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♦: i

CO]

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IIGHER CL

FOR T]

By a Mem

D. <

COBNKB NOTI

)pt«cl, on the Report of the Oathollo Members of the Ooininit«
tee, for use in the Catholic Schools of Lower Canada.

THE

METROPOLITAN

OURTH READER:

COMPILBD FOR THE USB OF

COLLEGES, ACADEMIES,

akd the

IIGHER CLASSES OF SELECT AND PARISH SCHOOLS.

« ABRAN6ED EXPRESSLY

FOR THE CATHOLIC SCHOOLS IN CANADA.

By a Member of the Order of the Holy Cross.

MONTREAL:
D. & J. SADLIER & CO.,

COBNEB NOTBE DAME AND ST. FRANCIS XAYIEB STREETS.

1866.

Entered according to Act of the Provlneial Legislstnre, in tbe Year of our Lord
one tliouBand eight hundred and sixty-five,

Bt D. & J. 8ADLIER & CO.,

In the office of the Begistrar of the Province of Canada.

INTRODUCTION.

ar of our Lord |

Thb subject of edacation is certainly the great question of the
day. Its practical importance can scarcely be exaggerated. Upon
its solution depends the future of society, whether for weal or for
woe. The leading spirits of our age and country have so appre-
hended it; and hence school-book succeeds school-book, and
method follows method, with a view to the more efficacious im-
parting of knowledge to youth. The activity in this department,
especially among those outside the Ohurch, has been prodigious,
and it seems to be on the increase. The characteristic trait of
our age seems to be the desire to seize on the child, and to mould
its tender mind and heart to a particular form. Our wide-spread
system of common schools is but an expression of this feeling,
which is based upon a knowledge of human nature and of philos-
ophy. The child is " the father of the man," and the character
of the latter will be but a development of the impressions made
upon the mind and heart of the former, while these were suscep-
tible and plastic. If the flower be blighted, or the twig be bent,
in the nursery, it will be difficult to render the matured plant
either healthy or straight.

The great fault of our common-school system is found in its
either wholly ignoring or greatly undervaluing the religious ele-
ment in education. Without religion, education is, at best, but a
doubtful boon, and it may be even a positive evil. Considering
the innate tendency of our nature to evil, and the difficulty of
training it up to good, the religious element is essential in the
educational process. No other principle can supply an efficient
curb to the headlong passions of youth ; no other can effectually
train up children to the practice of a sound morality, thereby

INTRODUCTION.

making them good citizens by making them first good Christians.
Witliout religion we may possibly succeed in amking them de-
corous, if not decent, pagans ; we cannot certainly hope to make
them good, much less exemplary, Christians. The teachings of
revelation, the facts of history, the lessons conveyed by our own
daily observation and experience, and the frightful increase of J
vice whenever and wherever a contrary system has been adopted,
all combine to confirm this conclusion.

We would not exclude secular education — very far from it ; but
we would constantly blend with it the holy influences of religion.
Christian and secular instruction should go hand in hand ; they
cannot be consistently or safely divorced, at least among Christians.
Not that we would thrust Christian teaching on the youthful mind
too frequently, or on unseasonable occasions, so as to produce a
feeling of weariness or disgust. This is but too common a fault
among our over-zealous, but — in this respect at least — not over-
wise Bible and Sabbath Christians of the day, who, but too often,
m the name of religion, repress the buoyant smile of childhood,
cast a gloomy shadow over the spring- tide of life, thereby infusing
into the child an early, and, therefore, very deeply seated disgust
for religion, and, in the end, producing an abundant harvest of in-
diflferentists and infidels. We every day see the sad effects of this
overwrought zeal and mistaken system of instruction.

We would, on the contrary, seek to make religion amiable in
the eyes and dear to the hearts of the little children whom Christ
go dearly loved. It should gild with its light and warm with its
rays every pursuit of the school-room, even as the sun enlightens
and cheers the objects of nature. We would not intrude the re-
ligious influence on the mind and heart of childhood, but we
would seek to distil it gently, even as God distils the dews of
heaven on the tender plants of the morning. We would carefully
exclude from the reading-lessons all the poison of noxious princi-
ples, and even all worldly and frivolous matter ; and we would
do this all the more rigidly whenever the poison would become
the more dangerous, because latent, or gilded with the fascina-
tions of style, or the gorgeous imagery of poetry. We would
rigidly exclude Byron, in spite of his Syren Song. Thus im«

I i

proved, se

a greatly i

strength

around its

childliood

partments,

earthly cor

This idef

least, in th(

Messrs. Sac

to which 01

ter of the U

religious, p(

always leav

moral. Th

of the Hob

judgment o

literary tast

who has m(

such ciroum!

tion possess!

nently popul

good.

The Fourt
ing the princ
selected and
Two things i
readings for i
jects and to .
second, the c
Catholic wri
There is scar
we have not
the book the
of some of
known or eas
It is well tha

INTRODUCTION.

Christians.
: them de-
pe to make
?aching3 of
jy our own
increase of
en adopted, \

rom it ; but
of religion,
hand; they

Christians,
athful mind
> produce a
mon a fault
— not over-
it too often,

childhood,
Bby infusing
ated disgust
arvest of in-
fects of this

amiable in
horn Christ
rm with its
I enlightens
■ude the re-
ad, but we
e dews of
,d carefully
oua princi-
we would
Id become
le fascina
We would
Thus im

proved, secular instruction would put on new beaoty and obtain
a greatly increased influence for good; it would be "clothed with
strength from on high," and the light of heaven would piny
around its pathway. It would then become doubly attractive to
childhood ; for the aroma of religion, diffused through all its de-
partments, would lend it a charm and give it a zest which no
earthly condiment could impart.

This idea, we believe, has been carried out to a great extent at
least, in the new Series of Metropolitan Readers just issued by the
Messrs. Sadlier of New York, particularly in the Fourth Reader,
to which our attention has been more specially called. The mat-
ter of the lessons is varied, and though far from being exclusively
religious, possesses, in general, a religious or moral tendency, and
always leaves a good impression. There is no lesson without its
moral. The selection was made by a religious lady of the Order
of the Holy Cross, who took care to submit her work to the
judgment of gentlemen well known for their critical acumen and
literary taste, and had it edited by another lady of New York,
who has merited well of American Catholic literature. Under
Buch circumstances it does not surprise us to find tliat the collec-
tion possesses great merit, and that it is likely to become emi-
nently popular in our schools, and thereby to accomplish much
good. *

The Fourth Reader is divided into two parts : the first contain-
ing the principles and practice of elocution, and the second, well-
selected and appropriate readings, both in poetry and in prose.
Two things in particular strike us as distinctive of this collection of
readings for children : first, the preference given to A.merican sub-
jects and to American authors over those which are foreign ; and,
second, the copious selections from the writings of the principal
Catholic writers of the day, both in Europe and in America.
There is scarcely a prominent writer of this class from whose pen
we have not at least one specimen. What renders this feature of
the book the more valuable, is the circumstance that the writings
of some of these distinguished authors are not very generally
known or easily accessible to the mass of readers in this country.
It is well that our children should learn that there are good and

▼1 INTBODnonON.

elegant works of literature in the Ohurch as well as outside of it,
and it is liighly important that they should be imbued, from an
early age, with a taste for this kind of reading. Among the for-
eign Catholic writers from whom selections are furnished, we no-
tice the names of Cardinal Wiseman, Dr. Newman, Balmez, Oha«
teaubiiand, and Digby. Among our own writers, we perceive
with pleasure the names of several of our archbishops, bishops,
and clergymen, besides those of such distinguished laymen as
Dr. Brownson, Dr. Huntington, McLeod, Shea, Miles, and others.
The writings of these are interspersed with judicious selections
from our standard American authors, Irving, Prescott, Bancroft,
and '?aulding.

We take pleasure in recommending this valuable series of
Readers to the patronage of our Oatholio colleges, schools, and
academies.

. V

ide of it,
, from an
g the for-
il, we no-
nez, Oha-
) perceive
I, bishops,
aymen as
ad others,
selections
Bancroft,

CONTENTS.

InTEODUonoM, by Bishop Spalding , • ill

PART I.

PRINCIPLES OP ELOCUTION.

Ilntroduction 9

JFroper position 11

[Holding the Book 12

espiration 12

Sxercise 12

Lrticulation 12

Sxercises in Articulation 15

Pronunciation 19

Sxercises in Emphasis 22

[nflsotiom 23

camples in Inflection 24

" " " for two voices 26

" •♦ *' for three voices 27

CKROisBS IN Elooxttion. Examples ^. 81

fpirited Declamation 31

}ay, Brisk, and Humorous Description .' 81

Jnimpassioned Narrative 82

)ignified Sentiment 83

Qlemn and Impressive Thoughts 83

Lwe and Solemnity 83

^eep Solemnity, Awe, Consternation !i4

lonotone 86

luANTITT 88

[xamples in Quantity 88

Utb or Movement of thk Yoicb 40

low Movement 41

sverence 41

[elancholy 41

rofound Solemnity ■ 42

ili;

A CX)NTEN1«.

riSE

Grandeur, Vastnesg 42

Moderaio Movement 42

Lively Movement 42

Brisk Movement 48

Rdpid Movement 44

Srmitonb, or PLAiNTivBMnM or Spbkoh 45

Examples of Plaintive Utterance Motherwell. 46

•« " " '♦ Bryant. 47

•« " " ♦• Hood. 48

«« The Past WiUon. 49

** Where are the Dead 49

♦* The Charge of the Six Hundred Tennyson. 60

♦' Give me Three Grains of Com 51

•' The Leaves A. S. Stephens. 61

" The First Crusaders before Jerusalem 52

" Lament for the Death of Owen Roe O'Niel Davis, 63

" The Wexford Massacre "M. J. Barry. 54

" Abou Ben Adham Leigh Hunt. 65

" The Reaper Longfdhw. 65

" Mental Beauty Akenside, 66

♦' The Soliloquy of King Bichard Shakspeare. bl

•* Spring Flowers HowiU. 67

*• The Modem Blue-Stoeking 58

" Invocation Maekay. 59

" Time G. D. Frentice. 59

" Poetasters Pope. 59

'* Richard's Resignation Shakspeare. 60

*' Eve's Regret on quitting Paradise Milton. 6t

'* Love due to the Creator O. Griffin. 61

*• A Child's First Impression of a Star WiUis. 621

•• The Carrier-Pigeon Moore. 62

'• To the Passion-Flower 64

" Advice to an Affected Speaker Le Bruylre, 65

Eemarks to Teachers 66|

4»»

PART II.

POETRY.

The Landing of Columbus Samuel Rogers.

Mary, Queen of Mercy James Clarence Mangan.

Language O.W. Holmes.

Indian Names , Mrs, Sigounuy.

lie Wild Lily
lie Cheiwell
'tCKiir's Offer (
lord Jumes of

t. Agnes

riie Dying Gir

he Sister of C

lie iMinJHtry o

il el rose Abbey

ionitiu8 ,

'lie Crusaders,
•livry Magdrtler
tftirtyrdom of 5
iirneut of Mar,
n Hour at the
tella Matutina
I' My Father's (
the Robin . .

hristnias

I'he High-born
arco Bozzaris .
'ardinal Wolsej
'athoHc Ruins,
'he Dying Chile
he Art of Booh
ho is my Neig
ere were Men
lOve of Country
lie Holy Wells
hrahaoi and th
"he Celtic Cross
ioyhood's Years
'he Indian Boat

CONTENTS. 6

r*aa

rirnort pfocs by Tunis Robert SoiUhivell. 95

(iliuy Stuart's Ltint Piuyt-r J. (1 . Smi/tln'. 102

In- VirKin Maiys Kiiight Thus. I). M((,'ee. 107

My liife'iH like the Siunmur Uoso li. II. )\\lde.. 11*2

liiiil li; Ki ver ./rum the Spinmh. V-V.)

11' tlioii couldrtt be a IJiril Rev. F. W. Fnher. \\'.\

111- ("roHs in the Wilderness Mrs. Ikmnna. l-l'J

lit! I'm rot I'hcmuis Varnjildl. 150

he Conrttaiicy of Nature R, II. JJana. ICl

I'Ijo Virgin Martyr Massinger. 107

I'ht' ShephenlH* Song Tusso. 177

1(1 vice to a Young Critic Alexander Fjpe. 186

Id 'I'imeH Gerald (jrh'^n. 194

I'lif Wild Lily and the Passion-Flower Rev. A. Roquette. 205

I'iic Cherwell Water-Lily Fat/ur Faher. 217

t'uDsivr'B Offer of Amnesty to Cato Addinon. 221

[iord James of Douglass Aytoitn. 225

5t. Agnes Alfred Tennyson. 233

I'he Dying Girl R. JJ. Willianui. 239

he Sister of Charity Gendd Oriffin. 240

I he Ministry of Angels Edmund Sj}enser. 253

|Iiilrose Abbey Sir Walter Scott. 261

poriitius T. B. Macaiday. 271

he Crusaders Wm. Wordsworth. 280

[liiry Magdalen Gallanan. 290

^Itirtyrdom of St. Agnes Aubrey De Vere. 294

(iirnent of Mary, Queen of Scots Robert Burns. 300

Ln Hour at the Old Play-Ground Atim. 315

jtella Matutina, ora pro nobis Dr. Huntington. 821

f My Father's Growing Old' ' Elizabeth G. Barber. 323

\o the Robin Eliza Cook. 333

Christmas Loid John Manners. 338

(he High-born Ladye Thos. Moore. 341

larco Bozzaris Fitz- Greene Halleck. 349

Cardinal Wolsey and Cromwell Shakspeare. 353

Catholic Ruins Farther Caswell. 3G5

me Dying Child on New Year's Eve Tennyson. 369

[he Art of Book-keeping Thos. JJood. 377

/^ho is my Neighbor Anon. 383

lere were Merry Days in England 387

Love of Country Sir Walter ScoU. 393

[he Holy Wells of Ireland .John Eraser. 398

Ibraham and the Fire- worshipper Household Words, 41 1

[i»e Celtic Cross T. D. McGee. 418

loyhood's Years Rev. C. Mehan. 425

file Indian Boat Moore. 431

00NTENT8.

The Immortal Soul of Man Byron.

Bingen on the Rhine Hon. Mrs. Norton.

'J'he Ancient Tombs Frances Brown.

On Pride Pope.

437J
443^
448^
4651

1: i

ili:

\'\

. PROSE.

Character of Columbus Washington Irving.

Phihmthropy and Charity O. A. Brownson,

Love for the Church , 0. A. Brownson.

Religious Memorials Sir Humphrey Davy.

The Battle of Carillon F. JT. Gameau.

The Loi-guage of a Man of Education S. T. Coleridge.

The Indians Judge Story.

St. Vincent, Deacon and Martyr Mrs. Anna Jameson.

The Seven Sleepers of Ephesus Mrs. Anna Jameson.

Catholic Missions in the Northwest George Bancroft.

Catholic Missions — continued

The Discovery of America Thos. D. McGee.

'J'he Discovery of America — continued ^

The Young Catholic Abbi Martinez.

The Children of the Poor Charles Lamb.

The Blessed Sacrament F. W. Faber.

The Blind Martyr Cardinal Wiseman.

The Blind Martyr — continued

Peace Tribunals Archbishop Kenrick.

First Battle on the Plains of Abraham F. X. Garneau.

First Battle on the Plains of Abraham — continued

The Spirit of the Age Rev. J. W. Gummings.

Death of Alonzo de Aguilar Wm. H. Prescott.

Death of Alonzo de Aguilar — continued

St. Peter's Entry into Rome Archbishop Hughes.

Novel Reading Anonymous.

Death of Father Marquette /. G. Shea.

Early Days at Emmettsburg Mrs. E. A. Seton.

Portrait of a Virtuous and Accomplished Woman Finelon.

Execution of Mary, Queen of Scots Agnes Strickland.

The Humming- Bird John J. Audubon.

Description of Nature in the Christian Fathers Humboldt.

Queen Elizabeth of Hungary Montalenbert.

Ages of Faith Kenelm H. Digby.

Ages of Faith — continued

War of 1812, and death of Gen. Brock

The Battle of Queenston Heights

T '^''S and Gain Re». J, H. Newman.

God's Share Donald McLeod.

17
17
17
18
18
19

CONTENTS.

be Last Hours of Louis XVI Alison. 191

;iuirattt'r of the Irish Peasantry Jonah Barrington. 196

St. Frances of Rome Ladtj FuUerton. 199

ipring H. W. Longfellow. 201

iirtyrdom of Fathers de Brebeuf and Lalcmant. . .Rev. J. B. A.

Ferland 203

Ihiminution at St. Peter's Bishop England. 200

llUuiuination at St. Peter's— continued 209

Ihe Son's Return Gerald Grijin. 212

[The Son's Return — continued 216

Edward the Confessor Lingard. 219

'J'he Discontented Miller Goldsmith. 223

The Jesuits Mrs. J. Sadlier. 227

Education Kenelm H. Dighy. 229

Education — continued 232

Infidel Philosophy and Literature Robertson. 234

Infidel Philosophy and Literature — continued 237

Marie Antoinette Edmund BurKC. 241

The Old Emigrd Mary R. Mitford. 244

Sir 'i'homas More to his Daughter 248

Influence of Catholicity on Civil Liberty ..Bishop Spalding. 260

'I'he Choice '. . . George 11. Miles. 264

The Choice— continued 267

Landing of the Ursulines and Hospital Nuns at Quebec 260

The First Solitary of the Thebais Chateaubriand. 264

The First Solitary of the Thebais— continued 267

'i he Exile's Return •■ Mrs. J. Sadlier. 274

Mount Orient Gerald Griffin. 275

De Froiitenac Bibaud. 281

The Catacombs Dr. Manahan. 283

The Religious Military Orders Archbishop Purcell. 287

Dialogue with the Gout Dr. Franklin. 291

Magnanimity of a Christian Emperor Schlegel. 293

European Civilization Balmez. 297

St. Francis de Sales' Last Will and Testament. .St. Francis de Sales. 299

Arch-Confraternity of San Giovanni Decollato Maguire. 302

The Confraternity ♦' Delia Morte" Maguire. 304

The Plague of Locusts Dr. Neuman. 808

The Plague of Locusts— continued 310

Christian and Pagan Rome Dr. Ndigan. 816

Rosemary in the Sculptor's Studio Dr. Huntington. 319

Religious Orders Leibnitz. 821

Resignation of Charles V., Emperor of Germany Robertson. 326

Resignation of Charles V.— continued 328

Letter from Pliny to Marcellinus Melmoth. 831

The Religion of Catholica Dr. Doyle. 885

CONTENTS.

WAon

■M' I
>l t

The Wife Washington Irving. 837

JTie Truce of God Fredet. 340 1

Advice to a Young Lady on her Marriage Dean Swift. 343 j

A Catholic Maiden of the Old Times Rev. J. Boyce. 845

De Laval, first Bishop of Quebec H. J. Morgan. 862 1

Rome Saved by Female Virtue Nathaniel Hooke. 367

Home Saved by Female Virtue — continued 860

The Friars and the Knight Digby. 863

Gil Bias and the Parasite Le Sage. 866

Anecdote of King Charles II. of Spain 871

Spiritual Advantages of Catholic Cities IHgby. 872

On Letter Writing Blackwood's Magazine. 873

ITieAlhambra by Moonlight W.Irving. 380l

Best Kind of Revenge Chambers. 881

Edwin, King of Northumbria Lingard. 384

Cleanliness Addison. 886 j

Memory and Hope Jos. K. Pavldiny. 889

The Charnled Serpent Chateaubriand. 894

Two Views of Nature " 895

Wants Jas. K. Paulding. 400

Wants— continued 402

Vesuvius and the Bay of Naples Bev. G. F. Haskins. 405

Ireland " '* 407

Patriotism and Christianity Chateaubriand. 414

Peter the Hermit Michaud. 416

Can the Soldier be an Atheist Chateaubriand. 419

Japanese Martyrs #. Miss Caddell. 421

Japanese* Martyrs— continued 423

On the Look of a Gentleman HazlUt. 427

Social Characters CheUeaubriand. 429

Death of Charles II. of England Robertson. 482

Religion an Essential Element in Education Stapf. 484

Books as Sources of Self-cultivation ♦* 438

Man's Destiny •' 441

On Good Breeding. Anon. 446

Execution of Sir Thomas More 450

The Influence of Devotion on the Happiness of Life Blair. 463

Adherence to Principle commands Respect Miss Brownson. 467

Mount Lebanon and its Cedars Patterson. 469

ITie Siege of Quebec by Montgomery 461

Champlain B. J. Morgan. 465

Jacques Cartier at Stadacona Oarneau. 469

Jacques Cartier at Hochelaga Ahbi Ferland. 472

The City of Montreal P.J.O. Chanveau. 476

It !

rAMJ
rving. 837
'i'redet. 340 1
Sivift. 343
Soyce. 845
organ. 852
Hooke. 857

360

Dighy. 863
I Sfltjre. 366 1

871

Digby. 872
gazine. 873]
Irving. 380
wibers. 381
Ingard. 384
(Utson. 386
uldiny. 889
&mni. 894
" 395

\ulding. 400 1

4021

laakins. 405
407
hriand. 414 1
ItcAau^. 4161
t&rtani. 419 1
;a<2(2e22. 421
423
'iwZtlf. 427
•iond. 429
)er^3on. 482|
Stoi>/. 434
438
441
Anon. 446 1
450
'lair. 453
ion. 4571
•«on. 469 1
461
'gan. 465 1
teau. 4691
land. 472
ivcau. 475

THE FOURTH READER.

•^>#-

Part I.

PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION.

Inteoduction.

HE art of reading well is one of those rare ac-
complishments which all wish to possess, a few
think they have, and others, who see and believe
that it is not the unacquired gift of genius, la-
bor to obtain. But it will be found that excel-
lence in this, as in every thing else of value, is the
result of well-directed effort, and the reward of
unremitting industry.

To read and speak, so as at once* to convey intelligence to
the mind and pleasure to the ear ; to give utterance to
thoughts and sentiments with such force and effect as to
quicken the pulse, to flush the cheek, to warm the heart, to
expand the soul, and to make the hearer feel as though he
were holding converse with the mighty spirit that coaceived
the thought and composed the sentence, is, it is true, no or-
dinary attainment ; but it is far from being either above the
power or beyond the reach of art.

To breathe life through language, to give coloring and force
to the thoughts, is not merely an accomplishment ] it is an
acquisition of priceless value — a power of omnipotent agency,
when wisely and skilfully used.

But this degree of excellence is to be attained only through
the influence of sure and multiplied principles ; — principles that
are universal ; principles that are founded in nature.

THE FOURTH RKADKK.

rilr

[jii.;

iilil

Modes of delivery must inevitably vary with the suscepti-
bility of the reader to imaginative impulses, and with the
nature of his appreciation of what he reads. To prescribe
rules for what, in the nature of things, must be governed by
the answering emotion of the moment, and by a sympathizing
intelligence, may continue to be attempted, but no positive
system is likely to be the result. Language cannot be so
labelled and marked that its delivery can be taught by any
scheme of notation.

Emotional expression cannot be ganged and regulated by
any elocutionary law ; and, though there has been no lack of
lawgivers, their jurisdiction has never extended far enough to
make them an acknowledged tribunal in the republic of letters
and art.

Mr. Eean does not bow to the law laid down by Mr. Kem-
ble or Mr. Macready ; Mr. Sheridan differs from Mr. Walker,
and Mr. Knowles dissents from them both.

The important step, I believe, in regard to practice in ex-
pressive reading, is to set before the pupil such exercises as
may sufficiently enlarge his interest and be "penetrable to his
understanding. An indiflFerent, unsympathizing habit of de-
livery is often fixed upon him, solely by accustoming iiim to
read what is either repulsive to his taste, or above his com-
prehension.^ As well might we put him to the task of read-
ing backwards, as of reading what is too dull or difficult to
kindle his attention or awaken his enthusiasm. Reading back-
wards is not an unprofitable exercise, when the object is to
limit his attention to the proper enunciation of words, iso-
lated from their sense ; but when we would have him unite an
expressive delivery to a good articulation, we must give him
for vocal interpretation, such matter as he can easily un-
derstand.

That the study and practice of Elocution should form a
branch in our systems of Education, is now generally con-
ceded. The true method of conveying a knowledge of this
art is, however, still open to much discussion. Experience
has confirmed me in the opinion that elaborated artificial rules
are almost " worse than useless," for they fetter all the natural

Impulses

isms and

delivery.

as necessj

which go

To simpli

absolutely

reader, ha

A knovi

and practi

ease ; the

stress, anc

emotional^

ical auxilid

dent.

These ei

briefest am

classes, acc(

daily Head',

will, I trust

natural and

I claim E

Elocutionar

rules from i

which exper

essential.

Whether i
the head up
will thus be
organs left t
is the best —
body on the
and turn the
is termed th
right, by thr<

PRINCIPLKS OP ELOCUTION.

impulses of the Pupil, and too frequently substitute manner-
isms and affectations for a direct, earnest, natural method of
delivery. And yet Elocution has its rules, as essential and
as necessary to be understood and studied as are the rules
which govern a thorough knowledge of the exact sciences.
To simplify these rules, and to present only those which are
absolutely requisite to form a strictly natural and finished
reader, has been my aim in the following pages.

A knowledge of the positive rules which govern Inflections,
and practice on the same to enable the pupil to inflect with
ease ; the general knowledge of rules governing Emphatic
stress, and a practice on Modulation, in its varieties of level,
emotional, and imitative tones, are all the necessary mechan-
ical auxiliaries which Elocution, as an art, affords to the stu-
dent.

These essential rules I now present, condensed into the
briefest and most practical form, the due practice of which in
classes, accompanied by the application of the principles to the
daily Reading from Examples I have furnished in this work,
will, I trust, materially assist in the formation of an eminently
natural and correct style of Reading.

I claim no originality in the creation of any new system of
Elocutionary Instruction. I have only compiled and adapted
rules from acknowledged masters of the art, rejecting those
which experience has satisfied me are but extraneous and non-
essential.

Proper Posftions.

Whether sitting or standing, the body should be kept erect,
the head up, and the shoulders back and down. The chest
will thus be expanded, breathing be free and full, and the vocal
organs left to an unembarrassed action. A standing position
is the best — it gives more power. Support the weight of the
body on the left foot ; advance the right about three inches,
and turn the toes of both feet moderately out. This position
is termed the second right / it will be changed to the first
right, by throwing the weight of the body on the right foot,

THE j«'OUBTH BEADEB.

11! :

I'^i

which may Bometunes be convenient for relief, where the read-
ing is long continned.

Holding the Book.

The book should be kept in the left hand, in a nearly hori-
zontal position from the lower point of the breast, at a dis-
tance of six or eight inches from it. The voice will thus be
unobstructed, and the face, which is the index of the soul, in
complete view of the audience. The right hand may be em-
ployed in turning the pages, and, in proper cases, in light, sig*
nificant gesture.

" Respiration.

To read with elegance and power, the function of breathing
must be under entire control. The compass and quality of the
voice depend upon it. To secure this control, it will Jbe found
highly useful to train the lungs to their most pliant and euei-
getic action, on some respiratory exercise, as below :

" The chest so exercised, improves its strength ;
And quick vibrations through the system drive
The restless blood."

Exercise.

1. Draw in the breath very slowly, until the lungs are en-
tbely filled.

2. Emit the breath in the same manner, continuing to
breathe as long as possible.

3. Take in a full, quick breath, and expire it in an audible,
prolonged sound of the letter h.

4. Inspire with a sudden, impulsive effort ; then exhale ij
the style of a strong, whispered cough.

5. Take in and give back the breath through the nostrils,
fully, but slowly, the mouth being entirely closed.

6. Exercise the lungs in the manner of violent panting.

Articulation.

A perfect articulation is the great excellence of good read-
ing and speaking. There are other vocal qualities which rank

proper soun
syllables am
the followinj
gant, honor
nance, Ac, i
debased intc

Syllables i
lated by mai
compromise,
vate, feller \
history for hi
philoserpher
abrogate, &(
ton, &c., ma

The nnacc
to sound like
Bingttlar, ed«
mute should

PBIK0IPLE8 OP ELOCUTION.

ireathing
ty of the
be found
md eaei-

are en-
auing to
audible,
xhale ij
nostrils,
ing.

od read-
ich rank

high in the elocutionary scale, as inflection, emphasis, and
expression — but they are all inferior to this, and dependent
upon it. They have no power to make clear to the mind
those words or phrases which, by reason of imperfect enuncia-
tion, are not received by the ear. The student should be led,
therefore, to early and persevering practice on the Elementary
Sounds of the language, on difficult Consonant Combiaations,
and on unaccented Syllables. The effect would be almost
magical. It would be marked by all the purity and complete-
ness which Austin's Ghironomia contemplates, when it says :
" In just articulation, the f7or<!s are not hurried over, nor pre-
cipitated syllable over syllable ; they are delivered out from
the lips as beautiful coins, newly issued from the mint, deeply
and accurately impressed, perfectly finished, neatly struck by
the proper organs, distinct, sharp, in due succession, and of
due weight."

Defects in articulation may proceed either from over-eager-
ness in utterance, or from sluggishness and inattention. We
will here cite some of the Vowel and Consonant sounds which
are most frequently marred by a vicious articulation. The
proper sound of the a is often too decidedly perverted in the
syllables and terminations in aZ, ar, ant, an, ance, &c., as in
the following words : fatal, particular, scholar, separate, arro-
gant, honorable, perseverance, preliminary, descendant, ordi-
nance, &c., in which the a should be slightly obscured, but not
debased into the e of her, or the u in hut.

Syllables and terminations in o, ow, and on, are badly articu-
lated by many, who say potator for potato, compromise for
compromise, tobaccemist for tobacconist, innervate for inno-
vate, feller for fellow, winder for windoio, meller for mellow;,
history for history, hallered for halloM;ed, meader for meadow,
philoserpher for philosopher, colemy for colony, abrurgate for
abrogate, &c. The o in such words as horizon, motion, Bos-
ton, &c., may be slightly obscured, but not dropped.

The unaccented u is often erroneously suppressed, or made
to sound like e, in such words as particular, voluble, regular,
singular, educate, Ac The full, diphthongal sound of the u in
mute should be given to the above words, as well as to the

THE FOURTH KEADEB.

Ii!i,.i

'!;•■'
ijii

i '

following : nude, tune, tube, suit, assume, nature, mixture,
moisture, vesture, valture, geniture, structure, gesture, statue,
institution, constitute, virtue, tutor, subdued, tuber, duty,
duly, &c.

There are some miscellaneous vulgarisms in the rendering of
Vowel sounds, to which we will but briefly allude. Do not
omit the long, round sound of o (as it occurs in home) in such
words as boat, coat, &c. Do not give to the a in scarce the j
sound of u in purse. Do not say tremend^ous for tremendous,
or colyume for column (pronounced kollum, the u short as in
us, and not diphthongal, as in use). Give to the diphthong ot
its full sound in such words as notse, potse, point, &c. Do ]
not trill the r in the wrong place. Do not give the sound of
u to the a in Indian (properly pronounced Indyan). Do
not give the sound of ^e ovfel to the/uZ of &wful, beauti/u/,
and the like ; of urn to the m in chasm, prism, patriotism,
&c. Do not dismiss the letter d from such words as anc^,
minces, handfs, depencfs. Bends, &c. Do not say git for get,
idee for idea, thar for there, po'try for poetry, jest for just,
jine for join, ketch for catch, kittle for kettle, at&h for star,
pint for point, fur for far, ben for been (correctly pronounced
bin), dooa for does (correctly pronounced duz), agin for
again (correctly pronounced agren), ware for were (correctly
pronounced wur), tharefore for therefore (correctly pro-
nounced thurfore), air for are (correctly pronounced ar, the
a as in far). It is a common fault with slovenly readers to
dispense with the final g in words of more than one syllable,
ending in ing. Such readers tell us of their startin^ early in
the momin\ seein^ nobody comin\ &c., giving us to infer that
they either have a bad cold in the head, or have been but in-
differently attentive to their elocutionary studies. Always
avoid this vulgarism, whether in conversation, or in reading
aloud.

Where consonants precede or follow the letter », care should
be taken to avoid the too frequent practice of improperly
dropping the sound of one letter or more. For example, in
the line, — " And thou exi«^^8^ and striv's^ as duty prompt,"
— ^the sound of the italicized consonants is often imperfectly

PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION.

rendered. So we hear acts incorrectly pronounced ax ; facts,
fax ; reflects, reflex ; expects, expex, &c. Great liberties
ire often taken with the letter r. There are speakers who
say bust for burst, /wst for first, dust for durst, «&c. We
ilso hear Cubar for Cuba, later instead of law, ivawr instead
(if war, palatial instead of partial, Larrence instead of Laio
rence, stau?m instead of stoTTn, maM;n instead of morn, eaten
Instead of corn. The vibrant sound of the r should not be
mffled in such words as rural, rugged, trophy, &c. ; nor
should the r be trill^ in ca^'e, margin, &c.

The sound of the h, in syllables commencing with shr, should
)e heeded ; as in the line, " He shr'iWy s/irieking s/irank from
B?irlving him." In these and similar words the h is often shorn
)f its due force, and, by some bad speakers, is entirely sup-
)ressed. To the preservation of its aspirate sound in such
rords as w^at, w^ale, wAither, w^en, &c., particular atten-
fcion should be given.

A thorough and well-defined articulation willleave a hearer
In no doubt as to which word is meant in articulating the fol-
lowing : when, wen ; whether, weather ; what, wot ; wheel,
real ; where, wear ; whist, wist ; while, wile ; whet, wet ,
rhey, way ; which, witch ; whig, wig ; whin, win ; whine,

ine ; whirled, world ; whit, wit j whither, wither j white,
right ; wheeled, wield.

Exercises.

He is content in either place ;

He is content in neither place.

They wandered weary over wastes and deserts ;

They wandered weary over waste sand deserts.

I saw the prmts without emotion ;

I saw the prince without emotion.

That last still night ;

That lasts till night.

His cry moved me ;

His crime moved me.

He could pay nobody ;

He could pain nobody.

THE FOURTH BEADEB.

■''' I ! '

i';i i i
I" i '

! !!

iiri'M

He built him an ice house j

He built him a nice house.

My heart is awed within me ;

My heart is sawed within me.

A great error often exists ;

A great /en'or often exists. •

He is content in either situation ;

He is content in neither situation.

Whom ocean feels through all her countless waves ;

Who motion feels through all her countless waves.

My brothers ought to owe nothing ;

My brother sought to own nothing.

In the following exercises, most of the noteworthy difificull
ties in the articulation of our language have been introduced,!
In some of the sentences, it will be seen, little regard has!
been had to the sense which they may make ; the object beingl
either to accumulaie difficulties in Consonant combinations, orl
to illustrate varieties of Yowel sounds and theu* equivalents

Exercises in Articulation.

1. A father's fate calls Fancy to beware. -411 m the hall
here hawl the aw;l all ways. AunVa heart and hearth arei
better than her head. And ehaW I, sir'rah, guarantee youn
plaid ? Arraign his retgn to-day ; the great rain gawge,
And so our w^oling ended all in wailing. Accent' the ac'-|
cent accurately always.

2. Aivfnl the awe ; nor broad owght Tom to mawl. Tliel
6ul6, the bribe, the barb, the 6a6Wing bibber. Biding thou
hndg^dst, and hudgmg bravely hidest. Bubbles and hu66ub^
6ar6arous and pu61ic. Cans^ g'ive the blind a notion of am
ocean? CA^urlish cMrographers, chromatic cA^anters. Chm
alry's e^ief c^id the cAurl's cAaflfering choice chimerical.

3. Call her ; her cooler at the collar scorningr. (7rimc|
craves the Czar's indictment curious. Despised '<?espoilers|
tracked the cZastard's doom. Diaph'Snous (delusions dep'vt
cate. i>rac^mas disdain disj^ersed ^despotically, ^arn earth's
dear tears, whose dearth the heart's hearth ioMrns.

i r, I:-

ih^ii

PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION.

4. ^igland her men metes there a generous meosnro. Cct-sur
Receives the people from liis seat. The key to tliat maolinie

in the field. Friends, heads and heifers, leopards, bwry
iny. JS7j7aralne, estimate the eggs earactly.

5. FauZ/s f He had fauZ^s ; I said he was not faZse. Fa-

[undious PAilip's /Zippant ;7aency. OhQ.ai\y the gribbous au-

)fiT gorges grnomes. Go 1 though rough cougha and hiecougr/is

[iiongh thee througr^ I Orudg^dst thou, and grib'dst thou,

hrgon, with thy gryves ?

6. He Aumbly ^eld the Tiostler's ^orse an Aour. 51s honest
[/letoric exhilarates. JTear'st thou this /lermit's /lefcous Mere-
ly? He twists the texts to suit the several Beets. Hope,
])6ats, roads, coats, and loads of cloaks and soap. Why har-
\,ss^dst thou him thus inhumanly ?

7. In either place he dwells, in neither fails. Is he in life
(hrough one great terror led ? In one grca^ error rather is he
lot ? Is there a name — is there an aim more lofty ? I say
[he judges ought to arrest the culprit. I say the judges
jought to arrest the culprit.

8. t/anglinglyyealousjeeredthe e/acobin. June's azure day
|ees the ^'ay gayly Jump. JTnavish the ^nack could compass
Inch a ^not. Keep cool, and learn that cavils camiot kill.

Tentuc^y ^nows the dar^ and bloody ground.

9. Loug, Zank, and Zean, he iZZy Zecturod me. Lo 1 there
)ehold the scenes of those darJfc ages. The scenes of those
lar^ cages, did you say ? JIfete'orous and meteor 'ic vapors.
H/iilctecZs^ thou him ? In misery he mopes.

10. Jfyrrh by the murderous myrmidons was brought,
fan is a microcosm, a mimic world. JIfute mopiw^r, maim-
ed, in misery's murmurs whelm'cZ. Jfammon's main monu-

lent a miscreant makes. Jfoments their solemn realm to
femnon give.

11. Neigh me no nays; know me wow, neighbor Dobbin.
Apt wow the flower is riv'n, forever fall'w. Nymp/is rawge the

lOTQsts stul till rosy dawn. Nay ! did I say / scream ? I said
ue cream. Never thou clasp' dst more Meeting triumphs here.

12. O'er wastes and deserts, was^e sand deserts sZraying.
)n the har^Z wharf the tmAd dwarf was standing. Oh, note

THB FOURTH READER.

i ^ t

tho occasion, yeoraan, ha?4tboy, heauf Or'tho(ipy precedesj
orthog'raphy. Ob'ligatory objects tlieii he offered.

13. Pro'cedenta ruled prece'dent Pres'iden/a. Poor jjaint-l
ed pomp of pleasure's proud parade. P/iarmacy far moid
/armers cures than kills. Psyche (si-k6) puts out the sp/iinx'a
pscudo pipe. Politics happ'n to bo uppermost. The roonW
perfumed' with per'fumes popular.

14. QuWp quoted Qt/arles's ^t^iddities and quirks. Qt/ecD|
and co^t^ets ^mckly their con^t^ests quit. Quacks in a qum
dary were quaking there, ^ench'd's^ thou the g^warrel cj
the quidnuncs then? Qmescent Qulxotifun and quihbUnj^
quizzing.

15. ^ave, loretched rover, erring, rash, and perjuredj
^ude rugged rocks reSchoed with his roar. P^inoceroseJ
armed, and iJussian bears. JKound rang her shriW sham
frenzied shriek for mercy. Puin and rapine, ruthless lyretchj
attend thee I

16. /Six s^im, sZeek saplings s/othfully he sawed. 5i?riduloi
sZrays the stream through forests strange. > SnarVsts thou al
me ? Vainly thou splashWs^ and stroy'dst. Sh&W s^uflBin|
s/iift thy s^rinkingr, shrieking s^ame ? /Schisms, chasms anj
prisms, phantasms, and frenzies dire. iSmith, smooth, smug
smart, smirked, smattered, smoked, and smiled. Sudden
sad&n^d ; wherefore did he sadd'w?

It. The heir his ^air uncovered to the air. That l&st s/il
night, that las^s ^ill night's forgot I The s^rideni triden^'l
strife strides strenuous. The dwpes shall see the dt/pe survej
the scene. The martial corps regarded not the corpse.

18. The ringm^', clingingr, blightiwgr, smitin^r cwrse. Tb
storms s^ill strove, but the masts stood the struggle. The s<e
these s^eal s^ill s^er'eotypes (the er as in te»Tor) their stigm\
The s^alk these talkers sft-ike stands strong and steady. Th&t
ing, it ^/lermometrically thrivea.

19. Temptations ^an^amoun^ indictoeni's deb^or.^ Ten^A
ten thouaandth 1 eaks the chain alike. Thiuk^st thou tli
heigr^^s, dep^^s, breadths, thou'ri ^^orough in? The soldiea
skilled in war, a thousand men ? The soldiers billed in war!
thousand men. The prints the prince selected were superb.

PRIN0IPLE8 OF ELOCUTION.

20. Then if thou faWat, thou MVst a blessed martyr. Then
^st — Wv^st (lid I Ray? appear'a^ in the Senate 1 Though

^y cry moved me, thy crime moved me more. Thtae thingH
^n never make your government. Thou harO'dst the dart
^at wounded mo, alas !

21. Thou 8tartl'£?«^ me, and still thou starti'^/ me. Thoa

latch's^ there where thou watch'da^, sir, when I came. Thou

jack'n'^s^ and thou black'n'^/ me in vain. ThougMat thou

[oso thovLghta of thine could thrill me ^/trough? The iu-

iguing Togue\ vague brogue pla^t^« like an ague.

22. Thou slcp^'8^, great ocean, hush'dst thy myriad waves.

le wolf whose Aowl, the owZ whose hoot is heard. The new
^ne played on Tt/esday si^t'ts the duke. Too soon thou
mckl'dst o'er the gold thou stoles^ Twanged short and
[arp, like the shrill swallow's cry.

23. Use makes us use it even as us&ge rules (this last u
le the in move). ZJmpires usurp the wswrer's nsiml cwstom.
ftility's your t«ltima'ti/m, then. Uhtttnable, wntractable, un-
\mkmg. Urge me no more ; your argt^m6n^8 are wseless.

le tutor's revolution is reck/ced.

24. Tain, vacillating, ve'hement, he veers forever. Whet-
ag his scythe, the mower singe^^ hlUhe. While t(7^iling time

whist, why will you w?^i8per? Whelmed in the waters
ere the ly^irlirig wheels. Tf Aere is the ware that is to wear

well?

1 25. TF^ite were the tdghts who waggishly were winking,
jrenched by the hand of violence from hope. WouW,s<
lou not highly — woulc^s^ not holily? With short shrilU
Irieks flits by on leathern wing. Xerxes, Xantippe, Xen'o-
kon, and Xanthus.

26. Fachts yield the t/eomen ^/outhful exercise. You pay
[body ? Do you pain nobody ? Your kindness overti;Aelm8
-makes me bankrupt. Zeuxis, Zenobia, Zens, and Zoro-
I'ter. Zephyr these hewers indolently fans.

Pronunciation.

\A and the when under emphasis have the yowel sounded
ig; as "I said a man, not the man." But a when unevor

THB FOUBTH BBADBB.

;;ii'

phatic or nnaccented is always short ; as, " We saw S. cliij

playing about." The used before a vowel, takes the hi

sound of e, but before a consonant, the short : as, " Tlfchat the ran

oranges were good, but thS dates bad. These distinctioij

deserve particular attention in primary and intermedial

schools. They are much neglected. My when emphatic takj

the long sound ; as, " It is my book, not yours," but in mo

other cases it takes the short sound. Even in reading t|

Sacred Scriptures, good taste prefers the short sound, excea

in ejtpressions of marked solemnity, or in coiyiection with til

Holy Name. By seldom adopts the short sound. In colli

quial phrases like the following, however, it is allowable ;

" By-the-by, or by-the-way." These examples are like worJ

of three syllables, with the accent on the third. In the woJ

myself, the y never takes the long sound, the syllable s«|

receiving the stress when it is emphatic, except when

ferring to the Deity. There, when used as an adverb

place, takes the full sound of ^ (long a) ; as, " The boy

certamly thhe ;" hvA when merely employed to introduce I

word or phrase, it takes the lighter sound of e ; as, " OJ

there is the boy." So with their ; as, " It is their duty, m

yours." "They will not neglect their duty." In the sa/

manner your, when emphatic, sounds as the word ewer doej

but nnemphatic, it shortens into yiir, having less the sound [

long u. The following seven words used as adjectives alwaj

have the e sounded — aged, learned, blessed, cursed, vnngi^

striped, streaked ; as, " An aged man ; a learned professoj

the bless6d God," not " An ag'd man, &c." When this wo|

is compounded, however, the ed is short ; as, "A fuU-ag

person."

" Those who wish to pronounce elegantly" as Walker
justly said, "must give particular attention to these syllablJ
as a neat pronunciation of these, forms one of the greata
beauties of speaking." But great defects are common in tU
respect, not only in the humbler grades of society, but amoj
the educated and refined. In the pulpit, in the halls of leg
latioD, everywhere, indeed, this is more or less the case.

The word modulation is derived from a Latin word sic

PRINCIPLES OF EIXX3UTI0N.

saw & diij
es the loi

as,

ti I

distinctioil
intermedial
phatic takj
but in mo
reading til
ound, excel
ion with t|
d. In colli
lowable ;
re like worl
In the wo]
syllable si
spt when
m adverb
The boy
introduce!
e ; as, " 01
Hr duty, iij
llu the sai
ewer do(
the sound
;tives alw
\sed, wingi
>d professol
len this wo|
A fuU-af

I Walker

3se syllabi)

[the greati

imon in tl

but amo!
lalls of Icj

case.

word sii

fjing to measure off properly , to regulate; and it maybe
ipplied to singing and dancing as well as speaking. It is not
?aoiigh that syllables and words are enunciated properly, and
that the marks of punctuation are duly observed. Unless the
roice sympathetically adapts itself to the emotion or senti-
lent, and regulates its pauses accordingly, it will but imper-
fectly interpret what it utters.

The study of pronunciation, in the ancient and most com-
)rehensive sense of that word, comprised not only the con-
sideration of what syllables of a word ought to be accented,
)ut of what words of a sentence ought to be emphasized,
i'he term Emphasis, from a Greek word signifying to point
tut or show, is now commonly used to signify tli»? stress to be
[aid upon certain words in a sentence. It is divided by some
rriters into emphasis of force, which we lay on almost every
[iguificant word, and' emphasis of sense, which we lay on
)articular words, to distinguish them from the rest of thg
lentence.

The importance of emphasis to the right delivery of thoughts

speech must be obvious on the shghtest reflection. " Go
Lad ask how old Mrs. Brown is," said a father to his dutiful
Ion. The latter hurried away, and soon returned with the re-
ort that Mrs. Brown had replied that " it was none of his
iasiness how old she was." The poor man had intended
lerely to inquire into the state of her health ; but he acci-
[entally put a wrong emphasis on the word old.

Another instance of misapprehension will illustrate the im-
[ortance of emphasis. A stranger from the country, observ-
ig an ordinary roller-rule on a table, took it up, and on ask-
ig what it was used for, was answered, "It is a rule for

)unting-AoMses." After turning it over and over, up and
[own, and puzzling his bram for some time, he at last, in a

iroxysm of baffled curiosity, exclaimed : " How in the name
wonder do you count houses with this ?" If his informer

id rightly bestowed his emphasis, the misconception of hia

leaning would not have taken place.

Emphasis and intonation must be left to the good sence

id feehng of the reader. If you thoroughly understand

THE FOHETH READER.

1,1: 1:1 ■ H'i

i i.i ;•■; ■"

i!'':',i, '

I ,1 :■ I,

ill;!

■ ■.h

1: :

and feel what you have to utter, and have your attentioiil
concentrated upon it, you will emphasize better than hyl
attempting to conform your emphasis to any rules or marksf
dictated by one writer, and perhaps contradicted by unl
other.

A boy at his sports is never at a loss how to make his emJ
phasis expressive. If he have to say to a companion, " I wan|
your bat, not your ball" or " I'm going to skate, not to swim,"
he will not fail to emphasize and inflect the italicized wordsl
aright. And why ? Simply because he knows what he means)
and attends to it. Let the reader study to know what hi|
reading-lesson means, and he will spend his time more profitaj
bly than in pondering over marks and rules of disputed applif
cation. It is for the teacher, by his oral example, to instil
realization of this fact into the minds of the young.

Dr. Whately, in his Treatise on Rhetoric, pomtedly coi
demns the artificial system of teaching elocution by markJ
and rules, as worse than useless. His objections have beej
disputed, but never answered. They are : first, that the pro
posed system must necessarily be imperfect ; secondly, that i|
it were perfect, it would be a circuitous path to the object
view ; and, thirdly, that even if both these objections werj
removed, the object would not be eflfectually obtained.

He who not only understands fully what he is reading!
but is earnestly occupying his mind with the matter of itj
wUl be likely to read as if he understood it, and thus to maki
others understand it ; and, in like manner, he who not onlj
feels it, but is exclusively absorbed with that feeling, will
likely to read as if he felt it, and communicate his impre8|
sion to his hearers.

Exercises in Emphasis.

In theu" prosperity, my friends shall never hear of me ; ij
their adversity, always.

There is no possibility of speaking properly the language
any passion without feeling it.

A book that is to be read requires one sort of style ; a ma
that is to speak, must use another.

PBINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION.

A sentiment which, expressed diffusely, will barely be ad-
litted to be just, expressed coucisely will be admired as
)irited.

Whatever may have been the origin of pastoral poetry, it is
[ndoubtedly a natural and very agreeable form of poetical
)mposition.

A stream that runs within its banks is a beautiful object ;

jut when it rushes down with the impetuosity and noise of a

jorrent, it presently becomes a sublime one.

Those who complain of the shortness of life, let it slide by

lem without wishing to seize and make the most of its golden

mtes. The more we do, the more we can do ; the more

^usy we are, the more leisure we have.

This without^ those, obtains a vain employ ;
Those without this, but urge us to destroy.

The generous buoyant spirit is a power

Which in the virtuous mind doth all things conquer.

It bears the hero on to arduous deeds ;

It lifts the saint to heaven.

To err is human ; to forgive, divine.

INFLECTION.

"With regard to the Inflections of the voice, upon which so
luch has been said and written — there are, in reality, but
[wo — ^the rising and the falling. The compound, or circum-
Jex inflection, is merely that in which the voice both rises and
[alls on the same word — as in the utterance of the word
('What 1" when it is intended to convey an expression of dis-
dain, reproach, or extreme surprise.

The inflections are not termed rising or falling from the
Jiigh or low tone in which they are pronounced, but from
|he upward or downward slide in which they terminate,
whether pronounced in a high or low key. The rising inflec-
tion was marked by Mr. Walker with the acute accent ( ' ) j

f'^

THE FOURTH READER.

P -ir

the falling, with the grave accent (^). The inflection marlj
of the acute accent must not be confounded with its use ij
accentuation.

In the utterance of the interrogative sentence, " DoeJ
CsBsar deserve fame' or blame^ ?" the word fame will have tlij
rismg or upward slide of the voice, and blame the falling oj
downward slide of the voice. Every pause, of whatever kindj
must necessarily adopt one of these two inflections, or con
tinue in a monotone.

Thus it will be seen that the rising inflection is that up
ward turn of the voice which we use in asking a question
answerable by a sunple yes or no; and the falling inflection ij
that downward sliding of the voice which is commonly use
in the end of a sentence.

Lest an inaccurate ear should be led to suppose that tlij
diflferent signification of the opposing words is the reason oj
their sounding diflferently, we give below, among other exai
pies, some phrases composed of the same words, which an
nevertheless pronounced with exactly the same difiference o|
inflection as the others.

Examples.
The Rising followed ly the Falling,

Does he talk rationally', or urationally^ ? ^

Does lie pronounce correctly', or incorrectly^?
Does he mean honestly', or dishonestly^ ?
Does she dance gracefully', or ungracefully^?

The Falling followed hy the Biting,

He talks rationally,^ not irrationally'.
He pronounces correctly\ not incorrectly'.
He means honestly\ not dishonestly'.
She dances gracefully^ not ungracefully'.

The rising progression in a sentence connects what has
said with what is to be uttered, or what the speaker wishe
to be implied, or supplied by the hearer ; and this with mor

PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION.

Lr less closeness, querulousness, and passion, in proportion to
Ihe extent and force of the rise.

The falling progression disconnects what has been said
Irom whatever may follow ; and this with more or less com-
pleteness, exclusiveness, and passion, in proportion to the force
ind extent of the fall.

The rising inflection is thus, invariably associated with what

incomplete in sense ; or if apparently complete, dependent on
|r modified by what follows ; with whatever is relative to some-
(hing expressed, or to be implied ; and with what is doubtful,
itcrrogative, or supplicatory.

The falling inflection, on the contrary, is invariably asso-

(iated with what is complete and independent in sense, or in-

snded to be received as such ; with whatever is positive and

Ixclusive ; and with what is confidently assertive, dogmatical,

[r mandatory.

The rising inflection is thus, also, the natural intonation of

|ll attractive sentiments ; of love, admiration, pity, &c., as in

le exclamations, " Beautiful' I Alas' ! Poor thing' I" The

\aUi7ig inflection is the tone of repulsion, anger, hatred, and

sproach, as in the exclamations, " Go^ I Fool^ I Maledic-

A great number of rules are given for the inflecting of sen-
jnces, or parts of sentences. To these rules there are many
tccptions not enumerated by their framers. The rules, if
sed at all, must therefore be used with extreme caution, or
[ley will mislead ; and the reader who undertakes to regulate
|s elocution by them will in many instances fall into error.
''e give below the rules that are least liable to exception ;
it even these must be received rather as hints to guide the
mler where he is in doubt, than rides to hold where his
liderstanding dictates the intonation most in accordance with
^c sense and spirit of what he is reading.

Where the sense is complete, whether at the termination of
[sentence, or part of a sentence, use the falling inflection.

When sentences are divisable into two parts, the commen-

ag part is generally distinguished by the rising inflection.

Questions commencing with an adverb or pronoun, and

THE FOURTH READER.

'I'l^h

Wirl'l

::'i:i4

lii' i

which cannot be answered by a simple " yes^' or " no/* gcij
erally terminate with the falling inflection.

Questions commencing with a verb, and which cannot
answered by a simple " yes" or " no," generally terminate wit|
the rising inflection.

When two or more questions in succession are separated
the disjunctive particle or, the last question requires the/clj
ing and the preceding ones the rising inflection.

The general rule for the parenthesis is, that it must be prJ
nounced in a lower tone, and more rapidly than the rest of tlf
sentence, and concluded with the inflection that immediate!
precedes it. A simile being a species of parenthesis, follow
the same rule.

The title echo is adopted to express a repetition of a woil
or phrase. The echoing word is pronounced generally vm
the rising inflection, followed by something of a pause.

Exercises in Inflection.

In the following pieces, — the first by Sir Walter Scott, aJ
the second and third from Ossian, — exercises in modulatij
for two or three voices, or sets of voices, are given. By sep
rating an entire class, and allotting to each group its part
simultaneous utterance, a good effect, with a little drillin
may be produced. Pupils will readily perceive that where t!|
sense is incomplete, and the voice is suspended, the rising |
flection is naturally used :

For two voices, or sets of voices.

(1st) Pibroch* of Donuil Dhu', (2d) pibroch of Donuil',
(1st) Wake thy wild voice anew, (2d) summon Clan-Conuilj
(1st) Come away\ come away' 1 (2d) hark to the summons]
(1st) Come in your wiir-array', (2d) gentles and commons\

* A pibroch (pronounced pibroh) is, amon{^ the Highlanders, a mar
air played with the bagpipe. The measure of the verse in this stani...
quires that in the third line the exclamation " Come away" shouldl
sounded as if it were a single word, having the accent on the first sylbl
— thus, come' away. So in the words hill-plaid^ and steel blade, in the si
enth and eighth lines. The license of rhyme require^ that the at in pi(
should be pronounced long, as in motd.

PRINCIPLK8 OF KLOOUTION.

It) Come from deep glen', (2d) and from mountains so

rorky\

It) The war pipe and pennon (2d) are at Inverlochy^ ;
It) Come every hill-plaid', (2d) and true heart that weara

one\
It) Come every steel blade', (2d) and strong baud that bears

one\

t) Leave untended the herd, (2d) the flock without shelter^ ;
t) Leave the corpse uninterred, (2d) the bride at the

altar ^

t) Leave the deer, (2d) leave the steer, (1st) leave nets and

barges^ ;
ll) Come with your fighting gear\ broadswords and targcs\

t) Come as the winds come, (2d) when forests are rended^ ;
i) Come as the waves come, (2d) when navies are stranded^ ;
t) Faster come, faster come, (2d) faster' and faster\
I) Chief, (2d) vassal\ (1st) page' and groom\ (2d) tenant'
and master.

[) Fast they come\ fast they come ; (2d) see how they

gather^ I

Wide waves the eagle plume (2d) blended with heather\
I) Cast your plaids, (2d) draw your blades\ (All) forward

each man set^ 1
I) Pibroch of Donuil Dhu', knell for the onset' I

the last line but one, the two words man set (meaning man set in hat-
Vray) should be sounded as a single word of two syllables, having the
k on the first.

For three voices, or sets of voices.

voice) As Autumn's dark storm' — (2d voice) pours from
the cclioing hills' — (3d voice) echoing hills', —

Toice) so toward each other' — (2d voice) toward each
other approached' — (3d voice) approached the he-
roes\

voice) As two dark streams' — (2d voice) dark streams

THE FOURTn KKADER.

!:i

from liifrli rocks' — (3cl voice) meet and mix, d

ronr on tlio i)liiii/, —
(1st voice) lond, ron^-li, and dnrk' — (2d voice) dark in

tie'' — (3d voice) in battle met Locblin and lu'ij

fall\
(1st voice) Chief mixed his blows with cliief — (2d voice) J

man with man^ — (3d voice) steel clangin,^;, souuj

on steel\
(1st voice) Helmets are cleft' — (2d voice) cleft on hid|

(3d voice) Helmets are cleft on high' ; blood Ijiii

and smokes around'.
(1st voice) As the troubled noise of the ocean' — (2d vi

the ocean when*i'oll the waves on high' ; as tho |

peal of the thunder of heaven' — (3d voice)

thunder of heaven'' ; such is the noise of battle.
(1st voice) The groan' — (2d voice) the groan of the peo})!'?!

(3d voice) the groan of the people spreads ovei|

hills\
(1st voice) It was like — (2d voice) like the thunder'-

voice) like the thunder of night' — (All) It wa<;j

tiio thunder of night, when the cloud bursts!

Cona', and a thousand ghosts' shriek at once' ouj

hollow wind'.

(1st voice) The morning' — (2d voice) morning w^as gaj

(3d voice) the morning was gay on Cromla',-
(1st voice) when the sons — (2d voice) sous of the sei

(3d voice) when the sons of the sea ascended\
(1st voice) Calraar stood forth' — (2d voice) stood fortll

meet them', — (3d voice) Calmar stood fortlj

meet them in the pride of his kindling soul\
(1st voice) But pale' — (2d voice) pale was the facc'-

voice) but pale was the face of the chief,

leaned on his father's spear\
(1st voice) The lightning — (2d voice) lightning flies'-

voiee) tlie lightning flies on wings of fire.
(1st voice) But slowly' — (2d voice) slowly now the heroi

— (3d voice) but slowly now the hero falls',

lere the acuto a<

PKINCIPLKS OF KU>CX*1I()N.

i^U

the tree of huiulrod roots before tlie driving
storm.

\t voice) Now from the j^rtiy mists of the ocean' tiic wliite
sailed ships of Finnal'* appear\ — (2d voice) lligli'
— (Ikl voice) hig'li is the gTove of tlieir musts' us they
nod by turns on the rolling waves\

[t voice) As ebbs the resounding sea through the hundred
isles of Inistore' — (2d voice) so loud' — (3d voice;
so vast', — (1st voice) so immense', — (All) re-
turned the sons of Locldin to meet the ai)proachiug
foe\

[t voice) But bending', — (2d voice) weeping', — (3d voice)
sad, and slow' — (All) sank Calmar, the mighty
chief, in Cromla's lonely wo6d\

|t voice) The battle' — (2d voice) battle is past\ — (3d
voice) " The battle is past," said the chief.

|t voice) Sad is the field' — (2d voice) sad is the field of
Lena^ 1 — (3d voice) Mournful are the oaks of
Cromla^ 1

|I1) The hunters have fallen in their strength I The sons
of the brave are no more^ 1

|t voice) As a hundred winds on Morven' ; — (2d voice)
as the stream of a hundred hills' ; — (3d voice) as
clouds successive fly over the Aice of heaven';

|t voice) so vast', — (2d voice) so terrible', — (3d voice) so
roaring' —

111) the armies mixed on Lena's echoing plain\

|t voice) The clouds of — (2d voice) night came rolling
down' ; — (3d voice) the stars of the north arise'
over the rolling waves^ : they show their heads of
fire through the flying mists of hcaven\
voice) "Spread the sail\" said the king' — (2d voice)
Seize the winds as they pour from Lena' !" — (3d
voice) We rose on the waves with songs I

|ll) — We rushed with joy through the foam of the deep.

Che humorous ode by Thomas Hood, addressed to his sou,
lere the acute accent is intended aa a mark of accent, not of inflection

THE FOUinH READEli.

r ^m

aged til roc years and five months, contains numerous exarapj
of the parcutlicsis.

Thou happy, happy elf I
(But sto}) ! — first let me kiss away that teai)—

Tliou tiny image of myself 1
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear) —

Thou mCrry laughing sprite 1 with spirits feather ligj
IJntouch'd by sorrow, and unsoiPd by sin —
(Good heavens 1 the child is swallowing a pin I)

Thou little tricksy Puck
"With antic toys so funnily bestuck.
Light as the singing-bird that wings the air,
(The door I the door 1 he'll tumble down the stair 1}

Thou darUng of thy sire 1
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire I)

Thou imp of mirth and joy I
In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents — (Drat the boy I

There goes my ink I)

Thou cherub — but of earth I
Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale,

In hamiless sport and mirth,
(The dog will bite him if he pulls its tail 1)

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,

Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble — that's his precious nose 1)

Thy father's pride and hope I
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope I)
"With pure heart newly stamp'd from nature's mint|

("Where did he learn that squint I)

Toss the light ball — bestride the stick,
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick I)

"With fancies buoyant as the thistle down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,

PiaNOIPLKS OF ELOCUTION. $i

With mauy a lamb-liko frisk,
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown I)

Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,

(I wish that window had an iron bar I) _ -

Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove—

(I'll tell you what, my love,
I cannot write unless he's sent above I)

Exercises in Elocution.

Spirited Declamation.

\ He woke to hear his sentry's shriek —
'To arms 1 They come I The Greek I the Greek.'"

^Strike — till the last arm'd foe expires ;
Strike — for your altars and your fires ;
Strike — for the green graves of your su-es,
God, and your native land.'*

"Shout, Tyranny, shout,
Through your dungeons and palaces, ' Freedom is o'er.' "

" On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave I
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave !
And charge with all thy chivalry 1"

'Now for the fight — now for the cannon peal I
Forward — through blood, and toil, and cloud, and fire I
On, then, hussars ! Now give them rein and heel I

Think of the orphan child, the murdered sire.
Earth cries for blood. In thunder on them wheel,
This hour to Europe's fate shall set the triumph seal.

Oay^ Brish^ and Humorous Description,

"Last came Jyo's estatic trial.
He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ;
But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol,
Whose sweet, entrancing sound he loved the best."

TlIK FOUJITH JiKAULlJ.

"I corae, I come I — Ye have call'd me long,
I corno o'er the im)untaiiis witli lij»lit and song.
Ye may trace my step o'er tlie wakenhip^ earth,
By the winds whieh tell of the violet's birth."

" Then I see Queen Mab hath been with you.

— — She comes,

In shape no bifi^j^er than an agate stone

On the forefinger of an aldennan,

Drawn by a team of little atomics

Athwart m^^n's noses, as they lie asleep ;

Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners' legs ;

The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ;

The traces, of the smallest spider's web ;

The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams,

Her whip, of cricket's bone ; the lash, of film ;

Her wagoner, a small, gray-coated gnat,

Her cliariot is an empty hazel-nnt.

Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub,

Time out of mind the fairies' coachmakers.

And in this state she gallops, night by night.

Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose.

And then dreams he of smelling out a suit ;

And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail,

Tickling a parson's nose as he lies asleep ;

Then dreams he of another benefice.

Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck ;

And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats.

Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,

Of healths five fathom deep ; and then anon

Drums in his ear ; at which he starts and wakes,

And, being thus frighten'd, mutters a prayer or two,

And sleeps again."

Unimpassioned Narrative,

" There was a man in the land of Uz, whose name was JobJ
and that man was perfect and upright, and one that feare^j
God and eschewed evil."

rUIN'ClI'LIS (>]'• I LOCUTION.

l)uiiilj;i'd Soit'niu it(»,

I" Sir, in the most t'.\i)ivss ti-rmn. I Ucn;, the C(»ini>otiMK'y <if
I;iin<'iit to do this act. I warn ywu, do iint dare to hiy
|ur haiuis oa the constitution. 1 tell you that if, cireuni-
|uued as you are, you pass this let, it will l)e a nullity, and
niiiii in Ireliind will be hound lu obey it. I make the as-
rtioa deliberately. I repeat it, and call on any unui who
jiU's me to take down my words. You have not been elceted
this i)urposc. \ou are appohited to make laws, not legirf*

tares.

Solemn and Impressive TlunKjhta.

"It must be so : — Plato, thou reasonest well,
Else whence this plcnsinji: hope, this fond desire,
This longing after innnortality ?
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destructiou?
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us,
'Tis Heaven itself tlii,it points out au hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity ! thou pleading, dreadful tliouglit 1
Through what variety of untried being.
Through what new scenes and changes nuist we pass 1
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me ;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it."

Awe and Solemnity,

!"To be, or not to be, that is the question :
Whether 'tis nobhjr In the mind to sufl'er
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them? To die, — to sleep ;
No more ; — and, by a s^eep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to ; — 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die ; — to sleep ; —
To sleep I perchance to dream ; ay, there's the rub ;

THE rouirni KiiADKit.

For in that sleep of deatli, what dreams may come,
When we liave shudled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause."

Deep Solemnity^ Awe, Consternation.

"In thoughts from the visions of the night, when dej
sleep falleth on men, fear came upon rae, and trembling, wliij
intule all my bones to shake. Then a spirit passed before
face. The hair of my flesh stood up. It stood still, but I
could not discern the form thereof. An imag-3 was bef(
mine eyes. There was silence, and I heard a voice : * SlJ
mortal man be more just than God?'"

Besides practising tlic examples as they are arranged on
preceding pages, tliey should be so varied as to require a si|
den transition of the voice from one extreme of intervals
another. By this practice, the pupil may at any time, by dd|
mining the depth and grade of feeling, strike the appropiii
note with as much precision as the vocalist can, when exec|
ing any note of the scale.

The elements of impassioned utterance are many and n
ous ; and altliough each one nuist be considered in an insulai
light, yet no one of them is ever Ireard alone ; no one ej
exists separately in correct and varied speech. They J
always applied in combination, and several are somctirJ
combined in a single act of utterance. We may have uiiJ
one syllabic impulse, a long quantity, a wide interval, aspij
tion, and some one of the modes of stress, all simultaueoiiij
effecting a particular purpose of expression.

As the sister Graces produce the most pleasing eflfect A\ii
arranged in one family group, so an impassioned sentiiiiJ
miiy be most deeply and vividly impressed by the combinatj
of several vocal elements. This might be clearly illustra'
in cases of deep and overwhelming emotions, where the mw
tone v/ill be foi^nd one of the essential constituents, comliiii
with long quantity, the lowest and deepest notes, slow luoj
ment, and partially suppressed force, in expressing this coi
tion of the soul. i

I'ltlNCIJ'Li:^ OF lOLOCUTION.

Monotone.

The monotone may be defined as that inflexible movement

the voice which is heard when fear, vastness of thought,

free, majesty, power, or the intensity of feeUn^;, is such as

irtially to obstruct the powers of utterance.

Tliis movement of the voice may be accounted for by tlie

let that, wlien the excitement is so powerful, and the kind

fid degree of feeling are such as to agitate the whole frarne,

ic vocal organs will be so affected, and their natural functions

controlled, that they can give utterance to the thought or

jntiment only on one note, iterated on the same unvarying

|ne of pitch.

Grandeur of thought, and sublimity of feeling are always
|xj)rcssed by this movement. The effect produced by it is
leep and impressive. When its use is known, and the rule
)r its application is clearly understood, the reading will be
[liaracterized by a solemnity of manner, a grandeur of rcfine-
icnt, and a beauty of execution, which all will acknowledge
|o be in exact accordance wath the dictates of Nature, and
Itrictly within the pale of her laws. This will clearly be ex-
pplified in reading the following extracts :

" Vital spark of heavenly flame.
Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame 1
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying —
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying 1
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And lot me languish into life.

" Hark 1 they whisper ; angels say,
* Sister spirit, come away.'
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight.
Drowns ray spirit, draws my breath ?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death ?"

If the reader utter the thoughts and sentiments, in the last
[stanza of the above extract, with a just degree of impres-

THE FOURTH KEADKK.

siveness, he will appear as if he actually heard, saw, and folJ
what the poet described the Christian as hearing-, seeing, qikjI
feeling. What constituent in vocal intonation, or what elJ
ment in expression, enables the reader to give force and truJ
coloring to the thoughts and sentiments in the passage just]
cited ? In what way can it be explained and made clear to|
the understanding ?

The above extract, it will seem, is descriptive of a state o(|
inconceivable solemnity, and expressive of the deepest feelings]
the most solemn thoughts, and the most profound emotions!
and the natural expression of such feelings, thoughts, and emo-|
tions, requires the monotone.

Why not, then, lay it down as a principle, that passages]
expressive of similar sentiments are to be read in a similarj
manner ?

If any one fail to see and acknowledge the effect of thel
monotone in reading the above extract, let him read it againl
in the key of the monotone, and then without it ; and if thel
difference in the effect be not very perceptible, let it be readl
to him, first on the key of the monotone, and then with the]
same stress, tone, quantity, inflection, and rate of movementl
that would be appropriate in reading the following extractj
from Prior :

" Interr'd beneath the marble stone
Lies sauntering Jack and idle Joan.
While rolling threescore years and one
Did round this globe their courses run,
If human things went ill or well,
If changing empires rose or fell.
The morning pass'd, the evening came
And found this couple still the same.
They walk'd, and ate, good folks : — What then?
Why then they walk'd and ate again.
They soundly slept the night away ; •
They did just nothing all the day : '

Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise,
They would not learn, nor could advise.

PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 37

Without love, hatred, joy, or fear,

They led — a kind of — as it were ;

Nor wish'd, nor cared, nor laugh'd, nor cried ;

And so they lived, and so they died."

If this measure leave him in doubt, if he then do not see

low the monotone may be employed with effect, further efforts

}ill be of no avail. He may be considered as belonging to

lat " kind of — as it were" class of individuals, who have not

le ability either to note faults and detect blemishes, or to

jfine beauties and enumerate graces.

The force and beauty of the monotone may be further ex-
iplified in the reading of some portions of the following
[tracts :

"The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless and pathless ; and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air„"

"Eternity 1 thou pleasing dreadful thought 1
Through what variety of untried being.
Through what new scenes and chai' ,^cs, must we pass I
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me ;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it."

" Departed spirits of the mighty dead I
Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled I
Friends of the world 1 restore your swords to man,
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van."

I "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.
id the earth was without form and void ; and darkness was
bn the face of the deep : and the Spirit of God moved upon
je face of the waters. And God said, * L(!t there be light,'
|d there was light."

THE FOURTH READER.

QUANTITY.

Quantity consists in the extended time of utterance, with
out changing the standard pronunciation of words. It is
produced by a well-marked radical, a full volume of sound,
and a clear lessening vanish. When it is well executed, the
syllable will be kept free from a vapid, lifeless drawl.

The power of giving a gracefully extended quantity to syl-
lables is not common. The principal source of difference be-
tween a good reader and a bad one lies in their varied degrees
of ability in this respect.

Although writers on elocution seem, in a measure, to have
overlooked quantity as an important element of expression,
still it is one of the most important which a distinguished
sponkor employs in giving utterance to the sentiments of sub
limity, dignity, deliberation, or doubt.

When judiciously applied and skilfully executed, it seems to
spread a hue of feeling over the whole sentence. It give
that masterly finish, and that fine, delicate touch to the ex-
prcrvsion, which never fails to impress the deepest feeling, or|
to excite the most sweet and enchanting emotions.

A well-marked stress, and a gracefully extended time, form I
the basis of the most important properties of the voice suclij
as gravity, depth of tone, volume, fulness of sound, smooth-
ness, sweetness, and strength. If the mind were a pure Intel- j
lect, without fancy, taste, or j)assion, the above-named function [
of the voice > which may properly enough be termed the signa-
ture of exioression, would be uncalled for. But the case is I
widely different. The impassioned speaker, bvei*powered Ijj
his subject, and at a loss to find words to express the strengt!:
of his feelings, naturally holds on to and prolongs the tones o{|
utterance, and thereby supplies any deficiency in the word^
themselves.

Examples in Quantity.

" With woful measures, wan Despair —
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled j

It is appare
the whole of t
lime, and dig
quantity diffuse
will bring out

Quantity is (
lignity and emc
tiiose of affecte(
that the clear 1
ing of the succ
morbid sensitive

" That lull

*'Anddoi
And do J
And do 3
That com

" The langi
Who was

PllINCII'LKS OF ELOCUTION. 39

A solemn, strange, and mingled air ;
'Twas sad by tits ; by starts 'twas mild."

"Thou art, God 1 the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see ;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,

Arc but reflections caught from thee.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine.
And all things bright and fair are thine."

" Spirit of Freedom 1 when on Phyle's brow
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train,
Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour that now
Dims the green beauty of thine At tie plain ?"

" The stars shall fade *> way, the sun himself
Grow dun with age, and nature sink in years.
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth
Unhurt, amidst the war of elements.
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds."

It is apparent that one predominating sentiment pervades
the whole of the above extracts. They are of a solemn, sub-
lime, and dignified description ; and a gracefully extended
quantity difi'used over the whole with evenness and continuity,
will bring out the sentiment in tlie most impressive manner.

Quantity is employed in giving utterance to feelings of ma-
lignity and emotions of hatred ; also in cases of irony, and in
those of affected mawkish sentimentality, and when so managed
that the clear lessening vanish shall blend with the full open-
ing of the succeeding word, it will give a fine effect to that
morbid sensitiveness which exaggerates every feeling.

" That luU'd them as the north wind does the sea."

*' And do you now put on your best attire ?
And do you now cull out a holiday ?
And do you now strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood V

" The languid lady next appears in state,
Who was not born to carry her own weight ;

THE FOUUTII KEADEK.

She lolls, reels, staggers, till some foreign aid

To her own stature lifts the feeble maid.

Then, if ordaiu'd to so severe a doom.

She, by just stages, journeys round the room ;

But, knowing her own weakness, she despairs

To seale the Alps — that is, ascend the stairs.

*My fan I' let others say, who laugh at toil ;

' Fan I' ' Hood 1' ' Glove I' ' Scarf I' is her laconic style,

And that is spoke with such a dying fall,

That Betty rather sees than hears the call ;

The motion of her lips, and meaning eye,

Piece out the idea her faint words deny.

Oh, listen with attention most profound 1

Her voice is but the shadow of a sound.

And help I oh, help 1 her spirits are so dead "

One hand scarce lifts the other to her head.

If, there, a stubborn pin it triumph's o'er,

She pants 1 she sinks away 1 she is no more I

Let the robust, and the gigantic carve ;

Life is not worth so much ; she'd rather starve,

But chew, she must herself. Ah 1 cruel fate

That Rosalinda can't by proxy eat." Popb.

RATE OR MOVEMENT OF THE VOICE.

The term rate or movement of the voice has reference to the
rapidity or slowness of utterance. In good reading, the voice
must be adapted to the varying indication of the sentiments iD
the individual words, and the rate must accommodate itself to the
prevailing sentiment wiiich runs through the whole paragraph,

Every one must perceive that the rate of the voice, in the
utterance of humorous sentiments and in facetious description,
is vastly different from that which is appropriate on occasions
of solemn invocation.

The rates of movement which are clearly distmguishablc Id
varied sentiment, may be denoted by the terms slotv, moderate,
lively y brisk, and rapid.

PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION.

Slow Movement.

Slow movement is exemplified in the expression of the deep'
st emotions ; such as awe, profound reverence, melancholy,
raiideur, vastness, and all similar sentmients.

In exercising the voice on the rates of movement, the exani-
Ics illustrating the extremes should be read consecutively, for
casons which must be obvious to the teacher.

As several constituents of expression are frequently blended,

specially in the utterance of dignified and impressive senti-

euts, it may not be amiss to take the same example, to illus-

rate the separate functions of the voice. Thus the passage

om the book of Job, which we have already used to exem-

f the principles in pitch and monotone, may serve to illus-

rate the lowest and deepest notes, long quantity and slow

ovement, because all these are blended in giving force and
rue expression to the sentiment.

Heverence.

" Tliy awe-imposing voice is heard — we hear it I
The Almighty's fearful voice I Attend I
It breaks the silence and in solemn warning speaks."

Melancholy.

"With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired.
And from her wild sequestered seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Pour'd through the mellow hour her pensive soul"

" The hills,
Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun, — the vales,
Stretching in pensive quietness between, —
The venerable woods, — rivers that move
In majesty, — and the complaining brooks.
That make the meadows green, — and, pour'd round all,
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, —
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man.'

THE FOURTH READKB.

Profound Solemnity.

" Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set — but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, Death 1

Grandeur — Vastnesa.

" Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll 1
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. . . .

" Thou glorious mirror,- where the Almighty's form

Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time,
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, —

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark heaving, — boundless, endless, as sublime, —

The image of Eternity, the throne
Of the Invisible, — even from out thy shme

The monsters of the deep are made. Each zone

Obeys thee. Thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone,']

Moderate Movement.

Moderate movement is the usual rate of utterance in ordil
nary, unimpassioned narration, as in the following extract— |

" Stranger, if thou hast learn'd a truth which needs
Experience more than reason, — that the world
Is full of guilt and misery, — and hast known
Enough of all its crimes and cares
To tire thee of it, — enter this wild wood,
And view the haunts of Nature."

Lively Movement.

This rate of the voice is exemplified in giving utterance!
a moderate degree of joyful and vivid emotions, as in the ft|
lowing extracts :

*' Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of pamted pomp ? Are not these woods

PKINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 48

More free from peril than the envious court ?

Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,—

The seasons' difference, as, the iey fang

And churlish chiding of the wintry wind,

Wliich, when it bites and blows upon my body,

Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say,

' This is no ilattery.' These are counsellors

That feelingly persuade me what I am.

Sweet are the uses of adversity,

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ;

And this our life, exempt from public haunt.

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

Sermons in stones, and good in every thing :

T would not change it.

Brisk Movement.

This rate of the voice is employed in giving utterance to
Igay, sprightly, humorous, and exhilarating emotions ; as in
jtlie following examples :

" But, oh ! how altered was its sprightlier tone.
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung.
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known I"

"Last came Joy's estatic trial.
He, with viny crown advancing

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ;
But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol,
Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best."

" I come, I come 1 — ye have call'd me long ; —
I come o'er the mountain with ligiit and song,
Ye may trace ray step o'er the wakening earth
By the winds which tell of the violet's burth,
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass."

; [

_^a^

TIIK FOURTH KP:ADER.

"J*^y»JoyI forever, my task is done,
The gates are pass'd and heaveu is won."

Rapid Movement.

This movement of the voice is the symbol of violent angor,
conl'iision, alarm, fear, hurry, and is generally employed in
giving utterance to those incoherent expressions which arc
tlirown out when the mind is in a state of perturbation ; as
may be exemplified in parts of the following extracts :

" Next Anger rush'd. His eyes, on fire,
In lightning owned his secret stings ;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hands the strings."

*'Wlien, doffed his casque, he felt free air
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare :
'Where's Harry Blount? Titz-Eustace, where?
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare 1
Redeem my pennon — charge again I
Cry, "Marmion, to the rescue I" — VamI
Last of my race, on battle-plain
That shout shall ne'er be heard again 1
Yet my last thought is England's. Fly,
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie.
Tunstall lies dead upon the field ;
His life-blood stains the spotless shield ;
Edmund is down — my life is reft —
The admii-al alone is left.
Let Stanley charge, with spur of fire.
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland's central host,
Or victory and England's lost.
Must I bid twice ? Hence, varlets 1 fly.
Leave Marmion here alone — to die.' ''

"He woke — to hear his sentry's shriek —
* To arms I They come ! The Greek 1 the Greek !'
He woke — to die 'midst flame and smoko,

rUINGirLLS OF ELOCUTION.

And sliout, ami fjrrojin, and sabre stroke,
And doatli-sliots t'ailinfjf tlii(;k and fast,
As li<i,'I»tnin^ii;.s IVoui thu mountain cloud,
And lieard, witli voice as trumpet loud,

Bozzjxris clicor his band ; —
* Strike — till the last arm'd-foe expires 1
Strike — for your altars and your lires I
Strike — for the green graves of your sires,

God, and your native laud' "

" Back to thy punishment,
False fugitive 1 and to thy speed add wings ;
Lest, with a whip of scorpions, I pursue
Thy lingerings, or with one stroke of this dart,
Strange horror seize thee, and pangs unfelt before I"

" This day's the birth of sorrows I This hour's work
Will breed proscriptions. Look to your hearths, my lords,
For there henceforth shall sit, for household gods,
Shapes hot from Tartarus 1 — all shames and crimes :
"Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn j
Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup ;
Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe,
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones,
'Till Anarchy comes down on you like Night,
And Massacre seals Rome's eternal grave.''

Semitone.
(Plaintivencss of speech, or the semitonic movoment.)

In ascending the musical scale, if the tone of the voice, in

I moving from the seventh space to the eighth, be compared to

the utterance of a plaintive sentiment, their identity will be

perceived. The interval from the seventh to the eighth is a

1 semitone.

Every one knows a plaintive utterance, and the pupil may
lat any time discriminate a semitone, and hit its interval by
|affccting a plaintive expression.

Subjects of pathos iuid tenderness, uttered on any pitch,

THE FOURTH READKR.

high or low, are capable of beinj]^ sounded with this niarkctl
plaintivenesa of character. Let the i)iii)il devote much time to I
this subject. He must accjuire the power of transferring its
plaintiveuess to any interval, in order to give a just coloriu!:|
to expressions which call for its use.

This movement of the voice is a very frequent element idi
expression, and performs high oflBccs in speech. It is used Id
expressions of grief, pity, and supplication. It is the natural!
and unstudied language of sorrow, contrition, condolence,
commiseration, tenderness, compassion, mercy, fondness, vexa-
tion, chagrin, impatience, fatigue, pain, with all the shades of
difference which may exist between them. It is appropriate |
in the treatment of all subjects which appeal to huraau sym-
pathy.

When the semitone is united with quantity and tremor, the I
force of the expression is greatly increased. The treraulou,4
scmitonic movement may be used on a single word, the more
emphatically to mark its plaintiveuess of character ; or it may
be used in continuation through a whole sentence, when the
speaker, in the ardor of distressful and tender supplication, |
would give utterance to the intensity of his feelings.

Examples in Plaintive Utterance.

" My mother I when I heard that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ?
I heard the bell toll on thy burial day ;
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away ;
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu.
But was it such ? It was. Where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown."

" Would I had never trod this English earth,
Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it.
Ye have angels' faces, but Heaven knows your hearts,-
I am the most unhappy woman living."

PRINCII'LKS OF ELOCUTION.

"Mournfully! Oh, mournfully

This midnight wind doth sigh,
Like some swoct, plaintive melody,

Of ages long gone by !
It speaks a tale of other years—

Of hopes that bloom'd to die —
Of sunny smiles that set in tears,

And loves that mouldering lie t

" Mournfully I Oh, mournfully

This midnight wind doth moan I
It stirs some chord or memory

In each dull, heavy tone ;
The voices of the much-loved dead

Seem floating thereupon —
All, all my fond heart cherish'd •

Ere death hath made it lone."

BIOTHBBWKUi.

" Well knows the fair and friendly moon

The band that Marion leads —
The glitter of their rifles.

The scampering of their steeds.
^Tis life our fiery barbs to guide

Across the moonlight plains ;
*Tis life to feel the night-wind

That lifts their tossing manes.
A moment m the British camp —

A moment — and away.
Back to the pathless forest,

Before the peep of day.

*' Grave men there are by broad Santee,

Grave men with hoary hairs,
Their hearts are all with Marion,

For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band.

With kindliest welcoming.
With smiles like those of suipmer,

And tears like those of spring.

■II

THE FOURTH READER.

For tliem we wear these trusty arms,

And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton

Forever from our shore." Bryant,

Alas I for the rarity
Of Cliristian charity

Under the sun 1
Oh 1 it was pitiful 1
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,

"With many a light.
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood with amazement.

Houseless by night.

The bleak winds of March

Made her tremble and shiver 5
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 I

T. Hoflsl

PRINCIPLES OP ELOfJTTTION.

The Past

How wild and dim this life appears I

One long, deep,, heavy sigh,
When o'er our eyes, half closed in tears,
The images of former years

Are faintly glittering by 1

And still forgotten while they go !
As on the sea-beach, wave on wave,

Dissolves at once in snow,
The amber clouds one moment lie,

Then, like a dream, are gone I
Though beautiful the moonbeams play
On the lake's bosom, bright as they.
And the soul intensely loves their stay,
Soon as the radiance melts away,

We scarce believe it shone I
Heaven-airs amid the harp-strings dwell.

And we wish they ne'er may fade —
They cease — and the soul is a silent cell.

Where music never play'd I
Dreams follow dreams, thro' the long night-honrs,

Each lovelier than the last ;
But, ere the breath of morning-flowers.

That gorgeous world flies past ;
And many a sweet angelic cheek,
Whose smiles of fond affection speak.

Glides by us on this earth ;
While in a day we cannot tell
Where shone the face we loved so well

In sadness, or in mirth 1 Wimom.

Where are the Dead?

Where are the mighty ones of ages past.
Who o'er the world their inspiration cast, —
Whose memories stu* our spirits like a blast ?

Whore are the dead f

50 THE FOURTH HEADER.

Where are old empire's sinews snapped and gone?
Where is the Persian ? Mede ? Assyrian ?
Whore are the kings of Egypt ? Babylon ?

Where are the dead ?

Where are the mighty ones of Greece ? Where be
The men of Sparta and Thermopylae ?
The conquering Macedonian, where is he ?

Where are the dead?

The Charge of the Six Hundred.

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward.
All in the valley of Death,

Rode the six hundred. .
" Forward, the Light Brigade I"
" Charge for the guns I" he said :
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

" Forward, the Light Brigade !*'
Was there a man dismayed ?
Not though the soldier knew

Some one had blunder'd I
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there.
Charging an army, while

All the world wonder'd :
Plunged in the battery smoke,
Right through the line they broke ;

Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke

Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not —

Not the six hundred. T^nnysod

rRTNCIPLKS OF ELOCTTTION.

Give me Three Grains op Corn.

Give me three grains of corn, mother,

Only three grauis of corn,
It will keep the little life I have,

Till the coming of the morn.
I am dying of hunger and cold, mother,

Dying of hunger and cold.
And half the agony of such a death

My lips have never told.

The Leaves.

The leaves are dropping, dropping,

And I watch them as they go ;
Now whirling, floating, stopping,

With a look of noiseless woe.
Yes, I watch +hem m their falling.

As they tion. ^-. ^rom the stem,
With a stillnui ' . ippalling —

And my heart goes down with them I

Yes, I see them floating round me

'Mid the beating of the rain.
Like the hopes that still have bound me.

To the fading past again.
They are floating through the stillness.

They are given to the storm —
And they tremble oflf like phantoms

Of a joy that has no form. A. S. Stepheks.

He is gone on the mountain, he is lost to the forest.
Like a summer-dried fountain, when our need was the sorest j
The fount, reappearing, from the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no clicering, to Duncan no morrow !
I The hand of the reaper takes the ears that are hoary.
Bat the voice of the weeper wails manhood in glory :

THK FOURTH READER.

The autumn winds rushino: waft the leaves that arc serest,
But our flower was in flushing when blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi, sage counsel in cumber,
lied hand in the foray, how sound is thy slumber 1
Like the dew on the mountain, like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain, thou art gone, and forever I

Scott.

Tnr First Crusaders before Jerusalem. ,

" jERusALExf I Jerusalem I" The blessed goal was won :
On Siloe's hrook and Sion's mount, as stream'd the setting sun,
Uplighted in his mellow'd glow, far o'er Judea's plain, '
Slow winding toward the holy walls, appear'd a bannei'd
train.

Forgot were want, disease, and death, by that impassion'd

■ throng,
The weary leapt, the sad rejoiced, the wounded knight grew |

strong ;
One glance at holy Calvary outguerdon'd every pang,
And loud from thrice ten thousand tongues the glad hosannasl

But yet — and at that galling thought, each brow was bcuti]i|

gloom —
The cursed badge of Mahomet sway'd o'er the Savioiir'j|

tomb :
Then from unnumber'd sheaths at once, the beaming blade

upstreara'd,
Yow'd scabbardless till waved the cross above that ton!) I

redcem'd.

But suddenly s holy awe the vengeful clamor still'd.

As sin^s tlie storm before His breath, whose word its risiojl

will'd ;
For conscience whisper'd, the same soil where they so proiii]!j(

stood,
The Son of Man had trod abased, and wash'd with tears

blood.

rRINOIPLES OF ELOCUTION.

Then dropp'd the squire his master's shield, the serf dash'd

down his bow,
And, side by side with priest and peer, bent reverently and

low,
WiiUe sunk at once each pennon'd spear, plumed helm and

flashing glaive.
Like some wide waste of reeds bow'd down by Nilus' swollen

wave.

Lament tor the Death of Owen Roe O'Neill.

[Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words,
'From Derry against Cromwell he march'd to measure swords ;
I But the weapon of the Saxon, met him on his way.
And he died at Lough Oughter, upon St. Leonard's day I"

[■Wail, wail ye for the mighty one I wail, wail ye for the dead I
iQuench ^he hearth and hold the breath — ^with ashes strew
the head.

[ow tenderly we loved him I how deeply we deplore !

Jut to think — but to think, we shall never see him more 1

sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall,
5ure we never won a battle — 'twas Owen won them all.
Had he lived — had he lived-'— our dear country had been free ;
lut he's dead — but he's dead — and 'tis slaves we'll ever be.

Vail, wail him through the Island 1 Weep, weep for our

pride 1

'ould that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died I
Teep the Victor of Benburb — -weep him, young man and old ;
^eep for him, ye women — ^your Beautiful lies cold I

^e thought you would not die — we were sure you would

not go,

Lnd leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow —
fbeep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky-—
)h 1 why did you leave us, Owen ? Why did you die ?

THE FOCETU READER.

Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill 1 bright was your eye,
Oh I why did you leave us, Owen ? why did you die ?
Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God on high ;
But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Owen I — why did you die?

Thomas Davis.

The Wexford Massacre.

They knelt around the Cross divine,

The matron and the maid —
They bow'd before redemption's sign

And fervently they pray'd —
Three hundred fair and helpless ones,

Whose crime was this alone —
Tlicir valiant husbands, sires, and sons,

Had battled for then: own.

Had battled bravely, but in vain —

The Saxon won the fight ;
And Irish corses strew'd the plain

Where Valor slept with Right.
And now that man of demon guilt

To fated Wexford flew—
The red blood reeking on his hilt.

Of hearts to Erin true I

He found them there — the young, the oldr—

The maiden and the wife ;
Their guardians brave, in death were cold,

Who dared for them the strife —
They pray'd for mercy. God on high I

Before Thy cross they pray'd,
And ruthless Cromwell bade them die

To glut the Saxon blade.

Three hundred fell — the stifled prayer
Was quench'd in woman's blood ;

Nor youth nor age could move to spare
From slaughter's crimson flood.

nilNClPLES OF ELOCUTION.

But nations keep a stern account

Of deeds that tyrants do ;
And guiltless blood to Heaven will mount,

And Heaven avenge it, too I

M. J. Barbt.

Abou Ben Adhem.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase) I

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

And saw with the moonlight in his room,

Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

An angel, writing in a book of gold ;

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold ;

And to the presence in the room he said,

" What writest thou ?" The vision raised his head.

And, with a look made all of sweet accord,

Answer'd, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low.

But cheerly still ; and said, "I pray thee, then,

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

The angel wrote and vanish'd. The next night

It came again with great awakening light,

And show'd the names whom love of God had bless'd,

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

Leioh Huite.

There is a reaper, whose name is Death,

And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,

And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have nought that is fair?" saith he ;

" Have nought but the bearded grain ?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,

I will give them all back again." /

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kiss'd their drooping leaves ;

THE FOURTH KKADEB.

It was for the Lord of Paradise
• He bound them in his sheaves.

" My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"

The reaper said, and smiled ;
" Dear tokens of the earth are they,

Where he was once a child.

"They all shall bloom in fields of light,

Transplanted by ray care,
And saints, upon their garments white,

These sacred blossoms wear."

Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath.

The reaper came that day ;
•T was an angel visited the earth,

And took the flowers away. LoNoriLLow.

Mental Beauty.

The shape alone let others prize,

The features of the fair,
I look for spirit in her eyes.

And meaning in her air.

A damask cheek, an ivory arm,
Shall ne'er my wishes win ;

Give me an animated form,
That speaks a mind within.

A face where lawful honor shines.
Where sense and sweetness more,

And angel innocence refines
The tenderness of love.

These are the soul of Beauty's frame,

Without whose vital aid,
Unfinish'd all her features seem,.

And all her roses dead.

Ankkodi.

fe-

PRINCITLES OF ELOCUTION.

The Soliloquy of King Richard III.

Give me another horse : — bind up my wounds : —
Have mercy, Jesu : — soft : I did but dream ? —

coward conscience, how dost tliou alHict me 1
The liglits burn blue. It is now dead midnight.
What do I fear? MyseJf? There's none else by.
Richard loves Richard ; that is, I am I.

Is there a murderer here ? No : yes ; I am.

Then fly. What? From myself? Great reason ; why f

Lest I revenge. What ? Myself on myself?

1 love myself. Wherefore ? For any good
That I myself have done unto myself?

Oh, no ; alas I I rather hate myself.

For hateful deeds committed by myself.

I am a villain : yet I lie ; I am not.

Fool, of thyself speak well : — fool, do not flatter : —

My conscience hath a thousand several tongues ;

And every tongue brings ha a several tale ;

And every tale condemns me for a villain.

Peijury, perjury, in the highest degree.

Murder, stern murder, in the direst degree.

Throng to the bar, crying all. Guilty I guilty I

I shall despair. — There is no creature loves me,

And, if I die, no soul will pity me :

Nay, wherefore should they ; since that I myself

Find in myself no pity to myself ? —

Methought the souls of all that I had murdered

Came to my tent, and every one did threat

To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard.

Shaesfeare.

Spring Flowers.

While the trees are leafless,
While the fields are bare,

Buttercups and daisies
Spring up here and there.
8*

\ !

.«(

THE FOURTH READKK.

Ere the snow-drop pcepcth,

Ere the crocus bold,
Ere the eiuiy primrose

Opes its [)aly gold,
Somewlicre on a sunny bank,

Buttercups are bright :
Somewhere 'raong the frozen grass

Peeps the daisy white ;
Little hardy flowers.

Like to children poor
Playing in their sturdy health

By their motlcr's door ;
Purple with the corth wind,

Yet alert and bold j
Fearing not and caring not,

Though they be a-cold. Hownt

The Modern Blue-stocking.

In all the modern languages, she was
Exceedingly well versed, and had devoted
To their attainment, far more time than has.
By the best teachers, lately been allotted ;
For she had taken lessons, twice a week,
For a full month in each ; and she could speak
French and Italian, equally as well
As Chinese, Portuguese, or German ; and,
What is still more sui-prising, she could spell
Most of our longest English words, off hand :
Was quite familiar in low Dutch and Spanish,
And thought of studying modern Greek and Danish

Has gc

Of hap;

Its sha(

It wave

And th(

Upon tl

Is fallen

It trod i

Tlie brig

Of stricls

And reel

Invocation.

Tell me, my secret soul.

Oil 1 tell me, Hope and Faith,

Is there no resting-place
From sorrow, sin, and death?—

rRINOIPLkS OF ELOCUTION.

Is there no happy spot,

Whore mortals may be bless'd,
Whore grief may find a balm,
And weariness, a rest ?
Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mortals given.
Waved their bright wings, and whisper'd, — " Yes, in Heaven 1"

Maokav.

Time.

The year

Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng

Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow,

Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course,

It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful.

And they are not. It laid its pallid hand

Upon the strong man, and the haughty form

Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim.

It trod the hall of revelry, where throng'd

The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail

Of stricken ones, is heard whore erst the song

And reckless shout resounded.

G. D. Frkntior.

Poetasters.

" Shut, shut the door, good John 1" fatigued, I said ;

" Tie up the knocker ; say I'm sick — I'm dead I''

The dog-star rages I nay, 'tis past a doubt

All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out :

Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand.

They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide ?

They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide ;

By laud, by water, they renew the charge,

They sjtop the chariot, and they board the barge.

No place is sacred, not the church is free,

Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me ;

Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,

Happy tcv (Jatch me just at dinner-time. Popb.

THE FOURTH HEADER.

Richard's Resignation.

K. Rich. Too well, too well thou tcll'st a tale so ill
Where i.s the Earl of Wiltshire ? Where is Ragot ?
What is beeoinc of Rusliy ? Where is Greeu ?
No matter where ; of comfort iio man speak ;
Let's taliv of graves, of worms, and epitaphs ;
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.
And yet not so — for what can we bequeath,
Save our deposed bodies to the ground ?
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's ;
And nothing can we call our own but death,
And that small morsel of the barren earth,
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For heaven's sake, let uS sit upon the ground,
And tell sad stories of the death of kings —
How some have been deposed ; some slain in war ;
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed ;
Some poison'd by their wives ; some sleeping, kill'd ;
All murder'd. For within the hollow crown,
That rounds the mortal temples of a king.
Keeps Death his court ; and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp ;
Allowing him a breath, a little scene
To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks ;
Infusing him with self and vain conceit.
As if this flesh, which walls about our hfe.
Were brass impregnable ; and huraor'd thus.
Comes at the last, and with a little pin
Bores through his castle walls ; and, farewell, king I
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn revcr* nee ; throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty.
For you have but mistook me all this while.
I live on bread, like you ; feel want, like you ;
Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus.
How can you say to me, " I am a kmg ?" Shakszbabi.

principlrs of elocution. 61

Eve's Regrets on quittixo Paradise.

'• Must I thus leave thee, Piinidise ? tliiia leave
'Thee, native soil ? these hapj>y wnlks and shades,
Fit haunt of gods 1 where I had hoped to spend,
Quiet, th()u<i;h sad, the resjjite of that day
That must be mortal to us both I O flowers,
That never will in other climate grow,
My early visitation and my last
At even, which I bred up with tender hand
From the first opening bud, and p^ve ye names !
Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank
Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount ?
Thee, lastly, nuptial bower 1 by me adorn'd
With what to sight or smell was sweet 1 from thee
How shall I part, and whither wander down
Into a lower world, to this obscure
And wild ? How shall we breathe in other air
Less pure, accustom'd to immortal fruits ? Miitok.

Love due to the Creator.

And ask ye why He claims our love ?

Oh, answer, all ye winds of even,
Oh, answer, all ye lights above,

That watch in yonder darkening heaven ;
Thou earth, in vernal radiance gay

As when His angels first array'd thee,
And thou, deep-tongued ocean, say

Why man should love the Minu that made thee 1

There's not a flower that decks the vale, ->

There's not a beam that hghts the mouittin.
There's not a shrub that scents the galo,

There's not a wind that stirt the fountain.
There's not a hue that paints the rose.

There's not a leaf around us lying,
But in its use or beauty shows

True love to us, and love undying 1 a. GBorFin.

ii i

i'i-

\ .

TIIK FOURTH RF,ADEK.

A Child's first Impression of a Star.

She liad been told that God made all the stars

That twinkled up iu heaven, and now she stood

Watching the coming of the twilight on,

As if it were a new and perfect world,

And this were its first eve. How beautiful '

Must be the work of nature to a child

In its first fresh impression 1 Laura stood

By the low window, with the silken lash

Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth

Half parted with the new and strange delight

Of beauty that she could not comprehend,

And had not seen before. The purj)lc folds

Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky

That look'd so still and delicate above,

Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eve

Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still

Stood looking at the west with that half smile.

As if a pleasant thought were at her heart.

Presently, in the edge of the last tint

Of suiLsct, where the blue was melted in

To the first golden mellowness, a star

Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight

Burst from her lips, and, putting up her hands,

Her simple thought broke forth expressively, —

" Father, dear father, God has made a star." .

Willis,

The Carrier-Pigeon.

The bird, let loose in Eastern skies, when hastening foiiilv

home,
Ke'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies where idle wjultl

roam ;
But high she shoots through air and light, above all low dcla}
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, nor shadow 6\m

ber way

•,

So grant
Aioft, th

^0 sill i
sp

Tliy suusi

ili'Mi at Smyi
01' till) Christ

"Go, lictoi

For lie mui

Till' j)riutor

And totter'

His silver h

Moved into i

TIio lieatlicn

"H. ])o all t\

fro

"Hut if thy

fi'iy ivj;ii shii

die

"Think not, (

I'" ill Jlis rigl

"Blind wretc

ap])

^0 fiineriil

Then expinte

^^'^ lictor, dra

'Hie lictor dra*

^u bound him

hand

"Abjure thy G

free.''

"^0," cried th

rRINClTLES OF ELOCUTION.

• ,

So grant me, God, from every care ami stain of j)assi()n free,
Aloft, through Virtue's purer air, to hold my course t«) thee ;
Xo siu to cloud, no lure to stay my soul, as iionie she

springs ; —
Thy sunshine on her joyful way, thy freedom in her wings 1

Moo UK.

roLYOARP, ono of tlio futliei's of the Christiivn Cluircli, sutlircd niiirtyr-
iloiii at Sinyrna, in tho year of our Lord 1(57, during u guiiorul pcrscciiLion
ol'lhc Oliristians.

"Go, lictor, lead the prisoner forth, let all the assembly stay,
For he must openly abjure his Christian ■tkiith to-day."
The j)rietor spake ; the lictor went, and rolyoar)) appear'd.
And totter'd, leaning on his statf, to where the pile was rear'd.
His silver hair, his look benign, which spake his ht'aveiily lot,
Moved into tears both youth and age, but moved the pi ;etor not.

i'i

The heathen spake : " Renounce aloud thy Christian heresy !" —
"111 pe all tilings else," the old man cried, "yet hope not this

from rae." —
"But if thy stubborn heart refuse thy Saviour to deny,
Tliv age shall not avert my wrath ; thy doom shall be— rto

die !"—
"Think not, judge ! with menaces, to shake my faitli in God ;
It' hi His righteous cause I die, I gladly kiss the rod." —

^ILUS.

foiv.lly
rarbV'-

|w di'^'iy

)W dini^

"Blind wretch I doth not the funeral pile thy vaunting faith

appall?" —
"No funeral pile my heart alarms, if God and duty call." —
"Then expinte thy insolence ; ay, perish in the lire I
Go, lictor, drag him instantly forth to the funeral pyre 1"
The lictor dragg'd him ius'tantly forth to the pyre ; with bands
lie bound him to the martyr's stake, he smote him with his

hands.

"Abjure thy God," the prajtor said, "and thou shalt. yet be

free." —
"No," cried tho hero, "rather let death be my destmy I*'

. !

( i

THE FOURTH READER.

The praetor bow'd ; the lictor laid with haste the torches nigh :
Forth from the fagots burst the flames, and glanced athwart

the sky ;
The patient champion at the stake with flames engirdled stood,
Look'd up with rapture-kindling eye, and seal'd his faith in

blood.

To THE Passion Flower.

What though not thine the rose's brilliant glow,

Or odor of the gifted violet.

Or dew with^'Which the lily's cheek is wet ;
Though thine would seem the pallid streaks of woe,
The drops that from the fount of sorrow flow.

Thy purple tints of shame ; though strange appear

The types of torture thou art doom'd to wear ;
Yet blooms for me no hue like thine below.

For from thee breathes the odor of a name.
Whose sweetness melts my soul and dims my eyes ;

And in thy mystic leaves of woe and shame
I read a tale to which my heart replies
In voiceless throbbing and devoted sighs ;

Death's darkest agony and mercy's claim,
And love's last words of grief are written in thy dyes.

I i

To spend too much time in studies is sloth ; to use them
too much for ornament is affectation ; to make judgment
wholly by their rules is the humor of a scholar. They per-
fect nature, and are perfected by experience ; for natural
abilities require study, as natural plants need pruning; and
studies themselves do give forth directions too much at
large, except they be bounded in by experience. Craftv
men contemn studies, simple men admire them, and wise men
use them; for studies teach not their own use — this \\k
men learn by observation. Read not to contradict and n-
fute, not to believe and take for granted, but to weigh ani
consider. Bacon.

PEINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION.

igh:
wart

:oo(l,
th in

ear

5 I

dyes.

36 them
idgment

ley per-
natural
inc • and
well at

Crafty
rise wen
lliis Avi>«

and ri-
ngli aivl
IBaoon.

Advice to an Affected Speaker.

What do you say ? — What ? I really do not understand
you. Be so good as to explain yourself again. — Upon my
word, I do not. — Oh, now I know : you mean to te^l me it is
a cold day. Why did you not say at once, " It is col 1 to-day ?"
If you wish to inform me it rains or snows, pray oay, " It
rains," " It snows ;" or, if you think I look well, and you
choose to compliment me, say, "I think you look well."
"But," you answer, "that is so common, and so plain, and
what everybody can say." Well, and what if they can ? Is
it so great a misfortune to be understood when one speaks,
and to speak like the rest of the world ? I will tell you what,
my friend ; you and your fine-spoken brethren want one
thing — you do not suspect it, and I shall astonish you — you
want common sense.

Nay, this is not all : you have something too much ; you
possess an opinion that you have more sense than others.
That is the source of all your pompous nothings, your cloudy
sentences, and your big words without a meaning. Before
you accost a person, of enter a room, let me pull you by your
sleeve and whisper in your ear, "Do not try to show off your
sense ; have none at all — that is your part. Use plain lan-
guage, if you can ; just such as you find others use, who, in
your idea, have no understanding ; and then, perhaps, you
will get credit for having some." La BauYEaE.

REMARKS TO TEACHERS.

Tt is of the utmost importance, in order to acquire a cor-
rect and elegant style of reading, frequently to refer the
pupil to the Principles of Elocution, given in the First
Fart. These should be frequently reviewed, and the direc-
tions applied to Ihe selections in Part Second,

THE FOURTH READER.

■♦•♦■

Fart II.

SELECT LITERARY EXERCISES IN READING.

1. Character op Columbus.

IRVINQ.

■Washington Trvtno was born in New York, April 3, 1783 — died, 1860.
As an historian and essayist, Irvinjj had no superior and tow equals among
tlie mon of his time, flis "History of New York," written under the
assumed name of Deidrich Knickerbocker; his "History of Columbus,"
and tlie "Sketch-Book," were amonjj tlie earlier triumpiis of his j^cnius;
but his last and greatest work is the " Life of Washington/' concluded just
l)elbre his death.

and inventive

{^ pMOLUMBUS was a man of great

genius. The operations of his mind were energetic,
but irregular ; bursting forth at times with that
irresistible force which characterizes intellect of
such an order. His mind had grasped all kinds of
knowledge connected with his pursuits ; and though
his information may appear limited at the present
day, and some of his errors palpable, it is because knowledge,
in his peculiar department of science, was but scantily devel-
oped in his time. His own discoveries enlightened the igno-
rance of that age ; guided conjecture to certainty ; and dis-
pelled numerous errors with which he himself had been obliged
to struggle.

2. His ambition was lofty and noble. He was full of high
thoughts, and anxious to distinguish himself by great achieve-
ments. It has been said that a mercenary feeling mingled
with his views, and that his stipulations with the Spanish court
were selfish and avaricious. The charge is inconsiderate and
I unjust. He aimed at dignity and wealth in the same lofty
[spirit in which he sought renown ; but they were to arise from

i i

't '

I \

THE FOURTH REAPER.

the territories he should discover, and be commensurate in im-
portance.

3. lie asked nothing of the sovereigns but a command of
the countries he hoped to give them, and a share of the prolits
to support the dignity of liis command. The gains that i)roin-
ised to arise from his discoveries, he intended to ai)propriak'
in the same princely and pious spirit in which they wore di-
mauded. He contemplated works and achievements of beiicv-
olence and religion, vast contributions for the relief of the poor
of his native city ; the foundation of churches, where masses
should be said for the souls of the departed ; and armies for
the recovery of the holy sepulchre in Palestine.

4. Columbus was a man of quick sensibility, liable to great
excitement, to sudden and strong impressions, and poweilul
impulses. He was naturally irritable and impetuous, iuid
keenly sensible to injury and injustice ; yet the quickness of his
temper was counteracted by the benevolence and generosity of
his heart. The magnanimity of his nature shone forth throujili
all the troubles of his stormy career. Though continually
outraged in his dignity, and braved in the exercise of his com-
mand ; though foiled in his plans and endangered in his person
by the seditions of turbulent and worthless men, and that, too,
at times when suffering under anxiety of mind and anguish of
body sufficient to exasperate the most patient, he restrained
his valiant and indignant spirit ; and, by the strong powers of
his mind, brought himself to forbear, and reason, and even to
supplicate : nor should we fail to notice how free he was from
all feeling of revenge, how ready to forgive and forget, on tlie
least signs of repentance and atonement. He has been extolled
for his skill in controlling others ; but far greater praise is due
to him for the firmness he displayed in governing himself.

5. His magnanimous benignity made him accessible to all
kinds of pleasurable sensations from external objects. In \m
letters and journals, instead of detailing circumstances witli tiie
technical precision of a mere navigator, he notices the beoutics
of nature with the enthusiasm of a poet or a painter.

6. He was devoutly pious ; religion mingled with the ^vhole
course of his thoughts and actions, and shines forth in all his

ClIARACTKK OF COLUMBUS.

L im-

id of
.•olits
)roin-

•e ik-
)encY-
i poor
Dasse3
es for

) great

niost private and unstudied writings. Whenever lie made any
ui-eat (lisouvery, bo celebrated It by solemn thanks to God.
The voico of prayer and melody of }>raise rose from his sliij)s
when they first beheld the New World, and \\ih first action on
liiiidhi;;' was to prostrate himself upon the earth and return
tluuiks.

1. With all the visionary fervor of his imagination, its fond-
est dreams fell short of reality. He died in ignorance of the
real grandeur of his discovery. Until his last breath he enter-
tained the idea that he had merely opened a new way to the
old resorts of opulent commerce, and had discovered some of
the wild regions of the East. lie supposed llispanlola to be
the ancient Ophir which had been visited l)y the ships of Sol-
omon, and that Cuba and Terra Firma were but remote parts
of Asia.

8. What visions of glory would have broken upon his mind
could he have known that he had indeed discovered a new
continent, equal to the whole of the Old World in magnitude,
and separated by two vast oceans from all the earth hitherto
known by civilized man ! And how would his magnanimous
spirit have been consoled, amidst the aflflictions of age and the
cares of penury, the neglect of a fickle public, and the injustice
of an ungrateful king, could he have anticipated the splendid
empires which were to spread over the beautiful world he had
discovered ; and the nations, and the tongues, and languages
which were to fill its lands with his renown, and to revere and
bless his name to the latest posterity 1

Ihe whole
linalUis

2. The Landing of Columbus.

ROGERS.

Samuel Rookiw was born in England, in 1765, and died in 1855. Hie
Ipci'ti'v hiis no ]L?reat olaim to oritiiiiality ; but it possesses, in an eminent
I (kgit'L', the merits of good taste, rotinement, and carcful composition.

1. The sails were furl'd ; with many a melting close,
Solemn and slow the evening anthem rose, —
Rose to the Yirgln. 'Twas the hour of day
When setting suns o'er summer seas display

V ■

THE FOURTH READER.

A path of glory, opening in the west
To golden ellraes and islands of the blest ;
And human voices on the silent air
Went o'er the waves in songs of gladness there I
Chosen of men 1 'Twas thine at noon of night
First from the prow to hail the glimmering light :
(Emblem of Truth divine, whose secret ray
Enters the soul and makes the darkness day !)
" Pedro I Rodrigo ! there methouglit it shone I
There — in the west I and now, alas, 'tis gone 1 —
'Twas all a dream I we gaze and gaze in vain I
But mark and speak not, there it comes again 1
It moves 1 — what form unseen, what being there
With torch-like lustre fires the murky air ?
His instincts, passions, say, ho^i^ like our own I
Oh, when will day reveal a world unknown?"

3. Long on the deep the mists of morning lay ;
Then rose, revealing as they rolled away
Half-circling hills, whose everlasting woods
Sweep with their sable skirts the shadowy floods :
And say, when all, to holy transport given,
Embraced and wept as at the gates of heaven,r—
When one and all of us, repentant, ran,

And, on our faces, bless'd the wondrous man, —
Say, was I then deceived, or from the skies
Burst on my ear seraphic harmonies ?

4. " Glory to God I" unnumber'd voices sung, —

" Glory to God !" the vales anfl mountains rung,
Voices that hail'd creation's primal morn,
And to the shepherds sung a Saviour born.
Slowly, bareheaded, through the surf we bore
The sacred cross, end kneeling kiss'd the shore.

