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SKLECTIONS 
 
 IN 
 
 POETICAL AND PROSE 
 
 LITI'KATURH 
 
 ii * 
 
 roR 
 
 THIRD CLASS teac///:a's' examination 
 
 EDITED riY 
 
 JOHN C SAUL. M.A., 
 
 Mngluk AfasUr, ColUgiate InslituU, lt'iH»i/f^', 
 
 AND 
 
 VV. A. McINTYRE, HA., 
 
 Pnncip<il Normal S^h^l, IVtHHipfg. 
 
 TORONTO 
 THE COPP, CLARK COMPANY, LIMITED 
 
Ph^.KI 
 
 -'■ / 
 
 Knterwl kccnrdini to Ant of the P»rllMn«nt of CmimI*, In th« year otM thouMnd 
 nine h>in<lrcil ami one, »>> TiiK Coi-f, (.'i.auk (^omi-akt, Lihitid, Toronto, OnUrio, 
 In the Oflloe of the Mlnkter ot Agricullun. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The annoUtiontt to thin volumo of w'U'otion» urn am hriff m 
 fumiihle. it in folt that k«kk1 liUirttturo within t} « ootiifMiMN of 
 a Mtmlent's comprehfUHion Mhotihl \nrgt>]y touili iurlf, iind thiit 
 v«ry litth? inforn^ntioii in tho form of notoH ix ruquirtnl. Only 
 *uch inforiuatijn is given an in noccntuiry to an umlurataiiding 
 of tho text. 
 
 The HelectionH are Huppoml to \m ntudicd an literature. 
 They are not intended to nerve a^ tlio baitiH for grammatical 
 analyHiH. 
 
 The order of study in not necessarily that Huggented by the 
 table of contents. There in a time suitable to thfl study of 
 each selection, and such time slnmld be chosen. 
 
 The teacher should be considirred simply as a roodium 
 between the student and tho author. As such, he Nhould 
 be in perfect sympathy with each selection, and reflect its 
 spirit in his voice, look and manner ; ho shoukl Ixi in perfect 
 sympiithy with his students to such a degree that they are 
 pleasetl to f«)llow him and anxious to enter with him into new 
 fields of thought. 
 
 The suggestive questions following the notes to the poetical 
 selections are not intended to be exhaustive, nor is it supposcil 
 that students will accept them as a guide to study. They 
 will be useful in so far as thoy lend to a closer undei-standing 
 or clearer appreciation of the thought and expression, or as 
 they give power to distinguish between tho worthy and the 
 unworthy in poetical efforts. 
 
 iii 
 
r 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 (TktfiftHrU 1)1 hrti.-kttt inih.nl, Iht ,„,. „„ „t,i,h Ih.- n:te, n" !■■ U tiHiul,) 
 
 Thi» Amii'iil M, Mill. I (-.'III 
 
 Hurl U'lip W.ll rJiH) 
 
 MkIumI r.'IU) 
 
 iKna Ci'-M) 
 
 lUiiiilK Civ?-') . 
 
 Thr IliiMik CJ'J.'J) 
 
 <»il«' t.. iMity {•.»•.»>*) 
 
 (Kli. til tin- Wi'nt Wiiiil (J-Jti) 
 
 intiiiiiitiohH of liiiiiioii, lilts ('_*:il) 
 
 <>iU' t«> ft Nielli iii{;ulf f.':;!) 
 
 TltotirtH'ti Liiiiii t {•S.M) 
 
 To thu L'uik<»«> ('-•*") 
 
 All liH idcnt iti II UailnmiM .11 (-.MS) ^1 
 
 Tlu' KtlTlllll CimmIiiiHm cI'M) .... 
 
 AtiildKNo ('*;\\}) 
 
 'I'lif Hiv.T I'lith ci-W) 
 
 Tlif Waitiiij^ (-Km I^t 
 
 Till- Fjill of Ttiiii (iMO) 
 
 A TliniKkrMtorm ill 111.- Al|i. (iMI) 
 
 Till- KiiiKivtitiii of Niiiiiii. (Jij) 
 
 The .Foys of til,. Hoik! (•_'4:») 
 
 A .Song of (i low th (iM:*) |))| 
 
 Thi" Solitiu'v HiMpcf (•_'44) \{yt 
 
 TIh! iJiiitlu of Agiiicourt (•_M4) 
 l)riikt!'M Dnim CiKl) . . . 
 Thi' AiiihitioiiM <;iunt r-4H) 
 TiilKiitoin'H S|Hctiultx C-MS) 
 StiawlH-rrit'H ('249) ... 
 
 I '.'.I 
 •i4 
 
 •I.-. 
 
 «7 
 
 7» 
 
 7H 
 Ml 
 
 K4 
 
 m 
 
 in:i 
 
 |l«!) 
 t.'il 
 
 Sir Ko^'cf at the Assi/t's (-Mil) Kj.j 
 
 Tho Sonth-S.'iv Koiim- ('J.'Mi) 1,^. 
 
 Nil Xi»i ISoiiimi ("i-Vi) | — 
 
 Tho Virion of Sinhhii Death (•jr»4) Is7 
 
*% 
 
 I' :■ 'i,)^.:wv^si^<st.vy^^.-: -V-iV ;*Jvu-. . TA ?■" .''i»£V'V 
 
^ 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 IN SEVEN PARTS. 
 
 "Facile credo, plures esse Natiiras invisibilesciiiam visihiles in iPiuni 
 universitate. Sed horum omnium faniiliani quis no)»is oiiiuruhil, ti 
 gradus ot cogrnationes et di.scriniina efc singuloruni niunura ? Quid 
 agunt? Quffiloca habitaiit? Harum rei m notitiam semper ambivit 
 ingenium Immanum, nunquam attigit. Juvat, interea, non diffiteor, 
 quandoquc in animo, tanquam in tabula, majoria et meliori.s nuindi 
 imaginem contemplari ; ne mens asauefacta ho<liemai vitiw minutiis so 
 contiahat nimis, et tota suimidat in pusillaR cugitationes. Sed veritati 
 interea invigilandum est, moduwuie servandus, ut certa ah incertis, 
 diem a nocte, distinguamus." — T. Bitrnet, ArchaoK Phil., p. 68. 
 
 PART I. 
 An ancient jt ig an ancient Mariner, 
 
 Mariner meet- ' 
 
 eth three Gal- And lie stoppeth One of three. 
 
 lanta bidden to ^'^ 
 
 "dd**'"? '*h**' ' ^y ^''^ ^""8 ^'^y beard and glittering eye, 
 one. Now wherefore atopp'st thou nie ? 
 
 " The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, 
 And I am next of kin ; 
 The guests are met, the feast is set : 
 May'st hear the merry din." 
 
 He holds him with his skinny hand, 
 "There was a ship," (juoth he. 
 "Hold ort"! unha .d me, gray-beard loon!" 
 Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 
 
 JlJ^Wedding- He holds him with his glittering eye- 
 bound by the The Wedding-Guest stood still, 
 eye of the old ° ' 
 
 seafaring man. And H.-steiis like a tluvc year.s' c-liikl : 
 
 and constrained 
 
 to bsar his tale. The Mariner hath his will. 
 
 ni 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 V.t §i«agg«B»3 i '^^i i4UW i W^ rS^1JP^*a!W JMffiWv^.i^WB^ 
 
2 
 
 THE ANCIENT MARINElt. 
 
 The "Wedding-Guest snfc on a stone : 
 He cannot rlioose hut licar ; 
 And thus Hpake on that ancient man, 
 The bright-eyed Mariner : — 
 
 20 
 
 "The ship was cheered, the harl)our cleared, 
 
 Merrily did we drop 
 
 Beli>w tiie kirk, l)elow the hill, 
 
 Below the lighthouse top. 
 
 " The Sun came up upon the left, 
 Out of the sea came he ! 
 
 The Mariner 
 tells how the 
 •hip lailed 
 
 ftKoodwindand And he shone bright, and on the right 
 
 fair weather, till -.,. , , • • ^ .1 
 
 it reached the Went down into the sea. 
 line. 
 
 " Higher and higher every day. 
 
 Till over the mast at noon " — 
 
 The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast. 
 
 For he heard the loud bassoon. 
 
 2S 
 
 30 
 
 f! 
 
 The WeddinK- The bride hath paced into the hall, 
 
 Guest heareth -r, , . , 
 
 the i)ridai Ked as a rose is she ; 
 
 Mariner con- Ncnlding their heads l>efore her goes 
 tinueth his talc. _, • . 1 
 
 liie merry minstrelsy. 
 
 The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
 Yet he cannot choose but hear ; 
 And thus spake on that ancient man, 
 The bright-eyed Mariner. 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 The bhip drawn "And HOW the stomi-blast ciune, and he 
 
 by a stomi 
 
 towards the Was tvrannous and stronj' ; 
 
 south pole. •' , , , f. • 
 
 He struck with his oertaking wipgs, 
 
 And chased us south along. 
 
 ^?S5SS!?^ 
 
 E^^^^^*ir3ssr^E4^KS^o^?5^ir^ 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINBB. 3 
 
 With sloping masts ami dipping prow, 4S 
 
 As who pursued with yell and Mow 
 
 Still trearls the shadow <,f his foe, 
 
 And forward bends his head, 
 
 The ship drove fast, lor.d roared the blast, 
 
 And southward aye we fled. 50 
 
 And now there came both mist and snow, 
 And it grew wondrous cold : 
 And ice, mast-high, came floating by. 
 As green as emerald. 
 
 The land of Ice, a „ i au i ^i i .» 
 
 and of fearful -^"d through the drifts, the snowy clifts 55 
 
 no livii'iK tiliriK ^*''^ ^^'"^ ^ dismal sheen • 
 wa.u>beHeen. ^^^ ^^apes of men nor beasts we ken— 
 The ice was all between. 
 
 The ice was here, the ice was there, 
 The ice was all around : 60 
 
 It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, 
 Like noises in a swound 1 
 
 Till a grreat sea- 
 bird, called the 
 Albatross, came 
 through the 
 8now-fo)f, and 
 waa received 
 with great Joy 
 and hospitality. 
 
 Andlol the 
 Albatross 
 provethabird 
 of (food omen, 
 and followeth 
 •he ship as It 
 returned north- 
 ward through 
 
 tosn.::t\ flnating 
 
 i.x', 
 
 At length did cross an Albatross : 
 Tliorough the fog it came ; 
 As if it had been a Christian soul. 
 We hailed it in God's name. 
 
 It ate the food it ne'er had eat. 
 And round and round it flew. 
 The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
 The helmsman steered us through ' 
 
 And a goofl south wind sprung up behind ; 
 
 The All)atross did follow. 
 
 And e\ery day, for food or play. 
 
 Came to the mariners' hollo ! 
 
 65 
 
 70 
 
 ^^•1 
 
4 THE ANCIENT MAItlNKB. 
 
 In mist or cloud, on mawt or shroud, 78 
 
 It ptipcl.t'd for vi'sju'rH nine ; 
 Whiles nil tlio night, through fog-smoke white, 
 Oliininerud the white moon-shine." 
 
 Th* ancient <i Q^^^\ ^^yo tliee, ancicnt Marii ar, 
 
 Mariner Inhofr ' , i , on 
 
 pitably kiUeili ^p,,,! the tiends that phiguo thi-e tlius ! — OU 
 
 the plouH blnl '' " ,,,. , , 
 
 o« Kood omen, -wiiy l<K)k'.st thou HO ]"— " With my cross-bow 
 I shot the Albatross ! " 
 
 PART II. 
 
 The Sun now rose upon the right : 
 Out of the sea cauio he. 
 Still hid in mist, and on the left 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 And the good south win<l slill blew behind. 
 But no sweet bird did follow, 
 Nor any day for food or play 
 Came to the mariners' hollo ! 
 
 And I had done a hellish thing. 
 
 And it would work 'em woe ; 
 
 For all averred, I had killed the bird 
 
 That made the breeze to blow. 
 
 Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay, 
 
 That made the breeze to blow ! 
 
 But when the -^qj. (jjm nor red, like G xl's own head, 
 
 fo(5 cleared off 
 
 they justify the ffjjj, glorious Sun upiist : 
 
 Kime, and thus ° ■. -r i i i -i i xi u- ,] 
 
 make them- Then all averred, I had kih hI the bird 
 
 selves accom- , . , ,. i • i. 
 
 piices in the That brought the fog and mist. 
 
 ""■"'• - ■ • M thev, such birdH to s.l 
 
 85 
 
 Hli shipmates 
 cry out against 
 the ancient 
 Mariner, for 
 killint; the bird 
 of good luck. 
 
 .was n<i 
 
 lit, 
 
 ,Sfil; 
 
 lay 
 
 That bring the fog and mist. 
 
 90 
 
 95 
 
 100 
 
THR AVCIBNT MAKINER. 
 
 ^t'Ulre^rrhl ^he fair breeze hiew, the white foam flew, 
 pilSn" Jte^.n*!' '^•'® f"""«' followed free ; 
 watSven^wnit ^^° ^*"'® ^''^ ^^""^ ^^^^^ ®^'®'" ^^^^ 
 
 reachettheUn*. Into that silent sea. 
 
 106 
 
 Nen'iiSS ^°^" ^'■"P*^ ^''6 V>ree/.e, the sails dropt down, 
 i^ecalmed. Twns sa.l as sad could Ik? ; 
 
 And wo did speak only to break 
 
 The silence of the sea I 110 
 
 All in a hot and copper sky, 
 The bloody Sun, at noon. 
 Right up above tiia mast did stand, 
 No bigger than the Moon. 
 
 Day after day, day ?ifter day, 
 We stuck, nor breath nor motion j 
 As idle as a painted ship 
 Upon a painted ooean. 
 
 t^^'^n^to '^^ter, water, everywhere, 
 
 be avenged. j^^d all the boards did shrink}; 
 
 Water, water, everywhere. 
 
 Nor any drop tu drink. 
 
 The very deep did rot : O Christ ! 
 That ever this should hi ! 
 Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
 Upon the sHmy sea. 
 
 About, about, in reel and rout ^ 
 
 A rpirit had (ol- mi , ,, ^ , , 
 
 lowed thetn ; The deaMi-ftres danced at night : 
 
 one of the In- _,■ i. ti -^ i_> -i 
 
 visible inhabi- ine water, like a witch s oils, 
 plane., neither Burnt green and blue and white. 
 
 115 
 
 120 
 
 125 
 
 130 
 
 1 
 
 .E:«ra^^-;^«afi*F■■ 
 
 A-''-r> 
 
 ■::^!MBf 
 
THE ANCIKNT .llAKINKR. 
 
 It 
 lii 
 
 departed •oula And some in (Iri'JimH aMHunM w«'r«' 
 
 nnr aiiK'l* • 
 
 concerning Of tho spirit that i>lii;;in'il US M) ; 
 whom the 111*11 1 
 
 learned Jew, Nino flltllOIII lU'.O.p 110 luul folli>\v<'<l UH 
 Joeephui, »nd . . 1 » • . 1 
 
 the I'latonU- Froiu tlio land of niist and sn.w. 
 
 Congtantinopo- 
 UUn, MUhiM'l 
 
 Keeiiiie, nia) be ^„(} (.ypry toniiuo, tlnouL'li utter drought, 
 
 They are very "Whs withonnl lit tlio root ; 
 
 nuiiirroiis, and 
 
 there l» no til- \yQ could not stM»ak, no nioro than if 
 
 mate or element ,11 ■ 1 
 
 without one or Wo liad 1x5611 clioKcd With HOot. 
 
 more. 
 
 135 
 
 The ehipmatei, 
 in th«lr «ore 
 iliHtrest would 
 (alii throw the 
 whole guilt on 
 the ancient 
 Mariner; in rign 
 whereof they 
 hang the dead 
 lea-blnl round 
 hli neck. 
 
 The ancient 
 Mariner behold- 
 eth a »i|tn in the 
 element afar oft. 
 
 Ah ! well a-<lay ! what evil IooIch 
 Had T from old and youn<,' ! 
 Instead of the Cross, tho Allmtross 
 About my neck was hung. 
 
 PART III. 
 There passed a weary time. Each throat 
 Was parched, and glazed each eye. 
 A weary time ! a weary time ! 
 How glazed each weary eye ! 
 When looking we-tward, I Ixiheld 
 A something in the sky. 
 
 140 
 
 145 
 
 At first it seemed a little speck, 
 And then it seemed a mist : 
 It moved and moved, and took at last 
 A certain shape, I wist. 
 
 A speck, a mist, a shape, T wist ! 
 And still it neared and neared : 
 And as if it do<lged a water sprite, 
 It plunged, and tacked, and veered. 
 
 At its nearer With throats unslaked, witn black lips baked, 
 rmerh'him to We could uor laugh nor wail ; 
 
 150 
 
 155 
 
THK ANclKST MAIIINKH. 
 
 
 
 A flath of Joy. 
 
 And horror fol- 
 lows ; for can It 
 b<> a Rhip that 
 conm onward 
 without wind 
 or tide ? 
 
 It .'.ill'; m"'' '•"'"•""«'' "ttor (ImuKht nl! .l.iinl. wo sttHMl ! 
 ""iX'^Vl. ' ''■' '".V 'inn, r su.ko.1 n... bl.KKl, 160 
 
 th.^K,nd. of And nm], A miil ! a suil ! 
 
 With throftts uiislakod, with hhick lips baked, 
 
 Aj^npe tln'y honrd mo call : 
 
 OraiiHMvy ! tlicy for Joy did ^rin, 
 
 And idl Ht oiuo their hroath drew in, 166 
 
 As they were drinking all. 
 
 See ! see ! (I cried) she tneks no more I 
 
 Hither to work us weal ; 
 
 Without a breeze, without a tide, 
 
 She stea<lies with upright keel ! 170 
 
 The western WMve was all a-flamo. 
 
 The day was well-nigh done ! 
 
 Almo.st upon the western wave 
 
 Rested the broad briglit Sun ; 
 
 When that strange shape drove suddenly 175 
 
 Betwixt us and the Sun. 
 
 bufZ'.kde'"' "^"'^ straight the Sun was flecked with bars, 
 
 tonofafhip. (Heaven's Mother send us grace !) 
 
 As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
 
 With broad and burning face. 180 
 
 Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
 How fast she nears and nears ! 
 Are those her sails that glance in tlie Sun, 
 Like res Jess gossameres I 
 
 Are those her ribs through which the Sun 185 
 
 And its ribs are 
 
 seen aa bars nn 
 
 the face of the , . , 
 
 iwUinjr gun. t^iu peer, as throuL'h a urate J 
 
 The H})ectre- » l • ai tit 
 
 woman and her Ana IS that Woman all her crew 1 
 
 afaxz^lT 
 
 iar^'5^m[^K7Sg'§^iiags»iS3faxssfwm''Mmimm 
 
8 
 
 THK ANCIBirr MARINKR. 
 
 daath-nwU, 
 and no otbar 
 on twMfd th« 
 riiclcton thlp. 
 UkavMMl.Uk* 
 
 ONWI 
 
 1h thut a Dontli? luul ftre there twot 
 Ih Death that wuninn's iiiaU; Y 
 
 Her lips were rwl, hor hxiks were free, 
 Her h)cks were yellow aH gold : 
 Her Hkiti wa.s hm white as leprosy, 
 The Night-inare Life-in-Death was she, 
 Who thicks man's blood with cold. 
 
 190 
 
 t>*»th and LIU- The naked hulk alongside came, 
 
 tn-I>«athhava . i ^i . • *• „ i: -» . 
 
 diced for the And the twain were castmg dice ; 
 
 •.h%Xtt**r')' " The game is done ! I've won, I've won I " 
 
 i[iicr.nt*'il«iner. Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 
 
 195 
 
 No twilight 
 within the 
 court* of the 
 •un. 
 
 The Sun's rim dips ; thi stars rush out : 
 At one stride comes le dark ; 
 With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 
 Off shot the spectre-bark. 
 
 200 
 
 t' 
 
 At the rWng oi We listened and looked sideways up 1 
 the moon. j,^^^ ^^ ^^ heart, as at a cup, 
 
 One after 
 another. 
 
 205 
 
 My life-blood seemed to sip ! 
 
 The stars were dim, and thick the night, 
 
 The steerman's face by his lamp gleamed white ; 
 
 From the sails the dew did drip — 
 
 Till clomb above the eastern bar 
 
 TIh^ hornkl Moon, with one bright star 210 
 
 Within the nether tip. 
 
 One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, 
 
 Too quick for groan or sigh. 
 
 Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, 
 
 And cursed me with his eye. 215 
 
 ^T*,-. -*■ 
 
 L^yn^^ 
 
 S3ft^,^5«eii.Tti:/tv-;'ft: . 
 
THE ANCIRNT MARINKR. 
 
 "^•dUS^- ''"»"' *''"»• fi'ty living men, 
 •••^ (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
 
 With heavy thump, a lifelpnH lump, 
 They dropped down one by unv. 
 
 SlithiSn. "^^ *'"'" *'"• '"»"» '*'«»'■ *^>'ii*" fly.— 
 
 And every soul, it paiuted me by, 
 Like the whizz of ray cross lx)w ! 
 
 220 
 
 Th« Wcidlng- 
 miMt (earctli 
 th«t » iplrtt li 
 talklnf to him. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 " I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! 
 
 I fear thy skinny hand ! 
 
 And thou art long, and lank, and brown, 
 
 As is the ribbed sea-sand. 
 
 225 
 
 I fear thee and thy glittering eye. 
 And thy skinny hand so brown." — 
 M^irin^l^'^'"* Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
 This body dropt not down. 
 
 •ureth him of 
 hli bodily lift, 
 and prooMdtth 
 to rcUto hbi 
 horrible p«n- 
 •no*. 
 
 230 
 
 Alone, alone, all all alone,^ 
 Alone on a wide wide sea ! 
 And never a saint took pity on 
 My soul in agony. 
 
 tli' c?St!fr'^of '^^ '"^"y "«"' «'^ '>«a"titul ! 
 theoalm. And they all dead did lie ; 
 
 And a thousand thousand slimy things 
 Lived on ; and so did I. 
 
 uS^'tthi'Sould ' ^*^^^ "P*'" '^« "^"^"^ ^'^ 
 u»e, Md w And drew my eyes away ; 
 
 I looked upon the rotting deck, 
 
 And there the dead men lay. 
 
 235 
 
 240 
 
10 
 
 TIIR ANCIRNT MARINRR. 
 
 T li¥)kt»<l t«) h««ii%«'ii, hihI (riiMl to pray 
 But or pviT A pmypr \\iv\ K"'*b'. 
 A wi(>k«*<i whi^|H'r cnino, uiiti iiin<li> 
 My heurt an dry hn cliint. 
 
 240 
 
 T ol«)»w»<l my lidH, ftinl kept th«Mn (;lcwe, 
 
 Afnl tlio Ixills lik«' pulHi'M l»«>ftt ; 
 
 Kor tlu'Hkyaiul thcHca, uixi lli««s«auiul tlionky, 26D 
 
 lijiy lik«> a luail on my wrary «'y«', 
 
 AihI tlu! dead wero at my feet. 
 
 ^1 
 
 Hut iinTtiMc Tli»' fold Mwpat meltod from thoir I'miIm, 
 
 livfth for him ., _ i i- i .i 
 
 intheevKif Nor tut tior rcf'k did tu«y : 
 
 Had m!vpr panswl away. 
 
 An orphan's curse would drag to hell 
 
 A spirit from on hiKh ; 
 
 Hut oh! moro horrihle than that 
 
 , . , , ,, Is the cur.si> in a dead man's eye ! 
 In hli lon»llntiw •' 
 
 Mi.iflx«MiMc«i Hoven days, .seven niirhtM, I saw that curse, 
 
 hp vmmetli to- -^ ' n > 
 
 wnH«thc- And yet I could not die. 
 
 jouriit'ViiiK ' 
 
 iiirxxi, anil the 
 Mturi«ih»t Ntill 
 
 wijourn, >»•( Ntiii The moving moon went up the sky, 
 
 iriovi'oiiwanl ; i- i i • i 
 
 unci .vtrytt here And nowhere did abide ; 
 
 tlin liluo nkv !»•• , , , , 
 
 imastottiiiii, Sottly she was going up, 
 ;iii(t i»thi ir , ». > • 1 
 
 iippointi'iirext. And a stur or two l)esuJe — 
 
 and thoir native 
 country nnrt 
 
 naturarhoin.... Her Itoams IwincK-ked the sultry main, 
 
 :^:!:::::!:^::r i^\<^ Aprii hoar-frost spread ; 
 
 ":rt^i;A.x'"''" liut where the ship'.s huge shallow lay, 
 rheJTi'. » Hiient The chamu-d water burnt alway 
 irrival!"''"' A .still and awful red. 
 
 266 
 
 260 
 
 260 
 
 270 
 
TIIB AWCIKNT MARINIII. 
 
 11 
 
 uf/ttl;:;! R*y"n'j tho .ha,i..w of the .i 
 
 lip 
 
 holilvth (l<i<)'* 
 ar*«f ur«« of th< 
 (?*•! mUoi. 
 
 Th«lr hMutjr 
 mid their 
 h*ppin 
 
 iU biMMth 
 
 th»m In hi* 
 h«ftrt. 
 
 Thcipcll begin* 
 to brMk. 
 
 By gnoe of the 
 holy Mother, 
 the ancient 
 Mnriner Is re- 
 fresheii with 
 rain. 
 
 Tliey oiovmI in triM-kn of Nhinin^ whiu^, 
 Ami wIh'h tlify H'rtnMl, M„, fltUU light 
 Fell off in hoary iliikoH 
 
 Within th« hIuuIow of the Mhip 
 
 I watched thoir rich attii* : 
 
 H[up, gloHsy grwn, nml velvet lilarl^, 
 
 They coilml imd nwnm ; nn.l every triuk 
 
 Wan n tlANh of g«>ltlen fire. 
 
 O happy living thingH ! no tongue 
 
 Thfir Ixiftuty might cloclare ; 
 
 A spring of l«>ve gushe*! from my heart, 
 
 And I l)le»a«?d them unawun' ! 
 
 Sure my kind .^aint tf)ok pity on mc 
 
 And I blessed tli.'m unaware. 
 
 The solfname moment I could pray ; 
 And from my neck so free 
 The AlUtross fell off, and sank 
 Like lead into the seaj 
 
 PART V. 
 
 sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 
 Beloved from jK>le to pole ! 
 
 To Mary Queen the praise l)e given ! 
 She sent the grnth- .sleep from Heaven, 
 That slid into my soul. 
 
 The silly buckets on the «|oik, 
 Tliat had :iu loii^ reniaiiit-d, 
 
 1 dreamt that they wen^ filled with dew ; 
 And when I awoke, it raine<l. 
 
 275 
 
 280 
 
 285 
 
 290 
 
 295 
 
 300 
 
 ■rj*.** 
 
 ,:.': ■^s^-^-:xf : 
 
 -i*.-*, ..v. • 
 
12 
 
 TRK ANCIRMT MAMIKIN. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ■t 
 
 II* hmirvth 
 ■oun<t»MKi 
 •crth strftniiti 
 
 iiHitloim In thti 
 ■ky >iiit tha 
 «l«nt«nt. 
 
 My Up* worn wpt, my tlirtMl w»« cohl, 
 My Knntit'titH nit wmi dank ; 
 Huro T liiwl <lruriki*ii in my (ln«mK, 
 Ami Htill my Innly (iriink. 
 
 I movmi, Rn«l coulil not fwl my limlm : 806 
 
 I wiwi M> light— nImoNt 
 
 I tliouglit that I had diiMl in hIi>«|), 
 
 And WON n bIcNMed ghcwt, 
 
 jAnd ROtm I heard a roaring wind : 
 It did not cofim anear ; 310 
 
 Hut with itM Hrtund it Hhixik the maIIh, 
 That were «o thin and wre. 
 
 Thfi upp<>r oir hurst into lift; ! 
 
 And a huntlrcul fireHags Hhwn, 
 
 To ami fn> thoy woro hurriwl alxiut ! 316 
 
 And to and fro, and in and out, 
 
 Tho wan stuni dance<l between. 
 
 And th(! coining wind did roar more loud, 
 
 And the Kails did sigh like sedge ; 
 
 And the ruin p)ured down from f>ne hlack cloud 
 
 The bo<liet ol 
 
 the •hip'ii crew 
 
 — I.. .„t_i«-.i 
 
 art- i:t-{tFt*r-'t, 
 
 and the Khip 
 inu\ n on ■ 
 
 The moon wan at its edge. 
 
 The thick hlack cloud was cleft, and still 
 The moon was at its side : 
 Like waters shot from some high crag, 
 The lightning fell with never a jag, 
 A river steep and wid , 
 
 The loud wind never reached the ship, 
 Yet no-A- tlio nlsip movwl nu ' 
 BiMieath the lightning and the moon 
 The dead men gave a groan. 
 
 321 
 
 326 
 
 330 
 
TM« ANCIRNT MANIMKN. 13 
 
 Tb.'y Krt«niH|, thi-y -tirml. Jhfy nil iipnw*, 
 Nor ii|>nki«. tiur inovi^l •>„.jr ,.y,.„ , 
 It h(t«l \tm<n »»tnin«i>. i-v.m in u .Irrniii, 
 To havn itMin thcmn lU'jwl lufii ri.-p. 
 
 Tim hfilmNiimn nU'vrt^l ; the >lii|i nu»vt.<l on ; :J3f> 
 
 Yet ni'Vur a brtw'zt* «ij> bifw ; 
 
 Tlie ninritiKm nil unn work ili.- ro|H'M, 
 
 Whon? th«<y wrt? wont to do ; 
 
 Tht-y raiwHj their \iui\m like hf.-l.-HH tooU— 
 
 Wo were n gluiiitly crew. 34O 
 
 The Ixuly of my hroiher'N Hon 
 8t<»o«l by me, knee to kiie« ; 
 Tlib 'y and I |>ulle<l at one rope, 
 Hut h. said nought to nn. 
 
 «u.rof iC " ^ f'^'"' ^l'^'. '»'«<^ient Mariner ! " 345 
 
 b'ut"^"'l.t«*l "''*"'• ""^ '''""^ «""'» ^'"'^ "'-'' '" P""». 
 
 ^"ion o^'th^ ""' * ^'''^P "' Hpirits lilcHt : 
 
 For when it dawnetl- they dropjjed their arms, 350 
 And I lustere<I round the mast ; 
 Hweet sounds roKo slowly through their mouths. 
 And from their bodies passefi. 
 
 Around, around, tlew each aweet sound. 
 
 Then darted to the sun ; 355 
 
 Slowly ti. ' sounds came back ngnin, 
 
 Now raixeu now one by one. 
 
 vocation of the 
 fUMttlMi wlnt. 
 
 Soi 
 
 metimes a-dropping from the sky 
 J heard the sky-lark .sing ; 
 sometimes all little birds that are, 
 
 360 
 

 I 
 
 THE /..4CIENT MAKINEK. 
 
 How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
 With their sweet, jargoniiig ! 
 
 And now 'twas like all instruments, 
 Now like a lonely flute ; 
 And now it is an angel's song, 
 That makes the heavens be mute. 
 
 It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 
 
 A pleasant noise till noon, 
 
 A noise like of a hidden brook 
 
 In the leafy month of June, 
 
 That to the sleeping woods all night 
 
 Singe th a quiet tune. 
 
 Till noon we quietly sailed on, 
 Yet never a breeze did breathe ; 
 Slowly and smoothly went the ship. 
 Moved onward from beneath. 
 
 Theionewme Under tliB keel nine fathom deep, 
 S^uth'^i!^**** From the land of mist and snow, 
 SaB?aV«theThp spirit slid ; and it was he 
 ll;:c'e'to?^t. Tliat made the ship to go. 
 rtinV'^Xui"* '^^^^ sails at noon left off their tune, 
 
 vengeance. j^j^^ t^e ship stood still also. 
 
 The sun, right up above the mast. 
 Had fixed her to the ocean ; 
 But in a minute she 'gan stir, 
 With a short unefisy motion — 
 Backwards and forwards half her length 
 With a short uneasy motion. 
 
 Then like :i pawing horne let g'>, 
 She made a sudden bound : 
 
 365 
 
 370 
 
 375 
 
 380 
 
 385 
 
 390 
 
^ 't. -K- 
 
 The PoUr 
 Spirit's fellow- 
 deinont, the in- 
 visible Inhabi- 
 Uinta of the el »- 
 iiieiit, talce part 
 in hi§ wronif ; 
 and two ol them 
 relate, one to 
 the other, that 
 penance lonj; 
 and heavy for 
 the ancient 
 Mariner hath 
 been acfonled 
 to the I'olar 
 Spirit, who re- 
 turneth south- 
 ward. 
 
 THE ANCIENT MAKINER. 15 
 
 It flunj,' the I'KmmI into my lirail, 
 And I fell down in a swound. 
 
 How long in that same fit \ lay, 
 
 I liave not to declare ; 
 
 But ere my living life returned, 395 
 
 I heard, and in my soul discerned, 
 
 Two voices in the air. 
 
 " Ts it he]" quoth one, " Is tiiis the man ] 
 
 By Him who died on cross, 
 
 With his cruel how he laid full low 400 
 
 The liarmless Albatross. 
 
 " The spirit who bideih by himself 
 
 III the land of mist and snow, 
 
 He loved the bird that 1ov(m1 the man 
 
 Who shot him with his bow." 405 
 
 The other was a softer voice, 
 
 As soft as honey-dew : 
 
 Quoth he, "The man hath penance done. 
 
 And penance more will do." 
 
 PAKT VI. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 4 1 
 
 Thy soft response renewing - 
 
 What makes that ship drive on so fast? 
 
 What is the Ocean doing i 
 
 SKCONI) VOICE. 
 
 Still as a slave before his lord, 
 
 The Ocean hath no blast ; 415 
 
 His great bright eye most silently 
 
 Up tu the Dioou is case — 
 
Lft\:^ 
 
 If 
 
 ,11 
 
 I 
 
 The Mariner 
 hath be«n caat 
 into a trance ; 
 for the angelio 
 power oauseth 
 the veMel to 
 drive northward 
 laater than 
 human life 
 couM endure. 
 
 16 THB AMCIRNT MARINER. 
 
 If he may know which way to go ; 
 
 For she guides him smooth or grim. 
 
 See, brother, see ! how graciously 420 
 
 She looketh down ou him. 
 
 FIK8T VOICE. 
 
 But why drives on that ship so fast, 
 Without or wave or wind ? 
 
 SECOND VOICE, 
 
 The air is cut away Ijefoie, 
 
 And closes ^.-om behind. 426 
 
 Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 
 Or we shall be belated : 
 For slow and slow that ship will go, 
 When the Mariner's trance is abated. 
 
 The super- I woke, and we were sailing on 430 
 
 natural motion 
 
 is retarded; the As in a gentle weather : 
 
 Mariner awakes, . , , .1 !_• 1 
 
 and his penance 'Twas night, calm night, the moon was nigli ; 
 inna anew. ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ gtood together. 
 
 All stood together on the deck. 
 
 For a charnei-dungeou fitter ; 436 
 
 All fixed on me their stony eyes, 
 
 That in the moon did glitter. 
 
 The pang, the curse, with which they died, 
 Had never passed away : 
 
 I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 440 
 
 Nor turn them up to pray. 
 
 The curse is ^^d now this spell was snapt : once more 
 
 flnuUy expiated. ^ *■ 
 
 I viewed the ocean green, 
 
 And looked far forth, yet little saw 
 
 Of what had else been seen — 446 
 
THE ANCIRNT MARINER. 
 
 17 
 
 Like one, that on a lonesome road 
 
 Doth walk in fear and dread, 
 
 And having once turned round, walks on, 
 
 And turns no more his head ; 
 
 Bi^cause he knows a frightful tiend 460 
 
 Doth close loehind him tread. 
 
 But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
 
 Nor sound nor motion made : 
 
 Its path was not upon the sea, 
 
 In ripple or ih. shade. 455 
 
 It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
 Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
 It mingled strangely with my fears, 
 Yet it felt like a welcoming. 
 
 Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 460 
 
 Yet she sailed softly too : 
 Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
 On me alone it blew. 
 
 And the andent Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed 
 eth'hig native The Hghthouse top I see 1 465 
 
 '^"°"^- Is this the hill ] u this the kirk ? 
 
 Is this mine own countrc . . 
 
 We drifted o'er the harbour-bar. 
 
 And 1 with sobs did pray — 
 
 ' O let me be awake, my God ! 470 
 
 Or let me sleep alway.' 
 
 The harbour-bay was clear as glass. 
 
 So smoothly it was strewn ! 
 
 And on the bay tli'^ moonlight lay, 
 
 And the shadow of the moon, 475 
 

 .a: 
 
 W THB ANCIKNT MARINRR. 
 
 The rock sliono bright, tho. kirk no less, 
 That stiuuls alM)ve tho rcM k : 
 The iU(K)nli;>ht steeped in silentness 
 The steady weathercock. 
 
 And tho Imy was white with silent light, 480 
 
 Till rising from the samp, 
 
 H|.irit«Xiv°e the ^"'' '"'i"y shapes, that shadows were, 
 ■kad bodit... i„ crimson colours came. 
 
 th^ir^Zn'io^ A little distance from tho prow 
 
 of light. Those crimson shadows were : 485 
 
 I turned my eyes upon the deck — 
 
 Oh Christ ! what saw I there I 
 
 Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
 
 And, by the holy rood ! 
 
 A man all light, a seraph-man, 490 
 
 On every corse there stood. 
 
 This seraph-band, each waved his hand : 
 
 It was a heavenly sight ! 
 
 They stood as signals to the land. 
 
 Each one a lovely light ; 495 
 
 This seraph-band, each waved his hand : 
 No voice did they impa/t — 
 No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank 
 Like music on my heart. 
 
 But oon I heard the dash of oars, 500 
 
 I heard the Pilot's cheer ; 
 
 My hear' was turned perforce away, 
 
 And T saw a boat appear. 
 
 M 
 
1 
 
 THE ANCIKNT MARINER. 
 
 Tho Pilot ami tlr Pilot's boy, 
 I heard tlioin coming fast : 
 Dear Ix>nl in Heaven ! it was a joy 
 The dead men could, not bhist. 
 
 I saw a third — I heard his voice : 
 
 It is the H< init good ! 
 
 He singeth loud his g(xlly hymns 
 
 That he makes in the wckmI. 
 
 He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 
 
 The Albatross's blood. 
 
 PART YII. 
 
 The Hertnit of This Hermit good lives in that wood 
 
 the wood • 1 1 , 
 
 Which slopes down to the sea. 
 How loudly his sweet voice he rears 1 
 He loves to talk with ni.iriueres 
 That come from a far countree. 
 
 He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — 
 
 He hath a cushion plump : 
 
 It is the moss that wholly hides 
 
 The rotted old oak-stump. 
 
 The skiff-boat neared : I heard them talk, 
 " Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
 Where are those lights so many and fair. 
 That signal made but now 1 " 
 
 19 
 
 605 
 
 510 
 
 approacheth 
 lh<- ship 
 with wonder. 
 
 I 
 
 616 
 
 620 
 
 525 
 
 " Strange, by my faith ! " the Hermit said — 
 
 " And they answered not our eiieer ! 
 
 The planks look warped ! and see those sails, 
 
 How thin they are and sere ! 
 
 I never saw aught like to them, 
 
 Unless perchance it were 
 
 630 
 
i 
 
 1^ 
 
 
 i' 
 
 SO 
 
 The thip sud- 
 denly ilnketki. 
 
 The unoient 
 Mariner is 
 saved in the 
 Pilot's boat. 
 
 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
 My forest-brook along ; 
 When the ivy-to<l is heavy with snov, 
 And the owlet whoops to tho wiilf b«.'low, 
 That eats the she- wolfs young." 
 
 " Dear Lord ! it hath a lieudish I«)ok — 
 (The Pilot made reply) 
 I am a-feared " — " Push on, push on ! " 
 Said the Hermit cheerily. 
 
 The boat came closer to the ship, 
 But I nor spake nor stirred ; 
 The Iwat came close Ijcneath the ship, 
 And straight a sound wtis heard. 
 
 Under the water it rumbled on, 
 Still louder and more dread : 
 It reached the ship, it split the bay ; 
 The ship went down like lead. 
 
 535 
 
 540 
 
 545 
 
 550 
 
 Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound. 
 
 Which sky and ocean smote, 
 
 Like one that hath been seven days drowned 
 
 My body lay afloat ; 
 
 But swift as dreams, myself I found 
 
 Within the Pilot's boat. 655 
 
 Upon the whirl where sank the ship, 
 The boat spun round and round ; 
 And all was still, save that the hill 
 Was telling of the sound. 
 
 I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 
 And fell down in a fit ; 
 
 560 
 
TBI ANCIKNT MARINER. 
 
 SI 
 
 660 
 
 670 
 
 The holy ITermit miKtHl his oyes, 
 And praytnl where ho did sit. 
 
 I took the oars : the Pilot's Ixiy, 
 
 Who now <loth cra7y j,'o, 
 
 Laughed loud and long, and all the while 
 
 His eyes went to and fro 
 
 " Ha ! ha \ " quoth lie, ♦' full plain I see 
 
 The Devil knows iiow to row." 
 
 And now, all in my own countrc(% 
 
 I stood on the firm land ! 
 
 The Hermit stepped forth from the Inwit, 
 
 And scarcely he could stand. 
 
 The ancient " O shrieve me, shrievo me, holy man ! " 
 
 e(tiy"n'treatcth Tlie Hermit crossed his brow. 
 
 ihriele wm!" " Say quick," quoth he, " I bid thee say— 
 
 o? We faK "r* What manner of man art thou ! " 
 him 
 
 Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 
 
 With II ^ -oful agony, 
 
 Which forcei! nie io begin my tale ; 580 
 
 And then it left me free, 
 
 676 
 
 I 
 
 And ever and 
 anon through- 
 out his future 
 life an ai;ony 
 constraineth 
 him to travel 
 from land to 
 land; 
 
 Since then, at an uncertain hour. 
 That agony returns : 
 And till ray ghastly tale is told. 
 This i^art within me burns. 
 
 I pass, like night, from land to land ; 
 I liave strange power cf speech ; 
 The moment that his face I see, 
 1 know the man that must hear me : 
 To him my t ile 1 teach. 
 
 685 
 
 690 
 
22 
 
 i! 
 II 
 
 ft 
 
 TIIK ASriKNT SiAniNEB. 
 
 What lou 
 
 Tl. 
 
 'I "1'r.xir l.urstM from that door I 
 
 i« wi'(|(lmj^-j^r,„.stM jirn t\ 
 
 Hut in thf 
 
 i«'it> 
 
 ><> Kunk'n-lKiwrr tli« bridi, 
 And hride niaids singing an! : 
 An.l hark tho Ijttlo v...s|H.r Im-II, 
 Which hiddoth nuj to prayt-r ! 
 
 O Wod.iinK-fJuost! thisso.d hath l«en 
 Alnrmon a »vid,., wi,],. ^,.,i . 
 
 So lonely 'twas, that (J.mI hin.sdf 
 Scarce HC'OMitd thero to Im; 
 
 C sweeter than tlio marriage feast, 
 ' Tis sweeter far to me, 
 To walk tog,.tli,'r to the kirk 
 With a g(KKJly company !— 
 
 To walk toget;jor to the kirk, 
 
 And all tog(«ther pray, 
 
 While eacli to his great Father ])ends, 
 
 Old men, and hahes, ami loving friends, 
 
 And youths and ni Mdei.s gay ! 
 
 hi,'*ow„*:;r'''^^'^'^^«". f'^'-ewell ! hut this T tell 
 re':n'c^^''.::il ^^^h.-e, thou We.iding-(J„e.st! 
 l^ra!.Xmh. "« Vr^y^'^h well who loveth well 
 Both man and hird and beast. 
 
 He prayeth l)e8t who loveth l)est 
 All things Iwth great nnd small ; 
 For the dear G(m1 w'to loveth us, 
 He made and loveth all. 
 
 The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
 Whose beard with age is hoar, 
 
 S96 
 
 600 
 
 G05 
 
 610 
 
 fl5 
 
 
THI ANCIKNT MAKINKR. fS 
 
 jlagono : iwhI now tho W<'<liliu(( CJuwit 620 
 
 'Turnetl from tho hridf^riMiiu's ii<M>r. 
 
 i 
 
 Ho w«nt likn onp thnt hath In'ori Btunnwl, 
 I An<J in of wrisn forlorn : 
 I A Ka<l«li'r Hiiil a wiser man, 
 JHe rose tho morrow morn. 625 
 
3 > 
 
 If 
 
 u 
 
 11 
 
 MART LEAP WKF.L 
 
 Th« KniRht hiul rirl.li'n ilown from Wrnnloy McKir 
 With th.» nIow inotioK .,f n Huinrnfr'M t-lomJ, 
 
 Ami now, as in* iippr.MM-li«H| n vohimiI'm .|,K»r, 
 " Bring forth another hor«o ! " ho cri..,| aloiicl. 
 
 " Another honi« ! "—That ahout tho va«Mal heanl 
 And iMuMlfMl \i\n U^Ht Hti'inl, a ooinolv Krey ; 
 
 Kir \Valt<»r mounted him ; h« wan tin* thini 
 Which he had inounte<J on that glorious day. 
 
 Joy H{)arkle<| in tho prancing courser's eyes ; 
 
 Tho horso and horj<eman aro a happy pair ; 
 But, th..ugh Sir Walter liko a falcon flies, 
 
 There ia a (hilcful silence in tho air. 
 
 A rout this morning left Sir V/alter's Hall, 
 That as thoy gallopod made the ocIkk's roar: 
 
 But horse and man are vanishe«|, one and all ; 
 Such race, I think, was never seen before. 
 
 Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, 
 
 Calls to tho few tire<l dogs that yet remain ; 
 
 Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind, 
 Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. 
 
 The Knight hallooed, ho cheered and chid tliom on 
 With -uppliaiit gestures and upbraidings stern ; 
 
 But breath and eyesight fail ; and, one by one. 
 The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern. 
 
 Where is the throng, the tumult of the race? 
 The bugles that so joyfully were blown ? 
 
 — This chase it Ifsok? 
 
 nnt 
 
 ke an eartliiy chase 
 
 Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. 
 
 [24] 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
 25 
 
 
KARV-LIAP WRLL. 
 
 TIm poor Hftrt toiln along the mountain Hid* ; 
 
 I will not iiU>p to t«ll how far Iim AmI, fO 
 
 Nor will I mention hy what doath h« dind ; 
 
 But now the Knight lj«holdii him lying deatl. 
 
 Ditmoonting, then, he leaned agalnnt a thorn ; 
 
 He had no follower, dog. nor man, n»)r l»oy : 
 He neither cracked hia whip, nor blew IiIh horn, U 
 
 But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. 
 
 Cloee to the tho-n on which Sir Walter leancfl. 
 Stood his duml- partner in thift glorious feat ; 
 
 Weak aa a lamb tli') hour that it ih yeanml ; 
 
 And white with foam aa if with cluaving sleet. 40 
 
 Upon his side the Hart waa lying stretche<l : 
 
 His nostril touched a spring lioneatli a hill. 
 And with the last deep groan his hnmth lind fetched 
 
 The waters of the spring were trembling still. 
 
 And now, too happy for repose or rest, 45 
 
 (Never had living man such joyful lot !) 
 Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west. 
 
 And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot. 
 
 And climbing up the hill — (it was at least 
 
 Four roods of sheer asoent) Sir Walt^T found dO 
 
 Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Bea.st 
 
 Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. 
 
 Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, " Till now 
 
 Such sight was never seen by human eyes : 
 Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow, 55 
 
 Down to the very fountain where he lies. 
 
 Ill build a pleasure-house upon this spot, 
 And a small arbour, made for rural joy ; 
 
 li 
 
i 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 
 ll 
 
 Twill \m Iho travi'Mi.r'H ,Im^|, tlm pilKriin's ot, 
 
 A pUim of luvi! f.,r tliitiiMtU timt are coy. ^ 
 
 A .iitming nrtint will t have to framn 
 
 A l»AMin tnr tint fnuriUin in tli«» «li<|| ; 
 AikI they wlu» do iimko iiii<iitiori of tim »tiini«», 
 
 Kn.ni thiii ,lay forth, hIiuII mil it Haki LkIi- Wklu 
 
 Ami, Kfillant Htft« ! to makn thy praiiwH known. M 
 
 Anoth.T moniiin-nt Nhtijl |i,.|-,, l^. raJHr.! ; 
 Thiw wvoml iMJIiirH, i-mh a toukI, |„.wn nUm; 
 
 An.l i.lant«H| wlwro thy ho-.f^ tho turf lnv./«razwl. 
 
 And, in tho Hummor-time wh«>n tlnyn an- long, 
 
 I will coin« hithiT with my I'ani ur ; 70 
 
 And with tlH> <lunc«'rH and tho niinHtn-lV Hong 
 
 We will make merry in that ph-asant b«,w«r. 
 
 Till the foundations of the ni' itainit fail 
 
 My mansion with itn arlxmr nIihII emlure ;— 
 The joy of t|„.,n who till tlm »i..|ds uf Hw.iu', 75 
 
 Ami them who dwell among the wikkIs of L'roi 
 
 Tlien horn., he wont, and left the Hart, Htone-deml, 
 With hn-alhlesH noNtriln stretched al)ove the npring. 
 
 ~8in,n .lid the Knight jmrfonn what ho had Mii.l ; 
 
 And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. 80 
 
 Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steered, 
 
 A cup of Htone received the living well : 
 Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter n'ared, 
 
 And huilt a house of plejisure in the delL 
 
 And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall 86 
 
 ^ VVith trailing plants and trees were intertwined,— 
 Which soon comjAised a littie sylvan hall, 
 A leafy shelter from the sun an.l wind. 
 
HART LKAP WRI.U 
 
 Ami thithiT, whfn tim nuir , nr ilny^ wpri* Kmg, 
 Hir WttlUir 1«h| liin wini(l»«rinK I'arnmiMir ; 
 
 And with tho (UncArii aiul th i mitinlrf-r.* mmn 
 Matla merriment within that ploaMnt U.wnr. 
 
 The Knight. Sir Walter, died in e«)unifl of tirii«, 
 Ami hia Ume* lie in tiin paternal vnli., - 
 
 But there in matter for a iwciind rhyme, 
 And I to thii) would mM anotht-r tale. 
 
 17 
 
 90 
 
 90 
 
 PART IKCOND. 
 
 The moving accident is not my tra<l«» ; 
 
 To frepzn the bliKKJ I have no i-«>m|y nrtii : 
 TiH my delight, alone in Hummer nhiid*', 
 
 To pipe a Himpie nong for thinking licartH. 
 
 A« T from Hawea Ut Richmond did ri'pair, 
 It chance<l that I Haw st<inding in a dfll 
 
 Three aspens at three corners of a Mqnure : 
 And one, not four yrini-i distant, tu.m ^ well. 
 
 What thia imported I could ill divine : 
 And, pulling now the rein my horso to Mtop, 
 
 I saw three pillars standing in a line,— 
 Tlie last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top. 
 
 The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head : 
 Half wasted the .^<iuare mound of tawny ^M('f>n ; 
 
 So that you just might .say, as thon I said. " 
 "Here in old time the hand of man hath Ix'en." 
 
 I looked upon the hill l)oth far and n«'nr, 
 More flolpf....! phice did lurvrr cji: ..urvly , 
 
 It seemed as if the Hpring-timo camn not hero, 
 And Nature here were willing to decay. 
 
 100 
 
 105 
 
 110 
 
 Hi, 
 
HART-LEAP WBLL. 
 
 L-" 
 
 I 
 
 I' 
 
 I- 
 
 Iff 
 
 I stood ill various thoujfhts and fancies lost, 
 
 When one, who was in Shepherd's ^'uih attired, 
 
 Came up tlio hollow :— him did I accost, 
 
 And what this place might be I then inquired. 
 
 The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told 
 Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed. 
 
 "A jolly place," said he, "in times of old ! 
 But something ails it now : the spot is curst. 
 
 You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood 
 
 Some say that they are beeches, others elms 
 
 These were the Iwwer : and here a mansion stood, 
 Tlie finest palace of a hundred realms ! 
 
 The arbour does its own condition tell ; 
 
 You see the stones, the fountain, and the strean- 
 B'.t as to the great Lodge ! you might as well 
 
 Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. 
 
 There's neither dog nor h'jder, horse nor sheep. 
 Will wet h's lips within that cup of stone ; 
 
 And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, 
 This water doth send forth a dolorous groan. 
 
 Some say that here a murder has been done, 
 
 Anil blutxi .ries out for blood : but, for my part, 
 
 I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun. 
 That it was all for that unhappy Hart. 
 
 120 
 
 125 
 
 130 
 
 135 
 
 140 
 
 What thoughts must through the creature's brain have past ! 
 
 Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep, 
 Are but three bounds— and look. Sir, at this last 
 
 O Master ! it has been a cruel leap. 
 

 HABT-LEAP "VELL. 29 
 
 For thirteen hours ho ran a desporato race ; I45 
 
 And in my simple mind wo cannot tell 
 What cause the 1T„. : ivigiit have to love tliis place, 
 
 And come r. •' oake l.is d» at Jed near the well. 
 
 Here on the grass ^oi!:ap' usloop lie sank, 
 
 Lulled by the fountain in the summer-tide : 150 
 
 This water wa • perhaps the first he drank 
 
 When he had wandered from his mother's side. 
 
 In April here beneath the flowering thorn 
 
 He heard the birds their morning carols sing : 
 
 And he, perhaps, for aught wo know, was Ijorn 155 
 
 Not half a furlomj from that self-same spring. 
 
 Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade ; 
 
 The sun on drearier hollov/ never shone ; 
 So will it he, as I have often said, 
 
 Till trees, and stones, and fountain all are gone." 160 
 
 " Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well ; 
 
 Small difference lies bet veen thy creed and mine ; 
 This beast not unobserved by Nature fell ; 
 
 His death was mourned by sympathy divine. 
 
 The Being that is in the clouds and air, 1 G5 
 
 That is in the green leaves among the groves, 
 
 Maintains a deep and reverential care 
 
 For the unoffending creatures whom he loves. 
 
 The pleasure-house is dust :— behind, before, 
 
 This is no common waste, no common gloom ; 170 
 
 But Nature, in due course of time, once more 
 
 Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. 
 
 ifc. 
 
so 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 She loaves tliese objects to a .slow decay, 
 
 That what we an-, and have Iwcii, may be known ; 
 
 But at the vToniing of the milder day, 175 
 
 These monuments shall all be overgrown. 
 
 One le.sson, Shepherd, let us two divide, 
 
 Taught Ixith by what she sho>vs, and what conceals : 
 
 Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
 
 With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." 180 
 
 — Wt/rdsworth. 
 
 i 
 
 11 
 
 u 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 If from the public way you turn your steps 
 
 Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 
 
 You will suppose that with an upright path 
 
 Your feet must stru-gle : in such bold ascent 
 
 The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. 5 
 
 But, courage : for around that boisterous brook 
 
 The mountains have all opened out themselves, 
 
 And made a hidden valley of their own. 
 
 No habitation can he seen ; but they 
 
 Who journey thither find them.selves alone 10 
 
 With a few slieep, with rocks and stones, and kites 
 
 That overhead are sailing in the sky. 
 
 It is in truth an utter solitude : 
 
 Nor should I have made mention of this Dell 
 
 But for one object which you might pass by, 16 
 
 Might see and notice not. Beside the brook 
 
 Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones : 
 
 And to that simple object appertains 
 
 A story— unenrichf>d with strange events. 
 
 Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 20 
 
MICHAEL. 
 
 81 
 
 Or for the summer sli.ulo. It was the first 
 
 Of those domestic tales that spake; to mo 
 
 Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men 
 
 Whom I already loved :— not verily 
 
 For their own sakes, hut for tlie fields and hills 2r> 
 
 Where was their occupation and ahode. 
 
 And hence this Tale, while I was yet a lioy 
 
 Careless of Books, yet havinj,' felt the power 
 
 Of Nature, by the gentle agency 
 
 Of natuial objects, letl me on to feel 30 
 
 For passions that were not my f>wn, and think 
 
 (At random and imperfectly indeed) 
 
 On man, the heart of man, and human life. 
 
 Therefore, although it be a hist(»ry 
 
 Homely and rude, I will relate the same 36 
 
 For the delight of a few natural hearts ; 
 
 And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake 
 
 Of youthful Poets, wiio among these hills 
 
 Will be my second self wlien I am gone. 
 
 Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale 40 
 
 There dwelt a Shepherd, jNlichael was his name : 
 An old mar, stout of heart, and strong of limb. 
 His Ijodily frame had been from youth to age 
 Of an unusual strength : his mind was keen. 
 Intense and frugal, apt for all affairs, 45 
 
 And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt 
 And watchful more than ordinary men. 
 Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds. 
 Of blasts of every tone ; and, oftentinjf^s, 
 When oth'jrs heeded not, he heard the South 50 
 
 Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
 Of l)agpipers on distant Highland hills. 
 The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock 
 
32 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 ■ 
 
 I 
 
 III 5.' 
 
 It' 
 
 
 Betliought him, and lie to himself would say, 
 
 "The win<l8 are now devising work for uw I " 66 
 
 And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives 
 
 The travt to a shelter, summoned him 
 
 Up to the mountains : he luwl l)een alone 
 
 Amid the heart of many thousand mists, 
 
 That came to him, and left him, on tlie heights. 60 
 
 So lived he till his eightieth year was past. 
 
 And grossly that man errs, who should suppose 
 
 That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, 
 
 Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. 
 
 Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed 65 
 
 The common air ; hills, which with vigorous step 
 
 He had so often climl)ed ; which had impressed 
 
 So many incidents upon his mind 
 
 Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear ; 
 
 Wliich, like a book, preserved the memory 70 
 
 Of the dumb animals whom he had saved, 
 
 Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts 
 
 The certainty of honourable gain ; 
 
 Those fields, those hills — what could they less? — had laid 
 
 Strong hold on his aflfections, were to him 75 
 
 A pleasurable feeling of blind love. 
 
 The pleasure which there is in life itself. 
 
 His days had not been passed in singleness : 
 His Helpmate was a comely matron, old — 
 Though younger than himself full twenty years. 80 
 
 She was a woman of a stirring life, 
 Whose heart was in her house : two wheels she had 
 Of antique form ; this large, for spinning wool ; 
 That small, for flax ; and if one wheel had rest 
 It was because the other was at work. 85 
 
 The Pair had but one inmate in their house. 
 
1mm fl ^^fflh if^iil lit 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 83 
 
 An only Child, who had been Iwm to them 
 
 When Michael, telling o'er his years, began 
 
 To deem that he was old, — in shephenl's phrase, 
 
 With one foot in the grave. This only Son, 90 
 
 With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm. 
 
 The one of an inestimable worth. 
 
 Made all their household. I may truly say 
 
 That they were as a proverb in the vale 
 
 For endless industry. When day was gono, 95 
 
 And from their occupations out of doors 
 
 The Son and Father were come home, even then 
 
 Their labour did not cease : unless when all 
 
 Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there, 
 
 Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, 100 
 
 Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes, 
 
 And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal 
 
 Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) 
 
 And his old Father both betook themselves 
 
 To such convenient work as might employ 106 
 
 Their hands by the fireside ; perhaps to card 
 
 Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair 
 
 Some injury done to sickle, flail or scythe, 
 
 Or other implement of house or field. 
 
 Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, 110 
 That in our ancient uncouth country style 
 With huge and black projection overbrowed 
 Large space beneath, as duly as the light 
 Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp ; 
 An aged utensil, which had performed 115 
 
 Service beyond all others of its kind. 
 Early at evening did it burn — and late. 
 Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, 
 
34 
 
 'ill 
 
 • ii 
 
 
 if? 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 Which, going by from year to year, had foutuj. 
 
 And left the couple neither gay perhaps 120 
 
 Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, 
 
 Living a life of eager industry. 
 
 And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year 
 
 There by the light of this old lamp they sate, 
 
 Father and Son, while far into the night ' 126 
 
 The Housewife plied her own peculiar work, 
 
 Making the cottage through the silent hours 
 
 Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. 
 
 This light was famous in its neighbourhood, 
 
 And was a public symbol of the life 130 
 
 That thrifty pair had lived. For, as it chanced. 
 
 Their cottage on a plot of rising ground 
 
 Stood single, with large prospect, north and south. 
 
 High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, 
 
 And westward to the village near the lakL ; ] 35 
 
 And from this constant light, so regular 
 
 And so far seen, the House itself, by all 
 
 Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, 
 
 Both old and young, -vas named The Evening Star. 
 
 Thus living on through such a length of years, 1 40 
 The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs 
 Have loved his Helpmate: but to Michael's heart 
 This son of his old age was yet more dear- 
 Less from instinctive tenderness, the same 
 
 Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all- 145 
 
 Than that a child, more than all other gi <-ts 
 
 That earth can offer to declining man 
 
 Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts. 
 
 And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
 
 By tendency of nature needs must fail' isq 
 
 Exceeding was the love he bare to him, 
 
MICHAEL. 
 
 S6 
 
 His heart and his heart's joy ! For oftentimes 
 
 OM MichjMjI, while he was a balie in arms, 
 
 Had done him female service, not alone 
 
 For pastime and delight, as is the use 166 
 
 Of fathers, l>ut with patient mind enforced 
 
 To acts of tenderness ; and he had rocked 
 
 His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. 
 
 And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 
 Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, 160 
 
 Albeit of a stern unljending mind, 
 To have the Young-one in his sight, when he 
 Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool 
 Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched 
 Under the large old oak, that near his door 165 
 
 Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade, 
 Chosen for the Sliearer's covert from the sun, 
 Thence in our rustic dialect was called 
 The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears. 
 There, while they two were sitting in the shade, 170 
 With others round them, earnest all and blithe, 
 Would Michael exercise his \\^ art with looks 
 Of fond correction and reproof bestowed 
 Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep 
 By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 176 
 
 Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. 
 
 '' And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up 
 A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheeK 
 Two steady roses that were five years old : 
 Then Michael from a winter coppice cut l&O 
 
 With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped 
 With iron, making it throughout in all 
 
:»^,i:3m.'r-W'^»>f 
 
 M 
 
 If 
 
 
 MIOHAIU 
 
 Due roquiait«n a pcrfi-ct Hlirphprd'ii nt^ff, 
 
 And gave it to thfl Hay • wherewith ('(juipt 
 
 He M ft wfttchman oftontiineH wiw plHcinl 186 
 
 At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock ; 
 
 And, to hifl oHice prematurely called, 
 
 Tliere hUmhI the urchin, aa you will divine. 
 
 Something l»etween a hindrance and a help ; 
 
 And for this cause not always, I believe, 190 
 
 Receiving from his Father hire of praise ; 
 
 Though nought was left undone which st^ff, or voice. 
 
 Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform. 
 
 But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand 
 Against the mountain l.lasts, and to the heights, 196 
 Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways. 
 He with his Father daily went, and they 
 Were as companions, why should I relate 
 That objects which the Shepherd loved Wore 
 Were dearer now ? that from the Boy there came 200 
 Feelings and emanations — things which were 
 Light to the sun and music to the wind : 
 And that the old Man's heart seemed born again ? 
 
 Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up : 
 And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year, 206 
 He was his comfort and his daily hope. 
 
 (-While in this sort the simple household lived 
 From day to day, to Michael's ear there came 
 Distressful tidings. Long before the time 
 Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound 210 
 In surety for his brother's son, a man 
 Of an industrious life, and ample means ; 
 Buu unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 
 
ui^MmmfumA.^A K i A >^. 2F.)yjj^. 
 
