IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) V /> ,<" C^x :/ 1.0 I.I *- IM 112.5 - m iiii|22 1.8 1.25 1.4 1.6 -« 6" — ► - XLIIL XLIV. XLV. XLVI. XLVII. XLVIII. ^ XLIX. V L. LI. v> LI I. LIII. ^ LIV. ^ LV. LVI. LVII. V, LVIII. LIX. V. LX. LXI. ^.^LXIL LXIH. LXIV. LXV. LXVI. \Lxvn. LXVIII. LXIX. LXX. TITLE. AUTHOR. PAGE. The Colter's Saturday flight Burns 171 Tke Land o the Leal LADY Nairn 177 The Trial by Combat at the Diamond of the Desert ScoTT 179 To a Highland Girl WORDSWOHTH . . . , 202 I'Vance : an Ode CoLERlOGE 205 Complaint and Reproof COLERIDGE 208 The Well of St. Keyne. SOUTHEY 209 The Isles of Greece Byron 211 Go where Glory Waits Thee MooRE 214 Dear Harp of My Country MooRK 215 Come, ye Disconsolate MooRE 216 On a Lock of Milton's Hair Hunt 217 The Glove and the Lions HUNT 217 The Cloud SHELLEY 219 On I'irst Looking into Chapman' s Homer. . Keats 222 On the Grasshopper and the Cricket Keats 222 iThe Power and Danger of the Ciesars De Quincey 223 Unthoughtfulness DR. ARNOLD 227 The Bridge of Sighs HooD 234 A Parental Ode to my Son Hood 237 Metaphysics H ALIBURTON 239 Indian Summer LovER 246 To Helen Praed 246 Horatius Macaulay 247 The Raven PoE 258 David Swan — A Fantasy HAWTHORNE . 262 My Kate Mrs. Browning.. 270 A Dead Rose Mrs. Browning. . 271 To the Evening Wind Bryant 272 Death of the Protector Carlyle 274 Each and All EMERSON 282 Waterloo Lever 284 The Diver Lytton 294 The Plague of Locusts Newman 299 The Cane-bottom' d Chair THACKERAY 306 The Reconciliation Thackeray 308 The Island of tke Scots Aytoun 315 The Gambling Party Beaconsfield. . . . 321 The Pickwickians Disport themselves on Ice. DiCKENS 327 The Hanging of the Crane LONGFELLOW 336 Earthworms Darwin. 342 ' ' As Ships, Becalmed at Eve " Clough 346 Duty Clough 347 CONTENTS vu GE. NUMBER. 171 LXXI. 177 LXXII. LXXIII. 179 LXXIV. 202 LXXV. 205 LXXVI. 208 LXXVII. 209 LXXVIII. 211 LXXIX. 214 LXXX. 215 LXXXI. 216 LXXXII. 217 LXXXIII. 217 LXXXIV. 219 LXXXV. 222 LXXXVI. 222 LXXXVII. 223 LXXXVIII. 227 LXXXIX. 234 xc. 237 XCI. 239 XCII. 246 246 XCIII. 247 XCIV. 258 xcv. 262 XCVI. 270 XCVII. 271 XCVIII. 272 XCIX. 274 c. 282 CI. 284 CII. 294 cm. 299 CIV. 306 ^ cv. 308 "V CVI. 315 •^ evil. 321 ^CVIII. 327 CIX. 336 342 346 347 TITLE. AUTHOR. Sonnets Heavysege..< . . Dr. Arnold at Rugby Dean Stanley. Ode to the North-east Wind KiNGSLEY FVoin " The Mill on the Floss " George Eliot. The Cloud Conines ROSSETTI Barbara Frietchie Whittier. . PAGE. . 349 • 350 . 354 • 356 . 359 , 361 Contentment .Holmes 364 The British Constitution Gladstone 367 The Lord of Burleigh Tennyson 370 " Break, Break, Break " Tennyson 373 7'he ' ' Revenge " .' Tennyson 373 Herve Riel BROWNING 378 Sonnet Dr. Wilson 383 Our Ideal Dr. Wilson 383 From the Apology of Socrates Jowett 384 The Empire of the Coesars I<*roude 389 Of the Mystery of Life Ruskin 390 The Robin Lowell 397 The Old Cradle Looker 400 Rugby Chapel MATT. ARNOLD. . 401 In the Orillia Woods Sangster 408 Morals and Character in the Eighteenth Century Goldwin Smith. 409 A Liberal Education Huxley 412 Too Late Mrs. Craik 416 Amor Mundi Miss ^ossetti . , 417 Toujours Amour Stedman 418 England Aldrich 419 Rococo Aldrich 420 Kings of Men JOHN Reade 420 Thalatta t Thalatta I John Reade 421 The Forsaken Garden Swinburne 422 A Ballad to Queen Elizabeth DOBSON 424 Circe DOBSON Scenes from ' ' Tecumseh " Mair The Return of the Swallows .GossE Dawn Angels Miss Robinson . . Le Roi EstMort Miss Robinson. . To Winter Roberts Abigail Becker Miss Jones 426 1 426 1 437 i 438 439 • 440 44a . \ i- INDEX 01' AUTHORS. namk, page. Addison, Joseph 88, 92 Aldrich, Thomas Bailey. 410, 420 Arnold, Matthew .... 401 Arnold, Thomas 227 Aytoun, Wm. Edmonstoune. . 315 Bacon, Lord (Francis) 53, 54 Barbauld, Anna L/Tstitia,... 178 Beaconskield, Lord (Benjamin Disraeli) 321 Berkeley, Bishop (Georc.e). .. 87 Bible, The Holy 33, 39 Boswell, James 133 Browning, Elizabeth Barrett 270, 271 Browning, Robert 378 Bryant, William Cullen. ... 272 Burke, Edmund 147 Burns, Robert 170, 171 Byron, Lord (George Gordon Noel) 211 Carlyle, Thomas 274 Chatham, Lord (Wm. Pitt)... 116 Clarendon, Lord 76 Clough, Arthur Hugh... 346, 347. 369. 382 CoLERiDGft, Samuel Taylor . , . 205, 208 CowPER, William. 54, 155, 158 Craik, Dinah Maria Mulock. 416 Darwin, Charles 342 Dk Quincey, Thomas 223 Dickens, Charles 327 Dobson, Austin 424, 426 Dryden, John 81, 82, 83 name. page. Eliot, George (Marian Evans Cross) 356 Emerson, Ralph Waldo. 245, 282 Froude, James Anthony .!.,.. 389 Gibbon, Edward 142 Gladstone, William Ewart.. 367 Goldsmith, Oliver 127 GossE, Edmund William 437 Gray, Thomas m Haliburton, Thomas Chand- Li'-R 239 Hawthorne, Nathaniei 262 Heavysege, Charles 349 Herrick Robert 55 Holmes, Oliver Wendeli 364 Hood, Thomas 234, 237 Houghton, Lord (Richard Monckton Milnes) 320 Hume, David 102 Hunt, Leigh 217 Huxley, Thomas Henry 412 Jones, Amanda T 442 JowETT, Benjamin...* 384 Keats, John 222 Keble, John 233 Kingsley, Charles 354 Lever, Charles James 284 Locker, Frederick 400 Longfellow, Henry Wads- worth 336 Lovelace, Richard 55, 61 Ix)VER, Samuel 246 SHORT EXTRACTS. FIRST LINES. AUTHOR. PACK, He that cannot see well B.\cON 54 Stone walls do not a prison make LOVELACE 55 When the heart is right Berkeley 87 // must be so — Plato, thou reasonest well Addison 9a England, with all thy faults, I love thee still CowPER 154 Nviv stir the fire, and close the shutters fast CowPER 158 Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us BURNS 170 Life / we've been long together Mrs. Barbauld . 178 Rough wind, that moanest loud .... , Shelley 218 There is a book, who runs may read Keble 233 There is no great and no small Emerson 245 1 1 Wellington, Thy great work is but begun ROSSETTI i-t- 293 Sacrifice and self-devotion LORD Houghton 320 Flower in the crannied wall Tennyson 366 It fortifies my soul to know Clough 369 And yet, dear heart I remembering thee Whittier 372 There is no land like England. Tennyson 377 The Summum Pulchrum rests in heaven above CLOUGH 382 Be of good cheer then, my dear Crito Socrates 388 I Vhat know we greater than the soul Tennyson 407 That is best blood that hath most iron in't. LoWELL 411 Such kings of shreds have woo'd and won her Aldrich . 419 INDEX OF AUTHORS name. pace. Lowell, James Russell . ..397, 411 Lytton, Lord (Edward Bul- wer) 294 Macaulay, Lord (Thomas Babington) 247 Mair, Charles 426 Milton, John 67 Moore, Thomas 214, 215, 216 Nairne, Bar. .ess (Carolina 'Oliphant) 177 Newman, Cardinal (John Henry) 299 PoE, Edgar Au.an 258 Pope, Alexander 96 Praed, Winthrop Mackworth 246 Reade, John 420, 421 Roberts, Charles George Douglas 44( . Robinson, A. Mary F 438, 439 RossETTi, Christina Gkorgina 417 RossETTi, Dante Gabriel, 293, 359 RusKii*-, John . — 390 name. page. Sangster, Charle?^ 408 Scott, Sir Walter 179 Shakespeare, William 40 Shelley, Percy Bysshe, . .218, 219 Sheridan, Richard Brinsley. 159 Smith, Goldwin 409 SouTHEY, Robert 209 Stanley, Dean (Arthur Pen- rhyn ) 350 Stedman, Edmund Clarence. 418 Steele, Sir Richard 83 Swift, Jonathan 93 Swinburne.Algepnon Charles 422 Taylor, Bishop (Jeremy)...^.. 56 Tennyson, Lord (Alfred) 366, 370, 373' 377. 407 Thackeray, William Make- peace 306, 308 Thomson, James loi Walton, Izaak 62 Whittier, John Greenleaf, 361, 372 Wilson, President (Daniel).. 383 Wordsworth, William 202 INTRODUCTORY. The ability to read well cannot be attained Vvithoui much pains and study, p'or even a moderate proficiency in the art of reading two requirements are essential: (i) A cultivated mind quick to perceive the sequence of thoughts which the words to be read logically express, and equally quick in its power sympathetically to appreciate the sentiment with which the words are informed — the feeling, emotion, passion, which pervades them — but which they suggest rather than actually portray ; and (2) a voice so perfected that its utterances fall upon the ear of the listener with pleasing effect, and so flexible that it can be managed skilfully to convey to him the full meaning and force of all the ideas and sentiments formally expressed by the words or latent in them. Of these two requirements the first is undeniably the more important ; and that training in the art of reading in which the close, persistent, and liberal study of literature for its own sake has not proceeded pari passu with the requisite exercises for the development of the powers of the voice and with the study of the principles of vocal interpretation, has resulted in a meretricious accomplishment of very illusive value. Nor will the special study and accurate mastery of a number of individual selections give that readiness of mental apprehension which is indispensable to a good reader. The ability quickly to recognize word-forms and to utter them with ease, to catch the drift of ideas, and to feel ready sympathy with change and flow in sentiment, is not to be had without a long course of wide and varied reading. No one cai become a good reader by passing through, no matter how carefully, a set of reading text-books merely. Pupils should be encouraged to read for themselves. They should, of course, be guided in their selection of reading matter, and they should be helped to acquire a taste for that which is purest and most helpful in literature ; but unless they form a habit of reading, and of reading thoughtfully and with precision, they can never become good readers. In oral reading, readiness and accuracy depend largely upon the alertness and flexibility of the vocal organs, and to secure ease and excellence in the working of their delicate mechanism much practice is necessary. The pupil should per- sistently read aloud. A practice of this sort, watchfully pursued, with a reason- able degree of self-discipline in the correction or avoidance of errors, is helpful not alone in obtaining a mastery of the reading art, and in menial culture, — it is equally beneficial .as a i)hysical exercise. It will, however, be much more efficacious of good, both of mind and of body, if pursued in accordance with those principles of voice culture and of vocal interpretation, which experience and special study have established. Xll INTRODUCTORY. IMll' But only a small proportion of all the reading that is done, is oral reading. It is silent reading that is universally employed as an instrument of study, of b.isiness, of amusement. As a rule, however, very little provision is made for the acquirement of a facility in silent reading ; this, it is thought, will result as a by-product of the regular training in oral reading. Almost the reverse of this is true. Ease and flexibility of articulation, quickness in catching the drift of ideas, and readiness in varying the tones of the voice in the utterance of words so as impressively to portray their latent sentiment, — all this is possible with those alone to whom diflicult word-forms, complex sentence-structures, and the infinite variety and play of thought and emotion, are more or less familiar through such a wide range of reading as only the silent prosecution of it makes possible. The art of oral reading, however, though not so generally needful as silent reading, is still of great importance to everyone in respect of its practical utility simply, — though few of those whose duty it is to read aloud in public, do so either with accuracy or grace ; as an accomplishment which may be used to give pleasure to others, it is, when perfectly possessed, not excelled by any other ; so that as an acquisition which puts one in a position of vantage either for benefitting one's self or for bestowing delight or benefit upon others, it is worth every necessary struggle for its attainment. One of the nu)st valuable results of oral reading when systematically pursued - as a school study, is the effect which it has in improving the tones of the voice for ordinary conversation and discourse, and in securing some measure o/ orthoepy as a fixed habit of utterance. Conversational speech is notoriously slovenly. The sonority of our vowels is lost, and their distinguishing qualities are obscured ; and with unnoticed frequency our consonants are either dropped or amalgamated with one another. Yet, while amendment in these matters is to be striven for, there is nothing that the teacher who wishes to establish habits ol orthoepy has to be more watchful in guarding against, than bestowing upon his pupils an affected or mincing utterance, all the more ludicrous and objection- able, it may be, in that a certain set of words are pronounced with over-nicety, while almost all others are kli in a state of neglected vulgarity. Too frequently the stuciy of oral reading is pursued with reference solely to the prospective public use of the art in the declamation of prepared passages ; and the elocution-master's science has been brouglit into some discredit by wide discrepancies between the performances of his pupils in their well-drilled and often hackneyed selections and their ability to read unfamiliar pieces at sight. It is quite true that voice culture is greatly aided by the close study and frequent rendering of selections suitably chosen for the elocutionary difficulties wnich they present ; but it should never be forgotten that good reading, the sort of reading which the schoolmaster should above all else endeavor to make his pupils proficient in, implies the ability so to read a plain account, a story, an oration, a pl.ny, or what not, at sijfht, with absolute correctness as to pronuncia- tion, \/ith such clearness of articulation and appropriateness of sentence utter- ance as will make it perfectly audiolo ^nd intelligible to one's auditors, and with ii INTRODUCTORY. such suitable and impressive intonations as will put them in full possession of those emotions which may be said to be the essence or spirit of the piece ; — and, moreover, to do all this with pleasure to one's hearers and with ease to one's self. Now as comparatively few readers are ever required to read in public, and as in the home-circle everyone ought to read, it is plain that the first duty of the teacher of elocution is to develop in his pupils a mastery of such a style of reading as is appropriate to small audiences ; and, then, if he have time and opportunity, to extend and amplify the practice of his art so as to fit such as are capable of fuller mastery of it to appear before greater audiences. For though all voices are capable of being much improved through cultivation, few only can be adapted to the requirements of a large auditorium ; and the care and atten- tion which should be devoted to the benefit of all should not be spent for the , advantage merely of the few. And moreover, those practices and studies which voice culture and the attain- ment of a knowledge of the principles of vocal interpretation demand, may be pursued by all in common. That alone which is necessary for the public reader or orator, is a more extended, and, perhaps, a more earnest and thoughtful practice. Although practices for the improvement of the voice cannot proceed far with- out attention to the principles of vocal interpretation, and though the study of the latter necessarily includes the former, yet for the sake of clearness the ele- mentary principles of voice culture may be discussed separately from their appli- cation in the interpretation of thought and sentiment. With respect both to articulation and expression et this be repeated with the syllable hd/i, audibly whispered. This is expulsive utterance. 3. Let the exercise lie the same as in (2) except that the expiration is to be much more forcibly effected, and completed almost instantaneously. This is explosive utterance. In the cultivation of the voice either one of two ends is generally kept in view — its improvement for speaking or its improvement for singing ; but pro- gress may be made towards both ends by the same study, and those exercises which benefit the singing voice benefit the speaking voice, and vice versa. The distinction between speaking tones and singing tones should be clearly under- stood. Musical tones are produced by isochronous (equal-timed) vibrations of the vocal organs continued for some length of time. Hence, a nuisical tone is a note, which may l)e prolonged at will without varying in pitch, either up or down. A speaking tone, on the contrary, is produced by vibrations which are not isochronous ; it is not a note, propcriy so called, and can not lie prolonged, without varying in pitch. Musical tones are discrete, — the voice passes from pitch to pitch through the intervals silently. In speaking, every tone, however short the time taken in uttering it, passes from one pitch to some other through INTRODUCTORY. XV Uablcs may ! explosion. 1 are effect- ajiparatus, ration, they t slow, and, imilarly fol- ; full, deep itions, as in lat is to be ) the degree used. sound of <(, in most per- most easily , or by some and rapidity ay which the e explosive. It the others, will be illus- iration of the le aspiration vith the sylla- the element h ipering sound ! syllable hah, ration is to be isly. This is erally kept in ;ing; but pro- ;hose exercises 'e versa. The clearly under- I) vibrations of isical tone is a J, either np or ions which are l)e prolongt^d, :e passes from ' tone, however 3 other through | an interval concretely, that is, with continuous vocality ; though, with respect to one another, speech syllables, like notes in music, are discrete. This maybe exem- plified by uttering the words, " Where are you going i" In singing these words, they may be uttered on the same note, or on different notes, or, indeed, with dif- ferent notes for the same word ; but the voice skips from note to note through the intervals. In speaking the words, each is uttered with an inflection or intona- tion in which the voice varies in pitch, but passes through the interval con- cretely ; the separate words, however, and the separate syllables (if there v^re any) being uttered discretely. Musical utterance might be graphically illustrated by a series of horizontal lines of less or greater length succeeding one another at differ? . distances above or below a fixed horizontal line. In a similar nota- tion for speech utterar'ie the lines would all be curved, to represent the concrete passage through the various intervals. It is the concrete intonation of every syllable and monosyllabic word which gives tg speech its distinctive character from music. Each syllable and monosyllabic word is called a concrete, and it is with the concrete in all its various possibilities of utterance that voice cul- ture has mainly to do. The intervals traversed by the voice in uttering the concrete are very variable. Using the musical scale for reference it may be said that in ordinary speech they are generally of but one, or, at most, two notes. In animated discourse or pas- sionate utterance the intervals may be greater. For illustration; let the pro- noun " /" be uttered in a tone of interrogative surprise ; a concrete with a rising interval will be the result. The more the surprise is emphasized, especially if indignation be conjoined with it, the greater will be the interval that the voice passes through in uttering the concrete. If the word "lie " be given immediately after the pronoun with the same intensity of feeling, the voice discretely descends from the high pitch heard at the end of the utterance of the pronoun, and in uttering the next concrete, again ascends through an interval, of less or more extent according to the emphasis which is imparted to it. Again, in speech of sorrow, murmuring, piteous complaint, and the like, con- erete intervals of less extent than those used in ordinary discourse are often heard. Thus, if the sentence "Pity me, kind lady, I have no mother," be uttered with a plaintive expression, concretes with small intervals will be distinctly noticeable ; but it will be also noticed that with respect to one another the sylla- bles are discretely uttered, just as in the sentence where the concrete intervals were much greater. Without intending a scientifically accurate and rigid statement, it may be said (again borrowing the terminology of music) that in ordinary speech the con- cretes are uttered with intervals of a second, or at most a third ; that in very expressive or impassioned utterance intervals of ». fifth or an octave are fre- quently used ; and that the mode of progression from syllable to syllable is diatonic, that is, not concrq|ely, but discretely from tone to tone ; and further, that in plaintive language, the syllables are uttered concretely with intervals of a semitone only, but that the mode of progression from syllable to syllable is still discrete. r !!:i: XVI INTRODUCTORY. Sometimes, but rarely, syllables are uttered tremulously, or with a tremor ; that is, with constituent intervals of less than a semitone, uttered discretely in rapid succession, and passing, in the aggregate, through an interval of more or less width. An exaggerated form of this utterance may be heard in the neighing of a horse. Exercise. — i. Utter the syllablo pd as a concrete, with rising and falling intervals, severally, of a second, third, fifth, and an octave; also with intervals of a semitone ; also with a tremor. Let the exercise be varied so as to include many degrees of initial pitch. Use a diagram of a musical staff for reference. 2. Read with exaggerated impressiveness, "Am I to be your slave f No !" J In the pronunciation of the letter a, as in pate, two sounds are heard : the first is that of the name of the letter, which is uttered with some degree of ful- ness ; the second is that of e in mete, but, as it were, tapering and vanishing ; — in the meantime the voice traverses a rising interval of one tone, that is, of a second. The utterance of these two sounds, although the sounds themselves are distinct, is completely continuous, from the full opening of the one to the vanishing close of the other, and it is impossible to say where the first ends and where the last begins. It is essential, however, to consider them separately. The first is called the radical movement, and the second the yanislllng movement ; and these together constitute the entire concrete. All the vowels do not equally well exemplify in their utterance a distinction of sound in their radical and vanishing movements, because some vowel sounds are less diphthongal than others, and some, again, are pure monophthongs ; hw\. these two movements and the concrete variation of pitch, the result of one impulse of the voice, are the essential structure of every syllable, and are char- acteristic of speech-notes as contradistinguished from those of song. When the radical and vanishing movements are effected smoothly, distinctly, and without intensity or emotion, commencing fully and with some abruptness, and terminating gently and almost inaudibly, the result is the equable concrete. This of course may be produced with intervals, either upward or downward, of any degree — tone, semitone, third, fifth, or octave. It must be said, how- ever, that some syllables, and even some vowels, lend themselves more easily than others to that prolonged utterance which is essential to the production of wide intervals and the perfectness of the vanishing movement. The equable concrete is the natural, simple mode of utterance ; but under the influence of interest, excitement, passion, and so on, the utterance of the con- crete may be greatly varied from this by means of stress, or force applied to some part or to all of its extent. The different variations may be described as follows : ( 1 ) Radical Stress, where force is applied to the opening of the concrete. ( It should be said that a slight degree of radical stress is given even in the equable concrete, producing its full, clear opening. ) (2) Loud Concrete, where force is applied throughout the whole concrete, the proportion of the radical to the vanish remaining unaltered. {3) Median Stress, where force is applied to the middle of- the concrete, pro- ducing a swell, or impres^iye i|LU;i£;sa; vith a tremor ; :d discretely in val of more or in the neighing ng and falling with intervals ;o as to include ff for reference. are heard : the : degree of ful- d vanishing ; — le, that is, of a nds themselves the one to the 5 first ends and lem separately, the yanishing ce a distinction le vowel sounds nonophthongs ; he result of one and are char- ng. thly, distinctly, me abruptness, table concrete. or downward, t be said, how- ves more easily the production ; but under the ice of the con- orce applied to be described as e concrete. (It 1 in the equabli; lie concrete, the e concrete, pro- INTRODUCTORY. xvii (4) Compound Stress, where force is applied in an unusual degree to each extremity of the concrete. (5) Fina] Stress, where force is applied to the end of the concrete, the radi- cal stress being sonicwh;it diminished in fulness. (6) Thorough Stress, where force is so applied that the concrete has the same fulness throughout. Exercise. — With the syllable /a exemplify the equable concrete and the sev- eral varieties of stress, using different degrees of initial or radical pitch, and the arious intervals of the tone, semitone, third, fifth, and octave. The exercises for the radical stress should be first aspirated, then repeated with full vocality. Besides the forins of the simple rising and falling intervals in which the con- crete is generally uttered, there is another form, called the wave, effected by a union of these mod(.s. It is of two varieties : (i) where a rising movement is continued into a falling movement, called the direct wave ; (2) where a falling- movement is continued into a rising movement, called the inverted wave. Waves may pass through all varieties of intervals, and may be either (i) equal, where the voice in both members passes through the same interval ; or (2) unequal, where in one flexion the interval traversed by the voice is greater than in the other. Exercise. — With the syllable /()ssible, but do net attempt to give ' much stress. Obtain in ever) case a disiiiiet vanish. 15e carefit) lujt to convcn the subtoriic into a tonic. Proceed in a similar manner with the oUier sub- tonics. Then, distinctly obtaining the sebtonies, unite them s"verally with the sound of a first forcibly, then more gently, producing such jyllables as ^a, dix, etc. , which may be rendered with upward and downwarr'. intervals, and with different c\ - iili:il pitcli, c ;is fu!l un : to give ■' t to convci I other sub- lly with the i as bit, dd, s, and with (id, dg, dv, iven above, re/, /, -(•,/, ! considered ?, jm, etc., lonient, and letter firmly nder of the el concrete. n Tcrticulate 2. Repeat s (i) expul- nward, and passage of ispers, with he intervals se in a half ity, witb'uit as full and ity full and —as low as part of the ]X'rfornied force ; else appropn- i» arm," — rvals of one )f a third, a ic elements, len a falling octave. 3. the various risitig, fall- ale for illus- this respect Immutable Syllables are almost incapable of prolongation ; tliey are those which end in one of the abrupt atonic elements,/, /, /•/ as tip, hit, kick ; or in one of the abrupt subtonics, b, d, _i{ ; as tub, thud, '■ •,»•. Sonie syllables that so end, by virtue of tonic or subtonic elements which they may contain, are capa- ble of some prolongation ; for example, warp, dart, block, grab, dread, grog. These are called Mutable Syllables. Indefinite Syllables are capal)le of almost indefinite prolongation ; '.hey are those which terminate in a tonic, or any subtonic except one of the three abrupt subtonics, b, d, g; for example, awe, fudge, hail, arm. Note. — It must be remembered that when for the sake of exercise or effect syllables are extended in time, they must be so uttered that their* identity is not impaired, — that is, their enunciation must be free from mouthing. As has been remarked before our pronunciation of vowels is notoriously care- less ; but by a little attention anyone can easily free himself from this reproach. lYequent practice in the accurate enunciation of the tonic elements as given above, and a habit of watchfulness established as to the orthoepy of those which are most easily obscured, in all words in which they occur, will soon secure, if not a resonant, sonorous utterance with respect to the tonic elements, at least a correct pronunciation. But the correct and distinct pronunciation of the sub- tonic, and especially of the atonic, elements, when they occur, as is so frequent in English words, in combination, is not so easily accomplished ; and orthoepy, in this respect, as a habit, cannot be secured without great care and incessant practice. For example, the word months is habitually pronounced by almost everyone as if it were spelled munce. The following list for practice will afford material to liegin with ; other lists should te prejxired by the teacher. Plinth, blithe, sphere, shriek, quote, whether, tipt, depth, robed, hoi'fed, calved, width, hundredth, exhaust, whizzed, hushed, ached, wagged, etched, pledged, asked, dreamt, alms, adapts, depths, lefts, heav'ns, meddl'd, beasts, wasps, hosts, exhausts, gasped, desks, selec.'s, facts, hints, healths, tenths, salts, builds, wilds, milked, mulcts, elms, prob'd'st, think'st, hohfst, attempt st, want'st, heard'st, mask'st. Exercise. — Utter the words in the alx)ve list in distinct articulate whispers ; then with vocality, softly and gently. Avoid hissing and mouthing. While, in reading, distinct enunciation is an excellence to be aimed at, yet the words of a sentence should not be uttered as if completely severed from one another. Every sentence falls naturally into groups, the several groups l)eing composed of words related in sense ; and for impressive reading the words of each group should be implicated, or tied together. For example, in the line, Once upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder d, weak and weary, there are naturally three groups ; in the line, 'J'he quality of mercy is not strain' d, there is but one. In these groups the terminal sound of each word is implicated with the. initial sound of the succeeding word. If the terminal sound is a tonic, or a flowing subtonjc, the implication consists of a gentle murmuring prolongation of the terminal element coalescing with the initial element of the next word ; if I.T XX INTRODUCTORY. I ' ii I i 1 i. the terminal element is a flowing atonic the prolongation will not be accompa- nied by a murmur ; but in either case the vocal organs, wiiile j>roIonging the sound of one word, preiKUe, as it were, to iK-gin tiie next. If the terminal ele- ment be one of the al>rupt subtonics the vocal murmur is difficult to produce, and in this case, and also when the terminal element is an abrupt atonic, there is a suspension of the voice for a time ecjual to that occui)ied by the murmuring prolongation in the other cases ; but the organs keep the position which they have in finishing the one word until they relax to take position for the utterance, with renewed exertion, of the opening sound of the next. . It must l)e added that this implication is not confined to the component words of a grouj) ; for the sake of impressiveness the groups themselves are often implicated, — but by suspension of the voice and a maintenance of the vocal organs in their previous position, before they suddenly relax to form the open- ing sound of the first word in their next group, rather than by the murmuring prolongation above described. ExiiKciSK. — Read with suitable implication: (i) O Tiber ! father Tiber ! to whom the Romans pray, a Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge this day! (2) But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, in bright succession raise, her ornament and guard. The nicety with which implication should be effected depends, like exactness of articulation, upon the gravity, complexity, fervor, grace, beauty, or other dis- tinguishing .'.nd elevated quality of the thoughts and sentiments contained in th'i words to Ije read. Common-place ideas are couched, as a rule, in comiwou. place language, and require no nice discrimination of sounds, or other refine- ment of utterance, for their full rendering ; but in true poetry and impassioned prose implication is no mean instrument of effectual interpretation. The speaking voice, like the singing voice, is capable of utterance through a considerable range of pitch — in highly cultivated voices, of three octaves ; in less highly cultivated voices, of one octave ; out for all voices, not perverted by bad habit, there are three or four notes, of moderate height, upon which utterance is most easy and natural, and most capable of great and sustained effort. These notes should be selected as the normal pitch of discourse. In speaking or reading, except in certain infrequent cases, the whole of the breath expired from the lungs should be utilized in producing pare vocality. Should any breath be spent in aspiration, or in hissing, or in guttural enunciation, the vocality is said to be impure. Impure vocality, it is true, has its own appro- priate use, in the representation of certain emotional states of the mind. Pure vocality is heard naturally in the tones of children at play ; but in adults, through carelessness or injudicious education, it is often wanting. The mechanism of the voice is very complicated and not thoroughly under- stood. It is a matter of common experience, however, that in the utterance of tones of low pitch, whether speech tones or musical, the voice seems to come from the chest rather than from the head ; and, in the utterance of tones of high pitch, on the other hand, it seems to come from the head rather than from INTRODUCTORY. XXI be accompa- ulongin^ the terminal elc- t to produce, atonic, there e murmuring m which they he utterance, ponent words ves are often of the vocal »rm the open- e murnmring her Tiber! to 'loti in charge ^ht succession like exactness , or other dis- ntained in th'i , in common, other refine- 1 impassioned nee through a taves ; in less verted by bad h utterance is ffort. These ; wkole of the Lire vocality. il enunciation, ts own appro- mind. Pure )ut in adults, oughly under- le utterance of eems to come :e of tones of her than from the chest : so that all tones are said to l)oK)ng either to the loiver or chest regis- ter, or to the hii^her or head register. As both chest tones and head tones may Ix; obscured by impurities, and their resonance diminished or destroyed by defective enunciation, the jmre, clear, ringing utterance of tones of both regis- ters should Ix; constantly striven for. The normal pitch of utterance, referred to above, should always be such that the tones comprised in it can be produced either from the head or from the chest, at will ; but for sustained efforts, for the ])est effects boUi of reading and of oratory, the chest tones are much to be pre- ferred, since, as compared with head tones, they are capable of being produced with greater resonance and j)enetrating power, and, for any considerable length of time, \>^ith greater ease to the speaker. All tones of the human voice, whether s[)eaking or musical, whether of the head or of the chest, are spoken of as having quality, or timbre, and the term is also used more generally in reference to the whole compass of utterance. The quality of the voice \% its most distinguishing characteristic, and it is ujxin its cultivation and improvement that the greatest efforts of the student should Ite spent. Pure voice is usually spoken of as being manifested in two qualities, the natural and the orotund. Natural Quality may be described as a head tone to which some degree of resonance is given by the chest ; but the brilliancy of its resonance is produced by its reverlx^ration against the bony arch of the mouth. It may, of course, vary in pitch, but tones of low pitch that are intended to be impressive are most suitably rendered in orotund quality. In its perfect manifestations, the natural quality should be clear, ringing, light, and sparkling, — if it be possible to describe its characteristics by such metaphorical words. Orotund Quality is the result only of cultivation, but no speaker or reader can produce those finer effects which are the appropriate symbols of strong and deep emotion, whose voice cannot assume this mode at will. It differs from the natural mode in obtaining from the chest a greater supply of air, and a deeper and fuller resonance, and the reverljerations seem to be against the w.ills of the pharynx, or posterior regions of the mouth, rather than against the palate, or upper part of the mouth. In fulness, strength, and ringing quality, it is supe- rior to the natural mode, but not distinct from it ; in clearness and smoothness it should be equal to it. As it befits a chest tone rather than a head tone, it is natural to utterances in medium and low pitch ; but it must not be confounded with low pitch simply, nor must its characteristic fulness be taken for loudness simply. With the orotund, as well as with the natural quality, all the voice modes previously described may be conjoined. EXKRCISK. — I. With the syllable kdh, make an expiration in the voice of whisper, forcing slowly all air out from the chest. Then give to this expiration vocality, producing the reverljeration far back iji the mouth : the resulting utter- ance is a hoarse exemplification of the orotund. With the mo, A\ in the position of a yawn, making the cavity of reverberation as large as possible, repeat the exercise until the utterance can be produced smoothly and without hoarseness. 2. Form similar syllables containing other tonic elements, and noake similar xxii INTRODUCTORY. n.. I i exercises, taking care to prodi'cc a smooth, eflfusive utterance. 3. Select a sen- tence such as " Koll on thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll," abounding in long Of)en vowels and indefinite syllables, and using suitable intonations read it in low pitch, with full, resonant chest tones. Then gradually raise the pitch, still obtaining the tones from the chest and uttering them with full resonance. 4. With such syllables as hiih, you, now, man, war, hail, fool, practise in orotund vc>ice the various exercises for pitch, concrete intervals, waves, stress, etc., pre- viously suggested. 5. Read with feeling and appropriate intonations selected s<;ntences trom comnositions of elevated or impassioned diction, as " Solo- mons's Trayer" (p. 35), "The Hymn" (p. 68), " France" (p. 205). Of the various qualities (as they are called) of impure voice, the Aspirate, the Sibilant, and the Outtural are defined with sufficient clearness, by their names. Though these modes can be appro, )riately used only occasionally, nevertheless they are of great value to the reader, and the voice should lie trained to assume them whenever necessary. Great care must be exercised, however, that impuri- ties hall never \yc present as characteristics of normal utterance ; this, whether from the head or chest, should \k. distinct, sonorous, and smooth, and should exhaust every particle of air expired. Another impure quality is the Pectoral, which is an aspiration produced, as it were, from the lowest cavities of the chest ; and still another is the Falsetto, an unnatural voice, that seems to be produced entirely in the upper cavities of the head. The employment of the Falsetto at any time, either in speaking or reading, is of doubtful taste. Exercise. — i. With the syllable h^h exemplify severally the aspirate, gut- tural, and pectoral qualities, ♦irst with insufficient vocality, then with sufficient. Exemplify the sibilant impurity with such syllables as, pish, false, traitress, mis- creant. In those exercises employ intervals of varying lengths, different degrees of initial pitch, and the several varieties of stress ; and let the utterances be made eflusively, expulsively, and explosively. 2. Select .appropriate passages in "The Raven " (p. 258) for exercise in natural, orotund, aspirate, guttural, and pec- toral qualities. Read the passages severally with appropriate intonations, — it may be somewhat exaggeratingly. Then read the whole poem feelingly, with appropriate, but not exaggerated intonations. -So far, what has been said has had reference mainly to the cultivation and improvement of the voice, by the analogies and description of the various effec- tive mode? in which it can be manifested, and by the suggestion of suitable exercises for increasing its endurarice, strength, flexibility, and resonance. It remains now to discuss shortly some of the principles of vocal interpretation, — that is, to discuss what modes of voice-action are appropriate to the representa- tion of the various emotions which the wide range of literature presents to the reader. It must be said in respect of principles that only broad and easily verifiable ones are of use, and even these may be abused by a too rigorous adherence to them. The best rule that can be given, as indeed it is founded on a principle of widest application, is that laid down in the Fourth Reader: — To give a faith- ful sympathetic attention to the full meaning and sentiment of what is read, and to manage the voice so as effectively to express this meaning and sentiment ; since this will always ensuie a certain measure of appropriateness, if ngt the full per- INTRODUCTORY. XXIU •lect a sen- ng in long rciul it in pitch, still niince. 4. in orotund i, etc., pre- ns selected as "Solo- iplrate, the heir names, nevertheless :1 to assunie that inipuri- fjis, wlielhcr and sljould )roduced, as le Falsetto, r cavities of speaking or spirate, gut- th sufficient. ai tress, inis- ;rent degrees ices be made ges in ' ' The •al, and pec- onations, — it ;elingly, with Itivation and various effec- n of suitable ;sonance. It rpretation, — e representa- esents to the isily verifiable adherence to on a principle 9 give a fait k- it is read, and timent ; since the full per- fection of it. And it canno •« too much emphasized that even the fullest know- Knigc and most patient study can establish for the reading of any selection, or passage, or sentence, none hut general directions, since the same words may very fre(iuently Ixj rendered in several ways, with differences of pitch, time, stress, (juality, injplicalion, and so on, but with eciual effectiveness and equal approjMiateness. And, on the other hand, any whole selection, even the sim- plest, is far too complex in its thought and sentiment to be disposed of in one general analysis, which shall predetermine the pilch, tone, and stress, and the prevailing width of the intervals, and the diitrction of the inflections ; all these will vary from pam"- ••ih to paragraph, and from sentence to sentence, even from word to wor > -^ im up, it may be said that good reading demands as indispensable, qi. d intelligence, ready sympathy, and a voice so trainetl as to be flexible a:i. ..i nant ; if the reader have this much endowment his reading will always be ehbctive, and, moreover, appropriate and inijjressive. A II diction may be roughly described as exhibiting one of three states of feeling : (i) that in which feeling, as it is generally understood, is almost wanting ; (2) that in which it is present in some considerable degree ; (3) that in which the feeling is present in an extreme degree, dominating the ideas which the several sentences logically express. To the first division, which may be called the diction of discourse, belongs all language indicative of a (luiet state of mind- formal statement, narrative, description, sinijile argument or reasoning : it is the language of all ordinary writing. To the second division, which may be called the diction of sentiment or feeiing, belongs all language which indi- cates that the mind of the sjieaker, real or supposed, is in a state of moderate excitement ; that he is interested in the relation of himself to others, and, con- sequently, in the effect of his utterances upon them ; or that, subjectively, he is interested in himself: it is the language of admiration, reverence, awe, sin- cerity, dignity, of pathos, supplication, penitence. To the third division, which may be called the diction of passion, belongs all language expressive of deeper excitement and more vehement interest than that described as animating the diction of feeling : it is the language of earnest or anxious interrogation, of passionate ejaculation, of powerful appeal, strong accusation, and fierce denun- ciation ; also, of contempt, derision, scorn, loathing, anger, hate, and so on. Voice, as we have seen, possesses five generic properties, pitch, force, quality, time, and abruptness ; and, in every spoken word, it must assume some mode of each of these proi")erties, manifesting them in co-existence. This conjoint mode, or vocal sign, as it i« called, should be the appropriate expression of the thought and feeling of which the word, in its place in the sentence, is the graphical sign. Hence, as each word in a sentence may be said to have its appropriate vocal sign, so each variety of diction may be said to have its apjiro- priate voCal expression, — a latitude of choice in the constituent modes, and a consequent indcterminatencss in the resulting expression, being, of course, always conceded. The appropriate vocal expression for the diction of discourse may be said to consist of the following modes : — normal pitch, simple intonations, and waves !;i!i xxiv INTRO DUC TOR V. i ii .ill of a second, moderate force, the equable concrete varied by slight radical stress, in quality the natural mode, in abruptness sufficient sharpness of opening to effect clear articulation, and in time a moderate rate with effusive utterance. As the diction rises above this plain unimpassioned character, and becomes more and more informed with feeling and sentiment, the constituent vocal signs, and hence the whole vocal expression, become more and more expressive. In pitch there is frequent variation : in expressions of joy, astonishment, or for com- mand, the voice assumes naturally a somewhat higher elevation ; and with equal naturalness it descends below its normal level to utter the language of grave, solemn, and reverential feeling. Again, inasnmch as the interval of the second is the plainest and simplest within the command of the voice, in such diction as we are now considering, intervals of a third, a fifth, or even an octave, may be heard, both in simple intonations and in waves. Force, too, will not be unvary- ingly applied, but will be greater or less according as energy or passion may demand. In stress the equable concrete will give place to the radical or to the final, to express energetic resolve ; or, in the language of pathos, exaltation, reverence, supplication, and so on, to the median — the most effective of all modes for the expression of such deep feeling as is compatible with slow utter- ance. In time the rate of utterance will vary with the syllabic quantities, these being short and crisp in the language of vivacious conversation, but extended, and with distinct, attenuated vanishes, in grave and important monologue. In quality, whenever the diction, departing from its simple character, becomes per- vaded by some deep emotion, the natural mode will give place to the orotund. And while effusive utterance is always the prevalent mode, it will give place to the expulsive mode or to the explosive, when energy of thought or force of passion requires it so. " Thus, as the diction rises from plain discourse to the language of feeling, the appropriate vocal expression gathers intensity and becomes more varied, assumes, as may be said, brighter colors and displays greater contrasts ; and so, in the third class of diction, the diction of passion, it displays its intensest and most vivid modes — its brightest colors, its deepest contrasts. As it is in a general sense only, that diction can be understood to be referrible to three classes, so also, in a general sense only, can it be understood that any particular sentence or passage has its appropriate vocal expression. All that is intended is simply this : an analysis o. ;he sentence, or passage, or selection . gives to the careful student a certain conception of the quality and intensity of the feeling or passion that pervades it ; this is to be interpreted, as well as may be, by the most appropriate vocal signs possible — the whole constituting the vocal expression suitable to the piece. In respect to its pervading emotion, the selec- tion will have what is called a drift, or general tendency, towards one of those states described as characteristic of the diction of discourse, the diction of feel- ing, and the diction of passion, respectively ; and it is the business of the reader to watch for this drift, which of course may vary from passage to passage, from sentence to sentence, and sometimes from word to word, and to interpret it as beet he may. INTRODUCTORY. XXV To indicate what modes of voice utterance are naturally most appropriate to the expression of these various emotional states and drifts, it will be best to take up, one by one, the different properties of the voice, and the several modes in which they are manifested, and to state briefly, and in general terms, the emo- tional state or drift of which it is an appropriate expression. (With respect to quality and abruptness this will be sufliciently done indirectly.) The student then nmst for himself, if he wishes to apply these results to the reading of any selected passage, first by analysis ascertain what are the emotional stales which it involves, what are its prevailing drifts, then in resiMict to each property of the voice choose the suitable mode for the interpretation of th«^se several states o»- drifts, conjoin the selected modes into appropriate vocal signs, and with these form the vocal expression that suitably interprets the whole passage. The teacher, or the teacher and student together, should select from the Rk.vdkr, or else^vhere, sentences or passages that Jit ly exemplify the different modes ; these should be written upon a black-board, or in some other way preserved, and be referred to frequently for practice both in voice culture and in vocal interpre- tation. 1. Pitch. I'itch must be considered under three heads : first, as referring to the prevailing elevation of tone assumed by the voice in the reading of a whole sentence, passage, or selection, caWed general or sentential pitch ; second, as re- ferring to the degree of elevation assumed by the voice in the utterance of the opening, or radical, of any syllallc, called initial or radical pitch ; third, as referring to the tone-wiath of the intervals in the utterance of the syllable con- crete. Sentential Pitch in its various modes is descriptive of the general position in the scale taken by the tones of the voice in uttering a sentence or passage. It may be spoken of as medium, high, and loiv. Medium i itch should corre- spond with the normal pitch of discourse previously described. It is natural to the expression of all unimpassioned thought, and also of all emotions, except the livelier, and the deeper and more intense. High Pitch and LOW Pitch are only relative terms. They do not represent fixed and definite modes of utterance ; and all that can be said is, that for the interpretation of what may be called the lighter feelings and emotions, such as cheerfulness, joy, exultation, interest, and so on, also for the expression of raillery, facetiousness, humorous conversation, laughter, and the like, sentential pitch of a degree somewhat higher than normal pitch is appropriate ; and, on the other hand, for the interpretation of what may be called the graver and deeper feelings, such as awe, reverence, humility, grief, and melancholy, and the more impassioned emotions, as disgust, loathing, hor- ror, rage, desi)air, as well as for the expression of all very serious and impressive thought, sentential pitch of a degree somewhat lower than normal pitch is appropriate. The degree of elevation and depression must l)e determined by the judgment and good taste of the reader ; but it must be borne in mind that this degree may vary from passage to passage, and from sentence to sentence, and even from phrase to phrase. In every style of diction, no matter how unimpassioned it may be, there will XXVI INTRODUCTORY. w be frequent changes in the train of thought, and frequent changes in the inten- sity of feeling ; to represent these changes there should be corresponding varia- tions, or transitions in sentential pitcll. These transitions also serve another purpose, namely, to indicate an interpolated or parenthetical idea. In niakin with Jis nmch needful variation of expression as is possible within these limits. IV. TiMK. Time is rate of utterance. It comprehends quantity, or rate con- sidered in reference to the duration of individual syllables ; and movement, or rate considered in reference to the utterance of syllables and words in succession. A INTRODUCTORY. XXXI \\'itli it limy he considered pauses, or cessations of the voice, helpful in the ex- pression of thought and feeling, and necessary to the working of the vocal nachanisni. Quantity, as defmed above, is an arbitrary thing, dependent almost entirely ni)()ii the will of the speaker, liut many words and syllables are more expres- sive of their meaning when, in uttering them, the voice is somewhat prolonged, —hence quantity is an element of expression. Again, many words and syllables can receive this prolongation of utterance more readily than others, — hence ijuatitity is a tiatural element of spoken language. As indefinite syllables are much more capable of prolongation than mutable or immutable syllables, they jaro said to possess long quantity, or, more shortly, "to possess quantity"; mutable syllables possess quantity in a less degree, and immutable syllables are i naturally deficient in quantity. As an element of expression, quantity (that is, long quantity) lends dignity and I grace to the movement of the voice, and affords ground for the display of those expressive modes of vocal action which are incompatible with the rapid or ejacu- latory utterance of the concrete ; and hence, with median stress, the wave, I moderate intervals, medium or low sentential pitch, it is used as naturally inter- mretative of solemnity, reverence, awe, deep pathos, ardent admiration, and all elevated emotion. Colloquial tones, excited argument, wit, raillery, and all the lighter emotions, require for their expression, brilliancy rather than grace, and so are more fittingly interpreted by short quantities andradical stress. The discerning reader, in his work of vocal interpretation, will not fail to take I advantage of the inherent character of syllables with respect to quantity. Our language abounds in indefinite syllables to which he may impart whatever quan- tity he may desire. On the other hand, immutable syllables, while not admit- ting the wave and the median stress, are eminently fitted to receive the more forcible forms of radical stress ; and mutable syllables, with their abrupt closes, mcrmit of perfect exemplifications of thorough an:', final stress. Movement, though it depends for its slower and more expressive forms upon I tilt! capacities of syllables for the reception of long quantities, is, in its more [rapid forms, quite independent of syllabic structure, and dependent only on the Iwill of the speaker ; hence it may be spoken of as being altogether under his Icontrol. A medium rate of utterance is, with respect to time, the natural ex- ]iression of an equable flow of thought. The livelier emotions should be indicated by quicker rates, and hence, cheerfulness, joy, vivacious dialogue, animated [narration, naturally find their expression in movements more or less brisk, with filiort (luantities, varied intonations, and pitch higher than the normal ; the inon> vehement emotions, eagerness, anger, excited anxiety, demand sinipjy luMgluened forms of these modes. Contrariwise, thought of grave and medi- kative character, admiration, reverence, and all the deeper and calmer feelings, W'liuire a deliberative, slow-timed utterance, with long quantities for accented syllables, and extended time for even unaccented syllables. As these serious ^notions become stronger and deeper, the syllabic quantities become proportion- ktely longer, and with impressive median swells, orotund quality, low pitch, r M xxxu INTRODUCTORY. 1 M 1 I waves and simple intonations of the second, frequent phrases in monotone, anni an occabional tremor, constitute the most impressive utterance of adoration. Occasionally an abrupt cltan^i^e in quantity, or movement, may be employed a\ a mode of emphasis, either positive or negative; for example, in a current oil rapid movement, a word may l^e put into strong rehef by Ueing uttered witiij quantity much extended ; contrariwise, a parenthetical or explanatory phrasej is usually touched upon lightly and with a more rapid movement than that ofj the current in which it is found. Pause may be used as an element in the expression of thought simply, that is,\ as a help to the interpretation of the mere sense of the words read; or, morcX emphatically, as an element in the expression of feeling and emotion. As inter- pretative of thought, pauses should correspond mainly with the graphical marks I of punctuation. Two things, however, must be borne in mind : first, the use of I punctuation marks in writing and in printing is always more or less an arbitrary! matter, scarcely any two authors agreeing in their employment of them ; and therefore the reader's own good sense must be to him his principal authority asl to the closeness with which he follows them : and second, pauses are to an audi- 1 tor what punctuation marks are intended to be to a reader ; but, whereas the! eye may constanUy keep within its vision the relation of each word uttered, both to those which preceded it and to those which are to follow, the ear hears tliel words that are read only ictus by ictus, stroke by stroke, and therefore can not I aid the mind to grasp this relation — the memory alone helping to do that ; and | hence, in reading, pauses should be more frequent, and perhaps more pro- longed, than the punctuation marks might seem to necessitate. The reader! should also bear in mind that even the plainest and simplest diction, or that re- quiring the most rapid utterance, may be so marked by appropriate pauses that! those stoppages of the voice necessarily required for inspiration, shall never occur except when they assist to interpret the sense, — they must not intern^pt it. As interpretative of emotion pauses do not necessarily correspond to gram- matical structure ; but, as with all the modes of expression previously considered, their frequency and length — their only modifications — must harmonize with tliel feeling which they are to assist in interpreting. In length, for example, they I should correspond with the movement of which they may be said to form a part ; I when the movement is slow, as in the expression of awe, reverence, and the like, they are naturally long ; in the brisk movement required to interpret the livelier j emotions, they should be short. As a mode of emphasis pause serves to fix tiie( attention of the hearer, — either backward upon a word or phrase, that the mindj may dwell upon it, or forward to awaken curiosity and expectation : it is evident j then that a frequent use of it for this purpose would destroy its value. Pauses may be used in reading to simulate an appropriate labor of utteranceX as when the mind is supposed to be overcome by sorrow, or disturbed by anger, j At such times also, the\ serve as fit rests for the voice in its efforts to expressl the disturbed condition of the mind, and as appropriate avenues for the escape of I emotion otherwise than by vocality, as by sighing. Pauses should be used aho\ to indicate sudden transitions from one state of emotion to anot/ier. THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. I. KING SOLOMON'S PRAYER AND BLESSING AT THE DEDICATION OF THE TEMPLE. From Tiiic First Book of Kings. Translated 1611 — Revised iSSj. Then Solomon assembled the elders of Israel, and all the lieads of the tribes, the princes of the fathers' houses of the children of Israel, unto king* Solomon in Jerusa- lem, to bring up the ark of the covenant of the LORD out of the city of David, which is Zion. And all the men ol Israel assembled themselves unto king Solomon at the feast, in the month Ethanim, which is the seventh month. And all the elders of Israel came, and the priests took up the ark. And they brought up the ark of the Lord, and the tent of meeting, and all the holy vessels that were in the Tent ; even these did the priests and the Levites bring up. And king Solomon and all the congregation of Israel, that were assembled unto him, were with him before the ark, sacrificing sheep and oxen, that could not be told nor numbered for multitude. And the priests brought in the ark of the covenant of the Lord unto its place, in' ? the oracle of the house, to the most holy place, even under the wings of the cherubim. For the cherubim spread forth their wings over the place of the ark, and the cherubim covered the M THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Illl ark and the staves thereof above. There was nothing; in the ark save the two tables of stone which Moses put there at Horcb, when the LOKI) made a covenant with the children of Israel, when they came out of the land of Egypt. And it came to pass, when the priests were come out of the holy place, that the cloud filled the house of the LoRD, so that the priests could not stand to minister by reason of the cloud : for the glory, of the Lord filled the house of the Lord. Then spake Solomon, The LORD hath said that he would dwell in the thick darkness. I have surely built thee an house of habitation, a place for thee to dwell in for ever. And the king turned his face about, and blessed all the congregation .of Israel : and all the congregation of Israel stood. And he said, Blessed be the LORl>, the God of Israel, which spake with his mouth unto David my fafiier, and hath with his hand fulfilled it, saying. Since the day that I brought forth my people Israel out of Egypt, I chose no city out of all the tribes of Israel to build an house, that my name might be there ; but I chose David to be over my people Israel. Now it was in the heart of David my father to build an house for the name of the Lord, the God of Israel. But the LoRD said unto David my father, Whereas it was in thine heart to build an house for my name, thou didst well that it was in thine heart : nevertheless thou shalt not build the house ; but thy son that shall come forth out of thy loins, he shall build the house for my name. And the Lord hath established his word that he spake ; for \ am risen up in the room of David my father, and sit on the throne of Israel, as the Lord promised, and have built the house for the name of the Lord, the God of Israel. And there have SOLOMON'S PR A YER AND BLESSING. 35 I set a place for the ark, wherein is the covenant of the i.oKl), which he made with our fathers, when he brought tlicm out of the land of Egypt. And Solomon stood before the altar of the LoRl) in the presence of all the congregation of Israel, and spread forth his hands toward heaven : and he said, O Lord, the God of Israel, there is no God like thee, in heaven above, or on earth beneath ; who keepest covenant and mercy with thy servants, that walk before thee with all their heart : who hast kept with thy servant David my father that which thou didst promise him : yea, thou spakest with thy mouth, and hast fulfilled it with thine hand, as it is this day. Now therefore, O LORD, the God of Israel, keep with thy servant David my father that which thou hast promised him, saying, There shall not fail thee a man in my sight to sit on the throne of Israel ; if only thy children take heed to their way, to walk before me as thou hast walked before me. Now there- fore, O God of Israel, let thy word, I pray thee, be verified, which thou spakest unto thy servant David my father. But will God in very deed dwell on the earth ? behold, heaven and the heaven of heavens cannot con- tain thee ; how much less this house that I have builded ! Yet have thou respect unto the prayer of thy servant, and to his supplication, O LORD my God, to hearken unto the cry and to the prayer which thy servant prayeth before thee this day : that thine eyes may be open toward this house night and day, even toward the place whereof thou hast said, My name shall be there : to hearken unto the prayer which thy servant shall pray toward this place. And hearken thou to the supplication of thy servant, and of thy people Israel, when they shall pray toward this place : yea, hear thou in heaven thy dwelling ij I; HI S6 THR HIGH SCHOOL READER, ii!l>> \\\\ place : and when thou hearest, forgive. If a man sin against his neighbour, and an oath be laid upon him to cause him to swear, and he come and swear before thine altar in this house : then hear thou in heaven, and do, and judge thy servants, condemning the wicked, to bring his way upon his own head ; and justifying the righteous, to give him according to his righteousness. When thy people Israel be smitten down before the enemy, because they have sinned against thee ; if they turn again to thee, and confess thy name, and pray and make suppli- cation unto thee in this house : then hear thou in heaven, and forgive the sin of thy people Israel, and bring them again unto the land which thou gavest unto their fathers. When heaven is shut up, and there is no rain, because they have sinned against thee ; if they pray toward this place, and confess thy name, and turn from their sin, when thou dost afflict them : then hear thou in heaven, and forgive the sin of thy servants, and of thy people Israel, when thou teachest them the good way wherein they should walk ; and send rain upon thy land, which thou hast given to thy people for an inheritance. If there be in the land famine, if there be pestilence, if there be blasting or mildew, locust or caterpiller ; if their enemy besiege them in the land of their cities ; whatsoever plague, whatsoever sickness there be ; what prayer and supplication soever be made by any man, or by all thy people Israel, which shall know every man the plague of his own heart, and spread forth his hands toward this house : then hear thou in heaven thy dwelling place, and forgive, and do, and render unto every man according to all his ways, whose heart thou knowest ; (for thou, even thou only, knowest the hearts of all the children of men -^ that they may fear thee all the day;' SOLOMON'S PRA YER AND BLESSING. 37 ihiit they live in the hind which thou gavcst unto our ("iithcrs. Moreover concerning the stranger, that is not of ill)' people Israel, when he shall come out of a far country for thy name's sake ; (for they shall hear of thy ^reat name, and of thy mi^dity hand, and of thy stretched out arm :) when he shall come and pray toward this house ; hear thou in heaven thy dwelling place, and do accordinj^' to all that the stranger calleth to thee for ; that all the peoples of the earth may know thy name, to fear thee, as cloth thy people Israel, and that they may know that this house which I have built is called by thy name. If thy people j^o out to battle against their enemy, by whatsoever way thou shalt send them, and they pray unto the LoKD toward the city which thou hast chosen, and toward the house which I have built for thy name r then hear thou in heaven their prayer and their supplica- tion, and maintain their cause. If they sin against thee, (for there is no man that sinneth not,) and thou be angry with them, and deliver them to the enemy, so that they carry them away captive unto the land ot the enemy, far off or near ; yet if they shall bethink themselves in the land whither they arc carried captive, and turn again, and make supplication unto thee in the land of them that carried them captive, saying. We have sinned, and have done perversely, we have dealt wickedly ; if they return unto thee with all their heart and with all their soul in the land of their enemies, which carried them captive, and pray unto thee toward their land, which thou gavcst unto their fathers, the city which thou hast chosen, and the house which I have built for thy name : then hear thou their prayer and their supplication in heaven thy dwelling place, and maintain their cause ; and forgive thy people which have sinned against thee, 38 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. ' m ! !' ilH^iiiii ! iplii!!^ and all their transgrcrsxons wherein they have trans- gressed against thee ; and give them compassion before those who carried them captive, that they may have compassion on them : for they be thy people, and thine i;.heritance, which thou broughtest forth out of Egypt, from the midst of the furnace of iron : that thine eyes may be open unto the supplication of thy servant, and unto ihc supplication of thy people Israel, to hearken unto them whensoever they cry unto thee. For thou didst separate them from among all the peoples of the earth, to be thine inheritance, as thou spakest by the hand o^ Moses thy servant, when thou broughtest our fathers out of Egypt, O Lord Goi). i And it was so, that when Solomon had made an end of praying all this prayer and supplication unto the Lord, he arose from before the altar of the Lord, from kneeling on his knees with his hands spread forth toward heaven. And he stood, and blessed all the congregation of Israel with a loud voice, saying. Blessed be the LORD, that hath given rest unto his people Israel, av. ording to all that he promised : there hath not failed one word of all his good promise, which he promised by the hand of Moses his servant. The Lord our God be with us, as he was with our fathers : let him not leave us, nor forsake us : that he may incline our hearts unto him, to walk in all his ways, and to keep his commandments, and his statutes, and his judgments, which he commanded our fathers. And let these my words, wherewith I liive made supplication before the LORD, be nigh unto the Lord our God day and night, that he maintain the cause of his servant, and the cause of his people Israel, as every day shall require : that all the peoples of the earth may know that the LORD, he is God ; there is none cbc. INVITA TION. 39 e trans- n before ay have tid thine r Egypt, inc eyes ant, and hearken 'or thou s of the by the test our I an end nto the ID, from toward cgation i Lord, 'ding to word of hand of I us, as us, nor him, to dments. Handed I riive nto the e cause rael, as e earth le clbc-i Let your heart therefore be perfect with the Lord our God, to walk in his statutes, and to keep his command- ments, as at this day. And the king, and all Israel with him, offered sacrifice before the LORD, • ' ' II. INVITATION. From Isaiah. Translated 1611 — Kez'iscd iSSj. . . Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money ; come ye, buy, and eat ; yea, come, buy wine and milk without money and 'without price. Wherefore do yc spend money for that which is not bread ? awd your labour for that which satisfieth not ? hearken diligently unto me, and eat ye that which is good, and let your soul delight itself in fatness. Incline your ear, and come unto me ; hear and your soul shall live : and I will make an everlasting covenant with you, even the sure mercies of David. . . Seek ye the LORD while he may be found, call ye upon him while he is near : let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts : and let him re- turn unto the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him ; und to our God, for he will abundantly pardon. For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts. For as the rain Cometh down and the snow from heaven, and returncth not thither, but watereth the earth, and maketh it bring W 4P THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. i \ forth and bud, .'iiul L;ivcth seed to the sower and bread to the eater ; so shall my word be that goeth forth out ot my mouth : it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thhig \\ hereto I sent it. For ye shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace : the mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands. Instead of the thorn shall come up the fir tree, and instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle tree : and it shall be to the Lord for a name, for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off. m III. THE TRIAL SCENE IN THE ** MERCHANT OF VENICE." * William Shakespeare.— 1564-1616. Scene — A Court of Justice. Present — The Duke, the Magni- ficoes, Antonio, Bassanio, CIratiano, Solanio, and others. Duke. What, is Antonio here ? Antonio. Ready, so please your grace. '' Duke. I am sorry for thee : thou art come to answer A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch Uncapable of pity, void and empty From any dram of mercy. Antonio. I have heard Your grace hath ta'cn great pains to qualify u.'c rigorous course ; l)ut sinc:c he stands obdurate, And that no lawful means can carry me * As an introduction read "The Merchant of Venice," Fourth Reauek, page 311. J read to li out ot it shall ospcr in 3Ut with and the d all the id of the the brier e to the shall not NT OF he Magni- id others. r'er TH Readek, THE ''MERCHANT OF VENICE" Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose My patience to his fury ; and am arm'd To suffer, with a quietness of spirit, The very tyranny and rage of his. Duke, do one, and call the Jew into the court. So/anio. He's ready at the door : he comes, my lord. Enter Shvi.ock. Duke. Make room, and let him stand before our face. — Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too, 'i'hat thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice To the last hour of act ; and then 'tis thought Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse, more strange Than is thy strange apparent cruelty ; And where thou now exact'st the penalty, — Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh, — Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture, l^ut, touch'd with human gentleness and love, Forgive a moiety of the principal ; Cilancing an eye of pity on his losses. That have of late so huddled on his back, Enough to press a royal merchant down And pluck commiseration of his state From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint, From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train'd ■ To ofiices of tender courtesy. We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. Shy lock. I have possess'd your grace of what I purpose ; And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn To have the due and forfeit of my bond : If you deny it, let the danger light Upon your charter and your city's freedom. \'ou'll ask me, why I rather choose to have '\ weight of carrion flesh than to receive Three thousand ducats : I'll not answer that : 41 Hi! iii!' i 1 'II; ' 'i i' ■' i 1' 1 l' ; ^^ 42 7W£ J//GN SCHOOL READER, But, say, it is my humor ; is it answer'd ? • ■ , What if my house be troubled with a rat, ; ■ And I be pleas'd to give ten thousand ducats To have it ban'd ? What, are you answer'd yet ? Some men there are love not a gaping pig ; ', Some, that are mad if they behold a cat ; And others, when the bagpipe sings i' the nose, " Cannot contain themselves : for affection. Master of passion, sways it to the mood Of what it likes, or loathes. Now, for your answer : As there is no firm reason to be render'd, Why he cannot abide a gaping pig ; . . r . Why he, a harmless necessary cat ; , ;. Why he, a woollen bagpipe, — but of force Must yield to such inevitable shame • ^ As to offend, himself being offended ; y So can I give no reason, nor I will not, ■•' More than a lodg'd hate and a certain loathing .i I bear Antonio, that I follow thus A losing suit against him. Are you answer'd ? Bassanio. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, To excuse the current of thy cruelty. Shylock. I am not bound to please thee with my answer. Bassanio. Do all men kill the things they do not love ? Shylock. Haiea any man the thing he would not kill ? Bassanio. Every offence is not a hate at first. Shylock. What, would'st thou have a serpent sting thee twice? Antonio. I pray you, think you question with the Jew^, You may as well go stand upon the beach, And bid the main flood bate his usual height ; You may as well use question with the wolf, Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb ; You may as well forbid the mountain pines To wag thei ■ high tops, and to make no noise, When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven ; i ' THE ''MERCHANT OF VENICE:' 43 iiswer. jve? 11? bee twice? jVou may as well do anything most hard, LS seek to soften that — than which what's harder ? — His Jewish heart : therefore, I do beseech you, JMake no more offers, use no further means, lUit, with all brief and plain conveniency, jlx't me have judgment, and the Jew his will, Bassanio. For thy three thousand ducats here is six. Shy lock. If every ducat in six thousand ducats \Vere in six i)arts, and every part a ducat, would not draw them ; I would have my bond. Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rend'ring nor .? Shy lock. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong ? y'ou- have among you many a purchas'd slave, ^\ hich, like youi asses, and your dogs, and mules, ^'ou use in abject and in slavish parts, because you bought them : shall I say to you, ,ct them be free, marry them to your heirs ? ^Vhy sweat they under burdens ? let their beds pe made as soft as yours, and let their i)alates Be season'd with such viands ? You will answer, The slaves are ours :" so do I answer you : [rhe pound of flesh, which I demand of him. Is dearly bought ; 'tis mine, and I will have it : f you deny me, fie upon your law ! ('here is no force in the decrees of Venice, stand for judgment : answer ; shall I have it ? ^ / . Duke. Upon my power I may dismiss this court, . ' - [Jnless Bellario, a learned doctor, Vhom I have sent for to determine this, 'ome here to-day. Solanio. My lord, here stays without , , messenger with letters from the doctor, lew come from Padua. Duke. Bring us the letters ; call the messenger. Bassanio. Good cheer, Antonio ! What, man, courage yet ! I' i; H iii m •'lii I III iiilttl Tn^ THE HICH SCHOOL READER. The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all, Ere thou shall lose for me one drop of blood. ' Antonio. I am a tainted wether of the flock, '- Meetest for death : the weakest kind of fruit - Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me : You cannot better be employ'd, Bassanio, Than to live still, and write mine epitaph. Enter Nerissa, dressed like a lawyer's clerk. Duke. Came you from Padua, from Bel'-.^rio ? Nerissa. From both, my lord : Bellario greets your grace. \Presents a letter, Bassanio. ^Vhy dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly ? Shylock. To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there. ' Gratiano. Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew, Thou mak'st thy knife keen ; but no metal can, No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness , Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee? Shylock. No, none that thou hast wit enough to make. Gratiano. O, be thou damn'd, inexorable dog ! And for thy life let justice be accus'd. Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith, , . To hold opinion with Pythagoras, . That souls of animals infuse themselves Into the trunks of men : thy currish spirit Govern'd a wolf, who, hang'd for human slaughter. Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet. And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam, Infus'd itself in thee ; for thy desires Are wolfish, bloody, starv'd, and ravenous. Shylock. Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond. Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud : Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall To cureless ruin. I stand here for law. 7 HE ''MERCHANT OF VENICE:' *l Duke. This letter from Bellario doth commend A young and learned doctor to our court : — Where is he ? Ncrissa. He attendeth here hard by, To know your answer, whether you'll admit him. Duke. With all my heart. — Some three or four of you Go give him courteous conduct to this place. — • Meantime the court shall hear Bellario's letter. [Clerk reads.] Your grace shu! I understand^ that, at the receipt of your letter^ I am very sick : but, in the instant that your messenger came, in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of Rome ; his name is Balthazar. I acquainted him with the cause in controversy betweeti the Jeiv and Antonio the ?nerchant: we turfiea o'er many books together : he is furnished 7vith my opinion : which, bettered with his owjt /earning, the greatness whereof I cannot enough cof/imend, comes with him, at my im- \portmiity, to Jill up your grace' s request in my stead. I beseech \you, let his lack of years be no impediment to let him lack a reverend estitnation ; for I never knew so young a body with so \ old a head. I leave him to your gracious acceptance, whose trial \shall better publish his commendation. Duke. You hear the learned Bellario, what he writes : [And here, I take it, is the doctor come. — a Enter Portia, dressed like a doctor of laws. [Oive me your hand : came you from old Bellario ? Portia. I did, my lord. Duke. " You are welcome ; take your place. L\re you acquainted with the difference [That holds this present question in the court ? Portia. I am informed, throughly of the cause. Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew ? P rce. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. Portia. Is your name Shylock ? . . h i:> 46 THE HIGH SCHOOL RF "^r^KR. !;ni !i' i i \ . IS my name, oil follow V • \To Antoniq Mllili! ilii Shyiock. •■ 9' Portia. Of a >itrange nature is tlv Yet in such rule that the Venetian 1. Cannot impugn ycu as you do proceed. — You stand within his danger, do you not ? Antonio. Ay, so he says. Portia. - Do you confess the bond ? Antonio. I do. : .: • Portia. Then must the Jew be merciful. Shylock. On what compulsion must I ? Tell me that. Portia. The quality of mercy is not strain'd ; It dro})peth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the ])lace beneath : it is twice bless'd ; » ^. It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest : it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown ; His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; But mercy is above this sceptred sway ; It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God's When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy i)lea, consider this, — That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation : we do ])ray for mercy ; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much To mitigate the justice of thy plea ; Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. Shylock. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law, The penalty and forfeit of my bond. jPortia. Is he not able to discharge the money ? ill THE ''MERCHANT OF VENICE:' 47 Bassanio. Ves, here I tender it for him in the court ; \ea, twice the sum : if that will not suffice, ^ ' ' 1 will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart : . • . If this will not suffice, it must appear That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you, Wrest once the law to your authority : To do a great right, do a little wrong ; And curb this cruel devil of his will. ■ ... Portia. It must not be ; there is no power in Venice Can alter a decree established : 'Twill be recorded for a precedent ; •" And many an error, by the same example, i Will rush into the state. It cannot be. Shy lock. A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel I O wise young judge, how do I honour thee ! Portia. I prey you, let me look upon the bond. Shylock. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is. Portia. Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee, Shylock. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven : [Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? JNo, not for Venice. y^ -. Portia. ^^ by, this bond is forfeit ; lAnd lawfully by this the Jew may claim |A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off ' Niearest the merchant's heart. — Be merciful ; [lake thrice thy money ; bid me tear the bond. Shylock. When it is paid according to the tenor. It doth appear you are a worthy judge ; ou know the law, your exposition lath been most sound : I charge you by the law, ^Vhcreof you are a well-deserving pillar, I'rocced to judgment. By my soul I swear There is no power in the tongue of man To alter me : I stay here on my bond. I 48 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Ill lilli II! Antonio. Most heartily I do beseech the court To give the judgment. Portia. Why, then, thus it is : You must i)rei)are your bosom for his knife ; — • Shy lock. O noble judge ! O excellent young man 1 Portia. — For the intent and purpose of the law Hath full relation to the penalty, Which here appeareth due uj^on the bond Shylock, 'Tis very true : O wise and ui)right judge ! How much more elder art thou than thy looks ! Portia. Therefore, lay bare your bosom. Shylock. Ay, his breast : So says the bond : — doth it not, noble judge ? — " Nearest his heart :" those are the very words. Portia. It is so. Are there balance here, to weigh The flesh ? Shylock. I have them ready. Portia. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge. To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. Shylock. Is it so nominated in the bond ? Portia. It is not so express'd ; but what of that ? ' '; 'Twere good you do so much for charity. Shylock. I cannot find it ; 'tis not in the bond. Portia. Come, merchant, have you anything to say ? Antonio. But little : I am arm'd, and well prepar'd. — Give me your hand, Bassanio : fare you well ! Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you ; For herein Fortune shows herself more kind Than is her custom : it is still her use To let the wretched man outlive his wealth. To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow An age of poverty ; from which ling'ring penance Of such a misery doth she cut me off. Commend me to your honorable wife : Tell her the i)rocess of Antonio's end \ ^ . . THE ''MERCHANT OF VENICE!' 49 Say how I lov'd you, speak me fair in death ; And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge "Whether IJassanio had not once a love. Repent not you that you shall lose your friend, And he repents not that he pays your debt ; For, if the Jew do cut but deep enough, 111 pay it instantly with all my heart. Bassanio. Antonio, I am married to a wife Which is as dear tc me as life itself; J kit life itself, my wife, and all the world, Are not with me esteern'd above thy life : I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all Here to this devil, to deliver you. Portia. Your wife would give you little thanks for that, If she were by, to hear you make the offer. Gratiano. I have a wife, whom, 1 protest, I love: I would she were in heaven, so she coufd V.ntreat some power to change this currish Jew./ Nerissa. 'Tis well you offer it behind her back ; I'hc wish would make else an unquiet house. Shylock. [Aside.] These be the Christian husbands ! I have a daughter ; • AVould any of the stock of Barrabas Had been her husband rather than a Christian ! — • ■ [ To Portia.] We trifle time ] 1 pray thee, pursue sentence. Portia. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine : The court awards it, and the law doth give it. Shylock. Most rightful judge ! Portia. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast : The law allows it, and the court awards it. Sliylock. Most learned judge ! A sentence ! — Come, prepare. Portia. Tarry a little ; there is something else. This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood ; The words expressly are " a pound of flesh " : Take then thy b«»nd^ take thou thy pound of flesh ; \\ t- thy D ^ so THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. M\ ! i But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods Are, by the iaws of Venice, confiscate Unto the state of Venice. Gratiano. O uj^right judge ! — Mark, Jew : — O learned judge ! Shy lock. Is that the law ? Portia. Thyself shalt see the act : For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest. Civationo. O learned iudge ! — Mark, Jew : — a learned judge ! Shylock. I take this ofTer, then : pay the bond thrice, And let the Christian go. Bassanio. Here is the money. Portia. Soft ! The Jew shall have all justice ) — soft ! no haste : — He shall have nothing but the penalty. Gratiano. O Jew ! an upright judge, a learned judge ! Portia. Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh. Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less nor more But just a i)Ound of flesh : if thou tak'st more • Or less than a just pound, — be it but so much , As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance, ;;•:_> Or the division of the twentieth part, , - ..» - ;>? Of one poor scruple j nay, if the scale do turn But in the estimation of a hair, — Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. Gratiano. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew ! Now, infidel, I have thee on the hij). Portia. AVhy doth the Jew pause ? Take thy forfeiture. SJiylock. (jive me my ])rincipal, and let me go. Bassanio. I have it ready for thee,; here it is. Portia. He hath refus'd it in the open court : He shall have merely justice, and his bond. Gratiano. A Daniel, still say 1 ; a second Daniel ! — 1 thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. THE ''MERCHANT OF VENICE." 51 Shy lock. Shall I not have barely my principal? Portia. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. Shy lock. AVhy, then the devil give him good of it ! I'll stay no longer question..^^,,r^„,^ ^ Portia. Tarry, Jew : The law hath yet another hold on you. It is enacted in the laws- of Venice, "s.^ If it be prov'd against an alien \v That by direct or indirect attempts ; He seek the life of any citizen, % The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive Shall ajize one half his goods ; the other half Comes to the privy coffer of the state ; And the offender's life lies in the mercy "^ Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st ; For it appears, by manifest proceeding, .'' That, indirectly, and directly too, ;. Thou hast contriv'd against the very life Of the defendant ; and thou hast incurr'd , The danger formerly by me rehears'd. Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke, a^^ • ' - Gratiano. Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself : And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state, ' Thou hast not left the value of a cord ; Therefore, thou must be hang'd at the state's charge. Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit, I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it : Yox half thy wealth, it is Antonio's ; The other half comes to the general state, \Vhich humbleness may drive unto a fine. Portia. Ay, for the state ; not for Antonio. Shy lock. Nay, take my life and all ; pardon not that : I Vou take my house when you do take the prop |3 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER, %\\ :'!!i|i V That doth sustain my house ; you take my life, When you do take the means whereby I hve. Portia. What mercy can you render him, Antonio ? Gratiano. A halter gratis ; nothing else, for (lod's sake. Antonio. So please my lord the duke, and all the court, To quit the fine for one half of his goods, I am content, so he will let me have The other half in use, to render it, Upon his death, unto the gentleman That lately stole his daughter : Two things provided more, — that, for this favor. He presently become a Christian ; The other, that he do record a gift. Here in the court, of all he dies i)ossess'd. Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter. Duke. He shall do this; or else I do recant The pardon that I late pronounced here. Portia. Art thou contented, Jew ? what dost thou say ? Shylock. I am content. Portia. Clerk, draw a deed of gift. Shylock. I pray you, give me leave to go from hence ; I am not well : send the deed aftei me. And I will sign it. , Duke. Get thee gone, but do it. Gratiano. In cnristening thou shalt have two godfathers ; Had I been judge, thou should'st have had ten more, To bring thee to the gallows, not the font. \Exit Shylock Duke. Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner. Portia. I humbly do desire your grace of pardon : I must away this night toward Padua, And it is meet I i)resently set forth. Duke. I am sorry that your leisure serves you not. Antonio, gratify this gentleman, For, in my mind, you, are much bound to him, [Exeunt omnes. OF BOLDNESS. S3 IV. OF BOLDNESS. Lord Bacon. — 1561-1626. From Essays. It is a trivial grammar-school text, but yet worthy a wise man's consideration : question was asked of Demos- thenes, what was the chief part of an orator ? He answered, action : what next ? action : what next again ? action. He said it that knew it best, and had by nature himself no advantage in that he commended. A strange thing, that that part of an orator which is but superficial, and rather the virtue of a player, should be placed so high above those other noble parts, of invention, elocution, and the rest ; nay, almost alone, as if it were all in all. Rut the reason is plain. There is in human nature gen- erally more of the fool than of the wise ; and therefore those faculties by which the foolish part of men's minds is taken, are most potent. Wonderful like is the case of boldness in civil business ; what first ? boldness : what second and third? boldness. And yet boldness is a child of ignorance and baseness, far inferior to other parts : but, nevertheless, it doth fascinate, and bind hand and foot those that are either sh.allow in judgment or weak in courage, which arc the greatest part ; yea, and prevaileth with wise men at weak times ; therefore we see it hath (lone wonders in popular states, but with senates and princes less ; and more, ever upon the first entrance of bold persons into action, than soon after ; for boldness is iui ill keeper of promise. Surely, as there are mounte- banks for the natural body, so are there mountebanks for the politic body — men that undertake great cures, and perhaps have been lucky in two or three experiments, but ii 54 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. m\ want the grounds of science, and therefore cannot hold out. Nay, you shall sec a bold fellow many times do Ma homet's miracle. Mahomet made the people believe that he would call a hill to him, and from the top of it offer up his prayers for the observers of his law. The people assembled : Mahomet called the hill to come to him again and again ; and when the hill stood still, he was never a whit abashed, but said, *' If the hill will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet will go to the hill." So these men, when they have promised great matters, and failed most shamefully, yet, if they have the perfection of boldness, they will but slight it over, and make a turn, and no more ado. Certainly, to men of great judgment, bold persons arc sport to behold ; nay, and to the vulgar also bold- ness hath somewhat of the ridiculous : for, if absurdit)' be the subject of laughter, doubt you not but great bold- ness is seldom without some absurdity ; especiall)- it is a sport to see when a bold fellow is out of countenance, for that puts his face into a most shrunken and wooden posture, as needs it must — for in bashfulness the spirits do a little go and come — but with bold men, upon like occasion, they stand at a stay ; like a stale at chess, where it is no mate, but 3'^t the game cannot stir : but this last were fitter for a satire than for a .serious observation. This is well to be weighed, that boldness is ever blind, for it seeth not dangers and inconveniences : therefore it is ill in counsel, good in execution ; so that the right use of bold persons is, that they never command in chief, but be .seconds, and under the direction of others ; for in counsel it is good to see dangers, and in execution not to see them, except they be very great. He that cannot see ivell. let Jtiw go softly. Bacon. TO DAFFODILS. 55 V. TO DAFFODILS. Robert Herkick.— 1594-1674. Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon ; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain'd his noon. Stay, stay. Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song ; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you ; We have as short a spring ; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or anything. We die As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain ; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again. \ Stone avails do not a prison make^ Nor iron bars a cay;c : Minds innocent and quiet take That for a herniifa^i^e : If I liave freedom in my love., And in my soul am free, Ani^els alone, that soar ahoiH\ Enjoy such liberty. Richard Lovelace.— 1618-1658. w 111 FiJ .^'ii ! S6 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. m ,' |i ! I 11 I VI. OF CONTENTEDNESS IN ALL ESTATES AND ACCIDENTS. Jeremy Tayior.— 1613-1667. From Holy Living. Virtues and discourses are, like friends, necessary I'n all fortunes ; but those are the best, which arc friends in our sadnesses, and support us in our sorrows and sad acci- dents : and in this sense, no man that is virtuous can be friendless ; nor hath any man reason to complain of the Divine Providence, or accuse the public disorder of things, or in his own infelicity, since God hath appointed one remedy for all the evils in the world, and that is a con- tented spirit : foi this alone makes a man pass through fire, and not be scorched ; through seas, and not be drowned ; through hunger and nakedness, and want nothing. Vox sinco all the evil in the world consists in the disagreeing between the object and the appetite, as when a man hath what be desires not, or desires what he hath not, or desires amiss , ho that composes his spirit to the present accident, hath \aiiety of instances for his virtue, but none to trouble him, because his desires en- large not beyond his present fortune " and a wise man is placed in the variety of chances, like the nave or centre of a wheel, in the midst of all the circumvolutions and changes of posture, without violence or change, save that it turns gently in compliance with its changed parts, and is indifferent which part is up, and wh'ch is down ; for there is some virtue or other to be exercised, whatever happens, either patience or thanksgiving, love or feai-, moderation or humility, charity or contentedness, and they are every one of them equally in order to his great • i OF CONTENTEDNESS IN ALL ESTATES. 57 : (. end and immortal felicity : and beauty is not made by white or red, by black eyes and a round face, by a straight body and a smooth skin ; but by a proportion to the fancy. No rules can make amiability ; our minds and apprehensions make that : and so is our felicity ; and we may be reconciled to poverty and a low fortune, if we suffer contentedness and the grace of God to make the proportions. For no man is poor that does not think him- self so : but if, in a full fortune, with impatience he desires more, he proclaims his wants and his beggarly condition. But because this grace of contentedness was the sum of all the old moral philosophy, and a great duty in Christian- ity, and of most universal use in the whole course of our lives, and the only instrument to ease the burdens of the world and the enmities of sad chances, it will not be amiss to press it by the proper arguments by which God hath bound it upon our spirits ; it being fastened by reason and religion, by duty and interest, by necessity and con- vcniency, by example, and by the proposition of excellent rewards, no less than peace and felicity. Contentedness in all estates is a duty of religion ; it is the great reasonableness of complying with the Divine Providence, which governs all the world, and hath so ordered us in the administration of his great family, lie were a strange fool that should be angry because dogs and sheep need no shoes, and yet himself is full of care to get some. God hath supplied those needs to them by natural provisions, and to thee by an artificial : for he hath given thee reason to learn a trade, or some means to make or buy them, so that it only differs in the manner of our provision : and which had you rather want, shoc^ or reason ? and my patron, that hath given me a farm .s freer to me than if he gives a loaf ready baked. But, I ! * :i I i I ! 'iin- SB THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. III m lii I however, all these gifts come from him, and therefore it is fit he should dispense them as he pleases ; and if we murmur here, we may, at the next melancholy, be troubled that God did not make us to be angels or stars. For if that which we are or have do not content us, we may be troubled for every thing in the world which is beside our being or our possessions. God is the master of the scenes ; we must not choose which part we shall act ; it concerns us only to be careful that we do it well, always saying, " If this please God, let it be as it is :" and we, who pray that God's will may be done in earth as it is in heaven, must remember that the angels do whatsoever is commanded them, and go wherever they are sent, and refuse no circumstances ; and if their employment be crossed by a higher decree, they sit down in peace, and rejoice in the event ; and when the angel of Judea could not prevail in behalf of the people committed to his charge, because the angel of Persia opposed it, he only told the story at the command of God, and was as content, and worshipped with as great an ecstasy in his proportion, as the prevailing spirit. Do thou .so likewise: keep the station where God hath placed you, and you .shall never long for things without, but sit .at home, feast- ing upon the Divine Providence and thy own reason, by which we are taught that it is necessar)- and rea.sonablc to .submit to God. '^-^ : : r For is not all the world God's family? Are not we his creatures? Are we not as clay in the hand of the potter? Do we not live upon his meat, and move b)' his strength, and do our work by his light? Are wc any thing but what wc are from him ? And .shall there be a mutiny among the flocks and herds, because their lord or their shepherd chooses their pastures, and .suffers OF CONTENTEDNESS IN ALL ESTATES. 59 them not to wander into deserts and unknown ways? If we choose, we do it so foolishly that we cannot like it long, and most commonly not at all : but God, who can do what he pleases, is wise to choose safely for us, affec- tionate to comply with our needs, and powerful to exe- cute all his wise decrees. Here, therefore, is the wisdom of the contented man, to )^t God choose for him ; for when we have given up our wills to him, and stand in that station of the battle where our great General hath placed us, our spirits must needs rest while our conditions have for their security the power, the wisdom, and the charity of God. Contentedness in all accidents brings great peace of spirit, and is the great and only instrument of temporal felicity. It removes the sting from the accident, and makes a man not to depend upon chance and the uncer- tain dispositions of men for his well-being, but only on God and his own spirit. We ourselves make our fortunes good or bad ; and when God lets loose a t)Tant upon us, or a sickness, or scorn, or a lessened fortune, if we fear to (lie, or know not to be patient, or are proud or covetous, then the calamity sits heavy on us. But if we know how to manage a noble principle, and fear not death so much as a dishonest action, and think impatience a worse evil than a fever, and pride to be the biggest disgrace, and poverty to be infinitely desirable before the torments o! covetousncss ; then we who now think vice to be so easy, and make it so familiar, and think the cure .so impos- sible, .shall quickly be of another mind, and reckon these accidents among.st things eligible. But no man can be happy that hath great hipcs and ^reaf fears of things without, and events depench'ng upon (^ther men, or upon the chances of fortune. The rewards 'I ' '.ri-, H 60 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. m m of virtue arc certain, and our provisions for our natural support arc certain ; or if we want meat till we die, then we die of that disease — and there are many worse than to die with an atrophy or consumption, or unapt and coarser nourishment. But he that suffers a transporting passion concerning things within the power of othersj is free from sorrow and amazement no longer than his enemy shall give him leave ; and it is ten to one but he shall be smitten then and there where it shall most trouble him ; for so the adder teaches us where to strike, by her curious and fearful defending of her head. The old Stoics, when you told them of a sad story, would still answer, " What is that to me P" Yes, for the tyrant hath sentenced you also to prison. Well, what is that ? He will put a chain upon my leg ; but he cannot bind my soul. No; but he will kill you. Then I will die. If presently, let me go, that I may presently be freer than himself: but if not till anon, or to-morrow, I will dine first, or sleep, or do what reason or nature calls for, as at other times. This, in Gentile philosophy, is the same with the discourse of St. Paul, " I have learned, in what- soever state I am, therewith to be content. I know both how to be abased, anOi I know how to abound : every where and in all things I am instructed, botii to be full and to be hungiy ; both to abound and suffer need." We are in the work! like men playing at tables ; the chance is not in our power, but to play it is ; and when it is fallen we must manage it as we can : and let nothing trouble us, but when we do a base action, or speak like a fool, or think wickedly, — these things God hath put into our powers ; but concerning tho.se things which are wholly in the choice of another, they cannot fall under our deliberation, and therefore neither are they fit for TO LUCAS TA, ON GOING TO THE WARS. 6i our passions. My fear may make me miserable, but it cannot prevent what another hath in his power and pur- pose ; and prosperities can only be enjoyed by them who fear not at all to lose them ; since the amazement ind passion concerning the future takes off all the pleasure of the present possession. Therefore, if thou hast lost thy land, do not also lose thy constancy ; and if thou must die a little sooner, yet do not die impatiently. For no chance is evil to him that is content : and to a man nothing is miserable unless it be unreasonable. No man can make another man to be his slave unless he hath ' first enslaved himself to life and death, to pleasure or pain, to hope or fear : command these passions, and you are freer than the Parthian kings. I \ VII. TO lUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS, Richard Lovelace. — 1618-1658. Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind. That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foeMn the field ; . ^ And with a stronger faith embrace . A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As you, too, shall adore, — I could not love thee, dear, so much, Lov'd I not honor more. 63 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. VIII. ANGLING. 