3. Philanthropy and Charity.

DR. BKOWN80N.

Dp. 0. A. Brownson was borji at Stookbridge, Vermont, Sept. 16, 1S08.
He oomes of an old New-England stock, and was brought up in the mji

of hia Puriti

Vain pursuit

until, at Jeiii

portals of tj

^rt'iit tuleiits

t'nin lie to 11],

olio ruvic'vvor

('iiristi.-in phi

the Joaruecl oi

>ty of tho higl

1. The n
human Jove,
doue is simp]
eloquent spee
be performed,
but it fails in
starts with ge
so long as the
offices in his w
I friends to stimi
Ipride, and soot:
pe may keep or
J 2. But let hi
l^'ttie public of
Jbe tliwarted or
pecret, unseen b
Wn nothing but
N will soon begi
m for the un^
pes only a crea
r'th tiian himsc
fe him more t
Pe highest streti
r ^o^e ourselves
r^ them more tl

J l %, philant
r"»ent, not a p
H ^^t its owr
m the good of
r of its own
^¥e as any otl

^HILANTHROPT AND CHARITT.

of his Puritan ancestor tt- * ^

ic rev,„,vtT, 1,0 l,„l, ,s d ,'" "' "I'li'ilit to tl on, ,:"™ <',<"i° I'loro

7 m '"'' "^ "'est Of tJie ^\ ^]. f : '"** autlior-

be performed, no violent n„t, 1 ? ° J'sagreeable duties to

b;t;t fails in the ho ?/ : /^P"^'"-^^^ to be ovet^

«s with generous impulses^ hr^' "" P''"™'''~Pfe

so long as there are no irZl't^- ^ ™"« "nthusiasm • and

I «ffi- in his way, and he C v IT r^,""™'^' "^ '^■■^^-"S

fnends to stimulate his zeaTZlZ'T^^ f^^'' "^ "dmiriul

Pnde,a„d soothe him for theTbuff^.; ''T^"' ''''"«■ '"^

'emay keep on his course and n„ f- T"'" ^""^ *he world

2- But let him find MmL?? ."''""« •"« '«■*■

Kpublieof his'ol : r^n'^'^-'V"' "- "- no
h tliivarted on eyery poiTl^ t" .' '''"''^ '° '"■'». 'et him
l«, unseen by all Ke 1 1 tl'V""'^^'' *" ^-"^ ^
Iten nothing but contradictfon.in? ^. ^^'' ""counter from
lewill .oon begin to say t wC?f wf """^ '■'S'-''«"'«3e, and
kh for the unworthy ? He whn 1 ^ '"*^'' '""^ "'"'"■•« "o
(««s only a creature a beino- nT "' '"'"' '''"' "^n's sake

hrth than himself,-peS n„V'"'''''"f '^""'' "^ ""> -t^
h,l;ira more than htatf/ 7*^: "i"'' ! ""d why shall ho
[» "ghost stretch of hum » love is t^.'' '""^'"' '"' '""'?

hthcm more than we do ourselves "■'"'''' ^''"'' "•«

P; -^ay, Pliilanthronv it^Plf ,■; .

r^nt, not a prindple Tt " T "^ '^"'■'''"'^«- It h a

h- any other Of our :ilTar;^oS

I !

THE FOURTH RKADER.

distinction between the sentiment of philantliropy, and the
duty of doing good to others, — between seeking the good of
otiiers from sentiment, and seeking it in obedience to a huv
whicjj binds the conscit'nce.

4. The measure of tiie capacity of philanthropy, as a senti-
ment, is the amount of satisfaction it can bring to the pos-
sessor. So long as, upon the whole, he finds it more delight-
•fnl to play the philanthropist than the raiser, for instance, lie
will do it, but no longer. Hence, philanthropy must alwa}
decrease just in proportion to the increase of the repugnances
it must encounter, and fail us just at the moment when it is
most needed, and always in proportion as it is needed. It
follows the law so observable in all human society, and heljK
most when and where its help is least needed. Here is the
condemnation of every scheme, however plausible it may look,
that in any degree depends on philanthropy for its success,

5. Tlie principle the Associationists want for their success
is not philanthropy, — the love of man for man's sake, — but
cfivinc charity, not to be had and preserved out of the Catho-
lic Church. Charity is, in relation to its subject, a superiiat-
urally infused virtue ; in relation to its object, the supreme
and exclusive love of God for his own sake, and man for tlie
sake of God. He who has it, is proof against all trials; for
his love does not depend on man, who so often proves himself
totally unamiable and unworthy, but on God, who is always
and everywhere infinitely amiable and deserving of all love.
He visits the sick, the prisoner, the poor, for it is God whom
he visits ; he clasps with tenderness the leprous to his bosom,
and kisses their sores, for it is God he embraces and whose dear,
wounds he kisses. The most painful and disgusting offices are|
Bweet and easy, because he performs them for God, who i
love, and whose love inflames his heart. Whenever there is j|
service to be rendered to one of God's little ones, he runsmtl
eagerness to do it ; for it is a service to be rendered to G
himself.

6. " Charity never faileth." It is proof against all natu;
repugnances ; it overcomes earth and hell ; and brings Gi
down to tabernacle with men. Dear to it is this poor begi

't ^eeds ia fo
;"fe' its robo
iiig tV sorfc
and winch it
of these my \
8- All is d
fflen, more th
liim and heav(
principle you
yoa and /or
principle, Assc
t^s is sufficien
of poh'tical, so
Gfod can hare

^ God, „,

tile world, in

"'ays with her

JJ^orld, in ad

% Spirit, in

/f^ffbt us how h

f*"^* and inexhau,

LOVE FOR THE OnUROII.

the
)d of
, law

SLMltl-

J pes-

ICO, h
iilway.'
;naiict'S

,cu U ii
ea. It
id help-
c is Ihe
lay look,
;cess.
r success
.ko,— l)ttt
le Oatlio-
supcvnat-

tn for tlie I
Irials; ion

is al'-vays
all love. I
ji od wboffll
lis V)osoni,|
vhose deail
I offices awl
k1, ^vliO is|
there is s
|oruasVi^»]
led to G*'

all natuti
jrings 6«*
)orl)egg

for it sees in him oniy oar Lord who had " not where to lay
his head ;" dear are the sorrowing and the afflicted, foi it sees
in them Hira who was " a man of sorrows and acquaiut( d with
infirmity ;" dear are these poor outcasts, for in them it beholds
Him who was "scorned and rejected of men;" dear are the
wronged, the oppressed, the down-trodden, for in them it be-
holds- the Innocent One nailed to the Cross, and dying to atone
fo human wickedness.

t And it joys to succor them all ; for in so doing, it makes
.oparation to God for the poverty, sufiferings, wrongs, con-
teu.pt, and ignominious death which he endured for our sakes ;
or it is his poverty it relieves in relieving the poor, his hunger
it -"ccds in feeding the hungry, his nakedness it clothes in throw-
ing its robe over the naked, his afflictions it consoles in consol-
ing tho sorrowing, his wounds into which it pours oil and wiuo
and which it binds up. " Inasmuch as ye did it unto the least
of these my brethren, ye did it unto me."

8. All is done to and for God, whom it loves more than
men, more than life, and more than heaven itself, if to love
him and heaven were not one and the same thing. This is the
principle you need ; with this prmciple, you have God with
you and iov you, and failure is impossible. But with this
principle. Association is, at best, a matter of indiflference ; for
this is sufficient of itself at all times, under any and every form
of political, social, or industrial organization. He who has
God can have nothing mord.

4. Love for the Churoh,

DR. BR0WN80N,

1. God, in establishing his Church from the foundation of
Itlie world, in giving his life on the cross for her, in abiding al-
ways with her, in her tabernacles, unto the consummation of
[the world, m adorning her as a Bride with all the graces of the
IHoly Spirit, in denominating her his Beloved, his Spouse, has
[taaght us how he regards her, how deep and tender, how infi-
p« and mexhaustible, his love for her, and with what love and

4 ■

THE FOURTH BEADEB.

honor we should behold her. lie loves us with an infinite love,
and has died to redeem us ; but he loves us and wills our hhI
vation, only in and through his Church. lie would brin^^ us
to himself, and lie never eeatfes as a lover to woo our love ;
but he wills us to love, and reverence, and adore him only us
children of his Beloved. Our love and reverence must reduund
to his glory as her Spouse, and gladden her maternal heart,
and swell her maternal joy, or he wills them not, knows them not,

2. Oil, it is frightful to forget the place the Church holds
in the love and providence of God, and to regard the relation
in which we stand to her as a matter of no moment 1 She is
the one grand object on which are fixed all heaven, all eartii,
ay, and all hell. Behold her impersonation in the Blessiil
Virgin, the Holy Mother of God, the glorious Queen of heaveu.
Humble and obscure she lived, poor and silent, yet all heuveii
turned their eyes towards her ; all hell trembled before her ;
all earth needed her. Dear was she to all the hosts of heaven ;
for in her they beheld their Queen, the Mother of grace, tlit
Mother of mercies, the channel through which all love, and
mercies, and graces, and good things were to flow to man, and
return to the glory and honor of their Father.

3. Humblest of mortal maidens, lowliest on earth, under
God, she was highest in heaven. So is the Church, our sweet
Mother. Oh, she is no creation of the imagination 1 Oh, she
is no mere accident in human history, in divine providence, di-
vine grace, in the conversion of souls I She is a glorious, a
living reality, living the divine, the eternal Ufe of God. Her
Maker is her Husband, and he places her, after him, over all
in heaven, on the earth, and under the earth. All that he can
do to adorn and exalt her, he has done. All he can give lie
gives ; for he gives himself, and unites her in indissoluljk
union with himself. Infinite love, infinite wisdom, infinite power,
can do no more.

4. All hail to thee, dear and ever-blessed Mother, tlioiil
chosen one, thou well-beloved, thou Bride adorned, thou chaste, I
immaculate Spouse, thou Universal Queen ! All hail to tlieel]
We honor thee, for God honors thee ; we love thee, for God
loves thee ; we obey thee, for then ever conuuandest ^he will

To be
He on

2- Years

Still

Yet fej

At w

of thy lord The no i 76

;;•« pHnee of this wUr;:J'„X{, /;-/''-, "'« — '^ of
"'" ""'•"•'•"mci,,.d m„„ I J "" ' "'<"* '>''><-'k ! the .laughters of •
-•"". «i,-i„.st thee, „:^ ;M''2,r; , """ "•■" "- "P n

tli'Mi to our hearts • nil «,„ " ', "" "'« more dear nrt
- m thee , and Jt^Zl^t'T' ''""'■'" "'« ''o"."'e
-'■-e our h„„,l.,o offe^Lrandrr ^ '"^ "'"^ "'«« '«

' '™'f ""er „a that weTever forf, T, '" ^"' "'>■ ''' ''1"'",

our Motiier. """'"' '^»*" the right to .Ml theo

«• Masy, Qceen of Mbsot.

MANOAN-. • •

JaV1!8 ClaRENOB MA>fOAV A

/■ron/tho Iri8hrife French '.? *?"«J'^to-V, ho W,nS,5«"*?an desorvoX
t>^ truMsfuso into h^H om 'T''' ""^^ «"«'» " US 1 3' ?f."I'«n, ti.o Dan-

He only sa.d^ at certain seasons, ' ■
O Mary, Queen of Mercy I"

Yot felt he nof fnd T l^'''""-"'""! ;
Th„ t "'*'" ^"ffle shame •

■ '^"""'^"' """'Sh powerless to reform, *

TIIK FOURTH READER.

Would bo, in hope to appeaso that sternest
Avenger, cry, and more in earnest,

" Mary, Queen of Mercy I"

3. At last Youtli's riotous time* was gone,

And Loatliing now came after Sin.
With locks yet brown, he felt as one

Grown gray at heart ; and oft, with tears,
He tried, but all in vain, to win
From the dark desert of his years
One flower of hope ; yet, morn and evening,
He still cried, but with deeper meaning,
" O Mary, Queen of Mercy 1"

4. A happier mind, a holier mood,

A purer spirit ruled him now :
No more in thrall to flesh and blood,
He took a pilgrim-staflf in hand,
And, under a religious vow,
TravaiPd his way to Pommerland ;
There enter'd he an humble cloister.
Exclaiming, while his eyes grew moister,
" O Mary, Queen of Mercy I"

6. Here, shorn and cowl'd, he laid his cares
Aside, and wrought for God alone.
Albeit he sang no choral prayers.

Nor matin hymn nor laud could learn.
He mortified his flesh to stone ;
For him no penance was too stem ;
And often pray'd he on his lonely
Cell-coucli at night, but still said only,
" Mary, Queen of Mercy I"

6. They buried him with mass and song
Ancath a little knoll so green ;
But, lo ! a wonder-sight 1 — Ere long

Rose, blooming, from that verdant mound,
Tlie fairest lily ever seen ;
And, Oh its petal-edges round

Sir IfDjfPHR]

tiio present ecu

. ^- The ro
's a memorial
J was passing

^''c peculiar
^^^^y- I had
^^y possession
P'krims at Je
Sepuiclire. p
'>ieau. By a i
, /f^iy Land, I
j'iustrions ponj
2. He receii
stTWces to exl
' ™'¥it think fif
, ^''«t I was at
ciiiied troublfna
^^^' iioly Landl
^y rosary froml
' ^' He receivf

KEIJ0I0D8 MEMORIALS.

Relieving their trausluceut whiteness,
Did shine these words, in gold-hued brightness,
" Mary, Queen of Mercy 1"

7. And, would God's angels give thee power,
Thou, dearest reader, mightst behold
The fibres of this holy flower

Upspringing from the dead man's heart,
In tremulous threads of light and gold ;
Then wouldst thou choose the better part,
And thenceforth flee Sin's foul suggestions ;
Thy sole response to mocking questions,
" Mary, Queen of Mercy I"

6. Religious Memokials.

em HUM PlIKEY DAVY.

Sir Uomphkey Davy— an otuiiiont English philosopher and chemiw^ o(
the present century. lie wrote somo very interesting books of travel.

1. The rosary, which you see suspended around my neck,
is a memorial of sympathy and respect for an illustrious man.
I was passing through France, in the reign of Napoleon, by
the peculiar privilege granted to a savant, on my road to
Italy. I had just returned from the Iloly Land, and had in
luy possession two or three of the rosaries which are sold to
pilj^rims at Jerusalem, as having been 8us})ended in the Holy
Sepulchre. Pius VII. was then in imprisonment at Fontaine-
bleau. By a special favor, on the ploa of my return frcm the
Holy Land, I obtained pernassion to see this venerable and
ilhistrious pontiff. I carried with me one of my rosaries.

2. Ho received me with groat kindness. I tendered my
services to execute any commissions, not political ones, he
might think fit to intrust me with, in Italy, informing him
tliat I was an Englishman : he expressed his tlianks, but do
elincd troubling me. I told him that I was just returned from
the Holy Land ; and, bowing, witli great humility, oflfered him
my rosary fi'om the Holy Sepulchre.

3. He received it with a smile, touched it with his lips, gave

THE FOrRTH RKADER.

his benediction over it, and returned it into my hands, suppos-
ing, of course, that I was a Roman CathoHc. I had meant to
present it to his Hohness ; but the blessing he had bestowed
u[)on it, and tlie touch of his hps, made it a precious relic tu
niu ; and I restored it to my neck, round which it has ever

since been suspended " We shall meet agaiu ; adieu :"

and he gave me his paternal blessing.

4. It was eighteen months after this interview, that I went
out, with almo'st the whole population of Rome, to receive and
welcome the triumphal entry of this illustrious father of the
Ciiurch into his capital. He was borne on the shoulders of
tlie most distinguished artists, headed by r^anova : and never
sliall I forget the enthusiasm with which he was received ; it
is impossible to describe the shouts of triumph and of rapture
sent up to heaven by every voice. And when he gave his
benediction to the people, there was a universal prostration, a
sobbing, and marks of emotion and joy, almost like the burst-
ing of the heart. I heard everywhere around me cries of
" The holy father ! tlie most holy father 1 His restoration is
the work of God !"

6. I saw tears streaming from the* eyes of almost all the
women about me, many of whom were sobbing hysterically,
and old men were weci)ing as if they were children. I pressed
my rosary to my breast on this occasion, and repeatedly
touched with my hps that part of it which had received the kiss
of the most venerable pontiff. I preserve it with a kind of
hallowed feehng, as tiie memorial of a m'^n whoso sanctity,
firmness, meekness, and benevolence, are an honor to his
Church and to human nature : and it has not only been useful
to me, by its influence upon my own mind, but it has enablea
me to give pleasure to others ; and has, I believe, been some-
times beneticial in insuring my personal safety.

6. I have often gratified the peasants of Apulia and Cala-
bria, l)y presenting them to kiss a rosary from the Holy Sc|)-
ulchre, which had been hallowed by the touch of the lips and
benediction of the Pope : and it has even been respected hy,
and procured me a safe passage through, a party of brigands,
who once stopped me in the passes of the Apennines.

F. X. Gaf

nutlior of tJi

iiolds," says

tains, but ifoi

to portray J)

Canada ; in /

Ciarneau is a

i'liblie Instrij

principal Jitei

jac«.i t States (

1. The h

hjthedkchi
and Lake C
These banks
nates at the
slope on the
La Chute, ali
yards in breai
of the decJivi
which eommaj
ping ground ,
uected by a f
;^i'e still to be
'".? three or
"nj?Ie, and corr
asvvellasthe
P'ain, and the I
J! of the 6th— 7t
I J"clieated that i
"lents, formed I
f t'le 6th, anc
'^^ ; they took
the heights on
hK to cross t

h shallow goi'ir

Fscended to tl
m might be

pos-
it to
)weLl
Lc to
ever
eu :"

went
re and
3f tlie
era of

never
cd ; it
•apture
ive his
atiou, a
B burst-
cries of
:ation is

all tlie
jerically,
pressed
)eatedly
the kiss
kind of
sanctity,
to his
«n useful
euablea
|en some-

\m\ Cala-

[oly Sep

lips and

ictcd hy,

)rigau(ls,

THE BATTLE OF OABILLON.

The Battle of Carillon.

G A. K N E A U

F. X. Garneatj stftnds deservedly high amongst American writers ns tho

aiitlior of tlie best liistory of Canadii yet written. " This rank liis liistory
lioUls," says a Canadian writer, " not only for tlic groat information it con-
tains, but for the purity and perspicuity of tlio language which ho employs
to portray his opinions of men, and tilings in general, connected with
Oiinuda; in fact, we have no history of Canada equal to Garneau's." Mr.
Guriieau is a native of Quebec. He has been a niember of the Council of
Public Instruction of Lower Canada, and an honorary member of all the
principal literary and historical societies of British America, and the ad-
jacvit States of the Federal Kepublic.

1. The heights of Carillon are situated in the angle formed
by the discharge of Lake St. Sacrament, named River La Chute,
and Lake Champlain, into which that river pouis its waters.
These banks arc of no great elevation, and their point culmi-
nates at the very summit of the angle, terminating in a gentle
slope on the lake side, and more abruptly on that of River
La Chute, along which runs a little sandy beach about fifty
yards in breadth. At the extremity of the angle, on the edge
of the declivity, there was placed a small redoubt, the fire of
which commanded the lake and the river, and raked the slo-
ping ground along the water-course. This redoubt was con-
nected by a parapet with Fort Carillon, the ruins of which
are still to be seen. The fort, which was capable of contain-
ing three or four hundred men, was placed midway in the
nnglc, and commanded the centre and right of the table-land,
as well as the level ground beneath, bordering on Lake Cham-
plain, and the St. Frederick river. The army passed the night
I of the 6th — 7th July, 1758, in bivouac. The enemies' fires
g iudieated that they were in force at the ford. The intrench-
1 meats, formed by zig-zag angles, were commenced on the evening
[of the 6th, and continued with great activity all day on the
rtb ; they took the fort, followed for some time the crest of
I the heights on the side of River La Chute, then turned to the
Iright, to cross the angle at its base, following the windings of
la shallow gorge Avhich intersects the table-laud, and finally
Idosceuded to the shallow water which extends to the lake.
jTliey might be six hundred yards in extent, and five feet in

? *

I i

THE FOURTH READER.

height ; they were formed of round trees laid one on the other ;
in front were placed up-rooted trees, the large branches of
which, pointed at the end, formed a sort of chevaiix-de-frUc,

2. Each battalion having taken on its arrival the post it
was to hold during the action, threw up that portion of the
intrenchment destined for its protection. The men all worked
with incredible ardor. The Canadians, who had been unable
to obtain their hatcl»ets sooner, only commenced in the after-
noon their intrenchment in the shallow water on the Lake
Charaplain side. They finished on the following day about
noon, just as the English made their appearance. The country
in front being covered with wood. General Montcalm had all
the trees felled for a certain distance round, in order to have
a clearer view of the movements of the enemy.

3. Meanwhile, General Abercromby had disembarked with liis
whole array. He learned from some prisoners that the French
had intrenched themselves in oi^der to await a reinforcement
of 3,000 men, which the Chevalier de Levis was expected to
bring, lie therefore resolved to attack Montcalm before the
arrival of that force. The engineer whom he had sent to
reconnoitre having brought him word that the French works
were not yet finished, he immediately put himself in motion,
and on the evening of the Vth pushed forward his vangiuirtl,
under Colonel Bradstreet, to within some 1400 vards of the
French. Both sides then prepared for action on the morrow.

4. The English army, exclusive of some hundreds of men ieit
at the Chute, and to guard the boats at the foot of the lake,
still numbered over 15,000 chosen men, commanded by ex-
perienced officers, and it went into the combat with all the
confidence given l»y great numerical force. The French army
reckoned only 3,000 men, of whom 450 wore Canadians ami
marines; ; there were no savages. Montcalm placed 300 imii
in cliarge of Fort Carillon, thus leaving 3,300 for the delenfe
of the intrenchments, which, from their limited extent, that
force was enabled to line three men deep. The order was
given for each battaUon to hold in reserve its grenaditjr com-
pany, with a picket of infantry, and to draw them up iu the
rear, so as to have them in readiness to send wherever they

might be n

same morni

wing, havii)

tiviiie right

wing was <

Montcalm r

French orde;

5. Genera

so as to atta

the flower of

columns, rece

ments, with

leaped m ovei

of barges we

the left flank

cohnnns bega

troops, amon^

under cover of

(lerous fire.

the ravine in

i'y, in admiral

of tiie French

against their ri«

"here the Cana

the skirmishers

from one columi

to penetrate int(

de Levis. That

composed of gn

Canadians to mo

attack succeeded

I to that of the ti

'■"hmin to fall b{

^" avoid a doul

converge a little

piiiiksas to reac

close together w]

Diomentsome thu

TIIK BA'ITLE OF CARILLON.

might be needed. The Chevalier de Levis, who arrived that
same morninp:, was charged with the eoimuaud of the riglit
wing, having under him tlie Canadians, wlio formed the ex-
treme right, under the order of M. de liaymond ; tlie left
wing was commanded by M. de IJourlamaniue ; General
Montcalm reserved the centre for himself. Such was the
French order of battle.

5. General Abercromby formed his army into four columns,
so as to attack all points simultaneously. The grenadiers and
the flower of the - infantry, chosen to form the head of the
columns, received orders to throw themselves on the intrench-
ments, with bayonets fixed, and only to draw when they had
leaped m over the breastworks. At the same time, a immber
of barges were to descend the River 'La Chute, to threaten
the left flank of the French. At one o'clock the English
colmnns began to move ; they were intermixed with light
troops, among who i were some Indians. These savages,
iiuder cover of the trees, opened, as they ai)proached, a mur-
derous fire. The colunuis emerged from the woods, descended
the ravine in front of the intrenehments, and advanced stead-
ily, in admirable order, the two first against the left wing
of tiie French, the tiiird against their centre, and the last
as^ainst their right, following the foot of tlie hill to the strand,
where the Canadians were stationed. The fire conunenced by
the skirmishers of the right column, and extended gradually
from one column to the other, on to the left, which endeavored
to penetrate into the works by the right flank of the Chevalier
de Levis. That officer, perceiving the intention of this colunm,
composed of grenadiers and Scottish highlanders, ordered the
Cauadians to make a sortie, and attack it on the flank. This
attack succeeded so well that the fire of tlie Cnniulinns, johied
to that of the two battalions j)lac«'d on tlie hill, obliged the
column to fall back on that which was at its right, in order
ti) avoid a double flank fiie. The four eoluinns, forced to
j converge a little 'as they advanced, as well to protect their
flanks as to reach the point of attack, found themselves all
close together when they gained the heights. At the same
I moment some thkty barges presented thomsukea on the River

• I

THK FOUKTII RKADKK.

La Chute, menacin"^ the French left. Some cannon-shots from
tlie fort, vvhicli sunk two «f them, and some men sent along
the shore, sufficed to put them to flight. General Montcalm
had given orders that tlie enemy should be permitted to ap-
proacli witiiin twenty paces of the intreneliments. That order
was punctually executed. When the English reached the
l)]ace appointed, the musketry assailed their compact* masses
with such prompt and terrible effect, that they reeled and fell
into disorder. Forced for a moment to fall back, they never-
theless recovered themselves quickly, and returned to the
charge ; tat, forgetting their orders, they began to draw.
The lire opened with great vivacity all along the line, and was
long and well sustalnerl ; but, after the greatest exertions, the
assailants were forced a second time to retire, leaving the
ground covered with dead. They rallied at some distance,
formed their columns again, and, after some moments, rushed
again on the iutrenchments, in the face of so brisk and con-
tinuous a lire as had hardly ever been seen. General Mont-
calm braved all the danger like the meanest of his soldiers.
From the centre, where he was placed, he darted to every
point that appeared in danger, either to give orders, or conduct
assistance. After unheard of efforts, the English were iit
length repulsed.

6. Astonished more and more by so obstinate a resistance,
General Abercromby, who had thought that nothing coulii
stand before the forces he had at his disposal, could not per-
suade himself that he should fail before a force so inferior in
numbers ; he thought that whatever might be the courage of
his adversaries, they must eventually give way in a strugale
whose violence and duration would but make their defeat tiie
more ruinous to them. He resolved then to continue the at-
tack with energy until success should crown his efforts, nl
from one till live o'clock his troops returned full six times tu
the charge, and were each time repulsed with considerable
loss. The frail ramparts that protected the French caught |
fire several times iu the course of the action.

1. The British columns having failed in their first simultaneous I
attack CD Montcalm's wings and centre, were then brought

together ;
centre, m
than befo]
made, and
three cons
Jiighlander
Tile higlila

themselves
almost righ
turesque co{
midst of sm
with twentj
their attack,
efforts of th

obstinate int
cries of " y:i

several charg
of the enemy
8. At half-
fjgeof hope,
them to draw
before giving
appeared, am
French line.
same op])ositi
"seless efforts,
to their oppJi
^•'oud of sharp-;
who salliofl for
9- Tlie Pre„,
■*'''^'' joy. Gei
"Je Levis and hi,<
f''^''" in tlic klni
tlirough all that
tJie records of J
''''. i'l the defin
"ew engagement
^ preparations

THE BATTLE OF CARILLON.

rom
long
calm

. the

lassos

id m

Qevt'v-
o the
draw,
id was
US, the
ng the
stance,
rushed
lid ecu-
L Mont-
soldiers.

every
conduL'l

1 were ut

distance,

irr COUltl

\ot pel'-
ferior in
lura^'c of
Istrugglc
Ifeat the
the at-
t»rts, cH'
Lunes to
dderal'lc I

lltaueoiui

brougW!

together ; thus united, they attacked now the right, now the
centre, now the left of the French, with no bettor success
than before. Against the right their most furious assault was
made, and there it was tliat the battle raged the fiercest. For
three consecutive hours did the grenadiers and the Scotch
lijo'lilanders continue to charge with courage that never faltered.
The highlanders especially, under Lord John Murray^ covered
themselves with glory. They formed the head of a column
almost right in front of the Canadians. Their light and pic-
turesque costume distinguished them from all the others in the
midst of smoke and fire. They lost the half of their sold'ers,
with twenty-five officers killed or grievously wounded. But
their attack, like the others, was at length repulsed, and the
efforts of the assailants failed once more before the calm but
obstinate intrepidity of the French troops, who fouglit to the
cries of " Vive le Roi ! Vive notre general !" During these
several charges the Canadians still made sorties on the flanks
of the enemy, and carried oflF prisoners.

8. At half-past five. General Abercromby, losing every ves-
tige of hope, withdrew all his columns to the woods, to enable
them to draw their breath ; he would make one more attempt
before giving the signal for retreat. An hour after, they re-
appeared, and commenced a general attack on the entire
French line. All the troops took part in it, but they met the
same opi)osition as in all the previous assaults ; and, after
useless efforts, they were forced at length to yield the victory
to their opponents. The English retired under cover of a
eloud of sharp-shooters, whose fire, with that of the Canadians,
who sallied forth in pursuit of them, was prolonged till night.

9. The French troops were exhausted with fatigue, but wild
with joy. General Montcalm, accompanied by the Chevalier
(le Levis and his staff, went all through the ranks, and thanked
them in tlie king's name for the conduct they had maintained
through all that glorious day, one of the most memorable in
the records of French valor. Being unable to believe, how-
jever, in the definitive retreat of the English, and expecting a
I new engagement on the morrow, he gave his orders and made

his preparations to be ready to receive them. The troops

THE FOURTH READER.

passed the night in their respective positions ; they cleaned
their arras, and prepared to commence at daybreak tlic com-
pletion of the iutrenchments, which they strengthened with
two batteries, one to the right, with four pieces of cannon,
the other to the left, with six. After some hours of expec-
tation, seeing that the enemy did not appear. General Mont-
calm sent out some detachments to reconnoitre. They
proceeded some distance from La Chute, and burned an in-
trenchment which the English had commenced raising and
had abandoned. On the morrow, the 10th, the Chevalier de
Levis pushed on to the foot of Lake St. Sacrament with the
grenadiers, the volunteers, and the Canadians ; he found only
the traces of Abercromby's precipitate flight. The same
night that followed the battle, that general had continued his
retrograde movement toward the lake, and that movemeut
had become an actual flight. He had abandoned on the way
his tools, a part of his baggage, a great number of wounded
— who were taken up by the Chevalier de Levis — and had re-
embarked in all haste at the first dawn of day, after throwing
his provisions into the water.

10. Such was the battle of Carillon, in which 3,600 men
struggled victoriously for more than six hours against 15,000
choice soldiers. The winning of that memorable day singu-
larly increased the reputation of Montcalm (whom fortune
seemed to favor ever since he had been in America), and in-
creased still more his popularity among the soldiers.

8. Language of a Man of Education.

COLKRI DO E.

Samuel Taylor Coleriuok, an English poet, died in 1834, iigeJ 62. He
was one of tlio renmrkuble men of liis times, and exerted a wide and deep
intellectual influence on minds of the liigliest class. He was decidedly uii
original poet, and a critic of unrivalled excellence. Coleridge's lifu was
not what tiie admirers of liis genius could have wislied.

1. What is that which first strikes us, and strikes us at once,
in a man of education ? and which, among educate . men, su
instantly distinguishes the man of superior mind, that (as
was observed with eminent propriety of the late Edmund

Burke) "'

sJiower of

2. JVot

iimisnal in

, «"j)j)0se Ik

nc'ss of 01

The differe

tiou shoulc

pavement.

3. Still J

and phrases

caied man,

fail to foUo

usual word

necessitate n

lessons of hi

times hazard

conversation

4. There r

sible; and tl

impression mj

deutly habitm

'labit of fores

every sentence

cate. Howe\

method 'n the

5. Listen, o

perhaps shrew(

be describing o

memory alone i

I events recur in

same accorapan

they had first o

6. The neces

hjon, and the al

pis pauses; and

Vhere," and the

likewise all his e

LAifQUAQK OF A TIT A xr ^«

"«- A MAN OF EDlTCATlOir. 85

""usual interest of"(acts oomm • "[ ',"' '''"^'"'^' < ""t any
«"PI.o»e both the o,:ZZT "" '7 '"■'" ' '•'"• ^^ '"ay
no».s of our intercourse „,,?"'?. 'r'^'"*-! I'X the short
The difference will be LI 1 ' , ^^'i;!^ "' '"" '"^i^^'^^s.
t.ou should be confiuedTthe «.!/'.*""«" ««"=<"'ven<a.
parement. "* ™ ^'^te of the weather or the

andphrases''" For, 'if he te'^Tj"'^ Peculiarity i„ his words
cated man, as well as a Zu Tf = """' '^'""«'' " ^ell^du-
fail to follow the goldenZ of tT"'^P'"'«'^' "« ^"1 "ot

necessitate new terms. It mus^^!' ? "'' "''"'"' ■'^«' things
e-ons of his youth, that Te b^h oO^ "^ *'"' ^"''•«^'

- h.^ou, becomes *uior^ iXin'':;di:^;

I'aWt Of foreseeing, iuChlttrar Zf ' ^""""^'^ <"' '^
every sentence, the whole that h„ „' '•' •"■' »«"•« plainly in
cate. However irregu L !^d 1 ^ '""""^^ "> commm"
»f -orf fa the fragments '^''"'""'^ "-'^ '"'fc. there is

0. Listen, on the other han,) t^ •
perhap.s shrewd and able in Ms naU™! '^°T' '"'"•• ««'°gl'
be describing or relating. We [11!, T^"'"^ ' '''""'•er he
-memory alone is called h,to actir f ![^ ^'""■'''•^ that his
'vents recur i„ the narrati°„t "h T ""'' *'"' ""j'^^'^ "-d
*e accompaniments, hoCcvTr accir^ r*'' ""^ '""' t^e
|'";7l^d first occurred to the narrator"" " ""P'=«'"-'. -

J'«,a„d traCpt"'rSt!:.rof'it'"rf"'-'^ "^ --"ec
"pauses; and wifh exception of fi ' '""''' P'"''-"-'" «"
f V' and the still less fia, t I ;"''^"'" *'>« "''"^

H^^m all his coMectioBs """' *•'"' 'W coi^titute

THE FOURTH KliADEB.

0. Language.

IIUI.MHS.

O, W. TIoLMKs — nil Atiioricivu poet of the dny. Ho poRseRRCB much
humor ami ffoiiial Heiitlmetit, iitul his Htylo is rotnurltrihlc for its purity mul
exciiUHito liiiiah. Jic possesses the haupy talent of bleiidiiij? ludicnnm
ideas with fancy and iinairiiiation. His lyrics sparkle with mirtli^ ard 'i.iH

chi

serious pieces arrest the al icntion by touclios of (J^t-nuine pathos and leiider-
ness. '* Terpsichore," "Mania," and "Poetry," are among his loudest
and best pieces.

1. Some words on Language -nay be well applied ;
And take them kindly, though they touch your pride.
Words lead to things ; a scale is more precise, —
Coarse speech, bad grammar, swearing, drinking, vice.
Our cold Northeaster's ic} fetter clips
The native freedom of the Saxon lips :
See the brown peasant of the plastic South,
I low all his passions play about his mouth 1
With us, the feature that transmits the soul,
A frozen, passive, palsied breathing-hole.

4. A foi

Tosf
Leari]
The ci
Her e(

T/,e ci
Lofifi si
And St
She pill
Wiio m
iiiit kni
'I'o hear

2. Tlie crampy shackles of the ploughboy's walk
Tie the small muscles, when he strives to talk ;
Not all the pumice of the polish'd town
Can smooth this roughness of the barnyard down ;
Rich, honor'd, titled, he betrays his race
By this one mark — he's awkward in the face ; —
Nature's rude impress, long before he knev
The sunny street that holds the sifted few.

8. It can't be help'd ; though, if we're taken young,
We gain some freedom of the lips and tongue :
But school and college often try in vain
To break the padlock of our boyhood's chain ;
One stubborn word will prove this axiom true —
No late-caught rustic can enunciate view.^

^ The poet here humorously alludes to the difficulty which man)
pei'Sons, bred in retirement, find in pronouncing this word correctly.
It will be difficult to express in letters the manner in which it is i\'(-

THE iNDIAjfB.

A»<l steer,, l.fa blTtn ' ''°'" " '='"".

W.oa„i„;r'°"«'''««'cdty',s boast,

6. Once more ; sneak clearW if

A"aw,,en,„„.tferre ::^^^^^^^^

Don't strew tho nofK ''""/^^sation's burs,

ew the pathway with those dreadf^U,,..

10. The Indians.

|n.nd) Hinlity nt r^,^i,\^;''-; «f tho' United S at s'Sd f '?, A«««^'«te J.,. .
t'Wll.v mispiononnced hnTT^ '

. f

:.;<■'-(.!

'S^ V*' ^^

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(716) 872-4S03

THE FOURTH BEADEE.

our judgment ; much which may be urged to excuse their own
atrocities ; much in their characters which betray us into an
involuntary admiration. What can be more eloquent than their
history ? By a law of nature thc^ seemed destined to a slow
but sure extinction. Everywhere at the approach of the white
man they fade away. We hear the rustling of their footsteps,
like that of the withered leaves of autumn, and they are gone
forever.

2. They pass mournfully by us, and they return no more.
Two centuries ago, and the smoke of their wigwams, and the
fires of their councils rose in every valley, from the Hudson
Bay to the farthest Florida, from the ocean to the Mississippi
and the lakes. The shouts of victory and the war-dance rang
through the mountains and the glades. The thick arrows and
the deadly tomahawk whistled through the forests ; and the
hunter's trace and dark encampment startled the wild beasts in
their lairs. The warriors stood forth in their glory. The
young listened to the song of other days. The mothers played
with their infants, and gazed on the scene with warm hopes of
the future. The aged sat down, but they wept not; they
should soon be at rest in finer regions, where the Great Spirit
dwells, in a home prepared for the brave beyond the western
skies.

3. Braver men never lived ; truer men never drew the bow.
They had courage, and fortitude, and sagacity, and perseve-
rance beyond most of the human race. They shrank from no
dangers, and they feared no hardships. If they had the vices
of savage life, they had its virtues also. They were true to
their country, their friends, and their homes. If they forgave
not injury, neither did they forget kmdness. If then* ven-
geance was terrible, their fidelity and generosity were uncon-
querable also. Their love, like their hatred, stopped not this
side of the grave.

4. But where are they ? Where are the villagers and war-

happily condemned. Such habits may easily be corrected by a little ^
presence of mind, and particularly by following the direction, Think
twice before you speak once.

riors and
their fami
w-asting p
nor famin
mora] cai
plague, wl
poison whi
the Atlant
own. AJri
paring for
leave their
and the wai
5. The as
iio longer cu
slow unstead
terror or disj
a last look oj
apon the gra^
utter no cry •
their hearts y
looks, not of
"^hkh stifles I
aim or metho
%er but a m
6- '^hey hav
repassed by th
and them an in
|s for them stil
^ to the genen
^- Reason as
^ate much whi
provocation to

m^Syfovwro

'najgnation ; mi

h«^h of painfoj

THE INDIANS.

riors and youth • the, c^ u

their fa.,-L? n:y'C'^^^^!'l''''^ ; *«>-*- and
wastmg pestUence bi not dont !'„ «^"' """™'"<"'- The
nor famine-nor war ; there ha, l? ' '"^^^^ ^'"^- No,
■nora] canker, which has eaten T ", ""'ghtier power ; a
plague, which the tonorotteJIf^ *'"' ''^"' "o^o^-"
poison which betrayed them to i; • ""'"' «»"'"'""icated_a .
the Atlantic fan no^ a eSe Lfc^ '7' ^''<' '''"dB of
own. Already the last feeble fe2»."'^, *^.'^ ""^ «^« their
Panng for their journey bevo„HT^L* °^ ^^"^ ««« a™ pre-

iea;e their miserable honXi'''^ ^"t'*^'' ^ =^« *e«
and the wan-iors_"ferani~ *" "g*", the helpless, the me^

5. The ashes are Xu^JT' ^** ^'""'^'"' «till." '

- longer curls around thTlowW^ "f ''^- ^he smoke
*wm,steady steps. The wS ma„ '' ^"^ -"o^e on with
'error or dispatch; but they hefdhT V^r^ *^''^ ^eels for
a la^t oofc of their desolaTe vffl2 Th ^''"^ """ *"> t^^e
"Pon the graves of their fathm% J 7^* " "««' g'^-co
utter no cy, they heave no ^o J'"'^^*^'^ »<> tears; they
be»- hearts which passes sLfb ru^J^"^ " ^•'"'ething i„
looks, not of vengeance orCbniisI k 'f '"""'^'''g ^ their
;l..eh stifles both; which choS";,''"' "^ ''"'' °^<»^«ity,
™ or method, it is conr»;f i "**«'^"<=e; which has no
^"ger but a moment. tSI"""'"' ^^ ^''P^^- They

«■ They have passed the feta^ st*"""^"-
"passed by them, no-never v., l^""' ^* «'«'" "e^er be
«d them an impisable gl^' ^1 ^' "'' "°* "^'^^^ "'
^ or he« still one remo^ ferthlr It "."T "f ''^' *'"'* *ere

» the general burial-ground Set tt"' ""' "'^«»- ''

'• Reason as we m»,v it :=, • f ®-

f'e much which we tool ZT""" "<" *" "^^i^ meb a
provocation to cmd .deed! and d'' *" '""^'P^^*' """ho?
r'ogy for wrong and Z^^ ^'^ resentments; much of
Agnation ; mnc! Tf dfu&tf "^ !" P''^ -Ogling wit"/

h »^ Pai^-i .collections! ^^^^T^C^i^,^ >

THE FOURTH READER.

11. IlODlIAN I^AMES.

SIGOUKNEY.

Mrs. Ltdia H. Sioouknet is a popuLr American poetess. She hap
written no poem of length, but many of her fugitive pieces evince a Hght
and agreeable poetic talent.

1. Ye say, they all have pass'd away,
That noble race and brave,
That their light canoes have vanished

From off the crested wave ;
That 'mid the forests where they roamed
I There rings no hunter's shout ;
But theu* name is on your waters,
You may not wash it out.

2. 'Tis where Ontario's billow

Like Ocean's surge is curl'd.
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake

The echo of the world; ,,

Where red Missouri bringeth

Rich tributes from the West,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps ^

On green Virginia's breast. .

8. Ye say, their cone-like cabins.

That cluster'd o'er the vale, /

Have fled away like wither'd leaves

Before the autumn gale ;
But their memory liveth on your hills,

Their baptism on your shore,
Your everlasting rivers sp«ak
,; , Their dialect of yore.

4. Old Massachusetts wears it
Within her lordly crown.
And broad Ohio bears it.
Amid her young renown ;

«" artist of merit
fro n iiis convers-
'"''fiate acquaint
jork^ on art a^e

, competition ioJipr
""f-butherSsS"

, ^- This renoi
^i«rch has been
p, and in Frai
Nration from
r^ the main d

Nrrent testim?
^rejected.

J^-Hev^as bom

rentius, in i-;^

She hag
ace a light

^°d bold Ke„S ?''"«« '^^«^.
5- Wachusett hides it. i; •

Througfe^Tf "^ *»"«
Mo„8dnockonW fr'^'^'-
i2. St. V,.ok»t, D^,„,

competition ia j,pr/^P"*ation, both «?'„ ^'^ ^^egends of h i^^'^ndarv
^Wcli the d i f ""^^earches shp ? ""^ »»^ most cS?- " '« « ^rotesu

k »d ^ p^" "'°^* r<*P»Iar in S^." a*^ ^^^'^ Christian

Kfion frori' ''•'''! ''^ ""^ been M oblTr^ '"'^ Ws-
l'»t the maL .• ' ''^* "entnry. j;°.'"'Je«t of particular

r Ws inwLht' " sufferings for «,? ^""*°*. dea-
Ken" wfm„ """f^^' ^P-'essed b* l-r"'' "^ ^^i^'^'-

I 1

THE FOURTH HEADER.

having produced more saints and martyrs than any other city
in Spain. During the persecution under Diocletian, the cruel
proconsul Dacian, infamous in the annals of Spanish martyr-
dom, caused all the Christians 0/ Saragossa, men, women,
and children, whom he collected together by a promise of
immunity, to be massacred. Among these were the virgiq
Eugracia, and the eighteen Christian cavaliers who attended
her to death.

3. At this time lived St. Yincent : he had been early in-
structed in the Christian faith, and with all the ardor of youth
devoted himself to the service of Christ. At the time of the
persecution, being not more than twenty years of age, he was
already a deacon. The dangers and the sufferings of tlie
Christians only excited his charity and his zeal ; and after
having encouraged and sustained many of his brethren iu
the torments inflicted upon them, he was himself called to
receive the crown of martyrdom.

4. Bemg brought before the tribunal of Dacian, together
with his bishop, Yalerius, they were accused of being Chris-
tians and contenmers of the gods. Valerius, who was very
old, and had an impediment in his speech, answered to the
accusation in a voice so low that he could scarcely be heard.
On this, St. Yincent burst forth, with Christian fervor,—
" How is this, my Father 1 canst thou not speak aloud, and
defy this pagan dog? Speak, that all the world may bear;
or suffer me, who am only thy servant, to speak in thy
stead I"

5. The bishop having given him leave to speak, St. Yincent
stood forth, and proclaimed his faith aloud, defying the tor-
tures with which they were threatened ; so that the Christians
who were present were lifted up in heart and full of gratitude
to Qod, and the wicked proconsul was in the same degreei
filled with indignation. He ordered the old bishop to be[
banished from the city ; but Yincent, who had defied him,
reserved as an example to the rest, and was resolved to beni
hun to submission by the most terrible and ingenious torturi
that cruelty could invent.

6. The young saint endured them unflinchingly. When

body wa
mentors
were his
w^as but
r. The
fire, on tl
but God 1
guards lo
b'glit and :
triumph, a
Jn hymns c
enter and
had been ^
upon their
8. But 1
sider what
querable vie
to try seduc
strewn with
and allowed
weeping, gtai
his flowing ]
^o«ght him t(
soch protract
bed, than his
ons indulgenc
their wings, a

13.

^- DimmG t
hVed in the cit
^'ans ; their na
'''''' John, Sera
oflfer sacrifice
bunal. But

THE SEVEN SLEEPERS OF EPHESUS.

Birly in-
f youtli
J of the

he was

of tlie
id after
bbren iu
jailed to

together
ng Chris-
was very
jd to tk
[be heard.

fervor,-
^loud, and I

layhear;

ik in thy

body was lacerated by ironworks, he only smiled on his tor-
mentors : the pangs they inflicted were to him delights ; thorns
were his roses ; the flames a refreshing bath ; death itself
was but the entrance to life.

1. They laid him, torn, bleeding, and half consumed by
fire, on the ground strewn with potsherds, and left him there ;
but God sent down his angels to comfort him ; and when his
guards looked into the dungeon, they beheld it filled with
light and fragrance ; they heard the angels singing songs of
triumph, and the unconquerable martyr pouring forth his soul
in hymns of thanksgiving. He even called to his jailers to
enter and partake of the celestial delight and solace which
had been vouchsafed to him; and they, being amazed, fell
upon their knees and acknowledged the true God.

8. But Dacian, perfidious as he was cruel, began to con-
sider what other means might remain to conquer his uncon-
querable victim. Having tried tortures in vain, he determined
to try seduction. He ordered a bed of down to be prepared,
strewn with roses ; commanded the sufferer to be laid upon it,
and allowed his friends and disciples to approach him. They,
weepmg, stanched his wounds, and dipped their kerchiefs in
his flowing blood, and kissed his hands and brow, and be-
gought him to live. But the martyr, who had held out through
such protracted torments, had no sooner been Ifiid upon the
bed, than his pure spirit, disdaining as it were these treacher-
ous indulgences, fled to heaven : the angels received him on
theu" wings, and he entered into bliss eternal and ineflfable.

f I

' 1

13. The Seven Sleepers of Ephestts.

MK8. JAMESON.

1. During the persecution under the Emperor Decius, there
lived in the city of Ephesus seven young men, who were Chris-
tians : their names were Maximian, Malchus, Marcian, Diony-
siiis, John, Serapion, and Constantine ; and as they refused to
offer sacrifice to the idols, they were accused before the tri-
bunal. But they fled and escaped to Mount Ccelian, where

THE FOURTH READER.

tbey hid themselves in a caTe. ^eing discoyered, the tyrant
ordered that they should roll great stones to the mouth of tlie
cavern, in order that they might die of hunger. They, em-
bracing each other, fell asleep.

2. And it came to pass in the thirtieth year of the reign of
the Emperor Theodosius, that there broke out that dangerous
heresy which denied the resurrection of the dead. The pious
emperor, being greatly afflicted, retired to the interior of liis
palace, pnttmg on sackcloth and covering his head with ashes:
therefore, God took pity on him, and restored his faith by
bringing back these just men to life — which came to pass in
this manner : #.

3. A certain inhabitant of Ephesus, repairing to the top of
Mount Coelian to build a stable for his cattle, discovered the
cavern ; and when the light penetrated therein, the sleepers
awoke, believing that their slumbers had only lasted for a sin-
gle night. They rose up, and Malchus, one of the number,
was dispatched to the city to purchase food. He, advancing
cautiously and fearfully, boheld to his astonishment the image
of the cross surmounting the city gate. He went to another
gate, and there he found another cross. He rubbed his eyes,
believing himself still asleep, or in a dream ; and entering the
city, he heard everywhere the name of Christ pronouucod
openly : and he was more and more confounded.

4. When he repaired to the baker's, he oflfered in payment
an ancient coin of the time of the Emperor Decius, and they
looked at him with astonishment, thinking that he had found
a hidden treasure. And when they accused him, he knew not
what to reply. Seeing his confusion, they bound hira and
dragged him through the streets with contumely ; and he
looked round, seeking some one whom he knew, but not a face
in all the crowd was familiar to him.

5. Being brought before the bishop, the truth was disclosed,
to the great amazement of all. The bishop, the governor, and
the principal inhabitants of the city, followed him to the en-
trance of the cavern, where the other six youths were found.
Their faces had the freshness of roses, and the brightness of a|
holy light was around them. Theodosius himself, bemg in

formed of t

of the sleej

have been ]

thou nughtc

having said

spirits to G(

6. Gibboi

he traced to

About the ei

Syriac into tl

era Christend

Mahomet has

^oT&n, Ithj

in Scandinavia

^orJd this siB

to have been i

7. The Sevt

' side by side, oc

ture, and stain

tunes. Thus t

of Edward the

name of each is

, fiOBEOTSoUTHWBL

D1595. Of all t

;f in Elizabeth's

on Descended frc

J Continent, and b

J ion ho resided chic

If in the Tower of

Pe remained three y

Peveral times. Notlii

fcd:-that he Sis

Mwas the conditio

C V. I? quartered
PU, to those horrib
^^ w^n, torturer Jo

TIMES 0„ BY TCKNS. .,

'"Ving .aid this, they bolt h''™''^'' »' 'he Dead 1" And
spirits to God. 'Th:^\7 it'tth-'^ a-d gave „p tt
_ 6. G'bbon, in quotiua- tl, if? ?..**"' "''™™ for 196 years
- traced to withl A It "Hi '"' "" *"" " ""'
About the end of the sixth cenK '''"« "^ ^e miracle
Syriac into the Latin anrl 1 ^' * '"'' translated from the
™ Christendom. ZrTju 'T^ """ "'" '"'ole of "e^t
Mahomet has introSTa:Td1v-*" '"^ «''™«»S
.Koran. It has penetrated int^YJ'^'"" ^^^'^tion, mto the
in Scandinavia j-in fact in «? ^^^"^"^^ It has been fonml
,^«rid this sin^ia^ttl „ t r^::! "^""^ °^ '^'^'
to have been Icnown and accep T ™ ""■ ''"°*''^'' "PP^ars

»• Ihe Seven Sleeners nf v u

* by side, occur P^^naUy t th?' ■"''^'"'^ '» t''^'' cave

i K and stained glarof tt tht,'"^*'''-^'' '"'='*"* '™'^

1 1™. Thus they are represent!..^ f.* ^"^ foorteenth cen^

«f Edward the ConfessTlt wi"" • ! ^""'' "^ *« "Cl

« of each is written o^XaT"^''^'-- ^^ «»*'-". the

14— Tons GO BY TmsB.

em the Tower of Snln ?t""'' ^^" ^^'"^e, countess S\^"^"'^^^ »i>«-
F remained three v^^ra ^ '• "^^'^ was tliro wn inf^^- °\ Arundel, who

THR FOURTH READER.

sign of the croBS. Besides his poems, which possess a solid enerjfv of dlo^
tion. m well »» a noble BpirituHl elevation, Southwell left behind nini two
works in prose, which abound in beanty and pathos, Mary Magdalent'i
Funeral learSj and the Triumphs over Death.

•

1. The lopped tree in time may grow again,

Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;
The sorriest wight may find release of pain,

The driest soil suck in some moistening shower:
Time goes by turns, and chances change by course,
From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

2. The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow;

She draws her favors to the lowest ebb;
Her tides have equal tunes to come and go;

Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web:
No joy so great but runneth to an end.
No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

3. Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring;

Not endless night, yet not eternal day;
The saddest birds a season find to sing;

The roughest storm a calm may soon allay.
Thus, with succeeding turns God tempereth all,
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.

4. A chance may vrin that by mischance was lost;

That net that holds no great takes little fish;
In some things all, in all things none are crossM;

Few all they need, but none have all they wish.
TJnmingled joys here to no man befall; •
Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.

15. Catholic Missions in the Northwest.

EXTRACTS FROM BAITCROFT'S BISTORT OF THE UNITED STATES.

George Banokoft has written the only work that deserves the titlo oil
History of the United States. From a Catholic point of view some objec-l
tions can be made to the first volumes, bnt on the whole it is a noblel
monument of the genius of the author and the genius of his country.— /''f
Brmcnson.

Bancroft was born at Worcester, Massaohueettg, October 3, 18ftO.

1. Re

iiiflucuce(
governor
tilt' laiuo
piissiomit
burning z
tlian the (
2. Thus
bition whi
Continent
i'ounded '^
ii]>I)er lak<
(Catholic)
iind its sen]
enterprise
Eiig-lish sctl
3. Years
(Catholic) I
1^'rauce, in \
unambitious
liawks, had ]
Wyandots, a
on foot, or f
i^iii'd, taking
Lake Huron,

4. While

priests of t\\

—had labore

or made the!

tlie waters of

5. To confi

Jishment of a

Marquis de (

assented to hi

from their am

for education a

auspices, in 16

the living; and

CATHOLIC MISSIONS IN TIIK NORTHWEST.

1. Religious zeal not less than commercial ambition had
influenced France to recover Canada; and Clianiphiin, its
governor, whose imperishable name will rival with posterity
tiie fame of Smith and Hudson, ever disinterested and com-
passionate, full of honor and probity, of ardent devotion and
burning zeal, esteemed " the salvation of a soul worth more
than the conquest of an empire."

2. Thus it was neither commercial enterprise nor royal am-
bition which carried the power of France into the heart of our
Continent ; the motive was religion. Religious enthusiasm
rounded Montreal, made a conquest of the wilderness of the
upper lakes, and explored the Mississippi. The Roman
(Catholic) Church created for Canada its altai's, its hospitals,
iuid its seminaries. . . . The first permanent ellbrts of French
enterprise in colonizing America preceded any permanent
English settlement on the Potomac.

3. Years before the pilgrims landed in Cape Cod, the Roman
(Catholic) Church had been planted, by missionaries from
France, in the eastern moiety of Maine ; and Le Caron, an
unambitious Franciscan, had penetrated the land of the Mo-
hawks, had passed to the north of the hunting-grounds of the
Wyandots, and, bound by his vows to the life of a lieggar^ liad,
on foot, or paddling a bark canoe, gone onward, and still on-
ward, taking alms of the savages, till he reached the rivers of
Lake Huron.

4. While Quebec contained scarcely fifty inhabitants,
priests of the Franciscan Order — Le Caron, Fiel, Lagard
— had labored for years as missionaries in Upper Canada,
or made their way to the neutral Huron tribe that dwelt on
the waters of the Niagara.

5. To confirm the missions, the first measure was the estab-
lishment of a college in New France, and the parents of the
Marquis de Gamache, pleased with his pious importunity, ^
assented to his entering the Order of the Jesuits, and added
from their ample fortunes the means of endowing a Seminary
for education at Quebec. Its foundation was laid, under happy
auspices, in 1635, just before Champlain passed from among
the living; and two years before the emigration of John Hai>

."i^ii

M4 !• i,

1)8

THE FOURTn RKADKR.

vard, and one year before the General Court of Massachusetts
had made proviHions for a CoUej^e.

6. The; fires of cliiirity were at the same time enkindled.
The Duchess D'Aguillon, aided by her uncle, the Cardinal
Richelieu, endowed a public hospital dedicated to the Son of
God, whose blood was shed in mercy for all mankind. Its
doors were opened, n«t only to the sufferers among the emi-
grants, but to the maimed, the sick, and the blind, of any of tlio
numerous tribes between the Kennebec and Lake Superior; it
relieved misfortune without asking its lineage. From the
hospital nuns of Dieppe, three were selected, the youngest but
twenty-two, to brave the famine and rigors of Canada in their
patient mission of benevolence.

7. The same religious enthusiasm, inspiring Madame de lu
Peltier, a young and opulent widow of Alenqon, with the aid
of a nun of Diei)po and two others from Tours, established tlie

Ursuline Convent for girls Is it wonderful that the

natives were touched by a benevolence which their poverty and
squalid misery could not appall? Their education was at-
tempted ; and the venerable ash-tree still lives beneath wliich
Mary of the Incarnation, so famed for chastened piety, genius,
and good judgment, toiled, though in vain, for the education
of the Huron children.

8. The life of the missionary on Lake Huron was 8imi)le and
uniform. The earliest hours, from four to eight, were ab-
sorbed in private prayer. The day was given to schools, visits,
instructions in the catechism, and a service for proselytes.
Sometimes, after the manner of St. Francis Xavier, Brebeuf
would walk through the village and its environs rmging a little
bell, and inviting the Huron braves and counsellors to a con-
ference. There, under the shady forest, the most solemn
mysteries of the Catholic faith were subject to discussion.

9. Yet the efforts of the Jesuits were not limited to the
Huron race. Within thirteen years, the remote wilderness was
visited by forty-two missionaries, members of the Society of
Jesus, besides eighteen others, who, if not initiated, were yet
chosen men, ready to shed their blood for their faith. Twice
or thrice a year they all assembled at St. Mary's; during

thri rest (
tiihcH.
10. Til

JJivbenf, :

their devo

victim to t

elate, FafI

ill Michiga

^'•lon'ou.s, fii

.'iiul was ujj

vi]lag(!s.

n. For

and every t<

yet there wi

was thrown

there clung J

two captive

''awk.s, satisf

sanctity, spai

12. On a 1

t'lt-re, in the i

soothed his gr

adored the tri

file stately foi

of Jesus on th

I'uto possession

Jj'fting up his V

its banner and

sionary himself

I^utch, and sail

13. Similar V

flliile on his wa

dnVen barefoot

I scourged by a ^

scarred;— he wa

pam'ons, who wa:

protected his lit

Patch.

'!"■"■ devote.! a.„l. . l' '""l" '"" «'"'■'.,„« ,,„„.,,„ ,„

'■"■•nn to tl,o .litnatc. an.l',]- l!'' ""V"'"'""' «""" "'H't IWI „

'■'""K'^s. fc«uiii/ct at tlircc dilhtm Jl,.l„„vk

IJ. For days and inVri,*^ i
«">levcTyto,m.i,twbidril(,,l ,~' "'"""'""«1 to l„,„„,r

«« thrown to the R-ood Fat er " ^'""""-m on the stalk
!"■'•« cl-ng iittlodropsof dew or\; It ■ '" "'" ""•""'' '''^'"^
"•0 captive neophytes. He^md cxJ . 'I'T'"""^* '" '"'l"'^"
»-^ satisfied, perhaps, wthtiVTff' '^'''''' ' ''•'' "'«*'»■
sanctity, spared l,is life and « 11 ""^ "«». or awed at l,is

'2. On a lull apart, he ea ve j a T'' "'"' "''"'«^''-
•'i»re, in the solitude medit!* !, .f*^ "**' '^'■''■■«' "» » tree • and
7"-d his griefs S^e":t- ;i t a;"""""" "' ^''"•^'' "
"(loi-ed the trne God of 3k ^r'' '" """ "<>'*■ '-e^ion
'J-tateiy forests of t ,e M ^."vl T^"- ,^-""'-»*? ^^'^
»f Jesus on tl,e hark of trees ' I"^'' '"^ "■'■«"' "'» ""aie

* possession of these on S'X'''" "■^-' '-' ™ten d
"ng up his voice in a solitarrchantl!!"'™,",' .?"''-' '"^"
"' banner and its faith to tl,; Inff J™' ''"^ ^^'^e brine
»«y himself was hum L ;«!"«. f ^"""^- '''"'^ ">'-
""teh, and sailing for France ToonTf ? '"^''^'^ ''^ tl-o
, 13. Similar was the fate of P.tl? n ""^ *" *^'">"'I»-
*le on bis way to the HuL„s Te'^''''^'"- ''''"<» I'-oncr
p"en barefoot over ro„„" ' t" ,' t,^ ', T""'"''"' ""'"'^''^d;
W"i«ed by a whole villte'' 1'= 1 ''"''' "'"' "'"^'^^'^
*»™<l;-he was an eye-wrtue, t„ !l ' ^1'''"^' "■°™''^''' "'"
f»>on«, who was boiled and eate^ V '"" "^ ""<* "^ '''« '■^^"'-
f teted his life, and he too "» . '"^ "^'*"™"^ "«-^
Bitch. ' " "*' *°°' 'fas humanely rescued by the

100

THE FOURTH KEADER.

16. Catholic Missions — continued,

1. In 1655, Fathers Chaurnont and Dablon were sent on a
mission among the tribes of New Yorlv. They were hospi-
tably welcomed at Onondaga, the principal village of tliiit
tribe. A general convention was held at their desire ; and
before the multitudinous assembly of the chiefs and the whole
people gathered under the open sky, among the primeval
forests, the presents vrere delivered ; and the Italian Jesuit,
with much gesture after the Italian manner, discoursed so elo-
quently to the crowd, that it seemed to Dablon as if the
word of God had Ijeen preached to all the nations of that
land. On the next day, the chiefs and others crowded rouixl
the Jesuits with their songs of welcome.

2. "Happy lanrl," they sang, "happy land, in which the
Jesuits are to dwell I" and the chief led the chorus, " Glad
tidings I glad tidings I It is well that we have spoken to-
gether : it is well that we have a heavenly message," At
once a chapel sprung into existence, and by the zeal of the
nation was finished in a day. "For marble and precious
stones," writes Dablon, "we employed only burk ; but Iho
path to heaven is as open through a roof of bark as thron.g'i

arched ceilings of silver and

gold."

The snvaG'CS f^hovrc]

themselves susceptible of the excitements of religious ecstasy;
and there, in the heart of New York, the solemn scrviccv-. of
the Roman (Catholic) Church were chanted as securely as iu
any part of Christendom.

3. The Cayugas also desired a missionary, and they received
the fearless Rene Mesnard. In their village a- chapel was
erected, with mats for the tapestry ; and there the pictures
of the Saviour and of the Yirgin mother were unfolded to
the admiring children of the wilderness. The Oneidas also
listened to the missionary ; and early in 1657, Chaumoii
reached the most fertile and densely peopled lands of tlio |

Seuecas The Jesuit priests published their ftiitii

from tlie Mohawk to the Genesee The Missions I

stretched westward along Lake Superior to the waters of tlie
Mississippi. Two young fur-traders, having travelled to tlie I

West five

number of

mi-ssionarie

4. Tlieir

iet tes, the

Afaiue, and

Ilurons, we

of sacrifices

the tawny

triumph and

low Montret

'1w^^ited the

mounded, ani

5. But th

cfoss westwa

"can penetra

blood ; if me;

of the Siou3

cabins I" . . i

of Quebec, k

mission ; but \

to visit Green

'i'Jf't to establ

for the surroui

6- His depai

preparations;

Providence wh

clothes the wilt

tive seemed to

""Pelled him t(

a^pd man enten

lii^ predecessors,

I'lroiigh the ^NlV

'0 weeping, "jj

"yo« may add n

^- His predict

'"s attendant wai

P^oe, he was Ids

CATnOLIO MISSIONS IN THE NORTHWEST.

101

3n a

Dspi-
tliiit
and
vliole
ncvul
esuit,
clo-
if the
f that
rouiid

ch the

"Glad
ken to-
." At
. of the
)Vceioib
jut Ih'.'

llVOllg':!

t;ho\ve'l
cst'usy ;
vice> (II
ly as ill

ccccivcd
[pel was
[pictures
Wed to
las also
laumoii'.
of tlio
\\r ftiitlil
VlissiOiis
I of tlie

to m

West five hundred leagues, returned in 1656, attended by a
number of savages from the Mississippi valley, who demuiided
missionaries for their country.

4. Their request was eagerly granted ; and Glabriel Dreuil-
Icttes, the same who cari'ied the cross through the forests of
Maine, and Leonard Gareau, of old a missionary among the
Ilarons, were selected as the first religious envoys to a land
of sacrifices, shadows, and deaths. The canoes are launched ;
the tawny warriors embark ; the oars flash, and words of
triumph and joy mingle with their last adieus. But just be-
low Montreal, a band of Mohawks, enemies to the Ottawas,
awaited the convoy : in the affray Gareau was mortally
wounded, and the fleet dispersed.

5. But the Jesuits were still fired with zeal to carry the

cross westward "If the Five ^^ations," they said,

"can penetrate these regions, to satiate their passion for
blood ; if mercantile enterprise can bring furs from the plains
of the Sioux ; why cannot the cross be borne to their

cabins 1" The zeal of Francis de Laval, the Bishop

of Quebec, kindled with a desire himself to enter on the
mission ; but the lot fell to Rene Mesnard. He was charged
to visit Green Bay and Lake Superior, and on a convenient
inlet to establish a residence as a common place of assembly
for the surrounding nations.

6. His departure was immediate (a. n. 1660), and with few
preparations; for he trusted — such are his words — "in the
Providence which feeds the little birds of the desert, and
clothes the wild flowers of the forests." Every personal mo-
tive seemed to retain him in Quebec ; but powerful instincts
impelled him to the enterprise. Obedient to his vows, the
aged man entered on the path that was red with the blood of
Ms predecessors, and made haste to scatter the seeds of truth
through the wilderness, even though the sower cast his seed
in weeping. "In three or four months," he wrote to a friend,
"you may add me to the memento of deaths."

1. His prediction was verified. Several months after, while

1 tus attendant was employed in the labor of transporting the

Ciuioe, he was lost in the forest, and never seen moie. Long

102

THE FOUKTH READER.

..■■■•

afterwards, his cassock and breviary were kept as amulets

among the Sioux Similar was the death of the great

Father Marquette, the discoverer of the Mississippi. Joliet

returned to Quebec to announce the discovery Tlie

unaspiring Marquette remained to preach the gospel to the

Miamis, wlio dwelt in the north of Illinois around Chicago.

Two years afterwards (a.d. 16t5), sailing from Chicago to

Mackinaw, he entered a little river in Michigan.

8. Erecting an altar, he said mass after the rites of the

Catholic Church ; then, begging the men who conducted his

canoe to leave him alone for a half-hour,

"In the -darkling wood,
Aniid the cool and silence, he knelt down
And ottered to the Migjitiest solemn thanks
And supplication."

At the end of half an hour they went to seek him, and he
was no more. The good missionary, discoverer of a new
world, had fallen asleep on the margin of the stream which
bears his name. Near its monfii the canoe-men dug hip ^rave
in the sand. Ever after, ilq foref-t rangers, if in danger on
Lake Michigan, would invoke hi;' name. The people of the
West will build 'u;v monr i^ient.

2. "0J\

Be w

Forir
I solai
Fort!

And

3. " Oh, I
How e

If lady.
Had be
But the
]
Of faith

i "Butth

IT., M^RY Stuart's Last Prater.

SMYTHE.

HoK. J. G. Smythk has written some of the sweetest ballads in the Eng-
lish language ; those particularly in connection with the Housw of Stuart,
are distinguished for their beauty and pathos.

1. A LONELY mourner kneels in prayer before the Virgin's fane,
With white hands clasp'd for Jesus' sake — so her prayer

may not be vain;
Wan is her cheek, and very pale — her voice is low and faint,
And tears are in her eyes the while she makes her humble

plaint : •

Oh, little could you deem, from her sad and humble mien,
That she was once the Bride of France, and still was Scot-
land's Queen I

T. D. MoGek

still comparntivi
labor. As an oi
a prose writer hi
tliera possessing
Inland, Irish Se
Insh Writers, dn
tamed the first r
sects the city of

THE DISCOVERY OF AMERICA.

loa

inlets

great
Jolu3t
. Tlie
;o the
Icago.
Lgo to

of the
bed his

and he

a ne\v

n which

IF grave
Liiger on
of the

the Eng-
oi Stuart,

n's fane,
prayer

id faint,
humble

le mien,
las Scot-

2. " Mar} mother 1 Mary mother I be my help and stay 1
Be with me still as thou hast been, and strengthen mo

to-day ;
For many a time, with heavy heart, all weary of its grief,
I solace sought in thy blest thought, and ever found relief :
For thou, too, wert a Queen on earth, and men were harsh

to thee 1
And cruel things and rude they said, as they have said to me 1

3. " Oh, gentlemen of Scotland 1 oh, cavaliers of France 1
How each and all had grasp'd his sword and seized his

angry lance,
If lady-love, or sister dear, or nearer, dearer bride.
Had been like me, your friendless liege, insulted and belied I
But these are sinful thoughts, and sad — I should not mind

me now
Of faith forsworn, or broken pledge, or false or fruitless vow 1

i " But thou, dear Mary — Mary mine ! hast ever look'd the
same,
With pleasant mien and smile serene, on her who bore thy

name :
Oh, grant that when anon I go to death, I may not see
Nor axe, nor block, nor headsman — but thee, and only thee I
Then 'twill be told, in coming times, how Mary gave her

grace
To die as Stuart, Guise, should die — of Charlemagne's fear-
less race 1"

118. The Discovery of America. . *

THOMAS d'ABOY McOEE.

T. D. MoGrEK is a native of Curlingford, county Louth, Ireland. Though
still comparatively young, lie has achieved an immense amount of literary
labor. As an orator he has few^ if any, superiors at the present day, As
a prose writer his works are chiefly historical and biographical, many of
them possess! iigf a high order of merit, such as his Popular History of
Ireland, Irish Settlers in, America, Catholic History of America^ Gallery of
Irish Writers,, d&c, c&c. As a statesman and politican he has already at-
tained the first rink in the Canadian House ot Assembly, where he repre-
sents the city of Montreal. -

14 ' i;.?

IJi ■:]

■f'yi

l:)4

THE FOURTH READER.

1 In the foreground of American history there stand these
three figures — a lady, a sailor, and a monk. Might they not
be thought to typify Faith, Hope, and Charity ? The lady
is especially deserving of honor. Years after his first success,
the Admiral (Columbus) wrote : " In the midst of general
incredulity, tlie Almighty infused into the Queen, my lady, tlic
spirit of intelligence and energy. While every one else, in his
ignorance, was expatiating on the cost and inconvenience, her
Highness approved of it on the contrary, and gave it all the
support in her power."

2. And what were the distinguishing qualities of this foster-
mother of American discovery ? Fervent piety, unfeigned hu-
mility, profound reverence for the Holy See, a spotless life
as a daughter, mother, wife, and queen. " She is," says a
Protestant author, "one of the purest and most beautiful char-
acters in the pages of history." Her holy life had won for
her the title of "the Catholic." Other queens have been
celebrated for beauty, for magnificence, for learning, or for
good fortune ; but the foster-mother of America alone, of all
the women of history, is called " the Catholic."

3. As to the conduct of the undertaking, we have first to
remark, that on the port of Palos the original outfit depended,
and Palos itself depended on the neighboring convent. In the
refectory of La Rabida the agreement was made between Co-
lumbus and the Pinzons. From the porch of the Church of
St George, the, royal orders were read to the astonished
townsfolk.

4. The aids and assurances of religion were brought into
requisition to encourage sailors, always a superstitious gener-
ation, to embark on this mysterious voyage. On the morning
of thefr departure, a temporary chapel was erected with spars
and sails on the strand ; and there, in sight of their vessels
riding at shortened anchors, the three crews, numbering in
all one hundred and twenty souls, received the blessed sacra-
ment. Rising from theu* knees, they departed with the benedic-
tion of the Church, like the breath of heayen, filling their sails.

1 On tJ

tlie 6'aive .
raphers, th(
His speech
ever iiellver{
it can never
lofty homily
such a man t
2. We car
deck of the
already odon
to the west.
land ! Whei
ludia and Cat
aud with it th
I Seville, countr
3. "There I
rirers of life J
nion, the son o
of the living G
to Christ, tow]
mil be the firs
I claimed 'of old
l^iit, alas I who
jSQcli a man at s
|tationanduncert
4. Columbus i
lie 12th of Octo
jSsu Salvador.
Iw.each boat
Veen cross." o
F on his kneei
Pen, raising his ^
per, which, afi
^repeat.

THE DlSCOVEKr OF AMKKlCA.

i^- The Discovery of AME^irA

105

ilis ..peed, must have bee« ono "H ' '"^''''^'^^ "> W^ crew
ever delivered in the Now WoHd r,""'' '''""'""^ "^'io^^'
;'«n uever be invented. We cn„ f' T' "^^^ '•^^'"•^'--l ;
W 7hom,ly on confidence in God an 1 H '"' '=°"<=^'^« *'"'t .
'"t « ™au so sitnated would be abt ?o77 '"'''"' *^°"'^'f
2- We can imagine wp » J i • " '''^'"'<"--

" of the SaJa CTbl^r' l" ''""* °" «>« "aAened
f-Iy odoron,, of l,n" m,d hi l ^l' ''^ "' ''^'' '''•- -

the west. We ahno.st hear in f" , ""^ ^'''''^''g ""«>'d
a-1 1 Where yon can se tl!™,!? !'T " ^™"^^ "^'^ "■«
Wia and Cathay I The darl^es" o « f ™'"""=y' ^ '^'''""<I
fjrtb it the night of natiom P * '><'" ^"■" P^s-^ away,
Sev.he, countries ^ore fertile th^ 4 ^■f "'°"' ''«'««'"' tha^

3- "There lies *e terre! t i"'''''»«'"a. "re off yonder ~

--of life ; there ZTlZ:^'^'rr' ''"'' ''^ f»-
wn, the son of David drew fh„ ?,'^^"' ^""^ ^hieh Solo-
»f'l- '-i»g God; tier ^Isha iT. ",' ■•"'°™<^ ««-" temple
'« Christ, to whom you ve f~ '^ "'^^''^ "^^"""^ ""k-own

«' ''f the first to',,L^;<^:^°: .vir ""';^ °' "'^ -^'^^t- "

'famed 'of old by an^Is" li, l / !f '"'8'" of great joy pro
,^«t, alas 1 who shaiuti to l"*!'"'"^ "' ^h^W^''"
- a man at such ^ZZLl"!^' f" "°"'^ ■^P°''-«' "^
N.o„anduncertai„ty-theev:;f h f "'' "«''* "f expoc-
<• Columbus and his ^a,! ' ■' f ^"^ "'' " "^'^ '^O'W ?
fc 12th of October, 1492 on«r-.."' "" "'« -"oniing of
fa Salvador. Three font "" "''""' ^^"'^' tl-^J cnH d

k.eaeh boat floated a o"rr''" "'™ *" «'<^ ^"o «
h™^«." On reaLug treUTtr'/!"'''',"' ""'' ""

6»

in I

■ I -

■i

i ll

i4l m

106

THE FOURTH READER.

5. It is iu these words : " Lord God, Eternal and Omiiip.
otent, who by thy Divine Word hast created the heavens, the
earth, and the sea, blessed and glorified be thy name, and
praised tliy majesty, who hast deigned, by me, thy humble
servant, to have that sacred name made known and preached
in this other part of the world !"

6. The nonicMchiture used by the great discoverer, like all
bis acts, is essentially Catholic. Neither his own nor hi«
patron's name is precipitated on cape, river, or island. Sau
Salvador, Santa Trinidada, San Domingo,- San Nicolas, San
Jago, Santa Maria, Santa Marta — these are the mementoes
of his first success. All egotism, all selfish policy, was utterly
lost in the overpowering sense of being but an instrument iu
the hands of Providence. - ' '<

1. After cruising a couple of months among the Bahamas,
and discovering many new islands, he returns to Spain. Iu
this homeward voyage two tempests threaten to ingulf his
solitary ship. In the darkest hour he supplicates our Blessed
Lady, his dear patroness. He vows a pilgrimage barefoot to
her nearest shrine, whatever land he makes ; a vow punctually
fulfilled. Safely he reaches the Azores, the Tagus, and the
port of PaloR. His first act is a solemn procession to the
church of St. George, from which the royal orders had been
first made known.

8. He next writes in this strain to the Treasurer Sanchez :
" Let processions be made, let festivities be held, let churches
be filled with branches and flowers, for Christ rejoices on earth
as in heaven, seeing the future redemption of souls." The
court was, at the time, at Barcelona, and thither he repaired
with the living evidences of his success. Seated on the royal \
dais, with the aborigines, the fruits, flowers, birds, and met-
als spread out before them, he told to prmces his wondrous]
tale. . ' ;. ' ,

9. As soon as he had ended, " the King and Queen, wii
all present, prostrated themselves on their knees in gratefiill
thanksgiving, while the solemn strains of the Te Deum wcrej
poured forth by the choir of the royal chapel as in commemo
ration of some great victory I" To place beyond any sup

positioi
one evic
Boyereig

fin "the I
• to our Bless(
rank and reu
as les esclave,
Mercy," for
fuii, were de\

I. Beneati

Of noble

And eyes

bre

^OT a de£

2. Toward th(

birt

And ten tii

wor
His step

he „
Tillagallaij
''Wliataile]
^f counsel oj

imp-

,tlic

and

mble

iclicd

THK VIRGIN Mary's knigfit.

107

position of doubt t)ie Catholicity of this extraordinary event,
one evidence is still wanting — the official participation of the
sovereign Pontiff. That it had from the outset.

ie all
)r his
Sau
s, San
lentocs
utterly
nent in

ihainas,
iiu. In
Tulf Ins
Blessed
efoot to
nctually
and tlie i
to tlie
ad been

ianchcz:
icburches
on eavtli
" Tlie

•

repaired

the royiil I

land met- 1

rondrous

leeii,

■^•itl\[
gratcfnl|

tommeino
any

20. The Yirgin Mary's Knight.

A BALLAD OF THE 0BU6ADRS.
THOS. d'aROT McGEK.

[In " the middle ages," tliere were orders of knights espeeiallv devoted
to our Blessed Lady, as well as many illustrious individuals ot knightly
rank and renown. Thus the order called Servites, in France, was known
as les esclavea de Marie; and there was also the order of "Our Ladv of
Mercy," for the redemption of captives ; the Templars, too, before tneir
fall, were devoutly attached to the service of our Blessed Lady.]

1. Beneath the stars in Palestine seven knights discoursing

stood,
But not of warlike work to come, nor former fields of blood,
Nor of the joy the pilgrims feel prostrated far, who see
The hill where Christ's atoning blood pour'd down the

penal tree ;
Their theme was old, their theme was new, 'twas sweet and

yet 'twas bitter, —
Of noble ladies left behind spoke cavalier and ritter.
And eyes grew bright, and sighs arose from every iron

breast, '

For a dear wife, or plighted maid, far in the widow'd

West.

2. Toward the knights came Constantine, thrice noble by his
birth,

And ten times nobler than his blood his high out-shinmg

worth ;
His step was slow, his lips were moved, though not a word

he spoke.
Till a gallant lord of Lombardy his spell of silence broke.
'* What aileth thee, O Constantine, that solitude you seek ?
If counsel or if aid you need, we pray thee do but speak ;

tiv

ft'

111'

III

108

THE FOURTH EKADER.

Or dost thou mourn, like other freres, thy lady-love afar,
Whose image shineth nightly througli yon European star ?"

8. Then answer'd courteous Constantine — " Good sir, in sim-
ple truth,
I chose a gracious lady in the hey-day of ray youth ;
I wear her image on my heart, and when that heart is cold,
Tlie secret may be rifled thence, but never must be told.
For her I love and worship well by light of morn or even,
I ne'er shall see my mistress dear, until we meet in heaven ;
But this believe, brave cavaliers, there never was but one
Such lady as my Holy Love, beneath the blessed sun."

4. He ceased, and pass'd with solemn step on to an olive grove,
And, kneeling there, he pray'd a prayer to the lady of his

love.
And many a cavalier whose lance had still maintained his

own
Beloved to reign without a peer, all earth's unequalled one,
Look'd tenderly on Constantine in camp and in the fight ;
With wonder and with generous pride they mark'd the

lightning light
Of his fearless sword careering through the unbelievers'

ranks.
As angry Rhone sweeps off the vmes that thicken on his

banks.

6. " He fears not death, come when it will ; he longeth for

his love.
And fain would find some sudden path to where she dwells
{ above.

How should he fear for dying, wnen his mistress dear is

dead?"
Thus often of Sir Constantine his watchful comrades said ;
Until it chanced from Zion wall the fatal arrow flew.
That pierced the outworn armor of his faithful bosom

through ;
And never was such mourning made for knight in Palestine,
As thy loyal comrades made for thee, beloved Constantine,

6. Benei
Wher

That I

Whici

Appro

The he;

Norwc

For th(

AbbA Marti
theirenchnat
to those of Mo(
Diaiiual against

^ What c
mjsterious p
^hole parish,
intimate relai
he is to receii
diyine word •
most secret tn

2. It is to

it by the sight

child of God i

that he awaits

intimately to h

ow his spiritt

fessed to his c

I priest Jiad alwa

'•ecall the impre

I 3- But to th(

zon extends, anc

Around his
foauaon father

T"K YOUNG OATHOUC. .^,.

6. ^^eneath the royal tpn^ fh„ K-

Approach I behold I nay worshi,f« ' l'^''^'^''^"'^"'''''*'?
T1.0 heavenly Q„eoa who rlwTn T." ""^ """^^ "'""^ '"^'-■.
Nor wonder that around hfbt?h 7""''"^ ''"^'^ ""'"ve
For the spotless one that L /^ '' ''"^"'^ ''"='' » %''*

, 21. The Yovm Catholic.

Abb4 Martinez— • « ^ ^ « E Z .

1. What comm-,nH. i • .. "" "" """""y. « imrrvilled.

-y^feHons pZrotth: S'rr'"t *y ^^'-p'^- ■•■' «>«

rtole parish, and with whom he i nh^T ""' ''''*''^'' "^ ">o
.*mate reIations,_at catechism If °"V". ''"™ ""« -"o«t
e .s to receive, with child en of 1:1,^^' '^"'"S °>any years,
dime word , or ia the confession^ T T' ""^ """^ «f the
«t secret movements of jll Ct' '' ''^ ^'" ^^^^''J '^e

«.^ the^StltV^s'^^^^^^^ he i. reminded of

« of God a*nd of the Chureh~t , f '"^.' "' *'*'« "^ *•■«
kat he awaits the mysteriorln:. '^""" ""'^ «aered hand

whis spu-itual children. nIIII '"\r«eof his pastor

«d to his companions in exUe "?-;" '"^ ''^"ti-bed, con-

Pnest had always spolcen tn t- , *' *''« P'^e^ence of the

*"^he ;".P Jsion^l t^^^^^ H^- '«* eve^ o^'l

i-oxteVan: «y r'^v^fs S!f ^ *"« -"^-us hori-
Around his narhh ^:, ^^^ "^^^^ with age.

h*o» father o?';^Lr^-;;„5f« are Aered. '^''e

a people-the pnest cmphaticaUy

1 if

:f ■)

110

TIIK FOURTH KKADKK.

— the bishop, nppcars in tlie midst of joyful clmnts. His
Bacred hand touelies tlic young brow, and the union, b«^foi'o so
close, of our youth with the mystical body of tlie Church be-
comes still closer.

4. Beyond and above bishops, universal veneration points
out to him the Bishop of bishops, the universal pontiff, seated
upon the immovable chair of St Peter, and forming of the
one hundred and sixty millions of .Catholics, scattered through-
out the world, one only body, animated with the same spirit,
nourished with the same doctrine, moving towards the same
end.

5. He sees in the clear light of history this vast society,
which no visible band has formed or supports ; and for the
destruction of which, all the known forces of the physical ami
moral world have conspired, — surviving all human societies,
resisting the most frightful tempests, and constantly bringing
the ininicnse majority of Christians into subjection to its laws
so unyielding to the passions of men.

6. Who are the enemies, in every age, rising up against the
House of the living God ? He sees odious tyrants, the ene-
mies of all restraint ; proud dreamers, who pretend to substi-
tute their thought of a day for universal faith ; sectarians
vvitliout a past, without a future, with no tie to bind them to
each other but their common hatred to Catholic society ; — and
all confessing, by the name they bear, their descent from one
man, and their religious illegitimacy.

1. What a powerful guarantee against the asiaults of doubt
is presented to the young CathoUc by this fact, which is as
clear as the sun, and the evidence of which is more convincing
every step we aqlvance in the knowledge of the present and
tlie past. He cannot refuse to believe in the Church, without
s;iying : " In matters of religion I see more plainly, I alone,
than a hundred and sixty millions of my co temporaries and the
eight or ten thousand millions of Catholics who preceded me,
all as interested as I am in knowing the truth, and most of
them with better advantages of becoming acquainted with it."

a j.ro.so a I

J'iltllOS, '1

""It'll liiirii
«"''ji-'t'tint,

J The

0^ a man'i

pnittle.

<iition, tha

people," sj

tiit'ir chUdi

of tha wea

into a preni

i^ no one t

't "p and d

tears. Iff

2. It has

"ii'l praise.''
iiouri.shini,'"
f^»g"^igo attei
^ foy, or Ivii,
lullaby of m
Jiiishing care
tlio cheaper <
^J^'d nonsens(
^vholesome fie
^0 present s
wonder.

3. It was ;
nursery. H^
^ad no young
onife. Acl
flalliance; it k
hands to be be
^e the co-open

THE CIULDitEN OF THK I'ODK.

Ill

22. ThK ClIlLDKKN OK THE PooK.

LAMB. "

Chart,K8 Lamb, a native of Eiigluiul, died in 1S34, npcd 59. IIo wns both
a jtrosc and poetical writer, but hia tame rests ciiieHv on bis EssajH of
Hma ; tiieso nredi8tint,niislied l)y a most delicate vein of Iiumorandexcinisito
patlios. The following,' extract is from a series of bis {mpers, written with
iiuieli bmnor and taste, ajjainst the truth <>f certain popular proverbs — tho
snlijeet in the present instunco being, " Home is hon>6, be it over so homely."

1 The innocent prattle of his children takes out the sting
of a man's poverty. But the children of the very poor do not
prattle. It is none of the least frightful features in that con-
dition, that there is no childishness in its dwellings. " Poor
people," said a sensible old nurse to us once, " do not bring up
thi'lr children; they drag them up." The liiHc careless darling
of the wealthier nursery, in their hovel, is transformed betimes
into a premature) reflecting person. No one has time to dandle
it, no one thinks it worth while to coax it, to soothe it, to toss
it up and down, to humor it. There is none to kiss away its
tears. If it cries, it can only be beaten.

2. It has been prettily said that "a babe is fed with milk
and jiraise." But the aliment of this poor babe was tliin, un-
iiourushing; the return to its little baby tricks, and efforts 'to
engage attention, bitter, ceaseless olyurgatiun. •It never had
a toy, or knew what a coral meant. It grew up without the
lullaby of nurses; it was a stranger to the patient fondle, the
hushing caress, the attracting novelty, the costlier plaything or
tho cheaper off-hand contrivance to divert the child, the prut-
tk'd nonsense (best sense to it), the wise impertinences, tlir
wholesome fictions, the apt story interposed, that puts a sto])
to present sufferings, and awakens the passions of youii'.';
wonder. ' . • .

3. It was never sung to; no one ever told it a tale of tho
nursery. It was dragged up, to live or to die as it happened. It
bad no young dreams. It broke at once into the iron realities
of life. A child exists not for the very poor as an object of
dalliance; it is only another mouth to be fed, a pair of little
hands to be betimes inured to labor. It is the rival, till it can
be the co-operator, for food with the parent. It is never his

112

THE FOURTH READER.

mirth, his diversion, his solace ; it never makes him young
again, with recalling his young" times. The children of tlio
very poor have no young times.

4. It makes the very heart to bleed to overliear the casual
street-talk between a poor woman and her little girl, a woman
of the better sort of poor, in a condition ratlier above the
s((ualid beings which we have been contemplating. It is not
of toys, of nursery books, of summer holidays (fitting that
age), of the promised sight or play, of praised sufficiency at
school. It is of mangling and clear-starching, of the price of
coals, or of potatoes. The questions of the child, that should
be the very outpourings of curiosity in idleness, are marked
with forecast and melancholy providence. It has come to be
a woman — before it was a child. It has learned to go to
market ; it chaffers, it haggles, it envies, it murmurs ; it is
knowing, acute, sharpened ; it never prattles. Had we not
teason to say, that the home of the very poor is no home ?

23. My Life is like the Summer Rose.

WILDK.

R. H. Wilde was born in 1789 ; lie passed his chiklhood in BaUimoro,
and subsequently removed to Georgia; and, ulthougli eii;:<agcd in law and
political life, devoted a suiRcient portion of hia time to literature to make
It evident that he hud the talents to assume a proud position in its ranks.
He disd, in 1847, a most edifying death, in the bosom ot the Catholic Church,

1. My life is like the Summer rose,

That opens to the morning sky, -^^

But ere the shades of evening close.

Is scatter'd on the ground to diel
Yet on the humble rose's bed.
The sweetest dews of night are shed ;
As if she wept the waste to see; —
But none shall weep a tear for me!

2. My life is like the Autumn leaf • ;

That trembles m the moon's pale ray;

I fREDEBrOK Wll

Jitfi'-ary attainniei

I rV '.' ■^«'7 a
?, ^'« jf. o.uilien

{key and many

M'."?lish bards; jfe

P'oiis Canon Crusl

1- liETUSSUJ

liave risen witl

^tgivesacolor
fo us oven if we
H At first

'^iien we see our

of commonplace
p something wro
' 2. PoorLondo
, < how it miiyh
N fall from ofl
''"e whole sun to

It» hold i, frail, it, rt,t„ .,

' "'*^' 'naU mourn for met

2*. The Blkssbd Sacbamek^.

17 1 n

113

*» we see our dear eounZ w^!^- f '^Wointment to u7
feam,u„„p,ace labor r/^oT"^ ""^ ^™^ *«"«on,e look

Lh f""'' ^""*'<'»' if it Icnew' Gort '^i'"""'"? i" this. .
M ov. it ,.ig„t rejoice o„s„, 'air f?.'"P ""'^""^■^ for
rif"' '^'"■n off its countless" kvtT'i.1"^ ""« «''ai°s of

I J**^ *^ a mystery which is

1 1 4-

THE FOURTH READER.

the triumph of faith over sight, of spirit over matter, of grace
over nature, and of tlie Church over the world. But somehow
our very disappointment causes us to feel more touehiiigl}^ ilic
gift of faith, and the sense of our own uiiworthiness, wliieli
makes it such a wonder that God should have elected us to so
great a gift.

3. Oh, sweet Sacrament of Love I we belong to thee, for
thou art our Living Love himself. Thou art our well of life,
for in thee is the Divine Life himself — immeasurable, compas-
sionate, eternal. To-day is thy day, and on it there shall not
be a single thought, a single hope, a single wish, which shall
not be all for thee !

4. Now the first thing we have to do is to get the spirit of the
Feast into us. When this is once accomplished, we shall be bettor
able to sound some of the depths of this salutary mysteiy.
Nay, the whole theology of the grand dogma of the Eucharist
is nothing less than angelic music made audible to mortal oars;
and when our souls are attuned to it we shall the better under-
stand the sweet secrets which it reveals to our delighted minds.

5. Uui we must go far away in order to catch the spirit of
the Feast. We must put before ourselves, as on a map, the
aspect which the whole Church is presenting to the eye of God
to-day. Our great city is deafened with her own noise; she
cannot hear. She is blinded with her own dazzle; she cannot
see. We must not mind her; we must put the thougl.ds of I
her away, with sadness if it were any other day than this, but]
ta-day, because it is to-day, with complete intfifference.

6. Oh, the joy of the immense glory the Church is sending- i)|i
to God this hour, verily, as if the world was all unfallen still!
We think, and as we think, the thoughts are like so many
successive tide-waves, filling our whole souls with the fiilnt.v-j
of delight, of all the thousands of masses which are bciii
said or sung the whole world ovei^ and all rising with one not
of blissful acclamation from grateful creatures to the Majest
of our merciful Creator.

*I. How many glorious processions, with the sun upon tlici
banners, are now winding their way round the squares o|
mighty cities, through the flower-strewn streets of Christ!

dra], or

the vari(

^^le peop

f'uth ^vh

voice of I

sueot flov
«nd the ti
^^^orsljjppe]
taJ^'en dow
f'lith and ]
t'lese thing

9. The V
of ^ong, J

he flung i3(

'^tooples are

'woming in i

«^J'ps of the

sliowofgauf
salutes the K
10. The P,
%e, cloister
%nitaries an
all engrossed
illuminated ;
11. Joy so
and their joy c
f^e imprisoned
homesick exiles
f^jal family an
?'\?ed, more or
fhole Church _
'rcmnlous rockii

tears

even are o

r soul's first d
If' heaven, as
Rcrameut.

THE BLESSED SACRAMENT.

1 ^wpit are oiilv so mnr,,, ^ , "'"^ rent iaiio-nno-py ^f

faith whfpJi fi. "^ ^'^"^ ^''t'sh tokens of t-J.n .f ''^"'^'^ ^t

>>^nicii thev are al/ nvnjf , ^ ^"^ ""'ty of tli'if

--<;t flowers and :;::L';;,1^';: f -■■;o- arel,i.„eturo, „„,u
""J I'e tumult of thrillfj To„: Tf ""'"''^ °f '"""W" ■•"eel
'™'-»'"Ppers, is the bio if '^' '"^"'••' "'»"«»"'k- of nroS

'f ^I'd '«vo, of triumph aud „f , " '"""^ '''^■^"l »ct.s of
"T """=« surely represent " '"""''"°»' ''" "«t cucl. of
». Ine world ovpr fh..

;f-'>.- The gardl t rr„ft '"f '"'«' -"' «- voice
'f flung beneath the ftet 0?,. ^ '"' '''''''■*'^'' '^'"^-^"'"-^ to
steeples are reeliujf with tt ^ *''" Sacramental God Tim

'"ominginthegorgl of thet"! °' "'^*' "'« --Lire

"1» »f 'heharbors^arep^' i„t''tr''' ""^ ^'-■"•"-" «e
siow of gaudy flags • thf,^ ^ I '"'^' "^ "«^ ^ea with the r
»Iutes^the xfng of kings^ '""''' °^ -^»' - -publican IlS

ho^cloistoerulsll''''"''' »"''*'''' ^chool-girl in her.-,
.tf^'-tan-esand^rars^m^^^^^^^^^^^ ^^-^^ ^^^^^^

'""mmated ; the dwellings of men !,1 ^r*""™'- Cities are
I 1 • Joy so abounds, that m™ 1 ? ^'"' "citation

nd their joy overflow on sTlJT" ""^^ "^'""^ "«» ^^V •
»« imprisoned and the TS ■ "■''' """^ o" 'he poor "L'
*«»osiek exiles. A I thlmnr"^ ""^ "•« "-Phaned and Ihf
h^4> family and ^St^^:^^^ f-t belong^ t^
ajed, more or less, with the RlL"!, c "'"""' *"■« '"-day en-
rtole Chureh militant is thrim' ^t.^T'''"''''*' » «'at the
-™. ons rocking of the mt% sla t^ ^"»«-' '*« the
ears even are of ranture roH 1 ^^° ^^^ms forgotten •

;-ui's first day ifh^rx-rtrr"^''- ''^^^

r ''"""'"'' as it well might'do fo I '""^ '^^^ I'a^'^S
|8»crameut. . *''""''««'• W of the Blessed

-to

I."

116

THE FOURTH READER.

ft;

25. The Bund ]\[ArwTYR.

CAUUINAL WISEMAN.

His Eminence Cardinal Wiseman, tlie iirst Archbishop of Westniiiistc r,
was Ijoru rtt Seville, in !Si>ain, of Irit>h 2'iireiit.s, August 2. ISO:.', lie \va>
orilaiued priest in 182."), and was for some years Kector of tne Englisli Col-
ieire at Home. He was elevated to the episcopate in 1840, being made Co-
adjutor, to Dr. Walsii, Vicar Apo.stolic of the Midhmd District. In IRIS,
he was made Pro-Vicar Apostolic of tlie London District, on the death of
Dr. Grifiitlis ; and subsequently, Vicar Apostolic. On the 2yth of Septem-
ber, 18o0, his Holiness Pope Pius IX. re-established the Catholic Ilierarohy
in England, when Dr. Wiseman was made Archbishop of the new See u{
Westminster; and on the following day lie was raised to the dignity of u
Cardinal Priest of the Holy Roman Cliurch.

" Few of the great men of our day will, in the pages of Chnrcli histoiy,
occupy a more conspicuous place tlian Cardinal W iseman, as a learned aiuj
brilliant controversialist, or as a writer abounding in erudition, a knowled^'e
of the Oriental langruages, manners, and customs, the life of the i)rimitivo
Christians, and all tiieir remains, as well as in a thorough knowleilire alike
of tlieology, and of tlie times in which he lived. His Lectures on lieveaK d
Keligion are acknowledged to be the best and most <'omplete answer in the
language to the infidel doctrines of the day." — Metropolitan.

Tliese form but a small portion of liis learned labors. We ^ive below an
extract from his une(pialled tale of "Fabiola," the scene of wTiicli is laid iu
Kome during the reign of the tyrant Diocletian.

[CiBcelia, a poor, blind young girl, warns the Clnistians, who had assemhled in the
Catacombs to assist at the Uoiy iSacriflce of the Mass, that they have been betrayed
to the Prefect of Koine.]

1. CECELIA, already forewarned, had approached the ceme-
tery by a diflferent but neighboring entrance. No sooner liad
she descended than she snuffed the strong odor of the torches.
"This is none of our incense, I know," she said to herself;
" the enemy is already within." She hastened, therefore, to
the place of assembly, and delivered Sebastian's note ; adding
also what she had observed. It warned them to disperse, and
seek the shelter of the inner and lower galleries ; and begged
of the Pontiff not to leave till he should send for him, as bis
person was particularly sought for.

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

" But the enemy may seize you."

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

3. 'M

"True

" Thoj
" Eveij
tlie (lurk,
ccmetei'j,
Off she
copt that
fnends, au
4. Whe
viiis was p
—it was ri
t^ie earth,
foamed ; t
qiiatus ?"
toltl in as m
it annoyed
own mind, i
. wJio had esc
Jf'so, this ca
.^«'- He St,
^'"S" and awf
^'oman, and
5. "Imus
answered the
^oice; "doy
"Bliiidl''
' ^^ ^i<-'i". But
^¥^test possi
pursued by a

knowledge hac
linnds.

6- " It will
mai-ch through
y>^i' quarters,
^^^''^i'ni8, take
I te^ him all. j
"^"0 treachei

THE BLIND MAETTB.

117

8. " Why, you cannot see bv it " „», ,

" T''u= ; but others ean " ^ ' °^""^'^ ■>«. ^-ailing.

Efcn so," she answered • " T H„ . •
"'» ' '"*. If my Brideg^oo,; eoL tn" ^"^ *" ''^ "'k'^'' '«
cemetery, n,„st he not find m ^h ' T '" ""^ "'"^'"t "^ «»«

Off she started, reachorl 1^ ^ '™P '"'""led ?"

copt that of qnie't Zuel^Tl""'.^'''"''' "» -- -

-•t >vas ridieulous-a po;r IZ ' "'"" * *'"''l f-'il-re

^ -rth. He rallied'corvTnus tm T °'" "' *"" •'"-^'^ "^
formed ; then sudde,Jy he a*.H '! ^'''*'''' ^'"^^d and
7/"^?" He heard thLeounff'h;?'";', ""^''^ '^ Tox'
toU ... as many ways as the Dae "t '""^^ <*'^ Wearance,
It annoyed him g-eatlv ct ^^ ^"""^^ adventures ■ bnt
»«n mind, that he had h» ^'^ "" ''""'^'' whatever in U,
.^l.ohadeseapedi:totet:ari''^- "'« -PPOsedUti'm
* so, this captire would know ' ,tl J T'"' "^ ^^^ '='^»etery
''•'■• He stood before her twf '^'''™'"^'^ '» q«e«tion
"'? a..d awful look, and Id o?' ^f "" '"' ■"»«' search"
™..aa, and tell me ihe truth » ^''' ^*^''"'^' "^'^k at n,e,

»• X must tell you the tn,ti> ^-.i,
«"^«red the poor gin, ^L hereW T? '""^'"^ '' ?»"- «-,"
Bliu'dl" re"1 ^^^ "-' - S'r.' ™"^' -' *

:; !r B."'irtnattro) i^ ^ --^^^ *« ,ook

*Sl.test possible emotion in" ' 1^ T'"'™ ">ere passed the
f^^'f by a playful b^ee^e n^ 1"' "'' '^''^^ «">* run.
»»>vledge had flashed into hi,\ T "f '*» ^^^dow. 1'
Ms. ■"'""'«•• "<=!«« had fallen into ht

r'^'Cr^^^^^^^^^^^^^ ;?^ twenty soldiers to

h!'™ ^n. I .^1 frwrlfarrif " *^ -^""^ ^»'*-.^nd' ^
"^0 treachery, Pulvius. '"he s JdT "'^"' *'"' •=''P«^«'"

' "**"'' '^^ed and mortified.

118

THE FOURTH KEaDER.

T. " Mind you bring her. The day must not pass without a
Bacrifice."

" Do not fear," was the reply.

Fulvius, indeed, was pondering whether, having lost one
spy, he should not try to make another. But the calm gentle-
ness of the poor beggar perplexed him more than the boister-
ous zeal of the gamester, and her sightless orbs defied him
more than the restless roll of the toper's ; still, the first thought
that had struck him he could still pursue. When alone in a
carriage with her, he assumed a soothing tone, and addressed
her. He knew she had not overheard the last dialogue.

"My poor girl," he said, "how long have you been bhnd?"

8. "AH my life," she replied.

"What is your history ? Whence do you come ?"
" I have no history. My parents were poor, and brought
me to Rome, when I was four years old, as they came to pray,
in discharge of a vow made for my Ufe in early sickness, to tbe
blessed martyrs Chrysanthus and Daria. They left me in
charge of a pious lame woman, at the door of the title of Fas-,
ciola, while they went to their devotions. It was on that
memorable day when many Christians were buried at the
tomb, by earth and stones cast down on them. My parents
had the happiness to be among them."

9. " And how have you lived since ?"

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

"But you can walk about the streets freely and without
fear, as well as if you saw."
, " How do you know that ?"

10. "I have seen you. Do you remember very early one
morning in the autumn, leading a poor lame man along tbe
Vicus Patricus ?"

She blushed and remained silent. Could he have seen her
put into the poor old man's purse her own share of the alms ?
"You have owned yourself a Christian?" he asked, negli*
gently.

11. "0]

" TJjen t

"Certain

.He want

about whoi

nothing, wa;

must yield, (

12. After

you know wJ

"Before t]

^y Spouse in

"And so c

no token fron

"So joyful]

13. Ha vino

to Corvinus al

to her fate. Ii

I ceding evening

pad kept dow:

been compelled

collect, as hour

tidings, most o

J persevering rem

jtlie public garc

jfresh knot of s

pide-doors, from

26. T

!• As Corvinu
m, Tertullus
h could be Ii
^poor, ignorant,
^^ perfectly stil
'^"^^ as she woi
°^^y penalties on

THE BLIND MAMTYR.

119

"T)l?h r ' '^°'' """'•J I deny it r-

i-uen that meetho- was ,. ni. • f.
"Certaiulyr • »),„. !, ' » Clmstiau meeting ?"

«bont whom TorquafuJ haVw ""m ^"■'' ^''"«^'3- Agnes
"otWng, was certainl/a Chl,^:r W ' "' ^'"'"^ *° ««"^ m

70U know whrthr;;trf^i:iV ^'"'''''^*'^' "« '""j. -^o

Before the judge of earth T
mj Spouse in heaven." ' ^ '"^P"'"' «'•«> ''iU send me to

"And so calmly ?" he B<iko^ ■
no token from the sonl t„Th ' '"P™" ' <■<»■ ^e could see

;;«o^oyf„„,, rat:e":i;rrs:,r " ^*

13. Havmg got all that he 'desirprf i '^^:

» Corvinus at the gates of the S,' T''^""^ '"'^ P^oner
"er fate. It had been a coW f ^^ '" r '"''"'<'''' """^ 'eft her
ee ".g evening. The weather and th-f '^''^' '"'^ '^0 P'«

•d kept down all enthusksl 5' '?*'"« "^ "'« "igl-t
'7 compelled to sit ^^Z7 'Jl "''"•' *« P'"''''' ha^
*ct, as hours had passed aw;vtrh "? ^'■'''' '=^'"^d <^om '
Mi^SS, most of the curious Cd If""' ""^ ''"e^^ trial, or
,J«vermg remained past the hour of ' T ""'^ " f'^'' -""e '
'e public gardens. But just W, l'""""" ■•«^««'«on in
feh kuot of spectators came in »^' "'^ '^"P"^'' "'"ed a
'Woors, from which they Tould'see all'""' "'" ""^ "^ "'«

h wuld be little dilfilultvTn „ ""™P«'<"'. "ud imaginin"
P»% ignorant, blind beggar 1??'"^ '^' obstinacy of
J^^ perfectly stilj, that £= "i^ rtrt-*''" ^P'''^*^'"^ *« ^^
^ ^ a« she would imagine fvih? " P"''""^'"" «° her, »
£P-tie3o.anyo4;iol^^;i^e^-«e^

120

THE FOURTH READER.

most tliauk God and
would have me put

2. " What is thy name, child ?"
" Cfficelia."

" It is a noble name ; hast thou it from thy family?"
" No ; I am not noble ; except because my parents, though

poor, died fof Christ. As I am blind, those who took care of
me called me Caeca,* and then, out of kindness, softened it
into Caecelia."

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

"You must have better motives to propose to me tlian
tliese ; for the very things for which I
his Divine Son, are those which you
away."

4. " How dost thou mean ?"
" I thank God that I am poor and meanly clad, and fare

not daintily ; because by all these things I am the more like
Jesus Christ, my only Spouse."

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

" For that, more than all the rest, I thank him daily aui|
hourly with all my heart."

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

5. " They are not so, most noble sir. For in the midst
what you call darkness, I see a spot of what I must call ligli
it contrasts so strongly with all around. It is to me what tl
sun is to you, which I know to be local from the varyiil
direction of its rays. And this object looks upon me as will
a countenance of iutensest beauty, and smilos iipn me as e«e
And I know it to be that of Him whom I love wlthundividj

• Blind.

affection,
hy a brig
the diver
aside by
to see hin
6. "Co
Obey the
will do. '
"Painr
"^es,p,
^lurt by an
" Oh, no
T. The r
made a sign
pushed her
sistance, sh(
The loops
round her a
poor sightlesi
it might be tJ
If there had
breath, while
8. "Once
sacrifice to
Judge, with a
" Neither t(
to the altar,
can ofifer up nJ
ready oblation
^- Theprefe
one rapid whi
windlasses of
tJie maiden wet
not enough to
^^ would hav
'"ore truly, a n
?nevous was th
'^ing unseen, ar

THE BLIND MARTYR.

121

lOUgll

are of
aed it

s, wlio
recs of
id tliou
\m\ tbe

le tlian

iod anil

me put

and fare
nore lilie]

,tience al
lady ? Atj
lade tliee

[daily ami
lave sed

I? WM

midst

Icall ligli
I wbat tl]

le varyhl
16 as wit|
le as c.f
[undividl

affection. I wouid not for the world have its splendor dimmed
by a brighter sun, nor its wondrous loveliness confounded with
the diversities of other features,^ nor my gaze on it drawn
aside by earthly visions. I love him too much, not to wish
to see him always alone."

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

" Pain 1" she echoed, innocently.

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

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

7. The rack was standing, as usual, before him ; and he
made a sign to Catulus to place her upon it. The executioner
pushed her back on it by her arms ; and as she made no re-
sistance, she was easily laid extended on its wooden couch.
The loops of the ever-ready ropes were in a moment passed
round her ancles, and her arms drawn over the head. The
poor sightless girl saw not who did all this ; she knew not but
it might be the same person who had been conversing with her.
If there had been silence hitherto, men now held their verj^
breath, while Caecelia's lips moved in earnest prayer.

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

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

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

6 :

122

THE FOURTH READER.

ness inflicts. A quivering of her features and a sudden pale-
ness alone gave evidence of her suffering.

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

She seemed to take no heed of his words, but gave vent to
her feelings in prayer : " I thank thee, Lord Jesus Christ,
that thou hast made me suffer pain the first time for thy
sake. I have loved thee in peace ; I have loved thee in
comfort ; I have loved thee in joy ; and now in pain I love
thee still more. How much sweeter it is to be like thee,
stretched upon thy cross even, than resting upon the hard
couch at the poor man's table I"

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

A thrill of disgust and horror ran through the assembly,
which could not help sympathizing with .the poor blind crea-
ture. A murmur of suppressed mdignation broke out from
all sides of the hall.

12. Caecelia, for the first time, learnt that she was in the midst
of a crowd. A crimson glow of modesty rushed into her brow,
her face, and neck, just before white as marble.

The angry judge checked the rising gush of feeling ; and all
listened in silence, as she spoke again, with warmer earnest-
ness than before :

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

13. Another muttering of compassion was heard.
"Catulus 1" shouted the baffled judge, in fury, "do your

duty, sirrah I What are you about, fumbling all day with that
torch?"

" It is too late. She is dead."

" Dead 1" cried out Tertullus ; " dead, with one turn of the
wheel ? Impossible t"

14. (

''emainei
rack to
to her g
her pun
prayer ?
I'l'oiQ the
15. In
«'it3d out,
t^'ou not
over life a

" What
cross niy r
16. The
imprecatior
closure befc
hlindly on
^^o, no dc
Se reeled, a
" You are
"^o,noj
11. "Wh
help you Pf
"I^et me J
" Who wil
" Pancratii
my father."

" PancratiL
that he had g,
'"'"i go ; but
»es' in Suburr

18. While

oi'dered CatuJi

l^ut another

'reckoned to Ci

^"t his hand to

" Out of the

^"^et," said Se

THE BLIND MARTYR. -^,

14 Cafi ]
«n;aiued aoUoE. '""l/wt I'"™ ''r'"'"'^"' »'"' «•» I-ody
;- to the tl.ro„e, fro,, .rscor Irt ""' "^^''"' «•«»' " e
o her Spouse's welcoming cmbrri r^'f '^ eounfe,,,,,,,

«ied out, from ti.e group nelr /l,'"','"""''-'''' " *•■''■■■"•' ''"I'l voice
tl'ou not see that a 2^Zl ^.T-' ."^'"P'""« '^™"t. <I.«t
over life and death thi^^hou „. ,.^''"'"''" """' ■"<"•" I "wor
What I a third tZ ,• ? *''^ "'"'' "''sters ?"

e- n^ path ? ^HrS^;^ i"- ^'" "■- •^"« '»

i^. Tiicse were fnrvJr. , "^ °^^ escape."

imprecation, ast rS l^^^jf ' f^'f'-J with a furio,.
o.ure before the tribunal Towards ^^^ ™'"' ^"'■"" ''-' "'"
Wmdiy on he strueic aganrannffi *''"""• ^ut as he ran
^.ho, no doubt quite afc de'tall/ '"' "' ^'""''""' '•"M,
He reeled, and thl soldierTaul'two'f V '''"""^ ^™"' ''•

n. " Where a^ ^''' '^"'"'™"'^' '"^t ""> go "

kelp you V -iced LCapirilllir "t" ""^^^ ^ ^an I
"Let me foose I sav n.T' *' "'^"'''"'g h'm fast.

"Who will be gone ^; "'■'''""«' SO«e-"

''«' "e had got ele?r off^ nT; r''"^ .^°""''' "-"J «e-g
I"" go ; but it was too late Zh ''I'""-" A"-! he lei
»es' in Suburra. ''• ^''^ ^outh was safe at Dioo-e-

'"^et," said Sebastian. "'"""'''" ^""""'^ ^^ »" hour affer

124

THE FOURTH RKADER.

10. " It shall be delivered there, safe/' said the executioner.

" Of what, do you think, did that poor girl die ?" asla»d a
Rpoetator from his compiuiion, as they went out.

"Of fri^lit, I fancy," he replied.

" Of Christian modesty," interposed a stranger, who passed
them.

27. Peace Tribunals.

AROIIBISnOP KENKIOK.

FuANCis Patrick Kknriok, T). D.. archbishop of Baltiinoro, was born in
Duliliti, in 17lt7. In biMiciil and theolofrical hiarnin)/, he hus no pnp(!ri<jr
aiiiiiii^r tlie hierarcliy of the Church. His " J)o);iiiatic Theoloffy" ami
•• I'rhiiacy of the Anohtolic Sec," and others of liis voluminous works, aro
every wiiero received as staiuhird fiutliorities. His j^reatest work, however,
is Ills Translution of the Holy Bible, with notes and coiniiu-ntH. It is
worthy of remark tliat the brother of this eminent prelate itt Archbishop
of St. Louis, and has also written some works of merit.

