3D7 7Tfl mm. CENTURY St GRADES RjW^NAU3ffi»CO THE NEW CENTURY READERS BY GRADES NUMBER SIX REVISED SELECTED FROM The World's Standard Literature CHICAGO AND NEW YORK HAND, McNALLY & COMPANY Copyright, 1900, 1901, By Rand, McNally & Company EDUCATION DEPf* THE PREFACE. This book continues the careful grading and wide variety which have characterized the earlier books in the series. It takes the pupil over a large field of the best literature, presenting as it does characteristic selections from fifty-five English and American authors. Many of the selections are suitable for declamation and have an historical interest which will prepare the pupil for the study of American history, which often begins in this grade. A number of the selections are informational in character and new to school readers. These will have a freshness for both teacher and pupil. Every effort should be made to secure intelligent and enthusiastic reading. Have the pupil read for the thought rather than for the words. Be sure that he knows and feels what he is reading. Remember that reading is thinking. The publishers acknowledge the kindness of several prom- inent teachers who have given them, in the preparation of the text, the benefit of long professional experience. The selections from Holmes, Parton, Whittier, and Lucy Larcom are used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers of the works of the authors named. For the use of other valuable copyrighted matter, thanks are extended to the American Publishing Company, The Bo wen-Merrill Company, J. B. Lippincott Company, A. C. McClurg & Co., Armand Hawkins, A. Pope, and Miss Anna Gordon. The publishers are also under obligations to John Bur- roughs, Chauncey M. Depew, and Henry Watterson, for permission to use extracts from their works. &4J463 A LIST OF THE AUTHORS. Bacon, Lord . . Besant, Sir Walter ' Bible .... Blaine, James G. Burke, Edmund Burns, Robert Burroughs, John Byron, Lord . Cervantes . . ' Channing, William Ellery / f! Chateaubriand, F. R A. HOATE, RUFUS .... PAGE . 163 . 190 47, 49 . 34 97 . 66 . 94 45, 50, 126 52 91 139 28 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 102 / Depew, Chauncey M. 43 Eliot, George 179 Freeman, Edward Augustus 104 Gayarre, Charles . . . 59 Geikie, Sir Archibald . . 170 Gray, Thomas .... 81 Green, John Richard . . 89 Halleck, Fitz- Greene . . 73 "Holmes, Oliver Wendell 56, 58 Hood, Thomas .... . 153 Howell, Clark . . . . 197 Howland, George . . / Hunt, Leigh .... . 165 . 104 1 Jefferson, Thomas . . . 12 Jerrold, William Douglas 129 Lincoln, Abraham . . 76, 77 v/ Longfellow, Henry W. . 9,15 Mahony, Francis (Father Prout) 127 Markham, Edwin . . . 195 McKinley, William ... 86 Newman, John Henry (Car- dinal) 138 Parton, James 71 Poe, Edgar Allan ... 132 Procter, Adelaide A. . . 185 Proctor, Richard A. . . 161 Riley, James Whitcomb . 142 Shakspere, William . 143, 149 Smith, Sydney 182 Stephens, Alexander H. . 41 Stevenson, Robert Louis * 167, 178 Stoddard, Richard Henry 176 Stowe, Harriet Beecher . 120 Sumner, Charles .... 78 Swing, David .... 37 Thackeray, William M. . 156 Timrod, Henry .... 32 Tolstoi, Count Leo N. . 168 Washington, George . .195 Watterson, Henry ... 63 Webster, Daniel . . . 113 Whittier, John G. . . 96 Willard, Frances E. . . 136 Willis, Nathaniel Parker 109 THE TABLE OF CONTENTS. The Wreck of the Hesperus . . Henry W. Longfellow ... 9 The Character of Washington . Thomas Jefferson .... 12 Extracts from "Evangeline". . Henry W. Longfellow ... 15 Revolutions Rufus Choate 28 From a Lecture on "The Eloquence of Revolutionary Periods.'' 1 Spring Henry Timrod 32 The Death of Garfield .... James O. Blaine 34 From a Memorial Address on "The Life and Character of James Abram Garfield." Intellectual Progress David Swing 37 From "Motives of Life. 11 Energy Alexander H. Stephens ... 41 From an "Address before the Emory College Societies.' The Higher Education .... Chauncey M. Depew .... 43 From an Address at the First Public Meeting of the Alumnal Association of the University of Cincinnati. The Isles of Greece Lord Byron 45 From "Don Juan." A Prayer of Moses The Bible 47 A Psalm of David The Bible 49 The Ocean Lord Byron 50 From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage." Don Quixote and Sancho Panza . Cervantes 52 From "Don Quixote." The Old Man Dreams .... Oliver Wendell Holmes ... 56 The Chambered Nautilus . . . Oliver Wendell Holmes ... 58 Jackson at New Orleans . . . Charles Oayarre 59 From the "History of Louisiana." Grant Henry Watterson 63 From a Speech before the Society of the Army of the Tennessee. The Cotter's Saturday Night . . Robert Burns 66 An Old-Time District School . James Parton 71 From "The Life of Horace Greeley." Robert Burns Fi(z-Oreene Halleck .... 73 5 6 THE TABLE OF CONTENTS. PAGE Dedication Speech at Gettysburg . Abraham Lincoln .... 76 Sayings of Lincoln 77 The Employment of Time . . . Charles Sumner 78 From a Lecture before the Boston Lyceum, delivered February 18, 1846. Elegy Written in a Country Church- Yard Thomas Cray 81 The End of the War .... William McKinley .... 86 From a Speech delivered at Omaha, October 12, 1898. Early England John Richard Green .... 89 From "A Short History of the English People." Self-Culture William Ettery Channing . . 91 From "An Address Introductory to the Franklin Lectures." Waiting John Burroughs 94 The New Year John Oreenleaf Whittier . . 96 From a Poem addressed to the Patrons of the Pennsylvania Fi-eeman. Conciliation of America . . . Edmund Burke 97 From a Speech "For Conciliation with the Colonies. 1 '' Hymn (Before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni) Samuel Taylor Coleridge . . 102 Abou Ben Adhem Leigh Hunt 104 The Battle of Hastings .... Edwnrd Augustus F'eeman . 104 Extract from "A Short History of the Norman Conquest." Absalom Nathaniel Parker Willis . . 109 First Oration on Bunker Hill Monument Daniel Webster 113 From a Speech made on the Laying of the Corner Stone of Bunker Hill Monument, June 17, 1825. The St. Bernard Hospice . . . Harriet Beecher Stowe . . . 120 From the M Ascent to St. Bernard " in " Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands." The Shandon Bells Francis Mahony {Father Prout) 127 Mrs. Caudle's Umbrella Lecture . Douglas William Jerrold . . 129 From "Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures." The Bells Edgar Allan Poe 132 Extract From "Turn on the Light " Frances E. Willard . . . . 136 The Pillar of Cloud (Lead, Kindly Light) Cardinal Newman .... 138 Two Views of Nature .... Chateaubriand 139 From the "Genius of Christianity." THE TABLE OF CONTENTS. $ The King James Whitcomb Riley Brutus and Cassius William Shakspere . From "Julius Caesar." Hamlet William Shakspere . From "Hamlet. 11 The Song of the Shirt .... Thomas Hood . . . Oliver Goldsmith William M. Thackeray From "The English Humorists of the Eighteenth Century." The Moon . Richard A. Proctor . From "Half-Hours with the Sun and Moon." Of Studies Lord Bacon .... Alone George Howland . . Sing Me a Song of a Lad That is Gone Robert Louis Stevenson On the Road to Moscow . . . Count Leo N. Tolstoi From "Childhood, Boyhood, Youth." My First Geological Trip . . . Sir Archibald Oeikie From "Geological Sketches at Home and Abroad." The South Richard Henry Stoddard The Vagabond Robert Louis Stevenson Dorlcote Mill George Eliot . . From "The Mill on the Floss. 11 Labor and Genius Sydney Smith . . From "On the Conduct of the Understanding." A Legend of Bregenz .... Adelaide A. Procter The Invention of Printing . . Sir Walter Besant From "Westminster." A Prayer Edwin Markham . Advice to a Favorite Nephew . George Washington From a Letter to Bushrod Washington. Our Reunited Country .... Clark Howell . . From a Speech delivered at the Peace Jubilee, Chicago, October 19 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. THE NEW CENTURY READER, NUMBER SIX. THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea ; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May. The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South. Then up and spake an old Sailor, Had sailed to the Spanish Main, "I pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane. "Last night, the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see!" The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. 8 9 ] TlTEjNEW CENTl'll V EEA DEB, Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the Northeast, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength ; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length. "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow." He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. u O father! I hear the church-bells ring, Oh say, what may it be?" "'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" — And he steered for the open sea. "O father! I hear the sound of guns, Oh say, what may it be?" "Some ship in distress, that can not live In such an angry sea!" "O father! I see a gleaming light, Oh say, what may it be?" But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he. THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 11 Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The ] an tern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That saved she might be ; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe. And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck. She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! ' 12 THE NEW CENTUR Y READER At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes ; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise. Snch was the wreck of the Hesperns, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save ns all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe ! a main', violently; furiously. schoon' er, a small sailing vessel. card' ed, combed with a card. skip' per, the master of a vessel. fair' y-flax, the dwarf flax, the flowers stark, rigid. blue. stove, burst; broke in. flaw, a gust of wind. veer' ing, changing; turning. haw' thorn, a shrub, the flowers usually white. THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. THOMAS JEFFERSON. I think I knew General Washington intimately and thoroughly, and were I called on to delineate his character, it should be in terms like these: His mind was great and powerful, without being of the very first order, his penetration strong, though not so acute as that of a Newton, Bacon, or Locke ; and as far as he saw, no judgment was ever sounder. It was slow in operation, being little aided by in- vention or imagination, but sure in conclusion. Hence the common remark of his officers, of the advantage he THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 13 derived from councils of war, where, hearing all sug- gestions, lie selected whatever was best ; and certainly no general ever planned his battles more judiciously. But if deranged during the course of the action, if any member of his plan was dislocated by sudden circumstances, he was slow in readjustment. The consequence was, that he often failed in the field, and rarely against an enemy in station, as at Boston and New York. He was incapable of fear, meeting personal dangers with the calmest unconcern. Perhaps the strongest feature in his character was prudence ; never acting until every circumstance, every consideration, was maturely weighed ; refrain- ing 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 known, no 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 naturally 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 promised utility ; but frowning and unyielding on all visionary proj- ects, and all unworthy calls on his charity. His heart 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 stature 14 THE NEW CENTURY READER exactly what one would wish, his deportment easy, erect, and noble ; the best horseman of his age, and the most graceful figure that could be seen on horse- back. Although in the circle of his friends, where he might be unreserved with safety, he took a free share in conversation, his colloquial talents were 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, rather diffusely, in an easy and cor- rect style. This he had acquired by conversation with the world, for his education was merely read- ing, writing, and common arithmetic, to which he added surveying at a later day. His time was em- ployed in action chiefly, reading little, and that only in agriculture and English history. His cor- respondence became necessarily extensive, and, with journalizing his agricultural proceedings, occupied most of his leisure hours within doors. On the whole his character was, in its mass, per- fect, in nothing bad, in few points indifferent; and it may truly be said, that never did nature and fortune combine more perfectly to make a man great, and to place him in the same constellation with whatever worthies have merited from man an everlasting remembrance. For his was the singular destiny and merit, of leading the armies of his country successfully through an arduous war for the establishment of its independence, of conducting its councils through the birth of a government, new in its forms and principles, until it had settled down into a quiet and orderly train; and of scrupulously EXTRACTS FROM "EVANGELINE." 15 obeying the laws through the whole of his career, civil and military, of which the history of the world furnishes no other example. col lo' qui al, conversatioi al. me' di oc' ri ty, a moderate degree of con' san guin' i ty (gwin), blood rela- ability. tionsbip. pen' e tra' tion, mental acuteness; con' ver sa' tion, intimate acquaint- insight. ance or association (obsolete). re' adjust' ment, rearrangement. ju di' cious ly (dish' us), discreetly; skillfully; wisely. EXTRACTS FROM "EVANGELINE." HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. GRAND-PRE. This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indis- tinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and pro- phetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neigh- boring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval ; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman? Where is the thatched-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers, — 16 THE NEW CENTURY READER , Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven? Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers for- ever departed! Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean. Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful vil- lage of Grand-Pre. In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward, Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number. Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant, Shut out the turbulent tides ; but at stated seasons the flood-gates Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows. West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain ; and away to the northward EXTRACTS FROM " EVANGELINE." 17 Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic Looked on the happy valley, bnt ne'er from their station descended. There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village. Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock, Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries. Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows ; and gables projecting Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway. There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys, Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens. Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children 18 THE NEW CENTURY READER. Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them. Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens, Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome. Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment. Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers, — Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics. Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows ; But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners ; There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance. EXTRA CTS FROM ' ' EVANGELINE." 19 Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pre. Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas, Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor. Life had long been astir in the village, and clamor- ous labor Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning. Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets, Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants. Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numer- ous meadows, Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward, Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway. Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced. Thronged were the streets with people ; and noisy groups at the house- doors Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted : £0 THE NE W CENTUR Y HEADER For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together, All things were held in common, and \vhat one had was another's. Under the open sky, in the odorons air of the orchard, Stript of its' golden frnit, was spread the feast of betrothal. There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated ; There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the black- smith. Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives, Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats. Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white Hair, as it waved in the wind ; and the jolly face of the fiddler Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers. Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle, And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music. Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances EXTRACTS FROM " EVANGELINE." 21 Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows ; Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them. So passed the morning away. And lo ! with a sum- mons sonorous Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the mead- ows a drum beat. Thronged erelong was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard, Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest. Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them Entered the sacred portal. With loud and disso- nant clangor Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceil- ing and casement, — Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers. Then up rose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar, Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission. 22 THE NEW CENTUR Y READER. "You are convened this day," he said, "by his Majesty's orders. Clement and kind has he been ; but how you have answered his kindness, Let your own hearts reply ! To my natural make and my temper Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous. Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch ; Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds Forfeited be to the crown ; and that you yourselves from this province Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people ! Prisoners now I declare .you; for such is his Majesty's pleasure ! " As, when the air is serene in sultry solstice of summer, Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones Beats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his windows, Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs, Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures ; So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker. EXTRACTS FROM "EVANGELINE:' 23 Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose Londer and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger, And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door- way. Vain was the hope of escape ; and cries and fierce imprecations Rang through the house of prayer ; and high o'er the heads of the others Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith, As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows. Flushed was his face and distorted with passion ; and wildly he shouted, — "Down with the tyrants of England ! we never have sworn them allegiance ! Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!" More he fain would have said, but the merciless, hand of a soldier Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement. In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry con- tention, Lo ! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar. Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence 24 THE NEW CENTURY READER All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people; Deep were his tones and solemn ; in accents measured and mournful Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes. " What is this that ye do, my children? what mad- ness has seized you? Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you, Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another ! Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations? Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness ? This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred? Lo! where the crucified Christ from His cross is gazing upon you! See ! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion ! Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, 'O Father, forgive them ! ' Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us, Let us repeat it now, and say, c O Father, forgive them!"' Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people EXTRACTS FROM "EVANGELINE." 25 Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak, While they repeated his prayer, and said, "0 Father, forgive them!" #-'-.»■•■■».■'■»'■»',■■■■* * * Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mourn- ful procession. There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking. Busily plied the freighted boats ; and in the confusion Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. ****** * * Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight Deepened and darkened around ; and in haste the refluent ocean Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery seaweed. Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons, Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle, All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them, Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers. ****** * * 3 26 THE NEW CENTURY HEADER. Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon the mountain and meadow, Seizing the rocks and the rivers and piling huge shadows together. Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village, Gleamed on the sky and sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead. Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr. Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting, Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame inter- mingled. And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow, Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation, Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. 'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean, EXTRA CTS FROM " EVANGELINE." 27 With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward. Then recommenced once more, the stir and noise of embarking ; And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor, Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins. #*■* ■*■* * •* * Still stands the forest primeval ; but under the shade of its branches Dwells another race, with other customs and lan- guage. Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom. In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy ; Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kir- tles of homespun, And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story, While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neigh- boring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. a lar' um, signal; warning. ref lu ent, ebbing; surging back. An' gel us, bell for prayer. sol' stice, the time at which the sun is con tri' tion, sincere penitence. farthest from the equator. in' pre ca' tion, curse. toe' sin, public alarm bell. pri me' val, of or belonging to the first tur' bu lent, restless, ages; original. 28 THE NE W CENTUR T READER. REVOLUTIONS. RUFUS CHOATE. {Extract from a lecture on " The Eloquence of Revolutionary Periods.") Turn, now, to another form of revolution alto- gether. Turn to a revolution in which a people, who were not yet a nation, became a nation, — one of the great, creative efforts of history, her rarest, her grandest, one of her marked and widely sep- arated geological periods, in which she gathers up the formless and wandering elements of a pre- existing nature, and shapes them into a new world, over whose rising the morning stars might sing again. And these revolutions have an eloquence of their own, also; but how unlike that other, — exultant, trustful, reasonable, courageous ! The cheerful and confident voice of young, giant strength rings through it, — the silver clarion of his hope that sounds to an awakening, to an onset, to a festival of glory, preparing! preparing! — his look of fire now fixed on the ground, now straining toward the distant goal ; his heart assured and high, yet throb- bing with the heightened, irregular pulsations of a new consciousness, beating unwontedly, — the first, delicious, strange, feeling of national life. Twice within a century men have heard that eloquence. They heard it once when, in 1782, Ire- land, in arms, had extorted — in part from the humiliation and necessities of England, in part from the justice of a new administration — the independ- ence of her parliament and her judiciary, BEVOLUTIONS. 29 " That one lucid interval snatched from the gloom And the madness of ages, when filled with one soul, A nation overleaped the dark bounds of her doom, And for one sacred instant touched liberty's goal, — " and Mr. Grattan, rising slowly in her House of Commons, said: "I am now to address a free peo- ple; ages have passed away, and this is the first moment in which you could be distinguished by that appellation . I found Ireland on her knees ; I watched over her with an eternal solicitude. I have traced her progress from injuries to arms, from arms to liberty. Spirit of Swift, spirit of Molyneux, your genius has prevailed ! Ireland is now a nation. In that character, I hail her; and, bowing to her august presence, I say, Live Forever!" Men heard that eloquence in 1776, in that mani- fold and mighty appeal by the genius and wisdom of that new America, to persuade the people to take on the name of nation, and begin its life. By how many pens and tongues that great pleading was conducted; through how many months, before the date of the actual Declaration, it went on, day after day ; in how many forms, before how many assemblies, from the village newspaper, the more careful pamphlet, the private conversation, the town- meeting, the legislative bodies of particular colonies, up to the Hall of the immortal old Congress, and the master intelligences of lion heart and eagle eye, that ennobled it, — all this you know. But the leader in that great argument was John Adams, of Massachusetts. He, by concession of all men, was the orator of that revolution, — the revolution in which a -nation was born. Other and 30 THE NEW CENTURY READER. renowned names, by written or spoken eloquence, cooperated effectively, splendidly, to the grand result, — Samuel Adams, Samuel Chase, Jefferson, Henry, James Otis in an earlier stage. Each of these, and a hundred more, within circles of influence wider or narrower, sent forth, scattering broadcast, the seed of life in the ready, virgin soil. Each brought some specialty of gift to the work : Jefferson, the magic of style, and the habit and the power of delicious dalliance with those large, fair ideas of freedom and equality, so dear to man, so irresistible in that day; Henry, the indescribable and lost spell of the speech of the emotions, which fills the eye, chills the blood, turns the cheek pale, — the lyric phase of eloquence, the "fire-water," as Lamartine has said, of the revolution, instilling into the sense and the soul the sweet madness of battle ; Samuel Chase, the tones of anger, confidence, and pride, and the art to inspire them. John Adams's eloquence alone seemed to have met every demand of the time. As a question of right, as a question of prudence, as a question o£ imme- diate opportunity, as a question of feeling, as a question of conscience, as a question of historical and durable and innocent glory, he knew it all, through and through ; and in that mighty debate, which, beginning in Congress as far back as March or February, 1776, had its close on the second, and on the fourth of July, he presented it in all its aspects, to every passion and affection, — to the burning sense of wrong, exasperated at length beyond control by the shedding of blood ; to grief, anger, self-respect ; to the desire of happiness and of safety; to the REVOLUTIONS. 