 MICRAKL. 87 
 
 Had pn»«t upon liiiii ; ntul old Mi«4iiu«l now 
 
 Wjmi HummoiKHl to disci iiiij,'o tlio foifeuturo, 216 
 
 A griinous penalty, hut littlo li-sii 
 
 Than half HIh Hiilwtance. This unlookod-for claim, 
 
 At tho firnt ht'arinj(, for a nionii'nt to«.k 
 
 More h<)i>o out of his lifu tliiiii h«» HupjH>«e(l 
 
 That any old man vvor could havo lont. 220 
 
 A« BiMm aa ho ha<i armc<i himnelf with Htron^ih 
 
 To look his trouhlo in tho faco, it si'cined 
 
 The Shophord's solo rosourco to sj'll at onco 
 
 A portion of his jMitrimonial fi«'lds. 
 
 Such was his first nsolvo: \n' thought again, 225 
 
 And his heart failed him. " Isaht'l," Hiiid he, 
 
 Two evenings after he h.id heard the news, 
 
 "I have l)een toiling more tlian seventy years, 
 
 And in the open .'unshitio of (ifHl's love 
 
 Have wo all lived ; yet if these fields of ours 230 
 
 Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think 
 
 That I could not lio quiet in my grave. 
 
 Our lot is a hard lot : the sun himself 
 
 Has scarcely Ixjen more diligent than I ; 
 
 And I 1 vo lived to 1)6 a ftwd at last 235 
 
 To my own fanuly. An evil man 
 
 That was, and made an evil choice, if he 
 
 Were false to us : and if he were not false, 
 
 There are ten thousand to whom loss like this 
 
 Had been no sorrow. I forgive him : — but 240 
 
 Twere better to Ixs dumb than to talk thus. 
 
 When I Ijegan, my purpose was to speak 
 Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
 Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel : the land 
 Shall not go from us, and'it shall l)e free: 245 
 
 He shall possess it, free as is the wind 
 
I rf^^ 
 
 
 ^i^iL^±^:Hf^AmkmLmf. 
 
 If 
 
 f. f 
 
 rr 
 
 • 1 J;. 
 
 IP^^ 
 
 MICHAKU 
 
 Tlmt pAMfw^n over it. W« have, thou know'nt, 
 
 Anotli..r kinNinan - he h ill \m our frii..i<l 
 
 In thi»» iliHtr«'H«. Ho in n priisp-n.UH nmn, 
 
 Tliriving in trmlo^-and Luko to him nhnll go, 250 
 
 Ami with hin kinniimn-H In-lp mm\ \nn own thrift 
 
 Ho «|uit!kly will rqwir this i.m, nnd tlien 
 
 Ho amy ri^turn to u«. If here lie Htny, 
 
 What ,.,m l)fl ,i..nn ? Where every one Ih |HM,r, 
 
 What can 1x5 gained?" ' 256 
 
 At thig tlio oh I Man pauaed, 
 And IsalKjl sat Hilt-nt, f.»r hi-r mind 
 Was husy, l(K,king Uck into pant times. 
 There'H Hichanl Hatoman, thought she to h.rsolf, 
 Ho wa8 a pariHh-l)oy -at the church d.M)r 260 
 
 They made a gathering for him, shillingM, pence 
 And I df-jwnnics, w'ierewith the nei^rhlx.ur.s lK>ught 
 A ha.,k..t, which th.'y filled with pedlar's warP.s : 
 And, with thia Iwwket on \m arm, the lad 
 Went up to Ix)ndon, found a niiuster there, 266 
 
 Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy 
 To go and overlook his merchandise 
 Beyond the seas ; where he grow wondrous rich, 
 And left estates and monies to the p<Ktr, 
 And, at his hirth-place, built a chapel flijoretl 270 
 
 With marble, which he sent from foreign lands. 
 These thoughts, and many others of like sort, 
 Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, 
 And her face brightened. The old Man was glad 
 And thus resumed:-" Well, Isabel! this scheme,' 278 
 These two days, has been meat and drink to me. 
 Far more than we have lost is left us yet. 
 — Wfi have enough -I wish indeed that I 
 Were younger ;— but this hope is a good hope. 
 
.,a¥« 
 
 MiOHABL. 
 
 39 
 
 -Mnkn rtiuly LuIcp'h 1* 
 
 gar:ni>ntii, of tho l«»».t 'JMO 
 Huy fnr liiiii inoii', arni let uh nimhI him forth 
 Tomorrow, or tho next «Jiiy, or to night: 
 —If ho couU go, tho Jtoy iihouhl go to-night." 
 
 Hero Michiicl cea8e<l, ami to tho MtU went forth 
 With a light lu-art. Tho HouHowife for flvo tUyn 2«fl 
 Wan r»«Htli<Hn m<.rn and night, and all day long 
 Wrought on with hiT In'Mt Jlngors to prepare 
 Things neo<lful for the journey of her son. 
 Hut IsaU'l wiui glftfl when Sunday came 
 To Htop lier in her work : for, when nIio lay 290 
 
 By Mi.hael'H nido, hIio through the lant two nightn 
 Heard him, how he was troubled in hin sleep : 
 And when they n»se at morning sho could see 
 That ail hin h<.i>eM were gone. That day at n(x)n 
 8ho said to Luko, while they two l»y themselves 295 
 Were sitting at tho d»K.r, "Thou mu.st not go: 
 We have no other Child hut thee to lose, 
 None to reraeml>er— do not go away, 
 For if thou leave thy Father he will die." 
 The Youth made answer with a j«Kund voice : 3()0 
 
 And l8al)el, when she had t<.I.l her fears. 
 Recovered heart. That evening her l)e^^t fare 
 Did she bring forth, and all together sat 
 Like happy people round a Christmas fire. 
 
 With daylight Isaliel resumed I«er work : 305 
 
 And all the ensuing week tho house appoare<l 
 As cheerful as a grove in Spring : at length 
 The expected letter from their kinsman came, 
 With kind assurances that he would do 
 His utmost for the welfare of the Boy : 310 
 
 To which, requests were added, that forthwith 
 
 ;\Pt: 
 
',y%wf'm!^'m^m9'i*i 
 
 s 
 
 If 
 
 I i' 
 
 m 
 
 40 MICRAIU 
 
 Ut> might \w^ writ to him Tnn timi»ii or raowi 
 
 The l«tt«r wan rf»ail iivt«r : ImiIh^I 
 
 Went forth to nhow it to the miighlKium nmrnl, 
 
 Nor wiiM th«r© at that tiiiifl on Kn«h»h liimi 316 
 
 A pniuilor honrt than r.tikn'x. \Vh»«n Inalwl 
 
 HjwI to hor houiM5 r«turn«|, tho old Man unid, 
 
 " Ho ahail d«|Mirt tiniiorn)w." To thin word 
 
 The HoUMmifn anawered, talking niiuh of thing* 
 
 VVIiioh, if at such nUort notice ho Hhonld go, 320 
 
 W.mhl nurt'ly l»« forgotton. But at h-ngth 
 
 8ho gave consent, and Micha(>l wan at eauo. 
 
 Near the tumultuou)i hrook of Oroon hf>a4i Clhyll, 
 Tn that deop vall«>y, Mirhaol hm\ «l»'sij,'rH'.l 
 To buihl a Hheop f«»ld : and, Iw-fore ho heard SS6 
 
 Tho tidings of hin mchiiu-holy \m»^ 
 For thiH Name pur|M.s« ho had gathered up 
 A heap of BU>noM, wliich by tho Htri'amlot'g e«lgo 
 Ijiy thrown together, ready ior the wtirk. 
 With Luke that evening thitherward he walke«J : 330 
 And Hoon im they had reached the place he Ht«>pped, 
 And thus the <»M Man spake to him :— " My Son, 
 To-raorrow th«)U wilt leave me: with full heart 
 I look u(K)n thee, for tluiu art the same 
 Tliat wert a promise to mo ere thy birth, 335 
 
 And all thy life hast bt'en my daily j«»y. 
 I will relate to thee some little part 
 Of our two histories ; 'twill do thee go<Kl 
 When thoU art fmm me, even if I should touch 
 On things thou canst n«)t know of.- After thou 340 
 First cam'st into the world— as oft Iw^fals 
 To new-lx.rn infants— thou didst sleep away 
 Two davH, and bl'>«5ngs from thy Fatlirr's tongue 
 Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on. 
 
MirilASI,. 
 
 41 
 345 
 
 Ami «fill f Invni thw with irirr»»miiiijj |„vi». 
 
 Npv»<r Ut liviiij( pur imun iiwf«<t4«r ihiuimU 
 
 Tliftii wlii'ii I lifAi'd tli»'« hy our own Hin nidn 
 
 First utJiTiiij.', willi.iut wohIh, a rinJuml tuii«: 
 
 Whil« thou. A f««..<|iM^ >miIn., iJiflst ill thy joy 
 
 HiiiK at tliy Mutlar .1 l.rmMt. Month foliowmi nionlli, 
 
 Anil in tliH ojion fuUU my life wan pAKHed 5^1 
 
 Ahd on Iho nioiintAins: el«o T think that thou 
 
 HimUI lM'«'n hrou^ht up u|Kin thy Kathfir'N IcrwH. 
 
 But we wRt« playiiiAti'H, Lnkn: am.,iij( thi»N« hilLn, 
 
 As well thou knowent, in us the old and ymnn aSfl 
 
 Hav« plitytMl to^'thor. nor with ni« dulMt thou 
 
 lijick any plmHun- which a Ik.v win know." 
 
 l.uk« had A manly himrt : hut at th«'>«« wonls 
 
 He M.)l.l«'d aliiu.l. Thn <i|.| Man graH|)«| hin hand, 
 
 And Maid, " Nay, <lo not Uko it ho— I n^t 360 
 
 Tliat th»^Me arfl things of which I iii'«h1 not upeak. 
 
 — Even to thw utinont I havo Ix-en to thw 
 
 A kiiul and a go«Kl Father : and herein 
 
 I tiut r»»p«v A gift whiih I myself 
 
 keoeiv*-.! ut otlnMs' haml«: for, though now old 365 
 
 lieyonu the cuninion life of man, I still 
 
 R«meii)lj«r them who IovihI me in my youth 
 
 Both or ! hi'iii sleep together : here thev liv«H|, 
 
 An 4,11 rhf-ir Forefathers hiul done; and when 
 
 Ac leuyth their time was come, they were not lf)th 370 
 
 T» gjve tlMJir IxMlies U) the family mould. 
 
 I 'Tsf.iied that thou shouidst live the life they lived : 
 
 Bitt,. 'tis a. long time to Itxik hack, my Son, 
 
 JLao me m little gain from threescore years. 
 
 Tkme mi'ida were hurthened when they came to me • 376 
 
 z~iiz : ...«; £Tjn,y year» or age, not more 
 
 T^san half of my inheritance was mine. 
 
 
 I 
 
;ii^.^m^.^- 
 
 I 
 
 1; 
 
 42 MICHAB'.. 
 
 I toiled and toiled ■ C}«k1 blessi,?' mo in ray work, 
 
 And till these three weeks past the land wan free. 
 
 — It l»x»ks as if it never could endure 380 
 
 Another Master. Heaven forgive nie, Luke, 
 
 If I judge ill for thee, but it seems gofxl 
 
 That thou shouldst go." 
 
 At this the old Man f nsetl ; 
 Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood, 385 
 Thus, after a short silence, he resumed : 
 "Tina was a work for us : and n(»w, ray Son, 
 It is a work for nie. But, lay one stone — 
 Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. 
 Nay, Boy, \ye of good hope:— we bctn may live 390 
 To see a hel ter day. At eighty-four 
 I still am strong and hale ; - do thou thy part ; 
 I will do mine, — I will begin again 
 With many tasks that were resigned to thee ; 
 Up to the heights, and in among the storms, 395 
 
 Will I without thee go again, and do 
 All works which I was woKt to do alone. 
 Before I knew thy face. — Heavrn bless thee, Boy ! 
 Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast 
 With many hopes ; it should be so — yes— yes — 400 
 I knew that thou couldst never have a wish 
 To leave me, Luke : thou hast been bound to me 
 Only by links of love : when thou art gone. 
 What will be left to us ! — But, I forget 
 My purposes. \ Lay now the corner-stone, 405 
 
 As I requested ; and hereafter, Luke, 
 When thou art gone away, should evil men 
 Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, 
 And of this moment : hither turn thy thoughts, 
 And God will strengthen tliee : amid all fear 410 
 
 irsaSwi- -.nsit'-- ■ 
 
 l^5?a?E^S^;'aBSBl^lHl'-^«:.:>tif'"^'«^ 
 
i^i^jp 
 
 MICHAEL. 43 
 
 And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou 
 May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, 
 Who, being innocent, did for that cause 
 
 Bestir them in good deeds. Now, faro thee well 
 
 When thou rcturn'st, thou in this place wilt see 416 
 A work which is not here : a covenant 
 Twill 1)6 lH!tween ua : but, whatever fate 
 Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, 
 And bear thy memory with me to the grave." 
 
 The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down, 
 And, as his Father had requested, laid 421 
 
 The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight 
 The old Man's grief broke from him ; to his heart 
 He pressed his Son, he kissed him ai.d wept : 
 And to the house together they returned. 425 
 
 — Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace, 
 Ere the night fell :— with morrow's dawn the Boy 
 Began his journey, and when he had reached 
 The public way, he put on a bold face : 
 And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors, 430 
 Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, 
 That followed him till he was out of siirht. 
 
 A good report did from their Kinsman come, 
 Of Luke and his well-doing ; and the Boy 
 Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 435 
 
 Which, as the Housewife plirased it, were throughout 
 "The prettiest letters that were ever seen." 
 Both pai'^nts read them with nyoicing hearts. 
 So, many months passed on ; and once again 
 The Shepherd went about his daily work 440 
 
 With confident and elicctfid thought?; : and uow 
 Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 
 
 WPS 
 
 .»fi^>f.- 
 
 tWrTT^wl STii^SiSJS^T 
 
 /■d.n*:.: 
 
I i 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 44 MICHARL. 
 
 He to that valloy took liis way, and there 
 Wrought at the Sheep fold. Meantime Luke Iwgan 
 To slacken in his duty : and at length, 445 
 
 He in the dissolute city gave hinaself 
 To evil courses : ignominy and shame 
 Fell on him, so that he was driven at last 
 To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. 
 
 There in a comfort in the strength of love ; 460 
 
 Twill make a thing endurable, which else 
 Would overset the brain, or break the heart : 
 I have conversed with more than one who well 
 Remember the old Man, and what he was 
 Years after he had heard this heavy news. 456 
 
 His ixxlily frame had been from youth to age 
 Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 
 He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud. 
 And listened to the wind : and, as before, 
 Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep, 460 
 
 And for the land, his small inheritance. 
 And to that hollow dell from time to time 
 Did he repair, to buiid the Fold of which 
 His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet 
 The pity which was then in every heart 465 
 
 For the old ftlan — and 'tis believed by all 
 That many and many a day he thither went. 
 And never lifted up a single stone. 
 
 There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen 
 Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, 470 
 
 Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 
 The length of full seven years, from time to time, 
 He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought, 
 And left the work unfinished when he died. 
 
 1 
 
 irtv^«r««R^: usi^^a^. .vj^Ti'ttt 
 
DORA. ^ 
 
 Three years, or little more, did Isnbel 475 
 
 Survive her husband : at her death the estate 
 
 Was sold and went into a stranger's hand. 
 
 The Cottage which was named The Evenino Star 
 
 Is gone— the ploughshare has l)een through the ground 
 
 On which it stood : great changes have been wrought 
 
 In all the neighbourhood :— yet the oak is left 481 
 
 That grew beside their door : and the remains 
 
 Of the unHnished Sheep-fold may be seen 
 
 Beside the boisterous brook of Green-heud Ghyll. 
 
 — tyordaicorth. 
 
 DORA. 
 "With farmer Allan at the farm abode 
 William and Dora. William was his son. 
 And she his niece. He often look'd at them, 
 And often thought, «'I'll make them man and wife." 
 Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all. 
 And yearn'd toward William ; but the yo.ith, because 
 He had been always with her in the house. 
 Thought not of Dora. 
 
 Then there came a day 
 When Allan call'd his son, and said, " My son, 
 I married late, but I would wish to see 
 My grandchild on my knees before I die : 
 And I have set my heart upon a match. 
 Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well 
 To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 
 She is my brother's daughter : he and I 
 Had once hard words, and parted, and he died 
 In foreign lands ; but for his sake 1 bred 
 His daughter Dora : take her for your wife ; 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 ^fe'i'V -Vt.r'rJ.V 
 
 n jM 
 
 l^mit^ : !>?i&.. -^.e- '.-'S'Z^ ;-'i2Xi. 
 
 .u->^±i 
 
 ^t-:^,t^i. 
 
4C 
 
 DORA. 
 
 For I hiivo wish'd this innrriagp, iiij,'Iit and day, 
 For many years." Hut William auswerVl .short : 
 " I cannot marry Dora ; hy my life, 
 I will not marry Dora." Then the old man 
 Was wroth, and doublwl up his hands, and .said : 
 " You will not, boj ! you dare to aiLswor thus ! 
 But in my time a father's word 'vas law, 
 And HO it shall be now for me. Look to it ; 
 Consider, William : take a month to think. 
 And let lue have an answer to ray wish ; 
 Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, 
 And never moi-e darken my doors again." 
 But William answer'd madly ; bit his lips, 
 And broke away. The more he look'd at her 
 The less ho liked her ; :>nd his ways were harsh ; 
 But Dora bore them meekly. Tlien liefore 
 The mt)uth was out he left his father's house. 
 And hired himself to work within the fields ; 
 And half iu love, half spite, he woo'd and wed 
 A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 
 
 Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd 
 His niece and said : " ISry girl, I love you well ; 
 But if you speak with him that was my son, 
 Or change a word with her he calls his wife, 
 My home is none of yours. My will is law." 
 And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, 
 " It cannot be : my uncle's mind will change ! " 
 
 And days went on, and there was born a boy 
 To William ; then distresses came on him ; 
 And day by day he pass'd his father's gate. 
 Heart-broken, and his fg,ther help'd him not. 
 But Dora stored what little- she could save. 
 And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know 
 
 30 
 
 25 
 
 SO 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 45 
 
 60 
 
 m,f^mfi^im^i^m'.:^Mi;^^m^7m^'^^m;!msi^mp^' 
 
DORA. 
 
 47 
 
 Who sent it ; till nt last a f(>vnr sf>i/.e(l 
 On William, and in hnrvest time lio died. 
 
 Then Dora went to Mary. Mary Hat 65 
 
 And look'd with tears upon her Ixiy, and thought 
 Hard things of Dora. Dora chum! and uaid : 
 
 " I have obey'd my uncle until now, 
 And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me 
 This evil came on William at the first. 60 
 
 But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, 
 And for your sake, the woman that he chose, 
 And for this orphan, I am come to you : 
 i''ou know there has not been for these five years 
 So full a harvest : let me take the Ijoy, Qi 
 
 And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
 Among the wheat ; that when his heart i.s glad 
 Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, 
 And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." 
 
 *And Dora took the child, and went her way 70 
 
 Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
 That was unsown, where many poppies grew. 
 Far o£F the farmer came into the field 
 And spied her not ; for none of all his men 
 Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; 75 
 
 And Dora would have risen and gone to him. 
 But her heart fail'd her ; and the reapers reap'd, 
 And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 
 
 But when the morrow came, she rose and took 
 The child once more, and sat upon the mound ; 80 
 
 And made a little wreath of all the flowers 
 That grew about, and tied it round his hat 
 To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
 Then when the farmer pass'd into the Id 
 He spied her, and he left his men at work, 85 
 
 m 
 
 ''^m -mm--^,^- ■'«^-"'w ^"^tir^M. 
 
 .'W'; "'^\\fm^--^.^ ::t>i;,,t'>!aftt**: 
 
48 
 
 DOBA. 
 
 And came and said : '* vVuere were you yesterday t 
 
 Whose child ia that ? What are you doing here ? " 
 
 So Dora cast her eyes upon the gmund, 
 
 And answer'd Hoftly, "ThiH is William's child ! ' 
 
 "And did I not," said Allan, "did I not 90 
 
 Forbitl you, Dora 1 " Dora saici again : 
 
 " Do with me as you will, but Uiko the child. 
 
 And bless him for the sake of him that's gone ! " 
 
 And Allan said, " I see it is a trick 
 
 Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 95 
 
 I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 
 
 You knew my word was law, and yet you dared 
 
 To slight it. Well— for I will take the lx)y ; 
 
 But go you hence, and never see me more." 
 
 So saying, he took the boy that cried aloud 100 
 
 And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell 
 At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, 
 And the boy's cry came to her from the field. 
 More and more distant She bow'd down her head, 
 Remembering the day when first she came, ' 105 
 
 And all the things that had been. She bow'd down 
 
 And wept in secret ; and the reapers reap'd, 
 
 And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 
 Tlien Dora went to Mary's house, and stood 
 
 Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy no 
 
 Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise 
 
 To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. 
 
 And Dora said, " My uncle took the boy ; 
 
 But, Mary, let me live and work with you : 
 
 He says tliat he will never see me more." 115 
 
 Then answer'd Mary, " This shall never be, 
 
 That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: 
 
 And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, 
 
DORA. 49 
 
 For he will toaoh liiiii hiinlnem, nml Ut wlight 
 
 Hi« iiiotiior; tlmrcforo tliou and f will go, JJO 
 
 And I will liavo my lioy, and bring him homo, 
 
 And I will Ix'g of him to take theo hack : 
 
 But if he will not take thoo back again, 
 
 Then thou and I will live within one house, 
 
 And work fur William's child, until he growg 126 
 
 Of ago to help uh." 
 
 So the women kiss'd 
 Each other, and set out, and reach 'd the farm. 
 The d<M)r was off the latch : thoy peep'd, and saw 
 The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, 130 
 
 Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm. 
 And clapt him on the liands and on the cheeks. 
 Like one that lovpd him ; and the lad stretch'd out 
 And babbled for the golden seal that hung 
 From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. 136 
 
 Then they came in : but when the layy beheld 
 His mother, he cried out to come to her : 
 And Allan set him down, and Mary said : 
 
 "O Father!— if you let me call you so — 
 I never came a-l)egging for myself, 140 
 
 Or William, or this child ; but now I come 
 For Dora : take her back ; she loves you well. 
 
 Sir, when William died, he died at peace 
 With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he said, 
 
 He could not ever rue his marrying me — 1 4.f) 
 
 1 liad been a patient wife : but, Sir, he said 
 That he was wrong to cross his father thus : 
 
 •God bless him ! ' he said, 'and may he never know 
 
 The troubles I have gone thro' ! ' Then he turn'd 
 
 His face and pa.ss'd — unhappy that I ain ! 160 
 
 But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you 
 
 qM 
 
 Tl A. 
 
 IM^f^ 
 
 ;,if -i-k ! 
 
 ■■'^■.^&^r"Fi-S<v^ii^v ;€iL 
 
so 
 
 RuaccuR. 
 
 Will iirnko him Imnl, niwl ho will Ie,irii to nlight 
 Hi8 fatlier'H memory; uixl Uik« I)..m Imu-Ic, 
 Ami let all this !« as it wmj lieforo." 
 
 So Mary Mid, and Dora hid her face 155 
 
 By Mary. There was silence in the nK)m ; 
 
 And all at once the old man burst in suIm : 
 
 '• I have iHJen to blame-to blame. I have killM my wm. 
 I have ki!'' ' him -but I lovml him -ray dear mm. 
 May God f.,. give mo !_I have Iwen to blame. 1 60 
 
 Kias nie, my children." 
 
 Then they clung almut 
 The old man's neck, and kisa'd him many times, 
 And all the man w»vs brok«'n with remorso ; 
 And all his love came Uck a hundredfold ; 165 
 
 And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's chii<l 
 Thinking of William. 
 
 So those four abode 
 Within one house together ; an<l as years 
 Went forward, Mary t.M)k another mate; jjo 
 
 But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 
 
 — Tennyson. 
 
 RHCgCUS. 
 
 God sends His teachers unto every age, 
 
 To every clime and every race of men, 
 
 With revelations fitted to their growth 
 
 And shape of mind, nor gives the realm of Truth 
 
 Into the selfish rule of one sole race : 
 
 Therefore each form of worship thut hath swayed 
 
 The life of man, and given it to grasp 
 
 ^^mmsckmiB^ 
 
nnnavt. 
 
 Tlie mMtor-key of knowlmign, rrv«»r«nc«, 
 Infulda 84>ino gcriiiH of go<MiiH>HN nnd of right ; 
 Elue iievor Imd tlm cugiir soul, which ioathtm 
 Th« ahithful ilown of pHtii|M>n><I igiiorniice, 
 Found in it even a nioment'a fitful retit. 
 
 61 
 
 10 
 
 Tliera in an inHtinct in the human tieart 
 Which makes that all the fahluH it hath coine<l, 
 To justify the reign of its belief 15 
 
 And Htrengthen it by iK'auty's right divine, 
 Veil in their inner cells a mystic gift, 
 Wliich, like the hazel twig, in faithful hands, 
 Points surely to the hidden springs of trutlu 
 For, as in Nature naught is made in vain, 20 
 
 But all things have within their hull of uxe 
 A wisdom and a meaning which may npeak 
 Of spiritual secrets to the ear 
 Of spirit ; so, in whatsoe'er the heart 
 Hath fashioned for a solace to ii.self, 26 
 
 To make its inspirations suit its creed. 
 And from the niggard hands of falsehood wring 
 Its ueeilful food of truth, there ever is 
 A sympathy with Nature, which reveals, 
 ^ Not less than her own works, pure gleams of light 30 
 
 * And earnest pirables of inward lore, 
 f Hear now this fairy legend of oUl Greece, 
 As full of gracious youth and IxiJiuty still 
 As the immortal freshness of that grace 
 Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze. / 35 
 
 A youth named Rhoecus, wandering in the wood, 
 Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall, 
 
 > 
 /• 
 
 --r-^^O-rm^-fflR-^SL 
 
 '^.^, 
 
tncBcvt. 
 
 
 And, feeling pity of mt fair •» ln«o, 
 
 H« pn.j.jHKl iiN gray trunk wilh iwiiniring cnrn, 
 
 AikI Willi a thmiglitloMH fiKilsti.p loiirrml on. 40 
 
 But, OH lut turnod, ho hiMinl a voiot! liehind 
 
 Tlmt innrnumHi «• Uluivua 1 " Twom im if th« luiivoH, 
 
 Stirrcnl hy a paMsing hrrvith, had niunnumi it, 
 
 And, while ho jmunod lHmild«'mi, y«t again 
 
 It niummred " IUuivuh I " «.ft,.r than a hrwjxo. 45 
 
 He Htartod, and iM'hold with dizzy eyi»« 
 
 What wjeinwl the wulwtance of a happy dream 
 
 Stand there iK-furo him, spreading a warm glow 
 
 Within the greon glmima of the shailowy oak. 
 
 It seemed a woman's shape, yet far too fair fiO 
 
 To be a woman, and with eyes too meek 
 
 For any that wore wont to mute with gcxls. 
 
 •« Rhu'cus, I am the Dryad of this tree," 
 
 Thus Hhe Ix'gun, drojiping her low-toned words 
 
 Sereno, and full, and clear, aa drops of dew, 66 
 
 " And with it I am doomed to live and die ; 
 
 The rain and sunshine are my caterers, 
 
 Nor have I other bliss than simple life ; 
 
 Now ask me what tliou wilt, that I can give, 
 
 And with a thankful joy it shall be thine." 60 
 
 Then Rhanius, with a flutter at the heart, 
 Yet, by the prompting of such beauty lK)ld, 
 An8were<l : '« What is there that can satisfy 
 The endless craving of the soul but love ? 
 Give me thy love, or but the hope of that 66 
 
 Which must be evermore my spirit's goal." 
 After a little pau-^o she said agjiin. 
 But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone, 
 
 m 
 
MKBOVI. 
 
 " I gir« It, RhflMmn, thniif^li n priluuii gift ; 
 An hour Iwfoiv the Hurmnt mwt mtt h#»ns." 
 And •tr»i«htw«y thfiro wiw nothing \w couhl 
 But thfl gnwn glo<.m»i UMiiMth the ahuduwy o«k, 
 And not a Hound canio to hiH Ntituning eain 
 But tho low trickling ru.stle of tho IwavcH, 
 And far away u|»on an ouiorald vUipa 
 Tlie falter of an idle Hhephurd's pipe.. 
 
 Now, in those dayH of Nirapleneu and faith, 
 Men did not think that happy thingM wore dreauu 
 BeoaoM thoy ovoratepped the narrow Ijourn 
 Of likelihood, hut reverently deemed 
 Nothing too wondrouN or too beautiful 
 To be the guerdon of a daring heart. 
 So RhoBcus made no doubt that he waa blest, 
 And all along unto the city's gate 
 Earth seemed to spring lieneath him as he walked, 
 The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its wont, 
 And he could scarce believe he had not wings, 
 Such sunshine seemed to glitter through hiu veins, 
 Instead of blood, so light he felt and strange. 
 
 Young Rh(Bcu8 had a faithful heart enough, 
 But one that in the present dwelt too much. 
 And, taking with blithe welcome whatsoe'er 
 Chance gave of joy, was wholly bound in that. 
 Like the contented peasant of a vale. 
 Deemed it the world, and never looked beyond. 
 So, haply meeting in the afternoon 
 Some comrades who were playing nt the dice. 
 He joined them, and forgot all else beside. 
 
 5S 
 
 70 
 
 76 
 
 80 
 
 86 
 
 90 
 
 96 
 
 [T^C^S^? 
 
64 
 
 iiii(Kn;i. 
 
 I 
 
 The die« were rattling At the mmrriMt, 
 And HhcBouR, who hud mot hut sorry luck, 100 
 
 JuHt Uughml in triumph At a hAppy throw, 
 Wh«n through the room th«r« hummMl n yollow Inm 
 TliAt huuml nlxiut hi* OAr with down-<lropjK^i |,.g» 
 A« if u> light. And Kh.iK!u« Inughwl And ««i<|, 
 Feeling how red And tluflhrai he waH with Icmm, * 106 
 
 " By Venus ! doen he take me lor a nmc 1 " 
 And brunhed him off with rcMigh, im))atipnt hand. 
 But Mtill the \)m onmrt buck, nnd thrice again 
 RhoBcud did »>eat him off with growing wrath. 
 Then through the wimlow fl«w the woundwl boo, 1 10 
 
 And RhatuM, tra«king him with angry eyou, 
 Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Tht-HMaly 
 Against the re<l disk of the netting nun,— 
 And iniiUntly the blocxi sank from his heart, 
 A» if ita very walls had caved away. nj 
 
 Without a won! he turned, and, rushing forth, 
 Ran madly through the city and the gato, 
 And o'er the plain, which now the wo.k1h long shade, 
 By the low sun thrown forwani broad and dim, 
 Darkened well-nigh unto the city's wall. ' 120 
 
 Quite spent and out of breath he reached the tree, 
 And, listening fearfully, he heard once more 
 Tlie low voice murmur " Rhacus !" close at hand : 
 Whereat he looked around him, but could see 
 Naught but the deepening glooms beneath the oak. 126 
 Then, 8igl,«l the voice "O Rhn-cus ! nevermore 
 Shalt thou behol.l mo or by day or night, 
 Me, who would fain have blessed thee with a love 
 More ripe and bounteous than ever yet 
 
 ■"^•'w-».^jbii;v.»''-^j 
 
k 
 
 I 
 
 k 
 
 **:s>i'jt;«. W4 
 
 FiUwl up with nectar ftfiy morfttl hvmrt : ISO 
 
 Bui thop clttlit M'i\m my liumtilc iiH>«iN4>^n(^r, 
 \tMl MittVt hitn Imrk t<> ni«' willi liruiM^l wiuKM. 
 W« RptriU «inly nUnw to j(«'Mlle vy •». 
 W« fivor auk an un<Uvi<if««i lova, 
 
 An<l he who nctirnn thi hn»l of Nfttur«<'H w'>rk« 135 
 
 Ih th<>nf«forth exiliil and Hhiit out from ii)|. 
 I Farewell ! ft)r thou canMt nnvor hoo iuo more." 
 
 Thon IlhafUN li«<«t \un hrratit and f^rrmnod aloud, 
 And criwi, " lie pitiful ! forgiv uifl yet 
 TJiin once, and I nhttll nnver nw«l it moro ! " MO 
 
 •* Ala« ! " the vo:<» returnwl, " 'tis th<.u art Mind, 
 Not I unmerciful ; I can forgive, 
 But have no nkill to heal thy Hpirifn eyes ; 
 Only the »oul hath power o'er itHclf. " 
 With that again thrro murmured " Novprraore ! " 146 
 And Rhfccus after heard no other wmnd. 
 Except the rattling of the oak's crisp I»\ave8, 
 Like the long Hurf upon a distant nhon-, 
 Raking the Hca-wom |)el)ble.H up and down. 
 The night had gathered round him : o'er the plain 160 
 The city sparkled with its thousaml lightu. 
 And sounds of revel fell upon his ear 
 Harshly and like a curse ; alKivo, the sky, 
 With ail its bright suhlimity of stars, 
 Deepened, and on his forehoud Miiiot(! the breeze : 166 
 
 Beauty was all around him nrid delight, 
 But from that ev<, he was alone on earth. 
 
06 
 
 TBI BSOOI. 
 
 THE BROOK. 
 
 Hkbk, by this brook, we parted ; I to the Eaat 
 
 And be for Italy— too late— too late : 
 
 One whom the strong Bona of the world despise ; 
 
 For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and share, ' 
 
 And meUow metres more than cent for cent j 
 
 Nor oould he understand how money breeds, 
 
 Thought it a dead thing ; yet himself oould make 
 
 The,thing that is not as the thing that is. 
 
 O had he lived I In our schoolbooks we say, 
 
 Of those that held their heads above the crowd, 10 
 
 They iiouriah'd then or then ; but life in him 
 
 Could scarce be said to flourish, only touoh'd 
 
 On such a time as goes before the leaf. 
 
 When all the wood stands in a mist of green, 
 
 And nothing perfect : yet the brook he loved' 
 
 For which, in branding summers of Bengal, ' 
 
 Or e'vn the sweet half-English Neilgheny aii 
 
 I panted, seems, as I re-listen to it, 
 
 Prattling the primrose fancies of the boy, 
 
 To me that loved him ; for ' O brook,' he says, SQ 
 
 • O babbling brook.' says Edmund in his rhyme^ 
 
 Whence oonio you J' and the brook, why not I W|,ii«L 
 
 I come from haunts of coot and hem^ 
 
 I make a sadden sally, 
 And sparkle out among the fern, 
 
 To bicker down a valley. 
 
 Bv thirty hills I hurry down. 
 
 Or slip between the ridges, 
 % twenty thorpa, a little town. 
 
 And half A hundred bridges. jg 
 
 TiiSJ^KCk 
 
 .Tis^Tfws r 'ii33r:/iv* /Kiacsyr 
 
^'L 
 
 TBI BSOOK. 
 
 Tm iMt by Philip't farm I ttaw 
 
 To join the brimming rirar. 
 For men nwy oom« and men nay V>t 
 
 Bat I go on for vrn. 
 
 * Poor Iftd, he died at Florence, quite worn oat, 
 Travelling to Naplen. There u Damley bridge, 
 It has more ivy ; there the rivpr ; and there 
 Stands Philip's farm where brook and river meeik 
 
 I ohaMer over stony ways, 
 
 In little ebarpe and treblei^ 
 I babble into e<ldying baye, 
 
 I babble on the pebbles. 
 
 With many a curve uy banks I fret 
 
 ty many a field and fallow, 
 And many a fairy foreland set 
 'V^th willo'w weed and maUow. 
 
 I chatter, chatter, as J flow 
 
 To join the brimming river, 
 For men may come and men may go^ 
 
 Bnt J go on for ever.\ 
 
 * But Philip ohatter'd more than brook or bird ; 
 Old Philip ; all about the fields you caught 
 His weary daylong chirping, like the dry 
 HigL-elbow'd grigs that leap in summer j 
 
 I wind aboat, and in and oat, 
 
 With here a blossom sailing, 
 And here and tiiere a Insty tront. 
 
 And her* and there a grayling. 
 
 And here and there a foamy flake 
 
 Upon me, as I travel 
 With many a silvery waterbreak 
 
 4bn; 9 tiM golden gravsl. 
 
 ft7 
 
 If »' 
 
 80 
 
 «0 
 
 1 
 
 v«inH^«a2«iri*aBBJwr."m5'^.»«- 
 
58 
 
 TBI BBOOK. 
 
 Anil draw them all along, and flow 
 
 To join the brimming river. 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 ' O darling Katie Willows, his one child ! 
 A maiden of our century, yot most meek j 
 A daughter of our meadows, yet not coarse ; 
 Straight, but as lissome as a hazel wand ; 70 
 
 Her eyes a bashful azure, and her hair 
 In gloss and hue tho chestnut, when the shell 
 Divides threefold to show the fruit within. 
 
 ' ' Sweet Katie, once I did her a good turn, 
 Her and her far-off cousin and betrothed, 
 James Willows, of one name and heart with her. 
 For here I came, twenty years back — the week 
 Before I parted with poor Edmund ; crost 
 By that old bridge which, half in ruins then. 
 Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the gleam 80 
 
 Beyond it, where the waters marry — crost. 
 Whistling a random bar of Bonny Doon, 
 And push'd at Philip's garden gate. The gate, 
 Half-parted from a weak and scolding liinge. 
 Stuck ; and he clamour'd from a casement, " Rim " 
 To Katie somewhere in the walks below, 
 " Run, Katie ! " Katie never ran : she moved 
 To meet me, winding under woodbine bowers, 
 A little flutter'd, with her eyelids down, 
 Fresh apple-blossom, blushing for a boon, j 90 
 
 ' What was it f less of sentiment than sense 
 Had Katie ; not illiterate ; nor of those 
 Who dabbling in the fount of Active tears. 
 And nursed by mealy-mouth'd philanthropies, 
 Divorce the Feeling from her mate the Deed.« 
 
THE BROOK. 
 
 ' She toM mo. Sho Hnil Jamos had qnarrellM. Why ? 
 What cause of quarrel 1 None, she said, no causo ; 
 Jumes had no cause : but when I jji-est the cause, 
 I learnt that James had flickering jeulousies 
 Wliich anger'd her. Who anger'd Jaiiios? I said. 
 Hut Katie snatch'd her eyes at once from mine, 
 And sketching with hor slender )>ointed foot 
 Some figure like a wiaird jjentagram 
 On garden gravel, let my query pass 
 Unclaim'd, in flushing silence, till I ask'd 
 If James were coming, " Coming every day " 
 She answer'd, " ever longing to explain, 
 But evermore her father came acress 
 With some long-winded tale, and broke him short ; 
 And James dei>arted vext with him and her," 
 How could I help herl "Would I— was it wrong?" 
 (Claspt hands and that petitionary grace 
 Of sweet seventeen subdued nie ere she spoke) 
 "0 would I take her father for one hour, 
 For one half-hour, and let him talk to me ! " 
 And even while she spoke, I saw where James 
 Made toward us, like a wader in the surf, 
 Beyond the brook, waist-deep in meadow-sweet. 
 
 'O Katie, what I suffer'd for your sake ! 
 For in I went, and call'd old Philip out 
 To show the farm : full willingly he rose : 
 He led me thro' the short sweet-.smelling lanes 
 Of his wheat-suburb, babbling as he went. 
 He praised his land, his horses, hia machines ; 
 He praised his ploughs, his cows, his hogs, his dogs ; 
 He praised his hens, his geese, his guinea-heas; 
 His pigeons, who in session on their roofs 
 Approved him, bowing at their own deserts : 
 Then from the plaintive mother's teat he took 
 
 fiO 
 
 100 
 
 no 
 
 120 
 
 % It III I nil 11 II II I I Hill I MiiiiMi ■mill I iiiiiiiPin miiiiiii 
 
60 
 
 TBR SHOOK. 
 
 Aer blind and nhuddoring puppiefi, naming each, 130 
 
 And naming thono, hia friends, for whom they were : 
 Then croBt the common into Darnley chase 
 To show Sir Arthur's deer. In cojwe and fem 
 Twinkled the innumerable ear and tail. 
 Tljen, seated on a .orj^nt-rooted beech, 
 lie pointed out a fxisturing colt, and said : 
 "That was the four-year-old I sold the Squira" 
 And there he told a long long-winded tale 
 ♦ Of how the Squire had seen the colt at grass, 
 And how it was the thing his daughter wish'd, 140 
 
 And how he sent the bailiff «,o the farm 
 To learn the pi.'cc^ and what the price he ask'd, 
 And how the bailiff swore that he was mad, 
 But he stood firm ; and so the matter hung ; 
 He gave them line : ami five days after that 
 He met the bailiff at the Golden Fleece, 
 Who then and there had offer'd something more, 
 But he stood firm ; and so the matter hung ; 
 He knew the man ; the colt would fetch its price ; 
 He gave them line : rnd how by chance at last 160 
 
 (It might be May or April, he forgot, 
 The last of April or the first of May) 
 He found the bailiff riding by the farm. 
 And, talking from the point, he drew him in. 
 And there he me'low'd all his heart with ale. 
 Until they closed a bargain, hand in hand.^ 
 
 ' Then, while I breathed in sight of haven, he, 
 Poor fellow, could he help it 1 recommenced. 
 And ran thro' all the coltish chronicle, 
 WUd Will. Black Bess, Tantivy, Tallyho, 160 
 
 Reform, White Rose, Bellerophon, the Jilt, 
 Arbacefi, and Phenomenon, and the rest. 
 
TBB BROOK. 
 
 61 
 
 Till, not to die a liBtenor, I aroHe, 
 And with mo Philip, tulking stiil ; and bo 
 We turn'd our foreheads from the fulling aim, 
 And following our own shadows thrica as long 
 As when they follow'd us from Philip's door, 
 Arrived, and found the sun of sweet content 
 Re-rison in Katie's eyes, and all things well 
 
 I ■teftl by lawns and grassy plots, 170 
 
 I slitle by hazel covers ; 
 I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
 
 That grow for happy lovers. 
 
 I slip, I slide, I gloom, I gknce, 
 
 Among my skiuiming swallows ; 
 I make the netted sunbeam dance 
 
 Against my sandy shallows. 
 
 I murmur under moon and stars 
 
 In brambly wildernesses : 
 I linger by n-y shingly bars ; 180 
 
 I loiter round my cresses ; 
 
 And out again I curve and flow 
 
 To join the brimming river, 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 Yes, men may come and go ; and these are gone. 
 
 All gone. My dearest brother, Edmund, sleeps. 
 
 Not by the well-known stream and rustic spin^ 
 
 But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome 
 
 Of Brunelleschi ; sleeps in peace : and he, 190 
 
 Poor Philip, of all his lavish wjiate of words 
 
 Remains the lean P. W. on his tomb . 
 
 I scraped the lichen from it : Katie walks 
 
 By the long wash of Australasian seas 
 
 Far off, and holds her head to other stars. 
 
 And breathes in April-Autumns. All are gone.' 
 
 HlH 
 
 V' 
 
62 
 
 THE BUUUK. 
 
 ;! 
 
 So Lawrence Ayhnor, sciited on a stile 
 In tiio long hotigo, and rolling in Iuh uiind 
 Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'«r the brook 
 A tonsnred houd in niiddlo age forlorn, 200 
 
 Mused, and was mute. On a sudden a low breath 
 Of tender air made trt'mblo in tho hedge 
 The fragile bindweed-bells and briony rings ; 
 And he look'd up. There Btoixl a maiden near, 
 Wuiting to pass. In much anuize he stared 
 On eyes a bashful azure, and on huir 
 In glofls and hue the chestnut, when the shell 
 Divides threi>fold to show tho fmit within : 
 Then, wondering, usk'd her ' Are you from the farm 1 ' 
 * Yes ' answer'd she. ' Pniy stay a little : pardon me ; 210 
 What do they call you 1 ' ' Katie.' ' That were strange. 
 Whathumamel' 'Willows.' *No!' ' That is my name.* 
 ' Indeed I ' and here he look'd so self-perplext, 
 That Katie laugh'd, and laughing blush'd, till he 
 Laugh'd also, but as one before he wakes, 
 Who feels a glimmering strangeness in his dream. 
 Then looking at her ; ' Too happy, fresh and fair, 
 Too fresh and fair in our and world's best bloom. 
 To be the ghost of one who bore your name 
 About these meadows, twenty years ago.' 22C 
 
 ' Have you not heard ] ' said Katie, ' we came back. 
 We bought the farm we tenanted before. 
 Am I so like her ? so they said on boar 
 Sir, if you knew her in her English d| 
 My mother, as it seems you did, th^ays 
 That most she loves to talk of, come with me. 
 My brother James is in the harvest-field : 
 But she — you will be welcome— *0, come in ! ' 
 
 K^istL7:<3f^'^aKBFJiiSP'^ n^jessh^j^eaBsr.^^si^Kms'ys'A^atsLiji^. 
 
ULYMMEfl. 
 
 63 
 
 ULYSHRS. 
 
 It little profits that an i(ll« kin;;, 
 
 By this still hearth, among theso barren crags, 
 
 Match'd with an aged wife, I mute ami dole 
 
 Unequal laws unto a savage race, 
 
 That hoard, and sleep, and feed, an<l know not mo. 5 
 
 I cannot rest from travel : 1 will drink 
 
 Life to the lees : all times I have enjoy'd 
 
 Greatly, have sufter'd greatly, both with those 
 
 That loved me, and alone ; on shon?, and when 
 
 Thro' scudding ilrifts the rainy Hyailes 10 
 
 Vext the dim sea :>I am become a name ; 
 
 For always roaming with a hungry heart 
 
 Much have I seen and known ; cities of men 
 
 And manners, climates, councils, governments, 
 
 My.4elf not least, but honour'd of them all ; 16 
 
 And drunk delight of Imttle with my peers. 
 
 Far on the ringing plains of windy Tr(»y. 
 
 I am a part of all that I have met ; 
 
 Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 
 
 Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades 20 
 
 For ever and for ever when I move. 
 
 How dull it is to pause, to make an end. 
 
 To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use ! 
 
 As the' to breathe were life. Life piled on life 
 
 Were all too little, and of one to me 25 
 
 Little remains : but every hour is saved 
 
 From that eternal silence, something more, 
 
 A bringer of new things ; and vile it were 
 
 For some three suns to store und hoard myself. 
 
 And this gray spirit yearning in desire 30 
 
 To follow knowledge, like a sinking star. 
 
 Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 
 
 This is my son, mine own Telemachiis, 
 To whom [ leave the sceptre and the hU -^ 
 
 f*^^5^^5Hf 
 
 .^ncs >?".w»'^.-* 
 
64 
 
 ULYMBB. 
 
 Well-loved of me, diHcerning to fulfil 35 
 
 Tliia labour, by bIow prudence to make mild 
 A rugged people, and tliro' soft degrees 
 Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
 MoHt blameless is he, centred in the Hphere 
 Of common duties, decent not to fail 40 
 
 In offices of tenderness, and pay 
 Meet adorstion to my household gods, 
 When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 
 There lies the port ; the vessel puffs her sail : 
 There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, 4r) 
 
 Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me 
 
 That ever with a frolio welcome took 
 The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
 Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old ; 
 Old age hath yet his honour and his toil ; fiO 
 
 Death closes all : but something ere the end. 
 Some work of noble note, may yet be done. 
 Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 
 The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : 
 The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs : the deep 65 
 Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 
 'TIS not too late to seek a newer world. 
 Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
 The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds 
 To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 60 
 
 Of all the western stars, until I die. 
 It may be that the gulfs will wash us down : 
 It may be we shall touch the xlappy Isles, 
 And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 
 Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and tho' 65 
 
 We are not now that strength which in old days 
 Moved e^.'fch and heaven ; that which we are, we are ; 
 One equal temper of heroic hearts, 
 Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 
 To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 70 
 
 — Tenny$on. 
 
ODB TO DUTY. 
 
 M 
 
 ODK TO DUTY. 
 
 Stem Daughter of the Voico <»f (lod 1 
 
 O Duty I if that iiaino thou love 
 
 Who art a light to guide, a rod 
 
 To check the erring, and n'prove ; 
 
 Thou who art victory and law 
 
 When empty terrors overawe ; 
 
 From vain temptationii dost sot free ; 
 
 And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! 
 
 There are who ask not if thine eye 
 Be on them ; who, in love and truth, 
 Where no misgiving is, rely 
 Upon the genial sense of youth : 
 Glad Hearts l without reproach or blot ; 
 Who do thy work, and know it not : 
 Oh ! if through confidence misplaced 
 They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power 
 cast. 
 
 10 
 
 16 
 around them 
 
 Serene will be our days and bright. 
 
 And happy will our nature be, 
 
 When love is an unerring light, 
 
 And joy its own security. 20 
 
 And they a blissful course may hold 
 
 Even now, who, not unwisely Ijold, 
 
 Live in the spirit of this cr«^ ; 
 
 Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. 
 
 I, loving freedom, and untried ; 25 
 
 No sport of every random gust, 
 
 Yet being to myself a guide, 
 
 Too blindly have reposed my trust* 
 
 *[.- 
 
M 
 
 0D« TO DUTV. 
 
 I 
 
 And oft, when in my hi»«rt won liAnnl 
 
 Thy thnely mnncUte, I di ftinHl 30 
 
 Tli<» tANk, in snuMtthor waIkH to Htrny ; 
 
 But the* I now would serve more utrictly, if T may. 
 
 Tlirough no disturbance of my noul, 
 
 Or fltrong compunction in me wrought, 
 
 1 Hupplicate for thy control ; $$ 
 
 But in the quietnem of thought : 
 
 Me thia unchartered fr««dom tires ; 
 
 I feel tho weight of chance-4lesire« ; 
 
 My h<>pe8 no more must change their name, 
 
 I long for a repose that ever is the Hame. 40 
 
 Stem Lawgiver ! yet thou d<Mt wmr 
 The Godhead's most benignant grace : 
 Nor know we anything so fair 
 As is the smile upon thy face : 
 
 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 45 
 
 And fraji^rance in thy footing tmadH ; 
 Thou dost preserve the stars from wron^' ; 
 And the moftt ancictit heavens, through Thee, are fresh 
 and strong. 
 
 60 
 
 To humbler functions, awful Power ! 
 
 I call thee : I myst If commend 
 
 Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 
 
 Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 
 
 Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
 
 The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
 
 The confidence of reason give ; 55 
 
 And in the light of truth thy Bondraau let lue live ! 
 
 — lyordtuxnih. 
 
Or>« TO TUB V«IUIT WIND. 
 
 •7 
 
 ODK TO TlIK WKHT WIND. 
 
 1. O wild WoHt Wind, thou bitfUh of Autunin'i lieiii);, 
 Thou I'niin wh«i>M) uii.M't'tt j>r««M«r>e<i tin! l<uivi«H dewJ 
 Are driven liko ghoHU from an ouchatiter fltwing, 
 
 Yoiiow, ,uid bli' k, and |mla, nnd hectic re<l, 
 PeNtilencH Htricken niultitudex ! O thou 
 Who chariutmt to their dark wintry \mhI 
 
 Tlio wingdtl -tiMMU, wh»re they Hn cold and low, 
 
 Each lil." a corpse within its grav**, until 
 Thine azure Hiiitcr uf tho ^Spring Hhall blow 
 
 Her clarion o'er the drKaniing narth, nnfi All 
 (Driving aweet buds iiki; tlucks to feml in air) 
 With living hues aitd odours plain and hill ; 
 
 Wild Spirit which art moving everywhere ; 
 Destroyer and preserver ; hear, oh hear ! 
 
 10 
 
 ■ ''Ml 
 
 2. Tliou on whoM stream, 'mid the steep sky's comrr'^otion, 15 
 Loo^ clouds like earth's decaying leavm are shed, 
 Shook from tho tangled boughs of heaven and ocean, 
 
 Angels of rain and lightning ! there are spread 
 On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 
 
 Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 20 
 
 Of some fierce Ma-nad, even from th«» dim verge 
 
 Of the horizon to tho zenith's height, 
 Tlte locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirg«- 
 
 Of the dying year, to which this closinj^ night 
 Will be the dome of a vast sepulchie, 25 
 
 Vaulted with all thy congregated might 
 
 Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere 
 
 Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burat ; Oh hear 1 
 
 
A ^i 
 
 68 
 
 ODi TO WK wurr wind. 
 
 3. Thou who didiit wnknn from hiii «umm(>r ilitNuns 
 
 The blue MiHiitnrniiitMkii, wh(*n< hit lay, SO 
 
 LuUikJ by tlie coil of hi* crynUlliaa atnmnui. 
 
 B«i«le m paroic« iiil« in Baiiw'ii Uy, 
 And Mw in *l«»p o.l palaces antl towem 
 Quivering within the wave* intenMr day, 
 
 AH overgrown with axure raowi, and flowen Sf, 
 
 80 sweet the sense fainto picturing them I Thou 
 For whose path the AtUntic's level powers 
 
 Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
 The sea blooms and the oosy wootls which wear 
 
 The sapless foliage of the ocean know 40 
 
 Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear. 
 And tremble and despoil themselves : Oh hear ! 
 
 4. If I were a dead leaf thou mightest h<>rfr ; 
 If I were a swift cloud U) fly with thee ; 
 A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 45 
 
 The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
 Than thou, O uncontrollable ! if oven 
 I were as in my Iwyhood, and could Iw 
 
 Tlie comrade of thy wunderingn over hoaven, 
 
 As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 50 
 
 Scarce Heeraed a vision,-! would ne'er have striven 
 
 As thus with thee in prayrr in my nore need. 
 Oh ! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
 I fall upon the thorns of lifj? ! J blei-d ! 
 
 A neavy weight of hours has chained and l>owod 55 
 
 One too like thee -tameless, and swift, and proud. 
 
•.r5..V:l. 
 
 'fGJ'li 
 
 INTIMATIONS or IHMOilTAtlTT. •• 
 
 6. Makn m« thy lyre, I'vwn m th* fnmat in : 
 
 What if my \tMvm ar« failiiig like tUi own t 
 Tlie tutnuit of thy mighty hftrmoniM 
 
 Will take from tx>th m ilft^p autumnal tonn, 60 
 
 HwMt though in Mwlnmia. tin thuu, Hpirit tlflrci^, 
 My ipirit I Be thou me ' MpetuoUH one ! 
 
 Drive my deail thought . r ilie un«"»Tii% 
 
 Like withered leave >< •■! . '.iith ; 
 
 And, by the incanta^i >n ti- Ir v< ,. (;6 
 
 Hcatter, as from u • .< i u ': .'r . 
 Anhcs and M[MirkM, n\ •. i <• i i. \.\i, 
 Be through m^ 'i,>.s '.» ■,. .,< t ., 
 
 The trumpet of a pr» ]i|..;>;, A i- ■ 
 
 If Winter comes, can Sjr far \,e] .nd] 70 
 
 nd! 
 ♦h 
 
 ifi 
 
 4|-| 
 tfi 
 
 INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove and Rtream, 
 The earth, and avery conmion night, 
 To me did 8cer.i 
 Apparelle<l ir Telesiial light, 
 Tlie glory and the fre-shne-sH of a dream. 5 
 
 It is not now as it hath l)eer of yore ; — 
 Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
 Hy night or <lay, 
 The things whii-h I have seen I now can se^ no more. 
 
 The Rainlx)w cfmies and goes. 
 And lovely is the Rose, 
 The Moon doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare, 
 
 10 
 
 1m 
 J* 
 
 m 
 
 i'sip 
 
 m 
 
70 
 
 INTIMATIONS Or IMMORTALITY. 
 
 15 
 
 30 
 
 25 
 
 Waters on a nUrry night 
 Are beautiful and fair ; 
 The Bunflhine is a glorioun birth ; 
 But yet I know, where'er I go, 
 That there liath past away a glory from the earth. 
 
 Now, while the birds thus sing a. joyful song, 
 And while the young lamb« bound 
 As to the tabor's sound, 
 To me alone there came a thought of grief : 
 A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 
 
 And I again am strong : 
 The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; 
 No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; 
 I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, 
 The Winds come to me from the fiehls of sleep, 
 And all the earth is gay ; 
 I^nd and sea 
 Give themselves up to jollity. 
 
 And with the heart of May 
 Doth every Beast keep holiday ;— 
 Thou Child of Joy, 
 
 And around me, let me hear thy sho.ita, thou happy 
 Shepherd-boy ! • 3^^ 
 
 Ye blessetl Creatures, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make ; I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 
 My heart is at your festival. 
 
 My head hath its coronal, 40 
 
 The fullness of your bliss, I feel- T feel it all. 
 Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 
 While Earth herself is iwlorning, 
 This sweet May-morning, 
 
 30 
 
INT1IIATIUN8 Olr IMMOHTALITY. 
 
 71 
 
 And the Chilciren are ouUing- 40 
 
 On every side, 
 
 In a thousand valleyii far and wide, 
 
 Fresh flowers ; while the siin shines warm, 
 And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm : — 
 
 I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 50 
 
 — But there's a Tree, Oi many, one, 
 A single Field which I have looked upon, 
 Both of tliem speak of something that is gone : 
 
 The Pansy at my feet 
 
 Doth the same tale repeat •. 65 
 
 Whither is fled the visionary gleam 7 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream 1 
 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
 The Soul that rises with us, our life':4 iStar, 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting. 
 And Cometh from afar : 
 
 Not in entire forgetful nesa, 
 
 And not in utter nakedness. 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 
 From Ood, who is our home : 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 Shades of the prison-house t>egin to close 
 
 Upon the gn)wing Boy, 
 But He beholds tho light, and whence it flows 
 
 He sees it in his joy ; 
 The Youth, who daily farther from the east 
 
 Must uravel, still is Nature's Priest, 
 
 And by the vision splendid 
 
 Is on his way attended : 
 At length the Man perceives it die away, 
 And fade into the light of coniraou day. 
 
 60 
 
 65 
 
 70 
 
 75 
 
 
 m 
 
 dftfj 
 
73 IlfTIMATIOKI or IMHOBTALITT. 
 
 Earth filU her lap with pleaHures of her own ; 
 
 Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
 
 And evmi with vomething of a Mother's miud, 
 And no unworthy aim, 
 The homely Nurse doth all she can 
 
 To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 
 Forget the glories he hath known, 
 
 And that imperial palace whence he came. 
 
 80 
 
 Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 86 
 
 A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! 
 
 See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
 
 Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
 
 With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
 
 See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 90 
 
 Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
 
 Shaped by himself with newly-leamM art ; 
 
 A wedding or a festival, 
 
 A mournii:,, or a funeral, 
 
 And this hath now his heart, 95 
 
 And unto this he frames his song : 
 Then will he fit his tongue 
 To dialogues of business, love, or strife. 
 
 But it will not be long 
 
 Ere this be thrown aside, 100 
 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The little Actor cons another part : 
 Filling from time to time his " humorous stage" 
 With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
 That Life brings with her in her equipage : 106 
 
 As if his whole vocation 
 
 Were endless imitation. 
 
INVIiiATIONS OF IMMOKTALITY. 
 
 73 
 
 120 
 
 Thou, whosn oxtf>ri«»r mriiiblrtnct* <lotli Wlie 
 
 Tliy Soul's iinmonMity ; 
 Thou liest Philosnphor, who yet dost k«'pp 1 10 
 
 Thy heritiifjo, thou Kye among tiui l)liii(l. 
 That, deaf uiid «ilrnt, road'st the eteriml deep, 
 Haunted for t^ver hy the eternal mind, — 
 
 Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 
 
 On whom those truths do n-st, 115 
 
 Whieh we fire toihoj^ all our lives to find. 
 In (larkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
 Thou, over whom thy Inunortaiity 
 BnKKls like the Day, a Miister o'er a Slave, 
 A Presence which is not to be put by ; 
 Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
 Of heaven-l)orn freedom on thy l)eing's height. 
 Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
 The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
 Thus blindly with thy blesseiiness at strife ? 1 'J5 
 
 Full s(M)n thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 
 And custom lie u}»on thee with a weij^ht. 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 
 
 O joy ! that in our embers 
 
 Is somt'thing that dolli live, 130 
 
 That Matun; yet reuiemlx-rs 
 
 What was so fugitive I 
 The thought of our past years in me dotli l)reed 
 Perpetual benedietioi*: not indeed 
 
 For that which is most worthy to be blest ; 135 
 
 Delight and lilx'rty, the simple erewl 
 Of ('liildh(M»d, whether busy or at rest, 
 With newlldiged hop,' still Hutt<'ring in his breast: — 
 
 Not f(»r these I raise 
 
 The song of thanks and praise ; 140 
 
74 
 
 INTIMATIOMS OF IMMORTALITY. 
 
 Hut for tlione oVwtinate questionings 
 Of senne and outward things, 
 FallingH from us, vanishingH ; 
 Blank misgivings of a Creature 
 Moving alK)ut in worlds not realized, 
 High instincts Ix'fore which our mortal nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty thing Hurprised : 
 But for those first affections, 
 Those shadowy recollections, 
 Which, l»e they what they may, 
 Are yet the founUiin light of all our day, 
 Are yet a master light of all our s»'eing ; 
 
 Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the \mng 
 Of the eternal Hilence : truths that wake, 
 
 To perish never ; 
 Which neither listlessness. nor mad endeavour, 
 
 Nor Man nor Boy, 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 
 
 Hence in a season of calm weather 
 Though inland far we be, 
 Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 Which brought us hither, 
 
 Can in a moment travel thither. 
 An<l see the Children sport upon the n]wn\ 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 
 
 145 
 
 150 
 
 155 
 
 IGO 
 
 165 
 
 Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous s«mg ! 
 
 And let the young I^mbs Umml 
 
 As to the talxir's sound ! 
 We in thought will join your throng. 
 
 Ye that pipe and ye that play. 
 
 170 
 
Hi 
 
 11 
 
 iiVTiMATioirs or immoutality. 76 
 
 Ye that through your hoartM to-^Uy 
 
 Feel the gladnesH <if the May 
 What though the radiance which was once Mt bright. 175 
 Be now for ever taken from my sight, 
 
 Tiinugh nothing c.iri hring Iwvck the hour 
 Of splendour in the grass, of glory in tho (lower 
 
 We will grie\e not, rather find 
 
 Strength in what lemainH hehiml ; 180 
 
 In the primal sympiithy 
 
 Which having \)evn must ever )ie : 
 
 In the s<K»thing thoughts that spring 
 
 Out of human suffering ; 
 
 In tho faith that l<K)ks through death. 185 
 
 In years that hring the philosophic mind. 
 
 And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Onives, 
 
 Forelxxle not any severing of our lovt s I 
 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I ko\ your might; 
 
 T only have relinquishe<l one delight 190 
 
 To live ))eneath your more habitual sway. 
 
 I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, 
 
 Even more than when I tripj>ed lightly us they ; 
 
 The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 
 
 la lovely yet; 195 
 
 The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
 Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
 That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
 Another race hath l)een, and other palms arc won. 
 Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 200 
 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
 To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 
 
 — H'ordsworth. 
 
 IV 
 
*/.. ''^iA.ik'iM 
 
 76 
 
 ODK TO A NIGHTINOALK. 
 
 ODE TO A NKJHTINOALR 
 
 My lioart hcIich, and u dmwKy nuiubncsH pnins 
 
 My Hense, as though of luMulook I had drunk, 
 Or «'iiiptie<l wjiue dull opiaUi to the dniins 
 
 Oiin tuinuti) post, and Ijethn-wards had Nunk : 
 Tis iKit through onvy of thy happy lot, 6 
 
 But lM>ing Um> happy in tliim* hH|»pino.ss, — 
 That thou, light-wing^l l)ryad of tiu^ trw'.s, 
 In Home melodious plot 
 Of IxH'chen grwn, and Hhadows iuimlM>rlesH, 
 
 Singent t>f summer in full-thro<it<-d eaHO. 10 
 
 O, for a clraught of vintage I that hath heen 
 CiMiled a long age in the deop-deivtHJ earth. 
 Tasting of F'lora and the country green, 
 
 Danee, and Provem^al song, and sunliurnt mirth. 
 O for a In'aker full of the warm Soutli, 15 
 
 Full of the true, the blushful HipjxK'rene, 
 With Injaded huhhles winking at the brim, 
 
 Ami purple-stain6d mouth ; 
 !iat I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
 And with thee fade uway into the forest dim : '20 
 
 J^'.ule far away, dissolve, mid <juite forget 
 
 What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
 The weariness, the tV'vcr, and the fret 
 
 lien', where men sit and hear each other groan ; 
 Wlier«' palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, 
 Where youth grows pale, and speetre tliiii. and d 
 Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
 And leaden eyed despairs, 
 Wher(> lit-aiity cannot keep her lustrous eyes. 
 Or new iiove pii»e at tliein iM-yotuI tn imitii w. 
 
 les 
 
 30 
 
 -J 
 
H 
 
 OI>K TO A NlnilTINOALB. 
 