1. Philanthropists often speculate on the propriety of estab-
lishing a peace tribunal, to settle, without the proud control
of fierce and bloody war, the various controversies which may
arise among nations ; yet they seldom reflect that such a ti'i-
bunal existed in the middle ages, in the person of the sovereign
pontiff. The warlike spirit of the nortiieru barbarians, which
still survived in their descendants, should be understood in or-
der to fully appreciate the services which the popes in restrain-
ing it rendered to society.

2. Their efforts were not always successful, but their merit
was not, on that account, the less in endeavoring to stem tlie
torrent of human passion ; and their success was sufficient to
entitle them to the praise of having effectually labored to
sui)stitute moral and religious influence for brute force.

3. As ministers of the Prince, of Peace, they often intei'-
poHcd spontaneously, and with arms powerful before God,
opposed the marauders who rushed forward to shed human
blood. The fathers of the Council of Rheims, in 1119, under
the presidency of Calistus II., were engaged in ecclesiastical
deliberations, when the pontiff communicated to them over
tures of peace which had reached him from Henry V.

4. He

wliicli tii
to return
shall wni
"'hi vxho
are at va]
love of C
the law (
war, and
peace."

5- Leib]

one among

0" society,

"ot hope to

anew at Ro

troversies o

n^'^'ijt, by tl

Woodshed.
" ^hy shoulf
us the goJde]

FIRST BATTLE ON THK PLAINS OF ABKAH \M. 12%

4. Ho informed them that he must repair to iho pltioL-
which the emperor liad appointed lor an interview, i)r(inii>iii,ii;
to return and close tiie Council. " Afterwards," said lie, " 1
shall "Wait on the Kini^ of Enj^'land, my godchild and relativi',
and exhort him, Count Theobald his nepiiew, and otiiu's wiio
die at variance, to come to a reconciliation, that eacii, lor tl;e
love of God, may do justice to the other, and accordini;' to
the law of God, all of them being pacilicd, may abandon
war, and with their subjects enjoy the security of perfect
peace."

6. Leibnitz regarded this mediatorial office of the pope as
one among the most beautiful evidences of Christian induence
on society, and expressed the desjrc, which, however, he did
not hope to see realized, that a peace tribunal were establisiied
anew at Rome, with the Pontiff as its jiresident, that the con-
troversies of princes, and the internal dissension of nations
might, by the mild influence of religion, be decitled without
bloodshed. " Since we are allowed to indulge fancy," said he,
" why should we not cherish an idea that would renew amoug
us the golden age ?"

28. FiEST Battle on the Plains of Abraham.

. . garneau.

1. At daybreak the English army was drawn up in battle
array on the plains of Abraham. When, at six in the morning,
M. de Montcalm received the unexpected news of this landing,
he could not believe tt. He thought it was some separate de-
tachment, and, carried away by his usual vivacity, he set for-
ward with only a part of his troops, without making his
arrangements known to the governor.

2. At this moment the army of Beau Port found itself reduced
to about 6,000 fighting men, because sundry corps had been
detached from it. General Montcalm took with him 4,500
men, and left the rest in the camp. These troops defiled by
the bridge of boats placed across the River St. Charles, entered
the city by Palace Gate, on the north, and marchmg through,

I- 'I!!

iC': Hi

';i li

126

TlIK rOURTII UKADI R.

wont out by St.-.Tolui's nnd St. Louis' Onto, on tlio west, to
the plnins of Ahrnlmin, wIhtc, nt cii^hf o'clock, they came in
si<;ht dl' tlic cnciny. Montcalm perceived, not witliont snr-
l)risc, I lie entire Kiit;Hsli army drinvn np in line to receive him.
IJy n fatal i»rccii)itation lie resolved to make the attack, not-
withstnndinu; nil advice to the contrary, despite the opinion
even of his mnjor-ycneral, the Chevalier de Montrenil— who
represented to him tluit with snch a far inferior force they
were in no condition to attack — and despite the positive orders
of the j^overnor, who wrote him not to open lire till all the
forces were bronght together, and that he himself wonld march
to his assistance with the troops left to guard the camp. IJnt
the general, fearing lest the English should intrench them-
selves on the plains, and render their }>osition imj)regiud)le,
gave the order f\)r battle. The English were two to one ;
they numbered 8,000 men present under arms. But Mont-
calm was willing to try his fortune, hoping that success might
again crown his audacity, as it did beibre at Carillon.

3. He drew up his men in a single line three men deep, the
right on St. Eoy's, and the left on St. Louis' road, without
any reserved corps. The regulars, whose grenadiers were with
M. de IJougainville, formed the centre of this line. The govern-
ment militia of Quebec and Montreal occupied the right, that
of Three Rivers and a portion of that of Montreal formed
the left. Platoons of marines and Indians were thrown ou
the two wings. Then, without giving time fot the troops to
draw breath, he gave the order to advance on the enemy.
They rushed forward so precipitately that the line broke, and
the battalions were found one in advance of the other, so that
the English thought they were advancing in columns, especially
those of the centre.

4. General Wolfe's army was drawn up in a square in front
of the heights of Neveu, the right resting on the wood of Samos,
and a small eminence on the verge of the precipitous bank of
the St. Lawrence ; the left on the house of Borgia. One of
the sides of the square faced the heights ; another looked
toward the St. Foy road, along which it was drawn up ; and
a third was turned towards the wood of Sillery. Wolfe had

pommenc
redoubts
regimen fi
f<)i'me(i t
formed lj
Scotch II
other reiri
centre of
5. The
some Indi
which bor(
WoJfe, coi
sihie, passi
to fight,
ordered th
paces. Th
they came \
manner, anc
which took
Vance ; but,
they were a:
order in whi
their raoven
strangest co
attack in his
he led his gr
He had only
h a second 1
the rear, ant
feeing unav/ai
JQ pursuit of
gave way at
his principal
out, ''They r
aud his face ]
^vas the replj
"^"d so saying
6. Almost

FIRflT BAITLK ON THE PLAI.V9 OF ABRAHAM. 127

front

^amos,

ink of

lue of

looked

and

had

pommoncod aloni^ the St. Foy rond a lino of small cnrthon
rocloiibts, wlii^'Ii wore carried l)a('k\vard in a scniicirolo. Six
ro«i;iincnts, tl^^ Ijouisbiirj;' ^rcMiadiors, and two jjirccs of cannon
formed tl»e side facing the city. The two otiier sides wero
form(!il by three full regiments, one of which was the 78tli
Scotch lIi<jrhlMnders, fifteen or sixteen hundred strong. An-
other reginii' it, in eight divisions, was placed in reserve in the
centre of the lines.

6. The action commenced with the Canadian skirmishers and
some Indians. They kept up a brisk fire on the British line,
which bore it bravely, though with considerable loss. General
Wolfe, convinced that, if he were beaten, retreat was impos-
sible, passed along the ranks of his army encouraging his men
to fight. He caused them to double-load their guns, and
ordered them not to fire till the French came within twenty
paces. Tiie latter, who had lost all their firmness by the time
they came within reach of the English, opened in an irregular
manner, and in some battalions, too far ofT, a platoon fire
which took little eflfect. They, nevertheless, continued to ad-
vance ; but, on coming within forty paces of their adversaries,
tiiey were assailed by so murderous a fire, that, with the dis-
order in which they already were, it was impossible to regulate
their movements, and in a little time they all fell into the
strangest confusion. General Wolfe seized that moment to
attack in his turn, and, although already wounded in the wrist,
he led his grenadiers to charge the French with the bayonet
He had only taken a few steps in advance, when he was struck
by a second ball, which pierced his breast. He was carried to
the rear, and his troops continued the charge, most of them
being unav/are of his death till after the battle ; they set off
in pursuit of the French, part of whom, having no bayonets,
gave way at the moment, despite the efforts of Montcalm and
liis principal officers. Some one who was near Wolfe cri.d
out, " Tliey run I" " Who ?" demanded the dying general,
aud his face lit up with sudden animation. " The French 1"
was the reply. " What, already ? Then I die content 1"
And so saying, the hero expired.

6. Almost at the same moment Colonel Carleton was

128

THE FOUETII READER.

wounded in the head ; Brigadier-General Monckton having
received a shot, left the lield, and General Townsliend, the
third in command, sncceeded him in command of the army.

7. .The victors tlien pressed the fugitives on all sides, bayonet
or sabre in liand. Little more resistance was offered, except
from the skirmishers. TIio chief of brigade, Seuesergnes, and
M. de St. Ours, who fdled the same grade in that battle, fell,
mortally wounded, into the power of the enemy. General
Montcalm, who had already received two wounds, did all he
could to rally his troops, -and regulate the retreat ; he was be-
tween St. Louis' Gate and the heights of Neveu, when a shot,
penetrating his loins, threw Bhu from his horse, mortally
wounded. He was carried by some grenadiers to the city,
into which a part of the French threw themselves, while the
greater number fled towards the bridge of boats on the River
St. Charles. The governor arrived from Beau Port just as the
troops were disbanding. He rallied 1,000 Canadians between
St. John's and St. Louis' Gates, put himself at their head,
and by a furious fire arrested the course of the enemy for
some time, which saved the fugitives. The rout was com-
plete only among the regular troops. The Canadians con-
tinued to fight as they retreated ; favored by some small
woods or thickets by which they were surrounded, they forced
several English corps to retire, and only yielded at length to
superior numbers. It was from this resistance that the victors
sustained the heaviest loss. Three hundred Scotch highland-
ers, returning from the pursuit, were attacked by the Canadians
on the coteau St. Genevieve, and beaten back, till they were
rescued by two regiments sent to their assistance.

8. It was only at eight o'clock that Colonel Bougainville,
who was at Cap Rouge, received orders to march to the plains of
Abraham ; he immediately set out with nearly half his troops,
who were dispersed almost as far as Pointe-aux-Trembles, but
being unable to arrive in time to take part in the battle, and
seeing that all was lost, he retired. The English did not deem
\t expedient to profit by the confusion of their adversaries to
penetrate into Quebec, or take possession of the camp at
Beau Port, which might afterwards be retaken by the troops

SECOND BATTLE ON TIIK PLAINS OF ABUAIIAM. 129

ing
the

)ni3t

and
lull,
loral
il he
s be-
sUot,
•tally
city,
e the
River
is the
tweeii
head,
y for
corn-
Is con-
suiall
Iforccd
th to
ictors
Ihland-
ladians
were

Inville,
liiis of
Iroops,
\s, but
|e, and
, deem
ties to
[ip at
troops

who had retired into the city. Such was the issue of the first
battle of Abi'aluun, wliich decided the i)03session of a country
almost as large as tho half of Europe.

28 1 . Second Battle on the Plains of Abraham.

G ARNEAU.

1. Lp:vis, who had gone forward with his staff to reconnoiter
in person the English position on the heights of Neveu, had
no sooner perceived this movement tiian he sent orders to his
troops to hasten their march to the plains of Abraham. The
English general, seeing as yet but the van of the French
army, resolved to attack it without delay, before it could re-
cover from the disorder of the march ; but he had to deal
with a man of rare intelligence and of almost imperturbable
coolness. He drew up his troops in front of the heights of
Neveu ; his right rested on the coteau St. Genevieve, and his
left on the steep which there bounds the River St. Lawrence ;
his entire line was about a quarter of a league in length.
Four regiments, under tho orders of Colonel Burton, formed
the right, placed on the St. Foy Road ; four other regiments,
with the Scotch highlander^, under Colonel Fraser, formed
the left, on the St. Louis road. Two ba'.talions were held in
reserve. Besides these two battalions, the right flank of the
army was covered by a body of light infantry under Mnjor
Dalling, and the left flank by Captain Huzzen's company of
rangers, with a hundred volunteers under Captain McDonald.
General Murray gave the order to march forward.

2, The French vanguard, composed of ten companies of grena-
diers, was put in order of battle, part on the right, in a bas-
tion raised by the English the year before, part on the left,
iu Dumont's Mill, with the houses, tannery, and other build-
ings which surround it, on the St. Foy road. Tlie rest of the
army, having learned what w^as going on, had quickened its
paces more and more as it advanced ; the three brigades of
the right were scarcely formed when the EngUsh commenced

the attack with vigor.

130

THE FOURTH READER.

SEco:^

3. General Murray felt the importance of seizing Dumont's
Mill, covering as it did the pass by which the French gained
the field of battle, and he caused an attack to be made on it
with superior forces. He hoped that by crushing the five com-
panies of grenadiers by whom it was defended, he might then fall
on the soldiers marching past, separate them from the battle-
field and cut off the right wing engaged on the St. Louis road.

4. Levis, in order to counteract his design, removed his right
to the entrance of the wood on its rear, withdrew the grena-
diers from Diiraout's Mill, and caused them to fall back, so as
to lessen the distance between them and the advancing bri-
gades. It was at this moment that Bourlaraarque was griev-
ously wounded by a cannon-ball, which killed his horse under
him. His soldiers, left without orders, and seeing the grena-
diers engaged in a furious and unequal contest, took it on
themselves to go and sustain them, and fell into line at the
very moment when the enemy was directing great part of his
strength, and nearly all his artillery, on that very point ; the
cannons and howitzers, charged with ball and case-sliot,
plowed the space occupied by that wing, which reeled under
the most murderous fire. The grenadiers rushed forward at
full charge, retook the mill after an obstinate struggle, and
maintained themselves in it. These brave soldiers, commanded
by Captain d'Aiguebelles, nearly all perished that day.

5. While these events were passing on the left, General Levis
caused the soldiers of the right to retake the bastion which
they had abandoned in falling back. The Canadians of the
Queen's Brigade, who occupied this snjall redoubt and the pine-
wood on the edge of the cape, recovered their ground, and
soon charged in their turn, supported by M. de Saint Luc and
some Indians. The contest became then no less violent on
that part of the line than on the left. All the troops had
arrived on the field of battle, and the fire was quicker on
both sides. The militiamen were seen lying down to load

' their arms, rise after the discharge of the artillery, and rush
forward to shoot the artillerymen at their guns. (/Those of j
Montreal fought with admirable courage, especially the bat-
talion commanded by the brave Colonel Rheaume, who was

l<nied. TJii
wiii' conimai

(nttni field tj

''^peed, havin
charges, .a'nd
fire the pursi
of the left,
covering tliei
this brigade
the whole of
6. Meanwl
for a moment
the beginning
had everywhe
movement of
^hat check pe:
T. Levis, hi
their left in or
solved to profi
bayonct-chargi
from the St. L
they outflanke
height of the i
the city. Col
the Royal Ro
petuosity, pierc
them to flight,
and the fugitiv
the centre of
availed himself
ill its turn, pier
and threw it ini
8. They then
English ; but t
city, did not p,
Charles. Yet (
plan, were it no
to tell the Quee:

SECOND BATTLE ON THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM. 131

kill'M]. This bri^^^ndo, placed in the centre of the Frcncli line,
v.'iu; commanded Ijy M. do Repcntigny. It alone arrested in
open field the centre of the English army, advancing at full
f^peed, having the advantage of height. It repulsed several
charges, .and slackened by its firmness and the briskness of its
fire tlie pursuit of the enemy, who was pressing the grenadiers
of the left, and subsequently facilitated for the latter, by
covering them, the means of marching forward anew ; in short,
this brigade was the only one that kept its ground throughout
the whole of that desperate struggle.

6. Meanwhile tlie attack which had made the English masters
for a moment of the positions held by the French vanguard at
the beginning of the battle, had been repulsed, and the latter
had everywhere regained their ground. Thus the aggressive
movement of Gen. Murray by the St. Foy road had failed, and
that check permitted the French to attack him in their turn.

7. Levis, having observed that the English had weakened
their left in order to give greater strength to their right, re-
solved to profit by it. He gave orders to his troops to make a
bayonet-charge on the left wing of the enemy, and to drive it
from the St. Louis road to that of St. Foy ; by this maneuver
they outflanked the whole English army, hurled it from the
heiu:ht of the coteau St, Genevieve, and cut off its retreat to
the city. Colonel Poulaiicr darted forward at the head of
the Royal Roussillon brigade, attacked the English with im-
petuosity, pierced their ranks through and through, and put
them to flight. At the same time their light troops gave way,
and the fugitives cast themselves backward and forward from
the centre of their army, which interrupted its fire. Levis
availed himself of this disorder to charge with his left, which,
ia its turn, pierced the enemy's right, drove it on before it,
and threw it into complete disorder.

8. They then threw themselves everywhere in pursuit of the
English ; but their rapid flight, and the short distance to the
city, did not permit them to drive them into the River St.
Charles. Yet General Levis might still have carried out his
plan, were it not for the blunder of an officer whopa he sent
to tell the Queen's Brigade to support the charge of the Royal

132

THE FOURTH READER.

Roussillon on the right, and who, instead of having that
movement executed, had it placed behind the left wing.

9. The English left in the hands of the victors all their ar-
tillery, their ammunition, the tools they had brought to make
intrenchments, and a part of their wounded. Their losses
were considerable ; nearly a fourth of their soldiers had been
killed or disabled. " Had the French, less fatigued, been able
to attack the city before it had time to recover from the con-
fusion, it would probably have fallen into the hands of its
former masters," says Knox, " for such was the confusion that
the English forgot to man the ramparts, sentinels deserted
their posts, the fugitives ran for safety to the Lower Town,
and the gates were even left open for some time." But more
could not be expected from the conquerors. To oppose the
twenty-two cannons of the enemy they had had only three
small field-pieces, drawn with great difficulty through the
marshes. They, too, had sustained great losses, having beei#
obliged to form and remain long stationary under the enemy's
fire. They counted four hundred officers killed or wounded,
among whom was a brigadier-general, six other officers of
rank, and the commander of the Indians.

10. The two opposing armies were nearly equal in strength,
because Levis had left several detachments in charge of the
artillery, the boats, and the bridge over the River Jacques
Cartier, so as to secure his retreat in case of a failure. The
cavalry had taken no part in the action.

29. The Spirit of the Age.

OUMHINGS. -i

Eevkrend Dr. Cummings, the learned and accomplisiied pastor of St.
Stephen's Church, New York, has, in his leisure moments, contributed to
the polite literature of the day, both in prose and poetry. Many of his
poems are real gems; such as prove the author, had he devoted hirnselfto
poetry, might have taken the hrst rank among the poets of his couutry.—
Di\ Jirownson.

1. A WONDERFUL gcnlus Is the Spirit of the Ag^ I Np mat-
ter how true or how much needed a maxinr ma;^ Ibe, one is re-
minded of the danger he incurs in uttering il by .the awful
warning that it is not in accordance with the Spirit of the

Age.

opim'ou

is a the

tangibly

like certj

never sei

iiiraself.

we take t

the form

choose, w

2. In t

adorned w

speech imi

tates a ma;

off in a ser

liis phiJosc^

fliscern a I]

side, to ma]

a wonderful

progressive,

3. From

i^ithout stof

every art, sc

tlie gray-bca

ing is too h

truth, whence

that he kno^

^ cry loudl

secretly he un

4. What h

prefer to look

n^hat he mean

f'onary at the

scriptlve of its

a serious face, i

^^ means, it w(

'"en, Liberty n

yoQ-not to CO

THE SPIKiT OF THB AGE. ,,.,

Age. The Spirit of tlio A i

j;"ioatoe.p„.so„a,:„^:,,':rrst^ ''""''■'"'' "- «■-

13 a thousand pities tlmt ..'^''P''''^'^"'. "r future It
tangibly taken h^old oft, ir;™' " ^P'"' <=»- "e r b,
I'ke certain other spWtraZ f , '"'"'^ ^"'^ '"»'^«"'- But
--er seen, and tCS'mZfu^''' t"'' "' ''»*. ^e k
""'"Self. Still, as we do not h ''y ^''^'^body, never peaks
l^ take the liberty sometime, tTl •'""' ""''"'""1 -enerS
t e form we imagie Us vale » 7 '"''" ^"^^ before ns^'
choose, were he to become Se ' ""'"'^'^ "^'"^ -"nil

adored" titrate™:; t^l",' «-'- P-ents himself
speech imitates wisdom a^ndtittt/ 1 "' "" ''P^' f»' ■>
tates a man. The bodv half i '^""''"^^ ^ » monkey imi-
»ff in a serpentine mann;r fmhr"!""^ ^^^^ Satanie, S
J;« pbiJoscphy. On his Tead •nT"'"'/{ 'he crookedness of
decern a little Red Ren IZ " "^ *'"' ^ocratic bays we
^■Oe. to make him looSiV^P '.""f ^"«'>'!^ «^ ol
a wonderful dictionary como leTc' "'"'"' '"'^ "^ he carries

progressive, ultra-demo ,S:ldr:"5 "^ '^'""''° ^"-^i""
3. From this book of ''.";P""»d<caIs of the day.

*out stoppin^trl -f-- theoW^^^^^^^ Oenfus answers,

™ry art, science, and creed in , " ' P"'''^^' ^iffioulties of

ke gray-beard philosophy „f 1^ T"'' '"'"''='' ''""W Put aU

;gis too high or torSot" !?:.*"'''<''''-''• ^oth'

truth whenever he affirms a hin„ we h""- ^'' '° '^" ">«

at he knows he ought to S T ! ^ "'^'^^'l ™«Picion

l™ cry loudly for a measure «. . ' '""^ '"''•""'''er we hear

-t^be^understandsTtt b" Z^^ '"'' ^'^''^ -« ^

P* to U:t"Sp'?:Lt;sre?^^ ^■"'"^'■' •>»' -
rtat he means. Thus, for eTamT 'T'""^'^' '»'«• discover
"»nary at the word Liberty and? "'/''? '"^ "?»« his die
"P -e of its greatness and glorvt " '""r' P^^^^^'' do"
senons face, and suspect thi t i ^' T '"'"'''^' «' his teepi^,,
'« -"eans, it would sound vet ''^ ^^ '" ''*'"« '""'ostly ^^
;». Liberty means leave Et '"f ' '■'^'"°'' •• "G-t
»«-i.ot to complain." ' '° P"^^ J""' Pocket, and for

L'M:

THE FOURTH EEADEK.

5. He turns over a leaf of liis book, and tells us of the phil-
osopliy of his enlightened school. We translate his definition
of philosophy, and it avers that philosophy is the art of prov-
ing that two and two, not unfreqiiently, make five ; that black
in many cases looks exceedingly like white, and that persons
who wish to preserve their countenances from being burnt by
the sun ought to wear a thick veil, especially at twelve o'clock
n t night. Does the Genius speak of the upwardness of modern
progress ? Then, to our understanding, he means that prog-
ress is a faithful imitation of the motion of a crab going
down hill. He descants upon the comforts of equality.

6. Understood as he means it, no matter what he may say,
equality consists in the very pleasant process of cutting off the
heads of the tall men, and in pulling out the small men, as
one might do a spy-glass, so that both become of a size,, And
when he searches his dictionary to give us the true meaning
of his favorite word, Fraternity, his warm description of the
peace which it produces puts us in mind of the famous Kil-
kenny cats, who fought until they had eaten each other up,
all except the tips of their respective tails, which they still
wagged in token of defiance.

7. Guided by this key to the true meaning of the learned
Genius of the Age, we look to him for an answer to the ques-
tions proposed higher up, and we have no doubt that his true
view of the case would embody itself in solutions equivalent to
the following: "Rehgion and society," he would say, "are
two orders, one opposed to the other. Religion was made,
of course, by the Almighty ; it begins at the altar, ends at
the holy-water font at the door, and is bounded by the four
walls of the church. The period of its duration is from Sun-
day morning until Sunday evening. Society was invented by
the Devil, and it rules the week from Monday morning until
Saturday night. Business, politics, and amusements, are things
that lie beyond the verge of morality, and the control of re-
ligion. He who pretends to be religious anywhere but inside
of the church is a bigot, a hypocrite, a man of the Dark Ages ;
and he who outside of the church suits his convenience by
cumiingly cheating, smoothly lying — playmg, in short, the

conjider
bonorab
out — he
and cout

Wjf. H. J

While all d
''■t'erdlnand
.00 regretted
into grievous
freely, as it h
sp«^t, or rathe
"iore, as .such
niiud of Mr. J

i. For a
the Moors,
^ere finally
Granada wai
K 1491 ; I
glons receive
in December,
2. Orders
Andalusia to
the south of i
Moors. Sev(
accordingly a;
tliem were A:
Coade de Cifu

''^^ follows ;

'^- It was d

^^ the Red s

, wcks rising to

of iasurreclionj

I '^'imped before

f^e Moors wcr J

force. Theyhj

h^emywere see

DEATH OF ALONZO DE AOUILAR.

13.*)

li-
on

ick

ous

,by

lock

ieru

»rog-

;omg

learned

le qnes-
As true
tlent to

[y,"are
made,
ends at
ihe four
fm Sun-
tntedby

,gr until

|e things
>l of re-
Lt inside
kAges;
tence by
,rt, tbc

confidence man — is a smart man ; in fact, something of an
lioiiorable raiiu ; and, in fact — if he take care not to be found
out — he may be one of the most remarkable men of his age
uud country." »»

30. Death op Alonzo de Agtjilae.

PRE8C0TT.

Wm. H. Pbescott — a distinguished American historian, born in 179R.
"Wliile all due praise is given him for the merits of his two great works,
"Ferdinand and Isabella," and the "Conquest of Mexico," it is much to
be regretted that religious prejudices have in many instances betrayed him
into grievous error, as well as into gross injustice. " We sav it the more
freely, as it is almost the only stain on an otnerwise faultless book — a dark
spot, or rather a collection ot spots, on the sun. We regret this fault the

more, as such prejudice is wholly unwortliy the enlightened and moderate
miud of Mr. Prescott." — Jit. Jiev. Dr. Spalding.

1. For a long period, the south of Spain was occupied by
the Moors, the city of Granada being their capital. They
were finally conquered by Ferdinand the Catholic, to whom />
Granada was surrendered on the twenty-fifth day of Novem-
ber, 1491 ; but many of the inhabitants of the mountam re-
gions received with great reluctance the Christian yoke, and

in December, 1500, an insurrection broke out among them.

2. Orders were issued to the pii:ici})al chiefs and cities of
Andalusia to concentrate their forces ai the city of Ronda, in
the south of Spain, and thence to march against the insurgent
Moors. Several distinguished no'olcmon and officers of Spain
accordingly assembled with their troops at the city. Among
them were Alonzo de Aguilar, the Conde de Ureiia, and the
Conde de Cifuentes. The historian's narrative then proceeds
as follows :

3. It was determined by the chiefs to strike into the heart
of the Red Sierra, as it was called, from the color of its
rocks rising to the east of Ronda, and the principal theatre
of insurrection. On 18th March, 1501, the little army en-
camped before Monarda, on the skirts of a mountain, where
tlie Moors were understood to have assembled in considerable
force. They had not been long in these quarters before the
enemy were seen hovering along the slopes of the mountain,

136

THE FOURTH KEADKR.

from which the Christian camp was divided by a narrow river
— the Rio Verde, i)robably, which has gained so much ce-
lebrity in the Spanish song.

4. Aguilar's' troops, who occupied the van, were so mucli
roused at the sight of the enemy, that a small party, sciziiiL'
a banner, rushed across the stream, without orders, in pursuit
of them. The odds, however, were so great, that they would
have been severely handled, had not Aguilar, while he bitterly
condemned their temerity, advanced promptly to their support
with the remainder of his corps. The Count of TJrena* fol-
lowed with the central division, leaving the Count of Ci-
fuentes,^ with the troops of Seville, to protect the camp.

5. The Moors fell back as the Christians advanced, and re-
tiring nimbly from point to point, led them up the rugged
steep far into the recesses of the mountains. At length they
reached an open level, encompassed on all sides by a natural
rampart of rocks, where they had deposited their valuable
effects, together with their wives and children. The latter, at
sight of the invaders, uttered dismal cries, and fled into the
remoter depths of the sierra.

6. The Christians were too much attracted by the rich
spoils before them to think of following, and dispersed in
every quarter in (juest of plunder, with all the heedlessness
and iusubordiuation of raw, inexperienced levies. It was in
vain that Alonzo de Aguilar reminded them that thi^ir wily
enemy was still unconquered, or that he endeavored to force
them into the ranks again and restore order. No one heeded
his call, or thought of any thing beyond the present mo-
ment, and of seeming as much booty to hunself as he could
carry.

7. The Moors, in the mean while, finding themselves no
longer pursued, were aware of the occupations of the Chris-
tians, whom they, not improbably, had purposely decoyed into
the snare. They resolved to return to the scene of action and
surprise their incautious enemy. Stealthily advancing, there-
fore, under the shadows of night now falling thick around,

* Pronounced A-ghe-lar. ' U-rane'-,va. ' Thee-fuen'-tes.

they pou
astonishc
8. An
der into i
glare ove;
of the he
many of t
of their fa
so many d(
of their in
victims.

9. This

5een, and f

assailants, i

'It'd, scarce!

10. The

3foors, famj

^vas fatal t(

the sierra, ar

swords of tl

precipices wJ

31. Dea

!• Ajiidst

succeeded in

lialted, and

ffis noble co

position on t

followers to

"«^as an Agi

eldest son, th(

^'ordova, a yoi

jiad received a

'ai^elin had pi,

resting on the i

^ sword.

DEATH OF ALONZO DE AOUILAR.

137

rivcT

ti ce-

ursult
would
ittevly
iipport
la* fol-
of Ci-

and re-
Tugged
;th thoy
natural
valuable
.atter, at
into the

lie rich
|)ersed iu
lessncss
was in
heir wily
to force
3 heeded
lent mo-
he could

selves no
le Cbris-
)yed into
:tion and
lo- tliere-

'.te».

ound,

they poured through the rocky defiles of the inclosure on the
astonished Spaniards.

8. An unlucky explosion, at this crisis, of a cask of pow-
der into which a spark had accidentally fallen, threw a broad
"hire over the scene, and revealed for a moment the situation
of the hostile parties — the Spaniards iu the utmost disorder,
many of them without arms, and staggering under the weight
of their fatal booty ; while their enemy were seen glidiug, Hke
so many demons of darkness, through every crevice and avenue
of their inclosures, in the act of sprmging on their devoted
victims.

9. This appalling spectacle, vanishing almost as soon as
seen, and followed by the hideous yells and war-cries of the
assailants, struck a panic into the hearts of the soldiers, who
lied, scarcely offering any resistance.

10. The darkness of the night was as favorable to the
Moors, familiar with all the intricacies of the ground, as it
was fatal to the Christians, who, bewildered in the mazes of
the sierra, and losing their footing at every step, fell under the
swords of their pursuers, or went down the dark gulfs and
precipices which yawned all around.

31. Death of Alonzo de Aguilar — continued.

1. Amidst this dreadful confusion, the Count of Urena
succeeded in gaining a lower level of the sierra, where he
halted, and endeavored to rally his panic-struck followers.
His noble comrade, Alonzo de Aguilar, still maintained his
position on the heights above, refusing all entreaties of his
followers to attempt a retreat. "When," said he, proudly,
" was an Aguilar ever known to fly from the field ?" His
eldest son, the heir of his house and honors, Don Pedro de
Cordova, a youth of great promise, fought at his side. He
liad received a severe wound on the head from a stone, and a
iavelin had pierced quite through his leg. With one knee
resting on the ground, however, he made a brave defence with
Ilia sword.

138

illK FOUUTII RKADKR.

2. Tlie sight was too much for his fatlier, and he implored
him to suffer liiinsolf to bo removed from tlie field. "Let not
tlie liopes of our house be eruslied at a single blow," said lie.
"Go, my sou; live as becomes a Christian knight; live, and
cherish your desolate mother 1" All his endeavors were fruit-
less, however ; and the gallant boy refused to leave his father's
side till he was forcibly borne away by the attendants, who
fortunately succeeded in bringing him in safety to the station
occupied by the Count Urena.

3. Meantime, the brave little band of cavaliers who re-
mained true to Agiiilar had fallen one after another ; and tlie
chief, left almost alone, retreated to a huge rock in the
middle of the plain, and, placing his back against it, still
made fight, though weakened by a loss of blood, like a lion
at bay, against his enemies. In this situation, he was pressed
so hard by a Moor of uncommon size and strength, that he
was compelled to turn and close with him in a single coml)at.

4. The strife was long and desperate ; till Don Alonzo,
whose corselet had become unlaced in the previous struggle,
having received a severe wound in the breast, followed by an-
other on the head, grappled closely with his adversary, and
they came rolling on the ground together. The Moor re-
mained uppermost ; but the spirit of the Spanish cavalier had
not sunk with his strength, and he proudly exclaimed, as if to
intimidate his enemy, "I am Don Alonzo de Aguilarl" to
which the other rejoined, "And I am the Feri de Ben Este-
par I" — a well-known name of terror to the Christians,

5. The sound of his detested name roused all the vengeance
of the dying hero ; and, grasping his foe in mortal agony, lie
rallied his strength for a final blow. But it was too late ; his
hand failed, and he was soon dispatched by the dagger of his
more vigorous rival. Thus fell Alonzo Hernandez de Cor-
dova, or Alonzo de Aguilar, as he is commonly called, from
the land where his family estates lay.

6. "He was of the greatest authority among the grandees
of his time," says Father Abarea, "for his lineage, personal
character, large domains, and the high posts which he filled
both in peace and war. More than forty years of his life he

served a^

boyhood,

viceroy of

7. "He

who had f)

the accurs(

believe," c

soul has r(

was armed

of confessio

, TJiG sad deat

III the fore^oini

i'ikI was kept i]

«ihI iHljiiiration

coiiiitiy. The

' ;"test/iiit Hial

'ftiic ballads ir

iitK'ii is tbnud ii

liy Bishop Perc'

"'l'«5. It has

wvoruble influe

'oitspublieatioi

1. G

2. A

3. Lo]

• The original
•anish also mean
has a proper nam(
pountain strean

GENTLE RIVER.

139

AoTcd

lit not
id lu.'.
e, anil
; fruit -
itlicr's
,s, wlio
station

vho re-
md the

in tlie

it, still
B a lion
; pressed

that he
combat.

Alonzo,
struggle,
id by an-
gary, and

Moor re-

alier had
as if to

ilarl" to
en Este-

Is.
Vengeance

igouy, he

I late; his

ter of his

de Cor-

lied, from

served against the infidel ; under the banner of his house in
boyliood, and as leader of that same banner in later life, as
vieeroy of Andalusia and commander of the royal armies.

t. "He was the fifth lord of his warlike and pious house
who had fallen fighting for their country and religion against
the accursed sect of Mahomet. And there is good reason to
believe," continues the same orthodox authority, "that his
soul has received the reward of a Christian soldier, since he
was armed on that very morning with the blessed sacraments
of confession and communion."

32. Gentle River.

The sad death of Alonzo de Aguilar and his brave companions, as related
ill the foregoing lesson, fell mournfully upon the nutiona! heart of Spain,
imcl wan kept in fresh remembrance by the numy expressions of sympathy
luid udniiration which it called fortli from the popular literature of the
country. The ibllowing poem is a tniiishitiou by the Kev. Thomas Percy,
I'Mitcstant Bishop of Dromore, in Irchmd (burn 1728, died 1811), of one
ct thu ballads in which the fate of the hero is commemorated. The trans-
liition is found in the " Keliques of Ancient English I'oetryj" a work edited
liy Bishop Percy with great taste and judgment, and originally published
in 17G5. It has since been frecjuently reprinted, and has exerted a most
favorable influence upon English poetical literature of a date subsequent
to itB publication.

1. Gentle river,* gentle river,
Lo; thy streams are stain'd with gore;

Many a brave and noble captain
Floats along thy willow'd shore.

2. All beside thy limpid waters,
All beside thy sands so bright,

Moorish chiefs and Christian warriors
Join'd in fierce and mortal fight.

3. Lotds, and dukes, and noble prmces
On thy fatal banks were slain;

S^ , H • The original is Rio Verde, that is. River Verde. But verde in

persona ■gpanigh also means green; and the translator, not being aware that it
l,e fiUeilHwag a proper name, substituted ^c/j/Zc; — an epithet not well suited to

lis U^6 be^tniouutain stream.

■4

140 THE FOURTH READER.

Fatal banks, that gavo to slan^^htcr
All tlio pride aiul ilovver of Spaiu,

4. There the licro, brave Alonzo,

Full of wounds and glory, died ;
There the fearless Urdiales
Fell a victim by his side.

6. Lo, where yonder Don Saavedra*

Through their squadrons slow retkesj
Proud Seville, his native city.
Proud Seville his worth admires.

6. Close behind, a rcnegado

Loudly shouts, with taunting cry,
" Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedral
Dost thou from the battle fly ?

7. " Well I know thee, haughty Christian;

Long I hved beneath thy roof ;
Oft I've in the lists of glory
Seen thee win the prize of proof.

8. " Well I know thy aged parents,

Well thy blooming bride I know;
Seven years I was thy captive,
" Seven years of pain and woe.

9. " May our prophet grant my wishes,

Haughty chief, thou shalt be mine;
Thou shalt drink that cup of sorrow
' Which I drank when I was thine."

10. Like a lion turns the warrior,

Back he sends an angry glare;
Whizzing came the Moorish javelin,
Yainly whizzing, through the air. •

• Don Saavedra is an imaginary personage, no nobleman of that]
name having really been engaged in the battle.

sr. Peter's entry into rome.

11. Back tho hero, full of fury,

Sent a dcoi) and mortal wound ;
Instant sank the rcncf^ado,

Muto and lifeless, on the ground.

12. With a thousand Moors surrounded,

Bravo Saavedra stands at bay;
"Wearied out, but never daunted.
Cold a4 length the warrior lay.

13. Near him fighting, great Alonzo

Stout resists the paynim bands,
From his slaughter'd steed dismounted,
Firm intrench'd behind him stands.

14 Furious press the hostile squadron,
Furious he repels their rage;
Loss of blood at length enfeebles;
Who can war with thousands wage ?

15. Where yon rock the plain overshadows,
* Close beneath its foot retired.
Fainting sank the bleeding hero.
And without a groan expired.

141

33. St. Peter's Entry into Home.

AE0HBI8HOP HUGHES.

Most Reverend John IIughes, D. D., first Arch bishop of Nevir York,
born in Tyrone, Ireland, in 1798. A few years aftev liis ordination he was
t)roii|Eflit before the American pnbliu hy a controversy and oral discussion
vith Rev. Mr. Breckinridi^e, a Presbyterian minister, whicli established
ills reputation as one of the ablest controvorsialists of the day. Indeed,
his lite since then has been almost a continual controversy, owinor to the
perpetual attacks made upon the Church tlirouifh him. Soon after he be-
came Bishop of New York, h'j was called o i to maintain, in a lonjr-pro-
Inicted strujrele, the freedom of (-(lneation. His " I)el)utcs on the School
I Question," his "Letters to Kirwan," and his "Lottorao Brooks," on the
niaiiiij);emi;nt of church property, are excellent specimens of close reason-
ing, keen wit, and polisliod sarcasm. Innumerable lectures and letters on
Various subjects connected with Catholic interests have kept the Arch-
[bisliop iu the front rank of the champions of the Church.

1. It must have been during the latter portion of the reign of

142

THE FOURTH READER.

Tiberius Nero Drusus, or in the beginning of the reign of Nero,
that a traveller, dressed in Eastern costume, was seen approach-
ing one of the entrances of the imperial city of Rome. He
was weary and wayworn. The dust of travel had iiicrustcd
itself on the perspiration of his brow He bore in his hand a
staff, but not a crosier. His countei.ance was pale, but strik-
ing and energetic in its expression. Partially bald, what re-
mained of his hair was gray, crisp, and curly.

2. Who was he ? No one cared to iiiquire, for he was only
one of those approaching the gates of Rome, within the walls
of which, we are told, the population numbered from three to
four millions of souls. But who was this pilgrim ? He was
a man who carried a message from God and his Christ, and
who had been impelled to deliver that message in the very
heart and centre of Roman corruption and of Roman civiliza-
tion, such as it was.

3. His name at that time was Peter. His original name
had been Simon, but the Son of God having called him and
his elder brother, Andrew, from the fisherman's bank on the
Sea of Galilee, to be His apostles, changed the name of Simon
and called him in the Syriac language, Cephas, wMlch in Latin
and English is translated Peter. In Syriac the word signifies
a rock, and our Saviour, by changing his name, declared the
mission for which he was especially selected.

* 4. He said to him : " Thou art Cephas, and upon this rock
I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail
against it." He was an Apostle, like his brother and the j
other ten. But he was more — ^he was the Rock on which the j
Church was to be built — he was the prince of the Apostolic
College. And this was the man who was approaching the
gates of the city of Rome. Where he slept that night, |
whether on or under the porch of some princely palace, his-
tory has not informed us. But he soon began to proclaim I
the message which he had from God. To human view the |
attempt would appear to be desperate. Rome, at that pe-
riod, was divided into two principal classes — masters and
slaves — ^both of the same color, and, in many instances, botlij
of the same country.

« THOtr OOrLDST BE A BIED. ^^3

"iHch the tri«mphantCie,"f R^r?'? """ *"" P'''"der
Imperial capital from the eonauereH.K '""' ^'°"^^' *» "'e
then known world tZT^ ^ *"^' ^""^ ""t'ons of the
boon plundered, as we ^ ^t H"'''' "/"•"'^' ''"^^ haV^
taiaed as perpetual tributart t^k"""' f ' ""■ '^^^^ ^«" >■«-
Md of their satellite., Se:*tt"''''<''l"^'<'^t''« Caesars
ose nations were all inangnratedTT ""' '•"""'""' «f
tlie Imperial city. Their eorr!!*- f ^ P^^an temples of
troduced, spreadh.^ frol' ZXZ 1, '""™'^ "^^ '''«° -
™ the state of local morals "lat no ''' "'""""Sl. such
»aM add much to the univer al de 1 1;"''"'''' ''°""''"«»

6- Such was Rome when thi, ^ f y
«'osures. He preaehid t .e Wo ^ Irr,^ -T^" ^"'-«'' «^
»a even in that polluted „t!; v ^''™'' ""d his preach-
»l« to acknowledge tdld^™^^^^^^ ^r"^"' '""^"""an;
"q-ntly joined b^ St. Paul and L^rrK'"' ^' ™^ '-b- "
" zeal to propagate the doctant of \ , ^-"^ ^'"* * ••■»»>-
Jcady made such an impress^ fK f '"'nation. They had

4»— dandcondemSrVS' ^'^ *^^'"" ^^ ''ad
'• X eter was crucifipd > •

J»t on which St. Peter'; ehurfh now" Vr^^"' «° *« -«>7
le instrument of pumshmenrfor tT ""''■ '^^ "°«^ '^as
,ll»tPaul of Tarsus, baZT\I° ,"" '"^" "^ Hebrew orin-in
l*ied to a less igrioS,"^ .^h " d ^'""'"' "'«-"' -"«
Weaded at a place cal!ed the Th're r """"'''"S'' ■•« «« '
"•ce from Rome, fco made tl. r .•■^"""*'''"^' «<»»« dis-
; popular, between what^'^ ?'"•-'""".' "'""•^'' '^ --
toe body was temporal; and Wer^ ^7""" ""^ ^PWtual.
"""■er than its destructiou ^"^ "''* ?'«'«"<! to go

34- If thou cotodst be a Bm>.

r'Ssrr;:,^:?;^-^

144

THE FOURTH READER.

Screaming and wailing when stormy winds rave,
Or anchor'd, white thing 1 on the merry green wave ?

2. Or an eagle aloft in the blue ether dwelling, *
Free of the caves of the hoary Helvellyn,

Who is up in the sunshine when we are in shower,
And could reach our loved ocean in less than an hour?

3. Or a heron that haunts the Wallachian edge
Of the barbarous Danube, 'mid forests of sedge,

And hears the rude waters through dreary swampa

flowing,
And the cry of the wild swans and buffaloes lowing ?

4. Or a stork on a mosque's broken pillar in peace,

By some famous old stream in the bright laud of Greece.
A sweet-manner'd householder I waiving his state,
Now and then, in some kind little toil for his mate ?

5. Or a murmuring dove at Stamboul, buried deep
In the long cypress woods where the infidels sleep.
Whose leaf-muflfled voice is the soul of the seas.
That hath pass'd from the Bosphorus into the trees I

6. Or a heath-bird, that lies on the Cheviot moor.
Where the wet, shining earth is as bare as the floor ;
Who mutters glad sounds, though his joys are but few-
Yellow moon, windy sunshine, and skies cold and blue ?

T. Or if thy man's heart worketh in thee at all.

Perchance thou wouldst dwell by some bold baron's hall,
A black, glossy rook, working early and late,
Like a laboring man on the baron's estate ?

8. Or a linnet who builds in the close hawthorn bough,
Where her small, frighten'd eyes may be seen looking

through ;
Who heeds not, fond mother ! the ox-lips that shine
On the hedge-banks beneath, or the glazed celandine?

9. C

10. Bu

•Doi

Fro

n. The]
The
And
Thot

!• It is a

of the presi

in principle,

80 high-tone

authors, so

good compo!

"yury, but a

*age. Ascl

to afford so (

able a knowh

respects a use

2- There cj

present peri«c

phatically caL

mances of foi

Jealtb either (

^ supersede

ive?

hour?

swampa
ring ?

[ Greece.

;e,

Lte?

^OVEL BEADING.

^' Or a swallow tUi a- *i- ., ^^^

The true h ae „f ' '^ ^""^ '"■"•? ^orld over, .
■]^^o ,0 -here hoS^r;,it'''^-'lowers to discover-

«<><"i words fr„:„ rn^ZlTZr.J'lrT

brings ? , ""^ *he bright thoughts he

10. Bat what I can tho •

M»te the child to forS'that f ''™"°'' ''»S'<i mirth '
«o«t thou feel at t^fSe fas tt ^t"^- ""' '^^ W ' / f
--o^ep,ace.h;et4rK??r--tostt^f.

11. men Jove the erppn +i,- •

The beasts, bir^Xinif, "h"' ^™P'« ^o-'".
And fancy shaU ^ay thee tl,; T ^'*'■' """^ in truth

Thon Shalt be all tLbtft tC "*'" ^"^^ ;
, "'«'» ot^ the au- at thy will I

3«. KOVII, READDfO.

1 Iris ■"""'■

of the ^Sty^rinir'^ '^"""^ ««* works of licti«„

«o h,gh.toned in moralfty a^j : '",r'-^«''«. sometimes ^„
Mthors, so finished in stK'd "d T "^^"""^ PaHicuW
? od compositions, that ttev "» k "" ** ""'"d beauties of
^m but actual,;, Z^ZZlZT't""' ""'^-""o
"ge^ As clever delineatiousTf T I "'"• P''''«''e advan-

rt!!.^^«p - ^ Vt Jo^^rr;:-' '^^^ - sa,^

* a knowledge of the worM "ndT" ""*"''' ""'I =» P~fi^
^'--dbyactitiou!rksrarXtS-f

146

TOE FOURTH READER.

and a more enlightened character, cannot but be deemed an
advantage. Yet, according to all the merit they can possibly
claim, and viewing them under their very best and most favor-
able aspect, they are in many ways, to say the least, extremely
dangerous.

3. Novels are in general pictures, and usually very highly
wrought pictures, of human passions ; and it has been re-
marked, that although the conclusion of the tale frequerily
awards signal punishment and degradation to some very gross
oflfender, yet that in a far greater number of instances passion
is represented as working out its ends successfully, and attain-
ing its object even by the sacrifice of duty — an evil lesson for
the heart yet unacquainted with vice, and uncontaminated by
the world. It may indeed be safely questioned whether the
knowledge of human nature thus acquired is of a profitable
kind, and whether experience of life might not, for all practical
purposes, be derived from other and purer sources than the
teachings of romances.

4. Again, novels, as a class, present false views of life ; and
as it is the error of the young to mistake those for realities,
they become the dupes of their own ardent and enthusiastic
imaginations, which, instead of trying* to control and regulate,
they actually strengthen and nourish with the poisonous food
of phantoms and chimeras. When the thirst for novel reading
has become insatiable, as with indulgence it is sure to do, they
come at last to live in an unreal fairy-land, amid heroes and
heroines of their own creation. The taste for serious reading
and profitable occupation is destroyed — all relish for prayer
is lost. In addition to their other disadvantages, many of
these books unfortunately teem with maxims subversive of
blmple faith, and in cordial irreverence for the truths of re-
ligion ; and so it but frequently happens, as the clhnax of
evil, that faith suflfers to a greater or lesser extent from their
habitual, indiscriminate perusal.

5. As a recreation, light works may, of course, be occasion-
ally resorted to ; but so many and so great are their attendant
dangers, that extreme care should be taken to neutralize their
poison by infallible antidotes. The selection of such works

shoal

telllgi

but tL

shoulc

in the

should

to whi

yourse]

on Sun

6. T

exclusic

their pei

of God';

to His G

ness we ^

T. Th(

some sel]

neither ci

terial, pe

cannot ex

there be (

your are

referring, i

guide, you

tiiat class

anti-cathol

8. And,

in the liten

^orks of sc

vantage of

the other, n

ascertained

NOVEL READING.

14T

an
Lbly
vor-
nely

ghly
a re-
ently
gross
ission
.ttain-
onfor
ted by
er the
(fitable
actical
tan the

and

should always be left to a religious parent, or a pious and in-
telligent friend. They should never be made an occupation,
but merely serve as a pastime, and that occasionally. They
should never be perused in the early part of the day, but only
in the evening hour, specially laid aside for relaxation. They
should never be continued beyond the moderate length of time
to which, under prudent and pious direction, you have limited
yourself — never resumed after night prayers, and never read
on Sundays.

6. They should not be allowed to engross the mind to the
exclusion of all other thoughts ; but more especially durhig
their perusal should the sweet, refreshing, invigorating thouglit
of God's presence be often recalled, and our aspirations ascend
to His Throne, that He who is the Author of all the happi-
ness we enjoy may bless and sanctify even our amusements.

1. The observance of these conditions no doubt requires
some self-control ; but if you cannot exercise that control,
neither can you expect to peruse works of fiction without ma-
terial, perhaps fatal, injury to your precious soul. If you
cannot exercise that control, you should never read novels. If
there be one more than another of these conditions to which
your are recommended strict fidelity, it is to the first. By
referring, for directions in your reading, to a pious, experienced
guide, you will be secured against making selections among
t^at class of fictitious works impregnated with the venom of
anti-catholic maxims.

8. And, as the spirit of impiety and infidelity so prevalent
in the literary world, seeks a medium for its venom no less in
works of science than in works of fiction, you will find the ad-
vantage of applying the foregoing rule in the one case as in
the other, never reading a suspected author without having
ascertained how far your doubts are well founded.

Iccasion-
btendant
(ize their
lb works

l:tS

THE FOURTH READKll.

36. Death of Father Marquette.

J. O. SHEA.

JoHX Gti.mary Sfiea is a native of New York. lie lias made many

vai'ialjle coiitritMitioiis to Ami'i-ioau Cutiiolic litc-ratme. His \vritiii|(H aro
cliii;tly on lii^torioal and arcluetilojrical siibjocts. His oritcinal " History ol
llin (atlidlic Missions in America." and his translation (with additions)
of Do C'ourcy's " History of tlio (Jnnrcii in tlic United States," are \vorl<s
of threat value to the student of ecclesiastical iiistory. Air. Siiea lius
also written "'The First Book of History," and a short "History of tlie
United Slates," for the use of schools.

1. Calmly and cheerfully he saw the approach of death, for
which he prepared by assidious prayer ; his office he regularly
recited to the last day of his life ; a meditation on death, which
he had long since prepared for this hour, he now made the
subject of his thoughts ; and as his kind but simple companions
seemed overwhelmed at the prospect of their approaching loss,
he blessed some water with the usual ceremonies, gave his
companions directions how to act in his last moments, how to
arrange his body when dead, and to commit it to the earth
with the ceremonies he prescribed.

2. He now seemed but to seek a grave; — at last perceiving
the mouth of a river which still bears his name, he pointed to

an eminence as the place of his burial His companions

then erected a little bark cabin, and stretched the dying mis-
sionary beneath it as comfortably as their wants permitted
them. Still a priest, rather than a man, he thought of his
ministry, and, for the last time, heard the confessions of Ins
companions and encouraged them to rely with confidence ou

. the protection of God — then sent them to take the repose they
.. so much needed.

3. When he felt his agony approaching, he called them, and
taking his crucifix from around his neck he placed it in their

. hands, thanking the Almighty for the favor of permitting hira*
to die a Jesuit, a missionary, and alone. Then he relapsed
into silence, interrupted only by his pious aspirations, till at
last, with the names of Jesus and Mary on his lips, with his
eyes raised as if in an ecstasy above his crucifix, with his face
radiant with joy, he passed from the scene of his labor to God
who was to be his reward.

outbu

to the

which

tlie ea

desolai

iilustri(

May, 1

I'ELrcrA
poetry hus
ftud exj)ix.,

I. SiLl
h

His

And
Whic

2. For

Te
Han'

Am
J^ow
With

'• There

And

Asking

Bet^

Till, as

On the

THE CROSS IN TRp -urTr ^

^ ^^^ WILDERNESS. I in

4. Obedient to his direpfinn« h-
outburst. Of grief ^oZyT^^^^ZT'TT "'"" «'« '"^'
to the sound of his littlo oh„ i . n ; " '""'^ ''"'' '""i"', "m,|

'^'"•el. he had poi ed o t t'" ' ^ '"' '^'""'>' '" "-'^1''

the earth, and raisint a 1^ ■ "^ ^"""""tod hi,, l,odv ,„

<le.soIate cabin.' Suclt laZl^,yr. "' ^"""•""d '» "■«•■• o>v

illustrious explorer of X t ^ ^'"° ""^ ''"'^ <l«'th of the

May, 1675. ^ °^ *'" Mississippi, on Saturday, 18th of

MKS. IIEMANS.

1. SiLEXT and mournful sat .n t ^- ,

Which sauetiisirsirt^-r:^^ -

^' ^MiSh""'?''""^ "■' ^^^^"^«^ard rose

And lifted from 7he dltf "°'?''" ''"'' ""^ ^o<^.
Jfo« all was hush'd and I 'T °^ P™^"^'-

Witharichsadncs;^;1Cirtr^''""«'

150

THE FOURTH READER.

Pass'd o'er these waters ; though the voice is fled,
Which made them as a singiug fountain's flow,
Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track,
Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back.

6. "Ask'st thou of him whose house is lone beneath ?

I was an eagle in my youthful pride.
When o'er the seas he came with summer's breath,

To dwell amidst us on the lake's green side.
Many the times of flowers have been since then;
Many, but bringing naught like him agam.

6. " Not with hunter's bow and spear he came,

O'er the blue hills to chase the flying roe;
Not the dark glory of the woods to tame.

Laying their cedars, like the corn stacks, low;
But to spread tidings of all holy things,
Gladdening our souls as with the morning's wings.

7. " Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met,

I and my brethren that from earth are gone,
Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet

Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone?
He told of one the grave's dark lands who broke,
And our hearts burn'd within us as he spoke I

8. "He told of far and sunny lands, which lie

Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell:
Bright must they be 1 for there are none that die,

And none that weep, and none that say ' Farewell I'
He came to guide us thither; — but away
The happy call'd him, and he might not stay.

9. " We saw him slowly fade — athirst, perchance.

For the fresh waters of that lovely cUme;
Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance.

And on his gleaming hair no touch of time;
Therefore we hoped — but now the lake looks dim,
For the green summer comes and finds not him.

10. "

11. "1

FeJ

Iti

Oui

We:

F(
"Now
That

12,

13. "Bui

Thep

Who

MingL

U. Then s

"So

Thoug

And

Heavei

There

THE CROSS IN THE WILDKKNKSS. 151

10. " We gatlier'd round him in the dewy hour

Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree:
From his clear voice at first the words of power

Came low, like moanings of a distant sea;
But swell'd, and shook the wilderness ere long,
As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong.

11. "And then once more they trembled on his tongue,

And his white eyelids flutter'd, and his head
Fell back, and mists upon his forehead hung —

Know'st thou not how we pass to jom the dead?
It is enough! he sank upon my breast, —
Our friend that loved us, he was gone to rest I

12. " We buried him where he was wont to pray,

By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide;
We rear'd this cross in token where he lay,

For on the cross, he said, his Lord had died I
Now hath he surely reach'd, o'er momit and vvave,
That flowery land whose green turf hides no gravel

13. " But I am sad — I mourn the clear light taken

Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone,
The pathway to the better shore forsaken.

And the true words forgotten, save by one,
Who hears them faintly sounding from the past,
Mingled with death-songs, in each fitful blast."

U. Then spoke the wanderer forth, with kindling eye:
" Son of the wilderness, despair thou not,
Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by,

And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot;
Heaven darkly works, — yet where the seed hath been,
There shall the fruitage, glowing, yet be seen."

152

THE FOURTH READER.

38. Early Days at Emmettsburo.

W 1{ 9 . 8 E T O N .

Mrs. E. a. Skton, fonndrcsa of the Sisters of Clinrity in the United
StiitL's, was a coiivort to the (.'atliolic faltli. Tlio I'ullowinj? letters were
written to two ot' iier friends, shortly after she had coniinenecd the estah-
fislmient of St. Jo.sepli'h, Kniniettsburtf— tlie Mother House of the iSisttra
ot Ciiurity. Her life lias been beuutifully written by Kcv. Dr. White.

1. "If you have received no other letters than those you
mention, you do not perhaps know of the happy conversion
and subsequent death of our Harriet Seton. Cecilia's death
Mr. Zocchi must have mentioned particularly. Harriet's was
also every way consoling. I have them both lying close by
our dwelling, and there say ray Te Deum every evening.
Antonio, could you and Filippo know half the blessing you
have procured us all 1

2. " My Anna now treads in their steps, and is an example
of youth, beauty, and grace, internally and externally, which
must be and is admired as a most striking blessing not only to
her mother, but to many. My two little girls are very good,
and know no other language or thoughts but of serving and
lo>'ing our dear Lord — I do not mean in a religious life, which
caiiuot be judged at theu* age, but of being his wherever they
ma}' be.

3. " The distant hope your letter gives that there is a pos-
sibility of your coming to this country, is a light to my gloomy
prospects for my poor children ; not for their temporal good :
our Lord knows I would never grieve to see them even beg-
gars, if they preserve and practise their faith ; but their pros-
pect, in case of my death, is as desolate as it can be, unless
they are given up to their old friends, which would be almost
their certain ruin of principle.

4. "I give all up, you may be sure, to Him who feeds the
birds of heaven, as you say ; but in the weak and decaying
state of my health, which is almost broken down, can I look
at the five without the fears and forebodings of a mother,
whose only thought or desire is for their eternity ? Our bless-
ed Cheverus seemed to have many hopes of them when he
came to see us last winter, and encouraged me to believe he

would

FiliccJi

5. "

many ]

charge

besides

enabled

and I h(

our esta

6. "I

our first

more; b

are, as I

in my reJi

i3ed our t

more my

finally taL

he had bbf

even in po

them. . .

creased am

it I Bless

forever \

■ V. "Yoi

miles from :

had but the

it would be

of wars he

church, St.

spacious log

'i^mys there

them; thoug]

^he bar of JV

'■easons why

^^'ster,' that ii

"■^^ed to the I

^^ ears. Th

8. "Will

would do bII ho cnnlrl P *. .

be.su es poor children wl,o h^^ 1 """'"'"' "^ "'""" «%,
enab od us to get on ver/well Citlm Tr."' "^ ''''"'••""''". '"[
»nd I hope our Adored hararr^itf *'*'"'• »>''''™«»mcnt,
oar establishment. ""'^ ''°'"' " gwat deal througll

ourV:t'd,>el^;, triilf;-,^-^'^ ■■" «"'«™-. who wl
"o^" >■ but he did not IdTe^arrrr'"' '" "" " «««' S
"^- as I had to include the co,!^^d«^/ "' T'""''^ S™-»"y
» ">y religious character, wJcM ■ .,"^ ""^ P"""- •''"''d-'on

fied our blessed Cheverus a^^ itl ,.^1'^ ^^ "'^■^^■^" '""^ ^»««-
r"i? 7 P-'oteetor than ever _to ' . ? ^''"■™"' »■''» '^ ^o^y
finally takes the superior cNrJ°f *"' ^'''''oehed to us, and
he bad bestowed ou another .rthL ''""'■"' "•'"■<^'' «' fi-^t
even m points less materia is "''tnT^ *'"'« ^ 'l" <»• act,
»<"»•• . . Pih-cchi, how tlhT '•'''' ^"'^''^ '^''-^o'cd b;
creased andinereasing in olrt o , Tud""" '""^' '»^« '-

;i^^B.sse, a thousand times S?'^ Snj'r

*3ft.o^mVrL'":i^":?:;r"""^^' •'"*-'•- ««,

had but the dear ChrisZ .."i , ""■' ""'' ">«untains. If „^

'he bar of New York wrri ''"™' """^ ^'^Sa"' "^torr^t

;-o„s ..h,she should notMTen'.t ^"'f'' '^"""^S olt
^''ster/ that in a f^yr ^„^^^ ''^^^° <^o the siren voice of hnr

""J ««^. That would be odd i"'''^^"'^")' be pulled about

«• "Wm yon tell your lTt7'"^'^"''°f''''crt/

yoM most honored brother that my

■'. ^

151

THE FOURTH RKADKR.

prayers shall not now go beyond the grave for hun, but will
be equally constant ? All the children go to communion once
a month, except little Ileb(!cca (Annina once a week), and
believe me their mother's example and influence is not wanting
to excite every devotion of gratitude and lively affection for
their true and dearest friends and best of fathers, through
whom they have received a real life, and been brought to the
light of everlasting life. Our whole family, sisters and all,
make our cause their own, and many, many communions have
been and will be offered for you both, by souls who have no
hoj5e of knowing you but in heaven.

9. " Eternity, eternity, my brother 1 Will I pass it with
you ? So much has been given, which not only I never de-
served, but have done every thing to provoke the adorable
hand to withhold from me, that I even dare hope for that,
that which I forever ask as the dearest, most desired favor.
If I never write you again from this world, pray for me con-
tinually. If I am heard in the next, Antonio, what would
I not obtain for you, your Filippo, and all yours I . . . . May
the blessings you bestow on us be rewarded to you a thpusaud
times I Ever yours."

10. The blessings, however, enjoyeu by the inmates of St.
Joseph's, and the usefulness of the institution, would not have
been permanent, without increased and strenuous exertions on
the part of Mother Seton. The maintenance of the house
found a provision in the income from the board and tuition of
the pupils ; but the debts contracted by the improvement of
theiB*property were yet to be liquidated, and threatened to
place it in a very embarrassing position.

11. To avert the destruction of the institution, Mother Se-
ton privately appealed to the liberality of friends, among whom
General -Robert G. Harper was conspicuous, both for the in-
terest he manifested in the welfare of St. Joseph's house, and
for the eminence of his position in society.' The following

» General Harper, son-in-law of Charles Carroll of CarroUton, was
one of the most gifted orators of the American Bar. Some of bis
speeches have been published in 8 vols. , 8vo.

letter,
the dil
her pt'
12.
forgott
nients ^
to act
lieve yc
spectivc
retired
with th<
abode o]
appearin
foundati(
13. "
Tance, ac
but also 1
workmen,
deed. Ti
only of 61
ulariy whe
already in
14. "\
our debts,
Must it b
guardian p
serve the i
^ould Mr
agant drea
heaiT of pit
Sieved but
J^e blessed
j^g is our ol
our beginnif
continually
i'rom him \
15. "Wi
*^e questioi

KARLY DAYS AT EMMKTlblll'KO.

'I ^ w

nco
and

ting
for

I the
i all,
have
re no

with
er dc-
orable
p that,

favor,
le con-
, would
. . May
Lpusaud

of fest.
lot have
:ions on
house
lition of
ment of
lened to

Ither Se-
Ig whom
Ir the in-
luse, and
lollowing

llton, was
ie of tia

letter, addressed to him by Mother Seton, will serve to show
the difficulties she had to contend with, and tlio cioquencc of
her pen in pleading the cause of religion and humanity :

12. " Will you permit the great distance between us to bo
forgotten, for a moment, and sufler the force of those senti-
ments which your liberality and kindness to us have created,
to act without reserve in speaking to you on a subject I be-
lieve you think interesting ? The promising and amiable per-
spective of establishing a house of plain and useful education,
retired from the extravagance of the world, connected also
with the view of providing nurses for the sick a^id poor, an
abode of innocence and refuge of afOiction, is, I dnir, r > / dis-
appearing under the pressure of drbts i ontvMcted ai lu> very
foundation.

13. "Having received the pensions of our boiij'ders in ad-
vance, and with them obliged not only to lUKintjrn. ourselv .s,
but also to discharge the endless demands of r arpentois » i,il
workmen, we are reduced now to our 'jredit, which la v^oor in-
deed. The credit of twenty poor wcoion, who ^ro cuj>L!jIo
only of earning their daily bread, is but a ^uml. sto< ):, p<at'.>
ularly when their flour-merchant, grocer, nwl bvitchf r, are more
already in advance than they are willing to afford

14. " What is our resource ? If we sell out house lo pay
our debts, we must severally return to our sepaiate homes.
Must it be so, or will a friendly hand assi;.t us, become our
guardian protector, plead our cause with the rich and pov' jrfal,
Bcrve the cause of humanity, and be a father to the pooi* ?
Would Mrs. Harper be interested for us, or i& this an extrav-
agant dream of female fancy? Oh, no; Mrs. Harper has a
heart of pity, — she has proved it, unst'ijcited. If w*^ were re-
lieved but from a momentary embarra?j.n^o'nt, her name would
he blessed by future generations; f-r, so simple and uupretend-
iug is our object, we cannot foil of success if not crushed in
our begmning. The Rct Mr, Dubourg has exerted hunself
continually for us, and bestowed all he could personally give.
From him we are to expect no more.

15. " What shall we do ? How dare I ask you, dear sir,
the question? But, if addressing it to you gives you a mo-

156

THE FOURTH READER.

ment's displeasure, forgive ; and, considering, it as any other
occurrence of life which is difTerently judged of according to
the light in which it is viewed, then blot it out, and be assured,
whatever may-be your impression of it, it arose from a heart
filled with the sentiment of your generosity, and overflowmg
with gratitude and respect. Dear Mrs. Harper, tell your sweet
nieces to look at the price of a shawl or veil, and think of the
poor family of St. Joseph's. December 28th, 1811."

16. Happily for religion and society, the institution was
rescued from its impending danger by the timely aid of ita
friends ; and though it had to struggle on amidst diflficultiea
and trials, it gradually became more and more consolidated,
and an instrument of great and extensive good in the hands of
Divine Providence.

rli'

39. The Parrot.

OAMPBELL.

•

Thomas Campbell, a native of Scotland, died in 1844. His principal

goeins are the "Pleasures of Hope," and " Gertrude of Wyoming ;" but
is genius is seen to greater advantage in his shorter poems, such as "The
Exile of Erin," "O'Connor's Child," "Lochiel's Warning," "Hohenlin-
den," " The Battle of the BaltiCj" &c. These are matchless poems, contain-
ing a magic of expression that fastens the words forever upon the memory.
No poet of our times has contributed so much, in proportion to the ex-
tent of his writings, to that stock of established quotations which pass
from lip to lip and from pen to pen, without thought as to their origin.

1. The deep affections of the breast,

That Heaven to living things imparts,
Are not exclusively possess'd

By human hearts. ^

2. A parrot, from the Spanish Main,

Full young, and early caged, came o^er,
With bright wings, to the bleak domain
Of MuUa's shore.

* 8. To spicy groves where he had won
His plumage of resplendent hue.
His native fruits, and skies, and son,
He bade adieu.

4U. roEil

. Francis i
»n France, w
of the Chur
It was truly
of men. fli
fn spiritual
Adventure
«^d"Treatij

!• Anti
labor; she
aU conting
she acts re
ployed, but
^ its prope

PORTRAIT OF A VIRTUOUS WOMAN.

4. For these he changed the smoke of turf,
A heathery land and misty sky,
And turn'd on rocks and raging suyf
His golden eye.

6. But, petted, in our climate cold

He lived and chatter'd many a day ;
Until with age, from green and gold,
His wings grew gray.

6. At last, when, seeming blind and dumb.

He scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more,
A Spanish stranger chanced to come
To Mulla's shore.

7. He haiPd the bird in Spanish speech ;

The bird in Spanish speech replied,
Flapp'd round his cage with joyous screech,
Dropp'd down, and died.'

157

40. Portrait of a Yirtuous and Accomplished Womaw.

FENKLON.

Francis de Salignao de la Mothe J'enelon, archbishop of Cambray,
in France, was born at Perigord, 1651 ; died, at Cambray, 1715. No prelate
of the Churcli, in any age. nas left behind a greater name than Fenelon.
It was truly said of him, tliat he was oi^g of the meekest and most amiable
of men. Ilia works are numerous, and in high repute. They are chiefly
on spiritual subjects. Those best known to the English reader, are the
" Adventures of Telemacluis," " Treatise on the Education of a Daughter,"
aud " Treatise on the Love of God."

1. Antiope is mild, simple, and wise; her hands despise not
labor; she foresees things at a distance; she provides against
all contingencies; she knows when it is proper to be silent;
she acts regularly and without hurry; she is continually em-
ployed, but n^er embarraased, because she does every thing
in its proper season.

* The above poem records au inoideat which actually took place.

t €^i 'W^*jt^f

-i -X * -M" t-Jt-S,

158

TUE FOURTH KEADEli.

2. Tlie good order of her father's house is her glory, it adds
greater lustre to her than beauty. Though the care of all lies
upon her, and she is charged with the burden of reproving,
refusing, retrenching (things which make almost all women
hated), yet she has acquired the love of all the household; and
this, because they do not find in her either passion, or conceit-
edness, or levity, or humors as in other women. By a single
glance of her eye, they know her meaning, and are afraid to
displease her.

3. The orders she gives are precise; she commands nothing
but what can be performed; she reproves with kindness, and
in reproving encourages. Her father's heart reposes upon her
as a traveller, fainting beneath the sun's sultry ray, reposes
himself upon the tender grass under a shady tree.

4. Antiope is a treasure worth seeking in the most remote
corners of the earth. Neither her person nor her mind is set
off with vain ornaments; and her imagination, though lively,
is restrained by her discretion. She never speaks but through
necessity; and when she opens her mouth, soft persuasion and
simple graces flow from her lips. When she speaks, every one
is silent; and she is heard with such attention, that she blushes,
and is almost inclined to suppress what she intended to say;
so that she is rarely ever heard to speak at any length.

41. Execution of Mary, Queen of Scots.

MISa AGNE8 STRICKLAND.

AoNEs Strickland is tho author of " Lives of the Queens of England
and Scotland." As a biographer, she is noted for her careful and eriidite
researches, and is ffenerallj' considered impartial. In her "Life of Mary
Stuart," slie forcibly vindicates the persecuted, traduced, and beautifiil
queen from the darlc imputations from which even Marv's friends Lnve
not always suiiiciently defended her memory. Miss Strickland is a native
of England. M I

1. Before Mary proceeded further in her preparations for
the block, she took a last farewell of her w|pping maidens,
kissing, embracing, and blessing them, by signhig them with
the cross, which benediction they received on then* knees.

2. Her upper garments being removed, she remained in her

pettico

hind, e

sleeves.

borden

With i

. same in

had be

and witi

but she

hystericj

3. Mi

said she

me." "V

of their

from the

tragedy i

courage

pcated, IE

"In thee,

fusion."

4. Beii
she bowec
so, In ma
my spirit.'
formance
the coup-d
iand coven
and stream
5. A m
tioner perc
^ith both
they must
moved then
them tight];
the axe a ci
courage of
sjmpathizini
deep wound

EXECUTION OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

159

adds
II lies
)ving,
romea
.-, and
)iiceit-
single
aid to

Lotbing
ss, and
pou her
reposes

remote
id is set
h lively,
through
sion and
jvery one

blushes,
to say;
Ih.

rs.

If England
ln<.l erlidite
Ife of Mui-.v
|l beautiful

lis u native

itions for

1 maidens,

icm with

lees.

Led in her

petticoat of crimson velvet and camisole, which laced be-
hind, and covered her arms with a pah* of crimson-velvet
sleeves. Jane Kennedy now drew from her pocket the gold-
bordered handkerchief Mary had given her to bind her eyes.
With this she placed a Corpus Christi cloth — probably the
same in which the consecrated v.aCer sent to her by the Pope
had been enveloped. Jane foldod it corner-wise, kissed it,
and with trembling hands prepared to execute this last ofl&ce ;
but she and her companion burst into a fresh paroxysm of
hysterical sobbing and crying.

3. Mary placed her finger on her lips reprovingly. " Hush 1"
said she ; "I have promised for you. Weep not, but pray for
mo." When they had pinned the handkerchief over the face
of their beloved mistress, they were compelled to withdraw
from the scaffold ; and " fhe was left alone to close up the
tragedy of life by herself, which she did with her wonted
courage and devotion." Kneeling on the cushion, she re-
peated, in her usual clear, firm voice. In te Domine speravi —
" In thee. Lord, have I hoped ; let me never be put to con-
fusion."

4. Being then guided by the executioners to find the block,
slie bowed her head upon it intrepidly, exclaiming, as she did
so. In manus tuas — " Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend
my spirit." The Earl of Shrewsbury raised his baton, in per-
formance of his duty as Earl Marshal, to give the signal for
the coup-de-grdce ; but he averted his head at the same tune,
and covered his face with his hand, to conceal his agitation
and streaming tears.

5. A momentary pause ensued ; for the assistant-execu-
tioner perceived that the queen, grasping the block firmly
with both hands, was restmg her chin upon them, and that
they must have been mangled or cut off if he had not re-
moved them, which he did by drawing them down and holding
them tightly in his own, while his companion struck her witli
the axe a cruel, but ineffectual blow. Agitated alike by the
courage of the royal victim, and the sobs and groans of the
sympathizing spectators, he missed his aim and inflicted a
deep wound on the side of the skull.

ill

160

THE FOURTH READER.

6. She neither screamed nor stirred, but her sufferings were
too sadly testified by the convulsion of her features, when,
after the third blow, the butcherwork was accomplished, and
the severed head, streaming with blood, was held up to the
gaze of the people. " God save Queen Elizabeth I" cried the
executioner. "So let all her enemies perish I" exclaimed 'Urn
Dean of Peterborough. One solitary voice alone responded
"Amenl" — it was that of the Earl of Kent. The silence,
the tears, and groans of the witnesses of the tragedy, yea,
even of the very assistants in it, proclaimed the feelings with
which it had been regarded.

t. Mary's weeping ladies now approached, and besought
the executioners "not to strip the corpse of their beloved
mistress, but to permit her faithful servants to fulfil her last
request, by covering it as modesty required, and removing it
to her bedchamber, where themselves and her other ladies
would perform the last duties." But they were rudely re-
pulsed, hurried out of the hall, and locked into a chamber,
while the executioners, intent only on securing what they con-
sidered their perquisites, began, with ruffian hands, to despoil
the still warm and palpitating remains.

8. One faithful attendant, however, lingered, and refused to
be thrust away. Mary's little Skye terrier had followed her to
the scaffold unnoticed, had crept closer to her when she laid
her head on the block, and was found crouching under her
garments, saturated with her blood. It was only by violence
he could be removed, and then he went and lay between her
head and body, moaning piteously.

9. Some barbarous fanatic, desiring to force a verification
of Knox's favorite comparison between this unfortunate prin-
cess and Jezebel, tried to tempt the dog to lap the blood of
his royal mistress ; but, with intelligence beyond that of his
species, the sagacious creature refused ; nor could he be in-
duced to partake of food again, but pined himself to death.

10. The head was exposed on a black velvet cushion to the
view of the^populace in the court-yard for an hour, from tlie
large window in the hall. No feeling but that of sympathy
for her and indignation against her murderers was elicited hy

this wo
were cc
been to
upper c'
formed
Puterboi

R. H. Da

is siirpassec
grace of hk

1. How
Toll]
Iloo]
Lines
These
I mus
Like
Long
And I
Butal
TisI
I feel J

2. The br.

Breath

The lea

While ^

Are ho]

The mo

But not

Myriads

Familia:

In vain

Ye were

With wl

hf M '*■

«",

THE CONSTANCY OF NATURE.

161

were
pvhcu,
[, and
the
:d the
d *tlie
ond(.'(l
ilence,

7, yea>
;s with

sought
)eloved
ler last
)ving it
• ladies
iely re-
3 amber,
ley con-
despoil

this woful spectacle. Tho remains of this injured princess
were contemptuously covered with the old cloth that had
been torn from the billiard-table, and carried into a large
upper chamber, where the process of embalming was per-
formed the following day by surgeons from Stamford and
Peterborough.

42. The Constancy of Katuee.

DANA.

R. H. Dana, born at Cambridge, Mass., 1787, ranks high as a pcet, and
is surpassed by none of our prose writers in the clearness, purity and olasaio
grace of his stylo and diction.

1. How like eternity doth nature seem

To life of man — that short and fitful dream 1

I look around me : nowhere can I trace

Lines of decay that mark our human racel

These are the murmuring waters, these the flowers

I mused o'er in my earlier, better hours.

Like sounds and scents of yesterday they come.

Long years have past since this was last my home I

And I am weak, and toil-worn is my frame;

But all this vale shuts in is still the same:

^Tis I alone am changed; they know me not:

I feel a stranger — or as one forgot.

2. The breeze that cool'd my warm and youthful brow,
Breathes the same freshness on its wrmkles now.
The leaves that flung around me sun and shade,
While gazing idly on them, as they play'd,

Are holdmg yet their frolic in the air;

The motion, joy, and beauty still are there,

But not for me; — I look upon the ground:

Myriads of happy faces throng me round,

Famihar to my eye ; yet heart and mind

In vain would now the old communion find.

Ye were as living, conscious beings then,

With whom I talk'd — But I have talked with men I

162

THE FOURTH READER.

^^i

With uncliecr'd sorrow, with cold hearts I've met;
Seen honest minds by harden'd craft beset.
Seen hope cast down, turn deathly pale its glow;
Seen virtue rare, but more of virtue's show

43. The Humming-Bikd.

AUDUBON, »

John J. Audubon was born in Louisiana, in 1780. His " Birds of Amer-
ica," in seven imperial octavo volumes, was pronounced by the ereat
Cuvier the most splendid monument which art has erected to ornithology.
Ho died in 1851.

1. Where is the person, who on observing this glittering
fragment of the rainbow, would not pause, admire, and instantly
turn his mind with reverence towards the Almighty Creator,
the wonders of whose hand we at every step discover, and of
whose sublime conceptions we everywhere observe the mani-
festations in his admirable system of creation ? There breathes
not such a person; so kindly have we all been blessed with
that intuitive and noble feeling — admiration.

2. No sooner has the returning sun again introduced the
vernal season, and caused miUions of plants to expand then*
leaves and blossoms to his genial beams, than the little hum-
ming-bird is seen advancing on fairy whigs, carefully visiting
every opening flower-cup, and, like a curious florist, removing
from each the injurious insect that otherwise would ere long
cause theh' beauteous petals to droop and decay.

3. Poised in the air, it is observed peeping cautiously, and
with sparkling eye, into their innermost recesses, while the
ethereal motions of its pinions, so rapid and so light, appear
to fan and cool the flower, without injuring its fragile texture,
and produce a delightful murmuring sound, well adapted for

lulling the insects to repose The prairies, the fields,

the orchards, the gardens, nay the deepest shades of the forest,
are all visited in their turn, and everywhere the little bird meets
with pleasure and with food.

4. Its gorgeous throat in brilliancy and beauty baffles all
competition. Now it glows with a fiery hue, and again it is

change
delicati
itself t

conceiv

of light

this mai

country,

season.

Autumn

44. Bes

Alexane

died in 185{

wns the aut

' tiliesiibjocti

1. At
animated (
a visible i
passive coi
Christianit
adopted as
beneficial i
incnlcatim
the views o,
no longer n
oftheChur?
imaginative
himself in in
^ild strife
organic devo
2. At the
atire imagina
from the wri
Tories, and th
for mournful
I ^^, may be
ofthelanguai

DKSCKIPTION OF NATURE.

163

of Amer-
the great
lithology.

;littermg
instantly
Creator,
>r, and of
the mani-
j breathes
ssed with

Luced the
>and their
iittle hum-
py visiting
removing
ere long

Dusly, and
[while the
at, appear
\e texture,
iapted for
[the fields,
|the forest,
aird meets

[baffles all
again it ^

changed to the deepest velvety black. The upper parts of its
delicate body arc of resplendent changing green; and it throws
itself through the air with a swiftness and vivacity hardly
conceivable. It moves from one flower to another like a gleam
of light, upward, downward, to the right, and to the left. In
this manner it searches the extreme northern portions of our
country, following, with great precaution, the advances of the
season, and retreats, with equal care, at the approach of
Autumn.

iL Description of Nature in the Christian Fathers.

HUMBOLDT.

Alexander Von Humboldt, a German baron, born in Berlin, 1769, mid
died in 1859, the most distinguished «at'an^ of the nineteenth century. IIo
wn» the author of many profound and erudite works on natural auti soieu-
tiHo subjects.

1. At the period when the feeling died away which had

animated classical antiquity, and directed the minds of men to

a visible manifestation of human activity rather than to a

passive contemplation of the external world, a new spirit arose.

Christianity gradually diffused itself, and wherever it was

adopted as the religion of the State, it not only exercised a

beneficial influence on the condition of the lower classes by

inculcating the social freedom of mankind, but also expanded

the views of men in then* communion with nature. The eye

no longer rested on forms of the Olympic gods. The Fathers

of the Church, in their rhetorically correct and often poetically

imaginative language, now taught that the Creator showed

himself in inanimate no less than in animate nature, and in the

wild strife of the elements, no less than in the still activity of

organic devolopment.

2. At the gradual dissolution of the Roman dominion, cre-
ative imagination, simplicity, and purity of diction, disappeared
from the writings of that dreary age; first in the Latin terri-
tories, and then in Grecian Asia Minor. A taste for solitude,
for mournful contemplation, and for a moody absorption of
Dund, may be traced simultaneously, in the style and coloring
of the language.

16i

THE FOURTH READER.

3. Whenever a new element seems to develop itself in the
feelings of mankind, it may almost invariably be traced to tri
earlier, deep-seated, individual germ. Thus the softness of
Mimncrmus has often been regarded as the expression of ii
general sentimental direction of the mind. The ancient worlil
is not abruptly separated from the modern, but modifications
in the religious sentiments and the tenderest social feelings oi
men, and changes in the special habits of those who exercise an
influence on the ideas of the mass, must give a sudden predom-
inance to that which might previously have escaped attention.

4. It was the tendency of the Christian mind to prove
from the order of the universe, and the beauty of nature, the
greatness and goodness of the Creator. This tendency to
glorify the Deity in his works gave rise to a taste for niitural
descriptions. The earliest and most remarkable instances of
this kind are to be met with in the writings of Minucius Felix,
a rhetorician and lawyer at Rome, who lived in the beginning"
of the third century, and was the contemporary of TertuUiau
and Philostratus.

5. We follow with pleasure the delineation of his twilight
rambles on the shore near Ostia, which he describes as more
picturesque, and more conducive to health, than we find it in
the present day. In the religious discourse entitled Octavius,
we meet with a spirited defence of the new faith against the
attacks of a heathen friend.

6. The present would appear to be a fitting place to intro-
duce some fragmentary examples of the descriptions of nature,
which occ'-.A in the writings of the Greek fathers, and which
are probably less known to my readers than the evidences
afforded by Roman authors, of the love of nature entertamed
by the ancient Italians.

7. I will begin with a letter of Basil the Great, for which I
have long cherished a special predilection. Basil, who wa^
born at Cesarea, in Cappadocia, renounced the pleasures of
Athens when not more than thirty years old, and, after visiting
the Christian hermitages in Caelo-Syria and Upper Egypt,
retired to a desert on the shores of the Armenian river Iris.
He thus writes to Gregory of Nazianzen :

8. "]

the end

thee — 01

have bee

niained u

{IS has c

fancy Jias

liiy'h mo I

north by

extended

moistened

ferent kin(

9. "Th

one side t

an almost

impeded bj

on the sum

plain, and f

beautiful, a

Strymon ne

10. "Th

than any oti

and throws

admiration

to the nativ

waters. Sh

I'-^^e from tht

rippled face >

n. "Sha

rich luxurian

l^evond all elj

occasionally I

<^f deer and

of'ier spot c(

^ad found the

^2. In this

feelings are es

tliose of model

DESCEimON OF NATURE.

165

in the
i to an
iioss of
on of a

t wo I'll I

leatior.s
ilings 0[
3rcise an
predom-
ttentioQ.
;o prove
ture, the
dcncy to
ir natural
jtanecs of
ius Felix,
bcgUining
TertulUim

3 twihght
as more
find it ill
Octaviu?,
;aiust the

to intrO"
of nature,
and whicli

evidences
ntertained

)r which I
who wa-i
jasurcs of
[cr visiting
[er Egypt,
1 river Iris.

8. " I believe I may at last flatter myself with having found
tlie end of my wanderings. The hopes of being united with
tlicc — or I should rather say, my pleasant dreams, for hopes
liiive been justly termed the waking dreams of men — have re-
liiaiiicd unfulfilled. God has suffered me to fin 1 a place, such
tts has o/'ten flitted before our imaginations; for that which
fancy has shown us from afar is now made manifest to me. A
high mountain, clothed with thick woods, is watered to the
north by fresh and overflowing streams; at its foot lies an
extended plain rendered fruitful by the vapors with which it is
moistened; the surrounding forest, crowded with trees of dif-
ferent kinds, incloses me as in a strong fortress.

9. " This wilderness is bounded by two deep ravines: on the
one side the river rushing in foam down the mountain, forms
an almost impassable barrier; while on the other, all access is
impeded by a broad mountain ridge. My hut is so situated
on the summit of the mountain, that I can overlook the whole
plain, and follow throughout its course, the Iris, which is more
beautiful, and has a more abundant body of water, than the
Strymon near Amphipolis.

10. " The river of my wilderness, which is more impetuous
than any other that I know of, breaks against the jutting rock,
and throws itself foaming into the abyss below; an object of
admiration to the mountain wanderer, and a source of profit
to the natives, from the nnmerous fishes that are found in its
waters. Shall I describe to thee the fructifying vapors that
rise from the moist earth, or the cool breezes wafted over the
rippled face of the waters ?

11. " Shall I speak of the sweet song of the birds, or of the
rich luxuriance of the flowering plants ? What charms me
beyond all else, is the calmness of this spot. It is only visited
occasionally by huntsmen ; for my wilderness nourishes herds
of deer and wild goats, but not bears and wolves. What
other spot could I exchange for this ? Alemacon, when he
had found the Echinades, would not wander farther."

12. In this simple description of scenery and of forest life,
feelings are expressed which are more intunately in unison with
those of modem timee, than any thing that has been transmitt-

ICO

THE FOURTH READER.

ed to US from Greek or Roman antiquity. From the lonely
Alpine hut, to which St. Basil withdrew, tlie eye wanders over
the humid and leafy roof of the forest below. The place of
rest, which he and his friend Gregory of Nazianzen had long
desired, is at length found. The poetic and mythical allusion
at the close of the letter falls on the Christian ear like an echo
from another and earlier world.

13. Basil's Homilies on the Hexcemeron also give evidence
of his love of nature. He describes the mildnetsd of the con-
stantly clear nights of Asia Minor, wher*"*, accord rig to liis
expression, the stars, " those everlasting blossomr of heaven,"
elevate the soul from the visible to the invisible.

14. When in the myth of the Creation, he would praise the
beauty of the sea, he describes the aspect of the boundless
ocean-plain, in all its varied and ever-changing conditions,
" gently moved by the breath of heaven, altering its hue as it
reflects the beams of light in their whiter blue, or roseate
hues, and caressing the shores in peaceful sport." "W e meet
with the same sentimental and plaintive expressions regarding
nature in the writmgs of Gregory of Nyssa, the brother of
Basil the Great.

15. "When," he exclaims, " I see every ledge of rock, every
valley and plain, covered with new-born verdure ; the varied
beauty of the trees, and the lilies at my feet decked by nature
with the double charms of perfume and of color ; when in the
distance I see the ocean, toward which the clouds are onward
borne, my spu-it is overpowered by a sadness not wholly devoid
of enjoyment.

16. " When in autumn, the fruits have passed away, the
leaves have fallen, and the branches of the trees, dried and
shrivelled, are robbed of their leafy adornments, we are in-
stinctively led, amid the. everlasting and regular change of
nature, to feel the harmony of the wondrous powers pervading
all things. He who contemplates thera with the eye of the
soul, feels the littleness of man amid the greatness of the
Universe."

It. While the Greek Christians were led by their adoration
of the Deity, through the contemplation of his works, to a

poefh d

the earli

*bent Oi'

art. Th

r 18. ":

n^ould hi

heaven, a

graze by t

tions of a

with admi

hght over

grass besi(

shade of a i

and hazy di

19. Anti

oneof whic]

recovered hi

the mounta

then coverec

Philip Massi
ffartyr," the fi,
'nere can be lit

Wis hterniy care
Jra. His writii

political maxims,
f«'i;f»on and moi

|n«r't consists Jew
M<'Wjt they have

Ant.
How sv
ToHea
That cai
Of joys

TIIK VIRGIN MARTYR.

167

lonely
rs over
)lace of
ad long
allusion
an echo

evidence
the con-
g to his
heaven,"

)raise the

boundless

onditions,

I hue as it

■jY roseate
"We meet
regarding
trother of

hock, every

[the varied

by nature

rhen in the

^re onward

)lly devoid

away, the

dried and

|we are ii-

change of

pervading

Lye of the

less of the

adoration
rorks, to a

poetic delineation of natnre, they were at the same time, during
the earlier ages of their new belief, and owing to the pecuUar
►bent or their minda, full of contempt for all works of human
art. Thus Chrysostom abounds in passages like the following :
, 18. " If the aspect of the colonnades of sumptuous buildings
would lead thy spirit astray, look upward to the vault of
heaven, and around thee on the open fields, in which herds
graze by the water's side. Who does not despise all the crea-
tions of art, when, in the stillness of his spirit, he watches
with admiration the rising of the sun, as it pours its golden
light over the face of the earth ; when, resting on the thick
grass beside the murmuring spring, or beneath the sombre
shade of a thick and leafy tree, the eye rests on the far-receding
and hazy distance ?"

19. Antioch was at that time surrounded by hermitages, in
one of which lived Chrysostom. It seemed as if Eloquence had
recovered her element — freedom — from the fount of nature m
the mountain regions of Syria and Asia Minor, which were
then covered with forests.

45. The Yirgin Martyr.

MASSINOEB.

Philip Massinoer was born at Salisbury, a. d. 1584. The "Virgin

I Martyr," the first printed of Masainsrer's works, appeared in 1622 ; but

there can be little doubt that he had written mucn before that period.

I His literary career was a constant struggle, for fortune never smiled upon

liira. His writings breathe a spirit incoinparablv nobler and manlier than

that of his contemporaries generally; they are wholly free from the servile

political maxims, and, in a large measure, from the grave offences against

religion and morals with which the stage in his time abounded. Their

merit consists less in the vigor with which they delineate passion than in

jtheir dignity and refinement of style, and the variety of their versification,

|T(«wit they have no pretensions.

The place o/exeeution. Antonius, Tbeophilas, Dorothea, Ae.

Ant. See, she comes ; —

How sweet her innocence appears 1 more like
To Heaven itself than any sacrifice
That can be ofifer'd to it. By my hopes
Of joys hereafter, the sight makes me doubtful

168

THE FOURTH RKADEB.

In my belief ; nor can I think our gods
Are good, or to be served, that take delight
In offerings of tliis kind ; that, to maintain
Their power, deface this masterpiece of nature,
Which they themselves come sliort of. She ascends,
And every step raises her nearer heaven 1

She smiles,
Unmoved, by Mars 1 as if she were assured
Death, looking on her constancy, would forget
The use of his inevitable hand.

Theo. Derided too 1 Dispatch, I say 1
Dor. Thou fool I

Thou gloriest in having power to ravish
A trifle from me I am weary of.
What is this life to me ? Not worth a thought.
Or, if it be esteem'd, 'tis that I lose it
To win a better : even thy malice serves
To me but as a ladder to mount up
To such a height of happiness, where I shall
Look down with scorn on thee and on the world ;
Where, circled with true pleasures, placed above
The reach of death or time, 'twill be my glory
To think at what an easy price I bought it.
There's a perpetual spring, perpetual youth ;
No joint-benumbing cold, or scorching heat,
Famine nor age, have any being there.
Forget for shame your Tempd ; bury in
Oblivion your feign'd Hesperian orchards : —
The golden fruit, kept by the watchful dragon,
Which did require a Hercules to get it,
Compared with what grows in all plenty there.
Deserves not to be named. The Power I serve
Laughs at your happy Araby, or the
Elysian shades ; for He hath made his bowers
Better, indeed, than you can fancy yours.

CotJNT MON

"oblemen of
•teudy devotio

^' GeNERi

princes, was
«'hich she h>
proceed from
or purely hun
inspiration,
a poor person

WKm SUWBCT., OK 1.L-N0AKV.

Though riorifled 1 ;? ""' ^<"'«>'''^fo»t,

■ MylovelyAngelo! '' '"°°'"'
■Angela. _.

^nd still the servant to your Z;^ *'" "■* """•' ••

To gnide your St 1 tTV" """"" ^°" »""' ""cm)
When,in a beS J, ^ ^•""' "='"'"'y.

Your Dure L/ ^"^ '''^* *« ^arrj

169

46. Qma^ EtizABBTH OK Huira^,^.

- ^O^TALEMBERT

tOCNT M0NTAI.EMBE»T '

Pn»oes, was one of thf ^oTr;!^^^'^ *""* '^"^'^-''^ ^7
*h she lived , but we Sr^W •' 't"*"*' "' *"« "?« ■>■
proceed from rank, stUlIeK thl^* " ''"'' '""'"'y ^id "ot
" purely human latitude hTf *'":" "^ '"^l"'""? Praises
■^Piration. From he cradKr Z '"*^"'" '"" heaven 7
•poor person without S hji:!:" .'""^«»' *•« sight of

^ 7 '■*"* P'erced with grief, and

170

THE KOUiiTH KKADKR.

now that her husband liad granted her full liberty in all that
concerned the Iwnor of God and the good of her neighbor, she
unreservedly abandoned herself to her natural inclmation to
Bolace the Buffering members of Christ.

2. This was her ruling thought each hour and moment : to
the use of the poor she dedicated all that she retrenched from
the superfluities usually required by her sex and rank. Yet,
notwithstanding the resources which the charity of her husband
placed at her disposal, she gave away so quickly all that she
possessed, that it often happened that she would despoil her-
self of her cloXhes in order to have the means of assisting the
unfortunate.

3. Elizabeth loved to carry secretly to the poor, not alone
money, but provisions and other matters which she destined
for them. She went thus laden, by the winding and rugged
paths that led from the castle to the city, and to cabins of the
neighboring valleys.

4. One day, when accompanied by one of her favorite maid-
ens, as she descended by a rude little path (still pomted out),
and carried under her mantle bread, meat, eggs, and other food
to distribute to the poor, she suddenly encountered her husband,
who was returning from hunting. Astonished to see her thus
toiling on under the weight of her burden, he said to her, " Let
us see what you carry," and at the same time drew open the
mantle which she held closely clasped to her bosom ; but
beneath it were only red and white roses, the most beautiful
he had ever seen — and this astonished him, as it was no longer
the season of flowers.

5. Seeing that Elizabeth was troubled, he sought to console
her by his caresses ; but he ceased suddenly, on seeing over her
head a luminous appearance in the form of a crucifix. He then
desired her to continue her route without being disturbed by
him, and he returned to Wartbourg, meditating with recollec-
tion on what God did for her, and carrying with him one of
these wonderful roses, which he preserved all his life.

6. At the spot where this meeting took place, he erected a
pillar, surmounted by a cross, to consecrate forever the remem-
brance of that which he had seen hovering over the head of

his TV
her c
heart
their ]
of as

Kene]
his " M(
profoiiiK
most ren
its deep,
preciatio
live of £i

1. In

the sixt

crowd tl

of an a

high fest

" Placeb

hours of

Church.

many boc

that full (

of that g]

2. The

procecdinj

door gave

left alone,

of blessed

Jiv^ing and

purged fro]

iiiethought

ascending f

^^velve thoi

every natioi

stood aroun

AGKS OF FAITH.

171

bat
she
1 to

: to

From

Yet,

band

b she

Iher-

g the

alone
stined
ugged
of the

I maid-

l out),

br food

sband,

sr thus

"Let

en the

; but

lautiful

longer

Console
rer her
[e then
)ed by
icollec-
lone of

Icted a
iemem-
lead of

his wife. Among the unfortunate who particularly attracted
her compassion, those wlio occupied the greatest part in her
heart were the lepers; the mysterious and special character of
tlieir malady rendered them, throughout the middle ages, objects
of a sohcitude and affection mingled with fear.

47. Ages of Faith.

BY KENELM II. DIGBY.

Kenelm H. DidBT, in his " Com{iitiim, or Meetinpf of the Ways," and
his " Mores Catliolici, or Agen of Fuith," denotes all tlie resources of hie
profound erudition to the middle ages. The latter worlc is one of tiie
most remarkable literary productions of our times, for its varied loarniiig,
its deep, reverential tone, its sincere and ferv«*nt piety, and its noble ap-
preciation of Catholic honor and Catholic heroism. K. 11. Digby is a na-
livo of £nghind.

1. In the third stage of this mortal course, if midway be
the sixth, and on the joyful day which hears of tlie great
crowd that no man could number, I found me in the cloister
of an abbey, whither I had come to seek the grace of that
high festival. The hour was day's decline ; and already had
" Placebo Domino " been sung in solemn tones, to usher in the
hours of special r^harity for those who are of the suffering
Church. A harsh sound from the simultaneous closing of as
many books, cased m oak and iron, as there were voices in
that full choir, like a sudden thunder-crash, announced the end
of that ghostly vesper.

2. The saintly men, one by one, slowly walked forth, each
proceeding to his special exercise. Door then shutting alter
door gave lon^ echoes, till all was mute stillness, and I was
left alone, under cloistered arches, to meditate on the felicity
of blessed spirits, and on the desire which presses both the
living and the irmates of that region in which the soul is
purged from sinful stain, to join their happy company. Still,
methought I heard thera sing of the briglit and i)iiis8ant angel
ascending from the rising of the sun — and of the twelve times
twelve thousand that were signed ; and of the redeemed tVom
every nation and people and language ; and of the angels who
stood around the throne of Heaven.

172

THE FOURTH RKADKK.

Ul I. '»■

3. It seemed now as if I heard a voice like that which said
to Dante, ** What thou heardst was sung that freely thou
niightst open thy heart to the waters of peace, that flow dif-
fused from their eternal fountain." What man is there so
brutish and senseless to things divine, as not to have some-
times experienced an intefral like that which is described by
him who sung of Paradise, to whom the world appeared as if
stretched far below his feet, and who saw this globe —

*' So pitiful of semblance, that perforce
It moved his smiles ; and him in truth did hold
For wisest, who esteems it least — whose tlionghts
Elsewhere are fix'd, him worthiest call'd and best ?" '

4. But soon the strained sense will sink back to it — for the
human spirit must perforce accomplish, in the first place, its
exercise in that school which is to prepare it for the home it
anticipates above. Yet I felt not disconsolate nor forgetful
of the bright vision. My thoughts were carried backwards to
ages which the muse of history had taught me long to love ;
for it was in obscure and lowly middle-time of saintly annals
that multitudes of these bright spirits took their flight from a
dark world to the Heavens,

6. The middle ages, then, I said, were ages of highest grace
to men — ages of faith — ages when all Europe was Catholic ;
when vast temples were seen to rise in every place of human
concourse, to give glory to God, and to exalt men's souls to
sanctity ; when houses of holy peace and order were found
amidst woods and desolate mountains — on the banks of
placid lakes, as well as on the solitary rocks in the ocean ;
i^iges of sanctity which witnessed a Bede, an Alcuin, a Ber-
nard, a Francis, and crowds who followed them as they did
Christ ; ages of vast and beneficent intelligence, in which it
l)leased the Holy Spirit to display the power of the seven
gifts in the lives of an Anselm, a Thomas of Aquinura, and
the saintly flocks whose steps a cloister guarded : ages of the
highest civil virtue, which gave birth to the laws and institu-
tions of an Edward, a Lewis, a Suger ; ages of the noblest

* Gary's Dante.

art,
Dor

mon
mori
ages
the s
glory
with
on th
the w
when
the m
world-
of rep
adore

6. h

hopes, i
to snrve
in this
stranger
l»oIy, we
home ;
world an
commenc
<>nly sup
from thef
so often
youth ma
circumsta
^'hile, haT
vanity ; t

AGK8 OP FAITH.

173

art, which beheld a Giotto, a Michael Angelo, a Raffaclo, a
Dominichino ; ages of poetry, which heard an Avitns, a C'ued-
mon, a Daute, a Shakspeare, a Calderon ; ages of more than
mortal heroism, which prodnced a Tancred and a Godfrey ;
ages of majesty, which knew a Charlemagne, an Alfred, and
the sainted youth who bore the lily ; ages, too, of England's
glory, when she appears, not even excluding a compnri^on
with the Eastern empire, as the most truly civilized country
on the globe ; when the sovereign of the greater portion of
the western world applied to her schools for instructors —
when she sends forth her saints to evangelize the nations of
the north, and to diffuse spiritual treasure over the whole
world — when heroes flock to her court to behold the models
of reproachlcss chivalry, and emperors leave their thrones to
adore God at the tombs of her martyrs I as Dante says,

" No tongue
So vast a theme could equal, speech and thought
Both impotent alike."

6. In a little work which embodied the reflections, the
hopes, and even the joys of youthful prime, I once r»ttempted
to survey the middle ages in relation to chivalry ; and though
in this we had occasion to visit the cloister, and to hear as a
stranger who tarries but a night, the counsels of the wise and
holy, we were never able to regard the house of peace as our
home ; we were soon called away from it to return to the
world and to the courts of its princes. Now I propose to
commence a course more penceiul and unpretending, for it
only supposes that one has left the world, and withdrawn
from these vain phantoms of honor and glory, which distract
BO often the morning of man's day. Thus we read that in
youth many have left the cloister, dazzled by the pomp and
circumstance of a wild, delusive chivalry, who, after a little
while, have hastened back to it, moved by a sense of earthly
vanity ; there

" To finish the short piigrlmaj^e of life,
Still speedinfr to its close on restless wing.*

• Dante, Ptirg. 20.

171

THK FOURTH READER,

T. Yes, all is vanity but to love and serve God I Men
have foimd by long experience that nothing but divine love
can satisfy that restless craving which ever holds the soul,
*' finding no ibod on eartli ;" that every beauty, every treas-
ure, every joy, must, by the law which rules contingency, van-
ish like a dream : and that there will remain for every man,
sooner or later, the gloom of dark and chaotic night, if he is
not provided with a lamp of faith. Those men who, reason-
ing, went to depth profoundest, came to the same conclusion ;
they found that the labors of the learned, and the visions of
the poet, were not of their own nature different in this respect
from the pleasures of sense : <

*• 'Tia darkness all : or shadow of the flesh,
Or else its poison."

respi
brig]
denlj
out .
virtuj
grave

3.
chillin
Truly
Sweet
they h
alone <

48. Ages of Faith — continued.

1. Thi was th(M*r experience. That labor of the mind, or
that fond ideal ecstasy, did not necessarily secure the one thing
needful — the love of Jesus. In a vast number of instances it
led to no substantial good : its object was soon forgotten, or
the mind recurred to the performance with a sense of its im-
perfections.

3. Still the heart cried, Something more I What, said
they, can be given to it? What will content it? Fresh
labor ? fresh objects ? Ah ! they had already begun to sus-
pect how little all this would avail ; for, in hearkening to
"the saintly soul, that shows the world's deceitfulness to all
who hear him," they had learned to know that it might in-
deed be given to their weakness to feel the cruel discord, but
not to set it right — to know that it was but a vain, delusive
motive wlilch would excite them to exertion from a desire of
pleasiu!!,- men ; for men pass rapidly with the changing scene
of life, and the poor youth, who, mistaking the 'true end of
human labor, had fondly reckoned upon long interchange of

4. c;

and let

respecti

with kn

way of

pass nea

forth be

5. Til

constant

the worl

make su

be their

the rest (

6. Ret

t^iought '.

the groui

AGES OF FAITH.

175

Men
love

BOUl,

treas-
, van-
r man,
f he is
•eason-
usion ;
ions of
respect

respect and friendship, at the moment wlien his hopes are
brightest and his afifections warmed into ecstasy, wakens sud-
denly from his sweet protracted dream, and finds himself with-
out honor, without love, without even a remembrance, and
virtually in as great solitude as if he were already in his
grave I

8. Well might they shudder at the thought of this eternal
chilliness, this spiritual isolation, this bitter and unholy state I
Truly it was fearful, and something too much for tears I
Sweet Jesus, how different would have been their state, if
they had sought only to love and serve thee 1 for thy love
alone can give rest and comfort to the heart — a sure and last-
ing joy :—

Other good
There is, where man finds not his happiness ;
It is not true fruition ; not that blest
Essence of every good, tlie branch and root.

4. Changed, then, be the way and object of our research,
and let the converse to that which formerly took place hold
respecting our employment here ; and if we shall again meet
witli knights and the world's chivalry, let it be only in the
way of accident, and, as it were, from the visit of those who
pass near our spot of shelter ; and let our place of rest hence-
forth be in the forest and the cell.

5. Times there are, when even the least wi^ can seize a
constant truth — that the heart must be devoted either all to
the world, or all to God. When they, too, will pray, and
make supplications urged with weeping, that the latter may
be iheir condition in the mortal hour, that they may secure
the rest of the saints for eternity.

6. Returning to that ' cloisteral meditation, how miiny,
thought I, throughout the whole world, have heard this day
the grounds nnd consummation of the saints' felicity 1 how
many have been summoned onward, and told the steps were
near, and that now the ascent might be without difficulty
gained? and yet,

"A scanty few are thoy, wlio, when they hear
Such tiding.-, I.ustoii. Oli, ye race of men!

176

THK FOURTH READER.

Though born to soar, why Buffer ye a wind
Sobliglitto baffle ye r'»

7. But for those who seemed to feel how sweet was that
solemn accent, eight times sung, which taught them who were
blessed, would it not be well, when left alone, and without
distraction, if they were to take up histories, and survey the
course which has been trod by saintly feet, and mark, as if
from the soul-purifying mount, the ways and works of men on
earth, keeping their eyes with fixed observance bent upon the
symbol there conveyed, so as to mark how far the form and
acts of that life, in ages past, of which there are still so
many monuments around them, agreed, not with this or that
modern standard of political and social happiness and gran-
deur, but with what, by Heaven's sufiferance, gives title to
divine and everlasting beatitude ?

8. Such a view would present a varied and immense hori-
zon, conii)rising the manners, institutions, and spirit of many
generations of men long since gone Jay. We should see in
what manner the whole type and form of life were Christian,
although its detail may have often been broken and disordered ;
for instance, how the pursuits of the learned, the consolations
of the poor, the riches of the Church, the exercises and dis-
positions of the young, and the common hope and consolatiou
of all men, harmonized with the character of those -that sought
to be poor in spirit.

9. How, again, the principle of obedience, Lhe Constitution
of the Church, the division of ministration, and the rule of
government, the manners and institutions of society, agreed
with meekness and inherited its recompense. Further, how
the sufferings of just men, and the provisions for a penitential
spirit were in accordance with the state of those that were to
inourn and weep there.

10. How the character of men in sacred orders, the zeal of
the laity, and the lives of all ranks, denoted the hunger and
thirst after justice. Again, how the institutions, the founda-
tions, and the recognized pruiciple of perfection, proclaimed

* Dante, Farad. 12. Carey's translation.

men ]

ftud 1

geniu

11.

of pci

confuj

then (

men.

and tl

which

TORQUJ

much, bii
(iiirinor h
re;,'arded i
is a histo]
Clemen
crown — ni
(liiys of P
when the
t'> retire t(
Was near,
secure a h
'■iiise hia s]
him at the
h'ols have
ynii call ^|(
ine for fort
Tasso! Itii

all's vanity
on his brea
'^fi recoivii
'I'e ehariet
the Capitol
".s-'oiiy at ]ji
'I'v hands, I

1. Saff

Desf

Fron

THB SHKPHERD8 80N0.

2^*7

s that
) were
ithout
^ey the
I, as if
men on
)on the
rm and
still 80
or that
d gran-
title to

Lse hori-

of many

d see in

Jhristian,

ordered ;

solationa

and dis-

isolatiou

,t sought

stitution

rule of

, agreed

|her, how

jnitential

were to

ke zeal of

Inger and

founda-

loclaimed

men merciful Moreover, how the philosophy which prevailed,
and the spiritual monuments which were raised by piety and
genius, evinced the clean of heart.

11. Still further, how the union of nations, and the bond
of peace which existed even amid savage discord, wars, and
confusion ; as also, how the holy retreats for innocence, whicli
tlien everywhere abounded, marked the muliitude of pacific
men. And, finally, how the advantage taken of dire events,
and the acts of saintly and heroic fame, revealed the spirit
which shunned not suffering for sake of justice.

49. The Shepherd's Song.

TA8SO.

ToRQUATo Tasso — an Italian poet of the sixteenth century. He wrote
much, but his " JorusahMU Delivered" gained him tlie preatest renown;
durinof his life it excited universal favor, and has ever since been justlv
rej^arded as one of the ji^reat poems of the world. " Jerusalem Delivered ^*
is a history of the crusades, related with poetic license.

Clement'VIII. invited Tusso to liome, that he niifjht receive the laurel
crown — an honor wiiich had not been conferred upon any one since the
(lays of Petrarch. But scarcely was the »lay of coronation about to dawn
wlien the poet felt his dissolution approacliina:. He requested liberty
t'> retire to the monastery of St. Otiotno. On liearin;? that his last hour
was near, he joyfully returned thanks to God for havina: brouprht liim to so
secure a haven. A few days before his death, one of tiie monks souofht to
raise his spirits by speaking to hiui of the triutiiphal honors i>repariiijX for
liiin at the Capitol. Tasso replied—'" Glory, glory, notliing but f,'K)ry. Two
idols have reigned in my heart and deeitled my life — love and tliat vapor
you call glory. The one has always betrayed me; the other, after tlcemg
ine for forty years, is ready to-day to crown — what? — a corjise. Laurels for
Tasso! It is a winding sheet he requires I 1 feel too well to-day thai on earth
all is vanity, all but to love and si-rve God. But," he added, as his head sunk
on his breast, "all the rest is not worth a quarter of an hour's trouble."
On receiving a plenary indulgence from the Pope, ho sai — "This was
the ehariot on wiiich he hoped to go crowned, iiot with laurel as a poet into
the Ca})itol, but with glory, as a saint, to Heaven." Feeling his mortal
n^roiiy at hand, he closely embraced the cruciiix, and murmuring, " Into
thy hands, Lord!" peacefully resigned his spirit.

1. Safe stands our simple shed, des})IsGd our little store ;
Despised by others, but so dear to me.

That gems and crowns I hold in less esteem ;
From pride, from avarice, is my spirit free,

And mad ambition's visionary dream.

My thirst I quench in the pellucid stream,

/!',

178

THK FOUUTH RKADER.

Nor fear lest poison tlie pure wave pollutes ;

With flocks ray fields, my fields with herbage teem ;
My garden-plot supplies nutritious roots ;
And my brown orchard bends with Autumn*s Wealthiest
fruits.

2. Few are our wishes, few our wants ; man needs

But little to preserve the vital spark :
These are my sons ; they keep the flock that feeds,

And rise in the gray morning with the lark.

Thus in my hermitage I live ; now mark
The goats disport amid the budding brooms ;

Ndw the slim stags bound through the forest dark ;
The fish glide by, the bees hum round the blooilis ;
And the birds spread to heaven the splendor of their plranes

3. Time was (tliese gray hairs then were golden locks),

When other wishes wanton'd in my veins ;
I scorn'd the simple charge of tending flocks.

And fled disgusted from my native plains.

Awhile in Memphis I abode, where reigns
The mighty Caliph ; he admired my port,

And made me keeper of his flower-domains ;
And though to town I rarely made resort.
Much have I seen and known of the intrigues of court.

4. Long by presumptuous hopes was I beguiled,

And many, many a disappointment bore ;
But when with youth false hope no longer smiled,

And the scene pall'd that charm'd so much before, — '

I sigh'd for my lost peace, and brooded o'er
The abandoned quiet of this humble shed ;

Then farewell State's proud palaces 1 once more
To these delightful solitudes I fled ;
And in their peaceful shades harmonious days have led.

WAR OF 1812 AND DEATH OF GKN. RItorK. 179

50. War of 1812 and Death of Gkn. Brock.

1. The American Governmont assombled at tho Nhii^ara
frontiers a force of 6,300 men ; of this force, 3,170 (900 of
whom were regular troops) were at Lewiston, under the com-
mand of General Van Rensselaer. In the American reports
this army is set down at 8,000 strong;, with 1 5 pieces of field
ordnance. To oppose this force Major-General Brock had part
of the 41st and 49th Regiments, a few companies of militia,
and about 200 Indians, in all 1,500 men ; but so dispersed in
different posts at and between Fort Erie and Fort George,
that only a small number was available at any one i)oint.

