J, Henry Senger CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. "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 ; others, to be read, but not curi- ously ; 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 Reading maketh a f^tll man ; conference, a ready man ; and writing; an exact man. And therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a great memory ; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit ', and if he reads little, he had need have much running, to seem to know that he doth not. Histories make men wise ; poets, witty ; the mathematics, subtle ; natural philosophy, deep ; moral, grave ; logic and rhetoric, able to contend." BACON'S ESSAYS. American (Efcucatiomd Aeries* THE LITERARY READER TYPICAL SELECTIONS FROM SOME OF THE BEST BRITISH AND AMERICAN AUTHORS, FROM SHAKESPEARE TO THE PRESENT TIME, Chronologically WITH BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL SKETCHES, AND NUMEROUS NOTES, ETC., ETC. BY GEORGE R. CATHCART. NEW YORK AND CHICAGO: IVISON, BLAKEMAN, TAYLOR, AND COMPANY. 1876. 094- /876 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, BY IVISON, BLAKEMAN, TAYLOR, & CO., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. J. PREFACE. THE compiler of this work has not designed to make a compendium of English Literature, but to provide the means of acquiring a fair knowledge of that literature, for those who may not be able to procure a regular course of study on the subject. So far as gradation is concerned, the book is intended to fill the place usually occupied by the "Sixth" or "Advanced" Reader. The, extracts will be found of suitable length, and in other respects well adapted, it is hoped, for this purpose. In the ordinary catalogue of common-school studies literature, practically, holds but a humble place : its value to the mass of scholars has been underestimated, and it has been esteemed a branch of knowl- edge really useful only to the few who aspire to a " liberal education." Public sentiment has fortunately undergone a change touching this mat- ter, within a few years ; and in the hope of furthering that change and confirming literature in its true place among school studies, this book has been prepared. The people of the United States are, above all others, a nation of readers, and no thoughtful person need be told how potent in the formation of character and in the shaping of the national life is the influence of books. The rapid increase of our schools in numbers and efficiency, the multiplication of public libraries, and the ever-growing volume of new publications, indicate beyond the possibility of doubt that, practical people though we are, we find in books the chief source of our intelligence and national strength. Books embody the accumulated wis- dom of ages ; in them we have the garnered experience of centuries long past ; in them we find, so to speak, formulas for our guidance, precedents in the conduct of our fathers, which time has stamped with the validity of rules. Human nature is, in effect, unchanged since the earliest days of the world ; and the record of its thought and manifestations, which consti- 925168 VI PREFACE. tutes tlie history of civilisation, is tlie most precious inheritance that could have come down to us. 1^ The literature of a nation is its liistory in the subtlest form ; and he who intelligently reads it apprehends the spirit of the time, while history itself gives him only results. Literature is, indeed, the most faithful expression of the national spirit, which seems to inspire and inform it y and the reader of tins volume can readily trace in the chron- ologically arranged extracts from her writers the many stages that mark the vicissitudes of England's thought : religion, politics, general culture, all disclose their changing features in the theology, the poetry, and the drama of succeeding centuries. English Literature, it is hardly necessary to say, antedates the time at which our extracts begin. Its birth is generally assigned to the last half of the fourteenth century. Three chief forces produced it, classical learn- ing, the influence of Italian culture, and Norman poetry, known as Romance literature, winch was gradually introduced into England after the Conquest. But of this period and of the earlier centuries to which belong the Saxon poem of Beowulf, Caedmon's paraphrase of Scripture, the Ecclesiastical History of the Venerable Bede (who "lived 673-735), Layamon's "Brut," the metrical Chronicle of Robert of Gloucester, etc., etc. it has been thought best to reproduce in this volume no representative fragments, for the reason that these archaic writings are valuable only to the professed scholar. The same reason operates, less powerfully indeed, to exclude specimens of Chaucer's poems. He was, it is true, the founder of Eng- lish literature, and the first who demonstrated that the English language was susceptible of forcible and harmonious arrangement in rhythmical form. But his writings present serious obstacles to the ordinary reader in their multitude of obsolete words and phrases, and an acquaintance with them may properly follow the study of more modern writers. Moreover, the reform which he inaugurated in letters was not steadily progressive. The century immediately following his life was notably barren of literary growth ; a barrenness mainly due to the stern repression of free inquiry by the ecclesiastical authorities, and secondarily to the prevalence of civil wars, which diverted attention from the peaceful pursuit of letters. Near the close of this century, however, printing was introduced into England, as if in preparation for the season of intellectual activity which was near at hand. This season is known as the Elizabethan age, the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and has been called the creative period in English literature. PREFACE. Vll It may be regarded as the legitimate result of the Reformation, which loosened the bonds that had trammeled men's minds, and encouraged free investigation and free expression. It has three representatives, par excel- lence, Hooker of. the theological spirit, Bacon of the philosophical, and Shakespeare of the poetic and dramatic. With the last' of these, " the most illustrious of the sons of man," our series of glimpses at English literary history begins. + As even the merest mention of all distinguished writers was obviously impracticable, it has been attempted, in the preparation of this volume, to introduce those of the number who most faithfully and forcibly represent the several stages and departments of English literature. In Shakespeare we see a delegate at large from every literary interest known in his time ; Milton gives voice to the thoughtful and devout poetry of Puritanism; Swift illustrates the power of satire with a brilliancy that has never been surpassed; Addison inaugurates the revival of classicalism in literature, and gives the world a pattern of rigid, though beautiful, accuracy in style ; Johnson exemplifies ponderousness in matter and manner, and leaves a lasting impress on English letters ; Goldsmith, more thoroughly than any writer had done before his time, transfuses himself into his writings, revealing his own gentle, genial, and poetical nature in his books with almost unequaled fidelity of portraiture ; Gibbon, first of all Englishmen, demonstrated the power of the historian, riot only to rescue the past, but to mold the future. But the catalogue is too long to be thus continued. What is here left undone, the student may profitably do for himself, re- cording briefly his judgment of each writer and specifying his distinguishing services or office in literature. As helps to history, these brief interviews with typical representatives of different periods cannot fail to be valuable. To the epics of Homer we are largely indebted for our knowledge of the politics, theology, and social customs of the Greeks and Trojans ; and our debt for similar acquisitions to English writers of early times, though rarely acknowledged, is even greater. Chaucer gives us pictures of a life that, but for him, we could only imagine, a life in which rude ecclesiasticism held unquestioned dominion. Dryden describes or suggests the vicissitudes of religious faith that were the most conspicuous feature of English life in his time, and the pervading corruption that demoralized all classes. Coleridge enlightens us as to the first movements of that spirit of free inquiry whose results have Vlll PREFACE. pre-eminently distinguished the nineteenth century. It would be easy to enlarge upon this point if space permitted ; but a little reflection will con- vince the intelligent reader that the literature of a nation is its true his- tory : it is spontaneous and unprejudiced, while formal historical narratives are invariably colored by prejudice, personal, political, or theological. If Hume's and Macaulay's and Froude's Histories were suddenly destroyed, the surviving general literature q England would afford ample materials for their reconstruction. American Literature has a liberal representation in THE LITERARY READER, which presents one feature that may be said to be unique ; that is, its recognition of distinctively scientific writers as contributors to letters. In its early days science was dry and almost repellent to all save its favored students ; but its modern exponents have not failed to see the importance of introducing it in an attractive guise, and the writings of Agassiz, Tyndall, Gray, Dana, Maury, Huxley, and others abound in passages of marked beauty even when judged according to the standards of pure literature. This feature of the work seems to mark not only a due acknowledgment of the growing love for scientific study in this country, but also a welcome addition to ths treasures of literature. While this work is primarily intended for the use of schools, as a text- book by the use of which the learner may acquire, simultaneously, profi- ciency in reading, and no inconsiderable familiarity with what may be called the headlands of English literature, it will, it is believed, also be found serviceable by the gsneral reader. One who desires to acquaint himself with the best literary products of the Anglo-Saxon intellect will find in these pages a convenient and agreeable introduction to them. Indeed, the book may fitly be described as a collection of samples which set forth the peculiar qualities of the chief literary fabrics of England and America, made during nearly three hundred years. The compiler acknowledges, with pleasure, his obligations to Mr. S. R. Crocker, the accomplished editor of the Literary World, for much valuable literary assistance, and also to Messrs. James R. Osgood & Co., Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons, Messrs. D. Appleton & Co., and others, for their courtesy in permitting the use of selections from their copyright editions of American writers. G. R. C. CONTENTS. Subject. Author. Page ADAM AND EVE'S MORNING HYMN MILTON 12 ADDRESS TO S.TUDENTS, AN TYNDALL 350 AGED STRANGER, THE BRET HAUTE 401 AGRICULTURE GREELEY 253 AIR AND SEA, THE MAURY 182 ALEXANDER SELKIRK COWPER 41 AMATEUR WRITERS HOLMES 227 AMERICA THE OLD WORLD AGASSIZ 202 AMERICAN INDIAN TRADITIONS OF THE SPIRIT- WORLD ADDISON 19 AMERICAN UNION, THE WEBSTER 88 ANNABEL LEE POE 245 ARABIA GIBBON 43 AUGUSTUS C/E3AR MERIVALE 222 BANNOCKBURN BURNS 55 BAREFOOT BOY, THE WHITTTER 218 BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL -. . WEBSTER 83 BELFRY PIGEON, _THE WILLIS 188 BELLS, THE POE 247 BOOK OF JOB, THE FROUDE 319 BOONDER BRET HAETK 399 BOY AND THE OWLS, THE WORDSWORTH 57 BROOK, THE TENNYSON 238 BUGLE SONG, THE TENNYSON 239 BURNING OF ROME MERIVALE 223 CHANGELING, THE LOWELL 339 CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON JEFFERSON 49 CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE TENNYSON 234 CHARM OF THE RATTLESNAKE SIMMS 190 CIVIC BANQUETS IN ENGLAND HAWTHORNE 155 CLAUDE MELNOTTE'S APOLOGY AND DEFENSE . LYTTON 168 CLOUDS, THE RUSKIN 332 COFFEE PLANTATION IN BRAZIL, A AGASSIZ 199 COLONIZATION OF AMERICA PRESCOTT 128 COMING AND GOING BEECHER 298 COMMON THOUGHT, A . TIMROD . . 396 X CONTENTS. CONCILIATION WITH AMERICA BUEKE 3? CRY OF THE CHILDREN, THE MRS. BROWNING .... 198 DAY IN LONDON, A BAYARD TAYLOR .... 3/8 DEAD CALM IN THE TROPICS COLERIDGE 77 DEAD ROSE, A MRS. BROWNING .... 195 DEATH OF ABSALOM WILLIS 185 DEATH OF LONG TOM COFFIN COOPER 113 DEATH OF THE FLOWERS BRYANT 116 DECAY OF CHIVALROUS SENTIMENT BURKE 39 DECISION AND ENERGY SIEPIIENS 2b9 DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE PARTON . 370 DESERTED VILLAGE . GOLDSMITH 34 DISASTER LONGFELLOW 213 DISCONTENT OF RASSELAS JOHNSON 28 DISCOVERY OF AMERICA IRVING 9G DISCOVERY OF THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER .... BANCROFT U6 DISCOVERY OF THE PACIFIC OCEAN HELPS DISMAL SWAMP, THE LYELL 133 DR. LYDGATE GEO. ELIOT S55 EDITOR, THE GREELEY 251 ^ENGLAND SHAKESPEARE 9 ENOCH ARDEN SHIPWRECKED TKNNYSON 238 ESCURIAL, THE MRS. LE VERT 316 EXECUTION OF MARIE-ANTOINETTE CARLYLK 121 EXECUTION OF SIR THOMAS MORE FROUDE 317 FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT BURNS r,t GEORGE THE THIRD THACKERAY 2*7 GOOD BY, PROUD WORLD! EMERSON 153 GREATNESS ' POPE 2t GULF STREAM, THE MAURY 178 HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY SHAKESPEARE 6 HEAD WIND IN THE ATLANTIC, A DICKENS 80 . HEBREW RACE, THE DISRAELI 171 HERO OF THE DUTCH REPUBLIC, THE MOTLEY 16 HISTORIC PROGRESS MOTLEY 307 HOME GOLDSMITH ...... 36 HOW CERTAIN PLANTS CAPTURE INSECTS . . . GRAY . 240 HUMAN PROGRESS, THE LAW OF SUM NEB, 266 ICHABOD CRANE IRVING 89 IMPORTANCE OF METHOD COLERIDGE 72 INDIAN ADOPTION, THE COOPER 1C9 INDIAN MASSACRES OF THE EARLY SETTLERS . BANCROFT U3 INVOCATION AND INTRODUCTION TO PARADISE LOST MILTON 10 I SAW THEE WEEP BYRON 108 JOHN CHINAMAN BRET HAUTE S97 KNOWLEDGE OF NATURE . . DANA . . 301 CONTENTS. XI KUBLA KHAN COLERIDGE 75 LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE TENNYSON 236 LAST HOURS OF LITTLE PAUL DOMBEY .... DICKENS 277 LAST MINSTREL, THE SCOTT 66 LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP LONGFELLOW 212 LOCHINVAR: LADY HERON'S SONG SCOTT 67 LOVE : A SONNET . MRS. BROWNING .... 197 LOVE OF COUNTRY SCOTT 65 LOVE OF GLORY SUMNER 268 LOVER'S, A, DREAM OF HOME LYTTON 170 MAIDEN WITH A M1LKING-PAIL, A JEAN INGELOW 375 MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN BURNS 51 MAUD MULLER ' WHITTIER 214 MAY MORNING -. . . MILTON 13 MERCY SHAKESPEARE 8 MIND, THE SHAKESPEARE 9 MODERN GREECE BYRON 104 MONTHS, THE BEECHER 294 MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE HAWTHORNE. ... r . 159 MOTHER'S WAIL, A TIMROD ...'.... 394 MY GARDEN ACQUAINTANCE LOWELL 335 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE EMERSON 150 NIGHT VIEW OF A CITY CARLYLE 123 NOBLE SAVAGE, THE DICKENS 283 OCEAN, THE BYRON 106 OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW .... BURNS 56 ON A CERTAIN CONDESCENSION IN FOREIGNERS LOWELL 341 ORIGIN OF ROAST-PIG LAMB 79 OTHELLO'S SPEECH TO THE SENATE SHAKESPEARE ..... 2 PALACE, A, IN A VALLEY JOHNSON 26 PATRICK HENRY ON CONCILIATION WITH ENG- LAND PARTON 367 PERFECTION SHAKESPEARE 9 PHILOSOPHERS AND PROJECTORS DEAN SWIFT 14 PICKWICK'S EXTRAORDINARY DILEMMA .... DICKENS . 272 PILGRIM'S PROGRESS, BUNYAN'S MACAULAY ...... 141 PLEASURES OF KNOWLEDGE SYDNEY SMITH 68 POLONIUS'S ADVICE TO HIS SON SHAKESPEARE 7 PRESENT CONDITION OF MAN VINDICATED . . POPE . 23 PROGRESS OF ENGLAND MACAULAY 139 PSALM OF LIFE, A LONGFELLOW 210 PURITANS, THE MACAULAY 136 PURITY OF CHARACTER BEECHER 300 RAVEN, EXTRACT FROM THE POE 247 READING HELPS 325 REFORMER, THE GREELEY 252 REIGN OF TERROR . . CARLYLE . . 125 Xll CONTENTS. BELIEF OF LEYDEN MOTLEY 312 RETURN OF COLUMBUS PRESCOTT 101 REVOLUTION LYTTON 162 ROME BYRON 105 ROME AND ST. PETER'S BAYARD TAYLOR .... 382 RUTH WORDSWORTH 58 SAGACITY OF THE SPIDER GOLDSMITH 31 SCIENCE OF GOVERNMENT SYDNEY SMITH 71 SCIENTIFIC EDUCATION HUXLEY 387 SEA, THE EMERSON 154 SEVEN AGES OF MAN SHAKESPEARE 7 SEVEN TIMES ONE JKAN INGELOW 374 SEVERED FRIENDSHIP COLERIDGE 78 SHADED WATER, THE SIMMS 193 SHIP OF STATE, THE LONGFELLOW 210 SHIPWRECK, THE BYRON 102 SLEEP MRS. BROWNING .... 196 SOLITARY REAPER, THE WORDSWORTH 61 SPRirG TIMROD 392 STORMING THE TEMPLE OF MEXICO PRESCOTT 131 STUDY OF LANGUAGE . . . . MRS. LE VERT 344 SURRENDER OF GRENADA LYTTON 165 TIIANATOPSIS BRYANT 117 THE MAJOR'S ADVICE TO HIS NEPHEW .... THACKERAY 261 TO A WATERFOWL BRYANT 119 TOMB OF ROBERT BRUCE SCOTT 63 TYRANNY OF MISS ASPHYXIA MRS. STOWE 284 UNDER THE VIOLETS HOLMES 232 ' VALLEY AND CITY OF MEXICO PRESCOTT 126 WASHINGTON, EULOGIUM ON WEBSTER 85 W r ATER RUSKIN 329 WELLINGTON, EULOGIUM ON DISRAELI 174 WINNING OF JULIET SHAKESPEARE 3 WINTER WHITTIER- 221 WIT AND WISDOM SYDNEY SMITH 70 WOLSEY ON THE VICISSITUDES OF LIFE .... SHAKESPEARE 5 WORLDLY PICTURE, A . . GEORGE ELIOT 362 WRECK OF THE HESPERUS LONGFELLOW 207 YUSSOUF . . LOWELL 338 VOCABULARY . 403 DICTIONARY OF AUTHORS . 413 INDEX OF AUTHORS. ADDISON, JOSEPH 10 AGASSIZ, Louis J. R 199 BANCROFT, GEORGE -. 143 BEECHER, HENRY WARD 294 BROWNING, MRS 195 ^BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN 116 ^BURNS, ROBERT 51 BURKE, EDMUND 37 EYRON, LORD 102 CARLYLE, THOMAS ' 121 COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR 72 COOPER, JAMES FENIMORE 109 COWPER, WILLIAM 41 DANA, JAMES D 301 DICKENS, CHARLES 272 DISRAELI, BENJAMIN 171 ELIOT, GEORGE 355 EMERSON, RALPH WALDO 150 FROUDE, JAMES ANTHONY - 317 GREELEY, HORACE 251 '^GIBBON, EDWARD 43 GOLDSMITH, OLIVER 31 GRAY, ASA 240 HARTE, BRET 397 HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL 155 HELPS, SIR ARTHUR 323 , HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL 227 HUXLEY, THOMAS H 387 JEAN 374 IRVING, WASHINGTON / JEFFERSON, THOMAS 49 JOHNSON, SAMUEL 26 LAMB, CHARLES 79 LE VERT, MRS. OCTAVIA WALTON 344 XIV INDEX OF AUTHORS. LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH 207 LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL 335 LYELL, SIR CHARLES 132 LYTTON, LORD (BULWER) 162 MACAULAY, T. B. (LORD) 136 N^MAURY, MATTHEW FONTAINE 178 MERIVALE, CHARLES 222 MILTON, JOHN . 10 MOTLEY, JOHN LOTHROP 307 PARTON, JAMES 367 ^PoE, EDGAR ALLAN 245 v ' POPE, ALEXANDER 23 PRESCOTT, WILLIAM H 126 RUSKTN, JOHN 329 ^/SCOTT, SIR WALTER 63 SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM 1 SIMMS, WILLIAM GILMORE 190 SMITH, SYDNEY Ii8 STEPHENS, ALEXANDER H 289 STOWE, MRS. HARRIET BEECHER 284 ' SUMNER, CHARLES . . . 266 SWIFT, DEAN 14 TAYLOR, BAYARD 378 TENNYSON, ALFRED 234 THACKERAY, W. 'M 257 TIMROD, HENRY 392 TYNDALL, JOHN 350 ^WEBSTER, DANIEL . 83 ^WHITHER, JOHN GREENLEA.F ' . . . 214 WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER 185 WORDSWORTH, WlLLIAM 57 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. SHAKESFEAR'E. 1564-1616. f WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, dramatist and poet, was born at Stratford-on-Avon, England, in April, 1564. Of his early life almost nothing is known. It is believed that he was a student in the free school at Stratford, and that in his youth he assisted his father in the latter's busi- ness, which was that of a wool-dealer and glover. That he formally entered upon any definite calling we have no proof; but critics have found evidence in his writings of his familiarity wiih various professions : Malone, one of his acutest commentators, firmly insisted that Shakespeare was a lawyer's clerk. At the age of eighteen he married Anne Hathaway, then eight years his senior. Of this union only a vague report that it proved uncongenial has come down to us. In 1586 or 1587 Shakespeare seems to have gone to London, and two years later appears as one of the proprietors of the Blackfriars Theater. In the few years next following he became known as a playwright, and in 1593 he published his first poem, Venus and, Adonis. The dates of publi- cation of his plays are not settled beyond doubt ; but the best authorities place Henry VI. first and The Tempest last, all included between 1589 and 1611. Shakespeare was an actor as well as a writer of plays, and remained on the stage certainly as late as 1603. Two years later he bought a handsome house at Stratford, and lived therein, enjoying the friendship and respect of his neighbors till his death in 1UL Meager as is the foregoing sketch, it yet embodies, with a few trifling exceptions, all the known facts as to Shakespeare's liie. A mist seems to have settled over " the most illustrious of Ihe . sons of man," almost wholly hiding his personality from curious and admiring posterity. Of many of his contemporary writers, and of some who preceded him, comparatively full particulars have come down to us : Edmund Spenser stands out conspicuous among the bright lights of the Elizabethan age ; the genial face and the personal habits of " rare Ben Jonsou " are almost familiar to us ; and even of Chaucer, the father of English literature, we possess a reasonably distinct portraiture ; but Shakespeare, the man, is lost to us in the darkness of the past. In his works, however, he lives, and will live while written records survive. The name of Shakespeare is so pre-eminently famous, standing out in the firmament of litera- ture "like the moon among the lesser stars," that no attempt to convey an idea of his greatness seems to be necessary here. We content ourselves, therefore, with quoting the opinions of a few of those who have been worthy to judge him. Dr. Samuel Johnson says -. " The stream of time, which is continually washing the dissolvable fabrics of other poets, passes without injury by the adamant of Shakespeare." Thomas DC Quincey says : " In the gravest sense it may be nffirmed of Shakespeare that he is among the modern luxuries of life ; it was his prerogative to have thought more finely and more extensively than all other poets combined." Lord Jeffrey says : " More full of wisdom and ridicule and sagacity than all the moralists that ever existed, he is more wild, airy, and inventive, and more pathetic and fantastic, than all the poets of all regions and ages of the world." Lord Macaulay pronounced Shakespeare " the greatest poet that ever lived," and esteemed 1 A 2 CATHCAET S LITEllART READEE. Othello, the play from wliicli our first selection is taken, as " perhaps the greatest work in the world." Thomas Carlyle bears this characteristic testimony : " Of this Shakespeare of ours, perhaps the opinion one sometimes hears a little idolatrously expressed is, in fact, the right one ; I think the best judgment is slowly pointing to the conclusion that Shakespeare is the chief of all poets hitherto, the greatest intellect who, in our recorded world, has left record of himself in the way of literature. On the whole, I know not such a power of vision, such a faculty of thought, if we take all the characters of it, in any other man. Such a calmness of depth, placid, joyous strength, all things imaged in that great soul of his so true and clear, as in a tranquil, unfathomable sea ! " "' ' : OfHEtlO'S SPEECH TO THE SENATE. MOST potent, grave, and, reverend signiors, "* : My v&ei-y noble and. approved good masters, That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, It is most true ; true, I have married her ; The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in speech, And little blessed with the set phrase of peace ; For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used Their dearest action in the tented field ; And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broil and battle ; And therefore little shall I grace my cause In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience, I will a round unvarnished tale deliver Of my whole course of love ; what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic (For such proceeding I am charged withal), I won his daughter with. Her father loved .me ; oft invited me ; Still questioned me the story of my life, From year to year ; the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have passed. I ran it through, even from my boyish days, To the very moment that he bade me tell it. Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field, Of hair -breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach ; Of being taken by the insolent foe, And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence, SHAKESPEARE. 3 And portance in my travel's history ; Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle, Eough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven, It was my hint to speak ; such was the process ; And of the cannibals that each other eat, The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear, Would Desdemona seriously incline : But still the house affairs would draw her thence ; Which ever as she could with haste despatch, She 'd come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse : which I observing, Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, Whereof by parcels she had something heard, But not intentively. I did consent ; And often did beguile her of her tears, When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffered. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs : She swore In faith, 't was strange, 't was passing strange ; 'T was pitiful, 't was wondrous pitiful : She wished she had not heard it ; yet she wished That Heaven had made her* such a man : she thanked me; And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. Upon thisjiint, I spake : She loved me for the dangers I had passed ; And I loved her, that she did pity them. This only is the witchcraft I have used. THE WINNING OF JULIET.* JULIET. Thou know r 'st the mask of night is on my face : Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek, For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. * An extract from the love scene in the garden, in the play of Romeo and Juliet. Romeo 3 in ambuscade at night, is discovered by Juliet listening to her declaration of love for him. CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny What I have spoke : but farewell compliment ! Dost thou love me ? I know thou wilt say, Ay : And I will take thy word ; yet, if thou swear'st, Thou mayst prove false ; at lovers' perjuries, They say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo, If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully : Or if thou think' st I am too quickly won, I '11 frown and be perverse, and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo ; but else, not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond ; And therefore thou mayst think my 'havior light. But trust me, gentleman, I '11 prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess, But that thou overheard'st, ere I was 'ware, My true love's passion : therefore pardon me ; And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night hath so discovered. ROMEO. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear, That tips with silver all these. fruit-tree tops JULIET. O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. ROMEO. What shall I swear by ? JULIET. Do not swear at all, Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of jwy idolatry, And I '11 believe thee. ROMEO. If my heart's dear love JULIET. Well, do not swear : although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night ; It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden : Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say, It lightens. Sweet, good night ! This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove- a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night, good night ! as sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart, as that within my breast ! SHAKESPEARE. 5 EOMEO. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied ? JULIET. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night ? ROMEO. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine. JULIET. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it : And yet I would it were to give again. ROMEO. Wouldst thou withdraw it ? for what purpose, love ? JULIET. But to be frank, and give it thee again. And yet I wish but for the thing I have : My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep ; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite. WOLSEY ON THE VICISSITUDES OF LIFE.* 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 forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye ; I feel my heart new opened : O, 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. * Cardinal Wolsey was one of the highest officers of King Henry VIII. of England. Being suddenly deprived of all his honors by the king, and consequently disgraced, Shakespeare rep- resents him as uttering this speech on retiring from office. CATHCART S LITERARY READER. HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY. To be, or not to be, that is the question : Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune ; Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And, by opposing, end them ? To die, to sleep, No more ; and, by a sleep, to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 't is a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die ; to sleep ; To sleep ! perchance to dream ; ay, tfiere 's the rub : For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled 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, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin ? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life ; But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveler returns, puzzles the Avill ; And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than, fly to others that we know not of? 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. POLONIUS'S ADVICE TO HIS SON. GIVE thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportioned thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel ; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel ; but, being in, Bear it, that the opposer may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice : Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not expressed in fancy ; rich, not gaudy ; For the apparel oft proclaims the man ; And they in Prance, of the best rank and station, Are most select and generous, chief in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be : Por loan oft loses both itself and friend ; And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all, to thine own self be true ; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. Farewell ; my blessing season this in thee. THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN. ALL the world 's a stage$ And all the men and women merely players : They have their exits and their entrances ; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the Infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. And then, the whining School-boy, with his satchel, And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then, the Lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad Made to his mistress' evebrow. Then a Soldier ; CATHCART S LITERARY READER. Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the paid, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking* the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the Justice, In fair round belly, with good capon lined, With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances ; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered Pantaloon, With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing. MERCY. THE quality of Mercy is not strained ; It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven, Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed ; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. 'T is mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown. His scepter 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 sceptered sway, It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself ; And earthly power doth then show likest God's, When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this, That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy ; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercv. SHAKESPEARE. ENGLAND. THIS royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise ; This fortress, built by Nature for herself, Against infection and the hand of war ; This happy breed of men, this little world ; This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall, Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands, This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England. THE MIND. Eon 5 t is the mind that makes the body rich : And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, So honor peereth in the meanest habit. What ! is the jay more precious than the lark, Because his feathers are more beautiful ? Or is the adder better than the eel, Because his painted skin contents the eyes ? O no, good Kate : neither art thou the worse Eor this poor furniture and mean array. PERFECTION. To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, Is wasteful and ridiculous excess. l* 10 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. MILTON. 1608-1674. JOHN MILTON clarum et venerablle nomen was born in I/ondon in December, 1608, and died November, 1674. lie was the son of John Milton, a respectable scrivener. The younger John entered Christ's College, Cambridge, at the age of sixteen, and became distinguished during his University career for his brilliant poetical abilities. He was destined for the service of the Church ; but, on arriving at manhood, he found to quote his own words " what tyranny had invaded the Church, and that he who would take orders must subscribe Slave." He therefore turned his thoughts to the law, but soon abandoned it, and gave his undivided atten- tion to literature. The death of his mother, in 1637, affected his health, and he sought to restore it by travel. He visited several continental countries, and, while in Italy, made the acquaint- ance of Galileo. Returning to England in 1039, he found the nation in a fever of political ex- citement, and lost no time in declaring himself with reference to the momentous questions then under discussion. In 1641 and 161-2 he published his first polemical treatises, which made a profound impression. In 1643 he was married to Mary Powell ; but the union, like Shake- speare's, proved a rather unhappy one. The lady was volatile, and fond of gayety, and her family were enthusiastic Royalists, while Milton was a stern Puritan. Soon after the marriage a separation took place ; but at last a reconciliation was effected, and the partnership was re- newed. Several of his political pamphlets brought Milton into prominence, and led to his being appointed, in 1649, Latin Secretary to the Council of State, which office he held eight years. During that period he wrote his famous Eikonoklastes, and several other books. In 1653 his wife died, and three years later he married again, finding, it is believed, real happiness in his new relation. In 1660 the monarchy was re-established, and thenceforward he took no con- spicuous part in politics. Having lost his second wife, he took a third in 1664, who survived him nearly fifty years, dying in 1727- His most famous composition, Paradise Lost, was written aficr he had become totally blind, which happened in 1652, it being dictated to his daughter. It is worthy of note that the whole remuneration received by the poet and his family for this poem, which ranks among the grand- est in the world, was only twenty-eight pounds, about one hundred and forty dollars. Paradise Lost represents the only successful attempt ever made to construct a drama whose principal personages are supernatural; in this character it stands above others unapproached. To the student it offers a field whose exploration never ceases to be delightful and remunerative. It is the finest flower of one of the greatest minds that ever commanded the reverence of the world ; and in design, if not in execution, is the noblest poetical product of human genius. THE INVOCATION AND INTRODUCTION TO PARADISE LOST. OF man's first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste Brought death into the world, and all our woe, With loss of Eden, till one greater Man Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, Sing, heavenly Muse, that on the secret top Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire That shepherd, who first taught the chosen seed, In the beginning how the Heavens and Earth Rose out of Chaos : or, if Sion hill MILTON. II Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook that flowed Fast by the oracle of God, I thence Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song, That with no middle flight intends to soar Above the Aonian mount, while it pursues Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme. And chiefly thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer Before all temples the upright heart and pure, Instruct me, for thou know'st ; thou from the first Wast present, and, with mighty wings outspread, Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast abyss, And mad'st it pregnant : what in me is dark Illumine ; w T hat is low raise and support ; That to the height of this great argument I may assert eternal Providence, And justify the ways of God to man. Say first, for Heaven hides nothing from thy view, Nor the deep tract of Hell ; say first, what cause Moved our grand parents, in that happy state, Favored of Heaven so highly, to fall off From their Creator, arid transgress his will, For one restraint, lords of the world besides ? Who first seduced them to that foul revolt ? The infernal serpent ; he it was, whose guile, Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived The mother of mankind, what time his pride Had cast him out from Heaven, with all his host Of rebel angels ; by whose aid, aspiring To set himself in glory above his peers, He trusted to have equaled the Most High, If he opposed ; and, with ambitious aim Against the throne and monarchy of God, Raised impious war in Heaven, and battle proud, With vain attempt. Him the Almighty power Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky, With hideous ruin and combustion, down To bottomless perdition ; there to dwell In adamantine chains and penal fire, Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms. CATHCART'S LITERARY HEADER. ADAM AND EVE'S MORNING HYMN. THESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almighty ! Thine this universal frame, Thus wondrous fair ; Thyself how wondrous then ! Unspeakable, who sit'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, a*d with songs And choral symphonies, day without night, Circle 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 train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling Morn 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, Acknowledge him thy greater ; sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall'st. Moon, that now meet'st the orient Sun, now fly'st, With the fixed stars, fixed 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 called 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 mists and exhalations, that now rise Prom 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 uncolorcd sky, MILTON. 1 >'3 Or wet the thirsty Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters bloAV, 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 Have gathered aught of evil or concealed, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark ! MAY MORNING. Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail bounteous May ! that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ; Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee and wish thee Ions?.- How charming is divine philosophy ! Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose, But musical as is Apollo's lute, And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets, Where no crude surfeit reigns. 14 CATHCART'S LITERACY READER. DEAN SWIFT. 1667-1745. JONATHAN SWIFT, commonly known as Dean Swift, was born in "Dublin, in November, 1667, and died in October, 1745. He was not proud of his native land, but emphatically declared that his birth in Ireland was a " perfect accident," and lost no opportunity of reviling that country. At Dublin University, where he was matriculated, Swift distinguished himself by his contempt for college laws, and neglect of his studies ; and only by special grace did he receive his degree of B. A., in 1685. He entered the family of Sir William Temple in the capacity of secretary ; in the same household" Stella," immortalized in Swift's books, was a waiting-maid. King William took a fancy to Swift on account of the latter's services in making the sovereign acquainted with asparagus, and offered him the command of a troop of horse. But the favor was declined. In 1694 Swift was admitted to deacon's orders, and a few years later went to Ireland as chap- lain to Lord Berkeley. Here he occupied various ecclesiastical offices, and in 1713 was made Dean of St. Patrick's. He began his career in literature as a writer of political tracts, and was secretly employed by the government to write in its behalf. In 17<>t he published The Tale of a Tab. From that time till 1725 he was a resident of England, and mainly engaged iu political controversy. In 1726 appeared Gi(Uh-rr\t Triirrls, and at frequent intervals thereaf- ter, his other writings, prose and poetry. In 1740 he evinced the first symptoms of the madness which clouded his closing years. The story of his life is a sad one, and goes far to encourage the belief that sometimes, if not always, retribution comes in this life upon the wrong-doer. S\vilVs career was supremely sellish ; nothing was suffered to stand in the way of his interest and gratification ; everybody feared him, and nobody, save the three women whose names he has linked with his own, and whose unfaltering affection he requited so brutally, with these excep- tions, nobody loved him. His life furnishes an impressive lesson, the gist of which is, that a man cannot make himself happy by exclusive devotion to himself. As to Swift's rank as a writer it is not easy to define it ; but of his extraordinary abilities there is no chance for doubt. He was, perhaps, the greatest master of satin.- that has ever written the English language. His originality is remarkable; no writer of his time, probably, borrowed so little from his predecessors ; and his versatility for he succeeded in every department of literature that he attempted is not less wonderful. All things considered, his Guflicer's Travds must be regarded as his greatest work, though several eminent critics, including Ilal- lam, have found it inferior to The Tale of a Tub. Pe.haps these words of Lord Jeffrey best embody the general estimate of Dean Swift as a literary man : " In humor and in irony, and in the talent of debasing and defiling what he hated, we join with the world in thinking the Dean of St. Patrick's without a rival." We give an extract from Gulliver's Triads, which illustrates his best manner as a satirist. PHILOSOPHERS AND PROJECTORS, I WAS received very kindly by the warden, and went for many days to the academy. Every room hath in it one or more projectors, and I believe I could not be in fewer than five hundred rooms. The first man I saw was of a meager aspect, with sooty hands and face, his hair and beard long', ragged, and singed in several places. His clothes, shirt, and skin were all of the same color. He had been eight years upon a project for extracting sunbeams out of cucumbers, which were to be pnt into vials hermetically sealed, and let out to DEAN SWIFT. 15 warm the air in raw, inclement summers. He told me he did hot doubt in eight years more that he should be able to supply the governor's gardens with sunshine at a reasonable rate ; but he com- plained that the stock was low, and entreated me to give him some- thing as an encouragement to ingenuity, especially since this had been a very dear season for cucumbers. I made him a small present, for my lord had furnished me with money, on purpose, because he knew their practice of begging from all who go to see them. I saw another at work to calcine ice into gunpowder, who likewise showed me a treatise he had written concerning the malleability of fire, which he intended to publish. There was a most ingenious architect, who had contrived a new method for building houses, by beginning at the roof, and working downwards to the foundation ; which he justified to me by the like practice of those two prudent insects, the bee and the spider. In another apartment I was highly pleased with a projector who had found a device of ploughing the ground with hogs, to save the charges of ploughs, cattle, and labor. The method is this : in an acre of ground, you bury, at six inches distance, and eight deep, a quantity of acorns, dates, chestnuts, and other masts or vegetables, whereof these animals are fondest ; then you drive six hundred or more of them into the field, where in a few days they will root up the whole ground in search of their food, and make it fit for sowing. It is true, upon experiment they found the charge and trouble very great, and they had little or no crop. However, it is not doubted that this invention may be capable of great improvement. I went into another room, where the walls and ceilings were all hung round with cobwebs, except a narrow passage for the artist to go in and out. At my entrance he called aloud to me not to disturb his webs. He lamented the fatal mistake the world had been so long in, of using silk-worms, while we had such plenty of domestic insects, who infinitely excelled the former, because they understood how to weave as well as spin. And he proposed, further, that by employing spiders, the charge of dyeing silks would be wholly saved ; whereof I was fully convinced when lie showed me a vast number of flies most beautifully colored, wherewith he fed his spiders ; assuring us that the webs would take a tincture from them ; and as he had them of all hues, he hoped to fit everybody's fancy, as soon as he could find proper food for the flies, of certain gums, oils, and other glutinous matter, to give a consistence to the threads. 16 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. There was an astronomer who had undertaken to place a sun-dial upon the great weathercock on the town-house, by adjusting the annual and diurnal motions of the earth and sun, so as to answer and coincide with all accidental turning of the winds. I visited many other apartments, but shall not trouble my reader with all the curiosities I observed, being studious of brevity. I had hitherto only seen one side of the academy, the other being appropriated to the advancers of speculative learning, of whom I shall say something when I have mentioned one illustrious person more who is called among them the universal artist. He told us he had been thirty years employing his thoughts for the improvement of human life. He had two large rooms full of wonderful curiosities, and fifty men at work ; some were condensing air into a dry tangible sub- stance, by extracting the niter, and letting the aqueous or fluid parti- cles percolate ; others, softening marble for pillows and pin-cushions ; others, petrifying the hoofs of a living horse to preserve them from foundering. The artist himself was at that time busy upon two great designs ; first, to sow land with chaff, wherein he affirmed the true seminal virtue to be contained, as he demonstrated by several experi- ments, which I was not skillful enough to comprehend. The other was, by a certain composition of gums, minerals, and vegetables, out- wardly applied, to prevent the growth of wool upon two young lambs, and he hoped in a reasonable time to propagate the breed of naked sheep all over the kingdom. We crossed a walk to the other part of the academy, whore, as I have already said, the projectors in speculative learning resided. The first professor I saw was in a very large room, with forty pupils about him. After salutation, observing me to look earnestly upon a frame which took up the greatest part of both the length and breadth of the room, he said, perhaps I might wonder to see him employed in a project for improving speculative knowledge by practical and mechanical operations. But the world would soon be sensible of its usefulness, and he flattered himself that a more noble, exalted thought never sprang in any other man's head. Every one knew how laborious the usual method is of attaining to arts and sciences, whcivas, by his contrivance, the most ignorant person, at a reasonable charge, and with a little bodily labor, may write books in philosophy, poetry, politics, law, mathematics, and theology, without the least assistance from genius or study. He then led me to the frame, about the sides DEAN SWIFT. 17 whereof all his pupils stood in ranks. It was twenty feet square, placed in the middle of -the room. The superficies * was composed of several bits of wood, about the bigness of a die, but some larger than others. They were all linked together by slender wires. These bits of wood were covered on every square with paper pasted on them ; and on these papers were written all the words of their language in their several moods, tenses, and declensions, but without any order. The professor then desired me to observe, for he was going to set his engine at work. The pupils, at his command, took each of them hold of an iron handle, whereof there were forty fixed round the edges of *the frame, and giving them a sudden turn, the whole disposition of the words was entirely changed. He then commanded six-and-thirtv of the lads to read the several lines softly as they appeared upon the frame, and where they found three or four words together that might make part of a sentence, they dictated to the four remaining boys, who were scribes. This work was repeated three or four times, and at every turn the engine was so contrived, that the words shifted into new places as the square bits of wood moved upside down. Six hours a day the young students were employed in this labor ; and the professor showed me several volumes in large folio, already collected, of broken sentences, which he intended to piece together, and out of those rich materials to give the world a complete body of all arts and sciences, which, however, might be still improved, and much expedited, if the public would raise a fund for making and employing five hundred such frames in Lagado, and oblige the managers to contribute in common their several collections. He assured me that this invention had employed all his thoughts from his youth ; that he had emptied the whole vocabulary into his frame, and made the strictest computation of the general proportion there is in books, between the numbers of particles, nouns, and verbs, and other parts of speech. I made my humblest acknowledgments to this illustrious person for his great communicativeness, and promised, if ever I had the good fortune to return to my native country, that I would do him justice, as the sole inventor of this wonderful machine, the form and contrivance of which I desired leave to delineate upon paper. I told him, although it were the custom of our learned in Europe to steal inventions from each other, who had thereby at least this advantage, * The surface ; the exterior part or faro of a thing. 18 CATHCART/S LITERARY READER. that it became a controversy which was the right owner, yet I would take such caution that he should have the honor entire without a rival. We next went to the school of languages, where three professors sat in consultation upon improving that of their own country. The first ,project was to shorten discourse by cutting polysyllables into one, and leaving out verbs and participles ; because, in reality, all things imaginable are but nouns. The other was a scheme for entirely abolishing all words whatso- ever ; and this was urged as a great advantage in point of health as well as brevity : for it is plain that every word we speak is in some degree a diminution of our lungs by corrosion, and consequently con- tributes to the shortening of our lives. An expedient was therefore offered, that since words are only names for things, it would be more convenient for all men to carry about them such things as were necessaiy to express the particular business they aiv to discourse on. .And this invention would certainly have taken place, to the great ease as well as health of the subject, if the women, in conjunction with the vulgar and illiterate, had not threatened to raise a rebellion, unless they might be allowed the liberty to speak with their tongues, after the manner of their forefathers ; such constant irreconcilable enemies to science are the common people. THE common fluency of speech in many men, and most women, is owing to a scarcity of matter, and a scarcity of words ; for whoever is a master of language, and hath a mind full of ideas, will be apt in speaking to hesitate upon the choice of both ; whereas common speakers have only one set of ideas, and one set of words to clothe them in ; and these are always ready at the mouth ; so people come faster out of church when it is almost empty, than when a crowd is at the door. AN old miser kept a tame jackdaw, that used to steal pieces of money and hide them in a hole, which the cat observing, asked " A\ hy he would hoard up those round shining things that he could make no use of? " "Why," said the jackdaw, "my master has a whole chest full, and makes no more use of them than I." ADDISOX. ADDISON. 1672- 1 JOSEPH ADDTSON was born in 1673, and died in 1719. His name is a synonym of rhetorical elegance ; and to say that the style of a composition is " Addisonian " is to give it the highest praise for finish and classic regularity. Addison's style, however admirable it may have seemed to his contemporaries, cannot safely be taken as a model by a writer of the present day : it is too cold and elaborate, and conveys an idea of formality which is not in harmony with the spirit of our time. Addison's fame as a writer rests mainly on his contributions to the Spectator, Tat- ler, and Guardian, periodicals which clearly illustrate the manners and morals of the time, and which contain many of the finest specimens of English literary workmanship. To these period- icals Addison was the principal contributor, and with these his name will have its most enduring association. He was a poet and a dramatist ; but, except perhaps his tragedy of Cato, his efforts in these departments of literature are not held in very high esteem by the authorities of to-day. Addison led an easy and somewhat luxurious life. He held a high office in the government, had an ample income, and in the literary society of that brilliant period occupied, by general ac- quiescence, the foremost rank. No student of English literature can afford to neglect the essays of Addison,' which illustrate the very best literary achievements of English writers, in delicacy of sentiment and felicity of expression. AMERICAN INDIAN TRADITIONS OF THE SPIRIT-WORLD. THE American Indians believe that all creatures have souls, not only men and women, but brutes, vegetables, nay, even the most inanimate things, as stocks and stones. They believe the same of all the works of art, as of knives, boats, looking-glasses ; and that, as any of these things perish, their souls go into another world, which is inhabited by the ghosts of men and women. For this reason they always place by the corpse of their dead friend a bow and arrow, that he may make use of the souls of them in the other world, as he did of their wooden bodies in this. How absurd soever such an opinion as this may appear, our European philosophers have maintained several notions altogether as improbable. I shall only instance Albertus Magnus,* who in his dissertation upon the loadstone, observing that fire will destroy its magnetic virtues, tells us that he took particular notice of one as it lay glowing amidst an heap of burning coals, and that he perceived a certain blue vapor to arise from it, which he believed might be the substantial form ; that is, in our West-Indian phrase, the soul of the magnet. There is a tradition among the Indians, that one of their couritry- * A Dominican friar and bishop of the eleventh century, lie was an eminent mechanician and mathematician, and is said to have been a scarchsr after the philosopher's stone. 20 CATHC ART'S LITERARY READER. men descended in a vision to the great repository of souls, or, as we call it here, to the other world ; and that upon his return he gave his friends a distinct account of everything he saw among those regions of the dead. A friend of mine, whom I have formerly mentioned, prevailed upon one of the interpreters of the Indian kings, to inquire of them, if possible, what tradition they have among them of this matter ; which, as well as he could learn by those many questions which he asked them at several times, was in substance as follows. The visionary, whose name was Marraton, after having traveled for a long space under an hollow mountain, arrived at length on the confines of this world of spirits, but could not enter it by reason of a thick forest made up of bushes, brambles, and pointed thorns, so interwoven with one another, that it was impossible to find a passage through it. Whilst he was looking about for some track or pathway that might be worn in any part of it, he saw a huge lion couched under the side of it, who kept his eye upon him in the same posture as when he watches for his prey. The Indian immediately started back, whilst the lion rose with a spring, and leaped towards him. Being wholly destitute of all other weapons, he stooped down to take up a huge stone in his hand ; but to his infinite surprise grasped nothing, and found the supposed stone to be only the apparition of one. If he was disappointed on this side, he was as much pleased on the other, when he found the lion, which had seized on his left shoulder, had no power to hurt him, and was only the ghost of that ravenous creature which it appeared to be. He no sooner got rid of his impotent enemy, but he marched up to the wood, and after having surveyed it for some time, endeavored to press into one part of it that was a little thinner than the rest ; when again, to his great surprise, he found the bushes made no resistance, but that he walked through briers and brambles with the same ease as through the open air ; and, in short, that the whole wood was nothing else but a wood of shades. He immediately concluded that this huge thicket of thorns and brakes was designed as a kind of fence or quickset hedge to the ghosts it enclosed ; and that probably their soft substances might be torn by these subtle points and prickles, which were too weak to make any impressions in flesh and blood. With this thought he resolved to travel through this intricate wood ; when by degrees he felt a gale of perfumes breathing upon him, that grew stronger and sweeter in proportion as he advanced. He had not proceeded much farther, ADDISON. 21 when he observed the thorns and briers to end, and give place to a thousand beautiful green trees covered with blossoms of the finest scents and colors, that formed a wilderness of sweets, and were a kind of lining to those rugged scenes which he had before passed through. As he was coming out of this delightful part of the wood, and entering upon the plains it enclosed, he saw several horsemen rushing by him, and a little while after heard, the cry of a pack of dogs. He had not listened long before he saw the apparition of a milk-white steed, with a young man on the back of it, advancing upon full stretch after the souls of about an hundred beagles, that were hunting down the ghost of an hare, which ran away before them with an unspeakable swiftness. As the man on the milk-white steed came by him, he looked upon him very attentively, and found him to be the young prince Nicharagua, who died about half a year before, and by reason of his great virtues was at that time lamented over all the western parts of America. He had no sooner got out of the wood, but he was entertained with such a landscape of flowery plains, green meadows, running streams, sunny hills, and shady vales, as were not to be represented by his own expressions, nor, as he said, by the conceptions of others. This happy region was peopled with innumerable swarms of spirits, who applied themselves to exercises and diversions, according as their fancies led them. Some of them were tossing the figure of a coit; others were pitching the shadow of a bar ; others were breaking the apparition of a horse; and multitudes employing themselves upon ingenious handicrafts with the souls of departed utensils, for that is the name which in the Indian language they give their tools when they are burned or broken. As he traveled through this delightful scene, he was very often tempted to pluck the flowers that rose eveiy- where about him in the greatest variety and profusion, having never seen several of them in his own country ; but he quickly found, that though they were objects of his sight, they were not liable to his touch. He at length came to the side of a great river, and being a good fisherman himself, stood upon the banks of it some time to look upon an angler that had taken a great many shapes of fishes, which lay flouncing up and down by him. I should have told my reader that tins Indian had been formerly married to one of the greatest beauties of his country, by whom he had several children. This couple were so famous for their love and 22 CATHCART^S LITERARY READER. constancy to one another, that the Indians to this day, when they give a married man joy of his wife, wish they may live together like Marraton and Yaratilda. Marraton had not stood long by the fisher- man, when he saw the shadow of his beloved Yaratilda, who had for some time fixed her eyes upon him before he discovered her. Her arms were stretched out towards him, floods of tears ran down her eyes : her looks, her hands, her voice called him over to her ; and at the same time seemed to tell him that the river was impassable. Who can describe the passion, made up of joy, sorrow, love, desire, astonishment, that rose in the Indian upon the sight of his clear Yaratilda ? He could express it by nothing but his tears, which ran like a river down his cheeks as he looked upon her. He had not stood in this posture long, before lie plunged into the stream that lay before him ; and finding it to be nothing but the phantom of a river, walked on the bottom of it till he rose on the other side. At his approach Yaratilda flew into his arms, whilst Marraton wished himself disencumbered of that body which kept her from his embraces. After many questions and endearments on both sides, she conducted him to a bower which she had dressed with all the ornaments that could be met with in those blooming regions. She had made it gay beyond imagination, and was every day adding something new to it. As Marraton stood astonished at the unspeakable beauty of her habi- tation, and ravished with the fragraucy that came from every part of it, Yaratilda told him that she was preparing this bower for his reception, as well knowing that his piety to his God, and his faithful dealing towards men, would certainly bring him to that happy place, whenever his life should be at an end. She then brought two of her children to him, who died some years before, and resided with her in the same delightful bower ; advising him to breed up those others which were still with him in such a manner, that they might hereafter all of them meet together in this happy place. The tradition tells us further, that he had afterwards a sight of those dismal habitations which are the portion of ill men after death ; and mentions several molten seas of gold into which were plunged the souls of barbarous Europeans, who put to the sword so many thousands of poor Indians for the sake of that precious metal. But having already touched upon the chief points of this tradition, and exceeded the measure of my paper, I shall not give any further account of it. POPE. 23 POPE! 1688- 1744. ALEXANDER POPE, the most eminent post of his time, was born in 1688, and died in 1744. lie was blessed with a fair share of wealth, and lived in luxurious retirement in his villa at Twickenham. Afflicted with a bodily deformity, touching which he was keenly sensitive, he mingled but little in the great world, but contented himself with the society which sought him in l:is home. He was emphatically a literary man, giving his whole time and thought to literary pursuits. Notoriously petulant, a peculiarity which his feeble health goes far toward excusing, he was continually involved in qiiarrcls with contemporary writers ; and sonic of his most brilliant poems were written under the inspiration of personal animosity. His greatest work was the translation of Homer, which in most respects remains unsurpassed by any previous or subsequent version. Of his original compositions The Essay on Man is that by which he is best known. From this work we take our extracts. THE PRESENT CONDITION OF MAN VINDICATED. HEAVEN from all creatures hides the book of Pate, All but the page prescribed, their present state ; Prom brutes what men, from men what spirits know, Or who could suffer being here below ? The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ? Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. blindness to the future ! kindly given, 4 That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven; Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish or a sparrow fall ; Atoms or systems into ruin hurled, And now a bubble burst, and now a world. Hope humbly, then, with trembling pinions soar ; Wait the great teacher, Death ; and God adore. What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast ; Man never is, but always TO BE blest; The soul, uneasy and confined from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come. Lo the poor Indian, whose untutored mind Sees God in clouds, and hears him in the wind ; CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. His soul proud Science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way ; Yet simple Nature to his -hope has given, Behind the cloud-topped hill, a hufnbler heaven ; Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, Some happier island in the watery waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. To BE, contents his natural desire, He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire : But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company. Go, wiser "thou ! and in thy scale of sense Weigh thy opinion against Providence ; Call imperfection what thou fanciest such, Say, here he gives too little, there too much : Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, Yet cry, if Man 's Unhappy, God 's unjust ; If man alone engross not Heaven's high care, Alone made perfect here, immortal there : Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, Ke-judge his justice, be the God of God. In Pride, in reasoning Pride, our error lies; All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, Men would be Angels, Angels would bs Gods. Aspiring to be Gods, if Angels fell, Aspiring to be Angels, Men rebel : And who but wishes to revert the laws Of Order sins against the Eternal Cause. GKEATNESS. HONOR and shame from^no condition rise ; Act well your part, there all the honor lies. Fortune in men has some small difference made : One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade ; The cobbler aproned, and the parson gowned, The friar hooded, and the monarch crowned. POPE. 25 " What difrer more (you cry) than crown and cowl? " I '11 tell you, friend ! a wise man and a fool. You '11 find, if once the monarch acts the monk, Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk, Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow ; The rest is all but leather or prunella. Go ! if your ancient but ignoble blood Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood. Go ! and pretend your family is young, Nor own your fathers have been fools so long. What can ennoble sots or slaves or cowards ? Alas ! not all the blood of all the Howards. Look next on greatness ! say where greatness lies ? " Where, but among the heroes and the wise ? " Heroes are much the same, the point 's agreed, From Macedonia's madman to the Swede ; * The whole strange purpose of their lives, to find Or make an enemy of all mankind ! Not one looks backward, onward still he goes, Yet ne'er looks forward farther than his nose. No less alike the politic and wise ; All sly slow things, with circumspective eyes : Men in their loose unguarded hours they take, Not that themselves are wise, but others weak. But grant that those can conquer, these can cheat ; 3 T is phrase absurd to call a villain great : Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave, Is but the more a fool, the more a knave. Who noble ends by noble means obtains, Or, failing, smiles in exile or in chains, Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed Like Socrates, that man is great indeed. * The allusion is to Alexander tlie Great and Charles XII. of Sweden. Pope borrowed the idea from Mandeville's Fable of the Bees. 26 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. ) DR. JOHNSON. 1709-1784. SAMUEL JOHNSON, one of the great literary men of his time, was born in 1709 and died in 178V. He compiled a celebrated Dictionary of the English Language and wrote poems, moral and controversial, essays and biographies, including the well-known Lives of the Poets. He was the contemporary of Goldsmith, Burke, Sheridan, and many famous literary men and women, among whom he enjoyed a sort of pre-eminence, yielded rather to his arrogance than to his merits. His manners were incredibly rude, and his general demeanor positively bearish, but his intellectual greatness is beyond question. His prose writings arc noted for their formality of style and vigor of thought. Like Addison, he has furnished an adjective descriptive of literary style; and to be " Johnsonian " is to be ponderous and grandiose. Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia, an allegorical story from which we take our extracts, is perhaps the most familiar of his compositions to the general reader. Dr. Johnson was a man of vigorous intellect, acute and argumentative, but narrow in his views, dogmatic and positive in his assertions. He was respected, but not loved. His biography, written by his humble friend Boswell, gives a full and vivid por- trait of him as a man and a writer. A PALACE IN A VALLEY, YE who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy, and pursue with eagerness the phantoms of hope ; who expect that age will perform the promises of youth. .and that the deficiencies of the pres- ent day will be supplied by the morrow ; attend to the history of Easselas, Prince of Abyssinia. Easselas was the fourth son of the mighty emperor in whose dominions the Father of Waters begins his course ; whose bounty pours down the streams of plenty, and scatters over half the world the harvests of Egypt. According to the custom which has descended from age to age among the monarchs of the torrid zone, Easselas was confined in a private palace, with the other sons and daughters of Abyssinian royalty, till the order of succession should call him to the throne. The place which the wisdom or policy of antiquity had destined for the residence of the Abyssinian princes was a spacious valley in the kingdom of Amhara, surrounded on every side by mountains, of which the summits overhang the middle part. The only passage by which it could be entered was a cavern that passed under a rock, of which it has long been disputed whether it was the work of nature or of human industry. The outlet of the cavern was concealed by a thick wood, and the mouth which opened into the valley was closed with gates of iron, forged by the artificers of ancient days, so massy that no man could without the help of engines open or shut them. DR. JOHNSON. 27 From the mountains on every side rivulets descended that filled all the valley with verdure and fertility, and formed a lake in the middle inhabited by fish of every species, and frequented by every fowl whom Nature has taught to dip the wing in water. This lake discharged its superfluities by a stream which entered a dark cleft of the mountain on the northern side, and fell with dreadful noise from precipice to precipice till it was heard no more. The sides of the mountains were covered with trees, the banks of the brooks were diversified with flowers ; every blast shook spices froni the rocks, and every month dropped fruits upon the ground. All animals that bite the grass, or browse the shrub, whether wild or tame, wandered in this extensive circuit, secured from beasts of prey by the mountains which confined them. On one part were flocks and herds feeding in the pastures, on another, all beasts of chase frisking in the lawns ; the sprightly kid was bounding on the rocks, the subtle monkey frolicking among the' trees, and the solemn elephant reposing in the shade. All the diversities of the world were brought together, the blessings of nature were collected, and its evils extracted and excluded. The valley, wide and fruitful, supplied its inhabitants with the necessaries of life ; and all delights and superfluities were added at the annual visit which the emperor paid his children, when the iron gate was opened to the sound of music ; and during eight days every one that resided in the valley Avas required to propose whatever might contribute to make seclusion pleasant, to fill up the vacancies of attention, and lessen the tediousness of time. Every desire was immediately granted. All the artificers of pleasure were called to gladden the festivity ; the musicians exerted the power of harmony, and the dancers showed their activity before the princes, in hope that they should pass their lives in this blissful captivity, to which those only were admitted whose performance was thought able to add novelty to luxury. Such was the appearance of security and delight which this retirement afforded, that they to whom it was new always desired that it might be perpetual ; and as those on whom the iron gate had once closed were never suffered to return, the effect of long experience could not be known. Thus every year produced new schemes of delight, and new competitors for impris- onment. The palace stood on an eminence raised about thirty paces above 28 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. the surface of the lake. It was divided into many squares or courts, built with greater or less magnificence, according to the rank of those for whom they were designed. The roofs were turned into arches of inassy stone, joined by a cement that grew harder by time, and "the building stood from century to century deriding the solstitial rains and equinoctial hurricanes, without need of reparation. This house, which was so large as to be fully known to none but some ancient officers who successively inherited the secrets of the place, was built as if Suspicion herself had dictated the plan. To every room there was an open and secret passage ; every square had a communication with the rest, either from the upper stories by private galleries, or by subterranean passages from the lower apart-, ments. Many of the columns had unsuspected cavities, in which a long race of monarchs had deposited their treasures. They then closed up the opening with marble, which was never to be removed, but in the utmost exigencies of the kingdom ; and recorded their accumulations in a book which was itself concealed in a tower not entered but by the emperor, attended by the prince who stood next in succession. THE DISCONTENT OF RASSELAS. HERE the sons and daughters of Abyssinia lived only to know the soft vicissitudes of pleasure and repose, attended by all that were skillful to delight, and gratified with whatever the senses can enjoy. They wandered in gardens of fragrance, and slept in the fortresses of security. Every art was practiced to make them pleased with their own condition. The sages who instructed them told them of nothing but the miseries of public life, and described all beyond the moun- tains as regions of calamity, where discord was always raging, and where man preyed' upon man. To heighten their opinion of their own felicity, they were daily entertained with songs, the subject of which was the happy valley. Their appetites were excited by frequent enumerations of different enjoyments, and revelry and merriment was the business of every hour from the dawn of morning to the close of even. These methods were generally successful ; few of the princes had ever wished to enlarge their bounds, but passed their lives in full conviction that they had all within their reach that art or nature DR. JOHNSON. 29 could bestow, and pitied those whom fate had excluded from this seat of tranquillity, as the sport of chance and the slave of misery. Thus they rose in the morning and lay down at night, pleased with each other and with themselves, all but Rasselas, who in the twenty- sixth year of his age began to withdraw himself from their pastimes and assemblies, and to delight in solitary walks and silent meditation. He often sat before tables covered with luxury, and forgot to taste the dainties that were placed before him ; he rose abruptly in the midst of the song, and hastily retired beyond the sound of music. His attendants observed the change, and endeavored to renew his love of pleasure. He neglected their omciousncss, repulsed their invitations, and spent day after day on the banks of rivulets sheltered with trees, where he sometimes listened to the birds in the branches, sometimes observed the fish playing in the stream, and anon cast his eyes upon the pastures and mountains filled with animals, of which some were biting the herbage, and some sleeping among the bushes. This singularity of his humor made him much observed. One of the sages, in whose conversation he had formerly delighted, followed him secretly, in hope of discovering the cause of his disquiet. Rasselas, who knew not that any one was near him, having for some time fixed his eyes upon the goats that were browsing among the rocks, began to compare their condition with his own. "What," said he, "makes the difference between man and all the rest of the animal creation ? Every beast that strays beside me has the same corporal necessities with myself: he is hungry and crops the grass, he is thirsty and drinks the stream ; his thirst and hunger are appeased, he is satisfied and sleeps : he rises again and is hun- gry ; he is again fed and is at rest. I am hungry and thirsty, like him; but when thirst and hunger cease I am not at rest: I am, like him, pained with want ; but am not, like him, satisfied with fullness. The intermediate hours are tedious and gloomy ; I long again to be hungry, that I may again quicken my attention. The birds peck the berries or the corn, and fly away to the groves, where they sit in seeming happiness on the branches, and waste their lives in tuning one unvaried series of sounds. I likewise can call the lutanist and singer, but the sounds that pleased me yesterday weary me to-day, and will grow more wearisome to-morrow.- I can discover within me no power of perception which is not glutted with its proper pleasure, yet I do not feel myself delighted. Man surely has 30 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. some latent sense for which this place affords no gratification, or he has some desires distinct from sense, which must be satisfied before he can be happy." After this he lifted up his head, and seeing the moon rising, walked toward the palace. As he passed through the fields, and saw the animals around him, "Ye," said he, "are happy, and need not envy me that walk thus among you, burdened with myself; nor do I, ye gentle beings, envy your felicity, for it is not the felicity of man. I have many distresses from which ye are free ; I fear pain Avhen I do not feel it ; I sometimes shrink at evils recollected, and sometimes start at evils anticipated : surely the equity of Providence has bal- anced peculiar sufferings with peculiar enjoyments." With observations like these "the prince amused himself as he returned, uttering them with a plaintive voice, yet with a look that discovered him to feel some complacence in his own perspicacity, and to receive some solace of the miseries of life from consciousness of the delicacy with which he bewailed them. He mingled cheerfully in the diversions of the evening, and all rejoiced to find that his heart was lightened. WE were now treading that illustrious island which was once the luminary of the Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived the benefits of knowledge and the blessings of re- ligion. To abstract the mind from all local emotion would be impos- sible if it were endeavored, and would be foolish if it were possible. Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses, whatever makes the past the distant, or the future predominate over the present, ad- vances us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me and my friends be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. The man is little to be envied whose, patriotism would not gain force on the plains of Marathon,* or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of lona.f Journey to the Hebrides. * MARATHON. Among the noted battles of ancient times ; fought between the Greeks and Persians 490 B. c. t IONA. One of the western islands of Scotland. Interesting for the ruins of its ancient religious edifices, established by St. Columba 565 A. D. GOLDSMITH. 31 GOLDSMITH. 1729-1774. IN the long and brilliant list of writers who have made enduring contributions to English lit- erature there is no dearer name than that of Oliver Goldsmith. He seems the personal friend of all who read his Avritings, and those who arc familiar with the strange, sad story of his life cherish his memory with a tender affection. He was born in Ireland in 1729 and died in 1774, spending most of his life in London, where he enjoyed the friendship of Johnson and other eminent authors. His early career was full of vicissitudes ; he sauntered through the first years proof positive o e sreng o s . ascnaons. e wroe s mos amous wors amos literally under the pressure of hunger ; the manuscript of one of them was sold to discharge an execution, while the officers of the law waited in the author's lodgings. Goldsmith's nature was eminently lovable ; there was no bitterness or guile in it ; he loved his fellows and was in turn beloved. The qualities of his heart, as well as those of his intellect, are manifest in his writings, and give them the sweetness that the highest intellectual power or culture could not impart. In The Vicar of Wakefield his name will live forever, and, so long as poetry survives, The Trav- eler and The Deserted Village will be read and admired. His versatility was astonishing ; he was a poet, a novelist, an essayist, and an historian, and won fame in each department of eifort. Well has it been said of him, that " he touched nothing which he did not adorn." THE SAGACITY OF THE SPIDER. OF all the solitary insects I have ever remarked, the spider is the most sagacious, and its actions, to me, who have attentively consid- ered them, seem almost to exceed belief. This insect is formed by nature for a state of war, not only upon other insects, but upon each other. For this state nature seems perfectly well to have formed it. Its head and breast are covered with a strong natural coat of mail, which is impenetrable to the attempts of every other insect, and its belly is enveloped in a soft pliant skin, which eludes the sting even of a wasp. Its legs are terminated by strong claws, not unlike those of the lobster ; and their vast length, like spears, serves to keep every assailant at a distance. Not worse furnished for observation than for an attack or defense, it has several eyes, large, transparent, and covered with a horny sub- stance, which, however, does not impede its vision. Besides this, it is furnished with a forceps above the mouth, which s( rves to kill or secure the prey already caught in its claws or its net. Such are the implements of war with which the body is immedi- ately furnished ; but its net to entangle the enemy seems to be what 32 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. it chjefly trusts to, and what it takes most pains to render as complete as possible. Nature has furnished the body of this little creature with a glutinous liquid, which, proceeding from the lower extremity of the body, it spins into a thread, coarser or finer as it chooses to contract its sphincter.* In order to fix its threads when it begins to weave, it emits a small drop of its liquid against the wall, which, hardening by degrees, serves to hold the thread very firmly. Then receding from the first point, as it recedes the thread lengthens ; and when the spider has come to the place where the other end of the thread should 1)3 fixed, gathering up with its claws the thread, which would otherwise be too slack, it is stretched tightly, and fixed in the same manner to the wall as before. In this manner it spins and fixes several threads parallel to each other, which, so to speak, serve as the warp to the intended web. To form the woof, it spins in the same manner its thread, transversely fixing one end to the first thread that was spun, and which is always the strongest of the whole web, ar Defoe the celebrated romance of llub'uisoii Crusoe, with which all young people arc familiar. 42 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. My sorrows I then might assuage In the ways of religion and truth ; Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheered by the sallies of youth. o Religion ! what treasure untold Resides in that heavenly word ! More precious than silver and gold, Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell These valleys and rocks never heard, Never sighed at the sound of 'a knell, Or smiled when a Sabbath appeared, Ye winds that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me ? O tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see. How fleet is a glance of the mind ! Compared with the speed of its night, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there ; But, alas ! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair. But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest ; The beast is laid down in his lair ; Even here is a season of rest, And I to. my cabin repair. There 's mercy in every place ; And mercy, encouraging thought ! Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot. GIBBON. 43 GIBBON. 1737-1794- EDWARD GIBBON, the historian, was born in Surrey, England, in 1737, and died in 1794. He entered Magdalen College, Oxford, but remained only a short time. At an early age he became deeply interested in religion, and devoted himself to study, relieving the tedium of his labors by assiduous courtship of Mademoiselle Curchod, whose acquaintance he made in Switzer- land. The lady inclined to him ; but her father did not, and she finally married M. Necker, and became the mother of Madame de Stae'l. In 1759 he returned to England and was admitted into the most cultivated society. Two years later he published in French an Essay on the Study of Literature, which attracted but little attention in England. In 1763 he went to France, and became the intimate friend of Helvetius, D'Alembert, Diderot, and other eminent men. The next year he went to Rome, and there conceived the project of writing the history of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. In 1776 the first volume of this great work was published, and at once made him famous. His attacks on Christianity called out many severe rebukes, which enhanced the popular interest in his book. The concluding volumes of the History appeared in 1787- The author's last literary work was his own Autobiography, which has been pronounced the finest specimen of that kind of composition in the English language. The graces of Gibbon's style have always been the subject of wonder and admiration. In his History he is stately and magnificent ; in his Autobiography he is easy, spirited, and charming. The style of his History has been censured by some critics for its excessive elaboration, and its opulence of French phrases ; but the general verdict of literary authorities of his own and later ages awards him the highest rank among English historians as a master of the language. ARABIA. IN the dreary waste of Arabia, a boundless level of sand is inter- sected by sharp and naked mountains ; and the face of the desert, without shade or shelter, is scorched by the direct and intense rays of a tropical sun. Instead of refreshing breezes, the winds, particu- larly from the southwest, diffuse a noxious and even deadly vapor ; the hillocks of sand which they alternately raise and scatter are com- pared to the billows of the ocean, and whole caravans, whole armies, have been lost and buried in the whirlwind. The common benefits of water are an object of desire and c:mtest ; and such is the scarcity of wood, that some art is requisite to preserve and propagate the element of fire. Arabia is destitute of navigable rivers, which fertilize the soil, and convey its produce to the adjacent regions ; the torrents that fall from the hills are imbibed by the thirsty earth ; the rare and hardy plants, the tamarind or the acacia, that strike their roots into the clefts of the rocks, are nourished by the dews of the night : a scanty supply of rain is collected in cisterns and aqueducts : the wells and springs are the secret treasure of the desert ; and the pilgrim of Mecca,* * MECCA. A city in Arabia and the birthplace of Mahomet, a celebrated religious teacher and pretended prophet, born about 750 A. D. He was the founder of one of the most widely diffused 44 CATHCAUT'S LITERACY READEII. after many a dry and sultry march, is disgusted by the taste of the waters, which have rolled over a bed of sulphur or salt. Such is the general and genuine picture of the climate of Arabia. The experience of evil enhances the value of any local or partial enjoy- ments. A. shady grove, a green pasture, a stream of fresh Avater, are sufficient to attract a colony of sedentary Arabs to the fortunate spots which can afford food and refreshment to themselves and their cattle, and which encourage their industry in the cultivation of the palm-tree and the vine. The high lands that border on the Indian Ocean are distinguished by their superior, plenty of wood and water : the air is more temperate, the fruits are more delicious, the ' animals and the human race more numerous : the fertility of the soil invites and rewards the toil of the husbandman ; and peculiar gifts of frankincense and coffee have attracted in different ages the merchants of the world. Arabia, in the opinion of the naturalist, is the genuine and original country of the horse ; the climate most propitious, not indeed to the size, but to the spirit and swiftness, of that generous animal. The merit of the Barb, the Spanish, and the English breed, is derived from a mixture of Arabian blood ; the Bedoweens f preserve, with superstitious care, the honors and the memory of the purest race : the males ere sold at a high price, but the females are seldom alien- ated : and the birth of a noble foal was esteemed, among the tribes, as a subject of joy and mutual congratulation. These horses are educated in tents, among -the children of the Arabs, with a tender familiarity, which trains them in the habits of gentleness and attach- ment. They are accustomed only to walk and to gallop: their sensations are not blunted by the incessant abuse of the spur and the whip : their powers are reserved for the moments of flight and pursuit : but no sooner do' they feel the touch of the hand or the stirrup, than they dart away with the swiftness of the wind : and if their friend be dismounted in the rapid career, they instantly stop till he has recovered his seat. In the sands of Africa and Arabia the camel is a sacred and precious gift. That strong and patient beast of burden can perform, without eating or drinking, a journey of several days ; and a reservoir of fresh water is preserved in a large religions of the globe. (See Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Chap. I., and Irving's Mahomet and Jii.i Successors.} t HKmnvKKNs, H^DOIIMS. A tribe of nomadic Arabs \vho live in tents, and are scattered over the deserts of Arabia, Ugypt, and parts of Africa. GIBBON. 45 lug, a fifth stomach of the animal, whose body is imprinted with the marks of servitude : the larger breed is capable of transporting a weight of a thousand pounds ; and the dromedary, of a lighter and more active frame, outstrips the fleetest courser in the race. Alive or dead, almost every part of the camel is serviceable to man : her milk is plentiful and nutritious : the young and tender flesh has the taste of veal ; and the long hair, which falls each year and is renewed, is coarsely manufactured into >the garments, the furniture, and the tents of the Bedoweens. The perpetual independence of the Arabs has been the theme of praise among strangers and natives ; and the arts of controversy transform this singular event into a prophecy and a' miracle, in favor of the posterity of Ishmael.* Some exceptions, that can neither be dissembled nor eluded, render this mode of reasoning as indis- creet as it is superfluous. Yet these exceptions ere temporary or local ; the body of the nation has escaped the yoke of the most powerful monarchies ; the armies of Sesostris f and Cyrus, J of Pompey and Trajan, || could never achieve the conquest of Arabia; the present sovereign of the Turks may exercise a shadow of juris- diction, but his pride is reduced to solicit the friendship of a people whom it is dangerous to provoke, and fruitless to attack. The obvious causes of their freedom are inscribed on the character and country of the Arabs. Many ages before Mahomet, their intrepid valor had been severely felt by their neighbors, in offensive and defensive war. The patient and active virtues of & soldier are insensibly nursed in the habits and discipline of a^ pastoral life. The care of the sheep and camels is abandoned to the women of the tribe ; but the martial youth, under the banker of the emir, is ever on horseback, and in the field, to practice the exercise of the bow, the javelin, and the scym- etar. The long memory of their independence is the firmest pledge of its perpetuity, and succeeding generations are animated to prove their descent, and to maintain their inheritance. In the more simple state of the Arabs, the nation is free, because each of her sons dis- dains a base submission to the will of a master. His breast is forti- * ISHMAEL. Son of Abraham and Ila^ar, and the supposed ancestor of the Arabians, t SESOSTRIS. An Egyptian kinjr and warrior. $ CYB.US. The founder of the Persian Empire ; one of the great warriors mentioned in tho Bible. POMPKY. A famous Roman general, born 100 . c. (See Plutarch's Lives.) || TRAJAN. A Roman emperor, born 53 A. L>. 46 CATHC ART'S LITERARY READER. fied with the austere virtues of courage, patience, and sobriety ; the love of independence prompts him to exercise the habits of self-com- mand ; and the fear of dishonor guards him from the meaner appre- hension of pain, of danger, and of death. The gravity and firmness of the mind is conspicuous in his outward demeanor : his speech is slow, weighty, and concise ; he is seldom provoked to laughter ; his only gesture is that of stroking his beard, the venerable symbol of manhood ; and the sense of his own importance teaches him to accost his equals without levity, and his superiors without awe. ARABIA (continued}. I THE separation of the Arabs from the rest of mankind has accus- 'tomed them to -confound the ideas of stranger and enemy; and the poverty of the land has introduced a maxim of jurisprudence which they believe and practice to the present hour. They pretend, that, in the division of the earth, the rich and fertile climah s were assigned to other branches of the human family ; and that the posterity of the outlaw Ishinael might recover, by fraud or force, the portion of inheritance of which he had been unjustly deprived. According to the remark of Pliny,* the Arabian tribes are equally addicted to theft and merchandise : the caravans that traverse the desert are ransomed or pillaged ; and their neighbors, since the remote times of Job and Sesostris, have been the victims of their rapacious spirit. If a Bedoween discovers from afar a* solitary traveler, he rides furiously against him. crying, with a loud voice, " Undress thyself, thy aunt (my wife) is without a garment." A ready submission entitles him to mercy : resistance wall provoke the aggressor, f^d his own blood must expiate the blood which he presumes to shed in legitimate defense. The nice sensibility of honor, which weighs the insult rather than the injury, sheds its deadly venom on the quarrels of the Arabs : the honor of their women, and of their beards, is most easily wounded ; an indecent action, a contemptuous word, can be expiated only by the blood of the offender ; and such is their patient inveteracy, that they expect whole months and years the opportunity of revenge. Whatever may be the pedigree of the Arabs, their language is derived from the same original stock with the Hebrew, the Syriac, and the Chaldean tongues : the independence of the tribes was * PLINY. A Roman historian. GIBBON. 47 marked by their peculiar dialects ; but each, after their own, allowed a just preference to the pure and perspicuous idiom of Mecca. In Arabia, as well as in Greece, the perfection of language outstripped the refinement of manners ; and ' her speech could diversify the fourscore names of honey/ the two hundred of a serpent, the five hundred of a lionj the thousand of a sword, at a time when this copious dictionary was intrusted to the memory of an illiterate people. The monuments of the Homerites were inscribed with an obsolete and mysterious character; but the Cufic letters, the groundwork of the present English alphabet, were invented on the banks of the Euphrates ; and the recent, invention was taught at Mecca by a stranger who settled in that city after the birth of Mahomet. The arts of grammar, of meter, and of rhetoric were unknown to the freeboru eloquence of the Arabians ; but their penetration was sharp, their fancy luxuriant, their wit strong and sententious, and their more elaborate compositions were addressed with energy and effect to the minds of their hearers. The genius and merit of a rising poet was celebrated by the applause of his own and kindred tribes. The Arabian poets were the historians and moralists of the age; and if they sympathized with the prejudices, they inspired arid crowned the virtues, of their countrymen.// The indissoluble union of generosity and valor was the darling theme of their song; and when they pointed their keenest satire against a despicable race, they affirmed, in the bitterness of reproach, that the men knew not how to give, nor the women to deny. The same hospitality, which was practiced by Abraham, and celebrated by Homer, is still renewed in the camps of the Arabs. The ferocious Bedoweens, the terror of the desert, em- brace, without inquiry or hesitation, the stranger who dares to confide in their honor and to enter their tent. His treatment is kind and respectful : he shares the wealth, or the poverty, of his host ; and, after a needful repose, he is dismissed on his way, with thanks, with blessings, and, perhaps, with gifts. The heart and hand are more largely expanded by the wants of a brother or a friend ; but the heroic acts that could deserve the public applause must have sur- passed the narrow measure of discretion and experience. A dispute had arisen, who, among the citizens of Mecca, was entitled to the prize of generosity ; and a successive application was made to the three, who were deemed most worthy of the trial. Abdallah, the son of Abbas, had undertaken a distant journey, and his foot was in the 48 CATHCARTS LITERARY READER. stirrup when he heard the voice of a suppliant. " O son of the uncle of the apostle of God, I am a traveler, and in distress ! " He in- stantly dismounted to present the pilgrim with his camel, her rich caparison, and a purse of four thousand pieces of gold, excepting only the sword, either for its intrinsic value, ^or as a gift of an honored kinsman. The servant of Kais informed the sdTcond suppliant that his master was asleep ; but he immediately added, " Here is a purse of seven thousand pieces of gold (it is all we have in the house) ; and here is an order, that will entitle you to a camel and a slave " : the master, as soon as he awoke, praised and enfranchised his faithful steward, with a gentle reproof, that 'by respecting his slumbers he had stinted his bounty. The third of these heroes, the blind Arabah, at the hour of prayer was supporting his steps on the shoulders of two slaves. " Alas ! " he replied, " iny coffers are empty ! but these you may sell : if you refuse, I renounce them." At these words, pushing away the youths, he groped along the wall with his staff. The character of Hatem is the perfect model of Arabian virtue ; he was brave and liberal, an eloquent poet, and a successful robber : forty camels were roasted at his hospitable feast ; and at the prayer of a suppliant enemy he restored both the captives and the spoil. The freedom ' of his countrymen disdained the laws of justice ; they proudly indulged the spontaneous impulse of pity and benevolence. / IT was on that day or rather night, of the 27th June, 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last line of the last page of the Rise and Full of the Roman Empire in a summer- house in my garden.* After laying down my pen, I took several turns in a covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was reflected from the waters, and all nature was silent. I will not dissemble the first emotions of joy on recovery of my freedom, and perhaps the estab- lishment of my fame. But my pride was soon humbled, and a sober melancholy was spread over my mind, by the idea that I had taken an everlasting leave of an old and agreeable companion, and that, what- soever might be the future date of my History, the life of the historian must be short and precarious. * Gibbon was then living at Lausanne, Switzerland. J EIDERS ON. 4' 9 JEFFEflSON. 1743- 1826. THOMAS JEFFERSON was born in Virginia in 1743 and died in 1826. He will live forever in the memory of Americans as the author of The Declaration of In Impendence. He was President of the United States, 1801-9; was Governor of Virginia, Member of Congress, Minister to France, Secretary of State, etc. He is best known in literature by his Notes on Virginia, privately printed in Paris in 1783 ; but none of his writings afford a clearer idea of his style than does this extract from his view of the character of Washington. Hon. Edward Everett said of Jefferson : " On Jefferson rests the imperishable renown of having penned the Declaration of Independence. To have been the instrument of expressing, in one brief, decisive act, the con- secrated will and resolution of a whole family of States ; of unfolding, in one all-important mani- festo, tha causes, the motives, and the justification of this great movement in human affairs ; to have been permitted to give the impress and peculiarity of his mind to a charter of public rights, destined to an importance in the estimation of men equal to anything human ever b >rne on parchment or expressed in the visible signs of thought ; this is the glory of Thomas Jefferson." CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON, His mind was great and powerful, without being of the very first order ; his penetration strong, though not so acute as that of New- ton,* Bacon,f or Locke ; J and as far as he saw, no judgment was ever sounder. It was slow in operation, being little aided by invention or imagination, but sure in conclusion. Hence the common remark of his officers, of the advantage he derived from councils of war, where, hearing all suggestions, he selected whatever was best ; and certainly no general ever planned his battles more judiciously. But if de- ranged during the course of the action, if any member of his plan was dislocated by sudden circumstances, he was slow in a readjust- ment. The consequence was, that he often failed in the field, and rarely against an enemy in station, as at Boston and York. He was incapable of fear, meeting personal dangers with the calmest uncon- cern. Perhaps the strongest feature in his character was prudence, never acting until every circumstance, every consideration, was ma- turely weighed ; refraining if he saw a doubt, but when once decided, going through with his purpose, whatever obstacles opposed. His integrity was most pure, his justice the most inflexible I have ever * NEWTON. An illustrious English philosopher and mathematician, born 1G43. (See Brew- ster's Memoirs of Sir Isaac Newton.} t BACON. One of the greatest lawyers and philosophers that ever lived, born 15G1. (See Campbell's Lives of tJ>e Lord Chancellors.) t LOCKE. The author of the celebrated Essay on the Human Under stmidluij, born in England, 50 CATHC ART'S LITERARY READER. known ; 110 motives of interest or consanguinity, of friendship or hatred, being able to bias his decision. He was, indeed, in every sense of the words, a wise, a good, and a great man. His temper was natu- rally irritable and high toned; but reflection and resolution had obtained a firm and habitual ascendency over it. If ever, however, it broke its bounds, he was most tremendous in his wrath. In his expenses he was honorable, but exact ; liberal in contributions to whatever prom- ised utility ; but frowning and unyielding on all visionary projects, and all unworthy calls on his chrrity. His he;'rt was not warm in its affections ; but he exactly calculated every man's value, and gave him a solid esteem proportioned to it. His person, you know, was fine, his str.ture exactly Avhat one would wish ; his deportment easy, erect, and noble, the best horseman of his rge, and the most "T.uvful figure that could be seen on horseback. Although in the circle of his friends, where he might be unrcs-.-rvcd with safety, he took a five share in conversation, his colloquial trlnits Avere not above mediocrity, possessing neither copiousness of ideas nor fluency of words. In public, when called on for a sudden opinion, he was unready, short, and embarrassed. Yet he wrote readily, iv.ther diit'usely. in an easy arid correct style. This he had acquired by eonver>ation with the world, for his education was merely reading, writing, and common arithmetic, to which he added surveying at a later day. His time was employed in action chiefly, reading little, and that only in agri- culture and English history. His correspondence became neeess:,rllv extensive, and with journalizing his agriculhiiMl proceedings occupied most of his leisure hours within doors. On the whole, his character was, in its mass, perfect, in nothing bad, in few points indifferent ; and it may truly be said, that never did nature and fortune combine more completely to make a man great, and 'to place him in the same constellation with whatever Avorthies have merited from, man an everlasting remembrance. For his Avas the singular destiny and merit of leading the armies of nis country successfully through an arduous Avar, for the establishment of its independence; of conducting its councils through the birth of a government, now in its forms and principles, until it had settled down into a quiet and orderly train ; and of scrupulously obeying the laws through the whole of his career, civil and military, of which the history of the world furnishes no other example. BUENS. 51 BUENS. 1759-1796. ROBERT BURNS, the son of a small farmer, was bom near Ayr, Scotland, in 1759, and died in 1796. He manifested at an early age an eager appetite for learning ; but his opportunities for gratifying it were few : in the country school he gained the rudiments of an education in English branches, and in later life learned something of French, Latin, and the higher mathematics. It is worthy of note that one of his favorite books, in boyhood, was Shakespeare's Plays. At the age of sixteen he began to write verses, striving to express in rhyme the emotions excited by his iirst affair of the heart. These youthful compositions were circulated in manuscript among his acquaintances, and finally came to the notice of some persons of literary taste, who persuaded Burns to publish a volume. The venture brought him fame at once, and twenty pounds, one hundred dollars, in money. He visited Edinburgh on invitation of Dr. Blacklock, and was well received in the brilliant society of that city. A second edition of his poems, published in 1787, yielded him a profit of seven hundred pounds. But his gain in fame and money from his visit to the Scottish capital was more than offset by his acquisition of the dissolute habits which were destined to impede his literary progress and ultimately to bring hinvtoan early grave. His rank among poets it is not easy to determine, though Lord Byron and Allan Cunningham placed him among the first. It is probable that in their estimates they regarded his promise rather than his performance. But it may safely be said that of all poets who have sprung from the people, receiv- ing almost no aid from education, he was surely the greatest. He was the poet of passion and feeling : but his utterances were simple and natural, and owed none of their force or beauty to art. His poems glow with tenderness and the love of freedom, and are rich in a rare, pure humor that none have known how to imitate. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. WHEN chill November's surly blast Made fields and 'forests bare, One evening-, as I wandered forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spied a man whose aged step Seemed weary, worn with care : His face was furrowed o'er with years, And hoary was his hair. " Young stranger, whither wanderest thou ? " Began the reverend sage ; " Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasures rage ? Or haply, prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth, with' me, to mourn The miseries of man ! 52 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. " The sun tliat overhangs yon moors, Outspreading far and wide, Where hundreds labor to support A haughty lordling's pride, I 've seen yon weary winter sun Twice forty times return ; And every time has added proofs That man was made to mourn. " man, while in thy early years, How prodigal of time ! Misspending all thy precious hours, Thy glorious youthful prime ! Alternate follies take the sway : Licentious passions burn ; Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, That man was made to mourn. " Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood's active might ; Man then is useful to his kind, Supported in his right ; But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn, Then age and want, O ill-matched pair ! Show man was made to mourn. " A few seem favorites of fate, In pleasure's lap carest ; Yet think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly blest. But 0, what crowds in every land, All wretched and forlorn, Through weary life this lesson learn, That man was made to mourn. "Many and sharp the numerous ills, Inwoven with our frame, More pointed still we make ourselves, It-egret, remorse, and shame ! BURNS. 53 And man, whose heaven-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn ! " See yonder poor, o'erlabored wight, So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil ; And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful though a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn. " If I 'm designed yon lordling's slave, By Nature's law designed, Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind ? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty or scorn ? Or why has man the will and power To make his fellow mourn ? " Yet let not this too much, my son, Disturb thy youthful breast : This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the best ! The poor, oppressed, honest man Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn ! " O Death ! the poor man's dearest friend, The kindest and the best ! Welcome the hour my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest. The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, From pomp and pleasure torn ; But 0, a blest relief to those That wcurv-Lden mourn ! " 54 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. FOE A' THAT, AND A' THAT, Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that ? Tjfre coward-slave, we pass him by, And dare be poor, for a', that ! For a' that, and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that ; The rank is but the guinea's stamp ; The man 's the gowd for a' that. What tho' on namely fare we dine, Wear hodden-gray, and a' that ; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man 's a man, for a' that. For a 5 that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that ; The honest man, tho' ne'er sac poor, Is king o' men for a' that. Ye see yon birkie, ca'ed a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He 's but a coof for a' that : For a' that, and a' that, His riband, star, and a' that, ' The man of independent miijd, He looks and laughs at a' that. A king can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that ; But an honest man 's aboon his might, Quid faith, he mamma fa' that ! For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher ranks than a 5 that. Then let us pray that come it may, As come it Avill for a' that, BURNS. 55 That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, and a' that ; For a' that, and a' that, It 's coming yet, for a' that ; That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that. BANNOCKBTJRN* AT Bannockburn the English lay, The Scots they were na far away, But waited for the break o' day That glinted in the east. But soon the sun broke through the heath And lighted up that field o' death, When Bruce, wi' saul-inspiring breath, His heralds thus addressed : " Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to glorious victory ! " Now 's the day, and now 's the hour; See the front of battle lour ; See approach proud Edward's power, Edward ! chains and slavery ! "Wha will be a traitor knave ? Wha can fill a coward's grave ? Wha sae base as be a slave ? Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! * " Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Caledonia ! on wi' me ! * BANNOCKBURN. See note, page 63. 56 CATHC ART'S LITERARY READER. " By oppression's woes and pains ! By your sons in servile chains ! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be shall be free ! " Lay the proud usurpers low ! Tyrants fall in every foe ! Liberty 's in every blow ! Forward ! let us do or dio ! " OF A' THE AIETS THE WIND CAN BLAW. Or a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best : Though wild woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between ; Baith day and night, my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair : I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air : There 's not a bonnie flower that springs, By fountain, shaw, or green ; There 's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean. BUT pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; Or like the snowflake in the river, A moment white, then melts forever ; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place ; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. WORDSWORTH. 57 WOEDSWOETH. . 1770-1850. nd," throughout his long life) at Grasn mm, dying in 189, at the great age ot eigaty-eignt. In Ins early manhood Wordsworth was visionary and radical, professing republicanism, and avowing himself an admirer of the prin- ciples which were illustrated in the French Revolution ; but, as often happens, age tempered his ,_ _ fervor, and during the latter half of his life he was unfaltering in his political and religious con- servatism. His h'rst hook, An Evening Walk, an epistle in verse, was published in 1793 ; his second, Descriptive Sketches, published in the same year, was cordially praised by Coleridge. Between 1798 and 1814- several editions of his poems were issued, receiving praise and censure in nearly equal proportions. When The Excursion appeared, in 1814, Lord Jeffrey said of it : " This will never do ; it is longer, weaker, and tamer than any of Mr. Wordsworth's other productions." On the other hand, William Hazlitt pronounced it almost unsurpassed " in power of intellect, lofty conception, and deptli of feeling." On the whole, it must be said that during Wordsworth's life, or at least until within a few years prior to his death, the judgment of the critics on his poetry was in effect unfavorable; but with the great public his writings steadily gained popular- ity. One of the principal reasons for the hostility of the critics was, no doubt, his energetic pro- test, by precept and example, against the romantic school of poetry, which, conspicuously repre- sented by Byron, was tlitiii in high favor. He endeavored to demonstrate the superiority of simplicity in thought and expression, and in the effort incurred the reproach of silliness. Dur- ing the last twenty years, however, a more candid and accurate estimate of his work has been made, and the deliberate judgment of the reading world has assigned him an enviable rank among English poets of the nineteenth century. One of the most prominent characteristics of his poeti- cal genius is imaginative power, in which quality so high an authority as Coleridge has affirmed that he was surpassed only by Shakespeare. His mind was strongly philosophical, and his writ- ings exhibit a rare union of philosophical and poetical elements. They are distinctively contem- plative, and will always be admired for their faithful interpretation of nature. It is not easy to specify Wordsworth's best composition : The Excursion is perhaps the greatest; but to the com- mon mind some of his lyrics and ballads are most admirable. Among them are Hart Leap Well, Lines to a Cuckoo, The Banks of the Wye, Ruth, etc. Some critics have designated The Solitary Reaper as his finest poem. THE BOY AND THE OWLS. THERE was a Boy ; ye knew him well, ye cliffs And islands of Winander ! many a time, At evening, when the earliest stars began To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake ; And there, with fingers interwoven, botli hands 58 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. * * Pressed closely palm to palm, and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, That they might answer him ; and they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call, with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse wild Of mirth and jocund din ! And, when a lengthened pause Of silence came and baffled his best skill, Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Has carried far into his heart the voice Of mountain torrents ; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received Into the bosom of the steady lake. This Boy was taken from his mates, and died In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Pair is the spot, most beautiful the vale Where he was born : the grassy churchyard hangs Upon a slope above the village school ; And through that churchyard when my way has led On summer evenings, I believe that there A long half-hour together I have stood Mute, looking at the grave in which he lies ! RUTH, WHEN Ruth was left half desolate, Her father took another mate ; And Ruth, not seven years old, A slighted child, at her own will Went wandering over dale and hill, In thoughtless freedom bold. And she had made a pipe of straw, And from that oaten pipe could draw WORDSWORTH. 59 All sounds of winds and floods ; Had built a bower upon the green, As if she from her birth had been An infant of the woods. Beneath her father's roof, alone She seemed to live ; her thoughts her own ; Herself her own delight ; Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay, And passing thus the livelong day, She grew to woman's height. There came a youth from Georgia's shore, A military casque he wore, With splendid feathers dressed ; He brought them from the Cherokees ; The feathers nodded in the breeze, And made a gallant crest. From Indian blood you deem him sprung : Ah, no 1 he spake the English tongue, And bore a soldier's name ; And, when America was free Prom battle and from jeopardy, He 'cross the ocean came. With hues of genius on his cheek, In finest tones the youth could speak. While he was yet a boy, The moon, the glory of the sun, And streams that murmur as they run, Had been his dearest joy. He was a lovely youth ! I guess The panther in the wilderness Was not so fair as he ; And, when he chose to sport and play, No dolphin ever was so gay Upon the tropic sea. 60 CATHCAllT S LITERARY HEADER. Among the Indians he had fought ; And with him many tales he brought Of pleasure and of fear ; Such tales as, told to any maid By such a youth, in the green shade, Were perilous to hear. He told of girls, a happy rout ! Who quit their fold with dance and shout, Their pleasanfTndian town, To gather strawberries all day long ; Ileturning with a choral song " When daylight is gone down. He spake of plants divine and strange That every hour their blossoms change, Ten thousand lovely hues ! With budding, fading, faded flowers, They stand the wonder of the bowers, Prom morn to evening dews. He told of the magnolia, spread High as a cloud, high overhead ! The cypress and her spire ; Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam Cover a hundred leagues, and seem To set the hills on fire. The youth of green savannas spake, And many an endless, endless lake, With all its fairy crowds Of islands, that together lie As quietly as spots of sky Among the evening clouds. And then he said, " How sweet it were A fisher or a hunter there, A gardener in the shade, Still wandering with an easy mind WORDSWORTH. 61 To build a household fire, and find ^ A home in every giade ! " What days and what sweet years ! Ah me ! Our life were life indeed, with thee So passed in quiet bliss, And all the while," said he, " to know That we were in a world of woe, On such an earth as this ! " Sweet Euth ! and could you go with me My helpmate in the woods to be, Our shed at night to rear ; Or run, my own adopted bride, A sylvan huntress at my side, And drive the flying deer ! " Beloved Euth No more he said, The wakeful Euth at midnight shed A solitary tear : She thought again, and did agree With him to sail across the sea, And drive the flying deer. % " And now, as fitting is and right, We in the church our faith will plight, A husband and a wife." Even so they did ; and I may say That to sweet Euth that happy day Was more than human life. THE SOLITARY REAPER. BEHOLD her single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass ! Eeaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass ! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain ; CATHCAHT S LITERARY HEADER. O listen ! for the vale profound Is overflowing- with the sound. No nightingale did ever chant More welcome notes feo weary bands Of travelers in some shady haunt Among Arabian sands ; No sweeter voice was ever heard In springtime from the cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings ? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago : Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day ? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again. Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending ; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending ; I listened till I had my fill ; And as I mounted up the hill The music in my heart I bore Long after it was heard no more. SCOTT. 63 SCOTT. 1771-1832. SIR WALTER SCOTT, the most famous of historical novelists, was born in Edinburgh in 1771 and died in 1832. He studied at the University of Edinburgh, read law, and in 1792 was called to the bar. In 1799 he was appointed Sheriff, in 1806 was made Clerk of the Court of Session, and in 1820, when he Avas forty-nine years old, received a baronetcy.^ His^ftrst literary effort was a translation of some of Burger's ballads, which was published in 1796. 'Other translations . followed, with three or four original poems; but not until 1$'5 did Scott attain the place of literary eminence which he forever after held and adorned, (jlis first grand success was The Lay of the Last Minstrel, which appeared in that year, and was received with almost universal praise, j Murmlon, The Lady of the Lake, Iloktby, and other poems, were issued in quick suc- cession, each confirmrn'g his poetical reputation and spreading his fame. But Scott is better known to the world as a novelist than as a poet, and -a few words descriptive of his remarkable career in fiction seem to be necessary to the completeness of this sketch. In 1814 Wai-erley was issued at Edinburgh, and instantly attracted attention. No author's name appeared on the title-page, and the public was left in a state of painful doubt as to the source of so brilliant a book. Its perplexity was naturally increased, the next year, by the appearance of GUI/ Mun- n-niifj, and, at brief intervals, of its successors. Scott was suspected of the authorship of these books, but stoutly denied it; and not till many years later did he confess the truth. Space will not permit us to dwell upon the pecuniary troubles which clouded the last years of the great novelist. In all the history of literature there is no record of such labors as his ; one admires his lofty sense of honor, his unyielding fortitude, and his almost superhuman power of applica- tion with equal warmth. The secret of Scott's success may be said to lie in his felicitous em- ployment of common topics, images, and expressions, such as all readers can appreciate. Another source of his strength was his intense nationality : no writer before him had so vividly illustrat- ed the characteristics of Scottish life and character. His novels were and are popular because they deal with real life, and avoid the meditative and speculative habits which are wearisome to the common reader. Not conspicuously surpassing all other novelists in single qualities, Scott yet possessed and combined r:ll the qualities necessary for his work in such nice and harmonious adjustment as has never been witnessed in any other man. While his novels fasci- nate and entertain with an enduring yet indescribable charm, they also convey much valuable information as to the life of the times of which they treat. THE TOMB OF ROBERT BRUCE,* SUCH of the Scottish knights as remained alive returned to their own country. They brought back the heart of the Bruce and the bones of the good Lord James. These last were interred in the church of St. Bride, where Thomas Bickson and Dougks held so terrible a Palm Sunday. The Bruce's heart was buried below the high altar in Melrose Abbey. As for his body, it was laid in the sepulcher in the midst of the church of Dunfermline, under a marble * Robert Bruce, King of Scots, was born in 1274. He was a man of great valor, and waged, with varying fortune, incessant war against the English. He finally gained a decisive victory over the army of Edward II. at the famous battle of Bannockburn in 1314, which resulted in the independence of Scotland. 64 CATHC ART'S LITERARY HEADER. stone. But the church becoming afterwards ruinous, and the roof falling down with age, the monument was broken to pieces, and nobody could tell where it stood. But a little while ago, when they were repairing the church at Dunfermline, and removing the rubbish, lo ! they found fragments of the marble tomb of Robert Bruce. Then they began to dig farther, thinking to discover the body of this cele- brated monarch ; and at length they came to the skeleton of a tall man, and they knew it must be that of King Robert, both as he was known to have been buried in a winding-sheet of cloth of gold, of which many fragments were found about this skeleton, and also because the breastbone appeared to have been sawed through, in order to take out the heart. So orders were sent from the King's Court of Exchequer to guard the bones carefully, until a new tomb should be prepared, into which they were laid with profound respeet. A great many gentlemen arid ladies attended, and almost all the common people in the neighborhood ; and as the church could not hold half the numbers, the people were allowed to pass through it, one after an- other, that each one, the poorest as well as the richest, might see all that remained of the great King Robert l>rnce, who restored the Scottish monarchy. Many people shed tears ; for there was the wasted skull which once was the head that thought so wisely and boldly for his country's deliverance ; and there Mas the dry bone which had once been the sturdy arm that killed Sir Henry tie Bohun, between the two armies, at a single blow, on the evening before the battle of Bamiockburn.* It is more than five hundred years since the body of Bruce was first laid into the tomb; and how many, many millions of men have died since that time, whose bones could not be recognized, nor their names known, any more than those of inferior animals ! It was a great thing to see that the wisdom, courage, and patriotism of a King could preserve him for such a long time in the memory of the people over whom he once reigned. But then, my dear child, you must remember, that it is only desirable to be remembered for praise- worthy and patriotic actions, such as those of Robert Bruce. It would be better for a prince to be forgotten like the meanest peasant, than to be recollected for actions of tyranny or oppression. * See Burns's poem, p;iire 5o. SCOTT. LOCHINVAK. LADY HERON'S SONG. O, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through a*ll the wide Border his steed was the best, And save his good broadsword he weapons had none ; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none ; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late : For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, Among bride's-men and kinsmen, and brothers and all : Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom spoke, never a word), " 0, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ? " " I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide, And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup, She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, " Now tread we a measure ! " said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; E 66 CATHCAlir's LITERACY HEADER. While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume ; And the bride-maidens whispered, " 'T were better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Loc^invar." One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near ; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! " She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; They '11 have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan ; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran : There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. -So daring in love, and so d-nmtless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ? THE LAST MINSTREL. THE way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old ; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have known a better day ; The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy : The last of all the Bards was he, Who sung of Border chivalry ; For, well-a-day ! their date was fled, His tuneful brethren all were dead ; And he, neglected and oppressed, Wished to be with them, and at rest. No more, on prancing palfrey borne, He caroled, light as lark at morn ; No longer, courted and caressed, High placed in hall, a welcome guest, He poured, to lord and lady gay, The unpremeditated lay : SCOTT. 67 Old times were changed, old manners gone ; A stranger fills the Stuarts' throne ; The bigots of the iron time Had called his harmless art a crime. A wandering harper, scorned and poor, He begged his way from door to door ; And tuned, to please a peasant's ear, The harp a King had loved to hear. THE LOVE OF COUNTRY. BREATHES there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land ? Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned As home his footsteps he hath turned, Erom wandering on a foreign strand ? If such there breathe, go, mark him well : For him no minstrel raptures swell ! High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim : Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentered all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And doubly (lying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. SOME feelings are to mortals given, With less of earth in them than heaven : And if there be a human tear Prom passion's dross refined and cle.u*, A tear so limpid and so meek, It would .not stain an angel's cheek, J T is that which pious fathers shed Upon a duteous daughter's head ! 68 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. SYDNEY SMITH. 1771-1845. SYDNEY SMITH'S name is a synonym of wit ; but lie has left behind him evidences of far higher mental powers than those which are called into exercise in the effort to amuse. He was born at Woodford, Essex, England, in 1771, and died in 1615. He was educated at Oxford, took holy orders and held a curacy in Wiltshire; in 179ohe removed to Edinburgh, where, in conjunc- tion with Brougham and other distinguished men, he founded the Edinburgh Review. Removing to London in 180-1, he continued to write for the Revicv: }l and speedily won a brilliant reputation as a critic. Ecclesiastical preferment frequently came to him, and at the time of his death he was Canon Residentiary of St. Paul's Cathedral. His writings were mainly in the form of ser- mons ; but he wrote many notable letters on political and religious questions which go far to- i ward justifying Mr. Everett's opinion that if he (Smith) " had not been known as the wittiest man of his day, he would have been accounted one of the wisest." It is believed that his L; t- ters on Catholic Emancipation were largely instrumental in pushing that measure to success. Macaulay said of him : " He is universally admitted to have b:vn a great reasoner, and the greatest master of ridicule that has appeared among us since Swift." THE PLEASURES OF KNOWLEDGE. IT is noble to seek Truth, and it is beautiful to find it. It is the ancient feeling of the human heart, that knowledge is better than riches ; and it is deeply and wn-rsflly {me. To mark the course of human passions as they have flowed on in the ;:gcs that are past ; to see why nations have risen, and why they have fallen ; to speak of heat, and light, and the winds ; to know what man has discovered in the heavens above and in the earth beneath; to hear the chemist unfold the marvelous properties that the Crertor lias locked up in a speck of earth ; to be told that there are worlds so distant from our own, that the quickness of light, traveling from the world's creation, has never yet reached us ; to wander in the creations of poetry, and grow warm again with that eloquence which swayed the democracies of the Old World ; to go up with great reasoners to the First Cause of all, and to perceive, in the midst of all this dissolution and decay and cruel separation, that there /-v one thing unchangeable, indestruc- tible, and everlasting: it is worth while in the days of our 1 youth to strive hard for this great discipline ; to pass sleepless nights for it; to give up for it laborious days ; to spurn for it present pleasures : to endure for it afflicting poverty ; to wade for it through darkness, and sorrow, and contempt, as the great spirits of the world have done in all ages and all times. I appeal to the experience of any man who is in the habit of exer- SYDNEY SMITH. ()9 cising bis mind vigorously and well, whether there is not a satisfac- tion in it which tells him he has been acting up to one of the great objects of his existence ? The end of nature has been answered : his faculties have done that which they were created to do, not lan- guidly occupied upon trifles, not enervated by sensual gratification, but exercised in that toil which is so congenial to their nature, and so worthy of their strength. A life of knowledge is not often a life of injury and crime. Whom does such a man oppress ? with whose happiness does he interfere ? whom does his ambition destroy ? and whom does his fraud deceive ? In the pursuit of science he injures no man, and in the acquisition he does good to all. A man who dedicates his life to knowledge, becomes habituated to pleasure which carries with it no reproach : and there is one security that he will never love that pleasure which is paid for by anguish of heart, his pleasures are all cheap, all dig- nified, and all innocent ; and, as far as any human being can expect permanence in this changing scene, he has secured a happiness which no malignity of fortune can ever take away, but which must cleave to him while he lives, ameliorating every good, and diminishing every evil of his existence. I solemnly declare, that, but for the love of knowledge, I should consider the life of the meanest hedger and ditcher preferable to tluit of the greatest and richest man in existence ; for the fire of our minds is like the fire which the Persians burn on the mountains, it flames night and day, and is immortal, and not to be quenched ! Upon something it must act and feed, upon the pure spirit of knowledge, or upon the foul dregs of polluting passions. Therefore, when I say, in conducting your understanding, love knowledge with a great love, with a vehement love, with a love co- eval with life, what do I say but love innocence ; love virtue ; love purity of conduct ; love, that which, if you are rich and great, will sinctify the providence which lias made you so, and make men call it justice ; love that which, if you are poor, will render your poverty respectable, and make the proudest feel it unjust to laugh at the mean- ness of your fortunes ; love that which will comfort you, adorn you, and never quit you, which will open to you the kingdom of thought, and all the boundless regions of conception, as an asylum against the cruelty, the injustice, and the pain that may be your lot in the outer world, that which will make vour motives habitually great and lion- 70 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. orable, and light up in an instant a thousand noble disdains at the very thought of meanness and of fraud ? Therefore, if any young man have embarked his life in the pursuit of knowledge, let him go on without doubting or fearing the event : let him not be intimidated by the cheerless beginnings of knowledge, by the darkness from which she springs, by the difficulties which hover around her, by the wretched habitations in which she dwells, by the want and sorrow which sometimes journey in her train ; but let him ever follow her as the Angel that guards him, and as the Genius of his life. She will bring him out at last into the light of (Liy, and exhibit him to the world comprehensive in acquirements, fertile in resources, rich in imagination, strong in reasoning, prudent and powerful above his fellows in all the relations and in all the offices of life. WIT AND WISDOM. * THERE is an association in men's minds between dullness and wis- dom, amusement and folly, which has a very powerful influence in decision upon character, and is not overcome without considerable difficulty. The reason is, that the onttrard signs of a dull man and a wise man are the same, and so are the outward signs of a frivolous man and a witty man ; and we are not to expect that the in; joriiy will be disposed to look to much -more than the outward sign. I believe the fact to be, that wit is very seldom the only eminent quality which resides in the mind of any man ; it is commonly accompanied by many other talents of every description, and ought to be consid- ered as a strong evidence of a fertile and superior understanding. Almost all the great poets, orators, and statesmen of all times have been witty. The meaning of an extraordinary man is, that he is eight men, not one man ; that he has as much wit as if he had no sense, and as much sense as if he had no wit ; that his conduct is as judicious as if he were the dullest of human beings, and his imagination as brilliant as if he were irretrievably ruined. But when wit is combined with sense and information ; when it is softened by benevolence, and restrained by strong principle ; when it is in the hands of a man who can use it and despise it, who can be witty, and something much better than witty, who loves honor, justice, decency, good-nature, morality, and religion, ten thousand times better than wit; wit is SYDNEY SMITH. 71 then a beautiful and delightful part of our nature. There is no more interesting spectacle than to see the effects of wit upon the different characters of men ; than to observe it expanding caution, relaxing dignity, unfreezing coldness, -^ teaching age and care and pain to smile, extorting reluctant gleams of pleasure from melancholy, and charming even the pangs of grief. It is pleasant to observe how it penetrates through the coldness and awkwardness of society, gradu- ally bringing men nearer together, and, like the combined force of wine and oil, giving every man a glad heart and a shining counte- nance. Genuine and innocent wit like this is surely the flavor of the mind ! Man could direct his ways by plain reason, and support his life by tasteless food; but God has given us wit, and flavor, and laughter, and perfumes, to enliven the days of man's pilgrimage, and to " charm his painful steps over the burning marie." SCIENCE OF GOVERNMENT. IT would seem that the science of government is an unappropriated region in the universe of knowledge. Those sciences with which the passions can never interfere are considered to be attainable only by study and by reflection ; while there are not many young men who doubt of their ability to make a constitution, or to govern a kingdom, at the same time there cannot, perhaps, be a more decided proof of a superficial understanding than the depreciation of those difficulties which are inseparable from the science of government. To know well the local and the natural man ; to track the silent inarch of human affairs to seize, with happy intuition, on those great laws which ' regulate the prosperity of empires ; to reconcile principles to circum- stances, and be no wiser than the times will permit ; to anticipate the effects of every speculation upon the entangled relations and awkward complexity of real life ; and to follow out the theorems of the senate to the daily comforts of the cottage, is a task which they will fear most who know it best, a task in which the great and the good have often failed, and which it is not only wise, but pious and just, in common men to avoid. 72 CATHCABT'S LITERARY READER. COLEEIDGE. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE was bora at Ottery St. Mary, Devonshire, where his father was vicar, in 1772 and died in 1834. He spent two years at Jesus College, Cambridge, but did not complete his course. A little later, being in London without resources or employment, he enlisted in a dragoon regiment. One day he wrote a Latin verse on the stable-wall, which fact coming to the knowledge of his captain, the latter procured his discharge from the service. Coleridge at once entered on a literary and political career, publishing his lirst work, 77/.,' Fall of Robespierre, An Historical DruiiKi, in 17-)1, and soon after several pamphlets in which lie advo- cated democratic and Unitarian doctrines. "With Sonthey and Love! I he projected a Pantisoc- racy to be established in Pennsylvania, but the scheme came to naught, and Coleridge settled down as a writer on the Mvrnuiy P^st, in support of the government. In 179s he \iniird Germany and studied there diligently. In 1812 hi.s series of Essays, called 7/// />/>//. ir hands and faces, admiring their whiteness. Columbus was pleased with their gentleness and confiding simplicity, and suffered their scrutiny with perfect acquiescence, winning them "by his benignity. They now supposed that the ships had sailed out of the crystal firma- ment which bounded their horizon, or had descended from above on their ample wings, and that these marvelous brings were inhabitants of the skies. The natives of the island were no less objects of curiosity to the Spaniards, differing as they did from any race of men they had ever seen. Their appearance gave no promise of either wealth or civiliza- tion, for they were entirely naked, and painted with a variety of colors. With some it was confined merely to a part of the face, the nose or around the eyes ; with others it extended to the whole body, and gave them a wild and fantastic appearance. Their complexion was of a tawny or copper hue, and they were entirely destitute of beards. Their hair was not crisped, like the recently discovered tribes of the African coast, under the same lati- tude, but straight and coarse, partly cut short above the ears, but some locks were left long behind and falling upon their shoulders. Their features, though obscured and discolored by paint, were agreeable ; they had lofty foreheads, and remarkably fine eyes. They were of moderate stature and well-shaped ; most of them appeared to be under thirty years of age ; there was but one female with them, quite young, naked like her companions, and beautifully formed. IRVING. 99 As Columbus supposed himself to have lauded on an island at the extremity of India, 'he called the natives by the general appellation of Indians, which was universally adopted before the true nature of his discovery was known, and has since been extended to all the aboriginals of the New World. The islanders were friendly and gentle. Their only arms were lances, hardened at the end by fire, or pointed with a flint, or the teeth or bone of a fish. There was no iron to be seen, nor did they appear acquainted with its properties ; for when a drawn sword was presented to them, they unguardedly took it by the edge. Columbus distributed among them colored caps, glass beads, hawks' bells, and other trifles, such as the Portuguese were accustomed to trade with among the nations of the gold-coast of Africa. They received them eagerly, hung the beads round their necks, and were wonder- fully pleased with their finery, and with the sound of the bells. The Spaniards remained all day on shore, refreshing themselves after their anxious voyage amidst the beautiful groves of the island, and returned on board late in the evening, delighted with all they had seen. On the following morning, at break of day, the shore was thronged with the natives ; some swam off to the ships, otljers came in light barks, which they called canoes, formed of a single tree, hollowed, and capable of holding from one man up to the number of forty or fifty. These they managed dextrously with paddles, and, if overturned, swam about in the water with perfect unconcern, as if in their natural element, righting their canoes with great facility, and baling them with calabashes. They were eager to procure more toys and trinkets, not, apparently, from any idea of their intrinsic value, but because everything from the hands of the strangers possessed a supernatural virtue in their eyes, as having been brought from heaven ; they even picked up fragments of glass and earthenware as valuable prizes. They had but few ob- jects to offer in i-eturn, except parrots, 'of which great numbers were domesticated among them, and cotton yarn, of which they had abun- dance, and would exchange large balls of five and twenty pounds' weight for the merest trifle. They brought also cakes of a kind of bread called cassava, which constituted a principal part of their food, and was afterwards an im- portant article of provisions with the Spaniards. It was formed from a great root called yuca, which they cultivated in fields. This they cut into small morsels, which they grated .or scraped, and strained in 100 CATIICART'S LITERARY READER. a press, making a broad, thin cuke, which was afterwards dried hard, and would keep for a long time, being steeped in w^ter when eaten. It was insipid, but nourishing, though the water strained from it in the preparation was a deadly poison. There was another kind of yuca destitute of this poisonous quality, which was eaten in the root, either boiled or roasted. The avarice of the discoverers was quickly excited, by the sight of small ornaments of gold, worn by some of the natives in their noses. These the latter gladly exchanged for glass beads and hawks 1 bells ; and both parties exulted in the bargain, no doubt adm ring each other's simplicity. As gold, however, v^s an object of routl monop- oly in all enterprises of discovery, Columbus forbade any traffic in it without his express sanction ; and he put the same prohibition on the traffic for cotton, reserving to the crown all ' trade for it, wherever it should be found in any quantity. He inquired of the natives where this gold was procured, They answered him by signs, pointing to the south, where, he understood them, dwelt a king of such wealth that he was served in vessels of wrought gold. He understood, also, that there was land to the south, the southwest, and the northwest ; and that the people from the last-mentioned quarter frequently proceeded to the southwest in quest of gold and precious stones, making in their way descents upon the islands, and carrying off the inhabitants. Several of the natives showed him scars of wounds ivrcived in battles with these invaders. It is evident that a great part of this fancied intelligence was self- delusion on the part of Columbus ; for he was under a sp-^ll of the imagination, which gave its own shapes and colors to every object. He was persuaded that he had arrived among the islands de- scribed by Marco Polo,* as lying opposite Cathay, in the Chinese Sea, and he construed everything to accord with the account given of those opulent regions. Thus the enemies which thj natives spoke of as coming from the northwest he concluded to be the people of the mainland of Asia, the subjects of the great Khan of Tartary, who were represented by the Venetian traveler as accustomed to make war upon the islands, and to enslave their inhabitants. The country to the south, abounding in gold, could be no other than the famous island of Cipango ; and the king, who was served out of vessels of * MAHCO POT.O. A renowned Venetian traveler, horn about 1252. He was the first European who entered China, or made any extended journey into Central Asia. IRVING. 101 gold, must be the monarch whose magnificent city and gorgeous palace, covered with plates of gold, had been extolled in such splendid terms by Marco Polo. The island where Columbus had thus, for the first time, set his foot upon the New World, was called by the natives Guanahane. * It still retains the name of Sau Salvador, which he gave to it, though called, by the English, Cat Island. The light which he had seen the evening previous to his making land may have been on Watling's Island, which lies a few leagues to the east. San Salvador is one of the great cluster of the Luc-ay os or Bahama Islands, which stretch southeast and northwest, from the coast of Florida to Hispaniola, covering the northern coast of Cuba. THE RETURN OF COLUMNS, AFTER a brief interval, the sovereigns 1 I'eGJueoted. ot Columbus a recital of his adventures. His manner was sedate and dignified, but warmed by the glow of natural enthusiasm. He enumerated the sev- eral islands he had visited, expatiated on the temperate character of the climate, and the capacity of the soil for every variety of produc- tion, appealing to the samples imported by him as evidence of their natural productiveness. He dwelt moiv 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 inte- rior. Lastly, he pointed out the wide scope afforded to Christian zeal in the illumination of a r.tee of men whose minds, far from being- wedded to any system of idolatry, were prepared by their extreme simplicity for the reception of pur^ and uncorrupted doctrine. The last consideration touched Isabella's heart most sensibly ; and the whole audience, kindled with various emotions by the speaker's elo- quence, filled up the perspective with the gorgeous coloring of their own fancies, as ambition or avarice or devotional feeling predomi- nated 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 Deum were poured forth by the choir of the royal chapel, as in commemoration of some glorious victory. 102 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. BYRON. 1788-1824. GEORGE GORDON, Lord Byron, was born in 1788 and died in 1824. In youth he was precocious, manifesting remarkable intellectual power, but giving evidence also of a wild and ungovernable temper. Leaving Trinity College, Cambridge, at the age of nineteen, he prepared a volume of poems for publication, which, under the title of Hours of Idleness, was severely ridiculed by the Edinburgh Review. A year later appeared Byron's reply, English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, one of the most powerful and scorching satires ever written. Having traveled for two years on the Continent, Byron returned to England, and in 1812 published the first two cantos of Childe Harold, which is generally esteemed his greatest work. In 1816 he left England, which he declared he would never revisit. He spent some time at Geneva, with literary friends, and then settled himself in Italy, where he wrote Manfred, the conclud- ing canto of Childe Harold, .]//^'///>a, and the first part of Don Juan. In 1820 lie was associated with Shelley and Leigh Hunt in the publication of a periodical called The Liberal, in which Tk" Vision of Judgnptfl was first printed. In 1823 he went to Greece, where he intended f b aid the Gvr-k--- i.i tin-it 1 resistance to Turkish oppression. But his military career was brief; ae was seized with epilepsy, i.e supporter of the Reform Measures. In 1831- he was sent to India as a member of the Supreme Council of Calcutta; in 1839 he was made Secretary of War; in 18il he went out of office, on the accession of Sir Robert Peel; in 18 1C, the Whigs returning to power, he was appointed Pay- master-General of the Forcas, and had a seat in the Cabinet. In 1847 he was defeated in the Par- liamentary elections, his Edinburgh constituents disapproving his course on the M ay nooth Grant question. Five years later, however, these same constituents chose him as their representative in Parliament, where he served them till 185G, when he withdrew linally from political life. M ran- time, in 1849, lie was elected Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow, and delivered an inaugural address of great brilliancy. In 1857 his genius and services in literature and politics received merited recognition in his elevation to the peerage, with the title of Baron or Lord Macaulay. Macatilay's first essays in literature were in the department of poetry; dining his university career he won two high prizes for poetical composition, and he was a fn quent contributor of verse to Knight's Quarterly Magazin* Among his best-known youthful productions were The Buttle of Ii-ry and The Spanish Annada, poems which foreshadowed th-.- maturer excellence of his Lays of Ancient Rome, which were first published in 1812. In the periodical above mentioned Ma- caulay made his debut as an essayist ; but his first great triumph in this character is connected with the pages of the Edinburgh Review, in which, in 18:25, appeared his masterly essay on Milton, which instantly gave him acknowledged rank among the ablest English critics. This essay was followed by many others, which are familiar to all readers of English, and which as a collection are unsurpassed, perhaps uiuqualed, in th;> literature of any nation. The essay on Bacon, though less popular than some of its associates, illustrates wiili admirable efl'ect the original intellectual power and vast acquired resources of the au'.hor. As an essayist Macaulay very closely approaches perfection. His poetry lacks the sensuous clement which the public seems to demand in that form of composition, and, vigorous and dramatic though it is in an almost unequaled degree, it has never become popular with the nnss ..f reader*. His history has been assailed for its manifestations of partisanship and its oee;; Avill by the pen of the evangelist and the harp of the prophet. Ht had been wrested by no common deliverer from the grasp of no com- mon foe. He had been ransomed by the s.veat of no vulgar agony, 1;\- the blood of no earthly sacrifice. It was for him that the sun lud been darkened, that the rocks had been rent, that the dead had rk'ii, that all nature had shuddered at the sufferings of her expiring Gou Thus the Puritan was made up of two different men, the one all MACAULAY. 139 self-abasement, penitence, gratitude, passion ; the other proud, calm, inflexible, sagacious. He prostrated himself in the dust before his Maker ; but he set his foot on the neck of his king. In his devotional retirement he prayed with convulsions and groans and tears. He was half- maddened by glorious or terrible illusions. He heard the lyres of angels or the tempting whispers of fiends. He caught a gleam of the Beatific Vision, or woke screaming from dreams of ever- lasting fire. Like Vane, he thought himself entrusted with the scepter of the millennial year. Like Fleet wood, he cried in the bitterness of his soul that God had hid his face from him. But when he took his seat in the council, or girt on his sword for war, these tempestuous workings of the soul had left no perceptible trace behind them. People who saw nothing of the godly but their uncouth visages, and heard nothing from them but their groans and their whining hymns, might laugh at them. But those had little reason to laugh who en- countered them in the hall of debate or in the field of battle. These fanatics brought to civil and military affairs a coolness of judgment and an immutability of purpose which some writers have thought inconsistent with their religious zeal, but which were in fact necessary effects of it. The intensity of their feelings on one sub- ject made them tranquil on every other. One overpowering sentiment had subjected to itself pity and hatred, ambition and fear. Dentil had lost its terrors and pleasure its charms. They had their smiles and their tears, their raptures and their sorrows, but not for the things of this world. Enthusiasm had made them Stoics, had cleared their minds from every vulgar passion and prejudice, and raised them above the influence of danger and of corruption. It sometimes might lead them to pursue unwise ends, but never to choose unwise means. They went through the world, like Sir Artegal's iron man Talus with his flail, crushing and trampling down oppressors, mingling with human beings, but having neither part nor lot in human infirmities, insensible to fatigue, to pleasure, and to pain, not to be pierced by any weapon, not to be withstood by any barrier. - J THE PROGRESS OF ENGLAND. THE history of England is emphatically the history of progress. It is the history of a constant movement in the public mind, of a con- stant change in the institutions of a great society. We see that- 140 CATHCAirr's LITERARY READER. society, at the beginning- of the twelfth century, in a state more miserable than the state in which the most degraded nations of the East now are. We see it subjected to the tyranny of a handful of armed foreigners. We see a strong distinction of caste separating the victorious Norman from the vanquished Saxon. We see the great body of the population in a state of personal slavery. We see the most debasing and cruel superstition exercising boundless dominion over the most elevated and benevolent minds. We see the multitude sunk in brutal ignorance, and the studious few engaged in acquiring what did not deserve the name of knowledge. In the course of seven centuries the wretched and degraded race have become the greatest and most highly civilized people that ever the world saw, have spread their dominion over every quarter of the globe, have scattered the seeds of mighty empires and republics over vast continents of which no dim intimation had ever reached Ptolemy * or Strabo, f have created a maritime power which would annihilate in a quarter of an hour the navies of Tyre, Athens, Carthage, Venice, and Genoa together, have earned the science of healing, the means of locomotion and correspondence, every mechanical art, every manufacture/ everything tlir.t promotes the convenience of life, to a perfection" which our ancestors would have thought magical, have produced a literature which may boast of works not inferior to the noblest which Greece lias bequeathed to us, have discovered the 1 :ws which regulate the motions of the heavenly bodies, have speculated with exquisite subtilty on the operations of the human mind, have been the acknowledged leaders of the human race in the career of political improvement. The history of England is the history of this great change in. the moral, intellectual, and physical state of the inhabitants of our own island. There is much amusing and instructive episodical matter, but this is the main action. To us, we will own, nothing is so interesting and delightful as to contemplate the steps by which the England of the Domesday Book, the England of the Curfew and the Forest Laws, the England of crusaders, monks, schoolmen, astrologers, serfs, outlaws, be- came the England which we know and love, the classic ground of lib- erty and philosophy, the school of all knowledge, the mart of all trade. * PTOLEMY. The founder of the Greek dynasty of kings of Egypt. He was a friend of Alex- ander the Great, and like him was a great warrior ; he was noted also for political wisdom. Died 283 B. c. t STRABO. An eminent Greek geographer, boru about 60 B. c. MACAULAY. Ill BTJNYAN'S PILGRIM'S PROGRESS, THE characteristic peculiarity of the Pilgrim's Progress is, that it is the only work of its kind which possesses a strong human interest. Other allegories only amuse the fancy. The allegory of Bunyan has been read by many thousands with tears. There are some good alle- gories in Johnson's works, and some of still higher merit by Addison. In these performances there is, perhaps, as much wit and ingenuity as in the Pilgrim's Progress. But the pleasure which is produced by the Vision of Mirza, the Vision of Theodore, the Genealogy of Wit, or the Contest between Rest and Labor, is exactly similar to the pleas- ure which we derive from one of Cowley's odes or from a canto of Hndibras. It is a pleasure which belongs wholly to the understand- ing, and in which the feelings have no part whatever. It is not so with the Pilgrim's Progress. That wonderful book, while it obtains admiration from the most fastidious critics, is loved by those who are too simple to admire it. Doctor Johnson, all whose studies were desultory, and who hated, as he said, to read books through, made an exception in favor of the Pilgrim's Progress. That work, IK; said, was one of the two or three works which he wished longer. In the wildest parts of Scotland the Pilgrim's Progress is the delight of the peasantry. In every nursery the Pilgrim's Progress is a greater favorite than Jack the Giant-Killer. Every reader knows the strait and narrow path as well as he knows a road in which he has gone backward and forward a hundred times. This is the high- est miracle of genius, that things which are not should be as though they were ; that the imaginations of one mind should become the personal recollections of another. And this miracle the tinker * has wrought. There is no ascent, no declivity, no resting-place, no turnstile, with which we are not perfectly acquainted. The wicket-gate, and the desolate swamp which separates it from the City of Destruction ; the long line of road, as straight as a rule can make it ; the Interpre- ter's house and all its fair shows ; all the stages of the journey, all the forms which cross or overtake the pilgrims, giants and hobgoblins, ill- favored ones and shining ones ; the tall, comely, swarthy Madam Bub- ble, with her great purse by her side, and her fingers playing with the money ; the black man in the bright vesture ; Mr. Worldly Wiseman * Bunvan was a tinker. 142 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. and my Lord Hategood, Mr. Talkative and Mrs. Timorous ; all are actually existing beings to us. We follow the travelers through their allegorical progress with interest not inferior to that with which we follow Elizabeth from Siberia to Moscow, or Jeanie Deans from Edin- burgh to London. Bunyan is almost the only writer that ever gave to the abstract the interest of the concrete. In the works of many celebrated authors men are mere personifications. We have not an Othello, but jeal- ousy ; not an Ligo, but perfidy ; not a Brutus, but patriotism. The mind of Bunyan, on the contrary, was so imaginative that personifi- cations, when he dealt with them, became men. A dialogue between two qualities, in his dream, has more dramatic effect than a dialogue between two human beings in most plays. The style of Bunyan is delightful to evvry reader, and invaluable as a study to every person who wishes to obtain a wide command over the English language. The vocabulary is the vocabulary of the com- mon people. Tliere is not an expression, if we except a few technical terms of theology, which would puzzle the rudest peasant. \Ve have observed several pages -which do not contain a single word of more than two syllables. Yet no writer Ins siicl more exactly what he meant to say. For magnificence, for pathos, for vehement exhorta- tion, for subtile disquisition, for every purpose of the poet, the orator, and the divine, this homely dialect, the dialect of plain work in gin en, was perfectly sufficient. There is no book in our literature on which we would so readily stake the fame of the old unpolluted English language ; no book which shows so well how rich that language is, in its own proper wealth, and how little it has been improved by all that it has borrowed. Cowper said, fifty or sixty years ago, that he dared not name John Bunyan in his verse, for fear of moving a sneer. We live in better times ; and we are not afraid to say, that though there were many clever men in England during the latter half of the seventeenth cen- tury, there were only two great creative minds. One of these pro- duced the PARADISE LOST, the other the PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. BANCROFT. 14-3 BANCROFT. 1800- ! S LITERARY READER. idea of dinner has so imbedded itself among his highest and deep- est characteristics, so illuminated itself with intellect and softened itself with the kindest emotions of his heart, so linked itself with Church and State, and grown so majestic with long hereditary cus- toms and ceremonies, that by taking it utterly away, Death, instead of putting the final touch to his perfection, would leave him infinitely less complete than we have already known him. In this connection I should be glad to invite the reader to the official dinner-table of his Worship the Mayor, at a large English seaport where I spent several years. The Mayor's dinner-parties occur as often as once a fortnight, and, inviting his guests by fifty or sixty at a time, his Worship probably assembles at his board most of the eminent citizens and distinguished personages of the town and neighborhood more than once during his year's incumbency, and very, much, no doubt, to the promotion of good feeling among individuals of opposite .parties and diverse pur- suits in life. A miscellaneous party of Englishmen can always find more comfortable ground to meet upon than as many Americans, their differences^ of opinion being incomparably less radical than ours, and it being the sincerest wish of all their hearts, whether they call themselves Liberals or what not, that nothing in this world shall ever be greatly altered from what it has been and is. Thus there is seldom such a virulence of political hostility that it may not be dis- solved in a glass or two of wine, without making the good liquor any more dry or bitter than accords with English taste. The first dinner of this kind at which I had the honor to be present took place during assize-time, and included among the guests the judges and the prominent members of the barr^Reaching the Town Hall at seven o'clock, I communicated my name to one of several splendidly dressed footmen, and he repeated it to another on the first staircase, by whom it was passed to a third, and thence to a fourth at the door of the reception-room, losing all resemblance to the original sound in the course of these transmissions; so that I had the advan- tage of making my entrance in the character of a stranger, not only to the whole company, but to myself as well. His Worship, however, kindly recognized me, and put me on speaking terms with two or three gentlemen, whom I found very affable, and all the more hospi- tably attentive on the score of my nationality. It. is very singular how kind an Englishman will almost invariably be to an individual HAWTHORNE. 157 American, without ever bating a jot of his prejudice against the American character in the lump. My new acquaintances took evident pains to put me at iriy ease : and, in requital of their good-nature, I soon began to look round at the general company in a critical spirit, making my crude observations apart, and drawing silent inferences, of the correctness of which I should not have been half so well satis- fied a year afterwards as at that moment. There were two judges present, a good many lawyers, and a few officers of the army in uniform. The other guests seemed to be principally of the mercantile class, and among them was a ship-owner from Nova Scotia, with whom I coalesced a little, inasmuch as we were born with the same sky over our heads, and an unbroken continuity of soil between his abode and mine. There was one old gentleman, whose character I never made out, with powdered hair, clad in black breeches and silk stockings, and wearing a rapier at his side ; other- wise, with the exception of the military uniforms, there was little or no pretence of official costume. It being the first considerable assem- blage of Englishmen that I had seen, my honest impression about them was, that they were a heavy and homely set of people, with a remarkable roughness of aspect and behavior,, not repulsive, but beneath which it required more familiarity with the national character than I then possessed always to detect the good breeding of a gentle- man. Being generally middle-aged, or still farther advanced, they were by no means graceful in figure ; for the comeliness of the youth- ful Englishman rapidly diminishes with years, his body appearing to grow longer, his legs to abbreviate themselves, and his stomach to assume the dignified prominence which justly belongs to that metrop- olis of his system. His face (what with the acridity of the atmos- phere, ale at lunch, wine at dinner, and a well-digested abundance of succulent food) gets red and mottled, and develops at least one addi- tional chin, with a promise of more ; so that, finally, a stranger recog- nizes his animal part at the most superficial glance, but must take time and a little pains to discover the intellectual. Comparing him with an American, I really thought that our national paleness and lc;iii habit of flesh gave us greatly the advantage in an aesthetic point of view. It seemed to me, moreover, that the English tailor had not done so much as he might and ought for these heavy figures, but had gone on wilfully exaggerating their uncouthness by the roominess of their garments ; he had evidently no idea of accuracy of fit, and 158 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. smartness was entirely out of his line. But, to be quite open with the reader, I afterwards learned to think that this aforesaid tailor has a deeper art than his brethren among ourselves, knowing how to dress his customers with such individual propriety that they look as if they were born in their clothes, the fit being to the character rather than the form. If you make an Englishman smart (unless he be a very exceptional one, of whom I have seen a few), you make him a mon- ster ; his best aspect is that of ponderous respectability. In due time we were summoned to the table, and went thither in BO solemn procession, but with a good deal of jostling, thrusting behind, and scrambling for places when we reached our destination. The legal gentlemen, I suspect, were responsible for this indecorous zeal, which I never afterwards remarked in a similar party. The dining-hall was of noble size, and, like the other rooms of the suite, was gorgeously painted and gilded and brilliantly illuminated. There was a splendid table-service, and a noble array of footmen, some of them in plain clothes, and others wearing the town -livery, richly deco- rated with gold lace, and themselves excellent specimens of the bloom- ing young manhood of Britain. When we were fairly seated, it was certainly an agreeable spectacle to look up and down the long vista of earnest faces, and behold them so resolute, so conscious that there was an important business in hand, and so determined to be equal to the occasion. >* During the dinner f nad a good deal of pleasant conversation with the gentlemen on either side of me. One of them, a lawyer, ex- patiated with great unction on the social standing of the judges. Representing the dignity and authority of the Crown, they take pre- cedence, during assize-time, of the highest military men in the king- dom, of the Lord-Lieutenant of the county, of the Archbishops, of the royal Dukes, and even of the Prince of Wales. For the nonce, they are the greatest men in England. With a glow of professional com- placency that amounted to enthusiasm, my friend assured me, that, in case of a royal dinner, a judge, if actually holding an assize, would be expected to offer his arm and take the Queen herself to the table. Happening to be in company with some of these elevated personages, on subsequent occasions, it appeared to me that the judges are fully conscious of their paramount claims to respect, and take rather more pains to impress them on their ceremonial inferiors than men of high hereditary rank are apt to do. Bishops, if it be not irreverent to say HAWTHORNE. 