 T7 
 
 3r) 
 
 Awny ! awny ! for T will fly t«» thp«% 
 
 Not charioUHJ Wy Hmclius aii<i Iijh piinln, 
 But on the vinwIcHs wiri^s of Pim-sv, 
 
 Though tho (lull hriiin |hmj)I«'xph mid n'turtl.s : 
 Alre/uly with thw ! (under is tho night, 
 
 And Imply the (^ucenM.Kin is on her throne, 
 Clu.sterwl around by all her Htarry I'ays ; 
 Mut here tiiere is no liglit. 
 Have what from heavt-n is with the hivo/es hl.iwn 
 
 Through verdurous git Ninisand u indiiii,' Mio>.sy ways. 40 
 
 I eannot see what lli(wcr> are at my t'cet, 
 
 Nor what soft ine«"n>e hings n[Hin the Woughs, 
 But, in emiMilmed darkness, gncss each swcel, 
 
 Wherewith the seasonalile month endtms 
 
 The grass, tiie thiekei, and the fruit tree wild ; 
 
 Wiiite hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; 
 
 Fast fiuling vioh'ts covered up in leaves ; 
 
 And mid-Mays eldest child, 
 
 The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. 
 
 The nnirmurons haunt of flics oii sununer ev.-s. 
 
 Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time 
 
 I have hceii half in lo\.- with .asefui Meatli. 
 Called hini oft names in many a iuummI rli\nir, 
 
 To take into ih.- air my <|iiict hr-atlt : 
 Xow m<trc ih:iii t'\,'v >. ,-ms it ri.-h to dii-. 
 
 To cease upon the midnight ujdi n.. |.iiii. 
 
 SV'liil< thou ail fxniriiij,' r'.iih iliv soul .ihp.K 
 111 sueli an ('.■st,i>.\ ' 
 Still wouldst, ihou ing, luul I ti.i\.> e;u in sain 
 
 y* iliy Ingli reijuiem Im r^n.' a -,„| 
 
 Thoii wi-i II.. I I,.. in for dr. nil, immi.'iai I'.ird: 
 No lnifi^iy g.Ti- lalioii. in-.i.i thee d..\\,i ; 
 
 46 
 
 50 
 
 ;ir> 
 
 GO 
 
 m 
 
Tt THB ORBIN Liimrr. 
 
 The voic« I hour thia pauing night wm he»rd 
 
 III ancient days hy emperor and clown : 
 Perha|w the itelf-same wing that found a path 65 
 
 Through the aad heart of Ruth, when, nick for liome, 
 She stood in tears amid the alien com ; 
 The same that odtimes hath 
 Charmed magic casementH, openinu on the foam 
 
 Of perilous seaii, in fairy landit forlorn. 70 
 
 Forlorn! the very word is like a l)ell 
 
 To toll me l>ack from thee to my hoIo self I 
 Adieu I the fancy cannot cheat so well 
 As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
 Adieu ! adieu I thy plaintive anthem fades 75 
 
 Past the near meodow.i, over the still Htream. 
 Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
 In the next valley-glades : 
 WaM it a vision, or a waking dream 1 
 
 Fled is that music : — Do I wake or sleep t 80 
 
 — Ktatt. 
 
 THE GREEN LINNET. 
 
 Beneath these fruit-tree Imughs that shed 
 Their Hnow-white blossoms on my head 
 With brightest sunshine rounil nie spread 
 
 (>f spring's unclouded weather, 
 In thia sequestered nook how sweet 
 To sit upon my orchard-seat ! 
 And binis and flowers once more to greet, 
 
 My last year's friends togetlier. 
 
 One have I m irkeil, the happiest truest 
 In all this co^ l of the blest : 
 
 10 
 
TUB OKKKN UNMKT. 
 
 7f 
 
 Hail to Thee, far almve tho rukt 
 In joy uf voice and pitiion ! 
 
 Thou Linnet ! in thy grtien lirmy, 
 
 I'rKHiding Bpirit here Uxlay, 
 
 l>uNt lea«l the reveJH of tho Mny ; 
 And thin in thy cUiuiinion. 
 
 While hirds, and butterflieH, and flowem, 
 Make all one Imnd of paramoum, 
 Tliou, ranging up and down thn iMtwers, 
 
 Art sole in thy employ uiunt : 
 A Life, a Pre«enc« like the Air, 
 Hcattering thy gladneHH without can', 
 Too hlest with any one to pair; 
 
 Thyself thy own enjoyment. 
 
 Amid yon tuft of hazel treen, 
 That twinkle to the gunty hrceze, 
 Behold him perched in ecHtaHien, 
 
 Yet seeming still to hover : 
 There ! where the flutter of his wings 
 Upon his bock and body HingH 
 Shadows and Nunny glimmerings, 
 
 That cover him all over. 
 
 IS 
 
 .'0 
 
 2» 
 
 30 
 
 My dazzled sight he oft deceives, 
 A Brother of the dancing h'aves ; 
 Tlien flits, and from the c<)ttage-<';ives 
 
 Pours forth his song in gushes ; 
 As if by that exulting strain 
 He mocked and treated with tlisdaiii 
 The voiceless F'orm he chose to feign, 
 
 While fluttering in the bushes. 
 
 nri 
 
 10 
 
 — Wttrilsifofth. 
 
 ft 
 
 J 
 
 m 
 
60 
 
 TO THK CUCKOO. 
 
 Tf) TIIK rue KTH). 
 
 hiitlip iifw ruiiipr I I Imve linnnl, 
 
 1 h«'»r iIm"<' nnil n-joici- ; 
 <)('uck«Mt' simll f rail th«H4 Hiiti, 
 Or l>ut li vb .iiidfiin^ Vuicts ( 
 
 While I Hin lying on tl»» )(raNM ft 
 
 Tli.v tw<»ft»l<l hIiouI I lu'«r . 
 FnMii hill to hill it mi'mih to |MiMM, 
 At onw fur utV aiul ni-iir. 
 
 Thou)»h lifilihliny only Ut \hv vuli» 
 
 ( )f MiiiHhini! arwl of f|nw«M<«, lt» 
 
 TIhmi l»ring«'st unto mo u tuh* 
 
 t >f viMionmy hours 
 
 Thrice wch-oiuc. ihirlinK of tin* Hjirlng ! 
 
 Kvi-n yt't thou iirt to ni« 
 
 No hiril, hut nil invi.sihh^ thinj;, ITi 
 
 A voice, a niyHti'ry ; 
 
 Tlu» sntno whom in my HoluMilljoy dnyn 
 
 I liHtcn'd to ; that Viy 
 
 Which ina«lo mt> l<K>k ii ihousHr"! ways 
 
 In hush, unti tree, aixl sky. 20 
 
 To H«'(«k th«'P 4li(| I often rovn 
 Thniu^^h w«mm1s uihI on the yrren ; 
 And thou wert Htilt a ho|M', t, lov« ; 
 Still lorig'd for, never seen ! 
 
 And F ran listen to thee yet ; 26 
 
 Can lie up<»n tlu> piuin 
 And listen, till I do beget 
 That ,'oIdeM time again. 
 
AM INCIDKNT IN A MAILMOAii CAM. 
 
 11 I>I«nmSi| liirti ! tilt* partii w«< |mm*<( 
 AKaiit ap)>t>Ani to lie 
 An uiiNulwtaiitiitl, fiiiry pliifi- 
 TliHt in tit iitiiiiH for TIhh! ! 
 
 «t 
 
 80 
 
 H'ltnlmrntrth. 
 
 6 
 
 AN INCIDKNT IN A UAILHOAD CAIl. 
 
 Ho «|M>k<' of Ititriis : inon ru<i*' ntul roti);li 
 l*rt»H»fltl rouiiii to lii'ar tin- (>riiiM« of min 
 WhoMfl litvirl wiiH iiiiwIh of iiiiiiily, siiiiplc Htiirt*, 
 Ah lioiiiONputi an their own. 
 
 An«l, when ho rwMl, they forwiinl Ii'hii«'<I, ft 
 
 hritikii% wiUi thirnty hi'urts ami ••hi-n, 
 Ili.H Itrook lik«* hoii^s whom glory iitnei wt'iinml 
 Kroin hiiiiililu NiniltiH ami tcari>. 
 
 Hlowly th«ri' gr«w a tflnder awe, 
 Sun liki', oVr fiuH»H hniwn anW hiinl, 10 
 
 Am if in him who nwl thry fflt and wiw 
 }S«Hne |)r»*sence ot" tlie Imitl, 
 
 It was a HJjjhl for Hin ami wronj; 
 And HJavish tyranny to m'«», 
 A Hij?ht to nuikf our faith iimmv j»urt> (ind strong? I "< 
 
 In high humanity. 
 
 r thouj^ht, tluvsf men will carry luMire 
 Froiiiptings their fonuer life aliovo, 
 And something; of a finer reverence 
 
 For lK>auty, truth, ami love. 20 
 
 ti 
 
;^*f^:%$m, v 
 
 4 iV -I 
 
 '9^ **f>l 
 
 Huc^ro 
 

 MICROCOfY RESOIUTION TIST CHA«T 
 
 (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) 
 
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 g%a Rochester, New York 14609 USA 
 
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8S AV INCIDKNT IN A RAILROAD OAR. 
 
 God scatters love on every side 
 Freely among His children nil, 
 And always hearts are lying open wide, 
 Wherein some grain- may fi^U. 
 
 There is no wind but soweth seeds 26 
 
 Of a more true and open life, 
 Which burst, unlooked for, into high-souled deeds, 
 With wayside beauty rife. 
 
 We find within these souls of ours 
 Some wild germs of a higher birth, 30 
 
 Which in the poet's tropic heart bear flowers 
 Whose fragrance fills the earth. 
 
 Within the hearts of all men lie 
 These promises of wider bliss, 
 Which blossom into hopes that cannot die, ' 35 
 
 In sunny hours like this. 
 
 All that hath been majestical 
 In life or death, since time began. 
 Is native in the simple heart of all, 
 
 The angel heart of man, 40 
 
 And thus, among the untaught poor, 
 Great deeds and feelings find a home, 
 That cast in shadow all the golden lore 
 Of classic Greece and Rome. 
 
 O mighty brother-soul of man, 45 
 
 Where'er thou art, in low or high. 
 Thy skyey arches with exulting span 
 O'er-roof infinity ! 
 
AN INCIDENT IN A RAILkOAD CAR. 83 
 
 All thoughts that mould the age begin 
 Deep down within the primitive soul, 60 
 
 And from the many slowly upward win 
 To one who grasps the whole : 
 
 In his wide brain the feeling deep 
 That struggled on the many's tongue 
 Swells to a tide of thought, whose surges leap ^>r) 
 
 O'er the weak thrones of wrong. 
 
 All thought begins in feeling,— wide 
 In the great mass its base is hid, 
 And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified, 
 A moveless pyramid. 
 
 Nor is he far astray who deems 
 That every hope which rises and grows broad 
 In the world's heart, by ordered impulse streams 
 From the great heart of God. 
 
 GO 
 
 God wills, man hopes : in common souls 65 
 
 Hope is but vague and undefined. 
 Till from the poet's tongue the message rolls 
 A blessing to his kind.* 
 
 « • 
 
 Never did Poesy appear 
 
 So full of heaven to me as when 70 
 
 I saw how it could pierce through pride and fear 
 To the lives of coarsest men. 
 
 It may be glorious to write 
 Thoughts that shall glad the two or three 
 High souls, like those far stars that come in sight 75 
 Once in a century ; — 
 
 
 m 
 
 ■ill 
 
 III 
 
 m 
 
84 THE ETERNAL UOODXI<:8S. 
 
 But l)etter far it is to .spcak 
 One simple word, wiiicli now and thon 
 Shall waken their freo nature in iho weak 
 And friendless sons of men ; 
 
 To write some earnest verse or line, 
 Which, seeking not the praise of art, 
 Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine 
 In the untutored heart. 
 
 80 
 
 He who doth this, in verse or prose. 
 May he forgotten in liis day, 
 But surely shall l)e crowned at last with those 
 Who live and speak for aye. 
 
 85 
 
 -Lowell. 
 
 THE ETERNAL GOODNESS. 
 
 O friends ! with whom my feet have trod 
 
 The ([uiet aisles of prayer. 
 Glad witness to your zeal for Go<l 
 
 And love of miin T liear. 
 
 U i 
 
 T trace your lines of ai-gument ; 
 
 Your logic linked and stion" 
 T weigh as one who dreads dissent, 
 
 And fears a doubt as wronji. 
 
 But still ;ny human hands are weak 
 To hold your iion creeds : 
 
 Against the words ye bid nie spe.ik 
 My heart within me pleads. 
 
 10 
 
 iVJWm^ 'XHmi^MimTti >HKaMfr 
 

 
 THE ETERXAL OOODXESS. 
 
 Who fiitfinins tilt- Ktornal Thought 1 
 Who talks of Hc-hoiue and |»hin 1 
 
 Tho lionl is G«K^/ Ho neeiletli not 
 The poor device of rann. 
 
 86 
 
 ir. 
 
 I walk with bare, liushed feet the grouiul 
 Ye tread with lK)ldness shod ; 
 
 I dare not fix with mete and bound 
 The love and power of God. 
 
 Ye praise his justice ; even such 
 
 His pitying love T deem : 
 Ye seek a king : T fain would touch 
 
 The rolx^ that hath no seam. 
 
 Ye see the curse which overbroods 
 
 A world of pain and loss ; 
 I hear our Lord's beatitudes 
 
 And prayer upon the cross. -^ * 
 
 More than your schoolmen teach, within 
 
 Mvself, alas ! T know ; 
 Too dark ye cannctt paint the sin, 
 
 Too small the merit show. 
 
 'JO 
 
 25 
 
 30 
 
 
 I lx)\v my forehead to the dust, 
 I veil mine eyes for shame. 
 
 And urge in trembling self distrust, 
 A prayer without a claim. 
 
 I see the wrong that round me lies, 
 
 I feel the guilt within ; 
 I hear, with groan and travail-cries. 
 
 The world confess its sin. 
 
 35 
 
 40 
 
 i 
 
 E 
 if 
 I 
 
 . ixt^-^rrfT) -iix»™« 1 ?i 
 
^^SBSSuSS^ 
 
 m 
 
 •■) 
 
 ! 
 I 
 
 ^ I 
 
 i 1 
 
 ij 
 
 *^ , THE ETERNAL OOODNEflS. 
 
 Yet, in the maddening maze of tliingH, 
 And tOMHed hy storm and Hood, 
 
 To one Hxed trust my spirit clings : 
 I know that God is gocl ! 
 
 Not mine to look where oheruhim 
 And seraphs may not H«>e, 
 
 But nothing can ite goo<l in Il»m 
 Which evil is in me. 
 
 The wrong thn^ pains my soul Ijclow 
 I dare not throne above : 
 
 I know not of His hate,— I know 
 His goodness and His love, 
 
 I dimly guess from blessings known 
 
 Of greater out of sight. 
 And, with the chastened Psalmist, own 
 
 His judgments too are right. 
 
 I long for household voices gone, 
 For vanished smiles I long. 
 
 But God hath led my dear ones on, 
 And he can do no wrong. 
 
 I know npt what the future hath 
 
 Of marvel or surprise. 
 Assured alone that life and death 
 
 His mercy underlies. 
 
 And if my heart and flesh are weak 
 
 To bear an untried pain. 
 The bruised reed He will not break, 
 
 But strengthen and sustain. 
 
 4ft 
 
 60 
 
 65 
 
 60 
 
 66 
 
 ev.Tunn 
 
^.^"K^^^y^. 
 
 75 
 
 TRB ETRRlfAL OOODNKU. 87 
 
 No offering of ray own T have, 
 
 Nor works ray faith to prove ; 70 
 
 I can but give the gifts Ho gave, 
 
 And pleml His love for love. 
 
 And so iMJside the Silent Sea 
 
 I wait the mutiied oar ; 
 No harm from Hira can come to me 
 
 On ocean or on shore. 
 
 I know not where His islands lift 
 
 Their fronded palms in air ; 
 1 only know I cannot drift 
 
 Beyond His love and care. 80 
 
 O brothers ! if my faith is vain, 
 
 If hopes like these betray, 
 Pray for me that my feet may gain 
 
 The sure and safer way. 
 
 And Thou, O Lord ! by whom are seen 85 
 
 Thy creatures as they be, 
 Forgive me if too close I lean 
 
 My human heart on Thee ! 
 
 — Whittier. 
 
 Used by permission of and by arrangement with Houghton, 
 
 Mifflin d- Co., aut}iorizcd publishers of IFhittier's tvorks. 
 
 r. 
 
 f 
 
 .•t 
 1 
 
 
 'I 
 
 In 
 
 m 
 
 ft 
 
88 
 
 AMnRORR. 
 
 AMFIUOMK. 
 Never, guroly, wa-s holier niun 
 Tlmn Ambrose, HJnco the world Iw^an ; 
 With diet Hpure ami raiment tliiti 
 He shiehh'd himself from the father »>f sin ; 
 With l>ed of iron and scourgings oft, 5 
 
 HiM heart to God's hand as wax madu soft. 
 
 Thmugh earm prayer and watehings l.mg 
 
 Ho sought to know 'tween right and wr<»iig, 
 
 Much wrestling with the hlesswl Word 
 
 To make it yield the sense of the l^.rd, 10 
 
 That he might build a storm-proof creed 
 
 To fold the flock in at their need. 
 
 At last he builded a j)» rfect faitk. 
 
 Fenced round about with 2'he Lmd t/nm mith ; 
 
 To himself he fitte<l the doorway's size, 15 
 
 Meted the light to the need of his eyes, 
 
 And knew, by a sure and inward sign, 
 
 That the work of his fingers was divine. 
 
 Then Ambrose .said, " All those shall die 
 
 The eternal death who believe not as I ; " 20 
 
 And some were lx)iled, .some burned in fire, 
 
 Some sawn in twain, that his heart's desiii-. 
 
 For the good of men's .souls, might be siitisfiod 
 
 By the drawing f)f all to the righteous side. 
 
 One day, as Ambrose was seeking the truth 25 
 
 In his lonely walk, he sa\S^ youth 
 
 Resting himself in the shade of a tree ; 
 
 It had never been grar^ed him to see 
 
 So shining a face, and thp gnod man thought 
 
 'Twere pity he should not believe as he ought. 30 
 
 ...KT VV^ 
 
 et' ;-^"*iff*» 
 
^sIA.*c'k • 
 
 1 
 
 AMBHOSR. 
 
 •9 
 
 So he set himtwlf l»y th(> ynutij,' iiiun'fi siile, 
 
 And tho sUito of IiIh houI with qii<>Hti(*ns triwi ; 
 
 But tho hoart nf the Htranger wjw luinlftipd IikUh'*!, 
 
 Nor receivi'd thu Htainp of the one true crvt^\ ; 
 
 And the Bpirit of Ainhrose waxed sore to find Sr* 
 
 Such face tho porch of ho narrow a mind. 
 
 " As each beholds in cloud and fire 
 
 Tho shape that answers his own desire, 
 
 So each," said the youth. '• in the law shall find 
 
 The figure arid features of his mind ; JO 
 
 Ami to each in His mercy luith f}o<l iillowe*! 
 
 His several pillar of tiro and cloud." 
 
 The soul of Ambrose burned with zeal 
 
 And holy wrath for the young man's weal : 
 
 " Believest thou then, most wretched youth," 4ft 
 
 Cried he, "a dividual essence in truth 1 
 
 I fear me thy heart is too cramped with sin 
 
 To take the Lord in His glory in." 
 
 Now there bubbled l)e8ide them where they sto*»«l 
 
 A fountain of waters sweet and gcKxi ; ftO 
 
 The youth to the streamlet's brink drew near, 
 
 Saying, "Ambrose, thou maker of creeds, look here !" 
 
 Six vases of crystal then he took, 
 
 And set them along the edge of the brook. 
 
 " As into these vessels the water I pour, 55 
 
 There shall one hold less, another more, 
 
 And the water unchanged, in every caxe. 
 
 Shall put on the figure of tho va.se ; 
 
 O thou, who wouldst unity make through strife, 
 
 Canst thou fit this sign to the Water of Life 1 " 60 
 
 < 
 
 l! 
 
 •rf 
 
 i 
 
 ^'»5^!g^'''5Sgt; j<nsaBaMgyrj^fc<L!Mg?ff^r&f.3ri ».-^". ' .' asi t l i j i iW P „ 
 
i 
 
 90 
 
 TIIK HIVKIt PATH. 
 
 When Amhroso l(M>ko<i up, hn nUtrtil nl<iri«, 
 
 Tho youth hikI th« Mtromn nn<l tho vftKi-n worn gone; 
 
 Hut ho kiu'w, hy n senHO of huinhlfMl gnioo, 
 
 Hn had ttilkfil with (in nngf'! faoo to fucn, 
 
 An«l ft'lt hii hi-art chungt* inwanily, 65 
 
 Ah he fell on hiH ktuH^n b<*nuath tho tree. 
 
 ^TlfE HIVEIl PATH 
 
 No hinl-Kong floatinl «lown tho hill, 
 Tho tangled Imnk l)elow was still ; 
 
 No rustle from tho birchen stem, 
 No ripplo from the w.-vter's hem. 
 
 Tho dunk of twilight n)un<l uh grew, 
 Wo felt the falling of the dew ; 
 
 For, from us, ere the day was done, 
 Tho wooded hills shut out the sun. 
 
 liut on the river's farther side 
 Wo saw tho hill-topH glorified, — 
 
 A toHfler glow, pxcpoding fair, 
 A dream of day without its glare. 
 
 With us the damp, the chill, the gloom : 
 With them the sunset's rosy bloom ; 
 
 While dark, through willowy vistas seen, 
 The river rolled in shade between. 
 
 From out the darkness where we trod, 
 We gazed upon those hills of God, 
 
 5 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 ^^■' 
 
 vsi-ZM^zj'jczy^ 
 
 \irfc^ aJ'/jk»tv t. 
 
THK mVRR l»ATII. 91 
 
 Wh.mo light Mnfimil not of iiiiHin op nun. 
 
 Wo H|)aku not, liit uur thought wns oii«. 20 
 
 Wn iMiuHfHl, »iH if fmm that Wright nhort' 
 iW'konwl tmr lUmr onea gono In-fort' ; 
 
 And Ntilli'd our Inviting honrtH to \wnr 
 Tho voict'H ]«mt to mortal ear ! 
 
 Ru(h!<-n our pathway turn«><l from night ; •J.-', 
 
 T\w hillM swung ojMm U> th« light ; 
 
 Tlirough thfir gnv»n gatoH tho Miinshin»» hIiowwI 
 A long, slant splendour downward flowed 
 
 Down glado ami glen an<l Iwink it rolle<l ; 
 
 It bridge<l tho shadtnl Htrcam with gold ; 30 
 
 And, Ijorne «m piors of mist, alliod 
 ThI shadowy with the sunlit side ! 
 
 " So," prayed we, "when our foot draw near 
 The river dark with mortal fear, 
 
 " And the night cometh chill with dew, 35 
 
 O Father ! let Thy light break tfirough ! 
 
 "Ho let the hills of doubt divide, 
 So bridge with faith tho sunless tide • 
 
 " So let the eyes that fail on rarth 
 
 On Thy eternal hills look fort h ; 40 
 
 " And in Thy beckoning angels k>iow 
 The dear ones whom we loved ImjIow ! " 
 
 Used lij pirviiasion of mid hy nrrnvrjpmnit with l{n«,ihi,, 
 Mifflin d- Co., authitriz^d pufAisJiers of WhittieiH m.. 
 
 =} 
 
 If 
 
 
 ^r» vj sa.vzv.*!*' ^AFVWPKH^ 
 
 i,irTL.Y 
 
9) 
 
 TMK WAITINO. 
 
 TIIK WAITINCI. 
 
 I wnit ftiiil WRtch ; Imforn my i»yi»ii 
 
 Mi'thiritcH tlH> niHilt grow* thin nii<l j(rny ; 
 
 I wnit ami wnJoh tin* ••iMU*rn nkicH 
 
 To M««o iho g«)|i|i'n N|M!Arii u|iriH«^ 
 
 HotiPntii thfl oritUiiinio of dny! 6 
 
 I<ike rm« whoHO liiulM nro IniuihI in Irmice 
 I hi«nr tho (lay-MntndH nwi-II niui grow, 
 
 And H«i acroHM tho twilight gUnro, 
 
 VriMip ftft«»r tniop, in Nwift wlvancp, 
 
 Tho Hhiiiing ones with plunien of huow I 10 
 
 T know tlio errnnd of their feet, 
 
 r know what mighty work is theirw ; 
 T ('(in but lift ii|) ImndH unme<>t, 
 The threuliing rtoorM of Ood to lioiit, 
 
 And Hpet;«l them with unworthy prayers. 16 
 
 I will not ilream in vain despair * 
 
 Tho Htepn of progress wait for me : 
 Tlie puny leverage of a hair 
 Tlie planet's impulse well may fiT>are, 
 
 A drop of dew the tided 8«>a. 20 
 
 Tlie loss, if loss there be, is mine, 
 
 And yet not mine if understocKl : 
 For one shall grasp and one resign. 
 One (Irink life's rue, and <me its wine. 
 
 And Ood shall make tho balance good. i5 
 
 O power to do ! O baffled will ! 
 
 O prayer and action ! ye are one. 
 Who may not strive, may yet fulfil 
 The harder task of standing still, 
 
 And gootl but wished with Go<l is done ! 30 
 
 — H'hucier. 
 XJttd by prrmiimon of and by arrangement imth Hoitghtim, 
 
 Mifflin d Co,, antho -^ prMiahcra of IVhittier's tvark$. 
 

 THE rAi.t. or TKhisi. 
 
 Tin: FALL OF TKHNI. 
 
 Tli« r.«r ».f waLMH ! fn.iu tli.i hmdlor.K »>«i«l»t 
 Vi'liiio cleaviw tho wavf-worii i)ii.<ipi,i. ; 
 Tim fall of WftUTH ! mpiil an tli.. Ii«lit 
 rii« fliwliing inaiut fimm Mliiikiii)^ i\w ahynn ; 
 Tli« lifll „f watem ! when? tli..y howl hii,| IiUm, 
 And lN»il in «mlli'M tortur«» ; whil., tl.i» hw.-hI, 
 Of their Kicat. a^ony, wrung out fr«»»i this 
 Their Phl.«K«tlif)n, eurln round tho nnkH of j..t 
 Tliat gird th« gulf uround, in piHU-ss horror H«t. 
 
 And mount* in npray tho hUu-h, and thi-n.-o ,i«ai„ 
 lU-turna in an uncoaHing nhowor, which muntl, 
 With its unomptifKl cloud of gcntlo rain, 
 ^8 an etornal April U> tho ground, 
 Making it all ono oniorald. How nrofound 
 Tho gulf ! and how tho giant elomont 
 From r.)ck to rcx-k leaps with deliri.nw Iwund, 
 Crushing tho cliffs, which, downward worn >.,.d r.-nt 
 With his fierco footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent 
 
 To the broad oKmui whi.l, rolls on, and shows 
 More like the fountain of an infurit sea 
 Torn from the wonib of raountuitis by the throes 
 Of a now world, than only thus to 1h^ 
 Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, 
 With many windings through tho vale:— IxK.k back ! 
 Lo ! whei-e it comes like an eternity, 
 As if to sweep down all things in its tnick, 
 Charming the eye with dread,— a matchless cat^iract, 
 
 Horribly l)enutiful ! buf on the verge, 
 
 From side t«» side, beneath the glittering morn, 
 
 93 
 
 10 
 
 lA 
 
 L'O 
 
 on 
 
 i*iK««Ki^j?* .'r»viw7..'»w^iiif«2^i:v-TY :^c:^'-'.??^c*««wissi^w!yA'jf*'3 
 
94 
 
 A TIIUNDEU8T0«lM IN TIIK ALPS. 
 
 An Tris sits, amidst the infernal surge, 
 Like IIopo upon a deatlilKJtl, and, unworn 
 Its Hteady dyes, while all around is torn 
 By the distrueted waters, Xmiirs serene 
 Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn 
 Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, 
 Ijove watching Madness with unalterable nuen. 
 
 30 
 
 36 
 
 — Byron. 
 
 A THUNDERSTORM JN THE ALPS. 
 
 The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! O night. 
 And storm, anc larkness, ye are wondrous strong. 
 Yet lovely in your strengtli, as is the light 
 Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, 
 From peak to po.ik, the rattling crags among H 
 
 Leaps ti>e live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, 
 But every mountain now hath found a tongue ; 
 And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
 Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! 
 
 And this is in the night : — Most glorious night ! 10 
 
 Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me Ix) 
 A sharer in thy fierce and far delight — 
 A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
 How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea. 
 And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 15 
 
 And now again 'tis black, — aad now, the glee 
 Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, 
 As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 
 
 Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between 
 Heights which appear as lovers who have parted 20 
 
 •.l^^ig?«i!!W»V«iMPr«£«5^«Wr^jeB5Sj^ 
 
A THUNDERSTORM IN THE ALPS. 
 
 90 
 
 In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
 That they ciin meet no more, though hruken-hearteti ; 
 Though in tlieir souls, which thus eacli other thwarte<l, 
 Love was the very root of the foinl rage 
 Which hiighted tlieir life's hloom, and then departed : 25 
 Itself expired, but leaving them an ago 
 Of years all winters — war within themselves to wage. 
 
 Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way, 
 The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand ; 
 For here, not one, but many, make their play, 30 
 
 And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand, 
 Flashing and cast around : of all the band. 
 The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd 
 His lightnings, as if he did understand 
 That in such gaps as desolation work'd, 36 
 
 There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd. 
 
 Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, li'ditiiings! ye. 
 With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
 To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
 Things that have made me watchful ; the far roll 40 
 
 Of your departing voices, is the knoll 
 Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 
 But where of ye, O tempests ! is the goal ? 
 Are ye like those within the human breast? 
 Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest ! 45 
 
 Could I embody and unbosom now 
 
 That which is most within me, — could I wreak 
 
 My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
 
 Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak. 
 
 All that I would have souglit, and all I seek, 50 
 
 Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe— into one word. 
 
 f 
 H 
 
 VI 
 
 i 1 
 
 i 
 
 .iAa 
 
 ; n !/?1tfMC;. I r '/ nfc'iir ■ vi>l£4''rV-^i TZZIslMitJ^^T^ 
 
96 
 
 THE KUUCATION OF NATURE. 
 
 And that one woi.l wore Lightning, T would speak ; 
 But as it is, I live and <lio unheard, 
 With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. 
 
 The morn is up again, the dewy morn 66 
 
 With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom. 
 Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, 
 And living as if earth contain'd no tomb— 
 And glowing into day : we may resume 
 The march of our existence : and thus T, 60 
 
 Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find room 
 And food for meditation, nor pass by 
 Much that may give us pause, if p<>ndere<l fittingly. 
 
 — By roil. 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF NATURE. 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
 Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower 
 On earth was never sowti : 
 This Child I to myself will take ; 
 She shall \ie mine, and I will make 
 A Lady of my own. 
 
 Myself will to my darling be 
 
 Both law and imj 'se : and with v.\s 
 
 The Girl, in rock and plain, 
 
 In earth and heaven, in glade anil bower. 
 
 Shall feel an overseeing power 
 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 She shall be sportive as the fawn 
 That wild with glee across the lawn 
 
 10 
 
 'smsi:s^j^S!B!(£^xs!^i!€rs^smi 
 
THB EDUCATION OF NATURE. 97 
 
 Or up the mountain springs ; 15 
 
 And hers shall Ixi the l)r(!at)iiM<; Iwilni, 
 And hers the silence and the calm 
 Of mute insensate things. 
 
 Tlie floating clouds tlieir stato shall lend 
 
 To her ; for her the willow bend ; 20 
 
 Nor shall she fail to see ' 
 
 Even in the motions of the Storm 
 
 Grace that shall mould the Maiden's forn> 
 
 By silent sympathy. 
 
 The stars of midnight shall he dear 25 
 
 To her : and she shall lean her ear 
 
 In many a secret place 
 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
 
 And beauty born of murmuring sound 
 
 Shall pass into her face. 30 
 
 And vital feelings of deligljt 
 
 Shall rear her form to stately height, 
 
 Her virgin bosom swell: 
 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
 
 While she and I together live 35 
 
 Here in this happy dell." 
 
 Thus Nature spake — The work was done — 
 
 How soon my Lucy's race -vas run ! 
 
 She died, and left to me 
 
 This heath, this calm, and quiet scene ; 40 
 
 The memory of what has been, 
 
 And never more will be. 
 
 — Wonhirorth. 
 
 
 m 
 
 
 ~*i 
 
 r 
 
 M 
 
 I 
 
 Xt^ 
 
 v> 
 
 ■f 
 
 
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 =rT» 
 
 r 
 
 '-'^ 
 
 .', 
 
 ^j 
 
 1 
 
 - 
 
 
 '■ •■ 
 
 .Cl^-V- 
 
 ■-"-.v^v\'^-'^?.«: ■■■» ■*-f.'m..:i:,..v 
 
 ■iCT..>.. _, 
 
 ■ „A-^-%' 1 , »— 'r ■ ,iivrV^ ; 
 
^ 
 
 M THl JOYS OF THE ROAD. 
 
 THE J0Y8 OF THK ROAD. 
 
 V<)w the joys «»f the rood are oliieHy these: 
 A criinson touch on the hHixi-w<xM] trees ; 
 
 A vagrant's morning wide and blue, 
 In early fall, when the wind walks, too ; 
 
 A shadowy highway, cool and brown. 
 Alluring up and enticing down 
 
 From rippled water to dappled swamp, 
 From purple glory to scarlet pomp ; 
 
 The outward eye, the quiet will, 
 
 And the striding heart from hill to hill ; 
 
 The tempter apple over the fence ; 
 
 The cobweb bloom on tie yellow quince ; 
 
 The palish asters along the wood, — 
 A lyric touch of the solitude ; 
 
 An open hand, an easy shoe, 
 
 And a hope to make the day go through, 
 
 Another to sleep with, and a third 
 To wake me up at the voice of a bird ; 
 
 The resonant far-listening morn, 
 And the hoarse whisper of the corn ; 
 
 The crickets mourning their comrades lost, 
 
 In > he night's retreat from the gathering froa ; ; 
 
 (Or is .t their slogan, plaintive and shrill. 
 As they beat on their corselets, valiant still ?) 
 
 10 
 
 15 
 
 20 
 
THE JOTS OP THE ROAD. 99 
 
 A hunger fit for the kings of the sea, 26 
 
 And a luuf of bread for Dickon and me; 
 
 A thirst like that of tlie Thirsty Sword, 
 And a jug of cider on the Ixwiril ; 
 
 An idle notm, a bubbling spring, 
 
 The sea in the pine-tops niuriuuring ; 30 
 
 A scrap of gossip at the ferry ; 
 
 A comrade neither glum nor merrj', 
 
 Asking nothing, revealing naught. 
 
 But minting his words from a fund of thought, 
 
 A keeper of silence eloquent, 35 
 
 Needy, yet royally well content. 
 
 Of the mettled breed, yet abhorring strife. 
 And full of the mellow juice of life, 
 
 Never heart-whole, never heart-sick, 
 
 (These are the things I worship in Dick) 40 
 
 No fidget and no reformor, just 
 
 A calm observer of ought and must, 
 
 A lover of books, but a reader of man, 
 No cynic and no charlatan, 
 
 Who never defers and never demands, 45 
 
 But, smiling, takes the world in his hands, — 
 
 Seeing it good as when Qod first saw 
 And gave it the weight of His will f^^r law. 
 
 m^^s^m^s^^&^^i!!^^i&&i^sm^ 
 
 ►;»V~iri;:njr, :j'.'. 
 
100 
 
 THE JOYB OF TIIK ROAD. 
 
 56 
 
 And () tlia joy thut \h uover won, 
 
 Hut follnwH un<l follow.i th.' j.MUMoyi.i« sun, 50 
 
 My marsh nnd ti.lo, hy uwiuUnv and Htrmni, 
 A will-o -the- wind, Ji liglil d' dmun, 
 
 IVIiision afar, d<'lij;lit ancar, 
 
 Kn.in uu.rrow to morrow, from y««ar to year, 
 
 A jack <i' lantern, a fairy fire, 
 A dare, a liliss, and a desire ! 
 
 The racy smell of the forost loam. 
 
 When the stealthy, sad-hearted leaves go home ; 
 
 (O leaves, O leaves, I nm one with you, 
 Of the moahl and the sun and tlie wiiid and the 
 dew !) 
 
 The broad gold wake of the afternoon ; 
 The silent Heck of the cold new moon ; 
 
 The sound of the hollow sea's release 
 From stormy tumult to starry pence ; 
 
 With only another league to wend ; §5 
 
 And two brown arms at the journey's end ! 
 
 These are the joys of the open road— 
 For him wiio travels without a load. 
 —Frum ti,ni<jH from Vagalxnidia, b,/ Bliss fannun. 
 
 Bijpvnnlsswa of .Small, Mmjnard A Co. 
 
 60 
 
 9jJ 
 
 t'S<!m^i^:sifme^smi^mjaBSSfvvi»x!i. 
 
 ■' -e^^^tn-r*- 
 
 '.'>'\/-^ . :L. 
 
 SW 
 
^rx . 
 
 A BONO or liHOWTH. 
 
 101 
 
 A H()N(J OF (;K()WTII. 
 
 In iht' lipnrt of a inun 
 \h a tliouglit upf(irle<i : 
 
 IU'aolie<i its full Mpnti 
 
 It will .shalcR the wnrM,- 
 
 Aiul to one high thought 
 
 I« a whole race wrouglit. 
 
 Not with vain noise 
 The great work grows, 
 
 Nor witli fcMilish voice, — 
 Hut in repwe ; 
 
 Not in the rush, 
 
 But in the Iiush 1 
 
 10 
 
 From the cogent lash 
 
 Of the cloud-herfl wind 
 The low clouds dasl , 
 
 [Jlown headlong, lilind ; 
 But l)eyond, the great blue 
 Looks moveless through. 
 
 O'er the lou<l world sweep 
 
 The scourge and the nxl : 
 But in deep l)eyond deep 
 
 Is the stillness of Go<l, — 
 At the fountains of Life 
 No cry, no strife ! 
 
 -Chas. G. D. Roberts. By permiasiun of the author 
 
 16 
 
 20 
 
 .■•».'-»JM A %«,'■',<• 
 
 t'.t<* tr 
 
 W: 
 
 
 -?i 
 
 Ti^^^^SiiU^t. 
 
103 
 
 Till aOLITARY HRAPBR. 
 
 THE SOLITARY KKAPKK. 
 
 Itehnld linr, iiinglf^ in tlin fi«>l(i, 
 
 Yon HoliUry Highland Imhh] 
 
 Heaping and Hinging by lierNoIf : 
 
 Htop liore, or gently piiNM ! 
 
 Alone Hhe cuU and hinds t\w grain, 
 
 And HingH a melancholy Htrain ; 
 
 littten, for the Vale profound 
 l8 overflowing with the nound. 
 
 No Nightingale did ever chaunt 
 
 More welcome iiotoH to weary Imndn 10 
 
 Of travellers in 8ome shady iiaunt, 
 
 Among Arabian sanda ; 
 
 A voice 80 thrilling neVr was heard 
 
 In spring-time from the Cuckoo-binJ, 
 
 Breaking the silence of the seas 15 
 
 Among the farthest Hebrides. 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings t — 
 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 
 For old, Jinhappy, far-off things, 
 
 And luttties long ago : 20 
 
 Or is it some more humble lay, 
 
 Familiar matter of to-day t 
 
 Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 
 
 That has heen, and may Im^ again ? 
 
 Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 26 
 
 As if her song could have no ending ; 
 
 1 saw her singing at her work, 
 And o'er the sickle bending ; — 
 I listened, motionless and still ; 
 
 And, as I mounted up the hill, 30 
 
 The music in my heart 1 Ijore, 
 Long after it was heard no more. 
 
 — Wnrdirworth. 
 
 aimmtr*:7^ 
 
 msiSM^m^^mtiUiBURi 
 
TUB KATTI.K Or AUINCX)URT. 
 
 103 
 
 THK HATTI-K OF A(JIN(*OlJKT. 
 
 AKiiicnurt, AKincourt ! know yp not Agincourt? 
 Whfirw tli« KnKlish hIpw an«l hurt 
 
 All thn Fn»nrli f(>(«ni<>n. 
 With our ^uns ami hilU hrown, 
 () ! tho French were beat dttwn, 
 
 MurriN-pike» and Irawnien ! 
 
 T. lltywiHtil. 
 
 Fair stofKl tho wind for France 
 When we our Hailn advaru-f, 
 Nor now to prove our chance 
 
 I^Miger will tarry ; 
 But nuttinj^ t«) the main, 
 At Kaux, the mouth of Sfjine, 
 With all his martial train, 
 
 lianded King Harry. 
 
 And taking many a fort, 
 Furnish'd in warlike sort, 
 Marcheth towards Agincourt 
 
 In happy hour ; 
 Skirmishing day by day 
 With those that stopj)'d his way, 
 Where the French general lay 
 
 With all his p)wer. 
 
 Which in his height of pride, 
 King Henry to deride. 
 His ransom to provide 
 
 To the King sending ; 
 Which he neglects the while, 
 As from a nation vile. 
 
 10 
 
 10 
 
 20 
 
 20 
 
104 
 
 Till BATTLB or AUINCOUHT. 
 
 Yi't with AM ntiffry »mll», 
 llieir fait iM*rt«n(Jiiif{. 
 
 Ami turning to liin nipn, 
 (^iioth our brave l(<>nry th«n, 
 "Though thpy to one Iw ten, 
 
 " he not aniazt^l ! 
 " Yet have well ttegun, 
 " itattUM HO bravely won 
 '• Have ever to the Hun 
 
 •' By fame l>een raitM<«l. 
 
 " And for myself," quoth he, 
 "Tlijg my full rest Hhall l>e ; 
 *' F^ngland, ne'er mourn for me, 
 
 *• Nor more esteem me : — 
 " Victor I will remain, 
 "Or on this earth lie nlain ; 
 " Never shall she sustain 
 
 " Losj to redeem me. 
 
 " Poictiers and Cressy tell, 
 
 " When most their pride did swell 
 
 " Under our swordji they fell : — 
 
 "No less our skill is 
 " Then when our graiidsire great, 
 "Ciiiiming the regal scat, 
 " liy many a warlike feat 
 
 " Ixjpp'd the French lilies." 
 
 Tho Duke ot York .so dread, 
 'J'he eager vaward led ; 
 With Iho main Henry sped, 
 Amongst his henchmen. 
 
 30 
 
 30 
 
 40 
 
 46 
 
 60 
 
 66 
 
 irntiiirjiL 
 
 uy/s>asflB!!X*AMgr^^K!«fflr:?'ur.'^'.'iaiv 
 
i 
 
 run tiATTt.K or a«ji?h!oukt. 
 
 Kx«'ier liiul tho roar, 
 A hriiv«»r iiimi tuit t,lu«r«' ; 
 () I^Hil hin\ hut 'Aivy \\i'i«. 
 <».i tim fttUi' Frf*ta-iiiii<Mi ! 
 
 lOd 
 
 60 
 
 Tli««y now to ti;,'lii urn xoiip ; 
 Artnotir on iinnuiir mIioiii*, 
 hruin now to liruni ili«l griMin ; 
 
 To hwiir wiiH woniliT ; 
 That with tliti fiiffs thi-y niukH 
 Thf vt'ry »'«rth did nhiikc ; 
 Truni|H«t to truni|K*t sjxik**; 
 
 TliundiT to thunder. 
 
 65 
 
 70 
 
 NV%>II it thino nyp In'oanif, 
 <) nohh» Hrpingham, 
 Which did the signal aim 
 
 To our hid fortH's ; 
 VVht'n ti-oin a mead< l»\, 
 Liko a st«)rrn Huddenly, 
 Th«! Knglisii archery 
 
 Stuck thi! French horxes, 
 
 75 
 
 With KpaniM)) yew so .strong'. 
 Arrows a cloth yard long, 
 That like to serpents stun^', 
 
 Piercinj,' the weather ; 
 None from his fellow starts, 
 hut playing manly parts, 
 And like true English hearts, 
 
 Htuck close together. 
 
 SO 
 
 85 
 
 f. v^ ' i"i ' iip III mm I iwi'iiii'in i^wiiMiii' I iimii I'll ii i i 
 
106 
 
 TMI NATTLR or AdIMCOUNT. 
 
 Wh«n flown tli»»ir \tnwn they thr«*w, 
 Ami forth tht'ir biilMiWM ilrt'w, 
 Ami oil th« Frnmh thi'y Hew ; 
 
 Not oriM WAM tunly ; 
 AniiH Wf-ni frttm MhouliinrM wiit ; 
 Heal I m to th« tM'th w«rp n-nt, 
 I)iiwii tho Frwiieh potuuinUi went; 
 
 Our uiun wi-rw Imnly. 
 
 •0 
 
 Thin whilo our nohlw King, 
 Hii4 hroMiiwoiil hrandiMhing, 
 Down the French hoHt did ding, 
 
 Ah t«» o'erwhelm it ; 
 And nmny n det'p-wouml Innt 
 His arms with I>Io«k| licHprunt ; 
 And many n cruel dent 
 
 llruimid liia helmet. 
 
 M 
 
 100 
 
 Gloucester, that duke ho go«xl, 
 Next of the royal blo<xl, 
 For timujUH England hUmhI, 
 
 With his I rave brother. 
 Clarence, in Hteel no bright. 
 Though but u maiden knight, 
 Yet in that furious fight 
 
 Scarce such another. 
 
 105 
 
 110 
 
 Warwick in bl«)od did wade, 
 Oxford the f<M' inva<le, 
 And cruel nluughter made, 
 Btill as they vaii ujj; 
 
 y:i 3»iffW'.LiM ! w^ iai^rys^a»jgtM.a^i^^ 
 
nnAitit'« nmr^. 
 
 HufTolk hi 
 
 >* hkk I 
 
 li'i III 
 
 ply, 
 
 l»«'»ium..nt Hiiil WiIImiixIiIiv 
 H«n> thi'in ii^ht iJoiiyhtily . 
 Ki'rrtTH nrnl Faiiliii|i... 
 
 nfiii Hftint CnHpin's tiny 
 FoukIiJ wits thin tiitlilo Iniy, 
 W'hi.l, funic dill not tU>]ny 
 
 To KukIiuhJ Ut c,\rry. 
 O vvli.Mj shull Kiiyl oilmen 
 With siich HctH til. II |M.|i, 
 Or Knj,'liinil l.n'«'«l «i,';»iii 
 
 Huch u King iliury ! 
 
 107 
 
 115 
 
 12n 
 
 125 
 
 — \f. Ihinjtim. 
 
 
 DHAKfrs \)\\Vy\. 
 
 Drako ho-H in Ium hnmni.Kk un' ,i th..»s„n.l ,uiU. «w«y 
 
 (Ciipt«n, nrt tha sleepi,,' thnro 1m-|.,w (). 
 81un« atv.^n th« mun.l Hhot in Non.l.ro l»ioH Hay 
 
 An' Wivan.in' uri th« tinio o' Plymouth II,h. 
 Yarn.h.r lunn-s the isian.i, yarncirr Ij.. the «hips 
 
 VV r Hiiilor huls fKhmcin' hrcl h,,' t.n., 
 An- tho shorelight. tUshin', an' th.- ni^^ht .i,|.. .I^shin' 
 
 Ho .seen et url «„ plainly us h« saw ,.t lonj. hko 
 
 Drnko ho wn.s a Devon n.an, an' rule,! the Devon seas 
 (Capten, art tha ,s|,.epi„' th, re Im.|„w \) 
 
 Rovin' tho' his .leath fell. I wer t wi' heart at ease. 
 An cJrcan.iii ail the tim. o Plymouth Hm- 
 
 "Take ,„y Wrum to Enxlan.!, han^ et hy the nhore. 
 Strike et when your powder's runnin' low ■ 
 
 5 
 
 10 
 
 r^ 
 
 'r-;vii"'>'.i ^- !>•>:.' -■■■T''*^ 
 
108 
 
 drakr'h drum. 
 
 If tlie Dons sinht l)<non, I'll quit the port o' Ilenven, 16 
 An' (Irutn tlicin up the CImnnel jis we drtmiined them 
 long ago." 
 
 Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, 
 
 (Captcn, art tha sleepin' tliero l)elow ?), 
 Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, 
 
 An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. 20 
 
 Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, 
 
 Call him when ye sail to meet the foe ; 
 Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin'. 
 
 They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him 
 
 long ago ! 
 
 -NnrhoU. From " Th,> I.thnid Unrr." 
 
 B\j ijei mission of Elk in Mathvus, publisher. 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
THE AMBITIOUS GUEST. 
 
 One September ni^rht a family lui.l feathered round 
 their hearth, and piled it Injrh with the driftwood of 
 mountain streams, the dry cones of the pine, and the 
 splintered ruins of great trees tliat had come crashing 
 down the precipice. Up the chimnc^y roared the tire, 
 and brightened the room with its broad blaze. The' 
 faces of the father and mother 'lad a sober gladness; the 
 children laughed ; the eldest daugliter was the image of 
 Happiness at seventeen ; a»id the aged grandmother,°who 
 sat knitting in the warmest place, was the image of 
 Happiness grown old. They had found the "herb, 
 hearts-ease." in the bleakest spot of all New England.' 
 This family were situated in tlie Notch of tlie White 
 Hills, where the wind was sliarp throughout the year, 
 and pitilessly cold in the winter.-giving their cottacre 
 all Its fresh inclemency before it descended on the valley 
 of the Saco. They dwelt in a co'd spot and a dangerous 
 one; for a mountain towered alwve their heads, so steep 
 that the stones would often rumole down its sides and 
 startle them at midnight. 
 
 The daughter had just uttered some simple jest that 
 filled them all with mirth, when the wind came'through 
 the Notch and seemed to pause before their -^otta.re— 
 rattling the door, with a sound of wailing and lamJ'nta- 
 tion, before it passed into the valley. For a moment it 
 saddened them, though th.re was nothing unusual in 
 the tones. But the fauiily were glad again when they 
 
 109 
 
no 
 
 THB AMBITIOUH OUE8T. 
 
 perceived that the latch was lifted by sotno traveller, 
 whose footsteps had been unheard amid tlu; dreary hhiat 
 which heralded his approach, and wailed as ho was 
 entering, and went moaning away from the door. 
 
 Though they dwelt in such a solitude, these people 
 held daily converse with the world. The romantic pass 
 of the Notch is a great artery, through which the life- 
 blood of internal commerce is continually throbbing 
 between Maine, on one side, and the Green Mountains 
 and the shores of the St. Lawrence, on the other. The 
 stage-coach always drew up before the door of the 
 cottage. The wayfarer, with n' companion but his staff, 
 paused here to exchange a word, that the sense of lone- 
 liness might not utterly overcome him ere he could pass 
 through the cleft of the mountain, or reach the first 
 house in the valley. And here the teamster, on his way 
 to Portland market, would put up for the night; and, if 
 a bachelor, might sit an hour beyond the usual bedtime, 
 and steal a kiss from the mountain maid at parting. It 
 was one of those primitive taverns where tlie traveller 
 pays only for food and lodging, but meets with a homely 
 kindness beyond all price. When the footsteps were 
 heard, therefore, between the outer door and the inner 
 one, the whole family rose up, grandmother, children, 
 and all, as if about to welcome some one who belonged 
 to them, and whose fate was linked with theirs. 
 
 The door was opened by a young man. His face at 
 first wore the melancholy expression, almost despondency, 
 of one wliO travels a wild and bleak road, at nightfall 
 and alone, but soon brightened up when he saw the kindly 
 warmth of his reception. Hft felt h.is heart sprint for- 
 
 \il 
 
•^■■M 
 
 TUB AMBITIOUS OULST. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ward to meet them all, from tlio oI«l woman, who wiped 
 a chair with her uproii, to the littl.j chil.l that held out 
 its arms to him. One glance and .sniile placed the 
 
 strangt 
 
 fan 
 
 footing of innocent 
 eldest daughter. 
 
 "Ah, this fire is the right thing ! " cried lie; " especially 
 when there is such a pleasant circle rouml it. I am 
 quite benumbed ; for the Notch is just like the pipe of a 
 great pair of bellows; it has blown a terrible blast in my 
 face all the way from Bartlett." 
 
 "Then you are going towards Vermont?" said i\w 
 master of the house, as he helped to take a light knap- 
 sack off the young man's shoulders. 
 
 "Yes; to Burlington, and far enough beyond," replied 
 he. "I meant to have been at Ethan Crawford's to- 
 night • but a pedest.-ian lingers along such a road as this. 
 It is., matter; for, when I saw this good fire, and all 
 your cheerful faces, I felt as if you had kindled it on 
 purpose for me, and were waiting my an-ival. So I 
 shall sit down among you, and make myself at home." 
 
 The frank-hearted stranger had just drawn his chair 
 to the fire when something like a heavy footstep was 
 heird without, rushing down the steep side of the moun- 
 tain, as with long and rapid strides, and taking such a 
 leap in ^.assing the cottage as to strike the opposite 
 precipice. The family held their breath, because they 
 knew the sound, and their guest held his by instinct. 
 
 " The old mountain has thrown a stone at us, for fear 
 we should forget him," said the landlord, recovering 
 himself. " He sometimes nods his head and threatens to 
 comedown; but we are old neighbors, and agree together 
 
112 
 
 TOR AMBITIOUS OUE8T. 
 
 pretty well uj)on the wliole. Besides wo have a .sn,^ 
 place of refu«,'e hard by if he should Im; coiniii;,' in jchkI 
 earnest." 
 
 Ix»t us now .suppose the Htrnn<;er to have Hnished liis 
 supper of bear's meat; and, by his natural felicity of 
 ujanner, to have placed himself on a footinjLf of kindness 
 with the whole family, so that they talked as fr-dy 
 tojjether as if he belon<red to their mountain brood. He 
 was of a proud, yet gentle spirit— haughty and reserved 
 among the rich and great ; but ever ready to stoop his 
 head to the lowly cottage door, and bo like a brother or 
 a son at a poor man's tireside. In the household of the 
 Notch he found warmth and simplicity of feeling, the 
 pervading intellig* . •», of New England, and a poetry of 
 native growth, whch they h.ul gathered when they little 
 thought of it from the mountain peaks and cha.sms, and 
 at the very threshold of their romantic and dangerous 
 abode. He had travelled far and alone; his whole life, 
 indt-d, had been a solitary path ; for, with the lofty 
 caution of his nature, he had kept himself apart from 
 those who might otherwise have been his companions. 
 The family, too, though so kind and hospitable, had that 
 consciousness of unity among themseUes, and separation 
 from the world at large, which, in every domestic circle, 
 should still keep a holy place where no stranger may 
 intrude. But tlus evening a prophetic sympathy im- 
 pelled the refined and educated youth to pour out his 
 heart before the simple mruntaineers, an<l constrained 
 them to answer him with the same free confidence. And 
 thus it shoul. have been. Is not the kindred of a 
 common fate a closer tie than that of birth ? 
 
THE AMBITIOUS QUEST 
 
 113 
 
 
 [f 
 
 The secret of tlie yunn<^ iimn's character was a high 
 and ahHtracted niubitioii. Ho cculd have borne to live 
 an uiKli.stingui.shed life, but not to Ix) forj^otten in the 
 gi-ave. Yearning desire had i.een transformed to hope ; 
 and hope, long cherished, had lx,'conie like certainty, 
 that, oUscurely as he journeyed now, n glory was to 
 btiain on all his pathway,— though not, perhaps, while 
 he wjis treading it. But when posterity should gaze 
 back into the gloom of what was now the present, tliey 
 would trace the brightness of his footsteps, brightening 
 as meaner glories faded, and confess that a gifted one 
 had pjissed f.om his cia<lle to his tondj with none to 
 recognize liim. 
 
 ^ " As yet," cried the strangijr— his cheek glowing and 
 his eye flashing with enthusiasm— '« as yet, I have done 
 nothing. Were I to vanish from the earth to-mornnv, 
 none would know so much of me as you : that a naraeless 
 youth came up at nightfall from the valley of the Saco, 
 and opened his heart to you in the evening, and passed 
 through the Notch bysunrise, and was seen no more. 
 Not a .soul would ask, ' Who was he ? Whither did the 
 wanderer go?' But I cannot die till I have achieved 
 my destiny. Then, let Death come ! I shall have built 
 my monument ! " 
 
 There was a continual flow of np.tural emotion, gushing 
 forth amid abstracted reverie, which enabled the faniil^ 
 to understand this young man's .sentiments, though .so 
 foreign from their own. With (|uick sensibility of the 
 ludicrous, he blushed at the ardor into which he had 
 been betrayed. 
 
 " You laugh at me," said he, taking tl; eldest daugh- 
 
/*>^l^ 
 
 >/:^l»^^> 
 
 lU 
 
 TIIK AMIIITIOUM rilJKST. 
 
 'S^. 
 
 Ut'h hand, and laujjhing Inms.lf. " Yfui think my 
 ntnhition as nonsensicul ;us if I were to frerzo mysolf to 
 death on the top of Mount Washinf^ton, only that people 
 might spy at me fron. the country round ulK)ut. And, 
 truly that would be a noble pedestal for a man's statue!" 
 
 " It is better to sit here by this fire," answered the <rirl. 
 blushing, "and be comfortable and contented, though 
 nolxxly thinks alx)ut us." 
 
 "I suppose," said her father, after a fit of musing, 
 " there is something natural in what the young man 
 says; and if my mind had Ix'en turned thnt way, I might 
 have felt Just the same. It is strange, wife, how his talk 
 has set my head running on things that are pretty 
 certain never to come to pass." 
 
 " Perhaps they may," observed the wife. " Is the man 
 thinking what he will do when he is a widower ? " 
 
 " No, no ! " cried he, repelling the idea with reproach- 
 ful kindness. " When I think of your death, Esther, I 
 think of mine too. But I was wishing we had a good 
 farm in Bartlett, or Bethlehotn, or Littleton, or some 
 other township round the White Mountains; but not 
 where they could tumble on our heads. I .should want 
 to stand well with my neighbors and be called Squire, 
 and sent to General Court for a term or two ; for a plain, 
 honest man may do as much good there as a lawyer. 
 And when I should be grown quite an old man, and you 
 an old woman, so as not to be long apart, I might die 
 happy enough in my bed, and leave you all crying 
 around me. A slate gravestone would suit me as well as 
 a nmrbic one — witlj }\v-,t xny name and age, and a verse 
 
THE AMHITIOUH 0UK8T. 
 
 116 
 
 tl 
 
 of a hymn, ami Hornotliiii^' to 1ft people know that I 
 lived an honest man and died a Christian." 
 
 "There now!" exclaimed the stran^'er; "it is our 
 nature to desire a monument, Ix) it slate or marble, or a 
 pillar of panite, or a j^lorious memory in tlie universal 
 hi-Tt of man." 
 
 " We're in a stran^'e way to-ni^r|,t," said the wife, with 
 tears in her eyes. "They say it's a si^^n of something', 
 when folks' minds go a wanderirjg so. Hark to the 
 children ! " 
 
 They listened accordingly. The younger children had 
 been put to bed in another r(X)n>, but with an open door 
 between, so that they could be heard talking busily 
 among themselves. One and all seemed to have caught 
 the infection from the fireside circle, and were outvying 
 each other in wild wishes, and childish projects of what 
 they would do when they came to be men and women. 
 At length a little boy, instead of addressing his brothers 
 and sisters, called out to his mother. 
 
 "I'll tell you what I wish, mother," cried he. "I 
 want you and father and grandmu'm, and all of us, and 
 the stranger too, to start right away, and go and take a 
 drink out of the basin of the Flume ! " 
 
 Nobody could help laughing at the child's notion of 
 leaving r, warm bed, and dragging them from a cheerful 
 fire, to visit the basin of the Flume,— a brook, which 
 tumbles over the precipice, deep within the Notch. The 
 boy had hardly spoken wiien a wngon rattled along the 
 road, and stopped a moment before the door. It appeared 
 to contain two or three men, who were cheering their 
 hearts with the rough cxiorua of a song, which resminded, 
 
lit 
 
 Till AMBITIOra auMT. 
 
 in broken nott-s, iMtwf.'n thv clifls, wliiK. (he Hinjjeni 
 hc«itatt'<l wluth.T [<> f(.iitimii> lUvW jotinuy or put up 
 hero for the ni;;ht. " 
 
 "Futher," Hui.l the pri, "they are culling,' you hy 
 nunje." 
 
 But tho ^foo«l man doubted \\heth«'r they had really 
 called hiiii, and was unwilliiijr to show himself ttx) solici- 
 tous of gain by inviting people to pationi/e his house. 
 He therefore di<l m)t hurry to the door; and the lash 
 l)t'ingso<jn applied, the travellers plunged into tin; Notch, 
 still Hinging and laughing, thougli their music and mirth 
 cujue back drearily from the heart of the mountain. 
 
 " There, mother ' " cried the lx>y, again. " Th.y'd have 
 given us a ride to the Flunu-." 
 
 Again they huighed at the child's pertinacious fancy 
 for a night rund)le. But it happened that a light cloud 
 pa;ssed over the daughter's spirit; she lo<jked gravely 
 into the fire, and drew a breath that was almost a .-igh. 
 It forced its way, in spite of a little struggle to repivas 
 it. Then .starting and blushing, she looked (juickly 
 round the circle, as if they ha<] caught a glimp.se into 
 lier Ixisom. The stranger asked what she had been 
 thinking of. 
 
 "Nothing," answered slie, with a downcast smile. 
 "Only I felt lonesome just then." 
 
 "Oh, I have always ha<l a gift of ferling what is in 
 other people's hearts," .said lu , half seriously. '• Shall I 
 tell the secrets of youi-s ? For I know what to think 
 when a young gi: shivers by a warm hearth and com- 
 plains of lonesomenoss at Is-t nsnther's side. Shall I put 
 these feelings into words ? ' 
 
 i: v 
 
THE AMniTIOim own. 
 
 117 
 
 I 
 
 .. 3 
 
 '•Thvy w„ul.l not »K5 a ^riH's f,.,.|itt^^H any lon^r^r if 
 theycoul.l Ik, put into wonls," rrplir.l the mountain 
 nymph, liiii<;hin^', hut ttvoith-i;; his «>yo. 
 
 All tliiH vva.s Huid apart. Perhaps a ^'onn of lov«5 was 
 Hprin/in^' in their h.-arts, so pur., that it mi^'ht hIoH.son> 
 in ParadiH.'. Mincv it couM not Iw nrntun-d on earth ; for 
 women worship hucIi ^.'utlo <lij,'nity a.s his; ami tlie 
 prou.l, contemplative, yi-t kin.Ily soul is oftenest capti- 
 vated hy simplicity like hers. Hut while they sjx.ke 
 W)ftly, and ho was watchin^r the happy sjidness, the 
 li;,'ht8ome shadows, the shy yeaniin;;s of u maiden's 
 nature, the wind thr..uj,'h the Notch Umk a dee|M'r anil 
 .Irearier sound. It seem.'d, as the fancifiil stmn^jer said, 
 like the choral strain of the spirits of the hlast, who in 
 old Indian times had their dwelling amonjj these moun- 
 tains, and made their hei^rl,ts and recesses a sacred 
 re^don. There was a wail along the road, as if a funeral 
 were passing. To chase away the gloom, the fannly 
 threw pine branches on their fire, till the dry leaves 
 crackled and the flame arose, discovering once again a 
 scene of peace and humbl(( hai)piness. The light hovered 
 alK)ut them ff.ndiy, and caressed them all. ^There were 
 the little faces of the childr.'n, peeping from their bed 
 apart, and here the father's frame of strength, tlie 
 mother's subdued and careful nn'en. the high-browed 
 youth, the budding girl, and the good old gruTidam, still 
 knitting in the warmest place. The aged woman Im)ke<l 
 up from her tjisk, and with her fingers ever busy, was 
 the next to speak. 
 
