, there is a simplicity as well as a deep humility, awful in one so highly gifted, touching in one so highly favored. 4. Troubled and wild were the times she lived in. Perhaps, if one had to point out a period in which a Catholic Christian would rather not have had his lot cast,— one in which there was most to try his faith and wound his feelings,— he would name the end of the- fourteenth century, and the beginning of the fifteenth. War was raging all over Europe ; Italy was torn by inward dissensions, by the rival factions of the Guelphs and the GMbellines. 6. So savage was the spirit with which their conflicts were carried on, that barbarism seemed once more about to over- spread that fair land ; and the Church itself was afflicted not only by the outward persecutions which strengthen its vitality, though for a while they may appear to cripple its action, but by trials of a far deeper and more painful nature. Heresy had torn from her arms a great number of her children, and re- peated schisms were dividing those who, in appearance and even in intention, remained faithful to the Holy See. 6. The successors of St. Peter had removed the seat of their residence to Avignon, and the Eternal City presented the aspect of one vast battle-field, on which daily and hourly conflicts were occurring. The Colonnas, the Orsinis, the Sa- vellis, were every instant engaged in struggles which deluged the streets with blood, and cut off many of her citizens in tlie flower of their age. Strangers were also continually invading the heritage of the Church, and desecrated Rome with mas- sacres and outrages scarcely less deplorable than those of the Huns and the Vandals. 1. In the capital of the Christian world, ruins of recent date lay side by side with the relics of past ages ; the churches were sacked, burned, and destroyed; the solitary and in- destructible basilicas stood almost alone, mournfully erect amidst these scenes of carnage and gloom ; and the eyes of the people of Rome were wistfully directed towards that tutelary power which has ever been to them a pledge of prosperity and peace, and whose removal the signal of war and of miserv. SPRING. 187 58. Spbing. LONGFELLOW. Mb. Longfellow is an accomplished American poet and scholar ; bom in 1807. " Evangeline," "The Golden Legend," and " The Song of Hiawa- tha " are hia longest and most finished poems. Ho is also popular as a prose writer. 1. It was a sweet carol, which the Rhodian children sang of old in Sprmg, bearing in their hands, from door to door, a swallow, as herald of the season : " The swallow is come 1 The swallow is come ! Oh, fair are the seasons, and light Are the days that she brings With her dusky wings, •And. her bosom snowy white I" 2. A pretty carol, too, is that, which the Hungarian boys, on the islands of the Danube, sing to the returning stork in Spring : •' Stork ! stork I poor stork I Why is thy foot so bloody ? A Turkish boy hath torn it : Hungarian boy will heal it With fiddle, fife, and drum." Bat what child has a heart to sing in this capricious clime of ours, where Spring comes sailing in from the sea, with wet and heavy cloud-sails, and the misty pennon of the East wind nailed to the mast ? 3. Yes, even here, and in the stormy month of March even, there are bright warm mornings, when we open our windows to inhale the balmy air. The pigeons fly to and fro, and we hear the whirring sound of wings. Old flies crawl out of the cracks, to sun themselves, and think it is Summer. They die in their conceit ; and so do our hearts within us, when the cold sea-breath comes from the eastern sea, and again, " The driving hail Upon the window beats with icy flail." 188 THE FOURTH READER. *. ■ ■4\ 4. The red-flowering maple is first in blossom : its beautiful pnrple flowers unfolding a fortnight before the leaves. Tiio moosewood follows, with rose-colored buds and leaves ; and the dogwood, robed in the white of its own pure blossoms. Then comes the sudden rain-storm ; and the birds fly to and fro, and shriek. Where do they hide themselves in such storms' at what firesides dry their feathery cloaks ? At the fireside of the great, hospitable sun ; to-morrow, not before : they must sit in wet garments until then. 6. In all climates, Spring is beautiful : in the South it is mtoxicating, and sets a poet beside himself. The birds begin to sing : they utter a few rapturous notes, and then wait for an answer from the silent woods. Those green-coated musicians, the frogs, make holiday in the neighboring marshes. They,' too, belong to the orchestra of nature, whose vast theatre is again opened, though the doors have been so long bolted with icicles, and the scenery hung with snow and frost like cobwebs. 6. This is the prelude which announces the opening of the scene. Already the grass shoots forth. The waters leap with thrUling pulse through the veins of the earth, the sap through the veins of the plants and trees, and the blood through the veins of man. What a thriU of deUght in Spring-time 1 what a joy in being and moving I 7. Men are at work in gardens, and in the air there is an odor of the fresh earth. The leaf buds begin to swell and blush ; the white blossoms of the cherry hang upon the boughs, like snow-flakes ; and ere long our next door neighbors will be completely bidden from us by the dense green foliage. The May flowers open their soft blue eyes. Children are let loose m the fields and gardens ; they hold buttercups under each others' chin, to see if they love butter ; and the little girls adorn themselves with chains and curls of dandelions, pull out the yellow loaves, and blow the down from the leafless stalk. ^ 8. And at night so cloudless and so still ! Not a voice of living thing, not a whisper of leaf or waving bough, not a breath of wind, not a sound upon the earth nor in the air ! And overhead bends the blue p.ky, dewy and soft and radiuiit WHAT IS A CHURCH? 189 with innumerable stars, like the inverted lyell of some blue flower, sprinkled with golden dust, and breathing fragrance ; or if the heavens are overcast, it is no wild storm of wind and rain ; but clouds that melt and fall in showers. One does not wish to sleep, but lies awake to hear the pleasant sound of the dropping rain. It was thus the Spring began in Heidleberg. 96. "What is a Church? nEOKER. Rev. Ibaao Thomas Heoker— was born in New York, in 1819. In 1845. he became a convert to Catholicity, in 1847 joined the Redemptorists, and in 1849, was ordained priest by His Eminence Cardinal Wiseman. Having spent some years with the Kodemptorists, he with the consent of the su- preme pontiff, and in conjunction with some other zealous fathers, estab- lished the now missionary order of St. Paul the Apostle. Ills published works are Questions of the Soul, and Aspirationa of Naturt^ both or which are addressed to the thinking portion of the American peo- ple, and are calculated to do much good. 1. Religion is a question between God and the Soul. No human authority, therefore, has any right to enter its sacred sphere. The attempt is sacrilegious. Every man was made by his Creator to do his own thinking. What right then has one man, or a body of men, to dictate their belief, or make their private convictions, or sentiments, binding upon others ? 2. There is no degradation so abject, as the ^imission of the eternal interests of the soul to the private ai thority or dictation of any man, or body of men, whatever may be their titles. Every right sentiment in our breast rises up in abhor- rence against it. A Church which is not of divine origin, and claims assent to its teachings, or obedience to its precepts, on its own authority, is an insult to our understandings, and deserves the ridicule of all men, who have the capacity to put two ideas together. 3. A Church that claims a divme origin, in order to be consistent, must also claun to be unerring; for the idea of teaching error in the name of the Divinity, is blasphemous. 100 THE FOURTH READBB. A Church, if it deserves that title, most yield us assistance and not we the Church. The Church that needs our assist' ance, we despise. Only the Church which has help from above for mankind, and is conscious of it, is a divine institu- tion. 4. A Church that has its origin in heaven, is an organ of divine inspiration and life to humanity. For Religion is not only a system of divinely given truths, but also the organ of a divine life. Life, and its transmission, is inconceivable independent of an organism. The office of the Church, there- fore, is not only to teach divine truths, but also to enable men to actualize them. If entrance into the Church is not a step to a higher and holier life, the source of a larger and more perfect freedom her claims do not merit a moment's consideration. Away with the Church that reveals not a loftier manhood and ena- bles men to attain it. ' 5. The object of the Church authority is not to lay re- straints on man's activity, but to direct it aright; not to make him a slave, but to establish his independence; the object of Church authority is to develop man's individuality, consecrate and defend his rights, and elevate his existence to the plane of his divme destiny. ^ Divine Religion appeals to man's holiest instincts, and inspires the soul with a sublime enthusiasm. A Church with- out martyrs, is not on equality with the institution of the fam- ily or state ; for they are not wanting in heroes. A Church that ceases to produce martyrs is dead. 6. Hearts are aching to be devoted to the down-trodden and suffering of the race. Breasts are elated with heroic impulses to do something in the noble cause of Truth and God ; and shall all these aspirations and sentiments, which do honor to our nature, be wasted, misspent, or die out for want of sanction and right direction? Who can give this sanction? Who can give this du-ection? No one but God's Church upon earth. This is her divine mission. In concert with the voice of all those who are conscious of their humanity, we demand a visible and divine authority, to 1 us assistaDce, icds our assist- has help from divine institu- is an organ of leligion is not ) the organ of inconceivable, Church, there- to enable men THE WILD LILT AND THE PASSION FLOWER. 191 unite and direct the aspirations and energies of individuals and nations to great enterprises for the common welfare of men upon earth, and for eternity. 1. If the Religion we are in search of does not exist, and we remain in darkness, we shall be found standing upright, looking heavenward, our Reason unshackled, in all the dignity and energy of our native manhood. •' Better roam for aye, than rest Under the impious shadow of a roof unbiess'd." > 3 a higher and rfect freedom, ation. Away lood, and ena- lot to lay re- ; not to make the object of ty, consecrate to the plane instincts, and Church with- m of the fam- !. A Church down-trodden I with heroic of Truth and nts, which do out for want ihis sanction? rod's Church conscious of authority, to 60. The Wild Lily and the Passion Flower. KOUQVETTE. Key. a. RotTQUETTK is a native of Now Orleans. His French poems, under the title of Z>» Savanea, were received with much encouragement in France. He has written a beautiful and poetical treatise on the solitary life, entitled La Thebdide en Amerique, and a volume of English poems, called " Wild Fowers." He is a perfect master of the melody of the English ; and that he is a poet l>y nature appears in every line, and more strikingly in hia prose than in his verse. Mr. Eouquette was ordained a priest in 1845. 1. Sweet flower of light, The queen of solitude. The image bright Of grace bom maidenhood. Thou risest tall Midst struggling weeds that droop : — ^hy lieges all, Tuey humbly bow and stoop. 2. Dark color'd flower, How solemn, awful, sad 1 — I feel thy power, king, in purple clad I With head recline. Thou art the emblem dear ,1 ,,.i I, . ■* ' Tie Vere. fi'l'" r 198 THE FOURTH BEADES. Of woes divine ; The flower I most rovere I 8. The lily white, The purple passion flower j Mount Thabor bright, The gloomy Olive-bower. Such is our life, — Alternate joys and woes. Short peace, long strife, Few friends and many foes I 4. My fricLd, away All wailings here below : The royal way To realms above is woe I To suffer much Has been the fate of Saints ; Our fate is such : — Away, away all plaints I 61. Illumination at St. Peter's. DR. ENGLAND, ^a^^P y . 1786, died m Chnrleston in isk. Dr. Enffland wo, „ man of great natural abiliticB, and profound and varied attammcntH" was one of the trreAtPat nmUt^n *uA^ a :„.._ ^ , , HuainmcntB. writer ar.d an o^at^^hT h'a'd ^TsupTrior: nd fe^^^^X" f^^^ •«,o- ^^^'l.VTL — T """"'''="> »"" proiouna ana varied atta nmcntH Hn was one of the greatest prelates the American Church has vet had a. „ writer and an orator he had no «nn«^or, and few eSs li ■ ^' -^ - svery subject bearinc .. r j". ~i V "• "'••o wuiiutry. His works were col lished, in five octavo volumes, by his successor, Dr. EeynoldsT 1. In my last I gave a brief description of the proces- sion and first vespers of the festival of St. Peter and Paul on the 28th ult. Preparations had been made for illuminat^ rng the exterior of the church of St. Peter's as soon as night should fall. No description can convey to your readers an ILLUMINATION AT ST. PETER's. 193 ntlcquate idea of the spectacle which this presents. The dome is somewhat larger than the church of St. Mary of the Martyrs, w hich is the old Pantheon ; and this is not only sur- mounting the roof, but raised considerably above it. This Pantheon is much larger than the Circular Church,' in Meet- ing-street. Imagine this as only one of three domes, of which it is indeed far the largest, elevated considerably above the roof of a church, the facjade of which is a grand pile of architecture ; this dome is half surr^ anded by columns, and the one by which the entablature over them is crowned, is closely ribbed to its summit ; over this is a ball, in which I was one of eight persons, standing erect, and we had room for at least four others, and this ball surmounted by a cross. 2. From the sides of the front two wings of splendid archi- tecture project forward, upwards of eighty feet ; at the' i x- Iremities are lofty columns, over which run the proper entab- latures, crowned by pediments ; from these the immense colon- nades recede almost semicircularly from each wing, sweeping with their hundreds of pillars round the immense piazza, capa- ble of containing probably one hundred thousand human be- ings upon the area within their embrace. 3. In the centre of this is a rich Egyptian obelisk, resting upon the backs of four lions couchant upon the angles of a fine pedestal. Half way from this obelisk, at each side toward the colonnade, are the two magnificent fountains, probably the most superb in the world. Each appears to be a spacious marble vase, elevated upon a sufficiently strong, but gracefully delicate stem ; the summit of this vase is at the elevation of about twelve feet. From its centre rises to nearly the same height another still more slender and deli- cately-shaped stem, from whose summit is projected to a con- siderable height, a water-spout, which grac^efully bending near its summit, and yielding to the direction of the wind, as it forms its curve and descent, is separated into a sort of spark- ling spray of pearls and silver intermixed; twelve other sirai- ' The Circular Church, one of the principal buildings in Charleston. South Carolina, w 1' ii'l" . \'''^ 194 THE FOURTH READKR. i*': lar spouts shoot round this central liquid column, diverging from it on every side as they rise, and falling with a similar appearance at somewhat of a less elevation. 4. They seem in the distance to be like rich plumes of some gigantic ostrich, gracefully waving in the breeze, while the descending shower is received in the capacious vase, from whose interior it is conducted to various fountains in the city. Hundreds of statues lift their vai'ious forms, appearing larger than life, over the frieze and cornice of the colonnade ; while at the foot of the majestic flight of steps by which you ascend to the portico of the church, two ancient statues of St. Peter and St. Paul have for centuries rested upon their pedes- tals. 5. The facade of the church itself is surmounted by the co- lossal statues of the Twelve Apostles. The illumination con- sisted of two parts. The lamps for the first part were dis- posed closely, in colored paper, along the architectural lines of this mighty mass, along the ribs of the domes, around the ball, and on the cross. 6. To me, as I looked from the bridge of St. Angelo, the scene appeared like a vision of enchantment. It seemed as if a mighty pile of some rich, black, soft material, was reared in the likeness of a stupendous temple, and the decorations were broad lines of burning liquid gold. The ball and the cross were seen as if detached and resting in the air above its sum- mit. It was indeed a becoming emblem of the triumph of a crucified Redeemer over this terrestrial ball. After I had passed the bridge, and as I approached the piazza, the front of the church, and the expanse of the colonnade, exhibited their lines of light. The specks which formed those lines glowed now more distinct and separate, and though their con- tinuity was lost, their symmetry was perfect and magnificent. 7. The immense piazza was thronged with carriages, and persons on foot ; while a division of the Papal dragoons, one of the finest and best disciplined bodies of cavalry in existence, moved in sections and single files through the multitnde, calmly, but steadily and firmly, preserving order in a kind, polite, but determined manner. Scarcely a word is heard ILLUMINATION AT ST. PETER's. 195 s, around the above a whisper ; an accident is of so rare an occurrence as not to be calculated upon. 8. The cardinal secretary of state has a gallery in front of the church, to which foreign ambassadors, and a few other strangers of distinction are invited. I observed Captain Reed and his lady in this gallery, and many of our officers were jiroDicnading below. About an hour elapsed from the com- mencement, wheii the motion of a brighter light was observed towards the summit of the cupola, a large star seemed to shoot upwards to the cross, and, as if by a sudden flash from heaven, the whole edifice appeared to blaze in the glare of day. 9. A thousand lights, kindled by some inconceivably rapid communication, shed their beams upon every part of the build- ing. Pillars and pila -s, with their vases, shafts, and cap- itals ; mouldings, friezes, cornices, pediments, architraves, panels, doors, windows, niches, images, decorations, enrich- ments, domes— all, all with their faint lines of golden light, now softened to a milder lustre, revealed in brilliant relief to the enraptured eye. 62. Illumination at St. Peter's — continued. 1. The fountains were magnificently grand, and richly pure, and softened into a refreshing white. The multitude was silent. The horses were still. The glowing cross, elevated above the Vatican hill, beamed to the wide plains and distant mountains its augury of future glory, because of past humilia- tions. The crowd began to move ; the low buzz of conversa- tion, and then the horses' tramp ; then followed the rattling of wheels. 2. And while tens of thousands remained yet longer, other thousands moved in various directions to their homes, or to distant elevated points, for the sake of a variety of views. I went to the magnificent Piazza del Popolo. It was literally a desert ; but in its stillness, and the dereliction of its obelisk, its fountains, and its statues, by the very contrast to the scene that I had left, there arose a feeling of new sublimity. It 196 THE FOURTH RKADKR. was more deep, it Avas more solemn ; but it was less elevated, not so overpowering, nor so impressive as that to which it succeeded. 3. My object was to ascend from this place to the Monte Pincio, the commanding view from which would enable me to look over the city at the great object which attracted every eye. But the gates of the avenue at this side were closed, and I had to go to the Piazza di Spagna, and there to ascend by the immense and beautiful flight of steps to the Trinita del Monti. Standmg here, in front of the convent of the La- dies of the Sacred Heart, the view of St. Peter's was indeed superb. 4. I proceeded up towards the public gardens lately formed on the summit of this ancient residence of so many of the re- markable men of iive-and-twenty ages. At various intervals, I stopped and turned to view the altered appearance presented by the mass of light, as seen from those different positions. As I contemplated it, I reflected that it must soon be extin- guished, like the transient glories of the philosophers, the he- roes, the statesmen, the orators, who successively passed over the spot on which I iStood. 5. An humble fisherman from Galilee, and an obscure tent- maker from Tarsus, were confined in the dungeons of this city. Seventeen hundred and sixty-eight years had passed away since one of them was crucified with his head downwards on the Vatican Hill, and the other was beheaded on the Ostian Way. They had been zealously faithful in discharging the duties of their apostleship. 6. In the eyes of men, their death was without honor; but it was precious in the sight of God. Grateful and admiring millions from year to year proclaim their praises, while the Church exhibits their virtues as proofs of the Saviour's grace, as models for the imitation of her sons. Oh, let my soul die [the death of] the just, and let my last end be like to theirs 1 Translated from this earth, they live in heaven. Tried for a time, and found faithful, they enjoy a glorious recompense ! 