'I Ilin IzAAK Walton. — 1593-1683. From The Complete Angler. Venator. — O my good master, this morning walk has been spent to my great pleasure and wonder ; but I pray, when shall I have your direction how to make artificial flies, like to those that the trout loves best, and also how to use them ? Piscator. — My honest scholar, it is now past five of the clock ; we will fish till nine, and then go to breakfast. Go you to yon sycamore-tree, and hide your bottle of drink under the hollow root of it ; for about that time, and in that place, we will make a brave breakfast with a piece of powdered beef, and a radish or two, that I have in my fish-bag : we shall, I warrant you, make a good, honest, wholesome, hungry breakfast, and I will then give you direction for the making and using of your flies ; and in the meantime, there is your rod and line, and my advice is, that you fish as you see me do, and let's try which can catch the first fish. Venator. — I thank you, master ; I will observe and practise your direction as far as I am able. Piscator. — Look you, scholar, you see I have hold of a good fish : I now see it is a trout. I pray put that net under him, and touch not my line, for if you do, then we break all. Well done, scholar ! I thank you. Now for another. Trust me, I have another bite : come, scholar, come, lay down your rod, and help me to land this as you did the other. So now we shall be sure to have a good dish for supper. ANGLING. 6| Venator. — I am glad of that ; but I have no fortune : sure, mast *r, yours is a better rod and better tackling. Piscator. — Nay, then, take mine ; and I will fish with yours. Look you, scholar, I have another. Come, do as you did before. And now I have a bite at another. Oh me ! he has broke all : there's half a line and a good hook lost. - Venator. — Ay, and a good trout too. Piscator. — Nay, the trout is not lost ; for pray take notice, no man can lose what he never had. Venator." ^d.^\.^r^ I can neither catch with the first nor Sv'^cond angle : I have no fortune. Piscator. -^X^ooV you, scholar, I have yet another. And now, having caught two brace of trouts, I will tell you a short tale as we walk towards our breakfast. A scholar, a preacher I should say, that was to preach to procure the approbation of a parish that he might be their lecturer, had got from his fellow-pupil the copy of a sermon that was first preached with great commenda- tion by him that composed it ; and though the borrower of it preached it, word for word, as it was at first, yet it was utterly disliked as it was preached by the second to his congregation ; which the sermon borrower complained of to the lender of it ; and thus was answered : " 1 lent you, indeed, my fiddle, but not my fiddle-stick ; for you are to know, that every one cannot make music with my words, which are fitted to my own mouth." And so, my scholar, you are to know, that as the ill pronunciation or ill accenting of words in a sermon spoils it, so the ill carriage of your line, or not fishing even to a foot in a right place, makes you lose your labor ; and you are to know, that though you have my fiddle, that is, my very rod and tacklings with which you see I catch fish, yet you rfT^ ■ ■ - — irr 64 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. have not my fiddle-stick, that is, you yet have not skill to know how to carry your hand and line, nor how to guide it to a right place ; and this must be taught you ; for you are to remember, I told you angling is an art, either by practice or a long observation, or both. But take this for a rule : when you fish for a trout with a worm, let your line have so much and not more lead than will fit the stream in which you fish ; that is to say, more in a great troublesome stream than in a smaller that is quieter ; as nenr as may be, so much as will sink the bait to the bottom, and keep it still in motion, and not more. But now let's say grace and fall to breakfast. What say you, scholar, to the providence of an old angler ? does not this meat taste well ? and was not this place well chosen to eat it ? for this sycamore-tree will shade us from the sun's heat. Venator. — All excellent good, and my stomach excel- lent good too. And now I remember and find that true which devout Lessius says : " That poor men, and those that fast often, have much more pleasure in eating than rich men and gluttons, that always feed before their stomachs are empty of their last meal, and call for more ; for by that means they rob themselves of that pleasure that hunger brings to poor men." And I do seriously approve of that saying of yours, " that you would rather be a civil, well-governed, well-grounded, temperate, poor angler, than a drunken lord." But I hope there is none such : however, I am certain of this, that I have been at many very costly dinners that have not afforded me half the content that this has done, for which I thank God and you. And now, good master, proceed to your promised dir rection for making and ordering ray artificial fly. ANGLING. not skill ' how to jht you ; 3 an art, th. But t with a lorc lead is to say, I smaller will sink tion, and t. What Icr ? docs lace well shade us ch excel- that true nd those ing than ore their "or more ; pleasure seriously Id rather ate, poor e is none e been at i me half God and mised di- es Piscator. — My honest scholar, I will do it ; for it is a debt due unto you by my promise. . . . . Look how it begins to rain ! — and by the clouds, if I mistake not, we shall presently have a smoking shower, and therefore sit close : this sycamore-tree will shelter us ; and I will tell you, as they shall come into my mind, more observations of fly-fishing for a trout. . . . And now, scholar, my direction for fly-fishing is ended with this shower, for it has done raining : and now look about you, and see how pleasantly that meadow looks ; nay, and the earth smells as sweetly too. Comq let me tell you what holy Mr. Herbert says of such days and flowers as these ; and then we will thank God that we enjoy them, and walk to the river and sit down quietly, and try to catch the other brace of trouts. Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky : The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, • Bids the rash gazer wijie his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave ; And thou must die. Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie ; Thy music shows ye have your closes ; And all must die. , . - Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives ; But, though the whole world turn to coal» Then chiefly lives. I iff 66 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. ' .! Venator. — I thank you, good master, for your good direction for fly-fishing, and for the sweet enjoyment of the pleasant day, which is so far spent without offence to God or man ; and I thank you for the sweet close of your discourse with Mr. Herbert's verses, who, I have heard, loved angling ; and I do the rather believe it, be- cause he had a spirit suitable to anglers, and to those primitive Christians that you love and have so much commended. Piscator. — Well, my loving scholar, and I am please(' to know that you are so well pleased with my direction and discourse, . . And now, I think it will be time to repair to our angle-rods, which we left in the water to fish for themselves : and you shall choose M'hich shall be yours ; and it is an even lay, one of them catches. And, let me tell you, this kind of fishing with a dead rod, and laying night-hooks, are like putting money to use ; fu, they both work for the owners, when they do I nothing but sleep, or eat, or rejoice ; as you know we have done this last hour, and sat as quietly, and as tree from cares under this .sycamore, as Virgil's Tityrus and his Meliboeus did, under their broad beech tree. No life, my honest scholar, no life so happy and so pleasant, as the life of a well-governed angler ; for when the lawyer is swallowed up with business, and the statesman is pre- venting or contriving plots, then we sit on cowslip banks,! hear the birds sing, and possess our.selves in as much quietness as these silent silver streams, which we now sec glide so quietly by us. Indeed, my good scholar, wc| may say of angling as Dr. Botelet said of strawberries, " Doubtless, God could have made a better berry, but I doubtless, God never did ; " and so, if I might be judge, " God never did make a more calm, quiet, innocent re- creation than angling," THE MORNING OF CHRIST S NATIVITY, 67 IX. ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY. (1629). John Milton.~i6o8-i674.. I. This is the month, and this the happy morn, Wheiein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born. Our great redemption from above did bring ; For so the hoiy sages once did sing. That he Qdx deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. II. That glorious form, that hght unsufferable, And that far-beaming blaze of majesty. Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, He laid aside ; and, here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. li II \ HI. Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein Afford a present to the Infant (lod? Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain. To welcome him to this his new abode, ' . Now while the heaven, by the Sun's team untrod, Hath took rio print of the approaching light, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright ? "^■•"=^^W¥^?*«v*- ; I ! i 1 , i! 1 i 1 i 68 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. IV. See how from far upon the eastern road The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet ! O run, prevent them with thy humble ode, And lay it lowly at his blessed feet ; Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet, And join thy voice Uuto the Angel Choir, From out his secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire. THE HYMN. I. It was the winter wild, While the Heaven-born child. All meanly wrapt, in the rude manger lies ; Nature, in awe to him. Had doff'd her gaudy trim. With her great Master so to sympathize : It was no season then for her To wanton with the Sun, her lusty paramour. 2. Only, with speeches fair. She woos the gentle Air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow, And on her naked shame. Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw ; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities •m: THE HYMN. 69 But ne, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-ey'd Peace : She, crown'd with oHve green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; And, waving wide her myrtle wand. She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. No war, or battle's sound. Was heard the world around : The idle spear and shield were high up hung ; The hookbd chariot stood, Unstain'd with hostile blood ; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng ; And ' ings sat still with awful eye. As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began : The winds, with wonder whist. Smoothly the waters kiss'd. Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean, ' Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. ^ , 6. . ^,, The stars, with deep amaze. Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence ; .1 iiii'l ' ijT- i 1 70 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence ; But in their glimmering orbs did glow. Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. 7. And, though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The Sun himself withheld his wonted speed ; And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flame The new-enlighten'd world no more should need ; He saw a greater Sun appear Than his bright throne or burning axletree couW bear. 8. The shepherds on the lawn, Or ere the point of dawn. Sat simply chatting in a rustic row ; Full little thought they then That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below : , Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep. Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. ' ■ 9- 'I'' When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, ■ As never was by mortal finger strook, Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringed noise. As all their souls in blissful rapture took : The Air, such pleasure loth to lose. With thousand echoes still prolongs eacu heavenly close. THE HYMN, r» lO. Nature, that heard such sound Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's seat, the Airy region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last fulfilling : She knew such harmony alone Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union. II. y At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light. That with long beams the shame-faced Night array'd ; The helmed cherubim. And sworded seraphim. Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd , Harping in loud and solemn choir, With unexpressive notes to Heaven's new-born Heir. 12. Such music (as 'tis said) Before was never made. But when of old the Sons of Morning sung, While the Creator great His constellations set, And the well-balanced world on hinges hung, .^ And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the welt'ring waves their oozy channel keep. 13- Ring out, ye crystal spheres ! Once bless our human ears, |If ye have power tp toych our senses sp,) Bill III V I I: 72 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. And let your silver chime Move in melodious time ; And let the bass of Heaven's deep organ blow j And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. 14. For, if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the Age of Gold ; And speckled Vanity Will sicken soon and die; And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould \ And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. 15- Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orb'd in a rainbow ; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between, Thron'd in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissu'd clouds down steering ; And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace-ha'l. 16. •-, ^^ ^•■-' But wisest Fate says, No, This must not yet be so ; The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss ; So both himself and us to glorify : Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep. The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep, THE HYMN. n .17. With such a horrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang, While the red fire and smould'ring clouds out brake : The aged Earth, aghast, With terror of that blast, Shall from the surface to the centre shake ; When, at the world's last session. The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne. 18. And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, But now begins ; for from this happy day The Old Dragon under ground, In straiter limits bound. Not half so far casts his usurped sway ; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. 19. The Oracles are dumb ; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine. With hollow shriek the steep of Delphqs leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspires the pale-ey'd priest from the prophetic cell. 20. The lonely mountains o'er, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament ; 3JI. , I:'-. I 74 TIfE HIGH SCHOOL READER. From haunted spring, and dale Edg'd with poplar pale, The parting Genius is with sighing sent ; With flower-inwoven tresses torn The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. 21. In consecrated earth, . And on the holy hearth, The Lars, and Lemures, moan with jnidnight plaint j In urns, and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint ; And the chill marble seems to sweat. While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat. 23. Peor, and Baalim, Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-batter'd God of Palestine ; And mooned Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both. Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine : The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn ; In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. And sullen Moloch, fled, Hath left in shadows dread, His burning idol all of blackest hue In vain with cymbals' ring ' ■.•-_.-:,,.r-..:,^^:';^-.. They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue ; The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus^ and the dog.Anubis, haste. THE HYMN. 75 : mourn. _ 24. Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green, Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings ioud ; Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest ; Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud ; In vain, with timbrell'd anthems dark. The sable-stolbd sorcerers bear his worshipp'd ark. 25- He feels from Juda's land The dreaded Infant's hand ; The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn ; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine : Our Babe, to show his Ciodhead true. Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew. 26. So, when the sun in bed, Curtain'd with cloudy red. Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale • Troop to the infernal jail, , ^ Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave ; And the yellow-skirted fays Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-lov'd maze, But see ! the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest. Time is our tedious song should here have ending ; "' irp J 76 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Heaven's youngest-teemed star, Hath fix'd her polish'd car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending ; And all about the courtly stable Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable. X. CHARACTER OF LORD FALKLAND. I ! r 11! Lord Clarendon. — 1608-1674. From History of the Rebellion. In this unhappy battle [of Newbury] was slain the Lord Viscount Falkland ; a person of such prodigious parts of learning and knowledge, of that inimitable sweetness and. delight in conversation, of so flowing and obliging a humanity and goodness to mankmd, and of that primitive simplicity and integrity of life, that if there were no other brand upon this odious and accursed civil war, than that single loss, it must be most infamous, and execrable to all posterity. Before this parliament, his condition of life was so happy that it was hardly capable of improvement. Before he came to be twenty years of age, he was master of a noble fortune, which descended to him by the gift of a grandfather, without passing through his father or mother, who were then both alive, and not well enough contented to find themselves passed by in the descent. His education for some years had been in Ireland, where his father was lord-deputy ; so that, when he returned into England, to the possession of his fortune, he was unentangled with any acquaintance or friends, which CHARACTER OF LORD FALKLAND, 77 5; slain the •odigious limitable ,ving and i, and of t if there rsed civil lous, and was so ovement. IS master le gift of 'ather or 1 enough descent, id, where returned :, he was ds, which usually grow up by the custom of conversation ; and therefore was to make a pure election of his company; which he chose by other rules than were prescribed to the young nobility of that time. And it cannot be denied, though he admitted some few to his friendship for the agreeableness of their natures, and their undoubted affection to him, that his familiarity and friendship, for the most part, was with men of the most eminent and sublime parts, and of untouched reputation in point of integrity ; and such men had a title to his bosom. He was a great cherisher of wit, and fancy, and good parts in any man ; and, if he found them clouded with poverty or want, a most liberal and bountiful patron towards them, even above his fortune ; of which, in those administrations^ he was such a dispenser, as, if he had been trusted with it to such uses, and if there had been the least of vice in his expense, he might have been thought too prodigal. He was constant and pertinacious in whatsoever he resolved to do, and not to be wearied by any pains that were necessary to that end. And, there- fore, having once resolved not to see London, which he loved above all places, till he had perfectly learned the Greek tongue, he went to his own house in the country, and pursued it with that indefatigable industry, that it will not be believed in how short a time he was master of it, and accurately read all the Greek historians. In this time, his house being within little more than ten miles of Oxford, he contracted familiarity and friend- ship with the most polite and accurate men of that university ; who found such an immenseness of wit, and such a solidity of judgment in him, so infinite a fancy, bound in by a^ most logical ratiocination, such a vast knowledge, that he was not ignorant in anything, yet 1 % %■■ 78 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. I ! 1 1 'ill! I lii! such an excessive humility, as if he had known nothing, that they frequently resorted and dwelt with him, as in a college situated in a purer air ; so that his house was a university in a less volume ; whither they came not so much for repose as study; and to* examine and refine those grosser propositions, which laziness and consent made current in vulgar conversation. K . . He was superior to all those passions and affections which attend vulgar minds, and was guilty of no other ambition than of knowledge, and to be reputed a lover of all good men ; and that made him too much a con- temner of those arts, which must be indulged in the trans- actions of human affairs. . . . - , ; He had a courage of the most clear and keen temper, and so far from fear, that he seemed not without some appetite of danger ; and therefore, upon any occasion of action, he always engaged his person in those troops which he thought, by the forwardness of the commanders, to be most like to be farthest engaged ; and in all such encounters, he had about him an extraordinary cheer- fulness, without at all affecting the execution that usually attended them ; in which he took no delight, but took pains to prevent it, where it was not by resistance made necessary : insomuch that at Edge-hill, when the enemy was routed, he was like to have incurred great peril, by interposing to save those who had thrown away their arms, and against whom, it may be, others were more fierce for their having thrown them away : so that a man might think he came into the field chiefly out of curiosity to see the face of danger, and charity to prevent the shedding of blood. Yet, in his natural inclination, he acknowledged he was addicted to the profession of a BQklipr ; ?ind shortly after he came to his fortune, before CHARACTER Oh LORD FALK .AND. m tiothinj^, , as in a sc was a : not so d refine consent ffections no other a lover h a con- tie trans- , temper, )Ut some :asion of 2 troops nmanders, all such y cheer- t usually Dut took ce made le enemy peril, by ^ay their 3re more he was of age, he went nto the Low Countries, with a resolution of procuring command, and to give himself up to it ; from which he wa.j diverted by the complete inac- tivity of that summer ; so he returned into England, and shortly after entered upon that vehement course of study we mentioned before, till the first alarm from the north ; then again he made ready for the field, and though he received some repulse in the command of a troop of horse, of which he had a promise, he went a volunteer with the carl of Essex. * >- ^ From the entrance into this unnatural war, his natural cheerfulness and vivacity grew clouded, and a kind of sadness and dejection of spirit stole upon him, which he had never been used to ; yet being one of those who believed that one battle would end all differences, and that there would be so great a victory on one side, that the other would be compelled to submit to any conditions from the victor — which supposition and conclusion generally sunk into the minds of most men, and pre- vented the looking after many advantages that might then have been laid hold of — he resisted those indispo- sitions. But after the king's return from Brentford, and the furious resolution of the two Houses not to admit any treaty for peace, those indispositions, which had before touched him, grew into a perfect habit of uncheer- fulness ; and he, who had been so exactly unreserved and affable to all men, that his face and countenance was always present, an^ vacant, to his company, and held any cloudiness, and less pleasantness of the visage, a kind of rudeness or incivility, became, on a sudden, less communicable ; and thence, very sad, pale, and exceed- ingly affected with the spleen. In his clothes and habit, which he had minded before always with more neatness, 'j: ri 8o THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. iliil and industry, and expense, than is usual to so great a soul, he was not now only incurious, but too negligent ; and in hir. reception of suitors, and the necessary or casual addresses to his place, so quick, and sharp, and severe, that there wanted not some men — strangers to his nature and disposition — who believed him proud and imperious ; from which no mortal man was ever more free. . . . When there was any overture or hope of peace, he would be more erect and vigorous, and exceedingly solicitous to press anything which he thought might promote it ; and sitting among his friends, often, after a deep silence, and frequent sighs, would, with a shrill and sad accent, ingeminate the word Peace, Peace; and would passionately profess, " that the very agony of the war, and the view of the calamities and desolation the kingdom did and must endure, took his sleep from him, and would shortly break his heart." This made som.e think, or pretend to think, " that he was so much enamoured of peace, that he would have been glad the king should have bought it at any price ;" which was a most 'unreasonable calumny. As if a man, that was h\mze\i the most punctual and precise in every circum- scance that might reflect upon conscience or honor, could have wished the king to have committed a trespass against either. ... In the morning before the battle, as always upon action, he was very cheerful, and put himself into the first rank of the Lord Byron's regiment, then advancing upon the enemy, who had lined the hedges on both sides with musketeers ; from whence he was shot with a musket in the lower pa:rt of the belly, and in the instant iailir.g from his horse, his body was not found VENI CREA TOR SPIRITUS. 8i till the next morning ; till when, there was some hope he might have been a prisoner ; though his nearest friends, who knew his temper, received small comfort from that imagination. Thus fell that incomparable young man, in the four-and-thirtieth year of his age, having so much despatched the true business of life, that the oldest rarely attain to that immense knowledge, ai'.d the youngest enter not into the world with more innocency : whosoever leads such a life, needs be the less anxious upon how short warning it is taken from him. XL VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS. John Dryuen. — 1631-1700. Creator Spirit, by whose aid The world's foundations first were laid, Come, visit every pious mind ; * Come, pour thy joys on humankind • From sin and sorrow set us free, And make thy temples worthy thee. O spurc^ of uncreated light, The Father's promis'd Paraclete ! Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire, Our hearts with heavenly love inspire ; Come, and thy sacred unction bring To sanctify us, while we sing. Plenteous of grace, descend from high, Rich in thy sevenfold energy ! Thou strength of hia Almighty hand. Whose power does heaven and earth command ; Proceeding Spirit, our defence, m n w 82 77//S N/G// SCHOOL READER. I 'li! Who dost the gift of tongues dispense, And crown'st tliy gift with eloquence. Refine and purge our earthy parts ; But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts ! Our frailties help, our vice control, Submit the senses to the soul ; And when rebellious they are grown. Then lay thy hand, and hold them down. Chase from our minds the infernal foe, And peace, the fruit of Love, bestow ; And lest our feet should step astray. Protect and guide us in the way. Make us eternal tniths receive. And practise all that we believe : Give us thy self, that we may see The Father and the Son by thee. Immortal honor, endless fame, Attend the Almighty Father's name : The Saviour Son be glorified. Who for lost man's redemption died : And equal adoration be, Eternal Paraclete, to thee ! XII. LINES PRINTED UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF MILTON Dkyden. Three poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and F.ngland did adorn. The first in loftiness of thf-n^^ht surj^ass'd, The next in n-iajcsty, in bo-th the last. 'I'he force of Nature could no farther go ; To make a third she join'd the former two. the righ virti tear spir: of a they ON THE LOVE OF COUNTRY. XIII. REASON. 83 Dryden. I From Religio Laici, *? Dim as the borrow'd beams of moon and stars To lonely, weary, wandering travellers. Is Reason to the soul ; and as on high . - Those rolling fires discover but the sky, Not light us here ; so Reason's glimmering ray Was lent, not to assure our doubtful way, But guide us upward to a better day And as those nightly tapers disappear, When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere ; So pale grows Reason at Religion's sight ; So dies, and so dissolves, in supernatural light. ■'^ .:% XIV. ON THE LOVE OF COUNTRY AS A PRINCIPLE OF ACTION. MILTON Richard Steele. — 1672-1729. From The Tatler, June 10, 1710. When men look into their own bosoms, and consic jr the generous seeds which are there planted, that might, if rightly cultivated, ennoble their lives, and make their virtue venerable to futurity ; how can they, without tears, reflect on the universal degeneracy from that public spirit, which ought to be the first and principal motive of all their actions? In the Grecian and Roman nations, they were wise enough to keep up this great incentive, "?i ■*■■ 84 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. |H ' 1 1 1 ' i llli and it was impossible to be in the fashion without being a patriot. All gallantry had its first source from hence ; and to want a warmth for the public welfare, was a defect so scandalous, that he who was guilty of it had no pretence lo honor or manhood. What makes the depravity among us, in this behalf, the more vexatious and irksome to reflect upon, is, that the contempt of life is carried as far amongst us, as it could be in those memorable people ; and we want only a proper appli- cation of the qualities which are frequent among us, to be as worthy as they. There is hardly a man to be found who will not fight upon any occasion, which he thinks may taint his own honor. Were this motive as strong in everything that regards the public, as it is in this our private case, no man would pass his life away without having distinguished himself by some gallant instance of his zeal towards it in the respective incidents of his life and profession. But it is so far otherwise, that there cannot at present be a more ridiculous animal, than one who seems to regard the good of others. He, in civil life, whose thoughts turn upon schemes which may be of general benefit, without further reflection, is called a projector ; and the man whose mind seems intent upon glorious achievements, a knight-errant The ridicule among us runs strong against laudable actions ; nay, in the ordinary course of things, and the common regards of life, negligence of the public is an epidemic vice. The brewer in his excise, the merchant in his customs, and, for aught we know, the soldier in his muster-rolls, think never the worse of themselves for being guilty of their respective frauds towards the public. This evil is come to such a fantastical height, that he i.^ a man of a public spirit, and heroically affected to hit ON THE LOVE OF COUNTRY. 85 being lence ; was a it had es the :atious of life I those appli- r us, to to be lich he >tive as it is in e away gallant icidents ise, that animal, s. He, s which ction, is I seems It The actions ; :ommon pidemic in his in his Ivcs for e public. hat he is d to his country, who can go so far as even to turn usurer with all he has in her funds. There is not a citizen in whose imagination such a one does not appear in the same light of glory, as Codrus, Scaevola, or any other great name in old Rome. Were it not for the heroes of so \w\xq\\ per ce7it. as have regard enough for themselves and their nation to trade with her with their wealth, the very notion of public love would long ere now have vanished from among us. But however general custom may hurry us away in the stream of a common error, there is no evil, no crime, so great as that of being cold in matters relating to the common good. This is in nothing more conspicuous than in a certain willingness to receive anything that tends to the diminution of such as have been conspicuous instruments in our service. Such inclinations proceed from, the most low and vile cor- ruption, of which the soul of man is capable. This effaces not only the practice, but the very approbation of honor and virtue ; and has had such an effect, that, to speak freely, the very sense of public good has no longer a part even in our conversations. Can then the most generous motive of life, the good of others, be so easily banished the breast of man ? Is it possible to draw all our passions inward? Shall the boiling heat of youth be sunk in pleasures, the ambition of manhood in selfish intrigues ? Shall all that is glorious, a!l that is worth the pursuit of great minds, be so easily rooted out? When the universal bent of a people seems diverted from the sense of their common good, and common glory, it looks like a fatality, and crisis of impending misfortune. The generous nations we just now mentioned under- stood this so very well, that there was hardly an oration II i 86 T//£ HIGH SCHOOL READER. m m w % Ji i ; J' ll 111 ill ' ever made, which did not turn upon this general sense, " That the love of their country was the first and most essential quality in an honest mind." Demosthenes, in a cause wherein his fame, reputation, and fortune, were embarked, puts his all upon this issue ; " Let the Athenians," says he, " be benevolent to me, as they think I have been zealous for them." This great and discern- ing orator knew, there was nothing else in nature could bear him up against his adversaries, but this one quality of having shown himself willing or able to serve his country. This certainly is the test of merit ; and the first foundation for deserving good- will is, having it yourself The adversary of this orator at that time was ^^schines, a man of wily arts and skill in the world, who could, as occasion served, fall in with a national start of passion, or sullenness of humor, which a whole nation is some- times taken with as well as a private man ; and by that means divert them from their common sense, into an aversion for receiving anything in its true light. But when Demosthenes had awakened his audience with that one hint of judging by the general tenor of his life towards them, his services bore down his opponent before him, who fled to the covert of his mean arts, until some more favorable opportunity should offer against the superior merit of Demosthenes. It were to be wished, that love of their country were the first principle of action in men of business, even for their own sakes ; for when the world begins to examine into their conduct, the generality, who have no .share in, or hopes of an)^ part in power or riches, but what is the effect of their own labor or prosperity, will judge of them by no other method, than that of how profitable their administration has been to the whole. They who arc iri ON THE LOVE OF COUNTRY. %f sense, d most ithenes, fortune, Let the y think disccrn- e could quality rve his the first ^ourself schines, ould, as passion, . s some- by that into an It. But ,'ith that his life It before til some inst the try were even for examine share in, lat is the of them ble their who arc out of the influence of men's fortune or favor, will let them stand or fall by this one only rule ; and men who can bear being tried by it, are always popular in their fall. Those, who cannot suffer such a scrutiny, are con- temptible in their advancement. But I am here running into shreds of maxims from reading Tacitus this morning, which has driven me from my recommendation of public spirit, which was the intended purpose of this lucubration. There is not a more glorious instance of it, than in the character of Regulus. This .same Regulus was takeri prisoner by the Carthaginians, and was sent by them to Rome, in order to demand some Punic noblemen, who were prisoners, in exchange for himself ; and was bound by an oath that he would return to Carthage, if he failed in his commission. He proposes this to the senate, who were in suspense upon it, which Regulus observing, without having the least notion of putting the care of his own life in competition with the public good, desired them to consider that he was old, and almost u.seless ; that tho.se demanded in exchange were men of daring tempers, and great merit in military affairs ; antl wondered they would make any doubt of permitting him to go back to the short tortures prepared for him at Carthage, where he should have the advantage of ending a long life both gloriously and usefully. This generous advice was consented to ; and he took his leave of his country and his weeping friends, to go to certain death, with that cheerful composure, as a man, after the fatigue of business in a court or a city, retires to the next village for the air. WJien the heart is right there is true patriotism. iJisiiop Hkkkeley.~i684-i753. f ■'%: 88 TflE HIGH SCHOOL READER. m.vi ; XV. THE GOLDEN SCALES. % Joseph Addison, — 1672-1719. -'^ ^ /V<7OT The Spectator, August 21, 1712. * I WAS lately entertaining myself with comparing Homer's balance, in which Jupiter is represented as weighing the fates of Hector and Achilles, with a pas- sage of Virgil, wherein that deity is introduced as weighing the fates of Turnus and yEneas. I then considered how the same way of thinking prevailed in the eastern parts of the world, as in those noble passages of Scripture, where we are told, that the great king of Babylon, the day before his death, had been weighed in the balance, and been found wanting. In other places of the holy writings the Almighty is described as weighing the mountains in scales, making the weight for the winds, knowing the balancings of the clouds ; and, in others, as weighing the actions of men, and laying their calamities together in a balance. Milton, as I have observed in a former paper, had an eye to several of these foregoing instances, in that beautiful description wherein he represents the archangel and the evil spirit as addressing themselves for the combat, but parted by the balance which appeared in the heavens, and weighed the consequences of such a battle. if !i 1 ^1! 1 1 ^ N 1 1 1 i. 1!' i 1 1 j 1 1! ! (.1 i "' ill 4 *■ \ ll 1 ; \\ The Eternal, to prevent such horrid fray, Hung forth in Heaven his golden scales, yet seen Betwixt Astrea and the Scorpion sign, Wherein all things created first he weigh'd, The pendulous round earth with balanced air In counterpoise ; now ponders all events, THE GOLDEN SCALES. 89 Battles and realms : in these he puts two weights, The sequel each of parting and of fight : . The latter quick up flew, and kick'd the beam ; Which (iabriel spying, thus bespake the fiend : " Satan, I know thy strength, and thou know'st mine • Neither our own, but given ; what folly then To boast what arms can do ! since thine no more Than Heaven permits j nor mine, though doubled now To trample thee as mire : for proof look up. And read thy lot in yon celestial sign, Where thou art weigh'd, and shewn how light, how weak. If thou resist." The fiend look'd up and knew His mounted scale aloft ; nor more : but fled Murm'ring, and with him fled the shades of night. These several amusing thoughts having taken posses- sion of my mind some time before I went to sleep, and mingling themselves with my ordinary ideas, raised in my imagination a very odd kind of vision. I was, methought, replaced in my study, and seated in my elbow-chair, where I had indulged the foregoing specu- lations, with my lamp burning by me, as usual. Whilst I was here meditating on several subjects of morality, and considering the nature of many virtues and vices, as materials for those discourses with which I daily entertain the public ; I saw, methought, a pair of golden scales hanging by a chain in the same metal over the table that stood before me ; when, on a sudden, there were great heaps of weights thrown down on each side of them. I found upon examining these weights, they showed the value of everything that is in esteem among men. I made an essay of them, by putting the weight of wisdom in one scale, and that of riches in another, upon which the latter, to show its comparative lightness, immediately " flew up and kicked the beam." Ht^ 9© THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. liii ji 'XrV: But, before I proceed, I must inform my reader, that these weights did not exert their natural gravity, till they were laid in the golden balance, insomuch that I could not guess which was light or heavy, whilst I held them in my hand. This I found by several instances, for upon my laying a weight in one of the scales, which was inscribed by the word Eternity ; though I threw in that of time, prosperity, affliction, wealth, poverty, interest, success, with many other weights, which in my hand seemed very ponderous, they were not able to stir the opposite balance, nor could they have prevailed, though assisted with the weight of the sun, the stars, and the earth. • - • Upon emptying the scales, I laid several titles and honors, with pomps, triumphs, and many weights of the like nature, in one of them, and seeing a little glittering weight lie by me, I threw it accidentally into the other scale, when, to my great surprise, it proved so exact a counterpoise, that it kept the balance in an equilibrium. This little glittering weight was inscribed upon the edges of it with the word Vanity. I found there were several other weights which were equally heavy, and exact counterpoises to one another ; a few of them I tried, as avarice and poverty, riches and content, with some others. There were likewise several weights that were of the same figure, and seemed to correspond with each other, but were entirely different when thrown into the scales, as religion and hypocrisy, pedantry and learning, wit and vivacity, superstition and devotion, gravity and wisdom, with many others. I observed one particular weight lettered on both sides, and upon applying myself to the reading of it, I found THE GOLDEN SCALES, 91 on one side written, " lit the dialect of me?t" and under- neath it, "CALAMITIES ; " on the other side was written, " lit the language of the gods,'' and underneath, " BLES- SINGS." I found the intrinsic value of this weight to be much greater than I imagined, for it overpowered health, wealth, good-fortune, and many other weights, which were much more ponderous in my hand than the other. There is a saying among the Scotch, that " an ounce of mother is worth a pound of clergy ; " I was sensible of the truth of this saying, when I saw the difference between the weight of natural parts and that of learning. The observation which I made upon the.se two weights opened to me a new field of di.scoveries, for notwith- standing the weight of natural parts was much heavier than that of learning, I observed tliat it weighed an hundred times heavier than it did before, when I put learning into the .same .scale with it. I made the same observation upon faith and morality ; for notwithstanding the latter outweighed the former separately, it received a thousand times more additional weight from its conjunc- tion with the former, than what it had by itself This odd phenomenon showed itself in other particulars, as in wit and judgment, philo.sophy and religion, ju.stice and humanity, zeal and charity, depth of .sen.se and per- spicuity of style, with innumerable other particulars, too long to be mentioned in this paper. As a dream seldom fails of dashing seriousness with impertinence, mirth with gravity, methought I made several other experiments of a more ludicrous nature, by one of which I found that an English octavo was very often heavier than a French folio ; and by another, that an old Greek or Latin author weighed down a whole library of modern.s. Seeing one of my Spectators lying ft IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) V // {•/ ,^" «*.

< f^/ i< C/j m.. 1.0 I.I 1.25 '' IIIM IIIIM ;• IIIM i^ ? 1^ 112.0 1.4 III 1.6 V] <^ -^ /i e c^l ^h y /^ Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 m £>, w- ■ \ ~ ^m 92 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. W: by me, I laid it into one of the scales, and flung a twopenny piece in the other. The readtr will not inquire into the event, if he remembers the first trial which I have recorded in this paper. I afterwards threw both the sexes into the balance ; but as it is not for my interest to disoblige either of them, I shall desire to be excused from telling the result of this experiment. Having an opportunity of this nature in my hands, I could not forbear throwing into one scale the principles of a Tory, and in the other those of a Whig ; but as I have all along declared this to be a neutral paper, I shall likewise desire to be silent under this head also, though !ipon examining one of the weights, I saw the word TEKEL engraven on it in capital letters. I made many other experiments, and though I have not room for them all in this day's speculation, I may perhaps reserve them for another. I shall only add, that upon my awaking I was sorry to find my golden scales vanished, but resolved for the future to learn this lesson from them, not to despise or value any things for their appearances, but to regulate my esteem and passions towards them according to their real and intrinsic value. lu,. It must be so— Plato, thou reasonest well ! — Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality ? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror. Of falling into nought ? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction ,? ^Tis the divinity that stirs within us ; ^Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter, And intimates eternity to man. From Ca^<».— Addison. MISJUDGED HOSPITALITY. 93 XVI. MISJUDGED HOSPITALITY. Jonathan Swift. — 1667-1745. From The Tatler, March 6, 1711. Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes Emollit mores. OviD. Those inferior duties of life which the French call les petites morales, or the smaller morals, are with us distinguished by the name of good manners or breeding. This I look upon, in the general notion of it, to be a sort of artificial good sense, adapted to the meanest capacities, and introduced to make mankind easy in their commerce with each other. Low and little under- standings, without some rules of this kind, would be perpetually wandering into a thousand indecencies and irregularities in behavior ; and in their ordinary conver- sation, fall into the same boisterous familiarities that one observeth amongst them when a debauch hath quite taken away the use of their reason. In other instances, it is odd to consider, that for want of common discretion, the very end of good breeding is wholly perverted ; and civility, intended to make us easy, is employed in laying chains and fetters upon us, in debarring us of our wishes, and in crossing our most reasonable desires and inclina- tions. This abuse reigneth chiefly in the country, as I found to my vexation, when I was last there, in a visit I made to a neighb'^r about two miles from my cousin. As soon as I entered the parlor, they put me into the great chair that stood close by a huge fire, and kept me there by force, until I was almost stifled. Then a boy came in great hurry to pull off my boots, which I in vain opposed, urging that I must return soon after ir:" W'. 94 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. ill I! I! j!i| dinner. In the meantime, the good lady whispered her eldest daughter, and slipped a key into her hand. The girl returned instantly with a beer-glass half full of aqua mirabilis and syrup of gillyflowers. I took as much as I had a mind for ; but madam avowed I should drink it off — for she was sure it would do me good, after coming out of the cold air — and I was forced to obey ; which absolutely took away my stomach. When dinner came in, I had a mind to sit at a distance from the fire ; but they told me it was as much as my life was worth, and set me with my back just against it. Although my appetite was quite gone, I resolved to force down as much as I could ; and desired the leg of a pullet. " In- deed, Mr. Bickerstaff," says the lady, "you must eat a wing, to oblige me^ ;" and so put a couple upon my plate. I was persecuted at this rate during the whole meal. As often as I called for small-beer, the master tipped the wink, and the servant brought me a brimmer of October. Some time after dinner, I ordered my cousin's man, who came with me, to get ready the horses ; but it was resolved I should not stir that night ; and when I seemed pretty much bent upon going, they ordered the stable door to be locked ; and the children hid my cloak and boots. The next question was, what I would have for supper. I said I never ate anything at night ; but was at last, in my own defence, obliged to name the first thing that came into my head. After three hours spent chiefly in apologies for my entertainment, insinuating to me, '' that this was the worst time of the year for provisions ; that they were at a great distance from any market ; that they were afraid I should be starved ; and that they knew they kept me to my loss," the lady went, and left me to her husband — for they took special care i Nould MISJUDGED HOSPITALITY. 95 sred her d. The of aqua much as drink it coming ; which ler came ire ; but )rth, and ugh my down as t. " In- ist eat a \y plate. sal. As ped the October. an, who resolved pretty door to I boots. supper. t last, in ng that tiiefly in '' that ; that ^\. ; that lat they and left ^ould e, ns never be alone. As soon as her back was turned, the little misses ran backward and forward every moment ; and constantly as they came in, or went out, made a courtesy directly at me, which, in good manners, I was forced to return with a bow, and, " Your humble servant, pretty miss." Exactly at eight the mother came up, and discovered by the redness of her face that supper was not far off. It was twice as large as the dinner, and my persecution doubled in proportion. I desired, at my usual hour, to go to my repose, and was conducted to my chamber by the gentleman, his lady, and the whole train of children. They importuned me to drink something before I went to bed ; and upon my refusing, at last left a bottle of stingo^ as they called it, for fear I should wake and be thirsty in the night. I was forced in the morning to rise and dress myself in the dark, because they would not suffer my kinsman's servant to disturb me at the hour I desired to be called. I was now resolved to break through all measures to get away ; and after sitting down to a monstrous breakfast of cold beef, mutton, neats' tongues, venison-pasty, and stale-beer, took leave of the family. But the gentleman would needs see me part of my way, and carry me a short-cut through his own grounds, which he told me would save half a mile's riding. This last piece of civility had like to have cost me dear, being once or twice in danger of my neck, by leaping over his ditches, and at last forced to alight in the dirt ; when my horse, having slipped his bridle, ran away, and took us up more than an hour to recover him again. It is evident that none of the absurdities I met with in this visit proceeded from an ill intention, but from a wrong judgment of com- plaisance, and a misapplication in the rules of it m 96 ii!! THE HIGH SCHOOL READER, XVII. FROM THE "ESSAY ON MAN."* Alexander Pope. — 1688-1744. Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate, All but the page prescrib'd, their present state ; From brutes what men, from men what spirits know . Or who could suffer being here below ? The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ? Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flowery food, - And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood. O blindness to the future ! kindly given, / That each may fill the circle mark'd by heaven ; Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall. Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, And now a bubble burst, and now a world. Hope humbly then ; with tremlling pinions soar ; Wait the great teacher Death ; and God adore. What future bliss he gives not thee to know. But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast : Man never is, but always to be, blest. The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home. Rests and expatiates in a life to come. Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutor'd mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind ; His soul proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way ; Yet simple nature to his hope has given. Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heaven ; *lf the Essay on Man were shivered into fragments, it would not lose its vnlue ; for it is precisely its details which constitute its moral as well as litej-ar>) beauties.— A. W. WAjiP, quoted by Mark PATTXspN. IV . lose its ; literary) FROM THE ''ESS A V ON MAN." Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, Some happier island in the watery waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. To be, contents his natural desire ; He asks no angel's wing, no Seraph's fire ; But thinks, admitted to that equal sky. His faithful dog shall bear him company. What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread, Or hand, to toil, aspir'd to be the head ? What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd To serve mere engines to the ruling mind ? Just as absurd for any part to claim To be another, in this general frame ; Just as absurd to mourn the tasks or pains The great directing Mind of All ordains. All are but parts of one stupendous whole. Whose body Nature is, and God the soul ; That changed through all, and yet in all the same, Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame. Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees ; Lives through all life, extends through all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, As the rapt seraph that adores and burns : To him no high, no low, great, no small ; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. All nature is but art unknown to thee ; All chance, direction, which thou canst not see ; All discord, harmony not understood : All partial evil, universal good : 9f B !i Pi !'l l'!!!i< m m ^ THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. And spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, One truth is clear, Whatever is^ is right. Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, As, to be hated, needs but to be seen ; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face. We first endure, then pity, then embrace. Virtuous and vicious every mari must be, Few in the extreme, but all in the degiee : The rogue and fool by fits is fair and wise ; And even the best by fits what they despise. Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law. Pleas' d with a rattle, tickled with a straw : Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, A little louder, but as empty quite : Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage. And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age : Pleas'd with this bauble still, as that before. Till tired he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er. Has God, thou fool ! work'd solely for thy good Thy joy, thy pastime, thy^ittire, thy food ? Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn, , For him as kindly spreads the flowery lawn. Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings ? Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat ? Loves of his own and raptures swell the note. The bounding steed you pompously bestride Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride. Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain ? The birds of heaven shall vindicate their grain. Thine the full harvest of the golden year ? Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer. I C FROM THE ''ESS A V OAT MAN" The hog, that ploughs not, nor obeys thy call, Lives on the labors of this lord of all. Know, Nature's children all divide her care ; The fur that warms a monarch warm'd a bear. While man exclaims, " See all things for my use !" " See man for mine !" replies a pamper'd goose : And just as short of reason he must fall, Who thinks all made for one, not one for all. For forms of government let fools contest ; Whate'er is best administer'd is best : For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight ; His can't be wrong whose life is in the right. In faith and hope the world will disagree. But all mankind's concern is charity : All must be false that thwart this one great end, And all of God that bless mankind or mend. Honor and shame from no condition' rise; Act well your part, there all the honor lies. Fortune in men has some small difference made. One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade ; The cobbler apron'd, and the parson gown'd, The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd. " What differ more (you cry) than crown and cowl ?" I'll tell you, friend, a wise man and a fool. You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk, Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk, Worth makes the man, and want of it, the fellow ; The rest is all but leather or prunello. 99 Go ! if your ancient but ignoble blood Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood, Go 1 and pretend your family is young, Nor own your fathers have been fools so long. too THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. tv» I' '(■■ ! if! What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards ? Alas ! not all the blood of all the Howards. Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave, Is but the more a fool, the more a knave. Who noble ends by noble means obtains, Or failing, smiles in exile or in, chains, Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed Like Socrates, — that man is great indeed. An honest man's the noblest work of God. Know then this truth (enough for man to know), "Virtue alone is happiness below." . . Never elated while one man's oppress'd ; Never dejected while another's bless'd . . * See the sole bliss heaven could on all bestow ! Which who but feels can taste, but thinks can know : Yet poor with fortune, and with learning blind. The bad must miss, the good untaught will find : Slave to no sect, who takes no private road. But looks through nature up to nature's God ; Pursues that chain which links the immense design, Joins heaven and earth, and mortal and divine : Sees that no being any bliss can know, But touches some above and some below ; Learns from this union of the rising whole, The first, last purpose of the human soul ; And knows where faith, law, morals, all began. All end, in love of God and love of man. * In these two lines, which, so far as I know, are the most complete, the most concise, and the most lofty expressions of moral temper existing in English words, Pope sums the law of noble life. RUSKIN, Lectures on Art, RULE, BRITANNIA, 101 XVIII. RULE, BRITANNIA. Jamks Thomson. — 1700-1748. When Britain first, at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land. And guardian angels sang this strain : Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ! Britons never will be slaves ! The nations not so blest as thee. Must, in their turns, to tyrants fall. Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free, The dread and envy of them all. Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ! Britons never will be slaves ! Still more majestic shalt thou rise. More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; As the loud blast that tears the skies. Serves but to root thy native oak. Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ! Britons never will be slaves ! Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame ; All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame, — But work their woe and thy renown. Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ! Britons never will be slaves I To thee belongs the rural reign ; Thy cities shall with commerce shine ; If,'' 'I M j I f 1 III f J. I ' 11 M ^.' '1 !•: ' ! 102 TJ/E HIGH SCHOOL READER. All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles thine. Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ! Britons never will be slaves ! The Muses, still with freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair ; Blest isle ! with matchless beauty crown'd, And manly hearts to guard the fair. Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ! Britons never will be slaves ! XIX. THE FIRST CRUSADE. \ s in I David Hume. — 1711-1776. From History of England. After Mahomet had, by means of his pretended revelations, united the dispersed Arabians under one head, they issued forth from their deserts in great multitudes ; and being animated with zeal for their new religion, and supported by the vigor of their new govern- ment, they made deep impression on the eastern empire, which was far in the decline, with regard both to military discipline and to civil policy. Jerusalem, by its situation, became one of their most early conquests ; and the Christians had the mortification to sec the holy sepul- chre, and the other places, consecrated by the presence of their religious founder, falle'n into the possession of infidels. But the Arabians or Saracens were so THE FIRST CRUSADE. 103 :ended er one great ir new fovern- mpire, lilitary uation, nd the sepul- esence session ere so employed in military eiiterprises, by which they spread their empire in a few years from the banks of the Ganges to the Straits of Gibraltar, that they had no leisure for theological controversy : and though the Alcoran, the original monument of their faith, seems to contain some violent precepts, they were much less infected with the spirit of bigotry and persecution than the indolent and speculative Greeks, who were com. lally refining on the several articles of their re- ligious system. They gave little disturbance to those zealous pilgrims, who daily flocked to Jerusalem ; and they allowed every man, after paying a moderate tribute, to visit the holy sepulchre, to perform his religious duties, and to return in peace. But the Turcomans or Turks, a tribe of Tartars, who had embraced Mahomet- arlism, having wrested Syria from the Saracens, and having, in the year 1065, made themselves masters of Jerusalem, rendered the pilgrimage much more difficult and dangerous to the Christians. The barbarity of their manners, and the confusions attending their unsettled government, exposed the pilgrims to many insults, robberies, and extortions : and these zealots, returning from their meritorious fatigues and sufferings, filled all Christendom with indignation against the infidels, who profaned the holy city by their presence, and derided the sacred mysteries in the very place of their com- pletion. Gregory VII., among the other vast ideas which he entertained, had formed the design of uniting all the Western Christians against the Mahometans ; but the egregious and violent invasions of that pontiff on the civil power of princes, had created him so many enemies, and had rendered his schemes so suspicious, th^t he was not able to make great progress in thi§ 104 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. r ■III!, P'H ..- rSllikHliii undertaking. The work was reserved for a meaner instrument, whose low condition in life exposed him to no jealousy, and whose folly was well calculated to coincide with the prevailing principles of the times. Peter, commonly called the Hermit, a native of Amiens in Picardy, had made the pilgrimage to Jeru- salem. Being deeply affected with the dangers to which that act of piety now exposed the pilgrims, as well as with the instances of oppression under which the Eastern Christians labored, he entertained the bold, and, in ail appearance, impracticable project of leading into Asia, from the farthest extremities of the West, armies suffi- cient to subdue those potent and warlike nations which now held the holy city in subjection. He proposed his vie /s to Martin H., who filled the papal chair, and who, though sensible of the advantages which the head of the Christian religion must reap from a religious war, and though he esteemed the blind zeal of Peter a proper means for effecting the purpose, resolved not to interpose his authority, till he saw a greater probability of success. He summoned a council at Placentia, which consisted of four thousand ecclesiastics, and thirty thousand seculars ; and which was so num'^rous that no hall could contain the multitude, and it was necessary to hold the assembly in a plain. The harangues of the Pope, and of Peter him- self, representing the dismal situation of their brethren in the East, and the indignity suffered by t-he Christian name, in allowing the holy city to remain in the hands of infidels, here found the minds of men so well prepared, that the whole multitude suddenly and violently declared for the war, and solemnly devoted themselves to perform this service, so meritorious, as they believed it, to God and religion. THE FIRST CRUSADE. 105 But though rtaly seemed thus to have zealously em- braced the enteiprise, Martin knew, that, in order to insure success, it was necessary to enlist the greater and more warlike nations in the same engagement ; and having previously exhorted Peter to visit the chief cities and sovereigns of Christendom, he summoned another council at Clermont in Auvergne. The fame of this great and pious design being now universally diffused, procured the attendance of the greatest prelates, nobles, and princes ; and when the Pope and the Hermit renewed their pathetic exhortations, the whole assembly, as if impelled by an immediate inspiration, not moved by their preceding impressions, exclaimed with one voice, // is the will of God^ It is the will of God I — words deemed so memorable, and so much the result of a divine influ- ence, that they were employed as the signal of rendezvous and battle in all the future exploits of those adventurers. Men of all ranks flew to arms with the utmost ardor ; and an exterior symbol, too, a circumstance of chief moment, was here chosen by the devoted combatants. The sign of the cross, which had been hitherto so much revered among Christians, and which, the more it was an object of reproach among the Pagan world, was the more passionately cherished by them, became the badge of union, and was affixed to their right shoulder, by all who enlisted themselves in this sacred warfare. Europe was at this time sunk into profound ignorance and superstition. The ecclesiastics had acquired the greatest ascendant over the human mind : the people, who, being little restrained by honor, and less by law, abandoned themselves to the worst crimes and disorders, knew of no other expiation than the observances imposed on them by their spiritual pastors : and it was easy to *< if I li io6 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. \\ iiiiiti I ■I ft t H' '4 represent the holy war as an equivalent for all penances, and an atonement for every violation of justice and humanity. But amidst the abject superstition which now prevailed, the military spirit also had universally diffused itself; and though not supported by art or discipline, was become the general passion of the nations governed by the feudal law. All the great lords pos- sessed the right of peace and war : they were engaged in perpetual hostilities with each other : the open country was become a scene of outrage and disorder : the cities, still mean and poor, were neither guarded by walls nor protected by privileges, and were exposed to every insult : individuals were obliged to depend for safety on their own force, or their private alliances : and valor was the only excellence which was held in esteem, or gave one man the pre-eminence above another. When all the particular superstitions, therefore, were here united in one great object, the ardor for military'- enterprises took the same direction ; and Europe, 'mpelled by its two ruling passions, was loosened, as it were, from its found- ations, and seemed to precipitate itself in one united body upon the East. All orders of men, deeming the Crusades the only road to heaven, enlisted themselves under these sacred banners, and were impatient to open the way with their sword to the holy city. Nobles, artisans, peasants, even priests, enrolled their names ; and to decline this meri- torious service was branded with the reproach of impiety, or, what perhaps was esteemed still more disgraceful, of cowardice and pusillanimity. The infirm and aged con- tributed to the expedition by presents and money ; and many of them, not satisfied with the merit of this atone- ment, attended it in person, and were determined, if .. THE FIRST CRUSADE. 107 possible, to breathe their last in sight of that city where their Saviour had died for them. Women themselves, concealing their sex under the disguise of armor, attended the camp. ^The greatest criminals were forward in a service, which they regarded as a propitiation for all crimes ; and the most enormous disorders were, during the course of those expeditions, committed by men enured to wickedness, encouraged by example, and impelled by necessity. The multitude of the adventurers soon became so great, that their more sagacious leadeis, Hugh count of Vermandois, brother to the French king, Raymond count of Toulouse, Godfrey of Bouillon, prince of Brabant, and Stephen count of Blois, bccp'^e apprehensive lest the greatness itself of the armament should disappoint its purpose ; and they permitted an undisciplined multitude, computed at 300,000 men, to go before them, under the command of Peter the Hermit and Walter the Moneyless. These men took the road towards Co'.istantinople through Hungary and Bulgaria ; and trusting that Heaven, by supernatural assistance, would supply all their necessities, they made no provision for subsistance on their march. They soon found them- selves obliged to obtain by plunder, what they had vainly expected from miracles ; and the enraged inhabi- tants of the countries through which they passed, gathering together in arms, attacked the disorderly multitude and put them to slaughter without resistance. The more disciplined armies followed after ; and passing the straights at Constantinople, they were mustered in the plains of Asia, and amounted in the whole to the number of 700,000 combatants. . . . After the adventure in the holy war were assembled on the banks of the Bosphorus, opposite to Constant!- w^ ^r 1 08 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. %\ ■■"?■■ i nople, they proceeded on their enterprise ; but immedi- ately experienced those difficlilties which their zeal had hitherto concealed from them, and for which, even if they had foreseen them, it would have been almost impossible to provide a remedy. The Greek emperor, A^lrxis Comnenus, who had applied to the Western Christians for succor against the Turks, entertained hopes, and those but feeble ones, of obtaiiiing such a moderate supply, as, acting under his command, might enable him to repulse the enemy : but he was extremely astonished to see his dominions overwhelmed, on a sudden, by such an inundation of licentious barbarians, who, though they pretended friendship, despised his subjects as unwarlike, and detested them as heretical. By all the arts of policy, in which he excelled, he endeavored to divert the torrent ; but while he employed professions, caresses, civilities, and seeming services towards the leaders of the crusade, he secretly regarded those imperious allies as more dangerous than the open enemies by whom his empire had been formerly invaded. Having effected that difficult point of disembarking them safely in Asia, he entered into a private corres- pondence with Soliman, emperor of the Turks ; and practised every insidious art, which his genius, his power, or his situation, enabled him to employ, for disappointing the enterprise, and discouraging the Latins from making thenceforward any such prodigious migrations. His dangerous policy was seconded by the disorders insepar- able from so vast a multitude, who were not united under one head, and were cenducted by leaders of the most independent intractable spirit, unacquainted with military discipline, and determined enemies to civil authority and ijubmission. /The scarcity of provisions, the excesses of THE FIRST CRUSADE. loq fatigue, the influence of unknown climates, joined to the want of concert in their operations, and to the sword of a warlike enemy, destroyed the adventurers by thousands, and would have abated the ardor of men impelled to war by less powerful motives. Their zeal, however, their bravery, and their irresistible force, still carried them forward, and continually advanced them to the great end of their enterprise. After an obstinate siege they took Nice, the seat of the Turkish empire ; they defeated SoHman in two great battles ; they made themselves masters of Antioch ; and entirely broke the force of the Turks, who had so long retained those countries in subjection. The soldan of Egypt, whose alliance they had hitherto courted, recovered, on the fall of the Turkish power, his former authority in Jerusalem ; and he in- formed them by his ambassadors, that if they came disarmed to that city, they might now perform their religious vows, and that all Christian pilgrims, who should thenceforth visit the holy sepulchre, might expect the same good treatment which they had ever received from his predecessors. The offer was rejected ; the soldan was required to yield up the city to the Christians ; and on his refusal, the champions of the cross advanced to the siege of Jerusalem, which they regarded as the consummation of their labors. By the detachments which they had made, and the disasters which they had undergone, they were diminished to the number of twenty thousand foot, and fifteen hundred horse ; but these were still formidable, from their valor, their ex- perience, and the obedience which, from past calamities, they had learned to pay to their leaders. After a siege of five weeks, they took Jerusalem by assault ; and, impelled by a mixture of military and religious rage, they put the I \\ !, ' XJO THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. "fciiiti ill II ! It|i^ :«i! numerous garrison and inhabitants to the sword without distinction. Neither arms defended the valiant, r.or submission the timorous : no age or sex was spared : infants on the breast were pierced by the same blow with their mothers, who implored for mercy : eve i a multitude to the number of ten thousand persons, who had surrendered themselves prisoners, and were promised quarter, were butchered in cold blood by those ferocious conquerors. The streets of Jerusalem were covered with dead bodies ; and the triumphant warriors, after every enemy was subdued and slaughtered, immediately turned themselves, with the sentiments of humiliation and contrition, to- wards the holy sepulchre. They threw aside their arms, still streaming with blood : they advanced with reclined bodies, and naked feet and heads, to that sacred monu- ment : they sang anthems to their Saviour, who had there purchased their salvation by his death and agony : and their devotion, enlivened by the presence of the place where he had suffered, so overcame their fury, that they dissolved in tears, and bore the appearance of every soft and tender sentiment. So inconsistent is human nature with itself! and so easily does the most effeminate superstition ally, both with the most heroic courage and with the fiercest barbarity ! This great event happened on the fifth of J 'ly in the last year of the eleventh century. The Christiixn princes and nobles, after choosing Godfrey of Bouillon king of Jerusalem, began to settle themselves in their new con- quests ; while some of them returned to Europe, in order to enjoy at home that glory, which their valor had acquired them in this popular and meritorious enterprise. <( THE BARD. Ill XX. THE BARD. A Pindaric Ode* Thomas Gray.— 1716-1771. I. I " Ruin seize thee, ruthless King ! Confusion on thy banners wait ; Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state. Hehn, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears !" Such were the sounds that o'e ■ the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'c . wild dismay. As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wounv! with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance : " To arms ! " cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance. I. 2. On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Rob'd in the sable garb of v. oe, With haggard eyes the Poet stood ; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air), And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. *This ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that Edward the First, when he completed the conquest of that country, ordered all the Bards that feU into his hands to be put to death. — Gray. 112 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. \i V' \ ^^^ s\ !l8i«|ili " TIark, how each giant-oak, anci 'esert cave, Sighs to the torrent's awtul voice beneath ! O'er thee, O King ! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee i^^i hoarser murmurs breathe ; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. I. 3- ./ " Cold is Cac .vallo's tongue, That hush'd the stormy main : Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale : Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail ; The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art. Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — No more I weep. They do not sleep. On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit ; they linger yet, Avengers of their native land : With me in dreadful harmony they join. And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. II, I. " Weave the warp, and weave the woof. The winding-sheet of Edward's race. Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. C( THE BARD. Mark the year, and mark the night, When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death, through Berkley's roof that ring, Shrieks of an agonizing king I She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The sccurge of heaven. What terrors round him wait ! Amazement in his van, with flight combin'd. And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind^V "3 II. 2. " Mighty victor, mighty lord ! Low on his funeral couch he lies ! No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled ? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm, that in thy noontide beam were born ? ( lone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes ; Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway. That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey. ii;. \\ II. 111 " Fill high the sparkling bowl. The rich repast prepare ; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. H ** W' •*' 114 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse ? Long years of havoc urge their destin'd course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head. Above, below, the rose of snow, Twin'd with her blushing foe, we spread : The bristled boar in infant-gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom. Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. S|i|! m\ m. I. " Edward, lo ! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove. The work is done.) Stay, U stay ! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn : In yon bright track, that fires the western skies. They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But oh ! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll ? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight ! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail ! HL 2. " Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; THE BARD. And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a form divine ! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line ; Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the, air, What strains of vocal transport round her play. Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, Waves in the eye of heaven her many-color'd wings. "5 ^ III. 3. " The verse adorn again Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. In buskin'd measures move Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice, as of the cherub-choir. Gales from blooming Eden bear ; And distant warblings lessen on my car, That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day ? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me : with joy I see The different doom our fates assign. Be thine despair, and s jptred care ; To triumph, and to die, are mine." He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plun^jcJ to endless night. ii6 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. XXI. ON AN ADDRESS TO THE THRONE CONCERNING AFFAIRS IN AMERICA. HOUSE OF LORDS— November i8th, 1777. Lord Chatham.— 1708-1778. I RISE, my Lords, to declare my sentiments on *j most solemn and serious subject. It has imposed a •A upon my mind, which, I fear, nothing can remove, buc which impels me to endeavor its alleviation, by a free and unreserved communication of my sentiments. In the first part of the address, I have the honor of heartily concurring with the noble Earl who moved it. No man feels sincerer joy than I do ; none can offer more genuine congratulations on every accession of strength to the Protestant succession. I therefore join in every congratulation on the birth of another princess, and the happy recovery of her Majesty. But I must stop here. My courtly complaisance will carry me no farther. I will not join in congratulation on misfortune and disgrace. I cannot concur in a blind and servile address, which approves and endeavors to sanctify the monstrous measures which have heaped dis- grace and misfortune upon us. This, my Lords, is a p'jrilous and tremendous moment ! It is not a time for adulation. The smoothness of flattery cannot now avail — cannot save us in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now necessary to instruct the Throne in the language of truth. We must dispel the illusion and the darkness which envelop it, and display, in its full danger and true colors, the ruin that is brought to our doors. This, my Lords, is our duty. It is the proper function of this noble assembly, sitting, as we do, upon our honors ON AN ADDRESS TO THE THRONE. 117 ill this House, the hereditary council of the Crown. W/io is the minister — ivhere is the minister, that has dared to suggest to the Throne the contrary, uncon- stitutional language this day delivered from it ? The accustomed language from the Throne has been appli- cation to Parliament for advice, and a reliance on its constitutional advice and assistance. As it is the right of Parliament to give, so it is the duty of the Crown to ask it. But on this day, and in this extreme momentous exigency, no reliance is reposed on our constitutional counsels ! no advice is asked from the sober and enlight- ened care of Parliament ! but the Crown, from itself and by itself, declares an unalterable determination to pursue measures — and what measures, my Lords ? The mea- sures that have produced the imminent perils that threaten us ; the measures that have brought ruin to our doors. Can the minister of the day now presume to '^xpcct a continuance of support in this ruinous infatuation ? Can Parliament be so dead to its dignity and its duty as to be thus deluded into the loss of the one and the violation of the other ? To give an unlimited credit and support for the steady perseverance in measures not proposed for our parliamentary advice, but dictated and forced upon us — in measures, I say, my Lords, which have reduced this late flourishing empire to juin and contempt ! " But y^esterday, and England might have stood against the world : now none so poor to do her reverence." I use the words of a poet ; but, though it be poetry, it is no fiction. It is a shameful truth, that not only the power and strength of this country are wasting away and ex- piring, but her well-earned glories, her true honor, and substantial dignity are sacrificed. si! m ii8 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. |J[¥ \ I France, my Lords, has insulted you ; she has encour- aged and sustained America ; and, whether America be wrong or right, the dignity of this country ought to spurn at the officious insult of French interference. The ministers and ambassadors of those who are called rebels and enemies are in Paris ; in Paris they transact the reciprocal interests of America and France. Can there be a more mortifying insult ? Can even our ministers sustain a more humiliating disgrace? Do they dare to resent it ? Do they presume even to hint a vindication of their honor, and the dignity of the State, by requiring the dismission of the plenipotentiaries of America? Such is the degradation to which they have reduced the glories of England ! The people whom they affect to call contemptible rebels, but whose growing powe. has at last obtained the name of enemies ; the people with whom they have engaged this country in war, and against whom they now command our implicit support in every measure of desperate hostility — this people, despised as rebels, or acknowledged as enemies, arc abetted against you, supplied with every military store, their interests consulted, and their ambassadors enter- tained, by your inveterate enemy ! and our ministers dare not interpose with dignity or effect. Is this the honor of a great kingdom ? Is this the indignant spirit of England, who " but yesterday " gave law to the house of Bourbon ? My Lords, the dignity of nations demands a decisive conduct in a situation like this. . . . My Lords, this ruinous and ignominious situation, where we can not act with success, nor suffer with honor, calls upon us to remonstrate in the strongest and loudest language of truth, to rescue the ear of majesty from the delusions which surround it. The desperate state of oui ON AN ADDRESS TO THE THRONE. 119 ls encour- nerica be ought to ICC. The led rebels nsact the "an there ministers y dare to indication requiring America? duced the affect to )owei has ople with war, and it support s people, mies, are :ary store, ors enter- isters dare :he honor spirit of I house of demands • situation, ith honor, id loudest from the ate of QUI arms abroad is in part known. No man thinks more highly of them than I do. I love and honor the English troops. I know their virtues and their valor. I know they can achieve anything except impossibilities ; and I know that the conquest of English America is an im- possibility. You cannot, I venture to say it, you cannot conquer America. Your armies in the last war effected everything that could be effected ; and what was it ? It cost a numerous army, under the command of a most able general [Lord Amherst], now a noble Lord in this House, a long and laborious campaign, to expel five thousand Frenchmen from French America.jc My Lords, you cannot conquer America. What is your present situation there ? We do not know the worst ; but we know that in three campaigns we have done nothing and suffered much. Besides the sufferings, perhaps total loss of the Northern force, the best appointed army that ever took the field, commanded by Sir William Howe, has retired from the American lines. He was obliged to relinquish his attempt, and with great d'Jay and danger to adopt a new and distant plan of operations. We shall soon know, and in any event have Teason to lament, what may have happened since. As to conquest, there- fore, my Lords, 1 repeat, it is impossible. You may swell every expense and every effort still more extrava- gantly ; pile and accumulate every assistance you can buy or borrow ; traffic and barter with every little pitiful German prince that sells and sends his subjects to the shambles of a foreign prince ; your efforts are forever vain and impotent — doubly so from this mercenary aid on which you rely ; for it irritates, to an incurable resentment, the minds of your enemies, to overrun them with the mercenary sons of rapine and plunder, devoting 120 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. liil '■tit them and their possessions to the rapacity of hirehng cruelty ! If I were an American, as I am an EngHsh- man, while a foreign troop was landed in my country, I never would lay down my arms — never — never — never. But, my Lords, who is the man, that, in addition to these disgraces and mischiefs of our army, has dared to authorize and associate to our arms the tomahawk and scalping-knife of the savage ? to call into civilized alliance the wild and inhuman savage of the woods ; to delegate to the merciless Indian the defence of disputed rights, and to wage the horrors of his barbarous war against our brethren ? My Lords, these enormities cry aloud for redress and punishment. Unless thoroughly done away, it will be a stain on the national character. It is a vio- lation of the Constitution. I believe it is against law. It is not the least of our national misfortunes that the strength and character of our army are thus impaired. Infected with the mercenary spirit of robbery and rapine, familiarized to the horrid scenes of savage cruelty, it can no longer boast of the noble and generous principles which dignify a soldier, no longer sympathize with the dignity of the royal banner, nor feel the pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war, " that make ambition virtue I " What makes ambition virtue ? — the sense of honor. But is the sense of honor consistent with a spirit of plunder, or the practice of murder ? Can it flow from mercenary motives, or can it prompt to cruel deeds ? The independent views of America have been stated and asserted as the foundation of this address. My Lords, no man wishes for the due dependence of America on this country more than I do. To preserve it, and not confirm that state of independence into which your measures hitherto have driven them, is the object which ON AN ADDRESS TO THE THRONE. 121 hireling English- •untry, I -never, iition to dared to iwk and I alliance delegate d rights, ainst our loud for ne away, is a vio- inst law. that the mpaired. d rapine, ;y, it can rinciples with the )mp, and imbition sense of 1 a spirit ow from ds? n stated ;ss. My America and not ch your ct which we ought to unite in attaining. The Americans, con- tending for their rights against arbitrary exactions, I love and admire. It is the struggle of free and virtuous patriots. But, contending for independency and total disconnection from England, as an Englishman, I cannot wish them success ; for in a due constitutional depen- dency, including the ancient supremacy of this country in regulating their commerce and navigation, consists the mutual happiness and prosperity both of England and America. She derived assistance and protection from us ; and we reaped from her the most important advantages. She was, indeed, the fountain of our wealth, the nerve of our strength, the nursery and basis of our naval power. It is our duty, therefore, my Lords, if we wish to save our country, most seriously to endeavor the recovery of these m^st beneficial subjects ; and in this perilous crisis, perhaps the present moment may be the only one in which we can hope for success. For in their negotiations with France, they have, or think they have, reason to complain ; though it be notorious that they have received from that power important supplies and assis- tance of various kinds, yet V is certain they expected it in a more decisive and immediate degree.^ America is in ill humor with France ; on some points they have not entirely answered her expectations. Let us wisely take advantage of every possible moment of reconciliation. Besides, the natural disposition of America herself still leans toward England ; to the old habits of connection and mutual interest that united both countries. This ivas the established sentiment of all the continent ; and still, my Lords, in the great and principal part, the sound part of America, this wise and affectionate disposition prevails. And there is a very considerable part of i •ri 122 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. M ESrr 11 i i 1 America yet sound — the middle and the southern pro- vinces. Some parts may be factious and blind to their true interests ; but if we express a wise and benevolent disposition to communicate with them those immutable rights - of nature and those constitutional liberties to which they are equally entitled with ourselves, by a conduct so just and humane we shall confirm the favor- able and conciliate the adverse. I say, my Lords, the rights and liberties to which they are equally entitled with ourselves, /;/// no more. 1 would participate to them every enjoyment and iVeedom which the colonizing subjects of a free state can possess, or wish to possess ; and I do not see why they should not enjoy every fun- damental right in their property, and every original substantial liberty, which Devonshire, or Surrey, or the county I live in, or any othqr county in England, can claim ; reserving always, as the sacred right of the mother country, the due constitutional dependency of the colonies. The inherent supremacy of the state in regulating and protecting the navigation and commerce of all her subjects, is necessary for the mutual benefit and preservation of every part, to constitute and presei've the prosperous arrangement of the whole empire. The sound parts of America, of which I have spoken, must be sensible of these great truths and of their real interests. America is not in that state of desperate and contemptible rebellion which this country has been deluded to believe. It is not a wild and lawless banditti, who, having nothing to lose, might hope to snatch some- thing from public convulsions. Many of their leaders and greal men have a great stake in this great contest. The gentleman who conducts their armies, I am told, has an estate of four or five thousand pounds a year ; and ON AN ADDRESS TO THE THRONE. 123 icrn pro- to their* :nevolent imutable erties to es, by a he favor- ords, the ' entitled e to them olonizing possess ; ivery fun- ' original ;y, or the land, can t of the idency of : state in :ommerce al benefit preserve ire. e spoken, their real erate and has been ; banditti, tch some- ir leaders Lt contest. I told, has ear ; and when 1 consider the.se things, I cannot but lament the inconsiderate violence of our penal acts, our declaration of treason and rebellion, with all the fatal effects of attainder and confiscation. As to the disposition of foreign powers which is as- serted [in the King's speech] to be pacific and friendly, let us judge, mv Lords, rather by their actions and the nature of things than by interested assertions. The uniform assistance supplied to America by France sug- gests a different conclusion. The most important inter- ests of France in aggrandizing and enriching herself with what she most wants, supplies of every naval store from America, must inspire her with different sentiments. The extraordinary preparations of the House of Bourbon, by land and by sea, from Dunkirk to the Straits, equally ready and willing to overwhelm these defenceless islands, should rouse us to a sense of their real disposition and our own danger. Not five thousand troops in England ! hardly three thousand in Ireland ! What can we oppose to the combined force of our enemies ? Scarcely twenty ships of the line so fully or sufficiently manned, that any admiral's reputation would permit him to take the command of The river of Lisbon in the possession of our enemies ! The seas swept by American privateers I Our Channel trade torn to pieces by them ! In this complicated cnsis of danger, weakness at home, and calamity abroad, terrified and insulted by the neighbor- ing powers, unable to act in America, or acting only to be destroyed, where is the man with the forehead to promise or hope fer success in such a situation, or from perseverance in the measures that have driven us to it ? Who has the forehead to do so ? Where is that man ? I should be glad to see his face. ^ |ri''J ii m M tSl4 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. You cannot conciliate America by your present mea- sures. You cannot subdue her by your present or by any measures. What, then, can you do ? You cannot conquer; you carnot gain ; but you can address; you can lull the fears ar d anxieties of the moment into an ignorance of the danger that should produce them. But, my Lords, the time demands the language of truth. We must not now apply the flattering unction of servile compliance or blind complaisance. In a just and neces- sary war, to maintain the rights or honor of m}^ country, I would strip the shirt from my back to support it. But in such a war as this, unjust in its principle, impracticable in its means, and ruinous in its consequences, I would not contribute a single effort nor a single shilling. I do not call for vengeance on the heads of those who have been guilty ; I only recommend to them to make their retreat. Let them walk off ; and let them make haste, or they may be assured that speedy and condign punish- ment will overtake them. My Lords, I have submitted to you, with the freedom and truth which I think my duty, my sentiments on your present awful situation. I have laid before you the ruin of your power, the disgrace of your reputation, the pollution of your discipline, the contamination of your morals, the complication of calamities, foreign and domestic, that overwhelm your sinking country. Your dearest interests, your own liberties, the Constitution itself totters to the foundation. All this disgraceful- danger, this multitude of misery, is the monstrous off- spring of this unnatural war. We have been deceived and deluded too long. Let us now stop short. This is the crisis — the only crisis of time £ id situation, to give us a possibility of escape from the fatal effects of our ON AN ADDRESS TO THE THRONE. 125 nt mea- t or by cannot ss ; you into an e them. 3f truth. f servile ,d neces- country, it. But acticable I would g. I do rho have ike their 3i . my wife perfectly mate cir- j finished, ^ery large How we iceivable ; liss. The ity, as wc gainst the ched and iny of the compared I removed; a bottle still more effectually he 'squire's honor too I began to| was con- friends to I se reports ut scandal Dnsultation nd at last ::unning to ir principal Thornhill's )y pretend-l and for her eldest daughter. If this was not found sufficient to induce him to a declaration, it was then resolved to terrify him with a rival. To this last step, however, I would by no means give my consent, till Olivia gave me the most solemn assurances that she would marry the person provided to rival him upon this occasion, if he did not prevent it, by taking her himself Such was the scheme laid, which, though I did not strenuously oppose, I did not entirely approve. The next time, therefore, that Mr. Thornhill came to see us, my girls took care to be out of the way, in order to give their mamma an opportunity of putting her scheme in execution ; but they only retired to the next room, whence they could overhear the whole conversa- tion : my wife artfully introduced it, by observing, that one of the Miss Flamboroughs was like to have a very good match of it in Mr. Spanker. To this the 'squire assenting, she proceeded to remark, that they who had warm fortunes were always sure of getting good husbands : " But heaven help," continued she, " the girls that have none. What signifies beauty, Mr. Thornhill ? or what signifies all the virtue, and all the qualifications in the world, in this age of self-interest ? It is not, what is she? but, what has she ? is all the cry." *' Madam," returned he, *' I highly approve the justice, as well as the novelty, of your remarks, and if I were a king, it should be otherwise. It should then, indeed, be fine times for the girls without fortunes : our two young ladies should be the first for whom I would provide." " Ah, sir," returned my wife, * you are pleased to be facetious : but I wish I were a queen, and then I know I where my eldest daughter should look for an husband. [But now that you have put it into my I'xad, seriously, fe' 132 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. !! :^ hi ■!' Mr. Thornhill, can't you recommend me a proper husband for her ? She is now nineteen years old, well grown and well educated, and, in my humble opinion, does not want for parts." " Madam," replied he, " if I were to choose, I would find out a person possessed of every accomplishment that can make an angel happy. One with prudence, fortune, taste, and sincerity ; such, madam, would be, in my opinion, the proper husband." *' Ay, sir," said she, " but do you know of any such person ?" — " No, Madam," returned he, " it is impossible to know any person that deserves to be her husband : she's too great a treasure for one man's possession : she's a goddess. Upon my soul, I speak what I think, .she's an angel." — " Ah, Mr Thornhill, you only flatter my poor girl : but we have been thinking of marrying her to one of your tenants, whose mother is lately dead, and who wants a manager ; you know whom i mean, farmer Williams ; a warm man. Mr. Thornhill, able to give her good bread ; and who has several times made her proposals : " (which was actuall)' the case) "but, sir," concluded .she, " I should be glad to| have your approbation of our choice." — " How, Madam," replied he, " my approbation 1 My approbation of such | a choice ! Never. What ! Sacrifice so much beauty and sen.se, and goodness, to a creature insensible of thcl blessing ! Excuse me, I can never approve of such a piece of injustice 1 And I have my reasons !" — " Indeed,! sir," cried Deborah, "If you have your reasons, that's! another affair ; but I should be glad to know those! reasons." — " Excuse me, madam," returned he, " they licj too deep for discovery ; " (laying his hand upon his! bosom) "they remain buried, rivetted here." After he was gone, upon general consultation, wc| MEETING OE JOHNSON WITH WILKES. 133 could not tell what to make of these fine sentiments. Olivia considered them as instances of the most exalted passion ; but I was not quite so sanguine : yet, whatever they might portend, it was resolved to prosecute the scheme of farmer Williams, who, from my daughter's first appearance in the country, had paid her his addresses. -.i)?^ 1 ' . . XXIII. MEETING OF JOHNSON WITH WILKES. (1776). » James BoswELL. — 1740-1795. - - , From Life of Samuel Johnson, ll.d. I AM now to record a very curious incident in Dr. Johnson's life, which fell under my own observation ; of which pars magna fui, and which I am persuaded will, with the liberal-minded, be much to his credit. My desire of being acquainted with :clebratcd men of every description had made me, much about the same time, obtain an introduction to Dr. Samuel Johnson and to John Wilkes, Esq. Two men more different could not perhaps be selected out of all mankind. They had even attacked one another with some asperity in their writings ; yet I lived in habits of friendship with both. I could fullv rettsh the excellence of each ; for I have over delighted in that intellectual chemistry, which can separate good qualities from evil in the same person. Sir John Pringle, " mine own friend and my father's friend," between whom and Dr. Johnson I in vain wished to establish an acquaintance, as I respected and lived in / 'l|l, had in- rentlemen it us have )t for the d even to his lolds's with a kes's brother, 1 Wilkes was lim with, " I [ig than what ooin over the lan of a very :tle suspected, as very sorry ilied, that he fas very reluc- it because his civiUty to Mr. LLECTIONS. MEETING OF JOHNSON WITH WILKES. 135 world," said Mr. Edward Dilly : " Dr. Johnson would never forgive me." " Come," said I, " if you'll let me negotiate for you, I will be answerable that all shall go well." Dilly. " Nay, if you will take it upon you, I am sure I shall be very happy to see them both here." Notwithstanding the high veneration which I enter- tained for Dr. Johnson, I was sensible that he was some- times a little actuated by the spirit of contradiction, and by means of that I hoped I should gain my point. I was persuaded that if I had come upon him with a direct proposal, " Sir, will you dine in company with Jack Wilkes ? " he would have flown into a passion, and would probably have answered, " Dine with Jack Wilkes, Sir ! I'd as soon dine with Jack Ketch." I, therefore, while we were sitting quietly by ourselves at his house in an evening, took occasion to open my plan thus : "Mr. Dilly, Sir, sends his respectful compliments to you,'and would be happy if you would do him the honor to dine with him on Wednesday next along with me, as I must soon go to Scotland." Johnson. " Sir, I am obliged to Mr, Dilly. I will wait upon him." Boswell. " Provided, Sir, I suppose, that the company which he is to have is agreeable to you ? " Johnsoft. " What do you mean, Sir ? What do you take mc for ? Do you think I am so ignorant of the world as to imagine that I am to prescribe to a gentleman what company he is to have at his table ? " Boswell. " I beg your pardon, Sir, for wishing to prevent you from meeting people whom you might not like. Perhaps he may have some of what he calls his patriotic friends with him." Johnson. *' Well, Sir, and what then ? What care I for his patriotic friends ? Poh ! " Boswell. *' I should not be surprised to find Jack Wilkes there." Johnson, " And if Jack 0' 136 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Ife t I) li'l Wilkes should be there, ^vhat is that to me^ Sir? My dear friend, let us have no more of this. I am sorry to be angry with you ; but really it is treating me strangely to talk to me as if I could not meet any company what- ever, occasionally." Bosivell. " Pray forgive me, Sir, I meant well. But you shall meet whoever comes, for me." Thus I secured him, and told Dilly that he would find him very well pleased to be one of his guests on the day appointed. Upon the much expected Wednesday, I called on him about half an hour before dinner, as I often did when we were to dine out together, to see that he was ready in time, and to accompany him. I found him buffeting his books, as upon a former occasion, covered with dust, and making no preparation for going abroad. *' How is this, Sir ? " said I. " Don't you recollect that you are to dine at ^r. Dilly 's ? " Johnson. " Sir, I did not think of going to Dilly's ; it went out of my head. I have or- dered dinner at home with Mrs. Williams." Bosivell. " But, my dear Sir, you know you were engaged to Mr. Dilly, and I told him so. He will expect you, and will be much disappointed if you don't come." Johnson. '* You must talk to Mrs Williams about this." lieie was a sad dilemma. I feared that what I was so confident I had .secured would yet be frustrated. He had accustomed himself to show Mrs. Williams such a degree of humane attention, as frequently imposed some restraint upon him ; and I knew that if she should be obstinate, he would not stir. I hastened down stairs to the blind lady's room, and told her I was in great un- easiness, for Dr. Johnson had engaged to me to dine this day at Mr. Dilly's, but that he had told me he had for- gotten his engagement, and had ordered dinner at home. MEETING OF JOHNSON WITH WILKES. \yj ir? My sorry to strangely ny what- le, Sir, I imes, for he would its on the d on him when we ready in feting his dust, and )w is this, re to dine think of have or- Boszvell. ed to Mr. and will Johnson. • lat I was ted. He is such a )sed some hould be stairs to great un- dine this had for- • at home. ^ •' Yes, Sir," said she, pretty peevishly, " Dr. Johnson is to dine at home." " Madam," said I, " his respect for you is such, that I know he will not leave you, unless you absolutely desire it. But as you have so much of his company, I hope you will be good enoufh to forego it for a day, as Mr. Dilly is a very worthy man, has fre- quently had agreeable parties at his house for Dr. Johnson, and will be vexed if the Doctor neglects him to-day. And then, I/ladam, be pleased to consider my situation ; I carried the message, and I assured Mr. Dilly that Dr. Johnson was to come ; and no doubt he has made a dinner, and invited a company, and boasted of the honor he expected to have. I shall be quite dis- graced if the Doctor is not there." She gradually softened to my solicitations, which were certainly as ear- nest as most entreaties to ladies upon any occasion, and was graciously pleased to empower me to tell Dr. John- son, " That all things considered, she thought he should certainly go." I flew back to him, still in dust, and careless of what should be the event, " indifferent in his choice to go or stay " ; but as soon as I had announced to him Mrs. Williams's consent, he roared, " Frank, a clean shirt," and was very soon dressed. When I had him fairly seated in a hackney-coach with me, I exulted as much as a fortune-hunter who has got an heiress into a post-chaise with him to set out for Gretna Green. When we entered Mr. Dilly 's drawing room, he found himself in the midst of a company he did not know. I kept myself snug and silent, watching how he would con- duct himself I observed him whispering to Mr. Dilly, "Who is that gentleman. Sir?"