31 sense of moral obligation, commanding that the duties of life are more than life ; to courage, which fears God, and knows no other fear ; to that large and heroical ambition which would build States, that imperial philanthropy which would open to liberty an asylum here, and give to the sick heart, hard fare, fettered conscience of the children of the Old World, healing, plenty, and freedom to worship God, — to these passions, and these ideas, he presented the appeal for months, day after day, until, on the third of July, 1776, he could record the result, writing thus to his wife: "Yesterday, the greatest question was decided which ever was debated in America ; and a greater, perhaps, never was, nor will be, among men." Of that series of spoken eloquence all is perished ; not one reported sentence has come down to us. The voice through which the rising spirit of a young nation sounded out its dream of life is hushed. The great spokesman, of an age unto an age, is dead. And yet of those lost words is not our whole America one immortal record and reporter? Do ye not read them, deep cut, defying the tooth of time, on all the marble of our greatness ? How they blaze on the pillars of our Union ! How is their deep sense unfolded and interpreted by every passing hour ! how do they come to life, and grow audible, as it were, in the brightening rays of the light he foresaw, as the fabled invisible harp gave out its music to the morning ! Yes, in one sense they are perished. No parch- ment manuscript, no embalming printed page, no certain traditions of living or dead, have kept them. 32 THE NEW CENTURY READER. Yet, from out, and from off, all things around us,— our laughing harvests, our songs of labor, our com- merce on all the seas, pur secure homes, our school- houses and churches, our happy people, our radiant and stainless flag, — how they come pealing, pealing, Independence now, and Independence forever ! ap pel la' tion, a name; a title. ge' o log' ic al, pertaining to the science con ces' sion, admission. of the earth. ex tort' ed, gained by force. on' set, a rushing or setting upon. ex ult' ant, rejoicing as if in triumph. phi Ian' thro py, love of mankind generally. SPRING. HENRY TIM ROD. Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air Which dwells with all things fair, Spring, with her golden suns 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. 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. SPRING. 33 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 34 THE NEW CENTURY READER Some wonderous 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!" * * * -* *•*** THE DEATH OF GARFIELD. - JAMES G. BLAINE. (From a Memorial Address on " The Life and Character of James Abram Garfield.") On the morning of Saturday, July second, the President was a contented and happy man. He felt that after four months of trial his administration was strong in popular favor ; that grave difficulties confronting him at his inauguration had been safely passed; that trouble lay behind him and not before him ; that he was going to his alma mater to renew the most cherished associations of his young man- hood, and to exchange greetings with those whose deepening interest had followed every step of his upward progress from the day he entered upon his college course until he had attained the loftiest ele- vation in the gift of his countrymen. Surely, if happiness can ever come from the hon- ors or triumphs of this world, on that quiet July morning James A. Garfield may well have been a happy man. No foreboding of evil haunted him ; no slightest premonition of danger clouded his sky. His terrible fate was upon him in an instant. One moment he stood erect, strong, confident in the years stretching peacefully before him. The next he lay wounded, bleeding, helpless, doomed to weary weeks of torture, to silence, and the grave. THE DEATH OF GARBTELD. 35 Great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. For no cause, in the very frenzy of wantonness and wickedness, by the red hand of murder, he was thrust from the full tide of this world's interests, from its hopes, its aspirations, its victories, into the visible presence of death — and he did not quail. Not alone for the one short moment in which, stunned and dazed, he could give up life, hardly aware of its relinquishment, but through days of deadly languor, through weeks of agony, that was not less agony because silently borne, with clear sight, and calm courage, he looked into his open grave. What blight and ruin met his anguished eyes, whose lips may tell — what brilliant, broken plans, what baffled, high ambitions, what sundering of strong, warm, manhood's friendships, what bitter rending of sweet household ties ! Behind him a proud, expectant nation, a great host of sustaining friends, a cherished and happy mother, wearing the full rich honors of her early toil and tears ; the wife of his youth, whose whole life lay in his; the little boys not yet emerged from childhood's day of frolic; the fair young daughter ; the sturdy sons just spring- ing into closest companionship, claiming every day and every day rewarding a father's love and care; and in his heart the eager, rejoicing power to meet all demand. Before him, desolation and great dark- ness ! And his soul was not shaken. His countrymen were thrilled with instant, pro- found, and universal sympathy. Masterful in his mortal weakness, enshrined in the prayers of a world, all the love and all the sympathy could not share with him his suffering. He trod the wine- 36 THE NEW CENTURY READER. press alone. With unfaltering front lie faced death. With unfailing tenderness he took leave of life. Above the demoniac hiss of the assassin's bullet he heard the voice of God. With simple resignation he bowed to the divine decree. As the end drew near, his early craving for the sea returned. The stately mansion of power had been to him the wearisome hospital of pain, and he begged to be taken from its prison walls, from its oppressive, stifling air, from its homelessness and its hopelessness. Gently, silently, the love of a great people bore the pale sufferer to the longed-for heal- ing of the sea, to live or to die, as God should will, within sight of its heaving billows, within sound of its manifold voices. With wan, fevered face tenderly lifted to the cooling breeze, he looked wistfully out upon the ocean's changing wonders; on its far sails, whitening in the morning light ; on its restless waves, rolling shoreward to break and die beneath the noon- day sun; on the red clouds of evening, arching low to the horizon ; on the serene and shining pathway of the stars. Let us think that his dying eyes read a mystic meaning which only the rapt and parting soul may know. Let us believe that in the silence of the receding world he heard the great waves breaking on a further shore, and felt already upon his wasted brow the breath of the eternal morning. ad min' is tra' tion, direction; govern- in au' gu ra' tion, act of inaugurating ment of public affairs. or introducing into office. al' ma ma' ter, term employed by stu- in' spi ra' tion, elevating influence, dents to designate the college where pre' mo ni' tion, forewarning, they were educated. sur pass' ing 1 y, extremely ; exceedingly. tie mu'niac, like a demon; wicked;cruel. wan' ton ness (tun), unrestrained reck- fren'zy, madness; delirium. lessness. INTELLECTUAL PROGRESS. 37 INTELLECTUAL PROGRESS. DAVID SWING. {From "Motives of Life " — A. C. Mc Clurg dc Co., Publishers.) To possess a cultivated mind, and to have some general knowledge of the world around us, both in its material and living kingdoms, is such a hunger of the soul that it may be called an instinct. There are tribes of savages so low in mental action that they have no desire to add to their stock of informa- tion. Their brains have never been sufficiently aroused to enable them to think. They have not the mental power that can frame a regret. Sir John Lubbock found tribes so stupid, and so sleepy, that any remark he might make to them about Europe or America, or about steamships, or telegraph, or railway, seemed to annoy them by disturbing their intellectual repose. The distance between the uncivilized races and the civilized ones is almost like that between a walrus-oil lamp and the sun. The moment you pass into a civilized land, ancient or modern, the mind is seen to be awake, and to be hungry for ideas. "Give me knowledge or I shall die," has been the plaintive prayer of almost countless millions. No doubt the human race has sought gold too ardently, and does so still, but we must not suffer that passion to conceal from us the fact that in all the many civilized centuries, this same race has with equal zeal asked the universe to tell man its secrets. We have been not only a money-seeking race, but we have been rather good children, and 38 THE NEW CENTURY READER. have studied hard the lessons on the page of science and art and history. If, when you look out and see millions rushing to and fro for money, you feel that man is an idolater, you can partly dispel the painful thought if you attempt to count the multi- tude who in that very hour are poring over books, or who in meditation are seeking the laws of the God of nature. Millions upon millions of the young and the old are in these days seeking at school or at home, in life's morn or noon or evening, the facts of history and science and art and religion. In order to be ourselves properly impelled or enticed along life's path, we must make no wrong estimate of the influ- ences which are impelling mankind, for if we come to think that all are worshiping gold, we, too, despair- ing of all else, will soon degrade ourselves by bow- ing at the same altar. It is necessary for us always to be just. We must be fully conscious of the fact that there are many feet hurrying along through the places of barter, intent on more gold, but so must we be con- scious that there is a vast army of young and old who are asking the great world to come and tell them its great experience, and to lead them through its literature and arts, and down the grand avenues of history. When the time of our late eclipse drew near. what a procession of arts and of instruments moved far out to where the shadow would fall ! And others had marked just where Mm* darkness would come and the second of its coming. As man can measure the width of a river, and find through what spaces INTELLECTUAL PROGRESS. 39 it flows, so modern learning marked out that river of shade and built up its banks, and along came the brief night and flowed in them most carefully. But the astronomer went not alone ; the science which can catch a picture in an instant ; the science which can analyze a flame millions of miles dis- tant, and tell what is being consumed ; the science which can convey the true time two thousand miles while the excited heart beats once — these, and that grandest science which can see the rings of Saturn and the valleys of the moon, assembled on that height in the very summer when we are lamenting most that mankind knows no pursuit except that of gold. That Rocky Mountain scene only faintly illustrates the intellectual activity of our era. If the passion for money is great in our day, it is also true that the intellectual power of the same period is equally colossal. No reader, be he ever so industrious, can keep pace with the issue of good books, and money itself is alarmed lest the new thoughts and invention of to-morrow may overthrow its investment of yester- day. Stocks tremble at the advance of intellect. A glory of this intellectual passion may be found in the fact that it is not confined to a group of scholars, as old inquiry and education were confined, but like liberty and property, it has passed over to the many. Not all the multitude of the world are gold seekers, there are tens of thousands of men, and women too, who are lovers of truth more than of money, and are standing by the fountains of knowl- edge with no thought or expectation of ever being rich. Education and knowledge, the power to think 40 THE NE W CENTUR Y READER. and to enjoy the thought of others, have long since transformed a cottage into a palace. In the earliest history of man this impulse began to make noble all who bowed to it. It has orna- mented whatever it has touched. What it has always done it will always do, and no youth can look into good books for even only a. few moments each day, and can take that habit with him into all his or her subsequent life, without becoming transformed into a new likeness. Among the motives of life that must urge us all onward, let us place the constant development of the mind and the daily accumulation of knowledge. This motive will blend perfectly with the motives of business and all pleasure. It displaces nothing of life's good, but many of its evils. It destroys idleness, it; plucks the charm from vice, it quenches the thirst for riches, it brings us nearer to all times and nations, and binds by tender ties to all the noble living and to all the noble dead. As foreign and wide travel breaks up the local prejudices of the mind, and makes all the world seem to be the home of man and all the dwellers upon it to be brothers, so the long and wide read- ing of the world's truths beats down the walls of partition and transforms the reading, thinking one into a better friend and citizen and Christian. accu'mu la' tion, a collecting together; ex' pec ta'tion,the act of looking for- act of acquiring. ward to. an' a lyze, to separate an idea or thing i dol' a ter, a worshiper of idols. into its parts. In' stinct, natural inward impulse. as tron/ o mer, one versed in astron- nied' i ta' tion, deep thought. omy; a scientific observer of the stars. prej' u dice, opinion or judgment co los' sal, great. formed without clue knowledge. trans formed', changed. ENERGY. 41 ENERGY. ALEXANDER II. STEPHENS. {From an " Address before the Emory College Societies.") I have one other point only to present — that is, energy and execution. And though last in order, it is far from being least in importance. By this I mean application, attention, activity, perseverance, and untiring industry in that business or pursuit, whatever it may be, which is undertaken. Nothing great or good can ever be accomplished without labor and toil. Motion is the law of living nature. Inac- tion is the symbol of death, if it is not death itself. The hugest engines, with strength and capac- ity 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. 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 superiors in natural gifts far behind them in the race for honors, distinction, and preferment. This is the real vital force or that principle in human nature which gives power and vim to the efforts of genius toward whatever objects such efforts may be directed. It is this which imparts that qual- ity which we designate by the very expressive term, "force of character"; that which meets, defies, and 42 THE NEW CBNTUB7 HEADER. bears down all opposition. This is, perhaps, the most striking characteristic of those great minds and intel- lects which never fail to impress their names, their views, ideas, and opinions indelibly npon the history of the times in which they live. Men of this class are those pioneers of thought, who, sometimes even "in advance of the age," are known and marked in history as originators and discoverers, or those who overturn old orders and systems of things and build up new ones. To this class belong Columbus, Luther, Cromwell, Watt, Ful- ton, Franklin, and Washington. It was to the same class that General Jackson belonged. He not only had a very clear conception of his purpose, but a will and energy to execute it. And it is in the same class, or among the first order of men, that Henry Clay will be assigned a place. 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, nothing upon which to place a hope but his own exertions. But, fired with a high and noble ambition, he resolved, 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 of the greatest efforts ; they were not to secure the laurels won upon the battle-field, but those wreaths which adorn the brow of the wise, the firm, the sagacious and far-seeing statesman. In his life and character you have a most striking example of THE HIGHER ED TIC A TION. 43 what energy and indomitable perseverance can do, even when opposed by the most adverse circum- stances. ap' pli ca' tion, the act of fixing the o rig' i na' tor (ter), one who causes any- mind upon something. thing to be or to be done. char' ac ter is' tic, a trait or feature per' se ver' ance, steady and continued peculiar to. attention to any work. ties' ig nate, indicate; entitle; name. pre fer' ment, advancement ; promo- in del' i bly, so as not to be blotted out ' tion. or erased. sa ga' cious (shiis), keen to perceive. in doin' i ta ble, resolute; unyielding. sym' bol, an outward sign. THE HIGHER EDUCATION. CHAUNCEY M. DEPEW. {From an Address at the First Public Meeting of the Alumnal Association of the University of Cincinnati.) It has been my fortune for twenty-five years as attorney, as counsel, as business associate in many enterprises, to become intimately acquainted with hundreds of men — literally hundreds of men — who, without any equipment whatever of education, have accumulated millions of dollars. I never met with one of them whose regret was not profound and deep and poignant that he had not an education. I never met one of them who did not lament either the neglect of his parents, or his own poor oppor- tunities, that failed to give him this equipment. I never met one of them who did not feel in the presence of cultured people a certain sense of mor- tification which no money paid for. What is success ? Is it money ? How much ? When money gives a man so much power and influ- ence, when it gives him so much position, when with it he can do so much for his family, for his comfort, 44 THE NEW CENTURY READER. for his culture, for the education and the opportu- nities of his children, for generous beneficence to his fellow-man, one would be a fool to say that a person who made money was not in that respect a success. But there is a success which may not come to every- body, but is still as distinct as the millions and more precious. That man would be false to the first duty of American citizenship and the first duty that a man owes his family, who did not use all the powers that God had given him to secure a position in life where his income would sustain him in independence. When a man has once got himself to a place where his income, of which he is sure by his exertions, is sufficient to enable him to live comfortably, he is successful. When, in addition to that, he has a home, however humble, free from mortgage, and in fee simple, he is an American success. All the rest is mere addition — just so much more of the same kind. But there is a success which comes to the cultured and the educated man, which gives a pleasure, a joy, an exquisite delight different from anything which money can buy. We all know the university man and the woman who has graduated from one of our first institutions for the higher education of girls. We all know them, living in the community, either in professions or in business. Leaders in the church with their trained ability ; leaders in every benevolent and charitable enterprise ; leaders in everything which promotes the culture and the art resources of the town. In these United States of America a liberal education THE ISLES OF GREECE. 45 is a duty. Here liberty rests upon the intelligence of the people, and it is pure or it is base according to the character of that intelligence. be nef' i cence, practice of doing good. in tel' li gence, acquired knowledge. e quip' ment, outfit. la intent/, regret; deplore, ex' qui site, intense; keen. op' por tu' ni ty, a chance. fee sim' pie, property held absolutely poign' ant (poin), keen. without condition. pro found', deep-felt; intense. THE ISLES OF GREECE. LORD BYRON. (From "Don Juan") The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, — Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set. The mountains look on Marathon — And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free ; For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations; — all were his! He counted them at break of day — And when the sun set where were they? 46 THE NEW CENTURY READER And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now — The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine? 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. Must we but weep o'er days more blest? Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae ! What, silent still? and silent all? Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, "Let one living head, But. one arise, — we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumb. #n * * * ■* * You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave — Think ye he meant them for a slave ? A PRAYER OF MOSES. 47 The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; That tyrant was Miltiades ! ! that the present honr would lend Another despot of the kind ! Such chains as his were sure to bind. Trust not for freedom to the Franks — They have a king who buys and sells : In native swords, and native ranks, The only hope of courage dwells ; But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad. * * # * * * Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; There, swan-like, let me sing and die : A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! A PRAYER OF MOSES. ( The Bible.) Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place In all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, Or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, Even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God. 48 THE NEW CENTURY READER. Thou turnest man to destruction ; And say est, Return, ye children of men. For a thousand years in thy sight Are but as yesterday when it is past, And as a watch in the night. Thou carriest them away as with a flood ; they are as a sleep : In the morning they are like grass which groweth up. In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up ; In the evening it is cut down, and withereth. For we are consumed in thine anger, And in thy wrath are we troubled. Thou hast set our iniquities before thee, Our secret sins in the light of thy countenance. For all our days are passed away in thy wrath : We bring our years to an end as a tale that is told. The days of our years are threescore years and ten, Or even by reason of strength fourscore years ; Yet is their pride but labour and sorrow ; For it is soon gone, and we fly away. Who knoweth the power of thine anger, And thy wrath according to the fear that is due unto thee? So teach us to number our days, That we may get us an heart of wisdom. Return, O Lord; how long? And let it repent thee concerning thy servants. O satisfy us in the morning with thy mercy ; That we may rejoice and be glad all our days. Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted us, And the years wherein we have seen evil. A PSALM OF DA VID. 49 Let thy work appear unto thy servants, And thy glory upon their children. And let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us : And establish thou the work of our hands upon us; Yea, the work of our hands establish thou it. — Psalm xc. A PSALM OF DAVID. (The Bible.) The earth is the Lord's, and the fulness thereof ; The world, and they that dwell therein. For he hath founded it upon the seas, And established it upon the floods. Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? And who shall stand in his holy place? He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart ; Who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity, And hath not sworn deceitfully. He shall receive a blessing from the Lord, And righteousness from the God of his salvation. This is the generation of them that seek after him, That seek thy face, O God of Jacob. Lift up your heads, O ye gates ; And be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors : And the King of glory shall come in. Who is the King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty, The Lord mighty in battle. Lift up your heads, O ye gates ; Yea, lift them up, ye everlasting doors : 50 THE NEW CENTURY READER. And the King of glory shall come in. Who is this King of glory? The Lord of hosts. He is the King of glory. — Psalm xxiv. de ceit' ful ly, in a lying manner. sal va' tion, deliverance from sin. ful' ih'ss, abundance. van' i ty, empty pleasure; idle show. right' eous ness (chiis), purity of heart. THE OCEAN. LOED BYRON. {From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.") There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin — his control Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. THE OCEAN. 51 The armaments which thunder-strike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake And monarchs tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime "Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime — The image of Eternity, the throne Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 52 THE NEW CENTURY READER. Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. ar' bi ter, one who directs or controls. rav' age, ruin; destruction. ar' ma ment, a force equipped for war Traf al gar', the scene of Nelson's great (naval or military). naval victory. in' ter view, a meeting. un knelled' (nSld), without the tolling in trude', to go in uninvited. of a bell. DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA. CERVANTES. {From "Don Quixote.") INTRODUCTION. At the very beginning of the work, he announces it to be his sole purpose to break down the vogue and authority of books of chivalry, and, at the end of the whole, he declares anew, in his own person, that "he had had no other desire than to render abhorred of men the false and absurd stories con- tained in books of chivalry"; exulting in his suc- cess, as an achievement of no small moment. And such, in fact, it was; for we have abundant proof that the fanaticism for these romances was so great in Spain, during the sixteenth century, as to have become matter of alarm to the more judicious. To destroy a passion that had struck its roots so deeply in the character of all classes of men, to break up the only reading which at that time could be considered widely popular and fashionable, was certainly a bold undertaking, and one that marks DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA. 53 anything rather than a scornful or broken spirit, or a want of faith in what is most to be valued in our common nature. The great wonder is, that Cervantes succeeded. But that he did, there is no question. No book of chivalry was written after the appear- ance of Don Quixote, in 1605 ; and from the same date, even those already enjoying the greatest favor ceased, with one or two unimportant exceptions, to be reprinted ; so that, from that time to the present, they have been constantly disappearing, until they are now among the rarest of literary curiosities. — George Ticknor. DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA. Don Quixote, hearing how soon Sancho was to depart to his new government, took him by the hand and led him to his chamber, in order to give him some advice respecting his conduct in office. " First, my son, fear God ; for to fear Him is wisdom, and being wise, thou canst not err. Secondly, consider what thou art, and endeavor to know thyself, which is the most difficult study of all. The knowledge of thyself will preserve thee from vanity, and the fate of the frog that foolishly vied with the ox will serve thee as a caution ; the recollection, too, of having been formerly a swineherd, in thine own country will be to thee, in the loftiness of thy pride, like the ugly feet of the peacock." "It is true," said Sancho, "that I once kept swine, but I was only a boy then ; when I grew toward manhood I looked after geese, and not hogs. But this, methinks, is nothing to the purpose; for all governors are not descended from kings." "That I grant," replied Don Quixote; "and 54 THE NEW GENTUR Y READER. therefore all those who have not the advantage of noble descent should fail not to grace the dignity of the office they bear with gentleness and modesty, which, when accompanied with discretion, will silence those murmurs which few situations in life can escape. ''Conceal not the meanness of thy family, nor think it disgraceful to be descended from peasants: for, when it is seen that thou art not thyself ashamed, none will endeavor to make thee so ; and deem it more meritorious to be a virtuous, humble man than a lofty sinner. Infinite is the number of those who, born of low extraction, have risen to the highest dig- nities, both in church and state ; and of this truth I could tire thee with examples. "Remember, Sancho, if thou takest virtue for the- rule of life, and values t thyself upon acting in all things conformable thereto, thou wilt have no cause to envy lords and princes ; for blood is inherited, but virtue is a common property and may be acquired by all ; it has, moreover, an intrinsic worth which blood has not. This being so, if peradventure any one of thy kindred visit thee in thy government, do not slight nor affront him ; but receive, cherish, and make much of him, for in so doing thou wilt please God, who allows none of His creatures to be despised ; and thou also wilt manifest therein a well-disposed nature. "Be not under the dominion of thine own will: it is the vice of the ignorant, who vainly presume on their own understanding. Let the tears of the poor find more compassion, but not more justice, from thee than the applications of the wealthy. Be equally solicitous to sift out the truth amidst iln* presents and the promises of the rich and the sighs DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA. 55 and entreaties of the poor. Whenever equity may justly temper the rigor of the law, let not the whole force of it bear upon the delinquent : for it is better that a judge should lean on the side of compassion than severity. If, perchance, the scales of justice be not correctly balanced, let the error be imputable to pity, not to gold. If, perchance, the cause of thine enemy come before thee, forget thy injuries, and think only on the merits of the case. Let not pri- vate affection blind thee in another man's cause; for the errors thou shalt thereby commit are often without remedy, and at the expense of both thy reputation and fortune. "When a beautiful woman comes before thee to demand justice, consider maturely the nature of her claim, without regarding either her tears or her sighs, unless thou wouldst expose thy judgment to the danger of being lost in the one, and thy integrity in the other. Revile not with words him whom thou hast to correct with deeds: the punishment which the unhappy wretch is doomed to suffer is sufficient, without the addition of abusive language. When the criminal stands before thee, recollect the frail and depraved nature of man, and, as much as thou canst, without injustice to the suffering party, show pity and clemency ; for, though the attributes of God are all equally adorable, yet his mercy is more shining and attractive in our eyes than his justice. "If, Sancho, thou observest these precepts, thy days will be long and thy fame eternal; thy rec- ompense full, and thy felicity unspeakable. Thy children and thy grandchildren shall want neither honors nor titles. Beloved by all men, thy days shall 56 THE NEW CENTURY READER. pass in peace and tranquillity; and when the inevit- able period comes, death shall steal on thee in a good and venerable old age, and thy grandchildren's children, with their tender and pious hands, shall close thine eyes." THE OLD MAN DREAMS. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. Oh for one hour of youthful joy! Give back my twentieth spring ! I'd rather laugh, a bright-haired boy, Than reign, a gray-beard king. Off with the spoils of wrinkled age ! Away with Learning's crown! Tear out life's Wisdom-written page, And dash its trophies down ! One moment let my life-blood stream From boyhood's fount of flame ! Give me one giddy, reeling dream Of life all love and fame ! My listening angel heard the prayer, And, calmly smiling, said, "If I but touch thy silvered hair Thy hasty wish hath sped. "But is there nothing in thy track, To bid thee fondly stay, While the swift seasons hurry back To find the wished-for day?" THE OLD MAN DREAMS. 57 "Ah, truest soul of womankind! Without thee what were life? One bliss I cannot leave behind: I'll take — my — precious — wife ! ' ' The angel took a sapphire pen And wrote in rainbow dew, The man would be a boy again, And be a husband too! "And is there nothing yet unsaid, Before the change appears? Remember, all their gifts have fled With those dissolving years." "Why, yes;" for memory would recall My fond paternal joys ; "I could not bear to leave them all — F 11 take — my — girl — and — boys. ' ' The smiling angel dropped his pen, — "Why, this will never do ; The man would be a boy again, And be a father too ! " And so I laughed, — my laughter woke The household with its noise, — And wrote my dream, when morning broke, To please the gray-haired boys. pa ter' nal, of or pertaining to a father. tro' phy, anything taken and preserved reign (ran\ rule. as a memorial of victory. sap' phire (saf Ir), a precious stone of a beautiful blue color. 58 THE NEW GENTUR Y READER THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main, — The venturous barque that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed, — Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil ; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn ! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born J A CKSON AT NEW RLEANS. 59 Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings : — Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll ! Leave thy low-vaulted past ! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea ! crypt, an underground cell; a cave. Si' ren, a mermaid; a sea-woman. feign, to pretend. Tri' ton, a fabled sea demigod. i' rised (rist), resembling the rainbow. ven' tur ous, daring; venturesome, main, the ocean. wont (wunt), accustomed. JACKSON AT NEW ORLEANS. . CHARLES GAYARRE. (.From the "History of Louisiana.") His very physiognomy prognosticated what soul was encased within the spare but well-ribbed form which had that "lean and hungry look" described by England's greatest bard as bespeaking little sleej) of nights, but much of ambition, self-reliance, and impatience of control. His lip and eye denoted the man of unyielding temper, and his very hair, slightly silvered, stood erect like quills round his wrinkled brow, as if they scorned to bend. Some sneered, it is true, at what they called a military tyro, at the impromptu general who had GENERAL ANDREW JACKSON. JACKSON AT NEW ORLEANS. 61 sprung out of the uncouth lawyer and the unlearned judge, who in arms had only the experience of a few months, acquired in a desultory war against wild Indians, and who was, not only without any previous training to his new profession, but also without the first rudiments of a liberal education, for he did not even know the orthography of his own native language. Such was the man who, with a handful of raw militia, was to stand in the way of the veteran troops of England, whose boast it was to have tri- umphed over one of the greatest captains known in history. But those who entertained such distrust had hardly come in contact with General Jackson, when they felt that they had to deal with a master spirit. True, he was rough hewn from the rock, but rock he was, and of that kind of rock which Providence chooses to select as a fit material to use in its structures of human greatness. True, he had not the education of a lieutenant in a European army ; but what lieutenant, educated or not, who had the will and the remarkable military adaptation so evident in General Jackson's intel- lectual and physical organization, ever remained a subaltern ? Much less could General Jackson fail to rise to his proper place in a country where there was so much more elbow-room, and fewer artificial obstacles than in less favored lands. But, whatever those obstacles might have been, General Jackson would have overcome them all. His will was of such an extraordinary nature that, like Christian faith, it could almost have accomplished 62 THE NR W CENTUR T RE A DER. prodigies and removed mountains. It is impossible to study the life of General Jackson without being convinced that this is the most remarkable feature of his character. So intense and incessantly active this peculiar faculty was in him, that one would suppose that his mind was nothing but will — a will so lofty that it towered into sublimity. In him it supplied the place of genius — or, rather, it was almost genius. On many occasions, in the course of his long, eventful life, when his shattered constitution made his physicians despair of preserving him, he seemed to continue to live merely because it was his will ; and when his unconquerable spirit departed from his enfeebled and worn-out body, those who knew him well might almost have been tempted to sup- pose that he had not been vanquished by death, but had at last consented to repose. This man, when he took the command at New Orleans, had made up his mind to beat the English, and, as that mind was so constituted that it was not susceptible of entertaining much doubt as to the results of any of its resolves, he went to work with an innate confidence which transfused itself into the population he had been sent to protect. General Jackson found that the country he had come to defend was in the most defenseless condi- tion. It had a considerable extent of coast, connect- ing with the interior through many water communi- cations ; and having hardly any fortified points, it was open on all sides. Fortunately the man who was sent for the de- fense of Southern Territory was Southern born. He GRANT. 63 was a native of South Carolina, and he had grown to hardy manhood on the forest-clad hills of Ten- nessee. It is still more fortunate that he was equal to the occasion. He did not deplore, in helpless despair, the scarcity of his resources ; he did not write to his Government that he could not defend New Orleans with his limited means ; he never thought of retreating, or abandoning one inch of territory ; he saw that he had to create everything for defense, and everything he did create. des' ul to ry, irregular. prog nos' ti ca' ted, betokened; fore- im promp' tu, made offhand. told. or thog' ra phy, spelling. sub' al tern, an officer in the army below pliys i og' no my, cast or expression of the rank of captain. the face. sub lim' i ty, grandeur. prod' i gy, a wonder; a miracle. ty' ro, a beginner in learning anything. GRANT. HENRY WATTERSON. {Extract from a Speech before the Society of the Army of the Tennessee.) I know full well that this is neither a time nor place for abstract economics, and I am not going to afflict you with a dissertation upon free trade or free silver. I came, primarily, to bow my head and to pay my measure of homage to the statue that was unveiled to-day. The career and the name which that statue commemorates belong to me no less than to you. When I followed him to the grave — proud to appear in his obsequies, though as the obscurest of those who bore any official part therein — I felt that I was helping to bury not only a great man but a true friend. From that day GENERAL U. S. GRANT. GRANT. 65 to this the story of the life and death of General Grant has more and more impressed and touched me. . I never allowed myself to make his acquaintance until he had quitted the White House. The period of his political activity was full of uncouth and unsparing partisan contention. It was a kind of civil war. I had my duty to do, and I did not dare trust myself to the subduing influence of what I was sure must follow friendly relations between such a man as he was and such a man as I knew myself to be. In this I was not mistaken, as the sequel proved. I met him for the first time beneath my own vine and fig tree, and a happy series of accidents thereafter gave me the opportunity to meet him often and to know him well. He was the embodiment of simplicity, integrity, and cour- age ; every inch a general, a soldier, and a man ; but in the circumstances of his last illness, a figure of heroic proportions for the contemplation of the ages. I recall nothing in history so sublime as the spectacle of that brave spirit, broken in for- tune and in health, with the dread hand of the dark angel clutched about his throat, struggling with every breath to hold the clumsy, unfamiliar weapon with which he sought to wrest from the jaws of death something for the support of wife and children when he was gone ! If he had done nothing else, that would have made his exit from the world an epic ! Gentlemen, soldiers, comrades, the silken folds that twine about us here, for all their soft and careless grace, are yet as strong as hooks of steel ! They hold together a united people and a great 66 THE NE W CENTUR Y READER. nation; for, realizing the truth at last — with no wounds to be healed and no stings of defeat to remember — the South says to the North, as simply and as truly as was said three thousand years ago in that far-away meadow upon the margin of the mystic sea: " Whither thou goest, I will go: and where thou lodgest, I will lodge : thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God." com inem' o rate, to perpetuate or cele- ep' ic, heroic event. brate the memory of. in teg' ri ty, uprightness; honesty. dis' ser ta' tion, discussion. ob' se quies, the ceremonies pertaining em bod' i nient, bodily representation. to burial. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY- NIGHT. ROBERT BURNS. * * * * * * * November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; 1 The short' ning winter- day is near a close ; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh : The black' ning trains o' craws to their repose : The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn 2 in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hame- ward bend. At length hfs lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; Th' expectant wee things, toddlin', stacher 3 through To meet their dad, wi' nichteriIl , 4 noise an' glee. His wee bit ingle, 5 blinkin' bonnily, i Moan. 2 Morrow. 3 Stagger. * Fluttering. « Fire-place. THE COTTERS SATURDAY NIGHT. 61 His clean hearth- stane, his thrifty wine's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary kiaugh 1 and care begnile, An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil. Belyve, 2 the elder bairns come drapping in, At service ont, amang the farmers roun' ; Some ca' 3 the plengh, some herd, some tentie 4 rin A cannie 5 errand to a neebor town : Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw 6 new gown, Or deposite 7 her sair-won 8 penny-fee, 9 To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet, And each for other's w r eelfare kindly spiers: 10 The social hours, swift- wing' d, unnoticed fleet; Each tells the uncos 11 that he sees or hears ; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; Anticipation forward points the view. The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears, Gars 12 auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. Their master's an' their mistress's command, The younkers a' are warned to obey ; An' mind their labors wi' an eydent 13 hand, An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk 14 or play: u An' O! be sure to fear the Lord alway! 1 Anxiety. 2 Presently. 3 Drive, i. e., with shouting or calling. * Attentive. 5 Requiring judgment. 6 Brave, fine, handsome. 7 De'posite,/or depos'it. 8 Dear- won, hard-earned. 9 Money-wages. 10 Enquires, n Unusual things, news. 12 Makes. 1? Diligent, i* Trifle. 6S THE NEW CENTURY READER. An' mind yonr duty, duly, morn and night ! Lest in temptations path ye gang astray, Implore his counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright !" * * * * * * * The cheerfu' supper done, wf serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; The sire turns o'er, wf patriarchal grace, The big ha' -Bible, * ance his father's pride: His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart 2 haffets 3 wearing thin an' bare ; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales 4 a portion with judicious care ; And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : Perhaps •" Dundee's" wild warbling measures rise, Or plaintive "Martyrs," worthy of the name; Or noble "Elgin" beets 5 the heavenward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; The tickl'd ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high ; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek' s ungracious progeny ; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie i Hall Bible. 3 Gray, grayish. 3 Temples, here temple locks. * Chooses. 5 Feeds, nourishes. THE COTTERS SATURDAY NIGHT. 69 Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay His head: How His first followers and servants sped: The precepts sage they wrote to many a land; How he, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; And heard great Bab' Ion's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command. Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays: Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing," That thus they all shall meet in future days : There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide, Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, in some cottage far apart, 70 THE NE W CENTUR T READER May hear, well pleas' d, the language of the soul ; And in His book of life the inmates poor enroll. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest: The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad; Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, "An honest man's the noblest work of God;" And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness relin'd! O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! And O ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of lire around their much-lov'd Isle. AN OLD-TIME DISTRICT SCHOOL. 71 O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream' d through Wallace's undaunted heart ; Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert; But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard. AN OLD-TIME DISTRICT SCHOOL. JAMES PARTOX. {From " The Life of Horace Greeley.") A district school — and what was a district school forty years ago? It concerns us to know what manner of place it was, and what was its routine of exercises. The school-house stood in an open place, formed by the crossing of roads. It was very small, and of one story ; contained one apartment, had two win- dows on each side, a small door in the gable end that faced the road, and a low door-step before it. It was the thing called house, in its simplest form. But for its roof, windows, and door, it had been a box, large, rough, and unpainted. Within and with- out, it was destitute of anything ornamental. It was not enclosed by a fence ; it was not shaded by a tree. The sun in summer, the winds in winter, had their will of it : there was nothing to avert the fury 72 THE NEW CENTURY READER. of either. The school-houses of the previous genera- tion were picturesque and comfortable ; those of the present time are as prim, neat, and orderly as the cottage of an old maid who enjoys an annuity ; but the school-house of forty years ago had an aspect singularly forlorn and uninviting. It was built for an average of thirty pupils, but it frequently con- tained fifty ; and then the little school-room was a compact mass of young humanity : the teacher had to dispense with his table, and was lucky if he could find room for his chair. The side of the apartment opposite the door was occupied, chiefly, by a vast fireplace, four or iive feet wide, where a carman's load of wood could burn in one prodigious fire. Along the sides of the room was a low, slanting shelf, which served for a desk to those who wrote, and against the sharp edge of which the elder pupils leaned when they were not writing. The seats were made of "slabs," inverted, sup- ported on sticks, and without backs. The elder pupils sat along the sides of the room, — the girls on one side, the boys on the other; the youngest sat nearest the fire, where they were as much too warm as those who sat near the door were too cold. In a school of forty pupils, there would be a dozen who were grown up, marriageable young men and women. Not infrequently married men, and occa- sionally married women, attended school in the winter. Among the younger pupils, there were usually a dozen who could not read, and half as many who did not know the alphabet. The teacher was. ROBERT BURNS. 73 perhaps, one of the farmer's sons of the district, who knew a little more than his elder pupils, and only a little ; or he was a student who was working his way through college. His wages were those of a farm-laborer, ten or twelve dollars a month and his board. He boarded "round" i. e., he lived a few days at each of the houses of the district, stopping longest at the most agreeable place. The grand qualification of a teacher was the abil- ity "to do" any sum in the arithmetic. To know arithmetic was to be a learned man. Generally, the teacher was very young, sometimes not more than sixteen years old. a part' ment, a room. hu man' i ty, humankind. a vert', to turn aside; to ward off. or na men' tal, serving to ornament or com pact', dense; close together. decorate. ties' ti tute, without; devoid. qual' i fi ca' tion, that which fits for a dis pense', to give up. .duty or work. ga' ble, the triangular end of a house. slab, plank with the hark on one side. ROBERT BURNS. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. * * # * • * * I've stood beside the cottage-bed Where the Bard-peasant first drew breath ; A straw-thatched roof above his head, A straw- wrought couch beneath. \- j And I have stood beside the pile, His monument — that tells to Heaven The homage of earth's proudest isle To that Bard -peasant given ! 74 THE NEW CENTURY READER. Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot, Boy-minstrel, in thy dreaming hour ; And know, however low his lot, A Poet's pride and power: The pride that lifted Burns from earth, The power that gave a child of song Ascendency o'er rank and birth, The rich, the brave, the strong ; And if despondency weigh down Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then, Despair — thy name is written on The roll of common men. There have been loftier themes than his, And longer scrolls, and louder lyres, And lays lit up with Poesy's Purer and holier fires : Yet read the names that know not death ; Few nobler ones than Burns are there ; And few have won a greener wreath Than that which binds his hair. His is that language of the heart, In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek ; And his that music, to whose tone The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle's mirth or moan, In cold or sunny clime. ROBERT BURNS. 75 And who hath heard his song, nor knelt Before its spell with willing knee, And listened, and believed, and felt The poet's mastery O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm, O'er the heart's .sunshine and its showers, O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm, O'er reason's dark, cold hours ; 55 On fields where brave men u die or do, In halls where rings the banquet's mirth, Where mourners weep, where lovers woo, Frpm throne to cottage hearth? What sweet tears dim the eye unshed, What wild vows falter on the tongue, When "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," Or "Auld Lang Syne" is sung! Pure hopes, that lift the soul above, Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise, And dreams of youth, and truth, and love, With "Logan's" banks and braes. And when he breathes his master-lay Of Alio way's witch-haunted wall, All passions in our frames of clay Come thronging at his call. Imagination's world of air, And our own world, its gloom and glee, Wit, pathos, poetry, are there, And death's sublimity. 76 THE NEW CENTURY READER. And Burns — though brief the race he ran, Though rough and dark the path he trod, Lived — died — in form and soul a Man, The image of his God. Praise to the bard ! His words are driven, Like flower seeds by the far winds sown, Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven, The birds of fame have flown. ascend'ency, controlling influence. horn' age, reverence. Bard'-peas' ant, rustic poet. pin' ion (yun), wing. de spond' en cy, hopelessness; despair. wrought (r^t), worked. DEDICATION SPEECH AT GETTYSBURG. ABRAHAM LINCOLN. Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, con- ceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposi- tion that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate — we can not consecrate — we can not hallow — this ground. BAYMm OF LINCOLN. 77 The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. con ceived', originated. mal' ice, ill will. con' se era' ted, made sacred. mys' tic, secret; mysterious. ded' i cate, to set apart; to devote to some prop' o si' tion, a truth set forth in for- use or end. mal statement. de vo'tion, consecration. SAYINGS OF LINCOLN. "I have never had a feeling, politically, that did not spring from the sentiments embodied in the Declaration of Independence." "Let us have faith that right makes might; and in that faith let us dare to do our duty as we understand it." "With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on." 78 THE NEW CENTURY READER. "The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield, and patriot grave, to every living heart and to every hearthstone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature." THE EMPLOYMENT OF TIME. CHARLES SUMNER. {From a Lecture before the Bosto?i Lyceum, February 18, 1846.) The value of time has passed into a proverb, — "Time is money." It is so because its employment brings money. But it is more. It is knowledge. Still more, it is virtue. Nor is it creditable to the character of the world that the proverb has taken this material and mercenary complexion, as if money were the highest good and the strongest recommendation. Time is more than money. It brings what money can not purchase. It has in its lap all the learning of the Past, the spoils of Antiquity, the priceless treasures of knowledge. Who would barter these for gold or silver ? But knowledge is a means only, and not an end. It is valuable because it promotes the welfare, the development, and the progress of man. And the highest value of time is not even in knowledge, but in the opportunity of doing good. Time is opportunity. Little or much, it may be the occasion of usefulness. It is the point desired by the philosopher where to plant the lever that THE EMPLOYMENT OF TIME. 79 shall move the world. It is the napkin in which are wrapped, not only the talent of silver, bnt the treasures of knowledge and the fruits of virtue. Saving time, we save all these. Employing time' to the best advantage, we exer- cise a true thrift. To -each of us the passing day is of the same dimensions, nor can any one by taking thought add a moment to its hours. But though unable to extend their duration, he may swell them with works. It is customary to say, "Take care of the small sums, and the large will take care of themselves." With equal wisdom and more necessity may it be said, "Watch the minutes, and the hours and days will be safe." The moments are precious; they are gold filings, to be carefully preserved and melted into the rich ingot. Time is the measure of life on earth. Its enjoy- ment is life itself. Its divisions, its days, its hours, its minutes are fractions of this heavenly gift. Every moment that flies over our heads takes from the future and gives to the irrevocable past, short- ening by so much the measure of our days, abridg- ing by so much the means of usefulness committed to our hands. The moments lost in listlessness or squandered in unprofitable dissipation, gathered into aggregates, are hours, days, weeks, months, years. The daily sacrifice of a single hour during a year comes, at its end, to thirty-six working days, an amount of time, if devoted exclusively to one object, ample for the acquisition of important knowledge, and for the accomplishment of inconceivable good. 80 THE NEW CENTURY READER. Imagine, if you please, a solid month dedicated, without interruption, to a single purpose — to the study of a new language, an untried science, an unexplored field of history, a fresh department of philosophy, or to some new sphere of action, some labor of humanity, some godlike charity, — and what visions must not rise of untold accumulations of knowledge, of unnumbered deeds of goodness ! Who of us does not each day, in manifold ways, sacrifice these precious moments, these golden hours? In the employment of time will be found the sure means of happiness. The laborer living by the sweat of his brow, and the youth toiling in per- plexities of business or study, sighs for repose, and repines at the law which ordains the seeming hard- ship of his lot. He seeks happiness as the end and aim of life, but he does not open his mind to the important truth that occupation is indispensable to happiness. He shuns work, but he does riot know the precious jewel hidden beneath its rude attire. Others there are who wander over half the globe in pursuit of what is found under the humblest roof of virtuous industry, in the shadow of every tree planted by one's own hand. The poet has said: "The best and sweetest far are toil-created gains." But this does not disclose the whole truth. There is in useful labor its own exceeding great reward, without regard to gain. Seek, then, occupation.; seek labor ; seek to em- ploy all the faculties, whether in study or conduct, — not in words only, but in deeds also, mindful that "words are the daughters of Earth, but deeds are ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 81 the sons of Heaven." So shall your days be filled with usefulness, — " And when old Time shall lead you to your end, Goodness and you fill up one monument." a bridg' ing, shortening. di men' sions, length. ag' gre gate, collected together in one in' got, gold or silver cast in a mold. sum or mass. ir rev' o ca ble, unalterable. cred' it a ble, honorable. prov' erb, a familiar saying. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- YARD. THOMAS GEAY. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinkling lulls the distant folds : Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand' ring near her secret bow' r, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mold' ring heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 82 THE NE W CENTUR Y READER. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-bnilt shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : How jocund did they drive their team a-field ! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke. Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flatt'ry soothe the dull, cold ear of death? ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 83 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll ; Chill penury repress' d their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes. Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd ; Forbade to wade thro' slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 84 TlIE NEW CENTURY HEADER. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn' d to stray ; Along the cool sequester' d vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insnlt to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With nnconth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply : And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign' d, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, JNor cast one longing ling' ring look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn: ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 85 " There at the foot of -yonder nodding beech. That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt' ring his wayward fancies he would rove ; Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or cross' d in hopeless love. "One morn I miss'd him on the accustom' d hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree ; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he : "The next, with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne : — Approach and read" ( for thou canst read ) the lay Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown : Fair science frown' d not on his humble birth, And melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heav'n did a recompense as largely send: He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear; He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. 86 THE NEW CENTURY READER. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. cir cum scrib'd', inclosed within a her' aid ry, the science of honorary dis- certain limit; bounded. tinctions, especially of armorial bear- el' e gy, a mournful or plaintive poem; a ings. funeral song. in ev' i ta ble, unavoidable. fret' ted, ornamented with fretwork. in gen' u ous, frank; open; candid. glebe, land; soil; turf. joe' und, merry; cheerful. se ques' tered, secluded; private. THE END OF THE WAR. WILLIAM MCKINLEY. {From a Speech delivered at Omaha, October 12, 1898.) It has been said that the normal condition of nations is war. That is not true of the United States. We never enter upon war until every effort for peace without it has been exhausted. Ours has never been a military government. Peace, with whose blessings we have been so singularly favored, is the national desire and the goal of every American aspiration. On the 25th of April, for the first time in more than a generation, the United States sounded the call to arms. The banners of war were unfurled ; the best and bravest from every section responded ; a mighty army was enrolled ; the North and the South vied with each other in patriotic devotion ; the youth and the veteran joined in freely offering their services to their country; there was no break THE END OF THE WAR. 87 in the line, no halt in the march, no fear in the heart. What a wonderful experience it has been from the standpoint of patriotism and achievement! The storm broke so suddenly that it was here almost before we realized it. Our navy was too small, though forceful with its modern equipment, and most fortunate in its trained officers and sailors. Our army had years ago been reduced to a peace footing. We had only twenty-eight thousand avail- able troops when the war was declared, but the account which officers and men gave of themselves on the battlefield has never been surpassed. The manhood was there and everywhere. American pa- triotism was there, and its resources "were limitless. The courageous and invincible spirit of the people proved glorious, and those who a little more than a third of a century ago were divided and at war with each other were again united under the holy standard of liberty. Patriotism banished party feel- ing ; fifty millions of dollars for the national defense were appropriated without debate or division, as a matter of course. But if this is true of the beginning of the war, what shall we say of it now, with hostilities sus- pended, and peace near at hand? Matchless in its results! Unequaled in its completeness and the quick succession with which victory followed vic- tory! Attained earlier than it was believed to be possible ; so comprehensive in its sweep that every thoughtful man feels the weight of responsibility which has been so suddenly thrust upon us. And above all and beyond all, the valor of the American 88 THE NE W CENTUR Y READER. army and the bravery of the American navy and the majesty of the American name stand forth in unsullied glory, while the humanity of our purposes and the magnanimity of our conduct have given to war, always horrible, touches of noble generosity, Christian sympathy and charity, and examples of human grandeur which can never, be lost to man- kind. Passion and bitterness formed no part of our impelling motive, and it is gratifying to feel that humanity triumphed at every step of the war's progress. The heroes of Manila, and Santiago, and Porto Klco have made immortal history. They are worthy successors and descendants of Washington and Greene; -of Paul Jones, Decatur, and Hull, and of Grant, Sheridan, Sherman, and Logan ; of Farragut, Porter, and Cushing ; — of Lee, Jackson, and Long- street. New names stand out oh the honor-roll of the nation's great men, and with them, unnamed, stand the heroes of the trenches and the forecastle, invin- cible in battle and uncomplaining in death. The intelligent, loyal, indomitable soldier and sailor and marine, regular and volunteer, are entitled to equal praise as having done their whole duty, whether at home or under the baptism of foreign tire. com' pre hen' si ve, extensive; em- gran' deur, greatness. bracing much. mag' na ntm' i ty, high-mindedness; ex haust' eel (egz), expended; called generosity. forth. nn sul' lied, unstained; not tarnished. EARLY ENGLAND. 89 EARLY ENGLAND. JOHN RICHARD GREEN. {From "A Short History of the English People.") For the fatherland of the English race we must look far away from England itself. In the fifth century after the birth of Christ, the one country which we know to have borne the name of Angeln or the Engleland lay in the district which we now call Sleswick, a district in the heart of the penin- sula which parts the Baltic from the northern seas. Its pleasant pastures, its black-timbered home- steads, its prim little townships looking down on inlets of purple water, were then but a wild waste of heather and sand, girt along the coast with sun- less woodland, broken here and there by meadows which crept down to the marshes and the sea. The dwellers in this district, however, seem to have been merely an outlying fragment of what was called the Engle or English folk, the bulk of whom lay prob- ably along the middle Elbe and on the Weser. To the north of the English in their Sleswick home lay another kindred tribe, the Jutes, whose name is still preserved in their district of Jutland. To the south of them a number of German tribes had drawn together in their home land between the Elbe and the Ems, and in a wide tract across the Ems to the Rhine, into the peorjle of the Saxons. Engle, Saxon, and Jute all belonged to the same Low Ger- man branch of the Teutonic family ; and at the mo- ment when history discovers them, they were being drawn together by the ties of a common blood, com- mon speech, common social and political institutions. 90 THE NEW CENTUli Y HEADER. Of the temper and life of the folk in this older England we know little. But, from the glimpses which we catch of them when conquest had brought them to the shores of Britain, their political and social organization must have been that of the German race to which they belonged. The basis of their society was the free man. He alone was known as "the man," or "the churl," and two phrases set his freedom vividly before us. He was "the free-necked man," whose long hair floated over a neck that had never bent to a lord. He was "the weaponed man," who alone bore spear and sword, for he alone possessed the right which in such a state of society formed the main check upon lawless outrage, the right of private war. Among the English, as among all the races of man- kind, justice had originally sprung from each man's personal action. There had been a time when every freeman was his own avenger. But even in the earliest forms of English society of which we catch traces this right of self-defense was being modified and restricted by a growing sense of public justice. The "blood- wite," or compensation in money for personal wrong, was the first effort of the tribe as a whole to regulate private revenge. The freeman's life and the freeman's limb had each on this system its legal price. "Eye for eye," ran the rough customary code, and "limb for limb," or for each fair damages. We see a further step toward the recognition of a wrong as done not to the individual man, but to the people at large, in another custom of early date. The price of life or limb was paid, not by the SELF-CULTURE. 91 wrong-doer to the man he wronged, but by the family or house of the wrong-doer to the family or house of the wronged. Order and law were thus made to rest in each little group of English people upon the blood-bond which knit its families to- gether ; every outrage was held to have been done by all who were linked by blood to the doer of it, every crime to have been done against all who were linked by blood to the sufferer from it. From this sense of the value of the family bond, as a means of restraining the wrong-doer by forces which the tribe as a whole did not as yet possess, sprang the first rude forms of English justice. Each kinsman was his kinsman' s keeper, bound to protect him from wrong, to hinder him from wrong-doing, and to suffer with and pay for him, if wrong were done. So fully was this principle recognized that, even if any man was charged before his fellow- tribesmen with crime, his kinsfolk still remained in fact his sole judges ; for it was by their solemn oath of his innocence or his guilt that he had to stand or fall. SELF-CULTURE. WILLIAM ELLERY CHAINING; {From "A?i Address Introductory to the Franklin Lectures.") In looking at our nature, we discover, among its admirable endowments, the sense or perception of beauty. We see the germ of this in every human being, and there is no power which admits greater cultivation ; and why should it not be cherished in 92 THE NEW CENTURY READER. all? It deserves remark, that the provision for this principle is infinite in the universe. There is but a very minute portion of the creation which we can turn into food and clothes, or gratification for the body ; but the whole creation may be used to minis- ter to the sense of beauty. Beauty is an all-pervading presence. It unfolds in the numberless flowers of the spring. It waves in the branches of the trees and the green blades of grass. It haunts the depths of the earth and sea, and gleams out in the hues of the shell and the precious stone. And not only these minute objects, but the ocean, the mountains, the clouds, the heavens, the stars, the rising and setting sun, all overflow with beauty. The universe is its temple ; and those men who are alive to it can not lift their eyes without feel- ing themselves encompassed with it on every side. Now this beauty is so precious, the enjoyments it gives are so refined and pure, so congenial with our tenderest and noblest feelings, and so akin to worship, that it is painful to think of the multi- tude of men as living in the midst of it, and living almost as blind to it as if, instead of this fair earth and glorious sky, they were tenants of a dungeon. An infinite joy is lost to the world by the want of culture of this spiritual endowment. Suppose that I were to visit a cottage, and to see it's walls lined with the choicest pictures of Raphael, and every spare nook filled with statues of the most exquisite workmanship, and that I were to learn that neither man, woman, nor child ever cast an eye at these miracles of art, how should I feel their priva- tion! — how should I want to open their eyes, and to SELF-CULTURE. 93 help them to comprehend and feel the loveliness and grandeur which in vain courted their notice! But every husbandman is living in sight of the works of a diviner Artist ; and how much would his existence be elevated could he see the glory which shines forth in their forms, hues, proportions, and moral expression ! I have spoken only of the beauty of nature ; but how much of this mysterious charm is found in the elegant arts, and especially in literature ! The best books have most beauty. The greatest truths are wronged if not linked with beauty, and they win their way most surely and deeply into the soul when arrayed in this their natural and fit attire. Now no man receives the true culture of a man in whom the sensibility to the beautiful is not cherished ; and I know of no condition in life from which it should be excluded. Of all luxuries, this is the cheapest and # most at hand ; and it seems to me to be most important to those conditions where coarse labor tends to give a grossness to the mind. From the diffusion of the sense of beauty in ancient Greece, and of the taste for music in modern Ger- many, we learn that the people at large may par- take of refined gratifications, which have hitherto been thought to be necessarily restricted to a few. What beauty is, is a question which the most penetrating minds have not satisfactorily answered ; nor, were I able, is this the place for discussing it. But one thing I would say : the beauty of the out- ward creation is intimately related to the lovely, grand, interesting attributes of the soul. It is the emblem or expression of these. 94 THE NEW CENTURY READER Matter becomes beautiful to us when it seems to lose its material aspect, and to approach spirit ; or when, in more awful shapes and movements, it speaks of the Omnipotent. Thus outward beauty is akin to something deeper and unseen, is the reflection of spiritual attributes ; and of consequence the way to see and feel it more and more keenly is to culti- vate those moral, religious, intellectual, and social principles of which I have already spoken, and which are the glory of the spiritual nature. en com' passed, encircled. grat' i fi ca' tion, pleasure; enjoyment. en dow' nient, gift of nature. haunts, to persist in staying; visiting. gross' ness, want of delicacy or refine- min' is ter, to serve. ment. Raph' a el (r£f a el), an Italian painter. WAITING. JOHN BUKROUGHS. Serene, I fold my hands and wait, Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea ; I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, For lo ! my own shall come to me. I stay my haste, I make delays, For what avails this eager pace? I stand amid the eternal ways, And what is mine shall know my face. Asleep, awake, by night or day, The friends I seek are seeking me'; No wind can drive my bark astray, Or change the tide of destiny. 4 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 96 THE NEW CENTURY READER What matter if I stand alone? I wait with joy the coming years ; My heart shall reap where it has sown, And garner np its fruit of tears. The waters know their own, and draw The brook that springs in yonder height ; So flows the good with equal law Unto the soul of pure delight. The stars come nightly to the sky ; The tidal wave unto the sea ; Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, Can keep my own away from me. THE NEW YEAR. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. {From a Poem addressed to the Patrons of the Pennsylvania Freeman.) The wave is breaking on the shore, — The echo fading from the chime, — Again the shadow moveth o'er The dial-plate of time! O, seer-seen Angel ! waiting now With weary feet on sea and shore, Impatient for the last dread vow That time shall be no more! Once more across thy sleepless eye The semblance of a smile has passed: The year departing leaves more nigh Time's fearfullest and last. CONCILIA TION OF AMERICA. ' 97 O, in that dying year hath been The sum of all since time began, — The birth and death, the joy and pain, Of Nature and of Man. # # * * X * * seer' seen, prophet-seen. sem' blance, likeness; appearance. CONCILIATION OF AMERICA. EDMUND BURKE. (From a Speech "For Conciliation icith the Colonies") To restore order and repose to an empire so great and so distracted as ours is, merely in the attempt, an undertaking that would ennoble the flights of the highest genius, and obtain pardon for the efforts of the meanest understanding. Judging of what you are by what you ought to be, I per- suaded myself that you would not reject a reason- able proposition because it had nothing but its rea- son to recommend it. You will see it just as it is, and you will treat it just as it deserves. The proposition is peace, simple peace, sought in its natural course and in its ordinary haunts. I propose, by removing the ground of the difference, and by restoring the former unsuspecting confidence of the colonies in the mother country, to give per- manent satisfaction to your people. The idea of conciliation is admissible. I mean to give peace. Peace implies reconciliation ; and where there has been a material dispute, reconciliation does in a manner always imply concession on the 98 THE NEW CENTURY READER. one part or on the other. In this state of things I make no difficulty in affirming that the proposal ought to originate from us. Great and acknowl- edged force is not impaired, either in effect or in opinion, by an unwillingness to exert itself. The superior power may offer peace with honor and with safety. Such an offer from such a power will be attributed to magnanimity. But the concessions of the weak are the concessions of fear. The colonies in general owe little or nothing to any care of ours. Through a wise and salutary neglect, a generous nature has been suffered to take her own way to perfection. When I reflect upon these effects, when I see how profitable they have been to us, I feel all the pride of power sink, and all presumption in the wisdom of human contri- vances melt and die away within me — my rigor relents — I pardon something to the spirit of liberty. America, gentlemen say, is a noble object, — it is an object well worth fighting for. Certainly it is, if fighting a people be the best way of gaining them. But there is still a consideration which serves to determine my opinion on the sort of policy which ought to be pursued in the management of America : I mean its temper and character. In this character of the Americans a love of freedom is the predom- inating feature which marks and distinguishes the whole: and as an ardent is always a jealous affec- tion, your colonies become suspicious, restive, and untractable whenever they see the least attempt to wrest from them by force, what they think the only advantage worth living for. This fierce spirit of liberty is stronger in the English colonies, probably, CONCILIATION OF AMERICA. 99 than in any other people of the earth, and this from a great variety of powerful causes. The people of the colonies are descendants of Englishmen. England, sir, is a nation which still, I hope, respects, and formerly adored, her freedom. The colonists emigrated from you when this part of your character was most predominant ; and they took this bias and direction the moment they parted from your hands. They are therefore not only devoted to liberty, but to liberty according to Eng- lish ideas and on English principles. From six capital sources, — of descent, of form of government, of religion in the northern provinces, of manners in the southern, of education, of the remoteness of situation from the first mover of government, — from all these causes a fierce spirit of liberty has grown up. It has grown with the growth of the people in your colonies, and increased with the increase of their wealth : a spirit, that, unhappily meeting with an exercise of power in England, which, however lawful, is not reconcilable to any ideas of liberty, much less with theirs, has kindled this flame that is ready to consume us. I do not mean to commend either the spirit in this excess, or the moral causes which produce it. Per- haps a more smooth and accommodating spirit of freedom in them would be more acceptable to us. It looks to me to be narrow and pedantic to apply the ordinary ideas of criminal justice to this great public contest. I do not know the method of drawing up an indictment against an whole people. I am not determining a point of law ; I am restor- ing tranquillity; and the general character and 100 THE NEW VENWH Y HE AD EH. situation of a people must determine what sort of government is fitted for them. That point nothing else can or ought to determine. My idea, there- fore, is, to admit the people of our colonies into an interest in the Constitution, and to give them as strong an assurance as the nature of the thing will admit that we mean forever to adhere to that solemn declaration of systematic indulgence. But to clear up my ideas on this subject, — a rev- enue from America transmitted hither. Do not delude yourselves: you can never receive it, — no, not a shilling. We have experience that from remote countries it is not to be expected. For all service, whether of revenue, trade, or empire, my trust is- in her interest in the British Constitution. My hold of the colonies is in the close affection which grows from common names, from kindred blood, from similar privileges, and equal protection. These are ties which, though light as air, are as strong as links of iron. Let the colonies always keep the idea of their civil rights associated with your gov- ernment — they will cling and grapple to you, and no force under heaven will be of power to tear them from their allegiance. But let it be once understood that your government may be one thing and their privileges another ; that these two things may exist without any mutual relation, — the cement is gone; the cohesion is loosened, and everything hastens to decay and dissolution. As long as you have the wisdom to keep the sovereign authority of this country as the sanctuary CONCILIATION OF AMEBIC^ \ {Ok. of liberty, the sacred temple consecrated to our common faith, wherever the chosen race and sons of England worship freedom, they will turn their faces towards you. The more they multiply, the more friends you will have ; the more ardently they love liberty, the more perfect will be their obedience. Slavery they can have anywhere. It is a weed that grows in every soil. But, until you become lost to all feeling of your true interest and your natural dignity, freedom they can have from none but you. This is the commodity of price, of which you have the monopoly. This is the true Act of Navi- gation, which binds to you the commerce of the colonies, and through them secures to you the wealth of the world. Deny them this participation of free- dom, and you break that sole bond which originally made, and must still preserve, the unity of the empire. It is the spirit of the English Constitution, which, infused through the mighty mass, pervades, feeds, unites, invigorates, vivifies every part of the empire, even down to the minutest member. Is it not the same virtue which does everything for us here in England ? All this, I know well enough, will sound wild and chimerical to the profane herd of those vulgar and mechanical politicians who have no place among us : a sort of people who think that nothing exists but what is gross and material, — and who, therefore, far from being qualified to be directors of the great movement of empire, are not fit to turn a wheel in the machine. But to men truly initiated and rightly taught, these ruling and master principles, which in the opinion of such men as I have mentioned 10JJ TgB NEW CENTURY READER. have no substantial existence, are in truth every- thing, and all in all. Magnanimity in politics is not seldom the truest wisdom ; and a great empire and little minds go ill together. If we are conscious of our situation, and glow with zeal to fill our place as becomes our sta- tion and ourselves, we ought to auspicate all our public proceedings on America with the old warning of the church, Sursum Cor da I 1 We ought to ele- vate our minds to the greatness of that trust to which the order of Providence has called us. By adverting to the dignity of this high calling our ancestors have turned a savage wilderness into a glorious empire, and have made the most extensive and the only honorable conquests, not by destroy- ing, but by promoting the wealth, the number, the happiness of the human race. al le' giance (jans), loyalty. in diet' ment (dlt), a written accusation aus' pi cate, to inaugurate; to begin. of crime. chi mer'i cal, imaginary; fanciful. par' tic i pa' tion, act of sharing with cohe'sion (zhun), that which binds others. together. sov' er eign (suv' er In) supreme; highest. viv' i fies, animates; inspires it with life. HYMN. (Before Sunrise in the Vale op Chamouni.) SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base i Lift up your hearts. HYMN. 103 Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form ! Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently ! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge ! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity! dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer 1 worshiped the Invisible alone. Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my Heart, awake ! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn. Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me — Rise, O ever rise, Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth! 104 THE NEW CENTURY READER. ABOU BEN ADHEM. LEIGH HUNT. Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold: Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said "What writest thou?" — The vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abon. "Nay, not so," Replied the angel. Abon spoke more low, Bnt cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." The angel wrote and vanished. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, And lo ! Ben Adhem' s name led all the rest. THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. EDWARD AUGUSTUS FREEMAN. (Extract from "A Short History of the Normitti Conquest.") Meanwhile King Harold marshalled his army on the hill, to defend their strong post against the attack of the Normans. All were on foot; those who had horses made use of them only to carry them to the field, and got down when the time came for actual fighting. THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 105 The army was made up of soldiers of two very different kinds. There was the King's personal following, his house-carls, his own thanes, and the picked troops generally, among them the men of London who claimed to be the King's special guards, and the men of Kent who claimed to strike the first blow in the battle. The Norman writers were specially struck with the close array of the English, and they speak of them as stand- ing like trees in a wood. Besides these choice troops, there were also the general levies of the neighboring lands, who came armed anyhow, with such weapons as they could get, the bow being the rarest of all. These inferior troops were placed to the right, on the least exposed part of the hill, while the King with his choice troops stood ready to meet Duke William himself. The King stood between his two ensigns, the national badge, the dragon of Wessex, and his own standard, a great flag with the figure of a fighting man wrought on it in gold. Close by the King stood his brothers Gyrth and Leof wine, and his other kinsfolk — among them doubtless his uncle iElfwig, the Abbot of the New Minster at Winchester, who came to the fight with twelve of his monks. By nine in the morning, the Normans had reached the hill of Senlac, and the fight began. First came a flight of arrows from each division of the Norman army. Then the heavy-armed foot pressed on, to make their way up the hill, and to break down the palisade. But the English hurled their javelins at them as they came up, and cut them down 106 THE NEW CENTURY HEADER. with their axes when they came near enough for handstrokes. The Normans shouted "God help us;" the English shouted "God Almighty," and the King's own war-cry of "Holy Cross" — the Holy Cross of Waltham. William's heavy-armed foot pressed on along the whole line, the native Normans having to face King Harold's chosen troops in the center. The attack was vain ; they were beaten back, and they could not break down the palisade. Then the horsemen themselves, the Duke at their head, pressed on up the hillside. But all was in vain ; the English kept their strong ground ; the Normans had to fall back ; the Bretons on the left actually turned and fled. Then the worse-armed and less disciplined English troops could not withstand the temptation to come down from the hill and chase them. The whole line of the Norman army began to waver, and in many parts to give way. A tale spread that the Duke was killed. William showed himself to his troops, and with his words, looks, and blows, helped by his brother the Bishop, he brought them back to the fight. The flying Bretons now took heart ; they turned, and cut in pieces the English who were chasing them. Thus far the resistance of the English had been thor- oughly successful, wherever they had obeyed the King's orders and kept within their defenses. But the fault of those who had gone down to follow the enemy had weakened the line of defense, and had shown the Normans the true way of winning the day. Now came the fiercest struggle of the whole day. THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 107 The Duke and his immediate following tried to break their way into the English enclosure at the very point where the King stood by his standard with his brothers. The two rivals were near coming face to face. At that moment Earl Gyrth hurled his spear, which missed the Duke, but killed his horse and brought his rider to the ground. William then pressed to the barricade on foot, and slew Gyrth in hand to hand fight. At the same time the King's other brother, Earl Leofwine, was killed. The Duke mounted another horse, and again pressed on ; but the barricade and the shield- wall withstood all attempts. On the right the attack of the French division had been more lucky ; the pali- sade was partly broken down. But the English, with their shields and axes, still kept their ground, and the Normans were unable to gain the top of the hill or to come near the standard. The battle had now gone on for several hours, and Duke William saw that, unless he quite changed his tactics, he had no hope of overcoming the resist- ance of the English. They had suffered a great loss in the death of the two earls, and their defenses were weakened at some points ; but the army, as a whole, held its ground as firmly as ever. William then tried a most dangerous strategy, his taking to which shows how little hope he now had of gaining the day by any direct attack. He saw that his only way was to bring the English down from the hill, as part of them had already come down. He therefore bade his men feign flight. The Normans obeyed ; the whole host seemed to be flying. The irregular levies of the English on the 108 THE NEW CENTURY READER. right again broke their line ; they ran down the hill, and left the part where its ascent was most easy open to the invaders. The Normans now turned on their pursuers, put most of them to flight, and were able to ride up the part of the hill which was left undefended, seemingly, about three o'clock in the afternoon. The English had thus lost the advan- tage of the ground ; they had now, on foot, with only the bulwark of their shields, to withstand the horsemen. This, however, they still did for some hours longer. But the advantage was now on the Norman side, and the battle changed into a series of single combats. The great object of the Normans was to cut their way to the standard, where King Harold still fought. Many men were killed in the attempt; the resistance of the English grew slacker; yet, when evening was coming on, they still fought on with their King at their head, and a new device of the Duke's was needed to bring the battle to an end. This new device was to bid his archers shoot in the air, that their arrows might fall, as he said, like bolts from heaven. They were of course bidden specially to aim at those who fought round the standard. Meanwhile, twenty knights bound them- selves to lower or bear off the standard itself. The archers shot ; the knights pressed on ; and one arrow had the deadliest effect of all ; it pierced the right eye of King Harold. He sank down by the stand- ard ; most of the twenty knights were killed, but four reached the King while he still breathed, slew him with many wounds, and carried off the two ensigns. It was now evening ; but, though the King was ABSALOM. 