7. The God that we serve is merciful in bestowins: his I ILLUMINATION AT ST. PETEr's. 197 grace, and is exceedingly bountiful in crowning his rwn gifts, by giving to us, through the merits of his Son, a recompense for those acts of virtue which he enables us to perform. I found myself again near the summit of the steps. I descended, and retired to my home, reflecting upon the wonders wrought by the Most High, through the instrumentality of those two great saints, the celebration of whose festival had thus com- menced. 8. The ardent Peter and the active Paul. The name changed to signify the office to which he should be raised. The vicegerent of Heaven's King, bearing the mystic keys, with powers of legislation and of administration rested upon him ; who of himself weak, but who, sustained by Christ, was strong. "Before the cock shall crow twice this night, thou shall thrice deny me. Yes ! Satan hath desu-ed to have thee, that he might sift thee as wheat ; but I have prayed for thee, that thy faith faU not. And thou once converted, confirm thy brethren." 9. The strongest power that hell can muster in its gates to make a furious assault upon that Church, the weighty ad- ministration of which shall rest upon you, and upon those that shall succeed you, shall from time to time be marshalled and sent forth for the destruction of that body which the Sa- viour organized, like a well-ordered kingdom upon earth, for the attainment of heaven ; but the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. The dynasties of nations have perished, the palaces of the Caesars are in ruins, then* tombs have mouldered with the bodies they contained, but the successors of Peter continue. 10. Under the orders of Nero, the two apostles were con- signed to what was imagined to be destruction. The vaults of the tyrant's golden palace are covered with vegetation. Standing on the unseemly ruins of the remnant of this mon- ster's monument, by the side of the Flaminian Way, through the obscurity of the night the Christian peasant looks towards that blaze of light which, from the resting-place where the relics of the head of the Church and of the doctor of the GentUes are found, breaks forth and irradiates the Eternal I N ill , ..J \rf\: 198 THK FOURTH READER. City and its monumental environs. If Peter is elevated in station, Paul is not less glorious in merit. 11. He, too, looked back with sorrow on that day when he held the clothes of those who slew Stephen. But how nobly did he redeem his error I A vessel of election to bear the good odor of Christ into the palaces of kings ! a tor- rent of eloquence flowing into the barren fields of a vain phi- losophy, to fertilize and adorn 1 A rich exhibition of virtue, winning by its beauty, attracting by its symmetry, and excit- ing to activity by emulation 1 A glowing meteor of benedic- tion, dissipating the clouds, and wanning the hearts of the beholders to charity on earth, that they might be fitted for glory in heaven ! 63. The Son's Keturn. GERALD OSIFFIN. 1. On a sudden, she heard voices outside the window. Alive to the slightest circumstance that was unusual, she arose, all dark as it was, threw on her simple dress in haste, and groped her way to the front door of the dwelling. She recognized the voice of a friendly neighbor, and opened the door, supposing that he might have some interesting intelli- gence to communicate. She judged correctly. " Good news I good news 1 Mrs. Reardon ; and I give you ]*oy of them this morning. What will you give me for telling who is in that small boat at the shore ?" " That small boat 1— what ?— where ?" 2. "Below there, ma'am, where I'm pointing my finger. Don't you see them coming up the crag towards you ?" " I cannot — I cannot, it is so dark," the widow replied, endeavoring to penetrate the gloom. " Dark I — and the broad sun shining down upon them this whole day !" " Day ! — the su^ ! O my Almighty Father 1 save me." " What's the matter { Don't you see them, ma'am ?" 3. " See them ?" the poor woman exclaimed, placing her THE SON S BETUEN. 199 is elevated in hands on her eyes, and shrieking aloud in her agony : " Oh ! I shall never see him more 1 I am dark and blind 1" The peasant started back and blessed himself. The next instant the poor widow was caught in the arms of her son. " Where is she ? My motjier ! my darling mother ! I am come back to you. Look ! I have kept my word." 4. She strove, with a sudden effort of self-restraint, to keep her misfortune secret, and wept without speaking, upon the neck of her long-absent relative, who attributed her tears to an excess of happiness. But when he presented his young wife, and called her attention to the happy, laughing faces and healthful cheeks of their children, the wanderiog of her eyes and the confusion of her manner left it no longer possible to retain the secret. 5. " My good, kind boy," said she, laying her hand heavily on his arm, " you are returned to my old arms once more, and I am grateful for it — but we cannot expect to have all we wish for In this world. O my poor boy ! I can never see you — I can never see your children ! I am blind." The young man uttered a horrid and piercing cry, while he tossed his clenched hands above his head, and stamped upon the earth in sudden anguish. " Blind ! my mother ! O Heaven ! is this the end of all my toils and wishes ? To come home, and find her dark forever 1 Is it for this that I have prayed and labored ? Blind and dark 1 O my poor mother 1 Heaven 1 O mother, mother !" 6. " Hold, now, my boy — where are you ? What way is that for a Christian to talk ? Come near me, and let me touch your hands. Don't add to my sorrows, Richard, my child, by uttering a word against the will of Heaven. Where are you ? Come near me. Let me hear you say that you are resigned to this and all other visitations of the great Lord of all light. Say this, my child, and your virtue will be dearer to me than my eyes ? Ah, ray good Richard ! you may be sure the Almighty never strikes us exce[)t it is for our sins, or for our good. I thought too much of you, my child, and the Lord saw that my heart was straying to the world again, and he has struck me for the happiness of both. Let me hear that 200, THE FOURTH READER. :! ■ , i ^!; 3 dearer dutiful you are satisfied. I can see your heart still, and thi to me than your person. Let me see it as good i as I knew it before you left me." 1. The disappointed exile supported her in his arms. "Well well, my poor mother," he said, " I am satisfied. Since you are the chief sufferer, and show no discontent, it would be too unreasonable that I should murmur. The will of Heaven be done 1 but it is a bitter— bitter stroke." Again he folded his dark parent to his bosom, and wept aloud ; while his wife retu-mg softly to a distance, hid her face in her cloak. Her chUdren clung with fear and anxiety to her side, and gazed with affrighted faces upon the afflicted mother and son. 8. But they were not forgotten. After she had repeatedly embraced her recovered child, the good widow remembered her guests. She extended her arms towards that part of the room at which she heard the sobs and moanings of the younger mother. " Is that my daughter's voice ?" she asked— " place her in my arms, Richard. Let me feel the mother of your children upon my bosom." The young woman flung herself into the embrace of the aged widow. "Young and fair, I am sure," the latter continued, passing her wasted fin- gers over the blooming cheek of the good American. " I can feel the roses upon this cheek, I am certain. But what are these ? Tears ? My good child, you should dry our tears instead of adding to them. Where are your children ? Let me see— ah I my heart— let me feel them, I mean— let me take them in my arras. My little angels 1 Oh ! if I could only open my eyes, for one moment, to look upon you all— but for one little instant— I would close them again for the rest of my life, and think myself happy. If it had happened only one day— one hour after your arrival— but the will of Heaven be done 1 perhaps even this moment, when we think our- selves most miserable. He is preparing for us some hidden blessing." 9. Once more the pious widow was correct in her conjec- ture. It is true, that day, which all hoped should be a day of rapture, was spent by the reunited family in tears and mourn- ing. But Providence did not indeed intend that or^atures THE SON S KKTL'RN. 201 who had served him so faithfully should be visited with more than a temporary sorrow, for a slight and unaccustomed transgression. 10. The news of the widow's misfortune spread rapidly through the country, and excited universal sympathy — for few refuse their commiseration to a fellow-creature's sorrow, even of those who would accord a tardy and measured sympathy to his good fortune. Among those who heard with real pity the story of their distress, was a surgeon who resided in the neighborhood, and who felt all that enthusiastic devotion to his art, which its high importance to the welfare of mankind was calculated to excite in a generous mind. This gentleman took an early opportunity of visiting the old widow when she was alone in the cottage. The simplicity with which she told her story, and the entire resignation which she expressed, interested and touched him deeply. 64 The Son's Return — continued. 1. "It is not over with me yet, sir," she concluded, "for still, when the family are talking around me, I forget that I am blind ; and when I hear my son say something pleasant, I turn to see the smile upon his lips ; and when the darkness reminds me of my loss, it seems as if I lost my sight over again !" 2. The surgeon discovered, on examination, that the blind- ness was occasioned by a disease called cataract, which obscures, by an unhealthy secretion, the lucid brightness of the crystal- line lens (described in a former chapter), and obstructs the entrance of the rays of light. The improvements which mod- ern practitioners have made in this science render this disease, which was once held to be incurable, now comparatively easy of removal. The surgeon perceived at once, by the condition of the eyes, that, by the abstraction of the injured lens, he could restore sight to the afflicted widow. 3. Unv.illing, however, to excite her hopes too suddenly ¥■ 202 THK FOURTH READER. ■rr or prematurely, he began by asking her whether, for a chance of recovering the use of her eyes, she would submit to a little pain ? The poor woman replied, " that if he thought he could once more enable her to behold her child and his children, she would be content to undergo any pain which would not endanger her existence." 4. " Then," replied her visitor, " I may inform you, and I have the strongest reasons to believe, that I can restore your sight, provided you agree to place yourself at my disposal for a few days. I will provide you with an apartment in my house, and your family shall know nothing of it until the cure is eflfected." 5. The widow consented ; and on that very evening the operation was performed. The pain was slight, and was en- du od by the patient without a murmur. For a few days after, the surgeon insisted on her wearing a covering over her eyes, until the wounds which he had found it necessary to inflict had been perfectly healed. 6. One morning, after he had felt her pulse and made the necessary inquiries, he said, while he held the hand of the widow : — " I think we may now venture with safety to remove the covering. Compose yourself now, my good old friend, and suppress all emotion. Prepare your heart for the reception of a great happiness." 7. The poor woman clasped her hands firmly together, and moved her lips as if in prayer. At the same moment the covering fell from her brow, and the light burst in a joyous flood upon her soul. She sat for an instant bewildered, and incapable of viewing any object with distinctness. The first upon which her eyes reposed was the figure of a young man bonding his gaze with an intense and ecstatic fondness upon hers, and with his arms outstretched as if to anticipate the recognition. The face, though changed and sunned since she had known it, was still familiar to her. She started from her seat with a wild cry of joy, and cast herself upon the bosom of her son. TIIK CIlKiaVELL WATER LILY. 203 8, She embraced him rcneatcdly, then removed him to a distance, that she miglit have the opportunity of viewing him with greater distinctness, and again, with a burst of tears, flung herself npon hia nock. Other voices, too, mingled with tlu'iiH. She beheld her daughter and their children waiting eagerly for her caress. She embraced them all, returning from each to each, and perusing their faces and persons as if she would never drink deep enough of the cup of rapture which her recovered sense afforded her. The beauty of the young mother — the fresh and rosy color of the children — the glossy brightness of their hair — their smiles — their movements of joy —all afforded subjects for delight and admiration, such as she might never have experienced, had she never considered them ill the light of blessings lost for life. The surgeon, who thought that the consciousness of a stranger's presence might impose a restraint upon the feelings of the patient and her friends, retired into a distant corner, where he beheld, not without tears, the scene of happiness which he had been made instrumental in conferring. 0. " Richard," said the widow, as she laid her hand upon her son's shoulder, and looked into his eyes, " did I not judge ariglit when I said that even when we thought ourselves the most miserable, the Almighty might have been preparing for us some hidden blessing ? Were we in the right to murmur?" The young man withdrew his arms from his mother, clasped them before him, and bowed down his head in silence. 65. The Cherwell Water-Lily. FABER. 1. How often doth a wild flower bring Fancies and thoughts that seem to spring From inmost depths of feeling I Nay, often they have power to bless With their uncultured loveliness, And far into tho aching breast ^-1 ": 204 m THE FOURTH READER. There goes a heavenly thought of rest With their soft influence stealing. How often, too, can ye unlock, Dear wild flowers, with a gentle shock, The wells of holy tears 1 While somewhat of a Christian light Breaks sweetly on the mourner's sight, To calm unquiet fears I Ah 1 surely such strange power is given To lowly flowers like dew from heaven ; For lessons oft by them are brought, Deeper than mortal sage hath taught, Lessons of wisdom pure, that rise From some clear fountains in the skies. 2. Fairest of Flora's lovely daughters That bloom by stilly-running waters, Fair lily 1 thou a type must be Of virgin love and purity ! Fragrant thou an as any flower That decks a lady's garden-bower. But he who would ihy sweetness know, Must stoop and bend his loving brow To catch thy scent, so faint and rare, Scarce breathed upon the Summer air. And all thy motions, too, how free. And yet how fraught with sympathy ! So pale thy tint, so meek thy gleam, Shed on thy kindly father-stream I Still, as he swayeth to and fro, How true in all thy goings. As if thy very soul did know The secrets of his flowings. 3. And then that heart of living gold, Which thou dost modestly infold. And screen from man's too searching view. Within thv robe of snowv hue ! EDWARD THE CONFESSOR. 205 To careless mun thou secm'st to roam Abroad upon the river, In all thy movements chain'd to home, Fast-rooted there forever : Link'd by a holy, hidden tie, Too subtle for a mortal eye, Nor riveted by mortal art, Deep down within thy father's heart. 4, Emblem in truth thou art to me Of all a daughter ought to be ! How shall I liken thee, sweet flower, That other men may feel thy power, May seek thee on some lovely night, And say how strong, how chaste the might, The tie of filial duty, How graceful, too, and angel-bright, The pride of lowly beauty I Thou sittest on the varying tide As if thy spirit did preside, With a becoming, queenly grace. As mistress of this lonely place ; A quiet magic hast thou now To smooth the river's ruffled brow, And calm his rippling water. And yet, so delicate and airy, Thou art to him a very fairy, A widow'd father's only daughter. — ♦ 66. Edward the Confessor. I>INOARD. John Linqard, D. D., was born, in England, in 1771 ; died in 1851. With tlie completion of the " History of England," in ten volumes, the literary fame ot Dr. Lingard became establishea throughout Europe, Car- dinal Wiseman speaks of this history, and its learned author, in the follow- ing terms :— " It is a Providence that in history we have had given to the nnti»n a writer like Lingard, whose figsutie merit will be better npprec-Jated it '. ^*''1 206 TiriC ForiiTII liKADFU. In eiicli unccoMivc gprnorntion, nn it m-on lii» work stiindinff cnim nnd croot BiniiHt tlui hIiouIm f |, ly |)ri'leii 4» 216 THE FOUETH READER. think of entering into a philosophic plan of education; since it is notorious that with them the direction of the energies and passions is always excluded from it. 2. The moderns have determined, practically at least, that the whole of education consists in acquiring knowledge, and that the only subject of deliberation is respecting the mode best calculated to further that end in the shortest time, and with the least possible expenditure. With them, the person who can speak or argue on the greatest number of subjects, with the air of knowing all about each of them, is the best educated. 3. The moderns generally applaud that system of public education which nourishes what they call a manly spirit, by which the boy is made bold and insolent, and constantly ready to fight or contend with any one that offers the smallest oppo- sition to his will ; which makes him resemble the son of Strepsiades returning from the school of the Sophists, of whom his father says, with joy, " In the first place, I mark the ex- pression of your countenance: your face indicates at once that you are prepared to deny and to contradict. Yours is the Attic look." 4. Hence, many of their young men are like those who were disciples of the Sophists, of whom Socrates says, they were fair and of good natural dispositions — what the moderns would term of polished manners, but insolent through youth. The rules given to youth for conversation, in his treatise on the manner in which men should hear, approaches nearer to the mildness and delicacy of Christian charity than, perhaps, any other passage in the heathen writers. He inculcates what approaches to its modesty, its patience, in attending to others, and waiting for the voluntary self-corrections of those with whom they converse, and its slowness to contradict and give offence. 5. But all this falls very short, and indeed can yield not the slightest idea, of the eflfects of education upon the young in the ages of faith, when the Catholic religion formed its basis, and directed its whole system in all its objects, manners, and details. " The soul of the child," savs St. Jerome, "is to be EDUCATION. 217 educated with the view of its becoming a temple of God. It should hear nothing but what pertains to the fear of God. Let there be letters of ivory," he continues, "with which it may play— and let its play be instruction. No learned man or noble virgin should disdain to take charge of its instruction." 6. These observations will have prepared us to feel the beauty of the following examples : — We read of St. Blier, that while a child he gave admirable signs of piety and grace. Nothing could be imagined more sweet, benign, gentle, and ngrccable than his whole manner : he seemed like a little angel ill human flesh, who used to pray devoutly, visit holy places, converse with saints, and obey the commandments of God with the utmost diligence. 7. Christine dc Pisan says of Louis, due d'Orleans, son of King Charles V., that the Grst words which were taught him were the Ave-Maria, and that it was a sweet thing to hear him say it, kneeling, with his little hands joined, before an image of our Lady ; and that thus he early learned to serve God, which he continued to ao all his life. And Dante, in the " Paradise," commemorating the youthful graces of St. Dominic, says of him, " Many a time his nurse, on entering, found Thut he had risen in silence, and wua prostrate, As who should say, 'My errand was for this.' " 8. The old writers love to dwell upon the description of this age. Thus the young Archduke Leopold of Austria is de- scribed as having the looks, as well as the innocence, of an angel ; and it is said that the mere sight of him in Church used to inspire people with devotion. The young St. Francis Regis, while at college at Puy, was known to all the inhabit- ants of the town under the title of the Angel of the College. There might have been seen a young nobleman employed in collecting the poor little boys of the town, and explaining to them the Christian doctrine 1 What school of ancient philos- ophy ever conceived any thing like this ? 10 [ 218 Tin: fouriii ukader. 72. Education — continued. 1. In the first place then let it be icmcmberefl, that the mind of the young must ever be devoted either to an idea or to sense, — either to an object of faith (and youth is peculiarly qualified for possessinj^ faith), or to that visible form of good which ministers to animal excitement. If the citadels of the souls of the young be left void of pure and noble images, thoy will be taken possession of by tiiose that are contrary to them ; if not guarded by the bright symbols of beauteous and eternal things, error and death, moral death, with all its pro- cess of intellectual degradation, will plort their pale flag there. 