— "Mr. Arthur Lee." Johnson. " Too, too, too " (under his breath), which was one of his habitual mutterings. Mr. Arthur Lee could 'M SBi 138 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. ;u j I :i i N 1: ii not but be very obnoxious to Johnson, for he was not only a patriot^ but an American. He was afterwards minister from the United States at the court of Madrid. " And who is the gentleman in lace ? " — " Mr. Wilkes, Sir." This information confounded him still more ; he had some difficulty to restrain himself, and, taking up a book, sat down upon a window-seat and read, or at least kept his eye upon it intently for some time, till he com- posed himself. His feelings, I dare say, were awkward enough. But he had no doubt recollected his having rated me for supposing that he could be at all discon- certed by any company, and he, therefore, resolutely set himself to behave quite as an easy man of the world, who could adapt himself at once to the disposition and manners of those whom he might chance to meet. The cheering sound of " Dinner is upon the table," dissolved his reverie, and we all sat down without any symptoms of ill humor. . . Mr. Wilkes placed himself next to Dr. Johnson, and behaved to him with so much attention and politeness, that he gained upon him in- sensibly. No man ate more heartily than Johnson, or loved better what was nice and delicate. Mr. Wilkes was very assiduous in helping him to some fine veal. " Pray give me leave, Sir — It is better here — A little of the brown — Some fat, Sir — A little of the stuffing — Some gravy — Let me have the pleasure of giving you some butter — Allow me to recommend a squeeze of this orange ; or the lemon, perhaps may have more zest." — " Sir ; sir, I am obliged to you. Sir," cried Johnson, bowing, and turning his head to hir vvith a look for some time of *' surly virtue," but, in a short while of complacency. Foote being mentioned, Johnson said, " He is not a MEETING OF JOHNSON WITH WILKES. 139 was not terwards Madrid. Wilkes, lore ; he ing up a r at least he com- awkward s having I discon- utely set le world, tion and et. .e table," lout any i himself so much him in- nson, or Wilkes ine veal. little of uffing — ing you e of this zest."— Johnson, look for while of is not a good mimic." One of the company added, " A merry- andrew, a buffoon." Johnson. " But he has wit too, and is not deficient in ideas, or in fertility and variety of imagery, and not empty of reading ; he has know- ledge enough to fill up his part. One species of wit he has in an eminent degree, that of escape. J^ You drive him h.io a corner with both hands ; but he is gone, Sir, when you think you have got him — like an animal that jumps over your head. Then he has a great range for wit ; he never lets truth stand between him and the jest, and he is sometimes mighty coarse. Garrick is under many restraints from which Foote is free." Wilkes. " Garrick's wit is more like Lord Chesterfield's." Johnson. " The first time I was in company with Foote was at Fitzherbert's. Having no good opinion of the fellow, I was resolved not to be pleased ; and it is very difficult to please a man against his will. I went on eating my dinner pretty sullenly, affecting not to mind him. But the dog was so very comical, that I was obliged to lay down my knife and fork, throw myself back in my chair, and fairly laugh it out. No, Sir, he was irresistible. )(He upon one occasion experienced, in an extraordinary degree, tlie efficacy of his powers of entertaining. Amongst the many and various modes which he tried of i^etting money, he became a partner with a small-beer brewer, and he was to have a share of the profits for procuring customers amongst his numerous acquaint- ance. Fitzherbert was one who 'took his small-beer, but it was so bad that the servants resolved not to drink it They were at some loss how to notify their resolution, being afraid of offending their master, who, they knew, liked Foote much as a companion. At last they fixed upon a little black boy, who was rather a favorite, to be 140 E HIGH SCHOOL READER. \\\\\ llii! ! I '^ their d. ^ , and deliver their remonstrance ; and, having invested him with the sole authority of the kitchen, he was to inform Mr. Fitzherbert, in all their names, upon a certain day, that they would drink Foote's small-beer no longer. On that day Foote happened to dine at Fitz- herbert's, and this boy served at table ; he was so delighted with Foote's stories, and merriment, and grimace, that when he went down stairs, he told them, * This is the finest man I have ever seen. I will not de- liver your message. I will drink his small-been' " . . Mr. Wilkes remarked, that " among all the bold flights of Shakespeare's imagination, the boldest was making Birnam-wood march to Dunsinane ; creating a wood where there never was a shrub ; a wood in Scot- land ! ha ! ha ! ha ! " And he also observed, that " the clannish slavery of the Highlands of Scotland was the single exception to Milton's remark of * the mountain nymph, sweet Liberty,' being worshipped in all hilly countries." " When I was at Inverary," said he, " on a visit to my old friend Archibald, Duke of Argyle, his dependents congratulated me on being such a favorite of his Grace. I said, ' It is, then, gentlemen, truly lucky for me ; for if I had displeased the Duke, and he had wished it, there is not a Campbell among you but would have been ready to bring John Wilkes's head to him in u charger. It would have been only ' Off with his head ! so much for Aylesbury] I was then member for Aylesbur>'." . . Mr. Arthur Lee mentioned some Scotch who had taken possession of a barren part of America, and wondered why they should choose it. Johnson. " Why, Sir, all barrenness is comparative. The Scotch would not ii i, having chen, he 5, upon a 1-beer no at Fitz- was so snt, and Id them, 11 not de- the bold iest was reating a in Scot- hat •' the was the nountain all hilly e, "on a gyle, his Lvorite of ily lucky he had ut would J him in who had ica, and " Why, ould not MEETING OF JOHNSON WITH WILKES. 141 know it to be barren." BosivelL " Come, come, he is flatteiing- the English. You have now been in Scotland, Sir, and say if you did not see meat and drink enough there." Jofmson. " Why, yes. Sir ; meat and drink enough to give the inhabitants sufficient strength to run away from home." All t'lese quick and lively sallies were said sportively, quite in jest, and with a smile, which showed that he meant only wit. Upon this topic he and Mr. Wilkes could perfectly assimilate ; here was a bond of union between them, and I was conscious that as both of them had visited Caledonia, both were fully satisfied of the strange narrow ignorance of those who imagine that it is a land of famine. But they amused themselves with persevering in the old jokes. When I claimed a superiority for Scotland over England in one respect, that no man can be arrested there for a debt merely because another swears it against him ; but there must first be the judgment of a court of law ascertaining its justice; and that a seizure of the person, before judgment is obtained, can take place only if his creditor should swear that he is about to fly from the country, or, as it is technically expressed, is in meditatione fiigce ; — Wilkes. " That, I should think, may be safely sworn of all the Scotch nation." Johnson (to Mr. Wilkes). " You must know, Sir, I lately took my friend Boswell, and showed him genuine civilized life in an English provin- cial town. I turned him loose at Lichfield, my native city, that he might see for once real civility ; for you know he lives among savages in Scotland and among rakes in London." Wilkes. " Except when he is with grave, sober, decent people, like you and me." Johnson (smiling). " And we ashamed of him." , . This record, though by no means so perfect as I 142 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. could wish, will serve to give a notion of a very curious interview, which was not only pleasing at the time, but had the agreeable and benignant effect of reconciling any animosity, and sweetening any acidity, which, in the various bustle of political contest, had been produced in the minds of two men, who, though widely different, had so many things in common — classical learning, modern literature, wit and humor, and ready repartee — that it would have been much to be regretted if they had been forever at a distance from each other. Mr. Burke gave me much credit for this successful negotiation ; and pleasantly said, " that there was nothing equal to it in the whole history of the corps diplomatique'^ I attended Dr. Johnson home, and had the satisfaction to hear him tell Mrs. Williams how much he had been pleased with Mr. Wilkes's company, and what an agree- able day he had passed. XXIV. THE POLICY OF THE EMPIRE IN THE FIRST CENTURY. Edward Gibbon. — 1737-1794. From The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. In the second century of the Christian era, the empire of Rome comprehended the fairest part of the earth, and the most civilized portion of mankind. The frontiers of that extensive monarchy were guarded by ancient re- nown and disciplined valor. The gentle but powerful influence of laws and manners had gradually cemented the union of the provinces. Their peaceful inhabitants THE POLICY OF THE EMPIRE. U3 y curious time, but conciling :h, in the )duced in irent, had , modern :— that it had been juccessful s nothing mtatique!* tisfaction had been an agree- E FIRST RE. e empire arth, and Dntiers of cient re- powerful :emented labitants enjoyed and abused the advantages of wealth and luxury. The image of a free constitution was preserved with decent reverence : the Roman senate appeared to possess the sovereign authority, and devolved on the emperors all the executive powers of government. During a happy period of more than fourscore years, the public administration was conducted by the virtue and abilities of Nerva, Trajan, Hadrian, and the two Antonines. The principal conquests of the Romans were achieved under the republic ; and the emperors, for the most part, were satisfied with preserving those dominions which had been acquired by the policy of the senate, the active emulation of the consuls, and the martial en- thusiasm of the people. The seven first centuries were filled with a rapid succession of triumphs ; but it was reserved for Augustus to relinquish the ambitious design of subduing the whole earth, and to introduce a -spirit of moderation into the public councils. Inclined to peace by his temper and situation, it was easy for him to discover that Rome, in her present exalted situation, had much less to hope than to fear from the chance of arms ; and that, in the prosecution of remote wars, the undertaking became every day more difficult, the event more doubtful, and the possession more precarious and less beneficial. The experience of Augustus added weight to these salutary reflections, and effectually con- vinced him that, by the prudent vigor of his counsels, it would be easy to secure every concession which the safety or the dignity of Rome might require from the most formidable barbarians. Instead of exposing his person and his legions to th"" arrows of the Parthians, he obtained, by an honorable treaty, the restitution of the standards and prisoners which had been taken in the defeat of Crassua 144 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. if--' ! ;: His generals, in the early part of his reign, attempted the reduction of Ethiopia and Arabia Felix. They marched near a thousand miles to the south of the tropic ; but the heat of the climate soon repelled the in- vaders, and protected the unvvarlike natives of those sequestered regions. The northern countries of Europe .scarcely deserved the expense and l:;bor of conquest. The forests and morasses of Germany verc filled with a hardy race of barbarians, who despised life when it was separated from freedom ; and though, c"« the first attack, they seemed to yield to the weight of the Roman power, they soon, by a signal act of despair, regained their independence, and reminded Augustus of the vicissitude of fortune. On the death of that emperor, his testament was publicly read in the senate. He bequeathed, as a valuable legacy to his successors, the advice of confining the empire within those limits which nature seemed to have placed as its permanent bulwarks and boundaries : on the west the Atlantic Ocean ; the Rhine and Danube on the north ; the Euphrates on the east ; and towards the south, the sandy deserts of Arabia and Africa. Happily for the- repose of mankind, the moderate sys- Vem recommended by the wisdom of Augustus was adopted by the fears and vices of his immediate succes- sors. Engaged in the pursuit of pleasure, or in the exercise of tyranny, the first Caesars seldom showed them- .selves to the armies or to the provinces ; nor were they disposed to suffer that those triumphs which their indo- lence neglected should be usurped by the conduct and valor of their lieutenants. The military fame of a sub- ject was considered as an insolent invasion of the imperial prerogative ; and it became the duty, as well as interest, of every Roman general to guard the frontiers intrusted THE POLICY OF THE EMPIRE '45 tempted . They I of the d the in- of those ■ Europe :onquest. ;d with a n it was it attack, in power, led their icissitudc estament hed, as a confining iemed to indaries : Danube towards lea. ^•rate sys- tus was e succes- in the led them- ere the>' \eir indo- uct and tf a sub- imperial interest, ntrusted to his care, without aspiring to conquests which might have proved no less fatal to himself than to the van- (juished barbarians. The only accession which the Roman empire received during the first century of the Christian era was the province of Britain. In this single instance the suc- cessors of Caesar and Augustus were persuaded to follow the e?>.ample of the former, rather than the precept of the lacter. The proximity of its situation to the coast of Gaul seemed to invite their arms ; the pleasing, though doubtful, intelligence of a pearl-fishery attracted their avarice ; and as Britain was viewed in the light of a distinct and insulated world, the conquest scarcely formed any exception to the general system of conti- nental measures. After a war of about forty years, undertaken by the most stupid, maintained by the most iHssolute, and terminated by the most timid of all the emperors, the far greater part of the island submitted to the Roman yoke. The various tribes of Britons pos- sessed valor without conduct, and the love of freedom without the spirit of union. They took up arms with savage fierceness ; they laid them down, or turned them against each other, with wild inconstancy ; and while they fought singly, they were successively subdued. Neither the fortitude of Caractacus, nor the despair of Boadicea, nor the fanaticism of the Druids, could avert the slavery of their country, or resist the steady progress of the imperial generals, who maintained the national glory, when the throne was disgraced by the weakest or the most vicious of mankindi(^ At the very time when Domitian, confined to his palace, felt the terrors which he inspired, his legions, under the command of the vir- tuous Agricola, defeated the collected force of the Cale- ; irfa-'^' ■ it ' III 146 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. donians at the foot of the Grampian hills ; and his fleets, venturing to explore an unknown and dangerous naviga- tion, displayed the Roman arms round e/ery part of the island. The conquest of Britain was considered as al- ready achieved ; and it was the design of Agricola to complete and insure his success by the easy reduction of Ireland, for which, in his opinion, one legion and a few auxiliaries were sufficient. The western isle might be improved into a valuable possession, and the Britons would wear their chains with the less reluctance, if the prospect and example of freedom was on every side re- moved from before their eyes. But the superior merit of Agricola soon occasioned his removal from the government of Britain ; and forever] disappointed this rational, though extensive, scheme of conquest. Before his departure the prudent general had provided for security as well as for dominion. He had I observed that the island is almost divided into two unequal | parts ^y the opposite gulfs, or, as they are now called, the Friths of Scotland. Across the narrow interval of about I forty miles he had drawn a line of military stations, which was afterwards fortified, in the reign of Antoninus | Pius, by a turf rampart, erected on foundations of stone. This wall of Antoninus, at a small distance beyond the I modern cities of Edinburgh and Glasgow, was fixed as the limit of the Roman province. The native Cale- donians preserved, in the northern extremity of tlie island, their wild independence, for which they were not less indebted to their poverty than to their valor. Thcirl incursions were frequently repelled and chastised, buti their country was never subdued. The masters of thcl fairest and most wealthy climates of the globe turncdl with contempt from gloomy hills assailed by the wintcrl m ON THE ATTACKS UPON HIS PE^^SION. U7 lis fleets, s naviga- .rt of the ed as al- ^ricola to iuction of nd a few might be e Britons ce, if the y side re- sioned his id forever 5cheme of sneral had He had o unequal called, the of about stations, Antoninus of stone, cyond the fixed as tive Cale- y of the were not or. Their stised, but ers of the )be turned the winter tempest, from lakes concealed in a blue mist, and from cold and lonely heaths, over wftich the deer of the forest were chased by a troop of naked barbarians. Such was the state of the Roman frontiers, and such the maxims of imperial policy, from the death of Augus- tus to the accession of Trajan. XXV. ON THE ATTACKS UPON HIS PENSION.* ' ' Edmund Burke.— 1729-1797. ' - ■" In one thing I can excuse the Duke of Bedford for his attack upon me and my mortuary pension : He cannot readily comprehend the transaction he condemns. What I have obtained was the fruit of no bargain, the production of no intrigue, the result of no compromise, the effect of no solicitation. The first suggestion of it never came from me, mediately or immediately, to his Majesty or any of his ministers. It was long known that the in- stant my engagements would permit it, and before the heaviest of all calamities had forever condemned me to obscurity and sorrow, I had resolved on a total retreat. I had executed that design. I was entirely out of the way of serving or of hurting any statesman or any party, when the ministers so generously and so nobly carried into effect the spontaneous bounty of the crown. Both descriptions have acted as became them. When I * From ' ' A Letter to a Noble Lord, on tke attacks made upon Mr. Burke and his Pension, in the House of Lords, by the Duke oj Bedford and the Earl of Lauderdale, early tn the Present Session of Parliament." I7(f6. \ 1 y 148 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. could no longer serve them, the ministers have considered my situation. When I could no longer hurt them, the revolutionists have trampled on my infirmity. My gratitude, I trust, is equal to the manner in which the benefit was conferred. It came to me, indeed, at a time of life, and in a state of mind and body, in which no circumstance of fortune could afford me any real plea- sure. But this was no fault in the royal donor, or in his ministers, who were pleased, in acknowledging the merits of an invalid servant of the public, to assuage the sor- rows of a desolate old man. . . . I was not like his Grace of Bedford, swaddled, and rocked, and dandled into a legislator: '^Nitor in adversiitn" is the motto for a man like me. I possessed not one of the qualities, nor cultivated one of the arts, that recom- mend men to the favor and protection of the great. I was not made for a minion or a tool. As little did I follow the trade of winning the hearts by imposing on the understandings of the people. At every 5tep of my progress in life — for in every step was I traversed and opposed — and at every turnpike I met, I was obliged to shew my passport, and again and again to prove my sole title to the honor of being useful to my country, by a proof that I was not wholly unacquainted with its laws, and the whole system of its interests both abroad and at home. Otherwise, no rank, no toleration even, for me. I had no arts but manly arts. On them I have stood, and, please God, in spite of the Duke of Bedford and the. Earl of Lauderdale, to the last gasp will I stand. . . . The Duke of Bedford conceives that he is obliged to call the attention of the House of Peers to his Majesty's grant to me, which he considers as excessive and out of all bounds. sidered :m, the y. My ich the a time lich no al plea- )r in his z merits the sor- ted, and 'versiim" t one of t recom- Treat. I "le did I Dsing on p of my sed and iged to my sole ry, by a its laws, d and at for me. e stood, and the. • • • liged to /[ajesty's d out o{ ON THE ATTACKS UPON HIS PENSION. 149 I know not how it has happened, but it really seems, that, whilst his Grace was meditating his well-considered censure upon me, he fell into a sort of sleep. Homer nods, and the Duke of Bedford may dream ; and as dreams — even his golden dreams — are apt to be ill- pieced and incongruously put together, his Grace pre- served his idea of reproach to me, but took the subject- matter from the crown grants to his oivn family. This is "the stuff of which his dreams are made." In that way of putting things together, his Grace is perfectly in the right. The grants to the house of Russell were so enormous, as not only to outrage economy, but even to stagger credibility. The Duke of Bedford is the levia- than among all the creatures of the crown. He tumbles about his unwieldy bulk ; he plays af'id frolics in the ocean of the royal bounty. Huge as he is, and whilst '' he lies floating many a rood," he is still a creature. His ribs, his fins, his whalebone, his blubber, the very spiracles through which he spouts a torrent of brine against his origin, and covers me all over with the spray — e* ^»-y- thing of him and about him is from the throne. Is il or liim to question the dispensation of the royal favor ? I really am at a loss to draw any sort of parallel between the public merits of his Grace, by which he justifies the grants he holds, and these services of mine, on the favorable construction of which I have obtained what his Grace so much disapproves. In private life I have not at all the honor of acquaintance with the noble Duke ; but I ought to presume, and it costs me nothing to do so, that he abundantly deserves the esteem and love of all who live with him. But as to public service, why, truly, it would not be more ridiculous for me to compare myself, in rank, in fortune, in splendid descent, 150 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. m 1 ■i in youth, strength, or figure, with the Duke of Bedford, than to make a parallel between his services and my attempts to be useful to my country. It would not be gross adulation, but uncivil irony, to say that he has any public merit of his ojvn to keep alive the idea of the services by which his vast landed pensions were obtained. My merits, whatever they are, are original and personal : his are derivative. It is his ancestor, the original pen- sioner, that has laid up this inexhaustible fund of merit, which makes his Grace so very delicate and exceptious about the merit of all other grantees of the crown. Had he permitted me to remain in quiet, I should have said : *' 'Tis his estate ; that's enough. It is his by law ; what have I to do with it or its history?" He would naturally have said on his side : *' 'Tis this man's fortune. He is as good now as my ancestor was two hundred and fifty years ago. I am a young man with very old pensions : he is an old man with very young pensions — that's all." • -^ • Why will his Grace, by attacking me, force me reluc- tantly to compare my little merit with that which obtained from the crown those prodigies of profuse donation by which he tramples on the mediocrity of humble and laborious individuals ? . . . . Since the new grantees have war made on them by the old, and that the word of the sovereign is not to be taken, let us turn our eyes to history, in which great men have always a pleasure in contemplating the heroic origin of their house. The first peer of the name, the first purchaser of the grants, was a Mr. Russell, a person of an ancient gentle- man's family, raised by being a minion of Henry the Eighth. As there generally is some resemblance of ON THE ATTACKS UPON HIS PENSION. 151 Bedford, ind my not be tias any of the Dtained- irsonal : al pen- f merit, :eptious crown. Id have by law ; I would fortune, lundred ;^ery old isions — e reluc- which profuse :rity of ice the >ld, and , let us always 3f their of the gentle- iry the ance of character to create these relations, the favorite was in all likelihood much such another as his master. The first of those immoderate grants was not taken from the ancient demesne of the crown, but from the recent confiscation of the ancient nobility of the land. The lion, having .mucked the blood of his prey, threw the offal carcass to the jackal in waiting. Having tasted once the food of confiscation, the favorites became fierce and ravenous. This worthy favorite's first grant was from the lay no- bility. The second, infinitely improving on the enormity of the first, was from the plunder of the church. In truth, his Grace is somewhat excusable for his dislike to a grant like mine, not only in its quantity, but in its kind, so dift'erent from his own. Mine was from a mild and benevolent sovereign : his, from Henry the Eighth. Mine had not its fund in the murder of any innocent person of illustrious rank, or in the pillage of any body of unoffending men : his grants were from the aggregate and consolidated funds of judg- ments iniquitously legal, and from po.ssessions volun- tarily surrendered by the lawful proprietors with the gibbet at their door. The merit of the grantee whom he derives from, was that of being a prompt and greedy instrument of a levelling tyrant, who oppressed all descriptions of his people, but who fell with particular fury on everything that was great and noble. Mine has been in endeavoring to screen every man, in every class, from oppression, and particularly in defending the hirh and eminent, who, in the bad times of confiscating princes, confiscating chief- governors, or confiscating demagogues, are the most ex- posed to jealousy, avarice, and envy. The merit of the original grantee of his Grace's pen- 1^ 152 7y/A- mCI/ SCHOOL READER. •< I. mi sions was in giving his hand to the work, and partaking the spoil with a prince who plundered a part of the national church of his time and country. Mine was in defending the whole of the national church of my own time and my own country, and the whole of the national churches of all countries, from the principles and the examples which lead to ecclesiastical pillage, thence to a contempt of a// prescriptive titles, thence to the pillage of a/l property, and thence to universal desolation. The merit of the origin of his Grace's fortune was in being a favorite and chief adviser to a prince who left no liberty to his native country. My endeavor was to obtain liberty for the municipal country in which I was born, and for all descriptions and denominations in it. Mine was to support, with unrelaxing vigilance, every right, every privilege, every franchise, in this my adopted, my dearer, and more comprehensive country ; and not only to preserve those rights in this chief seat of empire, but in every nation, in every land, in every climate, language, and religion, in the vast domain that still is under the protection, and the larger that was once under the pro- tection, of the British crown. His founder's merits were, by arts in v/hich he served his master and made his fortune, to bring poverty, wretchedness, and depopulation on his country. Mine were under a benevolent prince, in promoting the com- merce, manufactures, and agriculture of his kingdom. His founder's merit was the merit of a gentleman raised by the arts of a court and the protection of a Wolsey to the eminence of a great and potent lord.. His merit in that eminence was, by instigating a tyrant to injustice, to provoke a people to rebellion. My merit was, to awaken the sober part of the country, that they mi po an ev( ON THE ATTACKS UPON HIS PENSION. 153 might put themselves on their guard against any one potent lord, or any greater number of potent lords, or any combination of great leading men of any sort, if ever they should attempt to proceed in the same courses, but in the reverse order, — that is, by instigating a cor- rupted populace to rebellion, and, through that rebellion, introducing a tyranny yet worse than the tyranny which his Grace's ancestor supported, and of which he profited in the manner we behold in the despotism of Henry the Eighth. The political merit of the first pensioner of his Grace's house was that of being concerned as a counsellor of state in advising, and in his person executing, the condi- tions of a dishonorable peace with France, — the surren- dering of the fortress of Boulogne, then our outguard on the Continent. By that surrender, Calais, the key of France, and the bridle in the mouth of that power, was not many years afterwards finally lost. My merit has been in resisting the power and pride of France, under any form of its rule ; but in opposing it with the greatest zeal and earnestness, when that rule appeared in the worst form it could assume, — the worst, indeed, which the prime cause and principle of alf evil could possibly give it. It was my endeavor by every means to excite a spirit in the House, wh«-.e I had the honor of a seat, for carrying on with early vigor and decision the most clearly just and iiecessary war that this or any nation ever carried on, in order to save my country from the iron yoke of its power, and from the more dreadful contagion of its principles, — to preserve, while they can be preserved, pure and untainted, the ancient, inbred integrity, piety, good-nature, and good-humor of the people of England, from the dreadful pestilence which, 154 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. : .: ■'... . ■■ ■. ■ 1 i;. beginning in France, threatens to lay waste the whole moral and in a great degree the whole physical world, having done both in the focus of its most intense malig- nity. The labors of his Grace's founder merited the '• curses, not loud, but deep," of the Commons of England, on whom /le and his master had effected a complete Par- liamentary Reform^ by making them, in their slavery and humiliation, the true and adequate representatives of a debased, degraded, and undone people. My merits were in having had an active, though not always an ostentatious share, in every one act, without exception, of undisputed constitutional utility in my time, and in having supported, on all occasions, the authority, the efficiency, and the privileges of the Commons of Great Britain. I ended my services by a recorded and fully reasoned assertion on their own journals of their consti- tutional rights, and a vindication of their constitutional conduct. I labored in all things to merit their inward approbation, and (along with the assistants of the largest, the greatest, and best of my endeavors) I received their free, unbiased, public and solemn thanks. Thus stands the account of the comparative merits of the crown grants which compose the Duke of Bedford's fortune, as balanced against mine. England^ with all thy faults, I love thee still. My country 1 and, while yet a nook is left Where English fninds and manners may be found, Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy clime Be fickle, and thy year, most part, deformed With dripping rains, or wither d by a frost, I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies And fields ivithout a floiver, for warmer France With all her vines. CowPER. — The Timepiece. TIVO EIGHTEENTH CENTURY SCENES. 155 • XXVI. TWO EIGHTEENTH CENTURY SCENES. William C0WPER.—1731-1800. From letters to the Rev, lohn Neivton. Nov. 17th, 1783. . . . Since our conflagration here, we have sent two women and a boy to the justice, for depredation ; S. R. for stealing a piece of beef, which, in her excuse, she said she intended to take care of This lady, whom you well remember, escaped for want of evidence ; not that evidence was wanting, but our men of Gotham judged it unneces- sary to send it. With her went the woman I mentioned before, who, it seems, has made some sort of profession, but upon this occasion allowed herself a latitude of conduct rather inconsistent with it, having filled her apron with wearing-apparel, which she likewise intended to take care of She would have gone to the county gaol, had William Raban, the baker's son, who prosecuted, insisted upon it ; but he, good-naturedly, though I think weakly, interposed in her favor, and begged her off. The young gentleman who accompanied these fair ones is the junior son of Molly Boswell. He had stolen some iron-work, the property of Griggs the butcher. Being convicted, he was ordered to be whipped, which operation he under- went at the cart's tail, from the stone-house to the high arch, and back again. He seemed to show great forti- tude, but it was all an imposition upon the public. The beadle, who performed it, had filled his left hand with yellow ochre, through which, after every stroke, he drew the lash of his whip, leaving the appearance of a wound upon the skin, but in reality not hurting him at all '56 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER, ii!i' s*?; !.ti "5:ii I This being perceived by Mr, Constable H., who followed the beadle, he applied his cane, without any such man- agement or precaution, to the shoulders of the too merciful executioner. The scene immediately became more interesting. The beadle could by no means be prevailed upon to strike hard, which provoked the con- stable to strike harder ; and this double flogging con- tinued, till a lass of Silver-End, pitying the pitiful beadle thus suffaring under the hands of the pitiless constable, joined the procession, and placing herself immediately behind the latter, seized him by his capil- lary club, and pulling him backwards by the same, slapped his face with a most Amazon fury. This con- catenation of events has taken up more of my paper than 1 intended it should, but I could not forbear to inform you how the beadle thrashed the thief, the con- stable the beadle, and the lady the constable, and how the thief was the only person concerned who suffered nothing. March 29th, 1784. It being his Majesty's pleasure, that I should yet have another opportunity to write before he dissolves the Parliament, I avail myself of it with all possible alacrity. I thank you for your last, which was not the less welcome for coming, like an extraordinary gazette, at a time when it was not expected. As when the sea is uncommonly agitated, the water finds its way into creeks and holes cf rocks, which in its calmer state it never reaches, in like manner the effect of these turbulent times is felt even at Orchard Side, where in general we live as undisturbed by the political ele- ment as shrimps or cockles that have been accidentally deposited in some hollow beyond the water-mark, by the ut dj P< ini n( un a at fo| wi ta as TiVO EIGHTEENTH CENTURY SCENES. 157 usual dashing of the waves. We were sitting yester- day after dinner, the two ladies and myself, very com- posedly, and without the least apprehension of any such intrusion in our snug parlor, one lady knitting, the other netting, and the gentleman winding worsted, when to our unspeakable surprise a mob appeared before the window ; a smart rap was heard at the door, the boys bellowed, and the maid announced Mr. Grenville. Puss was un- fortunately let out of her box, so that the candidate, with all his good friends at his heels, was refused admit- tance at thfe grand entry, and referred to the back door, as the only possible way of approach. Candidates are creatures not very susceptible of af- fronts, and would rather, I suppose, climb in at the window, than be absolutely excluded. In a minute, the yard, the kitchen, and the parlor were filled. Mr. Gren- ville, advancing toward me, shook me by the hand with a degree of cordiality that was extremely seducing. As soon as he, and as many more as could find chairs, were seated, he began to open the intent of his visit. I told him I had no vote, for which he readily gave me credit. I assured him I had no influence, which he was not equally inclined to believe, and the less, no doubt, be- cause Mr. Ashburner, the draper, addressing himself to me at this moment, informed me that I had a great deal. Supposing that I could not be possessed of such a trea- sure without knowing it, I ventured to affirm my first assertion, by saying, that if I had any I was utterly at a loss to imagine where it could be, or wherein it consisted. Thus ended the conference. Mr. Grenville squeezed me by the hand again, kissed the ladies, and withdrew. He kissed likewise the maid in the kitchen, and seemed upon the whole a moat loving, kissing, kind-hearted ;T w 158 T//E HIGH SCHOOL READER, gentleman. He is very young, genteel, and handsome. He has a pair of very good eyes in his head, which not being sufficient, as it should seem, for the many nice and difficult purposes of a senator, he has a third also, which he suspended from his buttonhole. The boys halloo'd, the dogs barked puss scampered, the hero, with his long train of obsequious followers, withdrew. We made our- selves very merry with the adventure, and in a short time settled into our former tranquillity, never probably to be thus interrupted more. I thought myself, however, happy in being able to affirm truly that I had not that influence for which he sued ; and which, had I been possessed of it, with my present views of the dispute between the Crown and the Commons, I must have re- fused him, for he is on the side of the former. It is comfortable to be of no consequence in a world where one cannot exercise any without disobliging somebody. The town, however, seems to be much at his service, and if he be equally successful throughout the country, he will undoubtedly gain his election. Mr. Ashburner, per- haps, was a little mortified, because it was evident I owed the honor of this visit to his misrepresentation of my importance. But had he thought proper to assure Mr. Grenville that I had three heads, I should not, I sup- pose, have been bound to produce them. . . . 11 1 Nb7V stir the fire, and dose the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round. And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups That cheer but not inebriate wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in. QQi^V^TL.—The Winter Evenings FROM ''THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL:' 159 ndsome. lich not lice and ), which lalloo'd, lis long idc our- a .short robably owever, ot that I been dispute ave re- It is where lebody, ce, and try, he -r, per- ient I ion of assure I sup- XXVII. FROM ''THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL"* Richard Hkinsi.ey Shkridan. — 1751-1816. Scene. — A Room in SiR Peter Teazle's House. £;//^r Sir Peter Teazle. Sir Pet. When an old bachelor marries a young wife, what is he to expect? 'Tis now six months ijincc Lady Teazle made me the happiest of men — and I have been the most miserable dog ever since. We tiffed a little going to church, and fairly quarrelled before the bells had done ringing. I was more than once nearly choked with gall during the honeymoon, and had lost all comfort in life before my friends had done wishing me joy. Yet I chose with caution — a girl bred wholly in the country, who never knew luxury beyond one silk gown, nor dissipation above the annual gala of a race ball. Yet she now plays her part in all the extravagant fopperies of fashion and the town with as ready a grace as if she never had seen a bush or a grass-plot out of Grosvenor Square ! I am sneered at by all my acquaintance, and paragraphed in the newspapers. She dissir,ates my fortune, and contradicts all my humors ; yet the worst of it is, I doubt 1 love her, or I should never bear all this. However, I'll never be weak enough to own it. But I meet with nothing but crosses and vexations — ■ and the fault is entirely hers. I am, myself, the sweetest- tempered man alive, and hate a teasing temper ; and so I tell her a hundred times a day. — Ay! and what is very mtng. * For the sake of brevity a part of the first scene has been excised. It subse- quently appears that Lady Teazle abandons the society of the scandal-mongers, and i:he and her fond but somewhat irascible husband become happily reconciled. J Co THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. ■mA m extraordinary, in all our disputes she is always in the wrong. But Lady Sneerwell, and the set she meets at her house, encourage the pers^erseness of her disposition. Then, to complete my vexation, Maria, my ward, whom I ought to have the power of a father over, is deter- mined to turn rebel too, and absolutely refuses the man whom I have long resolved on for her husband — /• Enter l.\T>\ Teazle. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I'll not bear it ! Lady Tean. Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it or not, as you please ; but I ought to have my own way in everything, and, what's more, I will too. What ! though 1 was educated in the country, I know very well that women of fashion in London arc accountable to nobody after they are married. Sir Pet. Very well, ma'am, very well ; so a husband is to have no influence, no authority ? Lady Teaz. Authority ! No, to be sure. If you wanted authority over me, you should have adopted me, and not married me : I am sure you were old enough. Sir Pet. Old enough ! — ay, there it is. Well, well, Lady Teazle, though my life may be made unhappy by your temper, I'll not be ruined by your extravagance ! Lady Teaz. My extravagance ! I'm sure I'm not more extravagant than a woman of fashion ought to be. Sir Pet. No, no, madam, you shall throw away no more sums on such unmeaning luxury. Such wasteful- ness ! to spend as much to furnish your dressing-room with flowers in winter as would suffice to turn the Pan- theon into a greenhouse, and give a fi'te champHre at Christmas. Lady Teaz. And am 1 to blame. Sir Peter, because FROM ''THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL" i6i flowers arc dear in cold weather ? You j:hould find fault with the climate, and not with me. For my part, I'm sure I wish it was spring all the year round, and that roses grew under our feet. ', Str Pet. Oons ! madam — if you had been born to this, I shouldn't wonder at your talking thus ; but you forget what your situation was when I married you. ' Lady Teaz. No, no, I don't ; 'twas a very disagreeable one, or I should never have married you. Sir Pet. Yes, yes, madam, you were then in somewhat a humbler style — the daughter of a oJain country squire. Recollect, Lady Teazle, when I saw you first sitting at your tambour, in a pretty figured linen gown, with a bunch of keys at your side, your hair combed smooth over a roll, and your apartment hung round with fruits in worsted, of your own working. Lady Teas. Oh, yes ' I remember it very well, and a curious life I led. My daily occupation — to inspect the dairy, superintend the poultry, make extracts from the family receipt-book, and comb my aunt Deborah's lap- dog, -'*^ "" ' ' ■ Sir Pet. Yes, yes, ma'am, 'twas so indeed. Lady Teaz. And then you know my evening amuse- ments ! To draw patterns for ruffles, which I had not materials to make up ; to play Pope Joan with the curate ; to read a sermon to my aunt ; or to be stuck down to an old spinet to strum my father to sleep after a fox-chase. Sir Pet. I am glad you have so good a memory. Yes, madam, the.^e were the recreations I took you from ; but now you must have your coach — vis-ct-vis — and three powdered footmen before your chair; and, in the summer, a pair of white cats to draw you to Kensington Gardens, l62 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. n: 1"^"" i -li (If- ■ ■ i I No recollection, I suppose, when you were content to ride double, behind the butler, on a docked coach-horse. Lady Teaz. No — I vow I never did that : I deny the butler and the coach-horse. Sir Pet: This, madam, was your situation ; and what have I done for you ? I have made you a woman of fashion, of fortune, of rank — in short, I have made you my wife. Lady Teaz. Well, then, and there is but one thing- more you can make me to add to the obligation, that is Sir Pet. My widow, Isuppose ? ' Lady Teaz. Hem 1 hem ! Sir Pet. I thank you, madam — but don't flatter your- self ; for, though your ill conduct may disturb my peace of mind, it shall never break my heart, T imise you : however, I am equally obliged to you for the hint. Lady Teaz. Then why will you endeavor to make yourself so disagreeable to me, and thwart me in every little elegant expense ? Sir Pet. Madam, I say, had you any of these little elegant expenses when you married me ? Lady Teaz. Sir Peter ! would you have me be out of the fashion ? Sir Pet. The fashion, indeed ! what had you to do with the fashion before you married me ? Lady Teaz. For my part, I should think you would ' like to have your wife thought a woman of taste. Sir Pet. Ay — there again — taste ! Zounds ! madam, you had no taste when you married me ! Lady Teaz. That's very true, indeed, Sir Peter ! and after having married you, I should never pretend to taste again, I allow But now. Sir Peter, since we have FROM ''THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL." 163 tent to -horse, -ny the d what man of .de you e thing on, that er your- ly peace se you : t. make In every se Httle out of u to do would madam, lY ! and to taste ^e have finished our daily jangle, I presume I may go to my engagement at Lady Sneerwell's. Sir Pet. Ay, there's another precious circumstance — a charming set of acquaintances you have made there ! Lady Teaz. Nay, Sir Peter, they are all people of rank and fortune, and remarkably tenacious of reputation. Sir Pet. Yes, they are tenacious of reputation with a vengeance ; for they don't choose anybody should have a character but themselves ! Sux;h a crew ! Ah ! many a wretch has rid on a hurdle who has done less mischiei than these utterers of forged tales, coiners of scandal, and clippers of reputation. Lady Teas. What, would you restrain the freedom of speech? -> . Sir Pet. Ah ! they have made you just as bad as any one of the society. r Lady Teas. Why, I believe I do bear a part with a tolerable grace. • ^ ' Sir Pet. Grace, indeed ! Lady Teaz. But I vow I bear no malice against the people I abuse ; when I say an ill-natured thing, 'tis out of pure good humor ; and I take it for granted they deal exactly in the same manner with me. But, Sir Peter, you know you promised to come to Lady Sneerwell's too. Sir Pet. Well, well, I'll call in, just to look after my own character. Lady Teaz. Then, indeed, you must make haste after me, or you'll be too late. So good-bye to ye. \Exit. Sir Pet, So — I have gained much by my intended expostulation ! Yet with what a charming air she con- tradicts everything I say ; and how pleasantly she shows her contempt for my authority ! Well, though I can't make her love me, there is great satisfaction in quarrel- I ?■ w ii: rlliiii' If 164 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Ii: j: .' ■ , ! i \ II P 1 1 ■ I'j 4\ If. , f. lii '' 1 ling with her ; and I think she never appears to such advantage as when she is doing everything in her power to plague me. {Exit. Scene. — A room in Lady Sneerwell's House. Lady Sneerwell, Mrs. Candour, Crabtree, Sir Benjamin Backbite, and Joseph Surface, discovered. Enter Lady Teazle and Maria. Lady Sneer. Lady Teazle, I hope we shall see Sir Peter ? Lady Teaz. I believe he'll wait on your ladyship pre- sently. Lady Sneer. Maria, my love, you look grave. Come, you shall sit down to piquet with Mr. Surface. Mar, 1 take very little pleasure in cards — however, I'll do as your ladyship pleases. Mrs. Can. Now I'll dio ; but you are so scandalous, I'll forswear your society. Lady Teaz. What's the matter, Mrs. Candour ? Mrs. Can. They'll not allow our friend Miss Vermillion to be handsome. Lady Sneer. Oh, surely she is a pretty woman. Crab. I am very glad you think so, ma'am. Mrs. Can. She has a charming fresh color. Lady Teaz. Yes, when it is fresh put on. Mrs. Can. Oh, fie ! Her color is natural : I have seen it come and go ! Lady Teaz. I dare say you have, ma'am : it goes off| at night, and comes again in the morning. Sir Ben. True, ma'am, it nc. only comes and goes but, what's more, her maid can fetch and carry it 1 FROM ''THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL^ i6s to such r power [Exit. ouse. EE, Sir URFACE, see Sir hip pre- Come, vever, I'll alous, I'll ? crmillion lave seen goes off I d goes;! It! Mrs, Can. Ha ! ha ! ha ! how I hate to hear you talk so ! But surely now, her sister is, or was, very handsome. Crab. Who? M^s. Evergreen? Oh! she's six-and-fifty if she's an hour 1 Mrs. Can. Now positively you wrong her ; fifty-two or fifty-three is the utmost — and I don't think she looks more. Sir Ben. Ah ! there's no judging by her looks, unless one could see her face. Lady Sneer. Well, well, if Mrs. Evergreen does take some pains to repair the ravages of time, you must allow she effects it with great ingenuity ; and surely that's better than the careless manner in which the widow Ochre caulks her wrinkles. , , Sir Ben. Nay, now. Lady Sneerwell, you are severe upon the widow. Come, come, 'tis not that she paints so ill — but, when she has finished her face, she joins it on so badly to her neck, that she looks like a mended statue, in which the connoisseur may see at once that the head is modern, though the trunk's antique. Crab. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Well said, nephew ! Mrs. Can. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Well, you make me laugh ; but I vow I hate you for it. What do you think of Miss Simper? Sir Ben. Why, she has very pretty teeth. Lady Teaz. Yes, and on that account, when she is neither speaking nor laughing (which very seldom hap- pens), she never absolutely shuts her mouth, but leaves it always on a-jar, as it were — thus. [Shoivs her teeth. Mrs. Can. How can you be so ill-natured ? Lady Teas. Nay, I allow even that's better than the pains Mrs. Prim takes to conceal her losses in front % liiii 166 T//E HIGH SCHOOL READER. !i'! '.vSim\ \ I :; : She draws her mouth till it positively resembles the aperture of a poor's-box, and all her words appear to slide out edgewise as it were — thus : How do you do, madam ? Yes, madafn. [Mimics. Lady Sneer. Very well, Lady Teazle ; I see you can be a little severe. Lady Teas. In defence of a friend it is but justice. But here comes Sir Peter to spoil our pleasantry. Enter Sir Peter Teazle. Sir Pet. Ladies, your most obedient. — [Aside,] Mercy on me, here is the whole set ! a character dead at every word, 1 suppose. Mrs. Can. I am rejoiced you are come, Sir Peter. They have been so censorious — and Lady Teazle as bad as any one. Sir Pet. That must be very distressing to you, indeed, Mrs. Candour. Mrs. Can. Oh, they will allow good qualities to no- body : not even good nature to our friend Mrs. Pursy. Lady Teaz. What, the fat dowager who was at Mrs. Quadrille's last nigiit? Mrs. Can. Nay, her bulk is her misfortune ; and, when she takes so much pains to get rid of it, you ought not to reflect on her. Lady Sneer. That's very true, indeed. Lady Teaz. Yes, I know she almost lives on acids and small whey ; laces herself by pulleys ; and often, in the hottest noon in summer, you may see her on a little squat pony, with her hair plaited up behind like a drum- mer's, and puffing round the ring on a full trot. Mrs. Can. I thank you. Lady Teazle, for defending her. Sir Pet, Yes, a good defence, truly. FROM ''THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL:' 167 Dies the jpear to yoii do, Mimics. you can justice. I Mercy at every ir Peter, le as bad u, indeed, s to no- ■^ursy. at Mrs. ,nd, when ught not icids and n, in the a little : a drum- tding her. Mrs. Can. Truly, Lady Teazle is as censorious as Miss Sallow. Crab. Yes, and she is a curious being to pretend to be censorious — an awkward thing, without any one good point under the sun. Mrs. Can. Positively you shall not be so very severe. Miss Sallow is a near relation of mine by marriage, and, as for her person, great allowance'is to be made ; for, let me tell you, a woman labors under many disadvantages who tries to pass for a girl of six-and-thirty. Lady Sneer. Though, surely, she is handsome still — and for the weakness in her eyes, considering how much she reads by candlelight, it is not to be wondered at. Mrs. Can. True, and then as to her manner ; upon my word I think it is particularly graceful, considering she never had the least education ; for you know her mother was a Welsh milliner, and her father a sugar-baker at Bristol. Sir Ben. Ah ! you are both of you too good-natured ! Sir Pet. Yes, distressingly good-natured ! This their own relation ! Mercy on me ! \Aside. Mrs. Can. For my part, I own I cannot bear to hear a friend ill-spoken of. Sir Pet. No, to be sure ! Sir Ben. Oh ! you are of a moral turn. Mrs. Candour and I can sit for an hour and hear Lady Stucco talk sentiment Lady Teaz. Nay, I vow Lady Stucco is very well with the dessert after dinner ; for she's just like the French fruit one cracks for mottoes — made up of paint and proverb. Mrs. Can. Well, I will never join in ridiculing a friend ; and so I constantly tell my cousin Ogle, and you all know what pretensions she has to be critical on beauty. ; I i68 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. TMi;! 1 1 I'll! Crab. Oh, to be sure ! she has herself the oddest coun- tenance that ever was seen ; 'tis a collection of features from all the different countries of the globe. Sir Ben. So she has, indeed — an Irish front Crab. Caledonian locks Sir Ben. Dutch nose Crab. Austrian lips Sir Ben. Complexion of a Spaniard Crab. And teeth a la CJiinoise. Sir Ben. In" short, her face resembles a table d'hote at Spa — where no two guests are of a nation Crab. Or a congress at the close of a general war — wherein all the members, even to her eyes, appear to have a different interest, and her nose and chin are the only parties likely to join issue. Mrs. Can. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Sir Pet. Mercy on my life ! — a person they dine with twice a week ! \^Aside. Mrs. Can. Nay, but I vow you shall not carry the laugh off so — for give me leave to say that Mrs. Ogle Sir Pet. Madam, madam, I beg your pardon — there's no stopping these good gentlemen's tongues. But when I tell you, Mrs. Candour, that the lady they are abusing is a particular friend of mine, I hope you'll not take her part. Lady Sneer. Ha ! ha ! ha ! well said. Sir Peter ! but you are a cruel creature — too phlegmatic yourself for a jest, and too peevish to allow wit in others. Sir Pet. Ah, madam, true wit is more nearly allied to good nature than your ladyship is aware of Lady Teaz. True, Sir Peter ; I believe they are so near akin that they can never be united. Sir Ben. Or rather, suppose them man and wife, be- cause one seldom sees them together. FROM ''THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL." 169 coun- atures Iidte at war — )ear to ire the le with •ry the :ie -there's t when busing ike her r! but f for a Hied to are so ife, be- Lady Teaz. But Sir Peter is such an enemy to scandal, I believe he would have it put down by parliament. Sir Pet. Positively, madam, if they were to consider the sporting with reputation of as much importance as poaching on manors, and pass an act for the preserva- tion of fame, as well as game, I believe many would thank them for the bill. Lady Sneen Why ! Sir Peter ; would you deprive us of our privileges ? Sir Pet. Ay, madam ; and then no person should be permitted to kill characters and run down reputations but qualified old maids and disappointed widows. Lady Sneer. Go, you monster ! Mrs. Can. But, surely, you would not be quite so severe on those who only report what they hear ? Sir Pet. Yes, madam, I would have law merchant for them too ; and in all cases of slander currency, whenever the drawer of the lie was not to be found, the injured parties should have a right to come on any of the indorsers. Crab. Well, for my part, I believe there never was a scandalous tale without some foundation. Lady Sneer. Come, ladies, shall we sit down to cards in the next room ? Enter Servant, who whispers Sir Peter. Sir Pet. I'll be with them directly. — \Exit SERVANT.] I'll get away unperceived. [Aside. Lady Sneer. Sir Peter, you are not going to leave us ? Sir Pet. Your ladyship must excuse me; I'm called away by particular business. But I leave my character behind me. {Exit. I ) 17© THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. il'il i!i! Sir Ben. Well — certainly, Lady Teazle, that lord of yours is a strange being : I could tell you some stories of him would make you laugh heartily if he were not your husband. Lady Teas. Oh, pray, don't mind that ; come, do let's hear them. [Exeiuit all but Joseph Surface and Maria. Jos. Surf. Maria, I sec you have no satisfaction in this society. Mar. How is it possible I should ? If to raise mali- cious smiles at the infirmities or misfortunes of those who have never injured us be the province of wit or humor. Heaven grant me a double portion of dulness ! Jos Surf. Yet they appear more ill-natured than they are ; they have no malice at heart. Mar. Then is their conduct still more contemptible ; for, in my opinion, nothing could excuse the intemper- ance of their tongues but a natural and uncontrollable bitterness of mind. i-i li Ohy wad some poiver the giftie gie us To see ourseVs as others see us ! Lt wadfrae inonie a, blunder free us And foolish notion : What airs in dress an^ gait ivad lede us, And e'en devotion ! Robert Burns, ! THE COTTER'S S A TURD A V NIGHT. 171 lord of 2 stories ^ere not , do let's ' Maria. n in this sc mali- of those f wit or Iness ! lan they nptible ; itcmper- trollablc ■ Burns. XXVIII. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.* Robert Burns.— 1759-1796. I^et not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; ' Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile ' , The short and simple annals of the poor. Grat. My lov'd, my honor'd, much respected friend ! No mercenary bard his homage pays ; , . r With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, — - My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise : To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; v The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; Ah ! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ;^ The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; " • The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose : The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes — This night his weekly moil is at an end, — Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. Hoping the morn^ in ease and rest to spend, And, weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; The expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher^ through, To meet their dad, wi' flichterin* noise an' glee. * Inscjibed to R. Aiken, Esq. I Moan. 2 Morrow. 3 Stagger. 4 Fluttering. '4:.- ^ u I' a 172 T//E HIGH SCHOOL READER His wee bit ingle/ blinkin bonnily, His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil, Belyve,^ the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; Some ca'^ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie* rin A canny' errand to a neebor town : Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown. In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e. Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw" new gown, Or deposited her sair-won^ penny-fee,^ To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. VVi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet And each for other's welfare kindly spiers :^^ The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet ; Each tells the uncos^^ that he sees or hears ; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; Anticipation forward points the view. The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears, Gars^^ auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.^ . Their master's an' their mistress's command The younkers a' are warned to obey ; An' mind their labors wi' an eydent^^ hand, An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk^* or play : I Fire-place. 2 Presently. 3 Drive, i.e., with shouting or calling. 4 Attentive. 5 Requiring judgment, 6 Brave, fine, handsome. 7 De'posite, for depos'it. 8 Dear-won, hard-earned. 9 Money-wages. 10 Enquires. n Unknmvn things, news. 12 Makes. 13 Diligent 14 Trifle. THE CO TVER'S SA TURD A Y NIGHT. 1 73 " An' oh ! be sure to fear the Lord ahvay, An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! ' • Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, " Implore His counsel and assisting might : They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright ! " But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, , ; Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor ' . j To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, an' flush her cheek ; Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name. While Jenny hafflins^ is afraid to speak ; Weel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ;" . . A strappan youth ; he taks the mother's eye ; Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; The father cracks^ of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But, blate* an' laithfu'," scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave ; Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave." O happy love ! where love like this is found ! O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! I've pacfed much this weary, mortal round. And sage experience bids me this declare — " If Heaven a draught of heavenly i)leasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, ■ Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale." X Half. a In, into the room. 3 Talks. S Unwilling, shy. 6 What is UfU resU 4 Bashful, II Ml! 174 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. I I m Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! Arc honor, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild .' But now the supper crowns their simple board, - The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's food • The soui)e^ their only hawkie" does afford. That 'yont the hallan^ snugly chows her cood ; The dame brings forth, in complimental mood. To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd* kebbuck,-''* fell,** An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid : The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell How 'twas a towmond^ auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.*>r The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face. They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. The big ha'-Bible,^ ance his father's pride : His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. His lyart^° haffets^^ wearing thin an' bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales ^^ a portion with judicious care; And " Let us worship God !" he says, with st ' 3mn air. ■ . ,•■ .^, They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; They tune their hearts, by i'lr the noblest aim : W Til I Sup ; here, milk. 2 White-faced cow. 4 Carefully kepi. 5 Cheese. 6 Tasty, 8 Since flax was in flower. 9 Hall-Bible. II Temples, h^re icmple-locks. la (Jbooses. 3 Fartiticn wall. 7 Twelvemonth. 10 Grey, greyish. W^ THE COTTERS SATURDAY NIGHT, Perhaps " Dundee's " wild warbling measures rise, Or plaintive " Martyrs," worthy of the name ; Or noble " Elgin" beets^ the heavenward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; The tickled ears no ht rt-felt raptures raise ; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred page — How Abram was the friend of God on high ; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 175 Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme — How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay His head ; How His first followers and servants sped ; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land ; How he, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; And heard great Bab'lon's doom pfonounced by Heaven's command. , . I I Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays : riope " springs exulting on triumphant wing," That thus they all shall meet in future days : I Feed^, nourishes. 176 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. ill ii'ii There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear ; Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear r While circling time moves round in an eternal spherCrY Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride. In all the pomp of method, and of art. When men display to congregations wide Devotion's every grace, except the heart ! The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert. The pompous strain, the jacerdotal stele ; But, haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul ; And in His book of life the inmates poor enroll. Then homeward all take off their several way : The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; The parent-pail their secret homage pay. And proffer up to Heaven the warm request That He, who stills ''le ravens clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flov.ery pride. Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them, and for their little ones provide ; But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs. That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd aliroad : Princes and lords are but the breath of kings ; ' " An honest man's the noblest work of God ;" And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cotta' leaves the palace far behind ; What is a lordling's pomp? — a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickeaacss refin'd I THE LAND a THE LEAL. O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! And, oh ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle. 177 O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart ; Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art, ^ His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard. s. XXIX. THE LAND 0' THE LEAL. Lady Nairn.- 1766-1845. I'm wearin' awa', John, Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John, I'm wearin' awa' To the land o' the leal. There's nae sorrow there, John ; There's neither cauld nor care, John ; The day is aye fair In the land o' the leal. 178 I THE HIGfi SCHOOL READER. Our bonnie bairn's there, John ; She was baith glide and fair, John ; And oh ! we griidgd her sair To the land o' the leal. But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, And joy's a-comin' fast, John, The joy that's aye to last In the land o' the leal. Sae dear that joy was bought, John, Sae free the battle fought, John, That sinfu' man e'er brought To the land o' the leal. Oh ! dry your glistening e'e, John, My soul langs to be free, John, And angels beckon me To the land o' the leal. Oh ! baud ye leal and true, John, Your day it's wearin' through, John, And ril welcome you To the land o' the leal. Now fare-ye weel, my ain John, This warld's cares are vain, John, We'll meet, and we'll be fain In the land o' the leal. Life! we've been /ong together, Through pleasant and through cloudy iveather ; ^Tis hard to part when friends are dear ; Perhaps ^ tic ill cost a sigh, a tear ; Then steal aivay, give little warnings Choose thine 07vn t'.'ne , Say not Good-night, but in some brighter clime Bid me Good-morning. Mrs. Barbauld. — 1743-1825. THE TRIAL BY COMBAT. m \ne XXX. THE TRIAL BY COMBAT AT THE DIAMOND OF THE DESERT.* From The Talisman. Sir Walter Scott.— 1771-1832. It had been agreed, on account of the heat of the climate, that the judicial combat, which was the cause of the present assemblage of various nations at the Diamond of the Desert, should take place at one hour after sun- rise. The wide lists, which had been constructed under the inspection of the Knight of the Leopard, enclosed a space of hard sand, which was one hundred and twenty- yards long by forty in width. They extended in length from north to south, so as to give both parties the equal advantage of the rising sun. Saladin's royal seat was erected on the western side of the enclosure, just in the centre, where the combatants were expected to meet in 1743-1825. *Wliile the army of the crusaders was inactive near Ascalon, a truce having been agreed to between the Saracens and their assailants, the Grand Pvlaster of the Templars, Conrade Marquis of Montserrat, and others of the Christian Princes, were plotting to effect its dismemberment. Richard of England was the leading spirit of the crusade, and the plotters wished either to get rid of him or to inspire his colleagues with jealousy of his leadership. The Grand Master sought to have the King assassinated. Conrade tried to break up the league by milder means : he first provoked the Duke of Austria to insult the English banner ; and then thinking rightly that the suspicion and wrath of Richard would fall upon Austria, he secretly stole the banner from its place. Its safe-keeping, after Austria's insult, had t)een entrusted by the King to Sir Kenneth, known as the Knight of the Leopard in reality David I'rince of Scotland, who in the disguise of an obscure gentleman had joined the cri'sade as a follower of the l'"nglish King. Sir Kenneth was innocently decoyed from liis watch, and in his absence, the banner, left with but his dog to guard it, was stolen by Ccnrade. Yox his failure of duty, Sir Kenneth was condemned to immediate death, but Saladin, who in the disguise of an Arab physician was in the English camp, and who had rescued the King from der»th by fever, urgently lUerceding, his life was spared. Saladin took Sir Kenneth to the camp of llie m^mmammmmmm 1 80 TN£ HIGH SCHOOL READER. I,: i I '>v; \- mid encounter. Opposed to this was a gallery with closed casements, so contrived, that the ladies, for whose accommodation it was erected, might see the fight without being themselves exposed to view. At either extremity of the lists was a barrier, which could be opened or shut at pleasure. Thrones had been also erected, but the Archduke, perceiving that his was lower than King Richard's, refused to occupy it ; and Coeur de Lion, who would have submitted to much ere any formality should have interfered with the combat, readily agreed that the sponsors, as they were called, should remain on horseback during the fight. At one extremity of the lists were placed the followers of Richard, and opposed to them were those who accompanied the defender, Conrade. Around the throne destined for the Soldan were ranged his splendid Georgian Guards, and the rest of the enclosure was occupied by Christian and Mohammedan spectators. Saracens, and knowing his worth and valor, having previously had knightly encounter with him in the desert, disguised him as a Nubian slave, and sent him as a present to Richard with the hope tiiat he might in some way discover by whom the banner had been stolen. Attending Richard as a slave Sir Ken- neth saved the king from the assassination which the Grand Master had insti- gated, and aided by the instinct of his dog, also disguised, he detected the thief in Conrade. Richard thereupon, at once charged Conrade with the theft, and challenged him to mortal combat. The King was prevented by the Council of the Princes from fighting in person, but having divined in the Nubian slave the former Knight of the Leopard, he permitted Sir Kenneth to fight in his stead, that the knight might atone for the dishonor of being faithless in his watch. Conrade's cause was espoused by the Grand Master, who had been his confidant, and by the Duke of Austr'a. The encounter was appointed to take place at the Diamond of the Desert, in the territory of Saladin, who was .asked to act as umpire. It had been stipulated that l)ut five hundred Saracens should Ix^ [iresent at the trial ; Saladin, however, having been apprised of further plotting on the part of *ho. Grand Master, for safety's sake caused a larger attendance of his fol lowers. Sir Kenneth had long loved Edith Plantagcnet, but being known to her only as a poor and nameless adventurer, he Iiad not yet openly avowed his love. THE TRIAL BY COMBAT. i8i r with whose fight either uld be n also J lower Cceur re any readily should tremity rd, and ied the for the rds, and ian and id knightly and sent ay discover ■e Sir Ken- r had insti- ed the thief theft, and Council of in slave the n his stead, his watch, confidant, l)lace at the d to act as be present tting on the ;e of his fol- nown to her red his love. Long before daybreak, the lists were surrounded by even a larger number of Saracens than Richard had seen on the preceding evening. When the first ray of the sun's glorious orb arose above the desert, the sonorous call, **To prayer, to prayer!" was poured forth by the Soldan himself, and answered by others, whose rank and zeal entitled them to act as muezzins. It was a striking spectacle to see them all sink to earth, for the purpose of repeating their devotions, with their faces turned to Mecca. But when they arose from the ground, the sun's rays, now strengthening fast, seemed to confirm the Lord of Gilsland's conjecture of the night before. They were flashed back from many a spear-head, for the pointless lances of the preceding day were certainly no longer such. De Vaux pointed it out to his master, who answered with impatience, that he had perfect confidence in the good faith of the Soldan ; but if Dc Vaux was afraid of his bulky body, he might retire. Soon after this the noise of timbrels was heard, at the sound of which the whole Saracen cavaliers threw them- selves from their horses, and prostrated themselves, as if for a second morning prayer. This was to give an opportunity to the Queen, with Edith and her attendants, to pass from the pavilion to the gallery intended for them. Fifty guards of Saladin's seraglio escorted them, with naked sabres, whose orders were, to cut to pieces whomsoever, were he prince or peasant, should venture to gaze on the ladies as they passed, or even presume to raise his head until the cessation of the music should make all men aware that they were lodged in their gallery, not to be gazed on by the curious eye. This superstitious observance of Oriental reverence to the fair sex called forth from Queen Berengaria some m ami^mummMummmiti* 182 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. criticisms very unfavorable to Saladin and his country. But their den, as the royal fair called it, being securely closed and guarded by their sable attendants, she was under the necessity of contenting herself with seeing, and laying aside for the present the still more exquisite pleasure of being seen. Meantime the sponsors of both champions went, as was their duty, to see that they were duly armed, and prepared for combat. The Archduke of Austria was in no hurry to perform this part of the ceremony, having had rather an unusually severe debauch upon wine of Schiraz the preceding evening. But the Grand Master of the Temple, more deeply concerned in the event of the combat, was early before the tent of Conrade of Montserrat. To his great surprise, the attendants refused him admittance. *' Do you not know me, ye knaves?" said the Grand Master in great anger. " We do, most valiant and reverend," answered Con- rade's squire ; " but OMOxi yoii may not at present enter — the Marquis is about to confess himself" " Confess himself!" exclaimed the Templar, in a tone where alarm mingled with surprise and scorn — " and to whom I pray thee?" " My master bid me be secret," said the squire ; on which the Grand Master pushed past him, and entered the tent almost by force. The Marquis of Montserrat was kneeling at the feet of the Hermit of Engaddi, and in the act of beginning his confession. "What means this. Marquis?" said the Grand Master. " up, for shame- -or, if you must needs confess, am not I here?' am try. curcly le was seeing, quisite cnt, as :d, and was in having vine of Master vent of rade of refused Grand d Con- :nter — a tone and to re ; on entered he feet linning Master, m not I THE TRIAL B V CO MBA T 183 -, \ " I have confessed to you too often already," replied Conrade, with a pale cheek and a faltering voice. " For God's sake, Grand Master, begone, and let me unfold my conscience to this holy man." * " In what is he holier than I am?" said the Grand Master. — " Hermit, prophet, madman — say, if thou darcst, in what thou excellest me?" ** Bold and bad man," replied the Hermit, " know that I am like the latticed window, and the divine light passes through to avail others, though alas ! it hclpcth not me. Thou art like the iron stanchions, which neither receive light themselves, nor communicate it to any one." " Prate not to me, but depart from this tent," said the Grand Master ; " the Marquis shall not confess this morning, unless it be to me, for I part not from his side." " Is this your pleasure?" said the Hermit to Conrade ; " for think not I will obey that proud man, if you continue to desire my assistance." "Alas!" said Conrade irresolutely, "what would you hav^e me say? Farewell for a while-r-we will speak anon." ' ' "" ■ " O, procrastination!" exclaimed the Hermit, "thou art a soul-murderer ! — Unhappy man, farewell ; not for a while, but until we both shall meet — no matter where. — And for thee," he added, turning to the Grand Master, "tremble!" "Tremble!" replied the Templar contemptuously, " I cannot if I would." The Hermit heard not his answer, having left the tent. " Come ! to this gear hastily," said the Grand Master; "since thou wilt needs go through the foolery. — Hark thee — I think I know most of thy frailties by heart, so we may omit the detail, which may be somewhat a long iUiil 11:;: signifies 184 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. one, and begin with the absolution. What counting the spots of dirt that we are about to wash from our hands ?" " Knowing what thou art thyself," said Conrade, ** it is blasphemous to speak of pardoning another." " That is not according to the canon, Lord Marquis," said the Templar ; " thou art more scrupulous than orthodox. The absolution of the wicked priest is as effectual as if he were himself a saint ; otherwise, — God help the poor penitent 1 What wounded man inquires whether the surgeon that tents his gashes have clean hands or not? — Come, shall we to this toy?" " No," said Conrade, " I will rather die unconfessed than mock the sacrament." " Come, noble Marquis," said the Templar, " rouse up your courage, and speak not thus. In an hour's time thou shalt stand victorious in the lists, or confess thee in thy helmet, like a valiant knight." " Alas, Grand Master !" answered Conrade, " all augurs ill for this affair. The strange discovery by the instinct of a dog, the revival of this Scottish knight, who comes into the lists like a spectre, — all betokens evil." "Pshaw!" said the Templar, "I have seen thee bend thy lance boldly against him in sport, and with equal chance of success. Think thou art but in a tournament, and who bears him better in the tilt-yard than thou ? — Come, squires and armorers, your master must be ac- coutred for the field." The attendants entered accordingly, and began to arm the Marquis. "What morning is without?" said Conrade. " The sun rises dimly," answered a squire. " Thou seest, Grand Master," said Conrade, " naught smiles on us." THE TRIAL BY COMBAT. 185 unifies wash , " it is rquis," ) than : is as —God iquires i clean nfessed )usc up 's time thee in augurs nstinct comes te bend equal ament, lOU? — be ac- to arm naught " Thou wilt fight the more coolly, my son," answered the Templar. " Thank I leaven that hath tempered the sun of Palestine to suit thine occasion." Thus jested the Grand Master ; but his jests had lost their influence on the harassed mind of the Marquis, and, notwithstanding his attempts to seem gay, his gloom communicated itself to the Templar. " This craven," he thought, *' will lose the day in pure faintness and cowardice of heart, which he calls tender conscience. I, whom visions and auguries shake not — who am firm in my purpose as the living rock — I should have fought the combat myself — Would to God the Scot may strike him dead on the spot ; it were next best to his winning the victory. But, come what will, he must have no other confessor than myself Our sins are too much in common, and he migh'- confess my share with his own." While these thoughts passed through his mind, he continued to assist the Marquis in arming, but it was in silence. - '■ The hour at length arrived, the trumpets sounded, the knights rode into the lists armed at all points, and mounted like men who were to do battle for a kingdom's honor. They wore their visors up, and, riding around the lists three times, showed themselves to the spectators. Both were goodly persons, and both had noble counten- ances. But there was an air of manly confidence on the brow of the Scot, a radiancy of hope, which amounted even to cheerfulness, while, although pride and effort had recalled much of Conrade's natural courage, thcic lowered still on his brow a cloud of ominous despondence. Even his steed seemed to tread less lightly and blithely to the trumpet-sound than tlie noble Arab which was "•> m 1 1 '.It ■■ - i ft ; ."«>. A^ ,0. o^. \^>T.% IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1.25 '-la m ■ m 22 8:3 6 12.0 1.8 1.4 111.6 V] <^ /}. '&1 -^ % ^ '%' #^ w- "^iS*. i86 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. ! !i!!!!l bestrode by Sir Kenneth ; and the spnich-sprecher shook his head while he observed, that while the challenger rode around the lists in the course of the sun — that is, from right to left — the defender made the same circuit widder-sins — that is, from left to right — which is in most countries held ominous. A temporary altar was erected just beneath the gallery occupied by the Queen, and beside it stood the Hermit in the dress of his order, as a Carmelite friar. Other churchmen were also present. To this altar the chal- lenger and defender were successively brought forward, conducted by their respective sponsors. Dismounting before it, each knight avouched the justice of his cause by a solemn oath on the Evangelists, and prayed that his success might be according to the truth or falsehood of what he then swore. They also made oath, that they came to do battle in knightly guise, and with the usual weapons, disclaiming the use of spells, charms, or magical devices, to incline victory to their side. The challenger pronounced his vow with a firm and manly voice, and a bold and cheerful countenance. When the ceremony was finished, the Scottish Knight looked at the gallery, and bent his head to the earth, as if in honor of those invisible beauties which were enclosed within ; then, loaded with armor as he was, sprung to the saddle without the use of the stirrup, and made his courser carry him in a succession of caracoles to his station at the eastern extremity of the lists. Conrade also pre- sented himself before the altar with boldness enough ; but his voice, as he took the oath, sounded hollow, as if drowned in his helmet. The lips with which he appealed to Heaven to adjudge victory to the just quarrel, grew white as they uttered the impious mockery. As he THE TRIAL BY COMBAT. 187 turned to remount his horse, the Grand Master ap- proached him closer, as if to rectify something about the sitting of his gorget, and whispered, " Coward and fool ! recall thy senses, and do me this battle bravely ; else, by Heaven, shouldst thou escape him, thou escapest not 7ner The savage tone in which this was whispered, perhaps completed the confusion of the Marquis's nerves, for he stumbled as he made to horse ; and though he recovered his feet, sprung to the saddle with his usual agility, and displayed his address in horsemanship as he assumed his position opposite to the challenger's, yet the accident did not escape those who were on the watch for omens, which might predict the fate of the day. The priests, after a solemn prayer that God would show the rightful quarrel, departed from the lists. The trumpets of the challenger then rung a flourish, and the herald-at-arms proclaimed at the eastern end of the lists, — " Here stands a good knight. Sir Kenneth of Scotland, champion for the royal King Richard of England, who accuseth Conrade, Marquis ot Montserrat, of foul treason and dishonor done to the said King." When the words Kenneth o. Scotland announced the name and character of the ci impion, hitherto scarce generally known, a loud and cheerful acclaim burst from the followers of King Richard, and hardly, notwithstand- ing repeated commands of silence, suffer*^ ^ the reply of the defendant to be heard. He, of course, avouched his innocence, and offered his body for battle. The esquires of the combatants now approached, and delivered to each his shield and lance, assisting to hang the former around his neck, that his two hands might remain free, one for the management of the bridle, the other to direct the lance. ^RS^HS^^^iS^SCH^^HWBHi^ ■im\i III i LI 1 ill i88 ry/i5: ^/G^/f SCHOOL READER. The shield of the Scot displayed his old bearing, the leopard, but with the addition of a collar and broken chain, in allusion to his late captivity. The shield of the Marquis bore, in reference to his title, a serrated and rocky mountain. Each shook his lance aloft, as it to ascertain the weight and toughness of the unwieldy weapon, and then laid it in the rest. The sponsors, heralds, and squires, now retired to the barriers, and the combatants sat opposite to each other, face to face, with couched lance and closed visor, the human form so com- pletely enclosed, that they looked more like statues of molten iron than beings of flesh and blood. The silence of suspense was now general — men breathed thicker, and their very souls seemed seated in their eyes, wiii/e not a sound was to be heard save the snorting and pawing of the good steeds, who, sensible of what was about to happen, were impatient to dash into career. They stood thus for perhaps three minutes, when at a signal given by the Soldan, an hundred instruments rent the air with their brazen clamors, and each champion striking his horse with the spurs, and slacking the rein, the horses started into full gallop, and the knights met in mid space with a shock like a thunderbolt The victory was not in doubt — no, not one moment. Conrade, indeed, showed himself a practised warrior ; for he struck his antagonist knightly in the midst of his shield, bearing his lance sc straight and true, that it shivered into splinters from th< steel spear-head up to the very gauntlet. The horse of Sir Kenneth recoiled two or three yards and fell on his haunches, but the rider easily raised him with hand and rein. But for Conrade there was no recovery. Sir Kenneth's lance had pierced through the shield, through a plated corselet of Milan steel, through a secret^ or coat THE TRIAL BY COMBAT. 189 of linked mail, worn beneath the corselet, had wounded him deep in the bosom, and borne him from his saddle, leaving the truncheon of the lance fixed in his wound. The sponsors, heralds, and Saladin himself, descending from his throne, crowded around the wounded man ; while Sir Kenneth, who had drawn his sword ere yet he discovered his f ntagonist was totally helpless, now com- manded him to avow his guilt. The helmet was hastily unclosed, and the wounded man, gazing wildly on the skies, replied, "What would you more? God hath decided justly. I am guilty — but there are worse traitors in the camp than I. — In pity to my soul, let me have a confessor!" He revived as he uttered these words. " The talisman — the powerful remedy, royal brother," said King Richard to Saladin. " The traitor," answered the Soldan, " is more fit to be dragged from the lists to the gallows by the heels, than to profit by its virtues : and some such fate is in his look," he added, after gazing fixedly upon the wounded man ; " for though his wound may be cured, yet Azrael's seal is on the wretch's brow." " Nevertheless," said Richard, " I pray you do for him what you may, that he may at least have time for con- fession. Slay not soul and body ! To him one half-hour of time may be worth more, by ten thousand fold, than the life of the oldest patriarch." » " My royal brother's wish shall be obeyed," said Saladin. — " Slaves, bear this wounded man to our tent." " Do not .so," said the Templar, who had hitherto stood gloomily looking on in silence. " The royal Duke of Austri.* and myself will not permit this unhappy ChrifitiiHi prince to be delivered over to the Saracens, 1 ."•mm iPh 190 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. \m that they may try their spells upon him. We are his sponsors, and demand that he be assigned to our care." ** That is, you refuse the certain means offered to re- cover him ?" said Richard. " Not so," said the Grand Master, recollecting himself. "If the Soldan useth lawful medicines, he may attend the patient in my tent." " Do so, I pray thee, good brother," said Pichard to Salad in, " though the permission be ungraciously yielded. — But now to a more glorious work. Sound, trumpets — shout, England, in honor of England's champion !" Drum, clarion, trumpet, and cymbal, rung forth at once, and the deep and regular shout, which for ages has been the English acclamation, sounded amidst the shrill and irregular yells of the Arabs, like the diapason of the organ amid the howling of a storm. There was silence at lengtli. " Brave Knight of the Leopard," resumed Coeur de Lion, " thou hast shown that the Ethiopian may change his skin and the Leopard his spots, though clerks quote Scripture for the impossibility. Yet I have more to say to you when I have conducted you to the presence of the ladies, the best judges, and best rewarders, of deeds of chivalry." The Knight of the Leopard bowed assent "And thou, princely Saladin, wilt also attend them. I promise t^ee our Queen will not think herself welcome, if she lacks the opportunity to thank her royal host for her most princely reception." Saladin bent his head gracefully, but declined tlie invitation. " I must attend the wounded man," he said. " The leech leaves not his patient more than the champion the THE TRIAL BY COMBAT. 191 ire his :are. i to re- imself. attend lard to ielded. ipets — I) )rth at jes has e shrill of the silence Eur de :hange quote to say nee of deeds them. IcoHie, ost for 2d tlie "The on the lists, even if he be summoned to a bower like those of Paradise. . . At noon," said the Soldan, as he de- parted, " I trust ye will all accept a collation under the black camel-skin tent of a chief of Curdistan." The same invitation was circulated among the Chris- tians, comprehending all those of sufficient importance to be admitted to sit at a feast made for princes. "Hark!" said Richard, "the timbrels announce that our Queen and her attendants are leaving their gallery; and see, the turbans sink on the ground, as if struck down by a destroying angel. All lie prostrate, as if the glance of an Arab's eye could sully the lustre of a lady's dheek ! Come, we will to the pavillion, and lead our conqueror thither in triumph. How I pity that noble Soldan, who knows but of love as it is known to those of inferior nature !" Blondel tuned his harp to its boldest measure, to welcome the introduction of the victor into the pavilion of Queen Berehgaria. He entered, supported on either side by his sponsors, Richard and William Longsword, and knelt gracefully down before the Queen, though more than half the homage was silently rendered to Edith, who sat on her right hand. " Unarm him, my mistresses," said the King, whose delight was in the execution of such chivalrous usages ; "let Beauty honor Chivalry! Undo his spurs. Beren- garia ; Queen though thou be, thou owest hi.»i what marks of favor thou canst give. — Unlace his helmet, Edith ; by this hand, thou shalt, wert thou the proudest Plantagenet of the line, and he the poorest knight on earth!" Both ladies obeyed the royal commands, — Berengaria with bustling assiduity, as anxious to gratify her hus- ^;;- 193 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. band's humor, and Edith blushing and growing pale alternately, as slowly and awkwardly she undid, with Longsword's assistance, the fastenings which secured the helmet to the gorget. " And what expect you from beneath this iron shell ? " said Richard, as the removal of the casque gave to view the noble countenance of Sir Kenneth, his face glowing with recent exertion, and not less so with present emotion. "What think ye of him, gallants and beauties?" said Richard. " Doth he resemble an Ethiopian slave, or doth he present the face of an obscure and nameless adventurer ? No, by my good sword ! Here terminate his various disguises. He hath knelt down before you, unknown save by his worth ; he arises, equally distin- guished by birth and by fortune. The adventurous knight, Kenneth, arises David, Earl of Huntingdon, Prince Royal of Scotland ! " There was a general exclamation of surprise, and Edith dropped from her hand the helmet which she had just received. . . . " May we know of your grace by what strange and happy chance this riddle has been read ?" said the Queen Berengaria. " Letters were brought to us from England," said the King, " in which we learned, among other unpleasant news, that the King of Scotland had seized upon three of our nobles, when on a pilgrimage to Saint Ninian, and alleged as a cause, ihat h h ^l* being supposed to be fighting in the ranks of the 1 jut-^nx x<^nights, against the heathen of Borussia, was, in fact, in our camp and in our power ; and, therefore, William proposed to hold these nobles as hostages for his safety. This gave me the first light on the roal rank "»f the Knight, of tjjft iiii'.iii^i';' ! THE TRIAL BY COMBAT. 193 lid the :asant three inian, 5ed to [gainst ind in hold ;e me )f tjjft Leopard, and my suspicions were confirmed by De Vaux, who, on his return from Ascalon, brought back with him the Earl of Huntingdon's sole attendant, a thick-skulled slave, who had gone thirty miles to unfold to De Vaux a secret he should have told to mc." " Old Strauchan must be excused," said the Lord of Gilsland. " He knew from experience that my heart is somewhat softer than if I wrote myself Plantagenet" " Thy heart soft ? thou commodity of old iron, and Cumberland flint that thou art!" exclaimed the King. " It is we Plantagenets who boast soft and feeling hearts, Edith," he continued, turning to his cousin, with an ex- pression which called the blood into her cheek. — " Give me thy hand, my fair cousin, and, Prince of Scotland, thine." ... It is needless to follow into further particulars the conferences at the royal tent, or to enquire whether David, Earl of Huntingdon, was as mute in the presence of Edith Plantagenet, as when he was bound to act under the character of an obscure and nameless adventurer. It may be well believed that he there expressed, with suitable earnestness, the passion to which he had so often before found it difficult to give words. The hour of noon how approached, and Saladin waited to receive the Princes of Christendom in a tent, which, but for its laige size, differed little from that of the ordinary shelter of the common Curdman, or Arab ; yet, beneath its ample and sable covering, was prepared a banquet after the most gorgeous fashion of the East, extended upon carpets of the richest stuffs, with cushions laid for the guests. But we cannot stop to describe the cloth of gold and silver, the superb embroidery in Ara- besque, the shawls of Cashmere, and the muslins of India, M t ^i I 194 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER, Jlfii iii! i I - in which were here unfolded in all their splendor ; far less to tell the different sweetmeats, ragouts edged with rice colored in various manners, with all the other niceties of Eastern cookery. Lambs roasted whole, and game and poultry dressed in pilaus, were piled in vessels of gold^ and silver, and porcelain, and intermixed with large mazers of sherbet, cooled in snow and ice from the caverns of Mount Lebanon. A magnificent pile of cushions at the head of the banquet, seemed prepared for the master of the feast, and such dignitaries as he might call to share that place of distinction, while from the roof of the tent in all quarters, but over this seat of eminence in particular, waved many a banner and pennon, the trophies of battles won, and kingdoms overthrown. But amongst and above them all, a long lance displayed a shroud, the banner of Death, with this impressive inscription, "Saladin, King of Kings— Saladin, Victor of Victors — Saladin must die." Amid these prepara- tions, the slaves who had arranged the refreshments stood with drooped heads and folded arms, mute and motionless as monumental statuary, or as automata, which waited the touch of the artist to put them in motion. Expecting the approach of his princely guests, the Soldan, imbued, as most were, with the superstitions of his time, paused over a horoscope and corresponding scroll, which had been sent to him by the Hermit of Engaddi when he departed from the camp. "Strange and mysterious science," he muttered to himself, "which, pretending to draw the curtain of futurity, misleads those whom it seems to guide, and darkens the scene which it pretends to illuminate ! Who would not have said that I was that enemy most danger- THE TRIAL BY COMBAT, «9S r less 1 rice ies of e and gold, large iverns ons at Tiaster :all to of the nee in ophies nongst shroud, ription, OR OF repara- ments te and omata, em in ;ts, the [:ions of [onding rmit of ;red to tain of le, and Who langer- ous to Richard, whose enmity was to be ended by marriage with his kinswoman ? Yet it now appears that a union betwixt this gallant Earl and the lady will bring about friendship betwixt Richard and Scotland, an enemy more dangerous than I, as a wild cat in a chamber is more to be dreaded than a lion in a distant desert. — But then, . . . — How now, what means this intrusion?" He spoke to the dwarf Nectabanus, who rushed into the tent fearfully agitated, with each strange and dispro- portioned feature wrenched by horror into still more extravagant ugliness, — his mouth open, his eyes staring, his hands, with their shrivelled and deformed fingers, wildly expanded. " What now?" said the Soldan, sternly. ^^ Accipe hoc !" groaned out the dwarf. " Ha ! say'st thou ?" answered Saladin. ^^ Accipe hoc!'' replied the panic-struck creature, un- conscious, perhaps, that he repeated the same words as before. " Hence ! I am in no vein for foolery, said the Emperor. " Nor am I further fool," said the dwarf, " than to make my folly help out my wits to earn my bread, poor helpless wretch ! — Hear, hear me, great Soldan !" " Nay, if thou hast actual wrong to complain of," «aid Saladin, " fool or wise, thou art entitled to the ear of a King. — Retire hither with me ;" and he led him into the I inner tent. Whatever their conference related to, it was soon I broken ofif by the fanfare of the trumpets, announcing the arrival of the various Christian princes, whom Saladin welcomed to his tent with a royal courtesy well becoming Itheir rank and his own : but chiefly he saluted the young 196 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. '■A Hi Earl of Huntingdon, and generously congratulated him upon prospects, which seemed to have interfered with and overclouded those which he had himself entertained. " But think not," said the Soldan, " thou noble youth, that the Prince of Scotland is more welcome to Saladin, than was Kenneth to the solitary Ilderim when they met in the desert, or the distressed Ethiop to the Hakim Adonbec. A brave and generous disposition like thine hath a value independent of condition and birth, as the cool draught which I here proffer thee, is as delicious from an earthen vessel as from a goblet of gold." The Earl of Huntingdon made a suitable reply, grate- fully acknowledging the various important services he had received from the generou« Soldan ; but when he had pledged Saladin in the bowl 01 sherbet which the Soldan had proffered to him, he could not help remarking with a smile, " The brave cavalier, Ilderim, knew not of the formation of ice, but the munificent Soldan cools his sherbet with snow." " Wouldst thou have an Arab or a Curdman as wise as a Hakim ?" said the Soldan. " He who does on a dis- guise must make the sentiments of his heart and the learning of his head accord with the dress which he assumes. '^ desired to see how a brave and single-hearted cavalier of Frangistan would conduct himself in debate with such a chief as I then seemed ; and I questioned the truth of a well-known fact, to know by what argu- ments thou wouldst support thy assertion." While they were speaking, the Archduke of Austria, who stood a little apart, was struck with the mention oi iced sherbet, and took with pleasure and some bluntness the deep goblet, as the Earl of Huntingdon was about to replace it THE TRIAL BY COMBAT. 197 1 him 1 with ained. youth, iladin, ;y met riakim ; thine as the ilicious , grate- ices he he had Soldan ng with of the )ols his wise as n a dis- ind the hich he learted debate tioned argu- iS' Austria, tion ol untness bout to " Most delicious !" he exclaimed, after a deap draught, which the heat of the weather, and the feverishness following the debauch of the preceding day, had rendered doubly acceptable. He sighed as he handed the cup to the Grand Master of the Templars. Saladin made a sign to the dwarf, who advanced and pronounced, with a harsh voice, the words Accipe hod The Templar started, like a steed who sees a lion under a bush, beside the pathway ; yet instantly recovered, and to hide, per- haps, his confusion, raised the goblet to his lips ; — but those lips never touched that goblet's rim. The sabre of Saladin left its sheath as lightning leaves the cloud. It was waved in the air, — and the head of the Grand Master rolled to the extremity of the tent, while the trunk re- mained, for a secord, standing, with the goblet still clenched in its grasp, then fell, the liquor mingling with the blood that spurted from the veins. There was a general exclamation of treason, and Austria, nearest to whom Saladin stood with the bloody sabre in his hand, started back as if apprehensive that his turn was to come next. Richard and others laid hand on their swords. " Fear nothing, noble Austria," said Saladin, as com- posedly as if nothing had happened, "nor you, royal England, be wroth at what you have seen. Not for his manifold treasons ; — not for the attempt which, as may be vouched by his own squire, he instigated against King Richard's life ; — not that he pursued the Prince of Scot- land and myself in the desert, reducing us to save our lives by the speed of our horses ; — not that he had stirred up the Maronites to attack us upon this very occasion, had I not brought up unexpectedly so many Arabs as rendered the scheme abortive ; — not for any or ^198 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER, ■tj 4 6 'i" iiiii^ all of these crimes does he now lie there, although each were deserving such a doom ; — but because, scarce halt- an-hour ere he polluted our presence, as the simoom empoisons the atmosphere, he poniarded his comrade and a omplice, Conrade of Montserrat, lest he should confess the infamous plots in which they had both been engaged." " How ! Conrade murdered ? — And by the Grand Master, his sponsor and most intimate friend !" exclaimed Richard. " Noble Soldan, I would not doubt thee ; yet this must be proved ; otherwise " " There stands the evidence," said Saladin, pointing to the terrified dwarf * Allah, who sends the fire-fly to illuminate the night-season, can discover secret crimes by the most contemptible means." The Soldan proceeded to tell the dwarfs story, which amounted to this. — In his foolish curiosity, or as he partly confessed, with some thoughts of pilfering, Necta- banus had strayed into the tent of Conrade, which had been deserted by his attendants, some of whom had left the encampment to carry the news of hir defeat to his brother, and others were availing themselves of the means which Saladin had supplied for revelling. The wounded man slept under the influence of Saladin's wonderful talisman, so that the dwarf had opportunity to pry about at pleasure, until he v/as frightened into concealment by the sound of a heavy step. He skulked behind a curtain, yet could see the motions, and hear the words of the Grand Master, who entered, and carefully secured the covering of the pavillion behind him. His victim started from sleep, and it would appear that he instantly suspected the purpose of his old associate, for it was in a tone of alarm that he demanded wherefore he disturbed him. us.' THE TRIAL BY COMBAT. 