159 so, are sometimes marked by a similar characteristic. Dignified posi- tion is so sweet to an Englishman that he needs to be born in it, and to feel it thoroughly incorporated with his nature from its original germ, in order to keep him from flaunting it obtrusively in the faces of innocent bystanders. After an hour or two of valiant achievement with knife and fork came the dessert ; and at the point of the festival where finger-glasses are usually introduced, a large silver basin was carried round to the guests, containing rose-water, into which we dipped the ends of our napkins and were conscious of a delightful fragrance, instead of that heavy and weary odor, the hateful ghost of a defunct dinner. When the cloth was removed, a goodly group of decanters were set before the Mayor, who sent them forth on their outward voyage, full freighted with Port, Sherry, Madeira, and Claret, of which excellent liquors, methought, the latter found least acceptance among the guests. When every man had filled his glass, his Worship stood up and pro- posed a toast. It was, of course, " Our gracious Sovereign," or words to that effect ; and immediately a band of musicians, whose preliminary footings and thrummings I had already heard behind me, struck up " God save the Queen." and the whole company rose with one impulse to assist in singing that famous national anthem. MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE. WE stand now on the river's brink. It may well be called the Concord, the river of peace and quietness, for it is certainly the most unexcitable and sluggish stream that ever loitered impercepti- bly towards its eternity, the sea. Positively, I had lived three weeks beside it, before it grew quite clear to my perception which way the current flowed. It never has a vivacious aspect, except when a north- western breeze is vexing its surface, on a sunshiny day. Prom the incurable indolence of its nature, the stream is happily incapable of becoming the slave of human ingenuity, as is the fate of so many a wild, free, mountain torrent. While all things else are compelled to subserve some useful purpose, it idles its sluggish life away in lazy liberty, without turning a solitary spindle, or affording even water-power enough to grind the corn that grows upon its banks. The torpor of its movement allows it nowhere a bright, pebbly 160 CATHC ART'S LITERARY READER. shore, nor so much as a narrow strip of glistening sand, in any part of its course. It slumbers between broad prairies, kissing the long meadow-grass, and bathes the overhanging boughs of elder-bushes and willows, or the roots of elm and ash trees, and clumps of maples. Flags and rushes grow along its plashy shore ; the yellow water-lily spreads its broad, flat leaves on the margin ; and the fragrant white pond-lily abounds, generally selecting a position just so far from the river's bank that it cannot be grasped, save at the hazard of plun- ging in. It is a marvel whence this perfect flower derives its loveliness and perfume, springing, as it does, from the black mud over which the river sleeps, and where lurk the slimy eel, and speckled frog, and the mud-turtle, whom continual washing cannot cleanse. It is the same black mud out of which the yellow lily sucks its rank life and noi- some odor. Thus we see, too, in the world, that some persons as- similate only what is ugly and evil from the sinne moral circumstances which supply good and beautiful results the fragrance of celestial flowers to the daily life of others. The Old Manse ! we had almost forgotten it, but will return thither through the orchard. This was set out by the last clergyman, in the decline of his life, when the neighbors laughed at the hoary- headed man for planting trees from which he could have no prospect of gathering fruit. Even had that been the case, there was only so much the better motive for planting them, in the pure and unselfish hope of benefiting his successors, an end so seldom achieved by more ambitious efforts. But the old minister, before reaching his patriarchal age of ninety, ate the apples from this orchard during many years, and added silver and gold to his annual stipend by dis- posing of the superfluity. It is pleasant to think of him, walking among the trees in the quiet afternoons of early autumn, and picking up here and there a wind- fall ; while he observes how heavily the branches are weighed down, and computes the number of empty flour-barrels that will be filled by their burden. He loved each tree, doubtless, as if it had been his own child. An orchard has a relation to mankind, and readily con- nects itself with matters of the heart. The trees possess a domestic character ; they have lost the wild nature of their forest kindred, and have grown humanized by receiving the care of man, as well as by contributing to his wants. HAWTHORNE. 161 I have met with no other such pleasant trouble in the world, as that of finding myself, with only the two or three mouths which it was my privilege to feed, the sole inheritor of the old clergyman's wealth of fruits. Throughout the summer, there were cherries and currants ; and then came Autumn, with his immense burden of apples, dropping them continually, from his overladen shoulders as he trudged along. In the stillest afternoon, if I listened, the thump of a great apple was audible, falling without a breath of wind, from the mere necessity of perfect ripeness. And, besides, there were pear-trees, that flung down bushels upon bushels of heavy pears; and peach- trees, which, in a good year, tormented me with peaches, neither to be eaten nor kept, nor, without labor and perplexity, to be given away. The idea of an infinite generosity and inexhaustible bounty, on the part of our mother Nature, was well worth obtaining through such cares as these. That feeling can be enjoyed in perfection not only by the natives of summer islands, where the bread-fruit, the cocoa, the palm, and the orange grow spontaneously, and hold forth the ever- ready meal ; but, likewise, almost as well, by a man long habituated to city life, who plunges into such a solitude as that of the Old Manse, where he plucks the fruit of trees that he did not plant ; and which, therefore, to my heterodox taste, bear the closer resemblance to those that grew in Eden. Not that it can be disputed that the light toil requisite to cultivate a moderately sized garden imparts such zest to kitchen vegetables as is never found in those of the market-gardener. Childless men, if they would know something of the bliss of paternity, should plant a seed, be it squash, bean, Indian corn, or perhaps a mere flower, or worthless weed, should plant it with their own hands, and nurse it from infancy to maturity, altogether by their own care. If there be not too many of them, each individual plant becomes an object of separate interest. My garden, that skirted the avenue of the Manse, was of precisely the right extent. An hour or two of morning labor was all that it required. But I used to visit and revisit it a dozen times a day, and stand in deep contemplation over my vegetable progeny, with a love that nobody could share or conceive of, who had never taken part in the process of creation. It was one of the most bewitching sights in the world to observe a hill of beans thrusting aside the soil, or a row of early peas just peeping forth sufficiently to trace a line of delicate ]63 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. LYTTON. 1805- 1873. SIR EDWARD BULWEE (raised to the peerage with the title of Lord Lytton) was born in Eng- land in 1805 and died in 1873. He graduated at Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1826. In 1832 he entered Parliament, continuing a member till 1841 ; in 1852 he was re-elected to a seat in that body, where he served until his elevation to the peerage. In 1856 he was chosen Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow. At a very tender age he began to write verses, and long before he reached his majority, had published a volume. His lirst book, Tsniael, an Oriental Tale, bears the date of 1820. It was followed by several volumes of verse, and his first novel, Falkland, appeared in 1827, the year of his marriage. The next year he gave to the world his famous novel, Pel ham, which established his reputation on a firm basis. It wns surpassed in merit, however, by some of his subsequent works, especially by Rinizl. Lord Lytton distinguished himsslf in almost every department of literature, as poet, essayist, novelist, and dramatist. Several of his plays, The LaJy of Lyons and Richelieu, rank among the most popular plays on the modem stage. He was a most prolific writer ; even a catalogue of his productions would be too long for a place here. During the ten years preceding his death Lord Lytton published almost nothing, but found time, amid his political duties, to do a good deal erf literary woik. Since his death two of his novels have been given to the world, Kendm ChiUinr/Iy and The Parisians. The former is superior to any of his earlier books, representing the high culture of the author in its fullest development. Judged by his first compositions, he won the reputation of a literary fop, to whose ultra-fastidious taste finish was the chief merit in composition. He seemed to hold himself aloof from the world, as from possible contamination. In his later novels this tendency was less marked ; and in Kcnelm Chillingly it disappears wholly, being replaced by a catholic, warm-hearted philosophy that bespeaks a healthy and genial nature. Tor the work of the novelist he was most happily equipped. The art of delineating the passion of love was his in full measure, and he was a master of graphic and dramatic narrative. In his earlier books, Falkland and Paul Clifford, he exhibits the license and leAity of youth; but these vices were corrected in later life, and morally, his last novels are unexceptionable. Regarded as a whole, Lord Lytton's literary career was conspicuously successful, and lie left behind him not only an honored name, but many enduring fruits of his genius and industry. The lirst extract is from My Novel, the second is from Leila, or the Siege of Granada ; the poetry from The Lady cf Lyons. ON BEVOLUTION. " MY dear boy," cried Biccabocca kindly, " the only thing sure and tangible to which these writers would lead you lies at the first step, and that is what is commonly called a Revolution. Now, I know what that is. I have gone, not indeed through a revolution, but an attempt at one." Leonard raised his eyes towards his master with a look of profound respect and great curiosity. " Yes," added Iliccabocca, and the face on which the boy gazed exchanged its usual grotesque and sardonic expression for one ani- mated, noble, and heroic. "Yes, not a revolution for chimeras, but for that cause which the coldest allow to be good, and which, when successful, all time approves as divine, the redemption of our native LYTTON. 163 soil from the rule of the foreigner ! I have shared in such an attempt. And," continued the Italian, mournfully, " recalling now all the evil passions it arouses, all the ties it dissolves, all the blood that it com- mands to flow, all the healthful industry it arrests, all the madmen that it arms, all the victims that it dupes, I question whether one man really honest, pure, and humane, who has once gone through such an ordeal, would ever hazard it again, unless he was assured that the victory was certain, ay, and the object for which he fights not to be wrested from his hands amidst the uproar of the elements that the battle has relesssd." The Italian paused, shaded his brow with his hand, and remained long silent. Then, gradually resuming his ordinary tone, he con- tinued : " Revolutions that have no definite objects made clear by the posi- tive experience of history, revolutions, in a word, that aim less at substituting one law or one dynasty for another, than at changing the whole scheme of society, have been little attempted by real statesmen. Even Lycurgus * is proved to be a myth who never existed. Such organic changes are but in the day-dreams of philosophers who lived apart from the actual world, and whose opinions (though generally they were very benevolent, good sort of men, and wrote in an elegant poetical style) one would no more take on a plain matter of life than one would look upon Virgil's Eclogues as a faithful picture of the ordinary pains and pleasures of the peasants who tend our sheep. Read them as you would read poets, and they are delightful. But at- tempt to shape the world according to the poetry, and fit yourself for a madhouse. The farther off the age is from the realization of such projects, the more these poor philosophers have indulged them. Thus, it was amidst the saddest corruption of court manners that it became the fashion in Paris to sit for one's picture, with a crook in one's h.'ind, as Alexis or Daphne. Just as liberty was fast dying out of Greece, and the successors of Alexander were founding their mon- archies, and Rome was growing up to crush in its iron grasp all states save its own, Plato withdraws his eyes from the world, to open them in his dreamy Atlantis. f Just in the grimmest period of English history, with the ax hanging over his head, Sir Thomas More gives * LYCURGUS. A famous Spartan lawgiver, supposed to have lived about 850 B. c. See Plutarch's Lives. t Plato's idea of a perfect state is unfolded in the Laws and the Republic. 164 CATH CART'S LITERARY READER. you his Utopia.* Just when the world is to be the theater of a new Sesostris, the sages of France tell you that the age is too enlightened for war, that man is henceforth to be governed by pure reason and live in a paradise. Very pretty reading all this to a man like me, Lenny, who can admire and smile at it. But to you, to the man who has to work for his living, to the man who thinks it would be so much more pleasant to live at his ease in a phalanstery f than to work eight or ten hours a day ; to the man of talent and action and indus- try, whose future is invested in that tranquillity and order of a state in which talent and action and industry are a certain capital; why, the great bankers had better encourage a theory to upset the system of banking ! Whatever disturbs society, yea, even by a causeless panic, much more by an actual struggle, falls first upon the market of labor, and thence affects prejudicially every department of intelligence. In such times the arts are arrested, literature is neglected, people are too busy to read anything save appeals to their passions. And capi- tal, shaken in its sense of security, no longer ventures boldly through the land, calling forth all the energies of toil and enterprise, and ex- tending to every workman his reward. Now, Lenny, take this piece of advice. You are young, clever, and aspiring : men rarely succeed in changing the world ; but a man seldom fails of success if he lets the world alone, and resolves to make the best of it. You are in the midst of the great crisis of your life ; it is the struggle between the new desires knowledge excites, and that sense of poverty, which those desires convert either into hope and emulation or into envy and -despair. I grant that it is an up-hill work that lies before you ; but don't you think it is always easier to climb a mountain than it is to level it ? These books call on you to level the mountain ; and that moun- * UTOPIA. (See note, page 317. ) This work, named from a king Utopus, written in Latin, was published at Louvain in 1516. The first English edition, translated by Robynson, was published in London in 1551. Bishop Burnet's translation appeared in 163k Ilallam says: "The Republic of Plato no doubt furnished More with the gerni of his perfect society : but ir would be unreasona- ble to deny him the merit of having struck out the fiction of its real existence from his own fertile imagination ; and it is manifest that some of his most distinguished successors in the same walk of romance, especially Swift, were largely indebted to his reasoning as well as inventive talents. Those who read the Utopia in Burnet's translation may believe that they areiuBrobdinguag; so similar is the vein of satirical humor and easy language. If false and impracticable theories are found in the Utopia (and, perhaps, he knew them to be such), this is in a much greater degree true of the Platonic republic." In a note to a later edition of his Literary History, Hallam qualifies the assertion that More borrowed the germ of his Utopia, from Plato, and says, " Neither the Ifr- pvblic nor the Laws of Plato bear any resemblance to the Utopia. " Lord Bacon's treatise on the same subject, The New Atlantis, a Fragment, was published in 1635, and Swift's Gulliver's Travels in 1726 - 27- t PHALANSTERY. An organized community of socialists. LYTTON. 165 tain is the property of other people, subdivided amongst a great many proprietors and protected by law. At the first stroke of the pickax it is ten to one but what you are taken up for a trespass. But the path up the mountain is a right of w r ay uncontested. You may be safe at the summit before (even if the owners are fools enough to let you) you' could have leveled a yard. It is more than two thousand years ago," quoth the doctor, " since poor Plato began to level it, and the mountain is as high as ever ! " Thus saying, Eiccabocca came to the end of his pipe, and stalking thoughtfully away, left Leonard Fairfield trying to extract light from the smoke. SURRENDER OF GRENADA, DAY dawned upon Grenada, and the beams of the winter sun, smiling away the clouds of the past night, played cheerily upon the murmuring waves of the Xenil and the Darro. Alone, upon a bal- cony commanding a view of the beautiful landscape, stood Boabdil,* the last of the Moorish kings. He had sought to bring to his aid all the lessons of the philosophy he had so ardently cultivated. " What are we," said the musing prince, " that we should fill the earth with ourselves, we kings ! Earth resounds with the crash of my falling throne ; on the ear of races unborn the echo will live pro- longed. But what have I lost ? Nothing that was necessary to my happiness, my repose ; nothing save the source of all my wretched- ness, the Marah of my life ! Shall I less enjoy heaven and earth, or thought and action, or man's more material luxuries of food and sleep, the common and cheap desires of all ? At the worst, I sink but to a level with chiefs and princes ; I am but leveled with those whom the multitude admire and envy But it is time to depart." So saying, he descended to the court, flung himself on his barb, and, with a small and saddened train passed through the gate which we yet survey, by a blackened and crumbling tower, overgrown with vines and ivy ; thence, amid gardens, now appertaining to the con- vent of the victor faith, he took his mournful and unnoticed way. When he came to the middle of the hill that rises above those gar- * BOABDTL. The last Moorish king of Granada. Ferdinand of Aragon dethroned him, 1491. Boabdil returned to Africa, and died about 1530. For nearly eight centuries the Moors had held possession of Granada, it being the last province of the Peninsula recovered by the Chris- tians. The reader will find a delightful history of this romantic country and its perpetual wars in living's Conquest of Granada. 166 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. dens, the steel of the Spanish armor gleamed upon him, as the detach- ment sent to occupy the palace marched over the summit in steady order and profound silence. At the head of the vanguard rode, upon a snow-white palfrey, the Bishop of Avila, followed by a long train of barefooted monks. They halted as Boabdil approached, and the grave bishop saluted him with the air of one who addresses an infidel and an inferior. With the quick sense of dignity common to the great, and yet more to the fallen, Boabdil felt, but resented not the pride of the ecclesiastic. " Go, Christian," said he, mildly ; " the gates of the Alhambra are open, and Allah has bestowed the palace and the city upon your king. May his virtues atone the faults of Boabdil ! " So saying, and waiting no answer, he rode on, without looking to the right or the left. The Spaniards also pursued their way. The sun had fairly risen above the mountains, when Boabdil and his train beheld, from the eminence on which they were, the whole armament of Spain ; and at the same moment, louder than the tramp of horse or the clash of arms, was heard distinctly the solemn chant of TeDeum, which preceded the blaze of the unfurled and lofty standards. Boabdil, himself still silent, heard the groans and acclamations of his train : he turned to cheer or chide them, and then saw, from his own watch-tower, with the sun shining full upon its pure and dazzling surface, the silver cross of Spain. His Alhambra was already in the hands of the foe ; while beside that badge of the holy war waved the gay and flaunting flag of St. Jago, the canonized Mars of the chivalry of Spain. At that sight the king's voice died within him ; he gave the rein to his barb, impatient to close the fatal ceremonial, and slackened not his speed till almost within bow-shot of the first rank of the army. Never had Christian war assumed a more splendid and imposing aspect. Ear as the eye could reach extended the glittering and gor- geous lines of that goodly power, bristling with sun-lighted spears and blazoned banners ; while beside murmured and glowed and danced the silver and laughing Xenil, careless what lord should possess, for his little day, the banks that bloomed by its everlasting course. By a small mosque halted the flower of the army. Sur- rounded by the arch-priests of that mighty hierarchy, the peers and princes of a court that rivaled the Roland of Charlemagne, was seen the kingly form of Ferdinand himself, with Isabel at his right hand, and the high-born dames of Spain, relieving, with their gay colors and sparkling gems, the sterner splendor of the crested helmet and LYTTON. 167 polished mail. Within sight of the royal group, Boabdil halted, composed his aspect so as best to conceal his soul, and a little in advance of his scanty train, but never in mien and majesty more a king, the son of Abdallah met his haughty conqueror. At the sight of his princely countenance and golden hair, his comely and commanding beauty, made more touching by youth, a thrill of compassionate admiration ran through that assembly of the brave and fair. Ferdinand and Isabel slowly advanced to meet their late rival, their new subject ; and as Boabdil would have dismounted, the Spanish king placed his hand upon his shoulder. " Brother and prince," said he, ""forget thy sorrows; and may our friendship here- after console thee for reverses against which thou hast contended as a hero and a king ; resisting man, but resigned at length to God." Boabdil did not affect to return this bitter but unintentional mockery of compliment. He bowed his head, and remained a moment silent ; then motioning to his train, four of his officers approached, * and, kneeling beside Ferdinand, proffered to him, upon a silver buckler, the keys of the city. " O king ! " then said Boabdil, " ac- cept the keys of the last hold which has resisted the arms of Spain. The empire of the Moslem is no more. Thine are the city and the people of Grenada ; yielding to thy prowess, they yet confide in thy mercy." " They do well," said the king ; " our promises shall not be broken. But since we know the gallantry of Moorish cavaliers, not to us, but to gentler hands, shall the keys of Grenada be surrendered." Thus saying, Ferdinand gave the keys to Isabel, who would have addressed some soothing flatteries to Boabdil, but the emotion and excitement were too much for her compassionate heart, heroine and queen though she was ; and when she lifted her eyes upon the calm and pale features of the fallen monarch, the tears gushed from them irresistibly, and her voice died in murmurs. A faint flush overspread the features of Boabdil, and there was a momentary pause of embar- rassment, which the Moor was the first to break. "Fair queen," said he, with mournful and pathetic dignity, "thou canst read the heart that thy generous sympathy touches and subdues : this is my last, but not least glorious conquest. But I detain ye; let not my aspect cloud your triumph. Suffer me to say farewell." "Farewell, my brother," replied Ferdinand, "and may fair fortune go with you ! Forget the past ! " Boabdil smiled bitterly, saluted the royal pair with profound "^respect and silent reverence, and rode 168 CATHCARr's LITERARY READER. slowly on, leaving the army below, as he ascended the path that led to his new principality beyond the Alpuxarras. As the trees snatched the Moorish cavalcade from the view of the king, Ferdinand ordered the army to recommence its inarch ; and trumpet and cymbal presently sent their music to the ear of the Moslem. Eoabdil spurred on at full speed, till his panting charger halted at the little village where his mother, his slaves, and his faithful ^vife, Armine (sent on before), awaited him. Joining these, he proceeded without dehy upon his melancholy path. They ascended that emi- nence which is the pass into the Alpuxarras. From its height, the vale, the rivers, the spires, and the towers of Grenada broke gloriously upon the view of the little band. They halted mechanically arid ab- ruptly ; every eye was turned to the beloved scene. The proud shame of baffled warriors, the tender memories of home, of childhood, of fatherland, swelled every heart, and gushed from every eye. Suddenly the distant boom of artillery broke from the citadel, and rolled along the sun -lighted valley and crystal river. A universal wail burst from the exiles ; it smote, it overpowered the heart of the ill-starred king, in vain seeking to wrap himself in Eastern pride or stoical philosophy. The tears gushed from his eyes, and he covered his face with his hands. The band wound slowly on through the solitary defiles ; and that place, where the king wept at the last view of his lost empire, is still called THE LAST SIGH OF THE MOOR. CLAUDE MELNOTTE'S APOLOGY AND DEFENSE.* PAULINE, by pride ' Angels have fallen ere thy time ; by pride, That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould, The evil spirit of a bitter love And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee. From my first years my soul was filled with thee ; I saw thee midst the flowers the lowly boy Tended, unmarked by thee, a spirit of bloom, And joy and freshness, as spring itself Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape ! I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man Entered the breast of the wild-dreaming boy ; * The extract is from the play, . The Lady of Ly. ;/*. LYTTON. 169 And from that hour I grew what to the last I shall be thine adorer ! Well, this love, Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became A fountain of ambition and bright hope ; I thought of tales that by flie winter hearth Old gossips tell, how maidens sprung from kings Have stooped from their high sphere ; how Love, like Death, Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook Beside the scepter. Thus I made my home In the soft palace of a fairy Future ! My father died ; and I, the peasant-born, Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise Out of the prison of my mean estate ; And, with such jewels as the exploring mind Brings from the caves of Knowledge, buy my ransom From those twin jailers of the daring heart, Low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright image, Glassed in my soul, took all the hues of glory, And lured me on to those inspiring toils By which man masters men ! For thee, I grew A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages ! For thee, I sought to borrow from each Grace And every Muse such attributes as lend Ideal charms to Love. I thought of thee, And passion taught me poesy, of thee, And on the painter's canvas grew the life Of beauty ! Art became the shadow Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes ! Men called me vain, some, mad, I heeded not ; But still toiled on, hoped on, for it was sweet, If not to win, to feel more worthy, thee ! At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour The thoughts that burst their channels into song, O 3? And sent them to thee, such a tribute, lady, As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest. The name appended by the burning heart That longed to show its idol what bright things It had created yea, the enthusiast's name, 8 170 CATIICART'S LITERARY READER. That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn ! That very hour when passion, turned to wrath, Resembled hatred most ; when thy disdain Made my whole soul a chaos in that hour The tempters found me a revengeful tool For their revenge ! Thou hadst trampled on the worm, - It turned, and stung thee ! A LOVER'S DREAM OF HOME. NAY, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paint The home to which, could love fulfil its prayer, This hand would lead thee, listen : a deep vale, Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world, Near a clear lake,* margined by fruits of gold And whispering myrtles ; glassing softest skies As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows, As I would have thy fate ! A palace lifting to eternal summer Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower Of coolest foliage musical with birds, Whose songs should syllable thy name ! At noon We 'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder Why Earth could be unhappy, while the Heaven Still left us youth and love ; we 'd have no friends That were not lovers ; no ambition, save To excel them all in love ; we 'd read no books That were not tales of love, that we might smile To think how poorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours ! And when night came, amidst the breathless heavens We 'd guess what star should be our home when love Becomes immortal ; while the perfumed light Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps, And every air was heavy with the sighs Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth I' the midst of roses ! Dost thou like the picture ? * Lake Conio. DISRAELI. 171 DISEAELI. 1805- BEXJAMTN DISHAELT, eminent in literature and politics, was born in London in 18C5. He is the son of Isaac Disraeli, author of several unique and valuable books, The Curiosities of Litera- ture, The Calamities of Authors, etc. Benjamin produced his first book, Vivian Grey, a novel of extraordinary merit, in his twenty-first year. After several defeats he was elected to Parliament for the Borough of Maidstone, in 1837, and since that time, when not in high office, has been an active member of the House of Commons. He has three times been Chancellor of the Exchequer, Avas Prime Minister in 1868, and in February, 1874, en the dissolution of Gladstone's Ministry, was called by the Q,ueen to form a new Cabinet. His literary efforts have been mainly in the line of fiction, and several of his novels rank among the best of the century. Of these may be mentioned The, Young Dti/ce, Contarini Fleming, Coninysby, The Wonlrous Tale of Alroy, and his latest production, Lothair, which profoundly stirred the literary and political circles of British society. Although Disraeli will be remembered as a statesman rather than as an author, he has shown that he possesses abilities which entitle him to a high place in English literature. In descriptive power, he is hardly surpassed by any living writer, and in the exposition of politics, social theories, and the illustration of real public life by means of fictitious personages and inci- dents, he is without a rival. He is of Jewish descent. Our first extract, taken from Coninysby, is one of the finest tributes ever paid to the Hebrew character, and has special weight and sig- nificance as coming from his hand. THE HEBREW RACE. You never observe a great intellectual movement in Europe in which the Jews do not greatly participate. The first Jesuits were Jews ; that mysterious Russian diplomacy which so alarms Western Europe is organized and principally carried on by Jews ; that mighty revolution which is at this moment preparing in Germany, and which will be, in fact, a second and greater Reformation, and of which so little is as yet known in England, is entirely developing under the auspices of Jews, who almost monopolize the professorial chairs of Germany. Neander, the founder of spiritual Christianity, and who is Regius Professor of Divinity in the University of Berlin, is a Jew. Benary, equally famous and in the same University, is a Jew. Wehl, the Arabic professor of Heidelberg, is a Jew. Years ago, when I was in Palestine, I met a German student who was accumu- lating materials for the history of Christianity, and studying the genius of the place ; a modest and learned man. It was Wehl ; then un- known, since become the first Arabic scholar of the day, and the author of the life of Mohammed. But for the German professors of this race, their name is Legion. I think there are more than ten at Berlin alone. 172 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. I told you just now that I was going up to town to-morrow, be- cause I always made it a rule to interpose when affairs of state were on the carpet. Otherwise, I never interfere. I hear of peace and war in newspapers, but I am never alarmed, except when I am informed that the sovereigns want treasure ; " then I know that monarchs are serious. A few years back we were applied to by Russia. Now, there has been no friendship between the court of St. Petersburg and my family. It has Dutch connections which have generally supplied it, and our representations in favor of the Polish Hebrews a numerous race, but the most suffering and degarded of all the tribes have not been very agreeable to the czar. However, cir- cumstances drew to an approximation between the Romanoffs and the Sidonias. I resolved to go myself to St. Petersburg. I had on my arrival an interview with the Russian Minister of Finance, Count Can- crin ; I beheld the son of a Lithuanian Jew. The loan was connected with the affairs of Spain ; I resolved on repairing to Spain from Russia. I traveled without intermission. I had an audience imme- diately on my arrival with the Spanish minister, Senor Mendizabel ; I beheld one like myself, a Jew of Aragon. In consequence of what transpired at Madrid, I went straight to Paris, to consult the President of the French Council ; I beheld the son of a French Jew, a hero, an imperial marshal, and very properly so, for who should be military heroes if not those who worship the Lord of Hosts? "And is Soult a Hebrew?" "Yes, and several of the French marshals, and the most famous ; Massena, for exam- ple, his real name was Manasseh." But to my anecdote. The consequence of our consultations was, that some Northern power should be applied to in a friendly and mediative capacity. We fixed on Prussia, and the President of the Council made an application to the Prussian Minister, who attended a few days after our conference. Count Arnim entered the cabinet, and I beheld a Prussian Jew. So you see, my dear Coningsby, that the world is governed by very different personages to what is imagined by those who are not behind the scenes. Favored by nature and by nature's God, we produced the lyre of David ; we gave you Isaiah and Ezekiel ; they are our Olynthiacs, our Philippics. Favored by nature we still remain ; but in exact proportion as we have been favored by nature we have been persecuted by man. After a thousand struggles, after acts of heroic courage that Rome has never equaled, deeds of divine patriotism DISRAELI. 173 that Athens and Sparta and Carthage have never excelled, we have endured fifteen hundred years of supernatural slavery ; during whieh every device that can degrade or destroy man has been the destiny that we have sustained and baffled. The Hebrew child has entered adolescence only to learn that he was the Pariah of that ungrateful Europe that owes to him the best part of its laws, a fine portion of its literature, all its religion. Great poets require a public; we have been content with the immortal melodies that we sung more than two thousand years ago by the waters of Babylon and wept. They record our triumphs ; they solace our affliction. Great orators are the creatures of popular assemblies ; we were permitted only by stealth to meet even in our temples. And as for great writers, the catalogue is not blank. What are all the schoolmen, Aquinas himself, to Maimonides? * and as for modern philosophy, all springs from Spinoza! f But the passionate and creative genius that is the nearest link to divinity, and which no human tyranny can destroy, though it can divert it ; that should have stirred the hearts of nations by its inspired sympathy, or governed senates by its burning eloquence, has found a medium for its expres- sion, to which, in spite of your prejudices and your evil passions, you have been obliged to bow. The ear, the voice, the fancy teeming with combinations, the im- agination fervent with picture and emotion, that came from Caucasus, and which we have preserved unpolluted, have endowed us with almost the exclusive privilege of music; that science. of harmonious sounds which the ancients recognized as most divine, and deified in the person of their most beautiful creation. I speak not of the past; though were I to enter into the history of the lords of melody, you would find it the annals of Hebrew genius. But at this moment, even, musical Europe is ours. There is not a company of singers, not an orchestra in a single capital, that are not crowded with our chil- dren, under the feigned names which they adopt to conciliate the dark aversion which your posterity will some day disclaim with shame and * MATMONIDES. A Jewish llabbi and philosopher of great celebrity, born in Spain about 1135. He acquired a groat reputation for sagacity and learning. t SPINOZA. A celebrated pantheistical philosopher born of Jewish parents in Holland, in 1G32. At an early age he announced opinions which were considered heretical and for which he was excommunicated by the Jews. He passed his life as a solitary recluse, his character being, ac- cording to an eminent writer, " one of the most devout on record, for his life was, in a manner, one unbroken hymn." See Froude's Short Studies on Great Subjects. 174 disgust. Almost every great composer, skilled musician, almost every voice that ravishes you with its transporting strains, spring from our tribes. The catalogue is too vast to enumerate ; too illustrious to dwell for a moment on secondary names, however eminent. Enough for us that the three great creative minds to whose exquisite inventions all nations at this moment yield Rossini, Meyerbeer, Mendelssohn, are of Hebrew race ; and little do your men of fashion, your "Mus- cadins" of Paris and your dandies of London, as they thrill into rap- tures at the notes of a Pasta or a Grisi, little do they suspect that they are offering homage to the sweet singers of Israel. ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.* THE House of Commons is called upon to-night to fulfil a sor- rowful, but a noble, duty. It has to recognize, in the face of the country, and of the civilized world, the loss of the most illustrious of our citizens, and to offer to the ashes of the great departed the solemn anguish of a bereaved nation. The princely personage who has left us was born in an age more fertile of great events than any period of recorded time. Of those vast incidents the most conspicuous wc-re his own deeds, and these were performed with the smallest means, and in defiance of the greatest obstacles. He was, therefore, not only a great man, but the greatest man of a great age. Amid the chaos and conflagration which attended the end of the last century there rose one of those beings who seem born to master mankind. It is not too much to say that Napoleon combined the imperial ardor of Alex- ander with the strategy of Hannibal. The kings of the earth fell before his fiery and subtile genius, "and at the head of all the powers of Europe he denounced destruction to the only land which dared to be free. The Providential superintendence of this world seems seldom more manifest than in the dispensation which ordained that the French Emperor and Wellesley should be born in the same year ; that in the same year they should have embraced the same profession ; and that, natives of distant islands, they should both have sought their military education in that illustrious land which each in his turn was destined * The extract is from a speecli on the death of the Duke of Wellington delivered by Mr. Dis- raeli in the House of Commons while Chancellor of the Exchequer. Wellington was the greatest general England ever produced. His most famous victory was gained over Napoleon at the historic battle of Waterloo. He was born in Ireland in 1769 and died in 1852. DISRAELI. 175 to subjugate. During the long struggle for our freedom, our glory, I may say our existence, Wellesley fought arid won fifteen pitched battles, all of the highest class, concluding with one of those crown- ing victories which give a color and aspect to history. During this period that can be said of him which can be said of no other captain, that he captured three thousand cannon from the enemy, and never lost a single gun. The greatness of his exploits was only equaled by the difficulties he overcame. He had to encounter at the same time a feeble government, a factious opposition, and a distrustful people, scandalous allies, and the most powerful enemy in the world. He gained victories with starving troops, and carried on sieges without tools ; and, as if to complete the fatality which in this sense always awaited him, when he had succeeded in creating an army worthy of Roman legions, and of himself, this invincible host was broken up on the eve of the greatest conjuncture of his life, and he entered the field of Waterloo with raw levies, and discomfited allies. But the star of Wellesley never piled. He has been called for- tunate, for fortune Js a divinity that ever favors those who are alike s gacious and intrepid, inventive and patient. It was his character that created his career. This alike achieved his exploits and guarded him from vicissitudes. It was his sublime self-control that regulated his lofty fate. It has been the fashion of late years to disparage the military character. Forty years of peace have hardly qualified us to be aware how considerable and how complex are the qualities which are necessary for the formation of a great general. It is not enough to sny that he must be an engineer, a geographer, learned in human nature, adroit in managing mankind ; that he must be able to per- form the highest duties of a minister of state, and sink to the hum- blest offices of a commissary and a clerk ; but he has to display all this knowledge, and he must do all these things at the same time, and under extraordinary circumstances. At the same moment he must think of the eve and the morrow, of his flanks and of his reserves ; he must carry with him ammunition, provisions, hospitals ; he must calculate at the same time the state of the weather and the moral qualities of man ; and all these elements, which are perpetually chang- ing, he must combine amid overwhelming cold or overpowering heat ; sometimes amid famine, often amid the thunder of artillery. Behind all this, too, is the ever-present image of his country, and the dread- ful alternative whether that country is to receive him with cypress 176 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. or laurel. But all these conflicting ideas must be driven from the mind of the military leader, for he must think and not only think he must think with the rapidity of lightning, for on a moment, more or less, depends the fate of the finest combination, and on a moment, more or less, depends glory or shame. Doubtless, all this may be done in an ordinary manner, by an ordinary man ; as we see every day of our lives ordinary men nuking successful ministers of state, successful speakers, successful authors. But to do all this with genius is sublime. Doubtless, to think deeply and clearly in the recess of a cabinet is a fine intellectual demonstration, but to think with equal depth and equal clearness amid bullets is the most com- plete exercise of the human faculties. Although the military career of the Duke of Wellington fills so large a space in history, it was only a comparatively small section of his prolonged and illustrious life. Only eight years elapsed from Vimiera to Waterloo, and from the date of his first commission to the last cannon-shot on the field of battle scarcely twenty years can be counted. After all his triumphs he was destined for another career, and if not in the prime, certainly in the perfection of manhood, he commenced a civil career scarcely less eminent than those military achievements which will live forever in history. Thrice was he the ambassador of his sovereign to those great historic congresses that settled the affairs of Europe ; twice was he Secretary of State; twice was he Commander-in-Chief ; and once he was Prime Minister of England. His labors for his country lasted to the end ; and he died the active chieftain of that famous army to which he has left the tradition of his glory. The Duke of Wellington left to his countrymen a great legacy, greater even than his glory. He left them the contemplation of his character. I will not say his conduct revived the sense of duty in England. I would not say that of our country. But that his con- duct inspired public life with a purer and more masculine tone I cannot doubt. His career rebukes restless vanity, and reprimands the irregular ebullitions of a morbid egotism. I doubt not that, among all orders of Englishmen, from those with the highest respon- sibilities of our society to those who perform the humblest duties, I dare say there is not a man who in his toil and his perplexity has not sometimes thought of the duke and found in his example support and solace. Though he lived so much in the hearts and minds of his country- DISRAELI. 177 men, though he occupied such eminent posts and fulfilled such august duties, it was not till he died that we felt what a space he filled in the feelings and thoughts of the people of England. Never was the influence of real greatness more completely asserted than on his decease. In an age whose boast of intellectual equality flatters all our self-complacencies, the world suddenly acknowledged that it had lost the greatest of men; in an age of utility the most industrious and common-sense people in the world could find no vent for their woe and no representative for their sorrow but the solemnity of a pageant ; and we we wh'o have met here for such different pur- poses to investigate the sources of the wealth of nations, to enter into statistical research, and to encounter each other in fiscal contro- versy we present to the world the most sublime and touching spec- tacle that human circumstances can well produce, the spectacle of a Senate mourning a Hero ! THERE have been some, and those, too, among the wisest and the wittiest of the northern and western races, who, touched by a pre- sumptuous jealousy of the long predominance of that Oriental intellect to Avhich they owed their civilization, would have persuaded them- selves and the world that the traditions of Sinai and Calvary were fables. Half a century ago Europe made a violent and apparently successful effort to disembarrass itself of its Asian faith. The most powerful and the most civilized of its kingdoms,* about to conquer the rest, shut up its churches, desecrated its altars, massacred and persecuted their sacred servants, and announced that the Hebrew creeds which Simon Peter brought from Palestine, and which, his successors revealed to Clovis, were a mockery and a fiction. What has been the result ? In every city, town, village, and hamlet of that great kingdom, the divine image of the most illustrious of Hebrews has been again raised amid the homage of kneeling millions ; while, in the heart of its bright and witty capital, the nation has erected the most gorgeous of modern temples, f and consecrated its marble and golden walls to the name, and memory, and celestial efficacy of a Hebrew woman. * FRANCE. When the celehratcd French Revolution was at its height, the rulers and their followers, for the time being, repudiated the Christian religion, and set up Paganism in its stead. The Communists, while they held possession of Paris, during the recent Franco-German War, did much the same thing, but it was shorter lived. t The Church of the Madeleine in Paris. 8* 178 CATHC ART'S LITERARY READER. MAURY. 1806-1873. MATTHEW FONTAINE MAUEY, an eminent astronomer and hydrographer, was born in Spott- sylvania County, Virginia, in 1806, and entered the United States Navy in 1825. He devoted himself assiduously to the duties of his profession, and in 1835 published a Treatise on Navigation, which was adopted as- a text-book in the Navy. An accident having rendered him incapable of performing sea-service, he devoted himself to scientific and literary work, writing extensively on such subjects as the Gulf Stream, National Defenses, Overland Communication with the Pacific, etc. To his foresight and influence are due the expeditions for exploring the Amazon and tli3 Rio de la Plata. Under his direction the National Observatory speedily assumed an equal rank with the best similar institutions in the world. Lieutenant Maury's labors in the department of Hydrography give him a title to lasting and honorable fame. His wind and current charts and ili2 accompanying book of Sailing Directions must be regarded as the most important work of ths century in its bearing on navigation. In 185-1 Mr. Maury visited Europe and excited attention by h : s inquiry into the ocean current, local winds, etc. In illustration of these subjects he published his celebrated Physical Geography of the S'a, with charts and diagrams, which has been translated into several languages. Both of our extracts are from this work. THE GULF STREAM. THERE is a river in the ocean. In the severest droughts it never fails, 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 Mexicd 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 the ocean are among the most important of its movements. They cany on a constant interchange between the waters of the poles and those of the equator, and thus diminish the extremes of heat and cold in every zone. The sea has its climates 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 which decked the lily and cares for the sparrow fashioned also the 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 * MAU11Y. 179 sea, the inhabitants are all his creatures, subjects of his laws, and agents in his economy. The sea, therefore, we may safely*infer, has its offices and duties to perform ; so, may we infer, have its currents ; and so, too, its inhabitants : consequently, he who undertakes to study its phenomena must cease to regard it as a waste of waters. He must look upon it as a part of that exquisite machinery by which the harmonies of nature are preserved, and then he will begin to perceive the developments 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 north now known to exist there. In the genial warmth of the sea about the Bermudas on one hand, and Africa on the other, we find in 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 affords a more difficult or dangerous naviga- tion than .the approaches of the northern coasts of the United States in winter. Before the warmth of the Gulf Stream was known, a voy- age at this season from Europe to New England, New York, and even to the capes of the Delaware or Chesapeake, was many times more try- ing, difficult, and dangerous than it now is. In making this part of the coast ( vessels are frequently met by snow-storms and gales which mock the seaman's strength and set at naught his skill. In a little while his bark becomes a mass of ice ; with her crew frosted 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 Avaters. Feeling himself invigorated and refreshed with the genial warmth about him, he realizes out there at sea the fable of Antaeus and his mother Earth. He rises up and at- tempts to make his port again, and is again, perhaps, as rudely met and beat back from the northwest ; but each time that he is driven off 180 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. from the contest, he comes forth from this stream, like the ancient son of ^Septune, stronger and stronger, until, after many days, his freshened strength prevails, and he at last triumphs and enters his haven in safety, though in this contest he sometimes falls to rise no mope. The ocean currents are partly the result of the immense evaporation which takes place in the tropical regions, where the sea greatly exceeds the land in extent. The enormous quantity of Avater there earned off by evaporation disturbs the equilibrium of the seas ; bnt this is restored by a perpetual flow of water from the poles. When these streams of cold water leave the poles they flow directly toward the equator ; but, before proceeding far, their motion is deflected by the diurnal motion of the earth. At the poles they have no rotary mo- tion, and although they gain it more and more in their progress to the equator, which revolves at the rate of a thousand miles an hour, they arrive at the tropics before they have gained the same velocity 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 Equato- rial 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 constant 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 conformation. The principal branch of the Equatorial Current of the Atlantic takes a northwesterly direction from off Cape St. Eoque, in South America. It rushes along the coast of Brazil, and, after passing through the Caribbean 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 cur- In the Strait 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 fa* as the coasts of Carolina ; and so completely are they separated from y MAUUY. 181 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 .side 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 cool water between them and the solid parts of the earth's crust. This arrangement is suggestive, and strikingly beauti- ful. One of the benign offices of the Gulf Stream is to convey heat from the Gulf of Mexico, where otherwise it would become exces- sive, and to dispense it in regions beyond the Atlantic, for the amelioration 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 Atlan- tic in contact with the solid crust of the earth, comparatively a good conductor of heat, instead of being sent across, as it is, in contact with a non-conducting cushion of cool water to fend it from the bottom, all its heat would be lost in the first part of the way, and the soft climates of both Prance and England would be as that of Labra- dor, severe in the extreme, and ice-bound, \S 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 carries with it a portion of this heat to temper there the northern winds of winter. 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 latitude, the coasts of Labrador are fast bound in fetters of ice. As the Gulf Stream proceeds on its course, it gradually increases in width. It flows along the coast of North America to Newfound- land, where it turns to the east, one branch setting towards the Brit- ish Islands, and away to the coasts of Norway and the Arctic Ocean. Another branch reaches the Azores, from which it bends round to the 182 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. south, and, after running along the African coast, it rejoins the great equatorial flow, leaving a vast space of nearly motionless water be- tween the Azores, the Canaries, and Cape de Verd Islands, j 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 speed of vessels passing through it is often much retarded. When the companions of Columbus saw it, they thought it marked the limits of navigation, and became alarmed. To the eye, at a little distance, it seems substantial enough to walk upon. Patches of the weed are always to be seen floating along the outer edge of the Gulf Stream. Now, if bits of cork or chaff, or any float- ing substance, be put into a basin, and a circular motion be given to the water, all the light substances will be found crowding together near the centre of the pool where there is the least motion. Just such a basin is the Atlantic Ocean to the Gulf Stream ; and the Sar- gasso Sea is the center 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 the 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. THE AIR AND SEA. WE have already said that the atmosphere forms a spherical shell, surrounding the earth to a depth which is unknown to us, by reason of its growing tenuity, as it is released from the pressure of its own superincumbent mass. Its upper surface cannot be nearer to us than fifty, and can scarcely be more remote than five hundred miles. It surrounds us on all sides, yet we see it not; it presses on us with a load of fifteen pounds on every square inch of surface of our bodies, or from seventy to one hundred tons on us in all, yet we do not so much as feel its weight. Softer than the finest down, more impalpa- ble than the finest gossamer, it leaves the cobweb undisturbed, and scarcely stirs the lightest flower that feeds on the dew it supplies ; yet it bears the fleets of nations on its wings around the world, and crushes the most refractory substances with its weight. When in motion, its force is sufficient to level with the earth the most stately forests and stable buildings, to raise the waters of the ocean into ridges like MAURY. 183 mountains, arid dash the strongest ships to pieces like toys. It warms and cools by turns the earth and the living creatures that inhabit it. It draws up vapors from the sea and land, retains them dissolved in itself or suspended in cisterns of clouds, and throws them down again as rain or dew, when they are required. It bends the rays of .the sun from their path to give us the aurora of the morning and twilight of evening ; it disperses and refracts their various tints to beautify the approach and the retreat of the orb of day. But for the atmosphere, sunshine would burst on us in a moment and fail us in the twink- ling of an eye, removing us in an instant from midnight darkness to the blaze of noon. We should have no twilight to soften and beautify the landscape, no clouds to shade us from the scorching heat ; but the bald earth, as it revolved on its axis, would turn its tanned and weakened front to the full unmitigated rays of the lord of day. The atmosphere affords the gas which vivifies and warms our frames ; it receives into itself that which has been polluted by use, and is thrown off as noxious. It feeds the flame of life exactly as it doejs that of the fire. It is in both cases consumed, in both cases it affords the food of consumption, and in both cases it becomes combined with charcoal, which requires it for combustion, and which removes it when combustion is over. It is the girdling, encircling air that makes the whole world kin. The carbonic acid with which body our breathing fills the air, to-morrow seeks its way round the world. The date- trees that grow round the falls of the Nile will drink it in by their leaves ; the cedars of Lebanon will take of it to add to their stature ; the cocoa-nuts of Tahiti will grow rapidly upon it ; and the palms and bananas of Japan will change it into flowers. The oxygen we are breathing was distilled for us some short time ago by the magno- lias of the Susquehanna, and the great trees that skirt the Orinoco and the Amazon ; the giant rhododendrons of the Himalayas contributed to it, arid the roses and myrtles of Cashmere, the cinnamon-tree of Ceylon, and the forest, older than the flood, that lies buried deep in the heart of Africa, far behind the Mountains of the Moon, gave it out. The rain we see descending was thawed for us out of the icebergs which have watched the Polar Star for ages, or it came from snows that rested on the summits of the Alps, but which the lotm lilies have .(',({ up from the Nile, and exhaled as vapor again into the ever- present air. 184 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. There are processes no less interesting going on in other parts of this magnificent field of research. Water is Nature's carrier : with its currents it conveys heat away from the torrid zone and ice from the frigid ; or. bottling the caloric away in the vesicles of its vapor, it first makes it impalpable, and then conveys it, by unknown paths, to the most distant parts of the earth. The materials of which the coral builds the island and the sea-corich its shell are gathered by this restless level er from mountains, rocks, and valleys in all latitudes. Some it washes down from the Mountains of the Moon, or out of the gold-fields of Australia, or from the mines of Potosi' others from the battle-fields of Europe, or from the marble-quarries of ancient Greece and Rome. These materials, thus collected and carried over falls or down rapids, are transported from river to sea, and deliv- ered by the obedient waters to each insect and to every plant in the ocean at the right time and temperature, in proper form and in due quantity. Treating the rocks less gently, it grinds them into dust, or pounds them into sand, or rolls and rubs them until they are fashioned into pebbles, rubble, or bowlders ; the sand and shingle on the sea-shore are monuments of the abrading, triturating power of water. By water the soil has been brought down from the hills, and spread out into valleys, plains, and fields for man's use. Saving the rocks on which the everlasting hills are established, every thing on the surface of our planet seems to have been removed from its original founda- tion and lodged in its present place by water. Protean in shape, be- nignant in office, water, whether fresh or salt, solid, fluid, or gaseous, is marvelous in its powers. It is one of the chief agents in the manifold workshops in which and by which the earth has been made a habitation fit for man. WILLIS. 185 WILLIS. 1806-1867. NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS was born in Portland, Maine, in January, 1806. He was the son of Nathaniel Willis, and the brother of Sarah Payson Willis (Fanny Fern). Graduating at Yale College in 1827, he at once entered upon a literary life. In 1829 he established the American Monthly Magazine, which, three years later, was merged in the New York Mirror, of which Mr. Willis became editor, in association with George P. Morris. He made several voyages to Europe, and was admitted to the best literary society of England. He died at Idlewild, his beautiful home on the Hudson B-iver, January 20, 1867 His first volume of verse, called Sketches, was published in 1827. His first prose book, Pendllmcjs by the Way (1835), attracted a good deal of notice in England, and a review of it, written by Captain Marryat, led to a duel between himselSf and Mr. Willis. Among the most notable of the twenty-seven volumes of prose and verse which bear his name, are Letters from unltr a Bridge, Loiterings by the H'ay, People I Have Met, and Dashes at Life with a, Free Pencil. One of his latest works was Paul Feme, a novel, which did not enhance his reputation. Mr. Willis is best known in literature as a writer of sketches of society. He was at once a " society man " and a litterateur, and rejoiced in such opportunities of appearing in his twofold character as were afforded in such sketches, in the writing of which lie displayed peculiar grace, ease, and admirable audacity. While the bulk of his writings is of a somewhat ephemeral character, he was sometimes moved by a loftier ambition, and pro- duced matter of more substantial value. Specimens of this may be found in some of his notes of travel, A Health Trip to the Tropics, and A Summer Cruise in the Mediterranean, and in sev- eral religious poems of marked dignity and beauty. These poems must be. regarded as his best reader's mind. Mr. Willis's versatility was remarkable ; but it is to be regretted that he lav- ished so much of his talent upon such f THE DEATH OF ABSALOM. THE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. The reeds bent down the stream ; the willow leaves, With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, Forgot the lifting winds ; and the long stems, Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse, Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, And leaned, in graceful attitudes, to rest. How strikingly the course of nature tells, By its light heed of human suffering, That it was fashioned for a happier world ! 186 CATHCARr's LITERARY READER. King David's limbs were weary. He had fled From i'ar Jerusalem ; and now he stood, With his faint people, for a little rest Upon the shores of Jordan. The light wind Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn The mourner's covering, and he had not felt That he could see his people until now. They gathered round him on the fresh green bank, And spoke their kindly words ; and, as the sun y Bose up in heaven, he knelt among them there, And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. Oh ! when the heart is full, w r hen bitter thoughts Come crowding thickly up for utterance, And the poor common words of courtesy Are such an empty mockery, how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer ! He prayed for Israel, -^ and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He pmycd for those Whose love had been his shield, and his deep tones Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom, For his estranged, misguided Absalom, The proud, bright being, who had burst away In all his princely beauty, to defy The heart that cherished him, for him he poured, In agony that would not be controlled, Strong supplication, and forgave him there, Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straightened for the grave ; and, as the folds Sank to the still proportions, they betrayed . The matchless symmetry of Absalom. His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls Were floating round the tassels as they swayed To the admitted air, as glossy now As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing The snowy fingers of Judaea's daughters. His helm was at his feet ; his banner, soiled WILLIS. 187 With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, Eeversed, beside him ; and the jeweled hilt, Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow. The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief, The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, As if he feared the slumberer might stir. A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade As if a trumpet rang ; but the bent form Of David entered, and he gave command, In a low tone, to his few followers, And left him with his dead. The king stood still Till the last echo died ; then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child, He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe : " Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou shouldst die ! Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair ! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair ! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb ! My proud boy, Absalom ! " Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee ! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp -string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet ' My father ! ' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom ! " But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young ; And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ; But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom ! 188 CATHC ART'S LITERARY READER. " Arid oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token ! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom ! " And now, farewell ! 'T is hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee ; And thy dark sin ! Oh ! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom ! " He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child : then, giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively, as if in prayer ; And, as if strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall Firmly and decently and left him there As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. THE BELFRY PIGEON. ON the cross-beam under the Old South bell The nest of a pigeon is builded well. In summer and winter that bird is there, Out and in with the morning air ; I love to see him track the street, With his wary eye and active feet ; And I often watch him as he springs, Circling the steeple with easy wings, Till across the dial his shade has passed, And the belfry edge is gained at last ; J T is a bird I love, with its brooding note, And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; There 's a human look in its swelling breast, And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ; WILLIS. 189 And I often stop with the fear I feel, He runs so close to the rapid wheel. Whatever is rung on that noisy bell, Chime of the hour, or funeral knell, The dove in the belfry must hear it well. When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon, When the sexton cheerly rings for noon, When the clock strikes clear at morning light, When the child is waked with ' ':,- PROFESSOR ASA GRAY, the eminent botanist, was born in Paris, Oneida County, New York, November 18, 1810. He studied medicine, but his enthusiastic love of botanical investigation withheld him from the practice of his profession. In 183-1 he received the appointment of Botanist to the United States Exploring Expedition, but, impatient of the delays which hindered that enterprise, he resigned his office in 1837- About that time he was chosen Professor of Botany in the University of Michigan ; before that institution was opened he accepted the Fisher Professorship of Natural History in Harvard University, and lias ever since filled it with honor to himself and great advantage to science. His tirst contribution to the literature of botany was North American Graininete and Cypsracea, of which two volumes were published in 1834 -35. This brought him prominently before the scientific world. His botanical career, however, may be said to date from his reading in December, 1834, before the New York Lyceum of Natural History, of A Notice of some New, Rare, or oth?rv:ise Interesting Plant* fri^ni the 3 ///////"/// and Western Portions of the Stale of New York. In 1838, in conjunction Avith John Torrcy, M. I)., he prepared the first part of The Flora of North America. This work has never been completed ; but in its fragmentary state it is esteemed one of the most valuable contribution* ever made in America to the science of Botany. The collections made by the Exploring Expedition of Commodore Wilkes, during the years 1838-42, except those obtained from the Pacific Coast, were placed in the hands of Professor Gray for elaboration, and the fruits of his labors are pre- served in two volumes on the Botany of the United States Exploring K.rp,-diti(m. His numerous papers in the memoirs of the learned societies, although not of a popular character, comprise a large part of his most important contributions to science. The most generally interesting one is his Memoir on the Button/ of Japan in its Relations to that of the United States, which subject was followed up in his Address as President of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, delivered at Dubuque," August, 1873. But while, by the works above-mentioned and many others unnamed, Professor Gray has won fame at home and abroad, he has established a still stronger claim upon the grateful respect of humanity by his untiring and successful efforts to popularize the study of Botany by means of elementary books. His Structural Botany has gone through a multitude of editions, and is universally accepted as one of the best expositions of vegetable physiology and morphology ever written, .while his Manual of Botany has long been known as a standard work. Within a few years he has produced several books of an ele- mentary character, which combine literary grace and substantial instruction in singularly happy union. Among these are Hoiv Plants Graf, How Plants B.'Jiar.e, Lr,n.<; in Botany, The School and Field Book of Botany, etc. Professor Gray possesses remarkable qualifications for this work, his expositions being singularly clear, and his style in all respects attractive. As a represent- ative of science in America, he enjoys an enviable reputation abroad, and his works are quoted with* admiring respect by the most distinguished European savatis. HOW CERTAIN PLANTS CAPTURE INSECTS. THIS is not a common habit of plants. Insects are fed and allowed - to depart unharmed. When captures are made they must sometimes be purely accidental and meaningless ; as in those species of SiUme called Catch-fly, because small flies and other weak insects, sticking fast to a clammy exudation of the calyxes in some species, of a part of the stem in others, are unable to extricate themselves and so perish. But in certain cases insects are caught in ways so remarkable that, we cannot avoid regarding them as contrivances, as genuine fy-tr GRAY. 241 Flower fly-traps are certainly to he found in some plants of the Orchis family. One instance is that of Cypripedium or Lady's- Slipper, which is a contrivance for cross-fertilization. Here the insect is entrapped for the purpose of securing its services; 'and the detention is only temporary. If it did not escape from one flower to enter into another, the whole purpose of the contrivance would be defeated. Not so, however, in leaf fly-traps. These all take the insect's life, whether with intent or not it may be difficult to make out. The commonest and the most ambiguous leaf fly-traps are such as Pitchers, of which those of our Sarracenia or Sidesaddle-flower are most familiar. A common yellow-flowered species of the Southern States has them so very long and narrow, that they are popularly named Trumpets. In these pitchers or tubes water is generally found, sometimes caught from rain, but in other cases evidently furnished by the plant, the pitcher being so constructed that water cannot rain in : this water abounds with drowned insects, commonly in all stages of decay. One would suppose that insects which have crawled into the pitcher might as readily crawl out ; but they do not, and closer exam- ination shows that escaping is not as easy as entering. In most pitchers of this sort there are sharp and stiff hairs within, all pointing downward, which offer considerable obstruction to returning, but none to entering. Why plants which are rooted in wet bogs or in moist ground need to catch water in pitchers, or to secrete it there, is a mystery, unless it is wanted to drown flies in. And what they gain from a solution of dead flies is equally hard to guess, unless this acts as a liquid manure. Into such pitchers as those of the common species rain may fall ; but not readily into others, not at all into those of the Parrot-headed species of the Southern States, for the inflated lid or cover arches over the mouth of the pitcher completely. This is even more strik- ingly so in Darlingtonia, the curious Californian Pitcher-plant lately made known and cultivated : in this the contracted entrance to the pitcher is concealed under the hood and looks downward instead of upward ; and even the small chance of any rain entering by aid of the wind is, as it were, guarded against by a curious appendage, re- sembling the forked tail of some fish, which hangs over the front. Any water found in this pitcher must come from the plant itself. So it also must in the combined Pitcher and Tendril of Nepenthes. These Pitcher-plants are woody climbers, natives of the Indian Archipelago, 11 p 242 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. and not rarely cultivated in hothouses, as a curiosity. Some of their leaves lengthen the tip into the tendril only ; some of the lower bear a pitcher only ; but the best developed leaves have both, the tendril for climbing, the pitcher one can hardly say for what purpose. The pitcher is tightly closed by a neatly fitting lid when young ; and in strong and healthy plants there is commonly a little water in it, which could not possibly have been introduced from without. After they are fully grown the lid opens by a hinge ; then a little water might be supposed to rain in. In the humid, sultry climates they inhabit it probably does so freely ; and the leaves are found partly filled with dead flies, as in our wild Pitcher-plants. The drowning of insects in plant-pitchers is of course an accidental occurrence, and any supposed advantage of this to the plant may be altogether fanciful. But we cannot deny that the supply of liquid manure may be useful. Before concluding that they are of no ac- count, it may be well to contemplate other sorts of leaf fly-traps. All species of Sundew (Drosera) have their leaves, and some their stalks also, beset with bristles tipped with a gland from which oozes a drop of clear but very glutinous liquid, making the plant appear as if studded with dew-drops. These remain, glistening in the sun, long after dew-drops would have been dissipated. Small flies, gnats, and such -like insects, seemingly enticed by the glittering drops, stick fast upon them, and perish by starvation, one would suppose without any benefit whatever to the plant. But in the broad-leaved wild species of our bogs, such as the common Bound-leaved Sundew, the upper face and edges of the blade of the leaf bear stronger bristles, tipped with a larger glutinous drop, and the whole forms what we must allow to be a veritable fly-tiv.p. For, when a small fly alights on the upper face, and is held by some of the glutinous drops long enough for the leaf to act, the surround- ing bristles slowly bend inwards so as to bring their glutinous tips also against the body of the insect, adding, one by one, to the bonds, and rendering captivity and death certain. This movement of the bristles must be of the same nature as that by which tendrils and some leafstalks bend or coil. It is much too slow to be visible except in the result, which takes a few hours or even a day or two to be com- pleted. Here, then, is a contrivance for catching flies, a most elabo- rate one, in action slow but sure. And the different species of Sun- dew offer all gradations between those with merely scattered and GRAY. 243 motionless dewy-tipped bristles, to which flies may chance to stick, and this more complex arrangement, which we cannot avoid regarding as intended for fly-catching. Moreover, in both of our commoner species, the blade of the leaf itself incurves, so as to fold round its victim ! And a most practiced observer, whose observations are not yet pub- lished, declares that the leaves of the common Round-leaved Sundew act differently when different objects are placed upon them. For in- stance, if a particle of raw meat be substituted for the living fly, the bristles will close upon it in the same manner ; but to a particle of chalk or wood they remain nearly indifferent. If any doubt should still remain whether the fly-catching in Sundews is accidental or in- tentional, in other words, whether the leaf is so constructed and arranged in order that it may capture flies, the doubt may perhaps disappear upon the contemplation of another and even more extraor- dinary plant of the same family of the Sundew, namely, Venus's Ply- trap, or Diontea muscipula. This plant abounds in the low savannas around Wilmington, North Carolina, and is native nowhere else. It is not very difficult to cultivate, at least for a time, and it is kept in many choice conservatories as a vegetable wonder. The trap is the end of the leaf. It is somewhat like the leaf of Sundew, only larger, about an inch in diameter, with bristles still stouter, but only round the margin, like a fringe, and no clammy liquid or gland at their tips. The leaf folds on itself as if hinged at the midrib. Three more delicate bristles are seen on the face upon close inspection. When these are touched by the finger or the point of a pencil, the open trap shuts with a quick motion, and after a con- siderable interval it reopens. When a fly or other insect alights on the surface and brushes against these sensitive bristles, the trap closes promptly, generally imprisoning the intruder. It closes at first with the sides convex and the bristles crossing each other like the fingers of interlocked hands or the teeth of a steel trap. But soon the sides of the trap flatten down and press firmly upon the victim ; and it now requires a very considerable force to open the trap. If nothing is caught, the trap presently reopens of itself and is ready for another attempt. When a fly or any similar insect is captured it is retained ' until it perishes, is killed, indeed, and consumed; after which it opens for another capture. But after the first or second it acts slug- gishly and feebly, it ages and hardens, at length loses its sensibility, and slowly decays. 