 " Old folkn h.ive tlicir notions," .said she, " as well as 
 young ones. You've been wishing and planning; and 
 
!ViA, 
 
 * .>. . 
 
 118 
 
 mi AMHinouH no 
 
 letting; your heiulx run on ono tliiiij; and another, till 
 you'vo H«'t my niiiHl a waiKJtM'in^ t<K). Now what Hhouhl 
 an old woiiiuii wlnh for, wh*>n h)io can hut ^o a Rt«>p or 
 two Iniforo sh»? roiiii'H to her jjnivii ? Childrun, it will 
 haunt mo ni^dit and day till I toll you." 
 
 " What iH it, mother if" cried thu hu.sluind and wife at 
 once. 
 
 Then the old woman, with an air of myHtery which 
 drew the circle closer round the fire, informe<l them that 
 she had pnjvided her ^ravi'-cIotheH some years Iniforc, — 
 a nice linen shroud, a cap with a niUHlin ruff, and every- 
 thing of a tiner sort than she had worn since licr wedding 
 day. But this evening an old superMtition had strangely 
 recurred to her. It used to Ihj sjiid, in her younger days, 
 that if anything were amiss with a corpse, if oidy tho 
 rutl' were not smooth, or the cap did not set right, the 
 corpse in the colHn and beneath the cKjds wouhl strive to 
 put up its cold hands and arrange it. The bare thought 
 nuulo her nervous. 
 
 "Don't talk so, grandnu«Lher!" sjiid the girl shuddering. 
 
 " Now," — continued the old womati, with singular 
 earneHtne.s8, yet smiling strangely at her own folly, — "I 
 want ono of you, my children — when your mother is 
 dressed and in the cotHn — I want ono of you to hold a 
 looking-gliuss over my face. Who knows but I may take 
 a glimpse at myself, and see whether all's right ? " 
 
 " Old and young, we dream of graves and monuments," 
 murnmred the stranger youth. " I wonder how mari- 
 ners feel when the ship is sinking, and they, unknown 
 and undiHtiiiguislu d, arc to bo buried together in the 
 ocean — that wide and nameless sepulchre ? " 
 
Till AMRITIori fiUBIT. 
 
 119 
 
 3 
 I 
 
 i 
 t 
 
 For a inoiiicnt, llu' uld woiium's jjhnHtly conception no 
 ©njjnm.'MHl (lin niitxls of \ur luanrH tluit a nouikI iihrtMul 
 in tho nijrJit. rihni^ likt! the r«»iir of a IduMt, lia«l grown 
 hnwl, (lut'p, ami t«'rril>l««, iM-foro tho lati-il gioiip wore 
 coiiHcioUH of it. Th<5 houw uihI ail within it tiviiihle<l ; 
 tfie fountiaticviiH of tho cartii 8«M'!iu«i to be Hlialten, iih if 
 this awful Hound wert! tlio jM-al of tho la^t trump. Young 
 an«l old fxchangt'd ono wild glanco, and remained an 
 iuHtant, [)ali', alfVightcd, without uttt>ranp«>, or j)owfr to 
 movo. Thtn'tho Mamo Hlnit-lc burst sinuiltaneouMly from 
 all their lips. 
 
 "The Slide! The Slide'" 
 
 TIjo simplest wonis nmst intimate, but not jwrtray, 
 tho unutterable horror of tho catastrophe. Tho victims 
 ru.shed froiA their cottage, antl sought refuge in what 
 they deemed a safer H|)ot — where, in contemplation of 
 such an eujergenoy, a sort of Ijairier had been reared. 
 Alas! they had <piitted their secinity, and fle<l right into 
 tho pathway of destruction. Down came tho whole side 
 of tho mountain, in a cataract of ruin. Just before it 
 reached the liouse, tho stream broke into two branches — 
 shivered noi a window tluro, but overwhelmed the 
 whole vicinity, blocked up the road, and aiuiihilated 
 everything in its dreadful course. Long ero the thunder 
 of the great Slide had cea-sed to roar amotig the moun- 
 tains, the mortal agony had hmnx endured, and tho 
 victims wero'at peace. Their iKMJies were never found. 
 
 Tho ne.xt morning, tho light smoke was seen stealing 
 from the cottage chimney up the momitain side. Within, 
 the tiro was yet NinouMiTing on the hearth, and the 
 chairs in a circle round it, as if tho inhabitants had but 
 
ISO 
 
 TITIIOrr«Hlll NrKCTAOLM. 
 
 ^no fitrth to vi«>w tlm ilfViiMtntioii of llm Sliili*, Ami 
 wiujM hlmitly ri'ttirn, to tluitik Hiavi-n for llii'ir mimr'n. 
 loUN<>Ncii|H*. All luul lift w|Huntn t'»k('ii«. Ity which thotM) 
 who hiui known iUv fiimily wiin iiih(Ii) to »«hi'«l a tnir for 
 «m'h. Who h/iM not h«'ur<l th«ir niinm / Thn Ntory hiifl 
 Iw'i'n toM fjir timl wiih>, nn<{ will fori'vi-r Im- h h-j^i^ncl of 
 th«'M« niountiiinH. IVn'tn lmv«» Hun;j tlu-ir fati-. 
 
 T! • w«'n! oirruniNtiittofH whu-h I^mI Kumr to HUpmww 
 that a Mtnin^iT hiul U-fn n><'<'ivf«l into tim cotta^o on 
 thin awful nijfht, and luul Hharcil tho cataNtrophw of all 
 its innuiti'H. ()th»'i-H dfiii*'*! that tht-ro wore mitficiviit 
 p-ontulH for Huch a conjeotun!. \Vo« for th« high-NoulcHl 
 youth with liis drfain of Karihiy IninuMtality I Hill 
 name and jjcrNtm utterly unknown ; hiH history, his way 
 of lifo, hiH plans, a niyHtery never to 1m» koI\i#1, his death 
 and his exiMt«'iu'e e<|ually a douht ! WIujhc waa the 
 agony of that «leath nionmnt ( 
 
 Siithnnifl llattthom*. 
 
 TITBOTTOMS SPECTACLES. 
 
 Pruo and I do not entertain much ; our ineuns forbid 
 it. In truth, otln-r pcoplt! entertain for u.s. We enjoy 
 that hoHpit'ility f)f wliicli no account is made. Wo wee 
 the show, and hear the music, and sntell the flowers, of 
 great festivities, ta.sting, as it were, the drippings from 
 rich dishes. 
 
 Our own dinner service is renuukably plain ; our 
 dintHTs, evs-n o?) Htat'- (X'cuHioiiH, are Htrictly in keeping, 
 and almost our only gue.st is Titlwttom. 1 buy a hand- 
 
TtTHOTTOH's nrtC-T AC.lK*. 
 
 191 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 ful of rtmi'H iM I cofn« up from tli« ofKn-, |n'rlmpM. rind 
 Pnin arraii^^tm tlifiii wi pnHtily in a ^jliuw diMli for the 
 centre of tlm iahU*, thiit, nvt-n whi'ii I luivo Imrri.nl out 
 to mo Aurflift Mtfp into ln^r c.irritt^'e to j;,, „ut to din.', I 
 havp thoujjht that tliu liouipirt nl.« ciirriiMl wjim not nioro 
 beautiful tM'CAUiM) it witH mor« roHtly. 
 
 I grant timt it wah inor« harnioniouM with hor MU|K^rl> 
 beauty ami h.>r rich attirw. Ami I havo no iloiil)t that if 
 Aureiia knew tho old man whom hIio niUHt havo gt'en ho 
 ofti'ii watching; her, and his wi*".-. who ornan»'ntH hi-r m-x 
 with aH much awectnoHH, iilthougli with K'mm Hplondor, 
 than Aiinlia h«>rM«'lf, nho would also m:knowh'd|;t! that 
 the nosi'jruy of ronen wa« aH fine atid fit UfKm their tahl.-, 
 as her own sumptuous lK)u»|Uet is for hii-self. I havt! ho 
 much faith in the |K>rception of that lovely ludy. 
 
 It is my iiahit— I hope I may say, my nature— to 
 Iwlieve the l)eHt of people, rather than the worst. If I 
 thought that all this sparkling setting of beauty,— this 
 fine fashion,— these blazing jewels, and lustrous silks, 
 and airy gauzes, embellished with gold-threaded end)roid- 
 ery and wrought in a thousand exijuisite elaborations, so 
 that I cannot see one of those lov.'ly gjrls pa«s me by, 
 without thanking God for the virion.— if I thought that 
 this was all, and that, undemeatJi her laco flounces and 
 diamond bracelets, Aurolia was a sullen, selfish woman, 
 then I should turn sadly homeward, for I should see that 
 her jewels were flashing scorn upon the object they 
 adorned, that her laces were of a more exquisite loveli- 
 ness than tlie woman wh.om thny ir-^'rcly touclied witli a 
 super^^.iai g:-. «. It would be like a gayly decorated 
 mausoleum,— Jght to see, but silent and dark withia 
 
122 
 
 TirroTToM a spkctaclks. 
 
 "Oroat cxct'llt'iipc^', my de.ur Pnie," I soniotinios allow 
 myself to .suy, " Ho concealed in the deptliH of character, 
 liUe pearls at tlui hottom of the sea. Under the laughing, 
 glancing; surface, how little they are suspected ' Oi.vhaps 
 love is nothing els*; than the sight of the' ■ l- / ono pcisuu. 
 Hence every man's mistress is apt to be t i nigma to 
 everylxxly else. 
 
 " I have no doubt that when Aurelia is engaged, people 
 will say she is a most admirable girl, ce.^uinly, but they 
 cannot understand why any man .should be in love with 
 her. As if ic were at all nec<'ssary that they should! 
 And her lover, like a boy who finds a pearl in the public 
 street, and wondei-f as nnich that others did not see it as 
 that he did, will tremble until he knows his passion is 
 returned ; feeling, of course, that the whole voi'ld must 
 be in love Wicii tliis paragon, wlio cannot possibly smile 
 upon anything so unworthy as he. 
 
 " I hope, therefot-e, my dear Mrs. Prue," I continue, 
 and my wife looks up, with pleased pride, from her work, 
 as if I were such an irresistible Immorist, "you will 
 allow me to believe that the depth may be calm, although 
 the surface is dancing. If you tell me that Aurelia is 
 but a giddy girl, 1 .shall believe that you think so. But 
 I shall know, all the while, what profound dignity, and 
 sweetness, and peace, lie at the foundation of her 
 character." 
 
 1 say such things to Titbottom, during the dull season 
 
 at the otRce. And I have known him sometimes to 
 
 reply, with a kind of dry, sad humor, not as if he enjoyed 
 
 tiie joke, but as if the joke must bo made, that he saw 
 
 eason why I should be dull because tlie season was so. 
 
TITnOTTOM's HPEfTACLES. 
 
 123 
 
 " Arul \vliiit <lo I know of Aureliii, or jiiiy other ^'irl ?" 
 he s.iys to lilt! with that abHtriict"(l air, "I, whose Aun-liiw 
 wero of another century, and another zone." 
 
 Then lie falls into a .silence which it seems quite profane 
 to interrupt. But as we sit upon our hi^Mi stofjls, at the 
 desk, opposite each other, I leaning upon my elbows, and 
 looking at him, he, with sidelong face, glancing out of 
 the window, as if it conunanded a boundless landscajie, 
 instead of a dim, dingy otKco court, I cannot refrain 
 from saying:— 
 "Well!" 
 
 He turns slowly, and I go chatting on,— a little too 
 loquacious, perhaps, about thosi; young gii-ls. 15ut I 
 know that Titbottom regards such an excess as venial, 
 for his sadness is so sweet that you could believe it the 
 reflection of a smile from louir, \ow years a<ro. 
 
 One day, after I had been talking for a long time, and 
 we had put up our books, and were preparing to leave, 
 he stood for some time by the win<low, gazing with a 
 «li-ooping intencnes.s, as if he really saw something more 
 than the dark court, and .said slowly : — 
 
 "Perhaps you would have different impressions of 
 things, if you .saw them through my .sj)ectacle.s." 
 
 There was no change in his expression. He !■• >! 
 looked fi'om the window, and I said : — 
 
 "Titlx^ttom, I did not know that y(ju used glasses. I 
 hav(i never seen you wearing spectacles.'' 
 
 " Xo, I don't often wear them. I am not very fond of 
 looking through tliem. But sometimes an iiresisliblt 
 necessity compels me to put them on, rjud I cannot help 
 seeing." 
 
■-i- 
 
 ■F 
 
 124 
 
 TITBOTTOM'S 8PBCTAOLE8. 
 
 Titlx)ttom .sighed. 
 
 " Is it so grievous a fate to see ? " iiKjuired T. 
 
 "Yes; tlirough my spectacles," he said, turning slowly, 
 and l(M)king at .iie with wan solemnity. 
 
 It grew dark as wo stood in tlie offiof! talking, and, 
 taking our hats, wo went out together. The narrow 
 street of business was deserted. The heavy iron shutters 
 were gloomily closed over tlio windows. From one or 
 two offices struggled the dim gleam of an early candle, 
 by whoso light some perplexed accountant sat ,belate«l, 
 and hunting for liis error. A careless clerk passed, 
 whistlim'. But the great tide of life had ebbed. We 
 heard its roar fur away, and the sound stole into that 
 silent street like the murmur of the ocean into an inland 
 dell. 
 
 " You will come and dine with us, Titl)ottom ? " 
 
 He assented by continuing to walk v.'itli me, and I 
 think we were both glad when we reached the house, 
 and Prue came to meet us, saying : 
 
 " Do you know, I hoped you would bring Mr. Titbottom 
 to dine." 
 
 Titbottom smiled gently, and answered : — 
 
 " He might have brought his spectacles with him, and 
 have been a happier man for it." 
 
 Prue looked a little puzzled. 
 
 " My dear," I said, " you must know that our friend, 
 Mr. Titbottom, is the happy possessor of a pair of won- 
 derful spectacles. I have never seen them, indeed ; and, 
 from what he w.ys, T should be rather afraid of being 
 seen by them. Most short-sighted persons are very glad 
 
TITBOTTOM's 8PKCTACLKS. 
 
 126 
 
 i 
 
 to have the help of jjhis.seH ; hut ^Ir. Titlxtttoin hcoiiis to 
 find very little pleasure in his." 
 
 " It is KcauHo they make him too far-si^rhtod, |H-hapH," 
 interrupted Prue, v|uietl,v, as she t(X)k the silver soup-ladle 
 from the sidel)oard. 
 
 We sipped our wine after dinner, and Prue tof)k her 
 work. Can a man be ^oo far-si^ditcd i I did not ask 
 the (juestion aloud. The very tone in whieli Prue had 
 spoken convinced me that he mi^ht. 
 
 "At least," I said, "Mr. Titlxittom will not refuse to 
 tell us the history of his mysterious spectaeles. I have 
 known plenty of magic in eyes (and I glanced at the 
 tender blue eyes of Prue), but I have not heard of any 
 enchanted glasses." 
 
 "Yet you must have seen the gla.ss in which your 
 wife looks every morning, and, I take it, that glass must 
 be daily enchanted," said Titbottom, with a bow of 
 quaint respect to my wife. 
 
 I do not -' '*nk I have seen such a blush ni)on Prue's 
 cheek since — well, since a great many years ago. 
 
 " I will dadly tell you the history of my si)ectacles," 
 began Titbottom. " It is very simple ; and I an< not at 
 all sure that a great many other people have not a pair 
 of the same kind. I have never, incleed, heard of them 
 by the gross, like those of our young friend :\Ioses, the 
 son of the Vicar of Wakefield. In fact, I thinj- a gi'oss 
 would be quite enough to su]>ply the world. It is a kind 
 of article for which the demand does not increase with 
 use. If we should all wear spectacles like mine, we 
 should never smile any more. Or — I am not quite 
 sure — we should all be very happy." 
 
i^^ : 
 
 11;; 
 
 126 
 
 titbottom's mpkctacles. 
 
 " A ry iin{M)i'tai)t flill'crt'iicc," suiil Vruc, counting 
 
 her lii's. 
 
 " Vuu know Tiiy j,'rjuulf;itli('r Titl)ottom w.-is a West 
 Imliaii. A l:ir;^<' pi'oprictor, luul an eiisy man, ho banked 
 in the* tropical snii, leading lii.s (juict, luxurious life. He 
 lived much aloiif, and was what the people call eccen- 
 tric — by which I understand that he was very much 
 himself, and refusing the intluenco of other people, they 
 liad their revenges, and called him names. It is a habit 
 not exclusively tropical. I think I have seen the same 
 thing even in this city. 
 
 " But he was greatly beloved — my bland and lx)untifiil 
 grandfather. He was so h'.rge-hearted and open-handed. 
 He was so friendly, and thoughtful, and gonial that 
 even his jokes had the air of graceful benedictions. He 
 did not seem to grow old, and he was one of those who 
 never appear to have been very young. He flourished 
 in a perennial maturity, an immortal middle age. 
 
 " My grandfatlier lived upon one of the small islands — 
 St. Kitt's perhaps — and liis domain extended to the 
 sea. His house, a rambling West Indian mansion, was 
 surrounded with deep, spacious piazzas, co\ered with 
 luxurious lounges, among which one capacious chair was 
 his peculiar seat. They tell me, he used sometimes to 
 sit there for the whole day, his great, soft, brown eyes 
 fastened tipon the sea, watching the specks of sails that 
 flashed up(ni the horizon, while the evanescent expres- 
 sions cliased each other over his placid face as if it 
 rrllected the calm and chancjinj; sea before him. 
 
 " His morning costume was an ample dressing-gown 
 of gorgeousiy flowered silk, and his morniiig uas very 
 
« ■ 
 
 
 "^'^f- 
 
 J ^, 
 
 T1TH0TTOM8 SPKCI'AC M'.S. 
 
 127 
 
 4 
 f 
 
 4 
 
 , * 
 
 -I 
 
 apt to hint all (l)iy. lit; lardy rt;a<l ; lnit lu! would pace 
 the {^H'at piazza for liours, witii his hauds huiiid in tin' 
 pockt'tH of his (ln;.ssiii«;-}^<)\vii, ami an aii- of sweet rt'\cric, 
 which any Ixjok imist be a very t'litcrtaiiiiii;^ oi;c to 
 profluce. 
 
 "Society, of courso, ho saw little. Then; wan sdine 
 slijfht apprehension that, if lie were hiilden to social 
 entertainments, he niij^ht forget liis coat, or ai . ' , with- 
 out .some other essential part of his dress; and tliere is a 
 sly tradition in the Titbottom family that once, having 
 been invited to a ])all in honor of a new (^fovernoi- of the 
 island, my (grandfather ^J'itbottom sauntered into the hall 
 towards midnif^ht wrapped in the }.(or<(eons llowers of 
 his dressin^-fjown, an<l with his hands ]>urie(l in the 
 pockets, as usual. There was ^reat excitement amonj^j 
 the {guests, and immense deprecation of ^nibernatorial ire. 
 Fortunately, it happened tliat the governor and my 
 grandfather were old friends, and there was iio otl'ence. 
 But as they were conversinj,^ to;;ether, one of the dis- 
 tressed mana<rers cast indiijnant <"liuict s at the brilliant 
 costume of my e-randfather, mIio sunmioned him, and 
 asked courteously : — 
 
 '" Did you invite me, or my coat f ' 
 
 "'You in a proper coat,' i-eplied the mnnaj^er. 
 
 " Th(! <jovernor smiled approviii<ily, and !< >»keii nt my 
 grandfather. 
 
 '" JVIy friend,' said he to the' managei-, 'I bt-;:; your 
 pardon, I forgot.' 
 
 " The next day, my grandfather was seen promenailing 
 in full ball dress alonu- tlie streets of the little town. 
 

 128 
 
 TITB<nTt>M 8 HHKCn-Ai.'I.RS. 
 
 "'Tlicy ouf^lit to know,* .said hr, ' tlmt I Imvo a proper 
 coaL, and that not contt'nipt, nor fM)verty, but forgi-ttul- 
 ne.sH, sent mo to a ball in uiy dreH.sinj;-g()Wn,' 
 
 " H«! did not much frc<|uent social festivals after tljis 
 failure, but ho always told tho atory with satisfaction 
 and u (juiot smile. 
 
 " To a stranger, life upon tliose little islands is uniform 
 even to weariness. Hut the old native dons, like my 
 grandfather, ripen in tho prolonged sunshint, like the 
 turtle upon the Bahama banks, nor know of existence 
 more desirable. Life in the tropics I take to be a placid 
 torpidity. 
 
 " During the long, warm mornings of nearly half a 
 century, my grandfather Titlxittom had sat in his dress- 
 ing-gown, and gazed at the sea. But one calm June 
 day, as he slowly pac(!d the piaz;?a after breakfast, hir, 
 dreamy glance was arrested by a little vessel, evidently 
 Hearing the shore. lie called for his spyglass, and, 
 surveying tlie craft, saw that she came from the neigh- 
 boring island. She glided smoothly, slowly, over the 
 summer sea. The warm morning air was sweet with 
 perfumes, and silent with heat. The sea sparkled 
 languidly, and the brilliant blue sky hung cloudlessly 
 over. Hcores of little island vessels had my grandfather 
 seen coming over the horizon, and cast ancJior in the 
 port. Hundreds of summer mornings had the white 
 sails flashed and faded, like va<rue faces throuirh for<rot- 
 ten dreams. But this time he laid down the spyglass, 
 and loaned against a colunm of the piazza, and watched 
 the vessel with an intentne.ss that lie could not explain. 
 She came nearer and nearer, a graceful spectre in the 
 dazzling morning. 
 
^' ♦ "T 
 
 .^^,. 
 
 
 
 TITHOTTO.MH 8I'K(TACI,KS. 
 
 12C 
 
 -a 
 
 "'Decidedly, I niu.st Mt«>j) <lo\vi» uiid stf ulH)ut that 
 veHHol,' Hiiid my ^'nindfiitlur TitlK)tt()m. 
 
 " He gathered his nmplo <lre.sHing-(;<)\vn idKMit him, 
 and Ht»})ped from tlio piazz/i, with no other protection 
 from tho Hun than the little Hinoking-cap U|M)n hi.s head. 
 His face wore a cahn, l)eaiiiin<^ Hiiiile, as if he loved the 
 whole world. Ho waa not an old man ; hut there was 
 almost a patriarchal pathos in his expression, as he 
 sauntered alon<j in the sunshine towards tho shore. A 
 group of idle gazers was collected, to watch the arrival. 
 The little vessel furled her sails, and drifted slowly 
 landward, and, as she was of very light draft, she came 
 clo.se to the shelving shore. A long plank was put out 
 from her side, and the debarkation C(jmmenced. 
 
 " My grandfather Titl)ottom at()o<l looking on, to see 
 the passengers as they pa.s.sed. There were but a few of 
 them, and mostly traders from the neighlx>ring island. 
 Hut suddenly the face of a young giil appeared over the 
 side of tho vessel, and she stepped upon the plank to 
 de.scend. My grandfather TitlK)ttom instantly a<lvanced, 
 aiul, moving briskly, reached the top of the plank at the 
 same moment, and with the old ta.s.sel of his cup Hashing 
 in the sun, and one hand in the pijcket of his dressim'- 
 gown, with the other he handed the young lady carefully 
 down the plank. That young lady was afterward my 
 grandmother Titbottom, 
 
 " For, over the gleaming soa which he had watched so 
 long, and which seemed thus to reward his patient gaze, 
 came his bride that suiuiy morning. 
 
 " ' Of course, we are happy,' he used to .say to her, 
 after they were married: * for you are the gift of tli 
 
 lie uuu 
 
,'f i 
 
 /- '^^--^^^^^^^''r^g^^i j^ti^r 
 
 222s 
 
 130 
 
 TITHOTTOM S HPCrTAC LKfl. 
 
 I hav«» IovimIro lon^j ami ho wfll.' An«l my jxraiulfather 
 TitlMittoiii woiiM lay liin liaiul hd tt'mK'rly upon the j;ol- 
 <li'ii hair of his yoim«( bride, that yuu could fancy hiiu u 
 devout l*ars»'(', cui -sHiiig Hiiiil)Oflms. 
 
 "There were eiidJeHS ft'.stivitieH upon occaHion f)f the 
 marriage; and my j^raiidfather tlid not ^o to one of them 
 in his dressin^'-^jovvn. The <fentle sweetness of his wife 
 intuited every heart into love and sympathy. He was 
 much older than she, without doubt. Hut a^e, as ho 
 ased to .say with a smile of inunortal youth, is a matter 
 of feeling, not of y«'ars. 
 
 "And if, sonu'times, as she sat by his side on the 
 piazza, her fancy looked through her eyes upon that 
 sunnner sea, and wiw a younger lover, perhaps some one 
 of those graceful and glowing heroes who occupy the 
 foreground of all young maidens' visions by the .sea, yet 
 she could not find one more generous and gracious, nor 
 fancy one more worthy and loving, than my grandfather 
 Titlxjttom. 
 
 " And if, in the mo«»nlit nudnight while he lay calmly 
 sleeping, she leaned out of the window, and sank into 
 vague reveries of sweet po.ssibility, and watched the 
 gleanjing path of the uioonlight upon tli> water, until 
 the dawn glided ovct it — it was only that mcxxl of 
 nameless rem-et and lonfriJiiT which underlies all human 
 happiness ; or it was the vision of that life of cities and 
 the world, which she had never seen, but of which she 
 had often read, and which looked very fair and alluring 
 across the sea, to a girlish imagination, which knew tnut 
 it .should never see that reality. 
 
 ■'Tiiuso West Indiun yoa.rs w.ro the grcit days of the 
 

 4/.' 
 
 ^\'^m.3'^(f-^*j 
 
 
 TITIIt/n'oMM HI'K(TA<:i,K»«. 
 
 131 
 
 family," Huid 'ritlMiKoni, w i(|i an n\r af ni.ij.Ntic aixl if;^Hl 
 rc^'frt. ixiiisiii;;, iukI imi.'Hiii;^, in diir litil.' jmrlor, liko a 
 liili! Stuart ill t-xilf, rciiifinlxiin;,' Kn;^'laii<l. 
 
 IVuo riUMiil hir ryt'M Jioiu li<r Wf.ik, uihI ImuIx.mI at 
 him with siiIxIikmI admiration; Inr I hav.- (.loi-rvcl I hut, 
 hko tho rent of htr sf\. nhr has a siniiruhir synipatliy 
 with tho rt'{)rt's«'iitativ«' of a n-diufd family. 
 
 IVrhapH it is their tiii.T perception whicli h-ads (hese 
 tender-hearted women to reco^rni/,. tht; divine ii;,dit of 
 .stK-ial Huperiority so much more readily than we; ai:d 
 yet, much us Titl)ottoiii was enlianced in my wife's 
 achniiiition of the diseoviiy that his dusky sadnesM of ^ 
 nature and expression was, as it were, th«r expiring' ^deam ' 
 ami late twilij,dit of ancestral spl( ndors, I douht tf Mr. ] 
 liourno would have preferred him for lK«,k-kee{HT a 
 moment sooner upon that account. In truth, I have 
 ohserved, down town, that the fact of your ancestors 
 doin^ nothin;; is not considered •rood proof that you can 
 do anythini^. 
 
 But Prue and her sex re(;ard sentiment more than 
 action, and I understand easily enou<rh why she is never 
 tired of hearing me read of Prince Charlie. If Titlj(jtt<jm 
 had been only a little youn^^'er, a little handsomer, a little 
 more «rallantly dn-ssed—in fact, a little more of a Prince 
 Charlie, I am sure her eyes would not have fallen a^'ain 
 upon her work so traiujuilly, as he resumed his story. 
 
 "I can remember my ufrandfather 1'itl)()ttom, althou«rh 
 I was a very younir child, and lie wius a vny «>ld man. 
 My youn<r mother and my y()un<,' j,'rand mother are very 
 distinct li^nn-es in my memory, ministerinjr to the old 
 gentleman, wrapped in liis dressiug-gown, and seated 
 
^.^^CMJ^M^ 
 
 132 
 
 TITIIOITOIM HI'KCTAC't.M. 
 
 U{H)ti III)' |)iii//ii. I ii-iiii'iiilH'r Ills wliitit hiiir, unci IiIh 
 mini siiiili', uii<l liow, rn»t lnn;j Jm'Tui-u ho dit-W, ho chIUmI 
 nit« to liini, liMil layiii;; liiH haiitl U|Kjn my huiui, guid tu 
 mo : - - 
 
 "' My oliild, till' worM in not tlii^ jjn'iit sunny piazza, 
 nor lif«> tlu! fiiiry storifs wliirh '' >• womon t«'ll you hero, 
 iiM you Nit in tlicir liipH. I .(hall mnm )h) gone, hut I 
 want to h'avo with you Konio memento of my lovo for 
 you, and I know of notliin^ m<»ro vahiahh) than thcHe 
 H|K'etacleH, whieh your ^'ramhnothi'r brought from her 
 native iHhind, when Mhu arrived hero one fine Huuuner 
 morning, ionj; a<;o. I cannot tell whether, when you 
 tjrow older, you will regard them asa^^ift t)f the jjreateHt 
 value, or as Houiethinj^ you had Ix'on happier never to 
 have |)OH.seHhed.' 
 
 " ' But, grandpapa, I am not Hhort-sighted.* 
 '"My son, are you not human?' said the old gentle- 
 man ; and how hIwiI! I ever forget the thoughtful sadness 
 with which, at the same time, ho handed me the spectacles. 
 *' Instinctively I put tliem on, and looked at my 
 grandfather Rut I saw no grandfather, no pijizziv, no 
 rtow(!n'd dressing-gown; I saw only a luxuriant palm 
 tree, waving broadly over a tranfpiil landscape; pleasjint 
 homes clustered around it; garden.s toeming with fruit 
 and Howers; flocks (juietly feeding; birds wheeling and 
 eliiri)ing. I heard children's voices, and the low lullaby 
 of happy mothers. The sound of cheerful singing came 
 wafted from distant fields upon the light breeze. Golden 
 harvests glistened out of sight, and I caught their rust- 
 ling whispers of prosperity. A warm, mellow atmosphere 
 bathed the whole. 
 

 TiTnorroM h uptTTArt.wi. 
 
 133 
 
 " I liavo MM'M oopit'M (if tin- lainlMc*H|K'H «»f tilt! Itniiun 
 |Miiiit«'r C'liiiult'. wliicli w«'«'iiu'(l to nil' fa>it n'initiiMct'iu'<»H 
 of tliiit I'liUii hikI iiiippy viMioii. Miit alt tliin |)<-aci> niii| 
 {>r«)H|nTi(y Hocirit'il to Mow from tlio Hpn-atliii^ palm liM 
 irom u fountain. 
 
 " I do not know how lon^ I l(K)kt'<l, hut I ha«l, uppnr- 
 i-ntly, no jkiwit, as I hml no will, to rcmoN »> tln^ .sp<'('ta<'lfs. 
 What a won<hiful islatid nuint Nevis Im>, tliouy;lit I, if 
 pcophf cjiriy Huch pirturcs in tlnir pofk«t.s, only hy hu}- 
 in^ a pair of H|>i'<'tai'lfs ! What won<lir that my tlt-nr 
 >,'ran(hnotln'r TitlK)ttom Jia.s livrd HUch a phuid lifr, ,uul 
 has hh'HMcd us all with htT sunny ttnipcr, wlu-n hIu« has 
 liv«'d Murroiui<h'il hy such imaps of pracf ! 
 
 " My ^Tandfather dit d. Hut st ill, in tho warm morning 
 sunshino U|m)JI tho j)ijiz/.a, I frit his pla<'i<l pn-sfntH', ami 
 as I c-awlfd into his gn-at chair, and drifted ou in niverie 
 throuj^h tho still trojjical day, it was as if his soft 
 dreamy eye had passed into my soul. My grandmother 
 cherished his nu'inory with tender re;^ret. A violent 
 passion of grief for his loss was no more possihlo than 
 lor tho pensive (lecay of the year. 
 
 " Wo have no jiortrait of him, hut I sei- always, when 
 I remendn-r him, that peaceful and luxuriant palm. 
 And I think that to have known one goo<l old man — (jiio 
 man who, through tho chances and ruhs of a long life, 
 has carried his heart in his hand, like a palm branch, 
 waving all di.scords into peace, helps om- faith in GiA, in 
 ourselves, and in each other, more than many sermons. 
 I hardiv know whether to he imitefnl to \i\y "-fnudfiither 
 for the spectacles ; and yet when I rememh 'r that it is to 
 them I owe the pleasant inuige of him which I cherish, I 
 seem to myself sadly ungrateful. 
 
-.T-^y^p^^ '^'TT'^^*Y'$J\\i 
 
 1S4 
 
 TIiriOTTOM'll RPKrTArMUi. 
 
 " MikIiiiih'," hiiid 'ritiNiitoiii 'm l'nn', jsnli-nuilv, "my 
 IIM'lilury in II !uii;^ hikI ;;lM<niiy yallti y, iiikI «iiily r''in<it«'ly, 
 lit iiM fiirtliir tinl, <1<> I H.i' t't) j^IiiiiiM' r nf Mkft Miii.<sliiiM<, 
 iiml only Hu Ti' iirt? tli<' pl«' iMint picliiiis liim^r TIm-v 
 H»'iiii to lilt! viiy lia[i|»y aloii;; w Imst' j^ailiiy the Njinli^lit 
 htr«'aiiiH to (litir v«'iy I'tit, sJiikiri;; nil llu* jiirliiri(| wiills 
 into utit'a'Iiii;; Kjili-rnlor." 
 
 I'nii' Inul lai'l lnT work in In i lap, aii<l as 'ritlN)ttoiii 
 paUHfil u iiioiin lit, aii'l I tiliiHiJ l-nanls Im r. I I'oiiiiil lici' 
 liiijil v\r>i fastclH'il iijiiiii lay I H .', ii'kI i^JiHtiiiiii;^ Willi 
 many tt'ars. I kn<'\v that tli.- ti ms imatit, tliat .sjie J'dt 
 lii'fsf'ir to Ix' one of thosi wlm "-. i iiicj to 'riflM)ttom vcrv 
 
 luipi'y. 
 
 " MiHfortiiiits of many kink ••.•niic licavilx iijKin the 
 family aftt-r tin- li. ail was o.,|i, '|'|,,. ^r, at Ikmisc wum 
 r»'liii(|niNln'<l. M\ jmi-hk w. re ImmIi ■IimiI, aini my 
 j^rantimotlicr limi .n(iif in-f nl" uir. Hut, finiii tin' 
 moiiu'iit that I i.> lix .1 ti . ;,'Ut of th. >pfcta<'lrs, I could 
 not resist their ?'a-r natiui.. an] I w-Jidr w iiitt) myself, 
 ami iM'canie a -«ilit. ry f'o\ TIptc wen- -k -t many com- 
 panioMM for nit i.i my owi n'^- . a; : (h -y ;.'!ailuaily left 
 me, or, ut least i.i net a, ii'-ar v -, tiijiai: w ifli im>', f(;r, 
 if they teased :, J ;iuile<i ct ny jtee-ai" •>* and survoved 
 tlicm HO Heri.)U iy ;lint rlwy wnim-K , kind of awc of 
 me and e\id'nti\ re^'ar'i.-i ■-!■:■ .,TJi..,diath'-r'.s <;ift as a 
 concealed nmj^ea; weajHai 'H:...!^, ttu^il In dan"-erouHlv 
 drawn upon m it ii nn *i-r' »u Win ticver, in our 
 ^ames, there w ■'■ i la:-.' ;i!MJ iiiTi: vi^nK, ami I becran 
 
 f<» f..i.I ..lw.i.»^ »,. !.. —. — ... I K il M 
 
 '■'l'-- t- ::: ■ • — — - - ; ; :: -:.::;-.-- r ;| ;:>, i firy Ui i 
 
 took the alnriii, ui< -^susj; Mi "ut -or TitlMittom'.s 
 
 spoctac.es, and .italic" eo k«. a Hock of scared sheep. 
 
j»nr== 
 
 l•rT=^■ \i '■=s=7=fv==r 
 
 TinuiTToM 1 oI'Hj T,\r| VM. 
 
 m.-i 
 
 " Nt.r ••oiilil I uun.lrr nt i» I'm-, at fiit iMfnic ||i.\ 
 t<K»k !ln» Jiliiilii, I haw .slriiii;,'!' si^lifs w In n | l.H.ktil nl 
 
 I Ill-Ill tliruUj^'ll I In* j;lllM.S«'M. 
 
 "If (w<i Win! i|iiiirnliii<; ahotit ;i nmililc or u |»all, I 
 lui'l only til ^'11 iK'liiml n hi-r wlirrn I \\ .ih roini-iilnl ami 
 liHik at till III Ici.Hun ly. 'I Inn tin- hoiiu' •■liaii;.'i<l, unij it 
 wiiH no loiim r a I'riiii iiirailnw with Ixtvs plav iic, hut u 
 
 HjKtt which I iliil ii(»t 11 ;,'iii/.f. Hiul fnriiis that, iiumIi- iih- 
 
 hIiIIiIiIi r, or Hiiiijc. It wuh ii<»t a hi;^' Ih.y hiilK iii«4 ii littli- 
 Kill', hut II ymiti;; Wolf with /^'listi iiiii;^ ti-tth ami a laiiih 
 cow'iTiin; hi-foii- him. or it was a do;,' faithful ami fjt n- 
 ishin-^r --or (i star j^oin;; slowly into fclipsi' — or a iainlK)W 
 tailin;; or a flow( r hjiMitiun^f — or a huh risini'— or a 
 
 waninir rinMtn. 
 
 " 'I hi> I'l-vrlatioiis of till' sjM'ctacli'.': ili'ti>niiini'il my 
 fi'i'liii<^ for th<! Ikivm, ami for .iM whom j saw thron;,'h 
 Ihi'iii. No Hhym-sM, !ior awkwanliuss, nor Milciici-, coiihl 
 wparate nm from thus.- \\ ho I , -kcil lovi-ly as lilii-.s to 
 my illumiiiati'il iy<s. Ihit thi> vision mmlc mi; afiaiil. 
 If I flit mvsilf warmlv iliawn to anv oiii", I .stni'^'-liMl 
 with the fiircc ilisiic of M'liiiir him thron;,f|i tin* s{)iTtacli's, 
 for I fiariil to find him .sotm-thin^ rls^' tlum I fanrii-i!. 
 I lonp'd to iMijoy the luxury of ij^'nonuiL fei-lin;,', to love 
 without knowiiiir, to float like n h-af fjjion tlu' ciMics of 
 Iih\ ilrifti'd now to a suiinr iioint, now to a .solemn 
 shade — now over ^ditleriii;^^ ripjilt s, now ovir ;,deamini; 
 calms,- ami not to determiiKd imrl"^, a trim vessel with 
 an inexorahle rud/icr. 
 
 tnii; 
 
 Hi. 
 
 n 
 
 <u 
 
 I <! em 
 
 'A ^'*''MK' 
 
 an li 
 
 the unavoidahio condition of owniii;,' the ^ 'peetacles wen 
 using them, I .s<Mzed them and sauntend inty tho lilth 
 
#f :'■ 1 ' 
 
 1S« 
 
 TITBOTTOM'a SPECTACLES. 
 
 town. Puttinj^ tli.-in to my eyes I peered into the houses 
 and at the people wlio passed nie. Here sat a family at 
 breakfast, and I stood at the window lookin<^ in. O 
 motley meal ! fantastic vision ! The good motlier saw 
 her lord sitting oj)posite, a grave, respectable being, 
 eating muffins. But I saw only a bank-bill, more or less 
 crumbled and tattered, marked with a larger or lesser 
 figure. If a sharp wind blew suddeidy, I saw it tremble 
 and flutter; it waa thin, flat, impalpable. I removed my 
 glasses, and looked with my eyes at the wife. I could 
 have smiled to see the humid tenderness with which she 
 regarded ])er strange vix-a-vis. Is life only a game of 
 blindman's buif? of droll cross-purposes ? 
 
 "Or, I put them on again, and then looked at the 
 wives. How many stout trees I saw, — how many tendtT 
 flowers, — how many placid p(X)ls ; yes, and how many 
 little streams winding out of sight, shrinking before the 
 large, hard, round eyes opposite, and slipping ofl' into 
 solitude and shade, with a low, inner song for their own 
 solace. 
 
 " In many houses I thought to see angels, nymphs, or, 
 at least, women, and could only find broomsticks, mops, 
 or kettles, hurrying about, rattling and tinkling, in a 
 state of shrill activity. I made calls upon elegant ladies, 
 and after I had enjoyed the gloss of silk, and the delicacy 
 of lacj, and the glitter of jewels, I slipped on my specta- 
 cles, and saw a peacock's feather, flounced and furbelowed, 
 and fli:ttering; or an iron rod, thin, sharp, and hard; nor 
 could I pos. "bly mistake the movement of the drapery 
 for any flexioility of the thing draped. 
 
 " Or, mysteriously chilled, I saw a statue of perfect 
 
 Si 
 
titbpttom's spectacles. 
 
 137 
 
 form, or flowing movement, it might Ihj alaba-ster, or 
 bronze, or nmrble,— but sadly often it was ice; and I 
 knew that after it had ahone a little, and frozen a few 
 eyes with its despairing perfection, it could not be put 
 away in the niches of palaces for ornament and proud 
 faunly tradition, like the alaba.ster, or bronze, or marble 
 statues, but would melt, and shrink, and fall coldly away 
 in colorless and u.seless water, be absorbed in the earth 
 and utterly forgotten. 
 
 " But the true sadness was ratlier in seeing those who, 
 not having the spectacles, thought that the iron rod was 
 flexible, and the ice statue warm. I saw many a gallant 
 heart, which seemed to me brave and loyal an the crusa- 
 ders, pursuing, through days and nights, and a long life 
 of devotion, the hope of lighting at least a smile in the 
 cold eyes, if not a fire in the icy heart. I watched the 
 earnest, enthusiastic sacrifice. I saw the pure resolve, 
 the generous faith, the fine scorn of doubt, the impatience 
 of suspicion. I watched the grace, the ardor, the glory 
 of devotion. Through those strange spectacles how often 
 I saw the noblest heart renouncing all other hope, all 
 other ambition, all other life, than the possible love of 
 some one of those statues. 
 
 " Ah ! me, it was terrible, but they had not the love to 
 give. The face was so polished and smooth, because 
 there was no sorrow in the heart,— and drearily, often, 
 no heart to be touched. I could not wonder that the 
 noble heart of devotion was broken, ''ir it had dashed 
 itself against a stone. I wept, until n.^v spectacles were 
 dimmed, for those hopeless lovers ; but there was a pang 
 beyond tears for those icy statues. 
 
 ■ 3*1-.- ' •■ yi«»T":.ft;j 
 
 iw.. .•"•=>x'<rj'.''»^-iyf»:'^,'i4K%r'»MDPi 
 
ill IT !i! 
 
 138 
 
 TITUOITOM 8 8PKCTACLE8. 
 
 H'i 
 
 I) \ i 
 
 I 
 
 "Still a boy, 1 was thus too much a man in know- 
 ledjje, — I (lid not comprehend the si^rhts I wa.s compelled 
 to see. I used to tear my glasses away from my eyes, 
 and, frightened at myself, run to escape my own con- 
 Hciousness. Reaching the small house where we then 
 lived, I plunged into n»y grandmother's room, and, 
 throwing myself upon the t\oov, buried my face in her 
 lap ; and sobbed myself to sleep with premature grief. 
 
 " But when I awakened, and felt her cool hand upon 
 my hot forehead, and heard the low sweet song, or the 
 gentle story, or the tenderly told parable from the Bible, 
 with which she tried to 8(M)the me, I could not resist the 
 mystic fascination that lured me, as I lay in her lap, to 
 stf'ul a glance at her through the spectacles. 
 
 " Pictures of the Madonna have not her rare and 
 pensive beauty. Upon the tranquil little islands her life 
 had been eventless, and all the fine possibilities of her 
 nature were like flowers that never bloomed. Placid 
 were all her years ; yet I have read of no heroine, of no 
 woman great in sudden crises, that it did not seem to me 
 she might have been. The wife and widow of a man 
 who loved his home better than the homes of others, I 
 have yet heard of no queen, no l^elle, no imperial beauty, 
 whom in grace, and brilliancy, and persuasive courtesy 
 she might not have supassed. 
 
 " Ma<liime," said Titbottom to my wife, whose heart 
 hung upon liis story, "your husband's young friend, 
 Aurelia, wears sometimes a camellia in her hair, and no 
 diamond in the ball-room seems so costly as that perfect 
 flower, which women envy, and for whose least and 
 withered petal men sigh; yet, in the tropical solitudes of 
 
 m^ 
 
 KJ^j VlBk 
 
I 
 
 TITBOTTOII'h SPErTACLES. 
 
 139 
 
 Brazil, how many a camellia hwl .l,,,,,s fn.m tl.e bush 
 that no oye ha-s ever «een, whi, I,. Iwnl it ihnvor^d and 
 been noticed, would have ^.ilded all hearts with its 
 memory. 
 
 "When I 8tole these furtive ^dances at my ^n-and- 
 mother hal^ ea.m^. that they were wron^.. I saw only a 
 calm lake, whose shores were low. an.l over which the 
 sun hun^' unbroken, so that the least star was clearly 
 reHectecl It had an atmosphere of solemn twilight 
 tranquillity and so completely did its unruffled snrttce 
 blend with the cloudless, star-stu,lded sky. that, when I 
 looked through my spectacles at my ^grandmother, the 
 vision seemed to me all heaven and stars. 
 
 "Yet, as I gazed and garni. I felt what stately cities 
 might well have been built upon those shores, and have 
 flashed prosperity over the calm, like coruscations of 
 
 blo^wnJ ^ ^7'"^V^>'"^''""'^ ^'''''' -Jkon-sailed. and 
 bio. n by perfumed .-inds. drifting over those depthless 
 waters and througi tho.se spacious skies. I gaz.d urx^n 
 the twilight, the iiLserutable silence, like a God-feaJin.; 
 discovery- upon a „. w and vast sea bursting upon him 
 through forest gloom.s. and in the fervor of w7iose impl 
 ^oned gaze a millennial and p^.tic world arises, and 
 man need no longer die to be hai)py. 
 
 "My companions -naturally deserte.l me. for I had 
 
 ^^r^^^^^""' ""^ abstracted: and, unable to 
 res St the allurements of my spectacles. I was constantiv 
 lost in the world, of which those companions were p 
 yet of which they knew nothing ^ ' 
 
 " I grew cold and hard, alnuj morose : poople seemed 
 to me so blind and unreasonable. ^ 
 
 I 
 
 iiey did the wi 
 
 onir 
 
 rvrarw(«s«ii,i 
 

 140 
 
 TITBOTTOM's 8PKCTACLK8. 
 
 ■..Ill , 
 
 thinj^. They callod groen, yellow ; and black, white. 
 Young men said of a girl, ' What a lovely, siniplo creat- 
 ure !' 1 looked, and there was only a glistening wisp of 
 straw, dry and hollow. Or they said, ' What a cold, 
 proud beauty ! ' I looked, and lo ! a Madonna, whoso 
 heart held the world. Or they said, ' What a wild, giddy 
 girl ! ' and I saw a glancing, dancing mountain stream, 
 pure as the virgin snows whence it flowed, singing 
 through sun and shade, over pearls and gold dust, slipping 
 along unstained by weed or rain, or heavy foot of cattle, 
 touching the flowers with a dewy kiss, — a beam of grace, 
 a happy song, a line of light, in the dim and troubled 
 landscape. 
 
 " My grandmother sent me to school, but I looked at 
 the master, and saw that he was a smooth round ferule, 
 or an improper noun, or a vulgar fraction, and refused 
 to obey him. Or he was a piece of string, a rag, a 
 willow-wand, and I had a contemptuous pity. But one 
 was a well of cool, deep water, and looking suddenly in, 
 one day, I saw the stars. 
 
 " That one gave me all my schooling. With him I 
 used to walk by the sea, and, as we strolled and the 
 waves plunged in long legions before us, I looked at him 
 through the spectacles, and as his eyes dilated with the 
 boundless view, and his chest heav^ed with an impossible 
 desire, I saw Xerxes and his army, tossed and glittering, 
 rank upon rank, multitude upon multitude, out of sight, 
 but ever regularly advancing, and, with confused roar of 
 ceaseless music, prostrating themselves in abject homage. 
 Or, as with arms outstretched and hair streaming on the 
 wind, he chanted full lines of the resounding Iliad, I 
 
 .■..1CSK'<yil» 
 
TITBOTTOM's 8PKCTACLM. 
 
 141 
 
 saw Homer pacing the Egean Hands of the Greek Mun.setH 
 of forgotten times. 
 
 "My grandmother died, and I was thrown into the 
 world without resourees, and with no capital but my 
 spectacles. I tried to find employment, but everylxMly 
 was shy of me. There was a vagne suspicion that I was 
 either a little crazed, or a goo«J deal in league with the 
 prince of darkness. My conipanions, who would p^'isist 
 in calling a piece of painted muslin a fair and fn.gnmt 
 flower, had no difficulty : success waited for them ai"ouud 
 every corner, and arrived in every ship. 
 
 "I tried to teach, for I loved children. But if anything 
 excited a suspicion of my pupils, and putting on my 
 spectacles, I saw that 1 was fondling a snake, or smelling 
 at a bud with a worm in it, I sprang up in horror and 
 ran away; or, if it seemed to me through the glasses, 
 that a cherub smiled upon me, or a rose was blooming in 
 my button-hole, then I felt myself in.perfect and impure, 
 not fit to be leading and training what was so essentially 
 superior to myself, and I kissed the children and left 
 them weeping and wondering. 
 
 " In despair I went to a great m.erchant on the island, 
 and asked him to employ me. 
 
 '"My dear young friend.' he said, 'I understand that 
 you have some singular secret, some charm, or spell, or 
 amulet, or something, I don't know what, of which 
 people are afraid. Now you know, my dear,' said the 
 merchant, swelling up, and apparently prouder of his 
 great stomach than of his large fortiuie, ' I am not of 
 that kind. I am not easily frightened. You may spare 
 yourself the pain of trying to impose ujion me. People 
 
Ill' 
 
 fejH 1^ 
 
 *^^t3 
 
 U2 
 
 TITHOTTOM S HPKCTACLKfl. 
 
 who propose to come to tim«i Ix-fori" I arrive, are accus- 
 toiiu'd to urino vary early in the inorniu;,',' Haiti he, 
 thrusting his thunibn in the annholc^s of his waistcoat, 
 ami spreading the fingers like two fans, u|)on his bosoni. 
 'I think I have heard something of your secret. You 
 have a pair of spectacles, I believe, that you value very 
 much, because your grandmother brought them as a 
 marriage {K)rtion to your grand fatlni-. Now, if you 
 think tit to sell me those spectacles, I will pay you the 
 largest market price for them. What do you say ? ' 
 
 " I told him I had not the slightest idea of selling my 
 spectacles. 
 
 '"My young friend means to eat them, I siippose,' 
 said he, with a contemptuous smile. 
 
 " I made no reply, but was turning to leave the office, 
 when the merchant called after me : — 
 
 " ' My young friend, po(jr people should never suffer 
 themselves to get into pets. Anger is an expensive 
 luxury, in which only men of a certain income can 
 indulge. A pair of spectacl(^s and a hot teniper are not 
 the most promising capital for success in life. Master 
 Titbottom.' 
 
 " I said nothing, but put my liand upon the door to go 
 out, when the merchant said, more respectfully , — 
 
 " ' Well, you foolish boy, if you will not sell your 
 spectacles, perliaps yo\i will agree to sell the use of them 
 to me. That is, you shall only put them on when I 
 direct you, and for my purposes. Hallo! you little fool !' 
 cried he, impatiently, as ho. saw that I intended to mako 
 no reply. 
 
Titiiotton'h shi.ctaci.ks. 
 
 143 
 
 "But I had imllcl out my .siwetiirlcH and {)iit them on 
 for my own purjwjMOH, and ajriiin.st his wish and (k-sire. 
 I looked at him, and saw a hu;,^<', Imld-hcaded wild Ix.ar, 
 with gros8 chapH and a Ic.M-inj,' eye-only the nion; 
 ridiculouH for the high-arched, g()ld-lK)W(!d .siH-otncleH 
 that straddled his nose. One of his foreduK.fs was 
 thrust into the safe, where his bills receivaliie w.-re hived, 
 and the other into his pockc^t, among the loose chang.' 
 and bills there. His ears were pricked forward witirn 
 brisk, sensitive smartness. In a worM where prize {)orl< 
 was the best excellence, he would have earri.-d off all the 
 premiums. 
 
 "I stepped into the next office in the stnct, and a 
 mild-faced, genial man, also n large and ..ptil.nt m.r- 
 chant, asked me my business in such u tone that I 
 instantly looked through my six'ctael.s, and sjiw a land 
 flowing with milk and honey. There J pitehe<l my tent, 
 and .staid till the good man died, and his business was 
 discontinued. 
 
 "But while there," said Titbottom, aw h's voice 
 trembled away into a .sigh, "I fh-st s.iw l'ncios<i. De- 
 spite the spectacles, I saw Preeiosii. F. )r da \ h, U .r weeks, 
 for months, I did not take my spectacles with me. 1 
 ran away from them, I threw them up on high shelves, 
 I tried to make up my mind to throw them iirto the sea, 
 or dorm the well. I could not, I would not, I dare not, 
 look at Preciosa through the spectacles. It ^\■as not 
 possible for me deliberately to destroy them; but I 
 awoke in the night, and could almost have cursed my 
 dear old grandfather for his gift. 
 
 " I sometimes escaped from the office, and sat for whole 
 
ft. 
 
 144 
 
 titbuttom's spbctaclbs. 
 
 I ' 
 
 days with PrecioHa I told her the Htnmm; thin^ I had 
 seen with my mystic ^liwwes. The hours were not 
 enough for the wild romances wliicli I nivo<l in her ear. 
 She listened, astonished and apjmlled. Her bhie eyes 
 turned u^x)n nio with sweet deprecation. She clunjj to 
 me, and then withdrew, and fletl fearfully fn)m the room. 
 
 " But she could not stay away. She could not resist 
 my voice, in whoso tones burnt all the love that filled 
 my heart and brain. The very effort to resist the desire 
 of seeing her as I saw everybody el>w;, gave a frenzy and 
 an unnatural tension to my feeling and my manner. I 
 .sat by her si<le, looking into her eyes, snuiothing her hair, 
 folding her to my heart, which was sunken deep and 
 deep — why not forever ? — in that dream of peace. I ran 
 from her presence, and shouted, and leaped with joy, and 
 sat the whole night through, thrilled into happiness by 
 the thought of her love and loveliness, like a wind-harp, 
 tightly strung, and answering the airiest sigh of the 
 breeze with music. 
 
 " Then came cjilmer days — he conviction of deep love 
 settled upon our lives — as after the hurrying, heaving 
 days of spring comes the bland and benignant summer. 
 
 "'It is no dream, then, after all, and we are happy,' I 
 said to her, one day ; antl there canje no answer, for 
 happiness is speechless. 
 
 '" We are happy then,' I said to myself, ' there is no 
 excitement now. How glad I am that I can now look 
 at her through my spectacles.' 
 
 " I feared lest some instinct should warn me to beware. 
 I e.scapcd from her arms, and laii home and .seized the 
 glasses, and bounded back again to Preciosa. As I entered 
 
TITIIOTT«I»|'h HI*K(rrACI,R8. 
 
 146 
 
 tho room I wjih lu»Ht»'«|, my hnul whh swlmminj; with 
 confused appn'lieiiHiotjs, my ,.y,.s muHt liuvo gliirod. 
 pH'cioHJi wuH fH;,'htciH!il, hikI risitijr from Ii.t nmt, hUhhI 
 with an imiuirin;; ghmco of HurpriHo in her ('yoH. 
 
 " liut I WUH Iwmt with frenzy upon my puri)OHe. I 
 wjiH merely aware that hUo was in tho r«Hjm. 1 saw 
 nothing els.-. I heard nothing. I cared for nothing, Hut 
 to Heo her through that magic ghins, and feel at onco all 
 the fuUneHH of blissful perfection which that would 
 reveal. Preciosa Ht')o«l before tlie mirror, but aJarmtsd at 
 my wild and eager movements, unable to distingiiifh 
 what I had in my hands, and seeing me raise tliem 
 suddenly to my face, she shrieked with terror, and. fell 
 fainting upon the thxjr, at th.- very moment that I placed 
 the glasses before my eyes, and beheld— myA*^/', reflected 
 in tho mirror, lx>foro which she htul Ixjen standing. 
 
 " Dear madam," cried Titbottom, to my wife, springing 
 up and falling back again in liis chair, pale and trend)ling, 
 while Prue ran to hiui and took his hand, and I poured 
 out a ghuss of water — " I saw myself." 
 
 There was silence for many minutes. Prue laid her 
 hand gently u[X)n the head of our guest, whose eyes 
 were closed, and who breathed softly like an infant in 
 sleeping. Perhaps, in all the long years of angui.sh since 
 that hour, no tender hand had touched his brow, nor 
 wiped away the dumps of a bitter sorrow. Perhaps 
 the temler, maternal fingers of njy wife soothed his 
 weary head with the conviction that he felt the hand of 
 his mother playing with tho h)ng huir of her boy in the 
 
 soft West India mor 
 
 tunf?. 
 
 Perhaps it was only the 
 
 natural relief of expressing a pent-up sorrow 
 
146 
 
 TITIH»TTom'« HI'tJlTACLKU. 
 
 Wlu'ti Im H|x>k.* n^niu. It wiis wieli tli« oM HiilHlued 
 toiM', Jirul tlu) air of <|iiiiiiit soli'innity. 
 
 "Tlusms tinners w.-ro mutt.>rM of lot.jf, |uii|r a;,'o. nn.l I 
 ciuiio to this country soou after. I l.roii;r|,t with iih> pre- 
 mature a>;... a iwwt of melancholy nietuorieM. and the 
 ina^ric NjM.ctacIeH. I ha<l Ixscoino their Mlavo. I hiul 
 nothin^r more to foar. Having; men luymli, I wan com- 
 pelled to H««e othors, projwrly to umlerHtand my relationH 
 to them. The li^rhtH that clieer the future of other men 
 ha4l |r„ne out for me; my eyes wen* those of an exile 
 turned biekwanl.s uixni the n.'ceding shore, and not 
 forwards with ho|)o u\xm the ocean. 
 
 "I minified with men, but with little pleasure. Tlierfi 
 are but many varieties of a few types. I did not Hnd 
 those I came to cl ea re r-s indited than those I had left 
 Ix'hind. I heard men called shrewd and wise, and niporl 
 said they were hi;,'hly iutelli^rent and successful. My 
 Hneat sense detected no aroma of purity and principle, 
 hut I sjiw only a funtfus that had fattened and spread in 
 a night. They went to the theatres t«) see actors ujwn 
 the stage. I went to see actors in the boxes, so consum- 
 mately cunning that others did not know they were 
 acting, and they did not suspect it themselves. 
 
 " Perhaps you wonder it «lid not make me misanthrop- 
 ical. My dear friends, do not forget that I had seen 
 myself. That made me compa.ssionate, not cynical. 
 
 "Of course, I could not value highly the ordinary 
 standards of success and excelh-nce. When I went to 
 church and saw a thin, blue, artiHcial flower, or a great 
 sleepy cushion, expounding the beauty of holiness to 
 pews full of eagles, Imlf-eagles, and three-pences, however 
 
 i»,-l. 
 
 IZiit-.TKL-Z 
 
TITJKKnoM ,"4 HI'MTAn.M. 
 
 u; 
 
 ftilnn'tly conrral,..! Hi.y »iii;;|,t }«• it. l,r,M».|rloth niu\ Ixxitn. 
 or Kiiw iiu rmioii ill um K)ih|,.|- IniiumI w.-. j.injr ov.r tlir 
 Bins of Mh;;.|iiI. II, I ili.i i„,t I'.'.-l as tlu-y f.lt who hhw in 
 all this, not only propriity, hut jti<ty. 
 
 "Or when at pnhlio ni.'ftin;!,'!* an il MtiMxl upon <'!ul. 
 Hn«l wrijf^l.Ml ami s.|uii-iiH<l lith.-jy in evt-ry <lir.'ctioii, 
 ttiid (K'claiT.l that, for his part lit* went in for rainlxiWM 
 an«l hot watrr -how roul<l I li*>|p so«'ii,jr that hu wax still 
 black an<l lov«'«] a Hlimy |hmiI f 
 
 "IcouM not ;;row inisanthropicul when I saw in th.-. 
 ey.'H of HO many who w.iv <.,i||,.,| ,,I,|, tlu' ^Mjshiii;; f.Mui- 
 tains of et«'rnal youth, and th.' li;4ht of an inimoital 
 dawn, or when I saw thosf who wrn- «st.'»"nio<l unsturcss- 
 fiil and aiinh'SH, rulin-,' a fair n-alni of jM-aco an<i plenty, 
 either in tlu-ir own hearts, or in another's -a realm and 
 princely possess!.. n for which they had well renounced a 
 lio|K'less search and a U'lated triumph. 
 
 "I knew one man who had Ineii for years a hyword 
 for havin<.c sou<,dit the philo.soplu-r's stone. iJut I hn.ked 
 at him through tlu; Hpeetacles and .s.iw a satisfaction in 
 concentrated ener;ries nn<l a tenacity arising' from devo- 
 tion to n noble dream, which was not ajipareiit in (he 
 youths who pitied him in the aimless etfeminacy of club.s, 
 nor in the clever piitlemen w ho cracked their thin joke.s 
 U|)on him over a },'(js.siping dinmr. 
 
 "And there was your nei^dd>or over the way, who 
 pu.sse.s for a woman who has failed in lur career, because 
 she is an old maid. People wa<r solemn heads of pity, 
 and say that she made so L'r<"it a mistake in not innrrv- 
 in<^ the brilliant and famous man w ho wa.s for lonj,' years 
 her suitor. It is clear that no oraii'^e tlower v»ill ever 
 
I I. 
 
 m 
 
 148 
 
 TiTiioTTO"* n MifKrrrAcnj 
 
 hl.Hitii for ii.r. Till' y<»utij( |H>op|f umk> tli»<ir i«*n<i©r 
 niiiiuitci'M iilxitit \ur iiM tli.y wu«<'h Iht, ami tiiiitk ul Uvr 
 fMilitiiry linMi-Mof hither ruifrit ami wtuitiiig, lon^riuj;, never 
 
 " WIhmi I tirne, cuino to town I Mlian-d thin sy"il»«thy, 
 iin<l pl.iiMtMl u\y iniHjfiniitiun witli fiuiryiri|^' her hard 
 Htni^';rl'' with th« ronvirti..n tliat nlm ha<l lost all that 
 inaiit^ lif.' iM-autiful. I hiii)jkw»-(1 that if I luul looko<l at 
 Iht thnai^'h my Mi)fOtacl«.s. I hIkhiM ««•<• that it wiw only 
 Iht radiant ti'iujKT which so illuniinattHi her <lns«, that 
 wu did not H«'e it to Ix) lH?avy nahleH. 
 