199 ;h each ce halt- iimoom omrade should th been Grand claimed lee ; yet inting to re-fly to t crimes y, which )r as he ;, Necta- ich had had left lat to his " I come to confess and absolve thee," answered the Grand Master. Of their further speech the terrified dwarf remembered little, save that Conrade implored the Grand Master not to break a wounded reed, and that- the Templar struck him to the heart with a Turkish dagger, wi h the words Accipe hoc, — words which long afterward haunted the terrified imagination- of the concealed witness. " I verified the tale," said Saladin, "by causing the body to be examined ; and I made this unhappy being, whom Allah hath made the discoverer of the crime, repeat in your own presence the words which the mur- derer spoke, and you yourselves saw the effect which they produced upon his conscience." The Soldan paused, and the King of England broke silence : — "If this be true, as I doubt not, we have witnessed a great act of justice, though it bore a different aspect. But wherefore in this presence? wherefore with thine own hand?" " I had designed otherwise," said Saladin, " but had I not hastened his doom, it had been altogether averted, since, if I had permitted him to taste of my cup, as he was about to do, how could T, without incurring the brand of inhospitality, have done him to death as he deserved ? Had he murdered my father, and afterward partaken of my food and my bowl, not a hair of his head could have been injured by me. But enough of him ; let his carcass and his memory be removed from amongst us." The body was carried away, and the marks of the slaughter obliterated or concealed with such ready dex- terity, as showed that the case was not altogether so 2CX> THE ^IGH SCHOOL READER. •< r; ! ; :' 'i' i m liiii I uncommon, as to paralyze the assistants and pfficers of Saladin's household. But the Christian princes felt that the scene which they had beheld weighed heavily on their spirits, and although, at the courteous invitation of the Soldan, they assumed their seats at the banquet, yet it was with the silence of doubt and amazement. The spirits of Richard alone surmounted all cause for suspicion or embarrass- ment. Yet he, too, seemed to ruminate on some pro- position, as if he were desirous of making it in the most insinuating and acceptable manner which was possible. At length he drank off a large bowl of wine, and addressing the Soldan, desired to know whether it was not true that he had honored the Earl of Huntingdon with a personal encounter. Saladin answered with a smile, that he had proved his horse and his weapons with the heir of Scotland, as cavaliers are wont to do with each other when they meet in the desert ; and modestly added that, though the combat was not entirely decisive, he had not, on his part, much reason to pride himself on the event. The Scot, on the other hand, disclaimed the attributed superiority, and wished to assign it to the Soldan. " Enough of honor thou hast had in the encounter," said Richard, " and I envy thee more for that, than for the smiles of Edith Plantagcnet, though one of them might reward a bloody day's work. — But what say you, Doble princes ; is it fitting that such a royal ring of chivalry should break up without something being done for future times to ^^peak of? What is the overthrow and death of a traitor, to such a fair garland of honor as is here assembled, and which ought not to part without witnessing something more worthy of their regard ? ■in-li!!^ THE TRIAL BY COMBAT 201 ;ers of which 3, and I, they th the ichard irrass- e pro- 2 most )ssible. s, and it was ingdon ;;ed his nd, as Y meet rh the ion his The buted unter," an for them y you, ing of done rthrow )nor as ithout 2gard ? How say you, princely Soldan ; what if we two should now, and before this fair company, decide the long-con- tended question for this land of Palestine, and end at once these tedious wars? Yonder are the lists ready, nor can Paynimrie ever hope a better champion than thou. I, unless worthier offers, will lay down my gaunt- let in behalf of Christendom, and, in all love and honor, we will do mortal battle for the possession of Jerusalem." There was a deep pause for the Soldan's answer. His cheek and brow colored highly, and it was the opinion of many present that he hesitated whether he should accept the challenge. At length he said : " Fighting for the Holy City against those whom we regard as idolaters, and worshippers of stocks and stot'^'^s, and graven images, I might confide that Allah would strengthen my arm ; or if I fell beneath the sword of the Melech Ric, I could not pass to Paradise by a more glorious death. But Allah has already given Jerusalem to the true believers, and it were a tempting the God of the Prophet to peril, upon my own personal strength and skill, that which I hold securely by the superiority of my forces." "If not for Jerusalem, then," said Richard, in the tone of one who would entreat a favor of an intimate friend, " yet, for the love of honor, let us run at least three courses with grinded lances." "Even this' said Saladin, half smiling at Coeur de Lion's affectic nate earnestness for the combat, " even this I may not la vvfully do. The Master places the shepherd over the flock, not for the shepherd's own sake, but for the sake of the sheep. Had I a son to hok ,he sceptre when I fell, I might have had the liberty, as I have the will, to brave this bold encounter ; but your own Scripture sayeth, that when the herdsman is smitten, th*^ sheep are scattered." t fl ,1 ( 202 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. " Thou hast had all the fortune," said Richard, turning to the Earl of Huntingdon with a sigh. " I would have given the best year of my life for that one half-hour beside the Diamond of the Desert ! " The chivalrous extravagance of Richard awakened the spirits of the assembly, and wher> at length they arose to depart, Salad in advanced and took Coeur de Lion by the hand. " Noble King of England," he said, " we now part, never to meet again. That your league is dissolved, no more to be reunited, and that your native forces are far too few to enable you to prosecute your enterprise, is as well known to me as to yourself. I may not yield you up that Jerusalem which you so much desire to hold. It is to us, as to you, a Holy City. But whatever other terms Richard demands of Saladin, shall be as willingly yielded as yonder fountain yields its waters. Ay, and the same should be as frankly afforded by Saladin, if Richard stood in the desert with but two archers in his train 1" XXXI. TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. (At Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond.) William Wordsworth. — 1770-1850. Sweet Highland girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head : And these gray rocks ; this household lawn ; These trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. This fall of water, that doth make A murmur near the silent lake ; This little bay, a quiet road That holds in shelter thy abode In truth, together do ye seem Like something fashion'd in a dream ; Such forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep ! Yet, dream and vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart : God shield thee to thy latest years ! Thee neither know I nor thy peers ; And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears. 203 With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away : For never saw I mien, or face, In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here scatter'd like a random seed, Remote from men, thou dost not need The embarrass'd look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefac^dness : Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a mountaineer : A face with gladness overspread ! Soft smiles, by human kindness bred 1 And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech : A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life I ':w\ m\ 204 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER, So have I, not uhmov'd in mind, . Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, Thus beating up against the wind. V/hat hand ,but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful ? happy pleasure ! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell ; Adopt your homely ways, and dress, A shepherd, thou a shepherdess ! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality : Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea ; and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighborhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see ! Thy elder brother I would be, Thy father, anything to thee ! Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place. Joy have I had ; and going hence 1 bear away my recompense. In spots like these it is we prize Our memory, feel that she hath eyes : Then, why should I be loth to stir ? I feel this place was made for her ; To give new pleasure like the past, Continued long as life shall last. Nor am I loth, though pleas'd at heart, Sweet Highland girl ! from thee to part ; For I, methinks, till I grow old. As fair before me shall behold, As I do now, the cabin small. The lake, the bay, the waterfall ; And thee, the spirit of them all I FRANCE: AN ODE. 905 XXXII. FRANCE : AN ODE. (1797-) Samuel Taylor Coleridge. — 1772-1834. I. Ye Clouds ! that far above me float and pause, Whose pathless march no mortal may control I Ye Ocean-Waves ! that, wheresoe'er ye roll, Yield homage only to eternal laws ! Ye Woods ! that listen to the night-birds singing, Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclin'd, Save when your own imperious branches, swinging. Have made a solemn music of the wind ! Where, like a man belov'd of God, Through glooms, which never woodman trod, How oft, pursuing fancies holy, My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound, Inspir'd, beyond the guess of folly. By each rude shape .and wild unconquerable sound ! O ye loud Waves ! and O ye Forests high ! And O ye Clouds that far above me soar'd I Thou rising Sun ! thou blue rejoicing Sky ! Yea, every thing that is and will be free ! Beai witness for me^ whereso'er ye be. With what deep worship I have still ador'd The spirit of divinest Liberty. II. When France in wrath her giant-limbs uprear'd, And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea, Stamp'd her strong foot and said she would be free, Bear witness for me, how I hoped and fear'd I .J$ I •>* -?J n't ij 206 77/£ H/GN SCHOOL READER, With what a jo)- my lofiy gratulation Unaw'd I sang, amid a slavish band ; And when to whelm the disenchanted nation, Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand. The Monarchs march'd in evil day, And Britain join'd the dire array, Though dear her shores and circling ocean, Though many friendships, many youthful loves, Had swoll'n the patriot emotion. And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves ; Yet still my voice, unalter'd, sang defeat To all that brav'd the tyrant-quelling lance, And shame too long delay'd and vain retreat ! For ne'er, O Liberty ! with partial aim I dimm'd thy light or damp'd thy holy flame ; But bless'd the paeans of deliver'd France, And hung my head and wept at Britum's name. It- V-i ■■\S ii III. " And what," I said, " though Blasphemy's loud scream With that sweet music of deliverance strove ! Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove • A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream ! Ye Storms, that round the dawning east assembled, The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light !" And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped a^id trembled, The dissonance ceas'd, and all seem'd calm and bright ; When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory Conceal'd with clustering wreaths of glory ; When, insupportably advancing. Her arm made mockery of the warrior's tramp, While, timid looks of furj' glancing. Domestic treason, crush'd beneath her fatal stamp, Writh'd like a wounded dragon in his gore : m FRANCE: Ah ODE. 20f Then I reproach'd my fears that would not flee ; ' And soon," I said, " shall Wisdom teach her lore In the low huts of them that toil and groan 1 And, conquering by her happiness alone, Shall France compel the nations to be free, Till Love and Joy look round, and call the earth their ovfu."^ IV. Forgive me. Freedom ! O forgive those dreams ! I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, From bleak Helvetia's icy cavern sent, — I hear thy groans upon her blood-staih'd streams ! Heroes, that for your peaceful country perish'd, And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows With bleeding wounds, forgive me, that I cherish'd One thought that ever bless'd your cruel foes ! To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt, Where Peace her jealous home had built ; A patriot-race to disinherit Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear. And with inexpiable spirit To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer, — O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind, And patriot only in pernicious toils, Are these thy boasts, champion of human kind ? To mix with kings in the low lust of sway, Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey ; To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils From freemen torn ; to tempt and to betray ? V. The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, Slaves by their own compulsion ! In mad game They burst their manacles and wear the name Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain 1 m ill 308 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. O Liberty ! with profitless endeavor Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour ; But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever * Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. Alike from al), howe'er they praise thee (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee), Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves, Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions. The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves ! And there I felt thee ! — on that sea-cliffs verge, Whose pines, scarce travell'd by the breeze above, Had made one murmur with the distant surge ! Yes, while I stood and gaz'd, my temples bare, And shot my being through earth, sea, and air, Possessing all things with intensest love, O Liberty ! my sjjirit felt thee there. ;< 1 ti'; XXXIII. COMPLAINT AND REPROOF. COLKRIDGK. I. How seldom, friend 1 a good great man inherits Honor or wealth, with all his worth and pains ! It sounds like stories from the land of spirits, If any man obtain that which he merits, Or any merit that which he obtains. II. For shame, dear friend ! renounce this canting strain I What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain ? saii i THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE, 309 Place — titles — salary — a gilded chain — Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain ? — Greatness and goodness are not means but ends ! Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good great man ? — three treasures, — love, and light, And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath ; — And three firm friends, more sure than day and night, — Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. XXXIV. THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. Robert Southey.— 1774-1843. A WELL there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen ; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, And behind doth an ash-tree grow. And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below. A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne j Joyfully he drew nigh ; For from cock-crow he had been travelling. And there was not a cloud in the sky. He drank of the water so cool and clear. For thirsty and hot was he ; And he sat down upon the bank Under the willow-tree. There came a man from the house hard by, At the well to fill his pail ; N ■' 1, nwm 2IO TNE HIGH SCHOOL READER, On the well-side he rested it, And he bade the stranger hail. " Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger ?" quoth he ; " For, an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life. " Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been ? For, an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne." " I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply ; " But that my draught should be the better for that, I pray you answer me why." " St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, " many a time Drank of this crystal well ; And, before the angel summon'd her. She laid on the water a spell, — " Tf the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he. For he shall be master for life ; " But if the wife should drink of it first, God help the husband then ! " The stranger stoop'd to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the water again. " You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes ? " He to the Cornish-man said ; But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head : — THE ISLES OF GREECE. " I hasten'd, as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch ; But i' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church." 211 XXXV. THE ISLES OF GREECE. Lord Byron. — 1788-1824. The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece 1 Where burning Sappho lov'd and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! Eternal summer gilds them yet. But all, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse : Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." The mountains look on Marathon — And Marathon looks on the sea ; And musing there an hour alone, I dream'd that Greece might still be free j For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; And ships, by th1)usands, lay below, And men in nations : — all were his 1 212 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER, V He counted them at break of day — And when the sun set, where were tbey ? And where are they ? and where art thou; My country ? On thy voiceless sh^v* The heroic lay is tuneless now — The heroic bosom beats no more I And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine ? 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though link'd among a fetter'd race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; For what is left the poet here ? For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. ^ Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? Must w but blush ? — Our fathers bled Earth ! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead ! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae ! What, silent still ? and silent all ? Ah ! no ; — the \^oices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, " Let one living head, But one, arise, — we come, we come ! " 'Tis but the living who are dumb. * In vain — in vain : strike other chords ; Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — How answers each bold Bav':chanal I THE ISLES OF GREECE. You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet ; Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one ? You have the letters Cadmus gave — Think ye he meant them for a slave ? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! We will not think of themes like these ! It made Anacreon's song divine : He served — but served Polycrates — A tyrant ; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen. The tyra t of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; That tyrant was Miltiades ! Oh ! that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind ! Su(^h chains as his were sure to bind. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore ; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, The Heracleidan blood might own. Trust not for freedom to the Franks — They have a king who buys and sells : In native swords, and native ranks. The only hope of courage dwells ; But Turkish force, and Latin fraud. Would break your shield, however broad. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! Our virgins dance beneath ihe shade— 213 Mm\- ' \ It. i! I ( 2U T//£ HIGH SCHOOL READER, I see theii glorious black eyes shine ; But gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, . To think such breasts must suckle slaves. Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; There, swan-like, let me sing and die : A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! XXXVI. GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE Thomas Moore. — 1779-1852. Go where glory waits thee ; But, while fame elates thee, O, still remember me I When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest, O, then remember me ! Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee Sweeter far may be j But when friends are nearest. And when joys are dearest, O, then remember me ! When, at eve, thou rovest By the star thou lovest, O, then renicmber me 1 De. 1 Wh( A DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY. Think, when home returning, Bright we've seen it burning, O, thus remember me ! Oft as summer closes, When thine eye reposes On its lingering roses. Once so lov'd by thee. Think of her who wove them. Her who made thee love them, O, then remember me I 211; When, around thee dying. Autumn leaves are lying, O, then remember me \ And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing, O, still remember me ! Then, should music, stealing All the soul of feeling. To thy heart appealing. Draw one tear from thee ; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee,^ O, then remember me \ XXXVII. DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY. Moore. Dear Harp of my Country ! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song 1 ,'»s. ii6 THE HIGH SCHOOL READEk. The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill ; But, so oft hast thou echo'd the deep sigh of sadness, That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear Harp of my Country ! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine ! Go, sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine ; If ihe pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone ; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over. And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own. n % I". 'I XXXVIII. COME, YE DISCONSOLATE. Moore. Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish, Come, at God's altar fervently kneel ; Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish- Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal. Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying, Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure. Here speaks the Comforter, in God's name saying, — " Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure." Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us. What charm for aching hearts he can reveal, Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us, " Earth has no sorrow that God cannot heal." Kii An( Th( An( An( Val Rai Th( THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. 217 XXXIX. ON A LOCK OF MILTON'S HAIR. le! > le; lish- Leigh Hunt.— 1784-1859. It lies before me there, and my own breath Stirs its thin outer threads, as though ' aside The living head I stood in honor'd pride, Talking of lovely things that conquer death. Perhaps he press'd it once, or underneath Ran his fine fingers, when he leant, blank-ey'd. And saw, in fancy, Adam and his bride With their rich locks, or his own Delphic wreath. There seems a love in hair, though it be dead. It is the gentlest, yet the strongest thread Of our frail plant, — a blossom from the tree Surviving the proud trunk ; — as though it said Patience and gentleness is power ; in me Behold affectionate eternity. XI. THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. Leigh Hunt. King Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a royal sport. And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the court : The nobles fill'd the benches round, the ladies by their side, And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to make his bride ; And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws ; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beards, a wind went with their paws ; Ml 2l8 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. With wallowing might and stifled roar they roll'd one on another, Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a tbund'rous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air ; Said Francis then, " Good gentlemen, we're b( tter here than there !" De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same : She thought, "The Count, my lover, is as brave as brave can be ; He surely would do desperate things to show his love of me I King, ladies, lovers, all look on ; the chance is wondrous fine ; I'll drop my glove to prove his love \ great glory will be mine !" ■•A. -I % She dropp'd her glove to prove his love : then look'd on him and smiled ; He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild : The leap was quick ; return was quick ; he soon regain'd his place ; Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in thf lady's face ! "In truth !" cried Francis, "rightly done!" and Ae rose from where he sat : "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a tasl H^-c tlvit !" Rough wind, that moanest loud Grief too sad for song ; Wi/d wind, when sullen cloud Knells all the night long ; Sad storm, whose tears are vain, Bare woods, whose branches strain^ Deep caves and dreary main. Wail, for the world^s wrong. THE CLOUD. 219 XLI. THE CLOUD. Percy Bysshe Shelley.— 1792-1822. I. I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers From the seas and the streams ; I bear hght shade for the leaves when laid In their noon-day dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rock'd to rest on their Mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail. And whiten the green plains under ; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder. II. I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast ; And all the night 'tis my pillow white. While I sleep in the arms of the Blast. Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers Lightning, my pilot, sits ; In a cavern under is fetter'd the Thunder, — It struggles and howls at fits. Over earth and ocean with gentle motion This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the Genii that move In the depths of the purple sea ; Over the rills and the crags and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains. 'J e WM i,ii' '^ llillii! 220 77/r /^/6^// SCHOOL HEADER. Wherever he dream under mountain or stream The Spirit he loves remains ; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains. III. The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning star shines dead ; As on the jag of a mountain-crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lii sea beneath. Its ardor of rest and of love. And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above. With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove. IV. That orbbd maiden, with white-fire laden, Whom mortals call the Moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor By the midnight breezes strewn ; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear. May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, behind her a V 1 peep peer. And I laugh to see them whirl and flee Like a swarm of goldeii bees, I I F A I L THE CLOUD. When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, — Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, Are each pav'd with the moon and these. 221 V. I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone, And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl j The volcanoes are dim, and the Stars reel and swim, when the Whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to caj , with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, — The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch, through which I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow. When the Powers of the air are chain'd to my chair, Is the million-color'd bow ; The Sphere-fire above its soft colors wove. While the moist Earth was laughing below. VI. I am the daughter of Earth and Water, And the nursling of the Sky ; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when with never a stain The pavilion of heaven i bu^e. And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, — And out of the caverns of rain. Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise, and unbuild it again. aaa THE HIGH SCHOOL READER, XLII. ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER. John Keats.— 1795-1821. Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne : Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken ; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific — and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — Silent, upon a peak in Darien. XLIII. ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET. iiii ■t"s-' Keats, The poetry of earth is never dead : When all the birds are faint with the hot sun. And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead : That is the grasshopper's — he takes the lead In summer luxury, — he has never done With his delights, for, when tired out with fun. He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never : On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half lost. The grasshopper's among some grassy hills. POWER AND DANGER OF THE CMSARS. 223 XLIV. THE POWER AND DANGER OF THE CiESARS. Thomas De Quincey.— 1785-1859, From The Caesars. To this view of the imperial character and relations must be added one single circumstance, which in some measure altered the whole for the individual who hap- pened to fill the office. The emperor de facto might be viewed under two aspects ; there was the man, and there was the office. In his office he was immortal and sacred : but as a question might still be raised, by means of a mercenary army, as to the claims of the particular indi- vidual who at any time filled the office, the very sanctity and privilege of the character with which he was clothed might actually be turned against himself; and here it is, at this point, that the character of Roman emperor be- came truly and mysteriously awfid. Gibbon has taken notice of the extraordinary situation of a subject in the Roman empire who should attempt to fly from the wrath of the Caesar. Such was the ubiquity of the emperor that this was metaphysically hopeless. Except across pathless deserts or amongst barbarous nomads, it was impossible to find even a transient sanctuary from the imperial pursuit. If the fugitive went down to the sea, there he met the emperor : if he took the wings of the morning, and fled to the uttermost parts of the earth, there was also Caesar in the person of his lieutenants. But, by a dreadful counter-charm, the same omnipresence of imperial anger and retribution which withered the hopes of the poor humble prisoner, met and confounded the emperor himself, when hurled from his elevation by some fortunate rival All the kingdoms of the earth, to I! V 224 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 1 1 ^^Hb^ ' . i ' h I' I 'J one in that situation, became but so many wards of the same infinite prison. Flight, if it were even successful for the moment, did but a little retard his inevitable doom. And so evident was this, that hardly in one instance did the fallen prince attempt to fly ; passively he met the deatb- v/hich was inevitable, in the very spot where ruin hcc! overtaken him. Neither was it possible even for a merciful conqueror to show mercy ; for, in the presence of an army so mercenary and factious, his own safety was but too deeply involved in the extermination of rival pretenders to the crown. Such, amidst the sacred security and inviolability cf the office, was the hazardous tenure of the individual. Nor did his dangers always arise from persons in the rank of competitors and rivals. Sometimes it menaced him in quarters which his eye had never penetrated, and from enemies too obscure to have reached his ear. By way of illustration we will cite a case from the life of the Emperor Commodus, which is wild enough to have furnished the plot of a romance, though as well authen- ticated as any other passage in that reign. The story is narrated by Herodian, and the outline was this : — A slave of noble qualities, and of magnificent person, having liberated himself from the degradations of bondage, de- termined to avenge his own wrongs by inflicting continual terror upon the town and neighborhood which had wit- nessed his humiliation. For this purpose he resorted to the woody recesses of the province (somewhere in the modern Transylvania), and, attracting to his wild en- campment as many fugitives as he could, by degrees he succeeded in training a very formidable troop of free- booters. Partly from the 'Energy of his own nature, and partly from the neglect and reniissness of the provincial POWER AND DANGER OF THE CJiSAA.S. J2S magistrates, the robber captain rose from less to more, until he had formed a little army, equal to the task of assaulting fortified cities. In this stage of his adveni'.ires he encountered and defeated several of the imperial officers commanding large detachments of troops ; and at length grew of consequence sufficient to draw upon himself the emperor's eye, and the honor of his personal displeasure. In high wrath and disdain at the insults offered to his eagles by this fugitive slave, Commodus fulminated against him such an edict as left him no hope of much longer escaping with impunity. Public vengeance was now awakened ; the imperial troops were marching from every quarter upon the same centre ; and the slave became sensible that in a very short space of time he must be suri'oundcd and destroyed. In this desperate situation he took a desperate resolution: he assembled his troops, laid before them his plan, con- certed the various steps for carrying it into effect, and then dismissed them as independent wanderers. So ends the first chapter of the tale. The next opens in the passes of the Alps, whither, by various routes, of seven or eight hundred miles in extent, these men had threaded their way in manifold disguises, through the very midst of the emperor's camps. Accord- ing to this man's gigantic enterprise, in which the means were as audacious as the purpose, the conspirators were to rendezvous, and first to recognize each other, at the gates of Rome. From the Danube to the Tiber did this band of robbers severally pursue their perilous routes through all the difficulties of the road and the jealousies of the military stations, sustained by the mere thirst of vengeance — vengeance against that mighty foe whom they knew only by his proclamations against themselves. u 226 THE HIGH SCHOOL READ'^R, Iliil; 'ft- ■ill '•'"iSlil If Everything continued to prosper ; the conspirators met under the walls of Rome ; the final details were arranged ; and those also would have prospered but for a trifling accident. The season was one of general carnival i«.t Rome ; and, by the help of those disguises which the license of this festival, time allowed, the murderers were to have penetrated as maskers to the emperor's retire- ment, when a casual word or two awoke the suspicions of a sentinel. One of the conspirators was arrested ; under the terror and uncertainty of the moment, he made much ampler discoveries than were expected of him ; the other accomplices were secured : and Commodus was delivered from the uplifted daggers of those who had sought him by months of patient wanderings, pursued through all the depths of the Illyrian forests, and the difficulties of the Alpine passes. It is no»: easy to find words of admiration commensurate to the energetic hardihood of a slave — who, by way of answer and reprisal to an edict summarily consigning him to persecution and death, determines to cross Europe in quest of its author, though no less a person than the mastor of the woHd — to seek him out in the inmost recesses of his capital cily, of his. private palace, of his consecrated bed~chamb(;/ •-- aud there to lodge a dagger in his heart, as the adequate reply to the imperial sentence of proscription against himself. Such, amidst the superhuman grandeur and hallowed privileges of the Roman emperor's office, were the extri- ordinary perils which menaced the individual officer. The office rose by its grandeur to a region above the clouds and vapors of earth : the officer might find his personal security as unsubstantial as those wandering vapors. Nor is it possible that these circumstances of UNTHO UGHTFULNESS. 227 rs met angcd ; trifling lival p.t ich the ;rs were \ retire- spicions rrcsted ; le made of Him ; )dus was vho had pursued and the \j to find energetic i reprisal ition and s author, work1 — )ital /.v. lambe, -• adequate 1 against hallowed he extri- il officer, ibove the find his yandering stances of violent opposition can be better illustrated than in this tale of Hcrodian, Whilst the emperor's mighty arms were stretched out to arrest some potentate in the heart of Asia, a poor slave is silently and stealthily creeping ;ound the base of the Alps, with the purpose of winning his way as a murderer to the imperial bed-chamber ; Caesar is watching some potent rebel of the Orient, at a distance of two thousand leagues, and he overlooks the dagger which is within three stealthy steps, and one tiger's leap, of his own heart. All the heights and the depths which belong to man's frailty, all the cr^ntrasts of glory and meanness, the extremities of what is highest and lowest in human casualties, meeting in the station of the Roman Caesar Semper Augustus — have combined to call him into high marble relief, and to make him the most interesting study of all whom history has em- blazoned with colors of fire and blood, or has crowned most lavishly with diadems of Cyprus and laurel. XLV. UNTHOUGHTFULNESS. Dr. Arnold. — 1795-1842. A Lecture delivered in Rugby Chapel. The state of spiritual folly is, I suppose, one of the most universal evils in the world. For the number of those who are naturally foolish is exceedingly great ; of those, I mean, who understand no worldly thing well ; of thoue who are careless about everything, carried about by every breath of opinion, without knowledge, and withou;: principle. But the term spiritual folly includes, 1; m- 1 1 1 1 1 i " ■ . 228 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. \\\\m\ unhappily, a great many more than these ; it takes in not those only who are in the common sense of the term foolish, but a great many who are in the common sense of the term clever, and many who are even in the com- mon sense of the terms, prudent, sensible, thoughtful, and wise. It is but too evident that some of the ablest men who have ever lived upon earth, have been in no less a degree spiritually fools. And thus, it is not without much truth that Christian writers have dwelt upon the insufficiency of worldly wisdom, and have warned their readers to beware, lest, while professing themselves to be wise, they should be accounted as fools in the sight of God. But the opposite to this notion, that those who are, as it were, fools in worldly matters are wise before God, — although this also is true in a certain sense, and under certain peculiar circumstances, yet taken generally, it is the very reverse of truth ; and the careless and incautious language which has been often used on this subject, has been extremely mischievous. On the contrary, he who is foolish in worldly matters is likely also to be, and most commonly is, no less foolish in the things of God. And the opposite belief has arisen mainly from that strange confusion between ignorance and innocence, with which many ignorant persons seem to solace themselves. Whereas, if you take away a man's knowledge, you do not bring him to the state of an infant, but to that of a brute ; and of one of the most mischievous and malignant of the brute creation. For -you do not lessen or weaken the man's body by lowering his mind ; he still retains his strength and his passions, the passions leading to self-indulgence, the strength which enables him to feed tliem by continued gratification. He will not think, it is UNTHO UGH TFULNESS. 229 true, to any good purpose ; it is very possible to destroy in him the power of reflection, whether as exercised upon outward things, or upon himself and his own nature, or upon God. But you cannot destroy the power of adapt- ing means to ends, nor that of concealing his purposes by fraud or falsehood ; you take only his wisdom, and leave that cunning which marks so notoriously both the savage and the madman. He, then, who is a fool as far as regards earthly things, is much more a fool with regard to heavenly things ; he who cannot raise himself even to the lower height, how is he to attain to the higher ? he who is without reason and conscience, how shall he be endowed with the spirit of God ? It is my deep conviction aYid long experience of this truth, which makes me so grieve over a want of interest in your own improvement in human learning, whenever I observe it, — over the prevalence of a thoughtless and childish spirit amongst you. . . . The idleness and want of interest which I grieve for, is one which extends itself, but too impartially, to knowledge of ever)/ kind : to divine knowledge, as might be expected, even more than to human. Those whom we commonly find careless about their general lessons, are quite as ignorant and as careless about their Bibles ; those who have no interest in general literature, in poetry, or in history, or in philosophy, have certainly no greater interest, I do not say in works of theology, but in works of practical devotion, in the lives of holy men, in meditations, or in prayers. Alas, the interest of their minds is bestowed on things far lower than the very lowest of all which I have named ; and therefore, to see them desiring something only a little higher than their present pursuits, could not but be encouraging ; it would, at least, show that the mind was ' II' m m i ; liiliiiii; ■: 230 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. rising upwards. It may, indeed, stop at a point short of the highest, it may learn to love earthly excellence, and rest there contented, and seek for nothing more perfect ; but that, at any rate, is a future and merely contingent evil. It is better to love earthly excellence than earthly folly ; it is far better in itself, and it is, by many degrees, nearer to the Kingdom of God. There is another case, however, which I cannot but think is more frequent naw than formerly ; and if it is so, it may be v^orth while to direct our attention to it. Common idleness and absolute ignorance are not what I wish to speak of now, but a character advanced above these ; a character which does not neglect its school-lessons, but really attains to considerable profi- ciency i.i them ; a character at once regular and amiable, abstaining from evil, and for evil in its low and grosser forms having a real abhorrence. What, then, you will say, is wanting here ? I will tell you what seems to be wanting — a spirit of manly, and much more of Christian, thougiitfuiiiess. There is quickness and cleverness ; much pleasure, perhaps, in distinction, but little in im- provement ; there is no desire of knowledge for its own sake, whether human or divine. There is, therefore, but little power of combining and digesting what is read ; and, consequently, what is read passes away, and takes no root in the mind. This same character shows itself in matters of conduct ; it will adopt, without scruple, the most fcolish, comrnonplace notions of boys, about what is right and wrong ; it will not, and cannot, from the lightness of its mind, concern itself seriously about what is evil in the conduct of others, because it takes no regular care of its own, with reference to pleasing God ; it will not do anything low or wicked, but it will somc- th;i UNTHO UGHTFULNESS. 231 short of ice, and perfect ; itingent earthly degrees, inot but d if it is ntion to are not dvanced gleet its lie profi- amiablc, I grosser you will ms to be 'hristian, :verness ; e in im- - its own ifore, but is read ; nd takes Dws itself -uple, the out what from the )out what takes no ing God ; all some- times laugh at these who do ; and it will by no means take pains to encourage, nay, it will sometimes thwart and oppose anything that breathes a higher spirit, and asserts a more manly and Christian standard of duty. - One cause of this consists in the number and character and cheapness, and peculiar mode of publication, of the works of amusement of the present day. T'^e works of amusement published only a very few years since were comparatively few in number ; they were less exciting, and therefore less attractive ; they were dearer, and therefore less accessible ; and, not being published peri- odically, they did not occupy the mind for so long a time, nor keep alive so constant an expectation ; nor, by thus dwelling upon the mind, and distilling themselves into it as it wete drop by drop, did they possess it so largely, coloring even, in many instances, its very lan- guage, and affording frequent matter for conversation. The evil of all these circumstances is actually enormous. The mass of human minds, and much more of the minds of young persons, have no great appetite for intellectual exercise ; but they have some, which by careful treat- ment may be strengthened and increased. But here to this weak and delicate appetite is presented an abun- dance of the most stimulating and least nourishing food possible. It snatches it greedily, and is not only satisfied, but actually conceives a distaste for anything simpler i. id more wholesome. That curiosity which is wisely given us to lead us on to knowledge, finds its full gratification in the details of an exciting and protracted story, and then lies down as it were gorged, and goes to sleep. Other faculties claim their turn, and have it. We know that in youth the healthy body and lively spirits require exercise, and in this they may and ought to be indulged ; jWl ' . r \m ' rX fi0tsm0if)S!B^ - I ' .u r iu.j i .i 232 T//E HIGH SCHOOL READER. I'i',". ^iliiiii if- t) £».! ! but the time and interest which remain over when the body has had its enjoyment, and the mind desires its share, this has been already wasted and exhausted upon thini^s utterly unprofitable : so that the mind goes to its work hurriedly and languidly, and feels it to be no more than a burden. The mere lessons may be learnt from a sense of duty ; but that freshness of power which in young persons of ability would fasten eagerly upon some one portion or other of the wide field of knowledge, and there expatiate, drinking in health and strength to the mind, as surely as the natural exercise of the body gives to it bodily vigor, — that is tired prematurely, perverted, and corrupted ; and all the knowledge which else it might so covet, it now seems a wearying effort to retain. Great and grievous as is the evil, it is peculiarly hard to find the remedy for it. If the books to which I have been alluding were books of downright wickedness, we might destroy them wherever we found them ; we might forbid their open circulation ; we might conjure you to shun them as you would any other clear sin, whether of word or deed. But they are not wicked books for the most part ; they are of that class which cannot be actually prohibited ; nor can it be pretended that there is a sin in reading them. They are not the more wicked for being published so cheap, and at regular intervals ; but yet these two circumstances make them so peculiarly injurious. All that can be done is to point out the evil ; that it is real and serious I am very sure, and its defects are most deplorable on the minds of the fairest promise ; but the remedy for it rests with yourselves, or rather with each of you individually, so far as he is him- self concerned. That an unnatural and constant excite- ment of the mind is most injurious, there is no doubt ; UNTHO UGHTFULNESS. 33/ jn the res its 1 upon 5 to its D more from a lich in n some ^e, and to the y gives •verted, else it • retain, ly hard L I have ess, we might you to ether of for the mot be it there wicked tervals ; euliarly out the and its e fairest elves, or ; is him- ; cxcitc- doubt ; that excitement involves a consequent weakness, is a law of our nature than which none is surer ; that the weakness of mind thus produced is and must be adverse to quiet study and thought, to .that reflection which alone is wisdom, is also clear in itself, and proved too largely by experience. And that w ithout reflection there can be no spiritual understanding, is at once evident ; while without spiritual understandmg, that is, without a knowledge and a study of God's will, there can be no spiritual life. And therefore childishness and unthoughtfulness cannot be light evils ; and if I have rightly traced the prevalence of these defects to its cause, although that cause may seem to some to be trifling, yet surely it is well to call your attention to it, and to remind you that in reading works of amusement, as in every other lawful pleasure, there is and must be an abiding responsibility in the sight of God ; that, like other lawful pleasures, we must beware of excess in it ; and not only so, but if we find it hurtful to us, either because we have used it too freely in times past, or because our nature is too weak to bear it, that then we are bound most solemnly to abstain from it ; because, however lawful in itself, or to others who can practise it without injury, whatever is to us an hindrance in the way of our intellectual and moral and spiritual improvement, that is in our case a positive sin. There is a booky who runs may read, which heavenly truth imparts ; And all the lore its scholars need^^—pure eyes and Christian hearts. The works of God, above, below, within us and around, Are pages in that book^ to show how God Himself is found. John Krble.— 1792-1866. 234 THE HIGH aCHi xEADER. XLVI. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. ii Thomas Hood.— 1799-1845. One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate. Gone to her death ! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care ; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair ! Look at her garments Clinging like cerements ; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing ; Take her up instantly. Loving, not loathing. — Touch her not scornfully ; Think of her mournfully. Gently and humanly ; Not of the stains of her, — All that remains of her Now is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful : Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. !lll I!'!' THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS, Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family, — Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily. Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, — Her fair auburn tresses • Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home ? , Who was her father ? Who was her mother ? Had she a sister ? Had she a brother ? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other ? Alas I for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun I Oh ! it was pitiful ! Near a whole city full. Home she had none. Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed : Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence ; Even God's providence Seeming estranged. Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, 235 236- THE HIGH SCHOOL READER, 4; :i i • ■ili 1 1 |i 1,1 With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night. The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; 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! . In she plunged boldly, — No matter how coldly The dark river ran, — • Over the brink of it. Picture it, — think of it, Dissolute Man ! Lave in it, drink of it. Then, if you can ! Take her up tenderly. Lift her with care ; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair ' Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, ' Decently,— kindly, — • Smooth and compose them ; And her eyes, close them, 'Staring so blindly I A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON. Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring I-^st look, of despairing Fix'd on futurity. Perishing gloomily, Spurr'd by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest. — Cross her hands humbly, ^ As if praying dumbly, Over her breast ! Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour ! 237 XLVII. A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON. AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS. Thomas Hood. Thou happy, happy elf I (But stop, — first let me kiss away that tear) — Thou tiny image of myself I (My love, he's poking peas into his ear !) Thou merry, laughing sprite ! With spirits feather-light, Untouch'd by sorrow, and unsoil'd by sin — (Good heavens I the child is swallowing a pin !) T «> Tfi' ill! 238 Ty/iE: ///i;// school reader. Thou little tricksy Puck ! With antic toys so funnily bcstuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air — (The door ! the door ! he'll tumble down the stair !) Thou darling of thy sire ! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire !) 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 ! . There goes my ink !) Thou cherub — but of earth ; Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail !) Thou human humming-bee extracting honey From ev'ry blossom in the world that blows, Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble ! — that's his precious nose !) Thy father's pride and hope ! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope !) With pure heart newly stamp'd from Nature's mint — (Where did he learn that squint ?) Thou young domestic dove ! (He'll have that jug oif with another shove !) Dear nflrsling of the hymeneal nest ! (Are those torn clothes his best ?) Little epitome of man !• (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan !) Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life — (He's got a knife !) Thou enviable being ! No storms, no clouds, in tliy blue sky foreseeing. Play on, p^ay on, - My elfm John] METAPHYSICS. Toss the kght ball — bestride the stick — (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's ^ot the scissors, snipping at your gown !) Thou pretty opening rose ! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose !) Balmy, and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth !) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, — (I wish that window had 'an iron bar ! ) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, — (I tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above !) 339 XLVIII. METAPHYSICS. Thomas Chandler Haliburton. — 1796-1865. From Traits of American Humor. Old Doctor Sobersides, the minister of Pumpkinville, where I lived in my youth, was one of the metaphysical divines of the old school, and could cavil upon the ninth part of a hair about entities and quiddities, nominalism and realism, free-will and necessity, with which sort of learning he used to stuff his sermons and astound his learnqd hearers, the bumpkins. They never doubted that it was all true, but were apt to say with the old woman in Moli^re : " He speaks so .well that I don't understand him a bit" 240 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. !:■;';: I "i iPliii iirilli I lll'lli ^'l!| -ipiii I remember a conversation that happened at my grandfather's, in which the Doctor had some difficulty in making his metaphysics all *' as clear as preaching." There was my grandfather ; Uncle Tim, who was the greatest hand at raising onions in our part of the country, but " not knowing metaphysics, had no notion of the true reason of his not being sad " ; my Aunt Judy Keturah Titterwell, who could knit stockings " like all possest," but could not syllogise ; Malachi Muggs, our hired man that drove the oxen ; and Isaac Thrasher, the district schoolmaster, who had dropped in to warm his fingers and get a drink of cider. Something was under discus- sion, and my grandfather could make nothing of it ; but the Doctor said it was " metaphysically true." " Pray, Doctor," said Uncle Tim, " tell me something about metaphysics ; I have often heard of that science, but never for my life could find out what it was." " Metaphysics," said the Doctor, " is the science of ab- straction." " I'm no wiser for that explanation," said Uncle Tim. "It treats," said the Doctor, " of matters most profound and sublime, a little difficult perhaps for a common in- tellect or an unschooled capacity to fathom, but not the less important on that account, to all living beings." "What does it teach?" asked the Schoolmaster. " It is not applied so much to the operation of teach- ing," answered the Doctor, " as to that of inquiring ; and the chief inquiry is, whether things are, or whether they are not." " I don't understand the question," said Uncle Tim, taking the pipe out of his mouth. " For example, whether this earth on which we tread," said the Doctor, giving a heavy stamp on the floor, and METAPHYSICS. 241 at my ;ulty in ching." ^as the ountry, ;he true Ceturah lossest," ed man district fingers - discus- it ; but mething science, :e of ab- Tim. t)rofound mon in- not the cr. rf teach- .ng ; and her they cle Tim, ^e tread," loor, and setting his foot on the cat's tail, " whether the earth does really e?cist, or whether it does not exist." " That is a point of considerable consequence to settle," said my grandfather. "Especially," ad- led the schoolmaster, "to the holders of real estate." " Now the earth," continued the Doctor, " may exist — " " Why^ who eve.' doubted that?" asked Uncle Tim. " A great many men," said the Doctor, " and some very learned ones." Uncle Tim stared a moment, and then began to fill his pipe, whistling the tune of " Heigh ! Betty Martin," while the Doctor went on : " The earth, I say, may exist, although Bishop Berkeley has proved beyond all possible gainsaying or denial, that it does not exist. The case is clear ; the only difficulty is, to know whether we shall believe it or not." " And how," asked Uncle Tim, " is all this to be found out?" " By digging down to the first principles," answered the Doctor. " Ay," interrupted Malachi, " there is nothing equal to the spade and pickaxe." " That is true," said my grandfather, going on in Malachi's way, " 'tis by digging for the foundation, that \vc shall find out whether the world exists or not ; for, if we dig to the bottom of the earth and find the foundation —why then we are sure of it. But if we find no founda- tion, it 13 clear that the world stands upon nothing, or, in ther words, that it does not stand at all ; therefore, it tands to reason-^" "I beg your pardon," interrupted the Doctor, "but ou totally mistake me ; I used the word digging mcta- ' -ll 1 J 1 1 liiiliil S' 242 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. ISiii phorically, meaning the profoundest cogitation and re- search into the nature of things. That is the way in which we may ascertain whether things are, or whether they are not." " But if a man can't beHeve his eyes," said Uncle Tim "what signifies talking about it?" " Our eyes," said the Doctor, " are nothing at all bu\ the inlets of sensation, and when we see a thing, all wc are aware of is, that we have a sensation of it : we are not aware that the thing exists. We are sure of nothing that we see with our eyes." " Not without spectacles," said Aunt Judy. " Plato, for instance, maintains that the sensation ot any object is produced by a perpetual succession of copies, images, or counterfeits, streaming off from the object to the organ of sensation. Descartes, too, has explained the matter upon the principle of whirligigs." " But does the world exist?" asked the Schoolmastei, " A good deal may be said on both sides," replied the Doctor, " though the ablest heads are for non-existence." *' In common cases," said Uncle Tim, " those who utter nonsense are considered blockheads." *' But m metaphysics," said the Doctor, '* the case is different." " Now all this is hdcus-pocus to me," said Aunt Judy- suspending her knitting-work, and scratching her forehead with one of the needles, " I don't understand a bit mor of the business than I did at first." *' I'll be bound there is many a learned professor," sail Uncle Tim, " coidd say the same after spinning a Ion yarn of metaphysics." The Doctor did not admire this gibe at his favorit science. METAPHYSICS. 243 and re- way inl whether] icle Tim it all bu\ g, all wc : we arc f nothing isation ot ession of from the too, has IglgS. Dlmastei, plied the xistence." who utter le case is .unt Judy r forehead bit mor ssor," said ing a Icni is favor itl " That is as the case may be," said he ; " this thing or that thing may be dubious, but what then ? Doubt is the beginning of wisdom." *' No doubt of that," said my grandfather, bcgitming to poke the fire, "and when a man has got through his doubting, what does he begin to build up in the meta- physical way?" "Why, he begins by taking something for granted," said the Doctor. " But is that a sure way of going to work ?" " 'Tis the only thing he can do," replied the Doctor, after a pause, and rubbing his forehead as if he was not altogether satisfied that his foundation was a solid one. My grandfather might have posed him with another question, but he poked the fire and let him go on. " Metaphysics, to speak exactly " " Ah," interrupted the Schoolmaster, " bring it down to vulgar fractions, and then we shall understand it." " 'Tis the consideration of immateriality, or the mere spirit and essence of things," "Come, come," said Aunt Judy, taking a pinch of snuff, " now I see into it." " Thus, man is considered, not in his corporeality, but in his essence or capability of being ; for a man, meta- physically, or to metaphysical purposes, hath two natures, that of spirituality, and that of corporeality, which may be considered separate." "What man?" asked Uncle Tim. " Why, any man ; Malachi there, for example ; I may consider him as Malachi spiritual, or Malachi corporeal." " That is true," said Malachi, " for when I was in the militia they made me a sixteenth corporal, and I carried grog to the drummer." -II 244 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. V'\ ":i iilili ■■'11!! ! I; " That is another affair," said the Doctor in continua- tion ; " we speak of man in his essence ; we speak, also, of the essence of locality, the essence of duration — " " And essence of peppermint," said Aunt Judy. " Pooh !" said the Doctor, " the essence I mean is quite a different essence." " Something too fine to be dribbled through the worm of a still," said my grandfather. " Then I am all in the dark again," rejoined Aunt Judy. " By the spirit and essence of things I mean things in the abstract." " And what becomes of a thing when it goes into the abstract?" asked Uncle Tim. " Why, it becomes an abstraction." " There we are again," said Uncle Tim ; *' but what on earth is an abstraction?" " It is a thing that has no matter : that is, it cannot be felt, seen, heard, smelt or tasted ; it has no substance or solidity ; it is neither large nor small, hot nor cold, long nor short." "Then what is the long and short of it?" asked the Schoolmaster. " Abstraction," replied the Doctor. " Suppose, for instance," said Malachi, " that I had a pitchfork " " Ay," said the Doctor, "consider a pitchfork in general ; that is, neither this one nor that one, nor any particular one, but a pitchfork or pitchforks divested of their ma- teriality — these are things in the abstract." " They are things in the hay-mow," said Malachi. " Pray," said Uncle Tim, " have there been many such things discovered?" METAPHYSICS. 245 " Discovered !" returned the Poctor, " why, all things, whether in heaven, or upon the earth, or in the waters under the earth, whether small or great, visible or in- visible, animate or inanimate ; whether the eye can see, or the ear can hear, or the nose can smell, or the fingers touch ; finally, whatever exists or is imaginable in the nature of things, past, present, or to come, all may be abstractions." " Indeed !" said Uncle Tim, " pray, what do you make of the abstraction of a red cow ? " " A red cow," said the Doctor, " considered metaphysi- cally or as aa abstraction, is an animal possessing neither hide nor horns, bones nor flesh, but is the mere type, eidolon, and fantastical semblance of these parts of a quadruped. It has a shape without any substance, and no color at all, for its redness is the mere counterfeit or imagination of such. As it lacks the positive, so is it also deficient in the accidental properuAes of all the animals in its tribe, for it has no locomotion, stability, or endurance, neither goes to pasture, gives milk, chews the cud, nor performs any other function of the horned beast, but is a mere creation of the brain, begotten by a freak of the fancy and nourished by a conceit of the imagination." " Pshaw ! " exclaimed Aunt Judy. " All the meta- physics under the sun wouldn't make a pound of butter !" " That's a fact," said Uncle Tim. There is no great and no small To the Soul that maketh all: And where it comet h^ all things are : — And it Cometh everywhere. Emerson. ml! >mi 246 ll'l! 1,1 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. XLIX. INDIAN SUMMER.* Samuel Lover. — 1797-1868. When summer's verdant beauty flies, And autumn glows with richer dyes, A softer charm beyond them Hes — • It is the Indian summer. Ere winter's snows and winter's breeze Bereave of beauty all the trees, The balmy spring renewal sees In the sweet Indian summer. • And thus, dear love, if early years Have drown'd the germ of joy in tears, A later gleam of hope appears — Just like the Indian summer : And ere the snows of age descend, O trust me, dear one, changeless friend, Our falling years may brightly end — Just like the Indian summer. \\ ii« ' L. TO HELEN, t Jul 7, 1839. WiNTHROP MACKWORTH PrAED. — 1802-1839. Dearest, I did not dream, four years ago, When through your veil I saw your bright tear shine, Caught your clear whisper, exquisitely low. And felt your soft hand tremble into mine. * The brief period which succeeds the autumnal' close, called the "Indian Summer," — a reflex, as it were, of the early portion of the year — strilces a stranger in America as peculiarly beautiful, and quite charmed me. — LoVER. t Praed died on the 15th of July. Wf^ MORA TIUS. 247 That in so brief — so very brief a space, He, who in love both clouds and cheers our life, Would lay on you, so full of light, joy, grace, The darker, sadder duties of the wife, — Doubts, fears, and frequent toil, and constant care For this poor frame, by sickness sore bested ; The daily tendance on the fractious chair, The nightly vigil by the feverish bed. Yet not unwelcom'd doth this morn arise. Though with more gladsouie beams it might have shone : Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim eyes, In sickness, as in health, — bless you, My Own ! LI. HORATIUS.^ a lay made about the year of the city ccclx. Lord Macaulay. — 1800-1859. Lars Porsena of Clusium by the Nine Gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin should suffer wrong no mo . By the Nine Gods he swore it, and named a trysting day, And bade his messengers ride forth, east and west and south To summon his array. [and north, East and west and south and north the messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage have heard the trumpet's blast. Shame on the false Etruscan who lingers in his home. When Porsena of C!lusium is on the march for Rome. * For the sake of space a chang^e has been made from the usual form of the poorn. ti. 1 \' Wm ^i'A 248 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. The horsemen and the footmen are pouring in amain From many a stately market-place ; from many a fruitful plain From many a lonely hamlet, which, hid by beech and pine, Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest of purple Apennine ; From lordly Volaterrae, where scowls the far-famed hold Piled by the hands of giants for godlike kings of old ; From seagirt Populonia, whose sentinels descry Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops fringing the southern sky ; From the proud mart of Pis3e, queen of the western waves, Where ride Massilia's triremes heavy with fair-hair'd slaves ; 'From where sweet Clanis wanders through corn and vines and flowers ; From where Cortona lifts to heaven her diadem of towers. Tall are the oaks whose acorns drop in dark Auser's rill ; Fat are the stags that champ the boughs of the Ciminian hill ; Beyond all streams Clitumnus is to the herdsman dear ; Best of all pools the fowler loves the great Volsinian mere. But now no stroke 6f woodman is heard by Auser's rill ; No hunter tracks the stag's green path up the Ciminian hill ; Unwatch'd along Clitumnus grazes the milk-white steer ; Unharm'd the waterfowl may dip in the Vols" lian mere. The harvests of Arretium, this year, old men shall reap ; This year, young boys in Umbro shall plunge the struggling sheep ; And in the vats of Luna, this year, the must shall foam Round the white feet of laughing girls whose sires have march'd to Rome. W¥Sj: There be thirty chosen prophets, the wisest of the land, Who alway by Lars Porsena both morn and evening stand : Evening and morn the Thirty have turn'd the verses o'er, Traced from the right on linen white by mighty seers of yore. And with one voice the Thirty have their glad answer given : " Go forth, go forth, Lar^ Porsena ; go forth, belov'd of heaven • NORA TIUS, 249 ul plain pine, tinine ; id 5ky; aves, aves ; anes and vers. ill; ian hill \ r; lere. 1; tihill; r; e. ); truggling 11 march'd and : er, )f yore, given : heaven Go, and return in glory to Clusium's royal dome ; And hang round Nurscia's altars the golden shields of Rome." And now hath every city sent up htr tale of men : The foot are fourscore thousand, the horse are thousands ten. Before the gates of Sutrium is met the great array. A proud man was Lars Porsena upon the trysting day. For all the Etruscan armies were ranged beneath his eye, And many a banish'd Roman, and many a stout ally ; And with a mighty following to join the muster came The Tusculan Mamilius, prince of the Latian name. But by the yellow Tiber was tumult and affright : From all the spacious champaign to Rome men took their flight. A mile around the city, the throng stopp'd up the ways ; A fearful sight it was to see through two long nights and days. For aged folks on crutches, and women great with child. And mothers sobbing over babes that clung to them and smiled. And sick men borne in litters high on the necks of slaves, And troops of sun-burn'd husbandmen with reaping-hooks and staves. And droves of mules and asses laden with skins of wine. And endless flocks of goats and sheep, and endless herds of kine. And endless trains of wagons that creak'd beneath the weight Of corn-sacks and of household goods, choked every roaring gate. /- Now, from the rock Tarpeian, could the wan burghers spy The Hne of blazing villages red in the midnight sky. The Fathers of the City, they sat all night and day. For every hour some horseman came with tidings of dismay. To eastward and to westward have spread the Tuscan bands ; Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote in Crustumerium stands. Verbenna down to Ostia hath wasted all the plain ; Astur hath storm'd Janiculum, and the stout guards are slaia M- 1^% - 250 T//E HIGH SCHOOL READER. PI! ■ vl .i lilll! ii-- I wis, in all the Senate, there was no heart so bold, But sore it ached, and fast it beat, when that ill news was toldy Forthwith up rose the Consul, up rose the Fathers all ; In haste they girded up their gowns, and hied them to the wall. They held a council standing, before the River-Gate ; Short time was there, ye well may guess, for musing or debate. Out spake the Consul roundly : " The bridge must straight go down ; For, since Janiculum is lost, nought else can save the town." 1/ Just then a scout came flying, all wild with haste and fear : "To arms ! to arms ! Sir Consul : Lars Porsena is here." On the low hills to westward the Consul fix'd his eye, And saw the swarthy storm of dust rise fast along the sky. And nearer fast and nearer doth the red whirlwind come ; And louder still and still more loud, from underneath that roll- ing cloud, Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, the trampling, and the hum. And plainly and more plainly now through the gloom appears, Far to left and far to right, in broken gleams of dark-blue light, The long array of helmets bright, the long array of spears. And plainly and more plainly above that glimmering line, Now might ye see the banners of twelve fair cities shine ; But the banner of proud Clusium was highest of them all, The terror of the Umbrian, the terror of the Gaul.^ And plainly and more plainly now might the burghers know, By port and vest, by horse and crest, each warlike Lucumo. There Cilnius of Arretium on his fleet roan was seen ; And Astur of the four-fold shield, girt with the brand none else may wield, Tolumnius with the belt of gold, and dark Verbenna from the By reedy Thrasymene. ^ [hold Fast by the royal standard, o'erlooking all the war, Lars Porsena of Clusium sat in his ivory car. H$RA TIUS. 251 By t4»e right wheel rode Mamihus, prince of the Latian name ; And by the left false Sextus, that wrought the deed of shame. But when the face of Sextus was seen among- the foes, A yell that rent the firmament from all the town arose. On the house-tops was no woman but spat towards him and hiss'd, No child but scream'd out curses, and shook its little fist. But the Consul's brow was sad, and the Consul's speech was low, And darkly look'd he at the wall, and darkly at the foe. " Their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down ; And if they once may win the bridge, what hope to save the townP'V 1 hen out spake brave Horatius, the Captaift of the Gate : " To every mm upon this earth death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his Gods, And for the tender mother who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses his baby at her breast. And for the holy maidens who feed the eternal flame. To save them from false Sextus that wrought the deed of shame ? Hew down the bridge. Sir Consul, with all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me, will hold the foe in play. In yon strait path a thousand may well be stopp'd by three. Now who will stand on either hand, and keep the bridge with me?" Then out spake Spurius Lartius ; a Ramnian proud was he : " Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, and keep the bridge with thee." And out spake strong Herminius ; of Titian blood was he : " I will abide on thy left side, and keep the bridge with thee." " Horatius," quoth the Consul, " as thou sayest, so let it be." And straight against that great array forth went the dauntless >f Three. 353 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. For Romans in Rome's quarrel spared neither land nor gg)ld, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, in the brave days of old. Then none was for a party ; then all were for the state ; Then the great man help'd the poor, and the poor man lov'd the great : Then lands were fairly portion'd ; then spoils were fairly sold : The Romans were like brothers in the brave days of old. Now Roman is to Roman more hateful than a foe, And the Tribunes beard the high, and the Fathers grind the low. As we wax hot in faction, in battle we wax cold : Wherefore men fight not as they fought in the brave days of old. Now while the Three were tightening their harness on their backs, The Consul was the foremost man to take in hand an axe : And Fathers mix'd with Commons seized hatchet, bar, and crow. And smote upon the planks above, and loosed the props below. Meanwhile the Tuscan army, right glorious to behold, Came flashing back the noonday light, rank behind rank, like Of a broad sea of gold. [surges bright Four hundred trumpets sounded a peal of warlike glee. As that great host, with measured tread, and spears advanced, and ensigns spread, Roll'd slowly towards the bridge's head, where stood the daunt- less Three. iiii The Three stood calm and silent, and look'd upon the foes, And a great shout of laughter from all the vanguard rose ; And forth three chiefs came spurring before that deep array ; To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, and lifted high To win the narrow way ; their shields, and flew Aunus from green Tifernum, lord of the Hill of Vines ; And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves sicken in Ilva's mines ; w- HO RATI us. )fold. an lov'd ly sold : d. •ind the s of old. an their axe : id crow, s below. ink, like s bright vanced, I daunt- foes, 56 : irray ; ed high ind flew mines; 253 And Picus, long to Clusium vassal in peace and war, Who led to fight his Umbrian powers from that gray crag where, girt with towers, The fortress of Necjuinum lowers o'er the pale waves of Nar. Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus into the stream beneath : Herminius struck at Seius, and clove him to the teeth : At Picus brave Horatius darted one fiery thrust ; And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms dash'd in the bloody dust. Then Ocnus of Falerii rush'd on the Roman Three ; And Lausulus of Urgo, the rover of the sea ; And Aruns of Volsinium, who slew the great wild boar, The great wild boar that had his den amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, And wasted fields, and slaughter'd men, along Albinia's shore. Herminius smote down Aruns : Lartius laid Ocnus low : Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow. *' Lie there," he cried, " fell pirate ! no more, aghast and pale, From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark the track of thy de- stroying bark. No more Campania's hinds shall fly to woods and caverns when .Thy thrice accursed sail." [they spy. But now no sound of laughter was heard among the foes. A wild and wrathful clamor from all the vanguard rose. Six spears' lengths from the entrance halted that deep array. And for a space no man came forth to win the narrow way. But hark ! the cry is Astur : and lo ! the ranks divide ; And the great Lord of Luna comes with his- stately stride. Upon his ample shoulders clangs loud the four-fold shield, And in his hand he shakes the brand which none but he can wield. ii'i 254 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. f He smiled on those bold Romans a smile serene and high ; He eyed the flinching Tuscans, and scorn was in his eye. Quoth he, " The she-wolf's litter stand savagely at bay : But will ye dare to follow, if Astur clears the way ?" Then, whirling up his broadsword with both hands to the height, He lush'd against Horatius, and smote with all his might. With shield and blade Horatius right deftly turn'd the blow. The blow, though turn'd, came yet too nigh ; it miss'd his he' ;i, but gash'd his thigh : The Tuscans raised a joyful cry to see the red blood flow. He reel'd, and on Herminius he lean'd one breathing-space ; Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, sprang right at Astur's face. Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, so fierce a thrust he sped. The good sword stood a hand-breadth out behind the Tuscan's h' ad. And it;,? great Lord of lAuia fell at that deadly stroke, As falls on Mount Alvernus a thunder-smitten oak. Far o'er the crashing forest the giant arms lie spread ; And the i^ale augurs, muttering low, gaze on the blasted head. On Astur's throat Horatius right firmly press'd his heel, And thrice and four times tugg'd amain, ere he wrench'd out the steel. " And see," he cried, " the welcome, fair guests, that waits you here ! What noble Lucumo comes next to taste our Roman cheer?" But at his haughty challenge a sullen murmur ran, Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread, along that glittering van. There lack'd not men of prowess, nor men of lordly race • For all Etruria's noblest were round the fatal place. But all Etruria's noblest felt their hearts sink to see On the earth the bloody corpses, in the path the dauntless Three : HORATIUS. 255 I high ; ; eye. ly: the height, light, le blow, i his he' :i, flow, g-space ; : at Astur's St he sped, e Tuscan's sted head, eel, nch'd out ; waits you 1 cheer?" teringvan. race • dauntless And, from the ghastly entrance where those bold Romans stood, All shrank, like boys who unaware, ranging the woods to start a hare. Come to the mouth of the dark lair where, growling low, a fierce Lies amidst bones and blood. [old bear Was none who would be foremost to lead such dire attack : But those behind cried "Forward!" and those before cried "Back!" And backward now and forward wavers the deep array ; And on the tossing sea of steel, to and fro the standards reel ; And the victorious trumpct-})eal dies fitfully away. Yet one man for one moment stood out before the crowd ; Well known was he to all the Three, and they gave him greet- ing loud. " Now welcome, welcome, Sextus ! now welcome to 'thy home ! Why dost thou stay, and turn away ? here lies the road to Rome." Thrice look'd he at the city ; thrice look'd he at the dead ; And thrice came on in fury, and thrice turn'd back in dread ; And, white with fear and hatred, scowl'd at th^ narrow way AVhere, wallowing in a pool of blood, the bravest Tuscans lay. But meanwhile axe and lever have manfully been plied ; And now the bridge hangs tottering above the boiling tide. " Come back, come back, Horatius !" loud cried the Fathers all. '* Back, Lartius ! back, Herminius ! back, ere the ruin fall !" Back darted Spurius Lartius ; Herminius darted back : And, as they pass'd, beneath their feet they felt the timbers crack. But when they turn'd their faces, and on the farther shore Saw brave Horatius stand alone, they would have cross'd once more. But with a crash like thunder fell every loosen'd beam. And, like a dam, the mighty wreck lay right athwart the stream ; And a long shout of triumph rose from the walls of Rome, As to the highest turret-tops was splash'd the yellow foam. 256 TN£ HIGH SCHOOL READER. And, like a horse unbroken when first he feels the rein, The furious river struggled hard, and toss'd his tawny mane, And burst the curb, and bounded, rejoicing to be free*, And whirling down, in fierce career, battlement, and plank, and Rush'd headlong to the sea. [pier, Alone stood brave Horatius, but constant still in mind ; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, and the broad flood behind. "Down with him !" cried false Sextus, with a smile on his pale face. " Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, " now yield thee to our grace." Round tuin'd he, as not deigning those craven ranks to see ; Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, to Sextus nought spake he ; But he saw on Palatinus the white porch of his home ; dnd he spake to the noble river that rolls by the towers of Rome. " O Tiber ! father Tiber ! to whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge this day!" So he spake, and speaking sheathed the good sword by his side. And with his harness on his back plunged headlong in the tide. No sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank ; But friends and foes in dumb surprise, with parted lips an(i Stood gazing where he sank ; [straining eyes, And when above the surges they saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, and even the ranks of Could scarce forbear to cheer. ' [Tuscany But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain : / '.d fast his blood was flowing, and he was sore in pain, And heavy with his armor, and spent with changing blows : And oft they thought him sinking, but still again he rose. Never, I ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case, Struggle through such a raging flood safe to the landing-place : But his limbs were borne up Ijravely by the brave heart within, And our good father Tiber bare bravely up his chin. u HORA TIUS. 257 am : "Curse on him!" 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." And now he feels the bottom ; now on dry earth he stands ; Now round him throng the Fathers to press his gory hands ; And now, with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud. He enters through the River-Gate, borne by the joyous crowd. They gave him of the corn-land, that was of public right. As much as two strong oxen could plough from morn till night ; And they made a molten image, and set it up on high, A' there it stands unto this day to witness if I lie. It stands in the Comitium, plain for all folk to see ; Horatius in his harness, halting upon one knee : And underneath is written, in letters all of gold, How valiantly he kept the bridge in the brave days of old. And still his name sounds stirring unto the men of Rome, As the trumpet-blast that cries to them to charge the Volscian home ; And wives still pray to Juno for boys with hearts as bold As his who kept the bridge so well in the brave days of old. And in the nights of winter, when the cold north-winds blow, And the long howling of the wolves is heard amidst the snow ; When round the lonely cottage roars loud the tempest's din. And the good logs of Algidus roar louder yet within ; When the oldest cask is open'd, and the largest lamp is lit ; When the chestnuts glow in the embers, and the kid turns on the spit ; When young and old in circle around the firebrands close ; When the girls are weaving baskets, and the lads are shaping bows ; , i' ii ,.- fi'r r'l- '■' ' .:)|; ■ ' "I if III ,,, ■. all: iilliJ, |''ll|i|l!l . i nm I !i'lii'lllllli i i Pjl"'' I iii ■I i I il ill ri 111 258 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. When the goodman mends his armor, and trims his hehiiet's plume ; . When the goodwife's shuttle merrily goes flashing through the loom ; With weeping and with laughter still is the story told, How well Horatius kept the bridge in the brave days of old. LII. THE RAVEN. Edgar Allan Poe. — 1809-1849. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder'd, weak and weary. Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, — While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door. " 'Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, "tapping at my chamber-door, — Only this, and nothing more." Ah ! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wish'd the morrow : vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow, — sorrow for the lost Lenore; For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore, Nameless here forevermore. \ E I I And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thriird me — fill'd me with fantastic terrors never felt, before ;- So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, " 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door, — Some late visitor, entreating entrance at my chamber-door ; This it is, and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger : hesitating ihen no longer, "Sir,"' said 1, 'or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; THE RAVEN. 259 But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door, That I scarce was sure I heard you " ; — her j I open'd wide the door ; — Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing. Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before ; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token. And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word "Lenore?" This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word "Le- nore !" Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning. Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before. " Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window-lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore, — • Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore : — 'Tis the wind, and nothing more." Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter. In there stepp'd a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopp'd or stay'd he, But, with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber-door ; Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber-door ; — Perch'd, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure no craven, i 260 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the Nightly shore ; — Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore." Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." Much I marvell'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore ; For we can not help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was bless'd with seeing bird above his chamber-door, — Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door. With such name as " Nevermore." But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he utter'd, not a feather then he flutter'd. Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, "Other friends have flown before : On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, '* Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, " Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful Disaster Follow 'd fast, and follow'd faster, till his song-^ one burden bore, — Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore; Of — ' Never — Nevermore.' " But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling. Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd seat in front of bird, and bust, and door ; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore — Meant in croaking " Nevermore." THE RA VEN. 261 This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burn'd into my bosom's core : This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er ; But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press — ah ! nevermore. Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. '* Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee — Respite, respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore ! Quaff, Oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." "Prophet !" said I, "thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd thee here ashore. Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted, On this home by Horror haunted, — tell me truly, I implore, Is there — is there balm in Gilead? tell me — tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." "Prophet !" said I, "thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore, Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore, — Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." " Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I shriek'd, upstarting, — "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore ' ^ iH" I'i m 1 262 T'/E HIGH SCHOOL READER. Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above my door ! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door ! " Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door ; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's'that is dreaming. And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor : And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted — nevermore ! LIIL DAVID SWAN- A FANTASY. Nathaniel Hawthornk.— 1804-1864, From •• Twice-Told Tales." We can be but partially acquainted even with the events which actually influence our course through life, and our final destiny. There are innumerable other events, if such they may be called, which come close upon us, yet pass away without actual results, or even betraying their near approach by the reflection of any light or shadow across our minds. Could we know all the vicissitudes of our fortunes, life would be too full of hope and fear, exultation or disappointment, to afibrd us a single hour of true .serenity. This idea may be illus- trated by a page from the secret history of David Swan. We have nothing to do with David until we find him, at the age of twenty, on the high road from his native DAVID SWAN— A FANTASY. 363 place to the city of Boston, where his uncle, a small dealer in the grocery line, was to take him behind the counter. Be it enough to say, that he was a native of New Hampshire, born of respectable parents, and had received an ordinary school education, with a classic finish by a year at Gilmanton Academy. After jouineying on foot from sunrise till nearly noon of a summer's day, his weariness and the increasing heat determined him to sit down in the first convenient shade, and await the coming up of the stage-coach. As if planted on purpose for him, there soon appeared a little tuft of maples, with a delightful recess in the midst, and such a fresh bubbling spring, that it seemed never to have sparkled for any wayfarer but David Swan. Virgin 01 not, he kissed it with his thirsty lips, and then flung himself along the brink, pillowing his head upon some shirts and a pair of pantaloons, tied up in a striped cotton handkerchief The sunbeams could not reach him ; the dust did not yet rise from the road, after the heavy rain of yesterday ; and his grassy lair suited the young man better than a bed rf down. The spring murmured drowsily beside him ; the branches waved dreamily across the blue sky overhead ; and a deep sleep, perchance hiding dreams within its depths, fell upon David Swan. But we are to relate events which he did not dream of While he lay sound asleep in the shade, other people were wide-awake, and passed to an fro, afoot, on horse- back, and in all sorts of vehicles, along the sunny road by his bed-chamber. Some looked neither to the right hand nor to the left, ai 1 knew not that he was there ; some merely glanced that way, without admitting the slumberer among their busy thoughts ; some laughed to see how soundly he slept ; and several, whose hearts were \- 264 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Ill •w ii brimming full of scorn, ejected their venomous super- fluity upon David Swan. A middle-aged widow, when nobody else was near, thrust her head a little way into the recess, and vowed that the young fellow looked charm- ing in his sleep. A temperance lecturer saw him, and wrought poor David into the texture of his evening's iliscourse, as an awful instance of dead-drunkenness by the road-side. But censure, praise, merriment, scorn, and indifference, were all one, or rather all nothing, to David Swan. He had slept only a few moments when a brown car- riage, drawn by a handsome pair of horses, bowled easily along, and was brought to a stand-still nearly in front of David's resting-place. A linch-pin had fallen out, and permitted one of the wheels to slide off. The damage was slight, and occasioned merely a momentary alarm to an elderly merchant and his wife, who were returning to Boston in the carriage. While the coachman and a ser- vant were replacing the wheel the lady and gentleman sheltered themselves beneath the maple-trees, and there espied the bubbling fountain, and David Swan asleep be- side it. Impressed with the awe which the humblest sleeper usually sheds around him, the merchant trod as lightly as the gout would allow ; and his spouse took good heed not to rustle her silk gown, lest David should start up, all of a sudden. " How soundly he sleeps ! " whispered the old gentle- man. " From what a depth he draws that easy breath ! Such sleep as that, brought on without an opiate, would be worth more to me than half my income, for it would suppose health and an untroubled mind." ** And youth besides," said the lady. " Healthy and quiet age does not sleep thus. ^Our slumber is no more like his than our wakefulness.^^ ■P> I T' DAVID S IVAN— A FANTASY. 265 The lontjcr they looked, the more did this elderly couple feel interested in the unknown youth, to whom the way- side and the maple shade were as a secret chamber, with the rich gloom of damask curtains brooding over him. Perceiving that a stray sunbeam glimmered down upon his face, the lady contrived to twist a branch aside, so as to intercept it. And having done this little act of kind- ness, she began to feel like a mother to him. " Providence seems to have laid him here," whispered she to her husband, " and to have brought us hither to lind him, after our disappointment in our cousin's son. Methinks I can see a likeness to our departed Henry. Shall we waken him ? " • " To what purpose ? " said the merchant, hesitating. " We know nothing of the youth's character." " That open countenance ! " replied his wife, in the same hushed voice, yet earnestly. " This innocent sleep ! " While these whispers were passing, the sleeper's heart did not throb, nor his breath become agitated, nor his features betray the least token of interest. Yet Fortune was bending over him, just ready to let fall a burthen of gold. The old merchant had lost his only son, and had no heir to his wealth, except a distant relative, with whose conduct he was dissatisfied. In such cases, people some- times do stranger things than to act the magician, and awaken a young man to splendor, who fell asleep in poverty. " Shall we not waken him ? " repeated the lady, per- suasively. ," The coach is ready, sir," said the servant, behind. The old couple started, reddened, and hurried away, mutually wondering that they should ever have dreamed of doing anything so very ridiculous. The merchant % l^'i- 266 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. threw himself back in the carriage, and occupied his mind with the plan of a magnificent asylum for unfortunate men of business. Meanwhile, David Swan enjoyed his nap. The carriage could not have gone above a mile or»two, when a pretty young girl came along with a tripping pace, which showed precisely how her little heart was dancing in her bosom. Perhaps it was this merry kind of motion that caused — is there any harm in saying it ? — her garter to slip its knot. Conscious that the silken girth, if silk it were, was relaxing its hold, she turned aside into the shelter of the maplc-trccs, and there found a young man asleep by the spring 1 Blushing as red as any rose, that she should have intruded into a gentle- man's bed-chamber, and for such a purpose, too, she was about to make her escape on tiptoe. But there was peril near the sleeper. A monster of a bee had been wander- ing overhead — ^buzz, buzz, buzz — now among the leaves, now flashing through the strips of sunshine, and now lost in the dark shade, till finally he appeared to be settling on the eyelid of David Swan. The sting of a bee is sometimes deadly. As free-hearted as she was innocent, the girl attacked the intruder with her handkerchief, brushed him soundly, and drove him from the maple shade. How sweet a picture ! This good deed accomplished, with quickened breath, and a deeper blush, she stole a glance at the youthful stranger, for whom she had been battling with a dragon in the air. " He is handsome ! " thought .she, and blushed redder yet. How could it be that no dream of bliss grew so strong; within him, that, shattered )3y its very strength, it shouM part asunder, and allow him to perceive the girl among DAVID SWAN— A FANTASY. a67 is mind rtuna.tc yed his or*two, Tipping art was •ry kind y'ing it ? e silken } turned re found LS red as gentle- she was /as peril wander- c leaves, now lost settling L bee is nnocent, ccrchief, le shade, iplished, stole a tad been 1 redder o stron.^ t should among its phantoms ? Why, at least, did no smile of welcome brighten upon his face ? She was come, the maid whose soul, according to the old and beautiful idea, had been severed from his own, and whom, in all his vague but passionate desires, he yearned to meet. Her only could he love with a perfect love — him only could she receive into the depths of her heart — and now her image was faintly blushing in the fountain by his side ; should it pass away, its happy lustre would never gleam upon his life again. " How sound he sleeps ! * murmured the girl. She departed, but did not trip along the road so lightly as when she came. Now, this girl's father was a thriving country merchant in the neighborhood, and happened, at that identical time, to be looking out for just such a young man as David Swan. Had David formed a wayside acquaint- ance with the daughter, he would have become the father's clerk, and all else in natural succession. So here, again, had good fortune — the best of fortunes — stolen so near, that her garments brushed against him ; and he knew nothing of the matter. )i The girl was hardly out of sight, when two men turned aside beneath the maple shade. Both had dark faces, set off by clotli caps, which were drawn down aslant over their brows. Their dresses were shabby, yet had a cer- tain smartness. These were a couple of rascals, who got their living by whatever the devil sent them, and now, in the interim of other business, had staked the joint profits of their next piece of villainy on a game of cards, which was to have been decided here under the trees. But, finding David asleep by the spring, one of the rogues whispered to his fellow— m THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. " Hist ! — Do you see that bundle under his head ?** The other villain nodded, winked, and leered. " I'll bet you a horn of brandy," said the first, " that the chap has either a pocket-book or a snug little hoard of small change, stowed away amongst his shirts. And if not there, we shall find it in his pantaloons' pocket." " But how if he wakes ? " said the other. His companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed to the handle of a dirk, and nodded. " So be it ! " muttered the second villain. They approached the unconscious David, and, while one pointed the di»gger towards his heart, the other began to search the bundle beneath his head. Their two faces, grim, wrinkled, and ghastly with guilt and fear, bent over their victim, looking horribly enough to be mistaken for fiends, should he suddenly awake. Nay, had the villains glanced aside into the spring, even they would hardly have known themselves, as reflected there. But David Swan had never worn a more tranquil aspect, even when asleep on his mother's breast. " I must take away the bundle," whispered one. ' If he stirs, I'll strike," muttered the other. But, at this moment, a dog, scenting along the ground, came in beneath the maple-trees, and gazed alternately at each of these wicked men, and then at the quiet sleeper. He then lapped out of the fountain. " Pshaw ! " said one villain. " We can do nothing now. The dog's master must be close behind." " Let's t.ike a drink, and be off," said the otht r. The man w'ith the dagger thrust back the weapon into his bosom, and drew forth a pocket-pistol, but not of that ^ kind which kills by a single discharge. It was a flask of P liquor, with a block-tin tumbler screwed upon the mcuth. ;.!ii j:: DAVID SIVAN-A FANTASY. 269 sad ? '' rst, *' tbat tie hoard . And if ket." Dinted to id, while ler began wo faces, Dent over taken for e villains \ hardly It David en when ground, :ernately sleeper. ing now. pon into t of that flask of i ; mouth. P2ach drank a comfortable dram, and left the spot, with so many jests, and such laughter at their unaccomplished wickedness, that they might be said to have gone on their way rejoicing. In a few hours they had forgotten the whole affair, nor once imagined that the recording angel had written down the crime of murder against their souls, in letters as durable as eternity. As for David Swan, he still slept quietly, neither conscious of the sha- dow of death when it hung over him, nor of the glow of renewed life when that shadow was withdrawn. He slept, but no longer so quietly as at first. An hour's repose had snatched from his elastic frame the weariness with which many hours of toil had burthened it. Nonv he stirred — now moved his lips, without a sound — now talked in an inward tone to the noonday spectres of hfs dream. But a noise of wheels came rattling louder and louder along the road, until it dashed through the dis- persing mist of David's slumber — and there was the stage- coach. He started up, with all his ideas about him. " Hallo, driver ! Take a passenger ? " shouted he. " Room on top ! " answered the driver. Up mounted David, and bowled away merrily towards Boston, without .so much as a parting glance at that fountain of dreamlike vicissitude. He knew not that a phantom of Wealth had thrown a golden hue upon its waters, nor that one of Love had sighed softly to their n.urmur, nor that one of Death had threatened to crimson them with his blood— all, in the brief hour since ^e lay down to sleep. Sleeping or waking, we hear not the airy footsteps of the s*^* r-.nge things that almost happen. Does it not argue a superintending Providence, that, while viewless and unexpected events thrust themselves continually & thwart our path, there should still be rega- 270 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. larity enough in mortal life, to render foresight even par- tially available ? UV. MY KATE. iiii'iii Elizabeth Barrett Browning. — 1809-1861. She was not as pretty as women I know, And yet all your best made of sunshine and snow Drop to shade, melt to nought in the long-trodden ways, While she's still remember'd on warm and cold days — My Kate. Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace ; You turn'd from the fairest to gaze on her face : And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth, You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth — ... My Kate. Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke, You look'd at her silence and fancied she spoke : When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone, Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone — My Kate. I doubt if she said to you much that could act As a thought or suggestion : she did not attract In the sense of the brilliant or wise : I infer '1 was her thinking of others, made you think of her — ♦ My Kate. She never found fault with you, never miplied Your wrong by her right ; and ' . men at her side Grew nobler, girls purer, as through the whole town The children were gladder that pull'd at her gown — My Kate. A DEAD ROSE. 271 None knelt at her feet confess'd lovers in thrall ; They knelt more to God than they used, — that was all ; If you praised her as charming, some ask'd what you meant, But the charm of her presence was felt when she went — f :. • My Kate. The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude, She took as she found them, and did them all good : - It always was so with her : see what you have ! She has made the grass greener even here . . with her grave- My Kate. My dear one ! — when thou wast alive with the rest, I held thee the sweetest and lov'd thee the best : ' • And now thou art dead, shall I not take thy part As thy smiles used to do for thyself, my sweet Heart — My Kate ? LV. A DEAD ROSE. Mrs. Browning. O Rose, who dares to name thee ? No longer roseate now, nor soft nor sweet, But pale and hard and dry as stubble wheat, — Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee. The breeze that used to blow thee Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away An odor up the lane to last all day, — • If breathing now, unsweeten'd would forego thee. The sun that used to smite thee, And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn Till beam aj)pear'd to bloom, and flower to burn, — If shining now, with not a hue would light thee. 272 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. The dew that used to wet thee, And, white first, grow incarnadined because It lay upon thee where the crimson was, — If dropping now, would darken where it met thee. The fly that 'lit upon thee To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet Along thy leafs pure edges after heat, — If 'lighting now, would coldly overrun thee. "^ • ' The bee that once did suck thee, . ^ And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive, And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive, — If passing now, would blindly overlook thee. The heart doth recognize thee. Alone, alone ! the heart doth smell thee sweet. Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete, Perceiving all those changes that disguise thee. Yes, and the heart doth o\we. thee More love, dead rose, than to any roses bold '•, '■' Which Julia wears at dances, smiling cold : — Lie still upon this heart which breaks below thee ! '•I ii LVI. TO THE EVENING WIND. William Cullen Bryant.— 1794-1878. Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou That cool'st the twili^rht of the sultry day. Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow ; Thou hast been out^ upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now. Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swejling the white soil. I welcome thee To the scorch'd land, thou wanderer of the sea. TO THE EVENING WIND. 273 Nor I alone ; — a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Livelier at coming of the wind of night ; And languishing to hear thy grateful sound, Lies the vast inland stretch'd beyond the sight. Go forth into the gathering shade ; go forth, God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth, ! Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast ; Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass. And where the o'er-shadowing branches sweep the grass.- The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moisten'd curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep j And they who stand about the sick man's bed Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. (io, — but the circle of eternal change. Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more ; Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore ; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall dream He hears the rustlir;^ leaf and running stream. R f 'i 274 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. LVIL— DEATH OF THE PROTECTOR.^ Thomas Carlyle.— 1795- 1881. From Oliver Cromwell's Letters and Speeches. And SO we have now nothing more; — and Oliver has nothing more. His Speakings, and also his Actings, all his manifold Strugglings, more or less victorious, to utter the great God's- Message that was in him,-— have here what we call ended. This Summer of 1658, likewise vic- torious after struggle, is his last in our World of Time. Thenceforth he enters the Eternities ; and rests upon his arms there. . ;. i-j : r - .v-rvv:: . •., < . > > Oliver's look was yet strong ; and young for his years, which were Fifty-nine last April. The " Three-score and ten years," the Psalmist's limit, which probably was often in Oliver's thoughts and in those of others there, might] have been anticipated for him : Ten Years more of Life — which, we may compute, would have given another! History to all the Centuries of England. But it was not to be so, it was to be otherwise. Oliver's health, as wc might observe, was but uncertain in late times; often "indisposed" the spring before last. His course of life had not been favorable to health ! " A burden too heavy for man !" as he himself, with a sigh, would sometimes say. Incessant toil ; inconceivable labor, of head and heart and hand ; toil, peril, and sorrow manifold, continued for near Twenty years now, had done their part : thoscj robust life-energies, it afterwards appeared, had beeiij gradually eaten out. Like a Tower strong to the eye, but] with its foundations undermined ; which has not long tc stand ; the fall of which, on any .shock, may be sudden.— | *The author's use of capital letters and punctuation marks has been retained! DEATH OF THE PROTECTOR. 75 liver has tings, all , to utter ave here wise vic- of Time, upon his Kis years, 5Core and was often re, might I I of Life ; another t was not h, as we es ; often se of life oo heavy )metimcs lead and! :ontinuc(l rt : thosel lad been e eye, butj t long toj udden.— I een retain^ij The Manzinis and Dues de Crequi, with their splen- dors, and congratulations about Dunkirk, interesting to the street-populations and general public, had not yet withdrawn, when at Hampton Court there had be- gun a private scene, of much deeper and quite opposite interest there. The Lady Claypole, Oliver's favorite Daughter, a favorite of all the world, had fallen sick we know not when ; lay sick now, — to death, as it proved- Her disease was of a nature, the painfullest and most harassing to mind and sense, it is understood, that falls to the lot of a human creature. Hampton Court we can fancy once more, in those July days, a house of sorrow ; pale Death knocking there, as at the door of the meanest hut. " She had great sufferings, great exercises of spirit," Yes : — and in the depths of the old Centuries, we see a pale anxious Mother, anxious Husband, anxious weeping Sisters, a poor young Frances weeping anew in her weeds. " For the last fourteen days" his Highness had been by her bedside at Hampton Court, unable to attend to any public business whatever. Be still, my Child ; trust thou yet in God : in the waves of the Dark River, there too is He a God of help ! — On the 6th day of August she lay dead ; at rest forever. My young, my beautiful, my brave! She is taken from me ; I am left bereaved of her. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away ; blessed be the Name of the Lord ! — ... In the same dark days, occurred George Fox's third and last interview with Oliver. — . . . . George dates noth- ing; and his facts everywhere lie round him like the leather- parings of his old shop : but we judge it may have been about the time when the Manzinis and the Dues de Crequi were parading in their gilt coaches. That George and two Friends " going out of Town," on a summer day, *' two Wl 276 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. of Hacker's men " had met them, — taken them, brought them to the Mews. "Prisoners there awhile:" — but the Lord's power was over Hacker's men ; they had to let us go. Whereupon : • • " The same day, taking boat I went down " (///) " to King- ston, and from thence to Hampton Court, to speak with the Protector about the Sufferings of Friends. I met him riding into Hampton-Court Park ; and before I came to him, as he rode at the head of his Lifeguard, I saw and felt a waft " {"cvhiff) " of death go forth against him." Or in favor of him, George ? His life, if thou knew it, has not been a merry thing for this man, now or here- tofore ! I fancy he has been looking, this long while, to give it up, v/henever the Commander-in-Chief required. To quit his laborious sentry-post ; honorably lay-up his arms, and be gone to his rest : — all Eternity to rest in, O George ! Was thy own life merry, for example, in the hollow of the tree ; clad permanently in leather ? And does kingly purple, and governing refractory worlds in- stead of stitching coarse shoes, make it merrier? The waft of death is not against /«";«, I think, — perhaps against thee, and me, and others, O George, when the Nell-Gwynii Defender and Two Centuries of all-victorious Cant have come in upon us ! My unfortunate George " a waft of death go forth against him ; and when I came to him, | he looked like a dead man. After I had laid the Suffer ings of Friends before him, and had warned him accord- 1 ing as I was moved to speak to him, he bade me come to his house. So I returned to Kingston ; and, the next day,j went up to Hampton Court to speak farther with him. Ikit when I came, Harvey, who was one that waited 011 1 him, told me the Doctors were not willing that I should speak with him. So I passed away, and never saw himj nriore." DEATH OF THE PROTECTOR. VI Friday the 20th of August 1658, this was probabi}' the day on which George Fox saw Oliver riding into Hampton Park with his Guards, for the last time. That Friday, as we find, his Highness seemed much better : but on the morrow a sad change had taken place ; fever- ish symptoms, for which the Doctors rigorously prescribed quiet. Saturday to Tuesday the symptoms continued ever worsening : a kind of tertian ague, " bastard tertian'' as the old Doctors name it ; for which it was ordered that his Highness should return to Whitehall, as to a more favorable air in that complaint. On Tuesday ac- cordingly he quitted Hampton Court ; — never to sec it more. ' . - • , . " His time was come," says Harvey ; " and neither prayers nor tears could prevail with God to lengthen out his life and continue him longer to us. Prayers abun- dantly and incessantly poured out on his behalf, both publicly and privately, as was observed, in a more than ordinary way. Besides many a secret sigh, — secret and unheard by men, yet like the cry of Moses, more loud, and strongly laying hold on God, than many spoken sup- plications. All which, — the hearts of God's People being thus mightily stirred up, — did seem to beget confidence in some, and hopes in all ; yea some thoughts ijn himself, that God would restore him." " Prayers public and private : " they are w^orth imagin- ing to ourselves. Meetings of Preachers, Chaplains, and Godly Persons ; " Owen, Goodwin, Sterry, with a com- pany of others, in an adjoining room " ; in Whitehall, and elsewhere over religious London and England, fervent outpourings of many a loyal heart. For there were hearts to whom the nobleness of this man was known ; and his worth to the Puritan Cause was evident. Prayers, I 278 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. — strange enough to us ; in a dialect fallen obsolete, for- gotten now. Authentic wrestlings of ancient Human Souls, — who were alive then, with their affections, awe- struck pieties ; with their Human Wishes, risen to be trmrscendent, hoping to j)revail with the Inexorable. All swallowed now in the depths of dark Time ; which is full of such, since the beginning! — Truly it is a great scene of World-History, this in old Whitehall: Oliver Crom- well drawing nigh to his end. The exit of Oliver Crom- well and of I'lnglish Puritanism ; a great Light, one of our few authentic Solar Luminaries, going down now amid the clouds of Death. Like the setting of a great victorious Summer Sun ; its course now finished. '* So stirbt ein Heidi' says Schiller, *' So dies a Hero ! Sight worthy to be worshipped ! " — He died, this Hero Oliver, in Resignation to God ; as the Brave have all done. " We could not be more desirous he should abide," says the pious Harvey, " than he was content and willing to be gone." The struggle lasted, amid hope and fear, for ten days. .... On Monday August 30th, there roared and howled all day a mighty storm of wind. ... It was on this stormy Monday, while rocking winds, heard in the sickroom and everywhere, were piping aloud, that Thurloe and an Official person entered to enquire, Who, in case of the worst, was to be his Highness's Successor? The Suc- cessor is named in a sealed Paper already drawn-up, above a year ago, at Hampton Court ; now lying in such and such a place. The Paper was sent for, searched for ; it could never be found. Richard's is the name understood to have been written in that Paper : not a good name ; but in fact one does not know. In ten years' time, had ten years more been granted, Richard might have become DEATH OF THE PROTECTOR. 279 a fitter man ; might have been cancelled, if palpably un- fit. Or perhaps it was Fleetwood's name, — and the Paper, by certain parties, was stolen ? None knows. On the Thursday ni^^ht followinj^, "and not till then," his High- ness is understood to have formally named "Richard", — or perhaps it might only be some heavy-laden " Yes, yes ! " spoken, out of the thick death-slumbers, in answer to Thurloe's question " Richard?" The thing is a little uncertain. It was, once more, a matter of much mo- ment; — giving color probably to all the subsequent Centuries of lingland, this answer ! — . . . Thursday night the Writer of our old Pamphlet [Harvey] was himself in attendance on his Plighness ; and has preserved a trait or two ; with which let us hasten to conclude. Tomorrow is September Third, always kept as a Thanksgiving day, since the Victories of Dun- bar and Worcester. The wearied one, " that very night before the Lord took him to his everlasting rest," was heard thus, with oppressed voice, speaking : " ' Truly God is good ; indeed He is ; He will not ' Then his speech failed him, but as I apprehended, it was,^ ' He will not leave me.' This saying, ' God is good,' he frequently used all along ; and would speak it with much cheerfulness, and fervor of spirit, in the midst of his pains. — Again he said : ' I would be willing to live to be farther serviceable to God and His People : but my work is done. Yet God will be with His People.' " He was very restless most part of the night, speaking often to himself And there being something to drink offered him, he was desired To take the same, and en- deavor to sleep. — Unto which he answered : ' It is not my design to drink or sleep ; but my design is, to make what haste I can to be gone.' — IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) V /. {/ <■' C^x % £?. :/ Mi V] <^ /i /.