2. Before daylight on the morning of the 13th of October,
a large division of General Van Rensselaer's army, numbering
between 1,300 and 1,400, under Brigadier-General Wads-
worth, effected a landing at the lower end of the villpge of
Queenston (opposite Lewiston), and made an attack upon the
position, which was defended with the most determined brave-
ry by the two flank companies of the 49th Regiment, com-
manded by Captains Dennis and Williams, aided by such of
the militia forces and Indians as could be collected in the vi-
cinity. Captain Dennis marched his company to the landing
place opposite Lewiston, and was soon followed by the light
company of the 49th, and the few militia who could be hastily
assembled. Here the attempt of the enemy to effect a pas-
page was for some time successfully resisted, and several boats
were either disabled or sunk by the fire from the one-gun bat-
tery on the heights and that from the masked battery, about
a mile below. Several boats were, by the fire from this last
battery, so annoyed, that falling before the landing-place, tliey
were compelled to drop down with the current and re-cross to
the American side. A considcraljle force, however, had effect-
ed a landing some distance above, and succeeded in gaining the
summit of the mountain. No resistance could now be offered
to the crossing from Lewiston, except by the battery at Vro-
mont's Point, half a mile below, and from this a steady and
harassing fire was kept up, which did considerable cxecutiou.

180 TlIK FOUUTH KEADEB.

3. At this juncture Sir Isaac Brock arrivrd. He had for
days suspected this invasion, and on the preceding evening he
called his staff together and gave to each the necessary in-
structions. Agreeable to his usual custom he rose before day.
light, f^nd, hearing the cannonade, awoke Major Glegg, and
called for his horse Alfred, which Sir James Craig had pre-
sented to him. He then galloped eagerly from Fort Georgo
to the scene of action, and with two aides-de-camp passed up
the hill at full gallop in front of the light company, under a
heavy fire of nitillery and musketry from the American shore.
On reaching the 18-pounder battery at the top of the hill,
they dismounted and took a view of passing events, which at
that moment appeared highly favorable. But in a few min-
utes a firing wt^s heard, which proceeded from a strong de-
tachment of American regulars under Captain Wool, who, as
just stated, had succeeded in gaining the brow of the heights
in rear of the battery, by a fisherman's path up the rocks,
which being reported as impossible, was not guarded. Sir
Isaac Brock and his aides-de-camp had not even time to re-
mount, but were obliged to retire precipitately with the twelve
men stationed in the battery, which was quickly occupied by
the enemy. Captain Wool having sent forward about 150
regulars, Captain Williams' detachment of about 100 men
advanced to meet them, personally directed by the General,
who, observing the enemy waver, ordered a charge, which was
promptly executed ; but as the Americans gave way, the re-
sult was not equal to his expectations. Captain Wool sent a
reinforcement to his regulars, notwithstanding which, the
whole was driven to the edge of the bank. Here some of
the American officers were on the point of hoisting a white
flag with an intention to surrender, when Captain Wool tore
it off and reanimated his dispirited troops. They now openea
a heavy fire of musketry, and, conspicuous from his cross, his
height, and the enthusiasm with which he animated his little
band, the British commander was soon singled out, and he
fell about an hour after his arrival.

4. The fatal bullet entered his right breast, and passed
through his left side. He had but that instant said, " Push

TlIK BATTLE OF QUKRN8T0N IIEIGHT8.

181

\ for
igho
ry in-
3 day.

;, and

i prc-

leorgd

icd up

nder a

shore.

le hill,

lich at

sw min-

)ng de-

who, as

heights

} rocks,

A, Sir

le to re-

B twelve

pied hy

3ut 150
00 men
eneral,
lich was
the ro-
ll sent a
Ich, the
some of
a white
ool tore
opened
TOSS, his
is little
and be

passed
«' Pusb

on the York Volnntecra 1" and he lived only long cnongh to
request that his fall niigiit not be noticed, or prevent the ad-
vance of his brave troops ; adding a wish which could not be
distinctly understood, that some token of remembrance should
^be transmitted to his sister. lie died unmarried, and on the
same day, a week previously, he had completed his forty-third
year. The lifeless corpse was immediately conveyed into a
house close by, where it remained until the afternoon, unper-
ceived by the enemy. His Provincial Aide-de-camp, Lieuten-
ant-Colonel McPonell of the militia, and the Attorney-Gen-
eral of Upper Canada, a fine promising young man, was mor-
tally wounded soon after his chief, and died the next day, at
the early age of twenty-five years. Although one bullet had
passed through his body, and he was wounded in four places,
yet he survived twenty hours, and during a period of excru-
ciating agony his thoughts and words were constantly occu-
pied with lamentations for his deceased commander and friend.
He fell while gallantly charging up the hill with 190 men,
chiefly York A^olunteers, by which charge the enemy was
compelled to spike the 18-pounder in the battery there.

60J. The Battle of Queenston Heights.

1. At this time, about two in the afternoon, the whole
British and Indian force thus assembled was about 1,000
men, of whom 600 were regulars. In numbers the Americana
were about equal — courage they had, but they wanted the
confidence and discipline of British soldiers.

2. After carefully reconnoitering, Gen. Sheaffe, who had ar-
rived from Fort George, and who had now assumed the com-
mand, commenced the attack by an advance of his left flank,
composed of the light company of the 41st, under Lieutenant
Mclntyre, supported by a body of militia and Indians. After
a volley, the bayouet was resorted to, and the American right
driven in. The main body now advanced under cover of the
fire from the two three-pounders, and after a short conflict
forced the AmtTicans over the first rid^je of the heights to

IMAGE EVALUATION
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WEBSTER, N.Y. MSSO

(716)172-4503

182

THE FOURTH READKIt.

f:% r

the road leading from Queenston to the Falls. The fight was
maintained on both sides witli courage truly heroic. The
British regulars and militia charged in rapid succession until
they succeeded in turning the ^; ft flank of the enemy's col-
umn, which rested on the summit of the hill. The Americans
who attempted to escape into the woods were quickly driven
back by the Indians ; and many, cut off in their return to the
main body, and terrified by the sight of these exasperated
warriors, flung themselves wildly over the cliffs, and endeav-
ored to cling to the bushes which grew upon them ; but some,
losing their hold, were dashed frightfully on the rocks be-
neath ; while others, who reached the river, perished in their
attempts to swim across it. The event of the day no longer
appeared doubtful.

3. Major-General Yan Rensselaer, commanding the Ameri-
can army, perceiving his reinforcements embarking very slowly,
recrossed the river to accelerate their movements ; but, to his
utter astonishment, he found that at the very moment when
their services were most required, the ardor of the unengaged
troops had entirely subsided. General Van Rensselaer rode
in all directions through the camp, urging his men by every
consideration to pass over. Lieutenant-Colonel Bloome, wIiq
had been wounded in the action and recrossed the river, to-
gether with Judge Peck, who happened to be in Lcwiston at
the time, mounted their horses and rode through the camp,
exhorting the companies to proceed, but all in vain. Crowds
of the United States militia remained on the American bank
of the river, to which they had not been marched in any order,
but ran as a mob ; not one of them would cross. Tliey had
seen the wounded recrossing ; they had seen the Indians ; and
they had seen the "green tigers," as they called the 4&th
from their green facings, and were panic struck. There were
those to be found in the American ranks who, at this critical
juncture, could talk of the Constitution and the right of the
militia to refuse crossing the imaginary line which separates
the two countries.

4. General Van Rensselaer having found that it was impos-
sible to urge a single man to cross the river to reinforce the

army
its ar
retrea
ferry ]
ton, C(
reland
was, tj
mainta
self an
o'clock
5. 1
w'ounde
loss tha
ors tak
amongsi
the cout
find mo.<
memory
nadian a
the loss
colonel
general c
»him wort
6. The
of Brocli
to perpe
strunient
ccuting
fresh in
a lofty CO
he fell,
summit ^
River, w
was a Tu{
statue ;
and the
railing,
ten feet in

THE BATfLK OF QUEENSTON HEIGHTS.

183

r\xi was
3. The
on until
ly's col-
naericans
ly driven
pn to the
isperated
[ endeav-
3ut some,
rocks be-
d in their
110 longer

he Ameri-
nj slowly,
but, to his
oient when
unengaged
elaer rode
n by every
oome, wlio
river, to-
icwiston at
the camp,
Crowds
»rican bank
any order,
Tliey had
idians ; and
d the 4&th
There were
this critical
•ight of the
jh separates

t was inipos-
einforce the

army on the heights, and that army having nearly expended
its ammunition, boats were immediately sent to cover their
retreat ; but a desultory fire which was maintained upon the
ferry from a battery on the bank at the lower end of Queens-
ton, completely dispersed the boats, and many of the boatmen
relanded and fled in dismay. Brigadier-General Wadsworth
was, therefore, compelled, after a vigorous conflict had been
maintained for some tune upon both sides, to surrender him-
self and all his officers and 900 meii between three and four
o'clock in the afternoon.

5. The loss of the British army was 16 killed and 69
wounded ; while that on the side of the Americans was not
less than 900 men, made prisoners, and one gun and two col-
ors taken, and 90 killed and about 100 wounded. But
amongst the killed of the. British army, the government and
the country had to deplore the loss of one of their bravest
and most zealous generals in Sir Isaac Brock, and one whose
memory will long live in the warmest affections of every Ca-
nadian and British subject. The country had also to deplore
the loss of the eminent services and talents of Lieutenant-
colonel McDoncll, Provincial Aide-de-camp and Attorney-
general of the Province, whose gallantry and merit rendered

»him worthy of his chief. ,

6. The gratitude of the people of Canada to the memory
of Brock was manifested in an enduring form. They desired
to perpetuate the memory of the hero who had been the in-
strument of their deliverance, and they were not slow in ex-
ecuting their design ; and whilst his noble deeds were still
fresh in the memory of all, the Provincial Legislature erected
a lofty column on the Queenston heights, near the spot where
he fell. The height of the monument from the base to the
summit was 135 feet ; and from the level of the Niagara
River, which runs nearly under it, 485 feet. The monument
was a Tuscan column on rustic pedestal, with a pedestal for a
statue ; the diameter of the base of the column was 11^ feet,
and the abacus of the capital was surmounted by an iron
railing. The centre shaft containing the spiral staircase was
ten feet in diameter.

184

THE FOURTH READER.

7. On Good Friday, the Hth of April, 1840, a vagabond
of the name of Lett introduced a quantity of gunpowder into
the monument with the fiendish purpose of destroying it, and
the explosion effected by a train caused so much damage as to
render the column altogether irreparable. Lett had been
compelled to fly into the United States for his share in the
rebellion of 1837, and well knowmg the feeling of attachment
to the name and memory of General Brock which pervaded all
classes of Canadians, he sought to gratify his malicious and
vindictive spirit, and at the same time to wound and insult the
people of Canada by this atrocious deed.

8. After the first monument had remained in the dilapi-
dated condition to which it was reduced for some years, a
new and beaatiful column has a short tune ago been raised on
its site. It is thus described :

9. Upon the solid rock is built a foundation, 40 feet square
and 10 feet thick, of massive stone ; upon this the structure
stands in a grooved plinth or sub-basement 38 feet square and
27 feet in height, and has an eastern entrance by a massive
oak door and bronze pateras, forming two galleries to the
interior 114 feet, in extent, round the inner pedestal, on the
north and south sides of which, in vaults under the ground
floor, are deposited the remains of General Brock, and those .

^ of his aide-de-camp. Colonel McDonell, in massive stone sar-
cophagi. On the exterior angles of the sub-basement are
placed lions rampant 7 feet in height, supportmg shields with
the armorial bearings of the hero.

10. The column is of the Roman composite order 95 feet
in height, a fluted shaft, 10 feet diameter at the base ; the
loftiest column known of this style ; the lower one enriched
with laurel leaves, and the flutes terminating on the base with
palms.

11. The height from the ground to the top of the statue is
190 feet, exceeding that of any monumental column, ancient
or modern, known, with the exception of that on Fish-street
Hill, London, England, by Sir Christopher Wren, architect,
in commemoration of the great fire of 1 666, 202 feet high,
which exceeds it in height by 12 feot. ,_

ADVICE TO A YOUNG CRITIO.

185

61. Advice to a Young Critio.

' POPE.

Alkxander Pope will always be popular "while the English language
remains as it is. One of his merits was to mould tlie language of poetry
into pliancy and softness: — before his time there was much ruggedness iu
tiie diction even of the most celebrated poets. Some of his pieces are re-
pulsive to the sentiments of religion and morals. He died in 1744.

1. 'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning join ;
In all you speak, let truth and candor shine ;
That not alone what to your sense is due

All may allow, but seek your friendship too.
Be sileiit always, when you doubt your sense,
And speak, though sure, with seeming difiBdence.

2. Some positive, persisting fops we know,
Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so :
But you, with pleasure, own your errors past,
And make each day a critic on the last.

'Tis not enough your counsel to be true :
Blunt truths more mischief than slight errors do ;
Men must be taught, as if you taught them not,
And things unknown proposed, as things forgot.

3. Without good breeding truth is disapproved ;
That only makes superior sense beloved.

Be niggard of advice on no pretence ;

For the worst avarice is that of sense.

With mean complacence ne'er betray your trust,

Nor be so civil as to prove unjust.

Fear not the anger of the wise to raise ;

Those best can bear reproof, who merit praise.

4. But Where's the man who counsel can bestow,
Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know ;
Unbiass'd, or by favor, or by spite ;

Not dully prepossess'd, nor blindly right ;

Though learn'd, well-bred; and, though well-bred, sincere;

Modestly bold, and humanly severe ;

186

THE FOURTH READER.

Who to a friend his faults can freely show,
And gladly praise the merit of a foe ?

5. Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfined ;
A knowledge both of books and human kind ;
Generous converse, a soul exempt from pride,
And love to praise with reason on his side ;
Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame ;
Still pleased to praise, yet not afraid to blame ;
Averse alike to flatter or offend ;
Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend ?

62. Loss AND Gain.

DR. NEWMAN.

John Henuy Newman, D.D., superior of the Oratory in England, born
21st February, ISOl. In 1S?45 he became a convert to "the Catholic faith,
and was ordained priest in Rome, May 26, 1847. He was a}:ipointed iiist
rector of the Catholic University of Ireland, which office he tilled for sev-
eral years. Dr. Newman is undoubtedly one of the leading minds of the
present century. His Engiiah style is unrivalled in any age for majesty,
copiousness, and long-drawn but sustained harmony. Jlis learning: is
quite a nuirvel among Englishmen, and is united with -a profound and
subtle analytic genius. " Loss and Gain," and " Callista,'' are works of
fiction in whicli he l>as displayed as singular a versatility.

1. The conversation flagged ; Bateman was again busy with
his memory, and he was getting impatient, too ; time was
slipping away, and no blow struck. Moreover, Willis was
beginning to gape, and Charles seemed impatient to be re-
leased. " These Romanists put things so plausibly," he said
to himself, " but veiy unfairly, most unfairly ; one ought to
be up to their dodges. I dare say, if the truth were knov.n,
Willis has had lessons ; he looks so demure. I dare say he
is keeping back a great deal, and playing upon 4jiy ignorance.
Who knows ? perhaps he's a concealed Jesuit."

2. It was an awful thought, and suspended the course ofj
his reflections some seconds. " I wonder what he does really
think ; it's so difficult to get at the bottom of them ; tliev j
won't tell tales, and they are under obedience; one never
knows when to believe them. I suspect he has been wofully

service,' w

L083 AND GAIN.

187

ae ;

nd?

England, bnrn

Catholic faith,

appointed tiist

e tilled tor stv-

^ minds of the

(re for niiiicsty,

\\» leurniiitr is

profound <iiid

'' are works of

lin busy with
) ; time was
Willis v-as
snt to be re-
ly," he said
ne ought to
,vere known,
dare say lie
y ignorance.

lie course of
le does really

I them ; tliey I
one never

I'been wofully

disappointed witli Romanism, he looks so thin ; but of course
he won't say so : it hurts a man's pride, and he likes to be
consistent ; he doesn't like to be lauglud at, and so he makes
the best of tilings.

3. "I wish I knew how to treat him ; I

was wrong m

having Ileding liere ; of course Willis would not be coniidcu-
tial before a third person. He's like the fox that lost his
tail. It was bad tact in me ; I see it now ; what a thing it
is to have tact I it requires very delicate tact. There are so
many things I wish to say about Indulgences, about their so
seldom communicating ; I think I must ask him about the
Mass." So, after fidgeting a good deal within, while he was
ostensibly employed in making tea, he commenced his last as-
sault.

4. " Well, we shall have you back again among us by next
Christmas, Willis," he said ; " I can't give you greater law ;
I am certain of it ; it takes time, but slow and sure. What
a joyful time it will be I I can't tell what keeps you ; you
are doing nothing ; you are flung into a corner ; you are
wasting life. What keeps you ?" Willis looked odd ; and
then simply answered, " Grace." Bateman was startled, but
recovered himself , "Heaven forbid," he said, "that I should
treat these things lightly, or interfere with you unduly.

5. " I know, my dear friend, what a serious fellow you are ;
but do tell me, just tell me, how can you justify the Mass, as
it is performed abroad ? how can it be called a ' reasonable
service,' when all parties conspire to gabble it over ; as if it
mattered not a jot who attended to it, or even understood it ?
Speak, man, speak," he added, gently shaking him by the
shoulder.

6. " These are such difficult questions,'^ answered Willis ;
"must I speak? Such difficult questions," he continued,
rising into a more animated manner, and kindling as he went
on; "I mean, people view them so dififerently ; it is so diffi-
cult to convey to one person the idea of another. The idea
of worship is different in the Catholic Church from the idea
of it in your Church ; for, in truth, the religions are differ-
ent. Don't deceive yourself, my dear Bateman," he said ten-

188

THE FOUKTU READER.

derly, "it is not that ours is your religion carried a little
farther — a little too far, as you would say. No, they differ |
in kind, not in degree ; ours is one religion, yours another.

7. " And when the time comes, and come it will for yon,
alien as you are now, to submit yourself to the gracious yolio
of Christ, then, my dearest Bateman, it will be faith wliiih
will enable you to bear the ways and usages of Catholic',
which else might perhaps startle you. Else, the habits of
years, the associations in your mind of a certain outward be- 1
havior, with real inward acts of devotion, might embarrass
you, when you had to conform yourself to other habits, and
to create for yourself other associations. But this faith, of |
which I speak, the great gift of God, will enable you in that
day to overcome yourself, and to submit, as your judgment,
your will, your reason, your affections, so your tastes and
likings, to the rule and usage of the Church.

8. "Ah, that faith should be necessary in such a matter,
and that what is so natural and becoming under the circum-
stances, should have need of an explanation I I declare, to i
me," he said, and he clasped his hands on his knees, and|
looked forward as if soliloquizing, " to me nothing is so con-
soling, so piercing, so thrilling, so overcoming, as the Mass,
said as it is among us. I could attend masses forever, and
not be tired. It is not a mere form of words — it is a great
action, the greatest action that can be on earth. It is not
the invocation merely, but, if I dare use the word, the evoca-
tion of the Eternal. He becomes present on the altar in flesh
and blood, before whom angels bow and devils tremble. This I
is that awful event wiiich is the end, and is the interpretation,
of every part of the solemnity.

9. " Words are necessary but as means, not as ends ; they |
are not mere addresses to the throne of grace, they are in-
struments of what is far higher — of consecration, of sacrifice.
They hurry on as if impatient to fulfil their mission. Quickly |
they go, the whole is quick ; for they are all parts of one in-
tegral action. Quickly they go ; for they are awful words of I
sacrifice, they are a work too great to delay upon ; as when |
it was said in the beginning, * What thou doest, do quickly.'

LOSS AND GAIN.

189

Quickly they pass ; for the Lord Jesus goes with them, as
He passed along the lake in the days of His flesh, quickly
calling first one and then another.

10. " Quickly they pass ; because as the lightning which
sliineth from one part of the heaven unto the other, so is the
coming of the Son of Man. Quickly they pass ; for they are
as the words of Moses, when the Lord came down in a cloud,
calling on the Name of the Lord as He passed by, ' The
Lord, the Lord God, merciful and gracious, long suflFering,
and abundant in goodness and truth.' And as Moses on
the mountain, so we, too, ' make haste and bow our heads to
the earth, and adore.' So we, all around, each in his place,
|look out for the great Advent, ' waiting for the moving of the
water.'

11. " Each in his place, with his own heart, with his own
ants, with his own thoughts, with his own intentions, with
is own prayers, separate but concordant, watching what is
oing on, watching its progress, uniting in its consummation ;
ot painfully and hopelessly following a hard form of prayer
rom beginning to end, but like a concert of musical instru-
euts, each different, but concurring in a sweet harmony, we
ake our part with God' s priest, supporting him, yet guided

forever, and fr ^^"^•

it is a areat I ■^^' " There are little children there, aind old men, and sim-

" le laborers, and students in seminaries, priests preparing for

, priests making their thanksgiving ; there ire innocent

aidens, and there are penitents ; but out ot t nese many

iuds rises one eucharistic hymn, and the great Action is the

easure and the scope of it. And oh, my dear Bateman,"

e added, turning to him, "you ask me whether this is not a

rmal, unreasonable service ? It is wonderful I" he cried,

ing up, "quite wonderful. When will these dear good

•ied a little
, they dilTer
another,
'ill for yon,
acious yoko
faith wliiili
f Catholics,
tie habits of
outward be-
t embarrass
• habits, and
this faith, of
B you in that
ar judgment,
r tastes and

ich a matter,
r the circum-
I declare, to
lS knees, and|
ins: is so coiv
as the Mass,

n. It is not
d, the evoca-
altar in flesh
•emble. This
terpretatioD,

thev

ends ,

they are in-

f sacrifice W^r-^ ^^ enlightened? O Wisdom, strongly and sweetly dis- ^
' "osing all things I Adonai I Key of David, and Ex-

of one in- ■'^•^^^^^^'^ of nations — come and save us, O Lord our God I"
f 1 words of B^^' ^ow, at least, there was no mistaking Willis. Bate-
as when Wp- started, and was almost ff ightened at a burst of enthu-
do auicklv. W^"'^ '^^^^^^^ ^e had been far from expecting. " Why, Willis,"

190

THE F(^URTU RKADKR.

ho said, "it is not true, tlien, after all, what we heard, tlitit
you were somewhat dubious, siiaky, in your adherence to Ko-
manism ? I'm sure I beg your pardon ; I would not for tlio
world have annoyed you, had I known the truth." Willis's
face still glowed, and he looked as youthful and radiant as he
had been two years before.

14. There was nothing ungentle in his impetuosity ; f
smile, almost a laugh, was on his face, as if he was half
ashamed of his own warmth ; but this took nothing from its
evident sincerity. He seized Bateman's two hands, before
the latter knew where he was, lifted him up out of his seat,
and raising his own mouth close to his ear, said in a low
voice, " I would to God, that not only thou, but also nil
who hear me this day, were both in Httle and in much such as
I am, except these chains." Then, reminding him it had
grown late, and bidding him goodnight, he left the room
with Charles.

15. Bateman remained awhile with his back to the fire after
the door had closed ; presently he began to give expression
to his thoughts. " Well," he said, " he's a brick, a regular
brick ; he has almost afiFected me myself. What a way those
fellows have with them ; I declare his touch has made my
heart beat ; how catching enthusiasm is I Any one but I
might really have been unsettled. He is a real good fellow ;
what a pity we have not got him 1 he's just the sort of a mani
we want. He'd make a splendid Anglican ; he'd convert half
the dissenters in the country** Well, we shall have them inl
time ; we must not be impatient. But the idea of his talking!
of converting me ! * in little and in much,' as he worded it I
By the by, what did he mean by * except these chains ?' "

16. He sat ruminating on the difficulty ; at first he was
inclined to think that, after all, he might have some misgiv-]
ings about his position ; then he thought that perhaps he had
a hair shirt or a catenella on him ; and lastly, he came to tlia
conclusion that he had just meant nothing at all, and did bulj
finish the quotation he had begun. After passing some 11
time in this state, he looked towards the tea-tray ; pourcti
himself out another cup of tea ; ate a bit of toast ; took thj

coals off
the other
steep twii

Sir ARoin

|onTa.ste," m
Itoiyof Euro]
Irestorotion of
jiike a man wl
Itbat of un En
Jidly, and oft(
|»utl]ority.

1. His Ii

fieart-rendinj
ppartment c
and the Pri
■nshed into \
for some mi

2. The Kii
ess Royal oi
kng Dauph
kly two h
^•nily, freque
lently evincec
Fclligence of
K Louis aroi
lessing to the
fbraced aroi
pntteredtl:
[• "Iwill see
^^luoi at
'"I," answere
p- These wor
'^. that the la

THE LAST H0UK3 OF LOUIS XVI,

191

eard, tluit
\cc to Uo-

lot for tlio
' Willis's
iiant as lie

ituosity; f
e was half
\<T from its
i,nd8, before
of his seat,
id in a low
but also all
Quch such as
bim it had
ift the room

coals off the fire ; blew out one of the candles, and taking up
the other, left the parlor, and wound like an omnibus up the
steep twisting staircase to his bedroom.

53. The Last Hours of Louis XYI.

ALISON.

the fire after

Sir AuoinBALD Alison— son of the well-known author of the '• Essay
lonTaiite," was born in Scotland, in 1792. Ilia great work is "The His-
tory of Europe, from the coininencement of the French Revolution, to the
restoration ot tlie Bourbons." His style ia rich and flowing, and he writes
[like a man who has no wish to be unfair; but his point of view is always
Itbat of an Englishman and a tory. His History has been written too rap-
lidly, and often betruys marks of haste, which destroys its value as uu
jtuthority.

1. His last interview with his family presented the most
eart-rending scene. At half-past eight, the door of his
partment opened, and the Queen appeared, leading by the
expression M^^ the Princess Royal, and the Princess Elizabeth ; they all
• k a regular ■'^^^^l ^^*o *^® ^^^^ °^ *^^ King. A profound silence ensued
away those ■^'^ some minutes, broken only by the sobs of the afflicted

tlas made my
ly one but I
p-ood fellow;

Isort of a manBoing Dauphin between his knees. This terrible scene lasted
convert halffcrly two hours, the tears and lamentations of the royal
have them infcily, frequently interrupting the words of the King, sufl&-
of his talkingB«% evinced that he himself was communicating with the
worded it Intelligence of his condemnation. At length, at a quarter-past
'bains V " ■"' ^^^^ afose ; the Royal parents gave, each of them, their
first he wasBfissiDg to the Dauphin, while the Princess still held the King
some misgivw^'^ced around the waist. As he approached the door,
^rbaps he haclBey uttered the most piercing shrieks. " I assure you," said
e came to tbM " I will see you again in the morning at eight o'clock."
and did hulBfliy not at seven?" they all exclaimed. "Well, then, at
I gQuie littlften," answered the King. " Adieu, adieu !"
-tray • poukB^- These words were pronounced with so mournful an ac-
last • took tb^t, that the lamentations of the family were redoubled, and

2. The King took a seat, the Queen on his left, the Prin-
ss Royal on his right, Madame Elizabeth in front, and the

192

THK FOURTH RKADUR.

the Princess Royal fell fainting at his feet. At length, wish.
ing to put an end to so trying a scene, the King embrace I
tliem all in the tcndcrcst manner, and tore himself from their
arms.

4. The remainder of the evening he spent with his confer;,
sor, the Abb6 Edgeworth, who, with heroic devotion, dis-
charged the perilous duty of assisting his monarch in his last
moments. At twelve he went to bed, and slept peacefully till
five. He then gave his last instruction to C16ry, and put into
his hands the little property that still remained in his hands,
a ring, a seal, and a lock of hair. " Give this ring," said he,
*' to the Queen, and tell her with how much regret I leave
her ; give her also the locket containing the hair of my chil-
dren ; give this seal to the Dauphin, and tell them all what I
suffer at dying without receiving their last embrace, but I
wish to spare them the pain of so cruel a separation." He
then received the Holy Sacrament, from the hands of his con-
fessor, from a small altar erected in his chamber, and heard
the last service of the dying, at the time when the rolling of
the drums, and the agitation of the streets, announced tlic
preparation for his execution.

5. At nine o'clock, Santerre presented himself in the Tem-
ple. " You come to seek me," said the King. " Allow me
a mmute." He went into his closet, and immediately return-
ed with his Testament in his hand. " I pray you," said he,
"give this packet to the Queen, my wife." " That is no con-
cern of mine," replied the representative of the municipality.!
" I am here only to conduct you to the scaffold." The King|
then asked another to take charge of the document, and
to Santerre, "Let us be off." In passing through the court|
of the Temple, Louis cast a last look at the tower which con-
tained all that was most dear to him on earth, and"" immedi-
ately summoning all his courage, seated himself calmly in tli(
carriage beside his confessor, with two gendarmes on the o]
posite side. During the passage to the place of executioDJ
which occupied two hours, he never failed reciting the psali
which were pointed out to him by the good priest. Even thi
soldiers were astonished at his composure.

held i

of tn

(iiian

nny ai

jiiiice (

the a

(lrcfis('(

/icd a

hind h

hiunce
ieriij^s.'
1. A
foot of
tion of .
He no I
the fron
on tweni
heard, ai
crimes la
nnd pray
you, my
flrunis to

seized the
Jieroic con
his soverei

"Life of A].,,
"iinibie spocii
to tlie stock c

^- At th
ancient cou
excellent C(

■P"^

GOD 8 8IIAUE.

VJS

gth, wish-
embraced
from their

ais coufis-
otion, dis-

in his last
accfully till
ud put into
1 his hands,
g," said bo,
rret I leave

of my chil-
li all what 1
3race, hut I
ation." He
is of his con-
sr, and heard
the rolling of I
lounced tbo |

in the Tcm-
" Allow me I
[lately return-'

said be.

[ municipality.
The King
lent, and said
[gh the court!
er which con'
and* immedi
[calmly in tin
jes on the o
|of execution,
^g the psali
it. Even thi

ft. Tho streets wore filled with an imin(Miso orowd, wlio 1)C-
licld ill silent disiniiy the iiiouniru! procession. A Iiir^e IxMJy
of troops snrroundi'd tin; einTi;ij;'e. A double file of National
Ounrds, and a formidublo array of cannon, ri'ndered hopeless
any attempts at rescue. When the procession arrived at tho
jjlacc of execution, between the gardens of tlic Tnilerics and
the Chumps Elysoes, he descended from the carrinp^e, and un-
dressed himself without tho aid of the executioners, but testi-
fied a momentary look of indii^nation, when they be^j^an to
hind his hands. M. Edgewortli exclaimed with almost in-
spired felicity, " Submit to this outraj^e as the last resem-
blance to the Saviour, who is about to recompense your suf-
lt'riiifj;s."

t. At these words, Ik; resigned himsc If, and walk^nl to the
foot of the scaffold. Here he received the sublime benedic-
tion of his confessor, " Son of St. Louis, ascend to heaven 1"
He no sooner mounted, than advancing with a firm step to
the front of the scaffold, with one look he imposed silence
on twenty drummers, placed there to prevent him from being
heard, and said with a loud voice : " I die innocent of all
crimes hiid to my charge. I pardon the authors of my death,
and pray God that my blood may not fall upon France. And
you, my people — " At these words, Santerrc ordered tho
drums to beat ; the executioners seized the King, and the de-
scending axe terminated his existence. One of the assistants

^\ ' ^ nnJB seized the head, and waved it in the air ; the blood fell on the
tat 18 no coD-B . n , , . i i xi i-x- 1 i j i.

heroic confessor, who was on his knees by the lifeless body of
his sovereign.

64. God's Share.

McLEOD.

Donald MoLkod is a convert to the Catholic fiiith.# He has written a
"Life nf Miiry, Queen of Scots," a " Lifo of Sir Walter Scott," both ad-
iiiinil)le specimens of biography. He has contributed several other works
to tlie Htoek of American literature,

1. At the distance of some leagues from Fribourg, in the
ancient county of Gruytire, lived, in the good old tune, the
excellent Count Peter III. ; and when his race was run, he

9 . '

.-<<««?.s

194:

THE FOURTH READER.

departed this life in a good Christian manner, leaving his
memory and his property to his widow Wilhelmette.

2. The lady Wilhelmette had, in her province, a certain
mountain, fruitful in snows and torrents, very grand to look
at, but very unproductive. To this she joined some acres of
good pasture-land, and gave it all to the Carthusians, asking
them to pray for her, for her young son, and for good Count
Peter the departed. To it she gave the name of Theil-Oottes,
or Pars-Dieu — the share of God ; and got Bochard, monk of
Val Saint, appointed the first Prior.

3. The monks went stoutly to work ; they cleared the
forest, they terraced parts of the mountain-side, they brought
soil thither with much labor, and sowed abundantly, and
planted. And soon the voice of prayer made sweet the soli-
tudes, and alms were ready for the wandering poor ; and the
cross upon the tower and the mellow bell told the poor moun-
taineer that God was beside him.

4. Little by little, the people gathered round and built their
humble houses there ; and the wilderness smiled, and there
was another home of torrents won from rough Nature for a
house of prayer. This was in a. d. 1308. In the year 1800,
the ancient convent was burned down ; but the monks con-
trived to build it up again, without diminishing their alms.
And so it stood until that melancholy Revolution, lifting up
radicalism, drove the good fathers from their home, and left
the empty halls of " God's Share" to tell to the wanderinpf
stranger the story of their benevolence.

65. Old Times.

GRIFFIN.

Gerald Griffin, a distinguished novelist nnd dramatist of Jie present
century, was born near Limerick, in 1803. At aa early age, when his talents
were winning him fame and popularity in London, whither he had repaired,
as he pleasantly expresses it in one of his letters, " with the modest desire
of rivalling Scott and throwing Shakspeare into the shade," he suddenly
withdrew from the path of literature, and became a devoted Brother of the
Christian Schools, in which sphere of usefulness he died, in ISdO, at the
early age of 87. Some of Griflnn's novels, and especially •' The Collegians "

OLD TIMKS.

195

ing his

certain
to look
acres of
3, asking
>d Count
il-Oottes,
, monk of

ared the
r brought
,ntly, and
t the soli-
j and the
oor moun-

built their
and there
iure for a
ear 1800,
lonks con-
;beir alms,
lifting up
and left
wandering

he present
U hia talents
Iftd repaired,
lodest desire
lie suddenly
Votherofthe
f 1S40, at tl»e
ICoUcgians'

"Suil Dhn," ''Trncy's Ambition," nnd "Tales of the Fivi; Senses," are
equal to any thing of the kind in our laiijarunge. His preat hi.M'ricul novel
ot "The Invasion" contains a mine of antiquarian research, his tragedy
of *' Gvsuppus" holds ■>ne of the first places in the modern drama. As a
poet, Grittin was also eminently successful.

1. Old times I old times ! the gay old times !

When I was young and free,
And heard the merry Easier chimes,

Under the sally tree ;
My Sunday palm beside me placed,

My cross upon my hand,
A heart at rest within my breast,

And sunshine on the land 1

Old times I old times !

2. It is not that my fortunes flee.

Nor that my cheek is pale,
I mourn whene'er I think of thee,

My darling native vale !
A wiser head I have, I know,

Than when I loiter'd there ;
But in my wisdom there is woe.

And in my knowledge care,

Old times ! old times I

3. I've lived to know my share of joy,

To feel my share of pain.
To learn that friendship's self can cloy,

To love, and love in vain —
To feel a pang and wear a smile, .

To tire of other climes,
To liKe my own unhappy isle.

And sing the gay old times 1

Old times I old times I

4. And sure the land is nothing changed,
The birds are singing still ;

The flowers are springing where we ranged,
There's sunshine on the hill I ,

196

TUE FOUKTII KKADEK.

The sally w.aving o'er my head,
Still sweetly shades my frame,

But ah, those happy days are fled,
And I am not the same I

Old times I old times 1

6. Oh, come again, ye merry times I
Sweet, sunny, fresh, and calm ;
And let me hear those Easter chimes,

And wear my Sunday palm.
If I could cry away mine eyes,
My tears would flow in vain ;
If I could waste my heart in sighs,
They'll never come again I

Old times 1 old times 1

65. Character of the Irish Peasantry.

\ i- '.

barrington.

Sir Joxah Barrinoton was born in Queen's comity, Ireland, in 1707;
died, 1S34. He was a Jiidgfe of the Coni't of Admiralty, and a member of
the Irish Parliiiment. He has left behind n valuable work on a most iii-
tcrestinff period of Irish history, entitled " Kise and Fall of tlie Iri>h A':i-
tion." His Personal Sketches of the men of his times are inimitable in
their way.

1. The Irish peasantry, who necessarily compose the great
body of the population, combine in their character many of
those singular and repugnant qualities which peculiarly desig-
nate the people of different nations ; and this remarkable con-
trariety of characteristic traits pervades almost the whole
current of 'their natural dispositions. Laborious, dornostic,
accustomed to want in the midst of plenty, they submit to
hardships without repining, and bear the severest in'ivatioiis
with stoic fortitude. The sharpest wit, and the shrewdest
subtilty, which abound in the character of the Irish peasant,
generally lie concealed under the semblance of dullness, or the
a]>pearance of simplicity ; and his language, replete with the

CHARACTER OF THE IRISH PEASANTRY.

^E.

197

keenest humor, possesses an idiom of equivocation, which never
fails Buccessfuliy to evade a direct answer to an unwelcome
question.

2. Inquisitive, artful, and penetrating, the Irisli peasant
learns mankind without extensive intercourse, and has an in-
stinctive knowledge of the world, without mingling in its
societies ; and never, in any other instance, did there exist a
}icople who could display so much address and so much talent
in the ordinary transactions of life as the Irish peasantry.

3. The Irish peasant has, at all periods, been peculiarly
distinguished for unbounded but indiscriminate hospitality,
which, though naturally devoted to the necessities of a friend,
is never denied by him even to the distresses of an enemy.*
To be in want or misery, is the best recommendation to his
disinterested protection ; his food, his bed, his raiment, arc
equally the stranger's and his own ; and the deeper the distress,
the more welcome is the sufferer to the peasant's cottage.

4. His attachment to his kindred are of the strongest na-
ture. The social duties are intimately blended with the
natural disposition of an Irish peasant : though covered with
rags, oppressed with poverty, and perhaps with hunger, the
finest specimens of generosity and heroism are to be found in
his unequalled character.

5. An enthusiastic attachment to the place of their nativity
is another striking trait of the Irish character, which neither
time nor absence, prosperity nor adversity, can obliterate or
diminish. Wherever an Irish peasant was born, there he
wishes to die ; and, however successful in acquiring wealth or
rank in distant pla>ces, he returns with fond affection to renew
liis intercourse with the friends and companions of his youth
and his obscurity.

** It has been remarked that the English and Irish people form theii
judgment of strangers very differently: — an Englishman suspects a
stranger to be a rogue, till he finds that he is an honest man ; the
Irishman conceives every person to be an honest man till he finds him
out to be a rogue ; and this accounts for the very striking difference
in their conduct and hospitality to strangers.

! i

198

THE FOURTH RKADKR.

Ill

6. An innate spirit of insubordination to the laws has been
strongly charged upon the Irish peasantry: but a people to
whom the punishment of crimes appears rather as a sacrifice
to revenge than a moasure of prevention, can never have the
same deference to the law as those who are instructed in the
principles of justice, and taught to recognize its equality. It
has, however, been uniformly admitted by every impartial
writer on the affairs of Ireland, that a spirit of strict justice
has ever characterized the Irish peasant.*

7. Convince him by plain and impartial reasoning, that he
is wrong ; and he withdraws from the judgment-seat, if not
with cheerfulness, at least with submission : but, to make him
respect the laws, he must be satisfied that they are impartial ;
and, with that conviction on his mind, the Irish peasant is as
perfectly tractable as the native of any other country in the
world.

8. An attachment to, and a respect for females, is another
characteristic of the Irish peasant. The wife partakes of all
her husband's vicissitudes ; she shares his labor and his mis-
eries, with constancy and with affection. At all the sports and
meetings of the Irish peasantry, the women are always of the
company : they have a great influence ; and, in his smoky
cottage, the Irish peasant, surrounded by his family, seems to
forget all his privations. The natural cheerfulness of his dis-
position banishes reflection ; and he experiences a simple
happhiess, which even the highest ranks of society might justly
envy.

o Sir John Davis, attorney-general of Ireland, who, in the reign of
James the First, was employed by the king to establish the English
laws throughout Ireland, and who made himself perfectly acquainted
with the character of the inhabitants, admits that "there were no
people under heaven, who loved equal and impartial justice bettor
than the Irish."

ST. FRANCK9 OF ROMK.

190

67. St. Frances of Rome.

LADY FULLKRTON,

Lady G. Fulierton — Born in Encjland, in 1812. She is ft convert to the
Cutholic faith, nnd a writer of considerable merit. Her "Ellen Middle-
ton " and " Grantlv Manor" were written previous to her conversion. Her
"Lady Bird," and her beautiful "Life of St. Frances of Komo," are the
•works of a later period, and boar the unmibtakable stump of faith-inspired
genius.

1. There have been saints whose histories strike us as par-
ticularly beautiful, not only as possessing the beauty which
always belongs to sanctity, whether exhibited in an aged
servant of God, who for threescore years and more has borne
the heat and burden of the day, or in the youth who has of-
fered up the morning of his life to his Maker, and yielded it
into His hands before twenty summers have passed over his
head ; whether in a warrior king like St. Louis, or a beggar
like Benedict Labre, or a royal lady like St. Elizabeth, of
Hungary ; but also as uniting in the circumstances of their
lives, in the places they inhabited, and the epochs when they
appeared in the world, much that is m itself poetical and in-
teresting, and calculated to attract the attention of the his-
torian and the man of letters, as well as of the theologian
and the devout. -

2. In this class of saints may well be included Francesca
Romana, the foundress of the religious order of tlie Oblates
of Tor di Specchi. She was the model of young girls, the
example of a devout matron, and finally a widow, according
to the very pattern drawn by St. Paul. She was beautiful,
courageous, and full of wisdom, nobly born, and delicately
brought up. Rome was the place of her birth, and the scene
of her labors ; her home was in the centre of the great city,
Id the heart of the Trastevere ; her life was full of trials and
hair-breadth 'scapes, and strange reverses.

3. Her hidden life was marvellous in the extreme. Visions
of terror and of beauty followed her all her days ; favors such
as were never granted to any other saint were vouchsafed to
her ; the world of spu-its was continually thrown open to her
sight ; and yet, in her daily conduct, her character, and her

200

THE FOURTH READER.

ways, minute details of wliicli liave reached us, there is a
simplicity as well as a deep humility, awful ia one so highly
gifted, touching in one so highly favored.

4. Troubled and wild were^the times she lived in. Perhap?;,
if one had to point out a period in which a Catholic Christian
would rather not have had his lot cast, — one in which there was
most to try his faith and wound his feelings, — he would name
the end of the fourteenth century, and the beginning of tlie
fifteenth. War was raging all over Europe ; Italy was toin
by inward dissensions, by the rival factions of the Guelphs
and the Ghibellines.

5. So savage was the spirit with which their conflicts were
carried on, that barbarism seemed once more about to over-
spread that fair land ; and the Church itself was aflQicted not
only by the outward persecutions which strengthen its vitality,
though for a while they may appear to cripple its action, but
by trials of a far deeper and more painful nature. Heresy had
torn from her arms a great number of her children, and re-
peated schisms were dividing those who, in appearance and
even in intention, remained faithful to the Holy See.

6. The successors of St. Peter had removed the seat of
their residence to Avignon, and the Eternal City presented
the aspect of one vast battle-field, on which daily and hourly
conflicts were occurring. The Colonuas, the Orsinis, the Sa-
vellis, were every instant engaged in struggles which deluged
the streets with blood, and cut off many of her citizens in the
flower of their age. Strangers were also continually invading
the heritage of the Church, and desecrated Rome with mas-
sacres and outrages scarcely less deplorable than those of the
Huns and the Vandals.

t. In the capital of the Christian world, ruins of recent date
lay side by side with the relics of past ages ; the churches
wore sacked, burned, and destroyed ; the solitary an(} in-
destructible basilicas stood almost alone, mournfully erect
amidst these scenes of carnage and gloom ; and the eyes of the
people of Rome were wistfully directed towards that tutelary
power which has ever been to them a pledge of prosperity
and peace, and whose removal the signal of war and of misery.

SfRINO.

20J

^8- Spring,
i-ongfellow.

tlltl

W^n iS ?"',ff 5.'S^ -f o'«r ; born i„

;^ o|/iaZ;rre: •„?;; t^?^ ^^^ «H„„a„ ...•m.„ .„,

^"'allow, as herald of the season : ' ^^^ "»»"• *» <J<""-. «

"Tlje swallow is come I

"StorkI stork! poor stork I '

Why ,s thy foot so bloody I
A Turkish boy hath torn U •

aid heavy cloud-sails anrl tl.« .^ ^^ ""^ sea, with wpt
»^;W to the aast ? ' ^ ""^ "'^'^ ?«■>"<>■' of the East X]

f- a^t^?::™tZ,tr"^ ■"-'" o^^-^-h even
» mhale the balmy^r TJ^"^- '"''"'' '^^ "P-^" our wiudowj
ear the .hirriug sLnd ot%TZ% '" ^"^ ^-' "" ^ "

'"'^ — ^0- --h:ii;r Lz's -ir -

fpon the Wind JbSf'""''

'^" ueacs With ley flail." -^ .

202

THE FOURTH RKADER.

4. The red-flowering maple is first in blossom : its beautiful
purple flowers unfolding a fortnight before the leaves. The
moosewood follows, with rose-colored buds and leaves ; and
the dogwood, robed in the white of its own pure blossoms.
Then comes the sudden rain-storm ; and the birds fly to and
fro, and shriek. Where do they hide themselves in such storms?
at what firesides dry their feathery cloaks ? At the fireside
of the great , hospitable sun ; to-morrow, not before : they
must sit in wet garments until then.

5. In all climates. Spring is beautiful : in the South it is
intoxicating, and sets a poet beside himself. The birds begm
to sing : they utter a few rapturous notes, and then wait for an
answer from the silent woods. Those green-coated musicians,
the frogs, make holiday in the neighboring marshes. They,
too, belong to the orchestra of nature, whose vast theatre is
again opened, though the doors have been so long bolted
with icicles, and the scenery hung with snow and frost like
cobwebs.

6. This is the prelude which announces the opening of the
scene. Already the grass shoots forth. The waters leap with
thrilling pulse through the veins of the earth, the sap through
the veins of the plants and trees, and the blood through the
veins of man. What a thrill of delight in Spring-time ! what
a joy in being and moving !

1. Men are at work in gardens, and in the air there is an
odor of the fresh earth. The leaf buds begin to swell and
blush ; the white blossoms of the cherry hang upon the boughs,
like snow-flakes ; and ere long our next door neighbors will be
completely hidden from us by the dense green foliage. The
May flowers open tlieir soft blue eyes. Children are let loose
in the fields and gardens ; they hold buttercups under each
others' chin, to see if they love butter ; and the little girls
adorn themselves with chains and curls of dandelions, pull out
the yellow leaves, and blow the down from the leafless stalk.

8. And at night so cloudless and so still I Not a voice of
living thmg, not a whisper of leaf or waving bough, not a
breath of wind, not a sound upon the earlh nor in the air !
And overhead bends the blue sky, dewy and soft and radiant

59.

FATIIKRS DK BliKBKUF AND LALKMANT.

203

eaatlful
}. The
!S ; and
ossoms.
r to and
storms?
s fireside
e : they

ath it is
:d8 begin
ait for an
lusicians,
}. They,
theatre is
ig bolted
frost like

with innumerable stars, like the inverted bell of some blue
flower, sprinkled with golden dust, and breathing fragrance ;
or if the heavens are overcast, it is no wild storm of wind and
rain, but clouds that melt and fall in showers. One does not
wish to sleep, but lies awake to hear the pleasant sound of the
dropping rain. It was thus the Spring began in Heidelberg.

59. Martyrdom of Fathers dr I5rkbf<:uf and Lale-

MANT.
REV. J. B. A. PBRLAND.

AbbA J. B. A. Fkkland, a contemporary Frencli-Cnnadiiin writer of
considerable eminence. His principal pulilishetl works are, " 01)Hcrv:i-
tions on a History of Cannda, by the Abbd lirasseur ;" " Notes on the
Registers of Notre Daino de Qnehcc ;" " A yoyiijje to Liibnulor ;" " A
Course of Canadian History ;" " Journal of a Voyage to the Coast of
Giope ; "Life of Monseigneur Plessis," &c., <feo. Abb6 Fcrhind was
bora in Montreal, on Ciiristtnas Day, 1805.

1 . Meanwhile those Indians who had enterpd Fort St. Ig-
natius would have the pleasure of torturing the two Jesuits.
Tiie latter were already in expectation of the torments re-
served for the prisoners. Father Brebeuf had even, a little
before, announced his death as near at hand.

2. They were, in the first place, beaten with sticks, then
fastened to the stake, and tortured with fire and iron ; round
the neck of each hung a string of red-hot axes, and round
their waist is fastened a strip of bark soaked in burning pitch
and resin, while, in derision of Holy Baptism, boiling water
is poured on their head. Some recreant Hurons show them-
selves even more cruel than the fierce Iroquois, and add insult
to cruelty. " You have told us," say they, " that the more
people suflFer in this world, the happier they are in the other ;
well, we are your friends, since we procure you greater happi-
ness in heaven. You ought to thank us for rendering you
such good service."

3. In the Mght of his torments. Father Gabriel Lalemant
raised his eyes to heaven, and clasping his hands, begged of

204

TIIK FOURTH READER.

God to assist him. Father de Brcbcuf stood like a rock, in-
Bciisible to (Ire nud iron, without uttering a 8inp;lc cry, nor
even so much as a si;j;-h or groan. From time to time lie lil'ted
liis voice to announce the truth to tlie heathens, and to encour-
sige the Ciiristiaiis wliom they were torturing around him.
Exasperated by the holy freedom witli wliich he spoke to
tliem, In's executioners cut off his nose, then his lips, and
tiirust a red-hot iron into his mouth. The Christian hero
maintained the greatest composure, and his asixjct was so
firm and resolute that he seemed still to command his tor-
UK'ntors.

4. They then brought near to Father dc Brebeuf liis younger
companion covered with fir-bark, which they prepared to set
on lire. Tiirovving himself at the feet of the elder missionary,
Father Lalemant commended himself to his prayers, and re-
peated the words of the Apostle St. Paul, " We are made a
spectacle to the world, and to ai^gels, and to men." Dragging
Father Lalemant back to liis stake, they set fire to the barks
that covered him ; and his tormentors stood still to enjoy the
l)leasure of seeing him burn slowly, and to hear the groans
which he could not repress.

5. Rendered furious by the smell of blood, the Iroquois now
surpassed themselves in refinements of cruelty ; they tore out
Father Lalemant's eyes, and replaced them by burning coals ;
they cut pieces of fiesh from the thighs of the two missionaries,
which they baked on the coals, and devoured before their
eyes.

6. Father de Brebeuf 's torture lasted about three hours ; he
died on the very day of his capture, the 16th of March, 1649,
about foui: o'clock p. m. After his death the savages tore out
his heart, which they shared among them ; they hoped that
whosoever eat of it, might obtain a portion of their victim's
courage. The tormentors then threw themselves upon Father
Gabriel Lalemant, who was tortured without interruption till
nine o'clock the following morning. Even then he was indebted
for the termination of his misery to the compassion of an Iro-
quois, who, tired of seeing him languish a day and a night,
put an end to his sufferings with a blow of his tomahawk.

TIIK WILD I.II.Y AND TIIK TASSION FLOWER.

205

7. Father Gnbricl Laleinant, nephew of the two missionaries
of that name, had been hut six months in tlio Huron country.
]]orn in Paris of a family distinguished in tlie profession of
the h»w, he had taught tlie seiences for several years. IS'ot-
witlislandiug the feebleness of his frame, and the delicacy of
his constitution, lie had for years solicited the favor of being
sent on the perilous Canadian mission. Although one of tlie
lust to reach the scene of combat, he had the happiness of
being one of the first to secure the crown of martyrdom. lie
was but thirty-nine years old when he had the glory of dying,
aimouQcIng the Gospel.

60. The Wild Lily and the Passion Flower.

ROUQTJETTE.

Rev, a. RorQiJETTK is a native of New OrleniiB. Ills French poems,
niuler tlie title of Lts Savanes, wore received with much cncouraierement in
yruiice. lie liiis written u beaiitifiil unci poetical treatie^e on tlie solitary
life, entitled La Tfiehdide tu Amerique, and a volume of English poems,
culled " Wild Flowers." He is a perfect master of the melody of the English;
uikI that he is a poet by nature appears in every line, and more strikingly
in his prose than in his verse. Mr. Kouquoite was ordained a priest iu 1845.

)uquolte '

1. Sweet flower of light,
The queen of solitude,

The image bright
Of grace-born maidenhood,

Thou risest tall
Midst struggling weeds that droop :—

Thy lieges all,
They humbly bow and stoop.

Dark color'd flower.
How solemn, awful, sad I —

I feel thy power,
O king, in purple clad ! .

With head reclined,
Thou art the emblem dear

200

THK FOUUTII KKADKR.

Of woes divine ;
The flower I most revere I

t. The lily white,

The purple passion flower ,

Mount Thabor bright,
The gloomy Olive-bower.

Such is our life, —
Alternate joys and woes,

Short peace, long strife,
Few friends and many foes I

4. My friend, away
All wailings here below :

The royal way
To realms above is woe I

To suffer much
Has been the fate of Samts ;

Our fate is such : —
Away, away all plaints !

61. Illumination at St. Peter's.

DR. BNOLAND.

Right Reverend John England, D.D., first Bishop of Charleston, S. C.,"R'a9
born in Cork, in 1786, died nx Charleston in 1842. Dr. Engluiid wiis a
man of great natural abilities, and profound and varied attainments. He
was one of the greatest prelates the American Church has yet had. As a
•writer and an orator he had no superior, and few eqnals. He has eiiriolnil
our literature with essays on almost every subject Dearincr upon the inttr-
fcsts of Catholicity in this country. His works were collected and ^uh-
lishcd, in five octavo volumes, by his successor. Dr. Reynolds.

1. In my last I gave a brief description of the proces-
sion and first vespers of the festival of St. Peter and Paul,
on the 28 th ult. Preparations had been made for illuminat-
ing the exterior of the church of St. Peter's as soon as nij^bt
should fall. No description can convey to your readers an

ILLUMINATION AT 81'. TETKU 8.

a07

aiU'(|uato idea of the spcctaclo which this presents. Tho
dome is somewhat larger than tlic churcli of St. Mary of tho
Martyrs, which is the old Pantheon ; and this is not only Kur-
mounting the roof, but raised considerably above it. This
Pantheon is much larger thiU) the Circular Church,' in Meet-
ing-street. Imagine this as only one of three domes, of
which it is indeed far the largest, elevated considerably above
the roof of a church, the facjadc of which is a grand pile of
architecture ; this dome is half surrounded by columns, and
the one by which the entablature over them is crowned, is
closely ribbed to its summit ; over this is a ball, in which I
was one of eight persons, standing erect, and we had room for
at least four others, and this ball surmounted by a cross.

2. From the sides of the front two wings of splendid archi-
tecture project forward, upwards of eighty feet ; at their ex-
tremities are lofty columns, over which run the proper entab-
latures, crowned by pediments ; from these the immense colon-
nades recede almost semicircularly from each wing, sweeping
witli their hundreds of pillars round the immense piazza, capa-
ble of containing probably one hundred thousand human be-
ings upon the area within their embrace.

3. In the centre of this is a rich Egyptian obelisk, resting
upon the backs of four licrns couchant upon the angles of a
fine pedestal. Half way from this obelisk, at each side
toward the colonnade, are the two magnificent fountains,
probably the most superb in the world. Each appears to be
a spacious marble vase, elevated upon a sufiBciently strong,
but gracefully delicate stem ; the summit of this vase is at
the elevation of about twelve feet. From its centre rises to
nearly the same height another still more slender and deli-
cately-shaped stem, from whose summit is projected to a con-
siderable height, a water-spout, which gracefully bending near
its summit, and yielding to the direction of the wind, as it
forms its curve and descent, is separated into a sort of spark-
ling spray of pearls and silver intermixed; twelve other simi-

* The Circular Churcli, one of the principal buildings in Charleston,
South Carolina.

208

THE FOURTH READER.

iar spouts shoot round this central liquid column, diverging
from it on every side as they rise, and falling Vith a similar
api)L'arance at somewhat of a less elevation.

4. They seem in the distnnce to be like rich plumes of some
gMi^antic ostrich, gracefully waving in the breeze, while the
tk'scendlng shower is received in the capacious vase, from
wiiose interior it is conducted to various fountains in the citv.
lliiudreds of statues lift their various forms, appearing larger
than life, over the frieze and cornice of the colonnade ; while
at the foot of the majestic flight of steps by which you asceml
to the portico of the church, two ancient statues of St. Peter
and St. Paul have for centuries rested upon their pedes-
tals.

5. The facade of the church itself is surmounted by the co-
lossal statues of the Twelve Apostles. The illumination cou-
sisted of two parts. The lamps for the first part were dis-
posed closely, in colored paper, along the architectural lines
of this mighty mass, along the ribs of the domes, around the
ball, and on the cross.

6. To me, as I looked from the bridge of St. Angelo, the
scene appeared like a vision of enchantment. It seemed as it
a mighty pile of some rich, black, soft material, was reared in
the likeness of a stupendous temple, and the decorations were
broad lines of burning liquid gold. The ball and the cross
were seen as if detached and resting in the air above its sum-
mit. It was indeed a becoming emblem of the triumph of a
crucified Redeemer over this terrestrial ball. After I had
passed the bridge, and as I approached the piazza, the front
of the church, and the expanse of the colonnade, exhibited
their lines of light. The spegks whieh formed those lines
glowed now more distinct and separate, and though their con-
tinuity was lost, their symmetry was perfect and*magnificeut.

7. The immense piazza was thronged with earriages, and
persons on foot; while a division of the Papal dragoons, one
of the finest and best disciplined bodies of cavalry in existence,
moved in sections and single files through the multltnde,
calmly, but steadily and firmly, preserving order in a kbid,
polite, but determined maniicr. Scarcely a word is heard

ILLUMINATION AT ST. PETER S.

209

above a whisper ; an accident is of so rare an occurrence as
not to be calculated upon.

8. The cardinal secretary of state has a gallery in front of
the church, to which foreign anabassadors, and a few other
strangers of distinction are invited. I observed Captain Reed
and his lady in this gallery, and many of our officers were
promenading below. About an hour elapsed from the com-
mencement, when the motion of a brighter light was observed
towards the summit of the cupola, a large star seemed to shoot
upwards to the cross, and, as if by a sudden flash from heaven,
the whole edifice appeared to blaze in the glare of day.

9. A thousand lights, kindled by some mconceivably rapid
communication, sh«d their beams upon every part of the build-
ing. Pillars and pilasters, with their vases, shafts, and cap-
itals ; mouldings, friezes, cornices, pediments, architraves,
panels, doors, windows, niches, images, decorations, enrich-
ments, domes — all, all with their faint lines of golden light,
now softened to a milder lustre, revealed in brilliant relief to
the enraptured eye.

62. Illumination at St. Peter's — continued,

1. The fountains were magnificently grand, and richly pure,
and softened into a refreshing white. The multitude was
silent. The horses were still. The glowing cross, elevated
above the Vatican hill, beamed to the wide plains ancf distant
mountains its augury of future glory, because of past humilia-
tions. The crowd began to move ; the low buzz of conversa-
tion, and then the horses' tramp ; then followed the rattling
of wheels.

2. And while tens of thousands remained yet longer, other
thousands moved in various directions to their homes, or to
distant elevated points, for the sake of a variety of views. I
went to the magniScent Piazza del Popolo. It was literally a
desert ; but in its stillness, and the dereliction of its obelisk,
its fountains, and its statues, by the very contrast to the scfene
that I had left, there arose a feeling of new sublimity. It

210

THE FOURTH READER.

was more deep, it was more solemn ; but it was less elevated,
not so overpowering, nor so impressive as that to which it
succeeded.

3. My object was to ascend from this place to the Monte
Pincio, the commanding view from which would enable me to
look over the city at the great object which attracted every
eye. But the gates of the avenue at this side were closed,
and I had to go to the Piazza di Spagna, and there to ascend
by the immense and beautiful flight of steps to the Trinita
del Monti. Standing here, in front of the convent of the La-
dies of the Sacred Heart, the view of St. Peter's was indeed
superb.

4. I proceeded up towards the public garden^ lately formed
on the summit of this ancient residence of so many of the re-
markable men of five-and-twenty ages. At various intervals,
i stopped and turned to view the altered appearance presented
by the mass of light, as seen* from those different positions.
As I contemplated it, I reflected that it must soon be extin-
guished, like the transient glories of the philosophers, the he-
roes, the statesmen, the orators, who successively passed over
the spot on which I stood.

5. An humble fisherman from Galilee, and an obscure tent-
maker from Tarsus, were confined in the dungeons of this city.
Seventeen hundred and sixty-eight years had passed away
since one of them was crucified with his head downwards on
the Vatican Hill, and the othfer was beheaded on the Ostiaii
Way. • They had been zealously faithful in discharging the
duties of their apostleship.

6. In the eyes of men, their death was without honor; but
it was precious in the sight of God. Grateful and admirin,^
millions from year to year proclaim their praises, while the
Church exhibits their virtues as proofs of the Saviour's
grace, as models for the imitation of her sons. Oh, lot my
soul die [the death of] the just, and let my last end be lilvo
to theirs 1 Translated from this earth, they live in heaven.
Tried for a time, and found faithful, they enjoy a glorious
recompense I

7. The God that we serve is merciful in bestowing bis

mence
8. [
change
The vi
with p(
him; w

ILLUMINATION AT 8T. PETER 8.

js elevated,
to wbich it

, the Monte
aable me to
:acted every
were closed,
re to ascend
the Trinita
it of the La-
s was uidecd

lately formed
tny of tbe re-
ous intervals,
^nce presented
■eut positions.
soon be extiii-
iphers, the lie-
ly passed over

obscure tent-
is of this city.
passed aAvuy
lownwards on
Ion the Ostiaii
Ischarging the

[lit honor; but
land admirln,^
[ses, while the
Ithe Savioui'3
Oh, lot my
gt end be like
^e in heaven.
)y a glorious

)Cstowing

liis

grace, and is exceedingly bountiful in crowning his own gifts,
by giving to us, through the merits of his Son, a recompense
f.)r those acts of virtue which he enables us to perform. I
found myself again near the summit of the steps. I descended,
and retired to my home, reflecting upon the wonders wrought
by the Most High, through the instrumentality of those two
great saints, the celebration of whose festival had thus com-
menced.

8. The ardent Peter and the active Paul. The name
changed to signify the office to which he should be raised.
The vicegerent of Heaven's King, bearing the mystic keys,
with powers of legislation and of administration rested upon
him ; who of himself weak, but who, sustained by Christ, was
strong. "Before the cock shall crow twice this night, thou
shall thrice deny me. Yes I Satan hath desired to have thee,
that he might sift thee as wheat ; but I have prayed for thee,
that thy faith fail not. And thou once converted, confirm
thy brethren."

9. The strongest power that hell can muster in its gates to
make a furious assault upon that Church, the weighty ad-
ministration of which shall rest upon you, and upon those
that shall succeed you, shall from time to time be marshalled
and sent forth for the destruction of that body which the Sa-
viour organized, like a well-ordered kingdom upon earth, for
the attainment of heaven ; but the gates of hell shall not
prevail against it. The dynasties of nations have p^'ished,
the palaces of the Caesars are in ruins, their tombs have
mouldered with the bodies they contained, but the successors
of Peter continue. ^ '

10. Under the orders of Nero, the two apostles were con-
signed to what was imagined to be destruction. The vaults
of the tyrant's golden palace are covered with vegetation.
Standing on the unseemly ruins of the remnant of this mon-
ster's monument, by the side of the Flaminian Way, through
the obscurity of the night the Christian peasant looks towards
that blaze of light which, from the resting-place where the
relics of the head of the Church and of the doctor of the
Gentiles are fouud, breaks forth and irradiates the Eternal

212

THE FOURTH READER.

City and its monnmcntal environs. If Peter is elevated in
station, Paul is not less glorious in merit.

11. He, too, looked back with soitow on that day
when he held the clothes of those who slew Stephen. But
how nobly did he redeem his error I A vessel of election to
bear the good odor of Christ into the palaces of kings 1 a toj'-
rent of eloquence flowing into the barren fields of a vain phi-
losophy, to fertilize and adorn I A rich exhibition of virtue,
winning by its beauty, attracting by its symmetry, and excit-
ing to activity by emulation 1 A glowing meteor of benedic-
tion, dissipating the clouds, and warming the hearts of the
beholders to charity on earth, that they might be fitted for
glory hi heaven I

63. The Son's Return.

GEBALD GKIFFm.

1. On a sudden, she heard voices outside the window.
Alive to the slightest circumstance that was unusual, she
arose, all dark as it was, threw on her simple dress in haste,
and groped her way to the front door of the dwelling. She
recognized the voice of a friendly neighbor, and opened the
door, supposing that he might have some interesting intelli-
gence to communicate. She judged correctly .

" Good news I good news I Mrs. Reardon ; and I give yon
joy of them this morning. What will you give me for telliDg
who is in that small boat at the shore ?"

" That small boat I— what ?— where ?"

2. "Below there, ma'am, where I'm pointing my finger.
Don't you see them coming up the crag towards you ?"

" I cannot — I cannot, it is so dark," the widow replied,
endeavoring to penetrate the gloom.

" Dark I — and the broad sun shining down upon them this
whole day I"

" Day I — the sun 1 my Almighty Father 1 save me."

" What's the matter ? Don't you see them, ma'am ?"

3. " See them ?" the poor woman exclahned, placing her

THE SON 8 RETURN.

213

elevated in

I that day
ephcn. But
f election to
kings 1 a tor-
if a vain phi-
on of virtue,
py, and excit-
r of benedic-
aearts of the
be fitted for

the window,
unusual, she
Iress in haste,
welling. She
opened the
esting intelli-

nd I give you
me for telling

ig my finger.

you ?"
idow replied,

)on them this

save me."

am ?"

I, placing her

hands on her eyes, and shrieking aloud in her agony : " Oh 1 I
sliall never see him more I I am dark and blind 1''

The peasant started back and blessed himself. The next
instant the poor widow was cauglit in the arms of her son.

" Where is she ? My mother 1 O my darling mother 1 I
am come back to you. Look 1 I have kept my word."

4. She strove, with a sudden effort of self-restraint, to
keep her misfortune secret, and wept without speaking, upon
the neck of her long-absent relative, who attributed her tears
to an excess of happiness. But when he presented his young
wife, and called her attention to the happy, laughing faces and
JRiillbful cheeks of their children, the wandering of her eyes
aiul the confusion of her manner left it no longer possible to
retain the secret.

5. " My good, kind boy," said she, laying her hand heavily
on his arm, " you are returned to my old arms once more, and I
am grateful for it — but we cannot expect to have all we wish
for in this world. O my poor boy I I can never see you — I
can never see your children I I am blind."

The young man uttered a horrid and piercing cry, while he
tossed his clenched hands above his head, and stamped upon
the earth in sudden anguish. " Blind ! my mother 1 O
Heaven 1 is this the end of all my toils and wishes* ? To come
home, and find her dark forever 1 Is it for this that I have
prayed and labored ? Blind and dark 1 my poor mother I
Heaven I mother, mother 1"

6. " Hold, now, my boy — where are you ? What way is
that for a Christian to talk? Come near me, and let me
touch your hands. Don't add to my sorrows, Richard, my
child, by uttering a word against the will of Heaven. Where
are you ? Come near me. Let me hear you say that you are
ivsigned to this and all other visitations of the great Lord
of all light. Say this, my child, and your virtue will be dearer
to me than my eyes ? Ah, my good Richard I you may be
sure the Almighty never strikes us except it is for oiu* sins, or
\h' our good. I thought too much of you, my child, and the

Liird saw that my heart was straying to the world again, and
lie has struck me for the happiness of both. Let me hear that

211

THE FOURTH READER.

yoa are satisfied. I can see your heart still, and that is dearer
to me than your person. Let me see it as good and dutiful
as I knew it before you left me."

t. The disappointed exile supported her in his arms. " Well,
well, my poor mother," he said, " I am satisfied. Since you
are the chief sufferer, and show no discontent, it would be too
unreasonable that I should murmur. The will of Heaven be
done I but it is a bitter — bitter stroke." Again he folded
his dark parent to his bosom, and wept aloud ; while his wife,
reth-ing softly to a distance, hid her face in her cloak. Her
children clung with fear and anxiety to her side, and gazed
with affrighted faces upon the afflicted mother and son.

8. But they were not forgotten. After she had repeatedly
embraced her recovered child, the good widow remembered
her guests. She extended her arms towards that part of the
room at which she ^ heard the sobs and moanings of the
younger mother. " Is that my daughter's voice ?" she asked—
" place her in my arms, Richard. Let me feel the mother of
your children upon my bosom." The young woman flung
herself into the embrace of the aged widow. " Young and
fair, I am sure," the latter continued, passing her wasted fin-
gers over the blooming cheek of the good American. " I can
feel the roses upon this cheek, I am certain. But what are
these ? Tears ? My good child, you should dry our tears
instead of adding to them. Where are your children ? Let
me see — ah I my heart — ^let me feel them, I mean — ^let me
take them in my arms. My little angels 1 • Oh ! if I could
only open my eyes, for one moment, to look upon you all — but
for one little instant — I would close them again for the rest
of my life, and think myself happy. If it had happened only
one day — one hour after your arrival — ^but the will of Heaven
be done 1 perhaps even this moment, when we think our-
selves most miserable, He is preparing for us some hidden
blessing."

9. Once more the pious widow "ras correct in her conjec-
ture. It is true, that day, whicu all hoped should be a day of
rapture, was spent by the reunited family in tears and mourn-
ing. But Providence did not indeed intend that creatures

who fa

than j

transg]

10.

., throug

refuse

of thosi

his gooi

story

neighbo

his art,

was calc

took an

was alon

her stor

•

intereste(

1. "It

I, when

I am blind j

turn to se

reminds m

[again I"

2. The I
Inesswasoo
pyanunhei
lens ((
lentraace of
ppractiti(
^I»ich was (
"^f removal,
pfthe eyes,
pd restore
8 Unwill;

THE SON 8 RKTUKN.

215

it is dearer
md dutiful

IS. "Well,

Since you
ould be too
Heaven be
11 he folded
bile his wife,
cloak. Her
J, and gazed
d son.
Ld repeatedly

remembered
t part of the
Qings of the
" sbe asked—
;lie mother of
woman flung
"Young and
ler wasted fin-
Lcan. "lean

lut what are

dry our tears

dldren? Let
lean — ^let me

|h I if I could
you all— hnt

|in for the rest

lappened only

ill of HeaTen

■e think our-

some hidden

in her conjee-

ildbeadayof

rs and mourn-

Ihat creatures

who had seryed him so faithfully should be visited with more
than a temporary sorrow, for a slight and unaccustomed
transgression.

10. The news of the widow's misfortune spread rapidly
through the country, and excited universal sympathy — for few
refuse their commiseration to a fellow-creature's sorrow, even
of those who would accord a tardy and measured sympathy to
his good fortune. Among those who heard with real pity the
story of their distress, was a surgeon who resided in the
neighborhood, and who felt all that enthusiastic devotion to
his art, which its high importance to the welfare of mankind
was calculated to excite in a generous mind. This gentleman
took an early opportunity of visiting the old widow when she
was alone in the cottage. The simplicity with which she told
her story, and the entire resignation which she expressed,
interested and touched him deeply.

64 The Son's Retden — continued, *

1. " It is not over with me yet, sir," she '•oncluded, " for
, when the family are talking around me, I forget that I

am blind ; and when I hear my son say something pleasant, I
turn to see the smile upon his lips ; and when the- darkness
reminds me of my loss, it seems as if I lost my sight over
again !"

2. The surgeon discovered, on examination, that the blind-
ness was occasioned by a disease called cataract, which obscures,
by an unhealthy secretion, the lucid brightness of the crystal-
line lens (described in a former chapter), and obstructs the
entrance of the rays of light. The improvements which mod-
jcm practitioners have made in this science render this disease,

hich was once held to be incurable, now comparatively easy
f removal. The surgeon perceived at once, by the condition
f the eyes, that, by the abstraction of the injured lens, he
odd restore sight to the afflicted widow.
8 Unwilling, however, to excite hf^r hopes too suddenly

?1G

THE FOURTH READER.

■I.,.

If »d

sMa-'

or prematurely, he began by asking her whether, for a chance
of recovering the use of her eyes, she would submit to a little
paui ?

The poor woman replied, " that ^ he thought he could once
more enable her to behold her child and his children, she would
be content to undergo any pain which would not endanger her
existence." •

4. " Then," replied her visitor, " I may inform you, and I
have the strongest reasons to believe, that I can restore your
sight, provided you agree to place yourself at my disposal f(jr
a few days. I will provide you with an apartment in my
house, and your family shall know nothing of it until the euro
is eflfected."

5. The widow consented ; and on that very evening the
operation was performed. The pain was slight, and was en-
dured by the patient without a murmur. For a few days after,
the surgeon inskted on her wearing a covering over her eyes,
until the wounds which he had found it necessary to inflict
had been perfectly healed.

6. One morning, after he had felt her pulse and made tlie
necessary inquiries, he said, while he held the hand of the
widow: —

" I think we may now venture with safety to remove the
covering. Compose yourself now, my good old friend, and
suppress all emotion. Prepare your heart for the reception
of a great happiness."

1. The poor woman clasped her hands firmly together, and
moved her lips as if in prayer. At the same moment the
covering fell from her brow, and the light burst in a joyous
flood upon her soul. She sat for an instant bewildered, and
incapable of viewing any object with distinctness. The first
upon which her eyes reposed was the figure of a young maa
bending his gaze with an intense and ecstatic fondness upou
hers, and with his arms outstretched as if to anticipate the
recognition. The face, though changed and sunned since slie
had known it, was still familiar to her. She started from her
seat with a wild cry of joy, and cast herself upon the bosom |
of her son. ^ >.

THB CHEltWELL WATER-LILT.

217

If a chance
; to a little

could once
I, she would
idanger her

t yon, and I
restore your
disposal for
^ment in my
lutil the euro

evening the
, and was cu-
3W days after,
over her eyes,
sary to inflict

and made the
hand of the

,0 remove the
lid friend, and
the reception

8. She embraced him repeatedly, then removed him to a
distance, that she might have the opportunity of viewing him
with greater distinctness, and again, with a burst of tears,
flung herself upon his neck. Other voices, too, mingled with
theirs. She beheld her daughter and their children waiting
eagerly for her caress. She embraced them all, returning from
each to each, and perusing their faces and persons as if she
would never drink deep enough of the cup of rapture which
her recovered sense afforded her. The beauty of the young
mother — the fresh and rosy color of the children — the glossy
brightness of their hair — their smiles — their movements of joy
—all afforded subjects for delight and admiration, such as she
might never have experienced, had she never considered them
in the light of blessings lost for life. The surgeon, who
thought that the consciousness of a stranger's presence might
impose a restraint upon the feelings of the patient and her
friends, retired into a distant comer, whete he beheld, not
without tears, the scene of happiness which he had been made
instrumental in conferring.

9. " Richard," said the widow, as she laid her hand upon
her son's shoulder, and looked into his eyes, " did I not judge
aright when I said that even when we thought ourselves the
most miserable, the Almighty might have been preparing for
us some hidden blessing ? Were we in the right to murmur ?"

The young man withdrew his arms from his mother, clasped
them before him, and bowed down his head in silence.

66. The Cherwell "Water-Lily.

FABEB.

1. How often doth a wild flower bring

Fancies and thoughts that seem to spring

From inmost depths of feeling I

Nay, often they have power to bless

With theu" uncultured loveliness,

And far into the achins^ breast

218

TIIK FOURTH READER.

There goes a heavenly thought of rest

With their soft influence stealing.
How often, too, can ye unlock,
Dear wild flowers, with a gentle shock,

The wells of holy tears I
While somewhat of a Christian light
Breaks sweetly on the mourner's sight,

To calm unquite fears I
Ah I surely such strange power is given
To lowly flowers like dew from heaven ;
For lessons oft by them are brought,
Deeper than mortal sage hath taught.
Lessons of wisdom pure, that rise
From some clear fountains in the skies.

2. Fairest of Flora's lovely dan{<hters
That blofwi by stilly-runnmg waters,
Fair lily I thou a type must be

Of virgin love and purity I
Fragrant thou art as any flower
That decks a lady's garden-bower.
But he who would thy sweetness know.
Must stoop and r»rnd his loving brow
To catch thy scent, so faint and rare,
Scarce breathed upon the Summer air.-
And all thy motions, too, how free,
And yet how fraught with sympathy !
So pale thy tint, so meek thy gleam,
Shed on thy kindly father-stream !
Still, as he swayeth to and fro,

How true in all thy goings.
As if thy very soul did know

The secrets of his flowings.

3. And then that heart of living gold.
Which thou dost modestly infold,

And screen from man's too searching view,
Within thy rob© of snowy hue I

JOHX ^

.^ith the

literary i

'"I? terms :

L»

filOK

isen

Writ

EDWARD THE CONI- SSOB^

To careless man^tbou sccm'at to roam

Abroad upon the river,
In all thy movemeuts chain'd to home,

Fast-rooted there forever :
Link'd by a holy, hidden tie,
Too subtle for a mortal eye.
Nor riveted by mortal art.
Deep down within thy father's heart.

4. Emblem in truth thou art to me
Of all a daughter oujjht to be 1
How shall I liken thee, sweet flower.
That other men may feel thy power.
May seek thee on some lovely night.
And say how strong, how chaste the might,

The tie of filial duty.
How graceful, too, and angel-brigtit,

The pride of lowly beauty 1
Thou sittest on the varying tide
As if thy spirit did preside,
With a becoming, queenly grace,
As mistress of this lonely place ;
A quiet magic hast thou now
To smooth the river's ruffled brow,

And calm his rippling water.
And yet, so delicate and airy,
Thou art to him a very fairy,

A widow'd father's only daughter.

219

66. Edward the Confessor.

LINOABD.

John Linoard, D. D., was born, in England, in 1771; died in 1851.
With the completion of the " History of England," in ten volumes, tlie
literarv fame ot Dr. Lingard became established throughout Europe. Car-
dinal Wiseman speaks of this history, and its learned author, in tne follow-
ing terms : — " It is a Providence that in history we have had given to tho
utiou a writer lika Lingard, whoso gigautio merit will be bettor apprecuUed

220

THK FOURTH READER.

In each sncccsRivo pcncrntton, m it soph Ms work fltnntHnpf cnlm nnd eri-ct
iimidst tlic sIiouIh ot" petty pivlfiulers to iiSurp liis istutioii. Wlu'ii Iliimu
hliiill have t'oirly taken his pliioc union;,' tlia<^'lii'*^ii'"l writcrn ot'onr tKii^fiic.
nnd Miicaiilay sliall have W-m traiisturrml t<> tlic hholvt-H of roniatio"-)* luiii
jKuts, aiiil eai'li tliu.H havo rcci-ivud liis <lni3 nifcti nf praiso, tlicn Lmi^miiI
w ill l)u »lill iuuru couspiuuou.Ha.s tho only impartial hit^toriaii ot'our ooiuitry.''

1. If wc estimate the character of a sovereign by the test
of popular aflfectlon, we must rank Edward among the l)( ^t
princes of his time. The goodness of his lieart was adored liy
his subjects, who lamented his death with tears of undissembled
grief, and bequeathed his memory as an object of veneration to
their posterity. The blessings of his reign are the constant
theme of our ancient writers : *not, indeed, that he disphiyod
any of those brilliant qualities which attract admiration, while
they inflict misery.

2. He could not boa.st of the victories which he had achieved:
but he exhibited the interesting spectacle of a king, neglij^cnt
of his private interests, and wholly devoted to the welfare of
his people ; and, by his labors to restore the dominion of the
laws, his vigilance to ward oflf foreign aggrc ;sion, his con-
stant, and ultimately successful, solicitude to appease tlic feuds
of his nobles, — if he did not prevent the interruption, he scoured,
at least, a longer duration of public tranquillity, than had been
enjoyed in England for half a century.

3. He was pious, kind, and compassionate ; the father of
the poor, and the protector of the weak ; more willing to give
than to receive, and better pleased to pardon than to punish.
Under tho preceding kings, force generally supplied the place
of justice, and the people were impoverished by the rapacity
of the sovereign. But Edward enforced the laws of his Saxon
predecessors, and disdained the riches that were wrung from
the labors of his subjects.

4. Temperate in his diet, unostentatious in his person, pur-
suing no pleasures but those which his hawks and hoinuls
afforded, he was content with the patrimonial demesnes of tlio
crown ; and was able to assert, even after the abolition of that
fruitful source of revenue, the Danegclt, that he possessed a
greater portion of wealth than any of his predecessors had
eiyoyed. To him, the principle that the king can do no wrong,

OiBSAUa OFFEK OF AMNESTY TO CATO.

2lU

was literally applied by (ho gratitude of his people, wiio, if
thoy occii.sionully compliiiiied of the ineasuivs of the ^'•ovcni-
nioiit, attributed the bhiuie uot to the moiuireh hinisclf, of
wliose benevolence they entertained no doubt, but to the
ministers, who had abused his confidence, or deceived his
trcdulity.

5. It was, however, a fortunate circumstance for the memory
vi Edward, tliat ho occupied the interval between the Danish
and Norman conquests. Writers were induced to view his
character with more partiality, from the hatred with which
they looked upon his. successors and i)redecessors. They were
foreij^ners; he was a native: they held the crown by conquest;
ho ])y descent: they ground to the dust the slaves whom they
liad made; ho became known to his countrymen only by liis
benefits. Hence he appeared to shine witli purer liglit amid
the gloom with which he was surrounded; and whenever the
people under the despotism of the Norman kings, had any
opportunity of expressing their real wishes, they constantly
called for " the laws and custo;us of the good King Edward."

67. Cjssak's Offer of Amnesty to Cato.

ADDISON.

Joseph Addison — One of the best of a class of writers known as •' the
wits of (jiieen Anne's time." His writings vvere ohieHv essavs published
in tlie " Spectator," " Tutlor," and " Guardian." He d'ied 1719.

Decius. Cffisar sends health to Cato.

Cato. Could he send it

To Cato's slaughtered friends, it would be welcome.
Are not vour orders to address the senate ?

Decius. My business is with Cato : Ceesar sees
The straits to which you're driven ; and as he knows
Cato's high worth, is anxious for his life.

Goto. My life is grafted on the fate of Rome :
Would he save Cato, bid him spare his country.
Tell your dictator this ; and tell him, Cato
Disdains a life which he has power to offer.

222

THE FOURTH READER.

Decius. Rome and her senators submit to Csesar ;
Her generals and her consuls are no more,
Who check'd his conquests, and denied his triumphs. .
Why will not Cato be this Caisar's friend ?

Gato. Those very reasons thou hast urged, forbid it.

Decius. Cato, I've orders to expostulate.
And reason with you as from friend to friend.
Think on the storm that gathers o'er your head,
And threatens every hour to burst upon it ;
Still may you stand high in your country's honors,
Do but comply, and make your peace with Oeesar.
Rome will rejoice ; and casts its eyes on Cato,
As on the second of mankind.

Colo. No more I

I must not think of life on such conditions.

Decius. Caesar is well acquainted with your virtues ;
And therefore sets this value on your life :
Let him but know the price of Cato's friendship,
And name your terms.

Cato. Bid him disbond his legions,

Restore the commonwealth to liberty.
Submit his actions to the public censure,
And stand the judgment of a Roman senate.
Bid him do this, — and Cato is his friend.

Decius. Cato, the world talks loudly of your wisdom —

Cato. Nay, more, — though Cato's voice was
employ'd
To clear the guilty, and to varnish crimes,
Myself will mount the rostrum in his favor,
And strive to gain his pardon from the people.

Decius. A style like this becomes a conqueror.

Cato. Decius, a style like this becomes a Roman.

Decius. What is a Roman, that is Caesar's foe ?

Cato. Greater than Caesar ; he's a friend to virtue,

Decius. Consider, Cato, you're in XJtica;
And at the head of your own little senate :
You don't now thunder in the capitol.
With all the mouths of Rome to second yon.

ne'er

THE DISCONTENTED MILLER.

An *. f.P

Cato. Let him (;onsider that, who drives us hither.
*Tis Caesar's sword hath made Rome's senate httle,
And thinn'd its ranks. AUis 1 thy dazzled cyo
Beholds this man in a false, glaring light,
Which conquest and success have thrown upon him.
Didst thou but view him right, thou'dst see him black
With murder, treason, sacrilege, and crimes
That strike my soul with horror but to name them.
I know thou look'st on me, as on a wretch
Beset with ills, and cover'd with misfortunes ;
But, Decius, mark my words, — milUons of worlds
Should never buy me to be like that Caesar.

Decius. Does Cato send this answer back to Caesar,
For all his generous cares, and proflfer'd friendship ?

Cato. His cares for me are insolent and vain.
Presumptuous man I the gods take care of Cato.
Would Caesar show the greatness of his soul,
Bid him employ his care for these my friends,
And make good use of his ill-gotten power,
By sheltering men much better than himself.

Decius. Your high, unconquer'd heart makes you
Torget
That you^re a man. You rush on your destruction —
But I have done. When I relate hereafter
The tale of this unhappy embassy.
All Rome will be in tears.

68. The Discontented Miller.

GOLDSMITH.

Oliver Goldsmith was born, 1781, at Pallasmore, connty L.-mpford, Ire-
land. As a poet, essayist, dramatist, and novelist, Goldsmith occupies a
liigli position among the Eiiirli'^h classics. His novel of " The Vicar o»
Wakefield," his poems of "The Traveller" and "Deserted Village," and
his drama, " She Stoops to Conquer," are each models in their kind. His
liistorienl writings are chiefly compilations, and not very relialiUs as authori-
ties. Di.d April 4th, 1774.

1. Whang, the miller, was naturally avaricious; nobody
loved money better than he, or more respected those who had

224

THE FOURTH RKADKR.

it. When people would talk of a rich man in company, Whang
would say, "I know him very well; he and I have been long
acquainted ; he and I are intimate." But, if- ever a poor
man was mentioned, he had not the least knowledge of the
man; he might be very well for aught he knew; but he was
not fond of making many acquaintances, and loved to choose
his company.

2. Whang, however, with all his eagerness for riches, was
poor. He had nothing but the profits of his mill to support
him; but, though these were small, they were certain; while
it stood and went he was sure of eating; and his frugality was
such that he every day laid some money by, which he would at
intervals count and contemplate with much satisfaction. Yet
still his acquisitions were not equal to his desires; he only
found himself above want, whereas he desired to be possessed
of affluence.

3. One day, as he was indulging these wishes he was in-
formed that a neighbor of his had found a pan of money under
ground, having dreamed of it three nights running before.
These tidings were daggers to the heart of poor Whang.
" Here am I," says he, " toiling and moiling from morning
till night for a few paltry farthings, while neighbor Thanks
only goes quietly to bed and dreams himself into thousands
before morning. Oh, that I could dream like him I With what
pleasure would I dig round the pan I How slyly would I carry
it home I not even my wife should see me: and then, oh! the
pleasure of thrusting one's hand into a heap of gold up to the
elbow 1"

4. Such reflections only served to make the miller unhappy;
he discontinued his former assiduity; he was quite disgusted
with small gains, and his customers began to forsake him.
Every day he repeated the wish, and every night laid himself
down in order to dream. Fortune, that was for a long time
unkind, at last, however, seemed to smile on his distresses, and
indulged him with the wished-for vision. He dreamed that
under a certain part of the foundation of his mill there was
concealed a monstrous pan of gold and diamonds, buried deep
in the ground, and covered with a large flat stone.

LORD JAMES OF DOUGLAS.

225

y, Whang
been long
;r a poor
ge of the
ut he was
to choose

riches, was
to support
tain; while
igality was
le would at
•tion. Yet
Bs; he only
)e possessed

he was in-
noney under
ling before.
)or Whang.
)m morning
bor Thanks
thousands
With what
ould I carry
len, oh! the
id up to the

5. lie concealed his good luck from every person, as is
usual in money-dreams, in order to have the vision repeated
the two succeeding nights, by which he shoula be certain of its
truth. His wishes in this, also, were answered ; he still
dreamed of the same pan of money in the very same place.
Now, therefore, it was past a doubt; so, getting up early
the third morning, he repaired alone, with a mattock in his
hand, to the mill, and began to undermine that part of the
wall to which the vision directed him.

G. The first omen of success that he met was a broken ring;
digging still deeper, he turned up a house-tile, quite new and
entire. At last, after much digging, he came to a broad flat
stone, but then so large that it was beyond a man's strength
to remove it. " Here 1" cried he, in raptures, to himself ;
" here it is ; under this stone there is room for a very largo
pan of diamonds indeed. I must e'en go home to my wife,
and tell her the whole affair, and get her to assist me in turn-
ing it up,"

7, Away, therefore, he goes, and acquaints his wife with
every circumstance of their good fortune. Her raptures on
this occasion may easily be imagmed. She flew round his
neck and embraced him in an ecstasy of joy; but these trans-
ports, however, did not allay their eagerness to know the exact
sum; returning, therefore, together to the same place where
Whang had been digging, there they found — ^not, indeed, the
expected treasure — but the mill, their only support, imder-
miued and fallen.

69. Lord James of Douglas.

A YTOUN.

W.M. Edmondstoune Aytoitx, was born at Fife, in Scotland inlSlS. Hib
writings have chiefly appeai'ed in BlackwoixVs Magazine. From liia na-
tional and historical ballads, pnblishcd in that periodical, the voliune of
'■ The Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers," has been made np. We know of no
ballads in our tongue, more spirit-stirring or ennobling in sentiment, than
"The E,xecution of Montrose," "Burial March of Dundee," "Edinburgh
after Flodden," " Tiio Heart of tho Bruce,'* «fec.

226

THE FOURTH KKADER.

1. " Thf Moors have come from Africa

To spoil and waste and slay,
And King Alonzo of Castile
Must fight with them to-day."

" Now shame it were," cried good Lord Jamee,
" Shall never be said of me
That I and mine have turn'd aside
From the Cross in jeopardie I

2. " Have down, have down, my merry men all —

Have down unto the plain ;
We'll let the Scottish lion loose
Within the fields of Spam 1"

" Now welcome to me, noble lord,
Thou and thy stalwart power ;
Dear is the sight of a Christian knight,
Who comes m such an hour I

3. " Is it for bond or faith you come,

Or yet for golden fee ?
Or bring ye France's lilies here.
Or the flower of Burgundie 1"

" God greet thee well, thou valiant king,
Thee and thy belted peers —
Sir James of Douglas am I callM,
And these are Scottish spears.

4. " We do not fight for bond or plight,

Nor yet for golden fee ;
But for the sake of our blessed Lord,
Who died upon the tree.

" We bring our great king Robert's heart
Across the weltering wave,
To lay it in the holy soil
Hard by the Saviour's grave.

THE JESUITS.

227

True pilgrims \i e, by land or sea,
Where danger bars the way ;

And therefore are we here, Lord King,
To ride with thee this day I"

TO. The Jesuits.

MRS. SADLIEK.

Mary A. Sadlier — born in Coote Hill, county Cavan, Ireland. Mrs.
Siidlier emigrated to America in early life, but not before sno had acquired
that thorough knowledge of the Irish people which has enabled her to
draw so many truthful pictures of the different classes among them.
She has been a contributor to several of our leading Catholic journals in
tlie United States and the Canadas. Her translations from the French are
ninnorous, and some of them valuable. Her fame chiefly rests, however,
on her original stories of Irish life at home and abroad. " New Lights,"
"Willy Burke," "The Blakes and Flanagans," "The Conlessions of an
Apostate," "Elinor Preston," &c., are well known to tiie Catholics of
America. Her last and greatest work, " The Confederate Chieftains," is a
work of much laiwr and research.

1. The world never saw such an order as the Jesuits, never
dreamed of such a mission as theirs, until it sprang into sud-
den existence from the divine genius of Ignatius Loyola, at
the very moment when Christendom most needed such a
powerful auxiliary. When the revolutionary doctrines of the
Reformation were sweeping like a torrent over many of the
countries of Europe, and men were asking themselves in fear
and terror when and where was the devastating flood to be
arrested in its course, the Almighty, ever watching over the
interests of his Church, suddenly raised up a mighty dyke in
presence of the great waters, and all at once they rolled back
to their centre in the far north, and the fairest jslimes of old
Europe were saved from their ravages.

2. This new bulwark of the Everlasting Church was no
other than the Society of Jesus, one of the grandest con-
ceptions that ever emanated from the brain of mortal man.
So admirably fitted for the task before it, so well versed in
all human science, yet so simple and so humble in their re-
ligious character, so full of the loftiest and most chivalrous
devotion, and so utterly detached from earthly things, did the
Jesuits appear before the world, that its dazzled vision could

228

THU FOURTH SEADER.

scarce compreheud what manner of men they were, those first
disciples of Ignatius, the nucleus and foundatior. of that
heroic ordor since so well known in every quarter of the
habitable globe.

3. The martial character of its founder, who had fought
with distinction in the Spanish wars, impressed itself on his
order, and gave to it that lofty sentiment of heroism which
distinguished it from all other monastic institutions then ex-
isting. It was to combat the pernicious innovations of the
great heresy of the sixteenth century that the Jesuits were
called into existence; and as instruments for that chosen work,
they were from the first endowed with every quality that
might uisure success.

4. The arch-heretics of the day professed to unshackle the
human intellect by leading it into all science, and far beyond
the range prescribed by Romisn tyranny. The Jesuits met
them more than half way, with the open volume of science in
their hand. The heretics professed to be learned ; the Jesuits
were more learned than they, for they mastered all knowledge,
sacred and profane, which could tend to elevate mankind, and
in every branch of science and literature they soared to heights
where the enemies of religion might not follow.

5. They combated the foe with his own arms, and the
world saw, with amazement, that the sons of Ignatius were
the true enlighteners of the age, for the light which their
genius threw on human learning came direct from the source
of truth. The heretics were world-seeking and world-wor-
shipping ; the Jesuits trampled the world under their feet, and
crucified the ancient Adam within them. Many of the earlier
Jesuits were the sons of noble, and some even of princely,
families ; among others, St. Ignatius himself, St. Francis Xa-
vier, St. Francis Borgia, St. Louis Qonzaga, and St. Stanis
lans Kotska.

6. But they cheerfully resigned the world, and enlisted un-
der the banner of Christ in the Society which bore his name
Armed only with the cross, their standard at once and their
weapon, they went forth to fight and to conquer, strong in
faith, humility, and charity ; strong, too, in the gift of elo-

EDUCATION.

229

quence, and radiant with the light of science. The first Jes-
uits were men miglity in word and work, endowed even witli
the gift of mirecles, lilie unto the first Apostles, and that for
a similar purpose, — to bear testimony of the truth before tho
heretic and the unbeliever, and to establish the authority of
God's Church on earth.

7. Animated with the spirit which descended on Ignatiu:-
during his lone night-watch in the chapel of Our Lady o\
Montserrat, the Jesuits were everywhere seen in the thickest
of the contest, then raging all over Europe, between truth
and religion on the one side, and error and heresy on the
other. Wherever the Church needed their powerful succorj
wherever human souls were in danger, there were the sons of
Loyola seen, with lance in rest, to rescue and to save. The
burning plains of Africa, the idolatrous countries of Asia, the
wilds of the New World, and the swarming cities of old Eu-
rope, all were alike the scenes of the Jesuits' herculean labors.

8. They taught, they preached, they guided the councils of
kings, they knelt with the penitent criminal in his cell, they
consoled the poor man in his sorrows and privations, they
traversed unknown regions in search of souls to save, they ate
with the Indian in his wigwam, and slept on the cold earth,
with only the sky for a covering, and often, very often, they
Buffered tortures and death at the hands of the ruthless
savage. East, west, north, and^ south, the earth has been
saturated with their blood, and Christianity sprang up every-
where in the footprints washed with their blood.

71. Education.

DIGBT.

1. The ancients say that the essential things in the education
of the young are to teach them to worship the gods, to revere
their parents, to honor their elders, to obey the laws, to sub-
mit to rulers, to love then* friends, to be temperate in refraining
from pleasures— objects not one of which the modems would

t;| '^f

230

THE FOURTH READER.

think of entering into a philosophic plan of education; since it
is notorious that with them the direction of the energies and
passions is always excluded from it.

2. The moderns have determined, practically at least, thnt
the whole of education consists in acquiring knowledge, and
that the only subject of deliberation is respecting the modo
best calculated to further that end in the shortest time, and
with the least possible expenditure. With them, the person
who can speak or argue on the greatest number of subjects,
with the air of knowing all about each of them, is the best
educated.

3. The moderns generally applaud that system of public
education which nourishes what they call a manly spirit, by
which the boy is made bold and insolent, and constantly ready
to tight or contend with any one that oflfurs the smallest oppo-
sition to his will ; which makes him resemble the son of
Strepsiades returning from the school of the Sophists, of whom
his father says, with joy, " In the first place, I mark the ex-
pression of your countenance: your face indicates at once thnt
you are prepared to deny and to coatradict. Yours is the
Attic look."

4. Hence, many of their young men are like those who were
disciples of the Sophists, of whom Socrates says, they were
fair and of good natural dispositions — what the moderns would
term of polished manners, but insolent through youth. The
rules given to youth for conversation, in his treatise on the
manner in which men should hear, approaches nearer to the
mildness and delicacy of Christian charity than, perhaps, any
other passage in the heathen writers. He inculcates what
approaches to its modesty, its patience, in attending to other?,
and waiting for the voluntary self-corrections of those with
whom they converse, and its slowness to contradict and give
offence.

5. But all this falls very short, and indeed can yield not the
slightest idea, of the effects of education upon the young in
the ages of faith, when the Catholic religion formed its basis,
and directed its whole system in all its objects, manners, and
details. " The soul of the child," says St. Jerome, " is to be

EDUCATION.

001

educated with the view of its becoming a temple of God. It
sliould hear nothing but what pertains to the fear of God. Let
there be letters of ivory," he continues, " with which it may
})liiy — and let its play be instruction. No learned man or
noble virgin should disdain to take charge of its instruction."

6. These observations will have prepared us to feel the
beauty of the following examples : — We read of St. Blier, that
while a child he gave admirable signs of piety and grace.
Nothing could be imagined more sweet, benign, gentle, and
agreeable than his whole manner : he seemed like a little angel
in human flesh, who used to pray devoutly, visit holy places,
converse with saints, and obey the commandments of God
with the utmost diligence.

*I. Christine de Pisan says of Louis, due d'Orleans, son of King

Charles Y., that the first words which were taught him were the

Avc-Maria, and that it was a sweet thing to hear him say it,

kneeling, with his little hands joined, before an image of our

Lady; and that thus he early learned to serve God, which he

continued to do all his life. And Dante, in the " Paradise,"

commemorating the youthful graces of St. Dominic, says of

bira,

" Many a time his nurse, on entering, found
That he had risen in silence, and was prostrate,
As who should say, * My errand was for this.' "

8. The old writers love to dwell upon the description of this
age. Thus the young Archduke Leopold of Austria is de-
scribed as having the looks, as well as the innocence, of an
angel ; and it is said that t^he mere sight of him in Church
used to inspire people with devotion. The young St. Francis
Regis, while at college at Puy, was known to all the inhabit-
ants of the town under the title of the Angel of the College.
There might have been seen a young nobleman employed in
collectmg the poor little boys of the town, and explaining to
them the Christian doctrine I What school of ancient philos-
ophy ever conceived any tlimg like this ?

232

THE FOrRTH READER.

,' ii

T2. Education — contimted,

1. In the first place then let it be remembered, that the mind
of the young must ever l>e devoted either to an idea or to
Bcnse, — either to an object of faith (and youth is peculiaiiy
qualified for possessing faith), or to that visible form of good
which ministers to animal excitement. If the citadels of the
souls of the young be left void of pure and noble images, tlioy
will be taken possession of by those that are contrary to
them ; if not guarded by the bright symbols of beauteous and
eternal things, error and death, moral death, with all its pro-
cess of intellectual degradation, will plant their pale flag
there.

2. As with the intellectual direction, so it is with the manners
and intercourse of youth ; for these will ever be directed after
one of two types — either by the spirit of sweetness and love,
or that of insolence and malignity. All systems of education
that are merely human, and under the guidance of rationalism,
will never nourish and fortify, when they do not even recog-
nize and extol the latter ; for being formed on merely natural
principles, all that belongs to man's unkindness will have free
scope to be developed within their dominions ; and, therefore,
disobedience, dissipation, the will and ability to oppress weaker
companions, will entitle the youth, who has sufficient tact, to
know how far precisely these qualities may be exercised with
the applause of animal minds, to the enviable character of
possessing a manly spirit. He will discover, too, that his
father has only one desire respecting him, like that of Jason
in the tragedy, whose sole prayer for his sons is, that be raay
see them grow to manhood, well nourished and vigorous, that
they may be a defence to him against his enemies.

3. In studies also, emulation will be carried to an excess,
which renders the youthful mind obnoxious to all the worst
attendants of ambition, so that under these modern systems,
while education conduces to victory, their victory, as Socrates
says, will often undo the work of education.

4. Plato had so sublime a sense of just education, that be

BT. AGNKS.

acknowledges, that the good when young, will appear to be
weak and simple, and that they will be easily deceived by the
unjust — and he, too, would not allow the young to acquire that
kaowlcdge of the world, which was so carefully excluded from
Catholic schools — but which is now thought so essential to
children.

5. "He is only good who has a good soul; which he
cannot possess who has a personal acquaintance with evil." '

6. Are we disposed to question this proposition 1 Hear
what Fuller acknowledges, " Almost twenty years since," says
he, " I heard a profane jest, and still remember it."

7. The old poet, Claude de Morenne, acknowledges in one
of his pieces, that he had read certain poems in his youth,
which had done an injury to his imagination and his heart,
which nothing could repair. This is the dreadful effect of
renouncing the ancient discipline. Such is the stain which
reading of this description impresses upon the mind, that the
moral consequences seem among those which never may be
cancelled from the book wherein the past is written.

73. St. Agnes.

TENNYSON.

A. Tenntson, the present poet laureate of England, is a popular and
voluminous writer. He has a rich yet dolicate tuste in the use of language,
and a descriptive power unparalleled by any other living poet.

1. Deep on the convent-roof the snows

Are sparkling to the moon;
My breath to heaven like vapor goes;

May my soul follow soon 1
The shadows of the convent-towers

Slant down the snowy sward.
Still creeping with the creeping hours

That lead me to ray Lord.
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear

As are the frosty skies,

' Plato de Repub., lib. iii.

-T

231 TOE FOURTH READER.

Or this first snow-drop of the year
That in my bosom lies.

2 As these white robes are soil'd and dark,

To yonder sliining ground;
As this pale taper's earthly fpurk,

To yonder argent round;
So shows my soul before the Lamb,

My spirit before Thee;
So in mine earthly house I am,

To that I hope to be.
Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far,

Through all yon starlight keen,
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,

In raiment white and clean.

8. He lifts me to»the golden doors;

The flashes come and go ;
All heaven bursts her starry floors,

And strews her lights below,
And deepens on and up 1 the gates

Roll back, and far within
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits^

To make me pure of sin.
The sabbaths of Eternity,

One sabbath deep and wide —
A light upon the shining sea —

The Bridegroom with his bride 1

74. Infidel Philosophy and Literature.

KOBEBTSON.

RoBKKTsoN — a distinguished writer and lecturer of the dny. lie Is a im-
tive of Scothmd, aud at present holds the honorable position of rrofcstinr
of History in the Irish University. ^ ^

1. The infidel philosophy of the last age was the child of
the Reformation. Towards the close of the sixteenth century,

INFIDEL rniLOSOPHY AND LITERATURE.

235

IS the cliild of
lecnth century,

a ficct of deists had sprnng up \i Protestant Switzerland.
As early as the reij^n of James the First, Lord Herbert, of
Clicrhury, eommeneed that lon^ series of Knn-lish deists, eoii-
Kistiii.L!: of Cluibl), Collins, Sliaftesbury, Tohmd, l}()lin«^brol<«>,
the friend of A''oltairc. Bayie, who at tlic coninicneeinent of
the ei<^liteeutli century, introduced infidelity into France, was
a Protectant; and so was Rousseau, the eloquent apostle of
ilcisni, and who did nothing more than develop the principles
of Protestantism.

2. Voltaire and his fellow-conspirators against the Chris-
tian religion, borrowed most of their weapons fvdta the arsenal
of the English deists ; and the philosopher of Ferney was, in
his youth, the friend and guest of Bolingbroke. So Protest-
antism, which often, though falsely, taunts the Catholic Church
with having given birth to unbelief, lies, itself, clearly open to
that imputation. Let us take a glance at the character of
the leaders of the great anti-Christian confederacy in France.

3. Bayle was a writer of great erudition, and extreme sub-
tlety of reasoning. His " Dictionnaire Philosophique" is, even
at the present-day, often consulted. Montesquieu, one of the
most manly intellects of the eighteenth century, unfortunately
devolve' to the wretched philosophy of the day the powers
which God had given him for a iiobler purpose. His strong
sense, indeed, and extensive learning, gnarded him against the
wilder excesses of unbelief; but the absence of strong re-
ligious convictions left him without a compass and a chart on
the wide ocean of political and ^thical investigations.

4. Rousseau was a man of the most impassioned eloquence
and vigorous reasoning ; but a mind withal so sophistical,
that, according to the just observation of La Harpe, even
truth itself deceives us in his writings. His firm belief in the
existence of the Deity, and the immortality of the soul, as
well as in the necessity of virtue for a future state of happi-
ness, and some remarkable tributes to the Divinity, and the
blessed influences of the Christian religion, give, at times, to
tiie pages of Rousseau a warmth and a splendor we rarely
find m the other infidel writers of the last century.

5. Inferior to Rousseau in eloquence and logical power, the

230

THE FOURTH READER.

sophist of Ferney possessed a more various and versatile tal
eut. Essaying philosopliy and liistory, and poetry — tr.'iuic,
comic, and epic ; the novel, the romance, the satire, the ( yb
gram, he directed all his powers to one infernal purpose— the
"Fl)rcad of iiTclig'ion, and thought his labor lost as loni>- lu
Clirist retained one worshipper 1 Unlike the more impassioind
sophist of Geneva, rarely do we meet in his writings with a
generous sentiment or a tender emotion. But all that ele-
vates and thrills humanity — the sanctities of religion, the no-
bleness of vurtue, the purity of the domestic hearth, the cx-
pansiveness of friendship, the generosity of patriotism, the
majesty of law, were polluted by his ribald jest and ficnd-like
mockery. " Like those insects that corrode the roots of the
most precious plants, he strives," says Count de Maistre, "to
corrupt youth and women,"

6. And it is to be observed that, despite the great progress
of rehgion in France within the last fifty years ; thougJi the
aristocracy of French literatm'e has long rejected the yoke o(
Yoltaire, he still reigns in its lower walks, and the novel, find
the satire, and the ballad, still feel his deadly influence. The
only truth which this writer did not assail was, the existeucc
of God ; but every other dogma of religion became the Initt
of his ridicule.

t. A more advanced phase of infidelity was represented by
D'Alembert, Diderot, and others ; they openly advocated ma-
terialism and atheism. In the Encyclopedia they strove to
array all arts and sciences against the Christian religion. It
was, indeed, a tower of Babel, raised up by man's impiety
against God. It was a tree of knowledge without a graft
from the tree of life. In mathematics and physics only did
D'Alembert attain to a great eminence. Diderot was a much
inferior intellect, that strove to make up by the phrenetic vio-
lence of his declamation for the utter hollowness of his idciiN
It was he who gave to Raynal that frothy rhetoric, and tlioa^
turgid invectives against priests and kings, which the latter
wove into his history of the European settlements in the East
and West Indies.

•>v

INFIDEL rniLOSOPHT AND LITKRATURE. 2P>'t

75. Infidel PiiiLosoniY, etc. — continued.

1. The great Buffon, tliough he condescended to do homage
to the miserable philosophy of his day, yet, by the nobleness
of his sentiments, as well as by the majesty of his genius, often
rose superior to the doctrine he professed.

Bernardine de St. Pierre was another great painter of
nature. His better feelings at times led him to Christianity,
but his excessive vanity drove him back to the opposite opin-
ions. What shall I say of the remaining wretched herd of
materialists and atheists, — a Baron d'Holbach, a Helvetius,
a La Mettrie, a Cabanis, and others ? It has been well said
by a great writer, that materialism is something below hu-
manity. And while debasing man to a level with the brute,
it takes from him all the nobler instincts of his own nature; it
fails to give^rfiim in return those of the lower animals. So
"deep a perversion of man's moral and intellectual being we
cannot conceive.

2. We cannot realize (and happily for us we cannot), that
mini eclipse of the understanding which denies God. We
have a mingled feeling of terror and of pity, when we contem-
plate those miserable souls, that, as the great ItaUan poet,
Dante, says, have lost the supreme intelligential bliss : When
that great idea of God is extmguished in the human mind,
what remains to man ? ^

Nature abhors a vacuum, said the old naturalists ; with
what horror then must we recoil from that void which atheism
creates ? — a void in the intelligence, a void in the conscience,
a void in the affections, a void in society, a void in domestic
life. The human mind is swung from its orbit ; it wanders
through trackless space ; and the reign of chaos and old night
returns.

3. What a lamentable abuse of all the noblest gifts of intel-
lect, wit, and eloquence, imagination and reasoning 1 And for
the accomplishment of what purpose ? For the overthrow
of religion, natural and revealed religion, the guide of
existence, the great moral teacher, which solves all the prob-

238

THE FOURTH READER.

lems of life, which tells our origin and destiny, our duties t^
our Creator and our fellow-creatures, the foundation of tlie
family and of the State, — religion, the instructress of youth,
and the prop of age ; the balm of wounded minds, and tlie
moderator of human joys ; which controls the passions, yet
imparts a zest to innocent pleasures ; which survives the illu-
sions of youth, and the disappointments of manhood ; consoles
us in life, and supports us in death.

4. Such were the blessings that perverted genius strove to
snatch from mankind. Yet the time was at hand, when the
proud Titans, who sought to storm Heaven, were to be driven
back by the thunderbolts of Almighty wrath, and hurled do^vn
into the lowest depths of Tartarus.

But, even in regard to literature and science, the influence
of this infidel party was most pernicious. How could they
understand nature, who rested their eyes on its surface only,
but never pierced to its inner depths ? How could they under-
stand the philosophy of history, who denied the providence of
God, and the free will of man ? How could they comprehend
metaphysics, who disowned God, and knew nothmg of man's
origin, nor of his destiny ? And, was an abject materialism
compatible with the aspirations of poetry ?

5. Classical philology, too, shared the fate of poetry and
of history ; and in education was made to give place to math-
ematics and the natural sciences. Hence, from this period
dates the decUne of philological studies in France. The men
of genius of whom infidelity could boast, like Montesquieu,
Voltaire, Rousseau, Buffon, and D'Alembert, were men who
had been trained up in a Christian country, had received a
Christian education, and whose minds had been imbued with
the doctrines and the ethics of Christianity, and had partially
retained these sentiments in the midst of their unbelief. But,
let unbelief sink deep into a nation's mind — let it form its
aiorals, and fashion its manners — and we shall soon see how
barbarism of taste and coarseness of habits will be associated
with moral depravity and mental debasement. Look at the
goddess literature of the French Republic from 1190 to 1802,
and at that of the Empire down to 1814. What coniempl^

THE DYING GIRL.

239

I J consoles

IS strove to
J. when the
to be driven
hurled down

the influence
V could they
surface only,
d they under-
providence of
comprehend
ig of man's
materiaUsm

U|le mediocrity of intellect ; what wretched corruption of

taste I

6. But in the Catholic literature, which, after a long sleep,
revives under Napoleon, and afterwards under the Bourbons,
what fulness of life, what energy do we not discover 1 What
brilliancy of fancy and fervor of feeling in Chateaubriand I
• What depth of thought and majesty of diction in the philos-
opher, De Bonald 1 What profound intuitions — what force
and plausibility of style in the great Count de Maistre 1 What
vigorous ratiocination — what burning eloquence, in De Lamme
nais before his fall I What elevation of feeling and harmony
of numbers in the lyric poet, Lamartine 1 Except in the serai-
Pantheistic school, represented by Yictor Cousin and his
friends, French infidelity in the present age, whether In litera-
ture or in philosophy, has no first-rate talent to display. Yet
of this school, Jouffroy died repenting his errors, and Victor
Cousin himself has lately returned to the bosom of the Church.

t,t

76. The Dying Girl.

WILLIAMS.

BiCHARD Dalton "W1LLIAM8 IS by birtli an Irishman. At present, he la
Professor oi Belles Zettres in the Catholic College, Mobile. '"Hewriteii

with equal abUity on all subjects, whether they be grave or gay, pathetic
or humorous." — Jlayea^a Ballads of Ireland.

1. From a Munster vale they brought her,

From the pure and balmy air.
An Ormond peasant's- daoffhter.

With blue eyes and golden hair.
They brought her to the city,

And she faded slowly there ;
Consumption has no pity

For blue eyes and golden hair.

2. When I saw her first reclining,
Her lips were moved in prayer,
And the setting sun was shining
On her looseu'd golden hair.

240

THE FOURTH READER.

When our kindly glances met her.
Deadly brilliant was her eye ;

And she said that she was better,
While we knew that she must die.

3. She speaks of Munster valleys,

The patron, dance, and fair.
And her thin hand feebly dallies

With her scattered golden haii
When silently we listen'd

To her breath, with quiet care,
Her eyes with wonder glisten'd,

And she ask'd us what was there.

Ik.