2M CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. It cannot be supposed that plants, like boys, catch flies for pas- time or in objectless wantonness. Living beings though they are, yet they are not of a sufficiently high order for that. It is equally in- credible that such an exquisite apparatus as this should be purpose- less. And in the present case the evidence of the purpose and of the meaning of the strange action is wellnigh complete. The face of this living trap is thickly sprinkled with glands immersed in its texture, of elaborate structure under the microscope, but large enough to be clearly discerned with a hand-lens ; these glands, soon after an insect is closed upon, give out a saliva-like liquid, which moistens the insect, and in a short time (within a week) dissolves all its soft parts, di- gests them, we must believe ; and the liquid, with the animal matter it has dissolved, is re-absorbed into the leaf! We are forced to con- clude that, in addition to the ordinary faculties and function of a vegetable, this plant is really carnivorous. That, while all plants are food for animals, some few should, in turn and to some extent, feed upon them, will appear more credible when it is considered that whole tribes of plants of the lowest grade (Mould-Fungi and the like) habitually feed upon living plants and living animals, or upon their juices when dead. An account of them would make a volume of itself, and an interesting one. But all goes to show that the instances of extraordinary behavior which have been recounted in these chapters * are not mere prodigies, wholly out of the general order of Nature, but belong to the order of Nature, and in- deed are hardly different in kind from, or really more wonderful than, the doings of many of the commonest plants, which, until our special attention is called to them, ordinarily pass unregarded. * How Plants Behave: How they move, climb, employ insects to work for them, etc. A charm- ing elementary work, from which this extract is taken. POK. 245 POE. 1811 - 1849. EDGAR ALLAN POE, perhaps the most brilliant, and surely the most unfortunate, of young American poets, was born in Baltimore, Maryland, in 1811, and died in 1849. Left a penniless orphan on the death of his parents, who were members of the theatrical profession, he was adopted by a rich merchant of Baltimore, and sent to school. In 1823 he entered the Univer- sity of Virginia, but his habits soon became so dissolute as to compel his expulsion. His bene- factor refusing young Poe's demands for money to be squandered at the gaming-table, the latter resolved to go, like Byron, to the aid of the struggling Greeks. He went to Europe, but never reached the theater of war, and in about a year was sent home by the United States Consul at St. Petersburg. His long-suffering benefactor next procured him an appointment to West Point ; but the high-spirited youth could not endure the strict discipline of cadet-life, and in less than a year he was again expelled. Again he was received at the house of his benefactor, but his stay, this time, was short ; for some offense whose nature has never been clearly ex- plained, he was shut out forever from the house that had been his only home. He at once entered upon that career of literary Bohemianism which was to end only with his life. In 1829 a small collection of his poems was published in Baltimore, and was received with encouraging favor ; but his literary work done prior to his twenty-fourth year had little permanent value. While editing the Southern Literary Messenger, at Richmond, Virginia, 1835 - 37, he married his cjusin, Virginia Clemm. In 1839 he went to New York, where he wrote for newspapers and magazines, and in 1840 to Philadelphia, where he edited Graham's Magazine. Returning to the first-named city, he engaged in miscellaneous literary labor, contributing his most famous poem, The Raven, to Colton's Whig Review, in February, 1845. His life, during the next four years, was a sad one ; poverty continually oppressed him ; his loving and suffering wife was taken from him ; and, at last, having become almost a vagabond, he was carried to the Baltimore Hospital, where he died, October 7, 1849, aged thirty-eight years. Although Poe is best known as a poet, many of the ablest critics agree that he was even greater as a writer of talcs. In this depart- ment of literature he occupied a niche in which he has had no successor. His imagination w r as exceptionally powerful, his love of the w T eird and marvelous very strong, and his skill in produ- cing somber and uncanny effects w r as extraordinary. Though he wrote a good deal of verse, but a small proportion of it is worthy of his genius. As a critic he was remarkable mainly for his vio- lent abusiveness, and his Literati of New York City, though spicy reading, gives no evidence of high critical power. Two or three of his poems, The Raven, The Bells, Annabel Lee, and perhaps some others, will always be read and admired. The story of his short life conveys a solemn warning, and suggests, ths thought that the most brilliant intellectual gifts are a curse rather than a blessing, if unaccompanied by a vigorous directing and controlling moral sense. It con- firms, too, the notion that marked precocity is unfavorable to, if not absolutely incompatible with, healthy and fruitful intellectual development. In the most prosperous natures, the moral growth precedes the mental, is its guide and support. Yet Poe is to be pitied rather than con- demned : his faults grew out of his misfortunes. ANNABEL LEE. IT was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden lived, whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee ; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love, and be laved bv me. CATHCART S LITERA11Y HEADER. I was a cliild and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea ; But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee, With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her arid me. And this was the reason that long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beaut if ul Annabel Lee ; So that her high-born kinsmen came, And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulcher, In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me. Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know) In this kingdom by the sea, - That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we, Of many far wiser than we ; And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the side Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride, In her sepulcher there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea. POE. 247 FROM THE RAVEN. ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. " 'T is some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my chamber door ; Only this, and nothing more." Open then I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he ; not an instant stopped or stayed he ; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door, Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door, Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure no craven ; Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore, -Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore ? " Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " THE BELLS. I. HEAR the sledges with the 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, 248 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells Prom the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells, - Prom the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. II. 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 ! . 0, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony 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. in. Hear the loud alarum bells, Bi\:zen bells ! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright ! Too much, horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In the clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire POE. 249 Leaping 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. O the hells, bells, bells, What a tale their terror tells Of despair ! How they clang and clash and roar ! What a horror they outpour 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 arid 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 ' In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone ; For every sound that floats Prom 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 toiling, tolling, tolling, 11* 250 CATHCART'S LITERARY HEADER. In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human h-eart a stone, They are neither man nor woman, They are neither brute nor 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 Runic 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, bells, 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. GREELEY. 51 GEEELEY. 1811-1873. HORACE GREELEY, the greatest of American journalists, and eminent as a writer of pure and vigorous English, was born in Aiuherst, New Hampshire, in 1811 and died in 1872. He was the son of a poor farmer, and was in every sense " a self-made man." Pure in mind, honest and upright to such an extent that he was called by many an eccentric man, he made his way, by his own unaided efforts, from poverty to well-deserved fame as a writer and philosopher. His style i* better in certain respects than that^ef any of his contemporary writers. It is terse and masculine, so evenly balanced and nicely constructad, so simple and yet so graceful that it is equally admired by the uneducated farmer and the fastidious literary critic. Mr. Greeley will always be best known as the founder and first editor of the New York Tribune, but his collected writings will hold a place in standard American literature. The best known of these are: Rec- tV actions of a Busy Life, What I kuoiv of Farming, and The American. Conflict, a history of the late civil war. THE EDITOR, IT only remains to me to speak more especially of my own voca- tion, the Editor's, which bears much the same relation to the Author's that the Bellows-blower's bears to the Organist's, the Player's to the Dramatist's. The Editor, from the absolute necessity of the case, cannot speak deliberately ; he must write to-day of to-day's incidents and aspects, though these may be completely overlaid and transformed by the incidents and aspects of to-morrow. He must write and strive in the full consciousness that whatever honor or dis- tinction he may acquire must perish with the generation that bestowed them. No other public teacher lives so wholly in the present as the Editor; and the noblest affirmations of unpopular truth the most self-sacrificing defiance of a base and selfish Public Sentiment that regards only the most sordid ends, and values every utterance solely as it tends to preserve quiet and contentment, while the dollars fall jingling into the merchant's drawer, the land-jobber's vault, and the miser's bag can but be noted in their day, and with their day for- gotten. It is his cue to utter silken arid smooth sayings, to con- demn Vice so as not to interfere with the pleasures or alarm the consciences of the vicious, to commend and glorify Labor without attempting to expose or repress any of the gainful contrivances by which Labor is plundered and degraded. Thus sidling dexterously between somewhere and nowhere, the Able Editor of the Nineteenth Century may glide through life respectable and in good case, and lie down to his long rest with the non-achievements of his life embla- 252 CATHCART'S .LITERARY HEADER. zoned on the very whitest marble, surmounting and glorifying his dust. There is a different and sterner path, I know not whether there be any now qualified to tread it, I am not sure that even one has ever followed it implicitly, in view of the certain meagerness of its temporal rewards and the haste wherewith any fame acquired in a sphere so thoroughly ephemeral as the Editor's must be shrouded by the dark waters of oblivion. This path demands an ear ever open to the plaints of the wronged and the saflering, though they can never repay advocacy, and those who mainly support newspapers will be annoyed and often exposed by it ; a heart as sensitive to oppression and degradation in the next street as if they were practiced in Bi\,/il or Japan ; a pen as ready to expose and reprove the crimes whereby wealth is amassed and luxury enjoyed in our own country at this hour, as if they had only been committed by Turks or Pagans in Asia some centuries ago. Such an Editor, could one be found or trained, need not expect to lead an easy, indolent, or wholly joyous life, to be blessed by Archbishops or followed by the approving shouts of as- cendant majorities : but he might find some recompense for their loss in the; calm verdict of an approving conscience ; and the tears of the despised and the friendless, preserved from utter despair by his efforts and remonstrances, might freshen for a season the daisies that bloomed above his grave. THE REFORMER, AND, indeed, though the life of the Reformer may seem rugged and arduous, it were hard to say considerately that any other were worth living at all. Who can thoughtfully affirm that the career of the con- quering, desolating, subjugating warrior, of the devotee of Gold, or Pomp, or Sensual Joys ; the monarch in his purple, the Miser by his chest, the wassailer over his bowl, is" not a libel on Humanity and an offense against God? But the earnest, unselfish Reformer, born into a state of darkness, evil, and suffering, and honestly striving to replace these by light and purity and happiness, he may fall and die, as so many have done before him, but he cannot fail. His vindication shall gleam from the walls of his hovel, his dungeon, his tomb ; it shall shine in the radiant eyes of uncorrupted Child- hood, and fall in blessings from the .Hps of high-hearted, generous Youth. GUEELEY. 253 As the untimely death of the good is our strongest moral assurance of the Resurrection, so the life wearily worn out in doubtful and per- ilous conflict with Wrong and Woe is our most conclusive evidence that Wrong and Woe shall yet vanish forever. Luther, dying amid the agonizing tears and wild consternation of all Protestant Germany, Columbus, borne in regal pomp to his grave by the satellites of the royal miscreant whose ingratitude and perfidy had broken his mighty heart,* these teach us, at least, that all true greatness is ripened and tempered and proved in life-long struggle against vicious beliefs, traditions, practices, institutions ; and that not to have been a Re- former is not to have truly lived. Life is a bubble which any breath may dissolve ; Wealth or Power a snow-flake, melting momently into the treacherous deep across whose waves we are floated on to our unseen destiny : but to have lived so that one less orphan is called to choose between starvation and infamy > to have lived so that some eyes of those whom Paine shall never know are brightened and others suffused at the name of the beloved one, so that the few who knew him truly shall recognize him as a bright, warm, cheering presence, which was here for a season and left the world no worse for his stay in it, this surely is to have really lived, and not wholly in vain. AGRICULTURE. Is agriculture a repulsive pursuit? That what has been called farming has repelled many of the youth of our day, I perceive ; and I glory in the fact. An American boy, who has received a fair com- mon-school education and has an active, inquiring mind, does not willingly consent merely to drive oxen and hold the plow forever. He will do these with alacrity, if they come in his way ; he will not accept them as the be-all and the end-all of his career. He will not sit down in a rude, slovenly, naked home, devoid of flowers, and trees, and books, and periodicals, and intelligent, inspiring, refining con- versation, and there plod through a life of drudgery as hopeless and cheerless as any mule's. He has needs, and hopes, and aspirations, which this life does not and ought not to satisfy. This might have served his progenitor in the ninth century ; but this is the nineteenth, and the young American knows it. He needs to feel the intellectual life of the period flowing freely * See note, page 98. 254 CATIICART'S LITERARY READER. into and through him, needs to feel that, though the city and the railroad are out of sight, the latter is daily bringing within his reach all that is noblest and best in the achievements and attractions of the former. He may not listen to our ablest orators in the senate or in the pulpit; but the press multiplies their best thoughts and most forcible expressions at the rate of ten to twenty thousand copies per hour; and its issues are within the reach of every industrious family. To arrest the rush of our youth to the cities, we have only to diffuse what is best of the cities through the country ; and this the latest triumphs of civilization enable us easily to do. A home irradiated by the best thoughts of the sages and heroes of all time, even though these be compressed within a few rusty volumes, cheered by the fre- quent arrival of two or three choice periodicals, and surrounded by such floral evidences of taste and refinement as are within the reach of the poorest owner of the soil he tills, will not be spurned as a prison by any youth not thoroughly corrupted and depraved. Any American farmer, who has two hands and knows how to use them, may, at h'fty years of age, have a better library than King Solo- mon ever dreamed of, though he declared that " of making of many books there is no end " ; any intelligent farmer's son may have a better knowledge of Nature and her laws when twenty years old than Aris- totle or Pliny ever attained. The steam-engine, the electric telegraph, and the power-press have brought knowledge nearer to the humblest cabin than it was, ten centuries since, to the stateliest mansion ; let the cabin be careful not to disparage or repel, it. But thousands of farmers are more intent on leaving money and lands to their children than on informing and enriching their minds. They starve their souls in order to pamper their bodies. They grudge their sons that which would make them truly wise, in order to provide them with what can at best but make them rich in corn and cattle, while poor in manly purpose and generous ideas. Modern agriculture is an art or rather a circle of arts based upon natural science, which is a methodical exposition of divine law. The savage is Nature's thrall, whom she scorches, freezes, starves, drowns, as her caprice may dictate. He lives in constant dread of her frosts, her tornadoes, her lightnings. Science teaches his civilized successor to turn her wildest eccentricities to his own use and profit. Her floods and gales saw his timber and grind his grain ; in time, they will chop his trees, speed his plow, and till his crops as well. GHEELEY. 255 Science transforms and exalts him from the slave into the master of the elements. If he does not yet harness the electric fluid to his plow, his boat, his wagon, and make the most docile and useful of his servants, it is because he is still but little advanced from barbarism. Essentially, the lightning garnered in a summer cloud should be as much at his command, and as subservient to his needs, as the water that refreshes his thirsty fields and starts his hitherto lifeless wheels. Only good farming pays. He who sows or plants without reason- able assurance of good crops annually, might better earn wages of some capable neighbor than work for so poor a paymaster as he is certain to prove himself. The good farmer is proved such by the steady appreciation of his crops. Any one may reap an ample harvest from a fertile, virgin soil ; the good farmer alone grows good crops at first, and better and better ever afterward. It is for easier to maintain the productive capacity of a farm than to restore it. To exhaust its fecundity, and then attempt its restoration by buying costly commercial fertilizers, is wasteful and irrational. The good farmer sells mainly such products as are least exhaustive. Necessity may constrain him, for the first year or two, to sell grain, or even hay ; but he will soon send off his surplus mainly in the form of cotton, or wool, or meat, or butter and cheese, or something else that returns to the soil nearly all that is taken from it. A bank account daily drawn upon, while nothing is deposited to its credit, must soon respond, " No funds " : so with a farm similarly treated. Wisdom is never dear, provided the article be genuine. I have known farmers who toiled constantly from daybreak to dark, yet died poor, because, through ignorance, they wrought to disadvantage. If every farmer would devote two hours of each day to reading and reflection, there would be fewer failures in farming than there are. The best investment a farmer can make for his children is that which surrounds their youth with the rational delights of a beauteous, at- tractive home. The dwelling may be small and rude, yet a few flow- ers will embellish, as choice fruit-trees will enrich and gladden it; while grass and shade are within the reach of the humblest. Hardly any labor done on a farm is so profitable as that which makes the wife and children fond and proud of their home. A good, practical education, including a good trade, is a better outfit for a youth than a grand estate with the drawback of an empty mind. Many parents have slaved and pinched to leave their children 256 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. rich, when half the sum thus lavished would have profited them far more had it been devoted to the cultivation of their minds, the en- largement of their capacity to think, observe, and work. The one structure that no neighborhood can afford to do without is the school-house. A small library of well-selected books in his home has saved many a youth from wandering into the baleful ways of the prodigal son. Where paternal strictness and severity would have bred nothing but dislike and a fixed resolve to abscond at the first opportunity, good books and pleasant surroundings have weaned many a youth from his first wild impulse to go to sea or cross the continent, and made him a docile, contented, obedient, happy lingerer by the parental fireside. In a family, however rich or poor, no other good is so cheap or so precious as thoughtful, watchful love. Most men are born poor, but no man, who has average capacities and tolerable luck, need remain so. And the farmer's calling, though proffering no sudden leaps, no ready short-cuts to opulence, is the surest of all ways from poverty and want to comfort and independence. Other men must climb; the temperate, frugal, diligent, provident farmer may grow into competence and every external accessory to happiness. Each year of his devotion to his homestead may find it more valuable, more attractive than the last, and leave it better still. There are discoveries in natural science and improvements in me- chanics which conduce to the efficiency of agriculture ; but the prin- ciples which underlie this first of arts are old as agriculture itself. Greek and Roman sages made observations so acute and practical that the farmers of to-day may ponder them with profit, while modern literature is padded with essays on farming not worth the paper they have spoiled. And yet the generation whereof I am part has wit- nessed great strides in your vocation, while the generation preparing to take our places will doubtless witness still greater. I bid you hold fast to the good, with minds receptive of and eager for the better, and rejoice in your knowledge that there is no nobler pursuit and no more inviting soil than those which you proudly call your own. THACKEHAY. 257 THACKERAY. 1811-1863. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY, one of the great writers of fiction of the nineteenth , century, was born in Calcutta in 1811, but was sent to England while a child, and educated in the Charterhouse School, which he has immortalized in The Newcomcs, and at Cambridge Uni- versity. On the death of his parents he found himself in possession of a handsome fortune ; but it soon vanished, and he was, compelled to earn a subsistence. He dallied with Law, courted Art with greater earnestness, and finally a resolution for which the lovers of high fiction will never cease to be grateful resolved to devote himself to Literature. Plis first essay in letters was in the department of journalism ; he wrote for the Times, The New Monthly Magazine, and Punch, to which latter periodical he contributed the inimitable Snob Papers, Jeames's Diary, etc. His first volume, The Paris Sketch-Book, was published in 1840, and was followed during the next seven years by several collections of essays, sketches, etc. In 18 48 ap- peared his first novel, Vanity Fair, a work that deserves rank among the masterpieces of English fiction. Two years later Tlie History of Peudennis was given to the world, which, if it did not enhance the author's reputation, confirmed his title to a high place among English novelists. The History of Henry Esmond, The Virginians, The Newcbmes, appeared at short intervals, the latter, which was issued in 1855, being pronounced by high literary authority his masterpiece. Lov el the Widower (1861) and The Adventures of Philip (1862) mark the decay of the author's powers. At his death in 186) he left unfinished a novel called Denis Duvai. The Four Georges, lectures first delivered in the principal American cities, were published in book form in 1860. It is a remarkable fact that while Thackeray's writings were comparatively neglected in England, they enjoyed an extensive popularity in the United States, where they are still read with eagerness and delight by all who look beneath the surface of novels into the soul that animates them. It is impossible to do justice to the characteristics of Thackeray as a writer in the limits of this notice; but two or three of them may be briefly mentioned. He was a cynic, though a kindly one -. he was a keen student of human nature, quick to recognize and to de- nounce its weaknesses ; yet he apparently found his deepest pleasure in depicting its lovely features and recording its noblest manifestations. The character of Colonel Newcome is, we think, unsurpassed, if equaled, as a type of true manhood ; its pathos is indescribable, and the memory of it lingers in the reader's mind, softening and refining. Thackeray's humor was nimble rather than rich ; but it is not, though commonly held to be, a very important component of his intellectual strength. He was a reformer, who exposed and denounced social wrongs, not with rude force, but with polished satire. His mastery of English was wonderful ; in the purity and vigor of his language he was unequaled by any writer of his time. The first extract is from The Four Georges ; the others are from Peudenuis. GEORGE THE THIRD.* WE have to glance over sixty years in as many minutes. To read the mere catalogue of characters who figured during that long period, would occupy our allotted time, and we should have all text and no sermon. England has to undergo the revolt of the American colo- nies ; to submit to defeat and separation ; to shake under the volcano * George the Third was king of England during our Revolutionary War. He was born in 1?3, ascended the throne in 1760, and reigned for sixty years. He became insane in 1810, and died in 1830. His weaknesses are most mercilessly criticised by Thackeray in his Lectures OH thr: Four Georges, as will be seen from the extract. 258 CATHCART^S LITERARY REAFER. of the French Revolution ; to grapple and fight for the life with her gigantic enemy Napoleon ; to gasp and rally after that tremendous struggle. The old society, with its courtly splendors, has to pass away ; generations of statesmen to rise and disappear ; Pitt to follow Chatham to the tomb ; the memory of Rodney and Wolfe to be super- seded by Nelson's and Wellington's glory ; the old poets who unite us to Queen Anne's time to sink into their graves; Johnson to die, and Scott and Byron to arise, Garrick to delight the world with his dazzling dramatic genius, and Kean to leap on the stage and take possession of the astonished theater. Steam has to be invented ; kings to be beheaded, banished, deposed, restored ; Napoleon to be but an episode, and George III. is to be alive through all these varied changes, to accompany his people through all these revolutions of thought, government, society, to survive out of the old world into ours. His mother's bigotry and hatred George inherited with the cour- ageous obstinacy of his own race ; but he was a firm believer where his fathers had been free-thinkers, and a true and fond supporter of the Church, of which he was the titular defender. Like other dull men, the king was all his life suspicious of superior people. He did not like Fox ; he did not like Reynolds ; he did not like Nelson, Chatham, Burke : he was testy at the idea of all innovations, and suspicious of all innovators. He loved mediocrities ; Benjamin West was his favorite painter ; Beattie was his poet. The king lamented, not without pathos, in his after life, that his education had been neg- lected. He was a dull lad, brought up by narrow-minded people. The cleverest tutors in the world could have done little probably to expand that small intellect, though they might have improved his tastes and taught his perceptions some generosity. George married the Princess Charlotte of Mecklenburg Strelitz, and for years they led the happiest, simplest lives, sure, ever led by mar- ried couple. It is said the king winced > when he first saw his homely little bride ; but, however that may be, he was ; a true and faithful husband to her, as she was a faithful and loving wife. They had the simplest pleasures, the very mildest and simplest, little country dances, to which a dozen couple were invited, and where the honest king would stand up and dance for three hours at a time to one tune ; after which delicious excitement they would go to bed without any supper (the Court people grumbling sadly at that absence of THACKERAY. 259 supper), and get up quite early the next morning, and perhaps the next night have another dance ; or the queen would play on the spinnet, she played pretty well, Haydn said ; or the king would read to her a paper out of the Spectator, or perhaps one of Ogden's sermons. O Arcadia ! what a life it must have been ! The theater was always his delight. His bishops and clergy used to attend it, thinking it no shame to appear where that good man was seen. He is said not to have cared for Shakespeare or tragedy much; farces and pantomimes were his joy ; and especially when clown swal- lowed a carrot or a string of sausages, he would laugh so outrageously that the lovely princess by his side would have to say, " My gracious monarch, do compose yourself." But he continued to laugh, and at the very smallest farces, as long as his poor wits were left him. " George, be a king ! " were the words which his mother was for- ever croaking in the ears of her son ; and a king the simple, stubborn, affectionate, bigoted man tried to be. He did his best, he worked according to his lights : what virtue he knew, he tried to practice ; what knowledge he could master, he strove to acquire. But, as one thinks of an office almost divine, performed by any mortal man, of any single being pretending to control the thoughts, to direct the faith, to order implicit obedience of brother millions ; to compel them into war at his offense or quar- rel ; to command, " In this way you shall trade, in this way you shall think ; these neighbors shall be your allies, whom you shall help, these others your enemies, whom you shall slay at my orders ; in this way you shall worship God"; who can wonder that, when such a man as George took such an office on himself, punishment and humiliation should fall upon people and chief? Yet there is something grand about his courage. The battle of the king with his aristocracy remains yet to be told by the historian who shall view the reign of George more justly than the trumpery pane- gyrists who wrote immediately after his decease. It was he, with the people to back him, that made the war with America ; it was he and the people who refused justice to the Roman Catholics ; and on both questions he beat the patricians. He bribed, he* bullied, he darkly dissembled on occasion ; he exercised a slippery perseverance, and a vindictive resolution, which one almost admires as one thinks his character over. His courage was never to be beat. It trampled North underfoot ; it bent the stiff neck of the younger Pitt ; even his illness 260 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. never conquered that indomitable spirit. As soon as his brain was clear, it resumed the scheme, only laid aside when his reason left him: as soon as his hands were out of the strait- waistcoat, they took up the pen and the plan which had engaged him up to the moment of his malady. I believe, it is by persons believing themselves in the right, that nine tenths of the tyranny of this world has been perpetrated. Arguing' on that convenient premise, the Dey of Algiers would cut off twenty heads of a morning ; Father Dominic would burn a score of Jews in the presence of the Most Catholic King, and the Archbishops of Toledo and Salamanca sing Amen. Protestants were roasted, Jesuits hung and quartered at Smitlmeld, and witches burned at Salem ; and all by worthy people, who believed they had the b.-st authority for their actions. And so with respect to old George, even Americans, whom he hated and who conquered him, may give him credit for having quite honest reasons for oppressing them. Of little comfort were the king's sons to the king. But the pretty Amelia was his darling ; and the little maiden, prattling and smiling, in the fond arms of that old father, is a sweet image to look on. From November, 1810, George III. ceased to reign. 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 fond 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 reason, all 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, and found him singing a hymn, and accom- panying himself at the harpsichord. When he had finished, lie knelt down and prayed afoud for her, and then for his family, and then for the nation, concluding with a prayer for himself, that it might please God to avert his heavy calamity from him, but if not, to give him res- ignation to submit. He then burst into tears, and his reason again fled. THACKEUAY. 2J1 What 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 Euler of king's and man, the "Monarch Supreme over empires and republics, the inscrutable Dispenser of life, death, happiness, victory. " O brothers," I said to those who heard me first in America, " O brothers ! speaking the same dear mother tongue, O comrades ! enemies no more, let us take a mournful hand together as we stand by this royal corps 3, and call a truce 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 liis ghost oil ! let him pass lie hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer ! ' Hush ! 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 ! " THE MAJOR'S ADVICE TO HIS NEPHEW, LIKE a wary and patient man of the world, Major Pendennis did not press poor Pen any farther for the moment, but hoped the best from time, and that the young fellow's eyes would be opened before long to see the absurdity of which he. was guilty. And having found out how keen the boy's point of honor was, he worked kindly upon that kindly feeling with great skill, discoursing him over their wine after dinner, and pointing out to Pen the necessity of a perfect up- rightness and openness in all his dealings, and entreating that his communications with his interesting young friend (as the Major politely called Miss Fothering^y) should be carried on with the knowledge, if not approbation, of Mrs. Pendennis. "After all, Pen," the Major said, with a convenient frankness that did not displease the boy, whilst it advanced the interests of the negotiator, "you must bear in mind that you are throwing yourself away. Your mother may submit to your marriage as she would to anything else you desired, it' you did but cry long enough for it : but be sure of 262 CATHCAK/rS LITERARY READER. this, that it can never please her. You take a young woman off the boards of a country theater and prefer her, for such is the case, to one of the finest ladies in England. And your mother will submit to your choice, but you can't suppose thtf she will be happy under it. " I have often fancies that my sister ha 1 it in her eye to make a mar- riage between you and that little ward of hers Flora, Laura, what 's her name ? And I always determined to do my small en- deavor to prevent any such match. The child lias but two thou- sand pounds, I am given to understand. It is only with the utmost economy and care that my sister can provide for the decent main- tenance of her house, and for your appearance and education as a gentleman ; and I don't care to own to you that I had other and much higher views for you. With your name and birth, sir, - with your talents, which I suppose are respectable, with the friends whom I have the honor to possess, I could have placed you in an excellent position, a remarkable position for a young man of such exceeding small means, and had hoped to see you, at least, try to restore the honors of our name. Your mother's softness stopped one prospect, or you might have been a general like our gal- lant ancestor who fought at llunillies and Mulphiqnet. I had another plan in view : my excellent and kind friend, Lord Bagwig, who is very well disposed towards me, would, I4ave little doubt, have attached you to his mission at Pumpernickel, and you might .have advanced in the diplomatic service. But, pardon me for recurring to the subject ; how is a man to serve a young gentleman of eighteen, who proposes to marry a lady of thirty, whom he has selected from a booth in a fair ? well, not a fair, barn. That profession at once is closed to you. The public service is closed to you. Society is closed to you. You see, my good friend, to what you bring yourself. You may get on at the bar, to be sure, where I am given to understand that gentlemen of merit occasionally marry out of their kitchens ; but in no other profession. Or you may come and live down here down here, dear Pen, forever ! " (said the Major, with a dreary shrug, as he thought with inexpressible fondness of Pall Mr. 11) " where your mother will receive the Mrs. Arthur that is to b?, with perfect kind- ness ; where the good people of the county won't visit yon ; and where, my dear sir, I shall be shy of visiting you my self, for I 'm a plain-spoken man, and I own to you that I like to live with gentlemen for my companions ; where you will have to live, with rum-and-water THACKERAY. 63 drinking gentlemen-farmers, and drag through your life the young husband of an old woman, who, if she does n't quarrel with your mother, will at least cost that lady her position in society, and drag her down into that dubious caste into which you must inevitably fall. It is no affair of mine, my good sir. I am not angry. Your down- fall will riot hurt me farther than that it will extinguish the hopes I had of seeing my family once more taking its place in the world. It is only your mother and yourself that will be ruined. And I pity you both from my soul. Pass the ckret : it is some I sent to your poor father; I remember I bought it at poor Lord Levant's sale. But of course," added the Major, smacking the wine, " having en- gaged yourself, you will do what becomes you as a man of honor, however Mai your promise may be. However, promise us on our side, my boy, what I set out by entreating you to grant, that there shall be nothing clandestine, that you will pursue your studies, that you will only visit your interesting friend at proper intervals. Do you write to her much ? " Pen blushed and said, " Why, yes, he had written." " I suppose verses, eh ! as well as prose ? I was a dab at verses myself. I recollect when I first joined, I used to write verses for the fellows in the regiment ; and did some pretty things in that way. I was talking to my old friend General Hobbler about some lines I dashed off for him in the year 1806, when we were at the Cape, and, Gad, he remembered every line of them still ; for he 'd used 'em so often, the old rogue, and had actually tried 'em on Mrs. Hobbler, sir, who brought him sixty thousand pounds. I suppose you 've tried verses, eh, Pen? " Pen blushed again, and said, " Why, yes, he had written verses." " And does the fair one respond in poetry or prose ? " asked the Major, eying his nephew with the queerest expression, as much as to say, " O Moses and Green Spectacles ! what a fool the boy is." Pen blushed again. She had written, but not in verse, the young lover owned, and he gave' his breast-pocket the benefit of a squeeze with his left arm, which the Mvjor remarked, according to his wont. " You have got the letters there, I see," said the old campaigner, nodding at Pen, and pointing to his own chest (which was manfully wadded with cotton by Mr. Stultz). " You know you have. I would give twopence to see 'ern." " Why," said Pen, twiddling the stalks of the strawberries, " I CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. I," but this sentence never finished ; for Pen's, face was so comical and embarrassed, as the Major watched it, that the. elder could con- tain his gravity no longer, and burst into a fit of laughter, in which chorus Pen himself was obliged to join after a minute : when he broke out fairly into a guffaw. It sent them with great good-humor into Mrs. Pendennis's draw- ing-room. She was pleased to hear them laughing in the hall as they crossed it. " You sly rascal! " said the Major, putting his arm gavly on Pen's shoulder, and giving a playful push at the boy's breast-pocket. He felt the papers crackling there sure enough. The young fellow was delighted conceited triumphant and in one word, a spooney. The pair came to the tea-table in the highest spirits. The Major's politeness was beyond expression. He had never lasted such good tea, and such bread was only to be had in the country. He asked M rs. Pe.n- dennis for one of her charming songs. He then made Pen sing, and was delighted and astonished at the beauty of the boy's voice ; lie made his nephew fetch his maps and drawings, and praised then! as really re- markable works of talent in a young fellow : he complimented him on his French pronunciation : he flattered the simple boy as adroitly as ever lover flattered a mistress : and when bedtime came, mother and son went to their several rooms perfectly enchanted with the kind Major. When they had reached those apartments, I suppose Helen took to her knees as usual ; and Pen read over his letters before going to bed : just as if he did n't know every word of them by heart already. In truth there were but three of those documents ; and to learn their contents required no great effort of memory. In No. 1 Miss Fotheringay presents grateful compliments to Mr. Pendennis, and in her papa's name and her own begs to thank him for his most beautiful presents. They will always be kept carefully ; and Miss F. and Captain C. will never forget the delightful evening which they passed on Tuesday last. No. 2 said Dear Sir, we shall have a small quiet party of social friends at our humble board, next Tuesday evening, at an early tea, Avhen I shall wear the beaut if id scarf which, with its accompanying de- lightful verses, I shall er< j t\ erer cherish : and papa bids me say how happy he will be if you will join " the feast of reason and the flow of soul " in our festive little party, as I am sure will be your truly grateful EMILY FOTHERIXGAY. THACKERAY. 265 No. 3 was somewhat more confidential, and showed that matters had proceeded rather far. You were odious yesterday night, the letter said. Why did you not come to the stage-door? Papa could not escort me on account of his eye ; he had an accident, and fell down over a loose carpet on the stair on Sunday night. I saw you looking at Miss Diggle all night ; and you were so enchanted with Lydia Lan- guish you scarcely once looked at Julia. I could have crushed Bing- ley, I was so angry. I play Ella Rosenberg on Friday : will you come then ? Miss Diygle performs ever your E. P. These three letters Mr. Pen used to read at intervals, during the day and night, -and embrace with that delight and fervor which such beautiful compositions surely warranted. A thousand times at least he had kissed fondly the musky s.itin paper, made sacred to him by the hand of Emily Fotheringay. This was all he had in return for his passion and flames, his vows and protests, his rhymes arid similes, his wakeful nights and endless thoughts, his fondness, fears, and folly. The young wiseacre had pledged away his all for this : signed his name to endless promissory-notes, conferring his heart upon the bearer : bound himself for life, and got back twopence as an equiva- lent. For Miss Costigan was a young lady of such perfect good con- duct and self-command, that she never would have thought of giving more, and reserved the treasures of her affection until she could trans- fer them lawfully at church. Howbeit, Mr. Pen was content with what tokens of regard he had got, and mumbled over his three letters in a rapture of high spirits, and went to sleep delighted with his kind old uncle from London, who must evidently yield to his wishes in time ; and, in a word, a preposterous state of contentment with himself and all the world.* * It may be remarked that Mr. Pen did not marry Miss Fotheringay, and that Captain Cos- tigan, hsr father, and Major Pendennis came near having a duel on the subject. Tor a full and interesting account of young Pendennis's trials and tribulations in this matter, and his happy issue therefrom, together with the charmingly described record of his life after this episode, you must read Pendennis, one of the best of Mr. Thackeray's stories. 12 266 SUMNER. 1811 - 1874. CHARLES SUMNER, one of the most prominent actors in the public affairs of the United Siates for a quarter of a century, was born in Boston, Massachusetts, in January, 1811. Graduating at Harvard College in 1830, he studied law under the direction of Judge Story, and began practice in 1834. In 1837 he went abroad and mingled in the most cultivated society in England and on the Continent. Returning to Boston, after an absence of three years, he resumed his profession and his studies. In 185, being invited by the city government to deliver a Fourth of July Ora- tion, he spoke on The True Grandeur of Nations with such eloquence and force as at once gave him high rank as an orator. Made conspicuous by this success, he naturally entered into political associations, and became an active member of the Free Soil party. By its aid, live years later, in 1850, he was elected to the seat in tlu; United States Senate made vacant by Mr. Webster's appointment to be Secretary of State. On his entrance into that body Mr. Simmer declared himself the uncompromising enemy of slavery, and never ceased his assaults upon that institution until it ceased to exist. He was repeatedly re-elected to the Senate, and hatj completed his twenty-third year of honorable service, when lu: was suddenly stricken by tuiyinu pcctons, and died March 11, 1871. Mr. Stunner's efforts in literature were almost exclusively in the depart- ment of oratory, and tli3 many volumes of his published works are mainly filled with speeches. Many of thcs:- have a place among the masterpieces of American eloquence. Unlike most American public men, he was not a politician; he held himself aloof from the petty obli- gations and entanglements of party, and maintained a lofty and unswerving independence. His integrity and purity of purpose were never questioned even by those to whom his politi- cal doctrines were most abhorrent. By his profound intellectual ability, his thorough and elegant scholarship, and above all by his high-mindedness and unimpeachable probity, he com- manded the respect of the whole country. His speeches Avere rather scholarly than statesman- like. Though his mastery of whatever subjects he grappled with was thorough, and his pre- sentation of them vigorous and effective, there is an excess of elaboration, an ultra-classicism in all his writings that never, or very rarely, accompanies the highest spontaneous oratory. As specimens of careful, finished composition, his speeches are hardly surpassed in the annals of American eloquence. THE LAW OF HUMAN PROGRESS, THE way is now prepared to consider the character, conditions, and limitations of this law, the duties it enjoins, and the encouragements it affords. Let me state the law as I understand it. Man as an individual is capable of indefinite improvement. Societies and nations, which are but aggregations of men, and, finally, the Human Family, or collec- tively Humanity, are capable of indefinite improvement. And this is t\\e destiny of man, of societies, of nations, and of the Human Family. Restricting the proposition to the capacity for indefinite improve- ment, I believe I commend it to the candor and intelligence of all who have meditated upon this subject. And this brings me to the remarkable words of Leibnitz. He boldly says, as we have already seen, that man seems able to arrive at perfection. Turgot and Con- SUMNER. 267 dorcet also speak of his " perfectibility," a term adopted by recent French writers. If by this is meant simply that man is capable of indefinite improvement, then it will not be questioned. But what- ever the heights of virtue and intelligence to which he may attain in future ages, who can doubt that to his grander vision new summits will ever present themselves, provoking him to still grander aspira- tions ? God only is perfect. Knowledge and goodness, his attri- butes, are infinite ; nor can man hope, in any lapse of time, to com- prehend this immensity. In the infinitude of the universe, he will seem, like Newton, with all his acquisitions, only to have gathered a few pebbles by the seaside. In a similar strain Leibnitz elsewhere says that the place which God assigns to man in space and time necessarily limits the perfections he is able to acquire. As in Ge- ometry the asymptote constantly approaches its curve, so that the distance between them is constantly diminishing, arid yet, though prolonged indefinitely, they never meet, so, according to him, are infinite souls the asymptotes of God. There are revolutions in history seeming on a superficial view inconsistent with this law. Prom early childhood attention is di- rected to Greece and Rome ; and we are sometimes taught that these two powers reached heights which subsequent nations cannot hope to equal, much less to surpass. I would not disparage the triumphs of the ancient mind. The eloquence, the poetry, the art of Athens still survive, arid bear no mean sway upon earth. Rome, too, yet lives in her jurisprudence, which, next after Christianity, has exerted a para- mount influence over the laws of modern communities. But exalted as these productions may be, it is impossible not to perceive that something of their present importance is derived from the early period when they appeared, something from the unquestion- ing and high-flown admiration of them transmitted through successive generations until it became a habit, and something also from the dis- position, still prevalent, to elevate Antiquity at the expense of subse- quent ages. Without undertaking to decide if the genius of Antiquity, as displayed by individuals, can justly claim supremacy, it would be easy to show that the ancient plane of civilization never reached our common level. The people were ignorant, vicious, and poor, or de- graded to abject slavery, itself the sum of all injustice arid all vice. Even the most illustrious characters, whose names still shine from that distant night, were little more than splendid barbarians. Archi- 268 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. tecture, sculpture, painting, and vases of exquisite perfection attest an appreciation of beauty in form ; but our masters in these things were strangers to the useful arts, as to the comforts and virtues of home. Abounding in what to us are luxuries, they had not what to us are necessaries. Without knowledge there can be no sure Progress. Yice and bar- barism are the inseparable companions of ignorance. Nor is it too much to say, that, except in rare instances, the highest virtue is at- tained only through intelligence. This is natural ; for to do right we must first understand what is right. But the people of Greece and Borne, even in the brilliant days of Pericles and Augustus, could not arrive at this knowledge. The sublime teachings of Plato and Socrates calculated in many respects to promote the best interests of the race were limited in influence to a small company of listeners, or to the few who could obtain a copy of the costly manuscripts in which they were preserved. Thus the knowledge- and virtue acquired by indi- viduals were not diffused in their own age or secured to posterity. Now, at last, through an agency all unknown to Antiquity, knowl- edge of every kind has become general and permanent. It can no longer be confined to a select circle. It cannot be rrushrd by tyranny, or lost by neglect. It is immortal as the soul from which it proceeds. This alone renders all relapse into barbarism impossible, while it affords an unquestionable distinction between ancient and modern times. The Press, watchful with more than the hundred eyes of Argus, strong with moiv than the hundred arms of Briareus, not only guards all the conquests of civilization, but leads the way to future triumphs. Through its untiring energies, the meditation of the closet, or the utterance of the human voice, which else would die away within the precincts of a narrow room, is prolonged to the most dis- tant nations and times, with winged words circling the globe. We admire the genius of Demosthenes, Sophocles, Plato, and Phidias ; but the printing-press is a higher gift to man than the eloquence, the drama, the philosophy, and the art of Greece. THE LOVE OF GLORY. THE Love of Glory is a motive of human conduct. But the same Heavenly Father who endowed us with the love of approbation has placed in us other sentiments of a higher order, more kindred to his SUMNER. 269 own divine nature. These are Justice and Benevolence, Loth of which, however imperfectly developed or ill-directed, are elements of every human soul. The desire of Justice, filling us with the love of Duty, is the sentiment which fits us to receive and comprehend the sublime injunction of doing unto others as we would have them do to us. In the predominance of this sentiment, enlightened by intelligence, injustice becomes impossible. The desire of Benevolence goes farther. It leads all who are under its influence to those acts of kindness, dis- interestedness, humanity, love to neighbor, which constitute the crown of Christian character. Such sentiments are celestial, godlike in their office. In determining proper motives of conduct, it is easy to perceive that the higher are more commendable than the lower, and that even -an act of Justice and Benevolence loses something of its charm when known to be inspired by the selfish desire of human applause. It was the gay poet of antiquity who said that concealed virtue differed little from sepulchered sluggishness : " Paulum sepultse distat inertise Celata virtus." But this is a heathen sentiment,- alien to reason aird to truth. It is hoped that men will be honest, but from a higher motive than because honesty is the best policy. It is hoped that they will be hu- mane, but for a nobler cause than the fame of humanity. The love of approbation may properly animate the young, whose minds have not yet ascended to the appreciation of that virtue which is its own exceeding great reward. It may justly strengthen those of maturer age who are not moved by the simple appeals of duty, unless the smiles of mankind attend them. It were churlish not to offer homage to those acts by which happiness is promoted, even though inspired by a sentiment of personal ambition, or by considerations of policy. But such motives must always detract from the perfect beauty even of good works. The Man of Eoss, who was said to " Do good by stealth, and blush to find it Fame," was a character of real life, and the example of his virtue may still be prized, like the diamond, for its surpassing rarity. It cannot be dis- guised, however, that much is gained where the desire of praise acts in conjunction with the higher sentiments. If ambition be our lure, it will be well for mankind if it unite with Justice and Benevolence. 270 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. It may be demanded if we should be indifferent to the approbation of men. Certainly not. It is a proper source of gratification, and is one of the just rewards on earth. It may be enjoyed when virtuously won, though it were better if not proposed as the object of desire. The great English magistrate, Lord Mansfield, while confessing a wish for popularity, added, in words which cannot be too often quoted, " But it is that popularity which follows, not that which is run after ; it is that popularity which, sooner or later, never fails to do justice to the pursuit of noble ends by noble means." And the historian of the Decline and Pall of the Roman Empire, who was no stranger to the Love of Glory, has given expression to the satisfaction which he derived from the approbation of those whose opinions were valuable. " If I listened to the music of praise," says Gibbon in his Autobiog- raphy, " I was more seriously satisfied with the approbation of my judges. The candor of Dr. Robertson embraced his disciple. A letter from Mr. Hume overpaid the labor of ten years." It would be difficult to declare the self-gratulation of the successful author in lan- guage more sententious or expressive. While recognizing praise as an incidental ivward, though not a commendable motive, we cannot disregard the evil which ensues when the desire for it predominates over the character, and fills the soul, as is too often the case, with a blind emulation chiefly solicitous for personal success. The world, which should be a happy scene of constant exertion and harmonious co-operation, becomes a field of rivalry, competition, and hostile struggle. It is true that God has not given to all the same excellences of mind and heart ; but he naturally requires more of the strong than of the many less blessed. The little we can do will not be cast vainly into his treasury ; nor need the weak and humble be filled with any idle emulation of others. Let each act earnestly, according to the measure of his powers, re- joicing always in the prosperity of his neighbor ; and though we may seem to accomplish little, yet we shall do much, if we be true to the convictions of the soul, and give the example of unselfish devotion to duty. This of itself is success ; and this is within the ambition of all. Life is no Ulyssean bow, to be bent only by a single strong arm. There is none so weak as not to use it. In the growth of the individual the intellect advances before the moral powers ; for it is necessary to know what is right before we can practice it ; and this same order of progress is observed in the SUMNER. 71 Human Family. Moral excellence is the bright, consummate flower of all progress. It is often the peculiar product of age. And it is then, among other triumphs of virtue, that Duty assumes her com- manding place, while personal ambition is abased. Burke, in that marvelous passage of elegiac beauty where he mourns his only son, says, " Indeed, my Lord, I greatly deceive myself, if, in this hard season, I would give a peck of refuse wheat for all that is called Fame and Honor in the world." And Channing, with a sentiment most unlike the ancient Roman orator, declares that he sees " nothing worth living for but the divine virtue which endures and surrenders all things for truth, duty, and mankind." Such an insensibility to worldly objects, and such an elevation of spirit, may not be expected at once from all men, certainly not without something of the trials of Burke or the soul of Channing. But it is within the power of all to strive after that virtue which it may be difficult to reach ; and just in proportion as duty becomes the guide and the aim of life shall we learn to close the soul against the allurements of praise and the as- perities of censure, while we find satisfactions and compensations such as man cannot give or take away. The world, with ignorant or intolerant judgment, may condemn ; the countenance of companion may be averted ; the heart of friend may grow cold ; but the con- sciousness of duty done will be sweeter than the applause of the world, than the countenance of companion, or the heart of friend. THE age of chivalry has gone. An age of humanity has come. The horse, whose importance, more than human, gave the name to that early period of gallantry and war, now yields his foremost place to man. In serving him, in promoting his elevation, in contributing to his welfare, in doing him good, there are fields of bloodless tri- umph, nobler far than any in which the bravest knights ever con- quered. Here are spaces of labor wide as the world, lofty as heaven. Let me say, then, in the language once bestowed upon the youthful knights, scholars, jurists, artists, philanthropists, heroes of a Christian age, companions of a celestial knighthood, " Go forth. Be brave, loyal, and successful ! " And may it be our office to light a fresh beacon- fire sacred to truth ! Let the flame spread from hill to hill, from isl- and to island, from continent to continent, till the long lineage of fires shall illumine all the nations of the earth, animating them to the holy contests of knowledge, justice, beauty, love. 272 CATIICART'S LITERARY READER. DICKENS. l8l2-l870. CHARLES DICKENS, the most popular novelist of his time, was born at Portsmouth, England, in 1812, and died June 9, 1870. His childhood was spent in poverty and menial toil, and how, amid such unfavorable surroundings, he acquired an education sufficient for his work in life will always remain a subject of wonder. His father was at one time a reporter of Parliamentary debates, and Charles adopted the same calling. He became attached to the Morning Chronicle, and in its columns first appeared Sketches by Boz, afterwards published in book form, 1836-37. These Sketches had a very cordial reception, and their success induced a publisher to engage Dickens and Seymour the artist to prepare an illustrated narrative of the adventures of a party of Qockney sportsmen. The result of this contract was The Pickwick Papers, which at once be- came the most popular book of the; day, and still ranks among the first favorites of all classes of readers. It was followed at short intervals by Nicholas Nickleby, Olircr Tin at, The Old dtriority Shop, and Barnaby Rujye. In 1842 Dickens visited America, where he had a very cordial recep- tion. With ingratitude for which he has never been fully forgiven, he repaid the sincere kind- ness ot his American entertainers by writing a record of his tour, called Am.-ncan Nufca, in which he ridiculed the people and institutions of the United States with unsparing hand. In Martin Chuzzlewit, published in 1814, lie returned to the attack with great keenness and vigor of satire. In 1845 he established the Daily News in London, but conducted it only for a short time, return- ing tc the more conjrenial work of novel-writing. In 1853 he began to give public readings from his own books, and was no less successful as a reader than he had been as a writer. In 18G8 he visited America for the second time, and gave readings in the principal cities to immense and delighted audiences. The profits of his tour arc said to have been over 8200,000. During the last year of his life he was engaged on a novel, The Mystery of Edwin Drood, which he left unfin- ished. His death was very sudden, and the announcement of it caused universal grief throughout the English-speaking world. His hooks are too familiar to the reading public to demand enumer- ation here. Of them all, The Pickwick Papers, Nicholas Nickleby, and Darid ('opperfield are gen- erally esteemed the best ; the latter is specially interesting as being largely autobiographical. His later novels, Great Expectations and Our Mutual lYien /, were less popular than their predecessors. Among English novelists Dickens stands alone ; he occupies a field that none other has cultivated, and may justly be esteemed the creator of a new school of fiction. He was a man of strong sym- pathies, quick to feel and plead for the poor and oppressed, and in his books he has done yeoman service in the work of social and legal reform. His most conspicuous characteristic is humor, natural, rich, and seemingly inexhaustible, and in this quality lies the chief charm of his writ- ings. Yet many pages in Domhi'i/ ati / Son exhibit a not less thorough mastery of pathos. The secret of his success seems to have consisted .in his intuit jye apprehension of the popular needs and tastes; no other novelist has ever lived who was so thoroughly en rapport with the heart of the people : he wrote for them and to them, and they acknowledged his efforts with un- bounded good-will and admiration. Brilliant, genial, and uniformly entertaining though they are, Dickens's books have little moral depth or weight . they please, warm, soften, but they are, in effect, material. The extracts, each of which represents fairly his humor, pathos, and descrip- tive power, are from The Pickicick Papers, Dombey and Son, and American Notes. MR. PICKWICK'S EXTRAORDINARY DILEMMA. MR. PICKWICK'S apartments in Goswell Street, although on a limited scale, were not only of a very neat and comfortable descrip- tion, but peculiarly adapted for the residence of a man of his genius and observation. DICKENS. 27-3 His landlady, Mrs^Bardell the relict and sole executrix of a deceased custom-house officer was a comely woman of bustling- manners and agreeable appearance, with a natural genius for cooking, improved by study and long practice into an exquisite talent. There were no children, no servants, no fowls. The only other inmates of the house were a large man and a small boy ; the first a lodger, the second a production of Mrs. Bardell's. The large man was always home precisely at ten o'clock at .night, at which hour he regularly condensed himself into the limits of a dwarfish French bedstead in the back parlor ; and the infantine sports and gymnastic exercises of Mas- ter Bardell were exclusively confined to the neighboring pavements and gutters. Cleanliness and quiet reigned throughout the house; and in it Mr. Pickwick's will was law. To any one acquainted with these points of the domestic economy of the establishment, and conversant with the admirable regulation of Mr. Pickwick's mind, his appearance and behavior, on the morning previous to that which had been fixed upon for the journey to Eatans- will, would have been most mysterious and unaccountable. He paced the room to and fro with hurried steps, popped his head out of the window at intervals of about three minutes each, constantly referred to his watch, and exhibited many other manifestations of impatience, very unusual with him. It was evident that something of great im- portance was in contemplation; but what that something was, not even Mrs. Bardell herself had been enabled to discover. " Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that amiable female approached the termination of a prolonged dusting of the apart- ment. " Sir," said Mrs. Bardell. " Your little boy is a very long time gone." "TVhy, it's a good long way to the Borough, sir," remonstrated Mrs. Bardell: " Ah," said Mr. Pickwick, " very true ; so it is." Mr. Pickwick relapsed into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting. " Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few minutes. "Sir," said Mrs. Bardell again. "Do you think it's a much greater expense to keep two people than to keep one ? " 12* R 274 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. " La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, gploring up to the very border of her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimo- nial twinkle in the eyes of her lodger, " la, Mr. Pickwick, what a question ! " " Well, but do you? " inquired Mr. Pickwick. " That depends," said Mrs. Bardell, approaching the duster very near to Mr. Pickwick's elbow, which was planted on the table, " that depends a good deal upon the person, you know, Mr. Pick- wick ; and whether it 's a saving and careful person, sir." " That 's very true," said Mr. Pickwick ; " but the person I have in my eye " (here he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell) " I think pos- sesses these qualities ; and has, moreover, a considerable knowledge of the world, and a great deal of sharpness, Mrs. Bardell ; which may be of material use to me." " La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell ; the crimson rising to her cap-border again. " I do," said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his wont in speaking of a subject which interested him, "I do, indeed ; and, to tell you the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I have made up my mind." " Dear me, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell. " You '11 think it not very strange now," said the amiable Mr. Pickwick, with a good-humored glance at his companion, " that I never consulted you about this matter, and never mentioned it, till I sent your little boy out this morning, eh?" Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long worshiped Mr. Pickwick at a distance, but lu re she was, all at once, raised to a pinnacle to which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had never dared to aspire. Mr. Pickwick was going to propose, a deliberate plan, too, sent her little boy to the Borough to get him out of the way, how thoughtful, how considerate ! "Well," said Mr. Pickwick, "what do you think?" " O Mr. Pickwick ! " said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agitation, "you 're very kind, sir." " It will save you a great deal of trouble, won't it ? " said Mr. Pickwick. " O, I never thought anything of the trouble, sir," replied Mrs. Bardell; "and of course, I should take more trouble to please you then than ever ; but it is so kind of you, Mr. Pickwick, to have so much consideration for my loneliness." DICKENS. 275 " All, to be sure," said Mr. Pickwick; "I never thought of that. When I am in town, you '11 always have somebody to sit with you. To be sure, so you will." " I 'in sure I ought to be a very happy woman," said Mrs. Bar- dell. " And your little boy " said Mr. Pickwick. "Bless his heart," interposed Mrs. Bardell, with a maternal sob. " He, too, will have a companion," resumed Mr. Pickwick, "a lively one, who Ml teach him, I '11 be bound, more tricks in a week than he would ever learn in a year." And Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly. " you dear " said Mrs. Bardell. Mr. Pickwick started. " you kind, good, playful dear," said Mrs. Bardell ; and without more ado she rose from her chair, and flung her arms round Mr. Pickwick's neck, with a cataract of tears, and a chorus of sobs. " Bless my soul ! " cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick ; " Mrs. Bardell, my good woman, dear me, what a situation, pray con- sider. Mrs. Bardell, don't, if anybody should come " O, let them come," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, frantically. " I '11 never leave you, dear, kind, good soul"; and, with these words, Mrs. Bardell clung ths tighter. " Mercy upon me," said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently. " I hear somebody coining up the stairs. Don't, don't, there 's a good creature, don't." But entreaty and remonstrance were alike unavail- ing, for Mrs. Bardell had fainted in Mr. Pickwick's arms ; and before he could gain time to deposit her on a chair, Master Bardell entered the room, ushering in Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snod- grass. Mr. Pickwick was struck motionless and speechless. He stood with his lovely burden in his arms, gazing vacantly on the counte- nances of his friends, without the slightest attempt at recognition or explanation. They, in their tuiM, stared at him ; and Master Bardell, in his turn, stared at everybody. The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, and the perplexity of Mr. Pickwick was so extreme, that they might have re- in air, el in exactly the same relative situations until the suspended animation of the lady was restored, had it not been for a most beautiful and touching expression of filial affection on the part of her youthful 276 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. son. Clad in a tight suit of corduroy, spangled with brass buttons of a very considerable size, he at first stood at the door astounded and un- certain ; but by degrees, the impression that his mother must have suffered some personal damage pervaded his partially developed mind, and, considering Mr. Pickwick the aggressor, he set up an ap- palling and semi-earthly kind of howling, and, butting forward with his head, commenced assailing that immortal gentleman about the back and legs with such blows and pinches as the strength of his arm and the violence of his excitement allowed. " Take this little villain away," said the agonized Mr. Pickwick, "he 's mad/' " What is the matter ? " said the three tongue-tied Pickwickians. "I don't know," replied Mr. Pickwick, pettishly. "Take away the boy " (here Mr. Winkle earned the interesting boy, screaming and struggling, to the farther end of the apartment). " Now help me to lead this woman down stairs." " O, I 'in better now," said Mrs. Bardell, faintly. " Let me lead you down stairs/' said the ever-gallant Mr. Tup- man. "Thank you, sir, thank you," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, hysteri- cally. And down stairs she was led accordingly, accompanied by her affectionate son. "I cannot conceive," snid Mr. Pickwick, when his friend returned, " I cannot conceive what has been the matter with that woman. I had merely announced to her my intention of keeping a man-servant, when she fell into the extraordinary paroxysm in which you found her. Very extraordinary thing ! " " Very," said his three friends. " Placed me in such an extremely awkward situation," continued Mr. Pickwick. "Very," was the reply of his followers, as they coughed slightly, and looked dubiously at each other. This behavior was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He remarked their incredulity. They evidently suspected him. "There is a man in the passage now," said Mr. Tupman. " It 's the man that I spoke to you about," said Mr. Pickwick. '"I sent for him to the Borough this morning. Have the goodness to call him up, Snodgrass." DICKENS. 277 THE LAST HOURS OF LITTLE PAUL DOMBEY, PAUL had never risen from his little bed. He lay there, listening to the noises in the street, quite tranquilly ; not caring much how the time went, but watching everything about him with observing eyes. When the sunbeams struck into his room through the rustling blinds, and quivered on the opposite wall like golden water, he knew that evening was coming on, and that the sky was red and beautiful. As the reflection died away, and the gloom went creeping up the wall, he watched it deepen, deepen, deepen into night. Then he thought how the long streets were dotted with lamps, and how the peaceful stars were shining overhead. His fancy had a strange tendency to wander to the river, which he knew was flowing through the great city ; and now he thought how black it was, and how deep it would look, reflecting the hosts of stars, and more than all, how steadily it rolled away to meet the sea. As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the street became so rare that he could hear them coining, count them as they passed, and lose them in the hollow distance, he would lie and w r atch the many- colored ring about the candle, and wait patiently for day. His only trouble was, the swift and rapid river. He felt forced, sometimes, to try to stop it, to stem it with his childish hands, or choke its way with sand, and when he saw it coming on, resistless, he cried out ! But a word from Florence, who was always at his side, restored him to himself; and leaning his poor head upon her breast, he told Floy of his dream, and smiled. When day began to dawn again, he watched for the sun ; and when its cheerful light began to sparkle in the room, he pictured to himself pictured! he saw the high church-towers rising up into the morn- ing sky, the town reviving, waking, starting into life once more, the river glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever), and the country bright with dew. Familiar sounds and cries came by degrees into the street below ; the servants in the house were roused and busy ; faces looked in at the door, and voices asked his attendants softly how he was. Paul always answered for himself, " I am better. I am a great deal better, thank you ! Tell papa so ! " By little and little he got tired of the bustle of the day, the noise of carriages and carts, people passing and repassing ; and would fall asleep, or be troubled with a restless and uneasy sense again the 278 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. child could hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping or his waiting moments of that rushing- river. " Why, will it never stop, Floy? " lie would sometimes ask her. " It is bearing me away, I think ! " But Floy could always soothe and reassure him ; and it was his daily delight to make her lay her Head down on his pillow, and take some rest. " You are always watching me, Floy. Let me watch you, now ! " They would prop him up with cushions in a corner of his bed, and there he would recline the while she lay beside him ; bending forward oftentimes to kiss her, and whispering to those who were near that she was tired, and how she had sat up so many nights beside him. Thus, the flush of the day, in its heat and light, would gradually decline ; and again the golden water would be dancing on the wall. He was visited by as many as three grave doctors, they used to assemble down stairs, and come up together, and the room was so quiet, and Paul was so observant of them (though he never asked of anybody what they said), that he" even knew the difference in the sound of their watches. But his interest centered in Sir Parker Peps, who always took his seat on the side of the bed. For Paul had heard them say long ago, that that gentleman had been with his mamma when she clasped Florence in her arms and died. And he could not forget it now. He liked him for it. He was not afraid Paul closed his eyes with those words, and fell asleep. When he awoke, the sun was high, and the broad day was* clear and warm. He lay a little, looking at the windows, which were open, and the curtains rustling in the air, and waving to and fro : then he said, " Floy, is it to-morrow ? Is she come ? " Some one seemed to go in quest of her. Perhaps it was Susan. Paul thought he heard her telling him, when he had closed his eyes again, that she would soon be back ; but he did not open them to see. She kept her word perhaps she had never been away but the next thing that happened was a noise of footsteps on the stairs, and then Paul woke woke mind and body and sat upright in his bed. He saw them now about him. There was no gray mist before them, as there had been sometimes in the night. He knew them every one, and called them by their names. " And who is this ? Is this my old nurse ? " said the child, re- garding, with a radiant smile, a figure coining in. Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears at the DICKENS. 79 sight of him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blighted child. No other woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken up his wasted hand, and put it to her lips and breast, as one who had some right to fondle it. No other woman would have so forgotten everybody there but him and Ploy, and been so full of tenderness and pity. " Floy ! this is a kind good face ! " said Paul. " I am glad to see it again. Don't go away, old nurse ! Stay here ! " His senses were all quickened, and he heard a name he knew. " Who was that ? who said Walter ? " he asked, looking round. " Some one said Walter. Is he here ? I should like to see him very much." Nobody replied directly, but his father soon said to Susan, " Call him back, then : let him come up ! " After a short pause of expecta- tion, during which he looked with smiling interest and wonder on his nurse, and saw that she had not forgotten Floy, Walter was brought into the room. His open face and manner, and his cheerful eyes, had always made him a favorite with Paul ; and when Paul saw him, he stretched out his hand, and said, " Good by ! " " Good by, my child ! " cried Mrs. Pipchin, hurrying to his bed's head. " Not good by ? " For an instant, Paul looked at her with the wistful face with which he had so often gazed upon her in his corner by the fire. "Ah, yes," he said, placidly, "good by ! Walter dear, good by ! " turning his he id to where he stood, and putting out his hand again. "Where is papa ? " He felt his father's breath upon his cheek, before the words had parted from his lips. " Remember Walter, dear papa," he whispered, looking in his face, " remember Walter. I was fond of Walter ! " The feeble hand waved in the air, as if it cried " good by ! " to Walter once again. " Now lay me down again," he said ; " and, Floy, come close to me, and let me see you ! " Sister and brother wound their crms around each other, and the golden light came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked together. " How fast the river runs between its green banks and the rushes, Floy ! But it 's very near the sea. I hear the waves. They always said so ! " Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling him to rest. How green the banks were now, how bright 280 CATHCARr's LITERARY READER. the flowers growing on them, and how tall the rushes ! Now the boat was out at sea, but gliding smoothly on. And now there was a shore before him. Who stood on the bank ! He put his hands together, as he had been used to do at his prayers. He did not remove his arms to do it, but they saw him fold them so behind her neck. "Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face! But tell them that the print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The light about the head is shining on me as I go ! " - ( The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that came in with our first garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old fashion Death ! ] O, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of immor- tality ! And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards not quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean ! A HEAD-WIND IN THE ATLANTIC. IT is the third morning. I am awakened out of my sleep by a dismal shriek from my wife, who demands to know whether there 's any danger. I rouse myself and look out of bed. The water-jug is plunging and leaping like a lively dolphin ; all the smaller articles are afloat, except my shoes, which are stranded on a carpet-bag, high and dry, like a couple of coal-barges. Suddenly I see them spring into the air, and behold the looking-glass, which is nailed to the wall, sticking fast upon the ceiling. At the same time the door entirely disappears, and a new one is opened in the floor. Then I begin to comprehend that -the state-room is standing on its head. Before it is possible to make any arrangement at all compatible with this novel state of things, the ship rights. Before one can say, " Thank Heaven ! " she wrongs again. Before one can cry she is wrong, she seems to have started forward, and to be a creature active- ly running of its own accord, with broken knees and failing legs, through every variety of hole and pitfall, and stumbling constantly. Before one can so much as wonder, she takes a high leap into the air. Before she has well done that, she takes a deep dive into the water. DICKENS. 281 Before she has gained the surface, she throws a somerset. The in- .stant she is on her legs, she rushes backward. And so she goes on staggering, heaving, wrestling, leaping, diving, jumping, pitching, throbbing, rolling, and rocking ; and going through all these move- ments, sometimes by turns, and sometimes all together; until one feels disposed to roar for mercy. A steward passes. " Steward ! " " Sir ? " " What is the matter ? what do you call this? " " Bather a heavy sea on, sir, and a head- wind." A head-wind ! Imagine a human face upon the vessel's prow, with fifteen thousand Samsons in one, bent upon driving her back, and hitting her exactly between the eyes whenever she attempts to advance an inch. Imagine the ship herself, with every pulse and artery of her huge body swollen and bursting under this maltreatment, sworn to go on or die. Imagine the wind howling, the sea roaring, the rain beat- ing ; all in furious array against her. Picture the sky both dark and wild, and the clouds, in fearful sympathy with the waves, making an- other ocean in the air. Add to all this, the clattering on deck and down ' o below ; the tread of hurried feet ; the loud hoarse shouts of seamen ; the gurgling in and out of water through the scuppers ; with, every now and then, the striking of a heavy sea upon the planks above, with the deep, dead, heavy sound of thunder heard within a vault; and there is the head-wind of that January morning. I say nothing of what may be called the domestic noises of the ship : such as the breaking of glass and crockery, the tumbling down of stewards, the gambols, overhead, of loose casks and truant dozens of bottled porter, and the very remarkable and far from exhilarating sounds raised in their various state-rooms by the seventy passengers who were too ill to get up to breakfast. I say nothing of them ; for, although I lay listening to this concert for three or four days, [ don't tli ink I heard it for more than a quarter of a minute, at the expiration of which term I lay down again, excessively sea-sick. The laboring of the ship in the troubled sea on this night I shall never forget. "Will it ever be worse than this?" was a question I had often heard asked, when everything was sliding and bumping about, and when it certainly did seem difficult to comprehend the pos- sibility of anything afloat being more disturbed, without toppling over and going down. But what the agitation of a steam-vessel is, on a b.id winter's night in the wild Atlantic, it is impossible for the most 282 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. vivid imagination to conceive. To say that she is flung down on her side in the waves, with her masts dipping into them, and that, spring- ing up again, she rolls over on the other side, until a heavy sea strikes her with the noise of a hundred great guns, and hurls her back, that she stops, and staggers, and shivers, as though stunned, and then, with a violent throbbing at her heart, darts onward like a monster goaded into madness, to be beaten down, and battered, and crushed, and leaped on by the angry sea, that thunder, lightning, hail, and rain, and wind are all in tierce contention for the mastery, that every plank has its groan, every nail its shriek, and every drop of water in the great ocean its howling voice, is nothing. To say that all is grand, and all appalling and horrible in the last degree, is noth- ing. Words cannot express it. Thoughts cannot convey it. Only a dream can call it up again, in all its fury, rage, and passion. And yet, in the very midst of these terrors, I was placed in a situa- tion so exquisitely ridiculous that even then I had as strong a sense of its absurdity as I have now : and could no more help laughing than I can at any other comical incident, happening under circumstances the most favorable to its enjoyment. About midnight we shipped a sea, which forced its way through the skylights, burst open the doors above, and came raging. and roaring down into the ladies' cabin, to the unspeakable consternation of my wife and a little Scotch lady, who, by the way, had previously sent a message to the captain by the stew- ardess, requesting him, with her compliments, to have a steel conduc- tor immediately attached to the top of every mast, and to the chimney, in order that the ship might not be struck by lightning. They, and the handmaid before mentioned, being in such ecstasies of fear that I scarce- ly knew what to do with them, I naturally bethought myself of some restorative or comforting cordial ; and nothing better occurring to me, at the moment, than hot brandy and water, I procured a tumbler- ful without delay. It being impossible t* sit *r stand without hold- ing on, they were all heaped together in one corner of a long sofa, a fixture extending entirely across the cabin, where they clung to each other in momentary expectation of being drowned. When I ap- proached this place with my specific, and was about to administer it, with many consolatory expressions, to the nearest sufferer, what was my dismay to see them all roll slowly down to the other end ! And when I staggered to that end, and held out the glass once more, how immensely baffled were my good intentions by the ship giving another DICKENS. 