-• earth : then would come a charge of our dashing squadrons, who, riding recklessly upon the foe, were, in their turn, to be repulsed by numbers, when fresh attacks would pour down upon our unshaken infantry. " That column yonder is wavering : why does he not in 286 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. m\ I'' bring up his supporting squadrons?" inquired the Duke, pointing to a Belgian regiment of light dragoons, who were formed in the same brigade with the seventh hus- sars. " He refuses to oppose his light cavalry to cuirassiers, my lord," said an aid-de-camp, who had just returned from the division in question. "Tell him to march his men off the ground," said the Duke, with a quiet and impassive tone. In less than ten minutes the regiment was seen to de- file from the mass, and take the road to Brussels, to in- crease the panic of that city, by circulating and strength- ening the report, that the English were beaten, — and Napoleon in full march upon the capital. >^ "What's Ney's force? can you guess. Sir?" said Lord Wellington turning to me. "About twelve thousand men, my lord." "Are the Guard among them?" " No, Sir ; the Guard are in reserve above La Belle Alliance." "In what part of the field is Buonaparte?" " Nearly opposite to where we stand." " I told you, gentlemen, Hougoumont never was the great attack. The battle must be decided here," pointing, as he spoke, to the plain beneath us, where still Ney poured on his devoted columns, where yet the French cavalry rode down upon our firm squares. As he spoke an aid-de-camp rode up from the valley. " The ninety-second requires support, my lord : they cannot maintain their positions half an hour longer, without it." " Have they given way, Sir ?" « No " 1119- WATERLOO. 387 " Well, then, they must stand where they are. I hear cannon towards the left ; yonder, near Frischermont." At this moment the light cavalry swept past the base of the hill on which we stood, hotly followed by the French heavy cuirassier brigade. Three of our guns were taken ; and the cheering of the P'rench infantry, as they advanced to the charge, presaged their hope of victory. " Do it, then," said the Duke, in reply to some whispered question of Lord Uxbridge; and shortly after the heavy trot of advancing squadrons was heard behind. They were the Life Guards and the Blues, who, with the first Dragoon Guards and the Enniskilleners, were formed into close column. " I know the ground, my Lord," said I to Lord Ux- bridge. "Come along, Sir, come along," said he, as he threw his hussar jacket loosely behind him, to give freedom to his sword-arm. — " Forward, my men, forward ; but steady, hold your horses in hand ; threes about, and to- gether charge." "Charge!" he shouted; while, as the word flew from squadron to squadron, each horseman bent upon his saddle, and that mighty mass, as though instinct with but one spirit, dashed like a thunder-bolt upon the column beneath them. The French, blown and exhausted, in- ferior beside in weight both of man and horse, offered but a short resistance. As the tall corn bends beneath the sweeping hurricane, wave succeeding wave, so did the steel-clad squadrons of France fall before the nervous arm of Britain's cavalry. Onward they went, carrying death and ruin before them, and never stayed their course, until the guns were recaptured, and the cuirassiers, re- \r V'' ■ 1* 288 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. IM "I \l- pulsed, disordered, and broken, had retired beneath the protection of their artillery. There was, as a brilliant and eloquent writer on the subject mentions, a terrible sameness in the whole of this battle. Incessant charges of cavalry upon the squares of our infantry, whose sole manceuvre consisted in either deploying into line to resist the attack of infantry, or falling back into square when the cavalry advanced — per- forming those two evolutions under the devastating fire of artillery, before the unflinching heroism of that veteran infantry whose glories had been reaped upon the blood- stained fields of Austerlitz, Marengo, and Wagram — • or opposing an unbroken front to the whirlwind swoop of infuriated cavalry ; — such were the enduring and de- voted services demanded from the English troops, and such they failed not to render. Once or twice had tem- per nearly failed them, and the cry ran through the ranks, " Are we never to move forward? — Only let us at them!" But the word was not yet spoken which was to undam the pent-up torrent, and bear down with unrelenting vengeance upon the now exulting columns of the enemy. It was six o'clock: the battle had continued with un- changed fortune for three hours. The French, masters of La Haye Sainte, could never advance further into our position. They had gained the orchard of Hougou- mont, but the chateau was still held by the British Guards, although its blazing roof and crumbling walls made its occupation rather the desperate stand of unflinching valor than the maintenance of an important position. The smoke which hung upon the field rolled in slow and heavy masses back upon the French lines, and gradu- ally discovered to our view the entire of the army. iC We quickly perceived that a. change was taking place in mm WATERLOO. 289 h the in the Df this ^uares either ;ry, or — per- fircof eteran blood- ram — ■ swoop nd de- ls, and d tem- ranks, them!" undam enting nemy. h un- nasters r into ougou- uards, ade its nching Dsition. n slow gradii- ^We lace in their position. The troops which on their left stretched far beyond Hougoumont, were now moved nearer to the centre. The attack upon the chateau seemed less vigor- ously supported, while the oblique direction of their right wing, which, pivoting upon Planchenoit, opposed a face to the Prussians, — all denoted a change in their order of battle. It was now the hour when Napoleon was at last convinced that nothing but the carnage he could no longer support could destroy the unyielding ranks of British in- fantry; that although Hougoumont had been partially, La Haye Sainte, completely, won; that although upon the right the farm-houses Papelotte and La Haye were nearly surrounded by his troops, which with any other army must prove the forerunner of defeat: yet still the victory was beyond his grasp. The bold stratagems, whose success the experience of a life had proved, were here to be found powerless. The decisive manceuvre of carrying one important point of the enemy's lines, of turning him upon the flank, or piercing him through the centre, were here found impracticable. He might launch his avalanche of grape-shot, he might pour down his crashing columns of cavalry, he might send forth the iron storm of his brave infantry ; but, though death in every shape heralded their approach, still were others found to fill the fallen ranks, and feed with their heart's blood the unslaked thirst for slaughter. Well might the gallant leader of this gallant host, as he watched the reckless onslaught of the untiring enemy, and looked upon the unflinching few, who, bearing the proud badge of Britain, alone sustained the fight, well might he exclaim, " Night, orBlucher!" It was now seven o'clock, when a dark mass was seen to form upon the heights above the French centre, and s % iil 290 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. ,ri-:''"'^ divide into three gigantic columns, of which the right occupied the Brussels road. These were the reserves, consisting of the Old and Young Guards, and amounting I J twelve thousand — the elite of the French army — re- served by the' Emperor for a great eoup-de-main. These veterans of a hundred battles had been stationed, from the beginning of the day, inactive spectators of the fight ; their hour was now come, and, with a shout of " Vive r Empereiir I " which rose triumphantl'^over the din and crash of battle, they began their march. Meanwhile, aids-de-camp galloped along the lines, announcing the arrival of Grouchy, to reanimate the drooping spirits of the men; for, at last, a doubt of victory was breaking upon the minds of those who never before, in the most adverse hour of fortune, v'nemed Jiis star could set that led them on to glory. " They are coming : the attack will be made on the centre, my lord," said Lord Fitzroy Somerset, as he di- rected his glass upon the column. Scarcely had he spoke when the telescope fell from his hand, as his arm, shat- tered by a French bullet, fell motionless to his side. " I see it," was the cool reply of the Duke, as he ordered the Guards to deploy into line, and lie down behind the ridge, which now the French artillery had found the range of, and were laboring at with their guns. In front of them the fifty-second, seventy-first, and ninety-fifth were formed ; the artillery, stationed above and partly upon the road, loaded with grape, and waited but the word to open. It was an awful, a dreadful moment: the Prussian can- non thundered on our left; but so desperate was the French resistance, they made but little progress : the dark columns of the Guard had now commenced the as- WATERLOO. 291 ^rvcs, nting ' — rc- rhcsc m the fight " Vive in and iwhile, \g the rits of caking e most 2t that an can- vas the ss: the the as- cenr, and the artillery ceased their fire as the bayonets of «.hc grenadiers showed themselves upon the slope. Then began that tremendous cheer from right to left of our line which those who heard never can forget. It was the impatient, long-restrained burst of unslaked vengeance. With the instinct which valor teaches, they knew the hour of trial was come ; and that wild cry flew from rank to rank, echoing froi. ^he blood-stained walls of Hou- {^^oumont to the far-off valley of La Papelotte. "They come ! they come ! " was the cry ; and the shout of " Vive lEmpereur '" mingled with the outburst of the F ;itisb line. Jf Under an overwhelming shower of grape, to which succeeded a charge of cavalry of the Imperial Guard, the head of Ney's column fired its volley and advanced with the bayonet. The British artillery now opened at half range, and although the plunging fire scathed and devastated the dark ranks of the Guards, on they came, — Ney himself, on foot, at their head. Twice the leading division of that gallant column turned completely round, as the withering fire wasted and consumed them ; but they were resolved to win. Already they had gained the crest of the hill, and the first line of the British were falling back before ihem. The artillery closes up ; the flanking fire from the guns upon the road opens upon them ; the head of their column breaks like a shell ; the Duke seizes the moment, and advances on foot towards the ridge. " Up, Guards, and at them !" he cried. The hour of triumph and vengeance had arrived. In a moment the Guards were on their feet ; one volley was poured in ; the bayonets were brought to the charge ; they closed upon the enemy: then was seen the most 292 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER, 4 I' M i'r mmt m P i ■iW X ' ..,,■•:). • 1 • ' -.': '! i^4i ! lU j\ m. ' 111 1 M. M dreadful struggle that the history of all war can present. Furious with long restrained passion, the guards rushed upon the leading divisions ; the seventy-first, and ninety- fifth, and twenty-sixth overlapped them on the flanks. T' cir generals fell thickly on every side; Michel, Jamier, aiid Mallet are killed: Friant lies wounded upon the ground ; Ney, his dress pierced and ragged with balls, shouts .^till to advance; but the leading files waver; they fall back ; the supporting divisions thicken ; confu- sion, panic succeeds ; the British press down ; the cavalry come galloping up to their assistance ; and, at last, pell- mell, overwhelmed and beaten, the French fall back upon the Old Guard, '^his was the decisive moment of the day ; — the Duke ciosed his glass, as he said : "The fiel(' is won. Order the whole line to advance.' On they came, four deep, and poured like a torrent from the height. "Let the Life Guards charge them," said the Duke; but every aid-de-camp on his staff was wounded, and I myself brought the order to Lord Uxbridge. Lord Uxbridge had already anticipated his orders, and bore down with four regiments of l.,avy cavalry upon the French centre. The Prussian artillery thundered upon their flank, and at their rear. The British bayonet was in their front ; while a panic fear spread through their ranks, and the cry o("Scmve qiit peutT resounded on all sides. In vain Ney, the bravest of the brave ; in vain Soult, Bertrand, Gourgaud, and Lai -doy^re, burst from the broken disorganized mass, and called on them to stand fast. A battalion of the Old Guard, with Cam- bronne at their head, ale c obeyed the summons : form- ing into square, they stood l.ctween the pursuers and their prey, offering themselves .. sacrifice to the tarnish- WATERLOO. 293 cd honor of their arms : to the order to surrender, they answered with a cry of defiance ; and, as our cavalry, flushed and elated with victory, rode round their bristling ranks, no quailing look, no craven spirit was there. The Emperor himself endeavored to repair the disaster; he rode with lightening speed hither and thither, command- ing, ordering, nay imploring too ; but already the night was falling, the confusion became each moment more inextricable, and the effort was a fruitless one. A regi- ment of the Guards, and two batteries were in reserve behind Planchcnoit; he threw them rapidly into position; but the overwhelming impulse of flight drove the mass upon them, and they were carried away upon the torrent of the beaten army/ No sooner did the Emperor sec this his last hope desert him, than he dismounted from his horse, and, drawing his sword, threw himself into a square, which the first regiment of chasseurs of the Old Guard had formed with a remnant of the battalion ; Je- rome followed him, as he called out : " You are right, brother : here should perish all who bear the name of Buonaparte," The same moment the Prussian light artillery rend the ranks asunder, and the cavalry charge down upon the scattered fragments. A few of his stafl", who never left him, place the Emperor upon a horse, — and fly. We//ini:;"ofiy Thy s^reat work is hut begun ! With quick seed his end is rife Whose hfii!^^ tale of conquering strife Shows no triumph like his life Lost and won. Dante Gaukiki, Rossf.tti,— 1828-1882. On Wellington's lunenil, Nw. iSth, iS^i. m m ir K p ll 294 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. LX. THE DIVER. ill I ill I I'll!] ! 1 llll I I in' Edward Bulwer, Lord Lytton.— 1805-1873, Translated from the German of Schiller, " O WHERE is the knight or the squire so bold As to dive to the howling Charybdis below ? — I cast in the whirlpool a goblet of gold, And o'er it already the dark waters flow ; Whoever to me may the goblet bring, Shall have for his guerdon that gift of his king." He spoke, and the cup from the terrible steep. That, rugged and hoary, hung over the verge Of the c-ndless and measureless world of the deep, Swirl'd into the maelstrom that madden'd the surge. "And where is the diver so stout to go — I ask ye again — to the deep below?" And the knights and the squires that gather'd around. Stood silent — and fix'd on the ocean their eyes ; They look'd on the dismal and savage profound, And the peril chill'd back every thought of the prize. And thrice spoke the monarch : " The cup to win, Is there never a wight who will venture in ?" And all as before heard in silence the king, Till a youth with an aspect unfearing but gentle, 'Mid the tremulous squires stepp'd out from the ring. Unbuckling his girdle, and doffing his mantle ; And the murmuring crowd, as they parted asunder, On the stately boy cast their looks of wonder. As he strode to the marge of the summit, and gave ' One glance on the gulf of that merciless main, L9 ! the wave that for ever devours the wave, Casts roaringly up the Charybdis again ; ^>x THE DIVER, 395 And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom, Rushes foamingly forth from the heart of the gloom. And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars. As when fire is with water ccmmix'd and contending, And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars, And flood ujxjn flood hurries on, never ending j And it never will rest, nor from travail be free, Like a sea that is laboring the birth of a sea. Yet, at length, comes a lull o'er the mighty commotion. And dark through the whiteness, and still through the swell, The whirlpool cleaves downward and downward in ocean A yawning abyss, like the pathway to hell ; The stiller and darker the farther it goe^s, Suck'd into that smoothness the breakers repose. The youth gave his trust to his Maker ! Before That path through the r'ven abyss closed again, Hark ! a shriek from the gazers that circle the shore, — - And, behold ! he is whixl'd in the grasp of the main ! And o'er him the breakers mysteriously roll'd. And the giant-mouth closed on the swimmer so bold. All was still on the height, save the murmur that went From the grave of the deep, sounding hollo\f and fell, Or save when the tremulous, sighing lament Thrill'd from lip unto lip, "(Jallant youth, fare thee well !" More hollow and more wails the deej) on the ear, — More dread and more dread grows sus])ense in its fear. — If thou shouldst in those waters thy diadem fling, And cry, *' Who may find it shall win it and wear" ; God wot, though the prize were the crow" of a king, A crown at such hazard were valued too dear. For never shall lips of the living reveal What the deeps that howl yonder in terror conceal. in I, 4'" r ^^iii 296 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Oh, many a bark, to that breast grappled fast. Has gone down to the fearful and fathomless grave ; Again, crash'd together the keel and the mast, To be seen toss'd aloft in the glee of the wave ! — Like the growth of a storm ever louder and clearer, Grows the roar of the gulf rising nearer and nearer. And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars. As when fire is with water commix'd and contending ; And the spray of its wrath to the welkin ujvsoars. And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending. And as with the swell of the far thunder-boom. Rushes roaringly forth from the heart of the gloom. And, lo ! from the heart of that far-floating gloom, Like the wing of the cygnet — what gleams on the sea ? Lo ! an arm and a neck glancing up from the tomb ! Steering stalwart and shoreward : O joy, it is he ! The left hand is ifted in triumph ; behold. It waves as a trophy the goblet of gold ! And he breathed deep, and he breathed long. And he greeted the heavenly light of the day. They gaze on each other, — they shout as they throng, " He lives — lo, the ocean has render'd its prey ! And safe from the whirlpool, and free from the grave. Comes back to the daylight the soul of the brave 1" And he comes, with the crowd in their clamor and glee ; And the goblet his daring has won from the water He lifts to the king as he sinks on his knee ; And the king from her maidens has beckon'd his daughtci She pours to the boy the bright wine which they brings And thus spoke the diver : " Long life to the King 1 THE DIVER. 297 " Happy thty whom the rose-hues of daylight rejoice, 'I'he air and the sky that to mortals are given ! May the horror below nevermore find a voice, — Nor man stretch too far the wide mercy of Heaven ! Nevermore, — nevermore may he lift from the sight The veil which is woven with terror and nidit ! ■A. " Quick brightening like lightning the ocean rush'd o'er me, Wild floating, borne down fathom-deep from the day ; Till a torrent rush'd out on the torrents that bore me, And doubled the tempest that whirl'd me away. Vain, vain was my struggle, — the circle had won me. Round and round in its dance the mad element spun me. "From the deep then I call'd ui)on (iod, and He heard me; In the dread of my need. He vouchsafed to mine eye A rock jutting out from the grave that interr'd me ; I sprung there, I clung there, — and death pass'd me by. And, lo ! where the goMet gleam'd through the abyss, By a coral reef saved from the far Fathomless. " Below, at the foot of that precipice drear, Spread the gloomy and purple and i)athless Obscure ! A silence of horror that slept on the ear. That the eye more appall'd might the horror endure ; Salamander, snake, dragon — vast reptiles that dwell In the deep — coil'd abo;.t the grim jaws of their hell. %m " Dark crawl'd, glided dark, the unspeakable swarms, Clump'd together in m.-.jcs, misshapen and vast ; Here clung and here bristlec. the fashionless forms ; Here the dark-moving bulk of the hammer-fish ])ass'd ; And, with teeth grinning white, and a menacing motion, Went the terrible shark, — the hyena of ocean. MSB 298 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. " There 1 hung, and the awe gather'd icily o'er me, So far from the earth, where man's help there was none \ The one human thing, with the goblins before me — Alone — in a loneness so ghastly — Alone ! Deep under the reach of the sweet living breath, And begirt with the broods of the desert of Death. l;;!ii 11 / " Methought, as I gazed through the darkness, that now It saw — a dread hundred-limb'd creature — its prey ! And darted, devouring ; I sprang from the bough Of the coral, and swept on the horrible way ; And the whirl of the mighty wave seized me once more, It seized me to save me, and dash to the shore." On the youth gazed the monarch, and marvell'd : quoth he, " Bold diver, the goblet I promised is thine \ And this ring I will give, a fresh guerdon to thee — Never jewels more precious shone up from the mine — If thou'lt bring me fresh tidings, and venture again, To say what lies hid in the innermost main." Then out spake the daughter in tender emotion : *' Ah ! father, my father, what more can there rest ? Enough of this sport with the pitiless ocean : He has serv'd thee as none would, thyself hast confest. If nothing can slake thy wild thirst of desire, Let thy knights put to shame the exploit of the squire !" The king seized the goblet, he swung it on high, And whirling, it fell in the roar of the tide ; " But bring ack that goblet again to my eye, And I'll hold thee the dearest that rides by my side ; And thine arms shall embrace as thy bride, I decree. The maiden whose pity now pleadeth for thee." s none ! now lore, Lioth he, ine- nfest. de ; ') THE PLAGUE OF LOCUSTS. 299 And Heaven, as he listen'd, spoke out from the space, And the hope that makes heroes shot flame from his eyes ; He gazed on the blush in that beautifu face — It pales — at the feet of her father she lies ! How priceless the guerdon !— a moment — a breath — And headlong he plunges to life and to death ! They hear the loud surges sweep back in their swell, Their coming the thunder-sound heralds along ! Fond eyes yet are tracking the spot where he fell. They come, the wild waters, in tumult and throng, Roaring up to the cliff, — roaring back as before. But no wave ever brings the lost youth to the shore ! LXI. THE PLAGUE OF LOCUSTS. Cardinal Ne'vman.— 1801- From Callista. Juba's finger was directed to a spot where, amid the thick foliage, the gleam of a pool or of a marsh was visi- ble. The various waters round about, issuing from the gravel, or drained from the nightly damps, had run into a hollow, filled with the decaying vegetation of former years. Its banks were bordered with a deep, oroad layer c mud, a transition substance between the rich vegetable matter which it once had been, and the multitudinous world of insect life which it was becoming. A cloud or mist at this time was hanging over it, high in air. A harsh and shrill sound, a whizzing or a chirping, proceeded from that, cloud to the ear of the attentive listener. What these indications portended was plain. . , . 4 m Nf \m 30O THE HIGH SCHOOL READER, W^ ! I II I iii' The plague of locusts, one of the most awful visitations to which the countries included in the Roma "» empire were exposed, extended from the Atlantic to Ethiopia, from Arabia to India, and from the Nile and Red Sea to Greece and the north of Asia Minor. Instances are recorded in history of clouds of the devastating insect crossing the Black Sea to Poland, and the Mediterranean to Lombardy. It is as numerous in its species as it is wide in its range of territory. Brood follows brood, with a sort of family likeness, yet with distinct attributes. It wakens into existence and activity as early as the month of March ; but instances are not wanting, as in our present history, of its appearance as late as June. Even one flight comprises myriads upon myriads pass- ing imagination, to which the drops of rain or the sands of the sea are the only fit comparison ; and hence it is almost a proverbial mode of expression in the East, by way of describing a vast mvading army, to liken it to the locusts. So dense are they, when upon the wing, that it is no exaggeration to say that they hide the sun, from which circumstance indeed their name in Arabic is de- rived. And so ubiquitous are they when they have alighted on the earth, that they simply cover or clothe its surface. . This last characteristic is stated in the sacred account of the plagues of Egypt, where their faculty of devas- tation is also mentioned. The corrupting fly and the bruising and prostrating hail preceded them in that series of visitations, but tJiey came to do the work of ruin more thoroughly. For not only the crops and fruits, but the foliage of the forest itself, nay, the small twigs and the bark of the .trees arc the victims of their curious and energetic rapacity. They have been known even to gnaw II! I itations empire thiopia, Led Sea ices are y insect rranean as it is od, with tributes. ' as the g, as in IS June, ds pass- le sands nee it is East, by it to the that it m, from lie is de- ey have )r clothe account f devas- and the lat series lin more but the and the lous and to gnaw W' THE PLAGUE OF LOCUSTS. 30 T the door-posts of the houses. Noi do they execute their task in so slovenly a way, that, as they Jiave succeeded other plagues, so they may have successors themselves. They take pains to spoil what they leave. Like the Harpies, they smear every thing that they touch with a miserable slime, which has the effect of a virus in corrod- ing, or as some say, in scorching and burning. And then, perhaps, as if all this were little, when they can do nothing else, they die ; as if out of sheer malevolence to man, for the poisonous elements of their nature are then let loose and dispersed abroad, and create a pestilence ; and they manage to destroy many more by their death than in their life. Such are the locusts. And now they are rushing upon a considerable tract of that beautiful region of which we have spoken with such admiration. The swarm to which Juba pointed grew and grew till it became a compact body, as much as a furlong square ; yet it was but the vanguard of a series of similar hosts, formed one after another out of the hot mould or sand, rising into the air like clouds, enlarging into a dusky canopy, and then dis- charged against the fruitful plain. At length the huge innumerous mass was put into motion, and began its career, darkening the face of day. As became an instru- ment of divine power, it seemed to have no volition of its own ; it was set off, it drifted, with the wind, and thus made northwards, straight for Sicca. Thus they ad- vanced, host after host, for a time wafted on the air, and gradually declining to the earth, while fresh broods were carried over the first, and neared the earth, after a longer flight, in their turn. For twelve miles did they extend from front to rear, and their whizzing and hissing could be heard for six miles on every side of them. The bright I!!«i 503 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Ill m iiiii sun, though hidden by them, illumined their bodies, and was reflected from their quivering wings ; and as they heavily fell earthward, they seemed like the innumerable flakes of a yellow-colored snow. And like snow did they descend, a living carpet, or rather pall, upon fields, crops, gardens, copses, groves, orchards, vineyards, olive woods, orangeries, palm plantations, and the deep forests, sparing nothing within their reach, and where there was nothing to devour, lying helpless in drifts, or crawling forward obstinately, as they best might, with the hope of prey. They could spare their hundred thousand sol- diers twice or thrice over, and not miss them ; their masses filled the bottoms of the ravines and hollow ways, impeding the traveller as he rode forward on his journey and trampled by thousands under his horse-hoofs. In vain was all this overthrow and waste by the roadside , in vain their loss in river, pool, and watercourse. The poor peasants hastily dug pits and trenches as their enemy came on ; in vain they filled them from the wells or with lighted stubble. Heavily and thickly did the locusts fall ; they were lavish of their lives ; they choked the flame and the water, which destroyed them the while, and the vast living hostile armament still moved on. They moved right on like soldiers in their ranks, stop- ping at nothing, and straggling for nothing ; they carried a broad furrow or wheal all across the country, black and loathsome, while it was as green and smiling on each side of them and in front, as it had been before they came. Before them, in the language of prophets, was a paradise, and behind them a desert. They are daunted by nothing they surmount walls and hedges, and enter enclosed gar- dens or inhabited houses. A rare and experimental vineyard has been ] lantcd in a sheltered grove. The I? ■ THE PLAGUE OF LOCUSTS. 303 hi^h winds of Africa will not commonly allow the lit^bt trcllicc or the slim pole ; but here the lofty poplar of Campania has been possible, on which the vine plant mounts so many yards into the air, that the poor grape- (^atherers bargain for a funeral pile and a tomb as one of the conditions of their engagement. The locusts have done what the winds and lightning could not do, and the whole promise of the vintage, leaves and all, is gone, and the slender stems are left bare. There is another yard, less uncommon, but still tended with more than common care ; each plant is kept within due bounds by a circular trench round it, and by upright canes on which it is to trail ; in an hour the solicitude and long toil of the vine- dresser are lost, and his pride humbled. There is a smiling farm ; another sort of vine, of remarkable char- acter, is found against the farmhouse. This vine springs from one root, and has clothed and matted with its many branches the four walls. The whole of it is covered thick with long clusters, which another month will ripen. On every grape and leaf there is a locust. Into the dry caves and pits, carefully strewed with straw, the harvest- men have (safely, as they thought just now) been lodging the far-famed African wheat. One grain or root shoots up into ten, twenty, fifty, eighty, nay, three or four hun- dred stalks : sometimes the stalks have two ears apiece, and these shoot into a number of lesser ones. These stores are intended for the Roman populace, but the locusts have been beforehand with them. The small patches of ground belonging to th^ poor peasants up and down the country, for raising the turnips, garlic, barley, water-melons, on which the)" live, arc the prey of these glutton invaders as much as the choicest vines and olives. Nor have they any reverence for the villa of the civic 304 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. f i ■ii; !• :ii decurion or the Roman ofTicial. The neatly arranged kitchen garden, with its cherries, phiins, peaches, and apricots, is a waste ; as the slaves sit round, in the kit- chen in the first court, at their coarse evening meal, the room is filled with the invading force, and news comes to then- that the enemy has fallen upon the apples and pears in the basement, and is at the same time plunder- ing and sacking the preserves of quince and pomegranate, and revelling in the jars of precious oil of Cyprus and Mendes in the store-rooms. They come up to the walls of Sicca, and arc flung against them into the ditch. Not a moment's hesitation or delay; they recover their footing, they climb up the wood or stucco, they surmount the parapet, or they have entered in at the windows, filling the apartments, and the most private and luxurious chambers, not one or two, like stragglers at forage or rioters after a victory, but in order of battle, and with the array of an army. Choice plants or flowers about the impluvia and xysti^ for orna- ment or refreshment, myrtles, oranges, pomegranates, the rose and the carnation, have disappeared. They dim the bright marbles of the walls and the gilding of the ceilings. They enter the triclinium in the midst of the banquet ; they crawl over the viands and spoil what they do not devour. Unrelaxed by success and by enjoyment, onward they go ; a secret mysterious instinct keeps them together, as if they had a king over them. They move along the floor in so strange an order that they seem to be a tessellated pavement themselves, and to be the arti- ficial embellishment of the place ; so true are their lines, and so perfect is the pattern they describe. Onward they go, to the market, to the temple sacrifices, to the bakers' stores, to the cookshops, to the confectioners, to T THE PLAGUE OF LOCUSTS. 305 (he drugfjists ; nothing comes amiss to them ; wherever man lias aught to eat or drink, there are they, reckless o)f death, strong of appetite, certain of conquest. . . . Another and a still worse calamity. The invaders, as we have already hinted, could be more terrible still in their overthrow than in their ravages. The inhabitants of the country had attempted, where they could, to de- stroy th bv fire and water. It would seem as if the malign. imals had resolved that the sufferers .should have the benefit of this policy to the full ; for they had not got more than twenty miles beyond Sicca when they suddenly sickened and died. When they thus had done all the mischief they could by their living, when they thus had made their foul maws the grave of every living thing, next they died themselves, and made the desolated land their own grave. They took from it its hundred forms and varieties of beautiful life, and left it their own fetid and poisonous carcases in payment. It was a sudden catastrophe ; they seemed making for the Mediterranean, as if, like other great conquerors, they had other worlds to .subdue beyond it ; but, whether they were overgorged, or struck by some atmospheric change, or that their time was come and they paid the debt of nature, so it was that suddenly they fell, and their glory came to nought, and all was vanity to them as to others, and "their stench rose up, and their corruption rose up, because they had (lone proudly." The hideous swarms lay dead in the moist steaming underwoods, in the green swamps, in the sheltered val- leys, in the ditches and furrows of the fields, amid the monuments of their own prowess, the ruined crops and the dishonored vineyards. A poisonous element, issuing from their remains, mingled with the atmosphere, and T i :{• .!!'•; i 306 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. corrupted it. The dismayed peasant found that a plague had begun ; a new visitation, not confined to the terri- tory which the enemy had made its own, but extending far and wide, as the atmosphere extends, in all direc- tions. Their daily toil, no longer claimed by the fruits of the earth, which have ceased to exist, is now devoted to the object of ridaing themselves of the deadly legacy which they have received in their stead. In vain ; it is their last toil ; they are digging pits, they are raising piles, for their own corpses, as well as for the bodies of their enemies. Invader and victim lie in the same grave, burn in the same heap ; they sicken while they work, and the pestilence spreads. LXII. THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR. \viLLiAM Makepeace Thackeray. — 1811-1863. In tatter'd old slippers that toast at the bars, And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, Away from the world and its toils and its cares, I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs. To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure. But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure ; And the view I behold on a sunshiny day Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way. This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books, And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends. THE CANE-BO TTOM'D CHAIR. yyj Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china, (all crack'd,) Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-back'd ; A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see ; What matter ? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. No better divan need the Sultan require, Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire y And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet. That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's ca By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp ; A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn : 'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon. i Tong, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes, Here \\ j talk of old books, and old friends, and old times j As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest. There's one that I love and I cherish the best ; For the finest of couches that's padded with hair I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair. I 'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat. With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet ; But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, I bless thee, and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair. If chairs have but feeling, in hoi (fmg such charms, A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms ! I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair ; I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair. ?yf^F 308 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. It was but a moment she sat in this place, She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face ! A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair. And she sat there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair. And so I have valued my chair ever since. Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince ; Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare, The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair. When the candles burn low, and the company's gone, In the silence of night as I sit here alone — I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair — My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair. She comes from the past and revisits my room ; She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom ; So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair. And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair. LXIII. THE RECONCILIATION.^ Thackeray. There was scarce a score of persons in the Cathedral beside the Dean and some of his clergy, and the choristers, young and old, that performed the beautiful evening prayer. But Mr. Tusher was one of the officiants, and *From ''The History of Henry Esmond, Esq., a Colonel in the Service of Her Majesty Queen Anne. Written by himself." The late Lord Castlewood had been killed in a duel, and young Esmond, who had lived in his house as a dependant^ reputed to have been illegitimately related to a former Viscount of Castlewood), devotedly attending him at his death-bed, received from the dying man confession and proof that he, the sup- THE RECONCILIA TION. 309 thedral oristers, evening nts, and Service of P2smond, egitimateiy him at hi^ fi, the sup- read from the i.*agle in an authoritative voice, and a great black periwig ; and in the stalls, still in her black widow's hood, sat Esnnond's dear mistress, her son by her side, very much grown, and iiideed a noble-looking youth, with his mother's eyes, and his father's curling brown hair, that fell over his point as Ve/iise — a pretty picture such as Vandyke might have painted. Mons. Rigaud's por- trait of my Lord Viscount, dv^ne at Paris afterwards, gives but a French version of his manly, frank English face. When he looked up there were iwo sapphire beams out of his eyes such as no painter's palette has the color to match, I think. On this day there was not much chance of seeing that particular beauty of my young lord's coun- tenance ; for the truth is, he kept his eyes shut for the most part, and, the anthem being rather long, was asleep. But the music ceasing, my lord woke up, looking about him, and his eyes lighting on Mr. Esmond, who was sit- ting opposite him, gazing with no small tenderness and melancholy upon two persons who had so much of his heart for so many years. Lord Castlewood, with a start, pulled at his mother's sleeve (her face had scarce been K. posed obscure orphan, was the true inheritor, and injustice ooghi to have been tlie possessor, of the Castlewood titles and estates. But Esmond, to the love lie had borne his patron, and from devotion to Lady Castlewood, who had much befriended him, immediately destroyed the proofs which were given him of his honorable parentage, and ever afterwards kept his claim a secret. After the duel, while Esmond was in prison, Lady Castlewood visited him, and in the wildness of her grief for her murdered husband, reproached her loyal idnsman for not having saved her lord's life, or avenged his death. In the estrangement which these reproaches occasioned, Esmond sought his fortune abroad in war ; but subsequently, desiring to learn of the welfare of his mistress and her family, whose happiness he prized more than his own, he returned to England, and went to Winchester, near which was Walcote, Lady Castlewood's home, llio family were attending service in the cathedral, and there the reconciliation took place. — Esmond had formerly been promised the living of Walcote, but the vacancy occurring while the estrangement continued. Lady Castlewood had jiven it to one Mr. Tusher. Pi tim 310 T//E HIGH SCHOOL READER. lifted from her book), and said, " Look, mother !" so loud, that Esmond could hear on the other side of the church, and the old Dean on his throned stall. Lady Castle- wood looked for an instant as her son bade her, and held up a warning finger to Frank ; Esmond felt his whole face flush, and his heart throbbing, as that dear lady beheld him once more. The rest of the prayers were speedily over ; Mr. Esmond did not hear them ; nor did his mis- tress, very likely, whose hood went more closely over her face, and who never lifted her head again until the ser- vice was over, the blessing given, and Mr. Dean, and his procession of ecclesiastics, out of the inner chapel. Young Castlewood came clambering over the stalls before the clergy were fairly gone, and running up to Esmond, eagerly embraced him. " My dear, dearest old Harry ! " he said, '* are you come back ? Have you been to the wars ? You'll take me with you when you go again ? Why didn't you write to us ? Come to mother." Mr. Esmond could hardly say more than a "God bless you, my boy," for his heart was very full and grateful at all this tenderness on the lad's part ; and he was as much moved at seeing Frank as he was fearful about that other interview which was now to take place : for he knew not! if the widow would reject him as she had done so cruelly] a year ago. " It was kind of you to come back to us, Henry," Lady] Esmond said. " I thought you might come." " We read of the fleet coming to Portsmouth. Why did you not come from Portsmouth?" Frank asked, or I my Lord Viscount, as he now must be called. Esmond had thought of that too. He would have I given one of his eyes so th-^t he might see his dear friends again once more ; but believing that his mistress had THE RECONCILIA TION. 311 so loud, : church, ■ Castlc- and held hole face y beheld speedily his mis- over her 1 the ser- , and his el. :he stalls tig up to :arest old you been you go mother." uod bless rateful at ; as much that other i knew not so cruelly! iry," Lady th. Why asked, or Duld have car friends stress had forbidden him her house, he had obeyed her, and re- mained at a distance. " You had but to ask, and you knew I would be here," he said. She gave him her hand, her little fair hand : there was only her marriage ring on it. The quarrel was all over. The year of grief and estrangement was passed. They never had been separated. His mistress had never been out of his mind all that time. No, not once. No, not in the prison ; nor in the camp ; nor on shore before the enemy ; nor at sea under the stars of solemn midnight ; nor as he watched the glorious rising of the dawn : not even at the table, where he sat carousing with friends, or at the theatre yonder, where he tried to fancy that other eyes were brighter than hers. Brighter eyes there might be, and faces more beautiful, but none so dear — no voice so sweet as that of his beloved mistress, who had been sister, mother, goddess to him during his youth — goddess now no more, for he knew of her weaknesses ; and by thought, by suffering, and that experience it brings, was older now than she ; but more fondly cher- ished as woman perhaps than ever she had been adored as divinity. What is it? Where lies it? the secret which makes one little hand the dearest of all ? Who ever can unriddle that mystery ? Here .she was, her son by his side, his dear boy. Here she was, weeping and happy. She took his hand in both hers ; he felt her tears. It was a rapture of reconciliation. . . . "And Harry's coming home to supper. Huzzay ! huzzay !" cries my lord. " Mother, I shall run home and bid Beatrix put her ribbons on. Beatrix is a maid of honor, Harry. Such a fine set-up minx !" *' Your heart was never in the Church, Harry," the ■m ill 3ii THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. i|ii ! "iif^, 1 widow said, in her sweet low tone, as they walked away together. (Now, it seemed they had never been parted, and again, as if they had been ages asunder.) " I always thought you had no vocation that way ; and that 'twas a pity to shut you out from the wodd. You would but have pined and chafed at Castlewo jd : and 'tis better you should make a name for yoursel '. I often said so to my dear lord. How he loved you ! 'Twas my lord that made you stay with us." .• " I asked no better than to stay near you always," said Mr. Esmond. ' ' " But to go was best, Harry. When the world cannot give peace, you will know where to find it ; but one of your strong imagination and eager desires must try the world first before he tires of it. 'Twas not to be thought of, or if it once was, it was only by my selfishness, that you should remain as chaplain to a country gentleman and tutor to a little boy. You are of the blood of the Esmonds, kinsman ; and that was always wild in youth. Look at Francis. He is but fifteen, and I scarce can keep him in my nest. His talk is all of war and pleasure, and he longs to serve in the next campaign. Perhaps he and the young Lord Churchill shall go the next Lord Marl- borough has been good to us. You know how kind they were in my misfortune. And so was your — your father's widow. No one knows how good the world is, till grief comes to try us. 'Tis through my Lady Marlborough's goodness that Beatrix hath her place at Court ; and Frank is under my Lord Chamberlain. And the dowager lady, your father's widow, has promised to provide for you — has she not?" Esmond said, " Yes. As far as present favor went, Lady Castlewood was very good to him. And she aid THE RECONCIUA TION. 313 vcd away n parted, I always It 'twas a ould but tis better >aid so to lord that ays, said Id cannot It one of it try the J thought ness, that ^ntleman id of the in youth, can keep sure, and Ds he and )rd Marl- :ind they r father's till grief (orough's id Frank ger lady, )r you — or went, i sht jld her mind change," he added gaily, "as ladies' minds will, I am strong enough to bear my own burden, and make my way somehow. Not by the sword very likely. Thousands have a better genius for that than I, but there are many ways in which a young man of good parts and education can get on in the world ; and I am pretty sure, one way or other, of promotion !" Indeed, he had found patrons already in the army, and amongst persons very able to serve him, too; and told his mistress of the flatter- ing aspect of fortune. They walked as though they had never been parted, slowly, with the grey twilight closing round them. •.., "And now we are drawing near to home," she con- tinued, "I knew you would come, Harry, if — if it was but to forgive me for having spoken unjustly to you after that horrid — horrid misfortune. I was half frantic with grief then when I saw you. And I know now — they have told me. That wretch, whose name I can never mention, even has said it : how you tried to avert the quarrel, and would have taken it on yourself, my poor child: but it was God's will that I should be punished, and that my dear lord should fall." " He gave me his blessing on his death-bed," Esmond said. "Thank God for that legacy!" "Amen, amen! dear Henry," said the lady, pressing h(is arm. "I knew it. Mr. Atterbury, of St. Bride's, who was called to him, told me so. And I thanked God, too, and in my prayers ever since remembered it." " You had spared me many a bitter night, had you told me sooner," Mr. Esmond said. " I know it, I know it," she answered, in a tone of such iweet humility, as made Esmond repent that he should ever have dared to reproach her. " I know how wicked |1 <; «' II %. I rrr '1 I 314 T//£ HIGH SCHOOL READER. my heart has been; and I have suffered too, my dear. But I knew you would come back — I own that. And to-day, Henry, in the anthem, when they sang it, ' When the Lord turned the captivity of Zion, we were Hke them that dream,' I thought yes, hke them that dream — them that dream. And then it went, ' They that sow in tears shall reap in joy; and he that goeth forth and weepeth, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bring- ing his sheaves with him;' I looked up from the book and saw you. I was not surprised when I saw you. I knew you would come, my dear, and saw the gold sun- shine round your head." She smiled an almost wild smile as she looked up at him. The moon was up by this time, glittering keen in the frosty sky. He could see, for the first time now clearly, her sweet careworn face. ' "Do you know what day it is?" she continued. "It is the 29th day of December — it is your birthday ! But last year we did not drink it — no, no. My lord was cold, and my Harry was likely to die: and my brain was in a fever; and we had no wine. But now — now you are come again, bringing your sheaves with you, my dear." She burst into a wild flood of weeping as she spoke; she laughed and sobbed on the young man's heart, crying out wildly, " bringing your sheaves with you— your sheaves with you !" As he had sometimes felt, gazing up from the deck at midnight into the boundless starlit depths overhead, in a rapture of devout wonder at that endless brightness and beauty — in some such a way now, the depth of this pure devotion quite smote upon him, and filled his heart with thanksgiving. Gracious God, who was he, weak and friendless creature, that such a love should be poured out THE ISLAND OF THE SCOTS. 315 upon him ? Not in vain — not in vain has he h'vcd — hard and thankless should he be to think so — that has such a treasure given him. What is ambition compared to that, but selfish vanity ? To be rich, to be famous? What do these profit a year hence, when other names sound louder than yours, when you lie hidden away under the ground, along with idle titles engraven on your coffin ? But only true love lives after you — follows your memory with secret blessing — or precedes you, and intercedes for you. Non omnis moriar — if dying, I yet live in a tender heart or two ; nor am lost and hopeless living, if a sainted departed soul still loves and prays for me. LXIV. THE ISLAND OF THE SCOTS. (Dkcembkr, 1697.) William Edmondstoune Aytoun, — 1813-1865. The Rhine is running deep and red, the island lies before, — " Now is there one of all the host will dare to venture o'er ? For not alone the river's sweep might make a brave man quail ; The foe are on th" Turther side, their shot comes fast as hail. God help us, if the middle isle we may not hope to win ! Now is there any of the host will dare to venture in?" . " The ford is deep, the banks are steep, the island-shore lies wide ; Nor man nor horse could stem its force, or reach the further side. See there ! amidst the willow-boughs the serried bayonets gleam; They've flung their br Jge, —they've won the isle ; the foe have cross'd the stream ! Their volley flashes sharp and strong, — by all the saints ! I trow There never yet was soldier born could force that passage now ! " hi 316 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. • W V; ■-'. iS ; 8 9 ; i Bi.4i. So spoke the bold Frendi Mareschal with him who led the van, Whilst rough and red before their view the turbid river ran. Nor bridge nor bjat had they to cross the wild and swollen Rhine, And thundering on the other bank far stretch'd the German line. Hard by there stood a swarthy man was leaning on his sword, And a sadden'd smile lit up his face as he heard the Captain's word. " I've seen a wilder stream ere now than that which rushes there; I've stemm'd a heavier torrent yet and never thought to dare. If (ierman steel be sharp and keen, is ours not strong and true? There may be danger in the deed, but there is honor too." The old lord in his saddle turn'd, and hastily he said, "Hath bold Duguesclin's fiery heart awaken'd from the dead? Thou art the leader of the Scots, — now well and sure I know. That gentle blood in dangerous hour ne'er yet ran cold nor slow, And I have seen ye in the fight do all that mortal may : If honor is the boon ye seek, it may be won this day, — The prize is in the middle isle, there lies the adventurous way, And armies twain are on the plain, the daring deed to see, — Now ask thy gallant company if they will follow thee I" Right gladsome look'd the Captain then, and nothing did he say, But he turn'd him to his little band, — O, few, I ween, were they! The relics of the bravest force that ever fought in fray. No one of all that company but bore a gentle name. Not one whose fathers had not stood in Scotland's fields of fame. All they had march'd with great Dundee to where he fought and fell. And in the deadly battle-strife had venged their leader well : And they had bent the knee to earth when every eye was dim, As o'er their hero's buried corpse they sang the funeral hymn ; And they had trod the Pass once more, and stoop'd on either side THE ISLAND OF THE SCOTS. 317 ,v,, To pluck the heather from the spot where he had droijp'd and died ; And they had bound it next their hearts, and ta en a last fiirewell Of Scottish earth and S(^ottish sky, where Scotland's glory fell. Then went they forth to foreign lands like bent and broken men, ^\'ho leave their dearest hope behind, and may not turn again. " The stream," he said, " is broad and deep, and stubborn is the foe, — - Von island-strength is guarded well, — say, brothers, will ye go ? From home and kin for many a year our steps have wander'd wide, And never may our bones be laid our fathers' graves beside. No children have we to lament, no wives to wail our fall ; The traitor's and the spoiler's hand have reft our hearths of all. But we have hearts, and we have arms, as strong to will and dare As when our ancient banners flew within the northern air. Come, brothers ! let me name a spell shall rouse your souls again. And send the old blood bounding free through pulse and heart and vein. Call back the days of bygone years, — be young and strong once more ; Think yonder stream, so stark and red, is one we've cross'd before. Rise, hill and glen ! rise, crag and wood ! rise up on either hand, — Again upon the Garry's banks, on Scottish soil we stand ! Again I see the tartans wave, again the trumpets ring ; Again I hear our leader's call : 'Upon them for the King !' Stay'd we behind that glorious day for roaring flood or linn ? The soul of Graeme is with us still, — now, brothers, will ye in ?" No stay, — no pause. With one accord, they grasp'd each other's hand. Then plunged into the angry flood, that bold and dauntless band. a Il;i, 3i8 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. High flew the spray above their heads, yet (nnvard still they bore, Midst cheer, and shout, and answer'ng yell, and shot, and cannon-roar, — " Now, by the Holy Cross I I swear, since earth and sea began, Was never such a daring deed essay 'd by mortal man !" 'I'hick blew the smoke across the stream, and faster flash'd the flame : The water plash'd in hissing jets as ball and bullet came. Yet onwards j)ush'd the Cavaliers all stern and undismay'd. With thousand armed foes before, and none behind to aid. Once, as they near'd the middle stream, so strong the torrent swept. That scarce that long and living wall their dangerous footing kept. Then rose a warning cry behind, a joyous shout before : "The current's strong, — the way is long, — they'll never reach the shore ! See, see ! they stagger in the midst, they waver in their line ! Fire on the madmen ! break their ranks, and whelm them in the Rhine !" Have you seen the tall trees swaying when the blast is sounding shrill. And the whirlwind reels in fury down the gorges of the hill ? How they toss their mighty branches struggling with the tem- j)est's shock ; How they keep their place of vantage, cleaving firmly to the rock ? Even so the Scottish warriors held their own against the river ; Though the water flash'd around them, not an eye was seen to quiver ; Though the shot flew sharp and deadly, not a man relax'd his hold; ill they ot, and L began, ih'd the le. ay'd, aid. ; torrent , footing er reach line ! them in jounding I hill ? the tem- y to the le river ; I seen to ax'd his THE IS LA. YD OF THE SCOTS. 319 For their hearts were big and thrilling with the mighty thoughts of old. One word was spoke among them, and through the ranks it spread, — " Remember our dead Claverhouse !" was all the Captain said. 'I'hen, sternly bending forward, they wrestled on a whi'e, Until they clear'd the heavy stream, then rush'd towards the isle. The German heart is stout and true, the German arm is strong j The German foot goes seldom back where arm^d foemen throng. But never had they faced in field so stern a charge before, And never had they felt the sweep of Scotland's broad claymore. Not fiercer pours the avalanche adown the steep incline, That rises o'er the parent-springs of rough and rai)id Rhine,— Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heaven than came the Scot- tish band Right up against the guarded trench, and o'er it sword in hand. In vain their leaders forward press, — they meet the deadly brand ! O lonely island of the Rhine, — where seed was never sown, What harvest lay upon thy sands, by those strong reai)ers thrown ? VV^hat saw the winter moon that night, as, struggling through the rain. She pour'd a wan and fitful light on marsh, and stream, and plain ? A dreary spot with corpses strewn, and bayonets glistening round ; A broken bridge, a stranded boat, a bare and batter'd mound ; And one huge watch-fire's kindled pile, that sent its quivering glare To tell the leaders of the host the conquering Scots were there ! And did they twine the laurel-wreath, for those who fought so well? And did they honor those who liv'd, and weep for those who fell ? ? ! lia 320 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER, What meed of thanks was given to them let aged annals tell. Why should they bring the laurel-wreath,— Avhy crown the cup with wine ? It was not Frenchmen's blood that flow'd so freely on the Rhine,— A stranger band of beggar'd men had done the venturous deed : The glory was to France alone, the danger was their meed. And what cared they for idle thanks from foreign prince and peer ? What virtue had such honey'd words the exiled heart to cheer ? What matter'd it that men should vaunt and loud and fondly swear. That higher feat of chivalry was never wrought elsewhere ? They bore within their breasts the grief that fame can never heal,-— The deep, unutterable woe which none save exiles feel. Their hearts were yearning for the land they ne'er might see again, — For Scotland's high and heather'd hills, for mountain, loch and glen— For those who haply lay at rest beyond the distant sea, Beneath the green and daisied turf where they would gladly be ! Long years went by. The lonely isle in Rhine's tempestuous flood Flas ta'en another name from those who bought it v.itli their blood : And, though the legend does not live, — for legends lightl / die - The peasant, as he sees the stream in winter rolling by. And foaming o'er its channel-bed between him and the spot Won by the warriors of the sword, stills calls that deep and The Passage of the Scot. [dangerous ford Sacrifice and. ^elf-Dcvotion hallow earth and fill the skies. Lord Houohxon, — 1809-1885. THE GAMBLING PARTY. 321 tell, he cup on the s deed : ;ed. ice and » cheer ? I fondly re ? in never light see loch and adly be ! ipestuous itli their \ll,' die- le spot deep and rous ford skies. 809-1885. LXV. THE GAMBLING PARTY. Earl of Beaconsfield. — 1805-1881 From The Young Duke. The young Duke had accepted the invitation of the Baron de Berghem for to-morrow, and accordingly, him- self. Lords Castlefort and Dice, and Temple Grace as- sembled in Brunswick Terrace at the usual hour. The dinner was studiously plain, and very little wine was drunk ; yet everything was perfect Tom Cogit stepped in to carve in his usual silent manner. He always came in and went out of a room without anyone observing him. He winked familiarly to Temple Grace, but scarcely presumed to bow to the Duke. He was very busy about the wine, and dressed the wild fowl in a manner quite unparalleled. He took particular care to send a most perfect portion to the young Duke, and he did this, as he paid all attentions to influential strangers, with the most marked consciousness of the sufferance which permitted his presence : never addressing his Grace, but audibly whispering, to the servant, " Take this to the Duke " ; or asking the attendant, " whether his Grace would try the Hermitage ? " After dinner, with the exception of Cogit, who was busied in compounding some wonderful liquid for the future refreshment, they sat down to ecarti. Without having exchanged a word upon the subject, there seemed a general understand'ng among all the parties that to- night was to be a pitched battle, and they began at once, briskly. Yet, in spite of their universal determination, midnight arrived without anything decisive. Another hour passed over, and then Tom Cogit kept touching the U 322 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Baron's elbow and whispering in a voice which everybody could understand. All this meant that supper was ready. It was brought into the room. Gaming has one advantage, it gives you an appetite ; that is to say, so long as you have a chance remaining. The Duke had thousands ; for at present his resources were unimpared, and he was exhausted by the constant attention and anxiety of five hours. He passed over the delicacies and went to the side-table, and began cutting himself some cold roast beef Tom Cogit ran up, not to his Grace, but to the Baron, to announce the shocking fact that the Duke of St. James was enduring great trouble ; and then the Baron asked his Grace to permit Mr. Cogit to serve him. Our hero devoured : we use the word advisedly, as fools say in the House of Commons : he devoured the roast beef, and rejecting the Hermitage with disgust, asked for porter. They set to again fresh as eagles. At six o'clock accounts were so complicated that they stopped to make up their books. Each played with his memor- anda and pencil at his side. Nothing fatal had yet hap- pened. The Duke owed Lord Dice about five thou- sand pounds, and Temple Grace owed hira a^ many hun- dreds. Lord Castlefort also was his debtor to the tune of seven hundred and fifty, and the Baron was in his books, but slightly. Every half-hour they had a new pack of cards, and threw the used one on the floor. All this time Tom Cogit did nothing but snuff the candle? stir the fire, bring them a new pack, and occasionally make a tumbler for them. At eight o'clock the Duke's situation was worsened. The run was greatly against him, and perhaps his losses were doubled. He pulled up again the next hour or two ; but nevertheless, at tcnj Ran if 1 agj loss --tjf- THE GAMBLING PARTY, 323 /erybody as ready. appetite ; imaining. resources ; constant \ over the m cutting up, not to ; shocking ring great to permit we use the "ommons : Hermitage dx o'clock I topped to lis mcmor- id yet hap- five thou- many hun- to the tunc was in his had a new floor. All the candles, )ccasionally the Duke's tly against e pulled up less, at ten o'clock, owed every one something. No one offered to give over ; and everyone, perhaps, felt that his object was not obtained. They made their toilets and went down- stairs to breakfast. In the meantime the shutters were opened, the room aired, and in less than an hour they were at it again. They played till dinner-time without intermission ; and though the Duke made some desperate efforts, and some successful ones, his losses were, nevertheless, trebled. Yet he ate an excellent dinner and was not at all de- pressed ; because the more he lost, the more his courage and his resources seemed to expand. At first he had limited himself to ten thousand ; after breakfast it was to have been twenty thousand ; then thirty thousand was the ultimatum ; and now he dismissed all thoughts of limits from his mind, and was determined to risk or gain everything. At midnight, he had lost forty-eight thousand pounds. Affairs now began to be serious. His supper was not sa hearty. While the rest were eating, he walked about the room, and began to limit his ambition to recovery, and not to gain. When you play to win back, the fun is over : there is nothing to recompense you for your bodily tortures and your degraded feelings ; and the very best result that can happen, while it has no charms, seems to your cowed mind impossible. On they played, and the Duke lost more. His mind was jaded. He floundered, he made desperate efforts, but plunged deeper in the slough. Feeling that, to re- gain his ground, each card must tell, he acted on each as if it must win, and the consequences of this insanity (for a gamester at such a crisis is really insane) were, that his losses were prodigious. 324 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Another morning came, and there they sat, ankle-deep in cards. No attempt at breakfast now, no affectation of making a toilet or airing the room. The atmosphere was hot, to be sure, but it well became such a Hell. There they sat, in total, in positive forgetfulncss of every- thing but the hot game they were hunting down. There was not a man in the room, except Tom Cogit, who could have told you the name of the town in which they were living. There they sat, almost breathless, watching every turn with the fell look in their cannibal eyes which showed their total inability to sympathize with their fellow- beings. All forms of society had been long forgotten. There was no snuff-box handed about now, for courtesy, admiration, or a pinch ; no affectation of occasionally making a remark upon any other topic but the all-en- grossing one. Lord Gastlefort rested with his arms on the tible: a false tooth had got unhinged. His Lord- ship, who, at any other time, would have been most an- noyed, coolly put it in his pocket His cheeks had fallen, and he looked twenty years older. Lord Dice had torn off his cravat, and his hair hung down over his callous, blooJL..- cheeks, straight as silk. Temple Grace looked as if he were blighted by lightning ; and his deep blue eyes gleamed like a hyena's. The Baron was least changed. Tom Cogit, who smelt that the crisis was at hand, was as quiet as a bribed rat On they played till six o'clock in the evening, and then they agreed to desist till after dinner. Lord Dice threw himself on a sofa. Lord Castlefort breathed with diffi- cult}'. The rest walked about While they were resting on their oars, the young Duke roughly made up his ac- counts. He found that he was minus about one hundred thousand pounds. THE GAMBLING PARTY. 325 le-deep :ctation ^sphere a Hell. f every- There 10 could ty were g every showed fellow- rgotten. ourtesy, sionally I all-en- irms on s Lord- lost an- d fallen, lad torn callous, looked lep blue as least 5 was at md then ;e threw ith diffi- i resting :> his ac- hundred Immense as this loss was, he was more 'struck, more appalled, let us say, at the strangeness of the surround- ing scene, than even by his own ruin. As he looked upon his fellow gamesters, he seemed, for the first time in his life, to gaze upon some of those hideous demons of whom he had read. He looked in the mirror at him- self A blight seemed to have fallen over his beauty, and his presence seemed accursed. He had pursued a dissipated, even more than a dissipated career. Many were the nights that had been spent by him not on his couch ; great had been the exhaustion that he had often experienced ; haggard had sometimes even been the lus- tre of his youth. But when had been marked upon his brow this harrowing care ? when had his features before been stamped with this anxiety, this anguish, this baffled desire, this strange unearthly scowl, which made him even tremble ? What ! was it possible ? it could not be, that in time he was to be like those awful, those un- earthly, those unhallowed things that were around him. He felt as if he had fallen from his state, as if he had dishonored his ancestry', as if he had betrayed his trust He felt a criminal. In the darkness of his meditations a flash burst from his lurid mind, a celestial light ap- peared to dissipate this thickening gloom, and his soul felt as if it wefe bathed with the softening radiancy. He thought of May Dacre, he thought of everything that was pure, and holy, and beautiful, and luminous, and calm. It was the innate virtue of the man that m„ade this appeal to his corrupted nature. His losses seemed nothing ; his dukedom would be too slight a ransom for freedom from these ghouls, and for the breath of the sweet air. He advanced to the Baron, and expressed his desire to ^i^W^ ■WVPi 326 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. ill!! t: . ^i r'^' .ii' play no more. There was an immediate stir. All jumped up, and now the deed was done. Cant, in spite of their exhaustion, assumed her reign. They begged him to have his revenge, were quite annoyed at the result, had no doubt he would recover if he proceeded. Without noticing their remarks, he seated himself at the table, and wrote cheques for their respective amounts, Tom Cogit jumping up and bringing him the inkstand. Lord Castlc- fort, in the most affectionate manner, pocketed the draft ; at the same time recommending the Duke not to be in a hurry, but to send it when he was cool. Lord Dice re- ceived his with a bow, Temple Grace with a sigh, the Baron with an avowal of his readiness always to give him his revenge. The Duke, though sick at heart, would not leave the room with any evidence of a broken spirit ; and when Lord Castlefort again repeated, " Pay us when we meet again," he said, " I think it very improbable that we shall meet again, my Lord. I wished to know what gaming was. I had heard a great deal about it. It is not so very disgusting ; but I am a young man, and cannot play tricks with my complexion." He reached his house. He gave orders for himself not to be disturbed, and he went to bed ; but in vain he tried to sleep. What rack exceeds the torture of an excited brain and an exhausted body ? His hands and feet were like ice, his brow like fire ; his ears rung with superna- tural roaring ; a nausea had seized upon him, and death he would have welcomed. In vain, in vain he courted repose ; in vain, in vain he had recourse to every expedi ent to wile himself to slumber. Each minute he started from his pillow with some phrase which reminded him of his late fearful society. Hour after hour moved on with THE PICKWICKIANS ON ICE. 327 1 jumped I of their him to jsult, had Without able, and )m Cogit d Castlc- he draft ; be in a Dice re- sigh, the give him leave the md when we meet : we shall t gaming is not so inot play Tiself not 1 he tried 1 excited feet were superna- nd death courted ' exped) e started d him of on with its leaden pace ; each hour he heard strike, and each hour seemed an age. Each hour was only a signal to cast off some covering, or shift his position. It was, at length, morning. With a feeling that he should go mad if he remained any longer in bed, he rose, and paced his chamber. The air refreshed him. He threw himself on the floor ; the cold crept over his senses, and he slept. LXVI. THE PICKWICKIANS DISPORT THEMSELVES ON ICE.* Charles Dickens. — 1812-1870. From The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. " Now," said Wardle, after a substantial lunch had been done ample justice to ; " what say you to an hour on the ice ? We shall have plenty of time." "Capital !" said Mr. Benjamin Allen. " Prime ! " ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer. " You skate, of course. Winkle ? " said Wardle. " Ye-yes ; oh, yes," replied Mr. Winkle. " I — I — am rather out of practice." * Mr. Pickwick, a benevolent, simple-minded old gentleman, is the founder of the Pickwick Club. He and three other members, Mr. Winkle, Mr. Snod- grass, and Mr. Tupman, form the Corresponding Society of the club, and they travel over England together, meeting with many laughable adventures. They are accompanied by Samuel Weller, Mr. Pickwick's servant, an inimitable com- pound of cool impudence, quaint humor, and fidelity. The Pickwickians have accepted the invitation of Mr. Wardle, of Manor Farm, Dingley Dell, to Ix; present at the marriage of his daughter, Isabella, to Mr. Trundle. Among the guests are also Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Konjamin Allen, two medical students, and Mr, Allen's sister, Arabella. Other members of Mr. Wardle's household are Mr. Wardle's mother, the "old lady " of Manor Farm, his daughter, Emily, and Joe, a servant lad, known as the " fat boy." Tiie wedding takes place on the twenty-third of December, and then follow the Christmas festivities, of whicli the skating forms a part Hi if- rarr 328 THE HIGH SCHO^T DEADER. Ill I m- 'jiM '■' ^' 'M i' *' Oh, do skate, Mr. Winkle ' . Arabella. " I like to see it so much." " Oh, it is so graceful," sl another young lady. A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was ** swan-like." " I should be very happy, I'm sure," said Mr. Winkle, reddening ; " but I have no skates." This objection was at once over-ruled. Trundle had a couple of pair, and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more down stairs : whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exqui- sitely uncomfortable. Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice ; and the fat boy and Mr. Weller, having shovelled and swept away the snow which had fallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a dex- terity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvellous, and described circles with his left leg, and cut figures of feight, and inscribed upon the ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant and astonishing de- vices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, and the ladies : which reached a pitch of posi- tive enthusiasm, when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions, which they called a reel. All this time, Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and putting his skates on, with the points behind, and gettmg the straps into a very compli- cated and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however, with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet THE PICKWICKIANS ON ICE. 319 " Now, then, sir," said Sam, in an encouraging tone ; " off vith you, and show 'em how to do it." ** Stop, Sam, stop ! " said Mr. Winkle, trembling vio- lently, and clutching hold of Sam's arms with the grasp of a drowning man. " How slippery it is, Sam ! " " Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," replied Mr. Weller. " Hold up, sir ! " This last observation of Mr. Weller's boi » reference to a demonstration Mr. Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet in the air, and dash the back of his head on the ice. " These — these — are very awkward skates ; ain't they, Sam?" inquired Mr. Winkle, staggering. " I'm afeerd there's a orkard gen'l'm'n in 'em, sir," re- plied Sam. " Now, Winkle," cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was anything the matter. " Come ; the ladies are all anxiety." " Yes, yes," replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. " I'm coming." " Just a goin' to begin," said Sam, endeavoring to dis- engage himself. " Now, sir, start off ! " " Stop an instant, Sam," gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately to Mr. Weller. " I find I've got a couple of coats at home that I don't want, Sam. You may have them, Sam." ** Thank'ee, sir," replied Mr. Weller. " Never mind touching your hat, Sam," said Mr. Winkle, hastily, " You needn't take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I'll give it you this afternoon, Sam." " You're wery good, sir," replied Mr. Weller. 330 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. it i,... •* Just hold mc at first, Sam ; will you ? " said Mr. Winkle. " There — that's right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam ; not too fast." Mr. Winkle stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. Wel- ler, in a very singular and un-swan-like manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite bank : "Sam!" ^' ■::'■''■■■' ; ;.■ . '''■■■:/- "Sir?" " Here. I want you." " Let go, sir," said Sam. " Don't you hear the gover- nor a callin' ? Let go, sir." With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the agonized Pickwickian, and, in so doing, administered a considerable impetus to the un- happy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortu- nate gentleman bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was per- forming a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr. Winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fell heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind, in skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile ; but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his coun- tenance, "Are you hurt?" inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety. " Not much," said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard " I wish you'd let me bleed you," said Mr. Benjamin, with great eagerness. THE PICKWICKIANS ON ICE. 331 " No, thank you," replied Mr. Winkle hurriedly. " I really think you had better," said Allen. " Thank you," replied Mr. Winkle ; " I'd rather not." " What do yoH think, Mr. Pickwick ? " inquired Bob Sawyer. Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beck- oned to Mr. Weller, and said in a stern voice, " Take his skates off." " No ; but really I had scarcely begun," remonstrated Mr. Winkle. " Take his skates off," repeated Mr. Pickwick firmly. The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it in silence. " Lift him up," said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise. Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the by- standers ; and beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in a low, but dis- tinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words : " You're a humbug, sir." " A what ? " said Mr. Winkle, starting. " A humbug, sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir." With these words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined his friends. While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the sen- timent just recorded, Mr. Weller and the fat boy, having by their joint endeavors cut out a slide, were exercising themselves thereupon, in a very masterly and brilliant manner. Sam Weller, in particular, was displaying that beautiful feat of fancy-sliding which is currently dcnom- inated '* knocking at the cobbler's door," and which is achieved by skimming over the ice on one foot, and oc- h n 332 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. -J* casionally giving a postman's knock upon it with the othc . It was a good long slide, and there was some- thing in the motion which Mr. Pickwick, who was very- cold with standing still, could not help envying. " It looks a nice warm exercise that, doesn't it?" he inquired of Wardlc, when that gentleman was thoroughly out of breath, by reason of the indefatigable manner in which he had converted his legs into a pair of compasses, and drawn complicated problems on the ice. " Ah, it does indeed," replied Wardie. "Do you slide?" " I used to do so on the gutters, when I was a boy," re- plied Mr. Pickwick. " Try it now,^' said Wardie. "Oh do, please, Mr. Pickwick ! " cried all the ladies. " I should be very happy to afford you any amuse- ment," replied Mr. Pickwick, "but I haven't done such a thing these thirty years." " Pooh ! pooh ! Nonsense !" said Wardie, dragging off his skates with the impetuosity which characterized all his proceedings. " Here; I'll keep you company ; come along !" And away went the good tempered old fellow down the slide, with a rapidity which came very close upon Mr. Weller, and beat the fat boy all to nothing. Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves and put them in his hat : took two or three short runs, baulked himself as often, and at last took another run, and went slowly and gravely down the slide, with his feet about a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the grati- fied shouts of all the spectators. " Keep the pot a bilin', sir !" said Sam ; and down went Wardie again, and then Mr. Pickwick, and then Sam, and then Mr. Winkle, and then Mr. Bob Sawyer, and then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snodgrass, following THE PICKWICKIANS ON ICE. 333 \ rith the > somc- ^as very it ? " he roughly inner in npasseSj I slide?" boy," re- adies. ' amuse- e such a Tging off rized all y ; come Id fellow sry close :hing. lis gloves lort runs, >ther run, with his the grati- nd down and then Sawyer, following closely upon each other's heels, and running after each other with as much eagerness as if all their future pros- pects in life depended on their expcidition. It was the most intensely interesting thing, to observe the manner in which Mr. Pickwick performed his share in the ceremony ; to watch the torture of anxiety with which he viewed the person behind, gaining upon him at the imminent hazard of tripping him up ; to see him gradually expend the painful force he had put on at first, and turn slowly rour.d on the slide, with his face towards the point from which he had started ; to contemplate the playful smile which mantled on his face when he had ac- complished the distance, and the eagerness with which he turned round when he had done so, and ran after his predecessor : his black gaiters tripping pleasantly through the snow, and his eyes beaming cheerfulness and glad- ness through his spectacles. And when he was knocked down (which happened upon the average every third round), it was the most invigorating sight that can pos- sibly be imagined, tc behold him gather up his hat, gloves, and handkerchief, with a glowing countenance, and resume his station in the rank, with an ardor and en- thusiasm that nothing could abate. The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the quickest, the laughter was at the loudest, when a sharp smart crack was heard. There was a quick rush towards the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and a shout from Mr. Tupman. A large mass of ice disappeared; the water bubbled up over it ; Mr. Pickwick's hat, gloves, and handkerchief were floating on the surface ; and this was all of Mr. Pickwick that anybody could see. Dismay and anguish were depicted x)x\ every counten- ance, the males turned pale, and the females fainted, 334 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Mil Wm I ! Mr, Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle grasped each other by the hand, and gazed at the spot where their leader had gone down, with frenzied eagerness : while Mr. Tupman, by way of rendering the promptest assistance, and at the same time conveying to any persons who might be within hearing, the clearest possible notion of the catastrophe, ran off across the country at his utmost speed, screaming " Fire ! " with all his might It was at this moment, when old Wardle and Sam Weller were approaching the hole with cautious s^-eps, and Mr. Benjamin Allen was holding a hurried consulta- tion with Mr. Bob Sawyer on the advisability of bleeding the company generally, as an improving little bit of pro- fessional practice — it was at this very moment, that a face, head, and shoulders, emerged from beneath the water, and disclosed the features and spectacles of Mr. Pickwick. " Keep yourself up for an instant — for only one in- stant ! " bawled Mr. Snodgrass. " Yes, do ; let me implore you — for my sake ! " roared Mr. Winkle, deeply affcc.cd. The adjuration was rather unnecessary ; the probability being, that if Mr. Pickwick had declined to keep himself up for anybody else's sake, it would have occurred to him that he might as well do so, for his own. "Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow?" said Wardle. " Yes, certainly," replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing the water from his head and face, and gasping for breath. " I fell upon my back. I couldn't get on my feet at first." The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick's coat as was yet visible, bore testimony to the accuracy of this state- ment ; and as the fears of the spectators were still fur- THE PICKWICKIANS ON ICE. 335 :hcr by Icr had Lipman, i at the ; within strophe, earning id Sam [s steps, onsulta- Dlceding t of pro- :, that a 2ath the s of Mr. one in- " roared as rather ^ickwick e's sake, ell do so, IV?" said ^ing the rcath. " I It first." at as was his state- still fur- ther relieved by the fat boy's suddenly recollecting that the water was nowhere more than five feet deep, prodi- gies of valor were performed to get him out. After a vast quantity of splashing, and cracking, and struggling, Mr. Pickwick was at length fairly extricated from his unpleasant position, and once more stood on dry land. " Oh, he'll catch his death of cold," said Emily. " Dear old thing !" said Arabella. " Let me wrap this shawl round you, Mr. Pickwick." " Ah, that's the best thing you can do," said Wardle ; " and when you've got it on, run home as fast as your legs can carry you, and jump into bed directly." A dozen shawls were offered on the instant. Three or four of the thickest having been selected, Mr. Pickwick was v/rapped up, and started off, under the guidance of Mr. Wcllcr : presenting the singular phenomenon of an elderly gentleman, dripping wet, and without a hat, with his arms bound down to his sides, skimming over the ground, without any clearly defined purpose, at the rate of six good English miles an hour. But Mr. Pickwick cared not for appearances in such an extreme case, and urged on by Sam Weller, he kept at the very top of his speed until he reached the door of Manor Farm, where Mr. Tupman had arrived some five minutes before, and had frightened the old lady into pal- pitations of the heart by impressing her with the unal- terable conviction that the kitchen chimney was on fire — a calamity which always presented itself in glowing colors to the old lady's mind, when anybody about her evinced the smallest agitation. Mr. Pickwick paused not an instant until he was snug in bed. Sam Weller lighted a blazing fire in his room, and took up his dinner, and afterwards a great rejoicing was held in honor of his safety. '1 : ■'. ^: ii::iti:'iii i, 1 I; I 336 TNE HIGH SCHOOL READER. LXVII. THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. Henry Wadsvvorth Longfellow. — 1807-1882. The lights are out, and gone are all the guests That thronging came with merriment and jests To celebrate the Hanging of the Crane In the new house, — into the night are gone But still the fire upon the hearth burns on, And I alone remain. O fortunate, O happy day, When a new household finds its place Among the myriad homes of earth, Like a new star just sprung to birth, And roU'd on its harmonious way Into the boundless realms of space ! So said the guests in speech and song. As in the chimney, burning bright, We hung the iron crane to-night, And merry was the feast and long. II. And now I sit and muse on what may be, And in my vision see, or seem to see. Through floating vapors interfused with light. Shapes indeterminate, that gleam and fade. As shadows passing into deeper shade Sink and elude the sight. For two alone, there in the hall, Is spread the table round and small ; Upon the polish'd silver shine The evening lamps, but,, mqre 4ivine„ rPTTrir ht. THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. The light of love shines over all ; Of love, that says not mine and thine, But ours, for ours is thine and mine. They want no guests, to come between Their tender glances like a screen, And tell them tales of land and sea, And whatsoever may betide The great, forgotten world outside ; They want no guests ; they needs must be Each other's own best company. III. The picture fades ; as at a village fair A showman's views, dissolving into air. Again appear transfigured on the screen. So in my fancy this ; and now once more. In part transfigured, through the open door Appears the selfsame scene. Seated, I see the two again, But not alone ; they entertain A little angel unaware. With face as round as is the moon ; A royal guest with flaxen hair. Who, throned upon his lofty chair. Drums on the table with his spoon. Then drops it careless on the floor. To grasp at things unseen before. Are these celestial manners i* these The ways that win, the arts that please ? Ah yes ; consider well the guest. And whatsoe'er he does seems best ; He ruleth by the right divine 337 338 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER, i''ii' i M lill!!hl!l| : i '' Of helplessness, so lately born In purple chambers of the morn, As sovereign over thee arid thine. He speaketh not ; and yet there lies A conversation in his eyes ; The golden silence of the Greek, The gravest wisdom of the wise, Not spoken in language, but in looks More legible than printed books. As if he could but would not speak. And now, O monarch absolute, Thy power is put to proof ; for, lo ! Resistless, fathomless, and slow. The nurse comes rustling like the sea, And pushes back thy chair and thee, And so good night to King Canute. IV. As one who walking in a forest sees A lovely landscape through the parted trees, Then sees it not, for boughs that intervene ; Or, as we see the moon sometimes reveal'd Through drifting clouds, and then again conceal'd. So I behold the scene. There are two guests at table now ; The king, deposed and older grown. No longer occupies the throne, — The crown is on his sister's brow ; A Princess from the Fairy Isles, The very pattern girl of girls, All cover'd and embower'd in curls, Rose-tinted from the Isle of Flowers, And sailing with soft, silken sails From far-off Dreamland into ours. ,|i! THE HANGINQ OF THE CRANE. 339 eal'd, Above their bowls with rims of blue Four azure eyes of deeper hue Are looking, dreamy with delight ; Limpid as planets that emerge Above the ocean's rounded verge, Soft-shining through the summer night. Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing see Beyond the horizon of their bowls ; Nor care they for the world that rolls With all its freight of troubled souls Into the days that are to be. Again the tossing boughs shut out the scene. Again the drifting vapors intervene. And the moon's pallid disk is hidden quite ; And now I see the table wider grown. As round a pebble into water thrown Dilates a ring of light. I see the table wider grown, I see it garlanded with guests, As if fair Ariadne's Crown Out of the sky had fallen down ; Maidens within whose tender breasts A thousand restless hopes and fears, Forth reaching to the coming years. Flutter awhile, then quiet lie. Like timid birds that fain would fly, But do not dare to leave their nests ; — And youths, who in their strength elate Challenge the van and front of fate. Eager as champions to be In the divine knight-errantry Of youth, that travels sea and land P ff^ 1 I n Sif il i< I 340 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Seeking adventures, or pursues, Through cities, and through solitudes Frequented by the lyric Muse, The phantom with the beckoning hand, That still allures and still eludes. O sweet illusions of the brain ! sudden thrills of fire and frost ! The world is bright while ye remain, And dark and dead when ye are lost 1 VI. The meadow-brook, that seemeth to stand still, Quickens its current as it nears the mill ; And so the stream of Time that lingereth In level places, and so dull appears, Runs with a swifter current as it nears The gloomy mills of Death. And now, like the magician's scroll. That in the owner's keeping shrinks With every wish he speaks or thinks, Till the last wish consumes the whole, The table dwindles, and again 1 see the two alone remain. The crown of stars is broken in parts ; Its jewels, brighter than the day. Have one by one been stolen away To shine in other homes and hearts. One is a wanderer now afar In Ceylon or in Zanzibar, Or sunny regions of Cathay ; And one is in the boisterous camp Mid clink of arms and horses' tramp, And battle's terrible array. I see the patient mother read, THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. With aching heart, of wrecks that float Disabled on those seas remote, Or of some great heroic deed On battle-fields, where thousands bleed To lift one hero into fame. Anxious she bends her graceful head Above these chronicles of pain, And trembles with a secret dread Lest there among the drown'd or slain She find the one beloved name. 341 till, VII. After a day of clrud and wind and rain Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again, And, touching all the darksome woods with light. Smiles on the fields, until they laugh and sing. Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring Drops down into the night. What see I now ? The night .is fair. The storm of grief, the clouds of care, The wind, the rain, have pass'd away ; The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright, The house is full of life and light : It is the Golden Wedding day. The guests come thronging in once more, Quick footsteps sound along the floor, The trooping children crowd the stair. And in and out and everywhere Flashes along the corridor The sunshine of their golden hair. On the round table in the hall Another Ariadne's Crown Out of the sky hath fallen down ; More than one Monarch of the Moon rrrv : 1 i 1 I I 343 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER, Is drumming with his silver spoon ; The light of love shines over all. O fortunate, O happy day ! The people sing, the people say. The ancient bridegroom and the bride, Smiling contented and serene, Upon the blithe, bewildering scene. Behold, well pleas'd, on every side Their forms and features multipHed, As the reflection of a light Between two burnish'd mirrors gleams. Or lamps upon a bridge at night Stretch on and on before the sight, Till the long vista endless seems. m III LXVIII. EARTHWORMS. Charles Darwin— 1809-1882. From The Formation of Vegetable Mould through the action of Worms. Worms have played a more important part in the his- tory of the world than most persons would at first sup- pose. In almost all humid countries they are extraordi- narily numerous, and for their size possess great muscu- lar power. In many parts of England a weight of more than ten tons of dry earth annually passes through their bodies and is brought to the surface on each acre of land ; so that the whole superficial bed of vegetable mould passes through their bodies in the course of every few years. From the collapsing of the old burrows the [E ACTION OF in the his- t first sup- extraordi- sat muscu- ht of more -ough their ich acre of vegetable se of every mrrovvs the EARTHWORMS. 343 mould is in constant though slow movement, and the particles composing it are thus rubbed together. By these means fresh surfaces are continually exposed to the action of the carbonic acid in the soil, and of the humus-acids which appear to be still more efficient in the decomposition of rocks. The generation of the humus-acids is probably hastened during the digestion of the many half-decayed leaves which worms consume. Thus the particles of earth, forming the superficial mould, are subjected to conditions eminently favorable for their decomposition and disintegration. Moreover, the particles of the softer rocks suffer some amount of mechanical trituration in tlie muscular gizzards of worms, in which small stones serve as mill-stones. . . . Archaeologists ought to be grateful to worms, as they protect and preserve for an indefinitely long period every object, not liable to decay, which is dropped on the sur- face of the land, by burying it beneath their castings. Thus, also, many elegant and curious tesselated pave- ments and other ancient remains have been preserved ; though no doubt the worms have in these cases been largely aided by earth washed and blown from the ad- joining' land, especially when cultivated. /The old tesse- lated pavements have, however, often suffered) by having subsided unequally from being unequally undermined by the worms. Even old massive walls may be undermined and subside ; and no building is in this respect safe, un- less the foundations lie six or seven feet beneath the sur- face, at a depth at which worms cannot work. It is pro- bable that many monoliths and some old walls have fallen down from having been undermined by worms. Worms prepare the ground in an excellent manner for the growth of fibrous-rooted plants and for seedlings of t I ?; fe 344 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. all kinds. They periodically expose the mould to the air, and sift it so that no stones larger than the particles which they can swallow are left in. it. They mingle the whole intimately together, like a gardener who prepares fine soil for his choicest plants. In this state it is well fitted to retain moisture and to absorb all soluble sub- istances, as well as for the process of nitrification. The bones of dead animals, the harder parts of insects, the shells of land-molluscs, leaves, twigs, etc., are before long all buried beneath the accumulated castings of worms, and are thus brought in a more or less decayed state within reach of the roots of plants. Worms like- wise drag an infinite number of dead leaves and other parts of plants into their burrows, partly for the sake of plugging them up and partly as food. The leaves which are dragged into the burrows as food, after being torn into the finest shreds, partially di- gested, and saturated with the intestinal secretions, are commingled with much earth. This earth forms the dark-colored, rich humus which almost everywhere covers the surface of the land with a fairly well-defined layer or mantle. Von Hensen placed two worms in a vessel eighteen inches in diameter, which was filled with sand, on which fallen leaves were strewed ; and these were soon dragged into their burrows to a depth of three inches. After about six weeks an almost uniform layer of sand, a centimetre (.4 inch) in thickness, was conver- ted into humus by having passed through the alirpicntary canals of these two worms. It is believed by some per- sons that worm-burrows, which often penetrate the ground almost perpendicularly to a depth of five or six feet, materially aid in its drainage ; notwithstanding that the viscid castings piled over the mouths of the burrows ' EARTH IVORMS. 345 d to the particles ingle the prepares it is well uble sub- on. The sects, the re before stings of 5 decayed )rms like- and other le sake of arrows as rtially di- ctions, are forms the ^erywhere sll-defined orms in a filled with and these th of three form layer as conver- ilirricntary some per- etrate the five or six nding that le burrows prevent or check the rain-water directly entering them. 1 hey allow the air to penetrate deeply into the ground. They also greatly facilitate the downward passage of roots of moderate size ; and these will be nourished by the humus with which the burrows are lined. Many seeds owe their germination to having been covered by castings ; and others buried to a considerable depth be- neath accumulated castings lie dormant, until at some future time they are accidentally uncovered and ger- minate. Worms are poorly provided with sense-organs, for they cannot be said to see, although they can just dis- tinguish between light and darkness ; they are com- pletely deaf, and have only a feeble power of smell ; the sense of touch alone is well developed. They can therefore learn little about the outside world, and it is surprising that they should exhibit some skill in lining their bur- rows with their castings and with leaves, and in the case of some species in piling up their castings into tower-like constructions. But it is far more surprising that they should apparently exhibit some degree of intelligence instead of a mere blind instinctive impulse, in their man- ner of plugging up the mouths of their burrows. They act in nearly the same manner as would a man, who had to close a cylindrical tube with different kinds of leaves, petioles, triangles of paper, etc., for they commonly seize such objects by their pointed ends. But with thin ob- jects a certain number are drawn in by their broader ends. They do not act in the same unvarying manner in all cases, as do most of the lower animals ; for in- leaves they drag by unless the basal part of the blade is as narrow as the apex, or narrower than it. 346 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Ill When we behold a wide, turf-covered expanse, we should remember that its smoothness, on which so much of its beauty depends, is mainly due to all the inequali- ties having been slowly levelled by worms. It is a mar- vellous reflection that the whole of the superficial mould over any such expanse has passed, and will again pass, every few years, through the bodies of worms. The plough is one of the most ancient and most valuable of man's inventions ; but long before he existed the land was in fact regularly ploughed, and still continues to be thus ploughed by earth-worms. It may be doubted whether there are many other animals which have played so important a part in the history of the world, as have these lowly organized creatures. LXIX. *• AS SHIPS, BECALMED AT EVE." Arthur Hugh Clough. — 1819-1861. As ships, becalm'd at eve, that lay With canvas drooping, side by side, Two towers of sail at dawn of day Are scarce long leagues apart descried ; When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, And all the darkling hours they plied, Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas By each was cleaving, side by side : E'en so — but why the tale reveal Of those, whom year by year unchanged, Brief absence join'd anew to feel, Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? TWJ 'I ansc, we so much incquali- is a mar- al mould ;ain pass> ns. The luable of the land ues to be doubted /e played [, as have DUTV. At dead of night their sails were fill'd, And onward each rejoicing steer'd - Ah, neither blame, for neither will'd, Or wist, what first with dawn appear'd ! To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain. Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too, Through winds and tides one compass guides- To that, and your own selves, be true. But O blithe breeze ! and O great seas, Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, On your wide plain they join again. Together lead them home at last. One port, methought, alike they sought, One purpose hold where'er they fare, — O bounding breeze, O rushing seas ! At last, at last, unite them there. 347 >» LXX. DUTY. Arthur Hugh Clough. Duty — that's to say, complying With whate'er's expected here ; On your unknown cousin's dying, Straight be ready with the tear ; Upon etiquette relying. Unto usage nought denying, Lend your waist to be embraced, Blush not even, never fear ; Claims of kith and kin connection, Claims of manners honor still, * ': ■ a iiii I ' I? i ■■ i i li » ■» 348 TNE HIGH SCHOOL READER, Ready money of affection Pay, whoever drew the bill. With the form conforming duly, Senseless what it meaneth truly, Go to church — the world require you. To balls — the world require you too, And marry — papa and mamma desire you, And your sisters and schoolfellows do. Duty — 'tis to take on trust What things are good, and right, and just ; , And whether indeed they be or be not, \ Try not, test not, feel not, see not : 'Tis walk and dance, sit down and rise . By leading, opening ne'er your eyes ; Stunt sturdy limbs that Nature gave, And be drawn in a Bath chair along to the grave. 'Tis the stern and prompt suppressing, : ' '- As an obvious deadly sin, All the questing and the guessing - Of the soul's own soul within : 'Tis the coward acquiescence In a destiny's behest. To a shade by terror made. Sacrificing, aye, the essence Of all that's truest, noblest, best : 'Tis the blind non-recognition Or of goodness, truth, or beauty, Save by precept and submission ; Moral blank, and moral void, Life at very birth destroy'd. Atrophy, exinanition ! Duty ! Yea, by duty's prime condition Pure nonentity of duty 1 ■4k. »f SONNETS. 349 LXXI. SONNETS. ■.«?' Charles Heavysege. — 1816-1876, I. The day was lingering in the pale north-west. And night was hanging o'er my head, — Night where a myriad stars were spread ; While down in the east, where the light was least; Seem'd the home of the quiet dead. And, as I gazed on the field sublime, To watch the bright, pulsating stars, Adown the deep where the angels sleep Came drawn the golden chime Of those great spheres that sound the years For the horologe of time. Millenniums numberless they told, Millenniums a million-fold From the ancient hour of prim6. 11. The stars are glittering in the frosty sky, Frequent as pebbles on a broad sea-coast j And o'er the vault the cloud-like galaxy Has marshall'd its innumerable host. Alive all heaven seems ! with wondrous glow Tenfold refulgent every star appears, As if some wide, celestial gale did blow, And thrice illume the ever-kindled spheres. Orbs, with glad orbs rejoicing, burning, beam, Ray-crown'd, with lambent lustre in their zones, T'U o'er the blue, bespangled spaces seem Angels and great archangels on their thrones j A host divine, whose eyes are sparkling gems, And forms more bright than diamond diadems. 3SO THE HIGH SCHOOL READER, III. Hush'd in a calm beyond mine utterance, — - -ri^'-^re'tn the western sky the evening spread ; ") Suspended in its pale, serene expanse, Like scatter'd flames, the glowing cloudlets red. Clear are th-^se clouds \ and that pure sky's protbund. Transparent as a lake of hyaline ; Nor motion, nor the faintest breath of sound, Disturbs the steadfast beauty of the scene. Far o'er the vault, the winnow'd welkin wide. From the bronzed east unto the whiten'd west, Moor'd, seem, in their sweet, tranquil, roseate pride, Those clouds the fabled islands of the blest ; — The lands where pious spirits breathe in joy, And love and worship all their hours employ. LXXII. DOCTOR ARNOLD AT RUGBY. Arthur Penrhyn Stanley.~i8i5-i88o. With his usual and undoubting confidence in what he believed to be a general law of Providence, he based his whole management of the school on his early-formed and yearly-increasing conviction that what he had to look for, both intellectually and morally, was not perfor- mance but promise ; that the very freedom and indepen- dence of school life, which in itself he thought so danger- ous, might be made the best preparation for Christian manhood ; and he did not hesitate to apply to his scholars the principle which seemed to him to have been adopted in the training of llie childhood of the human race ■-•f DOCTOR ARNOLD AT RUGBY. 351 what he based his y-formed had to 3t perfor- indepen- o danger- Christian scholars adopted ■nan race itself. He shrunk from pressing on the conscience of boys rules of action which he felt they were not yet able to bear, and from enforcing actions which, though right in themselves, would in boys be performed from wrong motives. Keenly as he felt the risk and fatal con- sequences of the failure of this trial, still it was his great, sometimes his only support to believe that "the character is braced amid such scenes to a greater beauty and firm- ness than it ever can attain without enduring and wit- nessing them. Our work here would be absolutely un- endurable if we did not bear in mind that we should look forward as well as backward — ^if we did not re- member that the victory of fallen man lies not in inno- cence but in tried virtue." P* I hold fast," he said, "toihe great truth, that ' blessed is he that overcometh ; ' r and he writes in i837T]'/Of all the painful things connected with my employment,jnothing is equal to the grief of seeing a boy come to school innocent and promisiiig, and tracing the corruption of his character from the influ- eifce of the temptations around him, in the very place which ought to have strengthened and improved it/ But in most cases those who come with a character of posi- tive good are benefited ; it is the neutral and indecisive characters which are apt to be decided for evil by schools, as they would be in fact by any other temptation." But this very feeling led him with the greater eagerness to catch at evcryVheans by which the trial might be short- ened or alleviated. " Can the change from childhood to manhood be hastened, without prematurely exhausting the faculties 0% body or mind ? " was one of the chief questions on w]iic\his mind was constantly at work, and which in the judgment of some he was disposed to answer too readily in the affirmative. It was with the elder boys, / 352 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. \ & - t of course, that he chiefly acted on this principle, but with all above the very young ones he trusted to it more or less. Firmly as he believed that a time of trial was in- evitable, he believed no less firmly that it might be passed at public schools sooner than under other circumstances ; and, in proportion as he disliked the assumption of a false manliness in boys, was his desire to cultivate in them true manliness, as the only step to something higher, and to dwell on earnest principle and moral thoughtfulness, as the great and distinguishing mark be- tween good and evil. Hence his wish that as much as possible should be done by the boys, and nothing for them ; hence arose his practice, in which his own deli- cacy of feeling and uprightness of purpose powerfully assisted him, of treating the boys as gentlemen and reasonable beings, of making them respect themselves by the mere respect he showed to them ; of showing that he appealed and trusted to their own common sense and conscience. Lying, for example, to the masters, he made a great moral offence : placing implicit confidence in a boy's assertion, and then, if a falsehood was discovered, p'unishing it severely, — in the upper part of the school, when persisted in, with expulsion. Even with the lower forms he never seemed to be on the watch for boys ; and in the higher forms any attempt at further proof of an as- sertion was immediately checked : "If you say so, that is quite enough — of course I believe your word ;" and there grew up in consequence a general feeling that " it was a shame to tell Arnold a lie — he always believes one." Perhaps the liveliest representation of this general spirit, as distinguished from its exemplification in par- ticular parts of the discipline and instruction, would ho\ formed by recalling his man;?er, as he appeared in the DOCTOR ARNOLD AT RUGBY. 353 great school, where the bo^s used to meet when the whole school was assembled collectively, and not in its different forms or classes. Then, whether on his usual entrance every morning to prayers before the first lesson, or on the more special emergencies which might require his presence, he seemed to stand before them, not merely as the head-master, but as the representative of the school. There he spoke to them as members together with himself of the same great institution, whose charac- ter and reputation they had to sustain as well as he. He would dwell on the satisfaction he had in being head of a society, where noble and honorable feelings were en- couraged, or on the disgrace which he felt in hearing of acts of disorder or violence, such as in the humbler ranks of life would render them amenable to the laws of their country ; or again, on the trust which he placed in their honor as gentlemen, and the baseness of any in- stance in which it was abused. " Is this a Christian school?" he indignantly asked at the end of one of those addresses, in which he had spoken of an extensive dis- play of bad feeling amongst the boys ; and then added, — " I cannot remain here if all this is to be carried on by constraint and force ; if I am to be here as a jailer, I will resign my office at once." And few scenes can be re- corded more characteristic of him than on one of these occasions, when, in consequence of a disturbance, he had been obliged to send away several boys, and when in the midst of the general .spirit of discontent which this ex- cited, he stood in his place before the assembled school and said : " It is not necessary that this should be a school of three hundred, or one hundred, or of fifty boys ; but it is necessary that it should be a school of Christian gentlemen." W 554 TI/£ HIGH SCHOOL READER. LXXIII. ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND. Charles Kingsley. — 1819-1875. Welcome, wild North-easter ! Shame it is to see Odes to every zephyr ; Ne'er a verse to thee. Welcome, black North-easter ! O'er the German foam ; O'er the Danish moorlands, From thy frozen home. Tired we are of summer, Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and steaming, Hot and breathless air. Tired of listless dreaming Through the lazy day : Jovial wind of winter Turns us out to play ! Sweep the golden reed-beds ; Crisp the lazy dyke ; Hunger into madness^ Every plunging pike. Fill the lake with wild-fowl ; Fill the marsh with snipe ; While on dreary moorlands Lonely curlew pipe. Through the black fir-forest Thunder harsh and dry. Shattering down the snow-flakes Off the curdled sky. Hark ! The brave North-easter ' Breast-high lies the scent, ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND. 355 On by holt and headland, Over heath and bent. Chime, ye dappled darlings. Through the sleet and snow Who can over-ride you ? Let the horses go ! Chime, ye dappled darlings, Down the roaring blast ; You shall see a fox die Ere an hour be past. • v. Go ! and rest to-morrow. Hunting in your dreams, While our skates are ringing O'er the frozen streams. Let the luscious South-wind Breathe in lovers' sighs, While the lazy gallants Bask in ladies' eyes. ' What does he but soften -'■■■^ '■'■'■ Heart alike and pen ? 'Tis the hard grey weather Breeds hard English men. What's the soft South-wester ? 'Tis the ladies' breeze. Bringing home their true-loves Out of all the seas. But the black North-easter, Through the snow-storm hurl'd, Drives our English hearts of oak Seaward round the world. Come, as came our fathers, Heralded by thee, Conquering from the eastward, Lords by land and sea. .■/.' I 356 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Come ; and strong within us Stir the Vikings' blood, Bracing brain and sinew ; Blow, thou wind of God ! >> LXXIV. FROM ''THE MILL ON THE FLOSS." m ;l li I ! George Eliot. — 1820-1880. The next morning Maggie was trotting with her own fishing-rod in one hand and a handle of the basket in the other, stepping always, by a peculiar gift, in the muddiest places, and looking darkly radiant from under her beaver bonnet because Tom was good to her. She had told Tom, however, that she should like him to put the worms on the hook for her, although she accepted his word when he assured her that worms couldn't feel (it was Tom's private opinion that it didn't ipuch matter if they did). He knew all about worms, and fish, and those things ; and what birds were mischievous, and how padlocks opened, and v/hich way the handles of the gates were to be lifted. Maggie thought this sort of knowledge was very wonderful — much more difficult than remembering what was in the books ; and she was rather in awe of Tom's superiority, for he was the only person who called her knowledge " stuff," and did not feel surprised at her cleverness. Tom, indeed, was of opinion that Maggie was a silly little thing ; all girls were silly • they couldn't throw a stone so as to hit anything, couldn't do anything with a pocket-knife, and were frightened at frogs. Still, he was very fond of his sister, and meant always to take FROM ''THE MILL ON THE FLOSS :' 357 care of her, make her his housekeeper, and punish her when she did wrong. They were on their way to the Round Pool — that wonderful pool, which the floods had made a long while ago. No one knew how deep it was ; and it was mys- terious, too, that it should be almost a perfect round, framed in with willows and tall reeds, so that the water was only to be seen when you got close to the brink. The sight of the old favorite spot always heightened Tom's good-humor, and he spoke to Maggie in the most amiable whispers, as he opened the precious basket and prepared their tackle. He threw her line for her, and put the rod into her hand. Maggie thought it probable that the small fish would come to her hook, and the large ones to Tom's. But she had forgotten all about the fish, and was looking dreamily at the glassy water, when Tom said, in a loud whisper, " Look ! look, Maggie !" and came running to prevent her from snatching her line away. Maggie was frightened lest she had been doing some- thing wrong, as usual, but presently Tom drew out her line and brought a large tench bouncing on the grass. Tom was excited. " O Magsie ! you little duck ! Empty the basket." Maggie was not conscious of unusual merit, but it was enough that Tom called her Magsie, and was pleased with her. There was nothing to mar her delight in the whispers and the dreamy silences, when she listened to the light dipping sounds of the rising fish, and the gentle rustling, as if the willows, and the reeds, and the water had their happy whisperings also. Maggie thought it would make a very nice heaven to sit by the pool in that way, and never be scolded. She never knew she had a bite till Tom told her, but she liked fishing v^'ry much. ■ m 358 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. i It was one of their happy mornings. They trotted along and sat down together, with no thought that Hfe would ever change much for them : they would only get bigger and not go to school, and it would always be like the holidays ; they would always live together and be fond of each other. And the mill with its booming — the great chestnut-tree under which they played at houses — their own little river, the Ripple, where the banks seemed like home, and Tom was always seeing the water-rats, while Maggie gathered the purple plumy tops of the reeds, which she forgot and dropped afterward — above all, the great Floss, along which they wandered with a sense of travel, to see the rushing spring-tide, the awful Eagre, come up like a hungry monster, or to see the Great Ash which had once wailed and groaned like a man — these things would always be just the same to them. Tom thought people were at a disadvantage who lived on any other spot of the globe ; and Maggie, when she read about Christiana passing " the river over which there is no bridge," always saw the Floss between the green pastures by the Great Ash. Life did change for Tom and Maggie ; and yet they were not wrong in believing that the thoughts and loves of these first years would always make part of their lives. We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it — if it were not the earth where the same flowers come up again every spring that we used to gather with our tiny fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves on the grass — the same hips and haws on the autumn hedgerows — the same red-breasts that we used to call " God's birds," because they did no harm to the precious crops. What novelty is worth that sweet mono- tony where everything is known, and loved because it iy known ? THE CLOUD CONFINES. 359 The wood I walk in on this mild May day, with the young yellow-brown foliage of the oaks between me and the blue sky, the white star-flowers, and the blue-eyed speedwell, and the ground-ivy at my feet — what grove of tropic palms, what strange ferns or splendid broad-petaled blossoms, could ever thrill such deep and delicate fibres within me as this home-scene ? These familiar flowers, these well-remembered bird-notes, this sky with its fitful brightness, these furrowed and grassy fields, each with a sort of personality given to it by the capricious hedge- rows—such things as these are the mother tongue of our imagination, the language that is laden with all the subtle inextricable associations the fleeting hours of our child- hood left behind them. Our delight in the sunshine on the deep-bladed grass to-day might be no more than the faint perception of wearied souls, if it were not for the sunshine and the grass in the far-off years, which still live in us, and transform our perception into love. LXXV. THE CLOUD CONFINESl Dante Gabriel Rossetti. — 1828-1882. The day is dark and the night To him that would search their heart ; No lips of cloud that will part Nor morning song in the light : Only, gazing alone. To him wild shadows are shown, Deep under deep unknown And height above unknown height. 36o THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. V f : I I 11 1 *• \ ll Still we say as we go, — " Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know. That shall we know one day." The Past is over and fled ; Named new, we name it the old ; Thereof some tale hath been told. But no word comes from the dead ; Whether at all they be, • Or whether as bond or free, Or whether they too were we. Or by what spell they have sped. Still we say as we go, — " Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day." What of the heart of hate That beats in thy breast, O Time ? — Red strife from the furthest prime. And anguish of fierce debate ; War that shatters her slain, And peace that grinds them as grain, And eyes fix'd ever in vain On the pitiless eyes of Fate. Still we say as we go, — " Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know. That shall we know one day." What of the heart of love That bleeds in thy breast, O Man ? — Thy kisses snatch'd 'neath the ban Of fangs that mock them above ; BARBARA FRIETCHIE. Thy bells prolong'd unto knells, Thy hope that a breath dispels, Thy bitter forlorn farewells And the empty echoes thereof? Still we say as we go, — " Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know. That shall we know one day." The sky leans dumb on the sea, Aweary with all its wings ; And oh ! the song the sea sings ' Is dark everlastingly. ' ^ Our past is clean forgot, " Our present is and is not, Our future's a seal'd seedplot. And what betwixt them are we ? — We who say as we go, — " Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know. That shall we know one day." 361 LXXVI. BARBARA FRIETCHIE. John Greenleaf Whittier.— 1807- Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn. The cluster'd spires of Frederick stand Green-wall'd by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep, — 362 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. ^i>f Fair as a garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famish'd rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee march'd over the mountain vvall,- Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town. Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapp'd in the morning wind : the sun Of noon look'd down, and saw not one. Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bow'd with her fourscore years and ten ; Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men haul'd down ; In her attic-window the staff she set. To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouch'd hat left and right He glanced ; the old flag met his sight. " Halt ! " — the dust-brown ranks stood fast *' Fire ! " — out blazed the rifle-blast. It shiver'd the window, pane and sash ; It rent the banner with seam and gaah. Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatch'd the silken scarf; 1,-- ■t. BARBARA FRIETCHIE. She lean'd far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will. , , " Shoot, if you must, this old grey head, „ But spare your country's flag ! " she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of sb^me. Over the face of the leader came ; The nobler nature within him stirr'd To life at that woman's deed and word ; " Who touches a hair of yon grey head, Dies like a dog ! March on ! " he said All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet ; All day long that free flag toss'd - , Over the heads of the rebel host. Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that lov'd it well ; And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the Rebel rides on his iaids no more 363 Honor to her ! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. Over Barh'...»a Frietchie's grave, Flag of Freedoni and Union, wave/ \m 364 THI£ HIGH SCHOOL READER. Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law ; And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town ! LXXVII. CONTENTMENT. ti :r: !■ I'mI: Oliver Wendell Holmes. — 1809- " Man ivants but little here below." Little I ask ; my wants are few ; I only wish a hut of stone, (A very plain brown stone will do,) That I may call my own ; — And close at hand is such a one. In yonder street that fronts the sun. Plain food is quite enough for me ; Three courses are as good as ten ; — . If Nature can subsist on three, Thank Heaven for three. Amen ! I always thought cold victual nice ; — My choice would be vanilla-ice. I care not much for gold or lard ; — Give me a mortgage here and there, — Some good bank-stock, — some note of hand,* Or trifling railroad share, — I only ask that F cune send A little more than I shall spend. CONTENTMENT, Honors are silly toys, I know, And titles are but empty names ; I would, perhaps^ be Plenipo, — But only near St. James ; I'm very sure I should not care To fill our Gubernator's chair. 365 Jewels are baubles ; 'tis a sin To care for such unfruitful things ; — One good-sized diamond in a pin, — Some, not so large, in rings, — A ruby, and a pearl, or so, Will do for me ; — I laugh at show. My dame should dress in cheap attire ; (Good, heavy silks are never dear ;) — I own perhaps I might desire Some shawls of true Cashmere, — Some marrowy crapes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. r.d; I would not have the horse I drive So fast that folks must stop and stare ; An easy gait — two, forty-five — Suits me ; I do not care, — Perhaps for just a single spurt, Some seconds less would do no hurt. Of pictures I should like to own Titians and Raphaels three or four, — I love so much their style and tone, — One Turner, and no more, (A landscape, — foreground golden dirt,— The sunshine painted with a squirt.) •it' ,11 1 n 'i't! lilii: 366 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Of books but few, — some fifty score For daily use, and bound for wear ; The rest upon an upper floor ; — Some /////(? luxury M(?r^ Of red morocco's gilded gleam, And vellum rich as country cream. Busts, cameos, gems, — such things as these, Which others often show for pride, /value for their power to please. And selfish churls deride ; — One Stradivarius, I confess, Tzvo Meerschaums, I would fain possess. Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn. Nor ape the glittering upstart fool ; — Shall not carv'd tables serve my turn. But «// must be of buhn Give grasping pomp its double share, — I ask but one recumbent chair, Thus humble let me live and die. Nor long for Midas' golden touch ; If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall' not miss them much. — ■ Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content. --«■! II ^;^ Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies ; — Hold you here, root and all, in my hand^ Little flower — but if I could understand What you are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is. Tennvson. THE BRITISH CONSTITUTION, 367 LXXVIII. THE BRITISH CONSTITUTION. Tennyson. The Right Hon^ William Ewart Gladstone. — 1809- , From Kin Beyond Sea. The Constitution has not been the offspring of the thought of man. The Cabinet, and all the present re- lations of the Constitutional powers in this country, have grown into their present dimensions, and settled into their present places, not as the fruit of a philosophy, not in the effort to give effect to an abstract principle ; but by the silent action of forces, invisible and insensible, the structure has come up into the view of all the world. It is, perhaps, the most conspicuous object on the wide political horizon ; but it has thus risen, without noise, like the temple of Jerusalem. " No workman steel, no ponderous hammers rung ; Like some tall palm the stately fabric sprung." When men repeat the proverb which teaches us that " marriages are made in heaven,", what they mean is that, in the most fundamental of all social operations, the building up of the family, the issues involved in the nuptial contract, lie beyond the best exercise of human thought, and the unseen forces of providential govern- ment make good the defect in our imperfect capacitv. Even .so would it seem to have been in that curious mar- riage of competing influences and powers, which brings about the composite harmony of the British Constitution. More, it must be admitted, than any other, it leaves open doors which lead into blind alleys ; for it presumes, more boldly than any other, the good sense and good faith of those who work it If, unhappily, these personages meet 368 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. together, on the great arena of a nation's fortunes, as jockeys meet upon a racecourse, each to urge to the uttermost, as against the others, the power of the animal he rides ; or as counsel in a court, each to procure the victory of his client, without respect to any other interest or right : then this boasted Constitution of ours is neither more nor less than a heap of absurdities. The undoubted competency of each reaches even to the paralysis or de- struction of the rest. The House of Commons is entitled to refuse every shilling of the Supplies. That House, and also the House of Lords, is entitled to refuse its assent to every Bill presented to it. The Crown is en- titled to make a thousand Peers to-day, and as many to- morrow : it may dissolve all and every Parliament before it proceeds to business ; may pardon the most atrocious crimes ; may declare war against all the world ; may conclude treaties involving unlimited responsibilities, and even vast expenditure, without the consent, nay without the knowledge, of Parliament, and this not merely in support or in development, but in reversal, of policy al- ready known to and sanctioned by the nation. But the assumption is that the depositaries of power will all re- spect one another ; will evince a consciousness that they are working in a common interest for a common end ; that they will be possessed, together with not less than an average intelligence, of not less than an average sense of equity and of the public interest and rights. When these reasonable expectations fail, then, it must be ad- mitted, the British Constitution will be in danger. Apart from such contingencies, the offspring only of folly or of crime, this Constitution is peculiarly liable to subtle change. Not only in the long-run, as man changes between youth and age, but also, like the human body, THE BRITISH CONSTITUTION. 369 rtunes, as crc to the he animal rocure the er interest 1 is neither undoubted ysis or de- is entitled lat House, refuse its 3wn is en- s many to- lent before it atrocious orld ; may ^iHties, and ay without merely in policy al- But the will all re- ,s that they nmon end ; less than erage sense Its. When lust be ad- iger. ing only of rly liable to lan changes iman body, with a quotidian life, a periodical recurrence of ebbing and flowing tides. Its old particles daily run to waste, and give place to new. What is hoped among us is, that which has usually been found, that evils will become palpable before they have grown to be intolerable. . . . Meantime, we of this island are not great political philosophers ; and we contend with an earnest, but dis- proportioned, vehemence about changes which are pal- pable, such as the extension of the suffrage, or the redis- tribution of Parliamentary seats, neglecting wholly other processes of change which work beneath the surface, and in the dark, but which arc even more fertile of great organic results. The modern English character reflects the English Constitution in this, that it abounds in para- dox ; that it possesses every strength, but holds it tainted with every weakness ; that it seems alternately both to rise above and to fall below the standard of average humanity ; that there is no allegation of praise or blame which, in some one of the aspects of iis many-sided formation, it does not deserve ; that only in the midst of much default, and much transgression, the people of this United Kingdom either have heretofore established, or will hereafter establish, their title to be reckoned among the children of men, for the eldest born of an imperial race. It fortifies my soul to himv ' - That^ though I perish^ Truth is so : That, howsoever I stray and rgnge^ Whatever I do, Thou dost not change. I steadier step when I recall That, if I slip Thou dost not fall. Arthur Hugh Clough. 370 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER, LXXIX. THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. m % \ w iftfi ' 1 l-l' if- m. ■A Vr Mi :; ■:■* !'■ 1' :? ''i ■1 Lord Tennyson. — 1809- In her ear he whispers gayly, " If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily. And I think thou lov'st me well." * She replies, in accents fainter, "There is none I love like thee." He is but a landscape-painter, And a village maiden she. He to lips, that fondly falter, Presses his without reproof: '* Leads her to the village altar. And they leave her father's roof. " I can make no marriage present ; Little can I give my wife. Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life." They by parks and lodges going See the lordly castles stand : Summer woods, about them blowing, Made a murmur in the land. From deep thought himself he rouses Says to her that loves him well, " Let us see these handsome houses Where the wealthy nobles dwell." So she goes by him attended, Hears him lovingly converse. Sees whatever fair and splendid Lay betwixt his home and hers ; Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and order'd gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady, Built for pleasure and for state. THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 371 All he shows her makes him doarer : Evermore she seems to gcoze On that cottage growing nearer, Where they twain will si)end their days. O but she will love him truly ! He shall have a cheerful home ; She will order all things duly, When beneath his roof they come. Thus her heart rejoices greatly, Till a gateway she discerns With armorial bearings stately, And beneath the gate she turns; Sees a mansion more majestic Than all those she saw before : Many a gallant gay domestic Bows before him at the door. And they speak in gentle murmur. When they answer to his call. While he treads with footsteps firmer, Leading on from hall to hallt And, while now she wonders blindly, Nor the meaning can divine, Proudly turns he round and kindly, " All of this is mine and thine." Here he lives in state and bounty. Lord of Burleigh, fair and free. Not a lord in all the county Is so great a lord as he. All at once the color flushes Her sweet face from brow to chin : As it were with shame she blushes. And her spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over Pale again as death did prove ; But he clasp'd her like a lover. And he cheer'd her soul with love 1 372 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. IK \ ^^ iff So she strove against her weakness, Tho' at times her spirits sank : Shaped her heart with woman's meekness To all duties of her rank : And a gentle consort made he, And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady, And the people lov'd her much. But a trouble weigh'd upon her, And perplex'd her, night and morn, With the burden of an honor Unto which she was not born. Faint she grew, and ever fainter. As she murmur'd, "O, that he Were once more that landscape-painter. Which did win my heart from me ! " So she droop'd and droop'd before him, Fading slowly from his side : Three fair children first she bore him, Therv before her time she died. Weeping, weeping late and early, ' Walking up and pacing down. Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. And he came to look upon her. And he look'd at her and said, " Bring the dress and put it on her. That she wore when she was wed." Then her people, softly treading, Bore to earth her body, drest In the dress that she was wed in. That her spirit might have rest. And yet ^ dear heart ! remembering thee ^ Am I not richer than of oldl Whittier. ''BREAK, BR^AK, BREAK:' 373 LXXX. "BREAK, BREAK, BREAK." Lord Tennyson. Break, break, break. On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play ! O well for the sailor lad. That he sings in his boat on the bay ! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill ; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still ! Break, break, break, " • At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. LXXXI. THE ''REVENGE." Whittjer, A BALLAD OF THE FLEET, 1591. Lord Tennyson. IAt Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, lAnd a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away : "Spanish ships of war at sea ! we have sighted fifty-three!" iThen sware Lord Thomas Howard : '"Fore God I am no coward! put I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I j5 - IM ,i m ^ 1^ IIM 2.2 M 1.8 1 1.25 1.4 1.6 -• 6" — ► V] pursued, there is disap- pointment, or destruction : for ambition and for passion there is no rest — nc fruition ; the fairest pleasures of youth perish in a darkness greater than their past light ; and the loftiest and purest love too often does but inflame the cloud of life with endless fire of pain. But, ascending from lowest to highest, through every scale of human in- dustry, that industry worthily followed, gives peace. Ask the laborer in the field, at the forge, or in the mine ; ask the patient, delicate-fingered artisan, or the strong-armed, fiery-hearted worker in bronze, and in marble, and with the colors of light ; and none of these, who are true work- men, will ever tell you, that they have found the law of heaven an unkind one — that in the sweat of their face they should eat bread, till they return to the ground ; nor that they ever found it an unrewarded obedience, if, in- deed, it was rendered faithfully to the command — "What- soever thy hand findeth to do — do it with thy might." These are the two great and constant lessons which our laborers teach us of the mystery of life. But there is an- other, and a sadder one, which they cannot teach us, which we must read on their tombstones. " Do it with thy might." There have been myriads upon myriads of human creatures who have obeyed this law — who have put every breath and nerve of their being into its toil — who have devoted every hour, and ex- hausted every faculty — who have bequeathed their unac- complished thoughts at death — who being dead, have yet spoken, by majesty of memory, and strength of example. III !!. 393 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER, • i' And, at last, what has all this " Might " of humanity accomplished, in six thousand years of labor and sorrow ? What has it done ? Take the three chief occupations and arts of men, one by one, and count their achievements. Begin with the first — the lord of them all — agriculture. Six thousand years have passed since we were set to till the ground, from which we were taken. How much of it is tilled? How much of that which is, wisely or well ? In the very centre and chief garden of Europe — where the two forms of parent Christianity have had their fortresses — where the noble Catholics of the Forest Cantons, and the noble Protestants of the Vaudois valleys, have main- tained, for dateless ages, their faiths and liberties — there the unchecked Alpine rivers yet run wild in devastation : and the marshes, which a few hundred men could redeem with a year's labor, still blast their helpless inhabitants into fevered idiotism. That is so, in the centre of Europe ! While, on the near coast of Africa, once the Garden of the Hesperides, an Arab woman, but a few sunsets since, ate her child, for famine. And, with all the treasures of the East at our feet, we, in our own dominion, could not find a few grains of rice, for a people that asked of us no more ; but stood by, and saw five hundred thousand of them perish of hunger. Then, after agriculture, the art of kings, take the next head of human arts — weaving ; the art of queens, hon- ored of all noble Heatheii women, in the person of their virgin goddess — honored of all Hebrew women, by the word of their wisest king — " She layeth her hands to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff ; she stretcheth out her hand to the poor. She is not afraid of the snow for her household, for all her household are clothed with scarlet. Siie maketh herself covering of tapestry, her OF THE MYSTERY OF LIFE, 393 clothing is silk and purple. She maketh fine linen, and selleth it, and delivereth girdles to the merchant." What have we done in all these thousands of 3^ears with this bright art of Greek maid and Christian matron ? Six thousand years of weaving, and have we learned to weave? Might not every naked wall have been purple with tapestry, and every feeble breast fenced with sweet colors from the cold? What have we done ? Our fingers are too few, it seems, to twist together some poor covering for our bodies. We set our streams to work for us, and choke the air with fire, to turn our spinning-wheds, — and — are we yet clothed? Are not the streets of the capitals of Europe foul with the sale of cast clouts and. rotten rags ? Is not the beauty of your sweet children left in wretchedness of disgrace, while, with better honor, nature clothes the brood of the bird in its nest, and the suckling of the wolf in her den ? And does not every winter's snow robe what you have not robed, and shroud what you have not shrouded ; and every winter's wind bear up to heaven its wasted souls, to witness against you here- after, by the voice of their Christ, — " I was naked, and ye clothed me not " ? Lastly — take the Art of Building — the strongest — proudest — most orderly — most enduring of the arts of man, that of which the produce is in the surest manner accumulative, and need not perish, or be replaced ; but if once well done will s and more strongly than the unbal • anced rocks — more prevalently than the crumbling hills. The art which is associated with all civic pride and sacred principle ; with which men record their power — satisfy their enthusiasm — make sure their defence — define and make dear their habitation. And, in six thousand years of building, what have we done ? Of the greater part of n; is m 394 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. \\ all that skill and strength, no vestige is left, but fallen stones, that encumber the fields and impede the streams. But from this waste of disorder, and of time, and of rage, what is left to us ? Constructive and progressive crea- tures, that we are, with ruling brains, and forming bands, capable ot fellowship, and thirsting for fame, can we not contend, in comfort, with the insects of the forest, or, in achievement, with the worm of the sea ? The white surf rages in vain against the ramparts built by poor ^toms of scarcely nascent life ; but only ridges of formless ruin mark the .places where once dwelt our noblest multitudes. The ant and the moth have eel Is for each of their young, but our little ones lie in festering heaps, in homes that con- sume them like graves ; and night by night, from the cor- ners of our streets, rises up the cry of the homeless — '* I was a stranger, and ye took me not in." Must it be always thus ? Is our life forev-»" to be with- out profit — without possession ? Shall the strength of its generations be as barren as death ; or cast away their labor, as the wild fig-tree casts her untimely figs ? Is it all a dream then — the desire of the eyes and the pride of life — or, if it be, might we not live in nobler dream than this ? The poets and prophets, the wise men, and the scribes, though they have told us nothing about a life to come, have told us much about the life that ^ is now They have had — they also, — their dreams, and we have laughed at them. They have dreamed of mercy, and of justice ; they have dreamed of peace and good-will ; they have dreamed of labor undisappointed, and of rest undis- turbed ; they have dreamed of fulness in harvest, and overflowing in store ; they have dreamed of wisdom in council, and of providence in law ; of gladness of parents, and strength of children, and glory of gray hairs. And OF THE MYSTERY OF LIFE. 395 at these visions of theirs we have mocked, and held them for idle and vain, unreal and unaccomplishablc. What have we accomplished with our realities ? Is this what has come of our worldly wisdom, tried against their folly ? this our mightiest possible, against their impotent ideal ? or have we only wandered among the spectra of a baser felicity, and chased phantoms of the tombs, instead of visions of the Almighty ; and walked after the imagi- nations of our evil hearts, instead of after the counsels of Eternity, until our lives — not in the likeness of the cloud of heaven, but of the smoke of hell — have become " as a vapor, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away " ? Does it vanish then ? Are you sure of that ? — sure, that the nothingness of the grave will be a rest from this troubled nothingness ; and that the coiling shadow, which disquiets itself in vain, cannot change into the smoke of the torment that ascends forever ? Will any answer that they are sure of it, and that there is no fear, nor hope, nor desire, nor labor, whither they go ? Be it so ; will you not, then, make as sure of the Life, that now is, as you are of the Death that is to come ? Your hearts are wholly in this world — will you not give them to it wisely, as well as perfectly ? And see, first of all, that you have hearts, and sound hearts, too, to give. Because you have no heaven to look for, is that any reason that you should remain ignorant of this wonderful and infinite earth, which is firmly and instantly given you in possession ? Although your days are numbered, and the following darkness sure, is it necessary that you should share the degradation of the brute, because you are condemned to its mortality ; or live the life of the moth, and of the worm, because you are to companion them in the dust ? ■^j 396 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. m Not so ; we may have but a few thousands of days to spend, perhaps hundreds only— perhaps tens ; nay, the longest of our time and best, looked back on, will be but as a moment, as the twinkling of an eye ; still, we are men, not insects ; we are living spirits, not passing clouds. " FJe maketh the winds His messengers ; the momentary fire, His minister ; " and shall we do less than these ? Let us do the work of men while we bear the form of them ; and, as we snatch our narrow portion of time out of Eternity, snatch also our narrow inheritance of pas- sion out of Immortality — even though our lives be as a vapor, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away. But there are some of you who believe not this — who think this cloud of life has no such close — that it is to float, revealed and illumined, upon the floor of heaven, in the day when He cometh with clouds, and every eye shall see Him. Some day, you believe, within these five, or ten, or twenty years, for every one of us the judgment will be set, and the books opened. If that be true, far more than that must be true. Is there but one day of judgment? Why, for us every day is a day of judg- ment — every day is a Dies Irae, and writes its irrevocable verdict in the flame of its West. Think you that judg- ment waits till the doors of the grave are opened ? It waits at the doors of your houses — it waits at the corners of your streets ; we are in the midst of judgment — the insects that we crush are our judges — the moments we fret away are our judges — the elements that feed us, judge, as they minister — and the pleasures that deceive us, judge as they indulge. Let us, for our lives, do the work of Men while we bear the Form of them, if indeed those lives are Not as a vapor, and do Not vanish away. -^•TWl f THE ROBIN. 397 (lays to nay, the 1 be but , we are T clouds, mentary 1 these ? form of time out of pas- 5 ^^ as a anisheth is — who t it is to heaven, v^ery eye lese five, idgment true, far e day of of judg- evocable at judg- led ? It \ corners snt — the lents we feed us, : deceive , do the f indeed >h away. LXXXVIII. THE ROBIN. Jamks Russell Lowell.— 1819- From My Garden Acquaintance. Tup: return of the robin is commonly announced by the newspapers, like that of eminent or notorious people to a watering-place, as the first authentic notification of spring. And such his appearance in the orchard and garden undoubtedly is. But, in spite of his name of migratory thrush, he stays with us all winter, and I have seen him when the thermometer marked 1 5 degrees below zero of Fahrenheit, armed imprcgnably within, like Emerson's Titmouse, and as cheerful as he. The robin has a bad reputation among people who do not value themselves less for being fond of cherries. There is, I admit, a spice of vulgarity in him, and his song is rather of the Bloomfield sort, too largely ballasted with prose. His ethics arc of the Poor Richard school, and the main chance which calls forth all his energy is alto- gether of the belly. He never has those fine intervals of lunacy into which his cousins, the catbird and the mavis, are apt to fall. But for a' that and twice as muckle 's a' that, I would not exchange him for all the cherries that ever came out of Asia Minor. With whatever faults, he has not wholly forfeited that superiority which belongs to the children of nature. He has a finer taste in fruit than could be distilled from many successive committees of the Horticultural Society, and he eats with a relishing gulp not inferior to Dr. Johnson's. He feels and freely exercises his right of eminent domain. His is the earliest mess of green peas ; his all the mulberries I had fancied mine. But if he get also the lion's share of the rasp- lill 398 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. \l i^ I ii ; 111! %. 'I I berries, he is a great planter, and sows those wild ones in the woods, that solace the pedestrian and give a mo- mentary calm even to the jaded victims of the White Hills. He keeps a strict eye over one's fruit, and knows to a sh.'i ' of purple when your grapes have cooked long enough in the sun. During a severe drought a few years ago, the robins wholly vanished from my garden. I neither saw nor heard one for three weeks. Meanwhile a small foreign grape-vine, rather shy of bearing, seemod to find the dusty air congenial, and, dreaming perhaps of its sweet Atgos across the sea, decked itself with a score or so of fair bunches. I watched them from day to day till they should have secreted sugar enough from the sunbeams, and at last made up my mind that I would celebrate my vintage the next morning. But the robins too had somehow kept note of them. They must have sent out spies, as did the Jews into the promised land, before I was stirring. When I went with my basket, at least a dozen of these winged vintagers bustled out from among the leaves, and alighting on the nearest trees in- terchanged some shrill remarks about me of a derogatory nature. They had fairly sacked the vine. Not Welling- ton's veterans made cleaner work of a Spanish town ; not Federals or Confederates were ever more impartial in the confiscation of neutral chickens. I was keeping my grapes a secret to surprise the fair Fidele with, but the robins made them a profounder secret to her than I had meant The tattered remnant of a single bunch was all my harvest-home. How paltry it looked at the bottom of my basket, — as if a humming-bird had laid her egg in an eagle's nest ! I could not help laughing ; and the robins seemed to join heartily in the merriment. There was a native grape-vine close by, blue with its less refined THE ROBIN. 399 1 ones in 2 a mo- c White d knows kcd long evv years rdcn. I eanwhilc ■, seemed perhaps f with a from day 4gh from 1 1 would he robins lUst have sed land, basket, at out from : trees in- erogatory ; Welling- own ; not partial in ;eping my h, but the han I had ch was all tie bottom d her egg ■ ; and the it. There ess refined abundance, but my cunning thieves preferred the foreign flavor. Could I tax them with want of taste ? The robins arc not good solo singers, but their chorus, as, like primitive fire-worshippers, they hail the return of light and warmth to the world, is unrivalled. There are a hundred singing like one. They are noisy enough then, and sing, as poets should, with no afterthought. But when they come after i: d'^s to the tree near my window, they muffle their v ■ and their faint pip, pip, pop ! sounds far away at the bottom of the garden, where they know I shall not suspect them of robbing the great black-walnut of its bitter-rinded store.* They are feathered Pecksniffs, to be sure, but then how brightly their breasts, that look rather shabby in the sunlight, shine in a rainy day against the dark green of the fringe- tree ! After they have pinched and shaken all the life out of an earthworm, as Italian cooks pound all the spirit out of a steak, and then gulped him, they stand up in honest self-confidence, expand their red waistcoats with the virtuous air of a lobby member, and outface you with an eye that calmly challenges inquiry. " Do 1 look like a bird that knows the flavor of raw vermin ? I throw myself upon a jury of my peers. Ask any robin if he ever ate anything less ascetic than the frugal berry of the juniper, and he will answer that his vow forbids him." Can such an open bosom cover such depravity ? Alas, yes ! I have no doubt his breast was redder at that very moment with the blood of my raspberries. On the whole, he is a doubtful friend in the garden. He makes his dessert of all kinds of berries, and is not averse * The screech-owl, whose cry, despite his ill name, is one of the sweetest sounds in nature, softens his voice in the same way with the most beguiling mockery of distance..— Author's Note. 40O THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. from early pears. But when we remember how omni- vorous he is, catiiif^ his own weight in an incredibly short time, and that Nature seems exhaustlcss in her invention of new insects hostile to vegetation, perhaps we may reckon that he does more good than harm. For my own part, I would rather have his cheerfulness and kind neigh- borhood than many berries. LXXXIX. THE OLD CRADLE. Frederick Locker. — 1821- And this was your Cradle ? Why, surely, my Jenny, Such cosy dimensions go clearly to show You were an exceedingly small pickaninny Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago. Your baby-days flow'd in a mu^.i-troubled channel ; I see you, as then, in your impotent strife, A tight litUe bundle of wailing and flannel, Perplex'd with the newly-found fardel of Life. To hint at an infantile frailty's a scandal ; Let bygones be bygones, for som''body krsows It was bliss such a Baby to dance and to dandle, — Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy your toes. Ay, here is your Cradle ; and Hope, a bright spirit, With Love now is watching beside it, I know. They guard the wee nest it was yours to inherit Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago. - It Is Hope gilds the future, Love welcomes it smiling , Thus, wags this old world, therefore stay not tx).ask. kUGBY CHAPEL, 401 V omni- )ly short ivcntion we may my own id ncigh- nny, " My future bids fair, is my future beguiling ? " If mask'd, still it pleases — then raise not its mask. Is Life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing ? He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will adjust ; For at most 'tis a footstep from cradle to coffin — From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful of dust. Then smile as your future is smiling, my Jenny ; I see you, except for those infantine woes, Little changed since you were but a small pickaninny — Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy your toes ! Ay, here is your Cradle, much, much to my liking, Though nineteen or twenty long winters have sped. Hark ! As I'm talking there's six o'clock striking, — It is time Jenny's baby should be in its bed. Ife 111 u lel ; e,— DCS. )irit. iiiling , \jo. ask. XC. RUGBY CHAPEL. November, 1857. Matthew Arnold. — 1822- CoLDLY, sadly descends The autumn-evening. The field Strewn with its dank yellow drifts Of wither'd leaves, and the elms, P'ade into dimness apace, Silent ; — hardly a shout From a few boys late at their play ! The lights come out in the street, In the school-room windows — but cold, 403 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. u-\ , iPii Solemn, unlighted, austere, Through the gathering darkness, arise The chapel-walls, in whose bound Thou, my father ! art laid. There thou dost lie, in the gloom Of the autumn evening. But ah ! That word, g/oom, to my mind Brings thee back in the light Of thy radiant vigor again ; In the gloom of November we jDass'd Days not dark at thy side ; Seasons impair'd not the ray Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear. Such thou wast ! and I stand In the autumn evening, smd think Of bygone autumns with thee. > iceen years have gone round Since thou arosest to tread. In the summer-morning, the road Of death, at a call unforeseen, Sudden. For fifteen years. We who till then in thy shade Rested as under the boughs Of a mighty oak, have endured Sunshine and rain as we might. Bare, unshaded, alone. Lacking the shelter of thee. O strong soul, by what shore Tarriest thou now ? For that force, Surely, has not been left vain ! Somewhere, surely, afar. In the sounding labor-house vast Of being, is ]:)ractis'd that strength, Zealous, beneficent, firm 1 RUGBY CHAPEL. 403 Yes, in some far-shining sphere, Conscious or not of the past, Still thou performest the word Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live- Prompt, unwearied, as here ! Still thou upraisest with zeal The humble good from the ground, Sternly repressest the bad ! Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse Those who with half-open eyes Tread the border-land dim 'Twixt vice and virtue ; reviv'st, Succorest ! — this was thy work, This was thy life upon earth. What is the course of the life Of mortal men on the earth ? — Most men eddy about Here and there — eat and drink, Chatter and love and hate. Gather and squander, are rais'd Aloft, are hurl'd in the dust, Striving blindly, achieving Nothing ; and then they die- Perish — and no one asks Who or what they have been, More than he asks what waves. In the moonlit solitudes mild Of the midmost Ocean, have swell'd, Foam'd for a moment, and gone. And there are some, whom a thirst Ardent, unquenchable, fires, Not with the crowd to be spent, Not without aim to go round 404 I t '] 11 I ilillii! TI/E HIGH SCHOOL READER. In an eddy of purposeless dust Effort unmeaning and vain. Ah yes ! some of us strive Not without action to die Fruitless, but something to snatch From dull oblivion, nor all Glut the devouring grave ! We, we have chosen our path — Path to a clear-purpos'd goal, Path of advance ! — but it leads A long, steep journey, through sunk Gorges, o'er mountains in snow. Cheerful, with friends, we set forth — Then, on the height, comes the storm. Thunder crashes from rock To rock, the cataracts reply ; Lightnings dazzle our eyes \ Roaring torrents have breach'd The track, the stream-bed descends In the place where the wayfarer once Planted his footstep — the spray Boils o'er its borders ! aloft The unseen snow-beds dislodge Their hanging ruin ! — alas. Havoc is made in our train ! Friends, who set forth at our side. Falter, are lost in the storm. We, we only are left ! — With frowning foreheads, with lips Sternly compress'd, we strain on On — and at nightfall at last Come to the end of our way, To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks ; Where the gaunt and taciturn host Stands on the threshold, the wind RUGBY CHAPEL. Shaking his thin white hairs — Holds his lantern to scan Our storm-beat figures, and asks : Whom in our party we bring ? Whom we have left in the snow ? Sadly we answer : We bring Only ourselves ! we lost Sight of the rest in the storm. Hardly ourselves we fought through, Stripp'd, without friends, as we are. Friends, companions, and train. The avalanche swept from our side. But thou would'st not alone Be saved, my father ! a/one Conquer and come to thy goal, Leaving the rest in the wild. We were weary, and we Fearful, and we in our march Fain to drop down and to die. Still thou turnedst, and still Beckonedst the trembler, and still Gavest the weary thy hand. If, in the paths of the world, Stones might have wounded thy feet, Toil or dejection have tried Thy spirit, of that we saw Nothing — to us thou wast still Cheerful, and helpful, and firm ! Therefore to thee it was given Many to save with thyself; And, at the end of thy day, O faithful shepherd ! to come, Bringing thy sheep in thy hand. 40S % ^ 4o6 llM: THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. And through thee I believe In the noble and great wko are gone : Pure souls honor'd and blest By former ages, who else- Such, so soulless, so poor, Is the race of men whom I see — Seem'd but a dream of the heart, Seem'd but a cry of desire. Yes ! I believe that there liv'd Others like thee in the past, Not like the men of the crowd Who all round me to-day Bluster or cringe, and make life Hideous, and arid, and vile ; But souls temper'd with fire, Fervent, heroic, and good. Helpers and friends of mankind. Servants of God ! — or sons Shall I not call you ? because Not as servants ye knew Your Father's innermost mind, His, who unwillingly sees One of his little ones lost- - Yours is the praise, if mankind Hath not as yet in its march tainted, and fallen, and died ! See ! In the rocks of the world Marches the host of mankind, A feeble, wavering line. Where are they tending ? — A God Marshall'd them, gave them their goal. Ah, but the way is so long ! Years they have been in the wild ! Sore thirst plagues them, the rocks. l_ ^^^'f RUGBY CHAPEL. Rising all round, overawe ; Factions divide them, their host Threatens to break, to dissolve. — Ah, keep, keep them combined ! Else, of the myriads who fill That army, not one shall arrive ; Sole they shall stray ; on the rocks Batter forever in vain. Die one by one in the waste. Then, in such hour of need Of your fainting, dispirited race, Ye, like angels, appear. Radiant with ardor divine. Beacons of hope, ye appear ! Languor is not in your heart, Weakness is not in your word, Weariness not on your brow. Ye alight in our van ! at your voice, Panic, despair, flee away. Ye move through the ranks, recall The stragglers, refresh the outworn, Praise, re-inspire the brave. Order, courage, return ; Eyes rekindling, and prayers. Follow your steps as ye go. Ye fill up the gaps in our files. Strengthen the wavering line, Stablish, continue our march. On, to the bound of the waste, On, to the City of God. 407 , r I What knmv we greater than the soiiH On God and Godlike men we build our trust. Tknnyson. I ?ppr 408 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. XCI. IN THE ORILLIA WOODS. /^ i !■: 1, 1: Charles Sangster.— 1822- My footsteps press where, centuries ago, The Red Men fought and conquer'd ; lost and won. Whole tribes and races, gone like last year's snow, Have found the Eternal Hunting-Oounds, and run The fiery gauntlet of their active days. Till few are left to tell the mournful tale : And these inspire us with such wild amaze They seem like spectres passing down a vale Steep'd in uncertain moonlight, on their way Towards some bourn where darkness blinds the day, And night is wrapp'd in mystery profound. We cannot lift the mantle of the past : We seem to wander over hallow'd ground : We scan the trail of Thought, but all is overcast. There was a time — and that is all we know ! No record lives of their ensanguin'd deeds : The past seems palsied with some giant blow, And grows the more obscure on what it feeds. A rotted fragment of a human leaf ; A few stray skulls ; a heap of human bones ! These are the records — the traditions brief — 'Twere easier far to read the speechless stones. The fierce Ojibwas, with tornado force. Striking white terror to the hearts of braves ! The mighty Hurons, rolling on their course, Compact and steady as the ocan waves ! The fiery Iroquois, a warrior host ! Who were they ? — Whence ? — And why ? no human tongue can boas>t 1 IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 409 XCII. MORALS AND CHARACTER IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. GoLDwiN Smith. — 1823- From CowpER. The world into which Cowper came was one very ad- verse to him, and at the same time very much in need of him. It was a world from which the spirit of poetry seemed to have fled. There could be no stronger proof of this than the occupation of the throne of Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton, by the arch- versifier Pope. The Revolution of 1688 was glorious, but unlike the Puritan Revolution which it followed, ant. in the political sphere partly ratified, it was profoundly prosaic. Spiritual re- ligion, the source of Puritan grandeur and of the poetry of Milton, was almost extinct; there was not much more of it among the Nonconformists, who had now become to a great extent mere Whigs, with a decided Unitarian tendency. The Church was little better than a political force cultivated and manipulated b)^ political leaders for their own purposes. The Bishops were either politicians, or theological polemics collecting troj^nies of victory over free-thinkers as titles to higher preferment. The inferior clergy as a body were far nearer in character to Trulliber than to Dr. Primrose ; coarse, sordid, neglectful of their duties, shamelessly addicted to sinecurism and pluralities, fanatics in their Toryism and in attachment to their cor- porate privileges, cold, rationalistic, and almost heathen in their preachings, if they preached at . li. The society of the day is mirrored in the pictures of KogLvrth in the works of Fielding and Smollett ; hard and heartless polish was the best of it ; and not a little of it was fry 410 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. -ff^ ■ M "■li Marriag. i la Mode. Chesterfield, with his soulless cul- ture, his court (graces, and his fashionable immoralities, was about the h.^jhest type of an English gentleman ; but thp Wilkeses, Potters, and Sandwiches, whose mania for vice culminated in the Hell-fire Club, were more numerous than the Chesterfields. Among the country squires, for one Allworthy, or Sir Roger de Coverley, there were many Westerns. Among the common people religion was almost extinct, and assuredly no new moral- ity or sentiment, such as Positivists now promise, had taken its place. Sometimes the rustic thought for him- self, and scepticism took formal possession of his mind ; but. as we see from one of Cowper's letters, it was a coarse scepticism which desired to be buried with its hounds. Ignorance and brutality reigned in the cottage. Drunkenness reigned in palace and cottage alike. Gambling, cock-fighting, and bull-fighting were the amusements of the people. Political life, which, if it had been pure and vigorous, might have made up for the absence of spiritual influences, was corrupt from the top of the scale to the bottom : its effect on national charac- ter is portrayed in Hogarth's Election. That property had its duties as well as its rights, nobody had yet ven- tured to say or think. The duty of a gentleman to- wards his own class was to pay his debts of honor, and to fight a duel whenever he was challenged by one of his own order ; towards the lower, class his duty was none. Though the forms of government were elective, and Cow- per g^ives us a description of the candidate at election time obsequiously soliciting votes, society was intensely aristocratic, and each rank was divided from that below it by a sharp line which precluded brotherhood or sym- pathy. Says the Duchess of Buckingham to Lady Hun- IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 411 illess cul- noralities, ntleman ; )se mania ere more J coun try- ley, there 1 people :w moral- nise, had ; for him- lis mind ; it was a with its e cottage, ge alike, ivere the ich, if it ip for the n the top il charac- property I yet ven- eman to- onor, and ^ne of his i^as none, and Cow- t election intensely mt below I or sym- ady Hun- tingdon, who had asked her to come and hear Whitefield, " I thank your ladyship for the information concerning the Methodist preachers ; their doctrines arc most repul- sive, and strongly tinctured with disrespect towards their superiors, in perpetually endeavoring to level all ranks and do away with all distinctions. It is monstrous to be told you have a heart as sinful as the common wretches that crawl on the earth. This is highly offensive and insulting ; and I cannot but wonder that your lady- ship should relish any sentiments so much at variance with high rank and good breeding. I shall be most happy to come and hear your favorite preacher." Her Grace's sentiments towards the common wretches that crawl on the earth were shared, we may be sure, by her Grace's waiting-maid. Of humanity there was as little as there was of religion. It was the age of the criminal law which hanged men for petty thefts, of life-long im- prisonment for debt, of the stocks and the pillory, of a Temple Bar garnished with the heads of traitors, of the unreformed prison system, of the press-gang, of unre- strained tyranny and savagery at public schools. That the slave trade was iniquitous hardly any one suspected ; even men who deemed themselves religious took part in it without scruple. But a change was at hand, and a still mightier change was in prospect. At the time of Cow- per's birth, John Wesley was twenty-eight, and Whitefield was seventeen. With them the revival of religion, was at hand. Johnson, the moral reformer, was twenty-two. Howard was born, and in less than a generation Wilber- force was to come. That is best blood that hath most iro?i in 7 To edge resolve with, pouring without stint For what makes manhood dear. James Russell Lowell. 1 :i|. % ii. 412 THE jnail SCHOOL READER. XCIII. A LIBERAL EDUCATION. % ir. J Thomas IIknky Huxlky. — 1825- From Lay Sermons, Addresses, and Reviews. Suppose it were perfectly certain that the hfe and for- tune of every one of us would, one day or other, depend upon his winning or losing a game at chess. Don't you think that we should all consider it to be a primary duty to learn at least the names and the moves of the pieces ; to haVc a notion of a gambit, and a keen eye for all the means of giving and getting out of check ? Do you not think that we should look with a disapprobation amount- ing to scorn, upon the father who allowed his son, or the state which allowed its members, to grow up without knowing a pawn from a knight ? Yet it is a very plain and elementary truth, that the life, the fortune, and the happiness of every one of us, and, more or less, of those who are connected with us, do depend upon our knowing something of the rules of a game infinitely more difficult and complicated than chess. It is a game which has been played for untold ages, every man and woman of us being one of the two players in a game of his or her own. The chess-board is the world, the pieces arc the phenomena of the universe, the rules of the game are what we call the laws of Nature. The player on the other side is hidden from us. We know that his play is always fair, just, and patient. But also we know, to our cost, that he never overlooks a mistake, or makes the smallest allowance for ignorance. To the man who plays well, the highest stakes are paid, with that sort of overflowing generosity with which the strong shows delight in strength. And one who plays ill is checkmated — without haste, i^ut wichou' remorse. A LIBERAL EDUCATION. 413 s. ifc and for- ler, depend Don't you imary duty the pieces; for all the Do you not Dn amount- son, or the jp without h, that the one of us, with us, do I rules of a than chess. ages, every ilayers in a the world, €, the rules iture. The We know But also a mistake, :e. To the id, with that the strong plays ill is orse. My metaphor will remind some of you of the famous picture in which Rctzsch has depicted Satan playing at chess with man for his soul. Substitute for the mocking fiend in that picture, a calm, strong angel, who is playing for love, as we say, and would rather lose than win — and I should accept it as an image of human life. Well, what I mean by Education, is learning the rules of this mighty game. In other words, education is the instruction of the intbllect in the laws of Nature, under which name I include not merely things and their forces, but men and their ways ; and the fashioning of the affec- tions and of the will into an earnest and loving desire to move in harmony with those laws. For me, education means neither more nor less than this. Anything which professes to call itself education must be tried by this standard, and if it fails to stand the test, I will not call it education, whatever may be the force of authority, or of numbers, upon the other side. It is important to remember that, in strictness, there is no such thing as an uneducated man. Take an ex- treme case. Suppose that an adult man, in the full vigor of his faculties, could be suddenly placed in the world, as Adam is said to have been, and then left to do as he best might. How long would he be left unedu- cated? Not five minutes. Nature would begin to teach him, through the eye, the ear, the touch, the pro- perties of objects. Pain and pleasure would be at his elbow telling him to do this and avoid that ; and by slow degrees the man would receive an education, which, if narrow, would be thorough, real, and adequate to his circumstances, though there would be no extras and very few accomplishments. And if to this solitary man entered a second Adam, wr 414 7^I/E HIGH SCHOOL READER. or, better still, an Eve, a new and greater world, that of social and mural phenomena, would be revealed. Joys and woes, compared with which all others might seem but faint shadows, would spring from the new relations. Happiness and sorrow would take the place of the coarser monitors, pleasure and pain ; but conduct would still be shaped b}^ the observation of the natural consequences of actions ; or, in other words, by the laws of the nature of man. To every one of us the world was once as fresh and new as to Adam, i^nd then, long before we were sus- ceptible of any other mode of instruction. Nature took us in hand, and every minute of waking life brought its educational influence, shaping our actions into rough accordance with Nature's laws, so that we might not be ended untimely by too gross disobedience. Nor should I speak of this process of education as past for any one, be he as old as he may. For every man, the world is a*? fresh as it was at the first day, and as full of untold novelties for him who has the eyes to see them. And Nature is still continuing her patient education of us in that great university, the universe, of which we are all members — Nature having no Test- Acts. Those who take honors in Nature's university, who learn the laws which govern men and things, and obey them, are the really great and successful men in this world. The great mass of mankind are the " Poll," who pick up just enough to get through without much dis- credit. Those who won't learn at all are plucked ; and then you can't come up again. Nature's pluck means extermination. Thus the question of compulsory education is settled so far as Nature is cnnccrncd. Her bill on that question A LIBERAL EDUCATION. 415 I, that of :d. Joys ^ht seem relations, le coarser d still be equences le nature resh and vere sus- ure took Dught its :o rough it not be )r should any one, Drld is a"^ )f untold Ti. And of us in e are all iity, who ind obey 1 in this oil," who luch dis- ced ; and k means is settled question was framed and passed long ago. But, like all com- pulsory legislation, that of Nature is harsh and wasteful in its operation. Ignorance is visited as sharply as wilful disobedience — incapacity meets with the same punish- ment as crime. Natures discipline is not even a word and a blow, and the blow first ; but the blow without the word. It is left to you to find out why your ears arc boxed. , ' The object of what we commonly call education — that education in which man intervenes and which I shall distinguish as artificial education — is to make good these defects in Nature's methods; to prepare the child to re- ceive Nature's education, neither incapably nor igno- rant]^'', nor with wilful disobedience ; and to understand the preliminary symptoms of her displeasure, without waiting for the box on the ear. In short, all artificial education ought to be an anticipation of natural educa- tion. And a liberal education is an artificial education, which has not only prepared a man to escape the great evils of disobedience to natural laws, but has trained him to appreciate and to seize upon the rewards which Nature scatters with as free a hand as her penalties. That man, I think, has had a liberal education, who has be?r. so trained in youth that his body is the ready ;:crvani: of his will, and does with ease and pleasure all the wor/. vhat. as a mechanism, it is capable of; whose intellect is a clear, cold, logic engine, with all its parts of equal strength, and in smooth working order ; ready, like a steam engine, to be turned to any kind of work, and spin the gossamers as well as forge the anchors of the mind ; whose rnind is stored with a knowledge of the great and fundamental truths of Nature and of the laws of her operations ; one, who, no stunted ascetic, is full of Vf iPinr In n V. .!i il :H{|!I! 11 ' ill t t i» 416 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. life and fire, but whose passions are trained to come to heel by a vigorous will, the servant of a tender con- science ; who has learned to love all beauty, whether of Nature or of art, to hate all vileness, and to respect others as himself Such an one and no other, I conceive, has had a liberal education ; for he is, as completely as a man can be, in harniony with Nature. He will make the best of her, and she of him. They will get on togethc^ rarely ; she as his ever beneficent mother ; he as her mouth-piece, her conscious self, her minister and interpreter. XCIV. TOO LATE. Dinah Maria MuloCk Craik. — 1826- CouLD ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do, — Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. to call back the days that are not ! My eyes were blinded, your words were few ; Do you know the truth now up in heaven, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ? 1 never was worthy of you, Douglas, Not half worthy the like of you j I come to idcr con- hether of ect others i a liberal can be, in )f her, and y ; she as piece, her las. ew J AMO/^ MUNDI. Now all men beside seem to me like shadows, — I love you^ Douglas, tender and true. Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew. As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 417 XCV. AMOR MUNDI. CHRISTINA GeORGINA ROSSETTI.— 183O- '' O WHERE are you going with your love-locks flowing, . On the west wind blowing along this valley track ?" " The down-hill path is easy, come with me an it please ye, We shall escape the up-hill by never turning back." So they two went together in glowing August weather, The honey-breathing heather lay to their left and right ; And dear she was to doat on, her swift feet seem'd to float on The air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to alight. "Oh, what is that in heaven where grey cloud-flakes are seven. Where blackest clouds hang riven just at the rainy skirt ?" " Oh, that's a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous. An undecipher'd solemn signal of help or hurt." "Oh, what is that glides quickly where velvet flowers grow thickly. Their scent comes rich and sickly?" "A scaled and hooded worm." **0h, what's that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow ?" "Oh, that's a thin dead body which waits the eternal term." AA P'tl lll> 418 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. ' Turn again, O my sweetest, — turn again, false and fleetest : This beaten way thou beatest, I fear is hell's own track." " Nay, too steep for hill mounting ; nay, too late for cost count- ing : This down-hill path is easy, but there's no turning back." XCVI. TOUJOURS AMOUR. Edmund Clarence Stedman. — 1833- Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin, At what age does love begin ? Your blue eyes have scarcely seen Summers three, my fairy queen. But a miracle of sweets. Soft approaches, sly retreats. Show the little archer ther^, Hidden in your pretty hair ; When didst learn a heart to win ? Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin ! "Oh !" the xOGy lips reply, " I can't tell you if I try. Tis so long I can't remember : Ask some younger lass than I." Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face, Do your heart and head keep pace ? When does hoary Love expire, When do frosts put out the fire ? Can its embers burn below All that chill December snow ? Care you still soft hands to press, Bonny heads to smooth and bless ? WW 1 ENGLAND. When does Love give up the chase ? Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face ! "Ah !" the wise old lip,» reply, " Youth may pass and strength may die ; But of Love I can't foretoken : Ask some older sage than I !" 419 XCVIL ENGLAND. s Thomas Baii.ev Aldrich.— 1836- While meii pay reverence to mighty things, They must levere thee, thou blue-cinctured isle Of England >-not to-day, but this long while In the front of nations, Mother of greatf kings, Soldiers, and poets. Round thee the Sea flings His steel-bright arm, and shields thee from the guile And hurt of France. Secure, with august smile, Thou sittest, and the East its tribute brings. Some say thy old-time power is on the wane, Thy moon of grandeur fill'd, contracts at length — - They see it darkening down from less to less. Let but a hostile hand make threat again, And they shall see thee m thy ancient strength, Each iron sinew quivering, lioness ! Such kings of shreds have ivoo'd and won her^ Such crafty knaves her laurel own'd^ It has become almost an honor Not to be crowned, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, On Popularity. ill 420 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. XCVIII. ROCOCO. Thomas Bailey Aldrich. By studying my lady's eyes I've grown so learned day by day, So Machiavelian in this wise, That when I send her flowers, I say To each small flower (no matter what, Geranium, pink, or tuberose, Syringa, or forget-me-not, Or violet) before it goes : " Be not triumphant, little flower. When on her haughty heart you lie. But modestly enjoy your hour : She'll weary of you by-and-by." !ii lllii XCIX. KINGS OF MEN. John Reade.— 1837- As hills seem Alps, when veil'd in misty shroud, Some men seem kings, through mists of ignorance \ Must we have darkness, then, and cloud on cloud, To give our hills and pigmy kings a chance ? Must we conspire to curse the humbling light, ' Lest some one, at whose feet our fathers bow'd, Should suddenly appear, full length, in sight. Scaring to laughter the adoring crowd ? Oh, no ! God send us light ! — ^Who loses then ? The king of slaves and not the king of men. THALATTA! THALATTA! True kings are kings for ever, crown'd of God, The King of Kings, — we need not fear for them. Tis only the usurper's diadem That sha':es at touch of Hght, revealing fraud. 421 C. THALATTA I THALATTA I John Reade. In my ear is the moan of the pines — in my heart is the song of the sea, And I feel his salt breath on my face as he showers his kisses on me, And I hear the wild scream of the gulls, as they answer the call of the tide. And I watch the fair sails as they glisten like gems on the breast of a bride. From the rock where I stand to the sun is a pathway of sap- phire and gold, Like a waif of those Patmian visions that wrapt the lone seer of old, And it seems to my soul like an omen that calls me far over the sea — But I think of a little white cottage and one that is dearest to me. Westward ho ! Far away to the East is a cottage that looks to the shore, — Though each drop in the sea were a tear, as it was, I can see it no more ; For the heart ot its pride with the flowers of the " Vale of the Shadow" reclines. And — hush'd is the song of the sea and hoarse is the moan of the pines. '?■;-'*■ 422 liil THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. CI. THE FORSAKEN GARDEN. Algernon Charles Swinburne. — 1837- In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland, At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee, Wall'd round with rocks as an inland island, The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses The steep square slope of the blossomless bed Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses Now lie dead. The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken. To the low last edge of the long lone land. If a step should sound or a word be spoken, Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's hand ? So long have the gray bare walks lain guestless, Through branches and briers if a man make way, He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, restless Night and day. The dense hard passage is blind and stifled, That crawls by a track none turn to climb To the strait waste place that the years have rifled Of all but the thorns that are touch'd not of time. The thorns he spares when the rose is taken ; The rocks are left when he wastes the plain. The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken, These remain. Not a flower to be prest of the foot that falls not ; As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry ; From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not, Could she call, there were never a rose to reply. of its roses THE FORSAKEN GARDEN. 423 Over the meadows that blossom and wither Rings but the note of sea-bird's song ; Only the sun and the rain come hither All year long. The sun burns sere and the rain dishevels One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath. Only the wind here hovers and revels In a round where life seems barren as death. Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping, Haply, of lovers none ever will know. Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping . Years ago. Heart handfast in heart as they stood, " Look thither," Did he whisper? " Look forth from the flowers to the sea; For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither, And men that love lightly may die — but we ?" And the same wind sang and the same waves whiten'd, And or ever the garden's last petals were shed, In the lips that had whisper'd, the eyes that had lighten'd, Love was dead. Or they lov'd their life through, and then went whither ? And were one to the end — but what end who knows ? Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither, As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose. Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them ? What love was ever as deep as a grave ? They are loveless now as the grass above them Or the wave. All are at one now, roses and lovers, Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea. Not a breath of the time that has been hovers In the air now soft with a summer to be. 424 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. \ ! Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafter Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep, When as they that are free now of weeping and laughter We shall sleep. Here death may deal not again for ever ; Here change may come not till all change end. From the graves they have made they shall rise up never, Who have left nought living to ravage and rend. Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing. When the sun and the rain live, these shall be ; Till a last wind's breath upon all these blowing Roll the sea. Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble, Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink, Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble The fields that l«lsen, the vocks that shrink, Here now in his triumph where all things falter, Stretch'd out on the spoils that his own hand spread, As a god self-slain on his own strange altar, Death lies dead. CII. A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH OF THE SPANISH ARMADA. (Ballade.) Austin Dobson. — 1840- KiNG Philip had vaunted his claims ; He had sworn for a year he would sack us ; With an army of heathenish names He was coming to fagot and stack us ; A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH. Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, And shatter our ships on the main ; But we had bold Neptune to back us, — And where are the galleons of Spain ? His carackes were christen'd of dames To the kirtles whereof he would tack us ; With his saints and his gilded stern-frames, He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us ; Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, And Drake to his Devon again. And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus, — For where are the galleons of Spain ? Let his Majesty hang to St. James The axe that he whetted to hack us ; He must play at some lustier games Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us ; To his mines of Peru he would pack us To tug at his bullet and chain ; Alas ! that his Greatness should lack us ! — But where are the galleons of Spain ? Envoy. Gloriana ! — the Don may attack us Whenever his stomach be fain ; He must reach us before he can rack us, . . . And where are the galleons of Spain ? 425 He lives not best who dreads the coming pain And shunneth each delight desirable : Flee thou extremes, this word alone is plain, Of all that God hath given to Man to spell! Andrew Lang. — 1844. Frorfi Sonnets from the Antique. 426 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. cm. CIRCE. (Triolet.) Austin Dobson. In the School of Coquettes Madame Rose is a scholar :- O, they fish with all nets In the School of Coquettes ! When her brooch she forgets 'Tis to show her new collar ; In the School of Coquettes Madame Rose is a scholar ! CIV. SCENES FROM *'TECUMSEH."* Charles Mair. — 1840- ScENE. — Tecumseh's Cabin. Enter I en a. lena. 'Tis night, and Mamatee is absent still ! Why should this sorrow weigh upon my heart, And other lonely things on earth have rest ? Oh, could I be with them ! The lily shone * These scenes are enacted at the " Prophet's Town," an Indian village, situ- ated at the junction of the Tippecanoe river with the Wabash, the latter a tributary of the Ohio. Tecumseh is gone on a mission to the Southern In- dians to induce them to unite in a confederation of all the Indian tribes, leav- ing his brother, the Prophet, in charge of the tribes already assembled, having strictly enjoined upon him not to quarrel with the Americans, or Long-Knives, as the Indians called them, during his absence. General Harrison, Governor of Indiana, and commander of the American forces, having learned of Tecum- lU' SCENES FROM " TECUMSEW 437 a village, situ- i, the latter a Southern In- n tribes, leav- abled, having Long-Knives, on, Governor sd of Tecum- All day upon the stream, and now it sleeps Under the wave in peace — in cradle soft Which sorrow soon may fashion for my grave. Ye shadows which do creep into my thoughts — Ye curtains of desjjair ! what is my fault, That ye should hide the happy earth from me ? Once I had joy of it, when tender Spring, Mother of beauty, hid me in her leaves ; When Summer led me by the shores of song. And forests and far-sounding cataracts Melted my soul with music. I have heard The rough chill harpings of dismantled woods, When Fall had stripp'd them, and have felt a joy Deeper than ear could lend unto the heart ; And when the Winter from his mountains wild Look'd down on death, and, in the frosty sky. The very stars seem'd hung with icicles, Then came a sense of beauty calm and cold. That wean'd me from myself, yet knit me still With kindred bonds to Nature. All is past, And he — who won from me such love for him, And he — my valiant uncle and my friend. Comes not to lift the cloud that drapes my soul. And shield me from the fiendish Prophet's power. seh's plans, marches to attack the Prophet ; but the latter, pretending to be friendly, sends out some chiefs to meet Harrison. By the advice of these chiefs, the Americans encamp on an elevated plateau, near the Prophet's Town, — "a very fitting place," to the mind of Harrison's officers, but to the practised eye of Harrison himself, also well fitted for a night attack by the Indians. He, therefore, very wisely makes all necessary preparations for defence against any sudden attack. Tecumseh has left behind him, under the protection of the Prophet, his wife, Maniatee, and his niece, lena. He is accompanied ou his mission by Lefroy, an English poet-artist, "enamoured of Indian life, and in love with lena." The Prophet, who is hostile to I^froy, intends to marry lena to Tarhay, one of his chiefs, but Mamatee has gone to intercede with her brother-in-law for lena, and, if possible, to tura him from his purpose. 428 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Enter Mamatee. Give me his answer in his very words ! Mamatee. There is a black storm raging in his mind — His eye darts lightning like the angry cloud Which hangs in woven darkness o'er the earth. Brief is his answer — you must go to him. The Long-Knife's camp-fires gleam among the oaks Which dot yon western hill. A thousand nien Are sleeping there cajoled to fatal dreams By promises the Prophet breaks to-night. Hark ! 'ti^ the war-song. lena. Dares the ?rophet now Betray Tecumseh's trust, and break his faith ? Mamatee. He dares do anything will feed ambition. His dancing braves are frenzied by his tongue, Which prophesies revenge and victory. Before the break of day he will surprise The Long-Knife's camp, and hang our people's fate Upon a single onset. lena. Should he fail ? Mamatee. Then all will fail ; — Tecumseh's scheme will fail.* * Tecumseh had long foreseen that nothing but combination could prevent the encroachments of the whites upon the Ohio, and had long been successfully endeavoring to bring about a union of the tribes who inhabited its valley. The P'ort Wayne treaties gave a wider scope to his design, and he now originated his great scheme of a federation of the entire red race. In pursuance of this object, his exertions, hitherto very arduous, became almost superhuman. He made re- peated journeys, and visited almost every tribe from the Gulf of Mexico to the Great Lakes, and even north of them, and far to the west of the Mississippi. Jn order to further his scheme he took advantage of his brother's growing repu- tation as a prophet, and allowed him to gain a powerful hold upon the super- stidous minds of his people by his preaching and predictions. The Prophet professed to have obtained from the Great Spirit a magic bowl, which possessed miraculous qualities ; also a mystic torch, presumably from Nanabush, the keeper of the sacred fire. He asserted that a certain belt, said to make those invulner- able who touched it whilst in his hands, was composed of beans which had grown from his flesh ; and this belt was circulated far and wide by Indian run- wm SCENES FROM " TECUMSEW 439 id- 1. will fail.* ould prevent 1 successfully valley. The iriginated his f this object, He made re- exico to the ■ Mississippi, rowing repu- )n the super- rhe Prophet ch possessed 1, the keeper Dse invulner- ; which had Indian run- lena. It shall not ! Let us go to him at once ! Mamatee. And risk your life ? lena. Risk hovers everywhere When night and man combine for darksome deeds. I'll go to him, and argue on my knees — Yea, yield my hand — would I could give my heart ! To stay his purpose and this act of ruin. Mamatee. He is not in the mood lor argument. Rash girl ! they die who would oppose him now. lena. Such death were sweet as life — I go ! But, first — Great Spirit 1 I com.mit my soul to Thee. \Kneels. Scene. — An open space in the forest near the Prophefs Town. Afire ofhillets burning. War-cries are heard from the town. Enter the Prophet. Prophet. My spells do work apace ! Shout yourselves hoarse, Ye howling ministers by whom I climb ! For this I've wrought until my weary tongue, Blister'd with incantation, flags in speech, And half declines its office. Every brave Inflamed by charms and oracles, is now A vengeful serpent, who will glide ere morn To sting the Long-Knife's sleeping camp to death. ners, finding its way even to the Red River of the North. These, coupled with his oratory and mummeries, greatly enhanced an influence which was possibly added to by a gloomy and saturnine countenance, made more forbidding still by the loss of an eye. Unfortunately for Tecumseh's enterprise, the Prophet was more bent upon personal notoriety than upon the welfare of his people ; and, whilst professing the latter, indulged his ambition, in Tecumseh's absence, by a precipitate attack upon Harrison's force on the Tippecanoe. His defeat discredited his assumption of supernatural powers, led to distrust and defec- tion, and wrecked Tecumseh's plan of independent action. But the protection of his people was Tecumseh's sole ambition ; and, true statesman that he was, he joined the British at Amherstburg (Fort Maiden), in Ujiper Canada, with a large force, and in the summer of 1812 began that series of services to the Britislj interest which has made his name a household word in Canada, and endeared him to the Canadian heart — From Author's Note. Pff 430 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER, I sm^ Why should I hesitate ? My promises ! My duty to Tecumseh ! What are these Compared with duty here ? Where I perceive A near advantage, there my duty Hes ; Consideration strong which overweighs All other reason. Here is Harrison — Trepann'd to dangerous lodgment for the night — Each deep ravine which grooves the prairie's breast A channel of approach ; each winding creek A screen for creeping death. Revenge is sick To think of such advantage flung aside. For what ? To let Tecumseh's greatness grow, Who gathers his rich harvest of renown Out of the very fields that I have sown ! By Manitou, I will endure no more ! Nor, in the rising flood of our affairs, Fish like an osprey for this eagle longer. But, soft I It is the midnight hour when comes Tarhay to claim his bride. [Ca/7o.] Tarhay ! Tarhay ! Enter Tarhay with several braves. Tarhay. Tarhay is here ! Prophet. The ^ong-Knives die to-night. The spirits which do minister to me Have breathed this utterance v ithin my ear. You know my sacred office cuts me off From the immediate leadership in fight. My nobler work is in the spirit-world, And thence come promises which make us strong. Near to the foe I'll keep the Magic Bowl, Whilst you, Tarhay, shall lead our warriors on. Tarhay. I'll lead them ; they are wild with eagerness. But fill my cold and empty cabin first With light and heat ! You know I love your niece, And have the promise of her hand to-night. \ ffi SCENES FROM " TECUMSEW 431 Prophet. She shall be yours ! \To the braves?^ Go bring her here at once — But, look I Fulfilment of my promise comes In her own person. . ^ Enter Iena and Mamatee. Welcome, my sweet niece ! You have forstall'd my message by these braves, And come unbidden to your wedding-place. Iena. Uncle .' you know my heart is far away — Prophet. But still your hand is here ! this little hand ! \Pulling her forward. Iena. Dare you enforce a weak and helpless girl, Who thought to move you by her misery,? Stand back ! I have a message for you too. What means the war-like song, the dance of braves, And bustle in our town ? Prophet. It means that we Attack the foe to-night, Iena. And risk our all ? O that Tecumseh knew ! his soul would rush In arms to intercept you. What ! break faith, And on the hazard of a doubtful strife, Stake his great enterprise and all our Hves ! The dying curses of a ruin'd race Will wither up your wicked heart for this ! Prophet. False girl ! your heart is with our foes ; Your hand I mean to turn to better use. Iena: Oh, could it turn you from your mad intent How freely would I give it ! Drop this scheme. Dismiss your frenzied warriors to their beds ; And, if contented with my hand, Tarhay Can have it here. Tar}' ay. I love you, Iena ! Iena. Then must you love what I do ! Love our race ! 