 " But when, one «lay, I did raise my -(laHaeH, and 
 glaniM<l at her, I did not wee the old maid whom wo all 
 pitieil for a tM^tiret Horrow, hut a woman wIhwo nature 
 was a tropic, in which the sun Hhorni, and hird.s wmg, 
 and tlowti-M bloomed forever. There were no regretH, no 
 doubts ainl half wishes, but a calm Hweetness, a transpar- 
 ent peace. I saw her blush when that old lover passed 
 by, or paused to s|M'ak to her, but it wjis only the sijrn of 
 delicate feminine coMsciousnesH. She knew liis love, and 
 honored it, alth()Uj,d» she could not uiiderstantl it nor 
 return it. I l<H)keiI cio.sely at her, and I .s<vw that 
 although all the world had exclaimed at her indifference 
 to such homage, and had declared it was astonishing she 
 Bhould lose so tine a match, she would only say simply 
 and (juietly : — 
 
 '"If Shakespeare loved me and I did not love him, 
 how could I marry him ? ' 
 
 ♦'Could T }>e ,=::«f,,,tln-opical when I saw such fidul-ty, 
 and dignity, and simplicity ^ 
 
TiTRorroM* irscrACLia 
 
 14 1» 
 
 "Yoti may Ix'Ilovo tliiit I wiin I'Mpc'cinlly cnriouN to 
 look lit that i)l<l lov«>r of Iuth, through my j^lnnMrN II»i 
 wan tio loiij^tT youni;, you know, wln-n I cuiiif, mtd hi.- 
 fttnu^ antl fortune w*<r« m^curo. Ci'rtniiily I havn \u>i>yt\ 
 of few uu'U inoro l»c'lovt'<|, an<l of nouf mon' worthy to 
 \)^ lovi^l. Ill) hiul tho t'lixy manner ol' a man of tho 
 w«/ild, tho Hi>nHitivo jjraco of a {Kx't, and thu charitiihh> 
 jud^tnont of a wide traveller. Ho was acc<iuiit«'d tin* 
 nioftt NUCCOHHful and moMt unNpoiled of n><ri. IlandMomc 
 Lrilliant, wi-ne, t<'nder, jjraceful. accompliHlied, rioli, and 
 famouN, I liMtked at him, without the Npectarli'H, in Hur- 
 prine and admiration, and wondered how yotir nei^ldjor 
 over tho way hml been ho entirely utitouehed by Imh 
 homage. I watched tlieir intercourMe in mniety, I Haw 
 her ^y smile, her cordial ^reetinj^; I marke<l hln frank 
 addreHH, hin lofty courteHy. Their manner told no talea 
 The eajjer world Wtt8 bulked, and I pulled out my 
 HpectacleH. 
 
 "I had seen her alreaily, and now I .saw him. He 
 lived only in memory, and his memory wan a spaciou.s 
 and stately palace. But he did not oftenest frcrpient 
 the banqueting hall, where were endlcs.s hoHpitality and 
 fi'jwtlnj;, — nor did he loiter nnu'h in the rcce[ition rooms, 
 wjiere a thronj^ of new visitors was forever swarming'. — 
 nor did he feed his vanity by haunting; the apartment in 
 which were stored the trophies of his varied tritimphs, — 
 nor dream nnich in the great galKry hung with pictures 
 of h's travels. 
 
 " From all the.se lofty halls of memory he constantly 
 escaped to a remote and solitary chaml)er, into which no 
 one had ever penetrated. But my fatal eyes, Ixdiind the 
 
150 
 
 titbottom's bpect^clks. 
 
 
 jfljwsoH, followed and enteml with him, and saw that the 
 chamber was a chapel. It was dim, and silent, and sweet 
 with perpetual incense, that burned upon an altar before 
 a picture forever veiled. There, whenever I chanced to 
 look, I saw him kneel and pray ; and there, by day and 
 by night, a funeral hymn was chanted. 
 
 " I do not believe you will be surprised that I have 
 been content to remain a deputy book-keeper. My spec- 
 tacles regulated my ambition, and I early learned that 
 there were better gods than Plutus. The glasses have 
 lost much of their fascination now, and I do not often 
 use them. But sometimes the desire is irresistible. 
 Whenever I am greatly into ^sted. I am compelled to 
 take them out and see what it is thn^. I admire. 
 
 "And yet— and yet," said Titbott.. .., after a pause, "I 
 am not sure that I thank my grandfather." 
 
 Prue had long since laid away her work, and had 
 heard every word of the story. I saw that the dear 
 woman had yet one cjuestion to ask, and had been ear- 
 nestly hoping to hear something that would spare her 
 the necessity of asking. But Titbottom had resumed his 
 usual tone, after the momentary excitement, and made 
 no further allu.sion to himself. We all sat silently; 
 Titbottom's eyes fastened musingly upon the carpet, 
 IVue looking wistfully at him, and I regarding both. 
 
 It was past midnight, and our guest arose to go. He 
 shook hands (|uietly, made his grave Spanish bow to 
 Prue, and taking his hat, went toward the front door. 
 Prue and I accompanied him. I saw in her eyes that 
 she would ask her (luestion. And as Titbottom opened 
 the door, I heaixl the low words : — 
 
 : I 
 
 :' 1 
 
 1 
 
 ^t^-^ 
 
 "F^^^^jma^w. 
 
8TRAWBBRRIB8. 
 
 161 
 
 •• And Preciosa ? " 
 
 Titbottom pauw'd. Ho hud just opt'nod the door, and 
 the moonlight streamed over him uh ho stcxxl, turning 
 back to us. 
 
 " I have seen her but once since. It was in church, 
 and she was kneelinjj, with her eyes closed, so that she 
 did not see me. But I rubbed the ghisses well, and 
 looked at her, and saw a white lily, whose stem was 
 broken, but which was fresh, and luminous, and fraffraut 
 still." 
 
 " That was a miracle," interrupted Pruo. 
 
 "Madam, it was a minicle," replied Titbottom, "and 
 for that one sight I am devoutly grateful for my grand- 
 father's gift. I saw that, although a flower may have 
 lost its hold upon earthly moisture, it may still bloom as 
 sweetly, fed by the dews of heaven." 
 
 The door closed, and he was gone. But as Prue put 
 her arm in mine, and wo went upstairs together, she 
 whispered in my ear: — 
 
 " How glad I am tliut you don't wear spectacles." 
 
 —George WiUiam CurtU. 
 
 STRAWBERRIES. 
 
 Was it old Dr. Parr who said or sighed in his last 
 illneas, " Oh, if I can only live till strawberries come!" 
 The old scholar imagined that if he could weather it till 
 then, the berries would carry him through. No doubi 
 he has turned from the drugs and the nostrums, or fron: 
 the hatHful food, to the nicinory of the pungent, peue 
 
 ^ >> 
 
i"- ' 
 
 162 
 
 BTRAWBERRIK8. 
 
 trating, and unspeakably fresh quality of the Rtrawbeny 
 with the deepest longin*,'. The very thought of these 
 crimson lobes, embodying as it were the first glow and 
 ardour of the ^'oung summer, and wiih their power to 
 unsheathe the taste and spur the flagging appetite, made 
 life seem jKissible and desirable with him. 
 
 The strawberry is always the hope of the invalid, and 
 sometimes no doubt his salvation. It is the first and 
 finest relish among fruits, and well merits Dr. Boteler's 
 memorable saying, that " doubtless God might have made 
 a better berry than the strawberry, but, doubtless, God 
 never did." 
 
 On the threshold of summer, Nature proffei-s us this, 
 her virgin fruit ; more rich and sumptuous are to follow, 
 but the wild delicacy and fillip of the strawberry are 
 never repeated, — that keen, feathered edge greets the 
 tongue in nothing else. 
 
 Let me not be afraid of overpraising it, but probe and 
 probe for words to hint its surprising virtues. We may 
 well celebrate it with festivals and music. It has that 
 indescribable q.uality of all first things — that shy, un- 
 cloying, provokitig barbed sweetness. It is eager and 
 sanguine as youth. It ir, born of the copious dews, the 
 fragrant nights, the tender skies, the plentiful rains of 
 the early sea-son. The singing of birds is in it, and the 
 health and frolic of lusty nature. It is the product of 
 liquid May touched by the June sun. It has the tartness, 
 the briskness, the unruliness of spring, and the aroma 
 and intensity of summer. 
 
 O the strawberry days ! how vividly they come back 
 to one ! The smell of clover in the fields, cf blooming 
 
 ■55i^?=^i 
 
 «r^3^!?2l 
 
STRAWBERRIS8. 
 
 153 
 
 rye on the hillH, of the wild grape beside tlie woods, and 
 of the sweet honeysuckle and spirwa about the house. 
 The first hot, moist days. The daisies and buttercups, 
 the songs of the birds, their first rcckleas jollity and 
 love-making over, the full tender foliage of the trees, the 
 bees swanning, and the air H.truiig with resonant musical 
 chorda The time of the sweetest and most succulent 
 grass, when the cows come homo with aching udders. 
 Indeed, the strawberry belongs to the juiciest time of 
 the year. f 
 
 What a challenge it is to the taste, how it bites back 
 again! and is there any other sound like the snap and 
 crackle with which it salutes the ear on being plucked 
 from the stems ? It is a threat to one sense that the 
 other is soon to verify. It snaps to the ear as it smacks 
 to the tongue. All other berries are tame beside it. ^. 
 
 The plant is almost an evergreen ; it loves the coverlid 
 of the snow, and will keep fresh through the severest 
 winters with a slight protection. The frost leaves its 
 virtues in it. The berry is a kind of vegetable snow. 
 How cool, how tonic, h-w meJiing, and how perishable! 
 It is almost as easy to keep frost. Heat kills it, and 
 sugar quickly breaks up its cells. 
 
 Is there anything like the odour of strawberries ? The 
 next best thing to tasting them is to smell them ; one 
 may put his nose to the dish while the fruit is yet too 
 rare and choice for his fingers. Touch not and taste not, 
 but take a good smell and go mad. Last fall I potted 
 some of the Downer, and in the winter grew thein in the 
 house. In March the berries were ripe, only four or 
 five on a plant, just enough, all told, to make' one con- 
 
 I 
 
 C-««^.. 
 
154 
 
 STKAWIieKRIKS. 
 
 iP 
 
 I 
 
 sider whctlior it woh not worth while to kill off the 
 rest of the household, so that the btirriea need not bo 
 divided. But if every tonjjue could not have a feast, 
 every nose banfjueted daily upon them. They filled the 
 house with perfume. The Downer is remarkable in this 
 respect. Grown in the open field, it surpasses in its 
 odour any strawberry of my acquaintance. And it is 
 scarcely less agreeable to the taste. It is a very beauti- 
 ful berry to look upon, round, light pink, with a delicate, 
 fine-grained expression. Some berries shine, the Dow- 
 ner glows as if there were a red bloom upon it. Its 
 core is firm and white, its skin thin and easily bruised, 
 which makes it a poor market berrj', but with its high 
 flavour and productiveness, an admirable one for home 
 use. It seems to be as easily grown as the Wilson, while 
 it is much more palatable. The great trouble with the 
 Wilson, as everybody knows, is its rank acidity. When 
 it first comes, it is difficult to eat it without making 
 faces. It is crabbed and acrimonious. Like some 
 persons, the Wilson will not ripen and sweeten till its 
 old age. Its largest and finest crop, if allowed to remain 
 on the vines, will soften and fail unregenerated, or with 
 all its sins upon it. But wait till toward the end of the 
 season, after the plant gets over its hurry and takes 
 time to ripen its fruit. The berry will then face the 
 sun for days, and if the weather is not too wet, instead 
 of softening, will turn dark and grow rich. Out of its 
 crabbedness and spitefulness come the finest, choicest 
 flavours. It is an astonishing berry. It lays hold of 
 the taste in a way that the aristocratic berries, like the 
 Jecunda or Triumph, cannot approximate to. Its quality 
 
 ^:^t.:.^ 
 
8TIIAWBEKKIB8. 
 
 150 
 
 18 as penetratirif. uh that of ants and wnspa, but sweet 
 It 18 imleed a wild beo timied into a Ix-rry, with the 
 sting mollified and the honey disguised. A .luart of 
 these rare-npes I venture to say contains more of the 
 peculiar virtue and excellence of the stniwk.rry kind 
 than can be had in twice the same quantity of any other 
 cultivated variety. Take these berries in a bowl of rich 
 milk with some bread,-ah, what a dish.-too good to 
 set before a king ! I suspect this was the foo.l of Adam 
 in Paradise, only Adam did not have the Wilson straw- 
 berry ; he had the wild strawberry that Eve plucked in 
 their hill-meadow and " hulled " with her own hands 
 and that, take it all in all, even surpasses the late' 
 npened Wilson. 
 
 i Adam is still extant in the taste and appetite of most 
 country boys; lives there a country boy who does not 
 like wild-8trawberrie8-and-milk,-yea. prefers it to any 
 other known dish ? I am not thinking of a dessert of 
 strawbernes-and-cream ; this the city boy may have too 
 after a sort, but bread-and-milk, with the a<ldition of 
 wild strawberries, is peculiarly a country dish, and is to 
 the taste what a wild bird's song is to the ear. When I 
 was a lad, and went afield with my hoe or with the 
 cows, during the strawberry season, I was sure to return 
 at meal-time with a lining of berries in the top of my 
 ■straw hat. They were my daily food, and I could taste 
 the liquid and gurgling notes of the bobolink in every 
 spoonful of them ; and at this day, to make a dinner or 
 supper off a bowl of milk with bread and strawberries 
 -plenty of strawberri^H, -well, is as near to being « 
 boy again as I ever expect to come. The golden age 
 
 'vniijs'iSMis^ ^OTtfr-MvriirT 
 
156 
 
 8TRAWBKRRIB8. 
 
 ri 
 
 draws sensibly near. Ap{M>tito bccoines a kind of de- 
 liciuuH thirst, — a p-iitlo and subtlo craving of all parts 
 of the mouth and throat, — and those nerves of tasto that 
 occupy, as it were, a bjick seat, and take little cogni- 
 sance of grosser foods, come forth, and are played upon 
 and set vibrating. Indeed, I think, if there is ever 
 rejoicing throughout one's alimentary household, — if ever 
 that much-abused servant, the stoniacli, says Amen, or 
 those faithful handnuvidens, the liver and spleen, nudge 
 each other delightedly, it must be when one on a torrid 
 summer day passes by the solid and carnal dinner for 
 this simple Arcadian dish. 
 
 The wild strawberry, like the wild apple, is spicy and 
 high-rtavoured, but, unlike the apple, it is tilso mild and 
 delicious. It has the true rustic sweetness and piquancy. 
 What it lacks in size, when compared with the garden 
 berry, it makes up in intensity. It is never dropsical 
 or overgrown, but firm-fleshed and hardy. Its great 
 enemies are the plough, gypsum, and the horse-rake. It 
 dislikes a limestone soil, but seems to prefer the detritus 
 of the stratified rock. Where the sugar-maple abounds, 
 I have always found plenty of wild strawberries. We 
 have two kinds, — the w(xm1 berry and the field berry. 
 The former is as wild as a partridge. It is found in 
 open places in the woods and along the borders, growing 
 beside stumps and rocks, never in abundance, but very 
 sparsely. It is small, cone-shaped, dark red, shiny, and 
 pimply. It looks wtwdy, and tastes so. It has never 
 reached the table, nor made the ac(|uaintance of cream. 
 A (juart of them, at a fair price for human lalxiur, would 
 be worth their weight in silver, at least. (Yet a careful 
 
 
 iamfficTTt,T.*^5K'irsjai!?i 
 
8TItAWI)ERRIK8. 
 
 167 
 
 observer writes mo that in certain .scction.s in the western 
 part of New York they aro vciy plt-ntiful.) 
 
 Ovid mentions tlio wo<k1 strawlx-rry, which would 
 lead one to infer that tht-y were nior.! uhimdant in his 
 time and country than in ours. 
 
 This is, perhaps, the same as the Alpine strawlx'rry, 
 which is said to grow in the mountains of Oivec.-, and' 
 thence northward. This was probably the Hrst variety 
 cultivated, though our native species would seem as 
 unpromising a subject for the garden as club-mass or 
 winter-greens. 
 
 Of the field strawberry there are a great many varie- 
 ties,— some growing in meadows, some in pastures, and 
 some upon mountain-to2)s; some are round, and stick 
 close to the calyx or liull ; some are long and pointed, 
 with long, tapering necks. These usually grow upon' 
 tiill stems. They are, indeed, of the sliiu, linear kind. 
 Your corpulent berry keeps close to the ground ; its stem 
 and foot-stalk are short, an<l tck it luis none. Its 
 colour is deeper than that of its tall brother, and of 
 course it has more juice. You are more apt to find the 
 tall varieties upon knolls in low, wet meadows, and again 
 upon mountain-tops, growing in tussocks of wild ;,nass 
 about the open sunnnits. These latter ripen in July, 
 and give one his last taste of strawberries for the .sea.son.' 
 
 But the favourite haunt of tlu; wild strawlxjrry is an 
 up-lying meadow that has been exempt from the plough 
 for five or six years, and that has little timothy and 
 much daisy. When you go a-berrying turn your steps 
 toward the milk-wlnte meadows. The slighily bitter 
 odour of the daisies is very agreeable to the smell, and 
 
 iE5*esM .. I I rii ■■iiiiiiniiifi|iiiiiiiii'inii miMiiiiii -^^v^BtissKr^^^i 
 
L< I 
 
 1&8 
 
 HTKAWHKRRIRS. 
 
 affonls H ^(kmI luuik^uuiK] for tlu? {KM-fuine of the fruit 
 Tlie BtniwlHTiy cuiiitot cojks with the ruiik and deep- 
 rooted clover, and Heldoni ap|)earH in a field till the clover 
 has had its day. But the daiHy with its slender stalk 
 does not crowd or olwtnict the plant, while its broatl 
 white flower is like a light parasol that tempera and 
 softens the too strong sunlight Indeed, daisies and 
 strawberrie.s are generally asHociated. Nature fills her 
 dish with the berries, then covers them with the white 
 and yellow of milk and cream, thus suggesting a com- 
 bination wo are quick to follow. Milk alone, after it 
 loses its animal heat, is a clod, and begets torpidity of 
 the brain ; the berries lighten it, give wings to it, and 
 one is fed as by the air he breathes or the water he 
 drinks. 
 
 '^hen the delight of "picking" the wild berries. It is 
 one of the fragrant memories of boyhood. Indeed, for 
 boy or man to go a-berrying in a certain ptistoral country 
 I know of, where a pa.s.ser-by along the highway is often 
 regaled by a breeze loaded with a perfume of the o'er- 
 rii)e fruit, is to get nearer to June than by almost any 
 course I know of. Your errand is so private and con- 
 fidential ! You stoop low. You part away the grass 
 and the daisies, and would lay bare the inmost secrets of 
 the meadow. Everything is yet tender and succulent ; 
 the very air is bright and new ; the warm breath of the 
 meadow comes up in your face ; to your knees you are 
 in a sea of daisies and clover ; from your knees up you 
 are in a sea of sol.ir light and warmth. Now you are 
 prostrate like a wwiuiiuur, or like a surf-bather reaching 
 for pebbles or shells, the white and green spray breaks 
 
 pr 
 
 i i- 
 
 vV 
 
 i 
 
BTRAWURftRIBS. 
 
 159 
 
 or 
 
 above you; tlien Hk« a devoteo Ix-fort' it Hlirine, 
 naming his Ih'jwIh, yotir rowmy Htruiij,' with hiHciouH 
 bt?iTieH; anon you aro a jfrazinj; Nchuiluuhmzznr, (»r an 
 artist taking an inverted view of the landscajH'. 
 
 The binlH aro alarmed by your cIoho Hcrutiny of their 
 domain. They hardly know whether to sing or to cry, 
 and do a little of both. The bolx)link follows you and 
 circles above and in advance of you, and is ready to give 
 you a triumphal exit from the Hold, if you will only 
 depart. 
 
 "Ye boys that gather flowers and straw iMJiriea, 
 Lo, hid within the graM, an addur hes," 
 
 Warton makes Virgil sing; and Montaigne, in his Jour- 
 ney to Italy, says, " The children very often are afraid, 
 on account of the snakes, to go and pick the strawberries 
 that grow in quantities on the mountains and among the 
 bushes." But there is no serpent here— at worst, only a 
 bumble-bee's or yellow-jacket's nest. You rnxm fin<l out 
 the spring in the corner of the Held under the l)eechen 
 tree. While you wipe your brow and thank the Ix)rd 
 for spring water, you glance at the initials in the bark, 
 .some of them so old that they seem runic and legtndary. 
 You find out, also, how gregarious the strawlxsrry is — 
 that the different varieties exist in little colmiies about 
 the field. When you strike the outskirts of one of the.se 
 plantations, how quickly you work toward the centre of 
 it. and then from the centre out, then circumnavigato it, 
 and follow up all its branchings and windings ! 
 
 Then the delight in the abstract and in the concrete of 
 strolling and lounging about the June meadows; of 
 lying in pickle for half a day or more in this pastoral 
 
 .•Tlifc»2»i,_ -ti", 
 
160 
 
 HTKAWIlBRiltKII. 
 
 II 
 
 1 i 
 
 ¥ t 
 
 8oa, lav««<l l>y tlu! jjrcnt ti<lt', hIioiu* u|Km hy th« vihio 
 Bun, ilri'iiciu'd to tliu very iimrrow of your Ihmhk with 
 thu wann aiul wooing; irilluuiicfs of tho young Huuiiner! 
 
 I waH a famous iM'rry-pit'ktT when a Imy. It waa 
 near ouough to liuutinj; and tinhiug to vnViHi me. Mother 
 ".vouM always setxl nie in preference tw any of tho rest 
 of the l)oyH. I got tho biggest U^riea an<l the most of 
 them. There was something of tho excitement of tho 
 chase in thu occupation, and s<jm<>thing of tho charui ami 
 preciousness of game alK)ut tho i^rophios. The pursuit 
 had its surprist^s, its expectancies, its su<l(lon tlisclosures, 
 — in fact, its uncertainties. I went forth aclventurtnisly. 
 I could wander free «s the wind. Then thero were 
 moments of inspiration, for it always soenieil a felicitous 
 stroke to light upon a particularly tino spot, tx» it doi's 
 when one takes an old and wary trout. You discovered 
 the game where it was hidden. Your genius prompte<i 
 you. Another had [>assed that way and htul missed the 
 prize Indeed, the succfjssful Wrry-picker, like Walton's 
 angler, is Ixan, not made. It is only anothe" kind of 
 angling. In the same lield t)ne l)oy gets big l)erriea and 
 plenty of them ; another wanders up and down, and 
 finds only a few little ones. He cannot see them ; he 
 does not know Ijow to divine them where they lurk 
 under the leaves and vines. The berry -grower knows 
 that in tlie cultivated patch his pickers are very un- 
 equal, the baskets of one boy or girl having so inferior 
 a look that it does not seem possible they could have 
 been filled from the same vines with certain others. 
 But neither ijlunt lingers nor blunt eyes are hard to 
 find, and as there are tluxse who can see nothing clearly. 
 
NTIIAHIUIHKtKN 
 
 161 
 
 HO thiTu urt- tlM)M« wlm van timch iiutliinj^ «l<'ftly or 
 gently. 
 
 TJu! cultivati.in wf tlio Ktm\vl)trny in tliuii;:lit (<• 1m« 
 Com|Miriitiv»'ly in.Mlt'rn. Tim iiiicitiitM njt|M ur lu huvr 
 U't'ii a CHniivnioiiH riico ; th«y i,'oi-;,'tM| tluinMtlvrH with 
 iiioftt, wliilo tln! iii'xh'rn niiui luuktii lai'^'t-r anil larj^tT 
 une of fruits hikI vr<,'«'tal)l»'s, until tliin ^fnt'iation ia 
 (loubth'MM Iwitcr f<(l than any that has jm«c«<li <l it. Tho 
 strawlKTiy ami tlu; a| ]»I«', ami HUih ve^M-tahhs a.s ci'lt-ry, 
 ought to Irngllhii human lif.-,— at U-aNt to cornrt itM 
 bilioUNiu'SH and uiako it uioio wwout ami Hangtiino. 
 
 Th«5 fifHt inipctuH to HtrawlnTry ctilhiro nrvuiH to have 
 U'«n given by tho intrcMluction of our fi.Id U-rry f/Va- 
 f/tirui V'u'ifiniiiiui ) into Kn;:lHri<l in tluj Hrvcntot-nth 
 contury, thoujxli not much pro^rn'sn was niado till the 
 « ightecnth. This varitty is much mmc fni;;rant iind 
 aromatic than tho native Iwrry of Europe, though less ho 
 in that climato than when grown lure. Many new 
 scH'WIings sprang from it, ami it was tho prevailing Wny 
 in Engli.sh an<l French ganh-us, says Fuller, until the 
 South American sjiecie.s (innn/ii'iini was intr'xiuced 
 uii»' Hupplanti'd it. This Wiry is nuturally much larger 
 and sweeter and l)etter a«lapted to tin; Kngli.sh climat*; 
 than our Vir;f!nian<i Ui-wvo the Knglish strawlH-rries 
 of to-day surpa.ss ours in these respe«-ts, iMit an? wanting 
 in that aromatic pungency that characteri.ses most of our 
 berries. 
 
 The .Tecunda, Triumj)!!, Victoria, etc., are foreign vari- 
 eties of the (iiaiidilli'ra species; while th<j Hovey, the 
 
 B(i ton pine, tlie ])( 
 
 )wner, etc., aro natives of this 
 
 count I 
 
 11 
 
163 
 
 IIR KOIKK AT Till AMIZKI. 
 
 'M 
 
 ti 
 
 Uo «tmwb.irry. in tho n.uii., r^'in^aim tho form of the 
 hn.iuui \u',irt, iumI i...il,a|.-4 „f all tl.o mnnll friiita known 
 to limn iiuno oti.nr is 8o cl....|,ly u,„i f„„,i|y chHriHluxl. or 
 l'"il"<i with mich iniivtmil .l.lijrht, an tUin lowly but 
 youth-runuwing IxTry. 
 
 Ih^M^., jr./,n * Co., aulhvriu.1 ,,wW.«A,r. or Burtutylu- m^i, ' 
 
 SIR ROGER AT THE ASSIZE 
 
 A man's first cnre flhould Iw to avoid th . pi . . 
 his own hiart; hin n.-xt, to CHcafH) tho con ;■■ •„ 
 
 world. If the last interfen« with tho fornur, i^ - r.-h. 
 
 to bo entirely neglected ; but othorwiHo thoro cut ^ ■ i 
 
 greater satisfaction to ai. iumest mind, than to see thorns 
 approl)atiou8 which it gives itself ueconde.! by tho aj)- 
 plauses of tho puMic. A man is more sure of his ct)nduct 
 when the verdict wiiich he pwses upon his own behavi- 
 our is thus warranted and confirmed by tho opinion of 
 all that know him. 
 
 My worthy friend sir Roger is one of tho^o who is not 
 only at pence with himself, but Wloved and esteemed by 
 all about him. Ho receives a suitable tribute for his 
 universal biiievolenco to mankind, in tho returns of 
 affection and gooil-wid which are paid him by every one 
 Uiat lives within his neigh Iwurhood. I lately met with 
 two or three o<Id instances of that general respect which 
 18 shown to the good old knight. He would needs ca.ry 
 Will Wimble and luyHeif with iilm to tho county assizea 
 As wo were upon the road Will Wimble joined a couple 
 
 } .'14 
 
RIR HO«»:n AT TIIK AMIXM. 
 
 163 
 
 1 
 
 of |i)iiiii iiifii who ri«l Ix'fon* iih. uihI rtmvirfuil with tlifin 
 ft)r M«)iii»! tiiii.-; (Iiiriii;f wliirli my fricml ^ir Hoj^'it hc- 
 <|UiiiitUHl iiu) with tliuir chuitictiiN. 
 
 Th« thrtt of thi'Mi, HiiyH ht . timi hiw a hjuuiuI hy \un 
 side, i.H tt yionuui of alxmt n humh <l jJoumU a yur, nti 
 ht>n« '^t iiuui. Ho m just within tho jjiiin»-iu , nwl iiutili- 
 H«!<1 in kill a luirn or a ph.-iiNiu.t. He kiuK-kn down a 
 (liiiniT with his gun twiwor thrico a wmU ; un«l l*v that 
 mejiUH liv»*H inuih oheu|R'r than thono w Imj hui- :v>l fH» 
 fjtxjiJ an o«tatt! aH hiiiiHelf. Hu would Imj a gotwl ntiyh- 
 bour if ho did notd«:Htrt)y ho niuny partridgoM. In Hhort, 
 ho 18 a wry Bttwihlu man; Hlux^ts Hyin„'; an<l han \ns*m 
 several tinun foruutan of tho jwitty-juiy. 
 
 Tho othtr that rides aloii;; with him is lom Touchy, a 
 fellow famous for takuuj the Uuo of fvery Ixnly. There 
 \H not ono in tho town where ho livi'8 that ho haa not 
 sued at a (|uarter-HCH«ion8. Tho ix»j;uo had oneo the 
 impudence to |;o to law with the with/w. His liead in 
 full of coHts, dHUui;,'«'.s, and eji'ctmenta. He plngned a 
 coxiplo of honoHt jjentlem- n m long for a trenjHiHH in 
 breakin^j ono of his lu'dgcs, till ho was forced to t I the 
 ground it intloMed to defray tho charges of tho pn^ieeu- 
 tion: luH father left him four score pmnds a year; but 
 he huH Ciust and been cast ho often tni.L ho i.s not now 
 worth thir.y. I HUpjmso he is fjoing wimn t\w old Imsi- 
 nesH of tiie willow-tree. 
 
 As sir R«»ger was giving me this account of Tom 
 Touchy. Will WimlUo and his two comjwinionH stopped 
 short till wo came up to them. After h.tviny paid their 
 respects to sir Roger, Will told him that Mr. Toueliy and 
 he must appeal to him ujwn a dispute that arose Wtween 
 
m- 
 
 164 
 
 SIR ROURR AT TIIK SSIZM. 
 
 .11 ■ 
 
 thom. Will, it secius, h.wl Imh-h ^,'1 vin^r l,iH felluw-trii-.fller 
 a account of his uii;,'ling ono day in hucIi a liol<«; when 
 Tom Touchy, instead of homing out his story, told him 
 that Mr. Such-a-ono, if ho pleased, might take the law oj 
 him for fishing in that part of the river. My friend sir 
 Roger heaixl them bjth, uikmi a round trot; and after 
 having paused some tunc told tluMu, with the air of a 
 man that would "otgivohis judgment rashly, that "nmch 
 might Ixi said on both sides." They were neither of them 
 dissatisfied with the knight's determinaticm, because 
 neither of them found himself in the wrong by it. Upon 
 which wo made the best of our way to the assizes. 
 
 The court wjis sat before sir Roger came ; but notwith- 
 standing all the justices had taken their places up<m the 
 bench, they made room for the old knight at the head of 
 them ; who, for his reputation in the country, took occa- 
 sion to whisper in the judge's ear, " that ho w»is glad 
 his lordship had met with so nmch good weather in his 
 circuit." I was listening to the proceedings of the couix 
 with nmch attention, and infinitely pleased with that 
 great apjKiarance and soh-mnity which so properly accom- 
 panies such a public administration of our laws, when, 
 after about an hour's sitting, I observed, to my great 
 surprise, in the mi.Ist of a trial, that my friend sir Roger 
 was getting up to speak. I was in some pain for him, 
 until I found he had actjuitttMl himself of two or three 
 S('ntences, with a Iwk of nmch business and great 
 intrepidity. 
 
 Upon his first rising tin; court was hushed, and a 
 general whisper ran among the country people that sir 
 Roger was up. The speech he made was so little to the 
 
 w. 
 
 wnsm 
 
 »ji 
 
BIR ROOKR AT TIIK AH8IZIC8. 
 
 165 
 
 purpose that I hIuiII not trouble my rea«lers with an 
 account of it; and I believe wjuj not ho nnjch dosi^jnoil by 
 the kniglit liinisflf to inform the court, as to give him a 
 figure in my eyo, and keep up his credit in the country, 
 I was highly delighted, when tlie court rose, to H«'e the 
 gentlemen of the county gathering alxjut my old friend, 
 and striving who should compliment him most; at the 
 same time that the ordinary people gazed upon him at a 
 distance, not a little admiring his courage, that was not 
 afraid to speak to the judge. 
 
 In our return homo wo met witli u very (nld accident, 
 which I cannot forbear relatini;, ix'cause it shows how 
 desirous all who know sir lioger are of giving him marks 
 of their est(?em. When wo were arrived upon the verge 
 of liis estate, we stopped at a little inn to rest ourselves 
 and our horees. The man of the house had, it seems, 
 been formerly a servant in the knight's family; and to 
 do honour to his old master, had some time since, un- 
 known to sir lioger, put him up in a sign-post Ijefore the 
 door, so that The kn'ujht's had had hung out Ufxjn the 
 road about a week before he himself knew an3'thing of 
 the matter. As soon as sir Rogi-r vns actjuainted with 
 it, finding that his servant's indiscretion proceeded wholly 
 from affection and go(Kl-will, he only told him that he 
 had made h»m tcx) high a compliment ; and, when tlu' 
 fellow seemed to think that could hardly be, added with 
 a more decisive look, That it was tix> great an honour for 
 any man under a duke; biit told him at the same time 
 that it might be altered with a veiy few touches, and 
 that he himself would be at the charge of it. Accord- 
 ingly they got a painter by the knight's directions to add 
 
li:k 
 
 r'. 
 
 16« 
 
 THI flOUTIl-BBA ROUS!. 
 
 I 
 
 a pair of wliiskere to the face, and by a little apgrava- 
 tion of the features to change it into The. Saracen's 
 Head. I should not have known this story, hiul not the 
 inn-keeper, upon sir Roger's alighting, told him in my 
 hejiring, that his honours head was brought back last 
 night, with the alterations that he had ordered to \)o 
 made in it Upon this my friend, with his usual cheer- 
 fulness, related the particulars al)cve mentioned, and 
 ordered the head to be brought into the room. I could 
 not forbear discovering greater expressions of mirth than 
 ordmary upon the appearance of this monstrous face 
 under which, notwithstanding it was made to frown and 
 stare m a most extraordinary miinnor, I could still dis- 
 cover a distant resemblance to my old friend. Sir 
 Roger, upon seeing me laugh, desired me to tell him 
 truly if I thought it possible for people to know him in 
 that disguise. I at first kept my usm 1 silence; but upon 
 the knight's conjuring me to tell him whether it was not 
 still more like himself than a Saracen. I composed my 
 countenance in the best manner I could, and replied. 
 " that much might be said on both sides." 
 
 These several adventures, with the kiiijrht's behaviour 
 m them, gave me as pleasant a day as ever I met with 
 in any of my travels. 
 
 THE SOUTH-SEA HOUSE. 
 
 Reader, in thy passage from tlu.. Bank— where thou 
 hast lK.en receiving thy half-yearly dividends (supposing 
 thou art a lean annuitant like myself)— to the Flower 
 
TIIK N0UTII-8KA IIOUHR. 
 
 167 
 
 Pot, to secure a pliice for Dalstou, or Shackle well, or 
 some other thy Buburban retreat northerly,— didHt thou 
 never observe a nielancJioly-lookinjj, handsonjc, brick and 
 stone eclitice, to the left— wliere Threadneedlo Street 
 abuts upon Bishoi>»jjate ? I dare say thou hast often 
 admired its inaji^ifieent p<jrtals ever gapin|r wide, an<l 
 disclosing to view a grave court, with cloisters, and [)illars, 
 with few or no traces of g(X'rs-in or coniers-out — a deso- 
 lalion something like Balclutha's. 
 
 This was once a house of trade,— a centre of busy 
 interests. The throng of merchants was here— the (|uick 
 pulse of gain — and here some forms of business are still 
 kept up, though the soul be long since fled. Here are 
 still to be seen stately porticoes; inijx)sing atjiircases; 
 offices roomy as the state apartments in palaces— deserted, 
 or thinly peopled with a few straggling clerks ; the still 
 more sacred interioi-sof court and committee-rooms, with 
 venerable faces of beadles, door-keepers — directors seated 
 in form on solemn days (to proclaim a dead dividend), 
 at long wonn-eaten tables, that have been nmhogany, 
 with tarnished gilt-leather coverings, supporting massy 
 silver inkstands long since dry :— the oaken wainscots 
 hung with pictures of deceased goveniors and sub-trover- 
 nors, of Queen Anne, and the two first monarchs of the 
 Brunswick dynasty ;— huge charts, which suUsecjuent 
 discoveries have antiquated ;—<lusty maps of Mexico, 
 dim as dreams,— and soundings of the Bay of Panama !— 
 The long passages hung with buckets, appended, in idle 
 row, to walls, whose substance might d.fy any, short of 
 the last conflagration .—with vast ranges of cellarage 
 under all, where dollars and pieces of eight once lay, an 
 
IM 
 
 THR BOUTII-HRA llOirSI. 
 
 4{ 
 
 ,i '■ 
 
 " unminned heap," for MHiiinion ti> have solaced hiH «<»li- 
 tary heiirt wilhal, — lou;^ Hince WisMipatril, or Hi-attenMl 
 into air at the blast of the breaking of that fuiiiuuH 
 BUBULE 
 
 Such JH the South-Sea Hoi'se. At least, mich it woh 
 forty years ago, when I knew it,— a niagniticent relic! 
 What alterations may have been made in it since, I have 
 had no opportunities of verifying. Time, I take for 
 granted, has not frcHhened it. No wind has resuscitated 
 the face of the sleeping waters. A thicker crust by this 
 time stagnates upon it. The moths, that were then 
 batti'iiing nj)on its obsolete ledgei-s and duy-lxx)ks, have 
 rested from their depredations, but other light genera- 
 tions have succeeded, making fine fretwork among their 
 single and double entrie.s. Ijiycrs of dust have accunui- 
 lated (a suiK-rfotntion of dirt !) U{)on the old layers, that 
 8«!ldom used to Ikj disturbed, save by some curious finger, 
 now and then, intjuisitive to explore the nuxle of l)ook- 
 keeping in Queen Anne's reign; or, with less hallowed 
 curiosity, seeking to unveil some of the mysteries of that 
 tremendous Hoax, wliose extent the petty peculators of 
 oiir (Uiy l<K)k baik U|ion with tlie same expression of 
 incredulous admiration, and h(jpeless ambition of rivalry, 
 as would Ix'come the puny face of njo<leni conspinicy 
 contemplating the Titan si/.e of Vuux's superhuman plot. 
 
 Peace to the manes of the HunuLE ! Silence and desti- 
 tution are upon thy walls, proud hou.se, for a memorial ! 
 
 Situated as thou art, iti the very heart of stirrinir an<l 
 living connuerce, — amid the fnt aiul fever of ajHiCulation 
 — with the !5ank, and the 'Change, and the India House 
 about tlue, in the hey-d.iy of present pi-osperity, with 
 
 nn^^ 
 
THB lOUTU-SBA UOUBB. 
 
 169 
 
 ihtu important fftcos, as it wero, insultinjf thoe, their 
 fxjor i,-,ifh.t>*)ur ont of hafiineM—ioi\w icJlo aiiH merely 
 cr«it«?:f)plfttive,— to such as me, old house ! there is a 
 charm m thy (juiet :— a ccHHation — a coolness from bu«i- 
 nesH — an indolent; almoHt cloistral — which is delightful I 
 With wliat Reverence have 1 paced thy great bare rooms 
 and courts at • veutide ! They spoke of the past:— the 
 shade of some fl«i»d «itftf.»untant, with visionary pen in ear, 
 would flit by in»-, Htitf as in life. Living accounts and 
 accountants puzzle luf^. 1 have no skill in figuring. But 
 thy great dead tomes, which scarce three degenerate clerks 
 of the present day could lift from their enshrining 
 shelves— with their ol«l fantastic flourishes, and decora- 
 tive rubric interhicings — their sums in triple columnia- 
 
 tions, set down with formal superfluity of cyphers 
 
 with pious sentences at the Ijeginniug, without which our 
 religious ancestors nev(!r ventured to open a book of 
 business, or bill of lading— the costly vellum covers of 
 some of them almost persuading us that we are got into 
 some letter library,— are very agreeable and edifying 
 Hpictacles. I can look upon these defunct dragons with 
 a)mplacency. Thy heavy odd-shaped ivory-handled pen- 
 knives (our ancestors had everything on a larger scale 
 tlian we have hearts for) are as good as anything from 
 Herculaneum. The pounce-boxes of our days have gone 
 retrograde. 
 
 The very clerks which I rememl)er in the South-Sea 
 House— I speak of forty years biu-k — had an air very 
 different from those in the public offices that I have had 
 to do with since. They partook of the genius of the 
 place 
 
170 
 
 TIIK HOUTII HRA IIOUIR. 
 
 'A 
 
 TIh'H' wt'ie inustly (for tin? eHtAhliHhinent <li»l not 
 a<liiiit of hUjMifluouH Hiilarios) l)aolu'lor-H. Oeriemlly (for 
 tlh-y had not much to do) pTsons of a curiuUH and 
 M|H'C\ilativ«r (mil <if niiiul. OM-fiiMhionod, for a roimon 
 nu'iitioiH'd Ihruic. HunioriHtH, for thoy were of all 
 dt'Hi'nplioiiH ; and, not haviii;^ Um-ii bruujjht tojfothfr in 
 early lif»' (which hiin a U'lidcncy to jwsiinilato tho niom- 
 Imms of cor|)orate iKxlics to ciu-h other), but, for tlio nioHt 
 j)ar(. phu'od iti tins house in ri|)e or ntiddio ajje, they 
 neccHHarily carried into it their neparate habitn and 
 o<ldi(ieH, >ni(|nalitied, if I may mo Nfwak.as into a common 
 N((K'k'. Heiiee th«'y fonned a sort of Noah's ark. Otld 
 fish«'H. A liiy-inoiukstery. Domestic retainera in a ^eat 
 house, kept more for sliow than nse. Yet ple<iHant 
 fellows, riill of clint — and not a few amon^ them liad 
 arrived at considerable proficiency on tho (Jennan flute. 
 
 The cashier at that time was one Evans, a Cambro- 
 Briton. H(! had somediini; of the choleric complexion of 
 liis coun(rym<'n stampeil on his vis^iije, but was a worthy, 
 Ke!isil)le mail at Intftom. He wore his hair, to tho last, 
 jx>w<i. !t (1 and fri/zed out, in (Iw fashion which I rememlxT 
 to have seen in carieadites of what were ternu'd, in my 
 youii^' days, Mdnomv ifx. H'> was the hust of tliat race of 
 Itt aux. Melancholy jis a <;il)-cat o\er his counter all the 
 foniitKdi, I tliiiik I see iiim making np his cash (as they 
 call it) witli tremulous finirers, as if he feared every one 
 alxiut liiiii was a defaulter ; in his hypochondry ready to 
 iiiii^Mtie himself on. ; haun(ed, at leas(, with tho idea of 
 the |.->ss!i,;lity of his becomiiij^' one: his tristful visage 
 cl( aiiii;X up a little ov.r his roast neck of v.al at Ander- 
 lons at t-.vo (where his [»ictuii- still hun^. taken a little 
 
TIIR SOUTH-HRA ROUSE. 
 
 171 
 
 before hin «l«'uth hy do.sin> of the TiiiiNt«r of tho cuiW- 
 houHO, which he had fre<|Uontecl for the hwt flvf-uml- 
 twenty y«'arH), but not iitt«ininjf J ho iii«'ri«li;iii of itH 
 nniination till ev«'ninj; bnni<rht on i\w hour of t<'a and 
 viHitinj;. The Hiniuhan«'<>ii,M wjiuid of his wt'll-known 
 rap at tho (l(K»r with th<! strok of tl>e cl«H'k aMnninicin<; 
 Hix, wiiH a topic of ncvcr-failin^ mirth in the farnilit's 
 which this dear old Imchclor j;hid«l(MH'<l with his prcsi'iice. 
 Then \\nn his forfr, bin glorifuMl hour ! How would he 
 chirp, atid expand over a inurtin ! How would ]u: dilate 
 into H<'cri't liistory ! His countryman Pennant hiiuHelf, 
 in particular, could not Im; more elo<jucnt than Ik; in 
 relation to old and new Ltndon— the nite of old theatres, 
 clunches, Htreets, jr,,iio to decay— where Hosjinionds |K)nd 
 stood— the MullKM-ry (Janh'ns-— and the Conchiit in 
 Oheaj) — with many a pleasant ancedote, derived from 
 {Miternal tradition, of those ;;rotes(|Ue fl^Mires which 
 Hopirth has immortalized in liis pictiu-e of Nixn}, — the 
 worthy descendants <»f thost; heroic confessors, who 
 Hyin|^ to this CfMuitry, from the wrath (»f b)uis the Four- 
 t« 'iith an<l his din;j»M)ns, kept alive the llame of pure 
 n-lit^ion iu the shelterini; ohseurities (.f Hoir Line, and 
 the vicinity of the Seven Dials! 
 
 Deputy, under Evans, was Thomas Tame. He had the 
 air an<l st<M)p of ii nobleman. Vou would have taken 
 liim for one, had you met him in one of the jiassaj^'es 
 ieiuiinir to Westminster Hall. Hy Mt(M)p I mean that 
 /,'eiitle Umdinjrof the lx.dy forwards, wliieli, in ;,'reat men, 
 must Im! Hupp<»sed to 1m> the elferi I' an habitual eondes- 
 cendinjr attention to the applieations of their inbriors. 
 While he held voU in eonverse, y..u felt strained to the 
 

 172 
 
 TUB lOUTII-aBA IIOUNB. 
 
 J 
 
 height in (ho collo<|uy. Tli« conferenro ovor, you were 
 Hi leiHuru in Hinilu iit thn coiiipArativo iiiHigniHrnncH! o£ 
 the prf>t4<nHi()nH wliich hud juMt awu<l you. Hin intellect 
 woM of thu Hhullowfst ontur. It did not roarh to a Haw 
 ur A proverb. HiH mind wah in itH uriginiil ntiitt' of w)dto 
 |>ji|R'r. ■ A Hucking IxUkj might have poHud him. What 
 wjiM it then f WiiH ho rich i Ahw no ! Thomas Tamo 
 wiiH v«>ry |)oor. Iloth ho iind his wife hx)ke<l outwardly 
 gontlcfuikM, when I f«*ar all was not well at all timtM) 
 within. Sho had a ixat nieagro {K>rson, which it was 
 evident hIh; had not Hinncd in over-pampering; but in its 
 veins was noble blcMxl. Sh(! tnwotl her descent, by some 
 labyrinth of relationship, which I never thortjughly un- 
 derstoo«l, much less can explain with any heraldic 
 certainty at tills time of day, — 1« tho illustrious, but 
 unfortunate house of Derwentwater. This was tho secret 
 of Thomas's stoop. This was tho tliought — the senti- 
 ment — the bright solitary star of your lives, — ye mild 
 and happy pair, — which cheered y<ai in the night of 
 intellect, an«l in the obscurity of your station ! This was 
 to you instead of riches, instead of rank, instead ot 
 glittering attaimnents : and it was worth them all to- 
 getluT. Vou insulted none with it ; but, while you wore 
 it as u piece oi' defensive armour onl}', no in.sult likewise 
 could reaeh you through it. Decim et mAarnen. 
 
 tjf (|uite anothei- stamp was tlie then accountant, John 
 Tijip. lb' neither prcti'nded to high bItMMl, nor in gtKxl 
 trtith can-il one tig alMHit the matter. H«; " thought an 
 ju'countunt tho greatest charact«'r in the worhl, and him- 
 self the greatest accountant in it." Yet John was not 
 without his linl.l>v The Hddle relieved his vacant hours 
 
TBI IOUTII-«IA HOUIR. 
 
 173 
 
 He iung, ct^rtttinly, with ntUvr iiotcH (htut to the Orph.'iiii 
 lyre. Ho di«l, imletMl, HtTfaiii niiil MorajK! uumt nl«)iniiial)ly. 
 His fine suite of official imjiuM in TlimuhuMHJlo Street, 
 which, without anything very Hulxtimtial hpimm.KhI to 
 them, were enough to enliir^^e a nian'H notions of hiniHelf 
 that live<l in them— (I know not who in the (Ktiipi.T of 
 them now>— n?Houn<le<l fortfjijjhtly to tlu- notes of a 
 concert of "sweat hreastH," iw our ancstorH wouM have 
 
 called them, culled from eluh-r<K.iii.s and orcheHtnw 
 
 chorus singerH — first and Mecond viol.jnet'll.w — double 
 bftSHCH— and chirione«.M— who ate his cold mutton, and 
 drank his punch, and piaim-d his ear. He sjite like I>jrd 
 Midas amon^ them. Hut at the desk Tipp was qtiite 
 another mrt of creature. Thenee all id.iis, that were 
 purely ornamental, were banished. You could not sjxjak 
 of anything romantic without rebuke. Polities were 
 excluded. A newspaper was thou^rjit t<K) retiiu'd and 
 alwtracted. The whole duty of man consisted in writinjf 
 otrdividend warrants. The strikin^f of the annual balance 
 in the com|>any'H lxK>ks (which, perlmps, diffen.! from the 
 l«dancoof la-st year in the .sum of £25 Is. (id.) (K-eupied 
 his days and ni;rhts for a month previous. Not that 
 Tipp was blind to the (hadness of thiiiyn (as they calletl 
 them in the city) in his l)eloved house, or did not si^rh 
 for a return of the old stirrin^j days when South-Sea 
 lioiws were youn;;— (he was indeed eipial to th.- wielding 
 of any the most intricate accounts <»f the most flourishing 
 nmipuny in these or those days) :— but to a genuine 
 aceouiitaiit the differenee of proceeds is as nothing. The 
 timtioiml farthing is as dear to his heart as the thou- 
 simds which stand Ijefore it. He is the true actor, who 
 
i^ 
 
 174 
 
 TH« SOUTH UK A IIOUSI. 
 
 whothor hid piirt Im> n priiico or n |N>iuMiiit, tiiUNt net it with 
 lik<« iiit4MiMity. With Tipp f«>nii wuHovorytliiti^j. Hin Hfi' 
 Vfiui foniiui. His octiuiui NuciiitHl ruhnl with ii ruU>r Hin 
 pen wtiM not \cm erring than hiH hi'iirt Ho ntadu th«' 
 Vnmt I'xttrntor in tho worM : ho wiw plii^ti«'«l with iiic«w- 
 luint ux»«ut<»rMhi|>H acivinhnjjiy, which excii***! his Hphn^n 
 Hiul H<M>tht!«l hiM vanity in tM|Uul ruticm. Ho wmilcl Hwoar 
 (fur Tipp H wore) at tho litth) orphunn, whoMi* lightH hf 
 wotild i^uanl with a t«>nncity Uko tho griutp of tho (lyin^j 
 hanil that conunonded their interoMtM to hin pr»)tection. 
 With all thiM thero wan alM)Ut him a .H«)rt of timidity — 
 (his few enemioH um«»<1 to give it a wuino name) — a Home- 
 thing which, in reverunco to tho dead, >ve will phut', if 
 you pU iu4e, a Uttio on this nido of tho h«'n)ic. Nature 
 certainly had U>en pleivHed to enclow John Tipp with a 
 HUtlicient meiusuro of tho prineiplo of mdf j)reHervati»)n. 
 There iH a cowanlieo which we do not denpise, l^ecuune it 
 l»aH noMiing Imimo or treachertJUH in itH( lementM; it IxjtrayM 
 itHeif, not you : it i» mere tem[>oranient ; tho aljHunco of 
 the romantic and tl»o ent<'rpriMing ; it N-es a lion in the 
 way, and will not, with F()rtiid)raM, "greatly find (|uarrel 
 in a Mtraw," when houk; HUpjM».se<l honour is at Mtake. 
 Tipp never mounted the lx>x of a Htage-coiich in his life ; 
 or Itianed a^^ainst the rails of n halcony ; or walked U|K)n 
 tho ridgo of a |Mira|Hft; or hxjked down a precipice; or 
 lot ofFa gun ; or went ujxai a water-|)arty ; «)r would will- 
 ingly let you go if lu! could have helpetl it : neither w;w 
 it recorded of him, that for lucre, or fur intimidation, he 
 ever forsook fiicnd or principle. 
 
 Whom next shall we Hunniioii from the desty dead, in 
 u'hont comiiitm (|ualitieH Ihcome uneoinmun ? Can I 
 
 ^Wfr 'T 
 
THIS aOl'TtlUKA IIOflK, 
 
 175 
 
 for^a tluT, IIiMiry Miiii, tlu< wii. tlu> |¥»liHli«>«l umn of 
 luitorM, llif <iu/Ai/r, of till! S •uth-Sfii H.»u»«! ^ who h.v.t 
 «nt«nKlNt tliy oHico in a iaortiiiif(, or «|uitt«<l«it if in 
 iiii>l-<lAy — (what tlitlnt tlmu m mi utiici; O— wilh«mt mnm 
 <|uirk thrtt Ifft a Htin^! Thy ^Whh hihI thy jokcM ar.- 
 now exlinrt, or muviv»» hut "x two fur^'ott«-n v«>hitniH, 
 which I ha<l th(> ^(mxI rortiino to ii'm<'u« fr.mi a .ntjill in 
 liarhican, not thri'o ^\ny^ a^'o. an*l fMimtl »h,.o u-rm', Insh. 
 tpijrramniatic. aa aliv.-. Thy wit i» a litth< ^jono hv in 
 th««fH) foMtithouH (layM- thy topics an- -talh-.l hy tho " n.-w- 
 l>oni jfaiKl.s" of tho tiniu:~hut p.at thon »!h.'<| to Im in 
 Puhlic LtuljforH, and in Chronicl.H, iijM.n ChaUiani an<l 
 Shulbunio, and IWkinghani, ami Howi', and liniX">y»"'. 
 and Clinton, and tho war which rndid in i\u> tiarin'' 
 from Great Britain her n-lxjllious roloniiM, and Kt-pin I, 
 and WilkcH, and Sawhridjji', and l?till. and Dinmin;;, and 
 Pratt, and Uichinond, — and Huch Hinall {MditicM. 
 
 A little lesM facetious, and a ^^reat dial more ulwtreiKsr- 
 
 OUH, wa.H fino nittlinjf, rattlehi-aded IMu r. He was 
 
 de8Conde<i,— not in a ri^jht line, reader (for his lineal 
 pretenHions. like hi.s jM-rHonal, favoured a little of the 
 BiniHter bi'nd), fn.m the PlumerH of H» itf<1i'lshire. Si 
 tradition ^ve him out, ; and certain family f.utureH not 
 a little sanctioned the opinion. Certainly, <»ld Waller 
 Plumor (his reputed author) had In-en a rake in his dayx 
 and visited much in Italy, and had seen tin- world. II. 
 WJW uncle. iMiohelor-uncle, to the Hue old Wliij; still livin;; 
 who has represented the county in sa ni.iny succesHivi' 
 parliaments, and has a tine old mansion n«ar Wan 
 Walter flourished in Ceor^e tlu; Second's day-, and was 
 the same who was sunuiu ncl hcf.uv the Hnuse of (.'om- 
 
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•if,:' :M 
 
 m 
 
 176 
 
 THB 80UTH-8BA BODSR. 
 
 • ? 
 
 ,ii :i 
 
 mons about a business ot" franks, with the old Duchess of 
 Marlborough. You may read of it in Johnson's Life of 
 Cave. Cave came off cleverly in that business. It is 
 certain our Plumer did nothing to discountenance the 
 rumour. He rather seemed pleased whenever it was, 
 with all gentleness, insinuated. But, besides his family 
 pretensions, Plumer was an engaging fellow, and sang 
 gloriously. 
 
 Not so sweetly sang Plumer as thou sangest, mild, 
 
 child-like, pastoral M ; a flute's breathing less divinely 
 
 whispering than thy Arcadian melodies, when in tones 
 worthy of Arden, thou didst chant that song sung by 
 Amiens to the banished Duke, which proclaims the winter 
 wind more lenient than for a man to be ungrateful. Thy 
 sire was old surly M , the unapproachable church- 
 warden of Bishopsgate. He knew not what he did, 
 when he begat thee, like spring, gentle offspring of blus- 
 tering winter : — only unfortunate in thy ending, which 
 should have been mild, conciliatory, swan-like. 
 
 Much remains to sing. Many fantastic shapes rise up, 
 but they must be mine in private — already I have fooled 
 the reader to the top of his bent ; — else could I omit that 
 strange creature Woollett, who existed in trying the 
 question, and bought litigations? — and still stranger, 
 inimitable, solemn Hepworth, from whose gravity New- 
 ton might have deduced the law of gravitation. How 
 profoundly would he nib a pen — with what deliberation 
 would he wet a wafer ! 
 
 But it is time to close — night's wheels are rattling 
 over me — it is proper to have done with this solemn 
 mockery. 
 
NIL MI8I BONUM. 
 
 177 
 
 Reader, what if I havo been playing' with tlieo all this 
 while — peradventure the very numea which I hav<; 
 summoned up before thee, are fantastic, inHub.stantia! — 
 like Henry Pimpernel, and old John Naps of Greece : 
 
 Be satisfied that 8onjethin<;anHwerin^' to them has had 
 a being. Their importance is from the pa-st. 
 
 —Chartti Lamb. 
 
 NIL NISI BONUM. 
 
 Almost the last words which Sir Walter spoke to 
 Lockhart, his bio^'rapher, were, " He a ^^ood man, my 
 dear!" and with tiie last flicker of breatli on his dyinj,' 
 lips, he sighed a farewell to his family, and passed away 
 blessing them. 
 
 Two men, famous, admired, beloved, have just left us, 
 
 the Goldsmith and the Gibbon of our time. Ere a few 
 
 weeks are over, many a critic's pen will be at work, 
 
 reviewing their lives, and passing judgment on their 
 
 works. This is no review, or history, or criticism : only 
 
 a word in testimony of respect and regard from a man of 
 
 letters, who owes to his own professional labour the 
 
 honour of becoming acquainted with these two eminent 
 
 literary men. One was the first ambassador whom the 
 
 New World of Letters sent to the Old. He was born 
 
 almost with the republic; the pater pa tricv had laid his 
 
 hand on the child's head. He bore Washinirton's name: 
 
 he came amongst us bringing the kiiulest sympathy, the 
 
 most artless, smiling goodwill. His new country (which 
 
 some people here might be. disposed to regard rather 
 
 superciliously) could send us, as he showed in his own 
 12 
 
 7:i>*Wii«K<W 
 
S : 1 
 
 « i 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
 178 
 
 NIL NISI BONCM. 
 
 li 
 
 person, a j,'entloman, who, thou^rh liimself Ixmi in no 
 very liigh spheru, was most fini.shjd, polished, easy, witty, 
 quiet; and, socially, the ecjual of the most refined ICuro- 
 peans. \ If Irvinj^'s welcome in Entjland was a kind one, 
 was it not also jjratefuUy remembered? If he ate our 
 salt, did he not pay us with a thankful heart ? Who can 
 calculate the amount of friendliness and good feeling for 
 our country which this writer's generous and untiring 
 regard for us disseminated in his own ? His books are 
 read by m'lions of his countrymen, whom he has taught 
 to love England, and why to love her? It would have been 
 easy to speak otherwise than he did : to inflame national 
 rancours, which, at the time when he first became known 
 as a public writer, war liad just renewed : to cry down 
 the old civilization at the expense of the new : to point 
 out our faults, arrogance, shortcomings, and give the 
 republic to infer how much she was the parent state's 
 superior.- There are writers enough in the United States, 
 honest and otherwise, who preach that kind of doctrine. 
 But the good Irving, the peaceful, the friendly, had no 
 place for bitterness in his heart, and no scheme but kind- 
 ness. Received in England with extraordinary tender- 
 ness and friendship (Scott, Southey, Byron, a hundred 
 others have borne witness to their liking for him), he 
 was a messenger of goodwill and peace between his 
 countjy aid oura "Sea, friends!" he seems to say, 
 "these English are not so wicked, rapacious, callous^ 
 proud, as you have been taught to believe them. I went 
 amongst them a humble man ; won my way by m -• pen ; 
 and, when known, found every hand held out to me with' 
 kindliness and welcome. Scott is a great man, you 
 
 (•.I 
 II. 
 
 SMZf'K^tr 
 
 wt-m-Aiim;^ 
 
NIL NISI nONUM. 
 
 179 
 
 acknowledge. Did not Sn.tt'H Kinj; of En^rlajul <;iv(5 a 
 gold medal to him, and anotinn* to me, your countryman, 
 and a stranger ? " 
 
 Tradition in the; United StatoH still fondly retain.s the 
 history of the feasts and rejoicings which awaited Irving 
 on his return to his native country from Europe. He 
 had a national welcome; ho stanuuered in his speeches, 
 hid himself in confusion, and the people loved him all 
 the better. He had worthily n^jresented Amei-ica in 
 Europe. In that young connnunity a T'lan who brings 
 home with him abundant European testimonials is still 
 treated with respect (I have found American writei-s, of 
 wide-world reputation, strangely solicitous about the 
 opinions of quite obscure British critics, and elated or 
 depressed by their judgments); and Irving went home 
 medalled by the King, diplomatized by the University, 
 crowned and honoured and admired. He had not in any 
 way intrigued for his honoui-s, he had fairly won them ; 
 and, in Irving's instance, ae in others, the old country 
 was glad and eagev to pay them. 
 
 In America the love and regard for Irving was a 
 national sentiment. Party wars are perpetually raging 
 there, and are carried on by the press with a rancour and 
 fierceness against individujds which exceed British, 
 almost Irish, virulence. It seemed to me, during a year's 
 travel in the country, as if no one ever aimed a blow at 
 Irving. All men held their hand from that harmless, 
 friendly peacemaker. I had ihe good fortune to see him 
 at New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington, 
 and remarked how in eveiy j^lacc he was honoured and 
 welcomed. Every large city has its "Irving House." 
 
 asfm^MX* ar^ri:Ni3r<:.^ 
 
p 
 
 
 
 .fi 
 
 M^ 
 
 1 
 
 HHHH < ii 
 
 Hi: 
 
 
 
 180 
 
 NIL NISI DONUM. 
 
 The country tuki-H pii.le in tlio fume of its men of letters. 
 The jfiiteof liisown charmin^r littlo domain on the l)eiiuti- 
 ful HurlHon River wuh for ever swinging before visitors 
 who ciune to him. Ho nhut out no one. I hud seen 
 many pictures of his house, and read descriptions of it, in 
 both of which it was treated with a not unusual Ameri- 
 can exajjgeration. It was but a pretty little cabin of a 
 place ; the gentleman of the press who took notes of the 
 place, whilst his kind old host was sleeping, might have 
 visited tlie whole house in a couple of minutes. 
 
 And how came it that this house wa so small, when 
 Mr. Irving's lKK)ks were sold by hundreds of thousands, 
 nay, millions, when his profits were known to bo large! 
 and the habits of life of the good old bachelor w^re 
 notoriously mo<lest and simple ? He had loved once in 
 his life. The lady he loved died ; and he, whom all the 
 world loved, never sought to replace her. I can't say 
 how much the thought of that fidelity has touched me. 
 Does not the very cheerfulness of his after life add to the 
 pathos of that untold story ? To grieve always was not 
 in his nature ; or, when he had his sorrow, to bring all 
 the world in to condole with him and bemoan it. Deep 
 and quiet he lays the love of his heart, and buries it; 
 and grass and flowers grow over the scarred ground in 
 due time. 
 
 Irving had such a small house and such narrow rooms, 
 because there was a great number of people to occupy 
 them. He could only afford to keep one old horse (which, 
 lazy and aged as it was, managed once or twice to run 
 away with that careless oW horseman). He could only 
 afford to give plain sherry to that amiable British para- 
 
 M 
 
 w^^ 
 
 ''^W^KlA^!*^^^C^iKl^BBBfllK'^BlCMBL^M^Cfl[SMiB!'Jfl^ ^.* *iyi 
 
 iSK'-s'^'p-dact- 
 
NIL NISI boni;m. 
 