4. The poor thmg smiled to ask it,

And her pretty mouth laid bare,
Like gems within a casket,

A string of pearlets rare.
We said that we were trying

By the gushing of her blood,
And the time she took in sighing,

To know if she were good.

5. Well, she smiled and chatted gayly,

Though we saw, in mute despair,
The hectic brighter daily.

And the death-duw on her hair.
And oft, h^ wasted fingers

Beatmg tnne upon the bed.
O'er some old tune she lingers.

And she bows her golden head.

6. At length the harp is broken.

And the spirit in its strings,
As the last decree is spoken.

To its source, exulting, springs.
Descending swiftly from the skies,

Her guardian angel came, v

MABIE ANTOINETTE.

He struck God's lightning from her eyes,
And bore him back the flame.

7. Before the sun had risen

Through the lark-loved morning air,
Her young soul left its prison,

Uudefiled by sin or care.
I stood beside the couch in tears,

Where, pale and calm, she slept,
And thoui^kJ^vVe gazed on death for years,

I blusfaSot |hat I wept.
I check' JRn^eiR)rt pity's sighs,

And left the matron there,
To close the curtains of her eyes,

And bind her golden hair.

241

77. Marie Antoinette.

BURKE.

Edmund Bttrke, born in Dublin, 1728 ; died, 1797. As a statesman and
an orator, the world has, perhaps, never seen a greater than Edmund
Burke. A great orator of our own day, says of him : " No one can doubt
that enlightened men in all ages will liang over the works of Mr. Burke.
He was a writer of the first class, and excelled in almost every kind of
prose composition." — Lord Brougham.

" In the three principal questions which excited his interest, and called
forth the most splendid displays of his eloquence — The contest with the
American Colonies, the impeacnment of Warren Hastings, and the French
Kevolution — we see displayed a philanthropy the most pure, illustrated by
a genius the most resplendent. . . He was ever the bold anduncompromii*-
ing champion of justice, mercy^and trtuth." — Allihon^i " Dicti<ynary of
Avihars?''

As a writer, Burke has bequeathia |o our timeSj some of the most per-
fect models of literary composition. ^His '* Treatise on the Sublime and
Beautiful," has never been exceeded, in any language. He was, in every
sense, a truly great and good man, and hence " the deep reverence witli
which his character is regarded in the present day." Indeed, the empire
of Britain has no name more prized, than that of Edmund Burke, the son
of a Dublin attorney. '

1. History, who keeps a durable record of all our acts,
and exercises her awful censure over the proceedings of all
sorts of sovereigns, will not forget either those events or the
ora of this li>)eral rcnuemeut in the intercourse of mankind.

242

TEE FOURTH READER. •

History will record, that on the morning of the 6th of Octo-
ber, 1789, the King and Queen of France, after a day of con-
fusion, alarm, dismay, and slaughter, lay down, under the
pledged security of public faith, to indulge nature in a few
hours of respite, and troubled, melancholy repose.

2. From this sleep the queen was first startled by the voice
of the sentinel at her door, who cried out to her, to save her-
self by flight — that this was the last proof of fidelity he could
give — that they were upon him, and he was dead. Instantly
he was cut down. A band of cnilii tuffians and assassins,
reeking with blood, rushed into.^'e c^|||ber of the queen, and
pierced with a hundred strokes of bayonets and poniards the
bed, from whence this persecuted woman had but just time to
fly almost naked, and, through ways unknown to the murder-
ers, had escaped to seek refuge at the feet of a king and hus-
band, not secure of his own life for a moment.

3. This king, to say no more of him, and this queen, and
their infant children (who once would have been the pride and
hope of a great and generous people), were then forced to
abandon the sanctuary of the most splendid palace in the
world, which they left swimming in blood, polluted by massa-
cre, and strewed with scattered limbs and mutilated carcasses.
Thence they were conducted into the capital of their kingdom.
Two had been selected from the unprovoked, unresisted, pro-
miscuous slaughter, which was made of the gentlemen of birth
and family, who composed the king's body-guard. These two
gentlemen, with all the parade of an execution of justice, were
cruelly and publicly dragged to the block, and beheaded in
the great court of the palace.

4. Their heads were stuck upon spears, and led the proces-
sion; while the royal captives, who followed in the train, were
slowly moved along, amidst the horrid yells, and •thrilling
screams, and frantic dances, and infamous contumelies, and all
tJie unutterable abominations of the furies of hell, in the abus-
ed shapes of the vilest of women. After they had been made
to taste, drop by drop, more than the bitterness of death, in
the slow torture of a journey of twelve miles, protracted to
six hours, they were, under a guard, com|)OE:ed of those very

MARIE ANTOINETTE.

21*^

a of Goto-

lay of con-
under the
8 in a few

►y the voice
;o save her-
ty he could
Instantly
d assassins,
e queen, and
poniards the
just time to
the murder-
ling and hus-

is queen, and
ihe pride and
ten forced to
lalace in the
ed by massa-
jed carcasses.

leir kingdom.

•esisted, pro-

smen of birth
These two

justice, were
beheaded in

soldiers who had thus conducted them through this famous
triumph, lodged in one of the old palaces of Paris, now con-
verted into a Bastile for kings

5. It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the
Queen of France, then the Dauphiness, at Versailles ; and
surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to
touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the
horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she
just began to move in, — glittering like the morning star, full
of life, and splendor, euld joy. Oh 1 what a revolution 1 and
what a heart I must have, to contemplate without emotion
that elevation and that fall 1 Little did I dream, when she
added titles of veneration, to those of enthusiastic, distant,
respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the
sharp antidote against disgrace, concealed in that bosom ;
Uttle did I dream that I should have lived to see such disas-
ters fallen upon. her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of
men of honor, and of cavaliers.

6. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from
their scabbards, to avenge even a look that threatened her
with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone. That of soph-
isters, economists, and calculators, has succeeded : and the
glory of Europe is extinguished forever. Never, never more
shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that
proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination
of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit
of an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, the cheap
defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic
enterprise, is gone 1 It is gone, that sensibility of principle,
that chastity of honor, which felt a stain like a wound, which
inspired courage, while it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled
whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its
evil, by losing all its grossness.

244

THE FOURTH READER.

78. The Old ifeMioR^.

MISS MITFOKD.

Mart Russell MiiroitD — born at Alinford, in Enprlnnd, 178C; died,
1853. Miss Mitford's sketches of ninU life are inimitable in their kind,
and her style is a model for such compositions. lier series of skeloliiis
entitled "Our Village," and "Belford Kegis," form very readable voliinifs.

1. The first occupant of Mrs. Duval's pleasant apartments
was a Catholic priest, an Emigre, to whom they had a double
recommendation, — in his hostess's knowledge of the Frcncli
language and French cookery (she beji^, as he used to affirm,
the only Englishwoman that ever made drinkable coffee) ; and
in the old associations of the precincts ("piece of a cloister"),
around which the venerable memorials of the ancient faith still
lingered, even in decay. He might have said, with Antonio,
in one of the finest scenes ever conceived by a poet's imagina-
tion, — that in which the echo answers from the murdered
woman's grave :

2. " I do love these ancient ruins ;

Wo never tread, upon thera but we set

Our foot upon some reverend history ;

And, questionless, here in this open court

(Which now lies open to the injuries

Of stormy weather) «ome do lie interr'd,

Loved the Church so well, and gave so largely to't,

They thought it should have canopied their bones.

Till doomsday. But all things have their end :

Churches and cities (which have diseases like to men)

Must have like death that we have."

Wkbster — Duchess of MaJfi.

3. The Abb6 Yillaret had been a cadet of one of the oldest
families in France, destined to the Church as the birthright of
a younger son, but attached to his profession with a serious-
ness and earnestness not common among the gay noblesse of
the old regime. This devotion, had, of course, been greatly
increased by the persecution of the Church which distinguish-
ed the commencement of the Revolution. The good AhU
had been marked as one of the earliest victims, and liad
escaped, through the gratitude of an old servant, from the
fate which swept off sisters and brothers, and almost every
individual, except himself, of a large and flourishing family

THE OLD tMIORi:.

21;

, 1780; clicd,
n their kiiul,
L'S of t^kctolii'i*
liible voUinics.

, apartments
lad a double

the French
led to affirm,

coffee); and
' a cloister"),
ent faith still
rith Antonio,
)et's imagina-
ihe murdered

4. Penniless and soUtary, he made hia way to England, and
found an asylum in the town of Bclford, at first assisted by
the pittance allowed by our government to those unfortunate
foreigners, and subsequently supported by his own exertions
as assistant to the priest of the Catholic chapel in Belford,
and as a teacher of the French language in the town and
neighborhood ; and so complete had been the ravages of the
Ilevolution in his own family, and so entirely had he estab-
lished himself in the esteem of his English friends, that, when
the short peace of Amiens restored so many of his brother
emigres to their native land, he refused to quit the country of
his adoption, and remained the contented inhabitant of the
Priory Cottage.

5. The contented and most beloved inhabitant, not only of
that small cottage, but of the town to which it belonged, was
the good Abbe. Everybody loved the kind and placid old
man, whose resignation was so real and so cheerful, who had
such a talent for making the best of things, whose moral al-
chemy could extract some good out of every evil, and who
seemed only the more indulgent to the faults and follies of
others because he had so little cause to require indulgence for
his own.

6. From the castle to the cottage, from the nobleman
whose children he taught, down to the farmer's wife who fur-
nished him with eggs and butter, the venerable Abbe was a
universal favorite. There was something in his very appear-
ance — his small, neat person, a little bent, more by sorrow
than age, his thin, white hair, his mild, intelligent counte-
nance, with a sweet, placid smile, that spoke more of courtesy
than of gayety, his gentle voice, and even the broken English,
which reminded one that he was a sojourner in a strange land
—that awakened a mingled emotion of pity and respect.

*I. His dress, too, always neat, yet never seeming new, coib-
tributed to the air of decayed gentility that hung about him ;
and the beautiful little dog who was his constant attendant,
and the graceful boy who so frequently accompanied him, form-
ed an interesting group on the high roads which he frequented ;
for the good Abbe was so much in request as a teacher, and

r ■(

246

THE FOURTH READER.

the amount of his earnings was so considerable, that he might
have passed for well-to-do in the world, had not his charity
to his poorer countrymen, and his liberality to Louis and to
Mrs. Duval, been such as to keep him constantly poor.

V II

■I it

79. The Sister of Charitt.

GERALD OSIFFIN.

1. She once was a lady of honor and wealth,
Bright glow'd on her features the roses of health ;
Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold.
And her motion shook perfume from every fold:
Joy revell'd around her — love shone at her side.
And gay was her smile, as the glance of a bride ;
And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall.
When she heard of the daughters of Vmcent de PauL

2. She felt, in her spirit, the summons of grace.
That call'd Her to live for the suffering race ;
And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home,
Rose quickly like Mary, and answer'd, " I come."
She put from her person the trappings of pride.
And pass'd from her home, with the joy of a bride.
Nor wept at the threshold, as onwards she moved —
For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved,

3. Lost ever to fashion — to vanity lost.

That beauty that once was the song and the toast —
No more in the ball-room that figure we meet.
But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat.
Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name.
For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame ;
Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth,
For she barters for heaven the glory of earth.

4. Those feet, that to music could gracefully move,
Now bear her alone on the mission of love ;

THE SISTER OP CHARITY.

247

Those hands that odcc dangled the perfume and gem,

Are tending the helpless, or lifted for them ;

That voice that once echo'd the song of the vain,

Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain ;

And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl,

Is wet ?rj,th the tears of the penitent girl.

6. Her down bed — a pallet; her trinkets — a bead;
Her lustre— one taper that serves her to read;
Her sculpture — the crucifix nail'd by her bed;
Her paintings — one print of the thorn-crowned head;
Her cushion — the pavement that wearies her knees ;
Her music — the psalm, or the sigh of disease ;
The delicate lady lives mortified there,
And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer.

6. Yet not to the service of heart and of mind,

Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined.
Like Him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief
She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief.
She strengthens the weary — she comforts the weak,
And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick ;
Where want and affliction on mortals attend,
The Sister of Charity there is a friend.

*l. Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath,
Like an angel she moves, 'mid the vapor of death ;
Where rings the loud musket, and flashes the sword,
Unfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord.
How sweetly she bends o'er each plague-tainted face,
With looks that are lighted with holiest grace ;
How kindly she dresses each suffering limb,
For she sees in the wounded the image of Him.

8. Behold her, ye worldly 1 behold her, ye vain I
Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain ;
Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days,
Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise.

Ill

248

TUR FOURTH RBADUR.

Ye lazy philosophers — self-seeking men, —
Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen,
How stands in the balance your eloquence weight
With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid ?

80. Sir Thomas More to his Daughter.

Sir Thomas Morb, a celebnited chancellor of England, who Bucceeded
Cardinal Wolsoy, ua Lord High Charicullor, in 1580, and filled theottiou fur
three years with scrupulous integrity. For his conscientious scrunlcs to
take the oath of supromocy in favor of that brutal king, Henry VlII., lio
was beheaded in 1585, at the ago of flfty-tlve. lie was the author of the
celebrated political ronmnco of " Utopia." Dr. Johnson pronounced tlio
works of More to be models of pure and elegant style. The following
letter is addressed to his favorite child, Margaret Koper.

1. Thomas More sendcth greeting to his dearest daughter,
Margaret :

My Dearest Daughter — There was no reason why you should
have deferred writing to me one day longer, though your letters
were barren of any thing of interest, as you tell me. Even had
it been so, your letters might have been pardoned by any man,
much more, then, by a father, to whose eyes even the blemishes
in his child's face will seem beautiful. But these letters of
yours, Meg, were so finished both in style and manner, that
not only was there nothing in them to fear your father's cen-
sure, but Momus himself, thougli not in his best humor, could
have found nothing in them to smile at in the way of censure.

2. I gfeatly thank our dear friend, Mr. Nicols, for his kind-
ness. He is a man well versed in astronomy ; and I congratu-
late you on your good fortune in learning from him in the
space of one month, and with so small labor of your own, so
many and such high wonders of that mighty and eternal
Workman, which were found only after many ages, and by
watching so many long and cold 'nights under the open sky.
Thus, you have accomplished, in a short time, what took the
labor of years of some of the most excellent wits the world has
ever produced.

3. Another thing which you write me, pleaseth me exceed-
ingly, that you have determined with yourself to study philoso*

SIR THOMAS MOUE TO HIS DACOHTER.

219

gVd
maid?

rEK.

ho succeeded
I thoolilou lor
U8 Bcruples to
nry Vlll., l.o
author of tlia
■onoiinccd the

}t daughter,

J you should
your letters
Even had
by any man,
16 blemishes
16 letters of
lanner, that
'ather's cen-
|umor, could
of censure,
'or his kind-
I congratu-
him in the
our own, so
land eternal
;es, and by
le open sky.
|at took the
^e world has

me exceed-
idy philoso"

))'\V 80 diligently, that you will roguin by your diligcncu whiit
> ir negligence had lost you. 1 love you for this, my doar
Mi'g, that, whereas I never found you a loiterer — your i)ro-
licii'iicy evidently showing how painfully yt)U have procecdrd
therein — yet, such is your modesty, that you had rather still
accuHO yourself of negligence, than make any vain boast
Except you mean this, that you will hereafter be so diligent,
ttiat your former endeavors, though praiseworthy, may, as
coinj)ared to your future diligence, be called negligence.

4. If this you mean — as I verily think yu do — nothing can
be more fortunate for mo, nothing, luy dean.;;t 1 .ughter, more
happy for you. I have earnestly wisjird that y,. might spend
tlie rest of your days in studying inc ifciy Scriptures, and tho
science of medicine : these offer the meaii.s lor fullilling !,hc end
of our existence, which is, to ende.:\vot' to h:;,vc a ^-^omul mind
iu a sound body. Of these studied you have alrcft'l; laid soir,.)
foundation, nor will you ever want matter ro build ujtor.. In
nothing are the first years o( life so well bc^.^owfd us in huuiauo
learning and tho liberal arts.

5. By these we obtain that our after ago can better strug,rrl^i
with the difficulties of hfe ; and if not acquired m youth, t '3
uncertain whether at any other time we shall have tho advan-
tage of so careful, so loving, and f]0 learned o, lua&Ixr. I could
wish, ray dear Meg, to talk long with, you oboat thntie matt/i/s,
but here they are bringing in the supper, intefn-ptlng mo ond
calling me away. My supper will not be so sw«3et to me, as
this my speech with you is ; but then, we have othern to nuud
as well as ourselves.

6. Farewell, my dearest daij^htei, i-rd vommend me kindly
to your husband, my loving son ; who, ]t rejoices me to hear,
is studying the same thine.;. }oa do. You know I always
counselled you to give /lace to your husband ; but, in this
respect, I give yo-i full license to strive and be the master,
more especially iu the knowledge of the spheres. Farewell,
again and again. Commend me to all your school-fellows, but
to your master especially. From your father who loves you,

Thcmas More.
11*

250

THE FOURTH READER.

81. Influence of Catholicitt on Civil Libeett.

DR. SPALDING.

K. J. Spalding, D. D., bishop of Louisville, born in Kentucky in the
early part of tlie present century. This distinguished prelate and profound
theologian, is also an accomplished scholar, and an eminent writer-, wl.o
counts nothing foreign to his purpose, that atfects the welfare of men. His
reviews, essays, and lectures, are replete with the information most requi-
site in our age. His " Evidences of Cutliolicitv," " Review of D'Aubigiu'g
History of the Reformation," "Sketches of tne early Catholic Missions in
Kentucky," and his " Miaoellanies," are among our standard works.

1. Of the old Catholic republics, two yet remain, standing
monuments of the influence of Catholicity on free institutions.
The one is imbosomed in the Pyrenees of Catholic Spain, and
the other is perched on the Apennines of Catholic Italy. The
very names of Andorra and San Marino are enough to refute
the assertion, that Catholicity is opposed to republican gov-
ernments. Both of these Uttle republics owed their origin
directly to the Catholic religion. That of Andorra was
founded by a Catholic bishop, and that of San Marino, by a
Catholic monk, whose name it bears. The bishops of Urge!
have been, and are still, the protectors of the former ; and the
Roman Pontiffs of the latter.

2. Andorra has continued to exist, with few political vicis-
situdes, for more than a thousand years ; while San Marino
dates back her history more than fifteen hundred years, and
is therefore not only the oldest republic in the world, but per-
haps the oldest government in Europe. The former, to a
territory of two hundred English square miles, has a popula-
tion of fifteen thousand ; while the latter, with half the popu-
lation, has a territory of only twenty-one square miles. Both
of them are governed by officers of their own choice ; and
the government of San Marino in particular, is conducted on
the most radically democratic principles.

3. The legislative body consists of the Council of Sixty, one
half of whom at least are, by law, to be chosen from the plebe-
ian order; and of i\iQArrengo, or general assembly, summoned
under extraordinary circumstances, in which all the families of
the republic are to be represented. The executive is loc

INFLUENCE OF CATHOLICITY ON CIVIL LIBERTY. 251

LiBEETT.

Kentucky in the
ito uiid prolbund
lent writer-, who
are of men. HU
ition mottt requi-
r of D'Aabigm''8
holic Missions iii
lard works.

main, standing
Be institutions,
alic Spain, and
lie Italy. The
ough to refute
•epublican gov-
ed their origin
Andorra was
,n Marino, by a
[shops of Urgel
)rmer : and tlie

pi of Sixty, one
[from the plebe-
Lbly, summoned
C the families of
lutive is lodged

in two capitanei regyenti, or governors, chosen every six
months, and holding jurisdiction, one in the city of San Mari-
no, and the other in the country ; — so jealous are these old
republicans of placing power in the hands of one mai; I The
iudiciary department is managed by a commissary, who is
required by law to be a foreigner, — a native of some
other part of Italy, — in order that, in the discharge of his
office, he may be biassed by no undue prejudices, resulting
from family connections.

4. When Addison visited the r^ublic in 1700, he "scarce-
ly met with any in the place who had not a tincture of learn-
ing." He also saw the collection of the laws of the republic,
published in Latin, in one volume folio, under the title : " Sta-
tuta illustrissimae reipublicae Sancti Marini." When Napo-
leon, at the head of his victorious French troops, was in the
neighborhood of San Marino, in 1791, he paused, and sent a
congratulatory deputation to the republic, " which expressed
the reverence felt by her young sister, France, for so ancient
and free a commonwealth, and offered, besides an increase of
territory, a present of four pieces of artillery." The present
was gratefully accepted, but the other tempting offer was
wisely declined I

5. The good old Catholic times produced patriots and
heroes, of whom the present age might well be proud. Wil-
liam Wallace, defeated at Buscenneth, fell a martyr to the
liberty of his native Scotland in 1305. Robert Bruce achiev-
ed what Wallace had bled for not in vain, — the independence
of his country. He won, in 1314, the decisive battle of Ban-
nockburn, which resulted in the expulsion of the English
invaders from Scotland. Are the Hungarians, and Poles, and
Spaniards, and French, who fought for centuries the battles
of European independence against the Saracens and Turks, to
be set down as enemies of freedom ? Are the brave knights
of St. John, who so heroically devoted themselves for the
libei ty of Europe at Rhodes and at Malta, also to be rauked
with the enemies of human rights ?

6. We might bring the subject home to our own times and
country, and show that the Catholics of the colony of Mary-

252

THE FOURTH KEADEK.

land, were the first to proclaim universal liberty, civil and
religious, in North America ; that in the war for independence
with Protestant England, Catholic Prance came generously
and effectually to our assistance ; that Irish and American
Catholics fought side by side with their Protestant fellow-cit-
izens in that eventful war ; that the Maryland line which bled
so freely at Camden with the Catholic Baron de Kalb, while
Gates and his Protestant militia were consulting their safety
by flight, was composed tOL a great extent of Catholic sol-
diers ; that there was no Catholic traitor during our revolu-
tion ; that the one who perilled most in signing the Declara-
tion of Independence, and who was the last survivor of that
noble band of patriots, was the illustrious Catholic, Charles
Carroll of Carrollton ; that half the generals and officers of
our revolution — Lafayette, Pulaski, Count de Grasse, Ro-
chambeau, De Kalb, Kosciuszko, and many others were Cath-
olics ; and that the first commodore appointed by Washing-
ton to form our infant navy, was the Irish Catholic — Barry.
These facts, which are but a few of those which might be
adduced, prove conclusively that Catholicity is still, what she
was in the middle ages, the steadfast friend of free institutions.
7. To conclude : Can it be that Catholicity, which saved
Europe from barbarism and a foreign Mohammedan despot-
ism, — which in every age has been the advocate of free princi-
ples, and the mother of heroes and of republics, — which origi-
nated Magna Charta and laid the foundation of liberty in
every country in Europe, — and which in our own day and
country has evinced a similar spirit, — is the enemy of free
principles ? We must blot out the facts of history, before we
can come to any such conclusion ! If history is at all to be
relied on, we must conclude, that the influence of the
Catholic Church has been favorable to Civil Liberty.

THE MINISTRY OP ANGELS.

253

civil and
ependence
reneronsly
American
fellow-cit-
whicb bled
Calb, while
their safety
itholic sol-
our revolu-
he Declara-
vor of that
)lic, Charles
i officers of
arasse, Ro-
} were Cath-
t)y Washing-
)lic — ^Babry.
ch might be
bill, what she
institutions,
which saved
edan despot-
3f free princi-
-which origi-
of liberty in
)wn day and
nemy of free
ry, before we
at all to be
bnce of the
Liberty.

82. The Ministry of Angels.

8PBN8EB.

Edmund Spensbr— one of the brightest of that pfalaxy of roets who shed
f histre on the reign of Elizabeth. The poetry of Spenser belongs to the
first order. There is a saliitv'^ry purity and nobleness about it. He is a
connecting link between Chai.cer anc* Milton; resembling the former in
his descriptive power, his tt.rilerness, and his sense of beauty, though in-
ferior to him in homely vigor and dramatic insight into character. Ilia
"Fuiry Queen" is the chief representative in English poetry of the ro-
mance which once delighted halt and bower. Notwithstanding his polemi-
cal allegory of Duessa, a sorry tribute to the age, nothing is more striking
than the Catholic tone that belongs to Spenser's poetry. The religion and
the chivalry of the Middle Ages were alike the inspirers of his song. He
belongs to the order of poets who are rather the monument of a time gone
by than an illustration of their own.

1. And is there care in heaven? And is there love
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base,
That may compassion of their evils move ?

There is : — else much more wretched were the case
Of men than beasts : but oh 1 th' exceeding grace
Of highest God, that loves his creatures so,
And all his works with mercy doth embrace,
That blessed angels he sends to and fro,
To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe !

2. How (rft do they their silver bowers leave
To come to succor us, that succor want I
How oft do they, with golden pmions cleave
The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant,
Against foul fiends to aid us militant I
They for us fight, they watch and duly ward.
And their bright squadrons round about us plant ;
And all for love, and nothing for reward :

Oh I why should heavenly God to men have such regard I

Sonnet.

3. Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere ;
Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his bough ;
Sweet is the eglantine, but pricketh near ;
Sweet is the firbloom, but his branches rough ;

25-1: THE FOURTH READER.

Sweet is the cyprus, but bis rind is tough ;
Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill ;
Sweet is the broom flower, but yet sour enough ;
And sweet is moly, but his root is ill :
So, every sweet with sour is tempered still ;
That maketh it be coveted the more :
For easy things, that may be got at will,
Most sorts of men do set but little store.
Why, then, should I account of little pain
That endless pleasure shall unto me gain ? .

83. The Choiob.

MILES.

GEonoE n. Miles, native of Baltimore, professor now at Mt. St. Mary's
College-, his Alma Mater, one of our most gifted writers in poetry and
prose. His two published tales of "The Governess," and " Loretto; or,
The Choice," and still more his tragedy of " Mahomet," prove him pos-
sessed of a high order of talent.

1. " What do you think of the world, Agnes ? rather a nice
place after all — eh ? Oh, I have had my time in it 1"

" And so have I," said Agqes.
" You ought to see more of it, my girl."
" No, thank you ; I have seen quite enough."
" Why, you jade you, what have you seen in a month ? It
takes one years to see the world as it is, in all its majestically
accumulating glory and versatile interest. Poh 1" continued
the Colonel, " what have you seen ?"

2. " I have seen," returned Agnes, with provoking calmness,
" that its standard of morality is not God's standard ; tluit
wealth and impudence are its virtues ; poverty and modesty
its vices ; that money is its god, its grand governing principle,
to which all else is subservient ; that happmess is measured
by the purse, and that a comfortable if not luxurious settle-
ment in life is the grand goal, in the chase of which eteruitj
is lost sight of." ^

" Poh I" ejaculated the Colonel.

THE CUOICE.

255

3. " I have seen Catholics almost universally ashamed of
the first principles of their faith, and artfully smoothing them
over to attract their dissenting brethren. I have seen them
dressing so indecently, even when priests are invited, that
their pastors are put to the blush."

" That's the priest's fault," mumbled the Colonel.

4. " I have seen," continued Agnes, smiling at the inter-
ruption, " that your happy, merry men and women, are only
so because they have a false conscience, which has ceased to
accuse them ; I have seen all who have virtue enough to feel,
living in perpetual fear of the temptations by which they are
surrounded. I have seen that society is but a hollow farce,
in which there is neither love nor friendship. I have seen the
idol of a thousand worshippers left without a single friend
when touched by poverty."

5. The Colonel groaned and looked away from Lei.

" And I have seen," said Agnes, taking her uncle's hand,
and modulating her voice to a whisper, " I have seen that, in
spite of all this, the world i^ dazzlingly beautiful, winning,
enchanting. And oh, my dear, good uncle, it is not Ood
that makes it so I I have felt its insidious fascination. I
tell you, uncle, that I have been wandering along the brink of
a precipice ; that I could no more live in the world than can
the moth live in the candle ; that my only salvation is in that
Convent 1"

6. The old man knocked the ashes carefully from his cigar,
slowly brushed a tear from his eye, and put his arm around
Lei's neck. '

"Thank God, you are not a Catholic!" he exclaimed
* There are no Protestant convents to take you from me."

With tears streaming down her cheeks, Lei leaned her head
on his shoulder. A horrible suspicion ran through the Col-
onel's mind. He raised her head in the clear moonlight, and
mutely questioned her, with such a fearful, timid gaze, that
her heart bled for him, as she said —

"Yes, uncle, I am a Catholic I"

1. The cigar fell from his hard — his cane rolled on the
porch — ^his broad chest swelled as if his heart was bursting —

256

THE FOURTH READEK.

had they both been dead at his feet, he could scarcely have
shown more grief, than at this overthrow of all his plans, this
defeat of his best diplomacy.

" Gheck-mated 1" he sobbed in uncontrolled agony ; re-
pulsed them sternly from his side, and then, spreading his
arms, snatched them both to his bosom. " Check-mated I
Check-mated I"

8. One word: the sermon just preached by Agnes against
the world, has nothing new in it ; Solomon put it all in a nut-
shell long ago; it will be found better expressed in every
prayer-book. To the Colonel, it was perfectly puerile, the
same old song which saints and misanthropists have been
singing together from time immemorial. Only by constant
meditation do we comprehend that life is but a preparation
for death; and unless this great truth is realized, where is the
folly in living as if time were the main thing and eternity a
trifle?

9. The visible present, though brief, and bounded by the
grave, is apt to be more important than the inviaible future.
Without strong faith, men must live as they do; and all who
reprove them for neglecting their souls, in over devotion to
their bodies, will seem only fools, or very good people, who
have not weighed well the difficulty of what they propose.
Every day we witness the same spectacle — a world, for whom
God died upon the cross, devoting all their time, all their
thoughts, to obtain material comfort and avoid sorrow: a
prayer at night, an ejaculation in the morning — the rest of
the day sacred to the body.

10. We see this every day; we do not wonder at it ; it
is all right, all in the order of Providence : the only mystery
is, that some weak, pious souls are absurd enough to quit the
world, and devote the greater part of their lives to religious
exercises; this is the singular part of it. It would be an un-
natural state of things, indeed, if all mankind were to make
business secondary to religion, and spend as much time in
praising God, as they do in making money.

11. Why, the best instructed, the most edifying Catholic
parents, cannot help preferring an auspicious alliance with

THE CHOICE.

257

man for their daughters, to an eternal union with God in the
Bolitary cloister; and how can we expect the worldly-minded
Colonel, who has not seen a confessional for forty years, to
consider the choice made by Agnes, as any thing else than a
burning shame, a living death ?

12. How many of us have realized, by prayer and medita-
tion, that heaven is all and earth nothing ? How many of us
are truly sick of the vanity of life, much as we pretend to be,
and do not sagely conclude that our neighbors and ourselves
are all doing our duty, taking our share of enjoyment with
sufficient gratitude, and bearing our just proportion of afflic-
tion with exemplary resignation ?

13. There was a time when monasteries and chapels were
as numerous as castles ; when the Christian world seemed
ambitious to live a Christian life ; when self-denial and self-
castigation were honored ; when the consecration of a cathe-
dral was of more moment than the opening of a railroad ;
when there was something nobler than science, and dearer
than profit ; when the security of government was in the hu-
mility of the people ; when the security of the people was in
the firmness and purity of the Church ; when there was not,
as now, a groundwork of ignorance, pride, and envy, which is
either a withering master or a dangerous slave. Yes 1 there
was a time when all this was, and when Agnes might not
have been laughed at ; but it was in the dark ages, reader, in
those terrible nights before the sunlight of newspapers had
illumined the earth. •

84. The Choice — continued.

1. Must it be told that, within a month after her return
from the city, Agnes entered the convent as a candidate; that
three months later, her long hair was cut to suit the brown
cap of the novice ? Until her hair was cut, the Colonel had
cherished a hope that she would repent her girlish haste; but
when he saw the ruin caused by those envious shears, he could
not help saying — " It is all over — all over I"

258

THE FOURTH KBADEK.

1 >,;!
k 'it

2. And ye who have clung to Agnes, in the hope that
would be induced to marry Melville, or incline to Mr. Almy,
or that some romantic young genilemau would appear upon
the carpet, invested with every virtue and every grace, between
whom and our young novice, a sweet sympathy might be estab-
lished, which should ultimately lead to better things than the
cloister, and supply a chapter or two of delicious sentiment,—
leave us, we beseech you, — for her choice is made, though the
vows are not yet taken.

3. Yes 1 she is lost to the world 1 that sweet, beautiful girl,
who laughed so merrily with her load of premiums in her arras;
the milk-white lamb among those green hills ; the friend who
had gone to change Lei, and who did change her, though she
nearly perished in the effort ; the kind protectress who had
comforted little Clarence and the Wanderer ; the keen-sighted
woman who had penetrated the secret of Mr. Almy's face ;
who had conquered Melville, and reigned supreme in the ball-
room, eclipsing all the practised belles of the season I

4. She was lost to the world! that sweet, beautiful girl,
who was so well fitted to delight and adorn it ; lost before the
first bloom of youth had passed from her checks, before ex-
perience had dried the first bright waters of hope and trust
that are born in our hearts ; lost before there was any ueed
to seek a refuge from the ills of life in that last resource, a con-
vent I She is lost to the world, and what matters it what she
has gained — what heaven has won I — so thought the Colonil.

5. Yet, what was his love for Agnes, compared to her
mother's — the mother who remembered her baptism, her first
cries, her first words, her first caresses; who had counted her
first smiles, and treasured them in her heart ; who remembered
every incident of her youth, her first lisping prayers, her first
songs, her first visit to mass, her first confession, her first
communion, her confirmation : what was his bereavemeut to
hers ?

6. Agnes was her only child, her only companion in prayer,
her jewel, her treasure, her all on earth ; a thousand uncles
could not have loved her as she did ; their lives had been one,
and £iow they are called upon to live apart. Oh, not apart !

THE CHOICE.

259

Who shall say apart ! When they are repeating, day after
day, and night after night, the same dear litanies, when they
are appealing to the same saints, the same angela, the same
Blessed Mother, the same Father, Son, and Holy Ghost ;
when they are living together in Goc, who shall say they are
living apart I

t. And thus thought Mrs. Cleveland, and she missed not
her daughter's long, dark hair ; and if slie shed floods of natu-
ral tears, it was not because her daughter was clad in the
plain livery of heaven. And so thought Lei, and she was glad
of the CHOICE, though she had now to sit and sew alone, though
she had to walk alone, though she had to watch the sun rise
and set, and play Beethoven, and listen to the birds and pluck
wild flowers, and muse under the old oak-trees without Agnes
at her side.

8. God 1 how beautiful must the soul be when entering
heaven 1 The plainest face, when lit with sanctity, is sublime,
and prince and peasant bow down before it, or if they smite,
it is in envy. No rouge shall ever tinge thy pale cheek. Sister
Agnes ; no ring shall ever glitter on thy white hand ; thy
hair shall never be twined into lockets ; thy foot shall never
twinkle in the dance I

9. Thou art the child of God, Sister Agnes 1 And who will
dare to claim thee for the world, as thou kneelest there before
the altar, or say that thou wert made for man ? Who would
snatch thee thence, thou young companion of the angels, as if
tiho" wert to be pitied and saved ? There is the likeness to
God, which the children of earth have lost, and who would
bid it vanish ?

«#

260

THE FOURTH READER.

85. Landing of thk Uksultne. and Hospital Nuj:

AT Qui'-BKO.

FROM THE HISTORY OF fHB URSULINEU OF QUEDBO.

1. It was on the first day of August, 1639, that the holy
band, so long and anxiously desired, was seen to approach tlie
Canadian shore ; and it was amid the sound of cannons, fifes,
and drums that this little reinforcement took possession of the
post which the Lord had assigned to tLom on the banks of
the St. Lawrence.

2. Great joy there was throughout tiie whole colony, as we
learn from Father Le Jeune, an eye-witness of what he de-
scribes in the " Belation^' of that year : " And the bruve
Charles Huault de Montmagny,'* says he, " advanced to the
water-side with all the military and all the inhabitants of
Quebec, who, at that moment, rent the air with their shouts
of joy."

3. It was, indeed, dear readers, an auspicious day when first
appeared on our shores that young and noble widow,' with
the religious who accompanied her 1 They kissed respect-
fully the soil of that land, so long the object of their pious
hopes and wishes ; and after acknowledging, in suitable
terms, the numerous congratulations offered them on the suc-
cessful issue of their voyage, they went, accompanied by the
military and civil officers, with a crowd of citizens and also
of savages, to the Chapel of Our Lady of Succor, built nejfr
Fort St. Louis, by Champlain, in 1633. There the Te Deum,
intoned by Father Le Jeune, was caught up by the voices of
the multitude, while the cannon from the fort proclaimed the
joyous event far and wide.

4. After the Divine Sacrifice, the Governor, followed by
the whole vast assemblage, conducted the religious to the
Castle of St. Louis, where they received the compliments of
all the most distinguished persons of that day in Canada. M.
de Montmagny invited the religious to take theu* first repast
on Canadian soil at his table. '

1 Madame de lu Feltrie, foundress of the Ursuliiaes of Cauada.

MELR08K ABBET AS IT IS.

261

5. They were afterwards conducted, with the same pomp,
to the separate dwellings prepared for their reception : tiio
Hospital Nuns to a house in the Upper Town, belonging to
tlie Hundred Associates ; and the Ursulines to a very small
dwelling, a species of shop, then the property of the Sicur
Juchcreau des Chatelets, situate at the foot of the hill, not
far from the place where the church of the Lower Town was
Bubsequently built.

6. It is said that their first supper was sent them by the
Governor ; as for their bed, it was formed simply of fur
branches, for the principal part of the baggage having been
left at Tadoussac, and the other httle effects not being yet
brought ashore, the Ursulines found themselves without either
bed, furniture, or provisions.

7. Well might their thoughts revert to the country they
had left forever. Yet this, dear readers, was but the pre-
lude to the life of sacrifice which our venerable mothers led in
the bosom of this infant colony.

86. Melrose Abbey as it is.

BCOTT.

Sir Walter Scott is one of the men of whom Scotland is justly j)roud.
It is tlie peculiur merit of Scott's writings to have revived son»ethin>»' of
tlmt chivalrous sentiment without whicii society rusts in sordid pursuits,
ai)d to have turned back the eyes of a self-conceited ajfe to the " olden
time." With the frank nature and cordial humor which belonged to Chau-
cer and Shakspeare, Scott possessed also much of their dramatic power.

1. If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,

Go, visit it by the pale moonlight ;

For the gay beams of lightsome day

Gild but to flout the ruins gray.

When the broken arches are black in night,

And each shafted oriel glimmers white ;

When the cold light's uncertain shower

Streams on the ruin'd central tower ;

When buttress and buttress alternately ;

Seem framed of ebon and ivory ;

When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die ;

262 TiiK fouhth reader.

When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, *

Then go ; but go alone the while —

Then view St. David's ruin'd pile :

And, home returning, soothly swear,— i

Was never scene so sad and fair !

2. Again on the knight looked the churchman old,

And again he sighed heavily ;
For he had himself been a warrior bold.

And fought in Spain and Italy.
And he thought on the days that were long since by,
When his limbs were strong and his courage was high:
Now, slow and faint, he led the way.
Where, cloister'd r und, the garden lay ;
The pillar'd arches were over their head,
And beneath their feet were the bones cf the dead.

8. Spreading herbs and flowrets bright
Glisten'd with the dew of night I
Nor herb nor floweret glistened there
But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair.
The monk gazed long on the lovely moon,

Then into the night he lookdd forth;
And red and bright the streamers light
Were dancing in the glowing north.
So had he seen, in faur Castile,

The youth in glittering squadrons start ;
Sudden the flying jennet wheel.
And hurl the unexpected dart.
He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright,
That spirits were riding the northern light.

4. By a steel-clench'd postern-door

They entered now the chancel tall ;
The darken'd roof rose high aloof
On pillars lofty, and light, and small ;

MELROSK ABBET AS IT IS.

263

'8 grav«»

an old,

long since by,
rage was high:

r •
I

cf the dead.

[start ;

bright,
Ight.

The keystone, that lock'd each ribbM aisle,
Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatrc-feuillt* ;
The corbells were carved grot.?sque and grim ;
And the pillars, with cluster d shafts so trim,
With base and with capitol flourish'd around,
Seem'd bundles of lances which garlands had bound.

5. Full many a scutcheon and banner riven
Shook to the oold ni^^ht-wind of heaven

Around the 8crf^n»6d altar's pale I
And there the dyiu^;^ lamps did bum
Before thy low and lonely irn,
gallant chief of Otterburne,

And thine, dark knight of Liddesdale I
fading honors of the dead !
high ambition, lowly laid I

The moon on the east oriel shone
Through slender shafts of shapely stone

By foliaged tracery combined ;
Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand
'Twixt poplars straight the osier wand,

In many a freakish knot, had twined ;
Then framed a spell, when the work was done,
And changed the willow wreaths to stone,
The silver light, so pale and faint,
Show'd many a prophet and many a saint,

Whose image on the glass was dyed.
Full m the midst, his cross of red —
Triumphant Michael brandish^a.

And trampled the apostate's pride.
The moonbeam kiss'd the holy pane,
And threw on the pavement a bloody stain.

264

THE FOURTH READER.

87 The First Solitary of the Thebais.

OHATBAUBBIAND.

The name of Chateaubriand stands distinguished among the literary men
of modern France, and his vivid imagination and poetical fervor would liave
made him conspicuous in any age. His masterpiece is the '' Genius of
Christianity," which contains more brilliant and varied eloquence than any
work of the kind produced by the present century.

1. "To the east of this vale of palms arose a high moun-
tain. I directed my course to this kind of Pharos, that seemed
to call me to a haven of security, through the immovable floods
and solid billows of an ocean of sand. I reached the foot of
the mountain, and began to ascend the black and calciiud
rocks, which closed the horizon on every side. Night de-
scended. Thinking I heard some sound near me, I halted,
and plainly distinguished the footsteps of some wild beast,
which was wandering in the dark, and broke through the dried
shrubs that opposed his progress. I thought that I recognized
the lion of the fountain.

2. " Suddenly he sent forth a tremendous roar. The echoes
of these, unknown mountains seemed to awaken for the first
time, and returned the roar in savage murmurs. He had
paused in front of a cavern whose entrance was closed with
a stone. I beheld a light glimmering between the crevices nf
this rock, and my heart beat high with hope and with wonder.
I approached and looked in, when, to my astonishment, I really
beheld a light shining at the bottom of the cavern.

•' * Whoever thou art,' cried I, ' that feedest the savage
boasts, have pity on a wretched wanderer.'

** Scarcely had I pronounced these words, when I heard the
voice of an old man who was chanting one of the Scripture
canticles. I cried in a loud tone :

" ' Christian, receive your brother.'

3. " Scarcely had I uttered these words, when a man ap-
proached, broken with age ; his snowy beard seemed whitened
with all the years of Jacob, and he was clothed iu a garment
formed of the leaves of the palm.

" * Stranger,' said ho, * you arc welcome. You behold a

TOE FIRST 80LITAKY OF THE THEBAIS.

265

BAIS.

K the Uterarv men
ervor woulu havo
1 the " Genius of
ioquence thuii any

e a high moun-
08, that seemed
imovablo floods
ihed the foot of
k and calcined
de. Night de-
r me, I halted,
una wild beast,
irough the dried
hat I recognized

[hen I heard the
f the Scripture

Ivhen a man ap-
leemed whitencJ
led in a garment

You behold a

man who is on the point of being reduced to his kindred dust.
The hour of my happy departure is arrived : yet still I have a
few moments left to dedicate to hospitality. Enter, my brother,
the grotto of Paul.'

" Overpowered with veneration, I followed this founder of
Christianity in the deserts of the Thebais.

4. " A palm-tree, which grew in the recess of the grotto,
entwined its spreading branches along the rock, and formed a
species of vestibule. Near it flowed a spring remarkable for
its transparency ; out of this fountain issued a small rivulet,
that had scarcely escaped from its source before it buried itself
in the bosom of the earth. Paul seated himself with me on
the margin of the fountain, and the lion that had shown me
the Arab's well, came and crouched himself at our feet.

6. " ' Stranger,' said the anchorite, with a happy simplicity,
' how do the affairs of the world go on ? Do they still build
cities ? Who is the master that reigns at present ? For a
hundred and thirteen years have I inhabited this grotto ? and
for a hundred years I have seen only two men — yourself, and
Anthony, the inheritor of my desert ; he came yesterday to
visit me, and will return to-morrow to bury me.'

6. "As he said this, Paul went and brought some bread of
the finest kind, from the cavity of the rock. He told me that
Providence supplied him every day with a fresh quantity of
this food. He invited me to break the heavenly gift with him.
We drank the water of the spring in the hollow of our hands ;
and after this frugal repast, the holy man inquired what events
had conducted me to this inaccessible retreat. After listening
to the deplorable history of my Ufe :

1. " ' Eudorus,' said he, ' your faults have been great ; but
there is no stain which the tears of penitence cannot efface. It
is not without some design that Providenc^^. has made you
witness of the introduction of Christianity into every land.
You will also find it here in this solitude, among the lions,
beneath the fires of the tropic, as you have encountered it
amidst the bears and the glaciers of the pole. Soldier of Jesus
Christ, you are destined to fight and to conquer for the faith
God I whose ways are incomprohensible, it is thou that hast

^6Q

THE FOURTH KKADER.

conducted this young confessor to my grotto, that I might
unveil futurity to his Tiew ; that by perfecting him in the
knowledge of his religion, I might complete in him by grace
the work that nature has begun I Eudorus, repose here for
the rest of the day ; to-morrow, at sunrise, we will ascend the
mountain to pray, and I will speak to you before I die/

8. " After this, the holy man conversed with me for a long
time on the beauty of religion, and on the blessings it should
one day shed upon mankind. During this discourse the old
man presented an extraordinary contrast ; simple as a child
when left to nature alone, he seemed to hu , e forgotten every-
thing, or rather to know nothing, of the world, of its grandeurs,
its miseries, and its pleasures ; but when God descended into
his soul, Paul became an inspired genius, filled with experience
of the present, and with visions of the future. Thus in his
person two opposite characters seemed to unite : still it was
doubtful which was the more admirable, Paul the ignorant, or
Paul the prophet ; since to the simpUcity of the former was
granted the sublimity of the latter.

9. '■' After giving me many instructions full of a wisdom
intermingled with sweetness, and a gravity tempered with
cheerfulness, Paul invited me to oflfer with him a sacrifice of
praise to the E ei'nal ; he arose, and placing himself under the
palm-tree, thus chanted aloud :

" * Blessed be thou, the God of my fathers, who hast had
regard to the lowliness of thy servant I

" ' O solitude, thou spouse of my bosom, thou art about to
lose him for whom thou didst possess unfading charms 1

"' * The votary of solitude ought to preserve his body in
chastity, to have his lips undefiled, and his mind illuminated
with divine light.

" * Holy sadness of penitence, come, pierce my sou^ like a
needle of gold, aria fill it with celestial sweetness I

" ' Tears are the mother of virtue, and sorrow is the foot-
stool to heaven.'

10. " The old man's prayer was scarcely finished, when I fell
into a sweet and profound sleep. I reposed on the stonv
couch which Paul preferred to a bed of roses. The sun was on

TDE FIRST SOLITARY OF THE inERAIS.

207

lat I mig^t
him in ilie
lim by grace
>ose bcrc for
11 asccrd the
I die.'

ae for a Ion;,'
ngs it should
lurse the old
pie as a child
•gotten evcry-
its grandeurs,
lescendcd into
ith experience
Thus in liis
e : still it was
lie ignorant, or
ihe former was

ill of a wisdom
;empered with
a sacrifice of
tself under the

I who hast had

lu art about to
1 charms 1
Ive his body in
lind illuminated

[my soul like a

3S1

tow is tlie fopt-

led, when I fell

on the stony

Ixhe sun was on

the point of setting when I again opened my eyes to the liglit.
Tlie hermit said to me :

" ' Arise and pray ; take your refreshment, and let us go to
the mountain.'

" I olicycd him, and we departed together. For more than
FIX hours we ascended the craggy rocks ; and at daybreak we
liad readied the most elevated point of Mount Colzim.

11. " An immense horizon strctclied around us. To the ci'.st
arose the summits of Horeb and Sinai ; the desert of Silr, and
tlie Red Sea, lay stretched in boundless expanse Ix-low ; to
the south the mountains of the Thebals formed a mi;i'ht y chain ;
the northern prospect was l)0unded by tlic northern jilains,
over which Piiaroali pursued the Hebrews ; while to the west,
stretching far beyond the sands amidst which I had been lost,
lay the fertile valley of Egy[)t.

12. " The first rays of Aurora, streaming from tlie horizon
of Arabia Felix, for some time tinged this immense picture with
softened light. The zebra, the antelope, and the ostrich ran
rapidly over the desert, while the camels of a caravan pas.u'd
gently in a row, headed by a sagacious ass, which acted as their
conductor. The bosom of the Red Scr was checkered with
many a whitening sail, that wafted into its ports the silks aiitl
the perfumes of the East, or perhaps bore some intelligent
voyager to the shores of India. At last the sun arose, and
crowned with splendor this frontier of the eastern and westt rii
worlds ; he poured a blaze of light on the heights of Sinai—
a feeble, yet brilliant image of the God that Moses contem-
plated on the summit of this sacred mount 1"

88. Tn?: First Soijtaky — concluded.

1. " My hoary conductor now broke silence :
" ' Confessor of the faith,' said b" 3ast your eyes around
you. Behold this eastern clime, where all the religion^, and
all the revolutions of the earth, have had their origin; behold
this Egypt, whence your Greece received her elegant divinities,
and India her monstrous and misshapen gods; in these same

203

THE I(»l'i:tii ki:adi:k.

regions Jesus Christ himself ajipcnrccl, and the day shall come
when a descendant of Ishraacl shall re-establish error beneath
the Arab's tent. Tlie first system of morality that was com*
raitted to writing, wan also the production of tliis fruitful soil.

2. *" It is worthy of your attention, that the people of the
East, as if in punishment for some great rtbelHon of their fore-
fathers, have almost always been under the dominion of tyrants;
tiius, as a kind of miraculous counterpoise, morality and re-
ligion have sprung up in the same land that gave birth to
slavery and misfortune. Lastly, these same deserts witnessed
the march of the armies of Sesostris and Camljyses, of Alex-
ander and Caesar. Ye too, ye future ages, shall send hither
armies equally numerous, and warriors not less celebrated I
All the great and daring eflbrts of the human species have
either had their origin here, or have come hither to exhaust
their force. A supernatural energy has ever been preserved in
these regions wherein the first man received life; something
miraculous seems still attached to the cradle of creation and
the source of light and knowledge.

3. " * Without stopping to contemplate those f^cenes of hu-
man grandeur that have long been closed in entiless night, or
to consider those epochs so renowned in history, ))at which liaw;
passed away like the lieeting vapor,, it is to the Christian, al)ove
all others, that the East is a land of wonders.

" ' You have seen Christianity, aided by morality, penetrate
ihe civilized countries of Italy and Greece ; you have seen it
introduced by means of charity among the barbarous nations
of Gaul and Germany; here, under the influence of an atnios-
l)here that weakens the soul while rendering it obstinate,
among a people grave by its political institutions, and trifling
liy its climate, charity and morality would be insuJicient,

4. " ' The religion of Jesus Christ can only enter the temples
of Isis and Aramou under the veil of penitence. To luxury anj
effeminacy it must oiler examples of the most rigid privation;
to the knavery of the priestrf, and the lying illusions of hh'
divinities, it must oppose real miracles and the oracles of
truth: scenes of extraordinary virtue alone can tear away the
crowd from the enchantments of the theatre and the circiis'

THE FIRST SOLITARY OF Tllli Til J BA IS.

when men have been guilty of great crimes, groat cxiDi; tions
are necessary, in order that the renown of the latter may ellaco
the celebrity of the former.

5. " ' Such are the reasons for which those missitjiiarics were
established, of whom I am the first, and who will be jK'rpelu-
ated in these solitudes. Admire in this the conduct of our
divine chief, Avho knows how to arrange his armies according
to the places and the obstacles they have to encounter. Con-
template these two religions, about to struggle her« hand to
liaiid until one shall have humbled the other in the dirst. The
ancient worship of Osiris, whose origin is hidden in the niglit
of ti'^^e, proudly conddent in its traditions, its myst-ericf!, and
its ])omps, rests securely ui)on victory.

6. " * The miglity dragon of Egyi)t lies l)asking in the. midst
of his waves, and exclaims : " The river is miiif." lie bcliev'\s
that the crocodile sliall alwavs receive the iiiceufc of mortnl.-,
and that the ox, which is slaughtered at t/ie crib, «hull lu ver
cease to rank as the fir.st of divinities. Xo, mv .-on, tin aimv
sliall be formed in these deserts, and sh.ill marcl) to conquesl;
under the banners of trutli. From the solitudes of Tliebais
and of Seetis shall it advance: it is composed of aged saints,
wiio carry no other we!i|)on tlian thoir staiVs to besiege the
ministers of eiror in their very temjjles.

t. " ' The latter occupy fertile plains, and revel amidst luxury
and sensual gratifications ; the former inhabit the burning
sands of the desert, and patiently endure all the rigors of life.
Hell, that foresees the destruction of its power, attem})ts every
moans to insure its victory: the demons of voluptuousness, of
riches, and of ambition, seek to corrupt these faithful soldiers
of the cross ; but heaven comes to the succor of its children,
and lavishes miracles in their favor. Who can recount the
names of so many illustrious recluses — the Antlionies, the
Scra},ions, the Macariuses, the Pacoiniuses ? Victory declares
in their favor The Lord gathers Egypt about him, as a
shepherd gathers round him his mantle.

8. " ' Where error once dictated the oracles of falsehood, the
voice of truth is now heard ; wlierever the false divinities had
Instituted a superstitious rite, there Jesus had placed a saint.

270

THE FOURTH READKk.

flie grottoes of the Thebais are inhabited, tlie catacomls of
the dead are peopled with the living who are dead to nil tlio
passions of the world. The gods, banished from their teiniilcs,
return to the river and the plough. A burst of triunipliaut
ioy resounds from the pyramids of Cheops even to the tomb uf
Osymandyas. Tlie ])osterity of Joseph enters into the land of
Goshen; and this victory, purchased by the tears of its victors,
costs not one tear to the vanquished I'

9. " Paul, for a moment, iuterruptcd his discourse, and then
sgain addressed me.

" * Eudorus,' said he, 'never more abandon the ranks of the
soldiers of Jesus Christ. If you are not a rebel to the cause
of Heaven, what a crown awaits you! what enviable glory will
be yours I My son, what are you still seeking among men ?
lias the world still charms for you ? Do you wish, like the
faithless Israelite, to lead the dance around the golden calf?
You know not the ruin that awaits this mighty empire, so long
the terror and the destroyer of the human race ; know, then,
that the crimes of these masters of the world are hastening tlie
day of vengeance.

10. " * They have persecuted the faithful followers of Josus;
they have been drunk with the blood of his martyrs.'

" Here Paul again interrupted his discourse. He stretched
forth his hands toward Mount Iloreb ; his eyes sparkled with
animation, a flame of glory played around his head, his
wrinkled forehead seemed invested with all the gracefulness of
youth : like another Elias, he exclaimed in accents of rapt me:

11. "'Whence come those fugitive families tVot seek an
asylum in the cave of the solitary? Who are those people tliat
flock from the four regions of the earth ? Do you see yomler
terrific horsemen, the impure children of the demons and of the
sorcerers of Scythia?' The scour^;'} of God conducts them.'
Their horses vie with the leopard in speed : numberless as tiio
sands of the desert, their captives flock before them. What
seek these kings, clad in the skins of wild beasts, their heads
covered with rude hats, and theh* faces tinged with green.' Wliy

Tho Huns.

'Attila.

^ J'he Goths and Lombards.

IIOIiATICS.

271

do these naked savages butcher their prisoners under the walla
of the besieged city? ' Hold 1 yon monster has drunk the blood
ol" the Roman who fell beneath his hand 1*

12. " ' They all pour from their nafive deserts : they march
towards this new Babylon. 0, queen of cities I how art thou
fallen f How is the beauty of thy capitol effaced 1 How are
tjiy plains deserted, and how dreadful is the solitude that
reigns around I But, lo 1 astonishing spectacle 1 the cross
appears elevated above the scene of surrounding desolation I
It takes its station upon new-born Rome, and marks each
magnificent edifice as it rises from the dust. Paul, thou father
of anchorites, exult with joy ere thou diest 1 Thy children
shall inhabit the ruined palaces of the Ctesars ; the porticos
whence the sentence of exterminating v/rath was pronounced
against the Christians, shall be converted into religious clois-
ters ; * and penitence shall consecrate the spots where crimes
once reigned triumphant.' "

)wers of Jesus;

89. H O K A T I u s

MAOAULAY.

Thomas Babinoton Macaulat wns born at the besrinnin^ of the present
oentiirv, and died in 1860. As an essayist, he is rcmirkable for his bril-
liatit rlit'toncal powers, splendid tone of colorin?, and happy illustrations.
Miiciiiilay has also written "Lays ot Ancient Rome," wliieh are full of
animation and poetic fervor. At the titiie of his death he was engaged in
writing the " Ilistory of England;'' but the vohnnes of this work pub-
lished, partake more of the character of a brilliant romance, than of true
aad dignilied history.

1. Alone stood brave Horatius,
But constant still in mind;
Thrice thirty thousand foes before,

And the broad flood behind.
"Down with him I" cried false Sextus,
With a smile on his pale face ;

'The Franks and Vandals. 'The Saracen.

'The Thennio of Diocletian, now inhabited by the Carthusians.

v^lw I'i''

272 TUE FOUKTH KEADER.

" Now yield thoo," cried Lars Porsena,
" Now yield thee to our grace,"

2. Round turii'd he, as uot deigning

Those craven ranks to see ;
Naught spake he to Lars Porsena,

To Sextus naught spoke he ;
But he saw on Palatinus

The white porch of liis home ;
And he spake to the noble river

That rolls by the towers of Rome.

8. " Tiber I father Tiber 1

To whom the Romans pray,
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms,

Take thou in charge this day 1"
So he spake, and speaking sheathed

The good sword by his side.
And, with his harness on his back.

Plunged headlong in the tide.

4. No sound of joy or sorrow

Was heard from either bank;
But friends and foes in dumb surprise,
With parted lips and straining eyes,

Stood gazing where he sank:
And when above the surges

They saw his crest appear.
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry,
And even the ranks of Tuscany

Could scarce forbear to cheer.

5. But fiercely ran the current,

Swollen high by months of rain ;
And fast his blood was flowing ;

And he wa: .:ore in pain,
And heavy with his armor,

And spent with changing blows;.

IlortATIUS.

And oft thoy tliouglit him sinking,

But still again he rose.

6. Never, I ween, did swimmer,

In such an evil case,
Struggle through sueh a raging flood

Safe to tlie landing-place.
But his limbs were borne up bravely

By the brav(^ heart within,
And our good fatlier Tiber

Bare bravely up his chin.

7. " Curse on him !" quoth false Sextu? ;

" Will not the villain drown ?
But for this stay, ere close of day

We should have sacked the town 1"
" Heaven IjoIj) him I" quoth Lars Porsena,

" And brl. ^ him safe to shore ;
For sucli a gallant feat of arms ,

Was never seen before."

8. And now he feels the bottom ;

Now on dry earth he stands ;
Now round him throng the fathers

To ])ress his gory hands ;
And now with shouts and clapping,

And noise of wee])ing loud.
He enters through the river-gate.

Borne by the joyous crowd.

•

9. When the goodnmn mends his armor,

And trims his helmet's plume ;
When the goodwife's shuttle merrily

Goes flashing throngh the loom ;
With weep'ng and with laughter

Still is the story told,
How well Horatius kept the bridge

In the brave days of old.
12*

2T-i:

TIIK FuL' urn IIKADEK.

90. TlIK ExILk's lllCTUIlN.
M It S . B A D L I E U .

1. Many clianj^cs have passed over the face of tlie Green Islo
Biiiec I left its roeky sh(»res, — ehanges public and chaii;;t,s
l)i'ivjito liav(; taken })lace among its people — the friends whom
I loved and eherislied have i)as.sed away, ay 1 every soul;
so tiiat, with the aid of my altered appearance, I can p:i>s
myself oif for a stran<j;er, yet there is seniething in the virv
atmosphere which breathes of home. The warm hearts ainl
loving eyes that cheered my boyhood are gone, — th(i iivififj
fri'ui'ls are lost to sight, and I miss their enlivening presence,
oh I how much ! — Ijut the inanimate fj'iends — the old familiar
scenes j'emain,

2. I have taken np my abode in the very house of my
mitivify — rnincil it is, and desolate, yet it is the shell wliirli
contained the kernel of my affections. The fields are as grocti,
tlie sky as changeful, the mountains as grand, the sacroil val-
ley as lone and solemh, and, above all, the faith and i)i('ty of
the people is still the same, simple, earnest, nothing doubtiii;:,
all-performing.

3. Oil ! I am not alone here, one cannot be alone here, with
the monuments of ages of faith around, and the same faith
ever living and acting among the people. I can go and kiiwl
by the graves of my pavents, and pray that my end may be
like theirs, and I feel that the penitent tears I shed arc ac-
cej)table to God, and that the spirits of those over whose
ashes I weep, may one day welcome me in glory, When tlie
last trace of my guilt is effaced by whatever process God
pleases.

4. Here, amid the solitude of the desert city, I meditate
on the years I [)assed in a foreign land, and rejoice that the
feverish dream is over. Where I herded my goats, a peasant
boy, I muse, an old and wrinkled man, on the path of life I have
trodden. I stand at the opposite end of existence, and ask
myself what is the difference. I have had since what is called
" position," I have wealth still — ay 1 a fortune, but what of I

MOUNT OKIliNT.

275

that — I am old, friendless, cliildless, and alone, burdeiud with
liiirrowinj; recollections, and ready to sink into the grave, uii-
honorcd and nnknown.

5. I was poor and unlearned in those days which I now
look back on with regret, but I had many hearts to lovo
nio ; " now," said I bitterly to myself, " I dare not breathe my
luune to any hereabouts, for the memory of my crime is tra-
ditional among the people, and, did they recognize me, all the
wealth I have would not bribe them to look with kindness on
him v'liO was once an Apostate.

91. Mount Orient.

OBKALD ORIFFIN.

* 1. The M' Orients of Mount Orient, gentle reader, were
looked upon in our neighborhood as people of high fashion,
unbounded literary attainments, and the most delicate sensi-
bility. They had, until within the last two years, spent the
greater portion of their life "abroad" (a word which has a
portentous sound in our village). On their return to Mount
Orient, they occasioned quite a revolution in all our tastes
and customs : they introduced waltzing, smoking cigars, &c.
I have seen their open carriage sometimes driving by my win-
dow. Miss Mimosa M' Orient seated on the coach-box, and
Mr. Ajax M' Orient, her brother, occupying the interior in a
frieze jacket and a south wester.

2. But what added most to their influence was that both
were considered prodigies of intellect. Ajax M' Orient had
written poems in which " rill" rhymed to " hill," " beam" to
" stream," " mountain" to " fountain," and " billow" to " wil-
low." Nay, it was even whispered that he had formed a
design of imm*" ^talizing Robert Bums, by turning his poems
into good English, and had actually performed that operation
upon Tarn O'Shanter, which was so much changed for the
better, that you would hardly know it again. So that he
passed in these parts for a surprising genius.

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276

THE FOURTH KKADER.

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V ii

3. He was likewise a universal critic, one of those agreea-
ble persons, who know every thing in the world better than
anybody else. He would ask you what you thought of that
engraving, and on your selectiog a particular group for admi-
ration, he would civilly inform you that you had praised the
only defect in the piece. Like the host in Horace, who used
to analyze his dishes with his praises in such a manner as to
deprive his guests of all inclination to taste them, Ajax would
afflict you with pointing out the beauties of a picture, until you
began to see no beauty in it.

4. Nor did nature escape him : walk out with him, and he
would commend every lake, and rock, and river, until you
wished yourself under ground from hun. The wind, the sun,
the air, the clouds, the waters, nothing was safe from the
taint of his villanous commendation. And then his meta-
physics ; it was all well until he grew metaphysical: so jealous
was he of originality on these subjects, that if you assented too
hastily to one of his own propositions, ten to one but he would
wheel round and assail it, satisfied to prove himself wrong,
provided he could prove you wrong also. The navigation of
the Red Sea was not a nicer matter than to get thrDugh a
conversation with Mr. Ajax M' Orient without an argument.

5. On the other hand. Miss Mimosa M'Orient was very
handsome, a great enthusiast, an ardent lover of Ireland (un-
like her brother, who aflPected the aristocrat, and curled his
Up at O'Connell) ; with a mind all sunshine and a heart all
fire ; a soul innocence itself — ^radiant candor — heroic courage
— a glowing zeal for universal liberty — a heart alive to the
tenderest feelings of distress — and a mind, to judge by her
conversation, imbued with the deepest sentiments of virtue.

6. Miss M'Orient had a near relative living under her pro-
tection, named Mary de Courcy, who did not seem to have
half her advantages. She was rather plain, had no enthusiasm
whatever, very seldom talked of Ireland, had so much common
sense in her mind that there was no room for sunshine ; and
as to fire in her bosom, the academy of Lagoda alone, to all
appearance, could have furnished artists capable of extracting
it. She might be candid, but she had too much reserve to

MOUNT ORIENT.

2TT

)se agreea-
letter than
lit of that
► for admi-
)raised the
, who used
inner as to
\.jax would
e, until you

lim, and he
, until you
id, the sun,
le from the
n his raeta-
l: so jealous
assented too
)ut he would
iself wrong,
avigation of
t through a
argument,
it was very
Ireland (un-
curled his
a heart all
'oic courage
live to the
idge by her
if virtue,
.er her pro-
im to have
enthusiasm
ich common
ishine; and
^lone, to all
extracting
reserve to

thrust it forth as if for sale ; and she might have an innocent

heart, but she was not forever talking of it. Of courage she

did not boast much; and as to universal liberty, Mary de

Courcy, like the knife-grinder,

" seldom loved to meddle

With politics, sir."

7. Of her feelings she never spoke at all, and on the subject
of virtue she could not compete in eloquence with Miss
M'Orient.

Still it was a riddle, that while everybody liked Miss de
Courcy, the M' Orients seemed to be but little esteemed or
loved by those who knew them well and long. Indeed, some
looked upon them as of that class of individuals who in our
times have overrun society, enfeebling literature with false
sentiment, poisoning all wholesome feeling, turning virtue into
ostentation, annulling modesty, corrupting the very springs of
piety itself by affectation and parade, and selfishly seeking to
engross the world's admiration by wearing their virtues (false
as they are) like their jewels, all outside.

8. Thus, while Miss M'Orient and her brother were rhyming
and romancing about " green fields," and " groves," and " lang
Byne," and "negroes," and "birds in cages," and " sympathy,"
and "universal freedom," they were such a pair of arrant
scolds and tyrants in their own house, that no servant could
stay two months in their employment. While Miss M'Orient
would weep by the hour to hear a blackbird whistle Paddy
Carey outside a farmer's cottage, she would see whole fami-
lies, nay whole nations, reduced to beggary, without shedding
a tear, nor think of depriving herself of a morocco album to
save a starving fellow-creature's life.

9. It was during one of those seasons of distress, which so
frequently afflict the peasantry, of Ireland, that Mary de
Courcy happened one morning to be watering some flowers
that graced the small inclosure in front of Mount Orient
House, when a female cottager, accompanied by a group of
helpless children, presented themselves before her. Miss de
Courcy and Mimosa both had known the woman in better
times, and tlie former was surprised at her present destitution.

27 S

TIIK FOURTH KEADER.

s> •

10. "Ah I Mis3 Mary I" said she, "'tis all over with us
now, since the house and the man that kept it up are gone to-
gether. Hush, child I be quiet ! You never again will come
over to us now, Miss Mary, in the summer days, to sit down
inside our door, an' to take the cup of beautiful thick milk
from Nelly, and to talk so kindly to the children. That's all
over now, miss — them tunes are gone."

11. Moved by the poor woman's sorrow. Miss de Courcy
for the first time keenly felt her utter want of fortune. She
determined, however, to lay before Miss M' Orient in the
course of the day the condition of their old cottage acquaint-
ance, and conceived that she entered the room in happy time,
when she found her tender-hearted friend dissolved in tcar^,
and with a book between her hands. Still better, it was a
work on Ireland, and Mimosa showed her protegee, the page,
still moistened from the offerings of her sympathy, in which
the writer had drawn a very lively picture of the sulT^Tlng-s of
her countrymen during a period of more than usual aflllction.

12. "Such writing as this, dear Mary!" she exclciimcil, in
ecstasy of woe, " would move me were the sketch at the An-
tipodes ; but being taken in Ireland, beloved Ireland! imagine
its effect upon my feelings — I, who am not myself — I have
nothing for you, my good man, go about your business [to an
old beggar-man who presented himself with a low bow at the
wmdow] — who am not myself when Ireland is the theme!
the heart must be insensible indeed that such a picture could
not move to pity.

13. "Ah! if the poor Irish — [I declare there are three
more beggars on the avenue ! Thomas, did not your master
give strict orders that not a single beggar should be allowed
to set foot inside the gate?] — ahl if the poor — [let some one
go and turn them out this instant-r we must certainly have the
dogs let loose again] — if the Irish poor had many such advo-
cates, charity would win its burning way at length even into
cold recesses — ^"

" There's a poor woman wants a dhrop of milk, ma'am,"
said a servant, appearing at the door.

14. " I haven't it for her — ^let me not be disturbed [exit

''■M-' '

MOUNT ORIENT.

279

servant] — into the cold recesses of even an absentee landlord's
heart. The appeal, dear Mary, is perfectly irresistible ; nor
can I conceive a higher gratification than that of lending a
healing hand to such'afiQiction."

" I am glad to hear you say so, Mimosa, my dear," said
Mary, " for I have it in my power to give you the gratifica-
tion you desire."

" How, Miss de Courcy?" said the sentimental lady in an
altered tone, and with some secret alarm.

15. Mary de Courcy was not aware how wide a difference
there is, between crying over human misery in hot-pressed
small octavo, and relieving it in common life ; between senti-
meutalizing over the picture of human woe, and loving and
befriending the original. She did not know that there are
creatures who will melt like Niobe at an imaginary distress,
while the sight of actual suffering will find them callous as a
flint. She proceeded, therefore, with a sanguine spirit, to
explain the circumstances of their old neighbors, expecting
that all her trouble would be in moderating the extent of her
enthusiastic auditor's liberality.

16. But she could not get a shilling from the patriotic Miss
M' Orient. That young lady had expended the last of her
pocket-money on this beautiful book on Irish misery; so that
she had not a sixpence left for the miserable Irish. But then
she felt for theml She talked, too, a great deal about "her
principles." It was not " her principle," that the poor should
ever be relieved by money. . It was by forwarding " the march
of intellect," those evils should be remedied. As the world
became enlightened, men would find it was their interest that
human misery should be alleviated in the persons of their
fellow-creatures, a regenerative spirit would pervade society,
and peace and abundance would shed their light on every
land, not even excepting dear, neglected, and down-trodden
Ireland.

IT. But, as for the widow, she hadn't a sixpence for her.
Besides, who knew but she might drmk it? Misfortune
drives so many to the dram-shop. Well, if Miss de Courcy
would provide against that, still, who could say that she was

280

THE FOURTH BEADKR.

not an impostor 1 Oh, true, Miss M' Orient knew the woman
well. But she had a great many other older and nearer
acquaintances ; and it was " her principle," that charity was
nothing without order. In vulgar language, it should always
begin at home. At all events, she could and would do
nothing.

" Ah, Mimosa," said Mary, " do you think that vulgar rule
has never an exception V

"Never — Mary — never. Send in luncheon" [to a serv-
ant].

11 ^i

I: 4;;,

92. The Crusades.

WORDSWORTH.

William "Wordsworth was born in Epgland in 1770, and died in 1850;
he belonged to what is cnlled the "Za^«-School " of poets. Ho has lelt no
poem of any length worthy of admiration throughout ; but many of his
shorter pieces are unsurpassed in the English language.

1. Furl we the sails, and pass with tardy oars

Through these bright regions, casting many a glance
^v.; Upon the dream-like issues, the romance

Of many-color'd life that fortune pours

Round the Crusaders, till on distant shores
Their labors end: or they return to lie.
The vow performed, in cross-legg'd eflfigy,

Devoutly stretch'd upon their chancel-floors.

Am I deceived ? Or is their requiem chanted
By voices never mute when Heaven unties
Her inmost, softest, tenderest harmonies ?

Kequiem which earth takes up with voice undaunted,
When she would tell how brave, and good, and wise,

For their high guerdon not in vain have panted.

2. As faith thus sanctified the warrior's crest,

WhQe from the papal unity there came
What feebler means had fail'd to give, one aim

Diffused through all the regions of the west ; ;

So does her unity its power attest

DK IROKTKNAC,

281

the woman
and nearer
charity was
ould always
[ would do

b vulgar rule

[to a Berv-

d died in 1850 ;

He has lell no

ut many of hia

ly a glance

By works of art, that shed on the outward frame
Of worship, glory and grace, which who shall blame

That ever look'd to Heaven for final rest ?

Hail, countless temples, that so well befit -
Your ministry I that, as ye rise and take

Form, spirit, and character from holy writ,
Give to devotion, wheresoe'er awake.
Pinions of high and higher sweep, and make

The unconverted soul with awe submit I

The Virgin.

Mother I whose virgin bosom was uncross'd
With the least shade of thought to sin allied ;
Woman 1 above all women glorified,

Our tainted nature's solitary boast ;

Purer than foam on central ocean tost,

Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak strewn
With fancied roses, than the unblemish'd moon

Before her vane begins on Heaven's blue coast,

Thy image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween,
Not unforgiven, the suppliant knee might bend,
As to a visible power, in which did blend
All that was raix'd and reconciled in thee
Of mother's love with maiden purity.

Of high with low, celestial with terrene.

daunted,
i, and wise,
ted.

93. De Frontenac.

BIBAUD.

1. Louis DE BuADE, Couut dc Frontenac, was the most illus-
trious governor of New France, under the French domination.
He was twice appointed governor, in 1612 and 1689. Colonel
of horse in a regiment of cavalry at seventeen, he was made
lieutenant-general after twelve years' service, and commanded
detachments in Italy, Flanders, and Germany, whilst the
Countess de Frontenac, the friend of Madam de Sevigne and
Madam de Maintenon, made herself famous at court. Recom-

i w

fii

; I' I

282

THE FOURTH RKADKR.

mondecl by Tiireuno, lie was the last dcfondcr of Ciiiidia, wliich
ho was forced to evaluate. It was then that he was iiainul
governor niul licuteiiaiit-g-eneral of New France. IT is first
administration was not successful ; he was des[)otic, quiirrilkj
with every one, issued warrants, like the monarcli hiin-
self, imprisoned or banished the first persons of the colony,
had himself called high and mighty lord, and had, like Xh
Viceroy de Tracy, the use of body-guards. He was recaliod,
and learned to be more moderate. Returning to Canada at
the period of the Lachine massacre, that disaster forced him
to abandon a project he had entertained of invading New
York. He, nevertheless, carried the war into New England,
and into the heart of the Iroquois country, and covered liii;i-
self with glory by his defence of Quebec against Admiral
Phipps ; Louis XIY. had a medal struck in honor of tlmt
event. The savages, in particular, regarded him as sonu'thini;
more than human ; and the Sioux, as yet but little heard nf,
sent him ambassadors. Louis de Buade was great both in
head and heart. He has been accused of having been too
fond of command, and of carrying the pretensions of power
too far ; but these faults disappeared with ago and expcrieiicp.
Hence it has been said of him by an eminent French writtr,
that he had all the qualities of a great man ; the firmness to
command, and the mildness and magnanimity to make liinif^tlf
beloved. He was generous, and had the dignity and statili-
ness of a king. He was at Quebec a fitting reflection ol'
Louis XIV. at Versailles. A word, a look from him elodri-
ficd the martial colonists of Canada.; he was the delight of
New France, the terror of the Iroquois, the father of uatioin
allied with the French ; his activity was equalled only by liis
courage. Frontenacdied at Quebec in the year 1698, and was
buried in the Church of the Recollets, which is now no longer
in existence. He was more friendly to the Recollets than lo
the Jesuits, and it was their Superior, Goyer, who pronounced
his funeral oration. That piece of sacred eloquence, witli the
name of "Buade," given to a street of Quebec, and that of
** Frontenac," to a county of Upper Canada, are the sole me-
mentoes that remain to the country of this great celebrity.

TUE CATACOMBS.

283

' Ciiudia, wliieli
he was luiiiu'd
nice. His first
potic, qiiiivrilkd
monarch him-
1 of the colony,
1(1 had, hke -tlic
He was rccallod,
g to Canada at
aster forced liim
)f invadhig Xinv
New England,
md covered hliu-
against Adniind
m honor of tlmt
hira as sonu'tluii!;
ut little hcaril (if,
ras great both in
having been too
.elisions of power
;c and experience.
iut French writer,
the firmness to
ly to make liimself
lignity and statvli-
,ting reflection of
from him elcctri-
•as the dcliglit of
father of natioiH
quailed only by liis
[ear 1698, ami wiu
is now nobngei'l
..ecollcts llwiilol
■, who pronounced I
oquence, with
lebec, and thatol
1,, are the sole me-|
treat celebrity.

94. The Catacombs.

MANAHAN.

Rev. Ambrose Manahan, 1>. D., born in New York city. Flo finislu'd
Ills etiulios lit tlie rropiiginuhi, in Homo, niul was onhiincd i)iicst I'ur tlio
diocese of Now York, lie lias recently made ii valuable contribiitinn to
('tttlidlic literature, in his work entitled "Tlic Triumph of the Catholic
Church."

1. It was in the year 1599 tliat Bosius, anxious to discover
some of the many subterranean cemeteries mentioned by an-
cient writers as situated near the Via Appia and the Ardeatina,
went out of the Capena gate, along the Appian road, to the
l>Uice where our Lord appeared to Peter — thence going along
the Ardeatina way to where it is crossed by a road leading
fi'om St. Sebastian's to St. Paul's Church — he carefully exam-
ined that whole ground in search of some hole that would give
him admission into the subterranean city.

2. He perceived, at last, in the middle of a field, some a relies
tiiat lud him to suspect he had come upon the object of his
desires. He managed to effect an entrance, and made his way
down until he found himself standing in the habitations of the
dead. Numberless monuments cut out of the clay tell him
this at a glance. He hastens along this first road, to its ter-
minus, where he finds two others striking off in different
directions : he enters the one to the right — it is encumbered
and choked up with ruins ; — he returns and starts upon the
one to the left, along which he, journeys until he discovers in
the ground, under his feet, a small l/ilo or passage.

3. He creeps into this opening, and almost snake-like keeps
moving forwards until delighted with, at last, the sight of high
cryptae into which he is ushered from his narrow winding.
Here, in wide halls and endless corridors, he beholds on every
side closet-like openings carved out of the side walls for the
reception of dead bodies ; some of nobler appearance are dec-
orated with arches so as to give each its own alcove. Ho
remarks but few sepulchres in the ground-floor, only placed
there, no doubt, when no more unoccupied room was left in
the walls.

4. The greater part of the tombs are shut with marble

284

THE FOURTH RKADJCR.

1 !l I ; Jil'lH''*'

"T"')'

elabs, or closed up with brick-work ; sorao gape wide open,
and there lie the remains of his forefathers of the first agvs of
the church ; short tombs for children are interspersed lumw^
the larger ; the same difference appears in the size of tliu
bones ; — some of them are hard and seem almost petrilicd,
while others fall to ashes wlien touched. Far on in the most
hidden recesses he came upon three or four chambers that
seemed to have had their walls once whitened, thougli no
paintings were visible on them ; fragments of inscriptious lay
scattered all around the chapels.

5. He more than once found himself in large round hulls,
from which a number of roads started out in every direction,
like lines from the centre towards the superficies of a ciitlc,
or like the spokes in a wheel. These stretched away endlessly
as far as he ever ascertained, and induced him to call this
place a labyrinth indeed 1 Again and again he returned to
his exploring expedition, and, often wearied but never satiiited,
his admiration gave the palm to this above all the other cem-
eteries which he had visited in all the course of his forty years'
search. He calls it, in size, beauty and splendor, the chief
one of all the catacombs.

6. With all his patience and enthusiasm he could not say that
he had ever reached the utmost bounds of this vast and extra-
ordinary place, although he often spent whole days and nights
travelling around through its interminable windings. Every
day new outlets made their appearance, — new roads were dis-
covered, — leading out of his best-known districts. It was his
belief that these roads and those under St. Sebastian's not
only communicated together, but kept on over to St. Paul's,
extended to the Annunziata and out to the Three Fountains,
and even stretched back as far as the walls of Rome ; and in
every thing concerning these catacombs Bosius is a sure guide.

1. And yet, more wonderful to relate I this sepulchral city
— already so far down beneath the surface of the earth— lias
its own immense underways, which, laid out on a similar plau,
underlie its excavated streets no one knows how far. Stairs
cut out of the clay invite the astonished visitor to go down
from the level of this first souterrain into a second maze of

THE CATACOMBS.

2S5

streets an-' corridors, furnished, like the former, with their
ranp:cs of tombs (loculi), their chambers and chapels. Brick
walls are here found supporting many parts of these sub-sul)-
terranean establishments.

8. ISlost of the roads ha^o been rendered impassable by the
clay that has fallen in and encumbered them. They may per-
clmncc be cleared one day by some unterrificd adventurer,
but only when those above them shall have first become ex-
hausted by his long researches. Even this second underground
district has its own under-works still deeper in the bosom of
the earth. Short and small steps in the clay take you down
from the lower to this lowest of the excavated cemeteries. Upper
apartments, basement-rooms and sub-cellar vaults in a house
are familiar ideas, bat our minds can hardly realize the con-
ception earned out as it is here.

9. I can state, however, that I have personally verified the
exactness of these discoveries, and stood even in that third,
lowest tier of routes, one below the other. Only few roads are
opened in the lowest range ; there do not appear to be many
simple tombs there as in the upper catacombs, but a number
of larger chambers reserved, one would suppose, for the burial
of distinguished families.

10. Far away in the outskirts of this subterranean city, —
in the most hidden recesses of the catacombs, perpetual foun-
tains of limpid water gleajp under the light of the visitor's
taper : in one sequestered corner, several steps cut in the earth,
lead you down to drink of abundant streams of sweet and
salubrious water, — streams where, no doubt, many a martyr
washed his wounds, and many a pursued and fainting fugitive
came, like the panting deer, to be refreshed. These waters
have, doubtless, flowed on the head of many a valorous neo-
phyte, who sleeps among the martyrs in this subterranean
dormitory..

11. In these deepest corridors you behold the outlines only
of some tombs or graves marked in the clay walls, as if ready
for the work of being dug out for the next burial. Why was
the work suspended ? Were the diggers arrested here by the
glorious news of the appearance of the cross in the skies, and

)

I-

I''

M! ■ ■

i^-jnt

■I: ■ ■,
■ y. ,

-^H

iliiili

250

TniC FOUUTII RKADER.

k»(l to fling away thoir tools and tlieir garments of saflncss by
Constantino's caU to the Catholic faitliful to come up in joy
and freedom out of their dismal places of refuge, and drive the
remnants of heathen superstition from tlie city of the Casars ?

12. So it seemed to me when, filled with the spirit of the
place nnd its memories, I stood and looked upon those unfin-
isliod graves. Then the Church of God came forth in lier
deep-dyed purple robes from the catacombs, and fastened the
Crois of Christ on the imperial banner, and took her scat ou
the Vatican mount, our holy Sion hill. When Israel no longer
pitched her tents around the ark in the wilderness, Jerusalem
rehearsed, amid the splendors of Solomon's temple, the wonders
of the land of bondage, the passage over the sea and through
the desert. , >

13. The Rome of to-day shows how her enduring faith has
earned along with it safely, through all vicissitudes, the shrines
and tombs and relics of her martyrs. The rites of the Roman
Catholic Church shall forever keep alive a grateful, universal
and festival remembrance of the pristine scenes of her trials
and triumph. Do not the very lights of our altars burn
more brightly to our eyes when wo recall the fortitude and
devotion that knelt in their first gleam through those dismal
chambers ? and do not our censers perfume the sanctuary with
recollections of the frar^i'ance of piety that mingled with the
first blest incense whiv;ti they flung around through the foulness
and damp airs of our primeval temples ? Throughout the
whole world treasures from the catacombs enrich the altar-
stones of our sacrifice.

14; A faithless world looks with amazement on the unfading
Roman scarlet, and the pomp and magnificence displayed in
the Catholic ceremonial. The most gorgeous embellishments
of our solemn services but faintly express the sombre and sub-
lime grandeur in which our minds call up those ancient solem-
nities from which our decorations and our ritual took their
rise : when the first Popes administered our sacraments to
candidates for the palm of martyrdom, and the august and
tremendous sacrifice of the mass was ofiTered up in those exca-
vated sanctuaries — whose purple hangings were cloths tinged

THE RELIGIOUS MILITARY ORDERS.

287

3f Radncsa by
)mc up in joy
and drive tlic
f the Cccsars ?
! ppii'it of till'
[1 those unfin-
B forth in hor
d fastened the
ok her scat ou
srael no longer
less, Jerusalem
le, the wonders
;a and through

lUring faith has
ides, the shrines
s of the Roman
iteful, universal
les of her trials
ur altars burn
B fortitude and
;h those dismal
sanctuary with
lingled with the
igh the foulness
'hroughout the
ich the altar-
Ion the unfading
Ice displayed in
] embellishments
lombre and sub-
ancient solem-
tual took their
sacraments to
Jhe august and
in those exca-
[e cloths tinged

from the veins of the followers of the Lamb — whose most raro
and precious ornaments were the blood-stained sponges and
vials and instruments of torture — while the venerable bodies
of the slaughtered flock upheld the altar ou which the divine
Bacrifkce was offered up to God.

95. Thk Relioious Military Orders.

AROnBISHOP rUROKLL.

JoHV B. PuROELL, D. D., Archbishon of Clncinriftti, was born flTtli of
Fobrmiry, 1800, in Mallow, County Cork, Irehmd. Emij^ratcil when n boy
to America; studied in Moint St. Mary's, P'inMiottsburf; ; wont to Paris,
and followed up his theoloifical studies at Kt. Sulpice, wliere ho was or-
(luiued priest. On hiH retrrn to the United States, Dr. Purccll became
Professor of Theolojfy in his Alma Mater, ut Eniniettsburg, and was sub-
sequently appointed President of that noble iuBtitution. lie was consc-
criitcd Bishop of Cincinnati on the 18th of October, 1888, and wa.-, since
made Archbishop of that province. Although this eminent prelate has not
t'mnd time amid the onerous duties of his high ottice to apply himself to
literary pursuits, proofs are not wantinif that ho might attain distinction
in the walks of literature. Soon after his consecration as Bishop of Cin-
1 cinnuti, he was called upon to defend the doctrines of the Church in a pro-
tructed discussion with the Rev. Mr. Campbell, founder of the Campbell-
I ites, in which he distinguished himself as well by his skill in dialectics, as
his profound scholastic attainments. The archbishop's lectures, delivered
on various subjects, are admirable specimens of such composition, and
have done mucli for tlie diffusion of valuable information. What he has
done and achieved for the cause of religion is well known to the Catholics
of America ; and when future historians trace the fortunes of the Cliirrch
I in the New World, the name of Purcell shall be held in honor, as one of
jtlie first great patriarchs of the Woht,

1. By the religious military orders, I mean, 1. The Knights
lof St. John of Jerusalem, or Hospitallers, or of Rhodes, or of
[Malta, as the same order has been successively designated.
12. The Templars. 3. The Teutonic Knights ; leaving out of

fm view the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre, of Calatrava,
of St. Jago, of the Sword, and others, which cannot be re-
garded as strictly religious orders, have no such name in
fetory, nor rendered such important services to Christendom as
pose which I have first named.

* ^ Ik * #

2. In the middle of the eleventh century, the merchants of
^malphi, in the l(ingdom of Naples, who traded with Egypt

b*.

2S8

THE FOURTH READER.

in rich merchandise and works of art, and who had often ex-
perienced in their visits to the Holy Land the cruelty of
Greeks and Saracens, purchased, by costly presents to the
Caliph and his courtiers, permission for the Latin Christians
to have two hospitals in Jerusalem, one for men and the other
for women. The chapels attached to these hospitals wcic
dedicated, respectively, to St. John the Almoner, and St.
Magdalen. They were served by self-appointed seculars,
whose charity induced them to forego the pleasure of homes
and friends, -to devote themselves to the care of the sick, tlie
poor, and the stranger, in the Holy City. This was the cradle
of the Knights Hospitallers. ,

3. The Hospitallers were divided into three bodies, or classes.
1st. Those distinguished by birth, or the rank they had held
in the army of the Crusaders. 2d. Ecclesiastics who were to
superintend the h'ospitals, and serve as chaplains to the army
in peace and war. 3d. Lay-brothers, or servants. A new
claissification was afterwards made from the seven different
languages spoken by the Knights — i. e., those of Provence,
Auvergne, France, Italy, Aragon ; a little later including
Castile and Portugal, and England, until she apostatized.

4. The government was aristocratic. The supreme au-
thority was vested in a council, of which the Grand Master
was president. The diflferent houses of the Order were ad-
ministered by preceptors, or overseers, removable at pleasure,
and who were held to a strict accountability. The same aus-
terities were practised by all, and the necessity of bearing
arms was not suffered to interfere with the strict observances
of the convent. Purity of life, and prompt obedience to or-
ders, and detachment from the world, were the distinguishing
virtues of the soldier monks.

5. The Templars were founded by Hugh de Payens and
eight others, all natives of France, to protect the pilgrims or
their way to and from Jerusalem, and to unite with the Hoi-
pitallers and aid the king of Jerusalem in repelling the incur-
sions, humbling the pride, and chastising the audacity of the

THE BELIQIv>U8 MILITARY ORDERS.

2S9

Infidels. They were too proud to serve in hospitals. Their
costume was. a white mantle, with a red "iross on the left
breast. Their name was derived from their residence near
the Temple. They were approved by Honorius II. Their
rule was given them by St. Bernard, by order of the Council
of Troyes. Tneir exemption from what was considered the
degrading, or ignoble, obligation of waiting on tlie sick,^rew
to the new Order a vast multitude of the richest lords and
princes of Europe, so that the Templars soon outshone the
Hospitallers in the splendor of wealth — but never in that of
virtue. Nevertheless, they continued for centuries to render
essential services to Christendom in checking the aggressions
of Mohammedanism.

6. The Teutonic Knights commenced their existence on the
plain before Ptolemais, or St. Jean d'Acre. Many of these
brave Germans, who had followed their gallant Emper'^r,
Frederick I., and his son, the Duke of Suabia, to the holy
wars, when wounded in the frequent sorties of the garrison,
lay helpless on the battle-field, unable to communicate their
wants and sufferings in a language unknown to their brethren
in arms. A few Germans, who had come by sea from Bre-
men and Lubeck, commiserating the hard fate of their coun-
trymen, took the sails of their ships and made tents, into
which they collected the wounded, and served them with their
own hands. Forty of the chiefs of the same nation united
with them in the work of charity, and from this noble asso-
ciation sprang a new religious and military order like to those
of the Templars and Hospitallers. They were approved by
Pope Celestine III., at the prayer of Henry YI. of Germany,
Iq 1192, receiving the name of the Teutonic Knights of the
House of St. Mary of Jerusalem. They got this name from
the fact of a German having built in Jerusalem a hospital
and oratory under the invocation of the blessed Virgin, for the
sick pilgrims from his fatherland. Their uniform was a white
mantle, with a black cross ; they were bound by the three
vows, like the Hospitallers and Templars. Before being ad-
mitted to the Order, they were required to make oath that
they were Germans, of noble birth, and that they engaged for

290

THE FOURTH READER.

life in ^he care of the poor and sick, and the defence of the
Holy Places. These were the three orders on which Christen-
dom relied, more than on the irregular efforts of the Crusaders,
for the protection of the Holy Land.

96. Mary Maodalen.

OALLANAN.

Callanam was bom in Ireland in 1795; died in 1829. During his life,
ne was one of the popular contributors to *■ Blackwood's Magazine." His
reputation as a poet is well established. v

1. To the hall of that feast came the sinful and fair ;
She heard in the city that Jesus was there ;

She mark'd not the splendor that blazed on their board,
But silently knelt at the feet of her Tjord.

2. The hau* from her forehead, so sad and so meek.
Hung dark o'er the blushes that burn'd on her cheek ;
And so still and so lowly she bent in her shame,

It seem'd as her spirit had flown from its frame.

8. The frown and the murmur went round through them all,
That one so unhallow'd should tread in that hall ;
And some said the poor would be objects more meet,
For the wealth of the perfumes she shower'd at his feet.

4. She mark'd but her Saviour, she spoke but in sighs,
She dared not look up to the heaven of his eyes ;
And the hot tears gush'd forth at each heave of her

breast.
As her lips to his sandals she throbbingly press'd.

6. On the cloud after tempests, as shineth the bow.
In the glance of the sunbeam, as melteth the snow,
fle look'd on that lost one — her sins were forgiven ;

, Aod Mary went fortb in the ^auty of heaven.

riALOGDK WITH TIIF OOUT.

291

97. "Dialogue with the Gout

FRANKLIN.

Beiwamin Franklin was born in Boston in 170G. In early life ha was a
printer. He was a prominent politician before, during, atid after the Kcv-
oliitionary War, a member of trie Continental Congress, and subsequently
Minister of the United States to France, having at an earlier date, beey the
agent of the Colonies in England. But ho was particularly distingu'iBlied
for liis philosophical discoveries, especially that of the identity of light-
ning and electricity. _JIe died in 17D0.

1. Franklin. Eh 1 Oh I Eh ! What have I done to merit
these cruel sufferings ?

Gout. Many things : you have ate and drank too freely,
and too much indulged those legs of yours in their indolence.

Franklin. Who is it that accuses me?

Gout. It is I, even I, the Gout.

Franklin. What 1 my enemy in person ?

Gout. No ; not your enemy.

Franklin. I repeat it, my enemy ; for you would not only
torment my body to death, but ruin my good name. You re-
proach me as a glutton and a tippler : now all the world that
knows me will allow that I am neither the one nor the other.

2. Gout. The world may think as it pleases. It is always
very complaisant to itself, and sometimes to its friends ; but
I very well know that the quantity of meat and drink proper
for a man who takes a reasonable degree of exercise would be
too much for another who never takes any.

Franklin. I take — Eh I Oh 1 — as much exercise — Eh ! — as
I can, Madam Gout. You know my sedentary state ; and on
that account, it would seem. Madam Gout, as if you might
spare me a little, seeing it is not altogether my own fault.

3. Gout. Not a jot: your rhetoric and your politeness arc
thrown away: your apology avails nothing. If your situation
in life is a sedentary one, your amusements, your recreations,
at least, should be active. You ought to walk or ride ; or if
the weather prevents that, play at something.

But let us examine your course of life. While the aiorn-
ings are long, and you have leisure to go abroad, what do yon
do? Why instead of gaining an appetite for breakfast, by

'202

THE FOURTH READEE.

'12.11

''h r

i'li

salutary exercise, you amuse yourself with books, pamphU ts,
or newspapers, which commonly are not worth the reading.
Yet you eat an inordinate breakfast : four dishes of tea, with
cream, one or two buttered toasts, with slices of hung bcif ;
which I fancy are not tilings the most easily digested.

4. Immediately afterwards, you sit down to write at ymn
desk, or converse with persons who apply to you on busiin^i^.
Thus the time passes till one, without any kind of bodily ex-
ercise. But all this I could pardon, in regard, as you say, to
your sedentary condition ; but what is your practice ai'tir
dinner? Walking in the beautiful gardens of those friends
with whom you have dined would be the choice of men of
sense; yours is to be fixed down to chess, where you are found
engaged for two or three hours.

5. This is your perpetual recreation : the least eligible of
any for a sedentary man, because, instead of accelerating the
motion of the fluids, the rigid attention it requires helps to
retard the circulation and obstruct internal secretions. Wrapt
in the speculations of this wretched game, you destroy your
constitution. What can be expected from such a course of
living but a body replete with stagnant humors, ready to fall
a prey to all kinds of dangerous maladies, if I, the Gout, did
not occasionally bring you relief by agitating those humors,
and so purifying or dissipating them ? Fie, then, Mr
Franklin I But, amidst my instructions, I had almost forgot
to administer my wholesome corrections ; so take that twinge,
and that.

6. Franklin. Oh I Eh 1 Oh I Oh I As much instruction as
you please. Madam Gout, and as many reproaches ; but pray,
Madam, a truce with your corrections I

Gout. No, sir, no ; I will not abate a particle of what is so
much for your good, therefore —

Franklin. Oh I Eh 1 It is not fair to say I take no exer-
cise, when I do, very often, go out to^ dine, and return in ray
carriage.

7. Jjl^out. That, of all imaginable exercises, is the most
slight and insignificant, if you allude to the motion of a car-
riage suspended on springs. By observing the degree of heat

MAGNANIMITY OF A CIIKISTIAN EMPEUOR.

2:)3

obtained by different kinds of motion, we may form an estimate
of the quantity of exercise given by each. Thus, for exaini)lo,
if you turn out to walk in winter with cold feet, in an hour's
time you will be in a glow all over; ride on horseback, tlie
same effect will scarcely be perceived by four hours' round
trotting ; but if you loll in a carriage, such as you have iu(mi-
tioned, you may travel all day, and gladly enter the last inn
to warm your feet by a fire.

8. Flatter yourself, then, no longer, that half an hour's
airing in your carriage deserves the name of exercise. Provi-
dence has appointed few to roll in carriages, while he has given
to all a pair of legs, which are machines infinitely more com-
modious and serviceable. Be grateful, then, and make a prop-
er iffee of yours.

kcle of what is so

98. MAGNANnilTY OF A CHRISTIAN EmPEROR.

80HLEOEL.

Freuerio Von Schleoel was born in 1772 ; died in 1829. Sohlegel was
one of the most distinguished writers of Germany — as a poet, critic, essay-
ist, and historian. In 1808 ho became a Catliolic. For many years of his
life, in connection witli liis brother, Augustus William, he was engaged in
the publication of the "Athenaeum," a critical .journal, which did nuich
towards establishing a more independent spirit in German literature. — C'l/-
clopedla of Biography.

1. After the downfall of the Carlovingian family, -the em-
pire was restored to its pristine vigor by the election of the
noble Conrad, duke of the Franconians. This pious, chival-
rous, wise, and valiant monarch, had to contend with many
difficulties, and fortune did not always smile upon his efforts.
But he terminated his royal career with a deed, which alono
exalts Lim far above other celebrated conquerors and rulers,
and was attended with more important consequences to after-
times, than hav6 resulted from many brilliant reigns ; and this
single deed, which forms the brightest jewel in the crown of
glory that adorns those ages, so clearly reveals the true
nature of Christian principles of government, and the Christian
idea of political power, that I may be permitted to notice it
briefly.. „,,....

29-1

THE FOUKTH KKADKR.

ttM

.,!:1i

>('

m
M

2. When he felt his end approaching, and pcrcoivcd that of
the four principal German nations, the Saxons alone, by their
superior power, were capable of bringing to a successful issue
the mighty struggle in which all Europe was at that critical
period involved, he bade his brother carry to Henry, duke of
Saxony, hitherto the rival of his house, and who was as mag-
nanimous as fortunate, the holy lance and consecrated sword
of the ancient kings, with all the other imperial insignia. He
thus pointed him out as the successor of his own choice, and
in his regard for the general weal, and in his anxiety to main-
tain a great pacific power capable of defending the common
interests of Christendom, he disregarded the suggestions of
national vanity, and sacrificed even the glory of his own house.

3. So wise and judicious, as well as heroic, a sacrifice of all
selfish glory, for what the interests of society and the necessi-
ties of the times evidently demanded, is that principle which
forms the very foundation, and constitutes the true spirit, of all
Christian governments. And by this very deed Conrad bC'
came, after Charlemagne, the second restorer of the western
empire, and the real founder of the German nation; for it was
this noble resolve of his great soul, which alone saved the
Germanic body from a complete dismemberment. The event
fully justified his choice. The new king, Henry, victorious on
every side, labored to build a great number of cities, to restore
the reign of peace and justice, and to maintain the purity of
Christian manners and Christian institutions; and prepared
for his mightier son, the great Otho, the restoration of the
Christian empire in Italy, whither the latter was loudly and

unammously called.

♦

V 99. The Maetyedom of St. Agnes.

DB YEBE. »

Sir Aubrey De Vere — an.English poet of the present day, lias written
a volume of beautiful poems, distiuguished by their true spirit of Catholic
devotion.

Angels.

1. Bearing lilies in our bosom, ^^

Holy Agnes, we have flown

THE MAETYBDOM OF ST. AG&E8.

Mission'd from the Heaven of Heayens

Unto thee, and thee alone.
We are coming, we are flying,
To behold thy happy dying. ^

Agnes.

2. Bearing lilies far before you,

Whose fresh odors, backward blown,
r Light those smiles upon your faces.

Mingling sweet breath with your own,
Ye are coming, smoothly, slowly,
To the lowUest of the lowly.

Angels.

8. Unto us the boon was given ;

One glad message, holy maid,
On the lips of two blest spirits,

Like an incense-grain was laid.
As it bears us on like lightning.
Cloudy skies are round us brightening.

Agnes.

4. I am here, a mortal maiden ;

If our Father aught hath said.
Let me hear His words and do theitt. '

Ought I not to feel afraid,
As ye come, your shadows flinging
O'er a breast, to meet them springing ?

Angels.

6. Agnes, there is joy in Heaven ;

Gladness, like the day, is flung
O'er the spaces never measured.

And from every angel's tongue
Swell those songs of impulse vernal,
All whose echoes are eternal.

295

290

THE FOURTH READER.

:. p

6. Agnes, from the depth of Heaycn

Joy is rising, like a spring
Borne above its grassy margin, i

Borne in many a crystal ring ;
Each o'er beds of wild flowers gliding,
Over each low murmurs slidmg.

t When a Christian lies expiring,

Angel choirs, with plumes outspread,
Bend above his death-bed, singing ;

That, when Death's mild sleep is fled,
There may be no harsh transition
"While he greets the Heavenly Vision.

Agnes.

8. Am I dreaming, blessed angels ?

Late ye floated two in one ;
Now, a thousand radiant spirits

Bound me weave a glistening zone.
Lilies, as they wind extending,
Roses with those lilies blending.

9. See 1 th' horizon's ring they circle ;

Now they gird the zenith blue ;
And now, o'er every brake and billow

Float like mist and flash like dew.
All the earth, with life o'erflowing,
Into heavenly shapes is growing I

10. They are rising 1 they are rising 1
As they rise, the veil is riven I
They are rising I I am rising — ^

Rising with them into Heaven ! —
Rising with those shining legions
Into life's eternal regions I

EUBOPEAN CIVILIZATION.

297

100. European Civilization.

B ALMEZ.

iMironi!, .....

frctit iniiul. His more recent work on " Fuiulniuental riulotiopfiv" (ii'U
jiiirubly tniiishited hy Henry F. Brownson), is tlie be.it work oji Cliristluu
i'hilosopliy oi' wliich the Eii^'lisli langiuij^e eiin boast.

1. It is a fact now generally acknowledged, and openly
confessed, that Christianity has exercised a very important and
salutary influence on the development of European civilization.
If this fact has not yet had given to it the importance which
it deserves, it is because it has not been sufficiently appreciated.
With respect to civilization, a distinction is sometimes made
between the influence of Christianity and that of Catholicity :
its merits are lavished on the former, and stinted to the latter,
by those who forget that, with respect to European civiliza-
tion, Catholicity can always claim the principal share ; and,
for many centuries, an exclusive one ; since during a very long
period, she worked alone at the great work. People have not
been willing to see that when Protestantism appeared in Eu-
rope, the work was bordering on completion ; with an injustice
and ingratitude which I cannot describe, they have reproached
Catholicity with the spirit of barbarism, ignorance, and oppres-
sion, while they were making an ostentatious display of tho
rich civilization, knowledge, and liberty, for which they were
principally indebted to her.

2. If they did not wish to fathom the intimate connection

between Catholicity and European civilization, — if they had

not the patience necessary for the long investigations into

which this examination would lead them, at least it would

have been proper to take a glance at the condition of countries

where the Catholic religion has not exerted all her influence

during centuries of trouble, and compare them with those

in which she has been predominant. The East and the West,

both subject to great revolutions, both professing Christianity,

bat in such a way that the Catholic principle was weak and

13*

.'Jr^ ;

293

THE FOUUTII KKAIU li.

^1!

-*!*wi:l?

vacillating in the East, while it was energetic and deeply rooted
in the West ; these, wo say, would have affordeil two very
good points of coniparisou to estimate the value of Christij -.ity
without Catholicity, when the civilization and the existenco uf
nations were at stake.

3. In the West, the revolutions were multiplied and fearful;
the chaos was at its height ; aud, nevertheless, out of chaos
came light and Ufe. Neither the barbarism of the nations who
inundated those countries, and established themselves then',
nor the furious assaults of Islamisra, even in the days of its
greatest power and enthusiasm, could succeed in destroyiiij,'
the germs of a rich and fertile civilization. In the East, ou
the contrary, all tended to old age and decay ; nothing revivod ;
aud, under the blows of the power which was ineffectual against
us, all was shaken to pieces. The spiritual power of llome,
and its influence on temporal affairs, have certainly borne
fruits very different from those produced under the same cir-
cumstances, by its violent opponents. •

4. If Europe were destined one day again to undergo a general
and fearful revolution, either by a universal spread of revolu-
tionary ideas, or by a violent invasion of social and proprietary
rights by pauperism ; if the Colossus of the North, seated on
its throne of eternal snows, with knowledge in its head, and
blind force in its hands, possessing at once the means of civil-
ization and unceasingly turumg towards the East,^ the Soutli,
and the West, that covetous and crafty look which in history
is the characteristic march of all invading empires ; if, avail-
ing itself of a favorable moment, it were to make an attempt
on the independence of Europe, then we should perhaps have
a proof of the value of the Catholic principle in a great ex-
tremity; then we should feel the power of the unity which Is
proclaimed and supported by Catholicity, and while calling to
mind the middle ages, we should come to acknowledge one of
the causes of the weakness of the East and the strength of the
West. . -

5. Then would be remembered a fact, which, though but of
yesterday, is falling into oblivion, viz. : that the nation whose
heroic courage broke the power of Napoleon was proverbially

ST. FUANCTR DK 8ALK9 LAST WILL.

209

id deeply rooted

orded two very

c of Christii ".Ity

the existence of

)lied and fearful;
2SS, out of ehaos
f the nations who
themselves there,
n the days of its
5ed in dcstroyiui,'
In the East, ou
nothing revived ;
ineffectual against
I power of Home,
e certainly borne
idcr the same eir-

) undergo a general
spread of revolu-
al and proprietary
North, seated on
;e in its head, uiid
le means of civil-
East,, the South,
k which in history
empires ; if, avail-
make an attempt
ould perhaps have
iple in a great ex-
the unity which is
jd while calling to
cknowledge one of
,he strength of the

Catliolic ; and wlio knows whether, in the attempts which the
Viear of Jesus Christ has deplored in such touching language, —
n ho knows whether it bo not the secret influence of a presen-
timent, perhaps oven a foresight, of the necessity of weakening
that sublime power, which has been in all ages, when the cause
of humanity was in question, the centre of great attempts ?
But let us return.

6. It cannot be denied that, since the sixteenth century,
European civilization has shown life and brilliancy ; but it is
a mistake to attribute this phenomenon to Protestantism. In
order to examine the extent and influence of a fact, we ought
not to be content with tiio events which have followed it ; it
is also necessary to consider whether these events were already
prepared ; whether they are any thing more than the necessary
result of anterior facts ; and we must take care not to reason
in a way which is justly declared to be sophistical by logicians,
post hoc, ergp propter hoc: after that, therefore on account of
it. Without Protestantism, and before it, European civiliza-
tion was already very much advanced, thanks to the labors
and influence of the Catholic religion ; that greatness and
Bplendor which it subsequently displayed were not owing to it,
but arose in spite of it.

101. St. Francis dk Salks' last "Will and Testament.

V ST. FRANCIS DE SALKS.

St. FuANora de Salks, Bishop of Geneva, was one of the most acoom-
rlished noblonjen of Savoy. Possessed of gmn^ personal attrnctions and
nrilliimt tiilent(», his friends saw the most distinguished worldly career
i>piiit'd for him ; bnt deaf to their remonstrances and entreaties, he em-
hraced the ecclesiastical state. He died in 1622, aged iifty-six. During
Ills life lie converted seventy-two thousand unbelievers. He was cc'lel)ra-
teJ as 11 preacher. His writings are full of beauties. But his greatest work
—the fruits of which we see around us in America as well as in Europe —
Wiis tlie establishment of the Order of the Visitation, This religious order
—so zealously devoted to the education of youth — is a true type of the piety,
learning, and zeal of its saintly founder.

1. After being beat about on the boisterous ocean of this
world, and experiencing so many dangers of shipwreck, from
storms, tempests, and rocks of vanity, I present myself before

800

THE FOUKTII KKADKU.

thee, my God I to nceount for the tnbnts thy infinite p^ood-
ness has intrusted to my charge. I am now witlun the sight
of hind. How I pity the lot of tliosc I leave behind, still ex-
posed to such imminent dangers 1 IIow treacherous are tiie
attractions of life, how strong its charms, how fascinating its
blandishments I Where are you, devout souls? I could
wish to have your company in this my passage, or to join you
in your holy exercises. Prepare to go to the celestial Jeru-
salem.

2. Behold the effect of life I Life can produce no other
work than death ; while solid devotion produces eternal life.
It is the aufumn season, in which fruits are gathered for
"eternity. This plant, which has received its increase from
heaven, will soon be removed, and mortals will see no more of
it than its roots, the sad spoils of corruption. The flower,
which the sun has decorated with such brilliant colors, speed-
ily fades. Consider that life flics like a shadow, passes as a
dream, evaporates as smoke, and that human ambition can
embrace nothing solid. Every thing is transitory.

8. The sun, whidi arises above our horizon, precipitates his
course to tread on the heels of night ; while darkness solicits
the return of light, to hasten the most beautiful parts of our
universe to destruction. Rivers are continually rushing to the
sea, their centre, as if they were there to find rest. The moon
appears in the firmament, sometimes full, at other times de-
creasing, and seems to take a pleasure, as if her task and
career were soon to end. Winter robs the trees of tlieir
foliage, to read us a lesson of mortality. No tie, no affection
whatever, holds me now to this earth. I have resigned my
will entirely into thy hands.

4. Thou hast, O Lord I long since taught me how to
die. My inclinations to the world have been long dead.
Mortifications have deadened my body, my soul wishes to
shake off this coil, and I only value and esteem that life which
is found in thee. In proportion as I feel my body weaken, my
spirit grows stronger. I am ready to burst from my prison.
I here see, as in a mirror, what beatitude is. How unspeak-
able are the delights of a soul in the grace of God ! Seosaal

ST. FUANCIB 1)K SAl.KS I.A8T WILL.

801

ly infinite good-
vithin the sight
behind, still ox-
ihcrous are the
f fascinating its
souls? I could
c, or to join you
c celestial Jeru-

roduce no other
uces eternal life.
ire gathered for
ts increase from
11 see no more of
on. The flower,
[int colors, speod-
dow, passes as a
lan ambition can
jitory.

pleasures being satiety and disgust, true pledge of inanity and
imperfoction;* whilo pleasurable enjoyments of the soul are
inlinite, and never pall upon the palate. Let us then quit
this world, aud asccud through the aid of God's meroy, to
heaven.

5. i\ ud you, Christian souls, are you not content to accom-
pany me/ Do you fear the passage? Are you not already
dead to the world, that you may live to God? Can you fear
the pains of dissolution, when you reflect what your Saviour
has suffered for the love of you ? Keep your conscier.cc in a
fit state to give a satisfactory account of your actions: imagine
the judgments of God are at every hour suspended over your
head; that life holds by a single thread, by a nothing; and
that in the gardens of this world death lurks under every rose
and violet, as the serpent under the grass.

6. Now that I am quitting this world, Christian souls, what
legacy can I leave you ? Earthly possessions you have re-
nounced, and holy poverty you have embraced. I therefore
bequeath to you humility, the true lapis lydius, or touch-
stone of devotion, which can discriminate ^iety from hypocri-
sy; she is the mother of all vu-tues, ever occupied in reform-
ing our lives and actions, and always walks accompanied by
charity. Oh, devout souls I how much more difficult is the
task of acquiring this Christian humility than the other
virtues I Oh ! how does nature suffer, when you are told to
humble your mind, to make yourselves little, to pardon your
enemies I

t. What a struggle does it cost to break down and totally
destroy that tender love of self, the mortal enemy to humilia-
tions and abjectipn. This legacy of humility, I trust you will
both receive and practise. As for thee, my God! I shall not
leave thee my soul ; it has long been thine ; thou hast redeem-
ed it with the price of thy blood, and withdrawn it from the
captivity of sin and death; it will be happy, if, pardoning its
faults, thou wilt receive it into thy embraces I Now I must
give in my accounts, the thought of divine justice makes me
tremble, but the thought of divine mercy gives me hopes, I
throw myself into thy arms, Lord, to solicit pardon, I will

302

TUIfl FOCKTU IIKADKB.

oast myself at thy feet to bathe them with my tears, to plead
for me ; and through thy infinite goodness, I may receive the
effects of thy infinite mercies.

102. Arch Confraternity of S. Giovanni Decollato.

MAGTJIEB.

