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ffanairian ^tnts of »c^aol ^oohs.

THE

FIFTH BOOK

READING LESSONS.

BU the Council of ]f ublic Xmimciim
For ©ttiaria.

TOKONTOf
WILLIAM WARWICK.

7'j V \ LooK

Entered according to Act of Provincial Legislature, in the Year
One Thoiuand Eight Hundred and Sixty-seven, hy tfie
Beverend Eokrtom Btersom, LL.D., Chief Superintendent
of Education for Ontario, in the Ofice of the Registrar of
the Province of Canada.

4 b^^V -

PREFACE.

The chief object regarded in the preparation of this volume, the
Fifth Book of the Series, has been to supply the pupils of the
Public Schools with such specimens of the best English authors
as are examples of correct style and pure taste, and are suit-
able for use as Exercises in Reading or Elocution. At the
same time, in the selection of the extracts, attention was given
both to the extent and character of the information that they
supplied, and to the influence which they might exert on the
young scholar in engaging his interest, stimulating his desire
for knowledge, and forming his character. The subjects em-
braced in the volume comprehend not merely Literature, Art
and Industry, but also the Sciences ; not that it is intended to
teach any of them by a summary, but that such readings seemed
essential to the completeness of the book with a view to the
purposes for which it is designed. A classified arrangement
of the pieces has not been adopted, as it appeared more de-
sirable to have, at least generally, a variety of subjects in con-
secutive extracts. An Index, however, is subjoined, by means
of which the book may be systematically read according to
departments or branches of knowledge.

PREFACE.

For notices of the authors, directions for pronunciation, and
explanations of difficult phrases or words, the reader is referred
to " The Companion to the Reading Books," in which he will
find the necessary aid. The signification and derivation of many
scientific terms arc embodied in the articles themselves, and a
useful addition has been made to the Historical and Biographi-
cal extracts by the str.tement of the dates. Of the list of
authors represented in the volume, it is sufficient to say that
it contp.ins the names of many of the most distinguished writers
on both sides of the Atlantic.

Education Office,
Toronto, December, 1867.

CONTENTS.

Tho 'Monuments of Egypb
Address to an Egyptian JHummy .
Discovery of the Albert N'yansa

Babvlon

Bel$nar.tar

Phceniciaa Manufactures and Commerce
On the PleaaureB of Science .

The Sea

The Forging of (/le ilnchor .

The Battle of Marathon

Death of Leonidtu .....

The Flight of Xerxes ....

The Schools of Athens ....

The Influence of Athens

From " Oration on the Crown" .

The Natural Sciences

Geolojry . . •.•«;• • • •
End of the Peloponnesian war ....

The Sea! The Sea!

Mineralogy

'/u6a( Cain

Copper Mines of Lake Superior ....
The Defmce of the Bridge against the Tuscan Army

Nature in Motioi

Beauty of Insects

Hannibal

Verres Denounced

Composition of Soils

Clothing fVom Animals— Fur, Wool, Silk, Leather

To a Waterfowl

Snails

The Coral fnsect

Lif. in a Water-Drop

Defeat and Capture of Caractaous

Boadicea

The Destruction of the Temple of Jerusalem .

Last Days of HercuXanewm

The Colisefim

Botany

To a Mountain Daisy

Battle of Chalons

Charlemagne

A Dish of vegetables

The Linden Tree

Vegetable Clothing— Flax, Hemp, and Cotton .

fk»M

Smith 1

Schmiu .... 3

Horace Smith ... 6

Sir S. W. Baker ... 8

Smith's Clttsatcal Dictionary U

Milman .... 12

W. C. Taylor ... 16

Brougham .... 18

Goodrich's The S«a . . 20

Samuel Ferguson . . 23

Bulwer 26

Oroly 27

MissJewsbury ... 29

Gibbon 30

Macaulay .... 32
Demosthenes, translated by
Lord Brougham

33
36
41
46
47
48
61
63
66
68
60

Page ....
Keightler .
The Muple L$af .

Varley

Charles Mackay .
Dr. D. Wilson .
Macaulay .
Putnam's Magasine
Mrs. Barbauld .

Arnold 61

Cicero ..... 62

Fownes .... 64

Dr. Aikin .... 66

Bryant 72

Kearley .... 73

Sigoumey .... 76

STiarpe's Magaiine . 77

Merivale .... 81

Cowper .... 83

Milman .... 64

Atherstone .... 87

Byron 90

Gray 92

Bums 97

Creasy 98

Hallam 101

Household TFords . .103

Barry Cornwall ... 108

Dr. Aikin .... 108

▼1

COWTENTS.

The hnUad of Kou
Disciplino

ChetniHtry

Atmospheric Pbonumena

T/t«Cioud

Tho Gulf Stream

The First CruHade

The Christian Knight and the Saracen Cavalier

Magna Charta

The Origin of the English Nation ....

Ye Marinen of England

Fall of Constantinople

First Voyaije of Columbus

Return of Columbus after his First Voyage

Edinburgh after Flodden

Discovery of Newfoundland

Nova Scotia

ew Brunswick

Prince Edward Island

Jacques Carlier

Quebec ; or, Tb'' Early History of Canada
Lake Ontario ai.d the Thousand Islands .

The Coteau Rapid ,

Vancouver Island

British Columbia

The Red River Settlement . . .

Hudson Bay Territory

The /)idtan

T/m Queen

The Mathematical Sciences

Execution of Mary Queen of Scots . . , .

Mary, Queen of Scots

Character of Elizabeth

The Steam-Engine

The Song of Steam

Character of James Watt

The Battle of Naseby

Cromwell's Expulsion of the Parliament .
Funeral Oration on Queen Henrietta of England

Optics— Light

Invocation to Light

Blind Bartimevs

The Blind Gin.

War between the Iroquois and Eriea ....

The Great Plague of London

From the " City of the Plague "

Acoustics — Sound, Hearing, Echo, and Musical

Notes • . . . .

The Dumb Child

There is a Tongu« in every Leaf

The Bells

Tho Death of the Wicked

Death of Wolfo

Character of the Earl of Chatham ....
Invasion of the Carnatic by Hyder Ali . . .

Reply to the Duke of Grafton

Speech against Warren Hastings ....
Marie Antoinette, Queen of France ....

Departure and Death of ''^''elson

Life, Heat, Electricity, and Magnetism
Conduction and Radiation .:...*.

Speech against Napoleon

The War with Napoleon

On Parliamentary Privilege

Th'i Battle of ITaferloo

Buiwer.

Author of the '* Heir oj

clyffe"
Fownes

Constable's Sixth Reud^r
Shelley . . . .
Maury . ■ . .
Collier ....
Scott ....
Thomas Milner .
Macau Ihv
Campbell
Gibbon.

Joanna Baillie .
Prescott
Avtoun.
Warburton'.-: Hochtlaga

lied-

I'AOH
113

J. M'Gretfor.
Warburtou'H Hochdaija
T. Darcy M'Geo .
Warburton'a Hochelaga
The Maple Lea) .
Charles Sangster.
J. H. Fyt'e .
J. H. Pyle .
Ballantyne's Fur Traders
Warburton's Hochelaga
M'Lellan .
The Maple Leaf .

Robertson .

Bell

Hume .

Anderson .

Anon. .

JeflVey .

Thome .

Lingard

Bossuet

Rev. J. M. Wilson

Milton .

R. J. M'Georgo .

Miss Page

RelaUona des Jesuitea

Pepys's Diary

Jonn Wilson

Professor Tyndall
Household Words .
Anon. .
Edgar A. Poc
Massillon
Parkman . .
Lord Mahon
Burke .
Thurlow
Sheridan
Burke .
Southey

Professor Tyndall
Grattan
Robert Hall .
Mansfield .
Byron .

114

118

ViO

123

126

129

131

138

140

142

143

146

149

162

161

16«

160<^'

llt3

164

166

170

172

173

174

176

178

183

184

186

192

196

198

200

204

205

207

213

216

217

220

221

223

224

226

228

229
23i
23(i
237
239
242
246
250
252
253
266
266
261
265
268
271
276
276

CONTENTS.

PAOR

■ \Vd
Red-
. 114
. 118
. )2()
. 123
. 126
• 120
. 13<
. 138
. 140
. 142
. 143
. 146
. 140
. 162
. 161
. 16H
■ lOO^J
. ]((3
. 164
. 1««
. 170
. 172
. 173
. 174
. 176
. 178
. 183
. 184
. 186
. 102
. 196
. 198
. 200
. 204
. 205
. 207
. 213
. 216
. 217
. 220
. 221
. 223
. 224
. 226
. 228

. 229
. 231
, 23(i

237

239

242

246

260

262

263

266
266
261
266
268
271
276
276

Death of OeorRC tho Third

On Cniclty to Animals

Farlitinienlary Reform

Parliainontary Roform

The Fiiturnl oj Naj)o/oon I

True GroatiioHS

Marvolrt of Human Caloric

Tho Volcano and tho Barthqaako ....

Dcfonco of Poltior

Tho Dofonco of Jollulabad

Defence of Hardy

Britiflh JuHtico

Battle of Sobraon

Electricity

Ftoiotfll of Wellington

Science rind Art

\o Loadstone and tho Afagnot

The Future of America

rowel 1 Address to tho Senate

Circulation of the Blood

The Sun

Jf i/tiiti before Sunrise in the Vale of Cliamouni

Battle of Balaklava— Cavalry Charga ....

Charge of the Light Brigade

The Insufficiency of Natural Theology

The Law of Nature and Nations

Surrender of Kara

Ode tc Duty

Cause;} of the Establishment of Reprosentative

Government in England

What Constitutes a State t

The Atlantic Ocean and the Telegraph

Science

Tho Social Sciences

On tho Division of Labor

Labor

Industry and Intelligence

Locksley, from " Ivanhoe "

Of Studies

Instruction

Advantages of Studying Latin and Oreek .

The Library

On tho Defence of Canada

T/ia Student

Tho Academy of Lagado

Blessings of Instruction

Religion and the Intellect

Hymn to the Creator

T/ie Tuv/ shall 6e mi/ Fragrant Shrine . . . .
Canada, tho Land of our Adoption ....

Reflections on Floiters

From " The Deserted Fillaga "

The Mariner's Hyuu

Canada, the Land of our Birth

Hymn ojf Nature

On Parliamentary Reform

Procrastination .

Mei'cv to Animals

The Dead Ass

An English Country Gentleman

The Siege of Lucknow

Tho Death of the Little Scholar

The Ruined Lodge

Tho Mental Sciences . . •

A Scone at Oswego

History in Words

Letter to the Earl ot Chesterfield

Thackeray .

Chalmcm

Canning

Brougham

T)^ Maple Leaf .

Cbanning .

Dr. George Wilson

Reid .

Mackintosh .

Alison .

Erskine

Sydney Smith .

Alison .

Rev. J. M. WilHon

Tennyson .

Brewster

Goodrich's The Sea

Webster

Henry Clay .

Mrs. Hack .

Sir .Tohn Herschel

Coleridge

W. H. Russell .

Tennyson .

Melville

Mackintosh .

Dr. Sandwith

Wordsworth

PAoa

. 27S

. 279

. 282

. 2H6

. 286

. 28H

. 200

. 203

. 207

. 208

. 302

. 804

. 306

. 309

. 311

. .313

. 316

. 320

. 321

. 324

. 325

. 328

. 320

. 332

. 832

. 884

. 836

. 338

Gnizot 330

Sir Wm. Jones .
Maury and Dr. Q. Wilson
Prince Albert

344
344
347
349
863
856
366
362

Adam Smith
Caroline F. Orne
Dr. Wayland
Scott ....

Bacon 367

James Montgomery .
Sydney Smith .

Crabbe 371

Palmerston .... 371

Dublin University Magazine 376

Swift 376

Bowring .... 877
Hugh White . . .879

Milton 380

Moore 332

Rev. Dr. M'Canl . 382

Keblo 384

Goldsmith . . . .386

Caroline Southey . . 387

Rev. Dr. Ryerson . 388

Peabody .... 390
Gladstone . . . .391

Yonng 303

Cowper .... 304

Sterne 304

Washington Irving . . 306

398

Dickens .... 309
Haliburton . . .401

405

Cooper 400

Trench's Study of Words . 411

Samuel Johnson . . . 417

• • •

VUl

CONTENV.

To his Grace tho Dnke of Bodford

Ghanoer and Oowley

Drjrden and Pope

7Vtumph« of (h« Enqlith Langnagt

Imagrination

PI<a<urN 0/ Imagination

Athenian Architectore daring the Age of Perlolee

Gothic Architecture

Ancient American Architecture ....

Celebrated Sculptures

On Ohantrey'f sAtepinq Children ....
Greek Painters

Parrhativ*

Schools of Painting ; or. The Louvre in 1814

The Art of Engraving

Power of Music

Afuflte by Moonlight

The Art or Printing

The Noble Revenge

My Own Place

Ancient and Modem Fanning ....

TThot t« Noble f

Industry Bsseatiallv Social .....

From " Edward I/. •'

From " Juliua Ccetar "

Trial Scene /rom (he " Utrehani of Fentce "

From " Kmg Richard 11."

JProm " Ktng Bichard Iir."

Prom " Kina Henry VIIL"

Hamlet's Soliloquy on Death

From " The Cvitie"

Scene of the French Revolution ....

The Swiea Patriot

Richelieu's Findioation ......

ii Song/or St. Oecilta's Day

The Bard

The Passions

Gitievra

iochiel's Warning

Fits-Jamm and Aoderick Dhu ....

Light for ail

To a Dying Infant

Marco Botxans

The Meeting of (he Waters

0/t, in (he SHlIy Xight

A Ship Sinking

How's my Boy ?

The Bridal 0/ ilndalla

itesi9na(ion . . . . . . .

The Brook

The Echoes

The Grave • .

The Dying Chnsh'an io his Soul . . • •

Junius .

Dryden

Johnson

J. G. Lyons

Ruskin .

Akennido

Bulwer .

Henry Duncan

Shanie's Magaaine

Ifonders of all Nations

Bowles ...

Smith's Dictionary of

quities .
N. P. Willis .
AliHon .
Hinckley
Isaac Diiraeli
Shakespeare
ildaptea/rom Disraeli
De Quincey .
Tapper .
Bum's Outline

Farming.
Swain .
Everett
Marlowe
Shakespeare
Shakespeare
Shakespeare
Shakespeare
Shake8pef«.re
Shakespeare
Sheridan
Felicia Hemans
Sheridan Knowles
Bulwer .
Dryden
Gray .
Ck)lun8 .
Rogera.
Campbell
Soott .

From tha German^
D. M. Moir .
Halleck
Moore .
Moore .
John Wilson
Dobell .
Lockhart
Longfellow .
Tennyson
Tensyson .
Mrs. GUve .
Pope . .

ilnti-

)/ Modern

. 418

. 4ai

. >ut

. 424

. 4U

. 427

. 428

. 480

. 438

. 487

. 443

444

447
4fiO
486
466
400
461
463
46S

466
468
470
475
476
460
484
486
487
488
488
401
404
480
601
603
604
606
606
610
613
614
616
618
618
619
621
622
623
626
626
626

tons

V of

Anti'

aeli.

r Modem

. 418

. 481

. >U»

. 424

. 4U

. 417

. 418

430

43S

437

443

444

447
4B0
466
408
460
461
463
465

466

469

470

475

476

460

484

485

487

488

489

461

494

480

601

603

604

606

610

613

614

615

618

619

621

622

623

625

626

688

FIFTH BOOK OF READING LESSONS.

UIBROQLTPniCS, REPBBBBNTIMG "DEATH AND THB DBBCBXT OF TBB 80UL."

(From (in aiiciciif M.S. on })a}>(/ri(ti/uti)i(i u( Tlitbes.)

EGYPT.

At the earliest period to which civil history reaches back, Egypt
was inhabited by a highly civilized agricultural people, under a
settled monarchical government, divided into castes, the highest
of which was composed of the priests, who were the ministers of
religion based on a pantheistic worship of nature, and having
or its sacred symbols not only images, but also living animals,
md even plants. The priests were also in possession of all tlie
iterature and science of the country, and all the employments
based upon such knowledge. The other castes were, 2nd, the

EGYPl.

soldiers; 3rd, the busbandmen ; 4th, the artificers and tradesmen ;
and last, held in great contempt, the shepherds or hordsmen,
poulterers, fishermen, and servants. Tlie Egyptians possessed
a written language, which appears to have had affinities with both
the great families of language — the Semitic and the Indo-Euro-
pean ; ^nd the priestly caste, moreover, the exclusive knowledge
of a sacred system of writing, the characters of which are known
by the name oi hieroijlyjpliics^ in contradistinction to which the
common characters are called enclwrial, (i.e., of the country.)
They were acquainted with all the processes of manufacture
which are es.sential to a highly-civilized community. They had
made great advances in the fine arts, especially architecture and
sculpture, (for in painting, their progress was impeded by a want
of knowledge of perspective.) They were deterred from commer-
cial enterprise by the policy of the priests, but they obtained foreign
productions to a great extent chiefly through the Phoenicians,
and at a later period they engaged in maritime expeditions. In
science they do not seem to have advanced so far as some have
thought ; but their religion led them to cultivate astronomy and
its application to chronology, and the nature of their country
made a knowledge of geometry indispensable, and their applica-
tion of its principles to irchitecture is attested by their extant
edifices. There can bo little doubt that the origin of this
remarkable people, and of their early civilization, i? to be traced
to the same Asiatic source as the early civilization of Assyria and
India.

The ancient history of Egypt may be divided into four great
periods: — (1.) From the earliest times to its conquest by Cam -
byses, during which it was ruled by a succession of native princes,
into the difficulties of whose history this is not the place to inquire.
The last of them, Psammenitus, was conquered and dethroned by
Cambyses in B.C. 625, when Egypt became a province of the
Persian empire. (2.) From the Persian conquest in B.C. 525, to
the transference of their dominion to the Macedonians in B.C.
332. This period was one of almost constant struggles between
the Egyptians and their conquerors until B.C. 340, when Nectanabis
II., the last native ruler of Egypt, was defeated by Darius Ochus,
It was during this period that the Greeks acquired a considerable
knowledge of Egypt. (3.) During the dynasty of the Macedonian
kings, from the accessioa of Ptolemy, the son of Lagus, in B.C. 323,
down to B.C. 30, when Egypt became a province of the Roman
empire. When Alexander invaded Egypt in B.C. 332, the country

THK MONUMENTS OF EGYPT.

rudesmen ;
herdsmen,

possessed

with both
[ndo-Euro-
knowledge
are known

which the
? country.)
anufacture

They had
jcture and

bja want
Q commer-
led foreign
hoenicians,
itions. In
some have
Qomy and
r country
ir appHca-
eir extant
n of this

be traced
SRyriaand

four great
t by Cam-
re princes,
to inquire,
hroned by
nee of the
.c. 625, to
ins in B.C.
between
S^ectanabis
ius Ochus.
nsiderable
[acedonian
n B.C. 323,
le Roman
10 country

;

"«

submitted to him without a struggle; and, tyhilc he left it behind
him to return to the conquest of Persia, he conferred upon it the
greatest benefit that was in his power, by giving orders for the
building of Alexandria. In the partition of the empire of Alex-
ander, after his death in u.c. 323, Dgypt fell to the share of
Ptolemy, the sou of Lagus, who assumed the title of king in B.C.
306, and founded the dynasty of the Ptolemies, und*^!' whom the
country greatly flourished, and became thy chief seat of Greek
learning. But soon came the period of decline. Wars with the
adjacent kingdom of Syria, and the vices, weaknesses, and dis-
sensions of the rcyal family, wore out the state, till in B.C. 81
the Romans were called upon to interfere in the disputes for the
crown, and in B.C. 55 the dynasty of the Ptolemies came to bo
entirely dependent on Roman protection, and, at last, after the
battle of Actium, and the death of Cleopatra, who was the last of
the Ptolemies, Egypt wa^ made a Roman province, B.C. 30. (4.)
Egypt under the Romans, down to its conquest by the Arabs in
A.f). G38. As a Roman province, Egypt was one of the most
flourishing portions of the empire. The fertility of its soil, and
its position between Europe, Arabia, and India, together with the
possession of such a port as Alexandria, gave it the full benefit
of the two great sources of wealth, agriculture and commerce.
Learning continued to flourish at Alexandria, and a succession of
teachers, such as Origen and Clement of Alexandria, conferred
real lustre on the ecclesiastical annals of the country. When the
Arabs made their great inroad upon the Eastern empire, the geo-
graphical position of Egypt naturally caused it to fall an imme-
diate victim to that attack, which its wealth and the peaceful
character of its inhaFtants invited. It was conquered by Amrou,
the lieutenant of the Caliph Omar, in a.d. 638. — Smith.

THE MONUMENTS OF EGYPT.

The life and history of the ancient Egyptians arc known to us,
not through native historians or poets, but through the works 'of
the Greeks, through the Scriptures of the Old Testament, and
more especially through the sculptured and architectural works
of the people themselves ; for those works, having withstood the
ravages of thousands of years, and the destructive hand of man,
still remain, and bear witness to the greatness of tlie ancient Egyp-
tians, to thoir skill, their arts, and their mode of life. No nation

THE MONUMENTS OF KCYPT.

has ever so fully poj^tmyed ?tsolf in all its pursuits, religious,
«ocial, and military, as the Egyptians. But Egypt, with all its
wonders, was comparatively little known until the end of the last
century, when a new impulse was given to the study of its his-
tory and its antiquities, by the expedition of Napoleon. The
most ancient and most remarkable of these monuments are those
at Thebes, in the upper -valley of the Nile. The city of Thebes,
the most ancient capital of Egypt, was situated on both banks of
the Nile, and its site is at present occupied by several villages,
from which the ruins derive their names. Travellers are inex-
haustible in their admiration of the gigantic masses of ruin, of

UUinS OF TUB T£MPLB OF KARNAK.

the temples, avenues of columns, obelisks, colossuses, and cata-
combs, in which the district abounds. The temple palace of
Karnak, like some others of those vast structures, probably con-
sisted partly of temples, and partly of residences of the Egyptian
kings. This stupendous ruin is connected with another in the
village of Luxor, by an avenue of colossal sphinxes, no less than
six thousand feet in length — the sphinxes standing at intervals of
ten feet from one another, but most of them now covered with
earth. The portico of the temple of Karnak, to which the
avenue of sphinxes forms tlu* approach, is generally regarded as

TFIE MONUMENTS OF EGYPT.

the grandest specimen of Egyptian architecture. One hundred
and thirty- four columns support the edifice. The twelve central
ones are of gigantic dimensions, measuring thirty-four feet in
circumference, and fifty-six in height, with capitals so large, that
one hundred men can comfortably stand together on them. The
walls of the apartments and chambers here, as in all the other
temples and palaces, are decorated with statues and figures in
relief, painted over with brilliant colors. All these monuments
are of the greatest interest, not only because they display the
state of the arts at a remote period, but because the sculptures
and paintings represent historical occurrences connected with the
founders of the monuments. The buildings on the western bank
of the river, though not equal to those of Karnak and Luxor,
are yet among the finest Egyptian monuments. We there meet
with the palace and temple of Medmet-Habu, and a structure in
the vicinity called the Memnonium. A plain not far from it
bears the name of the " Region of the Colossuscs," from the
number of colossal statues with which it is covered, partly stand-
ing upright, partly overturned, and partly broken to pieces. The
two largest of them are fifty-six feet high, one of these being the
celebrated statue of Memnon, which was believed in ancient times
to give forth a shrill sound every morning at sunrise. Not far
from these colossal figures, remnants of a Ijuilding are seen,
which had sufiered mucli from the destructive hand of man, and
is generally believed to be the tomb of Osymandias, mentioned
by Diodorus. Most of the tombs, however, are under ground,
and the necropolis of Thebes, extending from Medmet-Habu for
a distance of about five miles in the Libyan hills, is scarcely less
remarkable than the temples and palaces of the city itself. The
many subterranean chambers and passages form a real labyrinth.
The wails of these chambers are likewise covered with figures in
relief, and fresco paintings, in many of which the colors are still
as fresh as if they were of yesterday. They represent the judg-
ment of the dead, their history and occupations, and are therefore
of great interest to the inquirer into the social and domestic cus-
itoms of the ancient Egyptians. These chambers, moreover, are
full of a great variety of utensils and ornaments, and rolls of
papyrus, recording things connected with ihc history of those
buried, or rather preserved as mummies, in the catacombs. The
inhabitants of the village of Gurma, at the entrance of the necro-
polis, have for many years carried on a lucrative; traffic in the
articles found in the necropolis Among the treasures thence

""""'' "^ ^" ''"VP,,,,, ,„„,,„,

could do fh.-. ^^P^*^'^ of Kcryr.? c,'^ T'. ^^ ^^»" aucient!

these ':* ■ "2:/^'"''''^ "-'^Wki^l'-^t':'™" f."P"'
would ext^,.^ 1 »" amount of skill S„i\ . execution of

"•at theT.!LlV'° "r"'" '^ period :fo;' ftt '*"<' j'"e'' "o ono
'^'leu afc i>« hin^Ur. X ^ '^'^^ ^wO u,c • nuri « :^ "^"st nave been

Aro«8 TO ^„ ^^ -

And time had no besr^ "" ''? «'<"J'.
Those teninlp« r...i "egun to overthrow

B«^ With th; stt. dtrtti"? T"'—

J'-haps thou wort at ' "^ ™"« '^ »""- '

By oath to tS? the Sv«"''""'/'"''''<den
Then say, „hat .ecret ,^^ i'"' "'^ ''^y "-ade ;

Pe;;''aps thou wort a pn"^''.?' ^""'•'■'^« play'd ?

^-™".'^a.pHe.to.S'::;:;-:;:;-y-;|.«

ADUKKSS 10 AN KGYI'TIAN MUSIMY.

Perchance that very hand, now pinion'd flat,
Has hob-a-nobb'd with Pttiraoh, glass to glass :

Or dropp'd a halfpenny in. Homer's hat,
Or doff'd thine own to let Queen Dido pass,

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,

A torch at the great Temple's dedication.

I need not ask thee if that hand, when arm'd,
Has any Roman soldier maul'd and knuckled,

For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalm'd,
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled;

Antiquity appears to have begun

Long after thy primeval race was run.

Thou couldst dev elop, if that wither'd tongue

Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen,

How the world look'd when it was fresh and young,
And the great Deluge still had left it green ;

Or was it then so old, that history's pages

Contaiu'd no record of its early ages ?

Still t 'lent? incommunicative elf !

Art -worn to secrecy ? then keep thy vows ;
But prithee tell us something of thyself —

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house !
Since ia the world of spirits thou hast sluraber'd,
What hast thou seen, — what strange adventures number'd ?

Since first thy form was in this box extended,

We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations ;

The Roman empire has begun and ended,

New worlds have risen — wo have lost old nations,

And countless kings have into dust been humbled,

Whilst not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head.
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses,

March'd armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread,
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis,

And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder,

When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ?

1 f the tomb's secrets may not be confess'd,

The nature of thy private life unfold ;
A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast,
• And tears adown that dusky cheek have roll'd.
Have children climh'd those knees, and kiss'd that fare?
What was thy rmme and station, age and nice ?

• i

ill

Posthumous rnan^P^"'^ e™.iescence !

And stando" uVXea?^ w^'h^''^ •"'""^ bed,
Thou wilt hear not&m 7h„ '," S"'' P«se„ce
^"on the great tr..^' ^^1X17:1%^:"'"''
• Why should thi« . .u. "" "fining !

Oh. let us keen . h„ ," '°^' for ever P
/« living TiHue Tl ""l*"'™''' ™"! in»-.

A>thpugh'con.uptlo;'^^/ot%^'''™"'"-
The .m^orta, sp^irit inlLZitZy'^Z^f'

—Horace Smith.

ui^ IHE ALBERT J^TANZA.

the "Sources of the S ' ' Tn ^'^'' J ^^^ «*nVen fo reach
discovery. ™*"- "'-t. -ver «;„,„ „.„„„.„„_ '.^ j;-^^]';»f

DISCOVERY OF THE ALUERl n'yANZA.

-j

I had hoped, and prayed, and striven through all kinds of
IdifBculties — in sickness, starvation, and fatigue — to reach that
Ihidden source ; and when it had appeared impcissible, we had
(both determined to die upon the road, rather than return defeated.
IWas it possible that it was so near, and that to-morrow we could
say, " The work is accomplished " ?

March 14th. — The sun had not I'isen when I was spurring my
[ox after the guide, who, having been promised a double handful
of beads on arrival at the lake, had caught the enthusiasm of the
moment. The day broke beautifully clear, and having crossed a
deep valley between the hills, we toiled ap the opposite slope. I
hurried to the summit. The glory of our prize burst suddenly upon
[me ! There, like a sea of quicksilver, lay, far beneath, the grand
expanse of water — a boundless sea-horizon on the south and south-
west — glittering in the noonday sun ; and on the west, at fifty or
sixty miles' distance, the blue mountains rose from the bosom of
the lake to a height of about seven thousand feet above its level.

It is impossible to describe the triumph of that moment. Here
was the reward for all our labor— for the years of tenacity with
which we had toiled through Africa. England had won the
sources of the Nile ! Long before 1 reached this spot, I had
arranged to give three cheers with all our men, in English style,
in honor of the discovery ; but now that I looked down upon the
great inland sea, lying nestled in the very heart of Africa, and
thought how vainly mankind had sought these sources throughout
so many ages, and reflected that I had been the' humble instru-
ment permitted to unravel this portion of the great mystery, when
so many greater than I had failed, I felt too serious to vent my
feelings in vain cheers for victory, and I sincerely thanked God
for ly|vin.g guided and supported us through all the dangers to the
goo<I*end. I was about fifteen hundred feet above the lake, and
as I looked down from the steep granite cliff upon those welcome
waters — upon that vast reservoir which nourished Egypt, and
brought fertility where all was wilderness — upon that great source
so long hidden from mankind, thnt source of bounty and of
blessings to millions of human beings, and as one of the greatest
objects in nature.. I determined to honor it with a great name.
As -^n imperishable memorial of one loved and mourned by our
gracious Queen, and deplored by every Erglishman, I called this
great lake " The Albert N'yanza." The Victoria and the Albert
Inkes arc the two sources of the Nile.

The zigzag path to descend to the lake was so steep and

UKSCOVEKY OF TUE ALUERT N YANZA.

»i

dangerous thafc we were forced to leave our oxen with a guide,
wlio was to take them to Magungo and wait for our arrival. We|
corurnonced the descent of the steep pass oq foot. I led the way,
grasping a stout bamboo. My wife, in extreme weakness, tottered 1
down the pass, supporting herself upon my shoulder, and stopping
to rest every twenty paces. After a toilsome descent, weak with I
years of fever, but for the moment strengthened by success, wo I
gained the level plain below the cliff. A. walk of about a mile
through flat sandy meadows of fine turt interspersed with trees I
and bush, brought us to the water's edge. The waves were roll-
ing upon, a white pebbly beach ; I rushed into the lake, and
thirsty with heat and fatigue, with a heart full of gratitude, I
drank deeply from the sources of the Nile. Within a quarter of
a mile of the lake was a fishing village named Vacovia, in. which
we now established ourselves. Everything smelt of fish, and
everything looked like fishing ; not the " gentle art " of England,
with rod and fly ; but harpoons were leaning against the huts, and
lines almost as thick as the little finger were hanging up to dry^
to which wei-e attached iron hooks of a size that said much for
the monsters of the Albert lake. On entering the hut I found a
prodigious quantity of tackle ; the lines were beautifully made of
the fibre of the plantain stem, and were exceedingly elastic, and
well adapted to withstand the first rush of a heavy fish ; the
hooks were very coarse, but well barbed, and varied in size from
two to six inches. A number of harpoons and floats for hippo-
potami were arranged in good order, and the tout eiisenihle of the
hut showed that the owner was a sportsman.

The harpoons for hippopotami were precisely the same pattern
as those used by the Hamran Arabs on the Taka frontier of
Abyssinia, having a narrow blade of three-quarters of an infeh in
width, with only one barb. The rope fitted to the harpoon was
beautifully made of plantain fibre, and the float was a huge piece
of ambatch-wood, about fifteen inches in diameter. They speared
the hippopotamus from canoes, and those large floats were neces-
sary to be easily distinguished in the rough waters of the lake.

My men were perfectly astounded at the appearance of the lake.
The journey had been so long, and " hope deferred " had so com-
pletely sickened their hearts, that they had long since disbelieved
in the existence of the lake, and they were persuaded that I was
leading them to the sea. They now looked on the lake with as-
tonishment. Two of them had already seen the sea at Alexandria,
and they unhesitatingly declared that this was the sea, but that
it was not salt, - Sib S. W. Baker.

HAHYF.ON.

BABYLON.

Secular history ascribes the origin of Babylon to Belus, (j.e.,
the god Baal,) and its enlargement and decoration to Ninus, or
his wife Semiraniis ; or, according to another tradition, the coun-
try was subdued by Ninus, and the city was subsequently built
by Semimmis, who made it the capital of the Assyrian empire.
At all events it is pretty clear that Babylon was subject, to the
ssyrian kings T Nineveh from a very early period ; and the
time at which the governors of Babylon first succeeded in making
themselves virtually independent, cannot be determined with any
certainty until we know more of the history of" the Assyrian
dynasties. The Babylonian empire begins with the reign of
Nabopolassar, the father of Nebuchadnezzar, who, with the aid
of the Median king Cyaxares, overthrew the Assyrian monarchy,
and destroyed Nineveh, (n.c. ()0(),) and soon afterwards defended
his kingdom against the aggressions of Necho, king of Egypt, in
the battle of Circesium, (b.c. 004.) Under his son and successor,
Nebuchadnezzar, (b.c. 004-502,) the Babylonian empire reached
its height, and extended from the Euphrates to Egypt, and from
the mountains of Armenia to the deserts of Arabia, After his
death it again declined, until it was overthrown by the capture
of Babylon by the Modes and Persians under Cyrus, (b.c. 538,)
who made the city one of the capitals of the Persian empire, the
others being Susa and Ecbatana. Under his successors the city
rapidly sank. Darius I. dismantled its fortifications, in conse-
quence of a revolt of its inhabitants ; Xerxes carried off the
golden statu' of Belus, and the temple in which it stood became
a ruin. After the death of Alexander, Babylon became a part of
the Syrian kingdom of Seleucus Nicator, who contributed to its
decline by the foundation of Seleucia on the Tigris, which soon
eclipsed it. At the commencement of our era, the greater part of
the city was in ruins; and at the present day all its visible
remains consist of mounds of earth, ruined masses of brick walls,
and arfew scattered fragments. Its very site* has been turned
into a dreary marsh by repeated inundations from the river.

The city of Babylon had reached the summit of its magnificence
in the reign of Nebuchadnezzar. It formed a square, each side of ,
which was one hundred and twenty stadia (twelve geographical
miles) in length. The walls, of burnt brick, were two hundred
cubits high and fifty thick; in thorn were two hundred and
Hfty towers and sixty bronze gates, and they were surrounded
by (I deep ditch. The Euphrates, which divided the city

UKIiSllAZZAK.

v'i

Mil I

into two equal parts, was embanked with walls of bricks, the
openings of which, at the ends of the transverse sti'eets, were
closed by gates of bronze. A bridge, built on piers of hewn
stcne, united tlie two quarters of the city ; and at each end of it
stood a royal palace ; — these erections were ascribed to Semiramis.
Of two other public buildings of the greatest celebrity, the one
was the temple of Jielns, rising to a great height, and consisting
of eight stories gradually diminishing in width, and ascended by
a jBight of steps, which wound round the whole building on the^
outside ; in the uppermost story was a golden statue of Belus,
with a golden altar and other treasures ; — this building was also
ascribed to Semiramis. The other edifice referred to was the
"hanging gardens" of Nebuchadnezzar, laid out upon terraces
which were raised above one another on arches. The houses of
the city were three or four stories in height, and the streets were
straight, intersecting one another at right angles. The bnildingi}
were almost universally constructed of bricks, some burnt and
some only sun-dried, cemented together with hot bitumen, and in
some cases with mortar.

— Smith's "Classical Dictionary.**

BELSHAZZAR.

[The Hall of Banquet, with the Fiery Letters on the Wall.']

Arioc.h. Hath the king spoken ? "

Saharic. Not a word : as now,

He hath sate, with eyes that strove to be familiar
With those red characters of fire; but still
The agony of terror hath not passed
From his chili frame. But if a word, a step,
A motion, from these multitudes reclined
Down each long festal board — the bursting string
Of some shrill instrument — or even the wind
Whispering amid the plumes and shaking lamps,
Disturb him — by some mute imperious gesture,
Or by his brow's stern anger, he commands
All the vast halls to silence.

Arioch. Peace ! he hears

Our murmured speech.

Saharis. No.

Arlovlh. Did ye not observe him

When kis hand tell upon the all-ruling sceptre —

l<€4,}«flAZZAK.

The bitter and sclf-mocking laugh that passed
O'er his pale cheek ?

Sabaris, Hia lips move, hut he speaks not!

AH still again

Arior.h. They arc here — the priests and seers,

Their snowy jijarnients sweep the hall.

Sabaris. Behold !

He motions them to advance and to retreat
At once, and pants, yet shudders, to demand
Their answer.

Bebhazzar. Oh ! CliAldea's worshipped sagen,
Oh! men ot* wisdom, that have passed your years —
Your long and quiet solitary years —
In tracing the dim sources of the events
That agitate this world of man— oh ! ye
That in the tongues of every clime discourse ;
Ye that hold converse with the eternnl stars,
And in their calm prophetic courses read
The destinies of empires ; ye whose dreams
Are thronged with the predestined images
Of things that are to be; to whom the Fates
Unfold their secret counsels; to whoso sight
The darkness of futurity withdraws.
And one vast present fills all time — behold
Yon burning characters I and read, and say
Why the dark Destinies have hung their sentence
Thus visible to the sight, but to the mind
Unsearchable ! Ye have heard the rich reward ;
And I but wait to see whoso neck shall wear

The chain of glory '

' Ha ! each pale, fiiUen lip

Voiceless ! and each upon the other turns
His wan and questioning looks. Kalassan ! thou
Art like the rest, and gazest on thy fellows
In blank and sullen ignorance. Spurn them forth !
Ye wise ! ye learned !* ye with Fate's mysteries
Intrusted ! Spurn, I say, and trample on them !
Let them be outcast to the scorn of slaves !
Let children pluck their beards, and every voice
Hoot at them as they pass !

Despair! despair!
This is thy palace now ! No throne^ no couch
Beseems the king whoso doom is on his walls
Emblazed — yet whose vast empire finds not one
Whose faithful love can show its mystic import !
Low in the dust, upon the pavement stone,
Belshazzar takes his rest, ! Ye host of slaves.
Behold your king ! the lord of Babylon !

i'l

14 MKLSIIAZ/AR.

Spoak not— for he thai Hpcnks in other words
'liian to cxpoutul those fiery charivctors
Hhall ne'er speak more !

N'^otris [entering.] As tho»> didst give command,
My ho.., I'm here to see the all-glorious feast
That shames the earth, and copes with heaven.

Great po-verp!
Ls't thusP Oh ! look not with that mute reproach,
More terrible than anger, on thy mother !
Oh, pardon my rash taunts ! —my Kon ! my son !
Thou art but now the beauteous smiling cnild
That from my bosom drank the flowing life;
By whom I've passed so many sleepless nights
In deeper joy than slumber c er could give !
The sole refreshment of my weary spirit
To gaze on thee! — Alas, 'twas all my crime;—
1 g.ave to thy young lips the mantling cup
of luxury and pride ; I taught thee first
That the wide earth was made for thee, and man
Born foi thy uses !

Bfihhazzar. Find me who will read it.

And thou wilt give me then a life more precious
Than that I once received of thee.

Nifocris. 'Twashe! —

I saw him as I passed along the courts —
The Hebrew that, when visions of the night
Shook the imperial soul of Nabonassar,
Like one to whom the dimly-peopled realms
Of sleep were clear as the bright noontide heavens,
Spake

Belshazzar. With the speed oflightiiingcj^l him hither.
No more, my mother— till he comes, no more.

Ariock. King of the world, he's here.

Belshazzar Not yet ! not yet !

Delay him ! hold him back ! — My soul 's not strung
To the dire knowledge.

Up the voiceless hall
He moves ; nor doth the white and ashen fear
That paints all faces change one line of his.
Audacious slave ! walks he erect and firm
When kings are grovelling on the earth P Give place !
Why do ye crowd aiound nim P Back ! I say.
Is your king heard — or hath he ceased to rule P

l^Hocrh. Alas, my son, fear levels kings and slaves.

Belshazzar. Art tliou that Daniel of the Hebrew race
In whom the excellence of wisdom dwells
As in the gods? I have heard thy fame ;- -behold
Yon mystic letters flaming on the waill,

bELSHAZZAK.

Tliut, in the diirkncHs oF their fateful impurt,
Baffle the wisest of Chaldea's Hages !
Head and interpret, and the satrap robe
Of scarlet .shall invest thy limbs — the qhain
Of gold adorn thy neck — and all the world
Own thee third ruler of Chaldea's realm !

Danif'l. Bclshazzar, be thy gift.^ unto thyself,
And thy rewards to others. 1, the servant
Of God, will read God's writing to the king.
The Lord of hosts to thy great ancestor.
To Nabonassar, gave th(» all-ruling sceptre
O'er all the nations, kingdoms, languages;
Lord paramount of life and death, ne slow
Where'er he willed; and where he willed, nion lived ;
His word exalted, and his word debased;
And so his heart swelled up; and, in its pride,
Arose to heaven ! But then the lord of earth
Became an outcast from the sons of men —
Companion of the browsing beasts! the dews
Of night fell cold upon his crownless brow.
And the wild asses of the desert fed
Kound their unenvied peer ! And so he knew
That God is sovereign o'er earth's sceptred lords.
But thou, his son, unwarned, untaught, untamed,
Belshazzar, hast arisen against the Lord,
And in the vessels of His house hast quaffed
Profane libations, 'mid thy slaves and women.
To gods of gold, and stone, and wood, and laughed
The King of kings, the God of gods, to scorn.
Now hear the words, and hoar their secret meaning—
"Numbered! "twice "Numbered! Weighed! Divided!" King,
Thy reign is numbered, and thyself art weighed.
And wanting in the balance, and thy realm
Severed, and to conquering Persian given !

Arioch. What vengeance will he wreak ? Thepit of lions-
The stake

Belshazzar. Go — lead the Hebrew forth arrayed
In the proud robe. Let all the city hail •

The honored of Belshazzar. Oh, not long
Will that imperial name command your awe!
And oh ! ye bright and festal halls, whose vaults
Were full of sweet sounds as the summer groves,
Must ye be changed for chambers where no tone
Of music sounds, nor melody of harp.
Or lute, or woman's melting voice ! — My mother ! —
And how shall we two meet the coming ruin ?
With arms, thou sa^^cst; but with what arms to front
The Invisible, that in the silent air

'iM >
I

i
I

■Hi
Hi

,(;

16 PHUCNICIAN -ItflllUFACTURES ANO COMMEHCE.

Wars on us? Shall wo seuk some place of silence,
Where the cold cypress shades our fathers' tombs,
And grow familiar with the abode of Death ?

And yet how calm, how fragrant, how serene
The night ! When empires fall, and Fate thrusts down
The monarchs from their ancient thrones, 'tis said
The red stars meet, with ominous, hostile fires;
And the dark vault, of heaven flames all across
With meteors, and tbo conscious earth is rocked,
And foaming rivers burst their shores ! But now,
Save in my soul, there is no prescient dread ;
Nought but my fear-struck brow is dark and sad ;
All sleeps in moonlight silence ! Ye can wave,
O happy gardens! in the cool night airs,
Your playful branches ; ye can rise to heaven,
And glitter, my unconscious palace-towers;
No gliding hand, no prophet's voice, to you
Hath rent the veil that hides the awful future !
Well, we'll go rest once more on kingly couches.
My mother; and we'll wake and feel that earth
Still trembles at our nod, and see the slaves
Reading their fate in our imperial looks!
And then — and then— ye gods, that 1 had still
Nought but my shuddering and distracting fears !
That those dread letters might resume once more
Their dark and unintelligible brightness ;
Or that were o'er, and I and Babylon
Were what a few short days and hours will make us.

— MiLMAN.

j! PHCENICIAN MANUFACTURES AND COMMERCE.

I ! The textile fabrics of the Sidonians, and the purple cloths of

I i the Tyrians, were celebrated from the earliest antiquity.

i j The Tyrian purple was not a single color, but was a generic

! ' name for all the shades of purple and ycarlet. The dye was ob-

' I tained from a sbell-fish found in great abundance on the shores

i ! of the Mediterranean. Vegetable dyes of great beauty and

variety were also used ; the dyeing was always performed in the
raw materials ; and the Phoenicians alone understood the art of
producing shot colors by using threads of different tints. Glass
was very anciently manufactured both at Sidon and Sarepta ;
j( tradition, indeed, ascribes the invention of glass to rlie Phoeni-

i^ cians ; but the Egyptians seem to have a claim at least as good

PIKKNICIAN 3IANlftACT0kES AND (O.M.MEKCE.

o tlio discovery. Carving in wood and ivory, manufactures of
ewellory and toys, complete ^11 that has been recorded of the
redacts of Tyrian industry ; and it seems probable that their
ommerce consisted more in the interchange of tbreign com-
odities than in the export of their own wrought goods.
The land-trade of the Phoenicians may be divided into three
reat branches — the Arabian, which included the Egyptian and
hat with the Indian seas ; the Babylonian, to which is referred
he commerce with Central Asia and North India; and the
rmenian, including the overland trade with Scythia and the
aucasian countries.

But the Mediterranean Sea was the great highroad of Phoe-
ician commerce. It probably commenced with piracy ; for in
he infancy of Grecian civilization we find frequent mention of
the kidanpping practised by corsairs from Tyre and Sidon. But
when Greece advanced in power, and Athens and Corinth had
ifleets of their own, the Greeks became the rivals and political
nemies of the Phoenicians, purchasing from them only such
articles as could not be procured from their own colonies in Asia
Minor. Spain was the richest country of the ancient world in the
precious metals. The Phoenician colonies enslaved the natives,
and compelled them to work in the mines. These metallic pro-
ductions are enumerated by Ezekiel : " Tarshish [Tartessus, or
south-western Spain] was thy merchant by reason of the multi-
tude of all kind of riches ; with silver, iron, tin, and lead, they
traded in thy fairs." From Spain the Phoenicians entered the
Atlantic Ocean, and proceeded to the south of the British Islands,
where they procured the tin of Cornwall ; and probably to the coasts
of Prussia for amber, which in the ancient world was deemed
more precious than gold. In the eastern seas, the Phoenicians
had establishments on the Arabian and Persian Gulfs, whence they
traded with the coasts of India and Africa, and the island of
Ceylon. During the reign of Pharaoh-Necho, king of Egypt,
they discovered the passage round the Cape of Good Hope ; but
this led to no important results, on account of the calamities that
Tyre endured from the invasion of Nebuchadnezzar. Thoufjh
their voyages did not equal in daring those of modem times, yet,
when we consider that they were ignorant of the mariner's com-
pass, and of the art of taking accurate astronomical observations,
it is wonderful to reflect on the commercial enterprise of a people
whose ships were to be seen in the harbors of Britain and
Ceylon. — W. C. Tayloii.

ON llir-: PLEASURES OF SCIKXCJE.

ON THE PLEASURES OF SCIENCE.

!!■

!!
'Ij.l

! \l

To pass our time in the study of the sciences has, in all ages,
been reckoned one of the most dignified and happy of human
occupations, and the name of philosopher, or lover of wisdom, is
given to those who lead such a life. But it is by no means
necessary that a man should do nothing else than study known
truths, and explore new, in order to earn this high title. Some
of the greatest philosophers, in all ages, have been engaged in
the pursuits of active life ; and he who, in whatever station his
lot may bo cast, prefers the refined and elevating pleasures of
knowledge to the low gratification of the senses, richly ('eserves
the name of a philosopher.

It is easy to show that there is a positive gratification resulting
from the study of the sciences. If it be a pleasure to gratify
curiosity — to know what we were ignorant of — to have our feel-
ings of wonder called forth, how pure a delight of this very kind
does natural science hold out to its students ! Recollect some of
the extraordinary discoveries of mechanical philosophy. Ts there
anything, in all the idle books of tales and horrors with which
youthful readers are so much delighted, more truly astonishing,
than the fact, that a few pounds of water may, without any
machinery, produce an irresistible force ? What can be more
strange, than that an ounce weight should balance hundreds of
pounds by the intervention of a few bars of thin iron? — Observe
the extraordinary truths which optical science discloses ! Can
anything surpri^je us more, than to find that the color of white
is a mixture of all others ; that red, and blue, and green, and all
the rest, merely by being blended in certain proportions, form
what we had fancied rather to be no color at all than all colors
together ? Chemistry is not behind in its wonders. That the
diamond should bo made of the same material with coal ; that
water should be chiefly composed of an inflammable substance ;
that acids should bo almost all formed of different kinds of air,
and that one of those acids, whose strength can dissolve almost
any of the metals, should bo made of the self-same ingredients
with the common air we breathe, — these surely are things to ex-
cite the wonder of any reflecting mind, nay, of any one but little
accustomed to reflect. And yet these are trifling when compared
with the prodigies which astronomy opens to our view ; the enor-
mous masses of the heavenly bodies ; their immense distances ;

ON rriF pr.FAscRES of science.

all nges,
af human
/isdom, is
no means
\j known
o. Some
I gaged in
ation his
asnres of

(k'serves

vesultins:
:o gratify
our feel-
verj kind
t some of
Is there
iih "which
onishing,
bout any
be more
idreds of
-Observe
es ! Can
of white
n, and all
ms, form
all colors
That the
oal ; that
ibstance ;
[3s of air,
^e almost
gredients
gs to cx-
bnt little
compared
the enor-
istances ;

thcii' countless numbers, and their motions, whoso swiftiu-;;
mocks the uttermost efforts of the imagination.

Akin to this pleasure of contemplating new and extraordinary
truths, is the gratification of a more learned curiosity, by tracing
rosemblances and relations between things which, to common
apprehension, seem widely different. It is surely a satisfaction,
for instance, to know that the same thing which onuses the sen-
sation of heat causes also fluidity ; that electricity, the light which
is seen on the back of a cat when slightly rubbed on a frosty
evening, is the very same matter with the lightning of th(>
clouds; that plants breathe fikc ourselves, but differently by
day and by night; that the air which burns in our lamps enables
a balloon to mount. Nothing can at first sight appear less like,
or less likely to be caused by the same thing, than the processes
of burning and of breathing, — the rust on metals and burning, —
the influence of a plant on the air it grows in by night, and ol
an animal on the same air at any time, nay, and of a body burn-
ing in that air ; and yet all these operations, so unlike to common
(yes, when examined by the light of science, are the same.
Nothing can be less like than the working of a vast steam-engine
and the crawling of a fly upon the window ; yet we find that
these two operations are perfo-med by the same means — thi?
'veight of the atmosphere ; and that a sea-horse climbs the ico
hills by no other power. Can anytliing be more strange to con-
template? Is there, in all the fairy tales that ever were fancu'd,
anything more calculated to arrest the attention, and to occupy
and gratify the mind, than this most unexpected resemblance be-
tween things so unlike to the eyes of ordinary beholders ? Then,
it we raise our views to the structure of the heavens, we are again
gratified with tracing accurate but most unexpected resemblances.
Is it not in the highest degree interesting to find, that the power
which keeps the' earth in its shape and in its path, wheeling
round the sun, extends over all the other worlds that compose
the universe, and gives to each its proper place and motion ; that
the same power keeps the moon in her path round the earth ;
that the same power causes the tides upon our earth, and the
peculiar form of the earth itself; and that, after all, it is the
same power which makes a stone fall to the ground ? To learn
ilioso things, and to reflect upon them, fills the mind, and pro-
ducers certain as well as pure gratification.

The hlghi'st of all our gratifications in the study of science re-
mains. We are raised l)y science to an understanding of the

nib; SLA.

iiifinitu wisdotii and goodness which the Creator has displayed in
all His works. Not a step can we take in any direction without
perceiving the most extraordinary traces of design ; and the skill
everywh re conspicuous is calculated in so vast a proportion of
instances to promote the happiness of living creatures, and
especially of ourselves, that we can feel no hesitation in conclud-
ing, that if we knew the whole scheme of Providence, every part
would appear to be in harmony with a plan of absolute benevo-
lence. Independently, however, of this most consoling inference,
the delight is inexpressible, of being able to follow, f^' it were,
with our eyes, the marvellous wArks of the great Architect of
nature, and to trace the unbounded power and exquisite skill
which are exhibited in the most minute as well as in the mightiest
parts of His system. — Brougham.

■r.

!
ir

i:'

. .;

THE SEA.

"The sea is His, and He made it," cries the Psalmist of Israel, in
one of those bursts of enthusiasm in which he so often expres-ses
the whole of a vast subject by a few simple words. Whose else,
indeed, could it be, and by whom else could it have been made ?
Who else can heave its tides and appoint its bounds ? Who else
can urge its mighty waves to madness with the breath and wings
of the tempest, and then speak to it again in a master's accents,
and bid it be still ? Who else could have peopled it with count-
less inhabitants, and tilled it from its deepest bed to its expanded
surface, filled it from its centre to its remotest shores, filled it to
the brim with beauty and mystery and power ? Majestic ocean !
Glorious sea ! No created being rules thee or made thee.

There is mystery in the sea. There is mystery in its depths.
Tt is unfathouied, and perhaps unfathomable. What glittering
riches, what heaps of gold, what stores of gems, there must be
scattered in lavish profusion in the ocean's lowest bed ! What
spoils from all climates, what works of art from all lands, have
been ingulfed by the insatiable and reckless waves ! Who shall
iro down to examine and reclaim this uncounted and idle wealth ?
Who bears the keys of the deep ? Who but He to whom the
wildest waves listen reverently, and to whom all nature bows ;
He who shall one day speak, and be heard in the ocean's pro-
foundest caves ; to whom the deep, even the lowest deep, shall
give uf .tH dead, when the sun shall sicken, and the earth and

mmt L t H ' A ' im, ..s i .-!m.~'*.^

'•^m'VM^;i.,ii^\%aHum»ua tm

THF SFA.

played iu
1 without
I the skill
3ortion of
ires, and

conclud-
v^ery part
'■ beuevo-
nferenco,

it were,
ihitect of
site skill
mightiest

UGHAM.

Lsrael, in
xpresses
lose else,
1 made ?
Vho else

wings
accents,

count-
cpanded
ed it to
5 ocean !

depths,
ittering
lust be
What
s, have
lo shall
^'ealth ?
otti the

bows ;

's pro-
), shall
th and

[ho isles shall languish, and the heavens be rolled together like a
scroll, and there shall be no more sea !

In early times, in the scriptural and clasriic periods, the great
oceans were unknown. Mankind — at least that portion whose
history has descended to us — dwelt upon the borders of an inland,
mediterranean sea. They had never heard of such an expanse of
water as the Atlantic, and certainly had never seen it. The land-
locked sheet which lay spread out at their feet was at all times
full of mystery, and often even of dread and secret misgiving.
Those who ventured forth upon its bosom came home and told
marvellous tales of the sights they had seen, and the perils they
had endured. Homer's heroes returned to Ithaca with the music
of the sirens in their ears, and the cruelties of the giants upon
their lips. The Argonauts saw whirling rocks implanted in the
sea, to warn and repel the approaching navigator ; and, as if the
mystery of the waters had tinged with fable even the dry land
beyond it, they filled the Caucasus with wild stories of enchan-
tresses, of bulls that breathed fire, and of a race of men that
sprang, like a ripened harvest, from the prolific soil. If the
ancients were ignorant of the shape of the earth, it was for
the very reason that they were ignorant of the ocean. Their
geographers and philosophers, whose observations were confined
to fragments of Europe, Asia, and Africa, alternately made the
world a cylinder, a flat surface begirt by water-, a drum, a boat,
a disk. The legends that sprang from these confused and con-
tradictory notions made the land a scene of marvels, and the
water an abode of terrors.

At a later period, when, with the progress of time, the love of
adventure or the needs of commerce had drawn the navigator
frooa the Mediterranean through the Pillars of Hercules into the
Atlantic, and when some conception of the immensity of the
waters had forced itself upon minds dwarfed by the contracted
limits of the inland sea, then the ocean became in good earnest a
receptacle of gloomy and appalling horrors, and the marvels nar-
rated by those fortunate enough to return, told how deeply the
imagination had been stirreci by the new scenes opened to their
vision. Pytheas, who coasted from Marseilles to the Shetland
Isles, and who there obtained a glance at the bleak and wintry
desolation of the North Sea, declared, on reaching home, thai his
further progress was barred by an immense black mollusk, wl ich
hung suspended in thev air, and in which a ship would be i-iex-
tricably involved, and wl^ere ii<> man could breathe. The menaces

2J'J

THE SEA.

lil

!ii

of the South were even more appalling than the perils of the
North ; I'or he who should venture, it was said, across the equator
into the regions of the sun, would be changed into a negro for his
rashness ; besides, in the popular belief, the waters there were
not navigable. Upon the quaint charts of the Middle Ages, a
giant located upon the Canary Islands forbade all further venture
westward, by brandishing his iormidable club in the path of all
vessels coming from the east. Upon these singular maps, the
concealed and treacherous horrors of the deep were displayed in-
the grotesque shapes of sea- monsters and distorted water- unicorns,
which were represented as careering through space and waylay-
ing the navigators. Even in the time of Columbus, and when
the introduction of the compass into European ships should have
somewhat diminished the fantastic terrors of the sea, we find that
the Arabians, the best geographers of the time, represented the
bony and gnarled hand of Satan as rising from the waves of the
sea of darkness — as the Atlantic was then called — ready to seize
and ingulf the presumptuous mariner. The sailors of Columbus,
on reaching the Sargasso Sea, where the collected weeds offered
an impediment to their progress, thought they had arrived at
the limit of navigation, and the end of the world. Five years
later the crew of Da G?ma, on doubling the Cape of Good Hope,
imagined they saw, in the threatening clouds that gathered about
Table Rock, the form of a spectre waving off their vessel, and
crying woe to all who should thus invade his dread dominion.
The Neptune of the classics, in short, who disported himself in
the narrow waters of the Mediterranean, and of whose wrath we
have read the famous my thologic accounts, was a deity altogether
bland and debonnaire compared to the gloomy and revengeful
monopolist of the seas, such as the historians and geographers of
the Middle Ages painted him.

And now Columbus had discovered the Western Continent, Da
Gama had found an ocean route to the Indies, and Magellan,
sailing round the world, had proved its sphericity, and approached
the Spice Islands from the east. For centuries now, the two
great oceans were the scenes of grand and useful maritime ex-
peditions. The tropical islands of the Pacific arose, one by one,
from the bosom of the sea, to reward the navigator, or relieve
the outcast. For years property was not safe upon the sea, and
trading ships went armed, while the armed vessels of nations
turned buccaneers. Commerce was by and by spread over the
world, and civilization and Christianity were introduced into the

THE FORGING UF THK ANCHOR.

'ils of the
le equator
^ro for his
ere were
) Ages, a
r venture
ath of all
naps, the
played in,
unicorns,
[ waylaj-
nd when
)uld have
find that
snted the
es of the
J to seize
^lumbus,
Is offered
•rived at
ve years
>d Hope,
ed about
5sel, and
)minion.
naself in
'^rath we
ogether
rengeful
phers of

lent, Da
agellan,
roach ed
he two
ime ex-
by one,
relieve
ea, and
nations
?^er the
iito the

desei't and the wilderness. Two centuries more, and steam made
the Atlantic Ocean a ferry transit.

The ocean, then, has a history ; it has a past worth narrating,
adventures worth telling, and it has played a part in the advance-
ment of science, in the extension of geographical k.^owledge, in
the spread of civilization and the progress of discovery' which it
is eminently worth our while to ponder and digest.

— Goodrich's The Sea.

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ; 'tis at a white heat now ;

The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's brow

The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound ;

And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round.

All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare :

Some rest upon their sledgeS here, some work the windlass there.

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below.

And red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe ;

It rises, roars, rends all outright — O Vulcan, what a glow !

'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright — the high sun shines not so !

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery, fearful show,

The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row

Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe.

As quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster, slow

Sinks on the anvil — all about the faces fiery grow.

" Hurrah! " they shout, "leap out — leap out," bang, bang the sledges go;

Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings ^re hissing high and low ;

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow,

The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strow

The ground around ; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow;

And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant "Ho !"

Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out and lay on load !

Let's forge a goodly anchor — a bower thick and broad ;

For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode,

And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road;

The low reef roaring on her lee — the roll of ocean pour'd

From stem to stern, sea after sea — the mainmast by the board;

The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains !

But courage still, brave mariners, the bower yet remains,

And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky high.

Then moves his head, as though he said, " Fear nothing, here am I ! "

Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time !

Your blows make music sweeter far than any sleeple's chime.

THK FOROJNG OF THE ANCHOR.

i t

\ 1

But, wliile yc swing yotii sledges, wing; and let the burden be,
"Tfie fuichoT" is the anvil king, jind royal craftsmen we."
Stiiku in, strike in, the sparks begin to dull their rustling red.
Uur hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped.
Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array,
Fora hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay ;
Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here,
For the " Yeo-heave-o," and the " Henve-away," and the sighing sea

man's cheer;
When weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and home,
And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wuil o'er the ocean foam.

In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last ;

A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast.

O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like mo,

Wliat pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea !

O deep-sea diver, who might then behold such sights as t hou P

The hoary monsters' palaces! methinks what joy 'twere now

To go plump plunging down amid the aesembly of the whales,

And feel the churn'd sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails!

Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn.

And send him foil'd and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn ;

To leave the subtle sworder-fish, of bony blade forlorn;

And for the ghastly grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to scorn;

To leap down on the kar ken's back, where, 'mid Norwegian isles.

Me lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallow'd miles;

'i'ill snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls,

Meanwhile to swing, a-bnffeting the far astonish'd shoals

Of his back-browsing ocean-c^alves ; or haply in a cove,

Shell strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love,

To find the long-hair'd mermaidens ; or, hard by icy lands,

To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands.

O broad-arm'd fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine P
The Dolphin, weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line;
And night by night, 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,
Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play,
But, shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name 1 gave,
A fisher's joy is to destroy — thine office is to save.

O lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand
Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band.
Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend,
With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient friend —
Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee.
Thine iron side would swell with pride, thou 'dst leap within the seai

Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand.
To shed their blood so freely (or the love of fatherland —

THE BATTLE OF MARATHON

?ii be,

J red.
)e sped.

Who left their chaiiroof (|uiet age and grassy chnrrh3'iird grave
So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave
<^b, though our anchor may not be all 1 have fondly sung,
Honor him for their memory whose bones he goes among !

— SamuklFekguson.

d home,
m.

reeu sea !

uuP

les,

ging tails!

3rn ;

orn;
isles,

aeP

band,
id,

triend —
nd thee,
ihe sear

THE BATTLE OF MARATHON.
■ (B.C. 490.)

To the left of the Athenian» whs a low chain of hills, clothed
with trees : to their right, a torrent. Their front was long ; for
to render it more imposing in extent, and to prevent being out-
flanked by the Persian numbers, the centre ranks were left weak
and shallow, but on either wing the troops were drawn up more
solidly and strong. Callimacbus commanded the right wing ;
the Plataeans formed the left ; the whole was commanded by
Miltiades. They had few, if any, horsemen or archers.

The details which we possess of their arms and military array,
if not in this, in other engagements of the same period, will com-
plete the picture. We may behold them clad in bright armor,
of good proof and well- tempered, which covered breast and back;
the greaves, so often mentioned by Homer, were still retained ;
their helmets were wrought* and crested, the cones mostly painted
in glowing colors, and the plumage of feathers, or horse-hair,
rich and waving in proportion to the rank of the wearer. Broad,
sturdy, and richly ornamented were their bucklers, the pride and
darling of their arms, the loss of which was the loss of honor.
Their spears were ponderous, thick, and long, (a chief mark of
contradistinction from the light shaft of Persia,) and, with their
short broadsword, constituted their main weapons.

No Greek army marched to battle without vows and sacrifice
and prayer, and now, in the stillness of the pause, the divine
rites were solemnized. Loud broke the trumpets ; the standards,
wrought with the sacred bird of Athens, were raised on hiL'h : it
was the signal of battle, and the Athenians rushed with an im-
petuous vehemence upon the Persian power. " They were the
first Greeks of whom I have heard," says the historian, "who
ever ran to attack a foe ; the first, too, who ever beheld without
dismay the garb and armor of the Medes ; for, hitherto in
Greece, the very name of Mede had excited terror."

When the Persian army, with its numerous horse, (animals as

Si'

THE BATTLE OF MARATHON.

■ !|t

well as men protected by coats oi" mail,) its expert boA^meii, itH
linen and deep files of turbaned soldiei-s, gorgeous with manj a
blazing standard, headed by leaders well hardened, despite their
gay garbs and adorned breastplates, in many a more even field ;
when, I say, this force beheld the Athenians rushing towards
them, they considered them, thus few and destitute alike of
cavalry and archers, as madmen hurrying to destruction. But it
was evidently not without deliberate calculation that Miltiades
had so commenced the attack. The warlike experience of his
guerilla life had taught him to know the foe against whom he
fought. To volunteer the assault, was to forestall and cripple
the charge of the Persian horse ; besides, the long lances, the
heavy arms, the hand to hand valor of the Greeks, mlist have
been no light encounter to the more weakly mailed and less for-
midably armed infantry of the east. Accustomed themselves to
give the charge, it was a novelty ar'd a disadvantage to receive it.

Long, fierce, and stubborn was the battle. The centre wing of
the barbarians, composed of the Sacians and the pure Persian
race, at length pressed hard upon the shallow centre of the
Greeks, drove them back into the country, and, eager with pur-
suit, left their own wings to the charge of Callimachus on the
one side, and the Plataean forces on the other. The brave Calli-
machus, after the most signal feats of valor, fell fighting in the
field ; but his troops, undismayed, smote on with spear and
sword.

The barbarians retreated backward to the sea, where swamps
and marshes encumbered their movements ; and hero, though the
Athenians did not pursue them far, the greater portion were
slain, hemmed in by the morasses, and probably ridden down by
their own disordered cavalry. Meanwhile, the two tribes that
had formed the centre, one of which was commanded by Aristides,
retrieved themselves with a mighty effort ; and the two wings
having routed their antagonists, now in closing toward each other,
intercepted the barbarian centre ; which, thus attacked in front
and rear, was defeated with prodigious slaughter.

Evening came on : confused and disorderly, the Persians now
only thought of flight ; the whole army retired to their ships,
hard chased by the Grecian victors, who, amid the carnage, fired
the fleet. Cyneegirus, brother to ^schylus the tragic poet, (him-
self highly distinguished for his feats that day,) seized one of the
vessels by the poop : his hand was severed by an axe : he died
gloriously of his wounds. But to none did the fortunes of that

l>KAril Ob' I.KON'IDAS.

ith many a
ispite their
even field;
g towards
e alike of
n. But it

-MiJtiades
ice of his

whom he
id cripple
mces, the
oust have
i less for-
Qselves to
receive it.

wing of
3 Persian
'e of the
nth pur-
s on the
\vc CalJi-
ig* in the
ear and

swamps
>ugh the
)n were
lown by
368 that
ristides,
wings

1 other,
in front

as now
ships,
e, fired
1 (him-
of the
e died
3f that

Hold open a more illustrious career than to a youth of the tribe
of Leontes, in whom, though probably then but a simple soldier
iu the rauks, were first made manifest the nature and the genius
destined to command. The name of that youth was TiiEMis-

TOCLES.

Seven vessels were captured ; six thousand four hundred of the
barbarians foil on the field. The Athenians and their brave allies
lost only one hundred ; but among them perished many of their
bravest nobles. It was a superstition not uncharacteristic of that
imaginative people, and evincing how greatly their ardor was
aroused, that many of them fancied they beheld the gigantic
shade of their ancestral Theseus, comj)letely armed, and bearing
down before them upon the foe !

A picture of the battle, representing Miltiades in the foremost
place, and solemnly preserved iu public, was deemed no inade-
quate reward to that great captain ; and yet, conspicuous above
the level plain of Marathon rises a long barrow, fifteen feet in
height, the supposed sepulchre of the Athenian heroes. Still
does a romantic legend, not uiifamiliar with our traditions of the
North, give a supernatural terror to the spot. Nightly, along
the plains are yet heard by superstition the neighing of chargers
and the rushing shadows of spectral war. And still, throughout
the civilized world, (civilized how much by the art and lore of
Athens!) men of every clime, of every political persuasion, feel as
Greeks at the battle of Mamthon. Later fields have presented
the spectacle of an equal valor, and almost the same disparities
of slaughter ; but never, in the annals of the earth, were united
so closely in our applause, admiration for the heroism of the
victors, and sympathy for the holiness of their cause.

— BULWER.

DEATH OF LEONIDAS.

(B.C. 480.)

•

It was the wild midnight, — a storm was in the sky,
The lightning gave its light, and t.he thu ader echo'd by ;
The torrent swept the glen, the ocean lash'd the shore, —
Then rose the Spartan men, to make their bed in gore !

Swift from the deluged ground three hundred took the shield;

Then, silent, gathcr'd round the leader of the field.

He spoke no warrior- word, he bade no trumpet blow ;

But the signal thunder row'd, and they rush'd upon the foe.

:K. ■

!i.:

■(;

f>RAm OK LFONIOAS.

All by the .oiling tide, wa^ed 1^ "j Vr:i::7'^ ^"'"-
And King Leonirl. '""""^'•^ P»^'<^-

TU Jouble darkness feuP,^^' ^7''' ''«^'^"'"»'^ living l,..n,„l.

But there came a clash of steel and ^S^^''^'5^ '^ ^°^''' '

Anon, a trumpet ble^ and fi . ""' '^"« '^••^'^"•

'fhafc o'er the midnilh't thlt^^K '^'""^^ *'»»'st high
A host glared on the h,ll „T ^^'?^d-^^'d canop/ '

But the Greeks rush% onward' ffM^? ^/ '^' ^^^ ^

Tk • onward stilJ, like eopaids in ^k^- .

Then sat to the reott^f tt u '"•>' ''«neath the Dori, !L
That feast m„°tKei' Fa^r^^V'''''^^ brav^f ' ''""' =
Tbev pledged old Snaw • ''"' ""'' ''* "'«•■■• «>•"« '

aST/~1'''1™'« wSdtv"esT' ™"« '» »'rar„s"dWi„e.
And taught the languid -Me .^°™d:'SV "'/™'" "'-«'
But now the mornino. «, Freedom gave.

And the PeJan horn ofll?r'^F"''- '"ihght brow
Up rose the glorious rank"?: Gre."""' "'^«^" '° W" ™
Then, hand ,n hand, theydrank-" t„°T ""P P°'"-'d ^gh,
Peoio>,K-i„ V J-uranK To Immortality !" ^

With X^K^^^^^^^ like spHts from the tomb

But down swept all hE L "p! ' v.'^T ^^^ 'warriors com?
f:^ Pour'd L arro^rsKe^/^t ^itS^^^^^^
They march'd within .k . ''''''''" ^^^'S^-

To Greece one boWJ, ^ *^"*' ^^"^^ all their stren^f H .

—Croly.

THE FLIUUT <»l XEUXEh,

pale.

living l)..nii(l;j
nioan,

f gJ'oaii.

t-heir play.

ans camo

«pear ;

^ grave !

le,

di vine;
fom slave,
•ni gave.

igli,
omb,

le;

aarge,—
arge.

nsfcrung;
s flnnc :

sral

pyre.

THE FLIGHT OF XERXES.

(B.C. 480.)

I SAW liim on the battle cvo,

When like a king he boro him —
Proud hosts were there in holm and gioave,

And prouder chiefs before him :
The warrior, and the warrior's deeds—
The morrow, and the morrow's meeds —
No daunting thought came o'er him ;
He look'd around him, and his eye
Defiance tiash'd to earth and sky !

He look'd on ocean— its broad bnast

Was cover'd with his fleet ;
On earth — and saw, from east to west,

His banner'd millions meet;
While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast,
Shook with the war-cry of that host,

The thunder of their feet !
He heard the imperial echoes ring —
He heard — and felt himself a king !

I saw him next alone — nor camp

Nor chief his steps attended ;
Nor banner blazed, nor courser's tramp

With war-cries proudly blended.
He stood alone, whom fortune high
So lately seera'd to deify ;

He, who with Heaven contended,
Fled, like a fugitive and slave !
Behind — the foe ; before — the wave !

He stood ; — fleet, army, treasure — gone —

Alone, and in despair !
While wave and wind swept ruthless on,

For they were monarchs there ;
And Xerxes in a single bark,
Where late his thousand ships were dark,

Must all their fury dare ;
What a revenge — a trophy, this,
For thee, immortal Salamis !

•epiied I

■ •

men?

'ROLY.

-Miss JeWSBURY.

THE SCHOOLS OF ATHENS.

Athens, after her Persian triumphs, adopted the philosophy of
Ionia and the rhetoric of Sicily ; and these studies became the
patrimony of a city whose inhabitants, about thirty thousand
males, condensed within the period of a single life the genius of
ages and millions. Our sense of the dignity of human nature is
exalted by the simple recollection that Isocrates was the com-
panion of Plato and Xenophon ; that he assisted, perhaps with
the historian Thncydides, at the first representations of the "CEdi-
pns" of Sophocles and the '' Iphigenia" ot Euripides; and that
his pupils ^schines and Demosthenes contended for the crown
of patriotism in the presence of Aristotle, the master of Theo-
phrastus, who taught at Athens with the foanders of the Stoic
and Epicurean sects. The ingenuous youth of Attica enjoyed
the benefits of their domestic education, which was communicated
without envy to the rival cities. Two thousand disciples heard
the lessons of Theophrastus ; the schools of rhetoric muit have
been still more populous than those of pbilosophy ; and a rapid
succession of students diffused the fame of their teachers as far
as th ' utmost limits of the Grecian language and name. Those
limits were enlarged by the victories of Alexander; th') arts of
Athens survived her freedom and dominion ; and the Greek

%L.

THi: Si^IIOOLS OF ATHEN?

osophy of
came the
thouFaod
genius of
nature is
the corn-
aps with
e "(Edi-
and that
le crown
)f Tlieo-
he Stoic

enjoyed
Jnicated
3S heard
ist have

a rapid

'S as far

Those

arts of

Greek

colonies wliicli the Macedonians planted in Egypt, and scattered
over Asia, undertook long and fi'equent pilgrimages to worship
the Muses in* their favorite temple • on the banks of the Ilissus.
Tbe Latin conquerors respectfully listened to the instructions of
their subjects and captives ; the names of Cicero and Horace
were enrolled in the schools of Athens ; and after the perfect
settlement of the Roman empire, the natives of Italy, of Afri(A,
and of Britain, conversed in the groves of the Academy with their
fellow-students of the East. The studies of philosophy and elo-
quence are congenial to a popular state, which encourages the
freedom of inquiry, and submits only to the force of persuasion.
In the republics of Greece and Rome the art of speaking was the
powerful engine of patriotism or ambition ; and the schools of
rhetoric poured forth a colony of statesmen and legislators. When
the liberty of public debate was suppressed, t'le orator, in the
honomble profession of an advocate, might plead the cause of
innocence and justice ; he might abuse his talents in the more pro-
fitable trade of panegyric ; and the same precepts continued to
dictate the fanciful declamations of the sophist, and the chaster
beauties of historical composition. The systems which professed
to unfold the nature of God, of man, and of the universe, enter-
iained the curiosity of the philosophic student ; and, according to
the temper of his mind, he might doubt with the Sceptics, or de-
cide with the Stoics, sublimely speculate with Plato, or severely
argue v/ith Aristotle. The pride of the adverse sects had fixed
an unattainable term of moral happiness and perfection : but the
race was glorious and salutary ; the disciples of Zeno, and even
those of Epicurus, were taught both to act and to suffer ; and the
death of Petronius was not less effectual than that of Seneca to
humble a tyrant by the discovery of his impotence. The light of
science could not indeed be confined within the walls of Athens.
Her incomparable writers address themselves to the human race ;
the living masters emigrated to Italy and Asia ; Berytus, in lat^r
times, was devoted to the study of the law ; astronomy and
physic were cultivated in the museum of Alexandria; but the
Attic schools of rhetoric and philosophy maintained their superior
reputation from the Peloponnesian war to the reign of Justinian.
Athens, though situate in a barren soil, possessed a pure air, a
fr e navigation, and the monuments of ancient art. That sacred
retirement was seldom disturbed by the business of trade or
government ; and the last of the Athenians were distinguished
by their lively wit, the 'purity of their taste and language, thoir

THK INKLUKNCK AT ATHKNS.

bccial mannersTand some traces, at least in discouffce, of the
magnanimity of their fathers. In the subiu'bs of the city, the
Academy of the Platonist^j, the Lyceum of the PeripatetioB, the
Portico of the Stoics, and the Garden of the Epicureans, were
planted with trees and decorated with statues ; and the philo-
sophers, instead of being immured in a cloister, delivered their in-
Jl^ructions in spacious and pleasant walks, which, at different
hours, were consecrated to the exercises of the mind and body.
The genius of the founders still lived in those venerable seats;
the ambition of succeeding to the masters of human reason
excited a generous emulation; and the merit of the candidates
was determined, on each vacancy, by the free voices of an en-
lightened people. — Gibbon.

;i*-:

THE INFLUENCE OP ATHENS.

If we consider merely the subtlety of disquisition, the force ot
imagination, the perfect energy and elegance of expression,
which characterize the great works of Athenian genius, we must
pronounce them intrinsically most valuable. But what shall we
say when we reflect that from hence have sprung, directly or in-
directly, all the noblest creations of the human intellect ; that
from hence were the vast accomplishments and the brilliant fancy
of Cicero, the withering fire of Juvenal, the plastic imagination
of Dante, the humor of Cervantes, the comprehension of Bacon,
the wit of Butler, the supreme and universal excellence of Shake-
speare ?

All the triumphs of truth and genius over prejudice and power,
in every country and in every age, have be(r> ..o triumphs of
Athens. Wherever a few great minds have madu ^! stind against
violence and fraud, in the cause of liberty and reason, there has
been her spirit in the midst of them ; inspiring, encouraging,
consoling ; — by the lonely lamp of Erasmus, by the restless bed
of Pascal, in the tribune of Mirabeau, in the cell of Galileo, on
the scaffold of Sidney.

But who shall estimate her influence on private happiness ?
Who shall say how many thousands have been made wiser,
happier, and better, by those pursuits in which she has taught
mankind to engage ; to how many the studies which took their
rise from her have been wealth in poverty, liberty in bondage,
health in sickness, society in solitude ?

FKOM "oration ON THK CKOWN."

Her power is, indeed, manifested at the bar, in the senate, in
the field of battle, in the schools of philosophy. But these are
not her glory. Wherever literature consoles sorrow, or assuages
pain ; wherever it brings gladness to eyes which fail with wake-
fulness and tears, and ache for the dark house and the long sleep,
— there is exhibited, in its noblest form, the immortal influence
of Athens.

The dervise, in the Arabian tale, did not hesitate to abandon
to his comrade the camels with their loads of jewels and gold,
while he retained the casket of that mysterious juice which en-
abled him to behold at one glance all the hidden riches of the
universe. Surely it is no exaggeration to say that no external
advantage is to be compared with that purification of the intel-
lectual eye, which gives us to contemplate the infinite wealth of
the mental world, all the hoarded treasures of the primeval
dynasties, all the shapeless ore of its yet unexplored mines. This
is the gift of Athens to man.

Her freedom and her power have, for more than twenty cen-
turies, been annihilated ; her people have degenerated into timid
slaves ; her language, into a barbarous jargon ; her temples have
been given up to the successive depredations of Romans, Turks,
and Scotchmen ; but her intellectual empire is imperishable.

And, when those who have rivalled her greatness shall have
shared her fate ; when civilization and knowledge shall have fixed
their abode in distant continents ; when the sceptre shall have
passed away from England ; when, perhaps, travellers from dis-
tant regions shall in vain labor to decipher on some mouldering
pedestal the name of our proudest chief, shall hear savage hymns
chanted to some misshapen idol over the ruined dome of our
proudest temple, and shall see a single naked fisherman wash
his nets in the river of the ten thousand masts, — her influence
and her glory will still survive, fresh in eternal youth, exempt
from mutability and decay, immortal as the intellectual principle
from which they derived their origin, and over which they
exercise their control. — Macadlay.

FROM "ORATION ON THE CROWN."

If to you alone of all others, ^schines, the future had been
revealed at the time of our public delibei ations upon these
matters, you were bound to disclose it; if yon did not foresee it,
you were responsible for being as ignorant as the rest of us,

FKOM " ORATION ON THE CROWN."

How dare you, then, accuse me ou this score, any more than I am
to accuse you ? So much better a citizen was I than you in
those circumstances of which I am speaking, (and of others, for
the present, I say nothing,) that I devoted myself to what all
men deemed the best interests of the state, shrinking from no
personal danger, nor so nmch as throwing away a thought upon
it ; while you gave no better advice, (if you had, mine would not
have been followed,) nor did you lend your aid in executing
but whatever the meanest and most disaffected person

mine.

could do, that you are found throughout these transactions to
liave done. And thus, at one and the same time, Aristratus in
Naxos, and Aristolaus in Tliasus, the inveterate enemies of this
country, are condemning the friends of Athens, and at Athens
-^schincs is impeaching Demosthenes ! Yet ought that man,
whose renown lies in the misfortunes of Greece, rather to pen'sh
than accuse another ; and that maii cannot be a friend to hia
country whose purposes are served by the same events as benefit
her enemies. You prove this by all the life you lead, and all
the things you do, and all the measures yop ])!opound, and all
the measures you do not propound. Is there anything in agita-
tion for the interests of the country ? ^schines is mute. Does
anything go wrong, and disappoint expectations ? Forth comes
-^schines, as old fractures and sprains annoy us afresh the
moment the body is stricken -with disease.

But, since he dwells so much on tiio actual events, I will haz-
ard a somewhat bold assertion, and let not any one, I pray, be
staggered by its extravagance, but attend particularly to my
statement. If the events of futurity had been manifest to ali,
and if all had foreseen them, and you, ^schines, had foretold
them, and had bellowed out your protestations ever so vocifer-
ously, instead of never uttering a word — not even then ought
the country to have acted otherwise than she did, if she had any
regard either for her glory or her ancestry, or her posterity.
Now indeed she is supposed to have been frustrated in her pro-
ceedings, the lot of all mortals, if Providence so wills it ; but
then, had she, after aspiring to the foremost place among the
other states, abandoned the attempt, she would have borne the
blame of delivering them all over to Philip. For, if she had
given up without a struggle all that your forefathers encountered
tvery danger to win, who but would have spurned you, ^schines ?
Not the country indeed, not me. But whot eyes shonld we have
been able to lift up on any strangers coming to Athens, if things

tol

fH
cl

FROM "ORATION ON THR CROWN.

e tban I am
ban you in
E" others, for
to what all
ug from no
mght upon
? would not
i executing
ted person
sactions to
ristratus in
ies of this
at Athens

that man,
r to pencil
snd to bis

as benefit
d, and all
id, and all
? in agita-
ite. Does
>rth comes
^fresh the

will haz-
praj, be

J to my

st to ali,
foretold

vocifer-

en ought
had any

posterity.
her pro-
it ; but

nong the

»orne the
she had

Duntered

^chines ?

we have

if things

bad stood in their present posture, and Philip had been made
general and master over all, wliile others tban ourselves had
borne the brunt of resisting such a consummation — especially
when in past times this country never preferred inglorious ease
to the peril of illustrious deeds Y For which of the Greeks,
which of the barbarians is ignorant, that both from the Thebans
and from the Spartans, who bore sway before them, ay, and
from the Persian king himself, permission would thankfully and
cheerfully have been given to the country to take what she
chose, and to keep her own, provided she would only submit to
a master, and sufi'er some other state to head the Greeks H But
this was felt neither to be national nor bearable, nor natural to
Athenians ; nor could any one at any time persuade this country
to join powerful wrong-doers, and seek her own safety in slavery.
Struggling for supremacy, and power, and glory, and confronting
all hazards, she has lived through all ages of her history ! And
yourselves feel that this is noble and fitting your cnaracter, w^eu
you extol such conduct in your ancestors, justly. For which of
you is not astonished at the virtue of those men, who could
submit to leave this country and this city, and embark in their
ships rather than bow to a master — choosing Themistocles, the
adviser of the measure, for their commander ; stoning to death
Cyrsilus for recommending submission to tyranny, and not him-
self only, but your wives stoning his wife ? For the Athenians
of those days did not go in quest of an orator or a leader, through
whom they might enjoy a prosperous slavery; they would not
deign to live, if the life of liberty were denied thorn. Each of
them thought that he was born, not for bis father and his mother
only, but for his country. Wbat then ? He who looks upon
himself as only mnde for his parents, awaits his destined end in
the course of nature ; but be who feels that he is born for his
country too, will leather die than see her enslaved, and will account
the in/?ults and the disgrace which must needs await the citizens
of a conquered state, more frightful than death itself.

If, then, I should take upon me to affirm that it was I who
made you entertain sentiments worthy of your forefathers, there
lives not the man who could justly blame me. But I am now
demonstrating that those measures were your own, and showing
that the country bad adopted those principles before I did ;
while, however, I assort that in the execution of each design I
too had my share. But yEschincs, impeaching my whole con-
duct, and bidding you bold me cheap as the cause of the country';-;

,., •;.

THE NAIURAL SCIENCES.

alarms and perils, would fain strip me of the credit at this
moment, and thus deprive you of the glory ever after. For, if
you condemn Ctesiphon, on account of my policy having been
wrong, you will be proved to have yourselves done wrong, instead
of merely suflfering under the dispensations of fortune. But it
is not true ! It is not true that you have done wrong, men of
Athens, in fighting the battle of all Greece for her freedom and
salvation ! No. By your forefathers, who for that cause rushed
upon destruction at ]\farathon, and by those who stood in battle
array at Platsea, and those who fought the sea-fight at Salamis,
and by the warriors of Artemisium, and by all the others who
now repose in the sepulchres of the nation, — gallant men, and to
all of whom, ^schines, the state decreed a public funeral, deem-
ing that they too had earned such honors — not those only who
had combated fortunately, and had come oflf victorious — and with
strict justice ; for the duty of the brave had been done by all ;
bu£ what fortune Providence bestows on each, that they had
shared. — Demosthenes, translated by Lord Brougham.

THE NATURAL SCIENCES.

The term Geology, like most names of sciences, consists of two
Greek words, and means a discourse about the earth. Just as one
cordial friend cheerfully communicates information to another, so
will our good friend Geology, if we are really desirous to learn,
discourse pleasantly to us about the earth, and tell ns all that
man has hitherto discovered as to its character and history. It
is a mistake to suppose that this science has to do only with the
rock masses that occur within the earth ; everything upon our
globe that is unorganised^ or without life, whether land or water,
earth or rock, metals or fossils, coal or amber, volcanoes or
mineral springs, all belong to the science of Geology. You will
afterwards learn more fully what are the special objects of this
youngest of the natural sciences in its subdivisions of Physical
Geography, Mineralogy, and Geology proper.

Although we naturally imagine that man would early turn his
attention to the study of Geology, this is not the case. Long
before men thought of examining the crust of the earth, thoy had
made themselves familiar with the several objects composing the
beautiful mantle of verdure that nature has thrown over its other-

THE NATURAL SCIENCES.

dit at this
«!•. For, if
aving been
3ng, instead
lie. But it
ng, men of
'eedom and
luse rushed
)d in battle
it Salamis,
)thers who
len, and to
3ral, deem-
) only who
-and with
•ne by all ;
they had
ncgham.

ts of two

st as one

lother, so

to learn,

all that

tory. It

svith the

pon our

)r water,

moes or

^on will

of this

hysical

urn his
Long
•oy had
ing the
other-

wise bare and uninviting surface. Far away, in the Eastern
birthplace of our race, they saw

" The feathery palm-tree rise,
And the date grow ripe under sunny skies ; "

or the great banian, the fig-tree of India, sending down roots from
his giant branches, and, like a broad, living tent, spreading his
cool sha,de over a circumference of fifteen hundred feet. In more
western lands a different sight awaited them ; there they beheld
the orange groves of Italy, the chestnut forests of Spain, the vine-
clad hills of Portugal, the apple orchards of France, and the
linden avenues of Germany, with the English oaks, the Scotch
firs, and the Norway pines, that adorn the landscapes of these
northern countries. Crossing the ocean to the shores of this
great Western continent, covered with thick forests of maple and
birch, tamarack and balsam trees, what new objects of interest in
the plant world must have greeted them ! Then, when other
distant lands had been explored, and the productions of other
climes had been pressed into the service of men for the supply of
their luxuries, how interested must they have been in the tea and
coffee plants of China and Arabia, the cottom shrub of the East,
the scarlet geraniums of the Cape of Good Hope, the variegated
fuchsia of Mexico, and the vast variety of shrubs and flowersi that
please the eye and minister to the wants and enjoyments of man !
What a mine of wealth appeared to them in the great family of
the grasses, from the gigantic bamboo, sixty feet high, to the
delicate meadow grass, six inches in length ; and what objects of
wonder and admiration in the graceful fern, the velvety moss, the
dry lichen, tH? fleshy mushroom, and the floating seaweed ! But
the number of these objects of the vegetable world was too vast,
too overpowering, for the memory of man. No sooner had
he acquired the knowledge of some new plant than the old ones
vanished away ; and he put to himself the question, " How can
I remember all these objects, and distinguish them from one
another?" You have, no doubt, already guessed his answer to
this self-put question. It was — " By carefully examining the
form and structure of every plant ; by comparing them with each
other ; and, finally, by arranging them in groups or classes
according to their points of resemblance." And thus the science
of Botany was commenced.

Botany is a Greek word, and, in thdt language, simply means
a plant ; so that the science of Botany is the system of knowledge

THE NATURAL SCIENCES.

II'

about plants. What more simple, beautiful, and interesting study
could there be than that of Botany ? The materials for it are
all around us, in fields, and on the road-sides, in woods and gar-
dens ; even a vacant town-lot, overgrown with rank weeds, con-
tains sufficient variety to occupy and interest a botanist for whole
weeks and months. No country affords greater opportunities for
the study of this science than the one we live in ; and, among
civilized regions, there are very *ow in which the labors of the
botanist will be better rewarded by the discovery of unknown
plants, or of interesting particulars regarding those already
Icjiown.

Plants, however, were not the only, nor, perhaps, the first
natural objects that attracted the attention of man. If he were
an Egyptian, a worshipper of animals, his were the wary crocodile
and the sacred ibis of the muddy Nile. If a Greek, he had
no doubt heard the fierce laugh of the hyena in Asia Minor ; or
fished at Crete for the bee-eater, as the boys do at the present
day, with a locust flying from the end of his line ; or quarrelled
with a friend over the changing hues of the chameleon in Greece
or Sicily. If a Roman, he had seen, in the cruel games of the
amphitheatre, elephants, lions, and panthers slaughtered for the
amusement of the people. Whatever his country may havo been,
at whatever time he lived, whether an ancient patriarch or a
modern farmer, he was perfectly at home among the domestic
animals, and had, no doubt, also marked the deer in the forest,
the fish in the river, the croaking frog in the swamp, and the
busy insect flitting through the air or creeping on the ground. If
he were ti, man of inquiring mind, lie would be anxious to learn
what forms of animal life other lands had to exhibiF, to compare
them with those of his own country, and thus to find, little
by little, all the links in that wondrous chain which leads from
the minute animalcule, of which the point of a needle will crush
a thousand, to man himself, the noblest work of the Creator.

The man who thus observed the habits and peculiarities of the
animal kingdom, who sought to accumulate information regard-
ing its different members, and who classed them together in
accordance with their manifest points of resemblance, would be
called a student of Natural History ; but he would, at the same
time, be a builder up of the science of Zoology. As ge in
Geology means the eartJi, so the word zoon is the Greek for
an animal^ and Zoology is' thus a disanirse ahottt animals. This
study, above all others, is that in which young people take

THE NATURAL SCIENCES.

especial delight, and it is also one to which have been devoted
the life-labors of some of the greatest minds that the world has
produced.

We have now surveyed three of the Natural Sciences, em-
bracing the mineral, vegetable, and animal kingdoms. You will
be ready to say, " Surely we have exhausted the world of Nature;
what is there that is not included in those three sciences of
Geology, Botany, and Zoology ? " Not so fast, dear reader.
Have we not an atmosphere around us, invisible it may be, yet
in which we live and breathe ? Are there no clouds in tlu»
heavens, no dew on the grass ? Are there no long rainy days and
months of ice and snow ? Do not the cold March winds chill us
with their keen blast, and the summer breezes fan our flushed
cheeks with their cool and gentle motion ? Then, have we not
watched the coming of the fierce tempest, heard the rumbling of
the thunder, and seen the viv'd lightning flash across the sky ?
We have seen, too, the beautiful arch of the rainbow by day, and
the fiery meteor at night ; and, in books, we have road about the
great ice mountains of the North, the waterspouts that, unitin<^
the clouds above to the sea beneath, break with f:iial violence in
the Southern Ocean ; with many other strange sights and .soiimls
that take place in the unseen body around us. All these are
well worthy, not only of observation, but of diligent and accurate
investigation ; therefore they have a science to themselves, and
that science is called Meteorology.

Meteorology is a Greek word, made up of meteora, meaning
things in the air, and logos, a discourse — a discourse about things
in the air. Learned men, masters of this science, are employed
by many governments to observe the state of the atmosphere,
and to keep a record of all that occurs in it from year to year ;
for this purpose, they are furnished with a suitable building,
generally situated on a rising ground, and having a tower of
some height upon it, whence they may be able to detect the
appearance of anything in the air, whether it be watery like snow
and min, airy like wind, or fiery as falling stars. Such a build-
ing is called an observatory, and is also sometimes used for
making astronomical observations ; the most celebrated one is
that of Greenwich, near London in England.

So far then, wo have four sciences brought before us; dis-
courses about plants and animals, about the earth and things in
the air. Is there any natural object upon this earth which is not
included in the four sciences that treat of these several depart-

THK NAIUKAL SCIENCKS.

i '

i villi

'1!^

riKMits of Nature ? No, there is nothing more, but yet thero
is another science. We examine a piece of rock, the leaf of a
tree, the leg of a frog, and a handful of snow, and we put the
question. What sire all these things made of ? Now, this seems
a very strange question ; if you were asked, you would, perhaps,
answer, that the rock was made of some kind of stone, and the
leaf of delicate fibres and cells, the frog's leg of flesh and bones,
and the snow of frozen water ; and you would expect the person
who put the question to smile approvingly and say, " Your reply
is quite correct." But I very much fear that such an answer
would not satisfy a chemist ; he would desire to go deeper into
the matter, and would, probably, ask you, what stone and fibres,
flesh and bones and water are composed of. To say that rock is
stone is as much an explanation as to say that a house is a
domicile, and that a leaf is made up of fibres and cells, as that a
house is made up of rooms. But if yon were asked what a house
were made of, you would reply, " Of brick, or stone, and mortar,"
or " of wood," as the case might be. Now, just such an answer
as this is what the chemist requires to his question. He would
tell you that the stone, suppose it were limestone, was composed
of a certain number of parts of lime and carbonic acid, and so on
wich the rest. Again, he would inform you that lime is made up
of so many at(mis or small particles of a metal called calcium, and
a gas called oxygen ; and carbonic acid, of similar atoms of
oxygen, and another substance, denominated carbon. But calcium,
oxygen, and carbon cannot be reduced to anything lower ; they
are the bricks -and mortar that make the house, and all that went
before them were only the rc'Oms. These three bodies, or sub-
stances, are named elemenU or elementary substances^ because they
are not composed of anything more simple. The elementary
bodies are about sixty-three in number, and of these sixty-three
elements everything in the world is made up, whether it belong
to the mineral or vegetable, the animal or the aerial kingdom. It
is with these simple bodies that the chemist works, building up or
taking l;0 pieces, room by room, and bi'ick by brick, the materials
of which the earth and everything in it is composed ; and the
science which teaches the one and explains the other is called
Chemistry.

The term Chemistry is very like one of the simple bodies which
the science investigates, for its origin is veiy obscure, and the
Greek word chemeia, from which it is thought to be derived, has
no simpler meaning. However, it is supposed by some that

GEOLOGY.

it comes f^om the Greek cliymico», equivalent to what is said
concerniwj a ihhuj extracted; so that, with this explanation,
chemistry would be the system of knowledge about things extracted .
Since to extract has the meaning of to draw mit, you will easily
perceive that it is applicable to the science which draws forth the
simple elements that make up a compound body. Of all the
sciences, none is so practically useful as that of chemistry, the
laws of which are found to govern most of the simplest as well
as the most important operations of man upon natural objects. >

We have now found out what are the five natural sciences,
under which everything in the world, whether simple or com-
pound, may be ranked. If you would be well-informed men and
women, you should gain some knowledge of each of these. To
all right-minded persons they will prove an endless source of
amusement, as well as of profit, stimulating legitimate curiosity,
encouraging habits of observation, and increasing reverence for
Him who in wisdom has made all the objects of which they
treat.

The Natural Sciences are —

1 . Geology. 3. Zoology.

2. Botany. 4. Meteorology.

5. Chemistry.

GEOLOGY.

Geology, from two Greek words — ge^ the earth, and logosy a dis-
course or reasoning — embraces, in its widest sense, all that can
be known of the constitution and history of our globe. Its
object is to examine the various materials of which our planet is
composed, to describe their appearance and relative positions, to
investigate their nature and mode of formation, and generally to
discover the laws which seem to regulate their arrangement.

As a department of natural science, Geology confines itself
more especially to a consideration of the mineral or rocky con-
stituents of the earth, and leaves its surface configuration to
Geography, its vegetable life to Botany, its animal life to Zoology,
and the elementary constitution of bodies to the science of
Chemistry. Being unable to penetrate beyond a few thousand
feet into the solid substance of the globe, the labors of geologists
are necessarily confined to its exterior shell or crust ; hence we

GEOLOGY.

apeak of tho " crust of the globe," meaning thereby that portion
of the rocky structure Jiccessible to ^umau investigation.

BAILWAX CUITINa SBOWINO STSAIA.

The materials composing this crust are rocks or minerals of
various kinds — as granite, basalt, roofing-slate, sandstone, marble,
coal, chalk, clay, and sand — some hard and compact, others soft
and incohering. These substances do not occur indiscriminately
in every part of the world, nor, when found, do they always
appear in the same position. Granite, for example, may exist in
one district of a country, marble in another, coal in a third, and
chalk in a fourth. Some of these rocks occur in regular layers
or courses, termed strata^ from the Latin word stratum^ strewn
or spread out, while others rise up in irregular mountain-masses.
It is evident that substances differing so widely in composition
and structure must have been formed under different circum-
stances and by different causes ; and it becomes the task of the
geologist to discover those causes, and thus infer the general
conditions of the regions in which, and of the periods when, such
rock substances were produced.

When we sink a well, for example, and dig through certain
clays, sands, and gravels, and find them succeeding each other in
layers, we ai'e instantly reminded of the operations of water,

mrm»

GEO LOO Y.

.13

-.S

seeing it is only by such agency that ai cumulations of clay, sand,
and gravel are formed at the present day. Wo are thus led to
inquire as to the origin of the materials through which wo dig,
and to discover whether they wore originally deposited in river-
courses, in lakes, in estuaries, or along the sea-shore. In our
investigation wo may also detect shells, bones, and fragnients of
plants imbedded in the clays and sands ; and thus we have a
further clue to the history of the strata through which we pass,
according as the shells and bones are the remains of animals that
lived in fresh-water lakes ami rivers, or inhabited the waters of
the ocean. Again, in making a railway-cutting, exca 'ating a
tunnel, or sinking a coal-pit, we may pass through many succes-
sions of strata — such as clay, sandstone, coal, ironstone, limestone,
and the like ; and each succession of strata may contain the
remains or impressions of diflerent plants and animals. Such
ditierences can only bo accounted for by supposing each stratum
or set of strata to have been formed by different agencies, and
under different conditions of climate, as well as under different
arrangements of sea and land, just as at the present day tlu^
rivers, estuaries, and seas of different countries are characterized
by their own special accumulations, and by the imbedded remains
of the plants and animals peculiar to these regions.

In making these investigations, the geologist is guided by his
knowledge of what is now taking place on the surface of the
"•lobe — ascribing similar results to similar or analogous causes.
Thus, in the present day, we see rivers carrying down sand an')
mud and gravel, and depositing them in layers either in lakes, in
estuaries, or along the bottom of the ocean. By this process
many lakes and estuaries have, within a comparatively recent
period, been filled up and converted into dry land. We see also
the tides and waves wasting away the sea-cliffs in one district,
and accumulating expanses of sand and salt-marsh in some
sheltered locality. By this agency thousands of acres of land
have been washed away and. covered by the sea, even within the
memory of man ; while, by the same means, new tracts have been
formed in districts formerly covered by the tides and waves.
Further, we learn that, during earthquake convulsions, large dis-
tricts of country have sunk beneath the waters of the ocean ;
wliile in other regions the sea bottom has been elevated into dry
land. Volcanic action is also sensibly affecting the surface of the
globe — converting level tracts into mountain ridges, throwing up
new islands from the sea, and casting forth molten lava and

GEOLOGY.

i I

other materials, which in ^time become hard and consolidated
rock-masses.

As these and other agents are at present modifying the surface
of the globe, and changing the relative positions of sea and land,
so in all time past have they exerted a similar influence, and have
necessarily been the main agents employed in the formation of
the rocky crust which it is the province of Geology to investigate.
Not a foot of the land we now inhabit but has been repeatedly
under the ocean, and the bed of the ocean has formed as repeat-
edly the habitable dry land. No matter how far inland, or at
what elevation above the sea, we now find accumulations of sand
and gravel — no matter at what depth we now discover strata of
sandstone or limestone — we know, from their composition and
arrangement, that they must have been formed under water, and
brought together by the operation of water, just as layers of sard
and gravel and mud are accumulated or deposited at the present
day. And as earthquakes and volcanoes break up, elevate, and
derange the present dry land, so must the fractures, derangements,
and upheavals among the strata of the rocky crust be ascribed to
the operation of similar agents in remote and distant epochs.

By the study of existing opei-ations, we thus get a clew to the
history of the globe ; and the task is rendered much more certain
by an examination of the plant? and animals found imbedded in
the various strata. At present, shells, fishes, and other animals
are buried in the mud or silt of lakes and estuaries ; rivers also
carry down the remains of land-animals, the trunks of trees, and
other vegetable drift; and earthquakes submerge plains and
islands, with all their vegetable and animal inhabitants. These
remains become enveloped in the layers of mud and sand and
grav'-;l formed by the waters, and in process of time are petrified
(peira, a stone, and^o, I become); that is, are converted into
stony matter, like the shells and bones found in the deepest
strata. Now, as at present, so in all former time must the
remains of plants and animals have been similarly preserved ;
and as one tribe of plants is peculiar to the dry plain, and
another to the swampy morass — as one family belongs to a tem-
perate, and another to a tropical region — so, from the character
of the imbedded plants, we are enabled to arrive at some know-
ledge of the conditions under which they flourished. In the
same manner with animals : each tribe has its locality assigned it
by peculiarities of food, climate, and the like ; and by comparing
fossil remains (fossil, from fossus, dug up, applied to all remains

OEOLOOT.

consolidated

the surface
)a and land,
!e, and have
brmation of
investigate.
I repeatedly
i as repeat-
iland, or at
ons of sand
er strata of
•osition and
water, and
ers of sard
the present
levate, and
angements,
ascribed to
3ochs.
?lew to the
Dre certain
ibedded in
er animals
rivers also
trees, and
»lains and
These
sand and
e •petrified
rted into
deepest
must the
reserved ;
ain, and
to a tem-
character
ne know-
In the
signed it
►mparing
remains

of plants and animals imbedded in the rocky crust) with existing
races, wo are enabled to determine many of the past conditions
of the world with considerable certainty.

By examining, noting, and comparing, as indicated in the pre-
cediag paragraphs, the geologist finds that the strata composing
the earth's crust can be arranged in series ; that one set or series
alway« underlies, and is succeeded by another set ; and that each
series contains the remains of plants and animals not to be found
in any other series. Having ascertained the existence of such a
sequence among the rocky strata, his next task is to determine
that sequence in point of time — that is, to determine the older
from the newer series of strata ; to ascertain, if possible, th<i
nature of the plants and animals whose remains are imbedded
in each set ; and lastly, to discover the geographical range or
extent of the successive series. These series he calls formations^
as having been formed during different arrangements of sea and
land, and under the varying influences of climate and other ex-
ternal conditions ; and it is by a knowledge of these that the
geologist is er^bled to arrive at something like a history of the
globe — imperfect, it may be, but still sufficient to show the
numerous changes its surface has undergone, and the varied and
wonderful races of plants and animals by which it has been suc-
cessively inhabited. To map out the various mutations of sea
and land, from the present moment to the earliest time of which
we have any traces in the rocky strata : to restore the forms of
extinct plants and animals ; to indicate their habits, the climate
and conditions under which they grew and lived — to do all this,
and trace their connection up to existing races, would be the
triumph, as it is now the aim, of all true geology. — Page.

Rocks as to their origin are —

1. Sedimentary or Aqueous, iormed hj the agencj r Inorganic, as Sandstooe.

of water and deposited in regular strata ; } Organic, as Coal, Shell-
these rocks are either (, marl, &c.

2. Metamorphic or Changed Rocks: originally Sedimentary, but become

crystallized by the action of heat ; such are gneiss, marble, &c.

3. Eruptive ; never occur in strata but in irregular masses ; when appearing

on the surface are called Volcanic ; such are granite, lava, pumice, &c.

iii !

40 END OF THE PELOPONNESIAN WAR.

END OP THE PELOPONNESIAN WAR.

(B.C. 404.) •

Numerous Grecian colonies had settled in Sicily, and had risen
to great wealth and power; they were almost all democracies,
but tyrants occasionally ruled them. Syracuse was the most dis-
tinguished of these cities. Gelon had possessed himself of the
tyranny, and governed with justice and mildness. After his
death the people fell into divisions, and the smaller cities which
were oppressed applied to Athens for help. Alcibiades, who was
then in the plenitude oL' his influence, warmly exhorted the people
to respond to the call, and drew a brilliant picture of the glorious
prospect of universal empire that now seemed destined for Athens,
in an evil hour the people, though warned by Nicias, and other
men of age and experience, yielded their assent, and an expedi-
tion against Syracuse was decreed. The finest fleet that ever
left Athfins sailed under the command of Alcibiades, Nicias, and
Lamachus, and success at first attended its operations ; but the
enemies of Alcibiades accused him of profaning the mysteries,
and he was recalled, and fled to Sparta. A Spartan general,
Gylippus, was despatched to Syracuse, and though the Athe-
nians augmented their army in Sicily to 40,000 men, and sent
out Demosthenes, their ablest <^enoral, it was defeated, and men
and generals lost their life oi • ?rty.

The news of this misfortuu ,,as at first not credited at Athens.
When its truth was confirmed, the people looked around and saw
themselves without horse, or heavy infantry, or ships ; with an
empty treasury ; their subjects in rebellion ; their allies fallen
off ; the enemy in their country and before their port ; yet they
lost not courage, but vigorously prepared for defence. The
Lacedemonians, by the advice of Alcibiades, instead of making-
annual incursions into Attica, had taken and fortified Decelia,
a post half-\vay between Athens and Boeotia, and from thence
wasted the country. Still the Athenians held out for seven
years. . id but for tiie party-spirit that prevailed, which drove
Alcibiaaes again into exile, and unjustly put to death most of
their other good generals, they might have come off victorious in
the struggle. The vanity and inexperience o^ the Athenian com-
manders (warned in vain by Alcibiades) gave a decisive victory
to the Lacedemonian Lysander, at the river ^gos, and the last
hope of Athens, her renewed fleet, was lost. Lysander soon ap-

Nail

THE sea! the sea!

peared in tho Piraeus ; the people made a gallant resistance, but
hunger compelled them to sue for peace. The Thebans and
Corinthians insisted that the city should be burnt, and the inha-
bitants reduced to slavery. The Lacedemonians declared they
would never submit to the destruction of a city wliich had
merited so well of Greece. But, to cramp her power efi'ectually,
she was ifllowed to possess but twelve ships. The Lmig Legs —
the walls between the city and the Piraeus — were broken down,
and the government placed in the hands of an oligarchy of thirty
persons.

Thus ended the Peloponnesian war, a.ter a continuance of
twenty-seven years, and with it the dominion of Athens, in the
seventy-fifth year after the battle of Salamis. During that period
Athens had acquired another and more lasting empire, of which
Lysander could not deprive her. She had become the mistress
of Greece in all the arts and sciences that embellish and ennoble
life. Poetry, philosophy, architecture, and sculpture, attained,
during the time of Athenian sway, an eminence never surpassed.

— Keightley.

THE SEA! THE SEA!

The sea ! the sea !
For the light of thy waves we bless thee ;

For the foam on thine ancient brow ;
For the winds, whose bold wings caress thee,
Old Ocean ! we bless thee now !
Oh, welcome thy long-lost minstrelsy ;
Thy thousand voices ; the wild, the free,
The fresh, cool breeze o'er thy sparkling breast,
The sunlit foam on each billow's crest,
Thy joyous rush up the sounding shore,
Thy song of Freedom for evermore,
And thy glad waves shouting, " Rejoice, Kejoice !"
Old Ocean ! welcome thy glorious voice !

The sea ! the sea !
We bless thee, we bless thee, Ocean !

Bright goal of our weary track,
With the exile's rapt devotion,
To the home of his love come back.
When gloom lay deep on our fainting hearts ;
W hen the air was dark with the Persian darts ;
When the desert rung with the ceaseless war,
And the wish'd-for fountain and palm afar,

MINERALOGY.

,>.

In Memory's dreaming — in Fancy's ear,
The chime of thy joyous waves was near,
And the last fond prayer of each troubled night
Was for thee and thine islands of love and light.

The sea ! the sea I
Sing on thy majestic paean ;

Leap up in the Delian's smiles ;
We will dream of the blue ^gean —
Of the breath of Ionia's isles ;
Of the hunter's shout through the Thracian woods ;
Of the shepherd's song by the Dorian floods ;
01' the Naiad springing by Attic fount ;
Of the Satyr's dance by the Cretan mount;
Of the sun-bright gardens — the bending vinse,
Our vii: i^ins' songs by the flower-hung shrines;
Of the oread Olympian's majestic domes,
Our fathers' graves and our own free homes.

The sea ! the sea !
We bless thee, we bless thee, Ocean !

Bright goal of our stormy track,
With the exile's rapt devotion,

To the home of his love come back !

— The Torouli) Maple Leaf.

MINERALOGY.

|i i Natural History is a science which consists of many branches ;

■ one, which treats of animals, is called Zoology ; another, Botany,

I teaches the structure and properties of plants ; the third, which

II makes us acquainted with the inorganic portions of our planet,
namely, stones or minerals, is called Mineralogy ; and if, at first
sight, it should appear less attractive or less useful than the other
two branches, a very little consideration will prove that it is of
equal importance to mankind, and contributes materially to their
comfort, wealth, and luxury. From materials found in the inte-
rior of the earth we erect our dwellings, we supply ourselves with
fuel, we construct numberless tools and machines ; and finally, we
obtain our most brilliant ornaments.

Some knowledge of many of these substances must have been
possessed at a very remote period. The most ancient nations of
whom we have any record manufactured arms, and ornaments of
gold and silver. The Romans, who made great improvements in
the arts of civilization, greatly enlarged this knowledge, bringing

MINERALOGY.

to light many substances previously unknown, and euiployiu*^
them for useful or ornamental purposes ; they were acquainted
with several of the precious stones, and, with the exception of
the diamond, succeeded in catting and engraving on them.

The elder Pliny, a man of inquiring mind and unwearied dili-
gence in the purs At of knowledge, collected, from every source
within his reach, accounts of all the natural productions tliat were
then known, or of which any description existed in his time, and
he added to these his own observations on such as he had actually
examined. It is much to be regretted that the latter were not
more immerous ; for he too often copied, without inquiry, the
descriptions he met with, and has transmitted to us a vast num-
ber of inaccuracies and absurdities, such as accounts of the magi-
ctil properties of certain stones, plants, and animals, and charms,
by which particular diseases might be cured.

As civilization extended, and the arts of life advanced, a greater
number of useful minerals became known ; improvements in ma-
chinery and practical science led to greater facility in the v Drking
of mines, metals were more sought after, new ones were discovered,
and new and rich ores of those already known were found to exist,
which had formerly been thrown aside as valueless, from igno-
rance of their nature. Mineralogy now became a subject of im-
portance, and much attention was paid to it ; but it still retained
somewhat of a vague and imsatisfactory character, from want of
knowledge of the pi'inciples un which it ought to be b'^.sed.
Chemistry, indeed, lent its aid in the analysis of minerals ; but
it was before chemistry itself had been raised to the state of
an exact science by the wonderful and beautiful law of dejinite
'proportions, a law which pervades all chemical combinations,
whether natural compounds or the result of operations in our
laboratories. This law assists us in ascertaining with precision
the composition of mineral substances, and consequently in iden-
tifying mineral species, and giving them their true place in a
scientific classification.

The want of some knowledge of the real nature of stones, which
even a slight acquaintance with mineralogy would furnish, has
occasioned to many persons, within a comparatively recent period,
very ruinous loss : whilst others have rapidly acquired a fortune
from profiting, under similar circumstances, by opportunities that
had been unseen or totally neglected. It is not above fifty years
snice a man found in Shropshire a considerable vein of sul])hato
of baryta, which, in consequence of its weight, he mistook for

Ilii '

MINERALOGY.

white lead ore, and he erected a smelting-honse and furnaces for
the purpose of reducing it to a metallic state. Another person
in the same county, having met with some mica in the form of
small silvery scales or spangles, was persuaded that he had fonnd
a silver mine, and ruined himself in attempts to obtain the silver.

Among many other unfortunate adventures which have arisen
from ignorance of mineralogy, may be mentioned that of a poor
man, who was persuaded to lay out a hundred pounds, nearly the
whole of some years' economy, in the purchase of a few pieces of
white topaz, under the idea that they were diamonds. But inde-
pendently of the utility of this science, any one who studies
natural history for his amusement will be richly rewarded by
the wqnders and the beauties displayed in the mineral kingdom.
The bodies which are the objects of study to the mineralogist
comprise the earthy, metallic, saline, and other substances which
compose our earth — that is to say, the unorganized part of the
creation.

To understand clearly what is meant by the term unorganized,
let us remember that an animal and a plant are said to be organ-
ized, because they consist of several different parts, all varying in
their form, their position, and their functions; yet all equally
necessary to form a perfect animal, or a perfect plant ; so that to
remove any one of them would be to destroy, or at least to render
imperfect, the body to which it belongs. These parts are called
organs ; in animals we find a stomach to digest the food they con-
vey to it, and by means of which they are nourished and have
life ; nerveti and muscles for sensation and motion ; in plants we
observe a root to fix them to the ground, and absorb nourishment
from it, and vessels for the circulation of the sajp.

But in a mineral, in its most perfect state, all the parts exactly
resemble each other, so that by breaking it, we diminish it in
size, without destroying its existence or its completeness. Take,
for example, a flat pebble, or a fragment of limestone from a
quarry, and break it ; we shall find that each substance is of the
same texture and composition throughout. It is true that we
may also take up a stone, or break off a piece of rock, whi^h has
not this homogeneous structure, as, for instance a granite pavint:^
stone ; but granite is an aggregate rock, which conRists essentially
of three simple minerals, each of which may plainly be distin-
guished on inspection ; and mineralogy teaches us to recognize in
it — 1st, quartz, which usually appears in grayish semi-transparent
grains of a somewhat glassy appearance ; 2d, felspar, of a reddi:

-liMfiL

TUHAL CAIN.

or yellowish white, and opaque ; 3d, mica, in small scales, which
have a shining and somewhat metallic lustre.

It is true that the essential difference of minerals consists in
their composition ; but it is not therefore necessary to subject
every mineral to chemical analysis in order to know something of
its nature. The difference of composition is manifested in differ-
ence of form, structure, color, weight, hardness, transparency,
&c. ; and an acquaintance with these and some other properties
or characters will, in most cases, enable us to recognize a mineral
species, and to know of what elementary substances it principally
consists. These are called physical characters. But it spmetimes
happens that we meet with a specimen in which these characters
are not clearly marked, or some of them may have a great re-
semblance to those of another species ; in such cases wo may
derive great assistance from an examination of some of the chemi-
cal characters, by means of acids and the action of the blow-pipe,
which have a very different effect on different species.

— Varley.

Dana's Classificatioti of Minerals.

Class I. Gases ; consisting of, or 'containing nitrogen or hydrogen, air, &c.

Glass II. Water ; crystallizes as ice.

Glass III. Carbon and compounds of carbon ; tiie diamond, coal, plumbago,

amber, &c.
Class IV. Sulphur and its ac5ds.

Class v. Haloid or salt-like minerals; salt, nitre, borax, alum, gypsum, &o.
Class YI. Earthy minerals; quartz, opal, felspar, mica, ruby, emerald, &g.
Class YII. Metals and metallic ores ; gold, silver, mercury, iron, lead, cop-
per, &c.

TUBAL CAIN.

Old Tubal Cain was a man of might,

In the days when earth was young ;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright,

The strokes of his hammer rung:
And he lifted high his brawny hand

On the iron glowing clear,
Till the sparks rush'd out in scarlet showers,

As he tashion'd the sword and spear.
And he sang — *' Hurrah for my handiwork !

Hnirah for the spear and sword !
Iliiniili for the hand that shall wield them well,

For ho sbnil be king and lord!"

TUBAL CAIN.

To Tubal Cain came many a one,

As he wrought by his roariug fire,
And each one prav'd for a strong steel blade,

As the crown of his desire :
And he made them weapons sharp and strong,

Till they shouted loud for glee ;
And they gave him gifts of pearls and gold.

And spoils of the forest free.
And they sang — " Hurmh for Tubal Cain,

Who hath given us strength anew !
Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire.

And hurrah for the metal true !"

I .

* :

■

I;;

^:!

I
i

fit

But a sudden change came o'er his hearl.

Ere the setting of the sun;
And Tubal Cain was fiU'd with pain

For the evil he had done :
Ho saw that men, with rage and hate,

Made war upon their kind.
That the land was red with the blood they shed,

In their lust for carnage blind.
And he said, " Alas ! that I ever made.

Or that skill of mine should plan,
The spear and the sword, for men whose joy

Is to slay their fellow-man !"

And for many a day old Tubal Cain

Sat brooding o'er his woe ;
And his hand forbore to smite the ore.

And his furnace smoulder'd low.
But he rose at last with a cheerful face,

And a bright courageous eye.
And bared his strong right arm for work.

While the quick flames mounted high.
And he sang — *' Hurrah for my handiwork !"

And the red sparks lit the air;
" Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made,'

Avd he fashioft'd the first ploughshare.

And men, taught wisdom from the past,

In friendhhipjoin'd their hands;
Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,

And plough'd the willing lands ;
And sang—" Hurrah for Tubal Cain !

Our staunch good friend is he ;
And for the ploughshare and the plougk,

To him our praise shall be.

COPPER MFNES OF LAKE SUPERlOt.

r>j?

But while oppression lifts its head.

Or Si tyrant would be lord ;
Though we may thank him for the plough,

We'll not forget the sword !"

—Charles Mackay.

COPPER MINES OF LAKE SUPERIOR.

To untutored man, provided only with implements of stone, the
facilities presented by the great copper region of Lake Superior
for the first step in the knowledge of metallurgy were peculiarly
available. The forests that flung their shadows along the shores
of that great lake were the haunts of the deer, the beaver, the
bear, and other favorite objects of the chase ; the rivers and the
lake abounded with fish ; and the rude hunter had to manufacture
weapons and implements out of such materials as nature placed
within his reach. The water- worn stone from the beach , patiently
ground to an edge, made his axe and tomahawk ; by means of
which, with the help of fire, he could level the giants of the
forests, or detach from them the materials for his canoe and paddle,
his lance, club, or bow and arrows. The bones of the deer pointed
his spear, or were wrought into fish-hooks ; and the shale or flint
was chipped and ground into his arrow-head, after a pattern
repeated with little variation in all countries, and in every primi-
tive age. But beside such materials of universal occurrence, the
primeval occupant of the shores of Lake Superior found there a
stone possessed of some very peculiar virtues. It could not only
be wrought to an edge without liability to fracJture, but it was
malleable, and could be hammered out into many new and con-
venient shapes. This v^s the copper, found in connection with
the trappean rocks of that region in inexhaustible quantities, in
a pure metaliic state. In other rich mineral regions, as in those
of Cornwall and Devon, the principal source of this metal is from
ores, which require both labor and skill to fit them for economic
purposes. But in the veins of the copper region of Lake Supe-
rior the native metal occurs in enormous jiasses, weighing hun-
dreds of tons; and loose blocks of various sizes have been found
on the lake shore, or lying detached on the surface in sufficient
quantities to supply all the wants of the nomad hunter. These,
accordingly, he wrought into chisels and axes, armlets, and per-
sonal or-naments of various kinds, without the use of the crucible;

COI'PEK MINES OF LAKE SUPERlOk.

and, indeed, without recognizing any precise distinction between
the copper which he mechanically separated from the mass, and
the unmalleable stone or flint out of which he bad been accus-
tomed to fashion his spear aud arrow-heads.

It was iu the year 1847 that attention was first directed to
such traces of ancient mining operations by the agent of tlic
Minnesota Mining Company. Following up the indications of a
continuous depression in the soil, he came at length to a cavern
where ho found several porcupines had fixed their quartei-s for
hybernation ; but detecting evidences of artificial excavation, ho
proceeded to clear out the accumulated soil, and not only exposed
to view a vein of copper, but found in the rubbish numerous stone
mauls and hammers of the ancient workmen. Subsequent obser-
vation brought to light ancient excavations of great extent, fre-
quently from twenty-five to thirty feet deep, and scattered over
an area of several miles. The rubbish taken from these is piled
up in mounds alongside, while the trenches have been gradually
refilled with the soil and decaying vegetable matter gathered
through the long centuries since their desertion ; and over all, the
giants of the forest have grown, withered, and fallen to decay.

Whatever be the dates of their commencement or desertion, the
condition in which some of the ancient works on Lake Superior
have been found, when re-opened in later times, is suggestive of
peculiar circumstances attending their abandonment. It is incon-
ceivable that the huge mass of copper discovered in the Minne-
sota mine, resting on its oaken cradle, beneath the accumulations
of centuries, was abandoned merely because the workmen, who
had overcome the greatest difficulties in its removal, were baffled
in the subsequent stages of their operations, and contented them-
selves by chipping oflT any accessible projecting point. Well-
hammered copper chisels, such as lay alongside of it, and have
been repeatedly found in the works, were abundantly sufficient,
with the help of stone hammers, to enable them to cut it into
portable pieces. If, indeed, the ancient miners were incap-
able of doing more with their mass of copper in the mine than
breaking off a few projections, to what further use could they
have turned it when transported to the surface ? It weighed up-
wards of six tons, and measui-ed ten feet long, and three feet wide.
The trench, at its greatest depth, was twenty-six feet ; while the
mass was only eighteen feet from the surface ; and in the estima-
tion of the skilled engineer by whom it was first seen, it had been
elevated upwards of five feet since it was placed on its oaken

T)EPENCE OF THE BRIDGE AGAINST THE TUSCAN AHMY.

iirected to
ent of tlie
itions of a
> a cavern
lartei-s for
vation, ho
J exposed
fous stout)
Dnt obser-
:tent, fre-
ered over
3e is piled
gradually
gathered
3r all, the
decay,
rtion, the
Superior
restive of
is incon-

Minne-
lulations
en, who
e baffled
d them-
Well-
id have
ifficient,

it into

incap-
fie than
d they
led 11 p-
t wide,
ile the
*stima-
d been

oaken

frame. The excavations, to a depth of twenty-six feet, the dis-
lodged copper block, and the framework prepared for elevating
tho solid mass to the surface, all consistently point to the same
workmen. But tho mere detachment of a few accessible projecting
fragments is too lame and impotent a conclusion of proceedings
carried thus far on so different a scale. It indicates rather such
results as would follow at the present day, were the barbarian
tribes of the North-west to displace the present Minnesota minera,
and possess themselves of mineral treasures they are as little cap-
able as ever of turning to any but the most simple uses.

Such evidences, accordingly, while they serve to prove the exist-
ence, at some remote period, of a mining population in the copper
regions of Lake Superior, seem also to indicate that their labors
had come to an abrupt termination. Whether by some terrible
devastating pestilence, like that which noarly exterminated the
native population of New England immediately before the landing
of the Pilgrim Fathers, or by the breaking ont of war, or, as seems
not less probable, by the invasion of the mineral region by a bar-
barian race, ignorant of all the art-s of the ancient mound-builders
of the Mississippi, and of the miners of Lake Superior — certain it
is that the works have been abandoned, leaving the quarried metal,
the laboriously wrought hammers, and the ingenious copper tools,
just as they may have been left when the shadows of the evening
told their long-forgotten owners that the labors of the day were
at an end, but for which they never returned. Nor during tho
centuries which have elapsed since the forest reclaimed the (de-
serted trenches for its own does any trace seem to indicate that
a native population again sought to avail itself of then* mineral
treasures, beyond the manufacture of such scattered fragments as
lay upon the surface. — Dr. D. Wilson.

THE DEFENCE OF THE BRIDGE AGAINST THE

TUSCAN ARMY.

Now the Consul's brow was sad ;
And the Consul's speech was low.
And darkly look'd he at the wall,
And darkly at the foe.
"Their van will be upon us
Before the bridge goes down ;
And if they once may win the

bridge,
What hope to save the town ? "

Then out spake brave Horatiiis,
The captain of the gate —
" To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temple of his gods ?

<r^

lii

,i!:!

i I

'1; 1

•'■/•%

ii-i
III;

.56

liKFKNCK OF TIIK lllUDtil-; AUAINST TFFE TUSCAN ARMT.

'* How down \\w bri(l*»C', Sif('onHnl,
WiUi all tl)o spood y(! may ;
I. with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in piny.
In yon stnii<i;ht path a thousand
May well he stopp'd hy three;
Now who shall standoneither hand,
And keep the bridge with me?"

Then out spake Spnrius Lartins,

A Rumnian pi'oud was he,

" Lo, I will stand at thy right

hand,
And keep the bridge with thee."
And out spake .strong Herminius,
Of Titian blood was he,
" 1 will abide on thy left side,
And keep the bridge with thee."

" Horatius," quoth the Consul,
" As thou sayest, so let it be."
And straight against that great

array
Forth went the daun^!ess three.
Foi" Romans in Home's quarrel
Spared neither land nor gold,
Ncr son, nor w^fr nor limb, nor

life,
In the brave days of old

• •

Now, while the three were tighten-
ing
Their harness on their backs.
The Consul was the foremost man
To take in hand an axe ;
And fathers mix'd with commons.
Seized hatchet, bar, and crow.
And smote upon the planks above,
And loosed the props bolow.

Meanwhile the Tuscan army.

Right glorious to behold.

Came flashing back the noonday

light.
Rank behind rank, like

bright
Of a broad sea of gold.
Four hundred trumpets sounded
A peal of warlike glee,

surges

As that grrat host, with measured

tread,
And spears advanced, and ensigns

snroad,
Roll'd slowly toward the bridge's

head.
Where stood the dauntless three.

The three stood calm and silent.
And look'd upon the foes.
And a great shout of laughter
From all the vanguard rose.
And forth three chiefs came spur-
ring
Before that deep array ;
To earth they sprang, their swords

they drew,
And lifted high their shields, and

flew
To win the narrow way.

• • • •

Stout Lartins hurl'd down Annus
Into the stream beneath ;
Herminius struck at Seius,
And clove him to the teeth.
At Picus brave Horatius
Darted one fiery thrust,
And the proud Umbrian's gilded

arms
Clash'd in the bloody dust.

But hark, the cry is Astur !
And lo ! the ranks divide ;
And the great lord of Luna
Comes with his stately stride.
Upon his ample shoulders
Clangs loud the fourfold shield,
And in his hand he shakes the

bra):d
Whicii none but he can wield.

He smiled on those bold Romans,
A smile serene and high ;
He eyed the flinching Tuscans,
And scorn was in his eye.
Quoth he, " The she-wolf's litter
Stand savagely at bay :
But will ye dare to follow
if ^Vstur clears the way ?"

Tl
T(

DKFRNCK OK TFrK MUIDUK AGAINST THE TL'HCAN AIJMY,

•)

I moasiirt'd

lid ensigns

10 bridge's

;lcss three,
id silent,

5S,

lighter
rose.
;anie spur-

cir swords
lields, and

(vn Annus

in a,
!th.

I's gilded

St.

Iir!*

na
ride.
s

shield,
akes the

ield.
Romans,

leans,
s litter

I'hoii, whirliric: up his hroiuUword
With l)oth hands U> ilio height,
lie rusli'd against Iloratins,
And smote with all his might.
With shield and blade Honitius
Right deftly turn'd the blow ;
The blow, though turn'd, came yet

too nigh.
It miss'd his helm, but gash'd his

thigh :
The Tuscans raised a joyful cry,
To see the red blood flow.

He reel'd, and on Herminius

He lean'd otio breathing space;

Then, like a wild-cat mad with
wounds,

Sprang right at Astur's face.

Tnrough teeth, and skull, and hel-
met,

So fierce a thrust he sped.

The good sword stood a hand-
breadth out

Behind the Tuscan's head.

And the great lord of Luna

Fell at that deadly stroke.

As falls on Mount Alvernus

A thunder-smitten oak.

Far o'er the crushing forest

The giant arms lie spread;

And the pale augurs, muttering

low.
Gaze on the blasted head.

• • • •

But meanwhile axe and lever

Have manfully been plied;

And now the bridge hangs totter-

ing
Above the boiling tide.
"Come back, come back, Hora-

tius ! "
Loud cried the fathers all,
" Back Lartius ! back Herminius !
Back, ere the ruin fall !"