432 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. !i i 1 .1 'Tis this love nerves Tecumseh to unite Its scatter'd tribes — his fruit of noble toil, Which you would snatch unripen'd from his hand, And feed to sour ambition. Touch it not — Oh, touch it not, Tarhay ! and though my heart Breaks for it, I am yours. Prophet. His anyway, Or I am not the Prophet ! Tarhay. For my part I have no leaning to this rash attempt, Since lena consents to be my wife. Prophet. Shall I be thwarted by a yearning fool I \Aside. This soft, sleek girl, to outward seeming good, I know to be a very fiend beneath — Whose sly affections centre on herself. And feed the gliding snake within her heart. Tarhay. I cannot think her so — Mamatee. She is not so ! There is the snake that creeps among our race ; Whose venom'd fangs would bite into our lives. And poison all our hopes. Prophet. She is the head — The very neck of danger to me here. Which I must break at once ! [Aside.] Tarhay — attend ! I can see dreadful visions in the air ; I can dream awful dreams of life and fate ; I can bring darkness on the heavy earth ; I can fetch shadows from our fathers' graves, And spectres from the sepulchres of hell. Who dares dispute with me, disputes with death I Doot hear, Tarhay ? [Tarhay and /craves cower before the Prophet. Tarhay. I hear, and will obey. Spare me ! Spare me ! I^rophet. As for thi.s foolish girl, SCENES FROM " TECUMSEW 433 The hand she offers you on one condition, I give to you upon a better one ; And, since she has no mind to give her heart — Which, rest assured, is in her body still — There, — take it at my hands ! \Flmgs Iena violently toivards Tarhay, into whose arms she falls fainting^ and is then borne away by Mamatee. \To Tarhay.] Go bring the braves to view the Mystic Torch And belt of Sacred Beans grown from my flesh — One touch of it makes them invulnerable — Then creep, like stealthy panthers, on the foe ! Scene. — Mornifig. The field of Tippecanoe after the battle. The ground strewn with dead soldiers and warriors. Etiter Harrison, officers and soldiers, and Barron. Harrison. A costly triumph reckon'd by our slain ! Look how some lie still clench'd with savages In all-embracing death, their bloody hands Glued in each other's hair ! Make burial straight Of all alike in deep and common graves : Their quarrel now is ended. ist Officer. I have heard The red man fears our steel — 'twas not so here ; From the first shots, which drove our pickets in, Till daylight dawn'd, they rush'd upon our lines, And flung themselves upon our bayonet points In frenzied recklessness of bravery. Barron. They *:rusted in the Prophet's rites and spells, Which promis'd them immunity from death. All night he sat on yon safe eminence. Howling his songs of war and mystery, Then fled, at dawn, in fear of his own braves. Enter an Aide. Harrison. Wliat tidings bring you from the Prophet's Town ? BB I !i 434 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. \ 1 1 ■ { Aide. The wretched women with their children fly To distant forests for concealment. In Their village is no living thing save mice Which scamper'd as we oped each cabin door. Their pots still simnier'd on the vacant hearths, Standing in dusty silence and desertion. Naught else we saw, save that their granaries Were cramm'd with needful corn. Harrison. Go bring it all — Then burn their village down ! \Exit Aidb 2?id Officer. This victory Will shake Tecumseh's project to the base. Were I the Prophet I should drown myself Rather than meet him. Barron. We have news of him — Our scouts report him near in heavy force. Harrison. 'Twill melt, or draw across the British line, And wait for war. But double the night watch, Lest he should strike, and give an instant care To all our wounded men : to-morrow's sun Must light us on our backward march for home. Thence Rumor's tongue will spread so proud a story New England will grow envious of our glory ; And, greedy for renown so long abhorr'd. Will on old England draw the tardy sword ! -^ ' Scene. — The Ruins of the Prophefs Town. Enter the Prophet, who gloomily surveys the place Prophet. Our people scatter'd, and our town in ashes ! To think these hands could work such madness here — This envious head devise this misery ! Tecumseh, had not my ambition drawn Such sharp and fell destruction on our race You might have smiled at me i for I have match'd SCENES FROM " TECVMSEHr 435 My cunning 'gainst your wisdom, and have dragg'd Myself and all into a sea of ruin. Enter Tecumseh.' Tecumseh. Devil ! I have discover'd you at last ! You sum of treacheries, whose wolfish fangs Have torn our people's flesh — you shall not live ! \The Prophet retreats facing and followed by Tecumseh. Prophet. Nay — strike me not ! I can explain it all ! It was a woman touch'd the Magic Bowl, And broke the brooding spell. Tecumseh. Impostor ! Slave ! Why shoulu I spare you ? \Lifts his hand as if to strike. Prophet. Stay, stay, touch me not ! One mother bore us in the self-same hour. Tecumseh. Then good and evil came to light together. Go to the corn-dance, change your name to villain ! Away ! Your presence tempts my soul to mischief. \Exit the Prophet hastily. Would that I were a woman, and could weep, And slake hot rage with tears ! O spiteful fortune, To lure me to the limit of my dreams. Then turn and crowd the ruin of my toil Into the narrow compass of a night ! My brother's deep disgrace — myself the scorn Of envious harriers and thieves of fame, Who fain would rob me of the lawful meed Of faithful services and duties done — Oh, I could bear it all ! But to behold Our ruin'd people hunted to their graves — To see the Long-Knife triumph in their shame— This is the burning shaft, the poison'd wound That rankles in my soul ! But, why despair ? All is not lost — the English are our friendr. My spirit rises — manhood bear me up ! 436 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. I'll haste to Maiden, join my force to theirs, And fall with double fury on our foes. Farewell ye plains and forests, but rejoice ! Ye yet shall echo to Tecumseh's voice. Enter Lefroy. Lefroy. What tidings have you glean'd of lena ? Tecumseh. My brother meant to wed her to Tarhay — The chief who led his warriors to ruin ; ''But, in the gloom and tumult of the night, She fled into the forest all alone. Lefroy. Alone ! In the wide forest all alone ! Angels aid with her now, for she is dead. Tecumseh. You know her to be skilful with the bow. 'Tis certain she would strike for some great Lake — Erie or Michigan. At the Detroit » Are people of our nation, and perchance J^ She fled for shelter there. I go at once To join the British force. \Exit Tecumseh. lefroy. But yesterday I climb'd to Heaven upon the shining stairs Of love and hope, and here am quite cast down. My little flower amidst a weedy world. Where art thou now ? In deepest forest shade ? Or onward, where the sumach stands array'd In autumn splendor, its alluring form Fruited, yet odious with the hidden worm ? Or, farther, by some still sequester'd lake. Loon-haunted, where the sinewy panthers slake Their noon-day thirst, and never voice is heard Joyous of singing waters, breeze or bird. Save their wild wailings. — \A halloo without. ^ 'Tis Tecumseh calls ! Oh lena! "If dead, where'er thou art — Thy saddest grave will be. this ruin'd heart I \Exit, mm THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOWS. 437 CV. THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOWS. Edmund William Gosse. — 1849- " Out in the meadows the young gr^s springs, Shivering with sap," said the larks, " and we Shoot into air with our strong young wings Spirally up over level and lea ; Come, O Swallows, and fly with us Now that horizons are luminous ! Evening and morning the world of light, Spreading and kindling, is infinite !" 1^'ar away, by the sea in the south, •The hills of olive and slopes of fern Whiten and glow in the sun's long drouth, Under the heavens that beam and burn \ And all the swallows were gather'd there Flitting about in the fragrant air. And heard no sound from the larks, but flew Flashing under the blinding blue. Out of the depths of their soft rich throats Languidly fluted the thrushes, and said : " Musical thought in the mild air floats. Spring is coming and winter is dead ! Come, O Swallows, and stir the air, For the buds are all bursting unaware, And the drooping eaves and the elm-trees long To hear the sound of your low sweet song." Over the roofs of the white Algiers, Flashingly shadowing the bright bazaar, Flitted the swallows, and not one hears The call of the thrushes from far, from far ; Sigh'd the thrushes ; then, all at once. Broke out singing the old sweet tones, V — fWf m ■•I >•■ \ < 438 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Singing the bridal of sap and shoot, The tree's slow life between root and fruit. But just when the dingles of April flowers Shine with the earliest daffodils, When, before sunrise, the cold clear hours Gleam with a promise that noon fulfils, — Deep in the leafage the cuckoo cried, Perch'd on a spray by a rivulet-side, " Swallows, O Swallows, come back again To swoop and herald the April rain." And something awoke in the slumbering heart Of the alien birds in their African air. And they paused, and alighted, and twitter'd apart. And met in the broad white dreamy square ; And the sad slave woman, who lifted up From the fountain her broad-lipp'd earthen cup, Said to herself, with a weary sigh, " To-morrow the swallows will northward fly ! " CVI. DAWN ANGELS. i! li! A. MARY F. ROBINSON. — 1856- All night I watch'd, awake, for morning : At last the East grew all aflame. The birds for welcome sang, or warning. And with their singing morning came. . Along the gold-green heavens drifted Pale wandering souls that shun the light, Whose cloudy pinions, torn and rifted. Had beat the bars of Heaven all night. LE ROI EST MORT. These cluster'd round the Moon ; but higher A troop of shilling spirits went, Who were not made of wind or fire, But some divine dream-element. Some held the Light, while those remaining Shook out their harvest-coior'd wings, A faint unusual music raining (Whose sound was Light) on earthly things. They sang, and as a mighty river Their voices wash'd the night away : From East to West ran one white shiver, And waxen strong their song was Day. 439 CVIL LE ROI EST MORT. A. MARY F. ROBINSON. And shall I weep that Love's no more, An d magnify his reign ? Sure never mortal man before Would have his grief again. Farewell the long-continued ache, The days a-dream, the nights awake, I will rejoice and merry make, And never more complain. King Love is dead and gone for aye, Who ruled with might and main, For with a bitter word one day, I found my tyrant slain, And he in Heathenesse was bred. Nor ever was baptized, 'tis said, Nor is of any creed, and dead Can never rise again. v^, ■=^* 440 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. CVIII. TO WINTER. Charles G. D. Roberts. — 1859- RuLiNG with an iron hand O'er the intermediate land 'Twixt the plains of rich completeness, And the realms of budding sweetness, Winter ! from thy crystal throne, With a keenness all thy own Dartest thou, through gleaming air, O'er the glorious barren glare Of thy sunlit wildernesses, Thine undazzled level glances. Where thy minions' silver tresses Stream among their icy lances ; While thy universal breathing, Frozen to a radiant swathing For the trees, their bareness hidit^ And upon their sunward sides Shines and flushes rosily To the chill pink morning sky. Skilful artists thou employest. And in chastest beauty joyest — ■ Forms most delicate, pure, and clear. Frost-caught starbeams fallen sheer In th^ night, and woven here In jewel-fretted tapestries. But what magic melodies. As in the bord'ring realms are throbbing, Hast thou. Winter ? — Liquid sobbing Brooks, and brawling waterfalls. Whose responsive-voiced calls Clothe with harmony the hills. Gurgling meadow-threading rills, r- TO WINTER. Lakelets' lisping wavelets kpping Round a flock of wild ducks napping, And the rapturous-noted wooings, And the molten-throated cooings, Of the amorous multitudes Flashing through the dusky woods, When a veering wind hath blown A glare of sudden daylight down ? — Naught of these ! — And fewer notes Hath the wind alone that floats Over naked trees and snows ; Half its minstrelsy it owes To its orchestra of leaves. Ay ! weak the meshes music weaves For thy snarbd soul's delight, 'Less, when thou dost lie at night 'Neath the star-sown heavens bright,! To thy sin-unchok^d ears Some dim harmonies may pierce From the high-consulting spheres : 'Less the silent sunrise sing Like a vibrant silver string When its prison'd splendors first O'er the crusted snow-fields burst. But thy days the silence keep. Save for grosbeaks' feeble cheep. Or for snow-birds' busy twitter When thy breath is very bitter. So my spirit often acheth For the melodies it lacketh 'Neath thy sway, or cannot hear For its mortal- cloaked ear. And full thirstily it longeth For the beauty that belongeth § 441 ^ -»*1TF \ 442 ■ i m ■ ]v|^i' T//£ HIGH SCHOOL READER To the Autumn's ripe fulfilling ; — Heaped orchard-baskets spilling 'Neath the laughter-shaken trees ; Fields of buckwheat full of bees, Girt with ancient groves of fir . , Shod with berried juniper ; Beech-nuts mid their russet leaves ; Heavy-headed nodding sheaves ; Clumps of luscious blackberries ; Purple-cluster'd traceries Of the cottage climbing-vines ; Scarlet-fruited eglantines j Maple forests all aflame When thy sharp-tongued legates came. Ruler with an iron hand O'er an intermediate land ! Glad am I thy realm is border'd By the plains more richly order'd,— Stock'd ' tth sweeter-glowing forms,— Where the prison'd brightness warms In lush crimsons through the leaves, And a gorgeous legend v/eaves. CIX. ABIGAIL BECKER. (Off Ij)ng Point Island, Lake Erie, November 24th, iS^^J Amanda T. Jones. The wind, the wind where Erie plunged. Blew, blew nor'-east from land to land ; The wandering schooner dipp'd and lunged, — Long Point was close at hand. ABIGAIL BECKER. Long Point — a swampy island-slant, Where, busy in their grassy homes, Woodcock and snipe the hollows haunt, And musk-rats build their domes ; Where gulls and eagles rest at need. Where either side, by lake or sound, Kingfishers, cranes, and divers feed, And mallard ducks abound. The lowering night shut out the sight : Careen'd the vessel, pitch'd and veer'd, — Raved, raved the wind with main and might ; The sunken reef she near'd. She pounded over, lurch'd, and sank ; Between two sand-bars settling fast, Her leaky hull the waters drank. And she had sail'd her last. Into the rigging, quick as thought. Captain and mate and sailors sprung, Clamber'd for life, some vantage caught. And there all night they swung. And it was cold — oh, it was cold ! The pinching cold was like a vise : Spoondrift flew freezing,— fold on fold It coated them with ice. Now when the dawn began to break. Light up the sand-path drench'd and brown. To fill her bucket from the lake. Came Mother Becker down. From where her cabin crown'd the bank Came Abigail Becker tall and strong j 441 '1 i; 444 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. She dipp'd, and lo ! a broken plank Came rocking close along ! She pois'd her glass with anxious ken : The schooner's top she spied from far, And there she counted seven men That clung to mast and spar. And oh, the gale ! the rout and roar ! The blinding drift, the mounting wave, A good half-mile from wreck to shore, • . With seven men to save ! Sped Mother Becker : " Children ! wake ! A ship's gone down ! they're needing me 1 Your father's off on shore \ the lake Is just a raging sea ! "Get wood, cook fish, make ready all." She snatch'd her stores, she fled with haste. In cotton gown and tatt 'd shawl, ^^ Barefoot across the waste, Through sinking sands, through quaggy lands, And nearer, nearer, full in view. Went shouting through her hollow'd hands : " Courage ! we'll get you through I " Ran to and fro, made cheery signs, Her bonfire lighted, steeped her tea. Brought drift-wood, watch'd Canadian lines Her husband's boat to see. Co) , cold it was — oh, it was cold ! The bitter cold made watching vain : With ice the channel laboring roll'd, — No skiff could stand the strain. ABIGAIL BECKER. On all that isle, from outer swell To strait between the landings shut, Was never place where man might dwell, Save trapper Becker's hut. And it was twelve and one and two, And it was three o'clock and more. She call'd : " Come on ! there's nought to do, But leap and swim ashore !" Blew, blew the gale ; they did not hear : She waded in the shallow sea ; She waved her hands, made signals clear, "Swim ! swim, and trust to me !" " My men," the captain cried, " I'll try : The woman's judgment may be right ; For, swim or sink, seven m^n must die If here e swing to-night." Far out he mark'd the gathering surge ; Across the bar he watch'd it pour, Let go, and on its topmost verge Came riding in to shore. It struck the breaker's foamy track, — Majestic wave on wave uphurl'd, Went grandly toppling, tumbling back, As loath to flood the world. There blindly whirling, shorn of strength, The captain drifted, sure to drown ; Dragg'd seaward half a cable's length, Like sinking lead went down. Ah, well for him that on the strand Had Mother Becker waited long ! 445 M I i; n w I il II : IHi' i II lii! Itiiai'll 446 TV/iE: H/GH SCHOOL READER. And well for him her grasping hand And grappling arm were strong ! And well for him that wind and sun, And daily toil for scanty gains, Had made such daring blood to run Within such generous veins I For what to do but plunge and swim ? Out on the sinking billow cast. She toil'd, she dived, she groped for him, She found and clutch'd him fast. She climb'd the reef, she brought him up, She laid him gasping on the sands ; Built high the fire and fill'd the cup, — Stood up and waved her hands ! Oh, life is dear ! The mate leap'd in. " I know," the captain said, "right well, Not twice can any woman win A soul from yonder hell. " I'll start and meet Mm in the wave." " Keep back !" she bade : " what strength have you ? And I shall have you both to save, — Must work to pull you through ! " But out he went. Up shallow sweeps Raced the long white-caps, comb on comb : The wind, the wind that lash'd the deeps, Far, far it blew the foam. The frozen foam went scudding by, — - Before the wind, a seething throng, The waves, the waves came towering high, They flung the mate alon^. ABIGAIL BECKER. The waves came towering high and white, They burst in clouds of flying spray : There mate and captain sank from sight, And, clinching, roll'd away. Oh, Mother Becker, seas are dread, Their treacherous paths are deep and blind ! But widows twain shall mourn their dead If thou art slow to find. She sought them near, she sought them far, Three fathoms down she gripp'd them tight ; With both together up the bar She stagger'd into sight. Beside the fire her burdens fell : She paus'd the cheering draught to pour. Then waved her hands : " All's well ! all's well I Come on I swim ! swim ashore !" Sure, life is dear, and men are brave : They came, — they dropp'd from mast and spar j And who but she could breast the wave. And dive beyond the bar ? Dark grew the sky from east to west. And darker, darker grew the world : Each man from off" the breaker's crest To gloomier deeps was hurl'd. And still the gale went shrieking on. And still the wrecking fury grew ; And still the woman, worn and wan, Those gates of Death went through, — As Christ were walking on the waves, And heavenly radiance shone about, — 447 l-'J"J«i mi ! ! in i i r//iS" HIGH SCHOOL READER. All fearless trod that gulf of graves And bore the sailors out. Down came the night, but far and bright, Despite the wind and flying foam, The bonfire flamed to give them light To trapper Becker's home. Oh, safety after wreck is sweet ! And sweet is rest in hut or hall : One story Life and Death repeat, — God's mercy over all. Next day men heard, put out from shore, Cross'd channel-ice, burst in to find Seven gallant fellows sick and sore, A tender nurse and kind ; Shook hands, wept, laugh'd, were crazy-glad ; ,. Cried : "Never yet, on land or sea, Poor dying, drowning sailors had A better friend than she. " Billows may tumble, winds may roar. Strong hands the wreck'd from Death may snatch But never, never, nevermore This deed shall mortal match !" Dear Mother Becker dropp'd her head. She blush'd as girls when lovers woo : " I have not done a thing," she said, "More than I ought to do." NOTES ON THE SELECTIONS. • } ly snatch ; It is not possible to lay down precise rules whicli can be followed with equal advantage in studj'ing the various kinds of literature ; but as the teacher's primary object should be in every instance to get his pupils to understand and appreciate the author's meaning, a few general rules may be stated, which will be found applicable to the study of all literary selections. As a rule, each selection should be read or exami led at least three times. The first reading, which should be done at home, should make the student fa- miliar with the general meaning of the selection; and the accuracy of his know- ledge should be tested from day to day as the reading proceeds, by having him give, orally or in writing, the substance of each stanza, section, or paragraph. On the second reading the student's object should be to acquire a knowledge of tlie parts of the composition, and of the relation and interdependence of these parts— the particular meanings of words, phrases, and sentences, and the ways in which these are severally combined to form the larger divisions. This will in- volve the tracing and comparing of the meanings of words paraphrasing, and the explanation of allusions and of figurative language. Tiie fmest passagei of both prose and poetry, and even whole poems, should be committed to mem- ory; and comparisons might be made between the different forms in which the same or similar thoughts are expressed by different authors, or by the same author under different circumstances. In the examination of the btructure of the sentences and paragraphs of a well constructed composition, it will be found ill general that by joiuin j together in connected narration the main thought of each sentence, we get the substance of the paragraph, and by connecting in lik2 manner the subjects of the several paragraphs, we get an abstract of the whole composition. An examination of the qualities of style and of the metre nnd other poetical elements employed, should be made at this stage; and at this t-tagc, also, the student should inquire into the author's life and times, so that he may learn to what extent these are reflected in the work under examination. The various elocutionary points should be brought out as the study of the selec- tion proceeds, each stanza, paragraph, or other division being read when the meaning is thoroughly understood; and the whole selection, when finished, may be used as an exercise in elocution. Finally, the selection should be examined as a work of art — as to the purpose the writer had in view, and in what respect he has succeeded in accomplishing his purpose, and in what respect he has failed; whether there is harmony in the grouping, and naturalness in the development of the different characters if, there be any; whether there is unity in the composition; whether the parts are well balanced; and whether they are subordinate to, and helpful towards, the development of the uiaiu idea; and sg ou. 450 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Ml I I: It should be borne in mind, howover, that the main purpose of examining and criticising the work of any author is not to point out its defects, or even to dis- cover its merits; but, as has been stated above, to enable the student to gain an accurate appreciation of the author's language and sentiments; and, moreover, to aid him in cultivating and strengthening his own powers of observation and discrimination, so that he may himself use language with correctness, freedom^ and force. To this end, he should be required to write frequent essays upon topics suggested in the selections; to make both oral and written paraphrases of tertain passages, especially of such as are obscure or involved; and finally, to write out an extended abstract or a paraphrase of the whole selection. Of course no teacher should allow himself to follow formal rules or prescribed methods of study so closely as to sink his own individuality, wiiich must always be regarded as an important factor in successful teaching. He may frequently vary his methods, even from lesson to lesson, but his teaching will produce the best results only when he comes to each day's work with some clearly outlined plan of study in his mind. In the following notes, several selections have been chosen to illustrate in a general way the rules stated above, and have received full annotation; on the remaining selections only a few suggestive and explanatory notes have been given , wherever such seemed to be necessary. i III. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. As an introduction to this scene, which is one of Shakespeare's master-pieces, the student should read Lamb's tale (Lessons CIL and CIV. in the FOURTH Reader) or, better still, the three preceding scenes of the play itself. Without attempting to give the substance of each speech in order, whicli would not be profitable in a selection of this kind, an epitome of the scene might be made somewhat as follows : — The Duke's remark to Antonio, and Antonio's reply, prepare us for the further exhibition of malignant temper which Shylock reveals in his answer to the; Duke's appeal. Shylock has no regard for what "the world thinks," and dis- dains to give any reason for his cruel course, except that it is his humor to fol- low "a losing suit " against Antonio. His keenness of retort is well shown in the discussion witli Hassanio, in which he successfully parries all the thrusts of his antagonist. This discussion is interrupted by Antonio's illustrations of the Jew's hard-heartedness. To the Duke's second appeal for mercy, Shylock retorts by showing that in the Christians' treatment of their slaves he was taught a lesson in inhumanity, which he was not slow to learn, and, as he had said previously, it would go hard \\ ilh him but he would better the instruction. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 4SI mining and sven to dis- t to gain an 1, moreover, irvation and ss, freedom, 2ssays upon raphrases of id finally, to m, )r prescribed must always ly frequently 1 produce the arly outlined llustrate in a ition; on llu; re been given, master-pieces, the Fourth self, order, which of the scene for the further answer to the nlvs," and dis- s humor to fol- ■11 shown in the thrusts of his )ns of the Jew's locli retorts by taught a lesson ,aid previously, The arrival of a messengri from Padua fntrrrupts the procpcdJngs of the court, and while the Dulie is making himselfacquaintcd with the contents of tlic letter brought by the messenger, an opportunity is afforded for a contest of ' ' wit " between Shylock and the i)Iunt Gratiano, in which Shylock, with a consciousness of strength in his legal right, comes off triumphant, as indeed he had done in his previous contest!>. It is only when he meets Portia that he finds a mind keener than his own, and her superiority is in some measure also due to tiie fact that she has no misgiving as to the successful issue of the trial. The entrance of Portia heightens the dramatic interest, l^p to this point the advantage is with Shylock, and there seems to be good reason for the dejection of mind shown by Antonio in his reply to the encouraging words of Bassanio. Nor would Antonio derive much comfort from Portia's management of the case at first, for as the Jew had already shown such a vindictive spirit, it was hardly possible that he should be softened even by the matchless eloquence of Portia's appeal to his mercy. Failing to excite his pity, she tries to work upoii his avarice, but discovers, as the court had already discovered, that his hatred of Antonio has overcome his cupidity. Firmly upholding the law, in opposition to the advice of Bassanio, she gives judgment against the merchant. Shylock's delight, shown by his interruption of Portia even while she is pronouncing judgpiient; his eagerness to cany out the sentence; and his determination to exact the full penalty in accordance with the very letter of the bond ; all revea^ such intensity of malice that one cannot but experience a finding of relief and satisfaction, not only at seeing y\ntonio freed from the Jew's power, but also at seeing the Jew himself lorought to face the prospect of his own condemnation through the literal interprttation and enforcement of the bond which he ha 1 demanded. Shylock had repeatedly and with disdain rejected all apjieals for n\crcy, and now the strict justice for which he had bjen contending is enforced ivirainst him to his own destruction. 40. 'What. —A mere expletive, used to ])re"ent abruptness. Compare Shy- lock's use of "what," p. 42, 1. 4; and Portia's use of "why, "p. 47, 1. 13 from bottom. Avoid emphasis in reading these words. Your grace. — To whom is this title now applied ? Uncapable. — Shakespeare also uses "incapable." Which is the more re- gular form ? Void ^ empty. — See Hi^h School Grammar, 1. 36 (2). What would now be used instead of ' ' from " ? The meanings of the prepositions were less restricted in Shakespeare's time than they are now. This is true also of the infinitive; as in the use of " to speak," p. 44, 1. 3 from bottom. Qualify. — Aoate, moderate — a com- mon meaning of the word in Shake- speare. C"f. Hamlet, I v. 7, 114. Bat since— and that- Similar to the French construction, in which que (that) is used to prevent the repetition of some other conjunction. 'The full Elizabethan construction would bo "But since that"; but Shakespeare often omits " that " in the first clause, and inserts it in the second without the accompanying conjunction, especially when the subjects of the clausr^s ar ; difTjrent. See//. S. Grammar, XI. 9. Obdurate — In Elizabethan English the accent of many words of foreign origin was nearer the end of the word than at present. See H. S. Grammar, 1.38. 41. Eavy'8 reach.— "Envy" in its old sense of malice or hatred. Cf. Mark XV. ID. My patleuca . . fury.— Antonio's IS I S!F^ 4S« THE man S;CHOOL READER. il 'i ir I >: f|uiot submisr.ion contrastod with Shy- lock's uncontrnllal)lc hatred. This tlunight is furthiT cxpandwl in the liiu's that follow. Ihe first fifteen lines of this scene fur- nish several examples of the peculiari- ties of Shakespearian ICnglish. That thou . . malice —You are keeping up malice in appearance only, Cf. "apparent cruelty." Remorse. — I'ity, compassion — the usual nieaiung in Shakespeare. Dis- tinguish ])etween remorse and repent- ance l)y reference to thei'' derivation. Why ' ' more strange " ? Where. — Whereas. These two words are used interchangealjly in Shakes- peare. loose. — Remit, release. Sometimes incorrectly written " lose." Moiety.— Properly, the half. Used by Shakespeare in the sense of share, portion. Royal merchant. — A complimentary t;rm, to indicate great wealth and ex- tensive commercial relations, as we now say "merchant prince." Gratiano, in Act III., Sc. 2, applies this epithet di- rectly to Antonio. In Shakespeare's time, Sir Thomas Gresham, thefoundcr of the Royal Exchange in London, was honored with the title of "royal mer- chant," having been frequently cmjilov- ed as the financial agent of Queen Elizabeth. The title was more than comiilimentary when bestowed upon the great Italian merchants who held mortgages uj^on kingdoms and some- times Ijecame the actual rulers of prin- cipalities. It is doubtful, however, if Shakespeare had this fact in mind. Pluck.— Show that the force or effort implied in "pluck" is peculiarly ap- plicable here. Brassy— of flint.— Instances of what Earle calls the;f«-jV»fl/and the phrasal adjective forms respectively. "Brass" or "flint" used as an adjective, with- out change or addition, would be an in- stance of the yfrt/ form of adjective — I-larle's third division. From stubborn . . courtesy.— This is the strongest point of th^ Duke's appeal. ' ' Turk " was in Shake- speare's time a synonym of cruelty. Posaesied. — Informed — a common nwaning in Shakespeare. Due aa4 forfeit, —That is, the for- feit or penalty now due. This Is ait example of hen ilia dys, a figure of syn- tax by which two nouns are used in- stead of one and an adjective. Deny. ^ — Distinguish from refuse. Which meaning has it here? Danger. -Loss, injury, rather than exposure to loss, etc., which is the usual meaning. In Portia's use of " danger," |i. 46, 1. 5, we have an older meaning of the word, absolute jjower, full power to do harm, as in Matthew V. 22. Your charter— Shakespeare seems to have in mind the city of London, which held certain rights by royal char- ter, and was liable to have its charter n'voked by the sovereign. It was re- voked by Charles II. in 1683 to punish the Londoners for their symijathy with the Whig conspiracies. The meaning ai)i)ears to be that if the rights of strangers, guaranteed by the charter, were not respected, an infringement of the provisions of the charter in this re- spect would open the way for its com- plete annulment. Antonio himself, in .\et III., Sc. 3, refers to the necessity of maintaining the law. See also Por- tia's speech : " It must not be, " p. 47. CaiTlon. — Derived from the Latin caro, flesh, with the addition of an aug- mentative suffix which gives the word a contemptuous force. See H. S. Crammar, V. 22. Shylock suggests the question and then answers it him- self for the purpose of taunting his op- ponents. Ducats. — This coin, formerly com- mon in several continental states, was either of silver or of gold. The value of the silver ducat was about that of our dollar ; the gold ducat was rather more than twice the value. It is sup- posed to have received its name from having been first coined in a duchy ( Lati n , ducat us. ) Three thousand ducats would mean in our day not less than 25,000 dollars. 42. Say. — Suppose I should say. In Act III., Sc. I, Shylock says of the pound of flesh, "If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge." Ban'd. — Poisoned. Not now used as a verb. Some men . . pig.— Note the omission of the relative -common in Shakespeare, THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 453 This Is an igure of syn- arc used in- tivf. Tom refuse. re? , rather than which is thi" rtia's use of have an older isolute i)o\ver, s in Matthew •spoare seems k' of London, by royal char- ive its charter n. It was ro- 1683 to punish ivinpathy with The moaning the rights of )y the charter, lifringement of irttr in this re- ay for its com- Miio himself, in ) the necessity See also Por- not be," p. 47- •om the Latin ition of an aug- gives the word See H. S. lylock suggests answers it him- aunting his op- formcrly com- ntal states, was )ld. The value about that of ucat was rather ^lue. It is sup- its name from led in a duchy thousand ducats y not less than should say. iShylock says of If it will feed dmy revenge." Not now used as pig. —Note the ve- common in " A gaping pig ■ is generally inter- preted to mean a pig's head roasted for the table. In olden times, a boar's head served up with an apple m its mouth was a favorite Christmas dish. Knight thinks that Shylock refers to the squeaking of the living animal. Affection loathes.— Another Heading places a period after "affec- tion" and makes "master" plural. Knight defends the reading here given, and explains it at considerable length' "Affection is that .state of the mind, whether pleasant or disagreeable, which is produced by some external object or ([uality. Passion is something higher and stronger — the suggestive state of the mind — going to a point by the force of its own will. The distinction is very happily preserved in an old play, Nei'er too Late ■ — * His heart was fuller of passions than his eyes of affections. The meaning then is, that ajection, either for love or dislike — .'sympathy or antipathy — being the 7/;(rt?^/' of passion, — sways // (passion) to the mood of what // (a feet ion) likes or loathes. ■' Antipathies for which people can give no reason may influ- ence them to act in a way that their judgment tells them to be unreasonable and absurd. Very strange stories are told of the antipathies of people, cats being an especial object of aversion." Why he. — Note the strong demon strative force of "he" in this and the following lines. Woolen bagpipe. — Bagpipes were commonly carried in woolen cases. Other readings have been conjectured, of which " wauling "is the most plaus- iiile, as agreeing with what is said above, "when the bag-pipes sings i' the nose. " Nor I will not.— Observe the use of the double negative for the sake of eni- quite common in l)hasis — an idiom early English, Lods^dd. — Settled deep-seated — an expressive epithet. That I follow . , hlm.-^Why 1 follow, etc. — an adjective clause. Why 'a losing suit"? Are you answered ? — The bitter scorn which runs through the Jew's speech is especially noticable in his repetition of this qucsllou, Kotc also the spirit in which he replies to Bas- sanio. Current. — Unimpeded course. Hates . . klU. — Shylock's view accords with the teaching of Seripture. See I John ill. 15. Would not such a statement as this in court reveal too clearly Shylock's intentions? Or is he so sure of his legal justification that he does not care if his intentions arc known ? Offence. — " Offence " means (i) the resentment of the injured party, and (2) the injury itself. Bassanio usestheword in the lirst sense; Shylock replies as if the second meaning were intended We can agree with both, for they are rea- soning from different premises. Bas- sanio has in mind that it was w first of- fence ; Shylock is thinking of 'Cn^i^reat- ness of the offence. Complete the ar- gument in each case. Think . Jew. —Consider that you are arguing with a Jeiv. Antonio uses the word " Jew ' in a general sense, intimating that hard-heartedncss is characteristic of the Jewish race. Cf. " Jewish heart," p. 43. Main flood.— The ocean. " Main " formerly meant strong, mighty. Bate. -^ .\bate, lessen, (iive other instances of a])hn,Tesis. See //. .S\ (.hainmar, IV. 45. And to make no noise.— "The Elizabethan authors objected to scarcely any ellipsis, provided the deficiency could be easily supplied from the con- text." Supply the proper ellipsis here. Fretted. — Agitated. Trace the con- nection with its usual meaning. 43, With all . . conveniency. — " With such brevity and directness as befits the administration of justice." Let me have judgment.— Let sen- tence be given against me. Note the different meanings of "judgment" in the selection. What Judgment . wrong — Shylock adroitly turns aside the point of the Duke's question by asking ano- ther. Note other instances of the Jew's skill in this respect. His reasoning is: You buy your slaves ; I have bought my pound of flesh. Why should I be more influenced by merciful considera- tions in putting myself in possession of my property than you should be in the iveatmcnt of your property? 454 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 'i L-"-. -Tr^^—'.r**-?'*^"* III! m Parte.— Tlic use of this word in uie Bcnse of employments, offices, u ob- lained from the com|)arison of life to a drama— a comparison! made by An- tonio in Act I., Sc. I. See also the celebrated comparison in Ai You Like It, II 7 Fie. — .'\ natural interjection express i:ig disgust, c()ntem|)t. Upon my power — Hy virtue of my ;iuthority. Briug UB the letters —Those who set themselves to making Shakespeare's lines conform regularly to the rules of heroic metre, call this " \hG amphibious section," because it is not only the first half of the line in which it stands, but it serves also to complete the preceding Jine. 44. Atalntedwether— "Tainted," as the context shows, means infected with disease, weakened by disease. I'or the thought expressed in "the weakest me,' cf Richard II., • '• I. 153- Forfeiture. — Compare with its use in the Uuke s address to Shylock, p. 41. The whetting of the knife is a graphic touch, showing Shylock's cer- tainty of success and his eagerness to carry out his designs upon Antonio's life. This eagerness is shown in seve- ral instances through.out the scene. Sole— BOUl. — On account of the ex act similarity in the sound of these words the force of the pun would be lost to a listener if not brought out by appropriate gestures and infiections. Utter "sole" in a light tone, with rising inflection, and ' soul " in a deep prolonged tone, with falling inflection. Bub DO iiiStal envy.— The bitterness of your malice is far greater than the keenness of your knife. " Hangman" was a general term for an c:;:cutioner of any kind. Note the contempt in Shylock's re- ply, which gives increased force to Cjratiano's denunciation. Inexorable. — An appropriate epithet to denote the unyielding obstinacy of Shylock. Another rea ling is "in- execrable," that cannot be execrated enough. And for . . accused. —" Justice herself should be impeached for allow ing thee to live. ' Wy faith.— The Christian failU, which would be opposed to the doc- trine of Pythagoras. He was an ancient (ireck philosoi^her, who was said to have taught the doctrine of the trans- migratitm of souls Who hang^ed . . slaug^hter. - An absolute clause, "who /^t/z/i,'^ hang- ed,' etc. What rhetorical purpose does this clause serve? Starved.— The wolf has at all times a lean aiul hungry look. To speak. — In speaking. See note on " void — empty." Observe the bit- ter, contemptuous tone of Shylock's retort. 45. In the Instant. — For Shake- speare's use of prepositions, see note on "void — empty. " Which bettjred . . stead.— Write this in the modern English idiom. Let his lack . . estimation.— Let his youthfulness be no hindrance to his receiving due respect. The irre- gular construction here is similar to that in " You may as well . . .noise," in Antonio's speech, p. 42. Whose trial. — For the co-ordinating use of the relative (whose = and his), see II. S. Grammar, VI. 47. You hear . . writes.— Note the redundant object — a conmion irregu- larity in Shakespeare. See//. 6. Gram- mar, XIV. 16. d. I take It.— For the relation of "it " S3e //. 5. Grammar, VI. 26. b. The difference. — The dispute which is the cause of the present trial. Throughly.— Thromrh and fhorouifh are but different forms of the same word, and Shakespeare uses either, a.s suits the metre. The shorter form is now confin(;d to the prepositional use, and the longer to the adjectival. 46. la such . . proceed.— So strictly in accordance with Venetian law that no flaw can be detected in your procedure. The quality , . strained.- The trait or quality which we call mercy is not exercised on compulsion ; its na- ture is to act freely. Observe how naturally this speech arises out of the preceding dialogue. Portia uses the word "must" without the notion of compulsion— in its moral %ex\?,e; ; Shy- lock purposely mistakes Portia's mean- ing, and uses the word with more eii>. plasib in its le^ul sense. THE MERCHANT OE VENICE, 455 iis at all times It droppeth . . beneath —Point mit tliiapliifss of the comparison, with |)iuticuliir reference to the use of "droppeth" and "gentle." In Mat- thew V. 45, the impartiality with which ruin is sent " on the just and ontheun- lu.it " is mentioned as an instance of iliL' Divine mercy. A similar compari- son is made also in Ecclesiasticus \xxv. 20. Show the relation of the piirases "from heaven," " upon . . liiMicath." It is twice . . takes.— " A beau- tiful version of the divine Christian ;i.\iom, ' It is more blessed to give than to receive. ' " 'TlB mightiest . . mightiest.— *' It was evidently a favorite idea with Shakespeare that the noblest and most amiable thing is power mixed with gintleness. " In Ateasure for Measure, II. 2, he says, " It is excellent to have a jjiant's strength ; but it is tyrannous to use it like a giant." And indeed, iltat scene, in which I.sabella pleads for her brother's life, contains several pas- sages which breathe the same senti- ments as Portia's strain of "heavenly elo(iuence." Shows. — ^Represents, is the emblem of. Compare with the meaning of "show," six lines below. Explain "temporal," and give the correlative term. Point out the difference be- tween force and power. The attribute . . kings.— The ixpressions "awe and majesty "and "dread and fear" may be merely in- stances of the use of duplicates for the sake of emphasis ; but there is probably a reference to the two-fold power or dignity of kingship — " awe" referring to the supernatural power which the king was supposed to possess as the vicegerent of the Deity, and "majesty" to the power which he possesses as the chosen leader or chief of the nation. These two characteristics of kingly power, symbolized by the sceptre, pro- duce in ordinary men the correspond- ing emotions of lireud and fear. In Shakespeare's time the doctrine of the divine right of kings was well under- stood, and it became a subject of con- troversy even before his death. The king in Hamlet, IV. 5, has faith in the protecting power of the " divinity that doth hedge a king." The phrase, "of kings," is i.sed ob- jectively— the dread and fear of men for kings. The use of a singular \erb with a compound subject is common in Shakespeare, especially when the sub- ject follows the verb, as here. See //. S, Grammar, XIII. 20(2). But mercy . . himself— Note the climax in these three lines. Llkest. — Comparison by means of the sutlixes er and est was more gene- ral with the Elizabethan writers than now. See //. S. Grammar, VII. 24. Seasons. — Tempers. In the course . . salvation.— Compare Psalm CXLIII. 2, and simi- lar passages in the Bible. That same prayer.— It has been objected that it is out of place to refer the Jew to the Christian doctrine of salvation ; but although Shakespeare probably liad the Lord's prayer imme- diately ill mind, the sentiment is older than the New 'I'estament, being found in the prayer books of the Jews. See also Ecclesiasticus xxviil. 2. Follow. — Insist upon, f 'ompare with the use of " follow " in Portia's speech above. Uy deeds . . head.— Shylock is prepared to accept the consequences of his act. Compare the exclamation of the Jewish mob at the crucifixion of the ."Saviour, Matthew XXVII. 25. Penalty— forieit.— Distinguish. Discharge. —We still say "discharge a debt." 47. Malice . . truth.— A really tnio or honest man would be satisfied with the recovery of his debt, and if Shylock will not accept Passanio's offer, it is a proof that his aim is no longer the property at stake, but the life of An- tonio ; that in fact he is asking the court to help him to murder Antonio under the forms of a civil suit. Com- pare what Portia says, p. 51 : " For it appears by manifest proceeding," etc. Wrest . . law.— Make the law yield. This opens up the question whether the law might not be frequent- ly "wrested " from its literal interpre- tation to subserve the ends of justice. This . . will.— This cruel, devilish will of his. It must . . established.— Each reference made by Portia to the Vene- tian law strengthens more and more 456 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER, the Jew's position ; the law cannot im- pugn him ; the law will support him in hib claim , the law is unchami^eable. And many . . state.— So perhaps Shylock intimated in his speech, p. 41. A Dan*9l . . thee —Shakespeare alludes to the story of Dan if 1 related in the History of Susanna, one of the apocryphal books, which were read in churches in Shakespeare's time. Shy- lock is so overjoyed with Portia's de- cision that he uses the rhetorical "thee" in addressing her. This use of the sin- gular pronoun is also observable in Shylock's interruptions, o. 48 ; whereas in his more formal speech, " When it is jjaid," etc., he employs " you." For the I"'lizabethan distinction between "thou" and "you," see Abbot's Shakespearian Grammar, par. 231. Thrice thy money.— Should not this be "twice," etc.? See Bassanio's speech aoove, and his speech on page 43 ; but see also Shylock's second speech on page 50. Shylock's daughter, Jessica, is represented as saying (Act III. Sc. 2) that she had heard her father swear " that he would rather have An- tonio's flesh than twenty times the value of the sum that he did owe him. " Forfeit.— Forfeited. See//,5. Gram- mar, VIII. 44. 48. For t!ie intent . bond— It is the intention of the law that every penalty due upon every bond .shall be paid, and the law is fully applicable in this case. More elder. — See H. S. Grammar, VII. 28. I have them ready— A "sense construction. " See //. ».S. Grammar, V. 13. The plurr.i fjrni of "balance" was rarely user' in Shakespeare's day. Account for tiie plural form of such words as balances, bellows, etc.. which refer to a ,' ingle article. 'Twere good . charity — Is the sequence of tenses correct ? 'I'his is Portia's last appeal to Shy- lock. Every effort she has made to touch his heart only serves Co reveal more clearly his murderous int-^ntions. It la still her use.— Note different meanings of "still " and of " us.\" An age of poverty.— Shov.' how "age" comes to have the meaning of "old age,'' which it has here. The process . . end.— Express by a clause. 49. Speak . . death.— Speak well of me after I am dead. And he repents.— " Repent " here means to regret ; in the preceding line it seems to have the stronger meaning, to griei'e to excess. It cannot mean that Antonio wishes his friend not to show any grief at all for his loss. For if . . heart. — Punning in the midst of tragic scenes is not un- common in Shakespeare. Cf. Richard 11., II. I, where the dying John of Gaunt ]3uns on his name. A wife which. — In the IClizabethau age the modern distinction between who and which was not established. Cf. ' ' Our Father ivhich art in Heaven. ' I would lose . . you.— Compare Bassanio's previous declaration, ix 44, 11. I, 2. Biissanio, in his anxietj for the safety of his friend, does not ap- peal to realize the extravagant nature of his i)roposed sacrifice. So she could ^UlrediX.— Provided that she, etc. See also p. 52, 1. 7. The same lack of dignity may be observed in Gratiano's speech when contrasted with that of Bassanio, as in Nerissa's speech wheu contrasted with that of Portia. Barrabas. — So spelled in Tyndale'.s and Coverdale's trnnsl itions of tho Bil)le. The metre reqmres the accent on the first syllable, as on "pursue' below. Shylock's daughter had married Lo^ renzo, a Christian, without her father's knowledge or consent, and the thought of this intensifies the bitterness of Shy- lock's scorn. Jot. — l"'roni tot a, the smallest letter of the Greek alphabet. This word is not u.sually applied to a liquid. If Shylock had a right to the pound of flesh, as Portia decided that he had, should not the law grant liini th< power to get possession of it regardless of thi; blood it was necessary to shed in cut- ting it out? 50. Confiscate.- See //. S. Gram- mar, VIII. 44. upright judge.— (iratiano now takes deliglit in taiiiitiiig .Shylock, and his delight is w -'.oubt increased by the ren'.enibrance of .Shylock's prgviou-* THE MERCHANT OF VENICE, 457 c //. S. Gram- contemptumis teference to his (Gra- tiano's) wit. A jUBt pound.— An exact pound. In the substance . . scruple. — By the amount of a scruple, or even of a grain. The editors of the Clarendon Press edition find a climax in I^ortia's threat: "first, if it be lighter or heavier, ^i.e., according to ordinary tests ; then, if it weigh less or more by a single grain ; thirdly, if the sca'e be uneven by a single hair's breadth." Infidel. — How does th'3 meaning here difter from the usual rrieaning? On the hip. — At a disadvantage — a wrestler's phra.se. Shylock said cf An- tonio (Act I., Sc. 3), " If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him " — another proof that Shylock did "con- trive " against Antonio. He hath refused . . bond.— This is not good law. The Jew would in law have the privilege of changing his mind and taking what he had previ- ously refused. Other instances might be adduced to show that the proceed- ings at the trial are not strictly in ac- cordance with law, at least not with British law. The truth is, that in this, as in many other cases not so justifi- able, the law was found " capable of being bent to 1*^10 will of its adminis- tr.ators. " 51. I'll Stay . . question.— Ill nrsTue the matter no further. Allen. — Here, opposed to citizen. The Jews had commercial Dut no po- litical rights. When did the Jews ob- tain the rights of citizenship in Britain? The party. — " Party " is here used in its strictly legal sense. In the mercy.— We still say "in the power," but " at the mercy" — an instance of "the apparently capricious change in the use of prepositions." 'Gainst . . voice — Is this phrase necessary to the meaning ? If not, what purpose does it serve ? For it appe -a . . defendant. — Refer to instances in proof of this. The danger . . rehears'd— Ex- plain. Distinguish from " danger,' as used elsewhere in the lesson. For half. —As to half. Oenerai state.— 1 he "privy celfer," or treasury, of ilie State, Which . . fine.— Which submis- sion on your part may induce me to conmmte for a fine. Not for Antonio's.- -Antonio's share must not be commuted. May take my life . . live.— Not unlike the sentiment expressed by Antonio in his speech, "But little," etc., p. 48. 52. To quit the fine.— To remit the fine due the State. In use.— Antonio proposes that he manage, as trustee, thehalf of the Jew .> property for the benefit of Lorenzo and Jessica, and that, on Shylock's death, the whole of the property become theirs. Shylock had disinherited hi.s daughter for marrying Lorenzo ; so the punishment which Antonio proposes to inflict is a just and natural one An- toni(>, with characteristic generosity, asks nothing for himself ; his revenge is truly Christian. Presently.- Immediately. Note the changed meaning, caused no doubt by the habit of procrastination, which has put presently farther and farther off. C'ompare the change in by and hy^ which also at one time meant immcdi' ately, as in Mark vi. 25. Of all . . possessed.— * In re- lative sentences the preoosition is often not repeated." — Abbott. Recant. — Revoke. Distinguish from its present use. I pray you . . sign it.— The great mental distress here shown by Shylock must be expressed in reading by the pectoral quality of voice. The same quality is required, though in a less de- gree, in reading most of what Shylock says after, and beginning with, the speech on p. 50 ; "Is that the law?" The difference between \he pectoral and guttural qualities of voice may be shown by contrasting the reading of these passages with those in the earlier part of the scene, in which Shylock e.\- presses his hatred and scorn, Ten more.— That is. to make up a jury of twelve. This appears to have been an old joke. In one of Ben Jon- son s. plays the jurymen are called " godfathers-in-law " " Bring" is used in a double sense, a sort of ze>'.-ma. The si'i tence of a jury brought a man to tlie gallows ; the godfathers accow,' 45S THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. panted the convert to the font. For the second meaning, see Acts xxi. 5- Desire . . pardon.— An idiom common in Shakespeare, Spenser, and the older writers. Serves you not. — Is not at your dis- posal. Gratify. — Reward, recompense. Illustrate by examples from the se- lection differences between the lan- guage of ShakesjDeare and that of our day. Refer to expressions or passages in the selection which exhibit traits of char, acter of the persons represented. Point out instances of race preju ice in the selection. How is it that a man of such keen intellect as Shylock fails to see the weak points in his case? An article entitled "The Sisters of Portia," in Shakespeariana for Novenw ber, 1886, shows that in the early years of the sixteenth century Shakespeare might easily have found the type of Portia among the literary ladies of nor- thern Italy, II IV. OF BOLDNESS. The purpose of this Essay is to condemn vain self-assurance or presumption to which Bacon gives the name of " boldness." 53. Grammar-school text.— In the T -atin translation of the Essays execut- ed under Bacon's supervision, this ex- pre.s.sion is rendered hy " dicteri urn," which means a familiar witty saj'ing. Part. — Qualification. Action. — Bacon here interprets the expression of Demosthenes literally, with the meaning of gesticulation. It is possible that Demosthenes intended the metaphorical meaning, emotion, on the princifjle that an orator who wishes to impress others must show that he himself feels what he speaks. For an interesting reference to the answer of 1 Demosthenes, see the extract from ' Franklins's diary for 1784, quoted in the article, " Benjamin Franklin," in the Encyclopcedia Britaunica. Virtue.— Excellence,accomplishment, There Is . . wise.— Discuss this statement. Is taken. - Is charmed, captivated. Civil business.- With what is this contrasted ? Which are the greatest part. — Compare the similar statement respect- ing " action." Popular states.— Note the use of "popular " in its primary sen.se, Give other senses in which it is used, and trace tl*j connection. Mountebanks. — Quacks, impostors. The word is of Italian origin, meaning one who mounts a bench (It. banco) to proclaim the virtues of the medicines which he sells. Politic body.— The State. These v.ords are now generally used in re- versed order. 54. So these men . , ado.— Th s sentence contains several old forms ol expression whose meanings should be carefully noticed. Wooden posture.— Stiff, awkward expression. This meaning of "wooden" was common with old v/riters, and is not unfrec|uent in our day. A stale. — That is, sfa'temate — a posi- tion in a game of chess, when the king is not in check, but the player has no mo\»' left except such as would place his k'ing in check. In this case the game is drawn. Give examples from this and the preceding selection to show that for freedom, tenseness, and vigor, Eliza- bethan is superior to Modern English, but is surpassed in clearness by the latter, OF CONTENTEDNESS. 459 )r presumption it is used, and VI. OF CONTENTEDNESS. The subject of the first paragraph, that a contented spirit is a remedy for all evils, is stated in the first sentence. The main thoughts of the other sentences of the paragraph may be statt,d as follows : — The wise man adapts himself to circumstances, .nnd finds in every changeof life occasion for the exercise of some virtue or other. Poverty borne with a contented spirit, in submission to the will of God, is productive of happiness ; whereas the possessor of an ample fortune is still poor if he be covetous and dissatisfied. Since contentedness is a virtue of such excellence, it is proper to enforce it by the strongest of obligations. 56. For this alone . . nothing. (ompare Paul's sentiment in Philip- pin ns IV. II, 12. Disagreeing . . appetite.— Ex- jihiined by the clauses that immedi- aU>ly follow. Composes . . accident.— Con- tents himself with his present circum- stances. Trace the different expres- .'^ions of this thought throughout the jiaragraph. 57. A proportion , . fancy— A proportion suited to the fancy. What does the writer illustrate by his refer- ence to beauty f And SO . ' . fe'icity.— Happiness is not determined by loile, that is, by any particular state of fortune ; it de- pends upon one's disposition and senti- ments. For no man . . so. — Compare the thought in Hamlet, II, 2, " There is nothing either good or bad, but think- ing makes it so." Enmities of sad chances.— The en- vious feelings that are likely to be aroused by comparing our misfortunes with the success of others. Point out instances of the peculiar use of connectives, and of the oniis- .■■ion of words necessary to complete the sense. Contentedness . religion.— This is the subject of the paragraph, i'.nd, in fact, of the two next para- graj^hs. Rather want. — Give different mean- ings of "want." In what sense is it used here? My patron . baked.— Show connection in meaning with what pre- cedes. 58. Melancholy. — Fit of melancholy or dejection, Beside our being. — ' ' Beside " means not connected with. Master . . act. — See note on "parts," p. 454. Refuse no circumstances.— Are de- terred by no difficulties or dangers that attend the ]ierforniance of dutv. Angel of Judea— Angel of Persia. — In the book of Daniel, and elsewhere in the Bible, the guardian angels or "princes" of Persia, Israel, etc., are spoken o,'. Thus, Michael is called the prince of Israel. Perhaps the tenth chapter of Daniel furnishes the key to what is stated here. In his proportion, — Relatively. " Projiortion " seems to be a favorite word of the author, used in the sense of what falls to one's lot after a just division or distribution. The duty of submission to the will of God is taught in this jiaragraph. Trace the connec- tion with the main subject, as stated in the preceding paragraph. For . . ways. — What is gained by using the intenrogative form in these sentences? How are they con- nected in thought with the preceding paragraph ? Compare the sentiment of the last sentence of the paragraph with Newman's experience, as revealed in the poem. Lead, Kindly Light, in the Foi'RTii Kkadkk. 59. Contentedness spirit— This is the second division of the topic, and is the subject of this paragraph. We ourselves . . bad.— Find m similar sentiment in the selection. Eligible. — Worthy (jf choice, desir- able. Observe the noble sentiments of the last sentence of the paragraph, and compare them with those of Socrates, P- 385- 60, Atrophy. — Literally, want 0/ 460 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. nourishment ; a wasting away. Note the ellipsis in this sentence. A mazement. — Perplex ity. Fearful defending'. —I )istinguish be- tween different meanings of " fearful." What is the statement respecting the adder intended to illustrate ? Stoics.— Ci reek philosophers, who taught, among other things, that men should view with equal indifference the jirospect of pleasure or of pain. Aaoa. — Another time. Generally used adverbially. Playing at tables.—" Tables " is a name sometimes given to the game of draughts or backgammon, from thi> small tablets used in playing. For what purpose ik this illustration used ? Note the different purpose for which Huxley employs the illustration of a game of chess, p. 412. For no chance . . ud reason- able. — ^Compare the sentiment of Soc- rates, p. 388, " No evil can happen," etc. Parthian kings, —The Parthians lived to the south-east of the Caspian Sea, and maintained their independence in spite of repeated attacks by the Romans. See p. 143. VII. TO LUCASTA. /..w.:-;::., The lady whom Lovelace celebrated under the name of " Lucasta" was Lucy Sacheverell, his lady-love, whom he usually called Lux Casta. T^ovelace fought on the side of the Royalists in the Civil War, and for his devotion to the King he was imprisoned by the Puritans. The short extract on page 55 is the last stanza of To Althea from Prison, a poem written while he was a prisoner. Nunnery.— This word is used hereto I could . . more. - Perhaps the indicate a place of quiet retirement, in sentiment of these two lines never had contrast with the turmoil of " war and better practical illustration than in thi; arms." devoted loyalty shown by the adherents New mistress. — War, or the glory of the Stuarts. Lovelace himself sacri- to be won on the battle field. ficed his fortune and his health for "the Strong'er faith. — This is explained lost cause," and died in poverty and in the two last lines of the poem. obscurity at a comparatively early age. VIII. AN(;L]N(i. This selection consists of a dialogue between Venator (Huntsman) and Pisca- tor (Fisherman). Venator has become convinced that angling is a more inno- cent recreation than hunting, and he accompanies Piscator in his angling excur- sions to learn from him the mysteries of " the gentle craft." The language is extremely simple, the words being for the most part Saxon ; and the dialogue runs on in a natural, easy flow, and with a simplicity and quaintness of expression which constitute its greatest charm. The walk in the early morning furnishes occasion for instruction as well as enjoyment, Piscator mingling with his lessons on fly-fishing moral reflections and precepts suggested by natural objects and phenomena, or by the amuse- ment itself, ANGLING. 46f ion, from the ying. F'orwhat )n vised? Note • which Huxley > of a game of unreason- nliment of Soc- l can happen," I'he Parthians of the Caspian ir independence ittacks by the asta " was Lucy [^ovelace fought ion to the Kini,^ ige 55 is the last a prisoner. , - Perhaps tlic lines never had lion than in thi; )y the adherents ICC himself sacri- 5 health for "the in poverty and tively early age. man) and I'isca- [ is a more inno- is angling excur- lost part Saxon ; a simplicity and iiction as well as noral reflections )r by the amuse- 62. Honest scholar. — What quality, if any, does " honest " express here? Sycamore-tree.— The sycamore or plane tree of Britain is a species of maple, growing from 70 to 90 feet in lioight, with a spreading head which forms an excellent shade. Brave breakfast. —" Brave " was formerly in common use, like "quaint"' in the last century, and " nice" in our day, as a general term of commenda- tion. Another meaning, not common now, is showy, gaudy, as in Herbert's j-ioem, p. 65. Good . . huBgfry. — In what sense may these different epithets be applied to breakfast f 63. No fortune.— No luck. "For- tune " formerly had the meaning of suc- cess, whether good or bad. TdCkling.— (ienerally used with re- ference to the ropes, rigging, etc., of a ship. I'isliiti_^-tackle usually includes the rod as well as the hook, line, etc. Nay then , . lost. — Note the sim- ])licity and naturalness of this para- graph. The rapid change from one thought to another is well expressed. Two brace of trout— Sec //. S. (iramnuir, V. 42. A scholar. — Compare the several meanings of " scholar." Procure . . parish. —Give the meaning in (Jther wonls. Lscturer. — A preacher hired to as- sist the rector or curate of a parish. Which . . it— What is the ante- cedent of "which"? Modern literary usage avoids the separation of " of" from its dependent relative, thus sacri- ficing freedom to grammatical precise - MOSS. Which . . mouth.— E.xplain. Even.— Exactly. 64. I to'rt you . . both.— Sup- ])ly the ellipsis. But . . more.— A very loose sen- tence. Point out any defects in its .structure, and re-write it correctly. Still in motion.— What objection to the use of " still " in this connection? Providence. — Used in its literal meaning oi fvesight. Stomach. — Appetite — once a com- mon meaning. Lessius — Probably the Dutchman, Leonhard Lessius, author of De yus' I hope . , guch. — Is this sentence correct ? Ordering. — Managing. 65. The breaks in the narrative on this page are due to the fact that the several paragrajihs are not taken con- secutively from the author's work. What the omitted portions treat of is in- dicated by the context. Smoking shower.— A sudden show- er on a warm day causes the appear- ance described as "smoknig." The old angler is a close OBserver of nature, as might be expected. Earth smells . . too.— The earth smells as sweet as the meadow looks pleasant. Criticise the use of "plea- santly " and " sweetly." Mr. Herbert.—" Holy George Her- bert'' (1593 — 1633) was a pious coun- try clergyman of noble descent. He was an intimate friend of Lord Bacon, who is said to have had .so high a re- gard for his learning and judgment that he submitted his works to him be- fore publication. The lines below, en- titled Virtue, are considered to be the best he has written. His biography- was written by Walton, who was born in the same year as Herbert, but sur- vived him fifty years. Walton intro- duced many beautiful lyrics into T/ie Cotnpletc Angler to enforce or illustrate his lessons. The dew . . night. —Coleridge calls the dewdrops "the tears of mournful eve," and another poet speaks of them as " Those tears of the sky for the loss of the sun." This pretty con- ceit of representing the dew as "Na- ture's teardrops '' is common with the poets. Angry and brave. — Explain the epi- thet " angry. " For "brave," see note on " brave breakfast " above. Bids . . eye — It is an exagger- ated conceit to make the hue of the rose dazzle and weaken the sight of him who gazes upon it. A box . . lie.- -A beautiful com- parison of spring. Expand the stanza to bring out fully the meaning. Thy . . ye.— Can the use of these two words here be justified ? Closes. — The closing bars of a piece of music. In "shows . . closes" there may be an allusion to the mourn- ful refrain that bcciiis to agcompany 462 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. the sounds of nnture— tho sighing of the trees, the inoiining of tin; winds, etc. May the meaning of " music " be enlarged so as to inchide not only the melody, Init also the sweet odors, the brilliant hues, and all other beauties of the spring-time? Only. . lives.— Observe how the three hrst stanzas lead u]i to and illustrate the last stanza, which contains the sub- ject of the ]x)em. Herbert's poem. The Honest Man , in the KouK rii Rkadkk is AW expansion of the thougiit in this last stanza, that virtue alone stands the test in the hour of trial. The simile must not be pressed too closely, for seasoned tinilwr woidd be the Hrst to ///;-;/ to coal in a conflagration. 66. It Is an even lay.— Piscator seems to say, " I'll make an even bet v.ith you." To use. — To interest, Tltyrus Meli'oceuc. Toetlcal names (if shephenKi used by Virgil in his first I'-clogue. Innocentrecreatlon. —Yet Walton's minute directions for making live-bait and for placing it on the hook in such a way that it may live a long time, have exposed him to the charge of eaielty. Hyron thought that " The (|uaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to jnill it." What Wordsw orth and Cowper would have thought of angling may be gath- ered from the last stanza of Ilarl-I.eap I Veil, and from The 'Task, \\. ^60, el set/. Refer to passages in the selection which would justify the alternative title, A Contemplative Man's Re- creation, whi:!i Walton gave to hi.s book. IX. ON THE MORNINC; OF CHRISTS NATIVITY. This poem wns written Ijy Milton in 1629, while he was an undergraduate at Cambridge, and although the work of a mere youth, it has been described by Hallam as ' ' perhaps the finest ode in the English language. '' The metre of the introductory stanzas is called " Rime Ro\al," and is that in which Chaucer wrote several of his Canteiiuiry Talcs. Milton's rhymes are the same as those of Chaucer, but he has a hexameter line in the seventh [jlace. 67. Worlr us.— Bring about for us, Unsufferable.- The old usage pre- ferred the English prefix. Cf. " uncap- able," p. 40. See //. S. Grammar, IV. 34. The midst . . Unity— The Son is always named between the two other persons of the Trinity. Heavenly Muse. — Milton imitates Homer and N'irgil in invoking the Muse • — " the Heavenly Muse," because his is a sacred theme. See also Paradise Lost, I. 6. By . . untrod. — An allusion to the classical notion of Apollo or Phoe- bus, the sun-goJ, driving the chariot of the sun across the sky. Hath . . print. — Has received no impression. For " took," see H. S. Grammar, \\\\, 43. d. 63. Wizards. — The wise men from the Cast. This wor.: \.:.: v.r,: h;-:v tl; j c: - temptuous meaning that it usually has. for the force of the termination ard, see //. .^S'. Grammar, V. 22. Prevent. — l'"mployed in Its old sense of anticipate, as frequently in the Bible. Secret altar. — An allusion to Isaiah VI. 6, 7. Had dofl'd . . trim.— Explained by the first line of the stanza. It is generally believed that C^hrist was not born in December, but at some milder season, wlien the shepherds tented with their flocks. Milton has in mind an English winter, not a winter in Pales- tine. To wanton . . paramour. — An allusion to the winter days, when the beams of the sun are weakened. Pollutet — Polluted. Sec H. S. Grammar, VIII. 44. Mald:a White.- That is, "innocent OiY THE MORNING OF CHRIS TS NA TTVrTY. 463 'octical nanios rgil in his first -Yet Walton's iking livc-bivit liook in such a lony time, he charge of that .■I coxcomb, in I a small trout Cowper wouUl ' luav be gath- i of Hart-Leap k,\\. ^60, elsc^. ^ the selection ;he alternative e Man's Kc- ,n gave to his ATIVITY. ndergraduate at :en described by he metre of the h Chaucer wrote mic us those of at it usually has. ermi nation ard, V. 22. 'd in its old sense Mitly in the Bible, n ' allusion to rim. — Explained le stanza. It is t C:hrist was not at some milder herds tented with has in mind an winter in Pales- paramour. — An days, when the veakcned. 1. .Sec H. S. hat is, " innocent Foul deformities. —How else ex- pios.sL'd in this stanza? 69. To cease. — To cause to cease. See //. S. (rrammar, VIII. 7. c. Harbinger. — Literally, one whogoes before and provides shelter for an army ; hence, a foremnner. Turtle.— Here, a dove. The dove is an emblem of innocence and peace. I'or its connection with the olive, see ( icnesis VIII. 2. Mjrrtle. — The myrtle in ancient times was used at weddings, and was a sym- bol of joy and happiness, as the cypress w as of sorrow. Botli the myrtle and liie dove were sacred to Venus, the god- doss of love. No war.— At the time of the birth of ("hrist the temple of Janus at Rome was closed, as a sign that there was peace throughout the Roman Empire. Hooked chariot. —A chariot armed w ith scythes fastened to the wheels — a C'cltic invention. Awful. — Full of awe, fearful. Sovran. — The modem spelling of this word has been brought about by false analogy, as if it were connected with " reign." It is derived from the Latin superanus, and comes to Us through the French souverain, WMst. — Hushed — an onomatopoetic word. Ocean. — Here, a word of three syl- libles. Birds of calm. — The halcyon of an- cient fable was believed to brood in a nest floating on the sea, and to have the power of charming the sea into a perfect calmness during the time of l)rooding — seven days before and seven after the winter solstice. These were called the " halcyon days." "Halcyon" is probably a poetical name of the king- fisher. Influence. — This word is used here in its astrological sense, referring to llic mysterious power which the heaven- ly bodies were supposed to exercise upon, the lives and fortunes of men. \Vhy "precious"? For other survivals of the old science of astrology, see 'i'\n\c\\s Study of Words, Chap. iv. 70. For all . . light. —We have the same meaning of "for" in the school-boy's defiance, " I 11 do it for all you." See //. H, Grammar, X. 7- Lucifer. — The morning star. Liter- ally, the "light-bringer.'' Bespake. — The prefix "be "adds an intensive force to the verb. Give ex- ample of other uses of this prefix. " Bid ' is a contracted weak preterite. See FI. S. Cn-ammar, NTH. 66. Room. — Blace. "Her" may refer either to " shady gloom " (night), or to " day." A'fl. — As if — a common meaning of " as" witli the older writers. Burning axletree—Cf. Daniel viii. 9. In old I'",ngli.sh " tree " had the ad- ditional meaning of wood, beam. Lawn.— Properly, an open space be- tween woods. Or ere. — Probably a reduplicated constrtiction, "ere" being added when "or'' began to lose the meaning of before, which it had in l'2arly English. .See Aobot's Shakespearian Grammar, 131. For another view, see Hale's Lo»(^er En!{lish Poems, p. 219. Pan. — The Greek god of shepherds. The name is here applied to Christ, " the good shepherd." Was all.— Justify the use o.*" the sin- gular verb. Sill^k — This word has successively meant (i) happy, as here, (2) innocent, (3) harmless, (4) fooli^li. Account for these changes of meaning. Strook. — Old preterite form — here used for the past pariiciple. DivlQely warbled . , took.— An absolute or an appositive expression developing the thought in the first three lines. "As" is a relative, as it is in the third line. Note instances of im- perfect rhymes in this stanza. Cljse. — The cadence at the end of a piece of music. See note on " closes," p. 461. 71. Cynthla'R seat. — "Cynthia" was a poetical name for the moon. Diana, the moon-goddess, was supposed to have been born at Mount Cynthus, in the island of Delos ; hence, called " Cynthia." Explain "hollow round." Won. — Persuaded. Its last fulfilling.- Its completion. This is one of the three instances of the use of "its" in Milton's poetry. It had not in his time gained recognition as a reputable word, and his reluctance to use it is shown in the fourteenth stanza, p, 72, where he uses "itself" 464 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 11 ■\%\ and " her" referring to the same ante- cedent. See remarks on "its" in //. .v. Grammar, W. 22. Alone. — Has "alone" here the force of " and only such " or "by itself" ? Happier union. —Complete the com- parison. QlObe. — Mass, as often in Latin; otherwise there is tautology in the line. Shamed-faced.— See H. S. Gram- vtar, IV. 46. a. Cherubim — seraphim. — If Mil- ton intended to mark a distinction between these orders of angels, it would appear from the ej^ithets employed that he regarded the former as purely defen- sive spirits, and the latter as more ag- gressive. Unexpresslve. -Inexpressible, Sons of morning. — See Job xxxviir. 7, Weltering.— Rolling(A. S,, wealfan, to roll) ; akin to waifs. Kins' out . . spheres.— It is a iieautilul poetic fancy that the move- ments of the heavenly bodies produce a music which is imperceptible to mor- tal ears. The poets make frequent re- ference to this " music of the spheres," the finest, perhaps, being that of Shake- speare in \.\\c Merchant of Venice, V. i. 72. Ninefold harmony.— The an- cients n^presented the revolutions of the universe as being made on the dis- taff of Necessity, in eight concentric circles, or wheels. Milton adds a ninth, " the wheel of day and night." J'ar. Lost, VI I. 135. Consort. — Symphony, agreeable har- mony of sounds. The poet asks that the music of the spheres and the an- gelic songs blend together in a com- plete and harmonious chorus of praise to God. Time . . Gold. —It was the be- lief of the ancients that the human race v,as degenerating, and so they repre- i:jnted the earth as having passed through several successive periods or ages, the golden, the silver, the brazen, and the iron, in a descending scale of morality and happiness — " from good to ill, from ill to worse. " They regarded themselves as living in the iron age, the period when all the virtues had disap- peared from the earth. Milton, and mjj^d all our poets, frequently employ jRis wylh for illustrative effect, See, for instance, Cowper's Task^ IV, 513, et set/. Speckled vanity. — ' ' Speckled " may be used in the sense of gaudy, sho7vy, but it suits the context better to make it mran iaiti ted , plague-spotted. And HeU . . day.-" Hell" in this stanza, and " Heaven " in the next, are both regarded as feminine ; no doubt because they were feminine nouns in Anglo-Saxon. Like glories.- Similar glories. The glory here alluded to is the luminous halo which is represented in paintings as surrounding the heads of holy per- sons. The halo in this instance is formed of the rainbow, which is regard- ed ill Scripture as the sign of God's covenant of mercy with men. Celestial sheen.— Heavenly bright- ness. With radiant . . steering —Note the greater simj^licity of Shakespeare's line, " It droppetii as the gentle rain, from heaven." Show that greater glory is here ascribed to Mercy than to Trutli and Justice, and give reasons for this. This must . . BO.— The return of the golden age of peace and innocence, pictured in the five preceding stanzas, is not yet at hand ; for by the decree of Divine Providence ("Wisest Fate") must first come the death of Christ, the resurrection, and the judgment. The heathen myth of the golden age is ele- vated into the Christian conception of the Millenium. Ychain'd. — Sec H. S, Grammar, VIII. 45. Wakeful trump.— Note the objec- tive force of "wakeful." See H. S, Grammar, VIII. 63. b. 73. Aghast. — The A in this word is intrusive. Session. — From same root as "as- size," for which it is used here. The . . throne.— .See i Thessa- lonians iv. t6, 17. Old Dragon.— See Revelations xii. 4. Swinges. — Lashes about. Apollo . . cell.— The most fa- mous oracle of antiquity was that of Apollo, at Delphi, or Delphos, a small town of ancient Greece, situated on the southern slojje of Mount Parnassus (" the steep of Delphos "), about eigin miles north of the Corinthian Gulf. la ON THE MORNING OF CHRIS T'S NA TI VI TV. 465 ^ask, IV, 5^3. '^ {. S. Grammar, 3 Revelations xii. the centre of the temple of the pod was ji small opening in the ground from which arose an intoxicating vapor. On a tripod placed over tiie hole sat the "jiale- *.\\:d' privstess, who in a sort of de- lirium or " nightly trance" produced by I lie vapor, uttered sounds ("hideous hum") which theattendant priestii inter- I leted as the answers of the got were represen e 1 either who ly or partly as lower animals. Thus isis is frequently represented with a cow's horns. Pro! ably the word has aLo a moral reference. 0:>irisand Isis were the chief mnleaT-'d female deities of E^'y|5t ; liorus w;'.s their son, and the dog-lieadcd Aniwjis was the guard and comjxinion of Isis. Usiris is hero identified with Apis, wliO was worshipped under the form of a sacred bull kej)! at Memphis. 75. Unahowered.— An allusion to tlu^ absence of rain in I'gypt. Sacred Ch^^St. — Same as " wor"^V"'n- p'd Tiv<," the chest in which tie . j and the sacred utensils of the goU w^.e kept. Profoundest Hell. — In contrastwith " sacred chest." Sable-stolod. — ^The stole was the flowing robe worn by the prie is, wl o with songs and die nmsic of the tim- brel carried the "worshipp'd ark"' 466 ^ .THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 11 but " In vain," for the god whom they worshipped had fled away to Heir Explain "lowiugs," "unthen>L, t/rrr^." Esm.— An old plural of "eye." Why dusky f Typhon. — Tliis fire-breathing mon- ster is mentioned last, because he was the most formidable of all. He was the personification of evil, and no doubt the ancient stories and representations of the monster aided materially in form- ing the popular conception of Satan wliich prevailed in mcditt'val times. Our Babe . . crew. — A Christian version oi the heathen myth which repre- sented the infant Hercules as strangling two serpents sent to destroy him. When . . wave. — When the sun has risen. So . . grave.— The poet makes the " damned crew" of heathen gods flee at Christ's advent, just as the shades of night are scattered by the rising sun. All the supernatural beings whom the night brings forth from their relffats — ghosts, fairies, pixies, brown- ies, and the like — must flee away at cock-crowing, or at the approaih of dawn. Cf. Klidstiminer Night's Dream III. 2, and Hdvilet, i, i. Moon-lOV'dmaze— The fays, fairies, or elves are su|)i)(jsed to be fond of dancing by the light of the moon. Ry the " night-steeds " the poet probably means the horses that wen- su]ip()S(!(l to draw the chariot of iiiglit. in the scene referred to above. Puck calls them " night's swift dra-T^ons." 76. Youngest -teemed star.— Tin; late.'t-born star, that is, the star which appeared to the wise men. Hath flxt . . car.— Hath taken up her station over Bethlehem, to watch her sleeping Lord. Courtly Btab:e3.— Why courtly ? Brlg-ht-hamesa'd.— In JMight armor. For this meaning of "harness," see i Kings XXII. 34. Describe the picture with which the poem closes. . X. CHARACTER OF LORD FALKLAND. ■ Falkland and Clarendon were both young men when the trouble began be tween Charles I, and his Parliament, and they were both zealous supporters of the popular party, Falkland being a close friend of Hampden. But becoming afraid of Puritan domination, they went over to the side of the king, and were appointed to office by him. Henceforth they found themselves committed to a cause of which Falkland at least could not wholly apjarove, but which his high sense of loyalty would not allow him to abandon. Falkland's portrait is paint- ed by a loving hand, as he and Clarendon were intimate friends. 76. This parliament.— 1 he Long Pailiament. Not well . . contented. —An in- !;tance of Litotes. Unentauglei. — What is implied here? 77. Conversation. — Intercourse — an old meaning. Pure election. — Distinguish from •he present ordinary use of the expres- sion. Though he . . him.— What bet- ter position for this clau-e ? Justify the addition of the last clause, '' and such . . bosom,'' and express the meaning of the clause in different language. Administrations. — Distributions. Note the use of " as " in this sentence, where we would now use " that," fincl of " that "in the last sentence of the paragraph, where we would now use "such." Polite . . men.— Men highly ac- complished and of exact scholarshiji. Ratiocination. — Process of reason- ing. Wit— fancy. — These words are used in their oM senses — iindcrsiandiiig and imagination. Note the omission of '• to " after " resorted." Note carefully the meanings of " in a less volume," '•refine," "consent," •'vulgar." Re- VENl CREATOR; LINES j REASON. 467 pixlp«i, brown- flee away at . approaih of Wight's Dreavi hefnys, fairies, to be fond of he moon. V>Y poet probably were supposed night. In the Puck calls them 5d star.— Tlu>. , the star which ,en. r.— Hath taken ilehcm, to watch Vhy courtly f -In bright armor, harness," see i i with which tlie .AND. trouble began be ous supporters of But becoming he king, and were es committed to a mt which his high s portrait is paint- ds. — Distributions, in this sentence, use " that," imd St sentrnce of the i,e would now use .^Men highly ac- xact scholarship. •Process of reason - lese words are used -timicrsfandin^ and te the omission of ed." Note careful! v in a less volume," «• ••vulgar." Rl' write the sentence, breaking it up into three separate sentences. ! (Irecn agrees with Clarendon in de- j scribing Falkland as " a man learned and accomplished, the centre of a circle ! which embraced the most liberal think- ers of his day." 78. Than of knowledg^e. — Supply the ellipsis ; or, better still, |)ut in liie same construction the two phrases con- nected by " and." Those arts. — This seems to mean the art of conciliating men by yielding on minor points. Affecting . . execution.— Tak- ing pleasure in the destruction. '' Ex- ecution " is the antecedent of '' which " in the next clause. Against whom . . away.— The author hints that the courage of some men is increased by the helplessness of their enemies. " For " means by reason of. Why is the adversative " yet" used at the beginning of the second sen- tence ? 79. Low Countries. —( Jive the sy- nonymous name. C if procuring— to give.— Put in the same construction. First alarm. —This refers to the war iircparations of the Scottish Cove- nanters, who were excited in'o action by the king's interference with their re- ligion. Repulse In.— Refusal of. What is implied in " some " ? From . . indispositions.- This sentence is badly constructed. It may be improved by inserting a iwriod a.'"t. r " used to," and then reading, *' Hut he resisted those indispositions, being one," etc. Then make a separate sen- tence of the parentiietical clause. To what do the words ** supposilion " and " conclusion " rc^-r? Vacant. - • Opi n , unreserved. Affected . . splaea — Me'anclu.ly The spleen was generally regarded the seat of anger. 80. Incuriou". — Indifferent. Addresses lohis placo.— Addressc'^ or applications to him in his ofhe al ca- pacity. .Supply the neces-ary words in this sentence. Note carefully the an- tecedent < f " which'' in the last clause Ingeminate.— Kejieat. Punctual - precise. -As used here, these words are nearly synonymous, meaning exact, observant of nice points. Upon action.— On the eve of action. Note other |)eculiar uses of urepositions in this sentence. 81, Whosoever . . hln.— Com- pare the sentiment of the poem, Good Life, I.oiii^ I. iff, in the Foi RTll Ri;.\i)KK, which Hen Jonscn wrote in memory of Sir W. .\lori.on, one of l>ord l-'alkland's early friends. '• (Jlarendon's ventence, are of extra ordinary leng.h, and U' ually contain numerous involved parentheses, lint while these qualities threaten obscm'ity, obscurity is always avoideil ; and they have the merii of enabling the writer t) ]iroduce a slow, stately, graceful nuisic, of which the short sentence is alto- gc! t h er i nca pable. ' — Encyclopi tdia Brit aiiniiu. XL-XIII. VENI CREATOR; LINES; REASON. The Veni Creator Sfiiritus deservedly has a place in nearly every collection of hymns, and for sublimity of thought it is not surpassed in all hymnology. It is a paraphrase of a Latin hymn popularly attributed to ( har'emagne. ■'Paraclete" is a Greek word, meaning oite ralLul to aid; hence, the Comfort- er, the Holy Spirit. The " unction " is the a:'ointing oil used in acts of consecration. ".Seven- fold" denotes perfection. " Proceeclnig" is probably suggested by the statement of the Nicene Creed, " the Holy Ghost . . who proccedeth from t!:e Father and the .Son." The six lines forming the epigram on MiUun were printed under a portrait of IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I IIIM IM m IM M M 1.8 1.25 1.4 1.6 ^ 6" - ► im V). <9 /}. ^;. '^M ^. o / /A Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY 14580 (716) 872-4503 L

e. Give other forces of the same prefix. Neither . . given.— Explain. How connected with what follows ? Nor mine . . mire.— Evidently "tlime" and "mine" refer to "strength." Should "it is" or "it were" be sup- plied before "doubled"? Supply the ellipsis with " nor mine." Where thou . . resist.— To make this agree with the eighth line of the extract it must mean , ' ' where thy power of resistance is weighed,'' etc., and for a similar reason, "his mounted scale aloft " must mean, ' ' which of the scales had mounted aloft." Otherwise, these lines would mean that the lot of Gabriel was put in one balance and that of Satan in the other. But fled . . night.— Why make Satan and night flee together ? Com- pare the twenty-sixth stanza of The Hymn, p. 75, and see the notes there- on. Amusing thoughts. — The primary sense of "amuse"' was to occupy or engage wholly, as here. Compare the primary meaning of "divert, " to turn aside, and trace a shade of these mean- ings in the present uses of "amuse- ment" and "diversion." Mingling.— Should this be " having mingled," to correspond with " having taken"? Speculations. —Trains of thought. Connect with the usual meaning at the present time. I dally . . public— The 5/.»<:/a- tor appeared daily from March ist, 1711, until December 6th, 1712, and was revived for a short time in 1714. It ran through 635 numbers in all, Ad- dison contributing 274 papers, and Steele 240. An essay. — Atrial. Trace the tran- sition to the meaning " essay" now has in literature. 96. But before . . earth.— The chief thought in this paragraph is the different value that objects have when looked at merely from a human stand- point from that which they have when viewed in the light of eternity. Exert . . gravity.— Shew their real weight. Upon emptying . . others.— The experiment recorded in this paragraph shows the vanity of titles and honors, which are so much esteemed among men. Cf. Fsalm l.xil. 9. The last sen- tence of the paragraph belongs more fitly to the next paragraph. Show in what respect the one sentence is the complement of the other. Edge of it.— Note that even as late as Addison's time the use of " its " was avoided. See note on "its last fulfil- ling," p. 463. Why is Vanity described a! . a glittering weight ? To one another.— Note that "each other" is used in the next sentence. Are both expressions cor ectly used ? Some others— many Others. — Name other pairs in each case. I Observed . . other.- With the teaching of this paragraph compare 11 Corintiiiansiv. 17, Cowper'sline, " lie- hind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face," and the third stanza of Longfellow's Resignation. Note care- fully whether it would be admissible to interchange "dialect" and "language" as here used. '91. There is a saying . . paper. — Examine carefully the teaching of this paragraph, and note how greatly the value of the pairs is enhanced by combination. Show that the parts of the different pairs mentioned are prof>er- ly co-related. Natural parts.— " Part.s " was com- monly used in the last century in the sense in which we now employ " tal- ents." How docs tlie experiment here mentioned confirm the truth of the Scotch saying ? Fails of dashing.— Re- write in the modern idiom. A dash of anything is 472 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. I 'il- Ilill fir II : ' t %, a small quantity of it added or thrown in. Note that " impertinence" is here used as the opposite of " seriousness." Give its other meaning. English octavo . . folio.— The idea is that the smaller English work is the haavier. Addison also shows his preference for the ancient authors, and has in mind, perhaps, the famous con- troversy on the comparative merits of ancient and modern learning, to which Swift contributed, in 1697, a satirical essay commonly entitled,. The Battle of the Books. 92. The first trial.— That is, the trial between wisdom and riches. Note the humor in the comparison, and also in the accounts of the remaining tests. The " twopenny piece " was the price of each number of the Spectator after the imposition of the half-penny tax upon newspapers, wlUfch came into ef- fect July 31st, 1712. Ten days before this Swilt wro.te : " Grub Street has but ten days to live, then an Act of Parlia- ment takes place that ruins it by taxing every sheet a halfpenny." In the Specta- tor for July 30th, No. 445, the increase in the price is announced, and in No. 488, Addison refers in a humorous way to remonstrances he had received on ac- count of the increased price. Tekel. — See Daniel V. 27. Does the allusion hexe weaken Addison's claim that the Spectator is a neutral paper. The first two lines of the Latm motto which stands at the head of this Essay in the Spectatorhaveheen translated as follows : "In sleep, when fancy is let loose to play. Our drearhs repeat the wishes ot the day." Compose a paragraph amplifying the statement made in these lines, and an- other illustrating the statement by refer- ence to the Essay. XVI. MISJUDGED HOSPITALITY. 93. Commerce. — Intercourse. De- velop its present meaning. V Kules of this kind.— No rules kave been mentioned in the preceding sei\- tence, but the reference is to " ies petites morales," which include rules of con- duct, the courtesies of life. In Other instances. — The reference is to those who understand the rules of conduct, but lack discretion in applying them. Conversation. — This word as here used shows the transition stage, having not only its present meaning, but also its old meaning, mode of life, deport- ment. Civility . . inclination.— The sub- ject of the Essay is stateJ here, illustrat- ed in the incident related, and restated in the last sentence. Note peculiarities in the structure of " in a visit," "from my cousin," " in great hurry," "whispered her," and other phrases in the selection. 94. Aqua nurabiiis. — Literally, wonderful water. My appetite . . gone. — How otherwise expressed in the selection ? Mr. Bickerstaff. — A nom deplume, or pen-name, under which Swift wrote. Small beer. — Light table-beer. " October " is the name of a strong, heavy ale, -brewed in that month. "Stingo" is a strong ale with a sharp, pungent taste. It may here mean a stronger liquor, perhaps a mixture. " Stale-beer" is a beer kept till it is flat or spiritless. The family is well supplied with liquors, as was generally the case with families in Swift's time. Write a composition on the Latin motto, " To have faithfully learned the lilx;ral arts makes the manners gentle," that is, liberal studies have a refining influence. The Toiler was a serial started by Steele in 1709, and published three times a week from the 12th of April of that year to January 2nd, 1811. Steele, Addison, and Swift were the princiijal contributors. i^ROM THE ^'ESSA Y ON MAN? 473 of Parlia- by taxing \XvcSpecta- increase in n No. 488, )us way to ved on ac- Does the son's claim al paper, ^atm motto ■ this Essay ranslated as let loose to ishes ot the jplifying the nes, and an- ient by refer- one. — How selection ? xom deplume, Swift wrote, table-beer. of a strong, that month, with a sharp, lere mean a a mixture, kept till it w family is well was generally Swift's time, on the Latm Uy learned the mncrs gentle," ave a refining rial started by ublished three 2th of April of 1, i8ii. Steele, re the princiijal XVII. FROM THE "ESSAY ON MAN." The Essay on Man is a poem in four epistles which treat ' ' of the nature and state of man with respect to" (i) " the universe," (2) "himself, as an individual," (3) " society," and (4) " happiness." The extracts to " Whatever is, is right," are from the first epistle ; to " Till tired . . o'er," from the second ; to "And all of God . . mend," from the third ; and the remaining extracts are from the fourth. Even these extracts, which comprise most of the finest passages of t!ie poem, are not free from that admixture of truth and error which character- izas the teachings of the Essay. The spurious philosophy of the poem is that of Bolingbroke, the celebrated Deist, who is said to have contributed the argu- ment, for which Pope furnished the verse. 96. Pago prescrlb'd.— Explained by 1 " their present state." \ From brutes . , know.— Supply the ellipsis. Being here. — The verb is notional here, as in the fifth line, p. 97. Wbosees . . world.— The teach- ing of these lines is in opposition to that of Matthew x. 31, and other pas- sages of Scripture. Deism admits the existence of a creating God, but denies to Him any concern in human affairs. Hope springs . . breast.— This is one of the many lines of the Esmy that have passed into daily use. The sentiment of the line finds expression 'so in Gay's more homely saying, " While there is life, there's hope. " The ancient story of Pandora's box illustrates the same sentiment. The poet makes m.an's present happiness depend partly upon his ignorance respecting future events, and partly upon his hope of a future state of happiness. Expatiates.— Wanders without re- straint. Compare the usual meaning. An humbler heaven. — Humbter than the heaven for which the tutored mind hopes. Note the truthful satire in ' no Christians thirst for gold, " the alhision being to the motive of the Spanish conquests in America. 97. Seraph's fire. — The Seraphim are I the fiery, and the Cherubim the winged |Sj)ints. " The first place or degree is I given to the angels of love, which are [termed Seraphim ; the second to the langels of light, whjch are teiu*d ICherubim. " — Bacon, What if the foot . . ordains. — See I Corinthians xil. 15-18. Informs our mortal part. —"In- forms " has here its primary meaning, gives form, power, life, to. The teach- ing of the passage, " all are . . all," has its origin in the Bible truth that God is omnipra(a^an and heathen, as here used. The Moham- medans also apply the name to Christ- ians. Saracens. — This name is here sy- nonymous with Arabians. It is also used to distinguish all who embraced Mohammedanism. 103. Alcoran. — That is, The Koran, the sacred book of the followers of Ma- homet. It literally meaiw the book (cf. " Bible"), al bemg the Arabic article, found also in algebra, alcohol, alcove, etc. The egreg:lous . . princes — Gregory VII., whose name was Hilde- brand, became Pope in 1073, and at once set himself to make the supremacy of the Church over the State acknow- ledged throughout Christendom. Being opposed by Henry IV., Emperor of (iermany, he brought about the depo- sition of that monarch, who was obliged to humble himself l)y standing nearly naked in the castle yard of Canossa for three days in the depth of winter. 104. Seculars. — This word was some- j times used to describe the jfc?//ar/riin. no. Godfrey of Bouillon. — I'h is prince, though really King of Jerusa- I lem, refused to bear the title in a city ! whe«e his Lord had worn the crown of i thorns. XX. THE BARD. The opening stanras of the poem represent the army of Edward I. , stopped on its march through the defiles of Snowdon by an old bard — the last of the race — who, from the summit of a lofty rock, denounces the king for the min and misery he has caused, and especially for the slaughter of his fellow-bards. Even mute nature seems to sympathize with him in his sorrow, and to call down vengeance upon the cruel king. In the third stanza, the bard pays a tribute of affection to his dead compan- ions, ending with a pathetic lament which is interrupted by the sudden appear- ance of the spirits of the dead men, who unite with him in pronouncing the doom of Edward and his race. First, he foretells the awful fate of E>Jward II., who, forsaken by his faithless wife, is foully murdered in Berkeley Castle. Then follows the jjrophecy of the victories of Edward III. in France, his mother's land, which seem like a judg- ment for her wickedness ; of Edward's sad and lonely death ; of the reign of Richard II., with its splendid beginning and its shameful end ; and of Richard's ignominious death by starvation. He then predicts the Wars of the Roses, the murder of Henry VI. and other princes in the Tower of London, and the death of Richard III. He is proceeding to foretell the death of Edward's queen, fc'hen the spirits of the dead bards take their departure, having ended their de- nunciation, for their country is avenged ; the throne of their murderer is filled by a prince of Welsh descent (Henry VII), and henceforth the Welsh have a share in the glory and splendor of this throne. The glorious reign of Elizabeth is next foretold, and the brilliant literary out- burst of the Elizabethan period, which seems to the bard like a. revival of the palrrty days of Welsh minstrelsy. In the last stanza are foreshadowed ShakesjDeare's dramas, Milton's epic, and tlie " distant warblings " of the poets after Milton's time. Turning his thoughts once more to Edward, the bard reminds him that his attempt to extinguish the light of poetic genius is vai.., that in spite of his cruelty it will blaze forth with increjfeing brilliancy, and that " the triumph of justice and the final glory of his own cause " are assured. This ends his song, and he plunges into the river thaj rolls at his feet. m r 476 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. ' !^ i III. Ruin . . Klngr. —This ab- rupt Ix'ginning is more forcible than if the |X)eni oix:necl with a description of Eklward's march. The repetition of the r sound also adds to the force. Ed- ward did not deserve to be called ruth- less. He was "an impulsive, generous man, trustful, averse from cruelty, prone to forgive." Though fann'd . . state.— A strik- ing metaphor. The meaning appears to be : — The victory, which is now cele- brated by the flying of banners, will prove not to be a lasting triumph. To what is conquest compared ? • E'en thy virtues.— What is the force of " e'en " ? For an estimate of Edward's character, see Green's History of the En^^lish People, Chap. iv. lilghtly . . fears.— What differ- ent meanings ha.s " nightly " ? The ter- rors of a guilty conscience are depicted in this line. Cambria. — Ancient and poetical name of Wales. What is gained by the repetition of " from Cambria's " ? Created pride. — Edward's warriors, of which he was proud. Note the me- tonymy. Explain the epithet ' ' crested. " Wild dismay.-" Wild " adds to the notion of confusion implied in ' ' dis- may. " Shaggy. — A common poetical epi- thet for forest-covered. He wound . . array. — An ex- ample of Imitative Harmony. Compare with the third line of the Ele^y, Stout Olo'ster.— How well the poet shows the alarm which the bard's words produced, by representing one of Ed- ward's distinguished generals struck speechless with terror, and another call- ing his men to arms as if about to be attacked by an enemy. Gloucester and Mortimer were two of the most power- ful nobles of Edward's reign ; the for- mer was the king's son-in-law, and the latter had been regent while Edward was in the East, at the beginning of his reign. Couch'd . . lance.— To couch a spear or lance is to bring it down from the perpendicular position in which it is earned when not in use, and to hold it with head to the front, in readiness for attack or defence. "Quivering" is probably imitated from the X^tin, tremens hasta, and intended to describe the vibrating motion made by the han- dle (usually of ash), or by the spear it- self when hurled against anything in which it sticks. There may also be an allusion here to the tremor caused by Mortimer's fear. On a rock. — "The rock is probably meant for Penmaen-mawr, the northern termination of the Snowdon range." How would an artist paint "a rock whose haughty brow frowns"? How would he paint "frowning Wrath"? The former is Personal Metaphor ; the latter. Personification. Old— foaming.— How do these epi- thets harmonize with the general spirit of the poem ? Robed . . woe. — Compai-e in beauty and expressiveness with its prose equivalent, "clad in mourning." Haggard. — Show the connection in meaning with hag. Llk9 a m3teor. — The comparison is probably suggested by Milton's descrip- tion of Satan's ensign, which "shone like a meteor streaming to the wind." Par. Lost, i. 537. Prophet's ttre.— Inspiration. Struck . . Ijrre.— .\ highly poetical line — as if the bard's lyre sympathized with his sorrow. So in the Lady of the Lake, II. 7, the old minstrel's harp seemed to forbode disaster. 112. H irk . . beneath. —The poets frequently represent nature as sympathizmg with human grief. Com- pare Byron's line, "grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves." Hundred arms. — The comparison of branches of trees to arms is common among the poets. Longfellow describes the trees as "waving their long arms to and fro," and "clapping their little hands in glee." The comparison of leaves to hands is as old as the time of Isaiah. Hoarser murmurs.— Murmurs be- coming hoarser and hoarser. The sigh- ing of the trees changes to hoarse mur- murs of revenge. Vocal no more. — ^The oak groves were the temples of the Druids, and hence the resort of the bards. Cambria's fatal day.— What is meant? LlewoHyn,— Either a bard, or the ii \ THE BARD. 477 ) describe the han- spear it- yrihing in ilso be an aused by probably ; northern 1 range." "a rock "•? How Wrath"? phor; the these epi- leral spirit mpai-e in th its prose inection in nparison is n'sdescrip- ch " shone the wind." on. ily poetical (Empathized Lady of the trel's harp ath. —The nature as rief. Com- ig, if aught mparison of is common )W describes ong arms to their little nparison of the time of urmurs be- r. The sigh- hoarse mur- oak groves Druids, and ds. — What is >ard, or the prince of that name, who is dcscrilxid as " hieweliyn the mild." Cold . . bead. — Note the power of the bard's songs, like that of Or- pheus, the sweet singer of (Jrecian my- tliology, whose nmsic was so divine that " trees uprooted left their place sequa- cious of the lyre." PlinUmmon.— One of the loftiest of the Welsh mountains, near the source of the river Severn. Arvon'B Btora.— "The shores of Caernarvonshire opposite to the isle of Anglesey " ((iray). Observe how the poet adds to his ghastly picture, by representing even the famished birds of prey flying in ter- ror from the scene of the murder. Dear . . heart. — An adaptation of Shakespeare's lines : ' ' As dear to me as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart." — yiilius CfFsar, ii. i. What does the dash after "cries" indicate? On yonder cliffs.-— Note the effect produced by the employment of the rhetorical figure called Vision. Orisly. — Compare in meaning with "haggard " and "ghastly." Dreadful harmony.— Why dread- ful? And weave . . line.— This idea is Ixjrrowed from an old Norse poem, jiaraphrased by Gray in The Fatal Sisters, in which the Fates of the Gothic mythology are repies?nted "as weav- ing the destinies of those who were doomed to perish in battle." Dr. John- son criticises Gray severely for convert- ing slaughtered bards into weavers. He seems to have forgotten FalstaflTs wish : ' ' I would I were a weaver ; I could sing psalms or anything." — / Henry n. II. 4. Weave . . woof. — The warp and woof woven together constitute the web. " Weave " is repeated for poeti- cal effect, as "mark" in 1. i, p. 113. Give . . enough.— Johnson con- sidered this Gray's weakest line. In early times historical scenes and in- cidents were woven or worked into the texture of tapestry. The most celebrat- ed example of this is the Bayeux tapes- try, a pictorial history of the Nofiuan Conquest. 113. The night.