John FiUNcia Magcire, a distinguished Irish member of the British
Parliament, and editor of the "Cork Examiner." Within the hist few
years, Mr. Maguire has attained considerable distinction as a true patrioi,
an orator, and a man of letters. His work on "Komc, its Ruler, unci its
Institutions," is a valuable addition to Catholic literature, and is tlie best
defence of the lionum government that has yet appeared.

1. MoRicHiNi gives an interesting account of this confrater-
nity, whose mission is one of singular charity, — to bring comfort
and consolation to the last moments of the condemned. It
appears that on the 8th day of May, 1488, some good Floren-
tines, then in Rome, considering that those who died by the
hand of justice had no one to visit and comfort them in their
last hours, institut^ed a confraternity which was at first called
Delia Misericordia, and afterwards by its present namo, from
the church of their patron. Pope Innocent VIII. granted
the society a place under the Campidolio, in which they erected
a church to St. John the Baptist ; and here they were allowed
to bury the remains of those who had been executed. Their
objects were sympathized with, and their efforts assisted, bj
successive Pontiffs. Tuscans only, or their descendants to the
third generation are received into the society.

2. On the day previous to the execution of a criminal, they
invite, by public placard, prayers for his happy passage to the
other life. In the night of that day, the brothers, some half
dozen in number, including priests, assemble in the church of
S. Giovanni di Fiorentini, not far from the New Prisons. Here
they recite prayers, imploring the Divine assistance in the melan-
choly office which they are about to perform. They then pro-
ceed to the prisons, walking, two by two, in silence, some of
the brothers bearing lanterns in their hands. On entering the
chamber called conforteria, they assume the sack and cord, in

SAN GIOVANNI DECOLLATO.

303

y tears, to plead
may receive the

jNi Dkcollato,

niber of the British
Within the hist few
ion as n true patriot,
ic, its Knler, aiul itn
iiturc, and is the best
red.

of this confratcv-
—to bring comfort
3 condemned. It
ome good Floreu-
who died by the
fort them in tlieir
was at lirst called
irescnt namo, from
Int YIII. granted
hich they erected
they were allowed
executed. Their
ifforts assisted, hy
lescendants to the

)f a criminal, they
Uy passage to the
Irothers, some half
in the church of
3W Prisons. Here
Itance in the melan-
They then pro-
[n silence, some of
On entering the
sack and cord, in

vehich they appear to the prisoner as well as to the public
They divide between them the pious labors. Two perform the
office of consolers ; one acts as the sagrestano ; and another
makes a record of all that happens from the moment of the
intimation of the sentence to that of the execution. These
dismal annals are carefully preserved.

3. At midnight, the guardians of the prison go to the cell
of the condemned, and lead him, by a staircase, to the chapel
of the conforteria. At the foot of the stairs, the condemned
is met by the notary, who formally intimates to him the sen-
tence of death. The unhappy man is then delivered up to the
two "comforters," who embrace him, and, with the crucifix and
the image of the Sorrowful Mother presented to him, offer all
the consolation which religion and charity can suggest in that
icrrible moment. The others assist in alleviating his misery,
and, without being importunate, endeavor to dispose him to
confess, and receive the Holy Communion.

4. Should he be ignorant of the truths of Christianity, they
instruct him in them in a simple manner. If the condemned
manifest a disposition to impenitence, they not only themselves
use every effort which the circumstances of his case render
necessary, but call in the aid of other clergymen. The other
members of the confraternity employ the hours preceding the
execution in the recital of appropriate prayers, and confess and
communicate at a mass celebrated two hours before dawn.

5. Clad in the sacco, they proceed, two by two, to the
prison, the procession being headed by a cross-bearer with a
great cross, and a torch-bearer at each side, carrying a torch
of yellow wax. The procession having arrived at the prison,
the condemned descends the steps ; the first object which meets
his gaze being an image of the Blessed Virgin, before which
he kneels, and, proceeding on, does the same before the crucifix,
which is near the gate that he now leaves forever. Here he
ascends the car which awaits him, accompanied by the "com-
forters," who console and assist him to the last ; and the
procession moves on to the place of execution, the members of
the confraternity going in advance.

6. Arrived at the fatdl spot, the condemnod descends from

304

THE FOtTBTH READEE.

the car, and is led into a chamber of an adjoining building,
which is hung with black, where the last acts of devotion are
performed, or, if he be impenitent, where the last efforts are
made to move him to a better spu-it. The hour being come,
the executioner bandages his eyes, and places him upon the
block ; and thus, while supported by, his conforton, and re-
peating the sacred name and invoking the mercy of Jesus, the
axe descends upon the criminal, and human justice is satisfied.
The brothers then take charge of the body, lay it on a bier,
and, carrying it to their church, decently inter it. Finally,
they conclude their pious work by prayer.

M ■'

103. The Confraternity "della Morte."

MAOUIBB.

1. Frequently, towards night, does the stranger in Rome
hear in the streets the sad chant of the Miserere; and on
approaching the place whence the solemn sounds proceed, he
beliolds a long procession of figures clad entirely in black, and
headed by a cross-bearer ; many of the figures bearing large
waxen torches, which fling a wild glare upon the bier, ou
which is borne the body of the deceased. It is the Confrater-
nity della Morte, dedicated to the pious office of providing
burial for the poor. It was first instituted in 1551, and finally
established by Pius IV. in 1560.

2. It is composed mostly of citizens of good position, some
of whom are of high rank. The members are distinguished by
a habit of black, and a hood of the same color, with apertures
for the eyes. When they hear of a death, they meet, and
having put on their habits, go out in pairs ; and when they
arrive at the house where the body lies, they place it on a bier,
and take it to a church, singing the Miserere as the nioumful
procession winds through the streets.

3. Even should they be apprised of a death whicli had oc-
curred twenty, or even thirty, miles distant from Rome, no
matter what may be the time or the season, the burial of their

THE OONFRATKIiNITY *'l)ELLA MOllTE."

ining building,
)f devotion are
last efforts are
ur being come,
5 hiin upon the
fortori, and re-
cy of Jesus, the
3tice is satisfied.
lay it on a bier,
ter it. Finally,

MORTE."

itranger in Rome
liserere; and on
^unds proceed, he
rely in black, and
res bearing large
Lpon the bier, ou
, is the Confrater-
^ce of providing
1551, and finally

lod position, some

le distinguished by

lor, with apertures

they meet, and

^ and when they

Iplace it on a bier,

\e as the n\purnful

|ith which had oc-
jt from Rome, no
Ithe burial of then-

poor fellow-creature is at once attended by this excellent society.
In the Pontificate of Clement VIII., a terrible inundation was
caused by the rise of the Tiber — a calamity ever to be dreaded,
and ever attended with the greatest misery and danger to the
poor — and the brethren were seen employed, as far as Ostia
and Fiumicino, in extricatmg dead bodies from the water.

4. Another confraternity — della Perseveranza — which is
composed of pious men, visit and relieve poor strangers who
are domiciled in inns and lodging-houses, and minister to their
different wants. This confraternity was established under
Alexander VII., in 1663; and besides its duty of ministering
to the necessities of the living, it also provides decent sepulture
for the dead — poor strangers being in both cases the objects
of their special care.

5. A fatal accident, which occurred near Tivoli, in Septem-
ber, 1856, afforded a melancholy occasion for the exercise of
j the charity of one of those institutions, and severely tested the

I humanity and courage of its brotherhood. An Irish clergy-
man, whose name it is not necessary to mention, was unfortu-

I nately drowned while bathing in the sulphur lake below Tivoli.

I After three days, the body was recovered ; but it was found
to be in an advanced state of decomposition, in a great m«3asure

[owing to the highly impregnated character of the water.

6. The members of the confraternity della Morte, cstab-
llished in the church of the Carita, in Tivoli, laid the body in
la coffin, which they had provided for the purpose; and though
Ithe day was intensely hot, and the odor from the body was
lin the highest degree offensive, they bore it, for a distance of
|five miles, to the cathedral, where, after the last offices of

jion being paid to it, it was buried in the grave set apart
|for the deceased canons of the church.

1. Here were a number of men, the majority of them arti-
sans, encountering this fearful danger, and undergoing this
perilous toil, beneath the raging heat of an Italian sun ; not
only without hope of fee or reward, but freely sacrificing their
day's employment to the performance of a pious work. The
liumber of the brethren to whom this duty was allotted was
twenty-four ; and they relieved each other by turns— those not

306

THE FOURTH KKADKR.

engaged in bearing the body chanting sacred hymns, the dirge-
lilce tones of which fall upon the ear of the stranger with sucli |
solemn effect.

104. Lament of Maet, Queen op Scots.

BUENS.

Robert Burks was born in Scotland in 1758 ; died in 1796. In poet:?

genius he has been surpassed by few in any age. Born of the people, 1
e sang of the people, and his songs are the genuine expression of Stot-
tish feeling ; hence it is that his name is identified with the Scottish uatioa |

1. Now nature hangs her mantle green

On every blooming tree,
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white

Out o'er the grassy lea ;
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,

And glads the azure skies ;
But naught can glad the weary wight

That fast in durance lies.

2. Now lav'rocks wake the merry mom,

Aloft on dewy wing ;
The merle, in his noontide bower,

Makes woodland-echoes ring ;
The mavis wild, wi' many a note.

Sings drowsy day to rest ;
In love and freedom they rejoice,

Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

',1-- ■.

3. Now blooms the lily by the bank,

The primrose down the brae ;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,

And milk-white is the slae ;
The meanest hind in fair Scotland

May rove their sweets among ;
But I, the queen of a' Scotland,

Maun lie in prison strong.

'El
•Ja

LAMENT OF MARY, QUKKN OF SCOTS.

307

i bymns, the dirge,
stranger with sucli

OF Scots.

ied in 1796. In poet;?.
,. Born of the people,
line expression of Scoi-
ni\x the Scottish natioa

( green
isies white
tal streams,
iry wight

cy inom,

)wer,

lote,

loice,
t.

Ibank,
ae;
he glen,

)tland
|ong ;
land,

4. I was the queen o' bonnie France,
Where happy I hae been ;
Full lightly rose I in the morn,
As blithe lay down at e'en ;
" And I'm the sovereign o' Scotland,
And mony a traitor there ;
Yet here I lie, in foreign bands,
And never-ending care.

6. But as for thee, thou false woman,'

My sister and my foe I
Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword

That through thy soul shall go ;
The weeping blood in woman's breast

Was never known to thee ;
Nor the balm that drops on wounds of woe

Frae woman's pitying e'e.

6. My son I' my son I may kinder stars

Upon thy fortune shine ;
• And may those pleasures gild thy reign
That ne'er wad blink on mine 1
God keep thee frae thy mother's foes.
Or turn their hearts to thee ;
^ And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,

Remember him for me 1

T. Oh, soon, to me, may summer suns

Nae mair light up the mom 1
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds

Wave o'er the yellow corn I
And in the narrow house of death

Let winter round me rave ;
And the next flowers that deck the spring

Bloom on my peaceful grave.

* - - —

' Elizabeth, queen of England, who unjustly detained her in prison.
* James the First, king of England.

308

THE FOURTH READER.

;*..

'■ii r

105. Thk Plague of Locusts.
FEOM Newman's "oallista."

1. The plague of locusts, one of the most awful visitations
to wbicli the countries included in the Roman Empire were
exposed, extended from the Atlantic to Ethiopia, from Arabia
to India, and from the Nile and Red Sea to Greece and tlie
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 us nu-
merous in its species as it is wide in its range of territoiv.
Brood follows brood, with a sort of family hkeness, yet with
distinct attributes, as we read in the prophets of the Old Tes-
tament, from whom Bochart tells us it is possible to enumerute
as many as ten kinds. . "■

2. It wakens into existence and activity as early as tlie
month of March ; but instances are not wanting, as in oar
present history, of its appearance as late as June. Evcu one |
flight comprises myriads upon myriads, passing imagination, to
which the drops of rain, or the sands of the sea, arc the only
fit comparisons ; and hence it is almost a proverbial mode of ex-
pression in the East (as may be illustrated by the sacred pages |
to which we just now referred), by way of describing a vast in-
vading army, to liken it to the locusts. Sa dense are they, when
upon the wing, that it is no exaggeration to say that they hide tlie I
sun, from which circumstance, indeed, their name in Arabic is
derived. And so ubiquitous are they when they have alighted |
on the earth, that they simply cover or clothe its surface. -

3. This last characteristic is stated in the sacred account of I
the plagues of Egypt, where their faculty of devastation is also |
mentioned. The corrupting fly and the bruising and prostrat-
ing hail preceded them in the series of visitations, but tlK}'|
came to do the work of ruin thoroughly. For not only t!ie
crops and fruits, but the foliage of the forest itself, nay, tlie I
small twigs and the bark of tit j trees, are the vfctims of their
curious and energetic rapacity. They have been kiiowil
even to gnaw the door-posts of the houses. Nor do tlieyl

B ']

Ml;

THE PLAGUE OF LOCUSTS.

300

t awful visitations
man Empiro wire
iopia, from Arabia
:o Greece aud tlie
»rded in history of
the Black Soa to
irdy. It is iismi-
range of territory.
f likeness, yet ^Yit!l
,ets of the Old Tes-
)ssible to enumerate

ity as early as tlie
wanting, as in our
as June. Even one
!sing imagination, to
he sea, are the oulv
overbial mode of ex-
by the sacred pages
describing a vast iu-
lense are they, wliea
ay that they liide tlie
r name in Arabic is
they have aligiited
ithe its surface. -
le sacred account of
[f devastation is also
uising and prostrat-
isitations, but tky
For not only tlie
rest itself, nay, tlie
the victims of tlioir
have been knoa
ses. Nor do tliey

execute theJr task in so slovenly a way, that, as they have suc-
ceeded other plagues, so they may have successors themselves.

4. They take pains to spoil what they leave. Like tlie
liar})ios, they smear every thing that they touch with a miser-
able slime, which has the effect of a virus in corroding, or, as
some say, in scorching and burning. And then, perliaps, as
if all this were too 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.

5. Such are the locusts, — whose existence the ancient here-
tics brought forward as their primary proof that there was an
evil creator; and of whom an Arabian writer shows his national
horror, when he says that they have the head of a horse, the
eyes of an elephant, the neck of a bull,%he horns of a stag, the
breast of a lion, the belly of a scorpion, the wings of an eagle
the legs of a camel, the feet of an ostrich, and the tail of a
serpent.

6. And now they are rushing upon a considerable tract of
that beautiful region of which we have spoken with such admi-
ration. The swarm to which Juba pointed, grew and grew,
till it became a compact body, as much as a furlong square ;
jyet it was but the vanguard of a series of similar hosts, formed,
[one after another, out of the hot mould or sand, rising mto the
jair 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,
Idarkening the face of day.

1. As became an instrument of divine power, it seemed to
Ihave no volition of its own; it was set off, it drifted with the
wind, and thus made northwards, straight for Sicca. Thus
they advanced, 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
roar, and their whizzing and hissing could be heard for six
miles on every side of them.

310

THE FOURTH READER.

8. The bright 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 de-
scend, 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 best they
might, with the hope of prey.

9. They could spare their hundred thousand soldiers, 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's hoofs. In vain was all this overthrow and
waste by the roadside; in vain their loss in river, pool, and
water-course. 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.

106. The Plague of Locusts — continued,

1. They moved on like soldiers in their ranks, stopping at j
nothing, and straggling for nothing ; they carried a broad fur-
row, or weal, all across the country, black and loathsome,
while it was as green and smiling on each side of them, and in I
front, as it had been before they came. Before them, in the
language of the prophets, was a paradise, and behind them a
desert. They are daunted by nothing; they surmount wall3|
and hedges, and enter inclosed gardens or inhabited houses.
" 2 . A rare and experimental vineyard has been planted in a she
fcered grove. The high winds of Africa will not commonly allow I
the light trellis or the slim pole ; but hore the lofty poplar of

THE PLAGUE OP LOCUSTS.

311

tt, illumined their
ig wings; and as
e the innumerable
BROW did they de-
da, crops, gardens,
voods, orangeries,
ing nothing within
; to devour, lying
lately, as best they

land soldiers, twice
• masses filled the
peding the traveller
upled by thousands
this overthrow and

in river, pool, and
.ug pits and trenches
them from the wells

did the locusts fall;
d the flame and the

,iid the vast, living

-continued.

ranks, stopping at
[carried a broad fur-
ick and loathsome,
Isideof them,andiii
Isefore them, in the
and behind them a
Ihey surmount walls
[inhabited houses,
^een planted inashel-
I not commonly allow
the lofty poplar of

ICampania has been possible, on which the vine-plant mounts
many yards into the air, that the poor grape-gatherers bar-
ain for a funeral pile and a tomb as one of the conditions of
heir engagement. The locusts have done what the winds and
iffhtning could not do, and the whole promise of the vint-
,ge, leaves and all, is gone, and the slender stems are left
are.

3. There is another yard, less uncommon, but still tended
ith more than common care ; each plant is kept within due
loands by a circular trench around it, and by upright canes on
hich it is to trail; in an hour the solicitude and long toil of the
ine-dresser are lost, and his pride humbled. There is a smiling
rm; another sort of vine, of remarkable character, is found
gainst the farm-house. This vine springs from one root, and
las clothed and matted with its many branches the four walls.

e whole of it is covered thick with long clusters, which an-
|ther month will ripen. On every grape and leaf there is a
cost.

4. In the dry caves and pits, carefully strewed with straw,
e harvest-men have (safely, as they thought just now) been
idging the far-famed African wheat. One grain or root
oots up into ten, twenty, fifty, eighty, nay, three or four
indred stalks ; sometimes the stalks have two ears apiece, and
lese shoot off into a number of lesser ones. These stores are
ended for the Roman populace; but the locusts have been
forehand with them. The small patches of ground belong-
to the poor peasants up and down the country, for raising

le turnips, garlic, barley, and water-melons, on which they

e, are the prey of these glutton invaders as much as the

loicest vines and olives.

5. Nor have they any reverence for the villa of the civic
lurion, or the Roman official. The neatly arranged kitchen-
den, with its cherries, plums, peaches, and apricots, is a
ite; as the slaves sit around, in the kitchen in the first court.
then* coarse evening meal, the room is filled with the invad-
force, and the news comes to them that the enemy has
ien upon the apples and pears, in the basement, and is at the
16 time plundering and sacking the preserveB of quince and

o L J

THE FOURTH READER.

pomegranate, and revelling in the jars of precious oil of Cyprns
and Mendes in the store-rooms.

" 6. They come up to the walls of Sicca, and arc flung aj2:ninst
them into the ditch. Not a moment's hesitation or dclav
they recover their footing, they climb up the wood or stucco,
they surmount the parapet, or they have entered in nt tin;
windows, filling the apartments, and the most private uiiii
luxurious chambers, not one or two, like stragglers at forago,
or rioters after a victory, but in order of battle, and with the
array of an army. Choice plants or flowers about the implimu,
and xyiiti, for ornament or refreshment — myrtles, oranges, pom-
egranates, the rose, and the carnation — have disappeared.

1. They dim the bright marbles of the walls and the gildinirl
of the ceiling. They enter the triclinium in the midst of tlie |
banquet ; they crawl over the viands, and spoil what they do i
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 alohg the floor in so
strange an order that they seem to be a tessellated paveraeni
themselves, and to be the artificial embellishment of the place;
so true are their lines, and so perfect is the pattern they de^J
scribe.

8. Onward they go, to the market, to the temple sacrifices,!
to bakers' stores, to the cook-shops, to the confectioners, tol
the druggists ; nothing comes amiss to them ; wherever mail
has aught to eat or drink there are they, reckless of deatlij
strong of appetite, certain of conquest.

They have passed on ; the men of Sicca sadly congratulatej
themselves, and begin to look about them and to sum up tlieii
losses. Being the proprietors of the neighboring districts,
the purchasers of its produce, they lament over the di»rasw
tion, not because the fair country is disfigured, but becana|
income is becoming scanty, and prices are becoming high.

9. How is a population of many thousands to bo fed]
Where is the grain ? where the melons, the figs, (he dates, tli
gourds, the beans, the grapes, to sustain and solace the mult]
tudes in their lanes, caverns, and garrets ? This is anothC
wreighty consideration for the class well-to-do in the worll

the
othi
ove:
thei
was
iDd

THE PLAGGK OF . )C(7SttK»

313

jious oil of Cypm

The taxes, too, and contributions, th< capitatit i tnx, the per-
centage upon corn, the various articles of rt/euue ^ to
Rome, how are they to be paid ? How are the cuttl*' o be
provided for the sacrifices and the tables of the y, -ilthj?
One-half, at least, of the supply of Sicca is cut off.

10. No longer slaves are seen coming into the city from the
country in troops, with their baskets on their shoulders, or
beating forward the horse, or mule, or ox overladen with its
burden, or driving in the dangerous cow or the unresisting
sheep. The animation of the place is gone ; a gloom hangs
over the Forum, and if its frequenters are still merry there is
something of sullenness and recklessness in their mirth. The
gods have given the city up ; something or other has angered
them. Locusts, indeed, are no uncommon visitation, but
at an earlier season. Perhaps some temple has been pol-
luted, or some unholy rite practised, or some secret conspiracy
has spread.

11. 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 destroy them by
fire and water. It would seem as if the malignant animals
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
liTing 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 carcasses in payment.

12. It was a sudden catastrophe ; they seemed making for
the Mediterranean, as if, like other great conquerors, they had j
other worlds to subdue beyond it ; but, whether they were
over-gorged, 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 naught,
and all was vanity to them as to others, and " their stench

14 .

314

THR POUBTn RRADKR.

rose up, and their corruption rose up, because they had done
proudly."

13. The hideous swarms lay dead in the most stcnminp
underwood, in the green swamps, in the sheltered valleys, in
the ditches and furrows of the fields, amid the monuments of
their own prowess, the ruined crops and the dishonored vine-
yards. A poisonous element, issuing from their remains, min-
gled with the atmosphere and corrupted it. The dismayed
peasants found that a plague had begun; a new visitation, not
confined to the territory which the enemy had made its own,
but extending far and wide as the atmosphere extends in all
directions. Their daily toil, no longer claimed by the fruits
of the earth, which have ceased to exist, is now devoted to the
object of ridding themselves of the deadly legacy which they
have received in their stead.

14. 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. A new invasion is menacing Sicca, in the
shape of companies of peasants and slaves, with their employ-
ers and overseers, nay, the farmers themselves and proprietors,
the panic having broken the bonds of discipline, rushing from
famine and infection as to a place of safety. The inhabitants
of the city are as frightened as they, and more energetic. They
determme to keep them at a distance; the gates are closed ; a
strict cordon is drawn ; however, by the continual pressure,
numbers contrive to make an entrance, as water into a vessel,
or light through the closed shutters, and any how the air can
not be put in quarantine, so the pestilence has the better of it,
and at last appears in the alleys and in the cellars of Sicca.

AN HOUR AT TIIK OLD PLAT-QROUND.

315

they had done

most stcaminp
tcred valleys, in

10 monuments of
dishonored vine-
eir remains, min-

The dismayed
ew visitation, not
id made its own,
re extends in all
nod by the fruits
)W devoted to the
egacy which they

digging pits» ^M

11 as for the bodies

n the same grave,
ley work, and the
icing Sicca, in the
ith their employ-
;s and proprietors,
(line, rushing from
The inhabitants
.energetic. They
[tttes are closed ; a
[ontinual pressure,
ater into a vessel,
ly hovr the air can
[as the better of it,
lellars of Sicca.

107. An Hour at the Old Play-Ground.

ANON.

1. I sat an hour to-day, John,

Beside thq old brook stream;
Where we were school-boys in old times,

When manhood was a dream;
The brook is choked with falling leaves,

The pond is dried away,
I scarce believe that you would know

The dear old place to-day I

2. The school-house is no more, John ;

Beneath our locust-trees.
The wild-rose by the window side
No more waves in the breeze ;
The scaicer'd stones look desolate,
The sod they rested on
' Has been ploughed up by stranger hands,
Since you and I were gone.

8 The chestnut-tree is dead, John,

And what is sadder now,
The broken grape-vine of our swing,

Hangs on the withered bough ;
I read our names upon the bark,

And found the pebbles rare.
Laid up beneath the hollow side,

As we had piled them there.

4. Beneath the grass-grown bank, John,

I look'd for our old spring, . ■ '•
That bubbled down the alder path,

Three paces from the swing ;
The rushes grow upon the brink,

The pool is black and bare,
And not a foot, this many a day,

It seems, has trodden there.

316 THE FOURTH BBADEB.

5. I took the old blind road, John,

That wander'd up the hill,
'Tis darker than it used to be, *

And seems so lone and still ;
The birds sing yet upon the boughs,

Where once the sweet grapes hung.
But not a voice of human kind.

Where all our voices rung.

6. I sat me on the fence, John,

That lies as in old time,
The same half pannel in the path,

We used so oft to climb;
And thought how o'er the bars of life

Our playmates had pass'd on.
And left me counting on the spot,

The faces that are gone.

108. Christian and Pagan Bomb.

DB. NELIOAN.

Rkv. William H. Nelioak, LL. D., was born in Clonrael. County Tip-
perary, Ireland. Formerly a minister of the Church of England— becaina
a convert in 1853 ; studied in Rome, and was ordained priest in New York
by Archbishop Hujfhes in 1857. His work on "Kome, its churches, Ac,"
gives a striking and correct picture of the Eternal Citv. He has also writ-
ten an edifying work entitled " Saintly Characters," \n

with others of less

note.

1. Rome is a city of contrasts. Like Rebecca, she bears
within her two worlds opposed to each other. It is agreeable
to pass from one to the other. Having spent the morning Id
Christian Rome, we would now take a glimpse at ancient
Rome. This makes the chief happiness of the pilgrim. It
seems to multiply his existence. We sat down on the eastern
part of the Palatine Hill, as the sun was casting his declining
rays on the scene before us. \ -

2. This seems to me to be a place which Jeremias would
select, to meditate on the ruins of the city. Seated upon the

CHRISTIAN AND PAGAN BOMB.

317

dust of the palace of Nero and Augustus, he could have
uttered one of his plaintive meditations on the ruins of de-
parted greatness. Soon would it change its tone to one of
triumphant rejoicing, as he thought how the city of Nero
became the city of Peter, the Prince of the Apostles, and
that " the glory of this last city should be more than that of
the first." Before you, are the arch of Titus, the Goliseuni,
and the arch of Constantine, which form a triangle, and which
were built on the boundaries of the ancient and the Christian
world, when Paganism and Judaism were disputing with the
rising church the empire of mankind.

3. The arch of Titus, by its inscription on both sides, recalls
to us the prophecy of Daniel and the prophecy of Christ, with
respect to the destruction of the city, and shows to all genera-
tions the effect of these words, " His blood be upon us and
upon our children." The second is the Coliseum, a witness of
the degradation of humanity at the era of Christianity, of tlie
struggle of paganism, and of the cruelty which she exercised
against tlie Church. It is also a witness of the victory of the
weak over the strong, and of the suflFering victims over those
who persecuted them. This was the battle-field where the
martyrs were crowned. In this amphitheatre, erected by the
hands of Jews and pagans, the most glorious triumphs of
Christianity were gained. But the scene draws to a close.

4. The arch of Constantine is the witness of the conquest of
Catholicity over the territory through which paganism reigned.
It was erected to the " liberator of the city, and to the found-
er of peace." These the finger of God seems to have kept in
such a state of preservation, to bo his witnesses to the end of
all ages. Viewed by the eye of Christian phifosophy, the
ruins of the Eternal City speak with a wondrous eloquence.
There God and man meet; Christianity the conqueror, and
paganism the conquered, are present everywhere. As the
work of man, the city presents to us the ruins of temples, of
palaces, aqueducts, and mutilated mausoleums — all mingled
together in the dust ; as the work of God, the city of St.
Peter and of Pio Nono is always radiant with youth.

6. The cross has crowned the Capitol for a longer period

318

THE FODRTH RKADKK.

than the imperial eagle. Everywhere you see a privileged
ruin of paganism coming to shelter itself under the wing of
religion, to escape from utter destruction. Like captives, who
find any conditions acceptable, should their lives be spared,
the old glories of Rome have submitted themselves to any use
that may be made of them. They have become Christian
temples, tombs of martyrs, columns, pedestals, and even the
pavement in the houses of the victors. They are satisfied if
the daughter of heaven deign to touch them with her finger.
It is to them an assurance of immortality. They seem to
remember the treatment which they received from the hands
of the barbarians, and, to escape fresh ravages, they are desi-
rous of being adopted by that poor church, whose blood they
drank in the day of their glory.

6. How often is the Catholic pilgrim delighted with these
obelisks, which were formerly erected to some of the great
men of the world I At their base you find inscribed the name
of the hero to whom they were erected; above this, the name
of the PontiflF, the successor of the fisherman of Galilee, who
dedicated them to St. Peter, St. Paul, or the Mother of God,
and placed their statues on the summit of the pillar. Here
both history and poetry seem united together. This aspect
of defeat and victory, which is to be met with at every step
in the Eternal City, affords much instruction.

t. It is to the serious mind a lesson which makes him de-
spise all that is of earth, and admire all that is from God. If
with feelings like these, the traveller, the artist, and the pil-
grim behold all these monuments of antiquity, and if they be
the means of detaching him from all that is changing around
him, and of uniting hun to the things which change not, he
may indeed say he has seen Rome.

\ ■ ■

■A-

'.-,

ROSEMARY IN THE SCULPTOU S STUDIO.

319

109. Rosemary in the Sculptor's Studio.

HUNTINGTON.

J. V. Huntington, born in New York in 1815, formcily an Episcopalian
ininister; since his conversion to Catholicity entirely tlcvoted to litorury
pursuita. He is best known as a novelist, but has published a voliune of
poetry and a good many fugitive pieces. His novels indicate an intimate
acquaintance with the better and more cultivated portion of American so-
ciety. His novel of " Rosemary" is a work of considerable dramatic power,
colored with the warm tints of a poet's fancy. His " Pretty Plate" is one
of the best juvenile stories with which we are acquainted.

1. Rosemary sat with her back to the couutess, and her
face to the old brilliant picture of the glorious Coming, with
its angels in sky-blue robes and saints with gilded halos.

" A very interesting picture," Rory said.

" Very I I can hardly take my eyes off from it."

" Yery well, as you must look at some point in particular,
suppose that you look at that picture."

" Is the position in which I sit of any consequence ?"

" As long as you do not lean back, and continue to look at
the picture, it is of no consequence. You may change it
whenever you like. Be quite unconstrained in that respect."

" I am glad you allow me to sit. I supposed the sitting
would be a standing."

" Not to-day. Another time I may try your patience
further."

2. While Rosemary sat thus, her eyes fastened on the pic-
ture, and scarcely seeing O'Morra, who stood near his pile of
clay, working it with an instrument into shape, he conversed
with her in a tranquil tone. She was pleased though surprised
at this, for from the rigid silence he had imposed on the count-
ess, she had counted on mure than usual taciturnity on his
part. First, he gave her a history of the picture, painted by
a monk in the fifteenth century. Thence he naturally passed
to the subject of which it treated.

3. All representations of so great a theme, the crowning
event of human history, but lying beyond the domain of human
experience, were unsatisfactory. Rosemary thought so too.
Insensibly he diverged to the mighty scene itself. His lan-
guage, remarkably calm and unexcited, but admirably chosen,

3J)

THE FODBTU KKADKR.

became soon the outline of a meditation on the Final Judg.
raent. Circumstance after circumstance taken from Holy Writ
came in to heighten the tremendous word-picture, and in the
midst of the scene Rosemary and himself were placed as as-
sistants and spectators.

4. " We may suppose that our purgation will not have ceased
before, as it will certainly cease then. What feelings must be
ours, in such a case, when we shall have burst the prison of
the tomb, to behold the tomb itself, the solid earth, crumble
and melt, and yet feel in our own risen bodies the throb of
eternal life I What a moment I the wedding again of the
flesh and spirit instantaneously co-glorified ; a fact of which
we shall take note with perfect intellectual clearness, even in
the same instant that the Beatific Vision breaks upon us with
its infinite vistas of entrancing splendor I"

5. Rosemary's beautiful face kindled like a vase lighted from
within ; she leaned a little forward and raised one fair arm
towards the old picture, as if she would have spoken.

"The resurrection of the flesh, its glorification, its divlni-
Nation almost, is to me one of the most consoling dogmas of
our faith. That body is immortal already in my opinion ; it
shall breathe and pulsate, shall see and hear, have motion and
force and splendor, while God shall be God. What is the
grave ? You have lain in it once, yet now you live I What
has happened to you in a figure shall happen to us all in real-
ity. You ought to feel this vividly — you, once the motionless
tenant of a tomb 1"

6. From that time O'Morra worked on in silence. At last
Rosemary timidly glanced at him — for she was weary. He
was not looking at her at all ; his bright eye was fixed on va-
cancy, and his fingers worked, like a blind man's, in the plastic
clay. It ^as a rude human figure, feminine vaguely, nude, black,
dripping wet ; in the body the posture was nearly all that was
evident, and that was roughly outlined ; the head was mas-
sively brought out, and under the clay hair, clotted and lumped,
was a noble face, upturned to heaven with an expression of
wonder, awe, joy, and earnest gazing, as upon some marTclloas
glory.

RELIOrOUS 0RDJEB8.

321

I the Final Judg-
;n from Holy Writ
)icture, and in tlie
were placed as as-

v^ill not have ceased
it feelings must be
mrst the prison of
)lid earth, crumble
odies the throb of
ding again of the
i : a fact of which
1 clearness, even in
reaks upon us with

a vase lighted from
■aised one fair arm
tve spoken,
rification, its divini-
'onsoling dogmas of
in my opinion ; it
ir, have motion and
od. What is the
you live 1 What
»en to us all in real-
once the motionless

in silence. At last
was weary. He
;ye was fixed on n-
man's, in the plastic
'aguely, nude, black,
nearly all that was
the head was mas-
clotted and lumped,
=,h an expression of
ion some marvellous

110. Stella Matutina, ora pko nobis.*

HUNTINQTON.

1. Gleaming o'er mountain, coast, and wave,
What splendor It, foretokening, gave
The front of shadow-chasing morn I
And, ere the day-star was re-born.
With borrow'd but auspicious light
Gladden'd the night-long watcher's sight I

2. Fair herald of a brighter sun.

And pledge of Heaven's own day begun,
When th' ancient world's long night was o'er,
So shone, above death's dreaded shore.
And life's now ever-brightening sea,
The lowly Maid of Galilee.

8. Lost now in His effulgent ray.
Bathed in the brightness of His day,
O Morning Star I still sweetly shine
Through that dim night which yet is mine ;
Precede for me His dawning light,
Who only puts all shades to flight I

, 111. Religious Orders.

LEIBNITZ.

Wk. G. LBismTz was born in Leipsic in 1646 ; died in 1716. His sci-
entifio and philosopiiical attainments entitle liiir to be placed among tlie
I highest niathematicians and philosophers of the ago.

1. Since the glory of God and the happiness of our fellow-
1 creatures may be promoted by various means, by command or
I by example, according to the condition and disposition of

' Sldla Matutina, era pro nobi$. Morning Star, fray for w ;— one of thA
[MfibagM in the litany of Loretto. .

322

THE FOURTH HEADER.

In '>* " I

each, the advantages of that institution are manifest by
which, besides those who are engaged in active and every-day
life, there are also found in the Cliurch ascetic and contempla-
tive men, who, abandoning the cares of life, and trampling its
pleasures under foot, devote their whole being to the contem-
plation of the Deity, and the admiration of his works ; or
who, freed from personal concerns, apply themselves exclu-
sively to watch and relieve the necessities of others ; some by
instructing the ignorant or erring ; some by assisting the
needy and aflflicted.

2. Nor is it the least among those marks which commend
to us that Church, which alone has preserved the name and
the badges of Catholicity, that we see her alone produce and
cherish these illustrious examples of the eminent virtues and
of the ascetic life.

Wherefore, I confess, that I have ardently admired the re-
ligious orders, and the pious confraternities, and the other
similar admirable institutions ; for they are a sort of celestial
soldiery upon earth, provided, corruptions and abuses being
removed, they are governed according to the institutes of the
founders, and regulated by the supreme Pontiff for the use of
the universal Church.

3. For what can be more glorious than to carry the light
of truth to distant nations, through seas and fires and swords,
— to traffic in the salvation of souls alone, — to forego the
allurements of pleasure, and even the enjoyment of conversa-
tion and of social intercourse, in order to pursue, undisturbed,
the contemplation of abstruse truths and divine meditation,-'
to dedicate one's self to the education of youth in science and
in virtue, — to assist and console the wretched, the despairing,
the lost, the captive, the condemned, the sick, — in squalor,
in chains, in distant lands, — undeterred even by the fear of
pestilence from the lavish exercise of these heavenly offices of
charity I

4. The man who knows not, or despises these things, has
but a vulgar and plebeian conception of virtue ; he foolishly
measures the obligations of men towards their God by the
perfiyjctory discharge of ordinary duties, and by that

MY FATIIEK3 GKOWING OLD.

323

re manifest by
^e and every-day
3 and contempla-
md trampling its
g to the conteni-
if his works ; or
hemselves exclu-
others ; some by
by assisting the

8 which commend
^ed the name and
ilone produce and
ninent virtues and

ly admired the re-
es, and the other
a sort of celestial
and abuses being
.e institutes of the
Ltiff for the use of

to carry the light
fires and swords,
le — to forego the
fment of conversa-

irsne, undisturbed,
[vine meditation,—

Luth in science and
[ed, the despairing,
sick,— in squalor,

i-en by the fear of

1 heavenly offices of

these things, has

Irtue ; he foolishly

their God by the

and by that

frozen habit of life, devoid of zeal, and even of soul, which
prevails commonly among men. For it is not a counsel, as
Bome persuade themselves, but a strict precept, to labor with
every power of soul and body, no matter in what condition of
life we may be, for the attainment of Christian perfection,
with which neither wedlock, nor children, nor public office,
are incompatible (although they throw difficulties in the way) ;
but it is only a counsel to select that state of life which is
more free from earthly obstacles, upon which selection our
Lord congratulated Magdalen.

112 . " My Father's growing old."

ELIZABETH O. BABBEB.

1. My father's growing old; his eye

Looks dimly on the page ;
The locks that round his forehead lie

Are silver' d o'er by age ;
My heart has learn'd too well the tale

Which other lips have told,
His years and strength begin to fail —

" My father's growing old."

2. They tell me, in my youthful years

He led me by his side.
And strove to calm my childish fears,

My erring steps to guide.
But years, with all their scenes of change,

Above us both have rolPd,
I now must guide his faltering steps —

" My father's growing old."

8. When sunset's rosy glow departs.
With voices full of mirth.
Our household band with joyous hearts
Will gather round the hearth,

324 THE FOURTH READER.

They look upon his trembling form,

His pallid face behold,
And turn away with chasten'd tones —

" My father's growing old."

4. And when each tuneful voice we raise,

In songs of " long ago,"
His voice which mingles in our lays

Is tremulous and low.
It used to seem a clarion's tone,

So musical and bold,
But weaker, fainter has it grown —

" My father's growing old."

5. The same fond smile he used to wear

Still wreathes his pale lips now,
But Time with lines of age and care

Has traced his placid brow.
But yet amid the lapse of years

His heart has not grown cold,
Though voice and footsteps plainly tell —

" My father's growing old."

6. My father I thou did'st strive to share

My joys and calm my fears,
And now thy child, with grateful care,

In thy declining years
Shall smooth thy path, and brighter scenes

By faith and hope unfold;
And love thee with a holier love

Since thou art " growing old."

: \

SESIGNATION OF CHAKLES V.

325

113. Charles V., emperor of Gkrmany, resigns his

DOMINIONS AND RETIRES FROM THE WORLD.
B0BEBT80N.

Dr. William Eobertson, born in 1721,atBorthwich, Mid Lothian, Scot-
liind ; died 1793. His principal works aro tlie " History of Charles the
Fiftli," " History of America," and " History of Scotland." As an histo-
r'mii, Kohertson is remarkable for grace and elegance of style, although
eonie of his works are disfigured by a partisan bios.

1. This great emperor, in the plenitude of his power, and
in possession of all the honors which can flatter the heart of
man, took the extraordinary resolution to resign his kingc jqs ;
and to withdraw entirely from any concern in business or the
aiTairs of this world, in order that he might spend the rcmaiiiL-
der of his days in retirement and solitude.

2. Though it requires neither deep reflection, nor extraor-
dinary discernment, to discover that the state of royalty is
not exempt from cares and disappointments ; though most of
those who are exalted to a throne, find solicitude, and satiety,
and disgust, to be their perpetual attendants, in that envied
pre-eminence ; yet, to descend voluntarily from the supremo
to'a subordinate station, and to relinquish the possession of
power in order to attain the enjoyment of happiness, seems to
be an effort too great for the human mind.

3. Seviral instances, indeed, occur in history, of monarchs
who have quitted a throne, and have ended their days in re-
tirement. But they were either weak princes, who took this
resolution rashly, and repented of it as soon as it was taken ;
or unfortunate princes, from whose hands some strong rival
had wrested their sceptre, and compelled them to descend
with reluctance into a private station.

4. Diocletian is, perhaps, the only prince capable of hold-
ing the reins of government, who ever resigned them from de-
liberate choice ; and who continued, during many years, to
enjoy the tranquillity of retirement, without fetching one peni-
tent, sigh, or casting back one look of desire towards the
power or dignity which he had abandoned.

5. No wonder, then, that Charles's resignation should fill

326

TllK I'DUltTH UKADEK.

all Europe with aKtouishment, and give rise, both amonp^ his
contemporaries and among the historians of th^it period, to
various conjectures concerning the motives which detcrmiiK d
a prince, whose ruHng passion had been uniformly the lovn of
power, at the age of fifty-six, when objects of ambition opiT'
ate with full force on the mind, and are pursued with tlio
greatest ardor, to take a resolution so singular and unex-
pected.

G. The Emperor, in pursuance of his determination, haviii,'
assembled the states of the Low Countries at Brussels, ficnUil
himself, for the last time, in the chair of state ; on one side (if
which was placed his son, and on the other, his sister t!i.
queen of Hungary, regent of the Netherlands, with a splendid
retinue of the grandees of Spain, and princes of the enijiiiv
standing behind him.

7. The president of the council of Flanders, by his com-
mand, explained in a few words, his intention in calling tliis
extraordinary meeting of the state. He then road tlie instru-
ment of resignation, by which Charles surrendered to his soii
Philip all his territories, jurisdiction, and authority iji the Low
Countries ; absolving his subjects there from their outh ol
allegiance to him, which he required them to transfer to riiilip
his lawful heir ; and to serve him with the same loyalty and
zeal that they had manifested, during so long a course of
years, in support of his government.

8. Charles then rose from his seat, and leaning on tlic
shoulder of the Prince of Orange, because he was unable to
stand without support, he addressed himself to the audience ;
and, from a paper which he held in his hand, in order to as-
sist his memory, he recounted, with dignity, but without os-
tentation, all the great things which he had undertaken and
performed, since the commencement of his administration.

9. He observed, that from the seventeenth year of his age,
he had dedicated all his thoughts and attention to public ob-
jects, reserving no portion of his time for the indulgence of liis
ease, and very little for the enjoyment of private pleasure ;
that either in a pacific or hostile manner, he had visited Ger-
many nine times, Spam six times, France four times, Italy

KE8I0NATI0N OF ClIAKLCB V.

n2r

!, both amonp; liis
f tlitit period, to
which doterniinnl
brmly the low of
of ambition opcr-
pursued with the
ngular and umx-

jrmination, haviiijr
at Brussels, RonUd
te ; on one side of
ier, his sister the
is, with a splciiil'il
ices of the einplio

iiders, by his com-
ion in calling lliis
len read the instiu-
rendered to liis soii
ithority in the Low
i'om their oath ot
r> transfer to Pliilip
e same loyalty and
> long a course of

id leaning ou tlie

he was unable to

if to the audience ;

md, in order to as-

Ity, but without os-

id undertaken and

idministration.

ith year of his age,

Intion to public ol>

[e indulgence of bis

private pleasure;

le had visited Ger-

four times, Italy

gcvcn times, the Low Countries ten times, En;;hind twice,
Africa as often, and had made eleven voyages by sea.

10. That while his health permitted him to discharge his
duty, and the vigor of his constitution was equal in any de-
gree to the arduous office of governing dominions so exten-
sive, he had never shunned labor nor repined under fatigue ;
tliat now, when his health was broken, and his vigor ex-
hausted by the rage of an incurable distemper, his growing hi-
finnities admonished him to retire ;

11. Nor was he so fond of reigning, as to retain the scep-
tre in an impotent hand, which was no longer able to protect
his subjects, or to render them happy; that instead of a sov-
ereign worn out with diseases, and scarcely half alive, he gave
tlicni one in the prime of life, accustomed already to govern,
and who added to the vigor of youth all the attention and sa-
gacity of maturer years ;

12. That if, during the course of a long administration, ho
had committed any material error in government ; or if, under
the pressure of so many and great affairs, and amid the at-
ttntion which ho had been obliged to give to them, he had
eitlier neglected or injured any of his subjects, he now im-
plored their forgiveness ;

13. That, for his part, he should ever retain a grateful
sense of their fidehty and attachment, and would carry the
remembrance of it along with him to the place of his retreat,
as his sweetest consolation, as well as the best reward for all
his services ; and in his last prayers to Almighty God, would
pour forth his ardent wishes for their welfare.

14. Then turning towards Philip, who fell on his knees and
kissed bis father's hand, " If," says he, " I had left you, by
my death, this rich inheritance, to which I have made such
large additions, some regard would have been justly due to
my memory on that account ; but now, when I voluntarily
resign to you what I might have still retained, I may well ex-
pect the warmest expression of thanks on your part.

15. " With these, however, I dispense ; and shall consider
your concern for the welfare of your subjects, and your love
of them, as the best and most acceptable testimony of your

228

THE FOLHTH READEK.

pratituile to me. It is in your power, by a wise and virtuons
ailministration, to justify the extraordinary proof which I
pive this day of my paternal affection, and to demonstrate
that you arc worthy of the confidence which I repose in you.

16. "Preserve an inviolable regard for religion ; mniiitain
the Catholic faith in its purity ; let the laws of your country
be sacred in your eyes ; encroach not on the rights and privi-
leges of your people ; and if the time shall ever come wlicti
you shall wish to enjoy the tranquillity of private life, may you
have a son endowed with such qualities that you can resign
your sceptre to him with as much satisfaction as I give up
mine to you."

17. As soon as Charles had finished this long address to his
subjects, and to their new sovereign, he sunk into the chair
exhausted and ready to faint with the fatigue of so extraor-
dinary an effort. During his discourse, the whole audience
melted into tears ; some from admiration of his magnanimity ;
others softened by the expressions of tenderness towards his
son, and of love to his people ; and all were affected with the
deepest sorrow, at losing a sovereign who had distinguished
the Netherlands, his native country, with particular marks of
his regard and attachment.

114. Resignation of Charles V. — continued,

1. A FEW weeks after the resignation of the Netherlands,
Charles, in an assembly no less splendid and with a ceremonial
equally pompous, resigned to his son the crowns of Spain, with
all the territories depending on them, both in the old and in
the new world. Of all these vast possessions, he reserved
nothing for himself, but an annual pension of a hundred thou*
sand crowns, to defray the charges of his family, and to afford
him a small sum for acts of beneficence and charity.

2. Nothing now remained to detain him from that retreat
for which he languished. Every thing having been prepared
Bometune for his voyage, he set out for Zuitbnrg in Zealand,
where the fleet had orders to rendezvous.

lUaiONATlON OF CIUKLK8 V.

320

wise and virtiions
f proof which I
i to dcmonstruto
I repose in you.
eligion ; umiutaiii
i of your country
e rights and privi-
11 ever come wlicii
ivate life, may you
at you can resign
tion as I give up

long address to hia
link into the chair
igue of so extraor-
he whole audience
f his magnanimity ;
erness towards his
:e affected with the
had distinguislied
•articular marl£S of

I — continued,

\i the Netherlands,

with a ceremonial
)wns of Spain, with
|h in the old and in
Issions, he reserved
lof a hundred thou-
]imily, and to afford

charity.

from that retreat
ling been prepared

litburg in Zealand,

8. In his way thither, he p, sed through OixMit : and after
stopping there a few days, to indulge that tender and pli'usiiig
melancholy, which arises in the mind of every man in the de-
cline of life, on visiting the place of his nativity, and viewing
the scenes and objects familiar to him in his early youth, he
pursued his journey, accompanied by his son Philip, his daugh-
ter the archduchess, his sisters the dowager queens of Franco
aud Ilungary, Maximilian his son-in-law, and a numerous ret-
inue of the Flemish nobility.

4. Before he went on board, he dismissed them, with marks
of his attention or regard ; and taking leave of Philip with all
the tenderness of a father who embraced his son for the last
time, he set sail under convoy of a large fleet of Spanish,
Flemish, and English ships.

5. His voyage was prosperous, and agreeable ; and he ar-
rived at Laredo in Biscay, on the eleventh day after he left
Zealand. As soon as he landed, he fell prostrate on the
ground ; and considering himself now as dead to the world, he
kissed the earth, and said, " Naked came I out of my mother's
womb, and naked I now return to thee, thou common mother
ofmpnkind."

6. From Laredo he proceeded to Valladolid. There he
took a last and tender leave of his two sisters ; whom he w ould
not permit to accompany him to his solitude, though they en-
treated it with tears : not only that they might have the con-
Eolation of contributing, by their attendance and care, to
mitigate or to soothe his sufferings, but that they might reap
instruction and benefit, by joining with him in those pious
exercises, to which he had consecrated the remainder of his
days.

1. From Valladolid, he continued his journey to Plazencia in
Estremadura. He had passed through that city a great many
years before ; and having been struck at that time with the
delightful situation of the mona jtery of St. Justus, belonging
to the order of St. Jerome, not many miles distant from that
place, he had then observed to some of his attendants, that
was a spot to which Diocletian might have retired with
'e.

330

THE FOURTH READER.

■;(i

IS'

mmm

8. The impression liad remained so strong on his mind, thai
he pitched upon it as the pUice of his retreat. It was scatod
in a vale of no great extent, watered by a small brook, iiml
surrounded by rising grounds, covered with lofty trees. Fiv;i
the nature of the soil, as well as the temperature of the cliniatt,
it was esteemed the most healthful and delicious situatiuu ir.
Spain.

9. Some months before his resignation, he had sent an ar-
chitect thither, to add a new apartment to the monastery, for
his accommodation ; but he gave strict orders that the style
of the building should be such as suited his present statiuii,
rather than his former dignity. It consisted only of six rooms,
four of them in the form of friars' cells, with naked walls ; the
other two, each twenty feet square, were hung with browi
cloth, and furnished in the most simple manner.

10. They were all on a level with the ground ; with a door
on one side into a garden, of which Charles himself had jjivoii
the plan, and had filled it with various plants, which he ])ro
posed to cultivate with his own hands. On the other side,
they communicated with the chapel of the monastery, in \\IM\
he was to perform his devotions.

11. Into this humble retreat, hardly sufficient for tlio roiii-
fortablo accommodation of a private gentleman, did CIin!ii's|
enter with twelve domestics only. He buried there, in soli
tude and silence, his grandeur, his ambition, together wit!i al
those vast projects, which, during half a century, had alarm i
and agitated Europe ; filling every kingdom in it, by liirii>,|
with the terror of his arms, and the dread of being i!;ul)jcc[i(l
to his power.

12. In this retirement, Charles formed such aplanof liiol
for himself, as would have suited the condition of a private |
[)erson of a moderate fortune. His table was neat but ))liiiii
his domestics few ; his intercourse with them familiar ; all tliel
cumbersome and ceremonious forms of attendance on liis per-
son were entirely abolished, as destructive of that social ease
and tranquillity which he courted, in order to soothe therfr|
mainder of his days.

13. As the mildness of the climate, together with his dcliTJ

LK'ITKK FROM PLINY TO MAKCELLINU8.

331

T Oil hw minil, tlmi
it. It was Kcatoil
, small brook, and
lofty trees. Vn'w
,ture of the climati,
slicious situation ir.

he had sent an ar-
, the monastery, k
rders that the style
his present stiiliuii,
cd only of six rooui>,
ith naked walls ; tin;
•e hung with bro\Yii

anner.

rround ; with a iloor

["es himself had o;iveii

plants, which he pro-

On the other side,

monastery, in wIikIi

jufficicut for the com-
lutleman, did Cluuk's
iburied there, in soli-
lion, together willi all
icentury, had alanud
;dom in it, by im\
id of being subjccUii

id such a plan of liio
[onditionof a pvivale
\ was neat but pliu",
Lem familiar ; all tlie

Ittendance onliisp^M
Ire of that social tm
Idcr to soothe the »

eraace from the burdens and cares of government, procurea
him, at first, a considerable remission from the acute pains with
which he had been long tormented ; ho enjoyed, perhaps, more
complete satisfaction in this humble solitude, than all his
grandeur had ever yielded him.

14. The ambitious thoughts and projects which had so long
en<n*ossed and disquieted him, were quite elTaced from his
mind. Far from taking any part in the political transactions
of the princes of Europe, he restrained his curiosity even from
any inquiry concerning them ; and he seemed to view the busy
scene which he had abandoned, with all the contempt and in-
difference arising from his thorough experience of its vanity,
as well as from the pleasing reflection of having disentangled
himself from its cares.

Igether

with his m

115. Letter from Pliny to Marcellinus.

M E L M o T n . i

1. I WRITE this under the utmost oppression of sorrow. The
youngest daughter of my friend Fimdanus is dead 1 Never
surely was there a more agreeable, and more amiable young
person ; or one who better deserved to have enjoyed a long, I
had almost said, an immortal life 1 She had all the wisdom of
age, and discretion of a matron, joined with youthful sweetness
and virgin'inodesty.

2. With what an engaging fondness did she behave to her
father! llow kindly and respectfully receive his friends 1
IIIow affectionately treat all those who, in their respective

offices, had the care and education of herl She employed
much of her time in reading, in which she discovered great
strength of judgment ; she indulged herself in few diversions,
land those with much caution. With what forbearance, with
what patience, with what courage, did she endure her last ill-
Incssl

3. She complied with all the directions of her physicians ;
she encouraged her sister and her father; and, when all her

3')2

THE FOURTH RKADKR.

■^^Pf

strength of body was exhausted, supported herself by the
single vigor of her mind. That indeed continued, even to her
last moments, unbroken by the pain of a long illness, or the
terrors of approaching death ; and it is a reflection which
makes the loss of her so much the more to be lamented. A
loss infinitely severe I and more severe by the particular con-
juncture in which it happened 1

4. She was contracted to a most worthy youth ; the wed-
ding day was fixed, and we were all invited. How sad a
change from the highest joy to the deepest sorrpwl How
shall I express the wound that pierced my heart, when I heard
Fundanus himself (as grief is ever finding out circumstances
to aggravate its aflBiction), ordering the money he had design-
ed to lay out upon clothes and jewels for her marriage, to be
employed in myrrh and spices for her funeral I

5. He is a man of great learning and good sense, who has
applied himself, from his earliest youth, to the noblest and
most elevated studies ; but all the maxims of fortituf^^. which
he has received from books, or advanced himself, he *i ah
solutely rejects ; and every other virtue of his heai ? 'rn
j)lace to all a. parent's tenderness.

6. We shall excuse, we shall even approve his sorrow, when
we consider what he has lost. He has lost a daughter, who
resembled him in his manners, as well as his person ; and ex-
actly copied out all her father. If his friend Marcellinus shall
think proper to write to him, upon the subject of so reasona-
ble a grief, let me remind him not to use the rougher argu-
meli'ts of consolation, and such as seem to carrv a sort of
reproof with them ; but those of kind and sympathizing
humanity.

t. Time will render him more open to the dictates of
reason ; for as a fresh wound shrinks back from the hand of
the surgeon, but by degrees submits to, and even requires the
means of its cure ; so a mind, under the first impressions of a
misfortune, shuns and rejects all arguments of consolation;
but at length, if applied with tenderness, calmly and willingly
acquiesces in them. Farewell.

TO THE ROBIN.

333

I herself by the
aued, even to her
ng illness, or the
reflection which
be lamented. A
he particular con-

■ youth ; the wed-
;ed. How sad a
5t sorrpw! How
eart,when I heard
out circumstances
ney he had design-
er marriage, to be

ill

od sense, who has
the noblest and
of fortituc"-) which
limself, ho n- al
of his hedi res

e his sorrow, when

a daughter, who
s person ; and ex-

Marcellinus shall
lect of so reasona-

the rougher argu-
;o carry a sort of

and sympathizing

the dictates of
[from the hand of

even requires the
It impressions of a
ts of consolation;
[imly and willingly

116. To THE Robin.

ELIZA COOK.

Eliza Cook, an English poetess of some note, was bom in London, in
1618. There is a heartiness and a fresh good-nature ringing tlirough every
Btanza of Miss Cook's poetry, that wins a way for it to every heart. She
loves nature and makes others love it too.

1. I WISH I could welcome the spring, bonnie bird,

With a carol as joyous as thine ;
Would my heart were as light as thy wing, bonnie bird,
And thine eloquent spirit-song mine 1

The bloom of the earth and the glow of the sky
Win the loud-trilling lark from his nest ;

But though gushingly rich are his paeans on high,
Yet, sweet robin, I like thee the best.

2. I've been marking the plumes of thy scarlet-faced suit.

And the light in thy pretty black eye,
'Till my harpstring of gladness is mournfully mute.
And I echo thj note with a sigh.

For you perch on the bud-cover'd spray, bonnie bird,
O'er the bench where I chance to recline,

And you chatter and warble away, bonnie bird.
Calling up all the cales of " lang syne."

3. They sung to my childhood the ballad that told

Of " the snow coming down very fast ;"
And the plaints of the robin, all starving and cold.
Flung a spell that will live to the last.

How my tiny heart struggled with sorrowful heaves,
That kept choking my eyes and my breath ;

When I heard of thee spreading the shroud of greec
leaves,
O'er the little ones lonely in death.

334

THE FCHJBTH READER.

4. I stood with delight by the frost-checker'd pane,
And whisper'd, " See, see, Bobby comes ;"
While I fondly enticed him again and again,
With the handful of savory crumbs.

There were springes and nets in each thicket and glen,
That took captives by night and by day;

There were cages for chaffinch, for thrush, and for wren,
For linnet, for sparrow, and jay. , ^ .

6. But if ever thou chanced to be caught, bonnie bird,
With what eager concern thou wert freed:
Keep a robin enslaved I why, 'twas thought, bonnie bird,
That " bad luck" would have foUow'd the deed.

They wonder'd what led the young dreamer to rove,

In the face of a chill winter wind ;
But the daisy below, and the robin above,

Were bright things that I ever could find.

6. ^ou wert nigh when the mountain streams gladden'd
the sight ;
When the autumn's blast smote the proud tree ;
In the corn-field of plenty, or desert of blight,
I was sure, bonnie bird, to see thee.

I sung to thee then as thou sing'st to me now.
And my strain was as fresh and as wild ;

Oh, what is the laurel Fame twmes for the brow,
To the wood-flowers pluck'd by the child I

*l. Oh, would that, like thee, I could meet with all change,
And ne'er murmur at aught that is sent ;
Oh, would I could bear with the dark and the fair,
And still hail it with voice of content.

THE RELIGION OF CATnOLICS.

r'd pane,

aes

.»

gam,

How I wish I could welcome the spring, bonnie bird,

With a carol as joyous as thine ;
Would my heart were as light as thy wing, bonnie bird,

And thy beautiful spirit-song mine 1

licket and glen,

Jay;

sh, and for wren,

bonnie bird,

freed:

lught, bonnie bird,

'd the deed.

amer to roTC,

Dve,
dfind.

streams gladden'd

proud tree ;
blight.

le now,
rild ;

the brow,
3hild I

with all change,
^ent ;

md the fair,
It.

117. The Religion of Catholics.

DK. DOYLE.

Kight Reverend James Doyle, late bishop of Kildare and Leijfhlin, was
born at New Rosa, County Wexford, Ireland, in 1786 ; died in 1834. Dur-
ing the fifteen years of Dr. Doyle's episcopacy, lie was continually engaged
in defending, with voice and pen, the rights of the Church, and the inter-
ests of the people. He Uvea in a troubled period of Irish history, wlien
the island was convulsed from end to end by the tithe question, and tho
oppressive exactions of the landlords — when the voice of oppressed millions
\sa» thundering in the ears of tho British government for Catholic emanci-
pation; and on all those great questions, Dr. Doyle exercised a powerful
influence. His letters written over the signature of J. K. L., on all thu
great topics of the day, political and religious, are classed among the ablest
documents of the kind ever written.

1. It was the creed, my lord, of a Charlemagne and of a
St. Louis, of an Alfred and an Edward, of the monarchs of
the feudal times, as well as of the Emperors of Greece and
Rome ; it was believed at Venice and at Genoa, in Lucca and
the Helvetic nations in the days of their freedom and great-
ness ; all the barons of the middle ages, all the free cities of
later times, professed the religion we now profess. You know
well, my lord, that the charter of British freedom, and the
common law of England, have their origin and source in Cath-
I die times.

2. Who framed the free constitutions of the Spanish Goths ?
I Who preserved science and literature, during the long night of

the middle ages ? Who imported literature from Constantino-
ple, and opened for her an asylum at Rome, Florence, Padua,
Paris, and Oxford ? Who polished Europe by art, and refined
her by legislation? Who discovered the New World, and
opened a passage to another ? Who were the masters of arch-
itecture, of painting, and of music ? Who invented the com-
pass, and the art of print'.ng ? Who were the poets, the his*

336

THE FOURTH READER.

• -II

■

torians, the jurists, the men of deep research, and profound lit-
erature?

3. Who have exalted human nature, and made man appear
again little less than the angels ? Were they not almost ex-
clusively the professors of our creed ? Were they who creatod
and possessed freedom under every shape and form, unfit for
her enjoyment ? Were n^en, deemed even now the lights of
the world and the benefactors of the human race, the deluded
victims of a slavish superstition ? But what is there in our
creed which renders us unfit for freedom ?

4. Is it the doctrine of passive obedience ? No, for the
obedience we yield to authority, is not blind, but reason-
able; our religion does not create despotism; it supports
every established constitution which is not opposed to the laws
of nature, unless it be altered by those who are entitled to
change it. In Poland it supported an elective monarch ; in
France an hereditary sovereign ; in Spain, an absolute or con-
stitutional king indifferently; in England, when the houses of
York and Lancaster contended, it declared that he who was
king de facto, was entitled to the obedience of the people.

5. During the reign of the Tudors, there was a faithful ad-
herence of the Catholics to their prince, under trials the most
severe and galling, because the constitution required it ; the j
same was exhibited by them to the ungrateful race of Stuart; j
but since the expulsion Of James (foolishly called an abdica-
tion), have they not adopted with the nation at large, the I
doctrine of the Revolution : " that the crown is held in trust |
for the benefit of the people ; and that should the monarcli
violate his compact, the subject is freed from the bond of his
allegiance?" Has there been any form of government ever I
devised by man, to which the religion of Catholics has iiot|
been accommodated ?

6. Is there any obligation, either to a prince, or to a con-
titution, which it does not enforce ?

What, my lord, is the allegiance of the man divided who I
gives to Csesar what belongs to Caesar, and to God what be-l
longs to God ? Is the allegiance of the priest divided wbo|
yields sabmission to his bishop and his king?-r*of the sod^

THE WIFE.

337

I, and profound litr

obeys his parent and his prince ? And ytt these duties are
not more distinct than those which we owe our sovereign and
our spiritual head. Is there any man in society who has not
distinct duties to discharge ?

7. May not the same person be the head of a corporation,
and an oflBcei of the king ? a justice of the peace, perhaps, and
a bankrupt surgeon, with half his pay ? And are the duties
thus imposed upon him, incompatible one with another ? If
tlie Pope can define that the Jewish sabbath is dissolved, and
that the Lord's day is to be sanctified, may not this be believ-
ed without prejudice to the act of settlement, or that for the
limitation of the crown ? If the Church decree that on Fri-

days her children should abstain from flesh-meat, are they
thereby controlled from obeying the king when he summons
them to war?

118. The Wife.

WASHINGTON IRVINe.

1. I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with
which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of for-
tune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of a man,
and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the ener-
gies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation
to their character, that at times it approaches to sublimity.

2. Nothing can be more touching than to behold a soft and
tender female, who had been all weakness and dependence,
and alive to every trivial roughness, while treading the pros-
perous paths of lify, suddenly arising in mental force to be the
comforter and supporter of her husband under misf6rtune, and
abiding, with unshrinking firmness, tlie most bitter blasts of
adversity.

3. As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage
about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when
the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling around it
with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs ;

«.*i

438

THE FOURTH READER.

80 is it beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who
is the mere dependant and ornament of man in his happier
hours,' should be his stay and solace when smitten with sad-
den calamity; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his
nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up
the broken heart.

4. I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him
a blooming family, knit together in the strongest aflFection.
" I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm,
" than TO HAVE a wife and children. If you are prosperous,
there they are to share your prosperity ; if otherwise, there
they afe to comfort you."

5. And, indeed, I have observed, that a married man, fall-
ing into misfortune, is more apt to retrieve his situation in the
world than a single one ; partly because he is more stimu-
lated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved
beings who depend upon him for subsistence ; but chiefly, be-
cause his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endear-
ments, and his self-respect kept alive by finding, that
though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is still
a little world of love at home, of which he is the monarch.

6. Whereas, a single man is apt to run to waste aud
self-neglect ; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, and his
heart to fall to ruin, like some deserted mansion, for want of an
inhabitant.

•-•V

.j'i«:

119. Christmas. ^ *

A •
LOBD JOHN MANNERS.

1. Old Christmas comes about again,
The blessed day draws near,
Albeit our faith and love do wax
More faint and cold each year.

Oh I but it was a goodly sound,

In th' unenlightened days,
To hear our fathers raise their song
- — Of simple-hearted praise.

CHRISTMAS.

339

e ; but chiefly, be-

2. Oh I but it was a goodly sight,
The rough-built hall to see,
Glancing with high-born dames and men,
I And hinds of low degree.

To holy Church's dearest sons,

The humble and the poor.
To all who came, the seneschal

Threw open wide the door.

8. With morris-dance, and carol-song.
And quaint old mystery,
Memorials of a holy-day
Were mingled in their glee.

Red berries bright, and holly green,
Proclaim'd o'er hall and bower

That holy Church ruled all the land
With undisputed power.

4. O'er wrekin wide, from side to side, \

From graybeard, maid, and boy,
Loud rang the notes, swift flow'd the tide
Of unrestrain'd joy.

And now, of all our customs rare,
And good old English ways.

This 'one, of keepmg Christmas-time,
Alone has reach'd our days.

5. Still, though our hearty glee has gone

Though faith and love be cold.
Still do we welcome Christmas-tide ,
As fondly as of old.

Still round the old paternal hearth

Do loving faces meet.
And brothers parted through the year

Do brothers kindly greet.

810

THE FOURTH READER.

6. Oh 1 may we aye, whate'er betido^
In Christian joy and mirth,
Sing welcome to the blessed day
That gave our Saviour birth I

120. The Truce of God.

F It E D E T .

Fbedet— lato professor of historv in St. Mary's College, Baltimore, hns
Tvitli great impartiality and truthfulness, compiled an ancient ana modem
history for the use of schoola.

1. Another excellent institution that owed its existence to
the middle ages, and for which humanity was also indebted to
the happy influence of religion, was the sacred compact usually
termed the Truce of God. From the ninth to the eleventh
century, the feudal system, however beautiful in many of its
principles, had been a constant source of contentions and wars.
Each petty chieftain arrogated to himself an almost unlimited
use of force and violence to avenge his wrongs, and pursue his
rights, whether real or pretended. As, moreover, vassals
were obliged to espouse the quarrels of their immediate lords,
rapine, bloodshed, and their attendant miseries were to be seen
everywhere ; nor could the most pacific citizens depend on one
moment of perfect security, either for their properties or their
lives.

2. Religion, by her divine and universally revered authority,
was alone capable of raising an efficacious barrier against this
torrent of evils. Experience having already shown the impos-
sibility of stemming it at once, prudent measures were taken
gradually to diminish its violence. Several bishops ordered,
under penalty of excommunication, that, every week, during
the four days consecrated to the memory of our Saviour's
passion, death, burial, and resurrection, viz., from the afternoon
of Wednesday till the morning of the following Monday, what-
ever might be the cause of strife and quarrel, all private hos-
tilities should cease.

3. Shortly after, the same prohibition was extended to the

THE HIGH-BORN LADYE.

S4l

do,

r
I

jllege, Baltimore, hns
I ancient ana modern

ed its existence to

IS also indebted to

ed compact usually

ith to the eleventli

iul in many of its

itentions and wars.

in almost unlimited

Qgs, and pursue his

moreover, vassals

lir immediate lords,

les were to be seen

:ens depend on one

properties or their

• revered authority,
jarrier against this
[y shown the impos-
leasures were taken
fl bishops ordered,
every week, during
^ of our Saviour's
'from the afternoon
dug Monday, what-
\e\, all private hos-

ras extended to the

whole time of Advent and Lent, including several woeka ])oth
after Christmas and after Easter-Sunday. This beneficial in-
stitution, which originated in France towards the y(nir 1040,
WAS adopted in England, Spain, etc., and was conlirmud by
several popes and councils : nor must it be thouglit thiit it
remained a dead letter; its success, on "the contrary, was so
remarlcable, that the pious age in which the experiment was
made, hesitated not to attribute it to the interposition of
Heaven.

4. Thus, by the exertions of ecclesiastical authority, tlio
hoiyors and calamities of feudal icar began to be considerably
lessened and abridged. Its ravages were restrained to tliree
days in the week and to certain seasons of the year; duriiiii^
the intervals of peace, there was leisure for passion to cool, for
the mind to sicken at a languishing warfare, and for social
liahits to become more and more deeply rooted. A consider-
able number of days and weeks afTorded security to all, and
all, being now shielded by the relijjious sanction of this sacred
compact, could travel abroad, or attend to their domestic
affau's, without danger of molestation.

5. Such was the splendid victory which the religion of
Christ won over the natural fierceness of the ancient tribes of
the north ; a victory whose completion was also due to her
influence, when the Crusades obliged those restless warriors to
turn against the invading hordes of the Saracens and Turks,
those weapons which they had hitherto used agamst their fel-
low-christians. *

^ 121. The High-born Ladye.

MOORE.

Thomas Moorb was bom in Dublin, in 1780, died in 1852. No poet
lever moulded the English tongue into softer or more melodious strains
[than Moore, and none, in any language, ever adorned his verse with more
bparkliiig gems of wit, fancy, and sentiment. His "LallaKookh" iiaa
I never been equalled in any tongue, and his " Irisli Melodies" have been
Itraiislated into almost every European language. Poetry must lose ita
IchariuB when the lays of Moore shall be unsought, unsung. Uis prose,
I however, is by ao means equal to his poetry.

842

THE FOCKTH READEK.

1. In vain all the knights of the Undcrwald woo'd her,

Though brightest of maidens, the proudest was she ;
Bravo chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they
sued her,
But worthy were none of the high-born Ladyo.

" Whosoever I wed," said this maid, so excelling,
" That knight must the conq'ror of conquerors be ;

He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to dwell in ;—
None else shall be Lord of the high-bora Ladye 1"

2. Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking rouDd

her
On knights and on nobles of highest degree,
Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her,
And worshipped at distance the high-born Ladye.

At length came a knight from a far land to woo her.
With plumes on his helm, like the foam of the sea ;

His vizor was down — but, with voice that thrilPd through
her, >>

He whisper'd his vows to the high-born Ladye.

3. " Proud maiden I I come with high spousals to grace thee,

In me the great conq'ror of conquerors see ;
Enthroned in a hall fit for monarchs I'll place thee,
And mine thou'rt forever, thou high-bora Ladye 1"

The maiden she smiled, and in jewels array'd her,
Of thrones and tiaras already dfeamt she ;

And proud was the step, as her bridegroom convey'd her
In pomp to his home, of that high-born Ladye.

4. " But whither," she, starting, exclaims, " have you led
me?
Here's naught but a tomb and a dark cypress-tree ;

ADVICE TO A YOUNG LADY.

313

Is this the bright palace iu which thou wouldst wed me ?"
With scorn in her glance, said the lilgh-boru Ladye.

" 'Tis the home," ho replied, " of earth's loftiest crea-
tures,"

Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see ;
But she sunk on the ground — 'twas a skeleton's features,

And Death was the Lord of the high-born Ladje.

orn looking round I 122. Advice to a Yolvo 1-ady on ier Marriaqb.

Jonathan Swift, a clergymen ol th< estiJi'ifihftd clir.roh, indDean of St.
Patrick's, Dublin, was born in tho v.Tinp tit;/ ia I'.IiJK : -iit <!, 171o. Of Sw'ifVa
voluminous writinjfs, the jfrciitt. ' rnn ruv politivjv' '>: i.' Biiiirionl 'Cmlli-
ver'H TrnvelB," ♦'Talo of n Tib/' and " Tlio Iltilv)"; v.v ^u- I'xv.lir. " t\n. beet

oeet

!"•* lb fl

known to the reading wo id. Tha purity '..f SwitVi) stylo *:v.:\
model of English compositio'j.

1. The grand affair of your life will be to gain and prc-^orve
the friendship and esteem of year liUijbaud. You v.t?. mutYkCi
to a man of good education and leririiing, of an execllcnt vn-
derstanding, and an exact taste. It is true, aud it is jiappy
for you, that these qualities I » bim are Rdomod with i,TCiit
modesty, a most amiable sweetness of te'ji|)Oii', m\6, an uvmsual
disposition to sobriety and virtue ; but, neillior gooti nature
nor virtue will suffer him to estoem you against K'ls jadgmcnt;
and although he is not capable of usin^ you ill, yet you will
m time grow a thing iiuw'^i re nt, ard, perhaps, contemptible,
unless you can supply ihc loss of ycuth and beauty, with
more durable qualities, You have but a very few years to be
young and handsoni'* i'n the eyes of the world, you must there-
fore use all endei^vors to attain to some degree of those ac-
complishments, which your husband most values in other
peopje, and for which he is most valued himself.

2. You must improve your mind, by closely pursuing such
a method of study as I shall direct or approve of. You must
get a collection of history and travels, and spend some houTi

THE FOUKTH RKADKR.

■

1':;

every day in reading them, and making^extracts from thorn, if
your memory be weak ; you must invite persons of knowlfd^o
and understanding to an acquaintance with you, by wlioso
conversation you may learn to correct your taste and jiul:-
raent ; and when you can bring yourself to comprehend and
relish the good sense of others, you will arrive in time to
think rightly yourself, and to become a reasonable and agree-
able companion.

3. This must produce in your husband a true rational love
and esteem for you, which old age will not diminish, lie will
have a regard for your judgment and opinion in matters of the
greatest weight; you will be able to entertain each oilier
without a third person to relieve you by finding discour?c.
The endowments of your mind will even make your person
more agreeable to him ; and when you are alone, your time
will not lie heavy upon your hands for want of some trifling
amusement. I would have you look upon finery as a neces-
sary folly, which all great ladies did whom I have ever known.
I do not desire you to be out of the fashion, but to be the last
and least in it.

4. I expect that your dress shall be one degree lower than
your fortune can afford ; and in your own hoart I would wish
you to be a contemner of all distinctions which a finer petti-
coat can give you ; because it will neither make you richer,
handsomer, younger, better natured, more virtuons or wise,
than if it hung upon a peg. If you are in company with men
of learning, though they happen to discourse of arts and sci-
ences out of your compass, yet you will gather advantaj,".* iiy
listening to them ; but if they be men of breeding as well as
learningj they will seldom engage in any conversation where
you ought not to be a leader, and in time have your part.

5. If they talk of the manners and customs of the several
kingdoms of Europe, of travels into remoter nations, of the
state of your own country, or of the great men and actions of
Greece and Rome ; if they give their judgment upon English
and French writers, either in verse or prose, or of the nature
and limits of vbtue and vice, — it is a shame for a lady not to
relish such discourses, not to improve by them, and endeavor

A CATHOLIC MAIDKN oF THE OLD TLMKS.

315

acts from thorn, if
sons of knowlod^-e
;h you, by whose
r taste and jud;:-
) comprehend ami
arrive in time to
sonable and agree-
true rational love
diminish, lie will
on in matters of the
itertain each oilier
y finding discourse,
make your person
ire alone, your time
,nt of some trifling
on finery as a ncccs-
1 1 have ever known.
I, but to be the last

le degree lower than
heart I would wish
which a finer petti-
r make you richer,
le virtuous or wise,
company with men
irse of arts and sci-
;ather advanta<i;e by
breeding as well as
conversation where
[have your part,
.oms of the several
[oter nations, of the
men and actions of
;ment upon Engli^l)
le, or of the nature
J for a lady not to
[them, and endeavor

by reading and information to Imvc her share in tliose enter-
tainments.

6. Pray, observe, how insignificant things ai'c many la-
dies, when they have passed tlieir youth and beauty ; how
contemptible they appear to men, and yet more contempt il)!o
to the younger part of their own sex, and have no relief, hut
iu passing their afternoons in visits, where they are never ac-
coi)tal)le ; while the former part of the day is spent in spleen
and envy, or iu vain endeavors to repair by art and dress the
ruins of time. Whereas, I have known ladies at sixty, to
whom all the polite part of the court and town paid their ad-
dresses, without any further view than that of enjoying the
pleasure of their conversation. I am ignorant of any one
quality that is amiable in a man, which is not equally so in a
woman ; I do not except even modesty and gentleness of na-
ture. Nor do I know one vice or folly which is not equally
detestable in botlh

7. There is, indeed, one infirmity which is generally allowed
you, I mean that of cowardice; yet there should seem to be
sometliing very capricious, tha: when women profess iheir ad-
miration of valor in our sex, they should fancy it a very grace-
ful, becoming quality in themselves, to be afruid of their own
shadows ; to scream in a barge when the weather is calmest,
or in a coach at the ring ; to run from a cow at a hundred
yards distance ; to fall into fits at the sight of a spider, an
earwig, or a frog. At least, if cowardice be a sign of cruelty
(as it is generally granted), I can hardly think it an accom-
plishment so desirable as to be thought worth improving by
affectation. *

123. A Catholic Maiden of the Old Times.

B O Y E .

Rev. J. BoYCE— a native of the north of Ireland, for several years pastor

|"fthe Catholic Church in Worcester, Mass. Under tliu name of Paul

U'tlipertjMKS, lie has writtn-i " Shandy Magiiire," an excellent story of Irish

lili', " The Spaewife," and " Mary Lee." Mr. Boyco is an agreeabl j writer

I of fiction.

1. "Why dost thou look at me so pityingly, good pii-

16*

346

THE rOCBTH KKADKK.

grim ?" said Alice. " Is my father dead ? Speak, I entreat
thee 1"

The mendicant seemed not to hear her voice. He gazed
at her as if she were a statue on a pedestal, bending forward
and leaning on his long polestaflf. At length, his lips began
slightly to tremble, and then his ef es, which kept moving
leisurely over her face and form, scanning every feature, be-
came gradually suffused with tears.

2. " My father's dead 1" said Alice, in a voice scarcely
audible, as she saw the pilgruu's tears fall on his coarse
gabardine. .

Tiie words, though but few, and uttered in almost the tone
of a whisper, were yet so full of anguish and despair, that they
instantly recalled the stranger's wandering thoughts.

Slowly the old man stretched out his hands, and gently
laid them on the head of the fair girl, saying, in accents trem
ulous with emotion, —

3. " Thy father lives, my child, and sends thee his blessing
by these hands ; receive it, and that of an old outcast also,
who loves thee almost as well."

Alice knelt and raised her eyes towards heaven in speech-
less gratitude. Then, taking the beggar by the hand, she im-
printed a kiss on his hard, sunburnt fingers. " Hast seen
my father?" she inquired.

4. " Ay, truly have I. He is still at Brockton, with the
faithful Reddy, who seldom leaves him even for a moment.
I informed hun of thy place of refuge, and he will soon ven-
ture hither to see thee."

" How looks he ? Is he much altered ?H

5. " Nay, I cannot answer thee in that, my child,
but seen him for the first time in seventeen years. It will be I
seventeen years come Holentide since we parted at Annie's
grave — I mean at his wife's grave. I shook his honest hand fori
the last tune across her open tomb, ere the earth had entirelvj
covered her coflSn from my sight. And, since that day, wt I
have been both learning to forget each other, and the worldf
also — he in his little library at Brockton, whence he hatkj
shut oat all j)rofaue converse, and I in the woods and

A CATHOLIC MAIDEN OF THE OLD TIMES.

347

of England, a roaming outcast, without a shelter or a
home."

6. "So thou didst know my mother, good man?" said
Alice, laying her hand on the beggar's arm, and looking up
wistfully in his face.

"Thy mother? — a,v, I knew her — once," he replied, with
suppressed emotion.

"Then speak to me of my mother. I long to hear some
one speak of her. People say she was very kind and gentle.
Alas ! I never saw her. She died in giving me birth ; and so
there's a void in my heart I would fain fill up with her image.
Say, pilgrim, canst paint her to my fancy ? I will listen to
thee most attentively."

T. The mendicant turned his head aside, and drew his hand
quickly across his eyes.

"Pardon, me, good man," said Alice, as she saw the mo-
tion, and understood it ; "I fear me I have awakened some
painful recollection."

" Nay," replied the mendicant, " it is but a foolish weak-
ness." And he raised himself up to his full height, and
planted his staff firmly against the rock, as if to nerve himself
for the trial.

8. Father Peter and Nell Gower were conversing at the
farther end of the cell, and casting a look occasionally in the
direction of the speakers.

" Nell saitH I am somewhat like my mother. Good man,
dost think so ?" inquired Alice.

"Like thy mother, my fair child? Ay, thy face is some-
what like. But the face is only a small part — a hundred such
faces were not worth a heart like hers."

"She was so good?"

9. " Ay, and so noble, and so grand of soul."
"Ah I"

"And yet so humble, so charitable, so pure, and so truly
Catholic. Hold, I'll question thee as to the resemblance,
and then tell thee, mayhap, in how much thou'rt like thy
mother."

" Speak on," said Alice ; " I'll answer thee right faithfully."

3iS

THE FOURTH BBADKB.

.miii

" Hast been good to the poor beggar who came to beg an
alms and shelter ? and didst give him the kind word at meet«
ing, and the secret dole at parting?" -■

• Alice hesitated.

10. "She hath," replied a deep voice from a distant corner
of the chapel.

Alice started, somewhat surprised at the solemn sound, but
the mendicant seemed not to notice it.

" Hast worshipped thy God in the night and in the morning ?"

" She hath."

" Hast been frequent at the sacred confessional and the
holy altar?"

" She hath," responded the same voice, a third time.

11. "Dost love thy religion better than thy life?" de-
manded the pilgrim, in a sterner tone, still leaning on his
staff, and looking steadily at the young girl. "Answer for
thyself, maiden."

" Methinks I do," she at length replied, casting her eyes
bashfully on the ground, and playing with the chain of. her
cross. '^ But I'm only a simple country girl, and have not
yet been greatly tempted."

"Good," said the mendicant. "And art ready to sacrifice
thy life for thy faith?"

" Ay, willingly 1" responded Alice, in a tone of increased
confidence.

12. " Hearken to me, child. Thy religion is a low, mean,
and contemptible thing. It is driven out from the royal courts
and princely halls of thy native land, where it once ruled
triumphant, to dwell with the ignorant and the poor. It is
forced to seek shelter in woods and caves. It is banished the
presence of the great and powerful, despised and scoffed at
even by the learned ; nay, it is flung from their houses like a
ragged garment, and fit only to be worn by wretched beggars
like myself I Ha, girl I thy religion is the scorn of thy com-
peers — like the Christian name in the times of the Diocletian?,
it's a disgrace and dishonor to acknowledge it."

13. "I care not," said Alice; "was not my Redeemer de-
spised for his religion ?''

MARCO B0ZZARI3.

3'J:9

came to beg an
id word at meet*

a distant corner

olemn sound, but

[in the morning?"

fessional and tlie

third time,
m thy life?" de-
lU leaning on his
irl. " Answer for

i, casting her eyes
L the chain of-lier
rirl, and have not

ready to sacrifice

tone of increased

Ion is a low, mean,
Im the royal courts
\iere it once ruled
the poor. It is
It is banished the
Led and scoffed at
[their houses like a
wretched beggars
scorn of thy com-
|of the Diocletiaiis,

it."

my Redeemer de-

•*And art bold enough to meet the contemptuous smiles,
and withstand the winks and nods, of the enemies of thy faith,
as thou passest them by ?"

Alice answered not in words, but she raised the cross from
her bosom, where it hung, and reverently kissed the lips of the
image of the Saviour.

The mendicant understood the silent reply, and proceeded :

14. "But of thy father. Wouldst abandon him to pre-
serve thy faith ? Wouldst see him dragged on a hurdle to
the gallows, amid the shouts of the rabble, when thy apostasy
would save him ?"

"What I is he a prisoner?" she cried, fearing the mendicant
had hitherto been only preparing her for some dreadful an-
nouncement.

"Nay, answer me, maiden. Wouldst save thy father by
apostasy ?"

15. " Never 1" responded Alice, raising herself to her full
height, and crossing her arms on her breast as she spoke.
"Never! I love him as fondly as ever daughter loved a
parent — nay, I would give my life cheerfully to save his ; but
I would see" him hanging on the gallows at Tyburn till the
wind and sun had bFeached his bones, rather than renounce
the religion of my God and the honors of my ancestors I"

" Ha 1 thou wouldst, girl ?" said the mendicant, catching
her hand, and gazing full in her face. "Then thou hast learnt
to feel as a Catholic."

124. Marco Bozzabis.

HALLEOK.

Frrz Greene Hallkok— an American poet, born at Guilford, Connecti-
cut, in 1795. His poetry is musical, and full of vigor, evincing a refined
tiiste, and a heart alive to every generous and noble sentiment.

[Marco Bozzario, the Epaminindas of modern Oreece, fell in a nt|:ht attack upon
the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of tha ancient Plattea, August 20, 1828, and ex-
pired in the moment of victory.]

1. At midnight, in his guarded tent.

The Turk was dreaming of the hoar

i B <

H'h

I:?

■l :<■

IHII

III

350 THK FOURTH EKADKU.

When Greece, her knee in s appliance bent,

Should tremble at his power:
In dreams through camp and court he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard ;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring, —
Then press'd that monarch's throne, — a king ;
, As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

As Eden's garden bird.

2. An hour pass'd on, — the Turk awoke ;

That bright dream was his last ;
He woke, to hear his sentries shriek, —
"To armsl they comel the Greek 1 the Greekl*
He woke, to die midst flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,

And death-shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain cloud ;
And heard, witli voice as trumpet loud,

Bozzaris cheer his band : — ,

" Strike — till the last arm'd foe expkes I
. Strike — for your altars and your fires I
Strike — for the green graves of your sires I

God, and your native land!" ^ . . ^ .

8. They fought, like brave men, long and well;

They piled the ground with Moslem slain;
They conquer'd; but Bozzaris fell.

Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile, when rang their proud hurrah,

And the red field was won;
Then saw in death his eyelids close,
Calmly, as to a night's repose, *

Like flowers at set of sun.

4. Come to the bridal chamber, Death 1
Come to the mother's when she feels

MAUCO B0ZZAKI8.

851

For the first time her first-born's breath;

Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm,

With banquet song, and dance, and wine,—
And thou art terrible: the tear.
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear,

Of agony, are thine.

6. But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free.
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word.
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.
BozzarisI with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time.
Rest thee: there is no prouder grave.

Even in her own proud clime.

We tell thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, —
One of the few, the immortal names,

That were not born to die!

^f V:-*

852

THE FOURl'II BKADER.

125. De Laval, First Bishop of Quebec.

MORQ AN .

1. Francois de Laval de Montmorency, Abbe dc Montigny,
first bishop of Canada, and a most able, talented, and zealous
l)relate, was born at Laval, in Maine, France, on the 23il
March, 1622. lie was ordained priest at Paris on the 2U
September, 1645, and was made Archdeacon of Evreux in
1653. He was consecrated Bishop of Petrea, in partibm id-
Jidelium, and was appointed Vicar Apostolic of New France
by Pope Alexander VII., on the 6th of July, 1 658. He ar-
rived at Quebec, for the first time, on the 16th June, 1659;
and returned to France in 1662. On the 26th March, 1663,
he founded the Seminary of Quebec, a measure which was
afterwards duly confirmed by Louis XIV., by letters patent,
dated at Paris in the month of April following. He returned
to Canada during the same year, and arrived at Quebec on
the'^Sth September. He consecrated the Parochial Church
of Quebec, on the 11th July, 1666, the second Sunday of that
month. He went back to France in 1674, and was named
Bishop of Quebec, a suffragan bishop of the Holy Sec, by a
Bull of Clement X. dated 1st October of the same year. On
this occasion the revenues of the Abbey of Meaubec, in the
diocese of Bourges, were united to the bishopric of Quebec.

2. On his return to Canada, he established his board by a de-
cree of the 6th November, 1684, and entrusted to it the care
of the Rectory of Quebec. The 14 th of the same month, the
board resigned the care of the rectory, and it devolved upon
the seminary the same day. Monseigneur de Laval afterwards
returned to France to obtain permission to retire, and with
the view of choosing a successor. His choice fell upon the
Abbe de St. Vallier, to whom was given the title of Grand
Vicar, in which quality he was sent to Canada to exorcise
his zeal. De Laval resigned his bishopric of Quebec, in
Paris, on the 24th of January, 1688. He left that city
some time after to return to Quebec. He arrived there in
the spring of the same year, and retired to his seminary, to
which he made over the whole of his effects, and had the

■I
1

CAEDINAL WOL8ET AND CR(3MWELL.

353

F Quebec.

Lbbe dc Montigny,
ented, and zealous
•ance, ou the 23il
Paris on the 23d
icon of Evrcux in
•ea, in partibus u-
ilic of New France
uly, 1658. He fir-
16th June, 1659 ;
26th March, 1663,
neasure which ^Yas
., by letters patent,
A'ing. He returned
rived at Quebec on
e Parochial Cliurch
poud Sunday of that
14, and was named
the Holy See, by a
the same year. On
of Meaubec, in tlie
jhopric of Quebec.
d his board by a de-
usted to it the care
,he same month, the
|d it devolved upon
ie Laval afterwards
to retire, and with
|hoice fell upon the
the title of Grand
iCanada to exorcise
iric of Quebec, iu
He left that city
e arrived there in
to bis seminary, to
[ects, and had the

mortification of seeing the same twice burned before his death.
In fine, full of years and lienors, a prelate, by his virtue and
zeal, worthy of the church over which he had presided, ho
.died at Quebec on the 6th of Mc,y, 1708, at the advanced age
of 86, and was buried near the high altar, in the cathedi'al.

126. Caudinal W0L8EY AND Cromwell.*

SUAKSPBARE.

William Shakspeare wus born at Stratford- on-Avon, Warwickshire,
Encrltind, in 15»>4; dieil in 1616. Slialtspeare possesiscd nil the jrreat
qualities ot'ii poet, and united witli tlicin protuuncl pliilosophicul intellect.
His expressionH have become familiar, and it is throut;h his plays that
llioiisaiids l)avo grown acquainted with the history of England. It is
deeply to be regretted that an unpardoliablo license of language prevents
many of ids works from bonig suitable reading for the pure minded and
tlie young. — De Vtre.

Wolsey. Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness I
This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening — nips his root.
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory ;
But far beyond my depth; my high-blown pride
At length broke under me ; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp, and glory of this world, I hate ye I
I feel my heart new opened ; Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,

'Thomas Cromwell, a statesman of the time of Henry the Eighth
I of England.

:iii

351

THE FODRTn KKADKK.

That sweet aspect' of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have 5
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

Enter Cromwell^ amAXodlj.

Why, how now, Cromwell ?

Cromwell. I have no power 1 3 speak, sir.

Wol. What ! amazed
At my misfortunes ? Can thy spirit wonder,
A great man should decline? IS. ay, an* you weep
J am fallen indeed.

Crom, IIow does your Grace ?

Wol. Why, well ;
Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
1 know myself now: and I feel withir me
A peace above all earthly dignities, —
A stlii and quiet conscience. The king has cured me,
I humbly thank his grace; and from these shoulders,
These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken
A load would sink a navy— too much honor :
Oh, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden, ^

Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.
. Crom. I am glad, your Grace has mr de that right use of It

Wol. I hope I have: I am able now, me thinks, ^
(Out of a fortitude of soul I feel).
To endure more miseries, and greater far,
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer;
What news abroad ?

Crom. The heaviest and the worst
Is your displeasure with the king.

Wol. God bless him I

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen
Lord Chancellor in your place.

Wol. That 's somewhat sudden :

' Sbakspeare oflen puts the accent in aspect on the last syllalle.
• An, by the old writers, is often used for \f.

CARDINAL WULSKY AND CROMWELL.

355

in,
have}

ir.

ler,

ou weep

las cured me,
56 shoulders,

nor :
en,

e that right use of it
nethinks.

[ore is chosen

)n the last syllallc

Bot he's a learned man. May he continue

Long in his highness' favor, and do justice

For truth's salce, and his conscience; that his bones,

Wlien he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings,

May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on 'cm 1

What more ?

Crom. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome,
Install'd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

Wol Tliat 's news, indeed.

Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne,
Whom the king hath in secrecy long married.
This day was view'd in open as his queen,
Oiing to chapel ; and the .voice is now
Only about her coronation.

Wol. There was the weight that puU'd me dowu.
Cromwell !
The king has gone beyond me ; all my glories
In that one woman I have lost forever :
No sun shall ever usher forth mine honors, ;

Or gild again the noble troops that waited
Upon my*smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell :
I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now
To be thy lord and master : seek the king ;
That sun, I pray, may never set I I have told him
What and how true thou art : he will advance thee ;
Some little memory of me will stir him
(I know his noble nature), not to let
Thy hopeful service perish too: good Cromwell,
Neglect him not ; make use now, and provide
For thine own future safety.

Crom. Oh, my lord,
j Must I, then, leave you ? Must I needs forego
So good, so noble, and so true a master ?
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.
The king shall have my service ; but my prayers
|Forever, and forever, shall be yours.

Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear

' I r

"'I I

'ii

n:>8

TUB FOURTH RKADER.

In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me

Out of tliy honest truth to phiy tlie woman.

Lot's dry our eyes ; and thus far hear me, Cromwell j

And, when I am forgotten, — as I shall be, —

And sleej) in dull, cold marble, where no mention

or mo nuist more be heard of, — say, I taught thee ;

S:iy, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,

And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,

Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;

A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.

Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.

Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ;

By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,

The image of his Maker, hope to win by't ?

Love thyself last ; cLerish those hearts that hate thee ;

Corruption wins not more than honesty ;

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace.

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not :

Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's.

Thy God's, and truth's ; then if thou fall'st, Cromwell 1

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king :

And, Prithee, lead me in :

There take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny; 'tis the king's : my robe

And my integrity to Heaven, is all

[ dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell !

Had I but served my God with half the zeal

I served my king, He would not in mine age

Have left me naked to mine enemies I

Crom. Good sir, have patience,

Wol. So I have. Farewell
The hopes of court I my hopes in heaven do dweU.

;v(

ROME 8A.TRD BY FEMALF VIRTUE.

357

u.
Cromwell ;

>
nention

ight thee ;

glory,

; honor,

ise in ;

miss'd it.

le.

itioa ;
1, then,

't?

that hate thee ;

5 jp..--

id fear not :
Country's,
ll'st, Cromwell!
king :

Irobe

Cromwell I
zeal
age

U do dwelL

127. ROMK 8AVKD BY F KM ALE YlRTUE.

n o o K .

Nathanikl IIook, ft nntlvo of Englarrl. iicd 1703. Tho date of liis birth

i^ unknown to us. llu i» the author of an excellent " History of Uonic, frmn

i! " builihnjf of Uonio to tlio end of tlie ('onnnonweiilth." " Mr. Ilooit,"

inavs Alliborie's "Dictionary of Authors," " wuh a Catholic, of whoso life

jtVw jiiirticiilars are known. Ho will alwavn bo remembered for hi« oxccl-

i Mt Koiiiari History, and as the friend of Alexander I'ope, who broujjht the

Ijiricut to liirt doath-bed, to Bolin^jbroke'H great di.sgu.Ht."

1. CoRioLANUs was a distinguished Roman senator and
pencral, who had rendered eminent services to the republic.
But these services were no security against envy and popular
irejudices. He was at length treated witli great severity and
nirratltude, by tho senate and people of Rome ; and obliged
leave his country to preserve his Ufe. Of a haughty and

dlgnant spirit, he resolved to avenge himself ; and with this
lew, applied to tho Volscians, the enemies of Rome, and ten-
iered them his services against his native country. The offer

as cordially embraced, and Coriolanus was made general of
,he Volscian army.

2. He recovered from the Romans all the towns thsy had
ken from the Volsci; (Carried by assault several cities in
atium; and led his troops within five miles of the city of
ome. After several unsuccessful embassies from the scLate,
1 hope of pacifying the injured exile appeared extinguished ;
d the sole business at Rome was to prepare, with the utmost.
igence, for sustaining a siege. The young and able-bodied
icn had mstantly the guard of the gates and trenches assign-
to them ; while those of the veterans, who though exempt
their age from bearing arms, were yet capable of service,

idertook the defence of the ramparts. '

3. The women, in the mean while, terrified by these move-
nts, and the impending danger, into a neglect of their
ntcd decorum, ran tumultuously from their houses to the
pies. Every sanctuary, and especially the temple of Jupi-
Capitolinus, resounded with the wailings and loud supplica-
ns of women, prostrate before the statues of their divinities,
this general consternation and distress, Valeria (sister of

358

TIIK FOtTRTH REAPKR.

the famons Ynlorius Popllcola), na if moved liy a divino Im-
pulse, suddenly took her stand upon the top of (he steps of
the temple of Jupiter, assembled the women about Ium', nini
having first exhorted them not to be terrified by the grciitiicss
of the present danger, eonfidently declared, "That there \v;is
yet hope for the republic ; that its preservation <lepende(l upon
them, and upon their performance of the duty they oweil tlioir
country."

4. "Alas!" cried one of the company, " what res*)uree an
there be in the weakness of wretched women, when our bravpst
men, our ablest warriors themselves despair ?"

"It is not by the sword, nor by strength of arms," roj)Iioil
Valeria, " that wc arc to prevail; these belonpr not to our sex.
Soft moving words must be our weapons and our force. Ltt
us all in our mourning attire, and accompanied by our ehildrcn.
go and entreat Veturia, the mother of Coriolanus. to intorocdt' i
with her son for our common country. Yeturia's prayiTswill
bend his soul to pity. Haughty and implacable as lioliasj
hitherto ap^^cared, he hnn not a heart so cruel and obdurate,
as not to relent when ho shall see his mother, his revered, \\li\
beloved mother, a weeping suppliant at his feet."

6. This motion being universally applauded, the whole triiinj
of women took their way to Veturia'a house. Uer son's wifof
Volumnia, who was sitting with her when they arrived, andl
greatly surprised at their coming, hastily asked tlioui tliel
meaning of so extraordinary an appearance. " Whnt is ii,"j
said she, " what can be the motive that has brought so|
numerous a company of visitors to this house of sorrow T

6. Valeria then addressed herself to the mother: "Itisloj
you, Veturia, that these women have recourse in the ex(nin(|
peril with which they and their ciiildren are throiitoiiii
They intreat, implore, conjure you, to compassioniite llioirii
tress, and the distress of our common country. SniTcr n^
Home to become a prey to the Volsci, and our enemies
triumph over our liberty. Oo to the camp «)f (\)rioIr.ii!;>j
take with you Volumnia and her two sons : let <li'j
excellent wife join her intercession to yours, rerniit \\m
women with t^heir children to accompany you; they ''i

nice. " What is ii,"

ROMK SAVun nr rif«t..,.

" "KMAr.K VIUTrR. ,-.

.11 ca.,t tl,em,clv.>,, „u,is foof or., • ,

Krant l|o„co to l.fs f,.||„,v...i(i.,.„; p, "■'" ' ''""J'"-" ''"n to

.l.."gcr prosso, ; y,»! ,,„,„ „„ ^^ ; •'« , ,■„„,,•. f „,„

I™ '•-"■•"•"'y "f your virt,, ] , ''""'^;'"""; ""•"•lor-
"^'' Rome «,,«?, „„e„ : ,; , , ™ "> "-.II ero„„ it ,,,,,,

«• ■ You will justly „,.,,„>; ; " "/■"'••^•''"■"•i-"' to o„,
«nd have the j,lo,.,„^« to 1 • ^ ™'"^ "" """""•tal f,„„„

™. «•'■<•.. yo„ ,„,..,, ,, ,• ;";.";" "<-y",„ ,,„,„ v',r.

".V mm,„,tm„ce or entreat 'o'^r "'"""•''■ "'"' ' «-e

«■. Ever .since tlnit un^oH?!" '''"" '"'"■'■'■™''''' '''"t n.ils
f"r.nad„e,ss so „nj„.,tly I ' r.',''' >"'"'" "'" '•""l"" i"

^•"no less estrnnged from 1 i, f .J"""''"'"^ '»« heart hu,

r»"iin,e convinced oflutjrt'n", '"I" ?'"" '"•' «<""'"
» «t parting. "'"' "-"I I', hy |,is own words /„

^ « "« the .niscrles tl„.t , re' , .V,-''"' "f '.niietion,
k of so dear a s„„, „„., «,'^:, „ "/;'"-7 ""r l„.i„g .,„:

^" "«; and, when ho h.d aw r '', '"'"•''■"' '" " -li«l""<'»
'"■•"^lus eyes fiwd ' ,? . "'""'' "'''■•"'■ '"otionh
,;-'""-U 'OnXr'aX';:' f •;'""-«•' tear; "'

br^^'^«-'-^oonu^ri/ti:\seSn';r

N"«".ity tl,..,t l.eeon,es'w ,„„'';:" " 'T'"" "■'"'""■
I Icomniemi my children \, ^ '"' '""'' '■""'' ""'I vir-
h« worthy olr y„, . '' 'T '•"^'■- ''Mueatc .hen, i„

h Heaven sr^nUk^yZlVllr Z™'" «'"oh they
I y may no more fortunate than their

3G0

THE FOURTH READER.

father, and never fall short of him in virtue ; and may yon
in them find your consolation 1 — Farewell/

10. " We started up at the sound of this word, and with
loud cries of lamentation ran to him to receive his last em-
braces. I led his elder son by the hand ; Volumnia had the
younger in her arms. He turned his eyes from us, and put-
ting us back with his hand * Mother,' said he, * from this mo-
ment you have no son : our country has taken from you the
stay of your old age. Nor to you, Volumnia, will Marcius
be henceforth a husband ; mayst thou be happy with another
more fortunate 1 My dear children, you have lost your father.'

128. Rome saved by Female Yirtue — continued.

1. " He said no more, but instantly broke away from us.
He departed from Rome without settling his domestic affairs,
or leaving any orders about them ; without money, without
servants, and even without letting us know to what part of|
the world he would direct his steps. It is now the fourth I
year since he went away ; and he has never inquired after iiis
family, nor, by letter or messenger, given us the least account
of himself : so that it seems as if his mother and his wife, were
the chief objects of that general hatred which he shows to hii|
country.

2. " What success then can you expect from our entreaties I
to a man so implacable ? Can two women bend that stubboraj
heart, which even all the ministers of religion were not ablJ
to soften ? And indeed what shall I say to him ? What m\
I reasonably desire of him ?— ^that he would pardon ungratefi
citizens, who have treated him as the vilest criminal ? that li
Vould take compassion upon a furious, unjus^ populace, whit
had no regard for his innocence ? and that he would betray
nation, which has not only opened him an asylum, but iini
even preferred him to her most illustrious citizens in the con
mand of her armies ? — .

8. " With what face can I ask him to abandon such geaeroa

KOME SAVED BY FEMALE VIRTUE.

S(M

ue ; and may you

his word, and with
eceive his last era-
Volumnia bad the
I from us, and put-
he, ' from this rao-
aken from you tlie
imnia, will Marcius
bappy with another
ive lost your father.'

iTUE — continued.

broke away from us.

r his domestic affairs,

hout money, without 1

[now to what part of

[t is now the fourth

)ver inquired after Ills

a us the least account

ther and his wife, were

which he shows to his

-t from our cntreatiesl
an bend that stubbon
religion were not ab'J
e to him? WhatcaBl
,uld pardon ungrateful
lest criminal? that hi
mjust populace, ^m
bat he would betray i

an asylum, but b^
[us citizens in the con

abandon such gencrott

protectors, and deliver himself again into the hands of hia
most bitter enemies? Can, a Roman mother, and a Roman
wife, with decency, exact, from a son and a husband, compli-
ances which must dishonor him before both gods and mm ?
Mournful circumstance, in which we have not power to hate
the most formidable enemy of our country I Leave us thero
fore to our unhappy destiny ; and do not desire us to make it
more unhappy, by an action that may cast a blemish upon our
virtue."

4. The women made no answer but by their tears and en-
treaties. Some embraced her knees ; others beseeched Vo-
lumnia to join her prayers to theirs ; all* conjured Yeturia
not to refuse her country this last assistance. Overcome at
length by their urgent solicitations, she promised to do as they
desired.

The very next day, all the most illustrious of the Roman
women repaired to Veturia's house. There they ^presently
mounted a number of chariots, which the consuls had ordered
to be made ready for them ; and, without any guard, took the
way to the enemy's camp.

5. Coriolanus, perceiving from afar that long train of char-
iots, sent out some horsemen to learn the design of it. They
quickly brought him word, that it was his mother, his wife,
and a great number of other women, and their children com-
ing to the camp. He doubtless conjectured what views the
Romans had in so extraordinary a deputation ; that this was
the last expedient of the senate ; and, in his own mind, Lo de-
termined not to let himself be moved.

6. But he reckoned upon a savage inflexibility that was not
in his nature ; for going out with a few attendants to roceive
the women, he no sooner beheld Veturia attired in mourning,
her eyes bathed in tears, and with a countenance and mciion
that spoke her sinking under a 1'^ad of sorrow, than he ran
hastily to her ; and not only cuuing her mother, but adding-
to that word the most tender epithets, embraced her, w('j)t
over her, and held her in his arms to provcnt her falling. The
like tenderness he presently after expressed to his wife, highly
commending her discretion in havhig constantly remained with

l(i

THE FOURTH READEK.

1'^

his mother, since his departure from Rome. And then, \^ith
the warmest paternal aflFcction, he caressed his children

7. When some time had beeu allowed to those silent tears
of joy, which often flow plenteously at the sudden and unex-
pected meeting of persons dear to each other, Veturia entered
upon the business she had undertaken. After many forcible
appeals to his understanding and patriotism, she exclaimed :

I " What frenzy, what madness of anger transports my son 1
ji Heaven is appeased by supplications, vows, and sacrifices:
i shall mortals be implacable ? Will Marcius set no bounds to

I I his resentment ? But allowing that thy enmity to thy country
is too violent to let thee listen to her petition for peace ; yet
be not deaf, my son, be not inexorable, to the prayers aud
tears of thy mother.

8. " Thou dreadest the very appearance of ingratitude to-
wards the Volsci ; and shall thy mother have reason to accuse
thee of being ungrateful ? Call to mind the tender care I
took of thy infancy and earliest youth ; the alarms, the anx-
iety, I suffered on thy account, when, entered into the state of
manhood, thy life was almost daily exposed in foreign wars ;
the apprehensions, the terrors, I underwent, when I saw thee
so warmly engaged in our domestic quarrels, and, with heroic
courage, opposing the unjust pretensions of the furious plebe-

^ ians. My sad forebodings of the event have been but too well
verified. Consider the wretched life I have endured, if it may
be called life, the time that has passed since I was deprived
of thee.

9. " Marcius, refuse me not the only request I ever made
to thee ; I will never importune thee with any other. Cease
thy immoderate anger ; be reconciled to thy country ; tliis is
all I ask ; grant me but this, and wo shall both be h-^ppy.
Freed from those tempestuous passions which now agiatte thy
soul, and from all the torments of self-reproach, thy days will
flow smoothly on i:i the sweet serenity of conscious virtii'' :
and as for me, if I carry back to Rome the hopes of an a|>
proaching peace, an assurance of thy being reconciled to tliy
country, with what transports of joy shall I bo received ! la
what honor, in what delightful repose, shall I pass th«

THE FRIARS AND IHK KNIGHT.

363

And then, \sitli
lis children
those silent tears
sudden and unex-
r, Veturia entered
fter many forcible
n, she exclaimed :
ansports my son 1
\rs, and sacrifices:
Ls set no bounds to
mity to thy country
ion for peace ; yet

the prayers and

1 of ingratitude to-
,ve reason to accuse

the tender care I
;he alarms, the anx-
red into the state of
ed in foreign wars ;
Qt, when I saw thee
As, and, with heroic
■ the furious plebe-
ve been but too well
re endured, if it may
lince I was deprived

remainder of my life I What immortal glory shall I have
acquired I"

10. Coriolanus made no attempt to interrupt Ycturia while
she was speaking ; and when she had ceased, he still continued
ill deep silence. Anger, hatred, and desire of revenge, bal-
anced in his heart those softer passions which the sight and
discourse of his mother had awakened in his breast. Yeturia
perceiving his irresolution, and fearing the event, thus renewed
her expostulation : " Why dost thou not answer me, my son ?
Is there then such greatness of mind in giving uU to resent-
ment ? Art thou ashamed to grant any thing to a motlicr
who thus entreats thee, thus humbles herself to thee ? If it
be so, to what purpose should Ilonger endure a wretched life?"

Vs she uttered these last words, interrupted by sigiis^ slie
threw herself prostrate at his feet. His wife and cliildren did
the same ; and all the other women, with united voices of
mournful accent, begged and implored his pity.

11. The Volscian officers, not able unmoved to behold this
scene, turned away their eyes : but Coriolanus, almost beside
himself to see Yeturia at his feet, passionately cried out :
" Ah 1 mother, what art thou doing ?" And tenderly pressing
her hand, in raising her up, he added, in a low voice, " Rome is
saved, but thy son is lost !"

Early the next morning, Coriolanus broke up his camp, and
peaceably marched his army homewards. Nobody had the
boldness to contradict his orders. Many were exceedingly
dissatisfied with his conduct ; but others excused it, being
more affected with his filial respect to his mother, than with
their own interests.

129. The Friaes and the Knight.

K. n. DIGBY.

1. Two friars of Paris, travelling in the depth of winter,
came at the first hour of the night, fatigued, covered with
mud, and wot with rain, to the gate of a house wlierc they
hoped to receive hospitality, not knowing that it belonged to

364

TOE FOURTH READER.

a knight who hated nil filnrs, and who for twenty years had
never made his conrt'ssioM. The mother of the family replied
to their petition, " I know not, good fathers, what to do. If
I admit you under our roof, I fear my husband ; and if I send
you away cruelly in this tempestuous night, I shall dread the
indignation of God. Enter, and hide yourselves till my hus-
band returns from hunting, and has supped, for then I shall
be able to supply you secretly with what is needful."

2. Shortly, the husband returns, sups joyfully, but, per-
ceiving that his wife is sad, desires to know the cause. She
replies that she dares not disclose it. Pressed and encour-
aged, she at length relates what has happened, adding, that
she fears God's judgment, seeing that his servants are afflicted
with cold and hunger, while they are feasting at their case.
The knight, becoming more gentle, orders them to be led
forth from their hiding-place, and to be supplied with food.

3. The poor friars came forth, and drew near the fire ; and
when he sees their emaciated faces, humid raiment, and their
feet stained with blood, the hand of the Lord is upon him,
and from a lion he becomes a lamb. With his own hands he
washes their feet, places the table, and prepares their beds,
bringing in fresh straw. After the supper, with altered look
and tone, he addresses the elder friar, and asks whether a
shameless sinner, who hath not confessed since many years,
can hope for pardon from God ?

4. " Yea, in sooth," replied the friar ; " hope in the Lord
and do good, and he will deal with thee according to his
mercy ; for in whatever day the sinner repents, he will remem-
ber his iniquity no more." The contrite hostMeclares that he
will not then defer any longer approaching the sacraments
" This very night," said he, " I will unburden my conscience,
lest my soul should be requiiod of me." The friar, however,
little . suspecting danger of death, advised him to wait till
morning. All retired to rest ; but during the night the friar
became alarmed, rose, prostrated himself on the eartli, and
besought God to spare the sinner.

6. In the morning, however, the master of the house was
found doad. The man of God, judging from what had passed,

CATHOLIO RtnNS.

mty years had
B family replied
vhat to do. If
I ; and if I send
shall dread the
Ives till my hus-
for then I shall
jedful."

yfully, but, per-
the cause. She
sed and cncour-
[led, adding, that
rants are afilictid
ig at their case.

them to be led
ilied with food,
lear the fire ; and
■aiment, and their
lOrd is upon him,
his own hands he
spares their beds,
iwith altered look
asks whether a

lince many years,

hope in the Lord
according to his
Its, he will remem-
k'declares that he
[g the sacraments
\en my conscience,
:he friar, however,
him to wait till
[the night the friar
|on the earth, and

of the house was
v^rhat had passed,

consoled the widow, declared that in his dreams he had been
assured of the salvation of her husband ; and the man was
buried honorably, bells were tolled, and mass was sung, and
the friars departed on their way.

• 6. It is to instances of this kind that St. Jerome alludes in
his beautiful epistle to Lacta, where he says, " A holy and
faithful family must needs sanctify its infidel chief. That man
cannot be far from entering upon the career of faith, who is
sun'ounded by sons and grandsons enlightened by the faith."