2. As with the intellectual direction, so it Is with the manners and intercourse of youth ; for these will ever be directed after one of two types — either by the spirit of sweetness and love, or that of insolence and malignity. All systems of education that are merely human, and under the guidance of rationalism, •will never nourish and fortify,, when they do not even recog- nize and extol the latter ; for b .ing formed ou merely natural principles, all that belongs to man's unkindness will have free scope to be developed within their dominions ; and, therefore, disobedience, dissipation, the will and ability to oppress weaker companions, will entitle the youth, who has suflBcient tact, to know how far precisely these qualities may be exercised with the applause of animal minds, to the enviable character of possessing a manly spirit. He will discover, too, that his father has only one desire respecting him, like that of Jason in the tragedy, whose sole prayer for his sons is, that he may see them grow to Jianhood, well nourished and vigorous, that they may be a defence to him against his enemies. 3. In studies also, emulation will be earned to an excess, which renders the youthful mind obnoxious to all the worst attendants of atiibition, so that under these modern systems, while education conduces to victory, their victory, as Socrates says, will often undo the work of education. 4. Plato had so sublime a sense of just education, that he ST. AGNKS. 219 acknowledges, that the good when young, will appear to be weak and simple, and that they will be easily deceived by the unjust— and he, too, would not allow the young to acquire that knowledge of the world, which was so carefully excluded from Catholic schools— but which is now thought so essential to children. 5. "lie is only good who has a good soul; which he cannot possess who has a personal acquaintance with evil." ' 6. Arc we disposed to question this proposition! Hear what Fuller acknowledges, " Almost twenty years since," says he, " I heard a profane jest, and still remember it." 7. The old poet, Claude de Morenne, acknowledges in one of his pieces, that he had read certain poems in his youth, which had done an injury to his imagination and his heart' which nothing could repair. This is the dreadful effect of renouncing the ancient discipline. Such is the stain which reading of this description impresses upon the mind, that the moral consequences seem among those which never may be cancelled from the book wherein the past is written. 73. St. Agnes. TENNYSON. A. Tennyson, the present poet laureate of England, is a popular find voluminous writer. lie has a rich yet delicate taste in the use of languairo and a descriptive power unparalleled by any other living poet. 1. Deep on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon ; My breath to heaven like vapor goes; May my soul follow soon 1 The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord. Make Thou my spirit pure and clea»^ As are the frosty skies, ' Plato de Repiib , lib. iii. i;t"i*'l :i ki ; ,1 .N»| J 220 TIIK roUIlTII RKADKK. Or this first snow-drop of the year That in ray bosom lies. 2. As these white robes are soil'd and dark, To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly apark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee; So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far, Through all yon starlight keen. Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star. In raiment white and clean. 8. He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors. And strews her lights below, And deepens on and up 1 the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. The sabbaths of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide — A light upon the shining sea — The Bridegroom with his bride 1 74. Infidel Philosophy and Litebatdee. nOBERTSON. ^ K0BERT8ON— a distinguished writer and lecturer of the day. He is a na- tive of Scotland, and at present holds the honorable position of Professor of History in the Irinh University. 1, The infidel philosophy of the last age was the child of the Reformation. Towards the close of the sixteenth oentnrv, INFIDKL P' T^SOPUY AND LITERATUUK. 221 g sect of deists had sprunf? up in Protestant Switzerland. As early as tlie reign of Junies tl»o First, Lord Herbert, of Cherhury, commenced that long series of English deists, con- sisting of Chubb, ColUns, Shaftesbury, Toland, Bolingbroko, the friend of Voltaire. Bayle, who at the commencement of the eighteenth century, introduced infidelity into France, was a Protestant; and so was Rousseau, the eloquent apostle of deism, and who did nothing more than develop the principles of Protestantism. 2. Voltaire and his fellow-conspirators against the Chris- tian religion, borrowed most of their weapons from the arsenal of the English deists; and the philosopher of Ferney was, in his youth, the friend and guest of Bohngbroke. So Protest- antism, which often, though falsely, taunts the Catholic Church with having given birth to unbelief, lies, itself, clearly open to that imputation. Let us take a glance at the character of the leaders of the great anti-Christian confederacy in France. 3. Bayle was a writer of great erudition, and extreme sub- tlety of reasoning. Ilis " Dictionnaire Philosophique '' is, even at the present day, often consulted. Montesquieu, one of the most manly intellects of the eighteenth century, unfortunately devoted to the wretched philosophy of the day the powers which God had given him for a nobler purpose. His Kirong sense, indeed, and extensive learning, guarded him against the wilder excesses of unbelief; but the absence of strong re- ligious convictions left him without a compass and a chart on the wide ocean of political and ethical investigations. 4. Rousseau was a man of the most impassioned eloquence and vigorous reasoning; but a mind withal so sophistical, that, according to the just observation of La Harpe, even truth itself deceives us in his writings. His firm belief in the existence of the Deity, and the immortality of the soul, as well as in the necessity of virtue for a future state of happi- ness, and some remarkable tributes to the Divinity, and the blessed influences of the Christian religion, give, at times, to the pages of Rousseau a warmth and a splendor we rarely find in the other infidel writers of the last century. 5. Inferior to Rousseau in eloquence and logical power, the 222 THK FOURTH EEADKB. " 1 1 i sophist of Ferncy possessed a more various and versatile tal- ent. Essaying philosophy and history, and poetry— tragic comic, and epic ; the novel, the romance, the satire, the epi- gram, he directed all his powers to one infernal puipose— the spread of irreligion, and thought his labor lost as long as Christ retained one worshipper 1 Unlike the more impassioned sophist of Geneva, rarely do we meet in his writings with a generous sentiment or a tender emotion. But all that ele- vates and thrills humanity— the sanctities of religion, the no- bleness of virtue, the purity of the domestic hearth, the ex- pansiveness of friendship, the generosity of patriotism, the majesty of law, were polluted by his ribald jest and fiend-like mockery. " Like those insects that corrode the roots of the most precious plants, he strives," says Count de Maistre, "to corrupt youth and women." 6. And it is to be observed that, despite the great progress of religion in France within the last fifty years ] though the aristocracy of French literature has long rejected the yoke of Voltaire, he still reigns in its lower walks, and the novel, and the satire, and the ballad, still feel his deadly influence. ' The only truth which this writer did not assail was, the existence of God ; but every other dogma of religion became the butt of his ridicule. 1. A more advanced phase of infidelity was represented by D'Alembert, Diderot, and others ; they openly advocated ma- terialism and atheism. In the Encyclopedia they strove to array all arts and sciences against the Christian religion. It was, indeed, a tower of Babel, raised up by man's impiety against God. It was a tree of knowledge without a graft from the tree of life. In mathematics and physics only did p'Alembert attain to a great eminence. Diderot was a much inferior intellect, that strove to make up by the phrenetic vio- lence of his declamation for the utter hollowness of his ideas. It was he who gave to Raynal that frothy rhetoric, and those turgid invectives against priests and kings, which the latter wove into his history of the European settlements in the East and West Indies. INFIDEL PHILOSOPHY AND LITERATDKE. 223 75. Infidel Philosophy, F/rc. — continued. 1. The great Buffon, tliougli he condescended to do homage to the miserable philosophy of his day, yet, by the nobleness of his sentiments, as well as by the majesty of his genius, often rose superior to the doctrine he professed. Bernardine de St. Pierre was another great painter of nature. His better feelings at times led him to Christianity, but his excessive vanity drove him back to the opposite opin- ions. What shall I say of the remaining wretched herd of materialists and atheists, — a Baron d'llolbach, a Helvetius, a La Mettrie, a Cabanis, and others ? It has been well said by a great writer, that materialism is something below hu- manity. And while debasing man to a level with the brute, it takes from him all the nobler instincts of his own nature ; it fails to give him in return those of the lower animals. So deep a perversion of man's moral and intellectual being we cannot conceive. 2. We cannot realize (and happily for us we cannot), that awful eclipse of the understanding which denies God. We have a mingled feeling of terror and of pity, when we contem- plate those miserable souls, that, as the great Italian poet, Dante, says, have lost the supreme intcUigential bliss : When tliat great idea of God is extinguished in the human mind, what remains to man ? Nature abhors a vacuum, said the old naturalists ; with what horror then must we recoil from that void which atheism creates ? — a void in the intelligence, a void in the conscience, a void in the affections, a void in society, i\ void in domestic life. The human mind is swung from its orbit ; it wanders through trackless space ; and the reign of chaos and old night returns. 3. What a lamentable abuse of all the noblest gifts of intel- lect, wit, and eloquence, imagination and reasoning ! And for the accomplishment of what purpose ? For the overthrow of religion, natural and revealed religion, the guide of existence, the great moral teacher, wliich solves all the pro1> 224 THE FOURTH READER. t < lems of life, which tells our origin and destiny, our duties to our Creator and our fellow-creatures, the foundation of the family and of the State,— religion, the instructress of youth and the prop of age ; the balm of wounded minds, and the moderator of human joys ; which controls the passions, yet imparts a zest to innocent pleasures ; which survives the' illu- sions of youth, and the disappointments of manhood ; consoles us in life, and supports us in death. 4. Such were the blessings that perverted genius strove to snatch from mankind. Yet tlie time was at hand, when the proud Titans, who sought to storm Heaven, were to be driven back by the thunderbolts of Almighty wrath, and hurled down into the lowest depths of Tartarus. But, even in regard to literature and science, the influence of this infidel party was most pernicious. How could they understand nature, who rested their eyes on its surface only but never pierced to its inner depths ? How could they under- stand the philosophy of history, who denied the providence of God, and the free will of man ? How could they comprehend metaphysics, who disowned God, and knew nothing of man's origin, nor of his destiny ? And, was an abject materialism compatible with the aspirations of poetry ? 6. Classical philology, too, shared the fate of poetry and of history ; and in education was made to give place to math- ematics and the natural sciences. Hence, from tTiis period dates the decline of philological studies in France. The men of genius of whom infidelity could boast, like Montesquieu Voltaire, Rousseau, BuflFon, and D'Alembert, were men who had been trained up in a Christian country, had received a Christian education, and whose minds had been imbued with the doctrines and the ethics of Cliristianity, and had partially retamed these sentiments in the midst of their unbelief. But let unbelief sink deep into a nation's mind— let it form its morals, and fashion its manners— and we shall soon see how barbarism of taste and coarseness of habits will be assofciated with moral depravity and mental debasement. Look at the goddess literature of the French Republic from 1190 to 1802 and at that of the Empire down to lSi4. Yvhat contempt' THE DYING GIRL. 225 ibie mediocrity of intellect ; what wretched corruption of taste ! 6. But in the Catholic literature, which, after a long sleep, revives under Napoleon, and afterwards under the Bourbons, what fulness of life, what energy do we not discover ! What brilliancy of fancy and fervor of feeling in Chateaubriand ! What depth of thought and majesty of diction in the philos- opher, De Bonald ! What profound intuitions — what force and plausibility of style in the great Count de Maistre ! What vigorous ratiocination — what burning eloquence, in De Lamme- nais before his fall I What elevation of feeling and harmony of numbers in the lyric poet, Lamartine ! Except in the semi- Pantheistic school, represented by Victor Cousin and his friends, French infidelity in the present age, whether in litera- ture or in philosophy, has no first-rate talent to display. Yet of this school, JouiFroy died repenting his errors, and Victor Cousin himself has lately returned to the bosom of the Church. 16. The Dying Girl. WILLIAMS. EicHAUD Dalton Williams ia by birth an Irisliman. At present, he is Professor of Jiellea Lettres in the Catholic Colleee, Mobile. " He writes with equal ability on all subjectH, whether they be grave or gay, pathetic or humorous." — Hayes's Ballads of Ireland. 1. From a Munster vale they brought her, From the pure and balmy air, An Ormond peasant's daughter, With blue eyes and golden hair. They brought her to the city, And she faded slowly there ; Consumption has no pity For blue eyes and golden hair. 2. When I saw her first reclining, Her lips were moved in prayer, And the setting sun was shining On her looseu'd golden hair. 10- 226 THE FOUKTII UKADKK. When our kindly glances met her, Deadly brilliant was her eye ; And she said that she was better, While we knew that she must die. 8. She speaks of Munster valleys, The patron, dance, and fair, And her thin hand feebly dallies With her scattered golden hair. When silently we listen'd To her breath, with quiet care. Her eyes with wonder glistcn'd, And she ask'd us what was there. 4. The poor thing smiled to ask it, And her pretty mouth laid bare, Like gems within a casket, A string of pearlets rare. We said that we were trying By the gushing of her blood. And the time she took in sighing. To know if she were good. 5. Well, she smiled and chatted gayly, Though we saw, in mute despair, The hectic brighter daily. And the death-dew on her hair. And oft, her wasted fingers Beating time upon the bed, O'er some old tune she lingers. And she bows her golden head. 6. At length the harp is broken, And the spirit in its strings, As the last decree is sjwken. To its source, exulting, springs. • Descending swiftly from the skies, Her guardian angel came, MAKin AxroiNi;TTi:. 227 He struck God'.^' lifilitnlng from her eyes, And bore him back the flame. Before the sun had risen Through the lark-loved morning air, Her young soul left its prison, Undefilcd by sin or care. I stood beside the couch in tears, Where, pale ami calm, she slept. And though I've gazed on death for years, I blush not that I wept. I check'd with effort pity's sighs. And left the matron there. To close the curtains of her eyes. And bind her golden hair. i i 77. Makie Antoinioti'e. B U K K E . Edmund Buiike, born in Dublin, 1723; died, 1797. As a statesman and nil onitor, tlie world has, perhaps, never seen a greater than Edmund Kiirke. A great orator of niir own day, says of him ; " No one can doubt that cnlischtened men in all ages will hang over the works of Mr. Bnrke. lie was ii writer of the tirst elass, and excelled in almost every kind of prose composition." — Lonl Brovffham. " 111 the three principal questions which excited liis interest, and called forth the most splendid displays of his eloquence— The contest with the Aiiiericiin Colonies, the impeachment of Warren Hastings, and the French Kevolution— we see displayed aphilaiitliropy the most pure, illustrated by a genius t..e most resplendent. . . He was ever the bold anduncotnpromis- iiii,' ciiampion of justice, mercy, and iv\\l\\.''''—AUibone's '■'• Dldionary of Jiifhorf!:' As a writer, Burke has bequeathed to our times, some of the most per- fict models of literary composition. His "Treatise on the Sublime and Bi.'iuiliful," has never 'been exceeded in any language. He was, in everv sense, a truly great and good man, and hence " tlie deep reverence witli which his character is regarded in the present dav." Indeed, the cnipiro of Brituin has no name more prized, than that of Edmund Burke, the son of a Dublin attorney. 1. History, who keeps a durable record of all our acts, and exercises her awful censure over the proceedings of all sorts of sovereigns, will not forget either those events or the era of this liberal refinement in the intercourse of mankmd. ^!* ti f-' .1 ■''':>S 22S THE FOURTH BEADEE. History will record, that on the morning of the 6th of Octo- bcr, 1789, the King and Queen of France, after a day of con- fusion, alarm, dismay, and slaughter, lay down, under the pledged security of public faith, to indulge nature in a few hours of respite, and troubled, melancholy repose. 2. From this sleep the queen was first startled by the voice of the sentinel at her door, who cried out to her, to save her- self by flight-that this was the last proof of fidelity he could give— that they were upon him, and he was dead. Instantly he was cut down. A band of cruel ruffians and assassins reeking with blood, rushed into the chamber of the queen and pierced with a hundred strokes of bayonets and poniards the bed, from whence this persecuted woman had but just time to fly almost naked, and, through ways unknown to the murder- ers, had escaped to seek refuge at the feet of a king and hus- band, not secure of his own life for a moment. 3. This king, to say no more of him, and this queen, and their infant children (who once would have been the pride and hope of a great and generous people), were then forced to abandon the sanctuary of the most splendid palace in the world, which they left swimming in blood, polluted by massa- cre, and strewed with scattered Umbs and mutilated carcasses Thence they were conducted into the capital of their kingdom Two had been selected from the unprovoked, unresisted" pro- miscuous slaughter, which was made of the gentlemen of birth and family, who composed the king's body-guard. These two gentlemen, with all the parade of an execution of justice were cruelly and publicly dragged to the block, and beheaded in the great court of the palace. 4. Their heads were stuck upon spears, and led the proces- sion; while the royal captives, who followed in the train were slowly moved along, amidst the horrid yells, and thrilllno- screams and frantic dances, and infamous contumelies, and aH the unuftcrable abominations of the furies of hell in the abus- ed shapes of the vilest of women. After thev had been made to taste, drop by drop, more than the l)itterneRs of death in the slow torture of a journey of twelve miles, protracted' to SIX hours, they were, under a guard, composed of those very MAMK ANTOINErrE. 229 5oldicrs who hnd thus conducted them throupjh this famous triumph, lodged in one of the old palaces of Paris, now con- verted into a Bastile for kings 5. It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the Dauphincss, at Versailles ; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in, — glittering like the morning star, full of life, and splendor, and joy. Oh ! what a revolution 1 and what a heart I must have, to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall 1 Little did I dream, when she added titles of veneration, to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace, concealed in that bosom ; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disas- ters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honor, and of cavaliers. 6. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards, to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone. That of soph- isters, economists, and calculators, has succeeded : and the glory of Europe is extinguished forever. Never, never more shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise, is gone 1 It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honor, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage, while it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil, by losing all its grossness. I 11. t Ill '7. ... MJ II 111 11' i IJ ^ f 230 THE FOUKTII UKADEU. 78. The Old tMioKE. MISS MITFOIJD. Mart EfflsELL MiXKonn— born at Almford, in Encliind, 1786: died IS.