Back darted Spurius Lartius ;
Herminius darted back :

Ah(1, us thoy pass'd, beruath their

feet
Thoy felt the timbers crack.
But when they turn'd their faces.
And on the further shore
Saw brave Horatius stand alone.
They would have cross'd once

more.

But with a crash like thunder

Fell every loosen'd beam,

And, like a dam, the mighty

wreck
Lay right athwart the stream.
And a long shout of triumph
Rose from the walls of Rome,
As to the highest turret tops
Was splash'd the yellow foam.

• • • •

Alone stood brave Horatius,
But constant still in mind ;
Thrice thirty thousand foes before.
And the broad flood behind.
" Down with him ! " cried false Se\ -

tus.
With a smile on his pale face.
" Now yield thee," cried Lars Por-

sena,
" Now yield thee to our grace."

Bound turn'd he, as not deigning
Those craven ranks to see;
Nought spake he to Lars Porseua,
To Sextus nought spake he ;
But he saw on Palatinus
The white porch of his home ;
And he spake to the noble river
That rolls by the towers of Rome.

"O Tiber I father Tiber!
To whom the Romans pray,
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms.
Take thou in charge this day !"
So he spake, and speaking, sheath'd
The good sword by his side,
And with the harness on his back.
Plunged headlong in the tide.

No sound of joy or sorrow
Wns heard from either bank ;

' I'

NATURE m MOTION.

I 1

'4'

I '1 ■»

i?;

iii

Hi! ''j
' ' 'I 1

ii.

ii '■]

t friends and foes in dumb s;ir-
Ups and straining

prise,
With parted

eyes,
Stood gazing where he sank.
And when above the surges
They saw his crest appear,
All Rome sent forth a rapturous

cry,
And even the ranks of Tuscany
Gould scarce forbear to cheer.

But fiercely ran the current,
Swollen high by months of rain,
And fast his blood was flowing,
And he was sore in pain,
And heavy with his armor,
And spent with changing blows ,
And oft they thought him sinking,
But still again he rose.

Never, I ween, did swimmer

In such an evil case,

Struggle through such a raging

flood
Safe to the landing-place.
But his limbs were borne up bravely
By the brave heart within.
And our good father Tiber
Bore bravely up his chin.

And now he feels the bottom:
Now on dry earth he stands ;
Now round him throng the fathers
To press his gory hands.
And now, with shouts and clap-
ping,
And noise of weeping loud.
He enters through the river-gate,
Borne by the joyous crowd.

— Macaulav.

NATURE IN MOTION.

The Mammalia do not roam and rove so much astl.e lighter birds
and favored fishes ; they are generally bound to certain locali-
ties, and, at all events, chained to the soil. Still we find among
them also travellers, now driven forth by hunger, and now by an
ovv^rwhelming number of beasts of prey, to seek new pastures and
new dwelling-places. Others, again, follow man in his migra-
tions over the globe, and thus spread from country to country.
To the former belong the horses which now roam wild on the
plains of South America, and travel at times thousands of miles.
The wild asses, also, in the wilderness, " which stand up in the
high places, and snuff the wind like dragons," travel in bands of
two or three hundred, and leave, in winter, the tropics for a still
warmer region in the south of Africa. They are called " the
Bushman's harvest," for the wild Bushman hunts and consumes
what has been left by the royal lion and the hungry vulture, who
follow them in their march, and feast upon them for a season.
Gazelles and antelopes migrate in like manner ; and even huge
elephants are seen wandering in large herds over the boundless
plains of Africa. The shaggy buffalo roams in vast numbers
over the prairies of the American continent, and migrates at
regular intervals from the north to the south, and from the plain
to the mountain. Salt springs arc with them the great centre of

^^..i .

NATURE IN MOTION.

attraction ; but generally their movements seem to bo regulated
by the state of their pastures. As soon as a fire has spread over
a prairie, and is succeeded by a fine growth of tender gmss,
immense herds are sure to appear. How they discover that their
table is spread we know not ; it has been surmised that stragglers
fro;- the main body, who have wandered away when food became
scarce, may first notice the new growth, and by some mysterious
meaiLS communicate the good news to their hungry brethren.
Monkeys also wander from land to land when driven by hunger
or fierce enemies ; they have even been suspected of passii^
through a tunnel under the Straits of Gibraltar, from Africa to
Europe. Their mode of crossing rivers is a beautiful evidcnco
of their ingenuity and instinct. A powerful male seizes a branch
that projects over the banks of the stream, and suspends himself
by his prehensile tail ; another takes hold of him, and so on
until 'they have a row as long as the river is wide. Then they
begin to swing the living chain, and continue until the impetus
is powerful enough to enable the last one to rake hold of a tree
on the opposite shore. Over this strange bridge the whole host
passes safely ; as soon as they are across, the first monkey lets go
his hold, the chain swings again, and so they all safely get over
large rivers.

The so-called domestic animals travel exclusively by the agency
of man and in his company. It is thus that the horse, a native
of the rude steppes of Central Asia, which was not known in
America before the arrival of the Spaniards, now roams over it
in vast herds from Hudson's Bay to Cape Horn. To man we
owe it that the goat climbs our rocky mountains, and white woolly
sheep graze on scanty mountain sides, whilst the heavier, slower
cattle fatten on rich low grounds, and remind us, in the far back-
woods, by the sweet harmonies of their bells, of the neighborhood
of men. But here, also, the weeds have come with the good
plants. Thus the domestic rat, a native of the Old World, was
carried in ships to the Cape, to Mauritius and Bourbon, to the
Antilles and Bermuda. An Antwerp ship brought them in
1544 first to America, where they astonished the good Peruvians
so much that they obtained with them the name of " things that
came oui: of the sea." Now they are rarer in Europe than in
America.

The importance of the useful domestic anima'i cannot be over-
rated. The very existence of man is bound up with the horse,
the ox, hnd the sheep. Brazil lives almost exclusively by mcan.s

BEAUTY OF INSKCTS.

•!: !l

of hor horses and hor cattle ; and Australia has developed her
resources and prou^ressed in civilization only since sheep have
been introduced. It is strange, surely, that like all the best gifts
in the vegetable world, (the cerealia), so these domestic animals
also are presents which the East has sent to the West, and for
which no return has been made. Here, also, an invisible but in-
surmountable barrier seems to prevent such an exchange.

— Puiman\9 Magazine.

BEAUTY OF INSECTS.

Observe the insect race, ordained to keep

The lazy sabbath of a half-year's sleep.

Entomb'd beneath the filmy web they lie,

And wait the influence of a kinder sky.

When vernal sunbeams pierce their dark retreat,

The heaving tomb distends with vital heat ;

The full-form'd brood, impatient of their cell,

Start from their trance, and burst their silken shell.

Trembling a while they stand, and scarcely dare

To launch at once upon the untried air.

At length assured, they catch the favoring gale,

And leave their sordid spoils, and high in ether sail .

Lo ! the bright train tneir radiant wings unfold,
With silver fringed, and freckled o'er with gold ;
On the gay bosom of some fragrant flower,
They, idly fluttering, live their little hour ;
Their life all pleasure, and their task all play,
All spring their age, and sunshine all their day.
Not so the child of sorrow, wretched man :
His course with toil concludes, with pain began,
That his high destiny he might discern,
And in misfortune's school this lesson learn —
Pleasure's the portion of the inferior kind;
But glory, virtue, Heaven for man design'd.

What atom forms of insect life appear !
And who can follow nature's pencil here ?
Their wings with azure, green, and purple gloss'd,
Studded with color'd eyes, with gems emboss'd.
Inlaid with pearl, and mark'd 'vith various stains
Of lively crimson, through their dusky veins.
Some shoot like living stars athwart the night,
And scatter from thoir wings a vivid light.
To guide the Indian to his tawny loves,
As through the woods with cautious step he moves.

UAMNIUAL.

See the proud giant of the beetl , race,

With shilling arms his polishV limbs enchase !

Like some stern warrior fo'»>i' lably brip;ht,

His steely sides reflect a gi'.;-^ ling light ;

On his large forehead spreading horns he wears,

And high in air the branching antlers bears ;

O'er many an inch extends his wide domain,

And his rich treasury swells with hoarded grain.

— Mrs. Barbauld.

HANNIBAL.

(B.C. 247-183.)

Twice in history has there been witnessed the struggle of the
highest individual genius against the resources and institutions
of a great nation, and in both cases the nation has been vic-
torious. For seventeen years Hannibal strove against lioiHO;
for sixteen years Napoleon Bonaparte strove against England :
the fciTorts of the first ended in Zama, those of the second, in
Waterloo.

True it is, as Polybius has said, that Hannibal was supported
by the zealoius exertions of Carthage ; and the strength of the
opposition to his policy has been very possibly exaggerated by
the Roman writers. But the zeal of his countiy in the contest,
as Polybius himself remarks in another place, was itself the work
of his family. Never did great men more^sliow themselves the
living spirit of a nation than Hamilcar, and Hasdrubal, and
Hannibal, during a period of nearly fifty years, approved them-
selves .0 be to Carthage. It is not, then, merely throHgh our
ignorance of the internal state of Carthage that Hannibal stands
so prominent in all our conceptions of the second Punic war ; he
was really its moving and directing power ; and the energy of his
country was but a light reflected from his own. History, there-
fore, gathers itself into his single person ; in that vast tempest,
which from north and south, from the west and the east, broke
upon Italy, we see nothing but Hannibal.

But if Hannibal's genius may be likened to the Homeric god
who, in his hatred of the Trojans, rises from the deep to rally the
fainting Greeks, and to lead them against the enemy ; so the
calm courage with which Hector met his more than human
adversary in his country's cause, is no unworthy image of the
unyielding magnanimity displayed by the aristocracy of Rome.

i: 111

d ;':il

Hi Mil

]

! f

VEKKES DKNOUNCKD.

As Hannibal utterly eclipses Carthage, so, on the coiiti'ary,
Fabiua, Marcellus, Claudius Nero, even Scipio himself, are as
nothing when compaved to the spirit, and wisdom, and power of
Rome. The senate which voted its thanks to its political enemy
Varro, after his disastrous defeat, " because he had not despaired
of the Commonwealth," and which disdained either to solicit, or
to reprove, or to threaten, or in any way to notice the twelve
colonies which had refused their accustomed supplies of men for
the army, is far more to be honored than the conqueror of
Zama. This we should the more carefully bear in mind, because
our tendency is to admire individual greatness far more than
national ; and as no single Roman will bear comparison with
Hannibal, we are apt to murmur at the event of the contest, and
to think that the victory was awarded to the least worthy of the
combatants. On the contrary, never was the wisdom of God's
providence more manifest than in the issue of the struggle be-
tween Rome and Carthage. It was clearly for the good o? man-
kind that Hannibal should be conquered : his triumph would
have stopped the progress of the world. For great men can only
act permanently by forming great nations ; and no one man, even
though it were Hannibal himself, can in one generation effect
such a work. But where the nation has been merely enkindled
for a while by a great man's spirit, the light passes away with
him who communicated it ; and the nation, when he is gone, is
like a dead body, to which magic power had for a moment given
an unnatural life : when the charm has ceased, the body is cold
and stiff as before. Ho who grieves over the battle of Zama,
should carry on his thoughts to a period thirty years later, when
Hannibal must, in the course of nature, have been dead, and
consider how the isolated Phoenician city of Carthage was fitted
to receive and to consolidate the civilization of Greece, or by its
laws and institutions to bind together barbarians of every race
and language into an organized empire, and prepare them for
becoming, when that empire was dissolved, the free members of
the commonwealth of Christian Europe. — Arnold.

VERRES DENOUNCED.

An opinion has long prevailed, fatliers, that in public prosecu-
tions men of wealth, however cleaily cmivicted, are always safo.

VERRES DENOUxNCED.

■i

This opinion, so injurious to your order, so detrimental to the
state, it is now in your power to refute. A man is on trial
before you who is rich, and who hopes his riches will compass
his acquittal ; but whose life and actions are his sufficient con-
demnation in the eyes of all candid men. 1 speak of Caius
Verres, who, if he now receive not the sentence his crimes
deserve, it shall not be through the lack of a criminal, or of a
prosecutor ; but through the failure of the ministers of justice to
do their duty. Passing over the shameful irregularities of his
youth, what does the quaestorship of Verres exhibit but one con-
tinued scene of villanies ? The public treasure squandered, a
consul stripped and betrayed, an army deserted and reduced to
want, a province robbed, the civil and religious rights of a people
trampled on! But his quaestorship in Sicily has crowned his
career of wickedness, and completed the lasting monument of his
infamy. His decisions have violated all law, all precedent, all
right. His extortions from the industrious poor have been
beyond computation. Our most faithful allies have been treated
as enemies. Roman citizens have, like slaves, been put to death
with tortures. Men the most worthy have been condemned and
banished without a hearing ; while the most atrocious criminals
have, with money, purchased exemption from the punishment
due to their guilt.

I ask now, Verres, what have you to advance against these
charges ? Art thou not the tyrant praetor who, at no greater
distance than Sicily, within sight of the Italian coast, dared to
put to an infamous death, on the cross, that ill-fated and inno-
cent citizen, Publius Gavius Cosanus ? And what was hib
offence ? He had declared his intention of appealing to the
justice of his country against your brutal persecutions ! For
this, when about to embark for home, he was seized, brought
before you, charged with being a spy, scourged and tortured.
In vain did he exclaim : " I am a Roman citizen ! 1 have
served under Lucius Pretius, who is now at Panormus, and who
will attest my innocence!" Deaf to all remonstrance, remorse-
less, thirsting for innocent blood, you ordered the savage punish-
ment to be inflicted ! While the sacred words, *' I am a Roman
citizen,'' were on his lips — words which, in the remotest region,
are a passport to protection — you ordered him to death, to a
death upon the cross I

liberty I sound once doliti^htful to every Roman ear !
sacred privilege of Roman citizenship! once sacred— now

fmf

\ ! i

■ ,1

;] ;

■i

CUMl'OaiTlOA' OF aOlLfe.

trampled on ! Is it come to this ? Shall an inferior magistrnte,
a governor, wlio holds his whole power of the Roman people, in
a Roman province, within sight of Italy, bind, scourge, torture,
and put to an infamous death a Roman citizen ? Shall neither
the cries of innocence expiring in agony, the tears of pitying
spectators, the majesty of the Roman commonwealth, nor the
fear of the justice of his country, restrain the merciless monster,
who, in the confidence of his riches, strikes at the very root of
liberty, and sets mankind at defiance? And shall this man
escape ? Fathers, it must not be ! It must not be, unless you
would undermine the very foundations of social safety, strangle
justice, and call down anarchy, massacre, and ruin on the com-
monwealth ! — Cicero.

COMPOSITION OF SOILS.

Soils adapted to the growth of plants consist of two principal
portions — the organic and the inorganic. The organic portion or
humus, as it is sometimes called, from a Latin word meaning
moist earthy consists of the decayed remains of animal and vege-
table matter, and varies greatly in quantity in different soils. In
peaty soils it forms from 50 to 70 per cent, of the whole weight.
In rich and long-cultivated soils, it has been known to amount
to 25 per cent.; but in general the proportion is much smaller.
Oats and rye will grow on a soil which contains only 1| per
cent, of humus; barley will flourish with only 2 to 3 per cent.;
good wheat soils require from 4 to 8 per cent. In stiff clayey
soils, from 10 to 12 per cent, have been found.

Now it must not be supposed that a soil is fertile in proportion
as it is rich in humus. Humus supplies plants with food in the
form of carbohic acid by the roots ; dissolved in water, humus
acts injuriously; a very small quantity imparts to water a yellow
or brown color, a state in which manures cease to be beneficial
to cultivated plants, because this coloring matter indicates a
deficiency of oxygen to complete the conversion of the humus
into carbonic acid. In a soil impregnated with this matter in
solution, the roots of plants are deprived of oxygen, without
which they cannot exist ; for a similar reason, the stagnant water
of a marshy soil excludes air ; but if the marsh be thoroughly
drained, so as to admit the air freely, a fruitful meadow takes its
place.

•wih

COMPOSITION OP SOILS.

637

The inorganic portion of the soil consists of two subdivisions,
the soluble saline portion, from which the plant obtains nearly
all the saline ingredients contained in the ash, and the insoluble
earthy portion, which forms the great balk of most soils, being
rarely less than 95 lbs. in a hundred of their whole weight.

This earthy constituent consists of three main ingredients : —
1, Silica, in the form of sand ; 2, Alumina, mixed or co>nbined
with sand, as clay ; and 3, Lime, in the form of carbonate, as
chalK, limestone, &c. Soils are named according to the propor-
tions in which these three ingredients are mingled together.
According to Johnston, 100 grains of dry ordinary soil, contain-
ing only 10 of clay, would form a sandy soil; if it contained from
10 to 40 grains of clay, it would make a sandy loam ; from 40
to 70, a loamy soil ; from 70 to 86, a clay loam ,v from 85 to
95, a strong clay fit for making tiles and bricks ; if it contain no
sand, it would be pure agricultural clay, or pipe-clay. With
respect to alumina, it rarely happens that arable land (land fit for
the plough) contains more than from 30 to 35 per cent, of that
substance. If a soil contain more than 5 per cent, of carbonate
of lime, it is called a marl ; if more than 20 per cent., a cal-
careous soil. Oxide of iron forms 2 or 3 per cent, of sand soils,
and in red soils much more.

The sand, lime, clay, oxide of iron, and organic matters mingled
in various proportions, give rise to soils. of various colors. In
chalk districts the soil is white; in the coal-fields the land is
black ; in the central part of England dark-red soil prevails ; in
other districts, the prevailing character of the soil is derived from
yellow, white, and brown sands and clays.

The subsoil is of variable character ; in some places consisting
of porous sand or gravel ; in others, a light loam ; in a third, a
stiff clay. On removing the soil we get to the solid rock, sue')
as sandstone, limestone, slate-clay, &c. All kinds of rook by
their disintegration will furnish either sandstone, limestone, or
clays of ditr^rent degrees of haidness, or a mixture of two or
more of thesj in different proportions. By the action of winds,
rain, and frost, rocks become disintegrated at the surface, seeds
get deposited by means of winds, waters, and sometimes animals,
and a soil slowly accumulates, partaking necessarily of the chemi-
cal character of the rock on which it rests. Thus, on a sandstone
rock the soil is sandy; on a claystone, it is more or less a stiff
clay ; on limestone, it is more or less calcareous ; and if the rock
be a mixture of these, a similar mixture will be observed in the

■> :

:' ii

l\^

i i

•|!l

CLOTHING FROM ANIMALS — PUR, WOOL, SILK, LEATHER.

soils formed by its crumbling. Geology has furnished the impor-
tant observation, that if the soil be bad on each of two contiguous
rocks, it is generally of better quahty at the place where the two
rocks meet. Thus, where the plastic clay comes in contact with
the top of the chalk, there is much better soil than either on the
clay or on the chalk ; so also where the chalk and the upper
green sand mingle, there ar,e fertile patches celebrated for their
wheat crops, in the production of which, the phosphates in the
marls are supposed to have an influence. — Fownes.

CLOTHING FROM

ANIMALS— FUR, WOOL, SILK,
LEATHER.

In the hide of the animal, the hair and skin are two entirely dis-
tinct things, and must be considered separately as materials for
clothing. The hair of quadrupeds differs much in fineness. It
is chiefly the smaller species which are provided with those soft,
thick, glossy coverings that bear the name of fur, and they are
found in the greatest perfection where they are most wanted —
that is, in the coldest countries. They form indeed the riches of
those dreary wastes which produce nothing else for human use.
The animals most esteemed for their fur are of the weasel kind :
the glutton, the marten, the sable, and the ermine. Fur is used
either growing to the skin, or separated from it. In its detached
state, it is usually employed in making a stuff called felt The
scales of hair are so disposed, that they make no resistance to the
finger drawn along the hair from the root to the point, but cause
a roughness and resistance in a contrary direction. From this
property, hairs, when beaten or pressed together, are disposed to
twist round each other, and thus to cohere into a mass. It is in
the manufacture of hats that I'eiting is chiefly practised ; and the
fur used for this purpose is that of the beaver, the rabbit, and
the hare.

Wool differs from common hair in being more sofb and supple,
and more disposed to curl. These properties it owes to a degree
of unetuosity, or greasiness, which is with difficulty separated
from it. The whole wool, as taken from the animal's body, is
called ajleece. The first operation this undergoes is that of pick-
ing and sorting into the different kinds of wool of which it is
composed. These are next cleansed from marks and stains, and

^li

CLOTHINQ FROM ANIMALS — FUR, WOOL, SILK, LRATHEIt.

tho impor-
contiguous
re the two
ntact with
her on the
the npper
d for their
ites in the
POWNES.

SILK,

itirely dis-

iterials for

eness. It

bhose soft,

i they are

wanted —

riches of

uman use.

asel kind :

ur is used

detached

felt. The

ice to the

3ut cause

'rom this

sposed to

It is in

and the

)bit, and

1 supple,
a degree
eparated
body, is
of pick-
ch it is
ins, and

freed from their offensive greasiness. Tho wool is then deli-
vered to the woolcomber, who, by means of iron-spiked combs,
draws out tho fibres, smooths and straightens them, separates the
refuse, and brings it into a state fit for the spinner. Tlie spinner
forms tho wool into threads, which are more or less twisted, ac-
cording to the manufacture for which they are designed ; the
more twisted forming worsted^ the looser yarn.

The kinds of stuffs made wholly or partly of wool are ex-
tremely various ; and Great Britain produces more of them, and
in general of better quality, than any other country. A more
perfect manufacture than our broad cloths, with respect to beauty
and utility, cannot easily be conceived. The threads in it are so
concealed by a fine nap or down raised on the surface, and
curiously smoothed and glossed, that it looks more like a rich
texture of nature's forming, than the work of the weaver. Wool,
in common witii other animal substances, takes a dye better than
any vegetable matters. Our cloths are therefore made of every
hue that can be desired ; but, in order to fit them for the dyer,
they are first freed from all greasiness and foulness by the oper-
ation oi fulling, in which the cloths are beaten by heavy mallets
as they lie in water, with which a quantity of fuller's earth has
been mixed. This earth unites with the greasy matter, and ren-
ders it soluble in water, so that, by coiitinually supplying fresh
streams while the beating is going on, all the foulness is at length
carried off. The operation of fulling has the further effect of
thickening the cloth, and rendering it more firm and compact,
by mixing the threads with each other, something in the manner
of a felt. The cloths of inferior firmness are mostly called narrow
cloths. Some of those used for greatcoats, by their substance
and shagginess, i-esemble the original fleece, or rather the fur of a
bear, and render unnecessary the use of furred garments. In-
deed, with the single material of wool, art has been able much
better to suit the different wants of man in his clothing, than
can be done by all the productions of nature. AVhat could bo
so comfortable for our bods as blankets ? What so warm and a*;
the same time so light, for pained and palsied limbs, as flannel ?
The several kinds of the worsted manufacture are excellent for
that elasticity which makes them sit close to a part without
impeding its motions. This quality is particularly observable in
stockings made of worsted. Even the thinnest of the woollen
fabrics possess a considerable degree of warmth, as appears in
shawls. The real shawls are made of the tine wool of Thibet, in

CLOTHDia FROM ANIMALS— FDR, WOOL, SILK, LEATHER.

' *

the eastern part of Asia ; but they have been well imitated by
the product of some of our English looms. A very different
article made of wool, yet equally appropriated to luxury, is car-
peting. Upon the whole, Dyer's praise of wool seems to have a
jnst foundation : —

" Still shall o'er all prevail the sheplicrfl's stores,
For numerouB uauB known : none yield such warmth, *
Such beauteous hues receive, so long endure :
So pliant to the loom, so various, — none."

Men must have been far advanced in the observation of nature
before they found out a material for clothing in the labors of a
caterpillar. China appears to have been the first country to make
use of the web spun by the silkworm. This creature, which, in
its perfect state, is a kind of moth, is hatched from the egg, in

III

EOOb — COCUOM — t'HBiSAUS — CATERPILLAR.

>:;

ill'

the form of a caterpillar, and passes from that state successively
to those of a chrysalis, and of a winged insect. While a cater-
p:Ilar, it eats voraciously, its proper and favourite food being the
leaves of the different species of mulberry. By this diet it is not
only nourished, but is enabled to hj up in receptacles within its
body formed for the purpose, a kind ol transparent glue, which
has the property of hardening as soon as it comes into the air.
When arrived at full maturity, it spins itself a web out of this
gluey matter, within which it is to lie safe and concealed during
its transformation into the helpkiss and motionless state of a
chrysalis.

Ji '

Mil

CLOTHING FROM ANIMALS— FUR, WOOL, SILK, LEATHER.

The uilkworm's web iu an oval ball, called a cocoon, of a hue
VBTving from light straw color to full yc How, and consiating of
a single thread wound round and round, ho as to make a close
and impenetrable covering. The thread is so very liue, diat,
vv hen unravelled, it has been measured to 700 or 1000 feet, all
rolled within the compass of a pigeon's egg. In a state of
nature, the nilkworm makes its cocoon upon the mulberry tree
itself, where it shines like a golden fruit among the leaves; and
in the southern parts of China, and other warm countries of the
East, it is still suffered to do so, the cocoons being gathered from
the trees without further trouble. But, in even the warmest
climates of Europe, the inclemencies of tho weather in spring,
when the worms are hatched, will not permit the rearing them
in the open air. They are kept, therefore, in warm but airy
rooms, constructed for the purpose ; and are regularly fed with
mulberry-leaves till the period of their full growth. As this tree
is one of the latest in leafing, silkworms cannot advantageously
be reared in cold climates. During their growth, they several
times shed their skins, and many die under this operation. At
length they become so full of the silky matter, that it gives them
a yellowish tinge, and they cease to eat. Twigs are then pre-
sented to them upon little stages of wicker-work, on which they
immediately begin to form their webs. When the cocoons are
finished, a small number, reserved for breeding, are suffered
to eat their way out in their butterfly state ; the rest are killed in
the chrysalis state, by exposing the cocoons to the heat of an oven.

The next business is to wind off the silk. After separating a
dovsrny matter from the outside of the cocoons, called JlosSf they
are thrown into warm water ; and the ends of the threads bein<(
found, several are joined together and wound in a single one,
upon a reel. This is the silk in its natural state, called raw silk.
It next undergoes some operations t cleanse and render it more
supple; after which it is made into w !iat is called organzinej or
thrown ailkj being twisted into thread of such different degrees
of fineness as are wanted in the different manufactures. This is
done in a large way by mills of curit)us construction, which
turn at once a vast number of spindles, and perform at the same
time the processes of unwinding, twisting, reeling, &c. Tho
largest and most complicated machine for this purpose in Eng-
land is at Derby, the model of which was clandestinely brought
from Italy, where all the branches of the silk manufacture have
long flourished,

'« 'I'

i .1

I in I

r 1 ;

1 ■■

I .1

CliOTHINO FROM ANIMALS — PUR, WOOL, SILK, LEATHER.

The excellence of silk as a material for clothing, consists in
its strength, lightnesH, lustro, and readinesH in taking dyes.
When little known in Europe, it wa.s hi<,'hly prized for its rarity ;
it is now esteemed for its real bcnnty and otlier valunblo qualities.
As it can never be produced in great abundnnce, it must always
bo a dear article of clothing. The fabrics of silk are very numer-
ous, and almcst all devoted to the purposes of show and luxury.
In thickness they vary from the finest gauze to velvet, the pile of
which renders it as close and warm as fur. Some of the mos*.
beautiful of the silk manufacture's are the glossy satin ; the
elegant damask, of which the flowers are of the same hue with
the piece, and only show themselves from the difference of shade;
the rich brocade, in which flowers of natural colors, or of gold
and silver thread, are interwoven ; and the infinitely varied
ribaiida. It is also a common material for stockings, gloves,
buttons, strings, &c., in which its durability almost compensates
for its (Uarness. Much is used for the purpose of sewing, no
other thread approaching it in strength. Silk, in short, bears
the same superiority among clothing materials that gold does
among metals ; it gives an appearance of richness wherever it is
employed, and confers a real value. Even the refuse of silk is
carefully collected, and serves for useful purposes. The down
about the cocoons, and the waste separated in the operations
raw silk undergoes, are spun into a coarser thread, of which
very serviceable stockings are made ; and the interior part of the
cocoon is reckoned to be the best material for making iirtiScial
flowers.

Whilst the covering of the skins of animals thus affords a
valuable material for clothing, the skin itself is not less useful.
It requires, however, greater previous preparation. It is neces-
sary to impregnate it with a matter capable of preserving it from
putrefaction, and at the same time to keep it in a state of flexi-
bility and suppleness. When this is effected, skin becomes
leather, — a substance of the highest utility, as well in clothing
as for numerous other purposes. The principal operation in the
preparation of leather is called tanning.

The hide, taken off with due care by the skinner, is first
thrown into a pit with water alone, in order to free it from dirt.
After lying a day or two, it is placed upon a solid half-cylinder
of stone, called a beam, where it is cleared of any adhering fat or
flesh. It is then put into a pit containing a mixture of lime and
water, in which it is kept ahout a fortnight. The intent of this

^Sm

CLOTHINU KHOM ANIMALS -FUR, WOOL, SILK, LEATHER.

nonsistfl in
cing dyos.
its varity ;
^ qualities.
• st always
ry numer-
la luxury,
the piJo of
the mofi^.
atin ; the
hue with
of shade;
>r of gold
ly varied
J, gloves,
apensates
wing, no
)rt, bears
old does
ever it is
3f silk is
he down
aerations
f which
i of the
-rtiScial

'fiords a
useful,
s neces-
it from
of flexi-
}ecomes
slothing
I in the

IS first
m dirt,
ylinder
fat or
neand
of this

is to swell and tliickoii the iiide, aud to loosen the hair. Being
now roplacod upon tlio boaru, tlio iiuif is scrupod ott' and it is next
committt'd to tlio )iiiist,'riiuj-pi't. The contents of tiiis are some
animal dung (pij^oous' is preferred) and water ; and its operation
is to reduce that thicktMiing which tlio lime had given. After
this is effected, it is a^ain cleansed on the beam, and is then put
into the pioper tanning liquor, called the ooze, which is an in-
fusion of coai8ely-{)()\vilered oak-bark in water. The bark of the
oak, as well us every other part of it, abounds in a strongly
astringent matter, and it is the thorough inqiregnation with this
which preserves the hide from decay or putrefaction. When at
length it is thought to have imbibed (snouufh of the astringent
matter, the hide is taken out and hung upon a pole to drain,
after which it is put upon a piece of wood with a convex surface,
called a horse, on which it is stretched and kept smooth and
even. Finally, it is taken to the dvyimj-house, a covered building
with apertures for the free admission of air; and it is there hung
up till it becomes completely dry ; and thus the process of tanning
is finished.

From the tanner the hide or skin is consigned to the currier,
whose art is ftirther necessary in order to make it perfect leather.
He first soaks it thoroughly in water, and then places it upon a
lemn, made of hard wood, with one side sloping and polished.
He lays it with the grain-side, or that on which the hair grew,
inwards, and the flesh-side outwards. He then, with a broad
two-edg<^^ !.i ift,, having a handle at each end, shaves or pares the
hide 0* ttif lat'.)." side, till all its inequalities are removed, and
it is rf'liiCLfd c<^ the degree of thinness required for use. After
tuls cpc ratio r' : is again put into water, then scoured and rubbed
Vr '^ ^. ^ )ii '(od stone. It is next besmeared with a kind of oil
procured trom sheep or deer-skin, or made by boiling train-oil
and tallow together, with a view to soften or supple it. A great
part of its moisture is then evaporated by hanging it up in a
drying-house for some days ; and it is further dried by exposure
to the sun, or to the heat of a stove. It is then differently
treated, according as it is meant to be blacked or stained, or not.
Without entering into minute particulars, it is enough to ob-
serve, that the astringent principle with which the leather has
been impreo^nated in the tanning renders nothing necessary
except the npplication of a solution of vitriol of iron, at once to
strike a good black. This is laiil on with a brush, generally on

and it afterwards undergoes the

the grain-side of the leather

» •

TO A WATERFOWL.

.»

operacion of giving it that rouglincss which is called the grain.
This is performed by rubbing it in all directions with a fluted
board. When leather is blackened on the flesh side, the color
is given by a mixture of lampblack and oil.

It is in the manner above described that leather is prepared
for the making of shoes and boots, which is one of the principal
uses of this mat(>rial ; and certainly no other substance could so
well unite strength and .suppleness with the property of keeping
out water. The hides principally used in the shoe-manufacture
are those of neat-cattle, or the ox-kind. Ft r the more delicate
work, the skins of the goat, dog, seal, and some other animals,
are empl<>yefl. — Dr. Aikin.

■ ' ' ■ ill'
V. ^ ill:!

i'!:'

1 y'l lilH

TO A WATERFOWL.

Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far through the rosy depths dost thou pursue

Thy sohtary way P

Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink

On the chafed ocean side ?

There is a power whose caro
Tf^achcs thy way along that pathless coast, —
The <leserc- and illimitable air, —

Lone wandering, but not lost.

SNAILS.

All day thy wings have fann'd,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere:
Yet stoop not, vcary, to the welcome land,

Thcdgh the dark night i-^' near.

And soon that toil shall end ;
Soon shalt thou tind a summer home, and rest.
And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend

Soon o'er thy shelter'd nest.

Thou *rt gone ; — the abyss of heaven
Hath swallow'd up thy form ; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given.

And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

— Bryant.

SNAILS.

We will open the case by claiming for the snails the respect that
is always accorded to old and long-established families. There
were snails before the Flood — before Adam even — in those far
remote eras of the past, when the lower orders of the animal
creation had the world all to themselves. The family seems to
have " come in " somewhere about the time when the huge
Dinotherium wallowed in the rivers of central Europe ; and it is
not at all improbable that some of the earliest members of it
may have banquetea on the self-same herbage which sustained
the enormous bulk of that unwieldy monster. Later down,
iu the classic days of Greece and Rome, the snails were not
only known, but held in great repute, and regularly had the
honor of appearing at the tables of wealthy epicures, fresh
from contact with a silver gridiron. It was in those days,
indeed, that the tribe derived the family name by which
it has ever since been known — Helix, a spiral, being the
name that was given to the dninty morsel; while the same
term, metamorphosed into Helicidae, now stands, all the world
over where the science of zoolo;^y obtains, as the distinctive
appellation of the wide-spread family. All that by the way,
however; wiiat we want to impress upon our readers is, that if

SNAILS.

; Ml
i ! H

there be any honor attached to long descent and distinguished
connections, then that honor can fairly bo claimed by the snail
family.

It may be as well, too, to obstrve at once, that though the re-
presentatives of the family which make themselves at homo in our
fields and hedges have nothing particularly attractive in their ap-
pearance, that is not by any moans the case with those branches of
the family that reside abroad. In " foreign parts " there are snails
to be found as far exceeding our own in deliciif^y and beauty of
coloring, as there are birds and insects that excel in brilliancy
the winged tribes of our woods and fields.

But these gaily-colored individuals belong, of course, to the
rich pastures and the sunny skies of tropical regions ; and we do not
mean to call in their aid just yet, in order to make good our posi-
tion as to the claims of the family. Let us come back, therefore,
to the little fellow with the dusky spotted shell, that crawls across
our garden path, and to his somewhat prettier companions of the
hedgerow. And, now observe, that they make their way in the
world by means of an expanded disk or foot, which, as it is in
close contact with the ventral region of the body, has procured for
the tribe a place amongst the great class of Qasteropods, or belly-
footed moUusks. The foot itself is a very curious organ, and con-
sists of a nearly uniform mass of muscular fibres, interwoven much
in the same way as those of the human tongue. The regular'
gliding motion with which the common snails crawl along, is due
to a pair of muscles extending along the centre of the foot ; but
in some of the species the surface of the foot is divided by a
longitudinal line along the centre, the muscles on the two sides
of which act in rotation, and so cause the animals to progress in
a perpetual zigzag. The glistening slimy tracks which they leave
behind — "the silver slimy trails," as poor Clare calls them — are
produced by a discharge of mucus, designed to protect their ten-
der bodies, and smooth the asperities of their way. It must be a
very comfortable thing for the snails to be able to carpet their
path in this easy, off-hand manner, and we confess we like to see
the silvery line on posts and palings, or gravelly walks ; but when,
as happens sometimes, the little fellows pay us a visit in our par-
lor, where the place is carpeted beforehand, they might be con-
siderate enough to wipe their feet before coming in.

A good deal of discussion has taken place amongst naturalists,
as to whether snails have any eyes or not. The popular notion.
of coarse, is that the little knobs at the extremity of their long

THE CORAL INSECT.

feelers or horns are eyes ; and though several wrUers have
questioned or boldly denied the truth of this opinion, it seems to
be now pretty generally conceded, that the little club-shaped pro-
Ijections are true visual organs. Swammerdain, indeed, long ago
demonstrated the raattei*' to his own satisfaction, and pointed out
the five distinct parts of which the eye consists.

It would be a difficult matter, probably, to find a person any-
where who had never seen a snail draw in its horns on their being
touched ; but how many, we should like to know, have ever closely
watched the snail's manner of doing it ? The thing i'^ easily seen,
and any schoolboy may ascertain how it is done, the next time
he stops a snail in his travels across the footpath, and admonishes
him in the words of the old doggerel, to shut up his house and
go away home." The secret is, that the tentacle or horn is a hollow
tube, and in being withdrawn, it is simply inverted and re-
tracted like the finger of a tight glove ; only that the extremity,
with the eye-spot upon it, is always the first part to disappear.
The manner of it is best seen, perhaps, when after the tentacle
has been withdrawn, it is again protruded ; as you can then
rapidly discern that the organ is lengthened, not by being pushed
out from its base, but by gradually unfolding itself; or being
everted at the extremity till the clubbed point appears, and the
tentacle is fully extended. One cannot but admire the wisdom
which thus gives the little mollusk such a ready and effectual
means of defending its rather oddly located visual organs. We
speak of the wonderful contrivances connected with the human
eye, but surely there is something here that is not much less
wonderful. — Kearley.

THE CORAL INSECT.

Toil on ! toil on ! ye ephemeral train,

Who build in the tossing and treacherous main,

Toil on — for the wisdom of man ye mock,

With your sand-based structures and domes of rock;

Your columns the fathomless fountains lave,

And your arches spring up to the crested wave ;

Ye 're a puny race, thus boldlj' to rear

A fabric so vast in a realm so drear. -

Ye bind the deep with your secret zone,
The ocean is seal'd, and the surge a stone ;
Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement s])ring.
Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king ;

i'i

. !

F'!j

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THE CORAL INSECT.

ill'!

The turf looks greou where the breakers roll'd;
O'er the whirlpool ripens the riud of gold;
The sea-snatch'd isle is the home of men,
And mountains exult where the wave hath been.

But why do you plant, 'neath the billows dark,
The wrecking reef for the gallant bark ?
There are snares enough on the tented field,
'Mid the blossom'd sweets that the valleys yield;
There .ire serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up ;
There's a poison-drop in man's purest cup,
There are foes that watch for his cradle-breath,
And why need ye sow the floods with death P

Ye build — ye build — but ye enter not in,

Like the tribes whom the desert devour'd in their sin ;

From the land of promise ye fade and die,

Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye ;

As the kings of the cloud-crown'd pyramid

Their noteless bones in oblivion hid,

Ye slumber unmark'd 'raid the desolate main,

While the wonder and pride of your works remain.

— SiGOURNEY

COHAL BI ,1?,

It!

LIFE IN A WATER-DROP.

1. Auguillula liuviatilis

2. Cyclops quatlricorni

3. Actinophrys Sol.

4. Colepa hirtus.

5. Vorticella.

6. AmcEba princeps.

7. Acincta mystacuia.

8. Oxytrycha,

9. Triopbthalamus dorsalis.
10. Polyarthra.

i?>

LIFE IN A WATER-DROP.

The sun is reflected in the ocean as in the water-drop, and iu
both are called into existence beings the most varied in size and
form. We admire the myriads of creatures which inhabit the
depths of the ocean, from the monstrous whale to the tiniest
specimen of the finny tribe. But if the size, the power, and the
variety of the denizens of the dcop excite our admiration, how
much more do we find ourselves carried away by that feeling
while looking into the water-drop !

Clear and transparent it lies before us : vainly our eye endea-
vors to discover the least evidence of life, or the smallest crea-
ture, in that which seems in itself too small to contain any living
object; the breath of our mcnth is strong enough to agitate it,
and a few rays of the sun are sufficient to convert it iuto vapor.
But we place this drt^p uf water between two clean squares of glass,

' I;

; >■ ;

LIFE M A WATER-DROP.

beneatb the microscope, and lo! what life suddenly presents
itself ! We scarcely trust our senses. The little drop has expanded
into a large plain ; wonderful shapes rush backwards and forwards,
drawing towards and repulsing each other, or resting placidly and
rocking themselves, as if they were cradled on the waves of an
extensive sea. These are no delusions; they are real, living
creatures, for they play with each other, they rush violently upon
one another, they whirl round each other, they free and propel
themselves, and run from one place in order to renew the same
game with some other little creature ; or madly they precipitate
themselves upon one another, combat and struggle until the one
conquers and the other is subdued ; or carelessly they swim side
by side, until playfulness or rapacity is awakened anew. One
sees that these little creatures, which the sharpest eye cannot
detect without the aid of the microscope, are susceptible of
enjoyment and pain ; in them lives an instinct which induces
them to seek, and enables them to find, sustenance, which points
out and leads them to avoid and to escape the enemy stronger
than themselves. Here one tumbles about in mad career and
drunken lust, it stretches out its feelers, beats about its tail, tears
its fellows, and is as frolicsome as if perfectly happy. It is gay,
cheerful, hops and dances, rocks and bends about upon the little
Waves of the water-drop. There is another creature ; it does
not swim about — remains upon the same spot — but it contracts
itself convulsively, and then stretches itself palpitatingly out
again. Who could not detect in these motions the throes of
agony ; and so it is ; for only just now it has freed itself from
the jaws of a stronger enemy. The utmost power has it exerted
in order to get away ; but he must have had a tight hold,
severely wounded it, for only a few more throes, each becoming
weaker and more faint, it draws itself together, stretches out its
whole length once more, and sinks slowly to the bottom. It was
a death struggle. It has expired.

On one spot a great creature lies, apparently quiet and indif-
ferent, A smaller one passes carelessly by, and, like a flash of
lightning, the first dashes upon it. Vainly does the weaker seek
to escape its more powerful enemy ; he has already caught it,
embraces it, the throes of the vanquished cease — it has become a
prey.

This is only a general glance at the life in a water-drop, but
how great does even this already show the small; how won-
drously does eveiything shape itself within that, of which we

■had

jwhicl
scalel
happl
fectif
table
lit w^
lof a
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ordei
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watej
cule,
comf
nour

1 I

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LIFE IN A WATER-DROP.

ily presents
las expanded
id forwards,
placidly and
waves of an
real, living
Jlently upon

and propel
w the same

precipitate
ntil the one

swim side
mew. One
eye cannot
ceptible of
ch induces
hich points
\y stronger
career and
i tail, tears

It is gay,
> the little

; it does

contracts
-ingly out

throes of
tself from
it exerted
?ht hold,
becoming
es out its
It was

nd indif-
flash of
ker seek
ught it,
)ecome a

rop, but
>w won-
lich we

[had formerly not the least conception. These are (Teatures
which nature nowhere presents to the eye upon an enlarged
scale, so marvellous, odd, and also again so beautiful, so merry,
happy in their whole life and movements ; and although de-
fective, and, in some respects, only one step removed from vege-
table life, they are yet animated and possessed of will and power.
It would be impossible here to give a description of all, or even
of a great part of the ephemerous world in all its varied aspects ;
but we propose to take a nearer survey of some few at least, in
order to display the life which exists in a single drop of water
taken from a pond.

Slowly and gracefully through the floods of this small drop of
water comes glidingly, swimming along, the little swan animal-
cule, turning and twisting its long pliant neck, swaying itself
comfortably, and moving in every direction, sucking whatever
nourishment or prey may present itself. This animalcule has its
name from its likeness to the swan. It carries its neck just as
proudly and gracefully arched, only the head is wanting, for at
the end there is a wide opening mouth, surrounded by innumer-
able beam-like lashes. The entire little creature is transparent,
and it seems impossible that any species of nutriment could pos-
sibly pass through the thin throat, for even water seems too
coarse a material for this small tube ; but scarcely does one of
the variously formed monads, (single cells,) which exist in all
waters, and of which many thousands could move and tumble
freely about in the hollow of a poppy seed, approach its mouth,
ere it gulps them down, we see them gliding through the throat,
and see the green, gray, or white monad lying in the little, but
for this animalcule, great stomach. This monad is itself an ani-
malcule, a living atom ; and possibly a still smaller animalcule
serves for its nourishment ; but the human eye has not yet pene-
trated thus far, possibly it may never do so, for the Creator has
hidden from the material vision of man the limits of His creat-
ing power, alike in the infinitely great as in the infinitesimally
small.

Whirling along comes swimming by the side of the swan ani-
lanlcule, the Bell. Here nature luis retained a form out of the
veoretable kingdom, for the body uf this animalcule is similar to
^hQ bell-shaped blossom of a Mayflower fasteiu>d to a long stem.
Tliis stem, through which passes a spiral-formed vein, a fine dark
tube, is easily movable ; it closes itself, screw-like, together and
stretches itself out again. This is the tail of the bell animalcule.

LIFE IN A WATER-DBOP.

At the end there is a little knot, and soon this knot becomes
attached to the bottom, or to a blade of grass; or to a piece of
wood, and the little animalcule is l^ke a ship at anchor in a bay
or harbor. Its tail extends and turns itself, and the body of
the animalcule, the little bell, whose opening is at the top, begins
to whirl itself round and round, and this movement is so quick
and powerful that it creates, even in the billows of the water-
drop, a A'hirlpool, which keeps ever going round wilder and more
violently; it grows to a Gharyhdisy which none of the little monads
who are caught within it can escape ; — the whirlpool is too
fierce, they get drawn into it and find a grave in the jaws of the
bell animalcule. The bell closes, the tail rolls togetlier, but soon
it stretches itself out again ; the bell whirls, the w) irlpool goes
round, and in it many a quiet and thoughtless possii)g monad is
drawn down. But the bell animalcule is also about meeting its
punishment. Again it whirls its bell violently — the tail breaks
from the body, and the bell floats without control hither and
thither on the waves of the water drop ; but it knows how to
help itself. Nature has provided for such a catastrophe in its
creation. The bell sinks to the bottom, and soon the missing
tail grows again ; — and if death even comes, nature has been
so liberal in the creation of this little world — new life and
new creatures arise so quickly out of those which have passed
away, and so great i i their number — that the death of one is
less than a drop in the ocean, or a grain of sand in the desert of
Sahara.

The lives of innumerable animalcules pass away at a breath :
but they rise into existence "n equally infinite numbers. The
animalcules multiply in every variety of way ; but the most
curious is that of dividing, and out of the severed parts new
animalcules are formed, which, in a few hours, again divide
themselves into parts, forming new creatures — and this process of
increase proceeds to infinity. Numbers alone are able in some
measure to give an idea of this infinite incrrasing power. An
animalcule requires for its parting process about five hours, after
which time the new creatures stand then perfect, and these again
require the same time for their increase. At this rate of increase,
one single animalcule would, by the process of separation, be
increased to half a million in four days, and after a month it
would be mconceivable where this innumerable quantity of ani-
malcules, which are, singly, imperceptible to the naked eye, can
possibly be placed. But nature has limited even thi» vast

DEFEAT AND CAPTURE OF CARACTACUS.

I increasing power, and she freely .sacrifices millions in order to

preserve heir species always in their proper quantities. What

are, compared witii tliese numbers, tlic quiiniities of herrings,

'sprats, and other fish which crowd the seaiu such mighty luasse.^ r

They vanish into nothingness. — tShar^a'd Maijaziut,

DEFEAT AND CAPTURE OF CARACTACUS.

(a.d. 51.)

Oaractaous took up a position of his own choosing, where
the means both of approach and retreat were most convenient foi-
himself and unfavorable to the enemy. It was defended in part
by a steep and lofty acclivity; in part by stones rudely thrown
together ; a stream with no frequented ford flowed before it, and
chosen bands of his best armed and bravest warriors were
stationed in front of its defences. To the spirit and eloquence
of the chief the Britons responded with shouts of enthusiasm ;
and each tribe bound itself, by the oaths it held most sacred, to
stand its ground or fall — if it must fall — fighting. Ostorius, on
his part, was amazed at the ardor of men whom he supposed to
be beaten, cowed, and driven hopelessly to bay. He was even
disconcerted at the strength of the British position, and the
swarms which defended it. It was the eagerness of the soldiers,
rather than his own courage or judgment, that determined him
to give the signal for attack. The stream was crossed without
difficulty, for every legionary was a swimmer, and the Britons
had no engines for hurling missiles from a distance, nor were they
noted even for the rude artillery of bows and slings. But they
defended their rampart obstinately with poles and jivelins, and
from behind it dealt wounds and death upon the assailants, till
the Romans could form tho tortoise, approach to the foot of
the wall, tear dowii its uncementcd niaterJiils, and bursting in,
challenge them to combat hand to hand. Unequal to the shock
of the Roman array, the Britons retreated np the hill; the
Romans, both the light and the heavy-armed, pressed gallantly
upon them, and, imperfectly as they were equipped, they could
withstand neither the sword and piluni of tho leg'ionary, nor the
lancG and spear of the anxiliary. The victory, quickly decided,
was brilliant and complete. The wife and daughter of Caractacus

ti!

:i ■

• i

1' 1

i '■■ ■

:| 1 I

D£FEAT AND CAPTURE OF CARAGTACU3.

were taken ; his brothers threw down their arms and Bar<
rendered.

The brave chief himself escaped from the slaughter, evaded
the pursuit, and fouud an asylum for a time in the territory of I
the Biigantcs, leaving all the south open to the invaders. He]
might hope to remove the contest to tho northern parts of the
island, a land of streams and mountains like his own long,
defended Silurla; but Cartismandua, the female sovereign of t\m
nation, (for though married, she seems herself, rather than her
husband Venutius, to have been actual ruler of the Brigantes,)
was determined, by her own foara and interests, to betray him to
the Romans. The fame of his nine years' struggle had pene-
trated beyond the British isles and the Gaulish provinces ; and
when he was led captive through the streets of Home, great was
the curiosity of the citizens to behold the hero who had rivalled
the renown of Arminius and Tacfarinas. The triumph of
Claudius hfid been solemnized before ; but the emperor gratified
his vanity by exhibiting the British prince before the imperial
tribunal. A grand military spectacle was devised, in which
Claudius appeared seated before the gates of the PreBtorian
camp, attended by his guards, and surrounded by the multitude
of the citizens. Agrippina, clothed like himself in a military
garb, took her seat on the tribunal by. his side, the ensigns of a
Roman army floating over her head. The slaves and clients of
tlio vanquished prince were first led before them, with the glitter^
ing trophies of his arms and accoutrements. Behind these
marched the brothers, the wife, and the tender daughter of the
hero, and their wailings moved no pity in the spectators. But
the bearing of Caractacus himself, who closed the train of cap-
tives, was noble and worthy of his noble cause ; nor did it fail to
excite the admiration which it deserved. He was permitted to
address the emperor. He reminded him that the obstinacy of
his resistance enhanced the glory of his defeat ; were he now put
ignominiously to death, — the fate of so many worsted enemies of
Rome, — his name and exploits would be soon forgotten ; but if
bid to live, they would be eternally remembered as a memorial
of the emperor's clemency. The imperial historian was easily
moved by an appeal to his yearning for historic celebrity. He
granted the lives of his illustrious captiv(^s, and bade them give
thanks, not to himself only, but to his co'isort, who shared witli
Jlim the toils and distinctions of empire. — Merivale.

BOADICEA.

(A.D. 61.)

When the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,

Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,

Saffo beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief,

Every burning word he spoke.
Full of rage and full of grief:

*' Princess ! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchl^ «<s wrongs,

'Tis because resentment t. os
All the terrors of our tongues.

" Rome shall f jerish ! — write that word
In the blood that she has spilt ;

Perish hopeless and abhorr'd,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

" Rome, for empire far renown 'd,
Trampl^ on a thousand states ;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground —

Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates.

.»

" Other Romans shall arise,
Heedless of a soldier's name ;

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
Harmony, the path to fame.

"Then the ])rogeny that springs
From the forests of our laud,

Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings.
Shall a wider world command.

" Regions Caesar never knew,

Thy posterity shall sway ;
Where his eagles never flew.

None invincible as they."

Such the bard's prophetic words,
PrcgnaTit with celestial fii-e.

Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.

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i I

THE DESTRUCTION OF THE TEMPLE OF JERUSALEM.

She, with all a monarch's pride.
Felt them in her bosom glow,

Rush'd to battle, fought, and died ;
Dying, hurl'd them at the foe.

Kuflfians, pitiless as proud,

Hnaven nwrqrda the vengeance due;

Empire is on us bestow'd,
Sname and ruin wait for you.

— COWPEE.

JBBUSALEM, WITH THE UOSQUH! OF OMAR ON XilK SITK Off THE TEIIPLK.

THE DESTRUCTION OP THE TEMPLE OF JERUSALEM.

(A.D. 70.)

It was the 10th of August, the day already darkened in the
Jewish calendar by Ihe destruction of the former temple by the
king of Babylon ; it was almost passed. Titus withdrew again
into the Antonia, intending the next morning to make a general
assault. The quiet summer evening came on ; the setting sun
shone for the last time on the snow-white walls, and glistening
pinnacles of the temple roof. Titus had retired to rest ; when
suddoi:ly a wild and terrible cry was heard, and a man came
rushing in, announcing that the temple was on fire. Sonic of
the besiogod, notwithstanding their repulse in the morning, had

THE DESTRUCTION OP THE TEMPLE OF JERUSALEM.

sallied out to attack the men who were busily employed in extin-
guishing the fires about the cloisters. The Romans not merely
drove them back, but, entering the sacred space with them, forced
their way to the door of the temple. A soldier, without orders,
mounting on the shoulders of one of his comrades, threw a blaz-
ing brand into a small gilded door on tho north side of the
chambers, in the outer building or porch. The flames spruuff
np at once. Tho Jews uttered one simultaneous shriek, and
grasped their swords with a furious determination of revenging
and perishing in the ruins of the temple. Titus rushed down with
the utmost speed ; he shouted, he made signs to his soldiers to
quench the fire : his voice was drowned, and his signs unnoticed
in the blind confusion. The legionaries either could not, or
would not hear; they rushed on, trampling each other down
in their furious haste, or, stumbling over the crumbling rains,
perished with the enemy. Each exhorted tlie other, and e^ch
hurled his blazing brand into the inner part of the edifice, and
then hurried to his work of carnage. The unarmed and defence-
less people were slain in thousands ; they lay heaped like sacri-
fices, round the altar; the steps of the temple ran with streams
of blood, which washed down the bodies that lay about.

Titus found it impossible to check the rage of the soldiery ; he
entered with his oflBcers, and surveyed the interior of the sacred
edifice. The splendor filled them with wonder; and as the
flames had not yet penetrated to the holy place, he made a last
effort to save it, and springing forth, again exhorted the soldiers
to stay the progress of the conflagration. The centurion Liberalis
endeavored to force obedience with his staff" of oflBce ; but even
respect for the emperor gave way to the furious animosity against
the Jews, to the fierce excitement of battle, and to the insatiable
hope of plunder. The soldiers saw everything around them
radiant with gold, which shone dazzlingly in the wild light of the
flames; they supposed that incalculable treasures were laid np in
the sanctuary. A soldier, unperceived, thrust a ligh*/ed torch
between the hinges of the door : the whole building was in
flames in an instant. The blinding smoke and fire forced the
officers to retreat, and the noble edifice was left to its fate.

It was an appalling spectacle to the Roman — what was it to
the Jew ? The whole summit of the hill which commanded the
city, blazed liked a volcano. One after another the buildings fell
in with a tremendous crash, and were swallqwed up in the fiery
abyss. The roofs of cedar were like sheets of flame ; the gilded

Il i

THE DESTRUCTION OF TBB TEMPLE OF JERUSALEM.

^1 i

(1 ,
1 '

M : :|

'i I

■; !l

pinnacles shone like spikes of red light ; fche gate towers sent op
tall columns of flame and smoke. The neighboring hills were
lighted up ; and dark gronps of people were seen watching in
horrible anxiety the progress of the destruction : the walls and
heights of the upper city were crowded with faces, some pale
with the agony of despair, others scowling nnavailing vengeauce.
The shouts of the Roman soldiery, as they ran to and fro, and
the howlings of the insurgents who were perishing in the flames,
mingled with the roaring of the conflagration and the thundering
sound of falling timbers. The echoes of the mountains replied,
or brought back the fshrieks of the people on the heights; all
along the walls resounded screams and wuilings : men, who were
expiring with famine, rallied their remaining strength to utter a
cry of anguish and desolation.

The slaughter within was even more dreadful than the spectacle
from without. Men and women, old and young, insurgents and
priests, those who fought, and those who entreated mercy, were
hewn down in indiscriminate carnage. The number of the plain
exceeded that of the slayers. The legionaries had to clamber
over heaps of dead to carry on the work of extermination. John,
at the head of some of his troops, cut his way through, first, into
the outer court of the temple, afterwards, into the upper city.
Some of the priests upon the roof wrenched ofi* the g"*'ded spikes,
with their sockets of lead, and used them as missiles against the
Romans below. Afterwards they fled to a part of the wall
about fourteen feet wide ; they were summoned to surrender;
bv.c two of them, Mair, son of Belga, and Joseph, son of Dalai,
plunged headlong into the flames.

No part escaped the fury of the Romans. The treasuries with
all their wealth of money, jewels, and costly robes — the plunder
which the zealots had laid up — were totally destroyed. Nothing
remained but a small part of the outer cloister, in which abont
0000 unarmed and defenceless people, with women and children,
had taken refuge. These poor wretches, like multitudes of others,
had been led up to the temple by a false prophet, who had pro
claimed that God commanded all the Jews to go up to the temple,
where He would display His almighty power to save His people.
The soldiers set fire to the building ; every soul perished.

For during all this time false prophets, suborned by the zealots,
had kept the people in a state of feverish excitement, as though
the appointed Deliverer would still appear. They could not, in-
deed, but remember the awful, the visible signs which had pre-

LAST DAYS OF HERCULANEUll.

3, some

ceded the siege — the fiery sword, the armies fighting in the air ;
the opening of the great gate, the fearful voice within the sanc-
tuary, " Let ns depart ; " the wild cry of Jesus, son of Ananus —
Woe, woe to the city, which he had continued from the govern-
ment of Albinis to the time of the siege, when he suddenly
stopped, shrieked out — Woe to mijself! and was struck dead by a
stone. Yet the undying hopes of fierce fanaticism were kept alive
by the still renewed prediction of that Great One, who would at
this time arise out of Judaea, and assume the dominion of the
world. This prophecy the flattering Josephus declared to be ac-
complished in the Roman Vespasian ; but more patriotic inteiv
preters still, to the last, expected to see it fulfilled in the person
of the conquering Messiah, who would reveal Himself in the
darkest hour, wither the Roman legions with one word, and then
transfer the seat of empire from the Capitol to Zion.

The whole Roman army entered the sacred precincts, and
pitched their standards among the smoking ruins ; they offered
sacrifice for the victory, and with loud acclamations saluted Titus
as emperor. Their joy was not a little enhanced by the value of
the plunder they had obtained, which was so great that gold fell
in Syria to half its former value. The few priests were still on
the top of the walls to which they had escaped. A boy emaciated
with hunger came down on a promise that his life should be
spared. He immediately ran to drink, filled his vessel, and
hurried away to his comrades with such speed that the soldiers
could not catch him. Five days afterwards the priests wert3
starved in to surrender ; they entreated for their lives, but Titus
answered that the hour of mercy was past ; they were led to cxe-
cntion. — Milman.

LAST DAYS OF HERCULANEUM.

(a.d. 79.)

There was a man,
A Roman soldier, for some daring deed
That trespass'd on the laws, in dungeon low
Chain'd down. He was a noble spirit, rough,
But generous, and brave, and kind.
He had a son, 'twas a rosy boy,
A little faithful copy of his sire
In &ce and gesture. In her pangs she died

I" '

1 1
*

iiii!^

' i;

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'M ii i'

68 LAST DAYS OK HEUCUUKEOM. ,

That gave him birth ; and ever since the child
Had been his father's solace and his care.

Every sport
'J'ho father shared and heighten'd ; but at length
The rigorous law had gri'.sp'd him, and condemn'd
To fetters and to darkness.

The captive's lot
He felt in all its bitterness: the walls
Of his deep dungeon answer'd many a sigh
And heart-heaved groan. His tale was known, and touch'd
His jailer with compassion ; and the boy.
Thenceforth a frcfjucnt visitor, beguiled
His father's lingering hours, and brought a balm
With his loved presence *ihat in every wound
Dropt healing. But in this terrific hour
He wan a poison'd arrow in the breast
Where he had been a cure.

With earliest morn,
Of that first day of darkness and amaze
He c.ime. The iron door was closed — for them
Never to open more ! The day, the night,
Dragg'd slowly by; nor did they know the fato
Impending o'er the city. Well they heard
The pent-up thunders in the earth beneath,
And felt its giddy rocking ; and the air
Grew hot at length, and thick ; but in his straw
The boy was sleeping ; and the father hoped
The earthquake might pass by; nor would he wako
From his sound rest the unfearing child, nor tell
The dangers of their state. On his low couch
The fetter'd soldier sank, and with deep awe
Listen'd the fearful sounds : with upturn'd eye
To the great gods he breathed a prayer ; then strove
To calm himself, and lose in sleep a while
His useless terrors. But he could not sleep :
His body burn'd with feverish heat ; his chains
Clank'd loud although he moved not. Deep in earth
Groan'd unimaginable thunders ; sounds,
Fearful and ominous, arose and died
Like the sad meanings of November's wind
In the blank midnight. Deepest horror chill'd
His blood that burn'd before ; cold clammy sweats
Came o'er him ; then anon a fiery thrill
Shot through his veins. Now on his couch he shrunk
And shiver'd as in fear; now upright lenp'd,
As though he heard the battle-trumpet sound.
And long'd to cope with death.

He slept at last

LAST DAYS OF HERCULANEDM.

A troubled, dreamy sleep. Well— had he slept
Never to waken more ! His hours are few,
But terrible his agony.

Soon the storm
Burst forth : the lightnings glanced ; the air
Shook with the thunders. They awoke— they sprang
Amazed upon their feet. The dungeon glow d
A moment as in sunshine — and was dark :
Again a flood of white flame fills the cell,
Dying away upon the dazzled eye
In darkening, quivering tints, as stunning sound
Dies throbbmg, ringing in the ear. Silence,
And blackest darkness. With intensest awe
The soldier's frame was fiU'd; and many a thought
Of strange foreboding hurried through his mind.
As underneath he felt the fever'd earth
Jarring and lifting — and the massive walls
Heard harshly grate and strain : yet knew he not.
While evils undefined and yet to come
Glanced through his thoughts, what deep and cureless wound
Fate had already gi^en. Where, man of woe !
Where, wretched father ! is thy boy ? Thou callest
His name in vain — he cannot answer thee.

Loudly the father call'd upon his child ;
No voice replied. Trembling and anxiously,
He search'd their couch of straw; with henalong haste
Trod round its stinted limits, and, low bent.
Groped darkling on the earth — no (;liild was there.
Again he call'd : again at furthest stretch
Of his accursed fetters — till the blood
Seem'd bursting from his ears, and from his eyes
Fire flash'd — he strain'd with arm extended far,
And fingers widely spread, greedyto touch
Though but his idol's garment. Useless toil !
Yet still renew'd: still round and round he goes.
And strains and snatches, and with dreadful cries
Calls on his boy. Mad frenzy fires him now :
He plants against the wall his feet ; — his chain
Grasps ; — tugs with giant strength to force away
The deep-driven staple ; — yells and shrieks with rage ;
And, like a desert lion in the snare,
Raging to break his toils, to and fro bounds.
But see ! the ground is opening : a blue light
Mounts gently waving — noiseless; — thin and cold
It seems, and like a rainbow tint, not flame;
But by its lustre, on the earth outstretch'd,
Behold the lifeless child ! — his dress singed,

TUB COLISEUM.

■h ,1

And over his serene face a dark line
Points out the hghtuiug's track.

The father saw,
And all his fury fled. A dead calm fell
That instant un him : speechless, fix'd he stood,
And with a look that never wander'd, gazed
Intensely on the corse. Those laughing eyes
Were n«t yet closed; and round those pouting lips
The wonted smile return'd.

Silent and pale
The father stands: no tear is in his eye.
The thunders bellow — but he hears them not: '

The ground lifts like a sea— he knows it not :
The strong walls grind and gape : the vaulted roof
Takes shapes like nubble tossing in the wind:
iSo«e I he looks up and smiles; for death to him
Is happiness. Yet could one last embrace
Be j^iven, 'twere still a sweeter thing to die.

It will be given. Look ! how the rolling ground,
At every swell, nearer and still more near
Moves towards the father's outstretch'd arm his boy:
Once he has touch'd his garment ; how his eye
Lightens with love — and hope — and anxious fears!
Ha! see: he has him now!— he clasps him round —
Kisses his face;— puts back the curling locks
That shaded his fine brow ;— looks in his eyes —
Grasps in his own those little dimpled hands —
Then folds him to his breast, as he was wont
To lie when sleeping, and resign'd awaits
Undreaded death.

And death came soon and swift,
And pangless.

The huge pile sank down at once
Into the opening eartb. Walls — arches — roof —
And deep foundation stones — all mingling fell !

— Atherstone.

THE COLISEUM.

The stars are forth, the moon above the tops
Of the snow-shining mountains. Beautiful I
I linger yet with nature, for the night
Hath been to me a more familiar face
Than that of man ; and in her starry shade
^'f dim and solitary loveliness,
I learn'd the language of another world.

THE COLISEUM.

COLISBUH.

I do remember me, that in my youth,
When I was wandering, upon such a night
I stood within the Coliseum's wall,
'Midst the chief relics of all-mighty Eome :
The trees which grew along the broken arches
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars
Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar
The watchdog bay'd beyond the Tiber ; and
More near, from out the Caesars' palace came
The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly.
Of distani; sentinels the fitful song
Begun and died upon the gentle wind.

Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach ,

Appear d to skirt the horizon, yet they stood

Within a bow-shot. Where the Csssars dwelt,

And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst

A grove which springs through levell'd battlements,

And twines its roots with the imperial hearths,

Ivy usurps ihe laurel's place of growth ;

But the gladiator's bloody circus stands

A noble wreck in ruinous perfection !

While CaBsar's chambers and the Augustan halls

Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon
All this, and oast a wide and tender light,

i|i

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lit]

HOIANY.

Which soflonM down tlic hoar aust«'rity

Of rugged desolation, and hL d up,

As 'twere anew, the gaps of (•cnturios ;

Leaving that beautiful which Htill was so,

And making that wliich was not, till the place

Became religion, and the heart ran o'er

With silent worship of the great of old —

The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule

Our spirits from tHeir urns ! —Byron.

BOTANY.

We Bee plants growing froir the seed in spring-time, and gradually
developing their parts : at length they blossom, bear fruit, and
produce seeds like those from which they grew. Shall we com-
mence the study of the plant with the full-grown herb or tree,
adorned with flowers or laden with fruit ? Or shall we commenco
with the seedling just rising from the ground P On the whole,
we may got a clearer idea of the whole life arid structure of
plants if wo begin at the beginning, — that is, with the plantlet
springing from the seed, and follow it throughout its course of
growth. This also agroos be.^t with the season in which the
study of botany is generally commenced, — namely, in the spring
of the year, when the growth of plants from the seed can hardly
fail to attract attention. Indeed, it is this springing forth of
vegetation from seeds and buds, after the rigors of our long
winter, clothing the earth ^ surface almost at once with a mantle
of freshest verdure, which gives to spring its greatest charm.
Even the dullest behol4er, the least observant of nature at other
seasons, can then hardly fail to ask, What are plants P How do
they live and grow ? What do they live upon ? What is the
object and use of vegetation in general, and of its particular and
wonderfully various forms P

A reflecting as well as observing person, noticing the resem-
blances between one plant and another, might go on to inquire
whether plants, with all their manifold diversities of form and
appearance, are not all constructed on one and the same general
plan. It will become apparent, as we proceed, that this is the
case ; that one common plan may be discerned, which each par-
ticular plant, whether herb, shrub, or tree, has followed much
more closely thf.n would at first view be supposed. The difier-

BOTANY.

eooes, wide as thoy are, are merely incidental. What is true in
a general way of any ordinary vegetable will be fonud true of all,
only with great variation in the deiniln. In tbo same liuiguage,
thongh in varied phrase, the hundrt'd thonsand kinds of plants
repeat the same story, — are the living witnesses and illustrations
of one and the same plan of Creative Wisiloni in the vegetable
world. So that tho Htudv of any one plant, traced from the
seed it springs from round to tho seeds it produces, would illus-
trate the whole subject of vegetable life and growth. It matters
little, therefore, what particular plant we begin with.

THB UAPt.18.

Take, for example, a seedling maple. Sugar maples may be
found in abundance in many places, starting from the seed or
germinating in early spring, and red maples at the beginning of
summer, shortly after the fruits of tho season have ripened and
fallen to the ground. A pair of narrow green leaves raised on a
tiny stem make up the whole plant at its first appearance. Soon
a root appears at the lower end of the stemlet ; then a little bud
at its upper end, between the pair of leaves, which soon grows
into a second joint or stem bearing another pair of leaves, re-

li <

li i

^i i

BOTANT.

sembling the ordinary leayes of tbo red maple, which the first did
not.

Was this plantlet formed in the seed at the time of gorminai
tion, something as the chick is formed in the o^g during the pro-
cess of incubation ? Or did it exist before in the seed, ready
formed? To decide this question, we have only to inspect a
sonnd seed, which in this instance requires no microscope, nor
any other instrument than a sharp knife, by which the coats of
the seed (previously soaked in water, if dry) may be laid open.
We find within the seed, in this case, the little plantlet ready
formed, and nothing else ; namely, a pair of leaves like those of
the earliest seedlings, only smaller, borne on a stemlet jnst like
that of the seedling, only much shorter, and all snugly coiled up
within the protecting seed-coat. The plant then exists before-
hand in the seed in miniature. It was not formed, bat only dc-
velop( d in gormination ; when it had merely to unfold and
grow, — to elongate its rudimentary stem, which takes at the
same time an upright position, so us to bring the leaf-bearing end
into the light and air, where the two loaves expand; »yhile from
the opposite end, now puBhed further downwards into the soil,
the root begins to grow. All this is true in the main of all
plants that spring from real seeds, although with great diversity
in the particulars. At least, there is hardly an exception to the
fact, that the plantlet exists ready formed in the seed in some
shape or other.

The rudimentary plantlet contained in the seed is called an
embryo. Its little stem is named the radicle^ because it was sup-
posed to bo the root, when the difference between the root and
stem was not so well known as now. It were better to name it
the caulicle^ (little stem ;) but it is not expedient to change old
names. The seed-leaves it bears on its summit (here two in
number) are technically called cotyledons. The little bud of un-
developed leaves which is to be found between the cotyledons be-
fore germination in many cases (as iu the pea, bean, &o.) has been
named the plumule.

In the maple, as also in the morning glory, and the like, this
bud or plumule is not seen for some days after the seed-leaves are
expanded. But soon it appears in the maple as a pair of minute
leaves, ere long raised in a stalk which carries them up to some
distance above the cotyledons. The plantlet now consists, above
g^nnd, of two pairs of leaves — viz., 1. The cotyledons or seed-
leaves, borne on the summit of the ori^nal stemlet, (the radicle;)

A'I»S> »

froi

BOTAKT. W§

lad 2. A pair of ordinarY leaves, mised on a second joint of stem
which has grown from tne top of the firHt. Later, a third pair of
leaves is formed, and raised on a third joint of stem, proceeding
from the Hummit of the second, juHt u,h that did from the first, and
so on, until the germinating plantli't becomes a tree.

So the youngest seedling, and even the embryo in the seed, is
already an epitome of the herb or tree. It has a stem, from the
lower end of which it strikes root; and it has leaves. The tree
itself in its whole vegetation has nothing more in kind. To be-
come a tree, the plantlet has only to repeat itself npwardly by
producing more similar parts, — that is, new portions of stem,
with new and larger leaves, in succession, — while beneath, it
pushes its root deeper and deeper into the soil.

. «•«•(!«

<• Ai y X

%yOM£ CKCfi

THB PLOWEU.

The Flower. — The object of the flower is the production of
seed. The flower consists of all those parts or organs which are
subservient to this end. Some of these parts are necessary to
the production of seed. Others serve merely to protect or sup-
port the more essential parts. The organs of the flower are,
therefore, of two kinds ; namely, first, the protecting organs^ or
leaves of the flower^ — also called the floral envelopes^ — and, se-
cond, the essential organs. The latter are situated within or a
little above the former, and are enclosed by them in the bud.
The floral envelopes in a complete flower are double ; that ie^
they consist of two whorls, or cii-cles of leaves, one above or
within the other. The outer set forms the GaVyx ; this more

V I

^M . !

'it ■ '
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ISDJ ji

BOTANY.

commonly oonsists of green or greenish leaves, bnt not always.
The inner set, nsaally of a delicate texture, and of some othei^
color than green, and in most cases forming the most showy
part ot ♦^^he blossom, is the corolla. Each leaf cr sepamte piece
of the corcUa is called a petal; each leaf of the calyx is called a
sepal. The sepals and the petals — or, in other words, the leaves
of the blossom — servo to protect, support, or nourish the parts
within. They do not themselves make a perfect flower.

cSome plants, however, naturally produce, besides their perfect
flowers, others which consist only of calyx and corolla, (one or
both,) — that is, of leaves. These, destitute as they are of the
essential organs, and incapable of producing seed, are called
neutral flowers. Wo have an example in the flowers round the
margin of the cyme of the hydrangea, and of the cranberry-tree,
or snowball, in their wild state. By long cultivation in gardens,
the whole cluster has been changed into showy, but useless,
neutral flowers, in these and some other cases. What are called
double flowersy such as full roses, buttercups, and camellias, ai'e
blossoms which, under the gardener's care, have developed with
all their essential organs changed into petals. But such flowers
aro always in an unnatural or monstrous condition, and are incap-
able of maturing seed for wano of the esaential organs.

The essential organs are likewise of twokinds, placed one above
or within the other, — namely, first, the stamens^ or fertilizing
organs; and, second, the pUtils, which are to be fertilized and
bear the seeds. Taking tbera in succession, therefore, beginning
from below, or at the outside, we have, first, the calyx, or outer
oircle of leaves, which are individually termed sepaZs; secondly,
the corolla^ or inner circle of delicate leaves called petals ; then a
set of stamens ; and in the centre, one or more pittttls. The end
of the flower-stalk, or the short axis, upon which all these parts
stand is called the torus, or receptacle,

A stamen consists of two parts, — namely, the ^?amew<, or stalk,
and the anther. The latter is the only essential part. It is a
case, commonly with two lobes or cells, each opening lengthwise
by a slit, at the proper time, and discharp^ing a powder or dust-
like substance, usually of a yellow color. This powder is the
pollen^ or fertilizing matter, to produce which is the sole office of
the stamen.

A pistil is distinguished into three parts ; namely, — beginning
from below, — the ovary, the style, and the stigma. The ovary is
the hollow case or yourg pod, containing rudimentary seeds

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

lot always,
some othei^
Qost showy
lamte piece
: is called a
I, the leaves
1 the parts
ir.

tieir perfect
lla, (one or
are of the
are called
i round the
aberry-tree,
in gardens,
but useless,
t are called
oiellias, &re
eloped with
luch flowers
d are incap-

d one above
fertilizing
'tilized and
beginning
IX, or outer
secondly,
lis ; then a
The end
these parts

nt, or stalk,
't. It is a
lengthwise
er or dust-
der is the
le office of

-beginning
he uvavy is
fcary seeds

called ovules. Tbo style is the tapering part above, sometimes
long and slender, sometimes short, and not rarely altogether
wanting, for it is not an essential part, like the two others. The
stigma is the tip or some other portion of the style, (or of the top
of the ovary when there is no distinct style,) consisting of loose
tissue, not covered, like the rest of the plant, by a skin or epider-
mis. It is upon the stigma that the pollen falls ; and the result
is, that the ovules contained in the ovary are fertilized and be-
come seeds, by having an embryo formed in them. To the pistil,
therefore, all the other organs of the blossom are in some way or
other subservient; the stamens frmiish pollen to fertilize its
ovules ; the corolla and the calyx form coverings which protect
the whole.

These are all the parts which belong to any flower. But these
parts appear under a variety of forms and combinations, some of
them greatly disguising their natural appearance. To understand
the flower, therefore, under whatever guise it may assume, we must
study its plan. . — Gray.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
Thou 's met me in an evil hour :
For I maun crush amang the stoure

Thy slender stem ;
To spare thee now is past m^ power,

Thou bonnie gem.

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,

Wi' speckled breast,
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet

The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth ;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm,
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth

Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High sheltering woods and was maun shield;

r"TR

BATTLE OF CHALONS.

But thou beneath the random bieM
O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibbls-tield,
Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty n^antle clad,
Thy snawy bosom aunwcrd spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head.

In humble guise ;
But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thou lies !

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet floweret of the rural shade !
By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust,
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid

Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate cf simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd !

Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore.
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er.

Such fate to suffering worth is given,
Who long with wants and woes has striven,
By human pride or cunning driven

To misery's brink.
Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven,

He, ruin'd, sink !

Even thou who mourn'st ihe daisy's fate,
That fate is thine — no distant date;
Stem Buin's ploughshare drives, elate.

Full on thy bloom,
Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom !

— Burns.

BATTLE OF CHALONS.
(a.d. 451.)

It was not until the year ,451 that the Huns commenced the
siege of Orleans ; and during their campaitrn in Eastern Gaul,
the Roman general Aetius had strenuously exerted himself iu

li I

BATTLE OF CHALONS.

— Burns.

menced tlie
stern Gaul,
himself ia

collecting and organizing such an army as might, when unit^ed to
the soldiery of the Visigoths, be fit to face the Huns in the field.
He enlisted every subject of the Roman empire whom patriotism,
courage, or compulsion could collect beneath his standards ; and
round these troops, which assumed the once proud title of the
legions of Rome, he arrayed the large forces of barbaric auxili-
aries, whom pay, persuasion, or the general hate and dread of the
Huns brought to the camp of the last of the Roman generals.
King Theodoric exerted himself with equal energy. Orleans re-
sisted her besiegers bravely as in after-times. The passage of
the Loire was defended skilfully against the Huns ; and Aetius
and Theodorio, after much manoeuvring and difficuHy, effected a
junction of their armies to the south of that important river.

On the advance of the allies upon Orleans, Attila instantly
broke up the siege of that city and retreated towards the Maine.
He did not choose to risk a decisive battle with only the central
corps of his army against the combined power of his enemies ;
and he therefore fell back upon his base of operations ; calling in
his wings from Arras and Besan9on, and concentrating the whole of
the Hunnish forces on the vast plains of Chalons-sur-Marne. A
glance at the map will show how scientifically this place was
chosen by the Hunnish general, as the point for his scattered
forces to conyerge upon ; and the nature of the ground was
eminently favorable for the operations, of cavalry, the arm in
which Attila's strength peculiarly lay.

It was during the retreat from Orleans that a Christian hermit
is reported to have approached the Hunnish king, and said to
him, " Thou art the Scourge of God for the chastisement of Chris-
tians." Attila instantly assumed this new title of terrors, which
thenceforth became the appellation by which he was most widely
and most fearfully known.

The confederate armies of Romans and Visigoths at last met
their great adversary, face to face, on the ample battle-ground of
the Chalons plains. Aetius commanded on the right of the allies;
King Theodoric on the left; and Sangipan, king of the Alans,
whose fidelity was suspected, was purposely placed in the centre,
and in the very front of the battle. Attila commanded his centre
in person, at the head of his own countrymen; while the Ostrogoths,
the Gepidas, and the other subject allies of the Huns, were drawn
up on the wings. Some manoeuvring appears to have occurred
before the engagement, in which Aetius had the advantage, inas-
much as ho succeeded in occupying a sloping hill, which com-

'^ 1

100

BATTLE OF CHALONS.

::!

manded the left flank of the Huns. Attila saw the importance
of the position taken by Aetins on the high ground, and com-
menced the battle by a furious attack on this part of the Roman
line, in which he seems to have detached some of his best troops
from his centre to aid his left. The Romans, having the advan-
tage of the ground, repulsed the Huns, and while the allies gained
this advantage on their right, their left, under King Theodoric
assailed the ^Ostrogoths, who formed the right of Attila's army.
The gallant king was himself struck down by a javelin, as he
rode onward at the head of his men, and his own cavalry charg-
ing over him, trampled him to death in the confusion. But the
Visigoths, infuriated, not dispirited, by their monarch's fall, routed
the enemies opposed to them, and then wheeled upon the flank
of the Hunnish centre, which had been engaged in a sang^nary
and indecisive contest with the Alans.

In this peril Attila made his centre fall back upon his camp ;
and when the shelter of its intrenchments and wagons had once
been gained, the Hunnish archers repulsed without difficulty the
charges of the vengeful Gothic cavalry. Aetius had not pressed
the advantage which he gained on his side of the field, and when
night fell over the wild scene of havoc, Attila's left was still
unbroken ; but his right had been routed, and his centre forced
back upon his camp.

Expecting an assault on the morrow, Attila stationed his best
archers in front of the cars and wagons, which were drawn iip
as a fortification along his lines, and made every preparation for
a desperate resistance. But the " Scourge of God" resolved that
no man should boast of having either captured or slain him ; and
he caused to be raised in the centre of his encampment a huge
pyramid of the wooden saddles of his cavalry. Round it he
heaped the spoils and the wealth that he had won, and on it he
stationed his, wives who had accompanied him in the campaign;
and on the summit Attila placed himself, ready to perish in the
flames, and balk the victorious foe of their choicest booty should
they succeed in storming his defences.

But when the morning broke, and revealed the extent of the
carnage with which the plains were heaped for miles, the success-
ful allies sav also, and respected, the resolute attitude of their
antagonist. Neither were any measures taken to blockade him
in his camp, and so to extort by famine that submission which
it was too plainly perilous to enforce with the sword. Attila was

CilARLUMAGNIi.

101

allowed to march back the remnants of his army without mules-
tation, and even with the semblance of success.

It is probable that the crafty Aetius was unwilling to be too
victorious. He dreaded the gloiy which his allies the Visigoths
had acquired, and feared that Rome might find a second Alaric
in Prince Tborismund, who had signalized himself in the battle,
and had been chosen on the field to succeed his father Thoodoric.
He persuaded the young king to return at once to his capital,
and thus relieved himself at the same time of the presence of
a dangerous friend, as well as of a formidable though beaten
foe. *

Attila's attacks on the Western empire were soon renewed;
but never with such peril to the civ'lized world as had menaced
it before his defeat at Chalons ; and on his death, two years
after that battle, the vast empire which his genius had founded
was soon dissevered by the successful revolts of the subject
nations. The name of the Huns ceased for some centuries to
inspire terror in Western Europe, and their ascendancy passed
away with the life of the crreat king by whom it had been so fear-
f^illy augmented. — Cbeasy.

CHARLEMAGNE.
(A.D. 742-814.)

In analyzing the characters of heroes, it is hardly possible to
separate altogether the share of fortune from their own. The
epoch made by Charlemagne in the history of the world, the illus-
trious families which prided themselves in him as their progeni-
tor, the very legends of romance, which are full of his fabulous
exploits, have cast a lustre around his head, and testify the great-
ness that had embodied itself in his name. None, indeed, of
Charlemagne's wars ca»i be compared with the Saracenic victory
of Charles Martel ; but that was a contest for freedom, his for
conquest ; and fame is more partial to successful aggression than
to patriotic resistance. As a scholar, his acquisitions were prob-
ably little superior to those of his unrespected son ; and in seve-
ral points of view the glory of Charlemagne might be extenuated
by an analytical dissection. But, rejectiiij^ a mode of judging
equally uncandid and fallacious, we shall find that he possessed
in everything that grandeur of conception which disthiguishes

rlf

ill I.

i l!

i ':i

102

CHARLEMAGNE.

extraordinary minds. Like Alexander, he seemed bom for nni.
versal innovation. In a life restlessly active, we see him reform-
ing the coinage, and establishing the legal divisions of money;
gathering abont him the learned of every country; founding
schools, and collecting libraries; interfering, but with the tone
of a king, in religious controversies ; aiming, though prematurely,
lit the formation of a naval force; attempting, for the sake of
(v)mmerce, the ma^ificent enterprise of uniting the Rhine and the
Danube ; and meditating to mould the discordant codes of Roman
and barbarian laws into a uniform system.

The great qualities of Charlemagne were, indeed, alloyed by
the vices of a barbarian and a conqueror. Nine wives, whom he
divorced with vory little ceremony, attest the license of his pri-
vate life, which his temperance and frugality can hardly be said
to redeem. Unsparing of blood; though not constitutionally
cruel, and wholly indifferent to the means which his ambition
prescribed, he beheaded in one day four thousand Saxons — an
act of atrocious butchery, after which his persecuting edicts, pro-
nouncing the pain of death against those who refused baptism,
or even who ate flesh during Lent, seem scarcely worthy of notice.
This union of barbarous ferocity with elevated views of national
improvement might suggest the parallel of Peter the Great. But
the degrading habits and bmte violence of the Muscovite place
him at an immense distance from the restorer of the empire.

A strong sympathy for intellectual excellence was the leading
characteristic of Charlemagne, and this undoubtedly biassed him
in the chief political error of his conduct — that of encouraging
the power and pretensions of the hierarchy. But perhaps his
greatest eulogy is written in the disgraces of succeeding times
and the miseries of Europe. He stands alone, like a beacon
upon a waste, or a rock in the broad ocean. His sceptre was
the bow of Ulysses, which could not be drawn by any weaker
hand. In the dark ages of European history, the reign of Charle-
magne affords a solitary resting-place between two long periods of
turbulence and ignominy, deriving the advantages of contrast
both from that of the preceding dynasty and of a posterity for
whom he had formed an empire which they were unworthy and
unequal to maintain. — Hallam.

A DISH OF VEGETABLES.

10*3

A DISH OF VEGETABLES.

From the moss to the palm-tree the number of contributions
made by the vegetable world towards the sustenance of man
would make a bulky list of benefactors. We have not room to
advert to them all, still less to talk about them all. It may be
well, however, and only grateful in us, as human beings and
recipients of vegetable bounty, to do a little trumpeting in
honor of the great families of plants which have contributed
with more especial liberality towards the colonization of the
world by man. ^

For exanfile, there is, iii the first place, the Potato family,
famoiis for ics liberal principles, and the wide sphere over which
its influence is spread. The members of this family, with equal
^neuosity, are prompt to place a luxury upon the rich man's
gravy, or a heap of food beside the poor man's salt. The potato
family has been for many years one of the noblest benefactors to
the human colony ; and when it was prevented lately, by ilU
boalth, from the fulfilment of its good intentions, great was the
anxiety of men, and many were the bulletins of health sought
for and issued.

The family seat of the potatoes is well known to be in Ame-
rica. They are a comparatively new race in our own country,
(England,) since they did not come over until tomo time after
the Conqueror. The genealogists have nearly settled, after
macb discussion, that all members of this family spread over the
world, are descended from the potatoes of Chili. Their town-
seat is in the neighborhood of Valparaiso, upon hills facing the
sea. The potatoes were early spread over many portions of
America, on missions for the benefit of man, who had not been
long in discovering that they were friends worth cultivating pro-
perly. It is said that the first potato who visited Europe came
over with Sir Francis Drake in 1573 ; it is said, also, that some
of the family had accompanied Sir John Hawkins in 1563 ; it is
certain that a body of potatoes quitted Virginia in 1586, and
cama. to England with Sir Walter Raleigh. M. Duval, who hag
written an elaborate history of the potato family, shows it to be
extremely probable «faat, before the time of Raleigh, a settlement
of potatoes had been found in Spain. Reaching England in
1586, the benevolent potato family was welcomed into Belgium
in 1590. In 1610, the first potatoes went to Ireland, where

ifTir

104

A DISU UK VEUElAKmS.

thuy eveutually multiplied and grew to form one of the most
important brancl^is of this worthy race. The Scotch potatoes
date their origin, as a distinct branch, from 1728. It was at
dates not very different from this that otheg branches of the
family settled ip Germany. The potatoes of Switzerland first
settled in 1730, in the Canton of Berne. In 1738, the thriving
family extended its benevolent assistance to the Prussians ; but
it was not until 1767 that its aid was sohcited in Tuscany. In
France the kindly efforts of this family were not appreciated
until, in the middle of the last century, there arose a man. Par-
mentier, who backed the introduction of potatoes into France
with recommendations so emphatic, that it was designed to
impute to him the interest of near relationship, not indeed by
calling him Potato, but by calling potatoes by his name, 'Par-
mentiers. The benevolent exertions made by the potato family
on behalf of France, during the famine of 1793, completely
established it in favour with the grateful people.

Potatoes, though so widely spread, are unable to maintain
their health under too warm a climate. On the Andes, they fix
their abode at a height of ten to thirteen thousand feet ; in the
Swiss Alps, they are comfoi'table on the mountain sides, and
spread in Berne to the height of five thousand feet, or not very
much less. Over the north of Europe the potato family extends
its labours further on into the cold than even barley, which is
famous as the hardiest of grain. There are potatoes settled in
Iceland though that is a place in which barley declines to hve.
The potato is so nutritious, and can be cultivated with so little
skill and labour, that it tempts some nations to depend solely on
it for sustenance. The recent blight, especially in Ireland, con-
sequently occasioned the most disastrous effects.

The Barley branch of the grass family has, however, a large
establishment in Scotland, even to the extreme north, in the
Orkneys, Shetland, and, in fact, even in the Faroe Islands. They
who are in the secrets of the barleys, hint that they would be
very glad to settle in the southern districts of Iceland — say about
Reikiavik — if it were not for the annoyance of unseasonable rains.
In Western Lapland there may be found heads of the house of
barley as far north as Cape North, which is the most northern
point of the continent of Europe. It has a settlement in Russia,
on the shores of the White Sea, beyond Archangel. Over a
great mass of Northern Siberia no barley will undertake to live ;
and as the potatoes have found their way into such barren dis-

A DISH OF VBOETABLiS».

105

tricts only hero and there, the country that is too far north tor
barley is too far north for agriculture. There the people live a
nomad life, and owe obligation in the world of plants, to lichens
for their food, or to such families as offer them the contribution
of roots, bark, or a few scraps of fruit.

It is not much that barley asks as a condition of its gifts to
any member of the human colony. It wants a summer heat,
averaging about forty-six degrees ; and it does, not waut to be
perpetually moistened. If it is to do anything at all in moist
places, like islands, it must ha' ^ three degrees added to the
average allowance of summer heat, with which it would otherwise
be content. As for your broiling hot weather, no barley will
stand it. Other grasses may tolerate the tropics if they please ;
barley refuses to be baked while it is growing. The barleys are
known to be settled as an old native family in Tartary and Sicily,
two places very far apart. Their pedigree, however, and, indeed,
the pedigrees of all the branches of the great grass family, must
remain a subject wrapped in uncertainty, buried in darknessi
and lost in a great fog of conjecture.

We find Oats spread over Scotland to the extreme north
point, and settled in Norway and Sweden to the latitudes sixty-
three and sixty- five. Both oats and rye extend in Russia to
about the same latitude of sixty-three degrees. The benevolent
exertion of oats is put forth on behalf not only of men, but also
of their horses. In Scotland and Lancashire, in some countnes
of Germany, especially south of Westphalia, the people look to oats
for sustenance. Scotch bone and muscle are chiefly indebted to
oatmeal ; for porridge (which consists of oatmeal and water, and
is eaten with milk) i» the strple — almost the only — food of the
sturdy Scotch peasantry. South of the parallel of Paris, how-
evor, the friendship of oats is little cultivated. In Spain and
Portugal nobody knows anything about oats, except as a point of
curiosity.

The Rye branch of the grass family travels more to the north
than oats in Scandinavia. In our own country we decline to receive
gifts fiom rye. We succeed so well in the cultivation of more
wealthy benefactors that we consider the rye poor friends, and,
like good Britons, hold them at arms* length accordingly. In
countries where the land is poor, poor rye is welcome to a settle-
ment upon it. Rye is in great request in Russia, Germany, and
parts of France, and one-th rd of the population of Euroge look
to its help for daily bread.

106

A DISH OF VEGETABLES.

The most urimerous aud respectable membera of the great
grass family are those which bear the name of Wheat. There
are an immense number of different wheats : as many wheats
among the grasses as there are in this country Smiths among
men. We knov - them best as summer and winter wheats. The
family seat of the wheats most probably will never be discovered. I
There is reason to believe that Tartary and Persia are the native I
countries of wheat, oats, and rye. Strabo says that wheat ig
native on the banks of the Indus. Probably, wherever the old
seats may be, all trace of them was destroyed in very ancient
times, when, even a thousand years ago and more, the plough
passed over them. The settlements of wheat in Scotland extend
to the north of Inverness ; in Norway, to Drontheim ; in Russia,
to St Petersburg. How far north the wheats would consent to |
extend the sphere of their influence in America it is not possible to
tell, because enough attempt at cultivation has not yet been made
there in the northern regions. Winter cold does not concern the
wheats: the spring-sown wheat escapes it, and that sown in autumn
is protected by a covering of snow. Wheat keeps a respectful
distance of twenty degrees from the equator; indeed, in the
warm latitudes, new combinations of heat and moi^ure, grateful
to new and very beautiful members of the vegetable world, who
suit their gifts more accurately to the wishes of the people whom
they feed, would cause the kind offices of wheat to be rejected,
even if they could be offered there. On the mountains in warm
climates, settlements of wheat of course exist. On the north
side of the Himalaya mountains, wheat and barley flourish at a |
height of thirteen thousand feet.

The well-known name of Rice carries our thoughts to Asia.
The family seat is somewhere in Asia, doubtless ; but all trace of I
it is lost. The family has always lived in Southern Asia, where
it supplies food, probably, to more men than any other race of
plants has ever had occasion to support. No rice can enjoy good
health without much heat and much moisture. If these could be
found everywhere, everybody would cultivate a valuable friend,
that is supposed to scatter over a given surface of ground more
than a common share of nourishment.

Most liberal of all vegetables, however, in this respect, are the
Bananas. Humboldt tells us that they spread over the same
given extent of ground forty-four times more nutritive matter |
than the potatoes, and a hundred and thirty-three times more than
any wheat.

A DISH OF VeOETABLES.

107

Where the benevolent among our graBses cease to grow, be-
Icaase it is too far south, there it is just far enough north for the
CocoA-NoTS, who, withiu their limited sphere, supply a vast con-
tribution towards the maintenance of man, that very wise and
rery independent creature. Very nearly three millions of cocoa-
pots have been exported in one year from the Island of Ceylon.

Then there is in Brazil that excellent vegetable friend, Manioc,
It shrub whose root.s yield almost the only kind of meal theire used.
An acre of manioc is said to yield as much food as six acres of
Iwheat.

And, to come nearer home, there is a large-hearted plant bear-
ling the name of Maize, and the nickname of Indian corn. Its
native seat has not been fixed yet by the genealogist. It grows at
a good height above the sea in tropical America, and it occurs in
eastern Europe on the banks of the Dniester, in latitude forty-nine.
Maize does not care about the winter; it wants nothing but
sammer heat in a country which it is to choose as a congenial
habitation. It will do also with less heat than the vine ; for it
I has been grown in the lower Pyrenees, at three thousand two hun-
Idred and eighty feet above the level of the sea, the vine stopping
|at two thousand six hundred and twenty.

We have here spoken only of a few or the great liberal families
IbeloDgiug to the world of plants ; families to which the human
jcolony looks for support ; upon whose aid we, in fact, depend for
jour existence. The whole list of our vegetable patrons would be
Ivery long. Respectable names must crowd down upon every
|memory, and take us off to

" Citron groves ;
To where the lemon and the piercing lime,
With the deep orange, glowing through the green,
Their lighter glories blend. Lay ns reclined
Beneath the spreading tamarind " —

•

fact, take us a long dance among roots, and fruits, and vege-
ibles. It must be enough, therefore, that we have here briefly
bxpressed a general sense of obligatiru to our vegetable friends,
tod hinted at a fact which, in our high philosophy, we now and
[then forget, that the outer world may be a shadow, or -a reflex of
ir own minds, or anything you please to call it ; but that we,
3r fellows, should be rather at a loss for dinner if the earth did
ttot send up for us, out of a kitchen that we did not build, our
torn, and wine, and oil. — Household Words.

Iffir

108

VtlllilAliLE CLOTlllNU — FLAX, UEMl', ANU COrfON.

;'li

i i

■ }

THE LINDEN THEE.

Here 's a song for thee — of the linden tree !

A song of the silken lime !
There ia no other tree so ploaseth me,

No other bo fit for rhyme.

When I was a boy it was all my joy

To resL in its scented shade,
When the sun was high, and the river nigh

A musical murmur made.

When floating along, like a winged song,

The traveller- bee would stop.
And choose Tor his bower the lime- tree flower.

And drink — to the last sweet drop.

When the evtming star stole forth, afar,
And the gnats flew round and round,

I sought for a rhyme beneath the lime,
Or dream'd on the grassy ground.

Ah ! years have fled ; and the linden dead.

Is a brand on the cottier's floor,
And the river creeps through its slimy deeps.

And youth — is a thought of yore !

Yet — they live again, in the dreamer's brain.

As deeds of love and wrong,
Which pass with a .sigh, and seem to die,

Survive in the poet's song.

— Bakhy Cornwall.

■ I;

m h

VEGETABLE CLOTHING -FLAX, HEMP, AND COTTON

The vegetable matters employed for clothing are chiefly of two!
kinds : the fibres of plants, and the downy substance in whichl
the seeds are sometimes embedded. The fibrous or stringy tex-[
ture is very prevalent in vegetables. We see it in the bark aDil|
wood of trees, in the stalks of green or herbaceous plants, antll
in the leaves of all. The longer parallel fibres are held togetherl
by shorter cross ones, forming a network, cemented by a glutinousj
matter. The ingenious, though but half-civilized, people ofT
Otaheite have discovered a method of making tolerable cloth oil
the inner bark of certain trees, by steeping it in water, and thenj

VHdRTAHLR CLOTHINO — FLAX, IIKMI', AND COTTON.

100

eating it with a woodcti mallet. But the more artful way of
employing vegetable fibres conBists in an entire Hepanition of
jhem from the matter that held them together, redacing them to
tlcan loose bundles, then twisting them into threads, and lastly
|nter wearing them.

The pln.i/s selected in Europe for the purpose of making thread
ind cloth froi3 their fibres are chiefly flax and hemp. Flax (in

JLAX PLAWT.

atin Uiium, whence the word linen) is an annual plant, rising on

single stalk to a moderate height, and crowned with handsome
blue flowers, succeeded by globular seed vessels. It is suffered

grow till the seeds are ripe, and is then plucked up by the
hand, laid in little bundles to dry, deprived of its seed vessels^

ad then put into pits of water to rot. The purpose of this part
of the process is to dissolve a mucilaginous matter, which holds
[the fibres together ; and it is the most disagreeable part of the

magement of flax, as the smell arising from it while rotting is
extremely offensive, and prejudicial to the health. When the
^ax has lam long enough it is taken out, washed, dried, then

eaten witli mallets, combed, and by various other operations so
prepared, that the long fibres are got by themselves, clean and
[loose, in which state they are called j^aa; ; the shorter and coarser
^bres, separated by the comb, are called ioiv. The operation of

1 •!

I'^

ifi

110

VEGETABLE CLOTHING — FLAX, HEMP, AND COTTON.

spinning, which it next undergoes, consists in drawing out, with
the fingers, several of the fibres together, and twisting them.
The product of spinning is thread, which is more or less fine ac-
cording to the dexterity of the spinner md the nature of the
material. Some thread closer twisted than the rest is kept for
needlework, but the greater part is made up in bundles, called
linen-yarn, and committed to the weaver.

Weaving may be regarded *as a finer kind of matting. To per-
form it, the threads, which form the length of a piece of cloth,
are first disposed in order, and strained by weights to a proper
tightness; this is called the warp. These threads are divided
by an instrument called a reed, into two sets, each composed of
every other thread ; and while, by the working of a treadle, each
set is thrown alternately up and down, the cross-threads, called
the woof or weft, are inserted between them, by means of a little
instrument, sharp at both ends, called a shuttle, which is briskly
shot from one of the weaver's hands to the other, placed on the
opposite sides of the work, and carries the thread with it. This
is the simplest kind of weaving ; but numberless are the additional
contrivances made for all the curious works wrought in the loom
which have been the objects of human ingenuity for many ages.

The linen fabrics are of all degrees of fineness, from coarse
sheeting to cambric, almost emulating a spider's web. They are
brought to that extreme whiteness which w.e so much admire by
the process of bleaching. This consists in their exposure to the
action of the sun and air, with frequent wateriiig, and often with
the help of some acid liquor, which quickens the operation. The
value that can be given to a raw material by manufacturing is in
few instances more strikingly exemplified than in the conversion
of flax into Brussels lace, some of which sells for several guineas
a yard. Indeed, if you look at a plant of flax growing, and then
at the frill of your shirt, you cannot fail to be struck with ad-
miration of human skill and industry.

Hemp is a much taller and stronger plant than flax. It has a
square rough stalk, rising to the height of five or six feet, and
sending off branches. Its fibrous part consists in the bark sur-
rounding the main stalk. Hemp undergoes the 'lame general pre-
paration as flax before it is consigned to the weaver; but, being
of a stronger and coarser texture, it requires more labor to get
the fine fibres separate from the rest. Hence it is commonly em-
ployed in the more homely manufactures ; it is the principal
material of sailcloth, a fabric, the strength of which is required

VEGETABLE CLOTHING — FLAX, HEMP, AND COTTON.

I to be proportional to the violence it has to undergo from storms
and tempests ; and it is equally important to navigation, from its
use in making cordage ; for which purpose it is taken nearly in
a raw state, and twisted into coarse twine, which is afterwards
I united to make rope.

Whilst the inhabitant of the northern and temperate regions is
[obliged to exercise much labor and contrivance in procuring his
regetable clothing from the stalks of plants, the native of the

This figure represents a species of cotton plant found in India, and shows &ie manner
in which the cotton escapes from the capsule.

fraitful south enjoys the benefit of a material presented in greater
abundance, and m a state requiring much less preparation before
it is fitted for the manufacturer. This is cotton, a white woolly
bstance contained in the seed-pod of a family of plants, some of
Mch are annual and herbaceous, others perennial and shrubby,
be pods, when ripe, open of themselves, and the cotton is plucked
'lit of them by the fingers, with the seeds sticking to it ; these

■ i '.-* ' ' " 1

■ i.»i' ■I'ar.-

•^ i 1
I 11

112

VEQETABLE CLOTHING — FLAX, HEMP, AND COTTON.

are separated by means of mills, which pull out and loosen the
down. It ia then in a state fit to be sent from the planter to the
manufacturer. The further operations it undergoes are pickiDg,
carding, and roving, which last brings off the fibres longitudinally
in a continued loose line ; these are next twisted and drawn ont,
so as to make thread or yarn, and the material is then consigned
to the weaver. The vast extension of the cotton manufacture in
this country has caused these preparatory operations to be per-
formed by a system of complex machinery, the invention of the
late Sir Richard Arkwright.

The fabrics made from cotton are probably more various and
numerous than from any other material. They comprehend stuffs
of all degrees of fineness, from the transparent muslin of a robe,
or a turban, to the thick plush and warm bed-quilt. The com-
merce of Great Britain has, of late years, been peculiarly indebted
to the cotton manufacture, which produces clothing for people of
all ranks, from Russia to Guinea, and unites elegance with cheap-
ness in an unusual degree. Great quantities of the native fabrics
of the East are also imported into Europe. Some of these, from
excellence in the material and incomparable manual dexterity and
patience in the workmen, though made with very simple ma-
chinery, equal in fineness and beauty anything of European
manufacture. The natives are said to perform their finest work
in moist cool places underground, which makes the cotton
hold together so as to draw out to the thinnest threads; and
the soft and delicate fingers of the Indian women give them the
sense of feeling to a degree of nicety much beyond that of Euro-
peans.

It is probable that cotton at present clothes more people in the
world than any other substance. Its peculiar advantage, besides
cheapness, is the union of warmth with lightness, whence it is
fitted for a great variety of climates. To the hot it is better
adapted »than linen, on account of its absorbing quality, which
keeps the skin dry and comfortable. The woolliness of cotton
gives a kind of nap to the cloth made of it, which renders it soft
to the touch, but apt to attract dust. In the fine muslins this is
burned off, by passing them between heated cylinders with such
velocity as not to take fire, which, considering the combustibility
of cotton, must be a very nice operation. — Dr. Aikin.

)N.

I loosen the
^nter to tlie
ire picking,
igitudinally
drawn out,
1 consigned
ufacture in
1 to be per-
tion of the

various and
jhend stuffs
I of a robe,
The com-
ply indebted
)r people of
mth. cheap-
tive fabrics
these, from
jxterity and
simple ma-
■ European
finest work
the cotton
reads; and
-^e them the
it of Euro-

jople in the
ige, besides
hence it is
it is better
ility, which

of cotton
ders it soft
slins this is

with such
abustibility

R. AlKIN.

IHE bALLAD OF KOU. - 113

THE BALLAD OF ROU.
(A.D. 912.)

IFrom Blois to Senlis, wave b)r wave, roU'd on the Norman flood,

lAnd Frank on Frank went drifting down the weltering tide of blood ;

iThere was not lefb in all the land a castle wall to fire,

JAnd not a wife but wail'd a lord, a child but mourn'd a Hire.

ITo Charles the king, the mitred monks, the mailed barons flew,

[While, shaking earth, behind them strode the thunder march of Eou.

"0 king," then cried those barons bold, "in vain are mace and mail;
|We fall before the Norman axe, as corn before the hail."

'And vainly," cried the pious monks, "by Mary's shrine we kneel ;
iFor prayers, like arrows, glance aside, against the Norman steel."
JThe oarons groan'd, the shavelings wept, while near and nearer drew,
I As death-birds round their feast, the raven flags of Kou.

Then said Kin?; Charles, " Where thousands fail, what king can stand

alone P
The strength of kings is in the men that gather round the throne.
When war dismays my barons bold, 'tis time for war to cease ;
When Heaven forsakes ray pious monks, the will of Heaven is peace.
Go forth, my monks, with mass and rood, the Norman camp unto.
And to the fold, with shepherd crook, entice this grisly Eou.

"I'll give him all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Eure,
And Gille, my child, shall be his bride, to bind him fast and sure ;
Let him but kiss the Christian cross, and sheathe the heathen sword,
And hold the lands I cannot keep, a fief from Charles his lord."
Forth went the pastors of the Church, the shepherds' work to do.
And wrap the golden fleece around the tiger loins of Rou.

Psalm-chauting came the shaven monks, within the camp of dread ;

Amidst his warriors, Norman Rou stood taller by the head.

Out spoke the Frank archbishop then, a priest devout and sage, —

"When peace and plenty wait thy word, what need of war and rage?

Why waste a land as fair as aught beneath the arch of blue,

WTiich might be thine to sow and reap ? — Thus saith the king to Rou :

"I'll give thee all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Eure,
And Gille, my fairest child, as bride, to bind thee fast and sure ;
"thou but kneel to Christ our God, and sheathe thy paynim sword,
M hold thy land, the Church's son, a fief from Charles thy lord.' "
rhe Norman on his warriors look'd — to counsel they withdrew ;
The saints took pity on the Franks, and moved the soul of Rou.

50 back he strode, and thus he spoke to that archbishop meek :
I take the land thy king bestows, from Eure to Michael-peak ;

ili

114

DISCIPLINE.

I take the maid, or foul or fair, a bargain with the coast ;
And for thy creed, a sea-king's gods are those that give the moat.
So hie thee back, and tell thy chief to make his proffer true,
And he shall find a docile son, and ye a saint, in Rou."

So o'er the border stream of Epte came Rou the Norman, where.
Begirt with barons, sat the king, enthroned at green St. Clair;
He placed his hand in Charles's hand — loud shouted all the throng;
But tears were in King Charles's eyes — the grip of Rou was strong.
" Now kiss the foot," the bishop said, "that homage stili ?8 due ;"
Then dark the frown and stern the smile of that grim convert, Rou.

He takes the foot, as if to slavish lips to bring ;

The Normans scowl ; he tilts the throne, and backward falls the king !

Loud laugh the joyous Norman men — pale stare the Franks aghast •

And Rou lifts up his head, as from the wind springs up the mast:

" I said I would adore a God, but not a mortal too ;

The foot that fled before a foe let cowards kiss ! " said Rou.

— BULWEIl.

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DISCIPLINE.

Perhaps there have never been occasions when the habit of
instantaneous obedience to the voice of duty has produced more
touching instances of forbearance and unselfishness, than in the
confusion and despair of a shipwreck.

In British ships of war, unshrinking obediencu, heeding nothing
but the one matter in hand, is the rule. " As a landsman," says
Colonel Fisher, an engineer officer, who was on bord the Fhver
gun-boat in the hottest fire on the Peiho river, " I was much
struck with the coolness with which the navigation of the vessel
Wi^is attended to ; the man in the chains cries the soundings, the
master gives his orders to the man at the helm and the engineers
below ; the helmsman has no eyes or ears but for the master's
directions and signals. . . . All seem intent on what is their duty
at the time being, and utteJy unmindful of the struggle raging
around them." Aud this when not only were they being shot
down eveiy tnomont, but when each comparatively harmless ball
rocked the gun-boat, sent splinters flying, or brought the yards
down upon their heads. Where such conduct is regarded as a
mere matter of course, from the gray-headed admiral down to
the cadet and the cabin-boy, no wonder tlint multitudes of deeds
havo been done, glorious because they placed duty far above selt,

DISCIPLINE.

115

and proved that Nelson's signal is indeed true to the strongest
instinct of the British sailor.

The only difficulty is to choose among the instances of
patient obedience on record ; and how many more are there, un-
known to all but to Him who treasures up the record until the
day when " the sea shall give up her dead !" Let us cast a glance
at the Atalante, bewildered in a fog upon the coast of Nova
Scotia, and deceived by the signal guns of another ship in distress,
till she struck .upon the formidable reefs known by the name of
' ) Sister Rocks, off Sambro Island. Tlie wreck was complete
and hopeless, and a number of men scrambled at once into the
pinnace; but the captain, seeing that she could never float so
loaded, ordered twenty of them out, and was implicitly obeyed,
so entirely without a murmur, that as the men hung clinging to
the weather-gunwale of the ship, they drowned the crashing of
the fallinff masts with their cheers.

As soon as the pinnace was lightened, she floated ofi", but
immediately turned bottom upwards. Still the crew never lost
ti:eir self-possession for one moment, but succeeded in righting
her, and resuming their places, without the loss of a man. They
then waited beyond the dash of the breakers on the reef, for
Captain Hickey and their companions, who were still clinging to
the remains of the ship. There were two other boats, but too
small to hold the whole number, and an attempt was made to
construct a raft, bnt the beating of the waves rendered this im-
possible, so that the men already in the pinnace were directed to
lie down in the bottom, and pack themselves like herrings in a
barrel, while the lesser boats returned through the surf to pick
oif the rest— a most difficult matter, and indeed some had to be
dragged ofi'on ropes, and others to swim, but not one was lost. The
captain was of course the last man to quit the wreck, though
Beveral of the officers were most unwilling to precede him even
for a moment, and by the time he reached the boat, the last
Wmbers had almost entirely disappeared, amid the loud cheers of
the brave-hearted crew.
Nothing was saved but the admiral's despatches, which the
ptain had secured at the first moment, and the chronometer.
bis last was the special charge of the captain's clerk, who had
n directed always to hold it in his hand when the guns were
red, or the ship underwent any shock, so as to prevent the
^orks from being injured. On the first alarm he had caught up
be chix)nometer and run on deck, but being unable to swim, was

fT'rfff

116

mSCIPLINE.

forced to cling to the mizen-mast. When the ship fell over, and
the masts became nearly horizontal, he crawled out to the mizeu
top, and sat there until the spar gave way and plunged him into
the waves, whence he was dragged into one of the boats, half.
drowned, but grasping tight his precious trust. A poor merry
negro, who held fast to his fiddle to the last moment, as he clung
to the main-chains, was obliged to let hi-; instrument go, amid
the laughter and fun of his messmates, who seem to have found
food for merriment in every occurrence. No one had a full suit
of clothes, but an old quartermaster, named Samuel Shanks, who
had comported himself as composedly as if shipwrecks befell him
every day, and did not even take off his hat, except for a last
cheer to the Atalante as she sunk. Ke recollected that he had a
small compass seal hanging to his watch, and this being handed
to the captain in his gig, and placed on the top of the chrono-
meter, it proved steady enough to steer by, as the three boats crept
carefully along in the dense fog. They landed, after a few hours,
on the coast, about twenty miles from Halifax, at a fishing
station, where they were warmed and fed.

Thence the captain took the most exhausted and least-clothed
of the party in the boats to Halifax, leaving the others to march
through the half cleared country. Before night the whole ship's
company assembled, without one man missing, in as complete
order as if nothing had happened.

Here perfect discipline had proved the means of safety, and
hope had never failed for a moment ; but we have still fresh in
our memories an occasion where such forbearing obedience led to
a willing self-sacrifice, when safety might have been possible to
the strong at the expense of certain destruction to the weak.

The Birkenheady a war steamer used as a transport, was on
her way to Aigoa Bay with about six hundred and thirty persons
on board, one hundred and thirty-two being her own crew, the
rest being detachments from the 12th, 74th, and Dlst regiments,
and the wives and children of the soldiers. In the dead of the
night between the 27th and 28th of February, the vessel struck
on a reef of sunken rocks on the African coast, and, from the
rapidity with which she was moving, and the violence of the
waves, became rapidly a hopeless wreck. On the shock tbe
whole of the men and officers hurried on deck, and the com
manding officer, Lieutenant'Colonel Seton, callinj^ the other officers
about him, impressed on them the necessity of preserving order

DISCiFLINii;.

117

and silence amon^ the men, and placed them at the disposal of
the coramander" of the vessel.

Sixty were placed at the pumps, others to disengage the boats,
and others to throw the poor horses overboard, so as to lighten
the ship, while the rest we»'e sent to the poop to ease the fore part
of the ship. Every one did as directed, and not a murmur or cry
was heard. They were steady as if on parade, as ready as
though embarking in a British harbor.

The largest boat was unhappily too much encumbered to be got
at quickly enough, but the cutter was filled with the women and
children, and pushed off, as did two other small boats. The
other two large ones were, one capsized, the other stove in by
the fall of the funnel, which took place immediately afber the
cutter was clear of the ship, only twelve or fifteen minutes afber
the ship had struck. At the same time the whole vessel broke
in two parts, crosswise, and the stern part began to sink and fill
with water. The commander called out, " All those that can
swim jump overboard and swim for the boats."

But Colonel Seton, and the oflficers with him, besought their
men to forbear, showing them that if they did so, the boats with
the women must be swamped. And they stood still. Not more
than three made the attempt. Officers and men alike waited to
face almost certain death rather than endanger the women and
children. Young soldiers, mostly but a short time in the service,
were as patiently resolute as their elders. In a few moments the
whole of these brave men were washed into the sea, some sinking,
some swimming, some clinging to spars. The boats picked up
as many as was possible without overloading them, and then
made for the shore, which was only two miles off, hoping to land
these and return for more, but the surf ran so high that landing
was impossible, and after seeking till daylight for a safe landing-
place, they were at last picked up by a schooner, which then
made for the wreck, where thirty or forty were still clinging to
the masts in a dreadful state of exhaustion.

A few, both of men and horses, had succeeded in swimming to
the shore, but some were devoured by the sharks on the way,
and out of the whole number in the ship only one hundred and
ninetv-two were saved. But those who were lost, both soldiers
and sailors, have left behind them a memory of calm, self-denying
courage as heroic as ever was shown on battle-field.

— Author of the " Heir of Bedclyffe."

\mv

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CHEMISTKY.

CHEMISTRY.

The science of Chemistry has for its object the study of thf
nature and properties of the different substances of which the
earth, the waters, the air, and their inhabitants (namely, plants
and animals) are composed. In a word, it embraces the study
of everything under heaven accessible to man. In its highest
branches it aims at discovering the laws or rules which regulate
the formation of chemical compounds generally, and in its useful
applications it has been already exceedingly serviceable in direct-
ing and improving the various arts of common life, as agriculture,
the working of metals, dyeing, and many other pursuits. It
serves also to guide the medical man in the preparation of his
remedies, and also occasionally in distinguishing between diseases
which are in other respects much alike. There is, indeed, scarcely
a situation in life in which a knowledge of chemistry may not
prove directly useful. Lastly, it is a science, the study of which,
from its simplest beginnings to its highest attempts, is rendered
delightful by the constant succession of new and interesting
things brought before the eye and the mind.

Almost all the substances just spoken of as the objects of
chemical study, namely, the various rocks, clays, sands, and soils
which compose the solid earth ; the water of seas and rivers;
the materials of plants and animals, are of a compound nature,
that is, are made up of two or more other substances united or
combined togetner in a manner so close and intimate as not to be
generally separable by any common means ; and the compound so
produced is almost always different in properties and appearance
from the substances of which it is really composed. These latter
may themselves be of a compound nature, and each formed in
like manner by the union of two or more other substances very
strongly joine'd together, but still capable of separation by proper
chemical means. Such an act of separation is called by the name
of chemical decomposition, and the original compound substance
is in such a case said to be chemically decomposed into its com-
ponents or cotistituents.

As an example : — A piece of limestone, coral-rock, or chalk,
heated redhot for half an hour, loses nearly half its weight, and
becomes quicklime. The loss is caused by the separation from
the limestone of another substance (called carbonic acid) which is
carried off by the vapors of the fire, but which could be easily

CIIKMISTRT.

119

idy of tlic
' which the
aely, plants
3 the study

its highest
ch regulate
n its useful
le in direct-
agriculture,
irsuits. It
ition of his
jen diseases
led, scarcely
:ry may not
y of which,
is rendered

interesting

B objects of
s, and soils
md rivers;
and nature,
js united or
Eis not to be
ompound so
appearance
rhese latter
I formed in
tances very
a by proper
)y the name
i substance
ato its com-

c, or chalk,
weight, and
ration from
id) which is
i be easily

caught and collected by proper means. The liniostone is there-
fore decomposed by the action of heat into its components, lime,
and carbonic acid, which, by their union, formed the limestone,
or, as it is called in chemical speech, carl)onate of limo.»

Both the carbonic acid, however, and the lime, arc themselves
of a compound nature ; the first may be decomposed into two
other substances, carbon and oxygen, and the second into a me-
tallic matter, calcium, and oxygen. Mere heat, indeed, will not
produce this effect, which can only 'be brought about by very
powerful means of decomposition.

In this manner a limit or boundary is soonfr or later reached,
and substances obtained which completely defy the efforts of the
chemist to decompose them further; the carbon, oxygen, and
calcium of the limestone arrived at by two successive steps of
decomposition are found to resist all further attempts at decom-
position ; such substances are called simple or elementary, or
sometimes, chemical elements.

The number of these elementary substances known to exist,
alters with the progress of chemical science ; substances which at
one period resisted decomposition gave way when new and more
pov/erful means for that purpose were applied ; besides which,
minerals and waters containing new elements are met with from
time to time. At present they amount to ovei; sixty. Very many
of them, however, are exceedingly rare, the compounds containing
them being found in every small quantities.

Elementary substances are always divided by chemists into two
classes — namely, metals and nou-mptallic substances. The well-
known and abundant metals, gold, silver, copper, iron, tin, and
lead, together with a great number of rarer and less familiar sub-
stances, will stand in the first class. The components of the
atmosphere, oxygen and nitrogen, sulphur, phosphorus, * and
several others, belong to the second class. Several of the ele-
ments, however, possess properties which render it diflBcult to
decide in which class to place them.

It is very important to understand what in science is called a
physical state or condition of a substance, simple or compound, as
contrasted with its chemical nature. There are three such states,
the solid^ fimd or liquid, and gasemcs, which one and the same
substance may assume, passing from one to the other, backwards
and forwards, without the slightest change of chemical nature.
For example, water, as commonly met with, is liquid, but when
cooled sufficiently it takes the solid form, and becomes ice ; and,

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120

ATMOSI'IIKKIC PHKN031KNA.

on the other hand, when sufficiently heated, boils and becomes
steam or vapor, which is the gaseous condition of water. By
cooling this vapor, it again becomes liquid, and, by still further
cooling, it freezes to ice, and all this without the least chemical
change or decomposition of any kind. The metal zinc melts
easily when heated to a moderate extent, and, when still further
heated, vaporizes, or becomes converted into vapor, which, by
cooling again, becomes liquid ; and lastly, solid. In fact, very
many substances, simple and compound, behave in the same
manner, and have the power of exisiting in all three states, and a
still greater nun^^er in two of them, the solid and the liquid, or
the liquid and the gaseous.

Although a gas or vapor (which is the same thing in reality)
is very frequently invisible to the eye, it is as much substance or
matter as a solid or a fluid ; it fills vessels, and possesses weight,
vimd can be handled and experimented with, by proper means,
with as much ease and certainty as a solid or a liquid. Some
gases, however, are colored yellow, violet, or red, and then they
become, of course, evident to the eye.

The physical state of a substance is, in fact, dependent upon
its relations to heat ; a subject which must be considered in a
future lesson. — FowNES.

ATMOSPHERIC PHENOMENA.

Moisture — Evaporation — Dew — Mists and Clouds-
Snow, AND Hail.

-Rain,

Plants derive the moisture which is necessary for their support
and growth mainly from the moisture held in the atmosphere as
vapor. Evaporation is well illustrated by the gradual disappear-
ance of a pool of water, and by the drying of wet bodies. Thus
water is diffused through the air as an invisible vapor. The
capacity which the air has of holding vapor increases with its
temperature ; hence the greater rapidity of evaporation in warm
than in cold air. Beyond the capacity of the surrounding air,
evaporation will not go on ; and hence when the air is as highly
saturated with vapor as its temperature admits of, it is said to
be fully charged ; if it holds fifty per cent., it is said to be half
charged ; if twenty-five per cent., one quarter charged, and so on.
The degree of charge, therefore, shows only the amount of moisture
in the air a-f< compared with Us capacity at its then t^niperaiure^ r.o

ATMOSPHERIC PHENOMRNA.

121

tLit tho air is generally moiHter in winter than in summer, though
I less saturated with vapor.

Ifthe air is by any cause cooled down below the temperature
lit which tho moisture which it holds will be its full charge, a part
of its vapor will necessarily separate from it in the form of water.
Thus we see that cold bodies placed in the open air become studded
with drops of water — dew-drops — because they cool down the sur-
rounding air below its point of full charge. The same pheno-
menon is daily witnessed in the windows of inhabited rooms.
The cold panes cool down the warm moist air of the room, lessen
'the amount of moisture which it is capable of containing, and
cause it to part with its superabundance in the form of water.

Dew, after sunset, is caused by the temperature of moist, solid
bodies falling below that of tho air, the extent to which the cool-
ing is carried depending on the power which the substances have
of radiating or parting with the heat which they have absorbed
daring the day. Plants radiate better than stones or soil, and
these again better than metals. Dew is deposited most plentifully
in cloudless, starry nights, because in these circumstances, radiation
^oes on more quickly than when the sky is clouded. Under the
clear skies of the tropics the effect of the fall of dew is like that
of a smart shower of rain. When the dew is frozen it is called
hoarfrost.

Mists and Clouds. — Tho dew-deposits of which we have been
speaking are brought on by means, and on the surface, of bodies
surrounded by the air ; but if a large mass of the air is cooled
down throughout below dew-point, (that is, below the point at
which it is overcharged with moisture, and consequently begins
to deposit dew-drops,) the water that separates from it does not
run together into drops, but forms little vapor- vesicles, or cloud-
bubbles, which float in the air, containing within these thin bulbs
air fully charged with moisture. This state of the atmosphere
causes mists. Clouds are only masses of mists in the upper air,
caused by the cooling of the higher layers of the atmosphere.

Rain^ Snow, Hail. — If, being on a mountain while it rains, you
enter the region of clouds, you will find yourself suddenly sur-
rounded with thick masses of fog, and will perceive Jae fine drop-
lets of the falling mists. But these little drops become larger as
they fall; for, just as happens when any other cold body is
plunged into moist air, water is thrown down upon the surfaces of
these little drops on their way down through the lower, warmer,
and vapor-charged layers of tho atmosphere. The rain, there-

122

ATMOSPHERIC PHENOMFNA.

fore, wliioh comes duwn to tin; earth in UciivtMl not only IVoni tlu
clouds lloatiug in the higher atmosphere, which are only its first I
Bources, but also from the lower regions between them and tin
earth, the whole of which contribute to its increase as it desconcis.l
A great ditl'erence may, therefore, be found between the amount |
of rain which falls on the top of a mountain, or even of a high
tower, and that which is caught during the same time at the foot|
of either. Thus the yearly rain-fall on the roof of the Koval
i*alace at Berlin is eighteen inches in depth, while that on tlit|
pavement of the Palace-Placo amounts to twenty inches.

When the moist air in the upper regions is cooled down below I
the freezing-point, the water that it lets fall solidifies and comts
down as snow. It is often remarked that it rains on the low-
lying lands while it is snowing on the mountains. In such case
the rain was withdrawn from thcT moist, cold air, in the form of|
snow, but was melted during its fall through the lower and
warmer regions. This thawing is often imperfect; it then rains]
and snows at once, or the snow-flakes, only softening, cling to-
gether, and come down as sleet, which falls so often when winter]
is passing into spring. Sleet is met with in summer only on liigli
mountains. It is probable that hail consists of flakes of snow or|
sleet, which have been formed in the upper regions, and roum
which, on their way down, the crust of ice was formed, which iu|
almost all hailstones surrounds a core of white within.

On the crests of very high mountains — for instance, on tlie
Alps — single clouds are often seen to hang for days apparently
motionless. They are, however, in ceaseless motion, just as is
the moist air from which they are formed, as it sweeps over tlic I
cold and perhaps snow-capped peaks. With this air they travel on. |
and vanish again af ■ soon as they are out of reach of the cooling in-
fluence ; not, however, generally without leaving behind a part of I
their moisture as a fall of rain or snow. Thus the Alps are often,
for many days together, shrouded in dense clouds, from which rain
pours heavily every day, while over the warm valley of the Po, not-
withstanding the constant south wind, the sky has never been |
clouded for a moment. In the same manner all high mountains
are withdrawing the waters from the air, even when it does not I
rain on the plains. Thus they are, in all parts of the world, the
spots which form the chief points for the settlement of the|
moisture of the air, and are the main feeders of the rivers.

The wide plains of Northern India are, as you know, burning I
hot and dry during the summer. The cuiTents of air ris ;

...--^^

THE CLOUD.

123

Up from tho heated soil hindor the fall of wet from the aii*. Tlic
waters )f the air, which are brought in unceaHingly from tht-
Indian Ocean by tho south wind, (the summer monsoon,) cannot,
therefore, bo set down before they reach the Himalaya mountains,
which, stretching for a length of nearly fmrteen hundred miles,

[almost due east and west, form tho boundary of India. Here,
however, the moi.sture is so thoroughly arrested, that the south
wind having passed the mountain-range, is almost completely dry
before it reaches Inland Asia. Thus tho steppes of arid Asia
form, for tho most part, dry, barren wastes, with very hot sum-

I mors and severe winters. — Constable's Sixth limiJi'r.

THE CLOUD.

I BRING fiaesh showers for the thitsting flqjycrs,

Prom the seas and tlie stcfioms ;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid

In their noonday drefi,ms ;
Prom my wings are shaken tho dews that waken

The sweet birds every one.
When rock'd to rest on their mother's breast,

As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lasjiing hail,

And wl^iten the green plains under ;
And then again I dissolve it in rain,

And laugh as I pass in thunder.

1 sifl the snow on the mountains below,

And their great pines groan aghast ;
And all tho night 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers,

Lightning, my pilot, sits ;
In a cavern under is fetfcer'd the thunder —

It struggles and howls by fits :
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,

This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move

In the depths of the purple sea ,
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,

The spirit he loves remains;
And I all the wl ile bask in heaven's blue smile,

While he is dissolving in rains.

124

THE CLOUD.

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The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,

, And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing i-ack,

When the morning star shines dead ;
As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle, alit, one moment may sit,

In the light of its golden wings.
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,

It ardors of rest and love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above ;
With wings folded T rest, on mine airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.

That orbfed maiden, with white fire laden.

Whom mortals call the moon.
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,

By the midnight breezes strewn ;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet.

Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin rooi',

The stars peep behind her and pocr ;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee.

Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,

Till the calm rivers, lakes and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the 3un's throne with a burning zone.

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,

When the whirlwinds my banners unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape.

Over a torrent sea.
Sunbeam proof I hang like a roof.

The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march,

With hurricane, fire, and snow.
When the powers of the air are chain'd to my chair,

Is the million-color'd bow ;
The sphere- fire above its soft colors wove.

While the moist earth was laughing below.

I at ihe daughter of earth and water,

And the nursling of the sky ;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ;

I change, but I cannot die.

The
fails
and
The
Sea
sucl

tiiQ(
T

moT
Wat
the

THE UlJI.t Sl'RKAM.

125

i sea beneath,

For, after the rain, when with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams.

Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,

I arise and unbuild it again. — Shelley.

"V.

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n;v.

THE GULF STREAM.

There is a river in the ocean. In the severest droughts it never
jfails, and in the mightiest floods it never overflows. Its banks

and its bottom are of cold water, while its current is of warm.

The Gulf of Mexico is its fountain, and its mouth is in the Arctic

Seas. It is the Gulf Stream. There is in the world no other
[such majestic flow of waters. Its current is more rapid than the
[Mississippi or the Amazon, and its volume more than a thousand
|times greater.