130. Catholic Ruins.

AS WELL.

Father Caswell is a convert from Anglicanism, and a priest of the Ora-
tory of St. Philip Neri. llo is a poet, oalin, subiiuud, froe from all turbu-
lence, peaceful aud serene. His poetry is of » very high order -2?.»:
Browneon.

1. Where once our fathers offer'd praise and prayer,

And sacrifice sublime ;
Where rose upon the incense-breathing air
The chant of olden time ; —

Kow, amid arches mouldering to the earth,

The boding night-owl raves ;
And pleasure-parties dance in idle mirth

O'er the forgotten graver.

2. Or worse ; the heretic of modern days

Has made those walls his prize ;
And in the pile our Faith alone could raise,
That very Faith denies I

God of our fathers, look upon our woe I

How long wilt thou not hear ?
How long shall thy true vine be trodden low,

Nor help from thee appear ?

366

THE FOURTH READKR.

8. Oh, by our glory in the days gone by ;
Oh, by thine ancient love ;
Oh, by our thousand Saints, who ceaseless cry
Before thy throne above ;

Thou, for this isle, compassionate though just,

Cherish thy wrath no more ;
But build agam her temple from the dust,

And our lost hope restore I

131. Gil Blab and the Parasite.

LB B AGE .

Alain Rbn£ Le Saqe, a celebrated French novelist and dramatic writer,
born in 16()8, died in 1747. Ho is principally rcraenibered for liia novel of
" Gil Bias," which lirst appeared iii 1715.

1. When the omelet I had bespoken was ready, I sat down
to table by myself ; and had not yet swallowed tlie first
mouthful when the landlord came in, followed by the man
who had stopped him in the street. This cavalier, who wore
a long sword, and seemed to be about thirty years of age, ad-
vanced towards me with an eager air, saying, " Mr. Student,
I am informed that you are that Signer Gil Bias of Santil-
lane, who is the link of philosophy, and ornament of Oviedo !
Is it possible that you are that mirror of learning, that sub-
lime genius, whose reputation is so great in this country?
You know not," continued he, addressing himself to the inn-
keeper and his wife, " you know not what you possess ! You
have a treasure in your house I Behold, in this young gen-
tleman, the eighth wonder of the world !" Then turning to
me, and throwing his arms about my neck, " Forgive," cried
he, "my transports 1 I cannot contain the joy that your
pi'esence creates.'"

2. I could not answer for some time, because he locked me
so closely in his arms that I was almost suffocated for want of
breath ; and it was not till I had disen[«;ap;ed my head from

OIL MLA8 AND THK PAKASITK.

seless cry

)ugh just,
dast,

;a8ITE.

t and dramatic writer,
ibered for his uovul of

i ready, I sat down
rallowdd the first
Dwed by the man
javalier, who wore
y years of age, ad-
ig, " Mr. Student,
i[\ Bias of Sanlil-
laraent of Oviedo !
[earning, that sub-
in this country?
limself to the inu-
u possess ! You
this young gou-
Then turning to
" Forgive," cried
he joy that your

luse he locked me
focated for want of
l;ed my head from

his embrace that I repMed, " Signer Cavalier, I did not tlilnli
my name was known at Penaflor." " How ! known I" rc-
Fumcd he, in his former strain ; " we keep a register of all tlu;
celebrated names within twenty leagues of us. Vou, in \){\V'
ticular, are looked upon as a prodigy; and I don't at all
doubt that Spain will one day bo as proud of you as Gioeco
was of her Seven Sages." These words were followed by a
fresh hug, which I was forced to endure, thougli at the risk
of strangulation. With the little experience I had, I ought
not to have been the dupe of his professions and hyperbolicsd
compliments.

6. I ought to have known, by his extravagant flattery, that
he was one of those parasites who abound in every town, and
who, when a stranger arrives, introduce themselves to him, in
order to feast at his expense. But my youth and vanity
made me judge otherwise. My admirer appeared to me so
much of a gentleman, that I invited him to take a share of
my supper. " Ahl with all my soul," cried he ; "I am too
much obliged to my kind stars for having thrown me in the
way of the illustrious Gil Bias, not to enjoy ray good fortune
as long as I can 1 I have no great appetite," pursued he,
" but I will sit down to bear you company, and eat a mouth-
ful purely out of complaisance."

4. So saying, my panegyrist took his place right over
against me ; and, a cover being laid for him, he attacked the
omelet as voraciously as if he had fasted three whole days.
By his complaisant beginning I foresaw that onr dish would
not last long, and I therefore ordered a second, which they
dressed with such dispatch that it was served just as we — or
rather he — had made an end of the first. He proceeded on
this with the same vigor; and found means, without losing
one stroke of his teeth, to overwhelm me with praises during
the whole repast, which made me very well pleased with my
sweet self. He drank in proportion to his eating ; sometimes
to my hc^vlth, sometimes to that of my father and mother,
whose happiness in having such a son as I he could not enough
admire.

5. All the while he plied me with wine, and insisted upon

3G3

THE FOLSTH READKR.

my doing him justice, wliile I toaRtcd health for health ; u cir-
cumstance which, together with his intoxicating flattery, put
me into such good humor, that, seeing our second omelet lialf
devoured, I asked the landlord if he had no fish in the house.
Signor Corcuelo, who, in all likelihood, had a fellow-feeliiijj
with the parasite, replied, " I have a delicate trout ; but those
who eat it must pay for the sauce ; — 'tis a bit too dainty for
your palate, I doubt." " What do you call too dainty ?"
said the sycophant, raising bis voice ; " you're a wiseacre, in-
deed I Know that there is nothing in this house too good for
Signor Gil Bias of Santillane, who deserves to be entertained
like a prince."

6. I was pleased at his laying hold of the landlord's last
words, in which he prevented me, who, finding myself offended,
said, with an air of disdain, " Produce this trout of yours,
Gaffer Corcuelo, and give yourself no trouble about the con-
sequence." This was what the innkeeper wanted. He got it
ready, and served it up in a trice. At sight of this new dish,
I could perceive the parasite's eye sparkle with joy; and he
renewed that complaisance — I mean for the fish — which he
had already shown for the eggs. At last, however, he was
obliged to give out, for fear of accident, being crammed to the
very throat.

7. Having, therefore, eaten and drunk sufficiently, he thouglit
proper to conclude the farce by rising from table and accost-
ing me in these words : " Signor Gil Bias, I am too well satis-
fied with your good cheer to leave you without offering an im-
portant advice, which you seem to have great occasion for.
Henceforth, beware of praise, and be upon your guard against
everybody you do not know. You may meet with other peo-
ple inclined to divert themselves with your credulity, and, per-
haps, to push things still further ; but don't be duped again,
nor believe yourself (though they should swear it) the eighth
wonder of the world." So paying, he laughed in my face, and
stalked away.

for health ; a cir-
ating flattery, put
second omelet half
► fish in the houso.
id a fellow-feeling
e trout ; but those
bit too dainty for
call too dainty?"
I're a wiseacre, in-
house too good for
8 to be entertahicd

the landlord's last
iig myself ofifended,
lis trout of yours,
ible about the con-
vanted. He got it
tit of this new dish,
e with joy; and he
the fish — which he
it, however, he was
fens: crammed to the

fciently, he thought
table and accost-
am too well satis-

lout offering an ira-
^reat occasion for.
rour guard against

|et with other peo-

jredulity, and, per-

be duped again,

^ear it) the eighth

led in my face, and

THE DYING CHILD ON NEW YKAli S EVIi;. 3G9

132. The Dying Child on Ni:w Ykau s Evi:.

TENNYSON.

1. If you're waking, call mo curly, call me early, mother

dear ;
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad new year :
It is the last new year that ever I shall see ;
Then you may lay me low i' the mould, and tliiuk no more

o' me.

To-night I saw the sun set ; he set and left behind

The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of

mind ;
And the new year's coming up, mothei., but I shall never

see
The may upon the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.

2. There's not a flower upon the hills ; the frost is on the

pane ;
I only wish to live till the snow-drops come again :
I wish the snow would melt, and the sun come out on high,
1 long to see a flower so before the day I die.

The building rook will caw from the windy, tall ehn-tree,

Aud the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,

Aud the swallow will come back again with summer o'er

the wave ;
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.

3 When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning

liglit,
You'll neve: see me more in the long gray fields at night ;
When from the dry dark wood the summer airs blow cool,
On the oat-grass, and the sword-grass, and the bulrush iu

the pool.

Ye'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn
shade j 16*

^^^.

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Sciences

Corporation

23 WIST MAIN STRKT

WiBSTiR,N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4S03

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370

THK FOUKTU READER.

And ye'll sometimes come and see me where I am lowly

laid ;
I shall not forget y, mother, I shall hear ye where ye

pass,
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant

grass.

4. I have been wild and wayward; but you'll forgive me now;
You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow:
Kay, nay; you must not weep, nor let ybur grief be wild;
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.

Oh, I will come again, mother, from out my resting-place ;
Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your

face :
Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what yon

say.
And be often, often with you, when you think I'm far away

6. Good-night, good-night I When 1 have said good-nighl
for evermore.
And ye see me carried out from the threshold of the door,
Don't let Effie come and see me till my grave be growing

green ;
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.

She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor ;
Let her take 'em, they are hersj 1 shall never garden

more.
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I

■ set.
About the parlor window and the box of mignonette.

6. Good-night, sweet mother I call me when it begins to j
dawn ;
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn.
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new year ;
So, if you're waking, call me — call me early,, mother dear!

ANECDOTE OF KING CHAKLES II. OF BPAIN.

371

le where I am lowly

all hearken what yon

jver I have been.

the rosebush that I

133. Anecdotr of King Charlf:s II. of Spain.

OATHOLIO WEEKLY INSTUUOTOli.

1. On the 20th of February, 1685, this kmg weut to take
a drive in the environs of Madrid. The day was remarkably
fine, and the place was crowded with people. Suddenly, a
priest in surplice, attended by only a boy, approached ; and
the king, doubting whether he was going to give the holy
communion, or only extreme unction, questioned him, and was
answered that he was bearing the holy Viaticum to a poor
man in a cottage at some distance, and had been able to pro-
cure no better attendance, owing to the fineness of the day,
which had left no one at home.

2. In an instant, the king opened the carriage-door, and
leaping out, fell upon his knees and adored the Blessed Eu-
charist ; then, with most respectful words, entreated the i)ricst
to take his place, shut the carriage-door, then walked at the
side, with his hat in his hand. The way was long and tedious,
but the good king went it cheerfully, and arrived at the cot-
tage, opened himself the carriage, handed down the priest,
and knelt while he passed. He entered into the poor house,
and after the Holy Sacrament had been administered, went up
to the bed, consoled with kind words the dying man, gave him
an abundant alms, and made ample provision for an only
daughter whom he left.

3. He now insisted on the priest again taking his place
in the carriage. But the good curate, seeing how fatigued
the king was, entreated nim not to think of walking back, and
at length, yielding to his importunities, he consented to go in
the second carriage, while the priest went alone in the first.
When they reached Madrid, the king got out, and again took
his place, uncovered, by the carriage door.

4. But by this time the whole city was in commotion.
The Confraternity of the Blessed Sacrament came forth with
lighted tapers, and the nobility came forth in crowds, to follow
the footsteps of their sovereign. In magnificent state, the
procession reached the church of St. Mark, where benediction
was given, and when the king came out, a vast multitude as- ^

■^

372

THE FOUliTH READER.

sembled there, greeted him with a burst of enthusiastic ap.
plause, which showed how far from lowering himself in hig
subjects' eyes, is a sovereign who pays due homage to the
King of kings.

134. Spiritual Advantagks of Catholic Cities.

I <

II ir-
I

K. n. DIGBY.

1. In a modern city men in the evening leave their houses
for a banquet ; in a Catholic city they go out for tii<) benedic-
tion. The cfiBces of the Church, morning and evening, and
even the night instructions, were not wanting to those who
were still living in the world ; and if the intervals were passed
in study, or other intellectual exercise, it was a life scholastic
and almost monastical. The number of churches always open,
the frequent processions, and the repeated instructions of the
clergy, made the whole city like a holy place, and were, with-
out doubt, the means of making multitudes to choose the strait
entrance, and to walk in the narrow way. There are many
who have no idea of the perfection in which great numbers, in
every rank of society, pass their lives in Catholic cities, not
even excepting that capital which has of late been made the
nurse of so much ill.

2. But wherever the modern philosophy has created, as it
were, an atmosphere, that which is spiritual is so confined,
closed, and isolated, that its existence is hardly felt or known.
The world appears to reign with undisputed possession, and
that, too, as if it had authority to reign. And yet there are
tender and passionate souls who have need of being unceas-
ingly preserved in the path of virtue by the reign of religious
exercises, who, when deprived of the power of approaching at
the hour their inclinations may suggest to the sources of grace,
are exposed to great perils, and who perhaps sometimes do
incur in consequence, eternal death.

" Ah me, how many perils do enfold
The righteous man, to make him daily foil I"

ON LKTTICR WKITING.

373

enthusiastic aj>
ig himself in his
J homage to the

DHOLio Cities.

leave their houses
ut for til*} benedic-

and evening, and
iting to those who
bervals were passed
ras a life scholastic
arches always open,
instructions of the
tce, and were, with-
to choose the strait
There are many
h great numbers, in
Catholic cities, not

ate been made the

has created, as it
aal is so confined,
,rdly felt or known.
ted possession, and
And yet there are
d of being unceas-
fC reign of religious
of approaching at
le sources of grace,
•haps sometimes do

lailyfaUl"

3. House of Prayer, why close thy gates ? Is there an
hour in all nature when the heart should be weary of prayer ?
when man whom God doth deign to hear in thee as his temple,
s'kould have no incense to offer before thy altar, no tear to
confide to thee ? Mark the manners, too, of the multitude that
loiters in the public ways of every frequented town. See, how
it meekly kneels to receive a benediction from the bishop who
happens to pass by ; and when the dusk comes on, and the
lamp of the sanctuary begins to burn brighter, and to arrest
the eye of the passenger through the opened doors of churches,
hearken to the sweet sound of innumerable bells which rises
from all sides, and see what a change of movement takes place
among this joyous and innocent people :

4. The old men break off their conversation on the benches
at the doors, and take out their rosaries ; the children snatch
up their books and jackets from the green in token that play
is over ; the women rise from their Icibor of the distaflF ; and
all together proceed into the church, when the solemn litany
soon rises with its abrupt and crashing peal, till the bells all
toll out their last and loudest tone, and the adorable Victim is
raised over the prostrate people, who then issue forth and re-
tire to their respective homes in sweet peace, and with an ex-
pression of the utmost thankfulness and joy.

5. The moderns in vain attempt to account for the difference
of manners in these Catholic cities, and in their own, by re-
ferring to their present prosperity and accumulation of wealth;
these cities in point of magnificence incomparably surpassed
theirs, and with respect to riches, they were not superior, for
peace was in the> strength, and abundance in their towers.

135. On Letter Writino.

, BLACKWOOD S MAGAZINE.

1. Epistolary as well as personal intercourse is, according
to the mode in which it is carried on, one of th% pleasantest

••

■

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■

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37^

■>. I

THE FOURTH RKADEU.

or most irksome things in the world. It is delightful to drop
in on a friend without the solemn prelude of Invitation and
acceptance, to join a social circle, where we may suffer our
minds and hearts to relax and expand in the happy conscious-
ness of perfect security from invidious remark and carping
criticism ; where we may give the reins to the sportiveness of
innocent fancy, or the enthusiasm of warm-hearted feeling ;
where we may talk sense or nonsense, (I pity people who can-
not talk nonsense), without fear of being looked into icicles
by the coldness of unimaginative people, living pieqes of clock-
work, who dare not themselves utter a word, or lift up a little
finger, without first weighing the important point in the hair
balance of propriety and good breeding.

2. It is equally delightful to let the pen talk freely, and un-
premeditatedly, and to one by whom we are sure of being un-
derstood; but a formal letter, like a ceremonious mornin:^
visit, is tedious alike to the writer and receiver ; for the moKt
part spun out with unmeaning phrases, trite observations,
complimentary flourishes, and protestations of respect and at-
tachment, so far not deceitful, as they never deceive anybody.
Oh, the misery of having to compose a set, proper, well-worded,
correctly-pointed, polite, elegant epistle ! one that must have
a beginning, a middle, and an end, as methodically arranged
and portioned out as the several parts of a sermon under three
heads, or the three gradations of shade in a school-girl's first
landscape 1

3. For my part, I would rather be set to beat hemp, or
weed in a turnip field, than to write such a letter exactly
every month, or every fortnight, at the precise point of time
from the date of our correspondent's last letter, that he or
she wrote after the reception of ours ; ^,s if one's thoughts
bubbled up to the well-head, at regular periods, a pint at a
time, to be bottled off for immediate use. Thought ! what
has thought to do in such a correspondence? It murders
thought, quenches fancy, wastes time, spoils paper, wears out
innocent goose-quills. " I'd rather be a kitten, and cry mew!
than one of those same " prosing letter-mongers.

4. Sureljj^ in this age of invention something may be struck

ON LETTER WRITIKG.

375

icligbtful to drop
of invitation and
e may suffer our
1 happy conscious-
nark and carping
,he sportiveness of
a-hcarted feeling;
y people who can-
looked into icicles
ng pieqes of clock-
a, or. lift up a little
; point in the hair

talk freely, and un-

e sure of being un-

remonious mornin:;

jiver ; for the most

trite observations,

s of respect and at-

[er deceive anybody.

►roper, well-worded,

lone that must have

ithodically arranged

sermon under three

a school-girl's first

. to beat hemp, or
jch a letter exactly
l-ecise point of time
|st letter, that he or
. if one's thoughts
aeriods, a pint at a
L Thought 1 what
[ence? It murders
lis paper, wears out
Itten, and cry mewl
Ingers.
Ihing may be strucl?

out to obviate the necessity (if such necessity exists) of so
tasking, degrading the human intellect. Wliy should not a
sort of mute barrel-organ be constructed on the plan of those
that play sets of .tunes and country dances, to indite a cata-
logue of polite epistles calculated for all the ceremonious observ-
ances of good breeding ? Oh, the unspeakable relief (could
such a machine be invented) of having only to grind out an an-
swer to one of one's " dear, five hundred friends 1"

5. Or, suppose th^e were to be an epistolary steara-engine.
Ay, that's the thing. Steam does every thing now-a-days.
Dear Mr. Brunei, set about it, I beseech you, and achieve the
most glorious of your undertakings. The block machine at
Portsmouth would be nothing to it. That spares manual
labor ; this would relieve mental drudgery, and thousands yet
unborn . . . but hold I I am not so sure the female sex in
general may quite enter into my views of the subject.

6. Those who pique themselves on the elegant style of their
hillets, or those fair scriblerinas just emancipated from board-
ing-school restraints, or the dragonism of their governess, just
beginning to taste the refined enjoyments of sentimental, con-
fidential, soul-breathing correspondence with some Angelina,
Seraphina, or Laura Matilda ; to indite beautiful little notes,
with long-tailed letters, upon vellum paper, with pink margins,
sealed with sweet mottoes, and dainty devices, the whole dc-
llciously perfumed with musk and attar of roses ; young ladies
who collect " copies of verses," and charades, keep albums,
copy patterns, make bread seals, work little dogs upon foot-
stools, and pamt flowers without shadow — oh I no I the epis-
tolary steam-engine will never come into vogue with those
dear creatures. They must enjoy the " feast of reason, and
the flow of soul," and they must write — ^yes ! and how they
do write 1

1. But for another genus of female scribes, unhappy inno-
cents I who groan in spirit at the dire necessity of having to
hammer out one of those aforesaid terrible epistles ; who,
having in due form dated the gilt-edged sheet that lies out-
spread before them in appalling whiteness, ha\'ing also felici-
achieved tho graceful exordium, " My dear Mrs. P,"

ill

1)5

376

THK FOURTH READER.

or " My dear Lady Y," or " My dear any thing else,"

feel that they are in for it, and must say something ! Oli,
that something that must come of nothing I those bricks tlmt
must be made without straw I those pages that must be filled
with words I Yea, with words that must be sewed into sen-
tences 1 Yea, with sentences that must seem to mean some-
thing ; the whole to be tacked together, all neatly fitted and
dovetailed so as to form one smooth, polished surface I

8. Wh9,t were the labors of Hercules to such a task I The
very thought of it puts me into a mental perspiration ; and,
from my inmost soul, I compassionate the unfortunates now
(at this very moment, perhaps) screwed up perpendicularly in
the seat of torture, having in their right hand a fresh-nibbed
patent pen, dipped ever and anon into the ink-bottle, as if to
hook up ideas, and under the outspread palm of the left hand
a fair sheet of best Bath post (ready to receive thoughts yet
unhatched) on which their eyes are riveted with a stare of
disconsolate perplexity infinitely touching to a feeling mind.

9. To such unhappy persons, in whose miseries I deeply sym-
pathize. . . . Have I not groaned under similar horrors, from
the hour when I was first shut up (under lock and key, I be-
lieve) to indite a dutiful epistle to an honored aunt ? I re-
member, as if it were yesterday, the moment when she who
had enjoined the task entered to inspect the performance,
which, by her calculation, should have been fully completed.
I remember how sheepishly I hung down my head, when she
snatched from before me the paper (on which I bad made no
farther progress than "My dear ant"), angrily exclaiming,
" What, child 1 have you been shut up here three hours to call
your aunt a pismire ?" From that hour of humiliation I have
too often groaned under the endurance of similar penance, and
I have learned from my own sufferings to compassionate those
of my dear sisters in affliction. To such unhappy persons,
then, I would fain oflfer a few hmts (the fruit of long expe-
rience), which, if they have not already been suggested by
their own observation, may prove serviceable in the hour of
emergency.

10. Let them — or suppose I address myself to, one particn-

THE ART OF BOOK-KEKPING.

377

any thing else,"
joraething I Oh,
those bricks tliiit
tiat must be iillecl
e sewed uito scn-
?m to mean somc-
[ neatly fitted and
ed surface 1
such a taskl The
)erspiration ; and,
unfortunates now
perpendicularly in
land a fresh-nibbed
ink-bottle, as if to
[m of the left hand
!ceive thoughts yet
ed with a stare of
;o a ieehng mind.
series I deeply sym-
imilar horrors, from
lock and key, I bc-
nored aunt ? I re-
uent when she wlio
t the performance,
-en fully completed.
[my head, when she
Jch I had made no
angrily exclaiming,
three hours to call
humiliation I have

jimilar penance, and

jompassionate those

unhappy pt^i'soii^.

'ruit of long expe-

been suggested by

He in the hour of

rself to, one partictt-

lar sufferer ; there is something more confidential In that man-
ner of communicating one's ideas. As Moore says, " Heart
speaks to heart." I say, then, take always special care to
vrlte by candlelight, for not only is the apparently unimport-
ant operation of snuflBng the candle in itself a momentary re-
lief to the depressing consciousness of mental vacuum, but not
unfreqnently that trifling act, or the brightening flame of the
taper, elicits, as it were, from the dull embers of fancy, a sym-
pathetic spark of fortunate conception. When such a one
occurs, seize it quickly and dexterously, but, at the same time,
with such cautious prudence, as not to huddle up and contract
in one short, paltry sentence, that which, if ingeniously han-
dled, may be wiredrawn, so as to undulate gracefully and
smoothly over a whole page.

11. For the more ready practice of this invaluable art of
dilating, it will be expedient to stock your memory with a
large assortment of those precious words of many syllables,
that fill whole lines at once; "incomprehensibly, amazingly,
decidedly, solicitously, inconceivably, incontrovertibly." An
opportunity of using these, is, to a distressed spinster, as de-

jhtftil as a copy all m's and n's to a child. " Command you
may, your mind from play." They run on with such delicious
i smoothness I

136. The Art of Book-Kj5eping.

THOMAS HOOD.

Thomas Hood, born in 1798; died, 1845. One of the best of the later
English humorists. His poetry is indeed characterized by tlie true marks
of genuine humor, which is over based on real pathos and refined sensi-

Ibility.

I. How hard, when those who do not wish to lend, thus lose,

their books,
Are snared by anglers, — folks that fish with literary

Hooks, —
Who call and take some favorite tome, but never read it

through; —
They thus complete their set at home, by making one at you.

' *

378

THE FOURTH RKADKR.

I, of my " Spenser" quite bereft, last wmter sore was
shaken:

Of " Lamb" I've but a quarter left, nor could I Rave m
"Bacon;"

And then I saw my " Crabbc," at last, like Hamlet, back-
ward go ;

And as the tide was ebbing fast, of course I lost my
"Rowe."

2. My " Mallet" served to knock me down, which makes me

thus a talker;
And once, when I was out of town, my " Johnson" proTcd

a " Walker."
While studying, o'er the fire, one day, my "Hobbcs,"

amidst the smoke,
They bore my " Colman" clean away, and carried off mv j

" Coke."

They pick'd my " Locke," to me far more than Bramah'i

patent worth,
And now my losses I deplore, without a " Home" on eartli. |5.
If once a book you let them lift, another they conceal,
For though I caught them stealing " Swift," as quickly]

went my " Steele."

3. "Hope" is not now upon my shelf, where late he stood |
elated;

But what is strange, my "Pope" himself is excommuni-
cated.

My little " Suckling" in the grave is sunk to swell tk|
ravage ;

And what was Crusoe's fate to save, 'twas mine to lose,|
— a "Savage."

Even " Glover's" works I cannot put my frozen haD(ij|

upon; \

Though ever since I lost my " Foote," my " Bunyan"

been gone.

1HR ART OF BOOKKEKI'INCi.

379

,8t wuitcr sore Vi'as
lor could I save my
t like Hamlet, bad-
of course I lost my

own, which makes rae
my " Johnson" proTcd
day, my "Hobks,"
ty, and carried off my

J more than Bramah's |

My " Hoylu" with " Cotton" went oppress'd ; my " Tay-
lor," too, must Tail;

To save ray " Goldsmith" from arrest, in vain I ofifer'd
" Bayle."

f I " Prior" sought, but could not see the " Hood" so lute

in front ;
And when I turned to hunt for " Lee," ohl where was my

"Leigh Hunt"?
I tried to laugh, old care to tickle, yet could not " Tickle"

touch;
And then, alack 1 I miss'd my " Mickle," — and surely Mic-

kle's much. . '„^

'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed, my soitows to excuse,
To think I cannot read my "Reid," nor even use my

" Hughes ;"
My classics would not quiet lie, a thing so fondly hoped j
Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry, my " Livy" has eloped.

t a " Home" on earth. Hs. My life is ebbing fast away; I suflfer from these shocks,
ther they conceal, I And though I fixed a lock on " Gray," there's gray upon

my locks ;
I'm far from " Young," am growing pale, I see my "But-
ler" fly;
And when they ask about my ail, 'tis " Burton" I reply.

L " Swift," as quickly

where late he stood
Ihunself is excomraimi-

They still have made me slight returns, and thus my griefs

divide;
is sunk to swell tkl For ohl they cured me of my "Bums," and eased my

"Akenside."
But all I think I shall not say, nor let my anger bum.
For, as they never found me " Gay," they have not left

me " Steme."

re 'twas mine to lose,

put my frozen hands
Ite," my " Bunyan" m

380

THE FOURTH READER.

137. The Alhamiiua by Moom.igut.

IRVING.

[Tho nalac* or castle callfd the Alhamhra, conslf^ts of tho retnairm of n wry cm.^
Bivf nnu aiinient pile uf bulldltiga In tii)ala, ertiutud by Ibo Muuik wliiu iluy ;i, I
nilors of ibe country.]

1. I HAVE given a picture of my apartment on my first takj
ing possession of it: a few evenings have produced a tliormi:;!!
change in the scene and in my feelings. The moon, whic
then was invisible, has gradually gained upon tho niglils, ^
now rolls in full splendor above the towers, pouring a (Itjodvl
tempered light into every court and hall. The garden In
neath my window is gently lighted up ; the orange and cltl
ron trees are tipped with silver ; the fountain sparkles in \\i
moonbeams ; and even the blush of the rose is faintly vi.sil4

2. I have sat for hours at my window, inhaling the Mvoet]
ness of the garden, and musing on the checkered features J
those whose history is dimly shadowed out in the elegant ni^
morials around. Sometimes I have issued forth at nildnijrhtj
when every thing was quiet, and have wandered over the
building. Who can do justice to a moonlight night iu such i
climate, and in such a place !

8. The temperature of an Andalusian midnight in sumnierl
is perfectly ethereal. We seem lifted up into a purer atmosT
phere : there is a serenity of soul, a buoyancy of spirits, aj
elasticity of frame, that render mere existence eiy'oymeoij
The effect of moonlight, too, on the Alhambra, has soinethiii|
like enchantment. Every rent and chasm of time, every moulJ
ering tint and weather-stain disappears ; the marble resumej
its original whiteness ; the long colonnades brighten in tb
moonbeams ; the halls are illuminated with a softened radl
ance, until the whole edifice reminds one of the enchantej
palace of an Arabian tale.

4. At such a time, I have ascended to the little pavilioij
called the queen's toilet, to enjoy its varied and extensii
prospect. To the right, the snowy summits of the Sien
Nevada- would gleam, like silver clouds, against the dark^
firmament, and all the outlines of the mountains would

CB.

jOM.lOHT.

ijh:st kind of rkvknob.

361

)f tho remnlim of a very Mtn
by tho Muuiii wlit'ii llicy *,M

rtmcnt on my first tat
e produced a tliormi':
icrs. The moon, wliic
id upon the nights, nn
vers, pouring a flood i
hall. The garden
1 ; the orange ami ei;
fountain sparklos in tl
le rose is faintly visille
.ow, inhaling the sweets
le checkered featuris o
i out in the clegaut ni
ssued forth at midnigli
vandered over the who
ooulight night iu sucli

an midnight in summer
up into a purer atmo
buoyancy of spirits, ai
•e existence eiyoymeiii
Ihambra, has soinethinj
m of time, every mouli
rs ; the marble resuinej
nnades brighten in tb
L with a softened radl
one of the enchantej

to the little pavilioj
[s varied and extensW
] summits of the Sien
Ids, against the darkj
le mountains would

[iftonod, yet delicately defined. My delight, however, would
L to lean over tlie parapet of the Tecador, and gazo down
L)n Granada, spread out like a map below me ; all buried
li (loop repose, and its white palaces and convents sleeping,
i It were, in the moonshine.

5. Sometimes, I would hear the faint sounds of castanets
|rom some party of dancers lingering in the Alameda ; at
jther times, I have heard the dubious tones of a guitar, and
|he notes of a single voice rising from some solitary street,
Ind have pictured to myself some youthful cavalier serenading
[is lady's window — a gallant custom of former days, but now

adly on the decline, except in the n mote towns and villages
[f Spain.

6. Such are the scenes that have detained me for many an
[our loitering about the courts and balconies of the castle,
jnjoying that mixture of reverie and sensation which steal
(way existence in a southern climate, and it has been almost
Vaing before I have retired to my bed, and been lulled to
leep by the falling waters of the fountain of Lindaraxa.

138. Best Kind of Revenge.

CHAMBERS.

IPiobert Chambers, born in Peebles, Scotland, in 1802. Ho and his
|otlier William, have written numerous works in various departments ol
mture. They are also known as eminent Scotch publishers.

1 1. Some years ago, a warehouseman in Manchester, Eng-
1, published a scurrilous pamphlet, in which he endeavored
I hold up the house of Grant Brothers to ridicule. William
[rant remarked upon the occurrence, that the man would live
I repent what he had done ; and this was conveyed by some
|le-bearer to the libeller, who said, " Oh, I suppose he thinks
pall some time or other be in his debt ; but I will take good
jre of that." It happens, however, that a man in business
pot always choose who shall be his creditors. The pam-
lleteer became a bankrupt, and the brothers held an aocep^

'">

382

THE FOURTH READER.

ance of his which had been indorsed to them by the drawer,
who had also become a bankrupt.

2. The wantonly-libelled men had thus become eieclitors
of the libeller I They had it in their power to make him re-
pent of his audacity. He could not obtam his certificate
without their signature, and without it he could not enter into
business again. He had obtained the number of signatures I
required by the bankrupt law, except one. It seemed folly to
hope that the firm of " the brothers" would supply the defi-
ciency. What 1 they, who had cruelly been made the laugh-
ing-stocks of the public, forget the wrong and favor the I
wrong-doer? He despaired. But the claims of a wife audi
children forced him at last to make the application. Hum-
bled by misery, he presented himself at the counting-house of|
the wronged.

3. Mr. William Grant was there alone, and his first words i
to the delinquent were, " Shut the door, sirl" — sternly uttered.
The door was shut, and the libeller stood trembling before the
libelled. He told his tale, and produced his certificate, whiehl
was instantly clutched by the injured merchant. " You wrotel
a pamphlet against us once 1" exclaimed Mr. Grant. The!
supplicant expected to see his parchment thrown into the fire,|
But this was not its destination. Mr. Grant took a pen, ai
writing something upon the document, handed it back to thel
bankrupt. He, poor wretch, expected to see " rogue, scoiin-f
drel, libeller," inscribed; but there was, in fair round charac-]
ters, the signature of the firm.

4. " We make it a rule," said Mr. Grant, " never to refusel
signing the certificate of an honest tradesman, and we liaTe|
never heard that you were any thing else." The tears started
into the poor man's eyes. " Ah," said Mr. Grant, " my sajj
ing was true. I said you would live to repent writ ng M
pamphlet. I did not mean it as a threat. I only meant thai
some day you would know us better, and be sorry you haj
tried to injure us. I see you repent of it now." "I do,
do I" said the grateful man. " I bitterly repent it." "Weill
well, my dear fellow, you know us now. How do you get (
What are you going to do ?" The poor man stated that H

WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR?

383

lem by the drawer,

s become creditors
rev to make him re-
btain his certificate
could not enter into
umber of signatures
It seemed folly to
3uld supply the defi.
>eenmade the laugh-
Tong and favor the
claims of a wife and
; application. Hum-
the counting-house of

le, and his first words
sir!"— sternly uttered,!
i trembling before the!
d his certificate, wliichl
Tchant. "Youwrotel
led Mr. Grant. The!
t thrown into the firo.|
„rant took a pen, m'
,anded it back to the
|to see "rogue, scoiiH
in fair round charac-

|rant, " never to refuse
^desman, and we liavej
" The tears started
[kr. Grant, " my say]

\o repent writ ng 1'

[t. I only meant thaj

Ind be sorry you haj

If it now." "H\

ly repent it." "W^l|
How do you get onj

ir man stated that '

had friends who could assist u'*m when his certificate was ob-
tained. " But how are you off in the mean time ?"

5. j^nd the answer was, that, having given up every far-
thing to his creditors, he had been compelled to stint his family
I of even common necessaries, that he might be enabled to pay
I the cost of his certificate. " My dear fellow, this will not do ;
vour family must not suffer. Be kind enough to take this
I ten-pound note to your wife from me. There, there, my dear
I fellow I Nay, don't cry; it will be all well with you yet.
keep up your spirits, set to work like a man, and you will
raise your head among us yet." The overpowered man en-
deavored in vain to express his thanks : the swelling in his
Ithroat forbade words. He put his handkerchief to his face,
land went out of the door crying like a child.

139. Who is my Keighbor ?

ANON.

1. Thy neighbor ? It is he whom thou

Hast power to aid and bless :
Whose aching heart and burning brow
Thy soothing heart may press.

Thy neighbor ? 'Tis the fainting poor,
Whose eye with want is dim ;

Whom hunger sends from door to door ;
Go thou and comfort him.

2. Thy neighbor? 'Tis that weaiy man,

Whose years are at their brim,
Bent low with sickness, cares, and pain ;
Go thou and comfort him.

Thy neighbor ? 'Tis the heart bereft
Of every earthly gem ;

384 THE FOURTH READER.

Widow and orphan, helpless left ; ^.
Go thou and shelter them.

8. Thy neighbor ? Yonder toiling slave,
Fetter' d in thought and limb,
Whose hopes are all beyond the grave ;
« Go thou and ransom him.

Whene'er thou meet'st a human form
Less favor'd than thine own,

Remember 'tis thy neighbor worm,
Thy brother, or thy son.

4. Oh I pass not, pass not heedless by ;
Perhaps thou canst redeem
The breaking heart from misery ;
Go share thy lot with him.

140. Edwin, King op Northumbria.

LINOABD.

1. ArrENDED by Paulinus, he entered the great council, re*
quested the advice of his faithful witan, and exposed to tbem
the reasons which induced him to prefer Christianity to the
worship of paganism. CoiflB, the high priest of Northumbria,
was the first to reply. It might have been expected, that
prejudice and interest would have armed him with arguments
against the adoption of a foreign creed ; but his attachment
to paganism had been weakened by repeated disappointments,
and he had learnt to despise the gods who had neglected to|
reward his services.

2. That the religion which he had hitherto taught was use-|
less, he attempted to prove from his own misfortunes ; a
avowed his resolution to listen to the reasons and examine the!
doctrine of Paulinus. He was followed by an aged thane,
whose discourse offers an interesting picture of the simplicitjl

EDWIN, KING OF NOKTIIUMBRIA.

385

eft ; ^.

ng slave,

Qb,

the grave ;

lan form

worm,

less by ;
a

;ery ;
a.

ITHUMBRIA.

the great council, re-

and exposed to them

»r Christianity to the j

[riest of NorthumbriaJ

been expected, that

him with arguments

but his attachment

ated disappointments,

rho had neglected to

aerto taught was us^

Iwn misfortunes ; and

Isons and examine m

by an aged thane,

Iture of the simpUcitj

of the age. " When," said Ife, " O king, you and your minis-
ters are seated at table in the deptli of winter, and tlie cheer-
ful fire blazes on the hearth in the middle of the hall, a sparrow
perhaps, chased by the wind and snow, enters at one door of
the apartment, and escapes by the other.

3. " During the moment of its passage, it enjoys the warmth ;
when it is once departed, it is seen no more. Such is the na-
ture of man. During a few years his existence is visible ; but
what has preceded, or what will follow it, is concealed from
the view of mortals. If the new religion oflfers any informa-
tion on subjects so mysterious and important, it must be wor-
thy of our attention." To these reasons the other members
assented.

4. Paulinus was desired to explain the principal articles of
the Christian faith ; and the king expressed his determination
to embrace the doctrine of the missionary. When it was
asked, who would dare to profane the altars of Woden, Coiffi
accepted the dangerous office. Laying aside the emblems of
the priestly dignity, he assumed the dress of a warrior ; and
despising the prohibitions of Saxon superstition, mounted the
favorite charger of Edwin. By those who were ignorant
of his motives, his conduct was attributed to temporary in-
Banity.

5. But disregarding then* clamors, he proceeded to the
nearest temple, and bidding defiance to the gods of his fa-
thers, hurled his spear into the sacred edifice. It stuck in the
opposite wall ; and, to the surprise of the trembling spectators,
the heavens were silent, and the sacrilege was unpunished.
Insensibly they recovered their fears, and, encouraged by the
exhortations of Ooiffi, burnt to the ground the temple and the
sorroonding groves.

3S6

THE FOURTH BEADEB.

141. Cleanliness.

ADDISON.

• i

1. Cleanliness may be defined to be the emblem of purity
of mind, and may be recommended under the three following
heads : as it is & mark of politeness, as it produces affection,
and as it bears analogy to chastity of sentiment. First, it is
a mark of politeness, for it is universally agreed upon, that no
one unadorned with this virtue, can go into company without
giving a manifold offence ; the different nations of the world
are as much distinguished by their cleanliness, as by their arts
and sciences ; the more they are advanced in civilization, the
more they consult this part of politeness.

2. Secondly, cleanliness may be said to be the foster-mother
of affection. Beauty commonlv produces love, but cleanliness
preserves it. Age, itself, is not unamiable while it is preserved
clean and unsullied ; like a piece of metal constantly kept smooth
and bright, we look on it with more pleasure than on a new
vessel cankered with rust. I might further observe, that as
cleanliness renders us agreeable to others, it makes us easy to
ourselves ; that it is an excellent preservative of health ; and
that several vices, both of mind and body, are inconsistent
with the habit of it.

3. In the third place, it bears a great analogy with chastity
of sentiment, and naturally inspires refined feelings and pas-
sions ; we find from experience, that through the prevalence
of custom, the most vicious actions lose their horror by being
made familiar to us. On the contrary, those who live in the
neigliborhood of good examples, fly from the first appearance
of what is shocking : and thus pure and unsullied thoughts are
naturally suggested to the mind, by those objects that perpet-
ually encompass us when they are beautiful and elegant in

heir kind.

4. In the East, where the warmth of the climate makes
cleanliness more immediately necessary than in colder coun-
tries, it is a part of religion ; the Jewish law (as well as the
Mobammedaii, which in some things copies after it)» is filled

THERE WERE MERRT DATS IN ENGLAND.

387

\7ith bathings, purifications, and other rites of the like nature ;
and we read several injunctions of this kind in the Book of
Deuteronomy.

; emblem of purity
the three following
produces affection,
iment. First, it is
rreed upon, that no

company without
itions of the world
less, as by their arts
d in civilization, the

be the foster-mother
love, but cleanliness

1 while it is preserved
nstantly kept smooth

sure than on a new
ler observe, that as
it makes us easy to
ttive of health ; and
)dy, are inconsistent

nalogy with chastity
}d feelings and pas-
)ugh the prevalence
heir horror by being
Ihose who live in the
the first appearance
isuUied thoughts are
objects that perpet-
Itiful and elegant in

the climate makes

lan in colder coun-

[law (as well as the

U after it), is fiUed.

142. There were Merry Days in England.

J, E. CARPENTER.

'* Go call thy sons : instruct them whnt a debt
They owe their ancestors ; and make them swear
To pay it — by transmitting down entire
Those sacred riglits to which themselves were born."

Akensioe.

I. There were merry days in England — and a blush is on my

brow.
When I think of what our land has been, and what our

homes are now ;
When our peasantry and artisans were good as well as

brave,
And mildly heard the blessed truths the old religion gave.

There were merry days in England when a common lot we

felt,
When at one shrine, and in one faith, the peer and peasant

knelt ;
A faith that link'd in holy bonds the cottage and the

throne,
Before a thousand priests uprose — with each a creed — his

own!

\i There were merry days in England, when on the village

green,
The good old pastor that they loved, amid his flock was

seen ;
The parish church, that, even then, had seen an earlier

day,
There only, like their forefathers, the people went to pray.

\ y

3S8

THE FOURTH BEADEU.

There toere merry days in England — now mark the Sabbath

day,
How many scoflf the fanes wherein their good forefathers

lay;
Some " new light " glitters in their path — ^but let the truth

be told,
And who can say he's happier now than those who lived

of old ?

8. There were merry days in England — ere England's direst

foes
To clamor forth sedition, in their wickedness arose ;
To riot in the scenes from which, once, Britons would

recoil ; . (

To wreck a thous^and hearths and homes, and — ^fatten on

the spoil I

There were merry days in England — ere those traitors

snapp'd the chord —
The bond of faith and truth that bound the poor man to

the lord ;
When the people loved their rulers, their religion, and their

laws.
And the welfare of the nation was to all a sacrsd cause.

4. There were merry days in England — there were joys we

never knew,
Ere our poor men were so many, and our rich men were so

few ;
When by honor and integrity our sires would stand or

faU—
Before the great King Mammon was the kmg that goTem'd

aUl

•.-J^,«r*J: ^/

:r*/J .,

MEMORY AND nOP£.

889

mark the Sabbath

an those who lived

ire England's direst

mes, and — ^fatten on

—ere those traitors

-there were joys ve
)ur rich men were so
ires would stand or
ve king that goTem'd

* 143. Memory and Hope.

' PAULDING.

Jamkb Kikkk Paulding, born at Pawlings, on the Hudson, in 1779. Pauld-
ing'!* writings arc voluminous, and many of tliem of ureut intert'st. The
bust known, arc " The Dutchman's Fireside," and " Westward Ho 1"

1. Hope is the leading-string of youth; memory the staff of
age. Yet, for a long time they were at variance, and scarcely
ever associated together. Memory was almost always grave,
nay, sad and melancholy. She delighted in silence and repose,
amid rocks and waterfalls ; and whenever she raised her eyes
from the ground, it was only to look back over her shoulder.
Hope was a smiling, dancing, rosy boy, with sparkling eyes,
and it was impossible to look upon him without being inspired
by his gay and sprightly buoyancy. Wherever he went, he
diffused gladness and joy around him ; the eyes of the young
sparkled brighter than ever at his approach ; old age, as it
cast its dim glances at the blue vault of heaven, seemed in-
spired with new vigor ; the flowers looked more gay, the grass
more green, the birds sung more cheerily, and all nature
seemed to sympathize in his gladness. Memory was of mortal
birth, but Hope partook of immortality.

2. One day they chanced to meet, and Memory reproached
Hope with being a deceiver. She charged him with deluding
mankind with visionary, impracticable schemes, and exciting
expectations that led only to disappointment and regret; with
being the ignis fatuus of youth, and the scourge of old ago.
Bat Hope cast back upon her the charge of deceit, and main-
tained that the pictures of the past were as much exaggerated
by Memory, as were the anticipations of Hope. He declared
that she looked at objects at a great distance in the past, he
in the future, and that this distance magnified every thing.
"Let us make the circuit of the world," said he, "and try
the experiment." Memory reluctantly consented, and they
went their way together. - .

3. The first person they met was a school-boy, lounging
lazily along, and stopping every moment to gaze around, as if
unwilling to proceed on his way. By and by, he sat down,

390

THE FOURTH READER.

and burst into tears. "Whither so fast^ my good lad?"
asked Hope, jeeringly. " I am going to school," replied tlie
lad, " to study, when I would rather, a thousand times, be at
play ; and sit on a bench with a book in my hand, wliilo I
long to be sporting in the fields. But never mind, I shall Ije
a man soon, and then I shall be as free as the air." Sayinu
this, he skipped away merrily in the hope of soon being a man.
" It is thus you play upon the inexperience of youth," said
Memory, reproachfully.

4. Passing onward, they met a beautiful girl, pacing slowly
and with a melancholy air, behind a party of gay young meo
and maidens, who walked arm in arm with each other, and
were flirting and exchanging all those little harmless courtesies
which nature prompts on such occasions. They were all gayly
dressed in silks and ribbons ; but the little girl had on a siin
pie frock, a homely apron, and clumsy, thick-soled shoes,
" Why do you not join yonder group," asked Hope, " and par-
take in their gayety, my pretty little girl ?" "Alas!" replied
she, " they take no notice of me. They call me a child. But
I shall soon be a woman, and then I shall b^so happy!" In-
spired by this hope, she quickened her pace, and soon was seeo
dancing along merrily with the rest.

5. In this manner they wended their way from nation to
nation, and clime to clime, until they had made the circuit of
the universe. Wherever they came they found the humaD
race, who, at this time, were all young (it being not many
years since the first creation of mankind), repining at the
present, and looking forward to a riper age for happiness,
All anticipated some future good, and Memory had scarce
any thing to do but cast looks of reproach at her young com-i
panion.

6. "Let us return home," said she, "to that delightfiil|
spot where I first drew my breath. I long to repose amoD?|
its beautiful bowers ; to listen to the brooks that murmurdj
a thousand times more musically; to the birds that sungJ
thousand times more sweetly; and to the echoes thatwert|
softer than any I have since heard. Ah I there is nothing
earth so enchanting as the scenes of my early youth 1" Hoi

MEMOBT AND UOPK.

3f)l

%st, my good kd?"
school," replied tlie
;housaud times, l)e ai
in my hand, while I
lever mind, I shall W
as the air." Sayin;;
1 of soon being a man.
ence of youth," said

ful girl, pacuig slowly
pty of gay young men
with each other, and
tie harmless courtesies
They were all gayly |
ttle girl htid on a siin
isy, thick-soled shoes,
iskedHope, " and par-
rl?" "Alas I" replied I
T call me a child. But
all bfr^o happy!" In-
)ace, and soon was seen

ir way from nation to
ladmade the circuit ol
hey found the humaii
ig (it being not many
kmd), repining at tlie
per age for happiness,!
d Memory had scaml
ach at her young coni:

, "to that delightfoll
long to repose amonjl
brooks that murmurdl
the birds that sungJ
the echoes thatwenj
h ! there is nothing o
^ early youthl" Hop

indulged himself in a sly, significant smile, and they proceeded
on their return home.

7. As they journeyed but slowly, many years elapsed ere
they approached the spot from which they liad departed. It
so happened one day, that they met an old man, bcrKling un-
der the weight of years, and walking with trembling steps,
leaning on his staflf. Memory at once recognized him as the
youth they had seen going to school, on their first onset in
the tour of the world. As they came nearer, the old man re-
clined on his stafr, and looking at Hope, who, being immortal,
was still a blithe, young boy, sighed, as if his heart was break-
ing. " What aileth thee, old man ?" asked the youth. " What
aileth me ?" he replied, in a feeble, faltering voice. " What
should ail me, but old age ? I have outlived my health and
strength ; I have survived all that was near and dear ; I have
seen all that I loved, or that loved me, struck down to the
earth like dead leaves in autumn; and now I stand like an old
tree, withering, alone in the world, without roots, without
branches, and without verdure. I have only just enough of
sensation to know that I am miserable, and the recollection of
the happiness of my youthful days, when, careless and full of
blissful anticipations, I was a laughing, merry boy, only adds
to the miseries I now endure."

8. " Behold 1" said Memory, "the consequence of thy de-
|ceptions," and she looked reproachfully at her companion.

" Behold 1" replied Hope, " the deception practised by thyself.
Thou persuadest him that he was happy in his youth. Dost
thou remember the boy we met when we first set out to-
gether, who was weeping on his way to school, and sighed to
I be a man ?" Memory cast down her eyes, and was silent.

9. A little way onward they came to a miserable cottage,
I at the door of which was an aged woman, meanly clad, and

shaking with palsy. She sat all alone, her head resting on her
Ibosom, and, as the pair approached, vainly tried to raise it up
Ito look at them. " Good-morrow, old lady, ai-d all happiness
Ito you," cried Hope, gayly, and the old woman thought it
[was a long time since she had heard such a cheering saluta-
Ition. "Happiness I" said she, in a voice that quivered with

392

THE FOURTH READER.

weakness and infirmity. " Happiness 1 I have not known it
since I was a little girl, witiiout care or sorrow. Oh, I rC'
member those delightful days, when I thought of nothinj:: but
the present moment, nor cared for the future or the past.
When I laughed, and played, and sung, from mornin«r till
night, and envied no one, and wished to be no other than I
was. But those happy times are passed, never to return.
Oh, could I but once more return to the days of my chiM-
hood!" The old woman sunk back on her spat, and the tears
flowed from her hollow eyes. Memory again reproached lur
companion, but he only asked her if she recollected the little
girl they had met a long time ago, who was so miserable b^
cause she was so young ? Memory knew it well enough, and
said not another word.

10. They now approached their home, and Memory was on
tiptoe with the thought of once more enjoying the unequalled
beauties of thr'se scenes from which she had been so long
separated. But, some how or other, it seemed that they were
sadly changed. Neither the grass was so green, the flowers
so sweet and lovely, nor did the brooks murmur, the echoes
answer, nor the birds sing half so enchantingly, as she remem-
bered them in time past. "Alas!" she exclaimed, "how
changed is every thing I I alone am the same 1" " Every
thing is the same, and thou alone art changed," answered
Hope. " Thou hast deceived thyself in the past, just as much
as I deceive others in the future." -;

11. "What are you disputing about?" asked an old man,
whom they had not observed before, though he was standing
close by them. " I have lived almost fouracore and ten years,
and my experience may, perhaps, enable me to decide between
you." They told him the occasion of their disagreement, and
related the history of their journey round the earth. The old
man smiled, and, for a few moments, sat buried in thouglit.
He then said to them : "I, too, have lived to see all the hopes |
of my youth turn into shadows, clouds, and darkness, ai
vanish into nothing. I, too, have survived my fortune, my I
friends, my children; the hilarity of youth, and the blessing of |
health." " And dost thou not despair ?" said Memory. " No,

( , -y .

have not known it
sorrow. Oh, 1 re-
ight of nothing but
uture or the past.
from morninjjf till
be no other tiian I
i, never to return.
I days of my cliiM-
• spat, and the tears
jain reproached liir
ecollected the little
nvlb so miserable be«
it well enough, and

and Memory was on
)ying the unequalled
3 had been so long
emed that they were
green, the flowers
murmur, the echoes
ingly, as she remera-
e exclaimed, "how
same 1" " Every
changed," answered
le past, just as much

asked an old man,
»gh he was standing
•score and ten years,
le to decide between
ir disagreement, and
the earth. The old

buried in thought.

to see all the hopes

and darkness, and
[ved my fortune, my I

and the blessing of I
Isaid Memory. "No,

LOVK OF COUNTRY. 893

I have still one hope left me." " And what is that ?" " The
hope of heaven 1"

12. Memory tuiucd towards Hope, threw herself into his
arms, which 0])ened to receive her, and, bursting into tears,
exclaimed: " Forgive me, I have done thee injustice. Let us
never again separate from each other." " With all my heart,"
said Hope, and they continued forever after to travel to-
gether, hand in hand, through the world.

144. Love of Country.

f BOOTT.

1. Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

"This is my own, my native land I"
Whose heart has ne'er within him bum'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,

From wandering on a foreign strand 7
If such there breathe, go, mark him well ;
For him no mmstrcl raptures swell :

2. High though his titles, proud his name.
Boundless his wealth as wish can claun ;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self.
Living, shall forfeit fair renown ;
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from which he sprung,
Unwept, nnhonor'd, and unsung.

8 Caledonia ! stem and wild,

Meet nurse for a poetic child

Land of brown heath and shaggy wood

Land of the mountain and the flood.
17*

r. ■;- '

39 1

THR FOURTH READER.

Land of my Rircs ; what mortal hand

Can e'er untie the fiUal band,

That knits me to thy rigged strand t

146. The Charmed Serpent.

OHATEAUBRIAND.

Francois Auoustk, Vioomte db Ciiatkacbriand, bom at St. MhIo,
Franco, in 1768; died in 1S4H. Tho naino ofClmteaubriund iu'one of tliose
of which Frunoo will ever Iks jiirttly proud. His writinf^s are ainonf; the Hrst
of tho modern Frefich cIiissIch, and belong? to a period winch may bo calkd
the Christian lievival in Franco. IIi.s grcatCHt works are tho " Genius of
Christianity," and "Tho ^I'H'tyrH." Amonif hirt other literary nchievu-
mcnti), Chateaubriand translated Miltou'b " ruradise LoMt," into Frencii.

1. One day, while we were encamped in a spacioul plain on
the bank of the Genesee River, wo saw a rattlesnake. There
was a Canadian in our party who could play on the flute, and
to divert us he advanced toward the serpent with his new
species of weapon. On the approach of his enemy, the
haughty reptile curls himself into a spiral line, flattens his
head, inflates his cheeks, contracts his lips, displays his enven-
omed fangs and his bloody throat. His double tongue glows
like two flames of fire ; his eyes are burning coals ; his body,
swollen with rage, rises and falls like the bellows of a forge ;
his dilated skin assumes a dull and scaly appearance ; and his
tail, which sends forth an ominous sound, vibrates with such
rapidity as to resemble a light vapor.

2. The Canadian now begins to play on his flute. The
serpent starts with surprise and draws back his head. In
proportion as he is struck with the magic sound, his eyes lose
their fierceness, the oscillations of his tail diminish, and the
noise which it emits grows weaker, and gradually dies away.
The spiral folds of the charmed serpent, diverging from the
perpendicular, expand, and one after Ihe other sink to the
ground in concentric circles. The tints of azure, green, white,
and gold, recovc. their brilliancy on his quivering skin, and,
slightly turning his head, he remains motionless in the attitude
of attention and pleasure. . .l - -,.

TWO VIKW8 OF NATURE.

•805

8. At this raomont the Canadian adranccd a fow Ptops,
prodiicin}^ with his flute sweet mh] simplo notes. Tlie reptile
iiiiiiii'(liately h)wei's his varicfifatcd neck, opens a passajj^e with
his iiead through tlio slender ^rasa, and be^lrn to creep alter
the musician, lialtin^ wlien he halts, an(J ti^ruiu rollowini!: hi:n
A lien he resinnes his mareh. In ii, -^ wav he Wms led hevoiid
iho limits of our camp, attended by a grcnt numherof f^prcta-
tors, both savages and Europeans, who could searcely believo
tlieir eyes. After witnessing this wonderful eflFeet of melody,
the assembly unanimously decided that the marvellous serpeut
should be permitted to escape.

146. Two Views of Naturk.

OIIATBAUBIUAND.

1. We often rose at midnight and sat down upon deck, where
ive found only the officer of the watch and a few sailors silent-
ly smoking their pipes. No noise was heard, save the dashing
of the prow through the billows, while sparks of fire ran with
a white foam along the sides of the vessel. God of Chris-
tians I it is on the waters of the abyss and on the vast expanse
of the heavens that thou hast particularly engraven the char-
acters of thy omnipotence I Millions of stars sparkling in the
azure of the celestial dome — the moon in the midst of the fir-
mament — a sea unbounded by any shore — infinitude in the skies
and on the waves — proclaim with most impressive effect the
power of thy arm 1 Never did thy greatness strike me with
profounder awe than in those nights, when, suspended between
the stars and the ocean, I beheld immensity over my head and
immensity beneath my feet I

2. I am nothing ; I am only a simple, solitary wanderer,
ai!d often have I heard men of science disputing on the subject
of a Supreme Being, without understanding them ; but I have
invariably remarked, that it is in the prospect of the sublime
scenes of nature that this unknown Behig manifests himself to
the human heart. One evening, after we had reached the

,>"'

"'^

39(^

THE FOURTH READER.

beautiful waters that bathe the shores of Virginia, there was
a profound calm, and every sail was furled. I was engaged
below, when I heard the bell that summoned the crew to
prayers. I hastened to mingle my supplications with those of
my travelling companions. ^ The officers of the ship were on
the quarter-deck with the passengers, while the chaplain, with
a book in his hand, was stationed at a little distance before
them ; the seamen were scattered at random over the poop ;
we were all standing, our faces toward the prow of the ves-
ee!, which was turned to the west, v »

3. The solar orb, about to sink beneath the waves, was
seen through the rigging, in the midst of boundless space;
and, from the motion gf the stern, it appeared as if it changed
its horizon every moment. A few clouds wandered confusedly
in the east, wl^ere the moon was slowly rising. The rest of
the sky was serene ; and toward the north, a water-spout,
forming a glorious triangle with the luminaries of day and
night, and glistening with all the colors of the prism, rose from
the sea, like a oolumu of crystal supporting the vault of
heaven. >

4. He had been well deserving of pity who would not have
recognized in this prospect the beauty of God. When ray
companions, doffing their tarpaulin hats, entoned with hoarse
voice their simple hymn to Our Lady of Good Help, the pa-
troness of the seas, the tears flowed from my eyes in spite of
myself. How affecting was 'the prayer of those men, who,
from a frail plank in the midst of the ocean, contemplated the
sun setting behind the waves 1

5. How the appeal of the poor sailor to the Mother of
Sorrows went to the heart I The consciousness of our insig-
nificance in the presence of the Infinite, — our hymns, resound-
ing to a distance over the silent waves, — the night approach-
ing with its danirers, — our vessel, itself a wonder among so
many wonders, a religious crew, penetrated with admiration
and with awe, — a venerable priest in prayer, — the Almighty
bending over the abyss, with one hand staying the sun in the
west, with the other raising the moon in the east, and lending,
through all immensity, an attentive ear to the feeble voice of

TWO VIEWS OF NATURE.

397

glnia, there was
I wab engaged
led the crew to
ins with those of
he ship were on
le chaplain, with
distance before
I oTcr the poop ;
prow of the ves-

i the waves, was
boundless space;
a as if it changed
adered confusedly
inff. The rest of
li, a water-spout,
aries of day and
e prism, rose from
injr the vault of

lO would not have

IGod. When ray

loned with hoarse

lod Help, the pa-

y eyes in spite of

those men, who,

contemplated the

the Mother of
less of our iusig-

hymns, resound-

night approach-
ronder among so

with admiration
r,— the Almighty
tgthe sun in the
least, and lending,
Ihe feeble voice of

his creatures, — all this constituted a scene which no power of
art can represent, and which it is scarcely possible for the
heart of man to feel.

6. Let us now pass to the terrestrial scene.

I had wandered one evening in the woods, at some distance
flora the cataract of Niagara, when soon the last glimmering
of daylight disappeared, and I enjoyed, in all its loneliness,
the beauteous prospect of night amid the deserts of the New
World.

7. An hour after sunset, the moon appeared above the trees
in the opposite part of the heavens. A balmy breeze, which
the queen of night had brought with her from the east, seem-
ed to precede her in the forests, like hw perfumed breath.
The lonely luminary slowly ascended in the firmanent, now
peacefully pursuing her azure course, and now reposing on
groups of clouds which resembled the summits of lofty, snow-
covered mountains. These clouds, by the contraction and
expansion of their vapory forms, rolled themselves into trans-
parent zones of white satin, scattering in airy masses of foam,
or forming in the heavens brilliant beds of down so lovely to
the eye that you would have imagined you felt their softness
and elasticity.

8. The scenery on the earth was not less enchanting : the
I soft and bluish beams of the moon darted through the inter*

viils between the trees, and threw streams of light into the
I midst of the most profound darkness. The river that glided
at my feet was now lost in the wood, and now reappearing,
glistening with the constellations of night, which were reflect-
ed on its bosom. In a vast plain beyond this stream, the ra-
|(liance of the moon reposed quietly* on the verdure.

9. Birch-trees, scattered here and there in the savanna, and
I agitated by the breeze, formed shadowy islands which floated

on a motionless sea of light. Near me, all was silence and
I repose, save the fall of some leaf, the transient rustling of a
pdden breath of wind, or the hooting of the owl ; but at a
Idistance was beard, at intervals, the solemn roar of the Falls
lof Niagara, which in the stillness of the night, was prolonged
mm desert to desert, and died away among the solitary forests.

398

THK FOUKXrf EEADER.

10. The grandeur, the astonishing solemnity of the scene,
cannot be expressed in language ; nor can the most delightful
nights of Europe aflford any idea of it. In vain does imagina-
tion attempt to soar in our cultiyated fields ; it everywhere
meets with the habitations of men : but in those wild regions
the mind loves to penetrate into an ocean of forests, to hover
round the abysses of cataracts, to meditate on the banks of
lakes and rivers, and, as it were, to find itself alone with God.

147. The Holy "Wells of Ireland.

■■; *^v^. -'^''-V--*-" '■' FBASEB. .^"'^ :'" i ,

John Fraser, more generally known by his nom deplume, " J. De Jean,"
was born near Birr, in King's county, on the banks of tiie river Brosna
and died in Dublin in 1849, about 40 years of age. lie was an artihan-;,
cabinet-maker; a steady and unassuming workman, — enjoying the rcsput
of his fellow-workmen, and the friendship of those to whom he was known
by his literary and poetic talents. He possessed much mental power,— anl
had his means permitted him to cultivate and refine his poetic mind, Le
would have occupied a higher position as a poet than is now allotttd him,
As it is, lie has clothed noble thoughts in terse and harmonious laii<ruii!.'t;
in his descriptive ballads bo depicts, in vivid colors, the scenery of hi:* lui- 1
tive district, with all the natural fondness of one describing sccucb lial- 1
lowed by memories of childhood and maturer years.

1. The holy wells — the living wells — the cool, the fresh, tlie|

pure —
•A thousand ages roU'd away, and still those founts endure,]
As full and sparkling as they flow'd, ere slave or tyrant]

trod
The emerald garden set apart for Irishmen by God 1
And while their stainless chastity and lasting life have birth,
Amid the oozy cells and caves of gross, material earth,
The scripture of creation holds no fairer type than they- 1
That an inunortal spirit can be link'd with human clay !

2. How sweet, of old, the bubblmg gush — ^no less to antleredj The

race,
Than to the hunter, and the hound, that smote them in tliej
chase 1

THE HOLY WELI^ OF IBBLAND.

399

nnity of the scene,
the most delightful
vain does iraagiiia-
Ids; it everywhere
those wild regions
of forests, to hover
,e on the banks of
telf alone with God.

Ireland.

nkaof the river Brosna
Q He was an artl^all-;.
vn — cnioviiiL' tlie rispnt
e t(» v!\\on\ he was known
nuch mental povvcr,--iinl
tine his poetic mim , lie
than is now allottt-d l:im.
id iiarnionious lany:imi':
•rs, tlie scenery ot h\*m-
e describing sceueh lial-

irs.

In forest depths the water-fount beguiled the Druid's love,
From that celestial fount of fire which warm'd from worlds

above ; , .

Inspired apostles took it for a centre to the ring,
When sprinkling round baptismal life — salvation — from the

spring ;
And in the sylvan solitude, or lonely mountam cave,
Beside it pass'd the hermit's life, as stainless as its wave.

|3 The cottage hearth, the convent wall, the battlemented

tower,
Grew up around the crystal springs, as well as flag and

flower ;
The brooklime and the water-cress were evidence of health,
Abiding in those basins, free to poverty and wealth :
The city sent pale sufferers there the faded brow to dip,
And woo the water to depose some bloom upon the lip ;
The wounded warrior dragged him towards the unforgotten

tide.
And deemed the draught a heavenlier gift than triumph to

his side.

e cQol, the fresh,

The stag, the hunter, and the hound, the Druid and the
saint.

And anchorite are gone, and even the lineaments grown
faint.

Of those old ruins, into which, for monuments had sunk

The glorious homes that held, like shrines, the monarch and
the monk ;

So far into the heights of God the mind of man has ranged,

It leam'd a lore to change the earth — ^its very self it
changed

To some more bright intelligence ; yet still the springs en-
dure,

—no less to antlereiB The same fresh fountains, but become more precious to the

poor 1

those founts endure,
, ere slave or tyrant

iimen by God 1
fasting life have birth,

Is, material earth,
Ur type than they-
[with human clay I

lat smote them in tliil

For knowledge has abused its powers, an empire to erect

400

THK FOURTH EKADKR.

For tyrants, on the rights the poor had given them to pro-

tect ; ...

Till now the simple elements of nature are their all,
That from the cabin is not filch'd, and lavish'd in the hall—
And while night, noon, or morning meal no other plenty

brings,
No beverage than the water draught from old, spontaneous |

springs, •

They, sure, may deem them holy wells, that yield, from day I

to day,
One blessing which no tyrant hand can tamt, or take away. I

148. Wants.

PAULDING.

1. Everybody, young and old, children and graybeards, ha
heard of the renowned Haroun Al Raschid, the hero of EastJ
em history and Eastern romance, and the most illustrious of
the caliphs of Bagdad, that famous city on which the light i
learning and science shone, long ere it dawned on the benight^
ed regions of Europe, which has since succeediBd to the dladoa
that once glittered on the brow of Asia. Though as the sdci
cessor of the Prophet he exercised a despotic sway over tliJ
lives and fortunes of his subjects, yet did he not, like the Eas|
em despots of more modern times, shut himself up within tli|
walls of his palace, hearing nothing but the adulation of
dependants ; seeing nothing but the shadows which surroundei
him ; and knowing nothing but what he received through W
medium of interested deception or malignant falsehood.

2. That he might see with his own eyes, and hear with li
own ears, he was accustomed to go about through the streelf
of Bagdad by night, in disguise, accompanied by Glafer ttf
Barmecide, his grand vizier, and Mesrour, his executioner ; oa
to give him his counsel, the other to fulfil his commanJ
promptly, on all occasions. If he saw any commotion amoif
the people, he mixed with them and learned its cause ; i

roc

WANTS.

401

a given them to pro-

j are their aU,
iavish'd in the hall-
meal no other plenty |

rom old, spontaneous

?, that yield, from daj

,n taint, or takeaway.!

en and graybeards,liiu
chid, the hero of Eastj
the most illustrious oj
r on which the light o|
awned on the beiiiglit|
iicceeded to the diadcn
I. Though as the m
espotic sway over tliJ
d he not, like the Eastj
; himself up within thj
it the adulation of liir
dows which surroundd
te received through til
rnant falsehood,
eyes, and hear with!
out through the streej
rapanied by Giafer tM
ir, his executioner ; oJ
;o fulfil his commanj
any commotion amoJ
larned its cause ;

in passing a house he heard the moaniogs of distress, or the
complaints of suffering, he entered, for the purpose of admin-
istering relief. Thus he made himself acquainted with the
condition of his subjects, and often heard those salutary truths
wiiich never reached his ears through the walls of his palace,
or from the lips of the slaves that surrounded him.

3. On one of these occasions, as Al Raschid was thus per-
ambulating the streets at night, in disguise, accompanied by
his vizier and his executioner, in passing a splendid mansion he
overheard, through the lattice of a window, the complaints of
some one who seemed in the deepest distress, and silently ap-
proaching, looked into an apartment exhibiting all the signs of
wealth and luxury. On a sofa of satin embroidered with gold,
and sparkling with brilliant gems, he beheld a man richly
dressed, in whom he recognized his favorite boon companion
Bedreddin, on whom he had showered wealth and honors with
more than Eastern prodigality. He was stretched out on the
sofa, slapping his forehead, tearing his beard, and moaning
pltcously, as if in the extremity of suffering. At length, start-
ing up on his feet, he exclaimed in tones of despair, " Al-
lah! I beseech thee to relieve me from my misery, and take
away my life I"

4. The Commander of the Faithful, who loved Bedreddin,
pitied his sorrows, and being desirous to know their cause,
that he might relieve them, knocked at the door, which was
opened by a black slave, who, on being informed that they
were strangers in want of food and rest, at once admitted
them, and informed his master, who called them into his pres-
ence and bade them welcome. A plentiful feast was spread
before them, at which the master of the house sat down with
his guests, but of which he did not partake, but looked on,
sigliing bitterly all the while.

5. The Commander of the Faithful at length ventured to
ask him what caused his distress, and why he refrained from
partaking in the feast with his guests, in proof that they were
welcome. " Hath Allah afflicted thee with disease, that thou
canst not enjoy the blessings he has bestowed ? Thou art sur-
rounded by all the splendor that wealth can procure ; thy

,f:'H

402

THB FOUBTH READER.

dwelling is a palace, and its apartments are adorned with all
the luxuries which captivate the eye, or administer to the
gratification of the senses. Why is it then, my brother,
that thou art miserable ?"

6. " True, O stranger I" replied Bedreddin. " I have all
these. I have health of body ; I am rich enough to purchase
all that wealth can bestow, and if I required more wealth and
honors, I am the favorite companion of the Commander of the
Faithful, on whose head lie the blessings of Allah, and of
whom I have only to ask, to obtain all I desire, save one
thing only."

1. "And what is that?" asked the caliph. "Alas II
adore the beautiful Zuleima, whose face is like the full moon,
whose eyes are brighter and softer than those of the gazelle,
and whose mouth is like the seal of Solomon. But she loves
another, and all my wealth and honors are as nothing. The
want of one thing renders the possession of every other of do
value. I am the most wretched of men ; my life is a burden,
and my death would be a blessing."

8. "By the beard of the Prophet," cried the caliph, "I
swear thy case is a hard one. But Allah is great and power-
ful, and will, I trust, either deliver thee from thy burden, or
give thee strength to bear it." Then thanking Bedreddin for
his hospitality, the Commander of the Faithful departed with j
his companions.

149. "Wants — continued.

1. Taking their way toward that part of the city inhabited
by the poorer classes of people, the caliph stumbled over
something, in the obscurity of night, and was nigh falling
to the ground: at the same moment a voice cried out, "Allah,
preserve me I Am I not wretched enough already, *l\at 1
must be trodden under foot by a wandering beggar like, my
self, in the darkness of night I"

. 2. Mezrour the executioner, indignant at this insult to the
Commander of the Faithful, was preparing to cut off his head,

WANTS.

403

•e adorned with all
■ administer to tlie
;hen, my brother,

iddin. " I have all
enough to purchase
•ed more wealth and
e Commander of tlie
rs of Allah, and oi
1 I desire, save one

caliph. " Alas 1 1
5 like the full raoon,
those of the gazcllo,
mon. But she loves
are as nothing. The
of every other of no
; my life is a burden,

cried the caliph, "1
is great and power-
from thy burden, or 1
lankingBedreddinfor!
aithful departed with

led,

of the city inhabited

[jaliph stumbled over

md was nigh falling

fee cried out, " Allab,

)ugh already, *hat 1]

ring beggar ilko. my

It at this insult to tlie|
Ig to cut off his head,

when Al Raschid interposed, and inquired of the beggar his
mime, and why he was there sleeping in the streets at that
hour of the night.

"Mashallah," replied he, "I sleep in the street because
I have nowhere else to sleep ; and if I lie on a satin sofu, my
pains and infirmities would rob me of rest. "Whether on divans
of silk, or in the dirt, all one to me, for neither by day nor by
night do I know any rest. If I close my eyes for a moment,
my dreams are of nothing but feasting, and I awake only to
feel more bitterly the pangs of hunger and disease."

3. " Hast thou no home to shelter thee, no friends o^
kindred to relieve thy necessities, or administer to thy infirmi-
ties?"

"No," replied the beggar; "my house was consumed by
fire; my kindred are all dead, and my friends have deserted
me. Alas 1 stranger, I am in want of every thing — health,
food, clothing, home, kindred, and friends. I am the most
wretched of mankind, and death alone can relieve me."

4. " Of one thing, at least, I can relieve thee," said the
caliph, giving him his purse. " Go and provide thyself food
and shelter, and may Allah restore thy health."

The beggar took the purse, but instead of calling down
blessings on the head of his benefactor, exclaimed, " Of what
use is money? it cannot cure disease;" and the caliph again
went on his way with Giafer his vizier, and Mesrour his exe-
cutioner.

5. Passing from the abodes of want and misery, they at
length reached a splendid palace, and seeing lights glimmering
from the windows, the caliph approached, and lookmg through
the silken curtains, beheld a man walking backward and for-
ward, with languid step, as if oppressed with a load of cares.
At length; casting himself down on a sofa, he stretched out
his limbs, an A yawning desperately, exclaimed, " Allah I
what shall I do 1 what will become of me I I am weary of

'e ; it is nothing but a cheat, promising what it never pur-
i poses, and affording only hopes that end in disappointment,
j or, if realized, only in disgust."

6. The curiosity of the caliph being awakened to know wiie

404

THE FOURTH BRADRR.

cause of his despair, be ordered Mesrour to knock at the door;
which beiug opened, they pleaded the privilege of strangers to
enter for rest and refreshments. Again, in accordance with
the precepts of the Koran and the customs of the East, the
strangers were admitted to the presence of the lord of the
palace, who received them with welcome, and directed n-
freshments to be brought. But though he treated his guests
with kindness, he neither sat down with them, nor asked any
questions, nor joined in their discourse, walking back and
forth languidly, and seeming oppressed with a heavy burden
of sorrows.

7. At length the caliph Approached him reverently, and
said: "Thou seemest sorrowful, O my brother 1 If thy suf-
fering is of the body, I am a physician, and peradventure ciui
afford thee relief ; for I have travelled into distant lands, and
collected very choice remedies for human infirmity."

" My sufferings are not of the body, but of the mind," an-
swered the other.

" Hast thou lost the beloved of thy heart, the friend of thy
bosom, or been disappointed in the attainment of that oa
which thou hast rested all thy hopes of happiness ?"

8. " Alas ! no. I have been disappointed, not in the
means, but in the attainment of happiness. I want nothing
but a want. I am cursed with the gratification of all my
wishes, and the fruition of all ray hopes. I have wasted m
life in the acquisition of riches that only awakened new dt-
BU'es, and honors that no longer gratify my pride or repay rae
for the labor of sustaininpf them. I have been cheated in the
pursuit of pleasures that weary me in the enjoyment, and am
perishmg for lack of the excitement of some new want. I
have every thing I wish, yet enjoy nothing."

9. " Thy case is beyond my skill," replied the caliph ; and
the man cursed with the fruition of all his detires turned his
back on him in despair. The caliph, after thanking him for
his hospitality, departed with his companions, and when they
had reached the street, exclaimed —

" Allah, preserve me 1 I will no longer fatigue myself
in a vain pursuit, for it is impossible to confer happiness oq

VESUVlUa AND THE BAT OF MAPLES.

405

such a perverse generation. I see it is all the same, whether
a man wants one thing, every thing, or nothing. Let us go
home and sleep."

150. VkSUVIUS AND THE BaY OF NaPLES.

HA8KIN8.

Rkv. Okoroe FoxoRorr Hasktns, Rector of the House of the Angel Guar-
diun, Boston. Mr. HHskins is a native of New EnicflaiicI, at»d u convert to
tlie Ctttholic faith. To liis piety and zeal the Catholics of Boston are in-
debted for that trulv valuable aaylura for boy», the House of the Angel
Giiurdian. His "Travels in England, France, Itwly, and Ireland," is a
pleusing and well-written vohune, furnishing some interesting views of
men and things in the countries visited by him.

1. One of our first promenades, after our arrival in Naples,
was along the quay, in order to catch a distant view of Mount
Vesuvius. There it was in all its grandeur, vomiting forth
that eternal column of smoke ; and as I stood contemplating
it, I remembered well the feelings with which, many and
many a time while I was a boy, I had read and heard of that
same Vesuvius, and of its dreadful eruptions, and of the de-
struction of Pompeii and Herculaneum, and had in imagination
seen the fiery floods, and the ashes, and the darkness, and felt
the trembling of the earth, and fled with the terrified inhab-
itants.

2. Little did I then think that these eyes would ever behold
that mount, or these feet stand on flags of that lava that had
buried Herculaneum ; yet here I was, traversing streets en-
tirely paved with that same lava, and there, directly before
me, in solemn grandeur, stood that same mountain caldron
that had boiled over and ejected it. The evening was warm,
and the sky serene and almost cloudless ; and desirous of see-
j ing the bay and mountain to greater advantage, we stepped
I into a boat, and bade the boatman row us oflf for one hour.

3. We glided softly over the glassy surface of the bay for
I that space of time, and then, havmg turned our boat's head

towards Naples, we contemplated the scene before us with
I sentiments of admiration altogether indescribable. The sun
I was just setting in all that blaze of splendor so peculiar to an

406

THE FOURTH BEADKR.

Italian sunset. There were a few long, narrow strips of cloud
above the horizon, just sufficient to catch and retain the rich-
est of his tints.

4. The deep colorings and changing hues that melted one
into the other, and cast their declining radiance on the bosom
of the waters, and the peculiar transparency of the deep blue
vault above, convinced me of that which before I never be-
lieved — that in an Italian sky and sunset there is something
surpassingly beautiful, and such as is never witnessed elsewhere.
The sunset, however, was not all. We were in the Bay of
Naples, the most magnificent in the world. Before us was
that vapt and beautiful city itself, numbering four hundred
thousand inhabitants, forming a splendid amphitheatre. Its
elegant quay, its castles, its palaces, its domes and minarets,
fringed with sunset hues, a£forded|p^pectacle of cxtraordinuy
beauty. ^M^

5. On the right, at the distance of about six miles, rose
Vesuvius, the sun shining on its summit, and reddening with a
fiery glow the volumes of smoke that were rolling perpendicu-
larly from its mysterious crater. On the wide-extended plain
at its foot, and within sight, lay those hapless cities that have
so often and so fatally witnessed its terrible and devastating
eruptions. There was Torre del Greco, that about fifty years
since was completely buried with lava, and Portici, and Resi-
ni, and Torre del Annunciata. There also were Herculaneum
and Pompeii, whose sad history is but too well known to all.

6. On the left rose the craggy promontory of Pausilippo, and
farther distant that of Miseno, and the towns of Pozzuoli and
Bala. There were also in view the islands of Ischia and Pro
cida, and Capri and Nisida. All was classic ground, and each
spot remarkable for some heroic achievement, or venerable as-
sociation of a people long since extinct. We glided homeward
in silence, and the regular stroke of the oars beat time to our
meditations. About an hour after sunset we landed on the

quay.

IRELAND.

407

w strips of cloua
i retain the rich-

that melted one
Qce on the bosom

of tiie deep blue
acfore I never be-
there is something
itnessed elsewhere,
ere in the Bay of
1. Before us was
ring four hundred
amphitheatre. Its
)rae8 and minarets,
cleof extraordin.\.y

,out six miles, rose
Qd reddening with a
5 rolling perpendictt-
wide-extended plain
less cities that have
lie a.ia devastating
at about fifty years
portici, and B«si-
were Herculaneura
^ well known to all.
y of Pausilippo, and
ns of Pozzuoli and
, of Ischia and Pro-
ic ground, and each
nt, or venerable as-
e glided homeward
rs beat time to our

161. Ibeland.

HASKINB.

1. On the evening of the 24th day of Jnly, we took passage
at Liverpool, in the steamer " Iron Duke," for Dublin, where
we arrived on the morning of the 25th. It was a lovely morn-
ing : the sun was shining brightly, illumining with pencil of
lire the turrets, cottages, and princely mansions on either shore,
and gilding with its mysterious tints the hill of Howth on one
side, and the mountains of Wicklow on the other. There is
not perhaps a bay in the world, if we except that of Naples,
that is so beautiful, and altogether lovely, as the bay of Dub-
lin. It is, moreover, vast, commodious, and perfectly safe.
Frigates and merchantmen pf the largest size, and yachts
|beaatifal and buoyant as swljj^j^ay ride securely on the bosom
fits waters.

As I stood on the deck of the Iron Duke, inhaling the

grant land-breeze that rippled the glassy surface of the bay,

thoughts kept crowding and crowding upon me — thoughts which

could not banish if I would, and would not if I could. Not

10 much the surpassing beauties of Dublin Bay ; not the lordly

11 of Howth, and the glens and mountains of Wicklow, and

Ihe distant hills and verdant vales of Meath ; not the islands,

id bluffs, and friendly lighthouses along the coast ; not the

and gardens, that grew every instant more distinct and

autiful as we bowled along ; not the sandy beach, hard and

lean as tidy housewife's floor ; nor steep banks and stately

omontories ; not these, I say, so much engrossed my mind,

the single, solitary fact, that I was now at last, in good,

orious old Ireland.

3. Ireland, all hail ! Thou art to me no stranger.
11 well I know thee. I have known and honored thee
m my earliest childhood. Well do I remember the de-

we landed on ^^^ ^-^^^ which I read, and the ardor with which I learned,

speeches of thy orators, statesmen, and patriots — of Burke,
Qrattan, and Curran, and Sheridan, and Emmet, and Rus-
and Phillips ; and how afterwards, a student in a ProteS'

408

THK FOURTU BEADER.

tant college, I gloated over the works of Donn Swift, niKl
Sterne, and Tom Moore; and sympathized with thy bravot
Hons, in their repeated struggles for froclloYn; and adniirrd
the exploits of thy warriors and men-at-arms — thy IJrism !>,.
roimhes, and Malachys, and O'Briens, and O'Neils, and Sars-
fields, and McCarthys, and Fitzgeralds, and O'lleillys.

4. Never can I forget the little Irish boy, my own pupil,
who, in exchange for the letters I taught him, first tuugiit iw
Christianity; noT the Irish servant in my paternal mansion,
who first made me acquainted with a Catholic priest — the Ucv.
Mr. Taylor, whose memory is venerated in Boston; nor tlie
Irishman in my father's employ, who lent me Catholic books,
and a Catholic paper, printed in Hartford, and in whose houNo
I made the acquaintance of the late William Wiley, who after-
wards became my spiritual counsellor and father, and rtceivdl
me into the bosom of the Catholic Church, saying to mo, as
the Son of God said to the paralytic, " My child, be of good
cheer; thy sins are forgiven thee."

5. Solomon says, " One may be rich, though he hath notli-
ing." This is true of thee, land of Erin. Outwardly thoii
art in rags, poverty-stricken, famine-stricken; but within
bright and glorious, true as the needle to the pole,
even unto death, awaiting the crown of life. Truly thou a;
a land of saints; for I do believe that no nation on earti
hath sent, and doth yearly send, so many saints to heaven

6. Thou art a vast seminary for the education of bishop:
priests, and apostolic men, who go forth into all the woii
and proclaim the gospel to every creature. Thou art a goldei
immortal flower, blooming amid thorns, and sending forth tli|
winged seedb, on every breeze, to gladden other nations, ai
to plant the faith in other lands.

pn a

foni|

Pom

reau

ptati

ponu

oroe

00yKX>i:KNT 07 OANADA.

409

f Dcnn Swift, nnd
\ with thy bravot
no\T\; and ftdniiml
ms— thy BnJ»iA ^5'-

[ 0*I^i'»^«. tt"^ ^'^'''■'
k1 O'lU'illys.
boy, my own pupil,
him, tirst tuu<;\»t »i'^
ly paternal mansion,
oUc priest— the llov.

in Boston; nor tlio
t me Catholic book<,
i\ and in whose house I
iam Wiley, who after,
d father, and receivwl
arch, saying to me, as
My child, be of goodj

though he hath notli-
'rin Outwardly thoa
ricken; but within all
e to the pole, faitWiil
' life. Truly thou art"
it no nation on earll
,ny saints to heaven.

education of bishops
.thinto all the^^oii
re Thou art a golden

and sending forth thj

den other nations, ai^

152. GOVERNMKNT OF CaNADA.
* ' MonBis.

1. In A. D. 1840, the Unper and Lower Provinces were re-
united, and constituted iuto the Province of Canada, with
one Legislature, composed, as before, of a Legislative Coun-
cil nominated by the Crown, and an Assembly of eighty-four
members elected by the people, forty-two from each Province.
Under this Act the government of the country has been con-
ducted ; but the House of Assembly has been latterly in-
creased to one hundred and thirty members, sixty-five from
each Province, returned by counties, cities, and towns. The
Legislative Council, after the death of those members who
were nominated by the Crown, w^ill be elect! d. Before a
Btatute becomes law, the assent of the two legislative bodies
and of the Crown is necessary. Money bills originate in the
people's House. The power of the Legislature is almost un-
checked, regulating taxes, customs, private rights, and the
general government of the Province by its Acts, the Queen
rarely withholding, as she has the power to do, her assent
from a measure. Sessions are required to be held annually,
and the duration of the Parliament is four years, though it
[may be previously dissolved by the Governor-General.

2. The government of the Province is conducted by a Gov-
|eraor-General appointed by the Crown, who presides at the

ieliberations of an Executive C6uncil nominated by the
)rown, but who must, according to the theory of responsible

)vernment in practical force in Canada, possess the confi-
Sence of the people, as evinced by a majority of the House
nf Assembly ; and who, consequently, may lose their places
bn a vote of want of confidence. The Executive Council is
^omposed of the following officials, viz. : a President of the *
committees of the Council (who is also Chairman of the Bu-
[eau of Agriculture, and of the Board of Registration and
|tatistics), a Provincial Secretary, a Minister of Finance, a
fommissioner of Crown Lands, a Receiver-General, one At-

smey-Geiieral for each BectioQ of the Province, the Speaker

410

THE FOURTH BEADER.

of the Legislative Council, a Commissioner of the Board of
Public Works, and a Postmaster-General. These incumbents
preside over the public departments indicated by their titles,
in addition to exercising the functions of Executive Council"
lors. On the acceptance of office, the incumbent elect, already
a member of the government, must present himself to the
people for re-election.

3. Such is the system of governing by legislative majorities
and responsibility to the electors, which is in force in Canada.
Practically the government- of the Province is self-government,
the British Government rarely interposing the weight of its
authority, but, on the contrary, distinctly enunciating its de-
sire to allow the Province the widest latitude in self-govern-
ment, compatible with the colonial relation. In fact, the
Canadas enjoy the largest measure of political liberty pos-
sessed by any country or people. The public offices, and the
seats in the Legislature, are practically open to all. The
people, by their representatives in Parliament, regulate all
matters of provincial interest, and by their municipal system
they regulate their municipal matters, while they possess and
exercise the power of rejectmg at the polls those who have
forfeited their confidence. The inhabitants of Canada are
bound to Britain by the ties of common interest, commou
origin, and filial attachment. Owning a grateful pllcigiance to
their sovereign, they are proud to share the heritage of Brit-
ain's ancestral glories, while they are not slow in evincing
their sympathy with her struggles, as the munificent graut of
iS20,000 sterling, gracefully appropriated by the Legislature
to the patriotic fund, and to the widows and orphans of the
soldiers of her ally, France, proudly shows. The policy of
Britain is a wise one. She is building up on the broad foun-
dations of sound political liberty, freedom of thought and
conscience, a colony which will one day (though the connection
will never be rudely severed), attain the position of a nation,
and, peopled by inhabitants knit to Britain by the strongest I
ties of blood, and identity of feeling, will strengthen her
hands and support her position by the reflex influence ofj
Bpund, national, and constitutionsil sentiment.

ABRAHAM AND THE FIBE-WORSHIPPEB.

411

of the Board of
These incumbeuts
.d by their titles,
ilxecutive Council-
bent elect, already
int himself to the

gislative majorities
in force in Canada,
is self-government,
the weight of its
enunciating its de-
,ude in self-govern-
;ion. In fact, the
Dlitical liberty pos-
blic of&ces, and the
open to all. The
Lament, regulate all
ir municipal system
lie they possess and
►lis those who have
Ms of Canada are
,n interest, common
•rateful P-lbgiance to
he heritage of Brit-
lot slow in evincing
munificent grant of
by the Legislature
and orphans of the
,ws. The policy of
on the broad foun-
jm of thought and
,ough the connection
.osition of a nation,
an by the strongest
iwill strengthen her
reflex influence of
lent.

163. Abraham and the Fire- Worshipper.

HO U BEHOLD WORDS.

Scene — The inside of a Tent, in which the Patriarch Abra-
ham and a Persian Traveller, a Fire- Worshipper, are
sitting awhile after supper.

Fire-Worshipper [aside']. "What have I said, or done,
that by degrees
Mine host hath changed his gracious countenance,
Until he stareth on me, as in wrath I
Have I, Hwixt wake and sleep, lost his wise lore ?
Or sit I thus too long, and he himself
Would fain be sleeping ? I will speak to that.
[Aloud.'] Impute it, my great and gracious lord I
Unto my feeble flesh, and not my folly,
If mine old eyelids droop against their will,
And I become as one that hath no sense
Even to the milk and honey of thy words. —
With my lord's leave, and his good servant's help,
My limbs would creep to bed.

Abraham [angrily quitting his seat] . In this tent, never.
|Thoa art a thankless and an impious man.

Fire-W. [rising in astonishment]. A thankless and an
impious man 1 Oh, su*,

ily thanks have all but worshipp'd thee.

Abraham. And whom

orgotten ? like the fawnmg dog I feed.

rom the foot-washing to the meal, and now

this thy cramm'd and dog-like wish for bed..

i've noted thee ; and never hast thou breathed

ne syllable of prayer, or praise, or thanks,

the great God who made and feedeth all.

le god of gods ; and seeing him not here,
any symbol, or on any shrine,

'\-

412

THE FOUBTH BEADBB.

I waited till he bloss'd mine eyes at mom,
Sitting in heaven.

Abraham. O foul idolater 1

And darest thou still to breathe in Abraham's tent ?
Forth' with thee, wretch; for he that made thy god,
And all thy tribe, and all the host of heaven,
The invisible and only dreadful God,
Will speak to thee this night, out in the storm,
And try thee in thy foolish god, the Fire,
Which with his fingers he makes lightnings* of.
Hark to the rising of his robes, the winds.
And get thee forth, and wait him.

\^A violent storm is heard rising,

Fire-W. " ' What! unhoused;

And on a night like this I me, poor old man,
A hundred years of agel

Abraham [urging him away]. Not reverencing
The God of ages, thou revoltest reverence.

Fire-W. Thou hadst a father; — think of his gray hairs.
Houseless, and cufif'd by such a storm as this.

Abraham. God is thy father, and thou own'st not him.

Fire- W. I have a wife, as ag^d as myself,
And if she learn my death, she'll not survive it,
No, not a day; she is so used to me;
So propp'd up by her other feeble self.
I pray thee, strike us not both down.

Abraham [still urging him]. God made
Husband and wife, and must be own'd of them.
Else he must needs disown them.

Fire- W. We have children, —

On.e of them, sir, a daughter, who, next week,
Will all day long be going in and out,
Upon the watch for me ; she, too, a wife.
And will be soon a mother. Spare, oh, spare her!
She's a good creature, and not strong.

Abraham. Mine ears

Are deaf to all thmgs but thy blasphemy.
And to the coming of the Lord and God^

ABRAHAM AND THE FIRE-WORSHIPPEU.

413

Who will this night condemn thee.

[Abraham ^MsAes him out; and remains alone, peaking.

For if ever
God came at night-time forth upon the world,
'Tis now this instant. Hark to the huge winds,
The cataracts of hail, and rocky thunder,
Splitting like quarries of the stony clouds,
Ikneath the touching of the foot of God !
That was God's speaking in the heavens, — that last
And inward utterance coming by itself.
What is it shaketh thus thy servant. Lord,
Making him fear, that in some loud rebuke
To this idolater, whom thou abhorrest,
Terror will slay himself ? Lo, the earth quakes
Beneath my feet, and God is surely here.

[A dead silence ; and then a still small voice.

The Voice. Abraham 1

Abraham. Where art thou, Lord? and who is it that
speaks
So sweetly in mine ear, to bid me turn
And dare to face thy presence ?

The Voice. Who but He

Whose mightiest utterance thou h^st yet to learn ?
I was not in the whirlwind, Abraham ;
I was not in the thunder, or the earthquake;
But I am in the still small voice.
Where is the stranger whom thou tookest in ?

Abraham. Lord, he denied thee, and I drove him forth.

The Voice. Then didst thou do what God himself forboie.
Have I, although he did deny me, borne
With his injuriousness these hundred years.
And couldst thou not endure him one sole night,
And such a night as this ?

Abraham. Lord 1 I have sinn'd,

And will go forth, and if he be not dead.
Will call him back, and tell him of thy mercies
Both to himself and me.

The Voice. Behold, and learn 1

414

THE FOURTH RKADKR.

[Th*f Voice retires while it is speaking; and a fold of the
tent is turned back, disclosing the Fire-Worshipper, wb
is calmly sleeping, with his head on the back of a house-
lamb.
Abraham. loving God! the lamb itself s his pillow,
And on his forehead is a balmy dew,
And in his sleep he smileth. I meantime.
Poor and proud fool, with my presumptuous hands,
Not God's, was dealing: judgments on his head,
Which God himself had cradled 1 — Oh, methinks
There's more in this than prophet yet hath known,
And Faith, some day, will all in Love be shown.

164. Patriotism and Christianity.

OHATKAUBKIAND.

1. But it is the Christian religion fliat has invested pa
Iriotism with its true char^acter. This sentiment led to the
commission of crime among the ancients, because it was car-
ried to excess ; Christianity has made it one of the principal
affections in man, but not an exclusive one. It commands us
above all things to be just ; it requires us to cherish the whole
family of Adam, since we ourselves belong to it, though our
countrymen have the first claim to our attachment.

2. This morality was unknown before the coming of the Chris-
tian lawgiver, who had been unjustly accused of attempting to
extirpate the passions : God destroys not his own work. The
gospel is not the destroyer of the heart, but its^ regulator. It
is to our feelings what taste is to the fine arts ; it retrenches
all that is exaggerated, false, common, and trivial; it leaves
all that is fair, and good, and true. The Christiar reUgion,
rightly understood, is only primitive nature washed from origi-
nal pollution.

3. It is when at a distance from our country tRat we feel
the full force of the instinct by which we are attached to it.
Per want of the reality, we try to feed upon drcans j for the

PATRIOTISM AND CHRISTIANITY.

415

elf's his pillow,

rSTIANITT.

heart is expert in deception, and there is no one wlio has been
Piicklcd at the breast of woman but has drunk of the cup of
illusion. Sometimes it is a cottage which is situated like the
paternal habitation ; sometimes it is a wood, a valley, a hill,
on which we bestow some of the sweet appellations of our,
native land. Andromache gives the name of Siraois to a
brook. And what an affecting object is this little rill, which
recalls the idea o% a mighty river in her native country ! Ilo
mote from the soil which gave us birth, nature appears to us
diminished, and but the shadow of that which we have lost.

4. Another artifice of the love of country is to attach a
great value to an object of little intrinsic worth, but which
comes from our native land, and which we have brought with
us into exile. The soul seems to dwell even upon the inani-
mate things which h'^,ve shared our destiny : we remain at-
tached to the down on which our prosperity has slumbered,
and still more to the straw on which we counted the days of
our adversity. The vulgar have an energetic expression, to
describe that languor which oppreases the soul when away
from our country. " That man," they say, " is home-sick."

5. A sickness it really is, and the only cure for it is to return.
If, however, we have been absent a few years, what do we
find in the place of our nativity ? How few of those whom
we left behind in the vigor of health are still alive I Here arc
tombs where once stood palaces ; there rise palaces where we
left tombs. The paternal field is overgrown with briers, or
cultivated by the plough of a stranger ; and the tree beneath
which we frolicked in our boyish days has disappeared.

6. Were we asked, what are those powerful ties which bind
us to the plaee of our nativity, we would find some diflBculty
in answering the question. It is, perhaps, the smile of a
mother, ol a father, of a sister ; it is, perhaps, the recollection
of the old pireceptor who instructed us, and of the young com-
panions of our chihlhood; it is, perhaps, the care bestowed
upon us by a tender nurse, by some aged domestic, so essen-
tial a part of the household ; finally, it is something most
simple, and, if you please, trivial, — a dog that barked ai
night ii the fields, a nightingale that returned every year to

416

THE FOURTH READER.

the orchard, the nest of the swallow over the window, the
village clock that appeared above the trees, the churcliyard
yew, or the Gothic tomb. Yet these simple things demon-
strate the more clearly the reality of a Providence, as tiny
could not possibly be the source of patriotism, or of the groat
virtues which it begets, unless by the appointment of the Al-
mighty himself.

155. Peter the Hermit.

MIOHAUD. ,

Joseph Francois Michaud — born at Albens, in Savoy, in 1767; died.
183i*. His erentest claim to tiie attention of posterity i« his •'History of
tbe Crusades." It is, indeed, tlie best work yet written on that period,
and is justly considered one of the greatest historical works of modern
times. Kobson, the English translator, has disfigured the work by notes
of a partisan and illiberal character, dilfering entirely from the spirit of tbe
work.

1. Peter the Hermit traversed Italy, crossed the Alps,
visited all parts of France, and the greatest portion of Eu-
rope, inflaming all hearts with the same zeal that consumed
his own. He travelled mounted on a mule, with a crucifix in
his hand, his feet bare, his head uncovered, his body girded
with a thick cord, covered with a long frock, and a hermit's
hood of the coarsest stuff. The singularity of his appear-
ance was a spectacle for the people, while the austerity of
his manners, his charity, and the moral doctrines that he
preached, caused him to be revered as a saint wherever he
came. -

2. He went from city to city, from province to province,
working upon the courage of some, and upon the piety of
others ; sometimes haranguing from the pulpits of the
churches, sometimes preaching in the high-roads or public
places. His eloquence was animated and impressive, and
filled with those vehement apostrophes which produce such
effects upon an uncultivated multitude. He described the
profanation of the holy places, and the blood of the Chris-
tians shed in torrents in the streets of Jerusalem.

3. Ho invoked, by turns. Heaven, the saints, the an^

PETER THE IIKKMIT.

417

iv the window, the
les, the churchyard
iple things demon-
'rovidence, as they
ism, or of the great
intment of the Al-

IT.

I Savoy, in 1767 ; died,
erity ia his " History of
vritten on that period,
orical works of modern
ired the work by notes
ly from the spirit of the

, crossed the Alps,
test portion of Eu-
Izeal that consumed
e, with a crucifix in
ed, his body girded
ock, and a hermit's
rity of his appear-
le the austerity of
doctrines that he
saint wherever he

Dvmce to province,
upon the piety of
e pulpits of the
h-roads or public
d impressive, and
hich produce such
He described the
lood of the Chris-
salem.
saints, the angels,

whom he called upon to bear witness to the truth of what ho
told them. He apostrophized Mount Slon, the rock of Cal-
vary, and the Mount of Olives, which he made to resound
v/ith sobs and groans. When he had exhausted speech in
painting the miseries of the faithful, he showed the spectators
tiie crucifix which he carried with him ; sometimes strikhig his
breast and woundmg his flesh, sometimes shedding torrents of
tears.

4. The people followed the steps of Peter in crowds. The
preacher of the holy war was received everywhere as a mes-
senger from God. They who could touch his vestments es-
teemed themselves happy, and a portion of hair pulled from
the mule he rode was preserved as a holy relic. At the sound
of his voice, differences in families were reconciled, the poor
were comforted, the debauched blushed at their errors ; noth-
ing was talked of but the virtues of the eloquent cenobite ;
his austerities and his miracles were described, and his dis-
courses were repeated to those who had not heard him, and
been edified by kis presence.

5. He often met, in his journeys, with Christians from the
East, who had been banished from their country, and wan-
dered over Europe, subsisting on charity. Peter the Hermit
presented them to the people, as living evidences of the bar-
barity of the infidels ; and pointing to the rags with which
they were clothed, he burst into torrents of invectives against
their oppressors and persecutors.

6. At the sight of these miserable wretches, the faithful
felt, by turns, the most lively emotions of pity, and the fury
of vengeance ; all deploring in th'feir hearts the miseries and
the disgrace of Jerusalem. The people raised their voicos
towards heaven, to entreat God to deign to cast a look of
pity upon his beloved city ; some offering their riches, others
their prayers, but all promising to lay down their lives for the

I deliverance of the holy places.

418 the fourth reader.

166. The Celtic Cross.

T. D. McGKB.

1. Through storm, and fire, and gloom, I see it stand,

FiilB, broad, and tall —
The Celtic Cross that marks our Fatherland,

Amid them all I
Druids, and Danes, and Saxons, vainly rage

Around its base ;
It standeth shock on shock, and age on age,

Star of a scatter'd race.

2. Holy Cross I dear symbol of the dread

Death of our Lord,
Around thee long have slept our Martyr-dead,

Sward over sward I
A hundred Bishops I myself can count

Among the slain ;
Chiefs, Captains, rank and file, a shim'ng mount

Of God's ripe grain.

8. The Monarch's mace, the Puritan's claymore,

Smote thee not down ;
On headland steep, on mountain summit hoar.

In mart and town ; ,

In Glendalough, in Ara, in Tyrone, ,

We find thee still,
Thy open arms still stretching to thine own.

O'er town, and lough, and hill.

4. And they would tear thee out of Irish soil.

The guilty fools I
How Time must mock their antiquated toil

And broken tools I
Cranmer and Cromwell from thy grasp retu'ed.

Baffled and thrown :
William and Anne to sap thy site conspired —

The rest is known I

CAN THE 80LDIKR BE AN ATHEIST?

419

5. Holy Saint Patrick, Father of our Faith,

Beloved of God 1
Shield thy dear Church from the impendmg scathe ;

Or, if the rod
Must scourge it yet again, inspire and raise

To emprise high,
Men like the heroic race of other days,

Who joy'd to die I '

6. Fear I Wherefore should the Celtic people fear

Their Church's fate?
. The day is not — the day was never near —
Could desolate
The Destined Island, all whose seedy clay

Is holy ground —
Its cross shall stand till that predestined day,
When Erin's self is drown'd !

157. Can the Soldier be an Atheist?

CHATEAUBRIAND.

1. Will the soldier who marches forth to battle — that
child of glory — ^be an atheist ? Will he who seeks an endless
life consent to 'perish forever? Appear upon your thundering
clouds, ye countless Christian warriors, now hosts of heaven 1
appear I From your exalted abode, from the holy city, pro-
claim to the heroes of our day that the brave man is not
wholly consigned to the tomb, and that something more of
him survives than an empty name.

2. All the great generals of antiquity were remarkable for
their piety. Epaminondas, the deliverer of his country, had
the character of the most religious of men ; Xenophon, that
philosophic warrior, was a pattern of piety; Alexander, the
everlasting model of conquerors, gave himself out to be the son
of Jupiter. Among the Romans, the ancient consuls of the
republic, a Cincinnatus, a Fabius, a Papirius Cursor, a Paulus

18*

420

THIC FoUUni RKADKR.

^milius, a Scipio, placed all their reliance on the deity of the
Capitol ; Pompey marched to battle imploring t^e divine as-
sistance ; Cajsar pretended to be of celestial descent ; Cato,
his rival, was convinced of the immortality of the soul ; Bru-
tus, His assassin, believed in the existence of supernatural
powers ; and Augustus, his successor, reigned only in the
name of the gods.

3. In modern times was that valiant Sicambrian, the coih
queror of Rome and of the Gauls, an unbeliever, who, falling
at the feet of a priest, laid the foundation of the empire of
France? Was St. I^ouis, the arbiter of kings, — revered by
infidels themselves, — an unbeliever? Was the valorous Du
Guesclin, whose coffin was sufficient for the capture of cities,
— the Chevalier Bayard, without fear and without reproach,
— the old Constable de Montraorenci, who recited his beads
in the camp, — were these men without rehgion ? But, more
wonderful still, was the great Turenne, whom Bossuet brought
back to the bosom of the Church, an unbeliever ?

4. No character is more admirable than that of the Chris-
tian hero. The people whom he defends look up to him as a
father ; he protects the husbandman and the produce of his
fields ', he is an angel of war sent by God to mitigate the
horrors of that scourge. Cities open their gates at the mere
report of his justice ; ^amparts fall before his vu'tue ; he is
beloved by the sold'jr, he is idolized by nations ; with the
courage of the wariior he combines the charity of the gospel;
his conversation is impressive and instructing ; his words are
full of simplicity; you are astonished to find such gentleness in
a man accustomed to live in the midst of dangers. Thus the
honey is hidden under the rugged bark of an oak which has
braved the tempests of ages. We may safely conclude that in
no respect whatever is atheism profitable for the soldier.

JArANEHE MAKTYSS.

421

al descent : Cuto,

^ 158. Japanese Martyrs.

OADDELL.

Cecilia Marv Caddrll— an English auth)rcas, who has made many
grucut'iil and iutcruHtin^ conthbutiunH to tho Catholic literature of our
day. Among others, "Tale** of the Festivals," "Miner's Daughter,"
^'Uiuncho LohUc," and ''Missious iu Japan and Paraguay."

1. Scarcely had the exiles reached this hospitable asylum
ere another edict was published iu Figo, commanding all the
remaining Christians to repair to the house of a bonze ap-
pointed for the purpose, and in his presence to perform a cer-
tain ceremony, which was to be considered as a declaration of
their belief in his teaching. Death was to be the penalty of
a refusal ; and two noblemen, named John and Simon, were
chosen as examples of severity to tue rest. Both were friends
of the governor, to whom the order had been intrusted, and
he did what he couM to save them.

2. "If they would but feign compliance with the king's
decree," or " have the ceremony privately performed at their
own houses," or "bribe the bonze to allow it to be supposed
he had received their recantation," — each of these alternatives
was as eagerly urged as it was indignantly rejected ; and when
a band of ruffians dragged John to the bonze's house, and set
the superstitious book which was to be the token of his apos-
tasy by main force upon his head, he protested so loudly and
.vehemently against the violence done to his will, that nothing
remained but to sentence him to death. The execution took
place in the presence of the governor ; and from the chamber,
still reeking with the blood of one friend, he went to the house
of the other on a similar mission, and with equal reluctance.

3. Simon was quietly conversing with his mother when the
governor entered ; and the latter could not refrain from weep-
ing as he besought that lady to have pity upon them both,
and, by advising complian,ce with the king's commands, to
spare herself the anguish of losing a son, and himself that of
imbruing his hands in the blood of a friend. Touching as was
the appeal, it was made in yain ; for in her answer the Chris-
tian mother preyed true to her faith ; so that tiie governor

422

TIIK roUUTII KKAPKR.

p^ ' I

ti-

!•» St

left the house, indij^nantly declaring that by her obstioucy
she was guilty of the death of iier son.

4. Another nobleman entered soon afterwardH, cliargod
with the personal execution of the sentence. This was no
unusual method of proceeding, since every Japanese noblemau,
strange to say, may at any moment be called upon to officiate
in such cases, it being a favor often granted to persons of
rank to die by the hand of a friend or a servant, rather than
by that of the ordinary headsman. Jotivava was a friend of
Simon's, and he proceeded with what heart he might to his
sad and revolting duty.

5. Knowing his errand well, Simon received him with an
affectionate smile, and then prostrated himself in prayer before
an image of our Saviour crowned with thorns, wh'lo his wife
and mother called for warm water that he might wash,— a
ceremony the Jopanese always observe upon joyful occasions.
Tears of ro-tural regret would flow, indeed, even in the midst
of this generous exultation ; and Agnes, falling upon her
knees, besought her husband to cut off her hair, as a sign
that she never would marry again.

6. After a little hesitation, he complied with this request ;
prophesying, however, that she and his mother would soon
follow him to heaven ; and then, accompanied by the three
Oijfiaques, or officers of the Confraternity of Mercy, whom be
had summoned to be present at the execution, they all entered
the hall where it was intended to take place. Michael, one
of the GifiBaques, carried a crucifix ; the other two bore
lighted torches ; and Simon walked between his wife and
mother, while his disconsolate servants brought up the rear.

1. An unhappy renegade met them at the entrance, to take
leave of Simon ; but struck by the contrast between his own
conduct and that of the martyr, he burst into tears, and was
unable to speak. Most eloquently did Simon urge him to re-
pentance, unconsciously using almost the very • words of his
Divine Master, as he bade him weep, " not for his own ap-
proaching fate, but for the fell apostasy by which he, a rene-
gade, had rendered hunself guilty of hell-fire ;" then, distrib-
uting his rosaries and other objects of devotion as memoriala

JAPANESE MAKTYK8,

423

by her obstinacy

ftcrwardH, charged
nco. This was no
fapanese noblemau,
tid upon to officiate
nted to persons of
ervant, rather tliaii
ava was a friend of
rt he might to his

ceived him with an
self in prayer before
orns, wh'lo his wife
he might wash, — a
lon joyful occasions.
id, even in the mitl^t
s, falling upon her
her hair, as a sign

J with this request;
mother would soon
mnied by the three
r of Mercy, whom be
tion, they all entered
)lace. Michael, one
he other two bore
;ween his wife and
lUght up the rear. 1
he entrance, to take
,st between his own
into tears, and was
Imon urge him to re-
very ' words of his
lot for his own ap-
Iby which he, a rene-
j-fire ;" then, distrib-
otion as memoriali

among his friends, he refused to give to the npostate a single
bead, urgently as he besought it of him, unless he would n. (Cc
a solemn promise of repentance and amendment.

8. The condition was at length accepted, and Simon jo}*-
fiilly returned to his prayers, lie and his friends recited the
litany ; and then, bowing before a picture of our Saviour till
his forehead touched the ground, the nobleman who acted as
executioner took off his head at a single blow. It fell at the
feet of one of the GilTiaques ; but his mother, with the cour-
af^e of a Machabee, took it in her hands, exclaiming, " Oh,
dear head, resplendent now with celestial glory ! Oh, happy
Simon, who hast had the honor of dying for Him who died
for thee I My God ! Thou didst give me Thy Son ; take now
tills son of mine, sacrificed for the love of Thee I"

9. After the mother came poor Agnes, weeping some softer
tears over the relics of her husband ; and then, foreseeing that
her own death would speedily follow upon his, she and her
mother betook themselves to prayer, the three GiflBaques re-
maining in attendance, in order to be able to assist at their
execution ; and, in fact, twenty-four hours had not elapsed
before it was told them they were to die ; the officer who
came to acquaint them with thei^ sentence bringing with him
Magdalen, the wife of John, and Lewis, a little child whom
the latter had adopted as his own, both of whom were
condemned to a similar fate.

159. Japanese Martyrs — continued.

1. With eager joy the prisoners embraced each other,
praising, blessing, and thanking God, not only that they were
to suffer for Jesus, but also that they were to suffer on a cross
like Jesus ; and then, robed in their best attire, they set off
for the place of execution in palanquins which the guards had
provided for the purpose. The Giffiaques walked at their
side ; but small need had they to offer motives for constancy
to these heroic souls, burning with the desire of martyrdom,

424

THE FOURTH READER.

sili

and eager to enter the path by which theh* nearest and dearest
had already ascended to heaven.

2. Jane, the mother of Simon, besought the exrciii'oiier to
bind her limbs as tightly as possible, that she might thus
share the anguish which the nails inflicted upon those of Je-
sus ; and she preached from her cross with so much force and
eloquence, that the presiding officer, fearing the effects of her
words upon the people, had her stabbed without waiting for
the rest of the victims. Lewis and Magdalen were tied up
next. They bound the child so violently that he could not
refrain from shrieking ; but when they asked him if he was
afraid to die, he said he was not ; and so they took and set
him up directly opposite his mother.

3. For a brief interval, the martyr and her adopted child
gazed silently on each other; then, summoning all her strength,
she said, " Son, we are going to heaven : take courage, and
cry, ' Jesus, Mary !' with your latest breath." And again
the child replied, as he had done before when, on leaving their
own home, she had made him a similar exhortation, "Mother,
yon shall be obeyed 1" Tbe executioner struck at him first,
but missed his aim ; and more than ever fearing for his con-
stancy, Magdalen exhorted him from her cross, while Michael,
standing at its foot spoke words of comfort to him.

4. But the child needed not their urging; he did not shriek
again, nor did he shrink, but waited patiently until a second
blow had pierced him through and through ; and the lance,
yet reeking with his blood, was directly afterwards plunged
hito the heart of his mother, whose sharpest pang had prob-
ably already passed on the instant when*the son of her love
expired before her. And now the fair and youthful Agnes
alone remained, kneeling, as when she first had reached the
place of execution ; for no one had yet had the courage to
approach her.