^i. Miss Mitford's skotclies of rural life iiro iiiimitiiblo in their kii,(i' nnd her 8tyle is a model for such coiin)ositioiis. Iler series of sketelif.! entitled " Our Village," and "Belford liegia," form very readable volumes' 1. The first occupant of Mrs. Duval's pleasant apartments was a Catholic priest, an dmigre, to whom they had a double recommendation, — in his hostess's knowledge of the French language and French cookery (she being, as he used to affirm, the only Englishwoman that ever made drinkable coffee) ; and in the old associations of the precincts ("piece of a cloister"), around which the venerable memorials of the ancient faith still lingered, even in decay. He might have said, with Antonio, in one of t]?o finest scenes ever conceived by a poet's imagina- tion, — that in which the echo answers from the murdered woman's grave : 2. " I do love these ancient ruins ; ^Vo never tread upon them but we set Our foot upon some reverend history ; And, questionless, here in this open wuit (Which now lies open to the injuries Of stormy weather) some do lie interr'd, Loved the Church so well, nnd gave so largely to't, They thought it should have canopied their bones, Till doomsday. But all things have their end : Churches and cities (which have diseases like to men) Must have like death that we have." 'Webster— DucJiess of Malfl. 3. The Abbe Yillaret had been a cadet of one of the oldest families in France, destined to the Church as the birthright of a younger son, but attached to his profession with a serious- ness and earnestness not common among the gay noblesse of the old regime. This devotion, had, of course, been greatly increased by the persecution of the Church which distinguish- ed the commencement of the Revolution. The good Abbo had been marked as one of the earliest victims, and had escaped, through the gratitude of an old servant, from the fate which swept off sisters and brothers, and almost every individual, except himself, of a large and flourishing family. , 1' THE OLD ilMIGRi:. 281 4. Penniless and solitary, he made his way to England, and found an asylum in the town of Belford, at first assisted by the pittance allowed by our government to those unfortunate f(M-('ifj;ners, and subsequently supported by his own exertions lis assistant to the priest of the Catholic chapel in Belford, and as a teacher of the French language in the town and neighborhood ; and so complete had been the ravages of the Revolution in his own family, and so entirely had he estab- lished himself in the esteem of his English friends, that, when the short peace of Amiens restored so many of his brother emiyres to their native land, he refused to quit the country of his adoption, and remained the contented inhabitant of the rriory Cottage. 5. The contented and most beloved inhabitant, not only of that small cottage, but of the town to which it belonged, was the good Abbe, Everybody loved the kind and placid old man, whose resignation was so real and so cheerful, who had such a talent for making the best of things, whose moral al- chemy could extract some good out of every evil, and who seemed only the more indulgent to the faults and follies of others because he had so little cause to require indulgence for his own. G. From the castle to the cottage, from the nobleman whose children he taught, down to the farmer's wife who fur- nished him with eggs and butter, the venerable Abbe was a universal favorite. There was something in his very appear- ance — his small, neat person, a little bent, more by sorrow than age, his thin, white hair, his mild, intelligent counte- nance, with a sweet, placid smile, that spoke more of courtesy than of gayety, his gentle voice, and even the broken English, which reminded one that he was a sojourner in a strange land — that awakened a mingled emotion of pity and respect. 1. His dress, too, always neat, yet never seeming new, con- tributed to the air of decayed gentility that hung about him ; and the beautiful little dog who was his constant attendant, and the graceful boy who so frequently accompanied him, form- ed an interesting group on the high roads which he frequented ; for the good Abbe was bo much m request as a teacher, and 232 THE FOURTH BRADER. the amount of his earnings was so considerable, that he might liavc passed for well-to-do in the world, had not his chanty to his poorer countrymen, and his liberality to Louis and to Mrs. Duval, been such as to keep him constantly poor. 1 79. The Sister op Charitt. GERALD ORIFFIN. 1. She once was a lady of '^onor and wealth. Bright glow'd on her features the roses of health ; Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold, And her motion shook perfume from every fold: Joy revell'd around her— love shone at her side, And gay was her smile, as the glance of a bride ; And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall. When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul. 2. She felt, in her spirit, the summons of grace, That call'd her to live for the suffering race • And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home. Rose quickly like Mary, and answer'd, " I come." She put from her person the trappings of pride, And pass'd from her home, with the joy of a bride, Nor wept at the threshold, as onwards she moved— For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved, 3. Lost ever to fashion — to vanity lost. That beauty that once was the song and the toast- No more in the ball-room that figure we meet. But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat. Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name. For tlic Sister of Charity blushes at fame ; Forgot are the claims of licr riches and birth. For she barters for heaven the glory of earth. 4. Those feet, that to music could gracefully move, Now bear hor alone on the mission of love ; THE SISTER OP CIIAKITV. 233 Those hands that once dangled the perfume and gem, Are tendi'ig the helpless, or lifted for tl'em ; Tliat voice that once echo'd the song of the vain, Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain ; And the hair that was sinning with diamond and pearl, Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl. Iler down bed — a pallet; her trinkets — a bead; Her lustre — one taper that serves her to read; Her sculpture — the crucifix uail'd by her bed; ?ler paintings — one print of the thorn-crowned head; Her cushion — the pavement that wearies her knees ; Her music — the psalm, or the sigh of disease ; The delicate lady lives mortified there, And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer. Yet not to the service of heart and of mind, Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined. liikc Him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief. She strengthens the weary — she comforts the weak, And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick; Where want and affliction on mortals attend, The Sister of Charity there is a friend. Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath, Like an angel she moves, 'mid the vapor of death ; Where rings the loud musket, and flashes the sword, TJnfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord. How sweetly she bends o'er each plague-tainted face, With looks that are lighted with holiest grace ; How kindly she dresses each suffering limb. For she sees in the wounded the image of Him. 8. Behold her, ye worldly! behold her, ye vain 1 Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain ; Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days. Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise. »,";*» 284 TIIR FOURTH READER. Yc lazy philoHojjhers— seif-sceking men, — Ye fireside philanthropistH, great at the pen, How stands in the balance your eloquence weigh'd With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid ? ■ ;■ ■■■ > .■ f,'' j!i|l m ^9 1 ,»T :*:3l B 80. Sir Thomas More to his Dauohtku. ,, '^'" '^""J^*" More, a celehrutcd chancellor of Enjrlund, wlio siicccclc-d Cardinal WoIhov, as Lord High Climicellor, in 1530, and filled tlieotlioc fur threo yearn witli «crupulons intef,'rity. For his conHcientions Hcnu.ks to talcu the oath of Hiiiircniacy in favor of that brutal king, Henry Vlll Im wan beheaded in 1 :.;(-), at the ago of fifty-five. He was the author of'th, celebrated nolitieal romaneo of " Utopia." Dr. Johnson pronounced tlic workH_ of More to bo models of pure and elegant style. The followiu.' letter la addressed to his favorite child, Margaret Koper. " 1. Thomas More sendeth greeting to his dearest daughter, Margaret : My Dearest Daughter — There was no reason why you shouU have deferred writing to me one day longer, though your letters were barren of any thing of interest, as you tell me. Even had it been so, your letters might have been pardoned by any man, much more, then, by a father, to whose eyes even the blemishes in his child's face will seem beautiful. But these letters of yours, Meg, were so finished both in style and manner, that not only was there nothing in them to fear your father's (rn- sure, but Momus himself, though not in his best humor, could have found nothing in them to smile at in the way of censure. 2. I greatly thank our dear friend, Mr. Nicols, for his kind- ness. He is a man well versed in astronomy ; and I congratu- late you on your gooU fortune in learning from him in tlie space of one mouth, and with so small labor of your own, so many and such high wonders of that mighty and eternal Workman, which were found only after many ages, and by watching so many long and cold nights under the open sky. Thus, you have accomplished, in a short time, what took the labor of years of some of the most excellent wits the world has ever produced. 3. Anotht r thing which you write me, pleaseth me exceed- ingly, that you have determined with yours, If to study philoso- SIR THOMAS MOKli TO III8 DAUGHTER. 235 LUOHTKU. earcst daughter, phy so diligently, that yo i will regain by your diligcncfi what your negligence had lost you. I love you for this, my dear :M('g, that, whereas I never found you a loiterer — your pro- ficiency evidently showing how painfully you have pnjceedcd thorein— yet, such is your modesty, that you had rather still accuse yourself of negligence, than make any vain boast. Except you mean this, that you will hereafter be so diligent, tliiit your former endeavors, though praiseworthy, may, as compared to your future diligence, be called negligence. 4. If this you nieau — as I verily think you do — nothing can be more fortunate for me, nothing, my dearest daughter, more happy for you. I have earnestly wished that you might spend the rest of your days in studying the Holy Scriptures, and the science of naedicine : these offer the means for fulfilling the end of our existence, which is, to endeavor to have a sound mind iu a sound body. Of these studies you have already laid some foundation, nor will you ever want matter to build upon. In nothing are the first years of life so well bestowed as in humnuo learning and the liberal arts. 5. By these we obtain that our aicer age can better struggle with the difificultios of life ; and if not acquired h youth, it is uncertain v^ other at any other time we shall have the advan- tage of 8u careful, so loving, and so learned a master. I could wish, niy dear Meg, to talk long with you about these matters, but liere they are bringing n the supper, interrupting me and calling me awa/. My supper will not be so sweet to me, as tliis my speech with you is ; but then, we have others to mind as well as ourselves. 6. Farewell, my dearest daughter, and commend rac kindly to your husband, my loving sou ; who, it rejoices me to hear, is studying the same things you do. You know I always counselled you to give place to yr ur husband; but, in this respect, I give you full license to strive and be the master, more especially in the knowledge of the spheres. Farewell, again and again. Commend me to all your school-fellows, but to your master especially. From your father who loves you, Thomas Moue. 236 THE FOURTH READER. 81. Influence of Catholicity on Civil Liberty. DR. SPALDINa. M. J. Spalding, D. T)., bishop of Louisville, born in Kentucky in the early part of the present century. This distinguished prelate and protbuiid theologian, is also an accomplished scholar, and an eminent writer who counts nothing foreign to his purpose, that affects the welfare of men ' His reviews, essays, and lectures, tire replete with the information mo.st reQui'- eite in our age. His " Evidences of Catholicity," " Review of D'Aubigiie'a History of the Keforination," " Sketches of the early Catliolic Missions in Kentucky," and his "Miscellanies," are among our standard works. 1. Of the old Catholic republics, two yet remain, standing monuments of the influence of Catholicity on free institutions. The one is imbosomed in the Pyrenees of Catholic Spain, and the other is perched on tlie Apennines of Catholic Italy. The very names of Andorra and San Marino are enough to refute the assertion, that Catholicity is opposed to republican gov- ernments. Both of these little republics owed their origin directly to the Catholic religion. That of Andorra was founded by a Catholic bishop, and that of San Marino, by a Catholic monk, whose name it bears. The bishops of Urgel have been, and are still, the protectors of the former ; and the Roman Pontiffs of the latter. 2. Andorra has continued to exist, with few political vicis- situdes, for more than a thousand years ; while San Marino dates back her history more than fifteen hundred years, and is therefore not only the oldest republic in the world, but per- haps the oldest government in Europe. The former, to a territory of two hundred English square miles, has a popula- tion of fifteen thousand ; while the latter, with half the popu- lation, has a territory of only twenty-one square miles. Both of them are governed by officers of their. own choice; and the government of San Marino in particular, is conducted on the most radically democratic principles. 3. The legislative body consists of the Council of Sixty, one half of whom at least are, by law, to be chosen from the plebe- ian order; and of tha Aircngo, or general assembly, summoned under extraordinary circumstances, in which all the families of the republic are to be represented. The executive is lodged INFLUENCE OF CATHOLICITY ON CIVIL LIBERTY. 237 viL Liberty. ormer ; and the in two capitanei regyenti, or governors, chosen every six months, and holding jurisdiction, one in the city of San Mari- no, and the other in the country ; — so jealous are these old republicans of placing power in the hands of one man 1 The iudiciary department is managed by a commissary, who is required by law to be a foreigner, — a native of some other part of Italy, — in order that, in the discharge of his office, he may be biassed by no undue prejudices, resulting from family connections. 4. When Addison visited the republic in ItOO, he "scarce- ly met with any in the place who had not a tincture of learn- ing." He also saw the collection of the laws of the republic, published in Latin, in one volume folio, under the title : " Sta- tuta illustrissimas reipublicaB Sancti Marini." When Napo- leon, at the head of his victorious French troops, was in the neighborhood of San Marino, in 1791, he paused, and sent a congratulatory deputation to the republic, " which expressed the reverence felt by her young sister, France, for so ancient and free a commonwealth, and oifered, besides an increase of territory, a present of four pieces of artilleiy." The present was gratefully accepted, but the other tempting oflfer was wisely declined ! 5. The good old Catholic times produced patriots and heroes, of whom the present age might well be proud. Wil- lia-n Wallace, defeated at Buscenneth, fell a martyr to the liberty of his native Scotland in 1305. Robert Bruce achiev- ed what Wallace had bled for not in vain, — the independence of his country. He won, in 1314, the decisive battle of Ban- nockburn, which resulted in the expulsion of the English invaders from Scotland. Are the Hungarians, and Poles, and Spaniards, and French, who fought for centuries the battles of European independence against the Saracens and Turks, to be set down as enemies of freedom ? Are the brave knights of St. John, who so heroically devoted themselves for the liberty of Europe at Rhodes and at Malta, also to be ranked with the enemies of human rights ? 6. We might bring the subject home to our own times and country, and show that the Catliolics of the colpny of Mary- 238 THB FOFBTH READEE. J ' ( 'JOf M^nin land, were the first to proclaim universal liberty, civil and religious, in North America ; that in the war for independence with Protestant England, Catholic France came generously and effectually to our assistance ; that Irish and American Catholics fought side by side with their Protestant fellow-cit- izens in that eventful war ; that the Maryland line which bled Ko freely at Camden with the Catholic Baron de Kalb, while Gates and his Protestant militia were consulting their safety by flight, was composed to a great extent of Catholic sol- diers ; that there was no Catholic traitor during our revolu- tion ; that the one who perilled most in signing the Declara- tion of Independence, and who was the last survivor of that noble band of patriots, was the illustrious Catholic, Charles Carroll of Carrollton ; that half the generals and officers of our revolution— Lafayette, Pulaski, Count de Grasse, Ro- chambeau, De Kalb, Kosciuszko, and many others were Cath- olics ; and that the first commodore appointed by Washing- ton to form our infant navy, was the Irish Catholic— Barry. These facts, which are but a few of those which might be adduced, prove conclusively that Catholicity is still, what she was in the middle ages, the steadfast friend of free institutions. 7. To conclude : Can it be that Catholicity, which saved Europe from barbarism and a foreign Mohammedan despot- ism,— which in every age has been the advocate of free princi- ples, and the mother of heroes and of republics, — which origi- nated Magna Charta and laid the foundation of liberty in every country in Europe,— and which in our own day and country has evinced a similar spirit,— is the enemy of free principles ? We must blot out the facts of history, before we can come to any such conclusion I If history is f»t all to be relied on, we must conclude, that the influence of the Catholic Church has been favorable to Civil Liberty. THE MINI8TRT OF ANGELS. 239 82. The Ministry op Angels. 8PEXSEB. Edmund Spenser— one of the briarhtest of tlmt pnlaxy of jioets who shed lii-itru on the reign of Elizabeth. The poetry of Spenser belongs to the jirst orJcr. There ia a salutary purity and nobleness about it. Ho is a cdiinocting link between Chaucer and Milton; resembling the former in liis (loscriiitive power, his tenderness, and his sense of beauty, thougli in- ferior to him in homely vigor and dramatic insight into character. His "Fairy Queen" is the chief representative in English poetry of the ro- iimiiee wliich once delighted hall and bower. Notwithstanding his polemi- cal allesjory of Duesaa, a sorry tribute to the age, nothing is more striking tiinti the Catholic tone that belongs to Spenser^s poetry. The religion and the cliivahv of the Middle Ages were alike the inspirers of his song. He belongs to the order of poets who are rather the monument of a time gone by tlian an illustration of their own. 1. And is there care in heaven? And is there love In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, That may compassion of their evils move ? There is : — else much more wretched were the case Of Hica than beasts : but oh ! th' exceeding grace Of highest God, that loves his creatures so, And all his works with mercy doth embrace, That blessed angels he sends to and fro, To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe 1 2. How oft do they their silver bowers leave To come to succor us, that succor want 1 How oft do they, with golden pinions cleave The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant. Against foul fiends to aid us militant I They for us fight, they watch and duly ward. And their bright squadrons round about us plant ; And all for love, and nothing for reward : Oh 1 why should heavenly God to men have such regard ? Sonnet. 3. Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere ; Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his bough ; Sweet is the eglantine, but pricketh near ; Sweet is the firbloom, but his branches rough ; H» M" . r 'ii '\: Vi.f !'l 240 THE FOURTH READEB. Sweet is the Cyprus, but his rind is tough ; Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill ; Sweet is the broom flower, but yet sour enough ; And sweet is raoly, but his root is ill : So, every sweet with sour is temper'd still ; That maketh it be coveted the more : For easy things, that may be got at will, Most sorts of men do set but little store. Why, then, should I account of little pain That endless pleasure shall unto me gain ? 83. The Choice. MILES. Georob H. Miles, native of Baltimore, professor now at Mt. St. Mary's College, hia Alma Mater, one of our most gifted writers in poetry and prose. His two published tales of "The Governess," and "Loretto: or The Choice," and still more his tragedy of " Mahomet," prove him pos- sessed of a higli order of talent. 1. " What do you think of the world, Agnes ? rather a nice place after all— eh ? Oh, I have had my time in it !" " And so have I," said Agnes. " You ought to see more of it, my girl." " No, thank you ; I have seen quite enough." " Why, you jade you, what have you seen in a month ? It takes one years to see the world as it is, in all its maje^ically accumulating glory and versatile interest. Poh !" continued the Colonel, " what have you seen ?" 