109 dead, the light still went on. Of the King's own chosen troops it wonld seem that not a man either fled or was taken rjrisoner. All died at their posts, save a few wounded men who were cast aside as dead, but found strength to get away on the morrow. But the irregular levies fled, some of them on the horses of the slain men. Yet, even in this last moment, they knew how to revenge themselves on their conquerors. The Normans, ignorant of the country, pursued in the dark. The English were thus able to draw them to the dangerous place behind the hill, where not a few Normans were slain. But the Duke himself came back to the hill, pitched his tent there, held his midnight feast, and watched there with his host all night. ABSALOM. NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. The waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd 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 lean'd, in graceful attitudes to rest. How strikingly the course of nature tells, By its light heed of human suffering, That it was fashion' d for a happier world! 110 THE NEW CENTURY HEADEll King David's limbs were weary. He had fled From far Jerusalem ; and now he stood, With his faint people, for a little rest Upon the shore 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 Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there, And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray. Oh! when the heart is full — when 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 pray'd for Israel — and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He prayed 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 cherish' d 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. ABSALOM. Ill His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls Were floating round the tassels as they sway'd To the admitted air, as glossy now As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters. His helm was at his feet; his banner, soil'd With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, Reversed, beside him ; and the jewel' d hilt, Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, Rested, like mockery, on his cover' d 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 enter' d, 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 bow'd his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe : "Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die.' Thou, who wert mac^e 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 ! 112 THE NEW CENTURY. READER. "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. n 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 ! "And 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! 'Tis 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 call'd thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom!" He covered up his face, and bow'd himself A moment on his child : then, giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasp' d His hands convulsively, as if in prayer; FIRST ORATION ON BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 113 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. bier, a frame on which a corpse is placed pall, covering thrown over a dead body. or borne to the grave. sack' cloth', garment or cloth worn in con vul' sive ly, with violent and irreg- mourning. ular motion or agitation. FIRST ORATION ON BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. DANIEL WEBSTER. {From a Speech made on the laying of the corner stone of the Bunker Hill Monument, June 17, 1825.) This uncounted multitude before me and around me proves the feeling which the occasion has excited. These thousands of human faces, glowing with sym- pathy and joy, and from the impulses of a common gratitude turned reverently to heaven in this spacious temple of the firmament, proclaim that the day, the place, and the purpose of our assembling have made a deep impression on our hearts. If, indeed, there be anything in local association fit to affect the mind of man, we need not strive to repress the emotions which agitate us here. We are among the sepulchers of our fathers. We are on ground distinguished by their valor, their constancy, and the shedding of their blood. We are here, not to fix an uncertain date in our annals, nor to draw into notice an obscure and unknown spot. If our humble purpose had never been conceived, if we our- selves had never been born, the 17th of June, 1775, BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. FIRST ORATION ON BUNKER IIlLL MONUMENT. llS would liave been a day on which all subsequent his- tory would have poured its light, and the eminence where we stand a point of attraction to the eyes of successive generations. But we are Americans. We live in what may be called the early age of this great continent ; and we know that our posterity, through all time, are here to enjoy and suffer the allotments of humanity. We see before us a prob- able train of great events ; we know that our own fortunes have been happily cast ; and it is natural, therefore, that we should be moved by the contem- plation of occurrences which have guided our destiny before many of us were born, and settled the con- dition in which we should pass that portion of our existence which God allows to men on earth. We do not read even of the discovery of this continent, without feeling something of a personal interest in the event ; without being reminded how much it has aftected our own fortunes and our own existence. It would be still more unnatural for us, therefore, than for others, to contemplate with unaffected minds that interesting, I may say that most touching and pathetic scene, when the great discoverer of America stood on the deck of his shattered bark, the shades of night falling on the sea, yet no man sleeping; tossed on the billows of an unknown ocean, yet the stronger billows of alternate hope and despair toss- ing his own troubled thoughts ; extending forward his harassed frame, straining westward his anxious and eager eyes, till Heaven at last granted him a moment of rapture and ecstasy, in blessing his vision with the sight of the unknown world. 116 THE NE W CENTUR Y HEADER. Nearer to our times, more closely connected with our fates, and therefore still more interesting to our feelings and affections, is the settlement of our own country by colonists from England. We cherish every memorial of these worthy ancestors ; we cele- brate their patience and fortitude ; we admire their daring enterprise ; we teach our children to vener- ate their piety ; and we are justly proud of being descended from men who have set the world an example of founding civil institutions on the great and united principles of human freedom and human knowledge. To us, their children, the story of their labors and sufferings can never be without its interest. We know, indeed, that the record of illustrious actions is most safely deposited in the universal remembrance of mankind. We know, that if we could cause this structure to ascend, not only till it reached' the skies, but till it pierced them, its broad surfaces could still contain but part of that which, in an age of knowledge, hath already been spread over the earth, and which history charges itself with making known to all future times. We know that no inscription on entablatures less broad than the earth itself can carry information of the events we commemorate where it has not already gone; and that no structure, which shall not outlive the dura- tion of letters and knowledge among men, can pro- long the memorial. But our object is, by this edifice, to show our own deep sense of the value and importance of the achievements of our ancestors; and, by presenting this work of gratitude to the eye, to keep alive FIRST ORATION ON BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 117 similar sentiments, and to foster a constant regard for the principles of the Revolution. Let it not be supposed that our object is to perpetuate national hostility, or even to cherish a mere military spirit. It is higher, purer, nobler. We consecrate our work to the spirit of national independence, and we wish that the light of peace may rest upon it forever. We rear a memorial of our conviction of that un- measured benefit which has been conferred on our own land, and of the happy influences which have been produced, by the same events, on the general interests of mankind. We come, as Americans, to mark a spot which must forever be dear to us and our posterity. We wish that whosoever, in all coming time, shall turn his eye hither, may behold that the place is not undistinguished where the first great battle of the Revolution was fought. We wish that this struc- ture may proclaim the magnitude and importance of that event to every class and every age. We wish that infancy may learn the purpose of its erection from maternal lips, and that weary and withered age may behold it, and be solaced by the recollections which it suggests. We wish that labor may look up here, and be proud, in the midst of its toil. We wish that, in those days of disaster, which, as they come upon all nations, must be expected to come upon us also, desponding patriotism may turn its eyes hitherward, and be assured that the foundations of our national power are still strong. We wish that this column, rising towards heaven among the pointed spires of so many temples dedi- cated to God, may contribute also to produce, in all 118 THE NEW CENTURY READER. minds, a pious feeling of dependence and gratitude. We wish, finally, that the last object to the sight of him who leaves his native shore, and the first to gladden him who revisits it, may be something which shall remind him of the liberty and the glory of his country. Let it rise ! let it rise, till it meet the sun in his coming ; let the earliest light of the morning gild it, and parting day linger and play on its summit. We still have among us some of those who were active agents in the scenes of 1775, and who are now here, to visit once more, this renowned theater of their courage and patriotism. Venerable men ! you have come down to us from a former generation. You are now where you stood fifty years ago, this very hour, with your brothers and your neighbors, shoulder to shoulder, in the strife for your country. Behold, how altered ! The same heavens are indeed over your heads ; the same ocean rolls at your feet ; but all else how changed ! All is peace ; and God has granted you this sight of your country's happiness, ere you slumber in the grave. Let the sacred obligations which have devolved on this generation, and on us, sink deep into our hearts. Those who established our liberty and our government are daily dropping from among us. The great trust* now descends to new hands. Let us apply ourselves to that which is presented to us, as our appropriate object. We can win no laurels in a war for independence. Earlier and worthier hands have gathered them all. Nor are there places for us by the side of Solon, and Alfred, and FIRST ORATION ON BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 119 other founders of States. Our fathers have filled them. But there remains to us a great duty of defense and preservation ; and there is opened to us, also, a noble pursuit, to which the spirit of the times strongly invites us. Our proper business is improvement. Let our age be the age of improvement. In a day of peace, let us advance the arts of peace and the works of peace. Let us develop the resources of our land, call forth its powers, build up its institutions, pro- mote all its great interests, and see whether we also, in our day and generation, may not perform something worthy to be remembered. Let us culti- vate a true spirit of union and harmony. In pur- suing the great objects which our condition points out to us, let us act under a settled conviction, and an habitual feeling, that these twenty-four States are one country. Let us extend our ideas over the whole of the vast field in which we are called to act. Let our object be, our country, our WHOLE COUNTRY, AND NOTHING BUT OUR COUNTRY. And, by the blessing of God, may that country itself become a vast and splendid monument, not of oppression and terror, but of Wisdom, of Peace, and of Liberty, upon which the world may gaze with admiration forever! fir' ma ment, the sky; the heavens. in scrip' tion, something written or for'ti tucle, endurance; courage; bravery. eDgraved. liar' asset! (ast), worn or tired out with mater'nal of or pertaining to a mother. cares, etc. sep' ul cher (ker), tomb. il lus' tri ous, noble ; renowned. sol' ace, to comfort. 120 THE NEW CENTURY HEADER. THE ST. BERNARD HOSPICE. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. (From the "Ascent to St. Bernard,''' in "Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands.") Our path lay up a desolate mountain gorge. After we had ascended some way the cold became intense. The mountain torrent, by the side of which we went up, leaped and tumbled under ribs of ice, and through banks of snow. I noticed on either side of the defile that there were high posts put up on the rocks, and a cord stretched from one to the other. The object of these, my guide told me, was to show the path, when this whole ravine is filled up with deep snow. I could not help thinking how horrible it must be to go up here in the winter. Our path sometimes came so near to the torrent as to suggest uncom- fortable ideas. In one place it swept round the point of a rock which projected into the foaming flood, so that it was completely under water. I stopped a little before I came to this, and told the guide I wanted to get down. He lifted me from my saddle, and then stood to see what I would do next. When I made him understand that I meant to walk round the point, he very earnestly insisted that I should get back to the saddle again, and was so positive that I had only to obey. It was well I did so, for the mule went round safely enough, and could afford to go up to his ankles in water better than I could. As we neared the hospice I began to feel the effects of the rarefied air very sensibly. It made me 122 THE NEW CENT l /,' V REA DER. dizzy, bringing on a most acute headache. I was glad enough when the old building came in view, though the road lay up an ascent of snow almost perpendicular. At the foot of this ascent we paused. The man stood leaning on his alpenstock, looking at the thing to be demonstrated. There were two paths, both equally steep and snowy. At last he gathered up the bridle, and started up the most direct'way. The mule did not like it at all, evidently, and expressed his disgust by occasionally stopping short and snuffing, meaning probably to intimate that he considered the whole thing a humbug, and that in his opinion we should all slump through together, and go to — nobody knows where. When we were almost up the ascent, he did slump, and went up to his breast in snow ; whereat the guide pulled me out of the saddle with one hand, and pulled him out of the hole with the other. In a minute he had me into the saddle again, and after a few moments more we were up the ascent and drawing near the hospice — a great, square, strong, stone building, standing alone among rocks and snowbanks. As we drove up nearer I saw the little porch in front of it crowded with gentlemen smoking cigars, and gazing on our approach just as from the porch of a fashionable hotel. This was quite a new idea of the matter to me. We had been flattering our- selves on performing an incredible adventure; and lo, and behold, all the world were there waiting for us. We came up to the steps, and I was so crippled THE ST. BERNARD HOSPICE. 123 with fatigue and so dizzy and sick with the thin air, that I hardly knew what I was doing. We entered a low-browed, dark, arched, stone passage, smelling dismally of antiquity and dogs, when a brisk voice accosted me in the very choicest of French, and in terms of welcome as gay and as courtly as if we were entering a salon. Keys clashed, and we went up stone staircases, our entertainer talking volubly all the way. As for me, all the French I ever knew was buried under an avalanche. C had to make answer for me, that madame was very unwell, which brought forth another stream of condolence as we came into a supper room, lighted by a wood fire at one end. The long table was stretched out, on which they were placing supper. The supper consisted of codfish, stewed apples, bread, filberts, and raisins. Immediately after, we were shown up stone staircases, and along stone passages, to our rooms, of which the most inviting feature was two high, single beds covered with white spreads. The windows of the rooms were so narrow as to seem only like loopholes. In the morning I looked out of my loophole on the tall, grim rocks, and a small lake frozen and covered with snow. "Is this lake always frozen?" said I to the old serving woman who had come to bring us some hot water. "Sometimes," says she, "about the latter part of August, it is thawed." I suppose it thaws the last of August, and freezes the first of September. 124 THE NEW CENTURY READER. After dressing ourselves we crept down-stairs in hopes of finding the fire which we left the night before in the sitting-room. The fireplace was piled up with wood and kindlings ready to be lighted in the evening ; but being made to understand that it was a very sultry day, we could not, of course, suggest such an extravagance as igniting the tempt- ing pile — an extravagance, because every stick of wood has to be brought on the backs of mules from the valleys below, at a great expense of time and money. The same is true of provisions of all sorts, and fodder for cattle. After breakfast I went to the front porch to view the prospect, and what did I see there? Banks of dirty, half-melted snow, patches of bare earth, say about fifty feet round, and then the whole region shut in by barren, inaccessible rocks, which cut off all view in every direction. Along by the frozen lake there is a kind of cause- way path made for a promenade, where one might walk to observe the beauties of the season, and our cheery entertainer offered to show it to us. We pursued this walk till we came to the end of the lake, and there he showed me a stone pillar. " There," said he, " beyond the pillar is Italy." "Well," said I, "I believe I shall take a trip into Italy." So*, as he turned back to go to the house, W and I continued on. We went some way into Italy, down the ravine, and I can assure you I was not particularly struck with the country. I observed no indications of that superiority in the fine arts, or that genial climate and soil, of which I had heard so much. THE ST BERNARD HOSPICE. 125 "What a perfectly dismal, comfortless place!" said I ; but climbing up the rocks to rest in a sunny place, I discovered that they were all enameled with the most brilliant flowers. In particular, I remarked beds of velvet moss, which bore a pink blossom. Then there was a kind of low, starry gentian, of a bright metallic blue ; I tried to paint it afterward, but neither ultramarine nor any color I could find would represent its bril- liancy ; it was a kind of living brightness. I spread down my pocket-handkerchief, and pro- ceeded to see how many varieties I could gather, and in a very small circle W and I collected eighteen. Could I have thought, when I looked from my win- dow over this bleak region, that anything so lovely was to be found there? It was quite a significant fact. There is no condition of life, probably, so dreary that a lowly and patient seeker cannot find its flowers. I began to think that I might be con- tented even there. We went back to the house. There were services in the chapel ; I could hear the organ pealing, and the singers responding. Seven great dogs were sunning themselves on the porch. They are of a tawny-yellow color, short- haired, broad-chested, and strong-limbed. As to size, I have seen much larger Newfoundland dogs in Boston. For my part, I was a little uneasy among them, as they went frisking around me, flouncing and rolling over each other on the stone floor, and making, every now and then, the . most hideous noises. As I saw them biting each other in their clumsy frolics, I began to be afraid lest they 1 26 THE NEW CENTURY READ Eli. should take it into their heads to treat me like one of the family, and so stood ready to run. Their principal use is to find paths in the deep snow when the fathers go out to look for travelers, as they always do in stormy weather. They are not long-lived ; neither man nor animal can stand the severe temperature and the thin air for a long time. Many of the dogs die from diseases of the lungs and rheumatism, besides those killed by accidents, such as the falling of avalanches, etc. One of the monks told us that, when they went out after the dogs in the winter storms, all they could, see of them was their tails moving along through the snow. The monks themselves can stand the cli- mate but a short time. They are obliged to go down and live in the valleys below, while others take their places. con do'lence, expression of sympathy. e nani'eled, decorated, as with enamel. de file', a narrow passage in a mountain per' pen die' u lar, exactly upright or region. vertical. hos'pice,a monastery occupied by monks rar'e fled, thin; less dense. and used as an inn or refuge for vol' u bly, with rapid and ready speech. travelers. Where may the wearied eye repose When gazing on the Great ; Where neither guilty glory glows, Nor despicable state? Yes — one — the first — the last — the best — The Cincinnatus of the West, Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeathed the name of Washington, To make man blush there was but one ! —From an "Ode to Napoleon," by Lord Byron. THE SHANDON BELLS. 127 THE SHANDON BELLS. FRANCIS MAHONY (FATHER PROUT). With deep affection And recollection I often think of Those Shandon bells, Whose sonnd so wild would, In days of childhood, Fling round my cradle Their magic spells. On this I ponder Where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork of thee ; With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. I've heard bells chiming Full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in Cathedral shrine, While at a glib rate Brass tongues would vibrate — But all their music Spoke naught. like thine; For memory dwelling On each proud swelling Of the belfry knelling Its bold notes free, 128 THE NE W CENTUR Y READER. Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee! I've heard bells tolling Old " Adrian's Mole" in, Their thunder rolling From the Vatican, And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame ; But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly ; — O! the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. There's a bell in Moscow, While on tower and kiosk o ! In Saint Sophia The Turkman gets, And loud in air Calls men to prayer From the tapering summits Of tall minarets. Such empty phantom I freely grant them; MRS. CAUDLE'S UMBRELLA LECTURE. 129 But there's an anthem More dear to me, — 'Tis the bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. MRS. CAUDLE'S UMBRELLA LECTURE. DOUGLAS WILLIAM JEEROLD. {From "Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures.") " That's the third umbrella gone since Christmas. What were you to do? Why, let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I'm very certain there was nothing about him that could spoil. Take cold, indeed ! He doesn't look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd have better taken cold than take our only umbrella. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear the rain? And as I'm alive, if it isn't St. Swithin's Day! Do you hear it against the windows? Nonsense; you don't impose upon me. You can't be asleep with such a shower as that ! Do you hear it, I say ? Oh, you do hear it! Well that's a pretty flood, I think, to last for six weeks ; and no stirring all the time out of the house. Pooh ! don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle. Don't insult me. He return the umbrella! Anybody would think you were born yesterday. As if anybody ever did return an um- brella ! There — do you hear it ? Worse and worse ! Cats and dogs, and for six weeks — always six weeks. And no umbrella. 130 THE NEW CENTURY READER. "I should like to know how the children are to go to school to-morrow? They shan't go through such weather, I'm determined. No : they shall stop at home and never learn anything — the blessed crea- tures ! — sooner than go and get wet. And when they grow up, I wonder who they'll have to thank for knowing nothing — who, indeed, but their father ? "But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes ; I know very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow — you knew that; and you did it on purpose. Don't tell me ; you hate me to go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle. ISTo, sir; if it comes down in bucketsful, I'll go all the more. "No: and I won't have a cab. Where do you think the money's to come from? You've got nice high notions at that club of yours. A cab, indeed ! Cost me sixteen-pence at least — sixteen-pence ! two- and-eight-pence, for there's back again. Cabs, in- deed! I should like to know who's to pay for 'em ; / can't pay for 'em, and I'm sure you can't, if you go on as you do ; throwing away your property, and beggaring your children — buying umbrellas! "Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear it? But I don't care — I'll go to mother's to-morrow: I will; and what's more, I'll walk every step of the way,— and you know that will give me my death. Don't call me a foolish woman, it's you that's the foolish man. You know I can't wear clogs ; and with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give me a cold — it always does. But what do you care for that? Nothing at all. I may be laid up for what you care, as I dare say I shall — and a pretty MRS CAUDLE'S UMBRELLA LECTURE. V61 doctor's bill there'll be. I hope there will! It will teach you to lend your umbrellas again. I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death; yes: and that's what you lent the umbrella for. Of course ! "Nice clothes I shall get too, traipsing through weather like this. My gown and bonnet will be spoiled quite. Neednt I toear 'em, then? Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I shall wear 'em. No, sir, I'm not going out a dowdy to please you or anybody else. Gracious knows! it isn't often that I step over the threshold ; indeed, I might as well be a slave at once, — better, I should say. But when I do go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose to go like a lady. Oh! that rain — if it isn't enough to break in the windows. "Ugh! I do look forward with dread for to- morrow! How I am to go to mother's I'm sure I can't tell. But if I die, I'll do it. No, sir ; I won't borrow an umbrella. No; and you shan't buy one. Now, Mr. Caudle, only listen to this: if you bring home another umbrella, I'll throw it in the street. I'll have my own umbrella, or none at all. Ha! and it was only last week I had a new nozzle put to that umbrella. I'm sure, if I'd have known as much as I do now, it might have gone without one for me. Paying for new nozzles, for other people to laugh at you. "And I should like to know how I'm to go to mother's without the umbrella? Oh, don't tell me that I said I would go — that's nothing to do with it ; nothing at all. She'll think I'm neglecting her, and the little money we were to have, we shan't have at all — because we've no umbrella. 132 THE NEW CENTURY READER. "The children, too! dear things! they'll be sop- ping wet ; for they shan't stop at home — they shan't lose their learning ; it's all their father will leave 'em, I'm sure. But they sliall go to school. Don't tell me I said they shouldn't : you are so aggra- vating, Caudle ; you'd spoil the temper of an angel. They shall go to school ; mark that. And if they get their deaths of cold, it's not my fault — I didn't lend the umbrella." THE BELLS. EDGAK ALLAN POE. Hear the sledges with the bells — Silver bells ! What a world of merriment their melody fore- tells ! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night ! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight ; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically swells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells — From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells! THE BELLS. 133 What a world of happiness their harmony fore- tells ! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon ! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What 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 ! Hear the loud alarum bells — Brazen 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 a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the lire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire. Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, 1 34 THE WE W CENTUR Y READER. And a resolute endeavor, Wow — now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, 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 and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells — Of the -bells — Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells — In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 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 THE BELLS. 135 From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people— ah, the people — They that dwell np in the steeple, All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone — They are neither man nor woman — They are neither brute nor human — They are Gfhouls : And their king it is who tolls ; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls . A psean from the bells ! And his merry bosom swells With the psean of the bells ! And he dances, and he yells ; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the psean 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 — 136 THE NEW CENTURY READER. Of the bells, bells, bells — T© the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells — Bells, bells, bells — To the moaning and the groaning of the bells ! crys' tal line, like crystals; clear; trans- pae' an, a song of praise and triumph. parent. pal' pi ta' ting, quivering; throbbing. eu' pho ny, pleasing or sweet sounds. Itu' nic, pertaining to the Norsemen. ghoul (gdbl), an imaginary demon sup- tin' tin nab' u la' tion, a tinkling posed to devour men and animals. sound. mon' o dy, mournful poem or song for tur' bu len cy, commotion; agitation. one voice. EXTRACT FROM "TURN ON THE LIGHT." FRANCES E. WILLARD. A while ago I visited the Atlantic Cable Com- pany's office at Sydney, Cape Breton Island, where many thousands of telegraphic messages pass over the wires and under the sea each day. A telegraph man of thirty years' experience showed us about the place. "That's Berlin," he said, listening to one of the operators; "that's London ; that's New York. Here is Wheatstone's automatic transmitter ; there are the Western Union Standard quadruples (Edison's); we send four messages now upon one wire at the same time, and could send almost any number, the difficulty being in the adaptation of mechanical contrivances to different systems of notation. Here is the automatic repeater ; here the new method of insulation ; here are eleven hundred cells, constitut- ing our battery ; here are the ends of the cables that start from Heart's Content." Thus he went on, making the modern miracle as EXTRACT FROM " TURN ON THE LIGHT." 137 plain as language and illustration could do to the uninitiated. "In one minute we can send a message to London, and receive an answer," he said; "we could do it in less time ; indeed, the electric part is done in no time, but you see, in New York, a man's brain-battery must grasp, and his hand must transmit the mes- sage ; then here in Sydney another man must repeat it; then at Heart's Content, Newfoundland, a third man takes and gives it ; then at Valencia Bay, Ire- land, and then in London. But for this repetition, the question and answer would be exchanged across five thousand miles in, practically, no time at all — far more rapidly than human lips could utter it." We said, looking around upon the army of young men who were keeping up this fusillade by which distance is demolished: "Do you employ moderate drinkers?" Swift and staccato came the answer: "Not at all; we must have the brain at its clearest, the hand at its best. We can't afford to have young men that drink." He went on to say that he believed the temper- ance workers could hardly overestimate the value to the total abstinence cause of the multiplying modern inventions that put such a splendid premium upon teetotalism. And he was right; the sure, slow lift of civilization's tidal wave is with us. Ten thousand forces are perpetually at work to move forward the white car of temperance reform. We who give our whole lives to the movement are hardly more than the weather-vane that shows which way the wind is blowing. 10 138 THE NEW CENTURY READER. Let us, then, rejoice and take courage; every witty invention, every intricate machine, every swift- moving engine hastens the dominance of Him upon whose shoulder shall yet be a government u into which shall enter nothing that defileth." al>' sti nence, abstaining from drink. in' su la' t ion, to place an object in a au' to mat' ic, self-acting. detached position so as to prevent dom' i nance, ascendency. electricity being transferred to or fu'sil lade', a simultaneous discharge of from it by conduction. firearms; hence, a number of things trans mit' ter, a telegraph instrument sent out together. for sending messages. quad' ru pie, fourfold. un' in i' ti a' ted ( ish' ), those unac- quainted with. THE PILLAR OF CLOUD. ("Lead, Kindly Light.") CARDINAL NEWMAN. Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on ! The night is dark, and I am far from home, — Lead Thou me on ! Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see The distant scene, — one step enough for me. I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou Shouldst lead me on : I loved to choose and see my path, but now Lead Thou me on ! I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, Pride ruled my will : remember not past years. So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still Will lead me on ; O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till The night is gone ; And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. TWO VIEWS OF NATURE. 139 TWO VIEWS OF NATURE. CHATEAUBRIAND . (From the "Genius of Christianity.") We shall place before the reader two views of Nature ; one an ocean scene, the other a land pic- ture ; one sketched in the middle of the Atlantic, the other in the forests of the New World. The vessel in which we embarked for America having passed the bearing of any land, space was soon enclosed only by the two-fold azure of the sea and of the sky. The color of the waters resembled that of liquid glass. A great swell was visible from the west, though the wind blew from the east, while immense undulations extended from the north to the south, opening in their valleys long vistas through the deserts of the deep. The fleeting scenes changed with every minute. Sometimes a multitude of verdant hillocks appeared to us like a series of graves in some vast cemetery. Sometimes the curling summits of the waves resem- bled white flocks scattered over a heath. Now space seemed circumscribed for want of an object of comparison ; but if a billow reared its mountain crest, if a wave curved like a distant shore, or a squadron of sea-dogs moved along the horizon, the vastness of space again suddenly opened before us. We were most powerfully impressed with an idea of magnitude, when a light fog, creeping along the surface of the deep, seemed to increase immensity itself. Oh ! how sublime, how awful, at such times, is the aspect of the ocean ! We often rose at midnight and sat down upon 140 THE NEW CENTURY READER. the deck. No noise was heard, save the dashing of the prow through the billows, while sparks of fire ran with a white foam along the sides of the vessel. God of Christians ! it is on the waters of the abyss and on the vast expanse of the heavens that thou hast particularly engraven the characters of thy omnipotence ! Millions of stars sparkling in the azure of the celestial dome — the moon in the midst of the firma- ment — a sea unbounded by any shore — infinitude in the skies and on the waves — proclaim with most- impressive effect the power of thy. arm I * * * Let us now pass to the terrestrial scene. I had wandered one evening in the woods, at some distance from the cataract , of Niagara, when soon the last glimmerings of daylight disappeared, and I enjoyed, in all its loneliness, the beauteous prospect of night amid the deserts of the New World. An hour after sunset, the moon appeared above the trees in the opposite part of the heavens. A balmy breeze, which the queen of night had brought with her from the east, seemed to precede her in the forests, like her perfumed breath. The lonely luminary slowly ascended in the firmament, now peacefully pursuing her azure course, and now reposing on groups of clouds which resembled the summits of lofty, snow-covered mountains. These clouds, by the contraction and expansion of their vapory forms, rolled themselves into trans- parent zones of white satin, scattering in airy masses TWO VIEWS OF NATURE. 141 of foam, or forming in the heavens brilliant beds of down so lovely to the eye that you would have imagined you felt their softness and elasticity. The scenery on the earth was not less enchant- ing : the soft beams of the moon darted through the intervals between the trees, and threw streams of light into the midst of the most profound dark- ness. The river that glided at my feet was now lost in the wood, and now reappeared, glistening with the constellations of the night, which were reflected on its bosom. In a vast plain beyond this stream, the radiance of the moon reposed quietly on the verdure. Birch trees, scattered here and there in the savanna, formed shadowy islands which floated on a motionless sea of light. Near me, all was silence and repose, save the fall of some leaf, the transient rustling of a sudden breath of wind, or the hooting of an owl ; but at a distance was heard, at intervals, the solemn roar of the Falls of Niagara, which, in the stillness of the night, was prolonged from desert to desert, and died away among the solitary forests. In those wild regions the mind loves to penetrate into an ocean of forests, to hover round the abysses of cataracts, to meditate on the banks of lakes and rivers, and, as it were, to And itself alone with God. There is no work of genius which has not been the delight of mankind, no word of genius to which the human heart and soul have not sooner or later responded. _ Lowell. 142 THE NEW CENTURY READER. THE KING. JAMES WHITCOMB EILEY. They rode right out of the morning sun-— A glimmering, glittering cavalcade Of knights and ladies, and every one In princely sheen arrayed ; And the king of them all, O he rode ahead, With a helmet of gold, and a .plume of red That spurted about in the breeze and bled In the bloom of the everglade. And they rode high over the dewy lawn, With brave, glad banners of every hue That rolled in ripples, as they rode on In splendor, two and two ; And the tinkling links of the golden reins Of the steeds they rode rang such refrains As the castanets in a dream of Spain's Intensest gold and blue. And they rode and rode ; and the steeds they neighed And pranced, and the sun on their glossy hides Flickered and lightened and glanced and played Like the moon on rippling tides ; And their manes were silken, and thick and strong, And their tails were flossy, and fetlock-long, And jostled in time to the teeming throng, And the knightly song besides. Clank of scabbard and jingle of spur, And the fluttering sash of the queen went wild BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. 143 In the wind, and the proud king glanced at her As one at a wilful child, — And as knight and lady away they flew, And the banners flapped, and the falcon, too, And the lances flashed and the bugle blew, He kissed his hand and smiled — And then, like a slanting sunlit shower, The pageant glittered across the plain, And the turf spun back, and the wildweed flower Was only a crimson stain. And a dreamer's eyes they are downward cast, As he blends these words with the wailing blast: "It is the King of the Year rides past ! " And Autumn is here again. cas' ta nets, two small concave shells ev' er glade, a low, marshy region, fastened to the thumb and beaten more or less covered with high grass, together with the middle finger. fal' con, a bird of prey trained to the cav' al cade', a procession on horse- pursuit of other birds, back. sheen, splendor; brightness. BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. {From "Julius Ccesar.") (Act IV, Scene III. Within the tent of Brutus. Lucilius* and Titinius at some distance from it. Enter Brutus and Cassius.) Cassius. That you have wrong' d me doth appear in this: You have condemn' d and noted Lucius Pella For taking bribes here of the Sardians ; Wherein my letter, praying on his side, Because I knew the man, was slighted off. * See M Julius Caesar," edited by William J. Rolfe, page 169, note 50. WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. 145 Brutus. You wrong' d yourself to write in such a case. Cas. In such a time as this it is not meet That every nice offence should bear his comment. Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemn' d to have an itching palm, To sell and mart your offices for gold To undeservers. Cas. I an itching palm ? You know that you are Brutus that speaks this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corrup- tion, And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. Cas. Chastisement ! Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remem- ber! Did not great Julius bleed for justice sake? What villain touch' d his body, that did stab, And not for justice ? What ! shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world But for supporting robbers, — shall we now Contaminate our lingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honors For so much trash as may be grasped thus? I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman. Cas. Brutus, bay not me ; I'll not endure it : you forget yourself, To hedge me in. I am a soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions. Bru. Go to ; you are not, Cassius. 146 THE NEW CENTURY READER. * Cas. I am. Bru. I say you are not. Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself; Have mind upon your health, tempt me no further. Bru. Away, slight man ! Cas. Is't possible? Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares? Cas. O ye gods, ye gods ! must I endure all this? Bru. All this ? Ay, more. Fret till your proud heart break ; Go show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humor? By the gods, You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you ; for from this day forth, I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, When you are waspish. Cas. Is it come to this? Bru. You say you are a better soldier : Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well. For mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men. Cas. You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus ; I said an elder soldier, not a better: Did I say better? Bru. If you did, I care not. Cas. When Caesar liv'd he durst not thus have mov'd me. BR UTUS AND CA8SIUS. 147 Bru. Peace, peace ! you durst not so have tempted him. Cas. I durst not? Bru. No. Cas. What ? durst not tempt him ? Bru. For your life you durst not. Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love ; I may do that I should be sorry for. Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ; For I am arm'd so strong in honesty That they pass by me as the idle wind Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me; — For I can raise no money by vile means : By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hand of peasants their vile trash By any indirection. — I did send To you for gold to pay my legions, Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius ? Should I have.answer'd Caius Cassius so? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, Dash him to pieces ! Cas. I denied you not. Bru. You did. Cas. I did not; he was but a fool That brought my answer back. — Brutus hath riv'd my heart ; A friend should bear a friend's infirmities, But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. 148 THE NEW CENTURY READER. Bru. I do not, till you practice them on me. Cas. You love me not. Bru. I do not like your faults. Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus. Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius ! For Cassius is aweary of the world ; Hated by one he loves, brav'd by his brother, Check' d like a bondman ; all his faults observ'd, Set in a note-book, learn' d and conn'd by rote, To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep My spirit from mine eyes ! — There is my dagger, And here my naked breast ; within, a heart Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold: If that thou beest a Roman, take it forth. I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart: Strike, as thou didst at Csesar ; for I know, When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov'dst him better Than ever thou lov'dst Cassius. Bru. Sheathe your dagger: Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb, That carries anger as the flint bears fire, Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark And straight is cold again. Cas. Hath Cassius liv'd To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief and blood ill-temper' d vexeth him? HAMLET. 149 Bru. When I spoke that I was ill-temper' d too. Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand. Bru. And my heart too. HAMLET. WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. {From "■Hamlet.") (Act I, Scene II. Hamlet alone in a room of the castle. Enter Horatio, Marcellus, and Ber- nardo.) Horatio. Hail to your lordship ! Ham. I am glad to see you well : Horatio, — or I do forget myself. Hor. The same my lord, and your poor servant ever. Ham. Sir, my good friend ; I'll change that name with you : And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio? — Marcellus ? Mar. My good lord — Ham. I am very glad to see you. — [To Ber,] Good even, sir. — But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg? Hor. A truant disposition, good my lord. Ham. I would not hear your enemy say so, Nor shall you do mine ear that violence, To make it truster of your own report Against yourself ; I know you are no truant. But what is your affair in Elsinore? We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart. Hor. My lord, I came to see your father's funeral. 150 TEE NEW CENTURY READER. Ham. I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-stu- dent ; I think it was to see my mother's wedding. Hor. Indeed, my lord, it follow' d hard upon. Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio ! the funeral bak'd- meats Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio ! My father! — methinks I see my father. Hor. where, my lord? Ham. In my mind's eye, Horatio. Hor. I saw him once ; he was a goodly king. Ham. He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again. Hor. My lord, I think I saw him yesternight. Ham. Saw? who? Hor. My lord, the king your father. Ham. The king my father! Hor. Season your admiration for a while With an attent ear, till I may deliver, Upon the witness of these gentlemen, This marvel to you. Ham. For God's love, let me hear. Hor. Two nights together had these gentlemen, Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch, In the dead vast and middle of the night, Been thus encounter' d. A figure like your father, Armed at point exactly, cap-a-pie, Appears before them, and with solemn march Goes slow and stately by them: thrice he walk'd By their oppress' d and fear-surprised eyes, Within his truncheon's length ; whilst they, distill' d HAMLET. 151 Almost to jelly with the act of fear, Stand dumb, and speak not to him. This to me In dreadful secrecy impart they did; And I with them the third night kept the watch: Where, as they had deliver' d, both in time, Form of the thing, each word made true and good, The. apparition comes. I knew your father ; These hands are not more like. Ham. But where was this ? Mar. My lord, upon the platform where we watch' d. Ham. Did you not speak to it? Hot. My lord, I did ; But answer made it none : yet once methought It lifted up its head and did address Itself to motion, like as it would speak ; But even then the morning cock crew loud, And at the sound it shrunk in haste away, And vanish' d from our sight. Ham. 'Tis very strange. Hot. As I do live, my honor' d lord, 'tis true ; And we did think it writ down in our duty To let you know of it. Ham. Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me. Hold you the watch to-night? Mar. Ber We do, my lord. Ham. Arm'd, say you? M*r- J Arm ?d) my lord . Ham. From top to toe? M^ar ) d ' \ My lord, from head to foot. 152 THE NEW CENTURY READER. Ham. Then saw you not his face? Hor. 0, yes, my lord ; he wore his beaver up. Ham. What, look'd he frowningly? Hot. A countenance more in sorrow than in anger. Ham. Pale, or red ? Hor. Nay, very pale. Ham. And hx'd his eyes upon you? Hor. Most constantly. Ham. I would I had been there. Hor. It would have much amaz'd you. Ham. Very like, very like. Stay'd it long? Hor. While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred. Mar. i Ber. Hor. Ham. Hor. A sable silver' d. Ham. I'll watch to-night ; Perchance 'twill walk again. Hor. I warrant it will. Ham. If it assume my noble father's person, I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all, If you have hitherto conceal' d this sight, Let it be tenable in your silence still ; And whatsoever else shall hap to-night, Give it an understanding, but no tongue : I will requite your loves. So, fare you well ; Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve, I'll visit you. All. Our duty to your honor. Longer, longer. Not when I saw 't. His beard was grizzled? It was, as I have seen it in his life, no? THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 153 Ham. Your loves, as mine to you; farewell. — [Horatio, Marcellus, and Bernardo go out.] My father's spirit in arms! all is not well; I doubt some foul play : would the night were come ! Till then sit still, my soul ; foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes. ap' pa ri' tion (rish'un), a ghost; a ten' a ble, to be held, or kept. phantom. trim' cheon (shun), a short staff, cap'-a-pie' (pe), from head to foot. probably here a sort of scepter. gape (gap), open wide. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. THOMAS HOOD. With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread — . Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" "Work — work — work Till the brain begins to swim ; Work — work — work Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream! 154 TEE NEW CENTUR T READER. "O, Men, with Sisters dear! O, Men, with Mothers and Wives ! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives ! Stitch — stitch — stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A Shroud as well as a Shirt. "But why do I talk of Death? That Phantom of grisly bone; I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own — It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep ; O, God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap! ' ' Work — work — work ! My labor never flags ; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread — and rags. That shattered roof — and this naked floor — A table — a broken chair — And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes .falling there! ' ' Work — work — work ! From weary chime to chime, Work — work — work — As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, THE SONG OF THE SHIRT 155 Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand. ' ' Work — work — work, In the dull December light, And work — work — work, When the weather is warm and bright — While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the spring. # * * * * * * "Oh! but for one short hour! A respite however brief! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope But only time for Grief! A little weeping would ease my heart, But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!" With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread — Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, Would that its tone could reach the Rich ! She sang this "Song of the Shirt!" dol' or ous, sad; dismal. gus' set, a triangular piece of cloth in- llags, slackens; halts. serted in a garment to strengthen or ply' ing, usiDg steadily. enlarge some part, res' pite, pause; interval of rest. 156 THE NEW CENTURY READER. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. WILLIAM M. THACKERAY. {From " The English Humorists of the Eighteenth Century.") A wild youth, wayward, but full of tenderness and affection, quits the country village, where his boyhood has been passed in happy musing, in idle shelter, in fond longing to see the great world out of doors, and achieve name and fortune: and after years of dire struggle, and neglect and poverty, his heart turning back as fondly to his native place as it had longed eagerly for a change when sheltered there, he writes a book and a poem, full of the recollections and feelings of home: he paints the friends and scenes of his youth, and peoples Au- burn and Wakefield with remembrances of Lissoy. Wander he must, but he carries away a home- relic with him, and dies with it on his breast. His nature is truant; in repose it longs for change: as on the journey it looks back for friends and quiet. He passes to-day in building an air-castle for to-morrow, or in writing yesterday's elegy ; and he would fly away this hour, but that a cage and necessity keep him. What is the charm of his verse, of his style, and humor? His sweet regrets, his delicate com- passion, his soft smile, his tremulous sympathy, the weakness which he owns? Your love for him is half pity. You come hot and tired from the day's battle, and this sweet minstrel sings to you. Who could harm the kind vagrant harper? Whom did he ever hurt? He carries no weapon, save the harp on which he plays to you ; and with which he OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 157 delights great and humble, young and old, the captains in the tents, or the soldiers round the fire, or the women and children in the villages, at whose porches he stops and sings his simple songs of love and beauty. With that sweet story of "The Vicar of Wakefield" he has found entry into every castle and every hamlet in Europe. Not one of us, how- ever busy or hard, but once or twice in our lives has passed an evening with him, and undergone the charm of his delightful music. Goldsmith's sweet and friendly nature bloomed kindly always in the midst of a life's storm, and rain, and bitter weather. The poor fellow was never so friendless but he could befriend some one; never so pinched and wretched but he could give of his crust, and speak his word of compassion. If he had but his flute left, he could give that, and make the children happy in the dreary London court. He could give the coals in that queer coal-scuttle we read of to his poor neighbor: he could give away his blankets in college to the poor widow, and warm himself as he best might in the feathers : he could pawn his coat to save his landlord from gad: when he was a school-usher he spent his earnings in treats for the boys, and the good- matured schoolmaster's wife said justly that she ought to keep Mr. Goldsmith's money as well as the young gentlemen's. His purse and his heart were everybody's, and his friends' as much as his own. When he was at the height of his reputation, and the Earl of Northumberland, going as Lord Lieutenant to Ireland, asked if he could be of ] 58 THE NEW CENTURY READER. any service to Doctor Goldsmith, Goldsmith recom- mended his brother, and not himself, to the great man. "My patrons," he gallantly said, "are the booksellers, and I want no others." Hard patrons they were, and hard work he did ; but he did not complain much : If in his early writings some bitter words escaped him, some allu- sions to neglect and poverty, he withdrew these expressions when his works were republished, and better days seemed to open for him; and he did not care to complain that printer or publisher had over- looked his merit, or left him poor. The Court face was turned from honest Oliver, the fashion did not shine on him. He had not the great public with him ; but he had the noble Johnson, and the admira- ble Reynolds, and the great Gibbon, and the great Burke, and the great Fox — friends and admirers illustrious indeed, as famous as those who, fifty years before, sat around Pope's table. For the last half-dozen years of his life, Goldsmith was far removed from the pressure of any ignoble necessity : and in the receipt, indeed, of a pretty large income from the booksellers, his patrons. Had he lived but a few years more, his public fame would have been as great as his private reputation, and he might have enjoyed alive a part of thai esteem which his country has ever since paid to the vivid and versatile genius who has touched on almost every subject of literature, and touched nothing that he did not adorn. In the strength of his age, and the dawn of his reputation, having for backers and friends the most illustrious literary men of his time, fame and OLIVER GOLDSMITH.' 