5. Like the headsman of her namesake, the loveliest child
of Christian story, her very executioners could only weep that
they were bid to mar the beauty of any thing so fair ; their
hands were powerless to do their office ; and finding at last
that no one sought to bind her, she went herself and laid her

boyhood's years.

425

learest and dearest

the exccrn'oiier to

it she miji-Ut thus

upon those of Je-

so much force and

5 the effects of lier

irithout waiting for

dalen were tied up

that he could not

jked him if he was

they took and set

i her adopted child
ing all her strength,
: take courage, and
reath." And again
hen, on leaving their
phortation, " Mother,
struck at him first,
fearing for his con-
Toss, while Michael,
irt to him.
ig; he did not shriek
;iently until a second
lugh ; and the lance.
afterwards plunged
Ipest pang had prob-
the son of her love
md youthful Agnes
•St had reached the
[had the courage to

^e, the loveliest child
could only weep that

thing so fair ; their
,; and finding at last

herself and laid hei

gently and modestly down upon her cross. There she lay,
waiting for her hour, calm and serene as if pillowed on an
angel's bosom, until at length some of the spectators, induced
partly by a bribe offered by the executioner, but chiefly by a
bigoted hatred of her religion, bound her, and lifted up her
cross, and then struck her blow after blow, until beneath their
rude and unaccustomed hands she painfully expired.

6. For a year and a day the bodies were left to hang upon
their crosses, as a terror to all others of the same religion ;
but Christians were not wanting to watch the blackening
corpses, and, with a love like that of Kespha, the mother of
the sons of Saul, to drive from thence the fowls of the air by
day, and the beasts of the field by night ; and finally, when
the period of prohibition was expired, reverently to gather
the hallowed bones to their last resting-place in the church of
Naugasaki.

160. Boyhood's Years.

MBEHAN.

Rev. Charles Meehan, a gifted Irish priest, who has contributed some
Talunble works to the liternturo of liis country. Hi.s *• Confederation of
Kilkenny," and " History of the Geraldines," are the best known. He
h» ulso written some very good poetry scattered here and there through
tlie Irish periodicals.

1. Ah! why should I recaU them — the gay, the joyous

years.
Ere hope was cross'd or pleasure dimmM by sorrow and

by tears ? *

Or why should memory love to trace youth's glad and

sunlit way.
When those who made its charms so sweet are gathered to

decay ?
The summer's sun shall come again to brighten hill and

bower —
The teeming earth its fragrance bring beneath the balmy

shower —

-•**^"V ■ ' ■

42G

THE FOURTH BEADER.

But all in vain will memory strive, in vain wo shed oni
tears —

They're gone away and can't return — the friends of boy-
hood's years I

2. Ahl why then wake my sorrow, and bid me now count

o'er
The vanish'd friends so dearly prized — the days to come

no more —
The happy days of infancy, when no guile our bosoms

knew,
Kor reck'd we of the pleasures' that with each moment |

flew?
'Tis all in vain to weep for them — the past a dream ap-|

pears :
And where are they — ^the loved, the young, the friends of|

boyhood's years ?

3. Go seek them in the cold churchyard — they long have stol'n|

to rest ;
But do not weep, for their young cheeks by woe were ne'er]

oppress'd ;
Life's sun for them in splendor set — ^no cloud came o'er|

the ray
' That lit them from this gloomy world upon their joyous]
V way.
No tears about their graves be shed — ^but sweetest floweH]

be flung,
The fittest offering thou canst make to hearts that perish]

young —
To hearts this world has never torn with racking hopesl

and fears ;
For bless'd are they who pass away in boyhood's

years I

ON THE LOOK OF A GKNTLEMAN.

427

vain wo shed oui
■the friends of boy-

bid me now count
—the days to cornel
gnile our bosoms |
twith each moment I
he past a dream ap-
foung, the friends of

pthey long have stol'nl
jks by woe were ne'erl
-no cloud came o'erl
|rld upon their joyous
-but sweetest flowenj
I to hearts that perishl
with racking hopes!
in boyhood^s bappyl

161. On the Look of a Gentleman.

HAZLITT.

WiLiiAM IIazlitt, born in Maidstone, Kent. England, in 1778 ; died in
1S30. Ah an essa.yist and a critic, IIazlitt holds a liigli place among Eng-
lish authors. IIo is especially esteemed for the philo«ophical spirit of hia
criticisms. Ilia largest work is the "Life of Napoleon;" but his fame
cliicfly rests on his essays and reviews. He was also distinguished as
a journalist.

1. What it is that constitutes the look of a gentleman is
more easily felt than described. We all know it when we see
it ; but we do not know how to account for it, or to explain
in what it consists. Ease, grace, dignity, have been given
as the exponents and expressive symbols of this look ; but
I would rather say, that an habitual self-possession deter-
mines the appearance of a gentleman. He should have the
complete command not only over his countenance, but over
bis limbs and motions. In other Words, he should discover
in his air and manner a voluntary power over his whole body,
which, with evevy "^flexion of it, should be under the control
of his will.

2. It must be etxuent that he looks and does as he likes,
without any restraint, confusion, or awkwardness. He is, in
fact, master of his person, as the professor of an art or science
is of a particular instrument ; he directs it to what use he
pleases and intends. Wherever this power and facility appear,
we recognize the look and deportment of the gentleman, that
is, of a person who by his habits and situation in life, and in his
ordinary intercourse with society, has had little else to do than
to study those movements, and that carriage of the body,
which were accompanied with most satisfaction to himself, and
I were calculated to excite the approbation of the beholder.

3. Ease, it might be observed, is not enough ; dignity is too
I much. There must be a certain retenu, a conscious decorum

added to the first, — and a certain "familiarity of regard,
quenching the austere countenance of control," in the second,
to answer to our conception of this character. Perhaps, pro-
priety is as near a word &s any to denotOv the manners of the

428

THE FOURTH READER.

gentleman ; elegance is necessary to the fine gentleman ; dig-
uity is proper to noblemen ; and miijesty to kings 1

4. Wlierever this constant and decent subjection of the bodv
to tlie mind is visible in the customary actions of walking, sit-
ting, riding, standing, spf>aking, &c., we draw the same con-
elusion as to the individual — whatever may be the inipedimcMits
or unavoidable defects in the machine, of which he has tlie
management. A man may have a mean or disagreeable extc
rior, may halt in his gait, or have lost the use of half his limbs ;
and yet he may show this habitual attention to what is grace-
ful and becoming in the use he makes of all the power he has
left— in the "nice conduct" of the most unpromising and
impracticable figure.

5. A humpbacked or deformed man does not necessarily
look like a clown or a mechanic ; on the contrary, from liis
care in the adjustment of his appearance, and his desire to
remedy his defects, he for the most part acquires something of I
the look of a gentleman. The common nickname of Mjjl
Lord, applied to such persons, has allusion to this — to their |
circumspect deportment, and tacit resistance to vulgar preju-
dice. Lord Ogleby, in the " Clandestine Marriage," is as crazy I
a piece of elegance and refinement, even after he is " wound up
for the day," as can well be imagined ; yet in the hands of a
genuine actor, his tottering step, his twitches of the gout, his
unsuccessful attempts at youth and gayety, take nothing from]
the nobleman.

6. He has the ideal model in his mind, resents his deviations!
from it with proper horror, recovers himself from any ung^ac^
ful action as soon as possible : does all he can with his limited
means, and fails in his just pretensions not from inadvertence,!
but necessity. Sir Joseph Banks, who was almost bent dou-l
ble, retained to the last the look of a privy-counsellor. Therel
was all the firmness and dignity that could be given by thel
sense of his own importance to so distorted and disabled a|
trunk.

1. Sir Charles Bunbury, as he saunters down St. James's
street, with a large slouched hat, a lack-lustre eye and aquilin
nose, an old shabby drab-colored coat, buttoned across hisj

SOCIAL CltABACrrUBS.

429

ine gentleman ; dig-
to kings 1

ubjcction of the body
;tions of walking, sit-
draw the same con-
ly be the iinpetlhneiits
of which ho has tlie
or disagreeable exte
use of half his limbs ;
tion to what is grace-
all the power he has
ost unpromising and j

does not necessarily

le contrary, from bis

ice, and his desire to

acquires something of I

ion nickname of J/i/

ision to this — to their

ance to vulgar prcju-

Marriage," is as crazy

ifterhe is "woundup

yet in the hands of a

ches of the gout, 1

ty, take nothing from I

resents his deviations
lelf from any ungrac^
le can with his limited |
ot from inadvertence,
was almost bent dou-
vy-counsellor. Therel
ould be given by the!

torted and disabled a|

ers down St. James's
istre eye and aquilinej
bnttoned across to

breast without a cape — with old^ top-boots, and his hands in
his waistcoat or breeches' pockets, as if he were strolling along
his own garden-walks, or over the turf at Newmarket, after
having made his bets secure — presents nothing very dazzling,
or graceful, or dignified to the imagination ; though you can
tell infallibly at the first glance, or even a bowshot oflf, that he
is a gentleman of the first water.

8. What is the clue to this mystery ? It is evident that
his person costs him no more trouble than an old glove. His
limbs are, from long practice, left to take care of themselves ;
they move of their own accord ; he does not strut or stand on
tip-toe to show

"how tall

Hia poraon ia above thonx all :"

but he seems to find his own level, and wherever he is, to slide
into his place naturally ; he is equally at home among lords or
gamblers ; nothing can discompose his fixed serenity of look
a" ^ purpose ; there is no mark of superciliousness about him,
nor does it appear as if any thing could meet his eye to startle
or throw him oflf his guard ; he neither avoids nor courts no-
tice ; but the archaism of his dress may be understood to
denote a lingering partiality for the costume of the last age,
and something like a prescriptive contempt for the finery of
this.

162. Social Characters.

OHATKATIBRIAN D

1. Those characters which we have denominated social, are
reduced by the poet to two — the priest and the soldier. Had
we not set apart the fourth division of our work for the his-
tory of the clergy and the benefits which they confer, it would
be an easy task to show here how far superior, in point of
variety and grandeur, is the character of the Christian priest
to that of the priest of polytheism.

2. What exquisite pictures might be drawn, from the pas-
tor of the rustic hamlet to the pontiflf whose brows are eDcii*-

■^

430

TBU FOURTH BEADEB.

cled with the papal tiara ; from the parish priest of the city
to the anchoret of the rock ; from the Carthusian and the
inmate of La Trappe to the learned Benedictine ; from the
missionary, and the multitude of religious devoted to the al-
leviation of all the ills that afflict humanity, to the inspired
prophet of ancient Sion !

3. The order of virgins is not less varied or numerous, nor
less varied in its pursuits. Those daughters of charity who
consecrate their youth and their charms to the service of the
afflicted, — ^those inhabitants of the cloister who, under the
protection of the altar, educate the future wives of men, while
they congratulate themselves on their own union with a heav-
enly spouse, — this whole innocent family is in admirable corre-
spondence with the nine sisters of fable. Antiquity presented
nothing more to the poet than a high-priest, a sorcerer, a ves-
tal, a sibyl. These characters, moreover, were but accident-
ally introduced ; whereas the Christian priest is calculated to
act one of the most important parts in the epic.

4. M. de ia Harpe has shown in his Melanie what effects
may be produced with the character of a village curate when
delineated by an able hand. Shakspeare, Richardson, Gold-
smith, have brought the priest upon the stage with more or
less felicity. As to external pomp, what religion was ever ac-
companied with ceremonies so magnificent as ours ? Corpus
Christi day, Christmas, Holy-week, Easter, All-souls, the fu-
neral ceremony, the Mass, and a thousand other rites, furnish
an inexhaustible subject for splendid or pathetic descriptions.

6. The modern muse that complains of Christianity cannot
certainly be acquainted with its riches. Tasso has described
a procession in the Jerusalem, and it is one of the finest pas-
sages in his poem. In short, the ancient sacrifice itself is not
banished from the Christian subject ; for nothing is more easy
than, by means of an episode, a comparison, or a retrospective
view, to introduce a sacrifice of the ancient covenant.

THE INDIAN BOAT.

131

priest of the city
irthusian and the
sdictine ; from the
ievoted to the al-
ty, to the inspired

or numerous, nor
jrs of charity who
the service of the
iT who, under the
jvives of men, while
umonwith a heav-
in admirable corre-
intiquity presented
it, a sorcerer, a ves-
were but accident-
iest is calculated to

5 epic.

feZaniewhat effects
village curate when
Richardson, Gold-
ttage with more or
•eligion was ever ac-
as ours? Corpus
[r. All-souls, the fu-
other rites, furnish
ithetic descriptions.
|Christianity cannot
'asso has described
le of the finest pas-
facrifice itself is not
[othing is more easy
I, or a retrospective
covenant.

■\-

163. The Indian Boat.

MOOBB.

1. *TwAs midnight dark.
The seaman's bark

Swift o'er the waters bore him,

When, through the night,

He spied a light
Shoot o'er the wave before him.
" A sail 1 a sail 1" he cries ;

" She comes from the Indian shore,
And to-night shall be our prize,
With her freight of golden ore ;

Sail on I sail on 1"

When morning shone.
He saw the gold still clearer ;

But, though so fast

The waves he pass'd,
That boat seem'd never the nearer.

2. Bright daylight came,

And still the same V

Bich bark before him floated ;

While on the prize *

His wistful ayes r * -

Like any young lover's doated :
" More sail 1 more sail I" he cries,

While the waves o'ertop the mast ?
And while his bounding galley flies,
Like an arrow before the blast.

Thus on, and on.

Till day was gone.
And the moon through heaven did hie her,

He swept the main, ^ "

But all in vain,
That boat seem'd never the nigher.

432

THB FOURTH BEADEB.

8. And many a day

To night gave way,
And many a morn succeeded :

While still his flight,*

Through day and night,
That restless mariner speeded.
Who knows — who knows, what seas

He is now careering o'er ?
Behind, the eternal breeze.

And that mocking bark, before 1

For, oh, till sky

And earth shall die.
And their death leave none to me it^

That boat must flee
^ O'er the boundless sea,
And that ship in vain pursue it.

164. Death of Charles H. of England.

B0BERT80N. ^

1. On Monday, the 2d of February, 1685, the king, after |
a feverish and restless night, rose at an early hour. Though i
the remedies administered to him were attended with partial |
success, it soon became evident that the hour of his dissolatioD |
was rapidly approaching.

2. His brother, the Duke of York, whose persecution he I
had sometimes weakly consented to, was in his last illness
destined to be his ministering angel of consolation. James
knelt down by the pillow of the sick monarch, and asked if he
might send for a Catholic priest. " For God's sake do," was]
the king's reply; but he immediately added, "Will it not ex|
pose you to danger ?"

3. James replied, " that he cared not for the danger," and I
sending out a trusty messenger, shortly afterwards introduced!
to his majesty the Rev. Mr. Haddlestoo, with these words'!

DEATH OF CHARLES II. OF ENGLAND.

433

" Sir, this worthy man comes to save your soul." The priest
threw himself on his knees, and o£fered to the dying monarch
the aid of his ministry.

4. To his inquiries Charles replied, "that it was his desire
to die in the communion of the Roman Catholic Church ; that
he heartily repented of all his sins, and in particular of having
deferred his reconciliation to that hour ; that he hoped for
salvation from the merits of Christ his Saviour ; that he par-
doned all his enemies, asked pardon of all whom he had offend-
ed, and was in peace with all men ; and that he purposed, if
God should spare him, to prove the sincerity of his repentance
by a thorough amendment of life."

5. The Rev. Mr. Huddleston, having heard his confession,
administered to him the holy viaticum, anointed him, and re-
tired. About two o'clock in the night, looking on the duke,
who was kneeling at his bedside and kissing his hand, the
monarch called him " the best of friends and brothers, desired
him to forgive the harsh treatment which he had sometimes
received, and prayed that God might grant him a long and
prosperous reign" — words the truest which Charles had ever
spoken, uttered on the threshold of that eternity, where all
dissimulation is vain.

6. At noon on the following day, the 6th of February,
1685, the monarch calmly expired.

For this singular grace of a death-bed repentance, after a
life so scandalous, I have often thought that Charles was In-
dobted to the prayers of a holy priest whom, under peculiar
circumstances, he had during his exile met with in Germany.
The anecdote, with your permission, I will now state.

1. A few years before the restoration, Charles was on a
visit to the ecclesiastical elector of Mayence. In the course
of conversation the elector said to the prince, " There is in
my arch-diocese a saintly priest, called Holzhauser, possessing
the gifts of prophecy and miracle, and who, many years ago,
and long before the event, foretold the tragic end of your
royal father, and is deeply interested in English affairs : would
yoa like to see him?" " By all means," replied Charles.

8. The priest was aooordingly sent for, aud though tho

434

TUB FOURTH RKADEB.

night was stormy, he traversed in a boat, at the risk of
his life, the Rhine from Bingen to Mayence. Having boun
introduced to the English prince, the latter questioned iiim
much as to the prophecy relative to his father's death. All
that passed in this secret interview, which was prolonged fur
into the night, is not known.

9. But Holzhauser declared, that on taking leave of the
prince ho invited him over to England, in case he should ever
be restored to the throne of his ancestors. In reply, the holy
man observed, he had long burned with the desire to preach
the faith in England, and that if his duty to his congregation
allowed him, he would accept the invitation. Charles shook
hands with him in bidding him farewell, and ho in turn strong-
ly commended to the future king the protection of his English
and Irish Catholic subjects.

165. Eelioion an Essential Element in Education.

8TAPF.

Vkrt Rev. J. A. Stapf, a German priest, and Profesflor of Moral Theo-
logy. From liis ^iduiiruble work on "The Spirit and Scope of Education,"
"we extract the following :

1. To educate is not merely to awaken by some means or
other the dormant faculties of the soul, and to give them any
training which may happen to strike the educator's fancy. To
educate a child, is to rescue the rising man from the perdition
entailed upon him by Adam's fall, and to render him capable
of attaining his true end in this world and in the next. As a
citizen of this world, he has to fit himself for the sphere of
action in which Providence intends hun to move ; and as a
candidate for the kingdom of heaven, with his hopes in eter-
nity, he has to produce fruits which will last forever.

2. To imagine that it is impossible to bring up a child at
once for earth and for heaven, is to betray very little knowl<
edge of things. God himself has placed us on earth as in a I
preparatory school and a place of probation, and it is His

BRLIGION AN ELEMENT IN EDUCATION.

435

oat, at the risk of
ijnce. Having been
ktter questioned him
father's death. All
h was prolonged hx

taking leave of the
, case he should ever
1. In reply, the holy
the desire to preach
' to his congregation
tion. Charles shook
tnd ho in turn strong-
tection of his English

:nt in Education.

ProfcBsor of Moral Tlieo
md Scope of Education,"

:en by some means or
and to give them any
educator's fancy. To
,n from the perdition
render him capable
6. in the next. As a
lelf for the sphere of
to move ; and as a
ith his hopes in eter-
iast forever.
|o bring up a child at
•ay very little knowl-
us on earth as in a I
htioD, and it is His

will, that while we are here we should all, in our respective
callinf^s, contribute our best exertions towards tiio welfare of
the whole. For this purpose He 1ms bestowed certain talents
upon us, of the employment of whi'ih He will one day demand
a strict account. Matt. xxv. 15. If we wish, then, to attain
to our true and last end, which reaches from time into eter-
uity, we must to the best of our power finish here on earth
the task allotted to us. "What things a man shall sow,
those also shall he reap." Oal. vi. 8,

3. The branch of education which has earth in view is
most intimately connected with the other, which aims at
heaven. The union between them is indissoluble. What is
here advanced, would only then involve contradiction, if in
Fpeaking of a worldly education — of an education for earth,
such an education were meant as would tit youth for purely
temporal pursuits ; just as if temporal welfare were man's
only end, and he had after death nothing either to fear or to
hope for. This opinion is, alas I but too prevalent among
men. Woe to the child whose educators entci'tain it, and who
I is thereby kept in ignorance of its own true and eternal des-
I tiny ! Woe to society did this opinion become universal 1

4. For man, however, to rise to an intimate union of
I friendship with God, it is absolutely necessary, under any cir-
cumstances, that God should ^rs^ descend to him, in order to
instmct and enlighten him, to strengthen and to sanctify him
by light and grace from above. This is particularly requisite
Iq man's present fallen state, where he is of himself only an
object of the Divine displeasure, and moreover corrupted both
I in mind and body.

5. It is a task beyond the power of finite being to accora-
Iplish, to rescue him now from the grasp of sin, to dissipate
Ithe clouds which obstruct his mental vision, to restore him to
Ihls former health and vigor, and to deliver his captive will
Ifrom the unholy fetters of sin and egotism. Omnipotence
laione could accomplish this great work, and Omnipotence did
laccomplish it. The God-man, Jesus Christ, came in loving
[obedience to the will of his Eternal Father, and delivered
lliimself a victim for man's redemption, establishing on earth a

436

THE FOURTH READER.

new institutioh of salvation, which is to last unto the end of
time.

C. A rcordinjfly, there is no salvation for man possible un-
less tliroiigh Christ. Acts iv. 12. Hence, if education is
really hiteudud to attain the one great and true object of tdu.
cation ; if it is intended to furnish the rising generations, us
they succeed one another on earth, with the means and assist-
ance requisite fqr securing to them their eternal happiness ; it
must necessarily be Christian. It must be thoroughly imbued
with the spirit of Christianity, breathing forth the life and
soul of Christ's religion into j;he young beings intrusted to it,
and not coldly. mentioning it to them, as one among other in-
Btittttions worthy of notice. Unless the educator conducts his I
little ones to Christ, — their Redeemer as well as his own,— be |
will inevitably lead them astray.

7. Nay, if the spirit of religion is banished from education,!
education will not so much as promote man's temporal wel-
fare. Without religion, there is not such a thing as true love I
of one's self, or of one's neighbor ; not such a thing as firml
and enduring attachment to king and to country ; not such a|
thing as a sincere union of heart and hand for the advance-
ment of the common weal.

8. As Christianity alone unites man to God, 'so it alonel
unites man to man ; and the good fruits which it produces, asl
mentioned by the Apostle (Gal. v. 22), are "charity, joy,|
peace, patience, benignity, goodness, longanimity, mildness,!
faith, modesty, continency, chastity." The more, on the othe^
hand, man withdraws himself from its influence, the more
astrous are the works of the flesh, enumerated by the sanie|
Apostle. Oal. v. 19, &c. Compare James, iv. 1, &c. ; and
these works, who can deny it, are fraught with ruin both foi|
time and eternity.

9. This profanation of education, the banishment and negj
lect of religion, the foolish attempt to raise and ennobl(
fallen man by the sole instrumentality of his fellow-man,
the greatest bane of modern times. Men may, indeed, be seD|
forth into the world with fine esthetic feelings, and with
fund of the most varied information, but they belong alsij

THE IMMORTAL SOUL OF MAN.

437

isi unto the end of

frcqnently to the class which St. Paul (Rom. i. 29, Ac.)
describes as filled \vith all ini(iuity, nuilico, lornlcutio:), covif-
misness, wickedness, full of envy, .... deceit, iiiali;,'nity,
I'tractors, hateful to God, contumelious, proud, liau;^lity,
inventors of evil things, disobedient to parents, fooii.sli, dis-
solute, without aflection, without fidelity, kv., &c.

10. " In our schools," so writes a modern author, "Pajfin-
isin predominates. Christianity has been eith r intentioiially

le thoroughly imbiud ■ ijmiisiied, or hus been allowed to disappear, through iudifter-

g forth the life inj(H^,ngg ^nd neglect; or else, where it is still rctamed, It ts

treated as a subject of secondary importance. The atmo-
sphere of the school is wholly that of the world. To ea i-
cate, is now to make youth proficient in the arts, and to it
tl'.em for money-making. That is what is called forming goo<':.
litizcns ; as if a man could be a good citizen without being

lished from education, Bijmjg q^hj^q time a good Christian, and as if Christianity ^verc

e man's temporal \vel-Bj,)t []^q true basis and the bulwark of Christian stages .iud

ih a thing as true loveldjeij. constitutions.

t such a thing as firmr

country ; not such a

and for the advancf

for man possible un-
uce, if education is
d true object of edu-
rising generations, us
the means and assisi-
eternal happiness ; it

jeings intrusted to it,
3 one among other in-
educator conducts his
3 well as his own,— he I

to God,'80 it alonel

which it produces, m

k), are "charity, joy,

longanimity, mildnessj

^he more, on the othd

[nfluence, the more disj

imerated by the same^

[ames, iv. 1, &c. ; an^

Iht with ruin both foi]

banishment and ncgj
[to raise and ennoblij
of his fellow-man,
may, indeed, be senj

feelings, and with
[but they belong M

166. The Immortal Soul of Man,

. Georoe, Lord Bybon, born in London in 1783 ; died in 1824. Of all the
pat English poets, Byron Ims attained the widest poptilarity, with the
linsjle exception of Sliakapeare. If the moral teudency of liis poems were
Inly equal to their excellonoo, then, indeed, we could dwell on them us
Wsterpieoes of the art of poetry, but unfortunatelv, the contrary is t!i£>
pewith most of them. Still, Byron has left behind some exquisite v ; • .s
fi sacred and relijrious subjects, one of which we here give. It is one <A his
autiful Hebrew Melodies.

1. When coldness wraps this suffering clay,
Ah, whither strays the immortal mind ?
It cannot die, it cannot stay,

But leaves its darken'd dirrt b«riiind.
Then, unembodied, doth it trace

By steps each planet's heavenly way ?
Or fill at once the realms of space,
- ' A thing of eyes, that all survey ? •

438 THE FOURTH READKB.

2, Eternal, bonndlcsa, nndccay'd,

A thought unseen, but seeing all,
All, all in earth, or skies display'd,

Shall it survey, shall it recall :
Each fainter trace that memory holds

So darkly of departed years,
In one broad glance the soul beholds,

And all, that was, at once appears.

8. Before creation peopled earth,

Its eye shall roll through chaos back ;
And where the farthest heaven had birth,

The spirit trace its rising track ;
And where the future mars or makes.

Its glance dilate o'er all to be,
While sun is qucnch'd or system breaks,

Fix'd in its own eternity.

4. Above, or love, hope, hate, or fear.

It lives all passionless and pure ;
An age shall fleet like earthly year;

Its years as moments shall endure.
Away, away, without a wing,

O'er all, through all, its thoughts shall fly;
A nameless and eternal thing

Forgetting what it was to die.

''vi'

167. Books as Sources of Self-Cultivation.

8TAPF.

1. The power of embodying and perpetuating thouglitsi
feelings in visible signs is assuredly one of man's most preciouj
ornaments. By means of it, those who are now livinjj; nrj
enabled to conjure into tlicir presence the ancient world, M
well as the most distant scenes and events of the present davj
and to enjoy friendly converse with the great and wise men i

BOOKS AS SOURCES OF SELF-CULTIVATION.

439

Ilf-Cultivation.

every age. They may resuscitate into renewed life within
thomselves the wisest, the best, and tlie most noble thout^hts
iitul leeliugs which ever adorned the hiinia!) mind. They Imve
the whole treasure of the world's experience at their own
disposal, and they may still follow the mightiest souls to tlie
heights of scientific, intellectual, and moral pre-eminence, of
wliich, without them, the world might never have had an idea.

2. Reading, however, is not unaccompanied with danger.
Xay, in the present state of the literary world, abounding as
it does with bad books, reading may be the source of irrepar-
able evil. Accordingly, it is an essential duty for the educa-
tor to be most careful in his choice of books for the perusal
of the youth under his charge. Let him not be led astray by
tine-sounding names, and title-pages prodigal of promises, nor
l)y praise lavished in newspapers and reviews. On the con-
trary, he ought to lay it down as a rule, never to give his
pupils a book to read until he has himself read it quite
through, and found it, upon careful examination, to be suit-
fible for them in an intellectual, as well as in a religious and
moral point of view.

3. This is a rule from which he should never depart. There
arc books written intentionally for the perusal of youth, and
I so arranged that the poison is all kept up for the last few

pages, at which stage of the work it necessarily produces the
most pernicious effects, since the unwary heart of the young
I loader has already contracted a friendship with the author.
J Even supposing that the latter is in every respect worthy of
conlidence, as a man of principle and virtue, the teacher ought
not on that account to dispense himself from the rule above
mentioned. All works are not intended for all readers, and
no one can judge so well as he what is fit for his pupils, and
[what not.

4. Besides taking this care in choosing their reading-books
hhile they arc under his immediate guidance, he should, more
ovor, impress upon them, with all the urjreney of true afiec-
It >ii, the necessity which there is that they should in after-life
|be guided by the opinion of a well-informed and conscientious
IWend, and neither read nor purchase a book of which he dis-

440

THE FOURTH READER.

approres. Common prudence demands this. A library, or a
bookseller's shop, is like a market, stocked not only with good
articles of food, but also with such as are unwholesome and
poisonous. la such a market-place, no rational being would
content himself with whatever came under his hand first, and
greedily devour it ; but he would, on the contrary, be very
cautious in his purchases, in order not to buy a useless or
dangerous article.

5. Among the other maladies to which human nature is* I
subject, there is one which may be termed a reading mania. \
Excess in reading is injurious in many respects.

Among other writings which are not suited for the peru«
sal of the young, those should be named which are calculated I
to distract their thoughts from serious occupations, and to
awaken in their hearts an excessive tenderness of feeling.
Even supposing the contents of such works are in themselves
of an edifymg nature, they are very apt to give rise to a pas-|
sion for reading ; and then the taste, once corrupted and ac-
customed to a false beauty and sweetness of style, feels disgust!
for wholesome nourishment, and seeks for food in silly and|
dangerous novels and romances.

6. Whoever labors under an inordinate desire of reading,!
and who, accordingly, reads without distinction every book
which he can procure, will unavoidably come, sooner or later,
upon bad and dangerous books. The hurried and superficial
manner in which he reads is also hurtful to the mental powers.
They are thereby overloaded with food, and like the body|
under similar circumstances, become languid and unhealtb ;*.
" Not many things, but much :" such was a maxim of the an-|
cients on this subject.

t. Read not many books, but read one book well. It mat-l
ters not how much or how little is read, but what is readl
should be so with a constant application of the mind. It isT
far better and far more profitable for the reader to study onej
book, so as to comprehend it thoroughly, and to see and
feel the spirit and tendency of the writer, than to peruse
great number of books in such a manner as to touch only the
surface.

MAN S DESTINY.

441

g. A library, or a
not only with good
3 unwholesome and
itional being would
his hand first, and |
3 contrary, be very I
to buy a useless or '

jh human nature is
id a reading mania.
pects.

suited for the peru-
which are calculated!
occupations, and to'
mderness of feeling.]
rks are in themselves
to give rise to a pas-j
ice corrupted and ac-
1 of style, feels disgustl
'or food in silly and|

Lte desire of reading,
jtinction every book
ome, sooner or later,
Tried and superficial
3 the mental powers.
, and like the bodj
;uid and unhealtb;-.
a maxim of the an-

book well. It mat-!

Id, but what is read]

of the mind. It ib

reader to study one

Lly, and to see and

W, than to peruse

las to touch only tbe|

8. This inordinate desire of reading being one of tlie prin-
cipal distempers of the present ago, the teacher siiould accus-
tom liis pupils to read all books slowly and with reflection, so
as to be able to follow the whole train of thought, and to re-
tain in their memory, at least the more important p.^ints and
divisions of the subject. In order to do this, he shomd strongly
advise them not to content themselves with one perusal of a
liook.

9. In perusing a work for the first time, the reader is too
little acquainted with the author's turn of thought, and his
peculiarities of character or style. He is as a traveller pass-
ing through a foreign country for the first time. The multi-
tude and variety of new impressions he receives are apt to
form only a dim and confused mass in the mind. This, how-
ever, is not the case at a second or third perusal of the same
book.

10. He has already contracted an acquaintance with the
author; he knows his spirit, and his manner of expressing
himself; many things, which were at first dark and UHintclli-
gible, are now plain ; many, which before escaped hi^ n»ti#e
altogether, now start up before him ; what was clear at fir«t
becomes now more so, and is more deeply impressed upon the
Imemory. When there is question of works of more than oifdi-

iry importance, the trouble of a third, or even more frequent
srasal, is always amply repaid.

168. Man's Deshny.

8TAPP.

1. Man's destiny is immeasurably exalted. His last end
I God. To rise nearer and nearer to God, not as an isolated
mg, but hand in hand with his fellow-men, in the bonds of
Irotherly love, and in the position in which Providence has
[laced hiiii ; such is his business here on earth. Hence the

eat command tells hira, "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God
fith thy whole heart, and with thy whole soid, and with thy

19*

442

THE FOURTH READER.

whole mind, and thy neighbor as thyself. On these two
commandments dcpendeth the whole law and the prophets."
Matt. xxii. 37, &c.

2. The great duty of parents and educators is, then, to
train up their young, and yet weak fellow-creatures, to this
their noble end. No natural faculty dare be destroyed. AH
Bhould be developed, but developed in such a manner as to
render them directly conducive to the one end in view, which
is to raise man to God.

3. At all events, none should be hinderances or obstacles
to this end. Did a man speak not merely with the tongues
of men, but also with those of angels, did he know all mys-|
teries, and all knowledge, and had not charity, he were noth-
ing. And, again, what doth it profit a man, if he gain thel
whole world, and suffer the loss of his own soul 1 1 Cor. xiiij
1, &c. ; Matt. xvi. 26.

4. Man fell, and now, in his present state of corruption,
groaning, as he does at his birth, under the load of o'iginal
sin, he can find salvation nowhere but in and through his Dli
vine Redeemer, Jesus Christ. In separation from him, then
is no salvation. The name of Jesus is the only name in whicl
mortal man can be rescued from perdition. Acts iv. 12.

6. Accordingly, the work of true education is to condiicl
youth to Jesus Christ. He has a right to them. He pai(
for tl>em with his blood. He has made them the temples ol
the Holy Spirit by baptism. He intrusts them for a shorj
time to parents and teachers, and when he asks them bad
he expects to find tlicra well prepared for the fulfilment of hij
all-wise and loving intentions.

6. Hence emanates the great truth, which cannot he toj
often repeated, that education should be thoroughly religioi
and Christian in its external forms, as in its inward spirit,
it is ever to restore to life, and to adorn with fresh blossoi
and with wholesome fruits, the withered tree of fallen humai
ity, it must itself be animated in all its branches by the livii
and life-giving breath of Christianity. Accordingly, actii
charity, flowing from a lively faith, or the filial love of Goj
has been, on every occasion, during the course of this treat!

Aud

Thee

And

BINGEN OH THE BHINK.

443

if. On these two
and the prophets."

icators is, then, to
w-creatures, to this
be destroyed. All I
ich a maimer as to
) end in view, which

jrances or obstacles
ly with the tongues
lid he know all mys-
larity, he were noth-l
man, if he gain the!
msoull 1 Cor. xiiij

state of corruption,
• the load of o'iginaW
and through his Dij
,tion from him, therJ
le only name in whicD
[n. Acts iv. 12.
ication is to condticj
to them. He paid
, them the temples oj
ists them for a shor|
n he asks them bacii
|r the fulfilment of hi^

vhich cannot be toj
thoroughly religiou
its inward spirit.

with fresh blosson
I tree of fallen lmmai|
t)ranches by the livini

Accordingly, actij

le filial love of Goj

[ourse of this treatis

held up as the point most worthy of notice, as being the ar-
canum, or great secret in education.

7. The end of education is to insure man's happiness for
time and for eternity. This, however, it cannot do without
religion. For without religion there is not such a thing a.s
true love of self, or of one's neighbor ; and without this love,
110 real happiness is attainable, even on this earth, either by
individuals in particular, or by society in general.

8. Well, then, may the following words of an author, lately
deceased, be repeated here in conclusion : " We should merit
respect by our virtue ; and to our virtue we should impart
worth and duration by religion. Amid all the vicissitudes of
life, let it be the guiding-star in our firmament. The shades
of night may lower over us, rocks may surround us, still in its
blessed light we will be ever able to steer on our com'se in
safety I" Happy the world, if both educators and educated
reduced this advice to practice 1

169. BiNQEN ON THE RhINE.

HON. MRS. N OUT ON.

Carolink Elizabeth Sarah Norton, a grand-dangliter of tho famous
ivlcluird Briusluy Sheridan, is only Recond to Mrs. lleiimnH among tlie
female poets of our ajre. She has been called " the Byron of female poets,"
and iilthough her poetry may not have all the wild paasion that breathes in
Byrou's, it is characterized by a depth and intensity of feeling that raiae
it tiir above what is usually written by females.

A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dymg in Algiers,

I There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of

woman's tears ;
I But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebb'd

away,

I And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
The dying soldier falter'd, as he took that comrade's hand,
|Aud he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native

land ; .,

444

THE FOURTH READER.

Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine,
For I was born at Bingen — at Bingen on the Rhine.

II.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when thej meet and

crowd around
To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground,
That we. fought the battle bravely, and when the day was

done,
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun.
And midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars,
The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of mauy |

scars ;
But some were young — and suddenly beheld life's morn de-|

cliue ;
And one had come from Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine !

III.

" Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old|

age,
And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage :
For my father was a soldier, and even as a child
My heart leap'd forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and

wild;
And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,
I let them take whate'er they would, b-:it kept my father'^

sword,
And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used

to shine,
On the cottage-wall at Bingen — calm Bingen on the Rhine I

1 1

IV.

" Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping

head,
When the troops are marching home again, with glad anj

gallant tread ;

BINOEN ON THE RBmE.

445

t friends of miue,
e Rhine.

1 they meet and

vineyard ground,
ffhen the day was

1 the settmg sun.
grown old in wars, i
}, the last of mauyj

eld life's morn de-|

gen on the Bhine 1

kU comfort her oldl

this home a cage:

child
struggles fierce and

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast

eye,
For lier brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die.
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame ;
And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword

and mine).
For the honor of old Bingen — dear Bingen on the Rhine I

" There's another — not a sister ; in the happy days gone by,
You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her

eye;
Too innocent for coquetry, — too fond for idle scorning, —
Oh ! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heav-
iest mourning ;
Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen
My body will be out of pain — my soul be out of prison),
I dream'd I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight

shine
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine 1

scanty hoard,
|t kept my father'

bright light used

" I saw the blue Rhine sweep along — I heard, or seem'd to

hear,
The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill.
The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and

stUl;
en on the Rhine 1 1 j^^ j^^j. gjj^^ ^jJq^ gygg ^gjg q^ mg ^s we passed with friendly

talk •' -;

Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remember'd

sob with droopmj ^ w»"^; ,: • ■ . .

^ And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine :

ain, with glad anj

But we'll meet no more at Bingen — ^loved Bingen on the
Rliinel"

'■>

446

THE FOURTH READER.

VII.

llis voice grew falut and hoarser — his grasp was childish

weak, —
His eyes put on a dying look, — he sigh'd and ceased to

speak ;
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled, —
The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land — was dead I
And the soft moon rose np slowly, and calmly she look'd

d^wn
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses

strown ;
Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seem'd to

shine,
As it shone on distant Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine I

170. On Good Brebdino.

ANON.

1. As leaniing, honor, and virtue are absolutely necessary
to gain you the esteem and admiration of mankind, politeness
and good breeding are equally necessary to make you agree-
able in conversation and common life. Great talents are
above the generality of the world, who neither possess them
themselves, nor judge of them rightly in others; but all people
are judges of the smaller talents, such as civility, affability,
and an obliging, agreeable address and manner, because they
feel the effects of them, as making society easy and pleasing.

2. Good sense must, in many cases, determine good breed-
ing; but there are some general rules of it that always hold
true. For example, it is extremely rude not to give proper
attention, and a civil answer, when people speak to you; or to
go away, or be doing something else, while they are speaking
to you ; for that convinces them that you despise them, and
do not think it worth your while to hear or answer what they
say. It is also very rude to take the best place in a room, or
to seize immediately upon what you like at table, without

ON GOOD UBBBDINO.

447

isp was cliildihli

d and ceased to

af life had fled,—
—was dead !
jalmly she look'd

I bloody corpses

le light secm'd to

on the Rhine I

isolutely necessary

lankind, politeness
make you agree-
reat talents arc

;her possess tbcm
irs; but all people
civility, affability,

^ner, because they
,sy and pleasing,
mine good brecJ-
that always hold
lot to give proper
jeak to you; or to
they are speaking
despise them, and
janswer what they
ace in a room, or
lat table, without

offering first to help others, as if you considered no])ody but
yourself. Ou the contrary, you should always eiui'avor to
procure all the conveniences you can to the people you are
with.

3. Besides being civil, which is absolutely necessary, the
perfection of good breeding is to be civil with ease, and in a
becoming manner; awkwardness can proceed but from two
causes, either from not having kept good company, or froha
not having attended to it. Attention is absolutely necessary
for improving in behavior, as, indeed, it is for every thing else.
If an awkward person drinks tea or coflfee, he often scalds his
mouth, and lets either the cup or the saucer fall, and spills 4iho
tea or coffee on his clothes.

4. At dinner his awkwardness distinguishes itself particu-
larly, as he has more to do. There he holds his knife, fork,
and spoon differently from other people ; eats with his knife,
to the great danger of his lips ; picks his teeth with his fork;
and puts his spoon, which has been in his mouth twenty times,
into the. dishes again. If he is to carve, he can never hit the
joint; but, in his vain efforts to cut through the bone, scat-
ters the sauce in everybody's face. He generally daubs him-
self with soup and grease, though his napkin is commonly
stuck through a button-hole and tickles his chin. When he
drinks, he coughs in his glass, and besprinkles the company.

5. Besides ^11 this, he has strange tricks and gestures, such
as snuflBng up his nose, making faces, putting his fingers in
his nose, or blowing it, so as greatly to disgust the company.
His hands are troublesome to him when he has not something
in them ; and he does not know where to put them, but keeps
them in perpetual motion. All this, I own, is not in any (fe-
grce criminal ; but it is highly disagreeable and ridiculous in
company, and ought most carefully to be guarded agamst by
every one that desires to please.

6. There is, likewise, an awkwardness of expression and
words which ought to be avoided, such as false English, bad
pronunciation, old sayings, and vulgar proverbs, which are so
many proofs of a poor education. For example, if, instead of
saymg that tastes are different, and that every man has his

448

THE FOURTH RKADKR.

own peculiar one, yon shoald repeat a vulgar proverb, and
say that " what is one man's meat is another man's poison."
or else, " Every one to his Hieing, as the good man said when
he kissed his cow," the company would be persuaded that you
had never associated with any but low persons. ^

7. To mistake or forget names, to speak of " What-d'ye-
cqjj-him," or " Thingum," or " How-d'ye-call her," is excess-
ively awkward and vulgar. To begin a story or ^firratioii
when you are not perfect in it, and canuot go throug'B with it,
bui are forced, possibly, to say in the middle of it,'" I have
forgotten the rest," is very unpleasant and bungling. One
must be extremely exact, clear, and perspicuous in every thing
oner^says ; otherwise, instead of entertaining or iiiforming
others, one only tires and puzzles them.

8. The voice and manner of speaking, too, are not to be
neglected. Some people almost shut their mouths when they
speak, and mutter so that they are not to be understood ;
others speak so fast, and sputter, that they are equally unin-
telligible. Some always speak as loud as if they were talking
to deaf people ; and others so low that one cannot hear them.
All these, and many other habits, are awkward and disagree-
able, and are to be avoided by attention. You dannot im-
agine how necessary it is to mind all these little things. I
have seen many people with great talents ill received for want
of having these little talents of good breeding ; and others
well received only from their little talents, and who had no
great ones.

171. The Ancient Tombs.

FBAN0E8 brown;

.•

Frances Brown was born in Stranorlar, county DonegM, in 1816. She
was afflicted with small-pox when about a year and a half old, by whicli
she lost her sight. At the age of seven years she began to educate her-
self, by asking of all her'friends about her the meanings* of words and
things. From hearing her brothers and sisters repeat their daily tasks in
gratumar and spelling, she learnt the same lessons^ and invariably knew
them before the others. Her memory was so retentive, tktt to induce lier
friends to read for her the more thoughtful books for which they had no
taste, she used to relate stories of her own composition, — or do the houud-

\,^

THR ANCIENT TOMBS.

449

jar proverb, and
r man's poison."
i man said when
rsuadcd that you

IS. ,

: of " What-d'ye-
11 her," is exeess-
ory OP pArratiou
> througTi with it,
[e of it,"' I have
[ bungling. One
)us in every thing
ng or informing

30, are not to be

nouths when they

) be understood ;

r are equally nnin-

they were talking

cannot hear them.

ard and dlsagrec-

You Cannot im-

little things. I

1 received for want

[diiag ; and others

L and who had no

snegfcl, in 1816. She
jft half old, by which
[egan to educate her-
knmg8»of words and
Lt their daily tasks in
tnd invariably knuw
fe, tktt to induce her
Ir which they had no
jn,— or do the houu©-

hold work which was allotted to them. The night of the visible world
biving been sluit ..,^.'r-'t lior, her clear naturnl intellect devlKod a nu»de
by wliicli alie Icurnod to Hce into tlic world of thought. The greater por-
tion of her poeinH appeared in tijo " Athcn»euM»,"— from tlie editor of
which she had uxpcriuiiccd kindnuaa and euooiiragctnout. «

1. They rise on isle and ocean shore,

They stand by lake and stream.
And blend with many a shepherd's tale,

And many a poet's dream ;
Where darkly lowers the northern pme,

Where the bright myrtle blooms,
And on the desert's trackless sands,

Arise the ancient tombs.

2. The hands that raised them, long ago,

In death and dust have slept,
And long the grave hath seal'd the fonnts

Of eyes that o'er them wept ;
But still they stand, like sea-marks left

Amid the passing waves
Of generations, that go down

To their forgotten graves.

8. For many an early nation's steps

Have pass'd from hill and plain ;
Their homes are gone, their deeds forgot.

But still their tombs remain —
To tell, when time hath left no trace

Of tower or storied page,
Our ancient earth how glorious was

Her early heritage.

4. They tell us of the lost and moumM,

When earth was new to tears ;
The bard that left his tuneful lyre.

The chief that left his spears ;
Ahl were their lights of love and fame

On those dark altars shed,
To keep undimm'd through time and change

The memory of the dead ?

460 THR FOURTH RBADRR.

6. If 80, alas for love'R bright tears 1
And for iiiiibltioii'H ilroiiins,
For earth hath kept their monuments
• But lost the Hlocpors' names :
They live no more in story's scroll,

Or song's inspiring breath ;
For altars raised to human fame
Have turn'd to shrines of death.

6. But from your silence, glorious graves,

What mystic voices rise,
That thus, through passing ages speak

Their lessons to the wise 1
Behold, how still the world rewards

Her brightest, as of yore ;
For then she gave a nameless grave^

And now she gives no more.

172. Execution op Sib Thomas More.

[From tlio HiHtoriciil Novel of Aliob Sbkrwin.]

1. His beloved daughter Margaret, knowing she would not
ngain be admitted within the precincts of tlie Tower, had
paced the wharf for more than an hour ; when she at len<i:tli
perceived him, she burst through the billmcn, and tlirowini.'
herself on his neck, murmured, in a broken voice, " Oh, my
father 1 oh, my father 1"

2. " Where is thy fortitude, my best jewel ?" said More
tenderly pressing his lips to her cheek. " Let this console
tliee, Margaret, tliat I suffer in innocence, and by tlie will of
God ; to whose blessed pleasure, thou, my cliild, must accom-
modate thyself, and not only bo patient under thy los«, hut
lead thy poor weak mother and tliy sisters to follow thy ex*
ample. And now retire ; I would not have thy best feelings
become the scoff and jibe of a brutal guard."

?*■ -

THE KXKCCTION OP SIR THOMAS MORE.

451

3. ITia dauij^htor prnparrd to ohoy ; but Imtl not proroodiMl
ron steps, wIh'M, rurj^cirul (»t' all fortitude uiul si'lt-('()t>trol, slio

turned back, and lulling; on his neck, kissed him apiin niid
aj^ain. Sir Tlioinas did not speak ; hut notwithstanding^ liis
clForts at linnness tears fell rapidly from his eyes ; neither Wiis
it until his adopted daughi-oi", Margaret ClenK'nt, had loosened
lier arms })y force, she could bo separated from her father.
Dorotliy C<>l!ii\ hor maid, who had been brought u|) in the
family, also threw herself on her knees at her niasti r's feet,
covering his hand with kisses.

4. The space between his trial and execution was employed
by More in prayer, meditation, and the severest corporal mor-
tidciitions ; he continually walked about with a sheet around
him, so as to familiarize himself to the thought of death. Ifo
contrived to write a few lines with a coal to his dau«j;liter
Margaret, expressing his earnest desire to suffer on the follow-
ing day, which was the vigil of St, Thomas of Canterbury,
and sending her his hair-shirt. Strange to say, early the next
morning he received a visit from Sir Thomas Pope, who witli
much pain informed him he was to suffer at nine o'clock, add-
ing that by the king's pardon his sentence was changed into
beheading, because he had borne the highest oflBce in the realm,
and that he (Pope) was desired to be the messenger of the
royal mercy.

5. " Well," said Sir Thomas, with his usual good humor,
" God forbid the king should extend any more such mercy to
those I hold dear, and preserve my posterity from similar par-
dons ! For the rest. Master Pope, I thank you for your
tidings ; I am bound to his grace, who, by putting me hero,
has afforded me time and opportunity to prepare for my end.
I beseech you, my good friend, to move his majesty that my
daughter Roper may be present at my burial."

6. "The king is content," said Pope, deeply moved, "that
all your family sliould attend, provided you use not many
words on the scaffold."

" It is well I was informed," said More ; " for I had pur-
posed to have spoken ; but I am ready to conform to his
highness' pleasure. Nay, quiet yourself, good Master Pope,"

452

THE FOURTH READRR.

he continued, as the other wrung his hand ; " for I trn«t wo
sliall yot live and love Qod to^jfcther in eternal bliss,"

7. When he was alone, More earefuiiy attired himself in a
jj;()wn of silk camlet, which he had received as a present from
one Anliiony Honvise, a merchant of Lucca : it was so costly
lli.it Sir William Kinj^^ston advised him not to wear it, as Ik;
whose j)rop(»rty it would be(!ome was but iiJaoiU (villain).

*' Shall I account him a javill," said More, " who is this
day to work me so singular a benefit ? Nay, if it were clotli-
of-gold, I should think it well bestowed. Did not St. Cyprian,
the martyred Bishop of Carthage, bestow on his executiouLT
thirty pieces ? and shall I grudge a garment ?"

8. Kingston, however, persisted ; yet, although Sir Thouiiis
yielded, he sent the headsman an angel out of his scanty store,
to prove ho bore hira no ill-will.

When the crowd assembled roimd the scaffold on Tower
Hill caught sight of their former favorite, his beard unshaved,
his face pale and sharpened, and holding a red cross in his
hand, they pressed eagerly around him, while audible expres-
sions of indignation were heard on every side. A poor woman
[lushed tlirough the throng, offering him a cup of wine ; but
he gently put her aside, saying, " Christ at His Passion drank
not wine, but gall and vinegar."

He, however, met with many insults. One female cried out
that he had wrongfully judged her cause when lord chancellor ;
to which he calmly replied, that " if he were now to give sen-
tence, he would not alter his decision."

9. While preparing to mount the scaffold, an unwonted
bustle took place at the very verge of the dense mass, and it
was evident the guards were endeavoring to keep some person
back ; their halberds, however, were beaten aside, and with
almost superhuman strength a man forced hii;>self through the
press, grasping the prisoner's robe as he prepared to ascend
the steps, and demanding with the voice and action of a ma-
niac, " Do you know me, More ? do you know the man you
rescued from tho devil ? Pray for me 1 pray for me I I have
wandered round your prison j if I had seen you, you had cured
me again.''

THE INFLUENCE OF DEVOTION.

453

" for I trnst we
111 hliss." ^

iiTil hiinsclf iti a
LS a present IVoiu
: it was so.ostly
to wear it, as \w
avill (villiiiu).
re, " who is this
', if it were ck)th-
i not St. Cyprian,
a his executioner

lOugh Sir Thomas
if his scanty store,

icaffold on Tower
s beard unshaved,
I red cross in his
Ic audil)le expres-
A poor wonuui
cup of wine ; bnt
lis Passion drank

female cried out
n lord chancellor ;
now to give scn-

)ld, an unwonted
}nse mass, and it
keep some person

aside, and with
iiself through the
tpared to ascend

action of a nia-

)w the man you

Iformel I have

U, you had cured

10. "It is John Ilales of Winchester," said one of tho
iniard. " lie says Sir Thomas More cured liirn by his prayers
or' the hlaek fever, and that since ho has been in eonlinement
tiie fits have retnrned worse tiuin ever."

"lie did more for me," said Hales, tenaciously retaining
his hold, " than all the college of physicians. Pray for me,
More I pray for me I Do you not remember me ?"

** 1 do remember you," said More soothingly ; " I will pray
for you on the scaffold : go and live in peace ; the fits will not
return."

11. The man obeyed ; when the prisoner finding himself too
weak to ascend, said to Kingston, who was by his side, " I
beseech you, see me safe up ; my coming down I will take
care of myself."

He then knelt, and recited the Miserere ; after which he
embraced the executioner, saying, " No mortal man could
have done me a greater service than thou wilt this day. Pluck
up thy spirit, and fear not to perform thy office. My neck is
very short ; take heed thou strike not awry, to save thy
credit."

12. He covered his eyes himself, and laying his head on the
block, removed his beard, saying, " This at least never com-
mitted treason."

There was a dull heavy sound, a gush of warm bright blood,
and the soul of Sir Thomas More passed to God upon the
very day which he had so earnestly desired.

173. The Influence of Dkvotion on toe Happiness

OF Life.

BLAIK.

Dr. IlroH Blair, born in Edinburgh, in 171S: died in 1800. He is best
known by hi« "Lectures on Khotoric." Thouirh soinewluit liani uud dry
in stvlo and nmnner, tliis work forms a useful Knide to the youiitf stuiU-rit.
l>r. Ijhiiris also known us the autlmr of a learned and clabort-te disserlu-
'iou on MacPherson'sj " roeina of Odsian."

1. Wn.iTEVER promotes and strengthens virtue, whatever
calpis and regulates the temper, is a source of happiness. De*

454

THE FOURTH READER.

votion produces these effects in a remarkable degree. It in-
spires composure of spirit, mildness, and benignity; wcakeus
tiie painful, and cherishes the pleasing emotions ; and, l)y
these means, carries on the life of a pious man in a smooth
and placid tenor.

2. Besides exerting this habitual influence on the mind, de-
votion opens a field of enjoyments to which the vicious are
entire strangers ; enjoyments the more va'uablc, as they pecu-
liarly belong to retirement, when the world leaves us ; and
to adversity, when it becomes our foe. These are the two
seasons, for which every wise man would most wish to provide
some hidden store of comfort.

3. For let him be placed in the most favorable situation
which the human state admits, t!ie world can neither always
anmse him, nor always shield him from distress. There will
be many hours of vacuity, and many of dejection in his life.
If he be a stranger to God, and to devotion, how dreary will
the gloom of solitude often prove I With what oppressive weight
will sickness, disappointment, or old age, fall upon his spirits.

4. But for those pensive periods, the pious man has a relief
prepared. From the tiresome repetition of the common vani-
ties of life, or from the painful corrosion of its cares and sor-
rows, devotion transports him into a new region ; and sur-
rounds him there with such objects as are the most fitted to
cheer the dejection, to calm the tumults, and to heal the
wounds of his hea: ^ If the world has been empty and delu-
sive, it gladdens him with the prospect of a higher and better
order of things about to i ise.

6. If men have been ungrateful and base, it displays before
him the faithfulness of that Supreme Being, who, though every
other friend fail, will never forsake him. Let us consult our
experience, and we shall find, that the two greatest sources of
inward joy, are, the exercise of love directed towards a deserv-
ing object, and the exercise of hope terminating on some high
and assured happiness. Both these are supplied by devo-
tion ; and therefore we have no reason to be surprised, if, on
some occasions, it fills the hearts of good men with a satisfac-
tion not to be expressed.

ON PRIDE.

455

J degree. It iu-
uiguity; wcakous
otions •, and, by
man iu a smooth

on the mind, de-
ch the vicious arc
iblc, as they pecu-
d leaves us ; and
:hese are the two
ist wish to provide

favorable situation
can neither always
[stress. There will
ejection in his life.
on, how dreary will
at oppressive wciglit
[all upon his spirits,
ous man has a relief

f the common vani-
its cares and sor-

w region ; and sur-

the most fitted to

and to heal tlit

ecu empty and delu-

a higher and better

6. The refined pleasures of a pious mind are, in many re-
spects, superior to the coarse gratifications of sense. They
are pleasures which belong to the highest powers and best
affections of the soul ; whereas the gratifications of sense re-
side in the lowest region of *our nature. To the latter, the
Boul stoops below its native dignity. The former, raise it
above itself. The latter, leave always a comfortless, often a
mortifying remembrance behind them. The former, are re-
viewed with applause and delight.

'^. The pleasures of sense resemble a foaming torrent, which
after a disorderly course, speedily runs out, and leaves an
empty and offensive channel. But the pleasures of devotion
resemble the equable current of a pure river, which enlivens
the fields through which it passes, and diffuses verdure and
fertility along its banks.

8. To thee, Devotion I we owe the highest improvement
I of our nature, and much of the enjoyment of our life. Thou
I art the support of our virtue, and the rest of our souls, in this
turbulent world. Thou composest the thoughts. Thou calm-
est the passions. Thou exaltest the heart. Thy communica-
tions, and thine only, are imparted to the low, no less than to
|tlie high; to the poor, as well as to the rich.

9. In thy presence worldly distinctions cease ; and under
Ithy influence, worldly sorrows are forgotten. Thou art the
mm of the wounded mind. Thy sanctuary is ever open to

Ithe miserable ; inaccessible only to the unrighteous and im-
pure. Thou beginnest on earth the temper of heaven. In
liee, the hosts of angels and blessed spirits eternally rejoice.

56, it displays before
■ who, though every
Let us consult our
greatest sources of
od towards a deserv-
nating on some higli
supplied by dcvo-
be surprised, if, o"

174. On Pride.

POPE

.Uexandbr Popk was born in I^ondon in 1088 : died in 17'44. As a

*t, Pope holds u f rst place. In liis " Rape nf tlie Lock " he ha-* blended

most deliciite sniire with the most lively raiicv, mid produced the tlncst

. „ —ii most brilliant moclf-heroic poem in the world. Ilia " Essay on Man."

men with a satlSiaC- BEssay on Criticism," and " Temple of Fame," are each nnaurpossed in

"^ "^uty and eleg&nce of stylo.

156 THE FOURTH BBADEB.

1. Of all the causes which conspire to blind
Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mmd,
What the weak head with strongest bias rules,
Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
Whatever nature has in Worth denied.

She gives in large recruits of needful pride 1
For, as in bodies, thus in souls, we find
What wants in blood and spirits, swelPd with wind.
Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence,
And fills up all the mighty void of sense.

2. If once right reason drives that cloud away,
Truth breaks upon us with resistless day.
Trust not yourself ; but, your defects to know,
Make use of every friend — and every foe.

A Uttle learning is a dangerous thing ;
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain ;
And drinking largely sobers it again.

3. Fired at first sight with what the muse imparts.
In fearless yc ith we tempt the heights of arts.
While, from the bounded level of ou c mind.
Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind;
But more advanced, behold, with strange surprise,
New distant scenes of endless science rise I

So, pleased at first the towering Alps we try,
Mount o'er vhe vales, and seem to tread the sky;
Th' eternal snows appear already past,
And the first clouds and mountains seem the last;
But, those attained, we tremble to survey
The growing labors of the lengthen'd way;
Th' increasing prospect tires our wondering eyes ;
Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise.

ADHEKENCE TO I'KINCIPLE COMMANDS KESPEOT. 467

I the mind,
bias rules,

I pride I

find

ireird with wmd.

IT defence,

sense.

ud away,

IS day.

ets to know,

ry foe.

ng;

m spring:
the brain ;

tin.

muse imparts,
ights of arts,
ou : mind,
lengths behind;
strange surprise,
ince rise I

.Ips we try,
tread the sky;

past,

ns seem the last;

p survey

en'd way;

wondering eyes )
Alps arise.

176. Adherence to Principle commands Respect.

MISS BKOWN80N.

Sarah H. Brownson, daughter of Dr. O. A. Brownson, though still
young in years, has already evince* couHiderable talent tor literary compo-
Mtion. llor '' Marian Elwood," published anouymou^y, with other snui'.!-
cr works, which have only met the eyes of her friends, indicate a range of
ttbilit)^ far in advance of the writer's age. " Marian Elwood" is the only
(iiie of Miss Brownson's works yet published, but it has a vigor of thought,
mid a richness of fancy, which must at once strike the reader.

1. When Marian had finished her breakfast, she lounged
carelessly to the windows, and after ) \mg at her watch
several times, went to hei' own room. At a quarter before
uiue, she appeared in the hall. "Where are you gomg?"
asked Mr. Weston.

" To church. Am I not to have the pleasure of your escort
as far at least as the door ?"

2. " If you leave this house, and enter a papist temple, you
shall never return to it."

"Polite, on my word. And what will you say to my
mother ?"

" What shall I say," he thundered, " what shall I say ? I'll
tell her you've come to bring dishonor on a respectable house,
disgrace to an honorable man I What shall I say to her ?
I'll tell her of your insults — your — stayl"

3. " Uncle, listen a moment — ^listen to a little reason — "
" I'll hear nothing from you. Be still — **
" You must. Listen, I am a Roman Catholic."
" At home you may be ; but in this house I have no idol-
aters."

" As a Roman Catholic I am bound to obey my Church."

" And her vile, crafty priests."

" I have no time nor patience to hear your free, candid opin-

I ions," Marian said, her color rising. I am willing to give

)'ou my reasons for acting as I am about to do ; if you will

I listen, and show yourself a gentleman, and an enlightened one,

Tery well ; if you will not listen to what I wish to say, you

I will prove yourself prejudiced, bigoted, and narrow-mmdcd."

His very rage prevented him from answering.

'■^

458

THE FOURTH BEADBB.

4. " Bat," she continued, " you are none of the throe. My
religion, which I firmly believe, and am, therefore, bound in
conscience to practise — my religion commands me to attend
church every Sunday. And, think you, because the way i«
hard, I am to disobey ? If I practise my religion when my
mother's carriage drives me to the church door, and I have
soft cushions to rest on, shall I desert it when I have a long
walk to take, exposed to the wondering eyes of a handful of
prejudiced country people ? If I do that, do you think I am
worthy the name of Catholic ?"

5. "But it is no religion ; it is the mask for crafty Jesuits,
and — and — "

" Whatever this religion may be in your eyes, in mine it is
my Redeemer's. If you believe it is a crime for you to — to
— enter that parlor, and because I tell you it is absurd for
you to imagine such a thing ; if the whole world rises up aiul
laughs at you for being afraid to enter your own parlor, anil
you, still believing you are committing a crime, should en-
ter to avoid ridicule — "

6. " But that is not the same. You need not fancy you
are about to commit a crime. You must know all our little
town is on tiptoe to see you, and I intended satisfying their
vulgar curiosity. If you are not with me, a thousand ques-
tions will be asked. I shall be forced to acknowledge that
you went to — a — popish gathering. In an instant, you will
be made a mark for scorn. You do not know the prejudices
of our little village."

7. "'They are on tiptoe to see me 1' Is a church then
ihe place for me to exhibit myself ? Am I then to break the

iws of my church, listen not to the voice of my conscience,
violate my duty to my God, because people want to lo.k at
me ? Shame on you, uncle 1"

" I did not mean that at all — but after meeting — "

8. " I will dress myself in my prettiest costume, and with
Catherine as a guide, go to meet you, and I promise to en-
dure, without a shade of scorn, the whole battery of your
friends' eyes. If they ask questions, are you to shrink ? Are
you not man enough to say your niece follows her otvn con-

MOUNT LEBANON AND ITS CEDARS.

459

>f the throe. My
lerefore, bound in
ids me to attoua
icause the way is
religion when my
door, and I have
hen I have a long
;s of a handful of
lo you think I am

for crafty Jesuits,

: eyes, in mine it is
ime for you to— to
3U it is absurd for
world rises up and
)ur own parlor, and
I crime, should en-
need not fancy you
know all our little
led satisfying their
e, a thousand ques-

acknowledge that
m instant, you will

now the prejudices

Is a church then

then to break the

of my conscience,

ble want to \oA at

Imeeting— "
costume, and with
id I promise to en-
ie battery of your
U to shrink? Are
(lows her ovm con-

science, in preference to their prejudices ? They'll scorn me.
Let them. I should scorn myself hiid I not principle, reli-
gion, and chiinicter enough to do my duty in the face of a
whole world's opposition. I know it is mortifying to you — I
am sorry it is, but I must go."

9. " You are determined ?"

" I am, sir."

" You are right," he answered, " and it shall never be said
that James Weston could not appreciate firmness, though in
an erring cause. I will go with you."

1Y6. Mount Lebanon and its Cedars.

PATTERSON.

James Laird Patterson, M. A., nn Enfrlish frentlemnn, who a few ytwirs
Binco made a visit to the Holy Land, ar.d publisiiedan intorestiiijj account
of his " Tonr in Ejjynt, Palestine, and Syria." After visitinj^ the lioly
places, Mr. Patterson became a convert to the Catholic faith.

1. About seven we were in motion, and had a most delight-
ful ride over the crest of Lebanon. The view of the valley
and Anti-Lebanon, and of the amphitheatre on the west side,
is magnificent We passed through several patches of snow,
and found the air proportionately cold.- From the crest of the
mountain, the 'broad valley of B'scherri looks like a rocky
glen : the village of that name, and Eden, appeared to the
right. Higher up the valley spreads, and near the right
flanking mountains the deep green cedars are nestled.

2. The cedars appear about two iiuadred in number, of
which some eight or ten are very large. We measured three
of the largest, and found them respectively tliirty-sevcn feet
ten inches, twenty-eight feet, and thirty-one feet in girth. On
the north side of the four knolls on which the cedars stand
(and in the midst of which our tent is pitched) is a deep ravine.

3. The general eflfect from here is beautiful. On the whole,
I should say that the associations and the general effect of the
cedars render them well worth a visit; but, in themselves,
travellers have a little overrated them. This evening we havo

4G0

THE FOURTH READER.

been watch iiij^' the sunset from one of the trees, in the fork of
wliose hu^e bninclies, or raHier trunks, we sat. Iktween two
of these we liad a view of tiie valley and sea-horizon beyond,
lit up by the elianging sunset lights, and of one single bri<i:lit
star, nnionji^ the delicate foliage of the trees, which I shall nut
easily forget.

4. We left the cedars with some regret that we had not
resolved at once to stay there some days. I went up to tli»'
clmpel, and the priest came to me, as I was going away, and
gave mo the benediction, laying the gosj)els on my head. lUi
also made me a present of u small cornelian antitjue seal, which
I sliall cherish as a pleasant remembrance of him and his
mountain charere.

5. At eight o'clock we started for Duman, a summer r

I'S-

idcncc of the patriarch of the Maronites, where ho now is.
To reach it, we had to cross the head of the valley, and de-
scend it for three or four miles on the south side. As we got
lower, we found the ground more cultivated and very fertile,
and the views most beautiful. Looking back, we saw the
glen or ravine of gray limestone rocks, along which we were
scrambling, terminated in an advanced amphitheatre of richly-
tinted sandstone, above the centre of which the deep-green
cedar grove was seen ; while, far above, the grand semicircle
of the highest range of Lebanon swept round. Its warm col-
oring was patched with snow here and there, coutrastmg with
wonderful beauty with the deep sky above.

6. Looking before us, the winding glen yawned below. Its
broken gray crags are set off by verdant patches of corn, and
by viney arc's and mulberry groves, and intersected in a tlioii-
sand places by clear streams of water, glittering in the sun.
l)ut if nature, thus prodigal of beauty, charmed the way, much
more was it beguiled by the moral aspect of the inhabitants of
Lebanon. At every mile we saw the small chapel, neatly
built of squared stones, surmounted by its modest bell-gable ;
at every turn the courteous but hearty greeting c the peas-
ants, a cheery pleasant-faced race, reminded us that we were
once more in a Catholic country.

TlIE SIEOE OF QUEBEC BY MONTOOMKRY.

4C1

3, in the fork of
Iktween two
lorizon beyond,
lie single bright
rlilch 1 sluill not

hat we had not
went up to thr
roiiig tiway, nml
II my beail. lb;
rujue seal, whicli
of bim and his

n, a summer rcs-
rhere he now is.
le valley, and dc-
Bidc. As we got
aud very fertile,
ack, we saw the
ig which we wore
theatre of richly-
i the deep-greeii
grand semicirelo
. Its warm col-
coutrastmg with

vned below. Its
ches of corn, and
seated in a thoii-
ering in the sun.
,ed the way, much
he inhabitants of
11 chapel, neatly
lodest bell-gable;
|ting c the peas-
us that we wero

177. TlIK SiKGE OF QlTKBIX! BY MoN'I'Gf »MI:!1Y.

1. MoNTGOMKUV divided his troops into four liodies. Tiu* first,
co!npos('d of (JoloMcl Fiivingston's ('anadians, was to maUe a,
f(Mgned attack in the direction of St. .Jolm's Gate ; tlu; second
corps, conmianded by Major Hrown, was ordered to threaten
the cita(U'l. Whilst the garrison, watching the movements of
these two divisions, should be occupied with the defence of
the Upper Town, the two other corjis, charged with the renl
iittack, were to penetrate into the Lower Town, and after-
wards to the Upper, which the Americans believed open on
that side.

2. Colonel Arnold, with 4o0 men from St. Koch's sub-
urk^, was charged to remove the barrieadi'S and bati cries
at Saut-au-Matelot ; General Montgomery had reserved lo
himself the strongest colum'.;, to remove the barrier of Pn ,;-
de-Ville, and enter the place by Cham))lain-street. At two in
the morning all the troops were asscnd)lcd ; some had stuck
in their hats little branches of (ir, in order to recognize eaeh
other amongst the enemy ; others, scraps of paper, with the
words, "Liberty or death I" They went and placed them-
selves in the diifercnt posts assigned them.

3. Montgomery descended by way of Foulon, and advanced
with his column along the shore as far as Mother Cove,
where he stopped to give the signal for all the colinnns to
march to the attack. It was near four o'clock in the morn-
ing. Two rockets were sent off, and inmiediatelv the several
signals given by the assailants were i)erceivcd by the sentinels
of the city, who gave the alarm. On reaching their post,
the troops charged with the defence of the ramjtarts on the
land side encountered a strong fire of musketry, which they
answered brisk] v.

4. Meam\ Inle Montgomery, Allowed by his officers, had com-
menced his marcii at the head of his column, which was of
considerable length. The windingpath up which he pro-
ceeded, hollowed between ihe river and a perpendicular rock,
was scarcely wide enough for one man to pass ; he was, be-

462

THE FOURTH READER.

sid(>s, pmbarrnssed by icoboru^s, wliirli tlic tido had there acou-
niiiltitcd, and by the falling snow. Novcrthelcs?!, Montji^oniciy
roa<.'htMl tlie first liarricr of Pres-dc-Villc, which ho crossed
>\ithout difficulty ; but the second was defended by a masked
battery of seven pieces of cannon, and a guard of fifty men,
commanded by Cnpt. Chabot. The artilleryinon stood at their
guns, match in hand, waiting the appearance of the enemy.

5. Montgomery was surprised on seeing this post so well
l)ropared to receive him. He paused a moment, when about
fifty yards from the battery, as if to consult those who fol-
lowed him, then all together they darted towards the barricade.
When they got within a few paces of it, Captain Chabot gave
the order to fire. Cries and groanr, followed this terrible dis-
charge. Montgomery, his two aidos-dc-camp, and several ofii-
cers and soldiers, had fallen under that raking fire. Colonel
Campbell, on whom devolved the command of the colunni,
seeing the terror and confusion of his men, without attempting
to make any assault on the barrier, without even firing a shot,
ordered a retreat, which was a real flight.

6. At this moment Col. Arnold, having traversed St. Roch's
and the Palace, nuvanced to force the first barricade that
blocked up the old Saut-au-Matelot-street, when, passing un-
der the ramparts of the Upper Town, from whence a brisk fire
was kept up, he was struck by a ball that fractured his leg.
He was replaced by Captain Morgan, a former wig-maker of
Queb(;c, but a very brave officer, who marched right on the
barrier, scaled it, after wounding the sentinel, and took it
away, with all its defenders. He lost but one man in this
;ittack, the Canadian, namely, who had served him for a guide,
and whose death obliged him to postpone his march till day-
light. He was rejoined soon after by Lieutenant-Colonel
Green and the rest of the column at the moment when a sin-
gular scene was taking place among his soldiers. Some of
tiie townspeople, awoke by the drums beating the recall, ran
in haste to the Saut-au-Matelot, where they were to assemble
in case of an attack, when, meeting the Americans, the latter
held out their hands, crying, " Liberty forever 1" Some
escaped, others were retained as prisoners.

TIIK 8IE0K OF QUKBEC BY MoNTGOMKUY.

463

had thore accu-

lic'h lie crossed
cd by a masked
rd of fifty nv(;n,
n stood at their
»f the enemy,
is post so well
nt, when about
; those who foi-
ls the barricade.
m\ Chabot gave
this terrible dis-
and several ofli-
jcr fire. Colonel
of the column,
hont attempting
ren firing a shot,

orsed St. Roch's
barricade that
len, passing un-
lence a brisk fire
lactured his leg.
or wig-maker of
d right on tho
el, and took it
ne man in this
him for a guide,
march till day-
utenant-Colonel
ent when a sin-
lliers. Some of
the recall, ran
ere to assemble
cans, the latter
ever I" Some

T. At daybreak the enemy's column occuj)ied all the houses
from the barrier it had removed to tho second, whieh was
|(!aced in St. John's-street, two hundred puces further on. A
handful of (Janadians, who had thrown themselves forwani,
defended the ground foot by foot with much obstinacy, despite
the great superiority of their enemies, who cried several times,
naming some of the citizens, " Friends, are you there ?" On
reaching the last barrier they put up ladders to cross it, but
the fire of its defenders became so deadly, that thoy were
forced \d retire and take refuge in the houses. Then a militia-
man of the town, named Charland, a man as robust as he was
intrepid, advanced amid a shower of bullets, and drew the
ladders inside the barricade. This barrier was defended by
the company of Captain Dumas, engaged at the moment with
the Americans, who were firing from the houses. The com-
batants thus placed formed an angle, of which tho side parallel
with the cape was occupied by the assailants, and the side
cutting the line of the cape at right angles and miming to tho
river, was defended by the besieged, who had a battery on their
right. Capt. Dumas soon beheld coming to his assistance Capt.
Marcoux's Canadians, artillerymen and English infantry.

8. General Carleton, having learned the retreat of the column
which had attacked Pres-de-Ville, and seeing by their ma-
noDuvres that the troops which had threatened St. John's Gate
and Cape Diamond had not meant to make a serious attack,
concentrated his principal forces on the Saut-au-Matelot. He
ordered Captain Laws to take 200 men, to leave the Upper
Town by Palace Gate, and plunging right into St. Charles-
street and the old Saut-au-Matelot-street, to attack the enemy
vigorously in the rear. He, at the same time, charged Cap-
tain McDougall to support him with his company. Laws en-
tered a house where he found several American officers in
consultation. Sreing him, they drew their swords, but he
told them he w'as at the head of a strong detachment, and
that they would all be massacred if they did not surrender
immediately ; tliis they did, after satisfying themselves, by
I looking through a window, that he was actually followed by
a laro-e number of men.

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1.0

I.I

■50 ■^~

2.5
2.2

^ MS. 12.0

«1UU

IL25 lU 1.4

Hiotograiilic

Sciences

Corporalion

23 WIST MAIN STMiT

WIBSTIR.N.Y. 14SS0

(716)172-4503

^v^«

'-■^

464

THE FOURTH READER.

9. Gen. Carlcton had likewise sent an order to Major Nalrnc
and Captain Dambourges to go with a strong detachment to
sustain the troops who were fighting in tlio Lower Town.
When they reached that point it was resolved to assume the
ofifeusive, and attack the houses held by the enemy. Imme-
diately Captain Dambourges and the Canadians leaped over
the barricades, and placed their ladders against the first house
occupied by the Americans, which was carried. Major Nairne
did as much on his side. These two officers thus took the houses
one after the other. The Americans found themselves assailed
on all sides at once. Hemmed in in front, briskly attacked
from the rear, surrounded by superior forces, having their line
of retreat cut oflF, they vainly held out for some time ; they
were forced to lay down their arms. Arnold's whole column
were taken prisoners ; and the governor, profiting by his vic-
tory, carried St. Roch's battery, which had never ceased firing
on the city during the attack. ^

10. The fire had been very brisk at Saut-au-Matelot, and the
loss there was believed considerable ; but it was happily found
to be very trifling. That of the Americans was great in pris-
oners, and the fall of Montgomery was irretrievable. His
body was found half buried under the snow, with twelve
others, at a short distance from the barrier by which he had
hoped to make his way into the city. The officers of his
army, who were prisoners, and not knowing what had become
of him, having recognized his sword in the hands of an offi-
cer of the garrisoh, were no longer uncertain as to his fate,
and burst into tears. The governor had him decently interred
inside the city, with military honors, desiring thereby to honor
the memory of a general who had distinguished hunself by
his moderation and humanity ever smce he had commanded
the troops of Congress.

CHAMPLAIN.

465

iler to Major Ntiinic
rong detachment to

tiie Lower Town.
Ived to assume tin-
the enemy. Imme-
nadians leaped over
rainst the first house
ried. Major Nairne
thus took the houses
I themselves assailed
3nt, briskly attacked
CCS, having their line
or some time ; they
mold's whole column

profiting by his vic-
id never ceased firing

Lt-au-Matelot, and the
it was happily found
.ns was great in pris-
,s irretrievable. His
snow, with twelve
ier by which he had !
The officers of his
,ng what had become
the hands of an offi- j
rtain as to his fate,
him decently interred!
•ing thereby to honor I
inguished hunself by
he had commanded

ClIAMIXAIN.

MO KGA N.

IIenkv J. MonoAN, a Cunadian writer, author of a work entitled
" Jiiotrriiphics of Celebrated Ciiuadiuiis."

1. Samuel de Champlain, a name rendered ilhistrious in our
annals from his services in not only founding the ancient city
of Quebec, but in establishing Canada ; m spreading civiliza-
tion, repelling the attacks of the hordes of Indiana, and thus
saving the lives of the early French settlers ; in exploring the
country and its valuable resources, and thus bringing its name
conspicuously before not only his own nation, but many others.

2. He was of a noble family of Hrouage, in the province of
Saintonge, in France. He commanded a vessel, in which he mcide
a voyage to the East Indies about the year 1 (JOO, and acquired
a high reputation as an able and experienced officer. After
an absence of two years and a-half he returned to France, at
a time when it was resolved to prosecute the discoveries which
had been commenced in Canada by Cartier. The Marquis de
la Roche, and Chauvin, governors of Canada, had endeavored
to establish a colony, and the latter was succeeded by He
Chatte, who engaged Champlain in his service in 1G08.
Champlain sailed March 16th, accompanied by Pontgrave,
who had made many voyages to Tadoussac, at the entrance of
the Saguenay into the St. Lawrence. After their arrival at
this place, 25th May, they, in^a light bateau, ascended the
St. Lawrence to the Falls of St. Louis, which bounded the
discoveries of Cartier in 1535. This was in the neighborhood
of Hochelaga, but that Indian settlement was not then in
existence. After making many inquiries of the natives, and
exploring much of the country along the St. Lawrence, he
sailed for France in August. On his arrival in September, he
found that De Chatte was dead, and his commission as Lieu-
tenant^General of Canada given to the Sieur De Monts. This
nobleman engaged him as his pilot in another voyage to the
New World.

3. Champlain sailed on his second voyage March Uh, 1604,
and arrived at L'Acadie May 6th. After being employed

20*

466

THE FOURTH KEADER.
I

about a month in the long boat, visiting the coast, in order to
find a proper situation for a settlement, he pitched upon a
smnll island about twenty leagues to the westward of St.
John's river, and about half a league in circumference. To
this island l)c Mouts, after his arrival at the place, gave tlie
name of St. Croix. It lies in the river of the same name,
which divides the United States from the province of New
Brunswick. During the winter, Champlain was occupied in
exploring the country, and he went as far as Cape Cod, where
he gave the name of Malebarre to a point of land, on account
of the imminent danger he ran of running aground near it witli
his bark. Next year he pursued his discoveries, though he did
not pass more than ten or twelve leagues beyond Malebarre.

4. In 160t he was sent out on another voyage to Tadoussac,
accompanied by Pontgrave. In July, 1608, he laid the foun-
dation of Quebec. He was a man who did not embarrass
himself with commerce, and who felt no interest in traffic with
the Indians, which proved so profitable to many engaged in it.
Being intrusted with the charge of establishing a permanent
colony, he examined the most eligible places for settlement,
and selected a spot upon the St. Lawrence, at the confluence
of that river with the small River St. Charles, about 410
miles from the sea. The river in this place was very much
contracted, and it was on this account that the natives called
it Quebec (although various surmises are advanced by historians
and others as to the origin of this name). Here he arrived
on the 3d of July. He erected barracks, cleared the ground,
sowed wheat and rye, and laid the foundation of the " Gib-
raltar of America."

6. in the summer of the year 1609, when the Hurons, Algon-
quins, and others, were about to m irch against their common
enemy, the Iroquois, Champlaia very readily joined them,
having a keen taste for adventures ; and he hoped, by a con-
quest, to impress all the Indian tribes with strong ideas of the
power of the French, and to secure an alliance with thera.
He eml)arked on the River Sorel, which was then called the
Iroquois, because those savages usually descended by that
stream into Canada. At the Falls of Chambly he was stopped,

CHAMPLAIN.

467

ast, in order to
pitched upon a
estward of St.
lumfercnce. To
place, gave the
the same name,
)rovince of New
was occupied in
Cape Cod, where
land, on account
ound near it with
ies, though he did
yond Malebarre.
age to Tadoussac,
, he laid the fouu-
lid not embarrass
■rest in traffic with
lany engaged in it.
jhing a permanent
>es for settlement,
, at the confluence
larles, about 410
,ce was very much
the natives called
inced by historians
Here he arrived
'leared the ground,
ion of the " Gib-
he Hurons, Algon-
Luist their common
dily joined thera,
|e hoped, by a con-
Istrong ideas of the
jaUiancc with them.
[as then called Hie
iescended by that
6ly he was stopped,

and was obliged to send back his boat. Only two Frenchmen
remahied with him. He ascended with his allies in the Indian
canoes to the lake, to which he gave his own name, which it
retains to the present day. The savages whom he accom-
panied hoped to surprise the Iroquois in the villages, but they
met them unexpectedly upon the lake. After gaining the
land, it was agreed to defer the battle till the next day, as the
night was now approaching. On the morning of the 30th
July, Champlain placed a party, with his two Frenchmen, in
a neighboring wood, so as to come upon the enemy in flank.
The Iroquois, who were about 200 in number, seeing but a
handful of men, were sure of victory. But as soon as the
battle began, Champlain killed two of their chiefs, who were
conspicuous by their plumes, by the first discharge of his fire-
lock, loaded with four balls. The report and the execution of
the fire-arms filled the Iroquois with inexpressible consterna-
tion. They were quickly put to flight, and the victorious
allies returned to Quebec with fifty scalps.

6. In September, 1 609, Champlain embarked with Pontgrave
for France, leaving the colony under the care of a brave man,
Pierre Chauvin. But he was soon sent out again to the New
World. He sailed fr^m Honfleur April 8th, 1610, and ar-
rived at Tadoussac on the 26th. He encouraged the Mon-
tagnais Indians, who lived at that place, to engage in a second
expedition against the Iroquois. Accordingly, soon after his
arrival at Quebec, they sent him about sixty warriors. At
the head of these and others he proceeded up the River Sorel.
The enemy were soon met, and after a severe engagement, in
which Champlain was wounded by an arrow, were entirely de-
feated. He arrived at Quebec, from Montreal, June 19th,
and landed at Rochelle August 11th. After the death of
Henry IV., the interest of De Monts, in whose service Champ-
lain had been engaged, was entirely ruined, and the latter was
obliged to go again to France in 1611. Charles de Bourbon,
being commissioned by the Queen Regent as Vice-Roi of New
France, appointed Champlain his lieutenant, with very exten-
sive powers. He returned to Canada in 1613, and made new
discoveries. His voyages across the Atlantic were frequent.

468

THE FOURTH REAPER.

1* L^

He was continued lieutenant-j^overnor under that distinguislud
nobleman the Prince of Condo and Montmorency. In 1G15,
his zeal for the spiritual interests of the Indians induced him
to bring with him a nura})er of Recollets Fathers. He pene-
trated to Lake Ontario, and being wounded while assisthig
the Ilurons against their enemies, was obliged to pass a whole
winter among them. When he returned to Quebec in July,
1616, he was received as one risen from the dead. In July,
1629, owing to the sparseness of his forces, and the exhausted
state of his men through famine, he was obliged to capitulate
to an English armament under Sir David Kertk. He was
carried to France in an English ship, and there he found the
public sentiment much divided with regard to Canada ; some
thinking it was not worth regaining, as it had cost the govern-
ment vast sums without bringing any returns ; others deeming
the fishing and fur trade great national objects, especially as a
nursery for seamen. Champlain exerted himself to effect the re-
covery of the country, and Canada was restored by the treaty
of St. Germains in 1632, with PAcadie and Cape Breton.

7. In 1633 the company of New France resumed all their
rights and appointed Champlain the governor. In a short
time he was at the head of a new armjaraent, furnished
"With a fresh reinforcement of Jesuit missionaries and settlers,
as well as all kinds of necessaries for the welfare of the re-
vived colony. His attention was now engrossed by the spirit-
ual interests of the savages, whom it was his principal object
to bring to the knowledge of the Christian religion. The
number of ecclesiastical missionaries, exclusive of lay brothers,
was now fifteen, the chief of whom were Le Jeune, Dc None, !
Masse, and Brebeuf. A mission was established among the
Hurons ; the colony was gaining an accession of numbers and
strength, and an attempt was just commencing to establish al
college in Quebec, when the governor died, and was succeeded]
the following year by De Montmagny.

8. Champlain merited the title of the father of New France.!
He possessed an uncommon share of penetration and energyj
His views were upright ; and in circumstances of difficulty iioj
man could make a better choice of measures. He prosecuted

JACQUKS CAUTIER AT SPADACONA.

460

that distinguishea
Di'ency. Iw l^^^,
iians induced him
'athers. He pene-
icd while assisthig
red to pass a whole
to Quebec in July,
le dead. In July,
, and the exhausted
bilged to capitulate
d Kertk. He was
there he found the
d to Canada ; some
bad cost the go vern-
•ns ; others deeming
(jects, especially as a
msclf to effect the re-
stored by the treaty
pd Cape Breton.
ice resumed all their
ernor. In a short
^rm^raent, furnished
[onaries and settlers,
^e welfare of the re-
;rossed by the spirit-
his principal object
istian religion. The
isive of lay brother?,
Le Jeune, Dc None
Itablished among the
;sion of numbers and
mcing to establish a
[d, and was succeeded

itherof New France,
^ctration and energy]
lances of difficulty n^

ires. He prosecuted

his enterpris(3S with constancy, and no dangers could shake his
firmness. His zeal for the interests of liis country was ardent
and disinterested ; his heart was tender and compassionate to-
wards the unhappy, and he was more attentive to the concerns
^ of his friends than to his own. He was a faithful historian, a
voyager who observed every thing with attention, skilful in
geometry, and an experienced seaman.

9. It may not be easy to justify Cliamplain in taking an active
part in the war against the Iroquois. It is even supposed by
some that his love of adventure led him to arouse the spirit
of the Hurons, and excite them to war. His zeal for the
propagation of religion among the savages was so great, that
he used to say that the salvation of one soul was of more
value than the conquest of an empire ; and that kings ought
not to think of extending their authority over idolatrous na-
tions, except for the purpose of subjecting them to Jesus
Christ.

179. Jacqjes Cartikr at Stadacona.

GAKNEAU.

1. According to the custom of that age, the Malo-in navi-
gator, before putting to sea with his companions, would im-
plore the protection of Him who commands the winds and the
waves, and who was pleased then to extend from day to day
the limits of the known world, by prodigies which more and
more astonished men. He repaired with his crew, in a body,
to the cathedral of St. Malo ; and there, after having assist-
ed at a solemn mass and communicated devoutly, the adven-
turous mariners received from the bishop, clothed in his pon-
tifical robes and surrounded by his clergy, the pastoral ben-
ediction.

2. The squadron, carrying 110 men and provisions for a
long voyage, set sail with a fair wind in the month of May,
1535. Cartier had hoisted his flag, as Captain-General, on
the Grandc-Hcrmine, a vessel of 100 or 120 tons burden ; the

. n

■ft.

470

TllK FOURTH READER.

two other vessels, much smaller, were commanded by Captams
Guillaumc le Breton and Marc Jalobert. Several gentlemen,
such as Claude do Pont, Briand and Charles de la romnic-
rayc, served on board as volunteers. During the voya^T,
which was very long, many storms were encountered, which
widely dispersed the three vessels.

3. It was only in the month of July that Cartier himself
reached the Bay of Cliiiteaux, situated in an island between
Newfoundland and Labrador, and which he had appohited as
a rendezvous for his little fleet ; the two other vessels did not
arrive there till several days later. After giving these last sonic
time to rest, Cartier set out and steered at first in different
directions. He saw a multitude of islands ; and, after being
obliged, by contrary winds, to seek a refuge in a harbor which
he named St. Thomas, he set sail and entered, on St. Law-
rence's day, a bay which was, perhaps, the mouth of the river
St. John, to which he gave the name of the saint whose festi-
val was that day celebrated — a name which he subsequently
extended to the great river itself, and the gulf by which it
discharges itself into tl>e sea. Guided by the two savages he
had brought with him, he at length entered that river, and
ascended more than 200 leagues from the ocean. He stopped
at the foot of an island agreeably situated, since named the
Island of Orleans.

A. According to the report of his guides, the country- was
then divided into three sections. Saguenay extended from the
island of Anticosti to the isle aux Coudres ; Canada, of
which the principal village was Stadacona, now Quebec, com-
mencing at the latter island, and extending up the river to-
wards Hochelaga, this last the richest and most populous part
of the country.

5. The name of " Canada," here given by the natives to a
part of the country, leaves no doubt as to the origin of the
word, which signifies, in their language, groups of cabins,
villages.

6. Cartier put these two savages ashore to talk with the
natives, who at first took flight, but soon after returned and
surrounded the vessel in their little bark canoes. They offer-

'.i ^i

JACQUES CARTIER AT 8TADAC0NA.

471

ded by Captains
veral gentlemen,
? do la romnu'-
wg the V()ya<i;e,
;ountered, whicli

Cartier himself

1 island between

tiad appointed as

jr vessels did not

ig these last some

first in different

and, after beinjjj

n a liarbor whieli

red, on St. Law-

louth of the river

saint whose festi-

he subsequently

gulf by whieh it

le two savages he

d that river, and

■an. He stopped

since named the

the country- was
xtonded from the
res; Canada, of
ow Quebec, com-
up the river to-
ost populous part

f the natives to a
he origin of the
;roups of cabins,

I to talk with the

Iter returned and

loes. They offer-

ed the French fish, maize, and fruits. Cartier received them
jtolitely, and had presents distributed among them. Next day
the Agonbanna, that is to say, the chief of Stadacona, canio
to visit him, followed by twelve canoes full of natives. The
interview was most amicable, and the French and the Indians
separated well pleased with each other. Before leaving, the
chief of Stadacona must needs kiss the arms of the French
captain, which was one of the greatest marks of respect in
use amongst those people.

7. As the season was advanced, Cartier took the bold reso-
hition of passing the winter in the country. He got his ships
into the river St. Charles, named by him Saint-Croix (Holy
Cross), to put them in winter quarters under the village of
Stadacona, which stood on a height towards the south. This
part of the St. Lawrence, by the distribution of mountains,
hills, and valleys, around the harbor of Quebec, is one of the
grandest scenes in America.

8. Upwards from the gulf, the river long preserves an im-
posing, but wild and savage aspect. Its immense width, full
ninety miles at its mouth, its numerous shoals, its fogs, its
gusts of wind at certain seasons of the year, have made it a
formidable place for navigators. The steep sides which bound
it for more than -a hundred leagues ; the dark mountains north
and south of the valley in which it flows, almost the entire
breadth of which it occupies in some places ; the islands,
which become more numerous the further one ascends _ finally,
all the scattered remains of the obstacles which the great

I tributary of the ocean shattered and overturned in clearing
for itself a passage to the sea, seize the imagination of the
I traveller who passes that way for the first time. But at Que-
bec the scene changes. Nature, so vast and so solemn, on the
river below, becomes here smiling and diversified, though still
maintaining its character of grandeur, especially since it has
I been embellished by the hand of man.

9. If it were given Jacques Cartier to come forth from the
I tomb to contemplate the vast country which he gave, with its

primeval forests and barbarous hordes, to European civiliza-
tion, what more noble spectacle could excite in his heart the

■-)

472

THE FOURTH READKR.

pride of a founder of empiro, the Hubliine pride of those prlvi-
k'ji'cd men whose name grows daily with the consequences oi'
their immortal actions? Carticr would see iu Quebec one of
the first cities of America, and in Canada one of the countries
for which a high destiny is reserved.

180. Jacques C artier at Hochrlaoa/

ABBBFERLAND.

1. The following morning, Cartier, having left his barks
at the foot of St. Mary's Convent, set out, accompanied by
some gentlemen and twenty sailors, to go visit the town of
Hochelaga and the mountain at whose foot it was situated
After journeying about a league and a half, they were stopped
by one of the chief men of the country, who made a long dis-
course, complunentary, no doubt, to the strangers ; half a
league further on, they found cultivated lands, and fields cov-
ered with cornstalks. In tlie midst of these fine fields was
situate the town of Hochelaga, carefully fortified after tlie
manner of the great Huron and Iroquois villages.

2. A circular palisade, twenty feet in height, and formed
by a triple row of stakes, surrounded Hochelaga and served
for its defence. The stakes of the middle row were planted
straight ; those of the two other rows crossed each other at
top, and the whole was strongly bound together with branch-
es. A single gate gave ingress to the town. Within the iu-
closure was a sort of gallery, furnished with stones ready to
be hurled against the enemy who might attempt to climb the
palisade. The town contained about fifty cabins, each of|
which was some fifty paces in length by twelve or fifteen in
breadth. These habitations, constructed of bark sewed to-|
gether, contained several chambers, each of which was occu-
pied by a family. In the middle of the cabin there was re-
served a common hall, where the fires were placed ; shelves, |
put up under the roof, served as lofts to store away the pro-
vision, of maize. •

JAC(jri-8 CAT'IKR AT IIOCIIFLAOA.

4Y3

ic of those privi-

consequtMices of

iu Quebec one of

of tlio countries

IHELAOA.

ing left his barks
t, accompanied by
visit the town of
ot it was sitiiated
, they were stopped
10 made a long dis-

strangers ; half a
nds, and fields cov-
lese fine fields was

fortified after the

illages.

leight, and formed
shelaga and served
» row were planted
>ssed each other at
;ether with brauch-
n. Within the iu-
th stones ready to
|tempt to climb the
;y cabins, each ofi
^welve or fifteen in j
of bark sewed to-
,f which was occu-
labin there was re- 1
;e placed; shelves,
itore away the pro-

3. Maize was the food of all seasons ; they ate it in cakes
baked between stones heated for the purpose ; they boiled it
over the fire ; and they also prepared from it a pottage, by
adding to it peas, beans, large cucumbers, and fruits. The
cultivation of the land, and fishing, furnished the inhabitants
of ]Iochelaga with resources sufficient for all the wants of
life. They busied* themselves very little about the chase,
being averse to leaving their village, and having no taste for
the nomadic life, so dear to the tribes of Canada and Sague-
nay.

4. These people doubtless regarded the French as beings of
a superior nature, for they brought to Cartier cripples and
infirm persons as though begging of him to restore them to
health. The Agonbanna, or king, would himself have recourse
to the miraculous power of the French captain. Paralyzed
in all his limbs, he was carried on a deer-skin by nine or ten
men, who laid him on mats in the midst of the assembly. The
sovereign's apparel was not more splendid than that of his
subjects, half covered with wretched skins of wild beasts,
only he wore around his head, as a mark of distinction, a red
band embroidered with porcupines' quills. Seeing the confi-
dence of these good people, and being himself full of faith,
Cartier read over them the begimiing of the gospel of St.
John and the Passion of our Lord ; he prayed God, at the
same time, to make himself known to that poor people plunged
in the darkness of idolatry. He afterwards distributed pres-
ents among them, and left them well satisfied with his visit.

5. Several of them accompanied him to the mountain, about
a quarter of a league distant from the town of Hochelaga.
There he was so enchanted by the magnificent prospect which
spread before him, that he gave to that place the name of
Mont Royal, since changed into Montreal. To the north and
south ran chains of mountains, between which, far as the eye
could reach, extended a vast and fertile jdain ; in the midst
of these profound solitudes, and through thick forests already
clothed in the brilliant tints of autumn, reposed in all its
beauty the great river which he had ascended, as he saw it
stretching away westward to regions yet unknown.

474

THR FOURTH READER.

6. By means of signs the savages made hiin understand thnt
beyond three fulls, or rapids, like tiuit before him, they eouhl
sjiil on the river for more than three moons ; then tuniino- to-
wards the north, they pointed out to liim another great river
descending also from the west, and flowing at the foot of tlio
mountains. One of thera seized a silver dagger, with its
sheath of polished brass, and a chain frt)m which hung the
captain's whistle, and made signs that such metals as those
were found far up the river. Cartier's imagination then 0})i'n-
ed before him the gates of the unknown west, hiding in its
bosom rich treasures, and leading to golden regions like those
of India and Cathay ; by advancing towards the sources of
the river, he should find a passage shorter and more ad-
vantageous than that which Magellan had discovered fur
Spain.

7. Revelling in these bright dreams, with what pity must
the Breton mariner have cast his eyes on the humble village
of Hochelaga, with its bark huts, its wretched palisades, its
narrow strips of maize, and its population sunk in barbarism.
Nigh three centuries and a half have passed away since the
day when Cartier, from the summit of Mont Royal, examined
the neighborhood of Hochelaga. Were it given him to be-
hold those scenes to-day, with what surprise would he con-
template the great and beautiful city which has replaced tlio
Indian village. It would astonish the old navigator by its nu-
merous and splendid monuments, by its harbor crowded with
ships and bordered by a long line of quays, by its tubular
bridge connecting the two banks of the river, by its numer-
ous population stirred by the impulse of commerce and indus-
try ; and how amazed he would be, following with his eyes
the steamers launched amid those " three falls of water"
which interested him so much, or ascending the rapid current
St. Mary, without tlie aid of wind or sail. How he would
admire the valley of the great river, no longer covered with
forests, but spreading before him to the verge of the horizon^
covered with fields, towns, and villages, traversed by rail-
roads, along which glide, swift as the birds, long trains of car-
riages, guided by a pillar of smoke.

-.■ i

THE CITY OF MONTREAL.

475

1 understnud that
; him, tl»«7 ^*'»»l'l
Ihuii tiinuu"); to-
other great rivir
,t the foot of the
dagger, with its
which hung the
metala as those
nation then opon-
^est, hiding in its
regions like tliosc
ds the sources of
or and more ad-
id discovered fui*

th what pity must

the humble viUage

:chcd palisades, its

!uuk in barbarism.

led away since the

it Royal, examineil

given him to be-

isc would he con-

;h has replaced the

lavigator by its nu-

Irbor crowded with

,y8, by its tubular

iver, by its numer-

tmmerce and indus-

ing with his eyes

falls of water"

the rapid current

How he would

.nger covered with

"«re of the horizon,
.1
:raversed by riiu-

long trains of car-

8. The doptJKS of the west have boon sounded, the vast
countries tliey contain arc long since o[)eiie(l to civilization ;
tiie mysterious sea aiiuouiiced to (.'artier has been found al':U'
ull'; tlie passage by which vessels were to reacli it existed
only in the tales of the savages. But, thanks to the indus-
try and perseverance of man, a way of anotiicr kind w'll
soon be marked out that will l)ring togotlier the two oceans,
iiud transport the riches of the east to tiio countries of old
Europe.

181. The City of Montreal.

OUAUVEAU.

lion. PiKRRE J. 0. Chauvkav, T.L. I)., cliiiif Suporliitondcnt of Kdu

ciition for Lower Cimntlii, late Solicitor-frt'nenil, jukI Into I'rovinciiil Sei^ro-

uiry. Mr. Cliuuveuu is the millior of " Charles Giu'rin," a Canadian

1 1/. .1 I 1^1* l.\ 1 la. HI m I

tract

iVinorioa.

ary. Mr. Cliuuveuu is the author of " Charles Guc'rin," a Caiiadii
iiuvel, and of miiny other works, both in French and English. The e
tract here given \» from liis book on the Visit of the rrineo of Wules

X-

1. Though Montreal is not so old as Quebec, its early
|Mstory is as interesting, and still more stirring. The found-
ing of this city, on the very confines of the country of the
LMohawks, whose murderous inroads were the terror of the
continent, was an act of great boldness, if not absolute
|temerity.

2. On the 11th May, 1642, M. de Maisonneuve, the agent
lof a company formed in France, under rather surprising cir-
cumstances, for the purpose of founding a city in the coun-
|try of the Iroquois, caused a small chapel, the first erected
m the Island, to be consecrated by P6re Vimont, the superior
)f the Jesuits then in the colony. The Island itself was, on

le 1 5th August following, — the festival of tlie Assump-
|on, — dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Hence the name of

iille-Maric, by vvliich the town was long designated, and

[liich is even now occasionally met with in ecclesiastical

icuments.

476

THE FOURTH READER.

^i-sy

3. In 1663, the Sulpicians of Paris became possessed of
this fine domain, and soon established a house, far wealthier
now than the one from which it sprinj^s, and almost as old.
Dnrin*^ a lonp^ period the small settlement possessed for its
l)rotection against the hostile tribes nothing but a feeble j)ii]i-
sade and the indomitable courage of its inhabitants. Sixty
years later the town was surrounded by a wall, which was
not removed until 1808, when it was found to be an impedi-
ment to the growth of the city, and quite inadequate to its
pui*pose in a strategical point of view.

4. The line of these fortifications, as laid down on an old I
plan made in 1758, extends towards the west to the space j
now occupied by McGill-street ; following thence, in a noitli
erly direction, nearly the line of Craig street, it terminates in I
the east, — a little below the citadel, which occupied part ofl
the ground now taken up by Dalhousie Square, and extendiii;,'[
to St. Denis-street.

5. The population of Montreal in 1120, was 3,000 souls,]
and of the whole of Canada not more than 10,000.'

6. In the year 1765 a conflagration destroyed almost tlie|
whole town, involving 215 families in a general ruin, and
causing a loss of about $400,000. Public generosity was ap-|
pealed to both in England and in Canada, and considerable
sums were raised by subscription for the relief of the sulfei
crs. That part which the fire had destroyed was rebuilt, amt
much improved, — a circumstance by no means unusual in suclj
cases, — and Montreal soon rose from her ashes with renewed
vigor Q,nd prosperity.

7. In 1775, Montgomery, with some troops of the Revoluj
tion, occupied it for a few months, and then abandoned it. I
was much exposed in 1812; nay, had De Salaberry been iin
successful at Chateauguay, it would, in all probability hfi
again fallen into the hands of the enemy.

8. Montreal was the great mart of the fur trade with tlijiboi
Indians under the French and the English. Here the n
uowned bourgeois of the Northwest lived in princely styl

' Monirial d ses principaux Monuments, — Published by E. Sen6cal, 1860

THE CITY OF MONTREAL.

477

icamc possessed of
lOUse, far wealthur
and almost as old
lit possessed for its
ig but a feeble pali-
inhabitants. Sixty
' a wall, which was
[ind to be an impedi-
Lte inadequate to its

while their liardy voyagexirs carried the trade into the most
distant regions of the continent. The town is not now de-
pendent on this trade, whicli indeed has taken another direc-
tion, l)ut by the vigorous energy and activity of its merchants
has become tlie great entrepot of tlie trade between EngUind
and Upper Canada, and even of tiiat between the former coun-
try and some of the States of the American Union.

9. The obstructions in Lake St. Peter, which prevented
vessels of great draught reaching the port, were removed by
dredging; canals were made, and extensive wharves and bashis

laid down on an oldB were built to accommodate the shipping; railways were con-
west to the space ■ structed, — one to Portland, securing a direct communication
o- thence in a nortli-l with the seaboard at all seasons, and this prosperous and en-
reet it terminates iul terprising city, stimulated by the healthy development of the
lich occupied part ofl country, acquired a commercial importance which has increased
'nuire and extendiiiJ tver since. At present it is connected by rail with River du

■ Loup, Quebec, Portland, Sherbrooke, New York, Toronto, Sar-
iiia, Detroit, and Ottawa. In 1859, the value of its exports
was $3,044,000, and its imports amounted to $15,553,000.

1 0. The population is generally estimated at 92,000, and
a eeneral ruin, andl 101,000 with the banlieu ; about one-half is of French ori-
ic generosity was ap-1 gin, and upwards of two thicds belong to the Roman Catholic
ada and considerahJ fi^ith. The wards St. Lawrence, St. Lewis, St. Mary, and St.

relief of the suffoi-l Antoine, are in a great measure peopled by Franco-Canadians,
ftved was rebuilt, amB St. Ann's ward, comprising Griffintown, is principally inhabit-
eans unusual in suclled by the Irish population, which is also distributed in the
r ashes with renewcclSt. Lawrence ward, and the St. Mary's — often called the Que-
bec suburbs. The English, Scotch, and Americans, dwell in
rooDS of the Revoliil the West, St. Antoine, and Centre wards. There are also
en abandoned it. ll French, Italians, Belgians, Swiss, and many Ger-mans, of
c Salaberry been iiulffhom about one-half are Roman Catholics; of the other half,
all probability htivlsorae are of Jewish faj^h and the remainder are Protestants.

I 11. The city, with its villas, gardens, and orchards, covers

he fur trade with tlibout 2,000 acres. Rows of trees line Beaver Hall, Craig,

fflish Here the rfcherbrooke, and St. Denis streets, their cool and refreshing

ed in princely stylftiade adding comfort to the dwellings, which in appearance

jare often very elegant. In the windows of the shops of Notre-
led by E. Sen6cal, iSGOiDame and St. James streets, may be seen all that the seduc-

120, was 3,000 souls,]
an 10,000.'
estroyed almost tliel

'-^

478

THE FOURTH READER.

tive arts of luxury and elegance can display. McGill and St.
Paul streets, and the cross streets leading to Notre-Dame, are
occupied by the higher branches of trade, to accommodate
which splendid buildings have been erected.

12. Montreal has undergone so great a change during the
last twenty years, that a citizen returning after an absence
extending over such a lapse of time, would hardly know it
again. Many of the^'streets are wider; its wooden houses,
destroyed by the great conflagration of 1852, have been re-
placed by buildings of brick ; very handsome edifices meet the
eye on all sides ; and whole districts have risen, as if by en-
chantmentj where fields and orchards stood before. The or-
chards producing the fameuse and calville apples, which have
earned for Montreal deserved celebrity, are, we fear, greatly
reduced in extent ; and horticulturists would do well to look
to it in time, else this important article of commerce, upon
which the town has always prided itself, will cease to be a
source of profit. It is certainly impossible to witness the im-
provements taking place every day without feeling great satis-
faction ; yet one cannot see the relics of a former age, such as
the Seminary of St. Sulpice and the Hotel-Dieu, disappear,
without a feeling of regret.

13. The great church of Notre-Dame rises majestically over
all the surrounding buildings, and from every point where a
view of the city can be had it is still a conspicuous object.
The old church, that stood upon the same site, was erected in
the year 1672. On the 3d September, 1824, the corner stone
of the present structure was laid, and it was opened for pub-
lic worship on the 18th July, 1829. The style is plain Goth-
ic ; its high and not inelegant proportions always impress a
stranger favorably. Its dimensions are : length, 255 feet ;
front, 134 feet ; elevation of side walls, 61 feet. It has two I
square towers, rising to a height of 220 feet, which face thel
Place d'Aimes or French Square. The eastern tower conn
tains a chime of eight bells, the western supports the Oro8\
bourdon, an enormous bell weighing 29,400 pounds. The in-|
terior of this church wears, from its bareness, a cold and
cheerless aspect, which can only be removed by the temporarj

THE CITY OF MONTREAL.

P««» through its !„„; al,: LV:, f '»«« ''r™ brings, who
great composers are performed L^hr'' '''"' '^"^'^'^ °f "'o
«>« purpose ; and a line T'l ^ T ^'^"'"'^ *™''''<'d ^r
one of the most powerful in A "^ ''^'" '''"^^'^ will be
Pea.^ thrilliu, tkZ,lt^Zttr' ""''' ''' '"'™°--

^;^-t I S:X:r^^ t4n.f^.^"~ Market.
The Court House, built in the W ?'™««0- at $287,000
7 structure. Th; TheXti ^He '^V'- '^ ^"" "■»'« ^°« '
Banfa, the Jesuits' Collet In ^«/^™'''^ ^«™). the
new Hotel-Dieu, are all S- J J^'euo^-strcet), and the
ehureh Cathedral s a fine « r"";' ^'■"'" '^'''"^''^'"n • Chrlj
e -hes of the cit;, St'patS"sV T. T"' *-« <"'-
St- James', the Wesleyan McthodL ."""r* '' ^'- Jeter's,
serve special notice. ^'^"''X'lst, and the Unitarian, de-

«^a7^!lt\rndTaa:st-H^ ^'"^^^ "« >>»-•" of a
, The stone employed „ /."f ^''^"f ''"e quarries near the town '

^-v^ Of a nfu:hir ;r '^cr ' ^'--t.hn^c'h dr

points, relieved by white Caen stone 7""^ '"^ ""'«' ^«''e»t
ontrast. The roof is of slaTe ° |. ■"^'' ''"^ " ^*"''^'n"-

H and is surmounted! a itbr''"'"^. '" ""'o' to deep vio!

"long the apex The sVe s a hil7™' ""'""'"" ^«»ni„.

«oth,c ; nothing is wanted to rendfr^ TT''"^ ^^"'""n
The spire springs from the interseef . ."l'"''^'"^ -complete.

he nave, the glittering croi bv Ih^ "/•""' ^an^epts w.-.a
22* feet from the ground Thei? 'I " "^^ed standing
fet and its breadth iSlet glf^ ?'*'^ ""'M'ng is 187

H « built of finely dressed sto e td? '""''' ^^^^^ ^b-
Itattresses. Tlie interior oLt-^' '^ supported by flyin».

V nnitation of marble tVeZT™? "Tl '""'^''^ ^ '"oS
Nnts seem perfect. FiL 2:°™"""'"'''' and its arrange"

K Piamondon, a Sn a^JT'^l"^ ''''' ^^-«o^
Hents of the interior of St p!/*,','^"™ *'"> Principal or

I •■■ucio are six nnnneripq i« *i, ..

nneriesm the city, some maintaining.

,g.

480

TUE FOUBTH READER.

several establishments. The Hotel-Dieu, established in 1G44,
by Mme. de Bullion, and Mile. Manse, is the most ancient.
The Canadian order of nuns known as the Congregation de
Notre-Dame was founded, in 1653, by Marguerite Bourgeois.
In 1747, Madame Youville, who at that time was at the head
of the Sceurs Grises, undertook the management of the hos-
pital established under the name of V Hdpital-Oeneral, by M.
Charron, in 1692. The other convents have been but recent-
ly established.

17. Montreal possesses a great number of institutions of
learning, including excellent public schools, and many other
establishments supported by private enterprise. The total
number of children attending in 1859, was 14,364 ; of these
3002 frequented the schools of the Christian Brothers, whose
principal edifice is among the finest of the kind in the city.
The nuns of the Congregation also teach 3,187 pupils.

1 8. The McGill University, founded by the liberality of the
wealthy citizen whose name it bears, and who by will left the
greater portion of his fortune for this object, has lately re-
ceived great extensions. In addition to the two fine buildings
situated at the foot of the mountain and close to the reservoir
of the aqueduct, it holds in the immediate vicinity of Beaver
Hall, an edifice devoted to its preparatory or high school.
Besides the Faculties of Law and Medicine of this University,
there are also in operation a school of Medicine and a school
of Law. The classical colleges of Montreal and St. Mary's
are two of the most important institutions of the country ;
and to the select Ladies' Boarding-Schools of Villa-Maria and
Mont St. Joseph may be added those of the nuns of Jesus
and Mary, at Longueuil, and of the Ladies of the Sacred
Heart, situated at Sault-aux-RecoUets, — the last is decidedly
the handsomest building of the sort in Canada.

^300 4

.*;4'i

jstablished in 1C44,
the most aucicut.
le Congregation de
rguerite Bourgeois,
rae was at the head
rement of the hos-
)ital-Oeneral, by M.
ivc been but recent-

r of institutions of
Is, and many other
erprise. The total
LS 14,364 ; of these
Ian Brothers, whose
he kind in the city.
5,18t pupils,
the liberality of the
who by will left the
bject, has lately re-
be two fine buildings
lose to the reservoir
B vicinity of Beaver
ory or high school,
e of this University,
jdicine and a school
real and St. Mary's
3n8 of the country ;
is of Yilla-Maria and
' the nuns of Jesus
adies of the Sacred
-the last is decidedly
mada.