2. " I have seen," returned Agnes, with provoking calnmess, " that its standard of morality is not God's standard ; that wealth and impudence are its virtues ; poverty and modesty its vices ; that money is its god, its grand governing principle, to which all else is subservient ; that happiness is measured by the purse, and that a comfortable if not luxurious settle- ment in life is the grand goal, in the chase of which eternity is lost sight of." " Poh !" ejaculated the Colonel. THE CHOICE. 241 roking calmness, 3. "I have seen Catholics almost universally ashamed of the first principles of their faith, and artfully smoothing them over to attract their dissenting brethren. I have seen them dressing so indecently, even when priests are invited, that their pastors are pat to the blush." " That's the priest's fault," mumbled the Colonel. 4. " I have seen," continued Agues, smiling at the inter- ruption, " that your happy, merry men and women, are only so because they have a false conscience, which has ceased to accuse them ; I have seen all who have virtue enough to feel, living in perpetual fear of the temptations by which they are surrounded. I have seen that society is but a hollow farce, in which there is neither love nor friendship. I have seen the idol of a thousand worshippers left without a single friend when touched by poverty." 5. The Colonel groaned and looked away from Lei. "And I have seen," said Agnes, taking her uncle's hand, and modulating her voice to a whisper, " I have seen that, in spite of all this, the w^orld is dazzlingly beautiful, winning, enchanting. And oh, my dear, good uncle, it is not God that makes it so ! I have felt its insidious fascination. I toll you, uncle, that I have been wandering along the brink of a precipice ; that I could no more hve in the world than can the moth live in the candle ; that my only salvation is in that Convent!" 6. The old man knocked the ashes carefully from his cigar, slowly brushed a tear from his eye, and put his arm around Lei's neck. "Thank God, you are not a Catholic!" he exclaimed. " There are no Protestant convents to take you from me." With tears streaming down her cheeks. Lei leaned her head on his shoulder. A horrible suspicion ran through the Col- onel's mind. He raised her head in the clear moonlight, and mutely questioned her, with such a fearful, timid gaze, that her heart bled for him, as she said — "Yes, uncle, I am a Catholic!" 1. The cigar fell from his hand — his cane rolled on the porch — his broad chest swelled as if his heart was bursting— 11 [I ' iMi f-\ .; ]ij,| ' . J vl ,< . 242 THK FOUKTir RKADER. had they both been dead at his feet, he could scarcely have shown more grief, tlian at this overthrow of all his plans, this defeat of his best diplomacy. " Check-mated I" he sobbed in uncontrolled agony • re- pulsed tliem sternly from his side, and then, spreading liis arms, snatched them both to his bosom. " Check-mated ' Check-mated I" 8. One word: the sermon just preached by Agnes against the world, has nothing new in it; Solomon put it all in a nut- shell long ago; it will be found better expressed in every prayer-book. To the Colonel, it was perfectly puerile, the same old song which saints and misanthropists have 'been singing together from time immemorial. Only by constant meditation do we comprehend that life is but a preparation for death; and unless this great truth is realized, where is the folly in living as if time were the main thing and cternitv a trifle? ^ 9. The visible present, though brief, and bounded by the grave, is apt to be more important than the invisible future. Without strong faith, men must live as they do; and all who reprove them for neglecting their souls, in over devotion to their bodies, will seem only fools, or very good people, who have not weighed well the difficulty of what they propose. Every day we witness the same spectacle— a world, for whom God died upon the cross, devoting all their time, all their thoughts, to obtain material comfort and avoid sorrow: a prayer at night, an ejaculation in the morning— the rest of the day sacred to the body. 10. We see this every day; we do not wonder at it ; it is all right, all in the order of Providence : the only mystery is, that some weak, pious souls arc absurd enough to quit the world, and devote the greater part of their lives to religious exercises; this is the singular part of it. It would be an un- natural state of things, indeed, if all mankind were to make business secondary to religion, and spend as much time in praising God, as they do in making money. 11. Why, the best instructed, the most edifying Catholic parents, cannot help prefemng an auspicious alliance with THE CHOICE. 243 man for their daughters, to an eternal union with God in the solitary cloister; and how can we expect the worldly-minded Colonel, who has not seen a confessional for forty years, to consider the choice made by Agnes, as any thing else than a burning shame, a living death ? 12. How many of us have realized, by prayer and medita- tion, that heaven is all and earth nothing ? How many of us are truly sick of the vanity of life, much as we pretend to be, and do not sagely conclude that our neighbors and ourselves are all doing our duty, taking our share of enjoyment with sufficient gratitude, and bearing our just proportion of afflic- tion with c.zemplary resignation ? 13. There was a time when monasteries and chapels were as numerous as castles ; when the Christian world seemed ambitious to live a Christian life ; when self-denial and self- castlgation were honored ; when the consecration of a cathe- dral wos of more moment than the opening of a railroad ; wlien there was something nobler than science, and dearer than profit ; when the security of government was in the hu- mility of the people ; when the security of the people was in the firmness and purity of the Church ; when there was not, as now, a groundwork of ignorance, pride, and envy, which is either a withering master or a dangerous slave. Yes ! there was a time when all this was, and when Agnes might not have been laughed at ; but it was in the dark ages, reader, in those terrible nights before the sunlight of newspapers had illumined the earth. 84. TiiR Choice — continued. 1. Must it be told that, within a month after her return from the city, Agnes entered the convent as a candidate ; that three months later, her long hair was cut to suit the brown cap of the novice ? Until her hair was cut, the Colonel had cherished a hope that she would repent her girlish haste; but when he saw the ruin caused by those envious shears, he could not help saying — " It is all 0vcr--aH over 1" iiM fj 2U TIIK FOURTH KEAT>i:U. 2. Aud yc who have clung to Agnes, in the hope that she would be induced to marry Melville, or incline to Mr. Almy, or that some romantic young gentleman would appear upon the carpet, invested with every virtue and every grace, between whom and our young novice, a sweet sympathy might be estab- lished, which should ultimately lead to better things than the cloister, and supply a chapter or two of delicious sentiment,— leave us, we beseech you,— for her choice is made, though the vows are not yet taken. 3. Yes ! she is lost to the world ! that sweet, beautiful girl, who laughed so merrily with her load of premiums in her arms; the milk-white iamb among those green hills ; the friend who had gone to change Lei, and who did change her, though she nearly perished in the eflFort ; the kind protectress who had comforted little Clarence and the Wanderer ; the keen-sighted woman who had penetrated the secret of Mr. Almy's face ; who had conquered Melville, and reigned supreme in the ball- room, eclipsing all the practised belles of the season I 4. She was lost to the world! that sweet, beautiful gu-l, who was so well fitted to delight and adorn it ; lost before the first bloom of youth had passed from her cheeks, before ex- perience had dried the first bright waters of hope and trust that are born in our hearts ; lost before there was any need to seek a refuge from the ills of life in that last resource, a con- vent 1 She is lost to the world, and what matters it what she has gained — what heaven has won I — so thought the Colonel. 5. Yet, what was his love for Agnes, compared to her mother's — the mother who remembered her baptism, her first cries, her first words, her first caresses; who had counted her first smiles, and treasured them in her heart ; who remembered every incident of her youth, her first lisping prayers, her first songs, her first visit to mass, her first confession, her first communion, her confirmation : what was his bereavement to hers ? 6. Agnes was her only child, her only companion in prayer, her jewel, her treasure, her all on earth ; a thousand uncles could not have loved her as she did ; their lives had been one, and now they are called upon tn live apart. Oh, not apart ! THE FATK OF ANDK^. 245 Who shall say apart ! When they are repeating, day after day, and night after night, the same dear litanies, when they are appealing to the same saints, the same angels, the same Blessed Mother, the same Father, Son, and Holy Ghost ; when they are living together in God, who shall say they arc living apart 1 7. And thus thought Mrs. Cleveland, and she missed not her daughter's long, dark hair ; and if she shed floods of natu- ral tears, it was not because her daughter was clad in the plain livery of heaven. And so thought Lei, and she was glad of the CHOICE, though she had now to sit and sew alone, though she had to walk alone, though she had to watch the sun rise and set, and play Beethoven, and listen to the birds and pluck wild flowers, and muse under the old oak-trees without Agnes at her side. 8. God ! how beautiful must the soul be when entering heaven ! The plainest face, when lit with sanctity, is sublime, and prince and peasant bow down before it, or if they smite, it is in envy. No rouge shall ever tinge thy pale cheek, Sister Agnes ; no ring shall ever glitter on thy white hand ; thy hair shall never be twined into lockets ; thy foot shall never twinkle in the dance I 9. Thou art the child of God, Sister Agnes 1 And who will dare to claim thee for the world, as thou kneelest there before the altar, or say that thou wert made for man ? Who would snatch thee thence, thou young companion of the angels, as if thou wert to be pitied and saved ? There is the likeness to God, which the children of earth have lost, and who would bid it vanish ? 85. The Fate of AndrI:. HAMILTON. Alexandkr Hamilton, (it the atjc of seventeen, during the first days of the Ucvolution, commenced his public career. He was engaged in tlie tirst act of arnicd opposition, and during tlie war was Washington's principal and confidential aid. lie was the author of three-fourths of tlie Nos. of the " Federalist." These essays constitute one of the most profound and lucid treatises on politics tluit has ever been written. The melancholy circum- stances of the close of his life arc still remembered. He was killed in a . 14'' -■ S40 THE Fonrnr ukadkr. i-4'1;:i J « -1, 'tip iiiu tliiel, by Anron Burr, nt Woebawken, near Now York, in 1804. been but one other instance of Midi profound and universal nionrniin, Tiicro lins .1 , ^ :, Vr . 'Y'^" I'liMwiiiiii uiiu iiiiiverHiu nioiiriiiinf t iroughout tho United States, llu assassin, tlien in tiie second otliee n't tlio refniblic, uiul tiio (uvorite of a powerful party, became a fugitive and a 1. Nevek, perhaps, did any man suffer death with more justice, or deserve it less. The first step he took, after iiis capture, was to write a letter to General Washington, con- ceived in terms of dignity without insolence, and apology with- out meanness. The scope of it vas to vindicate himself from the imputation of having assumed a mean character for treacherous or interested purposes ; asserting that he had been involuntarily an impostor; that, contrary to his intention, which was to meet a person for intelligence on neutral ground, he had been betrayed within our posts, and forced into the vile cou- dition of an enemy in disguise ; soliciting only, that, to what- ever rigor policy might devote him, a decency of treatment might be observed, due to a person who, though mfortunatc, had been guilty of nothing dishonorable. 2. His request was granted in its fullest extent ; for, in the whole progress of the affair, he was treated with the most scrupulous delicacy. When brought before the Board of OflBcers, he met with every mark of indulgence, and was re- quired to answer no interrogatory which could even embarrass his feelings. On his part, while he carefully concealed every thing that might involve others, he frankly confessed all the facts relating to himself ; and, upon his confession, without the trouble of examining a witness, the board made their report. The members of it were not more impressed with the candor and firmness, mixed with a becoming sensibility, which he dis- played, than he was penetrated with their liljerality and po- liteness. 3. He acknowledged the generosity of the behavior towards him in every respect, but particularly in this, in the strongest terms of manly gratitude. In a conversation with a gentleman who visited him after his trial, he said he flattered himself he had never been illiberal ; but if there were any remains of pre- judice in his mind, his present experience must obliterate tliem. In one of the visits I made to him (and I saw him several THE FATE OF ANDRi. 247 V him several times during his confinement), he begged mo to be the bearer of a request to the general, for permission to send an open let- ter to Sir Henry Clinton. 4. " I foresee my fate," said he, "and though I pretend not to i)lay the hero, or to be indifferent about life, yet I am reeon- ciled to whatever may hii}»[)en, coiiseious that misfortune, not guilt, has brought it upon me. There is only one thing that disturbs my tranquillity. Sir Henry Clinton has been too good to me; he has been lavish of his kindness. I am bound to him by too many obligations, and love him too well, to bear the thought that he should reproach himself or that others should reproach him, on the supposition of my having conceived my- self obliged, by his instructions, to run the risk I did. 5. " 1 would not, for the world, leave a sting in his mind that sliould imbitter his future days." He could scarce finish the sentence, bursting into tears in spite of his efforts to sup- press them ; and with difficulty collected himself enough after- wards to add : " I wish to be permitted to assure him, I did not act under this impression, but submitted to a necessity im- posed upon me, as contrary to my own inclination- as to his orders," His requi t was readily complied with ; and he wrote the letter annexed, with which I dare say you will be as much pleased as I am, both for the diction and sentiment. 6. When Lis sentence was announced to him, he remarked, that since it was his lot to die, there was still a choice in the mode, which would make a material difference in his feelings ; and he would be happy, if jmssible, to be indulged with a pro- fessional death. He made a second application, by letter, in concise but persuasive terras. It was thought this indulgence, being incompatible with the customs of war, could not be granted ; and it was therefore determined, in both cases, to evade an answer, to spa ' him the sensations which a certain knowledcre of the intended mode would inflict. 7. In going to the place of execution, he bowed familiarly, as he went along, to all those with whom he had been acquaint- ed in his confinement. A smile of complacency expressed the serene fortitude of his mind. Arrived at the fatal spot, he asked, with some ciuotion, '* :ilList I then die in this manner?" ^1 I N'i*, "' 248 THE FOURTH READER. !l ' 1. i f t He wm told it had beeu unavoidable. " T am rcconcllofl to my fate," said he, " but not to the mode." Soon, however rccol Icctmg himself, he added : "It will be but a momentary mno. •" and, sprmgmg upon the cart, performed the last offices to I'li,!,. self with a composure that excited the admiration and moltotl the hearts of the beholders. Upon being told the finui moment was at hand, and asked if he had any thing to say, he answered " Nothmg, but to request you will witness to the world that I die like a brave man." Among the extraordinai v circumstances that attended him, in the midst of his enemies, he died univ^r- Bally esteemed and universally regretted. 8. There was something singularly interesting in th- charac- ter and fortunes of Andro. To an excellent understandino. well improved by education .nd travel, he united a peculiar elegance of mind and manners, and the advantage ol a pleasin..- person 'Tis said he possessed a pretty taste for the fine arts" and had himself attained some proficiency in poetry music and painting. His knowledge appeared without ostentation ' and embellished by a diffidence that rarely accompanies so many talents and accomplishments ; which left you to suppose more than appeared. 9. His sentiments were elevated, and inspired esteem- they had a softness that conciliated affection. His elocution was pleasing ; his address easy, polite, and insinuating By his merit, he had acquired the unlimited confidence of his general and was making a rapid progress in military rank and reputa- tion. But m the height of his career, flushed with new hopes trom the execution of a project, the most beneficial to his party that could be devised, he was at once precipitated from the summit of prosperity, and saw all the expectations of his am- bition blasted, and himself ruined. 10. The character I have given of him is drawn partly from what I saw of him myself, and partly from information. I am am that a man of real merit is never seen in so favorable a light as through the medium of adversity : the clouds that surround him are shades that set off his good qualities. Mis- fortune cuts down the little vanities that, in prosperous times, Bcrve as so many spots in his virtues ; and gives a tone of MKLROSK AUBKY AS IT 18. 249 liumility that makes his worth more amiable. His spectators, who enjoy a happier lot, are less prone to tletract from it, tlin)iij?h onvy, and are more disposed, by compassion, to give him the credit he deserves, and perhaps even to magnify it. 11. I speak not of Andre's condiK't in this aflfair is a phi- losopher, but as a man of the world. The authorized maxims and practices of war are the satires of human nature. Thoy countenance almost every species of seduction as well as vio- liMicc; and the general who can make most traitors in the army of hi.s adversary, is frequently most applauded. On this scalfl we acquit Andre; while we could not but ccndemn him, if wo were to exair.;a(; ui. conduct by the sober rules of philosophy and moral ' :ictirude. It is, however, a blemish on his fame, that he ono i- eniko to prostitute a flag: about this a man of nice honor vi-^rht 1 j have had a scruple; but the temptation was great ; let nis misfortunes cast a veil over his error. 86. Melrose Abbey A8 it i8. 80 OTT. Sm Walter Scott, is one of the men of whom Scotland is juntly proud. It is tlie peculiar merit of Scott's writings to Imve revived Homcthing of that chivulrous sentiment, without which society rustH in Hordid pursuitH, and to have turned buck the eyes of a self-conceited uge to the " olden time." With the frnnk nature and cordial humor wliich belonged to Chaiu. ccr and Shukspeare, Scott possessed also much of their dramatic power. 1. If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, Go, visit it by the palo moonlight ; For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild but to flout the ruins gray. When the broken arches are black in night, And each shafted oriel glimmers white ; When the cold lijrht's uncertain sliower Streams on the ruin'd central tower ; When buttress and buttress alternately Seem framed of ebon and ivory ; When silver edges the imagery, And thp ficrnlls that teach the? to live and die ; 11.5 (I' fr l'^ It)*! « 1 25U THE FOURTH READER. When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave Then go ; but go alone the while — Then view St. David's ruin'd pile : And, home returning, soothly swear,— ^ Was never scene so sad and fair 1 mm 2. Again on the knight look'd the churchman old, And again he sighed heavily ; For he had himself been a warrior bold, And fought in Spain and Italy. And he thought on the days that were long since by, When his limbs were strong and his courage was high; Now, slow and faint, he led the way, Where, cloister'd round, the garden lay ; The pillar'd arches were over their head. And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead. 3. Spreading herbs and flowrets bright Glisten'd with the dew of night I Nor herb nor floweret glistened there But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair. The monk gazed long on the lovely moon, Then into the night he looked forth; And red and bright the streamers light Were dancing in the glowing north. So had he seen, in fair Castile, The youth in glittering squadrons start ; Sudden the flying jennet wheel, And hurl the unexpected dart. He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright, That spirits were riding the northern light. i. By a stcel-clench'd postern-door Tlicy enter'd now the cliancel tall ; The darken'd roof rose high aloof On pillars lofty, and light, and small ; MELROSE ABBEY AS IT IS. 251 The keystone, that lock'd each ribbed aisle, Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille ; The corbclls were carved grotesque and grim ; And the pillars, with clustered shafts so trim, With base and with capitol flourish'd around, Seem'd bundles of lances which garlands had bound Full many a scutcheon and banner riven Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven Around the screened aitar's pale ! And there the dying lamps did burn Before thy low and lonely urn, O gallant chief of Otterburne, And thine, dark ki^ ^ht of Liddesdale I fading honors of the dead I high ambition, lowly laid ! The moon on the east oriel shone Through slender shafts of shapely stone By foliaged tracery combined ; Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand 'Tvvixt poplars straight the osier wand. In many a freakish knot, had twined ; Then framed a spell, when the work was done, And changed the willow wreaths to stone, The silver light, so pale and faint, Show'd many a prophet and many a saint. Whose image on the glass was dyed. Full in the midst, his cross of red — Triumphant Michael brandished. And trampled the apostate's pride. The moonbeam kiss'd the holy pane. And threw on the paveiaent a bloody stain. 