— Sept. 21st, 1327, Bhe-wolf . . mate.— The wolf is one of the few wild .ininials that will devour a " mangled mate." The lan- guage is strong but not unnieritwl by Isabella, Edward's adulterous (jueen. Shakespeare in /// Henry ]'l. 1. 4, makes the r)uke of York apply the same epithet to Margaret of Anjou, i^ut for a very different reasoji. The scourge of Hdaven. - I'hc scourge that Heaven permits to come upon men for their sins. Should not war rather be called the scourge of Hell ? Amazement . . behind.— An al- lusion to the terror excited in France by the victories of Edward III., and to the misery and desolajion which his victor- ies entailed upon that country. See Green's History of the English People, Bk. IV. Chap. III. Mighty . . obsequies. —Edward III. died in a dishonored old age, abandoned by his children, and even robbed in his last moments by his cour- tiers and his mistress, Alice Ferrers. Is the . . fled. — Read in a tone of surprise. Why ? The Black Prince died in June, 1376. The swarm , . bom.— Complete the question. Explain what is meant by "born in thy noontide lieam, ' and show that thir. expression is used appro- priately with "swarm." The rising mom.— The new king. Richard II., whose reign was ushered in with great rejoicing. Explain fully the meaning of the comparison made in the six Ijnes that follow, and show in what respect they fitly illustrate the reign of Richard 11. Fair laughs . . goes.— Describe a laughing morn. What is gained by using " zephyr " and "azure realm"? Giveequivalentproseexpressions. "Gal- lant " is used in the sense di gay, shimy. What is the line, " In . . goes," in- tended to illustrate? Youth . . helm.— A favorite sub- ject -for artists. In Richard II. \\. i, the conversation between John of Gaunt and the Duke of York reveals the life of pleasure which Richard led. Grim repose. — Explain. What events in Richard's reign may be de- scribed as a Whirlwind's sway f FlU hlgb . . guest. — In these rwr 478 T//£ HIGH SCHOOL READER, iV' 1 i( III''*) 11 iit5i 11 lines there is an allusion to Richard's love of pleasure, and to the supposed cause of his death. Baleita smile. ~A smile full oibale or calamity. Distinguish from ghastly smile. 114. Heard . . way. — A prophecy of the Wars of the Roses. Battle bray.— ' Bray " is from the same root as " brawl.'' Trace any con- nection in nu ning. Long years . . way. — Express in prose diction. Show the appropri- ateness of " kindred " and " mow." Ye towers.— " The oldest, part of the Tower of London is vulgarly attri- buted to Julius Caesar " (Gray). Refer to soii;e of the foul murders that took place in the Tower. Meek usurper— In Gray's opinion the Lancastrian line had no right of inheritance to the crown. Henry's consort, Margaret of Anjou, was a woman of heroic spirit, who struggled hard to save the crown for her husband and her son. " Meek " is a mild term to apply to the weak-minded royal ci- pher, Henry VI. Above . . spread. -Ifthereisany historical reference in these lines, it is l^robably to the varying fortunes of the rival houses during the thirty years which the war lasted. The bristled boar.— A name given to Richard III. because his crest was a silver boar. Observe the continuance of the comparison 'n the use of " wal- lows." In "thorny shade," there is probably an allusion to the finding of the crown near a hawthorn bush after the battle of Bosworth. What is the allusion in "infant-gore"? How . . doom.— The change of metre from tetrameter to pentameter, and then to hexameter in the last line, produces a rhetorical effect, greater per- haps in this stanza thr' 'n the other two stanzas where the same changes occur. In these two lines we seem to see the weavers bending to their task with incieased delight and energy. Greater vividness is produced also by the tro- chaic effect of the first foot of the last line, and by the employment of the abrupt-ending consonant sounds. Why is the loom accttnhd} Tbe tliread Is spun. ^-^ An allusion to the work of the three Fates of classical mythology, one of whom held the dis- taff, a second spun out the thread of life, and the third cut the thread when the period of life allotted to each individual came to an end. Half Of thy heart. -So Horace, in Oue 1. 3, 8, calls Virgil the half of his h oul. 'I'he allusion here is to Eleanor of Castile, wife of Eklward I., whose heroic proof of affection for her husband is thus referred to by Tennyson in A Dream of Fair VV^omen : — ' • Who kneeling, with one arm about her king. Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath." Eleanor died shortly after Edward's re- turn from Wales, -ind he showed his sorrow for her loss by erecting a cross to her memory at each place where her funeral procession halted for the night on the journey to Westminster, from Hardby, in Nottinghamshire, where she died. Some of these crosses still re- main. Charing Cross in London re- ceived its name from the Eleanor cross erected at that spot. Stay, stay!- Addressed to the spirits of 'he departed bards. W*y does the poet dismiss them at this IX)int? rorlom.— -'\n .Anglo-Saxon partici- ple, from the same verbal stem as lose (leosan). An example of rhotacism, or the interchange of J and r. Compare aX'aO frore und/roze, rear and raise. In yon . . skies. —A poetical de- scription of the glow of the setting sun. But OhI . . ^onll— The vision changes ; it is no longer a vision of de- struction and death, but one of glory, in which the Welsh people have a share. Olitterlng skirts. —There seems to be a contrast with the " winding sheet" of II. I. , on which were traced the char- acters that foretold the doom of Ed- ward's race. These "skirts," on the other hand, bear in flittering characters the prophecy of Britain's glory, which the bard imagines to begin with the ac- cession of Henry VII., a prince of Welsh descent. The future glories of Britain seem to spread themselves before him like a panorama, until his eyes become wearied and bis mind confused THE BARD. 479 , of classical lekl the dis- iread of life, id when the ;h individual I Horace, in i half of his > to Eleanor d I., whose her husband inyson in A e arm about h her balmy Edward's re- ; showed his :cting a cross ice where her for the night minster, from ire, where she asses still re- I London re- Eleanor cross ressed to the jards. W.ty them at this axon partici- stem as lose hotacism, or Compare and raise. poetical dc- the setting —The vision vision of de- one of glory, have a share, ere seems to inding sheet" aced the char- doom of Ed- irts," on the ing characters glory, which n with the ac- a prince of ture glories of iiselves before ntil his eyes ilnd confused with the rapid succession of pictures that are presented to his enraptured V ision. There is no doubt an allusion to the revival of Itiarning, to the spirit of discovery, and, in general, to the t,'reater activity in every department of life which marked the opening of the sixteenth century, as if a new era had dawned upon the world. Long-lost Artbur. — "It was the ron\mon belief of ihe Welsh nation that King -Arthur was atill alive in Fairy- land, and would return again to reign over Britain " (( Jray). It was doubtless in deference to this belief that Henry V'll. named his son Arthur. Genuine kings. —What is the force of "genuine"? •' Ik)th Merlin and Taliessinhad prophesied that the Welsh should regain their sovereignty over iJritain ; which seemed to be accom- plished in the house of Tudor." (Gray.) Sublime . . rear— "Sublime" lias here its literal meaning, raised on high, elevated. The reference is to the Tudor sovereigns, and to the splend>jr of their reign. In the expression, " bearded majesty," we have no doubt an allusion to the fashion of wearing l)(!ards, which became common in the icij,^ of Henry VIII., the king himself s(;tting the fashion. Note the value of the comma after " dames." (15. In tbe midst . . grace.— (iray in these lines follows the fashion of Spenser and other writers of Eliza- licth's reign, who gratified her vanity liv addressing her in a strain of fulsome llattery. Wbat Strings , . play.— Under the figure of a bard singing and ac- companying himself with the harp, we have a prophecy of the poetical revival of Elizabeth's reign. TallesBin. — A distinguished bard who flourished in the sixth century. High praise is bestowed upon the poetry of this period when the bard deems it w orthy of Taliessin. Br!;^bt . . wings.- Explain the I)orsonificalion. The bard seems to Ik; enraptured with the bright vis- ion now presented to him. If it is |.ossible to make a particular applica- tion of the comparison in these lines, v\e may find in the expressions, " the cyo of heaven" and " many-color'd," an allusion to tho sublimity and bril- liancy of the writings of this time and to the great variety of these writings respectively. 'ilie vene . . dreat.- What is the subject of ' ' adorn " ? These lines refer to Spenser's luiirie Queen, from which Gray borrowed the language : " Fierce wars and faithful loves shall moralize my song.'' In buBldn'd . . breast. — The tragedies of Shakespeare are meant. The buskin was a shoe worn among the ancients by tragic actors. It had a very thick sole and was intended to give the actor an elevated api^earance. In " pler^'.ing Pain" we have the figure Oxyni,, n. Dryden, Tennyson, and other poets use the same expression. Note the forcible way of expressing the agitation produced by Horror, lix- amine the appropriateness of the epi- thets employed. A voice . . bear.— Milton. In " Gales . . bear,"' we have an allu- sion to his chief poem. And distant . . expire.- "The .succession of poets after Milton's time. '' (Gray.) Fond, impious man.— Edward I. " Fond " is used in its original sense of foolish. Why is " impious " a .suitable .'ipithet here ? To what is the slaughter )f the bards compared ? Give the mean- ing of "sanguine" here, and show the connection of its various meanings. He repairs.— Note the force of " re- • pairs." "The golden flood" of sun- light is merely broken or interrupted by these clouds. With Joy . . mine.— Contrast the doom of the bard with that of Edward. Explain the meaning of "sceptred " by expanding it into a clause. Note the imperfect rhymes, especially in the lasi stanza. The tradition on which The Bard is founded is groundless, but that it has had general currency is not surprising, for the fact that national songs help to keep alive a spirit of patriotism would furnish a motive for such a massacre. Many stories have been told of the wonderfully inspiring effects of nati0n.1l airs, from the time of Tyrtieus, whose songs- animated the courage of the Spartans in the seventh century before ' 'HI'* 'I 4.8o THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. I -i ■■! Christ. It is related, for instance, that at thu battle of Jcinappes, in 1792, Du- mouricz, the French general, turned de- feat into victory by strikinj* up the .\/ar- scillaise. at a critical moment in the tight ; and that another French general, in want of niinforcements, asked for a thousand men and a copy of the Mar- seillaise. (iray s two great odes, Tlie Prot^ress of Poesy and The Bard, arc called " Pindaric," because they are modelled after the style and manner of l*indar, the great lyric jx of Greece. The poem is in three set ns, of three stan- zris each. The first stanza of each sec- lion is called the strophe, or turn ; the second, the anfistrophe, or counter- turn ; and the third, the epodos, or after- song. These names are derived fron^ the movements and the singing of the chorus in the Greek theatre. Observe that the first section con- tains .1 description of the bard, liis de- nunciation of Edward, and his lament for his dead companions ; the second describes the fate of Edward and his race ; and the third has for its subject the bard's vision of Britain's glorious future. XXI. ON AN ADDRESS TO THE THRONE. 116. The noble Earl . . it.— Parlia- ment opened on the 18th of November, and Earl Percy was the mover of the Address in the House of Lords. Another princess. — Sophia, fifth daughter of George III., born Novem- ber 3rd, 1777. Misfortune and disgrrace.— Chat- ham considered it a misfortune and a disgrace for England to be at war with her colonies, regarding the war as unjust on the part of the mother country. General Burgoyne's army, called the " Northern force" on p. 119, had surrendered at Sara- toga, October 17th, just one month before the delivery of this speech, but tidings of the disaster had not then reached England. The sur- render is foreshadowed in the sjjeech, p. 119. Monstrous measures. — The govern - ment proposed the employment of Indians in the war with America. See p. 120. In the course of the debate. Lord Suffolk, one of the secretaries of state, defended their employnjent on the ground that ' ' it was perfectly justi- fiable to use all the means that God and nature put into our hands," a statement against which Chatham pro- tested in a powerful burst of eloquence. Upon our honors. — In consequence of our rank. 117. Minister of the day. -A com- movi way of speaking of the Premier, who at that time was Lord Noctii.. But yesterday . . reverence. — An adaptation of Shakespeare's lines in Ju ius Caesar, III. 2. n6-n8. Poetry — fiction. — What feature common to poetry and fiction has the speaker in mind? T'8. French Interference.— Chat - h) .1 was throughout his life a deter- mined opponent of I'rance, regarding that country as the natural enemy of England. He was opposed to the war in America ; but when France, in Feb- mary, 1778, made a close alliance with the revolted colonies, he demanded the vigorous prosecution of the war; and while speaking in the House of Lords in opposition to a motion in favor of peace, April, 1778, he saiil< down in a fit, and was carried homo Ij die. Plenipotentiaries. — Ambassador; to foreign courts, furnished with / power to negotiate treaties, o: .0 tra;. act other state business. Benjam Franklin, Arthur Lee, and Silas Dcanc were the plenipotentiaries or commis- sioners referred to here, and it wits through Franklin's influence, aided 1 y the disaster at Saratoga, that then liance with Trance was brought abo .: in I77S- Chatham, in concert wiJi Franklin, had at one time prepared a l)ill which was designed to remove all the causes of dispute between England and her colonies, but the bill was re- jected by Parliament. Rebels — anamlea. — What doas tlie FROM THE VICAR OF IVAKEFlFLD. \%\ )f each sec- r turn ; the )r counter- los, or after- ;rivecl froin ging of the oction con- ard, his tic- i his lament the second ard and his r its subject ill's glorious iNE. erence. — An e's lines in [i8. ^'hat feature ction has the ence. — Chat- 1 life a deter- e, regarding liral enemy ot d to the war ance, in Feb- alliance with demanded of the war; he House ot motion iu 778, he sank ried home Ij Ambassador^ hed with /. , 0-. .0 tra;, ;. BenjaiM d Silas Deal 10 s or comniis- and it wi^ nee, aided liy that the a • rought alio .: concert wih ■nc prepared a to remove a!i ,veen England e bill was rc- ^hat doas tlie change of name signify ? Compare the change from rebellion to revolution. In the omitted portion of this para- graph Chatham refers to a historical parallel, when Queen felizabeth, on the remonstrance of Spain, expelled Flemish exiles who were in revolt against Spanish authority. Torescuethe ear Of majesty, .it. — What do politicians usually mean by such phrases ? 119. German prince. —In 1776, Bri- tain made treaties with the Landgrave of Hesse Cassel and other German princes for the hiring of troops for service in America. The employment of these troops — brutal as mercenaries generally are— espceially enraged the colonists, among whom "Hessian" became a thoroughly detested name, liy the " foreign troop " mentioned on page 128, Chatham means these German mercenaries, and in an omitted para- graph he refers to the debasing in- fluence of these " illiberal allies " upon the English troops. See also page 120, " Infected . . virtue." The first three clauses of the sen- tence, beginning "You may dwell," should b© read throughout with sus- tained force. They furnish good examples of the loud, or strong ecjuable concrete. The last sentence of the paragraph should be read in the same manner, increasing the force with tiie repetition of " never." 121. America is in ill humor.— The Americans were receiving assis- tance in money and in men— notably Lafayette- from France, but they wish- ed to be recognized as an independent nation. This advantage they gained by tlie treaty with France in 1778. 1 22. 'X he sound parts of America — In the preceding paragraph Chatham gives his views as to the relations which should exist Ijetween England and her colonies Many of the colonists be- lieved with Chatham in " reser\'ing always as the sacred right of the mother country, the due constitutional dependency of the colonies. " The colo- nists began the war "for the defence of their liberties," not for indejxin- dence, which indeed was not thought of by their leaders until after the English government's contemptuous rejection, in 1775, of the second petition of Con- gress. Even after the commencement ofhostilities, Jefferson stated that the possibility of bepai-ation "was con- templated with affliction by all." 123. The extraordinary prepara- tions . danger.— The hostility bf Chatham to France was well founded in this instance at any rate, for the alliance between F'nnce and the United States was joined in 1779 by Spain, as a result cf the family com- pact formed between the Bourbon courts of France and Spain ; and in 1780, the " Armed Neutrality, "a union hostile to England, was formed by Russia, Denmark, and Sweden. Hol- land also in the same year joined the number of Britain's enemies. The river Of Lisbon . . enemies.— The river Tagus near its mouth is known also by the name of the river of Lisbon( rm de Lisboa ). Previous to 1 778 , the most friendly relations had existed between Britain and Portugal. In that year Portugal joined the Bourbon com- pact. With the forehead . . hope.— Each feature is supposed to be the index of some trait of character, the forehead being indicative of modesty or its opposite. Our vulgar or slang use of "cheek" would fairly give Chat- ham's meaning here. 126. Caprice — punctilio.— Name epithets usually employed to mark the French and Spanish characters. This speech is generally considered Lord Chatham's greatest effort. The Duke of Grafton said, " In this debate he exceeded all tliat I ever admired in his speaking." It did not produce the desired effect, however, for the amend- ment was rejected by a vote of 97 to 24. XXII. FROM " THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD." Dr. Primrose, the vicar of the story, is supposed, like the preacher of the De- serted Village, to be a portrait of Goldsmith's father, with some added touches d82 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. from his brother Henry's character. His family consists of his wife Deborah, proud of her skill in housekeeping and eager to appear genteel ; his son George, whose mistake in going to Holland to teach English without knowinga word of Dutch, is probably a recollection of the author's cwn early adventures ; his lovely daughters, Olivia and Sophia, who share their mother's vanities ; his son Moses, who resembles the father in his simplicity ind pedantry ; and two younger lads. This selection abounds in fine instances of Goldsmith's humor and originality. The portrayal of the characters is extremely felicitous, and the incidents are re. lated w'th striking simplicity and naturalness. 127. Mr. Burchell. —An upright , hon- orable gentleman who had won the gratitude of the family by saving Sophia from drowning, but having caused of- fence by giving disagreeable advice, he absented himself for a time. Our landlord.— Mr. Thomhill, a worthless young rake, the very opposite of Mr. Burchell. Piquet: — A game of cards jilayed be- tween two persons, with thirty-two cards, the ace of spades 'aj de pique) being the highest card, 1 28. Ate short and cnsp. — Sec H. S. Grammar, xiii. 27. Well knit. — Strong, full-flavored. Extremely of a siza.— ' ' Extremely" is used in the sense of exactly. Impenetrable. — The affirmative, penetrable, is rare. What is the sub- stitute for it in this .sentence? 128. Limner. — An old name for an artist, especially a portrait-painter. And I said much. — OI)serve how naturally and with what fine effect this phrase and the phrase, "What could I do ? " are introduced to give us an in- sight into the relations that existed be- tween the simple-minded vicar and his vain wife and daughters. 129. No variety . . world.— It cannot be denied that the vicar's family picture possessed variety ; but what about the com-toaition or harmonious grouping of the figures ? Independent . . flgrures. — Note the incongruities both in the costumes and in the unique grouping of the char- acters. The fancy, gaiety, and humor of the auther come out most strongly here. The whole account of the family picture is in Goldsmith's finest vein. Stomacher.— Part of a lady's dress forming an ornamental covering for the breast. Neither this nor the diamond would suit the character of Venus. Whlstonian controrersy. — Mr. Whiston, an English clergyman who succeeded Sir Isaac Newton as profes- sor of mathematics at Cambrige, held the opinion that it was unlawful for a clergyman of the Church of England to marry again, after the death of his first wife. "My books" were the vicar's sermons in defence of this opinion — a strange gift to Venus, the heathen god- dess of love and marriage. Just as ab- surd is Olivia's posing as an Amazon in a gold-laced green riding habit. Assiduity — expedition. — Distin- guish, and give synonyms. The short- ness of time required to complete the painting is perhaps one of the most re- fined humorous touches in the narra- tive. 130. Occurred — fix. — The use of these vrords is worthy of notice. Our u.se of "fix" in the sense of make ready, put in order, is an Americanism. A reel in a bottle. — An ingenious toy. The word "reel," applied to a roller for holding thread, is becoming obsolete in Canada, " spool " taking its place. But scandal . . opposition. — Note the peculiar use of " im^iroves." The conduct of the Vicar's neighbors shows a trait of human nature common in all ages, and well described in the following translation of a passage from the ninth Satire of Juvenal : — ' ' And there's a lust in man no charm can tame Of loudly publishing our neighbor's shame ; On eagle's wings immortal scandals f y. While virtuous actions are but born and die." We once ayain . . . approve. — The Vicar's scruples must yield to the ambition and vanity of his wife and daughter. This scheme ol terrifying a MEETING OF JOHNSON WITH WILKES. 4^3 eborah, proud ieorge, whose rord of Dutch, ;s; his lovely [lis son Moses, » younger lads, nd originality, cidents are re. (versy. — Mr. lergyman who vton as profes- jambrige, held unlawful for a n of England to [eath of his first rere the vicar's this opinion — a he heathen god- ge. Just as ab- is an Amazon in ig habit. Ltlon. — Distin- ms. The short- to complete the 3 of the most re- 63 in the narra- X.— The use of of notice. Our sense of make an Americanism. . — An ingenious ;1," applied to a ead, is becoming spool " taking its opposition. — i of " im-proves." Vicar's neighbors in nature common 1 described in the of a passage from venal : — in man no charm g our neighbor's [lortal scandals ?y, IS are but born and . . . approve. es must yield to the y of his wife and erne ot terrifying a suitor with a rival appears to have been a common one in Addison's time. See the letter on " Shoeing-horns ' in No. 536 of the Spectator. What word should "then" modify? Should there be a comma after " prevent it ' ? 131. Warm fortunes. — "Warm " means sufficient to produce ease and comfort, moderately rich. Cf. "warm man," p. 132. Madam . . . provide.— Note the correct use of " should " and " would " in this paragraph. The Vicars wife, in her conversation with Thornton, is not artful enough to conceal her design or "to discover the honor of his addresses,' and she is too simple-minded, and too an.xious for her daughter's welfare to detect any insin- cerity in the fulsome language and stagey manner of tlu protli-jate. XXIII. MEETING OF JOHNSON WITH WILKES. James Boswell, eldest son of the Laird of Auchinleck, was born at Edinburgh, and educated for the bar. He was a thorough hero-worshipper, and nothing so delighted him as to make the acquaintance of men who had become celebrated or notorious. He became .acquainted with Johnson in 1763, and^though twice rebuffed by him at their first meeting, and many times afterwards, he neverthe- less became the devoted follower and admirer of the great literary dictator, to the intense disgust of the old laird, his father, who thought that Jamie was " gaen clean gyte (crazy), in pinning himself to the tflil of an auld dominie." His worship of Johnson, and of eminent men generally, made him the laughing- stock of his associates ; but " he had the faculty of sticking," as Goldsmith said, and for twenty years he stuck to Johnson, took note of his apf>earance, his habits, his words, his actions, and, indeed, of the minutest details of his daily life ; and he gave the result of his observations to the world in the most charm- ing biography that has ever been written. For different estimates of Boswell's intellectual capacity , see Macaulay's criti- cal review of "Croker's edition of BoswcWs Life of Johnson, and Leslie Stephen's Samuel Johnson in the " English Men of Letters " series. great painter, and the founder of the famous Literary Club to which Johnson, Goldsmith, Burke, and other distin- guished literary men belonged. 133. Pars magna fol — These lines from Virgil's ^neid, n. 6, may b,; translated, " I played an important part." Two men more difTerent.— Wilkes was a Whig, an infidel, and a "pa- triot " ; Johnson was a High-church Tory, and detested " patriots." I have ever delighted . . person. — Perhaps this analytical bent of Bos- well's mind may account for his habit of thrusting himself upon celebrp.led men. Sir John Pringle. — An eminent Scotch physician. In 1772, he was elect- ed president of the Royal Society, of which Boswell was corresponding secre- tary. 134. Mr Joibiut Btynoidt. —Tiie 135. Jack Ketch. — In England, a name given to a hangman ; so called from John Ketch, a noted executioner who lived in the seventeenth century. It was he who beheaded Monmouth. 136. Buffeting his hooks. — John- son's library, in the garret of his house in Fleet Street, was "a large and mis- cellaneous collection of books, f dling to pieces, and covered with dust. Mrs. Williams. — Johnson's kind- ness of heart led him to open his house as an asylum to several poor people ; one of these was a blind old lady named Williams, wlum he installed at the bead 4^4 THE HTGH SCHOOL READER. mM of thc^cstablrshment. Another member of his household was Frank Barber, a negro, whom Johnson had sent to school and afterwards retained in his service ; but what services I'rank rend- ered to Johnson has not been ascer- tained,* tor his master's clothes were usually as dusty as his books, and his wig was "as hii penetrable by a comb as a quickset hedge.'* 137. Qretna Green.— Springfield, or Gretna Green, a village in Dumfries- shire, near the English border, was noted for the marriages of runaway English couples which were contracted liiere. Mr. Arthur Lee.— A member of a distinguished Virginian family, to whicli Roliert E. Lee, the well-known Confed- erate general, also belonged. He was at this time ( 1776) in England, advocat- ing the rights of the colonics, and act- ing as agent for several of them. In 1777, he was one of Franklin's col- leagues in France. See note on " pleni- potentiaries," p. 480. He was a fine 'scholar, and his ability as a writer has ,/on for him the name of " The Ameri- can Junius. '" 1^8. Burly virtue. — From John- son s London, 1. 143, " Can surly virtue hope to fix a friend ? " The om tted portion at the beginning cf this para- graph gives the names of Mr. Dilly's guests. Foote. — Samuel Foote, actor and dramatic author, Crilled "the English Aristophanes." He and David Garrick, the actor, and Fitzherbert, a literary man of the period, belonged to the lit- erary coterie of which Johnson was the oracle. Lord Chesterfield's name in connection with that of Johnson will al- ways bring to mind the latter's well- known sarcastic letter to his Lordship, which Carlyle calls " the far-famed blast of doom proclaiming that patron- age should be no more. " 139. Merry-andrew. — A buffoon ; so named from Andrew Borde, a phy- sician to Henry VI H., who attracted attention and gained patients by face- tious speeches to the multitude. 140. The boldest < . Dunsinane.— See Macbeth., V. 5. Milton's remarlc— From L Allegro, 1. 36. The struggle of the Stviss against 'ho Austrians in the 14th century, and in later times, iliatof the Montenegrins against the Turks, are illustrations of the truth of Milton's remark. Cannot the same thing be said of the Highland- ers ? Can their loyalty and devotion to their chiefs be properly called ' ' clan- nish slavery " ? Off . . Aylesbury.— An adapta- tion of CoUey Gibber's line, " Off with his head 1 so much for Buckingham I " which is altered ixam. Richard III., Ill, 4- 75- _ 141. When I claimed . . fug^ae. — Boswell airs his legal knowledge at a very inopportune time, but such stupid, ill-timed interruptions were character- istic of the man. 142. Corps diplomatique. — The diplomatic body, that is, the whola body of foreign ministers and other repre- sentatives to any court or government. Is there anything forced or unnatural noticeable in the meeting of Johnson and Wilkes, which would show that the two men were not so entirely at their ease as Boswell supposed them to be ? XXIV. THE POLICY OF THE EMPIRE. This selection, which contains the o[3ening paragraphs of Gibbon's history, furnishes a giood example of dignified and stately English, abounding in words of classical origin. Gibbons sentences are models of condensation owing to his remarkable skill in the use of epithets ; and as a further result of their abundant employment, his sentences are less complex in structure. He always makes his meaning clear, but lack of variety in the structure of his sen- ON THE ATTACK UPON HIS PENSION. 485 ihnson will al- latter's well- lis Lordship, he far-famed [ that patron - - A buffoon ; iorde, a phy- A'ho attracted tients by face- titude. Junslnane.— omL Allegro, iS.viss against century, and Montenegrins Uusirations of lark. Cannot theHighiand- nd devotion to called "clun- .— An adapta- ne, " Off with iuckingham I " chard I II., \n. . . lugae. cnowledge at a lut such stupid, /ere character- itlque. — The the whole body id other repre- jr government, ed or unnatural ng of Johnson d show that the ntirely at their d them to be ? fcnc'js, and the frequent recurrence of antitheses and elegantly rounded periods, render his style Eomewhat monotonous and tiresome. 142. Andent renown . . Tslor.— The frequent use of the abstract for the concrete noun is characteristic of Gib- bo* /s style. Point out examples. 143. Enjoyed — abused. — Expand the sentence to bring out the full nieanmg expressed in these two words. Executive powers.— Distinguished from Ui^islative and from judicial powers. Seven flrst centuries.— The period from the founding of the city B.C. 753. For the orci - of words, .oee H. S. Grammar, XVIII. 19, Remote wars. — Note that ' ' remote " is emphatic, and that the truth of the three statements that follow depends upon the remoteness of the wars. Arrows of the Partblans.— The allusion in "arrows" is to the Par- thian mode of warfare. They fought on horseback, their chief weapon being the bow and arrow. After the first discharge, they turned their horses as if in full flight, while fitting a second arrow to the string. This was then discharged backwards, and so they continued ♦be fight until they exhausted their arrows or gained the victory. Hence, the expression "Parthian ar- row ' is used figuratively for a parting shot at an opponent. Defeat of Crassns.— This event took place B.C. j;3. Crassus' formed with Caesar and Pompey the first Triumvirate, B.C. 60, and was made governor of Syria. Horace, in Ode III. 5, eulogizes Augustus for wresting the standards from the Parthians. 144. Sl£:nal act of despair.— The Germans rose in revolt under their great national hero, Arminius (Latin for Hermann), and defeated and des- troyed the Roman legions commanded by Varus, A. D. 9. Why is this revolt called an ' ' act of despair ' ? 145. No less fatal to himself— Fatal through the jealousy of rhc Kni- perors, as intimated in the first clause of the sentence. For example, Ger- manicus was recalled from Germany by Tiberius and Agricolafrom Britain by Domitian. See p. 146. What irregu- larity in the second clause ? After a war . . yoke -The Emperors referred to in this sentence are Claudius, Nero, and Domitian. Without conduct. — " Conduct * means here good generalship. Trace the connection with the usual meaning. Wild Inconstancy.— What added ideain "wild"? Has " while" its usual meaning in the clause that follows ? Felt . . inspired.- On account of Domitian's atrocious cruelties, a conspiracy was formed against him, and he began to feel the same insecu- rity of life which he had made others feel. 146. Navigation. — The reference is to the west coast of Britain. Had observed— is divided. — On what ground can the sequence of tenses be justified ? The native Caledonians . . valor. — Compare Johnson's reference to the Highlanders, p. 140, and see note thereon. Compare Gibbon's style with that of Hume (Selection Xix), and note that the former habitually uses the period, and the latter, the loose sentence. RE. bbon's history, abounding in »f condensation urther result of structure. He cture of his sen- XXV. ON THE ATTACK UPON HIS PENSION. In 1794, Burke retired from Parliament, and the king was about to raise him to the peerage, with the title of Lord Beaconsfield, when the sudden death of his only son, "the heaviest of all calamities," made him indifferent to the honor. He was induced, however, to accept a pension, and this led to the Duke of Bedford's ungenerous attack, and to Burke's l-.tt ;r in reply, which is one of the 486 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. !l!l finest efforts of his genius, and is claimed by John Morley to be "the most splendid repartee in the English language." He lies . . rood.— See /'ararf/> Lost, I. 196, Bpiraclea. —Blow-holes of cetaceans. This enunieratioii of particulars is in- tended to show how completely the Duke was a life, an ill-used servant of a slave-dealer in Sierra Leone, a slave-dealer himself, the captain of a slave-ship, and finally, an evangelical preacher whose devotion and zeal had attracted the poet and his friend to Olney. In 1779, Newton left Olney for London, and thenceforth, for twenty years, he was one of Cowpor's correspondents. The poet's last preserved letter, dated April nth, 1799, was written to Newton, 155. Men of Gotbam. -— Would-be wise men, fools who think themselves wise ; here, the magistrates of Olney. Gotham is a parish \: Nottinghamshire, England, whose inhabitants were noted for tht.i' stupidity. Many stories are told of the foolish conduct of the men of Gotham, to justify the meaning given to the expression. Washington Irving in Salmagundi applied the name to the city of New York, because its inhabi- tants were such wiseacres. Oar conflagration. — Several fires, supposed to be the work of incendiaries, had happened at Olney and other places in the neighborhood. 156. Capillary dub.— The queue of the constable's wig. An eztraortiL&ary gazette. — A special issue of the officiai organ of the government. Orchard Side.— The poet's home at Olney, " a dismal, prison-like, tumble- down house." 157. Two ladles. — Mrs. Unwin and Lady Austen. A mob appeared.— Olney had a re- putation for rowdyism, and Cowper's house was in the worst part of the town. Mr. Qrenvllle.— William Grenville (1759-1834) was a cousin of the younger Pitt. When Pitt became Prime Min- ister hi 1783, Grenville was appointed by him paymaster-general of the army. At the time referred to by Cowper, Grenville was probably canvassing his constituents in preparation for the gen- eral election of 1784, He becan^e Lord Grenville in 1790, and succeeded Pitt as Prime Minister in 1806. Puss. — A tame hare, one of Cowper's numerous pets. 158. The dispute . . ; Commons. — "At one time Cowper was inclined to regard the government of George III. as a repetition of that of Charles I. , absolutist in the State and reactionary in the Clmrch ; but the progress of le- volutionary opinionb . vidently increased his loyalty, as it did that of many other Whigs, to the good Tory king. " — Gold- win Smith. It might be said of the ministry of Lord North, and of one or two of the short-lived ministries which immediately preceded that of Pitt, that they were on the side of the Crown, but it could not be said in the same sense of Pitt's ministry. Cowper, who was not conversant with public affairs, no doubt looked upon all governments as sup- porters of the king's personal views, and moreover, Pitt's ministry was only in its infancy Cowper had probably too low an opinion of his mfluence at Olney. There were no gentry there, and he seems to have taken the squire's place, being commonly known as " Sir Cowper. He makes a humnrous reference to this in a couplet quoted in one of his let- ters : — " One parsofj, one poet, one bellman, one crier. And the poor poet is the only squire.' XXVII. FROM "THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL." 159. Choked with galL — " Gall " is used metaphorically for passion, hatr jd. There seems to be a sort of cli- max in "tiffed," " quarrelled,'' "chok- ed with gall. " We still say, " to choke with passion. " ' GroBTenor Square.— A fashionable quarter in London. Note the unusual meaning of •' doubt" four lines below, suspect, am inclined to think. 160. The man . . husband.— Joseph Surface, the hypociite of the play. 160. Fautheon,— Sir Peter probably THE COTTER'S SA TURD A Y NIGHT. 489 means the church of Ste. Genevifeve in Paris, also called the ' ' Pantheon " after the celebrated church of that name in Rome, which was once a heathen tem- ple jonsecrated to all the gods {pan, all, and theos, a god). The Pantheon at Paris was at one time the burial place of distinguished Frenchmen, the West- minster Abbey of Paris. K file chain- pttre, or rural festival, is a festival or entertainment held in the open air. 161. Oona. — In the comedies of the Restoration period we meet with the word " Udswoons," which appears to be a fuller form of both "Oons" and "Zounds," all being corruptions of " God's wounds." There seems to be at all times a disinclination to use God's name in the profanity of " polite" so- ciety, and therefore, various corrup- tions have been devised which are none the less violations of the third command- ment. Tambour. ~ A circular frame for working embroidery on ; also, the em- broidery worked upon it. 163. Bid on a hurdl*.— The hurdle was a sort of i^ledge on which criminals were drawn to execution. Death was the penalt'y for the crimes to which Sir Peter compares tl.^ jffences of ihe scan- dalmongers, namely, making find cir- culating counterfeit money, and clip- ping the current coin of the realm. 166. Poor'8-bOX.— Now used with- out inflection — poor-box. 168. A La Cnlnolse.— Chinese-like. Bpa. — A fashionable watering-place in Belgium. Zrt^/ifrf'A^/^isa common name on the Continent for the public dining- table of a hotel. To Join iBBue.— Properly, to be at variance. Crabtree uses the term in- correctly. 169. Iaw merchant. — A system of rules by which trade and commerce are regulated, and which Sir Peter would applv to slander. Write an essay to prove the truth of Sir Peter's remark that true wit is allied to good nature. XXVIII. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. This poem was written in 1785, and according to the statement of the poet's brother, Gilbert, we are indebted for it to the deep impression made upon the author's mind by the phrase, " Let us worship God," used by the head of a family introducing family worship. This brother also states that the " cotter'' was an exact copy of his father, ' m his manners, his family devotions, and ex- hortations." Robert Aiken, a solicitor of Ayr, to whom the poem is dedicated, was one of the poet's early friends and patrons. - The more homely passages of the poem are written in the poet s native Ayr- shire dialect. For the more elevated passages he employs English, as he does in most of his serious poems, probably because he thought the colloquial forms of speech were not sufficiently dignified for his higher themes. ' ' Cotter " was the name given to a sub-tenant who rented a cottage and an acre or two of land from the small farmers. The term was afterwards applied to the small farmers themselves, to which class Burns's father belonged. 171. No mercenary . . pays.— An allusion to the once common prac- tice of dedicating a book to some man of wealth or rank for the sake of secur- ing his patronage, and thus ensuring a more ready sale of the work. See the reference to Johnson's letter to Chester- field, p. 484, The ictrly train . . icene. — For lines similar to this and the eighteenth line, " And weary . . bend," see Gray's Elegy. ' ' Train " was a favorite word with the poets of the last century. Show that the root-meaning, draw or 490 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. dra^, is found in the different uses of "train." Moll — The verb " moil, "fronj which the noun is formed, meant (i) to mois- ten or wet, (2) to stain with moisture, to soil, (3) to become soiled or dirty with toil, (4) to toil. The word is now generally used in connection with "toil," the two words illustrating the tendency to couple together words of similar sounds and meanings. Compare " carking cares." See Earle's Philology, sec. 628. Professor John Wilson says of this stanza '.hat it is " in itself a picture, one maj' say a poem, of the poor man's life." Toddlln. — Not formed by dropping the ^ of "toddling," but by dropping the d of the old participle ending. See y/. S. Grammar, VIII. 42. 172. WeeWt.— The Lowland Scotch is especially rich in diminutives. See Earle's Philology, sec. 377 ; also sec. 171, for the pronunciation of " toil " in this stanza. 173. Kye. — Cows. " Kine" is a double plural. See //. S. Grammar, V. 38, b. 174. Ho-WtVas . . bell,— A na- tural touch, exemplifying well the rural mode of reckoning time. The cheese was a year old at the last flax-blossom- ing. Ha*— Bible.— A large edition of the Bible, such as lay in the hall or princi- pal room of houses. In Simple guise.—" Guise " has re- ference to the plaii» psalm tunes " Dun- dee," etc., in contrast with the " Italian trills " which Burns condemns for pur- poses of worship. But is it true of the latter that " nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise " ? 175. Other holy seen. — Name them, and explain all the allusions in this and the following stanzas. Springs . . wing. — This quo- tation is from Pope's Windsor Forest, ' ' And mounts exulting on triumphant wings. " 176. While Circling . . sphere. — What is the object of the cumulation in "circling," "round," "sphere?" Note the harmony of the line. Compared with this. — Note care- fully the contrast made in this stanza. Heart— desert. —The «• in ' ' desert " was probably pronounced like ar, as in the present pronunciation of Serjeant, See Earle's Philology, sec. i6g. Toungling. — Compare the force of the diminutive ling in this word with its force in " lordling." Princes . . Ood— See Goldsmith's Deserted Village, 1. 53, and Pope's Essay on Man, iv. 247 ; and refer to other poems of Burns that contain sen- timents similar to thosv in this and the following stanzas. Account for the changes in diction that occur throughout the poem. Describe the metre — Spenserian stanza — and name other poems written in the same metre. " It is easy to see in this piece the in- fluence of Gray, of Goldsmith, and of Pope, but easier still to observe the freshness and originality of it." Illus- trate this statement by reference to the poem. Higher compliment w.ir. perhaps never paid to this poem than that whicii it received from a boy whom Nicol, the companion of Burns in his Highland tour, asked which of Burns's poems he liked best. The boy replied, "I like best The Cotter s Saturday Ni^ht, al- though it made me greet (cry) when my father had me read it to my mother." Lady Nairne's poem, The Land o' the Leal, has been sometimes attributed to Burns through the blunder of chang- ing " John "to " Jean." Of this blunder the authoress says, in a letter written late in life :— " I was present when it was asserted that Burns composed this soiig on his death-bed, and that he had it 'Jean' (his wife's name) instead of ' John ' ; but the parties could not de- cide why it never appeared in his works, as his last song should have done. I never answered. " It was writ- ten in T798, and was occasioned by the grief of a friend over the death of her little daughter. Lady Nairne also wrote The Laird 0' Cockpen, Caller LIerrin,3inA many other familiar Scotch songs. Her VVha'll be king but Char- lie f and other Jacobite song"? have pro- cured for her the name of the poet-lau- reate of the Stuart cause. " I^eal " means faithful, true ; hence the expression ' ' the land of the leal ' I THE TRIAL BY COMBAT 491 like ar, as in of Serjeant, 169. the force of word with its ! Goldsmith's and Pope's and refer to , contain sen- \ this and the es in diction poem. — Spenserian joems written is piece the in- smilh, and of ) observe the of it." lUus- ;ference to the was perhaps lan that which 10m Nicol, the his Highland rns's poems he plied. "I like 'ay Ni^ht, al- (cry) when my my mother." The Land mes attributed inderofchang- Of this blunder letter written resent when it composed this nd that he had me) instead of ? could not de- pearcd in his should have ' It waswrit- ;asioned by the le death of her Nairne also 'ockpen. Caller familiar Scotch kin^ but Char- song" have pro- af the poet-lau- j. ul, true; hence ad of the leal ' means the home of the faithful, that is, >Ieaven. This selection will fu:^'sh good examples for the practice of the tremor in reading. XXX. THE TRIAL BY COMBAT. The idea of The Talisman as a name for this novel was taken, as Scott tells us, from a curious coin inserted in a stone which was brought home as a charm from a subsequent crusade by one of the Lockharts of Lee — the family to which his son-in-law belonged —and known as the I..ee penny. 179. Judicial Combat.— Why called judicial f Diamond of the Desert.— A foun- tain encircled by palm-trees, about midway between the Christian and Saracen camps. Knight or the Leopard.— Prince David was so ca'led because his device was a couchant leopard. Saladln. — Saladin, the royal leader of the Saracens, was a gallant, high- minded soldier, and his humane and noble nature contrasted most favorably with the cruel, revengeful disposition of many of the Christian knights who de- spised him. 180. Sponsors.- Sureties, god-fa- thers ; here, the seconds, who were Richard and his half-brother, William Longsword, Earl of Salisbury, foi Kenneth, and the Archduke of Austria and the Grand Master of the Templars for Conrad. Saladin acted as lunpire of the field. 181. Gilsland's conjecture. — De Vaux, Lord of Gilsland, had conjec- tured that Saladin had brought 5,000 followers with him instead of 500, as agreed upon, and it looked like an act of treachery on the part of Saladin. Edith, represented as Richard's cousin is an imaginary pei-son, compounded ])artly of Richard's sister, Joan, the widowed Queen of Sic'ly,. who accom- panied her brother, and partly of Rich- ard's niece, Eleanor, sister of the un- fortunate Prince Arthur. The Tem- pliir had instigated the murd rous as- sault upon Richard which forms the subject of Lesson LXXXVI in the Fourth Reader, and of this fact Conrade was cognizant. 1 82. Scblraa. —A town of Southern Persia, still famed for its wine. Montserrat. — Conrade was Mar- quis of Montserrat, a little Alpine pro- vince. He was made King of Jerusalem by Richard, but was shortly afterwards assassinated by fanatical Arabs, not by the (Jrand Master. Theodorick, the Hermit of Engaddi, had once l>een a valiant soldier, but becoming a re- cluse, he had fixed his residence among the rocky caverns of Mount Carmel. 1 186. Spruch-sprecher. — That is, sayer o sayings, a name given to an attendant of the Archduke who served him partly in the capacity of a minstrel and partly in that of a counsellor. IVidder-stns or 7inddersinns, means in a wrong or contrary manner. 188. His title . . mountain.- " Montserrat " means saw - tjothed mountain. 189. Truncheon. — Properly, a headless spear. The meaning here ap- pears to be that the lance was thrust into the wound up to the shaft or handle. Azra^ — The angel of death in the Mohammedan mythology. 191. Blondel. — Richard's favorite minstrel. Richard was imprisoned in Austria when returning from the Cru- sade, and it is said that Blondel, roam- ing over the land in search of him, dis- covered the place of his captivity by singing, under the wind -ws of the stronghold in which he was confined, a song known only to Richard and him- self, which Richard answered from within. 192. David, Earl of HnrMngdon. — This is the hero of the stoi, , but the real Earl, who was present in this cru- sade, wa5 the brother of William the r,^ I IV.l 1} 492 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. m Lion, of Scotland, not the Prince Royal. His wife was Matilda, daugb- ter of the I'^rl of C Chester, and he is noted in history as the prince through whom both Hruce and lialiiol derived their claims to the throne of Scoll uid. BorusEla. -Latin name fur Prussia, which in the thirteenth century was conquered by the Teutonic Knights, one of the orders, partly military and , .irtly religious, to wiiich the Ousadci gave birth. Two other p' /erful orders which originated at nearly the same time, and from the same cause, were the Knights Xeniplars and the Knights of St. John. 195. Nectabanus. — A dwarf in the retinue of IJerengaria, Richard's queen, afterwards sent as a present to ISaiadin. Acoolpe hoc- Take this. 196. <.lderim. —This is one of the names under which the disguised Sala- din became known to Kenneth on their first meeting in the desert. Hakim Adonbeo. — Another disguise ofSaladin. It was as a Hakim (phy- sician) that he visited Richard and cured him of his fever, and in the same disguise he pleaded with Richard for Kenneth's life. By "the distressed Ethiop " is meant Kenneth himself in his disguise as a Nubian slave. DO6S on. — Dons, which is merely the contracted form. Wiiat is the op- posite term ? Frangistan. — The land of tlu; Franks, by which name the .Saracens designated all the people of Western Europe. 197. Haronlt*!.— A semi - Chris- tian people of Syria. aox. Pajmlmrle. — Heathendom. This is a collective term from pavnim, which comes through the French paten, from tlie l^aimpai^anns, and was applied, like " infidel," to the followers of Mahomet. Tlial a challenge t<( mortal combat, " in all love and honor,' should be given at such a time, is in- compatible with modern views of life, but in the days of chivalry such a pro- ceeding was not uncommon. The student should not fail to read the whole of The Talisman, in order to have a clear understanding of the selection, it is one of Scott's most attractive romances, and has, more- over, a basis of historical truth. XXXI. FRANCE : AN ODE. Coleridge's republican sympathies in early life made him an ardent supporter of the French Revolution, but when he saw the revolutionary leaders attacking the ancient Republic of Switzeilaiul, his feelings towards France underwent a change which found expression in this magnificent ode. First, the poet calls upon all r.ature, which itself is free, tofbear witness to his deep love of liberty. He then Iclli of the delight with which he hailed the French Revolution, as the harbinger cf r.cedom to the enslaved states of Europe, and of his confidence in, and con- \. .ucd sympathy with, the principles of the Revolution, even when atheism and 1 l.iiipheniy were rampant in France. But the attack upon a free people dispels 1.; i dream of the sublime mission of France, and proves to him that " the spirit of divinest Liberty " cannot exist among a people who are still .slaves of their own dark and sensual passions. DisappKjinted, the poet turns to Nature, and finds among the elements that liberty which he had sought in vain amont; men. 205. That listen. . wind. — The 1 ions will they wreathe the air into woods are represented as being ai rest music. " Reclined " is probably sug- ( " reclined " ) listening to, the night- j gested by the appearance of trees grow- birds, save when of their own imper- \ ing on a steep slope. How is the idc;i p. I PRANCE: AM ODE. 493 le distressed eth himself in slave. ch is merely liat is the op- and of the the Saracens e of Western semi Chris- Heathendom. from pavnim, the French 'anus, and was the followers challenge to vc and honor,'' a time, is in- views of life, ry such a pro- non. )t fail to read man, in order anding of the f Scott's most id has, more- 1 truth. dent supporter rs attacking the rwent a change t calls upon all »erty. He then IS the harbinger :e in, and con- en atheism and people dispels lat " the spirit Still slaves of urns to Nature, in vain, among ; the ajr into ; probably sug- :e of trees grow - •Jovv is the ide;i in "imperious" elsewhere expressed ? Beloved of Ctod.— Inspired. Beyond . . folly.— 1h« '• hoary- headed swain " in Gray's Ulegy thought the poet a fool or a madman, and there may be an allusion here to the same opinion. If so, the meaning would Ik-, beyond the point where a poet would be considered a fool — a more than ordinary inspiration. Shake- speare, in A Midsummer Nighfs Dream, puts the poet and the lunatic in the same category. That oath. . flree.— If thew is any particular reference here. proba- bly to the oath sworn L_ jnal Assembly, June aoth, i I the whole passage seems to L _ ely a forcible way of expressing the deter- mination of a people to be free. 206. With what a Joy. . sang — In the Ode to the Departing Year, h'eligious Muungs, etc., and in a siioit-lived periodical called The WatchmaH, and other prose writings. Like fiends. . day.— A striking simile. Note the contrast between iVance, the disenchanted nation, and the nations forming the coalition against her, which are compared to fiends called up and set in battle array by a wizard's enchantment. Sang defeat.— See Ode to the De- partiN^ Year. Shame — retreat. — Objects of "sang. " Retreat was vain, because the victorious French armies followed their enemies. Blasphemy's . . gcream.— An allu- sion to the worship of the goddess of Reason, which was substituted for the CJhristian religion in 1793. To what is the Reign of Terror compared ? The dissonance ceas'd.- When the Reign of Terror came to an end, and the Directory was established, in 1795. When France. . gore. -The Roy- alist rebellion in La Vendee was sup- pressed in 173, the coalition was dissolved by the end of 1794, all its members having made pecce with France, except England and Austria. Napoleon suppressed an insurrection of the Paris mob in 1795, become mas- ter of Italy in 1796, and brought Austria to terms in the following year. 207. To scatter ragro- • guilt.— By intriguing and fomenting dissen- sions in Switzerland. Cf. '' to tempt and to betray," below. Patriot-race. — Compare Gold- smith's Traveller, 11. 175-8. Show the appropriateness of the epithets, "jeal- ous, " " inexpiable, " " bloodless," " pernicious," '* murderous." Champion. . kind.— The National Convonliun in 1793 passed a decree declaring its readiness to "grant fra- ternity and assistance to all people who wish to recover their liberty. " The sensual. . chain.- Political emancipation only will not ensure true liberty ; " he is the freeman whom the truth makes free, and all are slaves beside." 208. But thou. . power.— Liberty has no affinity with conquest and is not to be found in human institutions. Show that the expression " obscener slaves" continues the thought in " hfirpy minions. " Examine the poem and point out lines in which tlie prevailing poetic quality exemplifies one of the following characteristics of poetry: — (i) Poetic words or expressions, (2) melody, (3) picturesqueness, (4) poetry of thought or sentiment. Thus, in the last stanza, 11. 11-12, we have an example of (1), and in the next 1 ne we have an ex- ample of (4), and of (2) as well. The remaining lines have the third quality, but they possess also the other quali- ties, as (i) in " Sea-clifTs verge,' and "scarce travell'd . . above," (2) in " Had made . . surge," and (4) in ' ' And shot., air." In the poetical analysis of any poem it will be found that the elements which constitute its poetry may be classed in these four divisions. Deficiency in any < ne of these elements should be compensated by greater ex- cellence in the rest. This poem was c.illed the Recanta- tion on its first appearance. Refer to passages which justify this title. On what grounds may it be called an ode to Liberty? The central thought in Complaint and Reproof is contained in the line, "Greatness. . ends,' which means that greatness and goodness should be sought for themselves, not from any ulterior motive. 494 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. XXXV. THE ISLES OF GREECE. The zeal with which Byron devoted himself to the emancipation of Greece from her Turkish masters, forms one of the few bright spots in his brief, turbu- lent career. In several of his poems there occur passionate outbu: :;ts of sympathy with the oppressed Greeks. This beautiful patriotic lyric, from the third canto of Don Juan, helped to arouse the interest of the poet's fellow countrymen in the struggle of the Greeks for independence. The song is put in the mouth of a wandering Greek minstrel who " would, or could, or should have sung it " at the marriage festivities of Juan and Haidee. 211. The isles . . set. — It would be well to have the student name and de- scribe the various pictures presented in succession throughout the poem. This stanza presents a bright picture of the beautiful isles of Greece, once the land of song and romance, and the home of warriors, statesmen, poets, artists; but their former glory has departed, and only their natural beauty remains, Sappho was a lyric poetess of Lesbos, in the seventh century, B.C.; her songs were principally amatory, hence the epithet "burning." The volcanic ori- gin of the island of Delos is supposed to have originated the fable that it ro^e from the sea at a stroke from Nep- tune's trident, and remained a floating island imtil Jupiter moored it fast to the bottom, to be the birth-place of Apollo (Phoebus) and Diana, the sun- god and moon-god respectively of Grecian mythology. Note the con- trast in the last two lines. The Scian . . Blest.— Anacreon of Teos, a writer of love and drinking songs, lived in the sixth century, B. C". Moore has been styled the Anacreon of English verse, partly because of the character of his poetry, and jiartly be- cause he translated Anacreon's odes. Chios (Scio) was one of the many places that claimed to be Homer's birthplace. Show the appropriateness ofthe allusions in " The hero's . . lute.' The " Islands ofthe Blest," or Fortu- natae Insulae,\\&ce fabled to contain the Elysian fields, which were the abode of the righteous after death. They wer.^ thought to lie at ihe extremity of the earth, somewhere outside the Strait of Gibraltar, and in later times it became customary to identify them with the groups of islands lying north-west of Afriya. How does Byron in iliis s.tur..a show the fallen state of Greece? The mountains . . slave.— Give a reason for the statement in the two last lines. Does the expression " Per- sians' grave " necessarily imply that the Persians were buried there ? A king . . they.—" Sea-born," ap- plied to an island, is an ornamental epithet. Could " by thousands " and "in nations 'be interchanged? What is gained by the interrogative form in the last line ? 212. And Where. . mine.— Com- pare Moore's expression of a similar sentiment in " Dear harp . . mine, '' p. 2l6. 'Tis something. . tear.— How does the poet show the degradation of the Greeks in this stanza, especially in the lines " To feel. . face"? Account for the contrast in the last line, and note also the strong contrast in the next stanza. What . . dumb. — The recollection of the brave deeds of the dead would serve as an inspiration when the liv- ing should prove themselves capable of leadership. The bard's call to the dead heroes ot Thermopylae is a most eloquent repro.ich to the living cowards of his own day. In vain. . 'Z9JexSiiXa.9X.—k Bacchanal is a worshipper of Bacchus, a wine- rinker. N^ote the sarcasm in this stanza, and .specially in the combina- tion "bold Bacchanal." The poet thought that carousing was more a- greeable to the Greeks than fighting. 213. You have . . slave. — The Pyrrhic dartre, so-called from its in- ventor, Pyrrhichus, was originally a war-dance performed with nimble, dodging movements of the body, not unlike the movements of the Indian war-donccs. The Pyrrhic phalanx - THE CLOUD 495 on of Greece brief, turbu- outbui^ts of ric, from the poet's fellow e song is put Id, or should Greece? ave. — Give a t in the two ression " Pcr- y imply that there ? iea-born," ap- n ornamental lusands " and inged? What jative form in mine. — Com- 1 of a similar 3 . . mine, "' p. r. — How does Ldation of the oecially in the * Account for ine, and note t in the next le recollection he dead would when the liv- selviS capable rd's call to the ylae is a most living cowards -A Bacchanal ;;hus, a wine- ircasm in this the combina- ' The poet was more a- han fighting. slave. — The d from its in- is originally a with nimble, the body, not of the Indian rrhic phalanx was a military formation made up of foot-soldiers closely massed, with their shields overlapping one another, and their spears projecting. By means of this formation, Pyrrhus, kingof Epirus, gained his Tictories over the Romans; hence the epithet " Pyrrhic." Cadmus, a mythical personage of Phoenician or Egyptian origin, was reputed to have introduced into Greece the original sixteen letters of the Greek alphabet. What is the nature of the minstrel's reproaches in this stiinza? Fill high. . countrymen.— Poly- crates, tyrant of Samos, was a patron of literary men, and particularly of Anacreon, who lived many years at Ills court. A tyrant was originally a usurper, an absolute lord, and many (ireek tyrants were humane, beneficent rulers. Show how the word naturally comes to have its present meaning, and note a similar change in "despot," which originally meant matter. Fill high. . own.— Parga is an Ad- riatic seaport on the coast of Albania, in Turkey, and Suli is a town and mountainous district farther south, Hoth are included in that part of the pashalik of Janina, to which the Greeks now lay claim. In the struggle against the Turks, Suit's rock pro uced one iieroic leader, Marco Bozzaris, " the Leonidas of Moilern Greece." He was killed in a victorious night-attack upon the Turks while marching to relieve Missolonghi, not long before Byron arrived there. His death forms the subject of a spirited poem by Fitz-Greene Halleck, an American poet. The Dorians were the most warlike people of Ancient Greece. By the Heracleidan blood is meant the descendents of Hercules, who became the rulers of the Dorian states of the Peloponnesus. Trust not. . broad.—" Frank " was a general name for the people of west- ern Europe, but Byron probably refers to the French, whose king at that i inie was Louis XVIII. There is no par- ticular historical incident to jui: Dying Sivan. XLT. THE CLOUD. In the preface to her husband's poetical works, Mrs. Shelley remarks that "the odes To the Skylark and The Cloud in the opinion of many critics, bear a purer poetical stamp than any other of his productions. " They are lioth examples of what is sometimes called/«;r or absolute poetry, " in which the overflowing emotion or passion of the poet finds utterance in the most charming rhythmical lan- guage." Such a poem is a simple lyric, a product of pure emotion, wrought into a variety of beautiful forms by a highly artistic fancy. This emotion may be the result of close, sympathetic intercourse with nature, as in The Cloud ; or it may be produced by religion, love, patriotism, grief, as in Dryden's Vent Crea^ tor Spirit us, Lovelace's To Lucasta, Byron's Isles of Greece, Tennyson's Break, Break, Break, respectively. In general, more or less of reflection is mingled k ! 11 .-111 i I .1 I i'! ~'«M 496 T//E HIGH SCHOOL READER. with the pootic feeling ; there is more reflection, for example, in The Skylark than in The Cloud. The Cloud possesses the loftiest poetic qualities in the higheoc degree. Note how much there is in the poem of the imaginal ve quality, the pure poetry of sentiment, which cannot possibly be expressed in prose without much loss and diminution of meaning. The exuberance of this quality in Shelley's verse has l^rocured for him the name of " the poets' poet.'" 219. I bring. . thunder. — Shelley may have had in mind the opinion, which is probably correct, that there is more development and growth of plant-life at night than during the day ; hence, the leaves sleep at noon and the buds are wakened in the evening by the dew. I sift . . rains. -It would seem natu- ral to represent the clouTl as awake and nctive in the storm. What suggests the opposite idea? It is more common to say by Jits than at fits. Shelley makes use of the ancient notion that each natural object — the seas, the lakes, the mountains, etc. — has its genius or guardian divinity. The Genii attract- ing the ligiitning, and thus moving the cloud at will, calls to mind the spirit "that made the ship to go," in Coleridge's Ancient Mariner (Part V. ) Note the poetic way of expressing the thought that rain accompanies light- ning. This passage is extremely im- aginati \ 220. . sancTuine. . dove. — Note the use Oi aanguine"in its literal sense. Study carefully the highly poetical de- scription of sunrise, apparently after a storm, as indicated by the rack or broken clouds drifting across the sky ; and contrast it with the description of the calm, quiet sunset, with which com- pare Wilson's beautiful poem, Tht Evening Cloud (Lesson Xi. in the Fourth Reader). Note how well the language in both descriptions har- monizes with the thought. Observe, too, the similes : the sunrise is com- pared to a restless eagle alighting for a moment on a mountain-crag ; the sunset, to a brooding dove quietly fold- ing her wings to rest. That orbed. . these.— Why is the moon represented as a maiden ? Dis- tinguish between " peep " and "peer." Note how wonderfully poetic the thoughts are in "the beat. . bear," " Like strips. . high," and in the des- cription of the a]3pearance produced by the thin, fleecy cloud scudding^ across the sky. Who has not seen through rifts in the clouds " the stars whirl and flee " ? Why, in the fifth stanza, are the stars said to ' ' reel and swim " ? 221. I bind., below. — The burning zone (girdle) and the girdle of pearl are the halos which are seen around the sun and moon respectively, before a storm. Note the comparison of the cloud to a victorious general in " my banner unfurl," "triumphal arch," " Powers. . chained to my chair," or chariot ; and explain all the compari- sons. The two last lines describe the formation of the rainbow. I am the daughter. . again.— The first four lines give a poetical descrip- iton of the origin of clouds. See how Bryant in To the F.vening Wind ex- l)resses the same thought that we have here in the fourth line. A cenotaph is a tomb erected to one who is buried elsewhere. The clear sky, or blue dome of heaven, is a sign that the cloud is buried out of sight ; hence it is fan- cifully called the cloud's cenotaph. The cloud is said to unbuild the cci^e- taph by re-appearing and obscuring the sky. Observe how the comparison of the various fields of literature to realms, states, etc., is carried through Keat's first sonnet (Selection XI, 11). Explain the allusion to Apollo, the god of music. Of Chapman's translation of Homer, which Keats admired so highly, Mat- thew Arnold wrote : "I confess that I can never read twenty lines of Chap- man's version without recurring to Bentley's cry, 'This is not Homer.'" " In the first eight lines of the son- net the subject is introduced and ex- The Skylark egree. Note ire poetry of luch loss and ;y's verse has 1 in the des- ice produced )iul scudding' las not seen Is " the stars in the fifth to " reel and -The bunting rdle of pearl seen around :tively, before parison of the iieral in " my^ iiphal arch," my chair," or the compari- ;s describe the again.— The itical descrip- s. See how iig Wind ex- . that we have A cenotaph is ho is buried slj/ 500 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Hon," the author professes to give an account of the mode of its construction. The " lost Lenore ' has been frequently thought to mean Poe's wife, probably owing to the common desire to associate all such effusions with the authors' own experiences ; but if the description in the essay is to Ix; taken seriously, The ^arv« is entirely a product of the ima;^ination. Moreover, it was first pub lished in 1845, and Poe's wife died in 1847. 258. Once . . more. — The time dent's room. chosen, which Shakespeare calls " the very witching time of night," the ghost- like flickering of the dying embers, the occupation of the student — all tending to excite the fancy of one in his weak and depressed state of mind, so that even the rustling of the curtain fills hini with terror ; then, too, the timid gazing into the darkness, the whispering of the dead loved one's name, and the echo of the name murmured back from the darkness, — all ihese form an eerie beginning which prepares us for the unnatural intrusion and the strange, un- canny behavior of the "ghastly, grim, and ancient raven. " Give a reason for the poet's fixing the time of his poem in the bleak De- cember. 259. Bust of Pallas. — Pallas (Minerva) being the goddess of wis- dom, this was a suitable bust for a stu- 260. Plutonian. — Pluto was the god of the infernal regions, the realms of darkness. Observe how the Raven's monotonous repetition of ' nevermore" seems to answer the s'uo, nt's ques- tioning, which increases in eai.testness until it reaches a. climax in the jas^ion- ate appeal of the sixteenth sta' iza. Aidenn is an Anglicized spelling of the Arabic form of the wor^l Eden ; here used for Heaven. 262. And the Raven . . floor.— Without requiring mathematical ex- actness in a poet, one is nevertheless inclined to ask how, considering the Raven's perch, the lamp-light "throws his shadow on the floor " ; but the beau- tiful application made in the last two lines — the sad picture of a sorrow from which there is no respite — more than compensates for any incongruity in the description. LVII. DEATH OF THE PROTECTOR. 274. This Summer . . struggle.— ; Tn 1658, Dunkirk was handed over to the Protector by the Trench, as the price of the assistance rendered by the English troops in the capture from Spain of the sea-board towns of Flan- ders. Manzini and the Due (Duke) de Crequi were ambassadors to the Eng- lish court, whose simplicity under Cromwell presented a striking contrast to the splendors of the other courts of Europe. 275. The Lady Clajrpole.— Eliza- beth, the sedond daughter. Oomwell's other daughters were Bridget, Mary, and Frances whose husband, Mr. Rich, had been dead only a few months. Oeorge Fox.— The founder of the Society of Friends, commonly called Quakers. He was a shoemaker in early life, hence the allusions to leather- parings, etc. 276. Hacker'smen.— Colonel Hack- er was one of Cromwell's officers. " The Mews" was the name given to the court stables, which stood near Charing Cross, in London. Was thy own life . . tree.— An allusion to FoX's solitary habits, one of which was that of sitting in hollow trees reading his Bible. He is said to have worn a leather jacket. Harvey. — Cromwell's Groom of the Bedchamber, who has left us an ac- count of Cromwell's last days. 278. Tran scendent. — Note force of this word. The meaning pears to be that a strong desire Cromwell's restorp.tion to health came the prevailing burden of every! prayer, all consideration of the Divine I the I a|)- forl be EACH AND ALL. 5CM construction, nfe, probably e authors' own seriously, The was first pub no was the god the realms of )W the Raven's ,f' nevermore" iutunt's ques- ; in eai.iestness c in the las^ion- nth sta' iza. ized sp ;Uing of le word Eden; tt . . floor.— athematical ex- ; is nevertheless considering the np-lighi" throws r " • but the beau- ; in the last two of a sorrow from ,pite— more than incongruity m roR. lusionstoleather- , —Colonel Hack- jmwell's officers, le name given to vhich stood near andon. . treo.— An Lary habits, one of line in hollow trees le is said to have leil's Groom of the Ihas left us an ac- , last days, lent. — Note the The niean\ng ai> H strong desire for [ion to health \)e-| burden of every I ion of the Divmel will being disregarded. 280. Fauconberg:.— Husband of Cromwell s daughter Mary. 1 heir works follow . . here.— Carlyle's language is vigorous, and even approaches coarseness, in his de- nunciation of the Star-Chamber cruel- ties and of the efforts to belittle the character and work of Cromwell. 281. Hypocrisls.— A Latinized form of a Greek word which means playin^^ a part on the sfm^e. The English deri- vative is "hypocrisy." "TwoCenturies of Hypocrisis " has the same mean- ing as " Two Centuries of . . ("ant," on page 276, where there is another ' allusion to the restoration of Charles II. Carlyle thinks that Englishmen have degenerated since Puritan times, and again descends to coarseness in his comparison between the former noble spirit of the people and their pre- sent mercenary spirit. In " sheltering I'allacy," there is an allusion to a habit I which the ostrich has when closely pur- sued ; it is said to stick its head in a bush, thinking in that way to conceal itself. This selection is fairly illustrative of Carlyle's style — his use of new words and new combinations, his violation of the rules of grammar and composition, his abruptness and energy of expression, his striking, yet often far-fetched com- parisons and allusions, his power of word-painting, the vehemence and scorn of his denunciations.. No collection of literary extracts, in which Carlyle's prose is not represent- ed, could make any pretence to com- pleteness, yet no one should attempt to imitate Carlyle's style. Much less should anyone imitate his cynicism which became more bitter as he grew older ; in fact, he railed against Cant and Sham until his very railing became a species of cant. LVIII. EACH AND ALL 282. Little . . alone.— The main thought of the poem finds expression in the two last lines of this stanza. They tach the doctrine of mutual depen- dence, that " each lives for all, and all live for each. " Compare the teaching of Pope on page 98, " Has God . . all." The clown and the heifer each unconsciously adds a charm to the landscape, just as the sexton uncon- -sciously gave delight to Napoleon, or as each life may unconsciously influence another life. I thought . . none. — The beauty of the sparrow's song is enhanced by tlie accompaniment of " river and sky," and the beauty of the shells by their set- ting of " the sun and the sand.'* So, too, the lover's " graceful maid '' look- ed more beautiful among the other maidens ; yet in the transformation from fairy to wi/e, does she not become a more noble being, " a spirit still, and bright with something of an angel- light " ? Is not the change in each of these instances caused rather by getting possession of the object, than by its re- moval from the other objects that are usually associated w ith it ? 283. Then I said . . whole.— The poet concludes that the beauty which is merely lent to things by their surroundings is only a seemifiirhcauty, a cheat, and that he must look for rcai beauty elsewhere than in nature. But even as he is speaking his eye takes in all the separate parts of the landscape, from the ground- pine beneath his feet to the sky above his head, and his ear is greeted by the songs of birds ; and however unlovely each part may be in itself, he discovers in the harmonious blending of all the parts, the perfection of true beauty. pits ■'¥,( M'<>» 502 ' T//K I I ran school reader. 1.x. THE DIVER. This ballad is founded on an liistoiical incident. It is related that about the year 1500, Frederick, King of Naples, induced a celebrated swimmer and diver, named Nicolas, to atttMiipt the exploration of the mysteries of Charybdis, a wiinljjuol on the west side of the Strait of Messina. The historical diver is quite an ordinary character, he dives for the gold that is offered him, and perishes in the whirlpool. Schiller, with a ix)et's license, invests his hero with poetic in- terest ; he is a noble, fearless young squire of the king's retinue, and in the second plunge he risks his life for the king's daughter. The spirit of the original poem is admirably reproduced in Lytton's transla- tion. Note especially how vivid is the description of the youth's thrilling ex- perience, ending with the abrupt, hurried allusion to the terrible devil-fish, "the demon of the deep." The first line on page 299, " .\nd Heaven . . space," does not give Schil- ler's meaning ; a more literal rendering of the original would be, " His soul is seized with heavenly force. " T!ie "fond eyes" mentioned in the last stan/a are those of the royal maiden who is specifically referred to in the original, "She bends over with loving look. " - v . .• = - . LXVII. THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. The title of this poem is suggested by the old, homely custom of celebrating the home-coming of the newly-married couple, by hanging the crane in the old- fashioned fireplace. This signified that the house was finished, and ready for the pair to begin their housekeeping in. The poem presents, in a succession of bright pictures, the fortunes of the family from the beginning of the home to the golden wedding-day. 336. The lights . . long.— In a few simple words, the poet very happily intro'luces his subject by fancying him- self - le of the merry guests of the even- ing, who stays behind after all the others have gone ; and while gazing jierhaps into the flickering fire-light upon the hearth, his "shaping spirit of imagin- ation " creates the visi<.ns of the future life of the happy couple. Show that "harmonious is a suitable epithet to apply both to the course of a star and to a hajjpy home. And now . . Bight. — Note the different means employed by the poet, in this and the three following preludes, to show the indistinctness of the pro- phetic vision. 337.— The light Of love . . all.— Observe the poetic art in making the literal introductory to the metaphori- cal. The poet refers to the light of tlie evening lamps for the purpose of pre- senting in stronger contrast the divine light of conjug-al love. Note, too, the way in which the poet shows the un- selfishness of this love, and the perfect contentment of the wedded pair in each other's society. He ruleth . . shine.— The idea that the child is the monarch of the household, ruling by divine right, may have suggested "purple," the color of the royal robes of eastern monarchs. In " of the morn,'' there may be an allu- sion to eastern countries whose rulers exercise power as despotic as that of the child ; or the whole expression, " In THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 503 ;hat about the mer and diver, ■ Charybdis, a orical diver is I, and perishes with poetic in- d in the second ^tton's transla- [I's thrilling ex- devil-fish, "the 1 not giveSchil- ;, " His soul is the last stanza in the original, ANE. of celebrating rane in the old- and ready for 1 a succession of the home to the in making the the metaphori- o the light of the purpose of pre- itrast the divine Note, too, the •X shows the un- and the perfect ided pair in each line.— The idea monarch of the ivine right, may le," the color of rn monarchs. In may be an allu- ries whose rulers otic as that of the expression, "In purple . . morn," may be merely a vague poetical allusion to childhood as the morning of life. Longfellow has not inappropriately been called " the children's poet." His noble, symmetrical life, pure and trans- parent as that of a child, was shared largely with his own children, and his poetry contains many Ijeautiful refer- ences to them, and to child-life in gen- eral. 338. The golden silence . . Greek. — A German proverb says, ' ' speech is silver, silence is gold." Among the (Jreeks, the Spartans especially culti- vated a Ijrief, sententious mode of speech, hence the term laconic (from Laconia, the state of which Sparta was the chief town). The comparison of the child to King Canute, who, in the well-known story, is obliged to yield to a monarch still more absolute than him- self, is prettily conceived, and may be appreciated without pressing too closely the resemblance of the nurse to the sea, " resistless, fathomless, and slow." A Princess . . ours. — Observe how the sprightliness of the fairy-like jllcture is kept up in the different na es given to Fairy-land, all suggestive of ideal beauty ; also in the expression, "saiHng . . sails," suggested per- haps by the supposefl soft, gentle move- ments of fairies, or by their unsubstan- tial, ethereal natures. See the de- scription of Queen Mab in Romeo and Juliet, I. 4. 339. Above their bowls . . be. — Why " rims of blue f" See note on "light of love . . all." Observe the poetical expression of the thought that children live in the present, careless of the future ; they do not borrow trouble. Note, too, how'the words in the three last lines harmonize with the thought. Ariadne's crown. — In the Grecian legends, Ariadne was the daughter of Minos, king of Crete. After many ad- ventures, she became the wife of Bac- chus, who, after her death, placed her wedding crown as a constellation in the sky. Maidens . . nests. — Compare passages in Longfellow's Maidenhood, and note how well the contrast is brought out between the timid, depend- ent nature of the maidens, and the boldness and confidence of the youths. Knight-errantry. — See note on " Knight-errant," p. 468. The pur- poses of these high-minded youths arc more lofty, more divine, than the aims of the knights-errant of the times of chivalry. The passage, " that travels . . eludes," may be taken to illus- trate the day-dreams of youth, and it- self finds admirable illustration in Sir Percivale's account of his search of the Holy Grail, aknight-errantry of legend- ary times that might well be called divine. See Tennyson's poem, The Holy Grail. 340. sweet illusions . : lost. — Another harmonious close, giving beautiful expression to the thought that ' ' year by year, and ray by ray, ro- mance's sunlight dies away," and life becomes a sober reality. But the heart need not keep pace with the head. See Toujours Amour, p. 418, Show that " illusions" is preferable here to " de- lusions." •" The meadow-brook . . death. — The simile in this prelude appropri- ately illustrates the universal experience that, with increasing age, time seems to fiy more swiftly. Cathay. — An old name, now used as a poetical name, of China. This and the other proper names are probably chosen for the sake of the melody. 341. To lift one heru into fame.-^ The cause of many a battle, Afteradny . . night.— A beauti- ful picture, true to nature, and describ- ed in melodious verse. Indeed, the charm of the poem consists in its melody, and in the beauty and naturalness of its pictures. Monarch of the Moon.— Suggested by the comparison in stanza in, " with face , . moon." j42. As the reflection . . seems. — These beautiful similes form a fitting close to the poem. The vista that the poet describes is one that must have been familiar to him on the bridges leading across the Charles River, and especially on the long bridge that con- nects Cambridge, the poet's home, with Cambridge street, in Boston. Similes are employed to illustrate by means of the well-known, the visible, the material, that which is unknown, hidden, spiritual. See if the similes in the 1 >eu. '"onform to this law. ! 504 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. LXIX. " AS SHIPS, BECALMED AT EVE." In this poem, the poet employs the simile of two ships drifting apart during the night, to illustrate, no doubt, an experience of his own — an exjseriencf , indeed, that is common to many lives. Friends and companions in early life, who have become separated, often find on meeting again that they ha e unconsciously grown far apart in opinions and modes of thought. The poet tH'nks tliat it would be a vain and unprofitable task for them to try to reconcile their opinions, for if they are true to themselves, and true to the compass that should guide them, all will be right in the end ; they will reach the same port. The successful issue ot the voyage must depend, however, upon what is taken as the compass ; " Reason's glimmering ray " and the light of experience are not alone sufficient ; these must themselves be guided by the greater light of Divine Truth. The " Duty" that Clough so scornfully censures in the next poem is nothing more than a blind conformity to the usages and precepts of society, to ihe ex- tent of si-ppressing all earnest inquiry, all independence of character, all noble aspirations. In " Bath chair," there is an allusion to the chairs used at Bath or any other fashiourtble watering place, by invalids, or by those who wish to be considered invalids, when it is fashionable to be " delicate." The line, " To a shade . . made," is intended to show that this false sense of duty to society, which makijs people the slaves of social customs, is nothing more than a fig- ment of the imagination. " Exinanition " is an uncommon word, having nearly the same meaning as "atrophy," a weakening, a wa ting away. The first two sections of the poem must be read with unequal waves to ex- press scorn ; these must give place in the last section to downward intervals of considerable width. LXXI. SONNETS. The first of these sonnets is simply a fourteen-line poem, for in no other respect, either of form or spirit, can it properly be called a sonnet. All these poems, however, possess high poetic merit. ever- increasing brightness of the stars. The third sonnet closely resembles, 349. The golden chime time. — See note on " Ring out . . spheres," p. 464. The chimes of the sphere-music are said to tell off the years (why not hours i) of the world's timc-piet-e. Compare the suitability of "pulsating" and "twinkling." In an earlier form of the second son- net, "numerous'' had the p.ace of " frequent " in the second line. Show that the latter is preferable. Note the different turns of expression employed by the poet to cill attention to the in thought and language, Wilson's son- net. The Evening Cloud, in the Fourth Reader. Point out different expressions of the same thought in the three sonnets. Pomt out lines in each sonnet that best suggest a suitable name, and give a name to each. Select passages that exemplify the different {)oetic qualities found in the sonnets. part during experience, )ns in early it they ha e , The poet > to reconcile :onnpass that ,ame port, pon what is of experience greater light em is nothing ety, to ihe ex- cter, all noble sed at Bath or ho wish to be lehne, " To a uty to society, ore than a fig- having nearly waves to ex- ird intervals of or in no other ,et. All these ss of the stars, sely resembles, Wilson's son- :ioud, in the pressions of the ee sonnets, ich sonnet that name, and give eKcmplify the ss found in the THE CLOUD CONFINES, 505 LXXIV. FROM " THE MILL ON THE FLOSS." 356. The next morning.— In this selection, which is from an early chap- ter of The Mill on the /''L'ss, Maggie TuUiver, the heroine of the novel, is nine years of age, and her brother Tom, about thirteen. lorn had returnecl from school the day bel'ort bringing a " new fish-line" for Maggie. Darkly radiant. — Maggie's brown cheeks and black eyes were beaming with joy. Maggie is represented as a heedless, passionate child, full of strange fancies. She is proud of her self-reliant, practical brother, who loves her well enough in return, but thinks it his privilege to scolc'. her, as indeed he often finds occasion to do. He knew . . lifted.- Tom's as- sumjition of superiority is quite as no- ticeable as Maggie's readiness to grant it. Note in how many ways these char- acteristics of the two children are brought out in the selection. 358. Happy mornings.— Note how much Maggie's happiness is bound up with Tom's. She likes fishing because it delights Tom and makes him .speak kindly to her. Christiana.- Theallusion is to the second part of Bunyan's Pil^^rim's Pro- grest. It is the habit of imaginative children to associate with their i.wnex- jjeriences the scenes and incidents of which they read. Life did change . known. — This and the following paragraph ex- hibit the writer's remarkable felicity of language. They furnish fine examples oi poetic prose, in which impassioned thoughts are expressed in poetic dic- tion, and with a perceptible rhythm, which often, indeed, becomes metrical. The selection illustrates the writer's methods. In a few m.isterly touches she places before her readers a sketch of scenery or character, and then allow- ing the action to cease, she moralizes upon the complex problems of life that her descriptions suggest. LXXV. THE CLOUD CONFINES. The name of this poem. The Cloud Confines, or cloud regions, is suggestive of, or, perhaps, suggested by, the darkness and obscurity in which the inquiring soul becomes enshrouded whenever it seeks a solution of the perplexing prob- lems of our present existence. 359. The day . . height —Na- ture has no voice to interpret the mys- teries of life, or if she has, her voice is unintelligible to us. This thought is expressed more definitely in the last stanza. 360. Named new . . old. — The present is but the meeting point of the past and the future ; the present of one moment becomes the past of the next. Find the same thought in the last stanza. But no word . . aped.— Nature cannot give any explanation of the mysteries of death, or any assurance of immortality. And eyes . . fate. — The suffer- ing and down-trodden ask in vain why bloodshed and oppression prevail, for nature can promise them neither alle- viation nor compensation. What of the heart of love.— This stanza is a pathetic allusion to the in- completeness and brevity of all human happiness. A sealed seedplot.— Although it is true that the future is sealed to us, it is not a sealed seedplot, for we can judge of the harvest from the kind of seed we are sowing. See Galati.ins vi. 7, 8. The refrain of the poem hints at a time when knowledge shall l)e more complete, but it exhibits a lack of that fulness of confidence which Paul mani- fests in I Corinthians, xiii. 12. It 506 THE HICIT SCHOOL READER, LXXIX.—LXXXI. LORD OF BURLEIGH; BREAK, BREAK, BREAK; THE "REVENGE." These three poems represent Tennyson in three characteristic poetical moods. The first is a graceful idyll of Knglish life, containing one of those charming portraits from Tennyson's picture-gallery of lovely women ; the second is n lyrical outburst of grief for his friend, Arthur Henry Hallam, which finds most complete expression in that ncjblest of all elegies. In Metnoriam ; and tlie third is a patriotic poem which relates the wonderful exploit of one of England's old naval heroes. The characters of The Lord of BurUii^h are from real life. The " Lord " was Henry ("ecil, nephew and heir of the Karl of Exeter, to whose title and estates he succeeded in 1792. The " village maiden, " whom he had married the pre- vious year, was a farmer's daughter named Sara Huggins. The " Cottage Countess," as the people of Stamford call her, deserved all the praise that the poet bestows upon her. She died in 1797, and her picture by Lawrence, whicli hangs in " Burleigh House by Stamford town, " forms one of the chief attrac- tions of the place. The repetition of expressions, us in the line, " And he came , . said," p. 372, and the introduction of words and phrases that add little or nothing to the meaning, such as, " in the land," p. 370, are quite after the manner of the old ballads. See also " that day," p. 375, and other expressions in " The Revenue." The pathos of the closing lines of the poem is very touching; the unpreten- tious wedding-dress oi the Countess, which becomes her shroud, is symbolic of the happy simplicity of the first year of her wedded life, for which she had pined in the midst of all her grandeur. Tennyson himself is quoted as authority for the statement that the poem. Break, Break, Break, was ' ' made in a Lincolnshire lane, at 5 o'clock in the morning." If this is true, it is merely one of many instances which shew how the mind of a poet in his moments of inspiration may be entirely uninfluenced by his surroundings. The poem is an instance of Tennyson's use of natural scenery to assist in the portniyal of a mood of feeling. It was written soon after the death of his friend, when he was in a melancholy mood, and although it is not necessary to asso- ciate it with any particular locality, in order to make it better understood or ap- preciated, we may fancy the pcet transported in thought to Clevedon in Somer- setshire, the burial-pkce of the Hallams ; and as he looks down from the cliff upon the broad estuary of the Severn, all the moving life below takes color from his own sad thoughts. The mournful sound of he waves breaking ineffec- tually on the " cold gray stones," seems to be a sympathetic response to his deep, unutterable emotion ; the glad shouts of the children on the beach and the song of the sailor lad recall to his mind the " voice that is still " ; and the ships passing out of sight into their port remind him of the " vanished hand." Note the order in which the objects that divert the poet's mind are observed HREAK, nRKAK, UREAK : THE REVENGE. 50/ REAK, ;al moods. cliarmin{i ;cond is a finds most 1 tlie third jland's old [.ord" was nd estates ;d liie pre- ' ' Cottage se that the nee, which lief attrac- said," p. hing to the of the old Revenue." unpreten- symbolic of had pined I the poem, :lock in the shew how n influenced assist in the if his friend, iry to asso- stood or ap- m in Somer- •om the cliff takes color kingineffec- ,ponse to his t beach and 1"; and the ,hed hand." are observed • — the nearest first ; and note, too, how joy, life, and satisfied desires (11. s-ro) are contrasted with the poet's grief and unsatisfied longings (11. 11-12). In the first stanza the sea breaks on the stones ; but in the fourth it breaks at the foot of the era :;s, to indicate how utterly futile is the poet's pas.sionate wish. In the pathetic allusion of the last two lines of the poem, the poet shows a more resigned mood ; his dead friend will never return. A favorite occupation of Drake and other naval commanders of Elizabeth's time, was the capture of Spanish treasure ships, as they were returning from South America and the West Indies. It was on such an errand that Lord Thomas Howard was .sent, when, with his squadron of seven ships, he fell in with a Spanish fleet. The earliest and perhaps the Injst account of the fight is a " Report " by Sir Walter Raleigh, published in the same year (1591). Ten- nyson follows Raleigh's " Report " in the main. 374. EBlps of the line.— The old name for war-ships of not less than two tiers of guns, but a " liner " of l-^liza- beth's fleet was an insignificant craft compared wi.h the huge "wooden walls " of this century. Why is Gronville, the second in com- mand, mentioned fhst ? Coward. — Show how a different meaning could be given to Sir Richard's words by different inflections upon this and other emphatic words of the .stanza. Past. — .\ favorite form of the verb with Tennyson. In " I'.noeh Arden '' alone it is used si.v times. Thumbscrew and the stake.— Im- plements of torture of the Spanish In- quisition. Note the irony in this line. Heaving . . how. — A nautical expression meaning, to appear in sight on the windward side of a ship's bow. " Lee" is the opposite word to ' ' weather. " 375. Fourgalleons. — Thesefour arm- ed merchantmen of great size and strength were deputed to destroy the Revenge. We are told that the Span- sitiou. What lines in this section best express its leading thought ? At a ca!l unforeseen.— Dr. Arnold died suddenly of heart-disfease, June 1 2th, 1842. His celebrated son, the author of this poem, also died sudden- ly April 15th, 1888. strong soul . . vain. — The poet's faith in a future life seems to bo based entirely upon his belief in the indestructibility of force. He cannot lie- lieve that the ceaseless activity of his fath- er while on earth has ended with death ; yet how different from the hesitating half-belief of the poet is the assurance of a conscious, active future state of Ijeing which the beUever in Divine reve- lation possesses. 403. Still thou npraisest . . earth. — Observe how the poet has led up to this description of his father's life- work ; and name and explain the three chief features of that work. Eddy about.— Show that the poet's description of the conduct of most men fairly suggests this expression. Why does the poet introduce the word " perish " ? With the fate of the class described in this section, compare the fate of the selfish, unpatriotic man in Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel, vi. i. And there are some. — This section describes the earnest seekers for truth, men who have an aim in life, among whom the poet places himself. 404. But something to snatch . . grave. — The student of the classics will recall Horace's presage of immortality in Ode IIL, 30: "I shall not wholly die ; but a great part of me shall escape obUvion." A long, steep Journey . . snow.— This comparison of life to an Alpine ascent presents a vivid picture of the difficulties that beset an ardent, aspir- ing soul. To what else is life compared in the poem ? The allegory is not con- tinued to the end, for there is nothing at the end of a successful life that " the gaunt and taciturn host " of the Alpine inn represents. The whole picture is extremely realistic, and seems to be a recollection of one of the poet's own Alpine experiences. 405. Thou wouldst not alone. —By the use of the word " alone " the poet is enabled to pass naturally to the descrip- tion of the third class, the few noble, helpful, unselfish spirits of whom his father seemed the most noble example ; those who not only reached their own goal but heljjed others forward also. 406. And through thee . . gone.— A high tiibute to a father's example, that it was his noble life alone which made it possible for his son to believe that the accounts of great and noble men who had lived in the past were not expressions of a longing desire for such men rather than statements of actual facts. Souls tempered with fire.— Men who have faced difficulties and endured temptations are best able to help others. Ah, but . . long.— Contrast the despairing tone of this line and of the section that follows with the animation and hope of the last section. Observe how in the last section one thought sug- gests another, one expression is ampli- fied by another, leading up to a climax ; the whole section presenting a graphic description of the united army pressing forward, encouraged and inspired by the presence and example of the few fervent heroi z leaders. XCII. MORALS AND CHARACTER IN THE EIGH- TEENTH CENTURY. 409. ArtJh-versifler.— An epithet ap- plied to Pope to describe his skill in versification — a gift that came to him at a very early age. TruUlber,— A coarse, ignorant, lazy clergyman in Fielding's Joseph An- drews ; the opposite of the amiable, sim- ple-minded Dr. Primrose of Gold- smith's tale. HogartlL— William Hogarth (1697- THE RETURN OE THE SWALLOWS. 5" n Alpine re of the nt, aspir- rompared s not con- s nothing that "the ;he Alpine picture is ns to be a >oet's own lone.— By the poet is he descrip- few noble, whom his e example ; their own ard also. . gone.— 5 example, lone which 1 to believe . and noble ast were not sire for such ts of actual Are. — Men ind endured le to help lontrast the and of the e animation n. Observe thought sug- ion is ampli- to a climax ; ng a graphic rmy pressmg inspired by ■e of the few EIGH- Jflsrph An- lamiable, sim- of Gold- logarth (1697- 1765), a distinguished painter, is especi- ally noted for liis caricatures of the vices and follies of his day, one ofhis series of cartoons being Marriage d, la Mode. 410. Hell-fire club.'— Ihe clubs of this name in London were made up of profligate characters. Allworthy is a benevolent character in P'ielding's Tom Jones. Weston is a jovial, ignorant, selfish, country squire in Fielding's History of a Foundling, PositivlstB.— Those who profess to believe that we can know nothing be- yond what human experience can teach. The student should acquaint himself with the history of the period in order to understand all the personal allusions in this selection. .: ,.r CI. THE FORSAKEN GARDEN. This poem well exemplifies the poet's mastery of melody and his fondness fo» alliteration. It presents a complete picture of utter desolation and loneliness. The garden is a mere ' ' ghost of a garden " ; the ' ' beds " are " blossomless " ; not only are the roses dead, but so too are the weeds that once grew where the roses bloomed ; th6 walks are overgrown with briers and thorns ; there are no birds singing in the groves ; and even the sun and the rain, which are blessings elsewhere, come here to destroy the one gaunt, bleak blossom, whose dry, dishevelled appear- ance only enhances the desolateness of the picture. The poet then imagines the garden in the days of its blooming as the meet- ing-place of happy lovers, only to give us a most hopeless picture of human life. To his mind death is the end of all things— of lovers as well as of roses — and in the last stanza death is represented as a devouring monster that has made a ' ' fierce solitude " for himself, and becomes his own destroyer when there is noth- ing left for liim to destroy. However much we may admire the skill of the poet, and be charmed with the melody of his verse and his mastery of words, we are glad to shake off the chilling, depressing influence of liis gross materialism and to find in the Christian philosophy a brighter and more hopeful view both of this life and of the life to come. CV. THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOWS. 437. Out . . Infinite.— This stanza pictures to us a fresh English meadow on a spring morning, and pre- sents a marked contrast to the parched and arid African landscape depicted in the second stan?a. This alternate re- presentation of English and Alrican scenery is a noticcaole feature of the poem, and it will lie observed that the words used harmonize well with the scenes described. Compare, for in- .stance, the spiritless monotone of the second and third lines of the second .stanza with the animation of the corres- ponding lines of the third stanza. Shivering with sap. — By the use of the word ".shivering" the poet suggests that the flowing of the sap produces a quivering motion simi- lar to that caused by the circulation of the blood, and, like the latter, it is a E roof of vilalitv — "shivering with sap" eing in plain prose, " full of life," Shoot Into air. — Mudie describes the lark's flight as " a succession of leaps, as if a heavy body were raised by a succession of efforts, or steps, with pauses between." Compare Shel- ley's description, " From the earth thou springest, like a clouU of fire." 512 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. Spirally. — An appropriate word to describe the circular sweep of the lark in its strong, upward flight, the circles gradually enlarging as the bird ascends. Kowth^t . . ItuninouB — Dull, cloudy winter mornings are more com- mon to the climate of England than to that of Canada, but in both countries the spring mornings and evenings are distinguished by a peculiar glow or brightness which is not ol)servable even on the clearest of winter days. In the last two lines of the stanza the allusion is to the glow increasing as spring advances. Out of . . thruBhes.— The song of the thrush, like that of the lark, is strong, clear, and musical. Compare the following description : " Sweet thrush 1 whose wild, untutored strain Salutes the opening year. Renew those melting notes again, And soothe my ravished ear." Musical thought . . floats.— This means either that the air is full cf the music of birds, or that the genial influences of the spring-time prompt the birds to sing ; perhaps both. Words- worth seems to have the latter idea in his mind when he refers to the lark as singing " all independent of the leafy spring." Unaware — An allusion to the rapid unfolding of buds on the wp-m spring days. And the drooping . . song.— The familiar haunts of the swallows are represented as missing the compan- ionship of these birds when the time for their return is drawing near. The white Algiers.— Algiers is fre- quently called " Al^er la Blanche; " the houses are built mosily oi .vh'te stone which fairly dazzles the eye under the noon-day sun. All at once . . tones.— It is no time for sighing when everything in na- ture seems glad and joyous, when " musical thought in the mild air floats. ' 438.— Singing . . fruit.— The poetical way of describing the flowing of the sap and the effects produced by it. Dingles. — .\ poetical Wv>rd connect- ed in form with " dimple." Trace any connection in meaning. A promise. — The morninrj glow gives promise of a warm day. Leafage. — For the more usual word, "foliage." Which is the more regu- lar formation ? Spray. — This word is allied to "sprig," Spray, flying water, is of different origin. To swoop . . rain.— The low, swooping flight of the swallow is re- garded as a sign of rrfin. Something awoke. — What was this "something"? Show that "awoke" is appropriately used in this connection. Alien birds. — Is the home of the swallow in England or in Africa ? Give reasons for the answer. Dreamy square.— In the centre of the new town of Algiers is a large and handsome square in the European style. What phase of evcry-day life in an oriental city might suggest the epithet " dreamy"? Bad slave woman. — .Mgiers had been a noted piratical nest for three centuries previous to its conquest by the French in 1830. The Algerine pi- rates were the terror of the Mcditerran- ■ ean, and even ventured as far as the North Sea. They seized ships, and sometimes attacked defenceless towns, murdering the inhabitants or carrying them into slavery. In one of their ex- peditions, they sacked the town of Bal- timore in the south of Ireland. The introduction of the " sad slave woman" adds to the poem a pathos which would not otherwise be present. Show that the words used to de- scribe the swallows' mode of flight are well chosen. By the order in which the birds are introduced the poet probably intends to intimate the order in which they be- gin their song in the spring. Note also in the third and fifth stanzas evidences of the advance of spring. Discuss the appropriateness of the descriptive epithets used. Select examples of the different poetic qualities employed in the poem. The subject of the poem is a simple one. Does the langua e employed harmonize with tbe subject? State the leading thought of each stanza, and combine them so as to form a synopsis of the poem. Refer to passages which show that the poet is. a. correct observer of liar , ture.