 181 
 
 fjraph-monjjor from Now York, who hivw tlio piitriarcli 
 anleep over liis iiiodcHt, l»l(iiiit'I«'SH cup, ami f»'t(.'lu<l the 
 public into liis private cliaiiil)or to look at liiin. Irvim' 
 could only li\«< very luodi-stly, In'oauso tho wil'oh'ss, cliiM- 
 k'HS man liad a nuinlxT of cliildrun to whom ho wa.s a 
 father. He IumI as many as iiiuo niecos, 1 am tokl— I 
 saw two of tht'so ladit'H at his house — witli all of whom 
 the dear old man had shared the pro<hice of his lalK)ur 
 and genius. 
 
 "Be a gootl ■», in, my dear." One can't hut think of 
 these last words of the veteran Ciiief of Letters, who 
 had tasted and tested the value of worldly success, 
 admiration, prosperity. Was Irvin»( not g(M)d, and, of 
 his works, was not his life the best part ? In his family, 
 Ijentle, generous, good-humoured, affectionate, self-deny- 
 ing: in society, a delightful example of complete gentle- 
 manhood; quite unspoiled by prosperity; never obsecjuious 
 to tho great (or, worse still, to the base and mean, as 
 some public men are forced to be in his and other coun- 
 tries); eager to acknowledge ev(>ry contemporary's merit; 
 always kind and affable to the young members of his 
 calling: in his professional bargains and mercantile deal- 
 ings delicately honest and grateful ; one of the most 
 charming masters of our lighter language ; the constant 
 friend to us and our nation; to men of letters doubly 
 dear, not for his wit and genius nierely, ])ut as an exemp- 
 lar of goodness, probity, and pm-e life: — I don't know 
 what sort of testimonial will be raised to him in his own 
 countr}', where generous and enthusiastic acknowledg- 
 ment of American merit is never wanting: Imt Irvine 
 was in our service as well as theirs ; and as they have 
 
 ' mB^&saKmt^KiaR/rsmsBi^ifiJSS:^.!?^. 
 
«ii 
 
 1) 
 
 i 
 
 183 
 
 NIL WIHI nOMOM. 
 
 plocofl a Htono nt Onvnwich yonder in tiwinory of thai 
 jjallmit yiiiii;; Hdlot, who wlinnMl th<' ix-rils nrul fat*; of 
 .101110 of our Arctic s.iuikii, I woiiM like to hear of Konu! 
 iiiciiioriiil raise. 1 hy Kn;,Hish writerH and friends of lettei-v 
 in aHectionioe renienihrance of the dear and ;,'(kx1 Wash- 
 it>;;ton Irv. 
 
 Am for tlu> other writer, whose departure many friends, 
 Konio few most <learly-loved relatives, and multitudes of 
 a<lmirin^ readt-rs deplore, our repuhlic has already 
 decreed his statu. , and lie must have; known that he 
 had earned this posthumous honour. Ho is not a poet 
 and man of letters merely, hut citizen, stvtesman, a fjreat 
 British worthy. Almost from the first moment when he 
 appears, amoii>rst hoys, amoni;st colle^'e students, amongst 
 men, ho is marked, and takes rank as a great Engli.sh- 
 niun. All sorts of successes are easy to him : as a lad he 
 U'oes down into tho arena with othei-s, and wins all the 
 pri/A'S to which ho has a mind. A place in the senate is 
 straightway offered to the young man. Ho takes his 
 seat there; ho speaks, when so minded, without party 
 anger or intiigue, hut not without party faith and a sort 
 of heroic enthusiasm for his cause. Still, he is poet and 
 philosopher even more than orator. That he may have 
 leisure and means to pursue his darling studies, he 
 absents himself for a while, and accepts a richly remun- 
 erative post in the East. As leained a man may live in 
 a cottage or a college common-room; })ut it always 
 seemed to me that ample meatis and recognized rank 
 were ]\Iacaulay's as of right. Years ago there was a 
 wr-tched outcry raised brL;iu;,u jIv. Macaulay dated u 
 letter fi-om Windsor Castle, where ho was staying. 
 
 mtr 
 
 I'lii ^1 iiniir-"——-"-— —^—~——^— '"^-'■——'--■'^■—*— '■■'^- --"—"—-■-"" -^ 
 
MIL NIfll BOlfUM. 
 
 183 
 
 Immortal ^<m1m ! Was thi.-s iniui not a fit piWHt fur any 
 palace in the world i or a tit coinpaiiiou f<tr any man or 
 woman in it ? I dan'say after Atistcrlitz, the old K. K. 
 court officialH and footmi-n HiiccnMl at N/ijK)li'on for dating 
 from Schiinhnmn. But that misorabli! "Windsor (.'asthf" 
 outcry is an echo out of faHt-rutrmtin^old-woild remem- 
 branccH. T1m> place of such a natural chief was amoii^rst 
 the first of the land ; and that country is Ih'sI, according 
 to our British notion at least, where the nuui of eminence 
 has the best chance of investing his genius and intellect. 
 
 If a company of giants were got together, wry likely 
 one or two of the mere six-feet-six people might bo 
 angry at the incontestable superi;)rity of the very tallest 
 of the party : and so I have henrd some Londcm wits, 
 rather peevish at Macaulay's superiority, contplain that 
 he occupied t(X) much of the talk, and so forth. Now 
 that wonderful tongue is to speak no more, will not 
 many a man grieve that ho no longer has the chance to 
 listen? To remember the talk is to wonder : to think 
 not only of the treasures he had in his memory, but of 
 the trifles ho liad stored there, and could produce with 
 equal readiness. Almost on the last day I had the for- 
 tune to see him, a conversation happened suddeidy to 
 spring up about senior wranglers, and what tlu-y had 
 done in after-life. To the almost terror of the persons 
 present, Maciulay began with the senior wrangler of 
 1801-2-3-4, and so on, giving the nnmo of each, and 
 relating his subsefjuent career and rise. Every man who 
 has known him has his story rejfardincr that astonishinir 
 memory. It may be tliat he was n(jt ill-pleased that you 
 should recognize it ; but to those pnxligious intellectual 
 
 ::jj» rm /n ■"RZ-i.«;r'_3i?^:^»"Ti^vi.'jPTf ?■ 
 
 
I ) 
 
 184 
 
 nu. Ntnl noNirM. 
 
 foulH, wliicli \v«'n< M4> •'iiMV (o him, wlm wuiilil j^nuljjo \\\h 
 trihiito of hcMiiHp' f Mis talk wan, in ii \vi»ii|, uiliiiimbk', 
 and wu iuliiiiro<| it. 
 
 Of tlio not iron which havo ft|)jM»ar«>«l ro^mliri^ Ixml 
 Maciiitlay, up to tho day when tho prfMont lini'M an* writ- 
 ton (tlm Oth of January), tho reaiU-r Hhould not deny 
 hinisolf thn pK'iiHuro of hx>kin|^ tNjKKjially nt two. It in 
 a jjikhI Hi^'u of tho tiujcH when HUch artieU'8 an tlicno (I 
 nu'an tho artich's in tlio Tlmr» nnd SutuitUii/ Review) 
 ap|H'ar in our pjiblic printn alxmt our public men. They 
 educjite us, an it were, to adntiru ri^jhtly. An uninNtruct(*d 
 person in a nuiseuni or at a concert may pa.sa by without 
 recogniziii;; a picture or a paH-sago of muHic, which tho 
 counoi.sMeur by hi.s wiilo may show him is a mtiHterpieco 
 of hannony, or a wonder of artiHtic Hkill. After readinjj 
 thoHo pap<'i-s, you like and respect moro tho person you 
 hjive admired so nnich already. And so with regard to 
 Macaulay's style there may bo fatdts of course — wliat 
 critic can't jH)int them out ? But for the nonce we are 
 not talkintf about favdts ; wo want to say v il ti Imi Ixmum. 
 Well — take at hazard any three pages of the Essays or 
 History; — and, glimmering below tho stream of the 
 narrative, ns it were, you, nn average reader, see one, two, 
 three, a half-score of alhisions to other historic facts, 
 characters, literature, poetry, with which you are 
 acquainted. Why is this epithet used ? Whence is that 
 simile drawn ? How does ho manage, in two or three 
 words, to paint an individual, or to indicate a landscape ? 
 Your neighbour, who has Ms reading, and his little stock 
 of literature stowed away in his niind, shall detect more 
 points, allusions, happy touches, indicating not only the 
 
 iU^■ws::^r» 
 
 ri^;- 
 
 mmm 
 
RIL Nim OoirUM. 
 
 1R3 
 
 proclijfiouM momory mv\ viiHt li'urninjf of thin iiiiiMt<>r, but 
 the womlorful imhiHtry, th« h«,iu'Ht, htitnblo pn>viouft U)\\ 
 of this ^eiit Ncholur. Hu n-mlH Ivvnity IkmiIch U> h rito a 
 H«'ntencu: ho truvuh a hundred inilcx to inuku a line of 
 description. 
 
 Many lyindcneni — not all— have wen the Ikitinh 
 MuMeum Lii)rnry. I Hpeuk (i cifur ouvfrt, and pray the 
 kindly reader to In'ar witli nie. I hnvo ««'en all sort of 
 domes of Peters and Pauls, Sophia, Pantheon, — what 
 not? — and have been struck >)y none of them so much as 
 by that catholic <lomo in HKxxusbury, under which our 
 million volumes are housed. What peace, what love, 
 what truth, what !j«.'auty, what happiness for all, what 
 jjenerous kindness for you and me, are here spread out ! 
 It seems to me one cannot sit down in that place without 
 a heart full of grateful reverenc<!. I own to have said 
 my grace at the table, and to have thanked heaven for 
 this my English birthright, freely to partake of these 
 lx>untiful books, and to sjwak the truth I find there. 
 Under the dome which held Macaulay's brain, and from 
 which his solemn eyes looked out on the i;^ ipld I t a 
 fortnight since, what a vast, brilliant, an i w" 
 store of learning was ran^'ed ! what strange lore .* 
 he not fetch for you at y«)ur bidding ! A vf)luine ' 
 or history, a book of poetry familiar or forgotten 
 by himself who forgot nothing), a novel ever so c 
 lie had it at hand. I spoke to him once about ^x 
 " Not read Clarissa !" he cried out. " If you have ( 
 thoroughly entered on Clarissa and are infected by 
 you can't leave it. Wla-n I \va.s in India I passe*! or 
 hot season at the hilLs, and there were the Govei/iot 
 
 rful 
 
 )Uld 
 
 iw, 
 
 ce 
 
If M 
 
 18fl 
 
 NIL liriHl KO:«irN. 
 
 = ■•-I 
 
 I 
 
 ♦ 
 
 h-4 
 
 E- 3 
 
 (lorioml, Htid tin* H4>cn'tiiry <»f (loviruiiMnt, iumI tli«» 
 ('<M>iiMiui<l('i-iii-()liii>f, hidI tli«'ir wiviH. I tttMl (UdrtMtm 
 witli me: ami, un wkjii ait tiny Imj^hu to re I, thw whulo 
 Mtiitioii wiiH ill H |MiMMion of cxcitt'iiii'nt aImmiI MiNM Hm- 
 lowi) iiiiii lu-r iniHforttini'H, un<l Iut Mcouiidrt'lly I^ivoliu*)' * 
 Tin- (ii»\»'ihoi'm wifo Hi'i/.t'd tlio lNK)k, aixl tli« H<«cn'tmy 
 wiiit"«l for it, niu\ tho Chii'f JuMtico coul«l not read it for 
 toiirMi" Ho ncU'il tho wh<»lo hcciiu: !iu piiced up ttiul 
 ilowritJM" " AtlH'riiHUiu" iihrury: I (IiircNiiy ho couUlhiivc 
 MI>ok«'u luv^m of tlkj IxKjk — of thut lKX)k, and of what 
 rountK'HM jiiit's of otln'rul 
 
 In thJM littlo |m|M>r It-t as koi-p tlio tt-xt of nil ni»i 
 hoiniin. OiH' pjipur I liiivu reiul rc^jardinj; Ijml MHcauliiy 
 Hiiyn " ho hiid no hourt." Why, a niuiiH Ijooks may not 
 always wpoak tho truth, hut thoy Hp«'ak his ntind in Npito 
 of hiniH«'lf ; and it wenis to nu» thin man's heart is buat- 
 in;; throujjh every pojje ho p<'nne<l. He is always in a 
 stonn of revolt and indignation against wrong, craft, 
 tyranny. How ho cheers heroic roHistance; how he 
 l)ackHand applauds freedom struggling for itsow^n ; how 
 ho hates scoundrels, ever so victorious and successful; 
 how he recognizes genius, though selfish villains possess 
 it! Tho critic who says Macaulay had no heart, miglit 
 say that Johnson had none ; and two men more generotn, 
 and more loving, and more hating, and more partial, anl 
 more nobio, do n(»t live in otir history. Thw»e who kjiew 
 Lord Macaulay knew how admirably tender and generous 
 and atiectionatt, he was. It was not his business to 
 bring his family befcjre the theatre footlights, and cull 
 for boucjuets from tlu; allery rm he went over them. 
 
 If any young man of letters reads this little sennon — 
 
 '*'>j^ 
 
TIIF VIRION or IHr|l|.K?« IIKATII. 
 
 nn<l to him. iii(|.r.|. it i^ (i.I.lr«'»wr.l I woiiM 
 lU'tiv .S-ullH wur.JH ill yuiir inin.l. ai,.| • /„. ,,,„„/ 
 
 1 1 I'll r. 
 
 Ilrro 
 
 187 
 
 HHV tit iiiin, 
 
 III If 
 
 aio two littiiiiy m. n ifnui- (o tlirir 
 
 t\, IdtiM Ik 
 
 (icfoiint, 
 
 <.|M'n. aixi cI.-Hii. }|,.r-.< is no m,,,! „f »|„,l.,jri,.H f,„- Hl,.,it- 
 ooriiin^^, or I'xplntiMtionH of vici-M whirli woul.l Imvi. U-en 
 viitiU'H iMJt for uimvoi.liihl,. ki\ I[.t« un* two cx.unpl.H 
 of iiimi inoHt (liH;.r..titlyK'f««'<l: •noh ptirMuiui; hin cull- 
 ing; oach NiMuikin;; liin truth ii.s iUA ha.l.. him; mch 
 honest in his lift-; just un.l irnpi-oachnM.. in his .hwil- 
 in;(s;«h.Hr to his fri.-n.ls; honour.-l hy his ooiinhy; 
 Im-IovccI nt his fir.si.h.. It hnM Immu tho fortunato lot of 
 lH>th to ^'ivo incnkiilal)!.. h;i[){.in.'.sH and .l.'li;;ht to tho 
 world, which thanks them in return -v ith an innn.>n.so 
 kindlinuHH. n-siHrt. amotion. It may not htj tair rhance, 
 hrother wrilxj, to Im) endowcl with .such merit, or 
 rewarded with Huch fame. Hut the rewards of tliese 
 men nro rewards paid to our sfrricc. Wo may not win 
 the hAton or opaukittes; hut (J.xl give us Kirenjt,'th to 
 guard the honour of the ihi" I 
 
 Thn.-ktrmt. 
 (Publuhft hi, arranyeinfnl „,lh lh<- ,>iMiMh,r,, Smith. Kt.Ur .i Vo.l 
 
 THE VISION OF SUDDEN DEATH. 
 
 What is to he taken as the predominant opinion ..f 
 man, reflective and philosophic, ui«nn siphiv dkatii '. 
 It is re.narkal.ie that, in .litKncnt conditions of siK-i.-ty, 
 Midd.'n death has heen vari.Misly rejoin I...! as tl... con- 
 Munmation of an earthly cancer most f.rv.ntly to bo 
 desired, or, again, m that consunnnation which is n-ith 
 
 
188 
 
 THK VISION OF SUDDKy DEATH. 
 
 most horror to bo (leprocati'd. Ciusar tho Dictator, at 
 liis luHt dinner pnrty (cctna), on tho very evcninj^ l)oforo 
 his aHsassi nation, wlien tho minutes of his eartlily career 
 were numbered, l)oing asked wliat death, in /as judgment, 
 might bo pronounced tho most eligible, replied, "That 
 which should bo tho most su.lden." On the other hand, 
 the divine Litany of our English Church, when breath- 
 ing forth supplications, as if in some representative 
 character, for the whole human race prostrate before 
 God, places such a death in the very van of horrors : — 
 "From lightnii.^- and tempest; from plague, pestilence, 
 and famine ; from battle and murder, and from SUDDEN 
 DEATH — Good Lord, deliver U8." Sudden death is here 
 made to crown Ihe climax in a grand ascent of calami- 
 ties; it is ranked among the last of curses; and yet, by 
 the noblest of Romans, it v/as ranked as the first of 
 blessings. In ''lat difference most readers will see little 
 more than tho essential difference between Christianity 
 and Paganisra. !^t this, on consideration, I doubt. 
 The Christirai Clnu-ch may bo right in its estimate of 
 sudden dtiath ; and it is a natural feeling, though after 
 all it may also be an infirm one, to wish for a quiet 
 dismissal from life — as that which seems most recon- 
 cilable with meditation, with penitential retrospects, and 
 with tho humilities of fare\\'ell prayer. There does not, 
 however, occur to me any direct scriptural warrant for 
 this earnest petition of the English Litany, unless under 
 a special construction of the word "sudden." It seems 
 a petition — indulged rath<;r and conceded to human 
 infirmity, than exacted from human piety. It is not so 
 much a doctrine built upon the eternities of the Chris- 
 
 
^/ViflU. 
 
 THB VISION OP 8UDDKN DEATH. 
 
 189 
 
 tian syHtein, aa a plau.sible opinion l)tiilt upon special 
 varieties of phyHieal tinperahieiit. Let Unit, liowever, 
 be as it may, two remarks .sug<,'eHt theiuselves a.s pni<ient 
 restraints upon a doctrine wliich else 9/i«// wander, and 
 has wandered, into an uncharitable supcrHtition. The 
 first is this: that many people are likely to exag<jerate 
 the horror of a sudden death, from the disposition to lay 
 a false stress upon words or acts, simply because by nn 
 accident they have become final words or acts. If a 
 man dies, for instance, by some sudden death when he 
 happens to be intoxicated, such a death is falsely regarded 
 with peculiar horror; as though the intoxication were 
 suddenly exalted into a blasphemy. But that is unphilo- 
 sophic. The man was, or he was not, hahitiially a 
 drunkard. If not, if his intoxication were a solitary 
 accident, there can be no reason for alhnving special 
 emphasis to this act, simply because through misfortune 
 it became his final act. Nor, on the other hand, if it 
 were no accident, but one of his habitual transfrix-ssions. 
 will it be tlie more habitual or the more a transfression 
 because some sudden calamity, surprising him, has caused 
 tliis habitual transgression to be also a final one. Could 
 the man have had any reason even dindy to f(n-esee his 
 own sudden death, there would have been a new feature 
 in his act of intemperance — a feature of presumption 
 and irreverence, as in one that, having known himself 
 drawing near to the presence of God, should have suited 
 his demeanour to an expectation so awful. But this is 
 no part of the case supposed. And the only new element 
 in the man's act is not any element of special innuorality. 
 but simply of special misfortune. 
 
w 
 
 190 
 
 TUB VISION OP 8UDDKN DEATH. 
 
 r 
 
 Tlio other reiimik has reference to tlio meaning of the 
 word sudden. Very possil.ly Ciesur uiid tlie Christian 
 Church do not ditier in the way Hupposed ; tliat is, do 
 not «litier by any ditrerenceof (k)ctrine as Ijetween Pagan 
 and Christian views of the moral temper appropriate to 
 death, hut perhaps they are contemphiting ditterent 
 cases. Both eontemphvte a violent death, a Bia^amros — 
 death that is JJt.uos, or, in other words, death that is 
 brought aljout, not by internal and spontaneous change, 
 but by active fcjrce having its origin from without. In 
 this meaning the two authorities agree. Thus far they 
 are in harmony. Rut the difference is, that the Roman 
 by the word "sudden" means uulivgt ring ; whereas 
 the Cliristian Litany by "sudden death" means a death 
 without waniivg, consequently without any available 
 sunnnons to religioua preparation. The poor mutineer, 
 wiio kneels down to gather into his heart the bullets 
 from twelve firelocks of his pitying comrades, dies by a 
 most .sudden death in Ca'sar's sen.se; one shock, one 
 mighty spasm, one (possibly not one) groan, and all is 
 over. But, in the sense of the Litany, the mutineer's 
 death is far from sudden; his offence originally, his 
 imprisonment, his trial, the interval between his sentence 
 and its execution, ha ng all furnished him with separate 
 warnings of his fate— having all summoned him to meet 
 it with solemn preparation. 
 
 Here at once, in this sharp verbal distinction, we com- 
 prehend the faithful earnestness with which a holy 
 Christian Church pleads on behalf of her poor departing 
 children, that God would vouchsafe to them the last 
 great privilege and distinction possible on a death-bed— 
 
 -ygpjw 
 
THE VISION OF HUDUEN DKATII. 
 
 191 
 
 viz., the opporturiity of tmtnmblod ptvi)iuati<m for 
 facing this mighty trial. Sitddon dcatlj, as a mere 
 variety in the nioden of dying, where death in some 
 shape is inevitable, projK)se8 a (jiiestion of choiee which, 
 ecpially in the Roman and tlie CMiristian sense, will Im 
 variously answered according to each man's variety of 
 tempei:ament. Meantime, one asjject of sndden death 
 there is, one modification, ujjon which no doubt can arise, 
 that of all ^martyrdoms it is the most agitating — viz., 
 where it surprises a man under circumstances which 
 offer (or which seem to offer) some hurrying, flying, 
 inappreciably minute chance of evading it. Sudden as 
 the danger which it affronts, must be any effort by 
 which such an evasion can be accomplished. Even that, 
 even the sickening necessity for hurrying in extremity 
 where all hurrying seems destined to be vain, even 
 that anguish is liable to a hideous exasperation in one 
 particular case — viz., where the appeal is made not 
 exclusively to the instinct of self-preservation, but to 
 the conscience, on behalf of some other life besides 
 your own, accidentally thrown upon your protection. 
 To fail, to collapse in a service merely your own, 
 might seem comparatively venial ; though, in fact, it 
 is far from venial. But to fail in a case where Provi- 
 dence has suddenly thrown into y >ur hands the final 
 interests of another — a fellow-creature shuddering be- 
 tween the gates of life and death ; this, to a man of 
 apprehensive conscience, would mingle the misery of 
 an atrocious criminality with the misery of a bloody 
 calanjity. You are called upon, by the case supposed, 
 possibly to die ; but to die at the very moment when, by 
 
•93 
 
 TBI V18I0N or SUDDEN DEATH. 
 
 any even partial failure, or effeniinato coUapHe of your 
 energies, you will be self -denounced an a murderer. You 
 had but the twinkling of an eye for your ettbrt.and that 
 effort might have been unavailing; but to have risen to 
 the level of such an effort, would have rescuetl you, 
 though not from dying, yet from dying as a traitor to 
 your final and farewell duty. 
 
 The situation here contemplated exposes a dreadful 
 ulcer, lurking far down in the depths of human nature. 
 It is not that men generally are sununoned to face such 
 awful trials. But potentially, and in shadowy outline, 
 such a trial is moving subterraneously in perhai>s all 
 men's natures. Upon the secret mirror of our dreams 
 such a trial is darkly projected, perhaps, to every one of 
 us. That dream, so familiar to childhood, of meeting a 
 hon, and, through languishing prostration in hope and 
 the energies of hope, that constant sequel of lying down 
 before the lion, publishes the secret frailty of human 
 nature — reveals its deep-seated falsehood to itself— 
 records its abysmal treachery. Perhaps not one of us 
 escapes that dream; perhaps, as by some sorrowful doom 
 of man, that dream repeats for every one of us, through 
 every generation, the original temptation in Eden. 
 Every one of us, in this dream, has a bait offered to the 
 infirm places of his own individual will; once ajrain a 
 snare is presented for tempting him into captivity to a 
 luxu y of ruin; once again, as in al)original Paradise, the 
 man 1 lis by his own choice ; again, by infinite iteration, 
 the ancient earth groans to Heaven, through her secret 
 caves, over the weakne.sa of Iter child : " Nature, from 
 her seat, sighing through all her works,' again "gives 
 
 i|' , 
 
 
THR VISION OP BUDDEV DEATH. 
 
 193 
 
 signs of woe tliat all in IohI," and jijjfain the counter sigh 
 is repmted to thn sorrowing heavens for the endless 
 rebellion against G(k1. It is not without probability 
 that in the world of dreams every one of us ratifies for 
 himself the original transgression. In dreams, perhaps 
 under some secret conflict of the midnight sleeper, 
 lighted up to the consciousness at the time, but dark- 
 ened to the memory as so<jn as all is finished, each 
 several child of our mysterious race completes for 
 himself the treason of the aboriginal fall. \ 
 
 The incident, so memorable in itself by its features of 
 horror, and so scenical by its grouping for the eye, which 
 furnished the text for this reverie upon Sudden Death, 
 occurred to myself in the dead of night, as a solitary 
 spectator, when seated on the box of the Manchester and 
 Glasgow mail, in the second or third sunnner after 
 Waterloo. I find it necessary to relate the circum- 
 stances, because they are such as could not have occurred 
 unless under a singular combination of accidents In 
 those days, the oblique and lateral comnninications with 
 many rural post-offices were so arranged, either through 
 necessity or through defect of system, as to make it 
 requisite for the matn north-western mail (i.e., the dotvn 
 mail), on reaching Manchester, to luilt for a number of 
 hours ; how many, I do not remember ; six or seven, I 
 think ; but the result was, that, in the ordinary course, 
 the mail reconunenced its jouriiey northwards about 
 midnight. Wearied v. ith the loTig detention at a gloomy 
 hot«l, T walked out sibor.t eleven o'clock at night for the 
 sake of fresh air, meaiiinf^ to fnll in with the mail and 
 13 
 
f 
 
 I, 
 
 r 
 
 iff I 
 
 si 
 
 I ! 
 
 4« . 
 
 Hi 1 ■ 
 
 194 
 
 THE VI8IOV OP 8UDUEN UEATil. 
 
 resiuno my seat at the iKj^t-olHce. The nijr|,t, however 
 bein^r yet <hirk, as the iiuK)n had Hcurcely ri.s..n, and the' 
 streets Ix-in^. at tliat hour empty, ho ,w to offer no oi,tx,r- 
 turnt.eH for a.sking the road. I lost n.y way; and di.l not 
 reach the post-office until it waH considerably past mid- 
 night; hut. to my great relief (as it was important for 
 me to l,e in Westmoreland by the morning). I saw in the 
 huge saucer eyes of the n.ail. blazing through the gloom 
 aji evidence that my chance was not yet lost. Past the 
 time It was; but. by some rare accident, the mail was 
 not even yet ready to start. I ascended to my seat on 
 the box where my cloak was still lying as it had lain at 
 the Bndgewater Arms. I had left it there in imitation 
 ot a nautical discoverer, who leaves a bit of buntin.r on 
 the shore of his discovery, by way of warning off^the 
 ground the whole human race, and notifying to the 
 Christian and the heathen worlds, with his be.st compli- 
 ments. that he has hoisted his pocket-handkerchief once 
 and forever upon that virgin soil; thenceforward claim- 
 ing thejiia dominii to the top of the atmosphere al)ove 
 It and also the right of driving shafts to the centre of 
 the earth below it; so that all people found after this 
 warning, either aloft in upper chambers of the atmos- 
 phere, or groping in subterraneous shafts, or s.iuatting 
 audaciously on the surface of the soil, will be treated a^ 
 trespassers-kicked, that is to say, or decapitated, as 
 circumstances may suggest, by their very faithful servant 
 the owner of the said pocket-handkerchief. In the present 
 case, 1 IS probable that my cloak might not have been 
 respected, and the jm gentium mijrht have be^n crupllv 
 violated in my person-for, in the dark, people commit 
 
 mmm. 
 
THE VIHIDN or flUDDKN UKATH. 
 
 (IchmIh of (lurkiu'Ms, jjhh ])v\utr a irrmi ally of morality — 
 but it MO happeiUMl that, ou this nijjht, tluTo waH no 
 otlier outsido pawHcn^er ; and thus tlus crime, which elso 
 was but Uh) prolmblc, misstMl firo for want of a criminal. 
 
 Havinjj motnited tho box, I totjk a small ((uantity of 
 laudanum, havinj^ already travelled two hundred and 
 fifty milea — viz., from a jxtint seventy miles Ix^yond 
 London. In the takint; of laudanuin there wjis nothing 
 extraordinary. But by accident it drew upon mo tho 
 special attention of my assessor on tho box, the coach- 
 man. And in that also there was nothinij extraordinary. 
 But by accident, and with j^reat delifjht, it drew my own 
 attention to the fact that this coachman was a moaster 
 in point of bulk, and that he had but one eye. • In fact, 
 he had been foretold by Virgil us 
 
 "Monstruin horrcndum, infornie, iiigonh cui lumen adomptum." 
 
 He answered to the conditions in every one of the 
 items : — 1. a monster he was ; 2. dreadful ; 0. sliapeless ; 
 4. huge ; 5. who had lost an eye. But why should that 
 delight me ? Had lie been one of the Calendars in the 
 "Arabian Nights," and Imd paid down his eye as the 
 price of his criminal curiosity, what right had / to exult 
 in his misfortune ? I did not exult ; I delighted in no 
 man's punishment, though it were even nierited. But 
 these personal distinctions (Nos. 1, 2, 8, 4, 5) identified 
 in an instant an old friend of mine, whom I had known 
 in the south for some years as the most masterly of mail- 
 coachmen. He was the man in all Europe that could (if 
 any could) have driven six-in-hand full gallop over Al 
 Sirat — that dreadful bvidiiu of Maliomet, with no side 
 battlements, and of extra room not enough for a razor's 
 
i 
 
 fi..|: 
 
 t 
 
 "*ll 
 
 \l \ 
 
 \i i 
 11 ' 
 
 , 4 
 
 f' 
 
 196 
 
 THE VISION or aUDUK.V r>RATR. 
 
 edge— lemliiig riglit iicrosH tla^ lM)ttotnI«'H.«H gulf. UiifU'r 
 this oininont inan, whom in ihwk I cngnominaUtd 
 Cycloiw diphnilotfH (Cyclops tlio chariot«>«'r), I, and 
 othotH known to iiio, Htudii'<l tho diphrelutic art. ExcuHe, 
 reader, a wonl too eli-gant to Ui petlantic. Aa a pupil, 
 though I paid extra fees, it in to Ije lamented that I did 
 not stand high in his estet-m. It Hiiowed liin dogged 
 honesty (though, oKservo, not his di.sceriunent). that ho 
 could not see my merits. Let us excuse his absurdity 
 in this particular, by rememlxiring his want of an eye. 
 Doubtless that made him blind to my merits. In the art 
 of conversation, however, he a<lmitted that I liad the 
 whip-hand of him. On this present occasion, great joy 
 was at our meeting. But what was Cyclops doing here? 
 Had the medical men recommended northern air, or 
 how ? I collected, from such explanations as ho volun- 
 teered, that he had an interest at stake in some suit-at- 
 law now pending at Lancaster ; so that probably he had 
 got Inmself transferred to this station, for the [)urpose of 
 connecting with his professional pursuits an instant 
 readiness for the calls of his lawsuit. 
 
 Mea!itime, what are we stopping for ? Surely we 
 have now waited long enough. Oh, this procnistinating 
 mail, and this procrastinating iK)st-office! Can't they 
 take a lesson upon that subject h\)U\ me ? Some people 
 have called me procrastinating. Yet you are witness, 
 ri-ader, that I was here kept waiting for the post-office. 
 Will the post-ortice lay its hand on its heart, in its 
 moments of sobriety, and assert that ever it waited for 
 n)p ^ What arc they alwnt ? The guard tells me that 
 there is a large extra accuu)ulation of foreign mails this 
 
TH> VimuN or aUUDKH DBATn. 
 
 197 
 
 night, owing to irregtilaritit's chuhimI by war, by wind, by 
 weather, in the [Mirket service, which aH yel (Iim'H not 
 benefit at all by Hteani. For an extra hour, it HceniH, the 
 jKJHt-oflice has Ix-en engjiged in threHhiiig out tlie pure 
 wlieaten correH|H>n<lenco of (lliwgow, and winnowing it 
 from the chaff of all biwer interni(>diate townn. But at 
 liwt all in HniHhed. Sound your horn, guard. Manchester, 
 good-by ; we've lost an hour by your criminal conduct at 
 the iKwt-ortice : which, however, though I do not mean to 
 |)art with a serviceable ground of complaint, and one 
 which really in such for the horses, to me secretly is an 
 advantag*', since it compels us to Umk sharply for this 
 lost liour amongst the next eight or nine, and to recover 
 it (if we can) at the rate of one nnlo extra j)er hour. 
 Off wo are at last, and at eleven miles an hour ; and for 
 the moment I detect no changes in tlio energy or in the 
 skill of Cyclops, 
 
 From Manchester to Kemlal, which virtually (though 
 not in law) is the capital of Westmoreland, there were at 
 this time seven stages of eleven miles eacti. The first 
 five of these, counting from Manchester, tenninate in 
 I^incaster, which is therefore fifty-five miles north of 
 Manchester, and the same distance exactly fn)m Liver- 
 {)Ool. The first three stages terminate in Preston (called, 
 by way of distinction from other towns of that name, 
 2>roud Preston), at which place it is that the separate 
 roads from Liverpool and from Manchester to the north 
 become confluent. Within these first three stages lay 
 the foundation, the progress, and termination of our 
 night's adventure. During the first stage, 1 found out 
 that Cyclops was mortal : he was liable to the shocking 
 

 ; I ^'^^W ■? 
 
 198 
 
 TH« VlilOM or aUDDIN DEATH. 
 
 affV-rtioii .)f «l,.,.|>_tt ihiuir xvhich pn-vionMly [ hu.l „..vor 
 
 HU.H,K.Ct...l. If ft ,„H„ i,„l„|^„.,M i„ tl... virions llllhit (.f 
 
 «l"-pinK. all tlu, Hkill in fturiKuti..,, „f Apcllo himnrlf 
 with the h.,rHi.H r,f Atnora to cx.cuto his noti,.iiH. avail 
 l.im nothihif. "Oh. tVclops!" I exchiime.1, " th.Mi art 
 mortal. My hinul, thou HnoreMt." Through tho firnt 
 eleven m.h.M. howtver, thin i..nnnity-which I grieve to 
 my that ho Hhured with the whole Pugftn Pftntheon— 
 betrayed itsolf or.ly by hri,.f ntrntchoH. On Wftkinif up ho 
 mmle an ai»ol.,jry for hiinsclf. which, inntead of n.endin.r 
 nuittern. laid opn a trUmuy vista of corning di.sa«ter8. 
 Iho 8ui,uner a-sHizos, he retninded uw, w.-re now going on 
 at Lancaster: ,,1 consequence of which, for three in'ghta 
 and three .lays, ho had not lain <lown in a U-il During 
 the day, he was waiting f(,r his own Hunnnona as a 
 witne.sson the trial in which he was interested; or else 
 lest he Hhoul.l be mi-ssing at tho critical moment, was* 
 dnnking with tho other witnesses, under tho pa.storal 
 surye, lance of the attomeya During tho night, or that 
 part of ,t which at sea would form the middle watch, ho 
 was drivmg This explanation certainly accounted 'for 
 Ins drowsiness, hut in a way which made it much more 
 alarmmg; snice now, after several <luys' resistance to 
 this mhrmity, at length ho was steadily giving way. 
 Throughout the second stage he grew n.ore and more 
 drowsy. In the second nnle of tho third stage, ho sur- 
 ret,dered himself Hnally and without a struggle to his 
 perilous temptation. All his past resistance had but 
 deepened the weight of this final oppression. Seven 
 at „K«j^,ereH of .sleep rested upon him; and to consum- 
 mate the case, our worthy guard, after singing " Love 
 
TiiK viaioN or lutmrA dkath. 
 
 lUU 
 
 mnon^t tlio H..h.'h" for |H'rlm|m tliiity tiim-K, with«>ut 
 iiiviUition, iiikI witlioiit applaiiNi', luul in n>V(n^'«< iiuxxlily 
 rt'Hi^iU'il hinis.lf to wIuiiiImt -not ho dr.-p, <l(»nhtli'MH. an 
 tilt" coiVciitiian'N, hut <lf«'p (•noii^h for niim-liiif. And tliUM 
 ut liiHt, alMtut t«ui iniliM from Primton. it ciuno nUmi tliiit 
 I f()Uinl myself li.ft in churj^e of liin MiijuHtyM Ljinl«»n 
 and (jIIiw^jow uiuil, tht'ii runni!»^' iit the ltii«t twelve 
 inile^ an liour. 
 
 ' What nuido tliis no^di^enpo K-hh criniinal than elwj i 
 mu.st hav(> Ix'on tlioii^dit, wum tho conditi«)n of thn ron«l- 
 at night (hning the ONHlzeH. At that time, all the la^ 
 biwinesH of jxipnioiw LiveqxH)!, and alno of populous. 
 Manchester, with itn vast cinetin-o of popuIouH rural 
 dif^' ♦s, was called up hy ancient UHa;je to the tn 
 bun of Lilliputian LiincaMter. To break up tluH ol'i 
 traditional u.mige reijuired, 1 titlict with powerful 
 
 eHtabliHhecl intere.st.s; 2. a large s^ i of new arran^' - 
 incntH ; and, 3. n new parliamentary statute. Btit « 
 yet this change was merely in contemplation. As t ' gs 
 were at present, twice in the year so vast a h»i of 
 business rolled northwards, from the southern <iuurter of 
 the county, that for a fortnight at least it occupied the 
 severe exertifm of two judges in it despatch. The con- 
 sequence of this was that every li' rse available for sucli 
 a service, along the whole line ot road, was exhausted 
 in carrying down the multitudes of people who were 
 parties to the different suits. By sunset, tiu-refore, it 
 usually happened that, through utter exhaustion amongst 
 men and horses, the road sank into profound silence. 
 Except the exhaustion in the vast adjacent county of 
 York from u contested election, no such silence sue- 
 
1 I 
 
 300 
 
 TMl VMMN or lUnDRN DEATH. 
 
 ;i 
 
 f 
 
 s 
 
 II , 
 
 ^r 
 
 e»»tHlinjf to no hwU Hi-ry iiproAr wim «»vor witiu^HmHl in 
 
 On thiN iHTUHion, t\w uhiiiiI «il««nct) fin<l Holitu.|« pro- 
 viiih'.! lilon^; ilii* rotul. Not a h'K,f nor n whenl w.im Ui 
 \)c Umnl And to Htn'nutlun thin fiilH4> luxurioun confi- 
 tUmcti in tho noiMolcHM romlH, it Impp'iHil hIho tluit tli« 
 nijjht wim ono of |)cculiiir Holoninity nnd \HiiU'v. For my 
 «.wn iMirt, though Mlitrhtly iilivo to th« iKm.HihilitieH of 
 IM'HI, I IiimI ho fur yifl.l.Hl U) tho in»luonc«! of tho nii^jhty 
 crthn iw to Hink into ii proffMind rovurio. Tho niortth woh 
 AujftiHt, in the nii<l<liu of which hiy my own hirth-(hiy— 
 a foHtivul to ov.-ry thoii^fhtful man hiikk*'"*" ' Holonin 
 and oftt«n HJ^'h-lioni thcKij^ditH. Thu county wi niy ( vn 
 native county— u|K)n which, in itH Houthmi Mt-ction.nioio 
 than UfKMi liny o«|ual ana known to man jMiKt or prt^Mi-nt, 
 had di'Mcended tho ori^'inal curHo of lalwur in ita heaviest 
 form, not maHterinj; tho \hxVwh only of men a« of shivoH, 
 or criniinalH in mineH, h»it working throu-^h tho tiory 
 will. Uixm no o(|ual Hpaco of earth was, or ever had 
 boon, the Ham.? etier^'y of liuman iK)wer put forth «hiily. 
 At thin particular HejiHon also of the aHsizes, that <lread- 
 ful hurricane of Hij^dit and pursuit, m it might have 
 seemed to a utranger, which swept to and from Lancaster 
 all day lon^'. hunting tho county up and down, and regu- 
 larly Hul>siding back into silence alK)ut sunset, could not 
 fail (when united with this permanent distin. \ion of 
 I.nnca,Hhire m the very metropolis and citadel of L'xmr) 
 to point the thoughts pathetically ujxjn that counter 
 vision of rest, of saintly rej>ose from strife and sorrow, 
 towards which, as to their secret haven, tho profounUer 
 aspirations of man's heart are in solitude continually 
 
 if 
 
rnn vihion or iiMtriKM uratw. 
 
 201 
 
 tmvolUng. Ohlimii'lv uixm our Ifft wo wi-ro tinnrin^tho 
 wft, which ulw) miiMt, iiihI«t thu |»ri'Ni*nt circuiiiMtHiicrN, Iw 
 r«>|)«*HtiiiK thn {^fMH'riit sditu of hulnyoii r(>|M)H4<. Tho hi'A, 
 ih«« AiiiHwpht'rv, th(« \\^\\i, Uiro «'iu*h nii orchnNtriit pnri 
 ill thin uiiivfntAl hill. MiN>nli>;ht, niid thu HrHt timid 
 triMiihlin^H of tlio ihiwii, Wfr« hy thin tiiii*' hlciiditi^; and 
 tho hh'tidinjp* Wi'rt» hntii^ht into ii Mtill more eX(|uiNitH 
 Ntnt*) of unity hy n Nli){ht Hil\t>ry miNt, motionh«NM and 
 dreamy, that coven'd tho .V(mhIn and tieldM, but with a 
 veil of ei|uaY)le traimpareiicy. Exn'pt the feet of our 
 own hoPM'N, whieh, ninnin^ on a Handy mar^n of tho 
 road, made hut little diMturlNinco, there wrut no sound 
 abroad. In tho cloudH, and on iho eai-th, prevailed the 
 Namo maJeHtin [M>fu*<> ; and in Hpite of all that the villain 
 of a HchoolmaMter hiw done for the ruin of our Hublimer 
 thoughtM, which are the thouf(htN of our infancy, wo sti'l 
 iM'lieve in no nuch nonflcnHo aM a limited atmoHphcre. 
 Whatever we may swoar with our falno feigning lij)H, in 
 our fai'hful heartn wo still l)eli<>ve, and must forever 
 l)elieve, in fields of air traverHing the total gulf between 
 earth and the central heaveim. Still, in tho confi<ienco 
 of chihlren that tr«'ad without fear everi/ rhaml)er in 
 their father's house, and to whom no door is closed, we, 
 in that Sabbatic vision which sometimes is reveale<l for 
 an hour upon nights like this, ascend with easy steps 
 from tho sorrow-stricken fields of earth, upwards to the 
 sandals of Qod. 
 
 Suddenly, from thoi ,hts like those, I was awakened 
 to a sullen sound, as of some motion on the distant road. 
 It stole upon the air for a moment ; 1 listened in awe ; 
 but then it died away. Once roused, however, I could 
 
I f 
 
 202 
 
 THE VISION or SUDDKII DEATH. 
 
 !';:! 
 
 1: 
 
 u. 
 
 It. 
 
 not but observe with alarm the quickened motion of our 
 horses. Ten years' experience liad made my eye learned 
 in the vahiin^r of motion; and I saw tliat we were m)w 
 running thirteen miles an hour. I pretend to no presence 
 of mind. On the contrary, my Tear is that I am miser- 
 ably and shamefully deficient in that (juality as regards 
 action. The palsy of doubt and distraction hangs like 
 some guilty weight of dark unfathomed remembrances 
 upon my energies, when the signal is flying for action. 
 But, on the other hand, this accursed gift I have, as 
 regards thought, that in tlie first step towards the possi- 
 bility of a misfortune, I see its total evolution ; in the 
 radix of the series I see too certainly and too instantly 
 Its entire expansion ; in the first syllable of the dreadful 
 sentence, I read already the last. It was not that I 
 feared for ourselves. Us, our bulk and impetus charmed 
 against peril in any collision. And I had ridden through 
 too many hundreds of perils that were frightful to ap- 
 proach, that were matter of laughter to look back upon, 
 the first face of which was horror— the parting face a 
 jest, for any anxiety to rest upon our interests. The 
 mail was not built, I felt assured, nor bespoke, that could 
 betray vie who trusted to its protection. But any car- 
 nage that we could meet vould be frail and light in 
 comparison of ourselves. And I remarked this ominous 
 accident of our situation. We were on the wroncr sid,. 
 of the road. But then, it may be said, the other party 
 if other there was, might also be on the wrong side; and 
 two wrongs might make a rij ht. That was not likely 
 The same motive which had drawn us to the right-hand 
 side of the road— viz., the luxury of the soft beaten 
 
THK VISIOX OF SUDDEN DEATH. 
 
 203 
 
 
 sand, aa contrasted with tlie paved (vntre— vvoulrl prove 
 attractive to otliera The two u<lv,.i-.so curria<j.-s would 
 therefore, to a certainty, be travellin^r on the name side; 
 and from thi.s side, a.s not hrun^ onr,s ri law, th,,. cnxssinL' 
 over to the other would, of course, be look.d for from us 
 Our h.nips, 8til! li^^dited. would j,nve the impr,>s.si(,n of 
 vigilance on our part. And every creature that mot us 
 would rely upon lis for quartering. All thi.s, and if the 
 separate links of the anticipation had been a thousand 
 times more, I saw, not di.scursively, or by eHbrt or by 
 succession, but by one flash of horrid simultaneous 
 intuition. 
 
 Under this steady though rapid anticipation of the 
 evil which wigr/i^ be gathering ahead, ah! what a sullen 
 mystery of fear, what a sigh of woe, was that which stole 
 upon the air, as again the far-off sound of a wheel was 
 heard! A whisper it was— a whisper from, perhaps, 
 four miles off— secretly announcing a ruin that, beincr 
 foreseen, was not the less inevitable; that, bein- known 
 was not, therefore, healed. What could be dolie— who 
 was it that could do it^to cheek the storm-flicrht 
 of these maniacal liorses? Could I not seize the reins 
 from the grasp of the slumbering coachman? You 
 reader, think that it would have been in i/our power tci 
 do 80. And I quarrel not with your estimate of your- 
 self. But, from the way in which the coachman's hand 
 was viced between his upper and lo-vcr thigh, this was 
 impossible. Easy, was it ? See, then, that bronze eques- 
 trian statue. The cruel rider has kept the bit in his 
 horses mouth for two centuries. Unbridle him for a 
 minute, if you please, and wash his mouth with water 
 
 I 
 

 
 » rsi'tf 
 
 
 H'f f 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 ■■4U 
 
 i '*! ^- 
 
 '}ti 
 
 : ; J 
 
 
 
 
 
 h ■■ ■ i 
 
 I ; 
 I 
 
 - i^ 
 
 304 
 
 THE VISION OF SUDDEN DKATH. 
 
 Easy, was it? Unhorse me, then, that imperial rider; 
 knock me those marble feet from those nuirhle stirruj^ 
 of Charleinajrne. '^ 
 
 The sounds ahead strenfjthened, and were now too 
 clearly the sounds of wheels. Who and what could it 
 be ? Was it in»lustry in a taxed cart ? Was it youthful 
 gaiety in a gijjj ? Was it sorrow that loitered, or joy 
 that raced ? For as yet the snatches of sound were too 
 intermitting, from distance, to decipher the character of 
 the motion. Whoever w< » the travellers, something 
 must be done to warn them. Upon the other party 
 rests the active responsibility, but upon us — and, woe is 
 me ! that us was reduced to my frail opium-shattered 
 self — rests the responsibility of warning. Yet, how 
 should this be accomplished? Might I not sound the 
 guard's horn ? Already, on the first thought, I was 
 making my way over the roof to the guard's seat. But 
 this, from the accident which I have mentioned, of the 
 foreign mails being piled upon the roof, was a difficult 
 and even dangerous attempt to one cramped by nearly 
 three hundred miles of outside travelling. And, for- 
 tunately, before I had lost much time in the attempt, 
 our frantic horses swept round an angle of the road, 
 which opened upon us that final stage where the collision 
 must be accomplished, and the catastrophe sealed. All 
 was apparently finished. The couit was sitting; the 
 case was herd ; the judge had finished ; and only the 
 verdiei was yet in arrear. 
 
 Before us lay an avenue, straight as an arrow, six 
 hundred yards, pcrliaps, in length ; and the umbrageous 
 trees, which rose in a regular line from either side. 
 
THK VISION or SUDDEN DEATH. 
 
 205 
 
 
 meeting high overhead, gave to it tlie character of a ca- 
 thedral aisle. These trees lent a deeper solemnity to tlie 
 early light; but there was still light enough tt) perceive, 
 at the further end of this Gothic aisle, a frail reedy gig, 
 in which were seated a young man, and by his side; a 
 young lady. Ah, young sir ! what are you alxjut ? If 
 it is requisite that you should whisper your comnuniica- 
 tions to this young lady — tlujugh really I sco noljody, at 
 an hour and on a road so solitary, likely to overhear you 
 — is it therefore requisite that you should carry your 
 lips forward to hers ? The little carriage is creeping on 
 at one mile an hour; and the parties within it being 
 thus tenderly engaged, are naturally bending down their 
 heads. Between them and eternity, to all human cai- 
 ' ition, there is but a minute and a-half. Oh heavens ! 
 wnat is it that I shall do ? Speaking or acting, what 
 help can I offer ? Strange it is, and to a mere auditor of 
 the tale might seem laughable, that I should need a sug- 
 gestion from the " Iliad " to prompt the sole resource 
 that remained Yet so it was. Suddenly I remembered 
 the shout of Achilles, and its effect. But could I pretend 
 to shout like the son of Peleus, aided by Pallas ? No : 
 but then I needed not the shout that should alarm all 
 Asia militant ; such a shout would suffice as might carry 
 terror into the hearts of tw^o thoughtless young people, 
 and one gig-horse. I shouted — and the young man 
 heard me not. A second time I shouted — and now he 
 heard me, for now he raised his head. 
 
 Here, then, all had been done that, by me, coiild be 
 done: more on my part, was not possible. Mine had 
 been the first step ; the second was for the young man ; 
 
306 
 
 THB VIBIOW OF 81'DDKH DKATU, 
 
 4 
 
 } -Jh 
 
 i * 
 
 '4 
 
 ■ 
 
 1 ; 
 
 1 
 
 m 
 
 w 
 
 M 
 
 5*i-.^ 
 
 P ' 
 
 i ■'< 
 
 
 
 •J- J 
 
 the third was for Ood. If. «..,!.] I. this stranger is a 
 brave man, and if, indeed, he loves the young girl at his 
 8ide-or. loving her not, if he feels the obligation, pres-- 
 nig upon every man worthy to be called a man, of doing 
 his utmost for a woman confided to his protectio,i_he 
 will, at least, make some effort to save her. If that 
 fails, he will not perish the more, or by a death more 
 cruel, for having made it; and he will die as a brave 
 man should, with his face to danger, and with Iiis arm 
 about the woman that ho sought in vain to save. But 
 if he makes no eflbrt. shrinking, without a struggle, from' 
 his duty, ho hii.. If will not the less certainly perish for 
 this baseness of ixjltroonery. He will die no less: and 
 why not ? Wherefore should we grieve that there is 
 one craven less in the world ? No ; let him perish, with- 
 out a pitying thought of ours wasted upon him ; and, in 
 that case, all our grief will be reserved for the fate of 
 the helpless girl who now, upon the least shadow of 
 failure in him, must, by the fiercest of translations- 
 must, without time for a prayer— must, within seventy 
 seconds, stand before the judgment-seat of God. 
 
 But craven he was not: sudden had been the call upon 
 him, and sudden was his answer to the call. He saw, he 
 heard, he comprehended, the ruin that was coming down- 
 already its gloomy shadow darkened above him ; and 
 already he was measurir^ his strength to deal with it- 
 Ah ! what a vulgar thing does courage seem, when we 
 see nations buying it and selling it for a shilling a day : 
 ah ! what a sublime thing does courage seem, when some 
 fearful summons on tho great de^ps of life carnes a man, 
 as if running before a hurricane, up to the giddy crest of 
 
 
1*.*^^ 
 
 THE VlblON OP BUDDKN UKATH. 
 
 SOT 
 
 some tuiiiiiltuouH crisiH, from winch lio two coui-ses, and 
 a voice Hays to him audibly, "' )iio way lies hope; take 
 the other, and mourn forever ! " How ^'land a triumph, 
 if, even then, amidst the raving of all around him, and 
 the frenzy of the danger, the man is able to confront his 
 situation — is able to retire for a moment into solitude 
 with God, and to seek his counsel from Him ! 
 
 For seven seconds, it might bo, of Iiis seventy, the 
 stranger settled his countenance steadfastly upon us, as 
 if to search and value every element in the conflict before 
 liim. For five seconds more of liis seventy he sat im- 
 movably, like one tliat mused on some great purpose. 
 For five more, perhaps, he sat with eyes upraised, like 
 one that prayed in sorrow, under some extremity of 
 doubt, for light that should guide him to the better 
 choice. Then suddenly he rose ; stood upright ; and by 
 a powerful strain upon the reins, raising his horse's fore- 
 feet from the ground, he slewed him round on the pivot 
 of his hind legs, so as to plant the little ecjuipage in a 
 position nearly at right angles to ours. Tims far his 
 condition was not improved ; except as a first step had 
 been taken towards the possibility of a second. If no 
 more were done, nothing was done; for the little carriage 
 still occupied the very centre of our path, though in an 
 altered direction. Yet even now it may not be too late : 
 fifteen of the seventy seconds may still be unexhausted ; 
 and one almighty bound may avail to clear the ground. 
 Hurry, then, hurry ! for the flying moments — they hurry. 
 Oh, hurry, hurry, my brave young man for the cruel 
 hoofs of our horaes — they also hurry ! fast are the fly- 
 ing moments, faster are the hoofs of our horses. But 
 
r 1 '. 
 
 r 
 
 I / . 
 
 i • ■ 
 i ■ 
 
 1 ' 
 
 '. . ■ ( 
 
 r 
 
 1 '■.' 
 
 !» 
 
 :rf 
 
 208 
 
 TH« VISION or flUDDKN DKATH. 
 
 fear not for him, if human energy can suffice ; faithful 
 was he that drr^re to his terrific duty ; faithful was the 
 horse to hia command. One blow, one impulse jriven 
 with voice and hand, by the stranjjer, one rush from tlie 
 horse, one bound as if in the act of rising to a fence, 
 landed the docile creature's fore-feet upon the crown or 
 arching centre of the road. The larger half of the little 
 equipage had then cleared our over-towj-ring 8ha<low : 
 that was evident even to my own agitated sight. But it 
 mattered little that one wreck should float off in safety, 
 if upon the wreck that prrisiied were embarked the 
 
 human freightage. The rear part of the carriage woh 
 
 that certainly beyond the line of absolute ruin ? Wlmt 
 power could answer the question ? Glance of eye, 
 thought of man, wing of ungel, which of these had speed 
 enough to sweep between the question and the answer, 
 and divide the one from the other? Light does not 
 tread upon the steps of light more indivisibly, than did 
 our all-con(iuering arrival upon the escaping efforts of 
 the gig. That must the young man have felt too plainly. 
 His back was now turned to us ; not by sight could he 
 any longer communicate with the peril; but by the 
 dreadful rattle of our harness, too truly had his ear been 
 instructed — that all was finished as regarded any further 
 effort of hia. Already in resignation he had rested from 
 his struggle ; and perhaps in his heart he was whisper- 
 ing, " Father, which art in heaven, do Thou finish above 
 what I on earth have attempted." Fjuster than ever 
 mill-race we ran past them in our inexorable flight. Oh, 
 raving of hurricanes that must have sounded in their 
 young ears at the moment of our transit ! Even in that 
 
TBI VISION or HUDDKN DEATH. 
 
 209 
 
 moment the thunder of collision H[)oke alou«l. Either 
 with the swingle-bar, or with tlu huunch of our near 
 leader, we had Btruck the ofF-wheel of the little gig, 
 wi.ich stood rather obliquely, and not quite bo far ad- 
 vanced, as to bo accurately parallel with the near-wheel. 
 The blow, from the fury of our ptuwage, resounded ter- 
 rifically. I rose in horror, to gaze upon the ruins we 
 might have caused. From my elevated station I looked 
 down, and looked back upon the scene, which in a 
 moment told its own tale, and wrote all its records on 
 my heart forever. 
 
 Here was the map of the passion that now had finished. 
 The horse was planted immovably, with his fore-feet 
 upon the paved crest of the central road. Ho of the 
 whole party might be supposed untouched by the pas- 
 sion of death. The little cany carriage— partly, perhaps, 
 from the violent torsion of the wheels in its recent 
 movement, partly from the thundering blow we had 
 given it — as if it sympathized with human liorror, was 
 all alive with tremblings and shiverings. The young 
 man trembled not, nor shivered. He sat like a rock. 
 But hia was the steadiness of agitation frozen into rest 
 by hoiTor. As yet he dared not to look round ; for he 
 knew that, if anything remained to do, by him it could 
 no longer be done. And as yet he knew not for certain 
 if their safety were accomplished. But the lady — 
 
 But ♦he lady ! Oh, heavons! will that spectacle 
 
 ever depart from my dreams, as she rose and sank upon 
 her seat, sank and rose, threw up her arms wildly to 
 heaven, clutched at some visionary object in the air, 
 fainting, praying, raving, despairing ? Figure to your- 
 14 
 
SIO 
 
 liii 
 
 i M 
 
 ! ■ h 
 
 TH« TUION or BUDDKM DIATH. 
 
 self, reader, the elements of the ciwo ; suflbr mo to recall 
 before your mind the circumsUnccs of that unparalleled 
 situation. From the silence and deep peace of this 
 saintly summer night-from the pathetic blending of 
 this sweet moonlight, dawnlight, dream light— from the 
 manly tenderness of this flattering, whispering, murmur- 
 ing love— suddenly as from the woods and fields— 
 suddenly as from the chambers of the air opening in 
 revelation— suddenly as from the ground yawning at 
 her feet, leaped upon her, with the flashing of cataracts, 
 Death the crowned phantom, with all the equipage of 
 his terrors, and the tiger roar of his voice. 
 
 The moments were numbered ; the strife was finished ; 
 the vision was closed. In the twinkling of an eye, our 
 flying horses had carried us to the termination of the 
 umbrageous aisle ; at right angles we wheeled into our 
 former direction ; the turn of the road carried the scene 
 out of my eyes in an instant, and swept it into my 
 dreams forever. 
 
 —Ik Quineejf, 
 
NOTKS. 
 
 
 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 "During the finit year that Mr. WonUworth and I were neighhonrt, 
 our convorsatioiii turned fitMiueutly on tttu two cardinal |M*inta of |MKjtry, 
 thu power of exciting the aynipathy of the reader by a faithful a«lh. nnce 
 to the trutli of nature, and the iK)wer of giving the interest of nov«lty 
 hy the modifying colour* of imagination. The thought tuggeated itatlf 
 that a seriea of poeniH might Ih> conipogfd of two aorta. In the one the 
 incidenU and ageuta were to be iu part at leaat auperuatural ; and the 
 excellence aimed at waa to conaint in the intercating of tlie atfectiona by 
 the dramatic truth of luch entotiona aa would naturally accompany such 
 nituations, mppoaing them nal. . . . In thia idea originated the 
 plan of the Lyrical Balliulu, in which it waa agreed that my endeavoura 
 Hliould be directed to pemoua and charactera aupernatural, or at leaat 
 romantic, yet ao aa to transfer from our inward nature a human intereat 
 and a semblance of truth aufficient to procure for these shadows of 
 imagination that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment whioh 
 constitutea poetic tAith."—Bio(jraphia LiUraria, Chapter XIV. 
 
 The immediate occasion of the poem waa the necensity for providing 
 funds to defray tho expenses of a holiday trip taken by Wordsworth, hia 
 sister, and Coleridge. The poem was planned during the course of this 
 expijdition. It waa founded on a J-eam of Coleridge's friend C'ruikshank, 
 who fancied he saw coming into iiort, a skeleton ship with spectre figures 
 on board. Shelvocke's Vwjagea suggested the incident of the Albatross. 
 Other incidents were suggested by Wordsworth, and drawn from various 
 books. But the greater portion of the poem originated with Coleridge 
 himself. 
 
 The Ancient Mariner was published in 1798, but was afterwards very 
 much changed. The marginal gloss which serves as a running commen- 
 tary on the poem was added in 1817. 
 
 The Motto.— "I readily believe that there are more invisible than 
 risible beings in the universe. But who wiil explain to uh the nature of 
 all these, the rank, relationships, distinguishing characteristics an<l 
 functions of each? What is it they do? Where is it they dwell? 
 
 211 
 
 I 
 
ai3 
 
 Horn. 
 
 1"^ 
 
 Human thought ever oirolaa ground tha knowlatlg* of th«iM mjnUrimi, 
 Mv«r touchiiiK tba c«ntr«. Mcanwhils it i«, I coufoM, ufttimra wail 
 pleMing t<i Uhola akatched a|mn th« mind, m upon • tablet, a piottiru 
 of the greater and better world j ao ahall tha aptrit, acoualomed to tha 
 patty concerna of tlaily life, not narrow itidf ovirmuch, nor aink utterly 
 into trivialitiea. But meanwhile we mutt <lillgently aoak for truth, and 
 maintain a temperate Jinljnnent, If wa would diatinguiah certainty from 
 unoartalnty, day from night." 
 
 Part I. 
 
 I. ancient In the double aenao of old and b«lougtug to olden timea. 
 Rims nieana poem. 
 
 II. loon. Low, baae fellow. 
 12. cftsoons. Immmliately. 
 
 36. minstrelsy. A bo<ly of miuatrela. 
 
 06. sheen. Splendour. 
 
 07. ken. See. 
 
 62. twound. Swoon. 
 
 63. Albatross. A webfooted bin!, remarkable for ita great aize 
 and powera of flight. The winga often meaaure twelve feet from tip to 
 tip. The bird ia foun! at great diatancea from ahoro. 
 
 64. thorough. An .^rchaio form of through. 
 76. respers. Eveninga. 
 
 Part II. 
 97. like God's own head. Thia phraae qualifiea Sun in Una 98. 
 
 08. uprist Uproae. 
 
 128. death-firrT Phoaphoreacent lighta, or corpae-candlea. 
 
 129. witch's oils. • A common device of wizarda to atld to the 
 myatery of a aceue. 
 
 Flavins Josephus. A Jewiah hiatorian of the firat century who wrote 
 The History of the Jewiah Wars. He waa made a Roman citizen by Titus. 
 
 Michael Psellus. A platonio philoaopher of Conatantinople wh^ 
 lived in the eleventh century. He wrote A Dialogue Concemmg the 
 Work of Spirits. 
 
 Part TII. 
 
 162. wist Sometimea explained aa "I thought," from A. S. witan, 
 lo know, but more probably here from A. 8. g^ewiss, indeed, certainly. 
 
TBI ANCIBNT MARINBR. 
 
 S13 
 
 IM. ■prita. Rpirik. 
 
 104. grumtrcj. Orttiui mtrti, grvat thankr. (Itra • DMra •>• 
 oUnwtion o( lurpriM. 
 
 178. HMTtn'B motlMr. 1 h« VirKin Mary. 
 
 184. g^OMamcret. Filmy cntiwuha. 
 
 103. night-mare AooortHuti to th« Noma legend « fem«lfl dernnn 
 who MAted herat'lf npnn tha breMUi of ■li't*|)t*r<i, kiul <>|>|irrM«td thrni hy 
 c«u«iDg the atopiMgo c>f the blood. Th« word meaiia iiight-urualier. 
 