1 ...' ■>.'' i.ot i 1 '3*. 2.S3 THK FOnntH RKADKR. 87. TlIK Fll,\ST 8«>I.ITAI»'Y OF TIIIC TlIKHAm. n u A Ti; A ti mil A N 1), Tli('iininotir("ii,\TKAitiiiiiANi)M|iii,.lM.liMliiiKiii'(.o Ih ||io "O.imiH ,,f « luistiMiiily ' wliidioMilaiiiiMiion. iM'illinni, .uHlvinioad.MHit.iuM.lhnniuiv work i.t llu' Iviii.l iinuliu'cd hy llie prcnoiit o.-iitmy. "^ I. "To III.' (>as( of tliis valo of piilms nros(« a liij^Ii hkmih- tain. 1 (liivclcil my com-sn to I his luiul of Pliiinw, tlm(, k(tiiii*,| to cfill mo to a haven ol' Hocurity, tliroiig-li \\w immovalilc! (Ido.ls and solid Mllows of an ocean of nuikI. I ivaclicd tli(; Tool ,,!' the momilaiii, and heo-an to asci'iid the Uhwk and oalciiuMl rocks, whieh chtsed (he horizon on every side. Nig'ht do- ficonded. Thinlving I Iieard some sonnd near me, I \u\\Uh\ and phunly disliuH-nished the loolsd'iw of some wild l.nisl' which was wan(U>rin,u: »'> Mie (hirk, and broke through the (hied shrnl)s (hat o|)1)os(m1 his progn'ss. I thought that I rocogniznl the lion of (lie ronii(ain. ± " Sudd(Mdy he seni, forth a tremendous roar. TIk* oclioos of (hese unknown mountains seemed (o awaken for (lie IJrst time, anti re(nrn(Hi the roar in savage murmnr,<. lie luul paused in I'ront of a cavern whoso on(rance was closed willi a stone. 1 Ix^hehl a light glinnnering l)(>tween the crevices of this rock, and my heart beat high wi(h hope and with wonder. I approached and looked in, when, (o my astonishment, I really beheld a ligld shining at (he bodom of I ho cavern. '"Whoever thou art,' cried T, '(hat fe(>dest the savago beasts, have jiKy on a wretched wanderer.' " Scarcely had 1 pronounced (heso words, when I hoard tlio voice of an old man who was chanting ono of the Scripture canticles. T cried in a lond tone : " ' riiristian, receive your brother.' o. " Scarcely had I ultered these wonls, when a man aji- proached, broken with ag(> ; his snowy b(>ar(l seemed whileiinl with all tli(^ years of Jacob, and he was clothetl in a garment formed of the loaves of the palm. *' ' Stranger,' said lie, ' yoii arc welcome. You behold u •rnic FiusT Boi,rrAuy or tiiv. 'mii-MAi«. 258 you behold a niitii wlio \H (111 t.hd point (if hciiij^ rcdin^iMl to lii.s kiiidrfd diiHt. The hour of my happy (h'partum is iirrivcd : yrt Htdl I hav«! a few iiioincntH hift to (|(Mli(!at(! to hoHpitality. riiitcr, my hrothiT, "Overpowered v/ith veneration, I foHowcid thin fonn(h;r of Oliristianity in the (h'HertH of the ThehaiM. 4. " A piilm-tr(!e, which pi;rcw in the reeeHH of the ir,r()\io, ciitwiniMl itH Npreadinpf liranehen aioni^ the roek, and formed a (jMccieH of voHtibuie. Near it Howed a Hpritif^ nimarkahie for ih transpanMi(!y ; ont of this fountain isHnecl a Hmall rivnlet, Unit hiid seareeiy (!H(taped from ilH Honnie before it buried itscilf in ih(! boHom of tlie earth. I'atil Heated himHelf with mo on tlie margin of th(! fountain, and tlie lion tliat had HJiown mo tiu! Arab'H well, came a,nd cniiiehed hiniKelf at onr fectt. 5. " ' Stranfi;er,' naiil th(j anehorite, with a happy Him|ilieity, Miow do the nlViiirn of th(! world f^o on 7 Do they Htill bnikl eitieHif Who is the master tliiit r(!in their fore- fathers, have almost always been vt-der the dominion of tyrants- thus, as a kind of miraculous counterpoise, morality and re- ligion h.v, e sprung tip in the same land that gave birth to slavery and misfortune. Lastly these same doserts witnessed the march of the arjiies of Sesostris and Camb^sos, of Alex- ander and Caesar. Ye too, yo future aget, shall send hither armies equally numerous, and wan ors not less celebrated I All tho great and daring efforts of the human species have either Lad their origin here, or have come hither to exhaust their force. A supernatural tmergy has ever been preserved in these regions wherein the first man received life; something mu-aculous seems still attachef the theatre and the circus • THE FIRST SOLITARY OP THE TIIKBAIS. 257 when men have been guilty of great crimes, great expiations arc necessary, in order that the renown of the latter may eCfaca tlie celebrity of the former, 5, " 'Such are the reasons for which those missionaries were established, of whom I am the first, and who will be perpetu- ated in these solitudes. Admire in this the conduct of our divine chief, who knows how to arrange his armies according to the places and the obstacles they have to encounter. Con- template these two religions, about to struggle here hand to hand until one shall have humbled the other in the dust. The ancient worship of Osiris, whose origin is hidden in the night of time, proudly con^dent in its traditions, its mysteries, and its pomps, rests securely upon victory. 6. " ' The mighty dragon of Egypt lies basking in the midst of his waves, and exclaims : " The river is mine." He believes that the crocodile shall always receive the incense of mortals, and that the ox, which is slaughtered at the crib, shall never cease to rank as the first of divinities. No, my son, an army shall be formed in these deserts, and shall march to conquest under the banners of truth. From the solitudes of Thebais and of Scetis shall it advance: it is composed of aged saints, who carry no other weapon than their staffs to besiege the ministers of error in their very temples. 1. " * The latter occupy fertile plains, and revel amidst luxury and sensual gratifications ; the former inhabit the burning sands of the desert, and patiently endure all the rigors of life. Hell, that foresees the destruction of its power, attempts every means to insure its victory: the demons of voluptuousness, of riches, and of ambition, seek to corrupt these faithful soldiers of the cross ; but heaven comes to the succor of its children, and lavishes miracles in their favor. Who can recount the names of so many illustrious recluses-— the Anthonies, the Serapions, the Macariases, the Pacomiuses ? Victory declares in their favor. The Lord gathers Egypt about him, as a shepherd gathers round him his mantle. 8. " ' Where error once dictated the oracles of falsehood, the voice of truth is now "heard ; wherever the false divinities had inr-tituted a superstitious rite, there Jesus had placed a saint. ;■!* mB 'f: if 258 THE FOURTH READER. The grottoes of the Thcbais are inhabited, the catncoml,, c,f the deml ore pe,>,,Icd with tlie living who ^re dead to ,7,: oturn to he nver and the plough. A bnrst of triu„„ , „; oy resound., from tl,c pyramids of Cheops even to the Os.v,na„dyus Th,. posterity of Jo.,eph enters into ,l,„ , Go l,en; and this vietory, purchased by the tears of its vie ', costs not one fear to the vanquished I' ~' a Jmird';:sse°;,r°'"'''' """""'"='' "^ '""•"•"^^' """ "'-' Sy ^'"'°'"^' ="'<' '"'. '"«''«'• niore abandon the ranlis of the of k™ T: ^''™'- " y™ »^« »^' " '«'«=1 '" tl'o ca be vn '!"' ",']"' " "°"" """"' y""' »■"" onviableglory w 1 be yours I My son, what are you still seeking among meT Has the world still eharms for you? Do you wish like^l fi..thless Israelite, to lead the danee aronnd^he golden ea You know not the ruin that awaits this mighty empire, solo : he terror and the destroyer of the human raee ; kno;, then" that the enmes of these masters of the world are hastening the day of vengeance. ^ 10 " ' They have persecuted the faithful followers of Jesus- they have been drunk with the blood of his martyrs ' ' forf h 1 '\ ^^^ T^ interrupted his discourse. He stretched forth us hands toward Mount Horeb ; his eyes sparkled wi h anunation a flame of glory pLyed' around hfs head his wrinkled forehead seemed invested with all the gracefulness of youth : like another Elias, he exclaimed in accents of rapture! 11. _ Whence come those fugitive families that seek an asylum m the cave of the solitary? Who are those people tlmt flock from the four regions of the earth ? Do you see yonder terrific horsemen, the impure children of the demons and of the sorcerers of ScytMa ?• The scourge of God conducts them.^ Their hoi^e. vie with the leopard in speed : numberless as the sands of the desert, their captives flock before them. Wliat seek these kings, clad in the skins of wild beasts, their heads covered with rude hats, and their faces tinged with green ' Why 'The Huns. 'Attila. • Ihe Goths and Lombards. .\ IIORATIU8. 259 iscourso, aud then do tlicso naked savaj^cs butcher their prisoners under tlic walls of the besieged city? ' Hold ! yon monster has drunk the blood of the Konuin who fell beneath his hand I' 12. " ' They all pour from their native deserts : they march towards this new Babylon. O, queen of cities 1 how art thou fallen I How is the beauty of thy capitol effaced ! How arc thy i)lains deserted, and how dreadful is the solitude that reigns around I But, lo ! astonishing spectacle ! the cross nf)pcars elevated above the scene of surrounding desolation ! It takes its station upon new-bom Rome, and marks each magnificent edifice as it rises from the dust. Paul, thou father of anchorites, exult with joy ere thou diest 1 Thy children Khali inhabit the ruined palaces of the Caesars ; the porticos whence the sentence of exterminating wrath was pronounced against the Christians, shall be converted into religious clois- ters ; * and penitence shall consecrate the spots where crimes once reigned triumphant.' " i 89. HORATIUS. MAOAULAY. TnoMAH Babinoton Maoaulay was born at the beginning of the present contiiry, and died in 1860. As an essayist, he is remarkable for liis bril- liant rlietorical powers, splendid tone of coloring, and happy illustrations. Maciiiihiy has also written "Lays of Ancient Koine," wliich are full of animation and poetic fervor. At the time of his death he was engaged in Avritiiig the " llistory of England;" but the volumes of this work piib- lisiicd, partake more of the character of a brilliant romance, than of true aud dignifled history. 1. Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. "Down with him !" cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face ; nd Lombards. ' The Franks and Vandals. " The Saracen. •The Thernice of Diocletian, now inhabited by the Carthusians. i *;3 260 KIP uil U ?i <; THE FOURTH READER. " Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, " Now yield thee to our grace." 2. Round turn'd he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see ; Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus naught spoke he ; But he saw on Palatinus xiiQ white porch of his home ; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome. 8. " Tiber ! father Tiber I To whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, Take thou in charge this day I" So he spake, and speaking sheathed The good sword by his side, And, with his harness --.i his back, Phmged headlong in the tide. 4. No sound of joy or sorrow Was heard from either bark; But friends .ud foes in dumb surprise, With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing whero he sank: And wht above the surges They saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even th^ ranks of Tuscany Could scarce for^.ear to cheer. '\ Buf fiercely ran the cui i cnt, vollen high b months of '•ain ; A^„ fast his bloo'i was fiowiug • And he was soi i pain. And heavy with his armor, And spent with changing blows • nORATIUS. 261 And oft they thought him shiking, But still again he rose. 6. Never, I ween, did swimmer, In such an evil case, Struggle through such a raging flood Safe to the landing-place. But his limbs were borne up bravely By the brave heart withm, And our good father Tiber Bare bravely up his chin. 7. " Curse on him 1" quoth false Sextus ; " Will not the villain drown ? But for this stay, ere close of day We should have sack'd the town !" " Heaven help him !" quoth Lars Porsena, " And bring him safe to shore ; For such a gallant feat of arms Was never seen before." 8. And now he feels the bottom ; Now on dry earth he stands ; Now round him throng the fathers To press his gory hands ; And now with shouts and clapping, And noise of weeping loud, He enters through the river-ga.e, Borne by the joyo vowd. 9. When the goodman mend -ns arm^ r, And trims uis helmet's plume ; When the goodwife's shuttle merrily Goes flashiii hrough the loom ; With weep'ng and with laughter Still is t' story told. How well B ratius kept the bridge In the br;. j da\ a of old. t 1?» \, 1 J' m rtb 2^2 THE FOURTH HEADER. 90. The Exile's Return. MnS. SADLIKR. ^ 1. Many changes Imvc passed over tlic face of the G rccn Isle smco I left its rocky shorcs.-chanp'os public and clmn-os private have taken place amon^• its peopIe_the friends whom i loved and cherished have passed away, ay ! every soul- so tliat, with the aid of my altered appearance, I can pass myself off for a stranger, yet there is something in the very atmosphere which breathes of home. The warm hearts and lovmg eyes that cheered my boyhood are gone,-the livlnn friends arc lost to sight, and I miss their cnlivor;ing presence oh I how much I_but the inanimate friends-^the old familiar scenes remain. 2. I have taken up my abode in the very house of my natmty-ruined it is, and desolate, yet it is the shell which contamed the kernel of my affections. The fields are as green the sky as changeful, the mountains as grand, the sacred val- ey as lone and solemn, and, above all, the faith and piety of all- erfomin '^'^^ *^' '''°''' '™^^'' ''''''''^' ''''*^'°^ donhLg, 3. Oh I I am not alone here, one cannot be alone here with the monuments of ages of faith around, and the same faith ever living and acting among the people. I can go n ud kneel by the graves of my parents, and pray that my end may be like theirs, and I feel that the penitent tears I shed are ac- ceptable to God, and that the spirits of those over whose ashes I weep, may one day welcome me in glory, when the last trace of my guUt is effaced by whatever process God pleases. ^ 4 Here, amid the solitude of the desert city, I meditate on the years I passed in a foreign land, and rejoice that the feverish dream is over. Where I herded my goats, a peasant boy I muse an old and wrinkled man, on the path of life I have trodden. I stand at the opposite end of existence, and ask myself wliat is the difference. I have had since what is called position," I have wealth still-ay ! a fortune, but what of MOUNT ORIENT. 268 ^l^at— I am old, friendless, childless, and alone, burdened with harrowing recollections, and ready to sink into the grave, un- hoiiorcd and unknown. 5. I was poor and unlearned in those days wliich I now li)ok l)ack on with regret, but I had many hearts to lovo nip ; " now," said I bitterly to myself, " I dare not breathe my iiaino to any hereabouts, for the memory of my crime is tra- ditional among the people, and, did they recognize me, all the woalth I have would not bribe them to look with kindness on liiiu who was once an Apostatk. 91. Mount Orient. OEUALD OniFFIN. 1. The M'Orients of Mount Orient, gentle reader, were looked upon in our neighborhood as people of high fashion, unbounded literary attainments, and the most delicate sensi- bility. They had, until within the last two years, spent the greater portion of their life "abroad" (a word which has a portentous sound in our village). On their return to Mount Orient, they occasioned quite a revolution in all our tastes and customs : they introduced waltzing, smoking cigars, &c. I have seen their open carriage sometimes driving by my win- dow, Miss Mimosa M' Orient seated on the coach-box, and Mr. Ajax M' Orient, her brother, occupying the interior in a frieze jacket and a southwester. 2. But what added most to their influence was that both were considered prodigies of intellect. Ajax M'Orient had written poems in which " rill" rhymed to " hill," " beam" to "stream," "mountain" to " fountain," and "billow" to "wil- low." Nay, it was even whispered that he had formed a design of immor'alizlng Robert Burns, by turning his poems into good E^gli^h, and had actually performed that operation unon Tam O'Shantcr, which was so much changed for the better, that you would hardly know it again. So that he passed in these parts for a surprising genius. i I'll J " i m i; ai 264 TUE FOUKTH EEADKE. 3. He was likewise a universal critic, one of those agreea- ble jjersons, who know every thing in the world better" than anybody else. He would ask you what you thought of that engraving, and on your selecting a particular group for admi- ration, he would civilly inform you that you had praised the only defect in the piece. Like the host in Horace, who used to analyze his dishes with his praises in such a manner as to deprive his guests of all incHnation to taste them, Ajax would afflict you with pointing out the beauties of a picture, until you began to see no beauty in it. 4. Nor did nature escape him : walk out with him, and he would commend every lake, and rock, and river, until you wished yourself under ground from him. The wind, the sun, the air, the clouds, the waters, nothing was safe from the taint of his villanous commendation. And then his meta- physics I it was all well until he grew metaphysical: so jealous was he of originality on these subjects, that if you assented too hastily to one of his own propositions, ten to one but he would wheel round and assail it, satisfied to prove himself wron"-, provided he could prove you wrong also. The navigation of the Red Sea was not a nicer matter than to get through a conversation with Mr. Ajax M'Orient without an argument. 5. On the other hand. Miss Mimosa M'Orient was very handsome, a great enthusiast, an ardent lover of Ireland (un- like her brother, who affected the aristocrat, and curled his lip at O'Connell) ; with a mind all sunshine and a heart all fire ; a soul innocence itself— radiant candor— heroic courarre —a glowmg zeal for universal liberty— a heart alive to the tenderest feelings of distress— and a mind, to judge by her conversation, imbued with the deepest sentiments of virtue. 6. Miss M'Orient had a near relative living under her pro- tection, named Mary de Courcy, who did not seem to have half her advantages. She was rather plain, had no enthusiasm whatever, very seldom talked of Ireland, had so much common sense in her mind that there was no room for sunshine ; and as to fire in her bosom, the academy of Lagoda alone, to all appearance, could have furnished artists capable of extracting it. Siie might be candid, but fho liad to.'* much r^^erve to MOUNT ORIENT. 265 tlirust it forth as if for sale ; and she might have an innocent heart, but she was not forever talking of it. Of courage she did not boast much; and as to universal liberty, Mary de Courcy, like the knife-grinder, " seldom loved to mcddlo With politics, sir." 7. Of hor feelings she never spoke at all, and on the subject )f virtue she could not compete in eloquence with Miss .f'Orient. Still it was a riddle, that while everybody liked Miss de Courcy, the M' Orients seemed to be but little esteemed or loved by those who knew them well and long. Indeed, some looked upon them as of that class of individuals who in our times have overrun society, enfeebling literature with false sentiment, poisoning all wholesome feeling, turning virtue into ostentation, annulling modesty, corrupting the very springs of piety itself by affectation and parade, and selfishly seeking to engross the world's admiration by wearing their virtues (false as they are) like their jewels, all outside. 8. Thus, while Miss M'Orient and her brother were rhyming and romancing about " green fields," and " groves," and " lang sync," and "negroes," and "birds in cages," and " sympathy," and "universal freedom," they were such a pair of arrant scolds ond tyrants in their own house, that no servant could stay two months in their employmeat. While Miss M'Orient would weep by the hour to hear a blackbird whistle Paddy Ciircy outside a farmer's cottage, she would sec whole fami- lies, nay whole nations, reduced to beggary, without shedding a tear, nor think of depriving herself of a morocco album to save a starving fellow-creature's life. 9. It was during one of those seasons of distress, which so frequently afflict the peasantry of Ireland, that Mary do Courcy happened one morning to be watering some flowers that graced the small inclosure in front of Mount Orient House, when a female cottager, accompanied by a group of helpless children, presented themselves before her. Miss de Courcy and Mimosa both had known the woman in better times, and the former was surprised at her present destitution. 12 • 'n 266 J TiJK FOUUTIl KKADEK. 