The currents of t .e ocean are among the most important of its
Imovements. They carry on a constant interchange between the
jwaters of the poles and those of the equator, and thus diminish
|the extremes of heat and cold in every zone.

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126

TUE GULF STREAM.

The sea has its cUmates as well as the land. They both change
with the latitude ; but one varies with the elevation above, the
other with the depression below, the sea level. The climates in
each are regulated by circulation ; but the regulators are, on the
one hand, winds ; on the other, currents.

The inhabitants of the ocean are as much the creatures of climate
as are those of the dry land ; for the same Almighty Hand whicli
decked the lily, and cares for the sparrow, fashioned also tlie
pearl, and feeds the great whale, and adapted each to the physical
conditions by which His providence has surrounded it. Whether
of the land or the sea, the inhabitants are all His creatures, sub-
jects of His laws, and agents in His economy. The sea therefore,
we may safely infer, has its offices and duties to perform ; so, ^ve
may infer, have its currents; and so, too, its inhabitants: cod-
sequently, he who undertakes to study its phenomena must cease
to regard it as a waste of waters. He must lock upon it as a
part of that exquisite machinery by which the harmonies of na-
ture are preserved, and then he will begin to perceive the develop-
ments of order, and the evidences of design.

From the Arctic Seas a cold current flows along the coasts of
America, to replace the warm water sent through the Gulf Stream,
to moderate the cold of western and northern Europe. Perhaps
the best indication as to these cold currents may be derived from
the fishes of the sea. The whales first pointed out the existence
of the Gulf Stream by avoiding its warm waters. Along the
coasts of the United States all those delicate animals and marine
productions which delight in warmer waters are wanting; thus
indicating, by their absence, the cold current from the norib iiow
known to exist there. In the genial warmth of the sea abo,;- i! e
Bermudas on the one hand, and Africa on the other, we iiud m
great abundance those delicate shell-fish and coral formations
which are altogether wanting in the same latitudes along the
shores of South Carolina.

No part of the world aiTords a more difficult or dangerous
navigation than the approaches of the northern coasts of the
United States in winter. Before the warmth of the Gulf Stream
was known, a voyage at this season from Europe to New Eng-
land, New York, and even to the Capes of the Delaware or Chesa-
peak, was many times more trying, difficult, and dangerous
than it now is. lu making this part of the coast," vessels were
frequently met by snow-storms and gales, which mock the sea-
man's strength, and set at naught his skill. In a little while his

THK GULF STREA^f.

127

bark becomes a mass of ice; with her crew fiosted and helpless,
she remains obedient only to her helm, and is kept away for the
Gulf Stream. After a few hours' run she reaches its edge, and
almost at the next bound passes from the midst of winter into a
sea at summer heat. Now the ice disappears from her apparel,
and the sailor bathes his stiffened limbs in tepid waters. Feel-
inc himself invigorated and refreshed with the genial warmth
about him, he realises out there at sea the fable of Antaeus and
his mother Earth. He rises up, and attempts to make his port
again, and is again, perhaps, as rudely met and beat back from
the north-west ; but each time that he is driven off from the con-
test, he comes forth from his stream, like the ancient son of
Keptune, stronger and stronger, until, after many days, his fresh-
ened strength prevails, and he at lasts triumphs, and enters his
haven in. safety, though in this contest he sometimes falls, to rise
i no more.

The ocei^n currents are partly the result of Ihe immense evapo-
[ ration which takes place in the tropical regions, where the sea
greatly exceeds the land in extent. The enormous quantity of
water there carried off by evaporation disturbs the equilibrium of
the seas ; but this is restored by a prepetual flow of water from the
poles. When these streams of cold water leave the poles,' they
flow directly towards the equator; but, before proceeding far,
their motion is deflected by the diurnal motion of the earth.
"At the poles they have no rotatory motion ; and although they
gain it more and more in their progress to the equator, which re-
volves at the rate of a thousand miles an hour, they arrive at the
tropics before they have gained the same velocty of rotation with
the intertropical ocean. On that account they are left behind,
and, consequently, flow in a direction contrary to the diurnal
rotation of the earth. Hence the whole surface of the ocean for
thirty degrees on each side of the equator flows in a stream or
current three thousand miles broad from east to west. The
trade winds, which constantly blow in one direction, combine to
give this great Equatorial Current a mean velocity of ten or
eleven miles in twenty- four hours."

Were it not for the land, such would be the uniform and con-

jstant flow of the waters of the ocean. The presence of the land

[interrupts the regularity of this great western movement of the

waters, sending them to the north or south, according to its con-

Itbrmation.

The principal branch of t lie Equatorial Current of the Atlantic

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128

THE (JULK STREAM.

takes a north-westerly direction from off Cape St. Roque, in South
America. It rushes along the coast of Brazil ; and after passing
through the Carribean Sea, and sweeping round the Gulf of
Mexico, it flows between Florida and Cuba, and enters the North
Atlantic under the name of the Gulf Stream, the most beautiful
of all the oceanic currents.

In the Straits of Florida the Gulf Stream is thirty-two miles
wide, two thousand two hundred feet deep, and flows at the rate
of four miles an hour. Its waters are of the purest ultramarine
blue as far as the coasts of Carolina ; and so completely are they
separated from the sea through which they flow, that a ship may
be seen at times half in the one and half in the other.

As a rule, the hottest water of the Gulf Stream is at or near
the surface; and as the deep-sea thermometer is sent down, it
shows that these waters, though still much warmer than the
water on either sid© at corresponding depths, gradually become
less and less warm until the bottom of the current is reached.
There is reason to believe that the warm waters of the Gulf
Stream are nowhere permitted, in the oceanic economy, to touch
the bottom of the sea. There is everywhere a cushion of cold
water ^between them and the solid parts of the earth's crust.
This arrangement is suggestive, and strikingly beautiful. One
of the benign offices of the Gulf Stream is to convey heat from
the Gulf of Mexico, — where otherwise it would become excessive,
— and to dispense it in regions beyond the Atlantic, for the ame-
lioration of the climates of the British Islands, and of all Western
Europe. Now cold water is one of the best non-conductors of
heat ; but if the warm water of the Gulf Stream were sent across
the Atlantic in contact with the solid crust of the earth, compara-
tively a good conductor of heat, instead of being sent across, as it
is, in contact with a non-conducting cushion of cold water to
fend it from the bottom, all its heat would be lost in the first
part of the way, and the sr't climates of both France and Eng-
land would be as that of Labrador, severe in the extreme, and
ice-bound.

It has been estimated that the quantity of heat discharged
over the Atlantic from the waters of the Gulf Stream in a
winter's day would be sufficient to raise the whole column of
atmosphere that rests upon France and the British Islands from
the freezing point to summer heat.

Every west wind that blows crosses the stream on its way to
Europe, and carricb with it a portiou of this heat to temper thore

THE FIRST CRUSADE.

129

the northern winds of Europe. It is the influence of this Stream
that makes Erin the " Emerald Isle of the Sea," and that clothes
the shores of Albion in evergreen robes ; while, in the same lati-
tude, the coasts of Labrador are fast bound in fetters of ice.

As the Gulf Strean*. proceeds on its course, it gradually in-
creases in width. It flows along the coast of North America to
N^ewfoundland, where it turns to the east, one branch setting to-
wards the British Islands, and away to the coasts of Norway and
the Arctic Ocean. Another branch reaches the Azores, from
which it bends round to the south, and, after running along the
African coast, it rejoins the great equatorial flow, leaving a vast
space of nearly motionless water between the Azores, the Ca-
naries, and Cape de Verd Islands. This great area is the Grassy
or Sargasso Sea, covering a space many times larger than the
British Islands. ,It is so thickly matted over with gulf weeds
that the spe ed of vessels passing through it is often much re-
tarded. Wiien ^e companions of Columbus saw it, they thought
it marked the limits of navigation, and became alarmed. To the
eye, at a little distance, it seemed substantial enough to walk
upon. Patehes of tho weed are always to be seen floating along
the outer edge of the Gulf Stream. Now, if bits of cork or chaff,
or any floating substance, be put into a basin, and a circular motion
be given to the water, all the light substances will be found crowd-
ing together near the centre of the pool, where there is the least
motion. Just such a basin is the Atlan,tic Ocean to the Gulf
Stream ; and the Sargasso Sea is the centre of the whirl.
Columbus first found this weedy sea in his voyage of discovery :
there it has remained to this day, moving up and down, and
changing its position like the calms of Cancer, according to tho
seasons, the storms, and the winds. Exact observations as to its
limits and their range, extending back for fifty years, assure us
that its mean position has not been altered since that time.

— Maury.

THE FIRST CRUSADE.
(A.D. 1096-1099.)

Jerusalem, the cradle of the Christian faith, suffered cruel in-
sults at the hands of the Mohammedans. Hakem, third of the
Fatimite caliphs of Egypt, himself aspiring to the honours of a
I god, razed the Church of the Resurrection in a.d. 1009, and

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130

THE FIRST CRUSADR.

'^ PBTBB THE HBBMIT PBBACHI^rO I'UL CUUHA.D£S.

spared no pains to destroy tbe very rock-cave which was pointed
out as the Holy Sepulchre. The Turks then seized the city, and
Christian pilgrims, flocking thither in crowds of thousands dur-
ing the eleventh century, were cruelly maltreated by them. No
Christian could pass the gates without first paying a piece of
gold to these Tartar conquerors. Every day brought back to
Europe weary palmers, who had been scoffed at and spat upon by
the infidels. This was borne for a time, but soon grew intoler-
able ; and the indignation, burning deep and long in the heart of
Christendom, found its first great utterance in the wild eloquence
of Peter the Hermit.

This man, said to have been a native of Amiens, was a soldier
in his youth. Upon, the death of his wife he retired broken-
hearted to a hermit's cell, from which, however, his innate love
of change drove him a pilgrim to the Holy Land. Returning
thence fall of anger at the degradation of the sacred spot, he
obtained leave from Pope Urban II. to call all true Christians to
arms ; and as he passed through Italy and France, a fleshless
spectre, clad in mean niiment, with bare head and feet, and
staggering under a heavy crucifix, his fierce war-cry woke an echo
in millions of hearts.

THE WRST CRUSADE.

131

Within the same year two general councils were called by the
Pope — one at Placentia, the other at Clermont, in Auvergne.
At the latter, a.d. 1095, both the Pope and the hermit spoke in
words of fire. With one voice all who heard cried out, '* It is
the will of God ;" and few there were who left the old market-
place on that day without a red cross on the shoulder, to mark
them as soldiers in the sacred cause.

The first movement of the Crusaders was a mad and aimless
rash. A rabble of 300,000, comprising not men alone, but
women and children, and even some stricken with deadly disease,
gathered under Peter and a soldier called Walter the Penniless.
They passed through Germany with no achievement bat the
murder and robbery of thousands of Jews. Their plundering
roused the rage of the Hungarians and Bulgarians, who set upon
them ; and it was with sorely thinned and broken ranks that
they reached Constantinople, where Alexis reigned. He per-
suaded them to fix their camp upon the Asiatic side of the Bos-
phorus. Moving thence towards Nice, in Bithynia, they were all
bat a very few cut to pieces by the Turks.

But an army fit to redeem the character of the West was
marshalling fast. The kings as yet held aloof, in person at least.
Rufns of England was too fond of his money-bags ; while Henry
of Germany, and Philip of France, both bitter foes of the Pope,
were no.*- likely to arm at the call of one they deeply hated. The
great captain of the First Crusade was Godfrey of Bouillon or
Boulogne, the Duke of Basse-Lorraine. There were, besides,
among the chiefs Robert of Normandy, Hugh, the brother of the
French king, Stephen of Blois, and Bohemund of Tarentum.
Nine months were consumed in mustering the great army of more
than half a million, and leading it by different routes to Con-
stantinople. Having crossed the strait, the Crusaders moved, with
horns blowing and drums beating, upon Nice, which fell after a
siege of seven weeks. At Dorylaeum was fought one of the
greatest cavalry battles the world has ever seen. Considerably
more than 100,000 Turkish horse, with curved sabres and light
djerrids, were scattered before the lances of the Christian knights,
and SoHman, sultan of the Turks, fell back in rapid flight. But
all this glory was purchased by much sufiering. Thirst was the
worst woe that befell the Christians. We are told that once
when water was found after days of scorching drought, 300 of
them drank till they died. They threaded the rocky wilds of
.Taurus, fainting with the weight of their armor under the

132

THE FIRSff CRUSADE.

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burning sun ; and at last saw, set in the emerald meadows thai
lino the Orontes, the fair turrets of the Syrian Antioch.

Here tlie war raged anew, and the Christian knights viod
with one another in valorous deeds. Godfrey one day cut bis
foe in two : one-half fell into the river, the other sat still on
horseback, " by which blow," quaintly says Robert the Monk,
" one Turk was made two Turks." The siege was pushed on
amidst the worst miseries of winter, famine, and disorganization,
until, by the treachery of a Syrian officer, the Crusaders were
enabled one dark stormy night to surprise the town. A Saracen
army, led by Kerboga, prince of Mosul, advancing to the rescue,
was then repulsed with great slaughter ; and Bohemund, the son
of Robert Guiscard, was made prince of the captured city.

After a delay of some months at Antioch, the Crusaders, now
reduced to 20,000 foot and 1500 horse, moved southward
toward Jerusalem. They ought to have reduced the great
stronghold of Acre, with its vast granaries, as they passed ; but,
eager to crown their enterprise with the capture of the Holy
City, they contented themselves with extorting a promise from
the Emir of Acre, that, if Jerusalem fell, he would give them up
his keys. At last (a.p. 1090) the capital of Palestine, lovely even
in her desolation, rose in their view. The knights, spring-
ing from their saddles, wet the turf with tears of mingled
joy and grief. Barefooted and weeping, the little band ad-
vanced under a sky of burning copper, with no water in the
pools and brooks ; they fought for five long weeks before God-
frey and his stormers stood victorious within the walls. The
massacre of 70,000 Moslems, and the burning of the Jews in
their synagogue, stained the glory of the conquerors.

A kingdom of Jerusalem being then founded, Godfrey was
elected king, but modestly and wisely he chose rather the
humbler title of Baron of the Holy Sepulchre. The opening of
his reign was signalized by the battle of Ascalon, in which he
defeated the Sultan of Egypt. After this victory, which closed
the First Crusade, many of the actors in the great drama went
home ; among these was Peter the Hermit, whose chequered life
found a close in the Abbey of Huy, founded by himself on the

banks of the Meuse.

— Collier.

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THE CHRISTIAN KNIGHT AND THE SARACEN CAVALIER.

133

THE CHRISTIAN KNIGHT AND THE SARACEN

CAVALIER.

The baming sun of Syria had not yet attained its highest point
in the horizon, when a knight of the red cross, who had left his
distant northern homef and joined the host of the crusaders in
Palestine, was pacing slowly along the sandy deserts which lie in
the vicinity of the Dead Sea, where the waves of the Jordan pour
themselves into an inland sea, from which there is no discharge
of waters.

Upon this scene of desolation the sun shone with almost intol-
emble splendor, and all living nature seemed to have hidden
itself from the rays, excepting the solitary figure which moved
through the flitting sand at a foot's pace, and appeared the solo
breathing thing on the wide surface of the plain. The dress of
the rider and the accoutrements of his horse were peculiarly unfit
for. the traveller in such a country.

A coat of linked mail, with long sleeves, plated gauntlets, and
a steel breastplate, had not been esteemed a suflBcient weight of
armor ; there was, also, his triangular shield suspended round
his neck, and his barred helmet of steel, over which he had a
hood and collar of mail, which was drawn around the warrior's
shoulders and throat, and filled up the vacancy between the hau-
berk and the headpiece. His lower limbs were sheathed, like his
body, in flexible mail, securing the legs and thighs, whilst the
feet rested in plated shoes, which corresponded with the gaunt-
lets.

A long, broad, straight- shaped, double-edged falchion, with a
handle formed like a cross, corresponded with a stout poniard on
the other side. The knight, also, bore, secured to his saddle,
with one end resting on his stirrup, the long steel-headed lance, his
own proper weapon, which, as he rode, projected backwards, and
displayed its little pennoncelle, to dally with the faint breeze, or
drop in the dead calm. To this cumbrous equipment must be
added a surcoat of embroidered cloth, much frayed and worn,
which was thus far useful, that it excluded the burning rays of
the sun from the armor, which they would otherwise have ren-
dered intolerable to the wearer.

The surcoat bore, in several places, the arms of the owner,
although much defaced. These seemed to be a couchant leopard,
with the motto, " / sleep — wake me noty An outline of the

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134

TH£ CHRISTIAN KNIQHT ASiD THE SARACEN CAVALIER,

: t

same device might be traced on his shield, though many a blow
had almost effaced the painting. The flat top of his cumbrous
cylindrical helmet was unadorned with any crest. In retaining
their own unwieldy defensive armor, the northern crusaders
seemed to set at defiance the nature of the climate and country
to which they were come to war. ^^

The accoutrements of the horse were i^rcely less massive and
unwieldy than those of the rider. The animal had a heavy
saddle plated with steel, uniting in front with a species of breast-
plate, and behind with defensive armor made to cover the loins.
Then there was a steel axe, or hammer, called a mace-of-arms,
and which hung to the saddle-bow ; the reins were secured by
chain work, and the front stall of the bridle was a steel plate,
with apertures for the eyes and nostrils, having in the midst a
short, sharp pike, projecting from the forehead of the horse like
the horn of the fabulous unicorn.

But habit had made the endurance of this load of panoply a
second nature, both to the knight and his gallant charger.
Numbers, indeed, of the western warriors who hurried to Pales-
tine died ere they became inured to the burning climate; but
there were others to whom that climate became innocent, and
even friendly, and among this fortunate number was the sohtary
horseman who now traversed the border of the Dead Sea.

Nature, which cast his limbs in a mould of uncommon strength,
fitted to wear his linked hauberk with as much ease as if the
meshes had been formed of cobwebs, had endowed him with a
constitution as strong as his limbs, and which bade defiance to
almost all changes of climate, as well as to fatigue and privations
of every kind. His disposition seemed, in some degree, to par-
take of the qualities of his bodily frame ; and as the one pos-
sessed great strength and endurance, united with the power of
violent exertion, the other, under the power of a calm and un-
disturbed semblance, had much of the fiery and enthusiastic love
of glory which constituted the principal attribute of the re-
nowned Norman line, and had rendered them sovereigns in
every corner of Europe where they had drawn their adventurous
swords.

Naturc had, however, her demands for refreshment and re-
pose, even on the iron frame and patient disposition of the
Knight of the Sleeping Leopard ; and at noon, when the Dead
Sea lay at some distance on his right, he joyfully hailed the
.sight of two or three palm-trees, which arose beside the well

THE CHRISTIAN KNIGHT AND THE SARACEN CAVALIER.

136

Tvbich was assigned for his mid-day station. His good horse, too,
which had plodded forw rd with the steady endurance of his
master, now lifted his head, expanded his nostrils, and quickened
his pace, as if he snuffed afar off the living waters, which marked
the place of repose and refreshment. But labor and danger
were doomed to intervene ere the liorse or horseman reached the
desired spot.

As the Knight of the Couchant Leopard continued to fix his
eyes attentively on the yet distant cluster of palm-trees, it seemed
to him as if some object were moving among them. The distant
form separated itself from the trees, which partly hid its motions,
and advanced towards the knight with a speed which soon showed
a mounted horseman, whom his turban, long spear, and green
caftan floating in the wind, on his nearer approach, proved to be
a Saracen cavalier. " In the desert," saith an Eastern proverb,
"no man meets a friend." The Crusader was totally indifferent
whether the infidel, who now approached on his gallant barb, as
if borne on the wings of an eagle, came as friend or foe — perhaps,
as a vowed champion of the cross, he might rather have preferred
the latter. He disengaged his lance from his saddle, seized it
with the right hand, placed it in rest with its point half elevated,
gathered up the reins in the left, waked his horse's mettle with
the spur, and prepared to encounter the stranger with the calm
self-confidence belonging to the victor in many contests.

The Saracen came on at the speedy gallop of an Arab horsc-
raan, managing his steed more by his limbs, and the inflection of
his body, than by any use of the reins, which hung loose in his
left hand; so that he was enabled to wield the light, round
buckler of the skin of the rhinoceros, ornamented with silver
loops, which he wore on his arm, swinging it as if he meant to
oppose its slender circle to the formidable thrust of the western
lance. His own long spear was not couched or levelled like that
of his antagonist, but grasped by the middle with his right hand,
and brandished at arm's length above his head. As the cavalier
approached his enemy at full career, he seemed to expect that
the Knight of the Leopard would put his horse to the gallop to
encounter him.

But the Christian knight, well acquainted with the customs
of Eastern warriors, did not mean to exhaust his good horse by
any unnecessary exertion ; and, on the contrary, made a dead
halt, confident that if the enemy advanced to the actual shock,
his owni weight, and that of his powerful charger, would give

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130

THE CHRISTIAN KNIGHT AND THE SARACEN CAVALIER.

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him sufficient advantage, without the additional momentum of
rapid motion. Equally sensible and apprehensive of such a
probable result, the Saracen cavalier, when he had approached
towards the Christian within twice the length of his lance,
wheeled his steed to the left with inimitable dexterity, and rode
t^ice I'ound his antagonist, who turning without quitting his
ground, and presenting his front constantly to his enemy, fni<i-
tiated his attempts to attack him on an unguarded point; so
that the Saracen, wheeling his horse, was fain to retreat to the
distance of a hundred yards.

A second time, like a hawk attacking a heron, the heathen
renewed the charge, and a second time was fain to retreat with-
out coming to a close struggle. A third time he approached in
the same manner, when the Christian knight, desirous to ter>
rainate this illusory warfare, in which he might at length have
been worn out by the activity of his foeman, suddenly seized the
mace which hung at his saddle-bow, and, with a strong hand and
unerring aim, hurled ii against the head of the emir; for such,
and not less, his enemy appeared.

The Saracen was just aware of the formida' missile in time
to interpose his light buckler betwixt the m and his head;
but the .violence of the blow forced the buckler down on his
turban, and though that defence also contributed to deaden its
violence, the Saracen was beaten irom his horse. Ere the Chris*
tian could avail himself of this mishap, his nimble foeman sprang
from the ground, and, calling on his steed, which instantly re-
turned to his side, he leaped into his seat without touching the
stirrup, and regained all the advantage of which the Knight of
the Leopard hoped to deprive him.

But the latter had in the meanwhile recovered his mace, and
the Eastern cavalier, who remembered the strength and dexterity
with which his antagonist had aimed it, seemed to keep cau-
tiously out of reach of that weapon, of which he had so lately
felt the force ; while he showed his purpose of waging a distant
warfare with missile weapons of his own. Planting his long
spear in the sand, at a distance from the scene of combat, he
strung with great address a short bow, which he carried at his
back, and putting his horse to the gallop, oncd more described
two or three circles of a wider extent than formerly, in the course
of which he discharged six arrows at the Christian with such un-
erring skill, that the goodnMs of his harness alone eaved him

THE CUBISTIAN KNIQHT AND THE SARACEN CAVALIEK.

137

from being woanded in as many places. The seventh shaft
apparently found a less perfect part of the armor, and the
Cbristiau dropped heavily from his horse.

But what was the surprise; of the Saracen, when, dismounting
to examine the condition of his prostrate enemy, he found him-
self suddenly within the grasp of the European, who had hnd re-
course to this artifice to bring his enemy within his reach. Even
in this deadly grapple, the Saracen was saved bv his agilitv and
presence of mind. He unloosed the sword belt, in which the
knight of the Leopard had fixed his hold, and thus eluding his
fatal grasp, mounted his horse, which seemed to watch his
motions with the intelligence of a human being, and again rode
off. But in the last encounter the Saracen had lost his sword
and his quiver of arrows, both of which were attached^ to the
girdle, which he was obliged to abandon. He had also lost
his turban in the straggle. These disadvantages seemed to
incline the Moslem to a truce : he approached the Christian
with his right hand extended, but no longer in a menacing-
attitude.

"There is truce betwixt our nations," he said, in the lingua
fi-anca commonly nsed for the purpose of communication with
the crusaders ; " wherefore should there be war betwixt thee
and me ? Let there be peace betwixt us."

" I am well contented," answered he of the Couchant Leop-
ard ; " but what security dost thou offer that thou wilt observe
the truce?"

" The word of a follower of the prophet was never broken,"
answered the emir. " It is thou, brave Nazarene, from whom I
should demand security, did I not know that treason seldom
dwells with courage." •

The crusader felt that the confidence of the Moslem made him
ashamed of his own doubts.

"By the cross of my sword," he said, laying his hand on
the weapon as he spoke, "I will be true companion to thee,
Saracen, while our fortune wills that we remain in company
together."

" By Mohammed, prophet of God, and by Allah, God of the
prophet," replied his late foeman, " there is no treachery in my
heart towards thee. And now wend we to yonder fountain, for
the hour of rest is at hand, and the stream had hardly touched
uiy lip when T was called to battle by thy approach,"

138

MAGNA CHARTA.

The Knight of the Couchant Leopard yielded a ready and
courteous assent ; and the late foes, without an angi*y look or
gesture of doubt, rode side by side to the little cluster of palm-
trees. . . —Scott.

XH£ BABONS SIGNING THE MAGNA CHARTA.

MAGIJ^ CHARTA.
(a.d. 1215.)

John probably did not stretch his authority beyond the limits to
which his predecessors had extended theirs ; but bis tyranny
was more continuous, insolent, and unbearable. His barons,
long disaffected to his sway, determined upon having the royal
power restrained within fixed limits, with their own rights defined
in a legal instrument ; and a secret confederacy was formed to
attain this object by force of arms, if necessary. The compact to
this effect was made at St Edmundsbury, on November 20, 1214.
and tlic paHies were severally bound to it by an oath, sworn at
the high altar of the abbey. Early in the following yeai', tho

MAGNA CUARTA.

139

a ready and

ngi-y look or

ster of palm-

— Scott.

the limits to
tis tyranny
His barons,
Dg the royal
ghts defined
,s formed to
I compact to
er 20, 1214.
h, sworn at
ig yeai', tho

n confederates laid their demands hy a deputation before the
king, who stipulated for time to consider the proposals, and ob-
tained a respite till the close of Easter. In the interim, both
parties prepared for war, the barons collecting their vassals, and
John inviting the aid of foreign mercenaries.

At the expiration of the appointed time, about the middle of
April 1215, the barons appeared at Stamford, in .Lincolnshire,
with a numerous army, and marched to Bradsley, in Northamp-
tonshire, in the neighborhood of the king, who was at Oxford.
All concession on his part being refused, the barons formally
renounced their allegiance, and chose Robert Fitz-Walter their
general, under the title of marshal of " the army of God and of
holy Church." They despatched summonses to their peers who
still adhered to the royal cause, or had remained neutral, requir-
ing them to take up arms to secure the liberties of the people,
and proceeded to ally themselves with the inhabitants of the
towns, aware that the sympathies of the free burghers of England
were with bhem, and that their influence would be decisive in the
straggle. Northampton, with a royal castle and substantial
walls, offered a successful resistance ; but Bedford opened its
gates, and the citizens of London received with open arms the
popular leaders. They entered, the city by Aldgate, on Sunday,
May 17, John having retired to Odiham, in Hampshire, losing
adherents daily, till only seven knights remained in his retinue.
He now saw the hopelessness of his cause, and signified his will-
ingness to grant all that was demanded of him. The two parties
agreed to meet at Runnymede, a plain on the southern bank of
the Thames, between Staines and Windsor, in order to arrange
their differences. There seem to have been long and violent
discussions while the barons were at Staines and the king at
Windsor ; for not until three weeks after the negotiations first
opened, did he finally submit to the demands of the nation. On
Monday, June 15, the conferences opened at Runnymede : they
terminated on the following Friday, when the articles of agree-
ment, called Magna Charta, were signed and sealed, June 19,
1215.

This important document, " the Great Charter of the Common
Liberties," embraces sixty articles, expressed in a clear, terse, and
aathoritative manner, apparently drawn up in form by Arch-
bisbop Langton, The barons have been charged with selfishly
contemplating their own interests ; but it cannot b«! sustained by

140

THE OBfGIN OF THE ENGLISH NATION.

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evidence; for the franchises of the towns were secured, the!
liberty of every freeman was placed under protection, and, thoughl
villeinage, or serfdom, was not abolished, redress was offered tol
the hardships of the serfs. The authors of the charter aeted inl
no exclusive spirit. They secured some privilege for all classesl
of the community, while laying a foundation for the equal distri-[
bution of civil rights, and left the essential prerogatives of the!
crown untouched, while seeking the advancement of the subject.!
The free principles recognised were, indeed, grossly violated hy[
subsequent monarchs, but the legal document embodying theml
remained ; and after many years of patience, with occasional!
sharp strife, its practical observance was forced upon the crown!
by the people. Magna Charta has been justly called the key-l
stone of English liberty, and the rock upon which our free insti-l
tutions, as gradually evolved in subsequent times, have been|
based. — Thomas Milker.

tii$

THE ORIGIN OF THE ENGLISH NATION.

The great-grandsons of those who had fought under Williaml
and the great-grandsons of those who had fought under Harold,!
bogan to draw near to each other in friendship ; and the first!
pledge of their reconciliation was the ^i /eat Charter, won by I
their united exertions, and framed ^ heir common benefit,
Here commences the history of the Eii^;iish nation. The history
of the preceding events is the history of wrongs inflicted and
sustained by various tribes, which, indeed, all dwelt on English
ground, but which regarded each other with aversion such as
has scarcely ever existed between communities separated by
physical barriers. For even the mutual animosity of countries
at war with each other is languid when compared with the
animosity of nations which, morally separated, are yet locally
intermingled. In no country has the enmity of race been
carried further ■ 'lan in England. In no country has that en-
mity been move completely effaced. The stages of the process I
by which the hostile elements were melted down into one homo-
geneous mass are not accurately linown to us. But it is certain
that, when John became king, the distinction betwe n SaxoDs
and Normans was strongly marked, and that before the end of
the reign of his wnindson it had almost disappeared. In tbe
time of Richard I., the ordinary imprecation of a Norman

THE ORIGIN OF THE ENGLISH NATION.

141

gentleman was, "May I become an Englishman!" His ordi-
Dary form of indignant denial was, *' Oo you take me for an
jEnglishman ? " The descendant of such a gentleman a hundred
years later was proud of the English name. The sources of the
iDoblest rivers which spread fertility over continent, and bear
richly laden fleets to tha sea, are to be sought in wild and
barren mountain tracts, incorrectly laid down in maps, and
rarely explored by travellers. To such a tract the history of
lour country during the thirteenth century may not inaptly be
Icompared. Sterile and obscure as is that portion of our annals,
litis there that we must seek fcrr the origin of our freedom, our
prosperity, and our glory. Then it was that the great English
people was formed ; that the national character began to exhibit
those peculiarities which it has ever since retained ; and that
oar fathers became emphatically islanders, — islanders not merely
in geographical position, but in their politics, their feelings, and
their manners. Then first appeared with distinctness that con-
stitution which has ever since, through all changes, preserved its
identity; that constitution of which all the other free constitu-
tions in the world are copies, and which, in spite of some de-
fects, deserves to be regarded as the best under which any great
society has ever yet existed during many ages. Then it was
{that the House of Commons, the archetype of all the represent-
lative assemblies which now meet either in the Old or in the
New World, held its first sittings. Then it was that the com-
jmon law rose to the dignity of a science, and rapidly becam'e a
[not unworthy rival of the imperial jurisprudence. Then it was
that the courage of those sailors who manned the rude barks of
the Cinque Ports first made the flag of England terrible on the
seas. Then it was that the most ancient colleges which still
exist at both the great national seats of learning were founded.
Then was formed that language, less musical, indeed, than the
languages of the south, but in force, in richness, in aptitude for
all the highest purposes of the poet, the philosopher, and the
orator, inferior to the tongue of Greece alone. Then, too, ap-
peared the first dawn of that noble literature, the most splendid
[and the most durable of the many glories of England.

— Macaulat.

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142

TE MARINERS OF ENOLAND.

.' ■!■

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YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

Ye mariners of England!

Tliat guard our native seas ;
Whofce flag has braved a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze !
Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe !
And sweep through the deep

While the stormy winds do blow ;
While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start rrom every wave !
For the deck it was their field of fame.

And ocean was their grave ;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell

Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep.

While the stormy winds do blow ;
While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks.

No towers along the steep ;
Her march is o'er the mountain- waves,

Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak

She quells the floods below.
As they roar on the shore

When the stormy winds do blow ;
When the battle rages loud and long.

And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific bum ;
Till danger's troubled night depart.

And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean- warriors !

Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name.

When the storm has ceased to blow ;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow !

— Camphell.

FALL OF CONSTANTINOPLE,

143

AMPDELL.

FALL OF CONSTANTINOPLE.

^(A.D. 1453.)

The noblest of the Greeks, and the bravest of the allies, were
sammoned to the palace, to prepa-^e them, on the evening of the
•28th, for the duties and dangers of the general assault. The last
speech of Palaeologus was the funeral oration of the Roman
empire: he promised, he conjured, and he vainly attempted to
infuse the hope which was extinguished in his own mind. In
this world all was comfortless and gloomj; and neither the gos-
pel nor the Church have proposed any conspicuous recompence to
the heroes who fall in the service of their country. But the
example of their prince, and the confinement of a siege, had
armed these warriors with the courage of despair ; and the
pathetic scene is described by the feelings of the historian
Pharanza, who was himself present at this mournful assembly.
: They wept, they embraced ; regardless of their families and for-
tuoes, they devoted their lives ; and each commander, departing
to his station, maintained all night a vigilant and anxious watch
on the rampart. The emperor, and some faithful companions,
I entered the dome of St. Sophia, which in a few hours was to be
conver'^d into a mosque, and devoutly received, with tears and
! prayers, the sacrament of the holy communion. He reposed
I some moments in the palace, which resount: d with cries and
lamentations; solicited the pardon of all whom he might have
': injured ; and mounted on horseback*to visit the guards, and
I explore the motions of the enemy. The distress and fall of the
last Constantine are more glorious than the long prosperity of the
Byzantine Caesars.

In the confusion of darkness, an assailant may sometimes suc-
ceed ; but in this great and general attack, the military judgment
and astrological knowledge of Mohammed advised him to expect
the morning, the memorable 29th of May, in the fourteen hun-
dred and fifty-third year of the Christian era. The preceding
night had been strenuously employed : the troops, the cannon,
; and the fascines were advanced to the edge of the ditch, which in
I many parts presented a smooth and level passage to the breach ;
I and his fourscore galleys almost touched with their prows and
their scaling ladders the less defensible walls of the harbor.
Under pain of death, silence was enjoined ; but the physical
laws of motion and sound are not obedient to discipline or fear ;

:; r
ii "

144

PALL OF CONSTANTINOPLE.

h"! *-^

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each individual might suppress his voice, and measure his foot-
steps ; but the march and labor of thousands must inevitably
produce a strange confusion of dissonant clamors, which reached
the ears of the watchmen of the towers. At daybreak, without
the customarj signal of the morning gun, the Turks assaulted the
city by sea and land ; and the similitude of a turned or twisted
thread has been applied to the closeness and continuity of their
line of attack. The foremost ranks consisted of the refuse of the
host, a voluntary crowd, who fought without order or command;
of the feebleness of age or childhood, of peasants and vagrants,
and of all who had joined the camp in the blind hope of plunder
and martyrdom. The common impulse drove them onwards to
the wall; the most audacious to climb* were instantly precipi-
tated ; and not a dart, not a bullet of the Christians, was idly
wasted on the accumulated throng. But their strength and
ammunition were exhausted in this laborious defence ; the ditch
was filled with the^ bodies of the slain ; they supported the foot-
steps of their companions : and of this devoted vanguard, the
death was more serviceable than the life. Under their respective
bashaws and sanjaks, the troops Anatolia and Romania were
STiccessively led to the charge : their progress was various and
doubtful ; but after a conflict of two hours, the Greeks still
maintained and improved their advantage ; and the voice of the
emperor was heard, encouraging his soldiers to achieve, by a last
effort, the deliverance of their country. In that fatal moment
the janizaries arose, fresh, vigorous, and invincible. The sultan
himself on horseback, witfi an iron mace in his hand, was the
spectator and judge of their valor ; he was surrounded by ten
thousand of his domestic troops, whom he reserved for deci-
sive occasions ; and the tide of battle was directed and impelled
by his voice and eye. His numerous ministers of justice were
posted behind the line, to urge, to restrain, to punish ; and if
danger was in the front, shame and inevitable death were in the
rear of the fngitives. The cries of fear and of pain were drowned
in the martial music of drums, trumpets, and attaballs; and
experience has proved that the mechanical operation of sounds,
by quickening the circulation of the blood and spirits, will act
on the human machine more forcibly than the eloquence of
reason and honor. From the lines, the galleys, and the bridge,
the Ottoman artillery thundered on all sides ; and the camp and
city, the Greeks and the Turks, were involved in a cloud of
smoke, which could only be dispelled by the final deliverance or

FALL OF CONSTANTINOPLE.

145

iverance or

destruction of the Roman Empire. The single combats of the
heroes of history or fable amuse our fancy and engage our afifec-
tious; the skilful evolutions of war may inform the mind and
improve a necessary, though a pernicious, science ; but in the
nniform and odious pictures of a general assault, all is blood, and
horror, and confusion; nor shall I strive, at the distance of
three centuries and a thousand miles, to delineate a scene of
which there could be no spectators, and of which the actors
themselves were incapable of forming any just or adequate
[idea.

The immediate loss of Constantinople may be ascribed to the
[ballet, or arrow, which pierced the gauntlet of John Justiniani.
The sight of his blood, and the exquisite pain, appalled the
courage of the chief whose arms and connsels were the finnest
rampart of the city. As he withdrew from his station in quest
! of a surgeon, his flight was perceived and stopped by the inde-
fatigable emperor. " Your wound," exclaimed Palaeologus, " is
sh'ght ; the danger is pressing ; your presence is necpssary ; and
wfither will you retire?" " I will retire," said t^ j trembling
Genoese, " by the same road which God has opened to the
Turks;" and at these words he hastily passed through one of
the breaches of the inner wall. By this pusillanimous act, he
stained the honors of a military life ; and the few days which he
survived in Galata, or the isle of Chios, were imbittered by his
own and the public reproach. His example was imitated by tho
greatest part of the Latin auxiliaries, and the defence began to
slacken when the attack was pressed with redoubled vigor. Tho
numbers of the Ottomans was fifty, perhaps a hundred, times
superior to that of the Christians ; the double walls were reduced
by the cannon to a heap of ruins ; in a circuit of several miles,
some places must be found more easy of access, or more feebly
guarded ; and if the besiegers could penetrate at a single point,
the whole city is irrecoverably lost. The first who deserved tho
Sultan's reward was Hassan the janizary, of gigantic stature and
strength. With his scimitar in one hand and his buckler in the
other, he ascended the outward fortification : of the thirty jani-
zaries who were emulous of his valor, eighteen perished in the
bold adventure. Hassan and his twelve companions had reached
the summit ; the giant was precipitated from the rampart ; he
rose on one knee, and was again oppressed by a shower of darts
and stones. But his success had proved that the achievement
was possible ; the walls and towers were instantly covered with

146

FIRST VOYAGB OF COLUMBIA.

a swarm of Turks, and tho Greeks, now driven from their I
vantage-ground, were overwhelmed by increasing multitudes.
Amidst these multitudes, the emperor, who accomplished all the j
duties of a general and a soldier, was long seen, and finally lost.
The nobles, who fought round his person, sustained till their last 1
breath the honorable names of Palseologus and Cantacuzene:
his mournful exclamation was heard, " Cannot there be found a I
Christian to cut off my head?" and his last fear was that of
falling alive into the hands of the infidels. The prudent despair I
of Constantino cast away the purple ; amidst the tumult he fell
by an unknown hand, and his body was buried under a mountain
of the slain. After his death, resistance and order were no more;
the Greeks fled towards the city, and many were pressed and
stifled in the narrow pass of the gate of St. Komanus. The vic-
torious Turks rushed through the breaches of the inner wall, and
as they advanced into the streets they were soon joined by their
brethren, who had forced the gate Phenar on the side of the har-
bor. In the first heat of their pursuit, about two thousand
Christians were put to the sword ; but avarice soon prevailed
over cruelty, and the victors acknowledged that they should
immediately have given quarter, if the valor of the emperor and
his cbosen bands had not prepared them for a similar opposition
in every part of the capital. It was thus, after a siege of fifty-
three days, that Constantinople was irretrievably subdued by the
arms of Mohammed II. Her empire only had been subverted hy
the Latins : her religion was trampled in the dust by the Moslem
conquerors. — Gibbon.

FIRST VOYAGE OP COLUMBUS.

What did the ocean's waste supply
To soothe the mind or please tne ^ye P
The rising mom, through dim mist breaking,
Tho flecker'd east with purple streaking ;
The mid-day cloud through thin air flying,
With deeper blue the blue sea dyeing.
Long ridgy waves their white manes rearing,
And in the broad gleam disappearing ;
The broaden^, blazing sun declining,
And western waves like fire-floods shining ;
The sky's vast dome to darkness given,
And all the glorious host of heaven.

Full oft upon the deck — while others slept —

FIRST VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS.

147

To mark the bearing of each well-known star,

That shone aloft or on the horizon far,

The anxious chief his lonely vigil kept.

The mournful wind, the hoarse wave breaking near,

The breathing groans of sleep, the plunging lead,

The steersman's call, and his own stilly tread,

Are all the sounds of night that reach his ear.

But soon his dauntless soul, which naught could bend,

Nor hope delay'd, nor adverse fate subdue, —

With a more threatening danger must contend

Than storm or wave — a fierce and angry crew.

" Dearlv," say they " may we those visions rue

Which lured us from our native land,

A wretched, lost, devoted band.

Led on by hope's delusive gleam,

The victim of a madman's dream ;

Nor gold shall e'er be ours, nor fame,

Not even the remnant of a name

On some rude-letter'd stone to tell

On what strange coast our wreck befell.

For us no requiem shall be sung,

Nor prayer be said, nor passing knell

In holy church be rung."

To thoughts like these all forms give way

Of duty to a leader's sway ;

And, as he moves — ah ! wretched cheer, —

Their mutter'd curses reach his ear.

But all undaunted, firm, and sage.

He scorns their threats, yet thus he soothes their rage :

" That to some nearing coast we bear,

How many cheering signs declare !

Wayfaring birds the bkie air ranging,

Their shadowy line to blue air changing.

Pass o'er our heads in frequent flocks ;

While sea-weed from the parent rocks, ^

With fibry roots, but newly torn,

In wreaths are on the clear wave borne.

Nay, has not e'en the drifting current brought

Things of rude art, by human cunning wrought.

Be yet two days your patience tried.

And if no shore is then descried, ^

E'en turn your dastard prow^: again,

And cast your leader to the main."

And thus a while, with steady hand.
He kept in check a wayward band.
Who but with half-express'd disdain,
Their rebel spirit could restrain.

148

FIRST VOYAtiE OF COLUMBUS.

i '

So pasa'd the day — the night— the second day,
With its red setting sun's extinguish'd ray.

Dark, solemn midnight coped the ocean wide,
When from his watcnful stand Columbus cried,
" A light, a light I " — blest sounds that rang
In every ear. At once they sprang
With haste aloft, and, peermg bright,
Descried afar the blessed sight.

*' It moves ! it slowly moves, like ray

Of torch that guides some wanderer s way !

Lo ! other lights, more distant, seeming

As if from town or hamlet streaming !

'Tis land, 'tis peopled land ! — man dwelleth there,

And Thou, Ouod of heaven, hastheardThy servant's prayer !"|

Returning day gave to their view

The distant shore and headlands blue

Of long-sought land. Then rose on air

Loud shouts of joy, mix'd wildly strange

With voice of weeping and of prayer,

fixpressive of their blessed change

From death to life, from fierce to kind,

From all that sinks to all that elevates the mind.

Those who, by faithless fear ensnared.

Had their brave chief so rudely dared.

Now, with keen self-upbraiding stung,

With every manly feeling wrung,

Repentant tears, looks that entreat.

Are kneeling humbly at his feet :

" Pardon our blinded, stubborn guilt ;

Oh, henceforth make us what thou wilt !

Our hands, our hearts, our lives are thine.

Thou wondrous man, led on by power divine !"

Columbus led them to the shore

Which ship had never touch'd before ;

And there he knelt upon the strand.

To thank the God of sea and land ;

And there, with mien and look elate,

Gave welcome to each toil-worn mate.

And lured with courteous signs of cheer, '

The dusky natives gathering near.

Who on them gazed with wondering eyes,

As mission'd spirits from the skies.

And there did he possession claim,

In royal Isabella's name.

—Joanna Baillie.

RFTDRN OP COLUMBUS AFTER HIS FIRST VOYAGE.

149

INTBKVdW OF COLUUBD9 WITH TBB SPANISH 80VKBBION8.

RETURN OF COLUMBUS AFTER HIS FIRST VOYAGE.

(a.d. 1493.)

In the spring of 1493, while the court was still at Barcelona,
letters were received from (Christopher Columbus, annoujicinjj^ his
return to Spain, and the successful achievement of his great enter-
prise, by the discovery of land beyond the western ocean. The
delight and astonishment raised by this intelligence were propor-
tioned to the scepticism with which his object had been originally
viewed. The sovereigns were now filled with a natural impatience
to ascertain the extent and other particulars of the important dis-
covery ; and they transmitted instructions to the admiral to repair
to Barcelona as soon as he should have made the preliminary ar-
rangements for the further prosecution of his enterprise.

The great navigator had succeeded, as is well known, after a
voyage the natural difficulties of which had been much augmented
by the distrust and mutinous spirit of his followers, in descrying
land on Friday, the 12th of October 1492. After some months
spent in exploring the delightful regions now for the first time
thrown open to the eyes of a European, he embarked in the month
of January 1493 for Spain. One of his vessels had previously
foundered, and another had deserted him ; so that he was left
alone to retrace his course across the Atlantic.

'f*

150

KETURN OF COLUMBUS AFTER HIS FIRST VOYAQQ.

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After a most tempestuous voyage, be was compelled to takJ
.shelter in the Tagus, sorely against bis inclination. He expcrij
enced, bowever, tbe most bonorabie reception from tbe Portnj
guese monarcb, Jobn II., wbo did ample justice to the great
qualities of Columbus, although he had failed to profit by &cm\
After a brief delay, the admiral resumed his voyage, and, crossinjs
the bar of Saltes, entered the harbor of Palos ubout noon on the
I5th of March 1493, — being exactly seven months and eleveo
days since his departure from that port.

Great was the agitation in the little community of Palos, asl
they beheld the well-known vesnel of the admiral re-entering theirl
harbor. Their desponding imaginations had long since consigned f
him to a watery grave ; for, in addition to the preternatural hor
rors which hung over the voyage, they had experienced the niostj
stormy and disastrous winter within the recollection of the oldest!
mariners. Most of them had relatives or friends on board. They
thronged immediately to the shore, to assure themselves with their|
own eyes of the truth of their return.

When they beheld their faces once more, and saw them ac-
companied by the numerous evidences which they brought back I
of the success of the expedition; they burst forth in acclamations |
of joy and gratulatlon. They awaited the landing of Columbus,
when the whole population of the place accompanied him and his I
crew to the principal cbvrch, where solemn thank.sgivings were
o3e:3d ap for thoir .ctr.rn, while every bell in tbe village sent I
forth a joyous peal ir honor of the glorious event.

The admiral was too desirous of presenting himself before the
sovereigns to protract his stay long at Palos. He took with him
on his journey specimens of the multifarious products of the
newly- discovered regions. He was accompanied by several of the
native islanders, arrayed in their simple barbaric costume, and de-
corated, as he passed through the principal cities, with collars,
bracelets, and other ornaments of gold, rudely fashioned. He ex-
hibited also considerable quantities of the Rama metal in dust or
in crude masses, numerous vegetable exotics posses^od of aromatic
or medicinal virtue, and several kinds of qaadrupv^ds unknown in
Europe, and birds whose varieties of gaudy plumage gave a bril-
liant effect to the pageant.

The admiral's progress through tbe country was everywhere
impeded by the multitudes thronging forth to gaze at the extra-
ordinary spectacle, and the more exti*aordinary man, who, in the
emphatic language of that time — which has now lost its force

RETURN OF COLUMBUS AFTER HIS FIRST VOYAOE.

1 ''J

Ifrom its familiarity — first revealed the exisicneu of a "New
liVoRLD." As he passed through the basy, populous city of
ISeville, every window, balcony, and house-top which could afford
Lgiinipao of him is described to have been crowded with spec-
liators.

It was the middle of April before Columbus reached Barcelona.
Irbe nobility and cavaliers iu allundance on tliu court, together
U jth the authorities of the city, came to the gates to receive him,
andescoi-ted him to the royal presence. Ferdinand and Inabella
Uere seated, with their son Prince John, under a superb canopy
of state, awaiting his arrival. On his approach, they rose from
their seats, and extending their hands to him to salute, caused
him to be seated before them. These were unprecedented marks
of condescension to a person of Columbus's rank in the haughty
I and ceremonious court of Castile.

It was, indeed, the proudest moment in the life of Columbus.
Ho had fully established the truth of his long-contested theory,
in the face of argument, sophistry, sneer, scepticism, and contempt.
Ho had achieved this not by chance, but by calculation, supported
through the most adverse circumstances by consummate conduct.
The honors paid him, which had hitherto been reserved only for
rank, or fortune, or military success, purchased by the blood and
tears of thousands, were, in his case, a homage to intellectual
power successfully exerted in behalf of the noblest interests of
hamanity.

After a brief interval, the sovereigns requested from Columbus
a recital of his adventures. His manner was sedate and dignified,
bat warmed by the glow of natui'al enthusiasm. He enumerated
the several islands which he had visited, expatiated on the tem-
perate character of the climate, and the capacity of the soil for
every variety of agricultural production, appealing to the samples
imported by him as evidence of their natural fruitfulness.

He dwelt more at large on the precious metals to be found in
these islands, which he inferred less from the specimens actually
obtained, than from the uniform testimony of the natives to their
abundance in the unexplored regions of the interior. Lastly, he
pointe 1 out the wide scope afforded to Christian zeal iu the
iilumiuation of a race of men whose minds, far from being
'vodded to any system of idolatry, were prepared by their ex-
treme simplicity for the reception of pure and uncorrupted doc-
trine.

The last consideration touched Isabella's heart most sensibly ;

nni

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152

PJDINBURGH AKTKR FLODDEN.

and the whole audience, kindled with various emotions by the
speaker's elcquence, filled up the perspective with the gorgeous
coloring of their own fancies, as ambition, or avarice, or devo-
tional feeling predominated in their bosoms. When Columbus
ceased, the king and queen, together with all present, prostrated
themselves on their knees in grateful thanksgivings, while the
solemn strains of the Te Denm were poured forth by the choir of
the royal chapel, as in commemoration of some glorious victory.

— Pre SCOTT.

1 I

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EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN.
(A.D. 1513.)

n M

i-iil

News of battle ! news of battle !
Hark ! 'tis ringing down the
street ;
And the archways and the pave-
ment
Bear the clang of hurrying feet.
News of battle! who hath brought
it?
News of triumph ! Who should
bring
Tidings from our noble army.
Greetings from our gallant king?

All last night >re watch'd the
beacons

Blazing on the hills afar,
Each oi.e bearing, as it kindled,

Message of the open'd war.
Alhiightlorgthenorthernstream-
ers

Shot across the trembling sky ;
Fearful lights, that never beacon

Save when kings or heroes die.

News of battle ! who hath brought
it?

All are thronging to the gate ;
" Warder — warder! openquickly !

Man — is this a time to wait?"
And the heavy gates are open'd :

Then a murmur long and loud ;

And a cry of fear and wonder

Burst from out the bending
crowd.
For they see in batter'd harness

Only one hard-stricken man;
And his weary steed is wounded,

And his cheek is pale and wan :
Spearless hangs a bloody banner

In his weak and drooping hand—
What ! can that be Randolph
Murray,

Captain of the city band?

Round him crush the people, cry*

ing»

"Tell us all— oh, tell us true!
Where are they who went to battle,

Randolph Murray,sworn to you?
Where are they, our brothers-
children ?

Have they met the English foe?
Why art thou alone, unfoilow'd?

Is it weel, or is it woe ?"
Like a corpse the grisly warrior

Looks out from his helm of steel-
But no word he speaks in answer-
Only with his armed heel
Chides his weary steed,and onward

Up the city streets they ride ;
Fathers, sisters, mothers, children.

Shrieking, praying by his sido.

EDINRUHOH AFTER FLODDEM.

153

•'By the God that made thee, Bau-
dolph!
Tell US what mischance has
come."
Then he lifts his riven banner,
And the asker's voice is dumb.

The elders of the city

Have met within thtir hall —
The men whom good King James
had charged

To watch the tower and wall.
" Your hands are weak with age,"
he said,

"Your hearts are stout and
true :
So bide ye in the Maiden Town,

While others fight for you.
My trumpet from the border side

Shall send a blast so clear,
That all who wait within the gate

That stirring sound may hear.
Or if it be the will of Heaven

That back I never come,
And if, instead of Scottish shouts.

Ye hear the English drum, —
Then let the waniing bells ring
out,

Then gird you to the fray,
Then man the walls like burghers
stout.

And fight while fight you may.
'Twere better that in fiery flame

The roof should thunder down,
Than that the foot of foreign foe

Should trample in the town ! "

Then in came Randolph Murray, —

His step was slow and weak,
And, as he doff"d his dinted helm,

The tears ran down his cheek :
They fell upon his corselet,

And on his mailed hand,
As he gazed around him wistfully,

Leaning sorely on his brand.
And none who then beheld him

But straight were smote with
fear.

For a bolder and a sterner man

Had never couch'd a spear.
They knew so sad a messenger

Some ghastly news must bring,
And all of them were fathers.

And their sons were with the
king.
And up then rose the provost —

A brave old man was he.
Of ancient name, and knightly
fame,

And chivalrous degree.

Oh, woeful now was* the old man's
look.

And he spake right heavily —
" Now, Randolph, tell thy tidings,

However sharp they be !
Woe is written on thy visage.

Death is looking from thy face :
Speak! though it be of over-
throw —

It cannot be disgrace ! '*

Right bitter was the agony

That wrung that soldier proud :
Thrice did he strive to answer,

And thrice he groan'd aloud.
Then he gave the riven banner

To the old man's shaking hand.
Saying — " That is all I bring ye

From the bravest of the land !
Ay ! ye may look upon it —

It was guarded well and long,
By your brothers and your children,

By the valiant and the strong.
Onc! by one they fell around it.

As the archers laid them low,
Grimly dying, still unconquer'd,

With their faces to the foe.
Ay ! ye may well look upon it —

There is more than honor there.
Else, be sure, I had not brought it

From the field of dark despair.
Never yet was royal banner

Steep'd in such a costly dye ;
It hath lain upon a bosom

Where no other shroud shall lie.

154

DISCOVERY OF NEWFOUNDLAND.

Sirs ! I charge you, keep it holy,

Keep it as a sacred thing.
For the stain you see upon it

"Was the life-blood of your king!"
Woe, woe, and lamentation !

What a piteous cry was there !
Widows, maidens, mothers, chil-
dren.

Shrieking, sobbing in despair !

" Oh the blackest day for Scotland
That she ever knew before!

Oh our king ! the good, the noble,

Shall we see him never more?
Woe to us, and woe to Scotland!

Ori our sons, our sons and men!
Surely some have 'scaped the South-
ron,

Surely some will come again ! "
Till the oak that fell last, winter

Shall uprearits shatter'd stem-
Wives and mothers of Dunedin—

Ye may look in vain for them !

— Aytoun.

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DISCOVERY OF NEWFOUNDLAND.

(a.d. 1497.)

In the spring of the year 1497, a small squadron of ships sailed
from Br.'Stol, in search of a passage to India by the north-west.
Two men of Venetian origin, John Cabot and his son Sebastian,
a youth of twenty years of age, undertook their guidance. After
a toilsome voyage of many weeks, they entered a region of vast
banks, fogs, and mists, but continued on with unshaken hardihood.
About three o'clock on the morning of the 24th of June, they
reached a land hitherto unnoted in any map or record ; sterile
and uncultivated, abounding in great white bears and elks. The
discoverers called this country by a name signifying " rich in
fish,'* from the numbers which swarmed in the rivers and along
the sea-coast. The inhabitants were wild and unfriendly, clothed
with the skins of beasts, and painted with a reddish clay.

The Cabots returned to England that year, and it does not
appear that any further notice was taken of this country, which
the English called Newfoundland, till 1534 ; when the brave
Jacques Cartier, with only sixty men, sailed from St. Malo in two
small vessels, under the French flag, and nearly circumnavigated
the island. He found it to be a great triangle, of irregular shape,
and about nine hundred miles round, with deep indentures and
numerous harbors, but with a soil everywhere unfruitful.

Two Englishmen, named Elliott and Thorn, traded there for
some years under the protection of Henry VIII., obtaining rich
furs from the natives. At length these unhappy men, with a
body of their dependants, made a settlement, and determined to
remain there over the winter. They knew not what they had

DISCOVERY OF NEWFOUNDLAND.

155

i, the noble,
jver more ?
) Scotland!
IS and men!
id the South.

me again ! "
ast winter
ter'd stem—
f Dunedin—
a for them !
— Aytoun.

ships sailed
north-west.
1 Sebastian,
nee. After
^ion of vast
I hardihood.
June, they
ord; sterile
elks. The
" rich in
and along
y, clothed
ay.

does not
;ry, "which
the brave
alo in two
nnavigated
liar shape,
tures and
1.

there for
lining rich
en, with a
rmined to
; they had

to meet; their provisions failed, none of them survived, and tra-
dition says they ate each other.

The most remarkable among the adventurer Vrho visited these ,
bleak shores, for many years afterwards, was Sii' Humphrey Gil- |
bert. He took possession in the name of Queen Elizabeth, but
was lost ou his return to England: his good brave words in the
storn^, however, are left us still, " Courage, friends ! we are as
near heaven here as on the land."

From the beginning of the seventeenth century the French >
had a settlement at Placentia, on the south coast. In the year >
1622, George Calvert landed from England, having with him \
seeds, grain, and cattle. His settlers were successful, and some '
of their descendants founded, in a commodious harbour, the
capital, St. John's.

At the treaty of Utrecht, Louis XIV. of France gave up his
claim to the island, which probably he did not care much about,
as his subjecls retained the right of fishing. It has ever since
remained an English colony, and is at present garrisoned by
three companieo of infantry. The barren soil and ungenial cli-
mate defy the skill and industry of the husbandman : wheat
does not grow, the scanty crops of barley and oats rarely ripen ;
from sheltered places near the towns a moderate supply of pota-
toes and garden vegetables is forced from the unwilling earth.
There are a few cattle, the grasses being plentiful and nutritious.
All else, for the use of man, comes from over the sea. During
the summer, some of the lakes and bays are rich in short-lived
beauty. Few have penetrated into 'le interior for any distance ;
the hills as you advance, rise into mountains, the shrubs into
trees ; there is au idea that the centre of the island is a great
valley, filled with numerous lakes and impassable mor isses ; none
of the rivers are navigable far up the country, and there seems
but little to tempt the explorer.

The natives met with in the first discovery were Esquimaux ;
fierce men of stalwart frame and intractable disposition ; their
complexion was a dark-red, they were bold hunters and fishers,
and of great courage in battle. From the first, they and the
white men were deadly foes. The Mic-mac Indians of Nova
Scotia and those red men carried on a war of extermination
against each other for centuries ; each landing, with destructive
swoop, on the others' coast, scalping the men, and carrying the
women into slavery. The Esquimaux warriors were more fre-
quently victorious, till, in an evil hour, they provoked the wrath

166

NOVA SCOTIA.

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of the pale faces : the rifle and bayonet soon broke their spirit ;
abandoning the coasts and the hunting-grounds of their fathers,
they fled into the dreary forests of the interior ; sometimes, in
the long winter nights, they crept out from their wild fastnesses,
and visited some lonely hamlet with a terrible vengeance. The
settlers in return hunted them down like wolves, and, in the
course of years, their life of misery reduced their numbers, and
weakened their frames so much, that they never ventured to
appear ; it was known that some few still lingered, but they were
almost forgotten.

The winter of 1830 was unusually severe in this country, and
prolonged beyond those of former years. Towards its close, a
settler was hewing down trees at some distance from one of the
remote villages, when two gaunt figures crept out from the neigh-
bouring " bush ; " with sad cries and imploring gestures they
tried to express their prayer for help ; the white .man, terrified
by their uncouth and haggard looks, seized his gun. which un-
happily lay at hand, and shot the foremost ; the other tossed his
lean arms wildly into the air — the woods rang with his despair-
ing shrieks as he rushed away. Since then none of the fallen
race have been seen. The emaciated frame of the dead man
showed how dire had been their necessity. There is no doubt
that the last of the red men perished in that bitter winter.

— Warburton's Hochelaga.

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NOVA SCOTIA.

Whether we regard its age, its eventful history, or the tried
loyalty of its inhabitants, we may safely say that few of the
Bi-itish colonies are more worthy of our attention than the pro-
vince of Nova Scotia. It was first discovered to the modern
European by the two Cabots, who sailed under a commission
from Henry VIII., and landed upon its shores in 1497, a few
years after the discovrey of America by Columbus, and some
time previous to the discovery of the mainland by that navigator.
It was totally neglected till 1583, when Sir Humphrey Gilbert
perished in attempting to reach its shores. His brother John
succeeded in effecting a landing upon the continent the following
year ; he died, however, shortly afterwards, and his followers re-
turned to England. It is upon these visits that England founded
her right to this colony.

NOVA SCOTIA.

157

IHK CIIX OF HALIFAX.

The next European of whom we hear upon these shores was
M. de Monts, a French gentleman, who set sail from Havre in
1604 with a commission from Henrj IV., appointing liim gover-
nor of the northern part of the continent under the name of New.'
France. That portion of it which is represented by the provincesi
of Nova Scotia and New Brunswick was then called Acadia. De
Monts founded a settlement at Port Royal, which rapidly pro-
gressed, the settlers keeping upon good terms with the aborigines,
and being otherwise undisturbed, except on a single occasion
when a certain Captain Argall from Virginia made an unprovoked
attack upon them.

The successes of the French turned the attention of the
English to the Acadian colony, and in 1621, Sir William Alex-
ander, an accomplished gentleman and scholar, obtained from
James T. a grant of the whole country. Many Dutch and French
adventurers resorted to the province, and an English vessel paid
it a visit, but no attempt was made at settlement till the reign of
Charles I., who renewed Sir William's charter, and instituted the
order of baronets of Nova Scotia, by which name the colony was
henceforth to be known. Aided by a French Huguenot named
Kirckt, the governor fitted out a few armed vessels, which cap-

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158

NOVA SCOTlA.

tared some French transports on the way, but did nothing to-
ward permanent settlement. Disgusted with his want of success,
Sir William Alexander transferred all but Port Royal to Claude
de la Tour, a French Protestant. In 1632, however, the foolish
treaty of St. Germains ceded Nova Scotia with Canada to France;
and a company of merchants, incessantly squabbling among
themselves, misgoverned it till 1664, when Oliver Cromwell took
possession of the province.

By the treaty of Breda it was again ceded to France. On
the fresh outbreak of war. Sir William Phippa set sail from Mas-
sachusetts, and in 1690 levelled the fortifications of Port Royal,
and added Nova Scotia to the government of his province. It
remained an appanage of Massachusetts till 1696, when the
treaty of Ryswick again restored it to France. No sooner had the
French re-entered upon the government of the province, than
they adopted measures for its colonization, and largely increased
the fur trade and the fisheries. At the same time they despatched
piratical expeditions to the shores of New England, and greatly
annoyed the British colonists The people' of New England
retaliated in 1704 and 1707 ; the expedition of the former year,
under Colonel Church, burning and pillaging the country, and that
of the latter being ingloriously foiled by the gallantry of M.
Subercuse. In 1710, however, a strong force of four war
vessels and nineteen transports, containing five regiments, airived
at Port Royal, and, after a brave defence on the part of the
besieged, took possession of the country. By the famous treaty
of Utrecht in 1715, Nova Scotia was finally ceded to England,
and the name of Acadia blotted out from the map.

General Nicholson, who had led the expedition against Port
Royal, the name of which was changed to Annapolis, in honor
of Queen Anne, remained in Nova Scotia as governor till 1719,
when Colonel Phillips succeeded him. The proximity of Cape
Breton, which still remained in possession of the French, the
disloyalty of the Acadians, and the frightful ravages of the
Indians, gave considerable anxiety to the early government,
especially as few English settlers appeared in the country. The
Indians, incited by the French, at last committed such atrocities,
that large expeditions were undertaken against them. The taking
of Louisburg and the Island of St. John by the provincial troops
under Colonel Pepperel, put a stop to these outrages for a time.
France, however, was determined to strike another blow for her
lost provinces, and in 1746 despatched a gi'eat fleet from Ro-
chelle^ under the command of the Due d*Anville ; but before

NOVA SCOTIA.

159

having effected anything, the French fleet was broken up by
storms, and its crews and soldiers carried off by disease. Shat-
tered and maimed, a small remnant escaped to France. The
defeat of Jonquiere's fleet by Admiral Anson secured the province
from further molestation. •

A plan of systematic colonization was now entered into with
vigor, soldiers and seamen receiving grants of land for their
services. Chebucto was fixed upon as the harbor of the pro-
vince, and soon Governor Cornwallis laid out the town of Halifax,
80 named in honor of the Earl of Halifax, president of the Board
of Trade and Plantations. The. French and Indians recom-
menced their ravages, the latter surprising towns and villages
and scalping the inhabitants, as at Dartmouth and Lunenburg.
The disloyalty of t\ie Acadian s occasioned so much uneasiness,
that it was deemed necessary, under the government of Major
Lawrence, to remove them from the country. They were accord-
ingly called together in the church at Grand Pre and similar
places, and transported to the other British American colonies.
Many fled to the woods or escaped to the French settlements,
their villages being laid waste and their property destroyed. In
1757a large fleet, commanded by Admiral Holbome, arrivedat Hali-
fax from England, with a view of taking possession of Cape Breton
and Canada. Owing to various disasters the expedition failed en-
tirely. A short time afterwards, however, a still larger armament,
under Admiral Boscawen, accomplished the reduction of Cape
Breton ; and not long after the conquest of Canada by Wolfe, secured
the tranquility of Nova Scotia. The government, which had
hitherto been vested in the Governor and Council, was placed in the
hands of a House of Representatives, a constitution was adopted,
and the province fairly set upon the high road to prosperity.

By the treaty of Paris in 1763, France relinquished her claims
to this province. On the outbreak of the American war, the
Nova Scotians proved their firm adherence to the British Crown,
and received a large accession to their numbers from the loyal
men of the rebellious sta^a8. In 1784, Cape Breton was detached
from Nova Scotia — with which since its conquest it had been
united — and New Brunswick erected into a separate government.
In the war of 1812, the marine of Nova Scotia did good service
against the Americans, while the operations by land were checked
by the humanity of the respective governors of Maine and this pro-
vince. During the government of Sir James Kempt, Cape Breton
was again annexed to Nova Scotia, and has ever since been incor-
porated with it in government.

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160

NEW UKUNSWICK.

VIEW OF ST. JOHN N.B.

NEW BRUNSWICK.

The history of New Brunswick is embodied in that of Nov»
Scotia, of which province it formed a part until 1 785. The first
settlement attempted by the British was in 17 62^, by a few
families from New England, on the river St. JoEn, about fifty
miles from its mouth, and was named Maugerville.

These people experienced great misery, and met with many
obstacles before they established themselves. The diflBculties
inseparable from settling in the finest wilderness country in the
world, are suflBciently formidable and discouraging, but the
hostile spirit of the Indians harassed them still more, and the
savages were only at last appeased by the payment of large sums
for the wild animals which the English colonists had killed.

During the American war, several other families left New
England, and planted themselves on the lands adjoining Mauger-
ville. This district became then the seat of the court of law, and
obtained the name of Sunbury.

At the peace of 1783, there were about eight hundred inhabi-
tants in this part of the province. They endured many hardships

NKW imUNSWICK.

IGl

Ibefore they procured ample means to subsist on ; but it appears,
however, that private dissensions and separate interests formed
|ao small share of the evils that prevented their prosperity.

Three thousand persons from Nantucket arrived at the river
I St. John in the spring succeeding the peace with America. 'Many
of these were men who served during the war; twelve hundred
more from the same place followed during the autumn of the
same year. The sufferings of these settlers were extremely
severe. They had previously enjoyed all the comforts which a
coantry subdued and cultivated by the endurance and industry I
of their forefathers afforded, and they had at once to encounter |
all the horrors of an approaching winter, without houses to \
shelter them, amid the wilda of New Brunswick. Their suffer- •
ings are described as follows by a gentleman now residing at
Fredericton, in a small pamphlet descriptive of the province.
"The difficulties," he says, " which the first settlers were exposed
to, continued for a long time almost insurmountable. On their
arrival, they found a few hovels where St. John is now built, the
adjacent country exhibiting a most desolate aspect, which was
peculiarly discouraging to people who had just left their homes in
the beautiful and cultivated parts of the United States. Up the
river St. John the country appeared better, and a few cultivated
spots "^^^ere found unoccupied by old settlers. At St. Ann's,
where Fredericton is now built, a few scattered French huts were
found ; the .country all round being a continued wilderness,
uninhabited and untrodden, except by the savages and wild
animals ; and scarcely had these firm friends of their country ,
(American loyalists) begun to construct their cabins, when they .•
were surprised by the rigors of an untried climate ; their habi- '
tations being enveloped in snow before they were tenantable. I
The climate at that period (from what cause has not yet been ;
satisfactorily ascertained) being far more severe than at present, .
they were frequently put to the greatest straits for food and ',
clothing to preserve their existence ; a few roots were all that
tender mothers could at times procure to allay the importunate
calls of their children for food. Sir Guy Carleton had ordered
their provisions for the first year, at the expense of government ;
bat, as the country was not much cultivated at that time, food
conld scarcely be procured on any terms. Frequently had these
settlers to go from fifty to one hundred miles, with hand-sleds,
or toboggans, through wild woods or on the ice, to procure a
precarious supply for their famishing families. The privations

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162

NEW BKUNSVVICK.

and sufferings of these people almost exceed belief. The want
of food and clothing in a wild country was not easily dispensed

1 with, or soon remedied. Frequently in the piercing cold of

I winter, some of the family had to remain up during the night to
keep fire in their huts to prevent the others from freezing. Some

I very destitute families made use of boards to supply the want of
bedding ; the father, or some of the older children, remaining up

I by turns, and warming two suitable pieces of boards, which tbey
applied alternately to the smaller children to keep them warm,
with many similar expedients.

" Many of these loyalists were in the prime of life when they
came to this country, and most of them had young families. To
establish these, they wore out their lives in toil and poverty,
and by their unremitting exertions subdued the wilderness, and
covered the face of the country with habitations, villages, and
towns. I have not noticed these circumstances as if they were
peculiar to the settlers of New Brunswick, but to hold up to the
descendants of those sn^Ters the hardships endured by their
parents ; and to plpce in d striking point of view, the many com-
forts they possess oy the sutfering perseverance and industry of
their fathers.

" Under the judicious and paternal caro of Governor Carleton,
assisted by several of the leading characters, many of the .difficul-
ties of settling an infant and distant country were lessened. The
condition of the settlers was gradually ameliorated. The governor
himself set a pattern, in which he was followed by several of the
leading men in the different offices. A variety of grains and
roots were cultivated with success, and considerable progress
made in clearing the wilderness."

In 1785, a royal charter was granted to New Brunswick as a
distinct province, and the administration confided to Governor
Carleton. The safety of property, and the personal protection
of the inhabitants, secured the improvement of the country ; and
its settlements, agriculture, and trade, advanced from this time
with little interruption : the inhabitants following such pursuits
as necessity directed, or those that were most profitable, or at
least agreeable to their inclination^. — J. M'Gregor.

PRINCE FDWARI) ISLAND.

163

PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND.

Prince Edward Island lies in a great bay in the Gnlf of St.
Lawrence, ibrraod by the northern outh'ne of Nova Scotia,
New Brunswick, ad Capo Breton. It is a hundred and ft)rty
miles in length and thirty-four in breatlth in the widest part.
Northumberland Strait, in some places only nine miles wide,
separates it from New Brunswick and Nova Scotia The area of
the island is about two thousand square miles. The features of
this country are softer than those of its neij^tibora ; tliere are no
mountains, but gentle and fertile uiidulatious, clothed to the
water's edge with valuable woods and rich verdure. The north
shore is very beautiful ; many cheerful villages and green clear-
ings, with small lakes, shady harbors, and numerous streams,
diversify its srenery. In the jourse of ages, the vast flood of r lie
river St. Lawrence has worked indentations into every part of the
coast : there is not a spot of this district more than seven or eight
miles distant from some arm of the sea ; many of these aflbrd
shelter to large ships, driven by stress of weather under its
crescent-shaped shore, while all are deep enough for the small
vessels used in the costing trade.

On the south-east of the island stands Charlotte Town, the
capital, at the confluence of three rivers, near the end of Hills-
borough Bay. This is an excellent and well- deft nded harbor;
the town is, as yet, but small ; it contains the public buildings
of the island. The neighborhood yields only to Quebec in
beauty among the scenes of British North America. Its shores
are soft, and partly cleared ; the rivers wind gracel lly tliiough
forests of varied foliage ; life is given to the picture by the
cheerful town ; grandeur and variety by the blue and lofty
mountains of Nova Scotia in the distance.

This island was also discovered by Seb asti an Oibot ii3.„l .497.
The French first used it as a fishing station, an9 began to
colonize it about the beginning of the eighteenth century. The
settlere took part vigorously against the English, in their oiitlless
vwii's in those countries When the conquerois f f Louiwburg
took possession of this island of Si John, as it was then called,
they found a number of their countrymen's scalps in the
French governor's house. At the end of the last century somj
Scottish emigrants found their way hither, and most of the
present inhabitants are their descendants. The late Duke of

164

JACQUES CARTIER.

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Kent, when governor of Nova Scotia, paid great attention to this
island ; since his time it has improved very much, and its name.
in honor of him, was changed to Prince Edward Island.

The land is admirably adapted for pastoral and agriciiltnnil
purposes, but is denied the mineral wealth of the neighboring
districts ; ten times the number of people now scattered over ifs
surface would find abundant room and support. There are (in
1H45) about eighty schools, and a proportionate number of
churches. A governor is appointed by the English crown, and
the internal government is the same as in the sister colonies.
Two or three newspapers are published in the island, and it is
not without its mustard-pot storms of politics. The fisheries of
these shores are of great value, but little advantage is taken of
this resource. Many ships are built on the island, and sold to
the neighboring colonies, but year by year its increasing trade
requires a greater number for its own uses. Prince Edward Is-
land is more favored in climate than any other part of North
America; it has neither the extremes of heat and cold of
Canada, nor the fogs of Nova Scotia and Cape Breton ; fevers
and consumption are almost unknown ; the air is dry and
bracing ; the sickly and weak, under its salubrious influence,
soon become healthy and robust ; and the lige of fivescore years
is often reached in vigor of mind and body. This happy
country furnishes plenty, but not wealth : the people are hospi-
table, moral and contented. — Warburton's Hochelaga,

^COtTESlf^Rl

.RTIEK, ; \ .
(A.D, 1$34.)

In the seaport of St. Mai 6 "^t, was a Ihiiii^g morn in May,
When the Commodore Jacques Cartier to the westward sail'd away;
In the crowded old cathedral all the town were on their knees
For the safe return of kinsmen from the undiscover'd seas;
And every autumn blast that swept o'er pinnacle and pier,
Fill'd manly hearts with sorrow, and gentle hearts with fear.

A yearpass'd o'er St. Malo— again came round the day

When the Commodore Jacques Oirtier to the westward sail'd away;

i'll

JACQUES CARTIER.

105

But no tidings from thi> absoiit hud come the way tlioy went,
And tearful were the vigils that many a maiden spent ;
And manly hearts were nll'd with gloom, and gentle hearts with fear,
When no tidings came from Cartier at the closing ot the year.

III.
But the earth is as the future, it hath its hidden side ;
And the captain of ISt. Malo was rejoicing in his pride
Jii the forests of the north — while his townsmen mourn'd his loss,
Ho was rearing on Mount Royal the flettr-de-lis and cross;
And when two months were over, and added to the year,
St. Malo hail'd him home again, cheer answering to cheer.

IV.

He told them of a region, hard, iron-bound, and cold,
Nor seas of pearl abounded, nor mines of shining gold ; ,

Where the wind from Thuld freezes the word upon the lip, »
And tlio ice in sprinp^ comes sailing athwart the early ship;
He told them of the frozen scene until they thrill'd with fear,
And piled fresh fuel on the hearth to make him better cheer.

But when he changed the strain— he told how soon are cast

In early spring the fetters that hold the waters fast ; .

How the winter causeway broken is drifted out to sea,

And the rills and rivers sing with pride the anthem of the free;

How the magic wand of summer clad the landscape to his eyes,

Like the dry bones of the just when they wake in Paradise.

VI.

He told them of ti'C fiigo'v uin braves— the hunters of the wild,

Of how the ^!idif n raott ♦> n the forest rocks her child; ^

Of how, poor s il,, fhey ,ancy in every living thing

A spirit good or evil, i^tiat claims their worshipping ;

Of how they brought their sick and maim'd for him to breathe upon.

And of the wonders wrought for them through the Gospel of St. John.

vii.

He told them of the river whose mighty current gave ^

Its freshness for a hundred leagues to Ocean's briny wave ;

He told them of the glorious- scene presented to his sight,

What time he rear'd the cross and crown on Hochelaga's height,

And of the fortress cliff that keeps of Canada the key,

And they welcomed back Jacques Oartier from his perils o'er the sea.

— Darcy M'Gee.

i^i

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166

QUEBEC ; OK, THE EARLY HISTORY OF CANADA.

VIEW OK QUi'.UKC.

'■i\

QUEBEC ; OR, THE EARLY HISTORY OP CANADA.

Now, while we rest after the long and weary voyage, lend me
patience while I tell the old tale of how, and by whom, this fair
city came to be built ; and why the flag of dear old England
floats upon its citadel.

The first European who ever visited these lands was Jacques
Cartier. In the month of May 1535, the year after his circum-
navigation of Newfoundland, he again sailed from St. Malo with
three small ships. He and his followers were blessed by the
bishop in the cathedral, received the holy sacrament, and bade
farewell to their friends, as if for ever. The little squadron wa^s
for a long time dispersed, but met again with great joy on the
26th of Jiiiy. Having visited Newfoundland, they kept it as
the north, and sailed into a large gulf fuM of islands ; they passed
on the north side of Anticosti, and, sometimes landing by the
way, came at length to the mouth of the Saguen.iy. By means
of two Indians taken in the foi-mer voyage, at the Bay of Chaleur,
they conversed with the inhabitants, ai^d overcame their terror.
These simple people then received them with songs of joy and
darices, giving them freely of all the provisions they had. The

QUEBEC; OR, THE EARLY HISTORY OF CANADA.

167

NADA.

3, lend me
this fair
England

s Jacques
is circum-
Malo with
d by the
and bade
idron was
)y on the
:ept it as
ey passed
g by the
3y means
■ Ohalcur,
ir terror.

joy

iuid

ad. The

adventurers soon gathered that there was a town some days* sail
higher up; this, and the river, and the countries round about,
the natives called Hochelaga; t^iither they bent the^r way. The
kind-hearted Indians tried, by 'entreaties and innocent stratagems,
to detain their dangerous guests.

During the voyage up the stream they passed shores of great
beauty ; the climate was genial, the weather warmer than that of
France, and everywhere they met with unsuspicious friendship.
They found Hochelaga a fortified town among rich corn-fields, on
an island under the shade of a mountain, which they called
Mount lioyal ; time has changed it to Montreal. The old name,
like the old people, is well-nigh forgotten. The inhabitants had
stores of corn and fish laid up with great care, also tobacco,
which Europeans saw here for the first time. The natives were
courteous and friendly in their manners, some of them of noble
heauty ; they bowed to a Great Spirit, and knew of a future state.
The king wore a crown, which he transferred to Jacques Cartier;
but, when they brought their sick and infirm, trusting to his
supernatural power to heal, the Christian soldier only blessed
them with the jcross, and prayed that Heaven might give them
health.

The adventurers returned to France next year, carrying off one
of the kings with them, to the great grief of his subjects; he be-
came contented with his lot, but soon after died. This was the
first wrong the doomed race suffered from the white men. Four
years afterwards, the Sieur de Roberval, graced with many high-
sounding titles, and aided by Jacques Cartier, landed at the
mouth of the St. Charles River ; the inhabitants, mindful of
former injury, met the strangers with war instead of peace.
Seven miles above Quebec is Cap Rouge ; there, three hundred
years ago, the French built their first stronghold, to guard them-
selves from just vengeance ; they named it Charlesburg Royal.
Their leader, tortured by the dissensions of his followers, soon
led them back to France ; in 1549, he, with his brave brother,
sailed to seek the visionary Cathay, and were heard of no more.

At the end of the sixteenth century, when the gloom of this
failure had passed away, Chauvin and Pontgrave opened a fur
trade at Tadoussac. without much success Next followed the
Calvinist De Monts, with a little fleet of four sail ; his inordinate
privileges, and the religious dissensions of his followers, caused
his ruin. The worthy Champlain, his successor, founded the city
of Quebec in 1608, and cultivated the rich valley of the St.

■ ■

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16S

QUKBEC; OR, THE EARLY HISTOKV OF CANADA.

Charles ; with some of his followers he penetrated to the great
Lakes of the West, and returned in safety from among their
tierce and savage nations. To this vast territory of Canada, he
gave the name of New Fi-ance. For many years the settlers met
with great difficulties from the climate and Indians, but adven-
turers poured in from the old world, and wars, and fire-water
thinned their foes. So;-ie powerful tribes sought their alliance,
serving them to the end with faith and courage. Montreal,
Niagara, and other towns were founded, and Quebec was strength-
ened iiito the Gibraltar of the West.

The quarrels of the mother countries involved these colonists
in constant difficulties with their English neighbors of the south,
and their Indian allies added unheard-of horrors to their wars.
After many alternate successes, a British army of great force,
under the command of General Amherst, invaded Canada in 1759.
Ticonderoga fell into his power, and Niagara was won by the
division of General Johnson, after a gallant battle. These
triumphs were, however, of but little moment, for all knew that
on Quebec the fate of Canada depended, and the failure of
General Hill, half a century before, had given jbl lesson of the
difficulties of the attack. A large fleet, commanded by Admiral
Saunders, carrying an army of seven thousand men, reached the
Island of Orleans in the end of June.

For a few years, and for a great purpose, England was given
one of these men whose names light up the page of history ; he
was humble and gentle as a child, graceful in person and man-
ners ; raised by transcendent merit in early manhood, he had
done high service at Minden and Louisburg : the purpose was
accomplished, and the gift resumed at Quebec, when he was
about thirty-two years old. This was Wolfe ,; to him the ex-
pedition was intrusted.

He took possession of the island of Orleans, and occupied
Point Levi with a detachment. His prospects were not encour-
aging ; the great stronghold frowned down on him from au
almost inaccessible position, bristling with guns, defended by
Montcalm, with a superior force of a gallant army, and inhabited
by a hostile population. Above the city steep banks rendered
landing Jmost impossible ; below, the country, for eight miles,
was embarrassed by two rivers, many redoubts, and the watchful
Indians. A part of tho tleet lay above the town, the remainder
in the North Channel, between the island of Orleans and Mout-

mor(
then
Tl
ofM
meet
belo^

gUKliEC; OK, THE EAKLY HISTOKY OF CANADA.

1G9

moreiici ; each tide floated down fii-e-sliips, but the sailoi*s towed
them ashore, and they proved harmless.

The plan which first suggested itself was, to attack by the side
of Montmorenci ; but this the bi-ave Montcalm was pi-epared to
meet. On the 31st of July, a division of grenadiers landed
below the Falls ; some of the boats gi'ounded on a shoal, and
caused great confusion ; so that arrangements, excellent in them-
selves, were in their result disastrous. The grenadiers, with an
indiscreet ardor, advanced against the intrenchments, unformed
and unsupported : a steady and valiant defence drove them back,
a storm threatening, and the loss being already heavy, the gene-
ral re-embarked the troops with quiet regularity. The soldiers
drooped under their reverse ; but there was always one cheerful
face— that of their leader. Nevertheless, inward care and labor
waited his weak frame. He wrote to England, sadly and de-
spondingly, for the future was veiy dark ; but he acted on an
inspiration. His generals were brave men, and suggested daring
plans : he seized the boldest counsel, risked the great venture, and
won.

On the night of the 12th September, the fleet approached the
shore below the town, as if to force a landing. The troops em-
barked at one in the morning, and ascended the river for three
leagues, when they got into the boats, and floated noiselessly
down the stream, passing the sentries unobserved. Where they
landed, a steep narrow path wound up the side of the clifT, form-
ing the river's bank. It was defended bravely against them —
but in vain. When the sun rose, the army stood upon the plains
of Abraham.

Montcalm found he was worsted as a general, but it ^ s still
left to him to fight as a soldier. His order of battle was p. omptly
and skilfully made — the regular troops were his left, resting on
the bank above the river ; the gallant Canadian Seigneurs, with
their Provincials, supported by two regiments, formed his right :
beyond these, menacing the English left, were clouds of French
and Indian skirmishers.

General Townshend met these with four regiments. The
Louisburg Grenadiers formed the front of the battle, to the
right, resting on the cliff"; and there also was Wolfe, exhorting
them to be steady, and to reserve their discharge. The BVench
attacked at for^y paces ; they staggered under the fire, but repaid
it well. At length they slowly gave ground. As they fell back,

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170

LAKE ONTARIO AND THE THOtTSAND ISLANDS.

the bayonet and claymore of the Highianders broke their ranks,
and drove them with great carnage into the town.

At the fir.st, Wolfe had been wounded in the wrist ; another
shot struck him in the body, but he dissembled his sufl'ering, for
his duty was not yet done. Again a ball passed through his
breast, and he sank. When they raised him from the ground,
he tried with his faint hand to clear the death-mist from his
eyes ; he could not see how the battle went, but the voice which
fell upon his dying ear told him he was immortal.

There is a small monument upon the place of his death, with
the date, and this inscription : — " Here died Wolfe, victorious."
He was too precious to be left, even on the field of his glory.
England, jealous of his ashes, laid them with his fathers', near
the town where he was born. The chivalrous Montcalm was
also slain. In a lofty situation on Cape Diamond a pillar is
erected "To the memory of two illustrious men, Wolfe and
Montcalm,"

Five days after the battle, Quebec surrendered, on such terms
as generous victors give to gallant foes. The news of these
events reached home but forty-eight hours later than the first
discouraging despatch, and spread universal joy for the great
triumph, and sorrow for its price. Throughout all broad Eng-
land were illuminations and songs of triumph, except in one
country village ; for there Wolfe's widowed mother mourned her
only child.

This is the story of Quebec nearly a hundred years ago, and
the reason why that flag of dear Old England floats above its
citadel. — Warburton's Hochelaga.

LAKE ONTARIO AND THE THOUSAND ISLANDS.

Come, stand with us on this bold height, in the shadow of thwfc
column which marks the death-scene of one of England's noblest
soldiers. The air is still and clear, and the distant voice of the
great cataract floats low and sullenly down the rocky gorges of
the Niagara. Westward spreads a noble expanse of champaign
country, beautifully wooded, and dotted with numerous home-
steads. To the right rise the wooded heigV.'s < f the American
shore, and at your feet rolls the wave tlsr;' had it? c^-adle thou-
sands of miles away in the wild heart of the Rocky ML'nitains —
that swept through untrodden forests, and dov.'.i n. lueless water-

LAKE ONTARIO AND THE THOUSAND ISLANDS.

171

falls, till it sparkled on the ocean bosom of Superior — danced
over the white rapids of the Saut yte. Marie into the broad
Huron — kissed the haunted shores of the isles of the Manitou —
mirrored the white walls of Detroit, and the gliding barks of
the St. Clair, and rested a while in the arms of Erie, before its
rush through the min bow-arch arid the storm-cloud into the
boiling gulf of Niagara. Watch the course of the noble river,
It is spread beneath us as in a map, tracing its wide boundary'
between the two great countries, and winding towards Ontario,
the last of the mighty brotherhood of the Lakes.

Beneath us, in the current of the broad river, floats that pioneer
cf American civilization — a steamboat. Let us place our.selves
on her deck, and accompany her on her lakeward voyage. As we
leave the wild mountain-gorge of Queenston, the scenery becomes
softer, and the river banks decrease in height. We are soon at
the point where this mighty stream melts Into the wide bosom of
Ontario, and the last and fairest of the great lakes lies before
us, sparkling in the summer sunlight. The stars and .stripes
are floating in the light breeze to the right, and the meteor flag
waves over a sra*ill fortalice on the left, and we emerge from the
guarded entrance of the boundary river into the broad "neutral
ground" of Ontario. White sails are scattered over the bright
waters, and here and there the light thread of smoke in the clear
heaven tells where a steamer is wheeling her rapid way. It is
difficult for any one <whose ideas of a lake have been formed from
the Windermeres, Neaghs, Katrines, or Lemans of European
lands, to fancy old Ontario a mere fresh- water pond, and not a
recognized branch of tho everlasting ocean. Populous cities en-
circle its banks, and rivers that drain half a continent empty into
its wide basin. Far away to the west the eye can trace the point
where tho northern and southern shores meet beneath the green
crescent of the Burlington Heights, where the beautiful city of
Hamilton lies in its amphitheatre of hills. To the east the eyo
.sees nothing but the usual ocean prospect of the mingling blue
of wave and heaven. And while our vessel is ploughing her
swift path to tho northern shore, let us follow with still greater
swiftness the broad lake-stream in its eastern journey.

For more than two hundred miles it spreads from its western
boundary till it narrows once more into reasonable dimensions,
anu is again designated as "the river." The Genesee, the Os-
wego, the Trent, and a hundred minor streams, have poured their
trfljutes into its lap ; and the narrowing shores north and south

f \

. .1

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I'i

■%

'1'

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Im;

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172

1*1 K COTEAU KA D.

are again circuniscribiug its sweep. It has passed the bold ram-
parts of Fort Heiirj, and the spires ot Kingston are fading in the
distance as the bright stream enters that glorious labyrinth of
mingled wilduess and beauty, '* The Thousand Isles." Every
variety of rare and picturesque scenery -which the most profuse
outpourings of nature's fairest combinations of forest, rock, and
water can eflfect, is there displayed in the versatile beauties and
shifting glories of the kaleidoscope. The water is smooth and un-
broken, the heavens soft and clear, and the light fingers of the
early autumn are strewing their bright colors on the forest trees.
You glide along through a constantly shifting succession of exqui-
site landscapes. Innumerable isles, of every variety of shape, size,
and character, seem thrown at ran'\mi over the waves, some appa-
rently of miles in length, others almost too small for the solitary
tree that springs from their tiny centre — some showing a bold
outline of jagged rock, others resting like fairy baskets of foliage
on the breast of the sweet waters. — The Majjle Leajf.

THE COTEAU RAPID

The Coteau — broad, and long, and boisterous !
The waves, like white sea monsters, plunge and roll ;
Mighty, and grand, and wildly perilous,
It lives a life of torment. Some mad soul
Seems shouting from each billow, asd the howl
Of the lash'd waters, as they foam and writhe.
Is as despair's last shriek, when at the goal,
Where all hope ends, it tumbles headlong with
A cry of anguish to the yawning gulf beneath.

Mad shrieks of horror pierce the seething shore;
Triumphal choruses roll back again ;
Up from the depths abysmal, evermore,
Rushes some swift embodiment of pain,
Flyinpf from the fierce conflict all in vain ;
A wild, despairing, agonising cry,
A laugh of demons torturing the slain :
Thus the sardonic strife goes crashing by;
The nameless Terror rolls its burden up the sky.

From isle to isle we wend our devious way;
From crest to crest, from wave to wave we bound
Baptized anew with showers of snowy spray, ^
All danger seems in lofty tumult drown'd;
From isle to isle the turmoil rolls profound. —

VANCOUVER ISLAND,

173

The true enchantment this — no legend rare.
No wondrous tale by hoar tradition crown'd,
But grand, terrific, true, beyond compare,
The vast sonorous war of passion shakes the air.

And suddenly from the infernal whirl
The ambling current bears us far away,
Where no pursuing wave is seen to curl,
No rapid shatters mto blinding spray ;
But far behind, the breakers' wild array
Shout from the watery slope their threatenings dire.
Looming, like Mohawk ghosts at morning gray,
With awful rage and impotent desire,
Striking the wildest chords of Nature's mighty lyre.

— Charles Sangster.

VANCOUVER ISLAND.

Although formerly two distinct colonies, Vancouver Island
and British Columbia have now been formed into one
united Province, the whole being called " British Columbia."
Vancouver Island is the older. Established in 1849, under
the auspices ol the Hudson Bay Company, in fulfilment of
a condition attached by the Government to the renewal of
their charter, the colony had at first but a feeble existence;
and, but for the magnetic attraction of the gold-fields on the
other aide of the Georgia Channel, it would have remained in the
same undeveloped state, if it had not died out altogether. Viewed
from seaward, the island presents rather an unprepossessing ap-
pearance. Dark frowning clifis girdle its shores ; beyond these,
with scarcely any interval of level land, rounded hills, densely-
covered with fir, rise one above the other ; and over these, again,
appear bare, rugged mountains, with peaks jagged like the edge
of a saw. The whole centre of the island, as far as it has been
explored, is said to be a mass of rock and mountain. Although
there is not much open land, it is exceedingly fertile. Victoria,
the capital, is situated on undulating ground overlooking the
bay. Four years ago it was a mere trading port of the
Hudson Bay Company, and contained about two hundred
and fifty people. Its population has now risen to between
three and fo-ar thousand. Broad streets of substantial wooden
houses have been erected. A few brick stores, a handsome
stone bank, the spires of four churches, one or two Govern-
ment bmildings, and the high spiked walls of a jail, distin-

174

BKITISH «OJNJMBIA.

\\A'^

guish the place from a mere log town, and indicate its preten-
sions to be regarded as a capital. Suburbs, shaded with oak
trees like an English park, and rich agricultural land, surround
the town. Although there is a harbor at Victoria, it is not so
good as that at Esquimault, which is beginning to rise into notice.
H.'ilf a dozen houses, three or four grog-shops, and one or two
stores, represent at present the " town" of Esquimault. Van-
couver Island is rich in coal, which is of great value in that part
of the world, California being deficient in that important mineral.
The population of Vancouver Island (which is equal in size to the
half of Ireland) is estimated as follows: — 5700 whites, (of whom
700 are women,) 500 colored people, and 15,000 Indians.

—J. H. Fyfe.

BRITISH COLUMBIA.

Sailing through the Strait of St. Juan de Puca, on his right the
traveller beholds the snow-capped mountains of Washington terri-
tory. To the left lies Vancouver Island, low in comparison with
the opposite shore, but still possessing heights on which, even in
June, patches of snow glisten. The glassy waters of the Gulf of
Georoia present a striking appearance, dotted with many little
islands, and enlivened by swiftly-gliding canoes filled with painted
Indians, slow-paced sailing shijs, and spluttering steamers. On
the side of the gulf, opposite to Vancouver Island, loom the dark
shores of British Columbia. At first sight the whole country
appears to be clothed with forest ; but when the traveller moves
inland, he learns that, in the lowlands, the pines fi-equently take
the form of belts, enclosing rich valleys and open prairies ; lawns,
in which oaks and maples (not pines) predominate ; marshes,
covered with long coarse grass ; and lakes, fringed with flower-
ing shrubs, willows, and poplars. " The impressions which this
country leaves on the mind," says Mr Macdonald, C.E., "are of
grandeur, gloomy vastness, awful solitude, rendered more dismal
by the howl of beasts of prey. Streams white with foam, flow
amid cliffs and ravines, forming at places magnificent waterfalls,
whose lonely thunder swells and dies away in the interminable
solitude of unpeopled space. Tremendous precipices, yawning
gulfs, and towering rocks, whose naked backs have withstood the
storms of six thousand yenrs, are all there to astonish and rivet
the attention. Forests of the deepest green piesent to the eye
vast masses of foliage, fresh and glittering in the sunlight ; whil*'*.

IWITIKH COLUMBfA.

175

far above, overhanging cliffs and mountains, gleam piles and pyra-
mids of snow and iCe, and glacier gorges of remarkable splendor.
The surface of t) e country is generally rocky, except where co-
vered with forest trees and underwood." The deer, the elk, the
bear, the puma, and the wolf people the fastnesses of the forest,
and there are vast well-stocked covers of grouse, partridge, and
various kinds of wild-fowl. Fish swarm along the shores, and in
the numerous lakes which stud the country. The salmon is
especially abundant. The Indian, by a few hauls of the net, fills
his canoe with them. The bear sits by the side of the river and
paws them out for breakfast, dinner, and supper. The Hud-
son Bay Company salts annually about two thousand barrels of
salmon. There is a great diversity of climate both in British
Columbia and Vancouver Island. The white fox and the hum-
ming-bird, the reindeer lichen and the cactus may be found
within the limits of one territory. Generally speaking, the cli-
mate of the sea-coast is milder and finer than that of England,
but wet in winter. In the interior the winters are colder, while
the summers are hotter.

New Westminster, the capital of British Columbia, stands on
the bank of the Eraser River, about fifteen miles from its mouth.
It has only three hundred inhabitants, but it boasts a church,
school, customhouse, jail, barracks, treasury, mint and assay office.
One or two Indian villages in the gold regions are beginning to be
transformed into white settlements. With an area about three*
and a haU times as large as Great Britain, British Columbia
has a population of 15,000 whites, (of which only a fi'action are
women,) 2000 Chinamen, and from 10,000 to 15,000 Indians. The
aborigines have generally shown theHselves friendly ; but the
outrages which some of the ruffians, attracted by the gold dig-
gings, have perpetrated, have naturally provoked reprisals.

At present, British Columbia is livinpf on its gold-fields. The
chief fields are situated in the newly-discovered district of
Cariboo, (a corruption from Cerf-boouf, a large species of rein-
deer which inhabits the country,) near the sources of Fraser
River. This district is described as a

" Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood ;"

for it is a rugged mass of hills and streams — in the lower parts
swampy and heavily timbered with extensive forests, and covered
with a dense brushwood in the higher latitudes. The only level

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176

THE KE1> KIVER ^miLtMEMT*.

ground is found on the tops of the inountains, which are all flat.
Ravines abound, along the sides of which run what the miners
call " benches," or ten-aces. These benches, as far as they have
been tested, have yielded gold. The only portion of the district
that has been explored is a patch of country fifty miles from
north to south, and thirty miles from east to west. It bears a
striking resemblance to the richest regions of California, and
exhibits all the characteristics of an auriferous country. As far
as "prospecting" has yet gone, this character has been fully
established. The gold is found a few inches, a foot or two, and
very seldom more than six feet, below the surface. The gold is
all coarse gold — granulated, gravelly stuff', mixed with pellets and
pebbles of pure metal of considerable size.

The prizes which some of the miners have made appear mar-
vellous. For instance, in two months five men obtaini'd 100,000
dollars* worth of gold. Allowance must be made, however, for
the necessarily high prices of provisions. A meal of beans and
bacon, with a cup of wretched coffee, cost two dollars ; and half
a dollar per square inch was charged for water for sluicing. At
the diggings, the cost of living was about sixty dollars a day.
Mr Macdonald, therefore, calculates that, regarded as a whole, the
mining was a losing game, since the expenditure for food, appa-
ratus, &c., in 1861, exceeded the return of gold by 42,614,836
dollars. If fortunes were gained, fortunes must also have been
lost at Cariboo.

Another gold region has lately been discovered to the north of
the northern limits of British Columbia, in the Indian land,
known as the Stiokeen country. This district is of vast extent,
and belongs to Great BrVJpijn, with the exception of a strip or belt
on the PacifiCj which was ceded to Russia in 1825. Several
hundred miners are now at work along the banks of the Stickeen
River.

The chief value of British Columbia lies in the fact that it may
one day be traversed by a great highway leading from the Atlan-
tic to the Pacific Ocean. — J. H. Pyfe.

THE RED RIVER SETTLEMENT.

In the very centre of the great continent of North /.merica, far
removed from the abodes of civilized men, and about tvyenty miles
to the south of Lake Winnipeg, exists a colony, composed of

THE RED RIVER SETTLEMENT.

177

lodians, Scotchmen, and French Canudians, which is known by
the name of Red River Settlement.

Red River differs from most colonic s in more respects than one
—the chief differences being that, whereas other colonies cluster
on the sea-coast, this one lies many hundreds of miles in the
interior of the country, and is surrounded by a wilderness ; and
while other colonies, acting on the golden rule, export their pro-
duce in return for goods imported, this of Red River imports a
large quantity, and exports nothing, or next to nothing. JSot but
that it might export if it only had an outlet or a market ; but,
being eight hundred miles removed from the sea, and five hun-
dred miles from the nearest market, with a series of rivers, lakes,
rapids, and cataracts separating from the one, and a wide sweep
of treeless prairie dividing from the other, the settlers have long
since come to the conclusion that they were bom to consume
their own produce, and so regulate the extent of their farming
operations by the strength of their appetites. Of course, there
are many of the necessaries, or, at least, the luxuries of life, which
the colonists cannot grow — such as tea, coffee, sugar, coats,
trousers, and shirts — and which, consequently, they procure from
England by means of the Hudson Bay Fur Company's ships,
which sail once a year from Gravesend laden with supplies for the
trade carried on with the Indians. The bales containing these
articles are conveyed in boats up the rivers, carried past the
waterfalls and rapids overland on the shoulders of stalwart
I'oyageurs, and finally landed at Red River, after a rough trip of
many weeks' duration.*

The colony was founded in 1811 by the Earl of Selkirk, previously
to which it had been a trading port of the Fur Company. At the
time of which we write, it contained about five thousand souls, f
and extended upwards of fifty miles along the Red and Assini-
boine rivers, which streams supplied the settlers with a variety
of excellent fish. The banks were clothed with fine trees and
immediately behind the settlement lay the great prairies, which
extend in undulating waves, almost entirely devoid of shrub or
tree, to the base of the Rocky Mountains.

* Since the above was written, a considerable trade has been carried on
between the settlement and the State of Minnesota, through which the
Red River mail route runs, and through which all exports from Canada to
the settlement must pass. A steamboat now plies on the Red River
between the town oC Pembina, in the United States, and the settlement.

t Since increased to seven thousand-

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178

HUDSON BAY TKRRITOIJY.

i-lW,

Although far removed from the civilized world, and contuiuiu^'
within its precincts much that is savage, and very little that is
refined, Red River is quite a populous paradise, as compared with
the desolate, solitary establishments of the Hudson Bay Fur Com-
pany. These lonely dwellings of the trader are scattered far and
wide over the whole continent — north, south, east, and west.
Their population generally amounts to eight or ten men, seldom
to thirty. They are planted in the thick of an uninhabited de-
sert, their next neighbors being from two to five hundred miles
off, their occasional visitors bands of wandering Indians, and the
sole object of their existence being to trade in the furry hides of
foxes, martens, beavers, badgers, bears, buffaloes, and wolves.
It will not, then, be deemed a matter of wonder that the gentle-
men who have charge of these establishments, and who, per-
chance, may have spent ten or twenty years in them, should look
upon the colony of Red River as a species of Elysium, a sort of
haven of rest, in which they may lay their weary heads, and
spend the remainder of their days in peaceful felicity, free from
the cares of a residence among wild beasts and wild men. Many
of the retiring traders prefer casting their lot in Canada ; but not
a few of them smoke out the remainder of their existence in this
colony, especially those who, having left home as boys fifty or
sixty years before, cannot reasonably expect to find the friends of
their childhood where they left them, and cannot hope to remodel
tastes and habits long nurtured in the backwoods, so as to relish
the manners and customs of civilized society.

— Ballantyne's Fur Traders.

HUDSON BAY TERRITORY.

There is in this western world yet another region of vast size,
belonging to the British Crown: it extends from the Labrador
coast to the Pacific, ibur thousand miles from east to west, and
from Canada to the North Pole. In its tintrodden solitudes, and
among the eternal snows of its mountains, lie the mysterious
sources of those vast rivers which intersect the plains of the
Nor^iem Continent. This dreary tract is called the Hudson Bay
Territory. A ridge of mountains runs some degrees to the north
of, and parallel to the St. Lawrence, as far as the sources of the
Ottawa ; there it bends away to the north-weat, till above Lake
Superior, it again inclines to the south, sending out a branch to

HUDSON BAY TERKITORY.

170

the uukuowii regions of the north-west. About three thousand
miles from the eastern shores of the coutinent, tliese brauclii's
meet the great Hue of the Rocky Mountains, running from north
to south. Numbers of large rivers flow from these ranges, some to
the Gulf of Mexico, others into the Pacific, some into the great
lakes of the St. Lawrence, others into Hudson Bay and the
frozen oceans of the north. These mountains are nearly five
hundred miles in breadth ; to the east lies a marshy country
where coal abounds ; next to this are immense plains and
prairie.s, and still farther east, a desert of rocks and siuid, lakes
and rivers, stretches away to an unknown distance On the
north, this dreary trackless waste extends to the frozen seas.
On the south-west of the '' Barren Land ** are the Great Bear
and Slave Lakes, nearly as large as Lake Huron and Lake
Michigan. The southern shores are rich and level, the /aters
dotted with islands, which are covered with dark "woods, and
well-stocked with Indian deer. The Lake Athabasca, lying
north-west of these, is of great length but very narrow ; the
hardy adventurers who have reached its distant shores, describe
them to be of great beauty ; two other extensive sheets of fresh
water communicate with it. In this neighborhood, and be-
tween it and the great lakes of the St. Lawrence, are many
fertile plains, fit for the habitations of millions of civilized men.

Again, Lake Winnipeg fills up a portion of the remaining
space towards the source of the St. Lawrence ; its length is two
hundred and forty miles ; the breadth varies from ten to fifty.
A portion of its waters flows into Lake Superior, through the
Lake of the Woods; the j^^reater part, however, falls to th(^
north-west by large rivers, but little known, leading to Hudson
Bay. In all these vast lakes the northern shores are rocky,
abrupt, and barren, the southern rich and level, as though the
alluvial deposits of some great flood, flowing from the north-
west to the south-east for many ages, had poured their riches
upon them. •

The rivers which flow through this region are but little ex-
plored, and but imperfect knowledge is yet obtained of their
size and capabilities; several of those falhng into Hudson Bay,
however, have been traced for more than two thousand miles,
but their extreme sources man has not yet reacrhcd.

The districts to the north of Oregon are called New Georgia,
facing Vancouver Island, or Nootka, the more familiar name.
Here some mountains rise to a gi-eat height, white with eternal

180

HUDSON BAT TERRITORT.

! i

snowo; biifc tho plaiiiH and valleys are fertile, and dotted with
rich woods. Clear brooks wander among these undulations, and
an exuberant vegetation shows the wealth of the. soil and the
mildness of the clima>te ; all the trees of Europe flourish here,
and grow to an enormous size. Winter spares the western coasts
of the American Continent; the soft breezes of the Pacific
temper its severity.

For three hundred more miles of seaboard to the north, the
country is called New Hanover; its general characteristics are
like those of the district last described, but rather more severe.
New Cornwall extends thence to the Russian possessions ; the
climate and the productions show the approach to the Pole, but
near the sea the forests are still luxuriant. Many hot springs
are here observed among the rocky hills. The numerous islands
along the coast are covered with lofty pines, and have a com-
paratively mild climate up to the straits which separate the Old
World from tho New. Many mountainous islands, of rare and
beautiful rock, form almost a connecting chain between the tvvo
promontories of Kamtschatka and Alasca; some of these spout
up volcanic fires, others are bound in perpetual ice.

From Behring Strait along to the north-east, are numerous
other large and dreary islands, some nearly of the same extent as
Ireland; but the snow, and rank, poor grasses are their only
covering : beyond them is the bound of human enterprise.

The northern shore of Hudson Bay is the land of desolation ;
lofty mountains of shattered rock, covered with ice, which the
sun has never conquered ; valleys where the deep drifts of snow
have hidden their slopes since the flood. In a few favored
spots, during the brief and fiery summer, some stunted pines
and coarse moss show that nature is not dead, but sleeping.
Lakes, swamps, and eternal solitudes cover the interior. On the
south-western shore ai*e many symptoms of recent volcanic
action : there are great seams of coal, iron, and copper. On the
south Inhere, potatoes and other vegetables have been produced,
and com would probably succeed, but has not yet been tried.
Farther in the interior, the productions are those of a milder
climate than that of lower Canada. On the coasts of the bay
the winter is awful in its severity, and for six months all nature
is imprisoned in ice and snow : at some of the settlements of
the fur-traders the thermometer in Januarv is often down to
fifty degrees Iwlow zero, the rivers and lakes are frozen to the
bottom, and even in the rooms inhabited by the traders, spirits

HUnSON BAT TERRfTORT.

181

ed with
ons, and
and the
ish here,
rn coasts
Pacific

jrth, the
sties are
5 severe.
)us ; the
Pole, but

springs
3 islands
! a com-

the Old
pare and

the tvvo
se spout

umeroua
(xtent as
eir only

lolation ;
hich the
of snow

favored
;d pines
.leeping.

On the
volcanic

On the
roduced,
n tried.
I milder
the bay
[ nature
lents of
lown to
1 to the
, spirits

have been known to freeze int(» a solid mass. When tbo wither-
ing north wind blows, it is almost beyond the power of man to
bear. The particles of ice borne on its fi'ozen breath are driven
like poisoned arrows into the flesh, and cover it with sores.
Notwithstanding their warm fur clothing and careful habits, the
Europeans are often frost-bitten in these awful winters : the
wretched natives frequently perish. ilocks are rent by the
grasp of the frost, and, with a crash like the roar of artillery,
burst into fragments, and are scattered to great distances round.
Often, for many days, the sun is hidden by dense masses of
vapor, rising from the sea, and condensed by the cold on the
coasts. In the severest times, false suns and moons throw their
chill and ghastly glare over the white waste ; and, from the
inaccessible regions of the Pole, livid flashes illumine the dark
skies with a sinister and mysterious light.

For the three months of summer, a more than tropical heat
opens this dreary wilderness to the fearless sailors of England ;
but squalls and currents of terrible violence are It) be braved in
reaching it. Borne by the tides and winds, huge icebergs glide
among these perilous seas, sometimes cnishing the largest ships
like nut-shells: in one month of one year — April 1825 — twenty-
five vessels were lost in Melville Bay.

Three distinct native races are condemned to inhabit this
dismal country. All are on very friendly terms with the
servants of the Hudson Bay Company. They are expert in the
chase, and gifted with wonderful endurance : their manners arc
mild and kmd, and they are faithful when any trust is reposed
in them ; but when the accursed fire-water is within their reach,
no tiger is more fierce and bloodthirsty. Very little can be said
m favor of their moral character, and they, too, are rapidly
diminishing in number. The race sinks lower in the scale of
humanity as they spread towards the north and east ; there they
hunt with the bow and arrow, and fish with nets made of thongs
from the skins of beasts ; many eat their food raw, others seethe
it in birch bark vessels, filled Avith water heated by hot stones.
They are filthy and disgusting in their habits ; their horses and
other domesticated brutes eat animal food, gmss and herbage,
even in the summer, being very scanty.

These Indians leave their dead to the carrion birds, and to the
wild beasts of the hills. When old age comes on, and they are
helpless, their fate is to lie down and perish ; neither child nor
friend will min'iter to their wants. In nearly all qnalitieC) of

!',

i ''I

>■ > J <

■•lit
I if''

182

HUDSON RAY lERRITOKY.

mind and body they arc a mean and wretched people. The Es-
quimanx'tdwcll farther to the north, and from time immemorial
have warred against these Indians, who are stronger, and treat
them with great barbarity : tlitae are a feeble and timorous race,
inhabiting chiefly the islands and peninsulas, where they think
themselves mori: safe from tlieir dangerous neighbors. Of late
years the English have made peace between them ; but the Es-
quimaux do not yet dare to venture near the trading factories.
In the summer a sloop visits their coast and receives their furs
in exchange for European goods. They arc of a low and un-
sightly figure ; their weapons clumsy and inefficient, but much
ingenuity is displayed in some of their attempts at ornament. In
winter they wander from lake to river, cutting holes in the ice,
catching fish and eating it mw : their huts are low and wretched,
covered with the skins of deer. Various tribes of these Esqui-
maux are scattered through this vast northern region, and alonw
the shores of the Polar Sea. The moose, the reindeer, the buf-
falo, the l)ear, and many other animals, are here to bo found, with
nearly every bird which wc have in England. Whales and seals
frequent the neighboring waters in great numbers, with salmon,
cnpelins, and many other dainty fish : in winter they seek some
milder climato, nnd leave the wretched inhabitants to the risk of
starvation. Stores aro laid in against these times of famine, and
some of tho coarse herbage a.ssists in the support of life.

The first European that reached these seas was Henry Hudson,
sent out in IGIO, by tho Russia Company, to seek the north-west
passage. His crew mutinied, and left him, his son, and some
others, to perish on the desolate shores. Tho same company sent
out several other trading expeditions to these countries, and
finally, in ICGO, received a royal charter, giving them the exclu-
sive privilege of commerce and settlements in the whole of the
coasts and districts within Hudson Strait. They retain these
rigiits up to the present day, employing a great quantity of ship-
ping, and a number of adventurous men, who hunt among these
vast plains and forests, and barter Englisli goods with the tribes
of the interior for their portion of the spoils of tho chase.

The few settlements or factories round Hudson Bay arc at iho
mouths of rivers, and well fortified : they are Forts Churchill,
York, Albany, and Moose ; there are other smaller settlements in
the interior, on the great rivers. After tho French were driven
from Canada, a rival company was established, to trade with the
Indians from Montreal, called the North-West Company. They

• :■• •!

THK INDIAN.

183

The Ks.
n memorial
and treat
)rou8 race,
^hey think
Of late
at the Ks-
factories.
their furs
V and un-
but much
iment. In
in the ice,
wretched,
>so Esqui-
and along
', the buf.
mnd, with
I and seals
h salmon,
seek some
he risk of
mine, and

y Hudson,
lorth-west
and some
pany sent
tries, and
he exclu-
r)Ie of the
ain these
T of ship-
tng these
the tribes

•

iro at the
^hnrchill,
mients in
re driven
with the
y- They

tiiti red these re{rion8 by the j?reat Canadian Lak(\s, built nume-
rous forts near those of their older rivals, invadiug their clnirtered
rights. For a great part of a century they were almost at open
war; several collisions took place between their people, and in
one of these twenty-three lives were lost. Lately tlie interests
of these great rivals have been joined, to the great .ndvantago of
both ; and they are now so powerful a body as to defy all chanf;e
of successful competition. To their establishments in the Oregon
Territory is duo the superior strength of the Knglish power in
those districts. Nearly all the Indian tribes are friendly and
obedient to them, and as rejidy to defend them in war as to serve
them in jieacc.

The British possession.s, lying to tlie north and west of Canada,
contain three millions seven hundred thousand square miles of
land — a greater extent than the whole of the United States.
Vast though it be, only a small part of tliis dominion can be in-
habited by civilized man : from the remainder, the Desert and the
Polar snows shut him out for ever. To the west, along tho fa-
vored shores of the Pacific, millions upon millioii-i of the human
race could find abundant sustenance.

— Warburton's Ilochelaga.

THE INDIAN.

Now had the autumn day gone by, and evening's yellow shade
Had wrapt the mountains and the hills, and lengthen'd o'er the glade.
The honey-bee had sought her hive, the bird her shelter'd nest,
And in the hollow valley's gloom both wind and wave had rest.

And to a cotter's hut that eve there came an Indian chief;
And in his frame was weariness, and in his face was grief.
The feather o'er his head that danced was weather-sou'd and rent,
And broken were his bow and spear, and all his arrows spent.

And meek and humble was his speech ; he knew the white man's hand
Was turn'd against those wasted tribes, long scourged from the land.
He pray'd but for a simple draught of water from the well,
And a poor morsel of the food that from his table fell.

He said that his old frame had toT^'d a wide and weary way,
O'er the sunny lakes and savage hills and through the woods that day.
Yet when he saw they scoflTd his words, he turn'd away in woo,
And cursedthem not, hut only monrn'd that they should shame him so.

When many years had flown away, that herdsman of the hill
Went out into the wilderness the wolf and bear to kill —

184

TUl!; QOeEN.

:;i J

To scatter the red deer, and slay the panther in his lair,

And chase the rapid moose that ranged the sunless forests there.

And soon his hounds lav dead with toil; the deer were fierce and Hcct,
And the prairie tigers kept aloof when they heard his hostile lect.
No bread was in tnat desert place, nor crystal rivulet
To slake the torment of his thirst, or his not brow to wet.

'I'

He fear'd — he fear'd to die — yet know that nought on earth could save;
For none might catch his parting breath and lay him in his grave.
But lo! while life's dim taper still burn*d feebly in his breast,
A ministering angel came — his hated Indian guest !

He shared his wheaten loaf with him — his cup of water shared,
And bore the sick man unto those for whom nis heart most cared.
'• I curt'^d thee not," the Indian said, " when thou wast stern to me,
And I have had my vengeance now; white man! farewell to thee!"

— M'Lellan.

THE QUEEN.

Flushed with a thousand victories.
O'er half the earth her red cross flies ;
The day's free sunlight never dies

On Britain's world-wide throne !
Realms that the Persian never knew,
Waves where Rome's eagle never flew,

Her free doininion own.
From Himalaya's snowy piles.
From green Australia's farthest isles.
Where sweeps the wave round Aden's peak-
Where deep woods shield the vanquished Sikh-
Where the wild Cape's gigantic form
Looms through the haze of southern storm ;
Where the old Spanish rock looks down
O'er the blue strait with martial frown ;
Where o'er the western world looks forth
Quebec, gray fortress of tlie norl b ;
Where old Si. Lawrence sings and smiles,
Round blue Ontario's thousand isles;
Where the young queen of inland seas.
Toronto, woos the forest breeze ;
Where the everlasting spray-cloud flouts
High o'er Niagara's thunder notes ;
Where Erie spreads his waters fair,
Wheie white sails gleam on soft Sf Clnir ;

THE QUKEN.

185

Where the Great Spirit's islands* rest
Far off on Huron's sunlit breast;
Where tempests wake Superior's sleep —
Where Oregon looks o'er the deep —

Floats the red cross on high !
And the glad shout of free-born hosts
Echoes from earth's remotest coasts,

** Britain and victory I "

Not the rich flush of martial light
That gilds thine isle's historic might.
Not the wild breath of battle-horn
Ij'iom centuries of conquest borne,
Not thy bright roll of champions bravo,
Earth-tramplers — lords of field and wave!

Thine is a nobler fame !
Where foot can press, where wave can roll,
The slave — the captive's withering soul,

Blesses thy honor'd name.
Beautiful on the mountains shine
Their feet who bear the holy sign.
Salvation's banner-cross unfurl'd,
The rainbow of a darken 'd world,
Bright harbinger of Mei cy — Peace —
Improvement's triumph — Earth's increase —

Glad hearts and firesides tree.
Such your bright trophies— Christian isles,
Fruits of long years of wars and toils.
High o'er red Glory's crimson piles,

" God's Word and Liberty."

And Thou ! upon whose awful breath,
Hang time and empire— judgment — death —
Before whose throne earth's slaves and kings
Alike shall stand, weak suppliant things;
Father of Him, whose gentle eye
Look'd kind on childhood's purity,
Shield thou our Queen with strength divine»
Pour blessings on her princely line,

Theirs be Worth— Victory— Might !
Not with red sword and fiery brand.
For shatter'd hearth and wasted land'

Be theirs a nobler fight —
To sway the heart of Christian man,
Lift the red cross in Freedom's van.
Bid Thy pure altars point to heaven,
The chain from slavery's neck be riven,

* The Blanitouiin Islands.

■ I

186

THE MAIHEMATICAL SCIENCES.

! bi

iy^

tf.>

i .

Let their bright staiidards fly
On farthest Hhoro and wildest niain,
Glud heralds of the angelic stmin,
" Peace upon earth— goodwill to men,
Glory to Tube on high 1"

— The Maple Leaf.

THK MATHEMATICAL SCIENCES.

The word Mathematics comes to us from the Greek, and may
be fairly translated as the Science — so called, because the ancients,
who were devoted to the study of it, looked upon Mathematics
as the only true science, and the basis or groundwork of all
others. Everything belonging to form and position, quantity
and number, is embraced by thig science. Mathematics are of
two kinds : pure, and mi.ied or applied. When they are called
pure, it is in the same sense as we speak of water being pure ;
that is, without any mixture of other ingredients. Now we not
only speak of 2 books, 3 lessons, 4 scholars, but of the numbers
2, 3, and 4, without referring to anything apart from the numbers
themselves. In Algebra, you know that the letters n, //, n, &c ,
stand for anything at all ; and in Geometry we speak of an
angle, a straight line, or circle, without alluding to any par-
ticular angle, line, or circle. Such are Pure Mathematics. But
Mathematics are applied to numberless uses ; to keep accounts,
and to measure fields, to direct the sailor in his course, and to
teach the soldier how to fire a rifle or point a cannon. These,
however, are not scieiices, they are arts ; for an art is a science
put into practice. There are applications of the science of Mathe-
matics, which are sciences tbemselves — namely, the application of
it to the many objects which nature exhibits io our gaze, and,
more especially, to the description of force, that force which lives
and moves in everything in the world. Thus mixed np with
solids and liquids and gases, weighing the earth, sounding the sea,
numbering the stars, and measuring the speed of light and sound,
they are no more Pure, but become Applied Mathematics, and
give birth to several systems of knowledge which may be called
the Mathematical Sciences. In the following short, sketch of
these you will meet with little or nothing of a mathematical
nature; not till you begin to study these sciences in earnest will
you have 'jo do with that system which in many respects,
deserves the title of the Seieuee,

THF MATIIRMATICAL T^CIENCKS.

187

f>ple Leaf.

i and may
le ancients,
athcmafics
k^ork of nil
n, quantity
itics arc of
are called
>eing pure;
row we not
e numbers
he numbers
'', '^ ^ &c ,
Deak of an
> anj par-
iticp. But
p aecouDts,
rse, and to
•n. These,
i a science
! of Mathe-
plication of
gaze, and,
v^hich lives
I up witli
Tig the sea,
md sound,
latics, and
be called
sketch of
ihematical
irncst will
respects,

The six sciences to whicii MatlienmticH are applied are gono-
mlly ranked under the one great head of Physics, from a Greek
woi*d signifying tlihign pertahu'inj la nature, or, as it is oftener
L-alled, Natural Philosophy. Natural Philosophy has to deal with
the whole of Nature's wide doniaiu, viewing it, not as a passive
field for contemplation, but as a scene of restless activity, and
attempting to explain the causes to which that activity is due.
Endeavor, now, to grasp with your mind this widi' domain ;
strive to include in your thoughts the earth wo live upon ; the
sky above us, with the sun, moon, and stars shining in it ; land
and water ; plants and animals ; and the atmosphere with all
that it contains. These are all composed of matter that may be
seen and felt, whether it be solid matter, as stone and wood ;
liquid, as oil and water ; or gaseous, as air and coal gas. If wo
regard matter as one thing, we find that the Natural World,
which is to be carefully distinguiahed from the Spiritual World,
contains but two great elements — matter and force. I have
already said that wo cannot see force ; we can, however, see its
effects. When force is applied \o a body at rest, the body begins
to move; and when similar force is applied to it in an opposite
direction it stops ; we thus see the effects of force not only in
motion but also in rest. Force is frequently called by the name
of one of its effects, and in many books we see the first laws of
Physics treated of under the title of Matter and Motion.

Let us enter now upon the consideration of the Mathematical
Sciences, and, in order to do so aright, let us first reflect upon the
t wo great subjects of thought, matter and motion. We look up into
the heavens, and see the planets moving through space in their
paths around the sun ; we know also thfit our own earth revolves
along with them, while the moon, wheeling round the earth,
accompanies it on its course. We ask ourselves the question —
What is the reason that the heavenly bodies thus move in regular
order through the i^ky, without anything visible to support or
keep them in their places ? Upon this globe, the round ball
which we inhabit, there are continents, seas, and islands, thpt
constantly revolve with it in all directions, now up.and now down,
so that wo speak of those who live upon the other side of the
world as being at our antipodes, or opposite our feet. Why do
not these people fall off? What hinders the earth from flying to
pieces with so much whirling about ? How is it that the water
of oceans, lakes, and rivers does not flow out of the world, when
the parts of the earth in which these are situated are turned

188

THE MArHKMATICAI-

SCIKNCES.

. Ji

upside down ? There arc nmiiy other questioiiH Hiijj^gcsted hy imr
daily experience. When we throw a .stone up in the air, why docs
it return to thu ground and not reujuin aloft, like the stars ? How
is it tlmt a l)iiil will not continue to roll alongthe ground in thu same
way as the stars perpetually circle round in the sky ? These (jucs-
tions are all very important, notwithstanding that they appeur so
simple, and have engaged the attention of some ol the greatest
men that ever lived. The science which answers these and siuiilur
questions, which describes tlie properties or qualities of matter,
and explains the laws that govern the force which acts upon
it, is called Mechanics. Mecrhanics is a Greek word, and its
primary, or first, signification was, that ivhich pei'tains to lua-
chines or contrlvoncas, because it first denoted the explanation
of that power or force which man exci'ts upon natural objects
by means of his arms, hands, and other natural or artiticial
machines. Now, however, ife embmces all the contrivances of
nature as well, and, as wo have seen, is applied to the science
•which investigates forces and powers, and their action upon bodies,
or the laws which govern matter and force. There are three
kinds of matter ; solid matter, such as earth, stone, wood, aud
flesh; fluid, as water, quicksilver, sap, and blood; and gaseous
or elastic, because it contracts and expands, such as air, ga.s,
vapor, &c. Each of these kinds of matter lias a separate divi-
sion of mechanics allotted to it. Thus we have three sciences in-
stead of one; namely, mechanics of solids, mechanics of fluids, and
mechanics of elastic bodies. Let us first examine the mechanics
of solids. We have already learned that wherever there is mat-
ter, force is also present and acting upon it. Now, we observe
that by far the greater portions of this earth, such as its moun-
tains aud rocks, the buildings which men have erected upon it, and
many similar things, do not move ut all. The eai-th certainly
moves and they go along with it, but they do not alter their
positions on the earth. If we set down a chair, a book, or otlier
inanimate object, in any place, we naturally expect to find it in
the same spot, unless moved by some person. But if force is
constantly acting upon objects, (and we have seen that force re-
veals its existence by motion,) why do not these objects move ?
The reason simply is, that they are beset, as it were, by equal
forces on every side, and are thus prevented from shifting their
position. That division of the science of the mechanics of solids,
whicJi treats of solid bodies in a stai.e of rest, and of the forces
that keep them so, is called Statics, a Greek word which means

THE MATHEMATICAf SCIENCFS.

181)

Mi^

hritKjing to (I hIiihiIWiII. Hut solid bndios do not always HUiiid
utill. The world revolvcH through spiici.', hiiow and hail tall froai
the cloudH, a hand-HJeigh nlideR down a hill, and if wo strike a
hall it will fly forward with greater or less velocity, accord'^g
to the force with which it is Btruck. There muflt, therefore, be a
division of the science treating of the niotions of solid bodies,
and of the influence of moving bodies upon one another. This
division is called Dynamics, also from the Greek, and signifying
Ihat which perfahm tn power or foice.

When we turn our attention to fluids, wo find that water or
auy other liquid, whether in seas, lakes, and rivers, or in an open
vessel, such as a basin, tub, or pail, is ulways level on the surface,
whatever inequalities may exist in the bottom or sides of that
which contains it. If we take av. fi'; the sides of the vessel which
uphold the liquid, it will immediately give way and flow evenly
over the surface of the ground, or, as it is scientifically expressed,
will seek its own level. This case is very different from that of
solid bodies, which are of all shapes, square and round, rough and
smooth, and can stand alone, even if they are as high as the
pyramids of Egypt. There must be some good reason for this, and
every one who wishes to know what the reason is, will study the
science of Hydrostatics, v/hich is another Greek word, equivalent
Uthr'nuj'nKj jlnids to a stauOslill. But this is not all we have to
learn concerning fluids. We have .seen already that water moves
to find its own level, whether, in order to do so, it has to spread
equally over the ground, or to ri.se tL ough a pipe to the distance
of many feet, ft can also be made to move upwards, far beyond
its own level, in pumps and similar machines. Naturally, now-
evor, it moves downwards, and seeks the lowest ground. What
causes these varieties of motion ? To answer this question
satisfactorily, you must consult some ,work upon the science of
Hydrodynamics, or vrnter-power.

There still remains another department of Mechanics ; namely,
that which deals with ga.seous or elastic bodies. This department
has a name of its own, Pneumatics, which in the Greek signifies
things perlauiivff fn air or rviiul. Like the mechanics of solids
and fluids, it has two divisions. The first of these treats of the
properties of air at rest ; such as its pressure, which is about
fourteen tons' weight to a man of average size ; its weight, which
i» from eight to nine hundred times less than that of water, and
which decreases the higher we ascend in the atmosphei-e ; its
elastic nature, so plainly shown by an ordinaiy pop-gnn; and it9

190

THE MATHEMATICAL SCIENCES.

J ;,i

power of supporting other Hubstaiices, as in the case of a colunni
of quicksilver in a barometer. This division is calleti Aerojstatics,
beink^ applied, not to air alone, but to all gaseous bodies, and
bearing in Greek a meaning similar to that of Hydrostatics,
merely altering the word fluids to ijases. The second division
deals with the motions of gases, particularly with air and its
mechanical effects, such as the action of wind, exhibited in the
turning of windmills, the sailing of ships, blowing down tree.^s,
dispersing clouds, and other natural and artificial employments
It sometimes encroaches upon the Science of Meteorology, which
was described among the natural sciences. This part of Piuui-
matics is denominated Aerodynamics, or nir-powar.