 Tha cotirta of tha aun. Tha tropica. 
 
 209. clomb. ClimtMcl. 
 
 212. atar-doggad. " It ia a 'common an iwratition among aailora that 
 aomvthiiig dire ia about to hapiwii whenever a atar tlo^H the nuMin." — 
 CiAerulg*. 
 
 Part IV. 
 
 207. bemock'd. The afiftarent coldneaa of the ocean, cauaed by tha 
 white nioonbeania, mocked the uppresaive heat of the night. 
 
 Pakt V. 
 294. Mary Quean. The Virgin Mary. 
 297. ailly. Empty, uaeleaa. 
 302. dank. Damp, moist. 
 308. ghoat Spirit. 
 337. 'gan work. Did work or workeil. 
 862. Jargoning. Chattering. 
 394. I have not. It ia not in my power. 
 
 407. honey-dew. No apecitic reference. A compound of honry and 
 dno. " For he on honey-dew hath fed." Kuhla Khan. 
 
 Part VI. 
 435. chamel-dtingeon. A vault where corpaea are flepoaited. 
 
 489. holy rood. The holy croaa. 
 
 490. seraph-man. Angels of the highest oHer ; the Tnes»*ng<Ts »f 
 
 Jehovah. 
 512. ahrieve. 
 
 Hear my oonfeaaion and absolve me from my tin. 
 
314 
 
 Korn. 
 
 , * 
 
 Pakt VII. 
 0SM. trow. Thiak, it Mc-ma tn nir. 
 ASA. iTj>tod. Ivy biiih. 
 
 »7«. croucd his brow M».U th« .igii of th« oroM m • i.rotwti..n 
 Againat avil ■|>irita. 
 
 «23. forlorn. liepHvatt of. 
 
 024. Mddtr. Mora wrtoua. 
 
 HtruUEMTIVB Qi'Kjmoitii. 
 
 ITOrilUtil'CTitNV. 
 
 0«t tha movement of tbia atory clearly (Ixml in your mind. la th' 
 •lory wollnftmeil? i>t«a the |K)em aecm to teach »iiy moral truth' 
 Viewing the whole atory m an account of ain ami ita eipiation ali..« 
 the aigniricance of the following: (1) Tha wricome t.> the Albatr.M. 
 (2) The killing of the Albatr.Kw. (3) The ceuaiire of the ahipmat.. 
 (4) The praia-! of the ahipmatca. (."5) The rotting do«p. (6) The f 
 moval of tha Croaa ami fixing of AU.atroaa on neck. (7) Thn upcctr. 
 ■hip. (8) The game betwcon Death ami Lifein-r)eath. (9) The deat), 
 of the •hipcom|.aniona. (10) The diaguat aroutcd by the slimy crta 
 tu.ea. (II) The bleaaing of thcae creatures, (P.») The prayer and tli. 
 loM of tiie Albatn^a. (13) The air,.,,. (1|) Tho apirita .n the .l.a.l 
 men. (15) The dialogue between the two Voices. (10) The prayer «( 
 home-coming (1. 470). (17) The seraph-band. (18) The he.mit. (19, 
 The sinking of the ship. (20) The agony of lines 578-585. (21) Lim.. 
 601-609. 
 
 Part I. 
 
 Get a clear pictnre of the meeting between tho Ancient Mariner anl 
 the wedding-guest. Why should a wedding-guest be chosen? \Vh\ 
 one of three T Wherein lies the power of the Mariner? See lines 3 <t 
 13. 40. 81. 224-2-.><>. 584. 620. Nhow how every detail in the de8<,ripti.i,. 
 in the tirst five stanzas is relate*! to the central purpose in these stan/a» 
 in i«rt;ioular show how tho abrupt introductions and speeches and th. 
 choice of terms serve a specific puri)oee. Is the story of the Mariner .o.- 
 given in lines 21-30 sufficiently interesting to hold the attention of th. 
 wedding-guest? How is direction indicated in lines 25-28? Compar. 
 with linos 8.3-36. Wlmt ia Ihu effect of the personitication in 1 lu 
 25-28? What device gives force to tenth st.inza? Why should he h, 
 used instead of U in line 41 T What mean* does the poet employ t.. 
 
i*TT. 
 
 TUB ANCIRirr MARIMRII. 
 
 til 
 
 gitr* oa A riirja picttuA ol the Un<l of ir« ? Whi.h •|ipf«r« t« l.ar* tb« 
 more w<>it<Ur(ul •fft.-t th« •igtiU or th« •••uniU? Why i|ii«a tb« po«t 
 giva such a (li«in«l, Ion#ly pioturc? Dimumi tha aptnvaa o| th« aimil* 
 in lin*>a 4A 30. What b tb« ••rfwt of iritnHlininK a ait Itnn •iUna*T 
 What ia an AlUtr.waT lUnn thr fa-t that it waa wrK)»m««l mlA any 
 thin({ to the gtiilt of thm Marinar ami hia compat«ioiM t How is IJm 
 affect upon ua o( Uio Marinar a bwufaaaiuti iaoraaaaclT 
 
 I'AKT II. 
 
 What waa tha attitaHa of tha marinera at firat tAwanla thn k tiling of 
 the l.ir.1 T Why <lul th^y change ' Who waa more guilty th« Mariner 
 or hia cnmpnniona T Ki>ail line. 07, (W lo aa to bring out the trtio mean- 
 ing. How ia the effectiven«aa of the pictare incrcaaeil by a l..viot- in 
 line 107? What ia a eof,]„r alty T Kxamino carefully the cflTectiveneaa 
 of each wonl u»<-<l to ilracrilw the great calm. What ia the eflTeot of 
 re|i«titiona in linea II5I'.>1T la the exclamation in line I'i.1 profnneT 
 What M the p<M-t.c cff-.t of lin«>a I2fl. 126 T What ia tha effect of 
 tha aimile "like a wiuh'a oiN"? Ia the apirit of rengeanoe mora 
 terrible fn.m lieing invUible? What ia the meaning of welt aHayt 
 What ia the «igtiilit!«n«c of the Allialnma Iwing hung about tha Ancient 
 .Mariiur'H ncok ? Note how the twihira get the idea that they are lieing 
 puiiiHlud Mill how they attempt tu ahift the blama. 
 
 Part III. 
 
 Doea the feeling of expectation arouacd by the phantom ahip b(I<I any- 
 thing to the horror timt fullowa? What imidenta are employe«l to 
 create the feeling of horror in Pnrt III? What ia the meaning of 
 Orainfrry ! ami of ,rrln in line 104 T Why i» thia aceno tixed at aunaet T 
 la there any atriking poetic effect in the uac of the word dungeon- 
 grate, lino 179? Explain goummrret. What ia the meuning of "like 
 vo8»cI like crtw ! " Whether ia it »>ctter to fall into the han.la of Denth 
 or Li/f-inDmth ? U the name of the wnniJin suitable to her work ? 
 What effect ia pro.luced by the picture in lines I90-I9fi ? Is the agony 
 of the Ancient Mariner greater in linen 214 and 2!5 than it hem Xman 
 before ? Is tti ; his groatent curae ? What is tho meaning of alar- 
 dtj,r,l, liu- : 2 ? What gives horror to tho death of the crew ? Wh v 
 is the "v. ; of the croes-lxiw " mentioned in line 223? Haa the 
 oonacieooe o) the Ancient Mariner begun to torment him yet ? 
 
 t : 
 
216 
 
 N0TB8. 
 
 4 
 
 J- 
 'I 
 
 I 
 
 i ■ 
 
 •1 
 
 Part IV. 
 
 What is the force of the simile in line 2'.'6T Whnt livfg gtanr* 3, 
 Part IV, its power? How does the contrast in «.♦-". 4 :;,;,! to the 
 effect? How can the epithet beautiful bo jus'if...-! r Wh»it >{<h:» .1 e 
 Mariner tell ns of bis mental attitude in stanzas a ,1 0? Whu, ia 
 meant by a wicked whisi^r, line 246? At what p . ... ,;i.l tlio n.ont-: 
 attitude of the M» . . .er change ? What followed ? What U Mie - .meral 
 teaching at thin point? Why doee the Mariner turn away hFs gaze 
 from the rotting sen, line 240, and from hm vi, line 248? Docs he 
 escape punishment by so doing? Why does he see beauty in the move- 
 ment of the moon, lines 204-267 ? (See the gloss. ) What is the mean- 
 ing of c}-:irmed, line 270 ? bemock'd, line 268 ? Note Mio aptness of the 
 figure in line 284. Why does the prayer come when the Mariner 
 blesses tho creatures of the calm ? Why should not the poem end at 
 line 290? 
 
 Paut V. 
 
 Give quotations to show that Coleridge chooses Roman Catholicism as 
 the religioub setting of this poem? Why? How is it the Ancient 
 I lariner can sleep at last ? Show the suitabUity of the expression to 
 the thought in lines 295 and 296. Why pole to pole in lino 293 ? Why 
 silhf in line 297? E:. plain burst, fire-flags, sheen, wnn, lines 313-318. 
 What figure in lines 315-317? What is the effect of the unnatural 
 picture in lines 320-323? How is this unnaturalness increased in lines 
 327-330? Where is the climax reached? Why is the «/[y/arA selected 
 for mention in .359? W'hat is the meaning of jaryoninyl Note the 
 appropriateness of the similes in 360-372. When did the wind cease? 
 What happened then? What is the meaning of living life, line .395? 
 Who are the two N'oicea? What poetic beauty is added by the 
 introduction of these two Voices ? ComiKire the Voices. Are they 
 necessary to the action ? Why did the Mariner swoon ? 
 
 Part VI. 
 
 What is the purpose in giving moonlight such prominence in this 
 
 poem? Judging bylines 438-440, what do you consider the greatest 
 
 curse that is laid on the Ancient Mariner ? To what feeling does the 
 
 wind in lines 452-462 correspond ? Did the Mariner think the harbour 
 
 il? What is the meaning of tho prayer, line 470? Compare the 
 
 -ncc in Part VI. with the silence in Part IV. How did it come that 
 
 he / "oient Mariner saw the shadows of the spirits before he saw the 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 217 
 
 spirit* themaelvea ? Why y>trforct in line 502 T What do lineg 606, S07 
 revefti m to the mental attitude of the bpeaker T Through which of the 
 senses has the Mariner been appealed to in the various scenes of this 
 story? What sounds and sights brought joy in Part VI ? Why does 
 each part of the poem close with a reference to the Albatross ? 
 
 Part VII. 
 
 What purpose is served by the pilot, the pilot's boy and the hermit T 
 Why should the pilot rather than the hermit be afraid T What caused 
 the ship to sink ? With the salvation of the Mariner did there come a 
 sense of forgiveness? What duty did he feel to be laid upon him? 
 Why did he select the wedding-guest as a person to whom he should 
 tell the story? What is your imprension as to the character of the 
 wedding-guest ? What general truth has the Ancient Mariner gleaned 
 from his own experience ? What effect has the story had on the wed- 
 ding-guest ? 
 
 General. 
 
 What is the central teaching of this poem? Is there any falsehood? 
 Is the punishment too great for the crime ? Is the lesson of the poem 
 too obtrusive? What devices does Coleridge employ to make the 
 supernatural seem real? Why is the story given in conversational 
 form ? How has the reader's interest been secured and retained in this 
 poem? Wh,-,i, are the sources of the similes? Discuss their aptness. 
 Point out examples of »ound echoing stnse. Find the sea pictures in the 
 poem. Find the moonlight pictures. Make a list of archaic words. 
 Make a list of internal rhymes. State the effect of each. Describe the 
 stanza used in the poem. 
 
 Reference Books. 
 
 The Ancient Mariner, edited by Bates ; Longmans, Green & Co. The 
 Ancient Mariner, edited by Gibbs ; Ginn & Co. The Oolden Book of 
 Coleridge, edited by Stopford Brooke ; J. M. 
 (1900), Marshall & Stevenson ; Copp, Clark Co. 
 illustrated by Dore and Paton ; Pollard and 
 Mariner, illustrated by Scott ; Nelson & Sous. 
 
 Dent. Select Poems 
 The Ancient Mariner, 
 Moss. 7'he Ancient 
 
«ii 
 
 218 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 HART-LEAl' WELL 
 
 Written early in 1S(K) at Town-end, Orasmere, and publighed in the 
 same year. ''oriUworth says : " My sigter and I ha<l passed the place 
 a few weeks before. A peasant whom wo met near the spot told us the 
 story so far as conoerne.l the name of the Well and the Hart, and 
 pointed cut the stones. Botli the stones and the well are objects that 
 may easily be missed. The tradition by this time (1843) may be extinct 
 in the neighbourhood; the man who related it to us was very old." 
 Dowden adds : " The well is three and a- half miles from Richmond, in 
 Yorkshire. The aspens and the pillar have disappeared. For miles 
 around there is a barren moor. The water still falls into the cup of 
 stone. '' 
 
 1. Wensley Moor. A village in the north riding of Yorkshire, on 
 the river Ure. 
 
 13. rout. A crowd of people. 
 
 38. dumb partner. His horse. 
 
 39. yeaned. Brought forth, bom. 
 61. cunning. Skilful. 
 
 70. Paramour. Lady-love. 
 
 75. Swale-Ure. Two tributaries of the Ouse, in Yorkshire. 
 
 81. ere thrice, etc. Before three months had elapsed. 
 
 97. moving. Pathetic. 
 
 109. arms nor head. Neither branches nor leaves at the top. 
 
 164. sympathy divine. Matthew x., 29. 
 
 173. She leaves. " The slow decay of these objects is nature's warn- 
 ing to man against similar acts of cruelty ; but when he has learnt the 
 lesson of kindness to dumb animals, these sad memorials will be over- 
 grown and concealed from view. " — Webh. 
 
 SuooESTivE Questions. 
 
 By a series of headings suggest the movement in each part of this 
 poem. Show by a series of sub-headings how each heading is elaborated. 
 What figures and epithets are used to make the pictures more vivid? 
 Show the relation of each part of this poem to the central thought 
 What great contrasts do you find in the pictures in Part I and Part II? 
 
 ■^.K^^^^:,^ ... 
 
 
t ■ I. 
 
 MICHARL. 
 
 219 
 
 What contrMts in lainrnage correspond to thcRe ? Why arc the horses 
 in stanzas 1, 2 a.i(l 3, d-'scribtd so minutely? Why mich a c.inful de- 
 scription of the tired d' ,« ? By what means-words, pictures, epithets, 
 repetitions, etc.— does the poet intensify the vigour of the chase ? Why 
 shouhl he so intensify it ? Why is ho so careful to de8(ril.e the position 
 of the .lea«l stag in lines 41 -44 ? Read the last two stanzas of the p..en.. 
 and then tell why the poet has so carefully de8cril>ed the mental attitude 
 of the knight in lines 45-75. What was that attitude ? Sketch in your 
 own words the character of the knight. What do you think the author's 
 purpose was in writing this poem? (See lines 97-100, and 176-180.) 
 ohow in detail how ho has accomplished his purpose. By what means 
 does he appeal to our human sympathies ? Cojupare the teaching of this 
 poem with that of tlie Ancient Mariner. Which teaches its lesson in 
 the more emphatic manner? W^hich seems to show the greater poetic 
 skill? In which is the interest greater? In which is the progress of 
 the action more rapid ? 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 Mkhar' y-vi written at Town-end. Grasmere. in 1800. and published 
 the same . .r in the edition of the Lyrical Ballads. Wordsworth says 
 " I have attempted to give a picture of a man of st ong mind and lively 
 sensibi'-.y, agitated by two of the most powerf.d affections of the 
 human heart, parental affection, and the love if property, landed 
 property, including the feelings of inheritance, home and personal and 
 family independence." The story of the poem was founded on the son 
 of an old couple having become dissolute and run away Irom his 
 parents, and on an old shepherd having been seven years i.i building up 
 a shoepfold in a solitary valley. 
 
 Alexander notes (Select Poems, 1899, Copp, Clark Co.) two main 
 points in Michael. In the first place the poet chooses his theme for the 
 nobility, intensity and beauty of the emotion involved, not because «)f 
 the strikingness of the external facts that form the environment of this 
 'imotion. In the second place the poet do^a not present the series of 
 events simply for their own sake, but further, although in a very 
 unobtrusive fashion, he teaches a lesson. Ho further .".tates r "The 
 truth that Wordsworth. drew from this picture of humble life, the feeling 
 which it aroused in him, was that of the innate dignity and worth of 
 
i 
 
 I 
 
 n 
 
 1 
 
 'f 
 
 1 
 
 
 -i 
 
 Wl^ 
 
 'Iff 
 
 If ,#J 
 
 ■^■fi 
 
 20 NOTM. 
 
 Iiiiiiian nature ; and through thf pot-m ho intenRifiea our lense of 
 ruverence for tli« race, our hopes for the future of mankind." 
 
 2. Ghyll. " A Bteep, narrow valley with a Htream running through 
 it." — Wvrditwoith, (irceu-head Ghyll is under Stone-Arthur, north- 
 east of (irasmcre. 
 
 Al. subterraneous music. "I am not sure that I understand this 
 ri^'ht. Does it mean the sound of the wind under overhanging cli&s 
 and in hollows of the hills? " — Dou'den, 
 
 SS. telling^, counting. 
 
 134. Easedale. Is to the north of Orasmere, and Diminail- Raise it 
 the mountain gap from (irasmcre to Keswick. 
 
 ICO. clipping. Shearing. 
 
 180. coppice. A wood of small growth. 
 
 2r)9. Richard Bateman. " The story alluded to here is well known 
 in the country. The chapel is called Ings (Jhajwl, and is on the right 
 hand side of the road leading from Kendal to Ambleside." — Wordmvorth. 
 
 261. made a gathering. Took up a collection. 
 
 rk; 
 
 Si'CJOESTivE Questions. 
 
 What was Wordsvorth's purpose in writing the poem ? How far has 
 he succeeded in this purpose ? Is the title of the poem suitable ? What 
 is the real struggle in the mind of Michael ? Has Wordsworth ma<lc 
 this perfectly clear in the poem ? Give, in your own words, the picture 
 you have formed of Michael. To complete the picture is it necessary 
 to add much to what the poet has given ? What picture do you get of 
 Elizabeth ? Show how the poet gives such a clear picture of her in p 
 few words. Why does he set forth so fully the industry of the home ? 
 Describe minutely the rearing of the child Luke. Show how each 
 detail furnished has a distinct and necessary relation to the central 
 thought of the poem. What clew to Michael's character is given in the 
 account of his behaviour when the news of failure came? Describe the 
 struggle in Michael's mind. What insight into the character of the 
 father, mother and child is furnished by the account of Luke's de- 
 parture ? In what way does this careful account seem necessary to a 
 complete appreciation of the whole poem? Give, in your own words, 
 the parting injunctions of Michael to Lu'su. What docs the parting 
 scene reveal in the '-^^aracter of each? In what acts do you perceive 
 the greatest tenderness in the old man ? What was the relation of 
 
 

 .!-. 
 
 ■■\.<^ 
 
 .: % 
 
 DORA. 
 
 221 
 
 Lake's home life to his cciuluct ia the city? Why so Bhort an 
 account of his inisdueds? Shi)w how the account of Michael's actions 
 after the news of his son's <liHgrace is «'nouj,'h ami vit not too 
 much to show liis great love. What is the lesson tauglit liy this jiocni? 
 Is it plainly stated or do you gather it from the poem ? Which method 
 do you prefer? Note the dramatic touches in the poem. Comment on 
 its sympathy, its sincerity, its vigour. Ia the , too long for the 
 
 story it has to tell? Are there any parts that might he condenH..] 
 without injury to the poem? Are the cl --aeters clearly drawn? Are 
 they consistent ? Would you consider them as individuals or as types '.' 
 What use has the poet made of nature in the poem? Why are set 
 descriptions of nature wholly absent from Alkha,l? .lustify the in- 
 tense realism of the poem? Is the story in itself suitable for poetic 
 treatment? Examine the style of the poi m. Is the language suited to 
 the thought to be conveyed? Compare the language of the poem witii 
 that of ordinary prose. What poetic orn.iment has the poet used? 
 What use has he made of repetition? What is the effect of this? 
 Quote what you consider to be the two ilnest passages in the poem. 
 Give reasons for your choice. Read aloud the account of Miclmel's 
 treatment of Luke during childhood, and the account of his parting 
 injunctions, so as to show the great love he bore to his son. 
 
 DORA. 
 
 This poem was published in 1842. It if partly based on the story of 
 Dora Creswell in Miss Mitford's "Our Village," but the latter ))art is 
 entirely the poet's own invention. The pttem iieeds no comment other 
 than the fact tliat it is probably the one poem in the Kngiisu language 
 in which there is an almost entire absence of poetic ornament. 
 
 SUOUK.STIVE Questions; 
 
 Briefly tell the story of the poem. Picture as clearly as possible the 
 successive scenes. Sketch in a few words the several charact';re. Are 
 they consistent throughout? In the case of Allan, what is your feeling 
 towards him at first? How does it alter as you proceed? How do 
 you feel towards him at the close? How do you reconcile your feeling 
 at the close with your previous feeling? Do reason and human symia- 
 thy harmonize? Point out clearly the part played by Dora in the 
 narrative. W^hat do you most admire in her character? Was she too 
 
 •'. 
 
.' V 
 
 ^■f 
 
 t^ '- "WfiVt 
 
 \S 
 
 \\\ 
 
 1 » 
 
 2^ 
 
 \t 
 
 232 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 tnctk? Slmw how the jxMit hiw nuccpeili'd in ninkiiig your re«pect and 
 Kyiiiiwtliy for Jut increiiMu a^* tlio wt'iry |ii'i><'<-»'iU. ( 'oiiiidH'o Iut actinnt 
 with tho«o of Mary. Coinparo the twi< an to character. !■ Mary'i 
 coiiiiuct natural ? What waii it in her words that reaclictl the heart of 
 the ohl man ? \Vh;i: exiilaniition of Fiirniur Allan's life is given in the 
 wonlM of hill confeNxii'ti ? What wan reall' .tt the oottoni of his obsti- 
 nacy? What iiart is played hy the child in the narrative? What is the 
 life lesson of the |M>ciu? Was it the poet's intention to teach a lesson ? 
 ('onipare in this rcHpect with Miclnul. What is the signilicance of the 
 last two lines of tlie |>oeni ? Show wh.it pictures the poet attempted to 
 give in lines 10-45 iiiid lines 70-lK*>, and intlieate how suitable and neces- 
 sary each detail is to the efFectivcncss of the pictures. Comment on the 
 absence of poetic ornament throu^dmut tliis iK)em. What is the reason 
 for this? Is the simplicity of the poem overdone? Has the stylo nat- 
 urally grown out of the subject? Point out any lines that seem out of 
 place in the narrative. Coinnient ou the manner in which the poem 
 ojiens. Do you note any scrijituial echoea? Head aloud, so as to express 
 the feeling iu your mind, lines '25 31, 55-(i9, 84-1)9, ltX)-108, and 162-171. 
 
 RIKECUS. 
 
 Thi.<i poem was published in 1843 in Ijowell's second volume of poems. 
 The name Rhu?cu8 is common in Greek literature, but this particular 
 story does not seem to be founded on any well-known character in 
 mythology. For similar instances of personitication see CSuerber'a 
 Myths of Greece and Home, Chapter xxx. 
 
 18 the hazel twig. Divining rods, made usually of hazel, were 
 formerly much used in order to discover hidden springs of water. 
 
 35. Attic. Greek. 
 
 53. Dryad. The Dryads were nymphs whose special care was the 
 woods. They were not immortal, but their lives ended with the tree 
 over which they presiiled and within which they lived. They were 
 worshipped as goddesses, and had sacrifices oflFercd to them. 
 
 57. caterers. " provide for my wants. " 
 
 76. pipe. The favourite instrument of the shepherd in pastoral poetry. 
 82. g^erdan. Reward. 
 
 106. Venus. The Goddess of Love among the Romans. Aphro<lite 
 was the Greek name of Venus. 
 
THK riltOOK. 
 
 823 
 
 SUOUESTIVB QrKXTIONS. 
 
 Give in your own wonU the esavntial utory of tlio poem. What moral 
 teaching dot* the |K)ft intemlT (Jive (luotaliniiH to «how this. Oive 
 in your own words the ii|itcilio tcactiin)^ of liiius l-.'i'». I>o you agree 
 with it? Show how the iiitnxhKtion is related to the story iu the 
 poem. What is the poet's thought as to the siguilic.inco of (Jreek jicr- 
 Boiiilicati(mT Give any similar inataiioes that may Ihj known to you. 
 What is the moral teaching iu lines 141-144? What is the signitioanoe 
 of the contrast in lines 150-7 T ('onunent on their siiitahility as closing 
 lines. Is there any reason for the particular details in lines 140-154? 
 Was the punishment of Hlmcus suitulde to the otVincc ? Compare the 
 teaching of this poem with that in Thf Auriml Mariner and Jiart-Lntj) 
 Well, (/'ompare the manner in which the ttachir\g is set forth. Which 
 seems to you to convey the leswon best? Quote the significant lines in 
 each of the poems. Is there any ditFerenco between the language of 
 Lowell's moralizing and that of his descriptions? Kxamine in detail 
 the similes and metaphors used, noting their aptness and beauty. Is 
 the spirit in which this p(»em is related, iu keeping with the story and 
 the life-lesson of the poem ? 
 
 THE BROOK. 
 
 This poem was published in 1855. Many attempts have been made, 
 but with little success, to identify The lirook with that near Somernby, 
 the poet's birthplace. 
 
 1. we. Lawrence Aylmer and his brother Edmund. See line 197. 
 
 2. too late. To save his life. 
 
 3. strong^ sons. Those who vieweil life from the sole standpoint of 
 "business." 
 
 4. lucky rhymes, etc. •' Success in rhyming took the place of stock 
 and share certificates for him, and he preferred soft, melodious metres 
 to getting a hundred per cent, for his money in business. Poetry, not 
 money-making, was what he cared ior." —Jiowe and Webb. 
 
 6. breeds. Can bear interest. 
 
 8. the thing that is not, etc. 
 
 As imaipnation bodies forth 
 The forms of tningg unknown, the poet's pen 
 Turns them to »ha|«e«, ami >fiveg to airy nothin(( 
 A local habitation and a name. —Shakespeare. 
 
m^.tiM^ 
 
 r*^*'*. 
 
 ■ 'Z:*, 
 
 
 224 
 
 NOT Bit. 
 
 l-i 
 
 16. brandinfr. So hot m to scorch. 
 
 17. Neilghei 7 hiUo. In Imlift. A lummer reiort for th« residtota 
 of the plMiit, the climate very much rcMtiihliiig th«t of Kiigiand. 
 
 10. primroM fancies, la the double mdm of early and bright- 
 coloured. 
 
 23. haunts of coot and hern. A Hinall niarah. The ooot and the 
 heru art! water fowl. 
 
 26. bicker. To dart rapidly— to ({uiver. 
 
 29. thorps. Village!. 
 
 45. fairy foreland. Tiny promontory. 
 
 64. grigs. Graas- hoppers. 
 
 9.1. fount of fictive tears. " The reference is to people who are fond 
 of sentiment, and shed tears of unreal sorrow over tales of suffering 
 which they do nut attempt to remedy, aud who satisfy themselves with 
 benevolent projects that end in specious talk. With such people, 
 sentiment does not, as it ought, lead to action ; they keep the two 
 separate, indulging only in the tormer." — Jiutoe and Wfbb. 
 
 103. wizard pentagram. A five-pointed star, used in the Middle 
 Ages for magic purposes. The meaning, of course, is that Katie, to hide 
 her confusion, is making a peculiar figure in the gravel with her foot. 
 
 123. wheat-suburb. The stacks of wheat in his farm-yard. 
 
 135. serpent-rooted. The roots knotted and coiled like a serpent. 
 
 '46. Golden Fleece. The name of the puM' house. 
 
 159. coltish chronicle. The pedigree of the uolt. 
 
 176. netted sunbeams. A network caused by the sun shining 
 through the branches, not, as Owen explains, " the sunbeam imprisoned 
 in the water. " 
 
 180. shingly bars. Ridges of gravel. 
 
 181. cresses. Water-cress. 
 
 189. Arno. The river on which Florence is situated. One of the 
 most conspicuous objects in Florence is the great dome surmounting the 
 Cathedral. This was constructed by the great architect Brunelleachi, 
 after his failure hail been repeatedly foretold. 
 
 200. tonsured head. The head baid on tho crown. A reference to 
 the tonsure or shaven spot on the top of the head, customary with some 
 orders of priests. 
 
ULTMBH. 
 
 225 
 
 227. My brother Jame^. Hallam Uird Tenny>on in te« that the 
 lin|)lic»titm htr« in that the father in iU'«.l. ami fiirth.-r that lAwreiioo ia 
 thus ftt libvrty tu wihI either the iiiuthi.T or the daughter. Which ? 
 
 S|!()()MTIVK QlKSTlONH. 
 
 Tell the itory of the jKiem in the (inK-r i(f eveiitH. 'IVll hrit-lly the 
 •tory of Katie WiUowa uikUt tho hia.liiign -the i|iiurr(!l of thu hiven ; 
 the makiiig-uii ; the lif« heyoml the «»u ; tho rfturn. Why <h>«« 
 i>:<liuuud come into the itory? What kind of man wa« he? What 
 part doee the song of the Hrook play in tho imm.mu ? Hhow clea-ly it« 
 connection with the whoK? \u>ew. Show in jwrtictiUr the a|itii«;M of the 
 insertion of the ■tan/.aa in each place where they occur. What thoiiKlit 
 brought out in the poem ia cajn-cially ciiiphaaizcd in tho aong? Ia it 
 poaaibte to get the full meaning of the aong apart from ita context? 
 What ia tho life-kssrtn of tho pcnim? Sk« t«h the character of old Philip. 
 Explain linea »l-!».'». What two reaaona might he given for the detailed 
 deacriptjon in liiiea l'J*2l«y? Sketch the character of Katie Willowa. 
 Doea it ahow akill in portrayal? Ia it natural? Compare with Philip 
 in thia reapect. Ia the etory of the po«m well told ? Would it l»o lictter 
 if the explanation delayed until line 197 were ataled at the In-ginnirg? 
 What ia the advantage in thia arrangement? What u»o doea Teiinyaon 
 make of nature in thia poem ? Doea his use of nature harmonize with 
 the atory. Point out instancea of minute ohaervatioii of nature, t'om- 
 pare with Dura in thia reopcct. (iive aa many instancea ua you can from 
 the poem of the aound echoing the sense and of the use of alliteratiim. 
 Make a careful study of the jKx-m for the purj)08e of noting the appro- 
 priateneaa and beauty of the lignres used, and the ai>eci)ic word.s em- 
 ployed. Quote, to illustrate the poet's power of giving a vivitl picture in 
 a few words. (Linea 67-73 ; 11.>I 18, etc., etc.) Memorize the song of 
 the Brook. Aa far aa jwasible jjoint out ita merita aa a lyric. Why ia 
 The Brook auch a favourite poem? Why does it apjieal to you in par- 
 ticular? Compare it aa an idyll of country life with Mkhuel and Dora. 
 Finiah the atory of the poem from the point at which the poet atops. 
 Show by oral reading that you appreciate (n) the thought, (6) the uusic 
 of the poem. 
 
 ULYSSES. 
 
 Thia poem waa publishetl in the volume of 1842. Its hero is Ulyaaes 
 or Odyaaeua one of the bravest of the fireek heroes in the Trojuu war, 
 and whoae adventures on the way linno from Troy are celebrated by 
 
1^.UM^kMM.JI 
 
 ▼ W"'^ 
 
 220 
 
 Ni)TBa. 
 
 Homer in the 0./v*«y. TlyMr* «n„ r.n"Wn...| f„r lii«i Mixlnnt m a 
 couiiwllyr, lim ro«oure«fulnr«i., bihI hi* l.r.iviry in wnr. AfUr wmkUiv 
 iiiK for ten yi!»r«, be wm «t ImI n-.ton a t*. hu cnuiitry. It b »t this 
 IH.int th«t Tennyton Uk«a up Ulyw*.. If., r..|.r.n«,i,U him u thor..u«hly 
 .lucontciiU..! with hia tnoiiotnnoii* hf«. ait.l iv.r lonKing for new ex|>«. 
 rieii.et. an.l for Krc»t«r kiiowl..! . The hint i» to Im, found in Dante 
 for thi. treatiiiont of tho lul j..ct (( ollin.' /Uu»h„tionM o/ TmnymH, 
 |MK« M). It ie to U, Mot«tl however, thut while UI^mt* ia a Dramatic 
 m.moloKue, y«t Tenny..in him«df t..Ul Mr. Knowl«. that "There it 
 more alM.ut mywlf in Ulym^*, wliieh waa wntten umlrr the aenee of 
 l.«a. (the .Lath of Arthur Hallam] ami that all ha<l gone l.y, but that 
 ■till life muat l>e fought to the en.l. It waa more written with the 
 feeling of hia loaa upon mo than many pocmi in In Mrmuriam" 
 
 It wouia be well, after atu.lying this pottii. to rea.l, if jMMiiiible. St. 
 A.n^t' tW, Sir OnUihad, Thr Voyo,je, an.l M,rlU ami the Olru,,,. 
 
 '-'. barren crajs. The rocky iaiand of Ithaca, on the west cwuit of 
 • Jreece. 
 
 3. aged wife. l'eneloi>e, who had waito.l faithfully f.)r Ulyaata for 
 twenty yeara. 
 
 4. unequal lawt. Partial, unfair, imjicrfect. 
 
 5. know not me. Cannot un.UraUnd or appreciate mc. 
 
 6. drink-lees. Drain the wine of life to the very dr.gt ; Uke out of 
 life the utmont there ia t(» be had. 
 
 8. iuffeT'd greaUy. Homer generally calla Ulyaaea "the much en- 
 during. 
 
 10. the rainy Hyades. A ^roup ot atara in tho conatellation of 
 Taurus, whose rising and a^tting waa accompanied by rain and atorma. 
 
 11. a name. Pamoua. 
 
 12. hungry heart. Eager for knowledge. 
 17. ringing. With the clash of arma. 
 
 17. windy. A permanent Homeric epithet. 
 
 18. I am a part, etc. •• My present character ia compoaed of ele- 
 menta drawn from my various experiencea."— Aoioe uiul Webb. 
 
 25. of one. Of my single life. 
 
 29. some three suns. For the few years of life that yet remain. 
 33. Telemachus. The son of Ulysses and Penelope. Hia character 
 in the OdyHHty is very much as Tcuiiyaon repreaenta him here. 
 
iiLYmia. 
 
 227 
 
 .lA. diMerntnf. Wi»«, •»g»4inua. 
 
 4'2. household gods. Iiifmor n>H\n wtm |>r>aitl<><l over houM'a »iul 
 ItMuUf. 
 
 4«'i. my marinera. All (lit) nitiloiii iif ('lyii*fK wirn tlrownol mi tli« 
 voyAK*' iioiiio ti'oiti Tmy. 
 
 fin. gods. Vntiiii Aiul Mar« lif3l|M-il thu Trojanii, hikI agniiiat llnni 
 the <irct>ksh»<l fought. It Wim tlic <>|h'U himtility of I'owuloii (N«|>tiiii«) 
 tbitt kept IJIyMot lu long from liia hoiii«. 
 
 W. the baths, etc. Thu |il*ci) whero thu stAra tevme*! t<> sink into 
 the iK'van. 
 
 (13. the Happj Isles. The KtyNun tii>l<U ; tin klxxlf after itvath of 
 the lii'KK^a ami tlioae favoiiri'il liy tliu gmla. Tlicac ialaiida wvrv suii- 
 poiHiil to Im) •ituatt.Ml Roiiicwli«ru to tlio witat of Afriua. 
 
 64. Achilles. Thu hvru uf tlio Trujan war, and oiiu of tliu comiMuioiia- 
 ia-armt uf UlyM«H. 
 
 JSKKIEHTIVK yrK-STIOMH. 
 
 Make a topicnl aiialy»ia of the iK>ein ao an to show the logical order of 
 the thought. What tyi>o of life ia hero act forth? What appvara to 
 have been to Teunyton the ideal life T Set it forth in a ainglu word. 
 How it inch a life develo{M!d? Ilaa the |io«'t a plact; for other livea? 
 Show, point by point, how the character of Uiyaaet ia unfolded. Ia he a 
 univeraal character? If ao, whom doch he rt-pruaent? Carry the appli- 
 cation through, line by line. What ia thu attitude of Ulyaaea towarda 
 hia countrymen? Diatinguiah Ixitween aclfixhneaa and the apirit aet 
 forth in thia poem. What typo of character doim Teleniochua rcpreaent * 
 What ia the attitude of Ulyaaea towarda him ? Which ia the more uaeful 
 tyiie 7 What ia the attitude of Ulyaaea towarda hia marinera ? Quote 
 the linea that aecm to you to aum up the thought of the jKM!m. In how 
 far ia the |>eraonul note atruck in the {K>eiit ? Compare, in thia rcapect, 
 with Ode to Duly. Examine carefully the iKK-ni for the puq)OBo <if 
 pointing out the aatoniahing auitability of the worda to the thought. 
 Point out Bome fine examplea of aound echoing acnae. What uae ia 
 made of nature in the poem? What knowle<lge of the aea doea 
 Tennyson here ahow? Compare thia poem with the Pnalm of Li/f, by 
 Longfellow. Steadman aaya : " For viaible grandeur and aatoniahingly 
 cumpAct cxprcasioD there ia no buuk verse poem, squally restricted 1:: 
 length, that approachea the UhiMen." Prove thia atatement to be tru? 
 by a detailed examination of {////""fj*. Memorize the whole poem. Show 
 by your oral reading that you have caught the apirit of the aelection. 
 
im': rm 
 
 1 1 
 
 " (■■#»■ 
 
 ■^W 
 
 vlffi 
 
 ikaa 
 
 v*rr»^=ir' 
 
 ■^T f 
 
 2'if 
 
 NOTM. 
 
 M 
 
 J 
 
 Ol»K TO rufTV 
 
 Thi« iHwni WM Hr»l |Mtl*ti«h>'<l in IWM. WonUworth My* i " Thj« 
 mio is OH tho iiii><lt>l of (iray'a <)■ to Ailn i»iiij. Mt*iiy mkI itiaiiy a time 
 b»v« I Imwii twitttNt liy my w'a mkI aiatcr for hAving forgotten Uiia 
 iloilioAtion of itiya< If t"thi< attrn l«wgiv»r. Tri»ii»j{r« >»«or iiiiUol I have 
 U-nii from hour to hour, from il.ty to ih»y. I would faiu ho|)«, however, 
 nut iiioro tlitMnuitly, or in % woraa way, than moat uf my tunvful 
 hrfthrttn. Hut thra«t laitt wi>riU ara in a Himig Mtntin. \V«j ahonlil Im: 
 rigi>roua to ouravivi-a, an<l forl>«*iiiiK, *' **"^ inili)lKv<ht, to olhtra ; ami, 
 if wo nitiku coni|mriaon «t all, it ought ti> Ira with thoai; who have morally 
 exctillvil u«." 
 
 The following excellrnt aualv«ii of the p<icni i* from Srlrctioin from 
 WunUwurth, l.y W. T. \V«bb : Tho M4. millan Co. 
 
 "Duty i« a (oKlgiven ruUi of <-*in<hi> t under whoac guidance and 
 •u|i|Mii't tho Ntrug>{k> iH'twffn rii(lii and wroiij,' in the human lirpaat is 
 ondt<d and [R'ao! ia attaiiud, Thvrt> ar« iiumc hupiiy aouU who ftdlow 
 Duty nurvly from a natural intimioti toward* what ia ri^ht, hut who yt-l 
 may nci'd her htd[i. Hlt--*sed m s^e statu of f lnm«« who can com|dt!t<*ly 
 rely upon love and joy to guutt,- thvm ; an«i liAppy too aru thuy who 
 make such rclianoe thu rule ii tiicir lift-, hut auppiunient it by th«< 
 •U|i|iort of Duty, i, h'»w«v»-i . Shnntgh in. \jKri«uce ami too much aetf 
 contidence, have oft fii diaolH-vmi tiwe ciminiainda ol Duty; but I Would 
 <lu «o no longur. Thmd«i*tt-> m Uol the uuttonie of atrong ftHflitig, but <>f 
 a longing for rest in my M>ui !or a naintai and ns-nrsl t><{uiiihnuni. Th«' 
 aapi^ct of Duty , thou);h iMfvttr''. m kiad ; 'fir from brer «m:aiatvN not only 
 moral but phyni. .-tl l«w— tin; rM^utiy ■-! naiturr- ami thu onltr of the 
 univenie. HettcHlortfe I piaiat: arvwiir ixntier t4JMi guidancH) of Duty. 
 May «he enabtt- n. !;i . give 111 «i' >i«i s'loliafc •wif-contiduuce and l)ec»)mt; 
 her oliedient auu emjigintcnod ?aurr'.iuii. 
 
 1. Daug;hter 'H'aH *em«^ -a cfcrt- t iai|)..«eittHi m man by (Jod. 
 
 3. light— rt)C !*^aim <rxii_ V^h-. nair«?5t»s xxix., lo. 
 
 5. Ttctory aaa- law \hxr^ iimsas! tj»i; tniault of our fears makes 
 
 clear to us '*v ■■iu"-«v. fokf<«iiu; usiaca wu an giv«!u victory over 
 our terrors. — ^»iCM 
 
 7. vain. Foi.nwii. «'"nii5i 
 
 20. joy its OWKS strttaitr ■••«wr i» o— w t i a Hm o; happinemt proves this 
 happuifH.-i to III •ell Hiiiiiilcu. aux, thefefw-' • purHiiiuent. '- Wilih. 
 
 '2<). random ipait. NmI lamwt away W- every burst ci passu;!.. 
 
OtiR TO Tll»! yo^MT WIXD. 
 
 329 
 
 in. dUturbanct. AKtUti-.n 
 
 37 unchartered ri...«tr.uiif.n.y l»*. 
 
 31», change their n*me. I»«" mn. i»l.l.' »i.a .Im. <.r.Unt, 
 
 44. the tmile, • i«'. Th« .tm^oKm-nnMi <.f luvmg <\»uv ll.« rifhl. 
 
 M. «elf-«»f riftce. r..iiir»«t with lin" 54 
 
 Ni. confidence of reaion. ('<mi rant with Ihk l.V 
 
 M. light of truth « «'iitr«tt witli line -'il 
 
 Trft.-«> til.- Ini- <'f tlu.uKht. .t.^.i/.a hy .Irtii/.a. thr...i«hMHi th- \xH-m. 
 I. the tli.mKhl l..Ki.»lly a.nM,«. .1 ? Muk.- an ,U..tr«.t ..f th- th-uKhl. 
 SUt.- th« fM.!»li;il ni.aiiii.K -'t thn \x>*'Ux ill a <<iiik1« ""lit. il ••. Sh- ^ th« 
 rel tun. of each nUum t,. th,« tl,..,.i;ht. <iiv coiKflo illu.truth.n of 
 
 e»oh truth .■.pre.-e.l. Why .1., . n,.i th« | I K've .-on.T^to illu.tr*. 
 
 tioni? What thr..o attltu.l., t.-w .inU Duty ar« h. re mK.k.n of. 
 f'.mtrwit them. What li.ihility to . .ror in tli.i lif« M-t forth in iitanwu 
 2 and 3? What wun th.< po'-t s i.«r-...iml c«|KTi.iKit in tho niatU'r? 
 Why .I.H.. he wi.h for a dmi.^i? Wl>y line- 33 35? Wh.t tern.a arc 
 cmiiloyeii to characteri/* l>uty ' H, w in the wventy of thr term. 
 iH.ften«Hl ? "Thin IS one of the tincHl exani|.U'>. of Wor-Uworth't iK.we? 
 to elevate the homely an.l conmion,.!.-. into the highent iMHjtic uphere." 
 Examine thi. ntUement, U th- li.uutilit in thi. o.le l.a.e.1 upon 
 common wnw^ ami the h .ouh of cxi.eri.n.e ? In ,t a mrnu.n in vcr.e? 
 Ihwn the thought comm.n.l it«, If t- yur ju.lgtneot ? U it ni.iver.al m 
 iU api.liiali^.n ? IVk-s th,- iK.em .hi* lly ""l"'^'" >""' •"* " "^"'^ "' 
 arti.tic heauty or an «omethi..j{ anuur^ to present pn.foun.i truth? 
 Kxamine the words of this |MHin uii.lcr the f-Uow in« h.a.ling« : («) 
 KuiUhility to pro«e writing. (M Accuracy <..f meaning, (r) Swectnew 
 of aound. Arc th.re any ae|«rture. f-om nn-.lar rhythm ? If no, d.HH 
 itapi>ear to b« hy design? H-.w far d.KS thit l>oem apinsar to In. 
 Buhjective? Show hy oral re-vd...^ li-.w much you feel the truth 
 expreMcd in the poem ? 
 
 ODK TO THi: WKST WIND. 
 Sheil-y eav" : "This iioem was conceived and chiefly written in a 
 wood that «kirt. the Arno, near Florence, aiul on x .iay when Uml iri..- 
 peatuous wind wh.me temi»erature is at once mild and an.matmg WM 
 co^ecting the vapours which iw.ur down the autumnal rains." 
 
230 
 
 VOTES. 
 
 "The emotion awakened by the approaching itorm teta on fire other 
 ■lecpiug emotions in his heart, and the whole of his being bumts into 
 flame aroun<l the fimt emotion. Thin is the manner of the genesis of all 
 the noblest lyrics. Ho passes from magnificent realization of her storm 
 and peace to ecjiially great self-description, and then mingles all nature 
 and himself together that ho may sing of the restoration of mankind. 
 There is no song in the whole of our literature more passionate, mor^ 
 penetrative, more full of the force by which the idea and its form are 
 unitetl in one crej,tioa."—Stop/(/rd brooke. 
 
 4. hectic red. The redness of decay. 
 
 9. azure sister. The light spring breezes, blowing under the blue 
 ■ky. 
 
 14. destroyer and preserver. See lines .1 and 7. 
 
 15. stream. "A comparison of the wind's swift current to a stream 
 of water. The leaves are compared to foliage which is imagined to hang 
 on invisible leaves in heaven and ocean, and to be swept off by the wind 
 like dead leaves from real trees shaken into a nvor,"— Ellis. 
 
 18. angels. Messengers. 
 
 21. fierce Maenad. Bacchantes, or the devotees of Bacchus, the god 
 of wine. They were accustomed to iu-lulge in the most frenzied actiims 
 during the worship of the gotl, letting their hair stream loose, and killing 
 even human beings who interfered with their devotions. 
 
 31. coiL Winding round. 
 
 32. pumice isle. Island of volcanic origin. 
 32. Bale's bay. A bay ne.ir Naples. 
 
 34. quivering. Saw the shadow of the old city which was former y 
 situated on its shore, agitated by the motion of the wind, and looking 
 peculiarly intense through the medium of the water. 
 
 37. level— chasms. The smooth waters of the Atlantic, by the power 
 of ».ho wind, are cloven into vast hollows. 
 
 40. foliage of the ocean. "The phenomenon alluded to at the con- 
 elusion of the third stanza is well known to naturalists. The vegetation 
 at th'> bottom of the sea, of rivers and of lakes, sympathizes with th.-tt of 
 the land 'n he chf ge of seasons, iin.l is consequently influenced by tb j 
 windd which announce it. " — Skellei/. 
 
 64. quicken. Bring t« life. 
 
 64. new birth. Compare with this stanza lines 36-40 To a Skylark. 
 
INTIMATIONS OF IMMOHTALITY. 
 
 231 
 
 I.ika a y>net hidden 
 
 III the iJKht of thoii):ht, 
 8!iit(hit( hyniiia uiiliiiMcii, 
 Till the world is wri>ii(rht 
 To sympathy with ho)>ea and (ean it heeded not. 
 
 SuaoKsTivE Questions. 
 
 Apply the firet five queRtions on Ode to Dutij to thin poem. Qnote 
 the lines that seem to contain the nmiu idea of the poem. What long- 
 ing in the poet's mind led to the composition of the ode? How does hu 
 regard the West Wind in stiuizas 1, 2 and 3? liow does he apply the 
 description to himself in stanzas 4 and 5? What is there in the life of 
 Shelley that would give rise to this ode T Was he sincere in the wish 
 expressed in the last stanza ? Refer to any other poems of Shelley that 
 seem to express a similar longing. Are the statements in stanza 4 in 
 accordance with what you know of Shelley's life? Examine carefully 
 the figures used throughout, especially those in stanzas 2 and 4. 
 &e-write these stanzas in plain language, so as to bring out clearly and 
 in detail the meaning. How far does the imaginative element pre- 
 dominate in this poom ? Which faculty, the reason or the imagination, 
 is more exercised? Give, in your own words, what you take to be the 
 iinest pictures in the selection. What is the poetic purpose of each 
 picture ? Compare any two of the pictures as to beauty and appropri- 
 ateness. Examine in detail the words used, noting especially their 
 connotation, e.g., hectic, azure, locks, solid, clarion, sepulchre, etc. 
 Compare line 14 with lines 69 and 70. Examine carefully the quotation 
 from Stopford Brooke in the notes, and try to pi ove its truth from the 
 poem itself. Memorize the ode. W^hat is the value of the fre^juent 
 invocations ? Is there any irregularity in the recurrence of these ? Note 
 the stanza structure here used. Do you remember any other poem 
 having the same rhyme-scheme? Compare the structure of the stanza*. 
 Discuss, as far as possible, stanza by stanza, the suitability of the metre 
 to the theme. 
 
 INTIMATIONS OF IM oRTALTTY. 
 
 This ode was first published in 1807. From his youth up the poet 
 found it difficult to admit the notion of death as ai>plicable to himself, 
 lie communed with ail he 8»w as souiethiug iniiereut in his own im- 
 material nature. Regarding the doctrine of pre-ezistence he remarks : 
 
299 
 
 HOTBS. 
 
 "To that dre«m-Iike vividness and splendonr which invests objects o( 
 sight in childhood, everyone, I believe, if he would look back would 
 bear testimony. . . . It is far too shadowy a notion to be recom- 
 mended to faith as more than an element in our instincts of immortality. 
 . . . A pre-existent state has entered into the popular creeds of 
 many nations; and is an ingredient in Platonic philosophy." It is 
 evident that the idea is one which is capable of poetic treatment, and 
 the literary excellence of this poem does not altogether depend apon the 
 absolute truth of the doctrine. 
 
 The line of thought in the poem is broken. Beginning with a recital 
 of persona] ex|>erience (1-55) it passes on to reflection and description 
 (5C-107). Then comes the apo8troi)he to childhood (108-128), followed 
 by the introspective analysis (129-167), and the poem ends with an 
 expression of personal resolution, deaire, and feeling of contentment. 
 Following this broken order the line of thought seems to be something 
 like this :— 
 
 "In my childhood nature had a peculiar charm for me, but I am no 
 longer able to perceive it. Outwardly it is still pjeuing to the eye, 
 but the old glory is gone. Because of this I had a grief, which, how- 
 ever, has been relieved by expression, and I can now appreciate and 
 sympathize with the rejoicings of spiing. It would indeed be an evil 
 day if the whole world rejoiced and I were sullen, yet the tree, the 
 field, the flower, tell me the old splendour is gone. 
 
 "We were born into this world from a previous state of existence. 
 We brought with us a memory of our old surroundings. These mark 
 our infancy, but gradually fade away as we attain manhood. The 
 pleasures and occupations of the world tend to make us forget the 
 glory we once perceived. Even the little child is soon taken up with 
 the things of earth ; his life consists in imitation. Why, O little 
 child, art thou so eager to anticipate the yoke that the world with its 
 dull routine will place upon thee ? 
 
 "How we should rejoice that there is something in our nature to 
 recall the old glory, its delight and liberty, as well as its sense of the 
 unreality of all that is earthly ! This feeling soothes, upholds, directs, 
 and can never be wholly destroyed. Therefore shall we not grieve but 
 the rather rejoice that the memory of the splendour which is gone is an 
 earnest of the thinga to come. Yea, I love nature now more than in 
 the days of childhood, for experience has given a sympathetic power 
 
nrriMATioNs of immortautt. 
 
 233 
 
 that enable! me to gather from each natural object thought* that often 
 lie too deep for teara." 
 
 21. tabor. A amall drum. 
 
 23. a timely utterance. ExpreHion give* relief. 
 
 Give torrow wortls : the gritt th»t does not tpeak 
 Whiapet the o'er-f nught heart Mid bide It break. 
 
 28. fields of sleep. A doubtful passage, explained as (1) the sleeping 
 fields, (2) the fields in early morning that have just awaked from sleep, 
 (3) the early dawn. 
 
 40. coronal. Garland of flowers. 
 
 61. But there's a Tree, etc. There is for everyone some particular 
 objects that will awaken recollections of childhood. 
 
 58. Our birth is but a sleep, etc. When born into this existence 
 we lost consciousness of our previous state, or rather only dimly 
 remembered it. 
 
 67. Shades of the prison-house. The cares of earth. 
 72. Nature's Priest A worshipper at nature's shrine. 
 77. Earth fills her lap, etc. In this stanza nature is considered as a 
 foster-parent, loving her child, and anxious to secure his love. 
 88. fretted. Beset or worried. 
 
 108. Thou, whose exterior semblance, etc. The child is small and 
 weak bodily, and this belies the immensity of his soul. 
 
 113. Haunted forever, etc. Subject to divine inspiration. 
 
 119. Slave. Does not denote servility. The influence of previous 
 existence is master over all present situations. 
 
 127. custom. Conventionalism. 
 
 129. embers. Our ashes. "Even in our ashes live their won ted fires." 
 
 141. obstinate questioningfs, etc. We qtiestion the reality of external 
 things ; they seem to fall away from us as unreal ; they vanish in 
 unsubstantiality. 
 
 154. Our noisy years, etc. Our lives seem but a brief interval 
 between two eternities. 
 
 SuooiSTiyK Qtrisnoirs. 
 
 Write out in your own words the line of thought in the poem. Give 
 in a single sentence the essential thought of each stanza. Into what 
 
234 
 
 Norn. 
 
 parti, other than ■taniM, doM th« poem naturally diride itself ? What 
 are the leading ideaa of the poem? State clearly the dootrine that 
 uuderlioa the poem. Do you Bud thU doctrine diacnued by any other 
 poet? Are the tranaitioni of the thought too abrupt T In how far 
 doea your own personal experience seem to agree with that set forth 
 here T Commit to memory such passages as seem to contain worthy 
 thought beautifully expressed. What figures of speech has Words- 
 worth here used T Criticize the use made of these in the poem. What 
 do yon take to be the principal characteristics of the poem ? Examine 
 these in detail. Basing your answer on this poem discuss Wordsworth 
 as a nature- worshipper. What use does he here make of nature T Is 
 this consistent with other poems of Wordsworth yon have read T Does 
 the first stanza form a good introiluction to the poem T Does the last 
 stanza form a fitting close ? C' >: ;ipare stanza 5 with the first part of 
 Sir Laun/al. Compare lines 58-84 with the sonnet, The world it too 
 much with u«. Describe the metrical structure of this oile. Compare 
 the structure with that of the other odes in this book. Why the 
 difference ? 
 
 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 This poem was published in 77i« Annala of tli£ Fine Arln in 1819. 
 One morning, while staying with his friend Brown, Keats was so 
 delighted with the song of a nightingale that he took his chair out into 
 the garden, sat down under some trees, and in two or three hours had 
 composed the ode. The poem has a strong personal bias. It was 
 written after his fatal illness had taken possession of him, and while he 
 was yet grieving for the death of his brother. His hopeless passion for 
 a young lady friend was at this time eating into his heart. The whole 
 poem breathes this air^f sadness, longing and regret. 
 
 2. hemlock. A poisonous plant which caused death by weakness and 
 
 paralysis. 
 
 3. opiate. Anything that dulls sensation. 
 
 4. Lethe-wards. Lethe was the river of oblivion, one of the rivers 
 of Hell from which departed spirits drank and so were enabled to forget 
 their past deeds. 
 
 7. Dryad, "-"ee Bkc&ats, line 53. 
 
 9. beechen green. Foliage of the beech tree. 
 
•TiAJU" 
 
 ODB TO A NIOHTINGALS. 
 
 236 
 
 13. Flora. The Ooddesa of Flowera, here the flowers themselvei. 
 
 14. Proven^ song. During the Middle Ages poetry flouri«he«l, 
 eipecially in Provence, among the Troubadours, the lovo poets of 
 Southern France. 
 
 15. beaker. Drinking cup or goblet. 
 
 16. Hippocrene The fountain of the Muses on Mount Helicon, 
 produced by Pegasus, who struck the ground with his h(M(f ; hence the 
 name " the fountain of the horse." 
 
 17. winking. The bursting of the wine-bubbles. 
 
 26. youth grows pale. A reference to his brother's death. 
 
 32. by Bacchus and his pards. Not un<Ier the inspiration of wine. 
 Bacchus was the god of wine among the aucientn, and was worshipped 
 with peculiar ceremonies. His devotees are represented as riding on 
 pards or leopards. 
 
 33. viewless. Invisible. 
 
 36. Queen-Moon. "A suggestion of Titania and her attendant suite 
 of fairies, rather than of Diana and her nymphs." — Sykes. 
 
 37. Fays. Fairies 
 
 43. embalmed. Full of balms or sweets. 
 
 44. seasonable. In keeping witii the season. 
 46. eglantine. Thi sweet briar. 
 
 61. darkling. In the dark. 
 
 63. mused rhyme. Rhyme thought out. 
 
 60. requiem. A hymn for the repose of the dead. 
 
 62. hungry generations. "Ages that devour mankind."— 5re»»jan. 
 67. stood in fbars. JitUh II, 3 : 10. 
 
 69. charmed magic casements. A recollection of some old fairy 
 talc. Perhaps one of those related in the Arabian N'ujht$. 
 
 SUOGKSTITE QCRSTIONS. 
 
 Make an abstract of the thought of the Ode. Picture as vividly as 
 possible the successive scenes. Is the poem well-named ? What is the 
 real subject of the poem ? What relation does the nightingale bear to 
 the poem? What use has the poet made of the bird? Compare, if 
 
236 
 
 MOTU. 
 
 l>OMible, in this respect, with Sholley'g To a Skylark. Wh»t is the 
 characteristic note of the Otlu ? What tloes the poet really desire T Is 
 the whole poem conceived in harmony with this desire? Is the versi- 
 fication also in harmony? How would you characterize the venificationT 
 How far is the jjersonality of the poet evident in the poem ? Could this 
 exiwricnce have cmie to any other than Keats? What kind of » man 
 would you take the jwet to he? In what state of mind is the poet at 
 the o|)€ning of the poem? Are the details here given in harmony with 
 the general conception ? Why should the poet wish for the inspiration 
 of wine ? Dfies this wish follow naturally from the first stanza? Why 
 does ho reject this inspiration? How does a stanza on the ills of 
 liumanity iind a place in an ode to a nightingale ? Are the details given 
 in stanzas 5 and 6 relevant to the poem ? What is the logical conneo- 
 ti(m of lines 51 to 60 with the remainder of the poem ? Is the poet 
 justified in turning from this particular bird to the siMicies in stanza 7? 
 Is the contrast here made ncceHsary to the thought of the poem? Why 
 should Ruth in particular bo selected rather than any other heroine? 
 Fill in the picture in lines 68-70. How is the last stanza introduced ? 
 Is the transition skilfully made ? Does it form a fitting close to the 
 poem? What use does the poet make of allusion? Examine the 
 ]>articular allusions, and state the effect of each. Maked a detailed 
 examination of the epithets employed, and show their beauty and appro- 
 priateness, e.g., blushful, beaded, leaden-eyed, alien, etc. Exatnine the 
 figures used. Examine the imagery throughout. Are there any expres- 
 sions in the poem that seem to you to be out of place ? If so, is it a mere 
 matter of impression, or have you a convincing reason for your opinion? 
 This Ode has been described as "certain incoherent musings, in which 
 the niglitingale plays a quite unnecessary part." Can you defend this 
 statement? After reading this poem, would you call Keats a nature- 
 poet? Point out in detail the poetic merits of the (Jde, noting par- 
 ticularly the means used to secure harmony and melody in the verse. 
 Putting yourself as far as possible in the place of the poet read the 
 poem aloud, so as to show that you have really en^ared into its spirit, 
 and that you appreciate its l)eauty. 
 
 THE grep:n linnet. 
 
 This poem was published in 1807. The orchard referred to in the text 
 is the plot of ground behind the cottage at (irasmere. At the end of the 
 orcliard was a terrace where a moss-hut had been built by Wordsworth. 
 
TO run CUCKOO. 
 
 237 
 
 10. corert Hiding-place. 
 
 Ifl. revels of the May. The rejoinngn of tli.- hinls at th« approach 
 of Bpring are corapare«l to the May-.hiy fistivitus of tlio country im ..pU-. 
 18. paramours. Luvera. 
 
 SUOOKSTIVK QriWTIONS. 
 
 Trace the line of thought throughout the potin. Under what circuni- 
 Btanees wan it written T Docs this (ix its char.vter ♦ Is the green lirm-t 
 in iUelf a tit «ubject for poetry ? Whut use dots the poet make of tlic 
 bird? Compare with The Ode to a Nighlingu'e in tliis respect. What 
 is the real subject of the jwem ? Suggest, if possible, a more ajipropriate 
 title. Sum up the thought of the poem in a single sentence. Is there 
 any leiaon taught by the poem T If not. what is its purpose ? What is 
 the poet'a attitude toward external nature ? What is the ch racteristic 
 note of the poem? What is the dominant emotion? Describe the stanza 
 form here used. Is it appropriate to the expression of the thought? 
 What influence haa the peculiar rhyme-scheme on the movement of the 
 verte? 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 This poem was written in the orchard at Town-end, firasmerc, 1804. 
 and published in 1807. The cuckoo is a very wild, sliy bird, frequenting 
 shady groves, rarely seen, and very swift of tligbt. The call of the 
 male bird consists of two syllables, as represent' •; ,it its, i>ame. 
 
 12. visionary hours. Hours of youth, full of visions and imaginings. 
 
 28. golden time. Youth. 
 
 31. faety. Fairy, created by the imagination. 
 
 SuufJFSTIVE Ql'ESTIONS. 
 
 What characteristics of the cuckoo are referred to in the text ? What 
 use is made of these ? What use is made of the bird ? Is the bird the 
 real theme of the poem ? Compare in this respect with the last two 
 poems. Of what is the cuckoo here the symbol ? Wiiat is the effect of 
 thus regarding the bird ? How does the poet look upon his youth ? 
 What connection has the bird with this jjeriod of his life ? What is the 
 poet's attitude towards nature? What is his attitude towards the 
 bird? What is the prevailing emotirm in the poem ? Examine closely 
 the expression in this poem. What is the connection between the last 
 stanza and those that precede ? 
 
338 
 
 Horn. 
 
 AN INCIDEXT IN A RAILROAD CAR. 
 This poem wm i>ut>]ii.|it>.l in I-)Weir« lecond volume <.f Potms, 1848. 
 If poMihie Tonnytoiri The P,^t, Kita!-(Jr..ene lUlteck's Hum,, Ix)i,g. 
 f«U.>w'i The Day u Dour, Hpt-t Harte'i DicktHM in Camp, should l,e n»d 
 aloug w.th the poem. AH but the tint of these are in the Victorian 
 Headert. 
 