159 prosperity might have been in store for Goldsmith, had fate so willed it, and had not sndden disease carried him off. I say prosperity rather than com- petence, for it is probable that no sum could have put order into his affairs, or sufficed for his habits. As has been the case with many another good fellow of his nation, his life was tracked and his substance wasted by crowds of hungry beggars and lazy dependents. If they came at a lucky time (and be sure they knew his affairs better than he did himself, and watched his pay-day), he gave them of his money: if they begged on empty-purse days, he gave them his promissory bills: or he treated them at a tavern where he had credit ; or he obliged them with an order upon honest Mr. Filby for coats, for which he paid as long as he could earn, and until the shears of Filby were to cut for him no more. Staggering under a load of debt and labor, tracked by bailiffs and reproachful creditors, running from a hundred poor dependents, whose appealing looks were perhaps the hardest of all pains for him to bear, devising fevered plans for the morrow, new histories, new comedies, all sorts of new literary schemes, flying from all these into seclusion, and out of seclusion into pleasure — at last, at five-and- forty, death seized him and closed his career. I have been many a time in the chambers in the Temple which were his, and passed up the staircase, which Johnson and Burke, and Reynolds trod to see their friend, their poet, their kind Goldsmith — the stair on which the poor women sat weeping bitterly when they heard that the greatest and most 160 THE NEW CENTURY READER. generous of all men was dead within the black oak door. Ah ! it was a different lot from that for which the poor fellow sighed, when he wrote with heart yearning for home those most charming of all fond verses, in which he fancies he revisits Auburn : — In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs — and God has given my share — I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose ; I still had hopes — for pride attends us still — Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt and all I saw ; And, as a hare, whom hounds and horn pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first he flew — I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return, and die at home at last. Think of him, reckless, thriftless, vain, if you like — but merciful, gentle, generous, full of love and pity. He passes out of our life, and goes to render his account beyond it. Think of the poor pensioners weeping at his grave; think of the noble spirits that admired and deplored him ; think of the righteous pen that wrote his epitaph — and of the wonderful and unanimous response of affection with which the world has paid back the love he gave it. ep' i taph, an inscription on a tomb. ver' sa tile (til), turning with ease from school'-ush' er, an under-teacher; one thing to another, assistant to a schoolmaster. THE MOON. 161 4 THE MOON. RICHARD A. PROCTOR. (From "Half-Hours with the Sun and Moon.") The moon perhaps is the easiest of all objects of telescopic observation. A very moderate telescope will show her most striking features, while each increase of power is repaid by a view of new details. Although the moon is a pleasing and surprising telescopic object when full, the most interesting views of her features are obtained at other seasons. If we follow the moon as she waxes or wanes, we see the true nature of that rough and bleak mountain scenery which when the moon is full is partially softened through the want of sharp con- trasts of light and shadow. If we watch, even for half an hour only, the changing form of the ragged line separating light from darkness on the moon's disc, we can not fail to be interested. "The outlying and isolated peak of some great mountain- chain becomes gradually larger, and is finally merged in the general luminous surface ; great circular spaces, enclosed with rough and rocky walls many miles in diameter, become apparent ; some with flat and perfectly smooth floors, variegated with streaks; others in which the flat floor is dotted with numerous pits or covered with broken fragments of rock. "Occasionally a regularly-formed and unusually symmetrical circular formation makes its appearance; the exterior surface of the wall bristling with terraces rising gradually from the plain, the interior one 162 THE NEW CENTURY READER. much more steep, and instead of a flat floor, the inner space is concave or cup-shaped, with a solitary- peak rising in the center. " Solitary peaks rise from the level plains and cast their long, narrow shadows athwart the smooth surface. Yast plains of a dusky tint become visible, not perfectly level, but covered with ripples, pits, and projections. Circular wells, which have no sur- rounding wall, dip below the plain, and are met with even in the interior of the circular mountains and on the tops of their walls. "From some of the mountains great streams of a brilliant white radiate in all directions and can be traced for hundreds of miles. We see, again, great fissures, almost perfectly straight and of great length, although very narrow, which appear like the cracks in moist clayey soil when dried by the sun." But interesting as these views may be, it was not for such discoveries as these that astronomers exam- ined the surface of the moon. The principal charm of astronomy, as indeed of all observational science, lies in the study of change — of progress, develop- ment, and decay, and specially of systematic varia- tions taking place in regularly -recurring cycles. The sort of scrutiny required for the discovery of changes, t)r for the determination of their extent, is far too close and laborious to be attractive to the general observer. Yet the kind of observation which avails best for the purpose is perhaps also the most interesting which he can apply to the lunar details. One of the most interesting features of the moon, when she is observed with a good telescope, is the variety of color presented by different parts of her OF STUDIES. 163 surface. We see regions of the purest white — regions which one would be apt to speak of as s now-covered, if one could conceive the possibility that snow should have fallen where (now, at least) there is neither air nor water. Then there are the so-called seas, large gray or neutral-tinted regions, differing from the former not merely in color and in tone, but in the photographic quality of the light they reflect towards the earth. Some of the seas exhibit a greenish tint, as the Sea of Serenity and the Sea of Humors. Where there is a central mountain within a cir- cular depression, the surrounding plain is generally of a bluish steel-gray color. There is a region called the Marsh of Sleep, which exhibits a pale red tint. The brightest portion of the whole lunar disc is Aristarchus, the peaks of which shine often like stars, when the mountain is within the unillumined por- tion of the moon. The darkest regions are Grimaldi and Endymion, and the great plain called Plato by modern astronomers — but, by Hevelius, the Greater Black Lake. OF STUDIES LORD BACON. Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief use for delight is in privateness, and retiring ; for ornament, is in discourse ; and for ability, is in the judgment and disposition of busi- ness; for, expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of particulars, one by one ; but the general 164 THE NEW CENTURY HEADER counsels, and the plots and marshaling of affairs, come best from those that are learned. To spend too much time in studies, is sloth ; to use them too much for ornament, is affectation ; to make judgment wholly by their rules, is the humor of a scholar; they perfect nature, and are perfected by experience — for natural abilities are like natural plants, that need pruning by study ; and studies themselves do give forth directions too much at large, except they be bounded- in by experience. Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire them, and wise men use them, for they teach not their own use ; but that is a wisdom without them, and above them, won by observation. Read not to contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swal lowed, and some few to be chewed and digested — that is, some books are to be read only in pa its; others to be read, but not curiously ; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. Some books also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others ; but that would be only in the less important arguments, and the meaner sort of books ; else distilled books are, like common distilled waters, flashy things. Reading maketh a full 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 read little, he had need have much cun ning, to seem to know that he doth not. ALONE. 165 Histories make men wise ; poets witty ; the math- ematics, subtile ; natural philosophy, deep ; moral, grave ; logic and rhetoric, able to contend : Abeunt studia in mores. (The studies pass into the manners.) Nay, there is no stond 1 or impediment in the wit, but may be wrought out by fit studies : like as diseases of the body may have appropriate exercises. If a man's wits be wandering, let him study the mathematics; for in demonstrations, if his wit be called away never so little, he must begin again ; if his wit be not apt to distinguish or find differences, let him study the schoolmen ; if he be not apt to beat over matters, and to call upon one thing to prove and illustrate another, let him study the lawyers' cases. So every defect of the mind may have a special receipt. craft' y, artful; cunning; sly. im ped' i ment, that which hinders or impedes. dis tilled', condensed. sub' tile, acute; penetrating. ALONE. GEOEGE HOWL AND. Not in the throng does man prepare His noblest deeds to do, or dare, Which heaven itself may own ; But ere with power divine endued, The soul in deepest solitude, Where mortal eye can ne'er intrude, Must first retire alone. Not when embattled squadrons meet, In panoply of war complete, Are man's true triumphs shown ; i Hindrance. 166 THE NEW CENTUR T HEADER. But when in sadness lie hath gone Apart, from every aid withdrawn, And from the darkness till the dawn Hath wrestled there alone. Not 'neath the gaze of friendly eyes Do we behold the spirit rise, To its full stature grown ; But while the weary watchers sleep It turns aside in silence deep, Its sleepless vigils there to keep, And seek for strength alone. Then only hath the prophet's face Put off each weak and human trace, And like an angel's shone ; When he from crowded camp hath fled, And on the mountain summit dread, With clouds and darkness overspread, Communed with God alone. Not when the loud huzzas resound And palms and branches strew the ground Are joys the deepest known ; But when it feels itself replete With blessedness so pure and sweet No tongue the rapture can repeat, The heart would be alone. And when our dearest joys depart, And anguish rends the bleeding heart, No idle dust is strewn ; No soothing words of kindred kind, — SING ME A SONG OF A LAD THAT IS GONE. 167 No friendly hand the wound to bind, The writhing spirit seeks to find. But goes to weep alone. And when this fitful dream is o'er, And friend, or foe, can do no more, All earthly comforts flown ; When brightest mortal glories pale, And heart and flesh together fail, The parting spirit lifts the veil, And passes through alone. huz za', a hurrah ; a cheer. re plete', completely filled. pan' o ply, defensive armor. stat' ure, height. SING ME A SONG OF A LAD THAT IS GONE. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. Sing me a song of a lad that is gone, Say, could that lad be I? Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye. Give me again all that was there, Give me the sun that shone ! Give me the eyes, give me the soul, Give me the lad that's gone! Billow and breeze, islands and seas, Mountains of rain and sun, All that was good, all that was fair, All that was me is gone. 168 THE NEW CENTURY READER. ON THE ROAD TO MOSCOW. COUNT LEO N. TOLSTOI. {From "Childhood, Boyhood, Youth.") Two equipages were again brought to the porch of the Petrovskoe house : one was a coach in which sat Mimi, Katenka, Liubotchka, and the maid, with the clerk Yakov on the box ; the other was a britchka, in which rode Volodya and I, and the footman Vasili. ****** * The sun has but just risen above the dense white clouds which veil the east, and all the country round about is illuminated with a quietly cheerful light. All is so very beautiful about me, and I am so tranquil and light of heart. The road winds away in front like a wide, unconnned ribbon, amid fields of dry stubble, and herbage sparkling with dew. Here and there by the roadside we come upon a gloomy willow, or a young birch with small sticky leaves, casting a long, motionless shadow upon the dry clayey ruts and the short green grass of the highway. The monotonous sound of the wheels and bells does not drown the song of the larks, who circle close to the very road. Yonder on the footpath which winds beside the road, some slowly moving figures are visible ; they are pilgrims. Their heads are enveloped in dirty cloths ; sacks of birch-bark are bound upon their backs ; their feet are wrapped in dirty, tattered footbands, and shod in heavy bast shoes. Swaying their staves in unison, and hardly glancing at us, they move on with a heavy, deliberate tread, one ON THE ROAD TO MOSCOW. 169 after the other ; and questions take possession of my mind, — whither are they going, and why ? will their journey last long? and will the long shadows which they cast upon the road soon unite with the shadow of the willow which they must pass? Here a calash with four post-horses comes rapidly to meet us. Two seconds more, and the faces which look at us with polite curiosity have already flashed past ; and it seems strange that these faces have nothing in common with me, and that, in all prob- ability, I shall never behold them again. Here come two shaggy, perspiring horses, gallop- ing along the side of the road in their halters, with the traces knotted up to the breech strap ; and behind, with his long legs and huge shoes dangling on each side of a horse, rides a young lad of a postilion, with his lamb's-wool cap cocked over one ear, drawling a long-drawn-out song. His face and attitude are expressive of so much lazy, careless content, that it seems to me it would be the height of bliss to be a post-boy, ,to ride the horses home, and sing some melancholy songs. Yonder, far beyond the ravine, a village church with its green roof is visible against the bright blue sky ; yonder is a hamlet, the red roof of a gentleman's house, and a green garden. Who lives in this house? Are there children in it, father, mother, tutor? Why should we not go and make the acquaintance of the owner? Here is a long train of huge wagons harnessed to troikas of well-fed, thick-legged horses, which we are obliged to turn out to pass. "What are you carrying?" inquires Vasili of the first carter, who, 12 170 TEE NEW CENTURY READER. with his big feet hanging from the board which forms his seat, and flourishing his whip, regards us for a long time with an intent, mindless gaze, and only makes some sort of reply when it is impos- sible for him not to hear. "With what wares do you travel?" Vasili asks, turning to another team, upon whose railed-in front lies another carter be- neath a new rug. A blonde head, accompanied by a red face and a reddish beard, is thrust out from beneath the rug for a moment ; it casts a glance of indifferent scorn upon us, and disappears again ; and the thought occurs to me that these carters surely cannot know who we are and whither we are going. bast, rope or matting made of inner ca lash', light carriage. bark of the lime-tree. pos til' ion (yun), one who rides a post- britch' ka, in Russia, a light, partly horse. covered four-wheeled carriage. troi' ka, team of three horses harnessed abreast. MY FIRST GEOLOGICAL TRIP. SIR ARCHIBALD GEIKIE. {From " Geological Sketches at Home and Abroad.") We started off about noon ; a goodly band of some eight or nine striplings, with two or three hammers, and a few pence amongst us, and no need to be home before dusk. An October sun shone merrily out upon us. The neighboring woods, gorgeous in their tints of green, gold, and russet, sent forth clouds of rooks, whose noisy jangle, borne onward by the breeze, and min- gling with the drone of the bee and the carol of the lark, grew mellow in the distance, as the cadence of a far-off hymn. MY FIRST GEOLOGICAL TRIP. 171 Our path lay through a district rich in historic associations. Watch-peels, castles, and towers looked out upon us as we walked, each with its traditionary tales, the recital of which formed one of our chief delights. Or if a castle lacked its story, our inven- tion easily supplied the defect. And thus every part of the way came to be memorable in our eyes for some thrilling event, real or imaginary. Thus beguiled, the four miles seemed to shrink into one, and we arrived at length at the quarries. They had been opened, I found, along the slope of a gentle declivity. We made for a point midway in the excavations ; and great indeed was our delight, on climbing a long bank of grass-grown rubbish, to see below us a green hollow, and beyond it a wall of rock, in the center of which yawned a dark cav- ern, plunging away into the hill far from the light of day. My companions rushed down the slope with a shout of triumph. For myself, I lingered a moment on the top. With just a tinge of sadness in the thought, I felt that though striking and picturesque beyond anything of the kind I had ever seen, this cavern was after all only a piece of human handiwork. The heaps of rubbish around me had no connec- tion with beings of another world, but told only too plainly of ingenious, indefatigable man. The spell was broken at once and forever, and, as it fell to pieces, I darted down the slope and rejoined my comrades. They had already entered the cave, which was certainly vast and gloomy enough for whole legions of gnomes. The roof, steep as that of a house, 1 12 THE NEW CENTUR T READER. sloped rapidly into the hillside beneath a murky sheet of water, and was supported by pillars of wide girth ; the cavern, with its inclined roof and pillars, half sunk in the water, looked as though it had been rent and submerged by some old earthquake. Not a vestige of vegetation could we see, save, near the entrance, some dwarfed scolopendriums and pale patches of moss. Not an insect, not indeed any living thing seemed ever to venture down into this dreary den. Away it stretched to the right hand and the left, in long withdrawing vistas of gloom, broken, as we could faintly see, by the light which, entering from other openings along the hill- side, fell here and there on some hoary pillar, and finally vanished into the shade. It is needless to recall what achievements we performed ; enough, that, having satisfied our souls with the wonders below ground, we set out to explore those above. "But where are the petrified forests and fishes?" cried one of the party. "Here ! " "Here ! " was shouted in reply from the top of the bank. We made for the heap of broken stones whence the voices had come, and there, truly, on every block and every fragment the fossils met our eye, some- times so thickly grouped together that we could barely see the stone on which they lay. I bent over the mound, and the first fragment that turned up (my first-found fossil) was one that excited the deepest interest. The commander-in-chief of the excursion, who was regarded (perhaps as much from his bodily stature MY FIRST GEOLOGICAL TRIP. 173 as for any other reason) an authority on these questions, pronounced my treasure-trove to be, un- mistakably and unequivocally, a fish. True, it seemed to lack head and tail and fins ; the liveliest fancy amongst us hesitated as to which were the scales ; and in after years I learned that it was really a vegetable — the seed-cone or catkin of a large ex- tinct kind of club-moss ; but, in the meantime, Tom had declared it to be a fish, and a fish it must assuredly be. Like other schoolboys, I had, of course, had my lessons on geology in the usual meager, cut-and-dried form in which physical science was then taught in our schools. I could repeat a "Table of Forma- tions," and remembered the pictures of some uncouth monsters on the pages of our text-books — one with goggle-eyes, no neck, and a preposterous tail ; another with an unwieldy body, and no tail at all, for which latter defect I had endeavored to compensate by inserting a long pipe into his mouth, receiving from our master (Ironsides, we called him) a hearty rap across the knuckles, as a recompense for my atten- tion to the creature's comfort. But the notion that these pictures were the rep- resentations of actual, though now extinct monsters, that the matter-of-fact details of our text-books really symbolized living truths, and were not invented solely to distract the brains and endanger the palms of schoolboys ; nay, that the statements which seemed so dry and unintelligible in print were such as could be actually verified by our own eyes in nature, that beneath and beyond the present creation, in the glories of which we reveled, there lay around us 174 THE NEW CENTURY READER the memorials of other creations not less glorious, and infinitely older, and thus that more, immensely more, than our books or our teachers taught us could be learnt by looking at nature for ourselves — all this was strange to me. It came now for the first time like a new revelation, one that has glad- dened my life ever since. We worked on industriously at the rubbish heap, and found an untold sum of wonders. The human mind in its earlier stages dwells on resemblances, rather than on differences. We identified what we found in the stones with that to which it most nearly approached in existing nature, and though many an organism turned up to which we could think of no analogue, we took no trouble to dis- criminate wherein it differed from others. Hence, to our imagination, the plants, insects, shells, and fishes of our rambles met us again in the rock. There was little that some one of the party could not explain, and thus our limestone became a more extraordinary conglomeration of organic remains, I will venture to say, than ever perturbed the brain of a geologist. It did not occur at the time to any of us to inquire why a perch came to be embalmed among ivy and rose leaves ; why a seashore whelk lay en- twined in the arms of a butterfly; or why a beetle should seem to have been doing his utmost to dance a pirouette round the tooth of a fish. These questions came all to be asked afterward, and then I saw how erroneous had been our boy- ish identifications. But, in the meantine, knowing little of the subject, I believed everything, and with MY FIRST GEOLOGICAL TRIP. 175 implicit faith piled up dragon-flies, ferns, fishes, beetle-cases, violets, sea-weeds, and shells. The shadows of twilight had begun to fall while we still bent eagerly over the stones. The sun, with a fiery glare, had sunk behind the distant hills. The chill of evening now began to fall over every- thing, save the spirits of the treasure-seekers. And yet they too in the end succumbed. And, as the moanings of the night-wind swept across the fields, it was wisely resolved that we should all go home. Then came the packing up. Each had amassed a pile of specimens, well-nigh as large as himself, and it was of course impossible to carry everything away. A rapid selection had therefore to be made. And oh ! with how much reluctance were we com- pelled to relinquish many of the stones, the dis- covery whereof had made the opposite cavern ring again with our jubilee. Not one of us had had the foresight to provide himself with a bag, so we stowed away the treasures in our pockets. Surely practical geometry offers not a more perplexing problem than to gauge the capacity of these parts of a schoolboy's dress. So we loaded ourselves to the full, and marched along with the fossils crowded into every available corner. Such was my first geological excursion — a simple event enough, and yet the turning point in a life. Thenceforward the rocks and their fossil treasures formed the chief subject of my e very-day thoughts. That day stamped my fate, and I became a geologist. de cliv' i ty, a downward slope. pic' tur esque' (esk'\ forming an erro'ne ovis, false; mistaken. . interesting or striking picture. fos' sil, remains of plants and animals pre pos' ter ous, absurd; ridiculous. found buried in the earth. scol o pen' dri am, a kind of fern. Gei' kie (ge' kl), a Scottish geologist. vis' ta, a view through an avenue. 176 THE NEW GENTUR Y READER. THE SOUTH. RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. Fall, thickly fall, thou winter snow ! And keenly blow, thou winter wind ! Only the barren North is yours, The South delights a summer mind ; So fall and blow, Both wind and snow, My Fancy to the South doth go. Half-way between the frozen zones, Where Winter reigns in sullen mirth, The Summer binds a golden belt About the middle of the Earth. The sky is soft, and blue, and bright, With purple dyes at morn and night; And bright and blue the seas which lie In perfect rest, and glass the sky. And sunny bays with inland curves Round all along the quiet shore ; And stately palms in pillared ranks Grow down the borders of the banks, And juts of land where billows roar. The spicy woods are full of birds, And golden fruits and crimson flowers; With wreathed vines on every bough, That shed their grapes in purple showers. The emerald meadows roll their waves, And bask in soft and mellow light ; The vales are full of silver mist, And all the folded hills are bright. THE SOUTH. Ill But far along the welkin's rim The purple crags and peaks are dim ; And dim the gulfs, and gorges blue, • With all the wooded passes deep ; All steeped in haze, and washed in dew, And bathed in atmospheres of Sleep. Sometimes the dusky islanders Lie all day long beneath the trees, And watch the white clouds in the sky, And birds upon the azure seas. Sometimes they wrestle on the turf, And chase each other down the sands, And sometimes climb the bloomy groves, And pluck the fruit with idle hands. And dark-eyed maidens braid their hair With starry shells, and buds, and leaves, And sing wild songs in dreamy bowers, And dance on dewy eves, When daylight melts, and stars are few, And west winds frame a drowsy tune, Till all the charmed waters sleep Beneath a yellow moon. Here men may dwell, and mock at toil, And all the dull, mechanic arts ; No need to till the teeming soil, With weary hands and aching hearts. No want can follow folded palms, For Nature doth supply her alms With sweets, purveyors can not bring To grace the table of a King ; While Summer broods o'er land and sea, 178 THE NEW CENTURY READER. And breathes in all the winds, Until her presence fills their hearts, And molds their happy minds. jut, a projection. pur vey' or (va'), one who provides food. pi]/ lured, like pillars or columns. wel' kin, the sky. THE VAGABOND. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. Give to me the life I love, Let the lave go by me, Give the jolly heaven above And the byway nigh me. Bed in the bush with stars to see, Bread I dip in the river — There's the life for a man like me, There's the life forever. Or let autumn fall on me Where afield I linger, Silencing the bird on tree, Biting the blue finger : White as meal the frosty field — Warm the fireside haven — Not to autumn will I yield, Not to winter even ! Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o'er me ; Give the face of earth around And the road before me. Wealth I ask not, hope, nor love, Nor a friend to know me. All I ask the heaven above And the road below me. DORLCOTE MILL. 179 DORLCOTE MILL. GEOKGE ELIOT. {From the "Mill on the Floss.") A wide plain, where the broadening Floss hurries on between its green banks to the sea, and the loving tide, rushing to meet it, checks its passage with an impetuous embrace. On this mighty tide the black ships, laden with the fresh-scented fir- planks, with rounded sacks of oil-bearing seed, or with the dark glitter of coal, are borne along to the town of St. Ogg's, which shows its aged, fluted red roofs and the broad gables of its wharves between the low wooded hill and the river brink, tingeing the water with a soft purple hue under the transient glance of this February sun. Far away on each hand stretch the rich pastures and the patches of dark earth, made ready for the seed of the broad-leaved green crops, or touched already with the tint of the tender-bladed autumn- sown corn. There is a remnant still of the last year's golden clusters of beehive ricks rising at inter- vals beyond the hedgerows ; and everywhere the hedgerows are studded with trees ; the distant ships seem to be lifting their masts and stretching their red-brown sails close among the branches of the spreading ash. Just by the red -roofed town the tributary Ripple flows with a lively current into the Floss. How lovely the little river is, with its dark, changing wavelets ! It seems to me like a living companion while I wander along the bank and listen 180 THE NEW CENTURY READER. to its low placid voice, as to the voice of one who is deaf and loving. I remember those large dipping willows. I remember the stone bridge. And this is Dorlcote Mill. I must stand a minute or two here on the bridge and look at it, though the clouds are threatening, and it is far on in the afternoon. Even in this leafless time of departing February it is pleasant to look at it — perhaps the chill damp season adds a charm to the trimly-kept, comfortable dwelling-house, as old as the elms and chestnuts that shelter it from the northern blast. The stream is brimful now, and lies high in this little withy plantation, and half drowns the grassy fringe of the croft in front of the house. As I look at the full stream, the vivid grass, the delicate bright-green powder softening the outline of the great trunks and branches that gleam from under the bare purple boughs, I am in love with moist- ness, and envy the white ducks that are dipping their heads far into the water here among the withes, unmindful of the awkward appearance they make in the drier world above. The rush of the water and the booming of the mill bring a dreamy deafness, which seems to heighten the peacefulness of the scene. They are like a great curtain of sound, shutting one out from the world beyond. And now, there is the thunder of the huge covered wagon, coming home with sacks of grain. That honest wagoner is thinking of his din- ner, , getting sadly dry in the oven at this late hour ; but he will not touch it till he has fed his horses — the strong, submissive, meek-eyed beasts, who, I fancy, are looking mild reproach at him from DOBLCOTE MILL. 181 between their blinders, that he should crack his whip at them in that awful manner, as if they needed that hint. See how they stretch their shoulders up the slope toward the bridge, with all the more energy because they are so near home. Look at their grand shaggy feet, that seem to grasp the firm earth, at the patient strength of their necks bowed under the heavy collar, at the mighty muscles of their struggling haunches ! I should like well to hear them neigh over their hardly-earned feed of corn, to see them, with their moist necks freed from the harness, dipping their eager nostrils into the muddy pond. Now they are on the bridge, and down they go again at a swifter pace, and the arch of the covered wagon disappears at the turning behind the trees. Now I can turn my eyes toward the mill again, and watch the unresting wheel sending out its diamond jets of water. That little girl is watching it too : she has been standing on just the same spot at the edge of the water ever since I paused on the bridge. And that queer white cur with the brown ear seems to be leaping and barking in inef- fectual remonstrance with the wheel ; perhaps he is jealous because his playfellow in the beaver bonnet is so rapt in its movement. It is time the little playfellow went in, I think ; and there is a very bright fire to tempt her: the red light shines out under the deepening gray of the sky. It is time, too, for me to leave off resting my arms on the cold stone of this bridge. * * * Ah ! my arms are really benumbed. I have been 182 THE NEW CENTURY READER. pressing my elbows on the arms of my chair, and dreaming that I was standing on the bridge in front of Dorlcote Mill, as it looked one February after- noon many years ago. LABOR AND GENIUS. SYDNEY SMITH. {From "On the Conduct of the Understanding.") , The prevailing idea with young people has been the incompatibility of labor and genius ; and there- fore, from the fear of being thought dull, they have thought it necessary to remain ignorant. I have seen, at school and at college, a great many young men completely destroyed by having been so unior- tunate as to produce an excellent copy of verses. Their genius being now established, all that re- mained for them to do was, to act up to the dignity of the character ; and as this dignity consisted in reading nothing new, in forgetting what they had already read, and in pretending to be acquainted with all subjects, by a sort of off-hand exertion of talents, they soon collapsed into the most frivolous and insignificant of men. "When we have had continually before us," says Sir Joshua Reynolds, "the great works of art, to impregnate our minds with kindred ideas, we are then, and not till then, fit to produce something of the same species. u The greatest natural genius can not subsist on its own stock : he who resolves never to ransack any mind but his own, will be soon reduced from mere LABOR AND GENIUS. 183 barrenness to the poorest of all imitations ; he will be obliged to imitate himself, and to repeat what he has before repeated. When we know the subject designed by such men, it will never be difficult to guess what kind of work is to be produced." There is but one method, and that is hard labor; and a man who will not pay that price for distinc- tion had better at once dedicate himself to the pur- suits of the fox — or talk of bullocks, and glory in the goad ! There are many modes of being frivolous, and not a few of being useful ; there is but one mode of being intellectually great. It would be an extremely profitable thing to draw up a short and well-authenticated account of the habits of study of the most celebrated writers with whose style of literary industry we happen to be most acquainted. It would go very far to destroy the absurd and pernicious association of genius and idleness, by showing them that the greatest poets, orators, statesmen, and historians — men of the most brilliant and imposing talents — have actually labored as hard as the makers of dictionaries and the arrangers of indexes ; and that the most obvious reason why they have been superior to other men is, that they have taken more pains than other men. Gibbon was in his study every morning, winter and summer, at six o'clock; Mr. Burke was the most laborious and indefatigable of hitman beings ; Leibnitz was never out of his library ; Pascal killed himself by study; Cicero narrowly escaped death by the same cause ; Milton was at his books with as much regularity as a merchant or an attorney — he had mastered all the knowledge of his time ; so 184 THE NEW CENTUR Y READER had Homer. Raphael lived but thirty-seven years; and in that short space carried the art so far beyond what it had before reached, that he appears to stand alone as a model to his successors. There are instances to the contrary, but, generally speaking, the life of all truly great men has been a life of intense and incessant labor. They have commonly passed the first half of life in the gross darkness of indigent humility — overlooked, mistaken, contemned, by weaker men — thinking while others slept, reading while others rioted, feel- ing something within them that told them they should not always be kept down among the dregs \ of. the world; and then, when their time was come, and some little accident has given them their first occasion, they have burst out into the light and glory of public life, rich with the spoils of time, and mighty in all the labors and struggles of the mind. Then do the multitude cry out, "A miracle of genius!" Yes, he is a miracle of genius, because he is a miracle of labor ; because, instead of trust- ing to the resources of his own single mind, he has ransacked a thousand minds ; because he makes use of the accumulated wisdom of ages, and takes as his point of departure the very last line and bound- ary to which science has advanced; because it has ever been the object of his life to assist every intel- lectual gift of nature, however munificent, and how- ever splendid, with every resource that art could suggest, and every attention diligence could bestow. A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 185 A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. ADELAIDE A. PROCTER. Girt round with rugged mountains The fair Lake Constance lies; In her blue heart reflected Shine back the starry skies ; And, watching each white cloudlet Float silently and slow, You think a piece of Heaven Lies on our earth below! Midnight is there: and Silence, Enthroned in Heaven, looks down Upon her own calm mirror, Upon a sleeping town : For Bregenz, that quaint city Upon the Tyrol shore, Has stood above Lake Constance A thousand years and more. Her battlements and towers, From off their rocky steep, Have cast their trembling shadow For ages on the deep: Mountain, and lake, and valley, A sacred legend know, Of how the town was saved, one night, Three hundred years ago. Far from her home and kindred, A Tyrol maid had fled, To serve in the Swiss valleys, And toil for daily bread; {/ 186 THE NEW CENTURY READER. And every year that fleeted So silently and fast, Seemed to bear farther from her The memory of the Past. She spoke no more of Bregenz, With longing and with tears; Her Tyrol home seemed faded In a deep mist of years ; She heeded not the rumors Of Austrian war and strife; Each day she rose contented, To the calm toils of life. And so she dwelt: the valley More peaceful year by year; When suddenly strange portents Of some great deed seemed near. The golden corn was bending Upon its fragile stalk, While farmers, heedless of their fields, Paced up and down in talk. The men seemed stern and altered, With looks cast on the ground ; With anxious faces, one by one, The women gathered round ; All talk of flax, or spinning, Or work, was put away ; The very children seemed afraid To go alone to play. A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 187 One day, out in the meadow With strangers from the town, Some secret plan discussing, The men walked up and down. Yet now and then seemed watching A strange uncertain gleam, That looked like lances ' mid the trees, That stood below the stream. At eve they all assembled, Then care and doubt were fled ; With jovial laugh they feasted; The board was nobly spread. The elder of the village Rose up, his glass in hand, And cried, "We drink the downfall Of an accursed land ! "The night is growing darker, Ere one more day is flown, Bregenz, our foemen's stronghold, Bregenz shall be our own!" The women shrank in terror, (Yet Pride, too, had her part,) But one poor Tyrol maiden Felt death within her heart. Nothing she heard around her, (Though shouts rang forth again,) Gone were the green Swiss valleys, The pasture, and the plain ; 188 THE NEW CENTURY READER. Before her eyes one vision, And in her heart one cry, That said, "Go forth, save Bregenz, And then, if need be, die!" With trembling haste and breathless, With noiseless step, she sped ; Horses and weary cattle Were standing in the shed ; She loosed the strong, white charger, That fed from ont her hand, She mounted, and she turned his head Towards her native land. Out — out into the darkness — Faster, and still more fast ; The smooth grass flies behind her, The chestnut wood is past ; She looks up ; clouds are heavy : Why is her steed so slow? — Scarcely the wind beside them Can pass them as they go. "Faster!" she cries, "O faster!" Eleven the church-bells chime: "0 God," she cries, "help Bregenz, And bring me there in time!" But louder than bells' ringing, Or lowing of the kine, Grows nearer in the midnight The rushing of the Rhine. Shall not the roaring waters Their headlong gallop check? A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 189 The steed draws back in terror, She leans upon his neck To watch the flowing darkness ; The bank is high and steep ; One pause — he staggers forward, And plunges in the deep. She strives to pierce the blackness, And looser throws the rein ; Her steed must breast the waters That dash above his mane. How gallantly, how nobly, He struggles through the foam, And see — in the far distance Shine out the lights of home! Up the steep banks he bears her, And now, they rush again Towards the heights of Bregenz, That tower above the plain. They reach the gate of Bregenz, Just as the midnight rings, And out come serf and soldier To meet the news she brings. Bregenz is saved! Ere daylight Her battlements are manned; Defiance greets the army That marches on the land. And if to deeds heroic Should endless fame be paid, Bregenz does well to honor The noble Tyrol maid. 190 THE NEW CEtfTURY READER. Three hundred years are vanished, And yet upon the hill An old stone gateway rises, To do her honor still. And there, when Bregenz women Sit spinning in the shade, They see in quaint old carving The Charger and the Maid. And when, to guard old Bregenz, By gateway, street, and tower, The warder paces all night long And calls each passing hour; "Nine," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud, And then ( O crown of Fame ! ) When midnight pauses in the skies, He calls the maiden's name ! THE INVENTION OF PRINTING. SIR WALTER BESANT. {From "Westminster.") Who was the first printer? You may read all the books, pamphlets, and articles ; you may consider all the arguments, and in the long run you will know no more than you knew at the beginning. Perhaps it was Coster of Haarlem, or perhaps it was Gutenberg of Mainz. No one knows, and really it matters little except for the antiquary and the historian. At this period some modification in the old method of copying was certain to be invented. It was by the greatest good luck, I have always thought, THE INVENTION OF PRINTING. 191 that a sort of shorthand, a representation of words by little easy symbols, was not invented. For instance, supposing a separate symbol for each of the prepositions, articles, and auxiliary verbs, and other separate symbols for the commoner words, there might be some thousands of symbols in all to be learned by the scribe ; but his labor would be reduced to one-tenth. They might have invented some such method. Then, satisfied with the result, we should have gone on for centuries, and the art of printing would still have to be invented. But the time was come, and the invention, hap- pily, came with it. Had printing been invented two centuries before, it would have been neglected and speedily forgotten, because there was no demand for books. Had it been invented two centuries later, it would have had to contend against some other con- trivance for shortening labor and cheapening books. If an ingenious projector discovers some great truth or invents some useful contrivance before or after his time, he is lost — he and his discovery. Thus, in the reign of James the First a man of great ingenuity contrived a submarine boat — he was before his age. In the middle of the last century another ingenious person discovered a way of send- ing messages by electricity — he was before his age. In a romance, now a hundred and fifty years old, the possibility of photography was imagined by another person before his age. Men whose ideas are much before their age receive, as their reward, con- tempt, certainly ; imprisonment, probably ; and per- haps death in one of its most unpleasant forms. The generally received story, after all that has 192 THE NEW CENTURY READER. been said, is this: There was a certain Johann Gensileisch von Sorgenloch, called Znm Gutenberg, a man of noble family, who was born in Mainz somewhere about the end of the fourteenth century. He removed from his native town to Strasbourg, where he began experimenting upon wood blocks. He then, with the idea of printing clearly defined in his mind, perhaps with type already cut in wood, went back to Mainz and entered into partner- ship with three others, named Kiffe, Heitman, and Dritzchen. Documents still exist which prove this partner- ship, and contemporary evidence is clear and strong upon the point that this Gutenberg, and none other, was the inventor of the art. The first partnership was speedily broken up. A second was formed with Fust or Faust, a goldsmith, and one Peter Schoffer, who seems to have been the working partner. Cer- tainly he improved and carried the art to a high state of perfection. That it should spread was certain ; the work was simple ; the press was not a machine which could be kept secret. Before long printers were setting up their presses everywhere. At Bruges the first printer was one Colard Mansion, a native of the place. He was a member of the Fraternity or Guild of St. John. He was himself a writer, or at least a translator, as well as a printer. Caxton followed him in this respect. He printed and published twenty- two works, of which one, called "The Gar- den 6f Devotion," was in Latin, the others were all in French except two, which were in English. These two were printed for Caxton. THE INVENTION OF PRINTING. 193 These are the earliest English-printed books. The first is a "Recuyell of the History es of Troie" ; the second is "The Game and Playe of the Chesse." The second is dedicated to the unfortunate Duke of Clarence: "To the righte noble, righte excellent and vertuous Prince George, Due of Clarence, Earle of Warwicke and Salisburye, Grete Chamberlayne of Englonde and Lieutenant of Ireland, Oldest Brother of Kynge Edwarde, by the Grace of God Kynge of Englonde and of France, your most hum- ble servant William Caxton amonge other of youre servantes sendes unto you Peas, Helthe, Joye and Victorye upon your Enemies." The "Recuyell," a translation, was completed in 1471. It was not printed until 1474. The conclu- sion is that Caxton found so great a demand for it that he could not get the book copied quickly enough to meet the demand ; that his attention was drawn to the newly invented art, and that he per- ceived something of the enormous possibilities which it presented. About this time he resigned the post he had held so long ; he married a wife, and he entered into the service of the Duchess of Burgundy. It has been asked in what capacity he served. In no capacity at all ; he wore the livery of the Duchess ; he was attached to the court ; he had rooms and rations and some allowance of money ; he was a secretary or an interpreter ; he conducted the Duchess's trade ventures ; he was Usher of the White Rod, Chamberlain, Gentleman -in -waiting — anything. Do not let us be deceived by the word "service" and its modern meaning. This "service" lasted a very short time. He left 194 THE NEW CENTURY READER. the court — one knows not why — and he returned, after this long absence, to his native land. Then began the third, the last, the most important chapter of his life. This was in the year 1476. He brought over his presses and his workmen with him ; and he settled at Westminster. It is not necessary to enumerate the books which Caxton printed. Books of romance, chivalry, and great achievements were demanded by the knights and nobles. Books of service were wanted by the church. Caxton provided these. Anxious to run his press at a profit, he tried no experiments, and was content to be a servant rather than a teacher. f Those who will take the trouble to visit the British Museum and there examine for themselves the treasures which the nation possesses of early printing will be astonished to observe the rapid advances already made in the art of printing when Caxton undertook its practice. The type is clear and strong — clearer type we have never made since; the ink is perfectly black to this day ; the lines are even and in perfect order ; the binding, when an ancient binding has been preserved, is like any binding of later times. But the shape of the book was not newly invented, nor the binding, nor the form of the type ; in these matters the printer fol- lowed the copyist. Rru' ges (jez) , a city of Belgium. Mainz (mints), a city of Germany. Gut' en berg (goo' ten bgrg), the reputed Re' cuy ell', an old English word signi- inventor of printing. fying a collection. in gen' ious (yus), inventive genius. ADVICE TO A FAVORITE NEPHEW. 195 A PRAYER. EDWIN MAEKHAM. Teach me, Father, how to go Softly as the grasses grow; Teach me, Father, how to be Kind and patient as a tree. Let me, also, cheer a spot, Hidden field or garden grot — Place where passing sonls can rest On the way and be their best. ADVICE TO A FAVORITE NEPHEW. {From a Letter to Bushrod Washington.*) Newbuegh, January 15, 1783. Remember, that it is not the mere study of the Law, but to become eminent in the profession of it, which is to yield honor and profit. The first was your choice ; let the second be your ambition. Dis- sipation is incompatible with both ; the company in which you will improve most will be least expen- sive to you ; and yet I am not such a Stoic as to suppose that you will, or to think it right that you should, always be in company with senators and philosophers ; but of the young and juvenile kind let me advise you to be choice. It is easy to make * Bushrod Washington hecame an eminent jurist. For thirty years he was a Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States. 196 THE NEW CENTURY READER. acquaintances, but very difficult to shake them off, however irksome and unprofitable they are found, after we have once committed ourselves to them. The indiscretions and scrapes, which very often they involuntarily lead one into, prove equally distressing and disgraceful. Be courteous to all, but intimate with few ; and let those few be well tried before you give them your confidence. True friendship is a plant of slow growth, and must undergo and withstand the shocks of adversity before it is entitled to the appellation. Let your heart feel for the afflictions and dis- tresses of every one, and let your hand give in proportion to your purse ; remembering always the estimation of the widow's mite, but, that it is not every one who asketh that deserve th charity ; all, however, are worthy of the inquiry, or the deserving may suffer. Do not conceive that fine clothes make fine men, any more than fine feathers make fine birds. A plain genteel dress is more admired, and obtains more credit than lace and embroidery, in the eyes of the judicious and sensible. The last thing which I shall mention, is first in importance ; and that is, to avoid gaming. This is a vice which is productive of every possible evil ; equally injurious to the morals and health of its votaries. It is the child of avarice, the brother of iniquity, and father of mischief. It has been the ruin of many worthy families, the loss of many a man's honor, and the cause of suicide. To all those who enter the lists, it is equally fascinating. The successful gamester pushes his good fortune till it OUR REUNITED COUNTRY. 197 is overtaken by a reverse. The losing gamester, in hopes of retrieving past misfortunes, goes on from bad to worse, till grown desperate he pushes at everything and loses his all. In a word, few gain by" this abominable practice (the profit if any being diffused), while thousands are injured. Perhaps you will say, "My conduct has antici- pated the advice," and "Not one of these applies to me." I shall be heartily glad of it. It will add not a little to my happiness, to find those to whom I am nearly connected pursuing the right walk of life. It will be the sure road to my favor, and to those honors and places of profit, which their country can bestow ; as merit rarely goes unre- warded. I am, dear Bushrod, your affectionate uncle, George Washington. sto' ic, one free from all passions; unmoved vo' ta ry, one devoted to anything, by joy or grief. OUR REUNITED COUNTRY. CLARK HOWELL. (From a Speech delivered at the Peace Jubilee^ Chicago, October 19, 1898.) In the mountains of my State, in a county remote from the quickening touch of commerce, and rail- roads, and telegraphs — so far removed that the sincerity of its rugged people flows unpolluted from the spring of nature — two vine-covered mounds, nestled in the solemn silence of a country church- yard, suggest the text of my response to the senti- ment to which I am to speak to-night. A serious 198 THE NEW CENTURY READER. text, and yet out of it there is life, and peace, and hope, and prosperity, for in the solemn sacrifice of the voiceless grave can the chiefest lesson of the republic be learned, and the destiny of its real mis- sion be unfolded. So bear with me while I lead you to the rust- stained slab, which, for a third of a century — since Chickamauga — has been kissed by the sun as it peeped over the Blue Ridge, melting the tears with which the mourning night had bedewed the inscrip- tion : " Here lies a Confederate soldier. He died for his country." The September day which brought the body of this mountain hero to that home among the hills which had smiled upon his infancy, been gladdened by his youth, and strengthened by his manhood, was an ever-memorable one with the sorrowing con- course of friends and neighbors who followed his shot-riddled body to the grave; and of that num- ber no man gainsaid the honor of his death, lacked full loyalty to the flag for which he fought, or doubted the justice of the cause for which he gave his life. Thirty-five years * have passed ; another war has called its roll of martyrs ; again -the old bell tolls from the crude, latticed tower of the settlement church ; another great pouring of sympathetic hu- manity, and this time the body of a son, wrapped in the stars and stripes, is lowered to its everln st- ing rest beside that of the father who sleeps in the stars and bars. There were those there who stood by the grave OUR REUNITED COUNTRY. 199 of the Confederate hero years before, and the chil- dren of those were there, and of those present no one gainsaid the honor of the death of this hero of El Caney, and none were there bnt loved, as patriots alone can love, the glorious flag that enshrines the people of a common country as it enshrouds the form that will sleep forever in its blessed folds. And on this tomb will be written: "Here lies the son of a Confederate soldier. He died for his country." And so it is that between the making of these two graves human hands and human hearts have reached a solution of the vexed problem that has baffled human will and human thought for three decades. Sturdy sons of the South have said to their brothers of the North that the people of the South had long since accepted the arbitrament of the sword to which they had appealed. And like- wise the oft-repeated message has come back from the North that peace and good will reigned, and that the wounds of civil dissension were as but sacred memories. Drawing inspiration from the flag of our country, the South has shared not only the dangers, but the glories of the war. In the death of brave young Bagley at Cardenas, North Carolina furnished the first blood in the tragedy. It was Victor Blue of South Carolina who, like the Swamp Fox of the Revolution, crossed the fiery path of the enemy at his pleasure and brought the first official tidings of the situation as it existed in Cuba. It was Brumby, a Georgia boy, the flag lieutenant of Dewey, who 200 THE NEW CENTURY READER. first raised the stars and stripes over Manila. It was Alabama that furnished Hobson — glorious Hob- son — who accomplished two things the Spanish navy never yet has done — sunk an American ship and made a Spanish man-of-war securely float. When that great and generous soldier, U. S. Grant, gave back to Lee, crushed, but ever glorious, the sword he had surrendered at Appomattox, that magnanimous deed said to the people of the South, "You are our brothers." But when the present ruler of our grand republic, on awakening to the condition of war that confronted him, with his first commission placed the leader's sword in the hands of those gallant Confederate commanders, Joe Wheeler and Fitzhugh Lee, he wrote between the lines in living letters of everlasting light the words, "There is but one people of this Union, one flag for all." ar bit' ra ment, decision. quick' en ing, life-giving. en shrouds', to cover as with a shroud. un' pol lu' ted, undefined; untainted. 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