283 lurch, and their all rolling back again ! I suppose I dodged them up and down this sofa for at least a quarter of an hour, without reaching them once ; and by the time I did catch them, the brandy and water was diminished, by constant spilling, to a teaspoonful. To complete the group, it is necessary to recognize, in this disconcerted dodger, an individual very pale from sea-sickness ; who had shaved his beard and brushed his hair last at Liverpool ; and whose only articles of dress (linen not included) were a pair of dreadnought trousers, a blue jacket, formerly admired upon the Thames at Richmond} no stockings, and one slipper. THE NOBLE SAVAGE. To come to the point at once, I beg to say that I have not the least belief in the Noble Savage. I consider him a prodigious nuisance, ^ and an enormous superstition. His calling rum fire-water, and me a pale-face, wholly fail to reconcile me to him. I don't care what he calls me. I call him a savage, and I call a savage a something highly desirable to be civilized off the face of the earth. I think a mere gent (which I take to be the lowest form of civilization) better than a howl- ing, whistling, clucking, stamping, jumping, tearing savage. It is all one to me whether he sticks a fish-bone through his visage, or bits of trees through the lobes of his ears, or birds' feathers in his head ; whether he flattens his hair between two boards, or spreads his nose over the breadth of his face, or drags his lower lip down by great weights, or blackens his teeth, or knocks them out, or paints one cheek red and the other blue, or tattooes himself, or oils himself, or rubs his body with fat, or crimps it with knives. Yielding to which- soever of these agreeable eccentricities, he is a savage, cruel, false, thievish, murderous ; addicted more or less to grease, entrails, and beastly customs ; a wild animal with the questionable gift of boast- ing ; a conceited, tiresome, bloodthirsty, monotonous humbug. Yet it is extraordinary to observe how some people wall talk about him, as they talk about the good old times ; how they will regret his disappearance, in the course of this world's development, from such and such Lmds, where his absence is a blessed relief and an indis- pensable preparation for the sowing of the very first seeds of an influ- ence that can exalt humanity, how, even with the evidence of him- self before them, they will either be determined to believe, or will suffer themselves to be persuaded into believing, that he is something which their five senses tell them he is not. 284 CATHCAirr's LITERARY HEADER. MBS; STOWE. 1812- HARRIET BEECHER STOWE, born in Litchfield, Connecticut, June 14, 1812, has a world-wide fame as the author of Uncle Tom's Cabin. Slu is the daughter of llev. Dr. Lyman Beecher, an eminent clergyman, and the sister of Rev. Henry Ward Beecher. In 1833 she became the wife of Professor Calvin E. Stowe, a distinguished Hebrew scholar and theologian. Her first book, Mayflower ; or, Sketches of the Descendants of the Pilgrims, was published in 1819, and was favorably noticed at home and abroad. Three years later she gave to the world what must be regarded as the most remarkable book of the century, its subject and its popularity being considered, Uncle Tom's Cabin. This story was lirst published as a serial in the National Era, iif 1851 - 52, and appeared in book form in 1852. Its sales must be reckoned by millions, and through translations and dramatizations^ it lias reached every civilized nation under the sun. This extraordinary popularity was due not so much to the author's genius as to the novelty and intrinsic interest of her subject and the excited state of public sentiment with reference to it. Read to-day, removed from the heat of a great conflict of opinions, the book discloses many and grave faults, errors of fact and literary infelicities. It is a significant and gratifying fact that the author is now a resident of the South, whose enemy she has been accounted ; and in her recent book, Palmetto Leaves, she exhibits a more accurate knowledge of that section, and a sincere interest in its welfare. Mrs. Stowe has written many other books; "but none of them have added to the fame which she derived from Uncle Tom's Cabin. Perhaps 01 d town Folks may be ranked next to this in real ability. The Tmr Story of Lntiy Byron's Life, in which Mrs. Stowe defamed the memory of Lord Byron, drew upon her a torrent of indignation such as few authors have ever endured. Her recent novels, Pint- and U'ltite Tyranny and My Wife and I, deal with social subjects in vigorous, style ; but, like all her compositions, they are disfigured by many literary blemishes. She is a very industrious writer, Contributing to the periodical press papers on religious and social topics, and manifests a hearty interest in the improvement of society through its moral elevation. The extract is from Oldtunu Folks, TYRANNY OF MISS ASPHYXIA. MATTERS between Miss Asphyxia and her little subject began to show evident signs of approaching some crisis, for which that valiant virgin was preparing herself with mind resolved. It was one of her educational tactics that children, at greater or less intervals, would require what she was wont to speak of as good whippings, as a sort of constitutional stimulus to start them in the ways of well-doing. As a school-teacher, she was often fond of rehearsing her experiences, how she had her eye on Jim or Bob through weeks of growing carelessness or obstinacy or rebellion, suffering the measure of in- iquity gradually -to become full, until, in an awful hour, she pounced down on the culprit in the very blossom of his sin, and gave him such a lesson as he would remember, as she would assure him, the longest day he had to live. The burning of rebellious thoughts in the little breast, of internal hatred and opposition, could not long go on without slight whiffs of MRS. STOWE. 285 (Mty external- smoke, such as mark the course of subterranean fire. As the child grew more accustomed to Miss Asphyxia, while her hatred of her increased, somewhat of that native hardihood which had charac- terized her happier days returned ; and she began to use all the subtlety and secretiveness which belonged to her feminine nature in contriving how not to do the will of her tyrant, and yet not to seem designedly to opposs. It really gave the child a new impulse in living to devise little plans for annoying Miss Asphyxia without being herself detected. In all her daily toils she made nice calcu- lations how slow she could possibly be, how blundering and awkward, without really bringing on herself a punishment ; and when an acute and capable child turns all its faculties in such a direction, the results may be very considerable. Miss Asphyxia found many things going wrong in her establish- ment in most unaccountable ways. One morning her sensibilities were almost paralyzed, on opening her milk-room door, to find there, with creamy whiskers, the venerable Tom, her own model cat, a beast who had grown up in the very sanctities of household decorum, and whom she was sure she had herself shut out of the house, with her usual punctuality, at nine o'clock the evening before. She could not dream that he had been enticed through Tina's window, caressed on her bed, and finally sped stealthily on his mission of revenge, while the child returned to her pillow to gloat over her success. Miss Asphyxia also, in more than one instance, in her rapid gyra- tions, knocked down and destroyed a valuable bit of pottery or earth- enware, that somehow had contrived to be stationed exactly in the wind of her elbow or her hand. It was the more vexatious because she broke them herself. And the child assumed stupid innocence : " How could she know Miss Sphyxy was coming that way ? " or, "She didn't see her." True, she caught many a hasty cuff and sharp rebuke; but, with true Indian spirit, she did not mind singeing her own fingers if she only tortured her enemy. It would be an endless task to describe the many vexations that can be made to arise in the course of household experience when there is a shrewd little elf watching with sharpened faculties for every opportunity to inflict an annoyance or do a mischief. In childhood the passions move with a simplicity of action unknown to any other period of life, and a child's hatred and a child's revenge have an intensity of bitterness entirely unalloyed by moral considerations; 286 CATHCAll'f's LITERARY READER. and when a child is without an object of affection, and feels itself unloved, its whole vigor of being goes into the channels of hate. Religious instruction, as imparted by Miss Asphyxia, had small influence in restraining the immediate force of passion. That " the law worketh wrath " is a maxim as old as the times of the Apostles. The image of a dreadful Judge a great God, with ever- watchful eyes, that Miss Asphyxia told her about roused that combative element in the child's heart which says in the heart of the fool, " There is no God." "After all," thought the little skeptic, "how does she know? She never saw him." Perhaps, after all, then, it might be only a fabrication of her tyrant to frighten her into submis- sion. There was a dear Father that mamma used to tell her about ; and perhaps he was the one, after all. As for the bear story, she had a private conversation with Sol, and was relieved by his confident assurance that there " had n't been no bears seen round in them parts these ten year " ; so that she was' safe in that regard, even if she should call Miss Asphyxia a bald-head, which she perfectly longed to do, just to see what would come of it. In like manner, though the story of Ananias and Sapphira, struck down dead for lying, had been told her in forcible and threatening tones, yet still the little sinner thought within herself that such things must have ceased in our times, as she had told more than one clever lie which neither Miss Asphyxia nor any one else had found out. In fact, the child considered herself and Miss Asphyxia as in a state of warfare which suspends all moral rules. In the stories of little girls who were taken captives by goblins or giants or witches, she remembered many accounts of sagacious deceptions which they had practised on their captors. Her very blood tingled when she thought of the success of some of them, how Hensel and Grettel had heated an oven red-hot, and persuaded the old witch to get into it by some cock-and-bull story of what she would find there ; and how, the minute she got in, they shut up the oven door and burnt her all up ! Miss Asphyxia thought the child a vexations, careless, troublesome little baggage, it is true ; but if she could have looked into her heart and seen her imaginings, she would probably have thought her a little fiend. At last, one day, the smothered fire broke out. The child had had a half-hour of holiday, and had made herself happy in it by furbishing up her little bedroom. She had picked a peony, a yellow lily, and (XX _MJts&*0(Sj t*c4ls& MRS. STOWE. 287 one or two blue irises, from the spot of flowers in the garden, and put them in a tin dipper on the table in her room, and ranged around them her broken bits of china, her red berries and fragments of glass, in various zigzags. The spirit of adornment thus roused within her, she remembered having seen her brother make pretty garlands of oak- leaves ; and, running out to an oak hard by, she stripped off an apronful of the leaves, and, sitting down in the kitchen door, began her attempts to plait them into garlands. She grew good-natured and happy*as she wrought, and was beginning to find herself in charity even with Miss Asphyxia, when down came that individual, broom in hand, looking vengeful as those old Greek Furies who used to haunt houses, testifying their wrath by violent sweeping. " What under the canopy you up to now, making such a litter on my kitchen floor?" she said. "Can't I leave you a minute 'thout your gettin' into some mischief, I want to know ? Pick 'em up, every leaf of 'em, and carry 'em and throw 'em over the fence ; and don't you never let me find you bringing no such rubbish into my kitchen agin ! " In this unlucky moment she turned, and, looking into the little bedroom, whose door stood open, saw the arrangements there. "What!" she said; "you been getting down the tin cup to put your messes into ? Take 'em all out ! " she said, seizing the flowers with a grasp that crumpled them, and throwing them into the child's apron. " Take 'em away, every one of 'em ! You 'd get everything out of place, from one end of the house to the other, if I did n't watch you ! " And forthwith she swept off the child's treasures into her dust-pan. In a moment all the smothered wrath of weeks blazed up in the little soul. She looked as if a fire had been kindled in her which reddened her cheeks and burned in her eyes ; and, rushing blindly at Miss Asphyxia, she cried, " You are a wicked woman, a hateful old witch, and I hate you ! " " Hity-tity ! I thought I should have to give you a lesson before long, and so I shall," said Miss Asphyxia, seizing her with stern determination. " You 've needed a good sound whipping for a long time, miss, and you are going to get it now. I '11 whip you so that you '11 remember it, I '11 promise you." And Miss Asphyxia kept her word, though the child, in the fury of despair, fought her with tooth and nail, and proved herself quite a 288 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. dangerous little animal ; but at length strength got the better in. the fray, and, sobbing, though unsubdued, the little culprit was put to bed without her supper. In those days the literal use of the rod* in the education of children was considered as a direct Bible teaching. The wisest, the most loving parent felt bound to it in many cases, even though every stroke cut into his own heart. The laws of New England allowed masters to correct their apprentices, and teachers their pupils, and even the public whipping-post was an institution of New England towns. Jt is not to be supposed, therefore, that Miss Asphyxia regarded herself otherwise than as thoroughly performing a most necessary duty. She was as ignorant of the blind agony of mingled shame, wrath, sense of degradation, and burning for revenge, which had been excited by her measures, as the icy east-wind of Boston flats is of the stinging and shivering it causes in its course. There is a class of coldly-conscien- tious, severe persons, who still, as a matter of duty and conscience, justify measures like these in education. Such persons arc commonly both obtuse in sensibility and unimaginative in temperament; but if their imaginations could once be thoroughly enlightened to see the fiend -like passions, the terrific convulsions, which are roused in a child's soul by the irritation and degradation of such correction, they would shrink back appalled. With sensitive children left in the hands of stolid and unsympathizing force, such convulsions and men- tal agonies often arc the beginning of a sort of slow moral insanity which gradually destroys all that is. good in the soul. As the child lay sobbing in a little convulsed heap in her bed, a hard, horny hand put back the curtain of the window, and the child felt something thrown on the bed. It was Sol, who, on coming in to his supper, had heard from Miss Asphyxia the whole story, and who, as a matter of course, sympathized entirely with the child. He had contrived to slip a doughnut into his pocket, when his hostess was looking the other way. When the child rose up in the bed and showed her swelled and tear-stained face, Sol whispered : " There 's a doughnut I saved for ye. Don't dare say a word, ye know. She '11 hear me." The child was comforted, and actually went to sleep hugging the doughnut. She felt as if she loved Sol, and said so to the doughnut many times, although he had great horny fists, and eyes like oxen. With these he had a heart in his bosom, and, the child loved him. STEPHENS. 289 STEPHENS. 1812- gress, when he declined a re-election. A zealous Whig, so long as that party existed, on its dis- solution he acted with ths Democrats, and supported the measures of the Buchanan adminis- . to Congress as a epresenave o eorgia. His writings have been almost exclusively on political subjects, and the chief of them are : A Constitutional View of the Wnr between the States, and The Reviewers , sophical value. His utterances have always commanded the respectful attention of his political antagonists, and his long and brilliant public career has, by universal consent, given him a title to rank among the foremost of American statesmen. DECISION AND ENERGY. Foil success in life, it is essential that there should be a fixedness of purpose as to the object and designs to be attained. There should be a clear conception of the outlines of that character which is to be established. The business of life, in whatever pursuit it may be di- rected, is a great work. And in this, as in all other undertakings, it is important in the outset to have a clear conception of what is to be done. This is the first thing to be settled. What profession, what vocation, is to be followed? The only rule for determining this is natural ability and natuml aptitude, or suitableness for the particular business selected. The decision in such case should always be gov- erned by that ideal of character which a man, with high aspirations, should always form for himself. The artist who has laid before him the huge misshapen block of marble, from which the almost living and breathing statue is to spring, under the operation of his chisel, first has the ideal in his mind. The magnificent Temple at Jerusalem, with all its halls and porticos, en- trances, stairways, and arches, was designed by Solomon, in all its 13 90 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. grand proportions and arrangements, before the foundation-stone was laid. The first thing with the sculptor, the architect, or the painter is the grand design. This being fixed, everything afterward is di- rected toward its perfect consummation. So it should be with the great work of life. When the course is determined upon, to secure the object in view it should be steadily pursued. You will pardon an illustration of the importance of this consideration by a reference to an incident in the life of one of the most distinguished men of our own country. I allude to Mr. Webster. He, it may be known to you, Avas the son of a New Hampshire farmer of very limited means. All the hopes of the father were cen- ter^ in his son. To put him through college was an object of great desire to him. This he succeeded in doing, but not without some pecuniary embarrassment, as may be the case with some of those fathers whom I now address, in their efforts to give an education to some of these young gentlemen now about to leave this seat of learn- ing.* Before young Daniel had left the walls of his Alma Mater he had made up his mind to devote himself to the law. For the first year after his graduation he taught school for the stipulated salary of three hundred and fifty dollars. At the expiration of that time, with this small capital in hand, he set out for Boston to enter upon the course that he had marked out for himself. He was admitted as a student of law in the office of a distinguished counselor in that city. Soon after, and while he was still pursuing his studies, the clerkship of the Court of Common Pleas of his native county of Hillsborough, in New Hampshire, became vacant. The emoluments of that office were about fifteen hundred dollars per annum. Some of his friends, from the best of motives, no doubt, procured the appointment for young Webster, supposing that it would be very acceptable to him. The information was first given to his father, and he was requested to forward it to his son. The father was delighted, and he conveyed the intelligence to the son in language that left no doubt of his earnest desire for its prompt acceptance. Such was his respect for the feel- ings of his father, that Mr. Webster would not send a reply in writing, but went immediately, in person, to make known to him that he could not accept the place. This he did by gradually unfolding his views t.?ul inclinations on the subject. * The extract is from an address delivered by Mr. Stephens before the Literary Societies of Emory College, Oxford, Gi-orpa. July 21, 1853. STEPHENS. 291 " What," said the father, after he found from the son's conversa- tion that he was speaking- against accepting the place, " what, do you intend to decline this office ? " " Most assuredly," replied the son, when the question came direct, " I cannot think of doing otherwise." The father at first seemed angry ; then assuming the air of one who feels the pangs of disappointment in realizing long-cherished hopes, he said, " Well, my son, your mother always said that you would come to something or nothing ; become a somebody or a nobody." The emphasis showed that he thought his son was about to become a " nobody." The reply o the son was : " I intend, sir, to use my tongue in court, and not my pen ; to be an actor, and not a register of other men's actions." Nobly has that pledge been redeemed. The decision with Webster, though young, as to his future course, had been made. The ideal of that character which he desired to establish had been formed. And to the fixedness of purpose with which he adhered to it on that trying occasion, when the strongest inducements of parental entreaty and pecuniary gain were presented to divert him from it, the world is indebted for that name and fame which are the pride and admiration of his countrymen, and that tow- ering reputation which sends its light and effulgence to the remotest regions of civilization. Another example of the same principle of fixedness of purpose may be given in the character of Mr. Calhoun, who was so long one of Mr. Webster's most distinguished rivals in the Senate of the United States. They both' entered life about the same time, though under very different circumstances. And the lives of both afford striking illustrations of that element of character of which I am now speaking. Mr. Calhoun from his earliest youth fixed his mind upon politics. Not the arts and tricks and chicanery of the mere politician or diplo- matist, but what may be more properly termed the science of govern- ment ; the knowledge and thorough understanding of those principles and laws of human action which lie at the foundation of all civil society, in whatever form it may be found ; and the regulations and modifications of which are necessary for the surest enjoyment of rational constitutional liberty.* In no branch of learning, perhaps, h:s mankind been slower in 292 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. their progress than in understanding the true principles of go^ T ern- ment, the origin of its necessity, the sanction of its obligations, to- gether with the correlative powers and duties of those who govern and those who are governed. To this most abstruse subject, which had engaged so much of the time and attention of the profoundest thinkers that the world ever produced, the great Carolinian brought all the energies of his subtile and powerful intellect. It seems to have been the absorbing theme of his life. Nothing diverted him from it. To master it was his object. Nor was he unequal to the work undertaken. All questions of public policy, whether in the cabinet or in the legislative councils, seem to have been considered, examined, arid analyzed by him accord- ing to the strictest principles of abstract philosophy. But his labors were not confined to the consideration and investigation of temporary questions connected with the administration of his own government. His objects were higher. His purposes were more comprehensive. He looked to achievements more permanent, as well as more substan- tial, than the acquisition of those transitory honors which accompany a forensic display or a triumphant reply in debate. To such an end his efforts for years were directed. The result was the production of a Treatise, or Disquisition as he calls it, on Government, which has been published since his death, and which, though it has as yet pro- duced but little sensation in the public mind, at no distant day will doubtless be regarded as the crowning glory of his illustrious life. This treatise has no particular reference to the government of the United States ; but it discusses the elements and principles of all forms of government, reduces them to system and the rules of science. I have one other point only to present ; that is, energy in execution. By this I mean application, attention, activity, perseverance, and untiring industry in that business or pursuit, whatever it may be, that is undertaken. Nothing great or good can ever be accomplished with- out labor and toil. Motion is the law of living nature. Inaction is the symbol of death, if it is not death itself. The hugest engines, with strength and capacity sufficient to drive the mightiest ships ''across the stormy deep," are utterly useless without a moving power. Energy is the steam power, the motive principle, of intellectual capacity. It is the propelling force ; and as in physic^, wom-eiitum is resolvable into quantity of matter and velocity, so in metaphysics, the extent of hu- STEPHENS. 293 man accomplishment may be resolvable into the degree of intellectual endowment and the energy with which it is directed. A small body driven by a great force will produce a result equal to, or even greater than, that of a much larger body moved by a considerably less force. So it is with minds. Hence we often see men of comparatively small capacity, by greater energy alone, leave, and justly leave, their supe- riors in natural gifts far behind them in the race for honors, distinc- tion, and preferment. This is, perhaps, the most striking characteristic of those great minds and intellects which never fail to impress their names, their views, ideas, and opinions, indelibly upon the history of the times in which they live. To this class belong Columbus, Luther, Cromwell, Watt, Fulton, Franklin, and Washington. It was to the same class that General Jackson belonged. He had not only a clear conception of his purpose, but a will and energy to execute it. And it is in the same class, or amongst the first order of men, that Henry Clay will be assigned a place ; that great man whose recent loss the nation still mourns. Mr. Clay's success, and those civic achievements which will render his name as lasting as the history of his country, were the result of nothing so much as that element of character which I have denominated energy. Thrown upon life at an early age, without any means or resources save his natural powers and abilities, and without the advantages of anything above a common-school education, he had nothing to rely upon but himself, and nothing upon which to place a hope but his own exertions. But, fired with a high and noble am- bition, he resolved, as young as he was, and cheerless as were his prospects, to meet and surmount every embarrassment and obstacle by which he was surrounded. His aims and objects were high, and worthy the greatest efforts; they were not to secure the laurels Avon upon the battle-field, but those wreaths which adorn the brow of the wise, the firm, the sagacious and far-seeing statesman. The honor and glory of his life was, " Tli' applause of list'ning senates to command, The tin-eats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read Ins history in a nation's eyes." This great end he most successfully accomplished. In his life and character you have a most striking example of what energy and indomitable perseverance can do, even when opposed by the most adverse circumstances. 294 CATHC ART^S LITERARY READER. BEECHER. 1813- HENRY WARD BEECHER, the most distinguished preacher of his day, not only in America, hut in the world, was born at Litchfield, Connecticut, in 1813. He is the son of Rev. Dr. Lyman Beecher, himself a clergyman of positive character and commanding abilities, and is one of a large family of brothers and sisters, each of whom has won distinction in literature or the pulpit. Henry Ward graduated at Amherst College in 1831, and in 1817 was settled as pas- tor of a Presbyterian church at Lawrenceburgh, Indiana. Two years later he removed to In- dianapolis, whence the first glimmer of his great genius surprised and fascinated the public. After eight years' service at this post, he accepted a call to the pastorate of Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, which is still the theater of his labors. His rank as a pulpit orator has already been indicated in the first lines of this paragraph. In that character he lias won his fame, and in it lie will go down in history with Massillon and Bossuet. and the great preachers of the English Church. His connection with literature is almost exclusively rin the pulpit ; what he speaks to attentive thousands in his church reappears in his many books, lacking, it is true, the magnetic and intensifying charm of his personal presence, yet instinct and eloquent with the lofty thoughts and the noble catholicity which are fundamental constituents of his nature. The limitations which restrict this notice forbid any adequate analysis of the sources of his power; but it may be suggested that Mr. Beecher's success as a moral teacher is largely due to the practical and sympathetic qualities of his mind. He knows how to put himself in direct rapport with his hearers or readers, knows their needs, their modes of thinking; puts himself in their place, in fact, and manipulates an audience of thousands as easily and effectively as he would conduct his part of a colloquy. A briefer definition of his exceptional intellectual equipment would be, a marvelous knowledge of human nature, touching which he would almost seem to have received a special illumination. In his sermons and addresses every one recognizes a personal application, so many-sided and many-eyed is Mr. Beecher's mind ; he speaks not merely to those in his pres- ence, but to all humanity. His first book, Lectures to Young Men, was published in 1850, and has passed through nearly a score of editions. The Star Papers, First and Second Series, two volumes made up of his contributions to a New York weekly paper, and Life Thoughts, a collec- tion of extracts from his extemporaneous sermons, have had great popularity. Within a year lias been issued his Yule Lectures on Preaching, a series of vigorous and suggestive discourses de- livered before the students of the Yale Divinity School. Mr. Beecher's most ambitious literary work is The Life of Jesus, the Christ, which is still unfinished, only one volume having been published. One of the most noteworthy advantages possessed by Mr. Beecher is his power of adapting his style to his subject. Our extracts illustrate this, and an examination of other speci- mens of his composition would disclose a still wider range of his versatility. His homiletic style is simple, yet singularly vigorous, compact in form, yet euphonious and flowing; his rhetoric is marked by frequent illustrations drawn from universal knowledge or experience, and by occa- sional passages of dramatic fervor and picturesque beauty. But in all his writings all con- siderations are held strictly subordinate to strength and substance. THE MONTHS. 1. JANUARY! Darkness and light reign alike. Snow is on the ground. Cold is in the air. The winter is blossoming in frost- flowers. Why is the ground hidden ? Why is the earth white ? So hath God wiped out the past, so hath he spread the earth like an un- written page for a new year ! Old sounds are silent in the forest and in the air. Insects are dead, birds are gone, leaves have perished, and BEECHER. 295 all the foundations of soil remain. Upon this lies, white and tran- quil, the emblem of newness and purity, the virgin robes of the yet unstained year. 2. FEBRUARY ! The day gains upon the night. The strife of heat and cold is scarce begun. The winds that come from the deso- late north wander through forests of frost-cracking boughs, and shout in the air the weird cries of the northern bergs and ice-resounding oceans. Yet, as the month wears on, the silent work begins, though storms rage. The earth is hidden yet, but not dead. The sun is drawing near. The storms cry out. But the Sun is not heard in all the heavens. Yet he whispers words of deliverance into the ears of every sleeping seed and root that lies beneath the snow. The day opens ; but the night shuts the earth with its frost-lock. They strive together; but the darkness and the cold are growing weaker. On some nights they forget to work. 3. MARCH! The conflict is more turbulent; but the victory is gained. The world awakes. There come voices from long-hidden birds. The smell of the soil is in the air. The sullen ice, retreating from open field and all sunny places, has slunk to the north of every fence and rock. The knolls and banks that face the east or south sigh for releasa, and begin to lift up a thousand tiny palms. 4. APRIL ! The singing month. Many voices of many birds call for resurrection over the graves of flowers, and they come forth. Go see what they have lost. What have ice and snow and storm done unto them ? How did they fall into the earth stripped and bare ? how do they come forth opening and glorified ? Is it, then, so fearful a thing to lie in the grave ? In its wild career, shaking and scourged of storms through its orbit, the earth has scattered away no treasures. The Hand that governs in April governed in January. You have not lost what God has only hidden. You lose nothing in struggle, in trial, in bitter distress. If called to shed thy joys as trees their leaves, if the affections be driven back into the heart as the life of flowers to their roots, yet be patient. Thou shalt lift up thy leaf-covered boughs again. Thou shalt shoot forth from thy roots new flowers. Be pa- tient. Wait. When it is February, April is not far off". Secretly the plants love each other. 5. MAY! O flower-month! perfect the harvests of flowers; be not niggardly. Search out the cold and resentful nooks that refused the sun, casting back its rays from disdainful ice, and plant flowers 296 CATHCART/S LITERARY READER. even there. There is goodness in the worst. There is warmth in the coldness. The silent, hopeful, unbreathing sun, that will not fret or despond, but carries a placid brow through the unwrinkled heavens, at length conquers the very rocks ; and lichens grow, and inconspicuously blossom. What shall not Time do that carries in its bosom Love ? 6. JUNE ! Rest ! This is the year's bower. Sit down within it. Wipe from thy brow the toil. The elements are thy servants. The dews bring thee jewels. The winds bring perfume. The Earth shows thee all her treasure. The forests sing to thee. The air is all sweetness, as if all the angels of God had gone through it, bearing spices homeward. The storms are but as Hocks of mighty birds that spread their wings, and sing in the high heaven. Speak to God now, and say, " Father ! where art thou? " and out of every flower and tree, and silver pool, and twined thicket, a voice will come, " God is in me." The earth cries to the heavens, " God is here ! " and the heavens cry to the earth, " God is here ! " The sea claims him. The land hath him. His footsteps are upon the deep. He sitteth upon the circle of the earth. O sunny joys of the sunny month, yet soft and temperate, how soon will the eager months that come burning from the equator scorch you ! 7. JULY ! Bouse up ! The temperate heats that filled the air are raging forward to glow and overfill the earth with hotness. Must it be thus in everything, that June shall rush toward August ? Or is it not that there are deep and unreached places for whose sake the prob- ing sun pierces down its glowing hands ? There is a deeper work than June can perform. The Earth shall drink of the heat before she knows her nature or her strength. Then shall she bring forth to the uttermost the treasures of her bosom ; for there are things hidden far down, and the deep things of life 'are not known till the fire reveals them. 8. AUGUST! Reign, thou fire-month! What canst thou do? Neither shalt thou destroy the earth, whom frosts and ice could not destroy. The vines droop, the trees stngger, the broad-palmed leaves give thee their moisture, and hang down ; but every night the dew pities them. Yet there are flowers that look thee in the eye, fierce Sun, all day long, and wink not. This is the rejoicing month for joyful insects. If our unselfish eye would b:\hold it, it is the most populous and the happiest month. The herds plash in the sedge ; fish BEECHER. 297 seek the deeper pools ; forest fowl lead out their young ; the air is resonant of insect orchestras, each one carrying his part in Nature's grand harmony. August, thou art the ripeness of the year ! Thou art the glowing center of the circle ! 9. SEPTEMBER ! There are thoughts in thy heart of death. Thou art doing a secret work, and heaping up treasures for another year. The unborn infant-buds which thou art tending are more than all the living leaves. Thy robes are luxuriant, but worn with softened pride. More dear, less beautiful, than June, thou art the heart's month. Not till the heats of summer are gone, while all its growths remain, do we know the fullness of life. Thy hands are stretched out, and clasp the glowing palm of August and the fruit-smelling hand of October. Thou dividest them asunder, and art thyself molded of them both. 10. OCTOBER! Orchard of the year, bend thy boughs to tfte earth, redolent of glowing fruit ! Eipened seeds shake in their pods. Apples drop in the stillest hours. Leaves begin to let go when no wind is out, and swing in long waverings to the earth, which they touch without sound, and lie looking up, till winds rake them, and heap them in fence-corners. When the gales come through the trees, the yellow leaves trail like sparks at night behind the flying engine. The woods are thinner, so that we can see the heavens plainer as we lie dreaming on the yet warm moss by the singing spring. The days are calm. The nights are tranquil. The Year's work is done. She walks in gorgeous apparel, looking upon her long labor; and her serene eye saith, " It is good." 11. NOVEMBER! Patient watcher, thou art asking to lay down thy tasks. Life to thee now is only a task accomplished. In the night-time thou liest down, and the messengers of winter deck thee with hoar-frosts for thy burial. The morning looks upon thy jewels, and they perish while it gazes. Wilt thou not come, O December ? 12. DECEMBER ! Silently the month advances. There is nothing to destroy, but much to bury. Bury then, thou snow, that slumber- ously fallest through the still air, the hedge-rows of leaves ! Muffle thy cold wool about the feet of shivering trees ! Bury all that the year hath known ! and let thy brilliant stars, that never shine as they do in thy frostiest nights, behold the work ! But know, O month of destruction ! that in thy constellation is set that Star, whose rising is 98 CATHCART'S LITEIIAHY READER. the sign, forevermore, that there is life in death. Thou art the month of resurrection. In thee the Christ came. Every star that looks down upon thy labor and toil of burial knows that all things shall come forth again. Storms shall sob themselves to sleep. Si- lence shall find a voice. Death shall live ; Life shall rejoice ; Winter shall break forth, and blossom into Spring ; Spring shall put on her glorious apparel, and be called Summer. It is life, it is life, through the whole year ! COMING AND GOING. ONCE came to our fields a pair of birds that had never built a nest nor seen a winter. O, how beautiful was everything ! The fields were full of flowers, and the grass was growing tall, and the bees were humming everywhere. Then one of the birds fell to sing- iwg ; and the other bird said, " Who told you to sing ? " And he an- swered, " The flowers told me, and the bees told me, and the winds arid leaves told me, and the blue sky told me, and you told me to sing." Then his mate answered, " When did I tell you to sing?" And he said, " Every time you brought in tender grass for the nest, and every time your soft wings fluttered off again for hair and feath- ers to line the nest." Then his mate said, " What are you singing about?" And he answered, "I am singing about everything and nothing. It is because I am so happy that I sing." By and by, five little speckled eggs were in the nest ; and his mate said, " Is there anything in all the world as pretty as my eggs ? " Then they both looked down on some^ people that were passing by, and pitied them because they were not birds, and had no nests with eggs in them. Then the father-bird sang a melancholy song because he pitied folks that had no nests, but had to live in houses. In* a week or two, one day, when the father-bird came home, the mother-bird said, " O, what do you think has happened ? " " What ? " " One of my eggs has been peeping and moving ! " Pretty soon an- other egg moved under her feathers, and then another and another, till five little birds were born. Now the father-bird sung louder and louder than ever. The mother- bird, too, wanted to sing ; but she had no time, and so she turned her song into work. So hungry were these little birds, that it kept both parents busy feeding them. Away each one flew. The moment the little birds heard their wings fluttering again among the leaves. BEECHEtt. 299 five yellow mouths flew open so wide that nothing could be seen but five yellow mouths. " Can anybody be happier ? " said the father-bird to the mother- bird. " We will live in this tree always ; for there is no sorrow here. It is a tree that always bears joy." The very next day one of the birds dropped out of the nest, and a cat ate it up in a minute, and only four remained ; and the parent- birds were very sad, and there was no song all that day nor the next. Soon the little birds were big enough to fly ; and great was their parents' joy to see them leave the nest, and sit crumpled up upon the branches. There was then a great time. One would have thought the two old birds were two French dancing-masters, talking and chat- tering, and scolding the little birds to make them go alone. The first bird that tried flew from one branch to another, and the parents praised him ; and the other little birds wondered how he did it. And he was so vain of it that he tried again, and flew and flew, and could n't stop flying, till he fell plump down by the house-door; and then a little boy caught him and carried him into the house, and only three birds were left. Then the old birds thought that the sun was not as bright as it used to be, and they did not sing as often. In a little time the other birds had learned to use their wings ; and they flew away and away, and found their own food, and made their own beds ; and their parents never saw them any more. Then the old birds s.it silent, and looked at each other a long while. At last the wife-bird said, " Why don't you sing? " And he answered, " I can't sing : I can only think and think." " What are you thinking of ? " " I am thinking how everything changes. The leaves are falling down from off this tree, and soon there will be no roof over our heads ; the flowers are all gone, or going ; last night there was a frost ; al- most all the birds are flown away, and I am very uneasy. Something calls me, and I feel restless as if I would fly far away." " Let us fly away together ! " Then they rose silently ; and, lifting themselves far up in the air, they looked to the north : far away they saw the snow coming. They looked to the south : there they saw green leaves. All day they flew, 300 CATH CART'S LITERARY READEK. and all night they flew and flew, till they found a land where there was no winter ; where there was summer all the time ; where flowers always blossom, and birds always sing. But the birds that staid behind found the days shorter, the nights longer, and the weather colder. Many of them died of cold ; others crept into crevices and holes, and lay torpid. Then it was plain that it was better to go than to stay. PUBITY OF CHARACTER. OVEE the plum and apricot there may be seen a bloom and beauty more exquisite than the fruit itself, a soft, delicate flush that over- spreads its blushing cheek. Now, if you strike your hand over that, and it is once gone, it is gone forever ; for it never grows but once. The flower that hangs in the morning, impearled with dew, arrayed with jewels, once shake it so that the beads roll off, and you may sprinkle water over it LS you please, yet it can never be made again what it was when the dew fell lightly upon it from heaven. On a frosty morning you may see the panes of glass covered with landscapes, mountains, lakes, and trees, blended in a beautiful fantas- tic picture. Now, lay your hand upon the,, glass, and by the scratch of your lingers, or by the warmth of the palm, all the delicate tracery Avill be immediately obliterated. So in youth there is a purity of character which, when once touched and defiled, can never be restored, a fringe more delicate than frostwork, and which, when torn and broken, will never be re-embroidered. A man who has spotted and soiled his garments in youth, though he may seek to make them white again, can never wholly do it, even were he to wash them with his tears. When a young man leaves his father's house, with the blessing of his mother's tears still wet upon his forehead, if he once loses that early purity of character, it is a loss he can never make whole again. Such is the consequence of crime. Its effects cannot be eradicated, they can only be forgiven. DANA. 301 DANA. 1813- PROFESSOR JAMFS DVVTGHT DANA, one of the most eminent of American geologists and natu- ralists, \vas born at Utica, New York, in 1813. At the age of twenty he graduated at Yale College, where he was distinguished for his scientific tastes and attainments. Devoting him- self assiduously to this specialty in knowledge, he soon acquired a reputation which justified his appointment to be the geologist and mineralogist of Commodore Wilkes's Exploring Expe- dition, sent out by the United States government in 18'18. During his four years' absence in this capacity he gathered materials for some of the most notable contributions that hnve ever been made to the literature of science. Among these are his Report on Zoophytes, Report on the Geology of the Pacific, and Report on Crustacea. The amount of labor demanded by the preparation of ihese Reports may be inferred from the fact that they comprised 3,100 pages of. text, in quarto form, and 178 plates in folio. Prior to his departure with this expedition lie published his System of Mineralogy, the fourth edition of which was issued in 1854, r.nd the descriptive part of the fifth, in 1868. In 1850 lift was called to the chair of Natural History and Geology at Yale College, but did not begin its occupancy until rive years later. Since 1846 he has been a principal editor of the American Journal of Science. Professor Dana's Manual of Geology, a new and thoroughly revised edition of which has recently been issued, is a standard text-book, not only in this country, but in Europe. His latest work is a volume entitled Corals and Coral Islanls. Professor Dana has long been recognized in the scientific circles of Europe as one of the foremost living naturalists; he is a member of many English and Continental scientific societies, and last year received the high compliment of an election to membership in the French Academy. Professor Dana's fame rests upon the sound basis of practical achieve- ment. He has been a hard student and a close observer of nature, and his special qualifi- cations for scientific investigation are happily supplemented by general intellectual powers of exceptional breadth and strength^ which admirably fit him for the office of leader and instructor in his chosen department of science. KNOWLEDGE OF NATURE. WHEN man, at the word of liis Maker, stood up to receive his birthright, God pronounced a benediction, and gave him this commis- sion : " Replenish the earth : subdue it : and have dominion over every living thirty " " Subdue and have dominion." These were the first recorded words that fell on the human ear ; and Heaven's blessing was in them. But what is this subduing of the earth ? How is nature brought under subjection ? Man's highest glory consists in obedience to the Eternal Will ; and in this case, is he actually taking the reins into his own hands? Ear from it. He is but yielding submission. He is learning that will, and placing himself, as Lord Bacon has said, in direct subserviency to divine laws. When he sets his sails, and drives over the waves before the blast, feeling the pride of power in that the gale has been broken into a willing steed, he still looks up :}():l CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. reverently, and acknowledges that God in nature lias been his teacher, and is his strength. When he strikes the rock, and out flows the brilliant metal, he admits that it is in obedience to a higher will than his own, and a reward of careful searching for truth, in complete subjection to that will. When he yokes together a plate of copper arid zinc, and urges them to action by a cup of acid, and then de- spatches burdens of thought on errands of thousands of miles, man may indeed claim that he has nature at his bid, subdued, a willing messenger ; and yet it is so, because man himself acts in perfect obe- dience to law. He may well feel exalted : but his exaltation proceeds from the fact that he has drawn from a higher source of strength than himself; and a mind not morally perverted will give the glory where it is due. These are the rewards of an humble and teachable spirit, kneeling at the shrine of nature ; and if there is indeed that forgetfulness of self, and that unalloyed love of truth, which alone can insure the high- est success in research, this shrine will be viewed as only the port.il to a holier temple, where God reigns in his purity and love. The command, " subdue, and have dominion," is, then, a mark both of man's power, and of God's power. It requires man to study his Maker's works, that he may adapt himself to his laws, and use them to his advantage; to become wise, that he may be strong; to elevate and ennoble mind, tint matter may take its true place of sub- jection. It involves not merely a study of nature in the ordinary sense of those words, but also a study of man himself, and the utmost exaltation of the moral and mental qualities ; for man is a part of nature ; and moreover, to understand the teachings of Infinite Wis- dom, the largest expansion of intellect and loftiest elevation of soul are requisite. Solomon .says, that, in his dry, " there was nothing new under the sun." What is, is what has been, and what shall be. The sentiment was not prompted by any modern scientific spirit, impatience of so little progress ; for it is immediately connected with sighings for the good old times. Much the same spirit is often shown in these days, and elaborate addresses are sometimes written to prove that, after all our boasted progress, Egypt and Greece were the actual sources of existing knowledge. They point to the massy stones of the pyramids ; the sublime temples and palaces of the old empires ; the occasional utensils of half-transparent glass, and implements of bronze or iron, DANA. * 303 found among their buried ruins ; the fine fabrics and costly Tyriaii dyes ; they descant upon the wonderful perfection attained in the fine arts, in poetry and rhetoric, and the profound thought of the ancient philosophers : and then are almost ready to echo, " There is nothing new under the sun." What is, is what has been. Those good old times ! But what had those old philosophers, or the whole ancient world, done toward bringing nature under subjection, in obedience to the command, " subdue it " ? They had, it is true, built magnificent temples. But the taste of * the architect, or that of the statuary or poet, is simply an emanation from the divine breath within man, and is cultivated by contempla- tion, and only surface contact with nature. They piled up Cyclopean rocks into walls and pyramids. But the use of the lever and pulley comes also from the workings of mind, and but shallow views of the world. And adding man to man till thousands have worked together, as in one harness, h:.s been a com- mon feat of despots from the time of the Pharaohs onward. They educed profound systems of philosophy, showing a depth of thought since unsurpassed. But these again were the results of cogitating mind, acting in its own might, glancing, it may be, Lt the landscape and the stars in admiration, but centering on man and mind; and often proving to be as erroneous as profound. They cultivated the intellect, and made progress in political knowl- edge. But in their attempts to control nature, they brought to beer little beyond mere physical force. Although ancient wisdom treats of air, earth, fire, and water, not one of these so-called elements was, in any proper sense, brought under subjection. The Air : Was it subdued, when the old Roman still preferred his banks of oars, and on the land, the wind was trained only to turn a wind-mill, carry off chaff, or work in a bellows ? Was the Earth subdued, when, instead of being forced to pour out in streams its wealth of various ores, but half a dozen metals were known ? and, instead of being explored and found to be marshaled, for man's command, under sixty or more elements, each with its laws of combination, and all bound to serve the arts, the wisest minds saw only a mass of earth, something to tread upon, and grow grain and grass ? CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. Was Fire subdued, when almost* its only uses were to warm, and cook, atid to bake clay, and few of its other powers were known, besides those of destruction ? or Light, when not even its component colors were recognized, and it served simply as a means of sight, in which man shared its use with brutes ? Was Water subdued, when it was left to run wild along the water- courses, and its ocean-waves were a terror to all the sailors of the age? when steam was only the ephemeral vapor of a boiling kettle, yet un- known in its might, and unharnessed ? when the clouds sent their shafts where they willed? when the constituents of water the life- element oxyyeu and the inflammable hydrogen had not yet yielded themselves to man as his vassals ? KNOWLEDGE OF NATURE (continued}. HARDLY the initial step had been taken, through the thousands of years of the earth's existence, to acquire that control of nature which mind should have, and God had ordered. The sciences of observa- tion and experiment had not emerged from the mists of empiricism and superstition. There were few ascertained principles beyond those that flow from mathematical law, or from cogitations of mind after surface surveys of the world. No wonder that nature unsubdued should have proved herself a tyrant. She is powerful. Vast might is embodied in her forces, that may well strike terror into the uninstructed : and man has shown his greatness in that he has at last d-ired to claim, obedience. The air. earth, water, fire, had become filled with fancied fiends, which any priest or priestess could evoke ; and even the harmless moon, or two approaching or receding planets, or the accidental flight of a thought- less bird, caused fearful forebodings ; and a long-tailed comet made the whole world to shake with terror. Christianity, although radiant with hope, could not wholly break the spell. The Christian's trust, Heaven's best gift to man, makes the soul calm and strong mid dangers, real or unreal ; yet it leaves the sources of terror in nature untouched, to be assailed by that power which comes from knowledge. Man thus suffered for his disobedience. He was the slave, nature, the feared master ; to many, even the evil demon himself. Is this now true of nature ? We know that, to a large extent, DANA. 305 nature is yet imsearched and unsubdued. Still, vast progress has been made toward gaining' control of her ten thousand agencies. In gathering this knowledge, we have not sought for it among the faded monuments and rolls of the ancienfy, as we call the inhabitants of the earth's childhood : but have looked to records of vaster an- tiquity, the writings of the infinite God in creation, which are now as fresh with beauty and wisdom as when His linger first mapped out the heavens, or traced the flowers and crystals of the earth. This is the fountain whence we have drawn ; and what is the result ? How is it with water in these last times ? Instead of wasting its powers in gambols down valleys, or in sluggish quiet about " sleepy hollows," it is trained to toil. With as much glee as it ever displayed running and leaping in its free channel, a single stream now turns over a million of spindles in this New Ei gland. Changed to steam, there is terror in its strength even now. Yet the laws of steam, of its production, condensation, and elasticity, have been so carefully studied, and also the strength and other qualities of the metal used to confine it, as well as the nature and effects of fuel, that if we are careful not to defy established principles, steam is our most willing worker, turning saw-mills, printing-presses, cotton- gins, speeding over our roads with indefinite trains of carriages and freight, bearing away floating mansions, against wind and tide, across the oceans, cooking, heating, searching out dyes from coarse logwood, and the like, and applying itself to useful purposes, one way or another, in almost all the arts. Again, if we will it, and follow nature's laws, water gives up its oxygen and hydrogen, and thus the chemist secures the means of burning even the diamond ; the aeronaut makes wings for his adventurous flight, and the light- house derives the famous Drumraond light for its work of mercy. L'.yM is no longer a mere colorless medium of sight. We may evoke from it any color we please, either for use or pleasure. We may also take its chemical rays from the rest, or its light rays, or its heat rays, and employ them separately or together ; for we have found out where its strength lies in these particulars, so that at will, light may pass from our manipulations, shorn of its heating power, or of its power of promoting growth, or chemical change. Ay, the subtile agent will now use its pencil in taking sketches from nature, or portraits, if we desire it : and the work is well done. The ancient wise men, discoursing on the power which holds matter T 306 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. together, sometimes attributed to the particles convenient hooks for clinging to one another. Little was it dreamed that the force of com- bination in matter now called attraction included the lightning among its effects, and would be made to run errands and do hard work for. man. Electricity, galvanism, magnetism, are modern names for some of the different moods under which this agent appears ; and none of nature's powers now do better service. It is kept on con- stant run with messages over the continents, scaling mountains or traversing seas with equal facility. It does our gilding and silver- plating. Give it an engraved plate as a copy, and it will make a hun- dred such in a short time. If taken into employ, it will, in case of fire, set all the bells of a city ringing at once ; or it will strike a com- mon beat for all the clocks of a country ; or be the astronomer's best and surest aid in observing phases in the heavens, or measuring lon- gitude on the earth. All this and more it accomplishes for us, or can if we wish, besides opening to our inquiring eyes the profound phi- losophy which God has inscribed in his works. Nature is not now full of gloom and terror. Her fancied fiends have turned out friends. Although God still holds supreme control, and often makes man remember whence his strength, yet every agent, however mighty in itself, is becoming a gentle and ready assistant, both in our work and play, in the material progress of nations, as well as their moral and intellectual advancement. MOTLEY. 307 MOTLEY. 1814- 1*17 JOHN LOCTHROP MOTLEY, one of the most eminent of American historians, was born in Dor- chester, Massachusetts, in 1814. Graduating at Harvard College at the age of seventeen, he went to Europe, where he spent several years in preparation for a task to which he had early devoted himself, the writing of a History of the Rise of the Dutch Republic. Young as he was, he had already produced two novels, Morton's Hope, or The Memoirs of a Provincial, and Merry Mount, A Romance of the Massachusetts Colony, which were long ago forgotten. After fifteen years of arduous labor he finished his History, and its reception on both sides of the Atlantic was exceptionally cordial. Mr. Everett said of it that it was, in his judgment, "a work of the highest merit," and placed " the name of Motley by the side of those of our great American histor- ical trio, Bancroft, Irving, and Prescott." The instantaneous success of this History the work of a young and unknown writer is unprecedented in the annals of historical literature. Not content with this triumph, which assured him of an immortality of fame, Mr. Motley at once set about a new enterprise, the results of which appear in The History of the United Netherlands, in which the career of the young nation, the story of whose birth had been told in the previous work, is described with equal spirit and accuracy. During the current year (1874) Mr. Motley's third historical work, Life and Death of John of Barncveld, has been published. In common with the eminent historians with whom Edward Everett classed him, Mr. Motley possesses in rare combination the highest intellectual qualifications for his work. He is especially remark- able for a certain breadth of mind which impels him to take comprehensive and exhaustive views of his subject. His style is a model of vigor and grace, and in dramatic quality it is equaled by that of no other historian of this century. It would be, perhaps, impossible to indicate any other historical works than his, of comparatively modern issue, touching which the judgment of critics has been so unanimously favorable. Some foreign reviewers, unable to appreciate, or, perhaps, eager to rebuke, the sturdy Republican spirit that animates this American writer, have charged him with excessive severity in his denunciation of Spanish despotism ; but with this exception his candor and conscientious accuracy have never been impugned. Mr. Motley was appointed United States Minister to Austria by President Lincoln, and, after honorable service at Vienna, was transferred to England, where he represented this government with conspicuous ability. The exigencies of partisan politics required his removal, and he is now, a private citizen, fully occupied with congenial literary labors. HISTORIC PROGRESS. WE talk of History. No man can more highly appreciate than I do the noble labors of your Society,* and of others in this country, for the preservation of memorials belonging to our brief but most important past. We can never collect too much of them, nor ponder them too carefully, for they mark the era of a new civilization. But that interesting past presses so closely upon our sight that it seems still a portion of the present; the glimmering dawn preceding the noontide of to-day. * THE NEW YORK HISTORICAL SOCIETY. The extract is from an address delivered by Mr. Motley before this society, December 16, 1868, tlu subject being Historic Progress and American Democracy. 308 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. I shall not be misunderstood, then, if I say that there is no such .thing as human history. Nothing can be more profoundly, sadly true. The annals of mankind have never been written, never can be written ; nor would it be within human capacity to read them if they were written. We have a leaf or two torn from the great book of hu- man fate as it nutters in the storm-winds ever sweeping across the earth. We decipher them as we best can with purblind eyes, and en- deavor to learn their mystery as we float along to the abyss ; but it is all confused babble, hieroglyphics of which the key is lost. Consider but a moment. The island on which this city stands is as perfect a site as man could desire for a great, commercial, imperial city. By- zantium,* which the lords of the ancient world built for the capital of the earth ; which the temperate and vigorous Turk in the days of his stern military discipline plucked from the decrepit hands which held the scepter- of Caesar and Constantine, and for the succession to which the present lords of Europe arc wrangling, not Byzantium, nor hundred-gated Thebes, f nor London nor Liverpool, Paris nor Moscow, can surpass the future certainties of this thirteen-mile-long Manhattan. And yet it was but yesterday for what are two centuries and a half in the boundless vista of the past ? that the Mohawk and the Mohican were tomahawking and scalping each other throughout these regions, and had been doing so for centuries ; while the whole surface of this island, now groaning under millions of wealth which oppress the imagination, hardly furnished a respectable hunting-ground for a single sachem, in his war-paint and moccasins, who imagined himself proprietor of the soil. But yesterday Cimmerian darkness, primeval night. To-day, grandeur, luxury, wealth, power. I come not here to-night to draw pictures or pour forth dithyrambics that I may gratify your vanity or my own, whether municipal or national. To appreciate the unexam- pled advantages bestowed by the Omnipotent upon this favored Ee- public, this youngest child of civilization, is rather to oppress the thoughtful mind with an overwhelming sense of responsibility ; to * BYZANTIUM. The original name of Constantinople, the present capital of the Turkish Em- pire. The beauty and convenience of its situation were observed by Constantine the Great, who made it the capital of the Eastern Roman Empire A. D. 328, and called it Constantinopolis, i. e. the City of Constantine. ! THEBKS. A great city of Egypt which was formerly the capital of that country. It is now in ruins, its remains extending for seven miles along both banks of the Mlc. MOTLEY. 309 sadden with quick-corning fears ; to torture with reasonable doubts. The world's great hope is here. The future of humanity at least for that cycle in which we are now revolving depends mainly upon the manner in which we deal with our great trust. The good old tim:s ! Where and when were those good old times ? " All times when old are good," says Byron. " And all our yesterdays have lighted fools Tlie way to dusty death," says the gre:it master of morals and humanity. But neither fools nor sages, neither individuals nor nations, have any other light to guide them along the track which all must tread, save that long glimmering vista of yesterdays which grows so swiftly fainter and fainter as the present fades into the past. And I believe it possible to discover a law out of all this appar- ently chaotic whirl and bustle, this tangled skein of human affairs, as it spins itself through the centuries. That law is Progress, slow, confused, contradictory, but ceaseless development, intellectual and moral, of the human race. It is of Human Progress that I speak to-night. It is of Progress that I find a startling result when I survey the spectacle which the American Present displays. This nation stands on the point towards which other people are moving, the starting-point, not the goal. It has put itself or rather Destiny has placed it more immediately than other nations in subordination to the law governing all bodies political as inexora- bly as Kepler's law controls the motions of the planets. The law is Progress ; the result, Democracy. Sydney Smith once alluded, if I remember rightly, to a person who allowed himself to speak disrespectfully of the equator. I have a strong objection to be suspected of flattering the equator. Yet were it not for that little angle of 23 27' 26", which it is good enough to make with the plane of the ecliptic, the history of this earth and of " all which it inherit " would have been essentially modified, even if it had not been altogether a blank. Out of the obliquity of the equator has come forth our civilization. It was long ago observed by one of the most thoughtful writers that ever dealt with linin:iii historv, John von Herder, thut it was to the 310 CATHCABT*S LITERARY READER. gradual shading away of zones and alternation of seasons that the vigor and variety of mankind were attributable. I have asked where and when were the good old times ? This earth of ours has been spinning about in space, great philosophers tell us, some few hundred millions of years. We are not very famil- iar with our predecessors on this continent. For the present, the oldest inhabitant must ba represented here by the man of Natchez, whose bones were unearthed not long ago under the Mississippi bluffs in strata which were said to argue him to be at least one hundred thousand years old. Yet he is a mere modern, a parvenu on this planet, if we are to trust illustrious teachers of science, compared with the men whose bones and whose implements have been found in high mountain-valleys and gravel-pits of Europe ; while these again are thought by the same authorities to be descendants of races which flourished many thousands of years before, and whose relics science is confidently expecting to discover, although the icy sea had once in- gulfed them and their dwelling-places. We of to-day have no filial interest in the man of Natchez. He was no ancestor of ours, nor have he and his descendants left traces along the dreary track of their existence to induce a desire to claim relation- ship with them. We are Americans ; but yesterday we were Europeans, Nether- landers, Saxons, Normans, Swabians, Celts ; and the day before yes- terday, Asiatics, Mongolians, what you will. The orbit of civilization, so far as our perishing records enable us to trace it, seems preordained from East to West. China, India, Pal- estine, Egypt, Greece, Rome, are successively lighted up as the majestic orb of day moves over them ; and as he advances still farther through his storied and mysterious zodiac, we behold the shadows of evening as surely falling on th, lands which he leaves behind him. Man still reeled on, falling, rising again, staggering forward with hue and cry at his heels, a wounded felon daring to escape from the prison to which the grace of God had inexorably doomed him. And still there was progress. Besides the sword, two other instruments grew every day more potent, the pen and the purse. The power of the pen soon created a stupendous monopoly. Clerks obtained privilege of murder because of their learning ; a Norman king gloried in the appellation of " fine clerk," because he could spell ; the sons of serfs and washerwomen became high pontiffs, put their MOTLEY. 311 feet on the necks of emperors, through the might of education, and appalled the souls of tyrants with their weird anathemas. Naturally, the priests kept the talisman of learning to themselves. How should education help them to power and pelf, if the people could participate in the mystic spell ? The icy Deadhand of the Church, ever extended, was filled to overflowing by trembling baron and superstitious hind. But there was another power steadily augmenting, the magic purse of Eortunatus with its clink of perennial gold. Commerce changed clusters of hovels, cowering for protection under feudal cas- tles, into powerful cities. Burghers wrested or purchased liberties from their lords and masters. And still man struggled on. A:i experimenting friar, fond of chemistry, in one corner of Europe, put niter, sulphur, and charcoal together ; * a sexton or doctor, in another obscure nook, carved letters on blocks of wood ; f and lo ! there were explosions shaking the solid earth, and causing the iron-clad man on horseback to reel in his saddle. It was no wonder that Dr. Faustus was supposed to have sold his soul to the fiend. Whence but from devilish alliance could he have derived such power to strike down the grace of God ? Speech, the alphabet, Mount Sinai, Egypt, Greece, Rome, Nazareth, the wandering of the nations, the feudal system, Magna Charta, gun- powder, printing, the Reformation, the mariner's compass, America, here are some of the great landmarks of human motion. As we pause for a moment's rest, after our rapid sweep through the eons and the centuries, have we not the right to record proof of man's progress since the days of the rhinoceros-eaters of Bedfordshire, of the man of Natchez ? * The discovery of gunpowder by Bertholdus, a German monk, in 1320. + GUTENBEHG, born in Germany about 1400, is generally called the inventor of printing. He was the first to print from letters cut on blocks of wood and metal. He was associated with Dr. Faustus, mentioned below. Having printed off numbers of copies of the Bible, to imitate those which were commonly sold in manuscript, Hayden says Dr. Faustus undertook the sale of them at Paris where printing was then unknown. As he sold his copies for sixty crowns, while the scribes demanded five hundred, he created universal astonishment ; but when he produced copies as fast as they were wanted, and lowered the price to thirty crowns, all Paris was agitated. The uniformity of the copies increased the wonder-, informations were given to the police against him as a magician, and his lodgings being searched and a great number of copies being found, they were sei/.cd. The red ink with which they were embellished was supposed to be his blood, and it was seriously adjudged that he was in league with the Devil; and if he had not fled, he would have shared the fate of those whom superstitious judges condemned in those days for witchcraft-, A. D. 14GO. The career of Dr. Faustus has formed the subject of numerous dramas, romances, and poems ; the most notable of which are Goethe's Faust, and the celebrated opera of that name. 312 CATHCART'S LITERARY HEADER. And for details and detached scenes in the general phantasmagoria, which has been ever shifting before us, we may seek for illustration, instruction, or comfort in any age or land where authentic record can be found. We may take a calm survey of passionate, democratic Greece in her great civil war through the terse, judicial narrative of Thucydides ; * we may learn to loathe despotism in that marvelous portrait-gallery of crime which the somber and terrible Tacitus f has bequeathed ; we may cross the yawning abysses and dreary deserts which lie between tw;o civilizations over that stately viaduct of a thou- sand arches which the great hand of Gibbon has constructed ; we rnny penetrate to the inmost political and social heart of England, during a period of nine years, by help of the magic wand of 'Macaiilay ; we may linger in the stately portico to the unbuilt dome which the daring genius of Buckle consumed his life in devising ; we may yield to the sweet fascinations which ever dwell in the picturesque pages of Pres- cott ; we may investigate rules, apply and ponder examples : but the detail of history is essentially a blank, and nothing could be more dismal than its pursuit, unless the mind IK* filled by a broad view of its general scheme. THE RELIEF OF LEYDEN.+ j THE besieged city was at its last gasp. The burghers had been in a state of uncertainty for many days ; being aware that the fleet had set forth for their relief, but knowing full well the thousand ob- stacles which it had to surmount. They had guessed its progress by the illumination from the blazing villages, they had heard its salvos of artillery on its arrival at North Aa ; but since then all had been dark and mournful again, hope and fear, in sickening alternation, * TiircYDiDKS. One of the most illustrious of the Greek historians, born 4/1 B. c. His celebrity rests upon his unfinished History of the Pdoponneslun ll'ar. (See Grote's History of Greece.) t TACITUS. A celebrated Roman historian, born about 55 A. D. His reputation is chiefly founded on his Annuls, in sixteen books, which record the history of the Roman Empire from the death of Augustus A. D. 14 to the death of Nero A. D. 68. Excepting the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth books, the work still exists. t The extract is from Mr. Motley's brilliant history, Tlte Pise of f. lie Diifc/i Republic. LEYDEN, now a nourishing manufacturing town of South Holland. It was besieged by the Spaniards in 1574, when they tried to subdue the Netherlands under their yoke. The siege be- gan on 31st October, 157o, and ended on 3d October, 1574. It was relieved by the dikes being cut, and the sea let in on the Spanish works. Fifteen hundred Spaniards were slain or drowned. The University of Leydeu was erected as a memorial of this gallant defense nml happy deliver- The relief of Lcydcn was a fatal blow to Spanish power in the Netherlands. ance. MOTLEY. -3 districting every breast. They knew that the wind was unfavorable, and at the dawn of each^day every eye was turned wistfully to the vanes of the steeples. So long as the easterly breeze prevailed, they felt, as they anxiously stood on towers and house-tops, that they must look in vain for the welcome ocean. Yet, while thus patiently waiting, they were literally starving ; for even the misery endured at Haarlem* had not reached that depth and intensity of agony to which Leyden was now reduced. Bread, malt- cake, horse-flesh, had entirely disappeared ; dogs, cats, rats, and other vermin were esteemed luxuries. A small number of cows, kept as long as possible for their milk, still remained ; but a few were killed from day to day, and distributed in minute portions, hardly sufficient to support life, among the famishing population. Starving wretches swarmed daily aroirid the shambles where these cattle were slaugh- tered, contending for any morsel which might fall, and lapping eager- ly the blood as it ran along the pavement ; while the hides, chopped and boiled, were greedily devoured. Women and children, all day long, were seen searching gutters and elsewhere for morsels of food, which they disputed fiercely with the famishing dogs. The green leaves were stripped from the trees, every living herb was converted into human food ; but these expedi- ents could not avert starvation. The daily mortality was frightful. Infants starved to death on the maternal breasts which famine had parched and withered ; mothers dropped dead in the streets, with their dead children in their arms. In many a house the watchmen, in their rounds, found a whole family of corpses father, mother, children side by side ; for a disorder, called " the Plague," naturally engendered of hardship and famine, now came, as if in kindness, to abridge the agony of the peo- ple. Pestilence stalked at noonday through the city, and the doomed inhabitants fell like grass beneath his scythe. Prom six to eight thousand human beings sank before this scourge alone; yet the people resolutely held out, women and men mutually encouraging each other to resist the entrance of their foreign foe,f an evil more horrible than pest or famine. 1i * HAAKLEM. Frederick, the son of Alva, starved the little garrison of Haarlem (20 miles north of Leyden) into a surrender (157-3) ; and then, enraged at the gallant defense they had made, butchered them without mercy. When the executioners were worn out with their bloody work, he tied the three hundred citizens that remained back to back, and fluii" them into the sea t The Spaniards. 314 CATHCART/S LITERARY READER. Leyden was sublime in its despair. A few murmurs were, how- ever, occasionally heard at the steadfastness of the magistrates ; and a dead body was placed at the door of the burgomaster, as a silent wit- ness against his inflexibility. A party of the more faint-hearted even assailed the heroic Adrian Van tier Werf* with threats and reproaches as he passed along the streets. A crowd had gathered around him as he reached a triangular place in the center of the town, into which many of the principal streets emptied themselves, and upon one side of which stood the Church of St. Pancras. There stood the burgomaster, a tall, haggard, imposing figure, with dark visage and a tranquil but commanding eye. He waved his broad-leaved felt hut for silence, and then exclaimed, in language which has been almost literally preserved, " What would ye, my friends ? Why do ye murmur that we do not break our vows and surrender the city to the Spaniards, a fate more horrible than the agony which she now endures ? I tell you I have made an oath to hold the city; and may God give me siivngth to keep my oath! I can die but once, whether by your hands, the enemy's, or by the hand of God. My own fate is indifferent to me ; not so that of the city intrusted to my care. I know that we shall starve if not soon relieved ; but starvation is preferable to the dishonored death which is the only alternative. Your menaces move me not. My life is at your disposal. Here is my sword ; plunge it into my breast, and divide my flesh among you. Take my body to appease your hunger, but expect no surrender so long as I remain alive." On the 28th of September a dove flew into the city, bringing a letter from Admiral Boisot.f In this despatch the position of the fleet at North Aa was described in encouraging terms, and the inhab- itants were assured that, in a very few days at furthest, the long- expected relief would enter their gates. The tempest came to their relief. A violent equinoctial gale, on the night of the 1st and 2d of October, came storming from the northwest, shifting after a few hours fully eight points, and then blowing still more violently from the southwest. The waters of the North Sea were piled in vast masses upon the southern coast of Hol- land, and then dashed furiously landward, the ocean rising over the earth and sweeping with unrestrained power across the ruined dikes. * ADRIAN VAN DER WERF, the burgomaster, or chief magistrate of Leyden. I ADMIRAL BOISOT, the commander of the Dutch fleet. MOTLEY. 315 In the course of twenty-four hours the fleet at North Aa, instead of nine inches, had more than two feet of water. On it went, sweeping over the broad waters. As they approached some shallows winch led into the great Mere, the Zeelanders dashed into the sea, and with sheer strength shouldered every vessel through ! It was resolved that a sortie, in conjunction with the operations of Boisot, should be made against Lammen* with the earliest dawn. Night descended upon the scene, a pitch-dark night, full of anxiety to the Spaniards, to the Armada, to Leyden. Strange sights and sounds occurred at different moments to bewilder the anxious senti- nels. A long procession of lights issuing from the fort was seen to flit across the black face of the waters, in the dead of night ; and the whole of the city wall between the Cowgate and the town of Burgun- dy fell with a loud crash. The horror-struck citizens thought that the Spaniards were upon them at last ; the Spaniards, imagined the noise to indicate a desperate sortie of the citizens. Everything was vague and mysterious. ,^ Day dawned at length after the feverish night, and the admiral pivp.red for the assault. Within the fortress reigned a death-like stillness, which inspired a sickening suspicion. Had the city indeed l)pen carried in the night ? Had the massacre already commenced ? Had all this labor and audacity been expended in vain ? Suddenly a man was descried wading breast-high through the water from Lammen towards the fleet, while at the same time one solitary boy was seen to wave his cap from the summit of the fort. After a moment of doubt, the happy mystery was solved. The Spaniards had fled panic-struck during the darkness. Their position would still have enabled them, with firmness, to frustrate the enterprise of the patriots ; but the hand of God, which had sent the ocean and the tempest to the deliverance of Leyden, had struck her enemies with terror like- wise. The lights which had been seen moving during the night were the lanterns of the retreating Spaniards ; and the boy who was now waving his triumphant signal from the battlements had alone witnessed the * LAMMKN, a fort occupied by the Spaniards, which formed the sole remaining obstacle be- tween the fleet and the city. It swarmed with soldiers and bristled with cannon ; and so seri- ous an impediment did Boisot consider it, that he wrote that very night in desponding terms regarding it to the Prince of Orange. 