Thus far we have briefly examined the three departments of
Mechanics with their subdivisions, in all of which the prevailing'
idea is that offurce, a something that can only be described by
the one great science of Mathematics. There remain no other
natural objects than those included under these three departments,
to which force can be applied. Whence, then, do we get our
other sciences ? One we find dealing with those bodies which lie
beyond our atmosphere, outside of the earth ; another treats of
that light which all of them, but one in particular, send down to
our eyes ; and the third, of that application of force to our ears
which we call sound.

Who has not, many a time, gazed upon the majestic, light-
giving sun, the pale moon, and the countless host of stars that
spangle the sky, with feelings of wonder and admiration ? How
often have we asked ourselves what all these bright specks
in heaven were, how far it was to them, how large they wore,
how they moved, and what kept them from falling out of their
places ! These and a thousand other questions are answered
already, while the discoveries that are constantly being made by
means of the telescope are satisfying even more curious inquirers
than ourselves. The science which possesses^ so vast a domain,
extending millions and millions of miles beyond this little earth,
and including immense worlds and systems of worlds with which
our small planet would hardly bear comparison, is that already
well known to you as Astronomy. The Greek word Astronomy
signifies the laiv of the starSy a law, or rather a series of laws,
which could never have been discovered but for the existence of
the science of Mathematics.

The sun is the great source of light to the system of whicL our
earth forms a part. How great must that force bo which sends

TttE MATHF^fA^ICAL SCIENCES.

191

a column
ro.statics,
dies, and
rostatics,
division
and ils
d in tht'
vn trees,
oyments
y, wliieh
)f Pneii-

ments of
rcvailiii<r
iribed by
no other
irtments,

get our
kvhich lie
treats of

down to
our cars

ic, light-
Ava tliat
? How
; specks
ey were,
of their
answered
nnade by
nquircrs
domain,
e earth,
h which
already
Lronomy
Df laws,
tence of

licL our
h sends

down the cheering sunbeam through ninety-five millions of miles,
in eight minuS^s of time, to illumine our earth ! You wonder,
perhaps, how men could calculate the time that such a very
subtle body as light takes to travel. It is not, however, my in-
tention to tell you in this lesson, which is only designed tostimu
late your curiosity with regaixl to the Mathematical Sciences.
AH such information you will find in books written upon the
science of Optics, or, as the Greek term may be translated, of
Ifiiu^^s pertainiiKj to sight or vision^ for our eyes are the instru-
ments with which we see and study light. This science embraces
everything connected both with light in itself and our perception
0^ it. It tells us what light is, how it moves, through what
substances it will pass, and from what bodies it is reflected. It
also explains the nature of all optical instruments, natural and
artificial ; the eye, the telescope, the microscope, spectacles, and
looking-glasses. Under it also are included the wonderful phe-
nomena or appearances which we know as colurs ; for a single
white ray of light is composed of seven smaller rays, red^ orange^
yellow^ greeuj blue, indigo, and violet, such as you have seen
separated by a glass prism. This science consists of three divi-
sions: Dioptrics, the science of light passing through any
medium, as air, water, and glass ; Catoptrics, the science of re-
flected light, as from a mirror ; and Chromatics, or the science of
color. AH these are Greek names, appropriate to the objects of
the Optical Sciences.

Wt; have now arrived at the last of the Mathematical Sciences;
that, namely, which investigates the nature and properties of
sound. If, by means of a machin called the air-pump, we empty
a glass vessel of the air which you know pervades everything,
and ring a bell in the empty jar, no sound will be heard. From
this it is plain that the presence of air, or some other medium,
is necessary in order to constitute sound. The bcience of
Acoustics, a Greek virord meaning things pertaining to the sense of
hearing, teaches that sound is produced in consequence of the
waves excited in the atmosphere or other medium (for water will
carry sound) by the moving body, such as a bell, a falling tree,
or a gunshot, striking upon the ear in rapid succession. To this
science belongs the whole theory of music, vocal and instru-
mental, with many other interesting subjects of a similar nature.
Acoustics are of two kinds : Diacoustics, or the science which
treats of sound conveyed through a medium, as air, water, Ac. ;
and Catacoustics, dealing with refl.ected sounds, such as aa echo.

192

EXECUTION OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.

S ■;■ '

!F:i'

iri.

These words are derived, like most of those with wh-eh we have
become acquainted in this lesson, from the language of the
ancient Greeks, who first studied the subjects to which they are
applied ; and, as you will at once perceive, are analogous to those
denoting two of the divisions of the science of Optics.

We have now completed our view oL the Mathematical Sciences.
They are not so easily understood, nor sc evident to our senses,
as the five Natural Sciences ; but the objects with which they
have to do are those we meet with every day in our lives, and
which, if we be true searchers after knowledge, we will not
neglect to look into. Before doing so, however, we must apply
ourselves diligently to the study of Pure Mathematics, and, when
we have fairly mastered their various branches, we will find their
application to matter and force one of the most ennobling of pur-
suits and agreeable of all recreations.

The Mathematical Sciences.

I. Pare Mathematics.

11. Mixed or Applied Ma
tbematics, Physics, orV

(Mechanics of Solids, ("Statics.
' ? Dynamics.

Do. of Fluids. (Hydrostatics.

' ( Hydrodynamics.

Do. of Oases, or Piipu- ( Aerostatics.

matics, '( Aerodynamics.

Natural Philosophy.

Astronomy.

r Dioptrics.
Optics, 5 Catoptrics.

(^ Chromatics.

A »^,,.*:^« ( Diacoustics.

\ Acoustics, [catacouBtics.

EXECUTION OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.

(a.d. 1587.)

On Tuesday, the 7th of February 1587, the two earls arrived
at Fotheringay, and demanded access to the Queen, read in her
presence the warrant for execution, and required her to prepare
to die next morning. Mary heard them to the end without
emotion, and crossing herself in the name of the Father, and of
the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, "That soul," said she, "is not
worthy the joys of heaven, which repines because the body must
endure the stroke of the executioner; and though I did not

KXECUTlOxN OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS,

103

■ve have

of the

hej are

i^ those

ciences.

senses,
ch thej
'■es, and
vill not

apply
*, when
id theii
of pur-

ics.
amies,
ts.
nics.

:s.

ic8.

arrived
in her
repare
ithout
md of
is not
must
d not

expect that the Qaeen of England would set the first example
)f violating the sacred person of a sovereign prince, 1 willingly
submit to that which Providence has decreed to be my lot."
ind laying her hand on a Bible which happened to bo near her,
she solemnly protested that she was innocent of that conspiracy
which Babington had carried on against Elizabeth's life. She
then mentioned the request contained in her letter to Elizabeth,
but obtained no satisfactory answer. She entreated with par-
ticular earnestness, that now in her last moment, her almoner
might be suffered to attend her, and that she might enjoy the
consolation of those pious institutions prescribed by her re-
ligion. Even this favor, which is usually granted to the vilest
criminal, was absolutely denied.

Her attendants, during this conversation, were bathed in
tears, and, though overawed by the presence of the two earls,
with difficulty suppressed their anguish ; but no sooner did
Kent and Shrewsbury withdraw, than they ran to their mistress
and burst out into the most passionate expressions of tenderness
and sorrow. Mary, however, not only retained perfect com-
posure of mind, but endeavoured to moderate their excessive
grief. And, falling on her knees, with all her domestics round
her, she thanked Heaven that her sufferings were now so near an
end, and prayed that she might be enabled to endure what still
remained with decency and with fortitude. The greater part of
the evening she employed in settling her worldly affairs. She
wrote her testament with her own hand. Her money, her
jewel'", and her clothes, she distributed among licr servants, ac-
cording to their rank or merit. She wrote a short letter to the
King of France, and another to the Duke of Guise, full of
tender but magnanimous sentiments, and recommended her soul
to their prayers, and her afflicted servants to their protection.
At supper, she ate temperately, as usual, and conversed not only
with ease, but with cheerfulness ; she drank to every one of her
servants, and asked their forgiveness, if ever she had failed in
any part of her duty towards them. At her wonted time she
went to bed and slept calmly for a few hours. Early in the morn-
ing she retired into her closet, and employed a considerable time
in devotion. At eight o'clock, the high sheriff and his officers
entered her chamber, and found her still kneeling at the altar,
i^he immediately started up, and with a majestic mien, and a
countenance undismayed, and even cheerful, advanced towards
t!i;' place of execution, leaning on two of Paulet's ait«'ndants.

104

EXECUTION OF MARY QUERN OF SCOTS.

.■By ■

She was dressed in a mourning habit, bul with an elegance
and splendor which she had long laid aside, except on a few
festival days. An Agnus Dei hung bj a pomander chain at her
neck, her beads at her girdle, and in her hand she carried a
crucifix of ivoiy. At the bottom of the stairs the two earls,
jittend(!fl by several gentlemen from the neighboring counties,
received her; and there Sir Andrew Melvil, the master of her
household, who had been excluded for some weeks from her
presence, was permitted to take his last farewell. At the sight
of a mistress whom he tenderly loved, in such a situation, he
melted into tears : and as he was bewailing her condition, and
complaining of his own hard fate in bein-^- appointed to carry the
account of such a mournful event into Scotland, Mary replied,
" Weep not, good Melvil, there is at present greater cause for re-
joicing. Thou shalt this day see Mary Stuart delivered from all
iier cares, and such an end put to her tedious sufferings as she
has long expected. Bear witness, that 1 die constant in my
religion; firm in my fidelity towards Scotland; and unchanged in
my affection to France. Commend me to my son ; tell him I
have done nothing injurious to his kingdom, to his honor, or
to his right ; and God forgive all those who have thirsted, with-
out cause, for my blood."

With nnich difficulty, and after many entreaties, she prevailed
on the two earls to allow Melvil, together with three of her
men-servants and two of her maids, to attend her to the scaffold.
It was erected in the same hall where she had been tried, raised
a little above the floor, and covered, as well as a chair, the cushion,
and block, with black cloth. Mary mounted the steps with
alacrity, beheld all this apparatus of death with an unaltered
<• mntenance, and signing hci'self with the cross, she sat down in
lie chair. Beale read the wari-ant for execution with a loud voice,
'o which she listened with a candess air, and like one occupied
i)i other thoughts. Then the Dean of Peterborough began a de-
vout discourse, suitable to her present condition, and offered up
])rayers to Heaven in her behalf; but she declared that she could
not in onsoieace hearluwi to the one, nor join with the other;
and falling on her knees, repeated a Latin prayer. When the
dean had (inisiied his devotions, she, with an audible voice,, and
in the iMiglish tongue, recommended unto God the afflicted state
< f the Church, and ]irayed for prosptrrity t > her son, and for a
long life and peaeoablo reign to Elizabeth. She declared that flio
lioped for nierey (nily througli the death of Christ, at the foot of

NARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

li>5

whose image she now willingly shed her blood, and lifting up and
kissing the crucifix, she thus addressed it : " As Thy arms, O
Jesus, were extended on the cross ; so with the outstretched arms
of Thy mei'cy receive me, and forgive ray sins."

She then prepared tor the block, by taking off her veil and
upper garments ; and one of the executioners rudely endeavor-
ing to assist, she gently checked him, and said, with a smile, that
she had not been accustomed to undress before so many specta-
tors, nor to be served by such valets. With calm but undaunted
fortitude, she laid her neck on the block ; and while one exe-
cutioner held her hands, the other, at the second stroke, cut off
her head, which falling out of its attire, discovered her hair
already grown quite gray with carf s and sorrows. The executioner
held it up still streamifig with blood, and the dean crying out,
"So perish all Queen Elizabeth's enemies!" the Earl of Kent
alone answered Amen. The I'est of the spectators continued
silent, and drowned in tears, being incapable, at that moment,
of any other sentiments but those of pity or admiration.

— Robertson.

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

I look'd far back into other years, and lo ! in bright array
I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages pass'd away.

It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls,
And gardens with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep falls
And o'er the antique dial>stones the creeping shadow pass'd,
And all around the noon-day sun a drowsy radian(*e cast.
No sound of busy life was heard, save from the cloister dim
The tinkling of tho silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn.
And there five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees,
In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects please;
And little reck'd they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper prayers,
That Scotland knew no prouder names — held none more dear than

theirs : —
And little even the loveliest thought, before the holy slirine,
Of royal blood and high descent from the ancient Stuart line :
Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight,
And as they flew, they left behind a long-continuing light.

The scene was changed. It was the court, the gay court of Bourbon,
And'neatha thousand silver lamps a thousand courtiers tlirong:
And proudly kindles Henry's eye— well plesised, I wean, to see
The land assemble all its wealth of grace and chivalry ; —
But fairer flir than all the rest who bask on fortune's tide,
Effulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new-made bride!

196

MAUV, gUEEN OF' SCOTS

m i

:-i

All

Til

)i':

The homage of a thousand hearts — the fotid deep love of one —
The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun, —
They lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle o'er her cheek,
They sparkle on her open brow, and high-soul'd joy bespeak :
Ah ! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its brilliant hours,
She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunr 'line and its flowers ?

The scene luas changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way,
And o'er the lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay;
And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes
Upon the fast-receding hills, that, dim and distant rise.
No marvel that the lady wept, — there was no land on earth
She loved like that dear land, although she owed it not her birth ;
It was her mother's land, the land of childhood and of friends, —
It was the land where she had foinid for all her griefs amends, —
The land where her dead husband slept — the land where she hadknown
The tranquil convent's hush'd repose, and the splendors of a throne ;
No marvel that the lady wept, — it was the land of France —
The chosen home of chivalry — the garden of romance!
The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her bark;
The future, like the gathei?iig night, was ominous and dark !
One gaze again — one long, last gaze — "Adieu, fair France, to thee,!"
The lareeze comes forth — she is alone on the unconscious sea !

MAUY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

107

The sdene was changed. It was an eve of raw and .surly mootl,
And in a turrct-cliaraber liigh of anciont Holyrood
Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with the winds
That seen\'d to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds.
The touch of care had blanch'd her cheek — her smile was sadder now,
The weight of royalty had press'd too heavy on her brow;
And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field;
The Stuart sceptre well she sway'd, but the sword she could not wield.
She thought of all her blighted hopes — the dreams of youth's brief day.
And summoned Bizzio with his lute, and bade the ministrel play
The songs she loved in early yea. -i -the songs of gay Navarre,
The songs perchance that erst were sung by gallant Chatelar;
They half beguiled her of her cares, they soothed her into smiles,
They won her thoughts from bigot zeal and fierce domestic broils : —
But ] rk! the tramp of armed men! the Douglas' I )}U tie-cry!
They come — they come! — and lo! the scowl of Ruthven's hollow eye!
And swords are drawn, and daggers gleam , and tears and words are vain-
The ruffian steei is in his heart — the faithful Rizzio's slain!
Then Mary Stuart dash'd aside the tears that trickling fell :
" Now for my Aither's arm ! " she said ; "my woman's heart farewell ! "

The scene vas clmnged. It was a lake, with one small lonely isle,
And there, within the prison walls of its baronial pile,
Stern men stood menacing their queen, till she should stoop to sign
The traitorous scroll that snatclfd the crown from her ancestral line : —
"My lords, my lords!" the captive said, "were 1 but once more free,
With ten good knights on yonder shore to aid my cause and me.
That parchment would I scatter wide to every breeze that blows.
And once more reign a Stuart-queen o'er my remorseless foes!"
A red spot burn'd upon her cheek — stream'd her rich tresses down.
She wrote the words — she stood erect — a queen without a crown!

The scene ivas changed. A royal host a royal banner bore,
And the faithful ofthelandstoodroundtheirsmilingqueenoncemoret—
She stay'd her steed upon a hill — she saw them marching by —
She heard their shouts — she read success in every flashing eye.
The tumult of the strife begins — it roars — it dies away;
And Mary's troops and banners now, and courtiers — where are they?
Scatter'd and strewn, and flying far, defenceless and undone; —
Alas! to think what she has lost, and all that guilt has won!
Away! away! thy gallant steed must act no laggard's part;
Yet vain his speed — for thou dost bear the arrow in thy heart!

The scene was changed. Beside the block a sullen headsman stood.
And gleam'dthe broad axe in his hand, that soon must drip with blood.
With slow and steady step there came a lady through the hall,
And breathless silence chain'd the lips and touch'd the hearts of all.
I knew that queenly form again, though blighted was ibs bloom,
I saw that grief had deck'd it out — an offering for the tomb!
1 knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly shcne ;
I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrill'd with every tone;

198

CHAUACTKK OF ELiZABKlB.

'$.■

-li

!<7

•■',:-,

I knew the riiii^lcts, almost gray, once threads of living gold!

1 knew that buiinding gmco of step — that syninieiiy of mould!

E'eu now I »ee her far away, in that calm convent aisle,

I hear her chant her ves})er hymn, I mark her holy smile;

E'eu now I see her bursting forth upon the bridal morn,

A new star in the firmament, to light and glory born!

Alas! the change!— she placed her foot upon a triple throne,

And on the scaffold now she stands — beside the block — alone!

The little do;^ that licks her hand— the last of all the crowd

Who.sunn'dtheraselvesbeneathherglance,and round her footstepsbow'd

Her neck is bared — the blow is struck — the soul is pass'd away!

The bright— the beautiful— is now a bleeding piece of clay!

The dog is moaning piteously ; and, as it gurgles o'er,

Laps the warm blood that trickling runs unheeded to the floor!

The blood of beauty, wealth, and power— the heart-blood of a queen,—

The noblest of the Stuart race— the fairest earth has seen, —

Lapp*d by a dog! Go, think of it, in silence and alone ;

Then weigh against a grain of sand the glories of a throne!

— Bell.

LOCH LBTBN CASTLE.

CHARACTER OF ELIZABETH.
(A.D. 1533-1603.)

There are few great personages in history who have been more
exposed to the calumny of enemies, and the adulation of friends,
than Queen Elizabeth ; and yet there scarcely is any whose re-
putation has been more certainly determined by the unanimous
consent of posterity. The unusual length of her administration,
and the strong features of her character, were able to overcome
all prejudices ; and obliging her detractors to abate much of their
invectives and her admirers somewhat of their panegyrics, have,
at last, in spite of political factions, and, what is more, of re-
ligious animosities, produced a uniform judgment with regard io

CHARACTKK OF KrjZARKTIf.

190

lior conduct. Her vigor, her coustaiicy, her niugiiaiiiriiity, ]\vv
penetration, vigilance, atldies.s, are allowed to merit the highcbt
praises, and appear not to have been surpassed by any person
that ever tilled a throne. A conduct less rigorous, less iiiipenous,
more sincere, more indulgent to her^ people, would hnve been
requisite to form a perfect character, liy the force of her mind,
she controlled all her more active and stront^a'r (junlitics, anc^
prevented them from running into excess. Her heroisin was e.\-
empt from temerity, her frugality from avarice, her friendship
tVom partiality, her active tempei- from turbulency and jj vain
ambition. She guarded not herself with equal care oi- ecjaal suc-
cess from lesser infirmities — tlie rivalship of beanty. the desire
of admiration, the jealousy of love, and the sallies of anger.

Her singular talents for government were founded (.(|nally on
her temper and on her capacity. Endowed with a gieat ccniinand
over herself, she soon obtained an uncontrolled ascendant over
her people; and while she merited all their esteem by her real
virtues, she also engaged their affection by her pretended ones.
Few sovereigns of England succeeded to the throne in more
difficult circumstances; and none ever conducted the goveinnient
with such uniforiu success and felicity. Though unacqnnintcd
with the practice of toleration, the true secret for managing
religious factions, she preserved her people, by her superior pru-
dence, from those confusions in -which theological co]itiv»versy
had involved all the neighboring nations. And though her
enemies were the most powerful princes of Europe — the most
active, the most enterprising, the least scrupulous — she was
able, by her vigor, to make deep impressions on tlu ir state :
her own greatness, i jean while, remained untouched ar.d unim-
paired.

The wise ministers and brave warriors who flouiished under
her reign, share the praise of her success ; but instead of lessen-
ing the applause due to her, they make great addition to it.
They owed, all of them, their advancement to her chc ice ; they
were supported by her constancy ; and, with all their ability,
they were never able to acquire any undue ascendant over her.
In her family, in her court, in her kingdom, she remained equally
mistress. The force of the tender passions was great over her,
but the force of her mind was still superior ; and the combat
which her victory visibly cost her, serves only to displ.iy the
firmness of her resolution, and the loftiness of hor ambitious
sentiments.

200

THK STEAM-ENOINR.

Tlic fainc of this priiKK'ss, tliougli it Iims surmounted tho pre-
judices botli of faction and bigotry, yet li(!S Btill exposed to
another prejudice, vvln'ch is more durable because more natural,
and which, according to the different views in which we survey
her, is capable either of exalting beyond measure, or diminishini,'
the lustre of her character. This prejudice is founded on the
consideration of her sex. When wo contemplate her as a woman,
we are apt to be struck with the highest admimtion of her great
qualities and extensive capacity ; but we are also apt to require
some more softness of disposition, sonie greater lenity of temper,
some of those amiable weaknesses by which her sex is distinguished.
But the true method of estimatinof her merit is to lay aside ail
these considerations, and consider her merely as a rational being
placed in authority, and intrusted with the government of man-
kind. We may find it difficult to reconcile our fancy to her as
a wife or a mistress ; but her qualities as a sovereign, though
with some considerable exceptions, are the object ot undisputed
applause and approbation. — Hume.

li m

THE STEAM-ENGINE.

Dr. Lardner has very justly observed, that the steam-engine, as
it now exists, is not the exclusive invention of anyone individual.
It is a combination of inventions, which, for the last two cen-
turies, have been accumulating. The first person of whom wo
have any record as having a notion of steam as a moving power,
was Hero, a mathematician of Alexandria, who flourished about
one hundred and thirty yeais before the Christian era. Jn a
work written by him styled " Eolipile," he describes three
several methods of applying steam as a motive power : first, to
elevate water by its elasticity; secondly, to raise water by its
expansive force ; and, thirdly, to produce a rotatory motion by
its reaction on the atmosphere ; the last only was applicable to
any useful purpose. The next in order was Solomon de Caus, a
Frenchman, who, in 1615, employed the elastic force of steam as
a means of raising water. The third attempt to apply steam sis
a moving power was by Giovanni Bianca, an Italian mathema-
tician, who formed a boiler in the shape of the human head and
breast. From the mouth of the figure proceeded a pipe, through
which the steam issued, and striking against the vanes of a float-
wheel, similar to a common water-wheel or paddle, caused its

THK STKAM-KNOINK.

201

tho pre.
xposc'd to
•e natural,
ve survcj-
tt»inisliiu<r
'd on the
a woman,
*»er great
o require
" temper,
nguislied.
aside all
nal being

of man-
K) her as

though
disputed

IIUAIE.

»g"ie, as
Ji vidua],
wo cen-
hom we

power,
d about
• Jn a
i three
3rst, to

bj its
ion bj
ible to
I^aus, a
3am as
am :!s
hema-
d and
rougli

float-
ed its

revolution ; and a pinion being attached, motion, by thi.s means,
was given to machinery, wiiich was employed in a drug or
pounding mill. Tho next person whose name is associated with
the steam-engine is the Marquis of Worcester ; who, for his
loyalty to Charles I., was, during the civil wars, imprisoned
in the Tower of Loudon. One day, according to tho tradition,
the lid of the pot in which his dinner was preparing was
suddenly elevated, Worcester pondered upon the strange
phenomenon which he had witnessed. The idea then suggested
itself, that tho same force which had raised the cover, might
become, under certain circnmstances, a useful and convenient
motive power. On recovering his liberty, he published, in tho
year 16G3, in a work entitled " The Century of Inventions," a
description of the uses and efl'ects of an engine which he had
constructed ; and ho fifterwards published a small pamphlet
called, " An Exact and True Definition of the most Stupendous
Water-Commanding Engine." In neither of these works did he
give any statement of the mode of constructing his engin. ; but,
from his description and account of its effects, it may be inferred
that its action depended on the condensation, as well as the
elastic force of the steam ; and, consequently, that in principle
it resembled the modern steam-engine. Dr. Papin, a French
philosopher, then an exile in England, and a Fellow of tho
Royal Society of London, was the next improver of fhe steam-
engine, by the introduction of the safety-valve for tho boiler.
This was in 1690.

Eight years after wards, Captain Savery, an Englishman, in-
troduced his engine for raising water by steam. This was, in
fact, the most useful application of the power; and this dis-
covery, like most of the rest, is said to have been made by
accident. The story runs, that tlie captain, having partaken of
too much wine, threw the wine-bottle into the fire. It happened,
however, to have a small portion of wine left in it, which was
immediately converted into steam by the heat. On perceiving
this, he at once thought of trying what effect would be produced
by immersing the neck in water, and forthwith tried the experi-
ment; when he found that the steam which filled the flask was
condensed, and that the water rnsbed up into the flask to supply
the vacuum caused by this condensation. This casual experi-
ment is said to have given to Savery tho idea of constructing an
'opiiratus on this plan, for raising watei. It also occurred to
liiai, Miat ho might employ the (\x{)anf;ive power of steam, as

202

THE SIKAM-ENGINK.

;l J >

!- i

used in Do Caun's engino. All this ho etit'cted ; and, hy so
doing, led the way for the brilliant inventions that weio ut'ter.
>vard8 made in the construction of the steam-engine. This in.
veutiou was principally devoted to raising water from mines, and
bore the name of the " Minors' Friend ; " "but," says M. Arago,
in his Life of James Watt, "the miners seemed scarcely to aj)pn'.
ciate the important compliment he paid them. With oiie solitary
exception, none of them ordered his machines." Ii appeared
that, with all its advantages, this engine did not perform well.
In 1705, Thomas Newcomen, a smith and ironmonger, and John
Crawley, a plumber and glazier, both of Dartmouth in Devon-
shire, took out a patent for an improved machine, which they
shared with Savery. The next improvement was made by a boy
named Humphrey Potter, and arose from accident. M. Arago
has thus described the circumstance : — " The first machine of
Newcomen required the most unremitting attention on the part
of the individual who unceasingly opened and closed certain
stopcocks, first for the introduction of the steam into the cylinder,
and then for injecting the cold shower for its condensation. It
happened on one occasion, that the person so employed was a
boy named Potter. His young companions, at their sports,
uttered cries of delight, which vexed him beyond endurance.
He was all impatience to join in this play ; but his required
duties did not allow him half a minute's absence ; this anxiety
excited his ingenuity, and led him to observe relations he had
never before thought of. Of the two stopcocks, the one required
to be opened at the moment that the beam (which Newcomen
first and so usefully introdi^ced into his machines) terminated
the descending oscillation, and required to be closed precisely at
the termination of the opposite one. The management of the
other stopcock was precisely the reverse. The positions, then,
of the beam, and of the stopcocks, had a necessary dependence
upon each other. Potter seized upon this fact. He perceived
that the beam might serve to impart to the other parts of the
machine all the required movements ; and on the moment he
realised his conceptions. He attached a number of cords to the
stopcocks, some to the one end of the handle, and some to the
other, and these he attached to the most suitable* parts of the
beam, so that in ascending it pulled one set of cords, and iit
descending the other; and so eflectually, that all the work of his
hand was entirely superseded. For the first time, the steam-
engine went by itself; and now, no other workman was seen

THK HTRAM-ICNaiNE.

205

nd, l)y ,s,,

fit! al'ter.
I'll IN in.
'•"t's, and

I. Aragd,

^f aj)|)n'.
« H(Witary

ai)p('art.'(i
)rni Moll,
tiid John
1 Divon-
lic'li they

by 11 boy
1. Arago
lehine of
the part
I certain
cylinder,
tion. It
d was a
• sports,
duranco.
required

anxiety
i he had
required
wcomen
minated
jisely at
b of the
s, then,
endence
Jrceived
3 of the
oent he
s to the

to the
i of the
and ii:
k of his

steam -
IS seen

near it but ilie fircniim, who, iVom time to time, fed the furiuu;u
under the boiler. For the cords of vounj' Potter, the engineers
Roon substituted rigid vertical rods, wnich were fixed to the
beam, and armed with small pegs, which either pressed froni
ubnve downwards, or from below upwards, as required, and thuM
turu.^d the difierent stopcocks and valves. These rods them-
selves have since been replaced by other combinations ; but,
however humbling the avowal, all these expedients are nothing
more than simple modifications of a contrivance suggested to a
child by his desire to join in the gambols of bis youthful com-
panions."

Such was the state in which the steam-engine was found by the
great James Watt, at that time a mathematical instrument-maker
in Glasgow. There was in the museum of the university of that
city a small model of one of Newcomen's steam-engines, which
was used to instruct the students at college, but which could
scarcely ever be made to work satisfactorily. Professor Ander-
son, who then filled the chair of natural philosophy in the winter
of 17(53-4, requested Mr. Watt to repair it, which he soon did ;
bat in doing so, the idea was suggested to him of an improve-
ment in the condensing of the steam, and thus causing a great
saving in the expense of the engine. The general practice at
that period was to condense the steam in the same cylinder in
which the piston works ; but this cylinder, being of cast-iron,
was at every stroke cooled nearly down to the temperature of
the water employed to condense the steam, which caused a great
quantity of heat to be wasted in again giving the cylinder the
necessary temperature. After many trials, the fortunate thought
occun'ed to Mr. Watt, of saving all the waste of heat and fuel by
condensing the steam in a separate vessel, exhausted of air, and
kept cool by injection, between which and the cylinder a com-
munication was to be opened every time steam was to be con-
densed, whilst the cylinder itself was to be kept constantly hot ;
and having at last perfected this great improvement, (the sepa-
rate vessel being called the " condenser,") a model was con-
structed, and the experiments made with it placed the correctness
of the theory and the advantages of the invention beyond a doubt.
This model has ever since been preserved among the apparatus
of the university of Glasgow. His grand invention for saving
steam and fuel in steam-engines was completed about the begin-
ning of 1765 ; and in s^ibsequent years he proceeded with his
improvements, and introduced, among other discoveries, the rota-

204

THE SONO OF STKAM.

sun and planet-wheels, the expansive priu.
engrine, the parallel motion, and the smokeless

i-ii

\^m

tory motion of the
ciplo, the double

furnace. The application of the centrifugal regulating force of
the "governor," was another of his great practical improvements;
and the perfection given to the rotati^ e-engine soon led to its
general application for imparting motion to almost every species
of mill-work and machinery. Thus, then, was the steam-eng'ae
completed, under the inventions, discoveries, and improvements
of the great master-mind of James Watt. — Anderson.

THE SONG OF STEAM.

Harness me down with your iron bands, be sure of your curb and rein,
For I scorn the powerofyour puny hands, as the tempest scorns a chain;
How I laugh'd as Hay conceal'd from sight, for many a countless hour,
At the childish boast of human might, and the pride of human power !

When I saw an army upon the land, a navy upon the seas,
Creeping along, a snail-like band, or waiting the wayward breeze;
When 1 mark'dthe peasant faintly reel with the toil which he daily bore,
As he feebly turn'd at the tardy wheel, or tugg'd at the weary oar;

Whenlmeasared the pantingcourser's speed,theflightof thecarrierdove,
As they bore the law a king decreed, or the lines of impatient love;
1 couldno*:bnt think howthe world would feel, as these were outstripp'd

afar.
When I should bo bound to the rushing keel, or chain'd to the flying car.

Ha! ha! ha! they found me at last; they invited me forth at length,
And I rush'd to my throne with thunder blast, and I laugh'd in my iron

strength.
Oh, then ye saw a wondrous change on the earth and ocean wide.
Where now my fiery armies range, nor wait for wind or tide.

Hurrah ! hurrah ! the waters o'er the mountains' steep decline ;
Time — space — have yielded to my power — the world! the world is mine!
The rivers the sun hath earliest blest, or those where his beams decline,
The giant streams of the queenly west, or the orient floods divine.

The ocean pales where'er I sweep, to hear my strength rejoice ;
And the monsters of the briny deep cower, trembling at my voice.
Icarry the wealth andthelord of earth, the thoughts of thegodlikeuiind:
The wind lags after my flying forth, the lightning is left behind.

Inthedarksome depthsofthefathomlessmine, my tirelessarm doth play,
Where the rocks never saw the sun decline, or the dawn of the glorious

day.
I bring earth's glittering jewels up from the hidden caves below,
And I make the fountain's granite cup with a ciystal gush o'erflow,

CHARACTER OF JAMES WATT.

205

smokeless
g force of
ovements;
led to its

^y species

im-eng'ae

ovemeuts

l>EIt30N.

> and reifl,
ns a chain;
tless hour,
an power I

ireeze ;
Jaily bore,
iry oar;

frierdove,
2nt love ;
Jtstripp'd

Jyingcar.

t length,
1 my irou

:vide,

lis mine I
! decline,
:vine.

s'oice,
:eujind;
id.

th play,,
[lorious

rflovv.

1 blow the bellows, 1 forge the steel, in all the shops of trade ;

I hammer the ore, und turn the wheel, when my anns ot strength are

made;
I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint ; I carry, I spin, I weave ;
And all my doings I put into print on every Saturday eve.

I've no muscle to weary, no breast to decay, no bones to be " laid on

the shelf,"
And soon I intend you may go and play, while I manage the world by

myself.
But harness me down with your iron bands, be sure of your curb and

rein.
For I scorn the strength of your puny hands, as the tempest scorns a

chain.

— A.NON.

CHARACTER OF JAMES WATT.

(a.d. 1736-1819.)

Mr. James Watt, the great improver of the steam-engine, died
on the 25th of August 1810, at his seat of Heathtield, near Bir-
mingham, in the eighty-fourth year of his age.

This name, fortunately, needs no commemoration of ours, for
he that bore it survived to see it crowned with undisputed and
unenvied honors ; and many generations will probably pass
away before it shall have gathered " all its fame." We have said
that Mr. Watt wa§ the great improver of the steam-engine, but,
in truth, as to all that is admirable in its structure, or vast in its
utility, he should rather be described as its inventor. It was by
his inventions that its action was so regulated as to make it
capable of being applied to the finest and most delicate manu-
factures, and its powers so increased as to set weight and
solidity at defiance. By bis admirable contrivance, it has become
a thing stupendous alike for its force and its flexibility — for the
prodigious power which it can exert, and the case and precision
and ductility with which that power can be varied, distributed,
and applied. Tlio trunk of an elephant, that can pick up a pin
or rend an oak, is as nothing- to it. It can engrave a seal, and
crush masses of obdumte metnl before it— draw out, without
breaking, a thi'ead as fine as gossamer, and lift a ship-of-war like
a bauble in the air. It can embroider muslin and forge anchors
-cut steel into ribands, and impel loaded vessehi against the
fury of the winds and waves.

206

CHARACTER OF JAMES WAIT.

WATT S riBST BNQINB.

A cylinder; B boiler; C comlenser;
ccc casing ; e e eductiou pipe ; / furnace ;
g g pipes K)r showing height of water in
boiler ; h pipe for supplying boiler ; m n

pump wrought by engine itself; p piston ;
r piston-rod ; h pipe for conveying steam
to top of cyhnder; v v valves; w 10 w 10 cold
water cistern ; y y airpump.

It would be difficult to estimate the value of the benefits which
these inventions have conferred upon this country. There is no
branch of industry that has not been indebted to them ; and, in
all the most material, they have not only wideaed most magnifi-
cently the field of its exertions, but multiplied a thousandfold the
amount of its productions. It is to the genius of one man, too,
that all this is mainly owing ! And certainly no man ever be
stowed such a gift on his kind. The blessing is not only uni-
versal, but unbounded ; and the fabled inventors of the plough
and the loom, who were deified by the erring gratitude of their
rude contemporaries, conferred less important benefits on mankind
than the inventor of our present steam-engine.

This will be the fame of James Watt with future generations ;
and it is sufficient for his race and his country. But to those
to whom he more immediately belonged, who lived in his society
and enjoyed his conversation, it is not, perhaps, the character in
which he will be most frequently recalled, most deeply lamented,
or even most hij^hly admii-ed. Independently of his great attain-
ments in mechanics, Mr. Watt was an extraordinary, and, in many

THE BATTLE OK NASEBY.

207

respectH, a wonderful man. Perhaps no individual in his age
possessed so much and such varied and exact information — had
read so much, or remembered what he had read so accurately and
well. He had infinite quickness of comprehension, a prodigious
memory, and a cert-ain rectifying and methodizing power of un-
derstanding, which extracted something precious out of all that
was presented to it. His stores of miscellaneous knowledge
were immense, and yet less astonishing than the command he had
at all times over them. It seemed as if every subject that was
casually started in conversation with him had been that which he
liad been last occupied in studying and exhausting — such was
the copiousness, the precision, and the admirable clearness of the
information which he poured out upon it, without effort or hesi-
tation. Nor was this promptitude and compass of knowledge
confined in any degree to the studies connected with his ordinary
pursuits. That he should have been minutely and extensively
skilled in chemistry and the arts, and in most of the branches of
physi>^d.l science, might perhaps have been conjectured ; but it
eoalu not have been inferred from his usual occupations, and
pvobably is not generally known, that he was curiously learned
in many branches of antiquity, metaphysics, medicine, and ety-
uiology, and perfectly at home in all the details of architecture,
music, and law. He was well acquainted, too, with most of the
modern languages, and familiar with their most recent literature.
Nor was it at all extraordinary to hear the great mechanician and
engineer detailing and expounding for hours together the meta-
physical theories of the German logicians, or criticising the
measure or the matter of German poetry. — Jeffrey.

THE BATTLE OF NA'SEBY.

(a.d. 1U45.)

The battle occurred in the middle of June 1645. Charles was
at Harborough when he heard that Fairfax had drawn off fi-om
Oxford, and he resolved to advance towards him. The king and
all about him were in high spirits, fully believing that the parlia-
ment army was in a disorganized state, that the new model which
had just been adopted was uiisuccessful, and that he had but to
appear, and victory would at once of necessity declare for him.

Charles advanced to Daventry, where he waited several days
for more correct intelligence of the movements of the enemy.

208

THE BATTLE OF NASEBY.

H; r

ii ■ iS^

asq
mod
The
raee
the

M ■ )

i im

1: ?

Intelligence came, but of another kind than he expected. Fair-
fax, he learned, was close at hand ; he had reached Northampton
with an army more considerable than had been reported to him,
nnd in good condition. This being the case, he resolved to fall
back upon Harborough, and from thence proceed as rapidly as he
might to Leicester. Meanwhile Fairfax had not been idle. An-
ticipating an engagement, he had written to the parliament,
requesting that Cromwell might be spared from his attendance
at the House of Commons, in order to take conftoiand of the
horse, an engagement being likely to happen speedily. On Fri-
day, (June 13,) a council of war is summoned to determine what
it is best to do. While the debate is going forward, a loud noise
is heard in the camp. Cromwell is come ! and " the horse gave
a mighty shout for joy of his coming to them.'* He has brought,
too, seven hundred of his own Ironsides with him — good men all
— but himself a host. There is little hesitancy now. Onward
is the word. An alarm soon reaches Harborough that the Round-
heads are at hand — that they are quartered within six miles.
No chance of reaching Leicester now — that is plain enough, what-
ever else is doubtful. " A council was presently called, and tho
former resolutior jf retiring presently laid aside, and a new one

THE lUTTLE Of NASKUY.

201)

as quickly taken, *to fight,' to which there was always an i in-
moderate appetite when the enemy was within any distance.
They would not stay to expect his coming, but would go back to
meet him. And so, in the morning early, being Saturday,
the 14th of June, all the army was drawn up upon a rising
ground of very great advantage, about a mile south from Har-
borough, (which was left at their back,) and there put in order
to give or receive the charge.'' But they did not stay there.
Fairfax had set out from his quarters by daybreak, and after a
march of an hour or two, sees some of the king's troops on the
high grounds before him. Charles had been led to move his
troops from their former, and, as it should seem, preferable posi-
tion, owing to his misconceiving the purport of some movements
on the part of his adversary, and now had scarcely time to arrange
his army before the enemy made signs of attacking him.

The position which the king's army had now taken is on the
north-eastern side of Naseby field ; the parliament's army occupies
the hill about half a mile on the south. The deep hollow is be-
tween them. The order of battle is soon formed. On the king's
side. Prince Rupert has the command of the right wing. Sir Mar-
maduke Langdale of the left, while the main body is commanded
by Lord Ashley : the king being with the reserves, and having
Lord Lindsay, Sir George Lisle, and others with him. On the
opposite side, Cromwell commands the right, and Ireton the left
wing ; the centre is under the charge of the General (Fairfax)
himself, and Major Skippon ; Ramsborough, Hammond, and
Pride, commanding the reserves. Each party forms a line stretch-
ing across, the field ; the order of each is similar — the infantry
being in the centre, with the cavalry as wings. Yonder hill,
where the king's troops are, is Broad Moor ; they have a warren
on their left. This, whereon the parliament's army is ranged,
is Mill Hill ; that. Fenny Hill on the left ; a troop of Ireton' k
dragoons is behind the hedge that divides Naseby and Sulbv
Honours. Both armies are well placed ; it is clear, though, tlui t
Cromwell has herein the advantage. He has secured such a
position as to screen a considerable part of his men, by means ot*
the broken ground, from the observation of the enemy, while ho
commands a full view of them, and can detect at once all their
movements. In numbers there is little difference between
them. In courage they are equal, but not in confidence. That
" mighty shout" of the horse yesterday, when " Fairfax's in-
vincible lieutenant" came, was it not a presage of victory?

210

THK J'.ATTLK OF NASEHV.

••t-

■■I. I

'til

'■X

Fairfax hiraself, too, his looks were palo as death yesteidiiy, l)ut
now he is all alacrity; "his soldiers sec in his cliecrful c^iinfc-
nance the promise oi victory." On the other side, the cavalry is
fall of assurance, bat the infantry is hardly so hopeful. Thoso
marchings and countermarchings, and constant changing of plans,
do not speak well for their commanders' decision and clear-siglit-
edness. A mighty diflferetibe; it is ihe hour of life or death,
and they cannot confide in their leaders* firmness and foresight,
on which both depend ! But they are brave men, and will do
bravely. The Royalists place bean-stalks in their hats; the
others have no directions on the subject — a few, of their own
accord, put up some white paper or linen, the rest carry no mark.

Thus, then, these twenty thousand men stand face to face on
that fair summer morning, waiting for the word in order to fall
upon each other. The broad moor glows with the broom in full
flower, — its golden glory mingling with the lowlier, blossoms of
the heath. The wind blows sharply from the north-west, and
there is a little preparatory manoeuvring to obtain the advantage
of it. A few shots are fired from the scanty artillery on either
side. And see, a forlorn hope of three hundred musketeers ad-
vances towards the royal army; its orders are to advance steadily,
to wait in the vale until it is charged, and then fall back as
steadily as it advanced. The battle is begun. Rupert with his
right approaches the left of his opponents. He charges swiftly,
terribly, crying, " Queen Mary ! " while the answering shout is,
" God is our strength ! " Brave is the meeting. Ireton is not
made to yield, bravely is that fierce chaige encountered, but it is
irresistible. Ireton is borne down, his horse is killed, himself
thrust through the thigh with a halberd, and wounded in the
face ; his eyes become dim, he is carried ofl* a prisoner, and his
troops fly swiftly, while Rupert's as swiftly pursue them. How
fares it on the other wing ? Has the Invincible given way ? Not
he. Langdale charged him, but he yielded not a step. His Iron-
sides charged in turn — like a torrent driving all before them.
Down they push into that narrow valley, conquerors and con-
quered ; but his clear eye sees when to stay the pursuit. He
drives them fairly from the field, far enough to prevent them
rallying, then he as quickly returns to it. Work is yet to do
there, and he well knew his work is undone while anything re-
mains to do, — scattered troops may rally, but the danger is from
those who stand.

With those in the centre there has been hot work. Ashley

niR liATTLK OF NASKFlV.

211

iterdiiy, Inn
ful cy iinfc-
cavalry is
ful. Those
ag of plans,
clear-siglit-
B or death,
d foresight,
nd will do
hats ; the
their own
?y no mark.
) to face on
irder to fall
•oom in full
blossoms of
b-west, and
3 advantage
J on either
sketeers ad-
ice steadily,
ill back as
?rt -with his
ges swiftly,
ig shout is,
reton is not
ed, but it is
led, himself
aded in the
ler, and his
hem. How
way ? Not
His Iron-
efore them,
rs and con-
arsuit. He
•event them
s yet to do
nything re-
iger is from

[•k. Ashley

comes on with ready energy — there is one discliargc on each side,
and th(Mi, closing, they meet hand to hand, fighting with the butt-
ends of their muskets. For a brief space this continues, then all
of the Roundheads, but Fairfax's own regiment, give way. But
they rally. The general, bareheaded, (for he lost his heli et in
the first charge,) with a " spirit heightened above the ordinary
spirit of man," thinks not for a moment of retreat. He is " to
and again in the front, carrying orders, bringing on divisions in
thickest dangers, and with gallant bravery." Skippon, too, is
busy; he brings on a troop that is not quite disorganized, but in
doing it is shot in the side, " yet still leads them on." Nor will
he quit the field though F-iirfax desires him. " No, general, I
will not stir," replies the bravo old man ; " I will not stir while
a man will stand." But the di.sorder is too great to be remedied.
Then the commanders with their colours, and such of the sol-
diers as are firm, fall into the reserves, order is re-established,
and these fresh troops advancing, quickly compel the wearied
Royalists to fly. Not all ! there stands one regiment " like a
rock." Again and again Fairfax charges, but they stand rock-
like still, though their comrades have all deserted them; and
though the king, for whom they are dying, stands with his un-
touched reserve idly on the hill there. What heed they? They
know their duty, and will do it. Grievous is it to see brave men
thus stand hopeless. Fairfax despatches Skippon with his regi-
ment to the other side, and so with sharp shots, with heavy
blows, they beat their way through that rock, and meet in the
middle. It is battered down, crushed. But why stand those
reserves idly there ? Will decision never reach their counsels ?
The king will charge — is ready to do so — plainly must do so — ia
not the foot everywhere breaking ? He places himself at tho
head of his guards, but the Earl of Carnwath, who rides next
him, " lays his hand on the bridle of the king's horse, and with
two or three foul-mouthed Scottish oaths, cries, * Will you go
upon your death in an instant ?' and before the king understands
what he will have, turns his horse round." Straight flies tho
word — " The king runs, every one shift for himself!" — and with-
oat a blow — without advancing towards the field — all of that
reserve fly as though the Invincible was indeed upon them.

But where tarries Rupert all this while ? Alas ! he is a gallant
soldier, but not a wise one. He drov ; far the troops who fled
before him — too far, but he returned at last. The foolish boy !
he comes upon tho train of his adversaries on his return, and

"S;,.

■I

■1

••1

Li_

212

THE IlAlTLt: Of NASEnV.

ranst needs slay to take it. He wants trophies — his men wniil
booty, and so they fall on there, while their fellows are being
hewed to pieces in the field — clean forgotten ! But the train is
well guarded — Cromwell is not a careless soldier — and Rupert
cannot make an impression upon it. Again he tries, but it iH in
vain. Again? No — "To the field." It is too late; all is lost
there, and he has some difficulty in rejoining the king, who has
rallied his reserves about half a mile beyond his old station.
Meanwhile Cromwell had returned and completed the work of
destruction in the field ; then calling off' their men, the generals
put them again in order, and they advance ready for battle as at first.
Not so with the king's men. " One charge more and we
regain the day," pleads he, and pleads in vain. Rupert's men
declare they have acted their parts — the battle is over, they will
not begin the day again. They have no " cause " to fight for.
" This difference was observed shortly from the beginning of the
war," Clarendon tells us, " in the discipline of the king's
troops, and of those which marched under the command of
Cromwell — that though the king's troops prevailed in the charge,
and routed those they charged, they never rallied themselves
again in order, nor could be brought to make a second charge
again the same day ; whereas Cromwell's troops, if they pre-
vailed, 01 though they were beaten and routed, presently rallied
again and stood in good order till they received new orders." In
vain, therefore, was it to entreat them to stand when they saw
those men before them closing steadily upon them. They retreat
slowly at first, but ever quickening till retreat becomes a chase
for life or death. It was " extreme " hot work, as one who was
in it said, and hot was tho chase afterwards. ''.We pursued
them," said Cromwell in his letter written directly after, " from
three miles short of Harborough to nine beyond, even to sight of
Leicester, whither the king fled." And now, when a peaceful
peasant is digging a trench in some of the meadows, or by the
road side, it often happens that his spade strikes upon the bones
of one of those poor stragglers. From Naseby to Leicester — a
weary sixteen miles for those miserable men. What was it to
them that the fields were fair, that the trees were bending
beneath their graceful foliage, that the gentle sun was sliding
sofbly and in beauty towards tho west ? — they dared not even
stoop to drink from the brook murmuring so gently by the way-
side, heedless of all that bloody work. Frightful was the en-
counter, more terrible the flight. — Thorne.

CKOMWELL S EXPULSION OF THE I'AILIAMENT.

213

aen waul

re beiriir

Q train is

i Rupert

it it is in

ill is lost

who has

station.

work of

generals

IS at first.

and we

rt's men

they will

fight for.

ig of the

e king's

mand of

D charge.

lem selves

i charge

hey pre-

y rallied

rs." In

,hey saw

y retreat

3 a chase

/ho was

pursued

•, "from

sight of

peaceful

p by the

le bones

ester — a

as it to

bending

sliding

lot even

he way-

the en-

RNE,

CROMWELL'S EXPULSION OF THE PARLIAMENT.

(A.D. 1653.)

At this eventful moment, big with the most important consequences
both to himself and his country, whatever were the workings of
Cromweirs mind, he had the art to conceal them from the eyes of
the beholders. Leaving the military in the lobby, ho entered
the Parliament House, and composedly seated himself on one of
the outer benches. His dress was a plain suit of black cloth,
with grey worsted stockings. For a while he seemed to listen
with interest to the debate ; but when the Speaker was going to
put the question, he whispered to Harrison, " This is the time ;
I must do it ; " and, rising, put off his hat to address the
House. .

At first his language was decorous, and even laudatory. Gradu-
ally he became more warm and animated. At last he assumed
all the vehemence of passion, and indulged in personal vitupera-
tion. He charged the members with self-seeking and profane-
ness, with the frequent denial of justice, and numerous acts of
oppression ; with idolizing the lawyers, the constant advocates of
tyranny ; with neglecting the men who had bled for them in the
field, that they might gain the Presbyterians, who had apostatized
from the cause ; and with doing all this in order to perpetuate
their own power, and to replenish their own purses. But their
time was come ; the Lord had disowned them ; He had chosen
more worthy instruments to perform His work.

Here the orator was interrupted by Sir Peter Wentworth, who
declared that he had never heard language so unparliamentary —
language, too, the more offensive, because it was addressed to
them by their own servant, whom they had made what lie was.
At these words, Cromwell put on his hat, and, springing from
his place, exclaimed, " Come, come, sir, I will put an end to your
prating!" For a few seconds, apparently in the most violent
agitation, he paced forward and backward, and then, stamping
on the floor, added, " You are no parliament ! I say you are no
parliament ! Bring them in, bring them in ! " Instantly the
door opened, and Colonel Worsley entered, followed by more
than twenty musketeers.

"This," cried Sir Henry Vane, "is not honest; it is against
morality and common honesty." "Sir Henry Vane!" replitid
Cromwell ; " O Sir Henry Vane I The Lord deliver me from

214

CROMWELL S EXl'ULSION OF TUB FAKLIAAIEM.

Sir Henry Vano ! He might have prevented this. But ho is a
juggler and has not common honesty himself! " From Vane he
directed his discourse to Whitelock, on whom he poured a torrent
of abuse ; then pointing to Chaloner, " There," he cried, " sits a
drunkard ; " and afterwards selecting different members in suc-
cession, he described them as dishonest and corrupt livers, a
shame and scandal to the profession of the gospel. Suddenly,
however, checking himself, he turned to the guard, and ordered
them to clear the house. At these words, Colonel Harrison took
the Speaker by the hand, and led him from the chair ; Algernon
Sydney was next compelled to quit his seat ; and the other mem-
bers, eighty in number, on the approach of the military, rose and
moved towards the door.

Cromwell now resumed his discourse. " It is you," ho ex-
claimed, " that have forced me to do this. I have sought the
Lord both day and night, that He would rather slay me than put
me on the doing of this work." Alderman Allan took advantage
of these words to observe that it was not yet too late to undo
what had been done ; but Cromwell instantly charged him with
peculation, and gave him into custody. When all were gone,
fixing his eye on the mace, " What," said he, " shall we do with
this fool's bauble ? Here carry it away." Then, taking the act
of dissolution from the clerk, he ordered the doors to be locked,
and, accompanied by the military, returned to Whitehall.

That afternoon the members of the Council assembled in their
usual place of meeting. Bradshaw had just taken the chair,
when the Lord-General entered, and told them that if they were
there as private individuals they were welcome ; but if as the
council of state, they must know that the parliament was dis-
solved, and with it also the council. " Sir," replied Bradshaw,
with the spirit of an ancient Roman, " we have heard what you
did at the house this morning, and before many hours all Eng-
land will know it. But, sir, you are mistaken to think that the
parliament is dissolved. No power under heaven can dissolve
them but themselves ; therefore, take you notice of that."

After this protest they withdrew. Thus, by the parricidal
hands of its own children, perished the Long Parliament, which,
under a variety of forms, had, for more than twelve years, de-
fended and invaded the liberties of the nation. It fell without a
struggle or a groan, unpitiod and unregretted. The members
slunk away to their homes, where they sought by submission to
purchase the forbearance of their new master; and their partisans

FUNERAL ORATION ON QL'KKN liENKIKTlA OF ENC.LAND. 215

—if partisans they haxi — reserved themselves in silence for a day
of retribution, which came not before Cromwell slept in his
grave.

— LlNGARD.

FUNERAL ORATION ON QUKEN HENRIETTA OF

ENGLAND.

The most eloquent and original of Bossuet's writings is his
funeral oration on Henrietta, Queen of England, wife of the
unfortunate Charles T. It was natural that such an occasion
should call forth all his powers, pronounced as it was on a prin-
cess of the blood-royal of France, who had undergone unparalleled
calamities with heroic resignation, the fruit of the great religious
revolution of the age, against which the French prelate had
exerted all the force of his talents.

"Christians! " says he, in the exordium of his discourse, "it
is not surprising that the memory of a great queen, the daughter,
the wife, the mother of monarchs, should attract you from all
quarters to this melancholy ceremony ; it will bring forcibly be-
fore your eyes one of those awful examples which demonstrate
to the world the vanity of which it is composed. You will see
in her single life the extremes of human things : felicity without
bounds, miseries without parallel ; a long and peaceable enjoyment
of one of the mopt noble crowns in the universe, all that birth and
grandeur could confer that was glorious, all that adversity and
suffering could accumulate that was disastrous ; the good cause,
attended at first with some success, then involved in the most
dreadful disasters. Revolutions unheard of, rebellion long re-
strained, at length reigned triumphant ; no curb then to licence,
no laws in force. Majesty itself violated by bloody hands,
usurpation and tyranny under the name of liberty — a fugitive
queen who can find no retreat in her three kingdoms, and was
forced to seek in her native country a melancholy exile. Nine
sea-voyages undertaken against her will by a queen, in spite of
wintry tempests — a throne unworthily overturned, and miracu-
lously re-established. Behold the lesson which God has given to
kings ! Thus does He manifest to the world the nothingness of its
pouips and its grandeur ! If our words fail, if language sinks
beneath the grandeur of such a subject, the simple narrative is
more touching than aught that words can convey. The heart of
a great queen, formerly elevated by so long a course (»f prosperity,
'lieu steeped in all the bitterness ol' atHiction, will speak in

210 Fl'NEUAL OUATION ON yUEEN HENKIEITA OF ENOLAND.

miiliciontly touching language ; and if it is not given to a private
individual to teach the proper lessons from so mournful a cutus-
trophe, the king of Lsrael has supplied the words — ' Hear !
ye great of tlie earth ! take lessons, ye rulers of the world ! '

" But the wise and devout princess, whoso obsequies wo cele-
brate, has not merely been a spectacle exhibited to the world in
order that men might learn the counsels of Divine Providence, and
the fatal revolutions of monarchies. She took counsel herself
from the calamities in which she was involved, while God was
instructing kings by her example. It is by giving and with-
dmwing power that God communicates his lessons to kings.
The queen we mourn has equally listened to the voice of these
opposite monitors. She has made use, like a Christian, alike of
prosperous and adverse fortune. In the first she was benificent,
in the last invincible ; as long as she was fortunate, she let her
power be felt only by her unbounded deeds of goodness ; when
wrapt in misery, she enriched herself more than ever by the
heroic virtues befitting misfortune. For her own good she has
lost that sovereign power which she formerly exercised only for
the blessings of her subjects ; and if her friends — if the universal
Church have profited by her prosperities, she herself has profited
more from her calamities than from all her previous grandeur.
That is the great lesson to be dmwn from the ever-memorable
life of Henrietta IVlaria of France, Queen of Great Britain.

" I need not dwell on the illustrious birth of that princess ;
no rank on earth equals it in lustre. Her virtues have been not
less remarkable than her descent. She was endowed with a
generosity truly royal ; of a truth, it might be said, that she
deemed everything lost which was not given away. Nor were her
other virtues hhB admirable. The faithful depositary of many
important complaints and secrets — it was her favourite maxim
that princes should observe the same silence ac confessors, and
exercise the same discretion. In the utmost fury of the Civil
Wars, never was her word doubted, or her clemency called in
question. Who has 'so nobly exercised that winning art which
bumbles without lowering itself, and confers sc graciously liberty
while it commands respect ? At once mild yet firm — conde-
scending yet dignified, — she knew at the same time how to
convince and persuade, and to support by reason, rather than
enforce by authority. With what prudence did she conduct
herself in circumstances the most arduous ; if a skilful hand
could have saved the state, hers was the one to have done it.

■ -si

\Sl).

OniCS — LlllHT.

217

» a privnie
ful a cutus-
• Hear !
)i'ld ! '

'« wo cclc-
3 world in
dence, nnd
sel herself

God was
and with.
to kings.

of these
1, alike of
benificent,
]et her
'ss; -when
?r by the
i she has

onlj for
universal
8 profited
jrandeur.
emorablo

princess ;
been not

with a
that she
were her
of many
! maxim
3ors, and
he Civil
lalled in
t vi^hich
C liberty
— eonde-
hovv to
er than
conduct
i] hand

It.

Her magnanimity can never be suflBcietiily extolled. Fortune
aad no power over her ; neitlier the evils wliicli she foresaw, nor
those by which she was surprised, could lower her courage.
What shall 1 say to her immovable fidelity to tho religion of
her ancestors ? She knew well that that attachment constituted
tlio glory of her house, as well as of tho whole of France, solo
nation in the world which, during tho twelve centuries of its
existence, has never seen on the throne but the faithful children
of the Church. Uniformly she declared that nothing should de-
tach her from tlio faith of St. Louis. The king, her husband,
has pronounced upon her tho noblest of all eulogiums, that their
hearts were in union in all but the matter of religion ; and con-
firming by his testimony the piety of the queen, that enlightened
prince has made known to all the world at once his tenderness,
his conjugal attachment, and the sacred, inviolable dignity of his
incomparable spouse." — Alison's Essays.

OPTICS— LIGHT.

Light is the emanation from luminous or illuminated bodies
which makes them visible to the eye. Some philosophers sup-
pose it to be a subtle and extremely attenuated fluid — a real
substance, yet so fine as to have no appreciable weight ; and
others suppose it to be merely the undulation or vibration of an
ethereal medium, which is luminous when in motion, and dark
when in repose. Light may be flung from one illuminated body
to another, and f.om a second to a third ; but in every case it
must come, in the first instance, from a self-luminous body. Its

218

OPTICS— LIGHT.

■u

'-\

grand source throughout the solar system is the sun; a minor
source of it, in this part of the universe, is the fixed stars ; aud
the local sources of it in our world are principally the flashes of
the electric fluid, the glow of phosphorescence, and the flame and
red-heat of combustion. It is always of the same color as the
body from which it comes ; it always moves in straight lines, and
consists of rays, related to one another in some such way as tho
sti*aws of a sheaf of corn ; and it streams from every visible
point of the body which emits it, and in every direction whence
that point can be seen. It passes through transparent sub-
stances, whether gaseous, liquid, or solid, but is variously bent
by them, or turned from the line of its previous course, according
to their density and other circumstances ; and it is partly ab-
sorbed and partly flung back by uon- transparent bodies, in a
diversity of ways, and with most gorgeous appearances, but
un'ier uniform and well-known laws. The light of the sun has
been ascertained to take onlv seven minutes and a half to travel
to the earth, or to move through a space equal to the circum-
ference of our globe in the eighth part of a second ; and all other
light is p..^sumed to travel at the same rate.

When a small sunbeam is admitted to a dark room through
a little hole of a window-shutter, and projected on a white
screen or on a sheet of paper, the insertion in it of a triangular
piece of glass, technically called a prism, separates it into a
series of splendid colors exactly similar to those of the most
perfect and brilhant rainbow. This is termed the spectrum, and
comprises always the same colors in the same order. The red
is at the end which is least refracted, and the violet at the other
end ; and if the whole be artifically divided into three hundred
and sixty parts, the red will be found to occupy forty-five of
these parts, the orange twenty-seven, the yellow forty-eight, the
green sixty, the blue sixty, the indigo forty, and the violet
eighty. When all the series, or the entire spectrum, is caught
upon a lens of such a form as to concentrate it to one bTjot, it
reproduces the white sunbeam, or original colorless light. The
difierent colors possess diS'erent powers, and are technically re-
garded as different rays. The lightest green and deepest yellow
are the most illuminating ; and either the violet or a dark space
immediately beyond it, is the most heating; and the spectrum
as a whole ai/brds ample scope for wondering inquiry and keen
investigation as to its action on living organisms, on photc;-
graphic preparations, and on select objects in the cheinist'h

OPTICS — LIGHT.

219

•in; a minor
^ stars ; aud
le flashes of
be flaruG and

color as the
ht lines, and

way as tho
vpiy visible
tion whence
Parent sub.
fiouslj bent
', according

partly ab-
otiies, in a
fences, but
he sun has
^ to travel
he circum-
d all other

11 through
^ a white
triangular

it into a

the most

'trum, and

The red

the other

hundred
'tj-five of
eight, the
ie violet
s caught
e 8Dot, it
[it. The
icallj re-
st yellow
-rk space
pectrum
md kc'oii
ph()t(}-
hemi.sl's

' laboratory. The light of the moon, aud various lights of com-
[ bastion too, differ in their properties or actions from one another,
and from the light of the sun. In all cases, however, the degree
of brightness depends on the extent of the undulations, and the
predominance of any ray or color depends on their number.

The varied refraction of light in our atmosphere is the cause of
twilight, and of all the tints and magnificence of landscape, cloud,
and sky. Were the atmosphere wanting, or did it not possess
the power of deflecting and diffusing light at a great variety of
angles, and with a great variety of effects, the sun would rush up
from night in a moment in the morning, and pass over the hemi-
sphere in a uniform garish blaze through the day, and plunge
back to night in a moment at sunset. This rising would resemble
the sudden kindling of a bonfire by a great charge of gunpcwder ;
his walk over the sky would resemble the steady flame of that
fire, without flicker or diversity ; and his setting would resemble
the instantaneous extinction of it by the fall of a waterspout.
He would glare in the face of observers who looked at him, but
would give them no light when they turned their back to him,
and would never, in any circumstances, throw illumination, or
color, or the charms of perspective, on either the outspread
earth or the overarching sky. Sunshine would scarcely do more
for the world, or do it much differently, than a flambeau does at
midnight for a mountain glen.

"The number of objects in the heavens would, indeed, be
augmented, for the stars would shine through a canopy as black
as ebony, even when the sun was above the horizon ; but all the
gay coloring of the terrestrial landscape, which now delights
the eye and the imagination, would be for ever veiled from the
inhabitants of the world. In such a state of things, it would be
nlways night, and the difference between such a night and that
which we now enjoy would be, that the celestial orbs, instead of
being grounded on a beautiful azure sky, would appear on a black
canopy, like so many white points on a dismal mourning carpet."

Sunbeams entering the atmosphere in any other direction than
tlio perpendicular one, but especially sunbeams entering it in a
veiy slanting manner, as all do when the sun is far down the
vault and n ar the horizon, undergo a long series of flexure
through the various densities of gas and vapour before they reach
the ground. The_y sustain little, indeed, in the higher regions of
tho air, whore its density is very attenuated, and where; no vapors
tivtr exist in sufficient quantity to form a cloud ; but in strug-

220

INVOCATION TO LIGHT.

II n!

gling through the increasingly thick masses of the last two or |
three miles, they undergo so much as to be eventually bent almost
like the segment of a hoop. Hence, as the lower end of a stick
inserted in clear water appears to the eye several degrees away
from what is known to be its true position, an object in the sky
exactly on a line with the horizon appears to the eye to be a con-
siderable distance above the horizon. The sun and the moon,
therefore, are always visible at their rising some little time before
they actually rise, and continue visible at setting some time after
they actually set. And whe n an eclipse of the moon happens, as
on rare occasions it does, ex^actly at the time of sunset and of
moonrise, the curious spectacle is beheld of the sun in full orb
on the one rim of the sky, and the moon in full orb darkened
by the earth's shadow, on the other. The earth is then in the
exact line between them ; yet, in consequence of the refr;xction
of the light through her atmosphere, she appears to the eye to
bo considerably below both. — Rev. J. M. Wilson.

INVOCATION TO LIGHT.

Hail, holy Light ! offspring of Heaven, first-born ;

Or^of the Eternal co-eternal beam

May I express thee unblamed ? since God is light,

And never but in unapproached light

Dwelt from eternity; dwelt then in thee,

Bright effluence of bright essence increate.

Or hear'st thou rather, pure ethereal stream.

Whose fountain who shall iell ? Before the sur ,

Before the heavens thou wert ; and at the voice

Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest

The rising world of waters, dark and deep.

Won from the void and formless infinite.

Thee I revisit now with bolder wing.

Escaped the Stygian pcol, though long detained

Li that obscure sojourn ; while in my flight

Through utter and through ?niddle darkness borne,

With other notes than to the Orphean lyre,

I sung of Chaos and eternal Night ;

Taught by the heavenly muse to venture down

The dark descent, and up to reascend.

Though hard and rare. Thee I revisit safe,

And feel thy sovran vital lamp : but thou

Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain

To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn ;

BWND BARTIMEUS.

221

So thick a drop serene hath quonch'd their orbs,

Or dim suffusion veil'd. Yet not the more

Cease I to wander, where the Muses haunt

Clear springs, or shady grove, or sunny hill,

Smit with the love of sacred song ; but chief

Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath.

That wash thy hallo w'd feet, and warbling flow,

Nightly I visit : nor sometimes forget

Those other two, equall'd with me in fate,

So were I equall'd with them in renown,

Blind Thamyris and blhid Majonides,

And Tiresias, and Phineus, prophets old :

Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move

Harmonious numbers ; as the wakeful bird

Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid,

Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year

Seasons return ; but not to me returns

Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn.

Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,

Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ;

But cloud instead, and ever-during dark

Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men

Cub off, and for the book of knowledge fair

Presented with a universal blank

Of nature's works, to me expunged and rased,

And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.

So much the rather thou, celestial light,

Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers

Irradiate : there plant eyes, all mist from thence

Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell

Of things invisible to mortal sight. • — Milton.

BLIND BARTIMEUS.

" Oh, lone and lorn my lot !
To me the sunbeam is a joy unknown ;
In vain earth's lap with rarest flowers are strewn-

I crush, but see them not.

" The human face and form,
So glorious, as they tell, are all to me
A strange and unimagined mystery.

Dark as the midnight storm.

" Winter's sharp blast I prove,
But cannot gaze upon the mantle white
With which the widow'd earth she doth bedight,

In rough but honest love,"

222

BLIND HARIIMIJUS.

i m

Sudden a mighty throng,
Tumultuous, pass'd that beggar's muddy lair,
And listlessly he ask'd in his despair

Why thus they press'd along.

A friendly voice replied,
" Jesus, the Man of Nazareth, is here."
The words with strange power fell upon his ear.

And eagerly he cried :

" Jesus ! our David's son,
Have mercy on me for Jehovah's sake ;
Pity, Emmanuel — pity do Thou take —

'Mid thousands I'm alone ! "

The multitude cried, " Cease !
The Master will not pause for such as thou,
Nobler by far His purposes, we tro*^ ;

Silence, thou blind one — peace ! "

But bold with misery,
He heeded not the taunt of selfish pride;
More eagerly and earnestly he cried,

" Have mercy, Christ, on me! "

The ever-open ear
Heard, and heard not unmoved that quivering voice :
"Come hither! " Hundreds now exclaim'd — " Kejoice;

He calls ; be of good cheer ! "

How rare — how passing sweet
Sounded these words of hope ; he cast away
His garment, lest its folds his course might stay,

And fell at Jesus' feet.

" What would'st thou ? " Wondrous bright
The beggar's visage glow'd — he felt right sure
That voice, so Godlike, straight would speak his cure-

" Lord, th^t I may have sight ! "

He never knew suspense :
" Receive thy sight, thou dark one, for thy faith ! "
And lo! convulsively he draws his breath,

Entranced with his new sense.

Did Bartimeus seek
Once more his ancient nook of beggary P
Oh no ! — he felt that he could gaze for aye

On Jesus' face so meek.

THE BLIND GIRL.

223

ir,

Love would not lot him stay —
His daikf'ii'd soul was lightcn'd, like his eyes;
And from that hour the Lord whom he did prize

He follow'd in the way. — R. J. M'George.

ar,

? voice :
Rejoice;

ay,

is cure—

THE BLIND GIRL.

She sits in silence all the day,

Our little gentle one,
And basketh in the welcome ray

Of the glorious summer sun;
The warm beams falling on her brow

Shed gladness through her mind,
But ne'er may she the radiance know —

The little one is blind.

Her small hands hold a blushing wreath

Of lovely forest flowers ;
Oh, well she loves your fragrant breath,

Sweet friends of summer hours !
But not for her each gorgeous hue

O'er your fair petals spread ;
Alike to her the violet's blue,

And rose's glowing red.

She looketh towards the quiet sky

In the still summer night.
But vainly on her darken'd eye

Falleth the pale moonlight.
In vain from their bright home above

The peaceful stars gaze down ;
She knoweth not their looks of love

From gathering tempest's frown.

A mother speaketh to her child

In accents mild and sweet,
A brother through the woodpath wild

Guideth her wandering feet ;
Each kindly deed, each gentle tone,

Thrills to her heart's deep cell —
What would she give to look upon

The friends she loved so well 1

And thou shalt see their faces yet,

Stricken, yet blessed one !
When all earth's r&nsom'd ones are met

Before the eternal throne :

224

WAIi BETWEEN THE IROQUOIS AND ERIES.

The cloud that dims thy vision now

Shall at a word be riven ;
And the first light thine eyes shall know

Shall be the light of heaven.

Miss Page.

WAR BETWEEN THE IROQUOIS AND ERIES.

(A.D. 1657.)

The nation of the Cats, or Eries, had sent thirty ambassadors to
the Iroquois, to confirm the peace which had existed between
them ; but it happened that an Iroquois was killed in an accidental
encounter by one of the Cat nation. His murder so exasperated
the Iroquois that they put to death the ambassadors who were
among them, with the exception of five who escaped. Thus,
then, war was kindled between these two nations ; the question
now was who should get most prisoners to burn. Among others,
two Onondagas were taken by the Cats ; one escaped, and the
other, a man of some importance, having been brought to the
village to undergo the fiery ordeal, pleaded his cause so well, that
he was given to the sister of one of the thirty ambassadors put
to death. She was not then in the village, but they did not fail
to attire the man in gay habiliments ; feasting and good cheer
alone prevailed. They assured him that he should be sent back
to his country. When she to whom he had been given returned,
they informed her that her dead brother had come to life again,
and that she must prepare to treat him well and to dismiss him
gi-aciously. She, on the other hand, commenced to weep; she
protested that she would never dry her tears till the death of her
brother was avenged. The elders represented to her the impor-
tance of the matter — that it would bring a fresh war upon their
hands — but she cared nothing for that. At last, they were obliged
to give up the unfortunate man to her will. While this confer-
ence was going on, he had been delighting himself at the banquet.
They dragged him away from the feast, and led him into the
wigwam of this cruel woman without speaking. Upon his
entrance, he was surprised that they took away his fine attire :
soon he saw that his death was decided on. Before dying, he
cried out that they were burning a whole people in his persoH,
and that his death would be cruelly avenged. This was true;
for the news had hardly been carried to the camp of the Onon-

WAR BETWEEN THE IROQUOIS AND ERIES.

225

■ when twelve hundred determined men started on the
war-path, to obtain satisfaction for this affront.

The nation of the Cats bears this name on account of the great

I number of very hirge and handsome wild-cats found in the

country which it occupies. This country is very temperate;

neither ice nor snow is seen there in winter, and during the

I soimner grain and fruit of extraordinary size and quality are,

it is said, gathered there.

The Onondaga warriors mide such rapid marches, that al-
though far from their own village, they arrived in the enemy's
country without it being known. This spread such an alann,
that villages and houses were abandoned to the mercy of the
conquerors, who, after having burned everything, set out in
pareuit of the fugitives. These numbered two or three thousand
warriors, exclusive of the women and children. Finding them-
selves closely pursued, they resolved, after a flight of five days, to
make a log-fort, and there to await their enemies, who numbered
enly twelve hundred. They entrenched themselves as well as
they were able. Soon the enemy made his advances ; two of the
most distinguished chiefs, dressed after the French fashion, ap-
peared, in order to frighten the Cats by the novelty of their
garb. One of them, who had been baptized by Father Le Moine,
and was weP educated, mildly requested the besieged to surrender,
failing which no quarter would be shown them. " The Lord of
Life fights for us," said he, "and you are lost if you resist Him."
" Who is lord of our lives ? " replied the besieged, haughtily ;
"we recognise no others than our arms and our hatchets."
Thereupon the assault was made ; the palisade was attacked on
all sides, and as well defended as attacked. For a long time the
battle lasted, and with great carnage on both sides. The besiegers
made every effort to carry the place by storm, but it was in vain :
all who showed themselves were killed. The assailants formed
the plpn of using their canoes as shields, and, under the shelter
they afforded, arrived at the foot of the entrenchments. But they
had yet to clear the great stakes and logs of which it was built.
They piled up their canoes, and made use of them as scaling-
ladders to mount this high palisade. Such boldness so much
amazed the besieged, that, being already at the end of their
ammunition, with which, especially powder, they had been ill-
provided, they took to flight, thus causing their own destruction ;
for most of the foremost fugitives having been killed, the rest
* One of the five tribes of which the Iroquois confederaoy consisted.

i i

'■r. I

i«i f

226

THE GREAT PLAGUE OF LONDON.

were hemmed in by the Onondagas, who entei*ed the fort, and
made such a slaughter of women and children that in some
places there was blood up to tho knee. Those who had escaped,
wishing to regain their honor, after having collected their
courage, in a short time retraced their steps, to the number of
three hundred, with the intention of surprising the enemy while
off his guard. The design was good, but it was badly executed;
for, being terrified at the first cry the Onondagas made, they were
entirely defeated. Tho conquerors also lost a number of their
men, so that they were obliged to remain two months in the
enemy's country to bury their dead and heal their wounded.

— Belations des Jesuites.

THE GREAT PLAGUE OF LONDON.
(A.D. 1665.)

April SOih. — Great fears of the sickness hero in the city, it
being said that two or three houses are akeady shut up. God pre-
serve us all !

May 7th. — The hottest day that ever I felt in my life. This
day, much against my will, I did in Drury Lane see two or three
houses marked with a red cross upon the doors, and " Lord, have
mercy upon us," writ there ; which was a sad sight to me, being
the first of the kind that, to my remembrance, I ever saw.

July 12th. — A solemn fast- day for the plague growing upon
us.

ISth. — Above 700 died of the plague this week.

18th. — I was much troubled to hear this day at Westminster
how the officers do bury the dead in the open Tottle-fields, pre-
tending want of room elsewhere.

20^^. — Walked to Redriffe, where I hear the sickness is, and
indeed is scattered almost everywhere, there dying 1089 of the
plague this week. My lady Carteret did this day give me a bottle
of plague- water home with me.

26th. — Sad news of the deaths of so many in the parish of the
plague — forty last night. The bells always going. This day poor
Robin Shaw, at Backewell's, died, and Backewell himself now in
Flanders. The king himself asked about Shaw, and being told
that he was dead, said that he was very sorry for it. The sick-
ness is got into our parish this week, and is got, indeed, every-

THE GBEAT PLAGUE OF LONDON.

22J'

owing upon

where ; so that I begin to think of setting things in order, which
I pray God enable me to put, both as to soul and body.

ZOth. — It was a sad noise to hear our bell toll and ring so
often to-day, either for deaths or burials ; I think five or six
times.

Slst. — The plague grows nightly upon us ; the last week dying
about 1700 or 1800 of the plague.

August 3c?. — To Dagenham, and all the way people, citizens,
walking to and fro, inquii'e how the plague is in the city this
week by the bill ; which by chance, at Greenwich, I had heard
was 2020 of the plague, and 3000 and odd of all diseases.

Sth. — To my office a little, and then to the Duke of Albe-
marle's about some business. The streets empty all the way
now, even in London, which is a sad sight. And to Westminster
HaJl, where talking, hearing very sad stories from Mrs Mumford ;
among others, of Mr Michell's son's family. And poor Will, that
nsed to sell us ale at the hall door, his wife and three children
died, all I think in one day. So home through the city again,
wishing I may have taken no ill in going ; but I will go, I think,
no more thither.

loth. — By and by to the office, where we sat all the morning ;
in great trouble to see the bill this week rise so high — to above
4000 in all, and of them about 3000 of the plague. Home to
draw over anew my will, which I had bound myself by oath to
despatch to-morrow night ; the town growing so unhealthy, that
a man cannot depend upon living two days.

I2th. — The people die so, that now it seems they are fain to
carry the dead to be buried by daylight, the nights not sufficing
to do it in. And my Lord Mayor commands people to be within
at nine at night, all, as they say, that the sick may have liberty
to go abrojtd for air.

IZth. — It was dark before I could get home, and so land at
Chnrchyard stairs, where, to my great trouble, I met a dead
corpse of the plague in the narrow alley, just bringing down a
little pair of stairs. But I thank God I was not much disturbed
at it. However, I shall beware of beiug late abroad again.

IQtli. — To the Exchange, where I have not been a great while.

But, Lord! how sad a sight it is to see the street empty of

people, and very few upon the 'Change. Jealous of every door

I that one sees shut up, lest it should be the plague ; and about

two shops in three, if not more, generally shut up.

^ht, — This month ends with great sadness upon the public,

228

FROM "the city OP THE PLAGUE.

»»

through the greatness of the plague everywhere through the
kingdom almost. Every day sadder and sadder news of its
increase. In the city died this week over 7000, and of them
above 6000 of the plague. — Pepys's Diary.

! ili

FROM " THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE."

Together will ye walk through long, long streets,

All standing silent as a midnight church.

You will hear nothing bnt the brown-red grass

Bustling beneath your feet ; the very beating

Of your own hearts will awe you; the small voice

Ot that vain bauble, idly counting time,

Will speak a solemn language in the desert.

Look up to heaven, and there the sultry clouds,

Still threatening thunder, lour with erim delight,

As if the Spirit of the Plague dwelt there,

Darkening the city with the shadows of death.

Know ye that hideous hubbub ? Hark, far off

A tumult like an echo ! On it comes.

Weeping and wailing, shrieks and groaning prayer ;

And, louder than all, outrageous blasphemy.

The passing storm hath left the siler^t streets.

But are these houses near you tenantiess P

Over your heads, from a window, suddenly

A ghastly face is thrust, and yells of death

With voice not human. Who is he that flies,

As if a demon dogg'd him on his path P

With ragged hair, white face, and bloodshot eyes,

Baving, he rushes past you ; till he falls.

As if struck by lightning, down upon the stones.

Or, in blind madness, lash'd against the wall, *

Sinks backward into stillness. Stand aloof,

And let the Pest's triumphant chariot

Have open way advancing to the tomb.

See how he mocks the pomp and pageantry

Of earthly kings ! a miserable cart,

Heap'd up with human bodies ; dragg'd along

By pale steeds, skeleton -anatomies !

And onward urged by a wan meagre wretch,

Doom'd never to return from the foul pit.

Whither, with oaths, he drives his load of horror.

Would you look in ? Gray hairs and golden tresses,

Wan shrivell'd cheeks that have not smiled for years.

And many a rosy visage smiling still ;

ACOUSTICS — SOUND, HEARING, ECHO, ANU MUSICAL NOTES. 229

Bodies in the noisome weeds of beggary wrapt,

With age aecrepit, and wasted to tne bone ;

And youthful frames, august and beautiful,

In spite of mortal pangs, — there lie they all,

Embraced in ^hastliness ! But look not long.

For haply, 'mid the faces glimmering there,

The well-known cheek of some beloved friend

"Will meet thy gaze, or some small snow-white hand,

Bright with the ring that holds her lover's hair.

Let me sit down beside you. I am faint

Talking of horrors that I look'd upon *

At last without a shudder.

— John Wilsok.

ACOUSTICS— SOUND, HEARING, ECHO, AND
MUSICAL NOTES.

Sec. 1. How does sound travel through the air ? Let me try to
answer this question. Imagine a row of boys standing close side
by side, and that the last boy of the row stands close beside a
wall or glass window. Suppose somebody to give the first boy a
push in the direction of the line of boys ; the first boy knocks
against the second and recovers himself, the second knocks
against the third, the third against the fourth, and so on, each
boy recovering himself after he has sent on the push to the boy
next him. The last boy of the row would be pushed up against
the wall, or through the window, as the case might be.

Now, when a gun is fired, a percussion cap exploded, a bubble
of explosive gas ignited, or when a peal of thunder occurs, the
air at the place of explosion receives a sudden shock, and this
shock is transmitted from particle to particle through the air, in
a manner closely resembling the transmission of the push from
boy to boy. There is a passage leading from the ear towards the
brain ; at a certain place a thin membrane called the tympanum is
drawn across the passage, the membrane and the cavity which it
stops being called the drum of the ear. Well, the air is pushed
against the head of this drum, just as we have supposed the last
boy of our row to be pushed against the wall or the window, only
with infinitely greater rapidity. The membrane is thus thrown
mto motion, and this motion is communicated to the nerve of
hearing. It is thus transmitted along the nerve to the brain, and
there produces the sensation of sound. Nobody understands how

230 ACOUSTICS — SOUND, HEARING, ECHO, AND MUSICAL NOTES.

this motion is converted into a sensation ; it is one of the mvH. i
teries of life, regarding which the youngest boy "who reads this I
page knows jast as much as I do myself.

How fast does the shock travel through the air ? — in other
words, What is the velocity of sound ? The answer is, About
1100 feet a second. It travels more quickly in -warm than in
cold weather. Through water it travels about five times as fast as
through air, and through wood it travels more than twice faster
than it does through water. I once took a man and a hammer
with me into Hydo Park, London, where there are very long iron
rails. I placed my ear close to a rail, sent the man to a distance,
and caused him to strike the rail with the hammer. For every
blow he gave the rail I heard two, and the reason is, that the
sound of each stroke travelled through the air and the iron at the
same time; but through the iron it travelled with greater
rapidity, and reached the ear sooner, the shock transmitted by
the air arriving a little while afterwards. If the air were absent
there could be no transmission of sound as ^t present ; iand where
the air is very thin, as upon the tops High mountains, the
sound is much weakened. I fired a lit .annon at the top of
Mont Blanc last summer, and found the sound much weaker than
when a similar cannon was fired on one of the Hampshire downs.
This experiment was first made by the celebrated traveller, De
Saussure. I may add that sound travels just as ^m'cA;^^ in thin
air as in dense air ; it is only the intensity of the sound that is
afiected.

Sec. 2. Let us now seek to apply the little bit of knowledge we
have gained in the foregoing section. Have you ever stood close
beside a man when he has fired a gun ? If so, you will have
seen the flash and heard the explosion at one and the same time.
But if you stand at a distance from the man, you see the flash
first, and hear the sound afterwards. The reason is, that while
the light of the flash moves almost instantaneously, the sound re-
quires some time to travel to your ear. Now let me ask you a
question or two. Suppose you have a good watch, which informs
you that the time which elapses between the flash and the sound
is three seconds, at what distance would you be from the man
who fires the gun ? Of course you could tell me in a moment.
These three seconds are the time required by the sound to travel
from the man to you, and as the velocity of sound through air is
eleven hundred feet a second, the man must be three thousand
three hundred feet distant. An equally simple calculation enables

ACOUSTICS — SOUND, HEARING, ECHO, AND MUSICAL NOTES. 231

yoa at onco to tell whether a thunder-storm is dangecoas or not.
Each peal of thnnder appears to be preceded by a flash of light-
ning ; but if you were up in the clouds close to the place where
the peal occurs, you would see the flash and hear the peal at the
same moment, for they really occur together. If, therefore, a
few seconds elapse between the flash and the peal, it is a proof
that the danger is distant ; but if the peal follow hot npon the
flash, it shows that the danger is near. Never dread the sound ;
if the flash pass without injury, the subsequent peal can do no
harm.

Sec. 3. I want you now to turn your thoughts for a moment
to the row of boys, of which I have spoken in the first section.
Suppose when the first boy is pushed np against the wall, that he,
in recovering himself, pushes back against the boy next him, this
second push, like the first, would propagate itself from the end
to the beginning of the line of boys. In a similar way, when the
poise of tne air, which produces sound, strikes against a wall, it is
reflected back, and constitutes an echo. The reflected wave of
sound moves with exactly the same velocity as the direct one.
Now, suppose a gun to be fired at a distance, 2200 feet from the
side of a house or of a mountain which reflects the sound, what
time will elapse between the sound and the echo ? Here the
sound has to travel from the gun to the wall, and back again, or
a distance of 4400 feet ; and as the velocity of sound is 1100 feet
a second, four seconds will elapse before the echo is heard. If
you reflect upon the matter, you will easily see that a wave of
sound, after it has been once reflected, may strike upon a second
object, which will reflect it a second time, and thus constitute a
second echo. It is customary, when travelling up the Rhine, to
fire a cannon at a certain place where the banks of the river rise
in steep high rocks ; the waves of sound are reflected several
times from side to side, thus producing a perfect bubble of echoes,
resembling the roll of thunder. The echoes which may be aroused
in some of the mountain glens in Switzerland even by the human
voice, are perfectly wonderful. I have known a valley to be
filled with the wildest melody by a little boy singing the moun-
tain jodel as he sat upon a rock and watched his goats.

Not only do solid bodies reflect sonnd in this way, but clouds
do it also ; and this is undoubtedly one cause of the rumbling we
hear after a peal of thunder. In firing cannon, it has been ob-
served that when the sky was clear, the sound was sharp and
echoless, but that as soon as clouds appeared above the horizon,

232 ACOUSTICS — SOUND, HEARING, ECHO, AND MUSICAL NOTES.

i 1'

vf i

In
''I
m
'if

the sonorous waves striking against the clouds were reflected baci
again, and produced echoes. Sound is always reflected, wholly
or partially, in passing from one medium to another. Even when
sound passes from light to heavy air, a portion of it is reflected.
This explains a singular effect which was observed by the cele-
brated traveller Humboldt. Being stationed some mOes distant
from the great falls of the river Orinoco, in South America, he
found that during the night the sound of the waterfall was so
loud that he could imagine himself close beside it. During the
day, the sound was much feebler. You will perhaps think that
this was quite natural, owing to the greater stillness of the night,
but the fact was actually fkr otherwise. In those regions the
night is /:ar more noisy than the day. Under the noonday sud
the forest beasts cease their yelling and roaring, and retire to
sleep, while the innumerable swarms of insects which fill the air
with their humming during the night, are all stilled. Now pay
attention to the true explanation.

A large plain stretched between the place where M. de Hum-
boldt was stationed and the waterfall, this plain being covered
partially with grass, through which, however, a great number of
rocks protruded. During the day these rocks became very hot
— much hotter than the grass, and the onsequence was, that over
each rock during the day there was a column of light air — for
you know that air swells and becomes light when heated, hence
the sound of the waterfall in passing through the atmosphere
over the plain, crossed perpetually from heavy to light, and from
light to heavy air. At each passage a small portion of the sound
was reflected, and this occurred so often, that before it reached the
place wherj M. de Humboldt was stationed, the sound was
greatly enfeebled. At night the rocks became cooled ; there was
no longer that great difference of temperature between them and
the grass ; the atmosphere was more homogeneous, and the sound
passed through it without reflection : the consequence was that
the roar of the cataract was much louder during the night than
during the day.

Sec. 4. In the first section I explained to you how a single
pulse of sound was transmitted through the atmosphere, and
what it did in the ear. I have said that the tympanum is thrown
into motion by the shock. Now, every motion in nature, when
once excited, takes time to subside. In the case of the tympa-
num the motion subsides very speedily, but still it requires time ;
and if you cause two shocks to follow each other with sufficient

ACOUSTICS — SOUND, HEARiwO, ECHO, AND MUSICAL NOTES. 233

speed, the last of them may reach the ear before the motion ex-
cited by the first has been extinguished, and thus a prolonged
Bound may be produced. Here I have to announce to you a
most interesting fact, — a musical sound is a sound which is pro-
longed in this way. It is produced by a series of impulses which
strike the ear at regular intervals, and in quick succession. In
producing a musical sound, therefore, we make use of a body
which is capable of sending a succession of waves to the ear, — a
vibrating string or belt, a vibrating tongue, as in the Jew's harp
and the concertina : a vibrating column of air, as in the flute or
organ-pipe. The organs of voice are also capable of being thrown
into vibration, like the reed of a clarionet, by the air passing
from the lungs. But now I have to draw your attention to a
peculiarity of these musical sounds or notes. They differ in
fitch, — some notes are high and others low ; and the height or
pitch depends solely xv^on the number of impulses which the tym-
panum receives in a second. The greater the number of impulses
per second, the higher the note. 4. string which vibrates 500
times in a second, prod aces a higher note than one which vi-
brates only 400 times a second. The shorter a string is, the
more; quickly it vibrates, and the higher the note that it pro-
duces. In like manner the shorter the organ-pipe or the flute —
and you really shorten a flute when you te-ke your fingers off its
holes — the quicker its vibration, and the higher its notes. If
space permitted, I might state to you the relative lengths of the
strings, or of the organ- pipes, necessary, for producing all the
notes of the gamut, I will content myself by saying, that when
one string is half the length of another, it vibrates twice as
quickly, supposing both to be screwed up equally tight, and the
note it produces is the octave of that produced by the longer
string. Thus it is that by judiciously varying the lengths of a
few strings, by pressing upon them with his fingers, a violm player
is able to produce a great variety of notes.

A succession of taps, if they only follow each other speedily
enough, will produce a musical note. When a slate-pencil, held
loosely in the hand and perfectly upright, is drawn along a slate,
every boy knows that a jumping motion of the pencil and a
dotted line upon the slate are produced. A series of distinct
taps of the pencil is also heard, but the sound is a mere rattle.
By pressing upon the pencil, these taps can bo caused to succeed
each other more quickly, until finally a musical note is produced.
Most people, it is true, shut their ears against this melody, and

234

THE DUMB CHILD.

!r(

complain that it gives them the toothache ; bat it is nevertheless
a good illnstration of our present subject. If a card be held
against the circumference of a toothed ifv heel, it is struck by the
teeth as they pass, and the distinct taps are heard ; but if the
wheel rotates rapidly enough, the separate taps art no longer dis-
tinguishable, but melt into a continuous musical note. A series
of 'puffs can also produce a musical note. If a locomotive could
send out its puffs quickly enough, we should have a musical
sound of deafening intensity. Instmments have been made for
the express purpose of producing taps or puffs, and such instru-
ments are provided with machinery which tells us the exact num-
ber of puffs or taps accomplished in a second. By means of such
instruments we can tell the exact number of vibrations produced
by the organs of a singer. We have only to bring the instrument
and the voice to the same pitch ; the number of puffs then re-
corded by the instrument is the number of vibrations accom-
plished by the singer. In the same way the number of times a
bee flaps its wings in a second can be accurately determined from
the hum of the insect. In this way, indeed, it has been ascer-
tained that gnats sometimes flap theii little wings fifteen thou-
sand times in a second !

How wonderful all this is, my boys, and how well worthy of
your attention ! And how beautiful c^oes the arrangement ap-
pear, that Nature should possess b i> wonders, and that man
should possess the power of inveu,. _^.j,ting and understanding
them ! " — Peofessor Tyndall.

THE DTJMB CHILD.

She is my only girl ;
I ask'd for her as some most precious thing ;
For all unfinish'd was Love's jewell'd ring

Till set with this soft pearl ;
The . hade that time brought forth I could not see;
How pure, how perfect seem'd the gift to me !

Oh, many a soft old tune
I used to sing unto that deafon'd ear,
And suffer'd not the lightest footsteps near,

Lest she might wake too soon ;
And hush'd her brothers' laughter while she lay —
Ah, needless care ; I might have let them play.

THE DUMB CHILD.

'Twas long ere I believed
That this one daughter might not speak to me ;
Waited and watch d, God knows how patiently :

How willingly deceived :
Vain Love was long the untiring nurse of Faith
And tended hope until it starved to death.

Oh, if she could but hear
For one short hour, till I her tongue might teach
To call me mother in the broken speech

That thrills the mother's ear !
Alas, those seal'd lips never may be stirr'd
To the deep music of that lovely word.

My heart it sorely tries
To see her kneel vrith such a reverent air
Beside her brothers at their evening prayer;

Or lift those earnest eyes
To watch our lips, as though our words she knewi —
Then move her own, as she were speaking too.

I've watch'd her looking up
To the bright wonder of a sunset sky.
With such a depth of meaning in her eye,

That I could almost hope
The struggling soul would burst its binding cords.
And the long pent-up thoughts flow forth in words.

The song of the bird and bee,
The chorus of the breezes, streams and groves,
All the grand music to which nature moves.

Are wasted melody
To her : the world of sound a tuneless void ;
While even silence hath its charm destroy'd.

Her face is very fair :
Her blue eye beautiful ; of finest mould
Her soft white brow, o'er which, in waves of gold,

Eipples her shining hair :
Alas, this lovely temple closed must be
For He who made it keeps the master-key L

Not of all gifts bereft
Even now. How could I say she did not speak P
What real language lights her eye and cheek.

And renders thanks to Him who left
Unto her soul yet open avenues
For joy to enter and for love to use.

235

236

i ^!!ii!

■

I^R

^ 1 *

■i

ifji

III

I'i' 11

■

flj

Ill

THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF.

And God in love doth give
To her defect a beauty of its own ;
And we a deeper tenderness have known

Through that for which we grieve.
Ytt shall the seal be melted from her ear,
Yea, and my voice shall reach it, but not here.

When that new sense is given,
What rapture will its first experience be
That never woke to meaner melody

Than the rich songs of heaven —
To hear the full-toned anthem swelling round
While angels teach the ecstasies of sound !

— Household Wbrds.

THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVEEY LEAF.

There is a tongue in every leaf,

A voice in every rill —
A voice that speaketh everywhere,
In flood and fire, through earth and air ;

A tongue that's never still !

*Tis the Great Spirit, wide diffused

Through everything we see.
That with our spirits communeth
Of things mysterious — life and death,
Time and eternity !

I see Him in the blazing sun.

And in the thunder-cloud ;
I hear Him in the mighty roar
That rusheth through the forests hoar

When winds are raging loud.

I feel Him in the silent dews.

By grateful earth betray'd ;
I feel Him in the gentle showers,
The soft south wind, the breath of flowers,
The sunshine and the shade.

I see Him, hear Him everywhere.

In all things — darkness, light.
Silence, and sound ; but, most of all.
When slumber's dusky curtains fall.
In the silent hour of night.

—Anon.

THE BELLS.

237

THE BELLS.

I.
Hear the sledges with their bells —
Silver bells !
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle.

In the icy air of night,
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle

With a crystalline delight ;
Keeping time, time, time.
In a sort of Runic rhyme.
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells —
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

IT.

Hear the mellow wedding-bells —
Golden bells !
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight !
From the molten-golden notes,

And all in tune.
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon !
Oh, from out the sounding cells
What agush of euphoay voluminously wells !
How it swells !
How it dwells —
On the future ! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging, and the ringing

Of the bells, bells, bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells.
Bells, bells, bells —
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells !

ni.

Hear the loud alarum bells —
Brazen bells !
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells !
In the startled eftr of night
How they scream out their affright !

238 THE BELLS.

Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek.
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire.
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire.
Leading higher, higher, higher.
With a desperate desire.
And a resolute endeavor,
Now, now to sit, or never.
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells !
What a tale their terror tells
T, ,,1 Of despair !

How they clang, and clash, and roar I
What a horror they outpour
in ;| h \ On the bosom of the palpitating air !

*^'^' Yet the ear it fully knows

By the twanging,
And the clanging.
How the danger ebbs and flows ;
Yet the ear distinctly tells.
In the jangling,
And the wrangling.
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-
Of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells —
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells !

IV.

Hear the tolling of the bells —
Iron bells !
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels I
In the silence of the night.
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone !
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats

Is a groan.
And the people — ah, the people —
They that dwell up in the steeple.

All alone, ,,

And who tolling, tolling, tolling.

In that muffled monotone.
Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone —

THE DEATH OF THE WICKED.

239

They are neither man nor woman —
They are neither brute nov human —

They are ghouls.
And their king it is who tolls,
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,

A paean from the bells !
And his merry bosom swells

With the paean of the bells !
And he dances and he yells ;
Keeping time, time, time.
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the paean of the bells —
Of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time.
In a sort of Rfinic rhyme.

To the throbbing of the bells —
Of the bells, bells, bells.

To the sobbing of the bells,
Keeping time, time, time.

As he knells, knells, knells.
In a happy Runic rhyme,

To the rolling of the bells — -

Of the bells, beUs, bells—

To the tolling of the bells.
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-
Bells, bells, bells.
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

— Edgar A. Poe.

'.'}

THE DEATH OF THE WICKED.

The remembrance of the past, and the view of the present,
would be little to the expiring sinner ; could he confine himself
to these, he would not be so completely miserable; but the
thoughts of a futurity convulse him with horror and despair.
That futurity, that incomprehensible region of darkness, which
he now approaches, conscience his only companion ; that futurity,
that unknown land from which no traveller has ever returned,
where he knows not whom he shall find, nor what awaits him ;
that futurity, that fathomless abyss, in which his mind is lost
and bewildered, and into which he must now plunge, ignorant of
his destiny ; that futurity, that tomb, that residence of horror,
where he must now occupy his place amongst the ashes and the
carcasses of his ancestors ; that futurity, that incomprehensible

240

THE DEATH OP THE WICKED.

III

eternity, even the aspect of which he cannot support ; that
futurity, in a word, that dreadful judgment to which, before the
wrath of God, he must now appear, and render account of a life,
of which every moment almost has been occupied by crimes.
Alas ! while he only looked forward to this terrible futurity at a
distance, he made an infamous boast of not dreading it ; he con>
tinually demanded, with a tone of blasphemy and derision. Who
is returned from it ? He ridiculed the vulgar apprehensions,
and piqued himself upon his undaunted courage. But from the
moment that the hand of God is upon him — from the moment
that death approaches near, that the gates of eternity open to
receive him, and that he touches upon that terrible futurity,
against which he seemed so fortified — ah ! ho then becomes
either weak, trembling, dissolved in tears, raising up suppliant
hands to heaven, or gloomy, silent, agitated, revolving within
himself the most dreadful thoughts, and no longer expecting
more consolation or mercy from his weak tears and lamentations,
than from his frenzies and despair.

Yes, my brethren, this unfortunate wretch, who had always
lulled himself in his excesses, always flattered himself that one
good moment alone was necessary, one sentiment of compunction
before death, to appease the anger of God, despairs then of His
clemency. In vain is he told of His eternal mercies ; he feels to
what a degree he is unworthy of them. In vain the minister of
the Church endeavors to soothe his terrors, by opening to him
the bosom of His divine mercy : these promises touch him little,
because he knows well that the charity of the Church, which
never despairs of salvation for its children, cannot, however, alter
the awful judgments of the justice of God. In vain is he promised
forgiveness of his crimes ; a secret and terrible voice resounds
from the bottom of his heart, and tells him that there is no sal-
vation for the impious, and that ho can have no dependence upon
promises which are given to his miseries, rather than to the
truth. In vain is he exhorted to apply to those last remedies
which the Church offers to the dying ; he regards them as des-
perate reliefs, which are hazarded when hope is over, and which
are bestowed more for the consolation of the living, than from
any prospect of utility to those who are departing. Servants of
Jesus Christ are called in to support him in this last moment;
whilst all he is enabled to do, is secretly to envy their lot, and
to detest the misery of his own ; his friends and relations are
assembled round his bed to receive his last sighs, and he tarns

THE DEATH OF THE WICKED.

241

away from them his eyes, because he finds still amidst them the
remembrance of hia crimes. Death, however, approaches : the
minister endeavors to support, by prayer, that spark of life
which still remains : " Depart, Christian soul," says he : he says
not to him, Prince, grandee of the world, depart. During hia
life, the public monuments were hardly suflBcient for the number
and pride of his titles. In this last moment they give him that
title alone which he had received in baptism ; the only one to
which he had paid no attention, and the only one which can re-
main to him for ever. Depart, Christian soul. Alas! he had
livpi as if the body had formed his only being and treasure ; ho
had even tried to persuade himself that his soul was nothing ;
that man is only a composition of flesh and blood, and that
everything perishes with us. He is now informed that it is his
body which is nothing but a morsel of clay, now on the point
of crumbling into pieces ; and that his only immortal being is
that soul, that image of the Divinity, that intelligence, alone
capable of knowing and loving its Creator, which now prepares
to quit its earthly mansion, and appear before His awful tribunal.
Depart, Christian soul. You had looked upon the earth as your
country, and it was only a place of pilgrimage, from which you
mast depart. The Church thought to have announced glad tid-
ings to yon, the expiration of your exilement, in announcing the
dissolution of your earthly frame. Alas ! and it only brings you
melancholy and frightful news, and opens the commencement of
your miseries and anguish.

Then the expiring sinner, no longer finding in the remembrance
of the past, but regrets which overwhelm him — in all which
takes place around him, but images which afflict him — in the
thoughts of futurity, but horrors which appall him ; no longer
knowing to whom to have recourse — neither to created beings,
who now leave him — nor to the world, which vanishes — nor to
men, who cannot save him from death — nor to the just God,
whom he looks upon as a declared enemy, and from whom he
has no indulgence to expect; a thousand horrors occupy his
thoughts — he torments, he agitates himself, in or'^er to fly from
death which grasps him, or at least to fly from himself. From
his expiring eyes issues something, I know not what, of dark and
gloomy, which expresses the fury of his soul ; in his anguish he
utters words, interrupted by sobs, which are unintelligible, and
to which they know not whether repentance or despair gives
birth. He is seized with convulsions, which they are ignorant

"TT'

,.iiJ

I-

242

DEATH OF WOLFE.

whether to aHcribo to the uctnal diasolution of his body, or to
the soul which feels the approach of its Jixdgo. He deeply
sighs ; and they know not whether the remembrance of his past
crimes, or the aespair at quitting life, forces from him such groans
of anguish. At last in the midst of these melancholy exertions,
his eyes fix, his features change, his countenance becomes dis-
figured, his livid lips convulsively separate; his whole frame
quivers ; and, by this last efibrt, his unfortunate soul tears itself
reluctantly from that body of clay, falls into the hands of its
God, and finds itself alone at the foot of the awfu'. tribunal.

— Massillon.

PLAINS OF ABRAHAM, WITH WOLFC'S MONUMENT.

DEATH OF WOLFE.
(A.D. 1769.)

The eventful night of the 12th * was clear and calm, with no
light but that of the stars. Within two hours before daybreak,
thirty boats, crowded with sixteen hundred soldiers, cast ofi' from
the vessels, and floated downward, in perfect order, with the cur-
rent of the ebb-tide. To the boundless joy of the army, Wolfe's
malady bad abated, and he was able to command in person. His

■* September 1759.

DEATH OF WOLFE.

243

ruined lic^alth, tho gloomy prospects of the siege, and the disaster
ut Montiuorcnci, had oppressed him with the deepest melancholy,
but never impaired for a moment the promptness of his deci-
sions or the impetuous energy of his action. He sat in the stern
of one of the boats, pale and weak, but borne up to a calm height
of resolution. Every order had been given, every arrangement
made, and it only remained to face the issue. The ebbing tide
sufficed to bear tbe boats along, and nothing broke the silence of
the night but tho gni'gling of tho river, and tho low voice of
Wolfe as ho repeated to the officers about him the stanzas of
Gray's Elegy in a Country Churchyard, which had recently ap-
peared, and wiiich he had just received from England. Perhaps,
as he uttered those strangely appropriate words, —

" The paths of glory lead but to the grave," —

the shadows of his own approaching fate stole with mounaful
prophecy across his mind. " Gentlemen," he said, as he closed
his recital, " I would rather have written those lines than take
Quebec to-morrow."

They reached the landing-place in safety — an indentation in
the shore about a league from the city, and now bearing the name
of Wolfe's Cove. Hoi-e a narrow path led up the face of the
heights, and a French guard was posted at the top to defend the
pass. By the force of the currents, the foremost boats, including
that which carried Wolfe himself, were borne a little below the
spot. The general was one of the first on shore. He looked
upward at the rugged heights that towered above him in the
gloom. " You can try it," he coolly observed to an officer near
him; "but I don't think you'll get up."

At the point where the Highlanders landed, one of their cap-
tains, Donald Macdonald, was climbing in advance of his men,
when he was challenged by a sentinel. He replied in French,
by declaring that he had been sent to relieve the guard, and or-
dering the soldier to withdraw. Before the latter was undeceived,
a crowd of Highlanders were close at hand, while the steeps below
were thronged with eager climbers, dragging themselves up by
trees, roots, and bushes. The guard turned out, and made a
brief though brave resistance. In a moment they were cut to
pieces, dispersed, or made prisoners ; while men after men came
swarming up the height, and quickly formed upon the plains
above. Meanwhile the vessels had dropped downward with tho
current, and anchored opposite tlic landing-place. The remain-

Wy-

244

DEATH OF WOLFE.

'.I'?

ing troops were disembarked, and with tbo dawn of day the whole
wore brought in safety to the shore.

The sun rose, and from the ramparts of Quebec the astonished
people saw the plains of Abraham glittering with arms, and the
dark red lines of the English forming in array of battle. . . .

It was nine o'clock, and the adverse armies stood motionless,
each gazing on the other. The clouds hung low, and, at intervals,
warm, light showers descended, besprinkling both alike. The
coppice and corn-fields in front of the British troops were filled
with French sharp-shooters, who kept up a distant, spattering
fire. Here and there a soldier fell in the ranks, and the gap was
filled in silence.

At a Httlo before ten, the British could see that Montcalm was
preparing to advance, and in a few moments all his troops ap-
peared in rapid motion. They came on in three divisions, shout-
ing after the manner of their nation, and firing heavily as soon
as they came within range. In the British ranks, not a trigger
wks pulled, not a soldier stirred ; and their ominous composure
seemed to damp the spirits of the assailants. It was not till the
French were within fort^ yards that the fatal word was given.
At once, from end to end of the Britir-h line, the muskets rose to
the level, as if with the Hwry of some great machine, and the
whole blazed fcHh ic ouce in one crashing explosion. Like a
ship at full career arrested with sudden ruin on a sunken rock,
the columns of Montcalm staggered, shivered, and broke before
that wasting storm of lead.

The smoke, rolling along the field, for a moment shut out the
view ; but when the white wreaths were scattered on the wind,
a wretched spectacle was disclosed — men and officers tumbled in
heaps, columns resolved into a mob, order and obedience gone ;
and when the British muskets were levelled for a second volley,
the masses were seen to cower and shrink with uncontrollable
panic.

For a few minutes, the I'rench rtgulars stood their ground,
returning a sharp and not inefiectual fire. But now echoing
cheer on cheer, redoubling volley on volley, trampling the dying
and the dead, and driving the fugitives in crowds, the British
troops advanced, and swept the field before them. The ardor
of the men burst all restraint. They broke into a run, and with
unsparing slaughter chased the flying multitude to the very gates
of Quebec. Foremost of all, the light-footed Highlanders dashed
along in furious pursuit, hewing dovrzi fhe Frenchmen with their

i&iu

DEATH OF WOLFE.

245

broadswordH, and slaying many in the very ditch of the fortifica-
tions. Never was victory more quick or more decisive.

In the short action and pursuit, the Frenchmen lost fifteen
hundred men, killed, wounded, and taken. Of the remainder,
some escaped within the city, and others fled across the St.
Charles, to rejoin their comrades who had been left to guard the
camp. The pursuers were recalled by sound of trumpet ; tho
broken ranks were formed afresh, and tho English troops with-
drawn beyond reach of the cannon of Quebec. Bougainville, with
his detachment, arrived from tho upper country, and hovering
about their rear, threatened an attack ; but when he saw what
greeting was prepared for him, he abandoned his purpose, and
withdrew. Townshend and Murray, the only general officers who
remained unhurt, passed to the head of every regiment in turn,
and thanked the soldiers for the bmvery they had shown : yet
the triumph of tho victors was mingled with sadness, as the tid-
ings went from rank to rank that Wolfe had fallen.

In the heat of the action, as he advanced at the head of the
grenadiers of Louisburg, a bullet shattered his wrist; but he
wrapped his handkerchief about the wound, and showed no sign
of pain. A moment more, and a ball pierced his side. Still he
pressed forward, waving his sword and cheering his soldiers to
the attack, when a third shot lodged deep within his breast. He
paused, reeled, and staggering to one side, fell to the earth.
Brown, a lieutenant of the grenadiers, Henderson, a volunteer, an
officer of artillery, and a private soldier, raised him together in
their arms, and bearing him to the rear, laid him softly on the
Gfrass. They asked him if he -would have a surgeon ; but ho
shook his head, and answered that all was over with him. His
eyes closed with the torpor of approaching death, and those
around sustained his fainting form. Yet they could not with-
hold their gaze from the wild turmoil before them, and the
charging ranks of their companions rushing through fire and
smoke. " See how they run ! " one of the officers exclaimed, as
the French fled in confusion before the levelled bayonets. " Who
run ? " demanded Wolfe, opening his eyes like a man aroused
from sleep. " The enemy, sir," was the reply ; " they give way
everywhere." "Then," said the dying general, "tell Colonel
Burton to march Webb's regiment down to Charles River, to cut
off their retreat from the bridge. Now, God be praised,! will
die in peace," he murmured ; and turning on his side, l,e calmly
breathed his last. — Parkman.

246

CHARACTER OF THE EARL OF ( HATHAJI.

CHARACTER OF THE EARL OF CHATHAM.

(1708-1778.)

Imly fo judge that
was pitied for losing

Let ns endeavor closely to view and

extraordinary man who at his outset was pitiea lor losing a
cornetcy of horse,* and who within twenty years had made him-
self the first man in England, and England the first country in
the world. He had received from nature a tall and striJjing
figure, aquiline and noble features, and a glance of fire. Lord
Waldegrave, after eulogizing the clearness of his style, observes
that his eye was as significant as his words. In debates his
single look would sometimes disconcert an orator opposed to
him. His voice most happily combined sweetness and strength.
It was of silvery clearness, and even when it sank to a whisper
it was distinctly heard ; while its higher tones, like the swell of
some majestic organ, could peal and thrill above every other
earthly sound.

As to style, Demosthenes was his favorite study among the
ancients; among the English, Bolingbroke and Barrow. But
perhaps our best clew to Lord Chatham's own mental tasks,
more especially in the field of oratory, is afforded by those which
he afterwards so successfully enjoined to his favorite son. It
may he stated on the authority of the present Lord Stanhope,
that Mr. Pitt, being asked to what he principally ascribed the
two qualities for which his eloquence was most conspicuous,—
namely, the lucid order of his reasonings and the ready choice of
his words, — answered, that he believed he owed the former to an
early study of the Aristotelian logic, and the latter to his father's
practice in making him every day, after reading over to himself
some passage in the classics, translate it aloud and continuously
into English prose.

Nor waL- Lord Chatham less solicitous as to his ovm action
and manner, which, according to Horace Walpole, was as studied
and as successful as Garrick's ; but his care of it extended not
only to speeches, but even in society. It is observed by him-
self in one of his letters, that " behavior, though an extamal
thing, which seems rather to belong to the body than to the
mind, is certainly founded in considerable virtues ; " and he

* Ohatham was deprived of his commission in the army for votinp:
against Sir Robert Walpole, tlie prime minister, in the Housft of Ooni
mens.

CHARACTER OF THE EARL OF CHATHAM.

247

evidently thought very hi^^hly of the effect of both dress and
address upon mankind. His very infirmities were managed to
the best advantage ; and it has been said of him that in his
hands even his crutch could become a weapon of oratory. This
striving for effect had, however, in some respects, an unfavor-
able influence upon his talents, and, as it appears to me, greatly
injured all his written compositions. His private letters bear in
general a forced and unnatural appearance ; the style of homely
texture, but here and there pieced wUh pompous epithets and
swelling phrases. Thus also in his oratory his most elaborate
speeches were his worst; and that speech which he delivered oi«
the death of Wolfe, and probably intended as a masterpiece, was
universally lamented as a failure.

But when without forethought, or any other preparation than
those talents which nature had supplied and education culti-
vated, Chatham arose — stirred to anger by some sudden subter-
fa«ye of corruption or device of tyranny — then was heard an
eloquence never surpassed, either in ancient or modern times.
It was the highest power of expression ministering to the highest
power of thought. Dr. Franklin declares, that in the course of
his life he had seen sometimes eloquence without wisdom, and
often wisdom without eloquence ; in Lord Chatham only had he
seen both united. Yet so vivid and impetuous were his bursts
of oratory, that they seemed even beyond his own control ; in-
stead of his ruling them, they often ruled him, and flashed forth
unbidden, and smiting all before them. As in the oracles of old,
it appeared to be not he that spake, but the spirit of the deity
within. In one debate, after he had just been apprised of an
important secret of state, " I must not speak to-night," he
whispered to Lord Shelburne, "for when once lam up, every
thing that is in my mind comes out." No man could grapple
more powerfully with an argument ; but he wisely remembered
that a taunt is in general of far higher popular effect, nor did he
thcrefoii disdain (and in these he stood unrivalled) the keenest
personal invectives. His ablest adversaries shrunk before him,
cronching and silenced.

But that which gave the brightest lustre, not only to the
eloquence of Chatham, but to his character, was his loftiness
and nobleness of soul. If ever there has lived a man in modern
times to whom the praise of a Roman spirit might be truly
npplied, that man, beyond all doubt, was William Pitt. He
loved power — but only as a patriot should- becaasc he knew

248

GHAItACTER OF THE EARL OF CHATHAM.

: >>

and folt his own energies, and felt also that his country needed
them ; because he saw the public spirit languishing and the
national glory declined ; because his whole heart was burning to
revive the one and to wreathe fresh laurels round the other,
He loved fame, but it was the fame that follows, not the fame
that is run after ; not the fame that is gained by elbowing and
thrusting, and all the little arts that bring forward Httle men,
but the fame that a minister at length will, and must, wring
from the very people whose prejudices he despises and whose
passions he controls. The ends to which he employed both his
power and his fame will best show his object in obtaining
ihem.

I am far, however, from maintaining that Chatham's views
were always wise, or his actions always praiseworthy. Tn several
transactions of his life I look in vain for a steady and consistent
compass of his course, and the horizon is too often clouded over
with party spirit or personal resentments. But his principal
defect, as I conceive, was a certain impracticability and wayward-
ness of temper, that on some occasions overmastered his judg-
ment and hurried him along.

Yet, as I think, these frailties of temper should in justice be
mainly ascribed to his broken health and to his secluded habits,
When in society. Lord Chesterfield assures us that h? was "a
most agreeable and lively companion, and had such a •v*?rsatility
of wit that he could adapt it to all sorts of conversations." But
to such exertions his health and spirits were seldom equal, and
he therefore usually confined himself to the intercourse of his
family, by whom he was most tenderly beloved, and of a fsTv
obsequious friends, who put him under no constraint, who
assented to every word he spoke, and never presumed to have an
opinion of their own. Such seclusion is the worst of any in its
effects upon the temper ; but seclusion of all kinds is probably
far less favorable to virtue than it is commonly believed.
When Whitefield questioned Conrade Mathew, who had been a
hermit for forty years amidst the forests of America, as to his
inward trials and temptations, the old man quaintly but impres-
sively replied, " Be assured that a single tree, which stands alone,
is more exposed to storms than one that grows among the rest."

The most splendid passage in Lord Chatham's public life was
certainly the closing one, when, on the 7th of April 1778, wasted
by his dire disease, but impelled by an overruling sense of duty,
he repaired, for the last time, to the House of Lords, totterine

CHARACTER OF THE EARL OF CHATHAM.

249

from weakness, and supported on one side by nis son-in-law,
Lord Mahon, on the other, by his second sfu, tVilliani; erelong
to become, like himself, the saviour of his ccj " cry. Of such a
scene, even the slightest details have interest ; and happily they
are recorded in the words of an eye-witness. Lord Chatham, we
are told, was dressed in black velvet, but swathed up to the
knees in flannel. From within his large wig little more was to
be seen than his aquiline nose and his penetrating eye. He
looked, as he was, a dying man. "Yet never," adds the narra-
tor, " was seen a figure of more dignity ; he appeared like a being
of a superior species." He rose from his seat with slowness and
difficulty, leaning on his crutches and supported by his two rela-
tions. He took his hand from his crutch and raised it, lifting
hia eyes towards heaven, and said, " I thank God that I have
been enabled to come here this day — to perform my duty, and
to speak on a subject which has so deeply impressed my mind.
I am old and infirm — have one foot, more than one foot, in
the grave. I ^m risen from my bed to stand up in the cause of
my country — perhaps never again to speak in this House." The
reverence, the attention, the stillness of the House were here
most affecting : had anyone dropped a handkerchief, the noise
would have been heard. At first, he spoke in the low and feeble
tone of sickness ; but as he grew -warm, his voice rose in peals as
high and harmonious as ever. He gave the whole history of the
American war, detailing the measures to which he had objected,
and the evil oon sequences which he had foretold, adding at the
close of each period, *' And so it proved." He then expressed
his indignation ^- the idea, which he heard had gone forth, of
yielding up the sovereignty of America. He called for prompt
and vigorous exertion ; ho rejoiced that he was stilij alive to lift
up his voice against the first dismemberment of this ancient and
most noble monarchy.

After hira, the Duke of Richmond attempted to show the im-
possibility of still maintaining the dependence of the colonies.
Lord Chatham heard him with attention, and when his grace had
concluded, eagerly rose to reply. But this last exertion over-
came him, and after repeated attempts to stand firm, he suddenly
pressed his hand to his heart, and fell back in convulsions. The
Duke of Cumberland, Lord Temple, and other peers caught him
in their arms, and bore him to a neighboring apartment, while
tlio lords left in the House immediately adjourned in the utniOHt
confusion and concern. He was removed to Hayes, and lingered

-^-rpff^

250

INVASION OF THE CARNATIC BY HYDER ALL

V",

n\'

l\}

till the llth of May, when the mighty spirit was finally released
from its shattered frame.

Who that reads of this sonl-stirring scene — who that has seen
it portra,yed by that painter whose son has since raised himself
by his genius to be a principal light and ornament of the same
assembly — who does not feel, that were the choice before him,
he would rather live that one triumphant hour of pain and suffer-
ing, than through the longest career of thriving and successful
selfishness ? — Lord Mahon.

INVASION OF THE CARNATIC BY HYDER ALL

(A.D. 1780.)

When at length Hyder Ali found that he had to do with men
who either would sign no convention, or whom no treaty and
no signature could bind, and who were the determined enemies
of human intercourse itself, he decreed to make the country pos •
sessed by these incorrigible and predestinated criminals a mem-
orable example to mankind. He resolved, in the gloomy recesses
of a mind capacious of such things, to leave the whole Carnatic
an everlasting monument of vengeance ; and to put perpetual
desolation as a barrier between him and those against whom the
faith which holds the moral elements of the world together was
no protection. He became at length so confident of his force, so
collected in his might, that he made no secret whatsoever of his
dreadful resolution. Having terminated his disputes with every
enemy and every rival, who buried their mutual animosities in
their common detestation against the creditors of the nabob of
Arcot, he drew from every quarter whatever a savage ferocity
could add to his new rudiments in the arts of destruction ; and
compounding all the materials of fury, havoc, and desolation
into one black cloud, he hung for a while on the declivities of
the mountains. Whilst the authors of all these evils were idly
and stupidly gazing on this menacing meteor, which blackened
all their horizon, it suddenly burst and poured down the whole
of its contents upon the plains of the Carnatic. Then ensued a
scene of woe, the like of which no eye had seen, no heart con-
ceived, and which no tongue can adequately tell. All the
horrors of war before known or heard of, were mercy to that new
havoc. A storm of universal fire blasted every field, consumed
every house, destroyed every temple. The miserable inhabitants
flying from their flaminj>- villages, in part were slaughtered;

INVASION OF THE CARNATIC BY HYDER ALF.

251

others — without regard to sex, to age, to the respect of rank, or
sacredness of function — fathers torn from children, husbands
from wives, enveloped in a whirlwind of cavalry, and amidst the
goading spears of drivers, and the trampling of pursuing horses —
were swept into captivity, in an unknown and hostile land.
Those who were able to evade this tempest, fled to the walled
cities. But escaping from fire, sword, and exile, they fell into
ihe jaws of famine.

Tiic alms of the settlement, in this dreadful exigency, were
certainly liberal ; and all was done by charity that private
charity could do : but it was a people in beggary ; it was a
nation which stretched out its hands for food. For months
together, these creatures of sufferance, whose very excess and
luxury in their most plenteous days had fallen short of the
allowance of our austerest fasts, silent, patient, resigned, with-
ont sedition or disturbance, almost without complaint, perished
by a hundred a day in the streets of Madras ; every day seventy
at least laid their bodies in the streets, or on the glacis of
Tanjore, and expired of famine in the granary of India. I was
going to awake your justice towards this unhappy part of our
fellow-citizens, by bringing before you some of the circumstances
of this plague of hanger. Of all the calamities which beset and
waylay the life of man, this comes the nearest to our heart, and is
that wherein the proudest of us all feels himself to be nothing
more than he is : but 1 find myself unable to manage it with de-
corum ; these details are of a species of horror so nauseous and
disgusting — they are so degrading to the sufferers and to the
hearers — they are so humiliating to human nature itself, that, on
better thoughts, I find it more advisable to throw a pall over
this hideous olDJect, and to leave it to your general concep-
tions.

For eighteen months, without intermission, this destruction
raged from the gates of Madras to the gates of Tanjore ; and so
completely did these masters in their art, Hyder Ali and his
more ferocious son, absolve themselves of their impious vow,
that when the British armies traversed, as they did, the Carnatic
for hundreds of miles in all directions, through the whole line of
their march they did not see one man, not one woman, not one
child, not one four-footed beast of any description whatever.
One dead uniform silence reigned over the whole region. With
the inconsiderable exceptions of the narrow vicinage of some few
forts, I wish to be understood as speaking literally. I mean tq

252

HEPLY TO THK DUKK OF GRAFTON.

'!';!!

;■

produce to you more than three witnesses, above all exception,
who will support this assertion in its full extent. That hurri-
cane of war passed through every part of the central provinces
of the Camatic. Six or seven districts to the north and to the
south (and these not wholly untouched) escaped the general
ravage. • •

The Carnatic is a country not much inferior in extent to
England. Figure to yourself, Mr Speaker, the land in whose
representative chair you sit; figure to yourself the form and
fashion of your sweet and cheerful country from Thames to Trent,
north and south, and from the Irish to the German Sea, east and
west, emptied and embowelled (may God avert the omen of our
crimes !) by so accomplished a desolation. Extend your imagina-
tion a little further, and then suppose your ministers taking a
survey of this scene of waste and desolation ; what would be
your thoughts if you should be informed that they were comput-
ing how much had been the amount of the excises, how much the
customs, how much the land and malt tax, in order that they
should charge (take it in the most favorable light) for pubhc
service, upon the relics of the satiated vengeance of relentless
enemies, the whole of what England had yielded in the most
exuberant seasons of peace and abundance ? What would you
call it ? To call it tyranny sublimed into madness, would be too
faint an image ; yet this very madness is the principle upon which
the ministers at your right hand have proceeded in their estimate
of the revenues of the Carnatic when they were providing, not
supply for the establishments of its protection, but rewards for
the authors of its ruin. — Burke.

REPLY TO THE DUKE OF GRAFTON.

'' Lord Thurlow," says Mr. Butler, in his ' Reminiscences,* " was
at times superlatively great. It was the good fortune of the
reminiscent to hear his celebrated reply to the Duke of Grafton
during the inquiry into Lord Sandwich's administration of Green-
wich Hospital. His Grace's action and delivery when he ad-
dressed the House were singularly dignified and graceful ; but
his matter was not equal to his manner. He reproached Lord
Thurlow with his plebeian extraction and his recent admission
into the Peerage : particular circumstances caused Lord Thur-
low's reply to make a deep impression on the reminiscent. His

SPEECH AOAlN"Sr WARKEN HASTINGS.

253

Lordship had spoken too often, and !)egan to be heard with a
civil, but visible impatience. Under these circumstauees he was
attacked in the manner we have mentioned. He rose from the
woolsack, and advanced slowly to the place from which the Chan-
cellor generally addresses the House ; then, fixing on the Duke
the look of Jove when he grasped the thunder, —

" ' I am amazed,' he said, in a loud tone of voice, ' at the attack
the noble Duke has made on me. Yes, my Lords,' considerably
raising his voice, * I am amazed at his Grace's speech. The noble
Duke cannot look before him, behind him, or on either side of
him, without seeing some noble Peer who owes his seat in this
House to successful exertions in the profeRsion to which I belong.
Does he not feel that it is as honorable to owe it to these, as to
being the accident of an accident r^ To all these noble Lords the
laogaage of the noble Duke is as applicable and as insulting as it
is to myself. But I don't fear to meet it single and alone. No
one venerates the Peerage more than 1 do ; but, my Lords, 1
must say, that the Peerage solicited me, not I the Peerage. Nay,
more, I can say, and will say, that as a Peer of Parliament, as
Speaker of this right honorable House, as Keeper of the Great
Seal, as Guardian of his Majesty's Conscience, as Lord High
Chancellor of England ; nay, even in that character alone in
which the noble Duke would think it an affront to be considered
—as a man — I am at this moment as respectable — I beg leave
to add, I am at this moment as much respected — as the proudest
Peer I now look down upon.' "

SPEECH AGAINST WARREN HASTINGS.

(June 3, 1788.)

The council, in recommending attention to the public in prefer-
ence to the privatv^ letters, had remarked, in particular, that one
should not be takei as evidence, because it was manifestly and
abstractedly private, as it contained in one part, the anxieties of
Mr. Middleton for the illness of his son. This was a singular
argument indeed ; and the circumstance, in my mind, merited
strict observation, though not in the view in which it was placed
by the council. It went to show that some at least of those
concerned in these transactions felt the force of those ties which
their efforts were directed to tear asunder ; that those who could
ridicule the respective attachment of a mother and a son — who

nnT

254

SPEECH AGAINST WARREN HASTINGS.

would prohibit the reverence of the son to the mother who had
given him life — who could deny to maternal debility the protec-
tion which filial tenderness should afford, were yet sensible of
the straining of those chords by which they were connected.
There was something connected with this transaction so wretchedly
horrible, and so vilely loathsome, as to excite the most contemp-
tible disgust. If it were not a part of my duty, it would be
superfluous to speak of the sacredness of the ties which those
aliens to feeling, those apostates to humanity had thus divided.
In such an assembly as that which I nave the honor of address-
ing, there is not an eye but must dart reproof at this conduct ;—
not a heart but must anticipate its condemnation. Filial
PlETT ! It is the primal bond of society — it is that instinctive
principle, which, panting for its proper good, soothes, unbidden,
each sense and sensibility of man ! — it now quivers on every lip!
— it now beams from every eye! — it is an emanation of that
gratitude, which, softening under the sense of recollected good,
is eager to own the vast countless debt it ne'er, alas ! can pay,
for BO many long years of unceasing solicitudes, honorable selif-
denials, life-preserving cares ! — it is that part of cur practice,
where duty drops its awe ! — where reverence refines into love !—
it asks no aid of memory ! — it needs not the deductions of reason!
— pre-existing, paramount over all, whether law or human rule,
few arguments can increase and none can diminish it ! — it is the
sacrament of our nature ! — not only the duty, but the indulgence
of man — it is his first great privilege — it is amongst his last most en-
dearing delights ! — it causes the bosom to glow with reverberated
love! — it requites the visitations of nature, and returns the bless-
ings that have been received ! — it fires emotion into vital prin-
ciple — it renders habituated instinct into a master-passion — sways
all the sweetest energies of man — hangs over each vicissitude of
all that must pass away — aids the melancholy virtues in their
last sad tasks of life, to cheer the languors of decrepitude and
age — explores the thought — elucidates the aching eye — and
breathes sweet consolation even in the awful moments of dissolu-
tion ! .

O Faith ! Justice ! I conjure you by your sacred names to
depart for a moment from this place, though it be your peculiar
residence ; nor hear your names profaned by such a sacrilegious
combination, as that which I am now compelled to repeat !—
where all the fair forms of nature and art, truth and peace, policy
and honor, shrunk back aghast from the deleterious shade ! where

MARIE ANTOINETTE, QUBEN OF FRANCE.