 SlFdUIMTlVE Qt'KHTInWB, 
 
 State in your own wor.ls the inci.lent and the poet's n>eectioM on it. 
 Is the argument logically constructf.l ? Do you agree with the arRU- 
 menu ailvauotd and with the conclusion T Is there another side from 
 which to view this question T Do any of the thoughts seem out of place 
 la the poem ? Acconling to this jwem what is the function of poetry? 
 C.)niittre in thU resj^ct with Tennyson's The Poet. Is this poem so 
 constructed ami written that the rea.ler is carried along in spite of him- 
 self? Why shouM Hums have been selected by Ix.well? Name any 
 other poets who might have been named instead of Bums. What 
 poems of Burns may have been read on this occa«i..n? Name some of 
 the thoughts to which Burns gave exprtsaion (lines 16-20 and (15-68) 
 What poets are referre.l to in lines 73-70 ? Discuss the views expressed 
 m hnes 3.3-.%, 49-52 and 57. Rearl the introduction to Sir La,o,/aluxd 
 compare with lines 57-04. Find in other po. tical selections the thought 
 expressed in lines 41-44 and 73 34. Examine as to {a) appropriateness, 
 (6) force, (r) beauty, the ligures in lines 4, 23, 24, 25-28, 31, 35, 40, 47, 
 55, 59, 00, 03, 04, 75, 70. Is the expression in this poem eijual to' the 
 thought ? Do any of the stanzas seem to be weak in thought or expres- 
 sion ? Name any other poems similar in thought to this i)ocm. Compare 
 L.mell'8 view of the worth of a soul with that of Wordsworth in the 
 Intimatima of Iinmortality. 
 
 THE ETERNAL GOODNESS. 
 
 The add ess in tliis ^Km is to the Quakers, the religious botly to 
 which Whittier belonged. 
 
 SuoGKSTivK Questions. 
 Trace, stanza by stenza, the line of thouuht in the pofm State in 
 your own words, the Injlief to which Whittier gives expression 'to 
 what teaching is he taking exception? Is his answer a logical argument 
 
 nnBEnj(x:'jwirr 
 
TUB RIVKR PATU. 
 
 939 
 
 or • ronre exprMaion nf fet'ling T \Vm Wliittier'a own life in acconUnes 
 with the seiitiineiita hero (txpri^miol T Qucitu «(iine luititltle hymni Ibftt 
 breathe ■imiUr aentina-nta. Du you consiilcr thu aulijtMtt-niattt^r auit- 
 ftble for poetio tre«tment T Whftt thnughta in the |>o«iii avini t<> you to 
 ba moat beaalifully axpreaaed? N<>ie the Hcripture r«fer«ncea through- 
 cat the poem. What nae ii made of the priucipio of cotitraitt T la the 
 Hgnra in linea 74-78 a common one with Whittier T (>'«-■» Thr Rrd Rirrr 
 Voyageur and The Rivrr Pnlh.) Head the poem to ahow that yuu 
 ■ympatluM with th« viewa expreaaed. 
 
 
 AMBltOHK. 
 
 SUUOEMTIVR QlIKMIOSS. 
 
 Tell the atory of the poem. Giv<>, iu your own wonla, tlie leaaon 
 taught. What do you tliiuk of thu illustration u8od by the angel ? Do 
 yoa agree with the teaching of the poem? What application of the 
 truth might be made to life to-day T (iive your estimate of the char- 
 acter of Ambroae. Give illustrations from history of thia character. 
 Write an essay on "Divenity in Unity." What devices has liowell 
 oaed in order to place clearly before us the character of Ambrotiu? 
 Memorize linea 6.')-60. Describe thn stanza used in the povni. Would 
 the verse of Miehnrl suit this narrative? What poetic oiuameut is 
 uaed? Compare in thia respect with Hhifrnn. 
 
 THE KIVER PATH. 
 
 SuaocHTivR Questions. 
 
 Pictnre the acenea presented in the first part of the poem. What use 
 is ma<le of these scenes in the poem? Is thia comparison of the spiritual 
 with the natural a common feature of Whittier's writings? What is 
 the life-lesson of the poem? Note any other ^Kiems that express similar 
 sentiments. Examine the similes and metaphors throughout. What is 
 the dominant emotion of the poem? In what way does it appeal to 
 the reader? In wliab way does the iM>etry of Whittier iixticate the man 
 and the nature of his home-life? Examine the stanza-form. Whatia 
 the effect of the rhyming couplet ? 
 
840 
 
 worn. 
 
 THE WAITING. 
 
 StroonrtTR QnBrnoMH. 
 0I». in your own word^ tho •rguni.nt of th« pom. 8Ut« in • ms- 
 »«io« or two th« tH.nti.1 thought Wh«t •pihtu.l truth it btr. 
 I>r«wt«l T Wh»» •ppiio*tioo of tbia truth might U m»d« to our own 
 
 SIi?~hT^7'~^J I- ">• MU. .ppropri.UT Suggwt «y otb.r 
 tiU. Md d.f.nd your oho,c«. Whiob .^m. to you th« mor. rtriking- 
 th« thought or the .iprMtion of th« thought T It th« Mntimtnt of this 
 po«m in harmony with that in Th* Xternat Ooodneu t What it th.r« 
 in th« poetry of WhitU^r in general that appeal, to the reader? IM.. 
 o«M in detMl the figures employed. Memoriae the laat two atMUM. 
 
 THE FALL OF TEBNi. 
 
 Thia aeleotion ia Uken from Canto IV of CAiWe ^oroWe PHirimaat, 
 Thia canto haa been deacribed aa a guide-book to Italy, and oonaiataofa 
 aeriMof pioturea deecriptitre of that country. The de«>ription of the 
 
 Vl'^l*^'. ""^t** '*^"' ®® ^ ^2 of the canto. B»deker'a Guide 
 Book thua deacnbea the fall: -The celebrated falla of the VeUno 
 (Which here emptiea itaelf into the Nera), caUed the Caacate delU 
 Mamore. are about aix hundred and fifty feet in height, and have few 
 nrata in Europe in beauty of aituation and volume of water. The 
 nrulet u precipiUted from the height in three leapa of about aiity.five. 
 three hundred and thirty, and one hundred and ninety feet reapectively 
 the water falling perpendicularly at aome plaoea, and at othen daahing 
 furioualy over the rooka." 
 
 8. Phlefethoo. One of the rivers of the infernal regiona, "whoae 
 wavea of torrent fire inflame with rage." Thi. i. connected in thought 
 with " the bell of watera " in line 5. 
 
 13. etenulApriL -Themuit look, at a diatance like 
 
 ctouda of amoke amending from aome vaat furnace, and distil, perpetual 
 raina on aU the plaoea that lie near W'-Addi^n {Remarks on Italy). 
 
 23. Parent of riyert. See note above. 
 
 30. Iiis. One of the inferior goddeaaes of the Greeks, the meaaengw 
 « Juno. She ia identified with the rainbow. 
 
 I' '..i.«E...' 
 
A THUNDKIUITORM IN Till ALM. 
 
 S41 
 
 RuniiinTiVR (jurhtionh. 
 
 DeaoHh* in jronr own wor«I« tlm FnU of Trrni. F«»rm a c\emr piotura 
 from what ia given in aUnm I, ami a<l<i to your pictura tli« licUila 
 givan in each aulmMiuent aiaiisa. Have ynu atiy dilBculty in doing 
 thia? What method of deacription ia ht<re followed f How ia the 
 deacription built up T What devices di>«a the poet nme U* iiicreaae the 
 foroa and vividnaaa of ikt deacription T diva illuatrationa from the 
 poMD of Bound echoing 8«na«. Why ia thia figure ua«d ? What other 
 figure ia frequently employed T Why ? What two pointa of view are 
 taken in the poem r Where doca the point of view change? Whatia 
 the effect of the change T Through what aonaea doea the poet appt^al to 
 the reader t What ia the effect of the poem upon the reader T LHacuM 
 the epitheta in the poem from the atantlpoint of (a) appropriateneaa, 
 (&) force, {e) beauty. Explain the expreaaion " horribly beautiful" 
 Diacuia the climax in atansa 1. Show bow the figure on lino 5 ia 
 carried through the reat of the stanza. I'oitit out the appropriateness 
 of lines SI and 36. Deaoribe fully aa to structure, rhyme-ncheme, and 
 metre the stanza here used. What is the name of the sUhm ? How 
 did it get its name ? What ia the effect of running the sense of stanza 1 
 into ■tania2r Is this in accordance with the la-v of this stanxa- 
 atruotnre ; Is the stanxa-form appropriate to the thought ? 
 
 A THUNDERSTORM IN THE ALPS. 
 
 This selection forms sUnzas 92-98 of the Third Canto of Childe IfaroWi 
 Pitffrimage. The whole canto is descriptive of Harold's travels through 
 Belgium, Germany and Switzerland. Byron says : " The thunderstorm 
 to which these lines refer occurred on the 1.3th June, 1816. I have seen 
 among the mountains of Chimari several more terriQo, but none more 
 beantiful." 
 
 8. Jura. A mountain range in France, visible from the Alps. 
 
 21. minings depths. "The precipitous banks are regarded as descend- 
 ing to the deep bottom of the stream ; and so, the poet says, does hate, 
 that parta two persons whose love has turned to hatred."— A'ww. 
 
 35. vrorh'd- Made by aoine deetruGtive fore*. 
 
 41. knoU. Signal-bell. 
 
 61. LeouuL The Lake of Geneva. 
 
349 
 
 NOTCH. 
 
 rWr.l« in yo.,r «w« w«r.l. th# Um...l«r.t«rm. N'„t« in .I.^U^I ti,« 
 «Uvl«.« UM.I t«, wftk., th. .le«,ri,,tH« rnor, y,vi,|. Wb<»t imrt a.«« 
 .^A,l pUy in thi. .ivi.l, «T N.H« th, Hgurn. .„p,.,y.,., j„7»^.,^ , 
 
 •UnttT K,,.Wn th. Hgu« in li„., »> 2a. I'»r.phr«^ .Un« 6 
 How w th« iMt .Un« ,.UUh1 t., wh«t pr«,c..l,„? I. thi. .t.»rm .l««nl^i 
 for it^lf. or ,n ord.r U. giv u. » gli,„,«« .,f Hyroo'. own f«.li„g,r How 
 rto«. h* r«Ut« th. .Iworijrtion to hi. own ruling. T D.» thitt« ^-.m to U 
 g«nuii>.t ConipM^ in thi. ump^ with Tht Hhrr PatA. N«ii,« «,y 
 JKH.m. iu which th. .ul.j«.tiv d.m..«t .p,K,i^ to In, ^n^ily .troj 
 Lon.,«r« w.th n, aU ,o th. W.H Wind. Wh^t imprJi.* \. l..ft o„ 
 your min.l »ft.r reading thw. .Un«. ? What i. th. l«i.on y.m carry 
 •way ? Lompar. thi. dMcription with that of Tht Fall ^f Ttml. 
 
 n 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF NATURE. 
 Thii poom i. one of a Mrie. of five poem. a.UireM«a to " f.uoy - 
 Vanou. attempt, have Uen ma.le to i.Untify the unknown la.ly I'ut 
 withont .ucoe... •• All that i. given u. i. that Lucy once l.ved. i.'now 
 no more. ' 
 
 8. Uw and impulie. See line 12. 
 
 II. fe«L Note the emphaai. on thi. word. 
 
 24. lUcnt sympathy-" Unoonwiou. a.iju.tni«nt to her environment " 
 ^-alarMhaU ami Slevttnon. 
 
 81 Tital feeliaffi. See Ru.kin'. Sesame and LUie$. 
 
 87. work WM done. Her e<lucation wa. completed. 
 
 SuoonrivK Qukhtions. 
 
 Under what condition, doe. Nature undertake the education of LucyT 
 Trace the vanou. .tep. in the education, pointing out the influencf. at 
 work and the effect of each. Note the double function of NUure in 
 .taim 2. What wa. the re.ult of the education? How di.l Nature 
 complete her work ? What i. the effect of the death «f l.ncy » What 
 oomwUtion <lo«... the p.Hit offer to the mourner? Point out the appro. 
 pfiateEc« uf the iMt three ii..e. of tj.e ixKm. What would U the effec. 
 of leaving out the la.t stanza? Wh»t favourite teaching of Word.worth 
 i« enunciated m thi. poem ? Show in .leUil how he mU it forth Do 
 
,v 
 
 m-:r^'2MdWt i^vw.^Hn'^.j^mmMkLmmis^ip 
 
 A SONO or UROWTB. 
 
 14S 
 
 
 fon agTM that inch « thing i« pnmthlnt H«v« yo«t »oy hint of thia 
 Htmtniin in any other |Mi«tn of WonUworth'* yon h«v« rr«il ? T** 
 i^/Nxi/ioN nf Snturr i« a titl«< lint UBf<l hy I'alKravc ; la it apprupriftta t 
 Call yuu augnrit a twtter till* T la th« |ici«nt int«iitio<l Ui X^wh » *f:,<rAl 
 Uaaoti? If not, what ia thw |>urpo«« of thn |M>«niT "Thia la not |>n«try ; 
 it ia only a worahip of harhariam in rhymi' " Ottii ia« thia «tat«nittnt 
 Mk . 1 • d«tatl«<t examination of th« wortU in thia |Mi«ni for the piirpoaa 
 of notinK their appropriatancaa and Iwauty. Whrrein d'wa the charm 
 of thia po«m oouaiat? lUad, it |*oaaibUs th« other "Lucy" pocma uf 
 Wordaworth. 
 
 TIIK JOYH OF THK IIOAD. 
 
 Thia poem ia taken from Song* from Vaiii'n'nilia, hy liliaa Carmaa 
 Aixl thti Ut« Hichard Huvey. liliaa Carmaii. huwuver. ia the writer of 
 thia aelection. 
 
 26. Dickon. Ilia companion on the road. 
 
 27. Thirsty Sword. Heo lino '2r*. 
 
 HcOUgHTIVR QUIHTIONS. 
 
 Dt-ncribfl in your own worda the joy« of the road, fall up in yonr 
 mind a picture for each couplet in the j»oem. Ia there any picture that 
 doea not aeem to you to lie a pleaning one ? Did the poet iii'''nd that 
 each ahouhl be aoT la there any element lacking in thia deac-iptiou ? 
 Ia there anything too much ? What jH»rt tloea nitturu play in tlio p<K'ni? 
 I>flacril)e the character of Dick ? Would he inaki! a good comiianiun ? 
 What ia the purjioae of linea 5tf and 00 ? I'oint out mhat you take to be 
 the chief poetic excellencica of thia \H>cm ? What impreaaion dixia it 
 leave on your miml T Compare with any of Wordaworth'a iiaturo 
 poema. Wherein doea it differ from Wordaworth'a usual niftlio*! of 
 treatment ? 
 
 I 
 
 A SONfl <»F (UIOWTII. 
 
 SlJ(aiE>!TIVR QUIWTIONH. 
 
 Kxpreas in your own words the tiiought of tiua i«k-ui. In wintl other 
 {>oewa <lo y«m iind aiuiilar thoughta expressed ? Compare the first staiiza 
 with linea 21 40, pai-'e 82, Whatmlo you think of thia poem of ita 
 
244 
 
 MOTES. 
 
 thought, of ita expreMion, of ita venification T Explain clearly the 
 imagery throughout Explain " fouiitaiui of life " iii line 23. What 
 ia the application of the iioem to life ? Do you find the thought of thia 
 poem expreMed in the Scriptures T 
 
 THE SOLITARY REAPER. 
 
 Thia poem waa auggcsted by a sentence in Wilkinson's Tmrg to the 
 DritUh Mountaina: "Passed a female who waa reaping alone; she sang 
 in Erse, as she bended over her sickle ; the sweetest human voice I ever 
 heard j her strains were tenderly melancholy, and felt delicioua long 
 after they were heard no more. " 
 
 ScaOKSTIVB Q KSTIONS. 
 
 It has been said of Wordsworth that "he '-os a subject or a story 
 merely as a peg or a loop to hang thought and .veling on ; " is thia true 
 of the present selection ? What are the materiala upon wh! h the poet 
 worka in thia poem T How haa he treated theae materials T What part 
 doea the maiden play in the poem ? What picture ia emphasized in the 
 first atanza? Examine the two picturea presented in stanza 2, showing 
 the appropriateneaa of each. Compare with the picture of Ruth in the 
 Ode to a Nightingak. Show from thia poem how Wordsworth's sympa- 
 thetic knowledge of nature waa aa inspii^tion to him in all hia work. 
 What feeling ia produced as you read the jioem ? Give evidences of 
 harmony between the thought and the expression. From what charac- 
 teristics would you judge this to be a protluction of Wordsworth T The 
 poet says, " I wish to be a teacher or nothing ; " what ia the leaaon of 
 thia poem? 
 
 THE BATTLE OP AGINCOURT. 
 
 The Battle of Agincourt waa fought on St. Crispin's day, October 
 25, 1416. Henry had landed at the mouth of the Seine and captured 
 Harfleur. He lost so many men by wounds and sickness that he 
 resolved to cross the country to Calais, then an English posseaaion. 
 He waa not opposed until he had crossed the river Somme, when the 
 French took up their position at Agincourt, thus chutting up the road 
 to Calais. The English had about 10,000 men, the French from four to 
 ten times aa many, according to thS chronicler. 
 
v 
 
 THB BATTLR OF AGIWCOUBT. 
 
 245 
 
 4 bills. A weapon of thu period. It h».l » broad, hookedshaped 
 blade with » pike at the end and back and wm attached to a long handle. 
 
 6. Morris. Moorish. 
 
 12. Kaux. Modern Havre. 
 
 23. height of pride, etc. The French general in the height of hii 
 pride, thinking to deride the king, sent hiin a messaKO to make ready 
 his ransom. Henry scorns the message as coming from a vile nation, 
 although his angry smile portended their fall. 
 
 47. Poictiers. 1356. Cressy. 1346. 
 
 51. jrsndsire. Edward III., laid claim to the French throne, and 
 endeavoured to enforce his claim by arms. 
 
 54. lilies. "The French standard was three golden lilies on a white 
 ground."— Of orj/e Sidgwick. 
 
 55. Duke of York. Grandson of Edward III. He was killed in the 
 battle. 
 
 59. Exeter. The Duke of Exeter was in the battle, but did not com- 
 mand the rear. 
 
 72. Erpingham. The marshal of the English army. 
 
 74. hid forces. A mistake on the part of the poet 
 
 79. Spanish yew. The best yew for making bows came from Spain. 
 
 88. bilbows. Swords named from BUboa, in Spain, where they were 
 made. 
 
 107. Clarence. The third brother of the king. He was not at the 
 the battle, neither was the Earl of Warwick. 
 
 108. nuuden knight Untried, unused to battle. 
 
 119. St Crispin's day. The feast of Saints Crispinus and Crispinia- 
 nns, October 25th. 
 
 S0OOS8T1VE Questions. 
 
 Give a short account of the battle of Aginconrt, the causes of the 
 struggle, the battle itself and its results. Give an account of the battle 
 as prewsnted in this poem, so as to keep as far as possible the spirit of 
 the original. What is the emotion underlying the poem? How has 
 this emotion influenced the writing of the poem? Would this ,wem 
 be different hail it been written from a French stondpoiut? Read m 
 connection with these verses ShakesiKiare's Henry V, act iv, scene 3, 
 lines 1-67. Read if possible Tennyson's The Revenge and The Svege oj 
 
24« 
 
 KOTU. 
 
 Lueknow. What »re the chiof ch»r»cteristiot of the poem ? DieoiiH it 
 from the etamlpoint of (o) vigour, (6) smoothneea. Deaoribe the atuiM 
 in which it it written. 
 
 DRAKE'S DRUM. 
 
 This poera wm published in AdmiraU All, 1898. Newbolt caya : "A 
 atate dmm, painted with the arma of Sir Francis Drake, is preserved 
 among other relics at Buckland Abbey, the scat of the Drake family in 
 Devon, and the legend is still extant in the county." Drake died on 
 board his own ship, near the town of Nombre de Dioa, in the West 
 Indies, January 28, 1595, and was buried at sea. 
 
 4. Plymouth Hoe. The hill of Plymouth. 
 
 15. Dons. The Spaniards. 
 
 SaooKSTivK QcisnoNS. 
 
 Sketch the life of Sir Francis Drake. What is the main point of the 
 poem T What are its principal excellencies T Wliat is the object of the 
 refrain? This balhwi is one of the finest, if not the finest ballad, in the 
 English language; point out w' at there is in the poem to merit this 
 high praise. Memorize this ballad, and then repeat it so as to bring out 
 its spirit 
 
ON THE STUDY OF THE PROSE SELECTIONS 
 
 {Figvrrs rr/fr to jtagei.) 
 
 In itudying » prow selection •tu.lente are recommended to make 
 themselves familiar with the thought and spirit of the whole before pro- 
 oeecling to the study of details. '1 ho nature of the detailed study will 
 depend to a great extent upon the nature of the selection. For instance, 
 in a plain narrative- rA« Ambiliout G•««^-after the story is known, in 
 substance and spirit, there may be an enquiry as to tho part each 
 character has played, the order of narration, the wisilom of emph^izing 
 certain details and omitting others, the means employed by the author 
 to sc ure the reader's attention and good- will, in short, the relation of 
 each idea to the main thought. There will also be a study of structure- 
 the order and structure of paragraphs and sentences, and the use of 
 wor^ls from the sUndpoint of clearness, force and elegance. This may 
 properly be followed by exercises in composition, and ly discussions as 
 to the merits of any particular story-the theme, the arrangement 
 of detaiUi, the harmony among the parts, the consistency of the 
 chanwters, the general eflfect upon the intellectual and em(.tionaI life of 
 the reader, the views of life presented, the reUtion of language to thought 
 In the case of a description, e.g.. The South-Sea Houm, particular 
 attention will be given to the author's style— the suitabiUty of language 
 to thought, the wise selection of detaiU, the quiet humour and the 
 perfect good taste. Such study should lead to a clearer appreciation of 
 the Uterary excellence of the seiection, and should be a great help to 
 students in their own writing. 
 
 In the study of all literature there seems to be something even more 
 important than a conscious and systematic analysis of the author's 
 matter and manner, viz. : the reading and re-rea.ling of selections in 
 order to become perfectly familiar with thought and language. It is 
 through such reading that the mind, heart and ear of the reader become 
 attuned to an author's style. It is just as necessary in prose as in 
 poetry that it be read aloud, so as to exhibit the rhythm. This is 
 particularly true in such selections m The Vmon of Sudden Death and 
 portions of ruhottom'a Sj^ctaclea, where tho music of the wording and 
 phrasing counts for so much. 
 
 Keeping th'^ foregoing in mind it has not been deemed necessary to 
 tnggest definite lines of questioning on the various selections. 
 
2*® VOTBBI. 
 
 THE AMBITIOUS GUEST. 
 Thit selection ia token from Twice Told Tnlot, puMI«hed in 1887. 
 The scene of the story is l«id in the Notch of the White Mountains i^ 
 New Uatupshire. 
 
 114. General Court The legisUtnre. 
 
 TITBOTTOMS SPECTACLES. 
 This selection is token from Prue and /, published in 1856. "I" is 
 "An old book-keeper, who wears a white cravat and black trousers in 
 the morning, who rarely goes to the opera, and never drives out. His 
 only journey is from his home to his office ; his only satisfaction is in 
 doing his duty ; his only happiness is in his Proe and his children." 
 The •• Aurelia" of the text is an imaginary young la.ly, who forms the 
 subject-matter of the first chapter of the book, and whom the old book- 
 keeper has endowed with every imaginable beauty of person and of 
 character. The story of TUboltom's SjHtctacUB is an expansion of the 
 paragraphs on page 122. If possible the whole of Prw and I should be 
 read by the student. 
 
 125. Vicar of Wakefield. A novel of English country life by Oliver 
 Goldsmith (1728-1774). Chapter XII contoins an amusing story of 
 Moses, the son of the Vicar, who being sent to the fair to sell a pony 
 invested the proceeds of the sale in a gross of worthless spectacles. 
 
 130. Parsee. A follower of Zoroaster, the great Persian religious 
 teacher. The Parsees are fire-worshippers. 
 
 131. Prince Charlie. Charles E<lward Stuart, who made an unsuc- 
 cessful attempt in 1745 to recover the tlirone of England for the Stuarts. 
 He IS the "Bonnie Prince Charlie " of the Scottish Ballads. 
 
 133. Claude. Claude lorrain, the great landscape painter (1600- 
 
 136. vis-a-vis. Opposite. 
 
 13a Madonna. The Virgin Mary. 
 
 140. Xences. The Persian king who invaded Greece at the head of 
 an army sai.i to ouusist of over live millions of men. He was defested 
 in his attempt, and obliged to return to Persia. 
 
gIB ROOEB AT THE AH«IZWI 
 
 249 
 
 141. Homer. The Epio poet o{ Oreece, the author of the fliad »nd 
 the 0,ly,*ey. The Jliad celebrate, the action, of the hero Ach.Uee. 
 147. Magdalen. An erring woman. 
 150. Plutus. The goA of wealth, the king of the lower world. 
 
 8TRAWBERRIFX 
 
 This .election i. taken from "T^u.tii an.l Wil.l Honey." 
 
 151. Dr. Parr. A famou. Engli»h cla.«cal scholar and author (1747- 
 
 1825). 
 
 165. golden age. The bc«t age. when all ideal, will l.e realized. 
 
 156. Arcadian. Paatoral ; bo calle.l l>ecau.e the Arcadian, were a 
 pastoral {M.-()i>le. 
 
 157. Ovid. A Roman poet, author of The MHmnon,honf» (4.1 BC- 
 
 17 A.D.). 
 
 159. grazing Nebuchadnezzar. DanklW.,^. 
 
 169. Wartoa An English p<«t and critic, who translated the 
 Kelogw* and Geonjkit of Virgil (1722-1800). 
 
 159. Virgil. The Roman Epic poet, author ..f the .r.i.^'id (70 b c- 
 
 19 B.C.). 
 
 169. Montaigne. A celebrated French philosoi.hcr (153.3-159-2). He 
 
 IB chiefly known in England by his E^muju. 
 
 160. Walton. The author of The Comphlf A n,jUr ( 1 59:^- 1683). 
 
 SIR R(K;KR AT THE ASSIZES. 
 
 Thi. paper appeared in the Si>ectator, Friday. July 20, 1711. The 
 character of the fine old country gentle.nan. Sir Roger de f 'ov^r ey, wan 
 oriuinated by Steele, but to Addison nmst be given the credit of having 
 elaUrated the portrait and of having made it what it is The incidents 
 here recorded occurred during a vi«it i.iid by the SpecUxUyr to Sir 
 Roger's country seat. 
 
 162 Will Wimblfe. A character described in Spectator, No. 108. 
 W^iJ.le is a on.«l-natured but useless younger brother of a country 
 gentleman, and makes himself pleasant to aU his acquaintances. 
 
200 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 162. assixes. S«uiona of the court. 
 
 10.1. within the g^ame-act. To obtain a licenoa under the gaine-Mt 
 it was nucuMary to pouew property to the value of £1(10 a year. 
 
 10.*). quarter-seattoos. The quarterly meeting of the Juiticea of the 
 IVace. 
 
 103. widow. A lady who lived near Sir Roger. The knight bad 
 long Wen an unsuccessful suitor for her hand. 
 
 163. caat and been cast Won and lost. 
 
 THE SOUTHSKA HOUSE. 
 
 This is the first essay in the EtsayK of Elia, published in 1823. It 
 had been printed before in the London Magazine for August, 1820. 
 This essay is very largely personal reminiscences, and the characters are 
 for the most part real lAinb was for some year* employed in the 
 South-Sea House, where he made good use of his opportunities. Elia, 
 who has given his name to the collection of essays, was a fellow clerk 
 with Lamb in the office of the company. Careful study should be given 
 to the style of this essay. 
 
 166. Bank. The Bank of England in Threadneedle Street. 
 
 166. Flower Pot An inn next door to the South-Sea House, from 
 which the coaches started on their northern trips. 
 
 167. Baldutha'a. " I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they 
 were desolate." Quoted from the alleged poems of Ossian, translated 
 by James Macpherson. 
 
 167. pieces of eight. Spanish coins worth about one dollar. 
 
 168. "unsunned heap." Milton's Comu«. line 398. 
 
 168. Mammon. The god of this world, the personification of wealth. 
 The reference here is to S{)cnser'8 portrait of Mammon as the spirit of 
 Avarice. Faerie Queene, Book II., Canto 7, 
 
 168. Bubble. The South-Sea Company was established in 1710 f-->r 
 the purpose of trading with America. Great promises were made and 
 inducements held forth. Shares rose to ten times their par value. The 
 crash soon came and thousands were ruined. 
 
 168. battening. Fattening. 
 
 168. light generations— of insects. 
 
 mfti'&amrffsmy. 
 
 ''Of •■.■^•-•t '^7 jt'ifrg.^-^t 'L "i^i'CiWC 
 
THR SOUTH SKA H0U8K. 
 
 2&1 
 
 168. Titan. Gigantic. A reference to the Titnin who iiihA)tit«<l the 
 earth in the first agea, and were of eiionnoua aiz« and strength. 
 
 168. Vaux'f. Ouy Fawkes, who plotteil to bluw up the Houses of 
 Parliament during the reign of James I. 
 
 168. nuuies. Shades "r spirits. 
 
 168. India House. The home of the Ea^t India Company. Chamje 
 means the Royal Exchange. 
 
 169. rubric interlacings. Red lines intersecting one another. 
 
 169. Herculaneum. One of the cities buried under the aahi'S if 
 Vesuvius. 
 
 169. pounce-boxes. Boxes for holding the powder which was used 
 for the same purpose as blotting- paper now is. 
 
 170. Cambro- Briton. A Welshman. 
 170. Maccaronies. Dandies or fops. 
 170. gibcat Tom-cat. 
 
 170. Andertons. A cofTee house of those days. 
 
 171. forte. Strong point. 
 
 171. Pennant. A Welsh antiquarian. Author of Svme Account of 
 Lmtlon (1726-1798). 
 
 171. Hog^arth. A celebrated Engli h painter and engraver (1697- 
 1764). 
 
 171. confessors. The Hugenots. 
 
 171. Louis. Henry IV., of Franco, by the Edict of Nantes, had 
 guaranteed freetlom of worship to the liugenota. This was revoked by 
 Louis XIV., who persecuted these people and drove thousands of them 
 into England. 
 
 171. Westminster Hall. The Houses of Parliament. 
 
 172. Derwentwater. An Earl of Derwentwater was executed in 
 connection with the rebellion of 1715, and another earl in connection 
 with that of 1745. 
 
 172. Decus et solamen. Glory and consolation. 
 
 173. Orphean. Orpheus was the swei^test singer among the early 
 Greeks. By the power of his lyre he could melt even the stones to ttara. 
 
 173. Midas. A reference to Midas, king of Phrygia, wlio had his 
 ears changed into those of an ass for maintaining that Pan could play 
 better than the go<l of music, Apollo. 
 
 I I 
 
 I 
 
253 
 
 MOTU. 
 
 174. Fortinbrms. A high-apirited NnrwrgiMi pHnoti in Ilnmltt. Th« 
 quotAtioii in in Act IV, Scene 4, uf tlint play. 
 
 175. Public Ledgferi, etc. Ncwajtaiwra of thoM A».y: 
 
 175. Chatham, etc. Cknlham, Shflbumehnd Rock'tHijhamyitnVnmt 
 Ministers of (]rc«t Britain ; II net, Bunjoyne and Clinton were com- 
 inandcre during the Revolutionary war ; Kritptl waa an admiral who was 
 trieil for niiacouduct, hut aciiuitted ; Wilhii, Snwhrulyi- and Hull were 
 I^ird Mayora of I»ndon ; Dunniinj waa afterwarda Karl of Aahburton ; 
 rmtt waa r)ii«-f Juatico of the Court of Common Pleaa, and Richmond 
 woa the <luke of that name. 
 
 IT-V siiutter bend. Illegitimate deacent. 
 
 I7<i. business of franks. Plumer had giren a frank to the Daoheas 
 of Marll>orough. Cave, who waa then Clerk of the Franka in the House 
 of ('ominons, riiiaed objections to the frank, and waa in eonaequence 
 aummoned to appear liefore the Houae. Menibera of Parliament were 
 allowed to exempt letters from payment of postage by writiDg their 
 names on the outside of the packet. 
 
 176. Arden. The scene of Shakespeare'a A* You Like It is laid in the 
 foreat of Arden. Here the banished Duke and his followers, among 
 whom Amiens was one, enjoye<l themselves and wiled away the time. 
 The song sung by Amiens is in Act II., Scene 7. 
 
 Blow, Mow, thou winter wind. 
 Thou art not lo unltind 
 As man's ingratitude. 
 
 170. bought littg:ations. Purcliased the rights of one party to a law 
 suit, while the action was {tending. 
 
 177. Henry Pimpernel : 
 
 Why, sir, you know no hou*"! nor no such maid ; 
 Nor no tuoh nu-n m you have fK-lion'd up, 
 A« Stephen .Sly, and old .lohn Nnp« of Greece, 
 And Peter Turf, and Henry IMnipernel. 
 
 — Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 Nil. NISI BONUM. 
 
 Nil nigi honum meana, in the full expression, " Say nothing but good 
 of the dead." This selection is taken from Thackeray's Roundabout 
 Fa/jers, 
 
MIL Miai DONUM. 
 
 853 
 
 177. Sir Waher. Rcott. Lockharl wm th« wmin-Uw «.f Scott wi.l 
 hia biographer. 
 
 177. twomtn. WMhingt«m Irving, who .Uc«l Nt>venilK»r 28, IWW, 
 wid TbomM B*bington, Urd MacauUy, who .Ued DeceniWr iS. J85». 
 Mm Biogikphiuftl Sketches. 
 
 177. Goldwnith and Gibbon. OohUmlth ia one of the most .l.UKhtful 
 narrative writen of the tighU^nth century, »i..l (,'iM>cH is the uiithor of 
 The Dtelint and Fall of the Homan h'mitire. 
 
 177. with the republic Inring wm bom April 3, 1783. 
 
 177. pater patria. Father of his country, VVoahington. 
 
 178. Tery hijh sphere. Hie father waa a merchant. 
 178. war had just renewed. The war of 181215. 
 
 178. Southey. Poet-Laureate and a famoue man of lettere (1774- 
 1843). 
 
 179. gold medal. In April, 18.10, Irving waa awanle-l one of the 
 gold meiUla prewnte.1 by Oeorge IV to the Royal H<H;icly of Literature. 
 The other medal wa« given to Henry llallam the hietorian. 
 
 179. UniTersity. Oxford conferred upon him the degree of LL. U. 
 in 1831. 
 
 182. Bellot A French naval offlcer who iiH«i»te<l in the search fi.r 
 Sir John Franklin. He periehed in IJ>53, near ("tti>e Itowden, .luring a 
 storm. 
 
 182. senate. The House of Commons. Mnciuilay entered Parlia- 
 meut in 1830 at member for the pocket borough of C'alne, then in tlie 
 gift of Lord Lanxlowne. 
 
 182. remunerative post. A scat in the Supreme Council of India 
 at a aalary of £10,000 per annum. 
 
 182. Windsor Castle. The oflBcial residence of the King. 
 
 183. AusterUte. The great battle (1805) in which Napoleon com- 
 pletely crushed the in.wer of Austria. A' K. means In.i-eriul Itoyal. 
 SchOnJrrunn, the Imperial palace of the EmiH.ror of Austria, is situated a 
 few miles from Vienna. 
 
 183. senior wrangler. Tlic man who takes first place in the c<.mpe- 
 tition for mathematical honours at Candjri.lgc is so calle*!. 
 185. k coBur ouvert With open heart. 
 185. Peter's, « tc. St. Peter's is the famous cathedral in Kome ; St. 
 
254 
 
 NOTK8. 
 
 VmaVa i» in txMMinn, th« ' .naqu« of Sun H<>phla la in CnnaUntinnplK, th« 
 l'Mith«on ii an ancient t«mpla atill ■tamling in Horn*. All tliuae build- 
 inga arc nut««l fur the um Mid beauty <>f tiiair ilomt-a. 
 
 185. CUriSM. A famuua KngHah novel of the KtKhteenth Century, 
 written hy Kamuel Kiohaniaon. It rulat^a the trial» uf Clariaaa liar- 
 l<iwe in her i itleavoura to avottl the peraeoutiuna of Lovelace, who waa 
 in lova with her. 
 
 186. Johmon. Samuel Johnaon, the literary dictator of Koglan 1 
 iluring th«< Iatt4<r half of the Eightt-enth Century. 
 
 187. Icus Deo. iioA be praiaed. 
 
 THE VISION OF HUDDK.V PKATH. 
 
 This Mleotion forma the third [mrt of Tlu Km/itk Mail Cnirh. 
 
 188. Cmmt. Juliua ('aeaar waa aaaaaainatetl on the Idea of Murch, 
 44 ii.ti., by Bmtua, Caaaiua and other conapiratont. 
 
 194. Jua dominiL Sole ownerahip or aovereignty. 
 
 194. Ju« gentium. The law common to all {icople. 
 
 195. monstrum horrendum, eto. Traoalated in the next paragraph. 
 
 195. Calendar!. The Calemlan are an order of Derviahea founded 
 in the fourti.-«uth century. They are wandering pr<>athera and live on 
 alma given them. They proft-M great purity of life and conduct. In 
 ihoArtMan Nigkta EnterlaiumftU ia told the atory of aevcral of theae 
 DerM-thea who had met tocethor by accident. ¥lach hatl luat an eye aa 
 the penalty for giving way to ungovernable curioeity. 
 
 195. Mahomet. The great founder of the Mohammedan religion 
 (57O0»i). 
 
 I'.tft. Cyclops. The Cyclojws wer<» monateranf the ancient world who 
 had but one eye, and that in the o«:ntre of the fotuiiead. 
 
 198. aurigation. Driving. 
 
 198. Apollo. The aun-gnd, whoae duty it waa to drive hia chariot 
 daily acmaa the heavena Aurora waa the goddeaa of the morning who 
 ran before and om-ned for him the gatea of the eaat. 
 
 198. Pagan Pantheon. The divinitiea uf the heathen world. "Jnpi- 
 tsr Bometimea uoda." 
 
 ».'«! 
 
Tiiie viMiow or ^uihjkm dkatii. 
 
 2bb 
 
 199. LiUiputian. Vtiy •mall. (SoeOulli»^r'» TraivU.) 
 
 204. ChartemAfM. CharUnthn «Jr.»t, Kiuifof Krwiw rnul Em|Kiror 
 of tb« Holy lluuiMi Kmi>ir« (742 HU). 
 
 205. Gothic aUl*. A comiMuiwn with th« long pilUrol mIm of the 
 gTMt Kur<ii»4>aii cAthcdroU. 
 
 205. Shout of AchUltt. The story ia toUl in thu Kit{hU<i>nth I»<"'k <>f 
 the Jlind th»t while Achilla U within hi* tetit niouroing over tli« ln«ly 
 o( P»trocluii the (ireclu »re being h»nl pr««ie«l »»y tiie Trojune. Hu.l- 
 lUuly Achillee mpyMkn, mwi hi* ehoMi, »ide«l by the might of I'.lla*. 
 Athene (Minerv»), the gndtlvM of w«r »n«l wiMlom. eo akmie tint 
 TroJAiw that they Ht^ A»iti milUnitl nUn to the Trojan war, M th« 
 city ot Troy wm lituatud in Aai* Minor. 
 
/ .WjmMS 
 
 iiT^iv^ ...riM 
 
 BRIEF BIOOUAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 ADblMUN. JoMiru, WM \Mtn at MiUtou, WHUhirK. in 1672. H« w» 
 
 ».i 
 
 •duoAUd at t'.i« CliarUr liouM atut at Oxford. Mia fncnda Atai 
 biin fur the ohuroh, but tuMting with Halifax h« d«t«riuiiicd to 
 Itulitioal lifa, awd took office umler tha Whig govaniuwot. A r i •>. 
 <.f £3«lO WM grautwl hint, and ha act out on hia travwb throup'' ' - 
 
 and Italy, thi tba fall of tli« \Vliig«, Addiaoo loat hia iki , . . 
 raturnod t«. l-4igland. Hia poem on tha Iwittlo of BianheiM . i< ' ■' 
 Tht Campaign, r«at»red him to favour. From thia tima t'*> . >i. 
 aotiva intareat in politica, tilling vurioua hi^h officaa, inolu...-t' ' • ' 
 8acr«tary for Ireland and H*h rfUry «>: HUte. In 170» hi. i^.^n 
 Stcala begaa the publication of the Tmltr, followed aoon after by M:' 
 SfteeUUor. To tbeae pa|>eni Addia4in contributetl aonie of hia beat wo '^ 
 indeed three-aeventha of the Sfirftato. .vaa written by him. In 17 1» 
 hia celebrated trag««iy, Catu, waa |.r<uluced. In 1716 he uiarrie<l tbo 
 Counteaa of Warwitk. Ik iM«d In 1710, and waa buried in Weatminater 
 Abbey. AddiB4>n waa a man of (|ui«st, g«nial temperament, reapei'ed 
 alike by friemla and by political oppontiita. The charautei ot the .nan 
 ia well brought out in the kindly, gentle humour of tha Sir tfoya de 
 CovtrUy papera. 
 
 BURNH, RoBKRT, tho Bon of a Scutch jH^aaaiit farmer, waa i)(>rn .i^r 
 Ayr, in 1759. Hia early life waa one of toil and hardahip ; a' *.he aj,e 
 of lifteea he waa doing the work of an able-lio<li«Hl man. Thia conatMit 
 work, aa well aa poverty, preventi-d hia att«udnnce at suhtMil, so that he 
 grew up to manhood in comparative igimranco of bookj, but knowing 
 the life of the .Scottish peasant tl rough and through. At the aije of six- 
 teen he had Itegun to write |>oetry, and hr.l continued at intervals until 
 1786, when ho had accumulated enough for a volume. At this time ho 
 ht ' become hopeleasly diacouragtd with hia farm life, and had resolved 
 to emigrate to Anieriua. Fortunately his 'lublication venture turned out 
 succeaafully, and Burns abandoned all thought of leaving his native 
 l&ncL He was invited to E<linbur£K, wl ere he waa treated with dis' 
 tinguished courtesy by the men of letters there gathered. Shortly after 
 the ap|)earance of bis accond volume in 1787 he bought a farm near 
 Dumfriea, and married Jean Armour. In 17H9 he obtained tba post ol 
 
 266 
 
 I 
 
»UimOtOII«, IIYRO«l 
 
 2B7 
 
 I 
 
 r«oiv.a .« ordinary pub. o^.... a ,Hluc.t^.. ^^ ^ ^^ ^ ^. ^ 
 
 varying hi. f.rm.ug ••I--*';'''V"f J'^, ."'J.l Lu.,. ••.» ..f out .■ .. 
 •...l« a«a huTty man. v.ry (.ma "< ,^* "^"'^^^ '^ " . ■ t.. ♦... (».t u 
 
 B.Ko.. .«,Ho. ooKoo. ^"-/-;rJV.:^'' ;:..t\:l w" • 
 
 tl,« grammar «.au>ol untd ha WM Un > ar. ^ ^^ ^^^^^ 
 
 ... :^,„ .na «-- ^,''x;^:::^i- h!;:- a a....i.y ,« »,. 
 
 «,„t to % pnv«t« .ch.Ka a..a •'**'**' „( ,,it,.., „,..nilK aiou 
 
 (...t. which vrov^a *««-•;'-'•'''•'*'•*-; ,;;^'' ,,. ,..,. h.. went U- 
 
 .U literature. F-i,^-/. «.-n/- a,rl ■^-''^f^' 2"". ,.•. he ,."'•-»-'•' t»^-' 
 
 .,.,.t...u.^uehw^t>..y^. -;;:-' .,.,:„ .,. ..... 
 
 ..-t two canto* ..f t/."*' /' ,„»rri.a Mins Anna 
 
 MdlUnk.. The marr,a.e - -^^ J ^^^^ ,^..V_,..,.,, ,,,....., J-.r 
 
 wa« agreed upon. Bynm, wh<. m ,„.vtrKPwhm 
 
 ,U part in tne *'^-. '"" "^ ^:f ^l^ ;r -I^nt w,na. n... -v.. 
 native Und a«a.u Ih. m a t«o , ^^^ ^ J^^ .^^^^^^^ ^ .^ ^,,^ 
 
 Europe, princiimHy ... ltal>^ l^^ j ^^^^ ^^^^^^^^^^,^ Uking -vith h.n. 
 
 Greek ngbt for u««.icni. -:-. '"""."."r^ the mMBt <•{ hia hin-.c 
 
 „.. .„,. ™,.«, -..--;'•; ;;;-;, ."^t^ln^M ... .«-.4. „,. 
 
 •truMlca he cortracted a lur ai... 
 
258 
 
 BniKF BIOCIRAPIIICAL HKBTCUIC8. 
 
 \HH\y WM brought to Englaiul and buried at Newitead Abbey. Byron 
 was a tnau of itroiig paMioiis and very aelf-centred ; but on occaaiona 
 ho couhl \Hi kin.lly and generoui to a fault. Hia moat important works, 
 Iwiiitles thuie alrctt<ly mentioned, are 7'Ar. Oniuur, The Cortair, Lara, 
 The PrUoner of Chillon, Alan/rtd, Cain and Don Juan. 
 
 Carman, Bush, was born at Frf<Iericton, N.B., in 1801. He was 
 e«hicated at the Fretlericton Conegiato Institute and the University of 
 New Brunswick. He graduated in 1881, and afterwards attended 
 cla«8.-8 at I':dinburgh and Harvard. His life has been sptiit principally 
 ill liU^rary work. Ho generally resides in Boston, where he is connected 
 with several publications. His best known works are Low Tuie <m 
 Grand Pri, Behind the Arras, By the Aur^liun Wall, nn<l the three 
 Vagabcndia books, written in conjunction with the late Richard Hovey. 
 
 CoLKRiDoi, Samuil Tatlor, the son of the vicar of Ottery St, Mary 
 in Devonshire, was Iwrn at that pkeo in 1772. In 17U1 ho entered 
 Cambri.lge, but, two years later, in consequence of an unfortunate h.ve 
 affair, left without taking his degree. He enlisted and served some 
 time in the Dragoons, but his fricnils procured his discharge. In 1794 
 he resolved to emigrate to America and help found an ideal republic, 
 but the project failed. His first volume of poems was published in 
 1790. From this time Coleri.lge was engaged in literary work, princi- 
 pally p.K!try, theology, metaphysics and literary criticism. He became 
 acjuaintcd with Wordsworth, and the first fruits of their frien.l.hip was 
 the Lyrical Ballads. During an illness he contracted the opium habit, 
 which sadly weakened his power of work and interfered with his literary 
 success. Ho died in I^ndon in ]8U. His best work, done before 1800, 
 includes Chrutabel, Kubla Khan, and The Ancient Mariner. 
 
 Curtis, Oeorok William, was b rn at Providence, R.I., in 1824. 
 He \.as etlucated in the common schwds of his native city. About 
 1840 ho came under tlie influence of Emerson, and joined the Brook 
 Farm Community. In 1846 he went to Kurope, where he r Miiained for 
 two years engaged in study. In l6,.5 a commercial enteipri.se in which 
 he was embarked failed. xMr. f'urtis underto.-k to pay the debts of the 
 firm, and after sixteen years of untiring effort aucccedeil. In 1853 ho 
 undertook the editorship of the Easy Chair in Hnriwr's Afa.jmine, and 
 in 1850 he became editor of Hariwr's Weekly . Both these positions he 
 held until his death. About 1855 h^ began to take an active part 
 in politics and soon became an •.mportant factor in the work of political 
 
DB QUISCKY, DUAYTON, HAWTHORNE. 
 
 259 
 
 „,l .i.t..,.. H. -» e.l„oatc..l .t th. gr " ^^ _^^ _^ ^^ ^,^^ 
 
 London «h.™ J. lm.l r .0 ^^ ^^^^^^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^.^ ,,, _.^„ 
 wenttoOxlorduil»03. «ncl oni ,,, , ^ ,„d Coliridgi'. mnl 
 
 Edinbnrgl., .h". 1.. |l«-.l "' "'•■'>■';" „^ ,,,.„ „. „ „„„nt , 
 
 «.«„g .ffeCoa hi. .U* ';;;«: t:'7„„ iv/Wi 0,.«,.. B.'-. Hi. 
 
 Z.t, 1.0— , p.u,oil«dly of .U..ri l»p.r. and ..»,.. 
 
 buried in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 HAW,HOH.K,NA.u.MK..aslK,n.at«Me.M^^^^ 
 
 -" educated "^^ ^^^l^^ll^Cc; - ^Cter 
 
 fallow. While at colltge he «*« « J ^^ i„ literary w..rk 
 
 leaving college he Bi^nt ^^J^^^.^/.trrc. '/wa. publ.h.a. In 
 for various magaznies. In 1 W7, « j^^ ^.^^^ ,,,^,l^. 
 
 1843 he married and went to ^"■"-\^" I';^^ " j.^^^.l ,„ , ,...it,.n. 
 Surveyor of the port of ^alem and m ^^^^^, ,, ,. ,.1...,,, ., 
 : the Iloston eustoms house. In ^-^^J^^ ^,,^.^^ rs he tra- 
 
 Uver,K.l.wherehc rema.nc^ untd . 7.^^^^ ^^ ^K^ ^^^_^J^^ ^^^^^^.^ ,^ 
 
 veiled on the comment Aft.r Os r ^^^^^ i^u-rrupU-l. 
 
 resumed his lH--y I'*'-- ' ^.^^ 'Jf ,Hs vrinci,.! works are 77.. 
 
 ^^;l:irv^'t;^^<:: ^^ ^«'--- ^— -^^--^^ 
 
 from an Old AlaiiM. 
 
260 
 
 BRIKF UIOOHAPIIICAL SKKTCHES. 
 
 Irving, Wahhinott.w, wm Iwrn ftt New York in 1783. Heleftwhool 
 in ioUO, aiul beKan the rtudy of Uw. In IS04 he nia.le a voyage to 
 Europe for the benelit of hU health. He waa called to the bar in ISOtf, 
 but never practised. Hi» literary career began at this time by the pub- 
 lication of hunioroUB Ulci ami rketchoi. In 1810 he entered into part- 
 nership with his brothtrs in a large commercial enterprise. In 1815 he 
 again went to Euro|>e, where he remained for many year*. In 1817 his 
 firm failed, and he was oblige«l to turn to literature for support. He 
 spent some time on the continent, and then returne<l to England as Sec- 
 retary of the IT. S. Legation. He returned to the United States in 
 l83-i. From 184'2 to 1846 he was AmhasHador to 8{>ain. Ho lived 
 during his later years at Snnnyaiile on the Hudson, where he died in 
 1839. His principal works are iVuMhitiijion, Christopher Columbu*, OoUl- 
 tmilh. The Alhnmbra, and The iikfteh-liouk. 
 
 Kbath, Jou.<«, was born at lx>ndon in 1701. He waa educated at 
 Enfield, and afterwards apprenticed to a surgeon at Edmonton. After 
 completing his apprenticeship in 1815, he came to London to walk the 
 himpit'ds, but soon «lrifted into literary work. His velumes were pub- 
 lished at regular intervals, but did not receive a very kiml welcome 
 from the critics. Symptoms of consumption now l>ei;ai to appear. The 
 melancholy into which he wa8 plunged by his brother's death, and his 
 ho|aleS8 passion for Fanny IJrawne, complicated matters. He died at 
 Htmic in 1821, an<l was buried in the Protestant cemetery there. His 
 princiiAl works are Endyinion, Lamia, The Eve of St. Agnes aiud iM^telUi. 
 
 Lamb, Cuaklkm, was l>orn at I/>ndon in 1775, and educated at Christ's 
 Hospital. Hire ho formed an intimacy with Coleridge. After holding 
 a clerkship in the .South Sea House for a short time, he entered the 
 service i)f the Vami India Company, with whom he rcinaii.ed for thirty- 
 three years At the end of this p<rio<l he retired on a pension of £450 
 jM-r iuinum. He died in I8.'i4. During his life I.anib .'iwHumed the care 
 of liiH Hister, who, in a tit of insanity, had killed her mother. This 
 \v:is A luavy burden, but it was borne without a murmur. He was 
 naturally of a gay, convivial dispo'<ili»)n, and liked to surround himself 
 V. ith congenial associates. The two strains, th<; grave and the gay, 
 may be seen Hide by .-i'le in alin<>.>«t all bis wo>k. His iiiuHt important 
 Works are Essays of Elhi, I.iist Essai/s of Eiui, Tuh x I'luin Shaktsi>eare 
 and S/icrliiii iin vf thi' Kii'jli.^li hramotir Pints, 
 
 Lowei.i., .I\me.s Ki'ssELr., waa born at (ainliiiilLc. Mass. in 1S19. 
 He was educated at Harvard, and was atlmilted to the bar in 1641. He 
 
■jmiM 
 
 MACAULAT. NRWBOLT, ROBFnm 
 
 261 
 
 ,85. h. vUite^i Kurope. In H.'5 eJ^J J^ j^„^,,,,.,,. i„ ,857 
 Modem Languages at H--^' ' ^^ 3,^,,, I„ ,877 ho wa. mad. 
 he became editor of Jh" AtU'.i ^ Aml.a«.«lor to (Iruat 
 
 Minuter to 8,,ai„ and from »« »J^ '^'^^.^ ,,^,,, ,f LL.D. fr..m 
 Br.Uin. During these year- he '"•cuv I tn^ ^ ^^^^ j^^.^^,„. „, 
 oxford. Can.bri.lge and Ed.n .«rg . ^.^ w^ c»^^^^ ^^^^^^^ ^^^^^_^^ 
 . St. Andrew- Un.vem.ty. Ho died m l»Jl l ^^^^^ ^^^, ,,,,,,. 
 
 worW. are n. C-W-'^ ^ ^'Z^Z^y im,.rtant works of 
 Commemoration Ode. He ha« also wr 
 
 Uterary cnticism. ^^^ ^^ ^^^^^^^^^ ^.^^p,,. 
 
 Macaulay. Thomas ISabinoton >va» ^ ._,„br,dge. and became 
 
 Leicestershire, in .800^ "%:^::r wL 1 Jto the bar. In .8^ 
 a fellow of Trinity r.^lege. In h.4 he « ^^^ ^^^^ ^ 
 
 he entered Pariiament -7^"''^!: ,.^f He r turned ni .838. In 
 India a. meml,er of the Supreme ( ounul^ He ^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^ 
 
 the next year .>e became Secroarv ^^^^^ ^^^^ ,,^,,.,,. ,, „47 
 o,,i>..inted Payn.aster to the h.rccB ^'^'''^ ««j; ^,,^. ^„,e ,„,„tit«- 
 
 hl^..sthU.eatforFUnb«rgh ut ^^^^ „., ,0 near the 
 
 ency in 1852 at the hea.1 of the p<.U^ a b ^^^^ ^ ^^^^ ^^.^.^^^ 
 
 city nor canvas for a sui^le vote. In b.. u^ ^.,, buried in 
 
 „ Haron Macaulay of Kothley. He .bed '"J*^>^- ;" ^.^,,, ^„„,, 
 Wostmmster Abl>ey, His ,.rinc.,.al >.^;rk« a e Lay. of 
 
 Essays ami the unfinished IliMory of A,»;//' •"'• 
 
 fi«,„y.., ami in Bilston, was born 
 
 NKwnoLT. HENRV. «on of the \ .ear -^^'^^ J an.l ..xford. 
 
 at that place in 1862. He w.u, educated '^^ '^' ^^/'..^ since then 
 
 He was called to the bar in 1887 and V^^^^^^J^;^ Tl. M.,.>niy 
 
 Froi^rt iH Britain, and Mo,lr.l a Tragedy . 
 
 Brunswick, in 18r.O. He was educated t tVu, ^r ^^ ^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 Institute and at the University of ^^^^^ ,^„,,^ ^,„v.ii«l.cd at 
 for some time and then became ed.tor of / V^^ ^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 Toro..to. He gave up editorial -"f ^ *"^'c,lt/winaB..r. Tn .895 
 
263 
 
 BRIir BIOORAPIIfCAL SKETCBIS. 
 
 prvMiit in New York, where he ia connecte«I with a numtter of perindi- 
 c»l«. Hii moat iui|K>rUnt worki are OrUm, In Diivm Tuiiro, Soiujh q/ 
 thr Cwmrnon Iktij, The Hw>k uf the Sixths, The F»r,je in the Furtt/, A 
 Sitter to Ei'amjeliM, and The. Heart of the AncieiU Wood. 
 
 SUKLLBY, rEHCV BvMMHR, the eldeRt Hon of Sir Timothy Shelley, 
 Bart., waa born at Field Placr, Suhs.x, in I7!»2. Ho was H«.nt to Kton, 
 but owing to hi* r.fuHal to fa«, hd ratiar a hard lift*. In 1810 he 
 L-ntt-red Oxford, hut waa soon ex|K^II«ul iK-causc ho intiiatcd on forcing liia 
 IM'culiar nligioua views uiM)n the beads of the collegt-a. His father took 
 the side of the autliorities and rcfuaed to receive his ion. In +81 1 he 
 nia<le a haaty marriage with Harriet Wesbrook, who, he fancied, was 
 being abused by her father. The marriage was unfortunate and they 
 •oon sojiarated. In 1810 his wife drowned hers<if. The custody of hia 
 children was refused him by the courts on the ground that he was mor- 
 ally unsound. In the same year he married Mary (Jcnlwin. In 1S18 he 
 left England for ever. For the remainder of his life he lived in luly. 
 He was drowned in the Mediterranean in 18'22. Hia best known worka 
 are The HevoU of hlnm, r,»iiietheu» Vnhouiul, The Ceiiri, and Adunni^, 
 an elegy in memory of John Keats. Shelley was a man who all hia life 
 fought against wha^ he considered to Imj tyranny, whether it waa in 
 religious, political or social matters. He made many mistakes, but 
 behind it all was the human heart of the p(H't, big with love for 
 humanity. His sincereat desire was to benctit mankind. 
 
 TESNYsojf, Alfued, waa Imm at Someraby, Lincolnshirn, in 1809. 
 He waa educated at home and at I>iuth iirammar School. In 18'J7 
 together with his brother Charles, he published Pwiim hy Tioo lirothem. 
 In IS'_'8 ho entered Trinity College, Cambridge, where he met Arthur 
 Henry Hallam for the first time. He jf)ined the aociety of the 
 "Apostles," which at that time contained some of the brightest minds 
 of the university. In I8*2<» he obtained the chancellor's gold medal for 
 his )K.em Timhiictoo. In 18:^0 he pubii.shed his first volume of j>oeniH. 
 In ls;{|, owing to the death of his father, he left Cambridge withmit 
 taking his degree. In I8.S2 his second volume was published. The 
 critics were not kind to this volume and Tennyson remained silent for 
 ten years. In 1S33 Arthur Hallam died. In 1 84'.' the / V»/(« in tw.. 
 volumes apiw-ared. In 1847 The Princes waa published. In IH.V) 
 Tennyson published In Alemoriuvi in rcniendtrance of ArtJiur Hiillam, 
 was married and was apjtointed I'oet-Liurtate. In 1863 ho removed to 
 Farringford, in the Isle of Wight. In 1856 Maud waa published, 
 
TIIACKEKAY, WIIITTIBU, WOUD8WORTII. 
 
 203 
 
 foftewr.! nlHTObyfonrof T-A././y/Z-o/'/" A-.«!/. In ISOSho punha.^.l 
 ^^M^.r . «Ui. at Al.lworth. In 18»4 h« wiu rai«.>.l t« the iK-craKO. n 
 Itm b« .!.-♦ and WM buriea in We.tn.iu.ter A».l,ey. H*H,.k. the 
 w..rk« .Jrear , .....nti.me.l. Tenny«.n wrote Eh>i>ch Ardrn, L,>rU.y //..//, 
 Q«.,,. Mar;,, Han.hf. lierkH and 7'A« for^-rfer*. Hi- U«t voluu.e wa. 
 puWli«he«l »uU»<iucut to hii death. 
 
 Thackrrw, WiLtiAM MAKKPtACE. WW! liom at Calcutte in 1811. In 
 1818 he wa- «.nt «.. VM^\^ia and placed in the Charter Houho. Ho 
 enured Tr.nity ( :«IU.«., ' »«u^dge. hut left without taking hm degree 
 For the next few year* b- travelled on the continent, for the n.ont part 
 •tudying art.. He «pent a w.«^r in Weimar, where ho met (icH-tho 
 and hi. circle. In 18.37 be lo«t i.m fortune, and a- a coM«ec,uence he 
 wa- forced t<. .levote hunself H.rm«Hly t.. literature. Ho contr.huk-d to 
 the leading maga/iue.. more ..,«.. .dly to Punch, in whuh -ome of l... 
 lH.-.t work apiR«ared. He n.ad. hi- Hr-t great -ucce- m 1840 with 
 Vanity Fair. Hi- other works, Th, Vir.jixinn., The Xorromv*, Pen- 
 denni,, Henry Esmond followed rapidly. In IS.Vi and in 18r.G ho 
 vi.it...l America on lecturing tour-. In isr,7 ho wa- an un«ucce-ful 
 camlidate to repre-ent Oxford in parliament. in 1860 he became 
 editor of The Cornhill. He died in l8(i.T 
 
 WHirriKB, John CuEENi.EAr, wa- bom at Haverhill, Mm-., in 1807. 
 Hi- parenU were Quaker-, and the child w,w brought up in that faith. 
 Ho received the unual common school ...lucation in hi- native town. Ho 
 wrote hi- fir-t {K.em at the age of eighteen. During hi- early year- he 
 wa- clitor of -everal newspapers, and ttn.k a very prominent part in the 
 »nti -lavery agitation. On h. veral occa-Himm hi- oiHce wa- -acked and 
 he him-elf wa- in .langer of hi. life. Hi- lK)em- did much t«. keep alive 
 the -entiment again-t -lave-holding. Ho represented Haverhill in the 
 legi-lature in 1835. In the next year he removed to Ame-bury. wlu ro 
 he re«ided until hi- .leath. Hi. life >.a- a very stirring one. but the 
 event- in which ho took part were for the most imrt of local importance. 
 His literary activity extended over -evmly year-. He died in 18!l'2. 
 His principal works arc Mo.j.j M,uo'>e. Tl„ Te„t on the Ihach, and Sn.w 
 Hound. 
 
 VVoRi«woKTH, Wii.UAM. was lK>rn at Cock. rm..uth. Cund..rl.iiid. in 
 177(( From his seventh to hm eighteenth year he went to seh.H.l at 
 Huwkshead. In 17S7 ho entered St. .lohn's College, Cambridge, and 
 graduated in 17'.tl. He hailed with delight the beginning- of the l<reueh 
 
264 
 
 BKIir BIOOHAPHIOAL RKROHM. 
 
 ReTolntion, »nd immediately crosMKl to France, where he remained for 
 two year., Uking an active part in affairs The oourw o( the Revolu- 
 tioD bitterly dieappointed him, and he returned to England very much 
 depreaMHl in epirit^ The eoothing influence of nature and of hw euter 
 Dorothy won reetored him. Poverty now eUred him in the face, and 
 be turned to literature for eupi^rt. The d. ath of hie friend, Rawley 
 Calvert, .eoured him a legacy of £900. which relieved hie immediate 
 diitreuee. He livwl with hie eieter at Racedown f<.r eome time ; then, 
 after a year •i>ent in Germany, settled at Oraamere, in the I^e 
 Uiitrict. In 1802 he married Mary Hutchinson. In 1813 he waa made 
 Uietributor of Stamps. This secured him a competence, and he oouW 
 now devote his time to poetry. In 1842 he receive<l a pension of £300. 
 and in 1843 was made Poet-Uureate. He died in ISiSO. Wonlsworth s 
 best poetry is to be found in bis shorter poems. Among Ins longer 
 ones may be mentioned Michcul, The ExeurMti, The Prtiude, PtUr 
 BtU and The WhUe Doe qf HylsUme. 
 
•li^i. iLrfitri 
 
X^v 
 
 "^ V 
 
 mpii^. 
 
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