10. "Ah! Miss Mary!" said she, "'tis all over with us now, since the house and tlio man that kept it up arc gone to- gcther. Hush, cliild ! be quiet ! You never again will come over to us now, Miss Mary, in the summer days, to sit down niside our door, an' to take the cup of beautiful thick milk from Nelly, and to talk so kindly to the children. That's all over now, miss— them times arc gone." 11. Moved by the poor woman's sorrow, Miss de Courcy for the first time keenly felt her utter want of fortune. She determined, however, to lay before Miss M'Orient in fac course of the day the condition of their old cottage acqr 'it- ance, and conceived that she entered the room in happy tmie, when she found her tender-hearted friend dissolved in tears' and with a book between her hands. Still better, it was a work on Ireland, and Mimosa showed her protegee the page, still moistened from the offerings of her sympathy, in which the writer had drawn a very lively picture of the sufferings of her countrymen during a period of more than usual affliction. 12. "Such writing as this, dear Mary!" she exclaimed, in ecstasy of woe, " would move me were the sketch at the An- tipodes ; but being taken in Ireland, beloved Ireland! imagine its effect upon my feelings— I, who am not myself— I have nothing for you, my good man, go about your business [to an old beggar-man who presented himself with a low bow at the window]— who am not myself when Ireland is the theme! the heart must be insensible indeed that such a picture could not move to pity. 13. "Ah! if the poor Irish— [I declare there are three more beggars on the avenue ! Thomas, did not your master give strict orders that not a single beggar should be allowed to set foot inside the gate?]— ah! if the poor— [let some one go and turn them out this instant— we must certainly have the dogs let loose again]— if the Irish poor had many such advo- cates, charity would win its burning way at length even into cold recesses — " " There's a poor woman wants a dhrop of milk, ma'am," said a servant, appearing at the door. 14. " I haven't it for her— let me not be disturbed [exit MOUJy'r ORIENT. 267 servant] — into the cold recesses of even an absentee landlord's heart. The appeal, dear Mary, is perfectly irresistible ; nor can I conceive a higher gratification than that of lending a healing hand to such affliction." " I am glad to hear you say so, Mimosa, my dear," said Mary, " for I have it in my power to give you the gratifica- tion you desire." " How, Miss de Courcy?" said the sentimental lady in an altered tone, and with some secret alarm. 15. Mary de Courcy was not aware how wide a difference there is, between crying over human misery in hot-pressed small octavo, and relieving it in common life ; between senti- mentalizing over the picture of human woe, and loving and befriending the original. She did not know that there are creatures who will melt like Niobe at an imaginary distress, while the sight of actual suffering will find them callous as a flint. She proceeded, therefore, with a sanguine spirit, to explain the circumstances of their old neighbors, expecting that all her trouble would be in moderating the extent of her enthusiastic auditor's liberality. 16. But she could not got a shilling from the patriotic Miss M'Orient. That young kJy had expended the last of her pocket-money on this beautiful book on Irish misery, so that she had not a sixpence left for the miserable Irish. But then she felt for them I She talked, too, a great deal about "her prlncipl'^s." It was not " her principle," that the poor should ever be relieved by money. It was by forwarding " the marcii of intellect," those evils should be remedied. As the world became enlightened, men would find it was their iniorcnt that liuman misery should be alleviated in the persons of their fellow-creatures, a regenerative spirit would pervade society, and peace and abundance would shed their light on every land, not even excepting dear, neglected, and dowii-trodden Ireland. n. But, as for the widow, she hadn't a sixpence for her. Besides, who knew but she might drink it''' Misfortune drives so many to the dram-shop. Well, if Miss de Courcy would provide against that, otlU, who could say that she was jiti I i I i\ 268 I I. ■>!■ : TIIK FOURTH RP:ADKK. not an impostorl Oh, true, Miss M'Orient knew the woman well. But she had a jrrcat many other older and nearer acquaintances ; and it was " her principle," that charity was nothing without order. In vulgar language, it should always begin at home. At all events, she could and would do nothing. " Ah, Mimota," said Mary, " do you think that vulgar rule has never an exception V "Never— Mary -never. Send in luncheon" [to a serv- ant] . 92. The Crusades. WORDSWOKTir. William WoRDswoRW was born in Enjylnnd in 1770, and died in 1850- he belonged to wi.at is called the "Za^e-Scliool " of poets. Ho has leTno poen; ot any lenjjtii worthy of admiration throughout: but many of Lis Bhorter pieces are unsurpassed in the English language. 1. Furl we the sails, and pass with tardy oars Through these bright regions, casting many a glance Lipon the dream-like issues, the romance Of many-color'd life that fortune pours Round the Crusaders, till on distant shores Their labors end: or they return to lie. The vow perform'd, in cross-legg'd effigy, Devoutly stretch'd upon their chancel-floors. Am I deceived ? Or is their requiem chanted By voices never mute when Heaven unties Her inmost, softest, tonderest harmonies ? Requiem which earth takes up with voice undaunted. When she would tell how biave, and good, and wise, For their high guerdon not in vain have ^?nted. 2, As faith thus sanctified the warrior's crest, While from the papal unity there came What feebler means had fail'd to give, one aim DiflFused through all the regions of the west ; So does her unitv its Dower attest DUTIES OF THK AMKRICAN CITIZEN. 2C9 By works of art, that shed on the outward frame Of worship, glory and grace, which who shall blame That ever look'd to Heaven for final rest ? Hail, countless temples, that so well befit Your ministry! that, as ye rise and take Form, spirit, and character fl'om holy writ, Give to devotion, wheresoe'er awake. Pinions of high and higher sweep, and make The unconverted soul with awe submit 1 The Virgin. 3. Mother I whose virgin bosom was uncross'd With the least shade of thought to sin allied ; Woman 1 above all women glorified, Our tainted nature's solitary boast ; Purer than foam on central ocean tost, Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak strewn With fancied roses, than the unblemish'd moon Before her vane begins on heaven's blue coast, Thy image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween, Not unforgiven, the suppliant knee might bend, As to a visible power, in which did blend All that was mix'd and reconciled in thee Of mother's love with maiden purity, Of high with low, celestial with terrene. 93. Duties of the American CrnzEN. WEBSTER. Hon. "Daniel "Webster — born at Salisbury, New Hampshire, in 1782; tlit'il, isr)2. As an orator and a statesman, tlie New World has as yet pro- due«d no man greater than he. Ilia works are published in si.x octavo voUuuea, and his name sliall live as long as the American nation lasts. 1 , Lkt us cherish, fellow-citizens, a deep and solemn con- viction of the duties which have devolved upon us. This lovely land, this glorious liberty, these benign institutions, the 270 THE FOURTH READER. ill • M.I '-y ■H\ \\ I 1 1 * J || • ■<, III it" *'■■' If ' ". ' I ' . dear purchase of our fathers, are ours ; ours to enjoy, ours to preserve, ours to transmit. Generations past, and genera- tions to come, hold us responsible for this sacred trust 2. Our fathers, from behind, admonish us, with thair anxious paternal voices ; posterity cnlls out to us from the bosom of the future; the world turns hither its solicitous eyes-all all conjure us to act widely and faithfully in the relation which we sustain. We can never, indeed, pay the debt which is upon us ; but by virtue, by morality, by religion, by the cultivation ot every good principle and every good habit, we may hope to enjoy the blessing through our day, and leave it unimpaired to our children. ^ 3. Let us feel deeply how much of what we are, and of what we possess, we owe to this liberty, and these institutions of government. Nature has, indeed, given us a soil which yields bounteously to the hands of industry ; the mighty and fruitful ocean is before ua, and the skies over our heads shed hea th and vigor. But what are lanus, and seas, and skies to civilized men, without society, without knowledge, without morals, without religious culture? and how can these be en- joyed, m all their extent, and all their excellence, but under the protection of wise institutions and a free government? 4. Fellow-citizens, there is not one of us, there is not' one of us here present, who does not at this moment, and at every moment, experience in his own condition, and in the condition of those most near and dear to him, the influence and the benefit of this liberty, and these institutions. 5. Let us, then, acknowledge the blessing ; let us feel it deeply and powerfully ; let us cherish a strong affection for it and resolve to maintain and perpetuate it. The blood of our fsithers— let it not have been shed in vain ; the great hope of posterity— let it not be blasted. 1 1 ■■',''■! THE CATACOMBS. 271 94. The Catacombs. MANAHAN. Rev. Ambrosk Manahan. 1>. D., born in New York city. IIo fini»lied liitt stntlies at the ProimKanchi, in Konie, und wa.s ordained priest fur the diocc*e of New York, lie 1ms recently made a valnaljle contribution to Ciitliolic literature, in his work entitled "The Triumph of tlie Catholic Ciuirch." 1. It was m the year 1599 that Bosius, anxious to discover some of the many subterranean cemeteries mentioned by an- cient writers as situated near the Via Appia and the Ardeatina, went out of the Capcna gate, along the Appian road, to the place where our Lord appeared to Peter— thence going along the Ardeatina way to where it is crossed by a road leading from St. Sebastian's to St. Paul's Church — he carefully exam- ined that whole ground in search of some hole that would give him admission into the subterranean city. 2. He perceived, at last, in the middle of a field, some arches that led him to suspect he had come upon the object of his desires. He managed to effect an entrance, and made his way down until he found himself standing in the habitations of the .It?. I Numberless monuments cut out of the clay tell him thia at a glance. He hastens along this first road, to its ter- minus, where he finds two others striking off in different directions : he eni-ers the one to the right — it is encumbered and choked up '.i.'th ruin<5 ; — he returns and starts upon the one to the left, ul-ji^j^ which he journeys until he discovers iu the ground, undei Ijs feot, a small hole or passage. 3. He creeps into this opening, and almost snake-like keeps moving forwards until delighted with, at last, the sight of high cryptaj into which he is ushered from his narrow winding. Here, in wide halls and endless corridors, he beholds on every side closet-like openings carved out of the side walls for the reception of dead bodies ; some of nobler appearance are dec- orated with arches so as to give each its own alcove. He remarks but few sepulchres iu the ground-floor, only placed there, no doubt, when no more unoccupied room was left in the walls. 4. The Q-reater nart of tlie tombs are shut with marble 272 THE FOURTH READER. Vi :"'';■' '■' Si' i Blabs or closed up with brick-work; some gape wide open and there he the remains of his forefathers of the first ajs of the church ; short tombs for children are interspersed amo„. the larger ; the same difference appears in the size of the bones ;-some of them are hard and seem almost petrified while others fall to ashes when touched. Far on in the mosi hidden recesses he came upon three or four chambers that seemed to have had their walls once whitened, thou-h no paintings were visible on them ; fragments of inscriptioi^ lay scattered all around the chapels. ^ 5. He more than once found himself in large round halls from which a number of roads started out in every direction' like lines from the centre towards the superficies of a circle' or like the spokes in a wheel. These stretched away endlessl^ as far as he ever ascertained, and induced him to call this place a labyrinth indeed I Again and again he returned to his exploring expedition, and, often wearied but never satiated his admiration gave the palm to this above all the other cem- eteries which he had visited in all the course of his fortv vears' search He calls it, in size, beauty and splendor, the chief one of all the catacombs. 6. With all his patience and enthusiasm he could not say that he had ever reached the utmost bounds of this vast and extra- ordinary place, although he often spent whole days and njo-hts travelling around through its intermhiable windin-s Every day new outlets made their appearauce,-new roads were dis- covered—leading out of his best-known districts. It was his be lef that tiiese roads and those under St. Sebastian's not only communicated together, but kept on over to St Paul's extended to the Annunziata and out to the Three Fountain^' and even stretched back as far as the walls of Rome • on.i in every thing concerning these catacombs Bosius is a sure guide 7. And yet, morp -nnderful to relate I this sepulchral city —already so far down beneath the surface of the earth-has Its own immense underways, which, laid out on a similar plan underlie its excavated streets no one knows how far Staii-^ cut out of the clay invite the astonished visitor to go down from the level of this first souterrain into a soonnH n^n.o n? -n THK CATACOMBS. 273 mnzft or streets and corridors, furnished, like the fornici-, with their ranges of tombs {loculi), their chambers and chnpels. Brick wa' '. nre here found supporting many parts of these sub-sub- terranean establishments. 8, Most of the roads have been rendered impassable by the clay that has fallen in and encumbered them. They may per- chance be cleared one day by some unterrified adventurer, but only when those above them shall have first become ex- hausted by his long researches. Even this second underground district has its own under-works still deeper in the bosom of the earth. Short and small steps in the clay take you down from the lower to this lowest of the excavated cemeteries. Upper apartments, basement-rooms and sub-cellar vaults in a house are familiar ideas, but our minds can hardly realize the con- ception carried out as it is here. 9. I can state, however, that I have personally verified the exactness of these discoveries, and stood even in that third, lowest tier of routes, one below the other. Only few roads are opened in \ 'le lowest range ; there do not appear to be many simple tombs there as in the upper catacombs, but a number of larger chambers reserved, one would suppose, for the burial of distinguished families. 10. Far away in the outskirts of this subterranean city, — in the most hidden recesses of the catacombs, perpetual foun- tains of limpid water gleam under the light of the visitor's taper : in one sequestered corner, several steps cut in the earth, lead you down to drink of abundant streams of sweet and salubrious water,— streams where, no doubt, many a martyr washed his wounds, and many a pursued and fainting fugitive came, like the panting deer, to be refreshed. These waters have, doubtless, flowed on the head of many a valorous neo- phyte, who sleeps among the martyrs in this subterranean dormitory. 11, In these deepest corridors you behold the outlines only of some tombs or graves marked in the clay walls, as if ready for the work of being dug out for the next burial. Why was the work suspended ? Were the diggers arrested here by the o-lnriana novya nf thr> annpn.rnnpfi of the crOSS in the skicS. and 5! !.'i . 274 THE FOURTH RKADER. .)!.; ,,'■ '.' 1- lod fo fling away their tools and their garments of sadness by Constantine's call to the Cath. ic faithful to come up in joy and freedom out of their dismal plac of refuge, and drive tl > remnants of heathen superstition from the ciiy of the Cajsars ? 12. So it seemed to me when, fdled with the spirit of the place and its memories, I stood md looked upon tho^t unfin- ished graves. Then the Church of God came forih in her deep-dyed purple robes from the catacombs, and fastened the Cross of Christ on the imperial banner, and took her seuf -n tho Vatican mount, our holy Sion hill. Wlien Israel no longer pitched her tents around the ark in the wilderness, Jerusalem rehearsed, amid the splendors of Solomon's temple the wonders of the land of bondage, the passage over the sea and through the desert. '^ 13. The Rome of to-day shows how hir enc rit laith has carried along with it safely, through all vicissitu u , the shrines and tombs and relics of her martyrs. The rites u. the Komaii Cathohc Church shall forever keep alive a giutc -1, universal and festival remembrance of the pristine scenes of her trials and triumph. Do .ot the very lights of our altars burn more brightly to our eyes when we recall the fortitude and devotion that knelt in their first gleam through those dismal chambers ? and do not our censers perfume the sanctuary with recollections of the fragrance of piety that mingled with the first blest mcense which they flung around through the foulness and damp airs of our primeval temples ? Throughout the whole world treasures from the catacombs enrich the altar- stones of our sacrifice. U. A faithless world looks with amazement on the unfadino- Roman scarlet, and the pomp and magnificence displayed in the Catholic ceremonial. The most gorgeous embellishments of our solemn services but faintly express the sombre and sub- lime grandeur in which our minds call up those ancient solem- nities from which our decorations and our ritual took their rise : when the first Popes administered our sacraments to candidates for the palm of martyrdom, and the august and tremendous sacrifice of the mass was offered up in those exca- vated sanctuaries— whose purple hangings were cloths tinged "*, sadness by le up in joy id drive tlu; he Coesurti ? pirit of the hose uniin- )rlh in her astened the her SQ'Af I'u }1 no longer Jerusalem he wonders id through dth has the shrines ;he llomau ', universal her trials Itars burn titude and ose dismal tuary with i with the le foulness ?hout the the altar- ) unfading 'played in llishraents i and sub- snt solem- ook their ments to gust and ose exca- is tinged THE RELIOIO' from . veins of the folio wtr and prtcifuis ornaments wen \RT ORDERS. 276 the Laml^ —whose most rare lie blood-stained ^pong* md vials and instruments of torture — while the vc .crab' ' bodies of the slaughtered flock upheld the altar on which the divme gacrifice was ofFeri d up to God. 95. TlIK RlTTf: )i AFlLITARY OrDEES. AUOi oi' PUUOELL. uiji-^lion of Cineinimti, was born 27th of iity Cork, Ireland. Emif^nitcd when a boy John B. Pi'rcell, D. T' February, ISOO, in Mallow . , to America; studied in M St. Mary's, Eminettsbur^c ; went to I'uns, and followed np liis thcoloirical studies at St. Suli»i('e, wiicre lie was or- dained priest. Un liis return to the United States, Dr. I'lireell becaino Trofessor of Theolofjy in bis Abiiu Muter, at Einniett.sburj,', ad was sub- sequently appointed President of tbat noblo institution. He was conse- crated Hisbop of Cincinnati on the lath of October, 1S33, and was since iiuidc Arebbisliop of tbat province. Altiioutrb tliis eminent prelate Jias not f.iund time v '1 the onerous duties of liis liif^h oitice to ''h]t\y liiniself to literary pursui -, proofs are not wantiu},' that be mitfbt ai,.iin distinction in tbe walks of literature. Room after bis consecration as Kisbop of Cin- cinnati, lie was calletl upon to .iuH id tbe doctrines of tbe Church in a pro- tracted discussion with tbe Uev. Mr. ("amphel!, foumh'r of tbe Campbell- ites, in which he distnijruisbed liimself as well by bis skill in dialectics, as ids profound scholastic attainments, -^i'lie areiibishop's lectures, delivered on various subjects, are admirable specimens of such composition, and imve done nnich for tbe ditfusion of valuable information. What be ha.s done and achieved for tbe cause of relicrion is well known to tbe Catholica of America ; and when future historians trace the fortunes of the Cburcli in the New World, the name of Purcell sludl bo held in honor, as one of the tirst great patriarchs of tlie West. 1. By the religious military orders, I mean, 1. The Knights of St. Johj' of Jo isalem, or Hospitallers, or of Rhodes, or of Malta, as the ame order has been successively designated. 2. The Tem^ ^ rs. 3. The Teutonic Knights ; leaving out of this view ti.o Knights of the Holy Sepulchre, of Calatrava, of St. Jago, of the Sword, and others, which cannot be re- garded as strictly religious orders, have no such name in story, nor rendered such important services to Christendom as those which I have first named, * * * * * 2. In the middle of the eleventh century, the merchants of Amalphi, in the kingdom of Naples, who traded with Egypt I IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // LO I.I ■ 50 "'^ ■^ ■'lis I 4.0 P'5 Z2 1.8 1.25 1.4 1 16 <« 6" ► V] vQ /: % ''Vl om'/ m M Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY. 14580 (716) 872-4503 d ^ %' iV :\ \ ^9) V ..^1 o 276 THE FOURTH EEADEE. jn rich merchandise and works of art, and who had often ex- perienced in their visits to the Holy Land the cruelty of Greeks and Saracens, purchased, by costly presents to the Oa iph and his courtiers, permission for the Latin Christians to have two hospitals in Jerusalem, one for men and the other for women. The chapels attached to these hospitals were dedicated, respectively, to St. John the Almoner, and St Magdalen. They were served by self-appointed seculars" whose charity induced them to fcrogo the pleasure of homes and friends, to devote themselves to the care of the sick the poor, and the stranger, in the Holy City. This was the cradle of the Knights Hospitallers. 