265

all existences, nefarious and vile, had sway ; — where, amidst the
black agents on one aide, and Middleton with Impey on the other,
the toughest head, the most unfeeling heart ! the great jBgure of
the piece, characteristic in his place, stood aloof and independent
from the puny profligacy in his train ! — but fiir firom idle and in-
active, — turning a malignant eye on all mischief that awaited
him ! — the multiplied apparatus of temporizing expedients, and
intimidating instruments ! now cringing on his prey, and fawning
on his vengeance ! — now quickening the limping pace of craft,
and forcing every stand that retiring nature can make in the
heart ! violating the attachments and the decorums of life ! sacri-
ficing every emotion of tenderness and honor ! and flagitiously
levelling all the distinctions of national characteristics ! with a
long catalogue of crimes and aggravations, beyond the reach of
thought, for human malignity to perpetrate, or human vengeance
to punish! — Sheridan.

MARIE ANTOINETTE, QUEEN OP FRANCE.

(a.d. 1755-1793.)

It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the queen of
France, then the dauphiness, at Versailles ; and surely never
lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more
delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating
and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in —
glittering like the morning star, full of life, and splendour, and
joy. Oh, what a revolution ! and what a heart must I have to
contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall ! Little
did I dream, when she added titles of veneration to tbat en-
thusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged
to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that
bosom ; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such
disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation
of men of honor and of cavaliers. I thought ten thousand
swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a
look that tiu-eatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry
is gone. That of sophisters, economists, and calculators has suc-
ceeded ; and the glory of Europe is extinguished for ever. Never,
never more shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and
sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that sub-
ordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself,

^ri',?^pJBi

256

DEPAUTUriK AND DEATH OF NELSON.

hT!

ill'

the spirit of an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life,
the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment ,m{]
heroic enterprise is gone ! It is gone, that sensibility of pi'iucipio,
that chastity of honor, which felt a stain like a wound, which
inspired courage whilst ifc mitigated ferocity, which ennobled what-
ever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil by
losing all its grossness. — Burke.

DEATH OV NBLSON.

DEPARTURE AND DEATH OF NELSON.

(a.d. 1805.)

Nelson having despatched his business at Portsmouth, endea-
vored to elude the populace by taking a byway to the beach,
but a crowd collected in his train, pressing forward to obtain a
sight of his face : many were in tears, and many knelt down
before him, and blessed him as he passed. England has had
many heroes, but never one who so entirely possessed the love
of his fellow-countrymen as Nelson. All men knew that liis
heart was as humane as it was fearless ; that there was not in
his nature the slightest alloy of selfishness or cupidity ; but that,
with perfect and entire devotion, he served his country with all
his heart, and with all his soul, and with all his strength ; and,
therefore, they loved him as truly and as fervently as he loved

I>KJ>AKTUKE AND DEATH OF NELSON.

257

Euglund. Thoy pressed upon the parapet to gjize aft<'r him

when his barge pushed off, and he returned their (iheers by

waving hi.s hat. The sentinels who endeavored to prevent them

from trespassing upon this ground, were wedged among the

crowd; and iv) officer who, not very prudently upon such an

occasion, ordered them to drive the people down with their

biiyonets, was compelled speedily to retreat; for the people

woald not be debarred from gazing till the last moment upon

the hero — the darling hero of England! ... It had been part

of Nelson's prayer, that the British fleet might ho distinguished

by humanity in the victory which ho expected. Setting an

example himself, ho twice gave orders to cease tiring'- on the

\R''dmiblable, supposing that she had struck, because her guns

were silent; for, as she carried no flag, there was no means of

instantly ascertaining the fact. From this ship, which he had

thus twice spared, he received his death. A ball fired from her

mizen-top, which, in the then situation of the; two vessels, was

not more than fifteen yards from that part of the deck where he

was standing, struck the epaulet on his left shoulder, about a

qaarter after one, just in the heat of action. He fell upon his

face, on the spot which was covered with his poor secretary's

blood. Hardy, who was a few steps from him, turning round,

saw three men raising him up. " Thoy have done for me at last,

Hardy," said he. " I hope not," cried Hardy. " Yes," he

replied, "my backbone is shot through." Yet even now, not

for a moment losing his presence of mind, he observed, as they

were carrying him down the ladder, that the tiller ropes, which

had been shot away, were ndfc yet replaced, and ordered that

new ones should be rove immediately : then, tL. fc he might not

be seen by the crew, he took out his handkerchief, and covered

I his face and his stars. Had he but concealed these badges of

jhonor from the enemy, England, perhaps, woul< I not have had

cause to receive with sorrow the news of the battle of Trafalgar.

JThe cockpit was crowded with wounded and dying men, over

Iwhose bodies he was with some difficulty conveyed, and laid

jupon a pallet in the nidshipmen's berth. It was soon perceived,

ppon examination, tnat the wound was mortal. This, however,

Iwas concealed from all except Captain Hardy, the chaplain, and

|the medical attendants. He himself being certain, from the

Isensation in his back, and the gush of blood he felt momently

jwithin his breast, that no human care could avail him, insisted

{that the surgeon should leave him, and attend to those to whom

258

DEl'AKTL'RE AND DEATH OF NELSON.

ho might bo useful; **for," said he, "vou can do nothin^'f for
me." All that could be done was to tan him with paper, ad
frequently to give him lemonade to alleviate his 'intense thirst.
He was in great pain, and expressed much anxiety for tho
event of tho action, which now began to declare itself. As often
as a ship struck, the crew of the Victory hurrahed, and at every
hurrah, a visible expression of joy gleamed in the eyes, and
marked the countenance of the dying hero. But he became
impatient to see Hardy ; and as that officer, though often sent
for, could not leave the deck, Nelson feared that some fatal
cause prevented him, and repeatedly cried, " Will no one bring
Hardy to me ? he must be killed ! he is surely dead ! " An hour
and ten minutes elapsed from the time when Nelson received his
^vound, before Hardy could come to him. They shook hands in
r.ilence. Hardy in vain struggling to suppress the feelings of that
most painful and yet sublime moment. " Well, Hardy," said
Nelson, " how goes the day with us ? " " Very well, replied
Hardy ; " ten ships have struck, but five of the van have tacked,
and show an intention to bear down upon the Victory. I have
called two or three of our fresh ships round, and have no doubt
of giving them a drubbing." "I hope," said Nelson, "none of
our ships have struck." Hardy answered, " There is no fear of
that." Then, and not till then. Nelson spoke of himself. " lam
r. dead man, Hardy," said he; "I am going fast; it will bo all
over with me soon. Come nearer to me. Let my dear Lad^
Hamilton have my hair, and all other things belonging to me."
Hardy observed, that he hoped Mr Beatty could yet hold ont
Rome prospect of life. "Oh no," ho replied; " it is impossible.
My back is shot through. Beatty will tell you so." Hardy
then once more shook hands with him, and virith a heart almost
bursting, hastened upon deck.

By this time all feeling below tho breast was gone, and Nelson,
having made the surgeon ascertain this, said to him : " You know
I am gone. I know it. I^feel something rising in my breast,"
putting his hand on his left side, " which tells me so." And
upon Beatty's inquiring whether his pain was very great, he re-
plied. So great that he wished he was dead. " Yet," said be,
in a lower voice, " one would like to live a little longer too!"
And after a few minutes, in the same undertone, he added:
"What would become of poor Lady Hamilton if she knew my
.situation?" Next to his country she occupied his thoughts.
Captain Hardy, some fifty minutes after he had left the cockpit,

DEPARTURE AND DEATH OV NELSON.

259

rotnmed, and again taking the hand of his dying friond and com-
mander, congratulated him on having gained a complete victory.
How many of the enemy were taken ho did not know, as it was
impossible to perceive them distinctly, but fourteen or fifteen at
least. " That's well," cried Nelson ; "but I bargained for twenty."
And then, in a stronger voice, he said, " Anchor, Hardy, anchor."
Hardy, upon this, hinted that Admiral Colling wood would take
upon himself the direction of affairs. " Not while 1 live. Hardy,"
Fiid the dying Nelson, ineffectually endeavoring to raise him-
self from the bed: "do you anchor." His previous orders for
preparing to anchor had shown how clearly ho foresaw the ne-
cessity of this. Presently calling Hardy bnck, ho said to him in
a low voice, " Don't throw me overboard;" and ho desired that
he might be buried by his parents, unless it should please the
king toorder otherwise. Then reverting to private feelings : "Take
care of my dear Lady Hamilton, Hardy ; take care of poor Lady
Hamilton. Kiss me. Hardy," said ho. Hardy knelt down and
kissed his cheek ; and Nelson said, "Now I am satisfied. Thank
God, I have done my duty ! " Hardy stood over him in silence
for a moment or two, then knelt again and kissed his forehead.
"Who is that? "said Nelson; and being informed, he replied,
"God bless you, Hardy." And Hardy then left him for ever.
Nelson now desired to be turned upon his right side, and said,
"I wish I had not lefl tho deck, for I shall soon be gone."
Death was, indeed, ra.T>'dly approaching. He said to the chaplain,
"Doctor, I have .-wo >een a great sinner;" and after a short
pause, "Remf . bor hhstt I leave Lady Hamilton and my daughter
Horatia as a ^c;;*a<*y '.. my country." His articulation now be-
came dith^n'!!. ; !>ut vvi /as distinctly heard to say, "Thank God,
I have doiiw. my '*i>t^; !" These words he repeatedly pronounced,
and they were the last words which he uttered. He expired at
thirty minutes after four, three hours and a quarter after he had
received his wound.

The death of Nelson was felt in England as something more
than a public calamity; men started at the intelligence, and
turned pale, as if they had heard of the loss of a near friend. An
object of our admiration and affection, of our pride and of our
hopes, was suddenly taken from us ; and it seerned as if we had
never till then known how deeply we loved and reverenced him.
What the country had lost in its great naval hero — the greatest
of our own and of all former times — was scarcely taken into tho
account of grief. So perfectly, indeed, had he performed his part,.

5 i

TJlffrip

260

DEPARTURE AND DEATH OF NELSON.

that the maritime war, after the battle of Trafal^;ar, was con-
sidcred at an end. The fleets of the enemy were not merely de-
feated, but destroyed ; new navies must be built, and a new race
of seamen reared for them, before the possibility of their invad-
ing our shores could again be contemplated. It was not, there-
fore, from any selfish reflection upon the magnitude of our loss
that we mourned for him ; the gene'^al sorrow was of a higher
character. The people of England grieved that funeral cere-
monies, and public monuments, and posthumous rewards, were
all which they could now bestow upon him whom the king, the
legislature, and the nation would have alike delighted to honor,
whom every tongue would have blessed, whose presence in every
village through which he might have passed would have wakened
the church bells, have given schoolboys a holiday, have drawn
children from their sports to gaze upon him, and *' old men from
the chimney-comer" to look upon Nelson ere they died. The
victory of Trafalgar was celebrated, indeed, with the usual forms
of rejoicing, but they were without joy ; for such already was the
glory of the British navy, through Nelson's surpassing genius,
that it scarcely seemed to receive any addition from the most
signal victory that ever was achieved upon the seris ; and the
destruction of this mighty fleet, by which all the maritime schemes
of France were totally frustrated, hardly appeared to add to our
security or strength ; for while Nelson was living to watch the
combined squadrons of the enemy, we felt ourselves as secure as
now, when they were no longer in existence.

There was reason to suppose, from the appearances upon open-
ing his body, that in the course of nature he might have attained,
like his father, to a good old age. Yet he cannot be said to have
fallen prematurely whose work was done ; nor ought he to be
lamented who died so fall of honors, and at the height of human
fame. The most triumphant death is that of the martyr ; the
most awful, that of the martyred patriot ; the most splendid, that
of the hero in the hour of victory ; and if the chariot and the
horses of fire had been vouchsafed for Nelson's translation, he
could scarcely have departed in a brighter blaze of glory. He
has left us, not indeed his mantle of inspiration, but a name and
an example which are at this moment inspirii^g thousands of the
youth of England — a name which is our pride, and an example
which will continue to bo our shield and our strength. Thus it is
that the spirits of the great and the wise continue to live and to
act after them. — Southev.

THE OTHER FHYSICAT, SCIENCES.

2G1

IS secure as

THE OTHER PHYSICAL SCIENCES.

The two groups which we have thus far considered are those
known as the Natural and Mathematical Sciences. These, to-
gether with the group that is now to be introduced to your
notice, make up the large class of the Physical Sciences, so called
—as you are, no doubt, aware — from a Greek word signifying
nahive, since the subjects of which they treat are natural objects
and powers. This large family of the Physical Sciences exhausts
the whole wide domain of nature, viewed not only as a collection
of (lull, inert matter, but as a scene of perpetual activity. We
havv^ already seen that nothing in the world consl.'^ts only of dead,
powerless matter ; that to everything there is applied the mys-
terious element termed force ; and that by the union of these
two great principles, in an infinite variety of form, is made up
the vast empire of nature. The force with which we have hitherto
had to deal in connection with the Mathematical Sciences is, to a
great extent, lionwijeneous^ or of the same nature, whether exerted
m the attraction of bodies to the earth, the raising of fluids, the
diffusion of gases, the motions of the heavenly bodies, or the
transmission of light and sound. But very differcint, in many
respects, are the forces which we are now to consider ; powers
that the mathematician can make little of, and which the natural
historian and the chemist are not sorry to erect into separate
sciences. These powers, the study of which completes the circle
of the Physical Sciences — powers mysterious in their origin, re-
markable in their effects, and but recently examined with any
fitting amount of attention — are life^ heat, electricity, and mag-
netism.

Let us revert for a moment to the subjects of our first lesson
on the sciences. You will remember that the objects composing
the material world, or the empire of nature, are, as included
under the sciences of geology, meteorology, botany, and zoology,
the earth and its constituent parts, as rock masses, soils, and
^linerals ; thin^3 in the air, as its component gases, snow and
hail; and finally, plants and animals. Here, then, are four
classes, the first two being essentially different from the two last.
The one element which, by its presence or absence, constitutes
the distinction between them is life. We separate the classes
thus formed by calling the former, or those which constitute the
subject-matter of botany and xoology, organized hodiea, as being

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262

THE OTHER PHYSICAL SCIENCES.

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composed of diflfereut parts or organs, fulfilling various function;;
or duties by means of the vital principle. The objects of geolo-
gical and meteorological science we cai.' unorganized, as consisting
of similar parts, and being thus destitute of organs, and, conse-
quently, of functions to be performed. The two great functions
common to all orgarized bodies are those of nutrition and rej^ro-
duction. Nutrition is the process by which food or nourishment,
being taken into the organized body, forms substances similar to
it, and thus increases the growth of the body, or supplies what is
lost by wear and tear of the system. Reproduction, on the other
hand, is the process by which the adult plant or animal produces
young plants or animals of the same kind as itself, thus keeping
up a perpetual round of life, from year to year, and from genera-
tion to generation. In addition to these functions, animals, as a
rule, possess the faculties of sensation or feeling, of self-determined
motion, and, to a certain extent, of intelligence. Thus there
arises a distinction between animal and vegetable life, which is
expressed by the use of the terms animate and inanimate, the
former being applied to the animal, and the latter to the vege-
table creation. The science that treats of this wonderful pheno-
menon, life — of the mysterious power by which beings live and
grow and reproduce themselves — is called Physiology. The word
physiology is Greek, and means simply a discourse about nature.
You will perceive, therefore, that it is too wide a term altogether
to be applied to so limited a field; a much more appropriate
title for the science would be Biology, or a discourse about lift
It is divided into two branches, animal and vegetable physiology,
which should be studied in connexion with zoology and botany,
their kindred sciences, iu order that they may mutually illustrate
one another. A comparison of organized bodies with each other,
exhibiting all the steps by which we ascend from the so-called
red snow of the Arctic regions, a lichen consisting of a single cell,
to the giant oak, and from the minute animalcule to the king of |
beasts, is called Comparative Physiology.

The application of this science to human life, embracing a |
study of man's organism, and of the diseases to which it is sub-
je i,, lies at the foundation of the art of medicine.

We have now to consider a power not confined to organized i
bodies, but universally diffused throughout nature ; this power j
is Heat. No substance is destitute of it ; plants and animals.
stones and metahs, air, water, and even ice, possess heat. Every j

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day the sun sends down floods of warmth upon our earth ; It is
evolved by the nourishment we take into our system ; and in
chemical union and decomposition it is always present. Friction
is a fruitful agent of heat. Sir Humphrey Davy, when a student,
first discovered that by rubbing together two pieces of ice, heat
can be evolved from them. The Kaffirs of South Africa kindle
a fire by smartly twisting a pointed stick, held vertically, in the
rouud hole scooped out in another piece of wood placed in a
horizontal position ; and the phenomenon exhibited by the
striking together of a flint and steel, or two fire-stones, is well
known to every schoolboy. You must have observed this
wonderful power in a thousand different forms ; in the cheerful
fire, and in the terrible conflagration ; in the steaming of the tea-
kettle, and the speed of the railway train ; in warm clothing,
and the summer sun ; in the effects of the burning glass, and
in the redhot bar on the blacksmith's anvil. Then, again, you
have read of volcanoes and boiling springs, giving evidence of
the great fires that are smouldering far beneath our feet in the
centre of the globe. What is this remarkable element, the good
servant and the bad master ? Is it a substance like earth, and
air, and water, that were classed in olden times, before chemistry
enlightened the world, as its brother elements ; or is it only a
force, a power to act upon and alter the conditions of matter ?
To answer this question, and numberless as interesting ones
concerning heat, you must refer to chemical works, and others
written expressly upon the new science of Heat, or, as it is some-
times called, from a Greek word which means pertaining to heat,
Thermoticd.

Generally treated of in connexion with heat, is a subtle in-
visible agent, capable of producing the most marvellous effects.
It annihilates time and space, bearing messages to a distance of
many hundred miles iu a few moments of time, like the fabled
genii of old. It runs over continents, bridges seas, and now
unites the old and new worlds in its own quiet, mysterious way.
This strange power is greatly diff'used in the world. We see it
in the lightning that, in stormy weather, flashes across the sky, or
in warm summer evenings spreads its fitful light over the horizon.
The Aurora Borealis, or Northern Lights, and the bright artificial
sparks from what is termed an electric hatteri/, are exhibitions of
this same powor, A familiar instance of it is seen in the thin
streaks of light that appear when the hair of a black cat is rubbed

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THE Ol'HER PHYSICAL SCIENCES.

the wroni^ way in the dark. The power of this remarkable ag( nt
is twofold — it attracts and repels. Thus, a stick of sealing-wax,
rubbed smartly upon a piece of silk or the coat sleeve, will at-
tract a piece of glass treated in a similar manner, but will repel
another piece of wax. With certain substances it seems to agree.
and can be conveyed through or over them without any part of
it being lost, while it is, so to speak, absorbed by others. The
former are called good conductors, among the number of which
is iron, the metal of which lightning rods are made. Seven
animals, all of the fish tribe, possess this power in a remarkable
degree ; these are three species of the torpedo, the electric eel,
the Indian sword-fish, a kind of globe-fish, and another of the
salmon family called silurus. It is not, however, confined to
these creatures, but resides in a much smaller degree in most
animals and plants, being a regular attendant of heat, under which
it is generally classified. This hidden power, this mysterious
agent, is called Electricity ^ from the Greek word electron, meaning
amber, because it was from the friction of a piece of amber that
its existence was first discovered. The science of Electricity is
comparatively new, and has no regular name assigned to it,
although, being a great power in nature, it is frequently, like the
several departments of mechanics, divided into electro-statics and
electro-dynamics.

The last great power in the natural world, with which we shall
close our review of the Physical Sciences, is that of Magnetism.
No doubt, you have often observed that extraordinary power of
attraction by which a common horse- shoe magnet will draw to-
wards it any small article of iron brought within the sphere of its
influence. You have also heard of, or seen, the mariner's com-
pass, with its little needle steadily pointing to the North Pole.
Many fabulous stories have been told concerning this power,
One well known to juvenile readers, is that of the mountain of
loadstone, situated on an island in the midst of the sea, which
attracted to itself all the nails and iron work about ships sail-
ing near it, and thus caused thera to fall to pieces, and their
crews to perish. You may not indeed hear of anything so
incredible as this, but you will meet with innumerable interest-
ing fpcts and items of information by studying the science of
Magnetism.

Such are the four remaining Pli-v's^io'tl Scier-or;!, completing, as
it were, the survey of the natural woii^< ^Vitljuj the circle of

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CONDUCTION AND RADIATION.

2G5

the iiiiturul, Uio inathcrnatical, aDcl tbo sciences jusfc described, is
comprehended all that mau has hitherto discovered and recorded
concerning the universe, viewed as a mere collection of substances
and forces. In future lessons ^ve shall take into consideration
Another element, namely, the spiritual nature of man, introducing
us iixto a world as wonderful, and no less interesting, than that
srliich the physical sciences unfold before us.

Geology.
Botany.
Zoology.
Meteorology.

The Physical Sciences —

Chemistry. Acoustics.

Physiology.

Mechanics.

Astronomy.

Optics.

Science of Magnetism.

Science of Heat.
Science of Electricity.

CONDUCTION AND RADIATION.

Sect. 1. If you hold a stone in your hand above the earth's sur-
face, you feel the weight of the stone, and you know that this
feeling is produced by the attraction of the earth for the stone.
When you let the stone loose, it falls, and thus the mutual attrac-
tion of the earth and stone is satisfied. If you were to examine
the stone properly after its fill, you would find that it had be-
come a little ivarmed by its concussion against the earth. Now,
not only is heat developed when two large masses of matter
come thus into collision, but we may descend to the smallest
particles of matter — to what chemists call atoms — and find the
same to be the case. Iron, for instance, has an attraction for
oxygen : they unite together and form iron rust ; but no particle
of rust is formed, no single attraction between an atom of iron
and an atom of oxygen is satisfied, without the development of
heat. The tallow of a candle, and the gas we burn in our streets,
are composed of carbon and hydrogen, both of which have a strong
attraction for oxygen. The carbon unites with this oxygen, and
f'^nns carbonic acid gas ; the hydrogen unites with the same sub-
stance, and forms water ; here the satisfaction of each attraction
developes heat, which finally attains the intensity which we observe
111 flame. A process exa'ctly similar goes on in our bodies. We

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266

CONDUCTION AND ADIATION.

! ; ■ ;

eat butter and fat, which are composed chiefly of carbon and
hydrogen, and we inhale oxygen from the air, which unites in
our bodies with these two elements, and thus furnishes heat
to the body. It is to all intents and purposes a slow combus-
tion which goes on within us. The formation of iron rust is
also a case of slow combustion ; and if the combustion be
rendered sufficiently intense, by igniting the metal in pure
oxygen, a bar of iron may be burnt up as eflfectually as a bar
of wood.

It is to the combustion going on within us, and not to the
clothes we wear, that the warmth of our bodies is due. What
useful purposes, then, do our clothes serve ? They are made of
materials which resist the passage of the heat from our bodies to
the air, and thus prevent the incessant lon^ of heat. They have
no power to confer heat, but they have the power to check
its expenditure. Different kinds of clothes possess very dif-
ferent powers in this respect, some allowing the heat to travel
through them more readily than others ; and this leads me to
consider for a few moments what is called the conduction of
heat.

If you thrust one end of a cold poker into a fire, that end
becomes warmed, and the heat is propagated from particle to
particle through the poker, until, if the poker be not too long,
the end moat distant from the fire becomes also sensibly warmed.
This mode of propagation is called conduction^ and the power of
conduction is possessed in very different degrees by different
bodies. The metals are the best conductors, but they differ very
much among themselves. The following is the order in which
they stand, commencing with the best conductor, which is
silver : — Silver, copper, gold, brass, tin, iron, steel, lead, platinum,
bismuth.

Stones and crystals also differ from each other in their power
of conducting heat ; rock-crystal, for example, conducts heat
much better than selenite. Some bodies possess different powers
of conduction in different directions ; most crystals possess this
power. Wood conducts heat best' along the fibre; next best
across the rings that mark the growth of the tree ; and worst, in
the direction of these rings. Wool is an exceedingly bad con-
ductor, and hence its value as a material for clothing ; and
hence, also, the reason why, if you place your hand upon a piece
of cloth and a piece of metal on a cold day, the metal will feel

CONDUCTION AND RADIATION.

2C7

much colder than the cloth, though both of them may really be
of the same temperature. Cold consists in the abstraction of
heat from the body ; and the metal being a good conductor,
does this far more speedily than the cloth, and hence feels
colder.

Sect. 2. A heated body has also the power of sending out rays
of heat, as a luminous body darts out rays of light. In the case
of conduction, we regarded the propagation of heat from particle
to particle within the mass of a body; in the present case,
we have to deal with the heat shot out into space from the sur-
face of the body. Some substances possess the power of radia-
tion in a far greater degree than others ; the metals, though
they are the best conductors, are the worst radiators. This is
particularly the case when they are polished. If a polished
silver vessel, and a glass vessel of the same size, be filled with
hot water and placed in calm air, it will be found that the water
in the glass vessel cools much more quickly than that in the
silver vessel ; and the reason is, that the radiation from the glass
is far more copious than from the silver. Nay, you can go
farther, and, by coating your silver vessel with flannel, you may
actually hasten its cooling, flannel is so much better a radiator
than sUver.

Now, pay attention to what I am about to say to you. All
bodies radiate heat ; even ice radiates heat. When the quantity
of heat received by a body is greater than what it gives out, it
becomes warmed ; when less, it becomes cooled. If you stand
before a stove, the stove gives heat to you, and you give heat to
the stove ; but the quantity you receive being greater than what
you give, you are warmed. In like manner, when you stand
before a block of ice, you receive heat horn, the ice, and you give
heat to the ice in return ; but the quantity you give is much
greater than that which you receive, and hence you are chilled.
In this way the heat of bodies is distributed by a process of
exchanges.

This process is productive of very wonderful effects in nature ;
but before I refer to these, let me make my way clear. The air
around us always contains a quantity of water in the form of
vapor. You cannot see this vapor, but it nevertheless exists.
If you take a perfectly dry glass, and pour into it a quantity of
ice-cold water, you will find the outside of the glass become dim;
this dimness being caused by the condensation to water, upon the

268

SPEECH AGAINST NAPOLEON.

Burfaco of the cold glass, of the vapor which was previously
invisible in the air. The sudden opening of a ball-room -window
in a northern climate has been known to cause snow to fall in the
room, through the condensation and freezing of the vapor which,
in the hot air of the room, was invisible. Thus you see when
the air is sufficiently cooled, it deposits the vapor it contains,
first in the form of water, and, if the cold be sufficient, even
in the form of ice. — Professor Tyndall.

SPEECH AGAINST NAPOLEON.
(May 25, 1815.)

The proposition that we should not interfere with the govern-
ment of other nations is true ; but true with qualifications. If
the government of any other country contains an insurrectionary
principle, as France did, when she ofiered to aid the insurrection
of her neighbors, your interference is warranted ; if the govcra-
ment of another country contains the principle of universal em-
pire, as France did, and promulgated, your interference is justifi-
able, gentlemen may call this internal government ; but I call
this conspiracy. If the government of another country maintains
a predatory army, such as Bonaparte's, with a view to hostility
and conquest, your interference is just. He may call this inter-
nal government ; but I call this a preparation for war. No
doubt he will accompany this with offers of peace ; but such
offers of peace are nothing more than one of the arts of war,
attended, most assuredly, by charging on you the odium of a
long and protracted contest, and with much commonplace, and
many good saws and sayings of the miseries of bloodshed, and
the savings and good husbandry of peace, and the comforts of a
quiet life. But if you listen to this you will be much deceived ;
not only deceived, but you will be beaten. Again, if the govern-
ment of another country covers more ground in Europe, and
destroys the balance of power, so as to threaten the independence
of other nations, this is a cause of your interference. Such was
the principle upon which we acted in the best times : such was
the principle of the Grand Alliance ; such was the Triple Alli-
ance, and such the Quadruple ; and by such principles has
Europe not only been regulated, but protected. If a foreign
government does any of those acts I have mentioned, we have a

SFEKCH AC, A INS I NAi'OLEON.

2G1)

cause) of war ; hut if a foreign power does all of them, — forms a
conRpiracy for ur iversal empire, keeps up an army for that pur-
pose, employs that army to overturn the balance of power, and
attempts the conquest of Europe, — attempts, do I say ? in a
great degree achieves it (for what else was Bonaparte's domi-
nion before the battle of Leipsic ?) — ^and then receives an over-
throw; owes its deliverance to treaties which give that power its
life, and these countries their security (for what did you get from
France but security ?) — if this power, I say, avails itself of the
conditions in the treaties, which give it colonics, prisoners, and
deliverance, and breaks those conditions which give you security,
and resumes the same situation which renders this power capable
of repeating the same atrocity, — has England, or has she not, a
right of war ?

Having considered the two questions — that of ability, and that
of right — and having shown that you are justified on either con-
sideration to go to war, let me now suppose that you treat for
peace. First, you will have peace upon a war establishment, and
then a war without your present allies. It is not certain that
you will have any of them, but it is certain that you will not
have the same combination, while Bonaparte increases his power
by confirmation of his title, and by further preparation ; ^so that
you will have a bad peace and a bad war. Were I disposed to
treat for peace, I would not agree to the amendment, because it
dispersBS your allies and strengthens your enemy, and says to
both, We will quit our alliance to confirm Napoleon on the throne
of France, that he may hereafter more advantageously fight us, as
he did before, for the throne of England.

Gentlemen set forth the pretensions of Bonaparte. Gentle-
men say that he has given liberty to the press ; he has given
liberty to publication, to be afterwards tried and punished accord-
ing to the present constitution of France, as a military chief
pleases — that is to say, he has given liberty to the French to
hang themselves. Gentlemen say, he has in his dominions abo-
lished the slave-trade. I am unwilling to deny him praise for
such an act ; but if we praise him for giving liberty to the Afri-
can, let us not assist him in imposing slavery on the European.
Gentlemen say, will you make war upon character ? But the
question is, Will you trust a government without one ? What
^vill you do if yon are conquered, say gentlemen ? I answer,
The very thing you rnnst do if you treat — abandon the Low
Countries. But the question is, In which case are you most

270

SPEECH AGAINST NAPOLEON.

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likoly to bo conquered — with allies or without thorn ? Either
you must abandon the Low Countries, or you must preserve
them by arms, for Bonaparte will not be withheld by treaty,
If you abandon them, you will lose your situation on the globe;
and instead of being a medium of communication and commerce
between the new and the old, you will become an anxious station
between two fires — the Continent of America, rendered hostile by
the intrigues of France, and the Continent of Europe, possessed
by her arms. It then remains for you to determine, if you do
not abandon the Low Countries, in what way you mean to defend
them — alone or with allies.

Gentlemen complain of the allies, and say, they have parti-
tioned such a country, and transferred such a country, and seized
on such a country. What ! will they quarrel with their ally,
who has possessed himself of a part of Saxony, and shake hands
with Bonaparte, who proposes to take possession of England?
If a prince takes Venice, we aro indignant ; but if he seizes on a
great part of Europe, and stands covered with the blood of mil-
lions, and the spoils of half mankind, our indignation ceases, vice
becomes gigantic, conquers the understanding, and mankind
begin by wonder, and conclude by worship. The character of
Bonaparte is admirably calculated for this effect: he invests
himself with much theatrical grandeur ; he is a great actor in the
tragedy of his own government; the fire of his genius precipi-
tates on universal empire, certain to destroy his neighbors or
himself ; better formed to acquire empire than to keep it, he is
a hero and a calamity, formed to punish France and to perplex
Europe.

Gentlemen speak of the Bourbon family. I have already said
we should not force the Bourbon upon France ; but we owe it to
departed — I would rather say to interrupted — greatness to observe
that the House of Bourbon was not tyrannical. Under her,
everything except the administration of the country was open to
animadversion; every subject was open to discussion — philoso-
phical, ecclesiastical, and political ; so that learning, and arts,
and sciences made progress. Even England consented to borrow
not a little from the temperate meridian of that government.
Her court stood controlled by opinion, limited by principles of
honor, and softened by the influence of manners ; and, on the
whole, there was an amenity in the condition of France which
rendered the French an amiable, an enlightened, a gallant, ind
accomplished race. Over this gallant race you s^e imposed aa

THE WAR WITH NAPOLEON.

271

leases, vice

Oriental despotism. Their present court — Bonaparte's court —
has gotten the idiom of the East as well as her constitution ; a
fantastic and barbaric expression ; an unreality which leaves in
the shade the modesty of truth, and states nothing as it is, and
everything as it is not. Thu attitude is afl'ected, the taste is
corrupted, and the intellect perverted. Do you wish to confirm
this military tyranny in the heart of Europe — a tyranny founded
on the triumph of the army over the principles of civil govern-
ment, tending to universalize throughout Europe the domination
of the sword, and to reduce to paper and parchment Magna
Charta and all our civil constitutions ? Should you do anything
so monstrous as to leave your allies in order to confirm such a
system ; should you forget your name, forget your ancestors, and
the inheritance they have left you of morality and renown; should
you astonish Europe by quitting your allies, to render immortal
such a composition, would not the nations exclaim, " You have
very providently watched over our interests, and very generously
have you contributed to our service, and do you falter now ? In
vain have you stopped in your own person the flying fortunes of
Europe; in vain have you taken the eagle of Napoleon, and
snatched invincibility from his standard ; if now, when con-
tt'derated Europe is ready to march, you take the lead in the
desertion, and preach the penitence of Bonaparte and the poverty
of England."

As to her poverty, you must not consider the money you spend
in her defence, but the fortune you would lose if yon were not
defended ; and further, you must recollect you will pay less to
an immediate war than to a peace with a war establishment, and
a war to follow it. Recollect further, that whatever be your
resources, they must outlast those of all your enemies; and
farther, that your empire cannot be saved by a calculation. Be-
sides, your wealth is only a part of your situation. The name
you have established, the deeds you have achieved, and the part
you have sustained, preclude you from a second plaro among
nations ; and when you cease to be the first, you are njthing.

— Grattan.

THE WAR WITH NAPOLEON.

In other wars we have been a divided people : the efiect of our
external operations has been in some measure weakened by in-
testine dissenaion. When peace has returned, the breach has

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272

THE WAR WITH NAPOLEON.

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widened, while parties have been formed on the merits of par.
ticular men, or of particular measures. These have all disappeared :
we have buried our mutual animosities in a regard to the common
safety. The sentiment of self-preservation, the first law which
nature has impressed, has absorbed every other feeling ; and the
fire of Uberty has melted down the discordant sentiments and
minds of the British empire Into one mass, and propelled them
in one direction. Partial interests and feelings are suspended,
the spirits of the body are collected at the heart, and we are
awaiting with anxiety, but without dismay, the discharge of that
mighty tempest which hangs upon the skirts of the horizon, and
to which the eyes of Europe and of the world are turned in
silent and awful expectation. While we feel solicitude, let ns
not betray dejection, nor be alarmed at the past successes of our
enemy, which are more dangerous to himself than to us, since
they have raised him from obscurity to an elevation which has
made him giddy, and temptod him to suppose everything within
his power. The intoxication of his success is the omen of his
fall. What though he has carried the flames of war throughout
Europe, and gathered as a nest the riches of the nations, while
none peeped, nor muttered, nor moved the wing ? he has yet to
try his fortune in another field ; he has yet to contend on a soil
filled with the monuments of freedom, enriched with the blood
of its defenders — with a people who, animated with one soul, and
inflamed with zeal for their laws and for their prince, are armed
in defence of all that is dear or venerable, — their wives, their
parents, their children, the sanctuary of God, and the sepulchre
of their fathers. We will not suppose there is one who will be
deterred from exerting himself in such a cause, by a pusillanimous
regard to his safety, when he reflects that he has already lived
too long who has survived the ruin of his country ; and that he
■who can enjoy life after such an event, deserves not to have lived
at all. It will suflBce us, if our mortal existence, which is at
most but a span, be co-extended with that of the nation which
gave us birth. We v,411 gladly quit the scene, with all that is
noble and august, innocent and holy ; and instead of wishing to
survive the oppression of weakness, the violation of beauty, and
the extinction of everything on which the heart can repose, wel-
come the shades which will hide from our view such horrors. To
form an adequate idea of the duties of this crisis, it will be
necessary to raise your minds to a level with your station, to
extend your views to a dista.nt futurity, and to consequences the

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THE WAR WITH NAPULLON.

273

most certain, though most remote. By a series of criminal enter-
prises, by tljjB succe ses of guilty ambition, the liberties of Europe
have been gradually extinguished; the subjugation of Holland,
Svntzerland, and the free towns of Germany has completed that
catastrophe; and we are the only people in the eastern hemi-
sphere who are in possession of equal laws and a free constitu-
tion. Freedom, driven from every spot on the Continent, has
sought an asylum in a country which she always chose for her
favorite abode; but she is pursued even here, and threatened
with destruction. The inundation of lawless power, aftei' cover-
ing the whole earth, threatens to follow us here ; and we are
most exactly, most critically placed, in the only aperture where
it can be successfully repelled — in the Thermopylaj of the uni-
verse. As far as the interests of freedom are concerned, — the
most important by far of sublunary interests, — you, my count y-
men, stand in the capacity of the federal representatives of the
homan race ; for with you it is to determine (under God) in what
condition the latest posterity shall be borii ; their fortunes are
intrusted to your care, and on your conduct at this moment de-
pends the color and complexion of their di9stiny. If liberty,
after being extinguished on the Continent, is suffered to expire
here, whence is it ever to emerge in the midst of that thick night
that will invest it? It remairs with you, then, to decide whether
that freedom, at whose voice the kingdoms of Europe awoke
from the sleep of ages, to run a career of virtuous emulation in
everything great and good; the freedom which dispelled the
mists of superstition, and invited the nations to behold their
God — whose magic touch kindled the rays of genius, the enthu-
siasm of poetry, and the flame of eloquence ; the freedom which
poured into our lap opulence and arts, and embellished life with
innumerable institutions and improvements, till it became a
theatre of wonders ; it is for you to decide whether this freedom
shall yet survive, or be covered with a funeral pall, and wrapt in
eternal gloom. It is not necessary to await your determination.
In the solicitude you feel to approve yourselves worthy of such
a trust, every thought of what is afflicting in warfare, every ap-
prehension of danger must vanish, and you are impatient to
mingle in the battle of the civilized world. Go, then, ye de-
fenders of your country, accompanied with every auspicious omen ;
advance with alacrity into the field, whefe God himself musters
the hosts to war. Religion is too much interested in your suc-
cess not to lend you her aid ; she will shed over this enterprise

274

HHB WAR WITH NAPOLEON.

■ v

. 1

her selectest influence. While you are engaged in the Held,
many will repair to the closet, many to the sanctuary : the faith-
ful of every name v/ill employ that prayer which hes power with
God ; the feeble hands which are unequal to any other weapon,
will grasp the sword of the Spirit , and from myriads of humble,
contrite hearts, the voice of intercession, supplication, and weep-
ing will mingle in its ascent to heaven with the shouts of battle
and the shock of arms. While you have everything to fear from
the success of the enemy, you have every means of preventing
that success, so that :t is next to impossible for victory not to
crown your exertions. The extent of your resources, under God,
is equal to the justice of your cause. But should Providence
determine otherwise, should you fall in this struggle, should the
nation fall, you will have the satisfaction (tiie purest allotted to
man) of having performed your part; your names will be enrolled
with the most illustrious dead ; while posterity, to the end of
time, as often as they revolve the events of this period, (and they
will incessantly revolve them,) will turn to you a reveroutial
eye, while they mourn over the freedom which is entombed in
your sepulchre. I cannot but imagine the virtuous heroes, legis-
lators, and patriots, of every age and country, are bending from
their elevated seats to witness this contest, as if they were incap-
able, till it be brought to a favorable issue, of enjoying their
eternal repose. Enjoy that repose, illustrious immortals ! Your
mantle fell when you ascended; and thousands, inflamed with
your spirit, and impatient to tread in your steps, are ready " to
swear by Him that sitteth upon the throne, and liveth for ever
and ever," they will protect Freedom in her last asylum, and
never desert that cause which you sustained by your labors, and
cemented with your blood. And Thou, sole Ruler among the
children of men, to whom the shields of the earth belong, "gird
on Thy sword, thou Most Mighty," go forth with our hosts in
the day of battle ! Impart, in addition to their hereditary valor,
that confidence* of success which springs from Thy presence!
Pour into their hearts the spirit of departed heroes! Inspire
them with Thine own ; and, while led by Thine hand, and fight-
ing under Thy banners, open Thou their eyes to behold in every
valley, and in eveiy plain, what the prophet beheld by the same
illumination — chariots of fire, and horses of fire ! " Then shall
the strong man be as to'W, and the maker of it as a spark ; and
they shall both bum together, and none shall quench them."

— Robert Hall

ON PARLIAMENTARY PKIVILEQE.

275

ON PARLIAMENTARY PRIVILEGE.

1 COME now to speak upon what, indeed, I would have
gladly avoided, had I not been particularly pointed at for the
part I have taken in this bill. It has been said by a noble lord
on my left hand, that I likewise am running the race of popu-
larity. If the noble lord means by popularity, that applause
bestowed by after ages on good and virtuous actions. I liavo
long been struggling in that race, — to what purpose, all-trying
time can alone determine; but if the noble lord means that
mushroom popularity which is raised without merit, and lost
without a crime, he is much mistaken in his opinion. I def^ the
noble lord to point out a single action of my life where the
popularity of the times ever had the smallest influence on my
determinations.

1 thank God, I have a more permanent and steady rule for
my conduct — the dictates of my own breast. Those that have
foregone that pleasing adviser, and given up their minds to be
the slave of every popular impulse, 1 sincerely pity ; I pity them
still more, if their vanity leads them to mistake the shouts of a
mob for the trumpet of fame. Experience might inform them
that many who have been saluted with the huzzas of a crowd
cue day, have received their execrations the next; and many
who, by the popularity of the times, have been held up as spot-
less patriots, have, nevertheless, appeared upon the historian's
page, where truth has triumphed over delusion, the assassins of
liberty.

Why, then, the noble lord can think I am ambitious of pre-
sent popularity, that echo of folly and shadow of renown, I am
at a loss to determine. Besides, I do not know that the bill now
before your lordships will be popular ; it depends much upon the
caprice of the day. It may not be popular to compel people to
pay their debts; and, in that case, the present must be a
very wwpopular bill. It may not be popular, neither, to take
away any of the privileges of parliament : for I very well re-
member, and many of your lordships may remember, that not
long ago, the popular cry was for the extension of privileges ;
and 80 far did they carry it at that time, that it was said that
privilege protected members even in criminal actions ; nay, such
was the power of popular prejudices over weak minds, that the
very decisions of sonr,,) of the courts were tinctured with this doc-

276

HIE BAITLE OP WATERLOO.

trine. It was indubitably an ahominnhle doctrine: I thought
so thcv., and think so still; but nevertheless, it wan a popular
(loctrine, and came immediately from those who are called the
friends of liberty — how deservedly time will show.

True liberty, in my opinion, can only exist when justice is
equally administered to all — to the king and to the beggar.
Where is the justicej then, or where is the Zaw, that protects a
member of parliament more than any other man from the punish-
ment due to his crimes ? The laws of this country allow no place
nor employment to bo a sanctuary for crimes ; and where I have
the honor to sit as a judge, neither royal favor nor popular
applause shall ever protect the guilty. I have now only to beg
pardT)n for having employed so much of your lordshipa' time, and
am sorry a bill fraught with so good consequences, has not met
with an abler advocate ; but I doubt not your lordships' deter-
mination will convince the world, that a bill calculated to con-
tribute so much to the equal distribution of justice as the present,
requires, with your lordships, but very little support.

— Mansfield.

THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

(a.d. 1815.)

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell ;
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !

Did ye not hear it P— No ; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ;
On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet —
But hark ! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before !
Arm ! Arm ! it is — it is— the cannon's opening roar !

THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

VI7

Within a window'd niche of that high hall,
Sate BruDs wick's fated chieftain ; he did hear
That sound the first amid the festival,
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear ;
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well,
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier.
And roused the vetageance blood alone could quell :
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell !

Ah ! then and there was hurryiu^ to and fro.
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ;
And there were sudden partings, su6h as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes.
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise !

And there was mounting in hot haste ; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car.
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ;
And near, the beat of tne alarming drum
Boused up the soldier ere the morning star ;
While throng'd the citizens, with terror dumb,
Or whispering with white lips — "The foe ! They come I
They come!"

And wild and high the " Oiimeron's gathering" rose !
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes ; —
How in the noon of night her pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath that fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring that instils
Tlie stirring memory of a thousand years,
And Evan's, Donald's, fame rings in each clansman's ears !

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass.
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave — alas !
Ere evening, to be trodden liko the grass
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valor, rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

278

DEATH OF OEORUE THE I'lilRD.

Lasfc noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marsnalling in arras, — the day
Battle's magnificently stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent,
The earth is cover'd thick with other clays,
Which her own cla^* shali cover, heap'd and pent,
Bider and horse,— friend, foe, — in one red burial blent!

—Byron.

DEATH OF GEORGE THE THIRD.
(a.d! 1820.)

All the world knows the story of his malady — all history presents
no sadder figure than that of the old man, blind and deprived of
reason, wandering through the rooms of his palace, addressing
imaginary parliaments, reviewing fancied troops, holding ghostly
courts. I have seen his picture as it was taken at this time,
hanging in the apartment of his daughter, the Landgravine of
Hesse-Homburg — amidst books and Windsor furniture, and a
hundred reminiscences of her English home. The poor old father
' is represented in a purple gown, his snowy beard falling over his

breast — the star of his famous order still idly shining on it. He
was not only sightless, he became utterly deaf. All light, all
j. 3; sound of human voices, all the pleasures of this world of God,
■ • were taken from him. Some slight lucid moments he had, in

one of which the queen, desiring to see him, entered the room,
J, ! and found him singing a hymn, and accompanying himself at the

harpsichord. When he had finished, he knelt down and prayed
aloud for her, and then for his family, and then for the nation,
concluaing with a prayer for himself, that it might please God
to avert his heavy calamity from him, but if " not, tiO give him
resignation to submit. He then burst into tears, and his reason
again fled.

iWhat preacher need moralize on this story ? what words save
the simplest are requisite to tell it ? It is too terrible for tears.
The thought of such a misery smites me down in submission
before the Ruler of kings and men, the Monarch supreme over
empires and republics, the inscrutable Dispenser of life, death,
i happiness, victory. '* O brothers," I said to those who heard me
first in America — " O brothers, speaking the same dear mother

ON CRUEI.T-Y 10 ANIMALS.

279

tongue — O comrades, euemieB no more, let us take a mournful
hand together, as we stand by tiiis royal corpse, and call a trucp>
to battle ! Low he lies to whom the proudest used to kneel once,
and who was cast lower than the poorest ; dead, whom millions
prayed for in vain. Driven off his throne ; buffeted by rude
hands; with his children in revolt; the darling of his old age
killed before him untimely ; our Lear hangs over her breathless
lips, and cries, * Cordelia, Cordelia! stay a little!'

• Vex not his ghost ! — oh, let him pass !— he hates him much
. That would upon the rack of this tough world
Stretch him oat longer ! '

Hash, strife and quarrel, over the solemn grave ! Sound, trum-
pets, a mournful march. Fall, dark curtain, upon his pageant,
his pride, his grief, his awful tragedy ! " — Thackeray.

ON CRUELTY TO ANIMALS.

The sufferings of the lower animals may, when out of sight, be
out of mir.d. But more than this, these sufferings may be in
sight, and yet out of mind. This is strikingly exemplified in the
sports of the field, in the midst of whose varied and animating
bustle that cruelty which all along is present to the senses may
not for one moment have been present to the thoughts. There
sits a somewhat anc^tral dignity and glory on this favorite
pastime of joyous old England ; when the gallant knighthood,
and the hearty yeomen, and the amateurs or virtuosos of the chase,
and the full assembled jockeyship of half a province, muster to-
gether in all the pride and pageantry of their great emprise — and
the panorama of some noble landscape, lighted up with autumnal
clearness from an unclouded heaven, pours fresh exhilaration into
every blithe and choice spirit of the scene — and every adventurous
heart is braced and impatient for the hazards of the coming en-
terprise—and even the high-breathed coursers catch the general
sympathy, and seem to fret in all the restiveness of their yet
checked and irritated fire, till the echoing horn shall set them at
liberty — even that horn which is the knell of death to some
[trembUng victim now brought forth of its lurking-place to the
delighted gaze, and borne down upon with the full and open cry
[of its ruthless pursuers. Be assured that, amid the whole glee
Jvnd fervency of this tumultuous enjoyment, there might not, in

280

ON CRUELTY TO ANIMALB.

(»:

one single bosom, be aught ro fiendish as a principle of naked and
abstract crnoltj. Tlie fear which gives its lightning-speed to the
unhappy animal ; the thickening horrors, which, in the progress
of exhaustion, must gather upon its flight ; its Gnradually sinking
energies, and, at length, the terrible certainty oi that destruction
which is awaiting it ; that piteous cry which the ear can some-
times distinguish amid the deafening clamor of the blood-hounds
as they spring exultingly upon their prey ; the dread massacre
and dying agonies of a creature so miserably torn — all this weight
of suffering, wo admit, is not once sympathized with ; but it js just
because the suffering itself is not once thought of. It touches
not the sensibilities of the heart ; but just because it is never pre-
sent to the notice of the mind. We allow that the hardy followers
in the wild romance of ^his occupation — we allow them to be
I'cckless of pain ; but this is not. rejoicing in pain. Theirs is not
the delight of the savage, brt the apathy of unreflecting creatures.
They are wholly occupied with the chase itself and its spirit-stirring
accompaniments, nor bestow one moment's thought on the dread
violence of that infliction upon sentient nature which marks its
termination. It is the spirit of the competition, and it alone,
which goads onward this hurrying career; and even he who in
at the death is foremost in the triumph, although to him the
death itself is in sight, the agony of its wretched sufferer is wholly
out of mind.

Man is the direct agent of a wide and continual distress to the
lower animals, and the question is, Can (fhy method be devised
for its alleviation ? On this subject that scriptural image is
strikingly realized: "xiie whole inferior creation groaning and
travailing together in pain," because of him. It signifies not
to the substantive amount of the suffering, whether this be
prompted by the hardness of his heart, or only permitted through
the heedlessness of his mind. In either way it holds true, not
only that the arch-devourer man stands pre-eminent over the
fiercest children of the wilderness as an animal of prey, but that
for his lordly and luxurious appetite, as well as for his service or
merest curiosity and amusement. Nature must be ransacked
throughout all her elements. Rather than forego the veriest gratifi-
cations of vanity, he will wring them from the anguish of wretched
and ill-fated creatures ; and whether for the indulgence of his
barbaric sensuality or barbaric splendor, can stalk paramount over
the sufferings of that prostrate creation which has been placed
beneath hw feet. That beauteous domain whereof he has been

ON CRUELTY TO ANIMALS.

281

constitaied tho terrestrial soyereign, gives out so many blissful
and benignant aspects; and whether we look to its peaceful
lakes, or to its flowery landscapes, or its evening skies, or to all
that soft attire which overspreads the hills and the valleys,
lighted up by smiles of sweetest sunshine, and where animals
disport themselves in all the exubernnce of gaiety — this surely
were a more befitting scene for the rule of clemency, than for tbe
iron rod of a murderous and remorseless tyrant. But tho present
is a mysterious world wherein we dwell. It still bears much
npon its materialism of the impress of Paradise. But a breath
from the air of Pandemonium has gone over its living generations ;
and so '' the fear of man and the dread of man is now upon every
beast of the earth, and upon every fowl of the air, and upon all
that moveth upon the earth, and upon all the fishes of the
sea: into man's hands are they delivered : every moving thing
that liveth is meat for him; yea, even as the green herbs, there
have been given to him all things." Such is the extent of his
jurisdiction, and with most full and wanton license has he
revelled among its privileges. The whole earth labors and is
in violence because of his cruelties ; and from the amphitheatre
of sentient nature there sounds in fancy's ear the bleat of one
wide and universal suflering — a dreadful homage to the power
of nature's constituted lord.

These sufierings are really felt. The beasts of the field are not
so many automata without sensation, and just so constructed as
to give forth all the natural signs and expressions of it. Nature
hath not practised this universal deception upon our species. These
poor animals just look, and tremble, and give forth the very in-
dications of suffering that we do. Theii'S is the distinct cry of
pain. Theirs is the unequivocal physiognomy of pain. They
pat on the same aspect of terror on the demonstratic ns of a
menaced blow. They exhibit the same distortions of agony after
the infliction of it. The bruise, or the bum, or the fracture, or
the deep incision, or the fierce encounter with one of equal or
superior strength, just affects them similarly to ourselves. Their
blood circulates as ours. They have pulsations in various parts
of the body like ours. They sicken, and they grow feeble with
age, and finally, they die just as we do. They possess the same
feelings; and, what exposes them to like suffering from
another quarter, they possess the same instincts with our own
species. The lioness robbed of her whelps causes tho wilderness
to ring aloud with the proclamation of her wrongs ; or the bird

282

FAKLIAMENTAHY KEFUKM.

.il.

whoHO little houHohold has been stolon, HUh and naddens all thf
grovo with melodiefl of deepest pathos. All this is palpable cveD
t<> the general and unlearned eye ; and when the pnjsiolo^iot
lays open the recesses of their system by means of that scalpel,
under whose operation they just shrink and are convulsed as any
living subject of our own species, there stands forth to view the
same sentient apparatus, and furnished with the same conductor!)
for the transmission of feeling to every minutest pore upon thp
surface. Theirs is an unmixed and unmitigated pain — the
agonies of martyrdom without the alleviation of tne hopes
and the sentiments whereof they are incapable. When they
lay them down to die, their only fellowship is with suffering:
for in the prison-house of their beset and bounded faculties tJiere
can no relief be afforded by communion with other interests or
other things. The attention does not lighten their distress a« it
does that of man, by carrying off his spirit from that existing
pungency and pressure which might else be overwhelming. There
is but room in their mysterious economy for one inmate, and
that is the absorbing sense of their own single and concentrated
anguish. And so in that bed of torment whereon the wounded
animal lingers and expires, there is an unexplored depth and in-
tensity of suffering which the poor dumb animal itself cannot
tell, and against which it can offer no remonstrance — an untold
and unknown amount of wretchedness of which no articulate
voxe'gives utterance. But there is an eloquence in its silence;
and the very shroud which disguises it only serves to aggravate
its horrors. — Chalmers.

PARLIAMENTARY REFORM.

Dreading therefore the danger of tot&l, and seeing the diflBcol-
ties as well as the unprofitableness of partial alteration, I object to
this first step towards a change in the constitution of the House
of Commons. There are wild theories abroad. 1 am not dis-
posed to impute an ill motive to any man who entertains them.
1 will believe such a man to be as sincere in his conviction of
the possibility of realizing his notions of change without risking
the tranquillity of the country, as I am sincere in my belief of
their impracticability, and of the tremendous danger of attempt-
ing to carry them into effect'; but for the sake of the world as
well as for our own safety, let «s be cautious and firm. Other

I'AKMAMtNTAKY KKKOKM.

2H8

nations, excited bj the example of the liberty which this country
has long possessed, have attempted to copy our constitution ;
and some of them have shot beyond it in the fierceness of their
porsuit. I grudge not to other nations that shai*c of liberty
which they may acquire : in the name of God let them enjoy it !
Bat let us warn tUera that they lose not the object of their desire
by the very eagerness with which they attempt to grasp it. In-
heritors and conservatons of rational freedom, let us, while others
are seeking it in restlessness and trouble, be a steady and shining
light to guide their course, not a wandering meteor io bewilder
and mislead them.

Let it not be thought that this is an unfriendly or dishearten-
ing counsel to those who are either struggling under the pressure
of harshjgovernment, or exulting in tie novelty of sudden eman>
cipation. It is addressed much rather to those who, though
crodled and educated amidst the sober blessings of the British
Constitution, pant for other schemes of liberty than those which
that Constitution sanctions — other than are compatible with a
just equality of civil rights, or with the necessary restraints of
Hocial obligation ; of some of whom it may be said, in the lan-
guage which Dryden puts into the mouth of one of the most
extravagant of his heroes, tlmt

" They wonldibe free as nature first made luaD,
Ere the base laws of servitude began,
When wild in woods the noble mvagoran."

Noble and swelling sentiments ! — but such as cannot be reduced
into practice. Grand ideas ! — but which must be qualified and
adjusted by a compromise between the aspirings of individuals
and a due concern for the general tranquillity ; must be subdued
and chastened by reason and experience, before they can be
directed to any useful end ! A search after abstract perfection in
government may produce, in generous minds, an enterprise and
enthasiasm to be recorded by the historian, and to be celebrated
by the poet : but such perfection is not an object of reasonable
pursuit, because it is not one of possible attainment ; and never
yet did a passionate struggle nfter an absolutely unattainable
object fail to be productive of misery to an individual — of mad-
ness and confusion to a people. As the inhabitants of those
huming climates whigh lie beneath a tropical sun sigh for the
coolness of the mountain and the grove ; so (all history instructs
us) do nations which have basked for a time in the torrent blaze

284

PARLIAMENTARY REFORM.

i
- \

of an unmitigated liberty too often call upon the shades of|
despotism, even of military despotism, to cover them —

" quis me gelidis in vallibas Hsemi
Sistat, et ingenti ramoram protegat umbrft ! '"

— a pi'otection which blights while it shelters ; which dwarfs the
intellect, and stunts the energies of man, but to which a wearied
nation willingly resorts from intolerable heats, and from perpetual
danger of convulsion.

Our lot is happily cast in the temperate zone of freedom : the
clime best suited to the development of the moral qualities of the
human race; to the cultivation of their faculties, and to the
security as well as the improvement of their virtues : — a clime
not exempt indeed from variations of the elements, but varia.
tions which purify while they agitate the atmosphere that we
breathe. Let us be sensible of the advantages which it is our
happiness to enjoy. Let us guard with pious gratitu'le the
flame of genuine liberty, that fire from heaven, of which our
constitution is the holy depository; and let us not, for the
chance of rendering it more intense and more radiant, impair its
purity or hazard its extinction !

The noble lord is entitled to the acknowledgments of the House
for the candid, able, and ingenuous manner in which he has
brought forward his motion. If in the remarks which I have
made upon it there has been anything which has borne the
appearance of disrespect towards him, I hope he will acquit me
of having so intended it. That the noble lord will carry his
motion this evening, I have no fear ; but with the talents which
he has shown himself to possess, and with (I sincerely hope) a
long and brilliant career of parliamentary distinction before him,
he will no doubt renew his efforts hereafter. Although I
presume not to expect that he will give any weight to observa-
tions or warnings of mine, yet on this, probably the last, oppor-
tunity which I shall have, of raising my voice on the question of
Parliamentary Reform, while I conjure the House to pause before
it consents to adopt the proposition of the noble lord, I cannot
help conjuring the noble lord himself to pause before he again
presses it upon the country. If, however, he shall persevere, and
in his perseverance shall be successful — and if the results of that
success shall be such as I cannot help apprehending — his be the
triumph to have precipitated those resultS|f be mine the consola-
tion that to the utmost, and the latest of my power, I have op-
posed them. — Canning.

PARLIAMENTARV REFORM. 285

PARLIAMENTARY REFORM.

Mr Lords, — I do not disguise the intense solicitude which I fed
for the event of this debate, because I know full well that the
peace of the country is involved in the issue. I cannot speak
— Lok without dismay at the rejection of the measure. But.
grievous as may be the consequence of a temporary defeat —
temporary it can only be; for its ultimate and even speedy
success is certain. Nothing can now stop it. Do not suffer
yourselves to be persuaded that even if the present ministers
were driven from the helm, any one could steer you through the
troubles which surround you, without reform. But our suc-
cessors would take up the task in circumstances far less aus-
picious. Under them you would be fain to grant a bfll, com-
pared with which the one we now ofier you is moderate indeed.
Hear the parable of the Sybil, for it conveys a wise and whole-
some moral. She now appears at your gate, and offers you
mildly the volumes — the precious volumes — of wisdom and
peace. The price she asks is reasonable — to restore the franchise,
which, without any bargain, you ought voluntarily to give : you
refuse her terms — her moderate terms — she darkens the porch
no longer. But soon, for you cannot do without her ware.s,
you call her back ;-^again she comes, but with diminished
treasures ; the leaves of the book are in part torn away by law-
less hands — in part defaced with characters of blood. But the
prophetic maid has risen in her demp'^ds — it is parliaments by
the year — it is vote by the ballot — it is suffrage by the million.
From this you turn away indignant, and, for the second time,
she departs. Beware of her third coming, for the treasure you
must have ; and what price she may next demand who shall
tell ? it may be even the mace which rests upon that woolsack.
What may follow your course of obstinacy, if persisted in, 1
cannot take upon me to predict, nor do I wish to conjecture :
but this I know full well, that, as sure as man is mortal, and to
en- is human, justice deferred enhances the price at which you
wnst purchase safety and peace ; nor can you expect to gather
in another crop than they did who went before you, if you per-
severe in their utterly abominable husbandry, of sowing injustice
and reaping rebellion.

But among the awful considerations that now bow down my
mind, there is one which stands pre-eminent above the rest.

286

THE FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON I,

,fll

You are the highest judicature in the realm : yo'^ sit here as
judges and decide all causes, civil p nd criminal, without appeal.
It is a judge's first duty never to pronounce sentence, in the
most trifling case, without hearing. Will you make this an ex.
ception ? Are you really prepared to determine, but not to hear,
the mighty cause upon wluch a nati n's hopes and fears hang?
You are. Then beware of your decision. Rouse not, 1 beseech
you, a peace-loving but a resolute people ; alienate not from
your body the affections of a whole empire. As your friend, as
the friend of my order, as the friend of my country, as the
faithful servant of my sovereign, I counsel you to assist with
your uttermost efforts in preserving the peace, and upholding
aD^ perpetuating the constitution. Therefore, I pray and I
exhort you not to reject this measure. By all you hold most
dear, — hf all the ties that bind every one of us to our common
order and our common country, I solemnly adjure you, — I warn
you, — I implore you, — yea, on my bended knees, I supplicate
you — reject not this bill. —Brougham.

THE FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON L
(Ibth December 1840.)

Cold and brilliant streams the sunlight on the wintry banks of Seine,
Gloriously the imperial city rears her pride of tgwer and fane —
Solemnly with deep voice pealeth, Notre Dame, thine ancient chime,
Minute guns the death-bell answer in the same deep measured time.

On the unwonted stillness gather sounds of an advancing host,
As the rising tempest cbafeth on St. Helen's fai -off coast ;
Nearer rolls a mighty pageant — clearer swells the funeral strain,
From the barrier arch of Neuilly pours the giant burial train.

Dark with eagles is the sunlight — darkly on the golden air
Flap the folds of faded standards, eloquently mourning there —
O'er the pomp of glittering thousands, like a battle-phantom flits
Tatter'd flag of Jena, Friedland, Areola, and Austerlitz.

Eagle-crown'd and garland-circled, slowly moves the stately car,
'Mid a sea of plumes and horsemen — all the burial pomp oi war —
Riderless, a war-worn charger follows his dead master's bier —
Long since battle-trumpet roused him — he but lived to follow here.

From his grave'mid ocean's dirges, moaningsurge and sparkling foam,
Lo, the Imperial Dead returneth ! lo, the Hero-dust comes home !
He hath left the Athmtic island, lonely vale and willow tree,
'Neath the Invalides to slumber, 'mid the Gallic chivalry.

THE FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON I.

287

ner —
)llow here.

NAPOLEON'a lOUB.

Glorious tomb o'er glorious sleepers ! gallant fellowship to share —
Paladin ana Peer and M^shal — France, thy noblest dust is there !
Names that light thy battle annals — names that shook the heart of earth!
Stars in crimson War's horizon — synonymes for martial worth !

Room within that shrine of heroes ! place, pale spectres of the past !
Homage yield, ye battle phantoms ! Lo, your mightiest comes at last !
Was his course the Woe out-thunder'd from prophetic trumpet's lips ?
Was his type the ghostly horseman shadow'd in the Apocalypse ?

■ Grray-hair'd soldiers gather round him, relics of an a^e of war,
j Followers of the Victor-Eagle, when his flight was wild and far :
Mea who panted in the death-strife on Rodrigo's bloody ridge,
[Hearts that aicken'd at the death-shriek from the Russian's shatter'd
bridge ;

Men who heard the immortal war-cry of the wild Egyptian fight —
"l^orty centuries o'erlook us from yon Pyramid's gray heigh*- ! "
They who heard the moans of JafTa, and the breach of Acre knew —
They who rush'dtheir foaming war-steeds on the squares of Waterloo —

288

TRUE GRGATNesS.

They who loved him— they who fear'd him — they who jn his dark hour

Bound the mighty burial gather, spell-bound by the awful Dead !
Churchmen - Princes— Statesmen— Warriors — all a kingdom's chief

array,
And the Fox stands —crowned Mourner— by the Eagle's hero-clay !

But the last high rite is paid him, and the last deep knell is rung—
And the cannons' iron voices have their thunder-requiem sung—
And, 'mid banners idly drooping, silent gloom and mouldering state,
Shall the Trampler of the world upon the Judgment- trumpet wait.

Yet his ancient foes had given him nobler monumental pile,
Where the everlasting dirges moan'd around the burial Isle —
Pyramid upheaved by Ocean in his loneliest wilds afar,
For the War-King thunder- stricken from his fiery battle-car!

— The Toronto Ma/ple Leaf.

TRUE GREATNESS.

Such was Napoleon Bonaparte. But some say he was
a great man. This we mean not tb deny. But we would have
it understood that there are Tarions kinds or orders of greatness,
and that the highest did not belong to Bonaparte.

There are different orders of greatness. Among these, the
first rank is unquestionably due to moral greatness, or magna-
nimity — ^to that sublime energy by which the soul, smitten with
the love of virtue, binds itself indissolubly, for life and for death,
^to truth and duty — espouses as its own the interests of human
nature — scorns all meanness, and defies* all peril — -Jiears in its
own conscience a voice louder than threatenings and thunders-
withstands all the powers of the universe which would sever it
from the cause of freedom and religion — reposes an unfaltering
trust in God in the darkest hour, and is ever " ready to be
offered up " on the altar of its country or of mankind.

Of this moral greatness, which throws all other forms of great-
ness into obscurity, we see not a trace in Napoleon. Though
clothed with the power of a god, the thought of consecrating
himself to f^e introduction of a new and higher era, to the ex-
altation of ^ he character and condition of his race, seems never
to have dawned on his mind. The spirit of dieinterestednessand
aelf-sacrifice seems not to have waged a moment's war with self-
will and ambition.

His ruling passions, indeed, were singularly at variance with

TEUE GREATNESS.

289

magnanimity. Moral greatness has too much simplicity, is too
unostentatious, too self-subsistent, and enters into others' in- .
terests with too much heartiness, to live an hour for what Na-
poleon always lived, to make itself the theme and gaze and won-
der of a dazzled world.

Next to moral coraes intellectual greatness, or genius in the
highest sense of that word ; and by this we mean that sublime
capacity of thought through which the soul, smitten with the
love of the true and the beautiful, essays to comprehend the uni-
verse, soars into the heavens, penetrates the earth, penetrates
itself, questions the past, anticipates the future, traces out tho
general and all -comprehending laws of nature, binds together by
innumerable affinities and relations s U the objects of it» know-
ledge, rises from the finite and transient to the infinite and tho
everlasting, frames to itself from its own fulness lovelier and
sablimer forms than it beholds, discerns the harmonies between
the world within and the world without us, and finds in every
region of tho universe types and interpreters of its own deep
mysteries and glorious inspirations. This is the greatness which
belongs to philosophers, ai. i to the master-spirits in poetry and
the fine arts.

Next comes the greatness of action ; and by this we mean the
sublime power of conceiving bold and extensive plans — of con-
stracting and bringing to bear on a mighty object a complicated
machinery of means, energies, and arrangements, and of accom-
plishing great outward effects.

To this head belongs the greatness of Bonaparte, and that he
possessed it, we need not prove, and none will be hardy enough
to deny. A man who raised himself from obscurity to a throne,
who changed the face of tho world, who made himself felt through
powerful and civilized nations, who sent the terror of his name
across seas and oceans, whose will was pronounced and feared as
destiny, whose donatives were crowns, whoso antechamber was
thronged by submissive princes, who broke down tho awful
barrier of the Alps and made them a highway, and whose fame
was spread beyond the boundaries of civilization to the steppes
of the Cossack and tho deserts of the Arab — a man who has left
this record of himself in history, has taken out of our hands the
question whether ho shall be called great. All must concede to
him a sublime power of action — an energy equal to great effects.

— Ckannino.

'^1

290

MARVELS OF HUMAN CALORIC.

We must be plain with our readers. It will not do to mince
matters where questions of science are concerned. Dainty people!
will, no doubi, object to the proposition we are about to advance,
Nevertheless, we persist. Fearless of the consequences, utterly I
unawed by the hisses which we know will ensue, we proceed to
lay down the following assertion : — We are all living stoves-
walking fireplaces — furnaces in the flesh.

Now we do not intend to say that any one can light a cigar,
or boil an egg, or even ignite a lucifer match at these human I
hearths. Sti! I, we repeat, these bodies of ours are stoves — fire- 1
places — furnaces, if these terms can be applied to any apparatus
for the express production of caloric. And is not heat produced]
in the human body by the union of oxygen with carbon, just
the same as by tliC burbling of wood in an open fireplace?!
and does not this union take placD in the capillaries of the blood-
vessels ?

But, granting that our bodies are veritable stoves, the reader
will desire to know where we procure our fuel. Fortunately oar
coal and firewood are stored up in a very interesting form. Thev
are laid before us in the shape of bread and butter, puddings and
pies ; rashers of bacon for the laborer, and haunches of venison
or turtle-soup for the epicure. Instead of being brought up in
scuttles, they are presented in tureens, dishes, or tumblers, or all
of them, in pleasant succession.

In fact, whenever you send a person an ir .itation to dinner, yon
virtually request the honor of his company to take fuel; and when
you see him enthusiastically employed on your dainties, you know
that he is literally " shovelling " fuel into his corporeal stove.
The ultimate form in which this fuel is burned in the capillaries
is that of carbon, with a little hydrogen and sulphur; but we
swallow it in the shape of fat, starch, sugar, alcohol, and other
less inflammatory compounds. By far the most heating of these
substances is fat; ten pounds of this material imported into
your stove will do as much work — that is, will produce as much
warmth as twenty-five pounds of starch, twenty-five of sugar, or
even twenty-six of spirits.

And a pleasant thing it is to observe how sagaciously the
instinct of man has fastened upon the articles which will best
supply him with the species of fuel he requires. The Esquimaux

MARVELS OF HUMAN CALORIC.

291

is extremely partial to oily fare. He does not know why. He
never heard of the doctrine of animal heat ; but he feels intui-
tively that bear's grease and blabber are the things for him.
Condemn him to live on potatoes or Indian corn, and the poor
fellow would resent the cruelty- as much as an alderman of the
old school if sentenced to subsist on water-gruel alone.

And the savage would be perfectly right. Exposed as he is to
the fierce cold of a northern sky, every object around him plun-
dering him of his caloric incessantly, what he needs is plenty of
oily food, because from this he can produce the greatest quantity
of heat. On the other hand, the native of the tropics, eqm My
ignorant of animal chemistry, eschews the fiery diet, which his
climate re lers inappropriate, and keeps himself cool on rice, or
dates, or watery fruits.

Hence we see the reason why a very stout man, if deprived of
food, can keep up his corporeal fires for a longer time than a
slender one. Human fat is fuel laid away for use. It constitutes
a hoard of combustible material upon which the owner may draw
whenever his ordinary supplies are intercepted. Let all plump
persons, therefore, rejoice. We offer them our hearty, perhaps
somewhat envious, congratulations. They, at any rate, are pre-
pared to stand a long siege from cold.

For the same reason, animals which hybemate, like the bear,
jerboa, marmot, dormouse, bat, and others, generally grow plump
before they retire into winter quarters. Upon their capital of fat
they subsist during their lethargy, their respiration being lessened,
the pulse reduced to a few beats per minute, and the temperature
perhaps nearly to the freezing point. But, when the season of
torpor terminates, they issue from their caves and burrows meagre
and ravenous, having burned up their stock of fuel, Bruin him-
self appearing to be anxious to defraud the perfumers of the
mignent which is so precious in their eyes.

But perhaps the most striking feature in this warmth-producing
apparatus within us, is the self-regulating power which it pos-
sesses. The fires on our domestic hearths decline at one moment,
and augment at another. Sometimes the mistress of the house
threatens to faint, on account of excessive heat ; sometimes the
master endeavors to improve the temperature by a passionate
use of the poker, with an occasional growl respecting the oxces-
sive cold.

Were such irregularities to prevail unchecked in our fleshy
stoves, we shonld suffer considerable annoyance. After a meal

292

MARVELS OF HUMAN CALORIC.

ir i

of very inflammatory materials, orau hour spent in extraordinary
exertion, the gush of caloric might throw the system into a state
of high fever. How is this prevented ? In some of our artificial
stoves, little doors or slides are employed to control the admis.
sion of air ; in furnaces connected with steam-engines, we may
have dampers which will accomplish the same purpose by the
ingenious workings of the machine itself.

But neither doors nor dampers, pokers nor stokers, can he em-
ployed in the bodily apparatus. If, on the one hand, our human
fires should begin to flag from undue expenditure of heat, the
appetite speaks out sharply, and compels the owner to look round
for fuel. Hunger rings the'bell, and orders up coals in the shape
of savory meats. Or, should the summons be neglected, the
garnered fat, as we havo seen, is thrown into the grate to keep
the furnace in play.

If, on the other hand, the heat of the body should become un-
reasonably intense, a very cunning process of reduction is adopted.
When a substance grows too hot, the simplest method of bringing
it into a cooler frame is to sprinkle it with water. This is pre-
cisely what occurs in our human frames. For no sooner does
our internal heat rise above its standard height, than the per-
spiration tubes, with their six or seven millions of openings, in-
dignant at the event, begin to pour out their fluid, so as to bathe
the surface of the whole body. Whenever, therefore, a man he-
comes overheated by working, running, rowing, fighting, making
furious speeches, or other violent exertions, he invariably resorts
to this method of quenching the heat, " by pouring on water."

What shall we say, then, good reader ? Speaking seriously,
and looking at the question from a mere human point of view,
could any project appear more hopeless than one for burning fuel
in a soft, delicate fabric like the human body — a fabric composed
for the most part of mere fluids — a fabric which might be easily
scorched by excess of heat, or damaged by excess of cold ? Does
it not seem strange that a stove should have flesh for its walls,
veins for its flues, and skin for its covering ? Yet here is an ap-
paratus which, as if by magic, produces a steady stream of heat-
not trickling penuriously from its fountains, but flowing on day
and night, winter and summer, without a moment's cessation,
from January to December. ,

Carry this splendid machine to the coldest regions of the globe,
set it up where the frosts are so crushing that nature seems to be
trampled dead, still it pours out its mysterious supplies with uii-

THE VOLCANO AND THB EARTHQUAKE.

203

abated profnsion. It in an apparatus, too, which does its work
ucwatched, and, in a great measure, unaided. The very fuel,
which is thrown into it in random lieaps, is internally sifted And
Borted, so that the true combustible elements are conveyed to
their place, and applied to their. duty with unerring precision.

No hand is needed to trim its fires, to temper its glow, to re-
move its ashes. Smoke there is none, spark there is none, flame
there is none. All is so delicat^ely managed that the fairest skin
is neither shrivelled nor blackened by the burning within. Is
this apparatus placed in circt nstances which rob it too fast of
its caloric ? Then the appetite becomes clamorous for food, and,
in satisfying its demands, the fleshy stove is silently replenished.
Or, are we placed in peril from superabundant warmth ? Then
the tiny floodgates of perspiration are flung open, and the sur-
face is laid under water niitil the fires within are reduced to their
wonted level.

Assailed on the one hand by heat, the lx)dy resists the attack,
if resistance be possible, until the store of moisture is dissipated ;
assailed on the other by cold, it keeps the enemy at bay until the
hoarded stock of fuel is expended. Thus protected, thus provi-
sioned, let us ask whethei these human hearths are not entitled
to rank among the standing marvels of creation ? For, is it not
startling to find that, let the climate be mild or vigorous, let the
wind blow from the sultry desert, or come loaded with polar
sleet, let the fluctuations of temperature be as violent as they
may without us, there shall still be a calm, unchanging, undying
summer within us ? — Dr. George Wilson.

i's cessation,

THE VOLCA?;0 AND THE EARTHQUAKE.

Volcanic rocks are formed mostly from melted rock or lava
which has issued from the interior of the earth ; sometimes from
showers of ashes which have issued from the craters of volcanoes,
and spread over the adjoining country.

Everywhere the earth is warmer, the deeper the place examined
—about 1" Fahrenheit for every fifty-four feet. From this, the
existence of volcanoes at so many parts of the earth's surface, of
hot springs at others, fi-om the water of artesian wells being every-
where warmer the greater the depth from which it comes, and
other considerations, it has been thought sot improbable that at
a great depth the matter of the earth is so hot as to be in the

294

THE VOLCANO AND THE EARTHQUAKE.

MOUNT VESUVIUS.

fluid state, like molteD lava. It has even been conjectured that
at one time tne whole of the earth was one intensely hot fluid
mass, and that the solid land has been formed by the moi-e rapid
cooling of the parts at the surface.

Volcanoes in a state of eruption present several remarkable
phenomena. Flame, smoke, and large hot masses are projected
from the crater, often to a considerable height, Mr. Darwin
describes, as follows, an eruption of the volcano of Osorno, in
South America : — " At midnight, the sentry observed somethjDg
like a large star, which gradually increased in size till about
three o'clock, when it presented a very magnificent spectacle. By
the aid of a glass, dark objects, in constant succession, were seeu,
in the midst of a great glare of red light, to be thrown up and
to fall down. The light was sufficient to cast on the water a lont;
bright reflection. Largo masses of molten matter seem very
commonly to be cast out of the crater in this part of the Cordil-
lera. I was assured that when the Corcovado is in eruption,
great masses are projected upwards, and are seen to burst in the
air, assuming many fantastical forms, such as trees ; their size
must be immense, for they can be distinguished from the high

THE VOLCANO AND THE EARTHQUAKE.

295

land behind S. Carlos, which is no less than uinoty-three miles
from the Corcovado." •

Showers of ashes are also projected from volcanoes, which rise
to a great height and spread very far. These are sometimes so
dense as to darken the towns and villages, so that the inhabitants
must carry lanterns with them in the streets in the middle of the
day. This has happened during the eruptions of Vesuvius, and
in Quito during the eruptions of Fichincha. " Lava streams,"
says Humboldt, " are less dreaded than an eruption of ashes, a
pbcDomenon which fills the imaginations of men with images of
terror, from the vague tradition of ilie manner in which Hercu-
laneum, Pompeii, and Stabiee were destroyed." The streets of
Pom[»eii were filled up by the enormous quantities of ashes which
fell upon them during eruptions of Vesuvius.

Another striking feature of an eruption is the lava-siream
which often issues from the sides of the volcanic mountain, and
creeps with slow but steady steps over the adjoining country,
which it covers with a bed of molten rock ; destroying buildinps,
consuming the plants and trees it meets in its resistless progress,
and thus covering the previous land with new land, and entirely
altering the face of the country. An eruption of Vesuvius, in
the early part of the year 1850, was accompanied by a stream
of lava, jyhich overwhelmed several farmhouses, a churcL, and
priest's house, consumed orchards and forests ; and the remark-
able progress of which was witnessed by hundreds who came
from the neighboring towns to see the phenomenon. The lava
shone at night with a red, lurid glare, with bright flames where
it met and consumed the trees, some of which leaped in tlie air
with an explosion, caused by the sudden separation of the mois-
ture by the heat of the burning mass which destroyed them.

The sites of existing volcanic action are numerous. In Europe —
Etna in Sicily, Vesuvius in Naples, the Lipari Islands, and Strom-
boli; and Hecla in Iceland. In Asia — Kamtschatka, the Kurile
and Japan Isles, the Philippine Islands, Java, and Sumatra, and
Central Asia, S.W. of the Altai mountains. In North America
■—the Aleutiaji Isles, and mountains of Mexico, Guatemala, smd
several of the West India Islands. In South America— the
districts of Quito, of Peru and Bolivia, and of Chili. The
Sandwich Islands ; the Friendly Islands ; Mount Egmont in the
northern Island of New Zealand ; and Mount Erebus, in South
Victoria, in the antarctic regions. The i^.zores, Canary Islands,
and Cape de Verde Islands, are also volcanic districts.

290

THE VOLCANO AND THE EARTHQUAKE.

: I

i I

The Kaktiiquakk, the namo of which cxpresscH it8 own uiean.
ing distinctly, iif a phonomcnon allied to the volcano, and pro.
duced most probably by the saniocauseH which, in varied eircum. I
HtanccH and diflcrent Hituations, give rise to volcanic cruptiong.
The diatrictB of the earth's surface visited by earthquakes, within
a recent period, are very extensive. Tluiv have been experiencwl
in the Old World, from Iceland to Ceylon, from the Azores to
Lake Baikal, from Abyssinia to the north of Norway, and from
Kamtschatka to the north-west of Australia ; in North America,
between the great lakes and the Gulf of Mexico, and in Mexico;
in Central America and the West Indies ; and in South America,
in Venezuela and Kcuador, and along the west coast to the soDth
of Chili. There have been between two and three hundred slight
earthquake shocks eXjjerienced in Britain. The motion of the
laud in the earthquake is, most usually, undulaiory, like that of
a wave. Sometimes there is a violent vertical motion from below
upwards, which was strikingly exhibited in the great earthquake
which overthrew Riobamba in 1797, when the bodies of many
of the inhabitants were hurled to Cullca, a hill several hundred
feet in height, and on the opposite side of the river Lican. h
the same earthquake, the circular or gyratory concussions were
exhibited, when the furniture of one house was found under the
ruins of another ; and this latter kind of motion, as well as the
undulatory motion, occurred in the great earthqitake at Lisbon
in 1755.

Humboldt concludes that " the forces causing earthquakes are
not seated near the surface in the thin crust of the earth, but deep
in the interior of our planet, whence through fissures and unfilled
veins they act simultaneously at widely distant points of the
earth's surface." — Views of Nature.

Allied to the earthquake, but of a more regular and peaceful
character, is that slow movement going on in many parts of the
world, by which the land gradually rises above, or sinks below,
the level of the sea. This is going on at the north shore of the
Baltic Sea, which seems to be rising at the rate of Qpveral feet in
a century above the level of the sea. The island of Reguain, on
the west coast of Aracan, has been in process of gradual upheaval
for some time ; while the lagoons and barrier-reefs of the Pacific
are explained by Mr. Darwin on the supposition of a subsiding ot
the laud ; and a similar action is believed to be going on in parts
of the soutk«rn shores of the Baltic. ■ — Reid.

DEFENCE OF PELTIER.

297

DEFENCE OF PELTIER.

Okntlemei^, there is one point of view in which this case seems
to merit your most serious attention. The real proBecutor is
the m -"'ter of the greatest empire the civilized world ever saw ;
the defendant is a defenceless, proscribed exile. I consider this
case, therefore, as the first of a long series of conflicts between
the greatest power in the world, and the only frfe press re-
maining in Europe. Gentlemen, this distinction of the English
press is new — it is a proud and a melancholy distinction. Be-
fore the great earthquake of the French Revolution had swallowed
up all the asylums of free discussion on the Continent, we enjoyed
that privilege, indeed, more fully thac others, but we did not
enjoy it exclusively. In Holland, in Switzerland, in the im-
perial towns of Germany, the press was either legally or practi-
cally free.

But all these have been swallowed by that fearful convulsion
which has shaken the uttermost corners of the earth. They
are destroyed, and gone for ever ! One asylum of free discus-
sion is still inviolate. There is still one spot in Europe where
lan can freely exercise his reason on the most important con-
ce>os of society, where he can boldly publish his judgment on
the aCH^ of the proudest and most powerful tyrants. The press
of England is still free. It is guarded by the free constitution
of our forefathers. It is guarded by the hearts and arras of
Englishmen, and I trust I may venture to say that, if it be
to fall, it will fall only under the ruins of the British empire.
It is an awful consideration, gentlemen. Every other monument
of European liberty has perished. That ancient fabric which
has been gradually reared by the wisdom and virtue of our
fathers still stands. It stands, thanks be to God ! solid and
entire, — but it stands alone, and it stands in ruins ! Believing,
then, as I do, that we are on the eve of a great struggle, — that
this is only the first battle between reason ajd power — that you
have now in your hands, committed to your trust, the only
remains of free discussion in Europe, now confined to this
kingdom ; addressing you, therefore, as the guardians of the
most important interests of mankind ; convinced that the un-
fettered exercise of reason depends more on your present verdict
than on any other that was over delivered by a jury, — I trust I
may rely with confidence on the issue, — I trust that you will

298

THE DEFENCE OF JELLALABAD.

< I

consider yourselves as the advanced guard of liberty, as having
this day to fight the first battle of free discussion against tke
most formidable enemy that it ever encountered !

— Mackintosh.

W''j

j V

THE DEFENCE OF JELLALABAD.

(1842.)

Although left to their own resources, the garrison of Jellalabad
found, in their own indomitable fortitude and perseverance, and
the courage and capacity of their leaders, means of defence which,
in the circumstances, would otherwise have seemed unattainable.
When Sale first found himself reduced to his own forces after the
Cabul disaster, he had just 2500 men, of whom, in the middle of
February, only 2273 were eff'ective ; of these, 8S8 were Sepoys.
The place, though nominally a fortress, had in reality very little
means of defence. The ramparts were on all sides in a ruinous
state, in some actually fallen down ; yawning breaches, in many
places, would admit a company of foot soldiers abreast; the
ditch, in others, was so filled up that a half troop might trot in
line. With indefatigable vigor and perseverance. Sale, aided
by his gifted engineer, Broadfoot, set himself to work, the moment
he got possession in November, to repair the fortifications ; and
with such success were his exertions attended, that, before the
end of January, the breaches and ruined places in the walls were
all repaired, a ditch ten feet deep and fourteen broad everywhere
cleared out round the works, and the whole buildings within
point-blank range of the works levelled. They were thus secure
from a coup-de-maiu, or siege operations from any Asiatic army
without cannon; but this afforded no safeguard against the
approaches of famine, which were seriously to be apprehended,
as, on the 19th of February, they had only provisions for the men
for seventy, for the horees for twenty-five days. Forage and
food in abundance were to be had in the neighboring villages,
but they were of no use to the besieged, as they had neither
money to buy them, nor cavalry to foiage in presence of Akbar
Elhan, who, with a large body of horse, lay within a few miles
distant. The garrison, however, were in good heart, and con-
fidently looked forward to being delivered by Pollock ; and their
courage received an additional stimulus by the heroic conduct of
Lady Sale, who, before being made prisoner by the Affghans,

THE DEFENCE OF JELLAXABAD.

299

iKINTOSH.

1 a ruinous

wrote io her hasband to allow no consideration of her danger to
interfere with his performing his duty, and defending the place
to the last extremity. But, at the very time when this brave
garrison were with reason congratulating themselves on the
security which their indefatigable efforts had gained for them,
a terrible calamity ensued. On the 19th of February, at the very
moment that Sale and M'Gregor were writing to Pollock, u/ging
his early advance to their relief, an earthquake of fearful severity
was feH at Jellalabad. The shocks were so violent that the
ramparts suddenly yawned, and in many places were thrown
down, and great part of the buildings in the town fell with a
fearful crash. In the first moments of alarm, the garrison in-
stinctively ran to arms, thinking that a mine had been sprung,
and that an immediate assault might be expected. Fortunately,
most of them, from doing so, got out of the building safe ; but
Colonel Monteith, the field-officer of the day, was overwhelmed
by the fall of his house, and dug out of the ruins, buried up to
the neck in rubbish. No less than a hundred shocks succeeded
the first great one, which tended still to extend the devastation,
and, while they continued, rendered impossible all attempts to
arrest the mischief. Many governors, in the circumstances in
which he was now placed, with his fortifications in a great
measure ruined, and a superior and victorious enemy in th*
vicinity, would have deemed the post no longer tenable, and
made the best of his way down to Peshawur. Not so Sale,
Broadfoot, and their heroic followers. What they did has been
recounted in the simple words of the latter. " No time," says
Captain Broadfoot, " was lost. The shocks had scarcely ceased
when the whole garrison was told off in working parties ; and
before night the breaches were scarped, the rubbish below
cleared out, and the ditches below them dug out, while
the great one on the Peshawur side was surrounded by a new
gabion parapet. Another parapet was erected on the remains
of the north-west bastion, with embrasures allowing the guns
to flank the approach to the ruined gate ; while that gate itself
was rendered inaccessible by a trench in front of it; and in
every bastion round the place a temporary parapet was raised.
Prom the following day all the troops off duty were continually
at work ; and such was their energy and perseverance, that by
the end of the month the parapets were entirely restored, or the
curtains filled in where restoration was impracticable, and every
battery re-established. The breaches had been built up, with

300

THE DEFENCE OF JELLALABAD.

the rampart doubled in thickness, and the whole of the gates re-
trenched." The spirits of the garrison after this were much
raised by the receipt of Lord Auckland's proclamation, declaring
the misfortune that had occurred afforded only a fresh opportunity
for displaying the power and resources of the British empire,
They now looked forward confidently to being relieved. It was
long* however, before the relief came. Meanwhile, such was the
respect with which the garrison of Jellalabad had inspired the
blockading force, that though Akbar Khan with a body of 7O00
men lay in the close vicinity, and more than once actually
approached the walls, he never ventured to engage the British
who went out to meet him, and the blockade was kept up at a
distance only. But still the position of the garrison was extremely
precarious, and becoming more so every day. Provisions were
growing very scarce. By the middle of March the men were put
on short i-ations, the draught cattle, camels, and artillery horses
began to be killed, and Sale's applications to Pollock for relief
became daily more urgent. Still the terrors and mutinous
temper of the Sepoys was such that no advance was practicable
till the European troops arrived. At length the numerous ob-
stacles which had opposed their advance were removed. The
English dragoons (3d) and horse artillery reached the camp at
"Peshawar on the 30th, and next day Pollock gave orders to com-
mence the march towards Jellalabad. The 33d, however — Wel-
lington's old regiment — which was anxiously expected, did not
come up for some days afterwards, and the march did not begin
till the 5th of April.

On the morning of the 16th, the advanced guard came in sight
of Jellalabad. The sight filled the garrison with the most enthu-
siastic joy : the soldiers thronged the walls ; the bands of every
regiment went out to meet the conquerors, and struck up " God
save the Queen ! " as they passed by ; and cheers which made the
very welkin ring resounded through the air, as in proud array
and with erect heads they entered the gates of the fortress. If
the garrison of Jellalabad had good cause to welcome the con-
querors of the Khyber with these military honors, they in their
turn had as good reason to salute the garrison with equal distinc-
tion, for never had a defence been conducted with more fortitude
and constancy. Great as were the efforts made by Pollock to dis-
engage them, the aid would have come too late had it not been for
their own indomitable spirit and resolution. On the 1st Ay>ril,
when almost at the last extremity for provisions, they made a

THB DEFBiNCE OF JBLLALABAD.

301

sortie, and canned off, in the very teeth of the enemy's covering
parties, five hundred sheep and goats. This supply was of in-
estimable importance, for it gave them the means of subsistence
till the probable period of their relief. Some days after, reports
were spread by the blockading force of a great disaster sustained
by Pollock in attempting to force the Khyber Pass ; and on the
Gth their whole guns tired a royal salute in honor of the sup-
posed victory. In these circumstances, a council of war in tho
garrison decided that nothing could save them but a sudden ir-
ruption, which might drive the enemy to a distance, and enable
them to aid Pollock's advance, and sweep the country some dis-
tance for additional supplies. It was resolved, accordingly, to
make a general sally, which was fixed for daybreak on the morn-
ing of the 6th. Sale divided his troops into three columns : the
centre, consisting of the 13th, five hundred strong, was under
the command of Colonel Dennie ; the left, of the same strength,
composed of Sepoys, v/as under the orders of Colonel Monteith ;
and the tight, consisting of one company of the 13th and one of
the 35th, was led by Captain Havelock, an oflBcer destined to
deathless fame. A few guns and horsemen accompanied tho
sally, which was made by the Cabul and Peshawur gates at day-
break on the morning of the 7th. Akbar Khan had drawn up.
his troops, six thousand strong, in order of battle to defend his
camp — his right resting on a fort, his left on the Cabul river,
and some ruined works within eight hundred yards of the place
being filled with Ghilzye marksmen. The attack was led by
Havelock at the head of the skirmishers of the 13th, who forced
their way, in spite of a stout resistance, through the ruined works,
and then, oushing on, assailed the main line. Meanwhile
Dennie, while nobly leading the second column to attack the
fort, received a ball in the breast, of which he soon after ex-
pired. The assauU of the fort, however, went on, and after an
obstinate resistance it was carried ; while at the same time Mon-
teith forced back the enemy's right. Sale now directed a general
assault on the Affghan camp. Tho artillery advanced at the
gallop, and directed a heavy fire on the enemy's centre, while the
infantry pressed forward in splendid stylo to complete their
victory. The attacks all proved successful. Two of the columns
penetrated the line near the same point ; while the third, in spite
of a heavy fire from three guns under cover, and repeated charges
from the horse, drove the forces opposed t^ them headlong into
the river. By seven in the morniMg, the victory was complete.

1?' I

302

DEFENCE OF HABDT.

Tho encmj was driven off iu great disorder towards Luybman and
Cabul, their camp captured, all the tents burnt, the blockade
raised, and two cavalry standards taken, with four guns which
had been captured from the British during the Cabul retreat.
This recovery gave unbounded joy to the troops ; but the victory,
important as it was, was dearly purchased by the loss of Colonel
Dannie, one of the brightest ornaments of the British army.

— Alison,

DEFENCE OF HARDY.

Gentlemen, — My whole argument then amounts to no more than
this, that before the crime of compassing the King's death can
be found hy ynu, the Jury, whose province it is to judge of its
existence, it must be believed by you to have existed in point of fact,
Before you can adjudge a point of fact, you ivnst believe it — not
suspect it, or imagine it, or fancy it, bdt believe it; and it is
impossible to impress the human mind with such a reasonable and
certain belief as is necessary to be impressed, before a Christian
man can adjudge his neighbor to the smallest penalty, much less
to the pains of death, without having such evidence as a reason-
able mind will accept of as the infallible test of truth. And what
is that evidence ? Neither more nor less than that which the
constitution has established in the cou/ts for the general adminis-
tration of justice — namely, that the evidence convinces the jury,
beyond all reasonable doubt, that the criminal intcntiov, consti-
tuting the crime, existed in the mind of the man upon trial, and
was the mainspring of his conduct. The rules of evidence, as
they are settled by law, and adopted in its general administration,
are not to be overruled or tampered with. They are founded in
the charities of religion — in the philosophy of nature — in the
truths of history, and in the experience of common life ; and
whoever ventures falsely to depart from them, let him remember
that it will be meted to him in the same measure, and that both
God and man will judge him accordingly. These are argument*
addressed to your reasons and consciences, not to be shaken in
upright minds by any precedent, for no precedents can sanctify
injustice ; if they could, every human right would long ago have
been extinct upon the earth. If the State Trials in bad times are
to be searched "jr precedents, what murders may you not commit?
what law of humanity may you not trample upon ? what mle

DEFENCE OP HARDY.

303

of justice may you not violate ? and what maxim of wise policy
may you not abrogate and confound ? If precedents in bad
times are to be implicitly followed, why should we have heard
any evidence at all ? You might have convicted without any
evidence, for many have been bo convicted, and in this manner
murdered, even by Acts of Parliament. If precedents in bad
times are to be followed, why should the Lords and Commons
have investigated these charges and the Crown have put them
into this course of judicial trial — since, without such a trial, and
even after an acquittal upon one, they might have attainted all
the prisoners by Act of Parliament ? They did so in the case of
Lord Strafford. There are precedents, therefore, for all such
thinp^s ; but such precedents as could not for a moment survive
the times of madness and distraction which gave them birth, but
which, as soon as the spurs of the occasions were blunted, were
repealed, and execrated even by parliaments which, little as I
may think of the present, ought not to be compared with it —
parliaments sitting in the darkness of former times, in the night
of freedom — before the principles of government were developed,
and before the constitution became jSxed. The lasu of these pre-
cedents, and all the proceedings upon it, weie ordered to be
taken off the file and burnt, to the intent that the same might no
longer be visible in after ages ; an order dictated, no doubt, by a
pious tenderness for national honor, and meant as a charitable
covering for the crimes of our fathers. But it was a sin against
posterity — it was a treason against society ; for instead of com-
mandiug them to be burnt, they should rather have directed them
to be blazoned in large letters upon the walls of our Courts of
Justice, that, like the characters deciphered by the prophet of
God to the eastern tyrant, they might enlarge and blacken in
your sight, to terrify you from acts of injustice.

In times when the whole habitable earth is in a state of change
and fluctuation — when deserts are starting up with civilized em-
pires around you — and when men, no longer slaves to the preju-
dices of particular countries, much less to the abuses of particular
governments, enlist themselves, like the citizens of an enlightened
world, into whatever communities their civil liberties may be
Iwst protected in, it never can be for the advantage of this country
to prove that the strict unextended letter of her laws is no security
to its inhabitants. On the contrary, when so dangerous a lure is
everywhere holding out to emigration, it will be found to be the
wisest policy of Great Britain to set up her happy constitution,

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304

BRITISH JUSTICE.

the strict letter of her guardian laws, and the proud condition of
equal freedom which her highest and her lowest subjects ought
equally to enjoy ; — it will be her wisest policy to set up these
first of human blessings against those charms of change and
novelty which the varying condition of the world is hourly dis-
playing, and which may deeply afiect the population and pros-
perity of our country. In times when the subordination to
authority is said to be everywhere but too little felt, it will be
found to be the wisest policy of Great Britain to instil into the
governed an almost superstitious reverence for the strict security
of the laws, which, from their equality of principle, beget no
jealousies or discontent ; which, from their equal administratioD,
can seldom work injustice ; and which, from the reverence grow-
ing out of their mildness and antiquity, acquire a stability in the
habits and affections of men ftir beyond the force of civil obliga-
tion : whereas severe penalties, and arbitrary constructions of laws
intended for security, lay the foundations of alienation from every
human government, and have been the cause of all Hhe calamities
that have come and are coming upon the earth. — Erskine.

BRITISH JUSTICE.

The most obvious and important use of this perfect justice is,
that it makes nations safe. Under common circumstances the
institutions of justice seem to have little or no bearing upon the
safety and security of a country ; but in periods of real danger,
when a nation, surrounded by foreign enemies, contends not for
the boundaries of empire, but for the very being and existence of
empire, then it is that the advantages of just institutions are dis-
covered. Every man feels that he has a country, that he has
something worth preserving, and worth contending for. Instances
are remembered where the weak prevailed over the strong ; one
man recalls to mind when a just and upiight judge protected him
from unlawful violence, gave him back his vineyard, rebuked his
oppressor, restored him to his rights, published, condemned, and
rectified the wrong. This is what is called country. Equal rights
to unequal possessions, equal justice to the rich and poor ; this
is whai men come out to fight for, and to defend. Such a
country has no legal injuries to remember, no legal murders to
revenge, no legal robbery to redress; it is strong in its justice;
it is then that the use and object of all this assemblage of gentle-
men and arrangement of juries, and the deserved veneration in

BRITISH JUSTICE.

305

which we hold the character of English judges, are understood in
all their bearings, and in their fullest effects ; men die for such
things — they cannot be subdued \j foreign force where such just
practices prevail. The sword of ambition is shivered to pieces
against such a bulwark. Nations fall where judges are unjust^
because there is nothing which the multitude think worth de-
fending; but nations do not fall which are treated as we are
treated, but they rise as we have risen, and they shine as we
have shone, and die as we have died, too much used to justice,
and too much used to freedom, to care for that life which is not
jist aad free. 1 call you all to witness if there is any exaggerated
picture in this ; the sword is just sheathed, the flag is just furled,
the last sound of the trumpet has just died away. You all re-
member what a spectacle this country exhibited ; one heart, one
voice — one weapon, one purpose. And why ? Because this
coantry is a country of law ; because the judge is a judge for the
peasant as well as for the palace ; because every man's happiness
is guarded by fixed rules from tyranny and caprice.

There is another reason why every wise man is so scrupulously
jealous of the character of English justice. It puts an end to
civil dissension. What other countries obtain by bloody wars, is
here obtained by the decisions of our own tribunals : unchristian
passions are laid to rest by these tribunals ; brothers are brothers
again ; the gospel resumes its empire, and because all confide in
the presiding magistrate, and because a few plain men are allowed
to decide upon their own conscientious impression of facts, civil
discord, years of convulsion, endless crimes are spared ; the storm
is laid, and those who came in clamoring for revenge, go back
together in peace from the hall of judgment to the loom and the
plough, to the senate and the church.

The whole tone and tenor of public morals are affected by the
state of supreme justice ; it extinguishes revenge, it communicates
a spirit of purity and uprightness to inferior magistrates ; it makes
the great good, by taking away impunity; it banishes fraud,
obliquity, and solicitation, and teaches men that the law is their
right. Truth is its handmaid, freedom is its child, peace is it«
companion ; safety walks in its steps, victory follows in its train ;
it is the brightest emanation of the gospel ; it is the greatest at-
tribute of God ; it is that centre round which human motives
and passions turn ; and justice, sitting on high, sees genius, and
power, and wealth, and birth revolving round her throne ; and
teaches their paths, and marks out their orbits, and warns with

.1 ^
I

m
If'.'

306

BATTLE OF SOBRAON.

a loud voice, and rules with a strong arm, and carries ortkr and
discipline into a world, which, but for her, would only be a wild
waste of ]iassions. Look what we are, and what just laws have
done for us ; — a land of piety and charity ; a land of churches
and hospitals and alt&rs ; a nation of good Samaritans ; a people
of univ( rsal compassion. All lands, all seas, have heard we are
brave. Wo have just sheathed that sword which defended the
world ; we have just laid down that buckler which covered the
niitioiis of the earth. God blesses the soil with fertility ; English
looms labor for every climate. All the waters of the globe are
covered with English ships. We are softened by fine arts,
civilized by humane literature, instructed by deep science; and
every peo[)le, as they break their feudal chains, look to the
founders and ftithersof freedom for examples which may animate,
and rules which may guide. If ever a nation was happy — if ever
a nation was visibly blessed by God — if ever a nation was
honored abroad, and left at home under a government (whicli
we can now conscientiously call a liberal government) to the full
career of talent, industry, and vigor, we are at this moment that
p?ople — and this is our happy lot. First, the gospel has dene
it, and then justice has done it ; and he who thinks it his duty
to labor that this happy condition of existence may remain,
must guard the piety of these times, and he must watch over
the spirit of justice which exists in these times. First, he must
take care that the altars of God are not polluted, that the Chris-
tian faith is retained in purity and in perfection ; and then turn-
ing to humt*,n affairs, let him strive for spotless, incorruptible
justice; — praising, honoring, and loving the just judge, and ab-
horring, as the worst enemy of mankind, liim who is placed there
to "judge after the law, and who smites contrary to the law."

— Sydney Smith.

BATTLE OF SOBRAON.

(a. d. 184G.)

The attack was to have commenced at daybreak on the lOtl
February, but the mist rising from the river was so thick that
nothing could be seen, and it was necessary to wait an hour till
the sun had dispelled the vapor. Meanwhile, the troops were
arranged in the order in which they were to proceed to the
assault. On the extreme left, three brigades, composiii^^ Sir

BAITIiE OF SODRAON.

307

Robert Dick's division, stood close to the margin of the river.
His attack was to be headed by the 10th Queen's, supported by
the 53il Queen's, led by Brigadier Stacey. Wilkinson's brigade
was to follow two hundred yards in rear, while A.shbnrnham's
formed the reserve to this wing. In the centre, Major-General
Gilbert's division was formed close to, and partly in the village
of Sobraon ; while on the right, Sir Harry Smith's division
extended round to the edge of the Sutlej on the other side.
Thus the British troops formed an immense semicircle, each
end of which touched the Sutlej, while in its centre was the
village of Sobraon, which gave its name i^ the battle. Brigadier
Careton's horse threatened the ford of Hureekee, opposite to
which the enemy had stationed large bodies of cavalry. The
remainder of the horse were in reserve behind the infantry. The
Sikhs, consisting of thivty-two regular battalions, occupied the
interior of the entrenchments, which consisted of a triple line of
works, one within another, flanked by formidable redoubts, the
fire from which swept every part of the plain by which alone
they could be approached.

When the fire of the British artillery, which was kept up with
uncommon vigor and precision, and was admirably replied to
by the Sikhs, had lasted three hours, the troops were moved up
to the assault. Dick's division on the left led the way. The
infantry marched steadily forward in line, the guns camo up at
the gallop, taking successive positions as they advanced, until
they were within three hundred yards of the front line of the
Sikh works, when they halted and poured in a concentrated fire
on those parts of the works intended to be assaulted. Then the
infantry rushed forward with a run, the 10th leading, supported
by the 53d Queen's, and 43d and 59th native infantry. Such,
howevef, was the vigor of the defence, that the bravest of the
Europeans recoiled from the shock, and the stormers were
repulsed with terrible slaughter. Then the Ghoorkas were
brought forward, and these brave little men, in their dark green
uniforms, were soon seen running over the interveninpj space
strewn with dead until they reached the foot of the i mpart.
There, however, they met with a check, for the scarp wa:; so
high that they could not climb up; and, meanwhile, a dreadful
fire issued from its summit, under which the crowd at its foot
fell fast. At length, a little Ghoorha, lifted upon the shoulders
of a huge grenadier of the 10th, who had rushed on again along
^ith them, was the first w]>o got into an embrasure. Speedily a

i ?:

I 'BP

308

BATlLli OF SOHRAON.

(loRpcrate conflicfc ensued around him, the Sikhn striving to
bayonet those who came pressing up to protect him, the British
to shelter their gallant leader. At last the latter prevailed, a
portion of the works was carried, and the whole division, headed
by the gallant Stacey, came pouring rapidly in, followed by
Wilkinson with his men, and both brigades were soon engaged
in a desperate close fight with the enemy in the interior of their
works.

No sooner did the Sikh generals see this advantage gained on
the loft, than they directed their whole force against the division
which had thus penetrated into their intrenchments, and the
danger was imminent that it wonld be crushed by superior
numbers on the very ground which it had with such difficulty
won. To meet this danger, Ashburnham's reserve brigade
pushed on to Dick's support, Gilbert's division was hurried for-
ward in the centre. Smith's division was directed against the
right, and the fire from the whole artillery was redoubled.
Long and desperate was the conflict, for the Sikhs fought with
the utmost resolution ; their gunners stood to their pieces to the
last ; and even when the British, at particular spots, had broken
in through gaps opened by the artillery, their masses rushed on
with undaunted valor and again and again expelled the
stormers from the intrenchments. At length, the sappers on
the left centre having cleared out openings in the works suffi-
ciently wide to admit horsemen in single file, the 3d Queen's
Dragoons, headed by Sir Joseph Thackwell, penetrated in, and,
forming inside the works, galloped along, taking the batteries in
the rear, and cutting down the gunners, who, with unconquerable
valor, continued to the very last to discharge their pieces.
Gough immediately sent in the whole divisions in the centre and
nght to support and follow up this advantage. Long and
desperate, however, was the conflict within the works; the
Sikhs fought with heroic resolution, refusing alike to give or
receive quarter. And it was not till the entire British reserves
had bee 1 brought into action that victory finally declared for
them. Gradually the Sikh columns were forced back towards
the bridge and fords in their rear ; the fire from their rearmost
rnnks at first lessened, and at last altogether ceased ; and the
whole mass, abandoning their guns, rushed in a tumultuous body
to the water's edge.

Sir Hugh Gough had anxiously looked for the arrival of the
period when the rising of the Sutlej, by rendering im]

ELECTRICITY.

301^

the fords on either side of the bridge of boats, might enable him
to attack the enemy in the hazardous predicament of having no
line of retreat but a broad river traversed by a single narrow
bridge in their rear. This immense advantage, the counterpart
of that enjoyed by the Archduke Charles on the second day ol'
the battle of Aspern, now seconded his efforts. During the
night preceding the battle, and while it was I'aging, the Sutlej
rose seven inches, and thus rendered the fords hardly pasaabU'
lor the foot soldiers. This circumstance drove the whole of the
fugitives to the bridge, the entrance of which was soon choked
up. The British horse-artillery advanced at the gallop to the
edge of the river, and opened a tremendous fire of round shot
and canister on the living mass of fugitives. So terrible was the
slaughter that the victorious troops felt for the sufferers, and
would have recoiled from continuing it had not the recollection
of the cruelty with wliich the Sikhs had, in the commencement
of the action, slaughtered the wounded British who fell into their
hands steeled every heart of the conquerors against pity.

Such was the battle of Sobraon, in which it is difficult to
decide whether to admire most the desperate valor of the con-
quered, or the heroic prowess of the conquerors. — Alison.

ELECTRICITY.

What electricity or the electric fluid is, no man knows. The
earliest notion of it was obtained through amber, called by the
Greeks electron, and by the Romans electrum. This substance
was observed by the ancients to possess so curious a capacity that,
by being rubbed, it became able to draw to itself, and to hold for
a short while in suspension, any loose light substances, such
as small pieces of feather, which happened to be in its vicinity.
Many other substances, such as resins, gums, glass, sulphur, and
silk, were in the course of time observed to possess the same
capacity ; and, in allusion to amber, were designated electrics.
Their peculiar power — the power put into them by friction — wa^
very long regarded as a mystery, an amusement, or a thing
merely to be wondered at ; but eventually, it was accumulated
in large quantity, and found to emit crackling sounds and spark-
ing light, and to give off smart, instantaneous, energetic shocks ;
and then it was assumed to be a distinct, though obscure element,
and called electricity.

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310

ELECTRICITY.

I I

The first thought of any conseqncncu which occurred iu con-
nexion with it, was to use it for the cure uf diseuseB. A \m-
ticular kind of friction machine was cunstructed for obtainiug
quantities of it at will, and for pouring them upon invalids at a
touch ; and this acquired rapid, general, overtoworing fume, as
one of the grandest inventions ever known iu the heahug art,-
but was so abused by quacks, and so enormously overestimated
by physicians, that it soon became little more than a means of
philosophic experiment. In this character, however, it lead the
way to amazing discoveries. The power obtained by it was cusily
pi'oved to be got out of the ground ; for when the machine stood
on any substance which could not become electrically affected by
friction, it was useless; and when standing on the ground, it
always retained all its susceptibility. Either the crust of tlie
earth, or perhaps the solid globe, was hence inferred to be oue
vast reservoir of electricity. A suspicion by and bye arose tliat
the air is full of it too, or, at least, that the lightning of thunder-
storms, and the crackling, sparkling, energetic power of the
electric machine, were the same thing ; and this suspicion vas
traced on to truth, iu a series of masterly experiments, by
several distinguished philosophers of Europe ; and, most of all,
by the distinguished Franklin of America. Electricity hence-
forth was recognised as a grand agent in weather, — and particu-
larly as the presiding power in thunder-storms, sultriness, out-
bursts of typhoon, and hurricane ; and, in the course of later,
manifold, and highly curious investigations, it came to be identi-
fied also — at least as to its essential characteristics, though under
great differences of intensity and of some other characters — with
several sorts of luminous appeamnces in the air, with the forma-
tion of hail-showers, with the occasional luminosity of fogs and
snow, with the peculiar power of magnets, with the peculiar
power of the galvanic pile of the voltaic battery, with certain
energies of steam and gun-cotton, and other remarkable things
or conditions of things, and with the subtle agencies over animal
physiology and animal life which have obtained the designations
of mesmerism, electro-biology, animal magnetism, and odyle.

Still no man can tell what electricity is. It may be a material
fluid of the closest possible similarity, which a material thiug can
possess to an immaterial, — and therefore prodigiously versatile,
prodigiously subtle, and without any appreciable weight ; or it
may be two such fluids most curiously related to each other, yet
mutually repulsive, and rushing off to opposite poles. It may

FUNERAL OF WELLINGTON.

311

1,0 n subatauce or Bubstaiicos strictly pocuii.'ir ; or it may be a
pr lal element identical in Home way with the matter of light
aud heut, and possibly also with the matter of some of those
seemingly indecomposable things which chemists call elements.
Or it may be not a fluid or substance, or primal element at all,
but only a condition of something else so subtle and i-econdito
as hitherto to have escaped all detection or recognition by man.
Yet here is a wonder that, nevertheless, it dPsplays itself to all
eyes, and works magnificently and mightily as one of the sub-
liuiest powers of nature, and behaves according to laws of tlio
most perfect precision, and not difficult to be ascertained, and is
altogether as well known by its properties and eflects as many
of the grossest sub.stances which lie thoroughly open to man's
investigation. And another wonder is that, in spite of all
diversities of character, it is essentially and absolutely the same in
the crashing thunderbolt, the beauteous aurora, and the tiny
machine-spark, — the same in the tornado, the magnet, and the
dewdrop, — the same in shivering the lightning-rod, in playing
on the mariner's compass, and in gliding along the telegraphic
wire, — the same in creating a hail-storm, in producing an electron
type, in mesmerizing a man, and in convulsing a corpse.

— Rev. J. M. Wilson.

FUNERAL OF WELLINGTON.

(a.d. 1852.)

Who is he that cometh, like an bonor'd guest,

With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest,

With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest ?

Mighty seaman,* this is he

Was great by land, as thou by sea !
Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man,
The greatest sailor since onr world began.

Now, to the roll of muffled drums,

To thee the greatest soldier comes ;

For this is he

Was great by land, as thou by sea !

His foes were thine ; he kept us free ;

O give him welcome, this is he,

Worthy of our gorgeous rites,

And worthy to be laid by thee ;

* Nelson, whose body was buried in St. Paul's.

f'i

312 FUNERAL OF WELLINGTON.

For this is England's greatest son,
He that gain'd a hundred fights,
Nor ever lost an English gun.
This he that far away,
Against the myriads of Assaye,
Clash'd with his fiery few, and won ;
And underneath another sun,
Warring on a later day.
Round affrighted Lisbon drew
The treble works,* the vast designs
Of his labor'd rampart-lines ;
Where he greatly stood at bay.
Whence he issued forth anew,
And ever great and greater grew ;
Beating from the wasted vines
Back to France her banded swarms-
Back to France with countless blows.
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew.
Past the Pyrenean pines ;
Follow'd up in valley and glen
With blow of bugle, clamor of men,
Roll of cannon, and clash of arms.
And England pouring on her foes.
Such a war had such a close.
Again the ravening eagle rose

In anger, wheel'd on Europe — shadowing wings,

And barking for the thrones of kings ;

Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown,

On that loud Sabbathf shook the spoiler down.
A day of onsets of despair !
Dash'd on every rocky square,
Their surging charges foam'd themselves away.
Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ;
Through the long tormented air.
Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray.
And down we swept, and charged and overthrew.

Remember him who led your hosts ;

He bade you guard the sacred coasts.

Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall ;

His voice is silent in your council hall

For ever, and, whatever tempests lour,

For ever silent ; even if they broke in thunder,

Silent. Yet remember all

He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke ;

* The lines of Torres Vedras.

t The battle o{ Waterloo vras fonglit ou Sabbath, 18th Jane 1815.

SCIENCE AND ART.

Who never sold the truth to serve the hour,
Nor palter'd with eternal God for power ;
Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow
Through either babbling world of high and low ;
Whose life was work, whose language rife
With rugged maxims hewn from life ;
Who never spake against a foe ;
Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke
All great self-seekers, trampling on the right.
Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named;
Truth-lover was our English Duke ;
Whatever record leap to light,
He never shall be shamed.

313

-Tennyson.

SCIENCE AND ART.

In the study of natural philosophy, chemistry, and natural his-
tory, a wide field of knowledge will be spread out before you, in
which every fact you observe, and every truth you learn, will sur-
prise and delight you. Creations of boundless extent, displaying
unlimited power, matchless wisdom, and overflowing beneficence,
will at every step surround you. The infinitely great and the
infinitely little will compete for your admiration ; and in contem-
plating the great scheme of creation which these inquiries present
to your minds, you will not overlook the almost superhuman
power by which it has been developed. Fixed upon the pedestal
of his native earth, and with no other instrument but the eye and
the hand, the genius of man has penetrated the dark and distant
recesses of time and space. The finite has comprehended the
infinite. The being of a day has pierced backwards into primeval
time, deciphering the subterranean monuments, and inditing its
chronicle of countless ages. In the rugged crust and shattered
pavement of our globe he has detected those gigantic forces by
which our seas and continents have changed places — by which
our mountain ranges have emerged from the bed of the ocean —
by which the gold, and the silver, the coal, and the iron, and the
lime have been thrown into the hands of man as the materials of
civilization — and by which mighty cycles of animal and vegetable
life have been ;mbalmed and entombed.

In your astronomical studies, the earth on which you dwell
will stand forth in space a suspended ball, taking its place as one
of the smallest of the planets, and like them pursuing its appointed

314

SCIENCE AND Alii.

) '">

path — tlie arbiter of times and seasons. Beyond our planetarv
system, now extended, by the discovery of Neptune, to three
thousand millions of miles from the sun, and throughout the va.^t
expanse of the universe, the telescope will exhibit to you new
suns and systems of worlds, infinite in number and variety, sib-
taining, doubtless, myriads of living beings, and presenting new
spheres for the exercise of divine power and beneficence. . . .

The advances which have recently been made in the mecliaiiical
and useful arts have already begun to influence our social condi.
tion, and must affect still more deeply our systems of education.
The knowledge which used to constitute a scholar, and fit him tor
social and intellectual intercourse, will not avail him under tin
present ascendancy of practical science. New and gigantic inven-
tions mark almost every passing year — the colossal tubular bridge,
conveying the monster train over an arm of the sea — the sub-
marine cable, carrying the pulse of speech bene .th 2000 miles of
ocean — the monster ship freighted with thousands of lives — and
the huge rifle gun throwing its fatal and unchristian charge across
miles of earth or of ocean. New arts, too, useful and ornanienlal,
have sprung up luxuriantly around us. New powers of natun
have been evoked, and man communicates with man across se;is
and continents with more certainty and speed than if lie had Lt t n
endowed with the velocity of the race-horse or provided with tlic
pinions of the eagle. Wherever we are, in short, art and science
surround us. They have given birth to new and lucrative pro-
fessions. Whatever we purpose to do, they help us. In our
houses they greet us with light and heat. When we travel we
find them at every stage on land, and at every harbf v v i. our
shores. They stand beside our board by day, and bivsK ' our
couch by night. To our thoughts they give the speed cvi 'igit-
ning, and to our timepieces the punctuality of the sun ; and
though they cannot provide us with the boasted lever of Archi-
medes to move the earth, or indicate the spot upon which we
must stand could we do it, they have put into our hands tools
of matchless power by which we can study the remotest worlds;
and they have furnished us with an intellectual plummet by
which we can sound the depths of the earth, and count the cycles
of its endurance. In his hour of presumption and ignorance mau
has tried to do more than this ; but though he was not permitted
to reach the heavens with his cloud-capt tower of stone, and lias
tried in vain to navi«?ate the aerial ocean, it was given him to
ascend into the empyrean by chains of thought which no light-

THE LOADSTONE AND THE MAGNET.

315

le sun ; snw

uing could fuse, and uo comet strike; and thougli hr lias uot
been allowed to grasp with au arm of flesh the products of other
worlds, or tread upon the pavement of gigantic planets, he has
bipen enabled to scan with more than an eagle's eye, the mighty
creations in the bosom or space — to march intellectually over the
mosaics of sidereal systems, and to follow the adventui-ous Phaeton
in a chariot which can never be overturned.

— Brewster.

MAUlNtKS COUP^bd.

THE LOADSTONE AND THE MAGNET.

Tre ancients were fully acquainted with the loadstone, and with
its power of attracting iron, though they were totally ignorant of
its polarity. That they were so, is evident from the fact that the
classic authors and ancient works upon navigation and kindred
subjects do not furnish one word upon the subject. Claudian
bas left, in one of his idyls, a long description of the stone, and
of its peculiar, indeed magical, affinity for iron. Had he enter-
tained the most distant idea that this stone would communicate
to a steel needle the power of indicating the north, it is not to be

316

THE LOADSTONE AND THE MAGNET.

Kupposcd for an instant tliat he would have omitted mentioning
it. The earliest name of the loadstone was Hercules' Stone,
which was soon changed to maijnes, from the fact that it was
found in abundance in a region called Magnesia, in Lydia
Hence our word magnet. It was not till the fourth century of
our era that the quality of repelling as well as of attracting iron
seems to have been discovered. Marcellus, the physician of
Theodosius the Great, is the first author who mentions this new
quality.

The Romans, who acquired a knowledge of the magnet from
the Greeks, preserved the name, though several of their authors,
and Pliny among them, mention a tradition that the magnet was
so called from a shepherd named Magnes, who was the first to
discover a mine of loadstone, by the nails in hia b^ioes clinging
to the metal.

The first mention in European history of 'he polarity of the
magnetized needle, and of its importance to mariners, occurs in
a satirical French poem written in 1190 by one Guyot de
Provins. It may be very properly inferred, from the fact that
the poet does not merely allude to the compass, but describes it
and the polar star at some length, that it was not generally
known, and, in fact, had been lately introduced into the Mediter-
ranean. Whence it had been introduced there, we shall learn as
we proceed.

The second historical mention of the compass occurs in a de-
scription of Palestine by Cardinal Jacques de Vitry, in the year
1218, in which is the following passage : — " The loadstone is
found in India, to which, from some hidden cause, iron spon-
taneously attaches itself. The moment an iron needle is touched
by this stone, it at once points towards the north star, which,
though the other stars revolve, is fixed as if it were the axis of
the firmament : from whence it has become necessary to those
who navigate the seas."

Brunetto Latini, a grai^imarian of Florence, and preceptor of
Dante, settled in Paris about the year 12QQ, and composed a
work entitled the " Treasure," in which he distinctly describes
the process and the consequence of magnetizing a needle. He
also went to England, and in a letter, of which fragments have
been published, writes thus : — " Friar Bacon showed me a
magnet, an ugly and black stone, to which iron doth willingly
cling : you rub a needle upon it, the which needle, bemg placed
upon a point, remains suspended and turns against the star, even

THE LOADS lONK AND THE MACfNET.

317

though the night be stormy and neither star nor moon be seen ;
and thus the mariner is guided on his way."

The Italian Jesuit Biccioli, in his work upon geography and
hydrography, states, that before 1270, the French mariners used
"a magnetized needle, which they kept floating in a small vessel
of water, supported on two tubes, so as not to sink."

All these authors agree in fixing the period at which the use
of the needle was popularized in Europe, at the latter part of the
twelfth and the commencement of the thirteenth centuiy. Not
ono of them mentions the inventor by name, or even indicates
his nation. This circumstance leads to the conviction that it was
unknown to them, and that consequently the inventor was not a
European. The theory that the Europeans obtained it from the
Arabians, and the Arabians from the Chinese, is supported by the
following facts : —

A manuscript work written by an Arabian named Bailak, a
native of Kibdjak, and entitled, " The Merchant's Guide in the
Purchase <of Stones," thus speaks of the loadstone in the year
1242 : — "Among the properties of the magnet, it is to be noticed
that the captains who sail in the Syrian waters, when the night
is dark, take a vessel of water, upon which they place a needle
buried in the pith of a reed, and which thus floats upon the
water. Then they take a loadstone as big as the palm of the
hand, or even smaller. They hold it near the surface of the
water, giving it a rotary motion until the needle turns r -^on the
water ; they then withdraw the stone suddenly, when the ueedle,
with its two ends, points to the north and south. I saw this
with my own eyes, on my voyage from Tripoli, in Syria, to Alex-
andria, in the year 040, [640 of the Hegira, 1240 a.d.] 1
heard it said that the captains in the Indian seas substitute for
the needle and reed a hollow iron fish, magnetized, so that, when
placed in tlio water, it points to the north with its head, and to
the south with its tail. The reason that the fish swims, not
sinks, is that metallic bodies, even the heaviest, float when
hollow, and when they displace a quantity of water greater than
their own weight."

It may be fairly inferred from this passage, that, at the time
spoken of, (1240,) the practice was already of long standing in
this quarter, and that the needle and its polarity had been long
known and employed at sea. That is, the Arabs had become
familiar with the loadstone in 1240, while Friar Bacon regarded
it, in England, as a curiosity in 1260 — twenty years afterwards.

318

THE LOADSTONE AND THE MAGNET.

The priority of the invention would seem to be thus incontestably
proven for the Arabs. But we shall see speedily that it derived
its origin from a region situated still farther to the east, and
many centuries earlier.

A famous Chinese Dictionary, terminated in the year 121 of
our era, thus defines the word magnet : — " The name of a stone
which gives direction to a needle." This is quoted in numerous
modern dictionaries. One published during the Tsin dynasty—
that is, between 2G5 and 419, states that ships guided their
course to the south by means of the magnet. The Chinese word
for magnet — tchi nan — signifies, indicator of the south. It was
natural for the Chinese, when they first saw a needle point both
north and south, to take the Antarctic pole for the principal
point of attraction, for with them the south had always been the
first of the cardinal points — the emperor's throne and all the
government edifices invariably being built to face the south. A
Chinese work of authority, composed about the year 1000, con-
tains this passage : — " Fortune-tellers rub the point dtf a needle
with a loadstone to give ij the power of indicating the south.*'

A medical natural history, published in China in 1112, speaks
even of the variation of the needle, — a phenomenon first noticed
in Europe by Christopher Columbus in 1492. "When," it says,
" a point of iron is touched by a loadstone, it receives the power
of indicating the south : still, it declines towaraa the east, and
does not point exactly to the south" This observation, made at
the beginning of the twelfth century, was confirmed by magnetic
experiments made at Pokin, in 1780, by a Frenchman ; only the
latter, finding the variation to bo from the north, set it down as
from 2° k) 2" 30' to the west, while the Chinese, persisting in call-
ing it a variation from the south, set it down as being from 2° to
2" 30' to the east.

Thus, the Chinese, who were acquainted with the polarity of a
magnetized needle as early as the year 121, and who noticed the
variation in 1112, may be safely supposed to have employed it
at sea in the long voyages which they made in the seventh and
eighth centuries, the route of which has come down to us. Their
vessels sailed from Canton, through the Straits of Malacca, to
the Malabar coast, to the mouths of the Indus and the Euphrates.
It is difficult to believe that, aware of tho use to which the
needle might be applied, they did not so a'^ply it.

While thus claiming for the Chinese the first knowledge and
application of tl:e polarity of the needle, wo may say, incidentally,

THE LOADSTONt; AND THE MAAnET.

319

that it is now certain that they made numerous other discoveries
of importance long before the Europeans. They knew the
attractive power of amber in the first century of our era, and a
Chinese author said, in 324, " The magnet attracts iron, and
amber attracts mustard-seed." They ascribed the tides to the
influence of the moon in the ninth century. Printing was
invented in China about the year 920 ; and gunpowder
would seem to have been made there long before Bert hold
Schwartz mixed it in 1330. Still, it is not necessary to re-
sort to the argument of analogy to support the claims of the
Chinese to this admirable invention : the direct evidence is
sufficient.

A century ago, Flavio Gioja, a captain or pilot of Amalfi, in
the kingdom of Naples, was recognized throughout Europe as
the true inventor of the compass. He lived in the beginning of
the fourteenth century, and biographers have even fixed the
date of the memorable invention at the year 1303. The princi-
pal foundation for this assertion was the following line from a
poem by Antonio of Bologna, who lived but a short time after
Gioja : —

*• Prima dedit nautis tisam magnetis Amalphia."
(Amalfi first gave to sailors the use of the magnet.)

The tradition was subsequently confirmed by the statement
made by authors of repute, that the city of Amalfi, in order to
commemorate an invention of so much importance, assumed a
compass for its coat-of-arms. This was believed till the year
1810, when the coat-of-arms for Amalfi was found in the library
at Naples. It did not answer at all to the description given of
it; instead of the eight wings which were said to represent the
four cardinal points and their divisions, it had but two, in which
no resemblance to a compass could be traced. Later investiga-
tions have,, as we have said, completely demolished all the argu-
ments by which the compass was maintained to be of European
origin and of modern date. The curious reader will find the ex-
tracts from Chinese works which substantiate the Chinese claim,
in a volume published in 1834, at Paris, by M. J, Klaproth, and
composed at the request of Baron Humboldt.

No mention whatever is extant of the first venture made upon
the Atlantic under the auspices of this mysterious but unerring
?uide. Science and history must for ever rjgret that the first
European navigator who employed it did not leave a record of tho

320

THE FUTURE OF AMERICA.

l-l

r :
■

II r||

|: ;|

(

liiiii

experiment. What would be more iuteresting to-day than the
log of the earliest voyage thus accomplished in European waters?
The modern reader would surely give his sympathy, unreservedly,
to a narrative in which the navigator should describe his wonder,
his terror, his joy, when, throughout the voyage, he saw the tremu-
lous index point invariably north ; when, upon the dispersion
of the clouds which had concealed the star from view, it was
found precisely where the needle indicated ; when, upon its being
diverted from the line of direction by some curious and perhaps
incredulous experimenter, it slowly but surely returned, remain-
ing fixed and constant through storms and calm, at midnight
and at noon. What would be more interesting than the specu-
lations of such a captain upon the cause of the marvellous dis-
pensation ? And what more amusing than the commentaries of
the forecastle, and the learned explanation of the veteran salts
to the raw recruits ? But all this absorbing lore has hopelessly
disappeared, and the mariner's compass will for ever remain
mysterious in its principle, mysterious in its origin, mysterious
in its history. — Goodrich's The Sea.

THE FUTURE OP AMERICA.

Let ub not forget the religious character of our origin. Onr
fathers were brought hither by their high veneration for the
Christian religion. They journeyed in its light, and labored in
its hope. They sought to incorporate its principles with the
elements of the:? society, and to diffuse its influence through all
their institutions, civil, political, and literary. Let us cherish
these sentiments, and extend their influence still more widely ;
in the full conviction that that is the happiest society which
partakes in the highest degree of the mild and peaceable spirit
of Christianity.