316 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. spectacle. So confident was he in the conclusion to which it led him, that he had volunteered at daybreak to go thither alone. The magistrates, fearing a trap, hesitated for a moment to believe the truth, which soon, however, became quite evident. Valdez,* flying himself from Leyderdorp, had ordered Colonel Borgia to retire with all his troops from Lam men. Thus the Spaniards had retreated at the very moment that an extraor- dinary accident had laid bare a whole side of the city for their en- trance ! The noise of the wall as it fell only inspired them with fresh alarm ; for they believed that the citizens had sallied forth in the darkness to aid the advancing flood in the work of destruction. All obstacles being now removed, the fleet of Boisot swept by Lammen, and entered the city on the morning of the 3d of October. Leyden was relieved ! THE HERO OF THE DUTCH REPUBLIC. No man not even "Washington has ever been inspired by a purer patriotism than that of William of Orange. Whether original- ly of a timid temperament or not, he was certainly possessed of perfect courage at last. In siege and battle, in the deadly air of pestilential cities, in the long exhaustion of mind and body which comes from unduly protracted labor and anxiety, amid the countless conspiracies of assassins, he was daily exposed to death in every shape. Within two years five different attempts against his life had been discern ivd. Rank and fortune were offered to any malefactor who would compass the murder. He had already been shot through the head, and almost mortally wounded. He went through life bearing the load of a peo- ple's sorrows upon his shoulders with a smiling face. Their name was the last word upon his lips, save the simple affirmative with which the soldier who had been battling for the right all his lifetime commended his soul, in dying, " to the great Captain, Christ." The people were grateful and affectionate, for they trusted the character of their "Fa- ther William," and not all the clouds which calumny could collect ever dimmed to their eyes the radiance of that lofty mind to which they were accustomed, in their darkest calamities, to look for light. As long as he lived he was the guiding-star of a whole brave nation, and when he died the little children cried in the streets. * VAT.DEZ, the Spanish commander. His head-quarters were at Lcydcrdorp, a mile and a half to the right of Lammen. FliOUDE. 317 EEOUDE. 1818- JA.MES ANTHONY FROUDE, the historian, was born in Devonshire, Englan:!, in 1818. He graduated at Oxford University, and became a Fellow of Exeter College. His first book tfas a novel, Ths Shadows of the Clouds, which had much merit, but is now forgotten. His second was The Nemens of Faith, a theological work which attracted much attention. But his third essay, in the field of history, was conspicuously successful. His History of England embraces the period between the Fall of Wolsey and the Death of Elizabeth, and furnishes the cornpletest view of that time that has ever been written. In its preparation the author availed himself of a large collection of manuscripts never before discovered, and which threw a strong light upon his subject. Mr. Froude is not absolutely impartial as an historian ; he often gives way to his prejudices, and seems to pervert testimony in aid of his own opinions. His treatment of the case of Mary Queen of Scots has been shown to ba thoroughly unjust. But he has admirable qualifi- cations for historical writing ; his philosophical reflections are judicious, and his style is spirited and forcible. Some of his dramatic passages are equal to any in our historical literature. Al- though best known, in this country, at least, by his History, Mr. Froude has written many able essays on moral, social, and educational topics, some of which have been collected in a volume en- titled Short Studies on Great Subjects, from which the second extract is taken. He is now engaged on a book entitled The English in Ireland, the first volume of which has been published. In 1873 Mr. Froude visited this country on a lecturing tour, arid was received with marked cordiality. EXECUTION OF SIR THOMAS MORE.* AT daybreak More was awoke by the entrance of Sir Thomas Pops, who had come to confirm his anticipations, and to tell him it was the king's pleasure that he should suffer at nine o'clock that morning. He received the news with utter composure. " I am much boimden to the king," he said, " for the benefits and honors he has bestowed on me ; and, so help me God, most of all I am bounden to him that it pleaseth his Majesty to rid me so shortly out of the miseries of this present world." Pope told him the king desired that he would not " use many words on the scaffold." "Mr. Pope," he answered, "you do well to give me warning, for otherwise I had purposed somewhat to have spoken ; but no matter wherewith his Grace should have cause to be offended. * SIR THOMAS MORE, a celebrated English philosopher and statesman, born in London in 1480. He was the author of the famous Utopia, a fanciful production written in Latin, describ- ing an imaginary commonwealth in the imaginary island of Utopia, the citizens of which had all things in common. He was a strong Roman Catbolic, and wrote tracts against Luther. In October, 1529, he was appointed Lord Chancellor by Henry VIII. in place of the famous Cardi- nal Wolsey (see extract from Shakespeare's King Henry the Eighth, page 5). Sir Thomas refused to sanction the divorce of Queen Catherine and the marriage of King Henry to Anno Holcyn, for which he was beheaded in the Tower on the 6th of July, 1535. (Sec Caiiipbi-Ws Llccs of the Lord Chancellors, and Fruit-lc's Hixiury of Ennlnil.) 318 CATHC ART'S LITERARY READER. Howbeit, whatever I intended, I shall obey his Highness's com- mand." He afterwards discussed the arrangements for the funeral, at which he begged that his family might be present ; and when all was settled, Pope rose to leave him. He was an old friend. He took More's hand and wrung it, and, quite overcome, burst into tears. " Quiet yourself, Mr. Pope," More said, " and be not discomfited, for I trust we shall once see each other full merrily, when we shall live and love together in eternal bliss." As soon as he was alone he dressed in his most elaborate costume. It was for the benefit, he said, of the executioner who was to do him so great a service.* Sir William Kingston remonstrated, and with some difficulty induced him to put on a plainer suit ; but that his intended liberality should not fail, he sent the in in a gold angel in compensation, " as a token that he maliced him nothing, but rather loved him extremely." So about nine of the clock he was brought by the Lieutenant out of the Tower ; his be.:rd being long, which fashion he had never be- fore used, his face pale and lean, carrying in his hands a red cross, casting his eyes often towards heaven. He had been unpopular as a judge, and one or two persons in the crowd were insolent to him ; but the distance was short and soon over, as all else was nearly over now. The scaffold had been awkwardly erected, and shook as he placed his foot upon the ladder. " See me safe up," he said to Kingston. "For my coming down I can shift for myself." He bcgiin to speak to the people, but the sheriff begged him not to proceed, and he con- tented himself with asking for their prayers, and desiring them to bear witness for him that he died in the faith of the holy Catholic Church, and a faithful servant of God and the king. He then repeated the Miserere psalm f v on his knees ; and when he had ended and had risen, the executioner, x with an emotion which promised ill for the man- ner in which his part in the tragedy would be accomplished, begged his forgiveness. More kissed him. "Thou art to do me the great- est benefit that I can receive," he said. " Pluck up thy spirit, man, and be not afraid to do thine office. My neck is very short. Take heed, therefore, that thou strike not awry for saving of thine honesty." The executioner offered to tie his eyes. " I will cover tlieni myself," Psalm li. FROl'DE. he said ; and binding them in a cloth which he had brought with him, he knelt, and laid his head upon the block. The fatal stroke was about to fall, when he signed for a moment's delay while he moved aside his beard. " Pity that should be cut," he murmured, " that has not committed treason." With which strange words, the strangest, perhaps, ever uttered at such a time, the lips most famous through Europe for eloquence arid wisdom closed forever. " So," concludes his biographer, " with alacrity and spiritual joy lie received the fatal ax, which no sooner had severed the head from the body, but his soul was carried by angels into everlasting glory, where a crown of martyrdom was placed upon him which can never fade nor decay ; and then he found those words true which he had often spoken, that a man may lose his head and have no harm." This was the execution of Sir Thomas More, an act which sounded out into the far cornea's of the earth, and was the world's wonder as well for the circumstances under which it was perpetrated, as for the preternatural composure with which it was borne. Something of his calmness may have been due to his natural temperament, something to an unaffected weariness of a world which in his eyes was plunging into the ruin of the latter days. But those fair hues of sunny cheer- fulness caught their color from the simplicity of his faith ; and never was there a Christian's victory over death more grandly evidenced than in that last scene lighted with its lambent humor, ll THE BOOK OF JOB. WITH the Book of Job analytical criticism has only served to clear up the uncertainties which have hitherto always hung about it. It is now considered to be beyond all doubt a genuine Hebrew original, completed by its writer almost in the form in which it now remains to us. It is the most difficult of all the Hebrew compositions, many words occurring in it, and many thoughts, not to be found elsewhere in the Bible. How difficult oar translators found it may be seen by the number of words which they were obliged to insert in italics, and the doubtful renderings which they have suggested in the margin. There are many mythical and physical allusions scattered over the poem, which, in the sixteenth century, there were positively no means of understanding ; and perhaps, too, there were mental tendencies in the translators themselves which prevented them from adequately ap- prehending even the drift and spirit of the composition. CATHCAHT'S LITERARY READER. The form of the story was too stringent to allow such tendencies any latitude ; but they appear, from time to time, sufficiently to pro- duce serious confusion. With these recent assistances, therefore, we propose to say something of the nature of this extraordinary book, a book of which it is to say little to call it tmequaled of its kind, and which will one day, perhaps, when it is allowed to stand on its own merits, be seen towering up alone, far away above all the poetry of the world. How it found its way into the canon, smiting as it docs through and through the most deeply seated Jewish pivjudices, is the chief difficulty about it now ; to be explained only by a traditional acceptance among the sacred books, dating back from the old times of the national greatness, when the minds of the people were hewn in a larger type than was to be found among the Pharisees of the pvnt synagogue. But its authorship, its date, and its history are alike a mystery to us ; it existed at the time when the canon was composed ; and this is all that we know beyond what we can gather out of the language and contents of the poem itself. The conjectures which have been formed upon the date of this book are so various that they show of themselves on how slight a foundation the best of them must rest. The language is no guide, for although unquestionably of Hebrew origin, the poem bears no an logy to any of the other books in the Bible ; while of its external history nothing is known at all, except that it was received into the canon at the time of the great synagogue. Ewald decides, with some confi- dence, that it belongs to the great prophetic period, and that the writer was a contemporary of Jeremiah. Ewald is a high authority in these matters, and this opinion is the one which we believe is now commonly received among biblical scholars. In the absence of proof, however (and the' reasons which he brings forward are really no more than conjectures), these opposite considerations may be of moment. It is only natural that at first thought we should ascribe the grandest poem in a literature to the time at which the poetry of the nation to which it belongs was generally at its best ; but, on reflection, the time when the poetry of prophecy is the richest, is not likely to be favor- able to compositions of another kind. The prophets wrote in an era of decrepitude, dissolution, sin, and shame, when the glory of Israel was falling round them into ruin, and their mission, glowing as they were with the ancient spirit, was to rebuke, to warn, to threaten, and to promise. Finding themselves too late to save, and only, likf FROUDE. :i:2l Cassandra, despised and disregarded, their voices rise up singing the swan song of a dying people, now falling away in the wild wailing of despondency over the shameful and desperate present, now swelling in triumphant hope that God will not leave them forever, and in his own time will take his chosen to himself again. But such a period is an ill occasion for searching into the broad problems of human destiny ; the present is all-important and all-absorbing ; and such a book as that of Job could have arisen only out of an isolation of mind, and life, and interest, which we cannot conceive of as possible under such conditions. The more it is studied, the more the conclusion forces itself upon us that, let the writer have lived when he would, in his struggle with the central falsehood of his own people's creed, he must have divorced himself from them outwardly as well as inwardly ; that lie traveled away into the world, and lived long, perhaps all his matured life, in exile. Everything about the book speaks of a person who had broken free from the narrow littleness of " the peculiar people." The lan- guage, as we said, is full of strange words. The hero of the poem is of a strange land and parentage, a Gentile certainly, not a Jew. The life, the manners, the customs, are of all varieties and places : Egypt, with its river and its pyramids, is there ; the description of mining points to Phoenicia ; the settled life in cities, the nomad Arabs, the wandering caravans, the heat of the tropics, and the ice of the north, all are foreign to Canaan, speaking of foreign things and foreign peo- ple. No mention, or hint of mention, is there throughout the poem of Jewish traditions or Jewish certainties. We look to find the three friends vindicate themselves, as they so well might have done, by appeals to the fertile annals of Israel, to the Flood, to the cities of the plain, to the plagues of Egypt, or the thunders of Sinai. But of all this there is not a word ; they are passed by as if they had no exist- ence ; and instead of them, when witnesses are required for the power of God, we have strange un-Hebrew stories of the Eastern astronomic mythology, the old wars of the giants, the imprisoned Orion, the wounded dragon, " the sweet influences of the seven stars," and the glittering fragments of the sea-snake Rahab * trailing across the northern sky. Again, God is not the God of Israel, but the father of mankind ; we hear nothing of a chosen people, nothing of a special revelation, nothing of peculiar privileges ; and in the court of heaven * See E\vald on Job ix. 13, and xxvi. 14. #22 CATHC ART'S LITERARY HEADER. there is a S^tan, not tlie prince of this world and the enemy of God, but the angel of judgment, the accusing spirit whose mission was to walk to and fro over the earth, and carry up to heaven an account of the sins of mankind. We cannot believe that thoughts of this kind arose out of Jerusalem in the days of Josiah. The scenes, the names, and the incidents are all contrived as if to baffle curiosity, as" if, in the very form of the poem, to teach us that it is no story of a single tiling which happened once, but that it belongs to humanity itself, and is the drama of the trial of man, with Almighty God and the angels as the spectators of it. No reader can have failed to have been struck with the simplicity of the opening. Still, calm, and most majestic, it tells us everything which is necessary to be known in the fewest possible words. The history of Job was probably a tradition in the East; his name, like that of Priam in Greece, the symbol of fallen greatness, and his mis- fortunes the problem of philosophers. In keeping with the current belief, he is described r.s a model of excellence, the most perfect and upright man upon the earth, " and the same was the greatest man in all the east." So far, greatness and goodness had gone hand in hand to- gether, as the popular theory required. The details of his character arc brought out in the progress of the poem. He was " the father of the oppressed, and of those who had none to help them." When he sat as a judge in the market-places, " righteousness clothed him " there, and "his justice was a robe and a diadem." He "broke the jaws of the wicked, and plucked the spoil out of his teeth " ; and, humble in the midst of his power, he " did not despise the cr,use of his man-servant, or his maid-servant, when they contended with him," knowing that "He who had made him had made them," and one " had fashioned them both in the womb." Above all, he was the friend of the poor; "the blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon him," and he "made the widow's heart to sing for joy." Setting these characteristics of his daily life by the side of his un- affected piety, as it is described in the first chapter, we have a picture of the best man who could then be conceived ; not a lu.rd ascetic, living in haughty or cowardly isolation, but a warm figure of flesh and blood, a man full of all human loveliness, and to whom God him- self bears the emphatic testimony, that " there was none like him upon the earth, a perfect and upright man, who feared God and eschewed evil." HELPS. 323 HELPS. 1818-1875. SIR A?,THUR HELPS was born in England in 1818, and died in 1875. He lias written two dramatic poems of more than avei'age merit, but is best known by his essays, in which depart- ment of literature lie occupies a unique and very honorable place. His most popular bcoks are Friends in Council and Companions of my Solitude. In these volumes are reported the conver- sations of a company of friends, who discuss questions of various kinds, ethical, social, and literary. English literature contains nothing in the shape of colloquial essays that approaches these in merit. The individuality of the interlocutors is carefully preserved, and the reader acquires a personal interest in each hardly subordinate to the general effect of the wisdom which they interchange. The thought of these essays is effective not only by its intrinsic vigor and its , wonderful affinity for the mind of average intelligence, but by the inimitable grace and almost insidious gentleness of its expression. No writer is more remote from dogmatism than Mr. Helps ; but his opinions bear unmistakable marks of maturity and fixedness. His felicity of illustration is hardly surpassed, and the tender human sympathy which warms all his writings brings him very near to his readers. Mr. Helps was not a powerful original thinker; but he had tfce art of presenting the best thought in the most impressive and persuasive shape, in an almost unequaled degree, arid of calling out or reanimating ideas which have been latent in the minds of his readers. There are no essays in the language, save perhaps those of Macaulay, that are at once so delightful and so instructive as Mr. Helps's. The subtile and sweet influ- ence of Mr. Helps's writings is cordially acknowledged by Mr. Kuskin, and other authoritative critics have united in praise of the serene beauty of his style and the stimulating and suggestive potency of his philosophy. He was the author of two novels, or rather essays in the form of novels, Rralmah and Casimir Maremma, and had lately produced on historical novel of Russian life called Ivan de Biron. For many years Mr. Helps held an office in the personal service of Queen Victoria, and a short time before his death he received the honor of knighthood. DISCOVEEY OF THE PACIFIC OCEAN. VASCO NutfEZ * resolved, therefore, to be the discoverer of that sea and of those rich lands to which Comagre's son had pointed, when, after rebuking 1 the Spaniards for their " brabbling " about the division of the gold, he turned his face towards the south. In the peril which so closely impended over Vasco Nunez there was no use in waiting for reinforcements from Spain : when those reinforcements should come, his dismissal would come too. Accordingly, "early in Septem- ber, 1513, he set out on his renowned expedition for finding " the other sea," accompanied by a hundred and ninety men well armed, * VASCO NUNKZ DE BALBOA.* A celebrated Spanish navigator and discoverer, born about 1475- Dissensions having arisen between the partisans of an expedition which had landed on the Isthmus of Panama in 1510, of which Balboa' was a member, he was chosen leader of the expedition, and, having obtained reinforcements from Columbus at Ilispaniola, he proceeded to explore the Isthmus of Dar^n, and on the 29th of September, 1513, discovered from the summit of a mountain the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean. Like Columbus he was traduced by jealous rivals, and was finally executed on a charge of treasonable designs in 1517. (See Irving'.s Voyages an, I Discoveries of the Companions of Columbus.) C ATTICA RT^S LITERARY HEADER. and by dogs, wliich were of more avail than men, and by Indian slaves to carry the burdens. Following Poncha's guide, Yasco Nunez and his men commenced the ascent of the mountains, until he entered the country of LH Indian chief called Quarequa, whom they found fully prepared to resist them. The brave Indian advanced at the head of his troops, intending to make a vigorous attack ; but they could not withstand the discharge of the fire-arms. Indeed, they believed the Spaniards to have thun- der and lightning in their hands, riot an unreasonable fancy, and, riving in the utmost terror from the place of battle, a total rout ensued. 'The rout was a bloody one, and is described by an author, who gained his information from those who were present at it, as a scene to remind one of the shambles. The king and his principal men were slain, to the numbrr of six hundred. Speaking of these people, Peter Martyr makes mention of 'the sweetness of their language, saying that all the words in it might be written in Latin letters, as was also to be remarked in that of the inhabitants of Hispaniola. This writer also mentions, and there is reason for thinking that he was correctly informed, that there was a region, not two days' journey from Quarequa's territory, in which Vasco Nunez found a race of black men, who were conjectured to have come from Africa, and to have been shipwrecked on this coast. Leaving several of his men, who were ill, or over- weary, in Quarequa's chief town, and taking with him guides from this country, the Spanish commander pursued his way up the most lofty sierras there, until, on the 25th of September, 1513, he came near the top of a mountain from whence the South Sea was visible. The distance from Poncha's -chief town to this point was forty leagues, reckoned then six days' journey ; but Vasco Nunez and his men took twenty-five days to accomplish it, as they suffered much from the roughness of the ways and from the want of provisions. A little before Yasco Nunez reached the height, Quarequa's Indians informed him of his near approach to the sea. It was a sight in beholding which for the first time any man would wish to be alone. Yasco Nunez bade his men sit down while he ascended, and then, in solitude, looked down upon the vast Pacific, the first man of the Old World, so far as we know, who had d(fne so. Palling on his knees, he gave thanks to God for the favor shown to him, in his being permitted to discover the sea of the South. Then with his HELPS. 35 hand he beckoned to his men to come up. When they had come, both he and they knelt down, and poured forth their thanks to God. He then addressed them in these words : " You see here, gentlemen and children mine, how our desires are being accomplished, and the end of our labors. Of that we ought to be certain ; for, as it has turned out true, what King Comagiv/s son told of this sea to us, who never thought to see it, so I hold for certain that what he told us of there being incomparable treasures in it will be fulfilled. God and His Blessed Mother, who have assisted us, so that we should arrive here and behold this sea, will favor us, that we may enjoy all that there is in it." Afterward, they all devoutly sang the " Te Deuin Laudamus " ; and a list was drawn up, by a notary, of those who were present at this discovery, which was made upon St. Martin's day. Every great and original action has a prospective greatness, not alone from the thought of the man who achieves it, but from the vari- ous aspects and high thoughts which the same action will continue to present and call up in the minds of others to the end, it may be, of all time. And so a remarkable event may go on acquiring more and more significance. In this case, our knowledge that the Pacific, which Yasco Nunez then beheld, occupies more than one half of the earth's surface, is an element of thought which in our minds lightens up and gives an awe to this first gaze of his upon those mighty waters. Having thus addressed his men, Yasco Nunez proceeded to take formal possession, on behalf of the kings of Castile, of the sea, and of all that was in it ; and in order to make memorials of the event, he cut down trees, formed crosses, and heaped up stones. .He also inscribed the names of the monarchs of Castile upon great trees in the vicinity. READING. As the world grows older and as civilization advances, there is likely to be more and more time given to reading. In several parts of the earth where mankind are most active, and where the propor- tion of those who need to labor by their hands is less than in other countries, and likely to go on becoming less, the climate is such as to confine, if it does not repress, out-of-door amusements ; and, in all climates, for the lovers of ease, the delicate in health, the reserved, the fastidious, and the musing, books are amongst the chief sources of 326 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. delight, and such as will more probably intrench upon other joys and occupations than give way to them. If we consider what are the objects men pursue, when conscious of any object at all, in reading, they are these : amusement, instruction, a wish to appear well in society, and a desire to pass away time. Now even the lowest of these objects is facilitated by reading with method. The keenness of pursuit thus engendered enriches the most trilling gain, takes away the sense of dullness in details, and gives an interest to what would, otherwise, be most repugnant. No one who lias never known the eager joy of some intellectual pursuit, can un- derstand the full pleasure of reading. In considering the present subject, the advantage to the world in general of many persons being really versed in various subjects cannot be passed by. And were reading wisely undertaken, much more method and order would be applied to the consideration of the immediate business of the world. It must not be supposed that this choice and maintenance of one or more subjects of study must necessarily lead to pedantry or narrow- ness of mind. The Arts are sisters ; Languages are close kindred ; Sciences* are fellow -workmen ; almost every branch of human knowl- edge is immediately connected with biography ; biography falls into history, which, after drawing into itself various minor streams, such as geography, jurisprudence, political and social economy, issues forth upon the still deeper waters of general philosophy. There are very few, if any, vacant spaces between various kinds of knowledge : any track in the forest, steadfastly pursued, leads into one of the great highways ; just a*s you often find, in considering the story of any little island, that you are perpetually brought back into the general history of the world, ^and that this small rocky place has partaken the fate of mighty thrones and distant empires. In short, all things are so con- nected together, that a man who knows one subject well cannot, if he would, fail to have acquired much besides : and that man will not be likely to keep fewer pearls who has a string to put them on, than he who picks them up and throws them together without method. This, however, is a very poor metaphor to represent the matter ; for what I would aim at producing, not merely holds together what is gained, but has vitality in itself, is always growing. And anybody will confirm this who, in his own case, has had any branch of study or human affairs to work upon ; for he must have observed how all he meets seems to work in with, and assimilate itself to, his own pecu- HELPS. 327 liar subject. During his lonely walks, or in society, or in action, it seems as if this one pursuit were something almost independent of himself, always on the watch, and claiming its share in whatever is going on. Again, by recommending some choice of subject, and method in the pursuit of it, I do not wish to be held to a narrow interpretation of that word " subject." For example, I can imagine a man saying, I do not care particularly to investigate this or that question in his- tory ; I am not going to pursue any branch of science ; but I have a desire to know what the most renowned men have written : I will see what the twenty or thirty great poets have said ; what in various ages has appeared the best expression of the things nearest to the heart and fancy of man. A person of more adventure and more time might seek to include the greatest writers in morals or history. There are not so many of them. If a man were to read a hundred great authors, he would, I suspect, have heard what mankind has yet had to say upon most things. I am aware of the culture that would be required for such an enterprise; but I merely give it as an in- stance of what may justly come under the head of the pursuit of one subject, as I mean it, and which certainly would not be called a nar- row purpose. There is another view of reading, which, though it is obvious enough, is seldom taken, I imagine, or at least acted upon ; and that is, that, in the course of our reading, we should lay up in our minds a store of goodly thoughts in well-wrought words, which should be a living treasure of knowledge always with us, and from which at various times, and amidst all the shifting of circumstances, we might be sure of drawing some comfort, guidance, and sympathy. We see this with regard to the sacred writings. " A word spoken in due season, how good is it ! " But there is a similar comfort, on a lower level to be obtained from other sources than sacred ones. In any work that is worth carefully reading there is generally something that is worth remembering accurately. A man whose mind is enriched with the best sayings of the poets of his own country is a more in- dependent man, walks the streets in a town, or the lanes in the coun- try, with far more delight than he otherwise would have ; and is taught, by wise observers of man and nature, to examine for himself. Sancho Panza with his proverbs is a great deal better than he would have been without them : and I contend that a man has something in 328 CATHCARr's LITERARY READER. himself to meet troubles and difficulties, small or great, who has stored in his mind some of the best things which have been said about troubles and difficulties. Moreover, the loneliness of sorrow is there- by diminished. It need not be feared that a man whose memory is rich in such re- sources will become a quoting pedant. Often, the sayings which are dearest to our hearts are least frequent on our lips ; and those great ideas which cheer men in their direst struggles, are not things which they are likely to inflict by frequent repetition upon those they live with. There is a certain reticence with us as regards anything we deeply love. I have not hitherto spoken of the indirect advantage of methodical reading in the culture of the mind. One of the dangers supposed to be incident upon a life of study is, that purpose and decisiveness are worn away. Not, as I contend, upon a life of study, such as it ought to be. For, pursued methodically, there must be some, and not a little, of the decision, resistance, and tenacity of pursuit which create, or further, greatness of character in action. Though, as I have said, there are times of keen delight to a man who is engaged in any distinct pursuit, there are also moments of weariness, vexation, arid vacillation, which will try the metal in him and sec whether he is worthy to understand and master anything. For this you may observe that, in all times and all nations, sacrifice is needed. The savage Indian who was to obtain any insight into the future had to starve for it for a certain time. Even the fancy of this power was not to be gained without paying for it. And was anything real ever gained without sacrifice of some kind ? IT cannot have escaped the notice of any one who has had much experience, that human life is a system of cunningly devised checks and counter-checks. This is easily seen in considering physical things, such, for instance, as the human body. One of these bodies has a particular disorder. You could cure it by a certain remedy, if that remedy could be continued far enough ; but it cannot, as it would produce another disorder. The same law holds good through- out life ; and sometimes, where there is an appearance of the power of free movement in many directions, there is in reality a check to movement in every one. RUSKIN. 329 BUSKIN. 1819- JOHN RUSKTN, who lias risen to he an authority of last resort in all questions pertaining to Art, is a native of London, \vhere he was born in 1819. He was educated at Oxford, where he won the Newdigate Prize for English Poetry, and has devoted his whole life to the study and exposition of Art. He has written many books, most of which treat of architecture and painting. His first work was Modern Painters, which at once established his reputation. It elicited pro- fuse criticism, which in effect was favorable ; but high authorities severely censured it as illogi- cal and as extravagant in style. Among his best-know-n works are The Seven Lumps of Architec- ture, Tkz Stones of Venice, and Lectures on Architecture anl Paintiurj. Within a few years he has given much attention to questions of Political Economy. On no modern writer have praise and blame been bestowed in so great volumes and in so nearly equal measures. In the early years of his career it is undoubtedly true that the weight of critical authority was against him ; but to-day his hold upon the popular respect seems to be firmer than ever. His arrogance and dogmatism have cost him many friends, and the eccentricities of his style which, however, is marvclously forcible, and vigorous with a -certain wild beauty have repelled many readers from his books. But it is impossible not to admire his earnestness, his unquestionable love of truth, and his honest detestation of shams. He has done more than any other living writer to stimu- late the public interest in Art, au:l to formulate sound theories about it WATEE. OF all inorganic substances, acting in their own proper nature, and without assistance or combination, water is. the most wonderful. If we think of it as the source of all the changefulness and beauty which we have seen in clouds ; then as the instrument by which the earth we have contemplated was modeled into symmetry, and its crags chiseled into grace ; then as, in the form of snow, it robes the moun- tains it has made with that transcendent light which we could not have conceived if we had not seen ; then as it exists in the foam of the torrent, in the iris which spans it, in the morning mist which rises from it, in the deep crystalline pools which mirror its hanging shore, in the broad lake and glancing river ; finally, in that which is to all human minds the best emblem of unwearied, unconquerable power, the wild, various, fantastic, tameless unity of the sea ; what shall we compare to this mighty, this universal element, for glory and for beauty ? or how shall we follow its eternal changefulness of feel- ing? It is like trying to paint a soul. 4 Few people, comparatively, have ever seen the effect on the sea of a powerful gale continued without intermission for three or four days and nights, and to those who have not I believe it must be unimagin- able, not from the mere force or size of surge, but from the complete 330 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. annihilation of the limit between sea and air. The water from its prolonged agitation is beaten, not into mere creaming foam, but into masses of accumulated yeast, which hang in ropes and wreaths from wave to wave, and where one curls over to break, form a festoon like a drapery, from its edge ; these are taken up by the wind, not in dis- sipating dust, but bodily, in writhing, hanging, coiling masses, which make the air white and thick as with snow, only the flakes are a foot or two long each ; the surges themselves ere fall of foam in their very bodies, underneath, making them white all through, as the water is under a great cataract ; and their masses, being thus half water and half air, are torn to pieces by the wind, whenever they rise, and car- ried away in roaring smoke, which chokes and strangles like actual water. Add to this, that when the air has been exhausted of its moisture by long rain, the spray of the sea is caught by it, and covers its surface not merely with the smoke of finely divided w.iter, but with boiling mist ; imagine also the low rain-clouds brought down to the very level of the sea, as I have often seen them, whirling and fly- ing in rags and fragments from wave to wave ; and, finally, conceive the. surges themselves in their utmost pitch of power, velocity, vastness, and madness, lifting themselves in precipices and peaks, furrowed with their whirl of ascent, through all this chaos, and you will understand that there is, indeed, no distinction left between the sea and air; that no object, nor horizon, nor any landmark or natural evidence of posi- tion is left ; that the heaven is all spray, and the ocean all cloud, and that you can see no farther in any direction than you could see through a cataract. Pew people have had the opportunity of seeing the sea at such a time, and when they have, cannot face it. To hold by a mast or a rock, and watch it, is a prolonged endurance of drowning which few people have courage to go through. To those who have, it is one of the noblest lessons of nature. All rivers, small or large, agree in one character; they like to lean a little on one side ; they cannot bear to have their channels deepest in the middle, but will always, if they can, have one bank to sun themselves upon, and another to get cool under; one shingly shore to play over, where thgy may be shallow, and foolish, and childlike ; and another steep shore, under which they can pause and purify them- selves, and get their strength of waves fully together for due occasions. Rivers in this way are just like wise men, who keep one side of their life for play and another for work ; and can be brilliant, and chatter- RUSKIN. 331 ing, and transparent when they are at ease, and yet take deep counsel on the other side when they set themselves to the main purpose. And rivers are just in this divided, also, like wicked and good men ; the good rivers have . serviceable deep places all along their banks that ships can sail in, but the wicked rivers go scoopingly, irregularly, under their banks until they get full of strangling eddies, which no boat can row over without being twisted against the rocks, and pools like wells which no one can get out of but the water-kelpie that lives at the bottom ; but, wicked or good, the rivers all agree in having two sides. When water, not in very great body, runs in a rocky bed much in- terrupted by hollows, so that it can rest every now and then in a pool as it goes along, it does not acquire a continuous velocity of motion. It pauses after every leap, and curdles about, and rests a little, and then goes on again ; and if in this comparatively tranquil and rational state of mind it meets with an obstacle, as a rock or stone, it parts on each side of it with a little bubbling foam, and goes round ; if it comes to a step in its bed, it leaps it lightly, and then after a little plashing at the bottom, stops again to take breath. But if its bed be on a continuous slope, not much interrupted by hollows, so that it cannot rest, or if its own mass be so increased by flood that its usual resting- places are not sufficient for it, but that it is perpetually pushed out of them by the following current, before it has had time to tranquilize itself, it of course gains velocity with every yard that it runs ; the impetus got at one leap is carried to the credit of the next, until the whole stream becomes one mass of unchecked, accelerating motion. Now when water in this state comes to an obstacle, it does not part at it, but clears it like a race-horse ; and when it comes to a hollow, it does not fill it up and run out leisurely at the other side, but it rushes down into it and comes up again on the other side, as a ship into the hollow of the sea. Hence the whole appearance of the bed of the stream is changed, and all the lines of the water altered in their nature. The quiet stream is a succession of leaps and pools ; the leaps are light and springy, and parabolic, and make a great deal of splashing when they tumble into the pool ; then we have a space of quiet curd- ling water, and another similar leap below. But the stream when it has gained an impetus takes the shape of its bed, never stops, is equally deep and equally swift everywhere, goes down into every hollow, not CATHCART S LITERACY HEADER. with a leap, but with a swing, not foaming, nor splashing, but in the bending line of a strong sea-wave, and comes up again on the other side, over rock and ridge, with the ease of a bounding leopard ; if it meet a rock three or four feet above the level of its .bed, it will neither part nor foam, nor express any concern about the matter, but clear it in a smooth dome of water, without apparent exertion, coming down again as smoothly on the other side } the whole surface of the surge being drawn into parallel lines by its extreme velocity, but foamless, except in places where tho form of the bed opposes itself at some direct angle to such a line of fall, and causes a breaker ; so that the whole river lias the appearance of a deep and raging s?a, with this only difference, that the torrent-waves always break backwards, and sea-waves for- wards. Thus, then, in the water which has gained an impetus, we have the most exquisite arrangements of curved lines, perpetually changing from convex to concave, and vice versa, following every swell and hollow of the b;xl with their modulating grace, and all in unison of motion, presenting perhaps the most beautiful series of in- organic forms which nature can possibly produce ; for the sea runs too much into similar and concave curves with sharp edges, but every motion of the torrent is united, and all its curves are modifica- tions of beautiful lines. THE CLOUDS. STAND upon the peak of some isolated mountain at daybreak, when the night-mists first rise from off the plains, and watch their white and lake-like fields as they float in level bays and winding gulfs about the islanded summits of the lower hills, untouched yet by more than dawn, colder and more quiet than a windless sea under the moon of midnight. Watch when the first sunbeam is sent upon the silver channels, how the foam of their undulating surface parts and passes away; and down under their depths the glittering city and green pas- ture lie, like Atlantis, between the white paths of winding rivers ; the flakes of light falling every moment faster and broader among the spires, starry as the wreathed surges break and vanish above them, and the confused crests and ridges of the dark hills shorten their gray shadows upon the plain. Wait a little longer, and you shall see those scattered mists rallying in the ravines and floating up towards you, along the winding valleys, till they couch in quiet masses, iridescent with the morning light, UUSKIN. 333 upon the broad bre::sts of the higher hills, whose leagues of massy undulation will melt back and back into that robe of material light, until they fade away, lost Li its luster, to appear again above, in the serene heaven, like a wild, bright, impossible dream, foundationless and inaccessible, their very bases vanishing in the unsubstantial and mocking blue of the deep lake below. Wait yet a little longer, and you shall see those mists gather themselves into white towers, and stand like fortresses along the promontories, massy and motion- less, only piling with every instant higher and higher into the sky, and casting longer shadows athwart the rocks ; and out of the paid blue of the horizon you will see forming and advancing a troop of narrow, dark, pointed vapors, which will cover the sky, inch by inch, with their gray network, and take the light off the landscape with an eclipse which will stop the singing of the birds and the motion of the leaves together ; and then you will see horizontal bars of black shadow forming under them, and lurid wreaths create themselves, you know not how, along the shoulders of the hills ; you never see them form, but when you look back to a place which was clear an instant ago, there is a cloud on it, hanging by the precipices, as a hawk pauses over his prey. And then you will hear the sudden rush of the awakened wind, and you will see ,thos3 watch-towers of vapor swept away from their foun- dations, and waving curtains of opaque rain let down to the valleys, swinging from the burdened clouds in black, bending fringes, or pacing in pale columns along the lake level, grazing its surface into foam as they go. And then, as the sun sinks, you shall see the storm drift for an instant from off the hills, leaving their broad sides smoking, and loaded yet with snow-white, torn, steam-like rags of capricious vapor, now gone, now gathered again ; while the smoldering sun, seeming not far away, but burning like a red-hot ball beside* you, and as if you could reach it, plunges through the rushing wind and rolling cloud with headlong fall, as if it meant to rise no more, dyeing all the air about it with blood. And then you shall Invar the fainting tempest die in the hollow of the night, and you shall see a green halo kindling on the summit of the eastern hills, brighter brighter yet, till the large white circle of the slow moon is lifted up among the barred clouds, step by step, line by line ; star after star she quenches with her kindling light, sell ing in their stead an rrmy of pale, penetrable, fleecy wreaths in the heaven, to MVC light upon the e;:rt!i. which mov 334 CATHCAHT'S LITERAIIY HEADER. together hand in hand, company by company, troop by troop, so measured in their unity of motion, that the whole heaven seems to roll with them, and the earth to reel under them. And then wait yet for one hour, until the east again becomes purple, and the heaving mountains, rolling against it in darkness, like waves of a wild sea, are drowned one by one in the glory of its burning ; watch the white glaciers blaze in their winding paths about the mountains, like mighty serpents with scales of fire ; watch the columnar peaks of solitary snow, kindling downwards, chasm by chasm, each in itself a new morning ; their long avalanches cast down in keen streams bright- er than the lightning, sending each his tribute of driven snow, like altar- smoke, up to the heaven ; the rose-light of their silent domes flushing that heaven about them and above them, piercing with purer light through its purple lines of lifted cloud, casting a new glory on every wreath as it passes by, until the whole heaven one scarlet canopy is interwoven with a roof of waving flame, and tossing, vault beyond vault, jis with the drifted wings of many companies of angels ; and then, when you can look no more for gladness, and when you are bowed down with fcr.r and love of the Maker and Doer of this, tell me who has best delivered this his message unto men ! XATURE has a thousand ways and means of rising above herself, but incomparably the noblest manifestations of her capability of color are in the sunsets among the high clouds. I speak especially of the moment before the sun sinks, when his light turns pure rose-Color, and when this light falls upon a zenith covered with countless cloud- forms of inconceivable delicacy, threads and flakes of vapor, which would in common daylight be pure snow-white, and which give there- fore fair fif Id to the tone of light. There is then no limit to the mul- titude, and no check to the intensity of the hues assumed. The whole sky from the zenith to the horizon becomes one molten, man- tling sea of color and fire ; every black bar turns into massy gold, every ripple and wave into unsullied, shadowless crimson, and purple, and scarlet, and colors for which there are no words in language and no ideas in the mind, things which can only be conceived while they are visible, the intense hollow bine of the upper sky melting through it all, showing here deep and pure and lightless, there modulated by the filmy, formless body of the transparent vapor, till it is lost imperceptibly in its crimson and gold. LOWELL. LOWELL. 1819. prof of poetry, A Year's Life, was published in 1811. In 1814 appeared a second collection of poems, and in 1848 a third. This latter year is a memorable one in his literary career, having witnessed the publication of some of his most famous compositions. Among these arc The- Vision of Sir Lauiifal, A Fable for Critics, and The Biyloic Papers, besides a fresh collection of his shorter poems. In 1855 Mr. Lowell succeeded to the chair of Belles-Lettrcs in Harvard College, for many years occupied by Mr. Longfellow. Since his accession to this post he has undertaken no important literary enterprises. He has, however, contributed to the magazines, and written occasional poems (e. g. the Commemoration Ode) which exhibit his powers at their best. The only volumes bearing his name issued within the last ten years arc two collections of essays, My Study Win-loivs and Antony my Books. Professor Lowell is, perhaps, the most scholarly of American wii.ers; yet he is far from sacrificing vigor to finish, and his compositions illustrate the highest American attainment in culture and style. His Fable for Critics marked a new departure in American letters, and exhibited him as a successful pioneer in a department of poetical effort which had been almost untried in this country. Its execution would do credit to the poet in his maturity ; but its spirit smacked of acerbity and arrogance, and strikingly exem- plified one of his characteristics, an almost finical fastidiousness, which has always prevented The Biylow Papers are a unique product of American humor, Europe, where he remained two years. MY GARDEN ACQUAINTANCE. DR. WATTS'S statement that "birds in their little nests agree," like too many others intended to form the infant mind, is very far from being true. On the contrary, the most peaceful relation of the different species to each other is that of armed neutrality. They are very jealous of neighbors. A few years ago, I was much interested in the housebuilding of a pair of summer yellow-birds. They had chosen a very pretty site near the top of a tall white lilac, within easy eyeshot of a chamber window. A very pleasant thing it was to see their little home growing with mutual help, to watch their industrious skill interrupted only by little flirts and snatches of endearment, frugally cut short by the common-sense of the tiny housewife. They had brought their work nearly to an end, and had already begun to line it with fern-down, the gathering of which demanded more distant 336 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. journeys and longer absences. But, alas ! the syringa, immemorial manor of the catbirds, was not more than twenty feet away, arid these " giddy neighbors" had, as it appeared, been all along jealously watch- ful, though silent, witnesses of what they deemed an intrusion of squatters. No sooner were the pretty mates fairly gone for a new load of lining, than " To their unguarded nest these weasel Scots Came stealing." Silently they flew Inck and forth, each giving a vengeful dab at the nest in passing. They did not fall-to and deliberately destroy it, for they might have been caught at their mischief. As it was, whenever the yellow-birds came back, their enemies were hidden in their own sight-proof bush. Several times their unconscious victims repaired damages, but. at length, after counsel taken together, they gave it up. Perhaps, like other unlettered folk, they came to the conclusion that the Devil was in it, and yielded to the invisible persecutions of witch- craft. The robins, by constant attacks and annoyances, have succeeded in driving off the blue-jays who used to build in our pines, their gay colors and quaint noisy ways making them welcome and amusing neighbors. I once had the chance of doing a kindness to a house- hold of them, which they received with very friendly condescension. I had had my eye for some time upon u nest, and was puzzled by a constant fluttering of what seemed full-grown wings in it whenever I drew nigh. At last I climbed the tree, in spite of angry protests from the old birds against my intrusion. The mystery had a very simple solution. In building the nest, a long piece of packthread had been somewhat loosely woven in. Three of the young had contrived to entangle themselves in it, and had become full-grown without being - able to launch themselves upon the air. One was u:iharmed ; another had so tightly twisted the cord about its shank that one foot was curled up and seemed paralyzed ; the third, in its struggles to escape, had sawn through the tlesh of the thigh and so much harmed itself that I thought it humane to put an end to its misery. When I took out my knife to cut their hempen "bonds, the heads of the family seemed to divine my friendly intent. Suddenly ceasing their cries and threats, they perched quietly within reach of my hand, and watched me in my work of manumission. This, owing to the flutter- ing terror of the prisoners, was an affair of some delicacy ; but crclor.g LOWELL. 337 I was rewarded by seeing one of them fly away to a neighboring tree, while the cripple, making a parachute of his wings, came lightly to the ground, and hopped off as well as he could with one leg, obsequi- ously waited on by his elders. A week later I had the satisfaction of meeting him in the pine-walk, in good spirits, and already so far recovered as to be able to balance himself with the lame foot. I have no doubt that in his old age he accounted for his lameness by some handsome story of a wound received at the famous Battle of the Pines, when our tribe, overcome by numbers, was driven from its ancient camping-ground. Of late years the jays have visited us only at inter- vals ; and in winter their bright plumage, set off by the snow, and their cheerful cry, are especially welcome. They would have furnished jEsop with a fable, for the feathered crest in which they seem to take so much satisfaction is often their fatal snare. Country boys make a hole with their finger in the snow-crust just large enough to admit the jay's head, end, hollowing it out somewhat beneath, bait it with a few kernels of corn. The crest slips easily into the trap, but refuses to be pulled out again, and he who came to feast remains a prey. Twice have the crow-blackbirds attempted a settlement in my pines, and twice have the robins, who claim a right of pre-emption, so suc- cessfully played the part of border-ruffians as to drive them away, to my great regret, for they are the best substitute we have for rooks. At Shady Hill (now, alas ! empty of its so long loved household) they build by hundreds, and nothing can be more cheery than their creak- ing clatter (like a convention of old-fashioned tavern-signs) as they gather at evening to debate in mass meeting their windy politics, or to gossip at their tent-doors over the events of the day. Their port is grave, and their stalk across the turf as martial as that of a second- rate ghost in Hamlet. They never meddled with my corn, so far as I could discover. For a few years I had crows, but their nests are an irresistible bait for boys, and their settlement was broken up. They grew so wonted as to throw off a great part of their shyness, and to tolerate my near approach. One very hot day I stood for some time within twenty feet of a mother and three children, who sat on an elm bough over my head, gasping in the sultry air, and holding their wings half spread for coolness. All birds during the pairing season become more or less sentimental, and murmur soft nothings in a tone very unlike the grinding-organ repetition and loudness of their habitual song. The 15 v 338 CATHC ART'S LITERARY READER. crow is very comical as a lover, and to hear him trying to soften his croak to the proper Saint Preux standard has something the effect of a Mississippi boatman quoting Tennyson. Yet there are few things to my ear more melodious than his caw of a clear winter morning as it drops to you filtered through five hundred fathoms of crisp blue air. The hostility of all smaller birds makes the moral character of the crow, for all his deaconlike demeanor and garb, somewhat question- able. He could never sally forth without insult. The golden robins, especially, would chase him as far as I could follow with my eye, making him duck clumsily to avoid their importunate bills. I do not believe, however, that he robbed any rests hereabouts, for the refuse of the gas-works, which, in our free-and-easy community, is allowed to poison the river, supplied him with dead alrwives in abundance. I used to watch him making his periodical visits to the salt-marshes and coming back with a fish in his beak to his young savages, who, no doubt, like it in that condition which makes it savory to the Kanakas and other corvine races of men. YUSSOUF. A STRANGER came one night to Yussouf's tent, Snying, " Behold one outcast and in dread, Against whose life the bow of power is bent, Who flies, and hath not where to lay his head; I come to thee for shelter and for food, To Yussouf, called through all our tribes '.The Good.' " " This tent is mine," said Yussouf, " but no more Than it is God's ; come in, and be at peace ; Preely shalt thou partake of all my store As I of His who buildeth over these Our tents his glorious roof of night and day, And at whose door none ever yet heard Nay." So Yussouf entertained his guest that night, And, waking him ere day, said : " Here is gold, My swiftest horse is saddled for thy flight, Depart before the prying day grow bold." As one lamp lights another, nor grows less, So nobleness enkindleth nobleness. LOWELL. 339 That inward light the stranger's face made grand, Which shines from all self-conquest ; kneeling low, He bowed his forehead upon Yussouf 's hand, Sobbing : " O Sheik, I cannot leave thee so; I will repay thee ; all this thou hast done Unto that Ibrahim who slew thy son ! " " Take thrice the gold," said Yussouf, " for with thee Into the desert, never to return, My one black thought shall ride* away from me; First-born, for whom by day and night I yearn, Balanced and just are all of God's decrees ; Thou art avenged, my first-born, sleep in peace ! " THE CHANGELING. I HAD a little daughter, And she was given to me To lead me gently backward To the Heavenly Father's knee, That I, by the force of nature, Might in some dim wise divine The depth of his infinite patience To this wayward soul of mine. I know not how others saw her, But to me she was Avholly fair, And the light of the heaven she came from Still lingered and gleamed in her hair; For it was as wavy and golden, And as many changes took, As the shadows of sun -gilt ripples On the yellow bed of a brook. To what can I liken her smiling Upon me, her kneeling lover, How it leaped from her lips to her eyelids, And dimpled her wholly over, CATHCARTS LITERARY READER. Till her outstretched hands smiled also, And I almost seemed to see The very heart of her mother Sending sun through her veins to me ! She had been with us scarce a twelvemonth, And it hardly seemed a day, When a troop of wandering angels Stole my little daughter away ; Or perhaps those heavenly Zingari But loosed the hampering strings, And when they had opened her cage-door, My little bird used her wings. But they left in her stead a changeling, A little angel child, That seems like her bud in full blossom, And .smiles as she never smiled : "When I wake in the morning, I sec it Where she always used to lie, And I feel as weak as a violet Alone 'ncath the awful sky ; As weak, yet as trustful also ; For the whole year long I see All the wonders of faithful Nature Still worked for the love of me ; Winds wander, and dews drip earthward, Rain falls, suns rise and set, Earth whirls, and all but to prosper A poor little violet. This child is not mine as the first was, I cannot sing it to rest, I cannot lift it up fatherly And bliss it upon my breast ; Yet it lies in my little one's cradle And sits in my little one's chair, And the light of the heaven she 's gone to Transfigures its golden hair. LOWELL. 341 ON A CERTAIN CONDESCENSION IN FOREIGNERS. PERHAPS one reason why the average Briton spreads himself here with such an easy air of superiority may be owing to the fact that he meets with so many bad imitations as to conclude himself the only real thing in a wilderness of shams. He fancies himself moving through an endless Bloom sbury, where his mere apparition confers honor as an avatar of the court-end of the universe. Not a Bull of them all but is persuaded he bears Europa upon his back. This is the sort of fellow whose patronage is so divertingly insufferable. Thank Heaven he is not the only specimen of cater-cousinship from the dear old Mother Island that is shown to us ! Among genuine things, I know nothing more genuine tljpii the better men whose limbs were made in England. So manly-tender, so brave, so true, so warranted to wear, they make us proud to feel that blood is thicker than water. But it is not merely the Englishman ; every European candidly ad- mits in himself some right of primogeniture in respect to us, and pats this shaggy continent on the back with a lively sense of generous unbending. The German who plays the bass-viol has a well-founded contempt, which he is not always nice in concealing, for a country so few of whose children ever take that noble instrument between their knees. So long as we continue to be the most common-schooled and the least cultivated people in the world, I suppose we must consent to endure this condescending manner of foreigners toward us. The more friendly they mean to be, the more ludicrously prominent it becomes. They can never appreciate the immense amount of silent work that has been done here making this continent slowly fit for the abode of man, and which will demonstrate itself, let us hope, in the character of the peo- ple. Outsiders can only be expected to judge a nation by the amount it has contributed to the civilization of the world ; the amount, that is, that can be seen and handled. A great place in history can only be achieved by competitive examinations, nay, by a long course of them. How much new thought have we contributed to the common stock ? Till that question can be triumphantly answered, or needs no answer, we must continue to be simply interesting as an experiment, to be studied as a problem, and not respected as an attained result or an accomplished solution. Perhaps, as [ have hinted, their patronizing 342 CATHCART'S LITERARY HEADER. manner toward us is the fair result of their failing to see here any thing more than a poor imitation, a plaster-cast of Europe. And are they riot partly right ? If the tone of the uncultivated American has too often the arrogance of the barbarian, is not that of the culti- vated as often vulgarly apologetic ? In the American they meet with is there the simplicity, the manliness, the absence of sham, the sin- cere" human nature, the sensitiveness to duty and implied obligation, that in any way distinguishes us from what our orators call " the effete civilization of the Old World " ? Is there a politician among us daring enough to risk his future on the chance of our keeping our word with the exactness of superstitious communities like England ? Is it certain that we shall be ashamed of a bankruptcy of honor, if we can only keep the letter o our bond ? I hope we shall be able to answer all these questions with a frank yw. At any rate, we would advise our visitors that we are not merely curious creatures, but be- long to the family of man, and that, as individuals, we are not to be always subjected to the competitive examination above mentioned, even if we acknowledged their competence as an examining board. Above all, we beg them to remember that America is not to us, as to them, a mere object of external interest to be discussed and analyzed, but in us, part of our very marrow. Let them not suppose that we conceive of ourselves as exiles from the graces and amenities of an older date than we, though very much at home in a state of things not yet all it might be or should be, but which we mean to make so, and which we find both wholesome and pleasant for men to live in. " The full tide of human existence " may be felt here as keenly as Johnson felt it at Charing Cross, and in a larger sense. I know one person who is singular enough to think Cambridge the very best spot on the habitable globe.* " Doubtless God conld have made a better, but doubtless he never did." It will take England a great while to get over her airs of patronage towr.rd us, or even passably to conceal them. She cannot help con- founding the people with the country, and regarding us as lusty juveniles. She has a conviction that whatever good there is in us is wholly English, when the truth is that we are worth nothing except so far as we have disinfected ourselves of Anglicism. She is especially condescending just now, and lavishes sugar-plums on us as if we * Mr. Lowell resides at Cambridge. LOWELL. 343 had not outgrown them. I am no believer in sudden conversions, especially in sudden conversions to a favorable opinion of people who have just proved you to be mistaken in judgment and therefore un- wise in policy. I never blamed her for not wishing well to democ- racy, how should she ? The only sure way of bringing about a healthy relation between the two countries is for Englishmen to clear their minds of the notion that we are always to be treated as a kind of inferior and deported Englishman whose nature they perfectly un- derstand, and whose back they accordingly stroke the wrong way of the fur with amazing perseverance. Let them learn to treat us natu- rally on our merits as human beings, as they would a German or a Frenchman, and not as if we were a kind of counterfeit Briton whose crime appeared in every shade of difference, and before long there would come that right feeling which we naturally call a good under- standing. The common blood, and^till more the common language, are fatal instruments of misapprehension. Let them give up trying to understand us, still more* thinking that they do, and acting in vari- ous absurd ways as the necessary consequence ; for they will never arrive at that devoutly-to-be-wished consummation, till they learn to look at us as we are and not as they suppose us to be. Dear old long-estranged mother-in-law, it is a great many years since we parted. Since 1660, when you married again, you have been a step- mother to us. Put on your spectacles, dear madam. Yes, we have grown, and changed likewise. You would not let us darken your doors, if you could help it. We know that perfectly well. But pray, 'when we look to be treated as men, don't shake that rattle in our faces, nor talk baby to us any longer. "Do, child, go to it grandam, child ; Give grandam kingdom, and it grandam will Give it a plum, a cherry,. and a fig." 344 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. MRS. LE VERT. 1820- MRS. OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT, a distinguislied Southern writer, was born near Augusta, Georgia, in 1820. She was the daughter of Colonel George Walton. While a mere girl she selected a name for the capital of Florida, of which State her father was at that time governor, Tallahassee, an Indian word meaning "beautiful land." In 1836 she became the wife of Dr. Henry S. Le Vert of Mobile, Alabama. She has traveled much, both in America and Europe. The observations made during two tours in Europe are given in her Souvenirs of Travel, a duo- decimo of two volumes, published in 1858. She has contributed occasionally to current litera- ture; and since the war has given readings from her writings. Of Mrs. Le Vert's tours in Europe N. P. Willis says : " There probably was never a more signal success in the way of access to foreign society, friendly attentions from the nobility, and notice from royalty, than fell to the share of Madame Le Vert." Her style is spontaneous, often conversational, but always graceful, natural, and easy, and never dull. The best portions are The Eruption of Tcsurlus, The Coliseum, The Way over the Slmplon, The Bruinilng* In Florence, Moonlight in Venice, A Visit to the Pope, and The Farewell to Italy. In 1869 a similar work, Sunrenifs of Distinguished People, by Mrs. Le Vert, was announced as in press ; but it has never appeared, owing, the public were advised, to circumstances of a personal nature. THE STUDY OF LANGUAGE. " Greek 's a harp we love to hear : Latin is a trumpet clear ; Spanish like an organ swells ; Italian rings its silver bells ; France, with many a frolic mien, Tunes her sprightly violin ; Loud the German rolls his drum When Russia's clashing cymbals come; But Briton's sons may well rejcice, For English is the human voice." THERE is not a more useful or delightful occupation for the leisure hours of young ladies than the study of foreign languages. It is the bridge spanning the deep waters which divide our own from the rich and varied literature of other lands. When once we have passed over it, a new world of enjoyment is open to us, and we are quickly brought en rapport with the brilliant intellects that have illustrated the grand and glorious in prose and poetry. The best translation is but a shadow of the original. We may transplant a tropical flower to our climate, and cherish it with infinite care ; still its blossoms will never possess the beauty and fragrance of its own sunny clime. Thus it is with foreign literature. To enjoy perfectly the noble utterances of great minds, we must read them in the language with which Genius first' draped them. The subtile charm MRS. LE YEKT. 345 of originality, the delicate shades of thought, radiant and evanes- cent as the hues of the rainbow, vanish away before the realities of a translation. A few hours, or even one hour, each day, snatched from the exi- gencies of society, and devoted to the study of any one of the lan- guages of Europe, would prove a profitable investment of time, and yield a sure reward. Madame Campan did not consider the educa- tion of a young girl completed because she had left school. In one of her admirable letters of advice to a friend, she writes : " Continue still to devote daily some hours to study, that you may speak fluently in German, sing sweetly in Italian, and write charmingly in French." Although the fashionable world may be very exacting and absorb much of the attention of our young ladies, still, even in its whirl of gayety there are many weary and listless hours, which might be pleas- antly occupied in learning a foreign language. The Persian poet ex- claims, " Count every hour enjoyed as a treasure gained." May we not paraphrase this by saying, " Count every hour well employed as a treasure gained ? " One of those weary hours given each day to German would soon afford you the satisfaction of reading the grandly eloquent works of Goethe, of Schiller, of Jean Paul Richter, of Heine, and of other authors, to which no translation can ever render justice. Many young ladies study Latin at school ; hence the acquisition of any of the languages of Southern Europe would be vastly facilitated. It is a fascinating occupation to follow all these different streams which flow from the great fountain of the Latin. First, the Spanish, resembling it closely, with many of its noble characteristics, while it is enriched with the sonorous grandeur of the Moorish, vehement, expressive, and forcible, peculiarly powerful and majestic in oratory and declamation. > Next, the Italian, soft and graceful, the type of its own rose- tinted skies and delicious clime. Music, which gives laws to har- mony, has chosen that idiom as the most exquisite for the sweet breathings of its melody ; while Poetry, the sister spirit of Music, revels in the full and swelling beauty of its tones. Then, the French, bright as the flight of a shining arrow, em- phatic and concise, the language of society and of diplomacy. Tli rough all changes of " clime and time," we will trace their alle- giance to the Latin. It lingers around them as the remembrance of a mother's love clinics to the human heart. 346 Among the happy visions which float in the mind of nearly every American girl is that of a visit to Europe ; therefore, to her, a knowl- edge of foreign languages would be especially agreeable. Many per- sons travel through classic lands with no more enjoyment than the deaf and dumb, whose only pleasure is derived from sight. How charmingly might a young lady utilize her accomplishments as a lin- guist by contributing to the information, the happiness, and the com- fort of those of her family who accompany her, and who, perhaps, have been too much occupied with the hard actualities of life to acquire these languages ! It is always a joy to woman's heart to know she increases the hap- piness of the loved ones. Thus many amusing incidents and spark- ling conversations are constantly occurring as we travel through "lands beyond the seas," which might be translated for their enjoyment also. Pleasure and usefulness are combined in the knowledge of foreign languages. It is an admirable training for the memory, and genial exercise for the mind ; and the acquisition of every new language is another delight added to existence. THE ESCUEIAL. AT dawn we left Madrid, passing through the deserted Puerto del Sol, by the great palace of the queen, and on to the avenue called La Florida. The trees are planted near the Manzanares, and their vigor- ous life is in strong contrast with the sterility around them. The plains are parched, and the hills gray, and entirely without verdure. At intervals we saw the peasants working amid the rocks, for there did not seem to be a vestige of soil upon them. The snow-capped peaks of the Guadarama Mountains soon met our eyes, gleaming brightly in the morning sunlight, as we journeyed pleasantly along the cainlno real the royal road which leads from the capital to the Escurial, a distance of twenty-five miles. The road is really mag- nificent, with a parapet rising up on each side, and grand bridges spanning deep chasms, where far below trickle slowly on diminutive streamlets dignified with the name of river. Many leagues away we caught sight of the Escurial, rising in gloomy yet majestic grandeur near the highest point of the mountain region of the Guadarama. It is built of granite, and absolutely si-cms a part and portion of the "everlasting hills." It is a glorious old mis. LE VERT. '317 palace, monastery, and mausoleum, erected in 1503 by Philip the Second, son of the famous Charles the Fifth, in compliance with a vow made to St. Lorenzo so says tradition during the battle of St. Qnentiri. The saint granting the monarch's prayer for vic- torv, this colossal and sucred edifice was dedicated to his honor, and constructed in the form of a par 'ilia, gridiron, as St. Lorenzo suffered martyrdom by being broiled upon one. Hence it presents a most singular appearance. Four enormous towers indicate the feet of the gridiron, while the interior is divided into cloisters like its bars. The handle contains the palace. In the center of the building is the immense dome, and beneath it the church. We drove through a poor little village near the palace, and stopping at the posada, ob- tained a guide, and went immediately to the Escurial. Its propor- tions are gigantic, and it seems intended for eternity, with its arched corridors, its spacious * porticos and wide courts, its lofty galleries and noble saloons. There are eleven thousand windows, in holy remembrance of the." Virgins of Cologne, slain by the Huns," ind fourteen thousand doors. Twenty-two years were occupied in its construction, and it cost six millions of crowns. We spent all the day following our guide Cornelio through the windings of the building, almost as intricate as those of the Cretan labyrinth. Cornelio was entirely blind, and had been so for forty- eight years. Still, in his " mind's eye," he sees all the glories of the Escurial. It was so strange to hear the sightless old man exclaim, " Now, Seiiora, remark the effect of the sunlight upon that picture ! " And then he would stop as though looking upon it, and point out all its beauty. " See the deep shadows cast by those columns ; they have the form of a king upon his throne," again would he say, as we passed along with him up the great granite stairways, and through vaulted cloisters to the royal apartments, where Isabel the Second spends her summers. These are fitted up with luxurious elegance, but not by far so exquisite as that portion of the palace embellished and adorned by Charts the Third. It is quite unique in style. The floors and walls are composed of a mosaic of different colored wood, and the furniture inlaid with ivory and pearl-shell, and glittering with stones and gems. The view from the balcony of these rooms is admirably picturesque, looking down upon the lonja terrace planted with box, cut into fanciful shapes. Beyond this terrace are the hanging gardens, and CATHCAIIT'S LITEKAUY IIKADEE. the little lakes and fountains ; then great groves of elm and o.ik trees, all brought from England. Inclosing the lovely picture, as though in a dark frame, were the gray summits of the Guadarama chain. Gazing over the wide expanse, it appeared to me the realization of the wild dream of an enthusiast. The creation of such a paradise, be- neath the shadow of the snow-topped mountains, upon whose highest peak is the grand Escurial, is justly styled by the Castilians la octavo, maravilla del munch, the eighth wonder of the world. Philip the Second was a man of most indomitable will and religious zeal. Thus, inspired by a holy purpose, and aided by the great magician of the earth, mighty gold, he accomplished a' most a miracle. Possessing infinite taste in the fine arts, and a love of the beautiful, he adorned the vast halls, galleries, and libraries witli the works of distinguished artists and authors. When we came to the door of tlie great library, blind Cornelio gave me to the charge of an aged monk, who became the cicerone of our wanderings through it. There are thirty-five thousand volumes resting upon the shelves, and multitudes of manuscripts in Arabic ; then noble portraits of Philip the Second, in his early youth and in his manhood. There is a superb picture of Charles the Fifth, taken in the glorious days of his life, when he ruled nearly one half of Europe. We also, saw the portraits of Hcrrcra, architect of the Escu- rial, and of Montr.no, the first librarian. The ceiling, which is ex- tremely lofty, was painted by Carducho, and is now as fresh and bright as when painted, some three hundred years ego. The old monk was learned, kind, and courteous. He gave us most interesting and valuable information concerning the former oc- cupants of this wonderful pi ice. He showed us the small room in which Philip died, in 1598, at the age of seventy-two. His last ill- ness 'was of frightful duration, and he commanded his people to remove him to a spot whence his eyes coidd look constantly upon the great altar of the church. We also saw the seat where he was wont to place himself among the monks in the coro, and listen to the music swelling out from the giant organ. In his old age he was rigid in the observance of his religious duties, casting aside all the regal splendor of the monarch. Just in the rear of the coro is the statue of Christ upon the cross, carved by Benvonuto Cellini, and given to Philip by the King of Sardinia. It is of exquisite workmanship, but painful to look upon. So precious was it dec mod, that it was MRS. LE VERT. 349 Drought all the distance from Barcelona on the shoulders of men, for fear the shaking* of a carriage might injure it. Although many of the paintings have been removed to the Museo of Madrid, multitudes still remain, of rare excellence. There are many of Raphael, of Tintoretto, of Murillo, of Titian and Velasquez. The monk often paused before pictures by Navarrette el Mudo Na- varrette the Dumb and commended them to my special attention. They all portray the sufferings of our Saviour, and were indescrib- ably affecting. This Navarrette was a poor deaf-and-dumb boy, who was permitted to wander unheeded through the long cloisters and amid the picture-galleries of the Escurial. At last his genius and his talent found utterance through the pencil and brush. The eloquence of the soul seems infused into them. " The Temptation of Christ upon the Mount " is a perfect history of the fierce struggle and trial of the passions. " Christ bound to the Column " touched me even to tears. The divine face of our Lord, although bitterness and humiliation are expressed in it, has also a holy calm in the beautiful eyes irresistibly impressive. There were other paintings of Navar- rette the Dumb besides these, which were remarkable for the coloring and admirable life-like attitudes. From the saints and martyrs his subjects were all taken. In the private chapel is the grand painting of Titian, representing San Lorenzo bound to the gridiron, and the fire just kindled beneath it. A most gloomy and sad picture it is, with the stern and fierce faces clustering around to gaze upon the agonies and martyrdom of the saint. We passed through a long subterranean passage, under a portion of the edifice, and came out just near our inn. 350 CATHCART^S LITERARY READER. TYNDALL. 1820- JOHN TYNDALL, LL. D., one of the most distinguished scientists of the day, is a native of Ire- land, where he was born about 1830. At an ea;-ly age he devoted himself to the study of phys- ics, and soon achieved a reputation which warranted his appointment, at the age of thirty-three years, to the chair of Natural Philosophy in the Royal Institution of London. He has won fame as a writer and lecturer on subjects of natural science, and has of all men most exhaustively discussed the important theory of tli3 mutual convertibility of heat and motion. * He is a vigorous and fascinating writer, and his books may fairly be said to represent the poetry of science. His best-known work is a treatise on Heat, Considered as a Mode of Motion ; others are ILnrs of Exercise in thy Alps, Frag inputs of Sconce for Unscientific People, and Six Lectures on Light. These lectures were delivered by the author, recently, in the principal cities of the United States, and were cordially admired for their rhetorical beauty and their instructivuiess. It is worthy of note that Professor Tyndall first gave evidence of his great powers of mind in the capacity of teacher. His experience in this capacity, at Qu -enswood College, though brief, seems to have had an important part in the molding of his intellectual character, and in confirming his predi- lection for the special field of labor in which he has toiled with a success so signal. Though best known as an explorer in experimental physics, he is highly esteemed as a philosophic thinker, and his opinions on some of the momentous questions in science as opposed to theology, that are now disturbing the thinking world, command the highest respect. AN ADDEESS TO STUDENTS. THE doctrine has been held that the mind of the child is like a sheet of white paper, on which by education we can write what char- acters we please. This doctrine assuredly needs qualification and correction. In physics, when an external force is applied to a body with a view of affecting- its inner texture, if we wish to predict the result, we must know whether the external force conspires with or opposes the internal forces of the body itself ; and in bringing the influence of education to boar upon the new-born man his inner pow- ers must be also taken into account. He comes to us as a bundle of inherited capacities and tendencies, labeled " from the indefinite past to the indefinite future " ; and he makes his transit from the one to the other through the education of the present time. The object of that education is, or ought to be, to provide w r ise exercise for his capacities, wise direction for his tendencies, and through this exercise and this direction to furnish his mind with such knowledge as may contribute to the usefulness, the beauty, and the nobleness of his life. How is this discipline to be secured, this knowledge imparted? Two rival methods now solicit attention, the one organized and TYNDALL. 