3. The Hospitallers were divided into three bodies, or classes Ist. Those distinguished by birth, or the rank they had held m the army of the Crusaders. 2d. Ecclesiastics who were to superintend the hospitals, and serve as chaplains to the army m peace and war. 3d. Lay-brothers, or servants. A new classification was afterwards made from the seven different languages spoken by the Knights— z. e., those of Provence Auvergne, France, Italy, Aragon ; a little later including Castde and Portugal, and England, until she apostatized. 4. The government was aristocratic. The supreme au- thority was vested in a council, of which the Grand Master was president. The different houses of the Order were ad- ministered by preceptors, or overseers, removable at pleasure, and who were held to a strict accountability. The same aus' terities were practised by all and the necessity of bearing arms was not suffered to interfere with the strict observances of the convent. Purity of life, and prompt obedience to or- ders, and detachment from the world, were the distinguishing virtues of the soldier monks. ^ 5. The Templars were founded by Hugh de Payens and eight others, all natives of France, to protect the pilgrims en their way to and from Jerusalem, and to unite with the Hos- pitallers and aid the king of Jerusalem in repelling the incur- sions, humbling the pride, and chastising the audacity of the THE EELIGI0U8 MILHAKY 0RDEE8. 2T7 infidels. They were too proud tc serve in hospitals. Their costume was a white mantle, with a red cross on the left breast. Their name was derived from their residence near the Temple. They were approved by Honorius II. Their rule was given them by St. Bernard, by order of the Council of Troyes. Their exemption from what was considered the degrading, or ignoble, obligation of waiting on the sick, drew to the new Order a vast multitude of the richest lords and princes of Europe, so that the Templars soon outshone the Hospitallers in the splendor of wealth — but never in that of virtue. Nevertheless, they continued for centuries to render essential services to Christendom in checking the aggressions of Mohanunedanism. 6. The Teutonic Knights commenced their existence on the plain before Ptolemais, or St. Jean d'Acre. Many of these brave Germans, who had followed their gallant Emperor, Frederick I., and his son, the Duke of Suabia, to the holy wars, when wounded in the frequent sorties of the garrison, lay helpless on the battle-field, unable to communicate their wants and sufferings in a language unknown to their brethren in arms. A few Germans, who had come by sea from Bre- men and Lubeck, commiserating the hard fate of their coun- trymen, took the sails of their ships and made tents, into which they collected the wounded, and served them with their own hands. Forty of the chiefs of the same nation united with them in the work of charity, and from this noble asso- ciation sprang a new religious and military order like to those of the Templars and Hospitallers. They were approved by Pope Celestine III., at the prayer of Henry YI. of Germany, in 1192, receiving the name of the Teutonic Knightr, of the House of St. Mary of Jerusalem. They got this name from the fact of a German having built in Jerusalem a hospital and oratory under the invocation of the blessed Virgin, for the sick pilgrims from his fatherland. Their uniform was a white mantle, with a black cross ; they were bound by the three vows, like the Hocpitallers and Templars. Before being ad- mitted to the Order, they were required to make oath that they were Germans, of noble birth, and that they engaged for 278 THE FOURTH READER. life in the care of the poor and sick, and the defence of the Holy Places. These were the three orders on which Christen- dom relied, more than on the irregular efforts of the Crusaders, for the protection of the Holy Land. 96. Maky Magdalen. OALLANAN. Callanan was born in Ireland in 1795; died in 1829. Durinf^ his life ne was one of the popular contributors to 'Blackwood's Magazine." His reputation as a poet is well established. 1. To the hall of that feast came the sinful and fair ; She heard in the city that Jesus was there ; She mark'd not the splendor that blazed on their board, But silently knelt at the feet of her Lord. 2. The hair from her forehead, so sad and so meek, Hung dark o'er the blushes that burn'd on her cheek ; And so still and so lowly she bent in her shame. It seem'd as her spirit had flown from its frame. 3. The frown and the murmur went round through them all, That one so unhallow'd should tread in that hall ; And some said the poor would be objects more meet. For the wealth of the perfumes she shower'd at his feet. 4. She mark'd but her Saviour, she spoke but in sighs, She dared not look up to the heaven of his eyes ; And the hot tears gush'd forth at each heave of her breast. As her lips to his sandals she throbbingly press'd. 6. On the cloud after tempests, as shineth the bow, In the glance of the sunbeam, as melteth the snow, He look'd on that lost one — her sins were forgiven • And Mary went forth in the beautv of heaven. DIALOGUE WITH THE GOUT. 279 t 97. Dialogue with the Gout. FRANKLIN. Bkijjamin Franklin was born in Boston in 1706. In early life he was a printer. Ho was a prominent politician before, during, and after the Kev- olutionary War, a member of the Continental Congress, and subsequently Minister of the United States to France, having at an earlier date, been the agent of the Colonies in England. But he was particularly distmguished for his philosophical discoveries especially that of the identity of light- ning and electricity. He died in 1790. 1. Franklin. Eh ! Oh 1 Eh ! What have I done to merit these cruel sufferings ? Oout. Many things : you have ate and drank too freely, and too much indulged those legs of yours in their indolence. Franklin. Who is it that accuses me ? Gout. It is I, even I, the Gout. Franklin. What 1 my enemy in person ? Oout. No ; not your enem/. Franklin. I repeat it, my enemy ; for you would not only torment my body to death, but ruin my good name. You re- proach me as a glutton and a tippler : now all the world that knows me will allow thau I am neither the one nor the other. 2. Gout. The world may think as it pleases. It is always very complaisant to itself, and sometimes to its frieiids ; but I very well know that the quantity of meat and drink proper for a man who takes a reasonable degree of exercise would be too much for another who never takes any. Franklin. I take — Eh 1 Oh ! — as much exercise — Eh ! — as I can, Madam Gout. You know my sedentary state ; and on that account, it would seem, Madam Gout, as if you might spare me a little, seeing it is not altogether my own fault. 3. Gout. Not a jot: your rhetoric and your politeness are thrown away: your apology avails nothing. If your situation in life is a sedentary one, your amusements, your recreations, at least, should be active. You ought to walk or ride ; or if the weather prevents that, play at something. But let us examine your course of life. While the morn- ings are long, and you have leisure to go abroad, what do you do? Whv. instead of craininer an annfttitfi for hrfiakfast. bv I 280 THE FOURTH READER. salutary exercise, you amuse yourself with books, parapbletfl, or newspapers, which commonly are not worth the reading. Yd you eat an inordinate breakfast ; four dishes of tea, with cream, one or two buttered toasts, with slices of hung beef • which I fancy are not things the most easily digested. 4. Immediately afterwards, you sit down to write at your desk, or converse with persons who apply to you on business. Thus the time passes till one, without any kind of bodily ex- ercise. But all this I could pardon, in regard, as you say, to your sedentary condition ; but what is your practice after dinner? Walking in the beautiful gardens of those friends with whom you have dined would be the choice of men of sense; yours is to bo fixed down to chess, where you are found engaged for two or three hours, 6. This is your perpetual recreation : the least eligible of any for a sedentary man, because, instead of accelerating the motion of the fluids, the rigid attention it requires helps to retard the circulation and obstruct internal secretions. Wrapt in the speculations of this wretched game, you destroy your constitution. What can be expected from such a course of living but a body replete with stagnant humors, ready to fall a prey to all kinds of dangerous maladies, if I, the Gout, did not occasionally bring you relief by agitating those humors, and so purifying or dissipating them? Fie, then, Mr. Franklin I But, amidst my instructions, I had almost forgot to administer my wholesome corrections ; so take that twinge, and that. 6. Franklin. Oh 1 Eh ! Oh I Oh I As much instruction as you please. Madam Gout, and as many reproaches ; but pray, Madam, a truce with your corrections I Gout. No, sir, no ; I will not abate a particle of what is so much for your good, therefore — Franklin. Oh 1 Eh 1 It is not fair to say I take no exer- cise, when I do, very often, go out to dine, and return in my carriage, 7, Oout. That, of all imaginable exercises, is the most slight and insignificant, if you allude to the motion of a car- riage suspendeii on springs. By observing the degree of heat MAGNANIMITY OF A CHUISTIAN KMPEKOR. 281 obtained by different kinds of motion, we may form an estimate of the quantity of exercise given by each. Thus, for exami)le, if you turn out to walk in winter with cold feet, in an hour's t'mo you will be in a glow all over ; ride on horseback, the same effect will scarcely be perceived by four hours' round trotting ; but if you loll in a carriage, such as you have men- tioned, you may travel all day, and gladly enter the last inn to warm your feet by a fire. 8. Flatter yourself, then, no longer, that half an hours airing in your carriage deserves the name of exercise. Provi- dence has appointed few to roll in carriages, while he has given to all a pair of legs, which are machineb infinitely more com- modious and serviceable. Be grateful, then, and make a prop- er use of yours. of what is so 98. Magnanimity of a Christian Empeeok. SOHLEOEL. FnKDKRio Von Soiileoel was born in 1772; died in 1829. Sclilt^--' " i one of the most distinguifihed writers of Germany— nn a poet, critic, c. .y- ist, and lii«t.)rian. In 1808 he became a Catholic, lor many y^a^s o 'ns liti in coMiiection with iii« brotl-.cr, Anguwtus William ho vv-im '^i g'g'^^J " ■ pnhlicution of tiic "Athenaeum," a critical journal, which did much towards establishing a more independent spirit in German literature.- 6'y- the pi towar clopedla of Bwgrupiy. 1. After the downfall of the Carlovingian family, the em- pire was restored to its pristine vigor by the election of the noble Conrad, duke of the Franconians. This pious, chival- rous, wise, and valiant monarch, had to contend with many difficulties, and fortune did not always smile upon his efforts. But he terminated his royal career with a deed, which alone exalts him far above other celebrated conquerors and rulers, and was attended with more important consequences to after- times, than have resulted from many brilliant reigns; and this single deed, which forms the brightest jewel in the crown of glory that adorns those ages, so clearly reveals the ^ true nature of Christian principles of government, and the Christian idea of political power, that I may be permitted to notice it briefly. Ifti I V 'sil "^ "^%' 282 THE FOURTH READER. 2 When he felt his end approaching, and perceived that of the four principal German nations, the Saxons alone by tlidr superior power, were capable of bringing to a successful issue the mighty struggle in which all Europe was at that critical period mvolved, he bade his brother carry to Henry duke of baxony, hitherto the rival of his house, and who was as rantr- naniraous as fortunate, the holy lance and consecrated sword of the ancient kings, with all the other imperial insignia He thus pointed him out as the successor of his own choice and m his regard for the general weal, and in his anxiety to main- tain a great pacific power capable of defending the common interests of Christendom, he disregarded the suggestions of national vanity, and sacrificed even the glory of his own house ^ bo wise and judicious, as well as heroic, a sacrifice of all selfish glory, for what the interests of society and the necessi- ties of the times evidently demanded, is that principle which fornis the very foundation, and constitutes the true spirit, of all Christian governments. And by this very deed Conrad be- came, after Charlemagne, the second restorer of the western empire, and the real founder of the German nation; for it was this noble resolve of his great soul, which alone saved the tiermamc body from a complete dismemberment. The event fully justified his choice. The new king, Henry, victorious on every side, labored to build a great number of cities, to restore the reign of peace and justice, and to maintain the purity of Christian manners and Christian institutions; and prepared for his mightier son, the great Otho, the restoration of the Christian empire in Italy, whither the latter was loudly and unanunously called. -♦ . 99. The Martyedom op St. Agnes. Angels. 1. Bearing lilies in our bosom, Holy Agnes, we have flown THE MAETYBDOM OF ST. AONKS. Mission'd from the Heaven of Heavens Unto thee, and thee alone. We are coming, we are flying, To behold thy happy dying. Agnes. 2. Bearing lilies far before you, Whose fresh odors, backward blown, Light those smiles upon your faces, Mingling sweet breath with your own, Ye are coming, smoothly, slowly, To the lowliest of the lowly. Angels. 8. Unto us the boon was given ; One glad message, holy maid, On the lips of two blest spirits, Like an incense-grain was laid. As it bears us on like lightning. Cloudy skies are round us brightening. Agnes. 4. I am here, a mortal maiden ; If our Father aught hath said, Let me hear His words and do them. Ought I not to feel afraid, As ye come, your shadows flinging O'er a breast, to meet them springing? Angels. 5. Agnes, there is joy in Heaven ; Gladness, like the day, is flung O'er the spaces never measured, And from every angel's tongue Swell those songs of impulse vernal. All whose echoes are eternal. 288 284 THK FOURTH READER. 6. Agnes, from the depth of Heaven Joy is rising, like a spring Borne above its grassy margin, Borne in many a crystal ring ; Each o'er beds of wild flowers gliding, Over each low murmurs sliding. 7. When a Christian lies expiring. Angel choirs, with plumes outspread, Bend above his death-bed, singing ; That, when Death's mild sleep is fled, There may be no harsh transition While he greets the Heavenly Vision. Agnes. 8. Am I dreaming, blessed angels ? Late ye floated two in one ; Now, a thousand radiant spurits Round mo weave a glistening zone. Lilies, as they wind extending, Roses with those lilies blending. 9. See I th' horizon's ring they circle ; Now they gird the zenith blue ; And now, o'er every brake and billow Float like mist and flash like dew. All the earth, with life o'erflowing, Into heavenly shapes is growing ! 10. They are rising ! they are rising 1 As they rise, the veil is riven I They are. rising ! I am rising — Rising with them into Heaven I— Rising with those shining legions Into life's eternal regions I EUEOPEAN CIVILIZATION. 285 100. European Civilization. BALMBZ, ABBlii J. Balmez, born nt Vich, in Cntnlonia, Spain, in 1810: died, 1848. In lofty eloquence sound philosophy, Bolid and profound erudition, th 8 lust on« Spu»i«>' ^''thof «f tho preaent century stands unnvalled. I m S on tlio'' Civilization of Europe," should bo familiar to everv into 1- eent n.iiKl. His more recent work on "Fundamental 1'1»'«*"P;7". V i" Sably translated by Henry F. Brownson), is the best work on ChriBtmn ]'hilo»opliy of which the English language can boast. 1. It is a fact now generally acknowledged, and openly confessed, that Christianity has exercised a very important and salutary influence on the development of European civilization. If this fact has not yet had given to it the importance which it deserves, it is because it has not been sufficiently appreciated. With respect to civilization, a distinction is sometimes made between the influence of Christianity and that of Catholicity : its merits are lavished on the former, and stinted to the latter, by those who forget that, with respect to European civiliza- tion. Catholicity can always claim the principal share ; and, for many centuries, an exclusive one ; since during a very long period, she worked alone at the great work. People have not been willing to see that when Protestantism appeared in Eu- rope, the work was bordering on completion ; with an injustice and ingratitude which I cannot describe, they have reproached Catholicity with the spirit of barbarism, ignorance, and oppres- sion while they were making an ostentatious display of the rich' civilization, knowledge, and liberty, for which they were principally indebted to her. 2. If they did not wish to fathom the intimate connection between Catholicity and European civilization,— if they had not the patience necessary for the long investigations into which this examination would lead them, at least it would have been proper to take a glance at the condition of countries where the Catholic religion has not exerted all her influence during centuries of trouble, and compare them with those in which she has been predominant. The East and the West, both subject to great revolutions, both professing Christianity, but in such a way that the Catholic principle was weak and S86 THE FOURTH READER. .» k l^flll • 1 n ,1 1 ' \ I ■ I •- 4 1 vacillating m the East, while It was energetic and Jccply rooted in the West ; these, we say, would have aCFordeu two very good points of comparison to estimate the value of Christianitv without Catholicity, when the civilization and the existence of nations were at stake. 3. In the West, the revolutions were multiplied and fearful. the chaos was at its height ; and, nevertheless, out of chaos came light and life. Neither the barbarism of the nations who inundated those countries, and established themselves there nor the furious assaults of Islamism, even in the days of its greatest power and enthusiasm, could succeed in destroyinir the germs of a rich and fertile civilization. In the East on the contrary all tended to old age and decay ; nothing revived • and, under the blows of the power which was ineffectual against us al was shaken to pieces. The spiritual power of Rome and Its influence on temporal affairs, have certainly borne fruits very different from those produced under the same ch-- cumstances, by its violent opponents. 4. If Europe were destined one day again to undergo a general and fearful revolution, either by a universal spread of revolu- tionary ideas, or by a violent invasion of social and proprietary rights by pauperism ; if the Colossus of the North, seated on Its throne of eternal snows, with knowledge in its head, and bhnd force in its hands, possessing at once the means of civil- ization and unceasingly turning towards the East, the South and the West, that covetous and crafty look which in history 13 the characteristic march of all invading empires ; if, avail- ing itself of a favorable moment, it were to make an attempt on the independence of Europe, then we should perhaps have a proof of the value of the Catholic principle in a great ex- tremity; then we should feel the power of the unity which is proclaimed and supported by Catholicity, and while calling to nimd the middle ages, we should come to acknowledge one of ^e causes of the weakness of the East and the strength of the 5 Then would be remembered a fact, which, though but of yesterday, is falling into oblivion, viz. : that the nation whose heroic courage broke the power of Napoleon was proverbially ST. FRANCIS DE SALEs' LAST WILL. 287 Patholic ; and who knows whether, in the attempts which the Vicar of Jesus Christ has deplored in such touching language,— uho knows whether it be not the secret influence of a presen- timent, perhaps even a foresight, of the necessity of weakening that sublime power, which has been in all ages, when the cause of humanity was in question, the centre of great attempts ( But let us return, 6 It canuot be denied that, since the sixteenth century, European civilization has shown life and brilliancy ; but it is a mistake to attribute this phenomenon to Protestantism. In order to examine the extent and influence of a fact, we ought not to be content with the events which have followed it ; it is also necessary to consider whether these events were already prepared : whether they are any thing more than the necessary result of anterior facts ; and we must take care not to reason in a way which is justly declared to be sophistical by logicians post hoc, ergo propter hoc: after that, therefore on account of it Without Protestantism, and before it, European civiliza- tion was already very much advanced, thanks to the labors and influence of the Catholic religion; that greatness and splendor which it subsequently displayed were not owing to it, but arose in spite of it. 101. St. Francis de Sales' last Will and Testament. 1^ 8T. FRANCIS DK BALES. l.nu.'