The hours of this day are rapidly flying, and this occasion
will soon be passed. Neither we nor our children can expect to
behold its return. They are in the distant regions of futurity,
they exist only in the all-creating power of God, who shall stand
here, a hundred years hence, to trace, through us, their descent
from the pilgrims, and to survey, as we have now surveyed, the
progress of their country during the lapse of a century. We
would anticipate their concurrence with us in our sentiments of
deep regard for our common ancestors. We would anticipate

FAREWELL ADDRESS TO THE SENATE.

321

and partake the pleasure with which they will then recount tho
steps of New England's advancement. On the morning of that
day, although it will not disturb us in our repose, the voice of
acclamation and gratitude, commencing on the rock of Ply-
mouth, shall be transnfttted through millions of the sons of the
pilgrims, till it lose itself in the murmurs of the Pacific seas.

We would leave, for the consideration of those who shall then
occupy our places, some proof that we hold the blessings trans-
mitted from our fathers in just estimation ; some proof of our
attachment to the cause of good government, and of civil and
religious liberty ; some proof of a sincere and ardent desire to
promote everything which may enlarge the understandings and
improve the hearts of men. And when, from the long distance
of a hundred years, they shall look back upon us, they shall
know, at least, that we possessed affections, which, running back-
ward, and warming with gratitude for what our ancestors have
done for our happiness, run forward also to our posterity, and
meet them with cordial salutation, ere yet they have arrived on
the shore of Being.

Advance, then, ye future generations! "We would hail you as
you rise in your long succession to fill the places which we now
fill, and to taste the blessings of existence where we are passing,
and soon shall have passed, our human duration. We bid you
welcome to this pleasant land of the fathers. We bid you wel-
come to the healthful skies and the verdant fields of New
England. We greet your accession to the great inheritance
which we have enjoyed. We welcome you to the blessings of
good government and religious liberty. We welcome you to the
treasures of science and the delights of learning. We welcome
you to the transcendent sweets of domestic life, to the happi-
ness of kindred and parents and children. We welcome you
to the immeasurable blessings of rational existence, the immortal
hope of Christianity, and the light of everlasting Truth !

— "Webster.

FAREWELL ADDRESS TO THE SENATE.

I Y**^M 1806, the period of my entrance upon this noble
theatre, with short intervals to the present time, I have been

^ngaged in the public councils at home or abroad. Of tho
services rendered during that long and arduous period of my
hfe, it does ndt become me to speak ; history, if she deign to

lit; i'^>\».!

322

FAREWELL ADDKESy TO THE SENATE.

notice mo, and posterity, if the recollection of my humble actions
shall ho transmitted to posterity, are the best, the truest, and
the most impartial judges. Wljen death has closed the scene,
their sentence will be pronounced, and 4o that I commit myself

During that long period, however, I have not escaped the
fate of other public men, nor failed to incur censure and detrac-
tion of the bitterest, most unrelenting, and most malignant
character ; and, though not always insensible to the pain it wa.>
meant to inflict, I have borne it, in general, with composure, and
without disturbance, waiting, as I have done, in perfect and
undoubting contidence, for the ultimate triumph of justice and
of truth, and in the entire persuasion that time would settle all
things as they should be, and that, whatever wrong or injustice
I might experience at the hands of man, He to whom all hearts
are open and fully known, would, by the inscrutable dispensations
of His providence, rectify all error, redress all wrong, and cause
ample justic, to be done.

But I hr-ve not, meanwhile, been unsustained. Everywhere
throughout the extent of this great continent, I have had cordial,
warm-hearted, faithful and devoted friends, who have known
loved me, and appreciated my motives. To them, if

language were capable of fully expressing my acknowledgments, I
would now offer all the return I have the power to make for
their genuine, disinterested, and persevering fidelity and devoted
attachment, the feelings and sentiments of a heart overflowiDg
with never-ceasing gratitude. If, however, I fail in suitable
language to express my gratitude to them for all the kindness
they have shown me, V7hat shall T say, what can I say at all
commensurate with those feelings of gratitude with which I
have been inspired by the State whose humble representative and
servant E have been in this chamber ?

I emigrated from Virginia to the state of Kentucky, now,
nearly forty-five years ago ; I went as an orphan boy who had l
not yet attained the age of majority; who had never recognized
a father's smile nor felt his warm caresses ; poor, penniless,
without the favor of the great, with an imperfect and neglected
education, hardly suflBcient for the ordinary business and commoD
pursuits of life ; but scarce had I set my foot upon her generous
soil, when I was embraced with parental fondness, caressed as
though I had been a favorite child, and patronized with liberal j
and unbounded munificence.

From that period the highest honors of the State have been j

|: ! '.

FAREWELL ADDRESS TO THE .SENATE.

323

freely bestowed upor me ; and when, in the darkest hour of
calamny and detraction, I seemed to be assailed by all the rest
of the world, she interposed hor broad and impenetrable shield,
repelled the poisoned shafts that were aimed for my destruction,
and vindicated my good name from every malif^naut and un-
founded aspersion. I return with indescribable pleasure to
linger a while longer, and mingle with the warm-hearted and
whole-souled people of that state ; and when the last scene
shall for ever close upon me. I hope that my earthly remains
will be laid under her green sod with those of her gallant and
patriotic sons.

In the course of a long and arduous public service, especially
daring the last eleven years in which I have held a seat in tho
Senate, from the same ardor and enthusiasm of character, I
have no doubt, in the heat of debate, and in an honest endeavor
to maintain my opinions against adverse opinions alike honestly
entertained, as to the best course to be adopted for the public
welfare, I may have often inadvertently and unintentionally, in.
moments of excited debate, made use of language that has been
offensive, and susceptible of injurious interpretation, toward my
brother senators. If there be any here who retain wounded
feelings of injury or dissatisfaction, produced on such occasions,
I beg to assure them that I now offer the most ample apology
for any departure on my part from tho established rules of par-
liamentary decorum and courtesy. On the other hand, I assure
senators, one and all, without exception and without reserve,
that I retire from this chamber without carrying with me a single
feeling of resentment or dissatisfaction to the Senate or any of
its members.

I go from this place under the hope that we shall mutually
consign to perpetual oblivion whatever personal collisions may,
at any time, unfortunately have occurred between us ; and that
our recollections shall dwell in future only on those conflicts of
mind with mind, those intellectual struggles, those noble exhibi-
tions of the powers of logic, argument, and eloquence, honor-
able to the Senate and to the nation, in which each has sought
and contended for what he deemed the best mode of accomplishing
one common object, the interest and the best hap^ness of our
beloved country. To these thrilling and delightful scenes it will
be my pleasure -and my pride to look back, on my retirement,
with unmeasured satisfaction. — Henry Clay.

I ;

I : '

324 CIRCULATION OF THE BLOOD.

CIUCULATION OF THE BLOOD.

The manner in which the blood-vessels are disposed in the humar.
body bears some resemblance to the arrangement of the pipes by
which a great city is supplied with water. London is supplied
by means of an engine contrived for the purpose of distributing
the water of the Now River through the city. Large trunks are
carried from this machine in difii i out directions ; smaller pipes
branch out from these trunks into streets, lanes, and alleys ; still
smaller ones issue from them, and convey the water into private
houses. So faB the resemblance is complete. These water-pipei,
represent the arteries which carry the blood from the heart to
the extremities of the body ; but in the human body anotber
contrivance was necessary. The citizens of London may use the
water or waste it as they please ; but the precious fluid conveyed
by the arteries to the ends of the fingers must be returned to the
heart ; for on its unceasing circulation our health depends.

In order to effect this purpose, another set " pipes is prepared,
called veiiiSy which, joining the extremities e arteries, receive

the blood from them, and carry it back again to the heart. The
veins present the same general appearance as the arteries ; but as
it is the oflBce of the arteries to distribute the blood, so it is that
of the veins to collect it. Through them it flows back to the
heart in a manner just the reverse of that in which it sets out;
the minute veins unite in larger branches, the larger branches
in still larger trunks, till the collected blood is at length poured
into the heart through one opening.

The engine that works this curious machinery is the heart
The heart is composed of four cavities. Like other muscles, it
has the power of contracting ; and when it contracts, the sides of I
its cavities are squeezed together, so as to force out any fluid the
heart may at that moment contain. This purpose being effected,
the fibres relax, the heart once more becomes hollow, and as it
dilates, the blood pours into the cavities from the large veins
which brmg it back to the heart. The next contraction forces I
the blood into the arteries, the quantity thus impelled being al-
ways equal* to that which has just been received; and thus this
wonderful organ goes on, alternately contracting and dilating it-
self /owr thouscmd times in an hour. Month after month, year
after year, it goes on without weariness or interruption, conveying
renewed strength to every part of the body. The two large>t|

THE SUN.

325

cavities of the heart, which send out the blood to the nrtcrics,
fire caWed ventricles ; the two smallest, which receive it from the
veins, auricles. All the arteries are furnished with valves that
play easily forward, but admit not the blood to return to the
heart.

In all this there is abundant evidence of wise contrivance.
The blood, in going out from the heart, is continually passing
from wide tubes into those which are narrower ; in coming
back, it passes from narrow vessels into wider; consequently
presses the sides of the arteries >vith greater force than it
acts against the coats of the veins. To prevent any danger
from this difference of pressure, the arteries are formed of
much tougher and stronger materials than the veins. This is
one difference between the two ; there is another still more
strikingly illustrative of the care of the Great Artificer. As a
wound in the arteries, through which the blood passes with such
force from the heart, would be more dangerous than a wound in
the veins, the arteries are defended not only by their stronger
texture, but by their more sheltered situation. They are deeply
buried among the muscles, or they creep along grooves made for
them in the bones. The under side of the ribs is sloped and
fnrrowed, to allow these important tubes to pass along in safety ;
and in the fingers, which are liable to so many casualties, the
bones are hollowed out in the inside like a scoop. Along this
channel the artery runs in such security, that you might cut your
finger across to the bone without doing it any injury.

— Mrs. Hack.

THE SUN.

The first step towards ascertaining the real size of the sun is to
determine its distance. Now, the simplest way to find the dis-
tance of an object which cannot be got at, is to measure what is
called a base line from the two ends of which it can be seen at
one and the same moment, and then to measure with proper in-
struments the angles at the base of the triangle, formed by the
distant object and the two ends of the base. Geography and
flnrveying in modern times have arrived at such perfection, that
we know the size and form of the earth we stand upon to an
extreme nicety. It is a globe a little flattened in the direction of
the poles, — the longer diameter, that across the equator, being

^Hiiiii

W jr

Hm ■■;

':.!

^Hn'

M|ji

>lw|

1 1

W'<

' ' ' 1

m ' Si *'"

'■■if

326

THE SUN.

7,9t25 miles and five furlongs, and the shorter, or polar axis,
7,899 miles, and one furlong ; and in these measures it is pretty
certain that there is not an error of a quarter of a mile. And
knowing this, it is possible to calculate, with quite as much exact-
ness as if it could be measured, the distance in a straight Im
between any two places whose geographical positions on the
earth's surface are known. Now there are two astronomical
observatories very remote from one another ; the one in the
northern hemisphere, the other in the southern — viz., at Ham-
morfest in Norway, and at the Cape of Good Hope ; both very
nearly in the same meridian, so that the sun, or the moon, or any
other heavenly body, attains its greatest altitude above the
horizon of each (or, as astronomers express it, passes the meridian
of each) very nearly at the same time. Supposing, then, that
this, its meridian altitude is carefully observed at each of these
two stations on the same day, it is easy to find by computation
the angles included between each of the two lines of direction in
which it was seen from the two places and their common lino of
junction ; so that taking this latter line for the base of a triangle,
of which the two sides are the distances of the object from either
phice, those two sides can thence be calculated by the very same
process of computation which is employed in geographical sur-
veying to find the distance of a signal from observations at the
ends of a measured base. Now, the distance between Harnmer-
fest and the Cape in a straight line is nearly 0,300 miles, and
owing to the situations of the two places in latitude, the triangle
in question is always what a land surveyor would call a favor-
able one for calculation ; so that with so long a base, we may
reasonably expect to arrive at a considerably exact knowledge of
its sides, after which a little additional calculation will readily
enable us to conclude the distance of the object observed from
the earth's centre.

When the moon is the object observed, this expectation is
found to be justified. The triangle in question, though a long
one, is not extravagantly so. Its sides are found to be tach
about thirty-eight times the length of the base, and the resulting
distance of the moon from the earth's centre, aboui; thirty diame-
ters of the latter, or more exactly sixty times and a quarter its
radius, that is to say, 288,100 (say 240,000) miles, which is
rather under a quarter of a million — so that, speaking roughly,
we may consider the moon's orbit round iho earth ns a ciid'"
aboui half a million of miles across. • In the case of the sup

THE SUN.

32;

f J:

however, it is otherwise. The sides of our triangle a^^e here what
may be called extravagantly out of proportion to its base ; aud
the result of the ealoul^on is found to assign to the sun a dis-
tance very little short of four hundi-cd times that already found
for the moon — being in effect no less than 23,984 (in round num-
1) rs 24,000) radii, or 12,000 diameters of the earth, or in miles,
i4,880,7O0, or about 95,000,000.

When so vast a disproportion exists between the distance of an
object and the base employed to measure it, a very trifling eiTor
in the measured angles produces a great one in the result.
Happily, however, there exicsts another, and a very much more
precise method, though far more refined in principle, by which
this most important element can be determined — viz., by obser-
vations of the planet Venus, at the time of its *' transit " (or
visible passage) across the sun's disc. It would lead us too far
aside from our purpose to explain this, however, at length. The
necessary observations were made at the time of tlie last transit
in 1769, and will no doubt be repeated on the next occasion of
the same kind, in 1874. From the distance of tlie sun so
obtained, a,nd from its apparent size, (or, as astronomers call it,
its angular diameter,) measured very nicely by delicate instru-
ments called micrometers, the real diameter of the sun has been
calculated at 882,000 jniles, which, I suppose, may be taken as
exact to a few odd thousands.

Now, only let us pause a little and consider among what sort
of magnitudes we are landed. It runs glibly over the tongue to
talk of a distance of 96,000,000 of miles, and a globe of 880,000
miles in diameter ; but such numbers hardly convey any distinct
notion to the mind. Let us see v/liat kind of conception we can
get of them in other ways. And first, then, as to the distance.
By railway, at an average rate of forty miles an hour, one might
travel round the world in twenty-six days and nights. At the
same rate it would take 270 years and more to get to the sun.
The ball of an Armstrong 100-pounder leaves the gun with a
speed of about 400 yards per second. Well, at the same rate of
transit it would be more than thirteen years and a quarter in its
journey to reach the sun ; and the sound of the explosion (sup-
posing it conveyed through the interval with the same speed that
sound travels in our air) would not arrive until half a year later.
The velocity of sound, or of any other impulse conveyed along a
>^tocil bar, is about sixteen times greater than in air. Now, sup-
pose the sun sind the earth connected by a steel bar. A blow

piw

lipA

328

HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OP CHAMODNI,

struck at one end of the bar, or a pull applied to it, would not be
delivered — would not begin to be felt-^at the sun till after a
lapse of 313 days. Even light, the speed of which is such that
it would travel round the globe in less time than any bird takes
to make a single stroke of his wing, requires seven minutes and
a half to reach us from the sun. — SiR John Herschel.

^'P#r

HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF

CHAMOUNI.

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star •
In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause
On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc !
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form I
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
How silently I Around thee and above,
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass ; methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge ! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, th}' crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity !

dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,

Didst vanish from my though^ . ^tranced in prayer,

1 worshipp'd the Invisible ai . >

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody.
So sweet we know not we are listening to it,
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my though*,
Yea, with my life and life's oWn secret joy,
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused
Into the mighty vision passing — there,
As in her natural form swell'd vast to heaven!

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise
Thou rawest ! not alone these swelling tears,
Mutf ! janks, and secret ecstacy ! Awake,
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart awake !
Green vales and icy cliflls, all join my hymn !

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale!
Oh struggling with the darkness all the night.
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sk}' or .when they sink !
Companion of the morning star at dawn,

BATTLE OF BALAKLAVA — CAVALRY CHARGE. 329

Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald: wake, oh wake, and utter praise!
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ?
Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light?
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ?

'And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely clad !
Who call'd you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
For ever shatter'd, and the same for ever P
Who gave you your invulnerable life.
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ?
And who commanded — and the silence came, *
Here let the billows stiSen, and have rest ?

Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow
Adown enormous ravines slope amain —
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge !
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts !
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven
Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun
Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest hue, spread garlands at your feet P
God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God!
God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice!
Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds !
And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow.
And m their perilous fall shall thunder, God !

— Coleridge.

BATTLE OF BALAKLAVA— CAVALRY CHARGE.

(A.D. 1854.)

The cavalry, who have been pursuing the Turks on the right, are
coming up to the ridge beneath us, which conceals our cavalry
from view. The heavy brigade in advance is drawn up in two
lines. The first line consists of the Scots Greys and of their old
companions in glory the Enniskillens ; the second, of the 4th
Royal Irish, of the 5th Dragoon Guards, and of the 1st Royal
Dragoons. The Light Cavalry Brigade is on their left, in two
lines also. The silence is oppressive ; between the cannon bursts
one can hear the champing of bits and the clink of sabres in the

330

BATTLE OF BALAKLAVA — CAVALRY CHARGE.

''"'1\

valley below. The Russians on their left drew breath for a mo-
ment, and then in one grand line dashed at the Highlanders,
The ground flies beneath their horses' feet ; gathering speed at
every stride, they dash on towards that thin red streak topped
with a line of steel. The Turks fire a volley at eight hundred
yards, and run. As the Russians come within six htfndred yards,
down goes that line of steel in front, and out rings a rolling vol-
ley of Minie musketry. The distance is too great ; the Russians
are not checked, but still sweep onward through the smoke, with
the whole force of horse and man, here and there knocked over
by the shot of our batteries above. With breathless suspense
every one awaits the bursting of the wave upon the line of Gaelic
rock ; but ere they come within a hundred and fifty yards, an-
other deadly volley flasi^os from the levelled rifle, and carries
death and terror into the Russians. They wheel about, open
;|j files right and left, and fly back faster than they came. " Bravo,

Highlanders! well done! " shout the excited spectators. But
events thicken. The Highlanders and their splendid front are
soon forgotten; men scarcely have a moment to think of this
fact, that the 98d never altered their formation to receive that
tide of horsemen. " No," said Sir Colin Campbell, " I did not
think it worth while to form them even four deep ! " The ordi-
nary British line, two deep, was quite suflBcient to repel the
attack of these Muscovite cavaliers. Our eyes were, however,
turned in a moment on our own cavalry. We saw Brigadier-
General Scarlett ride along in front of his massive squadrons.
The Russians — evidently corits d'elite — their light blue jackets
embroidered with silver lace, were advancing on their left, at an
easy gallop, towards the brow of the hill. A forest of lances
glistened in their rear, and several squadrons of gray-coated
dragoons moved up quickly to Rapport them as they reached the
summit. The instant they came in sight, the trumpets of our
cavalrygave out the warning blastwhich told usall that in another
moment we should see the shock of battle beneath our very eyes.
Lord Raglan, all his staff" and escort, and groups of officers, the
Zouaves, French generals and oflBcers, and bodies of French in-
fontry on the height, were spectators of the scene, as though they
were looking on the stage from the boxes of a theatre. Nearly
every one dismounted and sat down, and not a word was said.
The Russians advanced down the hill at a slow canter, which
they changed to a trot, and at last nearly halted. Their first
line was at least double the length of ours — it was three timeaas

HATTLE OF BALAKLAVA— CAVALRY CHARGE.

331

deep. Behind them was a similar line, equally strong and com-
pact. They evidently despised their insiguiticant-looking enemy :
but their time was come. The trumpets rang out again through
the valley, and the Greys and Enniskilleners went right at the
centre of the Russian cavalry. The space between them was
only a few hundred yards ; it v. as scarce enough to let the horseu
"gather way," nor had the men quite space sufl&cient for the full
play of their sword-arms. The Russian line brings forward each
wing as our cavalry advance, and threatens to annihilate them as
they pass on. Turning a little to their left so as to meet the
Russian right, the Greys rush on with a cheer that thrills to
every heart — the wild shout of the Enniskilleners rises through
the air at the same instant. As lightning flashes through a
cloud, the Greys and Enniskilleners pierced through the dark
masses of Russians. The shock was but for a moment. There
was a clash of steel and a light play of sword-blades in the air,
and then the Greys and the red-coats disappear in the midst of
the shaken and quivering columns. In another moment we see
them emerging and dashing on with diminished numbers ^d in
broken order against the second line, which is advancing against*
them as fast as it can, to retrieve the fortune of the charge. It
was a terrible moment. " God help them ! they are lost ! " was
th' oxclamation of more than one man, and the thought of
many. With unabated fire, the noble hearts dashed at their
enemy. It was a fight of heroes. The first line of Russians —
which had been smashed utterly by our charge, and had fled ofi"
at one flank and towards the centre — were coming back to swal-
low up our handful of men. By sheer steel and sheer courage,
, Enniskillener and Scot were winning their desperate way right
through the enemy's squadrons, and already gray horses and red-
coats had appeared right at the rear of the second mass, when,
with irresistible force, like a bolt from a bow, the 1st Royals,
the 4th Dragoon Guards, and the 5th Dragoon Guards rushed at
the remnants of the first line of the enemy, went through it as
though it were made of pasteboard, and, dashing on the second
body of Russians, as they were still disordered by the terrible
assault of the Greys and their companions, put them to utter
rout. — W. H. Russell.

5'Wi

332

THE INSUFFJCIENCY OF NATURAL THEOLOGY.

CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

S i

I.
Half a league, half a league,

Haifa league onward.
All in the valley of death

Rode the six hundred.
" Forward the Light Brigade !
Charge for the guns," he said.
Into the valley of death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not though the soldier knew

Some one had blunder'd :
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into^the valley of death

Rode the six hundred.

III.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them,

Volley'd and thunder'd ;
Storm'd at with shot and shell.
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of death.
Into the mouth of hell

Rode the six hundred.

IV.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air.

Sabring the gunners there.
Charging an army, while

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

broke ;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroko

Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but —

Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them.
Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd ;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of death,
Back from the mouth of hell.
All that was left of them ;

Left of six hundred.

VI.

When can their glory fade ?
Oh the wild charge they made !

All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made !
Honour the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred !

— Tennyson.

THE INSUFFICIENCY OF NATURAL THEOLOGY.

If we would deliver the truth of God's justice from these mis^
apprehensions, whether wilful or accidental, what process, we
ask you, lies at our disposal ? It is quite useless to try abstract
reasoning. The mind can evade it, and the heart has no concern
with it. It will avail nothing to insist on the literal force of
expression. The whole mischief lies in the questioning the

THE IN9DFPICIENCY OF NATURAL THEOLOOr.

ENNYSON.

thorough putting into effect; in the doubting whether what i-;
denounced shall be^point by point inflicted. What then shall
we do with this truth of God's justice ? We reply, we must
make it truth " as it is in Jesus." We send a man at once to
the cross of Christ. We bid him gaze on the illustrious and
mysterious victim, stooping beneath the amazing burden of
human transgression. We ask him whether he thinks there was
remission of penalty on behalf of Him, who, though clothed in
humanity, was one with Deity ; or that the vials of wrath were
spoiled of any of their scalding drops, ere emptied on the surety
of our alienated tribes ? We ask him whether the agonies of
the garden, and the terrors of the crucifixion, furnish not a
sufficient and thrilling demonstration that God's justice, when it
takes in hand the exaction of punishment, does the work
thoroughly ; so that no bolt is too ponderous to be driven into
the soul, no oflfence too minute to be set down in the reckoning ?
And if, when the sword of justice awoke against the fellow of
the Almighty, it returned not to the scabbard til' bathed in the
anguish of the suflferer ; and if God's hatred of sm be so intense
and overwhelming a thing, that ere transgressors could be re-
ceived into favor, the eternal Son interposed, and humbled
Himself so that angels drew back confounded, and endured
vicariously such extremity of wretchedness that the earth reeled
at the spectacle, and the heavens were darkened ; why shall
there, or can there, be harborage of the deceitful expectation,
that if any one of us, the sons of the apostate, rush on the bosses
of the buckler of the Lord, and make trial for himself of the
justice of the Almighty, he shall not find that justice as strict in
its works as it is stern in itti words, prepared to deal out to him
unsparingly and unflinchingly the fiery portion whose threaten-
ings glare from the pages of Scripture ? So then we may count
it legitimate to maintain that the truth of God being a juKt
God is appreciated truth, and effective truth, only in the degree
that it is truth " as it is in Jesus : " and we add, consequently,
new witness to the fact, that the definition of our text describes
truth accurately under its influential and life-giving forms.

We may pursue much the same line of argument in reference
to the truth of the love of God. We may confess that he who
looks not at this attribute through the person and work of the
Mediator, may obtain ideas of it which shall in certain respects
he correct. And yet, after all, it would be hard to prove satis-
factorily, by natural theology, that " God is love," (John iv. 8.)

J 'ft''!

"■^ I

334

THE LAW OF .NATURE AND NATIONS.

There may be a kind of poetical or Arcadian divinity, drawn
from the brightness of sunshine, and the rich enamel of flowers,
and the deep dark blue of a sleeping lake. And taking the
glowing landscape as their page of theology, men may sketch to
themselves God unlimited in His benevolence. But when the
sunshine is succeeded by the darkness, and the flowers are
withered, and the waters wrought into madness, can tliey find
in the wrath and devastation that assurance of God's love which
they derived unhesitatingly from the calm and the beauty ? The
matter of fact we hold to be, that natural theology, at the best,
is a system of uncertainties, a balancing of opposites. 1 should
draw diflferent conclusions from the genial breathings of one dav
and the desolating simoom of the next. And though, when I had
thrown me down on an Alpine summit, and looked forth on the
clusterings of the grand and the lovely, canopied with an azure
that was full of glory, a hope that my Creator loved me might
be gathered from scenery teeming with impresses of kind-
ness, and apparently sending out from waving forests, and gush-
ing fountains, and smiling villages, the anthem of an acknow-
ledgment that God is infinitely beneficent ; yet if, on a sudden,
there passed around me the mshings of the hurricane, and there
came up from the valleys the shrieks of an afli'ighted peasantry,
and the torrents went down in their strength, sweeping away
the labor of man's hands, and the corn and the wood which had
crowned the fields as a diadem ; oh, the confidence which had
been given me by an exhibition which appeared eloquent of the
benevolence of the Godhead, would yield to horror and trepidation,
whilst the Eternal One seemed walking before me, the tempest
His voice, and the lightning His glance, and a fierce devastation
in His every footprint. — Melville.

s ■

THE LAW OF NATURE AND NATIONS.

The science which teaches the rights and duties of men and of
states has, in modern times, been called " the law of nature and
nations." Under this comprehensive title are included the rules
of morality as they prescribe the conduct of private men towards
each other in all the various relations of human life ; as they
regulate both the obedience of citizens to the laws and the
authority of the magistrate in forming laws and administering
government ; and as they modify the intercourse of independent

THE LAW OF NATURE AND NATIONS.

835

commonwealths in peace, and prescribe limits to their hostility
in war. This important science comprehends only that part of
private ethics which is capable of being reduced to fixed and
general rules. It considers only those general principles of
jarisppudence and politics which the wisdom of the lawgiver
adapts to the peculiar situation of his own country, and which
the skill of the statesman applies to the more fluctuating and
infinitely varying circumstances which affect its immediate wel-
fare and safety. " J?^or there arc in nature certain founts of
justice whence all civil laws are derived, but m streams; and
like as waters do take tinctures and tastes from the soils through
which they run, so do civil laws vary according to the regions
and governments where they are planted, though they proceed
from the same fountains." *

On the great questions of morality, of politics, and of muni-
cipal law, it is the object of this science to deliver only those
fandamental truths of which the particular application is as ex-
tensive as the whole private and public conduct of men : — to
discover those "fountains of justice" without pursuing the
"streams" through the endless variety of their course. But
another part of the subject is to be treated with greater fulness
and minuteness of application ; namely, that important branch
of it which professes to regulate the relations and intercourse of
states, and more especially (both on account of their greater per-
fection and their more immediate reference to use) the regulations
of that intercourse as they are modified by the usages of the
civilized nations of Christendom. Here this science no longer
rests on general principles. That province of it which we now
call the " law of nations," has, in many of its parts, acquired
among European ones much of the precision and certainty of
positive law ; and the particulars of that law are chiefly to be
found in the works of those writers who have treated of the science
of which I now speak. It is because they have classed, in a
manner which seems peculiar to modern times, the duties of in-
dividuals with those of nations, and established their obligations
on similar grounds, that the science has been called " the law of
nature and nations." — Mackintosh.

* Bacon's " Advancement of Learning."

336

SURRENDER OF KARS.

I t

THE CITY OF KABS.

SURRENDER OF KARS.

(A.D. 1855.)

Nov. 25. — General Williams aud bis aide-de-camp, Teesdale, ride
over under a flag of truce to the Russian camp. They are well
received by Mouravieff. The general tells his chivalrous enemy
that he has no wish to rob him of his laurels ; the fortress con-
tains a large train of artillery, with numerous standards and a
variety of arms ; but the army has not yet surrendered, nor will
it without certain articles of capitulation. " If you grant not
these," exclaimed the general, " every gun shall be burst, everv
standard burnt, every trophy destroyed, and you may then work
your will on a famished crowd." "I have no wish," answered
Mouravieff, " to wreak an unworthy vengeance on a gallant and
long-suffering army, which has covered itself with glory, and
only yields to famine. Look here," he exclaimed, pointing to
a lump of bread and a handful of roots, " what splendid troops
must these be who can stand to their arms in this severe climate on
food such as this ! General Williams, you have made yoarseli
a name in history, and posterity will stand amazed at the en-
durance, the courage, and the discipline which this siege has
called forth in the remains of an army. Let us arrange a capii'^'
lation that will satisfy the demands of war, without outraging

SURKKNDRR OF KARS. %

337

hnmanity." I leave my readers to imagine anytliinn; more
touching than the interview between these gallant leaders, whose
pyes were suffused with tears, while their hearts were big with
sentiments of high honor and grateful benevolence.

The, terras of capitulation arranged to-day to be laid before
tho Turkish officers were briefly as follows : — *

" The officers and soldiers of the regular army were to pile
arms in camp, and march out with their music and colors, and
surrender themselves prisonors-of-war t<» tho Russian army."

(" And here," exclaimed General Mouravicff to tho secrotaiy,
"write that, in admiration of the noble and devoted courage dis-
played by the army of Kars, the officers shall bo allowed to
retain their swoids, as a mark of honor and respect.")

" All private property, the castle, mosques, and other public
buildings are to be respected, and the inhabitants protected from
pillage or insult. The militia, the Bashi-Bozooks are allowed to
depart unarmed to their homes. The medical corps and other
non-combatants are to be released, and be free to serve again in
any other army. A' certain number of foreign officers, and tho
subjects of states not at war with Russia, are to bo allowed to
depart, on condition of not serving again during the continuance
of the war."

After a somewhat long interview with General Mouravicff,
Greneral Williams returns to the camp.

I am told that Selim Pasha could easily have advanced to our
relief from Erzeroom, and that Major Stuart and the other
British officers in that city did their utmost to impel him to
march out, or at least to allow his troops to march with them.
Nevertheless, I am inclined to believe that what would have
been a daring, and probably successful, exploit with British
troops, was all but hopeless with men who may be said to have
been without officers, excepting a few gallant Englishmen, who
were ignorant of their language, and who would have found
them wholly unjiccustomed to manoeuvres in the field. Selim
Pasha had not n ore, I believoj than 8000 troops ; his cavalry,
with which Major Cameron, Captain Peel, and Mr. Evans offefcd
to cut their way through the beleaguering force, were of tho most
inofficient description, and there was a corps of first-rate Russian
troops on his right flank at Bayazid. Nevertheless, had it not
been for the mendacious despatches of this Turkish general, wo
might have cut our way out of Kars through the enemy, after
having destroyed our guns and standards, and while yet the

338

ODE TO DUTY.

ii'llL.'

strength of our mon allowed them to perform the feat, Sdiml
Pasha might have awaited us in some good position. This plan
was, I know, a favorite idea of General Williams, whicii he
abandoned reluctantly when the desperate condition of his
famished troops pointed out its impracticability. The constant [
despatches of Selim Pasha encouraged us to continue in our posi-
tion to the utmost limit of human endurance; and added tnl
our other miseries by practising upon us a heartless and ignoble
deception.

The British Government did assuredly choose the very host I
man for the peculiar and trying duties that devolved upon Gciieral
Williams. Under him each British ofl&cer felt it a pride and a
pleasure to serve, while his peculiar knowledge and largo ex-
perience of the Turkish character enabled him to detect and
frustrate intrigues, to chock peculation, and to stimulate Asiatic
apathy ; his many noble qualities endeared him to the soldiery.
and made the people his enthusiastic partisans. No one can'
deuy that he was truly " the right man in the right place."

— Dii. Sandwith.

ODE TO DUTY.

Stern daughter of the'^'^ico of God!
O duty ! it" that ii: mo thou love,
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, .md r e[ 'ove —
Thou, who art victory and law,
When empty terrors overawe ;
From vain temptationa dost set free,
And calra'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 ! without reproach or

blot,
Who do thy • ?^ork and know it not;
Long may the kindly impulse last !
But thou, if they should totter,

teach them to stand fast !

Serene will be our days and bright.
And happy will our nature be,

When love is an unerring light,
And joy its own security.
And they a blissful course may hold |
Even now, who, not unwisely bold,,
Live in the spirit of this creed,
Yet find that other strength, ac-
cording to their need.

T, loving freedom, and untried,
No sport of every random gust,
Yet, being to myself a guide.
Too b^'nvdly have reposed my trust;
And oft, when in my heart Tvas

herrd
Th^' timely mandate, I deferr'd
The task, in smoother walks to|

stray ;
But thee I now would serve more |

strictly if I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul.

Or strong compunction in ni«

-yronght,

Kl I'l-'ESENTATIVK <.OVFRN.VKNT IN KNOF-AND.

339

Isiipplicato for thy control,
But in the quiotnoss of thought;
Mo this unchnrtor'd froodom tiros;
I feci the weight of chance dcsiroa,
My hopes no more must change

their name,
I long for a repose that ever is the

same.

Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost
wear [grace ;

The Godhead's most henignant
Nor know wo anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face;
Flowers laugh before thee on their

beds,
And fragrance in thy footing treads;

Thou dost preserve the stars from

wrong;
And the most ancient heavens,

through thee, are fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful power!

1 call thee*: I myself commend

Unto thy guidance from thin
hour ;

Oh, let my weakness have an
end !

Give unto mo, make lowly wise,

The spirit of self-sacrifice;

The confidence of reason give ;

And in the light of truth thy bond-
man let me live!

— Wordsworth.

Id serve more

CAUSES OF THE ESTABLISHMENT OF
REPRESENTATIVE GOVERNMENT IN ENGLAND.

To nations, as well as individuals, sufferings arc often of use ; it
may be that England owes her liberties to the Norman conquest.
When between the fifth and seventh centuries the Goths invaded
Spain, the Franks Gaul, and the Lombards Italy, what could bo
the result but anarchy and slavery ? Wandering tribes, with no
habit of social life, no laws, no restraints, falling upon a frightened
degraded people — spiritless, downcast, who had almost ceased to
be a people ; of course the result was, that the conquered became
slaves of the conquerors. But this was not the case in England
when William conquered it,, and transferred his empire there.
Then it was one nation, (barbarous, it is true, but still a nation,)
with habits of social life, laws and institutions, though rude and
uncnltivated, which subdued another nation, equally having laws
and habits of its own, in many instances not dissimilar from those
of their conquerors. Their primitive origin had been the same;
therefore the conquest, though it brought many evils in its train,
did not produce the entire dissolution of the two people, as it had
done on the Continent, nor the pcrmament subjection of one race
to the other. The forced approximation of the two races produced
many reasons for fraternizing.

This circumstance, in my opinion, has not been fairly recor^nized
l)y English historians. Naturally, a people detests owing anything

340

CAUSES OF THE ESTABLISHMENT OP

to that v/hich, for a long time, was a source of unhappincsR and
mortification to it. But the oppression of the Normans has!
ceased for centuries ; for many centuries both Saxons and Nor-
mans have alike disappeared, yet the remembrance of the twelfth I
century still exists, and can be traced in th(; present day in the
opinions of the different parties. Tory writers pay little attention
to the Anglo-Saxon institutions ; Whigs, on the contrary, attach
the utmost importance to them, and refer to them the origin of
all their liberties. They say that, on the Continent, the feudal
system was unable to produce one free government; and they
attribute to the Normans what of despotism and feudality exists
in their government, whilst they regard the Saxons as the authors
of their rights and guarantees. This is not a correct view. It j
is true, Saxon institutions were the primitive cradle of English
liberties ; but there are good reasons for doubting if they alone,
without the help of the conquest, would have been able to found
a free government in England. The conquest brought forth a I
new character; political freedom was the result of the situation
in which the two nations were placed towards each other. Look-
ing at Anglo-Saxon institutions alone, and their results to-^vards
the middle of the eleventh century, v/e see nothing very diiferent
from those of other countries.

From the fifth to the eleventh century, there was in Great
Britain, as in Gaul, a continued struggle between free, monarchical,
and aristocratic institutions, and there is nothing to indicate the
approaching triumph of free institutions ; on the contrary, evident
symptoms of their decline, as on the Continent. Their local insti-
tutions differed little from those of the Franks. The country
was divided into tithinga, hundredF, and counties, in each of
which meetings were held and presided over by the tithingman,
the chief of the hundred, and the earl or chief of the county, or
by his deputy or sheriff. At these courts justice was adminis-
tered, and .ill the civil transactions of the divisions were carried
on there. These meetings, at first frequent, became by degrees
more rare, till at last they had nearly disappeared. At the general
county courts, which were never of tener than twice a year, all the
freehold proprietors of the county were bound to attend, or pay
the penalty, (a fine ;) but the frequency and urgency of the sum-
mons proves how much they were neglected. It is therefore
clear, that though the principle of free government — public del'-
bcration — still existed, its vigor was much impaired.

However, aristocratic institutions, or the right of man over

UEFREbEJSTATlVE GOVERNMENT IN ENGLAND.

341

f man over

mau, was a system mucL. less dangerous to English liberty than
it was in France ; but the germ of this evil still existed, and
' was developed in England as in France, by gradual encroach-
ments on individual liberty. There is no doubt that in England,
before the conquest, a great number of freemen lived under
the protection of le great lord, whose jurisdiction over his do-
mains was often almost sovereign, and superseded the legal
tribunals. In the reign of Edward the Confessor royalty suffered
mach, and from the same causes under which it sank in France
daring the dynasty of the Carlovingians. The great vassa's of
the crown — Earl Godwin, Siward Duke of Northumberland,
Leofric Duke of Mercia, and several others — were dangerous rivals
of the king, and were on the point of converting their several
domains, counties, and dukedoms into independent sovereignties.
Harold, usurping the crown from Edgar Atheling, the rightful
heir, resembles very nearly Hugh Capet. The sovereignty was
evidently tending to dismemberment, the national unity to disso-
lution. The Witenagemote, or Champ de Mars of the Anglo-
Saxons, had originally consisted of the freemen and warriors ;
bat by degrees the new element, territorial influence, crept
in, which gradually changed its character, till it became merely
the general assembly of thanes or landed proprietors. These wei*e
again divided into the large proprietors, who from their strength
and importance, or from being the companions and immediate
vassals of the crown, were called royal thanes, and the lesser
thanes. The former gradually became negligent about attend-
ing; confined themselves more and more to their own domains ;
trusting in their great strength, they refused to exercise it for the
benefit of ithe public ; and, in fact, exercised all the rights of
petty sovereigns. Since the middle of the tenth century, the
Witenagemote, after undergoing these successive changes, almost
entirely disappeared. What is there in this different from the
history of the Franks ? Yet, notwithstanding these points of
similarity, there were some essential differences, which led to dif-
ferent results. There was more unity in the population of Great
Britain than in that of Gaul. The ancient inhabitants, the
Britons, though perhaps not completely destroyed, were so en-
tirely subjected that they were utterly unimportant. In a small
compact kingdom like that of Great Britain, it was more difficult
to shake existing institutions ; in fact, most of the central estab-
lishments, such as county courts, corporations, &c., though much
decayed and weakened, still preserved some little life and vigor

l'%l

J* Ik 5

\ '«

342

CAUSES OF THE ESTABLISHMENT OF

<J'

V '■■ni

in the provinces, in the middle of the eleventh century. The I
feudal system, too, was not nearly as advanced or as matured as
it was on the Continent. Nevertheless, I do not believe that
these circumstances, though they might, and most probably
would, have retarded the growth of aristocratic and monarchical
principles, would have had strength entirely to check them, or to
prevent the anarchy which would have been the result of the
struggle. But the Norman conquest by uniting the Anglo-
Saxons more closely together, and by infusing more life into those
hiv.'s and institutions which guai-anteed freedom, put a check to
this downward tendency. It gave more unity, more system, to
both parties. After the conquest, the Normans, being a small,
though strong body, encamped in an enemy's country, surrounded
by people jealous of their independence, and waiting but for the
opportunity to regain it, were forced, for their own safety, to!
cling closely together; consequently, they observed strict justice
towards each other, they established laws to which they adhered
religiously, and had no quarrels amongst themselves. Ail the
struggles that there were, were between the conquerors and the
conquered. This was far from being the case among the Gauls.
There the former inhabitants had been so completely degraded,
that they were almost entirely annihilated by the invasion of the
barbarian hordes ; so that the conquerors there might settle any-
where with impunity, far from their neighbors, and n\ight be
quite independent of those of their own race ; which, after a
time, led to so many independent dukedoms and sovereignties.
in England, too, the conquerors did not seize laud here and land
there, as they fancied, but they always made a pretence of justice,
and seized those which had been confiscated by the rebellion of
their owners. The great aim William and all the Normans had
in view, was to establish the supremacy of the Normans over the
Saxons, and that of the royal power over the Normans. Nearly
six hundred vassals took, the oath of allegiance to him; and as
if to guard against their future independence, particularly those
whom he enriched most, he scattered their domains in different
counties. The territory was divided into sixty fiefs, which were
given to knights who took the oath of fidelity. The Doomsday
Book, the statistics of the fiefs and their owners, begun in 1081
by William's orders, and finished in 1086, is an existing monu-
ment of the orders and cohesion of the Norman aristocracy.
twenty years after its establishment in England.

These same causes, these same necessities, of course produced

REPRESENTATIVE GOVERNMENT IN ENGLAND.

343

analogous effects upon the Saxons. The spirit of r ationality,
which was beginning to die away before the conqvest, revived
under the weight of foreign oppression. It g:av j the whole
population, a strong fierce i-ace, one interest, one c^jling, one ob-
ject — that of expelling the conquerors. For this purpose they
ouited and held closely together; to defend themselves, the
iXormaii3 united and held equally firm among themselves. They
had found in Normandy their rallying- point round the feudal
system ; the Saxons placed theirs in their ancient institutions
and laws. William's government was not entirely, at least not in
forms, one of force. After the Battle of Hastings, the tlironc
was offered to him in the name of the Saxons, and before his
coronation he swore to govern the two peoples by equal laws.
Ever since his time, the Saxons have never ceased claiming as
their right their ancient laws, the laws of Edward the Confessor,
which at various times they have recovered from their Norman
kings, when they rose strong enough to wrest anytliing from
them. They defended and claimed their property in virtue of
titles anterior to the conquest, and their titles were recognized.
Theymetin thedifferent courtsof the country, receiving justice from
their equals, and for the purpose of taking their common interests
into consideration there. Thus we see that while on the Continent
the conquest entirely destroyed both peoples, (the conquerors and
the conquered,) in England, on the contrary, it only united each
nation more firmly within itself in order to oppose the other. On
the Continent, the government and all political laws had all
perished together; in England they were more cherished than
ever. On the Continent, all interests, aims, and objects were en-
tirely individual ; in England they were thoroughly national.
On the Continent, the feudal system rose out of the destruction
of the central power and political unity ; in Englard it tended
to preserve them. The Roman Gauls, except in a very few cities,
had almost disappeared, or were in the lowest state of serfdom ;
the Saxons always maintained their position as a people, and le-
claimed and vindicated their liberties in right of their ancient
laws. In a word, in England, the conquest, instead of dispersing
and confounding everything, brought into being two strong op-
posing forces, one endeavouring to gain dominion, the other
resolutely defending their liberties. For each party, pnblic
•leliberation and ngreement was necessary — this is the principle
of all free governments. — GuizOT.

t:J 111

1 1

344 rUE ATLANTIC OCKAN AND THE TELEGRAPH.

WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE?

What constitutes a state ?
Not high-raised battlement, or labor'd mound,

Thick wall, or moated gate ;
Not cities proud, with spires and turrets crown'd ;

Not bays and broad-arm'd ports,
Wh«re, laughing at the storm, proud navies ride ;

Not starr'd and spangled courts,
Where low-brow'd baseness wafts perfume to pride !

No ! Men, high-minded men,
With powers as far above dull brutes endued,

In forest, brake, or den,
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude ; —

Men who their duties know,
But know their rights ; and, knowing, dare maintain !

, — SiK Wm. Jones.

iti'l

THE ATLANTIC OCEAN AND THE TELEGRAPH.

The Atlantic Ocean stretches from the Arctic Circle on the north
to the Antarctic Circle on the south, a distance of 9000 miles.
Its breadth varies from 1200 miles between the coasts of Green-
land and Norway, to 3500 miles from the peninsula of Florida
to Cape Verde, on the western coast of Africa. Humboldt com-
pares the bed of the Atlantic to a long, deep valley, which may
be said to extend from pole to pole. The North Atlantic varies
in depth from 6000 to 2-5,000 feet. The deepest part, says
Lieutenant Maury is probably between the Bermudas and the
Grand Banks of Newfoundland ; but how deep it may be yet
remains for the sounding line to determine. One result of recent
measurements of the depth of the Atlantic by the British and
American navies is, the certain knowledge we now possess that
the bed of the ocean, like the land, is diversified by mountains
and valleys, hills, table-lands, and plains.

Between Newfoundland and Ireland the bed of the Atlantic is
so remarkably level, that it has received the name of the Tele-
graphic Plateau, In making soundings for the telegraphic cable
across this plateau, various specimens of the bottom were brought
np, by means of an apparatus attached to the somiding-line.
These were submitted to the celebrated microscopist. Professor
Ehrcnberg, and were found to consist of minute shells, perfect m

THE ATLANTIC OCEAN AND THE TELEGKAFU.

345

PAYING OUT THE CABLE.

form, some of them quite fresh, and having the remains of the
animal in them, showing that in this part of the Atlantic there
are no currents to disturb the bottom of the sea. It is an estab-
lished fact, indeed, that there is no running water at the bottom
of the deep sea. The agents which disturb the equilibrium of the
ocean, giving violence to its waves and foi'ce to its currents, all
reside near or above its surface ; none of them have their home
in its depths.

Wherever specimens of the bottom have been obtained by the
deep-sea plummet, they have been found to consist of minute
microscopic shells. If the bottom were disturbed by currents,
these minute shells would be found scratched, and their sharp
corners and edges broken off and rounded. Moreover, were they
drifted about, sand and other scourings of the ocean would be
mixed with them. But not so ; the specimens brought up from
the deep show no such mixture, and bear no marks of abrasion
upon even their most delicate parts.

In these still and quiet waters at the bottom of the Atlantic it
was decided to lay the telegr-aphic cfible — the distance from land
to laud beiny; about IGOO miles.

^u- ,

346

THE ATLANTIC OCEAN AND THE TELEGRAPH.

ft.?)

i%\

In the summer of 1857 the Agamemnon, of the British navy
and the Niagara of {he American navy were assigned by their
respective governments to the duty of receiving on board and
laying the submarine Atlantic cable. After several unsuccessful
attempts in 1857 and 1858, the vessels met in mid-ocean, joiued
cables, and set out, the Niagara for her terminus in Trinity Bay,
Newfoundland, and the Agamemnon for hers in Valencia Harbour.
On the 5th of August the cable was successfully landed on both
shores ; and a week afterwards, messages of congratulation were
flashed across the ocean between the Queen of England and the
President of the United States.

Though short-lived, it was a grand achievement. It demon-
strated the possibility of uniting by telegraph the New World
with the Old — an achievement destined yet to be one of the great
events of the nineteenth century.*

Referring to this subject, a distinguished author thus writes:—

" Let me offer you two feebly-outlined word-pictures of events
which were transacted on the same arena, at the interval of nearly
four centuries. The epoch of the first is the autumn of 1492.
The scene is the mid- Atls ntic, and on its bosom floats the frail
caravel of Columbus. It is midnight, and the astonished pilots
are gazing with awe on the compass-needle, which has ceased to
point to the North- star, and has veered round to the west ; and
they ask the great admiral what this unheard-of variation may
mean. To him it is a mystery as well as to them, but he has an
explanation which contents them ; and for himself, however
mysterious it may be, it is anew the finger of God bidding him
sail westward still ; and he follows its new pointing, till it lands
him on the shore he has so often seen in his dreams.

" The time of the second picture is 1858. The scene, as before,
is the mid-Atlantic, and on its bosom a great English steam-ship
is silently gliding with every sail furled. It is midnight again,
and the sailors, as in the caravel four centuries ago, are gazing
with intense eyes apon a quivering needle. It is not now, how-
ever, a mere compass-needle ; but, armed with a tiny mirror, it
lies in the centre of a coil of wire looped to the great cahle,
which, as electric signals pass along it, is every moment bringing
the Old and the New Worlds nearer each other in time. Every
quiver to east and west that the needle .makes, as the voltaic
current sweeps round the coil, flashes from the mirror a spot of
light on a screen, and marks a step in progress ; and all watch
* And now (1867) successfully accomplishecl.

SCIENCK.

347

the fuce of the electrician, the Coluuibus of this voyage, to whom
alone these spots of light are intelligible and eloquent of success.
And so the mirrored, flashing galvanometer sways about, till the
voyage ends ; and then Gluria in excelsls is literally quivered in
light, as it was by its first singers the angels, and in unconscious
repetition of its chant by the kneeling crews of Columbus four
centuries ago.

" Let us wish all success to the telegraph everywhere. The
best intereiLita of the world are bound up in its progress, and its
mission is emphatically one of peace. It does not merely speak
swiftly, but softly ; and it offers men a common speech, in which
all mankind can converse together.

" Men have spoken, men have dream'd,
Of a universal tongue ;

"Universal speech can be ..

Only when the words are sung,
When our havp has all its strings,
And its music fills the air,
In a universal tongue
All the world shall share."

— Maury and Dr. G. Wilson.

i .<

tiUAPPLINQ THE CABL... BV MOONLIGHT.

SCIENCE.

{From a speech at Birmingham, in 1855, hy the late

Prince Consort.^

No human pursuits m.',ke any material progress until science is
brought to bear upon t'lem. We have seen, accordingly, many of
them slumber for centuries ; but from the moment that science
has touched them with her magic wand, they have sprung forward,
and taken strides which amaze and almost awe the beholder.
Look at the transformation which has gone on around us since
the laws of gravitation, electricity, and the expansive power of
heat have become known to us ! It has altered our whole state

,■' I.

348

SCIENCE.

r' til

of existence — one might say the whole face of the globe ! We
owe this to science, and science alone ; and she has other ti'ea-
sures in store for us, if we will but call her to our assistance. It
is sometimes objected by the ignorant that science is uncertain
and changeable ; and they point to the many exploded theories
which have been superseded by others, as a proof that the pre-
sent knowledge may be also unsound, and, after all, not worth
having. But they are not aware that while they think to cast
blame upon science, they bestow, in fact, the highest praise upon
her. For that is precisely the differei'oe between science and
prejudice : that the latter keeps stubbornly to its position, whe-
ther disproved or not ; while the former is an unarrested move-
ment toward the fountain of truth — caring little for cherished
authorities or sentiments, but continually progressing — feeling
no false shame at her shortcomings, but, on the contrary, the
highest pleasure when freed from an error, at having advanced
another step towards the attainment of divine truth, a plea-
sure not even intelligible to the pride of ignorance. We also
hear, not unft*equently, science and practice — scientific knowledge
and common sense — contrasted as antagonistic. A strange error!
For science is eminently practical, and must be so, as she sees
and knows what she is doing ; while mere common practice is
condemned to work in the dark, applying natural ingenuity to
unknown powers to obtain a known result. Far be it from me
to undervalue the creative power of genius, or to teach shrewd
common sense as worthless without knowledge. But nobody
will tell me that the same genius would not take an incompar-
ably higher flight, if supported with all the means which know-
ledge can impart, or that common sense does not become, in fact,
only truly powerful when in possession of the materials upon
which judgment is to be exercised. The study of the laws
by which the Almighty governs the universe is, therefore, our
bounden duty. These laws are most important branches of
knowledge — their study trains and elevates the mind. But
they are not the only ones. There are others which we cannot
disregard — which we cannot do without. There are, for instance,
the laws governing the human mind and its relation to the Divine
Spirit — the subject of logic and metaphysics. There are those
which govern our bodily nature and its connexion with the soul
— the subject of physiology and psychology. More which govern
human society and the relations between man and man — the sub-
jects of politics, jurisprudence, political economy, and many others.

TIlE SOCIAL SCIENCES.

340

While of the laws just mentioned, some have been recognized as
essentials of education in different institutions ; and some will,
in the course of time, more fully assert their right to recognition.
The laws regulating matter and form are those which will const i-
tnte the chief objects of your pursuits ; and as the principle of
snbdivision of labor is the one most congenial to our age, I
would advise you to keep to this specially, and to follow, with
nndivided attention, chiefly the sciences of mechanics, physics,
and chemistry, and the fine arts in painting, sculpture, and archi-
tecture. But these divine laws are capable of being discovered
and understood, and of being taught and made our own. This
is the task of science; and while science discovera and teaches
these laws, art teaches their application. No pursuit is, there-
fore, too insignificant not to be capable of becoming the subject
both of a science and an art. The fine arts — as far as they re-
late to painting and sculpture, which are sometimes confounded
with art in general — rest on the application of the laws of form
and labor, and what may be called the science of the beautiful.
They do not rest on any arbitrary theory on the modes of produc-
ing pleasurable emotions, but follow fixed laws, more difficult, per-
haps, to seize than those regulating the material world, because
belonging partly to the sphere of the ideal and our spiritual
essence, yet perfectly appreciable and teachable, both abstractedly
and historically, from the works of different ages and nations.

THE SOCIAL SCIENCES.

The most Important of all the sciences is that which professes to
teach us the rules of right living. It shows us that we are placed
in a state of society, not merely that we may provide for our own
happiness, but also that we may promote the happiness of the
whole. Certain relations, such as those of parent and child,
brother and sister, magistrate and citizen, sovereign and subject,
arise out of this social condition of our race. Each of these rela-
tionships has its appropriate duties. There is, moreover, one
great relationship in which we stand to each other as fellow-
beings, and a still greater, in which we are placed towards that
Infinite Being, who created, and who preserves both them and us.
That Infinite Being, whom we call God, has bestowed upon us
five senses, by means of which we become conscious of the vast
varifty of objects and powers inhabiting the world we live in ;

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THK SOCIAL SCIl'NCRS.

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such arc aight, smoll, tasto, hearing, and touch. But He has al^n
conferred upon us an internal and invisible sense called ro)isc)P)h,,
by which we are enabled to judge of actions, whether performed
by ourselves, or by others. This power, conscience, at onco in.
forms us what actions are right and what wrong, just as the sight
makes known to us tlui color, and touch the shape of objects,
Conscience is universal — no nation or class of people is known
that does not possess it to some extent ; and hence all TO(>n arc
held accountable for any infraction of i<s laws or disregard of if,
precepts. How necessary is it. therefore, that a sy.steni of know.
ledge of this kind should bo prepared, in order that men niigln
learn from it what their duties are, and how they should be prr.
formed, in a clearer and fuller manner than the unassisted cdii.
science teaches. The greatest system of the kind ever written is
the Bible, whereby God himself condescends to teach man the
true rules of right living. The name of the science which tcachis
the distinction botw n right and wrong in human action, and
which investigates tlu character of the moral sense or conscience,
is Ethics, from a Greek word moaning i^orfainwg to wnvveiy.
Since, however, we are placed in different relations towards our
fellow- men in society, the science may bo mnrlo to consist of seve-
rfil departments, such as the ethics of the family, of citizens, of
states between themselves, and of tlio individual towards tlic
whole human race. No science equalling that of ethics in im-
portance has as yet come under our notice.

Tn every society there must of necessity be two classes of
people, the rulers and the ruled. Thus, in the small society
called a family, the parents are supreme ; in a school, the master
or mistress ; in a city, the mayor and corporation exercise autlif^-
rity ; in a province or subordinate state, the governor and legis-
lature. The same holds good with larger societies, such as nn
empire, a kingdom, or a republic. Tt is not only necessary tliat
the subjects or citizens, those who are governed, should h
acquainted with their duties as taught bv ethical science, but
also that rulers should learn how to excrnise their autlioritj
aright, and for the welfare of the community committed to tlirir
cliarge. It is their duty to devise the best plan of government,
whether it be a despotism, as most empires and some kingdom^
are, a limited monarchy like Great Britain, or a republic as tlie
United States. They must provide for the government of tlif
country in all its particulars, by difftTent classes of oflficer%sncn
as legislators to make laws, judges to expound and apply then'

THE SOCIAL SCIKNCES.

351

and executive oflRcei-s to carry them into effect. Tfioy must also
protect those over whom they are set from violence aid injury of
every kind, by establishing police for internal safety, and military
and naval forces to guard against danger from without. The
manner of appointmg these oflBcers, the share which the people
are to be allowed in the government of themselves, and all similar
questions, are fully considered and discussed by the science of
Politics, so called from a Greek word which signifies pertaining
io a state or city.

The great ond of society is to minister to the liappinoss of all
the members composing it, by securing to them the rights and
privileges to which they are entitled. One of these rights is
that of proprrty. By so doing, society encourages the accumu-
lation of property by individuals. Sometimes this property is
in the shape of land which the owner cultivates, thus prf)viding
himself with a supply of vegetable food, or cattle which he roars
for animal food; or from both these sources he may draw
materials for clothing, such as cotton and wool. The land also
may contain valuable timber, mines of coal and metal, stone
quarries, hunting-grounds or fisheries. The owners of such
lands having much more grain, cattle, wood, coal, metal, &c.,
than they have any need for, will be glad to exchange them for
other materials. From this arises a system of barter or exchange ;
afterwards money is made use of as a convenient medium to suit
all parties, and thus trade is fairly established. Three classes
of traders spring up ; the owners of land who produce the raw
materials, the manufacturers who prepare these materials for use,
and the merchants who buy and sell the manufactured commodi-
ties. Each of these individuals makes a profit apon what he
sells or exchanges, and according to the extent of his business
and his own wisdom and foresight, he accumulates piaoperty
either in land, money, or goods, which property '^ ailed iveaUli.
Now, there is a science which deals with wealth, examining into
the various schemes for promoting it, and fixing upon the best
means of so doing. This science aims at the advancement of
national wealth, which is of course built up of individual pros-
perity. It is its duty to show how a government can best
promote the end in view, whether by encouraging certain classes,
or by leaving all alone ; it must deal with such questions as
I taxation, direct and indirect, as levied upon the income of the in-
|(iividnal, or upon the goods he buys ; and it must not neglect
the moral and intellectual conditions of the people, since upon

352

THK SOCIAL SCIKNCES.

umi

those dopcndH fo a very grreafc extent the prosperity of a routitrv.
It is the office of this fvnenco also to devise means for cariyirl{f
off a superabundant population, and for peopling ujiiiih;ibit«d
lands; such are the schemes of emigration and Cfihjnization,
These are some of the many objects of the science of Wealth or
Political Economy, the latter word being derived from the Groek,
and meaning the Imn of the house or management, since the term
was first applied to the care exercised by a skilful and thrifty
housewife ov^or her domestic concerns.

There are two other subjoctM which are sometimes erected into
separate sciences, but which may bo fairly considered as inchidcd
under ethics and politics; these are the law of nature and the
law of nations. The law of nature is nothing more than the
system of rights and obligations which God has granted to, and
imposed upon each individual as a social, moral, intelligent being,
and by which his conduct towards his fellow-men is to be shaped
and judged. The law of nations deals with the relations between
foreign countries in times of peace and war, and is frequently
called international law. It is between nations what the law
of nature is between individuals. All just legislation must be
built upon the law of nature, which has its origin in Divine
Wisdom.

All the sciences which in this and the four previous lessons
have come under our notice belong, with the exception of pure
mathematics and ethics, to the class called inductive. The "^ oid
inductive means leading into, and is applied to those systems of
knowledge which are built up from the observation and classiticjf
tion of facts, gradually ascending to general principles by means
of these. Thus, by observing and examining all the stones I
meet with, I form the conclusion that "no stones have life,"
which I could not have done had I not seen or felt stones, and
known what they were. This is induction. But pure mathe-
matics, ethics, and some other sciences which we have yet to con-
sider, are called deductive, or leading from ; because, instead of
facts being given us in order to find the general rule, the rnle
is given that we may find the facts from it. Thus, " twice two
are four " is a general principle, which is true for all objects I
whatever they may be ; and from ft we deduce the fact, that if on
two separate occasions two apples fall from a tree, four will be
the number comprehending them. I have said that nearly all
the sciences to which I have thus far directed your attention are
inductive. Of the three social sciences, two are inductivo and

ON THE DTVlStON OF LABOTl.

353

one deductive. The deductive science iH ethics. B) conscience
and divine revelation we are furoiahed with geneml principles,
iind from these we deduce rules for daily conduct. But such ig
not the case with politics and political economy. These are
built upon (acts, which it is the duty of the politician and the
economist to observe, compare, and make induction of general
laws from. There is a separate science of recent date which
deals altogether with the facts and figures upon which the two
inductive social sciences are founded ; this science is called
St.M'stics. The term statistics is a barbarous one, being composed
of a Latin word meaning standing or condition^ and a Greek ter-
miuation that signifies pertaining to. The object of the science
is to collect facts of every kind relating to social life, such as
births, marriages, deaths, health, disease, wealth, commerce, agri-
culture, military and other resources, government, crime, educa-
tion, religion, and everything tending to show tlie physical, in-
tellectual, moral, and social condition of any class of men, or of
the whole human family.

These, then, constitute Social Science : — ethics, politics, politi-
cal economy, and statistics. Some writers make the number of
sciences more, others less, according to the point of view from
which they regard them ; these four are, however, sufficient, and
yet not more than sufficient, to exhaust this important depart-
ment. While it is the duty of every intelligent person to acquire
some knowledge of the world in which he lives and of the history
of uis race, there is a s*^*!^ more imperative obligation laid upon
1 all men to become .icqi^vinted with those systems of knovy^ ledge
which so closeh .onoo'.Ti (hem as members of human societies.

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2. Politics.

''octal Sciences.

3. Political Economy,

4. Statistics.

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ON THE DIVISION OF LABOR.

The effects of the division of labor in the general business of
society will be easily understood by taking an example from a very
trifling manufacture — namely, the trade of a pin-maker. This
business is divided into a number of branches, of which the
greater part are peculiar trades. One man draws out the wire;

354

ON THK DJVIiSION OP LABOR.

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another straightens it ; a third cuts it ; a fourth points it ; a fifth
grinds it at the top for receiving the head ; to make the head re-
quires two or three distinct operations ; to put it on is a distinct
business ; to whiten the pins is another ; and it is even a separate
trade to put them into the paper.

Pin-making being thus divided into distinct operations, a small
manufactory consisting of ten persons, and but indifferently ac-
commodated with the necessary machinery, can produce forty-
eight thousand pins in a day. Each person may therefore be
considered as making four thousand eight hundred pins in a day;
but had they wrought separately and independently, the best
workman among them could not have made twenty, and perhaps,
not one, pin a day.

A great part of the machines made use of in manufactures in
which labor is most subdivided were originally the inventions of
common workmen, who, bein^ each of tbem employed in some
very simple operation, naturally turned their thoughts towardi
finding out easier and readier methods of performing it.

In the first ste8,m-engines, a boy was constantly employed to open
and shut alternately the communication between the boiler aud
the cylinder, according as the piston either ascended or descended.
One of these boys, who loved to play with his companions, ob-
served that by tying a string from the handle of the valve which
opened this communication to another part of the machine, the
valve would open and shut without his assistance, and leave him
at liberty to divert himself with his playfellows. One of the
greatest improvements that have been made upon this machine
since it was first invented was in this manner the discovery of a
boy, who wanted to save his own labor.

The woollen coat which covers the day-laborer, coarse and
rough as it may appear, is the produce of the joint labor of a
great multitude of workmen. The shepherd, the sorter of the
wool, the wool-comber or carder, the dyer, the scribbler, the
spinner, the weaver, the fuller, the dresser, with many others,
must join their different arts to complete even this homely pro-
duction.

How much commerce and navigacion, how many shipbuilders,
sailors, sailmakers, and ropemakers must have been employed in
order to bring together the different drugs iiiade use of by the
dyer, which often come from the remotest corners of the world !

To say nothing of such complicated machines as the ship of
the sailor, the ;nill of the fuller, or even the loom of the weaver,

LABOR.

355

rhta towardi

let ua consider only what a variety of labor in requisite iu order
to form that very simple machine, the shears with which tlie
shepherd clips the wool. The miner, the builder of the furnace
for melting the ore, the felle;' of the timber, the burner of the
charcoal to be made use of in the sraelting-house, the brick-
maker, the bricklayer, must all join their different arts in order
to produce them.

Were we to examine in the same manner all the different
parts of his dress and household furniture — the coarse linen shirt
he wears ; his shoes ; the bed he lies on, and all the parts which
compose it; the kitchen grate at which he prepares his victuals;
the coa:;3 dug for that purpose from the bowels of the earth, and
brought to him perhaps by a long sea and loog land carriage
all the other utensils of the kitchen and furniture of his table
the different hands employed in preparing his bread and beer
the glass window which lets in the heat and the light, and keeps
out the wind and the rain, with all the knowledge and art
requisite for preparing that beautiful and happy invention ; — if
we examine all these things, and consider what a variety of
kbor is employed about each of them, we shall be sensible
that, without the assistance and co-operation of many thousands,
the very meanest person in a civilized country could not be pro-
vided, even according to what we very falsely imagine the easy
and simple manner in which he is commonly accommodated,

— Adam Smith.

LABOR.

Ho ! ye who at the anvil toil,

And strike the sounding blow,
Where from the burning iron's breast

The sparks fly to and fro,
While answering to the hammer's ring,

And fire's intcnser glow —
Oh ! while ye feel 'tis hard to toil

And sweat the long day through,
Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.

Ho ! ye who till the stubborn soil,
Whose hard hands guide the plough,

Who bend beneath the summer sun,
With burning cheek and brow —

Ye deem the cnrse still clings to earth
From olden time till now —

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INDUSTRY AND INTELLIGENCE.

But while ye feel 'tis hard to toil

And labor all day through,
Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.

Ho ! ye who plough the sea's blue field-

Who ride the restless wiive,
Boneath .<rhose gallant vessel's keel

There lies a yawning grave,
Around whose bark the wintry winda

Like fiends of fury rave —
Oil ! while ye feel 'tis hard to toil

And labor long hours through,
Bemember it is harder still

To have no work to do.

Ho ! ye upon whose fever'd cheeks

The hectic glow is bright,
Whose mental toil wears out the day

And half*the weary night,
Who labor for the souls of men,

Champions of truth and right —
Although you feel your toil is hard,

Even with this glorious view,
Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.

Ho ! all who labor — all who strive —

Ye wield a lofty power :
Do with your might, do with your strength,

Fill every golden hour !
The glorious privilege to do

Is man's most noble dower.
Oh ! to your birthright and yourselves,

To your own souls be true !
A weary, wretched life is theirs

Who have no work to do.

— Caroline F. Orne.

INDUSTRY AND INTELLIGENCE.

A North American Indian is very indolent. While he has food
enough in his cabin, he will lie for days together basking in the
sun, and dozing away his existence ; he does not go out to hunt
again until he is forced away by the pressure of hunger. He then
only procures enough for his present necessities, and relijpses into
his former indolent stupor.

INDUSTRY AND INTELLIGENCE.

357

One reason of this is the following. He does not know of any
method in which, by labor, he can benefit his condition ; he
knows of no weapon better than his bow and arrows, and of no
covering better than the skins of animals slain in the chase.
Hence he has no motive for labor beyond that amount which
will procure him these simple necessaries.

But let a benevolent man go into this tribe, and sliow them how
great additional benefits would be secured by additional labor,
and there would at once be created a motive for that labor. If
the Indian found out that, by procuring thirty or forty beaver
skins more than before, he could purchase a rifle, he would easily
be persuaded to labor to procure them. If he knew that by
some additional labor he could procure an axe or a saw, and the
materials for a house, and plenty of blankets for his winter cloth-
ing, all these would be strong motives for laboring every year
more and more assiduously.

Now, this change would all be the result of knowledge. The
Indian knows moi-e, and hence he is more industrious. Know-
ledge has opened his eyes to see what benefits he may secure by
labor, and he now labors to secure them. But the#case of the
Indian is the case* with every man. Just in proportion as men
see the advantages which they may gain by industry, just in that
proportion may we expect their industry to increase. Know-
ledge supplies motives to labor which did not exist in a state of
ignorance : and just in proportion to the strength of these addi-
tional motives will be the increase of the labor to which they
give rise.

But suppose a man have ever so strong a disposition to labor,
he cannot labor unless he knows how ; and suppose that he
knows how to labor in a very imperfect manner, so that his
remuneration be very small, he will labor with much less zeal
than he would if he could labor skilfully, and thus, with the
same amount of toil, procure a much larger share of the means
of happiness.

Thus, suppose a man own a farm, and be perfectly aware of
the comforts of life which he could procure by the produce of it,
he would have motives suflBcient to induce him to labor. But
if he did not know anything about farming, he would still be in
diflBculty ; for though he might desire the comforts which ho
might procure, and be willing to labor for them, he would, never-
theless, bo destitute, for he would not know how to proceed.

Hence we sec that it is very necessary to furnish all men with the

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INDUSTKY AND INIELLIUKNCE.

means of knowledge. The farmer ought to understand the iiatuie
of soils, of vegetables, of animals, the best modes of cultivation
the best and cheapest manures, and everything relating to his
business. The mechanic should know everything about, the
material on which he labors ; the tanner should understand the
chemical principles on which tanning depends; the carpenter
and house-builder should understand the principles of architec-
ture ; the manufacturer should understand everything relating
to the machinery with which he works ; the merchant should be
well acquainted with the natural history of the articles in which he
traffics, the mode of their production, the best places from which
they can be procured, and the best articles which he can send in
exchange for them.

J3c^)ides this every one of these persons ought to be able to
write a good hand, and to keep accounts skilfully, accurately,
and neatly. By means of this knowledge a man is able to commu-
nicate his thoughts and wishes to persons at the greatest distance
from him, to write down his own reflections for his own benefit,
and to bo assured that he deals honestly with others, and that
others deakhonestly with him.

Let it not be said that it is enough for th'fe master manufac-
turer, the rich farmer, the extensive merchant, to understand
these things, for this is a very false notion. A laborer on a
farm will earn much better wages for being intelligent, and
understanding thoroughly the business in which he is employed.
The case is the same with the manufacturer, a merchant's clerk, or
any other person. Besides to perform an operation understand-
ingly improves a man's mind ; while to perform it blindly and
ignorantly does a man's mind no good whatever. A professor in
a lecture-room shows the working of a steam-engine, and tt aches
his class the principles on which it operates by means of a small
model of a foot or two in length, and this is considered a very
improving and valuable employment. But an engineer on bv^ard
of a steamboat, if he understand the whole piocess and its prin-
ciples, is performing the same experiment all the while. If,
however, he do not understand the principles, he is in fact doing
but little more than the fireman who is employed in supplying
the furnace with fuel. So the farmer who understands the laws
of vegetation is constantly performing r~j>t, ^r.ients in botany,
and by every experiment he is disciplinij.tr his owr mind.

He who in this manner is laboring unvl? ;-stand\v jly is qnali-
fying himself for a more lucrative emplov-ie *.. He who is

INDUSTRY AND INTELLIGENCE.

359

thoroughly acquainted with the business of farming will soon bo
able to procure a farm on his own account. He who is an intel-
ligent and active clerk will soon be qualified to be admitted as
a partner. He who is a skilful and intelligent manufacturing
laborer will soon be promoted to be an overseer or an agent.
Tuuri we see that knowledge is desirable, not for one class, but
for all classes.

Now, in order to enable men to acquire this knowledge, every
oue should be taught to read and write and cipher. He who has
obtained as much knowledge as this is then able to inform liimHcIT
concerning anything that pertains to his own department, and
hence he is able to qualify himself to rise from one branch of
business to another, and to become a rich and well-informed man.
Thus Franklin, from being a poor printer's boy, became one of
the greatest philosophers of his age; and Sir R. Arkwright, at
first a barber's boy, rose to be one of the first men in Great Bri-
tain. In this manner, by skill and intelligence, all the great men
who have made their own fortunes have risen from obscurity to
eminence.

Hence we see the reason why we should have schools for teachmg
these branches in every neighborhood. If any persons be unable
to procure education for themselves, it should be furnished to
them for nothing ; and, in order to do this, a sufficient number
of schools should be supported by the public at large. In this
manner every one pays in proportion to his ability, and every
one has an equal privilege of sending his children to school.
This plan is specially beneficial to those persons who are in mo-
derate circumstances, or who are poor. The rich can easily fur-
nish education to their children ; the poor cannot always afford
to do it, or if they could afford it, they could not easily unite
together in such manner as to procure a proper instructor.
When this is done by the public, they have the instruction at
the lowest expense, and without any trouble jn procnnng it.

But this ii3 not all. I have said that if a man have knowledge
of reading, writing, and accounts, he can then educate himself,
and acquire all the knowledge that he may need in conducting
disown business. 7 his is true. Herrni do it, but he will be
m^ch more lihcly to do it if he have been taught in youth the
elements of the sciences. If he have been taught the elements
^^ n. ithematics, he will be much more likely to mnk<' a good
machinist. If ho have been tauglit the nature of plants and
^uiiiuals, and the best niodes of cnltivniion, and the principles on

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INDUSTRY AND INT '-L1GENCE.

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which these things depend, he will be much more likely to make
a skilful farmer. He who has some knowledge in youth of|
jreography and the productions of the earth, will be much more
likely to make an intelligent merchant. It is important that this
knowledge be acquired in youth, for after men grow up, they are
not so likely to commence the study of a new science, nor have {
they generally the time necessary to devote to it.

Hence we see the importance of having some higher schouls
than those which I have mentioned, in which those who choose
jnay learn something of these several branches. Those young
persons who have gone through the lower school, and who wish
for more knowledge, might here be able to obtain it. On the
other hand, thovse who were careless about their studies, and did
not wish for any more knowledge, might go to their several
branches of business with what they have already obtained.
These additional advantages would be a very suitable reward for
diligent, studious, and well-behaved young persons, and would
greatly assist such persons in making their way in the world, It
would also tend very greatly to open the road to distinction
and wealth to all those who were deserving of them, and would
enable the poor to rise to eminence as well as the rich, if they
only were disposed to avail themselves of the advantages oflfered
to them.

Hence we see that all persons, but especially the poor, have a
direct interest in public schools, both common and scientitic ; and
they should be willing to pay their proportion of the expense
necessary to support them. No man, unless he be an absolute
beggar, should expect or wish to receive an education for nothing,
any more than a loaf of bread. By paying what he is able, he
may enjoy, freely, the advantages of education as well as the
rich, while for this education he pays much less than the rich, who
derive no more advantage from it than himself. Any man, whe-
ther he be poor or rich, must be very unwise who does not wish
every other man in his country to be as well educated as the cir-
cumstances of his case will allow ; and he is very unwise, aud
very penurious, and very selfish, and very short-sighted, if he
be not willing to pay his fair and full proportion towards ren-
dering the means of education as universal and as good as pos-
sible.

If we look back upon what we have said, it will readily be
seen that the principles which we have explained lenrj us to the
following conclusions : —

INDUSTRY AND INTELLIOENCE.

361

1. Nothing that is of any value on earth can be procured
without labor.

2. Labor, to be a benefit, raust be directed by knowledge.
Were a man to labor ever so hard to make a house ho would
not succeed unless he hnew how to do it. Hence the importance
of education in order to ])roJitable labor.

3. God has placed abundant rewards before men to excite
them to labor, and abundant penalties to deter them from idle-
ness ; and there is reason to think that these rewards and punish-
ments, if left to themselves, will be suflRcient to make men indus-
trious.

4. In order to do this, it is important that every man be al-
lowed to earn as much as he honestly can — that is, to improve
his condition in the best way he is able ; and that, after he has
done this, he be allowed to use what he has gained in just such
away as he thinks will make him the happiest, provided he does
not interfere with the rights of any one else.

5. While it is important that every man should have all that
he has earned, it is equally important that he should have nothing
unless he have earned it.

6. Lastly, thaL every man may know how both to labor to
the best advantage, and also how to improve his conditicm as
much as possible by the results of his labor, it is important that
every man shall have as much education as possible.

The more a community adopt these principles, the more indus-
trious and happy will they be.

Hence we see the importance to every country both of virtue
and intelligence.

If men be virtuous, they will, of course, be honest ; that is,
they will let alone whatever belongs to their neighbor, and they
will, of course, be wilHng to labor for everything which they
want themselves. Hence we see the benefit of all the means
which we use in order to make men religious ; for if they be
really religions', they will, of course, be bath virtuous and honest.
And if men be intelligent, they will know how to labor to the
best advantage ; that is, with the least toil, and at the smallest
expense, to procure the greatest amount of the means of human
happiness. — Dr. Wayland.

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362

LOCKSLRY, FROM " IVANHOE."

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THK TltlAl. OK hivlLL.

LOCKSLEY, FROM "IVANHOE."

" The yeomen and commons," said Bracy, " must not be dis-
missed discontented for lack of their share in the sports."

" The day," said Waldemar, " is not yet very far spent— let
the archers shoot a few rounds at the target, and the prize be
adjudged. This will be an abundant fulfilment of the prince's
promises, so far as this herd of Saxon serfs is concerned."

" I thank thee, Waldemar," said the prince ; "thou remindest
me, too, that I have a debt to pay to that insolent peasant who
yesterday insulted our person. Our banquet also shall go for-
ward to-night as we proposed. Were this my last hour of power,
it should be an hour sacred to revenge and to pleasure — let new
cares come with to-morrow's new day."

The sound of tlic trumpet soon recalled those spectators who
had already begun to leave the field ; and proclamation was made
that Pi'ince John, suddenly called by high and peremptory public
duties, held himself obliged to discontinue the entertainments ot
to-morrow's festival : nevertheless, that unwilling so many good
yeomen should depart without n trial of skill, lie was pleased to
appoint them, before leaving the ground, pi'esently to execute the
competition of archery intended for the morrow. To tlir 1"^^

rOCKSLdY, FROM " IVANHOE."

363

archer a prize was to be awarded, being a bugle-horn, mounted
with silver, and a silken baldriek richly ornamented with a
mt'dalliou of St. Hibert, the patron of sylvan sport.

More than thirty yeomen at first presented themselves as com-
petitors, several of whom were rangers and under-keepers in the
royal forests of Needwood and Charnwood. When, however, the
archors understood with whom they were to be matched, upwards
of twenty withdrew themselves from the contest, unwilling to en-
coaiiter the dishonor of almost certain defeat. For in these
days the skill of each celebrated marksman was as well known for
many miles round him, as the qualities of a horse ti*ained at
Xevyrmarket are known to those who frequent that celebrated
meeting.

The diminished list of competitors for sylvan fame still
amounted to eight. Prince John stepped from his royal seat to
view^ more nearly the persons of these chosen yeomen, several of
whom wore the royal livery. Having satisfied his curiosity by
this investigation, he looked for the object of his resentment,
whom he observed standing in the same spot, and with the same
I composed countenance which he had exhibited upon the preced-
ing day.

"Follow," said Prince John, " I guessed by thy insolent babble
I thou wert no true lover of the long-bow, and I see thou darest
not adventure thy skill among such merry men as stand yonder."

"Under favor, sir," replied the yeoman, "I have another
[reason for refraining to shoot, besides the fearing discomfiture
land disgrace."

"And what is thy other reason ?" said Prince John, who, for
jsome cause which perhaps he could not himself have explained,
I felt a painful curiosity respecting this individual.

" Because," replied the woodsman, " I know not if these yeo-

I men and I are used to shoot at the same marks ; and because,

moreover, 1 know not how your grace might relish the winning

of a third prize by one who has unwittingly fallen under your

[displeasure."

Prince John colored as he put the question, " What is thy
[name, yeoman?"

'Locksley," answered the yeoman. . ,

"Then, Locksley," said Prince John, "thou shalt shoot in thy

purn, when these yeomen have displayed their skill. If thou

[farriest the prize, I will add to it twenty nobles ; but if thou

losest it, thou shalt be stripped of tliy liincoln green, and

364

LOCKSLKY, FKOM " IVANHOE."

m I

scourged out of the lists with bowstrings, for a wordy and ins(
lent braggart."

"And how if 1 refuse to slioot on such a wager ?" said tl^
yeoman. " Your grace's power, supported as it is by so in;iii'
men-at-arms, may indeed easily strip and scourge me, but cannii
compel me to bend or to draw my bow."

" If thou rcFusest my fair proffer," said tlie prince, " the pro
vost of the Jists shall cut thy bowstring, break thy bow uliI
arrows, and expel thee from tlie presence as a faint-licjirteij
cmven."

" This is no fair chance you put on uie, proud prince," saidthJ
yeoman, '* to compel me to peril myself against the best archer
of Leicester and Staffordshire, under the penalty of infamy if thti
should overshoot me. Nevertheless, 1 will obey your will."

" Look to him close, men-at-arms," said Prince John, " his hean
is sinking : I am jealous lest he attempt to escape the trial!
And do you, good fellows, shoot boldly round ; a buck and
butt of wine are ready for your refreshment in yonder tent whed
the prize is won."

A target was placed at the upper end of the southern avenud
which led to the lists. The contending archers took their stands
in turn, at the bottom of the southern access ; the distance hi
tween that station and the mark allowing full distance for wbatl
was called a shot at rovers. The archers, having previously deJ
termined by lot their order of precedence, were to shoot each
three shafts in succession. The sports were regulated by anl
officer of inferior rank, termed the provost of the games ; for tbej
high rank of the marshals of the lists would have been held de-[
graded, had they condescended to superintend the games of the!
yeomanry.

One by one the archers, stepping forward, delivered theirj
shafts yeomanlike and bravely. Of twenty-four arrows, shot inl
succession, ten were fixed in the target, and the others ranged sol
near it, that, considering the distance of the mark, it was accounted!
good archery. Of the ten shafts which hit the target, two witbinl
the inner ring were shot by Hubert, a forester in the service of j
Malvoisin, who was accordingly pronounced victorious.

" Now, Locksley," said Prince John to the devoted yeoman,
with a bitter smile, " wilt thou try conclusions vdth Hubert, orl
wilt thou yield up bow, baldrick, and quiver to the provost olj
the sports r "

"Sith it may be no better," said Locksley, " 1 am content toj

LOCKSLEY, FROM " IVANHOE

»»

36/

try my fortune ; on condition that when I have shot
lilt yonder mark of Hubert's, he shall be bound

two shafts
to Mhoot one at
I that which I shall propose."

That is but fair," answered Prince John, "and it shall not
I be refused thee. If thou dost beat this braggart, Hubert, 1 will
fill the bugle with silver pennies for thee."

"A man can but do his best," answered Hubert: "butniv
jptat-grandsire drew a good long bow at Hastings, and 1 trust
[not to dishonor his memory."

The former target was now removed, and a fresli one of the
jsante size placed in its room. Hubert, who, as victor in the first
trial of skill, had the right to shoot first, took his aim with great
deliberation, long measuring the distance with his eye, while he
held in his hand his bended bow, with the arrow placed on the
siring. At length ho made a step forward, and raising the bow
at the full stretch of his left arm, till the centre or grasping place
Uas nigh level with his face, ho drew the bowstring to liis ear.
The arrow whistled through the air, and lighted within the inner
[ring of the target, but not exactly in the centre.

"You have not allowed for the wind, Hubert," said his antago-
Inist, bending his bow, *' or that had been a better shot."

So saying, and without showing the least anxiety to pause upon

is aim, Locksley stepped to the appointed station, and shot his

I arrow as carelessly in appearance as if he had not even looked at

the mark. He was speaking almost at the instant that the shaft

left the bowstring, yet it alighted in the target two inches nearer

to the white spot which marked the centre than that of Hubert.

" By the light of heaven ! " said Prince John to Hubert, " an
jthou suffer that runagate knave to overcome thee, thou art worthy
|of the gallows."

Hubert had but one set speech for all occasions. " An your
Ihighness were to hang me, " he said, " a man can but do his best.
jNevertheless, my grandsire drew a good bow*'

"The foul fiend on thy grandsire and all his generation," in-
Iterrupted John : " shoot, knave, and shoot thy best, or it shall
|be the worse for thee."

Thus exhorted, Hubert resumed his place, and not neglecting
|the caution which he had received from his adversary, he made
|the necessary allowance for a very light air of wind, which had
Ijnsfc arisen, and shot so successfully that his arrow alighted in the
[very centre of the target.

"A Hubert! a Hubert!" shouted the populace, more interested

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WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

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366

LOCKSLEY, FROM '* iVANHOE

>»

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in a knowu pcrsou than in a stranger. **In the clout! — in the
clout ! — a Hubert for ever ! "

*'Thou canst not mend that shot, Locksley," said the prince,
with an insulting smile.

** I will knotch his shaft for him, however," replied Locks-
ley. »

And letting fly his arrow with a little more precaution than
before, it lighted right upon that of his competitor, which it split
to shivers. The people who stood around were so astonished at
his wonderful dexterity, that they could not even give vent to
their surprise in their usual clamor. " This must be the dev'l,
and no man of flesh and blood," whispered the yeomen to each
other ; " such archery was never seen since a bow was first bent
in Britain."

"And now," said Locksley, " I crave your grace's permission
to plant such a mark as is used in the north country ; and wel-
come every brave yeoman who shall try a shot at it to win a
smile from the bonnie lass he loves best."

He then turned to leave the lists. " Let your guards attend
me," he said, " if you please — I go but to cut a rod from the
next willow bush."

Prince John made a signal that some attendants should follow
him in case of his escape ; but the cry of " Shame ! shame ! "
which burst from the multitude, induced him to alter his ungener-
ous purpose.

Locksley returned almost instantly with a willow wand aboat
six feet in length, perfectly straight, and rather thicker than a
man's thumb. He began to peel this with great composure,
observing, at the same time, that to ask a good woodsman to
shoot at a target so broad as had hitherto been used, was to put
shame upon his skill. " For his own part," he said, " and in the
land where he was bred, men would as soon take for their mark
King Arthur's round table, which held sixty knights around it.
A child of seven years old," he said, " might hit it with a head-
less shaft ; but," added he, walking deliberalely to the other end
of the lists, and sticking the willow wand upright in the ground,
"he that hits that rod at five-score yards, I call him an archer fit
to bear both bow and quiver before a king, an it were the stout
King Richard himself."

" My grandsire," said Hubert, " drew a good bow at the battle
of Hastings, and never shot at such a mark in his life— and
neither will I. If this yeoman can cleave that rod, 1 give him

OF STUDIES,

367

it to win a

tho bucklers — or rather, I yield to the devil that is in his jerkiu,
and not to any human skill : a man can but do his best, and I
will not shoot where I am sure to miss. I might as well shoot
at the edge of onr parson's whittle, or at a wheat straw, or at a
sonbeam, as at a twinkling white streak which I can hardly
see"

"Cowardly dog!" said Prince John. "Sirrah Locksley, do
thou shoot; but, if thou hittest such a mark, I will say thou art
the firet man ever did so. Howe'er it be, thou shalt not crow
over us with a mere show of superior skill."

" I will do my best, as Hubert says," answered Locksley ; " no
man can do more."

So saying, he again bent his bow, but on the present occasion
looked with attention to his weapon, and changed the .string
which he thought was no longer truly round, having been a little
frayed by the two former shots. He then took his aim with
some deliberation, and the multitude awaited the event in breath-
less silence. The archer ^indicated their opinion of his skill : his
arrow split the willow rod against which it was aimed. A
jubilee of acclamations followed ; and even Prince John, in admi-
ration of Locksley's skill, lost his dislike to his person. " Thcso
twenty nobles," he said, " which, with the bugle, thou hast fairly
won, are thine own ; we will make them fifty, if thou wilt take
livery and service with us as a yeoman of our body-guard, and be
near to our person. For never did so strong a hand bend a bow,
or so true an eye direct a shaft."

"Pardon me, noble prince," said Locksley; "but I have

I vowed, that if ever I take service, it should be with your royal

brother. King Richard. These twenty nobles I leave to Hubert,

who has this day drawn as brave a bow as his grandsire did at

Hastings. Had his modesty not refused the trial, he would have

I hit the wand as well as I."

Hubert shook his head as he received with reluctance the
bonnty of the stranger; and Locksley, anxious to escape further
[observation, mixed with the crowd, and was seen no more.

— Scott.

OF STUDIES.

IStudies serve for delight, for ornament, and for nbility. Their
Icliief use for delight is in privateness and retiring ; for ornament
iin discourse ; and for ability in the judgment and disposition of

v\'

368

OF STUDIBS.

I's

E' •

I. '

[ si :. \

'I' 'J

'i r-. ;'

•-J

■i

111

-l

basiuess. For exyerl men can execute, and perhaps juds^e of
particulars, one by one ; but the gene ml counsels, and l!ie plots
and marshalling of afi'airs, come best from those that are learned.
To spend too much time in studies is sloth ; to use them too
much for ornament is afl'ectatiou ; to make judgment wholly by
their rules is the humor of a scholar. They perfect nature, and
are perfected by experience. Crafty men contemn studies;
simple men admii-e them ; and wise men use them ; for they
teach not their own use ; but that is a wisdom without them
and above them, won by observation. Read not to contradict
and confute ; nor to believe and take for granted ; nor to find
talk and discourse ; but to weigh and consider. Some books are
to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed
and digested; that is, some books are to be read only in parts;
othors to be read, but not curiously ; and some few to be read
wholly, and with diligence and attention. Some books also may
be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others ; but
that would be only in the less important arguments, and in the
meaner sort of books ; else distilled books are like common dis-
tilled waters, flashy things. Reading maketh a full man ; con-
ference a ready mar ; and writing an exact man ; and, therefore,
if a man write little, he had need have a great memory ; if ho
confer little, he had need have a present wit; and if he read
little, he had need of much cunning to seem to know that he
doth not. Histories make men wise ; poets, witty ; the mathe-
matics, subtle ; natural philosophy, deep ; moral, grave ; logic
and rhetoric, able to contend. Studies exercise influence upon
the morals ; nay, there is no stand or impediment in the wit, but
may bo wrought out by fit studies ; like as diseases of the body
may havo appropriate exercises. Bowling is good for the stone
and reins ; shooting for the lungs and breast ; gentle walking
for the stomach ; riding for the head ; and the like. So if a I
man's wit be wandering, let him study the mathematics ; for in
demonstrations, if his wit be called away never so little, he mnstj
begin again; if his wit be not apt to distinguish or find differ-
ence, let him study the schoolmen, for they are hair-splitters;
if he be not apt to beat over matters, and to call up one thing
to prove and illustrate another, let him study the lawyers'
cases. So every defect of the mind may have a special receipt.

— Bacon,

mx.

AOVAJyiTAQES OF STUDYING LATIN AND ORELK.

3G9

INSTRUCTION.

From heaven descend tbe drops of dew,

From heaven tbe gracious bnowers,
Earth's winter aspect to renew.

And clothe the spring with flowers;
From heaven the beams of morning flow,

That melt the gloom of night ;
From heaven the evening breezes blow

Health, fragrance, and delight.

Like genial dew, like fertile showers,

The words of wisdom fall.
Awaken man's unconscious powers.

Strength out of weakness call ;
Like morning beams, they strike the mind.

Its loveliness reveals ;
And softly then the evening wind

The wounded spirit heals.

As dew and rain, as light and air,
From heaven instruction came
The waste of nature to repair.

Kindle a sacred flame ;
A flame to purify the earth,

Exalt her sons on high.
And train them for their second birth,
Their birth beyond the sky.

— James Montgomery.

ADVANTAGES OF STUDYING LATIN AND GREEK.

Latin and Greek are useful, as they inure children to intellectual
difficulties, and make tbe life of a young student what it ought
to be, a life of considerable labor. We do not, of course, mean
to confine this praise exclusively to the study of Latin and
Greek, or suppose that other difficulties might not be found
which it would be useful to overcome; but thou^^h Ljitin and
Greek have tbis merit in common veitb many arts i\nd sciences,
still they have it ; and, if they do nothing else, they at least
secure a solid and vigorous application^ at a period of life which
materially influences all other periods. To go through the
grammar of one language thoroughly is of great use for the
mastery of every other grammar; because there obtains, through
all languages, a certain analogy to each other in their grammatical

2 a

'S?'H

' * ■ J V

::U

;XIi 1

■fi^

■...^Ji- 4

370

ADVANTAGES OF STUDYING LATIN AND GREEK.

^l.

t '

conjtruciion, Latin and Greek bave now mixed themselves
etymologically with all the languages of modern Europe, and
with none more than our own ; so that it is necessary to read
these two tongues for other objects than themselves.

The ancient languages are, as mere inventions — as pieces of
mechanism — incomparably more beautiful than any of the
mode.'u languages of Europe ; their mode of signifying time and
C9,se by terminations, instead of auxiliary verbs and particles,
would of itself stamp their superiority. Add to this the copious-
ness of the Greek language, with the fancy, harmony, andi
majesty of its compounds, and there are quite suflRcient reasons
why the classics should be studied for the beauties of language, i
Compared to them merely as vehicles of thought and passion, alU
modern languages are dull, ill-contrived, and barbarous.

That a great part of the Scriptures have come down to usin|
the Greek language is of itself a reason, if all others were want-
ing, why education should be planned so as to produce a suppljl
of Greek scholars.

The cultivatiom of style is very justly made a part of educa-
tion. Everything which is written is meant either to please orj
to instruct. The second object it is diflBcult to effect without!
attending to the first ; and the cultivation of style is the acquisi-
tion of those rules and literary habits which sagacity anticipates, ori
experience shows to be the most effectual means of pleasingJ
Those works are the best which have longest stood the test of
time, and pleased the greatest number of exercised mindsj
Whatever, therefore, our conjectures may be, we cannot be so
sure that the best modern writers can afford as good models
the ancients ; we cannot be certain that they will live through
the revolutions of the world, and continue to please in every
climate, under every species of government, through every stage
of civilization. The moderns have been well taught by theii
masters ; but the time k hardly yet come when the necessity foij
such instruction no longer exists. We may still borrow descrif
tive power from Tacitns ; dignified perspicuity from Livy ; simj
plicity from Caesar ; and from Homer, some portion of that ligbj
and heat which, dispersed into ten thousand channels, has fille(j
the world with bright images and illustrious thoughts. Let thj
cultivator of modern literature addict himself to the puresj
models of taste which France, Italy, and England could supplj
he might still learn from Virgil to be majestic, and from Tibullnj
to be tender ; he might not yet look upon the face of nature

ON THE DBF NCE OF CANADA.

371

Theocritus saw it, nor might he reach those springs of pathos
with which Euripides softened the hearts of his audience. In
short, it appears to us that there are so many excellent reasons
why a certain number of scholars should be kept up in this and in
every civilized country, that we should consider every system of
education from which classical education was excluded as radi-
cally erroneous, and completely absurd. — Sydney Smith.

THE LIBRARY.

Not hope her.self, with all her flattering art.

Can cure the stubborn sickness of the heart ;

The soul disdains each comfort she prepares.

And anxious searches for congenial cares;

Those lenient cares which, with our own combined.

By mix'd sensations ease the afflicted mind,

And steal our grief away, and leave their own behind ;

A lighter grief! which feeling hearts endure

Without regret, nor even demand a cure.

But what strange art, what magic can dispose
The troubled mind to change its native woos ?
Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see
Others^more wretched, more undone than we?
This bookn can do; — nor this alone; they give
New views to life, and teach us how to live ;
They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise ;
Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise :
Their aid they yield to all; they never shun
The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone :
Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud,
They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd;
Nor tell to various people various things,
Bub show the subjects what they show to kings,

— Crabbe.

ON THE DEFENCE OF CANADA.

(13th March 1865.)

However long this discussion may have been, t, for one, cannot

[l^gret that it has taken place ; for by the majority of members

'^ this house, two opinions have been expressed which cannot

fell to be useful in the quarters to which they relate. The first

I opinion is t*iat which has been peculiarly dwelt upon by tho

372

ON THE DEFENCE OF CANADA.

! ■ :-L

li'ti

honorable member who has just sat down — namely, an earnest
desire that the most friendly relations should be maintained be-
tween Great Britain and the United States of America ; and
next, the opinion that we should maintain the connection which
exists between this country and our provinces on the North
American continent, so long as the people of those provinces are
desirous of maintaining their connection with the mother country.
The honorable member who has just spoken has madb what in
one respect may appear a paradoxical, but what, I think, as
human nature in constituted, was a very conciliatory speech
towards the United States. Though he reviewed a long course of
events to prove that the United States have been most grievously
ill-treated by this country, I don't agree with him in any one of
these points ; it is no doubt ^ part of human nature that jcn
cannot please any man or any set of men -better than by telling
them they have been exceedingly ill-used. I won't follow the
honorable member when he complains that we admitted the
belligerent rights of the south — an admission which was the re-
sult of necessity and not of choice ; I will not follow him into
the discussion of the Trent question, which I thought had been
fully disposed of, and into the questions which have arisen be-
tween the government, or rather, I should say, the people of
some parts of Canada and the United States, because, as he ad-
mitted himself, the conduct of the Canadian Government hs&
been such as to be acknowledged grateftilly by ihe government of
the United States as a full and complete fulfilment of the duties
of friendly neighborhood. The hon. gentleman says there exists
in this country a jealousy of the United States. Sir, I utterly
deny that assertion. We feel no jealousy of the United States.
On the contrary, I am sure that every Englishman must feel
pre ad at seeing upon the other side of the Atlantic a community
sprung from the same ancestry as ourselves, rising in the scale of
civilization, and attaining every degree of prosperity — ay, and of
power, as well as wealth. I therefore entirely deny that there
has been in this country any feeling of jealousy as regarns the
United States. Undoubtedly there are men who, difiering from
the hon. gentleman in their theory of government, cannot see
with the same approbation which he feels the trial on the other
side of the Atlantic of a system of government which we do not
think is the best, or the most conducive to the happiness of
those for whom it was establ «.hed. But that is an entirely
different thing from the feeliiig which the hon. gentleman has

ON THE DKFENCE OF CANADA.

3711

ovinces are
ercoiintry.
xlto what in
[ think, as
ory speech
ig course of
■j grievously

any one of
ire that you
in l>y telUng

follow the
dmitted the
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ise, as he ad-
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fvernment of
of the duties

there exists
Sip, I utterly
nited States.
m must feel
community
the scale of

■ — ay, and of

y that there
regarns the

iffering from
cannot see

on the other

h we do not

happiness of
an entirely

ntleman has

supposed. No doubt, during this contest in Amtrica there hat
been experienced, and probably felt both in the north and
in the south, some irritation against this country. But that
irritation was caused by the natural feeling which two partie.s
in a quarrel havo, that a third party who does not espouse
either side is to a certain degree doing both sides an injury,
or giving them some cause of complaint or of jealousy. Tn«
north wished us to declare on their side ; the south wished ufi
to declare on theirs ; and as we maintained a perfect neutrality
between the two, some slight degree of irritation arose on botri
sides against us. But I am equally persuaded with the hon.
gentleman thnt among the groat bulk of the people of the United
States there are feelings deeper than that irritation — feelings of
goodwill towards the country with which their ancestors wero
connected ; and T am satisfied that when this unfortunate con-
test shall have ceased, whatever its termination, the natural
feelings of goodwill and relationship which ought to prevail be-
tween the two nations will take the place of any temporary irrita-
tion which the war may have occasioned. I am quite satisfied
also that England will not give to America any just cause of
complaint — that war will not proceed from us ; and if war does
not proceed from our side, and if, as the hon. gentleman thinks,
it does not proceed from theirs, then we may have a well-founded
expectation that in spite of adverse appearances for the moment,
and in spite of the prognostications of many, the friendly relations
between this country and tho United States will not incur any
real danger of interruption. But that is no reason why we
should not use the means in our power to place our fellow-
citizens, if I may so call them, in Canada and the northern pro-
vinces, in a state of defence should they bo attacked. There is
no better security for peace than strength to resist attack, if
attack should come. That is no provocation. It is an abuse of
terms to say that when you employ means to prevent danger
you are provoking that danger, and irritating tho tparty against
whom, those precautions may be taken. If no animosity exists,
these precautions can have no effect except that of inspiring
confidence in the party in whose favor they are made. If,
on the other hand, there be a disposition to attack, that disposi-
tion is sure to be lessened in proportion as the chance of success
is diminished. Now I cannot agree with my right honorable
I Mend (Mr Lowe) in thinking that whatever the difficulties — and
difficulties undoubtedly there may be — in successfully resisting

374

ON THE DEFENCE OF CANADA.

an attack, if it should be made by America, wo sliould reganl tlu
defence of Canada as an undertaking which we could not succeed
in accomplishing; I think, on the contrary, that Canada mav
be defended, and I also feel that the honor of England and the
good faith which is due to our loyal fellow-countrymen in tlioe
northern provinces require that, at all events, we should make
the attempt successfully to defend her. Not concurring, there-
fore, in the argument of my right hou. friend that Canada
cannot be defended, least of all do I concur in his conclusion,
that, assuming defence to be impossible, we ought forthwith to
withdraw our troops. I neither admit the argument nor assent
to its conclusion ; and I am anxious that there should l)e no
mistake on the subject ; and that it may be fully undei-stood
that it is not the intention of the government to lollow the ad-
vice of my right hon. friend, and withdraw our troops from
Canada. On the contrary, I feel that the honor of England
demands, and that our duty as a government binds us to do
everything — moreover, that we shall have the sanction of the
British nation in doing everything — that we can to defend our
fellow-countrymen in Canada. As I have already said, I am
persuaded that the tone of moderation which has prevailed in
this debate must be useful both in Canada and in the United
States. No doubt there are those who have endeavored to
persuade the people of the United States that there exists is
this country a spirit of hostility towards them, and that we are
looking out for grounds of quarrel. There can, however, be no real
and just grounds for quarrel between us. We certainly shall not
seek such grounds, nor shall we invent them ; ,nd if the speech
of the hon. gentleman who has just sat down be a true and faith-
ful exposition of the sentiments of the people of the United
States, there can be no well-grounded apprehension that the peace
happily prevailing between us is in danger of interruption. I
can confirm the statement of my right hon. friend, that the pres-
ent relations* between the two governments are perfectly friendly
and satisfactory. We have no complaint to make of the govern-
ment of the United States ; they have acted in a fair and
honorable manner in all the matters that may have arisen be-
tween us. No doubt there are claims which they have put
forward, not urging them at present, but laying the ground for
their discussion at some future time. No doubt, also, we have
claims upon them which we do not put forward at present, but
have aimounced to be claims which at some future time may be

THE STUDENT

y76

diicussed. But 1 should trust that we both feel it to be for tho
iutercst, ay, and for the honor, of the two countries, that peace
should be preserved, and that matters of this sort ought to be
capable of a friendly and amicable adjustment. All I can say
is that the government, as long as they continue to be charge-
able with the conduct of affairs, will do everything that the
honor and interests of the country permit them to do, to main-
tain inviolate the relations of peace and friendship between the
two countries. — Palmerston.

THE STUDENT.

** Why burns thy lamp so late, ray friend.

Into the kindling day P "
^It is burning so late to show the gate

That leads to wisdom's way ;
As a star doth it shine on this soul of mine, ^

To ^uide me with its ray.
Dear is the hour when slumber's power

Wflghs down the lids of men ;
Proua and alone I mount my throne,

For I am a monarch then !
The great and the sa<i;e of each bygone age

Assemble at my call;
Oh, happy am I m my poverty,

For these are my brothers all !
Their voices I hear, so strong anil clear,

Like a solemn organ's stram,
Their words I drink, and their thoughts I think,

They are living in me aj^in !
For their seal'd store of immortal lore

To me they must unclose :
Labor is bliss with a thought like this :

Toil is my best repose ! "

" Why are thy cheeks so pale, my friend,

Like a snow-cloud wan and gray ?"
" They were bleach'd thus white in the mind's clear light,

Which is deepening day by day ;
Though the hue they have be the hue of the grave,

I wish it not away !
Strength may depart, and youth of heart

May sink into the tomb ;
Little reck I that the flower must die

Before the fruit can bloom.
I have striven hard for my high reward,

Through many a lonely year,

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THE ACAHKMT OF LAOADO.

But the goal I reach — it is mine to teach—

Stand Htill, O man, mid heat 1
I may wreathe my iiamu with the brightDoss of famOf

To shine on history's pa^es,
It shall be a gem on tlic diadem

Of the past, for future ages
Oh, life is a bliss with a hope like this —

I clasp it as a bride ! "
Pale grow his cheeks while the student speaks —

He laid him down and died !

— Dublin University Magazhh

THE ACADEMY OF LAGADO.

In the school of political projectors I was but ill entertained, the
professors appearing, in my judgment, wholly out of their senses;
which is a ^ceno that never fails to make me melancholy. These
unhappy people were proposing scbomes for persuading monarchs
to choose favorites upon the score of their wisdon^ capacity, and
virtue; of teaching ministers to consult the public good ; of re-
warding merit, great abilities, and eminent services ; of instruct-
ing princes to know their true interest, by placing it on the same
foundation with that of their people ; of choosing for employ-
ments persons qualified to exercise them ; with many other wild
impossible chimeras, that never entered before into the heart of
man to conceive, and confirmed in me the old observation that
there is nothing so extravagant and irrational which some pliilo-
sophers have not maintained for truth.

But, however, I shall so far do justice to this part of the aca-
demy, as to acknowledge that all of them were not so visionary.
There was a most ingenious doctor, who seemed to be perfectly
versed in the whole nature and system of government. This
illustrious person had very usefully employed his studies in find-
ing out effectual remedies for all diseases and corruptions to which
the several kinds of public administration are subject, by the vices
or infirmities of those who govern, as well as by the licentious-
ness of those "who are to obey. For instance, whereas all writere
and reasoners have agreed that there is a strict universal resem-
blance between the natural and political body, can there be
anything more evident than that the health of both most be
preserved, and the diseases cured, by the same prescriptions? • • •
This doctor therefore proposed that upon the meeting of a senate,
certain physicians should attend at the three first days of their

nLRSSINlJS OF INSTRUCTION.

:i77

sitting, and at. the cIoho of each day's dolwito, fool tho pulaos of
ovt'iy Hcnator ; after which, havinjif niaturoly consiilored and con- .
suited upon the; nature of tho Hovcn*l raaladies, and tho niotliodn
of cure, they should on tho fourth day return to tho senate-house,
attended by their apothecaries, stored with p#'oper medicines ; and,
before the members sat, administer to each of them lenitives,
aperitives, abstorsives, corrosives, restringents, palliatives, laxa-
tives, cephalalgics, icterics, apophlegmatics, acoustics, as their
several cases required ; and according as these medicines should
operate, repeat, alter, or omit them at the next meeting.

This project could not be of any great expense to the public,
and might, in ray poor opinion, be of much use for tho despatch
of business in those countries where senates have any share in tho
legislative power ; beget unanimity, shorten debates, open a few
mouths which are now closed, and close many more which are
now open ; cnrb the petulancy of the* young, and correct the
positiveness of the old ; rouse the stupid, and damp tho poi-t.

Again, because it is a general complaint that the favorites of
princes are troubled with short and weak memories, tho same
doctor pr>.posed, that whoever attended a first minister, after
having told his business with the utmost brevity, and in the
plainest words, should, at his departure, give the said minister a
tweak by the nose, or t kick in the belly, or a tread on his corns,
or lug him thrice by both oars, or run a pin into his body, or
pinch his arms black and blue, to prevent forgetfulness ; and at
every levee day repeat the same operation until the business wero
doDe or absolutely refused.

He likewise directed that every senator in the great council of
a nation, after he had delivered his opinion, and argued in the
defence of it, should be obliged to give his vote directly contrary ;
because if that were done, the result would infallibly terminate
m the good of the public. — Swift.

%iM

BLESSINGS OF INSTRUCTION.'

The heart has tendrils, like the vine,

Which round another's bosom twine :

Outspringing from the parent tree

Of deeply-planted sympathy,

Whose flowers are hope, its fruits are bliss ;

Beneficence its harvest is.

378

BLESSINGS OF INSTRUCTION.

There are some bosoms, dark and drear,
Which an unwater'd desert are ;
Yet there a curions eye may trace
Some smiling spot, .^orae verdant place,
Where little Bowers, the weeds between,
Spend their soil fragrance all unseen.

There is, in every human heart,
Some not completely barren part,
Where seeds of love and truth might grow,
And flowers of generous virtue blow;
To plant, to watch, to water there, —
This be our duty — this our care !

And sweet it is the growth to trace

Of worth, of intellect, of grace.

In bosoms where our labors first

Bid the young seed of spring-time burst ;

And lead it on, from hour to hour,

To ripen into perfect flower.

Hast thou e'er seen a garden clad

In Ml the robes that Eden had ?

Or vale o'erspread with streams and trees, —

A paradise of mysteries ? —

Plains, with green hills adorning^thera,

Like jewels in a diadem ? —

These gardens, vales, and plains, and hills.
Which beauty gilds and music fills,
Were once but deserts — Culture's hand
Has scatter'd verdure o'er the land :
And smiles and fragrance rule serene
Where barren wilds usurp'd the scene.

And such is man ! a soil which breeds,
Or sweetest flowers, or vilest weeds :
Flowers lovely as the morning's light —
Weeds deadly as the rf?onite ;
Just as his heart is trjiin'd to bear
The poisonous weed, or flov/eret fair.

Flow, then, pure knowledge ! ever flow !

Change nature's face in man below ;

A paradise once more disclose —

Make deserts bloom with Shitron's rose ;

And, through a Saviour's blood, once shed,

Raise his forlorn and drooping head. — Bowring.

RELIGION AND IBB INTELLECT.

RELIGION AND THE INTELLECT.

370

ThoLiuH piety does not disdain to enlighten dulness and instruct
ignorance, she has no natural affinity or peculiar preference for
them ; and though Christianity, like her Divine Author, com-
passionately condescends to enter the hovel of the peasant, and
preach the gospel to the poor, she is no less qualified — and it is
a mark of equally compassionate condescension — to enter the
philosopher's study; and, like the sun, imparting splendor to
the objects she shines upon, not receiving any from them, to
pour a flood of brighter glory round the grandest developments
of intellect, the sublimest discoveries of science ; and thus make
them instrumental in communicating the most exalted enjoy-
ment in their power to bestow. Will not the power of the intel-
lect afford the highest gratification when directed to their noblest
object, and employed in reverentially exploring the perfections
and gratefully celebrating the praises of their glorious source —
the fountain of mind, the God of intellect ? Will not the dis-
coveries of science be a sourco of the purest pleasure vvhich
science can impart, when she unfolds her stupendous machinery
to him who lov*s to trace, in every part of the wondrous mechan-
ism of the material universe, the Master Hand which guides and
sustains the whole ; and to watch with adoring reverence, in all
its movements and contrivances, the footsteps of that God

•' Who wheels His throne upon the rolling worlds,
And gives its lustre to an insect's wings ? "

Will not the narratives of voyagers and travellers yield most pie -
sure to him who, in the peculiarities and productions of every
clime, discovers fresh proofs of the wisdom, power, and goodness
of his covenant God ? Will not astronomy, with her glorious
array of countless suns and systems, spaiiling throughout the
boundlessness of space, pour the sublimest joy into the heart of
him who, while gazing on the glories she unveils, believes and
remembers that He who first created and still upholds all those
suns and systems is that very Jesus whose love has redeemed,
and whose power will uphold him for ever ; and that above those
starry worlds where Jesus reigns, a dwelling 'place, a palace is
prepared for him, where he shall reign as a king and priest unto
God, shining as the brightness of the firmament — yea, like the
sun in the kingdom of his Father — for ever and ever ? Will not
he walk through creation with the liappiest heart, who regards

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380

HYMN TO THE CREATOR.

it as a magnificeTit temple, hallowed with the presence, and vnral
with the praises of the God he loves ; and who delights, wli«r-|
ever he looks around, to see the glory of that God filling the
temple ? And will not nature's beauteous scenery, whether in its
milder or more majestic features, breathe its very sweetest influ-
ences over the spirit of that man who, after having gazed hi
rapturous delight on her scenes of sublimity or softness, witl^
filial confidence inspired,

'* Can lift to heaven an nnpresnmptnoas eye,
And, smiling, say — ' My Father made them all ? ' "

Must not imagination also unveil her loveliest visions, arrayed inj
her brightest coloring, when her inspiration is drawn fronil
heaven ; when, instead of crawling, worm-like, amidst the dust
and defilements of earth, she soars, like the eagle, to the skies ;|
and while mounting upward, the light that sparkles on her wings"
is the light of the Sun of righteousness — the glory of (iod ? Andl
will not music pour her sublimest and sweetest melodies on hisl
ear, who employs the magic of her influence as a sacred charm toj
drive away the evil spirit of discontent ; attune the heart to liolyl
thankfulness and joy ; and enable the pious worshipper on earth
to anticipate the happiness of heaven — yea, ever* here below toj
take part in the anthem of the skies, and join with the celestial
choir in singing " praise unto Him that sitteth upon the throne,
and to the Lamb, even the Lamb that was slain ? " Surely, then,
if godliness thus impart additional grandeur and sweetness to
every pleasure which flows through the channel of the intellect,
by imparting to them all so much of the glory of God, and the
spirit of heaven, it must be admitted, that, in this respect also,
godliness has the promise of the life that now is, as well as of I
that which is to come ; here also we must confess that godliness [
is great gain! — Hugh White.

^fit''

HYMN TO THE CREATOE.

These art Thy glorious works. Parent of good,

Almighty, thine this universal frame,

Thus wondrous fair : Thyself how wondrous then !

Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens,

To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these thy lowest works ; yet these declare

Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.

Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,

Angels ; for ye behold Him, and with songs

HYMN TO THIi CREATOR.

381

xind choral sympLonies, day without night,

Circia His throne rejoicing; ye in heaven.

On earth, join, all ye creatures, to extol

Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end.

Fairest of stars, last in the tram of night.

If, better, thou belong not to the dawn,

Sure pledge of day, that crown' st the smiling mom

"With thy bright circlet, praise Him in thy sphere.

While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.

Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul,

Acknowlege Him thy gieater — sound His praise

In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,

And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st.

Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fliest.

With the fix* J stars, fix'd in their orb that flies ;

And ye five other wandering fires, that move

In mystic dance, not without song, resound

His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light.

Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth

Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run

Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix

And nourish all things ; let your ceaseless change

Vary to our great Maker still new praise.

Ye mist and exhalations, that now rise

From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray.

Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold.

In honor to the world's great Author rise ;

Whether to deck with clouds the uncolor'd sky,

Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers.

Rising or falling, still ad ^ance His praise.

His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow.

Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines,

With every plant, in sign of worship wave.

Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow.

Melodious murmurs, warbling tune His praise.

Join voices, all ye living souls : ye birds,

That singing up to heaven-gate ascend,

Bear on your wings and in your notes His praise.

Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk

The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep.

Witness, if I be silent, morn or even,

To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade.

Made vocal by my song, and taught His praise.

Hail, Universal Lord, be bounteous still

To, give us only good; and if the night

Hath gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd.

Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark !

—Milton.

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382 CANADA, THE LAND OF OUR ADOmON,

THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT

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SHRINE.

The turf shall be my fragrant shrine ;
My temple, Lord, that arch of Thine ;
My censer'y breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.

My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murmuring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,
Even more than music, breathes of Thee.

I'll seek by day some ^ladc unknown,
All light and silence, like Thy throne ;
And the pale stars shall be at night
The only eyes that watch my rite.

Thy heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look.
Shall be my pure and shining book.
Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of Thy wondrous name.

I'll read Thy anger in the rack

That clouds a while the daybeam's tra«k ;

Thy mercy in the azure hue

Of sunny brightness breaking through!

There's nothing bright above, below,
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light my soul can see
Some feature of Thy Deity !

There's nothing dark below, above,

But in its gloom I trace Thy love.

And meekly wait that moment when

Thy touch shall turn all bright again ! — Moork.

CANADA, THE LAND OF OUR ADOPTION.

When I consider the advance of the conntry in education audi
in other important elements of greatness and of prosperity, II
must say that I feel but little sympathy with those who intlnlgej
in mournful recollections of what they have left, or quernloiHl
complaints of their present position, instead of acknowledging thoj
advantages that they enjoy, or looking forward to the bright futinc
which is before them. Let ns consider for a moment what are

CANADA, THE LAND OP OUR ADOPTION.

383

the leading characteristics of this fair land of our adoption. A
fertile soil, amply i*ewarding labor in the abundance and diver-
sity of its produce ; a salubrious climate, calculated to rear a
hardy and vigorous race ; water communication by noble rivers
and vast lakes, (or rather mediterranean seas,) unequalled in
the world ; and millions of acres of unoccupied land, able to
support millions of additional immigrants. Let us add to
these natural blessings, the results of the energy and enterprise
of an active and intelligent population: our cities with all the
conveniences and comforts of European towns of twice their
population and ten times their age; our villages springing up
where lately there were but dense forests or uncultivated wastes ;
the remotest points of this extensive country connected by rail-
roads ; the facilities afforded for the education of our children by
our common schools, our grammar schools, our private seminaries,
our colleges, and our universities ; the progress of knowledge
advanced by the scientific and literary societies and institutes
established in our cities and towns ; the laws respected and en-
forced, and justice firmly and impartially ad., nnistered ; the
solemn duties of religion inculcated by fixed mini, trations or by
the occasional vfeits of the missionary ; the voice of prayer and
praise arising alike from the stately piles in our towns that rear
their spires towards heaven, and the lowly shanty which scarce
lifts its humble head under the leafy arches of our backwoods ;
and all this with the full enjoyment of the blessings of civil and
religious liberty conferred by our own free constitution, and se-
cured by our connection with that glorious empire of which we
form a part. In my opinion, the language of dissatisfaction or
complaint but little becomes those who enjoy such advantages.
Thanksgiving is rather our duty — thanksgiving to Him from
whom all blessings flow, for what in His abundant mercy He has
given to us, and prayer to the same Almighty Being for content-
ment with what we have — for peace, wherein we may use and enjoy
what His bountiful hand has provided for us. By peace, I mean
not freedom from war — not tranquillity undisturbed by aggression
fi-om without ; — of that I have but little fear. Our relations with
the great republic on our borders are such as become good neigh-
bors, who remember tnat we are both sprung from the same old
stock — that we are bound together by the community of interest,
and by the mutual affection produced by commerce, by friendship,
and by intermarriage — that we are botl^animated by the same de-
sire for social advancement, ay, and by the same love of freedom.

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384

REFLECTIONS ON FLOWERS,

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however we differ as to the best means of soenring it. If ever
hostilities should arise — and may God in His mercy avert such a
calamity ! — we shall be supported by the boundless resources of
the most powerful nation on earth, and — what is better still — by
the hearts and hands of our own people, united to a man, in de-
fence of their altars and their homes, for their Queen and for
their country. I do not mean, then, freedom from aggression
from without, of which, as I have said, I have but little fear, but
I do mean freedom from internal strife, from the injurious influ-
ences of bickerings and contentions with each other. I do
mean that peace which is produced by mutual forbearance—
by laying aside national feuds and party differences, and by the
union of all for the advancement of the welfare of their common
country, the land of the Maple Leaf ! Let me not be mistaken.
I do not ask the immigrants from our parent isles to forget
the dear land of their birth across the ocea: — far from it. The i
man that has ceased to love his native soil will never be true
to his adopted country. But I do call upon them to merge all
distinctions under the sweet and honored name of Canadian,
representing, as it does, the land of their adoption — the home of
their choice — and with many of us, the birthplace of those that
are nearest and dearest round our own firesides, and probably
the last resting-place of their and our bones. For such peace,
then, for such unanimity, for such advancement of Canada, let us
offer up our humble prayers to the Giver of all good ; nor do I
know any more appropriate words in which this supplication can
be offered, than those which must be familiar to many whom I
address, and in which I doubt not all will cordially join — that
" we may live in the fear of God, in dutiful allegiance to the
Queen, and in brotherly love and Christian charity each towards
the other." — Rev. Dr. M'Caul.

REFLECTIONS ON FLOWERS.

*' Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow." — Matthew vi. 28.

Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies,
Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew.

What more than magic in you lies
To fill the heart's fond view !

In childhood's sports, companions gay;

In sorrow, on life's downward way,

How soothing ! in our last decay,
Memorials prompt and true.

KUFLECTIOMS ON FLOWERS.

385

Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,
As pure, as fragrant, and as fair

As when ye crown'd the sunshine hours
Of happy wanderers there.

Fallen all beside — the world of life,

How is it stain'd with fear and strife !

In reason's world what storms are rife»
What passions rage and glare !

But cheerful and unchanged the while
Your first and perfect form ye show.
The same that won Eve's matron smile

In the world's opening glow.
The stars of heaven a course are taught
Too high above our ^uman thought ; —
Ye may be found, if ye are sought,
And as we gaze we know.

Ye dwell beside our paths and homes.

Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow.
And guilty man, where'er he roams,
Your inxxjcent mirth may borrow.
The birds of air before us ne^,
They cannot brt>ok our shame to moet —
But we inay taste your solace sweet.
And come again to-morrow.

Ye fearless in your nests abide —

Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise.
Your silent lessons, undescried

By all but lowly eyes ;
For ye could draw the admiring gaze
Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys :
Your order wild, your fragrant maze.
He taught us how to prize.

Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour,

As when He paused and own'd you good ;
His blessing on earth's primal bower,

Ye felt it all renew'd.
What care ye now, if winter's storm
Sweep ruthlesrj o'er each silken form P
Christ's blessing at your heart is warm,
Ye fear no vexing mood.

Alas ! of thousand bosoms kind.
That daily court you and caress.

How few the happy secret find
Of your calm loveliness I

1:!^+

386

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FROM "the deserted VILLAQE.'*

" Live for to-day ! to^iorrow's light
To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight.
Go, sleep like closing flowers at night,
And Heaven thy morn will bless."

— Keble.

FROM "THE DESERTED VILLAGE."

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,

And still where many a garden-flower grows wild.

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,

The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

A man he was to all the country dear,

And passing ricli with forty pounds a year;

Remote from towns he ran his godly race.

Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change, his place;

Unskilful ho to fawn, or seek for power.

By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour: *

Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,

More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train —

He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ;

The long-remember'd beggar was his guest.

Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast ;

TUE MAKINliU S IITMN.

The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Glaim'd kinared there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away.
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutcll, and show'd how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side ;
But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all ;
And, as a bird each fond endeaiinent tries
To tempt its new-fledged off*spring to the skies.
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay.
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid.
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismay'd.
The reverend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to rr-'iao,
And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace.
His looks adorn'd the venerable place ;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway.
And fools who came to scoff", remain'd to pray.
The service past, around the pious man.
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ;
Even children follow' d with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown to share the good inan's sn^ile;
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distress'd :
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given.
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff", that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm ;
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

— Goldsmith.

THE MARINER'S HYMN.

Launch thy bark, mariner ! Christian, God speed thco !
Let loose the rudder-bands ! good angels lead thee !
Set thy sails warily ; tempests will come ;
Steer th^ course steadily ! Christian, steer homo !

387

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388 CANADA, THE LAVD OF OUK BIRTH.

Look to the woathcr-bow, breakers are round thco !
Lot fall the plummet now — shallows may ground thee.
Reef in the fore-sail there ! hold the helm fast I
So — let the vessel wear ! there swept the blast.

What of the night, watchman ? v* l^t of the night ?
" Cloudy— all quiet— no land yet — all's right."
Be wakeful, be vigilant ! — danger may be
At an hour when all seemeth securest to thee.

How ! gains the leak so fast P Clean out the hold —
Hoist up thy merchandise — heave out thy gold !
There — let tho ingots go! — now the ship rights ;
Hurrah ! the harbor's near — lo, the red lights !

Slacken not sail yet at inlet or island ;
Straight for the beacon steer — straight for the high land ;
Crowd all thy canvas on, cut through the foam —
Christian ! cast anchor now— Heaven is thy uome.

— Cauoline Soutihlv.

CANADA, THE LAND OF OUR BIRTH.

It cannot be too stro«gly impressed upon every mind, that it i.sl
on Canadian energy, Canadian ambition, Canadian self-reliance,!
skill, and enterprise — in a word, on Canadian patriotism — that]
Canadian prosperity, elevation, and happiness depefnd. Tlie fact
that some men, by honest and intelligent industry, as tradesmen,!
mechanics, farmers, merchants, and professional men, have risen!
from poverty to comfort, and even affluence, shows what othci'sl
might have done by equal honesty, intelligence, and industry.!
In agricultural productiveness, Canada is superior to New York;!
in water-power and hydraulic privileges it is equal to any of the!
New England States ; in lumber it is a contributor to both the!
American and English markets ; its mineral resources are mui.li|
more than ample to supply its own implements of industry, as!
its cattle and flocks far exceed its wants for labor, food audi
clothing. Its sky is as clear as that of Italy, and its climate asj
healthy as that of Germany ; its institutions are even freer than
those of England, and its administration of justice contessedk
more independent and impartial than that of the United State>.
The social and material advancement of Canada in former ycai^
was confessedly slow; but cofhpare its progress tor the last ten
years in any and every respect with that of any of the neighbor-
ing states from Maine to Michigan, apart from the advantages I

CANADA, THE LAND OF OUR RII^H.

389

whioh somo of them possess as being the seaports and thorough-
fares for other states, and the results will be honorable to
Canada. Compare everything progressive in those states which
is not adventitious, but which depends upon home industry and
enterprise, and Canada, with all its faults and shortcomings, has
much more reason to be proud than to be ashamed. It is true
Canadian Hippiases have done much to disturb and retard its
intereits; but this spirit of conspiring against one's country
[instead of consulting and maintaining its honor and interests,
like an Aristides and a Conon, even in exile, is as alien to the
I general feeling as it is hostile to the best interests of Canada.
But in as far as this spirit exists — this spirit of crying to Hercules
instead of helping one's self — Canadian enterprise will be damped,
the value of Canadian securities and property will be depreciated,
and Canadian progress impeded. In the days of Grecian self-
reliance, unity, and patriotism, that little peninsula of not half
the territorial extent of Canada, repelled the most numerous
armies recorded in history, and defied a power whose domains
extended from the Indus to the iEgean, and from the Euxine to
the cataracts of the Nile. Let each Canadian love his country
and seek its glory as did the ancient Greeks, during the era when
private patriotism and public virtue were inscribed upon their
national esctJtcheon. We have no strife of foreign war — no
Ihostile rivalship of nations ; — our warfare is a domestic, bloodless
lone— a warfare of virtue against vice, of knowledge against igno-
jrance, of self-dependence against foreign dependence, of public
Ifpirit against personal littleness, of the love of Canada as our-
Iselves, instead of the love of self against Canada ; of the dignified
land generous industry of a Cincinnatus, instead of the selfish and
jprotean adventures of an Alcibiades. Surely if

*' The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Proudly proclaims the happiest spot his own :
The naked negi'O, panting on the lino,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine ; "

|»11 true Canadians can say to the genial land of their birth or
'lioption, —

♦' Our bosoms with rapture beat high at thy name,
Thy health is our transport — onrtriumph thy fame."

— Rev. Dr. Ryerson.

^ir

390

HYMN OF NATURE.

God of the earth's extended plains !

The dark green fields contented lie ;
The mountains rise like holy towers,

Whore man might commune with the sky ;
The tall clift' challenges the storm

That lours upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their streams

With joyous music in their flow.

God of the dark and heavy deep !

The waves lie sleeping on the sands,
Till the fierce trumpet of the storm

Hath summon'd up their thundering bands ;
Then the white sails are danh'd like foam,

Or hurry trembling o'er the seas,
Till, calm'd by Thee, the sinking gale

Serenely breathes. Depart in peace !

God of the forest's solemn shade !

The grandeur of the lonely tree.
That wrestles singly with the gale,

Lifts up admiring eyes to Thee :
But more majestic far they stand,

When, side by side, their ranks they form
To v/ave on high their plumes of green,

And fight their battles with the storm.

God of the light and viewless air !

Where summer breezes sweetly flow,
Or, gathering in their angry might.

The fierce and wintry tempests blow;
All — from the evening s plaintive sigh,

That hardly lifts the drooping flower,
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry —

Breathe forth the language of Thy power.

God of the fair and open sky !

How gloriously above us springs
The tented dome of heavenly blue.

Suspended on the rainbow's rings !
Each brilliant star that sparkles through.

Each gilded cloud that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives

The beauty of its praise to Thee.

ON PARMAMENTARY REFOKM.

501

God of the rolling orbs above !

Tby name is written clcaily bright
In the warm day's unvarying blaz.o.

Or evening's golden shower of light.
For ovory fire that fronts the sun,

And every spark that walks alouo
Around the utmost verge of heaven,

Were kindled at Luy burning throne.

God of the world ! the hour must conio.

And nature's self to dust return ;
Her crumbling altars must decay,

Her incense fires shall cease to burn ;
But still her grand and lovely scenes

Have made man's warmest praises flow ;
For hearts grow holier as they trace

The beauty of the world below.

— PEABODy,

[lii

ON PARLIAMENTARY REFORM.

Sir, the hour has q,rrived when this protmcted debate must
come to an end — (cheers.) I cannot resent the warmth with
which that last expression of mine has been re-echoed. My
apologies to the house are sincere. I feel deeply indebted, not
to gentlemen sitting on'^his side of the house only, but also
and not less to honorable gentlemen opposite, for the patience
with which they have heard me. But a very few words more,
and I have done. May I speak briefly to honorable gentlemen
on the other side, as some of them have copiously addressed
advice to gentlemen on this side of the house ? * 1 would ask
them, Will you not consider, before you embark in this new
crusade, whether the results of those other political crusades in
which you have heretofore engaged have been so satisfactory to
you as to encourage you to a new venture in the same direction ?
Great battles you have fought, and fought them manfully. The
battle of maintaining civil disabilities on account of religious
belief; the battle of resistance to the first Reform Act; the
obstinate and long-continued battle of Protection ; all these
great battles have been fought by the great party that I now
look in the face ; and, as to some limited portion of those con-
flicts, I admit my own share of the responsibility. But I ask
again, have their results, have their results towards yourselves,
been such as that yon should bo disposed to renev^ struggles

392

ON PAKLIAMENTARY RKFORM.

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it

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similar to these? Certainly those who compose the Liberal
party in British politics have, at least in that capacity, do
r( uson or title to find fault. The effect of your course has been
to give over to your adversaries for five out of every six, or for
six out of every seven years, since the epoch of the Reform Act.
the conduct and management of public affairs. The effect has
been to lower, to reduce, and contract your just influence in ibr
country, and to abridge your legitimate share in the administra-
tion of the government. It is good for the public imerest that
you also should be strong. But if you are to be strong, you can
only be so by showing, in addition to the kindness and the per-
sonal generosity which I am sure you feel towards the people, a I
public, a political trust and confidence in the people. What I
now say can hardly be said with an evil motive. I am conscious
of no such sentiment towards any man or any party. But, sir,
we are assailed '.nd with us the bill, of which we think raore
seriously than of ourselves. This bill is in a state of crisis and
of pfril, and the government along with it. We stand or fall
with it, as has been declared by my noble friend Lord Russell.
We stand with it now ; we may fall with it a short time hence.
If we do so fall, we, or others in our places, shall rise with it
hereafter. I shall not attempt to measure with precision the
forces that are to be arrayed against us in the coming issue.
Perhaps the great division of to-night is not to be the last, bnt
only the first of a series of divisions. At some point of the
contest you may possibly succeed. You may drAve us from our
seats. You may slay, you may bury the measure that we have
introduced. But we will write upon its gravestone for an
epitaph this line, with certain confidence in its fulfilment —

'• Exoriere aliquis nostris ex ossibns altor."

You cannot fight against the future. Time is on our side. The
great social forces which move onward in their might and
majesty, and which the tumult of these debates does not for a
moment impede or disturb — those great social forces are against
you ; they work with us ; they are marshalled in our support.
And the banner which we now carry in the fight, though per-
haps at some moment of the struggle it may droop over our
sinking heads, will yet float again in the eye of heaven, and will
be borne by the firm hands of the united people of the three
kingdoms, perhaps not to an easy, but to a certain and to a not
distant victory. — Gladstone.

PROCRASTINATION.

393

Be wise to-day ; 'tis madness to defer ;

Next day the fatal precedent will plead,

Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life.

Procrastination is the thief of time ;

Tear after year it steals, till all are fled.

And to the mercies of a moment leaves

The vast concerns of an eternal scene.

If not so frequent, would not this be strange ?

That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still ;

Of man's miraculous mistakes this bears

The palm, " That all men are about to live,"

For ever on the brink of being born :

All pay themselves the compliment to think

They one day shall not drivel ; and their pride

On this reversion takes up ready praise.

At least their own ; their future aelvCvS applaud.

How excellent that life they ne'er will lead !

Time lodged in their own hands is Folly's vails ;

Time lodged in Fate's, to wisdom they consign;

The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone.

*Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool ;

And scarce in human wisdom to do more.

All promise is poor dilatory man,

And that through every stage. When young, indeed,

In full content we sometimes nobly rest,

Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish

As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise;

At thirty, man suspects himself a fool;

Knqws it at forty, and reforms his plan ;

At fifty chides his infamous delay,

Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ;

In all the magnanimity of thought

Resolves and re-resolves ; then dies the same. '

And why P Because he thinks himself immortal.

All men think all men mortal but themselves ;

Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate

Strikesthrough their wounded hearts the sudden dread.

But ,beir hearts wounded, like the wounded air,

Soon close; where, past the shaft, no trace is found.

As from the wing no scar the sky retains,

The parted wave no furrow from the keel —

So dies in human hearts the thought of death :

Even when the tender tear which nature sheds

O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave.

— Young.

'iliw

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394 THE DEAD ASS.

MERCY TO ANIMALS.

I WOULD not enter on my list of friends

(Though graced .with polish'd manners and fine sense,

Yet wanting sensibility) the man

Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.

An inadvertent step may crush the snail

That crawls at evening in the public path ;

But he that has hnmanity, forewarn'd,

Will tread aside, and let the reptile live.

The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight,

And charged, perhaps, with venom, that intrudes,

A visitor unwelcome, into scenes

Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove,

The chamber, or refectory, may die —

A necessary act incurs no blame.

Not so when, held within their proper bounds,

And guiltless of defence, they range the air,

Or take their pastime in the spacious field :

There they are privileged ; and he that hunts

Or harms them there, is guilty of a wrong.

Disturbs the economv of nature's realm.

Who, when she form d, designed them an abode.

The sum is this : If man's convenience, health.

Or safety interfere, his rights and claims

Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs.

Else they are all — the meanest things that are —

As free to live, and to enjoy that life.

As God was free to form them at the first.

Who in His sovereign wisdom made them all.

Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons

To love it too. — Cowper.

;i,'

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THE DEAD ASS.

"And this," said he, (putting the remains of a crust into his
wallet) — " and this should have been thy portion," said he, " hadst
thou been alive to have shared it with me." I thought, by the
accent, it had been an apostrophe to his child, but it was to his
ass ; and to the very ass we had seen dead on the road, which
had occasioned La Fleur's misadventure. The man seemed to
lament it much ; and it instantly brought into my mind Sancho's
lamentation for his ; but he did it with more true touches of
nature.

The mourner was sitting upon a stone bench at the door, with

THE DEAD ASS.

395

the ass's pannel and its bridle on one sirlo, which he took ifpfrom
time to time — then laid them down — looked at them, and shook
his head. He then took his crust of bread out of his wallet again
as if to eat it, held it some time in his hand — then laid it upon
the bit of his ass's bridle — looked wistfully at the little arrange-
ments he had made, and then gave a sigh.

The simplicity of his grief drew numbers about him, and La
Fleur among the rest, while the horses were getting ready : as I
continued sitting in the postchaise, I could see and hear over
their heads.

He said he bad come last from Spain, where he had been from
the farthest borders of Frariconia ; and had got so far on his re-
turn home, when the ass died. Every one seemed desirous to
know what business could have taken so old and jwor a man so
far a journey from his own home.

It had pleased Heaven, he said, to bless him with three sons,
the finest lads in all Germany ; but having in one week lost two
of them by the small-pox, and th^ youngest falling ill of the same
distemper, he was afraid of being bereft of them all, and made a
vow, if Heaven would not take h hi from him also, h6 would go
in gratitude to St. lago in Spain. •

When the mourner got thus far in his story, he stopped, to pay
nature her tribute, and wept bitterly.

He said Heaven had accepted the conditions, and that he had
set out from his cottage with this poor creature, who had been a
patient partner of his journey ; that it had eaten the same bread
with him all the way, and was unto him as n, friend.

Everybody who stood about heard the poor fellow with con-
cern ; La Fleur offered him money. The mourner said he did
not want it — it was not the value of the ass, but the loss of him.
The ass, he said he was assured, loved him ; and, upon this, told
them a long story of a mischance upon their passage over the
Pyi'enean mountains, which had separated them from each other
three days, during which time the ass had sought him as much as
he had sought the ass, and that neither had scarce eaten or drunk
till they met.

" Thou hast one comfort, friend," said I, " at least, in the loss
of thy poor beast ; I am sure thou hast been a merciful master
to him." "Alas!" said the mourner, "T thought so when he
was alive, but now he is dead I think otherwise. I fear the
weight of myself tiiid my afflictions together, have been too much
for him ; they have shortened the poor creature's days, and I fear

•i':f

ii'M,

Ik-":

396

AN RNOUSH COUNTRY GENTLEMAN.

'ilk

I havo them to answer for." Shame on the -world ! said I to
myself. Did we but love each other as this poor soul loved his
ass, 'twould be something.

— Sterne.

AN ENGLISH COUNTRY GENTLEMAN.

I TAKE great pleasure in accompanying the squire in his peram-
bulations about his estate, in which he is often attended by a
kind of cabinet council. His prime minister, the steward, is a
very worthy and honest old man, that assumes a right of way.
that is to say, a right to haT^e his own way, from having lived
time out ot mind on the place. He loves the estate even better
than he does the squire, and thwarts the latter sadly in many
of his projects of improvement, being a little prone to disapprove
of every plan that does not originate with himself.

In the course of one of these perambulations, 1 have known
the squire to point out some important alteration which he was
contemplating in the disposition or cultivation of the grounds;
this, of course, would be opposed by the steward, and a long
argurifent would ensue over a stile or on a rising piece of ground,
until the squire, who has a high opinion of the other's ability
and integrity, would be fain to give up the point. This conces-
sion, I observed, would immediately mollify the old man, and
after walking over a field or two in silence, with his hands
behind his back, chewing the cud of reflection, he would sud-
denly turn to the squire and observe, that " he had been turning
the matter over in his mind, and, upon the "whole, he believed
he would take his honor's advice."

Christy, the huntsman, is another of the squire's occasional
attendants, to whom he continually refers all matters of local
history, as to a chronicle of the estate, having in a manner been
acquainted with many of the trees from the very time they
were acorns. Old Nimrod is rather pragmatical in those points
of knowledge on which he values himself; but the squire rarely
contradicts him, and is, in fact, one of the most indulgent
potentates that ever were henpecked by his ministry.

He often laughs about it himself, and evidently yields to
these old men more from the bent of his own humor, than
from any want of proper authority. He likes this honest inde-
pendence of old age, and is well aware th*- ' these trusty followers
love and honor him in their hearts, lie is perfectly at ease

AN ENGLISH COUNTRY GENTLEMAN.

397

about his own dignity and the respect of those around him ;
nothing disgusts him sooner than any appearance of fawning or
sycophancy. "w*

I really have seen no display of royal state that could com-
pare with one of the squire's progresses about his paternal fields
and through his hereditary woodlands with several of these
faithful adherents about him, and followed by a body-guard of
iogs. He encourages a frankness and manliness of deportment
among his dependants, and is the personal friend of his tenants,
inquiring into their Cvjiicerns, and assisting them in times of
difficulty and hardship. This has rendered him one of the most
popular and, of course, one of the happiest of landlords.

Indeed, I do not know a more enviable condition of life than
that of an English gentfeman of sound judgment and good
feelings, who passes the greater part of his time on a hereditary
estate in the country. Prom the excellence of the roads, and
the rapidity and exactness of the public conveyances, ho is
enabled to command all the comforts and conveniences, all the
intelligence and novelties of the capital, while he is removed from
its hurry and distraction. He has ample means of occupation
and amusement within his own domains ; he may diversify his
time by rural occupations, by rui-al sports, by study, and by the
delights of friendly society collected within his own hospitable
halls.

Or if his views and feelings are of a more extensive and
liberal natur<||he has it greatly in his power to do good, and to
liave that good immediately reflected back upon himself. He can
render essential service to his country by assisting in the disin-
terested administration of the laws, by watching over the
opinions and principles of the lower orders around him, by
diffusing among them those lights which may be important to
their welfare, by mingling frankly among them, gaining their
confidence, becoming the immediate auditor of their complaints,
informing himself of their wants, making himself a channel
[through which their grievances may be quietly communicated to
the proper sources of mitigation and reliel, or by becomiag, if
need be, the interpreter and incorruptible guardian of their
[liberties — the enlightened champion of their rijhts.

— Washington Irving.

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398

MM .
him ■

THE SIEGE OF LDCKNOW.

THE SIEGE OF LUCKNOW.

• (A.D. 1857.)

The history of warfare cannot show a nobler instance of deter-
mined valor and patient endurance of suffering than that which
the story of the siege of Lucknow, "from June 30th to September
25th 1857, exhibits It is one that, with the defence of Kars,
must ever be dear to Canadian hearts, since, like General Wil-
liams, the gallant officer who assumed the command and col-
ducted the defence of Lucknow from the death of Sir Henry
Lawrence, on the 4th of July, till the relief of the city by Outram
and Havel()(;k, is a native of the province of Nova Scotia. Tdo j
following is part of a division order issued by Major-General
Sir James Outram, from his head-quarters at Lucknow, on tho
5th of October, while waiting for the arrival of reinforcements I
under Sir Colin Campbell : —

" The Major-General believes that the annals of warfare con-
tain no brighter page than that which will record the bravery, j
fortitude, vigilance, and patient endurance of hardships, priva-
tion, and fatigue displayed by the garrison of Lucknow ; and I
he is very conscious that his unskilled pen must needs fail ade-
quately to convey to the Right Honorable the Governor- General I
of India, and His Excellency the Commander-in-Chief, the pro-
found sense of the merits of that garrison, which has been forced!
on his mind by a careful consideration of the almost incredible!
difficulties with which they have had to contend. *

" The term ' illustrious' was well and happily applied by al
former Governor- General of India to the garrison of JellalabadJ
but some far more laudatory epithet, if such the Englislij
language contains, is due, the Major-General considers, to thej
brave men whom Brigadier Inglis has commanded, with unde-j
viating success and untarnished honor, through the late memor-j
able siege ; for while the devoted band of heroes who so noblj
maintained the honor of their country's arms under Sir R.l
Sale were seldom exposed to actual attack, the Lucknow garri-l
son, "of inferior strength, have, in addition to a series of fierce as-f
saults gallantly and successfully repulsed, been for three moiitha
exposed to a nearly incessant fire from strong and commanding
positions, held by an enemy of overwhelming force, possessinrj
powerful artillery, liaving at their command the wholfe resource^
of what was but recently a kingdom, and animated by an iusaut]
and bloodthirsty fanaticism."

THF DEATU OF THE LITTLE SCHOLAR.

399

THE DEATH OF THE LITTLE SCHOLAR.

Without further preface he conducted them into his little school-
room, which was parlor and kitchen likewise, and told them
they were welcome to remain under his roof till morning. The
child looked round the room as she took her seat. The chief
ornaments of the walls were certain moral sentences, fairly copied
la good round text, and well-worked sums in simple addition and
multiplication, evidently achieved by the same hand, which were
plentifully pasted round the room ; for the double purpose, as
it seemed, of bearing testimony to the excellence of the school,
and kindling a worthy emulation in the bosoms of the scholars.
"Yes," said the schoolmaster, observing that her attention was
I caught by these specimens, "that's beautiful writing, my dear."
"Very, sir," replied the child, modestly; *'is i; yours?" " Mine!"
he returned, taking out his spectacles, and putting them on, to
have a better view of the triumphs so dear to his heart; "1
couldn't write like that now-a-days. No: they are all done by
one hand; a little hand it is ; not so old as yours, but a very
Iclever one."

As the old schoolmaster said this, he saw that a small blot of
jink had been thrown upon one of the copies; so he took a pen-
{hife from his pocket, and, going up to the wall, carefully
Iscratched it out. When he had finished he walked slowly back-
Iward from the writing, admiring it as one might contemplate a
lueautiful picture, but with something of sadness in his voice and
ImaDner, which quite touched the child, though she was un-
jicquainted with its cause.

"A little hand, indeed," said the poor schoolmaster. "Far be-
lyond all his companions in his learning and his sports too.
jHow did he ever come to be so fond of me ? That 1 should love

Ihim is no wonder, but that he should love me " And there

|tbe schoolmaster stopped, and took off his spectacles to wipe
jtliem, as though they had grown dim. " I hope there is no-
jlhing the matter, sir ?" said Nelly, anxiously.

"Not much, my dear," returned the schoolmaster. " I hoped

'have seen him on the green to-night. He was always fore-
Bost among them. But he'll be there to-morrow."

"Has he been ill?" asked the child, with a child's quick

ipathy.

"Not vei'y. They said he was wandering in his head yester-

1 3

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400

THE hi!:atu of ai£ litile »cuolar.

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day, dear boy, and so they said the day before. But that's j^
part of that kind of disorder ; it's not a bad sign — not at all iJ
bad sign." ■

The child was silent. He walked to the door, and looked
wistfully out. The shadows of the night were gathering, aud aL

• was still.

" If he could lean on somebody's arm, he would come to me,
know," he said, returning into the room. "He always came inta
the garden to say good night. But perhaps his illness has onlj

' just taken a favorable turn, and it 's too late for him to comJ
out, for it's very damp, and there's a heavy dew. It's mucn
better ho shouldn't come to-night."

• • • • • • •

The next day, towards night, an old woman came tottering uj
the garden as speedily as she could, and meeting the schoolmaste
at the door, said he was to go to Dame West's directly, and ha^
best run on before her. He and the child were on the point <
going out together for a walk, and without relinquishing hej
hand the schoolmaster hurried away, leaving the messenger
follow as she might.

They stopped at a cottage door, and the schoolmaster knocke
softly at it with his hand. It was opened without loss of timd
They passed into an inner room, where his infant friend, haj
dressed, lay stretched upon a bed.

He was a very young boy ; quite a little child. His hair stil
hung in curls about his face, and his eyes were very bright ; be
their light was of heaven, not earth. The schoolmaster took i
seat beside him, and stooping over the pillow, whispered hj
name. The boy sprang up, threw his wasted arms around hj
neck, crying out that ho was his dear, kind friend.

" I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows," said tt
poor schoolmaster.

" Who is that ?" said the boy, seeing Nell. " I am afraid
kiss her, lest I should make her ill. Ask her to shake han(j
witti me."

The sobbing child came closer up, and took the little langu
hand in hers. Releasing his again after a time, the sick boy la
him gently down.

" You remember the garden, Harry," whispered the schc
master, anxious to rouse him, for a dulness seemed gatherii|
upon the child, " and how pleasant it used to be in the evening
You must make haste to visit it again, for I think the vej

THE RDINE[) LOlKiE.

401

flowers have missed you, and are less gay than tlicy used to be.
You will come soon, my dear, very soon now, won't you ? "

The boy smiled faintly, so very, very faintly, and put his
hand upon his friend's gray head. He moved his lips, too, but
DO voice came from them ; no, not a sound.

In the silence that ensued, the hum of distant voices, borne
upon the evening air, came floating through the open window.

" What's that ?" said the sick child, opening his eyes.

"The boys at play upon the green."

He took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried to wave it
above his head. But the feeble arm dropped powerless down.

" Shall I do it ? " said the schoolmaster.

"Please wave it at the window," was the faint reply. " Tie
lit to the lattice. Some of them may see it there. Perhaps
they'll think of ae, and look this way."

He raised his head, and glanced from the fluttering signal to

is idle bat, that lay, with slate and book, and other boyish pro-
Iperty, upon a table in the room. And then he laid him down
Uftly once more, and asked if the little girl were there, for he
I could not see her.

She stepped forward, and pressed the passive hand that lay
lipon the coverlet. The two old friends and companions — for
Irach they were, though they were man and child — held each other
lin a long embrace, and then the little scholar turned his face to-
jwards the wall, and fell asleep.

The poor schoolmaster sat in the same place, holding the small,

old hand in his, and chafing it. It was but the hand of a dead

Hid. He felt that ; and yet he chafed it still, and could not

^f it down. — Dickens.

THE RUINED LODGE.

^rrER leaving Halifax, the road to Windsor winds for ten miles
Bttnd the margin of Bedford Basin, which is connected with the

rbor by a narrow passage at the dockyard. It is an extensive
nd magnificent sheet of water, the shores of which are deeply

lented with numerous coves and well-sheltered inlets of great

At the distance of seven miles from the town is a ruined lodge,
lilt by his royal highness the late Duke of Kent, when com-
ander-in-chief of the forces in this colony, once his favorite
imer residence, and the scene of his munificent hospitalities.

2 c

402

THE RUINED LODGE.

It ii-j iuiposHiblo to visit this spot without the most melancholy
feelings. The tottering fence, the prostrate gates, the ruined
grottoes, the long and winding avenues, cut out of the forest,
overgrown by rank grass and occasional shrubs, and the silenco
and desolation that pervade everything around, all bespeak a
rapid and premature decay, i*ecall to mind the untimely fate of
its noble and lamented owner, and tell of fleeting pleasures ami
thi! transitory natui-o of all earthly things. I stopped at a kiujiII
inn in the neighborhood, for the purpose of strolling over it for
the last time ere 1 left the country, and for the indulgence of those
moralizing musings which at times harmonize with our nerves,
and awaken what may be called the pleasurable sensations of]
melancholy.

A modern wooden ruin is of itself the least interesting, and at I
the same time the most depressing, object imaginable. The mas-1
sive structures of antiquity that are everywhere to be met within
Europe exhibit the remains of great strength, and, though injured
and defaced by the slow and almost imperceptible agency of time, I
promise to continue thus mutilated for ages to come. Thev
awaken the images of departed generations, and are sanctified by
legend and by tale. But a wooden ruin shows rank and rapid
dectiy, concentrates its interest on one family or one man, and
resembles a mangled corpse, rather than the monument that
covers it. It has no historical importance, no ancestral record.
It awakens not the imagination. The poet finds no inspiration
in it, and the antiquary no interest. It speaks only of death and
decay, and recent calamity, and vegetable decomposition. The
very air about it is close, dank, and unwholesome. It has no|
grace, no strength, no beauty, but looks deformed, gross, and re-
pulsive. Even the faded color of a pamted wooden house, the!
tarnished gilding of its decoi-ations, the corroded iron of its fas-
tenings, and i'S crumbling materials, all indicate recent use audi
temporary habitation. It is but a short time since this mansion
was tenanted by its royal master, and in that brief space how
great has been the devastation of the elements ! A few years
more and all trace of it will have disappeared for ever. Its very
site will soon become a matter of doubt. The forest is fast re-
claiming its own, and the lawns and ornamented gardens, annually I
sown with seeds scattered by the winds from the surroundingj
woods, are relapsing into a state of nature, and exhibiting in de-[
tached patches a young growth of such trees as are common tol
the country.

THI;; RUINED LODGE.

403

As I approached tlio liouso, I noticed that the wiudowH were
broken out, or shut up with rough boards to exclude the rain and
snow; the doors supported by wooden props instead of hinges,
which hung loosely on the panels ; and that long luxuriant clover
grew in the eaves, which had been originally designed to conduct
the water from the roof, but becoming choked with dust and
decayed leaves, had afforded sufficient food lor tlie nourishment
of coarse grasses. The portico, like the house, had been formed
of wood, and the flat surface of its top, imbibing and retaining
moisture, presented a mass of vegetable matter, from which had
sprung up a young and vigorous birch tree, whose strength and
freshness seemed to mock the helpless weakness that nourished it.
1 had no desire to enter the apartments ; and, indeed, the aged
ranger, whoso occupation was to watch over its decay, and to
prevent its premature •destruction by the plunder of its fixtures
and more durable materials, informed me that the floors were
iinsafe. Altogether, the scene was one of a most depressing
kind.

A sm^ll brook, which had by a skilful hand been led over
several precipitous descents, performed its feats alone and unob-
served, and seemed to murmur out its complaints as it hurried
over its rocky channel to mingle with the sea ; while the wind,
sighing through the umbrageous wood, appeared to assume a louder
and more melpncholy wail as it swept through the long vacant
passages and deserted saloons, and escaped in plaintive tones
from the broken casements. The offices, as well as the orna-
mental buildings, had shared the same fate as the house. The
roofs of all had fallen in, and mouldered into dust ; the doors,
savshes, and floors had disappeared ; and the walls only, which
were in part built of stone, remained to attest their existence and
nse. The grounds exhibited similar effects of neglect, in a cli-
mate where the living wood grows so rapidly, and tlie dead decays
so soon, as in Nova Seotia. An arbor, which had been con-
structed of lattice- work, for the support of a flowei"i;ig vino, had
fallen, and was covered with vegetation; while its roof alone re-
mained, supported aloft by limbs of trees that, growing up near
it, had become entangled in its net-work. A Chinese temple,
I once a favorite retreat of its owner, as if in conscious pride of
its preference, had offered a more successful resistance to the
[weather, and appeared in tolerable preservation ; while one small
^iiirviving bell, of the nn morons ones that once ornamented it,
Igfive out its solitary and melancholy tinkling as it waved in the

i:',

■i.:i

404

THE RniNED LODOR.

'^1 tli

wind. How snd was its mimic knoll over pleasures that won?
fled for ever !

The comteraplation of thiw deserted house is not without its
beneficial effect on the mind ; for it inculcates humih'ty to tlie
rich, and resij^nation to the poor. However elevated man may
be, there is much in his condition that reminds him of the infir-
mities of his nature, and reconciles him to the decrees of Provi-
dence. " May it please your majesty," said Euclid to his royal
pupil, "there is no regal mad to science. You must travel in
the same path with others, if you would attain the same end."
These forsaken grounds teach us in similai* terms this consolatory
truth, that there is no exclusive way to happiness reserved even
for those of the most exalted rank. The smiles of fortune are
capricious, and sunshine and shade are unequally distributed;
but though the surface of life is thus diversified, the end is uni-
form to all, and invariably terminates in the gmve.

Ruins, like death, of which they are at once the emblem and
the evidence, are apt to lose their effect from their frequency.
The mind becomes accustomed to them, and the moral is lost.
The picturesque alone remains predominant, and criticism sup-
plies the place of reflection. But this is the only ruin of any
extent in Nova Scotia, and the only spot either associatr^l with
royalty, or set apart and consecrated to solitude and decay. The
stranger pauses at a sight so unusual, and inquires the cause;
he learns with surprise that this place was devoted exclusively to
pleasure ; that care and sorrow never entered here ; and that the
voice of mirth and music was alone heard within its gates. It
■was the temporary abode of a prince — of one, too, had he lived,
that would have inherited the first and fairest empire in tlie
world. All that man can give or rank ^^njoy awaited him ; but
an overruling and inscrutable Providence decreed, at the very
time when his succession seemed most certain, that the sceptre
should pass into the hands of another. This intelligence interests
and excites his feelings. He enters, and hears at every step the
voice of nature proclaiming the doom that awaits alike the prince
and the peasant. The desolation he sees appals him. The
swallow nestles in the empty chamber, and the sheep find a noon-
day shelter in the banqucting-room, while the ill-omened bat
rejoices in the dampness of the mouldering ruins. Everything
recalls a recollection of the dead ; every spot has its record of
the past ; every path its footstep ; every tree its legend ; and
even the universal silence that reigns here has an awful eloquence

THE MENTAL SCIENCES.

40;

:hat wero

ithout its
tv to tlio
II mn may

the intir-

of Provi-

his royal

travel in
Line end."
onsolutory
jrved even
jrtuue are
istributed ;
snd is uni-

iblem and
frequency
ral is lost.
jcism sup-
am of any
•iated with
ecuy. The
the cause;
lusively to
d that the
gates. It
i he lived,
lire in tlie
i him ; but
the very
the sceptre
ce interests
■ry step the
the prince
im. The
nd a noon-
inicued bat
|Everything
■s record of
■end; and
eloquence

thato^^rpowers tl»e heart. Deatli is written everywhere. Sad
and dejected, he tururf iii 1 seeks some little relic, some small
memorial of his deceased prince, and a solitary, neglected garden-
flower, struggling for existence among the rank grasses, presents
a fitting type of the brief (rxistonee and transitory nature of all
aroand him. As he gathers it, he pays the silent but tomjhing
tribute of a votive tear to the memory of him who has depart,ed,
and leaves the place with a mind softened and subdued, but im-
proved and purified, by what he has seen. — Haliuukto.n.

THE MENTAL SCIENCES.

All systems of knowledge are the aiceumulations of that power
to which your attention has already been directed, the human
mind. If there is found any order or beauty in the arrangement
of information under such systems, these result from the consti-
tution of the mind that made the arrangement. Every thought
that passes through our minds is formed after a certain model, is
constituted in accordance* with the laws which the mind imposes
upon it. Thus, when we think " Alexander the Great was a
conqueror," we form what is termed a judgment, consisting of a
subject, Alexander the Gnni^ a predicate or attribute, a coiKjueror,
and a copula or connecting link, mta. Again, when we reason
thus —

All stones are heavy,

Flint is a stone;

Therefore, flint is heavy,

we pursue a mode of ai'gument called a aijllogisnin, from a Greek
word which means rechiuimj totfeUier. Finally, although this is
generally placed first, we divide all the objects of thought into
several classes. Now, what is one object in nature may bo a
whole K^lass of objects in thought ; as, for instance, we may think
of a piece of gold as a substance, as yellow, as our own, as one
ounge in weight, as seen at a certain time and in a certain place,
and so on. Each of these is a separate object of thought, and
wouid be classified as substance, quality, relation, quantity, &c.
There are many other -ways in which the objects of thought or
(onceptioti^ as they are called, may be regarded. It appears,
therefore, that thought consists of three elements, namely, con-
ception, judgment, and reasoning. These thrto! elements are the
lobjects of the Science of Logic, which deals with the laws that

406

THK MENTAL SCrENCES.

govern thought. The word logic is from the Greek, and signifies
perlaining to reasiru, or discourse^ for it is by speech that oar
reasoning powers are manifested.

In order t-o think at all, it is necessary that we should have
something to think about. If we examine our thoughts, we wi!!
find that they are occupied principally with the objects that ap-
pear, and the circumstances that take place in the world. Thesi'
make impressions upon our Senses ; and our minds, which are not
enclosed in the brain, but are present in every part of our organ-
ism, perceive or become conscious of them. The impression, we
''call sensation, and the act of perceiving, perception. But if onr
knowledge of things depended upon these alone, we should not
at any one time have more thoughts in our minds than we ex-
cited by present facta and phenomena. This, however, we know
rot to be the case, since, it it were so, ther^ could be no sncli
thing as leavning; and the reason why it is not so is, that we
possess a fa,culty called memory. In addition to sensation, per-
ception, and memory, we have a faculty of conception or imagina-
tion, whereby we can call up before our minds things that we
have never perceived; and others, perhaps, that never existed.
There are many other faculties, such as comparison, analysis,
composition, abstraction, and judgment; all these belong to
what is called the understanding, and are the faculties most in
use among men in general. It is asserted, however, by some
philosophers, or lovers of wisdom,, as the term means, and denied
as strenuously by others, that there is in man a higher principle
than that of understanding — namely, reason, whereby he receives
ideas and trains of thought not suggested by the external world
at all. These ideas and trains of thought refer to three great
subjects, about which we can otherwise gain little information,!
and which are the Soul, the Universe, and God. When philo-|
sophers say ihat we car know little upon these subjects with cer-
tainty, otherwise than by reason, they do not mean to set aside
our observations upon tbe workings of our own minds, and the
emotions of the soul, nor to call in question the testimony erf our
senses to aM that we perceive in the external world, or of our
minds, to what they infer from it ; nor yet is it their intention
to disparage the revelation which God has made to man; but
they look upon reason as the only source of demonstrative know-
ledge, or, in qther words, of knowledge that may be proved as|
co^. 'usively as an exercise in arithmetic, or a problem in tb
higher mathematics. They distinguish, therefore, between

nil'

THE MENTAL SCIENCES.

407

knowledge we Lave of these three great subjects by means of
our senses, by calling it empirical, from a Greek word which signi-
fies /)eWaiV/i//</ to experience, and that which is brought to us by
reason, which they call rational, a Latin word that means per-
taining te reason.

After these explanations, you will understand the two points
of view from which the following pciences are to be regarded.
We have, first, the science of the Soul, or Psychology, a Greek
word meaning simply a discourse about the soul. Empirical
psychology is that division which treats of the faculties of the
mind alluded to above, and all the powers and emotions which
go to make up the spiritual nature of man ; everything in this half
is gained by observation or experience. But rational psychology
says. What is the soul ? Is it one and simple, or does it consist
of many parts ? Can it be increased or diminished ? Such are a
few of the questions which rational psychology puts to itself and
attempts to solve — questions, you will perceive, that no amount
of observation could throw any light upon.

The next science is that of the Universe, or Cosmology, from
a Greek word signifying a discourse about the ivorld That part
of the science which is included under the physical sciences is
empirical cosmology, since these sciences are built up fi*om obser-
vations made by the senses. Tliere is, however, a science of
rational cosmology, which seeks to discover the origin of the
world and of the universe which contains it, to know whether
these are eternal, and whether their component parts can be an-
nihilated or not. It also inquires into the nature of what we call
matter and force, as distinguished from mind, and takes up all
these questions concerning material things which cannot be
solved by the exercise of any lower power than that of the sup-
posed reason.

The third and the greatest subject of philosophy is God, the
Infinite Being, creating, preserving, and governing all things.
The science which aims at a knowledge of One whose humblest
attribute so far transcends the most exalted conceptions of the
human mind, is called Theology; also from Vae Greek, and mean-
ing a discourse about God. Empirical thtology is that know-
ledfje of God which we gain by means of natural theology, or the
evidences of a wise, almighty, and beneficent First Cause, visible
in the works of nature and of Revelation, the method by which
He has deigned to make Himself known to our rebellious race.
Rational theology is a science which we can suppose little or no

'll"?

408

THE MENTAL SCIENCES.

■I

necessity for, now that Revelation dispenses with reason's shadcvy
light, although in the time of the Greek and Roman philosophers,
who had no Word of God to shine upon their path, such a science
was not only legitimate, but worthy of all respect.

The three sciences of Rational Psychology, Rational Cosmo-
logy, and Hational Theology, are generally ranked under the one
head of Metaphysics, a word which I shall proceed to explain.
When the celebrated philosopher Aristotle, who flourished about
three hundred and fifty years before Christ, had completed a
treatise upon physics, or the physical sciences as he understoood
them, he added thereto a small collection of writings upon the
first principles of all things, such as you have found the three
rational sciences to be concerned with. These detached writings
have no particular title ; and accordingly, when almost three
hundred years later Andronicus of Rhodes set himself to work to
arrange the productions of the great philosopher, he placed this
small collection next in order to the physics, calling them ructa-
ta-phyKicay or after the physics^ whence we derive that bone of
contention among the learned, and bugbear to ignorant people, the
word metaphysics.

Under the general title of the mental sciences is frequently
ranked one which we have considered in our last lesson, the
science of ethics or morals. Since the terms social and mental
by no means exclude one another, forming what is called an
illogical division, the fact of ethics belonging to both divisions
is not to be wondered at. It is unnecessary to say more upon a
subject which has already received a considerable share of our
attention.

The last of the mental sciences, and the one with which our
lessons upon systems of knowledge conclude, is that which
deals with the painful or pleasurable sensations we experience in
gazing upon works of nature and art. Thus, a beautiful land-
scape or painting, the harmonious sound of a musical perform-
ance, or a group of statuary, excite in the well-instructed breast
feelings of admiration and reverence akin to devotion, while other
objects in which an element called " taste" seems to be wanting,
are looked upon with indifference or disgust. With such emo-
tions, with that which excites those of a pleasurable nature, and
which we call beauty, with the fine arts and kindred subjects,
the science of Esthetics is concerned. ^Esthetics is a Greek
word, and means literally pertaining to sensation or perception,
although it is now understood as applying, exclusively, to the per

A SCENE AT OSWEGO.

409

ception of beauty In nature and art, and the sensations excited
I in man by that perception.

The Mental Sciences.

1. Logic.

I Empirical Psychology. \ ■ I Rational Psychology.

Empirical Cosmology. > 2. Metaphysics. { Rational Cosmology.

Empirical Theology. ) ( Rational Theology.

3. Ethics.

4. -Esthetics. *

All the sciences are included under the one title of Philosophy,
a Greek word meaning the loce of vnsdorn. If we would aspire
to any position of importance among oiTr fellow-men, we must
learn to study our own mind. The mind is the instrument
with nhich we acquire all knowledge; and it is, therefore, ot
the highest importance, that that instrument should bo in good
condition. The mower, who gathers in the golden harvest, looks
well to his scythe, that it be right and sharp, lest he throw away
his strength to no purpose, so if we would reap a plentiful crop
of knowledge, our minds must be completely furnished for their
task, and be kept bright, sharp, and shining by constant use.

You have now before you a complete map of the great domain
of science. It is, however, only an outline map. You your-
selves must fill up its broad "blank spaces with facts and figures,
names and dates, reasons and arguments, the accumulation of
past years and centuries. Who knows but that in time to come
yoar own nam* Aiay shine forth upon the page of some one of
its divisions a;^^ • > aefactor of the human lace, and a contributor
to the complete ( I ^iR of these systems of knowledge which we have
80 pleasantly surveyed together ?

f ;

A SCENE AT OSWEGO.

When Mabel, quitting the convenient but comparatively retired
hut where her father had been permitted to place her, issued
into the pure air of the morning, she found herself at the foot of
a bastion, that lav invitingly before her. with a promise of giving
aco?tp d'ceil of all that had been concealed in the darkness of the
preceding night. Tripping up the grassy ascent, the light-hearted
as well as light-footed girl found herself at once on a point

fl!'

■::

t : I

-l.li

if,},!

ft:,'

-i r '

410

A SCENE AT OSWEGO.

where the sight, at a few varying glances, could take in all the]
external novelties of her new situation. To the southward lav
the forest through which she had been journeying so many weary
days, and which had proved so full of dangers. It was separated
from the stockade by a belt of open land, that had been princi-
pally cleared of its woods to form the martial constructions!
around her. This glacis, for such in fact was its military uses,
might have covered a hundred acres, but with it every sign of
civilization ceased. All beyond was forest; that dense, inter-
minable forest that Mabel could now picture to herself, through I
her recollections, with its hidden glassy lakes, its dark streams,
and its world of nature! Turning from this view, our heroine I
felt her cheek fanned by a fresh and grateful breeze, such as she !
had not experienced since quitting the far-distant coast. 'Here!
a new scene presented itself ; although expected, it was not with-
out a start, and a low exclamation of pleasure, that the eager]
eyes of the girl drunk in its beauties. To the north, and east,
and west, in every direction, in short, over one entire half of the
novel panorama, lay a field of rolling waters. The element was
neither of that glassy green which distinguishes the American
waters in general, nor yet of the deep blue of the ocean; the
color being of a slightly amber hue, that scarcely affected its
limpidity. No land was to be seen, with the exception of the
adjacent coast, which stretched to the nght and left, in an un-
broken outline of forest, with wide bays and low headlands or
points ; still much of the shore was rocky, and into its caverns
the sluggish waters occasionally rolled, producing a hollow sound,
that resembled the concussions of a distant gun. No sail whitened
the surface, no whale or other fish gambolled on its bosom, no
sign of use or service rewarded the longest and most minute
gaze at his boundless expanse. It was a scene, on one side, of I
apparently endless forests, while a waste of seemingly intermin- !
able water spread itself on the other. Nature had appeared
to delight in producing grand effects, by setting two of her
principal agents in bold relief to each other, neglecting details;
the eye turning from the broad carpet of leaves to the still broader ]
field of fluid, from the endless but gentle heavings of the lake to !
the holy calm and poetical solitude of the forest, with wonder
and delight. Mai: el Dunham, though unsophisticated, like most
of her countrywomen of that period, and ingenuous and frank as
any warm-hearted girl well could be, was not altogether without
a feeling for the poetry of this beautiful earth of ours. Although

HISTORY IN WORDS.

411

she could scarcely be said to be educated at all — for few of her
sex, at that day, and in this country, received much more than
the rudiments of plain English instruction — still she had been
taught much more than was usual for young women in her own
station in life, and, in one sense certainly, she did credit to her
teaching. The widow of a field officer, who formerly belonged
to the same regiment as her father, had taken the child in charge
at the death of its mother, and under the care of this lady, Mabel
had acquired some tastes, and many ideas, which otherwise might
always have remained strangers to her. Her situation in the
family had been less that of a domestic than of a humble com-
panion, and the results were quite apparent in her attire, her
language, her sentiments, and even in her feelings, though neither,
perhaps, rose to the level of those *which would properly char-
acterize a lady. She had lost the coarser and less refined habits
and manners of one in her original position, without having quite
reached a point that disqualified her for the situation in life that
the accidents of birth and fortune would properly compel her to
fill. All else that was distinctive and peculiar in her belonged
to natural character. With such antecedents it will occasion the
reader no wonder if he learns that Mabel viewed the novel scene
before her with a pleasure far superior to that produced by vulgar
surprise. She felt its ordinary beauties as most would have felt
them, but she had also a feeling for its sublimity ; for that
softened solitude, that calm grandeur and elcquent repose that
ever pervade broad views of natural objects which are yet undis-
turbed by the labors and struggles of man. * — Cooper.

■'.I. i'

HISTORY m WORDS.

Having dedicated this lecture to the history which is in words, I
can have no fitter opportunity of urging upon you the importance
of seeking in every case to acquaint yourselves with the circum-
stances under which any body of men who have played an im-
portant part in history, especially in the history of your own land,
obtained the name by which they were afterwards willing to be
known, or which was used for their designation by others. This
yon may do as a matter of historical inquiry, and keeping entirely
aloof in spirit from the scorn, the bitterness, the falsehood, the
calumny out of which very often this name was first imposed.
Whatever of evil may have been at work in them that coined,

412

HISTORY IN WORDS.

or gave currency to, the name, the name itself can never, without
serious loss, be neglected by those who would truly understanc
the moral significance of the thing ; there is always sometbingJ
often very much, to be learned from it. Learn, then, in regard
of each one of these names which you may meet in your studiesJ
whether it was one which men gave to themselves, or one im-
posed on them by others, and which they never recognized ; or one
which, being first imposed by others, was yet in course of time
admitted and accepted by themselves. We have examples in all
these kinds. Thus the " Gnostics " called themselves Huch; the
naaie was of their own devising, and one in which they boasted.!
In like manner, the "Cavaliers" of our civil war. "Quaker,"!
" Puritan," " Roundhead," were all, on the contrary, names de-|
vised by others, and neve» accepted by those to whom tlieyl
were attached ; while "Whig" and " Tory" were nicknames ori-l
ginally of bitterest scorn and party hate, given by two politicall
bodies in England to one another, which, however, in course ofl
years, lost what was offensive in them, until they came to bej
accepted and employed by the very parties themselves. The
German "Lutherans" were first so called by their antagonistic,
The same we may say of " l^ethodista ;" this name was certainly
not first taken by the followers of Wesley, but imposed on them
by others, while yet they have been subsequently willing to
accept and to be known by it. " Capuchin" was in like manner
a jesting name, first given by the boys in the streets to that
branch of the Franciscans which afterwards accepted it as their
proper desiguatjion. It was provoked by the peaked and pointed
hood (capucho) which they wore.

Now of these titles, and of many more that might be adduced,
some undoubtedly, like the last, had their rise in mere external
accident, and stand in no essential connexion with those that
bear them ; and these names, though seldom without their in-
struction, yot plainly are not so instructive as others, in which
the innermost heart of a system speaks out and reveals itself;
so that, having mastered the name, we have placed ourselves
at the central point from which we shall best master everything
besides. Thus, for instance, is it with "Gnostic" and "Gnos-
ticism ;" in the prominence given to gnosis, or knowledge, as
opposed to faith, '-<3S the key to the whole system. And I may
say generally, that almost all the sects and parties, religious and
political, which have risen up in times past in EnglaniJ, are known
by names that will repay study — by names, to understand which

HISTORY IN WORDS,

413

Lill bring us far to an understanding of their strength and their
weakness, their truth and their error, the idea and intention accord-

more, have each its significance ; and would you understand what
the men themselves meant, you must first understand what they
were called. From this must be your point oi starting ; even as
yon must bring back to this whatever furthur information you
may gain ; and though I will not say that you must always subor-
dinate it to the name, yet you must ever put it in relation and

1 connexion with that.
You will often be able to glean knowledge from the names of

I things, if not as important as that I have just been speaking of,
yet curtiUs and interesting. What a record of inventions is pre-
served in the names which so many articles bear, of the place
from which they first came, or the person by whom they were
first invented ! The " magnet " has its name from Magnesia ;
the " baldachin " from *' Baldacco," the Italian name of Bagdad,
it being from that city that the costly silk which composed this
canopy originally came. The " bayonet " tells us that it was first
made at Bayonno ; " worsted," that it was first spun at a village
so called, in the neighbourhood of Norwich; " sarsnet," that it is

I a Saracen manufacture; "cambric," that it reached us from Cam-
Jray ; " crape," from Cyprus, (the earlier form of the word is
'cypres;") "copper," also, that it drew its name from this

I same island, so richly furnished with mines of this metal ;
iiaper," that it came from Ypres; " damask," from Damas-

ICQs; tho damson is also the " damascene," or Damascus plum;
'arras," from Arras; " dimity," from Damietta; " c^rdwain "

lor "cordovan," from Cordova; "currants," from Corinth;
"delf," from Delft; "indigo," (indicum,) from India; "agates,"

Krom a Sicilian river, Achates ; "jalap," from Xala]);i, a town
in Mexico ; "jane," from Genoa ; ' parchment," from Pergamum ;
the " bezant," so often named in our early literature, from Byzan-
tiam, being a Byzantine coin ; the "guinea," that it was origin-
ally coined (in 1GG3) of p^o'd brought from the African coast
so called ; " camlet," that it was woven, at least in part, of
camel's hair. The fashion of the cravat was borrowed from the
Croats, or " Crabats," as they used in the seventeenth century to

jlie called. The " biggen," a plain cap often mentioned by our

[early writers, was first worn b.v the Bcguines, communities ot

-'I

-r

mi'

414

HISTORY IN WORDS.

. ''' -i

m '■

i;r

pietist woriion in the middle ages, and had its name from ther
Such has bien the manufacturing pro-^'ress of England, timt w
now send our calicoes and muslins to India and the East ; yr
the words give standing witness that we once imported the«
from thence ; for " calico " is from Calicu^,and " muslin " froj
Moussul, a city in Asiatic Turk(iy. " Ermine " is the spoil
the Armenian rat; "sherry," or " sherris," as Shakespeare wvot
it, is sent us from Xpres, and " port," from Oporto ; the " phea
sant " came to us from the banks of the Phasis ; the " cherry
was brought by Lucullus from Cerasus, a city in Poutus ; th
" peach " declares itself by its name to be a Persian fruit
" spaniels " are from Spain.

It is true, indeed, that occasionally a name will embod^ ixu
give permanence to an error ; as when in " America," the hone
of discovering the New World, which belonged to G^lumbuJ
has been transferred to another eminent discoverer, but or
who had no title to this praise, and, as Humboldt has latelj
abundantly shown, was entirely guiltless of any attempt to usur
it for himself. So, too, the "turkey " in our farmyards seems
claim Turkey for its home, and the assumption that it was froi
thence no doubt caused it to be so called ; while, indeed, it wa
unknown in Europe until introduced from the New World, wher
alone it is indigenous. This error the French in another shaj
repeat, calling it " dinde,'' originally " poulet d'Inde," or India^
fowl. In like manner, " gypsies" appears to imply that Egjf
was the country to which these wanderers originally belonge
and from which they had migrated westward ; and certainly il
was so believed in many parts of Europe at their first appearanc
in the beginning of the fifteenth century, and hence this titk
It is now, however, clearly made out, their language leaving n^
doubt of the fact, that they are an outcast tribe which ha
wandered hither from a more distant land — from India itself
" Bohemians," the French appellation of gypsies, involves ai
error similar to ours; they were taken at first by the commoi
people in Fi-ance to be the expelled Hussites of Bohemia, anil
hence this name. In the German " Zigeuner," there is no exj
pression of the land from which they were presumed to harC
fiome; but if this word be " Zieh-Gauner," — that is, "roamin/
thieves," — it will indicate the evil repute in which, from thi
very beginning, they were held.

And where words have not, as in these cases, embodied ail
error, it will yet sometimes happen that the sound or spelling ol

HISTOKV IN WORDS.

415

a word will /o «« possibly suggest a wrong explanation, against
whieb in these studies we shall need to be on our guard. J dare-
say that there has been a stage in most boys' geographical
knowledge when they have taken it for granted that Jutland was
jO called, not because it was the land of the Jutes, but on account
\ q{ its jnttiny out into the sea in so remarkable a manner. And
there have not been wanting those who have ventured to trace
in the name " Jovo," a heathen remini.scence of the awful name
of Jehovah. I will not enter into this hero ; sufficient to say
tliiit, however specious this at first sight may seem, yet on closer
examination of the two words every connection between them
disappears.

Sometimes the assumed derivation has reacted upon and modi-
fied the spelling. Thus the name of the Caledonian tribe whom
we call the " Picts " would probably have come down to us in a
somewhat different form, but for the assumption which early
rose up, that they were so called from the custom of staining or
painting their bodies — that, in fact, "Picts" meant "the painted."
This, as is now acknowledged, is an exceedingly improbable sup-
position. It would be quite conceivable that the Romans shonld
have given this name to the first barbarous tribe they encoun-
tered who were in the habit of painting themselves thus. Such a
custom, forcing itself on the eye, and expressing themselves on the
imagination, is exactly that which gives birth to a name. But
after they had been long familiar with the tribes in southern
Britain, to whom this painting or tatooing was equally familiar,
it is quite inconceivable that they should have applied it to one
of the noiiihern tribes in the island, with which they first came
in contact at a far later day. The name is much more probably
the original Celtic one belonging to the tribe, slightly altered in
the mouths of the Romans. It may have been the same with
"hurricane;" for many have imagined that this word, being
nsed especially to signify the West Indian tornado, must be
derived from tearing up and hurrying away of the cavei in
the sugar plantations — ,just in the same way as the Latin " cala-
mitus " has been drawn, but erroneously, from "calamus," the
stalk of the corn. In both cases the etymology is faulty ;
"hurricane" is only a transplanting into our tongue of the

inish "hurracan " or the French " ouragan."

It is a signal evidence of the conservative powers of language,
I that we oftentimes trace in speech the records of customs and
fstates of society which have now passed so entirely nway as to

416

HISTORY IN WORDS.

" t

survive nowhere else but in these words alone. For example, a I
" stipulation," or agreement, is so called, as many tell us, from
" stipula," a straw, and with reference to a Roman custom ot |
breaking a straw between them when two persons would make a|
mutual engagement with one another. And we all know howl
important a tact of English history is laid up in " curfew," orl
'* couvre-feu." The "limner," or " lumineur," (luminatore,)!
brings us back to a period when the illumination of manuscriptsl
was the leading occupation of the painter, so that from this workl
he derived his name. " Thrall " and " thraldom " descend to nsl
from a period when it was the custom to thrill^ or drill the earl
of a slave in token of servitude, a custom in use among the Jews,!
(Deut. XV. 17,) and retained by our Anglo-Saxon forefathers, whol
were wont thus to pierce at the church-door the ears of theirl
bond-servants. By " lumber " we are, or might be, taught that!
Lombards were the first pawnbrokers, even as they were thefirstl
bankers in England, a " lumber"-room being a " lombard"-room,j
or room where the pawnbroker stored his pledges. Nor need ij
do more than remind you that in our common phrase of " sigimgX
our name," we preserve a record of a time when the first rudimentvsj
of education, such as the power of writing, were the portion of
so few, that it was not as now the exception, but the custom fori
most persons to make their mark or "sign," great barons andj
kings themselves not being ashamed to set this sign^ or cross, to
the weightiest documents. We more accurately express what we
now do when we speak of " subscribiiig thvS name." Then, too,
whenever we term arithmetic the science of "calculation," v;c
in fact allude to that rudimental period of the science of numbers
■when pebbles (calculi) were used, as now among savages they
often are, to facilitate the practice of counting. The Greelis did
the same in their word ^(f>iCfip, as in another word of theirs
(ntfiTraCdv) record of a period -was kept when the /ye fingers were
so employed. '* Expend," " expense," tells ns that money was
once weighed out, and not counted out, as now, (Gen. xxxiii. 16).
In " library," we preserve the fact that books were once written I
on the bark (liber) of trees ; as in " paper," of a somewhat later
period, when the Egyptian papyrus, " the paper reeds by the [
brooks," furnished the chief material for writing.

Theories, too, which long since were utterly renounced, have |
yet left their traces behind them. Thus the words "good
humor," " bad humoi*," " humors," and, strangest contradiction
of all, " chi/ humor," rest altogether on a now exploded hui I

tETTER TO THE EAHL OF CHESTER FIELD.

417

a very old and widely-extended theory of medicint;, accordi'nj^
to which there were four principal nioistuvf • or " humors " in
the natural body, on the due proportion and combination of
which the disposition alike of body and mind depended. And
"temper," as used by us now, has its origin in the same theory :
the due admixture or right " tempering" of tliese gave what wa;',
called the happy temper, or mixture, which, thus existing in-
wardly, manifested itself also outwardly. In the same manner
"distemper," which we still employ in the sense of sickness, was
that evil frame either of a man's body or of his mind, (for it was
ased alike of both,) which had its rise in an unsuitable mingling
of these humors. In these instances, as in many more, the
great streams of thought and feeling have changed their course,
and now flow in quite other channels from those which once they
filled, but have left these words as lasting memorials of the
channels in which once they ran.

— Tkench's Study of Wvrdn.

LETTER TO THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD.

My Lord, — I have been lately informed, by the proprietor of
the World, that two papers in which my Dictionary is recom-
mended to the public were written by your lordship. To be so
distinguished is an honor, which, being very little accustomed
to favors from the great, I know not well how to receive, or in
what terms to acknowledge.

When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited yonr
lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the
enchantment of your address, and could not forbear to wish that
I might boast myself Le vainqiieur du valnqueur de la terre ; that
I might obtain that regardfor which I saw the world contending;
but I found my attendance so little encouraged, that neither
pride nor modesty would suffer me to continue it. When I had
once addressed your lordship in public, I had exhausted all the
art of pleasing which a retired and uncourtly scholar can possess.
I had done all that I could ; and no man is well pleased to have
his all neglected, be it ever so little.

Seven years, my lord, have how passed since I waited in your
outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door; during which
time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of
which it is useless to complain, and have brought it at last to

2 D

418

TO HIS ORACE IllE DUKE OF liEDFORO.

pit'

tht! verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word
of encouragement, or one smiio of favor. Such treatment I did
not expect, for 1 never had a patron before.

The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with Love, and
found him a native of the rocks.

Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a
man struggling for life in the water, and when he has reached
the ground, encumbers him with help ? The notice which you
have been pleased to take of my labours, liad it been early, had
been kind ; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and can-
not enjoy it; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it; till 1 am
known, and do not want it. 1 hope it is no very cynical asperity
not to confess obligations where no benefit has been received, or
to be unwilling that the public should consider me as owing
that to a patron which Providence has enabled me to do for my-
self.

Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation
to any favorer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though
I should conclude it, if less be possible, with less, for I have been
long awakened from that dream of hope in which I once boasted
myself with so much exultation, my lord, your lordship's most
humble, most obedient servant, Samdel Johnson.

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BEDFORD.

Mt Lord, — You arc so little accustonud to receive anv malk^;
of respect or esteem from the public, that if, in the following
lines, a compliment or expression of applause should escape me,
I fear you would consider it as a mockery of your established
character, and, perhaps, an insult to your understanding. You
have nice feelings, my lord, if we may judge from your resent-
ments. Cautious, therefore, of giving offence, where you have
so little deserved it, I shall leave the illustration of your virtues
to other hands. Your friends have a privilege to play upon the
easiness of your temper, or possibly they are better acquainted
with your good qualities than I am. You have done good by
stealth. The rest is upon record. You have still left ample
room for speculation, when panegyric is exhausted.

You are, indeed, a very considerable man. The highest rank,
a splendid fortune, and a name glorious till it was yours, were
Bufficient to have supported you with meaner abilities than I

TO ms ORACE WT. DHKE OF nEDFOWn.

410

think you poHsoss. From tlic first yon derivod a constitutional
clnim to rospoct ; from the second, si natural rxtonsivc authority;
tho last cresitcd a partial expectation of hereditary virtues.
The use you have made of these uncommon advantages niij(lit
have been more honorable to yourself, but ©ouid not Ix' more
instructive to mankind. We may trace it in the veneration of
your country, the choice of your friends, and in the ncnomplish-
ment of every sanguine hope which the public might have con-
ceived from the illustrious name of Russell.

The eminence of your station gave you a commanding prospect
of your duty. The road which led to honor was open to your
view. You could not lo.se it by mistake, and you had no temp-
tation to depart from it by design. Compare the natural dignity
and importance of the richest peer of PJngland ; — the noble inde-
pendence, which ho might have maintained in parliament, and
the real interest and respect, whirrh he might hnve ncquired, not
only in parliament, but through the whole kingdom ; compare
these glorious distinctions with the ambition of hol'^ing a shave
i' 'overnment, the emoluments of a place, the sale of a borough,
e purchase of a corporation ; and though you may not regret
uie virtues which create respect, you may see, with anguish, how
much real importance and authority you have lost. Consider
the charactrr of an independent, virtuous Duke of Bedford ;
imagine what he might be in this country, then reflect one
moment upon what you are. If it be possible for me to with-
draw my attention from the fact, I will tell yon in theory what
such a man might bo.

Conscious of his own weight and importance, his conduct in
parliament would be directed by nothing but the constitutional
duty of a peer. He would consider himself as a guardian of tho
laws. Willing to support the just measures of government, but
determined to observe the conduct of tho minister with suspicion,
ho would oppose the violence of faction with as much firmness
as the encroachments of prerogative. He would be as little cap-
able of bargaining with the minister for places for himself, or
his dependants, as of descending to mix himself in the intrigues
of opposition. Whenever an important question called for his
opinion in parliament, he would be heard, by the most profligate
minister, with deference and respect. His authority would either
sanctify or disgrace the measures of Government. The people
would look up to him as to their protector, and a virtuous prince
would have one honest man in his dominions in whose integrity

420

10 Ills GItAC. tin: DL'KE OF bEDFOKD.

"■^iji

mi ■

.]!

and jwdgmeut he might safoly confide. If it should he tlie will
of Providenet to aflHct liim with a domestic mislbrtuiic, he would
submit to the stroke with feeling, but not without dignity. Ho
would consider the people as his children, and receive a generous,
heartfelt consolatiim in the sympathizing tears and blessings of
his country.

Your grace may probably discover something more intelligible
in the negative part of this illustrious character. The man 1
have described would never prostitute his dignity in parliament
by an indecent violence either in opposing or defending a miuis-
ter. He would not at one moment rancorously persecute, at
another basely cringe to the favorite of his sovereign. Aftof
outraging ihe royal dignity with peremptory conditions, little
short of nuMiaco and hostility, ho would never descend to tliu
humility of soliciting an intxjrview with tho favorite, and of
offering to recover, at any price, the honor of his friendship.
Though deceived perhaps in his youth, he would not, through
the course of a long life, have invariably chosen his friends from
among the most profligate of mankind. His own honor would
hav* forbidden him from mixing his private pleasures or conver-
sation with jockeys, gamesters, blasphemers, gladiators, or
bufibons. He would then have never felt, much less would he
have submitted to the humiliating, dishonest necessity of en-
gaging in the interest and intrigues of his dependants, of supply-
ing their vices, or relieving their beggary, at the expense of his
country. Ho woi'ld not have betrayed such ignorance, or such
contempt of the constitution, as openly to avow in a court of
justice the purchase and sale of a boro'.gh. Ho would not have
thought it consistent with his rank in the state, or even with his
personal importance, to be the little tyrant of a little corporation.
He would never have been insulted with virtues which ho bad
labored to extinguish, nor suffered the disgrace of a mortifying
defeat, which had made him ridiculous and contemptible, even to
the few by whom ho was not detested, I reverence the afflic-
tions of a good man, — his sorrows are sacred. But how can wo
take part in the distresses of a man whom we can neither lovo
nor esteem, or feel for a calamity of which he himself is insen-
sible ? Where was the father's heart, when he could look for or
find an immediate consolation for the loss of an only son in
consultationrj and bargains for a place at court, and even in the
misery of balloting at the Indict House ! — Junius.

CHAUCKK AND COWLEY.

421

CHAUCER AND COWLEY.

In the first place, he is the father of English poetry, so I hold
him iu the same degree of veneration as the Grecians held Homer,
or the Romans Virgil. He is a perpetual fountain of good senne,
learned in all sciences, and therefore speaks properly on all sub-
jects. As he knew what to say, so he knows also when to leave
off; a continence which is practised by few writers, and scarcely
by any of the ancients, excepting Virgil and Horace One of
our late great poets* is sunk in his reputation, because he could
never forego any conceit which came in his way ; but swept, like
a drag-net, great and smalli* There was plenty enough, but the
dishes wero ill sorted ; whole pyramids of sweetmeats for boys
and women, but little of solid meat foj^men. All this proceeded
not from any want of knowledge, but of judgment. Neither did
he want that in discerning the beauties and faults of other poets,
but only indulged himself in the luxury of writing; and perhaps
knew it was a fault, but hoped the reader ^ ould not find it.
For this reason, though he must always be thought a great poet,
he is no longer esteemed a good writer ; and for ten impressions
which his works have had in so many successive years, yet at
present a hundred books are scarcely purchased once a twelve-
raonth ; for, as my last Lord Rochester said, though somewhat
profanely, Not being of God, he could not stand.

Chaucer followed nature everywhere; but was never so bold as
to go beyond her: and there is a great difference of being pot/a
and nimis poeia, — if we may believe Catullus, as much as betwixt
a modest behavior and affectation. The verse of Chaucer, I con-
fess, is not harmonious to us ; but it is like the eloquence of one
whom Tacitus commends — it ^Na,s anrihns istius iewporis orcommn-
data. They who lived with him and some time after him, thought
it musical, and it continues so even in our judgment, if compared
with the numbers of Lydgate and Gower, his contemporaries;
there is the rude sweetness of a Scotch tune in it, which is natu-
ral and pleasing, though not perfect. It is true, I cannot go so
far as he who published the last edition of him ; for he would
make us believe the fault is in our ears, and that there were
really ten syllables in a verse, where we find but nine. But this
opinion is not worth confuting ; it is so gross and obvious an

* Cowley.

rfc^

r t.

r 'I,

t'liS',

422

DKYI>EN AND POPE.

error, that conimoa sense (which is a ruJo iu everjthinj^ bat
matters of faith and revelation) must convince the reader that
equality of numbers in avery verse which we call heroic, was
either not known, or not always practised in Chaucer's age. It
were an easy matter to produce some thousands of his verses
which are lame for want of half a foot, and sometimes a whole one,
and which no pronunciation can make otherwise. We can only
say that he lived in the infancy of our poetry, and that nothing
is brought to perfection at the first. We must be children be
fore we grow men. There was an Ennius, and in process of
time a Lucilius and a Lucretius, before Virgil and Homce. lHven
after Chaucer, there was a Spenser, a Harrington, a Fairfax, be-
fore Waller and Denham were in b^ng ; and our numbers were
in theii- nonage till these last appeared. — Dkvken.

DRYDEN AND POPE.

Integrity of understanding and nicety of discernment were not
allotted in a less proportion to Dryden than to Pope. The recti-
tude of Dryden's mind was sufficiently shown by the dismission
of his poetical prejudices, and the rejection of unnatural thoughts
and rugged numlsers. But Dryden never desired to apply all
the judgment that he had. He wrote, and professed to write,
merely for the people ; and when he pleased others he contentec"
himself. He spent no time in struggles to rouse latent powers ;
he never attempted to make that better which was already good,
nor often to mend what he must have known to be faulty. He
wrote, as he tells us, with very little consideration ; when occa-
sion or necessity called upon him, he poured out what the present
moment happened to supply, and when once it had passed the
press, ejected it from his mind ; for when he had no pecuniary
interest he had no further solicitude.

Pope was not content to satisfy ; he desired to excel, and
therefore always endeavored to do his ^i,t: he did not court
the candor, but dared the judgment of his reader, and expect-
ing no indulgence from others, he showed none to himself. He
examined lines and words with minute and punctilious (bssrva-
tion, and retouched every part with indefatigable diligence till ho
had left nothing to be forgiven.

For this reason he kept his pieces very long in his hands,
while he considered and " reconsidered them. The only poeni^

DRYDEN AND I'OFE.

i)l'3

l^ven

which can be supposed to have been written with such regard to
the times as might hasten their publication, were the two satires
of " Thirty-eight ; " of which Dodsley told me, that they were
brought to him by the author that they might be fairly copied.
"Almost every line," he said, "was then written twice over. I
gave him a clean transcript, which he sent some time afterwards
to me for the press, with almost every line written twice over a
second time."

His declaration, that his care for his works ceased at their
publication, was not strictly true. His parental attention never
abandoned them ; what ho found amiss in the first edition, he
silently corrected in those that followed. He appears to have re-
vised the *' Iliad," and freed it from some of its imperfections ;
and the " Essay on Criticism " received many improvements
after its first appearance. It will seldom be found that he altered
without adding clearness, elegance, or vigor. Pope had perhaps
the judgment of Dry den ; but Dry den certainly wanted the
diligence of Pope.

In acquired knowledge, the superiority must be allowed to
Dryden, whose education was more scholastic, and who, before
he became an author, had been allowed more time for study,
with better means of information. His mind has a larger range,
and he collects his images and illustrations from a more extensive
circumference of science. Dryden knew more of man in his
general nature, and Pope in his local manners. The notions of
Dryden were formed by comprehensive speculation ; and those of
Pope by minute attention. There is more dignity in the know-
ledge of Dryden, and more certainty in that of Pope.

Poetry was not the sole praise of either, for both excelled
likewise in prose ; but Pope did not borrow his prose from his
predecessor. The style of Dryden is capricious and varied ;
that of Pope is cautijus and uniform. Dryden observes the
motions of his own mind ; Pope constrains his mind to his own
rules of composition. Dryden is sometimes vehement and rapid ;
Pope is always smooth, uniform, and gentle. Dryden's page is a
natural field rising into inequalities, and diversified by the varied
exuberance of abundant vegetation ; Pope's is a velvet lawn,
shaven by the scythe and levelled by the roller.

Of genius, that power which constitutes a poet — that quality

without which judgment is cold, and knowledge is inert — that

(nergy which collects, combines, amplifies, and animates — the

uperiority mnst, with some hesitation, be allowed to Drydon.

4^4

TRIUMPHS OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.

I;;
ifi'E

is-

■

jKIMgj ,,

^Bh^^ '

It is not to be inferred that of this poetical vigor Pope had only
a little, because Dryden had more ; for every other writer since
Milton must give place to Pope ; and even of Dryden it must be
said, that if he has brighter paragraphs, he has not better poems.
Dryden's performances were always hasty, either excited by
some external occasion, or extorted by some domestic necessity ;
he composed without consideration, and published without cor-
rection. What his mind could supply at call, or gather in one
excursion, was all that he sought, and all that he gave. The
dilatory caution of Pope enable him to condense his sentiments,
to multiply his images, and to accumulate all that study might
produce, or chance might supply. If the flights of Dryden
therefore are higher. Pope continues longer on the wing. If of
Dryden's fire the blaze is higher, of Pope's the he *. is more regu-
lar and constant. Dryden often surpasses expectation, and Pope
never falls below it. Dryden is read with frequent astonishment,
and Pope with perpetual delight. — Johnson.

TRIUMPHS OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.

Now gather all our Saxon bards, let harps and hearts be strung
To celebrate the triumphs of our own good Saxon tongue;
For stronger far than hosts that march with battle-flags unfarl'd,
It goes with Freedom, Thought, and Truth, to rouse and rule the
world.

Stout Albion learns its household lays on every surf-worn shore,
And Scotland hears its echomg far as Orkney's breakers roar—
From Jura's crags and Mona's hills it floats on every gale,
And warms with eloquence and song the homes of Innisfail.

On many a wide and swarming deck it scales the rough wave's crest,
Seeking its peerless heritage — the fresh and fruitful West :
It climbs New England's rocky steeps, as victor mounts a throne;
Niagara knows and greets the voice, still mightier than it& own.

It spreads where winter piles deep snows on bleak Canadian plains,

And where, on Essequibo's banks, eternal summer reigns :

It glads Acadia's misty coasts, Jamaica's glowing isle,

And bides where gay with early flowers, green Texan prairies smile :

It tracks the loud, swift Oregon, through sunset valleys roU'd,

And soars where Californian brooks wash down their sands of gold.

It sounds in Borneo's camphor groves, on seas of fierce Malay,
In fields that curb old Ganges' flood, and towers of proud Bombay:
It wakes up Aden's flashing eyes, dusk brows, and swarthy limbs;
The dark Liberian soothes her child with English cradle hymns.

IMAGINATION.

425

Tasmania's maids are wooed and won in senile Saxon speech ;
Australian boys read Crusoe's life by Sydney's shelter'd beach :
It dwells where Afric's sou thmost capes meet oceans broad and blue.
And Nieu veld's rugged mountains gird the wide and waste Karroo.

It kindles realms so far apart, that, while its praise you sing,
Time maybe clad with autumn's fruits, and those w\th flowers of spring:
It quickens lands whose meteor lights flame in an arctic sky,
I And lands for which the Southern Cross hangs its orb'd fires on high.

It goes with all that prophets told, and righteous kings desired,--
With all that great apostles taught, and glorious Greeks admired ;
With Shakespeare's deep and wondrous verse, and Milton's loftier wind, —
I With Alfred's laws, and Newton's lore, — to cheer and bless mankind.

Mark, as it spreads, how deserts bloom, and error flies away,
As vanishes the mist of night before the star of day !
But grand as are the victories whose monuments we see,
These are but as the dawn, which speaks of noontide yet to be.

[Take heed, then, heirs of Saxon fame, take heed, nor once disgrace
With deadly pen or spoiling sword, our noble tongu . and race.
Go forth prepared in every clime to love and help each other,
Andjudge that they who counsel strife would bid you smite — a brother.

Go forth, and jointly speed the time, by good men pray'd for long,
When Christian states, grow*^ just and wise, will scorn revenge and

wrong ;
When earth's oppress'd and savage tribes shall cease to pine or roam.
All taught to prize these English words — Faith, Freedom, Heaven,

and Home. —J. G. Lyons.

IMAGINATION.

•

If we were to be asked abruptly, and required to answer briefly,
what qualities chiefly distinguish great artists from feeble artists.
we would answer, I suppose, first their sensibility and tender-
ness; secondly, their imagination; and thirdly, (heir industry.
Some of us might, perhaps, doubt the justice of attaching so
mnch importance to this last character, because we have all
known clever men who were indolent, and dull men who were
indnstrious. But though you may hn.ve known clever men who
were indolent, you never knew a great man who was so ; and
daring such investigation as I have been able to give to the lives
of the artists whose works are in all points noblest, no fact ever
looms so large upon me — no law remains so steadfast in the uni-
versahty of its application — as the fact and law that they aro

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IMAGl^Al'lON.

all great workers ; nothing concerning them is a matter of mor
astonishment, than the quantity they have accomplished in t\
given length of their life ; and when I hear a young man spokej
of as giving promise of high genius, the first question I ask aboi
him is always, Does he work ?

But though this quality of industry is essential to an artist,
does not in anywise make an artist ; many people are busy whos
doings are little worth. Neither does sensibility make an artist)
since, as I hope, many can feel both strongly and nobly, who ye
care nothing about art. But the gifts which distinctively maij
the artist— without which he must be feeble in life, forgotten ij
death, — with which he may become one of the shakers of the eartl
and one of the signal-lights in heaven — are those of sympathi
and imagination ! I will not occupy your time, nor incur thi
risk of your dissent, by endeavoring to give any close defiiiitio{
of this last word. We all have a general and sufficient idea o|
imagination, and of its work with our hands and in our hearts [
we understand it, I suppose, as the imagining or picturing of ne\
things in our thoughts ; and we always show an involuntarjj
respect for this power, whenever we can recognize it, ackno\vl
lodging it to be a greater power than manipulation, or calculation]
or observation, or any other human faculty. If we see an ok
woman spinning at the fireside, and distributing her thread dex]
terously from the distaff, we respect her for her manipulation ; if
we ask her how much she expects to make in a year, and she
answers quickly, we respect her for her calculation ; if she is
watching at the same time that none of her grandchildren fall
into the fire, we respect her for her observation — yet for all this
she may still be a commonplace old woman enough. But if she
is all the time telling her grandchildren a fairy tale out of her
head, we praise her for her imagination, and say she must be
rather remarkable old woman.

Precisely, in like manner, if an architect does his working-l
drawing well, we praise him for his manipulation ; if he keepsl
closely within his contract, we praise him for his honest arith-j
metic ; if he looks well to the laying of his beams, so that nobodyj
shall drop through the floor, we praise him for his observation. |
But he must, somehow, tell us a fairy tale out of his head!
besides all this, else we cannot praise him for his imagination, nor I
speak of him as we did of the old woman, as being in anywise |
out of the common way, ;i rather remarkable ai'chitect.

— RUSKIN.

PLtlASUUEiS OV IMAUINAliON.

427

PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION.

O BLEST of Heaven ! whom not the languid songs

Of luxury, the siren ! not the bribes

Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils

Of pageant honor, can seduce to leave

Those ever-blooming sweets, which from the store

Of nature fair imagination culls

To charm the enliveu'd soul ! What though not all

Of mortal offspring can attain the heights

Of envied life ; though only few possess

Patrician treasures or imperial state ;

Yet nature's care, to all her children just,

With richer treasures and an ampler state.

Endows at large whatever happy man

Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp.

The rural honors his. Whate'er adorns

The princely dome, the column and the arch.

The breathing marbles and the sculptured gold,

Beyond the proad possessor's narrow claim.

His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the spring

Distils her dews, and from the silken gem

Its lucid leaves unfolds ; for him the hand

Of autumn tinges every fertile branch

With blooming gold and blushes like the morn ;

Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings ;

And still new beauties meet his lonely walk.

And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze

Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes

The setting sum's effulgence, not a strain

From all the tenants of the warbling shade

Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake

Fresh pleasure unreproved. Nor thence partakes

Fresh pleasure only ; for the attentive mind.

By this harmonious action on her powers,

Becomes herself harmonious : wont so oft

In outward things to meditate the charm

Of sacred order, soon she seeks. at home

To find a kindred order, to exert

Within herself this elegance of love.

This fair inspired delight ; her teraper'd powers

Refine at length, and every passion wears

A chaster, milder, more attractive mien ;

But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze

On nature's form, where, negligent of all

These lesser graces, she assumes the port

Of that eternal majesty that weigh'd

'.^'' ■

428

ATHENIAN AKCHITECTUKE.

A.!\'i

The world's foundations— if to those the mind

Exalts her daring eye, then mightier far

Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms

Of servile custom cramp her generous power ;

Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth

Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down

To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear ?

Lo ! she appeals to nature, to the winds

And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course,

The elements and seasons : all declare

For what the eternal Maker has ordain'd

The powers of man ; we feel within ourselves

His energy divine : He tells the heart,

He meant, He made us to behold and love

What He beholds and loves — the general orb

Of life and being ; to be great like Him,

Beneficent and active. Thus the men

Whom nature's works can charm, with God himself

Hold converse ; grow familiar day by day,

With His conceptions, act upon His plan

And form to His the relish of their souls.

— AkeknideJ

:h~

ATHENIAN ARCHITECTURE DURING THE AGE 01

PERICLES.

Then rapidly progressed those glorious fabrics which seemed,
Plutarch gracefully expresses it, endowed with the bloom of
perennial youth. Still the houses of private citizens remain^
simple and unadorned, still the streets were narrow and irregula
and even centuries after, a stranger entering Athens would not
first have recognised the claims of the mistress of Grecian a^
But to the homeliness of her common thoroughfares and priva
mansions the magnificence of her public edifices now made'
dazzling contrast. The Acropolis, that towered above the honij
and thoroughfares of men — a spot too sacred for human liabit
tion — became, to use the proverbial phrase, *'a city of godsj
The citizen was everywhere to be reminded of the majesty of tf
STATE — his patriotism was to be increased by the pride in hi
beauty — his taste to be elevated by the spectacle of her splendc
Then flocked to Athens all who throughout Greece were er
nent in art. Sculptors and architects vied with each other
adorning the young empress of the seas ; then rose the niaste
piecea of Phidias, of Callicrates, of Muesicles, which, cither

DURING THE AGE OP PERICLES.

•120

iiii: Acuui'OLis, ATM ;..•.;..

peir broken remains, or in the feeble copies of imitators less !n-
jspired, still command so intense a wonder, and furnish models so
Immortal. And if, so to speak, their bones and relics excite our
awe and envy, as testifying of a lovelier and grander race which
Ithe deluge of time has swept away, what, in that day, must have
jbeen their brilliant effect — unmutilated in their fair proportions
j-fresh in all their lineaments and hues ? For their beauty was
Inot limited to the symmetry of arch and column, nor their
Imaterials confined to the marbles of Pentelicus and Paroi5. Even
hhe exterior of the temples glowed with the richest harmony of
Icolors, and was decorated with the purest gold ; an atmosphero
jpeculiarly favorable both to the display and preservation of art,
Ipermitted to external pediments and friezes all the minuteness
|of ornament, all the brilliancy of colors, such as in the interior
lof Italian churches may yet be seen ; vitiated, in the last, by a

ludy a^^d barbarous taste.

Nor did the Athenians spare any cost upon the works chat
jwere, Uke the tombs and tripods of their heroes, to be the monu-
ments of a nation to distant ages, and to transmit the most irre-
fragable proof "that the power of ancient Greece was not an idle
I'egend." The whole democracy were animated with the passion

It'i;

430

GOTHIC AROniTFCTURE.

ill! h)

of Porlolcs ; and when Pliidina recommended marble as n clionnn
material than ivory for the great statue of Minervn, it was t'l
that reason that ivory was preferred by the unanimous voifc of tlj
assembly. Tims, whether it were extrnvagance or magnificouH
the blame in one case, the admiration in another, rest not nrnr
with the minister than the populace. It was, indeed, the pfnn
characteristic of those works that they were entirely tlio ertatioi
of the people; without the people Pericles could not havo built
temple or engaged a sculptor. The miraoles of that day resultoi
from the enthusiasm of a population yet young — full of the !ii
ardor for the beautiful — dedicating to the state, as to a niin
tress, the trophies honorably won, or the treasures injnnou?
extorted — and uniting the resources of a nation with the onore]
of an individual, because the toil, the cost, were borne by thosi
who succeeded to the enjoyment and arrogated the glory.

— BULWER.

GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE.

The progress of architecture in religious structures, under th
influence of Christianity, has been traced with much ingenuit
and research from the hasillcce, or courts of justice of ancion
Rome, (converted in the days of Constantino into churches,
through its various changes during the Lombard ascendancy, til
it merged, by some unknown steps, in what has acquired tli
name of the Gothic or pointed style. This consummation ton
place about the end of the eleventh or beginning of the twelftl
century. Hitherto the arch had been almost uniformly semi
circular, as being the form of greatest durability ; but at th
period a new principle was introduced, which, with a view t
loftiness, combined witli extensive spnco and lightness, cloiisi^ato
the arch by means of two segments of a large circle meeting in
central point. What was thus lost in equality of pressure wa
compensated for by various resources of the art, and, anion
others, by what were denominated flying buttresses, whicli alforde
countervailing inward pressure, while they were consistent wit
the general design of bestowing a character of majesty on tli
whole fabric, by reducing it to somewhat of a pyramidal form.

The power of the arch was now called forth in its utmost per
fection, and the various combinations which its new form re
quired, constituted the triumph of architectural skill. Wlia
served to modify these combinations was, that the cross, tlit

GOrUIC AKCHITF.CIURK.

431

-f

AI8LB IJt MBLOOSK KHHT.S-

jinstrument of man's redemption, which had been early adopted

las the chief emblem of the Christian faith, and tlic very form of

jwhich, in an ignorant and superstitious age, was supposed to be

icharm against evil, and a token for good, was employed in the

cred architecture of the age, not merely to ornament the exterior

pf their buildings, and give sacredness to the altar, but even to

eguiate the principle on which their ecclesiastical structures

'ere erected. This distinctive form inferred a space where the

[transverse limbs of the cross should unite in a large quadrangle,

id this quadrangle gave rise to lofty arches springing from

432

GOTHIC AnCHITECTUUE.

,!."*

maHsy pillars, wbioh were abutted in tlic vitrious directions of tlioi
lateral pressure, by the solid walls that enclosed the arep. oi' the
cruciform building. On this arched transept stood the high tower,!
which gave characteristic dignity to the wnole. I

The history of this remarkable form of struotare, its suddeij
^•ise, its universal adoption, and, after a few centuries, its equallv
sudden decline, forms a striking feature in the progress of the
art. It may be accounted for, chiefly, from the intercom.
munity which existed over the whole bounds of the Latin Cliiirch|
nmong ecclesiastics, and the facility with which they imparted
to each other the ideas which prevailed in influential quarters.
The Gothic style — first adopted, as would appear, in the vast
empire of Germany, where the arts were, at that period, most
successfully cultivated — was recommended by various conHidem-l
tions which could not fail to weigh on the minds of the great
corpoi'ation which then swayed public opinion. It was admirably
ada[)ted to the prevailing form of worship, its vast assemblies, itg
sole>nn processions, its splendid and imposing ceremonies. It
awed by the iuagnificence of its conception, and the power and!
science required in its execution. It formed an enduring me-j
morial both of the skill and the resources of thosp under whose
auspices it flourished. Besides all this, it wa^ consistent withi
the principle which the Church of Rome adopted, that all tliJ
nations under its dominion should display >, uniformity, iiotj
merely in their ritual, biit in the very character and taste of
their edifices. This passion for nniformiiy -van increased bj
the intercourse established by meanb oi the crusades; and^
doubtless, some of the grand conceptions which the view of con-
quered Constantinople and the once mighty cities of Palestiue
inspired where embodied in this new and favorite architecture.

From Germany the taste for Gothic architecture quicklj
spread into France and Italy; and, by means of the powerful]
fraternity of Freemasons, who, if not the originators of this stylt
enthusiastically adopted it, was soon diffused over the whole
boundaries of the Latin Church. This rema.rkablp ccrporatiorJ
which was invested by the Popes with very impoi'tani exeUisi'
privileges, spread themselves throughout Europe, carrying witi
them at once the science and the authority that enabled thtmj
in those dark ao-es, to form works of so much magnificence ; anq
beirg aided, wherever tl ey went, both by the countenance of th^
clergy and by the wealth placed at their disposal, they supplier
the demand which the zeal of the times had excited.

ANCIENl AMERICAN ARCQITECTURE.

433

It is remarkable, that of the original designs for these mighty
monuments of art very few traces have been left, probably be-
cause the jealousy of the Freemasons concealed them from the
public eye. Some, however, have been recently discovered
among the archives of German monasteries, which show the deep
science, the long forethought, and the complicated calculation
employed in their formation. — Henry Duncan.

FLTIMO BUTTRBSB &T AtHESB,

ANCIENT AMERICAN ARCHITECTURE

Odr readers may not be aware that the antiquities of the Indian
tribes of North America have acquired, within the last half cen-
tury, an immense and increasing interest. The earlier historians
of the continent were ignorant or incredulous as to the existence
''f any such mementos of the past, although the chroniclers who

2 E

434

ANCIENT AMERK SN ARCHITECTURE.

liH- , ;

il:

Mi\

IDOLS AT ZAPA.TBBO.

followed in the wake of Cortez aiod other conquerors had de-j
scribed them in the most glowing terms. At length, by the
researches of Humboldt and other travellers in Mexico and Peruj
especially of Stephens and Catherwood in Central America, it
has been found that those portions of the continent abound in
the most magnificent remains. Immense pyramidal moundsJ
crowned with gorgeous palaces, or sacrificial altars, adorned will
elaborate sculptures, tablets covered with hieroglyphic inscrip"!
tions, as yet undecipherable, generally rude, but sometimes
elegant in idea and execution, sculptures, and paintings, anc'
ornaments, are met with in increasing numbers among the depths
of the tropical forests, the gorgeous vegetation of which invests
them, as it were, with a funeral shroud, and embraces them
in the death-grcsp of final obliteration. It is fortunate that
some records of these precious memorials are preserved to us bj
recent explorers. They attest the former existence of a race
which had attained a fixed state of civilization, a considerabk

^ m%

ANCIENT AMERICAN ARCHlTECTUKfi.

435

knowledge of the arts and sciences, with a religious system, of
which terror appears to have been the great principle, human
sacrifices forming its conspicuous feature ; a state of things, in-
deeJ, in all respects identical with the c* edition of Mexico at the
period of its invasion by Cortez, when some of the temples
were doubtless destroyed, while others, cf more ancient date,
probably, were at that period already fallen into ruin. In North
America, during the period of its first settlement, which was
confined almost exclusively to the seaboard, no discoveries what-
ever were made ; but as the stream of immigration, crossing the
ridges of the Alleghanies, poured down upon the Mississippi and
the Ohio, and the dense forests and boundless prairies of the west
were gradually opened and explored, another and very interesting
class of antiquities beg^ to be disinterred from the oblivion of
I centuries. It was slowly, indeed, as the forest fell beneath the
I axo of the backwoodsman, that they came to light ; they were
I for a long time but partially uncovered, or so imperfectly explored,
that, even until a very recent period, they were regarded by
many as being only peculiarities of geological formation, which
credulous imaginfition had converted into fortresses, and temples,
and sepulchres. The recent researches of Squier and Davis,
accompanied as they are by elaborate surveys and drawings,
I liave left no further room for scepticism, and have established
beyond dispute, the interesting fact, that the interior of the
North American continent, as well as the southern, was once in-
habited by an immense and settled popidation, who have left
behind them almost innumerable memorials of their occupation.

These remains extend almost continuously over the whole
interior from the great lakes on the north to the Gulf of Mexico
on the south, and from the sources of the Alleghany in western
New York for above a thousand miles up the Missouri, and into
Michigan, Wisconsin, and Iowa. They are found in far greater
numbeis in the western than in the eastern portion of this im-
mense district. They may be traced, too, along the seaboard
from Texas to Florida, but are not met with any further along
the north-eastern coast. They are generally planted in the rich
valleys of the western rivers, or elevated above them on command-
ing natural terraces. In the neighborhood of the upper lakes
they assume the singular form of gigantic relievos of earthen
I walls, often covering several acres, tracing out upon the soil out-
lines of the figures of men, birds, beasts, and reptiles. Southward
jof these appear, on the banks of the Ohio and its tributaries.

!l 1

'(k 1 1

i I

43G

ANCIENT AMERICAN ARCHITECTURE.

i:«: ^

mounds and truncated terraces of immense extent, snstaininj
earthen enclosures and embankments extending for entire milesj
Of these extraordinary earthworks many were evidently fortifies
tioiis, exhibiting no small constructive skill, defended by nume-i
rous bastions, having covered ways, horn-works, concentric wallsj
and lofty mounds intended as observatories, and numerous gate]
ways giving access to the immense line of fortified enclosure]
with graded roadways to ascend from terrace to terrace. Of
these defences there appears to have been a chain, extending fror
the head of the Alleghany diagonally across Central Ohio to th^
River Wabash.

Not all, however, of these earthworks were intended as for|
tresses ; many were evidently designed for religious purposes
One of the most extraordinary of these is called the Great Ser
pent, on a projecting tongue of high land in Adam's country, Ohic
The head of the reptile points towards the extremity, its form ij
traced out with all its convolutions, and its jaws are opened aj
if it were to swallow a large egg-shaped enclosure occupying thj
extreme point of the promontory. Its entire length, if stretche^
out, would be a thousand feet. The serpent and globe was
symbol in Egypt, Greece, Assyria, and Mexico; and thos
familiar with English antiquities will no doubt remember
similar and still more gigantic instance of a serpent, sacred er
closure, and mound on the downs of Avebury in Wiltshire,
the earthworks some are square, some perfectly circular, other
of intricate and curious outline, while many appear to havl
something symbolical in their arrangements. It is necessar
also to correct a popular mistake with regard to their materiah
which, it has been affirmed, consist exclusively of earth, wherea
both stone and unbaked briok have occasionally been made us
of. The mounds scattered over the western valleys and prairie
are almost innumerable, and of infinitely various dimensions, or
of the largest covering six acres of ground. These also appea
to have been appropriated to different purposes, some to sustail
sacrificial altars or temples, others intended for sepulchres, cot
taining skeletons, with pottery, and charcoal for consuming thj
bodies. A remarkable instance of the latter class is the grea
mound at Grave Creek, which was penetrated by a perpendicula
shaft opening into two sepulchral chambers, containing sever
skeletons with pottery and other articles. Within these ei
closures and mounds have been discovered numerous stone sculj
tures of the heads of men, or of human figures in crouchinj

CELEBRATED SCULPTURES.

437

attitudes ; of the beaver, the wild cat, and the toad ; of the
swallow and other birds ; of the heron striking a fish, the last
very beautifully executed ; and of the sea cow, an animal
peculiar to the tropical regions. Ornamented tablets have also
been dug up, and in some places sculptures of men, eagles, and
elks can be traced on the face of the rocks, with rude attempts
to represent hunting scenes. There have also been found instru-
ments of silver and copper, axes, drills, and spear heads, stone
discs, and instruments for games, with beads, shells, ornaments,
and pipes, as well as decorated pottery.

Respecting the whole of these monuments it may be remarked,
that they are evidently far ruder thUh those in Mexico and Cen-
tral America, to which as they approach in locality they appear
to approximate in character and arrangements ; and it is thus
an interesting question whether we are to regard them as the
original and more ancient works of a race who afterwards reached
a higher degree of civilization further to the south, or whether,
on the contraiy, they present to us traces of a migration from
the south towards the north. " It is not impossible," observes
Squier, " that the agriculture and civilization of Mexico, Central
America, and Peru, may have originated on the banks of the
Mississippi." Whatever may be the result of furtfier researches,
one thing is abundantly evident, that the great valley of that
river, and of its tributaries, was once occupied by a population
who had advanced from the migratory state of hunting to the
fixed condition of cultivators of the soil ; that the population who
raised these great defensive and sacred structures must have
been dense and widely spread, in order > execute works for
which prolonged and combined efforts were so obviously neces-
sary, and that their customs, laws, and religion must have assumed
a fixed and definite shape. — Sharpe's Magazine.

■■J y

CELEBRATED SCULPTURES.

The art of sculpture has been practised from the enrliest ages.
Probably its practice was anterior to that of drawing, and its early
history is almost a part of the history of the religions of the
ancients. In its large sense sculpture may be taken to signify
the representation of form in any material ; wood, metal, stone,
clay, plaster, have all been used. Some of the ancient metal
figures were cast, so as to give color to the figures. Thus silver

4'38

CELEBRATED SCULPTURES.

has been used to represent the paUid hne of death, and a mixture
of bronze and iron to indicate the glow of the skin. There was
a statue of Augustus formed of amber ; and the figures used in
funereal ceremonies were sometimes composed of odoriferous
gums and spices. We shall, however, onlj thus indicate these
conceits of art, and confine ourselves to describing a few of those
statue;^ vhich may be taken as examples of the highest perfection
which br.s yet been attained.

The finest example of manly grace which sculptors have be-
queathed to us is to be found in the wonderfully beautiful and
graceful statue of the Apollo Belvidere.

This splendid specimen ojk ancient art was found towards the

APOtLO BELTIDBRE.

end of the fifteenth century in the ruins of the ancient Antium,
at the Capo d'Anzo, about fifteeu leagues from Rome. It was
purchased by Pope Julius II., and by him placed in the Belvi-
dere in the Vatican. The figure is about seven feet high, and,
with the exception of a loose cloak, perfectly naked. When
found, the left hand and right arm had been broken off, and
those parts were restored by Giovanni Angelo da Montorsoli, a
pupil of Michael Angelo. In its present state it represents the
god after he has just discharged an arrow at the serpent Python,
waiting io watch the effect of his shaft.

For some time the Apollo was supposed to be a Grecian pro-

CELEBRATED SCULPTURES.

439

daction, and specifically attributed to Phidias. There is, how-
ever, no proof of this, and the evidence seems to lean to its
being created in the time of Nero. It is not the least wonderful
fact in the history of art that that monster who spared none —
whose lusts, passio'^.s, and appetites were his sole guide — was an
enthusiastic admirer of the beauties of art. The following pas-
sage of Homer's Hymn is supposed to be that which suggested
the idea to the sculptor : —

" Apollo's bow nnerring sped the dart,
And the fierce monster groan'd beneath the smart;
Tortured with pain, hard breathing on the ground,
The serpent writhed beneath the fatal wound.
Now here, now there, he winds amidst the wood,
And vomits forth his life in streams of blood.
' Rot where thou liest,' the exulting archer said,
* No more shall man thy vengeful ^iry dread ;
But every hand that tills earth's spacious field
Her grateful offerings to my shrine shall yield ;
Not Typha's strength, nor fell Ghimsera's breath,
Can now protect thee from the grasp of death ;
There on the damp black earth, in foul decay,
Rot, rot to dust, beneath the sun's bright ray. ' "

Parallel with the Apollo, as the perfect representation of
female elegance, is the Venus de Medici, which is undoubtedly
a relic of ancient Greek art. It is variously stated to have been
found at the villa of Hadrian, near Tivoli, and the forum of
Octavia at Rome ; and on the plinth was the name of the artist,
"Cleomenes, the son of Apollodorus of Athens," who is known
to have lived about two hundred years before the Christian era.
At the time of its discovery it was deficient of tho right and the
lower part of the left arm, which has been restored ; and the
plinth was so damaged that it was replaced by a copy. In the
sixteenth century it stood in the Medici Gardens at Rome ;
about 1680 it was carried to Florence. When the victorious
French plundered Italy of the best of her works of art it was
taken to Paris, but was restored to the Imperial Gallery in
Florence (called the Tribune) after the success of the allied
arms. The figure is of Parian marble, four feet nine inches in
height, and exquisitely proportioned. Its rounded limbs show
the greatest beauty of the female form, and have furnished
models for the sculptors of after ages. The face, however, al-
though beautiful, is deficient in charm of expression ; and an
attempt at lightness and elegance has reduced the head to a size

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440

CELEBRATED SCULPTURES.

SO small as to be only compatible with idiocy. Still there is a
graceful repose, aud a life-like aspect about the whole to which
the chiselled marble very seldom rea'ches, justifying the opiuion
that this is one of the finest statues of all time.

Sculpture is more adapted to the representation of quiesceut
or gently moving forms, than those in energetic action, but the
group of the Laocoon shows it realizing the struggles of despair.

>HB LAOOOOir.

This group was found on the old Esquiline Hill, at Rome, be-
hind the baths of Titus. Pliny, who speaks of it as the finest of |
all works of art, asserts that it was the joint eflbrt of three
sculptors of Rhodes — Ajesander, Polydorus, and Athenodorus—
who were employed by the Emperor Titus. The subject is the
destruction of Laocoon., the priest of Neptune, and his two sons,
by two immense sea-serpents, for disobeying Minerva. Virgil
thus describes the incident:—

" LaocooD, Neptune's priest, by lot that year,
With solemn pomp then sacrificed a steer ;
When, dreadful to behold, from sea we spied
Two serpents, rank'd abreast, the seas divide,
And smoothly sweep along the swelling tide.
Their flaming cl^sts above the waves Ihey show,
Their bellies seem to burn the seas below ;

CELEBRATED SCULPTURES.

441

Their speckled tails advance to steer their course,

And on the sounding shore the fljing billows force. '^

And now the strand, and now the plain thc\y held,

Their ardent eyes with bloody streaks were fill'd,

Their nimble tongues they brandish'd as they came.

And lick'd their hissing jaws that sputter'd flame.

We fled amazed ; their destined way they take,

And to Laocoon and his children make ;

And first around the tender boys they wind,

Then with their sharpen'd fangs their limbs and bodies grind.

The wretched father coming io their aid

With pious haste, but vain, they next invade ;

Twice round his waist their winding volumes roll'd,

And twice about his gasping throat they fold ;

The priest, thus double choked, their crests divide,

And towering o*er his head in triumph ride."

The group differs in some respects from the text of Virgil. In
the centre is the father, whose form, as he struggles despairingly,
is the embodiment of manly beauty and strength. The serpent,
grasped by the neck, is just fastening on his side. The son on
his right, encircled by the folds, has already felt the fangs of the
other snake, and as his tender frame yields to the pressure, and
the swift poison courses through his veins, casts up a look of
helpless agony to his father. The other boy, on the left, has
not yet felt the sting, but raising his hand and head amid the
serpent folds, appears to utter an affrighted cry for help. The
expression of the entire group is at once terrific and admirable.
The spectators see at once that the struggles are those of hope-
less despair, and the faces tell a tale of almost more than mortal
terror.

Two undoubted remains of Grecian genius, which formerly
adorned the magnificent Parthenon at Athens, are the Theseus
and the Ilissus, now in the Elgin Marble Room of the British
Museum. The figure of Theseus, the Athenian hero, is that of a
colossal giant reposing on a rock covered by a lion's skin. It is
extraoi'dinary for the breadth and power whi?h it exhibits ; and
though mutilated by the loss of both feet and bands, and part of
the nose, conveys the character of the demi-gcdof old. There is
the compact head, the fierce grim, the massive brow, and the
decided features ascribed to the old athletaa ; and the vast trunk,
ponderous limbs, and swelling muscles are life-like in their ap-
parent power. There are all the marks of that courage and
vigor which made men great, when the broadest laws were
written on the edge of the sword.

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442

CELEBRATED SCULPTURES.

IMl

The Ilissus, supposed to present a river-god, is a figure of
another mould. It is still more mutilated than the Theseas
having lost its head in addition to its hands and feet. Its pre-
vailing characteristic is elegance rather than strength. As it
stretches its length along, the contour of its limbs, and the folds
of the drapery which falls from it as the body is raised upon one
hand, seem to imitate the flow of waves, so softly and gently does
one line blend into another. In modem art, perhaps, the Her-
cules and Lichas of Canova are the only statues which can com-
pare, for vitality and beauty, with these fragments of the achieve-
ments of ancient Greece.

The Dyinq Gladiator is a memorial of that time when savage

barbarism mingled with luxurious civilization. In Rome, the
mistress of the whole world — Rome, with her vast works of art,
her invincible legions, and her patriotic people — rose that im-
mense temple of Moloch, the Amphitheatre. Their grave men,
whose words are yet appealed to as the standards of wisdom ;
orators and poets, whose bursts of eloquence still are quoted to
admiring senates ; and tender women, the best mothers and
daughters of tlie city, came to a banquet of blood, as to a spec-
tacle. There, on the blood-stained arena, they saw wild beasts
tear each other in furious combat ; and there they looked on,
with unpitying face and unwavering eye, while slaves made in
war were forced to fight to the death, for the amusement of their
unrelenting conquerors. There has been such a scene, and this
statue tells the tale. The fight is over, and while the conqueror
is cheered, there lies the victim, thrown down upon his shield,
his weakening hand scarce keeping his head from falling prone on
the earth. The tide of life is ebbing from that ghastly wound

ON CHANTRET S SLEEPINO CHILDREN.

443

npon the breast ; and on the face, blending with the pain, the
faiatness, the shame of defeat, we can trace the memories of the
past, crowding themselves into the last moments of existence.
Bat nothing we can say will so well realize the conception as the
beautiful lines of one of the greatest poets : —

*' I see before me the gladiator lie ;
He leans npon his hand — his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony I
And his droop'd head sinks gradne^ly low —
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder- shower ; and now
The arena swims around him, — he is gone
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won.

" He heard it, but he heeded not, — his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He reok'd not of the life he lost, nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay.
There were his young barbarians at play.
There was their Dacian mother, — he their dre
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday, —
All this rush'd with his blood, — shall he expire,
And unavenged ? Arise ! ye Ooths, and glut your ire t"

Verily that old Rome, great and generous as she was, fell
under a just retribution, when the barbarians she so oppressed
arose, and, breaking the chain with which she bound the world,
scattered her power to the winds, leaving to other ages her
greatness as an example, and her fate as a warning.

— Wonders cf all Nations.

ON CHANTREY'S SLEEPING CHILDREN.

Look at those sleeping children — softly tread,

Lest thou do mar their dreams, and come not nigh,

Till their fond mother, with a kiss, shall cry,

" 'Tis mom, awake ! awake ! " Ah, they are dead !

Yet folded in each other's arms they lie

So still — oh, look ! — so still and smilingly,

So breathing and so beautiful, they seem

As if to die in youth were but a dream

Of spring and flowers ! Of flowers P Yet nearer stand :

There is a lily in one little hand.

Broken, but not faded yet,

As if its cup with tears was wet.

So sleeps that child, not faded, though in death.

And seeming still to hear her sister's breath,

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GREEK PAINTERS. .

As when she first did lay hor head to rest

Gently on that sister's breast,

And iciss'd her ere she fell asleep !

The archangel's trump alone shall wake that slumber deep.

Take up those flowers that fell

From too dead hand, and sigh a long farewell !

Your spirits rest in bliss !

Yet ere with partine prayers wo say

" Farewell for ever to the insensate clay,

Poor maid, those pale lips we will kiss !

Ah ! 'tis cold marole ! Artist who has wrought

This work of nature, feeling, and of though!:,

Thine, Chantrey, be the fame

That joins to immortality thy name.

For these sweet children, that so sculptured rest,

A sister's head upon a sister's breast,

Age after age shall pass away,

Nor shall their beauty fade, their fame decay.

For here is no corruption, the cold worm

Can never prey upon that beauteous form ;

This smile of death that fades not shall gage

The deep affections of each distant age.

Mothers, till ruin the round world hath rent,

Shall gaze with tears upon the monument ;

And fathers sigh, with ualf-suspended breath,

" How sweetly sleep the innocent in death ! " — Bowles.

GREEi: PAINTERS.

The art of painting was developed later than that of sculpture,
of which it seems to have been the ofTspring, and in its earlier
period to have partaken very closely of the statuesque character.
The ancient Greek paintings were either in water colors or in
wax ; oil colors appear to have been unknown. The first Grecian
painter of any great renown was Polygnotus, who was contem-
poraiy with Phidias, though probably somewhat older. He was
a native of Thasos, whence lie was, in all probability, brought by
his friend and patron Cimon, when he subjugated that island in
B.C. 426. At that period he must at least have been old enough
to have earned the celebrity which entitled him to Cimon 'a pat-
ronage. He subsequently became naturalized at Athens, where
he probably died about the year 423 B.C. His chief works in
Athens were executed in adorning those buildings which were
erected in the time of Cimon ; as the temple of Theseus, and the

GKEEK PAINTERS.

Poecile Stoa, or Painted Colonnade. His paintings were eRsen-
tially statuesque^ — the representation, by means of colors on a
flat surface, of figures similar to those of the sculptor. But the
improvements which he introduced on the works of his prede-
cessors were very marked and striking, and form an epoch in the
art. He first depicted the open month, so as to show the teeth,
and varied the expression or the countenance from its ancient
stifiness. He excelled in representing female beauty and com-
plexion, and introduced graceful flowing draperies, m place of the
hard stiff lines by which they had been previously depicted. He
excelled in accuracy of drawing, and in the nobleness, grace, and
beauty of his figures, which were not mere transcripts from nature,
but had an ideal and elevated character. His masterpieces were
executed in the Lesche (enclosed court or hall for conversation)
of the Cnidiana at Delphi, the subjects of which were taken from
the cycle of epic poetry. In these there seems *)0 have been no
attempt at perspective, and names were affixed to the different
figures.

Painting reached a further stage of excellence in the hands of
ApoUodorus, Zeuxis, and Parrhasius, the only other artists whom
we need notice during this period. ApoUodorus was a native of
Athens, and first directed attention to the efiect of light and shade
in painting, thus creating another epoch in the art. His imme-
diate successors, or rather contemporaries, Zeuxis and Parrhasius,
brought the art to a still greater degree of perfection. Neither
the place nor the date of the birth of Zeuxis can be accurately
ascertained, though he was probably bom about 455 B. c, since
thirty years after that date we find him practising his art with
great success at Athens. He was patronized by Archelaus, king
of Macedonia, and spent some time at his court. Ho must also
have visited Italy, as he painted his celebrated picture of Helen
for the city of Croton. He acquired great wealth by his pencil,
and was very ostentatious in showing it. He appeared at Olym-
pia in a magnificent robe, having his name embroidered in letters
of gold ; and the same vanity is also displayed in the anecdote
that after he had reached the summit of his fame, he no longer
sold, but gave away his pictures, as being alcove all price. With
regard to his style of art, single figures were his favorite sub-
jects. He could depict gods or heroes with sufficient majesty ;
but he particularly excelled in painting the softer graces of female
beauty. In one important respect he appears to have degene-
rated from the style of Polygnotus, his idealism being rather that

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44^

QREBC PAINTERS.

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of form than of character and expresaimi. Thus his style is ana-
logous to that of EuripiduH in tragedy. He waii a great master
of color, and his paintings were sometimes so accurate and life-
like as to amount to illusion. This is exemplified in the story
told of him and Parrhasius. As a trial of skill these artists
painted two pictures. That of Zeuxis represented a bunch of
grapes, and was so naturally executed that the birds came and
pecked at it. After this proof, Zeuxis, confident of success,
called upon his rival to draw aside the curtain which concealed
his picture. But the painting of Parrhasius was the curtain
itself, and Zeuxis was now obliged to acknowledge himself van-
quished, for though he had deceived the birds, Pnvrhasius had
deceived the author of the deception. Whatever may be the
historical value of this tale, it at least shows the high reputation
which both artists had acquired for the natui'al representation of
objects. But many of the pictures of Zeuxis also displayed great
dramatic power. He worked very slowly and carefully, and he
is said to have replied to somebody who blamed him for his slow-
ness, " It is true I take a long time to paint, but then I paint
works to last a long time." His masterpiece was the picture of
Helen, already mentioned.

Parrhasius was a native of Ephesus, but his art was chiefly
exercised at Athens, where he was presented with the right of
citizenship. His date cannot be accurately ascertained, but he
was probably rather younger than his contemporary, Zeuxis, and
it is certain that he enjoyed a high reputation before the death
of Socrates. The style and degree of excellence attained by
Parrhasius appear to have been much the same as those of Zeuxis.
He was particularly celebrated for the accuracy of his drawing,
and the excellent proportions of his figures. For these he estab-
lished a canon, as Phidias had done in sculpture for gods, and
Polycletus for the human figure, whence Quintilian calls him the
legislator of his art. His vanity seems to have been as remark-
able as that of Zeuxis. Among the most celebrated of his works
was a portrait of the personified Athenian Demos, which is said
to have miraculously expressed even the most contradictory
qualities of that many-headed personage.

The excellence attained during this period by the great masters
in the higher walks of sculpture and painting was, as may be well
supposed, not without its influence on the lower grades of art.
This is particularly visible in the ancient painted vases, which
have been preserved to us in such numbers, the paintings on

PAURHASIUS.

447

which, though of course the productions of an inferior class of
artists, show a marked improvement, both in design and execu-
tion, aftur tho time of Polyguotus.

— Smith's Dictionary of AntiquitieB.

PARRHASIUS.

There stood an unsold captive in the mart,

A grav-hair'd and majestical old man,

Chain d to a pil'iir. It was almost night,

And tho last seller from his place had gone.

And not a sound was heard but of a dog

Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone,

Or the dull echo frotii the pavement rung,

As the faint captive changed his weary feet.

He had stood there since morning, and had borne

From every eye in Athens the cold gaze

Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted him

For an Olynthiau slave. The buyer came

And roughly struck his palm upon his breast,

And toucn'd his unheal'd wounas, and with a sneer

Pass'd on ; and when, with weariness o'erspent.

He bow'd his head in a forgetful sleep,

The inhuman soldier smote him, and, with threats

Of torture to his children, summon'd back

The ebbing blood into his pallid face.

*Twas evenmg, and the half-descended sun

Tipp'd with a golden fire the manv 'an es

Of Athens, and a yellow atmorphere

Lay rich and dusky in the shv. ied b'^ee ,

Through which the captive g ct:c,c<] P.-'; had borne up

With a stout heart that ir»r g aii i Wrjir. day.

Haughtily patient of his ;*iu,iiy Ti-joiL.jS;

But now ne was alone, and from his nerves

The needless strength departed, and he lean'd

Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts

Throng on him as they would. Unmark'd of him,

Parrhasius at the nearest pillar stood.

Gazing upon his grief. The Athenian's cheek

Flush'd as he measured, with a painter's eye.

The moving picture. The abandon'd limbs,

Stain'd with the oozing blood, were laced with veins

Swollen to purple fulness ; the gray hair.

Thin and disorder'd, hung about his eyes ;

And as a thought of wilder bitterness

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448 PABRHASIU6.

}.lose in his memory, his lips grew white,
And the fast workings of his bloodless face
Told what a tooth of fire was at his heart.

• • • • • it

The golden light into the painter's room

Stream'd richly, and the hidden colors stole

From the dark pictures radiantly forth,

And in the soft and dewy atmosphere

Like form?, and landscapes magical they lay.

The w.lia were hung with armor, and about

In the dim corners stood the sculptured forms

Of Cytheris and Dian, and stern Jove,

And from the casement soberly away

Fell the grotesque, long shadows, iall and true,

And, like a veil of filmy mellowness.

The lint-specks floated in the twilight air.

Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully

Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay,

Chain'd to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus--

The vulture at his vitald, and the links

Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh ;

And as the painter's mind felt through the dim,

Rapt mystery, and pluck'd the shadows forth

With its far-reaching fancy, and with form

And color clad them, hia fine, earnest eye

Flash'd with a passionate fire, and the quick curl

Of his thin nostril and his quivering lip

Were like the wingfed gods , oreathing from his flight.

'* Bring me the captive now !
My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift.
And I could paint the bow
Upon the bended heavens — around me play
Colors of such divinity to-day.

" Ha ! hind him on his back !
Look ! as Prometheus in my picture here !
Quick, or he faints ! — stated with the cordial near
Now — bend him to the rpck !
Press down the poison'd tinks into his flesh !
And tear agape that hep/iing wound afresh !

** So — let him writhe ! How long

Will he live thus P Quick, my good pencil, now !

What a fine agony works upon his brow !

Ha ! gray-hair'd, and so strong !
How fearfully he stifles that short moan !
Gods ! if! could but paint a dying groan!

PARRHASIUS.

"Pity thee P Soldo!
I pity the dumb victim at the altar —
But does the robed priest for his pity falter P

I'd rack thee though I knew
A thousand lives were perishing in thine :
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine P

" Hereafter ? Ay — hereafter !
A whip to keep a coward to his track !
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back

To check the sceptic's laughter ?
Come from the grave to-morrow with that story,
And I may take soma softer path to glory.

" No, no, old man 1 we die
Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away
Our life upon the chance wind even as they !

Strain well thy fainting eye,
For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er,
The light of heaven will never reach thee more.

" Yet, there 's a deathless name !
A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn.
And like a steadfast planet mount and bum.

And though its crown of flame
Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone.
By all the fiery stars I'd bind it on!

" Ay, though it bid me rifle
My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst.
Though every life- strung nerve be madden'd first;

Though it should bid me stifle
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its motner till my brain went wild.

" All— I would do it ail-
Sooner than die, like a dull worm to rot,
Thrust foully into earth to be forgot.

Oh, heavens ! — but I appall
Your heart, old man ! forgive — ha ! on your lives
Let him not faint ! — rack him till he revives !

" Vain, vaiu; give o'er I his eve
Glazes apace. He does not feel you now.
Stand back \ I'll paint the death-dew on his brow I

God« ! if he do not die
But for one moment — one — till 1 eclipse
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips !

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449

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460 SCHOOLS OP painting; or, the louvre in 1814.

" Shivering ! Hark ! he mutters
Brokenly now, — that was a difficult breath.
Another ! Wilt thou never come, O Death ?

Look ! how his temple flutters !
Is his heart still ? Aha ! lift up his head !
He shudders — gasps — Jove, help him ! — so — he's dead."

• ■■•••

How like a mounting devil in the hea t
Rules the unrein'd ambition ! Let it once
But play the monarch, and its haughty brow
Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought
And unthrones peace for ever.

— N.P. Wiujs.

VIEW OF THIS LOUVKli.

4;tl.;;;

SCHOOLS OF PAINTING; OR, THE LOUVRK ]S HI

For gaining an idea of the general character, by wliicb tlie
different schools of paintin**- are distinguished, the LiMivrc
presents singular advantages, from the unparalleled collection (tfl
paintings of every school and description w hich are there to be

SCHOOLS OF PAINTINO. ; OR, THE LOUVRE IN 1814.

451

met with, and the facility with which you can there trace the
progress of art from its first beginning to the period of its greatest
perfection. And it is in this view that the collection of these
works into one museum, however much to be deplored as the
work of unprincipled ambition, and however much it may have
diminished the impression which particular objects, from the in-
fluence of association, produced in their native place, is yet
calculated to produce the greatest of all improvements in the
progi*ess of the art, by divesting particular schools and particular
works of the unbounded influence which the effects of early as-
sociation or the prejudices of national feeh'ng have given them in
their original situation, and placing them where their real nature
is to be judged of by a more extet.ded circle, and subjected to
the examination of more impartial sentiments.

The first hall of the Louvre, in the picture gallery, is filled
with paintings of the French School. The principal artists
whose works are here exhibit^ed are Le Brun, Gaspar and Nicholas
Poussin, Claude Lorraine, Vernet ; and the modern painters
Gerard and David. The general character of the school of
French historical painting is the expression of pa,<isi(m and violent
emotion. The coloring is for the most part brilliant, the canvas
crowded with figures, and the incident selected that in which the
painter mi^ht have the best opportunity of displaying his know-
ledge of the human frame, or the varied expression of the human
countenance. In the pictures of the modern school of French
painting this peculiarity is pushed to an extravagant length, and,
fortunately for the art, displays the false principles on which the
system of their composition is founded. The moment seized is
uniformly that of tho strongest and most violent passion ;
the principal actors in tho piece are represented in a state of
frenzied exertion ; and the whole anatomical knowledge of the
artist is displayed in the endless contortions into which tho
human frame is thrown. In David's celebrated picture of the
Three Horatii, this peculiarity appears in the most striking light.
Tho works of this artist may excite admiration, but it is the
limited and artificial admiration of the schools ; of those who
have forgot the end of tho art in tho acquisition of the tecbnical
knowledge with which it is accompanied, or the display of the
technical powers which its execution involves.

The paintings of Vemet in this collection are peidiaps the
finest specimens of that beautiful master, and they entitle him to
a higher place in the estimation of mankind than he seems yet

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SCHOOLS OP PAINTING; OB, THE LOUVRE IN 1814.

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to have obtained from the generality of observers. There is a
delicacy of coloring, a unity of design, and a harmony of ex-
pression in his works which accord well with the simplicitv of I
the subjects which his taste has selected, and the general effect
which it was his object to produce. In the representation of j
the sun dispelling the mists of a cloudy morning ; of his setting
rays gilding the waves of a western sea ; or of that undefined
beauty which moonlight throws over the objects of nature, the
works of this artist are perhaps unrivalled.

The paintings of Claude are by no means equal to what might
have been expected froih the celebrity which his name has ac-
quired, or the matchless beauty which the engravings from him
possess. They are but eleven in number, and cannot be in any
degree compared with these which are to be found in Mr. Anger-
stein's collection.

The Dutch and Flemish school, to which you next advance,
possesses merit, and is distinguished by a character of a very
different description. It was the well-known object of this school
to present an exact and faithful imitation of nature ; to exaggerate
none of its faults, and enhance none of its excellences, but exhibit
it as it really appears to the eye of an ordinary spectator. Its
artists selected, in general, some scene of humor or amusement,
in the discovery of which the most ignorant spectators might
discover other sources of pleasure from those which the merit of
the art itself aflforded. They did not pretend to aim at the
exhibition of passion or powerful emotion — their paintings, there-
fore, are free from that painful display of theatrical effect which
characterizes the French school ; their object was not to repre-
sent those deep scenes of sorrow or suffering which accord with
.the profound feelings which it was the object of the Italian
school to awaken — they want, therefore, the dignity and gmndeur
which the works of the greater Italian painters possess. Their
merit consists in the faithful delineation of those ordinary scenes
and common occurrences which are familiar to the eye of the
most careless observer. The power of the painter, therefore,
could be displayed only in the minuteness of the finishing, or the
brilliancy of the effect .* and he endeavored by the powerful
contrast of light and shade, to give a higher character to his
works than the nature of their subjects could otherwise admit.
The pictr.res of Teiip''s, Ostade, and Gerard Dow possess thest
merits, and are distingi'ished by this character in the highest u> ~
gree ; but their qualities ai-e so well known as to render any ob-

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SCHOOLS OF PAINTING; OR, THE LOUVRE IN 18I4.

453

servations on tliera superfluous. There is a very great collection
here preserved of the works of Rembrandt, and their desigji and
effect bear, in general, a higher character than belongs to most of
the works of this celebrated master.

In one respect, the collection in the Louvre is altogether un-
rivalled, in the number and beauty of the Wouvermans which
are there to be met with ; nor is it possible, without having seen
it, to appreciate, with any degree of justice, the variety of desig^n,
the accuracy of drawing, or delicacy of finishing which dis-
tinguish his works from those of any other painter of a similar
description. His works for the most part are crowded with
figures ; his subjects are, in general, battle pieces, or spectacles of
military pomp, or the animated scenes which the chase presents ;
and he seems to have exhausted all the efforts of his genius in
the variety of incident and richness of execution which these
subjects are fitted to afford.

The pictures of Vandyke and Rubens belong to a much higher
school than that which rose out of the wealth and limited taste
of the Dutch people. There are sixty pictures of the latter of
these masters in the Louvre, and combined with the celebrated
gallery in the Luxembourg palace, they form the finest assemblage
of them which is to be met with in the world. The character of
his works differs essentially from both that of the Fr-ench and
the Dutch schools : he was employed not in painting cabinet
pictures for wealthy merchants, but in designing great altar
pieces for splendid churches, or commemorating the glory of
sovereigns in imperial galleries. The greatness of his genius
rendered him fit to attempt the representation of the most
complicated and difficult objects; but in the confidence of this
genius he seems to have lost sight of the genuine object of
composition in his art. He attempts what it is impossible for
painting to accomplish. He aims at telling a whole story by
the expression of a single picture ; and seems to pour forth the
profusion of his fancy by crowding his canvas with a multiplicity
of figures wt'ch serve no other purpose than that of showing the
endless power of creation which the author possessed.

It is in the Italian school, however, that the collection in the
Louvre is most unrivalled, and it is from its character that the
general tendency of the modern school of historical painting is
principally to be determined.

Tue general object of the Italian school appears to be fhe
( xprei ^ion of passion. The peculiar subjects which its painters

il'f

%ki

454.

SCHOOLS OP PAINTING; OR, THE LOUVRE IN 1814.

i" t

were called on to represent, the sufferings and death of oui
Saviour, tlie varied misfortunes to which His disciples were ex-
posed, or the multiplied persecutions which the early fathers of
the Church had to sustain, inevitajbly prescribed the object to
which their genius was to be directed, and the peculiar character
which their works were to assume. They have all, accordingly,
aimed at tlie expression of passion, and endeavored to excite
the pity or awaken the sympathy of the spectator ; though thu
particular species of passion which they have severally selected
has varied with the turn of mind which the artist possessed.

The works of Domenichino and of the Caraccis, of which there
are a very great number, incline, in general, to the representation
of what is dark and gloomy in character, or what is terrific and
appalling in suffering. The subjects which the first of these
masters has in general selected are the cells of monks, the energy
of martyrs, the death of saints, or the sufferings of the crucifixion ;
and the dark- blue coldness of his coloring, combined with the
depth of his shadows, accord well with the gloomy character
which his compositions possess. The Caraccis, amid the variety
of objects which their genius has embraced, have dwelt in general
upon the expression of sorrow, of that deep and profound sorrow
which the subjects of sacred history were so fitted to afford, and
which was so well adapted to that religious emotion which it Wiis
their object to excite.

Guido Reui, Carlo Maratti, and Murillo are distinguished by
a gentler character ; by the expression of tenderness and sweet-
ness of disposition; and the subjects which they have chosen
are, for the most part, those which were fitted for the display of
this predominant expression — the Holy Family, the Flight into
Egypt, the Youth of St. John, the Penitence of the Magdalene.
Their coloring is seldom brilliant, there is a subdued tone per-
vading the greater part of their pictures ; and they have limited
themselves, in general, to the delineation of a single figure or a
small group in which a single character of mind is prevalent.

There are only six paintings by Salvator Rosa in this collec-
tion, but they bear that mild and original character which is
proverbially known to belong to the works of this great artist.
One of his pieces is particularly striking, a skirmish of hoi-se,
accompanied by all the scenery in which he so particularly de-
lighted. In the foreground are the ruins of an old temple, with
its lofty pillars finely displayed in shadow above the summits ot
the horizon ; in the middle distance the battle is dimly dis-

i.ni'ii ■

SCHOOLS OF PAINTING; OK, THE LOUVKE IN 1814.

455

ceriit'd through the driving i-ain, which obscures the view ; while
the background is closed by a vast, ridge of gloomy rocks, rising
into a dark and tempestuous sky. The character of the whole
is that of sullen magnificence; and it affords a striking in-
stance of the power of great genius to mould the most varied
objects in nature into the expression of one uniform poetical
feeling.

Very different is the expression which belongs to the softer
pictures of Correggio — of that great master whose name is
associated in every one's mind with all that is gentle or delicate
in the imitation of nature. Perhaps it was from the force of this
impression that his works seldom completely come up to the
expectations which are formed of them. Their general character
is that of tenderness and delicacy : there is a softness in his
shading of the human form which is quite unrivalled, and a
harmony in the general tone of his coloring which is in perfect
unison with the characteristic expression which it was bis object
to produce.

There is but one pictrire by Carlo Dolci in the Louvre ; but it
alone is sufficient to mark the exquisite genius which its author
possessed. It is of small dimensions, and represents the Holy
Family, with the Saviour asleep. The finest character of design
is here combined with the utmost delicacy of execution ; the
softness of the shadows exceeds that of Correggio himself; and
the dark-blue coloring which prevails over the whole is in per-
fect unison with the expression of that rest and quiet which the
subject requires.

Without the softness of shading or the harmony of color
which Correggio possessed, the works of Raphael possess a higher
character, and aim at the expression of a sublimer feeling than
those of any other artist whom modern Europe has produced.
Like all his brethren, he has often been misled from the real
object pf his art, and tried, in the energy of passion, or the con-
fused expression of various figures, to multiply the effect which
his composition might produce. It is in his smaller pieces that
the genuine character of Raphael's paintings is to be seen — in
the figure of St. Michael subduing the demon ; in the beautiful
tenderness of the Virgin and Child ; in the unbroken harmony
of the Holy Family; in the wildncss and piety of the infant
St. John ; — scenes in whioh all the objects of the picture com-
bine for th(i preservation of one uniform character, and where
the native fineness of his mind appears undisturbed by the dis-

456

THE ART OF ENGRAVING.

.'M

play of temporary passion, or the painful distraction of varied
Buffering.

There are no pictures of the English school in the Louvre, for
the arms of France never prevailed in our island. From the
splendid character, however, which it early assumed under the
distinguished guidance of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and from the
high and philosophical principles which he at first laid down for
the government of the art, there is every reason to believe that
it ultimately will rival the celebrity of foreign genius. And it
is in this view that the continuance of the gallery of the Louvre,
in its present situation, is principally to be wished by the Eng-
lish nation — that the English artists may possess so near their
own country so great a school for composition and design ; that
the imperfections of foreign schools may enlighten the views of
English genius ; and that the conquests of the French arms,
by transferring the remains of ancient taste to these northern
shores, may throw over its rising art that splendor which has
hitherto been confined to the regions of the sun. — Alison.

! ' U

in I't''

■4^

THE ART OF ENGRAVING.

The art of engraving is of extreme antiquity. If it cannot with
any certainty be traced to antediluvian times, in the case of
Tubal Cain, the son of Lamech, who is spoken of as " an artificer
in brass and irdn," yet there are distinct traces of it in the
patriarchal age, for carved images were found in the family of
Abraham, and these, if we may judge by analogy with the most
ancient remains of carving extant, were merely rude outlines on
a flat surface, and therefore bore a strong resemblance to en-
graving. During the sojourn of the Israelites in Egypt, they
probably exercised this art after the Egyptian manner, which
consisted of hieroglyphical figures cut in outline on metal and
stone. But during their wanderings in the desert, two men,
Bezaleel and Aholiab, were specially set apart to " devise curious
works in gold, silver, and brass, and in the cutting of stones to
set them, and in carving the wood," for the service of the taber-
nacle ; and of them it is declared that God " filled them with
wisdom of heart, to work all manner of work of the engraver,
(Exod. XXXV. 35.)

The rude methods of Egypt are supposed to have been adopted
by the Phoenicians, and thus to have been conveyed to Greece,

THE AR1 OF ENGRAVING.

457

,; i

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where, in Homer's time, the art of engraving had considerably
advanced. One of its earliest uses in that civilized nation was
in the delineation of maps on metal p) ites. Specimens of the
art as practised in Etruria are though to be of a very remote
antiquity, and are quite capable of being printed from, as has
been proved by actual experiment. But the idea of filling in
these rude outlines with ink, and taking impressions from them,
was reserved to later times. Thus the ancients just missed a
discovery which now forms the principal element of onr progress.
This is the more remarkable when we remember that they knew
how to take impressions of seals and stamps, in wax, clay, and
other soft bodies, and that they seem to have had stamps with
separate letters engraved upon them.

The art of en, p-aving comprises three great divisions, for which
appropriate technical terms have been found by referring to the
Greek language. Copperplate engraving is named Chalcography,
from the Greek words signifying copper and I itiscribe ; wood-
engraving Xylography, from wood and / inscribe ; engraving on
stone Lithography, from a stone and I inscribe. ^

The first of these, or the art of engi-aving on copper, and
taking impressions from the engraved plates, is ascribed to a
native of Florence, named Finiguerra, who flourished in the fif-
teenth century. He was a skilful workman in a species of handi-
craft then largely practised, namely, the engraving of church
ornaments and other articles, and filling the engraved parts with
a black composition of silver and lead. This was called working
in mello, and had a good etTect, as may be seen by remaining
specimens.

It is said that Finiguerra having on one occasion cast gome
melted sulphur on his engraving to try its eflfect previously to
putting on the black composition, observed, on removing the sul-
phur, that some dust and charcoal which had gathered in the
hollows gave an impression of what he had engraven. On this
he tried the effect of moistened paper, pressed down ou the en-
graving with a roller, and met with a complete success. Other
goldsmiths and engravers followed in the steps of Finiguerra
and this important discovery soon became widely diffused.
Throughout the sixteenth century improvements in this art were
numerous in Italy, and the skill of Marc Antonio Raimondi, and
the students of liis school, raised the fame of the Italian engravers
to a high pitch.

Meanwhile Germany was making rapid progress in the same

458

POWER OK MUSIC.

If*

art, first practised in that country by Martin Scliongauor, and
carried to eminence by Albert Diirer and his followers. 'J'hu
artists of the Flemish and Dutch schools, together with ihe
skilful engravers of France, also contributed to spread thruuj^li-
out Europe the triumphs of this interesting branch of know-
ledge.

The art of engraving was early known in England. Printing
was discoverf>d during the first half of the fifteenth century, juid
engraving quickly followed, as is proved by Caxton's " (Jolilrn
Legend," printed in 1483, and ornamented with numerous cuts.
Copperplate engravings appeared in Vesalius's " Anatomy,"
printed in England, in Latin, in 1545. These were the work of
Thomas Geminus or Geminie, the first English engraver of whom
we have a distinct account. A translation of the work by Ud.'ill,
dedicated to Edward VI., contained, in the preface, the followin<,'
passage : — " Accepte, jentill reader, this Tractise of Anatomie,
thankfully interpreting the labors of Thomas Gemini the work-
man. He that, with his great charge, watch, and travayle, hath
set out th^e figures in portraiture, will most willingly be amended
or better perfected of his own workmanship, if admonished." Tho
first maps of English counties were engraved by Christopher
Saxton in 1579.

In the reign of Charles I. an engraver-royal (Voerst, a native
of Holland) was appointed, and the art received much encourage-
ment from the king and the Earl of Arundel. The celebrated
Vandyke assisted its progress by his vigorous and expressive
etchings. Various improvements were made, Prince Rupert dis-
covered mezzo Unto, and for a brief period engraving flourished
greatly ; but the bad taste and dissolute manners of the succeed-
ing reign checked its progress, and had the worst effect on the
art. Its subsequent revival and brilliant success in the hands of
Hogarth and his contemporaries, and its high eminence at the
present day, present too extensive a field to be traversed here.

— Hinckley.

POWER OF MUSIC.

The effect of music in raising the energies of the mind, or what
we commonly call animal spirits, was obvious to early observa-
tion. Its power of attracting strong attention may in some
cases have appeared to eff'ect even those ^/ho labored under a

POWER OF MUSIC.

4r>0

considerable degree of mental disorder. Homer, whose heroes
exhibit high passions but not refined manners, represents the
Grecian army as employing music to stay the raging of the
plague. The Jewish nation, in the time of King David, ;ippears
not to have been much further advanced in civilization ; accoixi-
ingly, we find David employed in his youth to remove tlie mental
derangement of Saul by his harp. This method of cure was sug-
gested as a common one in those days, by Saul's servants ; and
the success is not mentioned as a miracle. Pindar, with poetic
licence, speaks of -^sculapius healing acute disorders with sooth-
ing songs ; but ^sculapius, whether man or deity, or between
both, is a physician of the days of barbarism and fable. Pliny
scouts the idea that music should aiiect real bodily injury, but
quotes Homer on the subject; mentions Theophrastus as sug-
gesting a tune for the cure of the hip gout, and Plato as enter-
taining a fancy that it had a good effect when limbs were out of
joint, and likewise that Varro thought it good for the gout.
The ancients, indeed, record miracles in the tales they relate of
the medicinal powers of music. A fever is removed by a song,
end deafness is cured by a trumpet, and the pestilence is chased
away by the sweetness of a harmonious lyre. That deaf people
can hear best in a great noise, is a fact alleged by some moderns,
in favor of the ancient story of curing deafness by a trumpet.
" Dr. Wills tells us," says Dr. Bumey, " of a lady who could hear
only while a drum was beating, inasmuch that her husband, the
account says, hired a drummer as her servant, in order to enjoy
the pleasure of her conversation."

Jackson of Exeter, in reply to the question of Dryden, " What
passion cannot music raise or quell?" sarcastically returns,
" What passion can music raise or quell ? " Would not a savage
who had never listened to a musical instrument, feel certain
emotions at listening to one for the first time ? But civilized
man is, no doubt, particularly affected by association of ideas, :is
all pieces of national music evidently prove.

The Ranz des Vaches, mentioned by Rousseau in his " Diction-
ary of music," though without anything striking in the comrud-
tion, has such a powerful influence over the Swiss, and impresses
them with so violent a desire to return to their own country,
ths.t it is forbidden to be played in the Swiss regiments in the
Fr(3nch service, on pain of death. There is also a Scotch tune,
which has the same effect on some of our North Britons. In one
of onr battles in Calabria, a bagpiper of the 78th Highland Regi-

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460

MUSIC BT MOONLIOHT.

meat, when the light infantry charged the French, posted him-
self on the right, and remained in his solitary situation during
the whole of the battle, encouraging the men ivith a famous
Highland charging tune ; and upon the retreat and complete
rout of the French changed it to another, equally celebrated in
Scotland, upon the retreat of, and victory over, an enemy. His
next-hand neighbor guarded him so well that he escaped un-
hurt. This was the spirit of the " Last Minstrel," who infused
courage among his countrymen by possessing it in so animated
a degree and in so venerable a character.

— Isaac Disraeli.

MUSIC BY MOONLIGHT.
(From the " Merchant of Venice.")

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank !

Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music

Creep in our ears ; soft stillness and the night

Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica : look how the floor of heaven

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ;

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st,

But in his motion like an angel sings.

Still uuiring to the young-eyed cherubias ;

Such harmony is in immortal souls ;

But whilst this muddy vesture of decay

Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it..

Gome, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn;

Wiiih sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear,

And draw her home with music.

You are never merry, wheu you hear sweet music.

The reason is, your spirits are attentive :

For do but note a wild and wanton herd,

Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,

Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing- loud,

Which is the hot condition of their blood ;

If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound.

Or any air of music touch their ears,

You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,

Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze.

By the sweet power of music : therefore the poet

Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods ;

Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage.

But music for the time doth change his nature.

The man that hath no music in himself,

THE ART OF PRINTING.

461

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds.
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as £rebus :
Let no such man be trusted.— Mark the music.

— Shakespeare.

VWTOK EXAMINING HIS FIRST PBOOF-bilEbT.

THE ART OF PRINTING.

There is some probability that this art originated in China,
where it was practised long before it was known in Europe.
Some European traveller might have imported the hint. That
the Romans did not practise the art of printing cannot but excite
our astonishment, since thcj actually used it, unconscious of thair
rich possession. I have seen Roman stereotypes, or immovable
printing types, with which they stamped their pottery. H.ow,
in daily practising the art, though confined to this object, it did
not occur to so ingenious a people to print their literary works,
is not easily to be accountod for.

The first printing press in Europe soenin to have b«en that set

1'.

462

THR ART or PRINTING.

up by Gutenberg in Mentz or Strasburg, it is doubtful which.
About the year 1450, Laurence Costar of Haarlem, who Hvcd
about the same time, is sometimes looked upon as the instructor
of Gutenberg, in the art of printing. The tradition of the devil
and Dr. Faustus was said to have been derived from the odd cir-
cumstances under which the Bibles of Gutenberg's partner,
Fust, appeared to the world. When Fust had printed ofl' a con-
siderable number of copies of the Bible to imitate those which
were commonly sold as manuscript, he undertook the sale of
them at Paris. It w^as his interest to conceal the discovery, and
to pass off his printed copies for manuscripts. But, enabled to
sell his Bibles at sixty crowns, while the other scribes demanded
five hundred, this raised universal ar.tonishment, and still more
when he produced copies as fast as they were wanted, and
even lowered his price. The uniformity of the copies increased
the wonder. Informations were given in to the magistrates
against him as a mngician ; and in searching his lodgings a gn at
number of copies were found. The red ink — and Fust's red ink
was peculiarly brilliant — which embellished his copies was said
to be his blood ; and it was solemnly adjudged that he was in
league with the infernals. Fust, at length, was obliged, to save
himself from a bonfire, to reveal his art to the Parliament of
Paris, who discharged him from all prosecu!ion in consideration
of the wonderful invention.

When first the art of printing was discovered, they only made
use of one side of a leaf ; they had not yet found out the expe-
dient of impressing the other. Afterwards they thought of past-
ing the blank sides, which made them appear like one leaf.
Their blocks were made of soft woods, and their letters were
carved ; but, frequently breaking, the expense and trouble of
carving and gluing new letters suggested our movable types,
which have produced an almost miraculous celerity in this art.
The modern stereotype, consisting of entire pages in solid blocks
of metal, and not being liable to break like the soft wood at
first usGd, has been profitably employed for works which require
to be frequently reprinted.

When their editions were intended to be curious, they omitted
to print the initial letter of a chapter ; they left that blank space
to be painted or illuminated, to the fancy of the purchaser.
Several ancient volumes of these early times" have been found
where these letters are wanting, as thoy neglected to have them
painted. The initial cawed letter, which is generally a fin«;

THE NOBLE REVENGE.

463

woodcut, among onr printed books, is evidently a remains or
imitation of these ornaments.

The invention of what is now called the Italic letter in print-
ing was made by Aldus Manutius, an Italian publisher in the
first part of the sixteenth century. He observed the many in-
conveniences resulting from the vast number of abbreviations
which wore then so frequent ^ mong the printers, that a book
was difficult to understand ; a ti-eatise was actually written on
the art of reading a printed book, and this addressed to the
learned ! He contrived an expedient, by which these abbrevia-
tions might be entirely got rid of, and yet books suffer little
increase in bulk. This he effected by introducing what is now
called the Halic letter, though it formerly was distinguished by
the name of the inventor, and called the Aldine.

Caxton and his successor, Wynken de Worde, wo:e our own
earliest printers. Caxton was a wealthy merchant, who, in 1464,
being sent by Edward IV. to negotiate a commerdal treaty with
the Duke of Burgundy, returned to his country with this invalu-
able art. The first works which issued from his press were " The
Game of Chess," and the " Poems of Characer."

— Adapted from DiSTiAEU.

THE NOBLE REVENGE.

A YOUNG OFFICER (in what army, no matter) had so far forgotten
himself, in a moment of irritation, as to strike a private soldier,
full of personal dignity, (as sometimes happens in all ranks,) and
distinguished for his courage. The inexorable laws of military
discipline forbade to the injured soldier any practical redress —
he could look for no retaliation by acts. Words only were at his
command ; and in a tumult of indignation, as he turned away,
the soldier said to his officer that he would " make him repent
it." This, wearing the shape of a menace, naturally rekindled the
officer's anger, and intercepted any disposition which might bo
rising within him towards a sentiment of remorse ; and thus the
irritation between the two young men grew hotter than before.
Some weeks after this a partial action took place with the enemy.
Suppose yourself a spectator, and looking down into a valley
occupied by the two armies. They are facing each other, you see,
in martial array. But it is no more than a skirmish which is
going on : in the course of which, however, an occasion suddenly
arises for a despei*ate service. A redoubt, which has fallen into

404

TBE NOBLE REVENGE.

the enemy's hands, must be recaptured at any price, and under
circumstances of almost hopeless difficulty. A strong party hfu}
volunteered for the service ; there is a cry for somebody to head
them ; you see a sold^'er step out from the ranks to assume this
dangerous leadership ; the party moves rapidly forward ; in a
few minutes it is swallowed up from your eyes in clouds of
smoke ; for one half-hour, from behind these clouds, you receive
hieroglyphic reports of bloody strife — fierce repeating signals,
flashes from the guns, rolling musketry, and exulting hurrahs
advancing or receding, slackening or redoubling.

At length all is over ; the redoubt has been recovered ; that
which was lost is found again ; the jewel which had been made
captive is ransomed with blood. Crimsoned with glorious gore,
the wreck of the conquering pai-ty is relieved and at liberty to
return.

Prom the river you see it ascending. The plume-crested
officer in command rushes forward, with his left hand raising his
hat in homage to the blackened fragments of what once was a
flag, whilst, with his right hand, he seizes that of the leader,
though no more than a private from the ranks. That perplexes
you not ; mystery you see none in that. For distinctions of order
perish, ranks are confounded, "high and low" are words without
a meaning, and to wreck goes every notion or feeling that divides
the noble from the noble, or the brave man from the brave.
But wherefore is it that now, when suddenly they wheel into mutual
recognition, suddenly they pause ? This soldier, this officer —
who are they ? O reader ! once before they had stood face to
face — the soldier it is that was struck ; the officer it is that struck
him. Once again they are meeting, and the gaze of armies is
upon them. If for a moment a doubt divides them, in a moment
the doubt has perished. One glance exchanged between them
publishes the forgiveness that is sealed tor ever. As one who
recovers a brother whom he had accounted dead, the officer sprang
forward, threw his arms around the neck of the soldier, and kissed
him, as if ho were some martyr glorified by that shadow of death
from which he was returning : whilst on his part, the soldier-
stepping back, andrcarrying his open hand through the beautiful
motions of the military salute to a superior, makes this immortal
answer — that answer which shut up for ever the memory of the
indignity offered to him, even for the last time alluding to it :
" Sir," he said, " I told you before that I would make you re-
pent it." , -De Quincey.

MT OWN PLACE.

465

MY OWN PLACE.

Whoever I am, wherever my lot,

Whatever I happen to be",
Contentment and Duty shall hallow the spot

That Providence orders lor me :
No covetous straining and striving to gain

One feverish step in advance, —
I know my own place, and you tempt me in vain

To hazard a change and a chance.

I care for no riches that are not my right,

No honour that is not my due ;
But stand in my station, by day and by night,

The will of my Master to do ;
He lent me my lot, be it humble or high,

And set me my business here,
And whether I live in His service, or die.

My heart shall be found in my sphere.

If wealthy, I stand as the steward of ray King,

If poor, as the friend of my Lord,
If feeble, my prayers and my praises I bring,

If stalwart, my pen or my sword ;
If wisdom be mine, I will cherish His gift.

If simpleness, bask in His love,
If sorrow, His hope shall my spirit uplift,

If joy, I will throne it above !

The good that it pleases ray God to bestow,

I gratefully gather and prize :
The evil, — it can be no evil, I know,

But only a good in disguise ;
And whether my station l)e lowly or great.

No duty can ever be mean.
The factory-cripple is fix'd in his fate

As well as a king or a queen !

For Duty's bright livery glorifies all

With brotherhood, equal and free,
Ob<mng, as children, the heavenly call,

That places us where we should be ;
A servant, — tbe badge of my servitude shines

As a jewel invested by Heaven ;
A monarch, remember that justice assigns

Much service, where so much is given.

Away, then, with " helpings " that humble and harm,
Though " bettering tnps frcm your tongue;

2 G

466

ANCIENT AND MODERN FARMIIfO.

Away ! for your folly would scatter the charm

That round my proud poverty hung ;
I felt that I stood like a man at my post,

Though peril and hardship were tnere, —
And all that your wisdom would counsel me most

Is — " Leave it ; do better elsewhere."

If " better " were better indeed, and not " worse,"

I might go sbcfird with the rest,
But many a gain and a joy is a curse, *

And many a grief for the best :
No ! — duties are all the " advantage " I use :

I pine not for praise nor for pelf.
And as to ambition, I care not to choose

My better or worse for myself 1

I will not, I dare not, i cannot ! — I stand

Where God has ordain'd me to be.
An honest mechanic, — or lord in the land —

He fitted my calling for me :
Whatever my state, bo it weak, be it strong,

With honor, or sweat, on ray face.
This, this is my glory," my strength, and my song,

I stand, like a star, in my place. — Tupper.

ANCIENT AND MODERN FARMING.

In early times, when the population was scattered widely over
the land, and their wants were few and easily satisfied, the spon-
taneous products of the earth, scanty as they were, would amply
suflBce. But as the people increased in numbers, and civilization
progressed, attempts would be made to extend the products of
the land by the efforts of industry and skill. The cereal crops
would then be cultivated, and farinaceous food used to supple-
ment the spontaneous herbage of the soil. But the system of
culture this discovery inaugurated was confined solely to the
preparing of the land to receive the seed, not to any attempts to
stimulate its productiveness What the land naturally yielded
would be considered as the extent of its capability. The nature
of all agricultural processes for ages was simple in the extreme,
progress being retarded by the devastating wars and civil dis-
cords which for many ages afflicted all the nations of Europe.
The husbandman reaped his tiny crop beneath the shade of the
feudal castle, and was ready at the shout of the warder, or the
iTumpet call, to throw down the sickle and seize the sword ; and

ANOIENT AND MODERN FARMING.

467

it was long ore he left this sheltering shade, and cultivated the
vuUeyH, and crept up the liill-side ; dotting the smiling land-
scape with his flocks ot sheep and cattle, and adding to the
beauty of the scene by the glistening glories of the summer com.
But long after intestine wars had ceased, when the rusty firelock
or the notched sabre wore the only relics of the troublous times
we have alluded to, agriculture still presented the same torpid
symptoms, and little evidence was shown of the desire to in-
crease the natural productiveness of the soil by improved methods
of treatment. It was very early discovered that the cereal crops
were exhaustive ones — that is, if crop after crop of the same
grain was raised from the same patch of soil, it was observed
soon to be incapable of further production, at least to any
amount. This proved that the crop withdrew certain properties
of the soil. In districts where land was plentiful and easily
obtained, this difficulty would be got rid of by cultivating new

{)atches of soil, just in the same way now followed by the care-
ess farmer in America, who crops until he exhausts his land,
when he moves ofi' to another "location," where virgin land,
abounding in all the elements of fertility, is to be had, which in
its turn undergoes the same process of exhaustion. In process
of time, the lands which were discarded as exhausted and incap-
able of producing crops would be returned to, or taken into
cultivation by other hands, the result being that crops would be
raided as before. This necessarily attracting attention, and the
fact becoming registered, that exhausted land would again be-
come productive if allowed to remain uncultivated — that is, at
iest — for a certain period, the " fallow" system was inaugu-
rated. The old Roman system consisted in raising a crop of
grain one year, allowing the land to remain at rest the next. In
this country * a variety of circumstances tended to introduce a
peculiar system of agriculture: the exigencies of a population
concentrated in a much greater degree than in any other of the
European states ; the length of the winter, and the uncertainty
even of the favorable months; the comparative scarcity and
dearness of land, and the existence of a higher degree of ex-
haustive propeHy in the cereals than in the southern countries ;
the natural richness of the herbage of the fields — all^ induced a
comparatively peculiar system. As daily experience registered
facts, the truth would soon become apparent that it was not
necessary to wait for the land becoming again productive by
* Britaiu ; but applicable to Brit.isli America in many particulars.

468

ANCIENT AND MODERN FARMINa.

al1owin|yf it to lie a comparatively long period idle; that the
fertilizing properties could be restored to it by the addition of
xnanare, this being obtained from the stock of the furm— the
cattle, sheep, horses, cows, &o. The increase, therefore, of tiio
cereal prodactiveness of the land evidently depended upon the
amount of manure placed at the disposal of the farmer ; hence
the efforts to increase the number of stock kept. At first the
system was much aided by the spontaneous growth of largo
crops of grass — one of the peculiarities of our climate. The
plan adopted, therefore, was to have half the farm devoted to
pasture lands, and half to the cultivation of cereals, a portion of
this latter half being kept in fallow. But the exigencies of our
climate placed a limit to the number of cattle kept, and, in con-
sequence, the amount of manure produced. For a large portion
of the year the herbage id liable to be frozen or covered with
snow ; the animals are, in consequence, unable to partake of it.
It became necessary, therefore, if the stock was to be increased
on our farms, to provide a supply of food by which to maintain
the animals during tho severe weather of winter, these being
housed, instead of starving in the of>en fields, as in the old
Bvstem. The want being thus felt, it was in time supplied by
tno introduction of what are known as the green crops — artificial
grasses, and roots, as tnrnips, ezckisively raised for the mainten-
ance of the stock. As this system was adopted, tho breadth of
land under fallow, and latterly that under the cereal crops, was
diminished. In process of time the grand principle which com-
pletely revolu^ >nized agriculture was introduced ; we refer to
the " Kotation of Crops," or the "Four Year Course System."
This was founded upon tho theory that forage plants derive tho
principal elements of their growth from the atmosphere, giving
to tho soil more than they take from it, and afford in addition a
large amount of manure when consumed by stock ; thus they
contribute in two ways to the refertilization of the soil exhausted
by the cereal crops, which derived their nutriment, to a great
extent, from the inorganic or mineral constituents of the soil.
This system once fairly established, all the other improvements
of modem agriculture, such as drainage, subsoiling, irrigation,
and steam cultivation, followed in comparatively quick succes-
sion. — Burn's Outline of Modern Fanning.

WHAT IS NOBLE f

468

:hat thn
lition of
rm— the
I, of the
pon the
; hence
Srat the
[)f largo
e. The
roted to
jrtion of
s of our
, in eon-
portion
ed with
ke of it.
acreased
naintain
ie being
the old
plied by
artificial
naiuten-
eadth of
ops, was
ch corn-
refer to
lystem."
(rive the

»» Riving
dition a

as they
:haasted

a great
the soil,
vements
rigation,

sQCces
ining.

WHAT IS NOBLE ?

What is noble?— to inherit

Wealth, estate, and proud degree P-*
There must be some other merit

Higher yet than these for me ! —
Something greater far must enter

Tnto life's majestic span,
Fitted CO create and centre

True nobility in man.

What is noble P— 'tis the finer

Portion of our mind and heart,
Link*d to something still diviner

Than mere language can impart :
Ever prompting— ever seeing

Some improvement yet to plan ;
To uplift our fellow-bemff.

And, like man, to feel for man I

What is noble P— is the sabre

Nobler than the humble spade P—
There's a dignity in labor

Truer than e'er Pomp array'd !
He who seeks the mind's improveraenb

Aids the world, in aiding mind !
Every great commanding movement

Serves not one, but all mankind.

O'er the forge's heat and ashes, —

O'er the engine's iron head, —
Where the rapid shuttle flashes,

And the spmdle whirls its thread :
There is labor, lowly tending

Each I equirement of the hour, —
There is genius, still extending

Science, and its world of power !

'Mid the dust, and speed, and clamor,

Of the loom-shed and the mill ;
'Midst the clank of steam and hammer,

Great results are growing still !
Though too ofb by fashion's creatures,

Work and workers may be blamed,
Commerce need not hide its features, — '

Industry is not ashamed !

What is noble?— that which places
Truth in its enfranchised will,

470

INDUSTRY RSSKNTIALLY SOCIAL.

Leaving stops — like angel tracos,
That manlcind may follow still !

E'en though scorn's malignant glances
Prove him pooreBt of his clan,

Ho 's the noble — who advances
Freedom and the causcof man !

— Swain

INDUSTRT ESSENTIALLY SOCIAL.

In consequence of the union of two principles in the human
frame, every act that a man performs requires the agency botli
of body and mind. His mind cannot see but through the optic
eye-glass ; nor hear, till the drum of his ear is affected by tho
vibrations of the air. If he would speak, he puts in action tho
complex machinery of the vocal organs ; if he writes, he em-
ploys the muscular system of the hands ; nor can he even per-
form the operations of pure thought except in a healthy state of
tho body. A fit of the toothache, proceeding from the irritation
of a nerve about as big as a cambric thread, 's enough to drive
an nndtft*standing, capable of instructing the world, to the
verge of insanity. On the other hand, thero is no opera^^on of
manual ln.bor so simple, so mechanical, which does not jquiix)
the exercise of perception, reflection, memory, and judgment;
the same intellectual powers by which the highest truths of
science have been discovered and illustrated.

The degree to which any particular action (or series of actions
united into a pursuit) shall exorcise the intellectual powers ou
the one hand, or the mechanical powers on the other, of course
depends on the nature of that action. The slave, whose life,
from childhood to the grave, is passed in the field ; the New
Zealander, who goes to war when he is hungry, devours his
prisoners, and leads a life of cannibal debauch, till he has con-
sumed them all, and then goes to war again ; the Greenlander,
who -warms himself with the fragments of wrecks and driftwood
thrown upon the glaciers, and feeds himself with blubber ; — seem
all to lead lives requiring but little intellectual action : and yet,
as I have remarked, a careful reflection would show that there is
not one, even of them, who does not, eveiy moment of his life,
call into exercise, though in a humble degree, all the powers of
the mind. In like manner, tho philosopher who shuts himself
up in his cell, and leads a contemplative existence among books
or instruments of science, seems to have no occasion to cmpk}y

INDUSTRY ESSENTIALLY SOCIAL.

471

in their ordinary exercise, many of the capacities of hin nature
far physical action ; — although he also, as I have obiierve !,
cannot act, or even think, but with the aid of his body.

This is unqaestionabiy true. The same Creator who made man
a mixed being, composed of body and soul, having designed him
for such a world as that in which we Hve, has so constituted the
world, and man who inhabits it, as to afford scope for gnat
variety of occupations, pursuits, and conditions, {^rising from the
tastes, characters, habits, virtues, and even vices, of men and com-
munities. For the same reason, that though all men are alike
composed of body and soul, yet no two men probably are exactly
the same in respect to either — 8o provision has been made by
the Author of our being for an infinity of pursuits and employ-
ments, calling out, in degrees as various, the peculiar powers of
both principles.

Bat I have already endeavored to show that there is no pur-
suit and no action that does not require the united operation of
both ; and this of itself is a broad natural foundation for the
union into one interest of all, in the same community, who are
employed in honest work of any kind — viz., that, however
various their occupations, they are all working with the same
instruments, the organs of the body and the powers of the
mind.

But we may go a step further, to remark the beautiful process
by which Providence has so interlaced and wrought up together
the pursuits, interests, and . ants of our nature, that the philo-
sopher, whose home seems less on earth than among the stars,
requires, for the prosecution of his studies, the aid of numerous
artificers in various branches of mechanical industry, and in re-
turn furnishes the most important facilities to the humblest
branches of manual labor. Let us take, as a single iiistance,
that of astronomical science. It may be safely said that the
wonderful discoveries of modem astronomy, and the philosophical
system depending upon them, could not have existed but for the
telescope. The want of the telescope kept astronomical science
in its infancy among the ancients. Although Pythagoras, one of
the earliest Greek philosophers, by a fortunate exercise of sagacity,
conceived the elements of the Copernican system, yet we find no
general and practical improvement * resulting from it. Tt was
only from the period of the discoveries made by the telescope
that the science advanced with sure and I'apid progress. Now,
the astronomer does not make telescopes. I presume it would

472

INDUSTRY ESSENTIALLY SOCIAL.

be impossible for a person who is employed in the abstract stndy
of astronomical science to find time enough to comprehend its
profound investigations, and to learn and practise the trade of
making glass. It is mentioned as a remarkable yersatility of
talent in one or two eminent observers, that they have super-
intended the cutting and polishing of the glasses of their own
telescopes. But 1 presume, if there never had been a telescope
till some scientific astronomer had learned to mix, melt, and
mould glass, such a thing would never have been heard of. It
is not less true that those employed in making the glass could
not, in the nature of things, be expected to acquire the scientific
knowledge requisite for carrying on those arduous calculations
applied to bring into a system the discoveries made by the
magnirying power of the telescope. I might extend the same
remark to thj other materials of which a telescope consists. It
cannot be used to any purpose of nice observation without being
very carefully mounted on a frame of strong metal, which demands
the united labors of the mathematical instrument maker and
the brassfounder. Here, then, in taking but one single step out of
the philosopher's observatory, we find he needs an instrument
to be produced by the united labors of the mathematical in-
strument maker, the brassfounder, the glass-polisher, and the
maker of glass, — four trades. He must also have an astronomical
clock, and it would be easy to count up half a dozen trades 7^'hich
directly or indirectly are connected in making a clock. But let us
go back to the object glass of the telescope. A glass factory
requires a building and farnaces. The man who makes the glass
does not make the building. But the stone a^d brick mason,
the carpenter, and the blacksmith must furnish the greater part
of the labor and skill required to construct the building. When
it is built, a large quantity of fuel, wood, and wood-coai, or
mineral coal of various kinds, or all together, must be provided ;
and then the materials of which the glass is made, and with
which it is colored, some of which are furnished by commerce
from different and distant regions, and must be brought in ships
across the sea. We cannot take up any one of these trades with-
out immediately finding that it connects itself with iiamerous
others. Take for instance, the mason, who builds the furnace.
He does not make his <5wn bricks, nor bum his own lime ; in
common cases the bricks come from one place, the lime from
another, the sand from another. The brickmaker does not cut
down his own wood. It is carted or brought in boats to hia

yard,
nor doc
The mi
blacksi
forgei
there v
mine,
with w
water,
princip
that wj
his cha
our gla
researc
might
run int
the sul
cesses
tion, a
civilize
Ifth
scope i
observj
culatio:
the ma
shipma
"Praci
this"'
of astn
a luna
tables
of Lai
I mi
science
and, p
extens
brand
the ch
forts (
for th(
that j
astroi

'>•

INDUSTRY ESSENTIALLY SOCIAL.

473

yard. The man who carts it does not make his own waggon ;
nor does the person who brings it in boats bnild his own boat.
The man who makes the waggon does not make the tire. The
blacksmith who makes the tire does not smelt the ore ; and the
forgeman who smelts the ore does not build his own fiimf<^e, (and
there we get back to the point where we started,) nor dig his own
mine. The man who digs the mine does not make the pickaxe
with which he digs it, nor the pump with which he keeps out the
water. The man who makes the pump did not discover the
principle of atmospheric pressure, which led to pump-making :
that was done by a mathematician at Florence, experimenting in
his chamber on a glass tube. And here we come back again to
our glass, and to an instance of the close connexion of scientific
research with practical art. It is plain that this enumeration
might be pursued till every art and evary science were shown to
run into every other. No man can doubt this who will go over
the subject in his own mind, »;eginning with any one of &e pro-
cesses of mining and working metals, of shipbuilding and naviga-
tion, and the other branches of art and industry pursued in
civilized communities.

If then, on the one hand, the astronomer depends for his tele-
scope on the ultimate product of so many arts, in return his
observations are the basis of an astronomical system, and of cal-
culations of the movements of the heavenly bodies, which furnish
the mariner with his best guide across the ocean. The prudent
shipmaster would no more think of sailing for India without his
"Practical Navigator," than he would without his compass; and
this " Navigator " contains it Jes drawn from the highest walks
of astronomical science. Every first mate of a vessel, who works
a lunar observation to ascertain the ship's longitude, employs
tables in which the most wonderful discoveries and calculations
of La Place, and Newton, and Bowditch are intr?rwoven.

I mention this as but one of the cases in which astronomical
science promotes the service and convenience of common life ;
and, perhaps, when we consider the degree to which the modem
extension of navigation connects itself with industry in all its
branches, this may be thought sufficient. I will only add, that
the cheap convenience of an almanac, which enters into the com-
forts of every fireside in the country, could not be enjoyed but
for the labors and studies of the profoundest philosophers. Not
that great learning or talent is now required to execute the
astronomical calculations of an almanac, although no inconsider-

474

INDUSTRY ESSENTIALLY SOCIAL.

able share of each is needed for this purpose : bat because even
to perform these calcalations requires the aid of tables which
have been gradually formed on the basis of the ^rofoundest in-
vestigations of the long line of philosophers who have devoted
themselves to this branch of science. For, as we observed on the
mechanical side of the illustration, it was not one trade alone
which was required to furnish the philosopher with his instru-
ment, but a great variety ; so, on the other hand, it is not the
philosopher in one department who creates a science out of
nothing. The observing astronomer furnishes materials to the
calculating astronomer, and the calculator derives methods from
the pure mathematician, and a long succession of each for ages
must unite their labors in a great result. Without the geometry
of the Greeks, and the algebra of the Arabs, the infinitesimal
analysis of Newton and Leibnitz would never have been in-
vented.

Examples and illustraticus equally instructive might be found
in every other branch of industry. The man who will go into a
cotton-mill, and contemplate it from t!ie great water- wheel that
gives the first movement, (and still more from the steam-engine,
should that be the moving-power,) who will observe the parts of
the machinery, and the various processes of the fabric, till he
reaches the hydraulic press with which it is made into a ball, and
the canal or railroad by which it is sent to market, may find
every branch of trade, and every department of science, literally
crossed, intertwined, intei'woven with every other, like the woof
and the warp of the article manufactured. Not a little of the
spinning machinery is constructed on principles drawn from the
demonstrations of transcendental mathematics ; and the processes
of bleaching and dyeing now practised are the results of the
most profound researches of modern chemistry. And if this
does not satisfy the inquirer, let him trace the cotton to the
plantation where it grew, in Georgia or Alabama ; the indigo to
Bengal ; the oil to the olive-gardens of Italy, or the fishing-
grounds of the Pacific Ocean ; let him consider the cotton-gin,
the carding machine, the power-loom, and the spinning apparatus,
and all the arts, trades, and sciences directly or indirectly con-
nected with these, and I believe he will soon agree that one
might start from a yard of coarse printed cotton, which costs ten
cents, and prove out of it, as out of a text, that every art and
science under heaven had been concerned in its fabric.

—Everett.

son-

one
ten

and

FROM " EDWARD 11." 475

"' FROM "EDWARD II."
Murd'^r of the King.
Berkeley Oastle. The King is left alone with Ligrtborn, a mu/rderer.

'Edw. Who's tbere P What light is that P wherefore comest thou P

Light. To comfort you, and bring you joyful news.

Emo. Small comfort finds poor Edward in thy looks.
Villain, I know thou comest to murder me.

Light. To murder you, my most gracious lord !
Far is it from my heart to do you harm.
The queen sent me to know how you were used, -
For she relents at this your misery: '

And what eyes can refrain from shedding cears.
To see a king in this most piteous state?

Edw. Weep'st thou already ? list a while to me,
And then thy heart, were it as Gurney's* is.
Or as Matrevis',* hewn from the Caucasus,

Yet will it melt ere I have done my tale. ' . ^

This dungeon where they keep me is a sink ".

Wherein the filth of all the castle falls. ' . "^ i

Light. O villains!

Eciw. And there, in mire and puddle have I stood
This ten days' space ; and lest that I should sleep,
One plays continually upon a drum.
They give mo bread and water, being a king ;
So that, for want of sleep and sustenance.
My mind's distemper'd, and my body's numb'd,
And whether I have limbs or no, I know nofc.
Oh, would my blood drop out from every vein.
As doth this water from my tatter'd robes!
Tell Isabel the queen I look'd not thus, ,,,

When for her sake I ran at tilt in France, " '

And there unhorsed the Duke of Cleremont. "

Light. Oh, speak no more, my lord! this breaks my heart.
Lie on this bed, and rest yourself a while. • ' >

Edw. These looks of thine can harbor naught but death ; » '.

I see my tragedy written in thy brows. (

Yet stay a while, forbear thy blood}/ hand, l

And lot me see the stroke before it comes, ' \

Thau even then when I shall lose my life, • -^

My mind may be more steadfast on my God.

Light. What means your highness to mistrust me thus ?

Edio. What mean'st thou to dissemble with me thus ?

Light. These hands were never stain'd with innocent blood,
Nor shall they now be tainted with a kirjg's. :

• * His keepers.

r:j:4.

; -t

l..r.i

4i76

FBOM "JULIUS CiESAB.

Edw. Forgive my thought, for having such a thought.
One jewel have I left, receive thou this.
Still fear I, and I know not what *b the cause,
But every joint shakes as I give it thee.
Oh, if thpu harbor'st murder in thv heart.
Let this gift change thy mind, and save thy soul. ^
Know that I am a kins ; oh, at that name
I feel a hell of grief. Where is my crown P
Gone, gone, and do I still remain alive P

Liqht. You 're overwatch'd, my lord ; lie down and rest.

Eau). But that grief keeps me waking, I should sleep ;
For not these ten days have these eyelids closed.
Now, as I speak they fall, and yet with fear
Open again. Oh, wherefore sitt'st thou here P

Light. If you mistrust me, I'll be gone, my lord.

Eaw. No, no, for if thou meanest to murder me,
Thou wilt return again ; and therefore stay.

Light. He sleeps.

Eaw. Oh, let me rAot die ; yet stay, oh, stay a while.

Light. How now, my lord P

Eato. Something still buzzeth in mine ears,
And tells me if I sleep I never wake ;
This fear is that which makes me tremble thus.
And therefore tell me, v/herefore art thou come P

Light. To rid thee of thy life ; Matrevis, come.

Eaw. I am too weak and feeble to resist :
Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul. — Marix)wb.

I toCa
I rose i
that
slave
me, ]
valift]
are t
deatl
If an
woul
ishei
have
Al
Br
than
theC
offen

FROM "JULIUS C^SAR."

Scene— r^e Forum.
Enter Brutus and Gassius, and a throng of Citizens.

Cit We will be satisfied ; let us be satisfied.

Bru. Then follow me, and give me audience, friends.
Gassius, go you into the other street.
And part the numbers.

Those that will hear me speak, let them stay here ;
Those that will follow Gassius, go with him ;
And public reasons shall be rendered

Of GsBsar's death. . '

Be patient till the last.

Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for mycause,and be silent,
that yon may hear : believe me for mine honor, and have respect to
mine honor, that you may believe : censure me in your wisdom, and
awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be anv in
this assembly, any dear friend of CsBsar's, to him I sAy, that Brutus' love

FROM "JULIUS CA8AR/'

477

to Cassar was no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus
rose against CaBsar, this is my answer — Not that 1 loved Cassar less, but
that I loved Rome more. oBLd you rather OasBar were living, and dieall
slaves, than that Caasar were dead, to live all freemen P As Caosar loved
me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it ; aa he was
valiant, I honored him : but as he was ambitious, I slew him. There
are tears for his love; joy for his foctune; honor for his valor; and
death for his ambition. Who is here so bq^e that would be a boQdnuin ?
If any, speak ; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude that
would not be a Roman P Ifany,sp^k; for him have I offended. Who
is here so vile that will not love his country P If any, speak ; for him
have I offended. I pause for a reply.

All. None, Brutus, none.

Bru. Then none have I offended. I have done no more to CsBsar
than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enioUed in
the Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his
offences enforced, for which he suffered death.

Enter Antony and others, with G;Esa&'s body.

Here comes his body.mourned by Mark Antony; who, though hehadno
hand in his death, shall repeive the benefit of nis d^ng, a place in the
commonwealth ^ as which of you shall not? With this I depart-4That,
as I slew my bes lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for
myself, when it ahall please my country to need my death.

let Oit. We*ll bring Jiim to his house with shouts and clamors.

Bru. Good countrymen, let me depart alone,
And, for my sake, stay here with Antonjjr:
Do grace to Caasar's corpse, and grace his speech ,
Tending to Oassar's glories ; which Mark Antony,
By our permission, is allow'd to make.
I do entreat you, not a man depart.
Save I alone, till Antony have spoke. [^Exit.

lei at. Stay, ho! and let us hear Mark Antony.

Ant. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears ;
I come to bury Caasar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them ;
The good is oft interr'd with their bones ;
So let it be with Caasar^ The noble Brutus
Hath told you Cassar was ambitious ;
If it were so, it was a grievous fault ;
And grievously hath CsBsar answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Brutus ancl the rest,
(For Brutus is an honorable man ;
So are they all, all honorable men,)
Come I to speak in Cassar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful ancTjust to me :
But Brutus says he was ambjlious:
And Brutus is an honorable man.

v"a

■J:

478

FROM ".1DLIUS CJ:SAK."

He hath brought many cag^ves home to Rome,

Whose raofioms did the g^Qfiral cofijers fill :

Did this in Caesar seem ambitious P

When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept :

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff!

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious :

And Brutus is an honorable man.

You all did see, that on the Lupercal

I thrice presented him a k ind ly crown,

Which he dTd thrice refuse* Was this ambition P

Yet Brutus says he was^ambitious :

And, sure, he is an honorable man.

I speak not to di§prove what Brutus spoke,

But here I am to speak what I do know.

You all did love him once — not without cause ;

What cause withholds you then to mourn for him ?

O judjgraent, thou art fled to brutish beasts.

And men have lost their reason. Bear with me ;

My heart is in the cq£Qn there with Caesar,

And I must pau^e till it come back to me.

lat Cit. Methinks there is much reason in his sayings.

2d Cit. Poor soul! his eyes are red as fire with weeping.

3d Cit. There 's not a nobler man in Home than Antony.^

4th Cit. Now mark him, ne begins again to speak.

Ant. But yesterday the word of Caesar might.
Have stood against the world : now lies he tbere,
And none so poor as do him re^;gfence.

masters, if I were dis^ipsed to stir
YourTiearts and minds to mjj[tiny and rage,

1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honorable men :

I will not do them wrong : I rather choose

To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, anu you.

Than I will wrong such honorable men.

But here *s a parchment, with the sgal of Caesar,

1 found it in his'closett 'tis his will :

Let but the commons hear this testament,

(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,)

And they would go and Hss dead Caesar's wounds.

And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ;

Yea, be^ a hair of him for memory,

And, dying, mention it within their wills,

Bequsa|)hing it as a rich legacy

Unto their issue. "^

4th Cit. We '11 hear the will. Read it, Mark Antony.

Ant. You will compel me then to read the will P
Then make a ring aJbout the corpse of Caesar,

FROM "JULIUS CiESAR."

479

And let me show you him that made the will.
Shall I descend P And will you give me leave P

Cit. Stand back! room! bear back!

Ant. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
Tou all do know this mantle : I remember
The first time ever Ceesar put it on ;
'Twas on a summer's eygi^nff, in his teiot,
That day he overcame theWervii ; —
Look! in this place ran Gassius' dagger through:
See! what a rent the en^us Casca made :
Through this Hie well-beloved Brutus stabb'd ;
And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of OsBsar foUow'd it.
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no ; \

'" <r Bmtns, as you know, was Caesar's angel ^
Judge, O ye gods, how dearly Cassar loved him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all :
For, when the noble Csssar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquish'4 him : then burst his mighty heart ;
And, in his mantle muffling up hid face.
Even at the base of Pompey's statue.
Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell.
Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen !
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
While bloody treason flourish'd over ns.
Oh! now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel
The dint of pity: these are gracious drops. '

Kind souls, what, weep you, when you but behold
Our Caesar's vesture wounded P Look you here.
Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, by traitors.

lat Cit. Oh piteous spectacle!

2d Cit. We will be revenged: revenge; about — seek — burn —
fire — kill — slav! — let not a traitor live.

Ant. Good friends, sweet friends, let mo not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny^
They that have done this deed are honorable :
What private griefs they have, alas! I know not.
That made them do it ; they are wise and honorable.
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer yon.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts ;
I am no orator, as Brutus is :

But, as ye know me all, a plain blunt man, ^

That loveck ray friend, and that they know full well
That gave me public leave to speak of him.
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,

480 TRIAL lOBNE FROM THB " MEROHAMT OF VEMIGK,

i»

Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,

To stir men's blood : I only speak right on :

I tell you that which you yourselves do know ;

Show you sweet OsBsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths,

And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus,

And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony

Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue

In every wound of Gaasar that should move

The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

— Shakespeare.

TRIAL SCENE FROM THE "MERCHANT OP VENICE."

Duke. Give me your hand. Come you from old Bellario P

Portia. I did, my lord.

Duke. You are welcome : take your place.

Are you acquainted with the difference
That holds this present question in the court ?

For. I am informed thoroughly of the cause.
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew P

Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.

For. Is thy name Shylock P . ,

Shylock. Shylock is my name.

For. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow ;
Tet in such rule that the Venetian law
Cannot impugn you as you do proceed.
You stand within his danger, do you not P "*

Antonio. Ay, so he says.

For. Do you confess the bond P

Ant. I do.

For. Then must the Jew be merciful.

81iy. On what compulsion must I P tell me that.

For. The quality or mercy is not strain'd ;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath ; it is twice bless'd ;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest. It becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown :
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty.
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings. •
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings ;
It is an attribute to God himself ; '
And earthly power doth then ali'Yw likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,

TRIAL SCENE FROM "THE MERCHANT OF VENICE."

481

Though Justine be thy plea, consider this —
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation : we do prav for mercy:
And that same prayer doth teacn us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To miti^te the justice of thy plea,
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs ffive sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

Shy. My deeds upon my nead I I crave the law,
The penalty and forfeit of my bond.

Por. Is he not able to discharp^e the money P

Bassanio. Yes, here " tender it for him in the court ;
Tea, twice the sum. If that will not suffice,
I will be bound to pay it ten tim^s o'er,
On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart.
If this will not suffice, it must appear
That malice bears down truth. And I beseech yon,
Wrest once the law to your authority:
To do a great right, do a little wrong,
And curb this cruel devil of his will.

Por. It must not be : there is no power in Venice
Can alter a decree establish'd ;
'Twill be recorded for a precedent,
And many an e^-ior, by the same example,
Will rush into the state : it cannot be.

Sky. A Daniel come to judgmei^! Yea, a Daniel!
O wise young judge, how I do honor thee!

Por. tpray yo\i, let me look upon the bond.

Shy. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is.

Por. Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee.

Shnf. An oath — an oath ; I have an oath in heaven.
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul P
No, not for Venice

For. Why, this bond is forfeit ;

And lawfully ?jy this the Jew may claim
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off
Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful ;
Take thrice thy monej , bid me tear the bond.

Shy. When it is paid according to the tenor.
It doth appear, you are a worthy judge.
You know the law ; your exposition
Hath been most sound. I charge thee by the law*
Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar.
Proceed to judgment : by my soul I swear
There is no power in the tongue of man
To alter me. I stay here on my bond.

Ant. Most heartily do I beseech the court
To give the judgment.

lij

482

TRIAL SCENE FROM " THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

Por. Why, then, thuH it is :

You must prepare your bosom for his knife.

Shy. O noble Judge! O excellent young roan!

Por. For the intent and purpose of the law
Hath full relation to the penalty,^
Which hore appeareth due upon the bond.

Shy. 'Tis very true : O wise and upright judge!
How much more elder art thou than thy looks!

Por. Therefore lay bare thy bosom.

Shy. Ay, his breast ;

So says the bond — doth it not, noble judge P
" Nearest his heart ;" those are the very words.

Por. Is it so. Are there balance here to weigh
The flesh P ,

Shy. I have them ready.

Por. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on vour charge,
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death.

Shy. Is it so nominated in the bond P

Por. It is not so express'd ; but what of that P
'Twere good you do so much for charity.

Shy. I cannot find it ; 'tis not in the bond.

Por. You, merchant, have you anything to say ?

Ant. But little ; I am arm'd, and well prepared.
Give me your hand, Bassaniol fare you well!
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you ; *

For herein Fortune shows hersel^aore kind
Than is her custom : it is still her use
To let the wretched man outlive his wealth ;
To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow
An age of poverty ; from which lingering penance
Of such misery doth she cut me offT
Commend me to your honorable wife :
Tell her the process of Antonio's end ;
Say how I loved you ; apeak me fair in death ;
And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge.
Whether Bassanio had not once a love.
Bepent not you that you shall lose a friend ;
And he repents not that he pays your debt ;
For if the Jew do cut but deep enough,
I'll pay it presently with all my heart.

Por. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine ;
The court awards it, and the law doth give it.

Shy. Most rightful judge !

Por. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast ;
The law allows it, and the court awards it.

Shy. Most learned judge! A sentence! come, prepare!

Por. Tarry a little ; there is something else.
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood ;

TRIAL SCENE FROM

" THE MERCHANT OF VENICE."

483

Tho words expressly are, "a pound of flesh."

Take then thy bond— take thou the pound of flesh ;

But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed

One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods

Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate

Unto the state of Venice.

Oratiano. O upright Judge! Mark, Jew! — O learned judge!

Shy. Is that tne law r

Tor. Thyself shait see the act :

For as thou urgest justice, be assured
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desircst.

Qra. O learned judge! Mark, Jew!— a learned judge 1

Shy. I take this offer, then ; pay the bond thrice,
And let the Christian go.

Baa. Here is the money.

P(w. Soft!
The Jew shall have all justice— soft!— no haste ;
He shall have nothing but the penalty.

Gra. O Jew! an upright judge! a learned judge!

Por. Therefore prepare thee to cut off* the flesh.
Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less nor more
But just a pound of flesh. If thou cntt'st more
Or less than just a pound — bo it but so much*
As makes it light or heavy in the substance,
Or the division of the twentieth part
Of one poor scruple— nay, if the scale do turn
But in the estimation of a hair —
Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate.

Qra. A second Daniel — a Daniel, Jew!
Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip.

Por. Why doth the Jew pause P take thy forfeiture.

Shy. Give me my principal, and let me go.

Baa. I have it ready for thee ; here it is.

Por. He hath refused it in the open court ;
He shall have merely justice and his bond.

Qra. A Daniel, still say I — a second Daniel !
i thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.

Shy. Shall I not have barely my principal P

Por. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture,
To be so taken at thv peril, Jew.

Shy. Why, then the devil give hinr good of it!
I'll stay no longer question.

Por. Tarry, Jew ;

The law hath yet another hold on you.
It is enacted in the laws of Venice,
If it be proved against an alien,
That by direct or indirect attempts
He seek the life of any citizen, '

484

FROM *' KINO lUCnAKD II. "

Tlio party 'gainst tho which ho doth contrive
Shall Hoizo one Imlf his goods ; tho other half
Comes to the nrivy coffer of the state ;
And tho uffenaer's life lies in the mercy
Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice.
In which predicament, I say, thou standost ;
For it appears, by manifest proceeding,
That indirectly, and directly too.
Thou hast contrived against the very lif^
Of the defendant ; and thou hast incurr'd
The danger formerly by me rehearsed.
Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke.

Gra. Beg, that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself;
And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state, «
Thou host not left the value of a cord ;
Therefore, thou must be hang'd at the state's charge.

Dnke. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirits,
I pardon thee thv life before thou ask it.
For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's ;
The other half comes to the general state. — Suakesfeake.

FROM " KING RICHARD II."

Bichard*8 Despair. — Act III. Sc. 2.

K. Rich. Of comfort no man speak ;

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eves
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.
Let's choose executors, and talk of wills :
And yet not so, — for what can we bequeath.
Save our deposed bodies to the ground P
Our lands, our lives, and all, are Bolingbroke's,
And nothing can we call our own but death
And that small model of the barren earth
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For Heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground.
And tell sod stories of the deatn of kings : —
How some have been deposed, some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed :
Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd ;
All murder'd : for within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court ; and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp, —
Allowing him a breath, a little scene
To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks ;

FROM " KINQ RICHARD 111.'

4^5

Infusing him with self and vain conceit,—
As if this flesh which walls about our life
Were brass impregnable, — and, humor'd thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and — farewell king!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence ; throw away re'>pect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook mo all this while :
I live with broad like you, fcol want,
Taste grief, need friends : subjected thus,
How can you say to me— I am a king P

— Shakespeare.

4 1

FROM " KING RICHARD III."
Clarence's Dream. — Act I. Sc. 4.

Clarence and Brakenbury.

Brah. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day P

Clar. Oh, I have pass'd a miserable night,
So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,
That, as I am a Christian faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night,
Though 'twerfj to buy a world of happy days,
8o full of dismal terror was the time.

Brak. What was your dream, my lord P I pray you, tell mo.

Clar. Methought that I had broken from the Tower,
And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy ;
And in my company my brother Glo'ster :
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk
Upon the hatches ; thencs we look'd toward England,
And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the wars of York and Lancaster
That had befallen us. As we paced along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
Methought that Glo'ster stumbled; and, in falling?,
Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboarfl.
Into the tumbling billows of the main.
Lord! methought, what pain it was to drowii !
What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears !
What ugly sights of death within mine eyes I
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ;
Ten thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon ;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl.
Inestimable ^tones, unvalued jewels,
All scattered in the bottom of the sea.

486

FROM " KING RICHARD III."

I
I!

Some lay in dead men's skulls ; and in those koles
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept,
As 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems,
That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep.
And moQk'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.

Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death
To gaze upon the secrets of the deep ?

Clar. Melhought I hod; find often did I strive
To yield the ghost : but still the envious flood
Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth
To find the empty, vast, and wandering air :
But smother'd it within my panting bulk,
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.

Brak. Awaked you not in this sore agony P

Clar. No, no, ray dream was lengthen'd after life :
Oh, then began the tempest to my soul!
I pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood
With that grim ferryman which poets write of.
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.
The first that there did greet my stranger soul
Was my great fiither-in-law, renowned Warwick ;
Who cried aloud, — " What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?"
And so he vanish'd : then came wandering by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood ; and he shriek'd out aloud, —
" Clarence is come, — false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, —
That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury ; —
Seize on him. Furies, take him unto torment!"—
With that methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environ'ci me, and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise
I trembling waked, and for a season after
Could not believe but that I was in hell.
Such terrible impression made my dream.

Brak. No marvel, my lord, though it affrighted you ;
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

Clar. O Brakenbury, I have done those things
That now give evidence against the soul.
For Edward's sake ; and see how he requites me!

God! if my deep prayers cannot appease The'*,
But Thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds.
Yet execute Thy wrath on me alone :

Oh, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children!

1 pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me ;
My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

— SllAKESPEARK.

FROM

" KING HENRY VIIl."

■487

^ FROM "KING HENRY VIII."

WoLSEY and Cromwell. — Act III. Sc. 2.

Wol. Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness!
This is the state of man : To-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms.
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him.
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ;
And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening, nips his root.
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured.
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders.
This many summers in a sea of glory.
But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride
At length broke under me, and now has left me.
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye ;
I feel my heart new open'd. Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to.
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin.
More pangs and fears than wars or women have ;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

Enter Cromwell, and stands amazed.

Why, how now, Cromwell ?

Crom. I have no power to speak, sir.

Wol. What! amazed

At ray misfortunes ? can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline ? Nay, an you weep,
I am fallen indeed.

Crom. How does your grace P

Wol. Why, well;

Never so truly liappy, my good Cromwell.
I know myself now ; and I feel within me
A peace above all earthly dignities,
A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me,
I humbly thank his grace ; and from these shoulders,
These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken
A load would sink a navy, too much honor :
Oh, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear

In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced mo,

Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.

488 hamlet's soliloquy on death.

Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell;

And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention

Of me more must be heard of, say, 1 taught thee ;

Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,

And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,

Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;

A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.

Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.

Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ;

By that sin fell the angels ; how can man then,

The image of his Maker, hone to win by it ?

Love thyself last : cherish those hearts that hate thee ;

Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace.

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear nob ;

Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's.

Thy God's, and truth's ; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the king ;

And, prithee, lead me in :

There, take an inventory of all I have.

To the last penny ; 'tis the king's : my robe,

And my integrity to Heaven, is all

I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!

Had I but served my God with half the zeal

I served my king. He would not in mine age

Have left me naked to mine enemies. — Shak£SP£aii£.

I '

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.

Actlll., Sc. 1.

"Ram. To be, or not to be : that is the question :
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune.
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles.
And by opposing end them ? To die, — to sleep, —
No more ; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep ;
To sleep! perchance to dream ; — ay, there's the rub ;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuflled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause : there's the respect.
That makes calamity of so long life :
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time.
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

FROM

"THE CBiriG."

489

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,

The insolence of oflSce, and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes.

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin P who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscover'd country from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will ;

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of P

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ;

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ;

And enterprises of great pith and moment,

With this regard, their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action. — Shakespeare.

FROM « THE CRITIC."

Dangle, Sneer, Sir Fretful Plagiary.

Dan. Ah, my dear friend ! we were just speaking of your tragedy.
Admirable, Sir Fretful ! admirable !

Sneer. You never did anything beyond it, Sir Fretful ; never in your
life.

Sir F. Sincerely, then, you do like the piece P

Sneer. Wonderfully !

Sir F. But come, now, there must be somethingthat you think might
be mended, eh P Mr. Dangle, has nothing struck you P

Dan. Why, faith, it is but an ungracious thing for the most part
to

Sir F. With most authors it is just so, indeed ; they are in general
strangely tenacious; but for my part I am never so well pleased as when
a judicious critic points out any defect to me ; for what is the purpose of
showing a work to a friend if you don't mean to profit by his opinion?

Sneer. Very true. Why, then, though I seriously admire the piece
upon the whole, yet there's one small objection, which, if you'll give me
leave, I'll mention.

Sir F. Sir, you can't oblige me more.

Sneer. I think it wants incident.

Sir F. You surprise me ! Wants incident !

Sneer. Yes ; I own I think the incidents are too few.

Sir F. Believe me, Mr. Sneer, thereis nq person for whose judgment T
have a more implicit deference ; but I protest to you, Mr. Sneer, I am
only apprehensive that the incidents are too crowded. My dear Dangle,
bow does it strike you P

490

FROM " THE CRITIC.

>»

Dcm. Really, I can't agree with my friend Sneer. I think the plot
quite suflScient, and the first four acts by many degrees the best I ever
reader saw in my life. If I might venture to suggest anything, it is that
the interest rather falls off in the fifth.

Sir F. Rises, I believe you mean, sir

Dan. No ; I don't, upon my word.

8vr F. Yes, yes, you do, upon nay soul ; it certainly don't fall off, I
assure you ; no, no, it don't rail ofi.

Dan. Well, Sir Fretful, I wish you may be able to get rid as easily of
the newspaper criticisms as you do of ours !

Sir F. The newspapers ! Sir, they are the most villanous, licentious,

abominable, inferral Not that I ever read them ; no, I luakeita

rule never to look into a newspaper.

Dan. You are quite right, for it certainly must hurt an author of deli-
cate feelings to see the liberties they take.

Sir F. No ; quite the contrary. Their abuse is, in fact, the best pane-
gyric ; I like it of all things. An author's reputation is only in danger
from their support. V S ^

Sneer. Why, that's true ; and that attack, now, on you the other
day

SirF. What? Where?

Dan. Ay! you mean in the paper of Thursday. It was completely ill-
natured, to be sure.

Sir F. Oh ! so much the better. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I wouldn't have
it otherwise.

Dan. Cei-tainly it is only to be laughed at, for

Sir F. You don't happen to recollect what the fellow said, do you?

Sneer. Pray, Dangle, Sir Fretful seems a little anxious

Sir F. Oh Lud ! no ! Anxiout .' not I ; not the least. I But

ono may as well hear, you know.

Dan. Sneer, do you recollect P [Aside to Sneer.] Make out some-
thing.

Sneer. [Aside to Dangle.] I will. [Aloud."] Yes, yes, I remember
perfectly.

Sir F. Well, and pray, now — not that it signifies — what might the
gentleman sayP

Sneer. Why,he roundly asserts that you have not the slightest inven-
tion or original genius whatever, though you are the greatest traducerof
all other authors living.

Sir,F. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Very good !

Sneer. That, as to comedy, you have not one idea of your own, he be-
lieves, even in your commonplace book, where stray jokes and pilfered
witticisms are kept with as much method as the ledger of the Lost and
Stolen Office.

Sir F. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Very pleasant.

Sneer. Nay, that you are so imlucky as not to have the skill even to
steal with taste, but that you glean from t;he refuse of obscure volumes,
where mc -i judicious plagiarists have been before you; so that the body

SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

491

of yoar work is a composition of dregs and sediments, like a bad tavern's
worst wine.

Sir F. Ha ! ha I

Sneer. In your more serious efforts, he says, your bombast would be
less intolerable if the thoughts were ever suited to the expressions; but
the homeliness of the sentiment stares through the fantastic encum-
brance of its fine language like a clown in one of the new uniforms.

Sir IT'. Ha ! ha !

Sneer. That your occasional tropes and flowers suit the general coarse-
nessofyour style.as tambour sprigs would a ground of linsey-woolsey;
whileyour imitationsof Shakespeare resemble themimicryofFalstafrs
page, and are about as near the standard of the original.

SirF. Ha!

Sneer. In short, that even the finest passages you steal are of no ser-
vice to you, for the poverty of your own language prevents their assimi-
lating, so that they lie on the surface like lumps of marl on a barren
moor, encumbering what it is not iu their power to fertili/.e.

Sir F. [_After great agitation.] Now, another person would be vexed
at this.

Sneer. Oh, but I wouldn't have told you, only to divert you.

Sir F. I know it. I am diverted. Ha ! ha ! ha ! nob the least in-
vention ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! — very good, very good !

Sneer. Yes ; no genius ! Ha ! ha ! ha !

Dan. A severe rogue ; ha ! ha ! ha ! Bat you are quite right, Sir
Fretful, never to read such nonsense.

Sir F. To be sure; for if thereisanythingtoone'spraise.it is a foolish
vanity to be gratified at it ; and if it is abuse, why, one is always sure
to hear of it from some good-natured friend or other ! — Sheridan.

SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

A Prison in the Palace of the Luxembov/rg.

D'AuBiGNE, an aged Boyalist, and Blanche, his daughter.

Bla/ache. What was our doom, my father P In thine arms
I lay unconsciously through that dread hour.
Tell me the sentence. Could our judges look,
Without relenting, on thy silvery hair ?
Was there not mercy, father P Will they not
Restore us to our home P

D'Auhigne. Yes, my poor child !
They send us home !

Blanche. Oh ! shall we gaze again
On the bright Loire P Will the old hamlet spire,
And the gray turret of our own chateau,
Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms ?
Will the kind voices of our villagers,

492

SCENE OF THE FKENCH REVOLUTION.

il:

The loving laughter in their children's eyes,
Welcome us back at last ? But how is this P
Father ! thy glance is clouded ; on thy brow
There sits no joy !

D'Aiibigne. Upon my brow, dear girl,
There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace
As may befit the Christian who receives
And recognizes, in submissive awe,
The summons of his God.

Blanche. Thou dost not mean, —
No, no ! it cannot be ! Didst thou not say
They sent us home ?

D'Auhigne. Where is the spirit's home ?
Oh ! most of all in these dark, evil days,
Where should it be, but in that world serene,
Beyond the sword's reach and the tempest's power P
Where, but in heaven P •

Blanche. My father !

D^Auhigne. We must die !
We must look up to God, and calmly die.
Come to my heai't, and weep there ! For a while
Give nature's passion way, then brightly rise
In the still courage of a woman's heart.
Do I not know thee P Do I ask too much
From mir e own noble Blanche P

Blanche. Oh ! clasp me fast !
Thy trembling child ! Hide, hide me in thine arms !
Father !

UAuhigne. Alas ! my flower, thou'rt young to go ;
Young, and so fair ! Yet were it worse, methinks,
To leave thee where the gentle and the brave.
And they that loved their God, have all been swept,
Like the sear leaves away. The soil is steep'd
In noble blood, the temples are gone down ;
The voice of prayer is hush'd, or fearfully
Mutter'd, like sounds of guilt. Why, who would live P
Who have not panted, as a dove, to flee.
To quit for ever the dishonor'd soil.
The burden'd air P Our God upon the cross,
Our king upon the scaffold ; let us think
Of these, and fold endurance to our hearts
And bravely die !

Blanche. A dark and fearful way !
An evil doom for thy dear, honor'd head !
Oh ! thou the kind and gracious ! whom all eyes
Bless'd as they look'd upon ! Speak yet again !
Say, will they part us ?

jyAuhigne. No, my Blanche ; in death

SCENE OP THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

493

We shall not be divided.

BlancJie. Thanks to God !
He, by thy glance, will aid me. I shall see
His light before me to the last. And when, —
Oh ! pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child ! —
When shall the hour befall P

D'Auhigne. Oh ! swiftly now,
And suddenly, with brief dread interval,
Comes down the mortal stroke. But of that hour.
As yet, I know not. Each low, throbbing pulse
Of. the quick pendulum may usher in
Eternity.

Blanche. My father ! lay thy hand
On thv poor Blanche's head, and once again
Bless ner with thy deep voice of tenderness,
Thua breathing saintly courage through her soul
Ere we are calT'd.

D*Aubigne. If I may speak through tears.
Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently,
Child of my heart ! — thou who dost look on me
With thy lost mother's angel eyes of love !
Thou that hast been a brightness in my path,
A guest of heaven unto my lowly soul,
A stainless lily in my widow'd house.
There springing up, with soft light round thee shed,
For immortality ! Meek child of God !
I bless thee ! He will bless thee ! In His love
He calls thee now from this rude, stormy world.
To thy Redeemer's breast. And thou wilt die,
As thou hast lived, my duteous, holy Blanche,
In trusting and serene submissiveness,
Humble, yet full of Heaven.

Blanche. Now is there strength
Infused through all my spirit. I can rise
And say, — " Thy will be done !"

B'Auhigne. Seest thou, my child.
Yon faint line in the west ? The signal star
Of our due evening service, gleaming in
Through the close dungeon grating? Mournfully
It seems to quiver ; yet shall this night pass,
This night alone, without the lifted voice
Of adoration in our narrow cell,
As if unworthy fear, or wavering faith,
Silenced the strain ? No ! let it waft to heaven
The prayer, the hope of poor mortality.
In its dark hour once more ! And we will sleep.
Yes calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed.

— Felicia Hemans.

494 THE SWISS PATRIOT.

THE SWISS PATRIOT.
William Tell, Albert, and Gesleb.

Qesler. What is thy name ?

Tell My name P
It matters not to keep it from thee now : —
My name is Tell.

Oea. Tell !-William Tell P

Tell. The same.

Oes. What ! he so famed 'bove all his countrymen
For guiding o'er the stormy lake the boat P
And such a master of his bow, 'tis said
His arrows never miss ! — Indeed ! — I'll take
Exquisite vengeance ! — Mark ! I'll spare thy life—
Thy boy's too — both of you are free — on one
Condition.

Tell. Name it.

Oea. I would see you make
A trial of your skill with that same bow
You shoot so well with.

Tell. Name the trial you
Would have me make.

Qes. You look upon your boy
As though instinctively you guess'd it.

Tell. Look upon my boy ! What mean you P Look upon
My boy as though I guess'd it! — Guess'd the trial
You'd have me make ! — Guess'd it
Instinctively ! You do not mean — no — no —
You wot .Id not have me make a trial of
My skill upon my child ! — Impossible !
I do not guess your meaning.

Ges. I would see
Thee hit an apple at the distance of
A hundred paces.

Tell. Is my boy to hold it P -

Ges. No. '

Tell. No !— I'll send the arrow through the core I

Gea. It is to rest upon his head.

Tell. Great Heaven, you hear him !

Ges. Thou dost hear the choice I give —
Such trial of the skill thou art master of,
Or death to both of you ; not otherwise
To be escaped.

Tell. monster!

Qes. Wilt thou do it P

Albert, He will ! he will !

Tell\
A fathl

Qe8.\
His chl

Tell!

GC8.\

Alh.\

THE SWISS PATRIOT.

495

Tell. Ferocious monster ! — Make
A father murder his own child !

Oe8. Take off '

His chains, if he consent.

Tell. With his own hand !

Ges. Does he consent P

Alb. Hedoes. [Gesl^r signs tohi8offi,cer8fWlioproceedioiaJce o^Tell's
chains. Tell all the time unconscious what they do.

Tell. With his own hand !
Murder his child wiih his own hand — This hand !
The hand I *ve led him, when an infant, by ! —
'Tis beyond horror — 'tis most horrible.

Amazement ! [His chains fall off."] What 's that you 've done to me.
Villains ! put on my chains again. My hands
Are free from blood, and have no gust for it,
That they should drink my child's ! Here 1 here ! I'll not
Murder my boy for Gesler.

Alb. Father — facher !
You will not hit me, father !

Tell. Hit thee !— Send
The arrow through thy brain — or, missing that,
Shoot out an eye — or, if thine eye escape,
Mangle the cheek I 've seen thy mother's lips
Cover with kisses ! — Hit thee — hit a hair
Of thee, and cleave thy mother's heart—*—

Ges. Dost thou consent P

Tell. Give me my bow and quiver.

Qes. For what P

Tell. To shoot my boy !

Alb. No, father — no !
To save me ! — you'll be sure to hit the apple —
Will you not save me, father ?

Tell. Lead me forth —
I'll make the trial !

Alb. Thank you !

TM. Thank me ! Do
You know for what P — I will not make the trial,
To take him to his mother in my arms,
And lay him down a corpse before her !

Ges. Then he dies this moment — and you certainly
Do murder him whose life you have a chance
To save, and will not use it.

Tell. Well— I '11 do it : I '11 make the trial.

Alb. Father

Tell. Speak not to me :
Let me not hear thy voice— Thou must be dumb ;
And so should all things be — Earth should be dumb, ' ^

And Heaven — unless its thunders mutter'd at ' ^

496

THE SWISS PATRIOT.

The deed, and Honb a bolt to stop it ! Give me
My bow and quiver !

Qes. When all 's ready.

Tell. Weil! Lead on!
Enter, slowly, 2f^ople in evident distress — Officers, Sarmem, Gesler,
Tell, Albert, and Soldiers— one bearing Tell's how and qui/oer.
another with a basket of apples.

Oes. That is your ground. Now shall they measure thence
A hundred paces. Take the distance.

Tell. Is the line a true one P •

Oes. True or not, what ia 't to thee P

Tell. What is 't to me P A little thing,
A very little thing — a yard or two
Is nothing here or there — were it a wolf
I shot at ! Never mind.

Oes. Be thankful, slave,
Our grace accords thee life on any terms.

TeU. I will be thankful, Gesler !— Villain stop !
Tou measure to the sun.

Oes. And what of that P
What matter whether to or from ths sun P

Tell. 1 'd have it at my back— tbd sun should shine
Upon the mark, and nob on him that shoots.
I cannot see to shoot against the sun — '

I will not shoot against the sun !

Oes. Give him his way ! Thou hast cause to bless my mercy.

Tell. I shall remember it. I 'd like to see
The apple I 'm to shoot at.

Oes. Stay ! show me the basket !— there— —

Tell. You 've picked the smallest one.

Oes. I know I have.

Tell. Oh ! do you ?— But you see
The color on 't is dark— I 'd have it light;
To see it better.

Oes. Take it as it is :
Thy skill will be the greater if thou hitt'st it. ^

TM. True— true !— I did not think of that— I wonder
I did not think of that — Give me some chance
To save my boy i IThrows awa/y the apple with all his force.

I will not murder him,
If I can help it — for the honor of
The form thou wearest, if all thy heart is gone.

Oes. Well, choose thyself.

Tell. Have I a friend among the lookers-on P

Vemer. [Bnishvng forward.'] Here, Tell.

Tell. I thank thee, Vemer ! v

He is a Mend runs out into a storm
To shake a hand with us. I must be brief:

THE SWISS PATRIOT.

When onco the bow iu hour, wr cannot tuko

The shot too soon. Vernor, wliatevor be

The ibuue of thi.s hour, the common cause

Must not utand Htill. Let not to-morrow's sun

Set on the tyrant's banner ! Vcrner ! Verner !

The boy ! — tne boy ! Thinkost thou he hath the courage

To stand it P

Ver. Yes.

Tell. Does he tremble P

Ver. No.

Tell. Art sure P '

Ver. I am.

Tell. How looks he ?

Ver. Clear and smilingly :
If you doubt it — look yourself.

Tell. No — no— my friend;
To hear it is enough.

Ver. He bears himself so much above his years— ^

Tell. I know ! — I know.

Ver. With constancy so modest !

Tell. 1 was sure he would

Ver. And looks with such relying loye
And reverence upon you

Tell. Man! Man! Man!
No more ! already I'm too much the father
To act the man ! — Verner, no more, my friend !
I would be flint — flint — flint. Don't make me feel
I'm not — do not mind me ! — Take the boy
And set him, Verner, with his back to me.
Set him upon his knees — and place this apple
Upon his head, so that the stem may front me, —
Thus, Verner ; charge him to keep steady — tell him
I'll hit the apple ! — ^Verner, do all this
More briefly than I tell it thee.

Ver.
Alb.
Ver.
Alb.
Ver.
Alb.

[^Leadmg him out.

Come, Albert !

May I not speak with him before I go ?
No.

I would only kiss his hand. *

You must not.

I must ! — I cannot go from him without.
Ver. It is his will you should.
Alb. His will, is it ?
I am content then — come. *"

Tell. My boy ! [Holding out his a^tm to him.

Alb. My father ! [Biuhing into Tell's arms.

Tell. If thou canst bear it, should not 1 ?
My son — and keep in mind that I can shoot —
Go, boy— be thou but steady, I will hit 2 I

Go, now,

498

THE SWISS PATRIOT.

Tho apple — Go ! - (jod blows thee — go. — My bow ! —

{The how 18 handed to h'm.
Thou wilt not fail thy master, wilt thou P — Thou
liast never fail'd him yet, old servant — No,
I'm sure of thee— ^I know thy honeaty.
Thou art stanch— stanch. — Let me see my quiver.

Oes. Give him a sinsle arrow.

Tell. Df) you shoot r

Sol. I do.

Tell. Is it so you pick an arrow, friend P
The point, you see, is bent ; the feather jagged : [^Breaks it.

That's all the use 'tis fit for.

Oea. Let him have another.

Tell. Why, 'tis better than the first,
But yet not good enough for such an aim
As I'm to talke — 'tis heavy in the shafl :

I'll not shoot with it ! [Throwa it away.'] Lot me see my quiver.
Bring it ! — 'Tis not one arrow in a dozen
I'd take to shoot with at a dove, much less
A dove like that.

Oea. It matters not.
Show him the qtiiver.

Tell. See if tho boy is ready.

[Tell here hides an arrow under hia vest.

Ver. He is.

Tell. I'm ready, too! Keep silent for
Heaven's sake, and do not stir — and let me have
Tour prayers — your prayers — and be my witnesses
That if his life's in peril from my hand,
'Tis only for the chance of saving it. [^To the people.

Qes. Go on.

Tell. I will.
O friends, for mercy's sake keep motionless
And silent

[Tell shoots— aahout of exultation hursts from thecrowd — Tell's
head drops on his hosom ; he with difficulty supports himself
upon his how.

Ver. [Rushing in with Albert.] The boy is safe— no hair of him is
touch'd.

Alb. Father, I'm safe ! — your Albert's safe, dear father, —
Speak to me ! Speak to me !

Ver. He cannot, boy !

Alb. You grant him life P *

Ges. I do.

Alb. And we are free P

Ges. You are. [Crossing angrily behind.

Alb. Thank Heaven ! — thank Heaven ]

RICnF/LIBO'S VINDICATION.

409

Vcr. Open his vest,
And ffivo him air.

[Albert opens Mb father's vest, and the arroio drops. Tell starts,
fixes his eye on Albert, and clasps him to his breast.
Tell. My boy T — My boy !
Qes. For what
Hid vou that arrow in your breast P — Speak, slave !
Tell. To kill thee, tyrant, had I slain my boy.

Sheridan Knowles.

RICHELIEU'S VINDICATION.

B)ichelieu. Boom, my lords, room ! The minister of France
Can need no intercession with the king.

[They fall had:

Louis. What means this false report of death, Lord Cardinal P

Richelieu. Are you anger'd, sire, that I live still P

Louis. No ; but such artifice

Richelieu. Not mine : — look elsewhere !
Louis — my castle swarm'd with the assassins.

Barada^. lAd/vanci/ng.'] We have puniah'd them already.

Huguet is now
In the Bastile. my lord, we were prompt
To avenge you — we were

Richelieu. We P Ha ! ha ! you hear,
My liege ! What page, man, in the last court grammar
Miade you a plural P Count, you have seized the hireling :
Sire, snail I name the master ? ' ■ ^ .

Louis. Tush ! my lord,
The old contrivance:— ever does your wit
Invent assassins, — that ambition may
Slay rivals

Richelieu, ^iveils, sire ! in what P
Service to France P I have none ! Lives the man
Whom Europe, paled before your glory, deems
Rival to Armand Richelieu P

Louis. What ! so haughty !
Remember, he who made can unmake.

Richelieu. Never !
Never ! Your anger can recall your trust.
Annul my office, spoil me of my lands.
Rifle my coffers, — but my name — my deeds,
Are royal in a land beyond your sceptre !
Pass sentence on me if you will ; from kings,
Lo, I appeal to time ! Be just, my liege —
I found your kingdom rent with heresies

*500 ' HUCHEUEU'S VINDICATION.

And bristling with rebellion ; lawless nobles
And breadless serfs ; England fomenting discord ;
Austria — her clutch on your dominion ; Spain
Forging the prodigal gold of either Ind
To armed thunderbolts. The arts lay dead,
Trade rotted in your marts, your armies mutinous,
Your treasury bankrupt. Would you now revoke
Your trust, so be it ! and I leave you, sole,
Supremest monarch of the mightiest realm,
From Ganges to the Icebergs : — Look without ;
No foe not humbled ! Look within ; the arts
Quit for your schools their olf* Hesperides —
The' golden Italy ! while through the veins
Of your vast empire flows in strengthening tides,
Ti'ade, .the calm health of nations !

Sire, I know
Your smoother courtiers please you best — nor measure
Myself with them, — yet sometimes I would doubt
If statesmen, rock'd and dandled into power.
Could leave such legacies to kings !

[Louis appears irresolute.

Baradas. [Passing him, whispers,'] But Julie,
Shall I not summon her to coui i ?

Louis. {^Motions to Baradas, and turns haughtily to the Car-
dinal.] Enough !
Your eminence must excuse a longer audience.
To your palace : — For our conference, this
Nor place nor season.

Bichelie%i. Good, my liege ! for Justice *

All place a temple, and all season, summer !
Do you aeny me justice ? Saints of heaven,
He turns from me ! Do you deny me justice ? ^

For fifteen years, while in these hands dwelt empire,
The humblest craftsman, the obscurest vassal.
The very leper shrinking from the sun.
Though loathed by Charity, might ask for justice !
Not with the fawning tone and crawling mien
Of some I see around you — counts and princes —
Kneeling for /ayors ; — but, erect and loud,
As men who ask man's rights ! my liege, my lord.
Do you refuse me justice — audience even —
In the pale presence of the baffled murderer P

Louis. Lord Cardinal — one by one you have stBver'd from me
The bonds of human love. All near and dear
^^'.'k'd out for vengeance— exile, or the scaflbld.
You find me now amidst my trustiest friends.
My closest kindred ; you would toar them from me ;
They murder y(tv,, forsooth, since me they love.

A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA S DA'

501

Enough of plots and treasons for one reign *!
Home ! home ! and sleep away these phantoms !

Btchelieu. Sire !

I patience, Heaven ! sweet Heaven ! Sire, from the foot

Of that great throne, these hands have raised aloft
On an Olympus, looking down on mortals
And wordhipp'd by their awe — before the foot
Of that high throne — spurn you the gray-hair'd man
"Who gave you empire — and now sues for safety !

Louis. No : — when we see your eminence in truth
At the foot of the throne — we'll listen to you.

— BULWBE.

A SONG FOR ST. CEOILIA'P DAY. .

FnoM harmony, from heavenly harmony,

This universal frame began.

When nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay,

And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,

Arise, ye more than dead.
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry.
In order to their stations leap.

And music's power obey.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony,

This universal frame began ;

From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in man.

II.
What passion cannot music raise and quell ?

When Jubal struck the chorded shell,
His listening brethren stood arrund.
And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound.
Less than a god they thought there could not dwell

Within the hollow of that shell,

That spoke so sweetly and so well.
What passion cannot music raise and quell P

III.
The trumpet's loud clangor
Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of angci*,
And mortal alanris.

6(j?

A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA's DAY.

The double, double, double beat

Of the thundering drum
Cries, Hark ! the foes come ;
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat.

IV.

The soft complaining flute,
In dying notes discovers.
The woes of hopeless lovers,
"Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs and desperation,
Fury, frantic mdignation.
Depth of pains, and height of passion,
For the fair, disdainful dame.

VI.

But oh ! what art can teach.

What human voice can reach.
The sacred organ's praise P .

Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways

To join the choir above.

VII.

Orpheus could lead the savage race ;
And threes uprooted left their place.

Sequacious of the Ijre ;
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher
When to her organ vocal breath was givell^.
A.n angel heard, and straight appear'd.

Mistaking earth for heaven.

GRAi^D CHORUS.

As from the power of sacred lays

The spheres began tb move,
And sung the great Creator's praise

To all the bless'd abov'e;
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die.
And music shall untune the sky.

-Drydfn.

rilE BARU.

503

IV.

THE BARD.

" BuiN seize thee, ruthless king !

Confusion on thy banners wait !
Though fann'd by Ooncjuest's crimson wing,

They mock the air with idle state.
Helm nor hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor even thy virtues, tyrant ! shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears ;
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears !"
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride

Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side

He wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance ;
" To arms !" cried Mortimer, and coach'd his quivering

lance.
On a rock, whose hai%hty brow

Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Brobed in the sable garb of woe.

With hEtggard eyes, the poet stood ;
(LooSe his beard, and hoary hair
Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air ;)
And, with a master's hand and prophet's fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre —
" Dear lost companions of my tuneful art !

Dear as the light that visits thesQ sad eyes,
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.

Ye died amidst your dying country's cries-
No more I weep. They do not sleep ;

On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,
I see them sit ! Tliey linger yet.

Avengers of their native land ;
With me in dreadful harmony they join.
And weave with bloody hand the tissue of thy line.
* Weave the warp, and weave the woof,

The winding-sheet of Edward's race ;
Give ample room and verge enough

The characters of hell to trace.
Mark the year, and mark the night,
When Severn shall re-echo with affright
The shrieks of death through Berkeley's roof that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing king !
Mighty victor, mighty lord.

Low on his funeral couch he lies !
No pitying heart, no eye afford

A t^r to grace his obsequies !

504

THE PASSIONS.

Is the sable warrior fled P

Thy son is gone — he rests among the dead,

The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born,

Gone to salute the rising morn.

Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, •

While, proudly nding o'er the azure realm,
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes,

Youth on the prow, and pleasure at the helm ;
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.'
Fond, impious man ! think'st thou yon sanguine
cloua,

Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day P
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
Enough for me ; with joy I see

The different doom our fates assign.
Be thine despair, and sceptred cate.

To triumph and to die are mine."
He spoke, and, headlong from the mountain's height,
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

Gray.

THE PASSIONS.

When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung.
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting.
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined :
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,
From *he supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound :
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art, —
Each — for madness ruled the hour —
Would prove his own expressive power.

First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid ;

And back recoil'd, he know not why,
Even at the sound himself had made.

THE PASSIONS.

505

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings own'd his secret stings ;
In one rude cTssh he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hands the strings.

With woful measures, wan Despair —

Low sullen sounds ! — his grief beguiled ;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air ;

*Twas sad by fits — by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope ! with eyes so feir,

What was thy delighted measure !
Still it whisper'd promised pleasure,

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail.
Still would her touch the strain prolong ;

And, from the rocks, the woods, the vale.
She call'd on Echo still through all the song.

And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ;
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair.

And longer had she sung — but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose.
He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down ;
And, with a withering look.
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread.
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so fiill of woe ;
And ever and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat ;
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity, at his side,
Her soul-subduing voice applied, *

Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien ;
While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.

Thy numbers. Jealousy, to nought were fix'd ;

Sad proof of thy distressful state !
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd :

And, now, it courted Love ; now, raving, called on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired.

Pale Melancholy sat retired ;

And from her wild sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet, ,

Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul :

And, dashing soft, from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound ;
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure ntole;

506

OINEVRA.

Or o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay,

Bound a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing —
In hollow murmurs died away.

But, oh, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone !
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew.
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung —

The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known.

The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen.

Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen.

Peeping from forth their alleys green ;
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear ;

And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial.

He, with viny crown advancing.
First to the lively pipe his hand address'd ;

But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose swee. entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought., who heard the strain,

' Thejr saw, in Tempo's vale, her native maids.
Amid the festal-sounding shades.

To some unwearied minstrel dancing ;

While, as his flying fingers klss'd the strings.
Love framed with Mirth a gav fantastic round —
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ;
And he, amid his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay.

Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.

— Collins.

GINEVRA.

If thou shouldst ever come to Modena,
Stop at a palace near the Beggio Gate
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee ; but, before thou go,
Enter the house — prithee, forget it not —
And look a while upon a picture there.

'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth ;

She sits inclining forward as to speak.

Her lips half open, and her finger Up,

As though she said, " Beware ! " — her vest of gold

GINBVRA.

Broider'd with flowers, and clasp'd from head to foot-

An emerald stone in every golden clasp ;

And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,

A coronet of pearls. But then her face,

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,

The overflowings of an innocent heart —

It haunts me still, though many a year has fed,

Like some wild melody 1— Alone it hangs

Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion,

An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm.

She was an only child ; from infancy

The joy, the pnde, of an indulgent sire.

Her mother, dying of the gift she gave.

That precious gifb, what else remain'd to him P

The young Ginevra was his all in life.

Still as she grew, for ever in his sight.

She was all gentleness, all gaiety.

Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue.

But now the day was come, the day, the hour ;

And in the lustre of her youth she gave

Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy ; but at the bridal feast.
When all sat down, the bride was wanting^ there —
Nor was she to be found ! Her fitther cned,
" *Tis but to make a trial of our love !" —
And fiird his glass to all ; but his hand shook.
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had lefb Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still.
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas ! she was not to be found ;
Nor from that hour could anything be guess'd,
But that she was not ! Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Orsini lived ; and long mightst thou have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something —
Something he could not find — he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remain'd a while
Silent and tenantless — then went to strangers.

Full fifty years had passed, and all forgot.

When on an idle day, a day of search

'Mid the old lumber in the gallery,

That mouldering chest was noticed : and 'twas said

By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,

" Why not remove it from its lurking-place P "

.W7

608

LOCHIEL S WAKKING.

Twas done as soon as said ; but on the way
It burst — it fell ; and lo ! a skeleton ;
With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
Alfelse had perish'd— save a nuptial ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name I the name of both —
" GiNEVRA." — There then had she found a grave ;
Within that chest had she cr nceal'd herself.
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy !
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down for ever !

•—Rogers.

LOCHIEL'S WARNING.

Wizard. Lochiel ! Lochiel ! beware of the day
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array !
For a field of the dead rushes red on mv sight.
And the clans on OuUoden are scattered in fight I
They rally I—they bleed ! — for their kingdom and crown ;
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down !
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far r
'Tis thino, O Glenullin ! whose bride shall await,
Like a love-lighted watch-fire all night at the gate.
A steed comes at morning ; no rider is there ;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albyn ! to death and captivity led !
Oh, weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead ;
For a merciless sword o'er CuUoden shall wave —
CuUoden ! that reeks with the blood of the brave.

Lochiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer !
Or, if gory CuUoden so dreadful appear.
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight.
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright !

Wizard. Ha 1 laugji'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ?
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn !
Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth
From his home, in the dark-rolling clouds of the north ?
Lo ! the death-shot of foomen outspeeding, he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ;
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high !
Ah ! home let him speed, — for the spoiler is nigh.
Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to the blast
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast P

LOCHIEI.'S YvARNING.

609

'Tia the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven
From his eyry, that beacons the darkness of heaven.

crested Lochiel : the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlement's height.
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ;
Remrn to thy dwelling, all lonely ! — return !

For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood.
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood.

Lochiel. False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshall'd my clun,
Their swords are a thousand, theu* bosoms are one !
Thev are true to the last of their blood and their breath.
Ana like reapers descend to the harvest of death.
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock I
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock I
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause,
When Albyn her claymore indignantly draws ;
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd,
Gianranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud ;
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array •

Wizard. Lochiel ! Lochiel I beware of the day !
For dark and despairing my sight I may seal.
But man cannot cover what God would reveal ;
'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore.
And coming events cast their shadows before.

1 tell thee, OuUoden's dread echoes shall ring-

With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king.

Lo ! anointed by Heaven with vials of wrath.

Behold, where he flies on his desolate path !

Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight :

Rise ! Rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight !

'Tis finished ! Their thunders are hush'd on the moors ;

CuUoden is lost, and my country deplores :

But where is the iron-bound prisoner ? Where ?

For the red eye of battle is shut in despair.

Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish'd, forlorn,

Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ?

Ah, no ! for a darker departure is near ;

The war-drum is mufiled, and black is the bier ;

His death-bell is tolling : oh ! mercy, dispel

Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell !

Life flutters, convulsed, in his quivering limbs.

And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims,

Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet,

Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat.

With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale

Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale :
For never shall Albyn a destiny meet
So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat,

510

FITZ-JAMES AND RODBRICK.

Though my perishing ranks should be stre^'d in thoir gore,

Like ocean weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore,

Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,

While the kindling of life in his bosom remains.

Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, ^

With 'his back to the field and his feet to the foe !

And, leaving in battle no blot on his name.

Look proumy to heaven from the deathbed of fame.

—Campbell.

FITZ-JAMES AND RODERICK.
(From " The Lady of the Lake.")

The chief in silence strode before.
And reached the torrent's sounding shore.
And here his course the chieftain stay'd.
Threw down his target and his plaid,
And to the lowland warrior said : —

" Bold Saxon ! to his promise just,
Vich- Alpine has discharged his trust ;
This murderous chief, this ruthless man,
This head of a rebellious clan,
Hath led thee safe, through watch and ward,
Far past Clan -Alpine's outmost guard.
Now, man to man, and steel to steel,
A chiefbain's vengeance thou shalt feel.
See, here all vantageless I stand,
Arm'd, like thyself, with single brand ;
For this is Coilantogle ford.
And thou must keep tihee with thy sword."

The Saxon paused ; — " I ne'er delay'd.
When foeman bade me draw my blade ;
Nay, more, brave chief, I vow'd thy death ;
Yet sure thy fair and generous faith,
And my dv^ep debt for life preserved,
A better meed have well deserved :
Can naught but blood our feud atone P
Are there no means P" — " No, stranger, none !
And here, — to fire thy flagging zeaJ, —
The Saxon cause rests on thy steel ;
For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bred
Between the living and the aead :
* Who spills the foremost foeman's life,
His party conquers in the strife.' "

" Then, by my word," the Saxon said,
, " The riddle is already read ;

FITZ-JAME8 AND RODERICK.

511

Hoek yonder brake beneath the clitF, —
Tiiere lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff.
Thus Fate hath solved her prophecy,
Then yield to Fato, and not to me ;
To James, at Stirling, let ns ^o,
When, if thou wilt, be sMll his foe ;
Or, i£ the king shall not agree
To ^rant thee grace and favor free,
I plight mine honor, oath and word,
That, to thy native strength restored.
With each advantage shalt thou stand
That aids thee now to guard thy land."

Dark lightning flash'd from Roderick's eye —
" Soars thy presumption, then, so high
Because a wretched kern ye slew.
Homage to name to Roderick Dhu P
He yields not, he, to man nor Fate !
Thou add'st but fuel to my hate. —
My clansman's blood demands revenge ! —

Not yet prepared P — By Heaven I change
My thought, and hold thy valor light.
As that of some vain carpet knight,
Who ill deserved my courteous care.
And whose best boast is but to wear
A braid of his fair lady's hair."

" I thank thee, Roderick, for the word !
It nerves my heart, it stills my sword;
For I have sworn this braid to stain
In the best blood that warms thy vein.
Now, truce, farewell ! and ruth, begone !
Yet think not that by thee alone,
Proud chief ! can courtesy be shown.

Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn.
Start at my whistle clansmen stem.
Of this small horn one feeble blast
Would fearful odds against thee cast ;
But fear not — doubt not — which thou wilt,
We try this quarrel hilt to hilt."

Then each, at once, his falchioii drew,
Each on the ground his scabbard threw.
Each look'd to sun, and stream, and plain.
As what they ne'er might see again ;
Then, foot, and point, and eye opposed.
In dubious strife they darkly closed.

Ill fflred it then with Roderick Dhu,
That ou ttie field his targe he threw,

512

FITZ-JAMES AND RODERICK.

WhoHe brazen ntudn and tough bull-hide
Had death ro often dash'd aside;
For, train'd abroad his arms to wield,
Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield.

He practised every pass and ward,
To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard ;
While less expert, though stronger far,
Tlie Gaol maintain'd unequal war.
Three times in closing strife they stood.
And thrice the Saxon sword drank blood.

Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,
And shower'd his blows like wintery rain,
And, firm as rock, or castle roof,
Against the winter shower is proof,
The foe, invulnerable still,
Foil'd his wild rage by steady skill ;
Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand
Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand,
And, backwards borne upon the lea.
Brought the proud chieftain ^o his knee.

" Now yield thee, or, by who made

The world, thy heart's bloo^ .^^es my blade 1 "
" Thy threats, thy mercv, I defy !
Let recreant yield who fears to die."
Like adder darting from his coil.
Like wolf that dashes through the toil,
Like mountain-cat who guards her young,
Full at Fitz-James's throat he spnmg,
Received, but reok'd not of a wound,
And lock'd his arms his foeman round.

Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own !
'No maiden's hand is round thee thrown !
That desperate grasp thy frame might feel
Through bars of brass and triple steel !
They tug, they strain ; — down, down they go,
The Crael above, Fitz-James below.

The chieftain's gripe his throat compress'd.
His knee was planted on his breast ;
His clotted locks he backward threw.
Across his brow his hand he drew.
From blood and mist to clear his sight.
Then gleam'd aloft his dagger bright !

But hate and fury ill supplied
The stream of life's exhausted tide.
And all too late the advantage came,
To turn the odds of deadly game j

MOHT FOR Al.r..

613

For, while the dagger glcam'd on high,
Rccl'd soul and sense, reel'd brain and eye ;
Down came the blow ! but in the heuth
The erring blade found bloodless sheath.
Unwounded from the dreadful close.
But breathless all, Fitz-Jaroes arose.

— Scott.

LIGHT FOR ALL.

You cannot pay with money

The million sons of toil —
The sailor on the ocean,

The peasant on the soil,
The laborer in the quarry,

The hewer of the coal ;
Your money pays the hand,

But it cannot pay the soul.

The workshop must be crowded

That the palace may be bright;
If the ploughman did not plough,

Then the poet could not write.
Then let every toil be hallow'd

That man performs for man.
And have its share of honor.

As part o£ one great plan.

The man who turns the soil

Need not have an earthly mind;
The digger 'mid the coal

Need not be in spirit blind :
The mind can shed a light

On each worthy labor done.
As lowHest things are bright

In the radiance of the sun.

What cheers the musing student,

The poet, the divine ?
The thought that for his followers

A brighter day will shine.
Let every human laborer

Enjoy the vision bright —
Let the thought that comes from heaven

Be spread like heaven's own light !

Ye men who hold the pen.

Rise like a band inspired,
And, poets, let your lyrics

With hope for man bo fired ;

514

TO A DYINQ INFANT.

Till the earth becomes a temple,
And every human heart '

Shall join in one great service,
Each happy in biij part.

— From ike Qerman^

TO A DYING INFANT.

Sleep, little baby ! sleep !

Not in thy cradle bed, •
Not on thy mother's breast
Henceforth shall be thy rest,

But with the quiet dead.

Yes, with the quiet dead,

Baby ! thy rest shall be —

Oh ! many a weary wight,

Weary of life and light.

Would fain lie down with thee !

Flee, little tender nursling !

Flee to thy grassy nest —
There the first flowers shall blow,
The first pure flake of snow

Shall fall upon thy breast.

Peace ! peace ! the little bosom

Labors with shorten ing breath ;
Peace ! peace ! that tremulous sigh
Speaks his departure nigh —

Those are the damps pf death.

I've seen thee in thy beauty,
A thing all health and glee ;

But never then wert thou

So beautiful as now.

Baby ! thou seem'st to me.

Thine upturn'd eyes glazed over
Like harebells wet with dew —

Already veil'd and hid

By the convulsed lid,

Their pupils darkly blue.

The little mouth half open.
The soft lip quivering.
As if, like summer air.
Ruffling the rose leaves, there
Thy soul were fluttering.

MARCO BOZZABTS.

515

Qemian^

Mount up, immortal essence !

Young f pirit ! hence— depart I
And is this death P dread thing !
If such thv visiting,

How oeautiful thou art !

God took thee in His mercy,

A lamb untask'd — untried —

He fought the fighi; for thee,

He won the victory —

And thou art sanctified.

I look around, and see

The evil ways of men,
And oh, beloved child !
I'm more than reconci.'ed

To thy departure then.

The little arm that clasp'd me,

The innocent lips that press'd,

"Would they have been as pure

Till now, as when of yore

I luU'd thee on my breast P

Now, like a dewdrop shrined
Within a crystal stone,

Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove!

Safe with the source of love —
The everlasting One !

And when the hour arrives

From flesh that sets me free,

Thy spirit may await

The first at heaven's gate,
To meet and welcome me.

— D. M. Moifi.

MARCO BOZZARIS.

At midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,

Should tremble at his power;
In dreams, through court and camp, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror ;

In dreams his song of triumph heard ;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring ;
Then press'd that monarch's throne — a king ;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

As Eden's garden bird.

516

MARCO BOZZARIS.

At midnight, in the forest shades,

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band.
True as the steel of their tried blades.

Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood

On old Plataea's day ;
And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquer'd there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare.

As quick, as far as they.

An hour pass'd on — the Turk awoke ;

That bright dream was his last.
He woke — to hear his sentries shriek,
" To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek !"
He woke — to die midst flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke,

And death shots falling thick and fast
As lightning from the mountain cloud ;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, '

Bozzaris cheer his band :
" Strike — till the last arm'd foe expires ;
Strike — for your altars and your fires ;
Strike — for the green graves of your sires ;

God — and your native land !"

They fought — like brave ^ru^ long and well;

They piled that gronn v ".th Moslem slbin ;
They conquer'd — but Lo. cris fell.

Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile when rang their proud, " Hurrah I"

And the red field was won ;
Then saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose.

Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber. Death !

Come to the mother's, when she feels
For the first time, her firstborn's breath ;

Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke ;
Come in consumption's ghastly form.
The earthquake's shock, the ocean storm ;
Come when the heart beats high and warm, ,

With banquet song, and dance, and wine ;
And thou art terrible — the tear,

MARCO BOZZARIS.

617

♦

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier ;
And all we know, or dream, or fear
Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word ;
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come, when his task of fame is wrought —
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought —

Come in her crowning hour — sind thon
Thy sunken eyes' unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prison'd men.
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land ;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh

To the world-seeking Genoese,
When the land-wind, from woods of palm.
And orange groves, and fields of balm.

Blew o'er the Haytian seas.

Bozzaris ! with the storied brave v

Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee — there is no prouder grave,

Even in her own proud clime.
She wore no funeral weeds for thee.

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree
In sorrow's pomp, and pageantry,

The heartless luxuryiof the tomb.
But she remembers thee as one
Long loved, and for a season gone ;
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music breathed ;
For thee she rings the birthday bells ;
Of thee her babe's first lisping tells ;
For thine her evening prayer is said
At palace couch and cottage bed ;
Her soldier, closing with the foe.
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ;
His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears :

And she, the mother of thy boys.
Though ii\ her eye and faded cheek

518

OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.

Is read fche grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys,

And even she who gave thee Tbiith,

Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of thy doom without a sigh :

For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's ;

One of the few, the immortal names

That were not born to die.

— Halleck.

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet ;
Oh ! the last i.ys of feeling and life must depart.
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ;
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill.
Oh ! no — it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near.
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

— MOC KE.

OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.

Oft, in the stilly night.

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond memory brings the light
Of other days around me ;
The smiles, the tears.
Of boyhood's years.
The words of love then spoken ;
The eyes that shone.
Now dimm'd and gone.
The cheerful hearts now broken !
Thus, in the stilly night.

Ere slumber's chain hath bound me,
Sad memory brings the light
Of o^her days around me.

When I remember all

The friends, so link'd together,
I 've seen around me fall.

Like leaves in wintry weather ;

A SHIP SINKING.

1 feel like one

Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled,

Whose garlands dead.
And all but he departed !
Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere slumber's chain has bound mc,
Sad memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

619

— Moore.

A SHIP SINKING.

Her giant form,
O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm,
Majestically calm would go,
'Mid the deep darkness, white as snow !

520

A 8HIP SIN«KINQ.

But gently now the small waves ^lide,

Like playful lambs o'er a mountam side.

So stately her bearing, so proud her array,

The main she will traverse for ever and aye.

Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast ! —

Hush ! hush ! thou vain dreamer ! this hour is her last.

Five hundred soulsjin one instant of dread

Are hurried over the deck ;

And fast the miserable ship

Becomes a lifeless wreck.

Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock,

Her planks are torn asunder,

And down came her mast with a reeling shock.

And a hideous crash like thunder.

Her sails are drag^ id in the brine

That gladden'd late the skies,

And her pennant that kiss'd the fair moonshine,

Down many a fathom lies.

Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues

Gleam'd softly from below.

And flung a warm and sunny flash

O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow,

To the coral rocks are hurrying down

To sleep amid colors as bright as their own.

Oh ! many a dream was in the ship

An hour before her death ;

And sights of home with sighs disturb'd

The sleepers' long-drawn breath.

Instead of the murmur of the sea,

The sailor heard the humming-tree

Alive through all its leaves.

The hum of the spreading sycamore,

That grows before his cottage door.

And the swallows' song in the eaves.

His arm enclosed a blooming boy.

Who listen'd, with tears of sorrow and joy,

To the dangers his father had pass'd :

And his wife — by turns she wept and smiled,

As she look'd on the father of her child

Return'd to her heart at last.

— He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll,

And the rush of water is in his soul.

Now is the ocean's bosom bare,

Unbroken as the floating air ;

The ship hath melted quite away,

Like a struggling dream at break of day.

No image meets my wandering eye

But the new-risen sun and the sunny sky.

how's my boy?

521

Br last.

Though the night-shades are gone, yet a vapor dull
Bedims the wave so beautiful ;
While a low and melancholy moan
Mourns for the glory that hath flown.

— John Wilson.

HOW'S MY BOY?

" Ho, sailor of the sea !
> How's my boy— my boy?"

" What's your boy's name, good wife,
And in what good ship sail'd he?"

"My boy John — '

He that went to sea —

What care I for the ship, sailor P

My boy's my boy to me.

You come back from sea,

And not know my John ?

I might as well have ask'd some landsman

Yonder down in the town.

There's not an ass in all the ^ irish

But he knows my John.

"How's my boy — my boy?

And unless you let me know

I'll swear you are no sailor,

Blue jacket or no,

Brass buttons or no, sailor.

Anchor and crown or no ! ^

Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton / '*

" Speak low, woman, speak low!"

" And why should I speak low, sailor.

About my own boy John ?

If I were loud as I am proud

I'd sing him o'er the town!

Why should I speak low, sailor?"

" That good ship went down."

"How's my boy — my boy?

What care I for the ship, sailor ?

I never was aboard her.

Be she afloat or be she aground.

Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound

Her owners can afibrd her !

I say, how's my John ? "

" Every man aboard went down,

Every man aboard her."

"How's my boy — my boy?

What care I for the men, sailor?

522

THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA.

I'm not their mother.
How's my boy — my boyP
Tell me of him and no other !
How's my boy — my boy P "

— DOBELL.

TbI

THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA.

" Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down ;

Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.

From gay guitar and vio!in the silver notes are flowing,

And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpets, lordly blowing;

And banners bright from lattice light are waving everywhere.

And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats proudly in the

air.
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down ;
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.

" Arise, arise, Xarifa ; I see Andalla's face ;
Ho bends him to the people, with a calm and princely grace ;
Through all the land of Xeres, and banks of Guadalquiver,
Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so brave and lovely, never.
Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of azure mix'd with white,
I guess 'twas wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night.
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down ;
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.

" What aileth thee, Xarifa P what makes thine eyes look down ?
Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the town ?
I 've heard you say on many a day, and sure you said the truth,
Andalla rides without a peer among all Granada's youth ;
Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse doth go
Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and slow.
Then rise, oh rise, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down :
Unseen here, through the lattice you may gaze with all the town."

The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down ;

Nor came she to the window to gaze with all the town ;

But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain her fingers strove.

And though her needle press'd the silk, no flower Xarifa wove.

One bonny rosebud she had traced before the noise drew nigh ;

That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow dropping from her eye.

" No, no," she sighs, " bid me not rise, nor lay my cushion down,

To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing town."

*' Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your cushion down ?

Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the gazing town P

Hear, hear that trumpet how it swells ! and how the people cry !

He stops at Zara's palace-gate. Why sit ye still ? oh, why ? "

RESIGNATION.

523

)OBELL.

" At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate ; in him shall I discover

The dark-eyed youth pledged me hia truth with tears, and was my lover.

I will not rise with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion down,

To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing town."

— LOCKHART.

jlowing ;
ly in the

Bver.
ite,

1?
?

wn.

ove,

EESIGNATION.

The^ is no flock, however watch'd and tended,

But one dead lamb is there !
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair !

The air is full of farewells to the dying.

And mournings for the dead ;
The heart of Bachel, for her children crying,

Will not be comforted.

Let us be patient. These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,

'I.'

524

RESIONAJION.

But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise. IH

We see but dimly through the miits and vapors

Amid these earthly damps :
What seem to us but sad funereal tapers

May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no death ! What seems so is transition.

This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life Blysian,

Whose portal we call death.

She is not dead, the child of our affection,

But gone unto that school
Where she no longer needs our poor protection.

And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,

By guardian angels led,
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,

Shtj lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day, we think what she is doing

In those bright realms of air ;
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,

Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken

The bond which nature gives,
Thinking that our renffembrance, though unspoken.

May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her ;

For when with rapture wild,
In our embraces we again enfold her,

She will not be a child ;

But a fair maiden in her Father's mansion,

Clothed with a celestial grace ;
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion ^

Shall we behold her face.

And though at times impetuous with emotion,

And anguish long surpress'd.
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean

That cannot be at rest,

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay :
By silence sanctifying, not concealing,

•The grief tliat must have way. — Longfellom'.

- I

THE BUOOK.

525

THE BROOK.

I COME from haunts of coot and hern,

I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle oui among the fern

To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills 1 hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges ;

By twenty thorps, a little town.
And half a hundred bridges.

I chatter over stony ways.
In little sharps and trebles, —

I bubble into cadying bays —
I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret,
By many a field and fallow^-

And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river ;

For men may come, and men may go.
But I go on for ever.

I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,

And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling ;

And here and there a foamy flake

Upon me, as I travel,
With many a silvery waterbreak

Above the golden gravel.

And 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.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,

I slide by hazel covers ;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots

That grow for happy lovers,

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows ;

I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses ;

526

THE GRAVE.

I linger by my shingly bars ;
I loiter round my creases ;

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.

— Tennyson.

THE ECHOES.

The splendor falls on castle walls

And snovry summits old in story ;
The long light shakes across the lakes

And the wild cataract leaps in glory :
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying.
Blow, bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh, hark 1 oh, hear I how thin and clear

And thinfler, clearer, further going !
Oh ! sweet and far, from cliff and scar

The horns of Elf -land faintly blowing.
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying.
Blow, bugle, answer echoes, ajring, dying, dying.

love, they die on yon rich sky.
They faint or bill, on field, on river ;

Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever nv.d for 3ver.
Blow, bug'-, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And wii.swor, echoes answer, dying, dying, dying.

^— Tennys'.'n-.

THE GRAVE.

I STOOD within the grave's o'ershadowing vault ;

Gloomy and damp, it stretch'd its vast domain ;
Shades were its boundary ; for my strain'd eye sought

For other limits to its width in vain.

Faint from the ontmnce came a daylight ray.
And distant sound of living mei. and things ;

This in the encountering darkness pass'd away.
That took the tone in which a mour'ncn* sings.

T lit a torch at a sepulchra' la^np,

Which shot a thread of light amid the gloom ;
And feebly burning 'gainst the rolling damp,

1 bore it through the rt gions of the tomb.

Around me stretch'd the slumbers of the dead.

Whereof the silence achod ui»on mine ear;
More and raoro noiseless did 1 tiotc my tread.

And yet its echoes chill'd Uiy heai't vatli fear.

THE OKAVE.

527

ENNYSON.

ENNYSON'.

The former mon of every age and plnce,

From all their wamloritigs, gather'd round rac lay ;

The dust of wither'd empires did I trace,
And stood 'mid generations pass'd away.

I saw whole cities, that in flood or fire,

Or famine, or the plague, gave up their breath;

Whole armies, whom a day beheld expire,

Swept by ten thousands to the arms of death.

I saw the old world's white and wave-swept bones,
A giant heap of creatures that had been ;

Far and confused the broken skeletons

Lay strewn beyond mine eyes' remotest ken.

Death's various shrines —the urn, the stone, the lamp —
Were scatter'd round confused amid the dead ;

Sjrmbols and types were mouldering in the damp.
Their shapes were wanting and their meaning fled.

Unspoken tongues, perchance in praise or woe.
Were chronicled on tablets time had swept ;

And deep were half their letters hid below

The thick, small dust of those they once had wept.

No hand was here to wipe the dust away ;

No reader of the writing traced beneath ;
No spirit sitting by its form of clay ;

No sigh nor sound from all the neaps of death.

One place alone had ceased to hold its prey ;

A form had press'd it and was there no more ;
The garments of the grave beside it lay,

Where once'they wrapt Him on the rocky floor.

He only with returning footsteps broke
The eternal calm with which the tomb was bound ;

Among the sleeping dead alone He woke

And bless'd with outstretch'd hands the host around.

Well is it that such blessing hovers here,
To soothe each sad survivor of the throng

Who haunt the portals of the solemn sphere,
And pour their woe the loaded air along.

They to the verge have foUow'd what they love.
And on the insuperable threshold stand ;

With cherish'd names its speechless calm reprove,
And stretch in the abyss their ungrasp'd hand.

But vainly there they seek their soul's relief,
And of the obdurate grave its prey implore ;

Till death himself shall medicine their grief,
Closing their eyes by those they met before.

528 THE DYING C^ISFIAN TO H'S SOUL.

All that have «Ued, the eartii's whole race, repose
"Where death collects his treasures, heap on heap ;

O'er each one's busy day the night shades close ;
lis actors, sufferers, schools, kings, armies — sleep.

—Mrs. Olive.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

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

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

The world recedes ; it disappears !

Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears

With sounds seraphic ring :

Lend, iend your wings ! I mount ! I fly !

O grave ! where is thy victorvP

O death ! where is thy sting r

"Pope.

CLASSIFIED TABLE OF CONTENTS.

I. THE SCIENCES.

4.
5.

The Nattjeai. Scibkces

1. Geology

Mineralogy

Copper Mines of Lake Superior .
The Volcano and the Earthquake .
Zoology-
Nature in Motion

Snails

life in a Water-Drop ....

Botany

Dish of Vegetables

Chemistry

Meteorology —
Atmospheric Phenomena
II. Mathematical and Physical Soiewcbs—
Mathematical Sciences ....

1. Mechanics— The Steam Engine .

2. Astronomy— The Sun ....

Optics— Light

Acoustics— Soxmd, Hearing, etc. .
Life, Electricity, Magnetism, and Heat
Heat— Conduction and Radiation .
Marvels of Human Caloric .

Electricity

Atlantic Telegraph

Magnetism— The Loadstone and the Magnet
Life— Circulation of the Blood

ni. Social Scibncbs

1. Ethics— True Greatness . *^. . .

2. Politics-
Law of Nature and Nations .
Representative Government in England
Political Economy-
Division of Labour

Industry and Intelligence

Page .
Varley .
Dr. D. Wilson
Reid .

Pufjnom'a Magazme
Kearley

Sharpe'a Magazine
Gray .

Jffoiw«hold Words .
Fownes

ConataUe'8 Sixth. Reader

Anderson .
Herschel
J. M. Wilson
Tyndall

Tyndall

Dr. Geo. Wilson

J. M. Wilson

Dr. Geo. Wilson

Goodrich

Mrs. Hack .

Channing .

Mackintosh
Guizot .

Adam Smith
Wpyland

PAGH

. 36

. 41

. 48

. 63

. 293

. 68

. 73

. 77

103
118

120

186

200
326
217
220
261
266
290
309
344
315
324
349
288

334
339

353
366

630

CLASSIFIED TABLE OF CONTENTS.

PAOB

IV. Mbwtaj. Scibitobs 406

Of Studies Bacon 367

Imagination Ruskin 426

II. HISTORY AND GEOGRAPHY.

I. AnoiBITT HlSTOBI—

Egypt

Babylon

Battle of Marathon . . .
Schools of Athens . . .
Inllaence of Athena . .
End of Peloponnebian War .

Hannibal

Defeat and Capture of Caractacviu
Destrmction of the Temple

II. Mbdiavajl Histoht—

Battle of Chalons .
Charlemagne ....
Tbc First Crusade .
:Vfagna Charta ....
Origin of the English Nation
Fall of Constantinople .

III. Modbbw Hisxobt—

Return of Columbus
Discovery of Newfoundland .
Nova Scotia ....
New Brunswick
Prince Edward Island .
Early History of Canada
Lake Ontario and the Thousand Islands
**' Execution of Queen Mary

Character of Queen Elizabeth

Battle of Naseby .

Cromwell's Expulsion of Parliament

War between the Iroquois and Eries

Great Plague of London

Death of Wolfe

Character of Earl of Chatham

Marie Antoinette . ,

Death of Nelson

Death of George III.

Battle of Sobraon .

Defence of Jellalabad .

Surrender of Kars .

Battle of Balaklavp

Defence of Lucknow

History in Words .

IV. GlJOGBAPHT—

Discovery of the Albert N'janza
The Sea

Smith

Bulwer

Gibbon

Macaulay

Keightley

Arnold

Merivale

Milman

Greasy .
Hallam
Collier .
Milner .
Macaulay
Gibbon

Prescott
Warburton

M'Gregor
Warburton

Maple Leaf
Robertson
Hume .
Thome .
Lingard
Rdaiiona des
Pepys .
Farkman
Mabon .
Burke .
Southey
Thackeray
Alison .

Sandwith
KuBsell

Trench ,

Baker .
Goodrich

J4smies

32
46
61
81

101
129
138
140
143

149
164
166
160
163
166
170
192
198
207
213
224
226
242
246
266
266
278
306
298
336
329
398
411

8
20

PAOB

. 405

367

426

11
26
90
92
46
61
81
84

. 101

. 129

. 138

. 140

. 143

. 149
164
166
160
163
166
170
192
198
207
213
224
226
242
246
266
266
278
306
298
336
329
398
411

8
20

CLASSIFIED TABLE OP CONTENTS-

•

681

PAQB

The Gulf Stream M .ury .

. 126

The Atlanlic Ocean „ . .

. 344

Vancouver Island H. Fyfe .

. 173

British Columbia „

. 174

Red Rivor Settlement Ballantyne .

. 176

Hudson Bay Territory Warburton .

. 178

Lake Ontario and the Thousand Islands . . MapU Leaf .

. 170

III. THl ABTS.
I. Thb Usnut Abt8—

1. Agriculture —

Composition of Soils Fownes

Ancient and Modem ^ arming . . . Bum .

2. Manufactures and Commerce —

Phoenician Manufactures and Commerce . Taylor .

Clothing f^om Animals Aikin .

Vegetable Clothing i> •

3. Printing—

The Art of Printing
II. Thb Fivb Ahts.

1. iiTChitecture—
Monuments of Egypt .
Athenian Architecture .
Gtothic Architecture
Ancient American Architecture

2. Sculpture-
Celebrated Sculptures .

8. Painting-
Greek Painters
Schools of Painting

4. Engraving—

An of Engraving Hinckley

5. M. >ic—

Power of^ Music Disraeli

Disraeli

Schmitz

Bulwer . . . .

Duncan

Sharpe's Magazine

Wonders of all Nations

Smith . . . .
Alison . . . .

64
46

108

461

. 428

. 430

. 433

. 437

. 444

. 460

. 466
. 468

IV. RHETORIC AND
I. Rhetobio —

Oration on the Crown .

Verres Denounced

Queen Henrietta of England

Invasion of the Camatic
" Reply to the Duke of Grafton

Against Warren Hastings .

Against Napoleon .

On Parliamentary Privilege .

Defence of Peltier .

Defence of Hardy .

On Parliamentary Reform .

BELLES LETTRES.

Demosthenes

. S3

Cicero .

Bossuet

. 215

Burke .

. 250

Thurlow

. 262

Sheridan

. 263

Grattan

. 208

Mansfield .

. 276

Mackintosh .

. 297

Erskine

. 362

Canniug

. 282

Brougham .

. 285

532

CLASSIFIED TABLE OF CONTENTS.

PAOB

On Parliamentary Reform .

Gladstone .

. 391

■\

- The Future of America ....

Webster

. 320

Farewell Address to the Senate .

Henry Clay .

. 321

Science

The late Prince Consort

. 347

On the Defence of Canada .

Palmerston .

. 371

Canada, the Land of our Birth .

Dr. Ryerson

. 388

Canada, the Land of our Adoption

Dr. M'Caul .

. 382

The Death of the Wicked ,

Massillon

. 239

Cruelty to Animals ....

Chalmers .

. 27ft

War with Napoleon ....

Robert Hall.

. 271

;

English Justice

Sydney Smith .

. 304

Religion and the Intellect .

Hugh White

. 379

Insufficiency of Natural Theology

Melville

. 332

II. MiSCELLANEOVS PrOSB EXTRACTS —

On the Pleasures of Science

Brougham .

. 18

Discipline

Author of the "Hen- of |

Redclyffe "

. 114

Character of James Watt .

Jeffrey ....

. 205

Christian Knight and Saracen Cavalier

Scott ....

. 133

Locksley, from " Ivanhoe " .

t> • • • •

. 302

Academy of Lagado ....

Swia ....

. 376

The Dead Ass

Sterne ....

. 394

Death of the Little Scholar .

Dickens

. 39l>
. 313

Science and Art

Brewster

An English Country Gentleman .

Irving ....

. 396

The Ruined Lodge ....

Haliburton .

. 401

Scene at Oswego

Cooper ....

. 409

Letter to the Earl of Chesterfield

Johnson

. 417

Letter to the Duke of Bedford

Junius ....

. 418

Chaucer and Cowley ....

Dryden

. 421 1

Dryden and Pope

Johnson

. 422 1

Study of Latin and Greek .

Sydney Smith .

. 369 i

Noble Revenge

De Quincey .

. 463 ■

Industry Essentially Social .

Everett

. 470

V. POETRY AND THI

: DRAMA.

I. POBTBT—

Address to a Mummy

Horace Smith .

Belshazzar

Milman

. 12

Forging of the Anchor

S. Ferguson

. 23

Death of Leonidas .

Croly ....

Flight of Xerxes

Miss Jewsbury .

. 29

The Sea! the Sea! .

Maple Leaf .

Tubal CaiJi

Charles Mackay .

51 i

Defence of the Bridge

Macaulay .

55 K

Beauty of Insects .

Mrs. Barbauld .

60 ■

To a Waterfowl

Bryant

72 P

The Coral Insect

Sigonrney .

75 H

Boadicea ....

Cow per

83 W

Last Days of Herculanew

n , . . .

Atherstone ....

87 1

CLASSIFIED TABLE OF CONTENTS.

533

PAOB

. 391

. 320

. 321

. 347

. 371

. 388

. 382

. 239

. 279

. 271

. 304

. 379
332

114

205

133

302

376

394

39b

313

396

401

409

417

418

421

422

369

463

470

6
12
23
27
29
47
61
65
60
72
75
83
87

PAOB

Byron 90

Burns 97

Barry Cornwall . . .108
Bulwer 113

The Coliseum ......

To a Mountain Dat.sy ....

The Linden Tree

The BaUad of Rou

Ye Mariners of Etifjland ....

The Cloud

First Voyage of Columbus
Edinburgh offer Flodden

Jacques Cartier T. Darcy M'Gee .

T/w Coteau Rapid ...... Charles Sangster

Campbell
Shelley
Joanna Baillio
Aytoun

The Indian

The Queen

Mary Queen of Scots

Song of Steam

Invocation to Light

Blind Bartimeus R. J. M'George

The Blind Girl Miss Page .

142
123
146
162
164
172

la?

184
196

M'Lellan

Maple Leaf .

Bell ....

Anon 204

Milton 220

. 221
. 223

City of the Plague John Wilson . . .228

The Dumh Child Household Words . . .234

There is a Tongue xn Every Leaf . . Anon 236

The Bells Poo 237

Battle of Waterloo Byron 276

Funeral of Napoleon I Maple Leaf ....

Funerol of ffellingfon Tennyson ....

Hymn 6e/ore Sunrise Coleridge ....

Chorge of the Light Brigade .... Tennj son ....

Ode to Duty . Wordsworth

TThat Constitutes a State ? .... Sir William Jones

Labor C. F. Orne ....

Instruction! James Montgomery .

The Library Crabbe . . . .

The Student I>ublin University Magazine.

Blessings of Instruction Bowring ....

Procrastination Young 393

Mercy to .4uinials Cowper .... 394

286
311
328
332
338
344
366
369
371
375
377

Triumphs of the English Language

Pleasures of Imogination

Hymn to the Creator

Tlie Turf siiall be my Fragrant Shrine

Reflections on Flowers

From the " Deserted Fillage " .

The Mariner's Hymn Caroline Southey

Hymn of Nature Feabody .

Lyons . . • . . 424

Akensidc .... 427

Milton 380

Moore 382

Keble 384

Goldsmith . . . .386

. 387

. 390

The Bard Gray 503

The Passions Collins 504

Ginevra Rogers 606

lochiel's TTorning Campbell .... 508

Pitr-James and Bodericfc Dhu . Scott 510

Light for All From the German . . 613

To a Dying Infant Moir . . . ■ .614

Morco Bozzaris Halleok , . .616

534

CLASSIFIED TABLE OF CONTENTS.

fiGH

Meeting of the Waters Moore .

. 618

Oft, in the Stilly Nighl .

»» • • •

. 618

A Ship Sinking

John Wilson

. 619

How's my Boy ?

Dobell .

. 621

On Sleepi/ng Children

Bowles.

. 443

Parrhaaiua

N. P. Willis .

. 447

Music hy Moonlight

Shakespeare

. 460

My Own Place .

Tupper

. 466

What it Nolle 7

Swain .

. 466

Lay for St. Cecilia's Day

Dryden

. 601

Bridal of Andalla .

Lockbart

. 622

Resignation ....

Longfellow .

. 423

The Brook

Tennyson .

. 625

TheEclioes

•f •

. . 626

The Grave

Mrs. Olive .

. 626

The Dying Christian to his Soul

Pope .

. 628

•

II. The Dbahji —

Scene from " Edward II."

Marlowe

. . . 47S

„ "Julius Ccesar" .

Shakespeare

. . 476

„ " Merchant of Venice"

. 480

"Rtchardll." .

. 484

„ "Richard III." .

. 486

"Henry VIIV .

. . .487

"Hamlet" .

. 488

„ "The Critic"

Sheridan

. 489

Scene of " The Prencii Revolution '

Mrs. Hemans

. 491

Scene /rom" William Tell" .

Sheridan Knowles . . 494

„ "Richelieu"

Balwer

. . 496

INDEX OF AUTHORS,

WITH THEIR DATES AND CHIEF WORKS.

Aikin, Dr .

Akenside, ]V{^rk

Albert, Prince .

Alison, Sir Arch.

Arnold, Dr Tliomas .

Atherstone, Edwm .

Aytoun, W. E. .

Bacon, Lord

Sailhe, Joanna .

Baker, Sir S. W.

tBallantyne, R. M. .

Barbauld, Mrs .

Bell, Heury G. .

BoBsuet, J. B. .

Bowles, W. L. .

Bo wring. Sir John .

Brewster, Sir David

Brougham, Lord

•Bryant, W. C. .

Bulwer, Sir E. L. (Lord Lytton)

Burke, Edmund

1747-1822

1721-1770

1819-1861

1792-1807

1795-1842

1788-

1813-1866

1661-1626

1762-1851

1743-1826

1627-1704

1762-1860

1792-

1781-1868

1778-1868

1730-1797

Biographical Dictionary.
Pleasures of Imagination.
Speeches on various occasions.
History of Europe ; Essays.
Historv of Rome ; Sermons.
Fall of Nineveh and other Poeois.
Lays of Scottish Cavaliers.
Novum Organum ; Essays.
Plays on the Passions.
Discovery of the Albert Nyanza.
The Young Fur Trader, and other Tales.
Hymns in Prose.
Life of Queen Mary.
Sermons.

Sonnets, and other Popme.
Matins and Vespers ; Translations.
Life of Newton; Treatise on Optics.
Speeches; Historical Sketches.
The Ages, and other Poems.
Rienzi ; My Novel ; The Caxtons.
Speeches; Reflections onThoFrench Revolution.

* Natives of the United States of America, t Natives of, or who are, or have been,
residents in Canada. No dates arc subjoined to the names of living authors.

Viea

. 618

. 619

. 621

. 413

. 447

. 460

. 465

. 466

. 601

. 622

. 423

. 626

, 628

. 475
. 476

. 480
. 184

. 486

• .*87

. 488

. 489

. 491

. 494

. 496

INDEX OF AUTHORS.

535

Bum, D. Scott .
Bums, Robert .
Byron, Lord
Campbell, Thomas
Oanning, Right Hon. Geo,
Chalmers, Dr Thomas
*Channing, W. E.
Cicero
•Clay, Henry .

8 live, Mrs.
oleridge, S. T.
Collier, W. F. .
CoUius, William
•Cooper, W. Fenimore
Cowper, William
Craboe, George
Creasy, Sir E. T.
Croly, George .
Demosthenes . . circ.
De Quincey, Thomas
Dickens, Charles
Disraeli, Isaac .
Dobell, Sydney
Dryden, John .
Duncan, Henry
Erskine, Thomas
•Everett, Edward
Ferguson, Samuel
Fownes, J.
Gibbon, Edward
Gladstone, Right Hon. W. E.
Goldsmith, Oliver
•Goodrich, Dr .
Grattan, Henry
•Gray, Dr Asa .
Gray, Thomas .
Guizot, F. P. G.
Hack, Mrs.
tHallburton, Judge
Hall, Roberh .
Hallam, Henry
•Halleck, Fitz-Greene
Hemans, Mrs .
Herschel, Bir John
Hume, David .
•Irving, Washington

Jeffrey, Lord
Jewsbury, Misa
Johnson, Dr. Samuel
Jones, Sir William .
Junius (Sir Philip Francis)
Eeble, Rev. John
Keightley, Thomas
Knowles, J. Sheridai.
Lingard, Dr John
Lockhart, J. G.
•Longfellow, H. W. .
Macaulay, Lord
Mackay, Charles
Mackintosh, Sir James
tM'Caul, Dr John .

. 1769-1796

. 1788-1824

. 1777-1844

. 1770-1827

. 1780-1847

. 1780-1842
. B.C. 106-43

. 1777-1862

.* 1772-1884

'. 1720-1769

. 1789-1861

. 1731-1800

. 1764-1832

'. 1780-1880
386-322 B.C.

. 1786-1859
. -1870

. 176^1848

". 1631-1700

. 1774-1846

. 1750-1823

. 1794-1865

1737-1794
1728-1774
1760-1820
17i3-1771

179&-1865
1764-1831
1778-1869

1793-1835

1711-1776
1783-1859

1773-1850

1709-1784
1746-1794
1740-1818
1790-1866

1784-1862
1771-1851
1794-1854

1800-1859

1765-1832

1826-1868

Revolution,
have been.

tM'Oee, T. D'Arcy .
tM'George, Rev. R. J.

M'Gregor,J 1797-1857

Mahon, Lord (Earl Stanhope)
Mansfield, Earl of . . . 17U5-1793

Modem Farming.

Cotter's Saturday Night ; Tarn O'Shanter.

Ghilde Harold ; English Bards.

Pleasures of Hope ; Gertrude of Wyoming.

Speeches; An ti -Jacobin.

Natural Theology ; Sermons.

Essays and Sermons.

Orations.

Speeches.

Poems ; Paul Ferrol.

Aids to Reflection ; Poems.

British History ; English Literature.

Odes and Eclogues.

The Spy; Pioneers; Prairie.

The Task; Table Talk.

The Village ; Parish Register.

Decisive Battles of the World.

Salathiel; Poems. •

Orations.

Confessions of an Opium Eater ; Essays.

Pickwick Papers ; David Copperfield.

Curiosities of Literature.

The Roman ; Balder.

Satires and Translations.

Philosophy of the Seasons.

Speeches.

Speeches and Essays.

Treatise on Chemistry.

Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

Relations of Church and State ; Speeches.

"Vicar of Wakefield ; Traveller.

Peter Parley's Tales and Histories.

Speeches.

Botanical Text Books. «

Elegy in a Country Churchyard ; The Bard.

History of Civilization.

English Stories of Olden Time, &c.

Sam Slick the Clockmaker.

Sermons.

History of Middle Ages ; Literature of Europe.

Marco Bozzaris, and othpr Poems.

Songs of the Affections, and other Poems.

Outlines of Astronomy ; Natural Philosophy.

History of England ; Essays.

Sketch Book ; Knickerbocker's History of New

York.
Ess&vs.

The Half-Sisters ; Zoe.
The Rambler ; Rasselas ; Lives of the Poets.
Commentaries and Translations.
Letters.

Christian Year.
Fairy Mythology ; History of Greece and Rome.
William Tell ; Virginius ; The Hunchback.
History of England.

Spanish Ballads ; Life of Sir Walter Scott.
Evangeline ; Golden Legend ; Hiawatha.
Lays of Ancient Rome ; History of England.
Popular Delusions ; Poems.
Dissertations and Essays.
Horace ; Britanno - Roman Inscriptions ;

Christian Epitaphs.
Canadian Ballads; History of Ireland.
Tales and Sketches.
Sketches of Maritime Colonies of B. A.
History of England, 1713-83 ; Essays.
Speeches.

536

INDEX OF AUTHORS.

Marlowe, Christopher

Maflsillon. J. B.

•Maury, Captain M. P.

Melvill, Henry .

Merivale, C.

Milman, H. H. .

Milner, Thomas

Milton, John

Moir, D. M.

Montgomery, James

Moore, Thomas

tPage, Miss (Mrs Faulkner)

Page, David

Palmerston, Viscount

•Parkman, P. .

•Peabody, W. B. 0. .

Pepys, Samuel .

*Poe, Edgar Allan .

Pope, Alexander

•Prescott, W. H.

Procter, B.W. (Barry Cornwall)

tReid, Hugo .

Robertson, Dr William

Rogers, Samuel

Ruakin, John .

Russell, W. H. .

tRyerson, Dr Egerton

Sandwith, Dr .

tSangster, 0. .

Schmitz, Dr L.

Scott, Sir Walter .

Shakespeare, William

Shelley, Percy B. .

Sheridan, R. B.

Jfiij^-ourney, Mrs

Bmith, Adam .

Smith, Horace .

Smith, Dr William .

Smith, Sydney .
Southey, Caroline .
Southey, Robert
Sterne, Lawrence .
Swain, Charles .
Swift, Jonathan
Taylor, W. C. .
Tennyson, Alflred .
Thackeray, W. M. .
Thurlow, Lord .
Trench, Archbishop

Tnpper, Martin P. .
Tyndall, Professor .
Varley, Mrs
Warbnrton, Bliot .
•Wayland, Dr Pranois
•Webster, Daniel
•Willis, N. P. .
tWilson, Dr Daniel .

Wilson, DrGteorge .
Wilson, Professor John

Wordsworth, William
Yonge, Miss
Young, Edward

1799-1847
1632-1703
1811-1840
1688-1744
1796-1859

1721-1793
1763-1866

166S-1S93 Dramatic Works.
1663-1742 Sermons.

Physical Geography of the Sea.

Sermons.

History of Rome under the Empire.
1791-1668 History of the Jews; Hist.of Latin Christianity.

History of England, Rome, &c.
1608-1674 Paradise Lost ; L'Allegro ; II Pcnseroso.
1798-1861 Di'amatic Verses, and other Poems.
1771-1864 Greenland; Pelican Island, &c.
1779-1862 Lalla Rookh ; Irish Melodies.

Poems.

Manual of Geology.
1784-1866 Speeches.

Conspiracy of Pontiac.

Omitl logy of Massachusetts ; Poems.

Diary and Correeponilence.

The Raven ; Tales of the Grotesque.

Translation of tho Iliad ; Epistles and Satires.

Conquest of Mexico ; Ferdinand and Isabella.

Flood of Thessaly, and other Poems.

Physical Geography.

History of Charles V.; History of America.

Pleasures of. Memory; Italy.

Stones of Venice ; Modem Painters.

Letters from tho Crimea, &c.

Letters and Speeches.

Siege of Kars.

St. Lawrence and Sagaenay ; Hesperus.

Manuals of Ancient History and Geography.
1771-1832 Waverley Novels ; Lady of the Lake, etc.
1664-1616 Plays and Poems.
1792-1822 Revolt of Islam ; The Cenci.
1761-1816 School for Scandal ; The Critic.
1791-1866 Pocahontas, and other Poems.
1723-1790 Wealthof Nations; Theoryof Moral Sentiments.
1779-1849 Rejected Addresses ; Brambletye House.

Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities ;
Dictionary of the Bible.
1771-1846 Essays ; Moral Philosophy.
1787-1864 Solitary Hours, &c.
1774-1843 Thalaba ; Curse of Keehama.
1713-1768 Tristram Shandy ; Sentimental Journey.

English Melodies, and other Poems.
1667-1745 Gulliver's Travels ; Tale of a Tub.
1802-1849 Manual of Ancient and Modem Historj-.

In Memoriam ; Idyls of the King.
1811-1863 Vanity Pair; Pendennis ; Newcomes.
1732-1826 Speeches.

Notes on the Parables ; Miracles ; Study of
Words.

Proverbial Philosophy.

Glaciers of tho Alps ; Radiation.

Treatise on Mineralogy.
1810-1862 Hochelaga; Conquest of Canada.
1796-1866 Moral S'^ience ; Political Economy.
1782-1862 Speeches.
1817-1867 Pencillings by the Way ; Poems.

Pre-historic Man ; Archseology and Pre-his-
toric Annals of Scotland.
1818-1869 Five Gateways of Knowledge, &c.
1786-1864 Recreations of Christopher North ; City of tho

Plague. ^

1770-1860 The Excursion ; Sonnets.

Heir of RedclyCTe ; Daisy Chain.
168*-17e6 Night Thoughts.

2a.

mpirc.

An Christianity,

PcnseroBo.

oems.

; Poems.

:e8q«e.

les and Satires.

id and Isabella.

Poems.

y of America.

inters.

Hesperus.

d Geography.

Lake, etc.

il Sentiments,
ye House,
a Antiquities ;

Journey,
ems.
ub.

I Historj-.

ng-
comes.

es; Study of

ny.

and Pre-his-
h; City of the