351 equipped, the labors of centuries having been expended in bringing- it to its present state of perfection ; the other, more or less chaotic, but becoming daily less so, and giving signs of enormous power, both as a source of knowledge and as a means of discipline. These two methods are the classical and the scientific method. I wish they were not rivals ; it is only bigotry and short-sightedness that make them so ; for assuredly it is possible to give both of them fair play. Though hardly authorized to express any opinion whatever upon the subject, I nevertheless hold the opinion that the proper study of a language is an intellectual discipline of the highest kind. If I except discussions on the comparative merits of Popery and Protestantism, English grain- mar was the most important discipline of my boyhood. The piercing through the involved and inverted sentences of Paradise Lost; the linking of the verb to its often distant nominative, of the relative to its distant antecedent, of the agent to the object of the transitive verb, of the preposition to the noun or pronoun which it governed ; the study of variations in mood and tense, the transformations often neces- sary to bring out the true grammatical structure of a sentence, all this was to my young mind a discipline of the highest value, and, indeed, a source of unflagging delight. How I rejoiced when I found a great author tripping, and was fairly able to pin him to a corner from which there was no escape ! As I speak, some of the sentences which exercised me when a boy rise to my recollection. " He that hath ears to hear let him hear." That was one of them, where the " He " is left, as it were, floating in mid-air without any verb to sup- port it. I speak thus of English, because it was of real value to me. I do not speak of other languages ; because their educational value for me was almost insensible. But, knowing the value of Englisn so well, I should be the last to deny, or even to doubt, the high disci- pline involved in the proper study of Latin and Greek. That study, moreover, has other merits and recommendations which have been already slightly touched upon. It is organized and sys- tematized by long-continued use. It is an instrument wielded by some of the best intellects of the country in the education of youth ; and it can point to results in the achievements of our foremost men. What, then, has science to offer which is in the least degree likely to compete with such a system? Speaking of the world and all that therein is, of the sky and the stars around it, the ancient writer says, " And God saw all that he had made, and behold it was very good." 352 CATHCART'S LITERARY HEADER. It is the body of things thus described which science offers to the study of man. The ultimate problem of physics is to reduce matter by analysis to its lowest condition of divisibility, and force to its simplest manifes- tations, and then by synthesis to construct from these elements the world as it stands. We are still a long way from the final solution of this problem ; and when the solution comes, it will be one more of spiritual insight than of actual observation. But though we are still a long way from this complete intellectual mastery of Nature, we have conquered vast regions of it, have learned their polities and the play of their powers. We live upon a ball of matter eight thou- sand miles in diameter, swathed by an atmosphere of unknown height. This ball has been molten by heat, chilled to a solid, and sculptured by water ; it is made up of substances possessing distinctive proper- ties and modes of action, properties which have an immediate bear- ing upon the continuance of man in health, and on his recovery from disease, on which moreover depend all the arts of industrial life. These properties and modes of action offer problems to the intellect, some profitable to the child, and others ' sufficient to tax the highest powers of the philosopher. Our native sphere turns on its axis and revolves in space. It is one of a band which do the same. It is illuminated by a sun which, though nearly a hundred millions of miles distant, can be brought virtually into our closets and there sub- jected to examination. It has its winds and clouds, its rain and frost, its light, heat, sound, electricity, and magnetism. And it has its vast kingdoms of animals and vegetables. To a most amazing extent the human mind has conquered these things, and reveals the logic which runs through them. Were they facts only, without logi- cal relationship, science might, as a means of discipline, suffer in comparison with language. But the whole body of phenomena is instinct with law ; the facts are hung on principles, and the value of physical science as a means .of discipline consists in the motion of the intellect, both inductively and deductively, along the lines of law marked out by phenomena. As regards that discipline to which I have already referred as derivable from the study of languages, that, and more, are involved in the study of physical science. Indeed, I believe it would be possible so to limit and arrange the study of a portion of physics as to render the mental exercise involved in it almost qualitatively the same as that involved in the unraveling of a TYNDALL. 353 I have thus far limited myself to the purely intellectual side of this question. But man is not all intellect. If he were so, science would, I believe, be his proper nutriment. But he feels as well as thinks ; he is receptive of the sublime and the beautiful as well as of the true. Indeed, I believe that even the intellectual action of a complete man is, consciously or unconsciously, sustained by an undercurrent of the emotions. It is vain, I think, to attempt to separate moral and emotional nature from intellectual nature. Let a man but observe himself, and he will, if I mistake not, find that, in nine cases out of ten, moral or immoral considerations, as the case may be, are the motive force which pushes his intellect into action. The reading of the works of two men, neither of them imbued with the spirit of modern science, neither of them, indeed, friendly to that spirit, has placed me here to-day. Tiiese men are the English Carlyle and the American Emerson. I never should have gone through Analytical Geometry and the Calculus had it not been for those men. I never should have become"aTpI!ysical investigator, and hence without them I should not have been here to-day. They told me what I ought to do in a way that caused me to do it, and all my consequent intellec- tual action is to be traced to this purely moral source. To Carlyle and Emerson I ought to add Fichte, the greatest representative of pure idealism. These three unscientific men made me a practical scientific worker. They called out, " Act ! " I Irearkened to the summons, taking the liberty, however, of determining for myself the direction which effort was to fake. And I may now cry, " Act ! " but the potency of action must be yours. I may pull the trigger, but if the gun be not charged there is no result. We are creators in the intellectual world as little as in the physical. We may remove obstacles, and render latent capacities active, but we cannot suddenly change the nature of man. The " new birth " itself implies the pre-existence of the new character which ivquires not to be created but brought forth. You cannot by any amount of missionary labor suddenly transform the savage into the civilized Christian. The improvement of man is secular, not the work of an hour or of a day. But, though indubitably bound by our organizations, no man knows what the potentialities of any hu- man mind may be, which require only release to be brought into action. The circle of human nature is not complete without the arc of feel- w 351* CAT-HCART'S LITERARY READER. ing* and emotion. The lilies of the field have a value for us beyond their botanical ones, a certain lightening of the heart accompanies the declaration that " Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." The sound of the village bell which comes mellowed from the valley to the traveler upon the hill, has a value beyond its acoustical one. The setting sun when it mantles with the bloom of roses the alpine snows, has a value beyond its optical one. The starry heavens, as you know, had for ImjiiQmiel Kant a value beyond their astronomical one. Round about the intellect sweeps the hori- zon of emotions from which all our noblest impulses are derived. I think it very desirable to keep this horizon open ; not to permit either priest or philosopher to draw down his shutters between you and it. And here the dead languages, which are sure to be beaten by science in the purely intellectual fight, have an irresistible claim. They supplement the work of science by exalting and refining the aesthetic faculty, and must on this account be cherished by all who desire to see human culture complete. There must be a reason for the fasci- nation which these languages have so long exercised upon the most powerful and elevated minds, a fascination which will probably continue for men of Greek and Roman mold to the end of time. Let me utter one practical word in conclusion, take care of your health. There have been men who by w r ise attention to this point might have risen to any eminence, might have made great discov- eries, written great poems, commanded armies, or ruled states, bat who by unwise neglect of this point have come to nothing. Im- agine Hercules as oarsman in a rotten boat ; what can he do there but by the very force of his stroke expedite the ruin of his craft ? Take care, then, of the timbers of your boat, and avoid all practices likely to introduce either wet or dry rot among them. And this is not to be accomplished by desultory or intermittent efforts of the will, but by the formation of habits. The will, no doubt, has sometimes to put forth its strength in order to strangle or crush the special temptation. But the formation of right habits is essential to your permanent security. They diminish your chance of falling when assailed, and they augment your chance of recovery when overthrown. GEORGE ELIOT. 355 GEOKGE ELIOT. 1820 - GEORGE ELIOT is the noin de plume of Marian C. Evans, who was born in the North of Eng- land about 1820. Of her origin and early history little is publicly known. During her girlhood she went to London, and was fortunate enough to attract the kindly notice of several eminent men of letters, who detected in her the signs of extraordinary intellectual power. Under their direction she entered upon a course of study more severe than is usually attempted by members of her sex. She did not hasten to test her abilities by public appearance in literature, but, for several years before the publication of her first book, pursued her studies assiduously, unknown to the world, yet recognized by the few judicious friends who surrounded and counseled her, as the possessor of exceptional genius. In 1858 her first novel, Adam Bede, appeared, and its reception fully justified the anticipations of her literary sponsors. A few years later it was followed by The Mill on the Floss, and, at intervals, by Roiitvla, etc. With each production her fame increased, and for many years she has held unquestioned rank as first among the novel- ists of this century. Her last novel, Middlcmarck, has had a deserved, and an almost unprece- dented, popularity. Two volumes of poetry have come from her pen, both full of strength and beauty, but serving to show that prose fiction is her forte. Her intellect is rather masculine than feminine, and her knowledge of human nature is surprising in one whose sphere of obser- vation must necessarily have been restricted. The careful reader will notice what may be called a lack of cosmopolitanism in her books ; she dwells on ground that is familiar to her, the details of country life, with which she made acquaintance in her youth, and the operations of the human heart and the delineation of character of which her studies and the associations of her later life have made her an intelligent student. Her novels are distinctively intellectual, lacking spiritu- ality and warmth ; but as literary compositions, combining profound thought and vigorous, if not brilliant, imagination, they are unsurpassed in English literature. A few years ago Miss E.ans became the wife of George Henry Lewes, the celebrated philosophical writer. The ex- tracts are from Middlemarch. DR. LYDGATE. A GREAT historian,* as he insisted on calling himself, who had the happiness to be dead a hundred and twenty years ago, and so to take his place among the colossi whose huge legs our living pettiness is observed to walk under, glories in his copious remarks and digres- sions as the least iinitable part of his work, and especially in those initial chapters to the successive books of his history, where he seems to bring his arm-chair to the proscenium, and chat with us in all the lusty ease of his fine English. But Fielding lived when the days were longer (for time, like money, is measured by our needs), when summer afternoons were spacious, and the clock ticked slowly in the winter evenings. We belated historians must not linger after his example ; and if we did so it is probable that our chat would be thin and eager, as if delivered from a camp-stool in a parrot-house. I, at least, have so much to do in unraveling certain human lots, and seeing * HENRY FIELDING, an eminent author of -the eighteenth century- 356 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. how they were woven and interwoven, that all the light I can com- mand must be concentrated on this particular wel), and not dispersed over that tempting* range of relevancies called the universe. At present I have to make the new settler Lydgate better known to any one interested in him than he could possibly be even to those who had seen the most of him since his arrival in Middle march. For surely -all must admit that a man may be puffed and belauded, envied, ridiculed, counted upon as a tool, and fallen in love with, or at least selected as a future husband, and yet remain virtually unknown, known merely as a cluster of signs for his neighbors' false suppositions. There was a general impression, however, that Lydgate was not alto- gether a common country doctor, and in Middlemarch at that time such an impression was significant of great things being expected from him. For everybody's family doctor was remarkably clever, and was understood to have immeasurable skill in the management and training of the most skittish or vicious diseases. The evidence of his cleverness was of the higher intuitive order, lying in his lady patients' immovable conviction, and was unassailable by any objection except that their intuitions were opposed by others equally strong. Nobody's imagination had gone so far as to conjecture that Mr. Lyd- gate could know as much as Dr. Sprague and Dr. Minchin, the two physicians who alone could offer any hope when danger was extreme, and when the smallest hope was worth a guinea. Still, I repeat, there was a general impression that Lydgate was something rather more un- common than any general practitioner in Middlemarch. And this was true. He was but seven-and-twenty, an age at which many men are not quite common, at which they are hopeful of achievement, resolute in avoidance, thinking that Mammon shall never put a bit in their mouths and get astride their backs, but rather that Mammon, if they have anything to do with him, shall draw their chariot. He had been left an orphan when he was fresh from a public school. His father, a military man, had made but little provision for three children ; and when the boy Tertius asked to have a medical educa- tion, it seemed easier to his guardians to grant his request by ap- prenticing him to a country practitioner than to make any objections on the score of family dignity. He was one of the rarer lads who early get a decided bent, and make up their minds that there is some- thing particular in life which they would like to do for its own sake, and not because their fathers did it. Most of us who turn to anv GEORGE ELIOT. 357 subject with love remember some morning or evening hour when we got on a high stool to reach down an untried volume, or sat with parted lips listening to a new talker, or for very lack of books began to listen to the voices within, as the first traceable beginning of our love. Something of that sort happened to Lydgate. He was a quick fellow, and, when hot from play, would toss himself in a corner, and in five minutes be deep in any sort of book that he could lay his "hands on : if it were II isselas or Gulliver, so much the better ; but Bailey's Dictionary would do, or the Bible with the Apocrypha in it. Something he must read when he was not riding the pony, or running and hunting, or listening to the talk of men. All this was true of him at ten years of age ; he had then read through Chr-ysal, or the Adventures of a Guinea, which was neither milk for babes nor any chalky mixture meant to pass for milk ; and it had already occurred to him that books were stuff, and that life was stupid. His school- studies had not much modified that opinion ; for though he " did " his classics and mathematics, he was not pre-eminent in them. It was said of him that Lydgate could do anything he liked, but he had certainly not yet liked to do anything remarkable. He was a vigorous animal, with a ready understanding, but no spark had yet kindled in him an intellectual passion ; knowledge seemed to him a Vv ry superficial affair, easily mastered. Judging from the conversa- tion of his elders, he had apparently got already more than was neces- sary for mature life. Probably this was not an exceptional result of expensive teaching at that period of short-waisted coats, and other fashions which have not yet recurred. But, one vacation, a wet day sent him to the small home library to hunt once more for a book which might have some freshness for him : in vain ! unless, indeed, he took down a dusty row of volumes with gray paper backs and dingy labels, the volumes of an old Cyclopedia which he had never dis- turbed. It would at least be a novelty to disturb them. They were on the highest shelf, and he stood on a chair to get them down. But he opened the volume he first took from the shelf: somehow, one is apt to read in a make-shift attitude, just where it might seem incon- venient to do so. The p-ge he opened on was under the head of Anat- omy, and the first passage that drew his eyes Avas on the valves of the heart. He was not much acquainted with valves of any sort, but he knew that valva* were folding-doors, and through tin's crevice came a sudden light, startling him with his first vivid notion of finely ad- 358 CATHC ART'S LITERARY READER. justed mechanism in the human frame. A liberal education had, of course, left him free to read the indecent passages in the school classics, but, beyond a general sense of secrecy and obscenity in con- nection with his internal structure, had left his imagination quite unbiased, so that for anything he knew his brains lay in small bags at his temples, and he had no more thought of representing to himself how his blood circulated than how paper served instead of gold. But the moment of vocation had come, and before lie got down from his chair, the world was made new to him by a presentiment of endless processes filling the vast spaces planked out of his sight by that wordy ignorance which he had supposed to be knowledge. Prom that hour Lydgate felt the growth of an intellectual passion. We are not afraid of telling over and over again how a man comes to fall in love with a woman and be wedded to her, or else be fatally parted from her. Is it due to excess of poetry or of stupidity that we are never weary of describing what King James called a woman's " makdom and her fairnesse," never weary of listening to the twang- ing of the old Troubadour strings, and are comparatively uninterested in that other kind of " makdom and fairnesse " which must be wooed with industrious thought and patient renunciation of small desires ? In the story of this passion, too, the development varies : sometimes it is the glorious marriage, sometimes frustration and. final parting. And not seldom the catastrophe is wound up with the other passion, sung by the Troubadours. For in the multitude of middle-aged men who go about their vocations in a daily course determined for them much in the same way as the tie of their cravats, there is always a good number who once meant to shape their own deeds and alter the world a little. The story of their coming to be shapen after the aver- age, and nt to be packed by the gross, is hardly ever told even in their consciousness ; for perhaps their ardor for generous, unpaid toil cooled as imperceptibly as the ardor of other youthful loves, till one day their earlier self walked like a ghost in its old home and made the new fur- niture ghastly. Nothing in the world more subtle than the process of their gradual change ! In the beginning they inhaled it unknowingly : you and I may have sent some of our breath toward infecting them, when we uttered our conforming falsities or drew our silly conclusions ; or perhaps it came with the vibrations from a woman's glance. Lydgate did not mean to be one of those failures, and there was the better hope of him because his scientific interest soon took the GEORGE ELIOT. 359 form of a professional enthusiasm ; lie had a youthful belief in his bread-winning work, not to be stifled by that initiation in make-shift called his 'prentice days ; and he carried to his studies in London, Edinburgh, and Paris the conviction that the medical profession as it might be was the finest in the world ; presenting the most perfect interchange between science and art ; offering the most direct alliance between intellectual conquest and the social good. Lydgate's nature demanded this combination : he was an emotional creature, with a flesh-and-blood sense of fellowship which withstood all the abstrac- tions of special study. He cared not only for "cases," but for John and Elizabeth, especially Elizabeth. DE. LYDGATE (continued}. DOES it seem incongruous to you that a Middlemarch surgeon should dream of himself as a discoverer ? Most of us, indeed, know little of the great originators until they have been lifted up among the constellations, and already rule our fates. But that Herschel, for ex- ample, who "broke the barriers of the heavens" did he not once play a provincial church organ, and give music-lessons to stumbling pianists? Each of those Shining Ones had to walk on the earth among neighbors who perhaps thought much more of his gait and his garments than of anything which was to give him a title to everlasting fame ; each of them had his little local personal history sprinkled with small temptations and sordid cares, which made the retarding friction of his course toward final companionship with the immortals. Lyd- gate was not blind to the dangers of such friction, but he had plenty of confidence in his resolution to avoid it as far as possible ; being seven-and-twenty, he felt himself experienced. Perhaps that was a more cheerful time for observers and theo- rizers than the present ; we are apt to think it the finest era of the world when America was beginning to be discovered, when a bold sailor, even if he were wrecked, might alight on a new kingdom ; and about 1829 the dark territories of Pathology were a fine America for a spirited young adventurer. Lydgate was ambitious above all to contribute toward enlarging the scientific, rational basis of his profession. The more he became interested in special questions of disease, such as the nature of fever or fevers, the more keenly ho felt the need for that fundamental knowledge of structure which just at 360 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. the beginning of the century had been illuminated by the brief and glorious career of Bichat, who died when he was only one-and-thirtv, but, like another Alexander, left a realm large enough for many heirs. That great Frenchman first carried out the conception that living bodies, fundamentally considered, are not associations of organs which can be understood by studying them first apart, and then, as it were, federally ; but must be regarded as consisting of certain primary webs or tissues, out of which the various organs brain, heart, lungs, and so on are compacted, as the various accommodations of a house are built up in various proportions of wood, iron, stone, brick, zinc, and the rest, each material having its peculiar composition and pro- portions. No man, one sees, can understand and estimate the entire structure or its parts, what are its frailties and what its repairs, without knowing the nature of the materials. And the conception wrought out by Bichat, with his detailed study of the different tissues, acted necessarily on medical questions as the turning of gas- light would act on a dim, oil-lit street, showing new connections and hitherto hidden facts of structure which must be taken into account in considering the symptoms of maladies and the action of medicaments. But results which depend on human conscience and intelligence work, slowly, and now most medical pr.ictice was still strutting or shambling along the old paths, and there was still scientific work to .be done which might have seemed to be a direct sequence of Bichat 's. This great seer did not go beyond the consideration of the tissues as ultimate facts in the living organism, marking the limit of anatomical analysis ; but it was open to another mind to s;;y, Have not these structures some common basis from which they have nil started, as your sarcenet, gauze, net, satin, and velvet from the raw cocoon? Here would be another light, as of oxyhydrogen, showing the very grain of things, and revising all former explanations. Of this se- quence to Bichat J s work, already vibrating along many currents of the European mind, Lydgate was enamored ; he longed to demon- strate the more intimate relations of living structure, and help to define men's thought more accurately after the true order. The work had not yet been done, but only prepared for those who knew how to use the preparation. What was the primitive tissue ? In that way Lydgate put the question, not quite in the way required by the awaiting answer ; but such missing of the right word befalls many seekers. And he counted on quiet intervals to be watchfully seized GEORGE ELIOT. 361 for taking up the threads of investigation,- on many hints to be won from diligent application, not only of the scalpel, but of' the micro- scope, which research had begun to use again with new enthusiasm of reliance. Such was Lydgate's plan of his future:* to do good small work for Middlemarch, and great work for the world. He was certainly a happy fellow at this time ; to be seven-and- twenty, without any fixed vices, with a generous resolution that his action should be beneficent, and with ideas in his brain that made life interesting, he was at a starting-point which makes many a man's career a fine subject for betting, if there were any gentlemen given to that amusement who could appreciate the complicated probabilities of an arduous purpose, with all the possible thwartings and furtherings of circumstance, all the niceties of inward balance, by which a man swims and makes his point, or else is carried headlong. The risk would remain, even with close knowledge of Lydgate's character ; for character, too, is a process and an unfolding. The man was still in the making, as much as the Middlemarch doctor and immortal dis- coverer, and there were both virtues and faults capable of shrinking or expanding. The faults will riot, I hope, be a reason for the with- drawal of your interest in him. Among our valued friends is there not some one or other who is a little too self-confident and disdainful, whose distinguished mind is a little spotted with commonness, who is a little pinched here and protuberant there with native prejudices, or whose better energies are liable to lapse down the wrong channel under the influence of transient solicitations ? All these things might be alleged against Lydgate, but then they are the periphrases of a polite preacher, who talks of Adam, and 'wo aid not like to mention anything painful to the pew-renters. The particular faults from which these delicate generalities are distilled have distinguishable physiognomies, diction, accent, and grimaces ; filling up parts in very various dramas. Our vanities differ as our noses do ; all conceit is not the same conceit, but varies in correspondence with the minutiae of mental make in which one of us differs from another. Lydgate's conceit was of the arrogant sort, never simpering, never impertinent, but massive in its claims, and benevolently contemptuous < He would do a great deal for noodles, being sorry for them, and feeling quite sure that they could have no power over him ; he had thought of joining the Saint Simonians when he was in Paris, in order to turn them against some of their own doctrines. All his 16 362 CATHCART'S LITERARY HEADER, faults were marked by kindred traits, and were those of a man who had a fine baritone, whose clothes hung well upon him, and who even in his ordinary gestures had an air of inbred distinction. Where, then, lay the spott of commonness ? says a young lady, enamored of that careless grace. How could there be any commonness in a man so well bred, so ambitious of social distinction, so generous and unusual in his view r s of social duty ? As easily as there may be stupidity in a man of genius if you take him unawares on the wrong subject, or as many a man who has the best will to advance the social millennium might be ill inspired in imagining its lighter pleasures ; unable to go beyond Offenbach's music, or the brilliant punning in the last burlesque. Lydgate's spots of commonness lay in the com- plexion of his prejudices, which, in spite of noble intention and sympa- thy, were half of them such as are found in ordinary men of the world : that distinction of mind which belonged to his intellectual ardor did not penetrate his feeling and judgment about furniture, or women, or the desirability of its being known (without his telling) thdt he was better born than other country surgeons. He did not mean to think of furniture at present ; but whenever he did so, it was to be feared that neither biology nor schemes of reform would lift him above the vulgarity of feeling that there would be an incompati- bility in his furniture not being of the best. A WORLDLY PICTURE. EVERY limit is a beginning as well as an ending. Who can quit young lives after being long in company with them, and not desire to know what befell them in their after-years ? For the fragment of a life, however typical, is not the sample of an even web; promises may not be kept, and an ardent outset may be followed by declension ; latent powers may find their long-waited opportunity ; a past error may urge a grand retrieval. Marriage, which has been the bourne of so many narratives, is still a great beginning, as it was to Adam and Eve, who kept their honey- moon in Eden, but had their first little one among the thorns and thistles of the wilderness. It is still the beginning of the home epic, the gradual conquest or irremediable loss of that complete union which makes the advancing years a climax, and age the harvest of sweet memories in common. GEORGE ELIOT. 363 Some set out, like Crusaders of old, with a glorious equipment of hope and enthusiasm, and get broken by the way, wanting patience with each other and the world. All who have cared for Fred Vincy and Mary Garth will like to know that these two made no such failure, but achieved a solid mutual happiness. Fred surprised his neighbors in various ways. He be- came rather distinguished in his side of the county as a theoretic and practical farmer, and produced a work on the Cultivation of Green Crops and the Economy of Cattle-Feeding which won him high con- gratulations at agricultural meetings ; but in Middlemarch admiration was more reserved : most persons there were inclined to believe that the merit of Fred's authorship was due to his wife, since they had never expected Fred Yincy to write on turnips and mangel-wurzel. But when Mary wrote a little book for her boys, called Stories of Great Men, taken from Plutarch, and had it printed and published by Gripp & Co., Middlemarch, every one in the town was willing to give the credit of this work to Fred, observing that he had been to the University, " where the ancients were studied," and might have been a clergyman if he had chosen. In this way it was made clear that Middlemarch had never been deceived, and that there was r:o need to praise anybody for writing a book, since it was always done by somebody else. Moreover, Fred remained unswervingly steady. Some years after his marriage he told Mary that his happiness was half owing to Fare- brother, who gave him a strong pull-up at the right moment. I cannot say that he was never again misled by his hopefulness : the yield of crops, or the profits of a cattle sale usually fell below his estimate ; and he was always prone to believe that he could make money by the purchase of a horse which turned out badly, though this, Mary observed, was of course the fault of the horse, not of Fred's judgment. He kept his love of horsemanship, but he rarely allowed himself a day's hunting ; and when he did so, it was remarkable that he submitted to be laughed at for cowardliness at the fences, seeming to see Mary and the boys sitting on the five-barred gate, or showing their curly heads between hedge and ditch. There were three boys : Mary was not discontented that she brought forth men-children only ; and when Fred wished to have a girl like her, she said laughingly, " That would be too great a trial to your mother." Mrs. A 7 inry in her declining years, and in the diminished 364 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. luster of her housekeeping, was much comforted by her perception that two at least of Fred's boys were real Vincys, and did not " feature the Garths." But Mary secretly rejoiced that the youngest of the three was very much what her father must have been when he wore a round jacket, and showed a marvelous nicety of aim in playing at marbles, or in throwing stones to bring down the mellow pears. Ben and Latty Girth, who W^TJ uncb and aunt before they were well in their teens, disputed _inuoh us to whether nephews or nieces were more desirable ; Ben contending that it was clear girls were good for less than boys, elsa they would not be always in petticoats, which showed how little they were meant for ; whereupon Letty, who argued much from books, got angry in replying that God made coats of skins for both Adam and Eve alike, also it occurred to her tluit in the East the men too wore petticoats. But this Litter argument, obscuring the majesty of the former, was one too many, for Ben answered, contemptuously, " The more spooney s they ! " and immedi- ately appealed to his mother whether boys were not better than girls. Mrs. Garth pronounced that both wciv alike; naughty ; but that boys were undoubtedly stronger, could run faster, and throw with more precision to a greater distance. With this oracular sentence Ben was well satisfied, not minding the naughtiness ; but Letty took it ill, her feeling of superiority being stronger than her muscles. Fred never became rich, his hopefulness had not led him to c'xpect that ; but he gradually saved enough to become owner of the stock and furniture at Stone Court, and the work which Mr. Garth put into his hands carried him in plenty through those " bad times " which are always present with farmers. Mary, in her matronly days, became as solid in figure as her mother ; but, unlike her, gave the boys little formal teaching, so that Mrs. Garth was alarmed lest they should never be well grounded in grammar and geography. Never- theless, they were found quite forward enough when they went to school ; perhaps because they had liked nothing so well as being with their mother. When Fred was riding home on winter evenings, he had a pleasant vision beforehand of the bright hearth in the wainscoted parlor, and was sorry for other men who could not have Mary for their wife ; especially for Mr. Farebrother. " He was ten times worthier of you than I was," Fred could now say to her, magnani* mously. " To be sure he was," Mary answered ; " and for that reason he could do better without me. But you I shudder to think what GEORGE ELIOT. 365 you would have been, a curate in debt for horse-hire and cambric pocket-handkerchiefs ! " Lydgate's hair never became white. He died when he was only fifty, leaving his wife and children provided for by a heavy insurance on his life. He had gained an excellent practice, alternating, accord- ing to the season, between London and a Continental bathing-place ; having written a treatise on Gout, a disease which has a good deal of wealth on its side. His skill was relied on by many paying patients, but he always regarded himself as a failure ; he had not done what he once meant to do. His acquaintances thought him enviable to have so charming a wife, and nothing happened to shake their opinion. Rosamond never committed a second compromising indiscretion. She simply continued to be mild in her temper, inflexible in her judgment, disposed to admonish her husband, and able to frustrate him by strat- agem. As the years went on, he opposed her less and less, whence Ilosamond concluded that he had learned the value of her opinion ; on the other hand, she had a more thorough conviction of his talents now that he gained a good income, and instead of the threatened cage in Bride Street provided one all flowers and gilding, fit for the bird-of-paradise that she resembled. In brief, Lydgate was what is called a successful man. But he died prematurely of diphtheria, and Ilosamond afterward married an elderly and wealthy physician, who took kindly to her four children. Dorothea never repented that she had given up position and fortune to marry Will Ladislaw, and he would have held it the greatest shame as well as sorrow to him if she had repented. They were bound to each other by a love stronger than any impulses which could have marred it. No life would have been possible to Dorothea which was not filled with emotion, and she had now a life filled also with a benefi- cent activity which she had not the doubtful pains of discovering and marking out for herself. Will became an ardent public man, working well in those times when reforms were begun with a young hopefulness of immediate good which has been much checked in our days, and getting at last returned to Parliament by a constituency who paid his expenses. Dorothea could have liked nothing better, since wrongs existed, than that her husband should be in the thick of a struggle against them, and that she should give him wifely help. Many who knew her thought it a pity that so substantive and rare a civature should have been absorbed into the life of another, and be only known in a certain circle as a wife and mot hn. 366 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. Sir James never ceased to regard Dorothea's second marriage as a mistake ; and indeed this remained the tradition concerning it in Middlemarch, where she was spoken of to a younger generation as a fine girl who married a sickly clergyman, old enough to be her father, and in little more than a year after his death gave up her estate to marry his cousin, young enough to have been his son, with no property, and not well-born. Those who had not seen anything of Dorothea usually observed that she could not have been " a nice wo- man," else she would not have married either the one or the other. Certainly those determining acts of her life wore not ideally beauti- ful. They were the mixed result of young and noble impulse strug- gling under prosaic conditions. Among the many remarks passed on her mistakes, it was never said in the neighborhood of Middlemarch that such mistakes could not have happened if the society into which she was born had not smiled on propositions of marriage from a sickly man to a girl less than half his own age, on modes of educa- tion which make a woman's knowledge another name for motley ig- norance, on rules of conduct which are in flat contradiction with its own loudly asserted beliefs. While this is the social air in which mortals begin to breathe, there will be collisions such as those in Dorothea's life, where great feelings will take the aspect of error, and great faith the aspect of illusion. For there is no creature whose inward being is so strong that it is not greatly determined by what lies outside it. A new Theresa will hardly have the opportunity of reforming a conventual life, any more than a new Antigone will spend her heroic piety in daring all for the sake of a brother's burial ; the medium in which their ardent deeds took shape is forever gone. But we insignificant people, with our daily words and acts, are preparing the lives of many Dorotheas, some of which may present a far sadder sacrifice than that of the Dorothea whose story we know. Her finely touched spirit had still its fine issues, though they were not widely visible. Her full nature, like that river of which Alexan- der broke the strength, spent itself in channels which had no great name on the earth. But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive ; for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts ; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvi sited tombs. PAETON. tele i/, which was published in I8oo, and it lias Deen tolloweu Dy Diograpiues or Andrew Jackson, Benjamin F. Butler, John Jacob Astor, and Thomas Jefferson. He has labored in other departments of literature, editing The Humorous Poetry of the English Language, and leveral pamphlets on New York politics, etc. ; but his fame as a writer will rest on his '" 1 v n ----"--- ---usful in presenting vivid and at- himself of many personal par._ ~ ~ ~ --i --- o use, has made his books exceptionally readable. His Life of Thomas Jefferson, recently pub- lished, furnishes good specimens of his faults and his merits : it is full of matter, and very fascinating ; but it is marred somewhat by historical inaccuracies. PATRICK HENRY'S SPEECH ON CONCILIATION WITH ENGLAND. PATRICK HENRY had been coming and going during Jefferson's student years,* dropping in when the General Court met in the autumn, and riding homeward, with a book or two of Jefferson's in his saddle- bags, when the court adjourned over till the spring; then returning with the books unread. The wondrous eloquence which he had dis- played in the Parsons Case in December, 1763, does not seem to have been generally known in Williamsburg in 1764; for he moved about the streets and public places unrecognized, though not unmarked. It would not have been extraordinary if our young student had been a little ashamed of his oddity of a guest as they walked together to- wards the Capitol, at the time when the young ladies were abroad, Sukey Potter, Betsy Moore, Judy Burwell, and the rest ; for Henry's dress was coarse, worn, and countrified, and he walked with such an air of thoughtless unconcern that he was taken by some for an idiot. But he had a cause to plead that winter; and when he sat down he had become " Mr. Henry " to all Williamsburg. You will observe in : * The extract is from Parton's Life of Jefferson. Jefferson at this time was a law-student and a warm personal friend of Patrick Henry, who was himself a young man and just becoming known as a skillful lawyer and popular speaker. The speech referred to was delivered in the Virginia House of Burgesses a body somewhat resembling the State Legislature of to-day ;in 1765, and is generally familiar to school-children, extracts from it being given in nearly all school " Speakers." 368 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. the memorials of Old Virginia, from 1765 to 1800, that, whoever else may be named without a prefix of honor, this " forest-born De- mosthenes," as Byron styled him, is generally styled Mr. Henry. To Washington, to Jefferson, to Madison, to all that circle of eminent men, he ever remained " Mr. Henry." On that day in 1764 he gave such an exhibition of his power, that, during the next session of the House of Burgesses, a vacancy was made for him, and he was elected to a seat. The up-country yeomen, whose idol he had be- come, gladly gave their votes to such a man, when the Stamp Act was expected to be a topic of debate. And so, in May, 1765, the new member was in Williamsburg to take his seat, a guest again of his young friend Jefferson. He sat, day after day, waiting for some of the older members to open the sub- ject. But no one seemed to know just what to do. A year before the House had gently denied the right of Parliament to tax the colo- nies, and softly remonstrated against the threatened measure ; but as the act had been passed, in spite of their objections, what more could a loyal colony do? No one thought of formal resistance, and remon- strance had failed. What else ? What next ? However frequently the two friends may have conversed upon this perplexity, it was Patrick Henry who, to use his own words, " alone, unadvised, and unassisted," hit upon the proper expedient. Only three days of the session remained. On the blank leaf of an old Coke upon Lyttleton * perhaps Jefferson's own copy the new member wrote his ceteteited five resolutions, of this purport : We, Englishmen, living in America, have all the rights of Englishmen living in England ; the chief of which is, that we can only be taxed by our own representatives ; and any attempt to tax us otherwise menaces British liberty on both continents. In all probability, Jeffer- son knew that something of the kind was intended on that memor- able day, for he was present in the House. There was no gallery then, nor any other provision for spectators ; but there could be no objection to the friend and relative of so many members standing in the doorway between the lobby and the chamber ; and there he took his stand. He saw his tall, gaunt, coarsely attired guest rise in his awk- ward way, and break with stammering tongue the silence which had brooded over the loudest debates, as week after week of the session had passed. He observed, and felt, too, the thrill which ran through * A celebrated law text-book. PARTON. 369 the House at the mere introduction of a subject with which every mind was surcharged, and marked the rising tide of feeling as the reading of the resolutions went on, until the climax of audacity was reached in the last clause of the last resolution. How moderate, how tame, the words seem to us ! " Every attempt to invest such power [of taxation] in any person or persons whatever, other than the Gen- eral Assembly aforesaid, has a manifest tendency to destroy British and American freedom." When the reading was finished, Jefferson heard his friend utter the opening sentences of his speech, with faltering tongue as usual, and giving little promise of the strains that were to follow. But it was the nature of this great genius, as of all genius, to rise to the occasion. Soon Jefferson saw him stand erect, and, swinging free of all impedi- ments, launch into the tide of his oration ; every eye captivated by the large and sweeping grace of his gesticulation, every ear charmed with the swelling music of his voice, every mind thrilled or stung by the vivid epigrams into which he condensed his opinions. He never had a listener so formed to be held captive by him as the student at the lobby door, who, as a boy, had found the oratory of the Indian chief so impressive, and could not now resist a slurring translation of Ossiari's majestic phrases. After the lapse of fifty-nine years, Jeffer- son still spoke of this great day with enthusiasm, and described anew the closing moment of Henry's speech, when the orator/ interrupted by cries of treason, uttered the well-known words of defiance, " If this be treason, make the most of it ! " The debate which followed Mr. Henry's opening speech was, as Jefferson has recorded, " most bloody." It is impossible for a reader of this generation to conceive the mixture of fondness, pride, and veneration with which these colonists regarded the mother country, its parliament and king, its church and its literature, and all the glorious names and events of its history. Whig as Jefferson was by nature and conviction, he could not give up England as long as there was any hope of a just union with her. What, then, must have been the feel- ings of the Tories of the House, Tories by nature and by party, upon hearing this yeoman from the West speak of the natural rights of man in the spirit of a Sidney, and use language in reference to the king which sounded to them like the prelude to an assassin's stab ? They had to make a stand, too, for their position as leaders of the House, unquestioned for a century. To the matter of the resolutions 16* x 370 CATHC ART'S LITERAIIY READER. no one objected. All that Wy_the, Peridleton, Bland, and Peyton Randolph could urge against them was, tliat they were unbecoming and unnecessary. The House had already remonstrated without effect, and it became a loyal people to submit. " Torrents of sublime elo- quence " from Patrick Henry, as Jefferson observes, swept away their arguments, and the resolutions were carried ; the last one, however, o ' by only a single vote. Doubtless the young gentlemen went home exulting. Patrick Henry, unused to the artifices of legislation, and always impatient of detail, supposing now that the work for which he had come to Wil- liamsburg was done, mounted that very evening and rode away. Jefferson, perhaps, was not too sure of this ; for the next morning, some time before the hour of meeting, he was again at the Capitol, and in the Burgesses' Chamber. His uncle, Colonel Peter Randolph, one of the Tory members, came in, and, sitting down at the clerk's table, began to turn over the journals of the House. He had a dim recollection, he said, of a resolution of the House, many years ago, having been expunged! He was trying to find the record of the transaction. He wanted a precedent. The student of Liw looked over his shoulder, as he turned the leaves; a group of members standing near, in trepidation r.t the thought of yesterday's doings. The House-bell rang ; the House convened ; the student resumed his stand in the doorway. A motion was made to expunge the last resolution of yesterday's series ; and, in the absence of the mighty orator whose eloquence had yesterday made the dull intelligent and the timid brave, the motion was carried, and the resolution was ex- punged. THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE 1 .* IT was on the 7th of June, 1776, that Mr. R. H. Lee obeyed the in- structions of the Virginia legislature by moving that Congress should declare independence. Two days' debate revealed that the measure, PARTOX. o though still a little premature, was destined to pass ; and therefore the further discussion of the subject was postponed for twenty days, and a committee of five was appointed to draught a declaration, Thomas Jefferson, Dr. Franklin, John Adams, Roger Sherman, and R. E. Livingston. Mr. Jefferson was naturally urged to prepare the draught. He was chairman of the committee, having received the highest number of votes ; he was also its youngest member, and therefore bound to do an ample share of the work ; he was noted for his skill with the pen ; he was particularly conversant with the points of the controversy ; he was a Virginian. The task, indeed, was not very arduous or difficult. Nothing was wanted but a careful and brief recapitulation of wrongs familiar to every patriotic mind, and a clear statement of principles hackneyed from eleven years' iteration. Jefferson made no difficulty about undertaking it, and probably had no anticipation of the vast celebrity that was to follow so slight an exercise of his faculties. He was ready with his draught in time. His colleagues npon the committee suggested a few verbal changes, none of which were im- portant ; but during the three days' discussion of it m the House, it was subjected to a review so critical and severe, that the author sat in his place silently writhing under it, and Dr. Franklin felt called upon to console him with the comic relation of the process by which the sign-board of Jolui Thompson, hatter., makes and sells hats for ready money, was reduced to the name of the hatter and the figure of a hat. * Congress made eighteen suppressions, six additions, and ten altera- tions ; and nearly every one of these changes was an improvement. The noblest utterance of the whole composition is the reason given for making the Declaration, "A DECENT RESPECT FOR THE OPIN- IONS OF MANKIND." This touches the heart. Among the best emo- tions that human nature knows is the veneration of man for man. This recognition of the public opinion of the world, the sum of human sense, as the final arbiter in all such controversies, is the single phrase of the document which Jefferson alone, perhaps, of all the Congress, would have originated ; and, in point of merit, it was worth all the rest. During the 2d, 3d, and 4th of July Congress were engaged in reviewing the Declaration. Thursday, the fourth, was a hot day; the session lasted many hours ; members were tired and impatient. Every one who has watched the sessions of a deliberative body knows 372 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. how the most important measures are retarded, accelerated, even defeated, by physical causes of the most trifling nature. Mr. King- lake intimates that Lord Raglan's invasion of the Crimea was due rather to the after-dinner slumbers of the British Cabinet, than to any well-considered purpose. Mr. Jefferson used to relate, with much merriment, that the final signing of the Declaration of Independence was hastened by an absurdly trivial cause. Near the hall in which the debates were then held was a livery-stable, from which swarms of flies came into the open windows, and assailed the silk- stockinged legs of honorable members. Handkerchief in hand, they lashed the flies with such vigor as they could command on a July afternoon ; but the annoyance became at length so extreme as to render them impatient of delay, and they made haste to bring the momentous business to a conclusion. After siich a long and severe strain upon their minds, members seem to have indulged in many a jocular observation as they stood around the table. Tradition has it, that when John Hancock had affixed his magnificent signature to the paper, he said, " There, John Bull may read my name without spectacles ! " No composition of man was ever received with more rapture than tliis. It came at a happy time. Boston was delivered, and New York, as yet, but menaced ; and in all New England there was not a British soldier who was not a prisoner, nor a king's ship that was not a prize. Between the expulsion of the British troops from Bos- ton, and their capture of New York, was the period of the Revolu- tionary War when the people were most confident and most united. Prom the newspapers and letters of the times, we should infer that the contest was ending rather than beginning, so exultant is their tone ; and the Declaration of Independence, therefore, was received more like a song of triumph than a call to battle. The paper was signed late on Thursday afternoon, July 4. On the Monday following, at noon, it was publicly read for the first time, in Independence Square, from a platform erected by Rittenhouse for the purpose of observing the transit of Venus. Captain John Hop- kins, a young man commanding an armed brig of the navy of the new nation, was the reader ; and it required his stentorian voice to cany the words to the distant verge of the multitude who had come to hear it. In the evening, as a journal of the day has it, " our late, king's coat-of-arms were brought from the hall of the State House, PARTON. 373 where the said king's courts were .formerly held, and burned amid the acclamations of a crowd of spectators." Similar scenes transpired in every center of population, and at every camp and post. Usually the militia companies, the committee of safety, and other revolutionary bodies, marched in procession to some public place, where they lis- tened decorously to the reading of the Declaration, at the conclusion of which cheers were given and salutes fired; and, in the evening, there were illuminations and bonfires. In New York, after the reading, the leaden statue of the late king in Bowling Green was " laid prostrate in the dirt," and ordered to be run into bullets. The debtors in prison were also set at liberty. Virginia, before the news of the Declaration had reached her (July 5, 1776), had stricken the king's name out of the prayer-book ; and now (July 30), Rhode Island made it a misdemeanor to pray for the king as king, under penalty of a fine of one hundred thousand pounds ! The news of the Declaration was received with sorrow by -all that was best in England. Samuel Rogers used to give American guests at his breakfasts an interesting reminiscence of this period. On the morning after the intelligence reached London, his father, at family prayers, added a prayer for the success of the colonies, which he repeated every day until the peace. The deed was done. A people not formed for empire ceased to be imperial ; and a people destined to empire began the political edu- cation that will one day give them far more and better than imperial sway. 374 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. JEAN INGELOW. 1825- JEAN INGELOW was born in England about 1825. Little is known of her private life, which has been very retired; but her name has become familiar and beloved throughout the English- speaking world. Her first important literary essay was a volume of poems published in Eng- land in 1863, and immediately reprinted in this country, where it was received with such favor as is rarely accorded to a book of verse. It has been followed by two or three volumes of poems, which have been less popular than the author's first venture, for the reason, perhaps, that they have dealt with more ambitious themes. In prose, Miss Ingelow has written little, but very well. Her Studies for Stones is one of the best collections of stories for children in print, and Poor Mat is a tale of singular beauty, though, perhaps, too sad. In 1872 she produced her first novel, Off the Skelliys, which, however faulty in artistic respects, in purity of sentiment, and freshness and wholesomencss of atmosphere, has hardly been surpassed in modern literature. But poetry is evidently this author's forte : there is a simple sweetness, an earnest goodness, in her verse which is irresistibly winning, and which appeals powerfully to the hearts of the people. While her general mood is calmly contemplative, The High Tide and a few other poems prove her possession of a high degree of dramatic vigor. SEVEN TIMES ONE. THERE 's no dew left on the daisies and clover, There 's no rain left in heaven. I 've said my " seven times " over and over, Seven times one are seven. I am old, so old I can write a letter ; My birthday lessons are done. The lambs play always, they know no better ; They are only one times one. Moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low. Yon were bright ah, bright but your light is failing ; You are nothing now but a*bow. You Moon ! have you done something wrong in heaven, That God has hidden your face ? 1 hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven, And shine again in your place. O velvet Bee ! you 're a dusty fellow, You 've powdered your legs with gold. O brave marsh Mary -buds, rich and yellow, Give me vour monev to hold ! JEAN INGELOW. Columbine ! open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! Cuckoo-pint ! toll me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell ! And show me your nest, with the young ones in it, - I will not steal them away : 1 am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet ! I am seven times one to-day. A MAIDEN WITH A MILKING-PAIL. WHAT change has made the pastures sweet, And reached the daisies at my feet, And cloud that wears a golden hem ? This lovely world, the hills, the sward, They all look fresh, as if our Lord But yesterday had finished them. And here s s the field with light aglow : How fresh its boundary lime-trees show ! And how its wet leaves trembling shine ! Between their trunks come through to me The morning sparkles of the sea, Below the level browsing line. I see the pool, more clear by half Than pools where other waters laugh Up at the breasts of coot and rail. There, as she passed it on her way, I saw reflected yesterday A maiden with a milking-pail. There, neither slowly nor in haste, One hand upon her slender waist, The other lifted to her pail, She, rosy in the morning light, Among the water-daisies white, Like some fair sloop appeared to sail. 376 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. Against her ankles as she trod The lucky buttercups did nod : I leaned upon the gate to see. The sweet thing looked, but did not speak ; A dimple came in either cheek, And all my heart was gone from me. Then, as I lingered on the gate, And she came up like coming fate, I saw my picture in her eyes, Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes ! Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows Among white-headed majesties ! I said, " A tale was made of old That I would fain to thee unfold. Ah ! let me, let me tell the tale." But high she held her comely head : " I cannot heed it now",*" she said, " For carrying of the milking-pail." She laughed. What good to make ado ? I held the gate, and she came through, And took her homeward path anon. Prom the clear pool her face had fled ; It rested on my heart instead, Reflected when the maid was gone. With happy youth, and work content, So sweet and stately, on she went, Eight careless of the untold tale. Each step she took I loved her more, And followed to her dairy door The maiden with the milking-pail. ii. For hearts where wakened love doth lurk, How fine, how blest a thing is work ! For work does good when reasons fail, JEAN INGELOW. 377 Good ; yet the ax at every stroke The echo of a name awoke, Her name is Mary Martindale. I 'm glad that echo was not heard Aright by other men, A bird Knows doubtless what his own notes tell ; A nd I know not, but I can say I felt as shamefaced all that day As if folks heard her name right well. And when the west began to glow I went I could not choose but go To that same dairy on the hill ; And while sweet Mary moved about Within, I came to her without, And leaned upon the \viudow-sill. The garden border where I stood Was sweet with pinks and southernwood. I spoke, her answer seemed to fail. I smelt the pinks, I could not see. The dusk came down and sheltered me, And in the dusk she heard my tale. And what is left that I should tell? I begged a kiss, I pleaded well : The rosebud lips did long decline ; But yet, I think I think 't is true That, leaned at last into the dew, One little instant they were mine ! O life ! how dear thou hast become ! She laughed at dawn, and I was dumb ! But evening counsels best prevail. Fair shine the blue that o'er her spreads, Green be the pastures where she treads, The maiden with the milkmg-pail ! 378 CATHCART'S LITERACY HEADER. BAYAED TAYLOE. 1825- BAYAKD TAYLOK, famous as a traveler, was born in Kennett Square, Chester County, Penn- sylvania, in January, 1825. At the age of seventeen he became an apprentice in a printing- office ; but soon growing weary of the drudgery of his calling, he set out on a tour of Europe, where he traveled two years at a cost of only live hundred dollars. The story of this journey, published in a volume entitled Views slfoot, at once gave the author an enviable place in litera- ture. After a brief residence in Pennsylvania and New York, where he was engaged in jour- nalism, Mr. Taylor resumed his wanderings, and traveled extensively in California, Mexico, Europe, Asia, and Africa. In 1863 he was appointed Secretary of the United States Legation at St. Petersburg. The list of this author's books is too long to be printed entire ; it includes records of travel, poems, novels, etc. Of the latter, The Story of Kennett, a picture of life in his native region, is perhaps the best. His latest work is a translation of Goethe's Funst com- plete. Mr. Taylor married, in 18Gi, Marie, daughter of Professor Ilanscn, the distinguished German astronomer recently deceased, and since that date has lived mainly abroad. His highest success in authorship has been in books of travel ; Ins qualifications for the work which they represent are exceptionally good ; he lias a spirited and flowing style, and a happy faculty of conveying instruction. The extracts are from Views Afoot. A DAY IN LONDON. AFTER breakfast, on the first day, we set out for a walk through London. Entering the main artery of this, mighty city, we passed on, through Aldgate and Cornhill, to St. Paul's, with still increasing wonder. Farther on, through Fleet Street and the Strand, what a world ! Here come the ever-thronging, ever-rolling waves of life, press- ing and whirling on in their tumultuous career. Here, day and night, pours the stream of human beings, seeming, amid the roar and din and clatter of the passing vehicles, like the tide of some great combat. How lonely it makes one to stand still and feel that of all the mighty throng which divides itself around him, not a being knows or cares for him ! What knows, he too, of the thousands who pass him by ! How many who bear the impress of godlike virtue, or hide beneath a goodly countenance a heart black with crime ! How many fiery spirits, all glowing with hope for the yet unclouded future, 'or brood- ing over a darkened and desolate past in the agony of despair ! There is a sublimity in this human Niagara that makes one look on his own race with something of awe. St. Paul's is on a scale of grandeur excelling everything I have yet seen. The dome seems to stand in the sky, as you look up to it; the distance from which you view it, combined with the atmosphere of London, gives it a dim, shadowy appearance, that startles one with BAYARD TAYLOR. 379 its immensity. The roof from which, the dome springs is itself as high as the spires of most other churches ; blackened for two*hun- dred years with the coal-smoke of London, it stands like a relic of the giant architecture of the early world. The interior is what one would expect to behold, after viewing the outside. A maze of grand arches on every side encompasses the dome, at which you gaze up as at the sky ; and from every pillar and wall look down the marble forms of the dead. There is scarcely a vacant niche left in all this mighty hall, so many are the statues that meet one on every side. With the exception of John Howard^ Sir Astley _Cooper^ and Wren, whose monument is the church itself, they are all to military men. I thought if they had all been removed except Howard's, it would better have suited such a temple, and the great soul it commemo- rated. 1 never was more impressed with the grandeur of human invention, than when ascending the dome. T could with difficulty conceive the means by which such a mighty edifice had been lifted into the air. The small frame of Sir Christopher Wren must have contained a mind capable of vast conceptions. The dome is like the summit of a mountain ; so wide is the prospect, and so great the pile upon which you stand. London lay beneath us, like an ant-hill, with the black insects swarming to and fro in their long avenues, the sound of their employments coming up like the roar of the sea. A cloud of coal- smoke hung over it, through which many a pointed spire was thrust up ; sometimes the wind would blow it aside for a moment, and the thousands of red roofs would shine out clearer. The bridged Thames, covered with craft of all sizes, wound beneath us like a ringed and spotted serpent. H was a relief to get into St. James's Park, among the trees and flowers again. Here beautiful winding walks led around little lakes, in which were hundreds of waterfowl, swimming. Groups of merry children were sporting on the green lawn, enjoying their privilege of roaming everywhere at will, while the older bipeds were confined to the regular walks. At the western end stood Buckingham Palace, looking over the trees towards St. Paul's ; and through the grove, on the eminence above, the towers of St. James's could be seen. But there was a dim building with two lofty square towers, decorated with a profusion of pointed Gothic pinnacles, that I looked at with more interest than these appendages of royalty. I could not linger -' w J, a 380 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. long in its vicinity, but, going back again by the Horse Guards, took the road to Westminster Abbey. We approached by the general entrance, Poet's Corner. I hardly stopped to look at the elaborate exterior of Henry the Seventh's Chapel, but passed on to the door. On entering, the first thing that met my eyes were the words " OH RARE I^EN JoxsoxJ' under his bust. Near by stood the monuments of Spenser and Gay, and a few paces farther looked down the sublime countenance of Milton, was a spot so full of intense interest. The light was just dim enoi to give it a solemn, religious air, making the marble forms of poets , philosophers so shadowy and impressive that I felt as if staiidmgjin their living presence. Every step called up some mind linked the associations of my childhood. There was the gentle feminine countenance of Thomsjoji, and the majestic head of J)ry_dcn ; Addison with his classic features, and Gray, full of the fire of lofty thought. In another chamber, I paused long before the tablet to Shakespeare and while looking at the monument of gar rick, started to find tint [ stood upon his grave. What a glorious galaxy of genius is here col- lected, what a constellation of stars whose light is immortal ! The mind is fettered by their spirit, everything is forgotten but the mighty dead, who still " rule us from their urns." The side-chapels are filled with tombs of knightly families, the husbantl and wife lying on their backs on the tombs, with their hands clasped, while their children, about the size of dolls, are kneeling around. Numberless are the Barons and Earls and Dukes, whose grim effigies stare from their tombs. In opposite chapels are the tombs of Mary and Elizabeth, and near the former that of Darnley. After having visited many of the scenes of her life, it was with no ordinary emotion that I stood by the sepulcher of Mary. Ho^wdif- ferently one looks upon it and upon that of the proud Elizabeth ! We descended to the Chapel of Edward the Confessor, within the splendid shrine of which his ashes repose. Here the chair on which the English monarchs have been crowned for several hundred years was exhibited. Under the seat is the stone, brought from the Abbey of Scone, whereon the Kings of Scotland were crowned. The chair is of oak, carved and hacked over with names, and on the bottom some one has. recorded his name with the fact that he once slept in it. We sat down and rested in it without ceremony. Near this is the hall where the Knights of the Order of the Bath met. Over each seat BAYA11D TAYLOR. 881 their dusty banners are st^ll hanging, each with its crest, and their armor is rusting upon the wall. It resembled a banqueting-hall of the olden time, where the knights had left their seats for a moment vacant. Entering the nave, we were lost in the wilderness of sculp- ture. Here stood the forms of Pitt, Fox, Burke, Sheridan, and Watts, from the chisels of Chantrey, Bacon, and WestmacotL Farther down were Sir Isaac Newton, and Sir Godfrey Knellei^ opposite Andre, and Paoli, the Italian, who died here in exile. v How can I convey an idea of the scene ! Notwithstanding all the descriptions I had read, I was totally unprepared for the reality, nor could I have anticipated the hushed and breathless interest with which I paced the dim aisles, gazing, at every step, on the last resting-place of some great and fa- miliar name. A place so sacred to all who inherit the English tongue is worthy of a special pilgrimage across the deep. To those who are unable to visit it a description may be interesting ; but so far does it fall short of the scene itself, that if I thought it would induce a few of our wealthy idlers, or even those who, like myself, must travel with toil and privation, to come hither, I would write till the pen dropped from my hand. We walked down the Thames through the narrow streets of Wap- ping. Over the mouth of the Tunnel is a large circular building, with a dome to light the entrance below. Paying a fee of a penny, we descended by a winding staircase to the bottom, which is seventy- three feet below the surface. The carriage-way, still unfinished, will extend farther into the city. From the bottom the view of the two arches of the Tunnel, brilliantly lighted with gas, is very fine ; it has a much less heavy and gloomy appearance than I expected. As we walked along under the bed of the river, two or three girls at one end began playing on the French horn and bugle, and the echoes, when not sufficient to confuse the melody, were remarkably beautiful. Between the arches of the division separating the two passages are shops, occupied by venders of fancy articles, views of the Tunnel, en- gravings, etc. In the middle is a small printing-press, where a sheet containing a description of the whole w r ork is printed for those who desire it. As I was no stranger to this art, I requested the boy to let me print one myself, but he had such a bad roller I did not succeed in getting a good impression. The air within is .somewhat dam]), but fresh and agreeably cool, and OIK; can scarcely realize, in walking along the light passage, that a river is rolling above his head. 382 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. **? The immense solidity and compactness ^of the structure precludes the danger of accident, each of the sides being arched outwards, so that the heaviest pressure only strengthens the work. It will long remain "a noble monument of human daring and ingenuity. ROME AND ST. PETER'S. ONE day's walk through Rome, how shall I describe it ? The Capitol, the Forum, St. Peter's, the Coliseum, what few hours' ramble ever took in places so hallowed by poetry, history, and art? It was a golden leaf in my calendar of life. In thinking over it now, and drawing out the threads of recollection from the varied web of thought I have woven to-day, I almost wonder how I dared so much at once; but within reach of them all, how was it possible to wait? Let me give a sketch of our day's nimble. Hearing that it was better to visit the ruins by evening or moon- light (alas ! there is no moon now), we set out to hunt St. Peter's. Going in the direction of the Corso, we passed the ruined front of the magnificent Temple of Antoninus, now used as the Pajxil Custom House. We turned to the right on entering the C^rso, expecting to have a view of the city from the hill at its southern end. It is a mag- nificent street, lined with palaces and splendid edifices of every kind, and always filled with crowds of carriages and people. On leaving it, however, we became bewildered among the narrow streets, passed through a market of vegetables, crowded with beggars and coiitacf/i/i, threaded many by-ways between dark old buildings, saw one or two antique fountains and many modern churches, and finally arrived at a hill. We ascended many steps, and then, descending a little towards the other side, saw suddenly below us the Roman Forum ! I knew it at once, and those three Corinthian columns that stood near us, what could they be but the remains of the temple of Jupiter Stator? We stood on the Capitoline Hill ; at the foot was the Arch of Sep- timius Severn^, brown with age and shattered ; near it stood the majestic front of the Temple of Fortune, its pillars of polished granite glistening in the sun, as if they had been erected yesterday, while on the left the rank grass was waving from the arches and mighty walls of the Palace of the Ca?sars ! In front ruin upon ruin lined the way for half a mile, where the Coliseum towered grand! \ 7 through the blue BAYARD TAYLOR. 383 morning mist, at the base of the Esqtdline Hill ! Good heavens, what a scene ! Grandeur, such as the world has never since beheld, once rose through that blue atmosphere ; splendor inconceivable, the spoils of a world, the triumphs of a thousand armies, had passed over that earth ; minds which for ages moved the ancient world had thought there ; and words of power and glory from the lips of im- mortal men had been syllabled on that hallowed air. To call back all this on the very spot, while the wreck of Avhat once Avas rose moldering and desolate around, kindled a 'glow of thought and feel- ing too powerful for words. Returning at hazard through the streets, we came suddenly upon the column of Trajan, standing in an excavated square below the level of the city, amid a number of broken granite columns, which formed part of the Forum dedicated to him by Home, after the conquest of Dacia. The column is one hundred and thirty-two feet high, and entirely covered with bas-reliefs representing his victories, winding about it in a spiral line to the top. The number of figures is com- puted at two thousand five hundred, and they were of such excellence that Raphael used many of them for his models. They are now much defaced, and the column is surmounted by a statue of some saint. The inscription on the pedestal has been erased, and the name of Sixtus V. substituted. Nothing can exceed the ridiculous vanity of the old popes in thus mutilating the finest monuments of ancient art. You cannot look upon any relic of antiquity in Borne, but your eyes are assailed by the words " PONTIFEX MAXIMUS," in staring modern letters. Even the magnificerfrtfonzes" of the Pantheon were stripped to make the baldachin under the dome of St. Peter's. Finding our way back again, we took a fresh start, happily in the right direction, and after walking some time came out on the Tibsr, at the Bridge of St. Angelo. The river rolled below in his muddy glory, and in front, on the opposite bank, stood " the pile which Hadrian reared on high," now, the Castle of St. Angelo. Know- ing that St. Peter's was to be seen from this bridge, I looked about in search of it. There was only one dome in sight, large and of beau- tiful proportions. I said at once, "Surely that cannot be St. Peter's ! " On looking again, however, I saw the top of a massive range of build- ing near it, which corresponded so nearly with the pictures of the Vatican that I was unwillingly forced to believe the mighty dome was really before me. T recognized it as one of those we had seen 384 CATHCART/S LITERARY READER. from the Capitol, but it appeared so much smaller when viewed from a greater distance that I was quite deceived. On considering we were still three fourths of a mile from it, and that we could see its minutest parts distinctly, the illusion was explained. Going directly down the Boryo Fecckio, it seemed a long time before we arrived at the square of St. Peter's ; and when at length we stood in front, with the majestic colonnade sweeping around, the fountains on each side sending up their showers of silvery spray, the mighty obelisk of Egyptian granite piercing the sky, and beyond, the great facade and dome of the Cathedral, I confessed ir.y un- mingled admiration. It recalled to my mind the givaulenr of ancient Rome, and mighty as her edifices must have been, I doubt if she could boast many views more overpowering than this. The facade of St. Peter's seemed close to us, but it was a third of a mile distant, and the people ascending the steps dwindled to pygmies. I passed the obelisk, went up the long ascent, crossed the portico, pushed aside the heavy leathern curtain at the entrance, and stood in the great nave. I need not describe my lei-lings at the sight, but I will give the dimensions, and the reader may then fancy what they were. Before me was a nrirble plain six hundred feet long, and under the cross four hundred and seventeen feet wide ! One hundred and fifty feet above sprang a glorious arch, dazzling with inlaid gold, and in the center of the cross there were four hundred feet of air between me and the top of the dome ! The sunbeam, stealing through the lofty window at one end of the transept, made a bar of light on the blue air, hazy with incense, one tenth of a mile long, before it fell on the mosaics and gilded shrines of the other extremity. The grand cupola alone, including lantern and cross, is two hundred and eighty- five feet high, or sixty feet higher than the Bunker Hill Monument, and the four immense pillars on which it rests are each one hundred and thirty-seven feet in circumference ! It seems as if human art had out- done itself in producing this temple, the grandest which the world ever erected for the worship of the Living God ! The awe I felt in looking up at the colossal arch of marble and gold did not humble me ; on the contrary, I felt exalted, ennobled ; beings in the form I wore planned the glorious edifice, and it seemed that, in godlike power and perseverance, they were indeed but a little lower than the angels. I felt that, if fallen, my race was still mighty and immortal. The Vatican is only open twice a Meek, on days which are not BAYARD TAYLOIL 385 festas ; most fortunately, to-day happened to ba one of these, and we took a run through its endless halls. The extent and magnificence of the gallery of sculpture is amazing. The halls, which are filled to overflowing with the finest works of ancient art, would, if placed side by side, make a row more than two miles in length ! You enter at once into a hall of marble, with a magnificent arched ceiling, a third of a mile long ; the sides are covered for a great distance with Roman inscriptions of every kind, divided into compartments according to the era of the empire to which they refer. One which I examined appeared to be a kind of index of the roads in Italy, with the towns on them; and we could decipher, on that time-worn block, the very route we had followed from Florence hither. Then came the statues, and here I am bewildered how to describe them. Hundreds upon hundreds of figures, statues of citizens, gen- erals, emperors, and gods, fauns, satyrs, and nymphs, children, Cupids, and Tritons ; in fact, they seemed inexhaustible. Many of them, too, were forms of matchless beauty ; there were Venuses and nymphs, born of the loftiest dreams of grace ; fauns on whose faces shone the very soul of humor, and heroes and divinities with an air of majesty worthy the " land of lost gods and godlike men" ! I am lost in astonishment at the perfection of art attained by the Greeks and Bomans. There is scarcely a form of beauty, that has ever met my eye, which is not to be found in this gallery. I should almost despair of such another blaze of glory on the world, were it not my devout belief that what has been done may be done again, and had I not faith that the dawn in which we live will bring on another day equally glorious. And why should not America, with the experi- ence and added wisdom which three thousand years have slowly yielded to the old world, joined to the giant energy of her youth and freedom, re-bestow on the world the divine creations of Art ? But let us step on to the hemicycle of the Belvedere, and view some works greater than any we have yet seen, or even imagined. The adjoining gallery is filled with masterpieces of sculpture, but we will keep our eyes, unwearied and merely glance along the rows. At length we reach a circular court with a fountain flinging up its waters in the center. Before us is an open cabinet ; there is a beautiful, manly form within, but you would not for an instant take it for the Apollo. By the Gorgon head it holds aloft, we recognize Canova's Perseus, he, has copied the form and attitude of the Apollo, but lie 17 Y 386 CATHCART'S LITERARY HEADER. could not breathe into it the same warming lire. It seemed to me A particularly lifeless, and I greatly preferred his Boxers,, who stand on either side of it. Now we look on a scene of the deepest physical agony. Mark how every muscle of old Laocoon's body is distended to the utmost in the mighty struggle ! What intensity of pain in the quivering, distorted features ! Every nerve which despair can call into action is excited in one giant effort, and a scream of anguish seems just to have quivered on those marble lips. The serpents have rolled their stran- gling coils around father and sons, but terror has taken away the strength of the latter, and they make but feeble resistance. After looking with indifference on the many casts of this group, I was the more moved by the magnificent original. It deserves all the admiration that has been heaped upon it. I absolutely trembled on approaching the cabinet of the Apollo. I had built up in fancy a glorious ideal, drawn from all that bards have sung or artists have rhapsodized about its divine beauty. I feared disappointment, I dreaded to have my ideal displaced and my faith in the power of human genius overthrown by a form less than perfect. However, with a feeling of desperate excitement, I entered and looked upon it. Now what shall I say of it ? How describe its immortal beauty? To what shall I liken its glorious perfection of form, or the fire that imbues the cold marble with the soul of a god ? Not with sculpture, for it stands alone and above all other works of art, nor with men, for it has a majesty more than human. I gazed on it, lost in wonder and joy,- joy that I could at last take into my mind a faultless ideal of godlike, exalted manhood. The figure seems actually to possess a soul, and I looked on it, not as on a piece of marble, but as on a being of loftier mold, and waited to see him step forward when the arrow had reached its mark. I would give worlds to feel one moment the sculptor's triumph when his work was completed ; that one exulting thrill must have repaid him for every ill he might have suffered on earth. HUXLEY. 387 HUXLEY. 1825- . THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY, one of the most distinguished of living physiologists and natural- ists, was born in Middlesex, England, in 1825. At an early age he entered the royal navy in the capacity of surgeon. In 1818 he produced his first book, On the Anatomy and Affinities of the Family of the Medusae. In 1854 he became Professor of Paleontology in the School of Mines, and a few years later was appointed Professor of Physiology in the lloyal Institution. To the recent controversy as to the origin of man Professor Huxley has been an important contributor. His 3fan's Place in Nature was largely instrumental in directing public attention to this subject, and the ability of the boak made a profound impression on thoughtful minds. His later work, Protoplasm, or The Physical Basis of Life, was not less stimulating and impressive. Professor Huxley is one of the ablest supporters of the Darwinian theory. From the lecture platform he has won the admiring attention of the best minds of England, and through his published words has gained the ear of the whole scientific world. To no man now living does science owe a larger debt, whether as an investigator or as an expounder. His style is peculiarly attractive, and in his hands the driest themes of science take on a charm which compels attention and quickens interest. ON SCIENTIFIC EDUCATION. I HOPE you will consider that the arguments I have now stated, even if there were no better ones, constitute a sufficient apology for urging the introduction of science into schools. The next question to which I have to address myself is, What sciences ought to be thus taught ? And this is one of the most important of questions , [There are other forms of culture beside physical science^ and I should be' profoundly sorry to "see the fact forgotten, or even to observe a ten- dency to starve or cripple literary or aesthetic culture for the sake of science}; , Such a narrow view of the nature of education has nothing to do with my firm conviction that a complete and thorough scientific culture ought to be introduced into all schools./ '^By this, however, I do not mean that every school-boy should be taught everything in science.) That would be a very absurd thing to conceive, and a very mischievous thing to attempt. What I mean is, that no boy or girl should leave school without possessing a grasp of the general char- acter of science, and without having been disciplined, more or less, in the methods of all sciences ; so that, when turned into the world to make .their own way, they shall be prepared to face scientific prob- lems, not by knowing at once the conditions of every problem, or by bciing able at once to solve it, but by being familiar with the general current of scientific thought, and by being able to apply the methods of science in the proper way, when they have acquainted themselves with the conditions of the special problem. 388 CATHCART-'S LITERARY READER. That is what I understand by scientific education. To furnish a boy with such an education, it is by no means necessary that he should devote his whole school existence to physical science ; in fact, no one would lament so one-sided a proceeding more than I. Nay, more, it is not necessary for him to give up more than a moderate share of his time to such studies, if they be properly selected and arranged, and if he be trained in them in a fitting manner. I conceive the proper course to be somewhat as follows : To begin with, let every child be instructed in those general views of the phe- nomena of nature for which we have no exact English name. The nearest approximation to a name for what I mean, which we possess, is " physical geography " ; that is to say, a general knowledge of the earth, and what is on it, in it, and about it. If any one who has had experience of the ways of young children will call to mind their questions, he will find that, so far as they can be put into any scien- tific category, they come under this head. The child asks," What is the moon, and why does it shine ? " " What is this water, and where does it run?" "What is the wind?" "What makes the waves in the sea ? " " Where does this animal live, and what is the use of that plant ? " And if not snubbed and stunted by being told not to ask foolish questions, there is no limit to the intellectual craving of a young child, nor any bounds to the slow but solid accretion of ^knowledge and development of the thinking faculty in this way. To all such questions answers which are necessarily incomplete, though true as far as they go, may be given by any teacher whose ideas rep- resent real knowledge, and not mere book learning ; and a panoramic view of nature, accompanied by a strong inf^sjpn of the scientific habit of mind, may thus be placed within the reach of every child of nine or ten. After this preliminary opening of the eyes to the greet spectacle of the daily progress of nature, as the reasoning faculties of the child grow, and he becomes familiar with the use of the tools of knowledge, reading, writing, and elementary mathematics, he should pass on to what is, in the more strict sense, physical science. Now, there are two kinds of physical science. The one regards form and the rela- tion of forms to one another ; the other deals with causes and effects. In many of what we term our sciences, these two kinds are mixed up too-other ; but systematic botany is a pure example of the former kind, and physics of the latter kind, of science. Kvorv educational HUXLEY. 389 advantage which training in physical science can give is obtainable from the proper study of these two ; and I should be contented for the present if they, added to physical geography, furnished the whole of the scientific curriculum of schools. Indeed, I conceive it would be one of the greatest Loons which could be conferred upon England, if henceforward every child in the country were instructed in the general knowledge of the things about it, in the elements of physics and of botany ; but I should be still better pleased if there could be added somewhat of chemistry, and an elementary acquaintance with human physiology. So far as school education is concerned, I want to go no further just now ; and I believe that such instruction would make an excel- lent introduction to that preparatory scientific training which, as I have indicated, is so essential for the successful pursuit of our most important professions. But this modicum of instruction must be so given as to insure real knowledge and practical discipline. If scien- tific education is to be dealt with as mere book-work, it will be better not to attempt it, but to stick to the Latin Grammar, which makes no pretence to be anything but book-work. If the great benefits of scientific training are sought, it is essential that such training should be real ; that is to say, that the mind of the scholar should be brought into direct relation with fact, that he should not merely be told a thing, but made to see by the use of his own intellect and ability that the thing is so and no otherwise. The givat peculiarity of scientific training, that in virtue of which it can- not be replaced by any other discipline whatsoever, is this bringing of the mind directly into contact with fact, and practicing the intel- lect in the completest form of induction ; that is to say, in drawing conclusions from particular facts made known by immediate observa- tion of nature. The other studies which enter into ordinary education do not disci- pline the mind in this way. Mathematical training is almost purely deductive. The mathematician starts with a few simple propositions, the proof of which is so obvious that they are called self-evident, find the rest of his work consists of subtile deductions from them. The teaching of languages, at any rate as ordinarily practiced, is of the same general nature, authority and tradition furnish the data, and the, mental operations of the scholar are deductive. Again, if*Tiistory be the subject of study, the facts are still taken 390 CATHCART'S LITERACY HEADER. upon the evidence of tradition and authority. You cannot make a boy see the Battle of Thermopylae for himself, or know, of his own knowledge, that Cromwell once ruled England. There is no getting into direct contact with natural fact by this road ; there is no dis- pensing with authority, but rather a resting upon it. In all these respects science differs from other educational disci- pline, and prepares the scholar for common life. What have we to do in every-day life ? Most of the business which demands our attention is matter of fact, which needs, in the first place, to be accu- rately observed or apprehended ; in the second, to be interpreted by inductive and deductive reasonings, which are altogether similar in their nature to those employed in science. In the one case, as in the other, whatever is taken for granted is so taken at one's own peril. Fact and reason are the ultimate arbiters, and patience and honesty are the great helpers out of difficulty. But if scientific training is to yield its most eminent results, it must, I repeat, be made practical. That is to say, in explaining to a child the general phenomena of nature, you must, as far as possible, give reality to your teaching by object-lessons. In teaching him botany, he must handle the plants and dissect the flowers for himself; in teaching him pliysics and chemistry, you must not be solicitous to fill him with information, but yon must be careful that what he learns he knows of his own knowledge. Don't be satisfied with telling him that a magnet attracts iron. Let him see that it does ; let him feel the pull of the one upon the other for himself. And, especially, 'tell him that it is his duty to doubt, until he is compelled by the absolute authority of nature to believe, that which is written in books. Pursue this discipline carefully and conscientiously, and you may make sure that, however scanty may be the measure of information which you have poured into the boy's mind, you have created an intellectual habit of priceless value in practical life. One is constantly asked, When should this scientific education be commenced ? I should say with the dawn of intelligence. As I have already said, a child seeks for information about matters of physical science as soon as it begins to talk. The first teaching it wants is an object-lesson of one sort or another ; and as soon as it is fit for systematic instruction of any kind, it is fit for a modicum of science. People talk of the difficulty of teaching young children such HUXLEY. 391 matters, and in the same breath insist upon their learning their Cate- chism, which contains propositions far harder to comprehend than anything in the educational course I have proposed. Again, I am incessantly told that we who advocate the introduction of science into schools make no allowance for the stupidity of the average boy or girl ; but, in my belief, that stupidity, in nine cases out of ten, is unnatural, and is developed by a long process of parental and pedagogic repression of the natural intellectual appetites, accompanied by a persistent attempt to create artificial ones for food which is not only tasteless, but essentially indigestible. Those who urge the difficulty of instructing young people in science are apt to forget another very important condition of success ; important in all kinds of teaching, but most essential, I am disposed to think, when the scholars are very young. This condition is, that the teacher should himself really and practically know his subject. If he does, he will be able to speak of it in the easy language, and with the completeness of conviction, with which he talks of any ordi- nary every-day matter. If he does not, he will be afraid to wander beyond the limits of the technical phraseology which he has got up ; and a dead dogmatism, which oppresses or raises opposition, will take the place of the lively confidence, born of personal conviction, which cheers and encourages the eminently sympathetic mind of childhood. 392 ' CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. TIMEOD. 1829-1867. HENRY TIMROD was born in Charleston, South Carolina, on the 8th of December, 1829. His father, William Henry Tinirod, was also a poet. The sou received his collegiate education at the University of Georgia, although he left a short time before the graduating commencement. He taught as private tutor several years in his native city ; and during the civil war for a year or two was upon the editorial staff of the South Carolinian newspaper in Columbia. In 1860 Ticknor and Fields of Boston issued a small volume of Poems by Tinirod ; and since his death in 1872 a complete edition has appeared, with a sketch of the poet's brief and painful life. He died on the 7th of October, 1867. Mr. Timrod's best poems are the patriotic and the idyllic ; and his reputation, especially in the South, rests just now mainly upon the former. In this vein his Carolina is his strongest and best, and is as terse and vehement in movement as a Greek war-cry. A Cry to Arms has also many admirers ; and if we transfer the scene of it to Greece or Germany, substituting Tyrtaios or Korner for Tinirod, its musical vehemence would be striking. This stanza especially is nota- ble for its fanciful realism : " Come, with the weapons at your call, With musket, pike, or knife; He wields the deadliest blade of all Who lightest holds his life. The arm that drives its unbought blows With all a patriot's scorn, Might brain a tyrant with a rose Or stab him with a thorn." But clearly the poet was more at home among the beauties of nature, to which he was exquis- itely alive. In this vein Katie is one of his happiest efforts. It is earnest, natural, musical, chaste, and at the same time sensuous. His longest poem is A Vision of Poesy, the story of aspiration, struggle, and heart-failure, a foreshadowing of his own brief, eager, and unattaming struggle for success. SPRING. SPRING, with that nameless pathos in the air Which dwells with all things fair, Spring, with her golden sans and silver rain, Is with us once again. Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns Its fragrant lamps, and turns Into a royal court with green festoons The banks of dark lagoons. In the deep heart of every forest tree The blood is all aglee, And there 's a look about the leafless bowers As if they dreamed of flowers. TIMHOD! 393 Yet still on every side we trace the hand Of Winter in the land, Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, Flushed by the season's dawn ; Or where, like those strange semblances we find That age to childhood bind, The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, The brown of Autumn corn. As yet the turf is dark, although you know That, not a span below, A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, And soon will burst their tomb. Already, here and there, on frailest stems Appear some azure gems, Small as might deck, upon a gala day, The forehead of a fay. In gardens you may note amid the dearth The crocus breaking earth ; And near the snowdrop's tender white and green, The violet in its screen. But many gleams and shadows needs must 'pass Along the budding grass, And weeks go by, before the enamored South Shall kiss the rose's mouth. Still there 's a sense of blossoms yet unborn In the sweet airs of morn ; One almost looks to see the very street Grow purple at his feet. At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, And brings, you know not why, A feeling as when eager crowds await, Before a palace gate, 17* CATIICARTV LITERARY READER. Some wondrous pageant ; and you scarce would start, If from a beech's heart A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, " Behold me ! I am May ! " Ah ! who would couple thoughts of war and crime With such a blessed time ! Who, in the west wind's aromatic breath, Could hear the call of Death ! Yet not more surely shall the Spring awake The voice of wood and brake, Than she shall rouse, for all her tranquil charms, A million men to arms. There shall be deeper hues upon her plains Than all her sunlit rains, And every gladdening influence around, Can summon from the ground. Oh ! standing on this desecrated mold, Methinks that I behold, Lifting her bloody daisies up to God, Spring, kneeling on the sod, And calling, with the voice of all her rills, Upon the ancient hills To fall and crush the tyrants and the slaves Who turn her meads to graves. A MOTHER'S WAIL. MY babe ! my tiny babe ! my only babe ! My single rose-bud in a crown of thorns ! My lamp that in that narrow hut of life, Whence I looked forth upon a night of storm, Burned with the luster of the moon and stars ! My babe ! my tiny babe ! my only babe ! Behold, the bud is gone ! the thorns remain ! TIMROD.* 395 My lamp liath fallen from its niche ah, me ! Earth drinks the fragrant flame, and I am left Forever and forever in the dark ! My babe ! my babe ! my own and only babe ! Where art thou now ? If somewhere in the sky An angel hold thee in his radiant arms, I challenge him to clasp thy tender form With half the fervor of a mother's love ! Forgive me, Lord ! forgive my reckless grief ! Forgive me that this rebel, selfish heart Would almost make me jealous for my child, Though thy own lap enthroned him. Lord, thou hast So many such ! I have ah ! had but one ! O yet once more, my babe, to hear thy cry ! O yet once more, my babe, to see thy smile ! yet once more to feel against my breast Those cool, soft hands, that warm, wet, eager mouth, With the sweet sharpness of its budding pearls ! But it must never,. never more be mine % To mark the growing meaning in thine eyes, To w r atch thy soul unfolding leaf by leaf, Or catch, with ever fresh surprise and joy, Thy dawning recognitions of the world ! Three different shadows of thyself, my babe, Change with each other while I weep. The first, The sweetest, yet the not least fraught with pain, Clings like my living boy around my neck, Or purs and murmurs softly at my feet ! Another is a little mound of earth ; That comes the oftenest, darling ! In my dreams, 1 see it beaten by the midnight rain, Or chilled beneath the moon. Ah ! what a couch For that which I have shielded from a breath That would not stir the violets on thy grave ! 396 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. The third, my precious babe ! the third, Lord ! Is a fair cherub face beyond the stars, Wearing* the roses of a mystic bliss, Yet sometimes not unsaddened by a glance Turned earthward on a mother in her woe ! This is the vision, Lord, that I would ket*p Before me always. But, alas ! as yet, It is the dimmest and the rarest too 1 O touch my sight, or biv:ik the cloudy bars - That hide it, lest I madden where I kneel 1 A COMMON THOUGHT.* SOMEWHERE on this earthly planet In the dust of flowers to be, In the dew-drop in the sunshine, Sleeps a solemn day for me. At this wakeful hour of midnight I behold it dawn in mist, And I hear a sound of sobbing * Through the darkness, hist ! 0, hist ! In a dim and musky chamber, I am breathing life away ; Some one draws a curtain softly And I watch the broadening day. As it purples in the zenith, As it brightens on the lawn, There 's a hush of death about me, And a whisper, " He is gone ! " * This little poem, written several years before the poet's death, was prophetic. He died at the very hour here predicted. The whisper, " He is gone," went forth as the day was purpling in the zenith, on that October morning of 1867- BRET HAUTE. 397 BEET HAETE. 1838- FRANCIS BRET HARTE was horn in the State of New York in 1838. When quite young he went to California, where he remained until within a few years. His early occupations were various, including teaching and journalism. His. success in the latter field of effort led him suddenly into literature and fame. His earliest essays in prose and verse were contributed to California periodicals, but speedily found their way to the Atlantic coast and even to Europe, being admired for their positive originality and as representative of a new phase of social life. In 1868 the Overland Monthly was started in San Francisco, and Mr. Harte was called to the editorial chair, which he rilled very creditably for a year or two. But he had outgrown the sphere of a Pacific coast constituency, and there was a general demand for his removal to the larger lield of the East. He yielded to this, and during the last few years has been a resident of New York. Mr. Harte is, perhaps, equally distinguished as a writer of prose and poetry : The Luck of Roaring Camp a.nd The Heathen Chinee, representing these two forms of composi- tion, are unique in literature, and their merit has never been approximated by the author's many imitators. Their marvelous popularity is due, primarily, to the strangeness of the life whose products they are, the wild society of newly-settled regions, in which violence is the ruling, and humanity the exceptional, social force ; and, secondarily, to a peculiar quality of the author's genius, exclusively peculiar to him, it may be said, by which he is enabled to besiege the reader's mind with almost simultaneous humor and pathos. The power of employing these two agencies in apparently antagonistic, yet practically harmonious combination, is, perhaps, the secret of Mr. Harte's literary success. Surely it is possessed in equal development by no other living writer. His range in composition seems to be limited, and he seems to draw inspiration only from the scenes which first engaged his pen ; when he ventures across the Rocky Mountains into regions of conventional life, his wings fail him and he falls to the level of commonplace. In proof of this it is only necessary to cite the fact that since his removal to the Atlantic coast He has written but little, and that little far inferior in quality to his Pacific productions. The volume entitled The Luck of Roaring Camp contains his best work in yose ; his verses have been published in a volume called Poems. JOHN CHINAMAN. THE expression of the Chinese face in the aggregate is neither cheerful nor happy. In an acquaintance of half a dozen years, I can only recall one or two exceptions to this rule. There is an abiding' consciousness of degradation, a secret pain or self-humiliation visible in the lines of the mouth and eye. Whether it is only a modification of Turkish gravity, or whether it is the dread Valley of the Shadow of the Drug through which they are continually straying, I cannot say. They seldom smile, and their laughter is of such an extraordinary and sardonic nature so purely a mechanical spasm, quite independent of any mirthful attribute that to this day I am doubtful whether I ever saw a Chinaman laugh. I have often been struck with the delicate pliability of the Chinese expression and taste, that might suggest a broader and deeper criti- 398 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. cism than is becoming these pages. A Chinaman will adopt the American costume, and wear it with a taste of color and detail that will surpass those/" native, and to the manner born.'/ To look at a Chinese slipper, one might imagine it impossible to shape the original foot to anything less cumbrous and roomy, yet a neater-fitting boot than that belonging to the Americanized Chinaman is rarely seen on this side of the Continent. When the loose sack or paletot takes the place of his brocade blouse, it is worn with a refinement and grace that might bring a jealous pang to the exquisite of our more refined civili- zation. Pantaloons fall easily and naturally over legs that have known unlimited freedom and bagginess, and even garrote collars meet cor- rectly around sun-tanned throats. The new expression seldom over- flows in gaudy cravats. I will back my Americanized Chinaman against any neophyte of European birth in the choice of that article. AVliile in our own State, the Greaser resists one by one the garments of the Northern invader, and even wears the livery of his conqueror with a Avild and buttonless freedom, the Chinaman, abused and de- graded as he is, changes by correctly graded transition to the gar- ments of Christian civilization. There is but one article of European wear that he avoids. These Bohemian eyes have never yet been pained by the spectacle of a tall hat on the head of an intelligent Chinaman. My acquaintance with John has been made up of weekly inter- views, involving the adjustment of the washing accounts, so that I have not been able to study his character from a social view-point or observe him in the privacy of the domestic circle. I have gathered enough to justify me in believing him to be generally honest, faithful, simple, and painstaking. Of his simplicity let me record an instance where a sad and civil young Chinaman brought me certain shirts with most of the buttons missing and others hanging on delusively by a single thread. In a moment of unguarded irony I informed him that unity would at least have been preserved if the buttons were removed altogether. He smiled sadly and went away. I thought I had hurt his feelings, until the next week when he brought me my shirts with a look of intelligence, and the buttons carefully and totally erased. At another time, to guard against his general disposition to carry off anything as soiled clothes that he thought could hold water, I re- quested him to always wait until he saw me. Coining home late one evening, I found the household in great consternation, over an im- BRET IIARTE. 399 movable Celestial who had remained seated on the front door-step during the day, sad and submissive, firm but also patient, and only betraying any animation or token of his mission when he saw me coming. This same Chinaman evinced some evidences of regard for a little girl in the family, who in her turn reposed such faith in his intellectual qualities as to present him with a preternaturally unin- teresting Sunday-school book, her own property. This book John made a point of carrying ostentatiously with him in his weekly visits. It appeared usually on the top of the clean clothes, and was sometimes painfully clasped outside of the big bundle of soiled linen. Whether John believed he unconsciously imbibed some spiritual life through its pasteboard cover, as the Prince in the Arabian Nights imbibed the medicine through the handle of the mallet, or whether he wished to exhibit a due sense of gratitude, or whether he had n't any pockets, I have never been able to ascertain. In his turn he would sometimes cut marvelous imitation roses from carrots for his little friend. I am in- clined to think that the few roses strewn in John's pcth were such scentless imitations. The thorns only were real. From the persecu- tions of the young and old of a certain class, his life was a torment. I don't know what was the exact philosophy that Confucius taught, but it is to be hoped that poor John in his persecution is still able to detect the conscious hate and fear with which inferiority always regards the possibility of even-handed justice, and which is the key- note to the vulgar clamor about servile and degraded races. BOONDER. I NEVER knew how the subject of this memoir came to attach him- self so closely to the affections of my family. He was not a prepos- sessing dog. He was not a dog of even average birth and breeding.. His pedigree was involved in the deepest obscurity* He may have had brothers and sisters, but in the whole range of my .canine ac- quaintance (a pretty extensive one), I never detected any of Boonder's peculiarities in any other of his species. His body was long, and his forelegs and hind legs were very wide apart, as though Nature originally intended to put an extra pair between them, but had un- wisely allowed herself to be persuaded out of it. This peculiarity was annoying on cold nights, as it always prolonged the interval of keeping the door open for Boonder's ingress long enough to allow 400 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. two or three dogs of a reasonable length to -enter. Boonder's feet were decided ; his toes turned out considerably, and in repose his favorite attitude was the first position of dancing. Add to a pair of bright eyes ears that seemed to belong to some other dog, and a symmetrically pointed nose that fitted all apertures like a pass-key, and you have Boonder as we knew him. I am inclined to think that his popularity was mainly owing to his quiet impudence. His advent in the family was that of an old mem- ber, who had been absent for a short time, but had returned to fa- miliar haunts and associations. In a Pythagorean point of view this might have been the case, but I cannot recall any deceased member of the family who was in life partial to bone-burying (though it might be post mortem a consistent amusement), and this was Boonder's great weakness. He was at first discovered coiled up on a rug in an upper chamber, and was the least disconcerted of the entire household. Prom that moment^ Boonder became one of its recognized members, and privileges, often denied the most intelligent and valuable of his species, were quietly taken by him and submitted to by us. Thus, if he were found coiled up in a clothes-basket, or any article of clothing assumed locomotion on its own account, we only s:;id, " 0, it 's Boon- der," with a feeling of relief that it was nothing worse. I have spoken of his fondness for bone-burying. It could not be called an economical faculty, for he invariably forgot the locality of his treasure, and covered the garden with purposeless holes ; but although the violets and daisies were not improved by Boonder's gardening, no one ever* thought of punishing him. He bee;; me a synonym for fate ; a Boonder to be grumbled at, to be accepted philosophically, but never to be averted. But although he was not an intelligent dog, nor an ornamental dog, he possessed some gentlemanly instincts. When he performed his only feat, begging upon his hind legs (and looking remarkably like a penguin), igno- rant strangers would offer him crackers or cake, which he did n't like, as a reward of merit. Boonder always made a great show of accept- ing the proffered dainties, and even made hypocritical contortions as if swallowing, but always deposited the morsel when he was unob- served in the first convenient receptacle, usually the visitor's over- shoes. In matters that did not involve courtesy, Boonder was sincere in his likes and dislikes. lie was instinctively opposed to the railroad. BIIET HAUTE. 401 When the track was laid through our street, Boonder maintained a defiant attitude toward every rail as it went down, and resisted the cars shortly after to the fullest extent of his lungs. I have a vivid recollection of seeing him, on the day of the trial trip, come down the street in front of the car, barking himself out of all shape, and thrown back several feet by the recoil of each bark. But Boonder was not the only one who has resisted innovations, or has lived to see the innovation prosper and even crush But I am anticipating. Boon- der had previously resisted the gas, but although he spent one whole day in angry altercation with the workmen, leaving his bones unburied and bleaching in the sun, somehow the gas went in. The Spring Valley water was likewise unsuccessfully opposed, and the grading of an adjoining lot was for a long time a personal matter between Boonder and the contractor. These peculiarities seemed to evince some decided character and embody some idea. A prolonged debate in the family upon this topic resulted in au addition to his name, we called him " Boonder the Conservative," with a faint acknowledgment of his fateful power. But, although Boonder had his own way, his path was not entirely of roses. Thorns sometimes pricked his sensibilities. When certain minor chords wore struck on the piano, Boonder was always painfully affected and howk'd a remonstrance. If he were removed for com- pany's, sake to the back yard, at the recurrence of the provocation, he would go his whole length (which was something) to improvise a howl that should reach the performer. But we got accustomed to Boonder, and as we were fond of music the playing went on. One morning Boonder left the house in good spirits with his regu- lar bone in his mouth, and apparently the usual intention of burying it. The next day he was picked up lifeless on the track, run over, apparently, by the first, car that went out of the depot. THE AGED STRANGER. " I WAS with Grant " the stranger said ; Said the farmer, " S.iy no more, But rest thec here at my cottage porch, For thy feet are weary and son;." " I was with Grant " the stranger said; Said the farmer, " Nay, no more, 402 CATHCART'S LITERARY READER. I prithee sit at my frugal board, And eat of my bumble store. " How fares my boy, my soldier boy, Of the old Ninth Army Corps ? I warrant he bore him gallantly In the smoke and the battle's roar ! " "I know him not," said the aged man, " And, as I remarked before, I was with Grant "Nay, nay, I know," Said the farmer, " say no more ; " He fell in battle, I see, alas ! Thou 'dst smooth these tidings o'er, Nay : speak the truth, whatever it be, Though it rend my bosom's core. " How fell he, with his face to the foe, Upholding the flag he bore ? O, say not that my boy disgraced The uniform that he wore ! " " I cannot tell," said the aged man, " And should have remarked, before, That I was with Grant, in Illinois, Some three years before the war." Then the farmer spake him never a word, But beat with his fist full sore That aged man, who had worked for Grant Some three years before the war. VOCABULARY. A-boon' (Scotch}, above. Ab-o-rig'i-nals, the first inhabitants of a coun- try. (Usually written Aborigines.) A-brad'ing, rubbing or wearing off. A-ca'ci-a, a tree growing chiefly in tropical countries. Ac-ces'so-ry, aiding ; additional ; an accom- paniment. A-crid'i-ty, sharpness and bitterness to the taste. Ad-a-man'tine (-in), hard like adamant; inca- pal)le of being broken. Ad'e-quate-ly, in an equal degree ; sufficiently. Ad-her'ents, followers ; partisans. Ad-o-les'cence, the period of growth ; youth. A-dop'tion, receiving as one's oAvn; acceptance. A'er-o-naut, a navigator of the air ; a balloonist. jEs-thet'ic, pertaining to, or cultivating, the taste. Af'fa-ble, easy in conversation ; courteous. Ag-gre-ga'tion, a collection into one sum or mass. A-glce' (page 392), aglow ; active. Airts 'Scotch), winds. A-lac'ri-ty, cheerful readiness ; sprightliness. Al-le-gor'i-cal, having the nature of an alle- gory ; figurative. Al'le-go-ry, a fable or parable ; a description of any tiling under the image f>f something else which resembles it. Al'nia Ma'ter (Latin), fostering mother; the college or seminary where one is educated. Al-ter-ca'tion, dispute in words ; angry debate. Al-ter-na'tion, following one after the other by turns. Am-big'u-ous, having a doubtful or double meaning. Am-bus-cade', a lying concealed in wait to at- tack ;m enemy. A-ine-li-o-ra'tlon, the act of making better; improvement. A-men'i-ty, pleasantness ; civility. Am-plii-the'a-ter, an oval or circular theater. A-nath'e-ma, a curse pronounced with solem- nity and authority. And'i-rons, utensils for supporting wood in a fireplace. An'gli-cism, a form of expression peculiar to the English language. Aii'nals, a history of events year by year. A-nom'a-ly, an irregularity; a deviation from law or rule. An'ser-ine, relating to or resembling a goose. An-tag'o-nist, an opponent ; an adversary. An-te-di-lu'vi-an, existing before the flood. An'them, a sacred song. An-tliro-poph'a-gi, cannibals. An'tl-dote, that which counteracts the effects of any drug. An'tres (Latin), caves. A-o'ni-an, relating to Aonia, a country of Greece, sacred to the Muses. Ap-pa-ra'tus, instruments or utensils provided for the performance of any work. Ap-pa-ri'tion, a supernatural appearance; a ghost. Ap-prox-i-ma'tion, near approach. A-quat'ic, relating to the water. Aq'ui-line (-(In or -Iln), resembling an eagle ; like an eagle's beak. Ar-ca'di-a, a country in Greece, noted for -the simple, peaceful life of its inhabitants. Ar'gus, a fabled being of antiquity, said to have had a hundred eyes. Ar-is-toc'ra-cy, government by the nobles ; the nobility. Ar-te'si-an, relating to Artois, in France ; a term applied to wells formed by boring into the earth. As-cen'den-cy, controlling influence; power. As-cet'ic, OIK: who too rigorously applies him- self to religious practices. As-sim-i-la'tion, the act of bringing to a like- ness. As-size', an inquest; a measure or adjustment. As-trol'o-ger, one who professes to foretell fu- ture events by observing the stars. As'ymp-tote, a line which constantly approaches a curve, but which can never meet it. At-trib'ute, to assign or impute to. 404 VOCABULARY. Au-ro'ra, the dawn, or a light in the heavens resembling it. Au'spi-cate, to foreshow. Au-to-bi-og'ra-phy, an account of one's own life. Av'a-lanche, a mass of snow and ice, sliding down a mountain. Av-a-tar', the descent of a Hindoo deity. A-zo'ic, before the existence of animal life. Bar'y-tone, a deep male voice, but higher than the bass. Ba-salt', a greenish-black stone. Bass-re-lief, carved work in which the figures stand partly from the surface. Bat/tle-ment, the upper part of the wall of a fortification, notched or indented. Bay'ou, an inlet of the sea, connected with riv- ers or lakes. Be-a-tif ic, producing bliss. Bel-lig'er-ent, waging war. Ben-e-dic'tion, act of pronouncing a blessing. Be-nef i-cent, doing gxul. Be-nig'ni-ty, kindness of disposition; good- will. Bib'li-cal, relating to the Bible. Bi-og'ra-phy, a history of any person's life. Bi-ol'o-gy, the science of life. Bi'peds, animals having two legs. Bir'kie (Scotch), a clever fellow. Biv'ou-ac (bic'v;ulk\ night rest of soldiers in the open air. Boon, anything granted as a benefit or favor. Bo-re-a'lis, relating to the north ; northern. Bowl'der, a large mass of stone worn smooth by the action of water. Brake, a place overgrown with shrubs ; a thicket Bri-a' re-us, a fabled giant having a hundred bands. Bro-cade', silk stuff, wrought or woven with ornaments. Burgb/er, one who belongs to a burgh, or cor- P'n'ate town ; a citizen. Bur'go-mas-ter, a Dutch magistrate. Cal'a-bash, a vessel made from a gourd. Cal-cine', to reduce to powder by heat. Cal'en-dar, a register of the year; an almanac. Ca-lor'ic, heat, Ca'lyx, a flower-cup. Cam-paign'er, a soldier in active service. Can'on-izc, to declare a saint. Can 'on, a law ; catalogue of the saints. Can'o-py, a covering over the head; an awning or tent. Can'to, a division of a poem. Can'yon, a gorge; a ravinej a gulch. Ca-par'i-son, trappings for a horse. Car-a-van', a company of travelers in the East. Car-bon-if'er-ous, containing carbon, or coaX Car'nage, slaughter; bloodshed. Car'ni-val, a festival celebrated just before Lent. - Car-niv'o-rous. subsisting on flesh ; flesh-eat- ing. Casque, a helmet, Cas-sa'va, the plant from which tapioca is ob- tained ; manioc. Ca-tas'trq-phe, the termination of an event ; disaster. Cat'e-go-ry, a class of things. Ca-the'dral, the principal church in a diocese. Ce-leb'ri-ty, fame ; distinction. Ce-UVtial, heavenly. Cel'i-ba-cy, unmarried state ; single life. Cen'ser, a vessel for burning perfumes. Cen'sure, blame; reproof; judgment. Cha'os, a confused mass ; disorder. Cha-ot'ic, in a state of chaos ; disorganized. ( hi-ea ner-y, trickery; deception. Chi-mer'i-cal, fanciful ; unreal. Chiv'al-rous, gallant ; valiant; brave. Chiv'al-ry, knighthood ; gallantry. Ci-ce-ro'ne (ckc-cke-ro 1 He), one who shows strangers the curiosities of a place. Cim-nie'ri-an, very black or dark. Cir-ruiu-spec'tion, caution; prudent watch- ful n Civ'ie, civil : not military; municipal. ( 1 lam'or-ous, noisy. Clan-des'tine (-in), secret; underhand. Clang 'or, a loud and shrill sound. Cli'max, gradual rise ; highest point. Clois'ter, a convent ; a nunnery. Co-a-lesce', to unite ; to blend into one. Cock'et, a custom-house certificate. Co-e'val, of the same age. | Cog i-tate, to think ; to meditate. Coil, a series of Tings of rope, etc ; noise ; tu- mult. Col-lo'qui-al, conversational. Col'lo-quy, a conversation. Co-los'sal, like the Colossus ; gigantic. Co-los'si, plural of Colossus ; giants. Com-ni2in-0-ra'tion, keeping in memory In- formal celebration. Com-pat'i-ble, suitable to; consistent with. Con-cen'ter, to concentrate ; to bring into one poi, t. Con'crete, firm ; solid; not abstract. Con-ge'ni-al, of the same nature, or disposi- tion. Con-ju-ra'tlon, sorcery; incantation. Con-san-giiin'i-ty, relationship by blood or birth. VOCABULARY. 405 Con-serv'a-tive, opposed to change. Con-serv'a-to-ry, a place for prcservin; things ; a greenhouse. Con-stit'u-ent, composing; component. Con'sum-mate, to complete ; to perfect. Con-tem'po-ra-ry, living at the same time. Con-text'ure, framework; structure. Con-ti-gu'i-ty, contact; state of being adja- cent. Con'tu-me-ly, scornful treatment ; disdain. Con-veut'u-al, relating to a convent; monas- tic. Con-vol'vu-lus, a vine ; bindweed. Coot Scotc't), a blockhead; a simpleton. Cor-du-roy', a thick cotton stuff, having a ribbed surface. Cor-rel'a-tive, having mutual relations; re- ciprocal. Couch'ant, lying down. Cra'ven, a coward. Cre-du'li-ty, readiness to believe without proof. Croupe or Croup, the part of. a horse's back behind the saddle. Cu'li-na-ry, pertaining to cooking. Cu'po-la, a dome; an arched roof. Cur-ric'u-lum, course of studies. Cy'cle, a circle of time; a round of years; a period. Cy-clo-pe'an, pertaining to the Cyclops, a fa- bled giant; lingo. Cy-clo-pie'di-a, a book in which the various .sciences, arc treated. Cym'bals, a musical instrument. De-bris (dn-brc 1 ) r ubbish ; remains; ruins. Ds-cid'u-ous, falling off; not evergreen (of De-ci'pher, to unravel; to explain. De-co'rum, propriety of behavior ; decency. De-crep'it, weak from old age. De-duct'ive-Iy, by deduction, or inference. Def-er-en'tial, ivspectful. De-fleet', to turn or bend aside. De-fund/, dead ; deceased. Da'i-fied, male or declared a god. Da-mure'ly, soberly; modestly. Da-noni'i-nate, to name ; to entitle. DOS cant, a song; the variation of an air or melody. Des'e-crate, to abuse what is sacred ; to pro- lane. Des'pot, one who rules with absolute power ; a tyrant. Des'ul-to-ry, unconnected; fitful"; wandering. De-vo'ni-an, pertaining to certain geological st.rafa abounding in Devonshire, England. Di'a-dem, a crown. Di'a-lect, a form of language peculiar to a place or district. Dic'tion, style of language, or expression. Dight ( lite), dressed ; adorned. Di-gres'sion, departure from the main subject. Dike, a ditch ; a mound to prevent the over- flow of water. Dil-et-tan'ti, lovers of the fine arts. Di-inin'u-tive, of small size; little. Di-plo'nia-cy, the art of negotiating ti'eaties. Dip-lo-inat'ic, pertaining to diplomacy. Dis-com'fit-ed, defeated. Dis-con-cert'ed, frustrated ; confused. Dis-en-cum'ber, to disburden; to set free. Dis'lo-cate, to displace ; to disjoint. Dis-par'age, to undervalue; to depreciate. Dis-qui-si tion, a discourse ; a treatise. Dis-sem'ble, u> conceal; to feign. Dis-ser-ta'tion, a discourse ; a treatise. Dis-sev'er, to disjoin ; to separate. Dis-so-lu'tion, decomposition; death. Dis-tend'ed, expanded; enlarged. Dith-y-ram'bics, poems of a wild, enthusiastic character; (anciently) songs to Bacchus. Dit'ty, a song. Dog'ma-tism, positiveness of assertion. Du'bi-oiis-ly, doubtfully; with uncertainty. Dul'ci-mer, a kind of musical instrument. Dy'nas-ty, a succession of sovereigns of the iame race. Ec-cen-tric'i-ties, peculiarities ; oddities. Ec'logue, a pastoral poem, i. e. relating to shep- herds, or I he country. E-con'o-mist, one who studies or practices economy. Ef-flu'vi-a ''plural of effluvium), noxious or noisome exhalations. Ef-ful'gence, splendor; brightness. E'go-tism, conceit; vanity. E-jac-u-la'tion, exclamation. E-lab'o-rate, to improve or perfect by labor. E-le'gi-ac r El-e-gi'ac, pertaining to an elegy, [>r funereal song; plaintive. Elves 'plural ofelf), fairies. Em-a-na'tion^ a flowing out; an efflux. Em-bla'zonefl, decked with showy ornaments. E'inir (Jrabir), a governor, prince, or military wander. E-mol'u-ment, gain ; pecuniary profit. Em-pir'i-cism, dependence on experiment ; quackery. En-am'ored, charmed; inflamed with love. En-cyc'li-cal, circular. En-dow'ment, a natural gift. E-ner'vat-ed, deprived of strengfh ; weakcn-d. En-fran'ehised, set free; admitted as a free man. 406 VOCABULARY. E-nor'mous, huge ; prodigious ; very wicked. En rap-port' (French), in relation ; related. E-nu-mer-a'tion, numbering; summing up. E-iiun-ci-a'tion, utterance ; declaration. E'on, the time a person or thing exists; a pe- riod of time ; an age. E-phem'e-ral, lasting for a day ; of short du- ration. Ep'i-gram, a short, witty poem. Ep'i-sode, a digression. Ep-i-sod'i-cal, pertaining fo an episode. Ep'i-thet, a name ; a title ; a qualifying term. E-qui-lib'ri-um, even balance ; equality of weight. E-qui-noc'tial, a great circle in the heavens in the plane of the equator. E-quipped', furnished ; arrayed. E'ra, a fixed point or period of time ; an epoch. E-rad'i-eate, to root out; to destroy. E-ru-di'tion, knowledge obtained from books ; learning. Es-chew'ing, avoiding ; shunning. Es'pla-nade, a clear space used for rides or walks. Es-tranged', made unfriendly ; alienated. Es'tu-a-ry, a river or arm of the sea in which the tide rises. Eu-lo'gi-um, formal praise. Eu'pho-ny, agreeable sound. E-van'ish-ing, fleeting; evanescent. E-vap-o-ra'tion, passing away in vapor ; changing to vapor. Ev-0-lu'tion, act of unfolding. Ex'ea-vate, to hollow out. Ex-elieq'uer, treasury. Ex-ha-la'tion, effluvium ; vapor; steam. Ex-hil'a-rat-ing, enlivening; cheering. Ex'i-gen-cy, demand ; pressing need. Ex-pa'tri-ate, to banish; to expel from one's country. Ex'pe-dite, to hasten. Ex'pi-ate, to atone for ; to make satisfaction. Ex-punge', to blot out. Ex'tant, existing. Ex-n'Iier-ance, great abundance ; overflowing plenty. Ex-ii-da'tion, sweating ; oozing out. Fa (Scotch), fall; lot. Fa-cil'i-tate, to make easy ; to remove difficul- ties. Fan-tas'tic, fanciful; whimsical. Far'del, a bundle; a pack or load for the back. Fas-ci-na'tion, charming ; enchantment. Fas-tid'i-ous, over-nice ; hard to please. Faun ( ,l//////.\ a god of fields and shepherds. Fe-cun'di-ty, fruitfulness ; fertility. Fes-toon', a garland or wreath hanging in a, curve. Feu'dal, pertaining to a feud, that is, a right to lands on condition of service to a superior. Film'y, composed of a thin skin or web ; like a col) web. Fin'i-eal, over-nice ; affectedly exact. Fir'ma-nient,thesky; thecanopyoftheheavens. Flu'ent-ly, in a flowing, easy manner. Fo-ren'sic, relating to courts of justice, or le- gal proceedings. f Fos'sil, a substance dug from the earth. Fran'kin-cense, an odorous resin. Fri'ar, a brother or member of any religious on'.e '. Gal'ax-y, the milky-way. Gal'li-ard, a brisk, gay man. Gal 'van-ism, electricity produced by chemical i action. | Gar'ni-ture, furniture ; adornment. | Gar-rote', an iron collar used in executions ; a collar of the same form. Gon-e-al'o-gy, list of ancestors ; pedigree. Gos-tic-u-la'tion, act of making gestures; ac- tion accompanying speech. Gey'sers, boiling springs in Iceland. Ghoul, an imaginary being supposed to prey upon human bodies. Glade, an open space in a forest. Glint 'ed, glanced ; peeped forth. Glu'ti-nous, sticky; adhesive. Gos't-a-mer, a line, filmy substance floating in the ; ir. Gowd -Scotch], gold. Gra-da'tion, regular progress, step by step. Graph 'ic, vivid ; lively; well drawn. Grat-u-Ia'tion, expressing joy at another's happiness or good fortune. Gree (obs.), good-will ; rank ; to bear the yree, to be victor. Gro-tesque', odd ; fanciful. Guid (Scotch), good. Gut'tu-ral, relating to the throat; made by the throat. Gym-nas'tic, relating to bodily exercise; ath- letic. Hack'neyed, worn out by frequent use. Ha'lo, a circle of light. Hame'ly (Scotch), homely. Har'bin-arer, a forerunner. Harp'si-chord, a musical instrument. He-red'i-ta-ry, descending by inheritance. Her-niet'i-eal-ly, perfectly close; by chemical process. Hes-per'i-dos ('.Vy///.\ daughters of Atlas, who owned the orchards in Africa, in which golden fruit grew. VOCABULARY. 407 Het'er-0-dox, contrary to an acknowledged standard of religious doctrine. Hi-e-rar'chy, sacred government ; the priest- hood. Hi-e-ro-glyph'ics, sacred picture-writing of the ancient Egyptians. Hiii'l, a peasant ; a servant. Hod 'den (Scotch), humble. Hu'mid, moist ; wet. Hus'band-ry, economy ; farming. Hy-po-thet'i-cal, based on a supposition, or hypothesis. I'dlesse, idleness ; sloth. I-de'al, imaginary ; unreal. Ig'ne-ous, pertaining to fire ; fiery. Il-liin'it-a-ble, unbounded; boundless. Il-lit'er-ate, unlearned ; uneducated. Im'age-ry, figures of speech; figurative lan- guage. Im-niu-ta-bil'i-ty, unchangeableness; stabil- ity. Im-pal'pa-ble, not perceptible to the touch. Ini-pe-ra/tor (Lfttiu), commander-in-chief. Im-plic'it, implied ; undoubting ; firm. In-car'na-dine, to dye red, like blood or flesh. In-ces'sant-ly, unceasingly; without stopping. In-com'pa-ra-ble, matchless ; unequaled. In-con'grii-ous, inconsistent; absurd. In-cor'po-rate, to unite into one body ; to form into a body politic. In-cre-du'li-ty, readiness to believe without sufficl-nt pro 1 )!'. In-crus-ta'tion, formation of a crust on the surface. In-cum'ben-cy, state of lying or resting on something ; the holding of an office. In-dec'o-rous, unbecoming ; indecent. In-def i-nite, indistinct; vague. In-del'i-bly, so as not to be erased ; irief- faceably. In-dict'ment, formal charge, or accusation. In-dis'so-lu-ble, not to be dissolved; endur- ing. In-dom'it-a-ble, not to be subdued; uncon- querable. In-du'bi-ta-bly, without doubt; unqucstion- al)Iy. In-duc'tive-ly, by inference ; by the inductive met hod of reasoning. In-ef-fect'u-al, without producing the proper effect ; fruitless. In-es'ti-ma-ble, priceless ; invaluable. In-ev'i-ta-ble, unavoidable. In-ex'or-a-bly, firmly ; so as not to be moved by entreaty. In-fl-del'i-ty, unfaithfulness; unbelief; scep- ticism. In-flam'ma-ble, easily set on fire. In-gen'u-ous, open ; frank ; candid. In-i'ti-ate, to introduce; to begin. In-no-va'tion, change ; introduction of a nov- elty. In-sig'ni-a, badges of office; marks of distinc- tion. In-sip'id, tasteless. In'su-lae (.Latin), islands ; separate houses, i. e. houses standing alone. In-ten'tive-ly (obs.), closely; attentively. In-ter-mit'tent, ceasing for a time, or at in- tervals. In-tim'i-date, to make afraid; to affright. In-tract/a-ble, unmanageable ; obstinate. In -trill 'sic, internal ; real; genuine. In-tu-i'tion, immediate jierception by the in- tellect ; intuitive knowledge. In-tii'i'tive, perceived without reasoning. In'uii-date, to overflow. In-iircd', accustomed. In-vec'tive, censure; reproach; abuse. In-vet'er-a-cy, state of being old ; chronic slate. Iii-viil 'ner-a-ble, not to be wounded ; secure from injury. I'ro-ny, saying one thing and meaning another, in mockery. Ir-ra'di-ate, to enlighten; to illume. Ir-re-me'di-a-ble, incurable ; without remedy. Ir-rep'a-ra-ble, not to be repaired ; irretriev- able. Ir-i-des'cent, having the color of the rainbow. I'ris, the rainbow. Is-o-la'tion, detachment ; separation from all others. I-tin'er-ant, wandering; traveling; going from place to place. Jas'mine, a climbing plant which bears very fragrant flowers. Joc'u-Iar, sportive ; witty ; facetious. Joc'und, joyous; blithesome; gay. Ju-ris-pru'dence, science of law. Ju'rist, one versed in law ; a lawyer. Lab'y-rinth, an edifice full of winding passa- ges ; a maze. La-con'ic, brief; in the manner of the ancient Spartans. La-goon', a large shallow lake, having an opening into the sea. Lam 'bent, playing on the surface; touching lightly. Land r gra- vine, the wife of a Landgrave, or German nobleman. La'tent, concealed. Leash, a thong of leather, by which a dog or other animal is held. 408 VOCABULARY. Leg'en-da-ry, fabulous; not authentic. Le-vi'a-than, an immense animal; the whale. Li-cen'tious, loose ; dissolute ; unrestrained. Lim'pid, clear; transparent. Lin'e-a-ments, outlines; features. Lit'er-al-ly, according to the letter. Lord'ling, a petty lord. Lore, learning. Ln 'di-crous, laugliablc. Lu'rid, gliastly pale ; gloomy. Mal-le-a-bil'i-ty, the quality by which a sub- stance may bi hammered out. Ma-nip-u-la'tion, handling ; working wich the hand. Manse, a house ; a parsonage ; a farm. Man-u-mis'sion, setting free. Mar'i-time, psnaining to the sea ; marine. Mart, a plac.; of sab or traffic ; a market. Mar'tyr, one who, by his death, bears witness to tin- truth. Mar'tyr-doni, the state or death of a martyr. Masts, tb fruit of a forest-tree; nuts; acorns. Ma-ter'nal, relating to a mother ; motherly. Mauu'na 'Scotch}, must not. Mau-so-le'um, a large and splendid tomb or monument. Med'i-ca-ment, anything used to heal or cure d)Si)as r .>. Me-di-oc'ri-ty, middle state or degree. Me'ni-al, a servant ; a domestic. Mere, a pool or lake. Met-a-mor'phose, to transform. Met'a-phor, a figure of speech by which a thing is said to be what it resembles. Me'ter, rhythmical arrangement ; measure. Mewl'ing, crying like a young child. Mid'rib, the middle rib, as of a leaf. Mil-len'ni-al, relating to the millennium, or period of a thousand years mentioned in the Scriptures. Mi-nu'ti-ae, details; minute particulars. MT-rage', a deceptive vision seen in the air. Mis'cre-ant, a vile wretch ; an infidel. Mit'i-gate, to soften. Moc'ca-sin, an Indian's shoe. Moil'i-cum, a small quantity. Moil'u-late, to vary ; to change, as the voice, from one key to another. Mon'as-ter-y, a place of religious retirement ; an abbey or convent. Mo-men'tum, moving force. 1 * Mon'o-dy, a. mournful song, sung by one person. Mon-op'o-lize, to have the exclusive right of sole; to take the whole. Mon-op'o-ly, an exclusive right of sale. Mo-not/o-nous, unvarying in sound; tedious. Mon'y (Scotch), many. Mo-sa'ic, inlaid work, formed by combining pieces of differently colored stones. Mfcs'lem (Arabic], Mohammedan ; a true be- liever. Mosque, a Turkish or Mohammedan temple. Mul'ti-form, having many forms. Mun'dane, worldly; terrestrial. Mu-nic'i-pal, pertaining to a corporation or city. Mu-ta'tion, change. Mu'ti-late, to maim ; to deprive of a limb or other material part. Mys'tic, obscure; unintelligible. Myth, a fable. Myth'i-cal, fabulous. My-thol'o-gy, a history of the ancient fables and fabulous deities.. Nave, the middle or body of a church. Ne'o-phyte, a new convert ; a beginner ; a no\ ice. Ne-pen'thes, a drug used by the ancients to relieve pain. No-mad 'io, wandering ; pastoral. No-men-cla'ture, a list of names belonging to a partictflar sen ice or art. Nonce, present call or occasion. Nymph, a goddess of the mountains, forests, meadows, or waters. O-bei'sance, expression of respect; a bow ; a courtesy. Ob'e-lisk, a tall and slender stone pyramid. Ob-liq'ui-ty, deviation from a right line. Ob-lit'er-ate, to blot out. Ob-liv'i-on, forget fulness. Ob'Io-quy, censure. Ob-scen'i-ty, indecency ; impurity. Ob-se'qui-ous-ness, ready obedience; servility. Ob'so-lete, disused; neglected. Ob-tru'dve-ly, without invitation. Of-fi'cious-ness, excessive zeal; undue for- wardness. Om'i-nous, threatening evil. Om-nip'o-tent, all-powerful. On'er-ous, burdensome. Op'u-lent, rich ; wealthy. 0-rac'ii-lar. like an oracle; positive. Os-teii-ta'tious, making a vain display. Ox-y-hy'dro-gen, produced by the union of oxygen and hydrogen gas. Pae'an, a song of victory. Pag'eant, a pompous show or spectacle. Pal'e-tot (paVe-td), a peasant's frock; a loose overcoat. Pal'frey, a saddle-horse. Pal-la'di-um, a safeguard. Pal'pi-tate, to beat or throb like the heart. Pan-o-ram'ic, presenting a complete view ; like a panorama. VOCABULARY. 409 Pan-t Ji-loon', a character in a comedy ; a buf- foon. Par-a-bol'ic, expressed by a parable; figura- tive. Par'a-chute (-shoot), a machine for descending from a balloon. Par'a-inount, superior to all others. Pard, the leopard. Par'ox-ysm, lit ; sudden and acute attack ; convulsion. Par're-nu, an upstart ; one who has become suddenly rich. Pas'tor-al, relating to shepherds ; rui al. Pa-thol'o-gy, the science which treats of dis- eases. Pa'thos, feeling ; passion ; tender emotion. Pa-tri'cian, a person of high birth ; a noble- man. Pat/ri-mo-ny, an estate inherited. Peas'ant-ry, farmers ; country people. Pe-cu'ni-a-ry, relating to money. Ped'a-gogue, a teacher of children. Ped'ant, one who makes a vain display of his learning. Ped'ant-ry, a vain display of learning. Ped'i-gree, line of ancestors; descent or lineage. Pelf, money ; riches ; lucre ; gain. Pe-na'tes (Latin), the household gods of the ancient Romans. Per-ad-ven'ture, perhaps; perchance; possi- bly. Per-am-lm-la'tion, walking about or around; tour. Per'co-late, to ooze ; to pass in drops ; to filter. Per-di'tion, ruin ; destruction. Per-en'ni-al, lasting ; perpetual. Per'ft-dy, faithlessness ; treachery. Per'fo-rate, to pierce ; to bore. Per-sim'mon, a small tree l)earing a plum-like fruit. Per-son-i-fi-ca'tion, a figure by which inani- mate objects are represented as having life and intelligent-; 1 . Per-spic'u-ous, clear ; easily understood. Pet'ri-t'y, to (Man -re into stone. Phan-tas-ma-go'ri-a, optical illusions ; magic lantern. Phe-nom'e-na (plural of phenomenon), appear- ances. Phil-an'thro-pist, a lover of mankind. Phren-ol'o-gy, the science of determining char- acter by observation of the head or skull. Phys-i-og'no-my, discernment of character by tin; face; tin: lace. Pied (pllf\ variegated. Pin'na-cle, the highest point ; the summit. Plen'i-tude, fullness; abundance. Plu-ton'ic, pertaining to Pluto ; igneous. Pol-ln'tion, corruption ; defilement. Pol-y-syl'la-ble, a word of four or more sylla- bles. Pon'der-ous, heavy ; weighty. Pon'tiff, a high priest. Por'phy-ry, a kind of rock or stone. Port'ance, air ; mien ; demeanor. Por'ti-co, a porch ; a covered space at the en- trance of a building. Po-sa'da (Spanish), an inn or tavern. Po'ten-cy, power ; strength. Po-ten-ti-al'i-ty, state of having power; pos- sibility not reality. Prac-ti'tion-er, one who practices an art or profession. Prc-ca'ri-ous, doubtful ; depending upon an- other's will. Prec'e-dent, something used as an authoritative example. Pre-con-cert', to consider and agree upon be- forehand. Pred-e-cess'or, one who precedes another in an office. Pre-dom'i-nate, to prevail; to rule. Pre-emp'tion, the right of purchasing before others. Prej-u-di'cial, injurious ; detrimental. Pre-lim'i-na-ry, introductory. Pre'ma-ture, ripe before the time ; unseason- able. Pre-mon'i-to-ry, warning beforehand ; giving previous notice. Pre-or-dain', to ordain or decree beforehand. Pre-pos'ter-ous, inverted in order ; absurd. Pre-sen'ti-ment, a notion of what is about to occur. Pre-ter-nat'u-ral, beyond what is natural; strange. Pri-mo-gen'i-ture, state of being born first. Pris'tine, original ; primitive. Prod'i-gal, wasteful. Pro-gen 'i-tor, a father; an ancestor. Pro'ge-ny, offspring ; children. Pro-sa'ic, pertaining to prose; dull; uninter- esting. Pro'te-an, "assuming different forms; like Pro- teus. Pro-tu'lber-ant, projecting. Pru-nel'la, a woolen stuff used for making shoes. Psal'mo-dy, the singing of psalms or hymns. Psy-cho-log'i-cal, relating to psychology, or tlr- science of the soul. Pur'blind, near-sighted ; dim-sighted. Pyg'my, one of a race of dwarfs ; a dwarf. Quaff, to drink in large draughts. 410 VOCABULARY, Quag'mire, soft, wet land. (jjua-ter'ni-on, a set of four things. Qui-e'tus, rest; death; that which silences claims. Ra'pi-er, a light sword. Re-ca-pit-u-la'tion, a summary of the chief heads of a discourse. Rc-eip'i-ent, one who receives. Re-frac'to-ry, obstinate; diso!)edient. Re-it/er-ate, to repeat again and again. Rel'e-van-cy, state of being applicable or per- tinent. Rem-i-nis'cence, remembrance ; that which recalls to the mind. Re-pug'nant, hostile ; opposed. Re-qui'tal, payment ; recompense. Res-ur-rec'tion, act of rising from the dead. Ret'i-cence, keeping silence; abstinence i'-om speech. Re-trib'u-to-ry, affording reward ; making re- payment, or a just return. Rev'e-nue, annual rents ; income. Re-ver'ber-ate, to resound; to echo. Rhap'so-dize, to utter wild, rambling thoughts i>i semeiuvs. Rhet'or-ic, the art of composition, or oratory. Rho-do-den'dron, a shrub bearing showy flowers. Rhythm, measure ; harmonious flow of lan- guage. Ro'se-ate, full of ros:-s ; of a rose color. Ro'ta-ry, turning like a wheel. Roun'de-lay, a kind of song or dance. Rub ble, fragments of stone or rock. Ru'nic, pertaining to the Ilimes, or inscriptions of the ancient Norsemen. Rus-tic'i-ty, state of being rustic ; coarseness. Sa-line', containing salt. Sa-Ii'va, spittle. Sanc'tu-a-ry, a sacred place; a church or al- tar ; a place of refuge. San'guin-a-ry, bloody ; blood-thirsty; eager to shed blood. Sans i French), without. Sap'phire, a precious stone of a blue color. Sarce'net, a kind of thin silk, used for linings, ribbons, etc. Sar-don'ic, forced (said of a laugh that is as- sumed to conceal pain). Sat'ire, a poem ridiculing vice or folly. Sa'tyr, a deity of the woods, represented as half man and half goat. Saul Scotch-), soul. Sa-van'na, an extensive grassy plain. School'men, men taught in the schools of the middle ages, who disputed ou nice points of logic and theology. Scym'e-tar or Cim'e-ter, a Turkish sword of a bent form. Se-crete', to separate ; to conceal. Sec'u-lar, worldly ; temporal ; occurring once in an age. Sed'i-ment, dregs ; grounds; settlings. Se-di'tion, opposidon to the government ; re- bellion. Seeth'ing, boiling. Sen-ten'tious, full of meaning ; expressive. Sep'ul-eher, a tomb. Serf, a slave attached to the soil ; a bond-servant. Ser'vile, slavish. Sham'bles, the place where butcher's meat is sold. Sheik, an Arabian chief. Shin'gle, a collecton of stones worn smooth by the action of water, as found on coasts. Si'en-ite or Sy'en-ite, stone composed of quart/, hornblende, and feldspar. Si-er'ra 'Sjxt/ti.f/n, a saw ; a mountain chain. Sign'ior (teen'yur), a title of respect among the Iiaiiaiis ; Sir ; Mr. Sil'hou-ette (sll'on-i-t^, the outlines of an ob- ject, lilled in with black. Si-lo'ah or Sil'o-a, name of a pool or fountain in Jerusalem. Si-lu'ri-an, relating to the Silures, a people of Wales ; hence applied to the geological stratum found in that country. Sim'i-le, a comparison. Sim'mer, to boil gently. Sim'per, to smile in an affected manner. Sin'u-ous, bending in and out ; winding. So'journ, stay ; temporary abode. So-lil'o-quy, a talking to one's self. Som'er-set, a leap heels over head. So-no'rous, loud sounding; giving a clear sound. Soph'is-try, false and deceitful reasoning. Sor'tie, a sudden sally of troops from a fortress or entrenchment. Spe'cious, apparently right ; plausible. Sta-tis'ti-cal, exactly stated and classified, especially in numbers. Stat/ii-a-ry, a sculptor. Sten-to'ri-an, extremely loud. Ste-ril'i-ty, barrenness ; unfruitfulness. Ster'to-rous, hoarsely breathing; snoring. Sti'pend, salary ; wages. Stip'u-late, to bargain ; to agree. Stra'ta ( plural of strfitintrt, layers. Strat'e-gy, science of military command ; gen- eralship. Strat'i-fled, laid in strata, or layers. Strin'gent, binding; strict: rigorous. Stu-pen'dous, astonishing ; wonderful. VOCABULARY. 411 Sub-ju-ga'tion, conquest ; subjection. Sub-mer'gence, putting under water ; inunda- tion. Sub-or-di-na'tion, inferiority of rank or dig- nicy; subjection. Sub-ser'Yi-ent, promoting a particular end; suboreina e. Sub-ter-ra'ne-an, under the surface of the earth. Sub'til-ty, thinness ; craft ; artifice. Su-per-flu'i-ty, a greater quantity than is needed ; superabundance. Su-per-in-cum'bent, lying or resting upon something else. Sur-charge', to overload. Syl'van, pertaining to woods or forests. Sym'me-try, a due proportion of parts ; beauty. Sym'pho-ny, harmony of sounds; a musical composition for a full orchestra. Syn'a-gogue, a congregation of Jews ; a Jew- ish church. Syn'o-nym, one of two or more words of a lan- guage which have the same meaning. Syn'the-sis, composition ; putting together, Sy-rin'ga, a genus or family of plants. Sys'tem-a-tize, to reduce to a system; to methodize. Tal'is-man, something used or worn to avert or repel evil ; a charm. Tan'gi-ble, perceptible by the touch; substan- tial. Tan'ta-lize, to tease or torment, by disappoint- in ': hope or expectation. Tap'root, the main root of a plant. Tat-too', abeatingof the drum, as a military sig- nal ; marks made on the flesh by pricking in fluids of different colors. Tech'ni-cal, pertaining to a particular art or profession. Teens, the year of one's age having the termi- nal i>n teen. Te-mer'i-ty, rashness ; recklessness. Ten'dril, shoot of a creeping plant, used for its support. Te-0-cal'li, name of a Mexican temple; liter- <>//>/, house of God. Ter-res'tri-al, pertaining to the earth ; earthly. Terse, concise ; compact and elegant. The-ol'o-gy, true doctrine relating to God; divinity. Th$'o-rem, a truth or proposition to be demon- strated. The'o-ry, a doctrine or scheme ; a speculation. Ther-mom'e-ter, an instrument for measuring the temperature of the air. Throt'tle-valve, the valve used to regulate the supply of steam in a steam-engine. Tin-tin-nab-u-la'tion, tinkling, as of "bells. Tis'sue, fabric ; structure; composite substance. Tit'u-lar, giving a name or title ; relating to a. title. Tra-dT'tion, oral report from one generation to am.thn-. Traii-seend'ent, surpassing; unequaled. Tran'sept, the part of a church that projects at right angles from the body. Trans-i=to'ry, passing; fleeting; short-lived. Trem'u-lous, trembling ; quivering. Trep-i-da'tion, a trembling from fear; alarm. Tri-as'sic, pertaining to a geological stratum, called the trius. Trib-u-ni'cian, pertaining to tribunes. Tri'col-or, the French flag of three colors ; any three-colored flag. Tri'ton, a fabled sea deity of the ancient my- thology. Trit/u-rate, to reduce to powder by grinding or rubbing. Trou 'ba-dour, a minstrel of the South of France, during the Middle Ages. Typ'i-cal, emblematic ; figurative. Ul'ti-mate, last; final. Ul-tra-ma-rine', blue ; a blue pigment. U-lys-se'an, pertaining to Ulysses, a famous Greek hero and king. Un-al-Ioyed', pure; genuine; unmixed. Un-bi'ased, impartial ; not influenced by either party. Unc'tion, ointment ; act of anointing; fervor. U-nique' (-neck), single ; unmatched. Un-mit'i-ga-ted, not softened ; unmodified. Un-pre-med'i-tat-ed, unstudied ; off-hand ; extemporaneous. U-ten'sil, anyt'.iing used; an implement; a A < ssel. U'til-ize, to apply to a useful purpose. Vac-il-Ia'tion, act of wavering. Tal-e-tu-di-na'ri-an, an invalid; a person seeking to recover health. Vas'sal, a dependant ; a bondman ; a tenant. Vat'i-can, the palace of the Pope, at Rome. Ve'he-ment, forcible ; violent. Ver'i-ta-ble, true ; real ; positive. Ves'i-cle, a small bladder. Vest/lire, a garment ; clothing. Yi'a-duct, a structure for carrying a railway iss a valley or river. Vi'a La'ta (Latin), a broad street. Vi'ce Ver'sa (Latin), the terms being ex- changed. Vi-cis'si-tudes, regular changes or alterna- tions. Vir'u-lence, activity in doing injury; extreme malignity. 412 VOCABULARY. Vis'ta, a view through an avenue. Yi-va'cious, lively ; sprightly. Yi-vac'i-ty, liveliness ; animation. Yiv'i-fy, to animate ; to make alive. Vo-cab'u-la-ry, a list of words ; a dictionary. Vo-lu'mi-nous, of many volumes ; bulky. Was'tsail-er, a reveler ; a debauchee. WVter-Kel'pie, a water-spirit. Weird, supernatural ; caused by magical influ- * ence. Wight, a person ; a name applied to any one in irony or burlesque. Wise-a'cre, one who pretends to wisdom; a witling. W r ist'ful, musing ; longing. Yeo'man, a farmer; a freeholder. Yore, long since ; in former time. Ze'nith, the point directly overhead. Zin'ga-ri' (Italian], gypsies. Zo'di-ac, the space extending eight degrees on each side of the ecliptic, which contains the orbits of the large primary planets. A DICTIONARY OF SOME OF THE MOST FAMILIAR OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN AUTHORS. Ill noting the nationalities in this Dictionary it has been found that some authors have lived and labored in more countries than one ; that the birthplaces of some have not been the scenes of their literary successes ; and that in a number of cases the places of birth are no- where stated. In like manner, in the matter of dates, in some cases, especially in the earlier periods, uncertainty has been found among the best authorities ; and in not a few, conflicts of opinion appear. In all such cases both matters of nationalities and dates the weight of authority has been carefully weighed and the best attainable results given. The following abbreviations have, been used, together with a few others apparently too ob- vious to n^ed pointing out, the adjectives indicating departments of literary work : A Antiq. .. Biog. ... American. Antiquarian. Biographical. Ess Eith... E,h. ... ....Essay. ....Esthetical. ....Eiliical. Philos. .. Pjet Pol. ...Philosophical. ....Poetical. Political. Crit Dip Domes. . Dram. .. E Efon Ed Edit Criacal. Diplomatic. Domestic. Dramatic. English. .....Economy. Educational. Editorial. Fie /. Lit MV.l. .. M sta. Mis. ... Philol. ....Fictitious. ....Irish. ....Literature, Literary. ....Medical. ....Metaphysical ....Miscellaneous. % ....Philological. 11 Jl S Sat Sci Thcol Trav W. ...Religious. ...Scotch. ...Satirical. ...Scientific. ...Th'ological. ....Travels. ...Welsh. Abbott, Jacob. *A. 1803- Abbott, John S. C. Hist., and Fie. Abercrombie, John. cult. Abercrombie, John. and Met a. Adams, Chas. F. A. 1807- . Pol. Adams, Hannah. A. 1755 1832. Rel. Adams, John. A. 1735 - 1826. Pol. Adams, John Q. A. 1767-1848. Pol., lid., and Po.-t. Adams. Nehemiah. A. io5- . Rel., Biog.,and Kic. Adams, Win. T. (Oliver Optic,. A. 1822- Fic. and Trav. Addison, Jos. E. 1672-1719. Ess., Poet., and Di-am. Agassiz, Louis J. R. and Trav. Aguilar, Grace. E. 1816 1847. Ainsworth. Wm. H. E. 1805- Akenside, Mark. E. Alcott, Louisa M. A A Id en, Jos. 1807- Rel.andFic. I Aldrich, Thos. B. A. 1836- . Poet, and A. 1805- . Biog., Fi~' Alexander, A. A. 1772-1851. R-l. and Hist. S. 1726-1806. Horti- Alexander, Jos. A. A. 1809-1860. Rel. Alford, Henry. 1810-1871. Theol. and Poet. 1781-1844. Med. Alger, Win. R. A. 1823- . Theol. and Mis. Alison, A. .?. 1757-1839. Esth., Rel., and Biog. Alison, Sir A. S. 1792 1767. Hist., Law, and Pol. Allibone, S. A. A. 1816- . Biog. Allston, W. A. 1779 - 184.3. Art. Alsop, R. A. 1761 1815. Po:;t. Ames, Fisher. A. 1758-1808. Pol. Andrews, Prof. E. A. A. 1787-1858. Ed. Angell, Jos. K. A. 1794-1857. Law. | Anthon, Chas. A. 1797-1867. Ed. Arbuthnot, John. E. 1675-1734. Phys. ami Sat, Arnold, Matthew. E. 1822- . Poet, and Ess. Arnold, Thos. E. 1795-1842. Hist, and Rel. Arnold, Thos. K. E. 1800-1853. Ed. Arthur, T. S. A. 1809- . Fie. Ascham, Ro^er. E. 1515-1569. Ed. A. 1807- 1874. Sci. 1721 - 1770. 1832- Fic. . Fie. Poet. . Fie. Eth. 414 DICTIONARY OF AUTHORS. Audubon, John J. A. 1782-1851. Sci. Austen, Jane. E. 1775-1817. Fie. Aytoun, Wm. E. S. 1813-1865. Poet., Drain., and Biog. Babbage, Chas. E. 1793- . Sci. Bachiiian, John. A. 1790 - 1874. Sci. and Rel. Bacon, Francis (Viscount of St. Albany). E. 1561 1626. Philos., Sci., Law, and Ess. Bacon, Leonard. A. 1802- . Theol., Hist., and Ess. Bailey, Philip J. E. 1816- . Poet. Baillie, Joanna. S. 1764-1851. Dram. Baird, Robert. A. 1798-1863. llel. and Hist. Baker, Daniel. A. 1791-1857. Rel. Baker, Sir Sam. W. E. 1821- . Trav. Baker, Win. M. A. 1825- . Biog. and Rd. Baldwin, J. D. A. iSio- . Antiq. and Poet. Bancroft, Geo. A. 1800- . Hist., Ess., and Poet. Banim, John. /. 1800-1842. Fie. and Drain. Barbauld, Anna L. E. 1743 1825. Ess., Biog., and Pout. Barnaul, R. H. E. 1788 1845. Poet. Barlow, Joel. A. 1755 1812. Poet. Barnes, A. A. 1798-1870. R-.-l. Barrow, Isaac. E. 1630-1677. Sci. and Rel. Barrow, Sir John. E. 1764 1848. Trav. Baxter, R. E. 1615-1691. Theol. Bayly, Thos. H. E. 1797 1839. Fie., Poet., and Drain. Bayne, Peter. ,Yni. S. 1800- . Hist., Trav., and Mis. Channing, Wm. E. A. 1780-1842. Theol. Charles, Elizabeth. E. 1826- . Fie. Chatterton, Thos. E. 1752-1770. Poet. Chaucer, Geoffrey. E. 1328-1400. Poet. Cheever, Geo. B. A. 1807- . Rel., Trav., and Mis. Chesterfield, Lord. E. 1694-1773. Letters. Child, L. Maria. A. 1802- . Fie., Biog., and Mis. Choate, Rufus. A. 1799-1859. Pol. and Ess. Churchill, Chas. E. 1731 - 1764 Poet. Cibber, Colley. E. 1671-1757. Dram, and Poet, Claiborne, John F. H. A. Biog. and Hist. Clapperton, Hugh. S. 1788-1827. Trav. Clare, John. E. 1793-1864. Poet. Clarendon, Earl of. See HYDE, EDWARD. Clark, L, G. A. 1810-1873. Edit, and Mis. Clark, .W. G. A. 1810-1841. Poet, and Mis. Clarke, Adam. /. 1760-1832. Theol. and Biog. Clarke, McDonald. A. 1798-1842. Poet, 416 DICTIONARY OF AUTHORS. Clarke, Mary Cowden. E. 1809- . Fie. and Concord, to Shakespeare. Clarke, Sam. E. 1599-1682. Rel. and Biog. Clarke, Sam. E. 1626-1700. Theol. Clarke, Sam. E. 1675-1729. Theol. Clay, Henry. 1777-1852. A. Pol. Clemens, Sam. L. (Mink Twain). A. 1835- Fic. and Trav. Cobbett, Win. E. 1762-1835. A. Pol., Hist., and Ess. Cobden, Richard. E. 1804-1865. Pol. Coffin, R. B. i B^rry Gruy>. A. 1826- Fic. and Mis. Colenso, John W. E. 1814- . Theol. Coleridge, Hartley. E. 1796-1849. Poet., Biog., and Ess. Coleridge, Sam. T. E. 1772-1834. Poet, Dram., Philos., Pol., and Ess. Collier, J. P. E. 1789- . Crit. and Biog. Collins, Wilkie. E. 1824- . Fie. Collins, Wm. E. 1720-1756. Poet. Column, Geo. E. 1733-1794. Drain. Colman, Geo. E. 1752-1836. Dram. Combe, Andrew. S. 1797-1847. Sri. Combe, Geo. S. 1788-1058. Sd.,Rel., and Law. Comstock, John L. D. A. 1789-1858. Sci. and Hist. Congreve, Wni. /. 1670-1729. Dram. Conrad, R. T. A. 1805-1858. Dram. Cook, Eliza. E. 1817- . Poet. Cooke, John E. A. 1830- . Fie. and Biog. Cooke, P. P. A. 1816-1850 root. Cooper, A. Ashley. E. 1621-1683. Pol. Cooper, A. Ashley. E. 1671-1713. Mis. Cooper, Sir Astley P. E. 1768-1841. Sci. Cooper, J. Fenimore. A. 1789-1851. Fie., Biog., Hist, and Trav. Cooper, Thos. A. 1759-1840. Law and Pol. Coverdale, Miles. E. 1485-1565. Rel. Cowley, Abraham. E. 1618-1667. p et - Cowper, Wm. E. 1731-1800. Poet. Cox, S. S. A. 1824- . Pol. and Trav. Coxe, A. C. A. 1818- . Poet, and Trav. Coxe, Wm. E. 1747-1828. Hist., Biog., Rel., and Trav. Cozzens, Fred. S. A. 1818-1869. Fie. and Mis. Crabbe, Geo. E. 1754-1832. Poet. Cranch, C. P. A. 1813- . Poet. Cranmer, Thos. E. 1489-1556. Rel. Crashaw, Richard. E. Died 1650. Poet- Croker, John W. /. 1780-1857. Hist., Biog., Fie., and Ess. Croly, Geo. /. 1780-1860. Fie., Poet., Hist., Biog., Dram., Pol., and Rel. Crowe, Catharine. E. 1802- . Fic. 3 Dram., and Mis. Cruden, Alex. E. 1701-1770. Concordance. Cudworth, Ralph. E. 1617 - 1688. Meta. Cumberland, Richard. E. 1732-1811. Dram. dimming, John. S. 1810- , Rel. Cunningham, Allan. S. 1785-1842. Biog., Fie., and Po.-t. Curtis, Geo. Wm. A. 1824- . Ess., Trav., and Fie. Dabney, R. L. A. 1820- . Pol., Biog., and Theol. Dana, Chas. A. A. 1819- . A. Cyclo. and Mis. Dana, Jas. D. A. 1813- . Sci. Dana, R. H. A. 1787- . Poet,, and Fie. Daniel, Sam. /;. 1562-1619. Poet, and Hist. Darwin, Chas. E. 1809- . Sei. Darwin, Erasmus. E. 1731-1802. Poet. and Sci. Bavenant, Win. E. 1605-1668. Poet. Davidson, James Wood. A. 1829- Biog. and Cnt. Davis, A. J. A. 1826- . Spiritism. Davy, Sir Humphry. E. 1778-1829. Sci. Dawes, Rut'us. A. 1803-1859. Poet. DeBow, Jas. D. B. A. 1820-1867. Pol. Econ. Deems, Chas. F. A. 1820- . Rel. and Poet DeFoe, Dan. E. 1663-1731. Fie. and Poet. Dekker iDecker , Thos. E. 1638- Diam. Denham, Dixon. E. 1786-1828. Trav. Denham, Sir John. E. 1615-1668. Poet. DeQuincey, Thos. E. 1785-1859. Fie. and Ess. Derby, Geo. H. (Jnlm /'//'////,/:). A. 1824- 1861 Mis. DeTere, 31. Schele. A. 1820- . Philol. and M ; s. Dick, Thos. S. 1774-1857. Sci. and Rel. Dickens, Chas. E. 1812-1870. Fie. Disraeli, Ben. E. 1805- . Fie., Pol., Biog., and Poet. Disraeli, Isaac. E. 1767-1848. Biog. and Fie. JDodd. Wm. E. 1727 - J 777- Theol. Doddridge, Philip. E. 1702-1751. Theol. Doddridge, Philip. A. 1772-1832. Pol. and \.:\\v. Donne, John. E. 1573 -1631- Poet - Douglas, Gawin. S. 1475-1522. Poet. Drake, Jos. R. A. 1795-1820. Poet. Draper, John W. .4. iSn- . Sci., Pol., and Hist. Drayton, Michael. E. 1563-1631. Poet, Fie., and Hist. DICTIONARY OF AUTHORS. 417 Drum moiid. \Vm. S. 1585-1649. Poet. Dryden, John. L'. 1631-1701. Poet, and Drain. Dunbar, Win. S. 1465-1530. Poet. Dunlap, Wm. A. 1766-1839. Biog. and Hist. Arr. Duyckinck, E. A. A. 1816- . Biog. and Hist. Duyckinck, Geo. L. A. 1823 - 1863. Biog Dwight, Tim. A. 1752-1817. Theol. and Poet, Eastlake, Chas. L. E. 1793 - 1865. Art. Echard, Lawrence. E. 1671-1730. Hist. Edgeworth, Maria. E. 1767-1849. Ess. and Fie. Edwards, Jonathan. E. 1629-1712. Theol. Edwards, Jonathan. A. 1703-1758. Mcta. and Theol. Edwards, Richard. E. 1523-1566 Poet. Eggleston, Edward. A. 1837 - . Rel. and Fie. Eliot, George. See LEWES, MARIAN C. Eliot, John. A. 1604-1689. Rel. Elizabeth, Charlotte. See TONNA, C. E. Elliott, Ebenezer. E. 1781-1849. Poet and Pol. Elliott, Wm. A. 1788-1863. Pol. and Dram. Ellis, Sarah S. A. 1812- . Fie. and Mis. Elyot, Sir Thos. E. 1495-1546. Ess. and Mis. Emerson, K. W. A. 1803- . Ess., Biog., ami Po-t. English, Thos. Dunn. A. 1819- . Poet. and Fie. Erskine, Thos. E. 1750-1823. Law, Pol, and Fie. Espy, Jas. P. A. 1785-1860. Sci. Evelyn, John. E. 1620-1706. Sei., Philol., and Mis. Evelyn, John. E. 1654- 1698. Poet, and Crit. Everett, Alex. H. A. 1792-1847. Pol., Biog., Ess., and Poet. Everett, Edward. A. 1794-1865. Rsl. and Ess. Faber, Geo. S. E. 1773-1854. Theol. Fabyan, Robert. E. 1450-1512. Hist. Fairbairn, Pat. S. 1805 - . Theol. Falconer, Wm. S. 1730- 1769. Poet. Faraday, Michael. E. 1791 - 1867. Sci. Farquhar, Geo. /. 1678-1707. Dram., Poet., and Ess. Fay, Theo. S. A. 1806- . Fie. Felton, C. C. A. 1807-1862. Ed. Ferguson, Adam. S. 1724-1816. Hist, and Philos. Ferguson, Robert. S. 1750-1774. Poet. Ferrier, Mary. S. 1782-1855. Fie. Fielding, Henry. E. 1707-1754. Fie. Fields, Jas. T. A. 1820- . Poet, and Mis. Finch, Francis M. A. 1827- . Poet. Finlay, Geo. S. 1800- . Hist. Fitzhugh, Geo. A. 1810- . Pol. Flash, H. L. A. 1837- . Poet, Fletcher, Andrew (of Saltouri). S. 1653- 1716. Pol. Fletcher, John. E. 1576-1625. Dram. Flint, Tim. A. 1780-1840. Biog. and Fie. Folger, Peter. A. 1618-1690. Poet. Foote, Sam. E. 1721 - 1777. Dram. Foote, Wm. H. A. 1794-1869. Hist, and Rel. Ford, John. E. 1586-1639. Dram. Forney, J. W. A. 1817- . Pol. and Mis. Forster, John. E. 1770-1843. Ess. and lid. Forster, John. E. 1812- . Biog. Fowler, Wm. C. A. 1793- . Ed., Pol., and Hist. Fox, Chas. J. E. 1749-1806. Pol. and Hist Fox, Geo. E. 1624- 1680. Rel. Fox, John. E. 1517-1587. Biog. Francis, Sir Philip (Junius). E. 1740-1818. Pol. Franklin, Ben. A. 1706-1790. Pol., Eth., and Sci. Freneau, Philip. A. 1752-1832. Poet, and Mis. Frost, John. A. 1800-1859. Hist, and Biog. Froude, Jas. A. E. 1818- . Hist., Fie., and R.-l. Fuller, Margaret. See OSSOLI. Fuller, Thos. E. 1608-1661. Hist, and Rel. Gallagher, Wm. D. A. 1808 - . Poet. Gallatin, Albert. A. 1761-1847. Pol. Econ. Gait, John. S.' 1779-1839. Fie., Biog., and Dram. Garrick, David. E. 1716-1779. Dram. and Poet. Gaskell, Mary E. E. 1822-1866. Fie. and Biog. Gay, John. E. 1688-1732. Poet. Gayarre, Chas. E. A. A. 1805- . Hist. and Fie. Gayler, Chas. 'A. 1820- . Dram. Gibbon, E:l ward. E. 1737-1794. Hist. Gifford, Wm. E. 1757-1826. Ess. and Poet. Giles, Chauncy. A. 1819- . Theol. Giles, Henry. A. 1809- . Ess., Theol., and Crit, Gilflllan, Geo. S. 1813- . Biog. and Crit. A A 418 DICTIONARY OF AUTHORS. Gillies, John. E. 1747-1836. Hist. Gilman, Caroline. A. 1794- . Fie. and Poet. Oilman, Sam. A. 1791 - 1858. ReL, Poet, and Mis. Gladstone, Wm. E. E. 1809- . Pol. and Antiq. Gleig, Geo. R. E. 1795- . Fie., ReL, Hist, and Biog. Glidden, Geo* R. A. 1808-1857. Sci. Godwin, Parke. A. 1816- . Hist, and Edit. Godwin, Wm. E. 1756-1836. Fie., Biog.,. and Pol. Goldsmith, Oliver. E. 1728-1774. Poet, Fie., Dram., Hist., and Sci. Good, John M. E. 1764-1827. Sci. and Poet Goodrich, Sam. G. A. 1793-1863. Hist., Trav., Fie., and Poet. Gore, Catherine G. F. E. 1799-1861. Fie. Gower, John. E. 1320-1402. Po.-t. Grahame, Jas. .S. 1765-1811. Poet. Gray, Asa. A. 1810- . Sci. Gray, Thos. E. 1716-1771. Po:t. Greeley, Horace. A. 1811-1873. Edit, and Mis. Green, Win. H. A. 1825- . Philol. Greene, Robert. E. 1560-1595. Dram, and Fie. Griffin, Gerald. I. 1803-1840. Fie. Grimshaw, Win. A. 1782-1852. Hist. Griswold, R. W. A. 1815-1857. Biog. and Crit_ Grote, Geo. E. 1794-1871. Hist. and Biog. Hale, Sarah J. A. 1790- . Fie., Poet., an 1 Mis. Hall, Edward. S. 1788-1844. Trav. and IV-t. Hall, Jos. E. 1574-1656. "ReL and Sat. Hall, Robert. E. 1764-1831. Theol. and Pol. Hall, S. C. E. 1804- . Fie. Hallam, Henry. E. 1778-1859. Hist., Pol., and Grit. Halleck, Fitz-Greene. A. 1795-1867. Poet. Hamilton, Alex. A. 1757-1804. Pol. Hamilton, Sir Wm. E. 1788-1856. Meta and Ess. Hannay,Jas. S. 1827-1873. Fie., Grit., and Ess. Hart, John S. A. 1810- . Biog., Ed., and U-l. Harte, Francis Bret. A. 1838- . Poet. and Fie. Hawks, Francis L. A. 1798-1866. Hist. and llel. Hawthorne, N. A. 1804-1864. Fie. Hay, John. A. 1839- . Poet, and Mia. Hayne, P. H. A. 1831- . Poet. Hazlitt, Wm. E. 1778-1830. Cut. and Pol. Head, Sir F. B. E. 1793- . Trav. and Pol. Headley, J. T. A. 1814- . Biog. and Fir. Heber, Reginald. E. 1783-1826. Poet. Helps, Sir Arthur. E. 1818-1875. Ess., Hist., and 15iog. Hemans, Felicia D. E> 1794-1835. Poet. Henry, Matt. E. 1662-1714. Kcl. Hentz, Caroline L. A. 1804-1856. Fie. Herbert, Geo. E. 1593-1633. Poet. Herbert, Henry W. (F.ank Forester}. A. 1807-1858. Fie. and Mis. Herrick, Robert. E. 1591-1674 Poet. Herschel, Caroline L. E. 1750 -184 Herschel, Sir F. W. E. 1738-1822. Sci. Herschel, Sir John. E. 1790- . Sci. Herschel, Sir John F. W. E. 1792-1871. Sci. Hcrvcy, Jas. E. 1713-1758. ReL Hi'rvey, Thos. K. E. 1804-1859. Poet. Hildrcth, Richard. A. 1807 1865. Hist. Ilillard, Geo. S. A. 1808- . Hist., Trav., and Crii. Hirst, Henry B. A. 1813- . Poet. Hitchcock, Edward. A. 1793-1864. Sei. ami K.:-l. Hobbes, Thos. E. 1588-1679. Pol. and Philus. Hodge, Chas. A. 1797- . Theol. Hoffman, Chas. F. A. 1806- . lie. and Poet. Hoffman, David. A. 1784-1854. Law and Fie. Hogg, Jas. S. 1772-1835. Poet. Holcombe, Wm. H. A. 1825- and Tlieol. Holland, J. G. A. 1819- . Fie., Poet, Biog., and Hist, Holmes, Mary J. A. - . Fie. Holmes, 0. W. A. 1809- . lV;t and Fie. Holt, John S. A .1826- . Fie. Home, Henry (Lord Ku.nes). S. 1696-1782. La\v and frit. Home, John. S. 1724 - 1808. Dram, and Hist. Hood, Thos. E. 1798 - 1845. Poet, and Mis. Hook, Theo. E. E. 1788-1841. Fie. and Mis. Hooker, Richard. E. 1553-1600. Rcl. Hope, Thos. E. 1770-1831. Trav. and Art. Hopkins, Mark. A. 1802- . Tlieol. DICTIONARY OF AUTHORS. 419 Hopkinson, Francis. A. 1737-1791. Poet. Hopkinson, Jos. A. 1770-1842. Poet. Home, John. E. 1722-1808. Dram. Home, B. H. E. 1803- . Dram, am .Mis. Home, Thos. H. E. E. 1780-1862. Tlico! and Hist. Hosiner, Wm. H. C. A. 1814- . Poat Howard, Henry (Earl of Surrey.) E. 1516- I5 47 Pot. Howells, Win. D. A. 1837- Poet. Fir., and Mis. Howison, Robert R. A. 1820- . Hist and Bioj;. Hewitt, Mary. E. 1800- . Fie., Poet. and .Mis. Howitt, Win. E. 1792- . Fie-., Rel., and Mis. Huil .son, Henry N. A. 1814- . Crit. Hughes, Thos. (Turn Brown). E. 1823- I ( 'ic. and Mis. Hume, David. S. 1711-1776. Hist, and Pliilos. Hunt, J. H. Leigh. E. 1784-1859. Poet. and Ivss. Huntington, J. V. A. 1815-1862. Poet, Ilurlbut, Win. H. A. 1827- . Edit. and Trav. Huxley, Thos. H. E. 1825- . Sci. Hyde, Edward (Enrl of Clarendon). E. 1608- 1673. Hist., Biojj., and Pol. Inchbald, Elizabeth. E. 1756-1821. Dram. and Fie. Ingelow, Jean. E. 1830- . Poet, and Fie. Ingersoll, Chas. J. A. 1782-1862. Hist., Poet., and Dram. Ingraham, Jos. H. A. 1809-1866. Fie. and 11 d. Innes, Cosmo. S. 1662-1744. Hist. Irving, Edward. S. 1792-1834. Rel. Irving, Washington. A. 1783- 1859. Hist, Bio;j;., and Fie. Ives, Levi S. A. 1797-1867. Theol. James, G. P. R. E. 1801 - 1860. Fie., Hist., and Poet. James, Henry. A. 1811- . Theol. Jameson, Anna. E. 1797-1860. Art. and Mis. Janney, Sam. M. A. 1801- . Biog., Po,;i., and Rel. Jarvcs, Jas. J. A. 1818- . Trav. and Art. Jarvis, Sam. F. A. 1787-1851. Theol. Jay, John. A. 1745-1829. Pol. Jay, Wm. A. 1789-1858. Biog. and Pol. Jefferson, Thos. A. 1743-1826. Hist, and Pol. Jeffrey, Francis. S. 1773-1850. Crit. Jerrold, Douglas W. S. 1803-1857. Poet. and Fie. Jewsbury, Maria J. E. 1800- 1833. Poet. and Mis. Johnson, Sam. E. 1709-1784. Philol., Fie., Poet., and Bioon. Wesley, John. E. 1703-1791. Theol. and Rel. Wesley, Sam. E. 1664-1735. Rel. and Poet. Wesley, Sam. E. 1690-1739. Poet. Whately, Richard. /. 1787-1863. Theol. and Logic. Wheaton, Henry. A. 1785-1848. Law. Whelpley, Sam. A. 1766-1817. Hist, and Theol. Whewell, Wm. E. 1795-1866. Philos. and Sei. Whipple, E. P. A. 1819- . Crit. and Ess. Whiston, Win. E. 1667-1752. Sci. and Rel. White, Gilbert. E. 1720-1793 Sci. White, H. Kirke. E. 1785-1806. Poet. White, Jos. Blanco. E. 1775-1841. Rel. White, R. Grant. A. 1822- . Philol. and Crit. Whitefield, Geo. E. 1714-1770. Rel. Whitman, Sarah H. A. 1813- . Poet. Whitman, Walt. A. 1819 - . Poet. Whitney, W. D. A. 1827- . Philol. and Crit. Whittier, John G. A. 1808- . Poet, Wilberforce, Wm. E. 1759-1833. Rel. and Pol. Wilde, R. H. A. 1789-1847. Poet, and Biog. Wilkes, John. E. 1727-1797. Pol. Wilkinson, John G. E. 1798- . Hist. Willard, Emma C. A. 1787-1870. Hist. and Mis. Williams, Wm. E. A. 1804- . Rel. Willis, N. P. A. 1806-1867. Poet., Fie., and Mis. Wilson, Alex. A. 1766-1813. Sci. Wilson, Henry. A. 1812- . Pol. Wilson, John (Christophr.r North), 1785- 1854 S. Post., Fie., and Mis. Winslow, H. A. 1800-1864. Rel. and Etli. Winsloiv, M. A. 1789-1864. Rsl. and Philoi. Winthrop, John. A. 1587-1649. Hist. and Mi?. Winthrop, Theo. A. 1828-1861. Fie. Wirt, Wm. A. 1772-1834. Biog. and Ess. Wiseman, N. E. 1802-1865. Theol., Fie., and E*. Wolcot, John. E. 1738 - 1819. Poet. Wolfe, Chas. I. 1791-1823. Poet. Wood, Geo. A. 1799- Fie. Wood, Ellen P. E. 1820- . Fie. Wood worth, Sam. A. 1785-1842. Poet. Woolsey, Theo. D. A. iSoi- . Law and Thro!. Worcester, Jos. E. A. 1784-1865. Philol. 426 DICTIONARY OF AUTHORS. Wordsworth, Wm. E. 1770-1850. Poet. Wotton, Sir Henry. E. 1568-1639. Poet. and Ess. Wyatt, Sir Thos. E. 1503-1542. Poet. Wycherley, Wm. E. 1640-1715. Dram. Wyckliffe, John. of Bible. E. 1324-1384. Trans. Yonge, Charlotte M. E. 1823- . Fie. and Hist. Youatt, Wm. E. 1777-1847. Domestic Animals. Young, Edward. E. 1684-1765. Poet. Young, Thos. E. 1773-1829. Aiitiq. THE END. DAY to recall. JUL6 1955 LU 2 , (Bl39s22)476 . General Library University of California Berkeley YB 02015 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY